Grimmjow tries not to shiver, that’s a cowardly thing to do, but the chill in the air attacks his bare skin, and the stone floor is even colder on his bare knees. He wants to say that it’s the temperature threatening to make his body shake, but that would be a lie. So he clamps his mouth shut, squares his jaw, narrows his eyes, and looks up defiantly.
He’s not afraid. He’s fucking terrified but he’s not saying anything.
Aizen looks down at him, circle all around, and he’s not saying much either. There’s a look in his eyes that Grimmjow can’t name. It’s not anger, or annoyance, or amusement. It doesn’t bode well for Grimmjow, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t know if that look means pain and lots of it, or agony that mixes with pleasure until he can’t tell them apart. Until they get so confused in his head that he can’t tell the difference anymore.
Aizen’s still not talking. He’s also not dressed like usual. Little more than a simple robe, belted at the waist. His feet are bare, and that should make Grimmjow feel a little safer, looking at the all-powerful Aizen’s bare feet. It should make Aizen seem less intimidating, maybe even a bit silly. Except Grimmjow’s not an idiot, at least not that kind. He knows better than to give substance to an illusion.
He stares at Aizen’s bare feet, shoulders squared, and tells himself he’s not going to shake.
A hand reaches out; Grimmjow doesn’t flinch. Fingers trail through his hair, make his scalp pringle. The fingers are warm, almost caressing, stroking him from the crown of his head and down across his hair. They pause at the nape of his neck, a gentle stroke that makes a shiver dance down Grimmjow’s spine. He can’t stop it.
His head lowers. He knows, without the bastard saying it, that it’s what Aizen wants and Grimmjow stares at the floor, his breathing echoing sharply in the otherwise empty chamber. Aizen’s fingers are still on his nape, stroking the finer hairs, and Grimmjow clamps down on the rumble that tries to build in his chest, too much like a fucking purr for his comfort.
He can feel the weight of Aizen’s stare, itching between his shoulderblades, and further down, burning and blazing on the tattoo on his lower back. Aizen’s fingers drag out, across the top of Grimmjow’s back and he’s standing right behind Grimmjow now, hands on his Espada’s shoulders, fingers curling over until they rest lightly on Grimmjow’s collarbone.
Finally, Aizen leans forward, his voice a wet, hot breath across Grimmjow’s ear, his words sizzling straight to Grimmjow’s groin, making him swallow thickly. “Shall we begin?”