Thank you guys for reading and reviewing the first chapter! I promise I'll reply asap!
By now you're probably going "waaaaiiiiit you said this is a PWP one-shot..." Yes, I meant for Shower to be a one-shot, I really did. But I can't seem to get it out of my head, and the longer I think, the more ideas I get.
So here it is...I'm turning Shower into a multi-chapter. It could probably use a better title, but I'm too lazy to think of something else.
This is actually another first for me: Writing a story solely based on my mood/muse and not according to a drafted outline. I have a general idea where I want it to go, but I don't have it nicely written down in bullet points (I do for my other stories). In fact, the ideas I have for this come in snippets, so I basically have to grab my phone whenever something strikes me out of the blue. I have bits of a dialog here, a paragraph there...it's weird. I've never had such an experience with a story before. Thank you in advance for bearing with me on this potentially bumpy ride.
This chapter is in Ichigo's POV, in case it's not obvious.
I peer at the man out of the corner of my eye. He's standing in front of the mirror, raking his fingers through his damp hair. It's beginning to dry, the navy blue locks gradually turning into a lighter, more vibrant hue.
I try not to act too nervous even though my heart's about to leap out of my throat. Can you blame me? I've been eyeing this guy for months, wondering how and when I can get to know him better.
As my ass throbs lightly, I can't help but smile wryly to myself. Oh, I've gotten to know him better alright. My cheeks warm at the recollection. A part of me is ashamed of myself for sleeping with a random stranger, but a bigger part of me is whooping in joy.
I trudge out of the bathroom and enter the kitchen, where I open the door of the fridge and pretend to rummage around for something to eat. I'm not hungry at all, but I have to keep myself occupied. Inside, I'm trembling. It has been ten minutes since we "showered", and he's still here. I don't know if I should feel happy or disturbed. I'm kind of leaning towards the former.
"Do you want something to drink?" I call out, pleased when my voice came out steady. I sound confident, not at all like the nervous wreck that I am.
He doesn't reply, but two seconds later he walks out of the bathroom. I immediately freeze at the sight.
That fucker.
He's just standing there with a towel wrapped casually around his waist, his hair an unruly mess, yet he still manages to look like the sexiest man alive.
How is that fair? I can't look even half that good if I spend an hour in front of the mirror.
"Do you have milk?" he asks, looking at me with those glacial-blue eyes of his.
I blink dumbly as I process his question. "Milk?"
I guess I'm expecting him to say something really manly, like "beer", or "whisky". Definitely not milk.
He quirks his eyebrow and starts to walk towards me. "Yeah."
"Umm, yeah, I have milk," I try hard not to stutter as he pulls up next to me. Thank god for the fridge door that's covering his lower half. I don't know if I can not look.
"Cool," he says, flashing me a bright smile.
His teeth are really white, I note absently as I take out the milk carton. I check the expiry date and breathe out a sigh of relief. It's still good. It'd be kind of embarrassing if he sees that I have expired shit in my fridge.
I grab a mug from the cabinet and fill it with full cream milk—no reduced fat crap for me, thank you very much, then I hand it to him.
"Do you mind warming it up for me?"
I blink again. Warm milk? Should I serve him cookies next?
His eyes narrow slightly. I can't tell if he's getting pissed or feeling curious.
"Yes, warm milk," he says firmly. "Is it that hard to understand?"
I purse my lips at his condescending tone, but I decide not to retort. I don't want to start an argument over such a petty thing, especially not when I'm still feeling the lingering high from the amazing sex we just had.
Still, I can't help but shove the cup of milk into the microwave with a little more force than necessary.
I sense him coming closer to stand right behind me. He's so near that I can feel his body heat.
"Are you mad?" he asks quietly. He doesn't sound apologetic, but I have a feeling that this is as close to an apology as I'm going to get.
I let out a soft "hmph" and refuse to turn around. My pride won't let me forgive him just like that.
The only response I get is a sigh next to my ear, then he moves away and pads into the living room. I hear the familiar squishing sound that indicates that he's sitting on my couch.
Guess he's not the kind who likes to kiss and make up.
For some reason, I feel a pang of disappointment. I immediately shake my head and laugh at myself. What the hell am I thinking? Just because we fucked doesn't mean we mean anything to each other.
The microwave beeps, and I retrieve the steaming mug. I stare at it, not particularly liking the idea of serving it to him. What am I now, his maid?
I sigh and remind myself that he's still my guest, even if I didn't invite him in.
"Here."
He lifts his head and takes the cup from me. He doesn't smile at first, but after he takes a sip, he lets out a satisfied "ahhh" and grins.
I excuse myself to change into my pajamas, then I make myself comfortable in the love seat.
He gives me a puzzled look, his eyes darting to the empty spot next to him.
I hesitate. His intention is clear, but I'm not sure what this means. After a few seconds, I give in and go over to the couch.
The minute I sit down, he clutches the hair at the back of my head and turns me around to face him. Before I can protest, his lips are on mine. I taste milk.
When his tongue pushes its way into my mouth, I can't stop the mewl that escapes from my throat. I've never been kissed so aggressively before. It's almost bordering on rude, the way he forcefully pries my lips apart, but I can't deny that it turns me on.
The little voice in my head berates me for letting a stranger molest me again. I go still for a second, debating whether I want to stop him. The thought shattered completely when his hand slips under my t-shirt.
Who am I kidding? I don't want him to stop, ever.
With a strong tug, he pulls me onto his lap, our teeth clashing in the process. I can feel him rubbing against me. He's hard.
"Grimmjow," I pant.
"Hmm?" he hums, then kisses the side of my neck. I jerk and hiss when his teeth graze my skin.
I don't know what I want to say. I guess I'd like us to talk about what happened before going for round two, but I think it's a little too late for that.
So I grind our cocks together instead. He growls, the sound eerily animalistic yet unbelievably arousing.
"I want to fuck you," he tells me gruffly.
"Okay," I reply.
I climb off his lap to take my pants off. He watches me, his eyes dark and shining with desire. I blush when he starts to stroke himself. His action looks disgustingly lewd, but it makes me want him more.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I jump back on and straddle his thighs. He grabs my ass and pulls me up, then without any warning, he yanks me down on his cock.
I'm loose from earlier, but it still hurts enough that I can't help but cry out in pain. I instinctively buck my hips to get off of him, but he holds my waist like a vice and forces me down.
"Ride me," he murmurs.
The command—oh it definitely isn't a polite request—breaks down my defenses, and I obediently comply. It's like my body refuses to listen to me anymore. I rise and fall on his lap just like he asks me to do, using his gravelly moans to guide my movement. I think he's going to leave two hand prints on my hips. He lets his head collapse back onto the sofa and looks up at me under his eyelashes. My blood sings when I see how much he wants me.
Once I get used to his girth, I let pleasure take over. I no longer feel the burn, the stretching, the slickness that hints that I might be bleeding. I grasp his shoulders and dig my nails into his skin. I want to leave my mark on him the way he's leaving his on me.
"Do you dream of this?" he asks, the sentence broken up by his pants.
I frown in confusion. "What?"
"This." He thrusts up and pushes himself deep inside me, reaching places that nobody has ever touched before.
After my scream subsides, I nod. It's true, I have pictured him taking me, countless times as I lie in bed at night. Alas, my imagination doesn't do this any justice.
"Oh yeah?" he whispers, a smirk appearing on his face. "Am I living up to your expectations?"
It's difficult to nod when I'm bouncing up and down, but I try. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I'm almost delirious, my mind is going numb, and I feel nothing except him.
My response seems to please him. He reaches between our bodies and wraps his hand around my cock, as if I am now somehow worthy of a reward. I should be embarrassed by the whimper that leaves my mouth, but I'm not. He matches my pace and pumps me with his fist. His palm is calloused and hot and big, and within seconds, I'm gone. Everything goes white for a moment, then when I'm aware of myself again, I realize that I'm sprawled bonelessly on his chest.
He keeps going for a while. I try to help him along, but my movements are clumsy and slow. I'm so fucking tired. I feel his breath against my neck, then all of a sudden he bites down. I hear him grunt through gritted teeth, and at the same time he floods my insides. I use the back of my hand to muffle my cry. I think he bit through my skin.
He starts to stroke my hair and place soft kisses on my cheek. It's a little weird. This is like that almost-intimate moment in the shower earlier, when he had washed me. It's hard to believe that this is the same man who just fucked me like an animal. Maybe he's bipolar.
We stay on the couch until I can't stand the stickiness on my stomach anymore. I slide off his lap and sit down next to him. I rest for a couple of minutes until I'm sure that I can stand up properly.
"You doing okay?" he asks.
I glance at him. "Yeah, I'm good," I reply. I'm kind of sore, and I'll probably have a limp tomorrow, but he doesn't need to know that.
He grins and runs his fingers through my hair again. "You wanna take a shower?"
I nod. I really don't want to because I'm so sleepy, but I can't possibly go to bed like this. I assume he's coming to the bathroom with me since he asked, so I'm surprised when he grabs his towel and wraps it around his waist.
"I'm gonna head back," he says.
I'm shocked by the disappointment that hits me when I hear that. What do I expect? That he would stay and we'd cuddle through the night? I instantly feel stupid.
"Sure," I mutter.
I walk him to the door, where he caresses my cheek before leaving. I shut the door and lean my back against it to collect my thoughts. My face remains warm and tingly where he has just touched.
What the fuck just happened?
I walk into the bathroom in a daze. I stop abruptly in front of the mirror when I catch the bite mark in my reflection.
Holy crap.
I don't know how I'm going to hide this. Fuck! I can't go to work with a massive hickey—is it even considered a hickey if it looks like I got mauled?—on my neck. Urahara will kill me.
Oh, don't get me wrong. He won't kill me per se, but he'll laugh so hard that I'll die of shame. Not to mention, that idiot Renji will probably spread the news to the whole town by noon tomorrow.
I drown my worries in the shower. I don't hear anything downstairs. Either Grimmjow has simply gone to bed like that—yuck—or he has finished showering already. Unlikely, but then again I think I spent a long time staring at myself in the mirror and fretting about that damn mark he left behind.
By the time I crawl into bed I'm close to passing out from fatigue. I haven't had sex for almost a full year. This is like starting off on a fucking Black Diamond after not skiing for five years.
Then I remember why I haven't slept with anyone for so long, and I feel a twinge of sadness. I remind myself that Orihime deserves someone better than me. Last I heard, she has found someone who adores her. It doesn't stop me from feeling guilty, though. Nobody deserves to be the one who makes their partner realize that he's actually gay. I know I broke her heart the day I told her.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and set my alarm for eight a.m., then I pull my blanket up to my chin and close my eyes.
To be continued...
A word of warning: This story is going to have heavy doses of angst. That, and HEAPS of lemon. Yeah. Like, a lot of it.
So...umm...if you didn't like this addition, chapter 1 technically can still stand alone as a one-shot. :)
Oh, and happy holidays everyone! :D