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@kurosakilchigo
private & selective ICHIGO KUROSAKI from the manga Bleach |⭑| crossover & original character friendly |⭑| please read rules |⭑| this blog may contain triggering content such as blood, gore, mentions of death & occasional nsft/nsfw |⭑| 21+ minors DNI |⭑| icon borders by toast |⭑|
"You should tell Urahara to make something useful instead of Hollow bait that keeps fucking with us. Like a new kind of plant that grows ibuprofen on it like berries."
@killerinstincts || accepting
Ichigo exhales hard, strained, hands drifting over his own feverish skin like they could scratch away the last of the tingling traces of the bait’s effects.
The worst of it is over. He’s not even trying to chew Zangetsu’s limbs off anymore. The urge is still there, but it’s quieted to something possessive. Something hot that flexes and gnaws against the cage of Ichigo’s ribs everytime Zangetsu so much as twitches.
He pushes an arm back around the sword spirit’s middle, nails biting at cloth. Even the brief loss of contact had panic skittering through his nerves hard enough to make his scalp prickle.
Words still feel awkward in his mouth. His thoughts keep wanting to dissolve into growls and snarls, but he forces them out anyway.
“He makes Hollow repellant. I thought about using it to get some peace around here.” Except he realized pretty fucking quickly it works on him just as effectively as the bait. One spray had him running from his own flat as if he’d taken a blowtorch to set the whole place on fire instead of giving his sofa a spritz.
Ichigo turns his face into Zangetsu’s shoulder, bites just to feel the pressure of muscle and bone against his teeth.
It takes him a minute to let go again.
“I wouldn’t mind a plant that grew his spirit tablets, though. The healing ones.” Only Urahara’s pills do more than advertised. A shinigami could gorge themselves on them, fill their body with borrowed power the same way Hollows do when feeding.
Ichigo drags in a deep breath against Zangetsu’s throat. Cool skin. Blood cold and caustic with power a scant breath away. So close.
His words are rough when he remembers to finish the thought. “Not that we could ever have either of those. You’d eat anything that grew on a plant like that like it was candy.”
"King, look!" He's tugging his sleeve in the direction of the strawberry stand in the supermarket, where the fresh fruit glistens on display underneath the plastic packaging. And not just normal strawberries- red strawberries, pink strawberries, white strawberries, and packages that display a spectrum of strawberries in a gradient of pale whites to berry reds.
He peers at the price tag of one of the individually packaged white strawberries, raising his eyebrows. "1,680 yen per fruit? That's pretty pricey. Can't just be because of the color, can it?"
@killerinstincts || accepting That’s an instant hell no.
Ichigo digs his heels in, knows exactly where this is headed before it even gets there.
Only.
Maybe he doesn’t.
Zangetsu starts talking about himself. Which is marginally better.
Ichigo blinks, scowl falling away as he leans over to look halfhearted. He gives a light shrug. “How would I know?”
He does like strawberries. Something that causes him headaches occasionally when people can’t help but comment on it. “Get one if you want it. Find out.”
Kneels on a chair and hoists his lizard Hollow up towards a bug on the ceiling. Both of them are transfixed by it, waiting for the moment the lizard snaps it up in its mouth. Neither of them realize that Ichigo is behind them right now.
@killerinstincts || accepting
It’s become alarmingly normal to walk into his apartment and immediately wonder if he should leave again.
Ichigo stops inside the doorway, one brow lifting as he takes in the scene--Zangetsu crouched on one of the kitchen chairs, balanced like a still, pale, perfect gargoyle. Both of his arms are lifted overhead, hoisting his lizard toward the ceiling with complete seriousness while all six little legs pedal frantically in the air.
Ichigo squints and follows the line of its snout upward.
On the ceiling, a spider circles idly, lazily, seemingly unaware of the spirit creatures creeping below attempting to make a snack of it.
Then.
A tongue lashes out in a blur. There’s a wet crunching noise as the lizard’s mouth snaps shut, tail twitching happily, working that mouthful down its throat while Zangetsu grins like he’s just witnessed art.
Ichigo closes his eyes for a long second. When he opens them again, he folds his arms across his chest.
“You know, Grimmjow just turned the fridge into a haunted house exhibit. Someone with a lot of extra free time should definitely clean that up.”
Starts feeding him grapes. Not peeled. Sorry, no royal treatment— he's too impatient for that.
@killerinstincts || accepting Ichigo barely glances up from the text he’s reading when the grape presses against his mouth. His eyes stay half-lidded, heavy under the light shadow of his ever present scowl as he reads.
The skin breaks between his teeth, then sweet juice floods his tongue and catches his attention. He looks up.
His head’s pillowed in Zangetsu’s lap. For a second he just stares at the next grape hovering at his lips, contemplates whether he should be encouraging this, then opens and lets Zangetsu push it in.
Another grape follows before he’s even swallowed the next. Attentive. Always noting Ichigo’s needs before he knows them himself.
He turns his head, clicks his tongue on a breath, somewhere between complaint and acceptance, shifting deeper against the weight beneath him. Cool fingers touch the corner of his jaw as Zangetsu nudges the grape toward him, and Ichigo gives in and takes that one too.
So impatient.
And that’s the thing.
Zangetsu could’ve dropped the bowl in his lap and called it done. Could’ve given him shit for skipping meals again. Could’ve sunk his teeth into the fruit himself just to watch Ichigo realize his hunger. Instead, he’s sitting here feeding him piece by piece with the kind of focus he usually reserves for violence.
As if a predator would nudge meat toward something wounded. Making sure it eats. Making sure it stays alive. The gesture at complete odds with how this should go. But that’s Zangetsu. All in, all the time.
A finger brushes the tip of his tongue.
Ichigo chews slower this time.
His gaze drifts back upward, catching on the line of Zangetsu’s throat, a single strand of white hair that catches the light just enough to make Ichigo ache with the urge to reach up and push it back.
He watches the subtle twitch of fingers before the next grape appears at his lips.
He knocks the hand aside. Sits up fast. Gets his mouth on Zangetsu’s instead.
Always so cold.
Ichigo works on warming it—just as slow and thorough as that feeding—before he releases him, huffs, a little out of breath, and settles back down into his lap.
“…don’t make that face at me.”
"Your heat dissipates too fast from your blankets." He's pouting, ensconced in Ichigo's soft blankets and sleep-wrinkled comforters. He'd manifested himself in them the moment Ichigo stepped out to get dressed, but the heat hoarded there was quickly depleted the moment he'd nestled there and smothered it all with his unearthly chill.
He sighs, tugging the blankets closer to himself. At least they still smell good. They smell like King.
@killerinstincts || accepting
The coffee mug hisses as he slides it onto the bedside table, the steam curling between them.
Ichigo barely glances over, looking just long enough to catch the dramatic burrito-pile of blankets swallowing the spirit whole before turning back to his dresser.
He smirks, tugging on his jeans, hopping slightly as he yanks them up over his hips. “That’s because you’re basically an ice block.”
He straightens, buttoning his fly, walks to the closet. A belt slides through loops, clinking as he buckles it. A tshirt is pulled over his head, the neck catching briefly on still-damp hair, hem lifting enough to show warm skin along the hem before he tugs it into place. “Maybe if you asked nice, Urahara would make you a gigai for that. One that could make its own heat.”
He shrugs into his jacket last, rolling his shoulders to settle it.
Only then does he look back at the bed.
Ichigo exhales, half sigh, half laugh. “You had all night to get in bed with me, you know.”
He reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip.
Ichigo’s mouth twitches, just barely. He crosses to the bed, nudges the blanket edge back from Zangetsu’s grumpy face with a knuckle. “All right. If you’re that cold…” He sits against the headboard. “Shift closer. Or scoot. I’ll sit with you til I’m done with my coffee.”
"You know, I do miss your Fullbring tattoos." He hums, cool fingertips skimming along the thin column of his forearm. There's nothing but smooth, bare skin now, but he still remembers the shape of those inky marks, traces along the memory of them. "They weren't given to you by me, but I still liked them."
@killerinstincts || accepting
Ichigo goes still the second those cool fingers skim his arm, eyes dropping from the movie to where those fingers coast.
“Really?” His arm flips before he even really thinks about it, offering up the delicate skin of his inner wrist so that touch can keep traveling.
He’s had so many changes to his shihakusho over the years, he’s never really stopped to consider having a favorite. But now that he does, he realizes there was progressively more armor to each iteration. “I liked the collar.”
Neckguard. He probably should’ve said neckguard.
Whatever.
“You can change everything else, have you tried?” The form his Shinigami powers take is Zangetsu’s business after all.
Zangetsu is the one who'd spent a week pickling in salt and sea, and yet Ichigo is the one who looks as though he is drowning. And it makes sense, after all-- that had been his sea, his inland empire. Those tall, jewel-like skyscrapers had been crumpled and flattened into the ocean floor because he had mourned and fretted and grieved that flood into existence.
But no more. No more sea, no more cold, no more stupid little silver fish. It's time to make this right.
Zangetsu knows by the seizing of his muscles that he doesn't have the strength to stand, so he sits instead. And he means to sit regally, like a proud lion-dog lounging at the feet of his king, but he's shivering too much and if he tries to sit straight he'll fall over, so he curls into a ball instead. Arms hugging his knees to his chest, smothering the way they knock into each other.
He looks a tad bit pathetic, and that's alright. He has his pride, but this isn't exactly the time for appearances anyway.
The words come out quavering- his best attempt to get them out without the chattering of his teeth. "You're right. It shouldn't be like this. I fucked up, and I made you upset."
He grits his teeth together, tasting the salt that sticks to his mouth like rheum. "Thought I knew you better than anyone, and that made me arrogant. Made me forget that I can't always read your mind, not when we're separated like this."
He licks his lips. "She was just food to me. I was hungry, and she was nothing. She wasn't even alive when I found her. But she was someone to you, wasn't she? I didn't know. Maybe I was asleep when you two talked, or maybe you had met her when I was gone."
Ichigo's face is still blurry to his salt-stung eyes. Zangetsu tries to hold his gaze anyway, even while knowing he can't make out whatever wretched expression his king is making. Doesn't matter. He's had days to mull over everything in that ocean, and he's already accepted that Ichigo will be disgusted with him. At least this time he gets to apologize.
"Doesn't excuse what I've done. I should've known you'd be upset with me either way, but I let my arrogance get to me and let my instincts have their way. I'm sorry." He purses his lips. "I won't lie to you and claim that I care about people like her, but I care about you. Always. I..."
I'll do better. I'll leash my instincts. I'll let you lock me up again if you want to. There's too many thoughts coming out at once, and in the end he trails off and says nothing at all.
“This isn’t about what I felt.” Which… It shouldn’t be. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s a stupid thing to say to Zangetsu who spent the last week drowning in his emotions, so Ichigo bites his tongue.
He doesn’t want an apology—or… he needs one that feels less like a knife. But also, he remembers. He remembers what he saw, that guilt on his face hadn’t come from nowhere. Ichigo’s spent days replaying it until he’s not even sure what he remembers isn’t some grotesquely exaggerated trick of the mind.
And he knows now that he’s willing to make a dozen excuses for Zangetsu. And he’s had to check each one and stomp it out.
What he won’t believe is that it was an accident. A mistake? Fine. But it was intentional.
The longer the words go, the more it seems like they’re being used to scrape out his insides. Sinking deep, carving into his resolve. Except underneath flesh is bone. Isn’t Zangetsu the one who told him that?
It takes him a long moment. He wants to recoil. Doesn’t.
He wants to forget. He wants to let it go. It’s Zangetsu. And that’s the problem.
“I’m the one who forgot.” What you are. What it takes to keep you in check.
It got easy, and he relaxed.
“I should’ve known better. It’s my fault. It’s my responsibility. I wanted to trust you. I wanted… I treated you like a friend. I should’ve kept a tighter hold.” He knew. He knew Zangetsu was dangerous. He’d been enjoying it. Hadn’t taken it seriously because they were having a good time.
In that way, Zangetsu killing is the same as Ichigo killing. The blame can’t fall on anyone else. “I’m not going to punish you anymore, but you can’t stay out.”
He’s not ready for the constant reminder. He’s not settled enough. It’s not even the first life that can be laid at his feet, but it’s fresh. He still sees it when he looks at him. His own face staring back. It’s appropriate.
What’s he going to do with him? Treat him like a sword, not a pet, not a lover. Except it’s not that easy. It drags at his shoulders, his mouth, his brows until he feels as cold and heavy as Zangetsu looks. “I don’t know what to do…” he admits, practically a whisper.
Ichigo looks so beautiful like this, teetering on the precipice of sleep, his face slack and eyelashes faintly fluttering. Zangetsu brushes his knuckles against his cheek. His fringe is too long, and he sweeps it to the side so he can fully admire the man that he shaped himself after.
"So pretty." He coos. His fingers trail down, from the jut of his chin to the dip of his clavicle. "Still can't believe I get to have you all to myself. Isn't that funny? I went as far as to make myself look like you, but it wasn't enough. I wanted to have all of you. Your friends once spent more time with you than I ever could, and I was so jealous that I could've killed them for it."
He feels down the flat plane of his sternum, then slips down to the ridges of his ribcage. Every one of his touches is light with reverence, fevered with worship. "But now I get to talk your ear off all day and cuddle with you all night. All this attention, just for me." He lets out a happy sigh. "Don't think I'll ever get sick of it."
@killerinstincts || accepting
Ichigo’s lashes are heavy as he blinks, slow, lids parting halfway, lingering somewhere in the space between wakefulness and dream. Above him, Zangetsu watches back his face a study in sharp contrasts, all bone white edges and impossible grace. Appearing far too delicate for what he is. Mouth far too tempting for what it does.
His eyes lift back to Zangetsu’s.
Ichigo can almost feel it—his own fingers tracing the same line along that pale jaw that Zangetsu’s are mapping down his.
He huffs out a breath, or tries to, but half asleep and lulled by that touch, it’s a breath more heated than negating. As if Zangetsu can even talk. Ichigo wets his lips to speak, skin breaking out in chills as that touch moves lower. “Since when are you such an autosexual?”
Does it surprise him? Not really. Zangetsu’s never lacked for confidence, he glows with it. Enough for both of them, for a dozen hollows besides.
It fills Ichigo with the strangest urge to bite him. Mark him up. Sign his name on him head to toe.
He tells himself that’s Zangetsu’s influence, not his own. Except they aren’t even sharing a body this time. No bleed-over. No excuse. Just him.
He draws a breath, opens his mouth to snap a defense for his friends, to say something about lines and crossing them, but Zangetsu’s hand moves lower and the thought scatters. His chest rises sharply, pressing up into that palm, heat chasing along his nerves. Of all the things they could do all night, he isn’t thinking about cuddling just now.
“Attention for you…?” Ichigo’s the one under his touch, nearly shuddering with it.
He wants to shove his fingers deep into white hair and drag him down. Fit their mouths together and bite his lips until they’re bruised and aching.
He wants it so bad he’s not even aware he’s done it until he’s half up, catching that mouth and muffling any other praise. He’s always been better with actions over words. Wouldn’t know what to say to this anyway. He shows him instead with hands far harsher but no less reverent.
"King..." He lays his head against his shoulder, golden eyes flicking up at him imploringly. "If I was a little lizard, would you let me ride around on your shoulder?"
@killerinstincts || accepting
His eyes crack open at the sound of the name, and without thinking, Ichigo shifts, subtly adjusting to fit the shape of Zangetsu’s weight when he settles against him. When he closes his eyes again, his whole body feels looser, the tension gone from his shoulders.
Except the look he’s getting registers on a delay and he blinks his eyes back open, voice dry, “What? You mean if you kept shedding pieces until there wasn’t enough left to make something bigger? Hope not. If you shrink any more, I’ll be stuck fighting with one of those pocket knives they sell for opening packages.”
He’s being a smartass. He knows damn well that’s not what Zangetsu meant.
He rolls onto his side anyway to study him properly this time. The room’s half lit, shadows pooling soft and blue around them. When he speaks again, his voice drops lower, quieter. “Or do you mean… if I found you the way you found your lizard?”
It doesn’t really matter. The answer’s the same either way.
“Yeah,” he says after a pause, a small huff of breath catching the edge of the word. “If you wanted.” Ichigo smothers a yawn against the back of his wrist. “Think you just like being spoiled.”
His eyes drift shut again. When sleep starts to pull at him this time, his chin dips, coming to rest against the crown of Zangetsu’s pale head. The contrast of warmth and cool is grounding, and the words slip out softer, half-mumbled.
“Don’t, though.” A pause. “I like you the way you are.”
His lips twitch, a ghost of a smile. “You already ride on my shoulder.”
This is quite possibly his worst nightmare.
It doesn't matter that it's his king standing in front of him. The fact of the matter is that he's covered in extra strong Hollow bait and every last one of Zangetsu's neurons are on fire; a storm that sparks with the overwhelmingly powerful directive to eat. Lunge at him, puncture his jugular with his teeth, tear muscle from tendon and drink in the blood again and again until nothing is left to eat.
No. No, I can't.
He takes a step back, looking as frightened as cornered prey. He can't, but he wants. His teeth ache to the gums with it. And Ichigo, stupid, beautiful, kindhearted Ichigo, steps forward to grab him and steady him and ask him what's wrong, and that only makes the craving worse. He's staring at Zangetsu with sorry, begging him to say something, but Zangetsu looks at him now and can only think of meat.
Meat. All he wants is meat. His teeth ache to sink into it. Well if it's meat that he wants, he thinks to himself deliriously, he'll get his meat, but not from his King. Never from his King. Instead, he brings his own arm up and bites through the soft flesh of his forearm.
He knows better than anyone that instincts aren't perfect. It's his own arm, and yet despite the pain, it's still meat. It's enough to fool his hunger. So he eats like a starving animal, tearing out his own veins, dying his face blue with his blood.
He'd threatened Ichigo with devouring him before, but that had always been an empty threat. A blade waved around, meant to encourage him through fear. If he truly hungers, he'd sooner turn those teeth on himself.
@killerinstincts || accepting
He knows exactly when it went wrong.
Urahara’s voice is still ringing in his head—don’t touch that, Kurosaki-kun!—but of course, it’d been too late. Bis hand had moved on its own, drawn to the faint hum of the tube, the soft glint of its contents. Half a vial’s worth of concentrated hollow bait spilling out to mist across his sleeve, soaking into skin before he could even wipe it off.
Now it’s thick in the air around him. Heavy. Sweet in a way that makes his mouth wet and his jaw itch.
It takes effort to shake it off.
But Zangetsu goes still on sight. Before Ichigo’s even set his keys down and closed the door. Ichigo freezes too.
“Zangetsu?”
It’s the kind of stillness that comes before movement. Every muscle tight. Every breath a hungry tremor. Ichigo can feel it through the air like a delicate static, it lifts the hairs on his neck and arms, drags at him like an invisible riptide.
He steps closer.
“Hey...” He forces a half-smile, voice low, steady. He can see it now, the dark of Zangetsu’s eyes like a black hole sucking in light, the twitch at his jaw.
The bait. It has to be.
It’s… wrong. Ichigo reaches out anyway.
They’ve done this before. It was fine. Zangetsu kept it together.
“Talk to me. You’re—”
He doesn’t get to finish. Zangetsu jerks back like he’s been hit. The sound he makes isn’t words, it’s a rasp, low and panicked.
Then he bites.
Ichigo freezes. For one long, sick second, he doesn’t process what he’s seeing. Barely flinches at the cold spray of blood across his cheek. Then the smell hits. Copper. Salt. And that now familiar sound of tearing flesh.
He stumbles forward on reflex, one hand shooting out as Zangetsu’s teeth carve through his own forearm like a desperate animal trying to free itself from a trap. Flesh parts, rips, disappears down his throat. Ink blue blood slicks his face, spattering the floor.
“Stop—stop it—!”
Zangetsu doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are wild, locked inward, and Ichigo knows, knows, this is only going to get worse if he doesn’t—
He frees his badge.
The shift is instant. His body drops limp behind him, soul snapping forward. He’s moving before his human skin even hits the floor, crashing into Zangetsu hard enough to knock both of them down. The rug slides under their weight. His knee digs into Zangetsu’s stomach and hip as he pins him, one forearm braced across his throat where teeth won’t find it, the other grappling for the wrist that’s still trying to rise and tear itself apart on his mouth.
“That’s enough!”
The words hit with force. His reiatsu flares without permission, flooding the room in pressure, flickering the light, flexing walls, cracking glass somewhere. He doesn’t look.
If it were just the arm, he’d be annoyed. Mildly put out. Disturbed.
This isn’t that. This is a devouring. An implosion of ravenous hunger.
“Zangetsu! You don’t get to do this—you hear me? Stop!”
Zangetsu thrashes under him, breath hitching, the remnants of the wound already knitting together, fresh skin gleaming over ruined muscle. It’s too fast. Too easy. He could sit here and chew at himself all night.
Ichigo stares down at him, shoulders heaving.
“Don’t—” He stops himself. Swallows hard. “You’re not expendable. Not any part of you. You’re not.”
The words come out both softer and harsher than he means them to, his hand shaking where it grips Zangetsu’s wrist.
“You can’t...”
And it hits him then that every second he’s this close, every breath he takes, every pulse of his reiatsu against Zangetsu’s, is making it harder for him.
Shit.
“I know it hurts.” He presses his eyes shut, jaw tight, the air loud with the sound of two people breathing too close. “It’s alright. I won’t let you do this. Not to you, not to me.”
There is no breach in the water like he expects, no body plunging in and scarring a wake of bubbles into the vast blueness. Ichigo does not come to him, but by the tug on his soul Zangetsu knows he is being made to come to Ichigo, and he lets the summons take him as though he is a fish being reeled with whirlpool-force.
He has to shut his eyes once he comes to in Ichigo's room. Everything is awash in milky low lights, but he has spent too long in those hadopelagic depths, and everything that isn't black or blue sears into his vision like vivid mongrel colors. For a mercy, the temperature change doesn't shock him. The open air gusts against his skin, but it does not bite, because the cold has already rendered him insensate.
Zangetsu takes a moment to shiver and blink out all the salt and light from his eyes before he finally looks up at his king. He is blurry but he is radiant, the orange of his hair sharp and livid and making everything else look dull in comparison. And Zangetsu can't quite make out his expression, but he must seem infinitely less pitiful than how he himself looks now, his body not quite kneeling but crouched before him, his hair sticking to his skin, his dark circles so stark against his white face that they might appear as bruises.
"King." He croaks out. He tries to force himself up and instead his body pitches forward. For a moment he expects himself to float towards him and instead he faceplants in the carpet, and he hears Ichigo make a noise that sounds like something wounded.
"I'm fi-i-ine." He hisses, and pushes himself up. He feels too heavy now. His clothes used to billow out around him like jellyfish frills, and now they weigh him down with all the water he has yet to wring out. Still, he grabs onto the table and hauls himself upright, shying away from Ichigo's hands when they reach out to him. He feels as wobbly as a newborn calf, but he's still too stubborn to accept his help. "Don't help me. I can get up by myself."
He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the patter of water droplets hit the floor, then the smell of salt like a wet slap, and a voice that sounds like it’s been dragged through miles of cold.
“Zangetsu—”
The name comes out raw, and Ichigo’s body is already half moving before his mind catches up as the spirit lurches forward and goes down hard. The thud punches straight through him. For one awful second, all he can think is he’s broken him again, but then Zangetsu’s hissing, warning Ichigo off, and pushing himself up.
Half-drowned, trembling, but proud.
Ichigo can’t breathe. He wants to grab him anyway, steady him, shake him—something. But he forces his hands down, fighting the urge to reach out, to press palms to icy skin.
He knows what it must be like in there. A city sunk under a sea. Cold and deep and dark. Maybe he should’ve expected resentment.
Zangetsu looks as well as a corpse.
The carpet’s darkened under the puddle spreading from his sleeves, the chill of him seeping out—
“I can’t do this.” It was a mistake. “This—“ He stops himself. He can’t send him back there, not like this. He called him. This is what he wanted. And then it’s Ichigo’s turn to hiss, talking between grit teeth. “It shouldn’t be like this. I thought we could trust each other.”
i'm sexually interested in whatever's wrong with you
@killerinstincts from here
The pain hits first. Sharp and deep, blooming through his chest like blood flooding from a cut. It makes his breath hitch, makes his hand twitch toward his sternum before he stops himself. The sensation is tamped almost at once, replaced with a longing he feels surging through their connection in a pulse that mirrors his own, but even then he feels it like the phantom pain of a severed limb.
He doesn’t know what he expected when he reached out. Just…something. The shape of normal. The sound of Zangetsu’s voice without the weight of everything between them. Instead, there’s this—the want, the space, the certainty that there’s no easy way to cross it.
This is worse. Coming up to the precipice of calling him. Wanting but not having. Knowing he could wade out into a sea of denial and pretend nothing ever happened. Except if he doesn’t keep him in check, no one will. The blade is his, after all. Every cut Zangetsu makes traces back to his own hand.
The thought makes him flinch. Because even knowing that… he still wants.
He tells himself he’s angry. That it’s anger thrumming through him, sharp and familiar, easier to hold onto than the quieter things underneath.
And still.
He drags in another breath. It shakes on the way out. His hand clenches against his knee, ready to pull, to call Zangetsu up from the depths of the inner world. The urge burns so bright it borders on shame, raw and ugly, sitting right under his ribs.
And still.
He sits up. The sofa creaks beneath him, the room too quiet. His eyes lock on the floor. His fingers curl against the cushion’s edge like he might be able to steady himself that way.
Then low, hard and certain, he pulls again.
"Huh? You're a Hollow too, moron. I know that mask wasn't just for show." He had seen it, had felt it. The bone was eggshell-brittle, but it was bone all the same, just like the teeth that stick to Grimmjow's teeth. Portions of the skeleton made manifest on the wrong side of the skin. Had it been only that, Grimmjow might have chalked it up to some sort of shinigami trickery, but then he had felt it- the way the air had tasted of screaming, the way his reiatsu burgeoned with Hollow-like hunger.
He had smelled like a monster. Like Grimmjow. And monsters like them didn't pass down traditions like intangible heirlooms. No one was there to teach them. Complex negotiations such as this were navigated by sense and intuition alone, and if Ichigo had that mask, then surely he possessed the instinct as well.
...Or maybe not. Suddenly Ichigo is asking why he wants him as pack, and now Grimmjow is scrunching his face. "The hell are you talking about? I'm trying to be nice." He scoffs. "What, you want my protection? As if. You're way more trouble than you're worth."
He's holding the chunk of meat in his hand up again now, the flesh shiny and wet like pomegranate seeds. And even though he can tell that there's still a whole gout of blood to be wrung out with his jaws, the reiatsu in it is too faint and does nothing to stir his hunger. But Grimmjow is more invested in how Ichigo reacts now. His eyes are nailed to the meat as he takes it, and Grimmjow swears he sees a furtive flicker of gold. The Hollow within, drawn towards the mouth of his lair.
And then it's gone. And Ichigo is opening his mouth again, and Grimmjow's disappointment is so immense that he nearly palms his face and drags blood down his eye and all over his mask.
"It's not a Fraccion thing." He grounds out. "Use your fucking head, Kurosaki. You think I challenge my Fracciones to fight me to the death? Think I mark them as my prey to be surpassed and hunted down?"
There’s a huff as he looks off to the side. “That doesn’t make it as self-explanatory as you seem to think.” Except it is self-explanatory to a normal hollow. Clearly. Even Ichigo feels the pull of those urges, he just doesn’t want to think about them. It seems like leaning into those tendencies is a slippery slope.
He’s more than happy to leave them to Zangetsu.
But… He glances down at his hand. The flesh. The blood. This will probably be fine.
What’s eating another hollow at this point?
Besides, he’s joined in with Vizard and Shinigami and Fullbringers. He’s hollow too. Maybe he should align with Hueco Mundo.
He rolls his eyes at that question about protection. Except the more Grimmjow tries to explain this, the more worrying it gets. Nice. No wonder this is so weird. “You need practice.”
His tongue traces his lip.
He’s got his eyes on that chunk of meat again, only listening with one ear now, barely paying attention when he mutters, “I’m not sure you could’ve picked a creepier way to answer that… You’d better not be dragging my carcass to the next guy you wanna impress.”
Grimmjow is so intent, Ichigo is half tempted to turn his back to get some privacy.
Except his entire vision is meat and reishi and blood. Even his teeth feel sharper in his mouth. He thinks he’ll hold it out and be careful, like a particularly messy sandwich. But that’s not how it happens at all.
Teeth cut through flesh and it breaks apart on his tongue and there’s a sharp stab of want. He breathes in as much as he swallows and somewhere during that final swallow he realizes he’s got his fingers curled tight and greedy on nothing because it’s gone and there’s just his bloody fist. He exhales and he’s far too aware of the rest of the hollow under him, bleeding and pinned.
He licks his lip again, slower, then shakes himself, less steady than he wants to be. Less balanced. More exposed. He glances up then steps back down, needing space. “Alright. You were nice. I ate your hollow. Now you can come with me to eat people food.”
He's craning his neck over a pile of papers, pencil in one hand, pure white skin made dark and shiny with graphite on the side of his hand. On each sheaf is a drawing of Ichigo... or a drawing of what he would look like if someone painted him and then smushed and warped all of his features. Each one sports a different concept of armor.
Zangetsu glances up and scowls in embarrassment when he sees the way Ichigo smiles at his sketches. "Don't laugh. I'm brainstorming."
@killerinstincts || accepting
Ichigo’s not entirely certain what he expected to find when he dropped down into the room from atop the skyscraper. Zangetsu asleep maybe, buried in blankets and dead to the world.
These days it’s second nature to locate him here. As easy as turning his thoughts to the sword.
What he didn’t expect was to find him hard at work.
Ichigo eyes him where he crouches over a desk that’s pushed up against what should’ve been the ceiling. There’s a bed against another wall, and Ichigo has to orient himself to keep from getting dizzy. Meanwhile that pencil scratches as Ichigo creeps closer to take a look--only to find Zangetsu scribbling out what might be action figures.
His brows lift and Ichigo presses his lips to suppress the building snort.
Only… wait.
That spiky hair looks strangely similar to the snowman Zangetsu attempted to build. Lines cresting around a cartoonish head like waves in a kid’s drawing.
“Is that me?”
It’s what he said then too. Except this time he’s wondering if he should be more or less offended by the current representation.
Only...
“Armor?”
His head tilts and he’s instantly sidetracked. He reaches a finger out to trace one of the figures. He’s not laughing anymore. He slides into the chair, pushing in to share the seat beside Zangetsu.
“Can I watch?”
