A window. He'd never seen one before. Why should he have expected to? To let in the bland, draining scenery of Hueco Mundo? Grimmjow reached out his hand to press on it, glass.
He rolled his eyes; well obviously I've seen glass before. Using it as something to let light in and out, connecting one world with another, but only to see—never to touch through the cold transparent surface. He dragged his palm down with a squeak and let it drop to his side. Ichigo shuffled beneath the hardly needed sheets on his bed, such a warm summer night.
Grimmjow wasn't all too worried about waking him; he looked dead to the world. The sleeping reaper's usually scrunched eyebrows smoothed out into total peace as he lay with an arm behind his head, open and vulnerable.
A bit too comfortable now aren't we? Seeing as I could slit your throat right this moment, thought he. He narrowed his eyes, musing in an angered way as to why he was even here. Go back, Aizen'll massacre you. Go back. But he remained transfixed.
Enraptured in the slighted movements of the kid, searching for why he…wanted him.
Yes, Grimmjow had fought the soul reaper before. Clashed metal with metal, the fiery passion of fight steaming between them. Each one wanting to prove himself and dominate over the other in show of power.
The espada's world was void of senseless emotions, bereft of any type of feeling to slow him. Perhaps that was why he took such great pleasure in combat. It gave him something to marvel at, the feeling deep within.
Sadly, it was only a fleeting ardor, once the enemy had been slain and he'd sheathed his sword, there was nothing once again. But the fiery soul reaper, emboldened by his sense of guardianship over his beloveds, caused Grimmjow's heart to stutter a beat or two.
His slightly amature-ish, but strong stance, the way his muscles flexed when he readied for a strike, the sweat slipping down his torso…it captured him. He had to know more, see more.
And so, here I am. Watching this dude sleep. Mmm, creepy, he thought. He wanted closer. Slowly, he glided the window up, and descended without sound into Ichigo's room. He inched closer, not even lifting his feet from the floor.
Tension tugged on his brain and made gravity seem ten times stronger. He shook his head briskly and jutted out his jaw in defiance of his own instincts, calm the hell down, I can kill 'im in a millisecond if the bastard wakes up. So pull up your fucking big boy pants and walk over there.
Inner talk to a close, he crept over quietly, but with a serious smirk. Reaching the edge of the bed, he crouched and draped his hands atop his knees, staring at face level. Completely oblivious, Ichigo sighed deeply and stretched into a better position.
The sheet crumpled to the side and revealed the toned boy with only a loose pair of boxers on splayed out in the moon light. He had multiple scars, they accented his collarbone and cut down across his chest. Grimmjow's throat tightened.
Touch, his fingers whispered to him. He obeyed and laid a hand on Ichigo's abdomen. The boy's subconscious body moved a tad at the surprising touch, his abdominal muscles rippled beneath the espada's palm.
Almost of its own accord, Grimmjow's hand slid beneath the boxer waist band to ghost Ichigo's area. Ichigo uttered the sigh of a moan, almost inaudible, but enough for Grimmjow.
He ripped his hand out and stumbled back gripping the crotch of his pants, with a bit too much noise. Ichigo's eyes sprang open just soon enough to see a confused and aroused Grimmjow fall back into a portal, returning him from whence he came.
Grimmjow stepped out and back into his own room, and holding himself firmly in his right hand fell onto the bed. Growing furiously more aroused as he thought more and more about all the details of Ichigo's sleeping, breathing, warm body, he began to pump his hand up and down his length.
Breath becoming more rapid, he screwed his eyes shut to keep the image alive. Holding onto it, he rolled onto his hands and knees and released onto the bed with a long exhale. Not good…he thought.
Ichigo sat up. Blue? Jeagerjaques? He let out a gruff snort as he reached to touch the souvenir scars he's received from the last fight. What the hell was the fucker doing in my room? He mentally screamed, getting up to pace. He clenched his fists, and I can't even go after the hollow-fuck! Useless.
He sat back on his bed, mulling over the fact that an enemy was just beside him, and yet his heart still beat. He slapped a hand on to his forehead and looked down at his lap.
When did I pop a boner…? Ichigo was a bit taken aback; he didn't follow the usual horny teenager tendencies. He didn't get turned on, and certainly had never gotten one of these.
He was a certifiable prude. With embarrassed hands, even in the dark of his own room, he dealt with it. He finished clumsily, but dissatisfied.
Why was it he orgasmed only after picturing that racing face of the arrencar who disappeared from his room?
He dragged a shaking hand through his now tousled hair, after finishing his third whack off. He dropped his head back to look at the white ceiling and frowned.
White ceiling, white walls, white clothes, and a white world. Wouldn't his white white world look so much better with a little color in it, maybe some….red. A shuddering, gasping, moaning, pleading red head. "I'm going back." he said out loud.