Character(s): Hichigo, Ichigo
Warning(s): Violence, language, some sexuality
Summary: There is no love lost between a Shinigami and his Hollow.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this work of fiction. There is no profit gained.
Word Count: 1368
AN: This has been sitting on my hard drive forever and you have no idea how glad I am that I finally finished it! AND, I actually like it, which is a nice bonus ^^
Beta: The one and only, downjune ! *crowd goes wild, confetti is thrown* \o/ I was the last one to mess with it, so any remaining errors are all mine.
X-Posted: bleach_fanfic , whitedeathberry . Apologies for spam.
“You’d better learn your friends from your enemies, King.”
The white blade sliced a not-so-shallow arc across Ichigo’s exposed chest. His groan of pain was muffled from behind the cloth stuffed in his mouth.
The wound was mirrored on his captor’s chest as well, but it was ignored. The blood would only run red on the skin of the King.
They were on his turf now.
“See? I’m your enemy. Need more proof? Please say yes. I‘m itching to show you just how much I am. Not. Your. Friend.”
The Hollow’s dark lips pulled up in a satisfied smirk at the obvious loathing in the brown eyes glaring at him.
He paced slowly before his hostage, his other self, but stayed close. No matter how much his King pissed him right the fuck off, he found that he had to stay near him. It made his muscles ache with phantom strain to be too far away. It was the only kind of pain he couldn’t ignore.
Zangestsu’s sleek, white edge remained against Ichigo’s skin, only slightly marred by the red blood it brought forth.
His smirk faded as he realized he hated this boy as much as the boy hated him. The difference being that his hatred was pure. There was no confusion or compassion tainting his hate. There was no desire to learn from his King, nor was there any urge to stay locked in this sideways prison of windows and rain and maddening reflections. He did not want out to become allies. He wanted revenge, painful, slow, bloody revenge, for years of captivity first- then maybe world domination. Or finding that spiky-haired captain of the 11th for a good throw down.
Ichigo was watching him now, that same look of misplaced defiance written all over his face. Their face. His chin was raised and his bleeding chest was puffed out. He huffed with indignation, air puffing through his nose like an angry bull. The Hollow ground his teeth together in annoyance. The brat just did not get it.
He knelt down, frowning at the identical face before him. Even the frown, though interrupted by a gag, was identical. Was there nothing that was his own?
Well, at least they shared a passion for violence.
The blow made Ichigo’s head snap to the side and a new pain swelled in his own face. Blood soaked through the white cloth. The Hollow’s smile was brutal and showed all of his teeth.
In his mind he could hear Ichigo screaming insults and demands, begging to be released. These latter thoughts were not meant for him to hear, but what choice did he have when they shared every goddamn thing?
The mental barrage, the begging alone, was enough to make him want to hit the boy again until his face was nothing but blood and broken bones and pulverized flesh, but he stayed his fist, hovering in the air, ready to strike.
“I hate you, King.”
Ichigo nodded in fervent agreement. His Hollow watched as he wrestled in vain with the ropes restraining his wrists. He felt a dull throb on his own white wrists.
He raised Zangetsu to slice another line across the bared chest before him and ignored it’s hummed disapproval. He disregarded the brown eyes shutting and the flex of muscles as his King’s neck pulled taut in anticipation of the strike.
Inky lips curled upwards in a pleased smile. He ran his slim fingers across the flat planes of his chest where there should have been a long, gaping gash. There was a searing pain but no blood spilling over his alabaster skin.
He tilted his head and took in his handiwork, admiring the cuts adorning the flushed flesh of his prisoner. Two beautifully curved lines stretched across hard muscles, drawn in red and slipping eloquently downwards, following the dips and valleys of his body, taking refuge in the soft fabric of his hakama.
“We are truly exquisite,” he whispered, nodding as if appraising a piece of art. The sight before him was so pleasing, he damn near got hard.
There was no response. The agonized face he wanted so badly to see was turned down, hanging in unaccustomed defeat. The mop of orange hair was littered with bits of white and red bone from a transformation gone wrong. Or gone better than expected, depending on who you were asking.
“Those cuts remind me of your women,” he stated as if in mid-conversation. A black nail pointed at the freshest addition to the canvas of his Master’s skin.
“I can see the curve of the Shinigami bitch’s tight, little ass in this one.” He imitated the cuts in the air with his crimson-stained blade and licked his lips. “And this one is definitely reminiscent of that broad that got stolen. It looks like the slope of her tits, doesn’t it?”
Enraged eyes so dark they were almost black snapped up with a focus that was intense in its malice. The snarl that ripped past the blood-soaked gag was fierce despite the obstruction. The ropes around his wrists seemed to burn with the heat of the energy radiating off his body.
The Hollow felt a tug inside, like an itch on your back you just can't get to. He studied Ichigo. There was no way that imbecile host of his had the brain power, or the physical power for that matter, to even attempt a retaliation.
He slid Zangetsu, still bloodied, back into it’s sheath and crossed his arms over his chest. His amusement hid his discomfort and he lied to himself that it was hidden from Ichigo as well.
“What? Did I insult your whores, King? Are you gonna kick my ass now?
There was a definite burning on his wrists now, but looking down was useless. He knew what was happening. He stepped back, but couldn’t resist taunting the Shinigami a little more.
“You know that Quincy is fucking your big-tittied one, right? I mean, even I can feel their reiatsu when they are goin’ at it.”
He hissed in a sharp breath as the burning intensified, charring his wrists and starting to scorch the corners his mouth.
And yet, he continued, ever persistent and stubborn. Like his King.
“And that little one? The bossy bitch? Yeah, that tattooed freak is all up in her shit. She plays it off like it’s nothing, but oh yeah, he’s been inside her. She reeks of his reiatsu. Bet you’re glad you suck at sensing it, aren’t ya?”
The next step backwards brought his back against the mirror in Ichigo’s room. He watched in a mix of pride and shock as his King rose, shaky, but determined, to his feet. The bonds on his wrists had burnt away, along with the mouth gag. The energy surrounding him was red-hot and fueled by his anger.
There was another tug, sharper this time, more painful, and his vision blurred slightly. Ichigo became a mass of orange and black and red. The room tipped on its side and made his stomach lurch.
But he still kept on talking.
“That anger you feel is mine too. You’re still using me to win your battles, King. Doesn’t it feel good? Feels like fighting. Like fucking, right?”
Two pairs of hands raised as if to meet each other, palm to palm. The Hollow prepared to fend off his Master. The King prepared to regain his place.
Ichigo shoved his Hollow against the glass of the mirror. He fell through it like it was water and Ichigo watched as his reflection flickered between the two of them before settling on him.
He could hear the howls of rage both in his head and from the mirror, as if reaching him from a long distance. The threats, bribes, and eventual begging became little more then a quiet din in the back of his mind.
He wiped at the blood drying on his chest and ran a darkened finger over the glass, quieting his Hollow.
“Feels like winning to me.”
His voice cracked when he spoke, abused from fruitless snarls and cried of pain. Still the resumed wailing made it clear that his point had been made.