Wednesday, 18 July 2007
05:56:26 AM (GMT)
I found this on FF.net. It's a OrihimexGrimmjow drabble that I found so funny I just
had to share it =3 Immature comments will be deleted ^-^
Orihime remembered Ulquiorra once saying “I’m not here to comfort you”; not
seconds later, she remembered Grimmjow saying, “You want comfort? Then we won’t
do it against the wall tonight.”
One time, in a fit of curiosity, he tried kissing her gently – he nearly vomited
and had to leave the room.
Grimmjow occasionally ran his fingers over the area of scarred skin she had healed
– the branded six was now so damn soft and smooth that he had to keep it covered up
out of sheer mortification.
Just to win a bet with Noitora, he tried to have sex without inflicting pain; the
next morning, Orihime was thoroughly confused and Grimmjow was more sour than usual.
Whenever Orihime went off about her favorite foods, such as bean paste and rice or
wasabi over fried potatoes, he suddenly found himself feeling much too ill even for a
When Orihime started to banter plaintively about how much she missed the rain,
Grimmjow shut her up by finding other ways to make her wet.
When Noitora said sex was better with chocolate, Grimmjow gave it a try – not three
minutes in, he swore loudly, threw the chocolate on the floor, and decided sex was
better with ropes and a hint of blood.
Grimmjow was glad he never got to see Orihime truly happy, because he suspected that
once he did, he’d never want to fuck her again.
Grimmjow had heard that in the Living World, girls liked to talk on the telephone for
extraneous amounts of time – he decided after a month with Orihime that they
didn’t even need the phone.
The hollow, vacant halls of the Hueco Mundo citadel made even the tiniest pindrop
echo for minutes on end – it was for this reason that Grimmjow made sure that when
they had sex, they had it loud.
Although Orihime often moaned his name in moments of utmost abandon, he could never
bring himself to call her anything but “woman”.
During one of Noitora’s perverted spiels, Grimmjow remembered hearing the word
“sensual” and asking, “What’s that mean?”
Orihime asked, “As an Arrancar, where do you go when you die?” to which he
snorted and muttered, “Don’t get your hopes up.”
The third time Noitora had lamented about Grimmjow’s loud lovemaking habits,
Grimmjow replied, “We’re not making love, damn it, we’re just fucking!”
Whenever her fingers raked across his chest or her nails dug into his shoulders, he
enjoyed it; but when her hands grazed lightly over the healed spot on his back, he
snatched up her wrist and twisted her hand until it nearly snapped.
Grimmjow hardly ever exploited Orihime’s weaknesses – she made them so blatantly
obvious that it just wasn’t any fun.
It was around the fourth or fifth time that Orihime cried during sex that Grimmjow
stopped and growled, “It was hot before but now it’s just a friggin’
When Orihime was feeling especially brave, she’d implore Grimmjow to slow down, and
when he’d reply, “Cirucci likes it fast,” she’d frown and say nothing more
for the rest of the night.
Grimmjow had once heard the other Espada talking about how the wind moaned and whined
in the Living World at night, and made it obnoxiously clear at that same meeting that
if they wanted to hear moaning and whining ("and bitching"), they should just sit
outside Orihime’s door.
When he saw the emptiness in her eyes that mourned the death of freedom, he felt the
insatiable urge to slap her across the face and tell her to be grateful she even got
to experience it.
Grimmjow had no idea what kept him going back to Orihime’s room each night (and
occasionally morning and afternoon and mid-evening), especially since he found life
the ultimate turn-off.
Noitora made his jealousy of both Grimmjow and Ulquiorra so painfully obvious that
Grimmjow sometimes mused with the idea of a threesome, even if only to get a rise out
Though he’d never admit it, Grimmjow was grateful to Orihime for healing his arm
– after all, now he could fuck her with two hands instead of one.
Whenever he kissed her, he had to bite her tongue just so the taste of blood could
overpower the sickeningly sweet aroma of tea and strawberries.
Before having met her, he came and went and screwed as he pleased; after, however, he
was pissed to find Cirucci just didn’t look all that appealing anymore.
If there were one word he hated more than “love”, it was “forever” – he
knew he couldn’t live forever, but he also knew she couldn’t cry forever.
Grimmjow hated having to hold back when he drew a bit of playful blood from her, but
what he hated more was the fact that he barely minded at all.
When Orihime had feigned sick to get out of a midnight romp, Grimmjow snarled and
said, “Yeah? Then I’ll fuck all the sickness right out of you!”
When Grimmjow caught her in a good mood, strolling through the hall or humming a tune
from some ditzy anime, he was suddenly put in a foul one.
The way Aizen treated Orihime pissed Grimmjow off to no end, so much so that he
barely resisted beating the shit out of her and yelling, “How’s our little star
Although she never said anything, he could tell she wanted nothing more than to go
home; he explained to her, however, that it wasn’t in his nature to give a good
The first time Orihime cursed, even Grimmjow was a little surprised.
Although she’d gotten used to their meetings (and even, heaven forbid, learned to
like them a bit), he could tell she was still afraid of him and thus he was entirely
grateful – after all, fear was the ultimate aphrodisiac.
True to the dull nature of Hueco Mundo, the weather was nothing but silent blackness
day in and out – it was for that reason that whenever Grimmjow and Orihime had sex,
the other Arrancar would roll their eyes and say, “Thunder storm tonight.”
Although handcuffs weren’t his favorite method of restraint (he favored the
primitive grain of rope), he had to admit that Orihime knew how to work them.
Noitora had once suggested to Grimmjow that they hold a silent auction for
Orihime’s “powers” – Grimmjow gave him another hole.
Even though Orihime occasionally wiggled out of ropes or squeaked clean of silk ties
(which he only used when Noitora took his other shit), she could never maneuver her
way out of handcuffs – God, how Grimmjow loved technology.
Aizen considered Orihime’s healing of his arm a gift, Orihime considered it a
threat, and Grimmjow considered it an irritatingly un-repayable debt.
Any normal person would notice the contrast of their smiles: hers was innocent and
sincere, while his was sadistic and twisted; however, they did share one similarity:
they both lied.
“If you miss being a virgin so damn much, why don’t you just use those little
fairies of yours and heal yourself up?” he snarled, and consequently didn’t get
sex for a week.
Orihime once told him that love was about completion, to which he responded,
She confessed to him one time that she’d always had a girlish fantasy to fly up
past the clouds, to which he said that he’d like that too, if it meant she
When Orihime gazed wistfully out the small window of her room, Grimmjow would sneak
an arm around her waist, snake another around her hip, and whisper lecherously, “If
you want to touch the sky, all you gotta do is ask.”
In one of her dreamy moods, Orihime once asked, “What do you think Heaven is
like?” to which Grimmjow replied without missing a beat, “All white with jack
shit to do.”
Orihime occasionally lamented about how her relationship with Grimmjow was a living
hell – that was until she remembered the looks Noitora gave her, and then Grimmjow
didn’t look so bad.
If he had his way, he’d screw her until the sun came up – and granted there was
no sun in Hueco Mundo, that was a considerably long time.
When Orihime asked why the moon never moved in Hueco Mundo and Grimmjow curtly
answered with, “Because you touch yourself at night!” he very nearly missed her
mumbling, “No, actually that’s what you do.”
In an attempt to make him jealous, Noitora once crooned about how he had finally run
his fingers through the silken auburn waves that were Orihime’s hair; to that,
Grimmjow smirked and said, “Yeah? Try running your hands over the ‘silken white
mountains’ that are her tits.”
Something about Orihime’s hair – its length, its rich auburn color, its damn
silky softness – made him want to run his fingers through it and tug as hard as he
Grimmjow vowed to never call upon his zanpakutou in front of an enemy he wasn’t
certain he could kill – this was out of sheer humiliation, for he couldn’t bear
for anyone to hear him yell, “Scream, Fluorescent Supernova!” and live to tell