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Even after two years, they still fight first and fuck later.
Never mind the talking.
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They cannot look away from one another – have not broken eye contact since the moment Ichigo stepped through the portal. Grimmjow does not acknowledge anyone else and Ichigo has all but forgotten the handful of people around them.
They draw their blades in the same breath and Grimmjow’s possessive, pissed-off snarl has Ichigo muttering, “Urahara-san, get everyone away. Now.”
The other’s reiatsu signatures have barely faded into the distance before Ichigo is bringing up both blades to counter Grimmjow’s first furious blow. It is much, much stronger than he remembers. There is enough force behind the slash he has to swallow back a heady moan as Grimmjow’s power plows into him and then ridiculously – magnificently – grows. As he works increasingly harder to meet each strike, Ichigo makes a sound that is half laugh, half snarl and releases his own tightly controlled power. His reiatsu boils and churns against his skin for an agonizing moment before it explodes.
Grimmjow’s reaction is priceless.
For a long moment, he remains motionless – his unearthly eyes reflecting a kaleidoscope of unspoken emotion as the rising tide of Ichigo’s full power surrounds and then blows past him, scraping at his skin, tearing at his clothes, suffocating him for long moments before it levels out into a heavy presence that saturates the air around them.
Then Grimmjow smiles, all teeth, and leaps towards Ichigo with a roar so loud it shakes the ground beneath them.
Ichigo meets him without hesitation, recognizing the howl of deep, uncontrollable longing in the sound. Echoed in every strike of their swords.
And so they fight, neither holding back, as they have always done. They fight until the landscape crumbles under their blows, warped by their battle. They fight until they both ache, breathless and bleeding, thin sweaty rivers running from skin and clothes.
Ichigo is more powerful by magnitudes, despite how strong Grimmjow has become, but Grimmjow holds his own. They fight until Grimmjow’s attacks begin to weaken and Ichigo’s resolve begins to wane.
“Grimmjow,” Ichigo says, in a rare pause between blows, a hundred questions in the name.
“Shut. Up.” The two words are a broken snarl as Grimmjow hefts Pantera and throws her, javelin-like, into the ground below.
Ichigo stares at him for a heartbeat, then drops his blades and bares his throat.
Grimmjow is on him so fast Ichigo’s back slams into the sand at the same time sharp teeth puncture his throat.
Shoving both of his hands into Grimmjow’s hair, Ichigo yanks that dangerous mouth closer, stretching his skin against the savage bite and is rewarded with another – harder this time and higher up – digging deep into the faded scar-tissue between his neck and shoulder. The bite makes him shudder and choke back a moan. Grimmjow growls and bites down harder and Ichigo can only gasp and clutch at his head and shoulders.
Rumbling with pleasure around his bloody mouthful, Grimmjow shakes his head back and forth, worrying the flesh between his teeth – as gentle as he will ever be, with this – the motion more possession than affection, a hunter with his prey.
Ichigo does not protest the mauling, only tightens his grip in thick hair and lets himself be shaken. They lay tangled on the ground for immeasurable minutes, joined teeth to throat, limbs locked together, neither one willing to let go.
xxx
They will never talk about their last fight - Grimmjow left for dead in the desert, or the long bleak memory of Ichigo’s missing powers.
Ichigo will never speak of a last, hopeless search through Hueco Mundo.
Grimmjow will never speak of the first – and only – time he tore a portal into the living world, or how he fled when he could not sense even the faintest trace of Ichigo’s reiatsu.
xxx
Grimmjow pulls off Ichigo’s neck with a noisy suck, lapping at the blood. His breathing is heavy, long pulls through his mouth and nose as he drags his whole face – tongue swiping, bone scraping, re-mapping Ichigo’s skin – all of it, whatever he can reach. The hands in Grimmjow’s hair tighten, but do not restrain him as he scents the sweat at Ichigo’s temple, the salty curve of his cheek and chin, the too-sweet hollow at the base of his throat.
He adds teeth, biting hard enough to bruise and elicit another gurgled moan. Power ripples as sharp nails tear through the layers of Ichigo’s clothes. Grimmjow bares one arm, then another, sniffing and tasting the skin that is revealed with quick nips and long, slow sweeps of his tongue.
Ichigo shakes off the scraps of his clothing as they are shredded, hissing whenever sharp nails separate the skin and the cloth, leaving thin bloody trails that Grimmjow follows with lips and tongue. His chest is bared by the next swipe of claws, the dark cloth shredded over his ribs as Grimmjow nuzzles him from sternum to belly and back again, mask scraping over a nipple before he turns his head.
Mouth open wide over the tight nub, sharp teeth dimpling skin, as he flicks at the stiffened nipple with a rough tongue. Ichigo makes a noise and his back arches, watching through hooded eyes, a fine tremble in the fingers tunneled in the hair at Grimmjow’s temple.
Grimmjow bites down – hard.
Ichigo cries out and bucks, hips and cock straining towards a friction Grimmjow denies. A wet tongue flicks rapidly at the trapped nub, a pleased rumble traveling through Grimmjow’s chest as Ichigo pushes up and up again, even as the blood wells and drips between Grimmjow’s teeth. When Ichigo starts growling, Grimmjow repeats the torture on the other side. Huge hands pin Ichigo’s writhing hips to the ground as Grimmjow bites, then sucks. The monster spends minutes lingering over the wounds as the man writhes with impatient pleasure underneath him. By the time Grimmjow has shredded the rest of their clothing, Ichigo’s eyes are blown dark with lust, his breathing shallow, cock smearing precome on his belly.
Grimmjow crouches naked at Ichigo’s feet, wraps a hand around both ankles and lifts, dragging his face down the back of long, perfectly muscled limbs. Ichigo moves without protest under Grimmjow’s hands, lost in the long, sucking bites that mark the backs of his calves and thighs. He lets himself be folded, hips coming up off the ground, body curling as Grimmjow guides him over. And finds himself trapped – body balanced ass-up in Grimmjow’s lap, an inhuman grip holding his thighs apart. Wide-eyed, Ichigo shakes his head in protest even as his eyes lock with Grimmjow’s, that otherworldly gaze framed by the now straining length of Ichigo’s rigid cock.
Grimmjow’s smile is pure animal, teeth gleaming as he opens his mouth wide and drags the flat of his tongue over the tight, puckered skin of Ichigo’s hole. Ichigo’s moan gurgles deep in his throat.
Grimmjow shudders at the sound of it, and licks him again.
Relentless, indelicate, feasting – Grimmjow laps at Ichigo with a wet tongue until he’s drooling in anticipation and Ichigo is struggling in earnest. Grimmjow shifts, hands moving up to spread him wider, fingertips tugging at the wet rim until it opens under his tongue. Ichigo makes sounds like he’s being strangled and Grimmjow’s rigid cock jumps and drips on his belly. Ichigo whimpers and Grimmjow digs at his hole with his tongue, working his way inside until his face is buried and Ichigo is snarling.
Grimmjow grunts and adjusts his grip, hitching Ichigo up higher against his mouth and tongue fucks him with patient savagery, slurping and scraping and sucking until Ichigo is howling, his cock swollen purple, slit gaping as it oozes precome. Gaze riveted, Grimmjow watches Ichigo struggle, his twisted expression, blood-flushed cheeks and tortured cock, the ragged cries, the stuttered breathing. He mauls the wet, twitching hole under his tongue and then brings a hand up, palm flat and hovering over Ichigo’s cock.
Ichigo gasps and tries to pull away – violently – but Grimmjow’s grip is unmerciful, his gaze knowing as he brings the hand down in a firm slap along the rigid, leaking length. Ichigo makes a sound like he’s been gutted, but his cock bounces and swells and spits more precome.
Grimmjow tongue-fucks him harder and slaps the spitting cock again, and again – firm, steady slaps until Ichigo is a squealing, shaking mess. Who screams. And goes suddenly rigid, hole tightening like a vice around Grimmjow’s tongue as he finally goes over, his body hunching in Grimmjow’s grip as his cock sprays come over his neck and face.
A satisfied rumble echoes deep in Grimmjow’s throat as he fists the still-spitting cock, stroking it through the last spurts. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the wet, abused hole between Ichigo’s cheeks and lifts his head, licking at the wet smears on his own chin and cheeks as he releases Ichigo’s cock and hauls him upright, pulling his hips down, guiding his leaking cock between the sweet spread of Ichigo’s cheeks.
Ichigo’s moan is unsteady as his spit-slick body stutters down the thick, heavy length. The long, shaking tremble of Ichigo’s legs settle around Grimmjow’s hips as he bottoms out, thin fingers splayed across broad shoulders as his feet scuff in the dirt.
It is Grimmjow who moves first, his hands rounding the sharp corner of Ichigo’s hips to roam the surface of his skin, mapping his body in its entirety. Knees to thighs, hips to ass, waist to shoulders, throat to cheek, re-measuring the form draped over and around him. Taller. Broader. Lean with muscle. He frowns when he has to look up to meet Ichigo’s gaze and wraps a rough hand around the back of Ichigo’s neck, pulling his face down against his own. Ichigo snorts but goes without protest, his arms sliding forward to dangle over Grimmjow’s shoulders.
They are breathing in tandem, bodies motionless though joined – the air dense with their slowly intertwining reiatsu, the smell of battle sweat and Ichigo’s come. Their mouths are open, brows, noses and lips barely touching, watching one another - neither looking away as they share breath after breath, the air crackling around them as they stare at one another.
It is Ichigo who moves this time, tongue flicking at the sharp temptation of Grimmjow’s teeth.
Grimmjow makes a quiet, unfamiliar sound and lifts his jaw to slant their mouths together, taking possession with a sweep of his tongue and a rough thrust of his cock. Ichigo groans and sucks hard on the invading tongue, rolling his hips back and then sharply down, making them both moan. He plants his feet as Grimmjow comes up to his knees, working together to move his body up and down Grimmjow’s cock.
Ichigo’s kisses grow more aggressive with each thrust, until Grimmjow’s head is tipped back for the needy lap of Ichigo’s tongue, and the long fingers that pet Grimmjow’s temples. They fuck until Ichigo’s arms are wrapped tight around his neck, mouths straining together with the same rhythm as their bodies. Ichigo returns every sharp nip and suck, feasting on the way Grimmjow’s jaw goes slack and his thrusts get harder as he gets closer; knows from the rough, deep thrusts and the violent hold on his hips when Grimmjow is coming.
Grimmjow’s grip remains firm, his groan quiet as he tempers the ride of Ichigo’s body with hands on his hips, working himself through the last shudders. Their motions slow, but do not stop, their mouths still locked more open-mouthed exploration than actual kissing. Ichigo cannot stop the need to taste him, tongue dipping past Grimmjow’s teeth. Grimmjow cannot stop the need to claim him, cock still hard and splitting his cheeks.
Then Grimmjow wraps a hand around the back of Ichigo’s neck and tugs, separating their lips. Ichigo makes a noise of protest but lets Grimmjow tilt him back, his body continuing to rise and fall on Grimmjow’s cock until he jerks as the head of Grimmjow’s cock grazes his prostate.
Grimmjow grunts and adjusts until Ichigo punches him in the arm. Grimmjow ignores the blow and holds him there, cock dead center against the torturous bundle of nerves. Ichigo scowls, his mouth open to protest when Grimmjow wraps a hand around his half-hard cock and gives him a perfect, rough stroke from base to tip.
Ichigo arches, legs falling apart as his head goes back on a gurgling moan, hands falling from Grimmjow’s shoulders when he is rewarded with another perfect stroke. Uncaring what he looks like, or the sounds he’s making, Ichigo rolls his hips, pushing into that fist until his cock is rigid and leaking, his entire lower body straining as he’s masturbated into a panting wreck. Moments later, he’s curling forward with a whine, high-pitched and startled as he spurts in Grimmjow’s fist.
Grimmjow pulls him up and strokes his cock until Ichigo can only grunt in protest, his body draped over Grimmjow’s from neck to hips, head resting on a broad shoulder, his arms dangling down a wide back.
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Ichigo will later swear he only imagined the press of lips against his temple.
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Ichigo does not protest when Grimmjow starts fucking him again, merely hangs on as he’s tipped on his back into the shredded pile of what’s left of their clothing. He hikes his legs up high around Grimmjow’s hips as he’s fucked. It is rough and unhurried, a methodical pounding meant less for pleasure and more for the bruise and ache, a pace Grimmjow can keep for hours. It will leave reminders that linger for days – longer if he’s fucked again tomorrow.
Tonight.
In an hour.
Ichigo rubs against the bony mask pressed to his cheek and drags his nails up and down the long, heaving frame that covers him, raising shallow welts on Grimmjow’s shoulders and hips. The motions soothe the un-tamable creature that fucks him and a quiet rumble of pleasure blows hot across the skin at Ichigo’s throat.
Eventually, Grimmjow will put Ichigo on his knees, hold him down against the dirt and try to crawl inside of him cock-first, re-claiming every arch and shudder of this taller, leaner, stronger body.
After Grimmjow comes again, they will lay silent and tangled for hours – sated from battle and fucking, and with very little need for actual words.
END