So…yeah, I've been gone for awhile, lol. School hath swallowed the majority of my life what with testing and colleges, and all that nice, fun stuff. Ya gotta love it. This is my latest story—my first Grimmjow/Ichigo, which is a pairing I'm really starting to enjoy despite (or perhaps because of) how twisted it is. This story's actually a bit nicer than how I usually write the two of them, but no fear! Those other fics may be on the way soon! (hopefully) Thanks again for your eternal patience, heh heh, and I hope you enjoy the fic! Credits to Chevelle for the title of this story.
Midnight to Midnight:
Sometime after midnight, he opens his eyes again, staring blankly into the surrounding darkness. He's not sure of the exact time, but he doesn't really care, still half-bleary and caught between a dream and reality—not that it feels like there's much of a difference between the two anymore.
Clouds shift in the murky sky outside and a sudden rush of moonlight spills across the rumpled bed sheets, over his skin; there are new marks on his chest, bruises a deep purple-blue color that makes him cringe, and Ichigo scrubs a hand haphazardly through his already messy hair, trying to remember how to think straight.
Beside him, there's a quiet murmur, and Grimmjow shifts in his sleep, the sheets just barely clinging to his hips from where he's sprawled out across the bed. His brow is furrowed, as if in deep concentration, and even in slumber, his fingers twitch restlessly, ready to curl into fists at a moment's notice.
Almost funny, really, but Ichigo can't find the energy to laugh.
His body is sore—always is, and again, if he could, his lips might curl, just a little, into a faint, humorless smile. It's not just the bruises, it's the ugly bite marks on his collarbone and neck, and the scratches on his back, when Grimmjow had him pinned, nipping and sucking at the curve of his spine; when he dug his nails in as far as deep as they could go, and then laughed, peeling away skin and dragging a moan from Ichigo that wasn't as pained as he wanted it to sound.
It hurts to move, now, but it hurts more to think, so Ichigo forces himself to focus on the way his muscles throb.
He realizes that he's very tired.
Understatement of the year, actually, and that makes him laugh, but then he feels sick to his stomach almost immediately afterward, so he stops.
He has school tomorrow. In a matter of hours, Rukia's going to come barging in to demand why he isn't ready yet; Yuzu's going to be shouting up the stairs that breakfast is ready. Chad and Ishida and Inoue are going to be waiting at school, along with the others, well-rested and laughing and chatting. Their homework will probably even be fucking finished, Ichigo thinks, and he snorts wearily as he glances towards his desk.
He didn't even bother cracking a text book tonight.
He's just…tired. Physically, yeah, no shit, but…also in another way, something insidious and unfamiliar, that seeps into his chest and crushes his lungs, making it increasingly harder and harder to breathe.
Pressure, he thinks vaguely, and the word seems to fit right.
And he feels stupid, though he usually does these days—or rather these nights. He doesn't know why it got this far, why he let it get this far. It's something that's been troubling him for awhile, every time he sits here like this, taking in Grimmjow's rumpled blue hair, the hard muscles of his chest, and the gaping hole in his abdomen that makes Ichigo flinch, just to look at it.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He knows he shouldn't be doing this.
But he can't…make himself stop, either. Because even though it kills to admit the truth (and he'd sew his own mouth shut before he'd ever even dream of sharing it with Grimmjow)…there's something here, in this…relationship, or whatever the hell you call this twisted, fucked-up thing the two of them share. Something in the hands around his wrists, and the echo of a mocking laugh in his ears, and in between the rushes of both pleasure and pain as Grimmjow takes him, nearly bends him in half, hips driving forward relentlessly.
Something in the way, once in awhile, that, when it's all over and they're both panting, covered in sweat and (in Ichigo's case) a fair amount of blood and cum, Grimmjow presses a single, simple kiss against Ichigo's mouth.
Can't even think of the damn name, but it's there, and it's real. It's the only thing that makes him open his eyes, makes him drag his feet through another day; the only thing that guides his sword, all the while waiting for Grimmjow's familiar shiver of reiatsu to collide against his own.
He shouldn't be doing this.
It's selfish. He knows people would be disappointed—Rukia, most importantly, and his friends, and Soul Society, but he doesn't give a shit. It's selfish, but it's all his, and he wants it, and he'll cling to it for as long as Grimmjow will keep coming back.
Ichigo starts slightly, jerked back into the present moment by a low voice, and he's surprised to find that his fingers are entangled in his hair, wrenching at his scalp. He lets his hands fall to his sides and looks up, his gaze meeting Grimmjow's brilliant eyes, which are almost eerily beautiful in the pale moonlight. He's sitting up, sheet still tangled lazily around him, but he's watching Ichigo closely, intently.
"What?" Ichigo demands irritably, disgusted that he didn't pay closer attention, that Grimmjow caught him. He's expecting a snide retort, or maybe just a fist in his face for talking back, but Grimmjow hesitates; tilts his head a bit to one side, unusually thoughtful. His face, chiseled, and sneering, and arrogant…softens, just a little.
Ichigo wants to laugh again, but still can't make himself; could cry, but he'd hate himself; for a moment, can't honestly think of what to do. Grimmjow's mouth tightens in a brief, weary smirk, and he nods absently.
"It bothers you, don't it."
Not even a question.
Grimmjow shifts again, and he's about to get up, one hand already reaching for his clothes that he tossed aside earlier; about to leave, but Ichigo stops him with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. Grimmjow looks… startled, which is also funny, Ichigo thinks, and he manages to crack a faint smile, even as they tumble back onto the bed, Ichigo straddling Grimmjow's hips.
Their lips meet, and Ichigo whispers, "Stay."
That's all he wants.
Selfish, selfish, selfish; shouldn't be doing this.
"Stay," he says again, and there's a moment of hesitation, broken by an eager growl, as Grimmjow flips them easily, teeth finding and returning to an earlier bruise along the curve of Ichigo's neck.
The dizzying pressure of everyone's stupid, fucking expectations.
Screw it all.
Because this is his.
"Mine," he whispers breathlessly, and then keens and arches his back, as Grimmjow bites hard, rough tongue laving across the blood that trickles down Ichigo's neck.
Another kiss, just-barely, brushing the curve of his jaw.
"Yours," Grimmjow murmurs back.