A Sardonic Liaison
30 Drabbles for Grimmjow and Ichigo
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Chapter Title: El Sangre Mente
Author: gogodgene
Pairing: Grimmjow x Ichigo
Fandom: Bleach
Theme: #19, "Red"
Rating: PG 13--ish
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. Alas, everything belongs to Kubo Tite.
Notes: I read this comment recently: "Long live fluffy Grimmy." It made me want to stab a kitten. Grimmjow's a panther; not a domestic house cat. There's a reason a couple of the Bleach chapters were named "Jugulators". Jaggerjack would sooner rip out your throat than be play with catnip. Okay? Okay.
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It was the smell.
Over all other senses, the smell of it was the best. That slightly pungent scent that wafted so silkily into his nose. It danced in his nostrils and twirled around his mind. The sight of it made him lick his lips; the smell sent him into a frenzy. Animal insticts turned on, like a switch, like it was just so natural for it all to fall into place. It was, anyway, for that predator in him to awaken so freely just because his olfactory receptions suddenly went berserk.
The feeling made him ecstatic.
Ichigo never understood.
Of course he wouldn't. The teenager was human afterall. The only animalistic urges the kid had were purely sexual.
Not that he could complain.
He was entirely surprised that the Hollow in the Shinigami didn't understand. The maniacal being didn't appreciate the coppery substance all too much. Said embodiment of evil insulted him more by saying the smell was awful.
The only thing he and the Hollow had in common was the love of the hunt. Similarities stopped short there.
Kurosaki found in incessantly strange--if anything--that the Arrancar was so interested in the sticky liquid. The Vaizard had called him a vampire on many occasions.
Grimmjow found it incessantly stupid that the kid couldn't get his mythological creatures right. Jaggerjack didn't like the taste of it; it was like shoving pennies in your mouth.
The Espada pitied the poor boy that he couldn't come to grips with his fuck-buddies' unusual tastes. If the Shinigami had, he probably would've fought a lot harder not to get cut. The smell of blood drove him wild in his normal state as it was; his released state was a whole different story.
Grimmjow could smell droplets of the liquid from miles away in his released form. When the odor drifted towards him, he stopped looking at his opponents as beings with sentience.
He looked at them only as slabs of walking meat.
Dinner time.