Previously called 'slave to beauty'.

It's been about two years, and I'm finally back into writing again. Hopefully there are people still interested in reading this.

It might take me a bit of time to get back into this writing style, so it might sound a bit different as I settle in. Please bear with me; I haven't given up on this story!

Grimmjow trudged over to the slave named Sixty-nine, basket full of corn cradled in his arms. Early that morning he had been assigned the task of harvesting the fields, and by lunch time with the sun high up in the sky, he had already filled up the large basket he had been given, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

"Take it inside. Give it to the kitchen hands." Sixty-nine tells Grimmjow softly, gesturing with his chin towards the large estate. Grimmjow nods but doesn't say anything, turning curtly and trodding towards the mansion, basket in hand.

The basket is heavy, his biceps straining under his shirt; filled to the brim with ripened corn that glints mildly in the sunlight. His shirt is sticking to his back uncomfortably, and he is glad he finished so early; appreciative of the small rest he is being given by taking the brimming basket inside his masters' house.

He stomps up the concrete steps to the backdoor, resting the heavy basket against a hip with one hand and opening the door with the other; arms straining. The blue-haired slave peeks his head inside the doorway, searching for the kitchen hands. There is no one around, but many times he had done this before, so he wipes his feet on the doormat roughly and steps inside the spacious kitchen, closing the fly-screen door behind him.

Approaching the kitchen counter in front of him, he heaves the weighty basket up and onto the flat surface, and it makes a loud sound with the weight. He pauses, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes; just for a second, he tells himself. He is hot, sweating, just wanting a brief reprieve. The kitchen is significantly cooler than outside in the afternoon sun; much quieter, too, and Grimmjow curls his toes into the floor, a bead of sweat running down his forehead.

"Renji, you bastard, stop being such a..."

Grimmjow snaps his eyes open at the voice, but doesn't flinch; nothing ever startled him enough anymore to make him jump. He raises his head at the sight of Ichigo entering the kitchen, wearing a casual vest; thin calves wrapped in leather boots that went up to his knees. His master freezes, looking surprised at the sight of the blue-haired slave standing alone in the empty kitchen, and all he manages is an, "...oh."

Grimmjow straightens his posture without thinking, a habit beaten into him throughout his life, taking his hands off the basket from where they rested and eyeing the beautiful young man in front of him, eyes raving over his attractive attire.

"What are you doing in here." Ichigo's tone is not angry, but still held a stern authority; it spoke of being taught all his life of the proper way to talk to slaves. They are not your friends. They belong to you. They are your objects.

Grimmjow's icy-blue eyes drop to the basket in front of him, gesturing towards it with his hand and saying gruffly, "...I was told to bring this here."

Ichigo's eyes mimic him, dropping to the basket filled to the brim with ripened corn; so much of it that it was spilling over the top and onto the counter. He looks back to Grimmjow's face again slowly, gaze steady and unfathomably deep, a long silence as their eyes meet, and voice like honey, so soft, "...I see. Well done."

His eyes are the colour of mahogany, and heated with something dark, and he just stares into Grimmjow's blue irises silently, holding his gaze. Grimmjow feels sweat slide down his brow and looks quickly down to his feet, feeling uncomfortable staring into such beauty from so close - a slave should never meet their Master's eyes.

He swallows thickly as he hears Ichigo step forward towards him, but he doesn't look up. Ichigo steps forward again, closer, and Grimmjow can feel his own heartbeat thumping in his chest as his master approaches... only to brush right past him - surely that brush of clothes on his arm was on purpose - and towards the counter behind him. Grimmjow is stiff, hands rolled into fists as he hears Ichigo clattering with something in the cupboards behind him, but he doesn't turn, swallowing drily.

"Would you like some water?"

It takes him a second to realize that Ichigo is talking to him; he turns around hesitantly, and Ichigo stands at the counter there, pouring water from a jug into a single glass. Grimmjow's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, watching the water swirl in the crystal glass, and he finally raises his eyes to meet Ichigo's gaze, which had not moved from watching him. His eyes are on Grimmjow, face unreadable and he leans back against the counter, holding the glass out towards him.

Grimmjow stares at it; Ichigo is not making any move to come closer, instead waiting for the slave to come to him. He realizes he hadn't replied to Ichigo's question, but the petite young man in front of him doesn't seem to mind; simply gazing right into him with those eyes, those long eyelashes that make Grimmjow want to do unspeakable things.

He takes a few slow steps forward, reaching out and curling his fingers around the glass, and surely Ichigo is doing that on purpose; holding onto it a little too long, their fingers touching. His master's skin is cool, and his fingers so delicate and thin and pale against Grimmjow's calloused ones - hot desire shoots through his groin, imagining rubbing his calloused fingers over his master's unblemished skin; what if Ichigo were that delicate and thin and pale in other places too; his waist, his hips, between his thighs-

Ichigo's lip quirks, as if he can read his mind, as if he knows, and his long fingers draw away from the glass, his lidded gaze never leaving Grimmjow's. He watches heatedly as the slave brings the glass to his lips, stares as he takes large gulps of the cool liquid; eyes sliding down his muscled neck and watching it move, the beads of sweat coating his skin there. The slave is significantly taller than him, larger, made of hard muscle; could probably throw him around if he wanted to, and the thought makes Ichigo ache. His eyes lower further, over the slave's muscled chest, biceps straining under his shirt; even further, to the large bulge of his groin and Ichigo bites his lips. Grimmjow finishes the glass in one go, lowering it away from his mouth and Ichigo looks back up quickly, steps forward towards him and all Grimmjow can hear is the buzzing of cicadas loud in his ears.

Ichigo reaches out a delicate hand - perfect, unblemished skin; never worked a day in his life - slowly reaching out and up, and his fingers press against Grimmjow's clavicle; sliding slowly, languidly, against the sweat pooling in his sharp collarbone. "You're sweating." he murmurs, voice soft and velvet, melting into the buzzing of cicadas like honey. His touch felt like it was burning, leaving a slow, scorching trail in it's wake across his tanned skin as Ichigo's hooded eyes stare into his soul, looking deep inside and tearing him apart. His hot fingertips slide across his skin so sensually, leaving fingerprints in his mind, and Grimmjow can't stop the shudder that wracks him; arousal spiking through him sharply, heady and warm and making his eyes close.

And then the touch is gone, and Grimmjow opens his eyes dazedly to the sight of his master looking down at the sweat coating his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth and smearing them across his own lips. Ichigo stares into the slave's eyes, cheeks flushed, eyelashes fluttering and gaze full of such heat and thick, swirling arousal that Grimmjow feels his heavy cock twitch inside his pants.

A clatter from behind them makes Ichigo visibly jump; the kitchen hands enter the kitchen chattering loudly, and Grimmjow watches his master's cheeks flush darker, doe-brown eyes dropping to the floor quickly and distancing himself from the blue-haired slave. He is out of the room before any of the other slaves could greet their young master, a few of them watching his quickly retreating back in confusion, and Grimmjow breathes out slowly, placing the glass back on the counter.

He is throbbing, achingly hard in his underwear, and his master's heated gaze scorches him like the six tattooed on his back, imprinted forever in his mind.

Shoot me a review and tell me what you think; I'd love to know if people are still reading this after all this time C: