"Look at me," he ordered, as he stood towering over her small stature. His cold gaze was patronizing, his hoarse voice leering.
She would not budge.
"Look. At. Me. Bitch," he gripped her fragile chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head roughly. His words were clear and precise, and at that moment his voice was the only thing resonating at the back of her head.
She tried to fight back her tears as she shuddered at his touch. She blinked once, twice. He was all that she could see in the midst of nothing but a blanch colour of white innocence. Purity. Chastity. He was a far cry from all three.
Gaining her composure, she braved herself to whisper his name.
"What? I didn't quite catch that," his ears pricked as she kept on mumbling. "Don't test my fucking patience, woman," he growled.
"Grimmjow Jeagerjaques, the Sexta Espada," she smiled sweetly while savouring every syllable of his name and rank; he thought his teeth would hurt.
He narrowed his eyes.
"Thank you, but I can take care of myself from now on. You don't have to fight on my behalf anymore," she continued almost sheepishly.
Grimmjow glanced down the floor where Noitora and Szayel lay stiff, dead. His scowl turned into a haughty smirk, his piercing sapphire eyes rolling wildly as he professed, "Hah! Who put those ideas into your pretty little head? I fight for my own enjoyment, simply because I can fight. Don't get any silly notions, woman."
She merely sniffed as a reply.
"What was that?" he asked, unsatisfied with her nonchalant reaction.
"I can't help but wonder why you keep barging in when someone attacks me. Isn't Ulquiorra the one who's supposed to look after me?" she asked him back, demurely.
"That emo bitch," Grimmjow started, "ain't your full-time babysitter, geddit?" he prodded her shoulder harshly.
"Neither are you, but you're always...there," she shot back. This time, she appeared more confident, staring back into his eyes, defying his logic.
Grimmjow arched his eyebrows, searching for the next excuse he could come up with. In truth, he did not even know why he was 'always...there'. It was as if her voice was calling for him, drawing him closer to her, when she needed him most.
"Aizen's gonna be pissed if something happens to you," he said, this time his turn to look sheepish. Was he blushing? She could not see. "And for fuck's sake, you never fight them back because you're too kind! What was I supposed to do? Watch?"
"I thought I was weak. I'm strong enough now," she reasoned. "And you could pretend that you saw nothing. Just let it be. Besides, I could heal myself, remember?"
Grimmjow fell silent for a moment, studying this unfazed woman standing before him, who was nearly in tears when he saved her from Szayel, who wanted to bottle her up as a specimen. This woman who was the total opposite of him—gentle, selfless and undemanding. This was the first time she'd ever talked back in his face, and although she was doing it in the nicest way possible, he knew that she was becoming less naive than he thought she initially was.
Fuck irony.
Everything in Las Noches was stark white, bleached, blinding Grimmjow's vision of true serenity. It was all Aizen's way of concealing the violence residing within the fortress itself. Reverse psychology. Oh, how Grimmjow hated mind games.
And now, Orihime was slowly pulled into a whirlpool of devilish shadows, by locking her up inside a whitewashed space with nothing but the moon to gaze upon. Oh, the shitty irony of it all.
But still, she could not stand the filth of Nnoitra's slimy hands. She could not stop choking while listening to the 5th Espada's venomous, asphyxiating words. Calling her name, caressing her, churning her insides when he had muttered at her temple, "Come to me, Pet-sama. Ulquiorra won't know."
She had her eyes closed then, thinking about the silent Arrancar who had brought her to this awful place. She had wanted to tell Nnoitra, "Ulquiorra may not know, but he would..." yet decided it was best to keep her mouth shut. Then, Nnoitra had touched her. Toyed with her while Szayel watched with full curiosity.
She had her eyes closed tighter afterwards; inadvertently envisioning the last time she was cornered, battered and bruised by two lower ranked female Arrancars. And then he had appeared, the 6th Espada. Stern. Serious.
Pissed.
Grimmjow had had the same expression on his face when he confronted Szayel and Nnoitra, just seconds before they had wanted to 'experiment' on her. It had been the last thing she remembered before he finished them off with one unexpected blow. Before she opened her eyes and realized that he had saved her, again.
Grimmjow Jeagerjaques, the Sexta Espada.
And she had gaped openly at her saviour, trying to understand why he had killed his own comrades. Trying to guess what kind of favour would he ask of her this time. When she realized that he was looking straight through her, she felt a strange sensation in her body – some kind of warmth despite the freezing iciness of his gaze.
"What are you looking at?" he had asked her with that usual domineering tone.
She had looked away, staring at the cold dead bodies of the Espadas who would have tormented her further if he had not rescued her. And she had wondered, 'Why didn't I defend myself when I know I could?'
A little voice inside her had answered, 'Because you unconsciously wished for him to save you, and somehow he could hear you, so he did.'
'It couldn't be as simple as that, could it?'
'It could.'
His roaring command had snapped her back to reality. "Look at me," he had ordered her, as he stood towering over her small build.
"Look. At. Me. Bitch."
Grimmjow fell silent for a moment, studying this unfazed woman standing before him, who had wiped away her tears and stood facing him with a renewed confidence. "Tch. Cut the 'I'll-be-stronger' act now," he said. "It's so fucking annoying."
"What do you want me to do this time?" she eyed him, ignoring his crude remark.
"Huh?"
"The last time you saved me, you wanted me to heal Ichigo to repay the debt. What do I owe you this time?" she elaborated the question, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Shit," he cursed silently; he did not have any favour to ask of her this time around. He drew a deep breath and looked at her, irritated. "Like I said, I killed them because I felt like it. My first intention ain't 'cause I wanna save you, so knock that romantic shit off your head once and for all," he paused. Devilishly, he reminded her, "But when the right time comes, I'll collect the debt."
Turning away, he was about to leave the room when she said something that froze him.
"Is now not the right time, then?" she asked, her huge eyes screaming loneliness. Silence hovered between them, yet her inner voice pounded deafeningly in his head. Begging him, consuming him. "Grimmjow, stay with me, please..." the voice chanted over and over again, like an annoying part of some rubbish mantra.
"You're doing it again," he muttered angrily, taking a step closer towards her. His face became distorted, miserable, agonised.
"What? What did I do?" She asked confusingly.
"Shut the fucking hell up, woman! Why do you keep on screaming my name like that? You're so fucking noisy!" he snarled, covering his ears with his hands.
"B-but...I've never screamed your name!" she defended herself, taking a step back. "You...you're hearing things!"
Grabbing her by the collar of her jacket, he pulled her into his arms and shook her violently.
"What the hell are you trying to do to me?" he asked menacingly, echoing throughout the halls of Las Noches. The remnant of his mask was pressed roughly to her left cheek, hurting her, yet she stayed still and silent. The voice inside his head – her voice -- was now beginning to fade away.
Yet, she never failed to surprise him.
Gingerly, her hand reached up, travelled to the nape of his neck, shoving her fingers in his irresistible teal-coloured hair. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered at his temple, "Look at me."
With clouded eyes, the Espada loosened his grip on her shoulders and paused to meet her gaze, puzzled. It was the first time he had ever felt at peace, and so he shivered. Scared. Uncertain of this awkward, warm, fuzzy feeling despite the chill.
"Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. For you," she said softly.
If it was her idea to comfort him and take control of the situation, her plan backfired. It wasn't even a split second after she had said those soothing words. The next thing she knew, his mouth was already on hers. Crushing, demanding, more.
"How about shutting up?" he asked sardonically between kisses.
Grimmjow thought, 'If it was her idea to be dominated in the first place, she was doing a pretty fine job.' In fact, she was trying hard to muffle her moans just so she could obey him.
His hands travelled to places he would have never dared to touch before, except in his mind's eye. And although timidly, she was doing the exact same thing in return. Lower, and lower still... until she found the sensitive, evident proof that he wanted her.
He caught his breath.
She wanted him too, he realized.
"Or, you could start to scream my name all night long...starting from...now," he grinned mischievously.
Orihime stared into the mirror and saw the reflection of two different beings become one. The woman was trying to fight back her tears as she shuddered in ecstasy from his touch. The woman, Orihime knew, was the total opposite of him—gentle, selfless and undemanding.
She blinked once, twice. Apart from the moon, they were all that she could see in a sea of blanch bed sheets, white blankets and discarded garments -- fulfilling an animalistic desire.
The woman, she realized, was Orihime herself.
Innocence. Purity. Chastity.
Grimmjow Jeagerjaques is a far cry from all three. But then, so is she.