Title: Shatter
Universe: Bleach
Pairing: Grimmjow/Ichigo
Disclaimer: Kubo Tite owns Bleach
A/N: Thank you so much for everyone that's followed this story up to this point. Cliche as it sounds, your amazing, thoughtful reviews are what pushed me to finish this (admittedly short) chapter. I promise I haven't forgotten this story - I have a LOT planned, and I plan to finish the story even amid my hectic life. It will get much steamier soon, I promise ;)
Grimmjow kicks the serving trolley into his room, swearing profusely. Whose idea had it been to make Hueco Mundo so fuckin' gigantic? As an Espada, he rarely had to eat, but plenty of the weaker Arrancar had to eat regularly to replenish their spent spirit energy. Good thing too, because if he had worry about eating several times a day, he'd probably resort to cannibalism rather than make that hike all the way to the kitchen.
He yanked the door shut and fumbled unfamiliarly for a moment with the locks. Despite the numerous ambushes and backstabbing that ran rampant in this palace, he rarely locked his door. Hell, Grimmjow welcomed a good fight - the bloodier, the more unexpected, the better. Many a hapless Arrancar, who coveted a place among the Espada and decided to attack in the dark of night, had learned that the Sexta slept lightly and Panterra was never far from his grasp. He'd had to throw out many bloodied sheets when he first became Espada, but the nighttime ambushes had waned as the body count rose and his reputation started to spread. He kind of missed it, to be honest. Sometimes he still woke abruptly in the night, tasting blood on his lips and heart racing with fury and excitement.
The last thing he needed at the moment though, was a rogue Arrancar sneaking their way into his room and making off with his prize. Door closed and locked, Grimmjow lifted the lid of the dish on the trolley and sniffed doubtfully. The dishes had been recommended (with an obscene amount of chuckling and winking) by Gin, who had "conveniently" been waiting in the kitchen when he arrived. There was a bowl that he could identify as some sort of rice porridge that looked innocent enough, and a plate of noodles mixed with scraps of meat. Gin had also tried to foist some gross, gelatinous creatures called "oysters" on him - the ex-captain swore cheerfully that they would put the shinigami in "the mood", whatever that meant, but they had looked so disgusting that Grimmjow had binned them in a dark corner on the way back to his room. He didn't trust Gin, and if the shinigami ate those things and died, Grimmjow was sure Aizen would rip him to shreds. He wasn't stupid. Aizen was looking to prove a point, and not the kind of points that would be made by a dead shinigami. Grimmjow's own dial was set on "Eliminate", but he was pretty sure that Aizen's dial was set firmly on "Suffer".
He glanced around the room for the Ichigo, and immediately spotted the teenager's bright head of hair buried in his sheets, a stark contrast to the white and black of the rest of the room. Grimmjow strode over, intending to kick the shinigami out of his bed for his meal, but found himself slowing to a stop as he neared his bed.
The teenager was lying fast asleep on his stomach, snoring unselfconsciously, his hands fisted in one of Grimmjow's pillows. His brows were furrowed even in his sleep, and Grimmjow's eyes traveled from the boy's peaceful face, down his bare back, to where the thin sheet clung to the teenager's slim legs and tight, muscled ass. Was the boy sleeping naked? What a fucking tease. Hot, warm lust uncurled in Grimmjow's stomach - god, it had been so long since he had wanted something so badly. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he bent over the sleeping shinigami, resting his hands on either side of the teenager's body, inhaling the sweet scent of Ichigo's body. He imagined yanking that sheet off Ichigo's waist, biting into his neck, sliding his tongue against the salt of the teenager's skin. Pulling Ichigo open and sliding roughly, deliciously into that tightness, fucking him hard. Grimmjow could almost smell the blood, hear the teenager's pleasured, agonized screams.
But he couldn't go any further than that. To his annoyance, he tried to imagine choking the teenager, smashing his fist into Ichigo's face as he took him, but the feeling of pleasure in complete dominance which had always felt so natural to him kept slipping away. Posed as he was above the sleeping teenager, Grimmjow could feel the warmth radiating off Ichigo's skin, see Ichigo's thick golden eyelashes flutter against his cheek with every breath, and Grimmjow recalled the fierce, electric shiver he had always felt when they battled, steel singing against steel, the boy's intense, stern dark eyes focused on his own and his raw, strange power burning vividly against Grimmjow's skin. Grimmjow realized that he didn't want to break the boy, maddening and complicated as their relationship had been up until now. He didn't want to shatter the boy who had been his equal in this cowardly, unbalanced way. That would be playing right into Aizen's hands after all, and if there was one thing Grimmjow hated the most, it was being told what to do.
Grimmjow reached out, gently settling his fingers around Ichigo's neck. He slowly traced his thumb against the faint line of a vein in the boy's neck, feeling the blood pulse rapidly against his hand. If he pressed down hard enough, he could end everything right here, right now, and there wasn't anything Aizen or anyone else could do to stop it. It might even be an act of mercy for the teenager. Who knew what Aizen had in mind for Ichigo once the five days were up?
Still deeply asleep, Ichigo shifted into the warmth of Grimmjow's hand. Against his will, Grimmjow remembered the way the boy had looked at him earlier with those trusting brown eyes, without a shred of calculation or deceit. Without anger or fear, even though he was bruised and cuffed and bleeding. Grimmjow's teeth dug harshly into his tongue as he remembered how sweet Ichigo had tasted, his hard body pressed against Grimmjow's, trembling despite the warm water.
A low growl rose from his throat, feral and hungry. Ichigo moved uneasily in his sleep, and Grimmjow jumped off the bed as if scalded. Fuckin' hell. Annoyed at himself and the circumstances, he grabbed Panterra and shoved open the door to his training room, blood pounding in his ears. He didn't even hear the door to his room as it slowly clicked back open.
"Let's be clear and go over the rules one more time," hissed the lead Arrancar. He was a sallow-looking fellow with a callous, lined face, the oldest of the small band. He looked at his ragtag team, gathered in the shadows just outside the Sexta's door. "Remember, don't engage with Grimmjow unless absolutely necessrary. It'll be a bloodbath if we do. We steal his prize, and then we can take our time with the shinigami later somewhere safe. Understood?"
A petite, homely Arrancar tested the edge of her hatchet nervously. "This shinigami...he's supposed to be the strongest of the strong. So strong that even Aizen is scared of him. How do we know it's not a trap?"
"He was cuffed by the Octava," snarled another Arrancar, hidden in the shadows. "Octava might dabble in some strange shit, but he knows his stuff." He let out a strange, high-pitched giggle. "Suppose they're fucking on the bed when we walk in? What do we do then?"
"I hope they are." The leader spat out distastefully. "You better hope that they are fuckin' furiously right now. Grimmjow might be at his most vulnerable when he's fucking, like any other goddamn animal. He's sure as hell not vulnerable when he's asleep or any other time I've ever seen him. Jareiz, are you sure there will be no obstacles to getting in?"
"Grimmjow never locks his door," mumbled Jareiz sullenly. He was missing an arm, the result of a late-night attempt to attack the Sexta years ago. The only reason he was even alive was because he'd been one in a group of five, and had fled while Grimmjow was distracted with ripping out the throat of one of his teammates, running down the corridor white-faced with his hand pressed frantically over his bleeding arm socket. "He probably doesn't even know how to lock it properly."
"Good," said the sallow-faced leader. He straightened. "Once we're finished, Aizen-sama will thank us for our service. I know exactly what Aizen-sama wants. We will personally carry it out for him, and then he will acknowledge us. We will become the elite!" His thin lips curled in anticipation, and his fingers traced the five thin blades he wore in a belt around his waist. He would make the shinigami scum scream before it was over, and then he would cut out his tongue and personally present it to Aizen-sama. Maybe then he would finally get promoted to Espada.