Warning: We have a situation here people. Rated X.
Chapter Fourteen: The hand that tortures
The Espada awoke on his back, ripped away from nightmarish images of bloodshed and reishi, from dying screams of Shinigami and Hollow alike. His dreams were always like that. Full of ephedrine and blood lust. And he liked them that way. In his dreams, he always won.
It wasn't the dream that had disturbed him from his sleep, though. He sniffed and rolled onto his side, aware of the tingle that lingered beneath his waist. A sign of the enjoyment he'd received from his mind's nighttime pursuits. He ignored it in deference to sleep, and wondered idly what had woken him before he could behead that last phantom Shinigami. He blinked as the form across the bed shifted.
Kurosaki was dreaming, thrashing about in his sleep, making rending little noises. Small whimpers and soft moans.
Irritation bubbled up quickly in the post dream Espada as he reached out to shove violently at Kurosaki in what, in as far as he was concerned, would be a polite effort to shut him up. He stopped mid reach, arm hanging motionless in the air, as a scent reached his sensitive nose. It was new. And something about it provoked him, the already battle aroused Espada. Blue eyes dilated to black as sounds and smell stirred him to move silently closer, curious suddenly, to observe the sleeping Shinigami. A rare and unusual trust had developed early on between them, an understanding that one would not turn on the other in the night as they slept. And Ichigo didn't wake.
Ichigo trusted him. His heart began to pump faster.
I could do most anything to you.
He leaned over the sleeping man, bared his fangs and inhaled, the sweet and musky scent of sex now unmistakable.
Kurosaki was aroused. Grimmjow growled low in the base of his throat and licked his lips clear of suddenly excess saliva. He swallowed hard.
Something woke Ichigo from a very erotic dream, no faces, just smooth flesh, moist lips and wet tongues. It was not quite like any other dream he'd ever had. It felt more intense, something about it almost disturbing and raw. In fact, it was downright pornographic, and it had only just gotten started. Ichigo shifted uncomfortably. It had already left him aching.
Ichigo's sleep addled mind for a moment accepted the warm breath on his shoulder, pleasant dream blending into the waking world. His brain slowly filtered through the information coming from both sides of sleep, until it became clear which was dream and which was real. Grimmjow was behind him. Oh. Great. He must have found his way over to his side of the bed again. It happened a lot.
He would never get used to the way Grimmjow insinuated himself into his personal space, but he lay there half asleep still, tolerating the Sexta's presence, so very close, not interested really in making a fuss about it, yet. He was still much too wrapped in the warmth and blissful haze between sleep and wakefulness, the fragile peace of the half forgot situation he was in.
Grimmjow had claimed the other side of the bed almost from the start, and despite the arrancar's earlier threats, occasionally limbs would cross as one or another shifted. Grimmjow was the restless one, sometimes sprawling as if he owned the damn bed, which he did of course. It was easy, just shrugging off the behaviour. Until now.
He felt the vibration of the mattress as the other man shifted in the bed, mere inches, but enough to bring them into contact. Grimmjow lay behind him, close enough that he could feel his body heat against him in that uncomfortable way, the way that made Ichigo want to bolt and keep running till he was far away, picking up speed till he could escape the feeling, outrun the way he was getting used to it.
It wasn't the feel of the muscled chest against his back that was most alarming. It was the warm hand that unexpectedly gripped his hip lightly, and the long fingers that slipped under the material of his hakama and began brushing his skin, a gentle caress, descending down the side of his thigh.
His eyes flew open, and his breath hitched. This went far beyond uncomfortable. It was terrifying him, and he was almost too shocked to consider being angry. He swallowed hard and almost choked as he forced out the words.
"Wha-? You... fuck... stop." A broken plea, whispered and ignored.
That hand, not soft, but calloused and rough, like the man it belonged to, retraced its path back up his thigh, slowly returning to the place where it first began, then wandered up his bare side, following the lines of his muscles, until it suddenly slid forward onto his stomach. One tip of one finger began tracing the small hole, curiously delving into it, so much smaller than the one that Grimmjow had, a reminder of the undeniable difference in their origins.
Ichigo's heart sped up as the warm palm moved up, stopping at his chest, rubbing across his sensitive nipple, which was fast becoming hard. It wasn't the only thing that was hardening. He felt the heat of the blush that was seeping into his skin and suddenly spreading like a brush fire across his face, burning its way down his neck and across his chest like napalm, half surprised when the other man didn't pull his hand away from the heat of it. Strong fingers rubbed once more across the hard nipple and he let out a gasp.
He was letting this happen. He should be punching Grimmjow square in the face right now.
In the face. Right now.
The hand slid down to the other side of his chest and back up twice more before it retreated, suddenly headed towards a place that caused Ichigo for a moment to forget to breath.
But it didn't go straight there, and that same tiny, inappropriate part of him from before was disappointed again. The hand teased for a moment and slid along the soft skin of his thigh, pushing his hakama lower down onto his hips, then lingering along the crease where the thigh bent, and he felt his member twitch eagerly in response.
He gasped louder this time, unable to stifled the plaintive sound as he abruptly felt his awakening erection wrapped in that strong hand.
Wrapped in a hand that was not his own.
His mind whirled and staunchly refused to believe what was happening. At no time in his life could he ever have imagined a situation in which a man, especially... what was his name?... Grimmjow, would conceivably have his hand there.
A tongue, searing hot, rough and moist, licked at his shoulder, tasting him, then crawled along his skin towards his bare neck and back, as the hand began to move. It slid roughly along the dry surface of his semi erect member, pulling the still loose skin along with it, until it reached the bulbous tip, two fingers swirling over the small hole at the end and pulling a bead of precum back down, slicking him, squeezing hard and making the route back excruciating in its pleasure. He moaned loudly, suddenly not even able to think or care about how he sounded anymore, or about who was drawing the sounds from him.
That hand that wasn't his began to pump him slowly, sliding down to the base of his stiffening cock till it pressed against the fine apricot hairs, and pulling at his healthy length as it slid back up. There were no words exchanged, just Ichigo's ragged panting as rational thought faded and his need increased. He gripped the edge of the bed, arm muscles flexing, white knuckled, as if he were holding on with all his strength to the edge of an impossibly high cliff. How was it possible to feel this good? His own hand had never felt like this.
So focused was he on the the sweet agony in his cock, that he barely noticed the heated breath that steamed up the back of his neck until it was gone. And then the Sexta's face was suddenly pressed against his cheek, the smooth side, the one without the gruesome, toothy, half mask. Ichigo turned his head towards the musky scent of hot skin, the familiar scent, as the other man's cheek pressed hard against his own. He didn't open his eyes, all his senses focused on the feel and the smell and the sound of slapping wetness and his own heavy breathing.
The side of their lips touched and he turned a little more, his mouth suddenly needing to be pressed against another. He opened his mouth wider to take in a ragged breath, and the tip of a tongue met against his own. It was all too much and he pressed his lips together, refusing the advance. The other sank down against him anyway, tasting him, pressing their mouths together roughly, the fist squeezing harder, moving faster, and as Ichigo moaned, the other man's mouth closed around his bottom lip and briefly sucked on it, a sharp fang grazing along the tender flesh, until Ichigo turned his head away, desperate to evade that mouth. It was much too personal. It made this too real. And this wasn't really happening.
It was an almost impossible task to take in such incredible sensations, as that powerful fist, the one that could crush and kill so easily, all the while kept pumping his rock hard erection, with that constant push and pull, to and fro. Ichigo's hips moved involuntarily against the motion, trying somehow to get more sweet friction out of each pump, forcing the hand to work harder against his straining cock.
He never opened his eyes as the pressure continued to build inside him, volcanic and unstoppable.
Suddenly, everything shattered and he threw his head back and screamed out wordlessly, the Sexta watching in awe as Ichigo released himself, and covered his own abdomen with jet after jet of silken white cum.
Dizzy and panting, and dazed and exhausted from the exertion, Ichigo collapsed and buried his head in his pillow. The hand stayed wrapped around his softening member until the pulsing and the twitching of his hips finally stopped, the euphoria ebbing away, leaving him boneless and spent.
The bed shuddered as the Espada suddenly rose up and vaulted over Ichigo, and quickly left the room. Ichigo heard the door snick shut behind the Espada, signalling the end of the bizarre and intimate event. He didn't even think about following. He didn't even think.
Ichigo just lay there, mind completely blown to shit.
Grimmjow had to leave. He had to get out of there, away from him. What had he done? What had they done?
What he'd done, he realized, was give himself a massive erection.
It was a problem that he needed to take care of himself. Grimmjow didn't know what he'd do if he let the kid touch him like that. He might just kill him. He was sure he couldn't handle that intrusive feeling. The idea of handing over control to somebody else was unbearable, disgusting. He could never give himself over to anyone in that way, or in any way. The life he knew did not permit that kind of careless and unguarded behaviour. It was too deeply ingrained into him; give up control and you become weak; become weak and you will die.
The Sexta had no idea what had compelled him to touch Kurosaki like that. He reasoned that he had just wanted to see the Shinigami suffer... in a different way. He had wanted to cause his rival pain and watch the sweet agony of everything he was doing to him. And fuck, had he ever. It was so much more than he'd imagined it would be. It was more than he could handle.
Grimmjow walked with long, angry strides down the vast hallway, turning at the first corner he came to, and leaned with one hand against the white wall. He tugged at the strings of his hakama. They slid down his legs, landing in a heap at his feet and he kicked them away. The Espada grunted as he took his own rock hard erection firmly in his hand, and pumped himself roughly, baring his teeth, until he finally came against the wall with an angry, frustrated growl at the vision of Ichigo's scarlet face, pained, and enduring it, wanting every bit of the torture he was receiving.
Ichigo had submitted to him. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez had ruled over him, dominated him. It had been a beautiful surrender. And that left him with a disgusting problem. Without a shred of doubt, he knew he wanted more.