Title: Receiving And Bearing, Chapter 13
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Ichigo/Grimmjow, "H!Ichigo"
Rating/Warnings: R, au!future!darkfic.
Status: Ongoing. 1,908 words.

a/n: it's about time, amirite? I planned this chapter to have more, well, smut (it should have been around 4,000 words as planned). But I decided to drag the UST on just a few more chapters so that I could get Ulqui into the storyline again and send Ichigo off to play with the rest of HM.



Grimmjow was the first to break the silence that followed his own false, braggadocio confession of antipathy; Ichigo just stared down at his face, fingers stretching around the pointed edges of the mask-portion over his own left eye, blackened and yellow. Grimmjow forced his head up from the pillows, neck and shoulders sore and aching from fitful sleep in a stranger’s bed and unnaturally quick healing, in need of stretching and warmth. The muscles protested against the early morning movement as Grimmjow rolled his shoulders stiffly. They could shut the fuck up and get over it, for all Grimmjow cared, he had shit to do. There was a hot body in the bed with him, partially willing, partially not. The unwilling part was the part Grimmjow wanted to deal with the most.

It was better, when they struggled. This playing was like hunting, the other player never knew it was engaged in the game.

Grimmjow snatched Ichigo’s lips in a rough kiss, biting at him with harsh pressure, applying a modus operandi of taking what he desired at any given moment and then running on instinct. Ichigo’s eyes flew open, mismatched, darkness slowly bleeding across the divide, staining the right eye. Grimmjow smirked against Ichigo as he pulled away; he could see it in those eyes, they were angry and a little hungry. For what, about what, Grimmjow could easily guess. Ichigo wouldn’t want to hear the arrancar’s thoughts on the subject, though—all the more reason to continue the behavior in question if it pissed him off this much, made him angry. The sweet, morning taste left in Grimmjow’s mouth was better knowing that the wet, hateful quiver in Ichigo’s rough lower lip as Grimmjow pulled away was there because of deep fucking moral indecision. It was all more angry and pornographic, knowing that Ichigo might hate himself for it later. That he probably would. Grimmjow enjoyed the notion that somebody couldn’t help but thinking about him, even when he wasn’t there. You could fall out of love when you put it in another person, but hate? Hate was powerful. You didn’t just fall out of hate, and seldom did it become very complicated.

Besides which, Grimmjow was a dirty son of a bitch, and a comfortable loathing was more his style.

Ichigo pulled away before Grimmjow could thread his fingers through the thin hairs at the base of the vaizard’s soft hairline, momentary brush tickling the short fuzz at the back of Ichigo’s neck. Ichigo yanked his head away roughly, intercepted as Grimmjow moved upward, bruising Ichigo’s lips red before the other man could get away, one lip pinned under Grimmjow’s sharp canine to ensure Ichigo would let Grimmjow do as he pleased, for fear of a blood face. Grimmjow personally had little care to the state of Ichigo’s face or dignity, let the guy be stupid enough to get a ripped lip. Their masks brushed at the corners, scrapping together like ceramic rice-bowls headed for a washing. The gritty noise made Grimmjow’s teeth itch in their sockets and he let go, finally parting with a sharp intake of breath.

Ichigo made short, raspy grabs for air and Grimmjow could see the way his head shook on his neck, steady and rhythmic with his deep, nervous heartbeat. He was so fucking affected by Grimmjow, for better or worse; probably both—like some goddamn schoolboy, the one Ichigo had stopped being years ago, without ever actually graduating or receiving a diploma, watching the years come and go from a comfortable prison in Hueco Mundo. Grimmjow smirked deeply beneath Ichigo’s tightly pressing hands, fingers digging into the muscles of his arms. Ichigo pursed his lips, cooling them with his tongue. Grimmjow’s throbbed in return; he snickered.

“What’s so god-damned amusing?” The other man’s dark eyes shifted, hovering their gaze over Grimmjow’s grinning mouth.

“Your ugly fucking face,” Grimmjow hissed, intentionally spraying Ichigo’s forehead with drops of saliva.

Ichigo’s expression dropped with startling speed, worrying with the addition of the hollow mask, teeth bared as he brought a fist heavily down across Grimmjow’s face, pointed knuckles digging brightly into the side of the arrancar’s long nose, snapping his head back painfully. Ichigo grunted and pulled back, the blood from the scratch that the brush from the tip Grimmjow’s mask left on the thin skin of Ichigo’s knuckles dripped onto Grimmjow’s cheek, sliding slowly down his brow as his eyes watered from the surprise blow. Grimmjow hoped the blood dried or congealed before it got to his wet eye, didn’t want to have to deal with that shit. Ichigo stuck his bloodied fist in his mouth, sucking on the scratch along his raw knuckles.

Grimmjow watched the blood slowly slide up the cracks in Ichigo’s upper lip, staining them pink as he stared down and worked his mouth over the wound, trying to focus on something until his vision stopped wavering.

“Juh—“ Grimmjow tried to blink, wet eyes already typically sticky and unfocused in the morning. “Fuckin’ serves you right. Bitch. Hope it fuckin’ scars.”

Ichigo brought the same fist down again, this time wisely catching the other side of Grimmjow’s face and smearing it with warm blood and saliva. Grimmjow sneered, mentally holding his tongue from saying anything else to earn him a contusion, staying his own fist. You didn’t just fucking punch Grimmjow Jaegarjaques and get away with it. He wanted to beat the fuck out of the vaizard for this one, wanted to pound hell into him. Once in the face was expected for Grimmjow’s stolen kiss, but twice was a fucking challenge. Grimmjow, he fucking hated challenges, unless he was giving them. They always felt like they were set up to mock him. He glowered up at Ichigo, blue eyes thin and bright from the abuse of his face.

“What the hell was that last one for?”

“Your face, Grimmjow. Both of them. Bastard.”

“Heh,” Grimmjow snorted. So that’s what this was all about—the fucking pansy was still upset about Grimmjow bringing to mind that part of him. Well, whatever then. “Sorry to say, buddy, but I ain’t the biggest two-faced shithead in this hellhole.” Grimmjow gave a single, powerful heave and managed to get enough leverage to move his hands freely from beneath Ichigo’s grip, from their spots pinned beneath the other man’s body. He moved quickly, running his short, chewed boxer’s nails roughly down the dip of Ichigo’s broad chest, raising red and white welts. The abdomen above him sucked in roughly, chest shuddering, as Grimmjow’s hands dipped below the thick black belt that Ichigo was still wearing, circling the bellybutton he found there, tickling the short trail of hairs. Ichigo started to move away with a jerk; Grimmjow moved his hands and dug his nails into the other man’s hips, holding him still.

“Just give in, red. You started it.”

The self-satisfied smirk came back to Grimmjow’s thin lips as Ichigo squeezed his eyes closed, settling down against Grimmjow and shaking his head, combination of a morning erection and earnest desire to just fuck something warm against Grimmjow’s thigh, even through the white fabric of Ichigo’s hakama. Grimmjow clucked his tongue in depreciative amusement at Ichigo. He set back to work at the base of Ichigo’s torso, hands occasionally sinking to disturb the very top of the patch of hair that surrounded Ichigo’s growing erection, damp from arousal and nightly sweat. His nostrils flared, eyebrows knitting in concentration as the dried smears of Ichigo’s delightfully red blood cracked across his skin. Ichigo grabbed at his wrist to stop him.

“This is a bad idea and you know it, Grimm.” He pinched Grimmjow’s wrist beneath his hand, between thumb and forefinger. Grimmjow’s fingers splayed across Ichigo’s abdomen, across the muscle and twitching little veins full of red blood. He frowned up at Ichigo, into that irritated, strangely disturbing half-masked face. Ichigo tossed the hand aside violently and Grimmjow gathered his wrist up in the opposite hand, rubbing over the spot where Ichigo had pinched at the tendons.

“I think it’s a fucking great idea,” Grimmjow snarled as he rubbed at the still tingling skin of his wrist, scowling blue eyes darting over Ichigo’s form, coming to a rest on the nervous pulling and ticking of muscles in the other man’s jaw.

“I don’t give a shit what you think, Grimm.”

“I never fucking asked you to. I just ask you to sit there and take it like a good little bitch if you’re gonna act like one.”

“Whatever. What the hell ever, Grimmjow, just get out of my bed and put some of my clothes on. The last thing I want to see is you stomping around Hueco Mundo in your birthday suit and they’ll just—bring me new ones or something.”

“You’d like it,” Grimmjow hissed, face breaking into a languorous smile, wide like a fox with a chicken feather stuck in its teeth.

“Like I like an ulcer on the tip of my tongue. Get out.”

“Get out? Get the fuck out? You’re gonna invite me in here, start shit with me and then crack me twice across the nose and tell me to get out? Boy, you got a lot to fucking learn about—“

“Don’t,” Ichigo snarled. “Not right now. Do you feel that?”

Grimmjow froze, face holding a confused expression for only a second before he rolled off of Ichigo’s bed, leg tangling in the black blanket, clumsy from stiff muscles. He rubbed his forehead with one clammy hand, moving to the nearest bureau and searching for Ichigo’s clothing.

“Fuck,” Grimmjow swore with vehemence.

“Up two drawers, just take some pants and leave.”

“Ulquiorra. Fuck.”

“He’s pissed at you,” Ichigo sing-songed, self-satisfied voice digging and irritating to Grimmjow as he yanked a pair of white hakama out, a black band to hold them in place, fumbling to pull them on and get himself settled into them. Ulquiorra was still far away, but clearly the reiatsu leaking around Las Noches was meant as a polite warning for Grimmjow to get the hell out of Dodge as quickly as possible. Thanks for that, you creepy fucking vampire, Grimmjow mentally growled. His eyes shifted over his shoulder to Ichigo, black sinking back into the man’s tear-ducts, hairline fractures sneaking through the white mask.

Now it goes away, of course. Now, when Grimmjow is getting ready to leave, after the fucker has already mangled his face and Grimmjow has left incriminating little marks on Ichigo’s chest, now that fucking thing goes away. Just in time for Ulquiorra to show up.

“He’s not,” Grimmjow mutters. “He doesn’t even know I’m here and you’re not about to fucking breath a word of it, you hear me? Not a fucking word. I’ll fucking chew your trachea out myself if he finds out I was here.”

Grimmjow’s fingers worked at the thought of it, clenching into fists, digging until his palms were sore. He gave Ichigo a final look of threat before darting to the door. Ichigo cleared his throat. Grimmjow paused and looked at him expectantly, fingers wrapped around the doorknob tightly.

“You know what?” Ichigo spat, sliding out of his bed and moving to the already rifled-through drawer of the bureau. Grimmjow licked his lips as Ichigo dragged out a clean pair of clothing, waiting for Ichigo to continue. Apparently he needed a prompt.

“No, what?”

“This whole damn situation just completely sucks nine ways to Sunday and I blame you.”

He cackled. “I guess you’re smarter than you look, but damn if you don’t have a dumb-ass looking face, boy.”

Grimmjow was out of the door before the mantle clock could shatter against it.