So, for those of you who have read my other story about these two, called "Midnight to Midnight"? Yeah, er…this fic is more like how I would picture a potential relationship between Grimmjow and Ichigo. Slightly less pleasant. Lol, sometimes forget that I'm capable of writing, um…this. Fucking hell. Credits to My Chemical Romance for the title and lyrics at the end.

The Sharpest Lives:

It's the control that he likes best.

Don't get him wrong, it's more than that, of course. There's nothing more satisfying than slamming Ichigo into the mattress, or into the ground, and sinking his teeth into that tan flesh. Nothing as entertaining as when Grimmjow's hands curl around Ichigo's wrists, his fingers digging in against bone, and watching as the kid thrashes futilely underneath him, swearing and spitting, and then going limp as he finally gives up.

But there's still nothing quite like the rush he gets from the control. From grinding Ichigo's face into the dirt while Grimmjow grinds against that sweet little ass, until the kid's free hand curls into a fist and he slams it against the ground in helpless rage. Until a low, hateful moan finally escapes Ichigo's mouth and he snarls out between gritted teeth: "Goddamn it, just fuck me already." It's the soft exhales and groans of what's not-quite arousal, not-quite loathing, and the hands scrabbling frantically at the front of his jacket, unsure of whether or not to push Grimmjow away or pull him closer.

He's fascinated, watching Ichigo's expression twist somewhere between agony and ecstasy as Grimmjow slams inside him; addicted to the sound of muffled cries, the fingers clawing at his inner thighs, when he holds Ichigo's head down in between his legs and forces him to swallow—or alternately, the shout of disgust when Grimmjow yanks Ichigo's mouth off his cock early and comes all over that flushed, gorgeous face. He loves digging his teeth into the muscles of Ichigo's trembling body, deep enough to draw blood, hard enough to leave scars; always pushing the kid further and further over the edge.

He loves that Ichigo lets Grimmjow do this to him even more. There are so many ways to leave Kurosaki in agony, to torture him for hours on end, tempting him, exciting him, denying him, over and over again. And Grimmjow has night after night to explore, to experiment, to coax that broken scream from Ichigo's lips that sends a shudder of wicked glee racing through him every time.

It's on one of these nights, when Grimmjow finds himself in a slightly more playful mood, that he shoves Ichigo back onto the bed, both hands wrapping firmly around the kid's already bruised neck. Ichigo fights him initially, eyes wide with confusion, and anger, and a genuine fear that has Grimmjow grinning as he watches the emotions play across Ichigo's face. His cheeks go pink, then red, his body heaving in a futile attempt to get air to his lungs.

At first, it's funny.

The more Grimmjow continues to tighten his grip, though, and the more Ichigo's struggles weaken, the more Grimmjow becomes acutely aware of a strange emotion stirring somewhere within him—a deep, almost painful ache in the pit of his stomach. He listens to Ichigo's ragged breathing, tiny pitiful gasps of air, hot and almost imperceptible along the back of Grimmjow's hand; stares at blue-tinged lips, and into wide, glassy eyes…and sees something he's never noticed. A rare glimpse of something vulnerable, hidden beneath that permanent mask of strength that Ichigo's always managed to keep in place, even in these late night moments between the two of them. Something fragile.

Grimmjow finds his fingers uncurling before he can stop himself, releasing his grip on Ichigo's throat; kneels over the kid, listening to frantic gasps that slowly fade into quiet pants of fear and exhaustion, and then into silence. They're still pressed close to one another, close enough that Grimmjow can feel Ichigo's heartbeat pounding against his own body, hard and resilient, and…and exhilarating alive. Grimmjow grits his teeth and tries to ignore that strange aching feeling, as it twists sharply inside him again.

Ichigo is staring by this point, hands fisted in the bed sheets. The fear and hate are gone, and he's watching Grimmjow closely with an unreadable look in his eyes that Grimmjow's not so sure he likes. Almost as if Ichigo's…studying him, one eyebrow slightly raised in faint curiosity.

The very thought pisses him off, and Grimmjow immediately flips him over, strips the remaining clothes off him, and fucks him raw, again and again until the kid eventually passes out. Grimmjow stays awake, however; stays longer on that night than he ever has before, tracing the bruises and bite marks covering Ichigo's body.

He caught a glimpse of something in Ichigo that was agonizingly…human.

That night changes everything. Grimmjow finds himself thinking less about the thrill of the chase, and more about Ichigo's body—hot, so hot that the warmth seems to seep into Grimmjow's hands, seems to slide beneath his skin and fill him. He'll press his mouth to a slash across Ichigo's chest, a gift from Pantera, and swallow blood that burns him from the inside out, surges through him to fill what were once veins. He stops savoring the moment that Ichigo finally gives in, and more the way their lips mash together, teeth clicking, tongues searching; all the while, the sound of Ichigo's heart, strong and beautiful, and thundering in Grimmjow's head, echoing in his ears.

Almost as if it's his own.

Grimmjow stays later and later every time afterward, pressing down idly on each new bruise after the other, watching as Ichigo writhes and moans in protest—even his sleep. Maybe, just maybe…there's more to this than just control after all. Maybe instead, it's how, just for a brief moment, Ichigo can make Grimmjow feel…almost alive again.

Usually, though, this line of thinking irritates Grimmjow, leaving him feeling distinctly unsettled; most often, he ends up waking Ichigo with his cock, stretching his mouth until the kid chokes and awakes with a start, or pressing back into that tight, almost virginal ass. All the while telling himself, as Ichigo sweats and moans beneath him, that he's still the one in control.

But obsession, he finds, is a funny thing, with a cruel sense of irony. Because there are some nights where Ichigo doesn't want to play. He gets an ugly look on his face and sneers to himself without even having the balls to look Grimmjow in the eye, who's crouching on the window sill in barely contained anticipation. Ichigo will finally turn around, his orange hair tousled with frustration, eyes burning, and say something stupidly pointless, like "Get the fuck out of here," or "Leave me alone."

Grimmjow never listens.

The shinigami brat isn't supposed to give him orders—he supposed to take them, to lie on his back and scream like a whore, and say "please" and "thank you" for whatever Grimmjow decides to give him for the night. When things don't follow this pattern, there's a surge of pure, blinding hate in him that Grimmjow can't quite explain.

He never listens, and he'll storm into the bedroom and grab Ichigo roughly by the hair, hurling him down on the mattress and falling on top of him. His claws emerge to rip aside useless clothing, and he'll tie Ichigo's wrists to the bedposts with the shredded fabric, hoisting the kid's legs up around his waist as he glowers and starts to force himself inside.

But here's the thing that never fails to throw him, to disturb him, to absolutely and utterly infuriate him: Ichigo doesn't respond.

He lies on the bed, eyes dark and defiant. Grimmjow fucks Ichigo as hard as he can, but kid never shows any emotion—simply watches. He doesn't struggle, he doesn't swear. Doesn't fight at all: no nails, no teeth, no brief, pointless wrestle for dominance or gasps for air.

Nothing.

He just…lies there.

Like he's…dead.

It bothers Grimmjow. He can't help it—it bothers the hell out of him, and more often than not, he pulls out without finishing and leaves, bewildered, angry, and still horny. He doesn't get that fucking kid. That stupid fucking kid with his bright orange hair and deep, calculating brown eyes.

What the fuck—fuck that little shit, he thinks savagely, and returns to Las Noches, where he restlessly prowls his chambers and repeats to himself that he shouldn't care, that he doesn't; and all the while, trying to get the taste of Ichigo's skin out of his mouth, trying to ignore a rising desperation in his chest. He still wants the kid, needs him in ways that sicken him. That old, familiar, unnamed ache turns over in his stomach, and Grimmjow snarls and punches a hole through the wall.

He doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand at all, why he can't calm down, why he can't think or see straight, and in a fit of fury he'll storm through the halls of Las Noches, beating the shit out of any unfortunate Fraccion that crosses his path, and then beat off, thinking about long legs and hard, muscled arms and brown eyes that seem to see right through him, right fucking through him.

It's on one of these particular nights, as Ichigo stares calmly up at him while Grimmjow, cursing under his breath, is drawing back, fumbling with the waist of his hakama that it hits him—like a fucking sledgehammer, just completely out of nowhere. Grimmjow slowly stops moving and sits back on his heels, staring at the kid trapped under him, as the idea sinks slowly into his brain.

And Ichigo, with his eyes that see everything, smirks.

He fucking smirks.

Because he knows. Knows exactly what Grimmjow's thinking; that it's longing that coils white-hot in the pit of Grimmjow's stomach, for something he no longer has, but that Ichigo does. That Grimmjow is dead, is damned, and there is no turning back, no way to touch life again—save through Ichigo. Through his body, his breath, his heart.

It's a game of cat-and-mouse, with temptation being held just out of reach—but Ichigo's not the one being dangled on strings. Not the one who's been pulled back again every night, helpless; needy; desperate.

Ichigo's always known.

Who's really in control.

"You're the one that I need/I'm the one that you loathe." —My Chemical Romance

Fin.

God. This was SO HARD TO WRITE, for some reason, lol. I've been working on this story for probably more than half a year now, and every time I thought I had it finished, my friend/editor/beta/eternal tormentor wildparsnip would look at it and be like, "Not bad. You can do better, though." I'd kill her if I didn't love her/need her so desperately.

I should really, technically be doing homework right now. School is threatening to crush me like a bug with all the shit it's currently throwing at me this week, but writing is my coping mechanism. If I didn't do this, I'd be infinitely more insane than I already am. So there.

As always, please review. Your thoughts/comments/whatevers are greatly appreciated! (especially this one, since it took forever to beat out of my brain)

Later,

Rebel