AN: I was up one night and thought to meself, "Hmm, I'd love to write a Grimmichi fic. But whatever shall it be about?" Of course I don't actually think that way, but it's less boring than my actual thought. ANYWAY. Boxing is so interesting for me, even though I really know zero things about it, so bare with me and my Wikipedia searching. I actually did watch like, three hours of boxing ideos on youtube to help give me visuals, so props to me for overcoming my short attention span.
Confused? Look at the end of the chapter notes for definitions and clarity. Ask questions and review!

Onwards...

Ichigo Kurosaki. This kid was 5''11', 145 pounds, and just turned 25. I watched him up there on the canvas, throwing bolo punches like there was no tomorrow. I knew his game, though. Those punches were used to lure his opponent into a false sense of security, make them think that he was wide open for a hit. They'd block his wide ark, and move to hit his head with a cross punch. He would bob and weave; fucking slinks out of the opponent's range with the grace of a fucking cat, and go to the body. He was all about the infighting, throwing in a combination before ending it all with a haymaker leaving the ref to call the eight. The kid was a stylist.

He was dead fucking serious about it too. There was no kidding around with this kid; he always had a scowl on his face, like he was unhappy with the entire thing. This kid came off as totally straight-laced. Never threw an illegal punch. No kidney shots. Hell, I don't think I've ever seen him throw a liver punch.

But that was all while he was here, on the canvas, inside the ring and under the stadium lights. Not many people, respectable people, that is, saw him in his fucking element; a place where he unleashed. Now, forgive my crude language, but the sight of him in a street fight really got me hard. It was like he let everything go. It was no rules. No restraint. No care. He fought like he had nothing left to loose.

And I think I liked that about him most because it was so much like me. I had nothing left so I left nothing to be desired in the ring.

But god, did I hate him too.

I was a journeyman. I tested up-and-coming little shits. Kids and men who thought they had it all down; cocky as hell bastards who really knew fuck-all about boxing. I am the KING of street fighting. I am the sixth Espada and first rate assassin for some guy with too much money: Aizen. Working the mob is dangerous, but like I said, I have nothing left.

The point was that this kid comes in and is originally classified as a Welterweight. I'm not even used to size up men in that weight class. Hell, they barely use me to determine people in my own technical weight class of Light Heavyweight. I was mainly contracted to be the opponents of upper Heavyweight men. I was that good. What keeps me from going strictly professional was my connection with the mob. I don't need that kind of publicity.

So, when this guy comes in, the journeyman for his weight class, some fucker called Abarai with some pretty outlandish tribal tattoos and a head full of bright red hair, he just kicks the shit out of him. Abarai lasted for a completely embarrassingly small amount of time; strange considering he technically should be in my weight class but has some seriously unrealized potential.

Instead of being all pissed and going after Kurosaki for another go, he fucking smiles and they laugh. I catch on that they're old friends and I feel a little bit of anger roll around in my stomach and something that fleetingly feels like jealousy burn away at my insides, creating a small black hole. They shake hands and Abarai leaves to clean up. Zaraki gets up there to congratulate the kid and makes some joke about wanting to fight him himself. I almost laugh at how completely freaked Kurosaki looks. Zaraki slaps him on the back and the kid stumbles a bit. I see him gesture to me and I know he's telling him that he's going to be training with me.

Zaraki approached me last week and asked me to come in and watch Kurosaki fight.

"Kid is fucking brilliant, Grimm. You should see the way he moves!" He imitated a bob and weave followed by a few jabs. He looked a little ridiculous considering how colossal he was. But it was scary as hell too. Kenpachi used to be unbeatable before he left the ring for good.

"You watch him for a week. Tell me what you think."

So I did, and the kid didn't disappoint.

With another firm slap on his back, Zaraki left the practice ring and mumbled something about picking up his kid from school. A little brat that I would never admit I had a soft spot for: Yachiru. I fished in my pocket for a pink-lemonade sucker and tossed it to Zaraki. He saluted me with it with a wide smirk and left the building through the wide glass doors.

I turned my attention to see Kurosaki staring down at me from the ring, a towel wrapped around his shoulders. His gaze was intense, calculating, and interested. I smirked up at him and gave him a wink.

"Like what you see, Orange?"

Kurosaki blushed like mad and leapt over the ropes to land lithely on the floor, barely making a sound. He scowled at me before walking over. His strides were purposeful and totally confident. Everything about this kid was a turn-on. His honey-brown eyes flecked with gold bored right into mine, his light pink lips were pulled into a tight line, but I just knew they were soft and likely to be fucking delicious. The match had him flushed and his blush only helped to bring out a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. I bet they were on his shoulders too.

To be clear, I was inclined to enjoy company of the male persuasion. In fact, women never did it for me. I was very selective in the men I did like, but I would say I didn't really have a type. Certain men just did it for me. Kurosaki was one of those men. I took the time to learn these things because when I wanted something, I took it. I wasn't a sap for all that love shit but I was out for a good fuck and I definitely did not share.

"Don't call me that. I was just thinking that you look familiar." His gaze turned calculating once more and I suppressed a shiver before smirking down at him.

"I know you, Orange. Respectable boxer by day, street fighter by night." The kid looked shocked a moment before turning around and taking off his sleeveless shirt. His skin was sun-kissed everywhere and even though he wasn't ripped, he was incredibly toned. I clenched my hands into fists at my side to keep myself from running my palms down his back and snaking them around to the front of his waist.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The kid was an awful liar and I snorted.

"Sure, kid. Don't think I haven't seen you fighting in the Underground. Shirosaki ring any bells?" He froze before turning and eyeing me with a slightly manic gaze. One I only saw him use in the Underground. His eyes smoldered and I saw a flash of coal-black and gold.

"I'm not the only one with something to hide. But you know all about that, don't you, Sexta?" His voice came out a little garbled and I was immediately taken back to a fight I'd seen where he'd laughed in the same voice. Delicious shivers ran down my spine and down to the tips of my toes. It was like he was a different person. Fuckin' weird. I smirked and waltzed up to him, leaning in close. I heard his breath hitch and I smiled against his ear.

"I'm gonna be training you, think you got it in you?" I purposely made my words have double meaning by dropping my voice an octave. A rough hand grabbed the back of my head, fingers digging into my scalp and yanking on my hair. I fucking loved it when my hair was pulled and choked down a groan.

"Think you can handle me, Sexta?" He breathed into my ear and I felt a growl low in my throat come up through my clenched teeth.

"Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. You start training. Ich werde sehen Sie heute Abend in der Underground." I felt Kurosaki shiver against me before two firm hands shoved against my chest. I backed away and he turned around and practically fled the training hall.

"Fuck, Orange." I murmured under my breath. That little piece was going to be mine. I'd make sure he knew that tonight.

AN:
That little piece at the end is German where I hope I have Grimmjow correctly saying, "I'll see you tonight at the Underground." Sorry if I fucked that up.

From the predictem website where I searched boxing terms:

Caught Cold: Term used to describe a fighter knocked out early in the fight who was not mentally prepared or warmed up properly.

Canvas: The floor in a boxing ring.

Bolo Punch: A showy, sweeping punch that looks like a little like an uppercut. More of a showboating tactic.

Cross: Power punch thrown straight with the rear hand.

Bob and Weave: When a fighter moves his upper body in an up-and-down motion, making him more difficult to time correctly.

Go to the Body: A strategy that centers on trying to deplete an opponents' resolve by repeatedly punching to the body and not so much the head.

Infighting: Close-range boxing.

Combination: A seamless sequence of consecutive punches.

Haymaker: A wild punch intended to knock out the opponent.

Eight Count: After a fighter is knocked down, the referee must complete a count of eight even if the opponent rises before that.

Stylist: A fighter who relies on skills rather than brawn.

Journeyman: A skilled fighter, while not necessarily a winning one. Used as opponents and to test up and coming boxers. They lack meaningful connections and take fights on short notice.