Warning: Beware of quite crude language at times. Nothing too graphical here but it is an adult situation throughout the chapter, so be wary of that too. That said, I hope you enjoy.
Nature's Finest Artwork
Chapter Two: A Map of Her
From the moment she'd set foot into Las Noches, she'd been an eyesore to him.
Orihime was an intruder, most unwelcome in the Arrancar keep as far as Grimmjow was concerned. She was too different, too unlike them for his tastes.
She made stark contrast with every single one of them. She was like a blotch of bright, colourful paint in a world made of gray. An eyesore.
And he saw the way she carried herself around the place—as though she was better than them, with her primness and whole damsel-in-distress melancholy look, wringing her hands in her lap when she thought no one was looking.
She just fucking pissed him off so much! He wanted to strangle her by that pretty little neck, snap it in half for all that innate goodness of hers was worth and show her that it didn't matter whether she believed herself more just, or better, or any other foolishly heroic characteristic her deluded head may conjure up because virtue couldn't hold a candle to power and no matter how virtuous she was and flaunted the fact about with that innocent fucking face of hers, it wouldn't matter when he was snuffing the life right out of that wimpy form of hers just because he could and there would be nothing she could do to stop him from doing so.
Looking at her while brushing past her down the corridors of Las Noches, seeing her from afar across the meeting room of the Espada and always infallibly noticing that scared shitless and yet somehow self-righteously determined expression of hers, as though enduring whatever they dished out for her was for some screwed up "greater cause", made everything that was twisted in him burn with a ferocity.
His blood boiled in his veins in those moments, every fiber of his being craving to spill her precious blood and show her just what he could actually put her through, see if she could survive even that with just her steadfast self-conviction alone. He practically ached all over to knock her off her tall horse, smack some sense into that airy empty head of hers because, hello, no one was coming to rescue her and even if they were, they'd all die pathetic deaths before even setting foot in the fortress so she could fucking forget that feigned show of strength of hers because it wasn't impressing anyone and it was just fucking pissing him the hell off!
When Orihime wasn't rubbing him the wrong way with her pretended façade of impassiveness, she had this absolutely obnoxious habit of mouthing that lame-ass shinigami's name that he'd roughed up twice already. So when Grimmjow's fingers weren't itching to curl around that skinny neck of hers, to rip her throat right out or tear her apart till she was no more than a gurgling bloody mess, he wanted to taint her, take the last of what little dignity she may have had left and screw her, fuck her hard and long enough to make her forget that asshole's name and face, fill her up with so much of himself so many times she wouldn't have a coherent thought anymore in that freaking head of hers.
He didn't know why it irked him so, seeing her hoping for that prick's rescue, but it did and he didn't care to know more than just the fact it did. And controlling himself from giving into his sadistic desires towards the fragile human girl was becoming increasingly difficult and it would be just a matter of time before he truly snapped.
Why hadn't he yet? Because of Aizen's orders to stay the hell away from her? As though that could really stop him if he really wanted to do something as badly as he did.
Why then?
Why, quite simple actually—while the chick was hell of an annoying one, in everything she did and was, the fact still remained that he owed her a debt he would probably never be able to repay.
And, quite frankly, that had to be the most infuriating thing of all. And that was saying something.
Grimmjow remembered vividly the first time he'd taken her. It was a victory of a type he'd never before had a taste of but could grow very much accustomed to, maybe even as much as he enjoyed grinding people's faces in the dirt.
What was odd though was he could clearly recall even what had led to the happenings that transpired, which he couldn't say for any of the subsequent times after it.
Maybe it was because her eyes completely lacked what little luster they usually had that day or because of the tense air of doom and gloom about her when he passed her by on his way to a meeting with Aizen and all the other Espada members. Maybe it was because she'd looked like an empty shell, a soulless afterimage that was still somehow walking around mindlessly, that he could remember.
Or it could be the fact that she hadn't even tried to fight him when he'd caught that easily breakable throat of hers in his vice-like grasp, or because she actually had the gall to look relieved and hopeful that he break her neck and end her misery. Never before had he seen her hit rock bottom so much to actually desire death. It wasn't normal. It was fucked up, wanting to die for even a second. He could not comprehend it, could not accept it, would not stand for her looking at him like that, as though he was doing her a favour by threatening her damned life.
Grimmjow remembered shaking her roughly by the collar, barking at her to snap the hell back to reality because she was fucking pissing him off. Her eyes had questioned him mutely—why? What did it matter? She didn't care whether she lived or died and neither did he—why should she make any more futile efforts? There was nothing worth trying so hard for in the first place.
And Orihime adamantly refused to get back to her usual pointlessly optimistic self. Why? He did not care for whys and hows. All that mattered was that she would do as he wanted her to, one way or another, because when he wanted something to go a certain way he always bent it to his will, regardless whether it wanted to bend that way or not.
So he did the most natural thing in the world when violence wouldn't get him the result he desired.
He turned the other cheek.
And kissed her rather savagely as proof of it.
He could still remember her indignant squawk of protest and the way her tiny little fists futilely pounded and pushed against his chest in a pitiful attempt to shove him away. He recalled smirking against her mouth at that—it was much more like it, this change of demeanor of hers. It was this kind of spunk that he'd been looking for from her, that defiance which he had sought when he'd slammed her by her throat against the wall hard enough to bruise.
His hands were still rough and demanding while ravishing her curves but with intentions radically different from a second prior. But, ah, how she struggled and struggled, yelling at him to let go with that horror stricken face of hers, tears of helplessness welling in those steely gray eyes of hers.
It had been fun the first few minutes but then it was just annoying, having a woman so downright displeased with his touch. He'd immediately decided that it wouldn't do and changed tack. He wasn't the smoothest of courtiers but he knew a few things capable of turning those terrified screams of hers mould into appreciative ones and, taking into account how difficult it was to change her mind usually, he'd make a challenge of achieving just that. Still very much a predator at heart, Grimmjow always loved a good chase.
And, surely enough, after working some of his undeniable irresistible charm on her, his magic over her body started taking over from her mind. Despite her better judgement, Orihime couldn't stop the frightened whimpers from morphing into delighted gasps, the screams into moans and the thrashing away into grinding against. She wanted to get away from him, wanted his hands away from her because they were taking liberties that shouldn't have been allowed and yet when he touched her, his long fingers left a trace of burning flesh in their wake that did not belong to an unwilling victim.
Before neither realized it, instead of inching away she was clawing into, no longer trying to push away but clinging tightly to, and meeting him rough touch for rough touch, passionate bruising kiss for passionate bruising kiss and thrust for thrust desperately, vehemently, needily. She held onto his broad shoulders as he moved against her, eyes clenched shut, mewling and squeaking in that absolutely arousing way in his ear until he actually drove her over the edge.
He remembered letting her crawl in bed to sleep afterwards and actually lingering behind to admire how he'd broken her when she'd drifted off, unaware of his carnivorous gaze still on her. He'd been so beyond pleased with himself, for taking away the last thing that was hers and hers only, for taking her body and not even giving her the chance of saying it had been against her will, robbing her of the chance to have a clear conscience about the whole escapade.
In just one act, something as ordinary and superficial as bodily contact, friction of skin against skin and something more, he'd changed her forever.
He'd tainted her.
He'd ruined her.
And he was having a field day with it.
Where was her shinigami now, while he'd fucked her virginity away, huh? Did he hear her screams and pleas for help while Grimmjow was coming onto her? Where was Kurosaki Ichigo while an Arrancar was defiling her? Could she really let herself be rescued by him when she'd remember what one of her captors had done to her? Could she really go back to being normal when she'd actually desired an Espada's touch?
He'd seeded all those worries in her messed up little head and it hadn't even taken all that much effort.
Satisfied with a job well done, Grimmjow had turned and fully intended to walk away, to leave her rest in peace when she'd made the mistake of saying the one taboo word.
He'd thought he'd got rid of all her thoughts of that prick…
And then he'd let himself spin totally out of control.
He'd roughly shaken her awake and screwed her over, hard, again and again, until she was practically hurting from all the pleasure and overwhelmed from the orgasmic bliss, begging him to stop. He'd made her look at him through it all, forbidding her to close her eyes or avert her gaze; forbidden her from running away from the fact whom she was doing this with, whom she was letting do as he damn well pleases with her body. He'd ground it in her, over and over, whom she belonged to and she would be wise to remember it.
After he was done, the sour expression securely etched onto his face as he left her to herself in her room, all the nerves in her body hypersensitive from the overdrive he'd put them through, he retreated with the air of someone who had make his message clear.
At first he had thought that it would've been just a one time occurrence, that evening with her in her quarters. Even though she'd proved to be a relatively good lay, she was nothing really all that special and Grimmjow had better things to do with his time than waste it on her.
And yet he found himself coming back to her for more, yearning to have that luscious frame of hers wrapped around his engorged length again and again, whether to blow some steam off or just for kicks; because he missed those pitiful sounds she made when she was close to her peak or because he wanted to have her from any possible angle he could think of. For whatever reason, he came back to her, again and again, and she never pushed him away, no matter how violent or sadistic he was with her, how absolutely selfish and demanding at times.
He'd thought that it was just because he enjoyed his superiority over her and shoving in her face the fact he could have her wherever he wanted her, whenever he wanted her and however many times he wanted her. He always did it to her in such a cold-light-of-day manner, never giving her any reason to delude herself into thinking he actually cared about whether she really enjoyed their intercourse or not.
Nevertheless, at one point Grimmjow began to allow his fingers to linger at this sensitive spot or that a little longer, in way that was gratifying only on her part and not at all on his; he let his kisses last because he knew from the way she returned them she liked them; his caresses—though still untamed and rampant—morphing into a more subdued and controlled version of their previous selves.
It had been a gradual, very slow change but it had not eluded either of them.
Until one time he decided to embrace this new found fascination with her that he had—for the first time actually interested in her, not just what it would be like to have her at his beck and call. There had been nowhere to hide from this fact any longer and his curiosity was getting slowly the better of him anyway.
He could elicit such delicious response from her when he wasn't even trying hard; what would happen should he actually get in the role? What would her screams and moans turn into? Would her back arch even further into his if he did? Would she claw harder into his shoulders and leave deeper tracks if he tried harder?
Only one way to find out really and he couldn't think of a reason not to embark on the journey.
The first night Grimmjow had decided to sate his curiosity, Orihime had been taken aback by how extended the foreplay had been that night. And then she hadn't been left with much coherent thought potency to wonder anything and she'd just decided to enjoy the ride while it lasted because she didn't count much on it repeating.
He'd sated his lust first, of course, so he wouldn't let his impatience get the better of him in the most opportune moment. From then on, while she was still struggling to catch her breath, he let himself loom over her for a bit, taking in the sight of her rose tinted sides and the way her well-endowed chest expanded and deflated with each steadying gasp she took. Usually, he would stay like that for a while, marveling at his handiwork of tiring her out a way no one else could—that he made sure no one else got ideas he could—but this time he strayed from the rut.
His warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of her neck, making an appreciative shiver rake her form even as she demanded to know what he was doing. He ignored her of course, focusing instead on how unbearably soft she was all over, his hands roaming her body with little to no trace of innuendo in his ministrations for once.
He looked mesmerized in an almost child-like way by the smoothness of her skin and how pliant her flesh was against his calloused hands. He let an open palm slide from lightly squeezing her tiny neck to her perfectly flat collarbone, then further downwards to the generous mounds of her breasts.
He'd always had a thing for her chest, the size and shape of it. She was almost too perfect in that aspect, a sight for sore eyes in the nude. He'd always noticed how his hands were so much larger than hers, than her shoulders, and yet he couldn't manage to cup a breast with a palm. The soft flesh pooled in his grasp, so tantalizingly round and looking so inviting to his predatory gaze. He squeezed the mounds of glee a few times, only noticing her breathy moans under his touch when they became loud enough to break him out of his trance-like state.
He looked up to her face then, noting with slight amusement that she had flushed again in the way she did when she was starting to get excited and he should've thought at that very moment that he could read her a bit too well, even though she wasn't very good at veiling her emotions in the first place, not to mention under the given circumstances. But he was too busy exploring the curves of her lusciously sculpted frame to pay much heed to the alarm bells in the darkest recess of his mind.
Satisfied with the reaction he was receiving from her thus far, Grimmjow let his hands roam down further, to the flat of her stomach, covered with that ethereally soft skin of hers. He let his palm linger over her belly for a bit, staring in wonder again how much smaller she was compared to him—he hid almost all of her midriff from view when he spread his fingers over her abdomen. She was so tiny and breakable and deliciously vulnerable—he couldn't get enough of her and her impatient moans for him to continue what he'd started, to resume his trek downwards.
He smirked wolfishly at her, fingering the sides of her exposed thighs instead, teasing her just to get a rise out of her while he burrowed his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her sickeningly sweet scent, enjoying the rumble of her indignant sounds of protest against his mouth as he denied her what she wanted again, exploring hands sliding back upwards once more.
Her protest died in her throat to be replaced with an involuntary moan she didn't manage to hold in when he licked the side of the column of her neck. He let his parted lips linger over her pulse point, sucking at the sensitive flesh there before continuing his journey south.
He was intrigued by the change in pitch of her voice when he lavished her chest with the attention he'd been meaning to give it for some time. Inspired by her generous response, he continued to map all of her until he could remember the way she looked without needing the use of his eyesight. Her small neck, her large well-rounded chest, her tiny waist, her toned thighs and calves, her impeccably even abdomen, her little hands raking his hair… He continued until he could recreate all of her in his mind without fail.
Grimmjow made sure there wasn't a centimeter of her he had not charted. And after he did, he reclaimed her again but somehow this time it felt different, it felt more special somehow.
And then the alarm bells became loud enough to shake him out of his reverie.
One night many days later, after Orihime had long fallen asleep, Grimmjow stayed awake by her on the spacious bed, brooding moodily.
She was messing with his head from the moment she'd showed up in Las Noches and every day it was becoming worse. She was an underhand creature, making him think he was in control of things, yet slowly worming her way inside and up. He hated her for confusing him, for infusing him with that unnamable weirdness of hers, for trying to change him without his notice.
She took a bit of him and reshaped him after every subsequent time he came to take her and he did not appreciate it. He had realized it long ago, what she'd been trying to do. He'd intended to resist it—whatever it was that she was doing to him—but it had been a rather pointless exercise. He'd attempted to put an end to his visits to her then, unwilling to see the end result of her evil magic over him.
And that's when it became ugly.
He hadn't been able to let her go. Can you imagine?
He'd become so intoxicated and used to her that she'd become a fixation to him, a treat he could not deny himself, an insatiable desire. He was treading in dangerous territory there and he knew it but he was still as incapable at letting her go.
She was making him weak, corroding his keen senses with her saccharine sweetness and haunting softness and he hated her for it. He felt those sadistic inclinations towards her from so long ago arise again in him when he looked at her blissfully sleeping face. And it pissed him off so fucking much that she could rest away undisturbed when she was causing him so many headaches with complex issues he didn't even want to concern himself with.
The bitch… It was all her fault to begin with—why was he the one to suffer in the end?
And during all those times he glared heatedly at her slumbering form, his hand reached out, fingers twitching to enclose around her fragile neck, itching to break it and free himself of all the troubles she was putting on his shoulders.
It was all in his mind, he'd tell himself, this change that had taken place between them. They looked no different than they did before he started screwing her regularly, they were no different; she was still the annoying chit whose blood he yearned to spill and there was nothing going on between them that could stop him from doing so. If anything, her fucking with his mind was even more an incentive to put an end to her miserable existence and do them both a favour.
He would be so close to wrapping his long slender digits around her throat he could practically taste it; taste his freedom, taste the relative normalness again…
…And then she would sleep-talk, breathing a dreamy sigh through her pointy little nose, and effectively chase away all of the fight from him.
Because it was no longer Kurosaki's name she mumbled in her sleep.
His hand would retract at this point and he'd become overwhelmed by the urge to storm out of the room, slam the door behind himself enough to startle her awake just to spite her for throwing him in another fit of unclear, unfamiliar emotions. She was finally truly giving him what he'd wanted from the start and yet it still seemed wrong.
Because Grimmjow was finally everything that preoccupied Orihime's thoughts, whether she be awake or not.
He had been the one to break her, the one to sully her, the one to desecrate her. He'd taken her innocence and made her as filthy as each and every one of them in Las Noches was, stripping her of her right to look down on them.
He'd won. He'd overpowered her. He'd ruined her irreparably. And he'd been incredibly, evilly pleased with himself at that.
He muttered a curse beneath his breath, resting his forehead on his hands and not moving even an inch for long enough to be mistaken for a statue on her bedside.
He'd been the one to ruin her and yet why was it that Grimmjow felt like the one to have been irreversibly tainted…?
Notes: Upon the ingenious suggestion of ColdPersianFusion, I decided to make this a multi-chapter introspective piece on Grimmjow and Orihime's relationship. So this is just what I'm going to do, in three to five chapters, or maybe even more if I get a stroke of brilliance on this story.
I hope you had an enjoyable enough read to let me know what you thought about it. :)