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It’s been ten days since he last saw Grimmjow.
They hadn’t ended up fighting. Maybe he’s a little ashamed to admit having to cop out due to sex with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez being what it was (mind blowing), but the memory doesn’t sting as bad when he remembers how the arrancar looked afterwards himself. His lacklustre bravado and typical chagrin couldn’t hide the sweat that still clung to his brow or the sag of his shoulders when he’d tried to posture about it being pathetic that Ichigo couldn’t give him a fight to round it all off– as if he hadn’t given him enough. As if Ichigo wouldn’t be able to see right through him, that he was more drained and exhausted than Ichigo himself.
He’d been drugged, Ichigo reminds himself. You drugged him. Of course he was falling apart.
It had only been… A little awkward, standing there after they had cleaned up. Urahara probably guessed that messing with Grimmjow then would have meant certain death, so he had mercifully made himself scarce after telling them to fix their mess. Tessai was nowhere to be found, either, leaving the two of them blissfully alone to kick at the dirt and pussyfoot in the aftermath of the day’s events. They’d both gone through the charade of pretending to toy with the idea of going down to the bunker, as per the original plan, then Grimmjow had slunk back to Las Noches through a garganta after they decided not to. Ichigo had uncomfortably shuffled back home, lost in thought about the entire exchange… Until the third time he’d had to pull up his pants to sit right on his hips while walking reminded him of the fact that they were ripped beyond repair, and incredibly indecent to be wearing in public. He'd ran the rest of the way back while tugging his waistband up past his belly button with both hands like an idiot.
Before leaving, though, he’d spotted something in the kitchen while passing through the way out, and had grabbed it on a whim. He doesn’t ever intend on using it again, he tells himself, but Urahara must have forgotten it on the counter in his hurry to leave, and it’s really for the best that this is never accidentally given to someone again, right? It’s safer in his hands, he kept telling himself.
Which means he now has the pink bottle of honey sitting in the bottom drawer of his desk, wrapped in a paper towel to keep it from getting anything sticky and… Perverted. Now he just needs to find something that will work on himself, because it feels like every other day since he’s taken the bottle out of the desk and stared at it with no real thoughts floating through his head, lost in the memory of Grimmjow’s hands on him.
Grimmjow’s teeth on him.
Grimmjow’s claws, digging into his hips to hold him firm and steady. Grimmjow inside of him. Grimmjow behind him, bending him over the table, pushing in until Ichigo can feel his hips settling against his ass; Grimmjow on top of him, leaning over to lick and bite and suck on his neck and his shoulder; Grimmjow grunting in his ear, moaning his name; the rough growl of his voice wrapping around Kurosaki… Fuck, Kurosaki…
Kurosaki…
Ichigo…!
“Ichi-nii?”
He startles when his sister’s voice brings him stumbling back to reality, and she snaps up straight where she’d been leaning in to peer at his face to avoid his head knocking into hers. He’s judged with a disapproving look and a click of her tongue, and he has to catch himself from scowling over being mother henned by a sixteen year old girl in highschool.
“You’ve been strange since you went to Urahara-san’s last week,” she says innocently, frowning at him in concern. “Is everything okay? Whenever you start spacing out like this, you always end up leaving for a long time.”
Ichigo blinks, and his heart breaks a little upon his sister’s open honesty. “Sorry,” he says simply, and he is. He smiles at her and hopes it’s reassuring, reaching up to ruffle her hair. “I’m not going anywhere for a long time like that, not ever again. I promise. I just…” He bites his lip, flicks his eyes away to think of how to phrase this. He definitely can’t just say that. “Grimmjow and I fought– er, we… Had a talk, about some things, and they’ve been sitting with me I guess.”
Yuzu just looks confused. “Don’t you two fight all the time? I thought that was normal for you.”
‘Normal for you’, like she’s talking about a– Like they’re– “Don’t– Don’t say it like that,” he clips, cursing the way his face burns. He turns his scowl back to the wall to avoid the way she tilts her head and blinks at him. “We didn’t get to fight because we were busy talking, and then at the end neither of us felt up to it. It was… Personal stuff, you know? He wouldn’t want me to talk about it.”
If anyone sees you dressed like that, I’ll kill ‘em.
Shut up shut up shut up sh–
“It’s okay! You don’t have to tell me his business. It stays between friends, right?” Her eyes shine with pride in her own apparent understanding, and Ichigo feels the corners of his mouth pluck up into a smile, his embarrassment disregarded. Yuzu screws her mouth to the side one last time while searching his eyes for the truth and says, “Are you sure it’s fine? You’re okay, right?”
“Promise.” He says again, and he really tries to mean it. “I’m just worried about him,” he says, hating how his chest tightens when it comes out. “Don’t tell him I said that, though. He’ll never let me forget about it.”
Yuzu smiles at him, bright again. “I won’t! You’re a good friend, Ichi-nii.”
Boy, if she knew.
—☆—
It’s rare that Ichigo gets the house to himself, but Isshin had been roped into taking the girls to an idol concert in Tokyo for the night, and they’d even convinced him to let them get a hotel. Ichigo had politely declined the invitation, and on account of being a single twenty-year old man he was permitted to stay home like a spoilsport. He’d taken the insult on the chin, and had resolved to order himself a pizza while queuing up a movie marathon. It’s a little too bad the concert is this weekend and not the next, when his friends come back from break, but he’s glad for the time to himself. It’s been a little suffocating, being around everyone while trying to sort through the stuff in his head. If he starts to think about it– think about Grimmjow, how he looked; how he sounded; how he felt – his whole body reacts so electrically that he might as well start blaring like a siren, for how obvious it must be that he’s thinking of something dirty.
They’d done that. He’d had sex with Grimmjow. Holy shit. Holy shit.
He’d known that it would change things, but he had assumed that it would mostly be for Grimmjow, that he would be the one freaking out over this. How naive he had been! Of course he’s changed as well. He’s crossed the line from un-touched to touched, and now he can never go back. He can’t even stop thinking about it– about–
… He wants to feel like that again.
Ichigo pauses where he’s crouched in front of his closet putting his laundry away, and peeks over his shoulder at his desk, eyeing the drawer the honey is in. He could… He could try it.
It’s not like he jerks off all that often, so it’d be nice to actually use a good chance where he’s by himself– and Grimmjow had only looked so miserable in the beginning because he was trying to resist it and because he’d taken so much, right?
(Since you drugged him, a seedy voice whispers in the back of his head.)
Whatever– whatever. He crawls over to his desk and sits back on his calves, carefully pulling the drawer open to take out the bottle, cautious and careful like he’s handling a fragile piece of glass. He inspects it with a frown, turning it over like something new might be hiding somewhere on the label, but comes up empty-handed. Still the same arrow through the honeycomb heart, still the same rosy hue dulled by the tinted plastic. Maybe he’ll take a little bit before placing his pizza order– a little bit – and see what happens. Maybe.
Or, wait, he thinks, scratching his head with his free hand while rising to his feet. It’d be better to place the order before he takes it, right? Or should he wait for the pizza to get here and then take it? Then he doesn’t have to worry about someone coming–
He feels the reiatsu wash over him the moment it appears in the living world, heavy and thick like the atmosphere of a storm. It tears into the sky somewhere high above him, and then before he even has the chance to turn his head he feels it move to right outside of his house. He glances out of his window, and then–
There he is.
Arms crossed, head hanging where he leans menacingly against the window frame, eyes blazing blue where they bore straight through the glass and into Ichigo’s soul. He’s scowling like usual, but when Ichigo’s eyes meet his, his lips pull back into a damning grin aimed right at his favorite shinigami, who jerks ramrod straight and thrusts his hands behind his back when he sees him. His teeth glint white in the light of Ichigo’s bedroom that seeps through the glass, in contrast to the dim skies heralding the evening's coming lull, and the cut of his eyes between his thin, furrowed brows and the splash of his estigma smoulder with obvious, unabashed interest. Ichigo watches as they sweep over him from head-to-toe, grazing across every inch of him with such intense scrutiny that he can feel the warm itch of them sliding over where skin is visible on his arms, his face, his neck.
Ichigo feels himself glare back in spite of the undeniable excitement that churns in his belly, bright and invigorating buried under his lingering embarrassment. Outside, Grimmjow raises a calloused hand the size of a dinner plate to the glass, and knocks. Three times with the back of his knuckle, deliberate and slow.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Creep. Ignoring any of the heat undoubtedly showing on his face, he carefully leans forward and sinks his knee into his mattress to reach over and unlatch the window, making sure to keep the bottle still in his other hand hidden behind his pillow and thigh. He opens it enough that Grimmjow can let himself in the rest of the way before standing straight and backing away from the edge of his bed, pressing his hip against his desk to form a wall to tuck his hand behind. Grimmjow ducks into his room in one easy movement, leaping from the windowsill to his floor before drawing up to his full height where he cages Ichigo in the corner of his bed and desk. Positioned like this, he blocks the path to the bedroom door, and even though it’s been a long time since Ichigo has been afraid of the arrancar in front of him, he still feels the need to swallow his nervousness where it catches in his throat. Two azure stars pin him in place where they stare him down, but he refuses to cower here. He won’t.
Even when they’re silent like that for far too long to be comfortable; where he usually feels like he has a decent read on Grimmjow when they’re fighting, now he searches his face for any sign of what he’s thinking and comes up short. The only thing he knows for sure is that he isn’t angry– at least, not yet. No, the look he levels at Ichigo is full of approval. It’s the engrossed fascination of a hungry predator who’s finally found a suitable meal.
Ichigo gulps. He doesn’t break eye contact. “Did you forget how to use the front door?”
There’s a pause before Grimmjow answers, almost as though he’s measuring his words. Unthinkable, considering his everything, but then, there’s been a few revelations about the arrancar before him that would have never crossed his mind otherwise had he not experienced him up close. He’s wondered here recently if he truly knows him at all. “I thought about it,” he says, tilting his head back to peer down at Ichigo through pleased slits. “But you just looked too pathetic all alone in your room like this. I figured I’d just drop in right up here to…” A breath. Ichigo swears he sees his pupils dilate behind thin blue lashes. “... Alleviate that, since I’m so thoughtful.”
He doesn’t shiver. He doesn’t. Ichigo is the one to break eye contact when it becomes too much, craning his neck to frown pointedly at the wall. “Yeah, sure. One of the most thoughtful guys I know,” he says dryly, opting for antagonism to dry dousing whatever fire Grimmjow’s trying to start in the space between them. “I could tell a couple people I know how ‘thoughtful’ you are when you gloat about skinning me and making yourself a wallet with the leather, and they’d put you in a padded cell.”
Grimmjow snorts, and Ichigo whips his head back towards him when he’s kicked in the shin and it actually kind of hurts. He returns fire immediately, but of course it’s hardly noticed. “Like you ain’t a sick son of a bitch yourself, shinigami. You think I don’t notice how you try to make your hits count? You keep fuckin’ cuttin’ me at the joints and it smarts like a motherfucker when I stretch after.”
“Aww,” Ichigo coos sarcastically, followed by a snarky scoff and a roll of his eyes. He’s smiling a little, though. Dammit. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Somehow, Grimmjow’s eyes grow even darker; his teeth shine brighter and more menacing. “Maybe, now that I know what that mouth can–” He stops abruptly mid-sentence, pausing where he’d begun leaning even further forward to subtly push Ichigo back against his desk, and his eyes snap open in sudden surprise before narrowing in thought. He sniffs a few times, animal-like, even ducking his head toward Ichigo’s collar and shoulders to scent around his face. His nose takes him right to the source, and that’s when he notices that Ichigo’s holding something. Uh oh. Even without looking over at Grimmjow from where he’s somehow tensed even tighter than before, Ichigo can see how he’s staring over his shoulder down the length of his arm, locked onto whatever is clutched in his hand.
Neither one of them moves a muscle. Ichigo doesn’t even breathe.
Grimmjow slides a look over in his direction, arching a brow in question without saying a word. His grin is nigh-maniacal and dreadfully dirty, full of a knowing smugness that Ichigo wants to wipe off his stupid, good-looking face with his fists. Or his mouth. Shit.
His dick must like it, however, or maybe it’s just having Grimmjow so close to him like this, but there’s an uncomfortable tightness in his jeans that he can’t really deny the worse it gets.
“I–” His voice cracks. He kind of wants to die. “I just had it for– safekeeping!”
Not good enough. Grimmjow grabs his wrist with one hand and snakes his other up Ichigo’s chest to wrap around his throat, giving him a proprietary squeeze to let him know he’s been caught. He lifts Ichigo’s arm from behind his back and holds it up high, and the honey he’s holding glints dangerously in the yellow overhead light.
“Keepin’ it safe twenty four-seven like this, you mean? Just holdin’ onto it for whenever I finally was able to drop on by again?” His eyes shine with a sadistic glee. The more Ichigo squirms, the more he likes it– and yet, there’s no facing this with any dignity or pride. In spite of what many others believe, he’s a pretty self-aware guy, and he knows without question that he looks like he might as well have just got caught with a dirty magazine in one hand and his dick in the other. He can feel the embarrassment where it crawls across his face like a hot rash, stinging his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. In front of him, Grimmjow looks like he wants to bite into him like a juicy red apple.
“Oh, s-shut the hell up!” He cries. His voice, thank God, at least holds firm. “I just took it out again tonight because I’m home alone! A guy can’t jerk off when he’s got some privacy?!” If he’s lying a little, well, he deserves to. More importantly– “When he should have had some privacy?!”
Grimmjow just snorts. “Touchin’ yourself alone on a Friday night? Fuck, you’re a mess, Kurosaki. With some twisted Shinigami sex drug, too.” There’s nothing but satisfaction on his face now. Ichigo’s vision tints bloody crimson. “‘My dick was that good that your hand all by itself ain’t gonna cut it? You’re an idiot if you think you can handle taking care’a yourself when it hits.”
In a controlled fit of rage (if he swings while he’s in his human body like this, it’ll be over for real) Ichigo surges forward to push past the arrancar and leave the room, stomping across the hardwood towards the stairway. Grimmjow, surprisingly, backs off when he moves, almost pointedly not touching him beyond where he’d grabbed his wrist. He hardly even holds on when Ichigo yanks his arm away, though he’s still quick to prowl after him.
“Bullshit,” Ichigo curses as he marches down the stairs, turning corners to try and get away from him before finding himself in his kitchen. “I’d be just fine if you were able to fight it off for as long as you did. I bet it wouldn’t even affect me! Not that you’d have been so thoughtful as to offer any help like I did for you, so all I’d have is my hand, anyways!” As soon as he says it, the words take on a desperate and charged quality where they hang in the air, and he wishes immediately he’d kept his big mouth shut.
“You’re so damn full of it,” Grimmjow grouses, but he still has that same damn smirk on his face like he’s won something. “I’ve helped you before when you were shit outta luck.”
Ichigo’s jaw drops in disbelief. “That– that’s not the same thing! You got something out of that!”
Something deep within endlessly blue eyes smolders and crackles like passionate embers in a campfire. Ichigo steps backwards and swallows his heart when the small of his back hits the edge of the kitchen counter. Grimmjow practically vibrates with perverse enjoyment. “‘Get somethin’ outta this, too,” he mutters, dropping his voice to a purr even though they’re the only ones there, even though they’re only a foot apart. “If I saw you hopped up on this shit needing some hands on you, I’d be all over you, shinigami.”
Ichigo stares at him like he’s never seen him before in his life. For a brief moment, he really doesn’t recognize him– he doesn’t let himself recognize him, because suddenly the appreciation and attention he’s always been given by the blue-haired bastard clicks into place as the same desire that had captured and devoured him the last time they saw each other. The Grimmjow here, standing in his kitchen, is staring at him with wide hungry pupils that trace every spike of hair that brushes over his forehead, and there isn’t any sick Urahara creation coursing through his veins to act as an excuse this time.
“G–” His voice clicks in his throat. He’s more embarrassed now than he was when Grimmjow was all over him. Maybe he’d looked at it like a battle, then. He’d charged straight ahead to face a duty to assist someone he cares about, which he’s done countless times and will always do again.
Now, it’s just two men with chemistry, alone in an empty house.
He’s never been here before.
“Grimmjow,” he tries again, “What did you come here for?”
He watches the man’s eyes widen for a split second at the question, then narrow into something contemplative. He’s standing so close; Ichigo can feel his breath on an exhale, and freaks himself out when it prompts goosebumps to rise on the back of his neck. “Came to get somethin’ I want, of course.” He pans down Ichigo’s face from his eyes to his lips, and somehow it looks like his eyes dilate even further. Ichigo’s heart pounds in his chest. “Only thing I ever come here for other than business, Kurosaki: You.” A beat, and then he leans back and snorts a laugh. “Guess I maybe shoulda lathered myself in that honey shit before coming, though. You freak.”
“Hey!”
“Gimme that,” he demands, darting forward to grab it from Ichigo’s hand, who turns to shield himself against the counter. “This’ll knock you the fuck out when you’re human like this, dipshit.”
Ichigo lets out an affronted, indignant cry, kicking back like a mule and actually getting a grunt in response when he catches Grimmjow’s knee. “I could take it just fine like this! I could eat this whole bottle and handle it better than you— hrk!”
“Then eat it, you loudmouth motherfucker!” Grimmjow yells, shoving Ichigo’s head down with a great big palm and yanking on his hair. “All this bitching and no doing with you, all the time! Get the fuck out of your body so I can kick your ass before it hits, while you’re at it!”
“Fine! I will, if you get the hell off of me!” He fires back, and when Grimmjow eases up enough for him to move he shoves out from under him and stomps out of the kitchen, turning the corner and making a beeline for his room for his combat pass.
He doesn’t think about it while he’s rooting through his desk to yank it out and slap it against his chest. He doesn’t think about any of it when he drags his body into bed and angrily tucks himself under a sheet and situates his head on a pillow. He doesn’t think about a single thing at all when he stands and stares at his body in still silence for a solid twenty seconds, before jerking out of it and hurrying back down the stairs to keep his guest from throwing a fit.
When he returns, the honey bottle is sitting on the counter right next to a black measuring spoon, label facing out. He feels his cheeks enflame as soon as his eyes land on it the moment he turns the corner. Even worse is Grimmjow next to it, leaning against the oven with his arms crossed. Refusing to be caught off guard again, he shoulders past him and snatches the bottle and the spoon and pours himself a healthy dose, just like he’d given Grimmjow. Maybe even more, just to prove a point.
And then, it’s time to actually eat it.
He’s seen how this affects someone; he knows what it does. He knows that it works, maybe even too well. He’s seen it bring a man he greatly (if, maybe, begrudgingly) respects to his knees, nearly begging for reprieve.
And now Ichigo is about to surrender to that himself. Shit. Why does he run his mouth the way he does? Twenty years of being an asshole and he hasn’t ever learned his lesson.
He stares at the utensil like it might whip around in his hand and bite him. The honey looks almost normal cradled in the black plastic tablespoon, but he can see the telltale tinge of pink where the gloop rises up over the top and catches the light.
“You’re really gonna just eat it like that?” Grimmjow asks from behind him, arms still crossed. Ichigo glares at him for as long as he can stand to look at him, then jerks his head away when his face gets so hot he can’t ignore it. “I had it in tea. Nobody’s making you choke it down, dipshit.” Grimmjow steps closer then, and Ichigo freezes when two muscular forearms sneak into his field of vision to grab the counter on either side of his hips. A warm weight settling against his back follows soon after, and with it comes a warmer breath that tickles the shell of his ear; soft lips that brush against his skin and make him shudder.
“Or are you just trying to get it to kick in faster because you’re excited?” He purrs, a deep rumble that feels like it reverberates through Ichigo’s whole spine. He bites his lip, white-knuckling the spoon in his hand while trying to keep his pulse calm.
“You’re the one who’s excited, jackass,” he mutters. His cheeks still feel like they’re burning. “The whole point of this is so you can watch me last longer than you. You guzzled the whole damn mug, too, so it’s not like it made a difference.”
“I’d down another one right now if it got me you just like I had you,” Grimmjow says, and when Ichigo jerks his head around to look at him, he’s greeted with a wolfish flash of fangs bared into a wide grin. Something that’s supposed to be sarcastic and smart chokes in his throat and dies there on its way out. Grimmjow, in typical fashion, finds his discomfort hilarious. It’s sort of awful how his maniacal cackle is a nostalgic sound that Ichigo actually enjoys. “What’s that look for, Shinigami? Don’t pretend to be shy after I’ve already seen how you take a dick,” he jeers, condescending and accusatory. “Seen how you take mine , anyway. You sure you don’t want to skip the song and dance and get right to it? Ichigo? ”
There’s no fighting the full-body shiver that overtakes him when he hears his name like that. With nothing else to distract him, he glares at the honey on the spoon like it killed his mom and shoves it down the hatch, twisting the spoon in his mouth so he can dig his tongue into the curve to get everything out. The rich sweetness immediately fills his mouth and coats his tongue and teeth, tinged with a faint bright floral flavor that lingers into something medicinal. He turns the hot water on to run while he tries to swallow it all, sucking harshly on his teeth when he can feel a bit of a residue. A cup is grabbed from the counter to get himself a drink of water, and he stares at how it all flows down the drain while he scrubs the spoon with soap. For good measure, he throws the sponge away in the trashcan underneath.
“‘Course you ate it,” he hears Grimmjow behind him. “Always got a point to prove.”
He chuckles, grinning over his shoulder to feign confidence. Inside, his pulse is beginning to rise, nervous excitement seeping into his heart and pushing it into overdrive. The sureness of what’s coming ( again, he thinks) is beginning to set in for real, as arresting as the first upward promise of a roller coaster. “Of course I did,” he says, and Grimmjow’s lips quirk up into a wry half-grin in return. It’s suddenly a little terrible just how much they amuse each other. Ichigo turns back to the sink, then, staring at his cup of water and swirling it around in the bottom of the glass.
“Grimmjow,” he starts again. “Uh, before we go– um,” he pauses, piecing his words together in his head. He wants to get this off his chest now, before they actually leave and get to it. He clears his throat. “Before, when I put this in your drink– I’m sorry. I don’t regret anything that happened, but…” Swirl, swirl. “But, I don’t want you to think I did it on purpose. It really was me being an idiot. If you don’t trust me anymore, I get it, but. I’d never try to do something like that to you. I want you to know that.” He pauses, waiting for a response, then chances turning around when he doesn’t get one. Behind him, Grimmjow’s arms have fallen to his sides, and he stares at him with wide eyes like he’s surprised for some reason. It would be funny if he hadn’t just flayed his chest open with an apology.
Whatever’s gotten into the arrancar is cleared with a shake of his head, and then he’s flashing a signature predatory smirk and reaching up to swat Ichigo’s shoulder. “You’re really pressed about that still? Idiot. I still trust you, you sappy human shit,” he chides, and Ichigo has to make a conscious effort not to pout. “I just gotta trust you remembering that you’re a dumbass. I’d have told you it was a good move if you did slip me a drug to get me on top of you; I’d’ve never taken you seriously if you’d tried telling me you wanted me otherwise.”
Relief floods Ichigo’s chest then, washing over his heart like a cool balm. He can’t even muster up his temper over being called an idiot. “Good. That’s– good,” he breathes. He’s smiling a little and it’s embarrassing. Like everything else about this. Remarkably, though, they also feel kind of normal. “I– uh, I didn’t– It wasn’t something I thought about. You and me like– that.” Grimmjow snorts, and he reaches up to scratch behind his head. “I didn’t realize I was attracted to you until I saw that it was an option, I guess. I guess it never would have occurred to me that it was on the table.”
“Oh, it was on the table, alright,” Grimmjow purrs, and that’s deserving of a scowl. It doesn’t help that the bastard just looks more pleased to see it. “Quit talking about it and stalling time, Kurosaki. We’re good– but we won’t be if you don’t let me knock you around first while we wait. C’mon,” he says, turning and clawing open a garganta while motioning with his head for Ichigo to follow. “I’ll even take it easy on you so you can’t use it as an excuse that it made it hit faster.”
“Shut up, dick,” he tells him, but he really is excited.
—☆—
Holy fucking shit.
Grimmjow honestly didn’t have much by way of expectations when he decided to come to the World of the Living. He figured he’d find Kurosaki, shoot his shot, and make a decision based on how he reacted. Whatever happened would just be what happened, but he wasn’t going to give up the idea of hooking up again without at least going after it. The honey’s intensity had left him with a killer hangover he’d considered swallowing a cero to escape, but the sex had been phenomenal. Mind-blowing. Even through the rose-hued haze that clouds over the memory, he remembers being consumed with the red-haired shinigami giving himself up. He remembers how Ichigo had felt underneath him, how he’d felt squeezing him, how he’d tasted...
Fuck, how he’d tasted. He’d known, from the moment he identified the desire beyond a lust for battle, that whenever he got his mouth on Kurosaki Ichigo it would be nothing short of divine. It would rewire his brain so that nothing else would ever appeal to his appetite, and cement the man as a permanent craving for his body and soul. He’d thought the scar was bad– and then he’d stuck his tongue in his ass. Maybe eating him out sort of made Grimmjow the sucker, but he’d moaned like a whore for it the moment he felt the arrancar’s teeth, so neither one of them has any room to bitch about dignity. Just how he likes it.
And then he’d found the idiot standing alone in his room with that damn pervert honey in his hand, and he figured out he wasn’t the only one changed by it.
Now, they’re walking side-by-side in a garganta leading to the desert, elbowing each other over stupid jokes like any other time they’re meeting up for a brawl. He can almost forget that there’s the promise of sex on the horizon, sealed by Ichigo’s lips wrapping around a black plastic spoon.
But not quite.
As promised, he really does take it easy. They get to Hueco Mundo, Kurosaki calls him a needy bitch, and he only responds with a swing of Pantera instead of going straight for his claws. Neither one of them put their all into any attack. In all honesty, they hardly even work up to flash steps– yet he’s still entranced by every move the shinigami makes, tracking every flex of muscle and every curve of his body. This way, without any crazy maneuvers that put them behind each other or out of sight entirely, they still lock eyes throughout the battle without breaking the contact. Ichigo’s blaze with interest where they drink in every attack, every parry and riposte, and scream for more.
“Aren’t you supposed to be fighting me, arrancar? I thought you always knew how to make me feel it!” He yells at him from across another clash of blades, tantalizingly close a mere quarter of a meter away.
“You want it hard?!” Grimmjow purrs, lifting his leg and planting his foot into the shinigami’s guts. “I’ll give it to you hard!”
It hardly sends him back a body-length away. See? Taking it easy. He hops right back into the fight right after he recovers, and then Grimmjow is enraptured with how he spars once more.
He notices immediately when things start to change.
It’s around the twenty minute mark when Grimmjow feels his arm buckle under the force of a thrust, struggling to hold Zangetsu firm against Pantera’s assault. Two minutes after, he notices that the man begins to pant, which ordinarily takes at least a fractured limb. A flush of exertion takes over his face (which blooms from the center of his cheeks rather than taking over from where it creeps in under the eyes when he’s embarrassed) and he can taste the salty tang of perspiration in the air.
It stokes something primal within him to scent this weakness; to pick up on the subtle sweet flavor of victory.
To see Ichigo begin to succumb.
To see his prey begin to falter.
He bides his time while teasing his advantage. He steps into Ichigo’s guard whenever they cross swords and towers over him; he makes a show of licking his chops and smirking whenever they stare at each other from a foot apart. A strong wide slash bats away Zangetsu and leaves Ichigo open, and instead of kicking him again like he might usually he opts for a full-body tackle, pushing his body flush against the shinigami’s when they fall and feeling the fire in his gut whip into a raging inferno.
Beneath him, Kurosaki gasps and grabs his shoulder with his free hand, and the desperate claw he digs into his hierro seems unable to decide whether it’s supposed to push him off or hold him closer. He can feel the way Ichigo has to strain with effort to keep from writhing against him, and leans in to growl and snap his teeth at the man’s ear while they roll in the sand before he’s finally shoved away.
At the thirty-five minute mark, Ichigo’s eyebrows have finally met in the center of his forehead to form a near-perfect ‘V’, tense and slick with sweat. The delicious, starved glint in his eyes as he struggles and fails to maintain a battle posture goes straight to Grimmjow’s dick– he feels himself throb in his jumpsuit when he spots the shinigami’s knees quivering under his weight.
So, Grimmjow stops fighting and stands straight, lugging Pantera over his shoulder, smugness apparent in the cocky grin he couldn’t suppress even if he wanted. It’s just a matter of time.
In front of him, Kurosaki is still refusing to fall. His arms are shaking where he clutches his zanpakuto in both hands. He’s panting like he can’t catch his breath no matter how hard he tries. He looks a little pissed, but it’s nothing that won’t be fixed soon.
“G– Grimm–...” He pants. “Grimmjow, I– hah, hah– I can’t– I can’t think–” He shakes his head when he can’t keep going. Zangetsu lowers, and is then thrust with finality into the ground to act as a crutch. And then, oh yes, he has the unparalleled pleasure of watching one of Kurosaki’s legs give out, and nearly purrs with enjoyment when he sees his knee sink into the sand.
“Motherfucker,” Ichigo gasps. His other leg follows, and then he’s kneeling with his head hanging. Grimmjow can see the miniscule way he squirms, desperate for something. He recognizes the impulse; he knows intimately the electric desire that must buzz through Ichigo’s entire being, begging for some sort of release. He doesn’t pity the man, or even hold any sort of sympathy, but he does take satisfaction in knowing he’s the one who’s going to be there to relieve him of the pressure.
As soon as Ichigo calls it, of course.
“You give?” He asks. Maybe it’s cruel– the harsh glare he gets says it rubs something the wrong way. As soon as he’s given his win, they can get to the right one. Who knows when that’ll be, though.
True to form, Kurosaki is shaking when he cranes his neck to glare at Grimmjow with as much fury as he can scrounge up. His mouth is slack where he audibly pants for breath, and his arms hang a little loose where Zangetsu’s handle becomes the blade. “Fff- uhh … Fuck you,” he spits out, and then his head falls again. Grimmjow rolls his eyes when one hand splays into the sand and the other slips off his sword and presses against his abdomen, and even that slight touch causes him to moan breathlessly. Patient when it counts, he steps forward and sinks into a crouch in front of the poor bastard, reaching out to grab Zangetsu by the handle and yanking him out of the ground. It’s tossed carefully to the side to lay next to Ichigo, who doesn’t look up to watch.
“After you give,” he tells him. If he sounds amused, it’s because he is. “I’m not layin’ another finger on you till you tell me to, though.”
Fuck, the noise he makes after that. A pathetic, helpless whine that sends a jolt of pleasure down the length of his spine. It’s enough to keep the fires burning for another five minutes. “Don’t– touch me…!” Ichigo groans, and it sounds like he has to gut himself just to spit it out. Grimmjow watches the hand on his stomach press a little further down, and then his whole body spasms and a second later he slams his fist into the sand. “I won’t… Not– nn…! Not…yet…!”
He almost feels a little sorry for the idiot. Being so stubborn is more of a curse than a blessing– he would know. “Whatever you say, Kurosaki,” he hums. “I got all day. ‘Specially if it means getting to stare at how good you look like this.” In front of him, Ichigo keens. Orange spikes sway like palm leaves when he shakes his head side-to-side. Predatory blue eyes narrow and thin lips pull into a wide smirk as soon as he picks that interesting noise up. “Fuck, Kurosaki,” he chides, and the weak thrust of Ichigo’s hips against the air when he speaks sings ‘Bullseye!’. “You look good. You smell good. Stop holding out on me and call it, dipshit. You know you want me on you.”
In the sand, Ichigo’s hands spread and flex repeatedly, digging through the grains and coming up with nothing. He curls in on himself some, then, lowering even further onto the ground and slumping some to the side. He’s shaking like he’s cold. Underneath his body, Grimmjow can sense the movements of his toes curling in his waraji. Tough son of a bitch. He scoffs and leans a little lower, dropping his voice to a deep growl just above a whisper.
“You say the word, Ichigo, and I’ll give you my dick again just like last time. Fill you up just like you need. You want that?” Beneath him, Ichigo makes a noise like he’s dying, muffled behind where he must be biting his lip. The suspicion is confirmed when he struggles to push himself back up and sit back on his haunches, sagging where his body is giving in to the hot pulse of the drug no doubt crashing over him in waves. His big, soft amber eyes are glistening a little where Grimmjow can see them behind his lashes, and his lip looks like it might bleed if he bites down any harder. Just a little more…
“Ichigo–”
“Grimmjow,” Ichigo pleads. The clock ticking in the back of Grimmjow’s mind stops running at a proud 41’21"09. “Just– I don’t care, just touch me,” he whines. He grabs at his torso and sides with shaky hands, and his face lilts into relieved bliss from just that alone. It isn’t enough, though– Grimmjow knows it isn’t enough. “Your voice is– your face–” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head violently, suppressing a desperate moan. “I want you– I want you to–”
Pantera is sheathed, Zangetsu is grabbed from the sand and fastened over his shoulder, and Ichigo is scooped up into a bridal carry in a matter of seconds. He clings to Grimmjow’s chest when he’s lifted, grabbing for fistfuls of his jacket and shivering like a newborn adjuchas fresh after evolution. He presses his face into Grimmjow’s collar bone and lets out a groan from the bottom of his soul, and Grimmjow nearly fucks up his sonido and trips face-first into the dirt when he feels hot breath and soft lips on his skin.
“Where are you taking me…?” Ichigo gasps, mouthing needily at the muscle of his neck. “I can’t– I can’t wait– I need you, Grimmjow–”
“Quit your fuckin’ bitchin’,” Grimmjow growls, his erection throbbing and straining so hard it hurts where he’s trapped under his clothes. “Fuckin’ you senseless in a bed this time, shinigami. Wanna see how you look grabbing the sheets on my dick.”
Ichigo shudders; Grimmjow feels his hips squirm under his strong grip. “You… You have a bed…?”
Up ahead, Las Noches comes clearly into view; just a few more jumps and they’ll be there. He glares at the landmark and jerks his head to the side to knock his forehead against Kurosaki’s, grunting with the effort. “Yeah, I’ve got a fuckin’ bed.” A burst of sonido, and they’re even closer. “Got a whole damn palace, you little asshole.” Brrrpf. “‘Could fuck you on a new bed every day of the week and not run out.” Brrpf.
Maybe he needs to quit it with the dirty talk before they get there; if Ichigo keeps trying to grind into him while they’re moving, he’ll crash into a wall and kill them both by mistake. He’s thankfully compliant for the next minute it takes to make it into his section of the great fortress, and then a few quick flash-steps down hallways lined by pillars takes him to the marble slab door always left ajar that leads to his quarters.
As soon as he enters, several sconces along the wall light up upon sensing his reiatsu, illuminating the (mostly empty) room to showcase his too-large bed situated against the far wall in the dead center. It only takes a few strides to get to the edge so he can toss his prey onto the sheets, and then it’s time to get started.
He descends upon Ichigo like a starved beast; mouth first, claws at the ready, and frenzied appetite apparent in every movement he makes. Ichigo accepts him readily, parting his legs and wrapping them around his hips and gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. Grimmjow crushes their mouths together hungrily, immediately shoving his tongue past Ichigo’s to map out the space he’d claimed once before. He tears at the folds of his kosode while the shinigami paws at his zipper, and as soon as his chest is exposed he feels calloused hands slipping into his jumper to grope at bulging muscles appreciatively.
A hundred times more patient than Kurosaki will ever be, Grimmjow waits to feel him up properly for when he’s actually undressed, and keeps kissing him stupid while shredding his top and tearing off his hakama and traditional underwear. His cock is already flushed red and weeping from the tip; he cries out the moment it springs free, the noise pouring into Grimmjow’s mouth where they’re connected. That’s when he decides to pull away, planting his palms into the mattress on both sides of Ichigo’s shoulders and pushing himself up. Beneath him, Ichigo’s lips are red and wet and his whole upper body is flushed with desire; every part of him from his expression to his skin begs for Grimmjow to return. Soon.
Sliding away from him and off the bed to stand at the edge, he grabs Ichigo by the ankles and yanks him closer, enthralled by the way the shinigami’s eyes bulge in shock between where his legs are spread in a wide obtuse angle. He watches as the man tears his eyes from his face to his exposed chest, and how he follows the line of his scar down to the tent his junk makes just below the edge of the zipper. His blown-out pupils have nearly completely eclipsed the honey-brown of his irises, and his lips are parted where he catches his breath.
It’s a good look on him.
“Get over here,” he growls, pushing back Ichigo’s legs so that he’s bent in half. His ass spreads nicely for him that way, just like it had before, and Grimmjow takes a moment to enjoy the sight of his hole winking as if beckoning him to dive in before he does just that. Lowering down, he goes right for the goal and spears his tongue directly into his needy entrance, sealing his lips around the rim and giving a harsh suck. Ichigo sings for him just like he likes, throwing his head back and plunging his fingers into stylish blue locks to hold on for the ride. He arches his back and moans helplessly as Grimmjow lashes his tongue and laps at his walls, occasionally lifting his head to lick a long stripe through the part of his cheeks. It’s a beautiful sound; resonating, melodic, struggling to maintain integrity as the arrancar eating him out teases him up an octave.
With an animalistic growl, his fervor tasting like fury, he wraps Ichigo’s legs over his shoulders to lock behind his head and grabs him by the waist, working his tongue around his rim while standing up with the shinigami in his hold. Carefully, unable to truly see with the lanky bastard wrapped around his face, he walks him over to the wall and pins him to it, holding him up with one arm to continue devouring him while his other hand focuses on yanking off his jumpsuit. It’s not the most graceful maneuver he’s ever pulled off, but he shimmies one arm out of his jumpsuit, switches his carry on his prey, then follows suit with the other all while keeping his mouth busy on the man’s needy hole. All the while he watches how he tosses his head to and fro from his vantage point underneath his pulsing cock, eyeing how precum beads and leaks from the swollen tip. He pushes Ichigo further up the wall to pull back and switch from his ass to his dick, lapping at his balls before swallowing him all in one go while beginning to work on getting his clothes off entirely. It falls to a puddle at his ankles before being kicked unceremoniously to the side, and above him Ichigo reaches out to grab onto the arm of a wall sconce to grip for dear life.
“Fuck, your mouth is– fffuhh-uhh– you’re good, you’re so good,” he moans, his other hand finding purchase in Grimmjow’s bangs and gripping just as tight. It earns him a pleased growl, and the vibration must feel heavenly if the face he makes after is any indication. “Please– oh my God, oh my God, Grimm–mm…!” He thrusts his hips against the arrancar’s face like a pornstar, rocking into him while curling his legs to squeeze around his head in rhythm with every hard suck Grimmjow pulls. “I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna– I’m–”
Pulling off of Ichigo’s erection with a wet pop, he stares up at the man to catch his gaze while he licks the underside of his shaft then tucks his face into the crease of his thigh, holding eye contact while reaching in to grab ahold of his dick and work it steadily. “Yeah?” He teases, kissing at the base of his junk and leisurely sucking one of his balls into his mouth. Ichigo is looking at him like he might cry. “Do it, then. Lemme see how you look when you finish again, Ichigo .”
Just as he suspects, hearing his first name pushes him to the point of no return. He whines and gasps and groans and bucks his hips into Grimmjow’s fist, sliding his hands down the sides of his face to cradle his head while he tumbles over the edge. It’s a glorious sight; Grimmjow is given the pleasure of watching Kurosaki Ichigo come undone where he’s pinned against the wall above his head, calling his name like it’s the only thing that matters. He shoots over Grimmjow’s shoulder in an impressive display, before the remains of his first orgasm dribble down the length of his still-pulsing erection like ice cream melting down the side of a cone.
While walking him to the bed, Grimmjow coats his hand in the slick fluid with a few quick pumps of his shaft before tossing him down onto the mattress, where he bounces with an airy “Oomf!” . He sprawls out across the blankets, there, writhing his hips some while fisting the comforter above his head. His eyes burn like hot coals where they shimmer behind hooded lids, watching as Grimmjow coats his fingers in the remains of his seed before settling between his thighs and pushing them apart with his clean hand. Lubricated in Ichigo’s own semen, he presses a long finger in to the knuckle, breathing in sync with the shinigami as he sucks in a long breath while allowing the intrusion.
Something in him shifts while watching Ichigo’s face when he follows up with his middle finger; it had been great before, but with a clear head and direct intentions he feels the impression of the moment searing into his memory to stay there forever. It’s too delicious, too intoxicating– every part of the shinigami pulls him in and begs him to stay, swearing that nothing else could get a reaction like this out of him other than Grimmjow. He cants his hips up into the arrancar’s hand and gasps, tossing his head back while working himself against two fingers crooking and scissoring deep inside him.
“I don’t– Fuck, Grimmjow, I–” He’s cut off by another gasp, and Grimmjow knows he’s found his prostate then from the way his cock jumps. His own mirrors the movement where it hangs, heavy and untouched between his thighs. “I don’t need– mm…”
“Tell me what you want,” he orders him. Ichigo cracks his eyes open to stare at him, silently pleading. “C’mon, shinigami. Say it–”
“Fuck me, Grimmjow,” he keens. “Use your dick– please , I don’t want your fingers, I need– I need–...!”
“You need me to fuck you?”
“Grimmjow…!”
Music to his ears. The sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Nothing wraps around his name like the voice of one Kurosaki Ichigo. He’s almost inclined to oblige– almost. Tearing his fingers out, he pulls the redhead closer by his calves and reaches down to grab his cock, giving it a few tugs while lining himself up with his wet hole. He doesn’t push in, though, only kissing the ring of muscle with the tip to smear some of his own precum over it. Just the taste of heat gracing the head of his erection makes him want to plow deep and fuck him like he means it. But he has his wits about him this time– he’s making the most of it.
“You want my cock, you gotta do somethin’ for me,” he purrs, grinning like a maniac down at the man begging for him. The confusion that takes over his expression is funny. Almost cute.
Ichigo stares up at him with a bewildered look in his eyes, still struggling to catch his breath while trying to shift his hips down so he can take him like he wants. Does he even know he’s doing that? Holy shit. “What do you…?”
“Gotta swear no one else gets to have you like this,” Grimmjow growls. He pushes forward a little then, sinking the head of his cock into that incredible tightness and biting his lip to keep his focus. Underneath him, Kurosaki writhes and bucks to try and get more. “You got that? This ass belongs to me, Ichigo. You want someone to fuck you? You come to me. You need someone to bend you over and breed you? It’s gonna be me. No one else gets to see that pretty face a’ yours when you finish except for–”
“ It’syours,” Ichigo yells, shaking his head. “I don’t care, I don’t careIdon’tcare– just– Just fuck me, Jaegerjaquez, before you kill me from making me wait. Grimmjow– ah!”
With that agreed upon, he pushes in until he’s hilted, groaning at the unmatched bliss of Ichigo squeezing his dick. It’s unbelievable, maybe even better than the first time; he pushes his legs back so that his ass is splayed open for taking, and watches as he works himself in and out, as Ichigo hugs his shaft and swallows him completely. Ichigo himself is mindless with pleasure, letting go of the blankets to reach down and assist in spreading his ass open.
And, well. If he’s going to be so inviting, who is Grimmjow to refuse?
Within moments, he reaches a steady, satisfying pace, concentrating on the rhythmic noise of his cock pummeling into the shinigami’s body over and over. Base to tip, base to tip– he works Ichigo open with the full length of him, pounding him relentlessly at a constant rate that leaves the man speechless. All he can do is moan and cry out, struggling even to call Grimmjow’s name. Fine by him; even better when he nails him in his sweet spot and hears the man’s voice jump up and crack, and then it’s his personal mission to hit that spot every time. He blankets his body over Ichigo’s and uses his weight and muscle to fuck him properly, leaning down and leading with his tongue to kiss him and swallow every wonderful noise he makes.
“Gonna fill you up,” he tells him, moving from his lips to his jaw and from his jaw to his neck. “Tell me you want it, Ichigo. Want me to cum inside you again? Breed you like my bitch?” He sinks his fangs into the soft muscle of his neck, sucking harshly at the skin while grinding his hips into his pert ass when he bottoms out. He feels Ichigo reach down even further between them to feel with his fingers where they’re connected, feels him tighten around him when he can’t find any remaining length of his dick where it’s sheathed inside of him.
“Give it to me,” Ichigo begs. “Give it to me– Grimmjow, Grimmjow,”
It’s fuckin’ good. Real fuckin’ good. Otherworldly. No fantasy compares to the reality of how good Ichigo feels taking his cock. Groaning into the promise of another mark he’d been nipping at, he picks up the pace and fucks him like an animal, chasing after that tight sensation pooling in his gut that promises bliss. He finds it soon enough– with another deep thrust, he buries himself as far as he’ll go and empties his load into the redhead’s ass, milking himself with the soft, bruised walls of his insides. Between them, he feels Ichigo arch his back up into him, and drinks in the saccharine noise that escapes him when he finishes again, this time with nothing but Grimmjow fucking him to push him over the edge.
He drags himself out of the man with a grunt, grabbing Ichigo by the hips to shift him over so he can flop down onto the bed beside him. From there, he moves up to the head of the bed and twists to rest against the pillows, staring down at where Ichigo is lying bonelessly. Between his thighs, his dick still stands at half-mast, shimmering in the low light of the room where it’s coated in spunk and saliva. He reaches down and jerks himself a little, running his thumb under the ridge of the crown and curling his toes at the blinding feeling that gives.
“Oi,” he calls, nudging Ichigo’s shoulder with his shin. The shinigami lolls his head around to gaze up at him with a blissed-out expression, but the bottomless blacks of his pupils is the only sign Grimmjow needs to know he’s not finished. “You want more? Get up here and clean it off before you ride me.”
Ichigo’s agreement is wordless; lust darkens his expression like a stormcloud, and then he’s languidly twisting his body to crawl up the length of Grimmjow’s legs and get up close and personal with his manhood. With one hand flat on the bed to hold himself up, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, Ichigo leans in and, for once in his stupid human life, does what he’s told; he drags his tongue up the underside of his shaft and laps at a streak of cum staining right under the tip, licking it up like it’s a dessert to be savored. Holy fuck. Grimmjow hisses with pleasure at the sight, unable to keep himself from reaching down and grabbing a fistful of his hair to guide him along.
Not that he needs much encouragement; he slurps on the thick length of the arrancar like he was made for it, staring up at him with hazy eyes promising even more fun. Within seconds of receiving attention, Grimmjow is hard and raring to go again, and he tilts his head back and moans when he feels lips wrap around the head. A great part of him wants to fuck Ichigo’s throat before he pulls out and cums all over his pretty lips, but there’s a puffy pink hole begging to be creamed once more that he has to save himself for. Some people would say that Grimmjow is a man who mixes up his priorities– those people are fucking morons. Even if watching Ichigo deepthroat him is one of the most jaw-dropping sights of his afterlife.
“Alright,” he grunts. “Fuck, look at you. Swallowing my dick like it’ll feed you. You like the taste of my dick in your ass, shinigami?”
The dry look he gets in return is a welcome sight; the cumslut routine is fun and all, but if he didn’t have an attitude it wouldn’t be the same. Ichigo hums around the length he has in his mouth before he pries himself off, and Grimmjow pulls him forward by the hair to help bring him up to position. “God, your filthy mouth,” he groans, leaning in to kiss Grimmjow wetly on the lips. He trails his lips over to his mask, like Grimmjow can feel it, licking along the length of the lower jaw then planting kisses on two ivory fangs. “Who taught you to talk like that?”
“You’ll never fuckin’ guess,” he deadpans, guiding his hands along the lithe muscles that make up the shinigami’s figure before hoisting Ichigo up by his waist. He straddles Grimmjow willingly, reaching behind him to grab his length and hold it steady. Grimmjow can only watch from there as he sinks down into his lap, any thought in his head vanishing into smoke while he’s kept mesmerized by the sight of how he disappears into the shinigami’s body. Neither one of them waste any time getting to business; Ichigo rocks his hips down into Grimmjow’s, and Grimmjow thrusts his hips up in time to meet him, staring at the space where they’re joined together. The hot, tight grip of Ichigo around him, the stretch when he pulls out to the tip before shoving in fully again, all of it is intoxicating, calling to his instinct to fuck and claim as his.
The more he fucks him, the easier Ichigo takes it, the wetter the sounds as the remains of round one slick up the shinigami’s insides. He gazes down at the same spot Grimmjow was captivated by, an expression he’s never seen on him before painted across the redhead’s sharp features. Cherry-red in his cheeks, his lips even more vibrant and flushed, shining wet where he licks them greedily. He’s grinning, even while open-mouthed panting like a whore, and his brows are knit together with the same hungry concentration he has when they’re fighting – and that realization alone, a ferocious joy that blooms in his chest, nearly pushes Grimmjow over the edge again when he makes the connection. This shinigami is his . No one else can have him; no one else will ever know how to make him sing like this, how to push every button and pull every lever to get him fired up and raring to go. And when Ichigo leans back to balance on one arm while reaching between them to start jerking himself off, chasing the same high as the arrancar he’s riding like a bull, it may as well be a signed agreement to the idea.
“C’mon, big guy, give it to me,” he gasps, each harsh “hah! hah!” that escapes him sounding a bit like laughter. “I’m gonna cum again– yeah, yeah,”
“That’s it, Ichigo, cum for me,” Grimmjow tells him. “Lemme see it, that’s it, that’s it…” He clenches his eyes shut when Ichigo moans above him, gripping his cock like a vice when he snaps his hips upward to bury himself as far as he can go. Just a little more, and then the shinigami is cumming again just like he wants, shooting thin ropes of milky, viscous fluid over Grimmjow’s chest and hollow hole. He grinds himself down, and Grimmjow tumbles after him, filling him up with his seed just like he promised.
A moment later and Ichigo collapses onto his chest, and neither one of them cares that he smears the mess between their bodies when he kisses Grimmjow tongue-first and snakes his hands into his hair to hold him in place. The arrancar is more than happy to oblige– Ichigo sucking on his tongue like he needs it is only adding more fuel to the tank in their brief rest.
“Think you can still keep it going?” Ichigo asks when he breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together and nuzzling his nose into Grimmjow’s cheek. It’s not an unwelcome tenderness; he finds himself mirroring the action without thinking, even being careful to accommodate his mask. “You better, after how I let you have your way with me the last time.”
“‘The fuck do you think ‘yer talkin’ to?” he growls back, grabbing the idiot by the back of the head to twist him towards the right kissing angle. Even just a quick peck is charged and erotic; there’s nothing quite as provocative as Ichigo’s mouth. “I’ll keep fillin’ you up if you keep begging to take it, Kurosaki.”
Ichigo laughs, and it’s a warm sound. He grinds his hips against Grimmjow’s, squeezing his waist with his thighs where they’re still wrapped securely around him. “Good,” he hums, shivering when he feels Grimmjow’s hands run up the muscles of his back to hold him close when he shifts their position. He tilts his head back to meet the mattress when he’s laid down, his rival settling between his legs over top of him like before while trailing his mouth down to his collar to mark his skin some more. “Shit , that’s good– hah! It just keeps… Hitting me, wave after wave… ” He gasps again when Grimmjow bites him harsh enough to draw blood, and it trails off into a pleased mewl behind a bitten lip. So many sounds he’s capable of making, and all of them make the arrancar’s blood boil in the best way.
“I got you,” Grimmjow murmurs. “Just keep taking it…”
He doesn’t know when they finished for the final time, only that it was long after his brain lost the capability to maintain any real consciousness. Knowing the both of them, and how damningly persistent the effects of the honey are, they probably fucked until they couldn’t anymore, likely hours after they started. He doesn’t know how long ago it would have been, either, just that some time later he wakes up wrapped around Ichigo with his face buried in his neck from behind. Seemingly still asleep, Grimmjow is more than content to close his eyes and rejoin him, but it’s in the split-second consciousness he holds for that single decision that he notices something is wrong; underneath him, Kurosaki is too-warm. Uncomfortably clammy and radiating heat like an angry ember grabbed from a dying hearth.
“Kurosaki,” he says suddenly, pushing up immediately onto his forearm and shaking the man by a bruised shoulder. The moan that escapes from where his head is muffled by the pillow is feeble and hoarse– nothing like the rich cries from earlier. Grimmjow frowns, suddenly very unsure of himself. “‘Hell’s the matter with you?”
Another queasy groan. “Grimm…jow…” His words are slow and leaden, like he’s dredging them out of thick mud. “Don’t feel good… Feel like ‘m gonna hurl…”
“Not in my fucking bed, you’re not,” he says, twisting to a sitting position and planting his foot on a boxy ass. “Get the hell outta here.”
“Nnn..!” Another pathetic sound, the sort he never thought he’d hear from the shinigami in bed with him. On closer inspection, now that Grimmjow is more awake, he looks kind of pale. “Don’t make me…! Fffuck, it hurts when… When I move or–” He has to stop talking to swallow, and the motion is a little disgusting. Grimmjow grunts. “When I… Unnhh…”
It isn’t pity that pushes him towards any consideration. He’s never pitied anyone in his fucking afterlife, but most certainly not Ichigo. And yet, something he can’t identify tugs at the edges of the hole in his guts to try and figure out what to do other than kick him out. “Well you can’t fuckin’ get sick here. I don’t have shit to give or do for you. You gotta get back to your little house in the human world.”
The room is silent save for belabored breathing and the occasional gulp of desperation. Just as Grimmjow is about to bark at him, he wearily drags his weight to turn onto his back and crack his eyes open, and the look he casts up toward the arrancar is– it’s– “Take me home…?” Ichigo pleads, woebegone and disgraceful, and suddenly Grimmjow thinks he might need to stick his head out into the hall to beat him to the punch. His eyes are dismal and molten and unfathomably tender.
It’s not a split-second decision. If it’s ever brought up again, he will argue fang and claw that he deliberated, heavily, before saying anything at all.
“.... Wrap your arms around my neck,” he growls, “and if I hear a single God damn word about how I didn’t put your clothes back on, I’ll kill you myself.”
—☆—
“So…” Karin says from her spot on the couch, looking up from her PSP out of the corners of her eyes at her brother. He’s sitting on the other side with a book in his hand, nestled against the armrest with a pillow behind his back. He looks up at her when she talks, raising an eyebrow in question. “You two are… Dating, now?”
Ichigo blinks at her, then follows her shifting gaze to where one Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is sitting at their dinner table, holding a loaded sandwich between his hands above a plate. He won’t bite into it because he’s too busy glowering at their father sitting across from him, caught in a hostile staring contest that he’s too stubborn to just ignore. Isshin looks a little frantic in his eyes peeking above that morning’s paper that he holds close to his face, and any threat he might pose as an ex-captain is lost entirely with how he shakes like a leaf.
“Is that what we’re doing?” Ichigo asks, feeling himself grin. Grimmjow slides a cynical glance in his direction to make sure he sees how he rolls his eyes before he goes right back to glaring at his dad, curling his upper lip into a snarl.
“Don’t kid yourself, Kurosaki,” he grouses. A beat, and then he flashes a predatory grin in Ichigo’s direction. “You can buy me dinner anytime, though.” With that, he finally takes a giant bite out a corner, and somehow manages to make chewing intimidating when he turns back to Isshin.
Who is whimpering like a wounded animal. “I can’t believe it…” He whines. “An arrancar, I’d be okay with, but this… This delinquent degenerate…! This– reprobate! My son is dating a reprobate and a scoundrel…!”
“Don’t you fuckin’ listen?” Grimmjow drawls with a mouthful of food, like he’s trying to prove him right. He swallows and takes another huge bite. “Idiot.”
“Language,” Ichigo corrects automatically, ignoring how he’s flipped off for it. He returns his smile to Karin, and his cheeks feel hot. “I like him a little bit, so I decided to keep him. Cats and dogs aren’t really my thing, y’know.”
Karin blinks at him owlishly, then goes back to her game. “Sure.”