Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Yet another comeback from Curiosity Killed Kristy *fist-pumps air* Uh, ahem! O-O Excuse me, my lovelies. I got a little excited there. I haven't written a one-shot since forever. A thank-you to our wonderful Recklessly Impulsive for lending me this idea! XD He's so awesome!
Dedication: This won't come as a surprise, will it? Yep! This is dedicated to Confusion no Hime yet again :D Hope this causes your grieving heart to ease a bit :)
Warnings: Profanity, sex between men, the usual ;D
By Curiosity Killed Kristy
I want him.
His skin is feverish and creamy, those impatient fingers gnawing at my teal locks. His lips are attacking mine like a zealous charge of dogs, teeth clanging against my own, and we grind into each other, our eyes clouded and watching each reaction to every move.
We don't call this passion. No.
I violently smash him into a wall, picture frames falling from the vibration and breaking into a billion, microscopic pieces. But do we give a fuck? No. We only care about the fucking. That's all there was. That's all there is. That's all there ever will be. He instinctually binds his legs around my waist, pinning me in place, moaning like the whore he is. He likes the harsh treatment. Thinks that the pain is the pleasure. Such a masochistic bastard.
Everything is raw. Every patch of skin meat in our eyes. We see it, we bite it, and we have at it like the animals we are.
I tilt his head to the side without remorse, his choked gasp loud and prominent. I leave a trail of my saliva from a random jugular, to the lobe of his ear, balancing the ear between my sharp teeth. "Ya wanna see blood. I know you do," I whisper into his ear, his shivers trickling down the small of his back, his goose bumps brushing against my smooth skin.
"I want blood. I want it," he practically begs. With a growl, I carry him to my disheveled bed, the sheets flown and curled like snakes from our last adventure. I grab a broken piece of glass from the picture frame, pouncing on the bed with barely a sound, the thump of my shirt on the floor the only thing we hear.
I crave him.
The buttons on his shirt pop and scatter to wherever the fuck they fall. His jeans are snagged off, my hands impatient on their journey to caress his body. I run the cold cutter over the expanse of tanned skin on his stomach. He braces himself inwardly. I deepen my hold on the glass, the slash causing flowers of scarlet to bloom. He hisses from the pain; the pleasure. I lower myself to his abdomen, drinking up what he has to offer. He moans, curling his fingers in my hair. Bastard has a thing with them.
I'm facing his neck, elongated and open for the taking. I plant a kiss on a sporadic spot, scraping my canines over it as he sucks an anticipating breath in. I smirk at his willingness, sinking my teeth into his flesh and he gasps from the sudden intrusion, trembling fingers clinging onto my shoulder blades.
I wanna suck the life out of him.
I lick at the mark, one that'll probably land me in another comprising situation. But, we don't care. We only fuck. His hand wanders down, unbuckling my stubborn belt, and letting it reside on the carpet. He hastily tugs on every item of clothing barricading him from my straining dick. I nearly lose my control, his eyes tracking my engorged length.
I wanna devour him.
The way he's tracing me with his pupils are driving me insane. The bastard knows damn well that I fucking hate it when he makes me wait. I grab a handful of his tangerine spikes, shoving my leaking member into his hot mouth without as much as a warning. He momentarily gags, tears sprouting at the corners of his eyes. I stare at him with irritancy for his attempts at teasing me. He shuts his eyes, peeling back and forth on me, slow and damn fuckable.
I want all of him.
He hums, my grip on his hair pleasing. He likes to be forced. Who am I to deny the offer? My dick touches the back of his throat, tears free-falling down his cheeks at my bluntness.
I like it when I hurt him.
He's whining on my dick, but I know that the slut is enjoying it. He likes to be controlled. Likes it rough; rougher than sand paper. I motion his head back and forth in a brutal pace on my cock, and he likes that I'm treating him like the trash he is. He's trash. "Hmm, mmph…" he approves, shifting his tongue about on the under-side of my dick. He wants my cum. He loves it. My end is near, and the pleasure is electrifying every nerve cell in my body. He hollows his cheeks even more, the grunts I release making a smug grin appear on his succulent lips. I slam my hips forward, and he nearly chokes on me, but oh, how I love that he loves my punishment.
He crashes onto the mattress from my powerful thrust, spit coloring the side of his mouth. He's gazing at me with lust in his honey orbs, and all I wanna do is fuck him until he can't feel his legs anymore. I widen his lean, mile-long legs and glance at the winking pucker between them. I tentatively lick at his ass, and he shudders from the warmth I give off. I've never given him this treatment before, but fuck it. Horniness does that to a person. I swirl my tongue at his opening, and he opens his legs farther. The little slut.
I wanna fuck him.
I watch his expressions, from completely desire-filled eyes to closed ones. His mouth wide agape in unspoken appreciation to repeated ups and downs, panting and panting. I want to see him begging. Begging for my dick to go so far his ass that I'd be the only one he'd ever ask to have sex with again. I push his legs until the heels of his feet touch my shoulders; situate my throbbing arousal at his entrance, then pierce him without relent to the hilt. "Fuck!" he screams, my hips undulating before he has the time to adjust to me. He's so fucking tight around me. "Hah, shit!"
Blood seeps into the white sheets beneath us, coating me in claret. I pound into him, watching his tear-stricken face contort into pain. I love that face. He's hurting, and this turns me on. I place his legs over my shoulders, allowing more access into his ass. He cries deliciously, his feet digging into my back; his nails raking across my arms. The cut I rewarded him with weeps from my powerful thrusts, his blood soiling the blankets even more. My nails latch onto his hips like thumbtacks to a cork board. His eyes roll back into his head, his dick oozing copious amounts of his pleasure.
I never touch his dick. Ever. He gets blue balls that way; not being touched. I push his legs back until his knees hit the pillow behind his head. The Strawberry's just too flexible to boot. He's pleading with his tear-filled eyes. Touch me once. Just once. But I don't give a fuck. His lips are wide apart, and his spit is dribbling down his chin, the process to think I'm blocking.
He's a fucking man whore.
I pull my dick out, and he gazes at me with slight malice and vexation. I scoff, flipping him onto his stomach. "Hands and knees. Now." He obliges almost instantly, and I frown at his submissiveness. He just wants to fuck and get out. I narrow my eyes at his eagerness to get off, and without much thinking at all- like I ever grieved over my own actions- I smack his ass, staining the cheek maroon. He releases a masochistic moan. I set my jaw, and smash my hand onto the opposite side, painting the other a light pink. "Do ya like that, you fucking whore?" He rotates his head to the side to stare behind him, glaring at me. As if the little fucker could threaten me.
"This wasn't part of the deal," he breathes out, a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. I narrow my eyes, knowing that his stubbornness is returning. He knows when I push the deal too far. He always does, and pinpoints it every time. He only wants my dick; fucking cunt. I wrap my digits around his member, and tug on it harshly, as he yelps from the sudden pull. I constrict my fingers around him, and he sucks an involuntary breath.
He. Was. Trash.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you." He gives a hitch of a breath when I loosen around him, and stroke smoothly. Just once. He's not answering me again. I let go of him, and separate his ass cheeks, shoving my dick in him; his cry is so sweet. So pure. So vocal. So hurt. He's tight again. As if he hadn't been stretched by me at all. I tug at his orange strands, pulling him back to sink my teeth on his shoulder. The taste of copper explodes on my tongue, but that's the least of my concerns. I lick his cheek, his own blood brushing against it from my tongue. "You like my hot cock, bitch?"
The bed protests with creaks from our constant shifting, his sweaty palms fisting the sheets. Perspiration slides down his skin like water dripping from slick rubber. He's moaning under me, and it makes a smug grin appear on my face at my dominance over him. He doesn't fight it when I'm fucking him hard. He takes it all like a man. Like a bitch. His lips are separated and thirsting for water, but why should I care? I'm his fucker. And he's my fuckey.
Saw him at a bar, wallowing in self pity. Looked pathetic, I tell ya. Drinking loads and loads of beer like he ain't go no breath to rest. He was slouching in his seat, his words slurred and demanding for more alcohol. He was pissing me off. Somebody had to cheer the motherfucker up somehow. He was lucky I was there that night. If I hadn't, he'd have probably hung himself in the nearest motel and never to become the wild sex animal I made him to be. He was so needy. Helplessly in love with this man he called, "Shiro."
We went hand-in-hand, me and him. He wanted the attention he wasn't getting from his lousy lover- feels weird on my tongue- and I wanted to have a good fuck. Made perfect sense, to me. But apparently not to him. He set up rules, the little cock-sucker. Didn't want any bruises or scars on him, he said. Fuck. That. I made so many marks on him, I had no fucking idea how this Shiro hadn't noticed by now. That lover of his barely spared a glance for his little pitiable self, and I had no doubt that he was fucking other people like his beautiful, little Ichi.
I piston in his body, out and in, in and out, and he's thrashing his head from side to side. I switched him onto his back so his face could be splattered by his own essence. Wanted him to feel even dirtier than he already was.
His gasps and moans are becoming much more frantic. I know that he's close, and I glimpse downwards to see his veined cock bouncing between us. I want him to fucking beg with his eyes, mouth, and hands. I trace my fingers over his abdomen, the blood clotting at the edges of his cut. He doesn't notice it. I twirl my thumbs on his pebble-y nipples, dragging out another strangled moan.
"Ah! Shi- Shir-" I narrow my eyes at the close call; pumped into him harder, as he shouts from the intensity of my thrusts in his lithe body. The little shit; he forgets that I laid my own rules down, too. The claps from our false love-making are loud and prominent, and his moans are shaky and desperate, and his eyes are packed closed, bullets of tears racing down his face like rain on a window. He's imagining that my hands are his bastard of a boyfriend's. My dick. My movements. My anger.
I lock my fingers around a patch of his hair, and his eyes blink open automatically. I'm pissed, and he knows it. I make sure to make it known. I smack my mouth onto his, biting his bottom lip and piercing the skin. He accepts the hurt, scratching at my ribcages until they open the outer covering and release the ghosts within me. They ensnare him, and he breathes the scent of them. I thrust my tongue in his warm cavern with my deep plunges into his sinful body, and he lets me. He stretches his legs back. He wants me to enter him fully. Leaves himself vulnerable. Wants the pain. Needs it like the air he breathes.
He whimpers against my lips. "Mmph, hmmph!" I watch him intensely with my deep, entrancing blues, and his eyes are again closed. Imagining. "Fucking- oh, god!" I've released his lips, curious to see if he calls out that man's name. Curious to see if he has the right mind to stay in the sex, not the fantasy. "God! Fuck me… Fuck me… Fuck me…" he chants like a prayer, all determination focused on his orgasm. His legs stiffen; my gut is burning with fire. Our sweat mixing like vodka and the chaser. Our breaths like a climaxing opera. Our minds melding like oil and vinegar.
"Shiro!" His seed splatters against his chin and cheek like finger-paint, his ass tightening around me so much I think my dick will fall off. He milks me to my finish, and the coiling flames in my stomach empty into him, along with my ghosts. Our breaths are bouncing off of each other's chests, the sweat drying on our skins. He flinches underneath my weight. "… Tsk, ow, get off…" he hisses. I glare at his command, but do so nonetheless.
I exit him, and my white cum slithers down his back leg like salad dressing. He winces as he stands to his feet. "Damn, Grimmjow! I told you to wear a condom," he murmurs. I roll my eyes. Dig in my jean's pockets for a cigarette and lighter.
"Not my problem." The flame shadows my nose and lips, smoke beginning to fizz at the tip of the cancer-stick. He exhales a pained breath, and waddles his way into the bathroom. I open the window beside my messy bed, the smoke wafting and twining with my hairs and brain. I release the playing smoke from my mouth; vacuum it into my nose like a fucking dragon. I glance at my pack of smokes, scowling at the brand. Fucking Nistru. When the hell did I buy this suckish piece of shit? I shrug it off, my ears perking at the sound of churning water.
The burning pieces transform into ashes, and fall off speck by speck on my abs, penis, and criss-crossed legs. It stings like a bitch. But, I don't complain. I accept it like fucking heroin. Adds more to my ghosts. The water shudders to a stop, his light footsteps in my peripheral. He clutches his towel like a life-line; like I haven't seen everything on him already.
No goodbye. Sure as hell no goodbye kisses or hugs. He opens my dresser, retrieving the clothes he stashed there. He dresses himself as neatly as possible, as hurt-free as possible. His hisses drop in my hearing, and I grin. I totaled him a big one, this time. He slips the shoes he's come in with, and doesn't glance at me, or I in return. The soft click of the door echoes like powerful silence, and I frown at his departure. The brat's clicks and clacks are the last I hear of him. At least until tomorrow, or the day after that. Or the very next day after that day. Either way, we'll screw. Screw until either my dick is torn off from my rabid thrusting, or his prostate loses feeling from my constant jabbing.
I fucking fuck him.
The ash falls.
I fucking want him.
I swipe it off; scratch at the back of my head until it burns and I know I have a bald spot.
Wind swirls my figure, my neighbors standing on their rich-ass balconies, probably searching for the screaming piled on top of thumping.
I wait for him to bash on my door, fury rolling off of him in waves. I'd feed on it, and he'd allow me to. But, the kid hasn't arrived yet. If he doesn't arrive, I'll just go to a fucking strip bar and get myself a willing ass. I don't need to be waiting on him like a lame-ass wife.
I stand to my feet, grab my coat, and pick up my keys and cell phone. When I'm about to cross the threshold of my apartment, this whiny, shitty voice coos in my head, bribing me to stay. He could come in about an hour from now, it said. That brat is such a cry-baby that he'd come running to cry on your shoulder.
I listened to it, obedient and pissed as hell. Smoked some smokes. Flipped through some channels. Texted some prostitutes who wanted to fuck me. Drank some Bud Light. I glance at my clock, and curse under my breath at the fucking time. 1:20. The bastard's going to get it from me the next time he arrives. I'll fucking fist him for it. Though I know he'll only like it.
I can't punish him with anything because he takes it like a Nobel Peace Prize. Fucking shit. I glance at my phone, and no messages or missed calls are in my midst. To hell with it, I'm going to bed.
Where. The fuck. Is my. Whore. The slut hasn't contacted me for three days, and that's a feat in itself. I check my phone. Still none. I throw the shitty device at a shitty wall, and it disintegrates before my eyes. I'm acting like a woman. I'm getting my daily fuck. I'm not getting my daily high of the night or day. I'm not satisfied.
I swear I'm going to fuck him thirty-six ways from Sunday, and he won't even be able to walk to the door. Won't be able to walk back to that silly-as-shit boyfriend.
This mess stops now. I'm going to figure out the fuckery of this boy, and haul him back into my apartment by force if I have to. I'm going to fuck him. Strip him. Enter him. What-the-fucking-ever. I don't even bother to slide my coat on. It'd just serve to irritate me. I'm going to get him. I swear it on his fucking boyfriend. His retarded, petty, cunt-y lover.
I stab the ignition with the key, and peel out of my parking space within a blink of an eye; almost ran over a trash can because a fucking bastard left it out in the middle of the street like the ass he is. I drive over the speed limit, but who gives a shit? Definitely isn't me. I round corners and drive through the straights, and before I pass that empty dog park, I'm in front of his house. I park somewhere far yet near, and I make out a light bulb through the shade of curtains.
That Shiro guy should have been home by eight, and it's ten right now. I notice that he's reading a book; the pansy. Another car pulls in, but I'm oblivious until the vehicle pulls into the driveway. The car door slams, and booms from the impact across the yard. I see the ash-white hair.
The brat glances up from his book immediately, and stands to his feet to wrap the man in his arms. They peel off of each other; mutter stuff I can't make out. Kiss. The tie is thrown somewhere. The shoes are kicked off. Legs are surrounding a slim waist. Lips still connected. Light turns off.
I clutch the steering wheel. My knuckles crack from my grip.
All I wanna do is rip both of their heads from their smacking bodies with my bare hands, carve fuck you on their motherfucking skulls after I've shaved them bald, stab their chests and tear their hearts from out of the other and shove it in their lip-locking mouths. Or maybe I should fuck Ichigo right in front of the cunt and guffaw at him chained on the floor as he struggles to block his lover's screams from his ears because of my dick.
I realize that an hour has passed. Eleven o'clock. Seething in the car; I'm sure my anger has contaminated it. They can fucking chop off their dicks, stick it up their asses, and rotate it. All I know is that if that slut so much as steps near my apartment, shit will hit the fan.
"Can't you at least smile?" the little bitch asks. I sneer at her, and that's the best she can get outta me. She pouts like a bratty child, and all I wanna do is throw her out on the street, showing off her true colors. "I know what can cheer you up." She smirks. She widens her legs over my lap, and begins to grind on my flaccid cock. Her golden hair tickles my chest, but I don't react. She's so desperate to get my attention. She places her entrance at my tip, and all I do is stare. I seriously don't feel a fucking thing. Nada. Zippo.
She moans as she rises and falls, and this doesn't arouse me at all. I don't know why the fuck I called her. I was pissed off. And horny as hell. The whore wants another round, but I don't even want to look at her ugly face again. I flip her onto her back, and thrust into her mercilessly. She's too slow. Hurry the fuck up! She screams with a stupid grin on her face, and all I do is close my eyes. Imagining.
Silky, tan legs. Lithe, flexible form. Glazed honey-nut irises. I don't even care. I just want to get off. Get her pregnant; shit happens. I'm the shit. Abruptly, she pushes me off, and yelps like a fucking banshee. "… The hell?" I question. She's covering her big-ass boobs and everything about her that is nude, and that's when I turn my attention to where she's looking. She's looking at a man in the hallway, gawking at the display.
The plastic bag in his hand flutters to the carpet flooring, the food tumbling out like a landslide. "U-um, sorry. I didn't know you already had company," he apologizes, and spins around. Turns to leave without another glance backwards. Shit. I tug on my jeans and glare daggers at the big-breasted bitch and she nods her head in understanding. I want her out. Now, and forever.
I don't even turn in her direction as she stumbles about in my apartment. I race after the neon hair. He's about to enter into his car to storm out of my neighborhood.
Before he hops into his car and jets off, I grasp his wrist and haul him to the side, pinning him with my weight. "What the hell are ya here for?" He bites his bottom lip in musing, and this churns something in my gut. I slam the wrist in my hand onto his window, and he gasps from the impact. I tighten my grip. He shudders.
"T-the deal, asshole." My eyes intensify in their glare. "I came here for the deal." He came here for the sex. "What else am I supposed to be here for?" He steers his syrupy eyes from my piercing, blueberry orbs, and all I wanna do is tear him in half.
"Heh, so your little boyfriend's not treating ya right again, huh?" His eyes harden, and he tries to push me off. He's such a shrimp compared ta me. "Ya wanna forget the things he did wrong? Want another man's cock to fuck ya to make yourself feel good?" I whisper into his ear, and he shivers against my frame. His face is rouged with rosiness, and all I wanna do is laugh in his face. See what happens when ya act like a slut? You blush like a virgin, and get as hard as a brick. "Want me to make ya feel good… Ichigo?" He doesn't move. Waits for me to initiate everything before he begs for anything. He was a cheater in more ways than one.
I smirk at him sadistically, and within an instant, my hand is locked around his throat and he's gasping from the lack of air. "Well guess what, Ichigo," I spit out. "I'm not yer toy; you're mine. So, all of these fantasies about ya coming and going ends now. You're my bitch. My slut. My whore." He grits his teeth at me, but I merely stare at him with indifference. "What'd ya expect when you came into my room? That I'd be laying on my ass, waiting for you to come along?" The brat has the nerve to yank my hand away from him, and arousal spikes throughout me.
"Fuck you!" he shouts, and I nearly choke him entirely.
"Didn't I just tell ya? I'm the one who fucks you." I glare into his flaming eyes, and I swallow his anger. I want to entangle him in my ghosts; wrap it around him like a web until he can't find a way out. I'd be the fucking spider, and I'd feed off of him like the insect he is until he dies altogether, and every part of him is mine. Everything. I pry his mouth apart, and stash my searing tongue into his, and he begins to fight it. He knows I'm gonna win, so why not admit it already?
He begins to melt against me, his hands flinging up to surround my shoulders to keep his wobbly feet from collapsing underneath him. I palm his growing erection, and he moans from the contact. Saliva links us together, and he's looking at me with those eyes again. I push his body against the car in a loud thud, and resume my tango with his swaying lips. Grinding. Touching. Moaning. Feeling.
I wanna sweep him off of his feet, and tumble on the bed. Make a mess of him all night, and tie him up in chains so he can't return to freaking Casper. Make him wanna die from so much stimulation and so much amazing pain, only to revive him again to receive the same physical treatment. I want him. Want to own him. Want to possess him. Want to corrupt what little he has left of his innocence.
The clothes are shed. Back in the dark light of my room. Thumping. Humping. Dominating. He's against my wall, those familiar legs twined around me like they own me. His sleek legs are naked, as I strap them over my shoulders like a seatbelt. Never took the time for preparation, me being the sadist I am, and him being his masochistic self. Like I said, hand-in-hand. He plants his chin on my shoulder, my lower half consumed by his ass effortlessly.
The broken picture frame still resides on the floor, the photo glittering from the scattered glass. Forgotten and probably never going to be picked up. He's choking on his own gasps and moans; swirling in his world of pleasure and pain. He's succumbing to my hands. My dick. To me. I'm enveloping him in my heat, my ghosts curling around him like vines. Suffocating him. Fondling.
He gasps in my ear. I enter him. Over and over. Over and over. Scratch at skin. Bite at it. Smack into it, releasing all of my ghosts, black tendrils and all from my body. The wound I inflicted reopens and his blood rushes down to coat his stomach and pools around his member. It sweeps his slim waists, and drips from our smashing bodies like splattered paint. "Hnn, faster… faster!" I own him. I own all of him.
His ankles connect behind my neck, and his arms are splayed wide and gripping at the empty wall. His stomach is fluctuating from his harsh breathing; his mouth flapping about like he's about to drown. His eyes are watching me. Despite being unfocused, he's seeing into me, and it's fucking me up. Something in me is stirring: horniness, cum, pleasure, possessiveness. I want him to see it all. That he's fucking mine.
I stroke his cock; the first time he's actually getting real indulgence from my hand. He grips my biceps. I fuck him harder. He isn't closing his eyes. My heart is beating erratically, and all I wanna do is shoot it with a gun. Tell it, hah! Teaches ya not to bounce against my ribcage without permission!
I know it's not pulsing like the bastard it is right now because I'm fucking him hard. Brutal. He's looking at me. And I wanted him to see that I would be the only one fucking him. Only me. Mine. Mine.
My guttural grunts mold into his climbing harmony, the wall we're against abused by my constant stabbing. His fingers coil in my hairs, his nose poking at my neck. "You're fucking mine! You're mine, you bitch! Mine!" He's not relaying the rules to me. I wonder when he'll remember them. When he'll tell me to stop calling him my property. When he'll tell me that the rules applied, even now. The time when he screams out a name that isn't mine.
He quivers around me, his lips brushing against my collarbone. Warm puffs of air waft against my chest from his mouth, and I want him to lean closer. Until we're tangled together with my ghosts and brought to our early deaths from our suffocation. He'd know all of me, then. And I would know him.
I hear his hitch of breath. I know that this little get-together is almost at its end. I accelerate my thrusting, and his arms constrict around me even tighter. His screams are growing frantic. My hands, clammy. "G-… Grimmjow!"
His semen splashes my chest, and I nearly halt myself from him calling out my name like that. Louder than he's ever shouted anything. The little bitch is twirling with my mind. And I want it to stop. His ass bolts around me like screws; harder to push myself in. He moans against me; exhales a breath of "Grimmjow," in my ear like he ain't ever going to get the chance again.
With a finishing huff to my thrust, I release myself inside him, and he cries for me again. With my name. Not that fucking boyfriend of his that claimed him taken. The black wisps of my disfigured poltergeists crumble inch by inch, not returning into the confines of my skin like they normally did. Would I be hollow inside now? Nothing to fill this vessel of mine?
His orange strands tickle under my chin, and I glance at him, his cheek resting against my chest, his legs still placed on my shoulders. How the fuck is he comfortable? And then I recognize droplets from his eyes, my hand shifting his legs from over me and around my waist. I don't move. I don't mutter. I don't stir. He turns those tearful eyes on me, and I wanna punch his lights out for showing me such a pathetic face. I wanna rip him apart. But then I would only keep his remains. He smoothes over my cheek with his fingers, and I wanna shove them away. As far away from me as possible. I don't cuddle. I don't embrace. I don't do this.
He traces my firm lips before softly connecting us; he tastes salty from the tears. He feels the adrenaline I feel, but situates his palm on my chest to steady me. He deserves a fist to that. He can't command me. No one can. But he's here. And doing it. He's peering into my eyes, and I wanna let him go, and he'd collapse on the carpet from the gravity, but I'm frozen. Stuck.
He mumbles, "I'm afraid." All I do is gaze at him. Wait for him to continue what my curiosity wants me to ask.
Curiosity killed the cat.
"What are you afraid of?"
"…This is becoming more than a deal to me." I wanna castrate him. He's lying. Lying right through his teeth. But, why do I find myself agreeing with him? That this is becoming much more than what it seems?
"Do you wanna stop?" I don't bite my tongue. I don't stumble around the subject. Because why should I be afraid? He's not important. A fuck toy.
I want him. I crave him. I wanna suck the life out of him. I wanna devour him. I want all of him. Want to own him. Want to possess him. Want to corrupt what little he has left of his innocence.
I slide him off. I pick up a broken piece of glass from the picture frame. Cut myself with it, the sound of my blood tingeing the carpet, deafening and prominent. No ghosts. So what's going to replace them?
Ummmm…. I'm really nervous about this fic. I also realized that the writing style sounds a lot like Recklessly Impulsive's, and I swear that I didn't mean it! DX mrsichigodarcy checked it over, and she said it sounded a lot like his, and I was like O.O Forgive me! (Runs from pitch forks and flaming rocks) I also apologize for any grammatical errors.
NO! Grimmjow doesn't really have ghosts, e.e Symbolism is clearly etched here, and if you want to know what they really are, then keep reading this. If not, don't and stick with your own theory!
The ghosts are Grimmjow's guilt and pain, and he lets it live within him. Thinks it's a way to live the life he leads. You know, with fucking a man who has another man. He has solidified his fear of loving, and wants the ghosts there to remind him that he cannot love. Will not love. Soooooo… now that the ghosts are gone… what do ya think will replace them? :o
*ahem* After reading this story again (2 years ago, I believe I wrote this), I realize that Grimmjow is a yandere, hands down XD I never realized till now. From what I wrote back then, Grimmjow sounds like he has mental issues, and I believe he has obsessive love disorder. I never intended for him to have a disorder, but I think the dark tone of this story suits the idea well, so I'm going to keep that notion in mind :D So, thank you for reading, and have a nice life, peoples!