Receiving And Bearing

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques crouched in a tall window on the outer curve of one of Las Noches’ white minarets, mile-high tower, staring into the distance at one Kurosaki Ichigo in the manner that a housecat stares out a window at a bird on a bush. Ichigo polished his underused zanpakutou, sitting on a large black rock outcropping out in the desert in the manner of a bird on a bush, being watched by a housecat; completely obliviously.



How did it feel to want something this bad and have someone you hated profusely dangling it just out of reach, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques? It was all he thought of lately, when left alone with his thoughts. It might be unbecoming, mind tearing itself up about nothing of any stronger consequence than getting another person naked and under you, but Grimmjow had no problem with being mentally sixteen for the moment.



Sixteen was a good age to be, mentally.



Grimmjow also didn’t give a shit about what was and was not becoming of a soldier of Aizen Sousuke. He wasn’t no fucking Ulquiorra. He wasn’t some boot-licker.



It was merely a matter of weighing the pros and cons. Pro, get what you want; Con, maybe die trying. Grimmjow did give a shit about himself; therefore, he found the process of his future actions in a sort of mortal quandary (con, maybe die trying). Firstly, what Grimmjow really wanted in this whole fucking situation was sex. He wanted the kind of sex-not-lovemaking that was a dirty, unsatisfyingly satisfying exchange of bodily fluids with no human attachment and absolutely, positively no promises. Fuck ‘em, smoke a cigarette, use the smoldering butt to burn all commitments into ash. Having reached his physical and psychological limit that afternoon in the desert, hardening erection rubbing against Kurosaki Ichigo’s warm little thigh and libido kickstarted by the abrupt and delightful realization that since becoming an Arrancar, Grimmjow had one at all again (an erection to whack off, that was), he chatted-up fairly badly a few easy-looking She-car.



Two said yes—he tried to remember their names; Lori, Menori? Somebody else’s Fr acción and decidedly not his problem the next day if they decided there was going to be one. Who’s were they, again? Who did they belong to? Noitora, Grimmjow was fairly sure. Maybe he would have to be more careful about what he was sticking his antsy dick into—Noitora was weird about that shit. Ah, well.



Grimmjow did them both at the same time, in the same bed (not his own), and they had the best goddamn time of their afterlives, you better fucking believe it.



Sadly, the moment’s indiscretion had helped nothing concerning Kurosaki Ichigo and Grimmjow’s growing attraction. Grimmjow was momentarily sated, but quickly realizing he didn’t want to fuck something into the floor to relieve that tightness in his empty gut.



He wanted to fuck Ichigo.



Grimmjow’d pass by the Vaizard on his chin-held-high, shoulders-thrown-back jaunts down the ponderous building that was Las Noches—moving toward Aizen’s throne room for some form of verbal rebuke or another. Rebuke was Grimmjow’s entire existence in Hueco Mundo anymore, the way they barely let him out (too much of a loose cannon, too much of a risk during a delicate situation—fuck delicacy). Ichigo was treating Grimmjow at once emotionally friendlier and with more physical distance, obviously having caught on to Grimmjow’s rather sordid intentions, possibly because he wanted Ichigo to know about them. Ulquiorra Schiffer must have also noticed.



He watched Grimmjow wherever he went like an emotionally constipated falcon with dolorous green eyes.



The entire situation, including the evil little stares from the more meaningless Arrancar, just made Grimmjow’s metaphorical raging hard-on more even more raging. It was, in Grimmjow’s mind, akin to telling a kid you made some awesome cookies and that he could have them right about when hell freezes over, dinner could get fucked. Of course, Grimmjow could go see Lori and Menori again to solve the immediate problem of his sexual appetite-- they weren’t half-bad in the looks department really --but fucking the same girl twice was almost like dating, and there was no way in hell Grimmjow would date any of these Arrancar bitches.



Grimmjow had serious work to do.



He wasn’t ready to admit to himself in honest terms that he couldn’t get any work done if he spent his entire day stalking Ichigo like some crazed pervert (however close to one he actually was, which was quite close). The red-headed fucker didn’t know what it was like, meeting someone like him in an empty place like this. Ichigo was like a bright little orange and yellow weed-flower in the middle of your perfectly mown lawn. You just had to stamp on it.



Ichigo simply sat around outdoors willing the time to pass, sweating in the night heat and sometimes shivering in the way-the-hell-too-cold, growling to himself in discontent and boredom and a busy paisley pattern of innumerable small guilt.



Grimmjow began to join him, staying nearby and out of sight; an irritated housecat longing for what was on the other side of the glass window.



Ichigo was doing it again today, sitting on his black quartz rock in the sea of shifting white and just sweating everywhere in only his hakama while Grimmjow looked down at him from a shorter, higher distance. It was easy to stay hidden, what with Ichigo’s complete and pathetic lack of reiatsu detection ability.



The jackass sheathed his sword with a phallic swish—he must have been practicing kenjutsu --and slid a grayish metal water bottle, canteen-like, from somewhere in those voluminous hakama. Grimmjow wondering vaguely how he managed not to notice it under the fabric before, focused as he was on the Vaizard’s thin little waist, sweat staining his clothing darker and more translucent in some spots. Raising the scratched and abused metal to his head as the moonlight glinted rather angrily off of the curved surface, Ichigo uncapped the top and upended the clear liquid over his orange hair. It parted the dry, unruly stuff as it ran down his face and neck, mixing with and washing away the dried salt-film. His tongue lolled out like a dog’s. He shook off, carrying the simile another thirty seconds longer.



Grimmjow swore he could smell the man’s dried sweat from his perch.



Ichigo stopped shaking around and simply gave a contented little gasp at the still-pleasant cold. It sounded perversely sexual to the blue-haired Arrancar at the moment, watching as Ichigo dropped the empty-sounding steel bottle. It rolled across the sand, discarded and no longer of much use to anyone. Ichigo leaned back against a small, smooth, vertical stand of rock on the otherwise mostly flat surface, mocking Grimmjow unconsciously with his half-naked wetness.



Titian’s reclining nude in the middle of the sterile and barren midnight wasteland.



A minute and nervous lizard-Hollow scurried across the lava-glass surface of the rock, seeking shelter and comfort from the dry and the heat in a crack, damp from the Vaizard’s display. Ichigo’s adam’s apple bobbed, thick and heavy brown lashes falling across his cheeks as he amused himself with some grotesquely chaste little human daydream or another.



Grimmjow wanted to leap on him like a rapist, flip him over and fuck him rough and fast and good against the smooth rock. He’d imagined it before, actually taking Ichigo without permission and hard and making every bit of dread he let Ulquiorra fill his shriveled and shattered little Hollow-heart with Count For Something. He could die smiling, if he could just force himself to have his own filthy way with Kurosaki Ichigo and ruin everyone’s hard fucking blah-dee-blah plans.



Ulquiorra’d slit him and never think twice. Aizen would find a way to bring his ass back just so Ulquiorra could do it again.



But it’d be all the fuck worth it in the end, Grimmjow thought, if he got what he really wanted, right here and now. Kurosaki Ichigo was and would always be Grimmjow’s prey, no matter what. The circumstances and the urges had changed, but a hunter’s instinct remained. Ulquiorra could fucking watch them do it in the middle of the open desert, for all Grimmjow cared. He hoped Ulquiorra did, stoic and conceited bastard. He might actually make a face for once, staring at Grimmjow as his strong cock slid in and out of Ichigo’s pink and plump little Very Nice Boy ass, pressed against the ground and unprotected from the elements as the sand ground into his knees and palms, naked under Grimmjow’s twitching, straining muscles. Grimmjow had always been an exhibitionist anyway and Ulquiorra—he had a feeling the other Arrancar was a voyeur. Ichigo, well, in Grimmjow’s imagination what Ichigo felt about the situation meant little to nothing.



It would be animal sex like grinding pestle and mortar.



Grimmjow smiled the smile of a death-row terrorist, slipping from the window he had found as a suitable perch and walking slowly across the glittering desert toward the object of his very base desires, not affections—obsessions maybe. Grimmjow was going to ride red. Ride him ‘til he let Grimmjow ride him because he wanted to feel it more, and if he didn’t give in soon he’d never feel it again.



Grimmjow might as well fuck Ulquiorra, too; fuck him in a different way. Fuck the plan and fuck the system and fuck Aizen and fuck waiting for the appropriate time to take whatever he wanted. Ichigo was still his prey.



If time was all Grimmjow had on his side, he was going to coat time in sweet-cream butter and let it melt fast on his hot tongue.