A sound squeezes up Ichigo’s throat at the unexpected pulse of pleasure. Another nonsense of sound. His eyes snag on Grimmjow’s hand, following that slow shift like Grimmjow’s some kind of damn hypnotist. Ichigo drags in a breath and swallows against the dry heat in his throat. Except then his eyes trail up to that grin and his scowl snaps into place like armor. He doesn’t know what fucking else to do with himself besides tuck as much annoyance between them as possible.
Grimmjow sprawled out on his bed like that—lazy, loose-limbed, looking satisfied—is already bad. But the slow flex of fingers over himself, the way his ribs rise and fall in a long stretch, the fucking grin like Grimmjow knows exactly what’s going on in his head—it’s unbearable. Ichigo can feel it, every shift, every pulse, not just in the bond but in the way his own body reacts, hot and liquid smooth.
The realization that he wants Grimmjow slams into him so suddenly it nearly takes his legs out.
He blinks, dull, slow, hard once. A weightless moment where the world tilts. An ocean of dread opens up inside him alongside the flush of new heat.
His stomach clenches, even as he untangles that question from his own thoughts.
The words are rough, dragging over his senses, and Grimmjow barely even looks at him when he says them. Just sprawled out like he owns Ichigo’s whole entire bed, like Ichigo isn’t standing here trying not to come apart at the seams. It’s not a challenge. Not an invitation. But fuck, it’s hard to remember that an hour ago he wanted to punch Grimmjow’s brain out the back of his skull, and now, he’s struggling not to let his gaze slide all over every lax limb.
Ichigo can still feel the phantom pressure of teeth against his side.
His weight shifts forward before he makes the decision to move. Just a half step. His knee bumps the edge of the mattress.
“Dunno.” His voice comes rough, edged. He looks away, brow furrowing for an entirely different reason. “It’s Urahara.” That should explain everything. “Wait it out, probably. He’ll get bored.”
He exhales hard through his nose, but he’s still burning. Still standing too close. Still thinking impossible things. There’s no fucking way Grimmjow doesn’t feel how tightly wound he is, how the tension is pulling him toward something Ichigo isn’t even sure he’s allowed to want.
On one hand, he really wants to touch him.
On the other, he really likes having hands.
His options are shit. He could sit in his chair across the room. He could turn around and sit on the damn floor. Instead, he plants a knee next to Grimmjow’s hip, then the other.
His fingertips find Grimmjow’s lower stomach, press lightly over fabric.
“What are you going to do?”
snowghoul
titsay
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
