Warnings: AU, yaoi, het, humor, demons (omfg), tail porn!

Pairing: GrimmIchi, some GrimmOthers (for work mostly)

Chapter Rating: M

Disclaimer: Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

Summary: A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.

::Oh! Honey Honey::

"So, you're Grimmjow, huh?"

Ichigo tries really, really hard to keep his gaze on the black-haired, pigtailed woman's face; but she's doing things with that sailor fuku that keeps dragging his brown eyes south. She's not wearing a bra and the room must be chilly because, wow, that tight, tight high school uniform does nothing to hide—well—anything. The pleated black skirt definitely isn't regulation length, either. Oh, loose-socks, how retro.

"Yeah," Grimmjow drawls and blatantly stares at her chest, teal-lined blue eyes darkly amused, a dangerous grin settling across his well-formed mouth.

A few of the production crew members cast curious glances at the two actors as they rush past with all manner of strange props—what the hell is that dolphin shaped thing with the knobby bumps running up and down its length? What. The. Fuck?

The woman huffs and bends down to catch Grimmjow's gaze—Ichigo squirms, cheeks blood warm, and decides to look somewhere else. Yeah. No bra. Just lots and lots of… skin.

His brown eyes come to rest on… He cocks his head to the left and, then, to the right. Where on earth are they planning to put that thing during the filming? Surely there isn't an orifice in the human body that can take it… Right? Is that a vibrating silicone dick that guy in the baseball cap is fiddling with over there? What are those weird looking jelly beads for? Shit. Staring at the woman is better than being traumatized by all those twisted gadgets.

"You don't look like anything special. Why the studio bothered to bring you over… well, I just can't see it." She straightens up and tosses one inky tress over her shoulder, cold disdain twisting her pixie face. Then she smirks, venomous and full of unsheathed steel. "Don't worry. I'm good at faking it."

Ichigo's eyes snap to Grimmjow. Unease ripens in his stomach. The blue-haired man drags his gaze slowly up and down her body, grin stretching like an opening wound. Shit. Tension drags hot, sticky hands down the demon's flushed skin and sets off every single one of the warning bells in his head. He longs to reach out and clap a hand over that sinfully crude mouth and smother the words he knows are coming. Coming.

"Glad to know you're gonna be faking it when you soak my nut sack with your pussy juice."

All the air in Ichigo's lungs leaves in an explosive gasp. Trembling, barely able to stand, the orange-haired incubus sways drunkenly in place. Oh, oh shit, he can feel it, feel the twisted, perverted fantasy Grimmjow just sucker-punched him with. He gags, chokes. His muscles burn with the false memory of being trapped on his back, spine curled obscenely, knees forced down to his own shoulders as Grimmjow… as Grimmjow…

A horrible, electrifying judder moves through him. Every time the human does this the images become clearer, the sensations stronger, until his own body cannot tell the difference between reality and fantasy. It's only been a few days, what will happen in a few weeks? A year? Please, please don't let it be a year.

Ichigo recovers in time to watch the woman haul back her slender, pale hand and let it fly, pink-lacquered nails ready, at Grimmjow's face; only it never makes it because the blue-haired man catches her wrist in a grip tight enough to leave a bracelet of bruises.

"Don't start something you're not ready to die for, little girl," he says, a mad laugh coloring his words, contemptuous indifference reflected in his half-mast eyes. The woman struggles to free herself, but she might as well be trying to move a mountain. Grimmjow keeps her there, trapped like a small, helpless animal. He looks like he's wondering what sound her wrist will make when he snaps it—wondering and wanting to know.

Ichigo licks his lips. A part of him wants to know, too.

The director calls for a costume check, and Grimmjow releases her.

Grimmjow can feel the exact moment the woman stops acting, He's got her. Got her good.

Internal muscles clinch spasmodically about his hard dick in the fluttering rhythm of inevitable orgasm. She's gushing all over his balls, her cunt sounding like a piece of overripe fruit he's mashing with his meat—and he doesn't give a shit.

Doesn't care about the cameras circling the bed, the calls for position changes by the director. Doesn't care that he's gonna make this pigtailed bitch spray the cheap sheets and she's gonna hate him for it.

All because of an orange-haired demon writhing five feet away on the end of the cot like he's got something hard and hot and so fucking good between his spread thighs. Shit, Grimmjow knows the rhythm rocking those narrow hips, knows the source of the soundless moans spilling from his sweetly opened mouth. He's moving just like the bony slut in Grimmjow's lap, acting like he's got Grimmjow's cock drilling his ass and can't get enough of it.

He pushes his pelvis up sharply and watches from the corner of his eye as the boy jerks, shoulders falling back, mirroring the bitch as she arches against him. He gives her right nipple a twist and the demon surges upwards, tail curling about his lean torso, the tip dancing before his flushed, panting face.

Grimmjow knows what he wants and, as the incubus's head lolls to the side, brown eyes drowning in silver-blue flames and starving, he knows he's going to get it. Fuck yeah, he is.

Burying his face in the woman's neck, ignoring the sour odor of sex-sweat and makeup, he locks an arm below her heaving tits and forces two fingers into her sloppy, bruised mouth.

"Suck," Grimmjow growls, blue eyes locked upon the incubus through the screen of his damp hair.

The demon's eyes widen for a moment, tracking him through the syrupy haze of lust, and then narrow. Silver-blue fire spills over, igniting his skin and hair. Grimmjow can feel the biting cold-heat of it, can smell burnt persimmons through the loose bitch's fuck-musk. The demon tilts his head back, gaze never leaving Grimmjow, and—

Goddamn. Grimmjow's hips drive up. A deep, throbbing groan pulls from his lips. The bitch cries out around his fingers. Goddamn.

The incubus is taking his tail in like a pro, hands-free. Taking it. Taking it deep.

He doesn't have a fucking gag reflex.

Goddamn.

Grimmjow drags the woman off his dick, jerking his fingers out, and shoves her face down on the squeaking cot, sliding in again. Even as he pistons into her messy pussy, all he can hear is the dirty, wet sound of the incubus fucking his own hungry mouth with his tail. Getting it all nice and slick. Licking it. Sucking on it. Silently moaning as he pumps it in and out. Narrow hips rocking desperately, thighs spreading, back arching. Goddamn. Shit. Fuck.

He knew it. Fuck if he didn't. That boy's made for cock.

The woman arches violently beneath him, her cunt milking him like an oil-drenched fist, and spurts juice all over the sheets. The incubus freezes, tail popping free with an obscene, liquid noise, and then shudders to the rhythm of her internal contractions. The pressure in his balls snaps.

With the cameras still rolling, Grimmjow pulls out, rips off the condom, gives his python a quick jack and shoots a thick load of cream up along the length of her naked back. Money shot.

"Cut!"

Spitting out the lingering taste of her lubed up pussy onto the infirmary set's floor, he swings his legs off the metal-frame cot and stands with his spent dick hanging out of his trousers. He's hardly winded, but she looks like he punched her lungs out. Gasping, choking and cursing lowly, she manages to raise her head to toss him cold glare. A dark grin splits his face as he glances down between her trembling thighs.

"Looks like you pissed the bed," he drawls, eyeing the spreading mess of her girl-juice on the sheets. "Did you fake that?"

"You bastard," she says, voice raspy and dry, violet eyes furious and hard. "You goddamn bastard."

He laughs, sharp, predatory. She's afraid of him beneath the swagger. He almost wants to go another round, to choke her with his dick until her throat shreds. Almost.

Except he's got something better. Something he wants to fuck and fight and make bleed. Something that'll make him bleed.

The demon's liquid imprecations scorch the air, literally.

"Well? Did I fill your little boy-pussy up?"

Grimmjow doesn't even flinch as a set of diamond-glister claws stops centimeters away from puncturing his eyeballs. Chest heaving with erratic breaths, Ichigo wrestles with the urge to complete the motion. He doesn't want to blind himself, but this human—this human who is less than human—he wants to tear open, to pry out those leering, violence-hungry eyes.

But the contract stops him. He can feel it, even as the residual power bubbles and pops in his veins and clouds his mind with dangerous, dangerous impulses, dancing over his too, too sensitive skin. It's still there, still holding him back. Will he never be full? Never be filled?

And the thing this human made him do…

A slick, aching shudder works up his spine and down his tail. His tail—No! He won't think about that. Can't think about it. Because… Because…

"Suck."

"I'm going to kill you," he says—and it leaves his mouth like a provocative confession—as he drops his hand down to his side. "When this contract is over, there won't even be a body left."

Grimmjow throws back his head and laughs, a laugh full of molten, pulsing anticipation, a laugh that ricochets through the dressing room like a gunshot. "Yeah, that's it. That's fucking it. Those're the eyes I wanna see."

The human slams his fist into the off-white wall by Ichigo's head. Shoulders straining beneath the doctor costume's white lab coat, he leans in. A hot, liquid pulse dives into the hellspawn's belly, into his dick. His tail jerks. The muscles in his thighs and ass clench.

"You're gonna do it to me good, aren't ya?" the blue-haired human growls, invading Ichigo's space with more than just his body. The hellspawn can smell the woman on him, smell their sweat and fucking, and his citrusy musk, his own natural odor. The human's heat crawls over him. He can almost taste the sour-salt perspiration drying on the underside of the man's jaw.

Saliva washes over his tongue, and everything in his body clenches with such sudden, ferocious intensity that white static feathers across his vision. Fuck.

Innumerable sensations ram into him. Lust, thick and agonizing, floods his body. Lips and teeth pour over him, a tongue into him. But they aren't real: just fantasies given form upon his receptive body.

A deep, rumbling groan works out of his throat. The human's hot breath scours his face, and he's saying something, something unbelievably crude, filthy; and it has Ichigo reacting, every nerve ending flaring, every muscle desperate for motion, power riding him hard. He needs and craves and wants.

Wants reality. Wants it now. Wants what all those stupid bitches got.

Just a slight angling of his head and a single step forward…

"Found him. Found him," a thin, reedy voice chitters. "Found Kurosaki Ichigo."

Something large and shedding greasy soot pushes through the wall below the small window facing the parking lot and plops upon the floor. Several more follow. The rank odor of burned intestines fills the small dressing room.

Son of a bitch!

Chapter End

Afterword: Good news: the fic is updated. Bad news: the author has now reached the end of the rough outline zie had for the first few chapters. So we all come to a hinge moment: is this story worth reading and thus worth writing—or should it be put out of its misery? If it should continue, what scenes (aside from GrimmIchi sex scenes, because sex between them will be the culmination of the fic) are people interesting in seeing? The ending has already been planned and there is dirty, dirty sexual congress in it, but the matter of getting to that point is up for consideration.

Regardless, this unworthy author would like to humbly offer up zir most profound expressions of gratitude to those most honorable of readers who have taken the moment to leave zir with a few kind words. Writing Grimmjow this way is the most incredibly draining thing the author has ever attempted to do in a fic, but your sentiments give zir the courage to put zir trembling fingers to the keyboard and the energy to continue. Thank you, truly, for your reviews.

No winners yet. Author makes sad face now. Go for 8 or more, minna!

3BP for the first review. 2BP for the second review. 1BP for the third review. All others get .5BP.

The fabulous and incomparable truckerhat52 takes the lead again with 6.5BPs.

Coming up as a very close and wonderful second is FlyinGShadoW1314 with 5.5BPs.

Third place, but still more awesome than the author has the capacity to describe, are hey() and Innoke with 2.5BPs each.

And because The Spirits Sweater seemed particularly enthusiastic about Bleach Points in general, an additional .5 of a BP has been awarded to this kind soul, bringing the total to 1BP.