he dwells in a spiritual world very different from your own yet materializes through rips in the fabric between here and there wherever he can find you. your bathroom, the break room at work, the grocery store, the cafe where you used to think the guy making your drink may eventually ask you out until the day the blue haired man showed up.

he won’t even look you in the eye if you dare to go in at all.

but tonight, concealing your heartbeat beneath the thrumming bass, hiding your presence in a mass of sweaty, writhing bodies you believe you may have found a way to hide. there hasn’t been a sign of him yet and you’ve been here for hours, your hips butting into stranger after stranger, the curve of your ass molding against every body you can see.

oddly, the tiniest part of you misses the hard muscle of his body dragging over your backside. those possessive hands gripping your curves, that insatiable appetite demanding another orgasm from you and another and another and another.

no.

you’ve had enough drinks that you’re semi aroused and he’s just the last person, well, thing you had sex with. it was a great fuck but that’s all he is. a psychotic, stalker-y good fuck.

on the other hand, he is kind of handsome when he smiles. and he looks over you with an eye so appraising you wonder if anyone has ever actually seen you before. like you’re nothing but flesh and bone to be dismantled and molded again and again.

so lost in your own thoughts, you hardly realize that you’re once again being touched. hands crawl up your sides, pulling you closer and your hips instinctively move to the beat, grinding against the crotch of whoever is behind you.

then you hear that chuckle. arrogant and chilling, a shiver crawls down your spine when the voice of whoever is behind you hits the shell of your ear.

“whatcha thinking about?”

among hundreds of bodies, hundreds of souls, hundreds of heartbeats he managed to find you.

it’d be romantic if those same hands that were just sliding into the dip of your waist weren’t dragging down to lift the bottom of your skirt, hiking it over your thighs just enough a single hand can slide between them.

“must’ve been me,” grimmjow purrs, his finger dragging across the wet gusset of your panties, sticking to the cleft of your pussy and accentuating.

“what makes you think that?” you snipe back, eager to gain back the breaths he’s stealing from you.

his crotch grinds against your ass and his fingernail rips apart the little bit of fabric keeping him from you. he licks the your ear, breathing as heavy as your heart is beating.

Back at it again ..🩸

RE: Vendetta