AUTHOR'S NOTES
Post-Writing Thoughts → Grimmjow's pov has got some healing powers to it. It's raw as fuck and just helps me get through things. I've been neck-deep in essays and group projects for uni, that I needed to do something for myself or I was going to break something. And I thought it'd be really fun to write a ping-pong-ing story of Grimmjow going back and forth on his attraction towards Ichigo and his denial about it all. And just slinging that through a pov tinted in blood and violence made it very interesting and unintentionally funny.
I cracked up a lot as Grimm would perceive Ichigo's soft and pleasant flirting/teasing through this — this apocalyptic, violent portrayal because he finds gentleness destructive. It was…man, it was crazy xD
Disclaimer: This story is in 2nd person and told from Grimmjow's point-of-view. It was the most natural choice, given the tropes and what I was working with during the past two days. I even dreamed about this fic because I thought 3rd person would be comfortable. But last night, I talked myself out of it by showing myself a fanfic I think I read a few months ago. Written in 2nd person because the story called for it, and I gave myself an epiphany and just ran with it.
What was madness, if not an answer of what you ought but haven't questioned, if not a query to excite him — the very hollow who had asked — but would never find an answer, though the answer was himself.
What was madness, if not destruction nor the copper behind a lip, if not music — an orchestra — a hint of metal and dirty teeth that were grinding, growling and gnashing, but for what.
What was madness, if not a fight between the broken and who had won, if not a gamble within the dark where all the cards were unmarked. A game of poker without a ledger, and where the stakes were infinite, because the dealer and receiver held a finger at the rules.
Then what was madness, if not a hand — and not a fist, to make it clear — but a soft, reverent, curious and warm, tender, callused, then a palm around a cheek, fingers near a mouth, and the world at its brightest when he touched you because you were his. And when he smiled, then you stuttered. You wanted to rip him, but you didn't.
Because you wanted this; it was madness. If not an echo of how you stood, then the stillness within your heart and how suddenly, it became a record because his hand, his palm, his eyes and his love were what spun this; it was stuck and you were shaking because he caught it, because he held you like a star.
And that was madness and you knew it. This was madness; he didn't care.
This was madness and it was you. This was madness and it was him. This was madness and it was here, how he touched and you would take it. This was madness and it was trouble. This was madness you mustn't have. This was madness in all the ways you've been beaten and why it happened; it was everything you never knew because good things weren't for hollows.
But when he asked you, "Do you trust me?"
When he looked at you like an answer, like you were everything he shouldn't have because what he needed was something normal. But what he wanted was absurd; he had to have you if he couldn't. He wanted you and that was madness, and it was madness that met him back.
It was madness with dirty hands, bloody fingers and a palm that knew nothing but the violence of wanting something it couldn't want.
For nothing could survive it; it was destruction turned to flesh and perhaps, the nicest punishment was a reminder of what it is. And it's — it's destruction, it's casualties, it's war, it's inimitable, it's dangerous, it's wild and abhorred — madness was what stopped you. Madness, it made you freeze. Madness reminded you that you couldn't hurt him, as he'd done to you.
You couldn't make him want to die, if you stared at him until he noticed. You couldn't force him to break away and have a fit because you were you. You couldn't pummel into his skull the way you thought he was kind of funny, as that would jab him through the night, and he'd be lucky if he could sleep. And you couldn't stab him through the heart with Pantera or your fist because he would see you in all your madness and worship at your feet.
Because you were power. You were a god. You were a hurricane and he was awed. You were a monster. You were Death. You were as striking as a fire burning corpses through the night. In that none of it should be beautiful, wanted or adored. But it was — it had to be — because your audience was insane.
Your audience was a soul who delighted in what he feared. He was a moth without the instincts, nor desire to fly away, when something burned before his notice; he had to have it and he would crave — and he would saunter on his knees and beg you for the pain. Because he was anything but a fool, or a martyr without a cause, though he looked to you as a nuisance and thought he was trouble turned to flesh.
And yet, and for a moment, you'd indulge him with a fist. If you lunged, and there you had him, and his hand became your own. And the only violence was a knuckle burning white above him then, and he'd hold you within a vice made of warm, gentle skin. That perhaps, he would've rubbed you; perhaps, you would've killed him if you were gnawing at his wrist — without your teeth — and made him suffer.
Because you would listen as he wheezed, while he laughed and he would wiggle, and he would die before he knew it and you would follow him to the grave. So you could mess, then toil, and annoy him where he laid. While he looked to you as a demon, who'd come to conquer his very soul.
Yet the odds of that were as white as your bloody, torn-up jacket.
You couldn't hurt him because it was cruel, because hollows couldn't love, because you were madness and destruction and he was nothing but a fool — but gods, you had to have him; he was your missing puzzle piece, just as you were one of his and he'd never let you be.
It's insanity, and you know it like the freckles down his back, when he holds you like you're precious, like he knows you're about to break. When honestly, it should be you and both your arms and then your hands and your eyes and your breath holding him because he's human. Because he's squishy, supple and begging for a pinch; he's as lively as a blink — here for now and gone the next.
"I don't like you." And you mean it. There are things you wanted to say, but they are gone as soon as you feel this, as soon as he stroked and touched you here. He had his fingers behind your mask and he was tracing all its teeth, and he caressed you where the sunlight and your hierro would never reach. But now, they did; now, you're startled.
You want to break him into pieces. "I could kill you as a warning."
"Hmmm," is all he says. Like you wouldn't — or hadn't thought of it — while he thumbed you where he did, and you would because he earned it. He's a nuisance you ought to have, and the shinigami's a lucky man. Whether he knows it; or perhaps, he does.
Because he's pushing, asking, begging to be hurt when he steals you for a question and for an answer that he knows. "Do you trust me?"
He looks at you, like what you'll say will be in the Bible, and he'll remember it like a promise between a worshipper and his god. Because he holds you in his hands, like you're eternity and he's a moment — as if honor, dignity, trust, sanctity, and being a gentleman on his knees is worth anything but a damn.
But you're kneeling because you followed, because you're a mortal and he's the god; you're a vine or bit of ivy trying to reach and bear the sun.
You're falling and he's rising; you rise when he falls, and he could twist you without a thought while you could smash him through the earth. And you haven't since he hasn't: he cares for you and you can't hurt him.
"Tch." You look away.
It's not a 'yes' nor a 'no.' It's an answer — and he takes it because he's anything but a fool. And what is madness, if not a finger trying to coax you to look up, not to see yourself through his eyes but to steal how he looks at you, and how he wants you for what you are, what you were, and what you will be. If not a finger, perhaps a thumb or a whisper for permission, because he's crazy and annoying and reassurance makes him happy.
He's a god of three worlds — and if not, then he should be — and he's asking for a 'yes' and he thinks it's necessary. When really, he should take it and should grab it from your mouth, and fight you like a man and stab you to submission. Until his soul is on your teeth and your soul's edging him from where he was, where he is and where he will be in your mouth.
It's madness that he's waiting, that there are inches in-between you, that he could spear you without a thought but is asking if he could kiss you, that he could wear all your blood but is nervous if he could have you. And that is madness because he likes you and doesn't want it to be a battle.
But it is: he struck you with about everything that he had; will you parry and stab him back, or will you take him to the hilt?
"I don't know."
It's not a 'yes.' It's not a 'no.' It's an answer — and Ichigo looks at you, and there's a fondness in his eyes. You've only seen that when he's happy, and he's disgusting to even feel that. Because he's crusted, dirty, ragged, and he's stained with cuts and bruises, and there's blood from where you slashed him earlier. And he's messed up to even feel that because hollows don't deserve it — because you shouldn't have it, you're destruction turned to flesh.
But in the white, burning glare of all the deserts in Hueco Mundo, you wouldn't have him if he was cleaned, unblemished without a cut, kissed without a bruise or a knuckle to the face. You wanted him, just like this, and his happiness made him handsome. He has that feral, no-nonsense, 'I will fight you to the end,' and the kind of smile that suits him better when he's broken at your feet; he's handsome the way you imagined 'I trust you' would ever be.
Forbidden. Tempting. No mortal could ever see, but your eyes could find him — your eyes could see this. And he touched you with all the softness that would break you if you were human, and you imagine: 'This is it. He's destruction turned to flesh. He's going to kill me with his thumb when I tried him with my hands.'
"Can I show you…?" And he's quiet because he knows you as himself. "...that you can trust me?"
'I don't know.'
You said something and it wasn't that; you said something and didn't hear it, until you found it on your tongue, until it met with an ardent but a gentle, little touch.
Because he kissed you and you could taste him — he was bloody and held a 'yes,' and he coaxed it to where it was because you were fighting to have it back. You were licking for an answer, and it was sweet inside your mouth. It was the good and better things that a hollow shouldn't have, but you were thrust with a present and no receipt to throw it out. So you kissed him and bruised him and relished how it felt.
Because what is madness, if not a lip you ought to bite and it'll bite you back, if not the eyes burning black once you find and see yourself, and if not the triumph of a god who descended from a throne, here to share a little secret and you can taste it on his teeth — he wants you as an equal; he loves you as you are.
That you chase him through the deserts of denial and he's yours; because you want him and you love him — you're selfish to his touch.
You kiss him: it's a battle between breathing and wanting more, between a smile you might've missed and his eyes and how they glowed, and between the crumble of your back and the straightening of his own. And how he leans here; he's discovered the art of kissing and holding you, that anyone who'd come along would never best him or what he did. And he's as gentle as a river made of sinew and full of sweat, breaking your defenses — without a wound for you to lick.
That you bite him, even harder and even rougher than he did, so that one of you would have something — a battle scar to remember. You'd almost hear him say your name if you hadn't drowned it with a growl; 'Ichigo' was what you heard when you rolled it to his tongue, and he stifled all his sounds because unbearably, you destroyed him.
But there's one thing, and you know this like the amber in his eyes, he isn't strong enough to try to hide it because he's human — after all.
His tender, beating heart is like a record in how it's stuck. You've caught it, with just your name, and here it beats and beats for you. Like clashing metal, dirty teeth and the sound of thunder within a desert as you nip him down the throat and he's breathless around your name. That he grabs and you let him; you're excited for what's to come.
And gods — what is madness, if not the love you never knew until you found it in what you shouldn't, yet you loved it; you loved him — there's a fire in his eyes running darker than the night, running deeper than the streaks of your own blood on his face. And he's as crazy as you are; his gentleness, indomitable. That you wondered how you missed it, how striking he really was.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
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Inspired by the following from Erika Meitner's, Staking a Claim: "It was always you: your unutterable name, this growl in my throat."
If you get the chance, please tell me what your favorite line in this story was. Hands down, "You were as striking as a fire burning corpses through the night" is my favorite because I keep laughing every time I read it. It's so Grimmjow that it fits him; only he would ever tell himself that in a metal-as-fuck pep talk xD
