@deivorous
This was, undeniably, the worst thing Urahara had ever done to him.
Ichigo already knew the man was an unhinged lunatic. That had been clear since the day the bastard threw him into a pit and told him to climb out before he turned into a Hollow. But this?
This was next-level bullshit.
Urahara’s apparent idea of conflict resolution was to slap a metaphysical leash and muzzle on them and call it a day. A leash that, apparently, also links their goddamn souls together.
He glares down at the thick, black band cinched around his wrist, resisting the urge to gnaw it off like a trapped animal. It’s simple at first glance—just stitched, leathery fabric infused with kido—but the moment it’s touched, he can feel it. Like something alive, like it’s watching, breathing against his skin.
Removing it hadn’t gone well the first time he’d tried slicing it off. Not because the fabric wouldn’t cut—it did. The moment Zangetsu’s edge touched it, the band split clean through. But before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they were both on the ground. The second it tore, a sharp, crushing force squeezed his chest—hard enough to throw him to his knees, hard enough that for a split second he thought his goddamn heart was stopping.
The next thing he saw as his eyes blinked open was wooden sandals. Then the band was back on.
Ichigo hadn’t realized what happened at first, but then he saw the blood at the corner of Grimmjow’s mouth—blood that he felt in his own throat—and it clicked.
What hurt one of them, hurt both of them.
Ichigo tongues his fat lip. That one is his own fault. He’d thrown the first punch, and the fist that should’ve done nothing more than bust Grimmjow in the jaw, had sent pain spiking through his own mouth.
Worth it though. Grimmjow had deserved that one.
Ichigo exhales sharply, like it’ll do anything to lessen the weight of the arrancar’s reiatsu that curls under his skin. Grimmjow’s energy shouldn’t feel like this—shouldn’t sit in his bones like hot steel, shouldn’t thrum against his pulse like something trying to sync up.
Then there was the time they’d tried just walking away.
Pain.
Immediate, brutal, bone-deep pressure.
Like something pressing down on his chest with the weight of a fucking building, squeezing his lungs until his ribs threatened to splinter. That was what happened if they got too far apart. A dull pressure that built into agony if either of them so much as dared to leave shouting distance from the other.
A city block was difficult. Two was impossible.
Ichigo doesn’t have to look to know exactly where Grimmjow is behind him, because his reiatsu is too goddamn close, crawling through Ichigo’s veins like a second pulse.
He knows because when Grimmjow twitches, Ichigo twitches.
He knows because if Grimmjow gets too far, the bands will try to drag them back together.
And if they resist?
It will fucking hurt.
The rules, as explained by that smug, sandal-wearing menace of a shopkeeper, were simple: The bands keep them linked. No matter how much they fight, they can’t be more than a certain distance apart without the bands reacting.
If one of them dies, the other follows. No tricks, no loopholes. If Grimmjow keels over in a ditch somewhere, Ichigo drops too.
If they try to remove the bands? Their souls get crushed from the inside out.
The more they resist the bond, the worse the punishment.
So, essentially?
Their souls were tied together—with a dose of the corporeal just for fun. Or, as Urahara so casually put it, “A happy little exercise in cooperation!”
Ichigo has never wanted to throttle him more.
And the worst part?
It was entirely their fault.
Because they wouldn’t stop fighting.
The final straw started as an argument. Which, with Grimmjow, meant a barely-contained brawl waiting to happen.
Ichigo didn’t even remember what the hell set them off. Probably something stupid. But next thing he knew, fists were flying, walls were breaking, and at some point Grimmjow might have tried to throw a cero at his head.
And then Urahara got involved.
With this.
Ichigo exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders, feeling the pull of the band, the way it tugs not-even-subtly toward Grimmjow.
His eye twitches.
No. Fuck that.
If he’s going to be on a goddamn supernatural leash with a feral, territorial menace for the foreseeable future, he’s going to be able to use his own damn hand when he wants.
So he shakes the tingle out of his arm and yanks.
“You’re cutting off my circulation.”
