Archive of Our Own

The sheer cold arrives without any sort of warning whatsoever.

It seems that Hueco Mundo simply does not do weather properly. The endless desert exists solely trapped in extremes, be it a burning heat beneath the eternal night or the biting dryness sharp enough to split lips and crack stone. But this— the freezing, unforgiving cold— is something unnatural even by Hollow standards.

The temperature has plummeted over the grand course of a whopping two days. White sand freezes hard beneath wandering feet while frost creeps all along the pale walls of Las Noches in glittering silver veins. The air itself feels brittle, every inhale cutting cold into lungs that are more accustomed to fire, brimstone, and dust.

The Arrancar all simultaneously hate it.

The weaker Hollows have long since vanished into caves and lower chambers, seeking shelter from the freezing winds screaming across the dunes outside. Even the stronger ones seem restless, somehow irritable in a quieter way than they’d been during the heatwave— less explosive aggression, more low growls and bared teeth over territory and warmth.

Grimmjow himself is utterly miserable, which naturally means he’s making it everyone else’s problem.

“You’re pacing,” Mila Rose remarks dryly from across the corridor, dangling her legs off a side ledge.

Grimmjow shoots her a murderous glare, checking quickly that Halibel is nowhere to be seen before responding. “…I’ll break your damn jaw.”

“There it is,” she says with a shuddering sigh, hopping off the ledge before making her way elsewhere. “That seasonal charm.”

Grimmjow merely continues walking.

Truthfully, pacing is the only thing keeping his blood moving at all. Much like the heat, the cold clings to everything; even his spiritual energy doesn’t fully burn it away. His hands remain frigid. The tips of his ears sting. Every exhale fogs up the air faintly in front of him. It’s all absolutely disgusting, and he hates it.

Even worse— he knows exactly whose fault this is becoming, because the moment the temperature had dropped, his brain had started circling around one particular problem.

Nelliel.

Specifically: where she is, whether she’s warm, and why the hell he suddenly cares enough for it to become distracting or to even matter at all. Grimmjow scowls harder at nothing in particular as he stalks down a chilly hallway. It’s all so goddamn stupid.

After the heatwave incident, things between them have changed in ways neither of them bothers pretending otherwise. The tension hasn’t disappeared; if anything, it’s grown even worse. They touch more now. Sit closer together. Look at each other for too long. Every interaction carries the memory of what happened between them that day, and Grimmjow has discovered very quickly that once he’d begun touching Nelliel, it became difficult to stop wanting to.

Which is a problem, especially now, because every instinct in his body keeps insisting that she’ll be warm. The thought alone nearly makes him change direction immediately. Instead, he shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his pants and keeps stalking through the arctic Las Noches.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

He’s about halfway down another frozen corridor when he senses a familiar spiritual energy approaching from the opposite end. His steps slow down automatically. Nelliel emerges through drifting shadows less than a moment later, and Grimmjow instantly forgets every coherent thought he’s been attempting to maintain.

She looks cold.

Not weak— never weak— but visibly affected in ways that she usually hides. Her cheeks carry faint color from the sub-zero temperature; loose strands of green hair have escaped around her face. She wears an additional layer over her usual clothing, a long, dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders in a pathetic attempt at warmth that clearly isn’t working very well at all.

Most importantly, when she spots him, she visibly relaxes. That tiny reaction hits Grimmjow square in the chest. Nelliel stops a mere few feet away from him, both of her arms folded tightly against herself. For once, neither of them starts the conversation with teasing or mutual antagonizing.

“You look awful,” she says bluntly.

“So do you.”

“...Fantastic.”

A sudden gust of freezing wind screams through the corridor openings nearby; Nelliel shivers immediately in response. Grimmjow’s eyes narrow; the movement had been small, barely noticeable, but he still caught it— and suddenly his irritation twists into something else entirely: protectiveness, or more likely some sort of possessive instinct.

The same dangerous thing that always surfaces around her now, sharpened further beneath the frigid cold.

“You been outside?” he demands, arching a brow in her direction.

“A patrol.”

“In this?”

“There were hollows moving near the western dunes.”

“You gotta be freezing.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m tougher.”

Nelliel rolls her eyes weakly, though the gesture lacks its usual irritated energy. Another silence settles in between them, though it’s notably different from before; not tense, but tentative, like both of them are thinking the exact same thing and waiting to see who admits to it first.

Grimmjow stares at her for another long second before clicking his tongue irritably. “C’mere.”

Nelliel blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Without waiting for her agreement, Grimmjow grabs her wrist and hauls her forward against him; Nelliel makes a startled sound as warmth immediately closes around her. His arms wrap firmly around her shoulders beneath the extra fabric she’s wearing, dragging her flush against his chest with blunt possessiveness.

Heat— there it is, instantly.

Despite the cold clinging to both of them, Nelliel still radiates heat stronger than the freezing air around them. Grimmjow feels some of the tension leave his body the second she settles against him, and judging by the way Nelliel exhales softly against his throat, she feels it too. For several seconds neither one of them speaks. The cold winds howl distantly through Las Noches, but inside the circle of Grimmjow’s arms, things feel suddenly… quieter.

Cozier.

Nelliel tilts her head upwards slightly to look up at him. “This is very unlike you.”

“Shut up.”

“You sought me out, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

Grimmjow scowls.

Nelliel smiles faintly despite herself. “There’s that temper.”

“Don’t start being smug.”

“But you’re cuddling me voluntarily.”

“I’m not cuddling anybody.”

One of her eyebrows rises, and Grimmjow realizes belatedly that he’s practically wrapped around her at this point. He refuses to release her anyway, and Nelliel’s smile softens into something quieter, something fond.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs after a few seconds.

The words hit him harder than expected, so Grimmjow looks away first before speaking.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “So’re you.”

Neither of them moves apart. The cold should make the moment uncomfortable; instead, it makes everything worse— or better… dangerously better. Nelliel remains tucked against Grimmjow’s chest while the gelid winds scream through the distant corridors of the reconstructed castle. The contrast between the brutal cold outside and the heat trapped between their bodies makes every point of contact feel somehow heightened.

Her hands have already slipped beneath the open edges of his jacket at some point— not for seduction initially, just for warmth— but now that her palms are resting against the bare skin of his stomach, Grimmjow is discovering very quickly that he has absolutely no ability to think normally while she’s touching him like that.

“You’re staring,” Nelliel says.

Grimmjow’s blue eyes narrow. “And you’re smiling again.”

“Can you blame me?” She tilts her face up slightly once more, amusement flickering in her expression. “You dragged me into your arms in the middle of a hallway.”

“Yeah, well. You looked cold.”

“And now?”

“Now you’re talking too much.”

She laughs softly, and the sound curls through him like smoke through the air. Grimmjow’s grip around her tightens instinctively, and as a result her breath catches. A tiny reaction, but he feels it, sees it, and suddenly that old tension from the heatwave returns full force beneath the quieter intimacy of the freezing cold. Nelliel notices the shift right away.

“Oh?” she murmurs. “There’s that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one right before you lose patience.”

Grimmjow stares at her for a long moment. Then slowly— very slowly— his mouth curves into that sharp grin she knows means inevitable trouble.

“You remember what I told you before?”

Nelliel’s pulse skips once. Unfortunately, she remembers exactly.

'I would never beg.'

‘...But you will.’

The promise still lingers vividly in her memory, and judging by the way Grimmjow is currently looking at her now, he remembers it too.

“You say a lot of things,” she replies carefully.

“Yeah?” His voice drops lower. “Funny how you remember that one, then.”

Nelliel opens her mouth to tease him again, only to be interrupted by another frigid gust tearing through the corridor. She shivers hard this time, and Grimmjow’s expression changes instantly; less teasing, more intent.

“Enough standing around,” he mutters.

Before she can even begin to question him, Grimmjow hooks an arm beneath her legs and lifts her effortlessly off the ground like she weighs nothing at all. Nelliel lets out a startled noise, immediately grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Grimmjow—”

“You wanna freeze out here?”

“You could have warned me first!”

“Nah.”

His grin widens slightly at her poisonous glare, then he starts walking— fast. The corridors blur past them in pale silver-white streaks while cold winds chase at Grimmjow’s back. Nelliel remains tucked against his chest, painfully aware of the warmth radiating from him even through layers of clothing, and also painfully aware of just how easily he carries her.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses quietly.

“A little.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re clingy.”

“I’m trying not to fall.”

“You’re not gonna fall.”

The certainty in his voice makes her chest tighten unexpectedly.

Grimmjow eventually shoves open the doors to his quarters with one sharp movement of his foot before carrying her inside. The difference in temperature is immediate. It’s still cold— but it’s warmer than the frozen corridors outside. A pile of white fur blankets has been dragged near the bed haphazardly, and it appears that Grimmjow had apparently attempted to solve the problem earlier by igniting a small fire pit in the corner.

Nelliel snorts softly. “This is your solution?”

“It’s warm enough.”

“It’s barely warmer than outside.”

“Quit complaining.”

Grimmjow finally sets her down— rather unceremoniously— by dumping her onto the pile of furs he’s accumulated near the end of his bed. The room suddenly feels very small, very quiet. Nelliel looks up at him slowly.

“You know,” she murmurs, “for someone pretending this is about warmth, you seem very distracted.”

Grimmjow’s eyes drag openly down over her body before returning to her face. “Can you blame me?”

The brutal honesty of his statement causes heat to bloom beneath her skin despite the cold. Outside, icy winds batter the walls of Las Noches; inside, the air between them feels hotter by the second.

Nelliel tilts her head to the side ever so slightly. “You’re staring again.”

“You’re still you. Kinda hard not to.”

That nearly startles her more than if he’d pinned her against the wall. Grimmjow rarely sounds soft— even compliments from him usually come wrapped in teeth. But this? This sounds rougher, real, and infinitely more dangerous because of it. Nelliel’s expression flickers, and Grimmjow notices right away. His gaze darkens.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“That look.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Nah.” He shrugs off his jacket, carelessly tossing it onto the bed nearby. “You get all shaky when I say something honest.”

“I do not.”

“Wanna test that theory?”

The challenge in his voice makes her stomach twist pleasantly.

Nelliel tilts her chin up stubbornly. “Confident.”

“Told you before,” Grimmjow mutters, “I plan on learning exactly what gets reactions out of you.”

The low rasp of his voice sends another visible shiver through her, this time having absolutely nothing to do with the cold. Grimmjow realizes it, because of course he does. His grin sharpens instantly.

“Oh, you’re very sensitive tonight.”

Nelliel glares at him weakly. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”

“But I am pleased.”

A pause settles between them momentarily, broken only by the crackling from his attempt at a fire in the corner.

“And you still haven’t answered my question,” he murmurs.

“What question?”

“You gonna keep acting stubborn…” His voice drops several octaves, roughening around the edges. “…or am I finally gonna hear you beg a little?”

The words drop heavily between them, pure challenge, pure promise. Nelliel’s breath catches despite herself, and Grimmjow’s grin widens immediately at the reaction.

“There it is,” he says, victorious. “Knew I’d get that look eventually.”

And judging by the dangerous satisfaction burning in his eyes, he fully intends to make good on every promise he’s made.

“I said when the heat broke that I was gonna make you beg. You were all loose and warm and talking about ‘patience’.” He mimics her softer cadence with a mocking tone. “You’ll get what you want… when I decide to give it to you.”

He lets out a short, harsh laugh.

“Thought you were so damn clever. Now look at you. Can’t even keep your teeth from rattling.”

He looms over her, blocking some of the firelight, his presence as tangible and heavy as the heatwave had been.

“The cold’s got you now, and I’m the only real furnace in this frozen shithole.” He crouches down upon the furs, one knee on either side of her legs, caging her in without touching her. “So, let’s get you properly warmed up. And you’re gonna ask for it. Nicely.”

Nelliel’s breath hitches. She finds that it isn’t fear coiling in her stomach— it’s a sharp, answering thrill. The mental and physical challenge he represents is a sort of drug she’s been denying herself; however, it seems that the devastating cold has stripped away all pretense, leaving raw, immediate need. For warmth, yes, but also for the sheer, overwhelming force of him.

“You assume that I’ll beg,” she says, lifting her chin. Her gaze holds even with his, defiant. “You assume I even need to.”

“I don’t assume shit,” Grimmjow replies, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in the space between them. He leans in closer, his breath hot against her chilled cheek. “I know. I can smell it on you. It’s different from the heat-sick smell before. This is… sharper, cleaner. You’re aware now, and it’s pissing you off that you are.”

His blunt accuracy is frankly devastating. Nelliel swallows hard, her throat dry, because he’s right. The heatwave had been a haze of slow, sensual torment, but this is clear, crystalline, and deliberate. His current closeness is sending waves of warmth through her that have absolutely nothing to do with his attempt at a fire.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out. He doesn’t touch her skin; instead, his calloused fingers trace the air just above the curve of her shoulder, down the length of her bare arm. The almost touch is completely maddening. Her skin prickles, craving the actual contact.

“Cold?” he mutters, his gaze locked onto the path his fingers are tracing in the air. She refuses to answer, clenching her jaw.

His hand finally makes contact, a single, rough-skinned finger dragging down the center of her forearm. A spark shoots straight through her to her core, and a tiny, traitorous gasp escapes her lips.

“There,” he practically growls, the sound of his voice triumphant. “See? Your body’s smarter than your pride, Nelliel.”

His entire palm slides up her arm now, his touch shockingly hot, engulfing her chilled flesh. It’s a brand of pure sensation, a firework of heat that tears through her like a lightning strike. She shudders, her breath hitching as the warmth seeps into her veins, chasing away the lingering cold.

His hand doesn’t stop there; it moves with deliberate slowness, tracing the curve of her shoulder, his fingers grazing the hollow of her throat. Nelliel’s lips part, a soft exhale escaping her as her body begins to betray her. Her skin tingles, alive with the electric current of his touch. She wants to pull away, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her react, but her body refuses. Instead, it leans into him, craving more of his heat, more of his presence.

Grimmjow’s grin widens, a predator savoring his prey’s surrender.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like coals dragged over a fire. “You feel how much better it is when you stop fighting it?”

His other hand joins the first, sliding down her opposite arm, his palms rough but warm— almost unbearably so. Each stroke is measured, calculated to stoke the fire that’s building inside her. Nelliel’s chest rises and falls rapidly, her pulse quickening as his hands move lower, skimming the sides of her ribs. His touch is relentless, maddening, and she can feel the heat pooling low in her belly, a primal response to his actions.

She clenches her fists in the white furs beneath her, trying to anchor herself, but it’s utterly useless. Her body is no longer hers; under these conditions it’s his to command, his to ignite. He leans in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re not just cold, are you?” he says, his voice dripping with taunting amusement. “You’re aching, and you already know what’ll fix it.” His hands slide to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with just enough pressure to make her gasp. “But you’re still holding back. Still trying to fucking fight me.”

Grimmjow chuckles, a dark, rumbling sound that sends shivers down her spine.

“You’re gonna break, Nelliel. And when you do, it’s gonna be glorious.”

Her defiance flickers, wavering under the onslaught of his heat and his words. She wants to snap back, to tell him he’s dead wrong, but the truth is inescapable. Her body is actively betraying her, craving the warmth he offers, the intensity he promises, and deep down beneath the pride and the stubbornness, she knows that he’s right.

She is going to break, and she isn’t sure she wants to stop it.

The realization burns hotter than his poor attempt at a fire in the corner of the room, hotter than his hands on her skin, hotter than the shame that should flood her chest. Instead, there is only anticipation— sharp, undeniable, and electric. Her body hums with it, every nerve alight with a craving she can no longer deny. His heated touch sears through her defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.

“You’re not gonna last,” Grimmjow murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates deep in her chest. His hands move with purpose now, tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, teasing her with the promise of more. “I can feel it— the way that you’re trembling. Not from the cold anymore.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against her neck, sending shivers racing down her spine.

“It’s me. And you’re fucking loving it.”

Nelliel’s breath hitches, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her defiance is crumbling piece by piece, leaving her vulnerable to the raw, primal pull of him. She wants to fight it, to cling to the last shreds of her pride, but his warmth is infectious, spreading through her like a wildfire. She feels herself leaning into him, her body betraying her in ways she can’t control. His lips brush against her ear, his words a whispered taunt that sends sparks exploding in her core.

“Go on,” he growls, the sound of his voice rough and commanding. “Beg. You know you want to.” His hands slide higher, skimming the sides of her ribs. “Tell me what you need, Nelliel. Say it. Or are you still too proud?”

Her pride indeed screams at her to stay silent, to hold onto the last vestiges of her control. But her body— her traitorous, aching body— is apparently done with resistance. The heat pooling low in her belly is unbearable, a throbbing, insistent demand that threatens to consume her whole. She clenches her fists in the furs beneath her, her nails digging into the soft, yielding fabric. Her lips part, a shaky breath escaping her, and she feels the word rise in her throat, unstoppable.

“...Please,” she whispers, barely audible but heavy with surrender.

His grin is feral, triumphant, as if he’s just won a battle she hadn’t even realized they were fighting.

“That’s it,” he says, his voice laden with satisfaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” His hands move lower, his touch igniting every inch of her, and she knows that just like that day during the heatwave, she’s lost. Lost to the heat, lost to him, lost to the inevitable, inescapable fall.

He doesn’t stop there; his hands slide down her thighs, rough palms dragging along her skin, setting every nerve ablaze. The firelight dances over his sharp features, casting shadows that make him look even more predatory, more dangerous— and yet, she can’t look away. She’s pinned by his gaze, his presence, his sheer, overwhelming coercion. His fingers dig into her flesh, possessive and demanding, and she feels herself bend into him, her body forsaking her with every move.

“You feel that?” he growls, his voice low and gravelly, reverberating deep within her chest. His hands tighten on her hips, pulling her closer to him, eliminating any remaining distance between them. “How much you need this? How much you need me?”

His breath is hot against her skin, sending shivers racing down her spine. She can feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace that is both a comfort and a threat. It’s all too much, and yet it isn’t enough. She wants more— needs more— and he knows it. Her lips part once again, a shaky breath escaping her as his hands move higher, skimming the curve of her waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts in a teasing, almost cruel caress.

She gasps, her body arching into his touch, craving the warmth, the intensity, and the sheer, undeniable force of him. Her hands clench in the furs beneath her once again, twisting the soft, yielding fabric in her grasp. Her stubborn pride once again screams at her to hold on, to resist, but she’s simply done with resistance.

“Go on,” he urges, his tone rough and commanding. His lips brush against her ear, his words a whispered taunt that makes a familiar heat unfurl in the pit of her stomach. “Beg. Again. Louder. Let me hear it.”

“…Please,” she whispers, the word slightly more audible this time, still heavy with surrender. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breaths shallow and ragged. “Please, Grimmjow.”

The words hang in the supercharged air between them, a fragile bridge over which all her remaining pride collapses. Grimmjow doesn’t move for a long, taut moment, his blue eyes staring into hers, savoring the victory. The fire in the corner crackles, casting wild, dancing shadows across the sharp angles of his face.

Then, a low, triumphant sound rumbles from his chest. Not a laugh, but something deeper, more possessive. “Finally.”

His hands, which had been grasping her hips, slide around to her back, one large palm spreading between her shoulder blades. In a single, fluid motion, he pulls her forward and down, laying her onto the deep pile of white furs. The move is so sudden, so controlled, it steals all her breath away. She’s flat on her back, the fur beneath her soft and prickly against her skin, the firelight blazing above her, and Grimmjow a dark, dominant silhouette looming over her, knees straddling her thighs.

“You said ‘please’,” he murmurs, leaning down so his lips are a breath from hers, and his scent fills her senses. “But you didn’t say what for.”

One hand comes up, his calloused fingers tracing the line of her jaw, her throat.

“Gotta be specific, Nelliel. I’m not a mind reader.”

His touch is absolutely electric, like a live wire dragged over her sensitized skin. The chill of the weather outside is nothing but a distant memory now, replaced by a furnace of need from within. She swallows, her throat dry as the desert outside the castle.

“...You know what for.”

“Do I?” He feigns ignorance, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the base of her neck. His other hand slides down her side, over the fabric of her top, his palm cupping the curve of her waist. “Warmth? Because you’re plenty warm now.”

His hand ventures lower, over her hip, his fingers curling under the hem of the skirt she’d worn underneath her thick cloak while out on patrol. The backs of his knuckles brush against the bare skin of her outer thigh and a violent shiver, totally unrelated to cold, wracks her entire frame.

“Or is it something else?”

“Grimmjow,” she gasps, his name simultaneously a plea and a curse once more.

“Getting there,” he mutters. His hand pushes further, sliding under the skirt to grasp her thigh. His grip is firm, possessive, and the rough texture of his palm against the soft, inner skin of her thigh is an overwhelming sensation. “But not specific enough. Try again.”

Her mind is nothing more than a white noise of want. The intellectual sparring is gone, incinerated by the raw physical reality of him; his heat, his weight, the promise in his touch. Her body arches off the furs, a silent, desperate offering.

“Touch me,” she breathes, the words emerging from her mouth ragged.

“Where?” His fingers inch higher a torturous millimeter at a time along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She can feel the edge of his Hollow hole against her other leg, a cool, smooth contrast to the blazing heat of the rest of him.

“Everywhere.” The admission is finally torn from her, her last bastion of control crumbling to dust. “Just… please.”

His feral grin is a flash of white in the shadows. “Now we’re talking.”

He doesn’t tease her any longer. With a sharp, tearing sound, the hand by her throat hooks into the neckline of her top and pulls with unnecessary force. The fabric, weakened by frost and now heat, gives way without resistance, splitting down the middle and baring her to the waist. The air, growing warm from the fire, kisses her skin a second before his gaze does. His eyes, burning with blue intensity, drag over her— the swell of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples drawn taut by the mixture of hot, cold, and anticipation.

Then his mouth is on her.

He doesn’t bother with any sort of finesse, he simply devours. His lips seal over one pebbled nipple, his tongue lashing it, hot and wet and relentless. The sensation is so acute, so utterly consuming, that a sharp cry is ripped from Nelliel’s throat. Her back curves violently, her hands flying up to tangle in his spiked, blue hair— not to push him away, but to hold him there, to grind herself against the glorious, rough pressure of his mouth.

He sucks hard, and the intense pull seems to connect directly to a throbbing knot of need between her legs. She whimpers, a high, desperate sound that she doesn’t even recognize as her own. His other hand finally completes its journey, his fingers pushing aside the flimsy barrier of her underwear to find her core. She’s soaked, swollen, aching; he groans against her breast, the vibration shuddering through her.

“So fucking ready,” he murmurs, switching his mouth to her other breast, giving it the same brutal, wonderful attention. His fingers, slick with her own wetness, circle her clit, a rough, perfect friction that makes her hips jerk off the furs. “All that pride, and you’re dripping for me. Begging for it.”

She can’t deny it. Can’t speak. Her world has narrowed to the various points of contact: his mouth, his hand, the hard muscles of his abdomen pressing against her side. Every nerve ending seems to be on fire, singing a chorus of pure, desperate need. Her legs fall open wider, a wordless invitation. Needless to say, he takes it— but not in the way she expects.

Grimmjow withdraws his mouth from her breast, something that nearly elicits a complaint from her, and then shifts his body downward, pushing her legs wider apart with his shoulders. The pile of furs accommodates them perfectly, molding around her body, holding her in a soft embrace as Grimmjow positions himself between her thighs.

His face is now level with her exposed core; he looks at her, his blue eyes gleaming in the firelight, taking in the sight of her glistening, exposed pretty pink flesh. The cold air tries to whisper across her, but his proximity, his radiating heat, keeps her burning. He doesn’t speak any more, he simply lowers his head.

The first touch of his mouth to her is nothing more than a kiss, but the contact causes something electric to shoot throughout her entire body. His lips press against her outer folds, hot and firm. Then he opens his mouth and licks, a broad, slow stroke from bottom to top, gathering her wetness on his tongue. Nelliel shudders, a full-body convulsion that sinks her deeper into the pile of furs. The sensation is so intense, so focused, after days of diffuse cold, that it feels like a shock to her system. Heat— direct, wet, living heat.

Grimmjow tastes her, his tongue delving deeper, exploring her entrance. He growls again, the vibration against her most sensitive skin sending a new wave of pleasure crashing through her. His technique is not refined, but it’s powerful. He uses his lips, his tongue, and his teeth with careful, controlled aggression. He sucks on her clit, pulling it into his mouth and applying pressure that makes Nelliel’s vision blur. Her back arches off the furs, her hands flying to his head, tangling into his blue hair once again, holding him there.

“Grimmjow,” she moans, unsure if she’s begging or cursing him at this point and too drunk on the pleasant sensations down below to care. “More…”

“Greedy,” he murmurs up against her, and the way he says it makes her shudder.

Loath to ignore her request, his tongue spears into her, thrusting in shallow, rapid pulses that mimic a deeper penetration. The friction is exquisite, the wet heat of his mouth a perfect contrast to the cool, silky furs beneath her rear. He alternates— deep thrusts with his tongue, then focused, devastating attention on her clit, sucking and licking until she’s panting, her thighs trembling around his head.

Nelliel’s mind dissolves into the sensation. The past few days of cold are forgotten, replaced by this concentrated inferno between her legs. Every nerve ending is awake and alert now, awash with pleasure. She can feel the individual strands of fur beneath her, each one a tiny point of softness against her skin; she can feel the hard strength of Grimmjow’s shoulders under her thighs; she can taste her own scent in the air, mingled with his musky, masculine one.

He changes his angle, tilting his head to lick along her inner walls, exploring every fold. His nose nudges against her clit as he does so, providing constant, indirect stimulation. Nelliel’s breath comes in ragged gasps now; she’s close, a coil of pleasure winding impossibly tight in her lower belly. Bucking her hips involuntarily, a foreign noise escapes her throat, one that she doesn’t even recognize.

Grimmjow responds to the novel sound by increasing his pace. His tongue becomes a blur of motion, a relentless, wet piston driving into her, while his lips seal around her clit and suck with rhythmic, pulsing force. The combined sensation is overwhelming, and Nelliel’s hips lift slightly, riding his face, seeking more depth, more pressure. The furs beneath her muffle her movements, allowing her to grind against him without restraint.

The oncoming orgasm approaches her like a creeping tsunami, silent and massive. It starts as a deep, internal tremor, a tightening that feels almost painful. Then Grimmjow does something new— he hums, a low, resonant vibration against her clit, and that’s the final key; Nelliel positively explodes.

Her climax rips through her with violent, stunning force. It isn’t a gentle release; it’s a conflagration. Her entire body seizes, her back bowing off the furs, her head thrown back in a silent scream. A flood of heat rushes from her core, a palpable wave of pleasure that washes out to the tips of her fingers and toes. Grimmjow takes it all in, his mouth staying locked upon her, swallowing her release, his tongue still moving, coaxing out every last shudder.

She collapses onto the furs, boneless and panting, her vision swimming. The warmth from the pile envelopes her like a cloud, and Grimmjow’s heat is still pressed against her thighs. He finally lifts his head, his mouth glistening, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive triumph. As the tremors begin to subside, leaving her limp and gasping, he licks his lips, never breaking eye contact, cleaning them off with a slow, deliberate relish. The sight is so obscenely possessive, so dominant, that a fresh, dizzying rush of heat floods through her spent body.

“Tastes like victory,” he says, his voice deep with want.

He moves then, shifting his weight; his hands go to the fastenings of his own pants, making quick, impatient work of them. She watches, her vision still hazy, as he frees himself. He’s thick, fully erect, the length of him just as impressive and intimidating as she remembers. The firelight gleams on the damp tip, and her mouth goes dry, a new, different hunger clenching deep inside her.

He doesn’t ask permission, nor does he warn her. He guides himself to her entrance, the broad head of him nudging against her slick, sensitive flesh. He pauses there, letting her feel the immense pressure, the impending stretch. His eyes flicker up to hers, a challenge and a promise contained within them.

“This what you begged for?” he rasps.

Nelliel can only nod affirmatively, her voice completely gone. She wraps her legs around his hips, her heels digging into the hard muscle of his lower back, pulling him closer. It’s an answer, and a demand. With a groan that’s part snarl, he pushes forward.

It’s a slow, relentless invasion; a stretching, burning fullness that steals the air from her lungs. She gasps, her nails scratching down his now sweat-slicked back as he fills her inch by devastating inch. He feels huge, and the recent climax has left her sensitive, every ridge and vein a distinct, overwhelming sensation. It’s too much, and yet it’s exactly what she’d craved— the complete, brutal domination of her body by his.

When he’s fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, he stops, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. They’re locked together, fused as one being. She can feel his heartbeat hammering against her chest— or maybe it’s her own. Regardless, his breath is hot and ragged against her neck.

“Fuck,” Grimmjow chokes out, the words strained. “You’re so… perfect.”

He gives her a moment to adjust, a surprising shred of control amidst the storm, then he begins to move.

He sets a punishing, deep rhythm from the start. There is no gentle buildup, no tentative exploration; much like during the heatwave, this is a claiming. Each withdrawal is an agony of emptiness, each thrust a breathtaking collision that drives the air from her lungs and sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating from her core. The slap of skin on skin, the static of the furs strewn beneath them, their mingled gasps and grunts— it all merges with the crackle of the fire into a primal, driving soundtrack.

Nelliel is lost in it; her earlier surrender is now an active, fervent participation. She meets his thrusts, arching to take him deeper, the angle changing so the head of his cock drags against a spot inside of her that makes her see stars. She cries out, a broken, continuous sound of pleasure as her hands roam over the powerful landscape of his back and shoulders, feeling the muscles bunch and release with every powerful drive.

“Fuck,” he grunts once more, his pace increasing, becoming more frantic. He drops his head, his teeth grazing the tendon of her neck in a near-bite. The possessive threat of it sends another jolt of pure lust straight through her.

The heat is everywhere now— from the fire at their side, from the friction of their joining, from the blood pounding in her veins. Sweat beads upon his skin, dripping onto hers. The smell of sex and smoke and animal fur fills the air, thick and intoxicating. Her second climax is building, a pressure somehow even more intense than the first, coiling at the base of her spine, fed by the relentless, flawless friction of his thrusts.

“Grimmjow… I’m… again…” she manages to gasp, her words fragmented.

He understands immediately. He shifts his weight, lifting her hips slightly, changing the angle once more; the new position drives him even deeper, hitting that exquisite spot inside her with unerring, brutal accuracy. His hand slides down between their sweat-slicked bodies, his thumb finding her swollen clit, rubbing hard, fast circles.

It’s too much, too good. The dual assault— the deep, stretching fullness and the sharp, focused friction— sends her careening over the edge. Her second climax slams into her with all the force of a weather event, a roaring, all-consuming release that rips a raw cry from her throat. Her inner muscles clamp down on him in rhythmic, vice-like pulses.

The feel of her convulsing around him shatters his control. With a sound that’s more beast than man, Grimmjow drives into her one last, final time, sheathing himself as his own release surges through him. She feels the hot, pulsing rush of him deep inside her, the intimate flood triggering another, smaller ripple of aftershocks through her own spasming body.

He collapses onto her, his full weight pressing her into the furs, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His breath is a ragged, hot constant against her skin. They lie together like that, a tangled, sweating, spent heap, as the nearby fire pops and the fierce, cold winds continue their mournful song against the fortress walls.

Slowly, sensation by sensation, the world seeps back in; the prickle of the fur against her back, the ache in her muscles, the delightful, heavy weight of him on top of her, and the warm, sticky evidence of their coupling between her thighs.

Grimmjow’s weight shifts after a long moment and then he rolls off her onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still heaving. The firelight dances over the stark lines of his torso, the sheen of sweat making his skin glow.

Silence stretches between them, broken only by their gradually slowing breathing. Nelliel stares up at the ceiling of his quarters, her mind eerily, blissfully blank. The frantic need, the defiant pride, the sharp thrill of the challenge— all of it is burned away, leaving a strange, hollowed-out calm and a deep, satiated warmth that had nothing to do with his attempt at a fire pit.

She turns her head on the furs to look at him; his sharp profile is relaxed in a way she’s never seen it, the usual tension around his mouth completely gone.

“Cat got your tongue?” he mutters, his voice rough but lacking its earlier taunting edge.

A soft, breathless laugh escapes her that feels strangely foreign. “I think the cat got… everything else.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. He lowers his arm and turns his head to look at her, his blue eyes hooded, sated, but still intensely focused. He reaches out, his fingers— still sticky— brushing a damp strand of green hair from her cheek. The gesture is oddly gentle, a stark contrast to the voracious possession of minutes before.

“You begged pretty good,” he says, the smirk widening.

“You delivered,” she replies, her own voice hoarse.

He hums a non-committal sound, his gaze tracing the line of her body where the ruined top and bunched skirt offered little coverage. The look in his eyes is no longer purely predatory; it’s contemplative, satisfied.

“Still cold?”

She realizes that she isn’t— not even close. A fine sheen of sweat covers her skin, and the memory of his heat is banked deep within her bones. “No.”

“Good.” He pushes himself up on one elbow, looming over her again, but the energy is different. Less about conquest, and more about… appraisal. His free hand trails down her sternum, over her stomach, coming to rest low on her belly, his palm warm and heavy. “Because we’re not done.”

Her eyes widen slightly as a fresh, weak pulse of desire flickers deep inside her at his words, at the possessive weight of his hand. She’s sore, thoroughly used, but somehow inside of her the embers are still glowing. “…We’re not?”

“You think twice is enough?” He leans down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that’s surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the ravenous claiming of before. It’s brief, but it holds a new kind of intent, a promise that lingers in the silence between them. His breath mingles with hers, warm and teasing, as he hovers just above her, his blue eyes flickering with a mix of possessiveness and something deeper, more intimate.

His hand slides up her side, tracing the curve of her hip, her waist, until his fingers brush the underside of her breast. He doesn’t linger there, though— his touch is deliberate, unhurried, as if he’s mapping out her body all over again, committing every shiver and tremble to memory.

“You begged for warmth,” he continues, his lips grazing her jawline, her throat, before settling against her ear. His voice is a low growl that vibrates through her very bones. “But what you really needed was me, burning you up from the inside out.”

Nelliel’s breath hitches as his free hand descends lower, his calloused fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She’s already raw, already spent, but the promise in his touch ignites something primal within her— a hunger that refuses to be sated.

“You’re trembling again,” he observes, his tone equal parts smug and tender. “Still cold, deep down where it matters.” His fingers dip lower, teasing the edges of her slick, swollen flesh. “That’s where I come in.”

She arches into his touch, a whimper escaping her lips as he presses a finger inside her, slow and deliberate, filling her with that familiar, aching stretch. “Grimmjow…” Her voice escapes as a broken plea, her hands clawing at his shoulders, urging him closer. “You’re relentless.”

He chuckles darkly, his breath hot against her skin as he adds a second finger, scissoring them, stretching her further. Her breath comes in ragged pants, her hips moving in a frantic, involuntary rhythm, riding his hand. The coiling tension in her belly is back, a live wire once more, sparking and sizzling, threatening to short-circuit her entirely.

"'Relentless'?” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery and desire. “You haven’t seen relentless yet.”

His thumb circles her clit, rough and unyielding, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. His fingers work her with a deliberate, merciless rhythm, curling just enough to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her toes curl and her hips jerk. Every movement is calculated, every twist of his wrist designed to draw another gasp, another whimper from her lips. He watches her intently, his blue eyes burning with a mix of hunger and satisfaction as her body trembles under his touch.

“You’re still so wound up,” he growls, his voice rough with need. “Clinging to me like you’re scared to let go. But you will.”

His thumb presses harder against her clit, the pressure bordering on painful, but the sharpness of it sends a jolt of raw pleasure straight to her core. She writhes beneath him, her hands gripping the furs under her for dear life as he pushes her closer to the edge.

“I can feel it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a deep rumble. “You’re so close, but you’re holding back. Why? Afraid to lose control?”

His fingers slow, teasing her now, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back in, the sudden fullness pulling a desperate moan from her throat.

“Let go— I’ve got you.”

She shakes her head, her breathing labored, her body curving upwards off the furs as she fights against the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. But he truly is relentless, just as he’d promised; his thumb circles her clit faster, rougher, while his fingers thrust deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside her with unerring precision.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Let me feel you come apart.”

Her resistance shatters. A third violent, shuddering climax tears through her, her hips bucking wildly as she cries out, the sound raw and unrestrained. His name spills from her lips in a broken, desperate chant as she clings to him, her inner muscles clenching around his fingers in a series of rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever. He doesn’t let up, not even as her body trembles with aftershocks, his touch unyielding, driving her higher, further than she’s ever gone before.

When she finally collapses back onto the furs, her chest heaving, her limbs heavy and trembling, he leans down, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that is almost gentle.

“That’s three,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction.

His fingers slide out of her, and she whimpers at the sudden emptiness, her body already craving his touch again. He smirks, his gaze locked on hers; Nelliel merely glares at him through half-lidded eyes, still trying to catch her breath and regain her composure.

“You are unbearable,” she manages weakly.

Grimmjow looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Yeah?” he drawls. “Didn’t sound like that a minute ago.”

Her cheeks warm instantly.

His grin widens into something utterly insufferable as he stretches lazily beside her atop the scattered furs near the fire pit. The dim orange glow of the fire paints sharp shadows across his bare shoulders while icy winds rattle faintly against the distant walls of Las Noches. The contrast between the freezing world outside and the heat trapped between them feels utterly surreal.

Nelliel pulls one of the heavier furs up over herself with a muttered complaint. “I hope you know that you’re impossible to live with.”

“Good thing you’re not leaving.”

The answer comes so quickly and confidently that she pauses. Grimmjow realizes it a second later than she does, and his ears faintly turn a shade of red. Nelliel immediately smiles.

“Oh?” she says softly. “That sounded suspiciously domestic.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re getting possessive again.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a bit concerning.”

His arm hooks around her waist without warning and drags her bodily back against him before she could even think of escaping the blankets; Nelliel lets out a startled laugh.

“There,” Grimmjow mutters, settling behind her with blatant satisfaction. “Now quit complaining.”

“You’re using me as a furnace.”

“You’re warm.”

“So are you.”

“Exactly.”

Nelliel tries— briefly— to maintain some dignity. Unfortunately, the moment his chest presses against her back and his arms wrap fully around her beneath the blankets, her body betrays her completely. The warmth is immediate and overwhelming after hours— or rather, days— of freezing temperatures. A quiet sigh escapes her before she can stop it, and Grimmjow makes a low triumphant sound.

“...Not a word.”

“You practically melted.”

“I’m cold.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nelliel elbows him lightly in the ribs; he only laughs in response. The sound rumbles warmly against the back of her neck, softer than usual— less sharp edges and aggression now that exhaustion has finally begun settling into both of them. For a while, they simply stay like that, tangled together beneath heavy furs while the fire crackles nearby and frozen winds howl through the endless darkness outside Las Noches.

Grimmjow’s fingers trace lazy patterns against her side beneath the blankets. Not teasing now, not demanding, just touching her because he wants to. That sudden realization makes something warm twist quietly in Nelliel’s chest.

“You know,” she murmurs after a while, “this is very different from the usual approach to courtship.”

“I don’t have a ‘usual approach’.”

“That explains quite a lot, actually.”

“Tch.”

She smiles faintly, eyes drifting shut as exhaustion settles heavier into her limbs. For once, neither one of them seems interested in provoking another argument— though apparently Grimmjow can only tolerate softness for so long before ruining it himself.

“You still begged prettier than I expected.”

Nelliel freezes, then immediately twists in his arms enough to glare up at him. “I suppose that I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

His sharp grin flashes in the firelight. “So, you admit that you begged.”

“You are intolerable.”

“You liked it.”

Nelliel opens her mouth, then closes it again, finding herself at a loss. Grimmjow’s grin turns utterly victorious.

“Thought so.”

“Oh, you are unbelievably smug right now.”

“Earned it.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You realize this means war.”

“Oh, please.” Grimmjow leans down just enough to brush his nose lightly against hers. “You started this war back during the heatwave.”

“…Maybe.”

“There’s the confession.”

Nelliel huffs quietly, though amusement tugs at her mouth despite herself. Outside, the storm winds continue shrieking across frozen white dunes; inside, wrapped up together beneath layers of furs and lingering warmth, the world feels strangely distant.

Grimmjow’s grip around her loosens slightly as fatigue finally begins dragging at him too, but he never lets go completely— possessive even while half-asleep. Nelliel shifts just enough to settle more comfortably against him, her head tucked beneath his chin while his warmth surrounds her from all sides.

“You’re drooling on me if you fall asleep first,” Grimmjow mutters drowsily.

“You drool more than I do.”

“Lies.”

“You snore too.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Shut up and sleep.”

Nelliel laughs softly under her breath. Then, after a small pause:

“Goodnight, Grimmjow.”

Silence lingers for a moment, and she thinks that he might ignore it. Instead, his arms tighten once around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer against him.

“…Night, Nel.”

And eventually, with the fire burning low beside them and the brutal cold contained safely outside for once, both of them drift off tangled up together beneath the blankets— warm, exhausted, and already doomed to want more of each other the moment that morning comes.