deivorous

[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.”

[deivorous]

Grimmjow laughs, high pitched and hyena-like, around his easily won meal and rides Kurosaki to the ground with a twist and a flex, muscles pulling taunt as he bends himself back over Kurosaki's shoulder to keep his legs from becoming crushed. He's forced to let go of his mouthful to accommodate the drop.

The exhilaration of satisfaction and satiety is a new one for Ichigo, and the sensation is nuclear between them. Grimmjow knows Kurosaki is going down long before the knees buckle. Knows he's going to moan and rut about it too if provoked.

Grimmjow wants to provoke him. He wants to get his teeth back in to rare meat.

His knees clack off the floor, the blow slightly cushioned by the rug laid our in the middle of the room and twists away from Kurosaki's hands while he's distracted. For the first time, Grimmjow's not on the back foot. This is familiar. Kurosaki is more potent than any of his other meals, but he's not the first, won't be the last, he pushes the pleasure to the side to focus on moving his limbs into the right place.

Clumsier than usual but no less powerful, he straddles Kurosaki's waist and blinks through the pleasure to make sure he's got the shinigami (his shinigami, his to keep and to eat and to -) pinned down well and good. Big hands around surprisingly narrow wrists. He doesn't think of Kurosaki as small. He doesn't feel small now, filling up every crevice he has, he's in between the teeth of his mask. He's in the hollow of him.

He finds the warm dark place under Kurosaki's jaw. Sets his tongue there. Sets his teeth. Wants to bite, whats to bite, waits anyway. Waits for Kurosaki to ride the wave. Waits for the satisfaction to hang low and warm in his belly. Kurosaki's pulse is still there. A throb right in the back of his skull like a tension headache. Like he's been keeping his jaw clenched tight.

His smile is a slash of sharp teeth and he coos, nose against the little divot behind Kurosaki's ear. "D'ja feel that?"

They haven't fought enough today. Barely spilled any blood at all before Kisuke put a stop to them. Grimmjow hasn't earned this for himself yet, but he's gonna take it anyway. Gonna steal it, hey.

Something like irritation flares through the bond but it dies quick and quiet, a shadow of feeling as opposed to anything genuine. Grimmjow can feel whats genuine. Feels good to remind Kurosaki that he's hollow too. Feels good to distract him and throw him out of the loop. Safer if they're both off their feet and outta their minds. No one has ever accused Grimmjow of playing fair.

"You're my tastiest victim."

Grimmjow bears the ride with no small amount of physical discomfort.

Ichigo is taller and broader than he was when Grimmjow first met him, but he's not larger, and he's not quite wide enough to effortlessly fit Grimmjow's mass over his shoulder.

He spends the whole ride almost sliding off, if not for Ichigo's hand wrapped around the back of his thighs to hold him in place.

The very edges of his hole rub uncomfortably against the hard strap of armour, but the discomfort is muted by the oozing satisfaction of being curled almost all the way around Kurosaki. Two equally powerful sensations in opposition. Hunger and connection. What it feels like to Kurosaki is anyone's guess, but it distracts Grimmjow enough that he offers little in the way of token resistance once it becomes clear that Kurosaki is having no issues handling his dead weight.

Grimmjow's face doesn't turn when Kurosaki passes his packmate in the hallway. His face is pressed, soft cheeked to the strong muscle in Kurosaki's back, his eyes almost all the way closed. Settled for the time being by the resonant contentment of their shared contact.

But as with all good things in Grmmjow's death, they must come to and end.

He cracks an eye and sets his chin to Kurosaki's back to consider the floor. The bed is clearly the superior option. But he's not asking for it. Instead his laxity ends with a sharp snap of movement. Strong arms wrap around Kurosaki's waist, iron bars to hold himself flush against the shinigami's back, and he bites hard into the fleshly soft piece of Kurosaki's side between his hip bone and ribs.

Blood burst pop - slick and wet mouthfeel through the black fabric of his uniform. Bright pleasure on Grimmjow's tongue. He's a glut today, already too well fed from the overflow of Kurosaki's power running through his veins but he is never satiated and he drinks deeply from the well of power that burst forth.

[deivorous]

Grimmjow bears the ride with no small amount of physical discomfort.

Ichigo is taller and broader than he was when Grimmjow first met him, but he's not larger, and he's not quite wide enough to effortlessly fit Grimmjow's mass over his shoulder.

He spends the whole ride almost sliding off, if not for Ichigo's hand wrapped around the back of his thighs to hold him in place.

The very edges of his hole rub uncomfortably against the hard strap of armour, but the discomfort is muted by the oozing satisfaction of being curled almost all the way around Kurosaki. Two equally powerful sensations in opposition. Hunger and connection. What it feels like to Kurosaki is anyone's guess, but it distracts Grimmjow enough that he offers little in the way of token resistance once it becomes clear that Kurosaki is having no issues handling his dead weight.

Grimmjow's face doesn't turn when Kurosaki passes his packmate in the hallway. His face is pressed, soft cheeked to the strong muscle in Kurosaki's back, his eyes almost all the way closed. Settled for the time being by the resonant contentment of their shared contact.

But as with all good things in Grmmjow's death, they must come to and end.

He cracks an eye and sets his chin to Kurosaki's back to consider the floor. The bed is clearly the superior option. But he's not asking for it. Instead his laxity ends with a sharp snap of movement. Strong arms wrap around Kurosaki's waist, iron bars to hold himself flush against the shinigami's back, and he bites hard into the fleshly soft piece of Kurosaki's side between his hip bone and ribs.

Blood burst pop - slick and wet mouthfeel through the black fabric of his uniform. Bright pleasure on Grimmjow's tongue. He's a glut today, already too well fed from the overflow of Kurosaki's power running through his veins but he is never satiated and he drinks deeply from the well of power that burst forth.

The ice-pick of Kurosaki's irritation smooths back down as he speaks. Less offended once his target has been redirected, and part of Grimmjow is pleased that he still remembers how to do that. But that's the part of him that stalked Hueco Mundo before Aizen, and before pack, where sometimes he wasn't the biggest, baddest, hungriest thing around, and that Grimmjow is dead. He doesn't linger on it.

"Fuck you, don't lie, you love how I look." He looks fucking great. Feels sweaty and giddy, but the only reason Kurosaki knows that is cuz he's plugged in. And he must know if, cuz the brat gets a shoulder in his stomach just over his hollow hole and flips him up and over. Chest to back, thighs to chest.

Contact feels good. More than just his knuckles to bare skin. Feels more like he can melt inside of Kurosaki and share the burden. The silly little band makes distance pain, and now, for the first time today the final little niggle of discomfort in his chest relaxes, and his body with it. That's the good shit. So good that he decides Kisuke can live another hour.

He goes limp as dead weight. Makes Kurosaki do all the work while he breathes.

Maybe Kurosaki likes this whole thing. Doesn't seem to bother him as bad as it bothers Grimmjow. Probably he doesn't even notice the extra reiatsu. Might be noticing the rest of the everything else - 'xcept he feels all this crap all day every day. Normal for him too. Ugh. He's such a freak.

"Yer a freak." Grimmjow says out loud, and bullies his knuckles against the sharp crest of Kurosaki's hip bone. Keeps pushing until he gets the angle right and can feel the sharp pinch in his own hip. "Trynna get me in your bed? Per-vert."

[deivorous]

One of my earlier embroidery animations, this was my second one. I made sure that the designs were very simple, since I wanted this to be fairly long. The tangled thread is just purposefully messed up French knots.

[deivorous]

The ice-pick of Kurosaki's irritation smooths back down as he speaks. Less offended once his target has been redirected, and part of Grimmjow is pleased that he still remembers how to do that. But that's the part of him that stalked Hueco Mundo before Aizen, and before pack, where sometimes he wasn't the biggest, baddest, hungriest thing around, and that Grimmjow is dead. He doesn't linger on it.

"Fuck you, don't lie, you love how I look." He looks fucking great. Feels sweaty and giddy, but the only reason Kurosaki knows that is cuz he's plugged in. And he must know if, cuz the brat gets a shoulder in his stomach just over his hollow hole and flips him up and over. Chest to back, thighs to chest.

Contact feels good. More than just his knuckles to bare skin. Feels more like he can melt inside of Kurosaki and share the burden. The silly little band makes distance pain, and now, for the first time today the final little niggle of discomfort in his chest relaxes, and his body with it. That's the good shit. So good that he decides Kisuke can live another hour.

He goes limp as dead weight. Makes Kurosaki do all the work while he breathes.

Maybe Kurosaki likes this whole thing. Doesn't seem to bother him as bad as it bothers Grimmjow. Probably he doesn't even notice the extra reiatsu. Might be noticing the rest of the everything else - 'xcept he feels all this crap all day every day. Normal for him too. Ugh. He's such a freak.

"Yer a freak." Grimmjow says out loud, and bullies his knuckles against the sharp crest of Kurosaki's hip bone. Keeps pushing until he gets the angle right and can feel the sharp pinch in his own hip. "Trynna get me in your bed? Per-vert."

Kurosaki flexes.

Barely any movement at all. Hardly even counts as a threat, from where Grimmjow's standing. Just a tense, coil, release, flex of his reiatsu. Grimmjow's ears give a little - pop - and the air pressure changes.

Under normal circumstances, Grimmjow would snarl in his face, grab the collar of his punk-ass uniform and flex right back. And then it'd be on. Fuckin' good ol' fashioned violence. Throwing down right here in the dirt until their both bloody and sore and bruised up good and blue.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and Grimmjow only gets as far as fisting his fingers over the edge of Kurosaki's collar, the backs of his fingers against bare chest. His circuits are at max capacity trying to handle Kurosaki's reiatsu additional load and then he overloads. Arterial gush. White vision. Locked knees. Clenched teeth. Closed fist. Wide eyes.

Even pulling his own reiatsu as small as possible, all the way under his skin doesn't leave enough room for Kurosaki's beating heart. He can't quite tell if he's flying or dying.

Moment over - Grimmjow sags. Locked legs, but the giddy sensation unbalances him. He hisses a breath through the gridlock of his teeth and tries not to let himself float away. Out, and In. He could take a bite right outta the air. Swallow that down and be fed for a month. It was just a little flex.

"Runnin' from K's'ke," he slurs, and blinks his eyes hard. He's got his face braced against Kurosaki. He doesn't feel big enough to fling a threat back.No matter that he goes toe to toe with Kurosaki every other fucking day. No matter that he's beating Kurosaki into the ground just as many times as the favor has been returned. He doesn't very big at all, but this is when it matters most. When your weak is when you can't afford to be, and he's no one's dinner.

He draws his spine straight and fixes his glare before Kurosaki can see his face and shoves hard at the shinigami's shoulder, steps closer anyway with a snarl. "You just gonna let him do this to us? Tie us up and kick us out? Yer runnin' like a little bitch. I'm going back there, yer coming."

[deivorous]

Kurosaki flexes.

Barely any movement at all. Hardly even counts as a threat, from where Grimmjow's standing. Just a tense, coil, release, flex of his reiatsu. Grimmjow's ears give a little - pop - and the air pressure changes.

Under normal circumstances, Grimmjow would snarl in his face, grab the collar of his punk-ass uniform and flex right back. And then it'd be on. Fuckin' good ol' fashioned violence. Throwing down right here in the dirt until their both bloody and sore and bruised up good and blue.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and Grimmjow only gets as far as fisting his fingers over the edge of Kurosaki's collar, the backs of his fingers against bare chest. His circuits are at max capacity trying to handle Kurosaki's reiatsu additional load and then he overloads. Arterial gush. White vision. Locked knees. Clenched teeth. Closed fist. Wide eyes.

Even pulling his own reiatsu as small as possible, all the way under his skin doesn't leave enough room for Kurosaki's beating heart. He can't quite tell if he's flying or dying.

Moment over - Grimmjow sags. Locked legs, but the giddy sensation unbalances him. He hisses a breath through the gridlock of his teeth and tries not to let himself float away. Out, and In. He could take a bite right outta the air. Swallow that down and be fed for a month. It was just a little flex.

"Runnin' from K's'ke," he slurs, and blinks his eyes hard. He's got his face braced against Kurosaki. He doesn't feel big enough to fling a threat back.No matter that he goes toe to toe with Kurosaki every other fucking day. No matter that he's beating Kurosaki into the ground just as many times as the favor has been returned. He doesn't very big at all, but this is when it matters most. When your weak is when you can't afford to be, and he's no one's dinner.

He draws his spine straight and fixes his glare before Kurosaki can see his face and shoves hard at the shinigami's shoulder, steps closer anyway with a snarl. "You just gonna let him do this to us? Tie us up and kick us out? Yer runnin' like a little bitch. I'm going back there, yer coming."

The moment the proximity restriction kicks in, it’s like being hooked by the ribs and reeled in like a goddamn fish. The pressure builds fast—crippling, suffocating, unbearable—before the bands catch and snap him back a few inches.

Ichigo hisses through his teeth, ignoring the way it feels like someone’s taking a rusty hacksaw to his bones. Could be worse. Could be on the ground in blinding, full-body agony.

That call comes from behind him just as he’s trying his absolute hardest to pretend the bastard tied to him at the soul doesn’t exist.

He clicks his tongue, head snapping toward Grimmjow. The pressure immediately eases.

Fuck’s sake. “What?”

Then the horn blares.

Grimmjow straight-up jolts like someone just stabbed an ice pick through his eardrum.

Ichigo flinches. What the hell?

He knew Grimmjow had good hearing, but not like that.

Pushing out a slow breath, he finally gives the arrancar a real look. And—shit.

Grimmjow’s off. Unsteady.

And now that Ichigo’s stopped long enough to see it, he can feel it too. A wrongness running just under the surface, a coiled tension in the way the hollow stands.

“Hey…”

The word leaves his mouth before he figures out what the hell to follow it up with. But before he can sink any deeper into concern, Grimmjow’s already snapping at him.

Ichigo squints then stomps right back into his space. The pressure lessens then disappears and he tries not to resent it.

“Why the hell not? That’s where all my shit is, so unless you’re volunteering your place—” he stabs a finger at Grimmjow, voice sharpening, “not an option, fuckface.”

And now that Grimmjow’s called it ‘running,’ the asshole’s basically trapped him. Ichigo’s teeth grind, his reiatsu flexing with his irritation. “Don't jerk yourself off. Why the hell would I ever run from you?”