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“Stop groping my pulse. If you’re hungry, just eat.”
Grimmjow’s sleepy, extremely grumpy voice tears through the dreamy half-doze Ichigo was starting to sink into. The words themselves take a moment to coalesce into something meaningful.
When they do, Ichigo regrets everything.
“I’m not hungry,” he says into Grimmjow’s hair. “And I am not…”
Grimmjow shifts, and some of the shorter strands of his hair, slightly damp from his nightly shower and mussed to hell from Ichigo’s complete inability to resist a wet, half-naked Grimmjow, slide boldly into his nose.
He pulls back, sneezing violently, and almost misses what Grimmjow says.
“…just molesting my throat for fun? Pervert.”
“What the—I’m innocently cuddling you, not molesting your throat, and will you stop phrasing it like that, you degenerate asshole?” For good measure, Ichigo pulls back the hand that was spread loosely over the base of Grimmjow’s throat. And sure, his thumb was on the pulse, stroking idly, but he wasn’t groping anything.
“Why? It’s accurate.” Grimmjow, like the pissy cat he is, refuses to concede. “You never touch my dick like that.”
“For fuck’s sake, Grimmjow, if I went for your dick the way I do for your throat, you’d have bigger problems.”
“Promises,” the crazy bastard purrs.
Ichigo bites his shoulder, teeth human-blunt, in retaliation. All that gets him is a bark of laughter and Grimmjow squirming in his arms in that way he’s got, where there’s a lot of violent, writhing movement but absolutely no space put between their bodies. If anything, they’re pressed even closer by the time Grimmjow stills, a solid line of corpse-cold flesh and blood-hot warmth from shoulders to toes. Ichigo clings to it, greedy and shameless. He kisses the spot he bit too, and what’s left of the blood he drank in the morning rushes absurdly to his cheeks.
Grimmjow’s quiet for long enough that Ichigo thinks he’s fallen asleep. He keeps his hand carefully away from his throat anyway, instead splaying it over where his heart beats strong and steady; it’s a little faster than a human’s, which used to be unsettling, but now Ichigo finds it hard to sleep without that sound thrumming in his ears.
He’s not prepared for Grimmjow to turn around in a sudden, fluid motion that’s over as soon as it begins, leaving Ichigo to blink at sky-shine eyes that are far too close.
“Um,” he says intelligently before leaning back a bit. The rest of Grimmjow’s unfairly handsome features come into sharp focus.
“You ever wanted to?” Grimmjow asks, sounding far too awake for someone who was on the verge of sleep five minutes ago.
“Huh? Want what?”
“Drink my blood when we fuck,” Grimmjow says plainly, eyes gaining an evil little glint when Ichigo sputters in response. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”
“Of course I haven’t! That’s—what the hell, Grimmjow, no.”
Amusement gives way to what looks like genuine confusion. “Seriously? All these months and not even once?”
“No!”
“Well, why not?”
“Why would I? It’s weird. You wouldn’t fuck your lasagna, would you?”
“Well, if the lasagna’s real fucking sexy and into vore—”
“Grimmjow!”
Grimmjow cackles while Ichigo tries and fails to scrub that mental image from his head.
“You’re already fucking me, dipshit,” Grimmjow says, still grinning that wide, demented grin. “And even humans work food into sex all the damn time. How’s this different?”
“It just is,” Ichigo says stubbornly, hoping to all gods that Grimmjow won’t press because he’s got no explanation beyond a general sense of confused disgust. Or not disgust. He’s…not really sure.
Grimmjow hums consideringly but doesn’t say anything.
Ichigo waits with bated breath. In his head, there’s a neat separation between Grimmjow-his-lover and Grimmjow-his-sole-food-source. Keeping that line solid seems smart. Healthy. They’ve got a whole routine going; Grimmjow wakes, eats his meat-heavy werepanther-specific breakfast, and opens a vein for Ichigo, and then they both go about their day like usual. Or, well, Ichigo holes up in his study with blackout curtains to do his translation work, while Grimmjow actually goes out to Urahara’s shop to run shady errands or play bodyguard to those hybrid kids or be a reluctant test subject—it varies.
Point is, it’s comfortable. It’s the most normal Ichigo’s life has been since he was turned, so much so that he still wakes up some days expecting it all to have been a fever dream.
Don’t fix what’s not broken, right?
“Stop it,” Grimmjow says, and Ichigo jolts a little. “I can hear you overthinking this shit, and it’s irritating. Go the fuck to sleep.”
“You started it,” Ichigo says petulantly.
“And I’m ending it. Sleep.”
Ichigo grumbles on principle but wriggles down, shoving his face into Grimmjow’s chest with vengeance. There’s a soft huff of breath from above him, and Grimmjow shudders all over, but his arms are quick to wrap around Ichigo, warm and crushing. He can’t breathe like this, but he doesn’t need to.
Grimmjow’s heart beats under his mouth, a violent lullaby.
-
In hindsight, he should’ve been suspicious of Grimmjow just letting it go. Grimmjow never lets anything go.
It’s their worst shared personality trait.
Of course, when Ichigo wakes panting in the middle of the night with a familiar weight on his legs and scorching heat around his cock, he’s not thinking of a conversation three days old.
He’s not thinking at all. Feel is all he can do, and it’s several long seconds before the sheer assault of sensation gentles into something he can really process. His hand’s buried in a soft cloud of hair, pressing down with enough force to crack a weaker man’s skull.
Grimmjow’s not bothered. He’s a hunched shape between Ichigo’s legs, sucking his dick like he can coax it to life with pure willpower.
He can’t. Ichigo takes just enough from Grimmjow to last him till morning. By the middle of the night, he’s more or less a half-starved husk, and whatever blood is there in his body sure as shit isn’t enough to get his cock to work.
And Grimmjow knows this.
But god, his mouth—
“What are you doing?” Ichigo gasps, his free hand joining the other in Grimmjow’s hair in a vain attempt to pry him off his dick. Grimmjow’s stubborn, and Ichigo can’t bring himself to try too hard. “Grimm—Grimmjow, it won’t work, I don’t—”
A throaty hum answers him; it trembles up his cock, digs into his gut, and Ichigo grinds up into that filthy dream of a mouth. Grimmjow’s nose is buried in the thatch of hair at the base; he’s got Ichigo’s whole limp cock in his mouth like it’s nothing. It is nothing. Ichigo wants to fill up just to give the bastard something to choke on.
He settles for digging his nails meanly into Grimmjow’s scalp, but the damned masochist just moans, low and theatrical, and sucks with renewed vigor. The searing warmth of his mouth seeps into Ichigo’s flesh. His whole body locks up around a shuddering wave of sheer want.
He throws a leg over Grimmjow’s shoulder, plants the other one on the mattress, and bucks up. Grimmjow breath comes fast and ragged, huffs of heat on Ichigo’s groin, but it doesn’t matter how desperately he writhes or how sweetly Grimmjow sucks. Without blood, Ichigo’s body is just a pale approximation of life.
But that doesn’t kill the shuddering, clawing ache in his gut.
And Grimmjow, the utter asshole, is actively making it worse. He grabs Ichigo’s balls, rolling them in his palm on the edge of too hard, and as if that’s not torture enough, he sucks them down too, mouth closing warm and wet around all of Ichigo.
It’s new and shockingly hot.
“Grimmjow,” Ichigo gasps, intended admonishment twisting into something thin and high and needy.
Fuck, if he could just—all he needs is—
Grimmjow finally backs off, slowly letting Ichigo slip out of his mouth. Long, languid strokes of his tongue follow, each one making Ichigo shudder from head to toe, and some remnant of self-preservation has him finally pulling the asshole away from his crotch and hauling him up. Grimmjow comes easily enough. It’s dark, but Ichigo can see him clear as day; his eyes are dark with lust, and his grin gleams with a predator’s teeth.
When Ichigo curls a hand around his throat, Grimmjow laughs like a mad thing.
Ichigo bolts upright and bites the laughter from his mouth, pushing his tongue between eagerly parted lips to scorch it clean from the inside. Grimmjow settles in his lap, arms and legs wrapping around Ichigo like a bear trap.
“You’re fucking insane,” Ichigo hisses, breaking the kiss. “What the fuck, Gri—”
“Hey, hey,” Grimmjow cuts in, still grinning that wild grin, “your eyes have changed. Freaky vampire yellow. Tell me what you want more—eat me or fuck me?”
“I—what?”
“Or both?” Grimmjow damn near purrs, innocent and intent at the same time, and realization slams into Ichigo like a stake to the heart.
“You demented asshole, you couldn’t have just asked?”
“I did,” Grimmjow says, unrepentant. “Sounded like you needed some incentive. And you know me, I’m generous.”
“You’re a menace,” Ichigo corrects tightly. His hand spasms around Grimmjow’s neck, but the bastard just pushes into it, lashes fluttering. “I should throw you out the window and go find some nice, normal human to feed on.”
Grimmjow laughs; there’s not an ounce of sanity in that sound. “You put your teeth on someone else, you’re signing their death warrant. I’ll rip ‘em apart, limb by limb, and eat the pieces in front of you. And you’re too nice for that, aren’t you, Ichigo? My big, soft-hearted fuck of a vampire.”
Grimmjow barely grunts when Ichigo slams him down on the mattress. He’s radiating lust—scent heavy, body flushed, eyes dark. He looks more than a little mad.
Ichigo shifts his grip from Grimmjow’s throat to his jaw, squeezing hard enough to bruise as he yanks his head up. Grimmjow doesn’t resist, baring his throat with a groan. His pulse is racing; Ichigo can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue.
Sometimes, he wants to tear this man to pieces. He did try when they first met. Grimmjow returned the favor tenfold.
Sometimes, he thinks that was ten thousand times simpler than the life they’ve found themselves in now.
“Come on,” Grimmjow mutters, and Ichigo tears his eyes away from his throat to look him in the eye; they’re luminous in the dark, inhuman. “Take your fill. I’m offering a seven-course feast here, sweetheart.”
Grimmjow’s voice drops to a low, mocking purr on sweetheart. Ichigo digs his fingers into the hollow of his cheeks, and Grimmjow pushes his lips into an exaggerated pout.
It feels like they stay like that for an eternity, a ridiculous tableau of flesh and fury, though it can’t be more than a few seconds in reality. Ichigo gut twists itself into knots with the dual urges to feed and fuck.
Grimmjow’s eyes say he thinks he’s already won. When Ichigo starts lowering his head, they flare even brighter in triumph.
Ichigo lets go of his rough grip on Grimmjow’s jaw to cup his face instead, tilting it into a kiss. That infuriating pout dissolves under his mouth, and Grimmjow nips at his lips, almost playful. He grins into Ichigo’s mouth and shoves his tongue into it; Ichigo bites the tip of it, muffled laughter trembling between their lips. Grimmjow’s never gracious in victory, just smug, and Ichigo’s constantly judging himself for how even that goes right to his dick.
He drags his mouth along Grimmjow’s jaw and down his neck. That earns him a shuddering breath and an eager arch of throat. Grimmjow’s pulse is strong and eager, and it doesn’t matter how many mornings Ichigo has spent with that blood in his mouth, his veins—he’s always greedy for another taste.
It damn near kills him to suck a bruise over that racing pulse without plunging his fangs deep. And it kills him thrice over to do it again and again and again, but by the time he makes it to the sharp jut of Grimmjow’s collarbones, the burning in his belly has settled into a slow, sweet simmer.
Grimmjow’s quick to catch on.
“Ichigo,” he says, disbelieving, “are you fucking kidding me?”
He raises his head just enough to meet Grimmjow’s incredulous glare before putting his mouth back to work, teeth worrying pale patches of skin till they’re pretty pinks and reds. They’ll fade within the hour, sure, but Ichigo’s grown to find a strange sort of charm even in that. He wants to see them better though. Ichigo’s made for the night, and his vision is sharp and clear, but the darkness washes out the colors.
Mouthing idly at Grimmjow’s shoulders, he fumbles at the nightstand till he finds the switch. The bedside lamp blooms to life, its light a warm, suffusive yellow. Grimmjow makes a soft, displeased noise and starts shoving at Ichigo’s shoulder.
Ichigo rises willingly enough, but he doesn’t let Grimmjow follow him up to start what’s definitely going to be a playfight with teeth.
“Stay,” he murmurs, throat flooding with a power that has no taste but clings to his flesh like oil.
Under him, Grimmjow slams back into the mattress and goes eerily still.
A low, reverberating growl cuts through the ensuing silence.
“Motherfucker, I hate that,” Grimmjow snarls.
Ichigo slides a hand down the length of Grimmjow’s torso, lingering on the taut planes of his stomach before drifting further down. He’s fully naked, and his cock’s a line of scorching heat against Ichigo’s cooler flesh. It’s hard too, the head wet with precome.
“Sure you do,” Ichigo says.
It’s probably not even a lie. Grimmjow’s wired in…interesting ways. Ichigo knows for a fact that his reaction to his teeth is more visceral than a human’s, animal instincts mixed in with the drive to survive, but that doesn’t stop Grimmjow from baring his throat over and over or, apparently, getting off on it.
How the fuck did Ichigo miss that all these months?
“Stay,” he says again, voice free of compulsion but the threat of it tucked behind his teeth, and Grimmjow squirms and snarls, but that doesn’t quite hide how his breath hitches and his scent sharpens each time Ichigo’s teeth touch his flesh, fangs fully sheathed. Blood rushes to the skin under his mouth, painting Grimmjow’s skin in bright blotches. His throat’s a latticework of bruises, and his chest’s flushed pink.
Ichigo flicks a pebbled nipple, and Grimmjow swats at him.
“Behave,” he says.
“Fuck you,” Grimmjow growls.
“Eventually,” Ichigo promises. “If you behave.”
“Make me,” is the answer, which is as predictable as the violent surge of the body under him, and it sure is a night for giving Grimmjow exactly what he wants, isn’t it?
“Be still,” Ichigo says, voice two-toned and drenched in power, and Grimmjow’s body locks up; his torso stills mid-lunge, and he drops like a stone.
“Bastard,” he grits out.
Ichigo smiles, says, “Spread your legs.”
Grimmjow’s muscles spasm almost violently. His eyes promise murder. But his legs spread, sweet and sure, and Ichigo settles primly between them.
“Fight me properly, you coward.”
“Fight isn’t on the menu,” Ichigo tells him. “Fuck and feed—your own terms, Grimmjow.”
A low, furious growl makes Grimmjow’s whole body quiver. His eyes are blazing, and his hands are white-knuckled in the sheets. Looking at him, you’d think he wants to be anywhere but here.
Ichigo knows better. Even human-shaped, Grimmjow’s two minds in one body, his pretty head housing a fury of fur and teeth and claws, and he’s strong-willed to a fault on top of that. Ichigo can compel him all he likes, but it won’t catch—not unless Grimmjow wants it, at least a little. Their first fight would have gone very differently otherwise.
So he doesn’t feel even a little guilty about just hovering on top of Grimmjow and looking, drinking in the wild mess of his hair, more green than blue in this light, and the wild gleam of his eyes. Tension has carved his muscles into marble lines, but the bruises Ichigo sucked into his flesh tell a different tale. He presses his thumb into one, and Grimmjow jolts under him.
“What did you think I’d do, really?” Ichigo asks, half out of genuine curiosity and half because Grimmjow makes the best expressions when he’s pissed off. “Lose control and throw you down and ravish you, vampire style?”
Grimmjow bares his teeth. “Suck my dick.”
Ichigo bares his teeth right back, letting his canines lengthen and sharpen. “As you wish.”
Grimmjow keeps glaring, but he swallows too, throat working thickly. His cock’s the most honest thing between them. Looking at it makes Ichigo ache too, a pulsing, impotent want. Grimmjow wasn’t wrong, really. Ichigo has decent control for a young vampire, but he’s not a saint. And he remembers very well his thoughts about neat, proper lines, but again—not a saint.
So, no, Grimmjow wasn’t wrong, but he is an asshole, and Ichigo learned very fast how to match him stroke for stroke.
He dips his head and tongues the last bruise he left; Grimmjow shudders soundlessly under his mouth. And he writhes and curses all through Ichigo sucking a trail of bruises down his stomach, but he doesn’t try to bully Ichigo into dancing to his tune, so either the compulsion’s lingering or Grimmjow’s too distracted to be a brat.
He does yell when Ichigo deliberately skirts around his dick to mouth at a hip instead, and then there are fingers in his hair, trying to steer his head to the right. Ichigo pinches the soft inside of a thigh in admonishment, and Grimmjow yanks hard enough to tear a few hairs out by the root.
“Didn’t I tell you to behave?” Ichigo sighs, raising his head to admire the darkening pink along the curve of Grimmjow’s iliac crest. He’s tempted to get the other side too, if only to frame the sorely neglected length of Grimmjow’s flushed, damp cock, but—
Grimmjow makes a spirited attempt to knee him in the groin, but the angle’s wrong, and Ichigo catches his leg before he can fold it up, gripping the underside of the knee and pushing it up. All he has to do is turn his head to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of a thick thigh, careful not to break skin.
“Fuck.” Grimmjow sounds a little wrecked.
Ichigo looks at his face without letting go of his mouthful. Grimmjow’s staring at his mouth, the lines of his face twisted into furious want. Ichigo opens his mouth a little wider, wills his fangs to show again, and Grimmjow’s hips buck up, his thigh pressing harder to Ichigo’s mouth, and it takes every ounce of control he has to retract his fangs before they piece that warm, willing flesh.
“You goddamn tease,” Grimmjow snarls.
“Hypocrite,” Ichigo murmurs into his thigh, nipping at the bruise before moving to a fresh patch of skin.
It’s strangely soothing to lose himself there, buried between Grimmjow’s thighs. The thirst scorching his throat takes a backseat to the warm flesh under his mouth and the soft sounds trembling above him. Grimmjow claws at his hair and shoulders, but they’re half-hearted efforts. Ichigo doesn’t think Grimmjow himself knows whether he wants to pull Ichigo’s mouth to his cock or a vein. Ichigo doesn’t either, really. He’s hungry, and thwarted want is still knotted in his gut, but Grimmjow’s pleasure is as compelling as his blood, and well, Ichigo never claimed to not be a competitive asshole.
Grimmjow wants to make him lose control. Ichigo’s got better plans, and the more time he spends marking up all this pretty flesh, the more solid they become.
Both of Grimmjow’s thighs are more bruise than skin by the time Ichigo lets up. He runs his palms over his work, proud and hungry. The skin there is radiating blood-hot heat, and the muscles tense tellingly at Ichigo’s touch.
Grimmjow’s breathing hard, mouth pressed stubbornly shut but nostrils flaring with each shuddering inhale. His glare’s lost none of its potency, but the blown pupils suck in all light; Ichigo wants to crawl into them too, curling and coiling along Grimmjow’s insides.
Instead, he contents himself with lowering his mouth till it’s hovering over Grimmjow’s cock. He doesn’t look conflicted anymore, just hungry, and the strain in the hips Ichigo is holding down says he’d be chasing his mouth if he could move.
“I should leave you like this,” Ichigo says, still holding Grimmjow’s stare. “Would serve you right.”
Grimmjow’s mouth curves into a mean little smile that’s more compelling than it has any right to be. “You won’t.”
“Well, I’m nicer than you.”
“And that right there’s your damage.”
Grimmjow sounds so despairingly sincere about it that Ichigo laughs. Grimmjow twists under him, trying to fuck up, his considerable strength brought to bear against Ichigo’s own, but the funny thing about a starving vampire is that the hunger only makes them stronger. He carves fresh bruises into Grimmjow’s hips without even trying, but the stubborn bastard doesn’t stop, not until Ichigo gives in and closes his mouth around that weeping cockhead.
A hand fists in his hair, pushing down, and this time, Ichigo doesn’t resist, letting Grimmjow slide over his tongue and into his throat. It doesn’t ease the gnawing hunger lashing at his veins, but the hard heat in his mouth fills him with a different kind of satisfaction. His canines still ache, the gums pulsing in warning.
Ichigo pulls back in a rush, groaning low in his throat.
Grimmjow’s grip tightens in his hair.
“Ichigo,” he growls.
Working his jaw as if that will help rein in the impulse, Ichigo asks, “What, do you want me to bite your dick?”
Grimmjow’s silent for a second too long. His expression is…complicated. There’s the expected horror. It’s threaded through with something else though. Ichigo can’t quite place it. Fascination?
The overall effect is one of distinct arousal.
Ichigo blinks at him. “Huh. Really?”
Grimmjow’s ears turn a violent red. “Shut up!”
Ichigo shuts up, sort of. He kisses the base of Grimmjow’s cock, lips curled carefully over unsheathed fangs, and then, ever so gently, he presses the tip of a canine to the hard flesh. It’s barely a touch—a ghost of pressure.
Grimmjow goes so still that the air seems to freeze with him.
Ichigo can hear his heart pound. His own mouth’s watering, the thirst burning hotter, sharper.
He turns, mindful of his teeth, to look at Grimmjow and finds him with wide eyes and parted lips, like he’s about to say something—call Ichigo some choice names, maybe—any second. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t even breathe, and when Ichigo does it again, touching his fangs to a point closer to the head, Grimmjow snaps his mouth shut around a moan that still trembles in the air.
Well then.
How tacky would it be to propose in the middle of a very weird blowjob?
Ichigo’s distracted from that mind-blowing stray thought by Grimmjow’s fingers in his hair, tightening convulsively; he doesn’t pull or try to direct Ichigo in any way. If Ichigo had known that this is all it takes to get Grimmjow to be less of a bossy little shit…well, he’d have done nothing because he likes his head attached to the rest of him. He also likes Grimmjow being a bossy little shit, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Ichigo,” Grimmjow says, a breathy rasp of his name, and Ichigo knows, without looking, what he wants.
He gently, so gently, drags his teeth up the length of Grimmjow’s cock, and Grimmjow’s thighs turn to stone on either side of him. Ichigo pulls back, just a little, just to be sure.
Grimmjow’s flushed and dripping. It’s a pretty sight. Ichigo pulls the foreskin back those last few centimeters and runs his thumb over the exposed head. He sucks the fluid off, smiling around the bland, briny taste when Grimmjow gasps his name like a curse.
This time, he’s not so gentle.
Twin lines of paper-thin crimson follow the trail of his teeth, and Grimmjow whines, soft and strangled.
And Ichigo licks it off, his throat convulsing painfully around the watery blood, more spit than substance, and sucks, tucking his teeth away while fighting every screaming instinct, and it’s worth it—Grimmjow’s cock twitching under his mouth, his hands clawing at his scalp, his howl rending the air.
Come splatters on his neck and drips down to his chest, hot and messy. Ichigo takes the head in his mouth, suckling Grimmjow through the last shuddering pulse of it, and he doesn’t pull back even when it softens, sucking it deeper until they’re a mirror from before, when the night began. He can understand, all ulterior motives aside, why Grimmjow might have liked it. It’s nice to have him like this, all that warmth, all that life, trapped in Ichigo’s mouth.
“Ichi—Ichigo,” Grimmjow whimpers, softer and weaker than he’d ever let his voice be in his right mind.
Ichigo gently untangles the fingers still gripping his hair, taking them between his own as he sits upright. Grimmjow’s hand is limp in his, and so’s the rest of him, slumped on the mattress in that boneless, utterly fucked-out way. The only parts moving are his chest, heaving with every breath, and his mouth, sucking in desperate gulps of air. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, but Ichigo’s never seen Grimmjow reduced to this before at least a few rounds of semi-violent sex, usually preceded by a bout of no-holds-barred sparring.
He tongues his canines thoughtfully.
Maybe some lines should be crossed and possibly blacked out of existence.
He shamelessly takes advantage of Grimmjow’s post-orgasmic bliss to gather him into his lap. It’s not a graceful affair, what with Grimmjow’s bulk and insanely long limbs, but the man’s uncharacteristically mellow and cuddly to boot, wrapping himself around Ichigo with a smile that’s worlds away from the filthy grin he wore the last time they were in this position.
Ichigo finds himself pulled into a sweet, sloppy kiss that sends butterflies down his throat to nest in his belly. Grimmjow’s hands are large and warm on either side of his face, swallowing him up.
And then one of them slides down, patting clumsily at Ichigo’s stomach and thighs till it curls around his very soft cock.
Grimmjow makes a displeased noise into his mouth.
Ichigo breaks the kiss to say, “Three whole drops of blood won’t be enough for that, you know.”
“Shoulda’ taken more then,” Grimmjow says, his voice a delightful wreck.
“Not from your dick,” Ichigo protests, with a bark of laughter that’s swallowed up by a hot, hungry mouth. It’s a struggle to pull back enough to say, “I’d have done it earlier if I knew you’d like it so much.”
He’s not sure if he’s talking about the dick thing specifically or this whole hot mess. Doesn’t matter, really. True either way. Grimmjow does have a proven history of being very bad for Ichigo’s common sense and impulse control.
Grimmjow’s response is a growl. It’s weak, holding more pleasure than anger. Ichigo resolves then and there to make him fucking purr before the night’s out.
He kisses him again, quick and hard, and when Grimmjow tries to chase his mouth, Ichigo feeds him three fingers, shoving past lips that part wider on unthinking instinct. Grimmjow’s lips flinch around the intrusion as if startled.
“Mmmph?” he asks through his mouthful.
“Suck,” Ichigo says. “I’m giving you what you want.”
Then he bites Grimmjow’s throat.
He doesn’t break skin. His fangs, even sheathed, are an endless, pulsing ache, unhappy about the constant flex. No part of him is happy about this continuous exercise is masochism. Neither’s Grimmjow, judging by the low, unhappy sound that trembles in his throat, but his mouth closes hot around Ichigo’s fingers, a slick tongue winding between them to wet them.
Soon, Ichigo promises his own thirst and Grimmjow’s very different kind of thirst.
Sucking fresh bruises into Grimmjow’s throat is a very effective distraction. The ones from before are gone already, even the worst of them now a faded yellow that looks sickly in the nightlamp’s light. Grimmjow makes the most interesting noises when Ichigo sets his teeth to those remnants, coaxing them to bloom red and purple again.
Grimmjow briefly closes his teeth around Ichigo’s knuckles when he tries to pull his fingers out, but a nip to his pulse distracts him enough. The rest of it’s easier; Grimmjow’s all too willing to rise up to his knees and arch his back, pushing his ass out. Ichigo palms the fleshy curve of one, sneaking in an appreciative squeeze while working his fingers inside. He’s loose enough, muscles still melted from the orgasm and likely that split-second shot of Ichigo’s relaxant venom. There’s still friction, two fingers at once a tight fit with just spit to ease the way, but Ichigo knows this man—knows that particular clench of muscles and that sharp intake of breath.
The third finger pulls an audible whine out of Grimmjow. His fingers clench and unclench on Ichigo’s shoulders. And his eyes are more pupil than iris, and Ichigo has to tear his gaze away before he falls into a well he can’t climb out of.
“You sure?” Ichigo asks, just to be sure, lips at Grimmjow’s ear. He’s watching the slope of Grimmjow’s back and the curve of his ass, throat parched for whole new reasons at the sight of his hand working between them.
“Just fucking bite,” Grimmjow rasps. “I ain’t gonna beg.”
“Yet,” Ichigo says.
Grimmjow grabs him by the hair and shoves his face down.
Blood screams under his mouth, kept from his aching throat by only a thin layer of skin. Ichigo’s fangs cut his own lip on their way to Grimmjow’s flesh; it parts for his teeth in a silken slide.
In that searing instant, after his teeth have sunk to the root into heated flesh but before the blood wells up to ease his thirst with borrowed life, Ichigo is aware of Grimmjow’s hole clenching tight around his fingers, a violent vice grip, and then his teeth slide out and lifeblood wets his tongue, and all that’s left is the hunger.
Grimmjow’s burning and bursting with life, blood rich with a dark, writhing power that seeps into Ichigo’s cells, filling him with shuddering vitality. The first time he bit Grimmjow, he knew he couldn’t go back to eating just humans, and even now, months after that first wet shock, he’s still left scorched and gutted by the first explosive taste of Grimmjow’s blood.
Then the shock blends with the thirst, and Ichigo’s setting teeth and tongue to the weeping wounds. He sucks, hard and greedy, and the throat under his mouth quivers without sound. Vital warmth soothes his throat and belly, spreading all through his body in sharp, sweet fissures of heat.
He doesn’t stop of his own volition; Grimmjow’s body does that for him, the way it always does, the punctures closing under Ichigo’s tongue. He whines and coaxes out a few more drops before the flesh seals itself.
He could bite again, and Grimmjow would probably let him, but he’s so used to using Grimmjow’s natural healing as a signal to stop eating. Plus, with the thirst eased, Ichigo’s body’s quick to remind him of a different hunger.
He lingers, though, nuzzling Grimmjow’s throat as if the bites will spontaneously reopen if Ichigo woos them enough. They don’t, but they do draw his attention to the lessened temperature disparity between their bodies. Grimmjow will always run hotter, therianthropes’ body temperature higher than even humans’, so his skin is still warm everywhere it’s pressed to Ichigo, but it’s not scorching anymore.
The inside of Ichigo’s mouth is hotter than the rest of him, the heat of Grimmjow’s blood clinging to his teeth and tongue.
He tears himself away from Grimmjow’s throat with every intention of pressing his bloody mouth to Grimmjow’s, a filthy little thank you, but one look at the happy, half-melted man in his lap has him freezing.
Half-closed eyes peer hazily at him, the heavy lids not entirely hiding the slit pupils. The rest of Grimmjow is even less subtle. Neon-green curves sweep out from under his eyes, darkening to a deeper, warmer green close to the ears, which are dark and furred. More fur lines his chest and sheathes his arm to the elbow. And the hands on Ichigo’s shoulder have claws now, their sharp tips on the verge of breaking skin. He’d bet his soul, if he’s got one left, that Grimmjow’s calves and feet are in a similar state.
Something lashes at Ichigo’s thigh.
Without really moving the fingers buried knuckle-deep in Grimmjow, Ichigo feels around with his thumb.
Yep, that’s a tail.
He strokes the base of it. Grimmjow shudders and tightens around Ichigo’s fingers. His eyes open too, still cloudy from the effects of Ichigo’s bite, but Grimmjow doesn’t need to be coherent for Ichigo to understand the demanding twist of his body. He starts pumping his fingers, using his free hand to hold Grimmjow’s lashing tail out of the way. It winds around his forearm, soft fur over a strong cord of muscle, and Ichigo probably shouldn’t examine the swooping thrill in his gut too closely.
Grimmjow leans in then, and the tongue that laps at Ichigo’s bloody lips is raspy in a distinctly non-human way. It moves differently too, little kitten licks that are a far cry from the biting aggression Grimmjow puts into kissing when he’s turned on. He nudges almost sweetly at Ichigo’s mouth when he’s done cleaning up the blood, and Ichigo opens up with a helpless little whine, heat flooding his body when Grimmjow’s rough tongue slides along his.
His cock reminds him, violently, that it’s very, very alive right now.
But unlike the bite fuckery and the dick-biting fuckery, this isn’t really new. Grimmjow pulls off partial shifts all the time. Claws and a mouth full of fangs, mostly, for an extra edge when they’re fighting—as if he’s not enough of a menace perfectly human-shaped. Some mornings, when he didn’t sleep so well but still insists on letting Ichigo feed on him, there are small changes, like a glint to his eyes or teeth sharper than usual. He’s sprouted the tail and fur on his limbs before in bed, ripples of fur and flesh that were eaten by his skin almost as soon as they broke out, Grimmjow wresting back control of his body with a fury that never failed to drive Ichigo out of his goddamn mind.
None of it’s new, alone, but all of it together, and Grimmjow not caring, comfortable in his half-shifted skin as he writhes on Ichigo’s fingers and tries to crawl into his mouth—that’s new. And it sure is awakening something in Ichigo.
He tries, a little desperate to distract himself from Grimmjow’s raspy tongue on his jaw and his tail convulsing around his forearm, to think about the why.
Not really rocket science. The teeth and fingers, feeding and fucking—exactly what Grimmjow asked for and then some.
Like his body took a screenshot, comes the unbidden, unwanted thought, and Ichigo damn neat bites off his tongue trying to hold back what’s sure to be hysterical laughter.
It doesn’t really work.
And Grimmjow might be mellow and on the affectionate end of the feline spectrum right now, but he could be dead and not miss Ichigo losing his shit so epically.
“What?” Grimmjow asks, grumpy but not suspicious, not yet, but he’s raising his head, those lazy lids lifting to reveal his shifted eyes in all their piercing glory, and Ichigo makes a harsh jab at his prostate in self-defense.
Grimmjow jolts, all of him tightening around Ichigo, ass and tail and—ow, claws.
“Fuck,” Grimmjow gasps, shuddering into motion. He rides Ichigo’s fingers with rough, unthinking want, at first, but Ichigo can see his eyes clear, cat-like pupils dilating and contracting as Grimmjow shakes off the last of the venom’s effects.
And he can pinpoint the exact moment Grimmjow registers the state he’s in.
“Don’t!” Ichigo blurts out.
Grimmjow’s nascent snarl shifts into a confused pout that Ichigo wants to kiss off his lips. “What?”
The borrowed blood rushes to Ichigo’s face, which is a waste, really, but he’s committed now. He’s no coward.
It still takes him a moment to get his tongue to work. Grimmjow’s expression darkens more with each passing second, bemusement warring with blatant suspicion.
“Don’t shift back,” Ichigo mutters, looking down, which incidentally means he’s staring at the smattering of fur on Grimmjow’s chest. God, it looks so soft. “You’re—um, you’re good like this.”
What the fuck, Ichigo asks himself, are you saying?
Grimmjow is unsettlingly quiet. He’s tight around Ichigo’s fingers but still now. Ichigo briefly considers just fingering him till he forgets this whole thing, but he knows, even before he drags his eyes resignedly back to Grimmjow’s face, that there’s no point. That pretty bed of baby-blue hair hides a mind like a steel trap.
Sure enough, Grimmjow’s grinning with a distinctly evil edge.
“You like this, huh,” he croons. A tone so soft should not sound so fucking ominous. “You little furry freak. And you had the nerve to judge me for wanting a bit of teeth with my dick.”
“I wasn’t judging,” Ichigo protests, gamely ignoring the rest of that sentence and the accompanying bite in his gut.
“You were totally judging,” Grimmjow says with that mean little grin, but he keeps his wild eyes and fuzzy ears and the fucking tail, and sweet fucking shit, Ichigo needs to be inside of him yesterday.
Grimmjow seems to be thinking along the same lines. He drags his body up Ichigo’s fingers, grunting when they slide past the rim, and he’s quick to position himself, one carefully clawless hand reaching down to hold Ichigo’s cock in place.
And Ichigo, dazed from all that heat poised above his dick, almost doesn’t stop him on time.
“Wait,” he yelps, clamping his hands down on Grimmjow’s hips, arresting his movement. “Grimmjow, lube.”
Grimmjow’s mouth twists into a moue of distaste. “Too far. Just here, gimme—”
They did migrate to the bottom half of the bed, but the nightstand is within crawling distance. Before Ichigo can even make an attempt, his hand’s seized by a pair of demanding claws and brought to the wet, raspy tongue that’s going to haunt his wet dreams till the end of time.
He freezes. His cock’s gearing up for a riot down there.
Grimmjow, the filthy bastard, just licks wide, wet stripes up Ichigo’s palm, and it should be gross, Ichigo’s life would be so much easier if it was just gross, but instead, he feels every rough stroke of that tongue inside his fucking dick.
And when Grimmjow, with a pleased little huff at his work, shoves that hand down, Ichigo wraps it around his cock and slicks it up best as he can because he has attained neither sainthood nor self-control in the past several mind-melting minutes.
Grimmjow’s quick to hop back on his dick, and Ichigo steadies him with one hand and leads himself in with the other, but even with every milliliter of Grimmjow’s blood in his veins burning like an inferno, he hesitates.
He opens his mouth, but Grimmjow cuts in.
“Ichigo,” he says, low and intent, and Ichigo can’t look away from those bright, inhuman eyes. “Make it hurt.”
He yanks Grimmjow down. Grimmjow buries a sharp, shuddering noise in Ichigo’s mouth, pulling him into a biting, bleeding kiss that’s not nearly enough to distract him from the sudden, searing heat rippling around his cock.
Grimmjow sinks sharp teeth into his lips and sharper claws into his shoulders, and he writhes on Ichigo’s cock, jerky, desperate twists of his hips that eat him up inch by inch, and Ichigo wants to throw him down and fuck him full, pull a scream out of that sneering, snarling mouth, but he keeps himself still, carving bruises on Grimmjow’s hips, his ass, his thighs, but not moving, not even twitching, as Grimmjow swallows him whole.
Grimmjow settles down with a throaty groan; he’s a burning vice, and Ichigo wants to live inside him.
“Do it,” Grimmjow says, laughing hard and hoarse, and Ichigo realizes he said that out loud. “It’s a fucking crime to keep this cock from me, asshole, can’t believe you made me wait.”
“You deserved it,” Ichigo manages to say, a good third of his brain focused on not moving. Grimmjow’s still too tight, and Ichigo’s half afraid he’ll rip him apart, half afraid he wants to. “For—for being such a brat.”
“I take what I want,” Grimmjow says, and how a man can be damn near cross-eyed from being stuffed full of dick and still sound so goddamned smug, Ichigo will never know. “Unlike you, you sad, repressed fuck. Look at you, you’re shaking and still too damned nice to fuck me stupid like you want to. What’s it gonna take, huh? Startin’ to think you’re not holding back, just boring, so maybe I should go hunting for a leech with more of a bite—”
Grimmjow yelps when he’s slammed into the mattress, but it’s more surprise than anything, and he’s laughing well before Ichigo starts moving, loud and triumphant, and Ichigo knows, he knows he just got played like a fiddle and god knows Grimmjow’s not fucking subtle, but he still folds the bastard in half and slams into his stupid hot body, and the blistering indignation and burning possessive fury die a glorious death in the violent joining of their flesh.
Grimmjow’s not laughing anymore. Ichigo doesn’t recall the moment he stopped, but all he can hear now are the soft, strangled sounds Grimmjow’s trying to hold back, lips pursed and jaw clenched like sheer stubbornness will kill those cries.
And no, nope, he doesn’t get to clam up now after running his mouth like a trainwreck on crack till Ichigo fucking lost it.
It’s easy to flip him over. Grimmjow doesn’t see it coming, and Ichigo doesn’t hold back his strength. Grimmjow’s furious yell at being suddenly empty sputters into a gasp when he hits the mattress face-first, and he’s quick to try and scramble up to all fours, but Ichigo shoves him back down, a hand wound in his hair to pull his head back and a palm between his shoulder blades to keep the rest of him down.
“Motherfucker,” Grimmjow spits out, voice high and whistling from the angle of his throat. Ichigo pulls at his hair.
His other hand, he slides down; there’s a dark streak of velvet-rich fur lining the length of Grimmjow’s spine, culminating at the base of his tail. It’s lashing in the air, the tip nearly catching Ichigo’s face too many times for it to be coincidence.
He strokes it from base to tip, and Grimmjow goes very, very still.
He’s a vision—a twisting blend of sculpted muscle and silken fur. His ears are tipped back. That means something, Ichigo’s sure, but damn if he can remember what.
He notices, several seconds too late, that he’s rutting between Grimmjow’s cheeks, cockhead not quite catching his hole at this angle. It’s good anyway. Warm flesh and the sheer promise of that clenching heat. That fucking tail, raised high as if—
He could come like this.
But Grimmjow’s still, and so silent, and no, he can’t have that.
Ichigo tugs at his tail. Not very hard. Not mean at all.
Grimmjow still jolts as if struck.
“Ichigo,” he growls—or tries to, he thinks, but it comes out soft and shocked, almost scandalized, and Ichigo does it again, tightening his grip in Grimmjow’s hair in tandem, and he can feel and hear and smell Grimmjow try and fail to swallow his cry. The air’s thick with the acrid scent of anger and the heady musk of arousal.
Ichigo rubs the base of Grimmjow’s tail, too deliberate to be soothing, and Grimmjow’s muscles clench with a fury. He’d feel like heaven inside, but Ichigo doesn’t have any hands free at the moment. He tries, feeling like a right pervert, to try and push in anyway, but Grimmjow’s tight all over with tension, and the best Ichigo can manage is to rut between his cheeks.
He feels like more an animal than Grimmjow, and fuck him, he likes it.
He likes Grimmjow too—tail thrashing in Ichigo’s grip, throat pulled taut. He wants ten more hands and ten more eyes to devour all of him.
“Put it in,” Grimmjow growls, shoving his ass back as if that’ll fix it. “Stop fucking around, you asshole.”
“Mm, sorry, I want to, but my hands are a bit busy.”
The sound Grimmjow makes can in no way be called a laugh, but Ichigo really doesn’t know what else to call it.
“Here’s a wild idea—let go of my fucking tail.”
Ichigo pulls on it instead. Grimmjow makes a sound that’s so sweetly shocked, even now.
“Nope. I like it.”
“Ich—Ichigo, you cunt, I swear I’ll—”
“You do it then.”
“What?”
“If you’re that desperate to get fucked—”
He’s cut off by a choked noise, high and wordless with rage, and a savage lash of the tail almost takes Ichigo’s eyes out, but Grimmjow’s not fighting, really, he’s not even trying, as if the tail Ichigo’s fondling is a leash wrapped around the core of him. He fists the base; it’s surprisingly thick there, silky fur doing nothing to hide the heat and strength of the muscle underneath. He squeezes—gentle, really, just a bit of greedy, claiming pressure—and Grimmjow mewls.
Ichigo damn near loses it there, thrusting fruitlessly, cock gripped between Grimmjow’s cheeks and going nowhere.
Grimmjow cants his hips into it—and isn’t that a fucking sight—but that’s not quite enough either.
“Help me out,” Ichigo coaxes, gentling his grip, massaging the base of Grimmjow’s tail and scratching his nails lightly along his scalp. Grimmjow shudders and says nothing. “Hey, c’mon. You went to all this trouble for this. Least you can do is let me fuck you right.”
He’s not thinking about a word he’s saying, balls-deep in that space where he’s hot and horny and a little mean with it, but he sees the words hit Grimmjow—the hitch of his breath, the flick of his tail.
“I hate you,” Grimmjow chokes out, but he’s already reaching back, back muscles clenching and rippling in a mouth-watering display of sinuous strength. He spreads himself wide with one hand, broad palm and longer fingers put to filthy work—claws and fur gone, Ichigo notices with a start, pleased a second later to see dark streaks shudder and twist along Grimmjow’s wrist and forearm.
The evident lack of control’s less of an ego boost and more of a castration concern when Grimmjow’s other, human-shaped hand reaches for his dick, and it says something about this whole…thing that Ichigo doesn’t soften even a little.
And then Grimmjow’s gripping him tight and guiding him into his heat, and Ichigo’s brain flatlines.
He thrusts in, desperate and unthinking, sheathing himself to the root inside Grimmjow, who shouts, voice breaking on the sound. His hands fall away from his ass and start scrabbling at the sheets, and Ichigo follows the sway of his body. It’s tricky, putting his weight on Grimmjow without releasing or twisting his tail, but he manages, though he pushes himself deeper in the process, claiming a few burning centimeters Grimmjow barely had left to give and making him keen like he’s being split open, and the sound burrows into Ichigo’s gut, pulls out a wild, writhing hunger.
Rough, rutting thrusts find them in a mockery of fucking; Ichigo’s barely moving, not willing to leave that clinging warmth, and Grimmjow’s squirming under him, around him, but he’s got no leverage and not much will to get it, and the result is this—their flesh flush together and trying painfully to fuse into one.
Ichigo coaxes Grimmjow’s tail to wrap around his thigh. The silken slide of that fur against his skin sends a filthy jolt to his cock; Grimmjow can never know.
But it’s easier like this—with the tail tucked away and twitching, squeezing Ichigo’s thigh one moment and flicking the sensitive back of his knee the next, fuck—to flatten his upper half more comfortably against Grimmjow, pressing him more firmly into the mattress. His claws are back, shredding the sheets. Ichigo lets go of Grimmjow’s hair to curl that hand around his throat, fingers pressed to the delicate underside of his jaw. Grimmjow’s answering growl reverberates all the way up the bones of his forearm.
“Easy,” Ichigo says, and carnivore teeth snap at the air.
Ichigo answers that with a savage twist of his hips, and Grimmjow goes tight all over with another low growl. Ichigo scrapes his fangs against the side of his throat, licking past the bite of sweat to get to the blood-warm skin underneath.
Grimmjow jerks under him like a broken puppet.
Ichigo starts fucking him in earnest, and he knows a second in that he won’t last, not after everything the night’s put him through, and that’s fine, it’s fine, he doesn’t need to last, he just needs to time it right.
Grimmjow can’t muffle himself like this, and every sound—throaty whines and low, broken shouts—trembles against Ichigo’s palm and twists in his gut, his cock, and Grimmjow’s sweet and tight around him, living heat carved open to make a home.
Ichigo buries his face in Grimmjow’s throat, fangs unsheathed but lips pursed tight, and slams in deep and good and savage, until the pulsing tension in his muscles starts to unravel, his balls drawing up tight. His hearing narrows to the slick slap of flesh and Grimmjow’s racing heart.
He buries deep himself with a last, shuddering thrust and tears into Grimmjow’s throat.
He’s aware for an instant, stark and bright, of Grimmjow howling under his teeth and going blindingly tight around his cock, and then it’s swept away under the searing surge of his climax.
Rich lifeblood slides down his throat, filling him up as he empties himself into Grimmjow.
Grimmjow’s flesh knitting back together jolts Ichigo out of his twin lusts; he might be imagining it, what with most of his brain cells having died a fiery death a moment ago, but he thinks Grimmjow healed faster than usual. Doesn’t matter—Ichigo’s taken enough.
The first few, tentative thrusts make hypersensitive nerves scream at him, but it’s not—it doesn’t feel bad.
Like the first mouthful of blood when he’s on the verge of a blood-rage, his mind a red-hot haze and his body a thing of fire and fury. Like taking a clawed fist through the chest and standing back up while bones snap into place and skin regrows over weeping flesh.
Devastating but good, too. Ichigo’s starkly aware of every inch of his body, and Grimmjow’s an inferno around him.
Borrowed blood breathes life into his cock, and the biting sensitivity fades into warm pulses of pleasure as it fills up. Moving’s easier. Grimmjow’s loose all over from Ichigo’s venom, and he’s wet too, now, Ichigo’s own come slicking the way for his cock.
He ruts lazily, without any real intent, and mouths at Grimmjow’s shoulder and throat, waiting for his brain to come back online.
It happens soon enough, Grimmjow shuddering under him with a sweet, soft noise.
“Ichi…go?”
He sounds almost sleepy, and the mouth that seeks Ichigo’s own is warm and clumsy. Sharper too, fangs notably distinct from Ichigo’s own sinking into his lip, but Ichigo doesn’t mind bleeding a bit in turn, especially when Grimmjow chuffs at him and starts lapping sweetly at the cut.
Vampire venom plus a half-shifted panther is a very, very good combination.
Grimmjow does, eventually, register the state they’re in. Ichigo’s still fucking him lazily, with slow, shallow strokes, and he doesn’t stop even when Grimmjow gasps a curse against his mouth and blinks those big, luminous eyes.
“What the—what? Ichigo?”
Ichigo hums and fucks him a little harder, and more of their nice cotton sheets get sacrificed to Grimmjow’s insanely sharp claws.
“Ichigo,” Grimmjow gasps, and it doesn’t quite rise into a question, but Ichigo hears it anyway. He’s tempted to just keep going, and the state Grimmjow’s in, it’s even odds that he’ll let it happen without comment or try and gut Ichigo while still clinging to his dick, so it’ll be fun either way—
Grimmjow writhes and, while Ichigo’s distracted by the slide of skin on skin and the clench of flesh on cock, works an arm into Ichigo’s hair, holding him in place by the fistful. Ichigo blinks and is faced with flushed cheeks and bright eyes and a red, swollen mouth, and Grimmjow doesn’t kiss him so much as try to eat him alive, teeth and tongue alive with a hot, lashing desperation, and Ichigo’s helpless not to react in turn, throwing himself into a violent rhythm that matches the twist of Grimmjow’s tongue in his mouth.
He lasts longer, but then Grimmjow’s ass ripples around his cock and he buries a moan in Ichigo’s mouth, and just like that, he’s pulled to the edge and shoved right over, and he only barely manages to sink his teeth into Grimmjow’s shoulder before the orgasm hits.
And Grimmjow’s no fool. By the time he shakes off the venom haze a second time to find Ichigo cheerfully rutting into him, he figures it out.
“Are you punishing me?” he asks, with no little amount of amusement and an unholy amount of interest.
Ichigo slides an arm under him and pulls him up, right onto his waiting cock, and Grimmjow gasps and claws at the sheets.
It doesn’t buy him much time.
“You big, bad vampire,” Grimmjow crows, and his laughter’s a hoarse, heaving thing, but it’s there and it’s real, and no amount of savage thrusting fucks it out of him. “Pissed I pushed you into it? Are you showing me who’s boss, I-chi-go?”
Ichigo tightens his grip around Grimmjow’s throat, but that just earns him a hot clench around his cock.
“I’m just giving you what you want,” Ichigo says in the end, punctuating his point with a dirty grind of his hips. “You’ve got the blood to spare.”
Grimmjow laughs—or tries. Ichigo manages, this time, to shut him up with a shallow, well-timed thrust that bullies his prostate and tears out a wounded cry.
“Do your worst,” Grimmjow grits out anyway between ragged breaths. “I can take you.”
Ichigo doesn’t doubt that for a second.
He fucks Grimmjow with slow, leisurely strokes, taking the time to feel every drag of his cock along hot, wet flesh. There’s no urgency in him anymore. He’s got veins thick and thrumming with blood and his lover warm and willing under him. He could do this forever.
Grimmjow’s another story; patience will never be his virtue.
But Ichigo’s got him pinned with his whole body, and he’s too content to let Grimmjow’s writhing limbs and lashing tail provoke him into a harsher pace. And he knows this drives Grimmjow crazy, these slow thrusts that last an eternity, but he also knows they twist him up something sweet, pinning him to the walls of his own flesh till he’s got no choice but to feel every inch of Ichigo screwing deep into him. It’s there, the signs, in the flex of his claws and the hitch of his breath and the clench of sweetly sore muscles.
He curses Ichigo’s name, but his voice catches on the syllables.
And he comes like that too, hips arching away from the mattress as if that’ll save him, but it just impales him deeper on Ichigo’s dick.
“Fuck,” Grimmjow gasps like he’s dying, shuddering to pieces under Ichigo.
Ichigo fucks him through it and to the other side, and Grimmjow squirms and swears the air blue, but he tightens up nice and bares his throat like a dream when Ichigo finally pushes in deep and spills in him again, teeth sinking into the offered neck to regain what he lost.
Grimmjow’s heaving for air in the aftermath, not even the mindless haze of the venom sparing him the exhaustion.
Ichigo waits for him to catch his breath and break free of the venom’s effects. It takes notably longer.
“Too much?” Ichigo asks when Grimmjow surfaces with a curse. “I can stop, you know, if you can’t take it.”
“Go to hell,” Grimmjow snarls. His voice is hoarse. “We’ll see who taps out first, you fucking leech.”
“I’m a vampire, kitten,” he says, and Grimmjow snarls, enraged, at the nickname—hypocrite. “I’m always hungry.”
It’s not a lie. But there is such a thing as drinking too much, even for vampires, and the results aren’t anything bad, just a giddy daze and poor impulse control. Ichigo’s been told it’s what intoxication feels like for humans, but he never got drunk as a human, his life snuffed short and twisted into this before he was even twenty, but he’s overindulged on blood before, and he’s frankly scared he’ll write a poem about Grimmjow’s fucking eyes or something equally embarrassing.
Chances are Grimmjow’s regeneration will flag before Ichigo reaches his limits, but it’s Grimmjow; if anyone can rewire biology out of sheer, stubborn pride, it’s him.
But like hell is Ichigo backing down. The fight is half the fun with Grimmjow, and Ichigo didn’t decide, after one knock-down drag-out fight that ended with them both nearly dead, that he’s going to keep this man for the rest of his unlife because he’s any less of a demented asshole.
“Alright,” Ichigo says mildly. “Let’s find out.”
Grimmjow makes a noise, the beginnings of a question, but Ichigo’s pulling out and rolling off of him before it’s out, and that noise shifts into another, all wordless rage. Ichigo arranges himself comfortably against the headboard, only a few inches away from Grimmjow, and turns his head to meet his bare-fanged, slit-eyed growl with a shit-eating grin of his own.
“What the fuck, asshole?” Grimmjow growls, raising himself to all fours.
His limbs are visibly shaking. He’s gleaming with sweat all over, dark fur sticking to flushed skin, and his chest works laboriously around harsh, heaving breaths. Ichigo strokes his fingers over the outline of a few ribs, and Grimmjow’s tail lashes violently behind him.
“Ichigo,” he hisses.
Ichigo slides his other hand down to wrap around his cock. It’s half hard, flush with borrowed blood and borrowed heat, and the slide of his dry skin is almost too sharp to be pleasurable, so he settles for leaving it curled loosely around the base. Mission accomplished anyway—Grimmjow’s eyes are fixed on the sight, pupils blown wide. His tail is in constant motion, curling and lashing in the air.
“Come on then,” Ichigo coaxes. “Prove it. Wouldn’t be fair I’m the one doing all the work, would it?”
Grimmjow pounces, straddling Ichigo with a violence that’d be more suited to beating his face in; instead, he tears Ichigo’s hand away from his cock and, with visible strain, shifts his hand back to a human-shaped one. His grip’s rough and mean, the bite of sensation sharper than that of Ichigo’s half-hearted strokes, but his dick fills all the way back to life anyway.
He’s well beyond judging himself for it.
Grimmjow shoves himself down on it with a furious snarl. His body’s hot and slick, and he must be sore, regeneration or not, but he sure as shit doesn’t show it, thighs bulging as he sets a savage pace that makes slivers of white swim in Ichigo’s vision.
He grabs Grimmjow by the hips, less to slow him down than to ground himself, and it backfires because the heat of the skin and play of muscle there make his gut twist into hot, pulsing knots. Bruises bloom under his fingers, and Grimmjow groans, tightening like a vise around Ichigo’s dick. He bucks up, hard and helpless, and Grimmjow bears down as if this, too, is a fight, and even as sated as he is, it takes all of Ichigo’s self-control to not hold him in place and grind into him until he comes again.
Instead, he reaches for Grimmjow’s cock, mostly soft and bouncing with every violent heave of his body, but Grimmjow—head thrown back and eyes closed, looking for all the world like he’s got nothing on his mind but killing Ichigo dick-first—lashes out with a hand, catching Ichigo’s. The force of it makes his bones creak. Claws kiss his skin.
Alright then—
Grimmjow jerks, a full-bodied thing that has him clenching impossibly tight inside, when Ichigo yanks their joined hands to his mouth, and slitted eyes, the blue luminous around depthless black, peer at him, violent with intent.
Ichigo twists their hands to bare Grimmjow’s wrist, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin there.
His canines extend with a pleasant pulse of pain.
At the first touch of teeth to flesh, Grimmjow’s rhythm stutters. He braces his free hand on Ichigo’s shoulder, claws pricking the skin as if in warning.
“Don’t stop,” Ichigo murmurs; his breath is almost warm where it’s trapped, briefly, between his lips and Grimmjow’s wrist.
“The fuck are you muttering about?” Grimmjow grits out.
Ichigo hesitates for a moment. A quiet, sensible part of him is flinching back from this. He’s never been the type of vampire to throw his voice around and take advantage; even when he was new and feral and perpetually starving, his atrocities were of the body, not the mind. He’s played with Grimmjow before, confident he could throw off any compulsion with that same unhinged grin Ichigo loves to hate, but Grimmjow’s not at his best now, all that venom and the constant regeneration taking a toll that shows even through his furious attempts to break himself on Ichigo’s cock.
The tremble of his muscles. The wetness at the corners of his eyes. He’s almost vulnerable, the way he never seems even when he’s crumpled bloody and bruised on the floor.
“I…”
“Spit it out,” Grimmjow snaps, shoving his body down hard as if to punctuate the point.
One look at Grimmjow—stare heated under that dark scowl, incandescently inhuman from the sweep of his eyes to the lashing tip of his tail—decides him.
“Don’t stop,” Ichigo says, the command pulsing in the air. “Even when I feed. Don’t stop till I tell you to.”
Grimmjow, a contrary bastard down to his bones, freezes.
It’s only for an instant.
“You…” Grimmjow rasps, trailing off as he shudders into motion with a gut-deep groan, and Ichigo can’t tell if it’s the compulsion kicking in or just Grimmjow; his face has flushed an even deeper pink, and his eyes are threatening to skewer Ichigo to the core, and Ichigo screws his own shut in self-defense, clamping down on Grimmjow’s wrist for a desperate distraction.
He’s still full, Grimmjow’s blood warming him from vein to bone, but his throat still flares with a searing, soaring hunger when the scent hits, and Ichigo’s as greedy as he’s ever been when he sucks on his prize, moaning low as the blood trickles down his throat, soothing the ache.
And Grimmjow—
Ichigo can’t not look at him, not after what he did, not when Grimmjow’s all wet, writhing heat around his cock, and it’s a mistake because one look at Grimmjow—mouth open, throat tipped back and shuddering around a soft keen—has him digging his teeth into the puncture wounds and lapping up the fresh spurt of blood, his hunger taking on an edge of frantic violence. And he’s watching Grimmjow through it—the full-bodied jerk, the impotent flex of his claws, the ceaseless clench and unclench of his thighs. He’s not riding Ichigo so much as grinding on him, barely lifting an inch off his cock before sliding back down and squirming on it, and he’s soaked in sweat and desperation, every twitching movement drenched in helplessness, and the sight of it bites into Ichigo’s gut worse than the frenzied heat sleeving his dick.
Grimmjow’s flesh closes under his mouth, and Ichigo cleans up the bloodied flesh with soft laps of his tongue. Grimmjow ripples hot around him, and the sound he makes isn’t anything human.
And he doesn’t stop moving, not for a second, not even when Ichigo leans in and pulls him close, taking the burden off Grimmjow’s straining muscles. His upper half slumps against Ichigo, but his hips keep twisting—deep, dirty motions that grind their bodies together and pull quiet, gutted cries out of the mouth pressed to the hollow of Ichigo’s throat.
Ichigo’s never seen the effects of vampire venom fighting it out with compulsion. Maybe someone like Urahara would be fascinated by the science of it all, but Ichigo’s just…uncomfortably, not unpleasantly hot.
He runs his palm down Grimmjow’s back, over sweat-slick skin and matted fur, and when he reaches the base, Grimmjow’s tail curls around his forearm, clinging to it with the same mindless desperation with which his claws have sunk into Ichigo’s back. And he still doesn’t stop, writhing like a mad thing on Ichigo’s dick, and it feels like the filthiest thing they’ve ever done. Half the blood Ichigo’s taken is on his face, lighting a fire under his cheek as he tries and fails not to fuck up into Grimmjow, meeting the helpless clench of his hole with a deep, staking hunger.
Grimmjow groans like he’s dying.
Ichigo can feel, quite literally, his mind clearing; his claws flex and score fresh trails along Ichigo’s sides, the ragged breaths kissing his throat take the shape of hoarse, muttered curses, and he starts fucking himself harder like he’s going to tear Ichigo’s orgasm out of him.
“H-hey,” Ichigo chokes out, stroking the silky stretch of an ear with the arm not held hostage by Grimmjow’s tail. “You—you okay?”
A bite answers him, sharp and deep, like Grimmjow wants to rip out a chunk of his shoulder, and the flaring pain has Ichigo jerking up into him, bouncing Grimmjow on his lap with the force of the thrust, and Grimmjow growls around his mouthful, the reverberations sending pulses of white-hot pain down Ichigo’s chest, and the heat in his gut flares brighter, hotter, and it’s like he can’t stop now that he’s started, holding Grimmjow in place with an arm—that long, strong tail a clenching, writhing bracelet along the length of it—across the small of his back and rutting messily up into him. The build of it’s not as sweet-soft as the last few times, Grimmjow’s teeth in his flesh an endless pulse of searing sensation that bleeds into his muscles and his cock.
He tears Grimmjow’s head away from his shoulder by the hair, pulling that bloody mouth up and into a rough, biting kiss, and it’s the taste of Grimmjow’s wild smile that sends him over.
Grimmjow milks him through it, fever-hot muscles clenching too tight and too long to not be deliberate, and by the time those few electric seconds come to an end, Ichigo feels like a wrung-out towel.
He also realizes he’s crushing Grimmjow to him to get him to stop moving—and failing at that because Grimmjow’s ass is still a squirming mess in this lap, constant back-and-forth motions that send bursts of static sensation biting into Ichigo’s cock.
He’s done this to himself, hasn’t he?
He doesn’t make Grimmjow stop. He could; all it would take is one word. He probably should because Grimmjow’s making those wounded noises against his mouth, even through that unhinged grin. But he doesn’t.
He uses his grip on Grimmjow’s hair to yank his head back. Ichigo’s blood—Grimmjow’s blood, spilled twice over—is still painting his mouth and smeared down his chin. Whatever he sees on Ichigo’s face makes Grimmjow grin wider, wilder, and there’s scorching deliberation in the way he bears down on Ichigo’s softened cock. He’s still flush with blood, and the bite of oversensitivity is already starting to mutate into something sweeter and just as burning, and Grimmjow doesn’t even look surprised, only satisfied.
“This isn’t punishment,” he says, and for all that he sounds like he’s got smoke in his lungs, that infuriating insolence is back in his voice. “You’re just a freaky fucking pervert, aren’t you?”
Ichigo wants to punch him. With his mouth.
Instead, he says, “You like it. What’s that make you?”
Grimmjow shakes his head, looking one second away from tutting at Ichigo like the grumpy old lady next door who thinks he’s some delinquent. Ichigo bucks his hip before he has to face that horror, and Grimmjow makes a better noise at that, soft and strangled, and leans back, both palms braced on Ichigo’s thighs. It’s a hell of a view. And he likes Grimmjow’s tail, dancing in the air behind him. Phantom warmth shudders up his arm.
“I, ah, fuck—I know what I am,” Grimmjow says between sinuous rolls of his hips. “You’re the one who likes to play goody two shoes.”
“I almost killed you the first time we met.”
“I almost killed you,” comes the predictable, almost-routine answer. “But you got some nice shots in, sure. Imagine my surprise when that savage motherfucker turned out to be this sweet old nerd who rescues kittens from trees for fun.”
Ichigo flicks a pert nipple in retaliation. Grimmjow bites his lower lip and doesn’t make a sound; it’s devastating.
“This sweet old nerd is still going to fuck you till you cry for mercy,” Ichigo tells him, yanking Grimmjow back against him and digging his fingers into his nape; the delicate line of fur there feels like silk under his fingers.
Grimmjow’s lashes flutter. He still bares his teeth in a panther’s smile. “We’ll see who cries.”
When Grimmjow bares his throat, it’s a promise and a taunt, and when Ichigo sinks his fangs into the offered flesh, it doesn’t taste like victory, just want.