Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Warning: yaoi, language, angst.
Pairing(s): GrimmjowxIchigo, hints of IchixHime.

The End Is Not Near

Moments in the relationship between Ichigo the Shinigami and Grimmjow the Hollow.

The grin is feral, dark. Fierce.

Ichigo is quiet, uncertain as the eyes follow him, staring into his soul, and ultimately trying to rip it apart. Hands jerk off his shirt, tongue and vicious teeth nipping at his still-sore skin.

"You fucking love it, Shinigami," is whispered into his ear, over and over and over again until Ichigo has it memorized into his brain like nothing else is.

It's never, never completely painless. Ichigo has learned to block out the constant ache, always enveloping his body as the hands, rough and callused, snatch at his legs.

A cruel, almost taunting voice that is everywhere at once. The beat of his heart, the drum pounding in his ear, the sweat on his body.

Grimmjow is about violent sex. The sex that swims through your veins. Not the boring shit called love - whoever came up with that. Hollows - he's a hollow and Ichigo knows this - they can't really feel that. Emotions.

"Tell me, tell me, tell me," Grimmjow hisses so very hollow-like until Ichigo answers back with a throaty moan, and Grimmjow doesn't stop pistoning his hips, slows but can't, won't, stop. Ichigo arches up, biting his lip as the pleasure rises.

Blood, seeping into his mouth, staining his pearl colored teeth a nasty crimson.

Grimmjow swallows his reply, raping his mouth, bruising with the force of their kiss.

Ichigo's long hand weaves into ice blue strands of hair; sweat matted, and pulls a little. Grimmjow growls, nails ripping the tender flesh of his inner thigh. Thin lines of blood slip down his thighs, staining the sheets.

"D'you want me to sc - scratch behind ya ears?" Ichigo moans, grinning against a broad shoulder, his own nails making fine trails of red on the other man's back.

There is a particularly hard nip on his ear lobe, and Grimmjow is finally coming, hot, hips still thrusting like a man possessed. Ichigo arches his back, clenching his whole body as his release follows at a slower pace, lapping at him gently unlike Grimmjow's animalistic display.

Grimmjow is panting on him, not moving, until he seemingly remembers Ichigo's condescending remark and snarls, taking his chin in his hand and squeezing. The pressure is almost crushing, and then it's gone, leaving only the imprint. Grimmjow smirks down at him, eyes smoldering with something Ichigo can never place.

"Ya talk like that again when I'm not fucking you, see what happens, Shinigami. See what fucking happens."

Days like this – no black and white, but this in between he is trapped in. Ichigo is like a shell of himself.

He smiles, he does, he tries. His friends, they know –he is not a very good actor.

But it's all about passing the time, waiting for the moment of hot white addiction this mess with Grimmjow has become. Ichigo used to hate it, the feel of the other man, the taste. Sour, not sweet. Sweet like Orihime used to be.

Grimmjow tastes like fresh rotten apples, but Ichigo can't get enough. He feels like a rainy day, lonely, foreign to Ichigo who is so in love with the sun. He smells like a tart tangerine. So bitter and enough to make him wince.

Time slugs by, ever slow in the most irritating way. Ichigo doesn't bother hiding the fact that he barely pays attention in school anymore. All that he ever thinks about is ice blue hair, wilting from the sweat, the exhaustion. Taunting eyes, narrowed in thought, in challenge. Muscles tense, screaming. Breathing, hard and heavy.

Mocking laughter as every single violent thrust sends Ichigo that much father into a twisted euphoria he's not sure he can come down from.

When the day is mostly over, and Ichigo is sitting in his room, feigning concentration on his homework, there is a hard tapping at his window. Only three times, per usual. Ichigo smiles to himself, opening the window for the hollow.

"Tch, took ya long enough Shinigami," is muttered like every other time.

Except this time, it's a little softer, a little less serious and more teasing.

Ichigo lets the hands guide his hips.


There are a few soft moments between them. It's not all hard edge and lack of real emotion because Grimmjow can't feel those. The times when Grimmjow is not sweet, or tender, or any of that bull shit - but bearable oh god, Ichigo craves those moments, like his favorite food or a hot shower after a bonecold day.

When his name is broken apart, and whispered in his ear with a hint of adoration. Ichi, or the more annoying Berry-chan. When their arguments are more on the playful side, not the I'm going to fuck you up side.

Ichigo will lie on his stomach, an uncharacteristic half smile tugging at his lips, letting those long fingers trail through his hair, pulling only slightly for attention. Grimmjow's body heat will suffocate him, but he won't say anything - this time - because the moment is about the softest thing to love they will ever reach.

The dancing fingers will travel from his hair to the nape of his neck, to the small of his back, and finally resting at his hip, rubbing in slow, sluggish circles. Ichigo will arch, putty always in this man's skillful, calloused hands. Grimmjow will purr into his neck, nipping and biting, licking and sucking on the pale flesh in front of him.

This stolen precious thing, Ichigo will always treasure.

Because, it will be gone as quick as it comes, and it's back to domination and who's better, and the constant ache.

Ichigo's back is slammed against the fragile glass of the shower door, a hard, unforgiving body soon following. He winces, a spark of pain shooting up his spine –but he's used to it. Too used to it. He just hopes that there won't be a day when the door shatters, leaving him bloody, irreparable, and in trouble.

Grimmjow laughs at his obvious discomfort. His laugh reminds Ichigo of dying puppies or broken strings on a marionette. Pollution in the atmosphere. It's the kind of laugh that nothing good happens when someone hears it.

Ichigo shudders as that deliciously skilled tongue attaches itself to his vulnerable neck, sand raw lips caressing certain points that drive him completely insane. His hands grip teal blue hair, which is wilting from the spray of hot water. Steam rises indecently off their bodies, fogging the shower to prying eyes. Or Ichigo's ridiculous father.

Once, the crazed man caught them, though Ichigo was luckily enough to shove off Grimmjow before the door flew off the hinges, and the shouting ensued. Grimmjow used a sonido, thankfully, so Ichigo only had to deal with the incessant crying and the annoying shrieks of his 'strawberry plucked by some lustful vixen of the night'.

Teeth marks on his hand in the present, as he tries to muffle the obnoxious groan from seeping out. Ichigo knows Grimmjow hates this, not having Ichigo moan to full potential, but he has to deal, because it's better fucking the stupid ass Shinigami than not at all in his own words, of course.

And then Grimmjow slides in, slowly, so achingly slow in some cheap imitation of intimacy, of fucking love. But there is no love here, just pain and ache and fucking.

There is no stretching, or lubrication, just the slick water running off their bodies, and the extensive pain in Ichigo's ass.

This is the way Grimmjow operates, and Ichigo is used to the violent treatment. He might even like -lovecraveneed - it. He only admits that to himself, however, in the early hours of the morning or when he can't shake this feeling of being so full, so unable to think.

Grimmjow has a habit of repeating things. It's really very annoying to Ichigo, who repeats what he says about never. If Ichigo is talking to Renji or Orihime, and Grimmjow, somehow (he has his ways, he will say) finds out, he visits Ichigo and lays his claim.

"You're mine, ya goddamn Shinigami, and that bitch and the shitty other Shinigami needs a lesson in the danger of talking to someone else's claim." He'll remind Ichigo at least three more times, before their night is over. And Ichigo, he'll go insane. He'll wonder why he lets Grimmjow touch him.

But then, he'll remember the third time.

"You're the hero," Grimmjow rasps, that crazy, manic glint in his eyes, and a shit eating grin splitting apart his lips to show those jagged teeth. "Save the fucking day, Ichigo."

And Ichigo will, because it's his job, it's what he does. His heart –it doesn't have a choice. He knows Grimmjow couldn't give a fuck about him, it was just sex. He was a just a hole to put it in, but Ichigo can't help it.

He won't hold back. He won't be a girl with his feelings in the way.

He raises his head, smiling slightly, spitting out the blood pooling in his mouth, gagging him.

He whispers, without regret, "Bankai."

And it's as over as it will ever be.


notes: this pairing is so very appealing to me in some twisted way. it really shouldn't be. Grimmjow is pretty much a violent, manic, bloodthirsty killer-hollow (wale hah) and ichigo is the loveable angsty teenager who is too vulnerable sometimes, especially to a character like grimm. it's too fucked to be love, and too passionate to be all hate.

hm. though... maybe that's why i like it. :3

edits: Woooo! Finally got around to editing this fic. Fixed some scenes that annoyed me, fixed Grimmjow's name and some errors.

The last scene is off but not by much, because when I wrote this, I hadn't seen their final fight. And now I kinda have, and it was awesome. Haha. But! Not as good as when Ichigo fights Ulquiorra the final time. Hot damn! –happy sigh- I love Bleach.