A/N: Before you read anything, I feel inclined to warn you that I am a very inexperienced smut writer. Very inexperienced.

Also, I must have you know that this OC is really my good friend Fetus of Death (see profile), and that the name of this pairing is watermelonshipping (cauz watermelons are red and so is her hair - well, partly, as it's also kind of brown and gold). The one thing I do know about smut is that it shouldn't be entirely centred around sex, but I'm sure you understand that writing smut about a friend and an anime character makes incorporating emotional content very, very awkward. So there's not much of that.

Burning Ice

By Janine

It starts off one morning with a petty argument over the fact that Jessica Stark hasn't touched her school assignment since it was issued two weeks ago.

"Hey," speaks up Toshiro Hitsugaya, after what seems like a million years of observing Jessica's reclusive antics as she reclines on the couch in her living room, tapping away on her phone, head bent over whatever she's doing – whether it be scrolling through fifty pages worth of pictures on tumblr or sending provocative messages to her friend Yagz via Facebook.

"Hmm?" Jessica raises her head. Red hair falls in waves around her, half-covering her face. As annoyed as Toshiro is at the moment, the effect of this is strangely appealing.

He shakes the thought off, worrying that it might disarm him. "When are you going to start it?"

"Start what?"

Toshiro lets out an exasperated breath. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

"Oh, that." Jessica shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe tomorrow."

"You do realise it's due in two days?"

"Yeah, well. I've got better stuff to do." As if to prove her point, Jessica promptly goes back to tapping and scrolling.

Toshiro stands there for a moment, brows furrowed. Then he stalks up to her and snatches the phone deftly out of her hands. Jessica makes a lunge for it, but naturally, he's too fast for her. Defeated, she sinks back onto the couch, glaring defiantly at him.

"I need that. If you weren't Captain Hitsugaya I'd bash the shit out of you."

"I'm confiscating it," says Toshiro in an imperious manner. "If its primary purpose if not to detect Hollows or something equally important, it's useless."

"Its purpose is something equally important."

"Not if it prevents you from doing your work," says Toshiro firmly. "Get up!"

Jessica rolls her eyes. "You're worse than Yoghurt. Anyway, taking my phone doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to do my assignment. You need to take other measures."

Barely five minutes later, the sound of sloshing water can be heard from the bathroom. Behind the locked door, behind the glass door of the shower rendered opaque by steam, are two figures: one rather small and the other comparatively tall. They stand close together under the running water, despite the extra space available in the oblong white tub.

"I can't believe we're doing this just to get me to start my assignment," says Jessica in a hushed voice, as they begin to lather soap over each other's bodies.

"Tell me about it." His fingers trace her collarbones, their touch light and cool, and his hands slide down to cup her breasts, slick with water. Then he slips his arms under hers, plastering her body to his.

His skin is cold. It always is at this point; especially in bed, where there's no warm water gushing over them. She feels his tough, defined abdominal muscles against her body, feels his hands travel up and down her back, the coldness of those nimble fingers strangely welcoming.

He looks up. She's startled by the bright turquoise of his eyes, by the intensity of his gaze. It seems that ice really does burn.

She reaches across to the rack for the shampoo, and their bodies press even more firmly together, fitting perfectly into each other like pieces of a completed jigsaw puzzle. His head is snuggled against her chest, between the two bulging mounds, and his slight shoulders are slotted just beneath them. Her senses tingle as his lips brush lightly against her skin.

"Jess." He speaks into her chest, his breath like a burst of icy fire. "We agreed on seventy five per cent, didn't we?"

"I think it was fifty." Every thump of her heart feels like a hammer-blow inside her.

"Idiot. It can't have been." Toshiro raises his head. A single ray of late morning light from the tiny, translucent window in the wall falls on his face, highlighting the angles of his brow, his cheekbones . . . catching on the tiny droplets that cling to the ends of his silvery-white hair and turning them into glittering beads of ice. "I won't have you getting up at four in the morning to finish it. You'll disrupt my sleeping patterns."

"That won't happen if I finish it tomorr –" Jessica sucks in a sharp breath as his arms latch around her neck, fingers clinging to her as he lifts himself up to plant deep, controlled kisses along her jawline. His chest brushes against hers, heaving, and she feels the shampoo bottle slip out of her grasp, hears it hit the floor with a heavy thump. He's not quite so cold anymore, she notices, belatedly. The room, the gushing water, the clouds of steam wafting around them, engulfing them in warmth that quickly turns to heat . . . stifling heat . . . choking heat . . . and Toshiro in the midst of it, kissing her neck, her chest with increasing fervour, his tongue flicking swiftly over the bump of her larynx and down into the groove above her collarbone . . .

She bends over, panting, tilts his head back and presses her lips against his. His eyes snap shut automatically, shielding against the steaming white torrent from overhead. Water trickles down Jessica's face as she leans into him, trusting him, knowing he will support her, bear her weight as though she were no heavier than a feather. He tastes like . . . what does he taste like? Something that reminds her of cool shade on a summer day and shaved ice and cocktail umbrellas . . . What does he wash his hair with? There's a faint scent of watermelon about him. Her hand moves down his body, caressing here, fondling there, and finally stopping at the soft nest of hair she almost has to stoop to reach. She finds his shaft and strokes it rhythmically. He gives a low, shuddering moan against her lips, the sound resonating through her entire body.

They break apart at the mouth but keep hold of each other, breathing heavily. Toshiro's face is composed but slightly flushed. "I highly doubt you will," he says, his bare chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. "Seventy five per cent today, or I'll stop."

No! No! A sort of overwhelming desperation explodes inside Jessica. "Okay," she says hurriedly, instinctively tightening her grip on him. "Okay, but you have to help me."

Toshiro sighs heavily, but there's a trace of a smile on his lips. "I don't suppose I have a choice." He promptly resumes his kisses and caresses, and the ensuing thrills of exhilaration make Jessica's blood dance in her veins . . . it's so hot, so wet, and Toshiro's hand is snaking downwards, as hers did before –

"Shiro," she chokes out between gasps, as his fingers toy with her entrance, "I have a presentiment . . . that this is not going to work – ah!" With one swift motion, he pushes her against the wall. The water slops over him, flattening his hair until it gleams like a sheet of silver.

"Oh?" His eyebrows are raised, smoothing out the usual crinkles in his forehead. "And why would that be?"

She provokes him, as she always does. "You're too short, Shiro! How is a little kid like you supposed to –"

"Hey! Who're you calling a little kid?" He looks infuriated for a moment, but then his lips curve into a smirk. "How?" She barely has time to see his eyes flash with a certain wickedness before her legs are swept out from under her. She cries out, but his arms are there, righting her, sliding her body up the wall again. Oh . . . even the tiles against her back are warm. And Toshiro's hands are on her buttocks, gripping firmly. She can feel the muscles in his arms, tense under her thighs. "Like this," he says, quite unnecessarily.

Shaking streaming red locks out of her eyes, she stares at him. His face is level with hers now. "Shiro, what are you –"

He cuts her off, his eyes snapping keenly to the area between her legs, with an almost murderous growl, as though in preparation for ramming a sword into someone's belly – but his target isn't Jessica's belly, and what he rams into her isn't a sword.

"Ugh!"

And ice bursts into flame, defying everything science has ever proved. He fills her up . . . oh, yes, yes . . . He goes in as far as she will allow and draws out again. Over and over he thrusts his hips forward and back, his pace quickening, pushing deeper into her. A flurry of sensations ripples through her from head to toe – excitement, adoration, impatience . . . and hot, burning desire.

All of a sudden he stops. Part of him is still inside her, teasing her . . . tempting her, the glint in his eyes gives away. Hunger and desire explode within her – it's like he's dangling what she wants just above where she can reach. It's so close she can almost taste it.

"Shiro – Shiro – ngh!" She kicks out desperately – her fingers claw at his hair . . . "This wasn't part of the deal!" She wants him, everything belonging to him, wants it so badly the flame of desire scorches her insides.

He manoeuvres her along the wall. A little to the left. A little to the right. Up just a bit. There. He shifts slightly, accommodating himself comfortably between her thighs, and goes in a little deeper . . . but not enough for her – not enough!

"I agreed to seventy five per cent . . . you said you wouldn't stop!"

"As in I wouldn't stop what I was doing earlier," says Toshiro matter-of-factly.

"Shiro!"

"Hmph." With a sharp thrust, he pushes his way in again, all the way in – and for Jessica it's like gulping down fresh water after days of dehydration.

He's rubbing against her clitoris now, keeping a steady pace as he draws in and out of her. His face is contorted with concentration – his drenched hair flops up and down in sync with his movements, spraying crystalline droplets everywhere. A deep, throaty moan escapes his slightly parted lips, sending several ripples of excitement through Jessica's loins. It's so wet now, down there, seemingly even wetter than the water enveloping them. Wetter, warmer, more slippery . . . and she likes it. She squeezes her eyes shut, immersing herself in the sensation – and when she opens them again he's staring straight at her, turquoise irises ablaze with passion. As he thrusts again, more fervently, she sees a droplet of water clinging to his bottom lip, wobbling as his lips tremble ever so slightly.

"Ah . . . ah . . ." She can't help it. It's not just the heat, the water, or Toshiro's strength and control . . . not just the sight of his lean, strong muscles, contracting and rippling and gleaming with a sheen of mingled sweat and water . . . but . . . but . . . the sounds he's making! To her the sound of his voice is the most wonderful thing in the world – even that low, unmelodious moaning and grunting. And she loves it, she craves it, just like everything else that defines him, good and bad. With every groan, every syllable of her name that explodes uncontrollably from his quivering lips, her thirst grows like a spreading fire. He is hers, she is his – he kindles her fire and she melts his ice –

"You'd – better – live – up – to – your – word," huffs Toshiro, and he pumps into her so hard their faces almost collide. She can see the droplets trickling down his eyelashes.

"I told you – I – will –"

They're nearly there, now, so nearly there, and Jessica's words are lost in the roar of the water and the roar of the fire inside her . . . and . . . and . . .

The water goes cold.

Icy cold.

"Fuck!" Jessica jerks up convulsively, almost hitting her head on the tiles. Her body tips sideways, down, down, down, "Ah, shit!"

She hears him gasp – and then he's there, underneath her, arms locking her upper body in a protective embrace, one knee lodged in the small of her back, other thigh in the crooks of her knees. His heart pounds against her side. She catches only a glimpse of his face, and then she's being set down at the bottom of the tub. A moment later he groans, and something white and sticky and warm splatters over her legs and stomach. She shudders, her throat dry. "Shiro . . . Shiro!" She wants more, needs more, needs it now!

The faucet squeaks, and the supply of freezing water is cut off. A thump and he's on top of her, panting laboriously, smothering her with warmth. "Damn . . . damn . . ." he mutters, straddling her waist, "I'm not done yet . . . Jess . . ." He gropes at her, at everything he can reach – her face, her neck, her ample breasts – and goes inside again. She reaches up, shuddering with renewed pleasure, possessively cradling his rocking body in her arms. Yes, yes . . . here it is, yes, he's coming . . .

And this time it satisfies her like it never has before, the moments of deprivation magnifying the end result. School doesn't matter! Assignments don't matter! Nothing is important right now – nothing but Toshiro, the feel of him on her, the feel of him pouring part of himself into her – and what she feels for him is all the more powerful now that she senses everything through his actions . . . his triumphs and his failures, his hopes and his fears . . . it's the utmost intimacy . . . and finally, the melted ice extinguishes the fire but leaves glowing embers behind.

"Ugh . . ." Toshiro's body relaxes as he withdraws. He rolls gently off her, and she pushes herself into a sitting position. Only now does she realise how uncomfortable the bottom of the bathtub is.

"You all right?" asks Toshiro, running his fingers through her hair and leaning in close to kiss her.

"Yeah . . . I forgot to tell you about my hot water issue. Fml." Then she remembers how much Durian disapproves of that abbreviation being said aloud.

Two days later Jessica hands in her assignment without incident. She finds Toshiro waiting outside her door when she arrives home.

"Jess," he says upon noticing her. His face is composed, but something in his expression unsettles her. And that something is immediately revealed. "I must confess that I looked through this." He holds up her phone, which she had conveniently neglected to bring to school.

It takes a few moments for the words to sink in. Jessica gapes at him. "You . . . what?!"

"I wasn't aware of your tendency to . . . how should I put it . . . hoard extreme close-ups of . . ."

He doesn't need to finish. Jessica's face has gone very red. Very, very red. Redder than it's ever been.

Explanation for the last section: Fetus of Death is a rabid fangirl. That's all.