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Heavy Hitters	By : Raceysama Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male > Grimmjow/Ichigo Views: 1414 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor do I make any profit from these works......

Chapter List
- 1-Heavy Hitters
- 1
CHAPTER 1: REUNITED
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach...
Onwards...
XOXOXO
"Suck harder."
Wet, slurping noises filled the small, living room, bouncing off of dingy, off-white walls that were cracked and peeling. A seventeen-inch television sat across from him on a black milk crate. A WEC match was playing, the commentator's excited voice blaring loudly from the speakers, while he sat reclined against a mud-brown, suede couch, a blonde head bobbing enthusiastically in his lap. Off to the right side of the couch, a white, standing fan oscillated back and forth, weakly blowing hot air around.
He reached forward and plucked a large can of brew from the low, wooden coffee table before bringing it to his lips and sneering afterward at the overabundance of bitterness. He couldn't wait until his next pay-off, tired of settling for ghetto swill and pretending it was luxury. He rested his hand beside him on the couch and glanced down at the head still performing between his legs.
Was it terrible that he felt absolutely nothing?
Fisting a handful of the soft, blonde locks, he tugged roughly, forcing the head to come up and off his dick, dark eyes confused, "Stop."
"Why? You told me to do it harder-"
"Yeah, well, ya obviously weren't doin' such a great job, er else ya'd still be down there, ne?"
The blonde scowled and swatted his hand away before rising to her feet and straightening her clothes. She glared down at him and after a brief moment, turned her nose up and went to the front door, stride stiff and pissed off.
"You know, one of these days, someone's gonna kick your ass for being such a dick," the blonde snapped as she slipped her shoes on and threw the door open.
"Yeah, yeah. Ya don' necessarily gotta tell me how awesome I am. I already know that. Now, get the fuck out."
The blonde pursed her lips, but was smart enough not to argue. A few more seconds of glaring and she was gone through the door, slamming it shut behind her and making a framed picture crash to the hardwood floor.
"Fuckin' bitch," he growled, glancing down at his already softening member.
He didn't even bother tucking himself away as his attention was once again focused on the two men trying to legally kill each other in a man-made cage. He loved this kind of fighting, but the big bucks were in regular old professional boxing, which meant he would have to suck it up and go for the weaker game if he wanted to get paid. It was still fighting, but the rules were more stiff and everything was a lot more technical.
Whatever.
He would do it simply because money was fucking tighter than a pussy and the street fights weren't paying like they used to. Pro boxing didn't pay off much either until you reached the upper ranks, not that he would have a problem in that area. He was fast, strong and hit harder than the average male. Besides, he had practically been raised on pro boxing before his father had passed. He had literally breathed it.
His old man used to tell him all the time, "Start with yer basics. Jab, jab, jab! That'll open 'im up fer the straight. Don' ferget yer combinations! One-two! One-two! Left, short uppercut, then follow wit' the right uppercut! Keep yer guard up and weave yer head! Polish yer in-step! Body! Go fer the body!"
He smiled in memory of the man that had introduced him to the world of fighting and pro boxing at the tender age of six. His mother had nearly given herself an aneurism yelling at his Pop, while the older, raven-haired, blue-eyed man had merely laughed and explained how he was teaching his only son to be a fucking man.
Kami, he missed his father.
He ran a hand through his hair and tipped his head back, resting it on the back of the couch with a deep sigh.
"Pop, I wanna be strong like you!"
Emeric Jaegerjaques grinned, his smile wide and infectious, "Ya gotta work hard fer it! Ya sure yer ready ta do that?"
He nodded vigorously and latched onto the leg of his father's dark-blue work pants, "Yeah, Pop, I'm ready!"
Emeric stooped down to his level, his dark-blue, short-sleeved, button-up work shirt tight across his chest, "I'm gonna teach ya how ta fight, Grimmjow," he said seriously, his sea-blue eyes equally solemn.
"Really? Ma won't get mad?"
"Ya wanna be strong?"
He bit his lip, contemplating the consequences and decided the pros far outweighed the cons, "Yes!"
"Good. Now, the first rule a'fightin' is discipline. Ya wanna be a good fighter, ya gotta have discipline."
"...Pop, what's dis-lip-in?"
Emeric gave a great bark of laughter and hoisted Grimmjow into the air, resting him over his broad shoulder, "Yer gonna learn sooner er later, kid, and when ya do, yer gonna be a better fighter than yer Pop ever was."
"Ya think so?"
"I know so."
Grimmjow scrubbed a large, calloused hand over his face and blew out another breath. He still had yet to prove his Pop right. His old man was big on boxing; he loved the rules and the beauty of the technicalities. Grimmjow had veered off from that road a long while back, more comfortable with the barbarism of street fights and brawling.
At times, he could still hear his father in his head, scolding him and telling him to get back to his basics. He would never be a complete, well-rounded fighter unless he did so, but after the old man had died in that car accident, Grimmjow had never been the same. He'd been too young to understand that his father hadn't lied to him, hadn't purposely broken his promise of watching his only son rise to the top of the professional boxing world, in the process becoming a great fighter.
He'd been eleven when his Pop died.
Street fighting and brawling had swiftly followed, the world of pro boxing becoming nothing but a shadow.
Grimmjow leaned forward and grabbed his pack of cigarettes, shaking one free before snatching up his lighter and igniting the stick. He inhaled deeply, held it for a few seconds and exhaled with a sigh. His Pop would chop his fucking balls off if he was alive and saw him smoking. He growled angrily and stabbed the barely smoked cigarette into the large, glass ashtray on the coffee table, surging from the couch afterward, the cigarette still smoldering, pale gray smoke curling towards the ceiling.
He stalked to his tiny bedroom and shoved himself into a pair of silver basketball shorts. He was going for a run and maybe to find a suitable boxing gym.
XxxxxxxxX
Grimmjow felt like he was dying after running only three blocks. The heat was offensive, making the pavement hot enough to fry bacon and causing heat waves to shimmer in the distance. He stopped at the next corner and bent at the waist, clutching his knees and cursing his failed stamina. Straightening his back, he ripped off his white, short-sleeved t-shirt and almost threw it to the ground and stomped on it.
It was too hot for this shit.
He ran the back of his wrist across his brow and took a few more, deep, open-mouthed breaths before sticking his hands on his hips and shucking off. His legs were wobbly, shaking embarrassingly and his entire body burned and ached. He was so out of shape, he may as well have been an invalid. The sun certainly wasn't helping matters, beating at his back like a slave driver with a whip.
He couldn't even afford a can of juice from the vending machine he was about to pass and that just pissed him off even more. He was extremely close to assaulting the light-blue machine, when a deep voice behind him, stopped him in his tracks.
"That was very random, Hisagi," it commented.
Grimmjow tried not to appear as if he was eavesdropping, but the voice was extremely familiar. He just, for the life of him, couldn't exactly place it at the moment.
"I'm a random kinda guy, Kensei."
Kensei? Kensei Muguruma?
Grimmjow cut his eyes to the side, studying the two men walking by. One was around 5'10", with short, spiky ebony hair, dark eyes and the strangest tattoos. Why the fuck would anyone permanently ink the number 69 on the left side of their face? Not to mention the tattooed collar around his neck that leaned heavily on the BDSM side. His body was muscular and lean and he wore a pair of red, warm-up shorts, a small label at the bottom of the left leg advertising Luisenbarn Boxing Gym.
What a coincidence.
He topped them off with a black wife beater and black running shoes. There was a bandage that covered the bridge of his nose and ran under his left eye and he had two long scars, slicing down the right side of his face. He appeared battle worn, but determined.
Grimmjow trained his eyes on the raven-haired man's companion and grinned at the sight of his old brawling buddy. They'd been in numerous fights together until Kensei had been sent away by his mother and Grimmjow had never seen the guy again. Now, here he was, strolling down the street as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Kensei hadn't really changed much in appearance, aside from the silver hoop in his left eyebrow and the two silver ear cuffs residing on his upper left ear. He had gleaming silver hair and eyebrows, his eyes were a mix of honey and thundercloud and he too wore the red, warm-up shorts advertising Luisenbarn Boxing Gym. He wore his with a white, sleeveless t-shirt and white running shoes. His body was still fighter-sculpted and he currently had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts.
Kensei and his friend moved past him and he followed them with his body, grin spreading as he called out, "Muguruma, ya bitch!"
Kensei didn't turn, instead pausing his stride as his dark-haired friend whirled around, a deep scowl marring his brow as if he were looking for trouble. Grimmjow waited impatiently for the silver-haired punk to speak and almost laughed out loud when Kensei slowly, purposely held up his middle finger.
"Jaegerjaques?" a deep voice with a roughened edge floated over a broad shoulder.
"The fuck ya been? Under a rock?" Grimmjow continued as he neared his old friend.
Kensei finally turned to face him, a sideways smirk tilting his wide mouth, "You could say that," he rumbled, eyes devilish and amused all at the same time.
Kensei's buddy decided to join the conversation with a dumb ass question, "You know this guy, Kensei?"
Grimmjow rolled his eyes before giving the kid a deadpan stare. Was he really that stupid? He opened his mouth to thoroughly ruin the boy's life, when Kensei cleared his throat, a stern glance being tossed in his direction. "Don't. Your mouth is known to cause mass destruction and he's really a good kid."
Grimmjow pursed his lips and had to literally swallow the retort that had been partying on his tongue. He wiped a stray bead of sweat that had been inching down the side of his face before getting to the good stuff, "Where's this Luisenbarn Boxing Gym?"
Two silver brows shot upwards nearly flying off the other man's forehead, "Why? You finally thinkin' 'bout gettin' back into boxing?" Kensei inquired and rightfully so. Grimmjow was surprised at himself for the ridiculously spur of the moment decision.
"Maybe."
"Shit."
Kensei's eyes were wide and disbelieving, making Grimmjow furrow his brows, disgruntled. "Don' have a fuckin' cow er nothin'," he muttered.
His old friend shrugged and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, "Come find out. That's only if you're serious, though. Barragan doesn't take any shit and you, my friend, come with tons of it."
"Fuck you."
Kensei chuckled, a deep throaty rumble that was nostalgic and infectious. He turned his back and began walking off, the dark-haired baka falling into step beside him, a wary expression on his sharp features.
He had every reason to be wary of him.
Grimmjow hung his shirt around his neck and trailed behind the two men, his thoughts going to what he was about to get himself into. He hadn't been serious about boxing since his Pop had passed and even though he knew the basics like he knew his nut sack, he was still sort of apprehensive about the whole thing. His main reason for not pursuing boxing in the first place was because his father wouldn't be there to see him become a great fighter, which he had no doubt he would become.
Yeah, he had an ego the size of the sun, but he could back it up.
Fuck with him and see...
They walked on for about three blocks, sweat trickling down the sides of his face and down the middle of his back, making him completely agitated. After the three blocks, Kensei and his idiot made a left and they walked for three more blocks. Grimmjow was just about to snarl something really crass and uncouth when Kensei stopped in front of a large, gray, stone building, sporting a huge, tinted window that spanned the width of the front of the structure. A sign over the window proclaimed "Luisenbarn Boxing Gym" in dark, ancient kanji.
Grimmjow quirked his lips and peered into the tinted window, one hand visoring his eyes to ward off the glare of the sun. What he saw was impressive. The spacious room was filled with different types of guys in different sections. There were two men sparring in the ring in the middle of the room, all five heavy bags were occupied, as well as the three speed bags. An older man – obviously a trainer – was working with a waifish looking guy on the punch mitts. Grimmjow smirked at that. The guy didn't look to be more than 120 lbs. soaking wet.
"Oi, you comin' in?" Kensei called from the big, gray double doors that led inside.
Grimmjow could feel the AC putting in work all the way from where he stood and nodded enthusiastically. Hell yeah, he was getting out of this boiling pot called outside. Kensei's buddy had already gone inside, leaving Kensei and himself to follow behind him. Once they stepped inside and the doors hissed shut, Grimmjow nearly collapsed in relief. The wonderful air instantly began cooling his skin and drying his sweat.
Whoever created the air conditioner was a fucking genius and he wanted to kiss their fucking ring.
The noise of punch mitts, heavy bags and speed bags being hit, as well as the sound of good old male exertion had Grimmjow almost dancing in place, adrenaline flooding his system like a ruptured dam. A wide grin split his face in two and his eyes flitted from one section of the gym to the other, unable to settle on any specific spot. He was in hog heaven. He really hadn't realized how much he'd missed the environment until now.
The sight of boxing gloves and headgear had his heart doing the macarena. He was beyond excited and a bit oblivious to his friend's amused expression. Grimmjow was wringing his hands in anticipation, his mouth damn near watering at the thought of being able to tape up and slam his fists into something.
Kami, he was getting hard.
Kensei lay a hand on his still slightly damp shoulder and his mouth lifted into a small smirk. "I take it you're anxious to get started."
Grimmjow grinned, "Is a dog's dick pink?"
Kensei howled with laughter and slapped his shoulder, "I'll go get the old man so he can look at you and see whether he approves or not," he said and sauntered off towards an office located in the corner of the gym.
Grimmjow nodded and pulled his shirt from around his neck, slipping into it before resting himself against the wall by the window. His eyes greedily devoured his surroundings as he savored the smell of sweat and leather. His nostrils flared and he grinned elatedly.
He fucking loved this shit.
Five minutes later, he was still getting reacquainted with the atmosphere, when Kensei approached him, followed by an older man with all-white hair, including his eyebrows and mustache. His eyes were black as tar, his skin aged like a fine wine, but his aura was fierce and strictly no-nonsense. He was wearing a red, short-sleeved polo, the gym's logo over the left breast pocket, a pair of khaki pants and white tennis shoes. Although he was older, his chest was still broad and appeared firm, his arms still muscular and toned.
He stood in front of Grimmjow, his head cocked to the side a fraction, his ebony eyes calculating as they ran over him from head to foot and back again. "How much you weigh?" he asked in a gravelly voice, his tone biting.
Grimmjow frowned. He didn't like this old geezer already. "One sixty five," he grunted.
"Height," the geezer continued.
"Six two."
"Hehn!"
"The fuck does that mean?" he snapped, unable to hold his tongue any longer.
"Ya got any fightin' experience?" the old man went on as if Grimmjow hadn't said one word.
He ground his teeth together before forcing a "yes" through. He balled his hands into fists and wrinkled his nose, his brow drawn together in a deep scowl.
"Well, ya certainly got a good face for it."
Huh?
"Oi, ojiisan-"
"What?" the old man snapped, his eyes suddenly furious.
Grimmjow grinned wickedly and took a step forward, "I said ojiisan-oof!"
He was suddenly on his knees, a searing burn having taken his breath away and singed his abdomen. Kensei howled with laughter, while the old man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed and snowy mustache twitching. Grimmjow held his gut, clenched his teeth and swore vengeance on the old fart that had moved faster than he could blink. His eyes were watering and his nose was stinging as if he were trying to hold back tears.
What the fuck had that even been?
He was fucking humiliated.
Kensei stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder, "Don't worry. Barragan's fast for an old man."
Was that supposed to make him feel better?
Grimmjow tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled choke. This was absolutely ridiculous. It didn't matter how off guard he'd been taken, he wasn't supposed to be in this much pain. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, the ache in his gut gradually starting to subside.
"Your gut's too soft. Do more situps and come back," the old fart named Barragan stated and walked off.
"Wha?" Grimmjow gasped, slowly placing one foot against the floor, readying himself to stand. "What's he sayin'? My gut ain't fuckin' soft!"
Kensei arched a brow and tried to help him up, but he wouldn't be degraded that way. He still had his pride goddammit. He made it to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly, but he made it all the same. He finally managed to catch his breath and realization sunk in.
Not only was his gut soft, but HE was soft.
He'd let himself go and this was the result. He'd been sneaked by a seventy-year old man.
How embarrassing.
That was it. He was going to whip himself into shape, come back and prove that ojiisan wrong.
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Heavy Hitters