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Aizen's shadow falls over Ichigo, swallowing the dim light in this windowless cell. "Such spirit," he muses, fingers trailing down a sweat slick spine. The restraints binding Ichigo's wrists to the floor hum with energy, holding him fast.
"Don't touch me," Ichigo snarls, bucking against the hands that pin his hips to the stone floor. The struggle is useless, but rage courses through him like lightning. He digs his nails into his own palms, anything to focus on besides the invasive touch.
"Ah, that fire," Aizen's breath ghosts over Ichigo's ear. "It's precisely what makes you a worthy prize." His knee parts Ichigo's thighs, forcing them wider.
Ichigo's muscles scream in protest as he thrashes. "I'll kill you," he promises through gritted teeth. The fight drains him, but surrender is worse.
Aizen's grip tightens, aroused by the resistance. He positions himself, the tip pressing against Ichigo's tight hole. "Such defiance." There is no kindness in his tone, only cold amusement as he thrusts forward without preparation.
Ichigo's cry is swallowed by the cold stone beneath him as pain sears through him. Aizen's grip on his hips is iron, holding him still for the brutal invasion. Each shallow thrust forces a gasp from Ichigo's lips, sounds of violation he can't suppress. His body arches, a desperate, reflexive attempt too escape the unwelcome fullness, the stretch.
But the resistance, the way Ichigo's inner muscles clench and fight the intrusion, only seems to spur Aizen on. "Yes," he murmurs, his pace increasing slightly, "that's it. Fight me. Make it worthwhile." He watches Ichigo's face, cataloging every twitch of pain and fury with an unnerving analytical gaze. The war is over, the battlefield won, but this small, personal conquest is its own victory, and he intends to savor every moment of Ichigo's broken defiance.