It is perilous, at best.
Rating; M (Mature)
Paring; GrimmIchi, various others.
Warnings; AU, Profanity, non-con themes, violence, drugs, scenes of a sexual nature, yaoi.
"What're you lookin' at, bitch!?"
The gruff snarl permeates the damp night. A woman, no older than twenty, gathers herself visibly before tearing away down the street; stiff and righteous.
And Grimmjow continues to sneer at her back until she's long out of sight.
No one gets to look at him that way. No one gets to pity him. He's here because he damn well fucking wants to be.
The alleyway is slick with rain and black with dirt. And it's cold. It's always, always fucking cold. That's the thing about living like this. About going it rough.
Shuffling a little to work a knot out of his back, Grimmjow grimaces at the feel of the rough wall behind him.
He thinks he must look pathetic, really. Hunched up against a wall in a tiny, grimy side street. His shoes are torn. His jeans are ripped. His hoody is nothing more than a useless rag. But this is his life. His choice. He wants it this way, doesn't he?
The way that woman had stared. The way that woman had deemed him worth her pity. It made him fucking sick. He'd made it this far, hadn't he? He'd made a living out of these city streets. He should feel proud.
Grimmjow lowers himself until he's sitting on the wet ground. The rain is a wet mist, clinging to everything it touches. The night is bleak; winter has dragged autumn away kicking and screaming, leaving dead leaves, icy wind and torrential weather.
He really needs some new clothes this year. He should consider spending the little cash he has on something other than drugs and booze.
Thinking about drugs..
Stuffing his hand in his jeans pocket, he pulls out a small tobacco tin. Flipping the metallic lid that conveniently has a marijuana leaf displayed on it, he picks out a half-smoked joint. Settling it between his chapped lips, he lights it with a rusty old zippo.
The first pull is heaven. The end flickers and burns with a dim glow, revealing his slit sapphire eyes and a straight nose. Exhaling slowly, he feels himself sink heavier to the street floor.
The city is noisy around him; cars are speeding up roads, people are jeering in the distance, the drainpipes are gurgling and the wind is whimpering through the trees and buildings.
It is a shithole, really. Everything is so… so grey. The buildings are grey. The roads are grey. The pavements are grey. Even the people are grey; lucid, boring and lethargic. Grey. Just so damn fucking grey.
But it is home. Grimmjow's home. He'd have it any day over life with his so called family.
His family. They'd always been monsters. Cruel and unforgiving, hollow and ruthless. He hadn't stood a fucking chance at a normal life. He'd been raised to crawl through the dirt and to deal with it. The monsters had created a monster. A family of monsters. How novel.
He has no idea what has become of them. His brother, his mother or his father. He hasn't a clue what happened after the drug bust. He doesn't even care to know where they ran to.
The police had tried to tame them. They'd tried to tame monsters. But as far as it goes, monsters can't be tamed; only destroyed.
And that is why, Grimmjow speculated, while rolling his neck to work out more knots; that is why the streets had been more forgiving. He'd fled to this place when he was barely sixteen years old. Away from his corrupt, broken family. Away from responsibility. Away from what society expected of him. He'd fled to a place of freedom.
The problem was, when there is freedom to be claimed, there are always others who want to possess and control it.
It wasn't long after Grimmjow had escaped to the streets that he met the others who prowled the city at night. They lived without moral. They stole, they raped, they murdered.
They lived without soul.
Gangs. Groups of outcasts who ruled the bowels of the city.
Freedom had become repressive, and Grimmjow had had no chance but to play along.
And now this is his life. He'd chosen it.
It is definitely what he wants.
Suddenly pulled from wayward thoughts, Grimmjow picks up on the sound of the wet slap of feet on pavement. Focusing up to the end of the street, his eyes make out a dark figure. And it's gaining on him.
Self-preservation kicks in, and he subtly reaches into his hoody pouch for the stanley blade that is resting there, cold against his abdomen.
The figure is getting closer. Grimmjow stubs the joint out on the wet tarmac. He grips the blade, ready to strike if necessary…
Nnoitra Jiruga sweeps out of the shadows, as tall and intimidating as ever. He stops suddenly, his large body looming over Grimmjow's crouched form.
"Ha! Yo, Hime! Knew I'd find your sorry ass around here somewhere." A shit-eating grin is marring half of his face, and Grimmjow doesn't know whether to follow through with his initial plan of attack.
"Fuck off, Jiruga!" Grimmjow snaps furiously; he'd not expected this man. Not here, not now.
"Kitty's got claws! Reeeoow! What crawled up your ass and died?"
"You did, motherfucker, now back the fuck off!" Wrenching himself gracelessly to his feet, he turns to walk away from Nnoitra, his steps quick.
Before he can make it further, a hand snatches painfully at his shoulder. In a less than three seconds, he finds himself whirled around and slammed against the alleyway wall. The hand returns to clamp around his neck, crushing him.
"Tone it the fuck down, Jaegerjaques, before I tone it down for you!" Grimmjow can feel bile creeping up his throat; disgusting and pitiful fear possessing his body. He hates himself for it. He stares into the violet eye of the man before him. The grin hasn't left his face.
"That's better! Now. Ya know the score, Jaegerjaques. We need something done; if ya want a bed tonight and a head still attached to ya body by morning, you'll do as your told, ne?" Grimmjow can feel the fingers flexing around his throat. He nods his head in ascent, but he can't help the way his teeth curl over his lips in a toothy sneer, his canines bared.
"It's good we see eye to eye, Grimmy! So, there's this small clinic we're interested in. It's in western Karakura, Minimikawase. Called the Kurosaki Clinic." Nnoitra loosens his grip slightly and Grimmjow takes in a gulp of precious air. Shuffling uncomfortably he grunts in acknowledgment; the feel of those long, thin fingers still flexing around his throat keeping him reasonably compliant.
He hates this. He hates him.
"It's full of useful shit, and boss wants it all by morning! The place fills out prescriptions, so plenty of medical-grade shit. They've also got some useful stuff like scalpels and sedatives. Boss wants it from there 'cause the place is low security and its family run. Practically hassle fuckin' free, and we're less likely to cause much police attention.. Can handle that, can't ya Hime?"
The fingers slide snakelike, from around Grimmjow's neck and down his front. The bile rises further up his throat.
Grimmjow nods again, teeth still bared in a silent growl. The grin is eating up at least three quarters of Nnoirta's face now; his fingers are idly caressing Grimmjow's clothed chest.
"Mmm, good. And when ya done, Grimmjow, how do ya like sharing my bed tonight?"
"No fucking way! You said!-"
"I didn't say anything! I promised ya a bed. I didn't say where." Nnoitra is leering now, his head bending low, sickly breath heating Grimmjow's neck and ear. The shiver that follows is self-explanatory.
"Look Jiruga, I'll get your shit done. I'll have it to you by midnight. And I'll crash on your fucking couch. Isn't that fair?" His demand comes out more like a whispered plea.
I hate this. I hate him.
Nnoitra considers him with pseudo-thoughtfulness, his ever present grin ruining the façade.
"We'll see, kittycat. Now on ya way! Don't want to be late, do we?!"
Long fingers finish their journey down Grimmjow's chest until they reach his quivering abdomen. Grimmjow can't help how his breath hitches at the slimy touch.
Then the fingers are gone, and Nnoitra is spinning onto his heel and stalking back into the shadows.
"Just grab whatever shit you can find. Anything that looks useful. I'll see ya at midnight, Jaegerjaques."
The sound of his steps fade into the blackness, and suddenly Grimmjow is alone with his mind again. He slides back down the wall and onto his haunches, his head falling back and an animalistic, angry snarl ripping from his throat.
So this is the life he's made for himself. He's at the very bottom of a criminal ring. A grunt. And he takes what he can get from it.
He never knows where his next bed will be.
But they guarantee him money, food and a place to sleep.
And it's ok. Because he wanted it this way, right?
Fuck.
The Kurosaki place looks inviting; warm and homely. Even for a clinic.
And Grimmjow looks like some kind of creep; staring stoically into the rear window of the place in the middle of the night, standing alone.
But he supposes that's what he is. A creep. He is about to rob the place blind, after all.
And after no longer than a few minutes speculation, he decides to wing it.
He can't be fucked to devise something intelligent.
It's too late for that shit. I'm tired.
Grimmjow grips the brick that until now, has been hanging loosely in his hand for the past half an hour.
Boy, did he get some stares on the way here.
Taking himself a few steps back over gravelly ground, he grasps the brick tighter. And after rolling his shoulders for a couple of seconds, he's ready.
The brick smashes against the window with a noise akin to an explosion. The window is completely caved in, leaving a nice, human sized hole.
Two birds, one stone. Nice.
And on the first attempt, too. He was getting good at this shit.
Grimmjow jogs up to the broken window and climbs up onto the sill without a moments hesitation. Kicking a few rebellious shards through the threshold, he clambers in and drops heavily onto the glass scattered floor on the other side; it crunches loudly under his feet.
Waking the residents next door couldn't bother him any less. He could deal with them.
The corridor is cast in shadow, and he makes his way down it slowly, trainers squeaking softly on the linoleum flooring.
This place is smaller inside. The light, cheery colours of the walls help him see where he's going in the semi-darkness. A door appears on his left, and he immediately detours to investigate.
He tries the handle and it swings to admit him. Even on first glance at the room, all he can see is rows and rows, shelves and shelves of small, white boxes with printed labels.
Jackpot.
Grimmjow scrambles to grab handfuls of medication boxes at once, sweeping them off the shelves and into the black bag he'd hastily pulled out of his pocket on entry.
Once the bag is three quarters full, adrenaline is coursing through his veins and he all but sprints out of the room and down the corridor. The next door he comes across, he kicks inwards with his foot.
This room is white and sterile. He quickly approaches a low shelf on the far side of the room and spots a metal box perched in his immediate reach. He picks it up hastily and fumbles with sweaty, excited hands to get it open. The clasp on the box breaks. No matter.
Inside is a set of medical tools, glistening dully in the orangey light of the streetlamps outside.
Score.
There are more white boxes in this room; on the shelf level with Grimmjow's eyes. He grasps one and rattles it. He hears the sloshing of liquid. He shrugs, and puts it and several others in his black bag with the metal box.
A last sweep of the room reveals a stethoscope and an open box full of gauzes and iodine. He shrugs again to himself, and puts those into the bag too.
Time to go.
Grimmjow can't help but think that he's been lucky tonight; He'd encountered no one. He hadn't heard any sirens. He hadn't even disturbed anyone with his forced entry.
Tonight was one of those rare, good nights.
He swings around the doorframe in a run, the squeak of his feet echoing loudly around the corridor; he just wants to be gone.
Reaching the broken window, he leans out and lowers the black bag onto the ground outside carefully.
Better safe than sorry.
"What the FUCK are you doing?! Who are you!?"
Grimmjow's luck shatters. His throat closes and his fists tense in wild panic.
Someone is here.
Quicker than a shot, he whips around in the direction of the sound of a vicious and absolutely furious sounding voice.
A man. A young man, is standing about ten feet away from him, near the end of the corridor. His fiery eyes are like beacons in the half-light. His orange, wild hair is catching the glow of the streetlights, igniting it. His thunderous scowl is enough to kill a lesser human.
He was an impressive sight. He'd be very, very attractive, if not for the fact Grimmjow had robbed what seemed to be his clinic. He seemed a bit young to own a clinic…
"DO YOU HEAR ME!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He shouts, fire and rage fuelling his shout. And now he's running towards Grimmjow.
Without time to think of anything clever, he whips out his trusty stanley blade from his pocket. The man skids to a stop barely a foot away, his chest heaving and his eyes burning.
"Come any closer and I'll gut you, fucker!" Grimmjow snaps, baring his teeth in a nasty sneer. He hasn't got time for this. It'll be midnight soon.
It's best to scare them quick.
"Try me." The man whispers. Grimmjow's eyes widen as the man steps right up into his personal space, right up against the knife. It's digging into the man's chest, indenting his pyjama shirt.
Grimmjow can't tear his eyes away. All he can see is fire. Fire and rage, swirling in light brown, scowling eyes. The man presses closer. And closer. A grimace flickers across the man's face.
And Grimmjow drops the knife, and then punches the deluded man straight in the jaw. For his own goddamn safety.
The man reels backwards, his feet tripping with the force of the punch, but catches himself before he hits the floor.
But it's not good enough. Grimmjow is already out of the window, has snatched his black bag up of the ground and has started to sprint as fast as he ever has away from the building.
"COME BACK AND FACE ME!" The scream pierces Grimmjow's ear drums but he doesn't stop to look back. He knows the man is after him.
Grimmjow can hear the beat of bare feet on the tarmac, gaining on him.
"YOU WON'T FUCKING GET AWAY WITH THIS! COME BACK AND FACE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" He's still screaming, and it sounds louder, closer. But Grimmjow still doesn't dare look back to see those fiery eyes. He needs to lose this guy. And he probably knows these city streets twice as well.
Game on.
Grimmjow decides to whip to the left, down by the side of a DVD rental store and over the high, metal fence at the back. He struggles with the climb, and instantly regrets his choice when the guy's feet falls sound like they're right behind him.
He hears vicious panting as he drops from the fence and tears down an alleyway directly to his right.
"YOU'LL REGRET THIS! YOU'LL FUCKING REGRET IT!" The screaming pierces the night again as Grimmjow dodges down another alleyway, and then another. He arrives on a stretch that he knows leads to a row of residential houses. The pounding of feet is getting fainter.
Grimmjow jumps up a high wall and drops over it gracelessly, still gripping the precious black bag in his fist. He lands in an over-grown back garden and wastes no time sprinting over clumps of grass and weeds and straight to a wooden gate that presumably leads to the front of the house.
He opens the gate as quietly as possible, grimacing at the resulting creek before sprinting down the side of the house and through an equally over-grown front garden. He ends up back onto the streets. Instinct takes him straight over the road and into another side street.
"I'LL FIND YOU. YOU WAIT. I KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. YOU'VE MADE A HUGE FUCKING MISTAKE!"
Grimmjow unconsciously flinches at the next shout. But immediately after he feels relief. The shout is a lot further away than last time. It's at least a block or two away; the guy's gone in the completely wrong direction.
But he doesn't stop sprinting. He whips down a few more back streets, determined to get further and further away from his orange-haired pursuer. His breath is tearing from his chest and sweat is beading from his temples by the time he slows down to a jog; the city has passed him by in a blur.
There's no time to stop, though. Even as his legs shake with fatigue, Grimmjow continues to jog for a familiar block of flats directly across the road from him, smack bang in the city centre.
People who are still milling around the streets after a night out stare at him. Drink clouded eyes follow him as he jogs, and people drunkenly jeer his way.
Snarling at the rather shrill voice calling after him to 'come hang out, blueberry!' Grimmjow practically pounces at the receiver by the large glass doors of the flat building when he reaches it.
The receiver rings for about thirty seconds, all the while Grimmjow shuffles uncomfortably, taking a look over his shoulder for any sign of orange and fiery eyes.
"What!?" Nnoitra snarls through the speaker, as unwelcoming as ever.
"It's me. Grimmjow! Let me in for fucks sake!"
"Ah! Sure thing, Hime!" The glass doors buzz and click simultaneously. Grimmjow wrenches the door open wide and flings himself inside. Skidding across the lobby, he reaches the stairs and takes them two at a time, the marble flooring echoing his stride.
By the time he's reached the top floor, he's soaked through with sweat. His hair is sticking to his forehead and his high cheekbones have gained themselves a rosy-tint.
He stops outside Nnoitra Jiruga's doorway. He breaths in deep breaths.
I hate this. I hate him.
He knocks on the solid oak door that bares a shiny, silver number five.
Faster than should be plausible, Nnoitra is at the door and pulling it wide open. He's still grinning.
For the love of Kami, his face must be aching from that shit.
"Well, well, well! What've ya got for me, Grimmy? Come in, come in!" He presses flat against his front door, his arm splayed in the direction of his living room.
Grimmjow can't help the ugly sneer that changes his face as his slides past the other man; Nnoitra is deliberately getting close to him. It makes him sick.
He makes his way over to the familiar L-shaped, white leather couch in the centre of the huge living space and dumps the bag of valuables on the end seat.
Nnoitra wanders over and hovers unnecessarily close to Grimmjow's side while reaching down to pull the screwed up plastic open. Grimmjow shivers down to his bones before shuffling away and sitting himself down on the other end of the sprawling couch.
"Hm. Ah. Huh. Yes…" Nnoitra is mumbling to himself as he ruffles sedately through the bag; picking items out, holding them to the light with an exaggerated squint and them placing them down carefully in a row on the couch, one by one.
"Well, Jaegerjaques. Pretty much out done ya self!" He turns to Grimmjow, his eyes taking on a curious, dangerous gleam. Grimmjow recoils immediately.
"Hmmm. So I think you've earned this." The lanky man stalks away from the couch and over to a rucksack that's been placed on the coffee table in front of them. He chucks it at Grimmjow, who catches it before it smacks him in the face and holds it at length, as if it might bite him.
Wouldn't put it past him. Fucker.
"What-"
Nnoitra's eyebrows rise sceptically, and he nods his head at the bag in the blue-haired man's hands.
Heaving out a sigh, Grimmjow sits the rucksack on his lap and unzips it.
He's surprised at what he finds inside.
A set of jeans. A set of red converse trainers. A long-sleeve, grey t-shirt. A thick, warm-looking black hoody. All new. With tags.
His eyebrows have flown into his hairline as he sets these down and looks back into the bag. There's an envelope in here. Full of cash. Probably enough cash to get him by for the next couple of weeks.
And then last but not least, he pulls out a sizeable bag of weed. Definitely enough to sell off and keep some for himself.
And he gawps at Nnoitra.
And Nnoitra grins back; his eyes alight with something uncomfortable.
"What? Why?-"
"It's a personal thank you from the boss. He's noticed the work ya have done for us; I've had it all here since last time you came 'round but you've been a little shit lately, so I didn't give it to ya."
"What!? Fuck you! I needed-"
"Watch your fucking mouth! I don't mind taking it back off you. The choice is yours, fucker!"
Grimmjow clamps his mouth shut against the tirade bubbling up his throat, his knuckles white as they grip the rucksack still in his lap. He nods stiffly.
Nnoitra approaches him anyway. He snatches the bag away, and Grimmjow growls in protest. But he places it by the blue-haired man's side on the couch. Surprised, Grimmjow raises his eyebrows and looks up at the lanky man.
That grin is still cracking his face in two.
His eyes are still gleaming with something unsavoury.
And Grimmjow knows what he wants.
"Ya get to sleep in my big, comfy bed tonight, Hime. For being a good little thief. My good little thief."
The shivers are back with a vengeance. They're ricocheting through Grimmjow's frame.
"I thought-"
"Ya thought wrong. Come on, Grimmy, ya know you enjoy it just as much as I do." The purr carries across the room, timbered and as subtle as a punch in the face.
And then Nnoitra is hauling Grimmjow to his feet by his arm. And Grimmjow is snarling. And Nnoitra is bending, bending low so he is level with Grimmjow's face.
A hand snakes up to take the back of his head, twining in fine blue hair, gripping harshly.
And before he can so much as protest again, Nnoitra claims his mouth in a brutal smash of lips and teeth. He's nipping at Grimmjow's lips. Licking at the seams, and moaning deep in his chest.
Grimmjow gasps.
Nnoitra takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into the warm mouth before him.
He takes his time exploring Grimmjow's mouth. Dominating the kiss. And it takes every inch of Grimmjow's strength not to react to the sensations of it all.
He stands, his fists clenched at his side, even as they twitch to cling on to Nnoitra's body.
It disgusts him.
I hate this. I hate him.
Nnoitra finally breaks the savage kiss and his grin starts to stretch his lips again almost instantly after. He runs a long finger up the side of Grimmjow's face. Grimmjow's eyes close against the sensation.
It's all Nnoitra needs to know.
A hand closes on the collar of Grimmjow's hoody. He has to pick up his own feet as he's forcibly dragged in the direction of the bedroom behind Nnoitra.
He can feel his erection pressing against his thigh as he walks.
He sighs shakily and resigns himself to the night ahead.
I hate this. I hate him.
Authors Note - I have ventured back into the world of BLEACH! This is my fresh start. My blank slate. My introduction back into writing. And I feel proud of what I've produced after such a big break! I wandered into Harry Potter territory for a while, and didn't come out for a year or so.. and now this fandom has caught my eye again.
This is going to be a GrimmIchi- Nnoi is just being a creepy motherfucker, and Grimm is just reacting naturally to it. It's a kinda lust-hate thing. It may seem slightly non-con, and I apologise if that offended anyone :( Oh, and Karakura is a city in this one, just so you know :3
I hope you enjoyed this, reader! I'm really into this story at the moment, because it suits my mood of late. I'm terrible at finishing stories, but I have hope yet for this one- as I said, it's my fresh start, and this time my partner is going to monitor me and make sure I finish this up! Ha!
But be easy on me, though, I'm rusty and this is a completely new style of writing for me. Constructive criticism is always good, people, but as long as you are tactful about it!
Until next time, then!
- AnimaDaemon