Moments with the Panther and Berry

Disclaimer: My name is Anemone. Six hour naps are not conducive to a normal sleeping pattern, and I do not own Bleach.

Dedicated to Sly-sama; thanks for sticking by me through real life bullshit and my Fandom Hopping.

Chapter Ten: Battle Lust

"You've gotten better at this, brat." Grimmjow's electric-blues were calculating, tone holding praise. He circled his opponent, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Ichigo's scowl shifted into a smirk. "You seem surprised," he said breezily. "It's been a while since we sparred like this."

"True," Grimmjow affirmed. His voice held no signs of labored breathing; it was as if this conversation weren't being held mid-battle. "But I expected you to be a little rusty."

Ichigo snorted. 'Cocky bastard,' he thought, a little irritated. "Seems you've forgotten what I'm capable of, Grimmjow. Let me refresh your memory." Chocolate orbs tinged with gold as he charged forward.

The Espada's shiny white blade reflected the artificial sunlight of Kisuke Urahara's underground training room. A cloud of dirt swirled around them as the opponents raced toward each other, each giving the match their all. A gleaming black blade clashed against a pristine white one forcing its wielder a few paces backwards.

Ichigo leaned forward pushing the majority of his weight into the thrust of his sword. He felt the tip of the blade nick the smooth flesh of Grimmjow's cheek and, for a moment, he was captivated by the small trickle of blood that slipped from the scratch. He let his eyes roam from the wound, taking in the entirety of the man before him. Grimmjow had ditched the Gigai, so he was in all of his Arrancar glory; white uniform trimmed in black flowing in the breeze and hugging every muscle.

"Don't drop your guard, Ichi," the blue-eyed male warned as his stance shifted. With a flick of the wrist, he dislodged Zangetsu from the Soul Reaper's grasp, inflicting a similar injury on the youth's left cheek.

Chocolate orbs watched Zangetsu land a few feet away, sharp blade seeking purchase in the dusty ground. He briefly felt his inner Hollow stir within him, fueled by the desire to turn the mock battle into a real one.

'Calm down, Shiro,' Ichigo hissed internally.

'C'mon, King. I jus' wanna cut the kitten up a 'lil. Y'know he'd look pretty in crimson.' Shiro's cackle echoed in Ichigo's mind, and he even conjured up an image of the Espada bleeding from every pore.

'Tempting, but no. Just… go back to whatever you were doing, would ya?' This thought had an exasperated huff tacked to the end.

"You're spacing out, Ichi-kins."

Grimmjow's voice pulled the orange-haired boy back to the task at hand. The man had sheathed Pantera and was racing toward him. Before Ichigo had time to defend himself, the Espada had tackled him to the hard ground in one fluid motion.

"You fight dirty, Grimmjow," Ichigo accused.

"Hey, if you wanna blame someone, blame that Hollow of yours. He picks the worst times for conversations. You should work on his timing." He was clearly amused.

Ichigo scowled. Any retort he had was wiped from his mind when Grimmjow's tongue lashed out to lick away the blood from his cheek.

The air – still charged with the electricity of battle – now hummed with a primal, lusty energy. The dust around them had begun to settle, and they were enveloped in artificial warm sunshine. In the quiet of the training room, Grimmjow's fingers moved to untie Ichigo's robes.

The Soul Reaper made no move to stop the Espada's movements. The small tendril of fire that was Grimmjow's tongue had moved from Ichigo's cheek over his lips and into his mouth. He greedily swallowed hungry kisses as peach fingers pulled away white fabric.

White and black robes fluttered to the ground a few inches away. Peach hands played in sky blue locks as tan fingers splayed along rippling muscle and a somewhat slender frame. The dirt that clung to peach skin was swept away as tan fingers mapped familiar territory.

Grimmjow's lips and mouth toyed with heated flesh. He traveled along Ichigo's body, blazing a trail of feather-light touches and open-mouthed kisses. His intended destination was his lover's lonely looking member, just begging for attention, but he halted at the tug of his hair.

"Hmm?" The bluenet asked curiously, looking up from between spread legs.

Ichigo saw no need for foreplay. He was high from their sparring match, veins full of testosterone. "Just take me," he said in a breathy plea. He wanted to feel the taller male pounding into him.

Grimmjow's electric-blues darkened, a growl escaping his throat. He lifted the teen just a bit, dipped his head and parted firm butt cheeks. In a swift movement, his tongue flashed out and that small tendril of fire coated Ichigo's entrance in saliva.

Ichigo shivered, toes curling at the pleasure of this preparation.

Grimmjow spread himself over Ichigo's body, guided the head of his rigid flesh to the boy's entrance and pressed inside. The heat that swirled around his member in that tight cavern was a welcome sensation. His eyes slipped closed and he threw back his head as he began to thrust into the orange-haired Shinigami.

Ichigo felt sweat trickle down his back turning the dirt that clung to his skin into mud. He arched his back, tightened his thighs around his lover's waist, and moaned as his prostate was stimulated multiple times. The familiar strokes to his manhood pushed him further into bliss.

Grimmjow's eyes opened slowly. He gazed at the boy under him; a panting, shivering, moaning mess of need, pleasure and hunger. His peach cheeks were striped with brown dirt and tinted with pink. Orange lashes fluttered, brown eyes glazed. He fused their lips together roughly as his pace quickened and his member pulsed from deep within Ichigo.

His stomach muscles quivered with the approaching climax. His fingers kneaded a muscular back tracing each shiver that ran down Grimmjow's spine. His member twitched violently and heat spread through his stomach as teeth gnawed on his neck, fingers gripped him tighter and thrusts became faster.

He felt himself spiraling into the center of the tornado of pleasure whipping through him. Pleasure coursed through his bloodstream and he focused on his name tumbling from the brat's lips to try to keep himself grounded. He couldn't hang on; a moan ripped from his throat as the dizzying need for release slipped through him.

It felt like he was freefalling as his orgasm hit. Ichigo felt his toes curl, back arch and every muscle tighten as the heat of pleasure spread through him. His metaphorical orgasm-induced free-fall ended with a sharp intake of breath and a stream of white, sticky, hot semen.

"Ichigo," Grimmjow groaned against the boy's neck as he released his seed.

"Grimmjow," Ichigo cried out as pleasure rocked his body.

Both males sagged from exhaustion, huddled together on the rocky, dirt floor in boneless puddles of pleasure.

"Mmm," Ichigo sighed in content.

"We gotta spar more often," Grimmjow murmured, blue eyes drooping in sated delight.

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To Be Continued!