@deivorous
from here
Grimmjow is, as has become some sort of incredibly fucked up usual between rivals, being a nuisance while he waits for their spar. He’s sprawled out, sandy boots planted comfortably on Ichigo’s comforter and bright yellow stress-ball being flung hard agaisnt the ceiling on repeat.
If Ichigo can’t use this precious study time effectively, well, it ain’t Grimmjow’s fault. Look how nice and polite he is ta wait. So domesticated - he kicks a foot out to rattle the window and shake more sand loose. Ichigo wanted “manners” and “patience”, so how could Grimmjow eeeever deny him. Ha.
The sensation of teeth digging into his hierro catches him entirely off guard (he’s been getting to comfy here), wide blue eyes find stark orange hair and a harmless human mouth attached to his shoulder. Not close enough to his neck to have him still instinctively.
The stress-ball lands somewhere behind him.
Three stunned seconds tick by as Grimmjow tries to gather his wits back to himself. Ichigo doesn’t really get the hollow stuff. Doesn’t know what the different growls and yips and snap of Grimmjow’s teeth mean. Means Grimmjow doesn’t have to fuckin’ listen Kurosaki now.
Grimmjow tackles him.
He’s trying hard not to notice Grimmjow throwing that ball at the ceiling hard enough to have little bits of plaster falling like grains of sand on his comforter, mingling with the actual grains of sand from Grimmjow’s dirty boots. Grimmjow’s tacky, eighties boots that Ichigo might burn behind the clinic if Grimmjow ever falls asleep here.
Ichigo softly grinds his premolars, pencil eraser tapping against the inside of his other wrist while he works hard to tune out The World’s Biggest Dick.
It goes on and on and on, and when he glances at the glowing digital clock numbers again, he realizes he hasn’t written anything in nearly ten minutes. Hasn’t read anything except the same five words again and again.
Ichigo stops tapping his pencil and slowly, slowly turns his head, glaring at the side of Grimmjow’s face.
And the asshole— the asshole doesn’t even notice.
Grimmjow is trying so hard to irritate him, he’s stopped paying attention to Ichigo at all.
The sheer brand of audacity to piss Ichigo off so much while not even noticing him is infuriating. It’s like Grimmjow’s accelerated so far into being a self-centered, bastard, asshole, he’s reached an entirely new hereto unknown level of achievement in his field.
Ichigo could probably throw a pencil at his head and make it through his guard. Or a book. Or his chair for fuck’s sake. Punching Grimmjow in the jaw seems a tempting option, but he’s not entirely certain he’d ever be able to stop again.
He glances back at the clock, fuming over another five minutes of doing nothing but marveling over how much it’s possible to hate one person. He’s never going to finish. He never does when Grimmjow comes around.
He carefully lays his hand to the desk. Carefully, because if he makes any sudden motions, his muscle memory might kick in and accidentally start committing every little violent fantasy he has swirling around in his head. And he leans over, closer and closer.
And still. Grimmjow isn’t. Fucking. Paying. Attention.
There’s only so much a rational person can take. Ichigo breaks, does the first ridiculous, immature, vicious thing he can think of and sinks his teeth into the closest part of Grimmjow Asshole Jaegerjaquez he can find.
When he gets tackled right out of his seat, it’s not all that unexpected. Except it lands him back-first on the other side of his chair with what feels like a million pounds of hollow on top of him. So of course, he tries to find something else to bite before he’s even got air back in his lungs, snarling like some kind of animal. But where Grimmjow’s concerned, Ichigo has an unlimited supply of frustration backing him, and now it’s all oozing out messily and without any real direction except to get the Arrancar to realize what a fucking nightmare he’s being to Ichigo’s class work.
