This is for Starfire1423, who has an unreasonable obsession with this pairing (but I love her anyway).
Apart from the whole 'sex in lieu of fighting' bit, I've tried to keep them as in character as possible. This was originally a oneshot, but it got kind of long. I've written the whole thing and will probably upload a chapter a week (still need to do a little beta-ing).
Oh yeah, there's fourth wall breakage. If that irritates you, read anyway.
Warnings: Yaoi of the GrimmIchi variety. DLDR.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
Grimmy, Dearest.
Caves were, Grimmjow decided, like snow globes.
Always so much fun in the beginning; the whole finding and subsequent exploration side of the deal.
Then, gradually, as the novelty wore off and the inevitable damp pong mixed with the mouldy smell of whatever animals had taken a shit there most recently began to wear on him, the realisation came that maybe caves weren't so great after all.
Not that any of this had much to do with snow globes –just the novelty part.
Grimmjow couldn't honestly say he cared; he'd been sitting in this draughty asshole of the coastline for weeks now, and the seasonal chill was getting to him.
He was, however, far too manly to pull the thick comforter that the damnable strawberry minded fool had left for him over his most definitely not shivering form.
Substitute bloody Shinigami? Che, who the hell was he subbing for anyway?
Grimmjow wasn't sure of it was the notion of the brat that had worsened his mood or the realisation that he had no freaking idea why the punk was a Soul Reaper in the first place.
He decided on the former, idly wondering why the damned brat was anywhere near his thoughts. It certainly wasn't any kind of friendly curiosity.
Setting flame haired idiots aside for the minute, the Sexta lifted a clawed hand to his chin, scratching lightly and finding irritation in the few days of electric blue stubble he found there.
He sighed, looking down at himself and glaring at some cave-gunk that had gathered on his white clad thigh. He picked at it, wincing a little as his overlong talons dug in –Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was not a creature accustomed to being gentle, a move not helped by the swap of his Espada uniform for his warmer released form. The former having been shredded to the point of uselessness during his defeat at Ichigo's hands in Hueco Mundo. Not that he accepted this outcome, he was merely biding his time and recuperating to allow for a proper, all out fight while neither of them was battle weary and the redhead had nothing to concern him other than his opponent.
Abandoning the gunk, he drew his knees up to his chest, bowing his head to allow his cobalt mullet to cover as much skin as possible.
Minutes passed, or perhaps only seconds, the Sexta wasn't known for his patience.
He huffed loudly, half wishing he had an audience for his boredom, if only to provide an outlet for his newly repressed violent tendencies. At this point he would have settled for an unsuspecting passerby to scream 'fuck off' at.
Growling slightly, he rose to his feet. Slouched back and felt around for the absent pockets of his missing Espada uniform. Curse the cold for making him sustain his resureccion form.
Stepping a few paces further on his slim, sharply fetlocked ankles, he moved deeper into the dim tunnel. He shucked his form down by the wall closest to his makeshift 'bed', which was really more of a nest-type affair; majorly comprised of a few blankets and the odd scruffy pillow.
Pushing his scant number of newly acquired personal items aside, he searched for the lone source of entertainment Kurosaki had left for him –a much-loved paperback copy of 'A Clockwork Orange'.
Like all Arrancars, Grimmjow had no memories of his mortal life. But he must have learned to read at some point, quite fluently, at that. His visual cortex was intimately acquainted with the fluid kanji that strolled across the yellowed pages of the novel.
Bringing his legs around to the traditional 'crossed' position, the Sexta flipped through the thin text to his page, mentally settling in.
. . .
It could have been minutes or hours before Grimmjow placed the book carefully if begrudgingly, at his side.
Before him stood that damned strawberry: head held high and jeans just that little bit too tight.
Gorgeous and statuesque in the evanescent twilit hour.
Not that Grimmjow noticed this, of course. He merely recalled a description that that irritating Inoue girl had laid upon her favourite asshole.
"'Sup, Grimmy." Leered Ichigo, plopping himself down opposite the Sexta, knees pulled to his chest.
The overgrown kitty grunted in response, purposely engaging the young Shinigami is eye contact as his hand fumbled blindly for the discarded novel, holding his pretence as gently as he'd ever held anything.
"I brought food," Kurosaki continued, chucking the bundle towards Grimmjow, well used to the elder's antics.
"Clothes, too. Figured you're probably well enough to be self sufficient at this point, but I didn't want you out terrifying the humans in that crazy Furry-Otaku getup. Seriously man, you look like the escaped employee of a fetish bar. Best case scenario."
This got Grimmy's attention. He thought his resurreccion lent him an air of distinction, even a certain mystique. Certainly nothing like this 'Furry-Otaku' crap the Shinigami was on about. Not that he had the slightest idea what either was.
His lip curled in a soft growl and his long ears flickered in annoyance.
"I don't recall you having any problem with my resemblance to a cat." Because that's what Grimmjow thought Ichigo had been on about with 'furry'. "In fact, Kurosaki Sensei, I remember . . . "
The faux feline never finished his sentence. Ichigo's calloused hand came over his thin lipped mouth, though with little effect –the Shinigami's hand was dwarfed by the ex-Espada's wide, lascivious grin.
"Defensive . . . " came the muffled word, seeping around Ichigo's hand.
Ichigo shivered, swiftly but unwillingly retracting his hand as the soft slickness of the kitty's tongue slid over the hard skin of his palm.
"There are things I can remind you of, Grimmy dearest. Now, meow for me, Deary." Ichigo's sarcasm was not lost on the kitty. He scowled at the Shinigami in lieu of a response.
Slinking back to the opposite wall, the soul reaper threw some jeans, a raggedy pair of boxers and an old grey wifebeater singlet clumsily at the Sexta.
Refusing to meet the ex-Espada's gaze, he determinedly examined the erratic progress of an ant beside him, letting the words fall softly, guiltily from his mouth.
"Couldn't find any spare shoes. S'far as I know, your feet weren't hurt in our fight, so I assumed you'd be right for footwear."
"Yeah." Muttered the Sexta, the examining the pile: "Che'yeah right, like I'm wearing your cast-off knickers."
The boy looked at him then, cocking an eyebrow as if asking what other options Grimmjow had.
"Seriously, you wore these? They've got steroid midgets all over them. Bet you didn't even wash them, you perv."
"They are washed, dickwad. And I had a Dragonball Z stage a few years ago, so shut up. They're the only knickers you've got."
Dragonball Z? Wondered Grimmjow, tossing the unfamiliar phrase into the folder in his mind marked 'Stupid Human Crap'.
" . . . I'd rather go commando." Grimmjow smirked at the quickly masked longing that flashed on the Shinigami's face.
"Well," he said, rising to his feet, with a grin that Ichigo didn't trust, "Since you were so nice as to bring me clothes, I guess I should get changed."
Willing himself from his release form, the Sexta watched the younger gulp at his healed, newly exposed chest. Privately, he hoped that now he no longer had to hold his release, the scars would fade –some defeats were better forgotten.
Shrugging off the remains of his jacket, he began work on the ties of his hakama.
"If you're enjoying the view that much," commented the ex-Espada, taking in the lusty expression sitting on Ichigo's face, "You could come help me? It is your fault that I'm injured, isn't it?"
Looking nowhere near as guilty as Grimmjow would have liked, Ichigo rose, moving towards the Sexta wordlessly.
"And who brought you food, medicine, kept you from becoming 'Japan's most wanted'?" asked the Soul Reaper, hands replacing Grimmjow's on the loose Hakama strings.
Now on the same physical level, Ichigo's brown eyes focused purely on Grimmjow's teal ones. Neither backing down from the memory, the challenge.
The silence stretched, seconds whirring passed.
"You've forgotten how to use those opposable thumbs, be useful."
Ichigo smirked at the Sexta, freeing the ties of the hakama to fall, effectively releasing the entire garment for Grimmjow to lightly step out of.
Out of and toward Ichigo.
The teen couldn't honestly say he was surprised that the Arrancar's threat of knickerlessness was already a reality.