Receiving And Bearing

Title: Receiving And Bearing
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Grimmjow/Ichigo, Ulquiorra/Grimmjow, various two and threesomes in later chapters.
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 au!future!darkfic. Non-con in later chapters, as well as violence, depressing situations and the guy your mother warned you about.
Status: Incomplete ongoing of unspecific length.


Ichigo switched places with Orihime in Hueco Mundo a lifetime ago, it seemed. It was a simple decision for Ichigo to take her place as the political prisoner of Aizen Sousuke and the Arrancar, being the sort of young man who had (at the time) very well-hidden low opinions of himself and high opinions of the competence of just about everyone else he was close to. There was only one Inoue Orihime in the entire world, with her strong patience and soft kindness and, most importantly, her uncanny ability to heal and change the fabric of reality itself. What did Kurosaki Ichigo have, on the other hand, that made him as special and important as someone like her? Kurosaki Ichigo had fuck all. Kurosaki Ichigo was just another pissed off kid with a big-ass sword and more than a little raw power behind him. Seireitei alone had a hundred possible Kurosaki Ichigos, most with more actual field experience and finesse than he had.

It was the mother of all no-brainers.

And so, when the Arrancar Ulquiorra Schiffer came to the Living World with orders behind his cool green eyes and offered a trade of sorts— one redhead for another --Ichigo reluctantly accepted. Accept the offer and Orihime can live her life again. Accept the offer and nobody gets hurt this time. There was no way Ichigo could have beaten Ulquiorra down at the level he was, anyway. It took Ichigo years of resistance, against himself and the situation he'd put himself into, to become convinced it had been the right decision.

It still was the right decision and would continue to be, and Ichigo understood this in the calmer, more mature parts of his mind. Inoue healed the proverbial troops. The war kept exploding around them, throwing out shrapnel in scattered battles; Seireitei continued to fight on to protect the King and preventing Aizen from forming the Key to Heaven, whatever the hell that was (Ichigo didn’t know and never was very good at understanding the specifics of things). All along, he’d found himself fighting a war over people and not a war over ideals. Ichigo fought a war to protect Kuchiki Rukia, Orihime Inoue, his sisters and his father, hundreds of people even if he didn't know their names. They were still individuals, not some monolithic thing, not some intangible thought.

With people out of specific danger, Victory In Itself was not a motivator for a boy of Ichigo’s grounded temperament.

Ichigo had been easily replaced on the front lines unsurprisingly, a fact which had been a sore spot on his pride for some time, something which he'd only recently truly gotten over. Seireitei had been around since the first human mother looked down at her child and decided that he was a human with five fingers and five toes and opposable thumbs, just like she was; Seireitei would be around until the last one died, maybe longer. It would continue to last through the coming years without the interventions of Kurosaki Ichigo and his big-ass sword. It was true, Chad and Ishida had fought and almost lost life and limb in Hueco Mundo, along with the rest of them-- Rukia, Renji. They'd made it out by only the skin of their teeth. But what were they, really? Just a bunch of mostly untrained kids with beginner's luck and some young low-level Shinigami officers. It was no wonder things had turned out the way that they had.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques had been a heavy help from unexpected quarters in this case. He'd only been spared at Orihime's stringent requests and Ichigo's to follow.

The fighting evened out when the Big Guns entered the war. Ukitake and Kyouraku, some of the oldest Shinigami still alive, could take out entire troops of low-level Arrancar (the ones Ichigo had been told were Números on multiple occasions but never saw fit to remember, so little did he care). It was much like the revelation in weaponry during World War I; ith such forceful shows of power, both sides could only move to change the current fighting style before they would end up destroying whatever they were fighting for. A cold war reigned, polka-dotted with violent but isolated guerilla battle, both sides quietly reluctant to drop the proverbial bomb to end it all.

Perhaps neither side really wanted to.

It took a year and a half for Ichigo to actually settle into a social routine as a political hostage, to stop acting out violently every chance he could find. He was angry, he was impotent to do anything about it, he fought tooth and nail with some of the Arrancar. Ichigo lost miserably half the time and the other half it was mostly Aizen's instructions to Ulquiorra Schiffer to put up with Ichigo’s near-constant shit, because it was necessary to whatever the fuck it was Aizen was planning out in his shady brain.

But slowly, as was mostly inevitable, causing trouble got old. You could only get your ass kicked three ways to Sunday so many times before you realized the only place you were getting yourself was nowhere.

It was two full years before Ichigo accepted the fact that he was never fucking getting out of this giant, desolate place until something decisive happened. Ichigo realized long ago from his time spent with Hirako Shinji that he was not a Shinigami; he was a Vaizard. Coming to peace with the true nature of one's self and the fact that, essentially, all healthy intelligent creatures had a desire for conflict (especially teenage boys), caused the bubbling Hollow within Ichigo to assimilate itself gleefully, coming in line with Ichigo's desires.

The thought of it and even the lingering feelings bothered Ichigo immensely for a few months, but eventually he came to accept it; if accept was the appropriate word for such a depraved situation, knowing that you had a nasty, nasty part of yourself lurking just below the surface. It was useful given his surroundings, however-- that Hollow.

It was as simple as that. The Hollow was useful. Ichigo could not deny the fact that somewhere, deep within his subconscious, he enjoyed it when he could terrify the servants and the Números, waking up to breakfast with a mask above his face. It made him feel somehow secure in the middle of the enemy, when he could scatter the foot-soldiers by walking down the hallway smiling from beneath the bleached white bone for no reason at all. Ichigo kind of hated himself for it on certain days. On others, well...

Wasn’t like there was anyone around to see the behavior and judge.

Six months ago from current, Ichigo began to notice that, when surrounded by a world of white and black, you had no choice but to turn a little grey to shut it all out and distinguish yourself. It was six months ago from current that Kurosaki Ichigo understood that you could only hate somebody, no matter how despicable, for so long before you honestly started to desire their company.

Today was Ichigo’s 20th birthday. He was an adult, he had a hunch that he looked good and he felt even goddamn better, surrounded by Hueco Mundo's background radiation of reiatsu. Ichigo hadn’t seen the outside world or anybody he gave a damn about for over three years, aside from those cruel glimpses at the beginning, slowly trickling out as Ichigo became less antsy. The Arrancar, sometimes Ichimaru Gin, they always told Ichigo that the others were alive and well and that no major moves had been made against them, and Ichigo had no choice but to believe them under the circumstances (as much as he hated to admit that maybe the sick things could tell the truth). They had no reason to lie about the subject; it would have been a waste of their breath.

Ichigo sighed, brown eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned against the cool side of a pool of clear water, literally springing from a wall in one of the vast, mostly empty chambers of the unrealistically huge castle of Las Noches. The majority of the intelligent inhabitants of Hueco Mundo dwelt in Las Noches, anymore, skirting around Ichigo for their good and his own. He moved carefully, avoiding a sharp, jutting rock next to the depression that he nestled himself slowly into, head laying back against the white marble-like stones. Ichigo had to wonder sometimes, did Aizen Sousuke make things like these intentionally?

Either way, the spring had been a blessing when Ichigo found it, off in some secluded corner yards away from any important rooms. He reached slowly up to rub over his naked chest as disturbed water lapped over it, scratching at an imagined itch before Ichigo heard the tell-tale sound of heeled sandals slapping on the glass-like rock. He leaned his head back against the floor and stared across the room from his uncomfortable position, vision inverted.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques came slowly over to him from the open archway of a door, white hakama singed and ripped, smelling like burnt hair and indiscretion. Ichigo gagged slightly, rolling around in the water to face Grimmjow in a more comfortable position. He grinned broadly at Ichigo, sitting down with an unceremonious thump beside the strange spring and crossing his legs while his spidery hands went to work at untying and removing his sandals and rolling down his thigh-length black socks.

“Took me like three hours to figure out where the hell you were hiding. This looks like a good idea,” the Arrancar snickered low.

“Grimmjow,” Ichigo muttered, voice not entirely welcoming but still without genuine threat; lazy. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Got in a knuckle-duster with some punk Shinigami out there who thought he was bigger than he was. Killed his fucking ass so good.”

“Who?” Ichigo’s brows knit slightly, almost imperceptibly. Grimmjow caught the change with a practiced eye.

“Don’t get your fucking panties in a wad. Nobody who actually mattered to be fucking sure.”

Ichigo nodded wanly, ignoring the jobe about the panties, not pleased with the callous way Grimmjow always talked of others and not pleased with this turn of events. But Ichigo'd come to terms ages ago with the fact that when people went to war over power and lofty ideals, people died. Lots of them. Many at Grimmjow's fists.

“Didn’t put up much of a fight, but it was fun to stretch my muscles anyway. Used some flashy fire kidou or something though. I tell you what,” Grimmjow snorted, clearly waiting for Ichigo to tell him to continue. It was something Ichigo was used to. His dad-- his dad had done that sort of shit too.

Ichigo bit the bullet anyway, in no mood to make Grimmjow's chatter last longer than necessary. “What?”

“I think I came.”

“You fucking disgusting, twisted asshole,” Ichigo shouted, slapping the Arrancar hard on his calf while he worked on completely divesting himself of his own white hakama and vest, short work made of the footwear.

“Fucker,” Grimmjow hissed, kicking his clothes off and away in a long line of messy black and white fabric before sauntering the few feet over to the spring, throwing himself into the middle and spraying Ichigo with heavy droplets, landing where the depth was a good four feet or more. His unnaturally-colored head bobbed to the surface and he shook like a dog, spraying the water across Ichigo’s face purposefully. Ichigo glowered as the other man bobbed to the surface, water leaking down Grimmjow’s face, slipping down the inclined jawbone of the half-mask that always reminded Ichigo of some morbid piano.

“Deserved it,” Ichigo grunted.

“Keh.”

“Feh.”

Ichigo scooted over a foot when Grimmjow walked slowly to the side of the pool, settling himself against the stone also, slightly too close for Ichigo's comfort. Grimmjow bothered him deeply sometimes, as much as the blue-haired man was one of the most ‘human’ of the Arrancar (in as loose a definition as possible). It was the man’s entire lack of respect for parameters of social comfort, the casual fashion he flaunted his inhumanity and the ways he sometimes reminded Ichigo of himself.

“Brought you something back, though,” Grimmjow said indulgently after a few minutes of sitting in the smallish pool and letting it soak his skin, cracking his neck loudly on both sides and swishing his arms through the water. Bits of hard, coagulated black blood softened in the water, floating away to dissolve. “I know you like this kind of shit. Some soda. And some castilla.”

“Hate cake,” Ichigo muttered.

“You fucking love cake. Shut the fuck up. Besides which, you’ll eat any kind of human food if I bring it to your ass. It’s some little game and I like playing.”

“Don’t play with me, Grimmjow,” Ichigo warned petulantly. “And I thought Ulquiorra told you to stop bringing things back from the living world for me. He said you’d be ‘punished thoroughly for even dealing in that sort of trash.’ Word for word. I remember this shit.”

“I’ll chew his face off if he tries anything,” Grimmjow said, face breaking into an unstable, self-assured sort of grin.

“They’ll tear off another body part. I remember how that happened to you when you didn't listen.”

“Worth it,” Grimmjow shrugged.

Ichigo squeezed his eyes shut and groaned long and hard.

As much as it felt relaxing to be in the cold water, away from the noises and fuzzy reiatsu of the other Arrancar (including the ones he did not get along with nearly as well as he seemed to do so with Grimmjow), the damp and the chill were irritating the stress injuries in Ichigo’s back and shoulders, sore from a year of carrying Zangetsu's ample weight slung across his still growing form.

He wished he’d been taught how to properly seal the thing, so many years ago. Like it was now whether he wanted it to be or not.

The ripples around them betrayed quick movement at his side, sloshing against Ichigo's abdomen and making small noises as Grimmjow reached behind Ichigo’s broad back, threading his fingers around the other man's stiff neck. Grimmjow started to knead, roughly with his chewed nails but without negative intentions. That part added to Ichigo's stress, the way the touched were becoming more frequent without Ichigo ever really knowing their intent.

Years ago when he'd first turned himself over, Ichigo realized, he’d have been twenty feet or more away by now pointing a sword and bellowing about crazy bastards trying to choke him when he was least expecting it. It would have been true at that point in time.

Anymore he wasn't completely sure if it was.

“Ah,” Ichigo moaned involuntarily. “Grimm. The hell are you doing. Stop.”

The fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they continued to work at Ichigo’s sore muscles even harder, treatment unpracticed but knowledgeable about where to rub, getting the job done efficiently while leaving small white from blunt, digging nails; marks along Ichigo’s skin that slowly turned into tiny upraised red welts.

Grimmjow chuckled, deep and resonant beside Ichigo. “Fuck you. You know it feels damn good.”

“Mmn,” Ichigo agreed without commitment, not wanting the pleasurable pressure to leave, despite the fact that it was clearly coming from someone who was, in a different situation, a mortal enemy to be despised. Someone who had decidedly tried to kill Ichigo on multiple past occasions. Grimmjow coaxed Ichigo with a broad palm to lean forward, cupping the back of Ichigo’s shaggy orange head, getting the hair damp and pressing forward. Ichigo complied, figuring it was a better idea than to hurt his neck even further getting into a game of tug-of-war with a stronger, taller man. Not so much bigger anymore, Ichigo was slowly coming to realize. He probably shouldn't have been.

“God,” Ichigo bit out, mouth hanging open and dark brown eyelashes fluttering shut as Grimmjow moved slowly down his bare back, sliding closer to Ichigo. “Where did someone like your ass learn to do something like this?”

Grimmjow said nothing and simpered, smile crinkling his preternaturally vibrant blue eyes up at the corners, wrinkling those little marks that made Ichigo curious to touch them. Ichigo couldn’t tell if the Arrancar was being serious or just screwing with his mind. He rarely could, not with most of them.

Yammy, perhaps, but he didn’t want to think about Yammy while naked. Ever.

“I guess it's like this,” Grimmjow finally offered, by way of explaining this sudden streak of Ichigo-altruism. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

The voice was liquid and suggestive. Ichigo gazed anywhere but Grimmjow’s toothy, pointed face. His eyes finally focused on the clear water they were immersed in, staring through it and down the planes of Grimmjow's partially-submerged form. His eyes wandered to his left as the fingers still worked at his neck, catching Grimmjow’s own chest and stomach. Pale skin traveled down sharply delineated abdominal muscles, torso long and thin and tapering to a thing and strong waist. Pale genitals were nestled between a thick patch of blue hair that waved a little in the water, same strange color as the stuff on Grimmjow’s head. The hair trailed up his pelvis before disappearing entirely into nothingness. Rather, disappearing into that disturbing hole.

It’s okay, Ichigo’s brain stammered. It’s perfectly natural masculine curiosity about another man's cock. Anyone would be fucking doing it, stranded in the bizarro-desert-world with no sun and no seasons for years at a time, alone and stranded from any thought of Other People. Normal people. C'mon, Ichigo, get over it-- you weren't doing anything weird.

It was just a fucking penis.

But Ichigo kept staring despite his inner monologue, a blush slowly rising on his strong face while Grimmjow worked loose the hidden cramps in his back with burning-hot hands. It wasn’t the penis that really enthralled Ichigo when he continued to think about it. It was the Hollow's hole. The water lapped into it, bringing it into reality for Ichigo in a way that air (which couldn't be seen) didn’t. The water distorted space and vision, making it more three-dimensional. Grimmjow had a giant fuck-off hole for a stomach. In the Hollows, it had never been so disturbing. It was always in the same place, where their chains used to be, and Hollows never looked so convincingly human. This was different, this first time really, really staring at it; Ichigo was nauseated and enthralled by the sight at the same time.

Grimmjow’s heavy voice brushed the shell of Ichigo’s ear. He lipped the words against Ichigo's face through a mouth full of far too many teeth. “Caught you staring.”

“No,” Ichigo said, denying it as he tore his look away and turned his head to face the other man.

“S’okay. Keep doing it. I think I like it.”

Grimmjow moved away from Ichigo, grin morbid while he ran a single long, nimble finger along the edge of the large empty space in the middle of him. Ichigo rubbed a hand across his reddening face, over his sticky eyelids, cooling it with the water. “Grimmjow,” a monotone voice from behind the two demanded. Both he and Ichigo jumped involuntarily, guiltily-- hands caught in the cookie jar.

“You’ve got work to be doing. Make your report. Stop harassing our guest immediately and do as you know you need to be.” Ulquiorra Schiffer observed them both without emotion, face straight as Grimmjow bristled and dragged himself, naked, out of the water. He bent over, ass to the wind and completely unphased except for the irate expression seeping into his features. Grimmjow hated Ulquiorra and had ever since... Well. Ichigo supposed he was at part to blame for all of that, though he had a feeling their 'relationship' was bigger and older than that. Ulquiorra walked past Grimmjow without even a second look as the Arrancar shook a spray of water off violently, like a dog, grabbing his uniform clothes and his sandals from the smooth ground and walking away, cocky even when vulnerable.

Sometimes Ichigo wished he could walk like that.

“Bitch,” Grimmjow breathed under his breath as he tried to dress himself while walking, the smaller Arrancar having walked quickly and gotten a significant distance away.

Ichigo shook his head, resting it in his open palms. What the fuck had he done to himself, that he even had to worry about what he might be caught doing with Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. Why did he deserve it.

When had everything turned so pear-shaped.