deivorous

[deivorous]

Grimmjow would be striving.

[deivorous]

no kings, no tyrants.

[deivorous]

Grimmjow’s grin doesn’t slip, but there’s a flicker - there and gone - in the corner of his butane eyes. A twitch of something like guilt, the vague and indistinct memory of it. He remembers the girl. Remembers the exact angle her arm bent at. Her scream. Kisuke’s face afterward.

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.

Grimmjow hesitates, just for a second, then he follows.

[[ @deivorous continued from here ]]

“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?

"As luck would have it, you've arrived just in time for Strategy Board Game Night!" He turns, leading inward toward the dining room. "I believe Tessai was looking forward to Settlers of Cataan, but I myself was wavering between Power Grid and Killer Bunnies... perhaps you can be our tie breaker!"

[deivorous]

Grimmjow feels the sound get caught behind Kurosaki's teeth and bares his own in a grin. It's not hard to find his own moan, eyes closed, mouth open, the sound is close to a purr. He's not faking it, feels real fucking good, if in a vaguely masturbatory way given its really just Kurosaki making him feel good to make himself feel good.

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.”

Kurosaki’s hands are still tangled in his hair, but Grimmjow doesn’t mind the sting. He leans in until there’s no space at all—grinding his body full length against him, thick thigh slotted between Kurosaki’s legs, and he feels flayed. His own cock twitches, all of him twitches. His breath catches too, purr stuttering. He feels overheated. His hand still working a ruthlessly patient rhythm that’s as much about control as it is about getting them off. Eventually.

Those words drag a smirk up one corner of Ichigo’s mouth—sharp, crooked, a hint of teeth before his fingers flex deeper in that mess of blue hair. It should piss him off more, giving Grimmjow exactly what he wants. Instead, he feels the echo in his bones.

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.”

But he’s so close now, Ichigo leans the rest of the way on his own, licks a path along Grimmjow’s lips to get access to his mouth. It’s not smart. Those teeth are for eating. Tearing. Ichigo pushes past anyway, kisses him hard enough with tongue and teeth to draw blood if Grimmjow were normal for even one fucking second.

[deivorous]

"Yeah?" Such an asshole, huh. Is that right.

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.

"This how it feels for you all the time?"

Grimmjow watches him fall back like the fights bleeding right out of him, like all that buzzing heat in his veins finally overpressurized and cracked. He's warm where Ichigo touched him. The skin tingles in the wake of his fingers. Ichigo touches him like he has the fucking right. Casual and thoughtless. He catches the edge of his lip under a fang and keeps himself quiet.

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.

Then: "Still think we shouldn’t kill Kisuke?" His grin flashes, sudden and sharkish, and for a moment the mask at his cheek cracks to accommodate the boil of bloodlust.

[deivorous]

Grimmjow watches him fall back like the fights bleeding right out of him, like all that buzzing heat in his veins finally overpressurized and cracked. He's warm where Ichigo touched him. The skin tingles in the wake of his fingers. Ichigo touches him like he has the fucking right. Casual and thoughtless. He catches the edge of his lip under a fang and keeps himself quiet.

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.

Then: "Still think we shouldn’t kill Kisuke?" His grin flashes, sudden and sharkish, and for a moment the mask at his cheek cracks to accommodate the boil of bloodlust.

It’s Grimmjow’s turn. His lungs stutter on the inhale. Ichigo’s touch is so gentle. Barely there at all, really, he can hardly feel it. Just the brush of fingertips agaisnt that delicate, narrow strip of meat just north of the upper lip of his hole. Move an inch and Ichigo could plunge his hand inside.

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.

He waits.

[deivorous]

chick magnet

[deivorous]

[deivorous]

[deivorous]

"Probably cuz I'm not complainin'."

“Careful. People gonna start asking you what you are into, if not feet.

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.

"What about you!? I don't see you complaining about what I like."

[deivorous]

It’s Grimmjow’s turn. His lungs stutter on the inhale. Ichigo’s touch is so gentle. Barely there at all, really, he can hardly feel it. Just the brush of fingertips agaisnt that delicate, narrow strip of meat just north of the upper lip of his hole. Move an inch and Ichigo could plunge his hand inside.

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.

He waits.

It's good that Grimmjow peeled himself away when he did. Every single touch has Kurosaki lighting up like a goddamn cero. He feels everything so much. Way more than Grimmjow does. No hierro to keep his sensitive skin protected, and he's cutting right through Grimmjow's as if his own weren't even there. Makes him buzz in a whole new way.

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.

"What're you gonna do?" He prompts, gravel in his voice. He means about Kisuke. About the fact that he can feel Grimmjow like a pit in his stomach.

[deivorous]

★ 【ikuyoan】 「 grimmjow 」 ✔ republished w/permission

[deivorous]

smthg new

[deivorous]

Licks

BITCH???

[deivorous]

It's good that Grimmjow peeled himself away when he did. Every single touch has Kurosaki lighting up like a goddamn cero. He feels everything so much. Way more than Grimmjow does. No hierro to keep his sensitive skin protected, and he's cutting right through Grimmjow's as if his own weren't even there. Makes him buzz in a whole new way.

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.

"What're you gonna do?" He prompts, gravel in his voice. He means about Kisuke. About the fact that he can feel Grimmjow like a pit in his stomach.

The second the word hits the air, Ichigo jolts like every muscle in his body got dropkicked by a defibrillator. His mouth opens, ready to fire something back—what the actual fuck did you just call me—but the bond surges first, a hard pulse right up his spine as Grimmjow moves. It sets off a chain reaction under Ichigo’s skin, heat curling low in his stomach like a dirty little secret he’s not prepared to deal with, except it’s not a secret at all. It’s his nerves deciding to forward every message straight to his dick while Grimmjow watches, and his soul, the traitorous bastard, is into it. 

He wants to be mad. He wants to be furious. 

Except Grimmjow licks him and Ichigo wants to turn his whole face into it. What the fuck is wrong with him? Either of them. Both of them. He doesn’t know for a second because Grimmjow growls back and Ichigo’s spine arches.

He pants, licks his lips, and finds Grimmjow’s name on his tongue, and swallows it hard before it can fall out. 

Even held by that hand, his body damn near lifts off the floor to follow when Grimmjow pulls away. And fuck, the relief of having space feels worse than Grimmjow’s dick in his thigh ever did. The space is like tearing off a scab only to realize the skin underneath’s still raw.

He sags back onto the floor, dragging in a breath through his nose, slow and careful like that’s gonna fix any of this. The air’s thick with iron, and Grimmjow—every breath tastes like static and heat and too much. His throat works around it, his body keyed up with nowhere to put it, and then—

Shit.

Did he even close the fucking door?

His head snaps toward it, already imagining the horror show if anyone walks in—the girls, or worse, his dad. But the door’s cracked, just enough to see the hall, no shadows lurking. He forces out a long breath, rolls up onto his feet, legs shaky from adrenaline and whatever the hell that was.

Grimmjow sprawls on the bed like it’s his right, limbs splayed out under the thin strip of sun cutting across the mattress like porn with clothes. The light catches the edges of his hair, turning the blue molten, too bright and too sharp for Ichigo’s eyes and his very human, very eager, male hormones. His stomach clenches, a ripple through the bond that he knows Grimmjow will feel because the asshole is in his space in every sense of the words. And smug and lazy and insufferable.

Ichigo rubs a hand down his face, smearing drying blood across his cheekbone, and glares. He could kick him off the bed. Could.

But the second he even thinks about changing the distance between them, the bond catches, winds a little tighter—a phantom, encouraging yank at his chest, subtle, intimate.

He swallows hard.

“Great,” Ichigo mutters, voice scratchy and low. “Glad you’re making yourself at home.”

Ichigo’s stomach flips again, and it’s his room but he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. Seems wrong to just shove his whole body up along Grimmjow’s side like he wants.

[deivorous]

"Yer mixing up yer euphemisms, gingersnap," a nickname he knows will infuriate Kurosaki even without feeling it through the bond. He pulls back to cackle in Kurosaki's face and lick across the hot red blush blooming on his cheeks.

"Get off? I mean -" now he grinds, mean and hard, and waits for Kurosaki to choke about it, "I could. But gettin' you off sounds more fun."

He waits for his words to sink in, and matches Kurosaki's growl with one of his own until they're both buzzing and echoing. Kurosaki's room is so small, with it's four simple walls and it's brittle furniture. The sound bounces and Grimmjow's weight sinks lower. Feels good to reduce what little distance remains between them. If he could hollow out Kurosaki's ribcage and fit himself inside there, he just might.

Yeah. He could get off to this. Feel Kurosaki feeling him. Panting like a bitch in heat. All strung out already just from a little bit of blood and a little bit of pain.

Kurosaki might try to lie to everyone else but Grimmjow knows better. He's hollow all the way down and he likes the taste of blood as much as the rest of them. Their sides throb in harmony.

"But it's whatever you say."

He's made his point, he thinks. He might be going knock-kneed over a little reiatsu but Kurosaki's going down just as easily.

His hand leaves Kurosaki's side and plants itself on the side of his face, pushing it away as Grimmjow sits up. He's mean enough to grind Kurosaki's fragile little temple into the ground with it. Pinch in his own skull. And in his cheekbone. The passing sensation of a sticky, blood coated hand on his own face - feels big - and he hauls himself away. Snaps the buzz buzzing connection between them and flops onto Kurosaki's bed. His original target.

He's immediately less fuckin' happy about it. Without the contact the bond reminds them of it's presence. It rejects even a few centimeters of distance, but it's not painful. Just... Absent. Little like loosing his arm in a weird way. Tingly and empty.

The patch of sun slowly crawling it's way across Kurosaki's bed does not disguise the cold loneliness.

He makes himself comfortable anyway, fitting the largest part of his torso under the beam of light and twisting himself around until he can stare disdainfully at Kurosaki's downed form.

Ichigo’s heart stutters against the pressure of Grimmjow’s teeth, heat spiking up his throat so fast it nearly chokes him. He can feel the bastard’s satisfaction through the band—Grimmjow’s hunger slamming into him, electric and clawing, scraping along his nerves like nails raking across exposed bone.

The sharp throb in his wrists is nothing compared to the pulse in his neck where Grimmjow’s tongue rasps over his skin, all burning friction, like he can taste the blood hidden under the thin layer of skin. The pressure builds—the suck—and Ichigo can’t stop the twitch in his arms, the automatic gasp and jerk of his body responding to too much sensation. Except there’s no fucking going anywhere with Grimmjow’s hand locking him down, heavy and merciless, flattening bone to carpet.

He shudders. 

Shit.

There’s no fighting the want of it. No hiding it anymore. He can feel himself slipping. Like being dragged to the edge of a cliff. His pulse trips. He's too exposed. Too vulnerable. 

The sharp sting at his throat burns hotter as the pulse jumps wild, and the damn bracelet sings with it—feeding his sudden panic, his heat, straight back to Grimmjow. He grits his teeth. “G-Get—” His breath hitches when Grimmjow shoves his wrists higher, the bite of carpet fibers scraping his skin raw. “—off, you asshole!”

But then—fuck—the pressure at his side flares, Grimmjow’s palm digging into the still-bleeding wound. Hot blood seeps out, soaking through cloth and slicking the air between them with the heavy warmth of it. Ichigo’s head kicks back with a hiss and he arches. Stinging fire twists into heat, his body buzzing with pleasure and he doesn’t know which of them it belongs to, but he’s thriving on it.

A low, dark growl shivers up from deep in his chest with a pulse of reishi. There’s too much in his head. Too much heated fog.

The pain spikes, but so does the buzzing high of it. The tether makes it mutual—that’s his only satisfaction. He feels Grimmjow take it too.

“You—fucking—psycho—” He pants, bares his teeth. “You’re getting off on this.”

[deivorous]

Grimmjow's hair hangs low around their faces. A bright flame of color that casts funny shadows on Kurosaki's faces. They're teeth to teeth with each other. Even if Kurosaki hides his behind thin lips, Grimmjow knows they're there. Kurosaki thinks himself a patient sort of predatory, but Grimmjow won't be caught off guard.

"I'm not waiting for anything, punk." He's just not going to give Kurosaki a chance.

He breathes cool air over Kurosaki's face and breaks the eye contact when brown eyes blink first. Ducks back down and sets the flat of his tongue to a pulse, gets the throb of him between the clutch of his teeth. Feels for the spike of Kurosaki's anticipation and rides that wave into a low roll. None of him is touching Kurosaki except for at the thighs, the wrists, and the teeth. But he could.

Doesn't feel he's earned his kill yet, is the problem. He sucks hard instead of biting. Tries to suck the pulse right off course and down his throat. Tries to taste the plum of a bruise still ripening.

Two wrists pinned, Grimmjow shoves them higher, pressed up over Kurosaki's head and stretched so he can coil and roll. The beginning of something, right here on Kurosaki's floor. In Kurosaki's den. A world away from the dusty bunker or Hueco Mundo's sterile white sands. He rocks his hand, brushes knuckles over the rough weave of the carpet, chases that small texture. Another novelty in his day. It doesn't feel anything like the tatami mats Kisuke prefers. The slide isn't smooth.

He puts both Kurosaki's birdy thin wrists together under his big palm and grinds all their bones down till the press is uncomfortable for himself. Shinigami are half as sturdy. No hierro. Puts the other hand over the bloody ragged wound in his side and presses. Hot blood squelches between them.

The fantasy of fucking comes as a lightning bolt. Brought on by the wet, warm pitter-patter of fresh blood. Through him bright and loud enough he jolts. Impossible to ignore, and then gone in the next second. He just wants this right now. Anymore and it'll be too much all over again. He likes it when he's setting the pace.

Wants Kurosaki to want it though. Whats Kurosaki to buck and writhe and whine. Make more of those noises.

Ichigo blinks, gaze focusing with effort. Grimmjow, blue hair, bright eyes, sharp smirk. Ichigo starts to lift his arms, but he’s nowhere near ready to wrestle in this state. He’s still trying to keep the moan locked behind his teeth. 

It’s hard to think around the wet drag of a tongue against his throat, the way Grimmjow’s breath ghosts over such a critical, vulnerable space. Even forming words feels like a struggle—what should be a complaint, a warning, comes out as nothing more than a ragged, “…ngh.”

Ichigo shudders as Grimmjow noses behind his ear, dragging another pulse of heat straight down his spine.

Fuck. Grimmjow knows he felt it. 

He licks his lips, gathers himself. 

But he’s still adrift. Still panting. Still floating. His eyes fall to Grimmjow’s mouth when he speaks, and he’s determined to work up the will to move. Only his teeth still ache and he doesn’t know if that’s because of Grimmjow or himself.

His fingers twitch. Then he forces a smirk, leans up as much as that hold will allow, pushing against. Because it’s not as if he could just back down because Grimmjow thinks he’s won. “Fuck you. Wait til it’s my turn, asshole.”