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Grimmjow knows, technically, that there’s no such thing as being pulled through the Garganta. Rather, the damned thing is pretty resistant on the best of days. But that fact does nothing to change the way he feels the pull in his fucking bones, intangible flesh dragged along for the ride as he races through the hungry void, hurtling away from the evergrowing pile of Halibel’s royal fucking decrees about what things can’t be anymore and all Nelliel’s stony, complacent fucking nods of agreement as their world shrinks and warps into a pathetic imitation of what used to be their enemy.
Of course he’s perfectly aware of the irony in what he's heading toward at full speed, with the gaps between realms licking at his feet, aching to swallow him into the abyss, is also a former enemy. At least with Kurosaki there’s no need to pretend that they are anything but precisely that. No diplomacy, no politeness, just steel tickling at his claws and snarling, choking, heady spiritual energy countering his own. Everything - the only thing - he needs.
Grimmjow can sense the shinigami as soon as that gaping maw spits him onto the crumbling asphalt outside Kisuke’s shop. The plan was to ask the creepy shopkeeper where he might find Kurosaki, but by the feel of it, the guy is right beneath his feet, monstrous reiatsu roaring louder than all those kidō barriers could ever hope to mask. At least at this proximity. At least from Grimmjow. Gritting his teeth and pulling his human-adjacent mouth into a mean grin, Grimmjow steps inside the shop, making a beeline for the entrance to Kisuke’s subterranean playground and the beast that awaits him in its depths.
“Wouldn’t go down there right now if I were you.”
Yoruichi is lounging on a windowsill, glossy black fur shining dark fire and gold in a beam of sunlight.
“And why the fuck not?”
“Those two can work up quite the blast zone between them. Shouldn’t be much longer though, they’ve been at it for a while.”
Only then does Grimmjow sense that there is, in fact, another spiritual signature pulsing and flaring along with Kurosaki’s. One that is significantly weaker, he thinks with disgust, enough so that he’d chalked it up to being part of the general shinigami reek that permeates every room inside and underneath the shop. That’s when he starts to feel something shifting inside of himself, blood draining away like the coastline before a tidal wave, sand pulled along with it, parting around his toes and sinking him into the muck, all the unsightly creatures of the ocean suddenly exposed, trying and failing to squirm away in the mudflats.
Yoruichi is reduced to such a thing now, easily picking up on the change in his spiritual pressure and eyeing him warily, as she should.
“He been doing this often?” Grimmjow hears himself ask, and he thinks he can see it now, distantly, a wall of liquid red rising up on the horizon.
“Sparring with the pineapple head? More often lately, since it seems Rukia’s gotten quite busy. Sometimes it’s with the bald one, though,” The oncoming wave is gradually drowning out Yoruichi’s voice, to the point where he barely even hears her “why?” as he pushes forward, each step heavy with the feeling of phantom wet sand trying to pull him down.
Grimmjow forces his feet forwards, to the hatch leading down to the basement. Upon opening it, he feels the familiar blast of Kurosaki’s reiatsu right in his face, like poking your head into a wind tunnel - except the two figures exchanging blows of energy are all the way at the other end of the huge space, and neither of them even notice him enter.
The fucking rat that Kurosaki apparently regularly spends his energy on is wielding something huge, skeletal and serpentine, with a completely illogical mane as red as his own hair. That’s the only red on him, both of them apparently under some agreement to not draw blood because there’s no chance in hell that he’s just that good.
Kurosaki certainly looks no less worn than he does, nothing on him but sweat and a single slash to the impractically flowy sleeve of his kosode.
Even as Grimmjow fails to see what the purpose of fighting while holding back that much could possibly be, the vertebrae of the red-headed shinigami’s weapon suddenly extend. Bright flares of reiryoku hold each piece of metaphysical bone together as the gaping serpentine skull charges toward Kurosaki — and the little shit only laughs approvingly as he leaps backwards out of reach, clearly unsurprised by the zanpakutō’s ability.
Never before has Grimmjow had the opportunity to take him in like this. To see the bright grin and deadly grace with which he sends off a signature getsuga tenshō, without the distraction of dodgeing or risking a fucking arm. Kurosaki is shining, but all Grimmjow can think about is how puny his getsuga was. How he shouldn’t be sporting just a sweaty smile. He should be pushed, shredded, wrecked until that mouth spits crimson and smirks so grim and hungry that Grimmjow knows he’s about to get it.
All he can think about is how Kurosaki’s opponent isn’t him.
The crimson wave is finally crashing down, roaring in his ears as he flicks at Pantera's guard, sliding the blade a few inches from the scabbard at his hip and slicing open his palm on her white glass edge. Immediately he can feel reiatsu bubbling out of his skin along with the indulgent gush of blood, mixing and shimmering as Pantera clicks back into place; building up into a beautiful ball of destruction, growing larger and more unstable by each crackling millisecond.
Time slows just as he’s about to utter those three special words - gran rey cero - and sees Kurosaki’s orange mess of hair whipping in his direction, brown eyes finding his and widening until his pale sclera are showing all around. Lips part around a shout, wide enough to show his blunt little fangs and un-barbed tongue. His words are whipped away by the howling tempest of Grimmjow's reiatsu as it shrieks to a crescendo, dripping between his fingers as the blood is sucked up and melded into jaggedly whirring energy.
In fractured glimpses he watches the skeletal snake coil protectively around the red-head. Their intertwined figures seem to be moving further away, retreating to the absolute fringes of Grimmjow’s field of interest, curtained by the hissing static light swelling into a final pulse— and then Kurosaki shifts, hand flicking out from his ripped sleeve and driving the oversized curve of Zangetsu into the ground edge-outwards.
This getsuga hits more like a knife than a hammer for once; fast and direct enough that Grimmjow can't step out of it's path. He blinks, sees wild eyes flashing a visible gold even with the distance and interference between them, and then it is upon him. Grimmjow's grip and rage flutters under the swell of it, the force obsidian-sharp and vicious enough to make him stagger but not bend the knee - never again will he kneel for a shinigami - but it is painful and filling and the cero explodes in his palm before it can fire off as intended.
The blast of it curls around him, bright and burning, a caustic barrier from the alien black-red-blue abomination that is Kurosaki's reiatsu, but it can only do so much. The volatile mix of energies gouge at his hierro, crashing across the dirt floor, and when the smoke and unsettled dust starts to clear Grimmjow is left grinding his teeth until the external jawbone makes nasty sounds into the buzzing air, squinting past his scorched forearms, unmoving in a defensive stance.
"What the fuck," Kurosaki yells, hauling his massive blade over his shoulder and striding along the side of the veritable canyon he made with a single slice of his getsuga. It was smart of him to use the ground itself to aim, for once, secure the trajectory it would take. Kurosaki seems to not remember he can flash-step until a few seconds in, suddenly blurring into Grimmjow's face instead, the white-knuckled hand not gripping Zangetsu clenched in a fist like he wants the satisfaction of punching the arrancar point blank in the face rather than merely crossing swords. "What the actual fuck was that?!"
The red-head peeks over a boulder, fur around his shoulders ruffled and looking altogether confused and windswept. Just the sight of him in Grimmjow's peripherals - unwilling as he is to take his full focus away from Kurosaki's fierce expression - makes him flash red-hot inside like an underwater volcano, boiling and ready to cause another earthquake, another tsunami. He bares his teeth, but Kurosaki doesn't budge- doesn't even flinch.
“That was a fucking attack,” Grimmjow spits, mouth so twisted with rage that he can barely remember words, vocal chords threatening to revert into the snarling, quavering language of the desert. “Looked like you’d forgotten how to do it yourself from the way you were dancing around with that asshole behind you,” He points with his chin, keeping his eyes square on Kurosaki as the worm in question straightens up with a jolt, momentarily disappearing from view until he sidesteps the outcropping of rock to cross his arms indignantly.
“What the fuck was that, huh?" Grimmjow continues,“Who the hell is that guy?”
"No shit it was an attack, you— what, I'm not allowed to have a friendly spar, I gotta be fighting for my life at all times of the day?" Kurosaki's knuckles press into Grimmjow's sternum, the shinigami-but-more too pissed off to merely jab a finger into his hierro. His eyes are fierce, gaze lingering along Grimmjow's cheekbones. "Not fucking cool, you bastard, you could've killed me, or Renji - who happens to be my friend, actually - or brought the whole damn basement down around all of us, just because, what, you're gatekeeping sparring?"
The 'Renji' in question looks alarmed as it is, but he twitches when Kurosaki says his name and slides his sword into the scabbard at his hip, though notably he doesn't release the hilt. The skeletal whatever-it-was has vanished along with the fur resting atop his (perfectly intact) shihakushō. He coughs pointedly into his free hand and motions at the ladder with an awkward jerk when Kurosaki looks over at him, scowling fiercely.
"I'm just— uh, just gonna leave you to it."
Kurosaki waves a hand dismissively and his friend promptly disappears in a blur of shunpo, looking mighty relieved to not have to bear further witness.
“Hey,” Grimmjow barks, because Kurosaki isn’t looking at him except then he is, turning back into his space even though he never left it in the first place, hand digging right into him, eyes sparking with fresh anger as they meet his again and the split second contact reverberates between them like white noise in his head when Kurosaki spits another “What?” right into his face.
He can’t fucking focus in this proximity, can’t— wants to know why Kurosaki would want to waste his breath babying some goddamn shinigami friend (friends, multiple, going by what Yoruichi said) when Kisuke is perfectly able to open a garganta for him right here where they stand if a fight is what he’s after. None of that is leaving his mouth as long as Kurosaki keeps looking at him like that, keeps pushing at him, literally, with his soft, breakable knuckles and blunt useless nails.
“Don’t fucking touch—” he snaps, movements jerky with frustration as he grabs at Kurosaki’s wrist and yanks, pulling the substitute shinigami's hand out to the side.
"Fuck off, you tried to blow me up, I think I'm entitled to some goddamn answers!" Kurosaki snaps, but doesn't try to pull his hand free, just bares his little human teeth in defiance.
Grimmjow hasn't let him go; the grip on his wrist is too tight to be comfortable, but Kurosaki's bones stopped being quite so easily snapped long into their fragile arrangement, despite all appearances otherwise. Kurosaki’s exterior has always been shinigami, but inside Grimmjow thought they were the same, thinks it still as Kurosaki’s lips peel back in a proper snarl, like a real hollow. He’s only lacking the bass growl, the echo that rattles around in a hollow's hole. "The hell is your problem, couldn't wait ten minutes for your turn? Not everyone wants to tear their sparring partners into little shreds!"
“How many do you fucking have then?!” It’s not that he roars it at the top of his lungs or anything, but a bit too much emotion seeps in just then, a hint of betrayal a bit too frank to be overlooked. Kurosaki certainly picks up on something, the furrow between his eyebrows shifting from one of rage to something more confused.
“How many sparring partners? As many as I damn well feel like? I mean, not really any regular ones, my friends are pretty busy, but whoever asks I’ll pretty much… accept…” He asks like it’s a stupid question, like he’s trying to hold on to the anger flaring out so prettily just a moment ago, but in answering it his voice halters, quietens like he senses something bad incoming. “…Why?”
“So you’ll just go at it with fucking anyone,” Grimmjow summarizes, uncomprehending, his own fury rapidly draining away only to be replaced by something spiky and painful, “No matter how much you have to dial yourself down, how damn careful you have to – what’s the fucking point? I thought–”
No, not when Kurosaki is staring like he doesn’t have the faintest idea where Grimmjow is coming from. He bites his tongue, switching lanes.
“How can you settle like that?”
He thinks he does a pretty good job at keeping any stray desperation out of his voice, spits it good like Kurosaki just lowered himself to something beneath him.
It must work, because Kurosaki bristles again, shoulders flaring up and hand tensing back into a fist where Grimmjow's holding it away. "They're my friends, asshole, and it's fun to spar with different people. I learn things from them, regardless of who’s stronger, and I'd like to think they get something out of it too, practice against different opponents – what does it matter? Just because with you it's–" Kurosaki fumbles, tongue trapped between his teeth for a moment as he struggles to find his words, eyes flicking sideways like he's embarrassed, almost, some of the returning fire flares back out of him like hissing steam.
He yanks his arm a little and rolls his eyes when Grimmjow's fingers remain steel-tight around his wrist, resigning himself to remaining somewhat trapped for the time being. He scoffs, returning to his righteously offended scowl.
"Well, if you want a fucking fight you can have one, 'cause you've damn well pissed me off. For the record, throwing dangerous shit around at my unsuspecting friends is a great way to lose sparring privileges with me entirely, and maybe get the Seireitei on your dumb ass, not to mention Hat-n-clogs if you went and wrecked his damn training grounds. You're literally the only one who wants that much bloodshed in a practice fight. And I– look, if I didn't like it you'd fucking know about it, but that doesn't mean I don't also like a less intense spar every so often. Don’t you have anyone that you… go less hard with?”
Kurosaki barely has time to finish uttering the question before he’s rolling his eyes and mumbling the answer to himself, that no, obviously Grimmjow would try to permanently maim anyone willing to train with him. It’s enough to make Grimmjow’s hierro prickle with irritation, but at this point he’s in way too contrary of a mood to let it get to him. He merely curls his lip at Kurosaki as he squeezes the bones in his wrist harder, just to be a bastard.
“Matters ‘cause I don’t go sparring with anyone else. But don’t you worry about my damn privileges, Kurosaki, if there’s a fucking queue behind me I ain’t about to hold up the line.”
It’s not necessarily what he was intending to say, but it is what comes out. He lets go of Kurosaki’s wrist, all but throws his own limb back at him, because there’s still a very loud part of Grimmjow that does want to fight. That has him clenching his fist around nothing but his own cool skin. That is so tempted to swing his fist right at Kurosaki’s stupid face. But it’s not the only part of him and honestly, starting shit with the shinigami really doesn’t have the same ring to it when it turns out Kurosaki will fight fucking anyone who wants him.
“Hope you have a real good time not accidentally pricking a hole in any of your friends.”
Kurosaki swats at him almost immediately when he's finally released, grabs at his collar, effectively preventing Grimmjow from leaving easily. Not that he necessarily cares about tearing his clothes, but because Nelliel would get on his ass about being 'poorly presented' again, like they don't all exist in a desert where the sand is made entirely of the bones of weaklings consumed by their betters.
"Oi, ‘the hell does that mean? You– what about Nel? You don't even spar with her?" He seems genuinely confused, for what it's worth, lips thinning out from his scowl into a contemplative kind of expression. Grimmjow finds himself reluctant in meeting his eyes but he does so anyway, close enough to count his eyelashes, to watch the sweat from earlier drying at his temples.
"What, so she can berate me for every little fucking thing, call it quits as soon as shit starts getting good? Not the same. I don’t want to settle."
This is definitely the closest he’s been to Kurosaki without wanting the enjoyment of knocking the guy’s teeth in and it’s more than unnerving, feeling the fight go out of himself like that. Ironically there is an impulse to kick and claw his way out of the unfamiliar situation – his immediate instinct for most situations, honestly – but perhaps Nelliel actually is making progress with him somehow. Shit. Maybe he should just go back, kick her over the hooves a bit, see if he can get her to try and trample him.
“Thought it was the same for you.”
"You're feral," Kurosaki says, after a strangely long moment of just regarding Grimmjow evenly, assessing. It sounds so matter-of-fact that it doesn't edge on insulting or complimentary. "Which is why you're my favourite person to fight. But, Grimmjow, I can't only feed the feral side of myself by crossing swords with no one but you. I'll end up killing someone by accident if they surprise me or something."
He lets go of Grimmjow's collar – for a second Grimmjow thinks it must have something to do with how forcefully his heart started hammering in his chest over being called Kurosaki’s favourite (he’s competitive, that’s all), that Kurosaki somehow felt his pulse pounding at the back of his fingers through the fabric of his jacket – only to poke a finger into his chest with narrowed eyes.
"Y’know, you're weirdly possessive for a dude who's really insistent he doesn't have any sappy human emotions left in him. Why do I find that cute?” The question seems to be aimed more at Kurosaki himself than anything, because he only sighs and continues, “I definitely shouldn't encourage it, because I'm not going to stop sparring with my friends, as much as I enjoy fighting you."
Kurosaki scrunches his face up a little, lips pressed together all lopsided, the expression of someone who can't believe they're about to do something, and then grabs onto Grimmjow's collar again only to yank him down. It's sudden enough he doesn't resist it in time, instincts gone silent without any ill intent detected, and Kurosaki digs his teeth directly into Grimmjow's bottom lip, because, of course, he's just as feral as he claims the arrancar is, really.
It doesn’t hurt, Kurosaki’s front teeth aren’t exactly made to tear through hierro, it’s just… a bizarre course of action.
Grimmjow is too surprised to really do anything but open his eyes and stare at the shinigami in front of him, blushing up a storm as he gnaws at his lower lip. The arrancar's brows furrow as Kurosaki’s upper lip presses against his own, confusion warring with a strange sort of delight. His eyes gradually slide shut again as Kurosaki stops biting only to suck lightly at the place he just sunk his teeth into, just once, flicking his tongue over the spot before pulling back. Grimmjow’s mouth is buzzing as he blinks his eyes open once again, taking in the way Kurosaki’s blush now extends all the way to the tips of his ears. That was fucking weird. That was…
“What was that?”
“…A kiss?”
“Okay,” Grimmjow replies, in an ‘I guess’ kind of way.
Kurosaki gives him an odd look but seems to take his response in stride, summoning up some last shred of patience from within.
“If you want something from me that no one else has had, or… ever will have, then that’s– that’s pretty much it.”
Kurosaki huffs out a vaguely embarrassed breath of air – Grimmjow feels it against his mouth, aware of how his skin seems to tingle there, somewhere under the hierro – before drawing back slightly. His hand, however, is still gripping Grimmjow’s jacket collar lightly, as though unsure whether to hold on or release it.
“Oh,” Grimmjow hears himself say, mental cogs turning as he recontextualizes the extremely ineffective biting attempt he just experienced. “S’that mean I only get the one then?”
Kurosaki tsks and averts his eyes almost shyly, which looks absolutely atrocious on him, before resigning himself to vague amusement and finally releases Grimmjow's collar to loosely cross his arms in front of his chest instead. "No. You can have as many of those as you want. Unless it's in front of my sisters or something. That's just kinda weird."
There's a quiet moment where neither of them say anything, Kurosaki's gaze firmly fixed on Grimmjow's chest instead of his eyes. The tips of his ears are red. He clears his throat and shifts a little in place. "Do you still wanna fight?"
Grimmjow hums, pretending to think about it. "Dunno. Do you go telling everyone you spar with that they’re your favourite?"
"Wh— Of course n—" Kurosaki starts, eyes snapping up to Grimmjow’s face only to roll right back in his skull once the shinigami takes in his expression. "Smug asshole."
"Hmmm… Guess I can grant you some sparring privileges then."
"Bastard, I didn’t mean it like that," Kurosaki laughs, pushing at him without any real force behind it.
Grimmjow shoves him right back, a tad more forceful, and cackles when Kurosaki stumbles before regaining his balance. He’s almost too giddy to assume any proper stance, or focus his reiatsu into something usable. Definitely feels like he won something – take that, Benji.
Kurosaki grins back at him, sharper now, but his eyes are still warm. "C'mon then. Give it your best shot." He motions with one hand, a goading sort of 'come at me' gesture, the other one lifting to wrap around the hilt of his zanpakutō, slowly stepping backwards.
Grimmjow bounces on his heels, nervous energy working it's way through him with a sharp inhale. Reiatsu doesn't really have a scent, or a taste, but Kurosaki's feels, and the feeling is downright intoxicating. It washes over him as Kurosaki does the reiryoku equivalent of a stretch. He finds himself straining towards it where he stands and almost scoffs at himself for being so fucking whipped.
Slouching down, he takes one smooth step forwards as his hand ghosts over Pantera‘s sheath – and Kurosaki promptly takes off, whipping across the mock desert with its brand new crater.
Grimmjow, of course, is hot on his heels, indulging him momentarily, in a game of cat and mouse. His patience for it is only drawn from the certainty of real violence to come, seeing if Kurosaki's speed will win out against Grimmjow's anticipation, the way he can read the shift and pull of Kurosaki's reiatsu before the shinigami even makes a decision. This early into their spars, Kurosaki doesn't trust his own instincts, a bad habit Grimmjow has always hoped he'd get over. But now that he knows it's encouraged by Kurosaki’s other 'sparring partners', he'll just have to punish him for it.
It's a well-practiced play, this; Kurosaki, unlike proper hollows, has to be worked up into goring each other, eased into the brutality Grimmjow wants from him. His blade knows better. Whenever Grimmjow predicts a particular turn and slides ahead of Kurosaki, directly into his path with Pantera arcing a wicked path towards him, Zangetsu is already twisting to divert it, the flat of the blade causing Pantera to slide off in a shower of sparks between them.
Kurosaki slides backwards, Grimmjow steps forward and tries again. The shinigami dodges, this time, teases away from the white flash of Pantera’s hunger, takes the breather to flash-step away.
Grimmjow grinds his molars together – it’s not quite frustration. Closer to tightly wound desire, a need for bloodshed that wrings dry the small amount of patience he’d scraped together. Another day he might have humoured the man for longer, built up to the real violence all slow and polite about it, to see the sweeter smile Kurosaki wears sometimes if Grimmjow does something he classifies as playing nice –
But today that fucking rat already got to see it, and Grimmjow wants something that's his, so his free hand curls, clawlike, and he rakes sharp nails down his sword.
The swell of his reiatsu is met evenly by the not-too-distant black hole of Kurosaki’s bankai, devastatingly beautiful as it finds its critical mass and flares outwards, roaring and hollow-edged in the most delightful way. Makes Grimmjow feel right at home, drowns out that shinigami stink that stays cloying at the back of his throat whenever he enters Kisuke’s domain.
He adjusts his stance, finds the much more natural balance of his elongated resurrección, and darts sideways without thinking too hard about it. A getsuga arcs past him, only for the spiralling curl of a second one to stop him dead in his tracks, forcing him to kick off, hard, against a rocky outcrop to avoid the pincering swirl.
Grimmjow looks to his right with a glare, to where Kurosaki is perched on another one of the boulders that dot the landscape, only to be summarily blinded – chest thumping painfully – at the sight of the wide grin he receives, black sclera spiralling around the honey-brown he's used to seeing. It’s positively offensive how elegant Kurosaki looks as he spins his zanpakutō by the chain links attached to the hilt; a deadly obsidian blur.
"Like it? See, when you let me practice with other people, I get to figure out new stuff to use against you."
Grimmjow snaps his teeth at him – stomach swooping at the phrasing, allowing Kurosaki to do anything – his ears twitching at the delighted laugh he receives in response, and then snaps his teeth again, this time around a bala. It clips right across the top of the boulder where Kurosaki had been standing. Grimmjow quickly finds himself arching backwards into a bridge as Zangetsu spears over him, narrowly missing the armor plating of his chest.
He flips, easy, grabs the black chain that's drawn taut over him, far far longer than he's ever seen it be before, only for the signature howl of a getsuga to teach him that that's a very bad idea. Black and red energies scream along the length of chain, narrowly missing his open palm as he swiftly releases it - he forgets, sometimes, how very attached shinigami are to their zanpakutō. It’s not simply an extension of themselves like an arrancar's.
Kurosaki hauls Zangetsu back, but it’s enough time for Grimmjow to get close to him, ducking down and kicking out at his ankles.
Kurosaki jumps, just as predicted, a little flare of reiatsu kicking up the sand around them as Grimmjow smoothly transitions into a lunge for the shinigami’s unprotected torso.
Kurosaki curses under his breath, twists as soon as Zangetsu's hilt finally secures itself in his grasp, which is not soon enough to completely repel sharp claws. Grimmjow leaves deep lacerations along Kurosaki’s side, across his ribs and leaving the stupid, billowy robes hanging half open over his stomach.
"Thank fuck I don't have to pay for repairs," the shinigami mutters, which, Grimmjow clearly isn't pushing him hard enough if he has the energy to spare for witty comments. He doubles down on his attack, pivoting immediately with an upward strike at Kurosaki's face.
He catches Zangetsu instead, feels the blade dig into the plating over his fingers and drops again as the second swing whistles over his head. He's vaguely aware of a grin peeling his lips back from his teeth and gums, but Kurosaki still isn't matching it yet. He turns in place to avoid a liquid-quick downward swing wreathed in the black blood devastation of an unfired getsuga, his tail lashing out at Kurosaki’s unprotected wrist and slicing deeply through the skin.
Blood sprays. More than the gouges along his ribs. Kurosaki abruptly releases the hilt of his sword with his wounded hand, jerking it outwards, droplets of blood hitting Grimmjow right in his face.
He used to have nictitating membranes, back when he lived four legs in white sand, but he doesn't now, and so blinks furiously when crimson hits him in the eye, hissing and backpedalling for the brief second his vision is impaired.
Left, his instincts sing, so he spins, and then flips, tucking himself small in the air as a hiss of metal so sharp it's practically cutting the heavy reiatsu around them rushes past. His knuckles dig harshly into his eye and he blinks once more as he lands - the irritation finally removed - only to snarl as Zangetsu slides across the top of his shoulder.
"Damn," Kurosaki says, black chain links rattling ominously in Grimmjow's sensitive ears, his smile yawning wide like death, "Gotta work on my aim."
The getsuga slices along the same path as the blade, although distinctly less shallow, all familiar burning reiatsu; the best meal he’s ever sampled and the largest scar he's never healed.
He yowls, briefly paralysed, then lurches sideways with a snarl, blood seeping down between the divots of his armor, smearing between the flexible interlocking pieces. He spares a brief second to examine the charred flesh left on display, then darts forward again, spurred on by the mutual bloodshed.
Grimmjow isn't sure how long, exactly, they spend trying to tear each other apart. Kurosaki has long gone from civil to unhinged, unhesitating and gorgeous in his frenzy. Grimmjow would think blood loss should pose a genuine problem for the shinigami after a certain point, but Kurosaki doesn't slow, or falter, or show any sign of weakness. He meets Grimmjow head on with a hungry sort of joy that's utterly hollow. He'd bet all the souls he's ever eaten on that fact.
For all of Kurosaki's obscene reiatsu and learning curve, however, Grimmjow has more experience by far; more in his element in resurrección than Kurosaki is with his separate-from-himself sword. And so it's not an unusual outcome when he takes the other by surprise and pins him down amongst the cracked boulders and scorched dirt of their playground.
What is unusual is Kurosaki's reaction. Usually an easy enough give (with Zangetsu pressing to Grimmjow’s throat to discourage any urges to devour his prey), this time he falters. On the defensive, Zangetsu managed to slip directly into Grimmjow's hollow hole during the pin, and it freezes there. Kurosaki is wide-eyed underneath him on the sand; grip tight on the hilt so the blade doesn't waver and slice into his vulnerable insides – coincidentally leaving his soft throat completely exposed to Grimmjow's teeth.
"You're fucking stupid. Your dumbass human need to protect people and not hurt 'em or whatever. It’s gonna get you killed. ‘Specially not wanting to hurt me." Grimmjow's tone is derisive, intentionally so, sneering down at the shinigami pinned below him, clawed hands gripping his slim shoulders. He's so strange, like this. All of Kurosaki fits under him, especially in his resurrección, and it's odd to picture him defeating anyone at all, let alone Aizen. Soft and malleable. Pretty. Stupid.
Kurosaki narrows his eyes, some of the panicked tension (not panic for his own safety, because that's just far too logical isn't it?) leaving him, although Zangetsu doesn't waver.
"Yeah,” He huffs, he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet, “It probably will. What’re you gonna do about it?"
Grimmjow lets out a huff of his own, all amusement and frustration, because this living little thing has completely mixed up when to keep going and when to back down. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever.
He looks Kurosaki over, caught there underneath his weight. His own blood spattered against his chin, a shallow gash across his forehead bleeding sluggishly, his sweat slowly washing away the grime from all the shockwaves that whipped dirt and pulverized rock into the air, hair matted with god knows what at this point. So much worse for wear. So much better than what that red-head could do for him.
And Kurosaki knows it too, grinning crookedly up at him, breathing heavy. Gleeful, taunting, satisfied.
Only now does Grimmjow really accept that what Kurosaki said earlier really wasn’t just an attempt to placate him. This is mutual. He rewards Kurosaki for his good taste – when it comes to favourites, at least – by leaning down and chomping on the guy’s mouth hard enough to draw blood.
“Mmmf— ouch!” is the response he earns, Kurosaki twisting his head to the side to escape the piercing bite. Grimmjow lets him, albeit reluctantly, licking crimson from his teeth with relish.
"I taught you wrong," Kurosaki laments, pulling one hand from the hilt of his bankai to press against his lower lip. He spends a moment looking at his red-stained fingers with a resigned expression before reaching up to wipe them against Grimmjow’s crown and grip the edges of the bone, pulling him back down. Long blue hair matted with coagulating blood and dust falls down around them like a rancid curtain. Kurosaki's lower lip is bleeding at a decent pace, and he's so gentle about it, delicate pressure as he slides their mouths together.
Grimmjow mimics it as best he can, though he still doesn't quite understand the point of it all.
Kurosaki seems to appreciate his efforts, hand sliding down to sort of pet his face, trace the edge of an ear. It's not bad, it’s pleasant enough, honestly, but then Kurosaki sighs and coaxes their mouths open, pressing further up into him and intentionally slices his tongue open on the arrancar's sharp teeth. Okay yeah, he suddenly gets the hype.
Fresh blood spills between their mouths. Kurosaki's lips are warm, slightly textured with thin lines of scar tissue, and even though his movements are slow and indulgent, his reiatsu swells eagerly. Grimmjow feels like he could fill the hole in his gut with this alone. He likes the biting well enough, but this? This is good.
Trying and probably failing to match the whole unhurried vibe Kurosaki has going on, Grimmjow laps at his tongue, savouring the sound the shinigami makes when Grimmhow swallows and feels hot blood slide down his throat. He traces Kurosaki’s collarbone with a clawed finger, scratches lightly at his jugular and feels his own blood heating, feels something stirring inside his gut, and he shifts –
And almost slices himself open on Zangetsu. Oh, right.
Kurosaki seems to come out of the stupor he’d fallen into as well, regrettably - some things are worth being sliced up for - freezing and staring up at Grimmjow with a strange expression. Just as Grimmjow is about to call him on it, Kurosaki jolts back into movement.
He very carefully holds Zangetsu in place while he sits up, pressing gently at Grimmjow’s chest with a mumbled, “Uh, we should probably—”
While Grimmjow doesn’t necessarily agree, he takes the hint and moves so Kurosaki can untangle his blade from the hole in his abdomen.
The shinigami rises enough to kneel, but pauses, that weird look still decorating his face. “Do you want to—” he starts, but then fucking stops. Again.
“What,” Grimmjow snaps, unexpectedly frustrated at how abruptly everything just came to an end, even though he won the fight.
“We could, um. I mean, fighting and, uh, kissing, don’t have to happen together. We could continue this somewhere without swords. Like maybe… my house?” Kurosaki’s voice keeps getting quieter and quieter. The guy looks awkward as all hell, face reddening slowly.
Grimmjow squints at him, trying to gauge if he knows his idea is incredibly lame or what. He tries to picture it; following Kurosaki back to his breakable room, laughably small for how its owner’s reiatsu easily envelops the entire block let alone the house, just to do what, stand around unarmed and push their faces together?
“The fuck would I wanna do that?”
“Ugh,” Kurosaki states eloquently, rubbing that awkward expression right back off of his face and giving himself a very pretty smear of crimson from lip to chin in the process. He fixes Grimmjow with a weary look, but his flushed face deprives it of its intended effect. His half-lidded eyes look more sultry than long-suffering. His mouth hasn’t stopped bleeding, but it will soon if Grimmjow doesn’t bully it some more. “God, you’re thick. Nevermind.”
He stands and turns, giving Grimmjow an indulgent - stupid, never turn your back on an opponent - view of the lacerated skin peeking out from under the tatters of his shihakushō as he heads towards the ladder leading back to Kisuke’s shop.
“Oi— wait up, asshole!”
"Hurry up then, moron." Ichigo throws back, far too casually for someone who was just blushing so hard even his ears were pink.