A/N: Hello there! I want to give sincere thanks to everyone who reads this story - especially to the people who left reviews and even exchanged a few PMs with me! Another author publishing on this website wrote me, "Reviews are like little gifts, and I do appreciate them." I guess there's no way to put it into better words. :) My personal goal for this year is to update this fanfiction at least once a month. Chapters with more than 4000 words are going to be split into half to make reading through them more comfortable.
Warning: Rated M for nasty language, a little violence and sexual innuendos (YAOI - boy X boy). Not suitable for readers under the age of at least 16!
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach and I didn't get paid for writing this fanfiction.
Songs I listened to while writing this: Makeshift Romeo - The Way I Was; Full Blown Rose - Somebody Help Me
[2] Somebody Help Me (A)
The first thing Ichigo felt when he woke up was the pain, spread all over his sticky, sweaty body which was curled up on one side atop of his blanket. The moment he tried to open his eyes, his head started throbbing as if someone was pounding a hammer against the inside of his skull - repeatedly and with great enthusiasm. A low, vexed groan escaped his throat. The teenager appreciated the fact that the light was dimmed; the curtains before the window behind him appeared to be drawn and kept out most of the bright sunshine, although he didn't remember shutting them last night. After his blurred vision had finally cleared up enough to see straight, he recognized his room: the neat and tidy desk on one side, his wardrobe on the other, the door in between and the planked floor - richly decorated with his discarded clothes - below.
At first, everything seemed to be as usual. But at a second glance, he noticed some disturbing details. The heap of familiarly colored fabric which had to be his T-Shirt was dyed red in places and had taken on an odd form, tattered at the edges. Red - bloody-red and torn . . .
A second later the Substitute Shinigami jolted up on his bed just to be stopped by the next surge of anguish washing over him, making him gasp, his scabbed lips hurting slightly as a consequence. Reflexively, he grabbed his left upper arm and sensed some warm, partly dried liquid at his fingertips. The still sore wound which was merely covered by a flimsy scab ached with a searing pain - and so did his butt, his chest and even his neck when he stretched it to look down along his torso. What he saw gave him a chill: five narrow, deep cuts caked with blood running from his shoulder to his hip. On the edge of his mind he also noticed he was stark naked. This, however, seemed to be his most insignificant problem. What the hell had happened to him? Had he stumbled right into a fight with someone . . . or something . . . yesterday while he'd been royally drunk? Withdrawing his hand from the injured limb, he turned his gaze to the left - towards the window - to inspect the obviously deep laceration.
In the middle of this motion, the orange-haired boy froze in shock, staring at the ghostly white figure comfortably slouching on his bed right next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The Hollow sneered smugly and couldn't help but chuckle at the teenager's dropping jaw. He faced the boy, supporting his head with his taloned hand, the corresponding elbow resting on the bloodied pillow. Shimmering silver-white strands of his long, flowing hair were spread out over the entire bed - or that was Kurosaki's impression as he gaped at them, choked up by disbelief.
At least the Vasto Lorde had his clothes back on. Since they were made of Reishi rather than any earthly fabric, their silky material and its pure white color had been completely recreated with all the blood stains gone. Nevertheless, the guy Ichigo shared his bed with at this moment was a freaking evil spirit - not to mention that he'd never woken up other than alone before. The whole situation was wrong in so many ways that the Substitute Shinigami didn't know where to start his rant about it. He only sat there in awkward silence, trying to collect his thoughts while ignoring his discomfort.
He didn't get a chance to do so: Snickering once more, the Hollow gripped the boy's hurting upper arm without warning, pressing his milky-white, cold fingers against the once again bleeding cuts which had been reopened during the jerky movement before. In all objectivity, the cooling touch perhaps would have eased the pain somewhat if it had been more gentle - anyway, the teenager didn't feel like thinking objectively. He violently gritted his teeth, but couldn't stop a hushed hiss from escaping his throat. The chilly breath brushing over his ear as the Vasto Lorde bent over it caused him to shiver as much as the low, distorted voice coming from these unnaturally smooth, snow-white lips did. "What's the matter? By the expression on your face you look as dumb as you actually are, . . . king."
The teasing, subtly threatening way in which his inner Hollow - who was supposed to be inside his soul as the term implied, not in his damn bed! - had stressed the last word, finally made him lose it. "Let the fuck go of me, you bastard!" he yelled, rashly pulling himself away to break free from the firm, freezing grasp. Fortunately for his already wounded arm, the Vasto Lorde didn't try to hold him back: The pointed claws just grazed the scabbed skin lightly instead of tearing through his flesh again.
Jumping to his feet as bare ass naked and mangled as he was, the Substitute Shinigami presented an unintentionally hilarious view. Stumbling halfway through his room, he realized his body - especially his butt - and his head didn't consider getting up that abruptly a good idea. However, retreating to the bed wasn't an option either. So he ended up leaning his back against the wooden door to glare helplessly at the sight of the evil spirit who demonstratively stretched out on the bloodstained, ruffled blanket.
Glowing golden eyes, shining against a pitch-black backdrop returned his gaze without even blinking. Kurosaki had immediately recognized them despite various changes to the rest of the Vasto Lorde's appearance - the hip-length hair was one of them; the dagger-like talons replacing the normal shaped fingernails were another, a few details regarding his garments aside. These creepy eyes had been unnerving him every time he had seen them in the past . . . and they evidently hadn't lost their power to do so. He had to keep himself from shaking, trying to hide his bewilderment and perplexity behind his fierce scowl while he stood motionless like a rabbit in front of a snake.
In the meantime, the Hollow tilted his head, serenely sizing the startled teenager up. That was more like the kind of reaction he had expected when showing up in front of his alleged king. "What an ungracious way to welcome the one who saved your sorry ass not too long ago . . . ," he remarked dryly, chuckling at the quite blatant allusion hardly hidden within his disrespectful choice of words. Ichigo clenched his fists, pressing himself tighter against the door behind him, holding his left upper arm with his right hand. "How the hell did you get here? You should be locked up inside my inner world!" he spat, his initial consternation quickly turning into resentment.
His question was met with a frown. The ghostly white figure shot him the sort of glance people would dart at a little boy who had just said something extraordinarily stupid. With an inaudible sigh, the Vasto Lorde swung his legs, covered by the plain silk of his Hakama, over the edge of the bed and stood up in one fluid move. Casually rolling his shoulders, he took a few steps forward. He'd lain there for hours during the Substitute Shinigami's sleep - watching the pale moon through the window, listening to Kurosaki's oddly regular heartbeat and sensing the warmth emanating from the human body next to his own. Initially, the unfamiliar sensation seeping through his usually cold skin had bothered him a bit, but after some time he'd become accustomed to it. Warming up had eventually felt comfortable enough to make him draw the curtains at sunrise to keep that annoying bright daylight from intruding. Thus, he didn't appreciate the sudden change to his situation too much, although the sixteen-year-old's reaction was simply priceless.
Now that the Hollow came towards him, the teenager was torn between squeezing himself harder against the door - hoping it would swallow him up - and pushing forward with a vengeance to seize his soul's occupant by the snobbish furred collar of the pure white coat. If he had given it a second thought, he probably would have noticed the senselessness of the mere attempt - he still was in no mood for careful consideration, though. Consequently, Ichigo let go of his aching limb to grab hold of the evil spirit's shoulder gruffly, turning his anger towards the guy who had to be responsible for this whole mess. "Answer me!" he snapped furiously.
Of course, the Vasto Lorde didn't even flinch. He threw a brief look at the sinewy, blood-smeared hand which was put on him so hastily and brashly at the very moment he came within touching distance. Then he focused his attention on the boy's grim, pinched face, raising both corners of his mouth very slowly to form a wintry, artificial smile contrasting sharply with the temper that made his golden irides virtually burn. He pulled backwards slightly - only to brace himself with force against Kurosaki's grasp a split second later, dashing the Substitute Shinigami against the sturdy wooden door.
The bang echoed through the whole house, drowning out the pained whimper the sixteen-year-old let loose against his will, his shoulder joint as well as the rips below numbed by the savage impact. It left him shaking and gasping for breath, the deep scratches on his chest hurting like mad. His bones were throbbing even worse than his head now and he was damn lucky to have none of them broken yet. Fresh blood trickled down his injured arm since the caked cuts there had been split open. Nonetheless, he refused to remove his hand from the Hollow's torso. It was his last defense, holding his opponent at arm's length. He didn't want the ghostly white figure to get any closer.
Smirking, the evil spirit looked his alleged king over. That kid was incredibly stubborn both for better or for worse - he had to give him this. Obstinacy alone, however, couldn't do any good if it wasn't accompanied by a desire for power and the self-confidence needed to win through. Leisurely, he craned his neck to come straight face to face with the teenager. Ichigo stiffened, a cold shiver running down his spine. What was that crazy inner Hollow of his planning on doing with him? He gaped at the flawless, smooth lips which remained near his own. Were they about to . . . kiss him? His heart skipped a beat. A part of him wanted to scream, to struggle, to flail around - still, he didn't. It was because of his potentially serious wounds, because of his already failed attempt at fighting in his current state, he inwardly told himself.
But no kissing happened. Instead, the orange-haired boy was only given a cocky grin before the eerily distorted, low voice finally spoke, "It's not very hard to understand, king: Since the amount of my Reiatsu inside your soul has reached a high level, I'm able to detach some and emit it to the outside world. The weaker your mental barriers, the easier and faster it slips through." The Substitute Shinigami's eyes widened. So he'd set the monster he desperately tried to keep caged free by . . . drinking himself into oblivion? After all the time he'd fought for control it took nothing more than one silly mistake to ruin all of the progress he had made?
The Vasto Lorde sneered at him, apparently guessing his thoughts, and continued the lecture callously, "When condensing in the air, this spirit energy of mine creates a manifestation of my astral body, which may be restricted in many respects but serves its purpose well enough. Don't worry: I haven't killed one of your worthless friends yet - they were out of reach and you've provided enough entertainment to distract me from trying funny things on other humans, anyway."
Kurosaki bit back a few insults from the tip of his tongue. Now that he had been reminded what a total asshole his inner Hollow was, he felt plain sick when he reconsidered the suspicion that this jerk could have been about to kiss him. How did he conceive such a ridiculous idea in the first place . . . ? He scowled, glowering down his badly scratched chest once more. "You wacko call this 'entertainment'? I don't consider getting bashed up entertaining or even funny!" The Hollow mockingly perked his eyebrows up. "Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were quite keen on it as often as you let some idiot beat the shit out of you instead of putting up a decent fight. Let me tell you one thing for sure: If I'd attacked you for real, you would have died hours ago," he remarked smugly, remembering the way his fingers had been locked around the teenager's neck during their kiss, the fragile spine trapped in his clutch.
In response, the sixteen-year-old snorted angrily and grunted, "What would you call it then - beating me up by accident? Because I feel absolutely whacked." Standing in place without any movement eased the pain a little bit. Even so, his body hadn't stopped aching. His left arm bothered him the most - the deep cuts pervading its upper half seemed to be in imminent danger of reopening completely, so he had to be careful with his movements. Tilting his head slightly, the Vasto Lorde unconcernedly shrugged. "No," he returned blithely, "I'd simply call it 'screwing you'." Chuckling, he watched the boy's features derailing, mouth opening and closing immediately afterwards without a word, making his supposed king look like a fish out of water. He simply couldn't resist upping the ante with perfect nonchalance, "I must admit that having it off with you is much more fun than I'd expected."
The sullen scowl on Ichigo's face petrified in shock. Suddenly everything added up: the torn, bloodied clothes on the floor; his naked, sticky and sweaty body; several lacerations the pointed claws must have caused while that bastard had held him down, the dragging pain in his rear . . . - He wished so badly he could have called his soul's occupant a bloody liar and assured himself nothing had happened at all. The evidence, however, was overwhelming. Trembling both with impotent fury and alarm, he hardened his grip around the Hollow's shoulder. He was truly scared and - therefore - terribly enraged, shouting out the very first accusation his mind came up with, "How dare you?! You can't rape someone just because that person is drunk and unable to defend himself. It's no free ticket for you to do whatever you want!"
Narrowing his dark eyes, the evil spirit raised his taloned hand to point a finger at the Substitute Shinigami. "Wait a minute . . . are you implying that I forced myself on you? - Actually, you were the one groping me and setting about the whole kissing stuff. Don't blame it on me now!" he hissed. It was really starting to get on his nerves - not so much because of the teenager's constant bleating but rather as a matter of principle. This damn coward was doing it again: denying something he obviously had at least kind of desired only one night ago.
"Don't lie to me!" Kurosaki barked boiling with indignation, "There is no way I would ever agree to do it with a Hollow voluntarily - all the more if that Hollow is you! You've either forced or tricked me into doing this!" The sixteen-year-old was already on the back of his feet, too busy with raging against the preposterous concept he had been confronted with to consider the possibility that the alcohol alone could have been enough to nudge him into doing something which was beyond all reason.
"So why exactly would I lie to you? I can do without that, king. Maybe you should have cut out all of that panting and moaning of yours as well as those two times you spurted to lead me to believe that you didn't enjoy it," the Vasto Lorde scoffed, grasping the fingers which had grabbed hold of him to remove them forcefully. Unconsciously blushing, partly with embarrassment and partly with rage, the orange-haired boy opened his mouth, right about to spit a very unkind retort containing the terms 'smug' and 'cocky' combined with the coarsest cusswords he could think of.
Their argument, however, was abruptly disrupted by a shy knock on the room's door, followed by the sound of a high-pitched, soft female voice. "Ichi-nii?" the girl inquired from the other side of the door, "Are you okay? Why are you so upset? Who are you talking to in there? It's already afternoon and you haven't eaten yet!" Ichigo immediately fell silent, his face turning pale within seconds. How long had he been sleeping it off? Even more importantly: How long had Yuzu been standing there? How much of the conversation had she overheard? If anyone, especially his twelve-year-old little sister, found out about this, he would have to blow his brains out!
[ ... ]