Pairing: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez x Ichigo Kurosaki x Shiro (Hollow Ichigo)

Music: Mr. Saxobeat, by Alexandra Stan

Word count: ~ 2600

Rating: M

Prompt 39: Fruity

"Ichi, where are ya?"

Shiro's voice crackles through the earpiece, and Ichigo pauses in mid-reach. The case below him glimmers temptingly, the glass all but pleading to be removed so he can reach the treasures below. And maybe it's not the best time to stop and chat, but this is Shiro, and Ichigo always has time for Shiro.

Though, if he tries to initiate phone sex on the job again, Ichigo won't be responsible for the results.

"In the middle of an action movie cliché," he answers softly, scanning the rest of the room for any hint of the guard. The man's supposed to be in the other wing right now, but this would be a hell of a time for him to change his schedule and interrupt a very delicate operation. Of course, the room's inverted, because Ichigo—who takes much pride in being the greatest cat burglar of the age—is currently hanging upside down from the ceiling, foot and leg wrapped in the rope to keep himself in place. His head is all of four inches above the jewelry case holding one of the largest, most perfect rubies in the world, set in gold with a border of flawless blue diamonds. It's gorgeous, and it's his. No way in hell is he backing off now.

With careful fingers, he dials the curator's access code into the pad on the underside of the case, and then opens the class covering with the key that he lifted from the gallery's Head of Security—in addition to being a consummate burglar, he's also an accomplished pickpocket, and the man had never noticed.

Shiro chuckles, because he knows exactly what that means—watched Ichigo practicing for this in their basement all last week, trying to find the perfect type of rope and grip. "Goin' well?" he asks, even though he doesn't need to. It's Ichigo, after all.

"Yeah." Carefully, slowly, Ichigo lifts the ruby from its nest of black velvet and slips it into the pouch on his belt. As soon as it's secure, he sets the Head of Security's key where the ruby had been and relocks the case, then twists enough to get a hand on the rope and hauls himself up. The floor is rigged with pressure sensors and infrared lasers, and unlike in the movies, they're not handily visible. Nor will the careful application of powder do anything but set them off. Knowing this, Ichigo had settled for the entrance that was thought to be impossible.

The ducts.

They're narrow, and as he slides into the one where he secured his rope, Ichigo can't help but wonder how much of his life he's spent contorted into odd positions and squashed into openings that only a child should be able to fit through. After a moment, though, he decides that he'd rather not know, and braces his Kevlar-covered shins and forearms against the metal sides of the duct as he slowly lets himself slide down. Other places—where the ventilation shaft isn't vertical—he has to slither on his stomach, incredibly careful not to make any noise as he creeps right above the security room and past it, then down a long incline towards the very bottom of the building.

"Done," he murmurs to Shiro as he drops out of the hole he made in the basement duct, landing easily in a crouch. The ruby is a heavy, satisfying weight against his thigh.

Shiro's grin is nearly audible. "Great, Ichi! The exit is ten meters to your right, and…" There comes the rapid click of computer keys, and then a satisfied huff. "Security's offline. Cameras in the gallery are back on real time, and we're good to go."

The van is one block over, sitting in the driveway of a house that's up for sale, and Ichigo slips through the door about a half-second before Shiro's pulling out, heading for their hideout as Ichigo changes into normal clothes. Things have gotten a bit too hot around their main base lately, since the FBI has apparently upgraded their threat level ever since the Pentagon thing.

In Ichigo's defense, he was drunk and it was a dare. And it's not like he took anything, just…left a calling card.

But stealing is like really good foreplay, and Ichigo can't worry about the FBI right now. He's keyed up and horny, and Shiro knows. They go to ground quickly, just far enough away from the gallery to be safe. It's a nice little apartment and they've both got alibis there—Shiro was at home, computer logs showing that he was working on his designs until the early hours of the morning, and Ichigo was on a plane returning from a gymnastics tournament in Spain. It's a simple matter to ditch the van in the underground parking lot—where it looks just like the maintenance man's spare, imagine that—and race up five flights of stairs since neither of them likes elevators very much.

By the time they hit the apartment, Ichigo's missing a shirt and Shiro's pants are unzipped (he's going commando, like always, and Ichigo really appreciates it). They tumble through the doorway, hands everywhere, kissing and touching and Ichigo half-thinks that Shiro's mother must have been an octopus, because how else would he manage to have what feels like eight or nine hands everywhere?

The sound of a clearing throat wrenches them apart with all the ardor-cooling abilities of a bucket full of ice water. They spin, Shiro instantly going for the knife he always carries and Ichigo sliding behind him, settling into one of the hand-to-hand stances he's been learning since he could first walk.

Shiro's the real fighter, but Ichigo can hang from buildings by one hand. He's not exactly weak, even if his entire MO depends on avoiding confrontation.

From his seat in the artsy, uncomfortable chair in the corner, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez stares at them with hot blue eyes, lips tilted in the bare hint of a smirk, and salutes them with a bottle of their beer.

"Morning, boys," he drawls wickedly. "Still keyed up from a job? I can help with that."

"Fired? They fired you?" Shiro demands, pacing restlessly across the room with Grimmjow's pink slip in hand. His jeans are still unzipped, showing a tantalizing flash of milk-white skin as he walks, and Grimmjow is gratified to see that he looks more upset over this whole debacle than Grimmjow himself does.

"Not exactly bright, are they? Firing their best agent." Ichigo drawls in agreement, perched on the edge of the granite counter. Grimmjow wonders if it's a cat burglar thing, to always go for the high ground, but then ignores the question in favor of ogling the bare, lithely muscular, and suntanned chest presented to him. Ichigo is damned gorgeous, trying or not. He's one of the things that drew Grimmjow here, even when he had nowhere else to go but no reason to think either of the thieves would help him. Really, it was far more likely that they would toss him out on his ass.

But they didn't. They haven't. And Grimmjow doesn't think that is about to change any time in the near future. Ichigo and Shiro aren't the type to give false hope or false comfort.

With a soft huff, Shiro hurls himself onto the couch, scowl firmly in place. "The bastards are gonna take all the fun out of the chase," he complains. "Ya were the only one to ever get close, and now what? They gonna put Ulquiorra on our case? Ha!"

As warming as the support is, though, Grimmjow's getting antsy, and kind of wishing they'd all get back to the program they had going when they fell through the door—with him included, of course. Thankfully, Ichigo seems to be thinking along those lines, too, because he shoots Shiro a slightly bored look and slides off the counter with a ripple of absolutely gorgeous muscle. There's absolutely no hesitation in his steps as he stalks across the room and drops onto Grimmjow's lap, straddling his legs. Automatically—because his mother raised him to be courteous, and letting his host fall off of him would hardly be considered polite—he grips the cat burglar's hips to steady him. It has nothing to do with the warm, firm skin under his hands, or the way Ichigo all but fucking purrs when Grimmjow touches him.

Well, maybe a little.

"Do you want to talk right now?" Ichigo asks, and he sounds oddly serious, for all that he's in the perfect position to give Grimmjow a lap dance.

Grimmjow gives him the look that question deserves. He's got a hundred and thirty pounds of beautiful genius thief sitting right where Grimmjow's been wanting him for months now, and he's definitely not going to let that go to waste.

Because he's a genius, Ichigo reads the response in his face and grins, slow and sharp. He leans forward slowly, giving Grimmjow plenty of time to pull away, and tilts his head just enough for their lips to brush.

It's brief, soft, and nearly chaste. It's also electric, mind numbing, and brilliant (for all that he tastes like fruity gum, which Grimmjow normally can't stand), and Grimmjow can't help the moan of regret that slips from him when Ichigo draws back a bare second later.

"Tease," he hisses softly, because he doesn't need to feed the thief's ego by howling it, the way he wants to do.

Ichigo just grins at him and comes back for more, and this time it's filthy, his tongue sweeping in as though to map every crevice of Grimmjow's mouth, his hands sliding under Grimmjow's neat dress shirt and deftly flicking through the buttons. Grimmjow is content to let him, to make him work for this. God knows Grimmjow's worked for it—goddamn years on their case, much of it on dead-boring stakeouts where the most interesting thing he caught was Ichigo and Shiro screwing. Which, truthfully, is pretty interesting, but tended not to impress his bosses.

When Ichigo draws away again, driven solely by their growing need for air, his lips are swollen to the point where they're almost obscene. Grimmjow feels his brain all but short out, and the effect is only compounded when a pale hand inserts itself between them and drags Grimmjow forward. He just has time to register Shiro's hot molten-gold eyes before the breath is forcibly removed from his lungs again.

Between them, Ichigo makes a sound that in anyone else would be a whimper.

Shiro draws back with a wicked chuckle and looks at the thief. Grimmjow looks, too. His mouth is open, those bruised lips parted as he pants lightly, pupils blown wide with desire. He's absolutely fucking gorgeous, and infinitely fuckable.

"Damn, Ichi," Shiro murmurs in the thief's ear, sending a shudder rippling up and down his spine. "Ya want something?"

Ichigo swallows, then leans back slightly to murmur into Shiro's hair, "I want you to watch him fuck me, Shiro."

Now that's an idea Grimmjow can get behind—it's like payback for all the times he's been forced into close quarters with some hapless agent and made to watch Ichigo getting his brains screwed out by his partner, while he could only watch over the crappy video monitor.

It seems like Shiro's up for it, too. He swallows hard, and then growls, "Bed. Now."

With a low laugh, Ichigo slides off of Grimmjow's lap and fucking saunters towards the bedroom door, then through it without as much as a look over his shoulder.

Shiro and Grimmjow trade glances and bolt for the door.

Of all the places he's ever expected to end up with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, Shiro has to say that he never expected this. Oh, he'd thought about it—what red-blooded gay man wouldn't?—but he never actually expected it to happen.

But what Ichigo wants, Ichigo always seems to get, and Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez is no exception.

Shiro's hand slowly strokes up and down his shaft, in time with the rhythm of Grimmjow's hips rocking oh-so-slowly into the cradle of Ichigo's hips. They're a sight together, Grimmjow big and brawny, Ichigo lithely muscular and almost fragile in comparison. As he watches, Ichigo throws his head back with a sharp, short cry, back bending in a graceful arch. Grimmjow rides him through it with a growl, pinning his arms at the elbow and leaning down at devour his mouth.

The room is hot, almost too much so, and Shiro tips his head back with a groan of his own, the feel of his own hand on his cock sending sparks of white lightning up his spine. For a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines that he's between them, Ichigo tight and impossibly hot around his cock, Grimmjow a huge, hard presence both at his back and deep inside him. They would move together, the three of them become one for the time it takes to reach climax, and then they'd separate again, returning to their distinct selves with a few pieces shared among all three. He groans again, feeling the heat in his belly growing into a hard knot right behind his balls, and slits his eyes open to look at the bed.

They're watching him, both of them, with hungry eyes. Ichigo's got that glazed look he usually gives valuable jewelry in low-security vaults, or a new toy in an adult shop. For his part, Grimmjow looks like someone just nailed him over the head with a two-by-four of pure lust. That's all that Shiro can read in his expression—pure, unadulterated want, and it's somewhat gratifying to see. Shiro always thought that the former agent was focused entirely on Ichigo. Maybe he was before, but Shiro knows desire when he sees it, and Grimmjow's wearing it in spades.

Without ever moving his gaze from Shiro, Grimmjow hitches his hips just a little bit. Spread out beneath him, Ichigo gives an inarticulate little cry that's quickly stifled, even as the thief jerks and twists in Grimmjow's grip. He seems to realize that he's not going anywhere, though, because he subsides with a whine, panting.

Grimmjow grins at him, like that's a victory, and does it again.

Shiro's mouth goes dry. Grimmjow is merciless, going just slow enough to drive Ichigo mad, to build the heat between them to inferno heights without any hope to completion. He's taking his time, sliding himself over Ichigo's prostate with just enough force to make him twitch and shudder, but never actually do anything.

And Shiro's signed up for this, too.

As though reading the thoughts on the wheelman's face, Grimmjow grins like a panther and pulls back, nearly all the way out. Then, with no warning, he snaps his hips forward with bruising force, burying himself deep inside Ichigo with a single thrust.

Ichigo fucking keens, every muscle going as tight as a fiddle string as he convulses, the tremors shaking his body almost to pieces as he paints his own stomach white. He collapses to the mattress in a boneless sprawl, trembling and whimpering as Grimmjow thrusts twice more into his oversensitive body and the withdraws.

He's still hard, and Shiro lets his somewhat horrified gaze shift from that dripping, rock-hard boner to Ichigo's pale, wrecked form and then back up to wicked cyan eyes.

"Your turn," Grimmjow says, and his grin is just shy of terrifying.

Shiro bites back a whimper of his own, slides off his chair, and walks towards the bed.