Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
Ichigo is fire, spreading quick across her world and leaving scars behind in his wake, of which cannot be mended by anyone but him—his searing fingers, lips, tongue, eyes—
His touch is a hot poker tearing down the length of her spine, spanning wide over the small of her back, sliding slowly up to trace her rib cage with his palms. It leaves her trembling, short of breath, disoriented and hazy. His mouth whispers wordlessly, a litany of promises they both know he'd sooner die than break. When his tongue presses soft against the line of her collarbone, she feels her nerve endings sizzle. When he brushes his lips along the curve of her throat, a flame snaps through her, escapes from her mouth in a gasp.
Ichigo is fire, leaving imprints of himself on her skin, the shape of his hands and their long fingers, his very essence lingering at the edges of hers.
He flares, hotter and hotter, a storm rushing up to break—quick, quick, quick—everything that ever had any meaning—snap, snap, snapping apart until there's nothing left anymore and a part of her is still afraid she'll be brought down with it, except—except—
Ichigo is also gentle, a candle flickering against her mouth, her ears, her cheeks, her heart.
His kisses fall across her face like a light rain, calloused fingers sliding over every plane and dip and crevice of her body, a slow burn rising up inside of her. Every touch brings with it an apology they both know he has no business saying, a sigh into the curve of her shoulder.
She melts underneath him, grasping for air, his face, the unruly mess of hair atop his head. Her thoughts are a disjointed wreck and her words never quite reach the point of coherency but Ichigo is also kind, and he smiles warmly down at her, eyes aflame with things she's not yet ready to understand.
And when he kisses her, he doesn't pour himself into her all at once. He doesn't overtake her, more a gradual roll, constantly expanding, filling her up to the very brim and then overflowing out beyond even the stretch of her fingertips.
Ichigo is tender, boiling, a muted fire just outside her reach—just a split second from snapping—quick, quick, quick—to bring her down with him.
~~...~~X~~...~~
A.N.: Short little drabble to make up for my inactivity. Sorry, guys, I've been really busy with work.
I'm gonna upload a bunch of drabbles that I wrote for IchiHimeMonth on Tumblr. Hopefully that'll make up for it some.
Let me know what you think of this one, though. Please review.