Gripping his hair, hearing the low, harsh sounds in his ear. Feeling that soft, warm body arch against him, having blunt nails dig into his back.
Feeling affection.
He hates it all. Fucking hates it.
It makes him feel. He shouldn't be feeling. It's just a mean to get off, finding satisfaction and that's it. That would have been it, if he did not return to the same body over and over again.
Pressing against him, whispered pleas and lips against his shoulder. Whimpers and moans blending together in a euphoric mass.
It feels good.
Too good. And he hates it.
From the moment he steps into the room, sees the mass of orange, that cocky smirk and deep brown eyes, he's filled with anger. All he wants to do is tear the boy apart, make him bleed and break him in more ways than one. He wants to fight, kill the boy and watch life disappear from those honey brown eyes.
Tanned skin slick with sweat, head thrown back, fingers tangled in sky blue hair, scowl smoothed out the slightest to give room for expressions of pleasure. So warm, secure, clinging onto him as if he's a safety buoy, as if he would be the only protection in a word threatening to drive him into insanity.
He hates it. He hates the way Ichigo will grin up at him, how gone and happy he'll look as Grimmjow's poised over him. A hand on the throat, pressing, barely choking, doesn't seem to face him, he only slide his fingers into his hair, pulling him down.
Lips against lips, tongues moving together in a flurry of passion. Blood and chocolate and rice; the taste of his Berry. He'll never understand why it doesn't taste as horrible as it sounds. No one tastes as good as Ichigo.
Chest heaving and sinking, orange strands slicked to his forehead, eyes closed and head resting against his chest. Satisfied. Relaxed. Happy.
He wants to kill him, slit his throat and devour him until there is nothing at all left of him. It's his job. He's life.
Hollows kill Shinigami. Suck their soul out and have them disappear from existence. Shinigami kills Hollows. Cleanse their body from sin. Good and bad, black and white. Death and life. There's no difference between them. They're the same. They're on different sides. They're different because what they were born as – what they were created as.
And Ichigo doesn't care. He never cares what anyone cares, and Grimmjow hates that about him.
Fingers dripping with blood, gripping harshly on orange colored strands, dying them red by the brats own blood. Lips against lips, tanned, slicked skin arched against his, legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Choking, stabbing, punching.
Why can't he care?
He hates him, everything with him. Wants to devour him and make him never have existed. Become yet another ghost.
He can't. Not because of strength. He's weaker, he knows that now, but Ichigo leaves all too many openings. He lets Grimmjow stab him, choke him, break him. Over and over.
Honey brown eyes meeting his, lips stretched in a wide smirk, orange hair flying in the wind. A hand raising, a call of I knew you'd be alive, Grimmjow. First meeting in two years. The desire to kill stronger than ever. Ichigo were happy to see him alive.
Still is.
Stabbing, choking, punching, skin tearing from bones. A curse of are you trying to eat me, asshole? And Grimmjow wish he could say yes.
He wants to devour the damn Berry. Wants to kill him, feed on him and make him never have existed in his life.
Warm body pressed against his, chilled nose pressing against his neck, breath heavy as Ichigo chuckles at something or another. Fingers still tangled in sky blue strands, smile over his lips by the arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. Not enough. Never enough. They can never get too close.
He wants to. He wants to.
But he can't.
Looking into honey eyes, seeing only amusement and not an ounce of fear. He knows that he just can't.
He hates him, wants to kill him. But he loves him, and can't be without him.
He hurts and breaks, tears and insults, and Ichigo lets him. Because he knows that even with everything Grimmjow does, the former Espada will not kill him.
He doesn't want to admit it. He can't admit it. He's heartless. A Hollow, Arrancar. Espada. There's no sense in him stopping from killing a Shinigami because of feelings. He have none. Heartless.
Skin against his, laughing together, breathless and smiling, bodies tangled together. A moment before remembering all the hate. Just a mean to get off. The body doesn't matter. It could be anyone. Anyone at all, willing or not. It've been the same body for ten years.
He hates it. Hates him.
But not more than he loves him.
This must be one of the strangest things I've ever written (in a long time -cough-) and I finished it in twenty minutes top. And despite it being confusing and morbid, I freaking love it.
Please review, and point out any mistakes I might've overlooked :D