Work Text:
Grimmjow shifts, just an arm, it’s all he can manage, and catches a hiss between his clenched teeth as the sand slowly slowly pours over the useless chunk of meat he calls a body.
Fuck does he miss his armor right now. It wouldn’t do anything to keep the coarse grains out of his openly bleeding wounds, wouldn’t stop the shitty fucking things from tearing and aggravating the raw edges. But it would keep the sand off of his skin. It would give him the illusion of a defense that this pathetic human form can’t offer. Not now at least, with his reiatsu all but depleted. His hierro is nonexistent and his whole body feels oversensitive. He can feel every grain against his skin, even beyond the pain from his vicious fight, everything hurts.
He shifts again, a leg this time, and then he rocks his weight slightly, his hip sinking through the sand and it's all he can do not to gasp against the sensation. He has to remain completely silent.
He has to. Or someone will hear him. And they will come. And they will eat him.
He draws in a shuddering breath and pushes himself into the sand further, until it starts to spill over his chest, scratching excruciatingly at the curving bleeding wound Nnoitra intended to decapitate him with. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his tongue until that too bleeds, and then he gags and has to turn his head to let the blood spill from his lips so he doesn’t choke. But he doesn't make a sound, and then the sand sinks into the other wound in his chest. It pools in the hole Kurosaki left where his heart would sit if he still had one.
Kurosaki left him. Didn’t even respect him enough to finish the fucking job. No. That little rat faced shit abandoned him in the goddamned sand like a discarded fucking -- he’s furious. So fucking furious, his whole body is shaking. Or is that the shock.
It’s getting hard to tell. Getting hard to stay conscious too. But he’s almost there. Almost hidden enough that with his disgustingly low reiatsu and the sand cover, he might just survive long enough to absorb some of the ambient reishi and regain some capacity for proper movement. If he can heal up enough to lay an ambush on someone weak and small he might be able to claw his way back to survival.
Assuming no opportunist sniffs him out. Assuming Nnoitra doesn’t come back to finish him off.
(He wants to wake up from this. He wants to live. He wants to hunt down Kurosaki and rip him apart for this, tell him he should have killed him when he had the chance. But he can’t feel his fingers, can’t feel Pantera cradled in his hands. His legs won’t respond. He’s so cold. No one comes back from this. Not in Hueco Mundo.)
He hacks in a breath. And when he finally manages to push his head under, he’s not sure if the darkness closing in is from the sand or if his body is giving out on him.
…
…
Grimmjow snaps back to consciousness with fear thick like bile in his throat.
Something’s coming. Something’s coming and Grimmjow doesn’t even need to have his minimal reiatsu extended beyond his body to feel it. It’s supermassive.
It’s terrifying. Grimmjow can’t breath. He can’t think. He’s on his back. Belly up. No reiatsu, nothing left to crush down and down and hide but he tries anyway.
He still can’t feel his fingers, can’t feel his own soul in his hands. Can’t even hear Pantera in his head.
It’s coming. It's coming it's coming it'scomingit'scoming.
His body doesn’t even have the strength to tremble, his lungs don’t work under the weight of this monster. He can’t sob. Can’t beg.
It can’t find him. If it finds him it’s over. Over over over.
…
…
…
It’s right above him. And he is small and frozen and weak.
The sand bunches up under his clawed feet, each joint in his toes flexing and digging the sharp points a little deeper. He breathes, softly, and steam rolls over his tongue and out into the air, humid.
He can smell the blood. Followed it out, past the blurred memory of a fight- he can’t fully recall, but he knows that his packmate is near, close and injured.
(He injured his packmate, it was him, so wrong, wrongwrong, gotta fix it, have to apologise, fix it, heal them, be pack, both strong alone but stronger together, followandfixand-)
He shakes his head, roughly, hair curling around his face and brushing against his mask.
And then he stops, abruptly, then steps quickly to one side, fast and delicate, examines the sand under where he was standing.
The coo that escapes his cracked teeth is soft, and he starts digging, careful, aware of sharp claws (should he have those? He feels weird) and the soft clink of the chain wrapped over one shoulder, an odd makeshift way to hold the black sword against his back. Frees his hands.
Sand runs over the red tufts of fur at his wrists and he chirps lowly when the scent of blood thickens, and ever so gently he rubs the smooth pads of his thumbs over his packmate’s skin, brushing away sand before continuing to dig him out.
How injured is he? Is this all his work? Why did he fight him? Why did they come to blows?
He has to help him heal. Hunt for him. He protected the not-pack, now he must do the same for Blue.
Grimmjow feels the weight above him lessening, feels the sand being moved away, feels something's hands on his exposed skin. It’s digging him out.
He’s half surprised that the hollow didn’t simply slide those sharp claws through his thin underbelly and peel the skin back to start in on his already mangled insides.
Maybe the arrancar… vasto lorde? Wants to see his snack's face before he devours him. Maybe it’s one of those hollows that’s picky about what pieces it eats. Maybe it’s the kind that collects its prey and stuffs it into a den somewhere and slowly eats it alive over the course of several weeks, slicing off piece after piece after piece of meat until its prey bleeds out and it’s forced to eat the rest. Maybe it’s after the number on his back. The brand that could make it an Espada.
Grimmjow doesn’t know. All these panicked thoughts rush through his head fast enough to give him vertigo, and then he passes out again. Just for a few seconds, he thinks, because he’s still mostly buried when he flinches back to wakefulness. Woozy and nauseous.
His reiatsu is still bleeding out of him like a leak. He’s still terrified.
He can’t feel Pantera but he knows where she is in his hand, maybe… maybe maybe maybe if it thinks he’s still unconscious he can get lucky. Can get his sword in its neck.
It’s his only chance.
It’s his only chance or he’s gonna be really really dead.
He purrs, low and loud, rumbling in his chest. He loops one arm around Blue’s back- (he has a name, pack has a name, he can’t recall it-) and gently, gently lifts him out of the sand, pulling him up oh so carefully and letting sand-covered blue hair come to rest against the crook of his neck. Trust, trust, trust soft, safety. Blue wouldn’t hurt him, even scared and injured, would he? No, no they’re pack (something is off, something is wrong) and this is fine.
He pets over him, watching his claws, examining the injuries (he left them didn’t he, nonono, so sorry) and gently washing his own reiatsu over him, hiding the injured tang of hollow-in-pain-and-weakened so Blue is less of a target, more protected- he’s strong, lesser hollows will avoid them, he can take care of Blue this way, make sure he is not taken off guard.
Make sure he is able to rest, recover.
It’s automatic, the way he guides red-tinted energy to layer over the deeper wounds, the hole in Blue’s chest (it mimics the hollow space in his own but the real hole is in Blue’s abdomen, so sorry, so sorry) and other slices and stabs; blocking them. Plugging them up so his packmate stops pouring reiatsu like blood, so it can shore up inside him and heal him. Replenish itself.
He coos, again, a soft you’re okay, pack, I have you submissive sound, all sympathy and care. Adoration. Belonging. Home.
The odd little humans and the bat-wing rat in the air did not smell like home, not like sand-coated tan skin and corded muscle and bright, bright blue. This is his pack (isn’t it? It is. Right? Smells like pack, like belonging, when did the bond form, he can’t recall, has he ever had a pack before-)
He shakes his head, nervously, goes to pick Blue up to carry him away somewhere safer.
It still reeks of blood and battle here, too recent, open and exposed.
Grimmjow hears the purr before he’s free from the sand, and for a second he relaxes, delirious brain processing instinctively and realizing oh it's Shawlong. His pack came for him. Then he realizes the sound is too deep, too raspy where Shawlong is usually high pitched and clicky like a cicada.
Shawlong is dead.
His whole body tenses up when the arm slips under his back and hefts him, and the sudden spike in adrenaline and the sudden movement upright sends him spiraling, vision blotchy and out of focus, stars bursting behind eyelids and his lungs stutter, the rush of blood to his head sends him back into darkness, scatters his thoughts and a pained breath rushes from his lips. It takes him an exhausting amount of effort to crack his eyes open again. He didn’t realize he was that weak.
He tries to growl but he runs out of air too fast, pants into the crook of a neck he’s been tucked into and his panicked brain tries to figure something out. He can’t.
He’s got nothing left in the tank. It takes everything to keep his hand closed around Pantera - if he loses her in the sand --- the hollow is gonna take him to a den and eat him there. Or maybe it’s gonna feed him to it's pack member, someone it grew weak and dependent on that got injured by the fucking shinigami in their invasion.
It’s reiatsu washes over him and he spasms, it’s too much he can’t, eyelashes flutter again and he turns his head just in time to gag, and then vomit all over the sand instead of on himself - its all blood and bile. Shoulda tried vomiting on the hollow. It mighta dropped him.
The hollow coos again - why, why does it sound like that, like its sad - and blue unfocused eyes twist back to the monstrous force, fuzzily noting that it would be easier to look at if it wasn’t so fucking orange, but it’s too much effort to move his head back, his reiatsu wobbles, he can see Pantera and the arm attached to her.
He goes for the throat -- tries to… Muscles contract and something in his shoulder gives, overused tendons snapping, ripped skin screaming, something in his mask gives a resounding crack, deafening to his ears -- oh he’s not even gonna make it to the den.
He’s gonna be dust; Grimmjow realizes faintly, and his grip on reality and his sword slip at the same time.
She drops into the sand from the pathetic height of four inches, it was all he could move her, his busted knuckles brush alongside her. He coughs, gags again, and his whole body spasms in pain.
His last thoughts aren’t of his impending death. No. He’s already dead.
He’s just waiting for his body to catch up on that realization.
He whines, low, when Blue spasms in pain, lifts his hand weakly-
After a moment, when he’s settled still and presumably unconscious, he carefully gathers up Blue’s sword, checks his mask very, very delicately. There’s a crack running up along the side of the upper part of the jaw, from the base of one tooth.
He thinks it can probably be healed, with time and more reiatsu, a good meal. He can do that.
He can do that.
(He can still fix this.)
It takes him a little while to find a secluded room in the white halls of the odd sprawling not-den, broken walls in places, exposed to the sands outside, but the spot he chooses is easily defended. He places Blue on the soft rectangular slab in one corner, lays the navy-hilted zanpakuto alongside him, within reach, and then marks his territory, layers reiatsu and scent over deep gouging claw marks along the white walls outside the room.
He checks on Blue periodically, makes sure he hasn’t started leaking reiatsu again, makes sure he’s still resting, then goes out again- there are flickering energies deeper into the maze of hallways, weak, but enough to help his packmate heal, sustain him, bring him back to a safe level of reiatsu, enough it will start properly replenishing itself.
He doesn’t really pay attention as he eats, consumes, tucks each wisp of gathered prey into himself but does not let it absorb into his own reserves.
Instead, he comes back, lays down on the other side of Blue, and carefully presses his palm over ragged, open flesh, feeds the prey into him, where he can almost touch Blue’s own reiatsu, it’s so thin and weakly guarded. He’s careful, threading it in and smiling under the cling of his mask when Blue’s energy starts pulling it in on it’s own, mimicking consumption.
He goes from wound to wound, occasionally feeding his own reiatsu, purring softly, before going back out to hunt again.
The first time Grimmjow wakes up it's only for a few minutes.
He’s on a bed, on his back, he can flex his toes and his fingers. He’s pretty sure something was planning on eating him. Pretty sure. Maybe it scooped out something inside him? Hard to tell. He still hurts.
His fingers twitch towards Pantera but he’s under again before he finds her on the bed next to him.
The next time he wakes up can't be that long since the first. He doesn’t think. Can’t really remember and he’s certain he’s operating more on instinct than thought.
He tries to get up, rolls bodily off the bed and takes Pantera with him, her blade back in her sheath, and slams face first into blue tile. The impact knocks the wind out of him and it takes him longer than he’ll admit to push himself shakily onto his hands and knees.
It doesn’t occur to him that anything is wrong until he’s nearly back on his feet and he realizes he really should be dead. But he’s not and also… his hand reaches slowly for his torso - still bare - to find partially healed wounds and that he’s eaten recently?
He glances down at himself, fingers flexing where they’re pressing into the skin. Brain still gluggy and reiatsu still small. He doesn’t remember eating.
He glances around.
He’s not in one of the healing rooms either. Where… He extends his reiatsu cautiously. For some reason whatever grabbed him has either left him alive, or something else intercepted it and saw reason to save him.
Not Aizen. (Aizen’s already given him a second chance. It’s one more than he’s offered anyone else ever.)
That thought alone makes his temper flare, red rage burning hot in his vision for a second, but then he takes a breath. He’s not in a position for a fight right now. But he hates owing anyone.
He scowls, shifting to face the door. The room is absolutely saturated in spiritual energy, so thick that he can feel it in his lungs and he has to swallow. It’s like breathing in a meal. The thought makes him shudder, even Aizen is not this wasteful.
He wobbles to the door, legs unsteady and stiff. He allows himself the moment of weakness. Once he’s on the other side of the door he can’t afford to give anything away. Can’t let anyone or anything know he’s an easier hunt right now than ever before.
Despite the odds he’s somehow alive. He’ll kill anyone to stay that way.
He pauses when he sees movement in the doorway, approaching from the hall- he snarls, low, muscles bunching tightly under his skin- he goes for the hilt of his sword-
Blue.
He chirps, immediately untensing, moving forward again, into the room, head tilted inquisitively. He lets out a low trill, hellohellohelloILoveYou, then a stuttery rumbling growl of worry- why are you moving, Blue?
He reaches out to help the arrancar balance, concerned, chin tilted up to expose his throat just enough to reassure the other man. If he’s just woken up he might be aggressive, he doesn’t want Blue to hurt himself by lashing out (especially at pack), but he does need to feed Blue before his body automatically starts adjusting and absorbing the prey reiatsu he’s holding.
He wants to bounce on his heels, thrilled that Blue is finally conscious, he can hunt bigger prey further out, closer to the edges of the sprawling white palace if Blue is awake to defend himself while he’s away from the den they’ve claimed.
Good, this is good. He sways briefly, side to side, happy, before remembering himself.
He moves to Blue’s side, avoiding the more open wounds that he hasn’t focused on, hasn’t healed up as much, aiming to press him back to the bed where he can lay his packmate down and feed him more, heal and purr and protect him; if he’s feeling well maybe even curl up together. Safe and secure.
Grimmjow starts hard when there is nothing on his senses and suddenly there is SOMETHING.
It’s growling and he snarls right back, lips peeled away from his teeth and his eyes wide. The rumble in his ribcage exacerbates the still healing pieces of his chest.
Shit.
His snarl becomes a hiss instead. Still aggressive, hostile, lethal - but more in his throat than his lungs.
He doesn’t like hissing, it makes him feel more like the cat he used to be, and it would definity earn him ridicule from his brothers and sisters amongst the Espada. ‘Little kitty’s upset, huuuh~’. But he needs to be smart. Conserve his strength where he can.
The thing steps into the doorway. It’s no arrancar. It’s over six feet tall of powerful feral vasto lorde, with footlong horns made for goring it’s prey and (orange) hair long enough to indicate no one has ever gotten close enough to use it as a weapon.
The hiss of metal leaving a sheath is hidden under Grimmjow’s warning.
He freezes, “I-- what?” He stutters, blindsided by the completely casual display of affection and despite himself - stupidstupidstupid - he glances behind himself searching for a baby hollow or an omega or someone that would be receptive of this. The room is empty.
Wide blue eyes swing back to the vasto lorde and he barely avoids flinching when he realizes it had crossed the space between them in complete silence and was now reaching for him, throat exposed. Grimmjow takes his chances, lunging with soulsteel at the dragon’s vulnerability, his limited supply of reiatsu surging to sharpen Pantera’s edge.
He startles, sliding backwards on one heel, raises a hand-
The zanpakuto hits his palm edge-on, and goes no further, but he doesn’t curl his fingers around it to hold it still, doesn’t want to capture it and scare Blue further.
He trills, soothing and slow, I would never, you are safe, pack, lilting back up into the ILoveYou sweetness, other hand lifting placatively.
He splays his fingers, to reduce his claws’ effectiveness as a weapon, and lets out three little yips in the back of his throat, softly, softly, softly. He purrs, afterwards, head still tilted, trust him, Blue. He won’t hurt the arrancar, would never hurt pack (you are- that’s what you are, pack, his head hurts if he thinks too hard about it-) and he needs to sit down on the soft rectangle again, so he doesn’t open up any of his wounds. Blue isn't ready to fight yet, why is he being so aggressive towards him?
He moves again, gently pushes the blade down, eyeing the steel, and then Blue’s arm and then back up to his face with a critical gaze. The crack in his jawbone mask is almost fully healed, and he’s quite proud of himself for it. He’s a good pack-mate, taking care of his Blue.
His splayed hand goes up to his own face, gently taps the cheek and jaw, then motions to the matching part of the arrancar’s face- where his own mask sits, sharp dangerous teeth. See, look. I can keep fixing you, I fixed that. Protection, pack.
The difference between their reiatsu levels is staggering and Pantera blunts against the hollows hierro. Adrenaline hits his bloodstream in a heady rush - head filling with red, destructive urges, trading thought for action. The hollow pushes her down, it’s hand moving - Grimmjow doesn’t slow, he drops to the side, dodging low to sweep around the hollow and make a break for the door. He needs to get out.
He doesn’t think he can bust through a wall right now - and isn’t that pathetic, Grimmjow can chastise himself later though - he aims for the door, can’t let himself stumble even when air locks in his chest, pain white in his vision. His body wasn’t meant to be moving like this so soon after such serious injuries.
Panic, fear, terror, hurt twist through his head.
Not enough reiatsu for very many sonido’s -- gotta make them count.
He panics, immediate and sudden, because there are still things out there that can hurt you- you aren’t strong enough. You- you’ll be eaten- a free easy meal, don’t leave!
He lunges, aiming to wrap his arms around Blue’s ribs and haul him backwards, his reiatsu churning with concern and worry. He sees the way Blue’s body locks up slightly, and his instincts scream that he’s preparing to sonido - to get away from him - and if he doesn’t find him quick then he’s a sitting duck, the little reserves he’s managed to shore up in his injured packmate’s body utterly drained from even one-
Nononono-
He pushes more reiatsu into himself, blurs slightly but still remembers to pull it, soften the impact when he grabs Blue, lightning fast and as careful as he can be, panicked crooning in the back of his throat, high in his chest. Stop, stop stop stop danger!
All higher thought is pushed down, back past the panicked care, (why does he care? He’s- there’s something-) concern and desperation, a little bit of sadness and hurt and despair, why would you run from him, he’s your pack.
He pulls Blue backwards, back into the room and spins, puts his back to the doorway, the weakness in the defenses of the room, whining lowly, miserable and concerned, a tinge of fear but he will protect Blue even if it exposes his back to an attack. He presses into the crook of broad shoulder from behind, whimpers like a kicked animal, and offers up the prey reiatsu to Blue’s wounds, trying to show that they know each other and are safe, that he’s been feeding Blue long enough his energy recognises him.
(You know him. Don’t you? Of course you do, you’re pack.)
Grimmjow flinches when arms (gently) wrap around his waist and he grinds to a halt against their iron grip, an enraged roar tearing from his throat. Pantera skitters harmlessly off porcelain white skin and his claws are equally as ineffective.
He snarls and wriggles, trying to kick free but the Vasto Lorde’s reiatsu weighs down on his shoulders like a heavy blanket and he can smell fresh blood, feel the searing pain in his fractured collarbone, the hot drip of blood from his left pectoral where Kurosaki’s sword ran him through, where Kurosa--
Grimmjow’s eyes widen, brain stalling as the hollow hauls him back into the room and whines, hurt - not a sound of physical pain but emotional - the kind normal hollows don’t have, shouldn’t be able to express.
It’s mask bumps at the crook in his neck, knife-like horns framing Grimmjow’s head, and he stills - stiff, not instinctively prey limp - and fear flushes through him, but it doesn’t bite, just whimpers, small and submissive-like and then it’s shoving reiatsu into him and he gasps. Saliva floods his mouth, teeth and gums aching to sink into proper meat, and his eyelids droop at the unexpected pleasure-rich sensation that accompanies eating, head falling forward and he pants through the sensation of reiatsu being pushed through his open wounds. He didn’t even know that was possible. Through his hole - maybe.
Grimmjow has never been fed before. Has never fed anyone else either. It was understood in his pack that if you were weak enough to need it, you weren't needed badly enough to be kept alive. He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what to think - but he thinks he knows this reiatsu. It’s different. Darker and more tainted than it was, but it’s every bit as delicious as he imagined Kurosaki’s reiatsu would taste. And he has his hair.
Kurosaki forces, carries, manhandles him over to the bed but is gentle when he places him down, belly up, still pinned, and Grimmjow isn’t given the chance to scramble away.
He croons, low, still tinged with panicworryconcern and sits, crosses his legs a little too fluidly, limbs a little too bendy as he leans over Blue’s now prone form, hands moving from wound to wound, feeding Blue through each of them, encouraging his reiatsu to pool under the ragged flesh and heal from the inside out.
He chirrups happily when Blue relaxes, probably not of his own volition, but it’s reassuring anyway, that he’s accepting the help.
Pack, he calls, an almost avian sound it’s so sharp and happy, oscillating between that deep dark draconic rumble and trilling songbird.
He hesitantly smooths his fingers over the uninjured skin between wounds before skittering up to avoid touching the edge of open flesh, soothing, but not yet purring, spine still straight and alert in case Blue tries to run again.
HellohellohelloILoveYou.
Now that he’s awake his reiatsu is greedier, easier to feed and build, and this time he’s more than willing to keep giving, thrilled that his Blue is healing, quickly now, he can see flesh slowly knitting together.
(Feels weird, feels bad, feels good at the same time, it’s so strange, he’s forgotten something-)
(You are pack, right?)
Grimmjow shudders under the onslaught of reiatsu -- and it is an onslaught -- he feels like he’s gone too long without eating and now he’s getting too much too quickly, but he can also feel himself healing. The split skin suturing together under clawed hands and burst capillaries sealing up. It’s hands are on his stomach, on exposed and fragile skin and he’s doing everything he can not to tremble. He’s not scared.
It took a while for his cloudy head to catch up with everything, for the hollow in front of him to make sense. It’s not speaking, it can’t maybe. Not a lot of hollows make it all the way to Vasto Lorde and remain nonverbal like this. A few adjuchas can’t speak, just from the shape of their mouths. But Grimmjow’s never met a Vasto Lorde like this one.
It leans over him, hungry jaws clack open and Grimmjow tenses, flinches, tries to push back into the bed underneath him, feet scrabbling to push away ‘you’re awake~ love you~’ it chitter-trills. It doesn’t eat him.
Grimmjow balks, he doesn’t know how to process this. His hands fly up to push it off him, “goddamned it stop! Kurosaki!”
He thinks, he thinks and he hopes because the kid is soft and stupid and if it is him…. If Ulquiorra really ripped his heart out. Grimmjow can beat him. Grimmjow can kill Kurosaki, he will.
(The shinigami should have killed him when he had the chance.)
He chirps again, happy, now, because Blue is being gentle; no longer aggressive, less afraid of him, and he leans back obediently when he pushes him, cutting off the press of reiatsu into the arrancar’s wounds.
His words register- annoyed, still a little scared; so he trills again in return, don’t worry, don’t worry, won’t eat you, won’t hurt you.
The tone gets through, the syllables, the sound, but the words themselves-
Ku--o-s-k- -k-un-! -h--l-p us- help us- Kurosaki-kun-
He shakes his head, abruptly, shakes it away-- it makes his insides ache oddly, he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the flare of fear and pain at the edges of his hollow hole. Doesn’t like that name, is it supposed to be his? But Blue said it, so it must be. Kurosaki.
Kurosaki lifts a hand, runs his claws through his hair, nervous, confused. He focuses back on the other man, his Blue, nearly healed, he’ll be safe soon, (you can protect me like I have protected you) and the- the mask can come off. It can’t-
It makes his head hurt so bad, thinking about it, his gut churns. Shouldn’t he be hungry? Even eating, he doesn’t feel like he needs to, only does it for Blue.
(The mask itches on his skin like he’s not used to wearing it. Soon, soon soon soon. You’re pack. It’ll be fine. It’s supposed to be - off, on, should it-)
Don’t think about it for now. Blue still needs healing, pack, protection.
Kurosaki’s gaze flicks back to him and he purrs, soft. Offers one hand, palm up, wrist exposed, wanting to scent.
Grimmjow blinks at the words, blinks at the hair - the same shade of orange, blinks at the wrist. A hollow mask and hollow instincts in a shinigami and somehow Kurosaki’s decided they are friends (pack, Grimmjow knows pack. It’s not been so long since he was in one, but he doesn’t want to think about them. They are dead. Kurosaki’s pack killed his.)
He’s inexplicably angry. Uncontrollably so.
He grabs the wrist and a cero detonates through it.
Grimmjow isn’t braced for the backlash explosive force of all that reiatsu the Shinigami just force fed him. It throws him, both of them maybe, he’s not sure, can’t put up and down together, but he hits the rubble feet first (he always lands feet down), through the wall and his head snaps up, half to look for where the Shinigami’s gone, half to look where he should aim his next cero.
He doesn’t have the strength for resurrecion but he roars like he does. He unsheathes Pantera again and lunges back through the hole in the wall, another cero building in his hand.
He chirps from beside Blue, curious- at first he thought the arrancar was attacking someone else, or perhaps something just went wrong- he did put a lot of reiatsu into him and he was borderline dying beforehand.
Understandable to be on a hair-trigger. He doesn't want to hurt him, he’s sure! Otherwise Blue would have. He’s alpha of the pack- (aren’t you? You’re strong, you’ve crushed him before, he pays deference to you, doesn’t he-?)
So, of course, he’d flashed (wait, no, sonido, right?) to his side, slightly behind to make sure Blue landed on his feet, and then it looked like Blue was looking for him, (can’t you feel me here behind you?) so now he’s curious as to why Blue is grumpy with him. He did good, right? Protected him, the alpha is already so strong! Healed up so well in such a short time. He’s proud of himself, shouldn’t he be? He’s a good pack member.
He tilts his head, childlike curiosity, maybe Blue is playing? He has to know the zanpakuto he carries can’t really hurt him right now, he tried before when he was scared. The cero- sort of tickled, at most, and did make him blink because it was so bright but the force felt like the air pressure of a sonido at most. The alpha can definitely do better, he knows that, so he must be playfighting. Silly, while he’s still hurt, but, he’s Blue and he’s in charge.
He play-growls, a happy little rumble, and shakes his head, tossing the mane of gold-orange hair much like a dog shakes it’s fur when it’s wet, but he’s cautious because the arrancar hasn’t been acting kind since he woke up and it’s disconcerting.
Grimmjow realizes all too late that the kid is behind him, and he spins halfway through his jump, feet landing on the mattress and he springs back, catching the movement of shitty bright hair. Kill me orange. Fucking ridiculous.
He doesn't release the cero until Pantera is screaming for Kurosaki’s neck, he aims low - at the hole. It’s a dirty shot and he knows it, but the kid still has his arm, and Grimmjow’s cero should have taken it off. He should have mangled the wrist, would have not so long ago if he got a shot like that off in the middle of their fight.
He snarls, low and deep and ignores the rattle in his ribs, the way his lungs hitch around the hole in his chest that could collapse one of them in any minute. We are not friends, I will kill you, how dare how dare you. “Come on!”
He chirps, once, bright and happy, eyeing off the cero, wonders if it’ll-
It doesn’t tickle. He yelps, darts a foot away and taps the blunts of his fingerpads against the edges of his hollow hole-
Green, acid bright, one pale finger-
He shudders, a full body shiver from the tip of his horns to the base of his feet, and he whimpers, unhappy, hurt. Why would Blue aim to hurt him? He’s been good. Why would he try and get him there, where he’s weak and sensitive?
He’s good, he’s pack. (He’s your pack.)
The ache dissipates quickly, fast, delicate, and he tries again, more submissive this time. Blue is angry, he’s done something bad, he’s upset him.
He coos, tilts his head low, curls his shoulders in, makes himself small.
He dodges when the arrancar lashes out again- a high whine building in his throat, this isn’t play, Blue isn’t playing. He doesn’t like this. The whine turns into an unhappy trill and then a rumbling bass growl, eyes narrowing behind his mask and he squares his shoulders again, stops backpedalling, digs his heels in and snarls.
Blue, stop it, stop it Blue, hellohellohello you’re being cruel, I’m yours, your pack.
“The only thing you are, Kurosaki, is my prey,” the words rip from his throat with a growl, and he’s twisting with his swing, muscles too tired to execute an aggressive stop, leg kicking wide into a roundhouse. “You are my enemy, you’re fucking fixing me up from injuries you caused! How dare you look down on me!”
Grimmjow’s reiatsu already feels papery thin to him, but he reinforces his leg as much as he can, flexible, quick and powerful even when injured. He just needs to hide how bad it hurts for a little longer.
He’s the goddamned Sexta!
Kurosaki’s hand flicks up and catches him by the ankle- a sudden, abrupt stop. Blue’s bones grind under his fingers and he lets up ever so slightly, doesn’t want to hurt you, even if Blue wants to hurt him, but he’s upset. He took care of him, his instincts say he’s pack, don't the arrancar’s say the same about him?
He lets go abruptly, the teeth of his mask pulling open, steam pouring out. He snarls, and it reverberates down to the bone, rolls his shoulders and spreads his hands out to his sides, flexes his fingers. You can’t hurt me. Not physically. You aren’t strong enough.
Inside he is hurtinghurtingpainwhywouldyoudothisbetrayal and he doesn’t quite know why; (something flickers isn’t this normal don’t you hate- no, pack, instincts, that’s what’s real) but he doesn’t want this. Alpha is supposed to be pleased with him. He’s supposed to - supposed to-
Please, he churrs, misery and confusion and perhaps the curl of rage.
Please.
Grimmjow’s hip gives with a pop when his leg stops and his momentum keeps the rest of him going, and he rips it back into its socket with a scream of rage(pain), and flicks Pantera to his left hand, driving her across Kurosaki’s abs of fucking steel instead -- there are sparks but no blood -- his hierro too dense for her edge right now. Right now. As if this isn’t that same creature that tore Ulquiorra apart. Killed him. Grimmjow felt it all the way from the sands.
Her wrenches her back, swinging wildly, desperately, up for the mask, and can’t quite get the leverage with his leg still held immobile above his head. His shattered collarbone protests and his grip slips, his blade ricocheting uselessly off Kurosaki’s demonic mask. He slams his elbow into the mask again with the other arm this time, leaning into the stretch through his thigh with another hiss and hopes it sounds more like anger then agony.
“Fuck you, Kurosaki!”
The Vasto Lorde rolls his eyes in their sockets and surges forward, picks Blue up under the arms and shoves him over one shoulder, careful of his horns- doesn’t want to gouge down Blue’s side. He moves back to the bed, drops Blue and then pins him in the same move, peels his fingers from the hilt of his sword and gently tosses her to one side. There’s a mild reverence in his touch, and he avoids the blade directly.
Carefully he digs his knees into Bue’s thighs, snaps his teeth inches from his face in warning. Blue may be his alpha but right now he is injured and the hollow is not letting Blue do this to himself.
Right now alpha is weak, and he is in charge because otherwise Blue will break himself and he spent so much time putting the arrancar back together.
He can rage and thrash all he wants. Blue is his pack.
He pins Blue’s wrists, and floods him with his reiatsu- not feeding, this time, crushing him at the same time as he channels it through all of your wounds at once. Not too much, just enough to smother a little. Just enough to heal and press the alpha down.
Blue, he calls, low and sad and confused. Blue, I’m pack. Pack. ILoveYou.
(Pale skin, one finger, acid, acid… acid green…
He’s not there, he’s here. He’s with pack.)
Grimmjow grunts when he lands hard across Kurosaki’s shoulder, pointed bone digging into open stab wounds and day old bruises. He squirms, kicks, claws his nails across the pane of Kurosaki’s back and it does nothing. The kid doesn’t even shift under him until he’s throwing Grimmjow back onto his ass.
He leans over him, and some part of Grimmjow insists he really should put his head back but the other part is furious and spitting and refuses. Kurosaki looms for a second, wrenches Pantera from his weak shaking hand, then his weight drops on top of Grimmjow. Bone digging into abused thigh muscle and claws scratching at his wrists holding him down and open.
Vulnerable.
The shinigami has been playing with him. Toying with him. And he’s just run out of patience.
Kurosaki’s reiatsu drops like Aizen's. Suffocating and thick and it feels like a hand has wrapped around his throat. Can’t breathe. He bucks against the weight on top of him in a panicked jerky movement; not at all fluid and controlled like usual.
“Stop.” He rasps out, then realised what and who he’s appealing too and slams his mouth shut. The mask on the side of his face clicks when his teeth close.
He growls. It turns to a whimper against his will when stars spark across his vision, lungs spasm. His body is on fire. He wasn’t made for rapid regeneration. He heals slowly like most hollows. Fast healing hurts. It's draining. And he sags, battling against unconsciousness to rear up and try to latch his teeth around Kurosaki’s throat. One last chance at survival.
You love him. Sure. The same way he loved his family. He ripped them apart under his claws and he fed on their bones; they were delicious. They’ll live in him forever.
When Blue weakens, limp and eyelids fluttering dazedly, the delicate little pleading sound passing from his lips, he eases up; gentling- pulling back even as the arrancar tries, futilely, to snap up at his throat. He shifts his knees to either side of the other’s hips instead, leans back and changes his grip on delicate wrists to be firm but not punishing- enough that if Blue struggles he’ll hurt himself.
He lets the healing slow, still faster than what it would be if he wasn’t feeding him, but he’s stopped smothering, a gentle, soothing press instead. He hopes it’s soothing, he’s still- angry, hurt. Upset. He wants Blue to comfort him but he probably won't. He’s being a bad alpha, and Kurosaki lets him know it with an unhappy, annoyed little trill in his throat.
If he had a tail it would be lashing behind him.
Bad, Blue. Pack, not food.
Staccato little chirps fall from his lips, sad and soft and still confused. Why was he so angry? He would never hurt his alpha. He doesn’t know why he did, that’s why he came back- to fix it, make amends, he’s sorry, he’s still good, still pack. (Your pack, Blue.)
He’s doing his best. He’s sorry.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Grimmjow hears and it curdles his blood, being scolded like a dumb animal. “I’m not your fucking pet,” he hisses, squinting through the tug and shove of his body healing at a rate faster than it was designed for.
The second the weight crushing him down lets up he struggles against the hold. Futile though it may be, he refuses to give up and accept defeat. He plants his feet, bucks his up and pulls at his wrists, writhing for even the smallest freedom. Kurosaki’s leaning too far back at him to get a shot at his mask in, so he turns his head and sinks teeth into the boy’s wrist - ignoring the mouthful of fluff he gets in the process - and crunches down with all his strength until he tastes blood through the fur and then shakes his head like a dog, strong neck muscles tensing and untensing and pain flaring up into his jaw from Nnoitra’s injury.
Fuck. No. Nothing on him will ever belong to that man; he uses the rage to grind his teeth harder against the dainty bones in the Vasto Lorde’s forearm.
Let me go, Kurosaki! Don’t fucking Humiliate me like this. I’m not your spoils of war.
He tilts his head when Blue turns and bites into him, watching absently. The alpha just barely manages to get through his hierro, and when he does Kurosaki shudders slightly but lets him gnaw, even goes so far as to feed a little bit of reiatsu into the arrancar’s open mouth through the shallow wound, and every time Blue shakes his head to tear through his flesh and open the wound further; the meat he stops touching directly heals instantaneously.
It hurts, distantly, (his pain tolerance is too high, the alpha could take the whole arm, he’d get it back in seconds) but if it helps Blue calm down, he won’t complain. Grin and bear it- (is that what his mask looks like, is it all teeth like the arrancar’s?)
A little reptilian hiss escapes his clenched teeth, annoyed, still unhappy. There’s a slow push of resignation in the back of his head, that Blue won’t be pack for long and he doesn’t care even though he should, shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he?
The hiss turns into a sad little warble and he ducks his head, trills low and soft.
Alpha…?
It’s mournful, a little desperate. He just doesn’t understand, he’s been so good, Blue would be dead if the Vasto Lorde hadn’t come to help him.
Grimmjow howls around his mouthful of meat, around the reiatsu Kurosaki is shoving down his throat -- it doesn’t matter to him, he is already a Vasto Lorde, but Grimmjow is stuckstuckstuck as an adjuchas, Aizen made sure that his progress would forever be halted right on the cusp of being whole.
Does Kurosaki feel whole? Grimmjow doesn’t think so. Not with the silence and the irrationality, the insistence that they were -- not pack, Grimmjow would never have one of those again -- but something.
His teeth are as useless as his claws. He is useless. Weak. Pathetic. Pinned and helpless. And he takes that fear and folds it down and turns it back into anger he can wield. He releases his hold on Kurosaki’s wrist (there’s not even a scratch when he pulls back, he heals faster than even Ulquiorra) and snaps a cero from his teeth into the masked face lording over him.
“Let me go, Kurosaki!” There’s no panic in his voice, just fury and hatred, how dare how dare how dare, on repeat in his brain.
He’s blocking out any warbles and chirps directed at him - of course of course Kurosaki is horrible enough to be so out of his mind as to confuse Grimmjow with one of his. But Grimmjow isn’t anyone’s (his pack is dead and it’s his fault), he’s Aizen’s, his tattoo says so. He earned that, earned it back by nearly ripping Kurosaki apart.
Listen, he coos, listen, I’m yours, you’re mine, my Alpha, still trying even when bright light bursts in front of his eyes and makes him shake his head, reeling slightly but unhurt. Smoke curls around the high cheekbones of his mask and then off again, dissipating, but he repeats the plaintive call, acknowledge me, see me, I am here, I am yours. White spots blink across his vision in odd patterns and he surrenders a little bit of his awareness of the immediate area to focus past them, so he can stare down at Blue.
Perhaps it is too loud, he is not paying as close attention to the surroundings as he was when his alpha was asleep and healing, and maybe that’s dangerous.
Please, softly, softer than before, hopeful despite constant anger and rejection, Blue, please. What is he supposed to do if his alpha rejects him? Blue is all he has. (Isn’t he?)
“I’m NOT!” It comes out higher pitched than he intends. Grimmjow refuses to settle, refuses to still, he doesn’t understand why Kurosaki is being so insistent. How he could have possibly decided Grimmjow is pack. They are enemies. Ichigo is supposed to hate him.
Something pings on the exhausted edge of his senses and he twists his head to the side, a warning growl in his throat.
“Oh, what do we have here.” A voice croons from the doorway. High pitched and venomous. “Looks like the sexta is finally being put back in his place.” Loly steps just to the threshold with a sway of her hips, nails tapping sharply against the door frame - not entering the marked territory. There’s a savage, vengeful grin on her face - all teeth - a cruel cackle like this is the best comedy she could witness.
Melony stands over her shoulder in silent support. Her eyes, too, are cold. Though she is the weaker of the pair, physically and emotionally, he would find no mercy from her.
“Always knew you’d end up with someone else's cock up you. I told Aizen-sama, it’s the only way to keep an animal like you controlled.”
There is no venom in her gaze when she turns it on his captor, her voice becomes soft and silky, submissive and near adoring, she curtseys, sweeping and elegant before the dragon. She wants to be in it’s good graces. “Vasto Lorde-sama,” she coos, “enjoy your meal~”
Grimmjow snarls at her, “fuck off, bitch,” but Kurosaki has him truely pinned and he can’t touch her like this. “You come to fucking watch--” Kurosaki wouldn’t, he-- “guess this is as close to a good fuck as you’ll ever get.”-- he wouldn’t do that. That’s not what he’s after.
But suddenly the thought is there and something cold runs down his back and pools terrified in his heart. His words are strong and unbothered but he thrashes harder against the hollow above him, giving away his true feelings. Eyes blown wide and petrified.
He cuts off the low croon as soon as Blue’s gaze snaps to the doorway and he bristles, listening carefully as his alpha exchanges words with- the weaker ones, not as brightly coloured and not at all familiar. The tone he carries with them is sharp and when the taller one stops speaking his terror spikes and he fights harder against the Vasto Lorde’s grip on him.
He doesn’t like that. He hunches over Blue, abrupt, protective, face turned away from him and towards the weak ones- he doesn’t know why he’d be scared of them, why their words would make him panic, Blue could crush them so easily, even injured, but he adjusts his grip on him, makes it softer, reassuring. His hair drapes down, hides the arrancar like a curtain, smooth and oddly silky, less hair and more long fur.
He snarls, spine arching up like a cat’s or the expansion of a cobra preparing to lunge, danger, danger, back off, in every line of his body.
His eyes flick between the two bodies, two potential sources of food (and maybe two potential threats? His alpha seems to think so,) and he releases one of Blue’s wrists with a low, warning rumble; moves his hand to hover over the nastier of the wounds on his chest- the hole that shouldn’t be there, feeds more reiatsu in. It’s the biggest liability, a weak spot if the arrancar has to fight.
A thick curtain of orange hair interrupts his view of the arrancar and he flinches again, expecting teeth to close around his neck, but that doesn’t happen. Grimmjow receives another influx of reiatsu through the still seeping injury in his lung - he opened it again, he can feel the bubble and pop of fluid in the organ, with all his movement and struggling.
Kurosaki snarls at the pair and Grimmjow… Grimmjow just doesn’t have the reserves to fight them. His little tousle with Kurosaki - if this thing even still is Kurosaki - exhausted him. He’s tired and he hurts. Kurosaki’s talking shit. An unbelievable amount of shit. But he hasn’t hurt anything but Grimmjow’s pride yet. Grimmjow wants to curl up and wake up tomorrow or whenever and heal and then hunt Kurosaki down and kick his ass again.
And eat him. He would. He’s not weak like Kurosaki who’s decided one act of mercy is enough to erase the fact that one of them is an arrancar and one of them is a shinigami and they are on opposite sides of this war. One of them has to die, and Grimmjow refuses to let it be him.
Which means he can’t let these cunts sneak in a pot shot while Kurosaki is busy trying to figure out his fucky instincts that even when literally heartless somehow makes him more emotional than any hollows Grimmjow has ever had the displeasure of meeting.
“Kurosaki-” he growls, because if the brat is gonna act like they’re friends then he can damn well do him a proper favour, “fucking kill them.”
He doesn’t get every word his alpha says; but he feels the intent in the rumble of Blue’s voice.
The cero is red and takes no more than half a second to form and then fire from between his horns-
It obliterates the doorway, the walls- penetrates the hallway behind it, and behind that- and behind that. It only fires for a second, more a beam of energy than a ball of it. He holds the position for a short while, the snarl in his chest building with the crescendo of rubble falling in the distance. It settles, smooths out when the dust clears and all that’s left of the two interlopers are dissipating reishi and scorch marks on the floor- a scrap of white cloth.
He huffs, shakes his head and breaths out steam, inhales and sits up, resting back on Blue’s thighs and looking down at him.
He chirps. Blue, I got you, keep you safe, heal, rest.
He did good, he was good, he listened. His alpha is happy with him, right?
“Oh fuck,” Grimmjow breathes, soft and shocked. This is the kid who a few days ago refused to kill him (the fact that he protected him still chafes only a short later). “Okay, okay.”
He stares at where the remnants of dissipating reiatsu should be but there’s not even dust left. Kurosaki obliterated them.
“Okay…” he turns, mechanical back to Kurosaki, “I--” give up.
Because he can’t fight that. And… And now he owes Kurosaki double. Once for dragging him back here and starting to fix him up, once for killing those two before they could spread the news that the Sexta was finished. Done in by some feral Vasto Lorde. It would be fair. He swallows, blue eyes wild and wide, fixed on the dragon mask as Kurosaki releases those pleased little chirps and trills demanding praise and reward.
He answers with a small sound in his own throat, a quiet shiver on the exhale. Take what you want. I won’t fight you.
There’s tension and resignation and then he goes completely lax. He doesn’t tilt his head back yet, but he doesn’t cover it either. He leaves his hands where the Vasto Lorde pressed them down. He’s done.
Happy? He bobs his head, letting out little birdsong snippets, curious. He noses at the arrancar when he goes lax, confused- take? Take what?
He hesitates, then flops down beside him on the softness, carefully arranges Blue on his back- taps his fingers over the alpha’s skin before resting his hands on his abdomen just above his hollow hole.
His palms are cold. He purrs, low, delicate, and makes sure to tilt his head so he doesn’t catch the other man on his horns, and then proceeds to wind his limbs around him, throws one leg over Blue’s hip and tucks his chin into his shoulder, releases another soft little trill.
HellohellohelloILoveYou.
He’s concerned- confused, but happy. Alpha is pleased with him, he thinks, he took care of the threat. Blue has remembered he’s pack. Right?
The Vasto Lorde presses more energy into him- the circular cut this time, the one that caught Blue across the abdomen, but he doesn’t push for his body to heal faster than it would naturally. He knows it hurt him, when he did that, hurt his Blue. He was angry, he’s sorry. He’s done well, now, he’s been good. Pack. He’s good.
He lays there, calm and pleased, purring constantly. A deep happy rumble. Alpha.
Grimmjow forces himself not to stiffen when Kurosaki moves, trills again and shoves his mask against his temple, nudging him for a moment before drawing back. Oh shit, Grimmjow thinks before Kurosaki tilts sideways and drops onto the mattress next to him.
Grimmjow doesn’t move. He barely breathes. Bewilderment and blood loss and exhaustion keep him slow to process. Kurosaki’s hands are cold against his skin, and then there is an equally cool leg over his hip and a mask against his shoulder, not his neck.
Kurosaki purrs, that same lilting sweetsoft tone and the meaning underneath is unmistakable.
He offers Grimmjow more reiatsu, coaxing his shitty shitty healing factor to kickstart again and rumbles the pleased title he’s been mistakenly calling Grimmjow since the start of this exhausting and confusing mess. Grimmjow can’t pretend otherwise any longer.
He is slow to turn his head, matted blue hair falling across his brow and toothy mask glancing slightly off the horn nearest to him.
“Hello.” He whispers, quietly, then mentally kicks himself for it.
But he doesn’t move. When exhaustion claws at the back of his mind and pulls at his eyelids he lets them close. Kurosaki won’t hurt him right now. He knows.
He purrs deep and warm and watches carefully as the creases in Blue’s face smooth out again- it feels healthy, this sleep, not forced from pain.
He spends the time healing him, his Blue, going from wound to wound slowly, careful not to disturb the man’s rest, and when he's done and his alpha’s reiatsu seems fuller than before--enough to heal himself with, naturally, he closes his eyes and relaxes, let's his body weight sink into him where they overlap, skin on skin.
He casts about with his reiatsu, pressing it out cautiously, and when he's satisfied the immediate area is empty, he settles further and let's himself sleep.
In the end, he wakes up. He wakes up safe, and before his slow cold lizard brain can hesitate his taloned fingers come up, gauntlet claws, and scrape down over the mask; cracking it apart into shards of dissipating reishi. He turns, still running on instinct even though his horns and teeth are splintered and gone and the skin of his face feels raw. Exposed. He bites down slowly on the crook of Grimmjow's neck and shoulder, breaks skin nice and smooth and deep and then laps the blood away when he’s sure it will scar. The espada doesn't wake at the claim, that's okay, you can mark me up in return later, my alpha-
Ichigo scrabbles backwards, crimson on his tongue and low warmth pooling in his gut, slaps a hand to his chest and is relieved to find his reiatsu is replenished enough that he meets the fabric of his shihakusho and the bandages that wrap underneath it, not bare skin. (No hollow hole.)
Grimmjow is right there on the bed. Healed, now. Lingering wounds that won't even scar. The bite will, though. Will be permanent. My teeth in your skin. And Ichigo-
Ichigo runs away. His heart lurches sickly in his chest as he reaches the doorway, (what's left of it. Did he do that?) and he looks behind himself, once. The arrancar looks so peaceful. My Blue, something purrs in the back of his head and he shoves himself forward, away from the urge to crawl right back into his enemy’s arms. He has to get away. (His reiatsu is still heavy and thick in the air, in the stone, a territorial claim that no one can dispute, no one strong enough to risk it left in the ruined white palace. Grimmjow will be safe enough.)
(He won't think about it, after Aizen. He sits in his room and stares at his weak human hands and resolutely doesn't think about sense-memories of Grimmjow’s skin under his palms and the need for alpha to make it all better, praise and comfort him.)