I've never written this pair before. bleach_flashfic is an awesome community for the challenges.
Disclaimer: I didn’t create the characters of Grimmjow and Rangiku; Kubo Tite invented the world of Bleach and it flew, on gossamer wings, into the imaginations of perverts.
Description: R, Grimmjow and Rangiku. Written for bleach_flashfic. The request can be found here.
He would be a lover without a heartbeat.
Hollow don’t have hearts, but do they have warm hands, wet tongues, do their cocks throb?
Rangiku’s eyes met the clear blue gaze of enemy-turned-ally Grimmjow Jeagerjaques.
He’s a creature several times removed from human. Stop. Loneliness does stupid things to your body.
Loneliness. Why else would images cross her mind? His big palms over her breasts, under her knees, holding her away from whatever hurt. The winter war, no succor. Days of plotting murder, nights of counting casualties. This Arrancar was like any other man; he could pet her, fill her with luscious, consoling cream, breathe gratitude into her hair.
You’re losing it over a good-looking guy with a hole in his gut. He hasn’t even said two words to you yet.
“Grimmjow?” No use bothering with polite forms of address when dealing with a soul-eating Hollow.
Grimmjow grunted in affirmation.
She’d recognized his feline aura right away. Maybe that was it. The tilt of his head told her everything. That he was proud, independent, nobody’s fool. His eyes were nervous, though. They’d seen fearful things and could be roused into savagery before a weapon was drawn, before the ping of a fingernail on a scabbard.
“Who are you?” He asked the question casually but his nostrils were flared--as if he smelled a threat.
Rangiku gave her name and rank and tossed her hair. “I’m your new supervisor. Vice Captain Abarai was reassigned.”
It was only after Grimmjow sensed her lack of aggression that he assessed her body. Made no secret of it either. His gaze started at her chest, swept up the length of her neck, seemed to approve of the swirls of voluptuous hair, then dropped to her chest again.
Just as Soi Fong’s specialty was assassination, Rangiku’s was interrogation. Her breasts were her most obvious disarming attribute, but her breezy way of talking about this and that, of recounting silly details of a world far beyond the war, and her patient smile prompted accurate truths out of inarticulate field soldiers.
Grimmjow was no inarticulate field soldier.
After the obligatory bragging about his own kills (Shinigami weren’t above this either, Rangiku noted), he made his intelligence apparent. He observed that Aizen was cautious to a fault and that just because the front had unguarded points, that didn’t mean Aizen hadn’t planned for invasions through those areas.
“Oh yeah, and one more thing.” Grimmjow’s eyes hadn’t left the exposed area of Rangiku’s bosom. “There’s been no strike in two days because he wants to prolong the terror.”
“Yes,” Rangiku said solemnly. Hinamori’s mind had not recuperated enough to handle much more than paperwork. “Aizen is a master of psychological manipulation.”
She could tell that Grimmjow had contempt for such tactics. She could tell that he was direct, no holds barred fighter. She knew how he’d slipped a cube of negacion into Ulquiorra’s hole, though, so he was capable of stealth.
His right hand was wrapped in a bloody shred of clothing. As he’d relaxed, he’d lifted it to rest awkwardly on his lap. His fist made a claw.
“You need to get that wound healed,” Rangiku observed. Maybe this Grimmjow was a tough guy who didn’t bother with the fourth division. That quality (the whole eleventh division had it) irked her.
“I was on my way to your medical facility,” Grimmjow said with slow, deliberate sarcasm, “but I figured you Shinigami wouldn’t want me to die from this broken fingernail here before taking my report.”
“Soul Society is not an inhumane authority.”
“This is war, honey,” he said. The use of the endearment was derogatory and Rangiku knew it.
“Yes, but we’re not … beasts.” Rangiku didn’t mean to linger on the word. She was embarrassed for having used it. “Next time, if you’re injured, please report to the fourth division right away. I can meet you there.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Grimmjow dropped his hand to his side again and pretended that it didn’t hurt.
Rangiku had watched that sort of bravado grow up with boys in the Rukongai. Competition pummeled it into shape; fear strengthened it. If not for that unnatural, ghostly hole in the middle of his abdomen, Grimmjow would remind Rangiku of just another Rukongai young tough. Like Abarai. Fashion-conscious, given to showing off muscles and scars and making no secret of how easily he could be provoked into a murderous rage.
Of course, Gin wasn’t like that.
There was something desperate about a sensuality borne in fear, fed with fear. An abandon that skirted violence. Cold teeth, hot tongue. Gin had always been afraid of oblivion, no more pain or pleasures. With her, he had both--
Grimmjow wasn’t Gin. There would be no playful courtship, no niceties, no jokes. No leaning close to breathe a lewd suggestion into her ear. This was an Arrancar before her.
“We’re done,” Rangiku said a little abruptly. “I’m going to give my captain an oral report while he’s back from the front. I--I--” She’d lost her poise and was trying to find recover the nonchalance in her voice. “If I wait any longer, I’ll have to write the damn thing up.”
Her eyes rose to meet the Arrancar’s. He was a more disquieting presence when he wasn’t staring at her chest. His eyes … damn beautiful eyes.
Grimmjow smiled. He knew what she was thinking. “Vice Captain Matsumoto, eh? The tenth division headquarters are next door. Are your personal quarters in that building?”
What the hell. Why not?
“Wait for me here,” Rangiku said matter-of-factly. “After I talk to Captain Hitsugaya, I’ll…” No reason to be coy, none at all. This was wartime. “I’ll show you where I live.”
She exchanged one last look with Grimmjow to make certain that they were both planning the same thing; he crossed his arms and smiled with an annoying sort of self-satisfaction, and she turned and left the room.
It wasn’t the Hollow side of him that troubled her. A murderer in her bed--that would be nothing new. It was the fact that a lover, any lover, was as much a threat to her peace of mind as he was a comfort to her body.
Any lover was a dangerous ally.