Deivorous

“Hardwired ‘m afraid.” Grimmjow smiles, too sharply for it to be in good humor on a human, but on him it’s meant playfully.

It’s not quite true. Grimmjow likes to think he has pretty decent house manners all things considered. He isn’t prone to dripping blood anywhere, he’s clean, he mostly minds his own business. He can think of plenty of arrancar who wouldn’t meet Tessai’s standards, and he’s pretty sure not even Kisuke meets them all the time.

But he still doesn’t like rule, they’re cloying and an exertion of dominance he’s not willing to concede without good reason. His rebellion is instinctual. If Kisuke wants obedience he’d have to force it. Which, despite Grimmjow’s certainty that Kisuke could try, it doesn’t strike him as the sort of thing he’s actually do. “‘S my nature. Move fast, break things, ignore orders.”He switches gears abruptly, just to keep the man on his toes. “You didn’t let any of your shinigami shits into my room did you?”

"Oh dear, we do have facilities, I can't imagine why anyone would—" He stops himself, as though realizing he's misheard. "Ah. No no, I can't recall anyone else having used the room you used last." 'My room,' was it?

"Oddly familiar phrase..." Kisuke muses, affecting an amused smile, eyes drifting upward in feigned recollection. "'Move fast, break things'..." But even as his smile remains, it cools, his eyes darkening a shade as he shifts them toward Grimmjow.

"You've broken more than rules under my roof." His tone is low and measured, the sudden softness sharpening the edge beneath. "And wounds can heal... but memories—" He pauses, affecting that nostalgic countenance again. "—those tend to linger." Just as his steel gaze now does on Grimmjow's face, long enough to make his point.

"So!" Abruptly, his smile brightens a thousandfold, now being a bit too radiant for the room. "Of course we'll be a considerate guest, now won't we?

Normally it wouldn't have even lingered in his mind - just another act of self-preservation. Nothing is personal, when you're hollow down to the bones.

But it had been personal. Deeply. Yet, the stretch of time and Grimmjow's own isolation has dulled everything down. His emotional inner world is monotone and emotion is only made distinct through the contrast of light and dark shades. Anger is stark, but it is far weaker than the all consuming hunger of loneliness.

If he thinks about it - which he doesn't - he might recognise that the emotion that thins Kisuke's lips and steels his eyes is the same one that motivated Grimmjow to act in opposition.

He watches Kisuke's with the kind of wary appreciation reserved between predators. Recognizing one of his own. Kisuke is a bloodstained man, behind the smile and the fan and the hat. Grimmjow can smell it on Benihime.

And right now, the smile’s too bright. Too sharp. It bares all of his teeth - teeth that had been inches from Grimmjow's throat not a moment before.

“Right,” he mutters, his voice low, but not contrite. Grimmjow doesn’t apologize. He does not know how, and he would be lying. He doesn’t make promises he's set up to fail either.

He scratches at the back of his neck, as if trying to rub the tension off his skin and he shifts his gaze away, conceding. The atmosphere’s shifted, and not in a way he enjoys. He hadn’t come back here to grovel or make amends - hell, he hadn’t even planned on staying, he likely couldn't - he threw the words out to rankle Kisuke. It didn't quite have the effect he was hoping for. He's not diplomatic enough for this shit.

He cracks his jaw in a yawn. Shakes the agitation from his broad shoulders, and Kisuke lets him off the hook. (For the moment at least, though he would be a fool not to keep an eye out for retaliation.)

“Strategy board game night?” he repeats, suspicion sharpening into a scoff. “What, practicing war?”

But Kisuke’s already walking off, trailing that damnably cheerful energy behind him like a leash.

The weight of Grimmjow’s forehead against his snaps something loose in his gut. That pulse under his skin is rising too fast. He can feel Grimmjow wanting him to move, push, do something stupid. And it’s working.

He exhales slow, shaky, a shiver working up through his ribs. No. This isn’t how he always feels. Grimmjow makes it like this. Does something to him. Fucks with the edges of his control and sharpens everything inside. He licks his lip again, mouth too dry, then rakes his nails once more across Grimmjow’s scalp, slower, rougher, biting back a sound that’s too damn close to a moan.

Too fucking close now, and when Grimmjow pulls back for half a second Ichigo damn near moves to follow, instinct before thought. 

And then—fuck—Grimmjow’s hand is on him. Palming him bold as all hell. A sharp breath punches straight out of his lungs.

Another shaky inhalation. "Shit—"

His hips twitch, can’t help it, chasing the contact. The bond flares and snaps, burning between them hot enough that Ichigo swears he tastes blood behind his teeth.

He should lie. He wants to lie. But there’s nothing in his head but static and the rush of blood in his ears. Grimmjow’s scent. Grimmjow’s heat. His fucking hand.

Ichigo’s next breath is ragged, fists curling tighter in hair. He drags him down, voice rough against Grimmjow’s mouth. “Touch me some more… find out exactly how I feel.”

Still.

It's Grimmjow's hand that has him bucking.

He nips at Kurosaki's lips, his tongue. Gets blindsided by the slide of it. The warmth. Kurosaki is sensitive everywhere. Every nip is a bolt of sensation on the backdrop of pleasure. He's so soft and Grimmjow wants to sink into him. He wants there to be more blood. He pulls back to breathe and he can feel that too, the gentle caress of his breath over Kurosaki's sensitive skin. Feedback loop.

The retreat is a dare, his mind tells him, but he doesn't know who for. Himself? What's he waiting for? He ducks down, nudges his nose against Kurosaki's jawline to try get into the soft tender area hidden from his teeth.

His fingers tighten over Kurosaki, a slow stroke with the heel of his palm pressing hard just beneath the head. He can feel every twitch, every breathless jerk of hips, and fuck if it doesn’t light up something low and mean in him. A need to win this. To have Kurosaki say it first. Lose it first.

“Yeah?” he growls against his mouth, voice rough like gravel and heat. “You feel that, don’t you. How bad you want it.”

The last person to touch him there was probably also Ichigo. And the five next nearest times before that. And before that, Grimmjow doubts anyone managed to put their hands there. Untouched territory. He doesn't care for it- their hands wouldn't be as good as Ichigo's, anyway.

"As if," Grimmjow’s chuff is soft and rotten with amusement. He doesn’t show any teeth. Thee sound sit, low base, vibrating in his chest like something too large for the cage of his ribs. Trying not to get out. "You offered me the bed. I took the bed. You touched me first."

He shifts. Not much. Back the other way. He doesn't need to - two bodies plus a corpse makes for a very tight squeeze. They're touching in all the same places. Shoulders, hips, knees, legs. Almost more contact then when Grimmjow was over his shoulder. Ichigo's body heat bleed between their skin. Shoves himself up onto his forarm to leer over the shinigami with a bright flash of teeth.

"You’re the one wishin' it was your hand on my cock." He doesn't even say it with malice, but there's bite too it anyway. Lazy.

He looks at him.

"You think I wanna be here? Lying in your bed, stinking of your sweat, waiting for you to stop acting like you don’t wanna tear me open and crawl inside?" He says it easy. Shrugs it off with the same care he uses when he wipes blood off a blade. "You coulda taken the floor." But you didn’t.

He rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae click loud and casual, like a threat. The air between them is still sour with blood and reiatsu. Sharp with everything unsaid.

He wants to kiss him. Not nice. Not sweet. Hard. He wants to shove that complicated little scowl off Ichigo’s face and replace it with something real. But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want Ichigo to win that easy.

Instead, he lets the silence stretch, just long enough to make it awkward. To make it sting. Tests if Kurosaki stays the pussy bitch he is.

Ichigo doesn’t have a damn thing to say to that. No comeback. No defense. The words just hang there, humming under his skin, unchallenged. 

Grimmjow’s leaning over him, and his eyes are so fucking blue, it makes something in Ichigo’s brain ache. It takes him a second to catch up to those words. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you do.” Because when is the last time anyone ever told Grimmjow what to do? But more importantly, because Ichigo can feel it through that bonding spell. It isn’t subtle.

At least the answer to that last part is easy. “I’m not taking the floor, it’s my bed.”

Grimmjow doesn’t move. So Ichigo does. His elbow bends, fingers threading into hair—slow at first, nails scratching against scalp before dragging down in a rough, deliberate scritch. The echo of it pulses back through him, and he shudders like it’s crawling down his spine.

He breathes out, voice lower now. Too aware of every place they touch. “You’re such an asshole.”

He drags a rough tongue over his own lower lip, just for the sensation of it. Then huffs. “If I had any sense I’d find the nearest bridge to jump off.” Fuck off right out of this life and into the next. 

He narrows his eyes at that taunt. Then shoves his other hand into that mess of blue, tighter this time, tugging.

The shudder runs right through him, a single great big buzz. Nails. Scalp. The gentle catch and tug of hair - no one touches Grimmjow much, not for centuries, not for anything other than violence and meat between his jaws - Frisson. His toes curl. His head falls forward, right on into Kurosaki's waiting hands.

It's all he moves. Iron clad self control. Or discipline, maybe. Stubbornness.

Move me, move me, move me.

Their foreheads are touching. He couldn't tell at first. He's too busy feeling Kurosaki. And hey, you know what? It ain't that bad. Not that bad at all. He's panting ragged, but so is Kurosaki.

"If you had any sense, you'd do that again," he blinks reeeeeeeeal slow. This close and he can see all the different stripes of gold in Kurosaki's eyes. Good shit. Sorta wants to lick the eye, pop, squish - but that's a hollow instinct and he suppresses it.

No one touches Grimmjow much, but he sorta likes when Kurosaki does it. Feels the throb across his chest, swallows the saliva in his mouth. He's got a scar, not bigger than an inch, and it came up keloid and shiny, right where Kurosaki put Zangetsu through him. It throbs now, more so than the burn across his chest. Kurosaki's touched his scars before too - when they've ripped each other's clothes off and they're clawing and panting and rutting. He gets more sentimental about them than Grimmjow does. Gets soft in the eyes and the mouth with his hand spread wide across tight scar tissue. He likes it more when Kurosaki gets possessive about it instead.

"... Hey," He asks. And they really are way too close, hurts here as much as it hurts to be away. Grimmjow pulls back, reluctant. The bond is a bright white light at the back of his eyeballs, and he leans closer again but the bright sensation is Kurosaki's, not his, and it doesn't ease. Or maybe it was his, but it's Kurosaki's now, stolen and taken over.

He shifts his hand down and palms Kurosaki to check if he's hard too.

The fabric is barely catching at the lip. A gentle scratch where the courseness of the fabric and the zipper introduce friction. It sends a fritz of sensation down to his toes, like getting his scalp scratched real good by one of the girls when they’re all playing at civility. Pretending they aren’t salivating over the idea of sinking teeth in to one another.

His skin rises in little bumps. The muscles in his stomach tighten. His lashes flicker. He sinks, imperceptibly, closer to Ichigo til his hip is just touching Kurosaki’s knee. The rest of him doesn’t move, pinned so effectively by the pads of Ichigo’s fingers.

It’s not even a good pin. He’s got his weight all wrong. Just knees on the bed. No leverage.

Grimmjow’s got Kurosaki’s corpse on his other side. Smells like a dead thing so he hasn’t turned towards it, but it’s there. He’s touching it where he’s widest, cuz Kurosaki’s bed is too narrow for two bodies. But caught between two Kurosaki’s makes his brain tingle in a good way. He likes the part of Kurosaki that eats his meat raw. He likes the part of him that cackles and smirks and twists Grimmjow past where he thinks he can bend himself. Sorta corpselike in his own right. Ashy skin, cold hands, cyanosed tongue. Colder blood.

“Hey.” He says. A little dumb. The buzz is back - Kurosaki’s reiatsu is swirling. Tense and tumultuous. Blowing gaskets. Storm gale winds, even at near rest. “Oi.”

Move your damn hand before I remove it.

Lip curled up. Eyes narrowed instead of lidded. Sharp. He’s razor wire. He says nothing else but there’s the start of a growl somewhere, but it could be a purr. It could be.

There’s a question in there, Grimmjow asked first and Ichigo asked second but Grimmjow thinks it’s pretty damn obvious what he’s doing: staying. Going where Kurosaki goes. Laying where Kurosaki lays him. Staying put, cuz this is where Kurosaki dropped him. Fuckkkkk.

If they were doing what Grimmjow wanted to be doing, they’d be back at Kisuke’s already, but they aren’t. He still thinks they should be doing that.

Murder. Gentle murder even, he likes Kisuke most of the time, he could do it good. Be fast and neat, in and out, no teeth.

He’s a fucking wreck. Staying. Ha. Not funny but feels sort of funny. If he doesn’t want Kurosaki to start getting ideas then he really needs to do something - anything. He can hear Kuroski think all his complicated little thoughts. He’s annoyed, still. At Kisuke and Grimmjow both. Hot, that’s new. For Grimmjow. The freaky little hollow fucker. Conflicted about it, oooooold. There is nothing in his head that Grimmjow didn’t already know. He doesn’t need some stupid soul bond to know that Kurosaki wants to put his dick in between the teeth of the bear trap on his face and fuck his mouth.

But Grimmjow’s a better predator than he is - a more patient one.

Grimmjow shifts just a fraction closer—barely enough to notice if Ichigo weren’t already so keyed up, strung out like someone rewired his nerves wrong. His fingertips twitch where they hover against Grimmjow’s stomach. He hasn’t moved, not really, but Ichigo can feel it through the connection. His body is lit up in flashing lights like Ichigo did something catastrophic.

He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t follow the way Grimmjow’s hip brushes his knee. Doesn’t let himself stare at that mouth, even though the sound, gravelly and offhand, that rough little “hey,” drags up his spine like hungry teeth.

Ichigo licks the back of his own teeth, then swallows, jaw ticking.

He should move. Should pull his hand back and take several very large steps away before his thoughts keep betraying him. But Grimmjow’s reiatsu hums at the edge of his skin like a dare. Everything about Grimmjow has always felt like a challenge. It’s always like this. Grimmjow works him up just by breathing in the same room. Gets under his skin without effort.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Ichigo mutters, low and sharp, but it comes out half breathless anyway. “You’re the one crawling into my bed to squeeze your dick. You could've taken the floor and you didn't. What would you think if you found some hollow in your bed?”

He knows Grimmjow doesn't hate it. He thinks Grimmjow hates his response, and he can get in line. Ichigo hates his response. Ichigo hates his own response even more. He should still be angry.

What kind of suicidal idiot has a crush on an arrancar?

His fingers press harder before he can stop them, sliding upward like that’ll somehow shift the balance back in his favor. It doesn’t. He still feels just as unsteady. Just as out of control.

It’d be easier if Grimmjow would snarl something back, shove him, start a fight—anything to shake this pressure building. He knows how to handle that. They could punch each other until they pass out and it would be more comfortable and familiar than this.

The last person to touch him there was probably also Ichigo. And the five next nearest times before that. And before that, Grimmjow doubts anyone managed to put their hands there. Untouched territory. He doesn't care for it- their hands wouldn't be as good as Ichigo's, anyway.

"As if," Grimmjow’s chuff is soft and rotten with amusement. He doesn’t show any teeth. Thee sound sit, low base, vibrating in his chest like something too large for the cage of his ribs. Trying not to get out. "You offered me the bed. I took the bed. You touched me first."

He shifts. Not much. Back the other way. He doesn't need to - two bodies plus a corpse makes for a very tight squeeze. They're touching in all the same places. Shoulders, hips, knees, legs. Almost more contact then when Grimmjow was over his shoulder. Ichigo's body heat bleed between their skin. Shoves himself up onto his forarm to leer over the shinigami with a bright flash of teeth.

"You’re the one wishin' it was your hand on my cock." He doesn't even say it with malice, but there's bite too it anyway. Lazy.

He looks at him.

"You think I wanna be here? Lying in your bed, stinking of your sweat, waiting for you to stop acting like you don’t wanna tear me open and crawl inside?" He says it easy. Shrugs it off with the same care he uses when he wipes blood off a blade. "You coulda taken the floor." But you didn’t.

He rolls his neck, letting the vertebrae click loud and casual, like a threat. The air between them is still sour with blood and reiatsu. Sharp with everything unsaid.

He wants to kiss him. Not nice. Not sweet. Hard. He wants to shove that complicated little scowl off Ichigo’s face and replace it with something real. But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want Ichigo to win that easy.

Instead, he lets the silence stretch, just long enough to make it awkward. To make it sting. Tests if Kurosaki stays the pussy bitch he is.

We both know it’s much worse. “

@deivorous || unprompted || accepting

"It's no one else's business what I'm into." Worse?

Actually.... he's not sure they've ever even talked about what he's into, which... doesn't mean Grimmjow doesn't know. Ichigo's sure he does. It just means Ichigo doesn't know what Grimmjow thinks about what he's into.

Fuck. He reaches a hand down to grab his own cock, readjusting it out of the tight seam of his trousers. Even that little bit of contact sends pulses of pleasure up to the base of his stomach. Big words to Kurosaki, but it really wouldn't take much to get off.

He does it slow and obvious anyway, complete with his sleaziest grin, cus Kurosaki is still dumbfounded as a gillian. Looking dumb as anything with his jaw hangin' open and a little drool (or is that Grimmjow's spit?) drying on his chin. He's gonna have a fuckin' aneurysm or some shit, watching him like that. He smells like fresh blood. Something worth eating.

Grimmjow should have rucked up his hair a little more. Spit in his mouth or something. Woulda been nice. Dirty and nice. He likes nice, when he has it.

Still pissed, still spitting mad under the hot lick of arousal. Still wants to separate Kisuke's head from his shoulders. But the violent knot behind his breastbone has loosened a little, settled. Easier for him to ignore it if he's drowning in Kurosaki instead. Easier for him to let it all go and just buzz buzz buzz away. Sip on Kurosaki's power and get drunk and loose.

He gives himself another, gentler squeeze, and huffs a big-cat sigh in and out through his mouth. Ribs going up and down. Tucks his forearm under his temple and settles in deeper, lets his eyes lid and the sun beat warm on his skin.

Kurosaki's getting to his feet slowly. Pulling himself together. Watching Grimmjow. Watching the space around him, but nah. Grimmjow ain't gonna do anything. Kurosaki ain't gonna do anything either it seems.

Grimmjow sprawled out on his bed like that—lazy, loose-limbed, looking satisfied—is already bad. But the slow flex of fingers over himself, the way his ribs rise and fall in a long stretch, the fucking grin like Grimmjow knows exactly what’s going on in his head—it’s unbearable. Ichigo can feel it, every shift, every pulse, not just in the bond but in the way his own body reacts, hot and liquid smooth. 

The realization that he wants Grimmjow slams into him so suddenly it nearly takes his legs out. 

He blinks, dull, slow, hard once. A weightless moment where the world tilts. An ocean of dread opens up inside him alongside the flush of new heat. 

“What’re you gonna do?”

Ichigo startles. 

“What?” 

His stomach clenches, even as he untangles that question from his own thoughts. 

The words are rough, dragging over his senses, and Grimmjow barely even looks at him when he says them. Just sprawled out like he owns Ichigo’s whole entire bed, like Ichigo isn’t standing here trying not to come apart at the seams. It’s not a challenge. Not an invitation. But fuck, it’s hard to remember that an hour ago he wanted to punch Grimmjow’s brain out the back of his skull, and now, he’s struggling not to let his gaze slide all over every lax limb.

Ichigo can still feel the phantom pressure of teeth against his side.

His weight shifts forward before he makes the decision to move. Just a half step. His knee bumps the edge of the mattress. 

“Dunno.” His voice comes rough, edged. He looks away, brow furrowing for an entirely different reason. “It’s Urahara.” That should explain everything. “Wait it out, probably. He’ll get bored.”

He exhales hard through his nose, but he’s still burning. Still standing too close. Still thinking impossible things. There’s no fucking way Grimmjow doesn’t feel how tightly wound he is, how the tension is pulling him toward something Ichigo isn’t even sure he’s allowed to want. 

On one hand, he really wants to touch him.

On the other, he really likes having hands.

His options are shit. He could sit in his chair across the room. He could turn around and sit on the damn floor. Instead, he plants a knee next to Grimmjow’s hip, then the other.

His fingertips find Grimmjow’s lower stomach, press lightly over fabric. 

The fabric is barely catching at the lip. A gentle scratch where the courseness of the fabric and the zipper introduce friction. It sends a fritz of sensation down to his toes, like getting his scalp scratched real good by one of the girls when they’re all playing at civility. Pretending they aren’t salivating over the idea of sinking teeth in to one another.

His skin rises in little bumps. The muscles in his stomach tighten. His lashes flicker. He sinks, imperceptibly, closer to Ichigo til his hip is just touching Kurosaki’s knee. The rest of him doesn’t move, pinned so effectively by the pads of Ichigo’s fingers.

It’s not even a good pin. He’s got his weight all wrong. Just knees on the bed. No leverage.

Grimmjow’s got Kurosaki’s corpse on his other side. Smells like a dead thing so he hasn’t turned towards it, but it’s there. He’s touching it where he’s widest, cuz Kurosaki’s bed is too narrow for two bodies. But caught between two Kurosaki’s makes his brain tingle in a good way. He likes the part of Kurosaki that eats his meat raw. He likes the part of him that cackles and smirks and twists Grimmjow past where he thinks he can bend himself. Sorta corpselike in his own right. Ashy skin, cold hands, cyanosed tongue. Colder blood.

“Hey.” He says. A little dumb. The buzz is back - Kurosaki’s reiatsu is swirling. Tense and tumultuous. Blowing gaskets. Storm gale winds, even at near rest. “Oi.”

Move your damn hand before I remove it.

Lip curled up. Eyes narrowed instead of lidded. Sharp. He’s razor wire. He says nothing else but there’s the start of a growl somewhere, but it could be a purr. It could be.

There’s a question in there, Grimmjow asked first and Ichigo asked second but Grimmjow thinks it’s pretty damn obvious what he’s doing: staying. Going where Kurosaki goes. Laying where Kurosaki lays him. Staying put, cuz this is where Kurosaki dropped him. Fuckkkkk.

If they were doing what Grimmjow wanted to be doing, they’d be back at Kisuke’s already, but they aren’t. He still thinks they should be doing that.

Murder. Gentle murder even, he likes Kisuke most of the time, he could do it good. Be fast and neat, in and out, no teeth.

He’s a fucking wreck. Staying. Ha. Not funny but feels sort of funny. If he doesn’t want Kurosaki to start getting ideas then he really needs to do something - anything. He can hear Kuroski think all his complicated little thoughts. He’s annoyed, still. At Kisuke and Grimmjow both. Hot, that’s new. For Grimmjow. The freaky little hollow fucker. Conflicted about it, oooooold. There is nothing in his head that Grimmjow didn’t already know. He doesn’t need some stupid soul bond to know that Kurosaki wants to put his dick in between the teeth of the bear trap on his face and fuck his mouth.

But Grimmjow’s a better predator than he is - a more patient one.