deivorous

[deivorous]

Grimmjow bears the ride with no small amount of physical discomfort.

Ichigo is taller and broader than he was when Grimmjow first met him, but he's not larger, and he's not quite wide enough to effortlessly fit Grimmjow's mass over his shoulder.

He spends the whole ride almost sliding off, if not for Ichigo's hand wrapped around the back of his thighs to hold him in place.

The very edges of his hole rub uncomfortably against the hard strap of armour, but the discomfort is muted by the oozing satisfaction of being curled almost all the way around Kurosaki. Two equally powerful sensations in opposition. Hunger and connection. What it feels like to Kurosaki is anyone's guess, but it distracts Grimmjow enough that he offers little in the way of token resistance once it becomes clear that Kurosaki is having no issues handling his dead weight.

Grimmjow's face doesn't turn when Kurosaki passes his packmate in the hallway. His face is pressed, soft cheeked to the strong muscle in Kurosaki's back, his eyes almost all the way closed. Settled for the time being by the resonant contentment of their shared contact.

But as with all good things in Grmmjow's death, they must come to and end.

He cracks an eye and sets his chin to Kurosaki's back to consider the floor. The bed is clearly the superior option. But he's not asking for it. Instead his laxity ends with a sharp snap of movement. Strong arms wrap around Kurosaki's waist, iron bars to hold himself flush against the shinigami's back, and he bites hard into the fleshly soft piece of Kurosaki's side between his hip bone and ribs.

Blood burst pop - slick and wet mouthfeel through the black fabric of his uniform. Bright pleasure on Grimmjow's tongue. He's a glut today, already too well fed from the overflow of Kurosaki's power running through his veins but he is never satiated and he drinks deeply from the well of power that burst forth.

The ice-pick of Kurosaki's irritation smooths back down as he speaks. Less offended once his target has been redirected, and part of Grimmjow is pleased that he still remembers how to do that. But that's the part of him that stalked Hueco Mundo before Aizen, and before pack, where sometimes he wasn't the biggest, baddest, hungriest thing around, and that Grimmjow is dead. He doesn't linger on it.

"Fuck you, don't lie, you love how I look." He looks fucking great. Feels sweaty and giddy, but the only reason Kurosaki knows that is cuz he's plugged in. And he must know if, cuz the brat gets a shoulder in his stomach just over his hollow hole and flips him up and over. Chest to back, thighs to chest.

Contact feels good. More than just his knuckles to bare skin. Feels more like he can melt inside of Kurosaki and share the burden. The silly little band makes distance pain, and now, for the first time today the final little niggle of discomfort in his chest relaxes, and his body with it. That's the good shit. So good that he decides Kisuke can live another hour.

He goes limp as dead weight. Makes Kurosaki do all the work while he breathes.

Maybe Kurosaki likes this whole thing. Doesn't seem to bother him as bad as it bothers Grimmjow. Probably he doesn't even notice the extra reiatsu. Might be noticing the rest of the everything else - 'xcept he feels all this crap all day every day. Normal for him too. Ugh. He's such a freak.

"Yer a freak." Grimmjow says out loud, and bullies his knuckles against the sharp crest of Kurosaki's hip bone. Keeps pushing until he gets the angle right and can feel the sharp pinch in his own hip. "Trynna get me in your bed? Per-vert."

[deivorous]

One of my earlier embroidery animations, this was my second one. I made sure that the designs were very simple, since I wanted this to be fairly long. The tangled thread is just purposefully messed up French knots.

[deivorous]

The ice-pick of Kurosaki's irritation smooths back down as he speaks. Less offended once his target has been redirected, and part of Grimmjow is pleased that he still remembers how to do that. But that's the part of him that stalked Hueco Mundo before Aizen, and before pack, where sometimes he wasn't the biggest, baddest, hungriest thing around, and that Grimmjow is dead. He doesn't linger on it.

"Fuck you, don't lie, you love how I look." He looks fucking great. Feels sweaty and giddy, but the only reason Kurosaki knows that is cuz he's plugged in. And he must know if, cuz the brat gets a shoulder in his stomach just over his hollow hole and flips him up and over. Chest to back, thighs to chest.

Contact feels good. More than just his knuckles to bare skin. Feels more like he can melt inside of Kurosaki and share the burden. The silly little band makes distance pain, and now, for the first time today the final little niggle of discomfort in his chest relaxes, and his body with it. That's the good shit. So good that he decides Kisuke can live another hour.

He goes limp as dead weight. Makes Kurosaki do all the work while he breathes.

Maybe Kurosaki likes this whole thing. Doesn't seem to bother him as bad as it bothers Grimmjow. Probably he doesn't even notice the extra reiatsu. Might be noticing the rest of the everything else - 'xcept he feels all this crap all day every day. Normal for him too. Ugh. He's such a freak.

"Yer a freak." Grimmjow says out loud, and bullies his knuckles against the sharp crest of Kurosaki's hip bone. Keeps pushing until he gets the angle right and can feel the sharp pinch in his own hip. "Trynna get me in your bed? Per-vert."

Kurosaki flexes.

Barely any movement at all. Hardly even counts as a threat, from where Grimmjow's standing. Just a tense, coil, release, flex of his reiatsu. Grimmjow's ears give a little - pop - and the air pressure changes.

Under normal circumstances, Grimmjow would snarl in his face, grab the collar of his punk-ass uniform and flex right back. And then it'd be on. Fuckin' good ol' fashioned violence. Throwing down right here in the dirt until their both bloody and sore and bruised up good and blue.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and Grimmjow only gets as far as fisting his fingers over the edge of Kurosaki's collar, the backs of his fingers against bare chest. His circuits are at max capacity trying to handle Kurosaki's reiatsu additional load and then he overloads. Arterial gush. White vision. Locked knees. Clenched teeth. Closed fist. Wide eyes.

Even pulling his own reiatsu as small as possible, all the way under his skin doesn't leave enough room for Kurosaki's beating heart. He can't quite tell if he's flying or dying.

Moment over - Grimmjow sags. Locked legs, but the giddy sensation unbalances him. He hisses a breath through the gridlock of his teeth and tries not to let himself float away. Out, and In. He could take a bite right outta the air. Swallow that down and be fed for a month. It was just a little flex.

"Runnin' from K's'ke," he slurs, and blinks his eyes hard. He's got his face braced against Kurosaki. He doesn't feel big enough to fling a threat back.No matter that he goes toe to toe with Kurosaki every other fucking day. No matter that he's beating Kurosaki into the ground just as many times as the favor has been returned. He doesn't very big at all, but this is when it matters most. When your weak is when you can't afford to be, and he's no one's dinner.

He draws his spine straight and fixes his glare before Kurosaki can see his face and shoves hard at the shinigami's shoulder, steps closer anyway with a snarl. "You just gonna let him do this to us? Tie us up and kick us out? Yer runnin' like a little bitch. I'm going back there, yer coming."

[deivorous]

Kurosaki flexes.

Barely any movement at all. Hardly even counts as a threat, from where Grimmjow's standing. Just a tense, coil, release, flex of his reiatsu. Grimmjow's ears give a little - pop - and the air pressure changes.

Under normal circumstances, Grimmjow would snarl in his face, grab the collar of his punk-ass uniform and flex right back. And then it'd be on. Fuckin' good ol' fashioned violence. Throwing down right here in the dirt until their both bloody and sore and bruised up good and blue.

But these aren't normal circumstances, and Grimmjow only gets as far as fisting his fingers over the edge of Kurosaki's collar, the backs of his fingers against bare chest. His circuits are at max capacity trying to handle Kurosaki's reiatsu additional load and then he overloads. Arterial gush. White vision. Locked knees. Clenched teeth. Closed fist. Wide eyes.

Even pulling his own reiatsu as small as possible, all the way under his skin doesn't leave enough room for Kurosaki's beating heart. He can't quite tell if he's flying or dying.

Moment over - Grimmjow sags. Locked legs, but the giddy sensation unbalances him. He hisses a breath through the gridlock of his teeth and tries not to let himself float away. Out, and In. He could take a bite right outta the air. Swallow that down and be fed for a month. It was just a little flex.

"Runnin' from K's'ke," he slurs, and blinks his eyes hard. He's got his face braced against Kurosaki. He doesn't feel big enough to fling a threat back.No matter that he goes toe to toe with Kurosaki every other fucking day. No matter that he's beating Kurosaki into the ground just as many times as the favor has been returned. He doesn't very big at all, but this is when it matters most. When your weak is when you can't afford to be, and he's no one's dinner.

He draws his spine straight and fixes his glare before Kurosaki can see his face and shoves hard at the shinigami's shoulder, steps closer anyway with a snarl. "You just gonna let him do this to us? Tie us up and kick us out? Yer runnin' like a little bitch. I'm going back there, yer coming."

The moment the proximity restriction kicks in, it’s like being hooked by the ribs and reeled in like a goddamn fish. The pressure builds fast—crippling, suffocating, unbearable—before the bands catch and snap him back a few inches.

Ichigo hisses through his teeth, ignoring the way it feels like someone’s taking a rusty hacksaw to his bones. Could be worse. Could be on the ground in blinding, full-body agony.

That call comes from behind him just as he’s trying his absolute hardest to pretend the bastard tied to him at the soul doesn’t exist.

He clicks his tongue, head snapping toward Grimmjow. The pressure immediately eases.

Fuck’s sake. “What?”

Then the horn blares.

Grimmjow straight-up jolts like someone just stabbed an ice pick through his eardrum.

Ichigo flinches. What the hell?

He knew Grimmjow had good hearing, but not like that.

Pushing out a slow breath, he finally gives the arrancar a real look. And—shit.

Grimmjow’s off. Unsteady.

And now that Ichigo’s stopped long enough to see it, he can feel it too. A wrongness running just under the surface, a coiled tension in the way the hollow stands.

“Hey…”

The word leaves his mouth before he figures out what the hell to follow it up with. But before he can sink any deeper into concern, Grimmjow’s already snapping at him.

Ichigo squints then stomps right back into his space. The pressure lessens then disappears and he tries not to resent it.

“Why the hell not? That’s where all my shit is, so unless you’re volunteering your place—” he stabs a finger at Grimmjow, voice sharpening, “not an option, fuckface.”

And now that Grimmjow’s called it ‘running,’ the asshole’s basically trapped him. Ichigo’s teeth grind, his reiatsu flexing with his irritation. “Don't jerk yourself off. Why the hell would I ever run from you?”

[deivorous]

Grimmjow waking every day at 4am to style his hair

[deivorous]

Kurosaki's hand-prints burn warm through his shirt and Grimmjow's tongue is too fat in his mouth to retort. Reduced to the language of his days prowling silent, haunted sand dunes, a snarls and swipes at Kurosaki. He's slow, of course. Lagging behind in the wake of the too-much, too-loud, too-heavy. Kurosaki is already off of him and gone by the time his claws find the air and he rolls himself to his knees and drunkenly staggers back to his feet.

Come on.

Pantera is limp in his hand and he considers his wrist again. Considers it real good and hard when Ichigo doesn't stop storming off and the pain cinches behind his breastbone again. A bitch on Kurosaki's leash. And ultimately, he is a bitch, cuz he doesn't cut the damn thing off at the forearm.

He doesn't move either, feet planted like he's bracing for impact. Too little too late, impact already struck and he's still reeling in the aftermath. He'd like it to stop now. Still high as the fucking moon and having the worst goddamn trip of his life. Last place he wants to be is inside Kurosaki's den. Nowhere to go once he's inside. There's walls and shit. There's shinigami. Kurosaki lives there. He doesn't wanna be there.

"Oi." He says.

A car honks loudly in retort and he flinches at the sound.

Kurosaki isn't concerned about inviting him in, but he sure as shit should be. Or maybe he's just not thinking about it. He's quieter now, but he was never on the same ride as Grimmjow. He's not smaller, not more... palatable. But the house distracted him. Angry still, but working at it like a bone. Like he's trying to swallow it down for whoever's waiting inside. The first familiar sensation since this whole thing started.

Grimmjow focuses on that. Focuses on the orange smear and the quieting frustration and digs his feet in so he doesn't take a step. Knees are jelly, but they hold. His chest is tight and Kurosaki's pulse hammers behind his eyes.

"I ain't going in there, shit brains." He's going back to the shoten. He's going to beat Kisuke until the bastard fixes this. And if he can't, then he's going back to Hueco Mundo, where it's quiet.

The distance between the door and Grimmjow isn't far enough to drop them, but if he were to turn and sonido for the shoten, he'd definitely not make it more than a few blocks before the little piece of ribbon brings him to his knees. "Don't run away."

Disorienting isn’t even the right word. He lands on Grimmjow and simultaneously feels his back hit the ground, head cracking. He throws a leg over to straddle Grimmjow then struggles blindly—through too many sensations—as he tries to keep the position.

“Cut off your own damn arm, asshole!” 

Except that’s not any better. His own words barely register over the mess of sensations scrambling his brain. What the fuck did Urahara do to them?

He’s so used to seeing with his eyes and his spiritual sense, it’s like he’s gone half blind relying only on his physical vision, because he can’t trust what he’s feeling.

Then something shifts, and it sure as hell isn’t just adrenaline. A hot, wet, sliding sensation coils inside his gut, threading through him like a slow electric charge. His whole middle shivers, a traitorous tremor he’s too overwhelmed to control.

Ichigo clenches his teeth, breath stuttering, his body lighting up like a match, even as his brain is screaming at it to cut the shit. His muscles tense, instinct warring with instinct.

Fuck. Just—fuck. 

Is it him? Or is it Grimmjow getting off on the mix of contact and violence?

The thought sends another pulse of something sharp through him, rattling him so hard a gasp escapes—better than the sound that almost follows, the low, shuddering moan clawing its way up his throat. 

Grimmjow’s struggling like he wants to tear the whole damn world apart, every muscle wound tight, his body a live thing beneath Ichigo. The sheer too-muchness of it makes Ichigo feel like he’s being swallowed, dragged under by something bigger than himself. His head spins. His pulse pounds.

Then—just as fast—it stops.

Everything peters out in an instant, like a wire cut mid-spark.

Grimmjow collapses, crushing his face into Ichigo’s hair, and Ichigo doesn’t even try to fight it, because—holy shit, he can breathe again.

His vision swims back into focus just in time to register the cane tip hovering over his face. Urahara.

Then, before he can blink, reality bends.

The world distorts, his stomach lurches, and for one awful, vertigo-laced second, he’s weightless, warped through space like a piece of trash tossed out the back of a moving car.

The clinic slams into view.

Urahara fucking threw them out.

Ichigo shoots upright on his perch, still half-grappling with Grimmjow, but his brain is already latching onto the bigger problem—they just got catapulted across the city.

“What the—” Ichigo twists, trying to get his bearings, then glares up at the sky. “Great. Just fucking great.” He drags a hand down his face, scowling harder. “I hope you’re happy with yourself, you manic freak.”

He plants both hands on Grimmjow’s chest and shoves, forcing himself to his feet with a muttered curse. His body still feels like it’s made of static, his skin buzzing with leftover charge, but there’s no time to unpack that particular crisis.

He starts stomping toward his house, not bothering to check if Grimmjow’s following. “If you toss any more ceros while we’re here, I swear to fuck I’ll kick you in the balls.”

Ichigo gestures, voice dripping with irritation. “Come on. I need to shower the arrancar smell off me.”

[deivorous]

The smear of colors spins. He knows how to fight. Half dead, incensed, drugged to the nines, he knows how to fight. This should be no exception. He lashes out - Pantera's pushed up and away, can't use her - knee up, in the soft guts, looses his own breath on impact. Tastes more blood, his tongue still weeping, coughs, staggers, tries to roll their weight.

Two hands is too much contact. Kurosaki's body flush to his is a tipping point the rest of the way over the cliff face he was clinging to. He goes down hard and flat in a sprawl of useless limbs. One of their skulls bounces off the tatami. Not even that hard. The inside of, he thinks it's his, thigh gets pinched between a bony knee and the floor. They roll.

His fist is tight around Pantera.

Kurosaki's fist is tight around his wrist.

He's on his back. His mouth is open and spits Kurosaki's hair. An elbow catches on the side of his waist and Kurosaki isn't careful enough to keep it out of his hole and he shivers and bucks about it, turns his head to the side and scrapes his teeth in retaliation over the fragile pulse in Kurosaki's temple. His heel - Kurosaki's heel? - kicks over the mat beneath them. He jerks against the hand holding him down and pulls at Kurosaki's wrist and can't quite figure out which limbs are his and which are Kurosaki's. He feels like he's underwater, drowning, disconnected from his own meat and bone.

Still buzzing. Ants under his hierro. Everything feels numb and floaty and disconnected. He's panting. He can't catch a full breath.

He thinks of Aizen's long white table, and kneeling in front of a dozen hungry eyes, and how he couldn't breathe then, either.

Get off, get off, get it off, get it off, getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff -

His snarl turns to a silent wheezing laugh under the crush of Kurosaki's weight over him, and Kurosaki's weight inside of him. And the fucking prick doesn't even have the decency to taste of anything other than salty sweat. He should taste like a supernova. He feels like a supernova. Nuclear. Boom, boom. All the time? Is he like this all the time?

He fits his nose to the pulse point in Kurosaki's temple instead and grinds it there until he feels the pinch himself. His arm with the band is pinned between their chests, but the elbow is gone from his hole. He should throw Kurosaki through a building.

"Guh," He articulates, and Pantera hums in his hand, half way to release when Kisuke's cane taps him between the eyebrows and his own reiatsu fizzes away from his grip, caught up in the maelstrom of Kurosaki's power.

He glares up at green-blob-kisuke and bares his bloodied teeth.

"Resourceful as you are, Grimmjow-kun, gnawing off your own limb won't help you escape the snare." Grimmjow catches maybe every third word. "Now, if you could kindly refrain from further damaging my home?"

Then the shinigami does a kido thing with his cane and his weird haiku's and the tatami that had been cushioning his back is replaced with the cold, gritty asphalt of Kisuke's driveway and his hair is wet in an oil-slicked puddle.

Grimmjow is growling, snarling. Ichigo can feel the reverberation of it in the hollow of his chest.

Ichigo flinches, lifting his palms when they sting and pricks of red slice into existence.

He clicks his tongue, but that’s cut next.

His mouth fills with blood.

Fuck. He swallows it. “Dammit, Grimmjow. You passive aggressive, asshole—“

Which isn’t right at all. Grimmjow isn’t passive anything. The thought has him glancing back over his shoulder. At the sight, pale blue hair, unfocused eyes, a pleasant hum zips through his limbs. One that he doesn’t want to feel. Just looking at him has Ichigo vibrating with too many emotions to catalog.

And he’s so fucking sore everywhere.

All he wants to do is drag himself home, climb into his body, and recuperate. And then maybe—maybe— process. But he can’t. Not without taking Grimmjow along.

He blinks, stiffens, at how close Grimmjow suddenly is. Like standing next to a live wire, he feels his flesh break out in chills.

Those fingers close around his wrist, and he should shake the grip off. He’s going to… Except there’s a sudden warm buzz spreading out from that firm hold. Ichigos brow furrows and his nose wrinkles as he realizes he hasn’t tried shaking him off because he half expects Grimmjow to have a functional idea.

What he’s not expecting is that sword to come out.

“Oh the hell you are!”

He can’t draw his sword properly with the opposite hand, the angle is all wrong, so he snaps his left hand up to catch Grimmjow’s other wrist. Hes almost ashamed to admit he’s not as concerned about the arm as he is that crushing, shattering pressure. Like the weight of the universe coming down on his head.

For a second, all he can think of are bound fighters, circling, tied together at the arm and waving knives.

Without thinking, he tackles him, shoving Grimmjow’s sword up so he doesn’t get run through.

[deivorous]

.

[deivorous]

He's going to explode from the inside out. Or pop. Or be crushed. Or, or, or something something. He doesn't know. He's never felt anything like this before. This complete. This full. He wants to laugh. He wants to puke. He's vision is a smear of color and he squints but none of it comes back into focus.

Kisuke's somewhere. Can't see him. Can't feel him. Might be able to smell him, but the whole place reeks of him, when the cat-bitch isn't stinking it out. Makes him nervy - all of him is nervy right now. Live wire. Lit up. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzed. Is this how Kurosaki lives? Every day?

How does he do anything. Grimmjow's pretty sure he can't feel his feet on the ground except that when Kurosaki yanks, he steps and there's gotta be something solid under there, cuz he doesn't fall.

He blinks hard. Orange somewhere in front of him - exactly where he knows every inch of Kurosaki's flesh is. Vision a blur, hearing a high pitched whine the same frequency as Kurosaki's reiatsu vibrates at, an icepick on the inside of his skull, scraping against the bone, if he opens his mouth he thinks the same sound might come from his throat. Or something worse.

There is a sound there now. A low grade snarl that revs like an engine, in and out with every breath and between everything else, he can't quite clamp the noise into submission.

The only thing he knows is that Kurosaki is in front of him. Smeared orange. Buzzing reiatsu. Pulling yanking, split lip, sore ribs (Grimmjow's doing, he got a shin in there hard and fast) angry angry - Grimmjow can feel that through the - in the pit of his hole, he can feel that. Not as angry as Kurosaki can get - not as angry as Grimmjow's seen others - but the sensation is the most potent emotion Grimmjow's every felt. All the way human. All the way real.

And in his mouth. He can taste the blood. But he can taste Kurosaki too. Like he sunk his teeth in real good and took a huge bite. Bit from the moon itself. Fuck, fuck. He feels sick. He feels high. Fuck - his claws bite into his palms and his teeth find the fat wet of his tongue and the giggle dies there with a burst of fresher blood. Almost distracted by the taste, but not really, cuz Kurosaki feels him bite too, and he feels Kurosaki feel him bite and the sensation echoes back and forth and back and forth in the space between them. Too wide.

Kisuke's still here somewhere, he tries to remind himself but the thought dies under the sensory overload.

The whole floor rolls under him and the tugging sensation drags him another step forward until he's nearly right on top of Kurosaki. As close as he'll let himself get. He doesn't want to be any closer. Any closer, any more, and he really might disintegrate or something awful.

Kurosaki is so much bigger that he should be. So much bigger than Grimmjow, or Aizen, or anyone else. His bones are fucking vibrating.

He can barely string a thought together. He's following instructions on auto-pilot. Go there. Walk there. Whenever he does that it hurts. Kurosaki is full of stupid ideas. Stupid, painful ideas. Why the fuck does he want to do that when instead he could just sit here and buzz and float and laugh, what the shit Kurosaki. What the actual shit.

Ooooh hoh he is not okay. Kisuke is such a cunt. He should definitely kill him, when he can see straight again. When he comes down off the fucking heroin that is Kurosaki's unfiltered, unrestricted, unrestrained pumping through his veins. He has a fucking pulse.

"We tried your way, fuckhead." Too many words. He's pretty sure he says them all right though.

Kurosaki's hand is down to the right. Right hand. Right wrist. Doesn't need to see or smell or feel to know it's right there. He grabs it - left hand, left wrist. Matching black ribbon around the skinny bit.

Sucks to be Kurosaki, but Grimmjow's lost the left hand before and it was fine. Still beat Kurosaki into the ground about it. If cutting the ribbon doesn't work, they'll just have to sacrifice the whole arm.

He draws Pantera.

@deivorous

This was, undeniably, the worst thing Urahara had ever done to him.

Ichigo already knew the man was an unhinged lunatic. That had been clear since the day the bastard threw him into a pit and told him to climb out before he turned into a Hollow. But this? 

This was next-level bullshit.

Urahara’s apparent idea of conflict resolution was to slap a metaphysical leash and muzzle on them and call it a day. A leash that, apparently, also links their goddamn souls together.

He glares down at the thick, black band cinched around his wrist, resisting the urge to gnaw it off like a trapped animal. It’s simple at first glance—just stitched, leathery fabric infused with kido—but the moment it’s touched, he can feel it. Like something alive, like it’s watching, breathing against his skin.

Removing it hadn’t gone well the first time he’d tried slicing it off. Not because the fabric wouldn’t cut—it did. The moment Zangetsu’s edge touched it, the band split clean through. But before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they were both on the ground. The second it tore, a sharp, crushing force squeezed his chest—hard enough to throw him to his knees, hard enough that for a split second he thought his goddamn heart was stopping.

The next thing he saw as his eyes blinked open was wooden sandals. Then the band was back on. 

Ichigo hadn’t realized what happened at first, but then he saw the blood at the corner of Grimmjow’s mouth—blood that he felt in his own throat—and it clicked.

What hurt one of them, hurt both of them. 

Ichigo tongues his fat lip. That one is his own fault. He’d thrown the first punch, and the fist that should’ve done nothing more than bust Grimmjow in the jaw, had sent pain spiking through his own mouth. 

Worth it though. Grimmjow had deserved that one. 

Ichigo exhales sharply, like it’ll do anything to lessen the weight of the arrancar’s reiatsu that curls under his skin. Grimmjow’s energy shouldn’t feel like this—shouldn’t sit in his bones like hot steel, shouldn’t thrum against his pulse like something trying to sync up.

Then there was the time they’d tried just walking away. 

Pain.

Immediate, brutal, bone-deep pressure.

Like something pressing down on his chest with the weight of a fucking building, squeezing his lungs until his ribs threatened to splinter. That was what happened if they got too far apart. A dull pressure that built into agony if either of them so much as dared to leave shouting distance from the other. 

A city block was difficult. Two was impossible. 

Ichigo doesn’t have to look to know exactly where Grimmjow is behind him, because his reiatsu is too goddamn close, crawling through Ichigo’s veins like a second pulse.

He knows because when Grimmjow twitches, Ichigo twitches.

He knows because if Grimmjow gets too far, the bands will try to drag them back together.

And if they resist?

It will fucking hurt.

The rules, as explained by that smug, sandal-wearing menace of a shopkeeper, were simple: The bands keep them linked. No matter how much they fight, they can’t be more than a certain distance apart without the bands reacting.

If one of them dies, the other follows. No tricks, no loopholes. If Grimmjow keels over in a ditch somewhere, Ichigo drops too.

If they try to remove the bands? Their souls get crushed from the inside out.

The more they resist the bond, the worse the punishment.

So, essentially?

Their souls were tied together—with a dose of the corporeal just for fun. Or, as Urahara so casually put it, “A happy little exercise in cooperation!”

Ichigo has never wanted to throttle him more.

And the worst part?

It was entirely their fault.

Because they wouldn’t stop fighting.

The final straw started as an argument. Which, with Grimmjow, meant a barely-contained brawl waiting to happen.

Ichigo didn’t even remember what the hell set them off. Probably something stupid. But next thing he knew, fists were flying, walls were breaking, and at some point Grimmjow might have tried to throw a cero at his head.

And then Urahara got involved.

With this.

Ichigo exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, feeling the pull of the band, the way it tugs not-even-subtly toward Grimmjow.

His eye twitches.

No. Fuck that.

If he’s going to be on a goddamn supernatural leash with a feral, territorial menace for the foreseeable future, he’s going to be able to use his own damn hand when he wants.

So he shakes the tingle out of his arm and yanks.

“You’re cutting off my circulation.”

[deivorous]

[deivorous]

i love menos aesthetics

[deivorous]

thinking about my hockey player grimmjow and how he definitely goes tarp off in post game interviews

[deivorous]

[deivorous]

….Listen….I’m just a girl and my head is filled with hot Bleach men at all times, SORRY.

I might make this kiss marks thing a series with the Bleach boys, but not totally sure lol

(I gave him a tattered jacket cause he was fighting with you or smthn when you started kissing him out of fear and horniness mid-fight, then you ran and hid in a cave lmao idk)

[deivorous]

I am alive! just extremely art blocked. but I managed to pull myself out of it long enough to give grimmjow some piercings, a cigarette, and a questionable t-shirt.

[deivorous]

Grumpy little murder kitty. He's ferocious. FIGHT HIM KUROSAKI!

[deivorous]

Yo. It's been a while, Kurosaki.

BLEACH: THOUSAND-YEAR BLOOD WAR ARC The Conflict — EP. 397: Against the Judgement