NOTES
TL;DR → This is a 5+1 oneshot, featuring five outside POVs and one Grimm POV on the who, what, and why of Ichigo Kurosaki. If you shoved him into a gang fight. And he's fighting eleven people. And he's messy, grimy, fucked up, and hot for a certain arrancar who's been watching the entire time. And someone's in denial while the other fucking wants it.
Project Thoughts → Long story short, this story's complicated! It's in 2nd person and there are alternating POVs as you observe Ichigo through several gang members — and Grimmjow's interwoven, and you see the contradictions and interpretations of who Ichigo is as a person.
Because who is he?
It depends.
I was fascinated with that dilemma.
I'm not confident with how I write him because I don't know how to write him. There are so many interpretations that I've got no idea where to start. But this project gave me some insight into the kind of Ichigo I want to write; I played with several different versions through the gang members and Grimmjow. Thus, turning my weakness into a strength as I'm doing what I do best.
Experimenting.
Introspection.
Delving into someone's head.
You learn a lot about a person from how others perceive them; you learn a lot about a person from how they perceive others. That was my approach with Grimmjow, the gang members, and especially Ichigo. This stretched me to my creative limits in the hardest, but best way possible!
((It's why it took me almost two months to plan and write this story, and I never thought it would be this long. I thought this fic would be 3k, max. I blew that out of the water!))
END NOTES
Got to be a lucky motherfucker to try to catch him in your hands. Got to be careful; he bites — that's Ichigo if you asked.
Not a hard one, but a fast one, landing bruises where it hurts. Knows exactly where to draw you. Knows exactly when to chase. Knows exactly how to fool you. Knows you're playing his little game. That you're a victim, did you know that?
You're dancing between his hands. Because he's stronger, faster, fiercer. And you're a mess.
He's an army; you're a doofus. You're surrounded and nineteen. He's a machete in the jungle, and he'll snap you like a tree. He's a bullet without a finder. Because he hunts you without a gun. But never misses when he leaves you with all the bruises on your arm.
And he's a student, but he fights you, like he's made for this — made for war. Like he's a veteran on the field, like you're a grassroot at his heel, and he has a shovel and a torch. Come to drag you because you're a weed.
That you stick to him, and you're stuck. Because he's chewing, you're the gum. Because he's everywhere — and anywhere — while you're rooted for a drought. Because he's everything you'll never match when you're a human playing god.
Because you lit a match for a fire. Because you needed the fucking sun. And summoned something brighter for a taste, and you were burnt. Because you were hungry — an asshat, a magician with a deck of cards. And he's your rabbit: he served you and never misses.
You lost.
Because he's stubborn, persistent, and knows enough.
You're pissing.
You're running, shaking, dancing to his tune. To his music, you're a victim when you're actually an assailant. A goody two-shoes, little shit. Thought you're hot stuff to beat a kid.
Until you're nothing but a 'Jesus!' Scrambling to get away. Tender — because it hurts. There's nowhere to escape. And then all of you's now a bruise, and all of you's now afraid, and you've got nothing to back you up.
You've got nothing to save your name.
Because you're unwilling. Until he knocks you, and then you're somewhere in outer space. Then he's got you by your teeth, and you're a whimper he ought to chase. And here's a knuckle between the eyes once he pounces.
Damn your face.
And watch him break you like a monster, he has nothing holding back, when you're a mirror at his fist — when you're a splinter of what you are. That he could smash you a million times and knows you'll never throw a cut.
Because that's the difference between a shit stain and whatever the fuck he was.
That you tattle.
It'll never work.
He just hits you where it hurts.
There's a difference in how he cuts you and how you were wounding him. There's a difference between the living and the old, forgotten dead. Harming vases, glasses, and flowers for a grave that common sense couldn't protect you once he snapped — it's your mistake.
That you wrestled, you fought for, you shouted to your guys to do anything — but do something — about the fucker who had to die. And then you're dodging. To-and-from. You're jousting for your life. You outnumber him by eleven, but he's winning every time.
Because no one's in-between you when he lashes at your heart. Except for a brain cell — maybe yours — and your apparition if you never fought.
That you hit him, you smack him, then another, you land a punch, and then you feed him — more and more until he's dirty in your blood. Tingling to your elbow. Numbing with every blow. Begging for a wheeze. You had to see him on the ground: you've got to sting him, just to have him, and you need him around your fist.
But he's got you around his own.
You're a mosquito who couldn't escape. You couldn't best him if you tried, and with everything you could've made; you never dented him for a moment when he takes you for a swing.
See him smile, you little shit.
He's excited to return the favor.
That he hits you. Hard. The sound of it is like a whistle, and you'll hear it from a mile when it's inches in your face. And you'll know it when you see it because it's five metres a second.
One for every tooth that you're missing from your mouth. One for every jiggle that's a rupture from his blow. One for every moment you thought you had him — but you didn't. And one for every star that shone the brightest in your gaze.
Because you're blissed.
Then the rest of you, and all of you in that instance, and the asshat between the stars when you're miles away from dying, but never noticed because you're falling — you're a puzzle brought together. And then shattered, all at once.
All your pieces — scattered out. Some are missing, some are gone, and some of you's been a bloodstain. On the concrete. Near his mouth. On his hands. Behind his knuckles. Because he tore you for an altar, you're the remnants for a god who's someone you ought to know.
This ain't the first time you've gotten to meet her.
Because she's a girl — no, she's the girl — you've always seen around this road. Until she died, late in May, about a year or two ago. And whose flowers you destroy when he tells you to knock it off. That you recite it like a whisper, like a secret you had to keep, as you're falling off the planet.
You're a mile from the ground. As night's out, you're asleep. Then you're nowhere — fucking gone. So sleep tight, but be awake.
He's generous when he wants.
~ Damn, You're Reckless ~
Play dirty, but go nice. Once you've got him within your sights, he wants you to respect him. In return, you'll get a fight. But cross him once, cheat him twice, stab and miss and make it thrice, you'll get a fight. And you will lose: there ain't survivors — he's after you.
Because that's Ichigo, you shit stain.
You should've thought of this before you did him. But it's your mistake that no one stopped you, and no one tried because you're winning.
Because you played the game. You did your part, and you did it hard.
Now you have him.
Because he's an animal between the wires of a rusted piece of fence. And a butterfly, swishing: half of it, a razor blade. Then the other half hits your knuckles like a dull metal ting, while it's splitting down the cracks of where he hurt you. Another opens.
From where he hit you, and you took it, and you could feel it through your bones. If you were human, he was a bottle coming to get you between the eyes. About to send you — and then the guys — down the alley facing God.
Because another one would come and stop you. Another one would have you damned. And then another would have you shaking, like it's autumn and you're a leaf.
If you had this anywhere, than where you had it, when you flicked him with your knife. Until he had nowhere fucking go, and there was nowhere for him to run. There was nowhere he could hide.
But forward.
You have a knife.
And you outnumber ten to one, that there's nothing he could do. But surrender: he lost. And he's stupid should he try it, should he touch you or be distracted. Because you'll stab him where it hurts him, and you'll puncture through his heart, then carve it for him to wear, and stuff it inside his mouth.
As a present for a fucker who's gotten you in a lot of trouble.
You'll slice him souvenirs he'll carry to the hospital. Because the only way he's going to win this is if he catches you — with himself. And he'll be dumber than a rock, or Hideyoshi still-asleep, if it works.
It's going to hurt, and you'll make it the last thing he ever does. So when someone's bringing flowers for that bitchin' down the road, they'll bring some fatty cans of tuna for your guy.
Because Hell's a fight.
That you expect him to be shaking — you want him in a corner, and you have him on a fence where he sees you for what you are — because you hijacked what he did. You stole his shitty crown. Now, his game's but your own, and you rewrote his every rule.
That you expect him to say, 'Sorry' or some shit because he fucked up. Because he messed up, and he's nothing but an ant for you to step on. Or a cushion you would stab and know it wouldn't hit you back.
You expect him to be scared and pissing on his knees. As it's one thing to beat a guy, then another to see him bleed. And you wouldn't blame him if he ran because you'll catch him every time.
Scale the fence, you little bastard. You'll taunt him until he tries. Then cut him down the back and, if you're lucky, he won't make it. Without screaming, that's the music. That's the clapping you had to hear.
Because you're hungry for a flower, you want to sink your butterfly.
Because you're hungry for another, you think Orange should fuck off.
That you don't expect — didn't expect, because you're the hunter and he's your prey — are his eyes. The way he looks at you, how he looks at you, is strange. It's like a stranger you never noticed. But should've during the fight.
It's like someone — or, pretending to be one — found the closet to your heart, and could pry it without a key, and then eat you before you knew. And you're in trouble; you know this, as he's the hunter and you're his food: something dangerous, that stranger, that entity behind his eyes, could hook you.
From where you're standing.
From where you're backing to your boys.
As they're reaching, trying to tear you — hand for hand, eye for eye. Because they're wielding something sharper, and bigger than butterflies, and been wondering when they'll whet it. Because they'll do it.
In your blood.
That you don't expect, and wouldn't have noticed, until this happened…what the fuck?
As you're darting, he's staring. His fingers on the fence. Yours around the handle of an insect near your hip. His are a spider down the webbing behind himself. And you catch a warning.
Not in words.
You wouldn't notice, otherwise.
But you hear it. You see it. You feel it along your mouth: his warning has a volume you only noticed because you're unsettled. And he knows it, exploits it, or maybe he's in the dark — he looks at you a little different without a stranger behind his eyes, but there's something not himself when he levels what he wants.
Because his tongue, licking red around the cuff mark near his mouth, from where you smacked him into a wall and traced him for a while, savored this. Like a hound, like a fucking investigation. Because you're a suspect, the enemy, the someone he had to snatch.
He had to track you. You could run, and he'll find you within seconds. With nothing, but a bit of violence — the sincerity behind your gift.
Anything else would've muddled — would've watered — what he tasted. That you watch him suck it down, suck a bruise, from where you raised it. And it's running behind his teeth, and then a compass pointing straight.
To you.
Then he smiles.
You have no idea if it's human. Or if it's really him, or a stranger who's going to kill you in your sleep. Or if this is Orange when he's happy — when he finally has a taste that's anything but water, but murder he had to chase.
Because a fistfight has its perks, but a stabbing's twice the fun. And for the first time, since you've known him, there's a chance this'll all be over.
Because a switchie, butterfly, pockets, or a knife says the winner within a battle, in a war between the guys, is the first to draw blood. And has a pointer for another.
Come and get me. He doesn't say it; he spreads it from his shoulders. And it's the only invitation you've ever seen from him — how lucky. Because he's lowering his defenses, his arms are on the fence, and instead of climbing it or doing something, he tilts.
It's a challenge.
C'mon.
You're cornered.
There's something yellow behind his eyes.
But it's not there when you're shaking — your butterfly's going to fly — and when you're scoring, and you're thinking, what he'll look like for a puzzle. Because he's looking, he's asking, he's begging to be hurt when he follows your direction.
You scared?
He smirks.
Asshole.
"Bitch!"
You threw everything.
Fuck it.
Your swing. Your feet. Your voice. Your fist.
Your knife and your landing.
You lost — you hit nothing.
You bounce. Try to dodge. You're faster, but you're missing.
He's caged you; he had to be. He's a sly motherfucker.
You're the only one who could stab him, and point him to a wall, and score him for a picture, and pound him where it hurts. And he has nothing but his hands, and there's nowhere for him to run, and he's got nothing but a breath to keep him harried while you hunt, and there's nothing that could shield him when he's fisting between the cracks.
But that's a lie — and you know it; you feel it through the ribs — because you tell yourself it can't be happening. You're the only one with a knife.
But say it honestly, say to God, say to anyone who'll give a fuck, isn't that you around the fences while a knuckle's down your throat?
Isn't that you catching nothing while he has you where he wants?
Isn't that you, beaten, on every surface along the earth, while your opponent, collected, is waiting for a cut?
Isn't that you, down the belly of where no one would ever find you, being stabbed, over and over, again and again, because you're tired?
Because you're swinging — so hard — that you stumble from the fence. Because there's nothing here to stop you. Until you meet it through your leg. And it's again, and again, and again in the same place. But somewhere different every time you try to nick him through the face.
That you're fucked.
He's annoying with how he walks you down a path. Because he's backing every swing. You're a snail when he turns. And you're following, dragging, cursing how your thigh's a piece of paper made of holes where someone stabbed you — but it's you.
That he walks you around in circles, and taunts you with every dodge, and shakes you so badly that you're a toddler — not twenty-five. That you swipe him down the chest, and slash him where you meant, and see him dancing — black and blue.
You scored him near the neck. And missed him by a mile. You slaughtered something else. And it doesn't stop him — what he loses. Because if anything, he's impressed.
Because he wraps it — his tie — around you by the wrist. And twists you.
You're a pretzel. You're a spinner; you're going to drop. And counting up your back, like an insect no one wants, is your knife climbing higher until he pops it from your fist. And he could slice you.
You're a statue whining higher when he pulls.
You've no idea where your knife is. He could drag it through your arm. And raise it just as high as your right one with where he held it, and you might feel it — your insect, your switchie, your handle — to your fingers when he does it.
But instead, he kicks you to your guys. Then you're assed upon the earth from a metre or so flight, while he's at home — he's ready — with how he holds your little knife.
That he clicks it.
It ain't swishing.
It's scary pointing back.
Like he's asking for a fight. And a real one.
No survivors.
He's not staying for very long. He needs assurance that the rest of you will avoid the vases full of flowers. Around the town. Near the outskirts. And especially those forgotten, like the one you broke behind you. And if he has to, he'll fucking do it — he'll carve a lesson you won't forget.
Make it permanent. Make it messy. Make it bloody for a message. Because it's one thing to reprimand. Then another to beat you up. And then it's something very different when it's a warning mentioned once.
But now, it's twice. He's generous.
You've pushed him; he has to fight.
He's not a monster, though you have him between a stranger and a knife. He's not a monster, but he growls — through the glinting, you see yourself. And see your fear, and how you back, and how you're shrinking within his eyes, and how you're anything but a hunter when he's got you for a fight.
He's not a monster, but he'll do it. There's the yellow in his eyes. And for a moment, you see him smile. But you ain't sure if it should be there. Because you could feel it through the earth: a tsunami tore an island, an earthquake's about to happen, a typhoon's made a landing, and a volcano's about to blow with all the ashes in your mouth.
As somewhere inside Orange, a coffin isn't closed. And you could hear it in your heart, twisting when you move: Run. Hide. Cower. Fight. Don't make it easy – for me or him.
Then laughter. Make it fun.
~ Damn, You're Reckless ~
But you know the sequence — the secrets — to tear the sunset into halves. Have it folded to your pocket. Have it seizing for a breath. Have it buckled to your mercy because you're a generous fucking person.
When you're not.
That's Ichigo.
You've got him on a shoulder. He's your hanging Mona Lisa with how you bruise him for a painting. But don't be cocky. You're fucking lucky that he was just a human when you fought. Because he could have you between his hands. And break you for what you are.
Until you're a person: bone, sinew, and blood. No one you've ever prayed to would be a martyr for a cause.
If they have others — humans, hollows, the damned — as pedestals before they tip them. One by one, without a chance. And would never ask them for permission, it'll remind them they have a choice, and that doesn't work here for a martyrdom when the currency is your life.
You're just a person: heart, body, and mind. No one you've ever hunted, or have been hunted if you're the prey, would sacrifice themselves for something lesser in the wild.
Because instincts wouldn't let them. They'll tell them to fuck off, and calm down, and get a grip, then you're an idiot, and then do it – I want to see you try to fuck yourself out of this and survive. And then Aibou – you're dying, and you'll hear this without a bite, and then Aibou – what are you doing?
You'll hear it on your breath.
Because that last one's sincere. An observation through the mind. Rippling: nothing matters; nothing's worth it for you to die.
As you're a person: someone, anyone, and human. No one you've ever known, or will know, wants to die.
Without a story, without a fight, and without a message that they were alive. Because everyone — dead, gone, forgotten, damned, useless, and somehow still breathing — knew the story, the ending, the twists and every turn of how the body doesn't know it, but it tries to make it work.
Except you, Number Three.
You wear it like a badge. You had a death wish to your person that the entire world had to see. And you've got it proud, beside your name, because you're everything he'll never be. And you've got it housed, within your frame, when he sees you — and you wink.
You thought, Hell to it. He's been a problem. I'll finish it. Who could stop me?
He's only a problem because your guys are being fucking little pussies. Too afraid to toss a knife, have him beat, and at their mercy when he's a mile from where he started.
Exhaustion is a bitch.
He's exceptional, one-on-one. He throws them like they're nothing. But he's a meal that they could slaughter, and he's a boy between the men. He's seventeen, without a gang; your guys could punch him down a notch.
But they're pissing on the floor, like a monster's going to hurt them, like the monster's not a kid. Not a smartass — annoying.
That you're thinking, What's so special about this snot-nose, little shit?
He's only human; you see it when he's cornered behind the guys. He's just a person; you know it when he has nowhere for him to run. And he's the kind you want to break; you want to peel him like an orange.
Until he's pithless, seedless, juiced out, and empty. That he's a guy you want to strangle just to see him — red and blue.
He's your favorite because he's defiant, proud, and angry, and whatever the fuck he might be carrying just to nurse him through the moment. But he won't be anything — but a stain — once you wipe him from tomorrow.
Because you're da Vinci with how you work it, with how you smear him into art, with how you ask him for a portrait, and with how you dolly the little boy.
As you bash him into concrete; he bats you with all his worth. Fist him for another; he flicks you for a turn. Catch him for a swing, then toss him through the dirt. He clacks you on the mouth, then takes you for a knuckle.
While open, wide, a bruising for all the guys, splintered where it hits him — you feel his fucking heart.
Snatch him by his hair. He steals you for an elbow. Hull him head-first. He hooks you, and you don't feel it. Lash him between the guys, then gouge him where it hurts. He lunges for a miss, then grabs you where he could.
And he's persistent. You like him; you've got to see this to the end.
Pop him for a date. He packs you for a throw. Knock him around an arm. He kicks you and makes a fuss. Rush him to a girl, then yank him to her flowers. Then he riddles a bunch of questions that mean nothing within the gang, and then he's yelling for an answer to why you're messing with people's graves.
Forgetting he's about to have one with all the noise you're about to make.
He has a complex — a savior's; a goody two-shoes, little shit — and that hurts you more than anger, more than hissy, little fits. Spouting fucking nonsense, like he's worth it.
Bullshit.
That you wheal him, right and left.
See him, burning back.
Be him — you're winning. You're winning. You've won.
You volley to your knee, and he's a picture a thousand words could sum up inside a laugh, and you tear him into two.
He's a painting you had to hang; you've got to nail him to a wall. And you've got to be here just to hear this: hear how nasty he falls apart, hear him shatter behind a pillar, and hear him grabbing until it hurts.
Because he's got you.
Like he means it.
He fucking hates you and your guys, and the years you've been nothing but infested near a wound.
That you break him.
You pound him.
Here's vandalism for his eyes: knock him for a swing because you've got him — by your fist. But when you're landing on his nose, it's night's out for a fruit. Because your laughter, his howl, your shoe mark, him broken, your guys crowd around him, and he's lucky to be breathing.
You've never seen him on his knees. But here he is, the little shit. Ass up. Head down. Hands out. Shaking: parting, wheezing, caving, and bloody.
It's a soundtrack to hear him losing, to hear him shaken from the fight.
It's a compilation of all your favorites — him shotting chunks of blood. Him snorting through his mouth. Him sending you a stare that'll rip you from this earth. Him seething at his elbows while he pushes to rise up. And him sinking with every second.
Because he's weak. Because he's broken. That you snap him around in circles until he fucking looks you back. And he's a picture for an album when he greets you — full of teeth.
That he's everything you'd never ask for, but if you were younger, he could've been yours. Because you'd pop him from a disc, throw him to your car, and listen through the denim of how he curses like a storm.
Because his eyes, defiant.
His mouth, unshaken.
His hands, trying.
Who he is, breathing.
He's a broken, twisted, dirty, little kid who was on his way to graduation, and he'll graduate in fucking hell. And he was angry for no reason when some flowers took a spill. And then he fought you, then he lost, and now he's rounding for Round 2.
Then he stabs you, and you take it.
You tear him into two.
Because he's a body you have to eat just to see him to the right of God, and you could feel him down the marrow when he spits you in all his blood. And you take him, you drink him, you spill him for the world, and you clatter all the inches he could never hide from you.
Because he's pussier than your boys. He never did that while you were fighting. And where he stabbed you, no conviction. There was nothing behind the cut. That disappointment doesn't do it: where's the fire? Where's the boy?
Where's the smartass who never listened when you said the flowers don't give a crap? And if others really cared, why's no one raising hell?
He's just an annoying little cunt who could scare you, but doesn't bite. And now he can't: you have a knife, you could sign him so he's yours, you could maim him into pieces and mail him to his school, and remind him you're a king while he's nothing but a fool.
But are you?
Tell your guys they've got nothing to be scared of; tell them all their troubles are a bloodstain to wipe off. Tell your guys to hull him up, and lock him around an arm, and leash him for a beating, and then press him for graduation.
Tell your guys to fuck him up — you want to see him when he cries — and you want to watch him crinkle up until he's shouting for you to stop. Tell your guys they've got nothing to fucking worry about, that they're the top dogs in Karakura, and that Orange is just a pussy.
But is he?
He listens: he can hear you. You're an ocean locked inside a bottle — distorted and muffled. He can't smell anything but blood. You've shoved it through his nose, and everywhere and anywhere his tongue could get a taste. That it's instinct where he licks; it's instinct when he swallows.
It's instinct when his eyes are jaded black — a shade of yellow. But you ignored this for his teeth. They'll bite you if you're close. They'll tear you into pieces; they'll rip you by the throat.
That it's instinct — he shudders; he bites his own mouth and licks away all the copper from when you smashed him to your heel — where he flicks, then he goes, and how he breathes to reel this in. And knows a monster from a human because he has one.
Deep within.
That if you're an animal, he has a fire that's going to kill you and your gang. If you're a knife, he has a sword that's going to leave you for the rain. And if you're a nightmare, he has a demon who's going to rip you of what you're worth — then reduce you, and then you're nothing but a stain behind their heels.
Because he ain't a flower, not an ant, nor someone for you to break. And not anyone you could step on without losing one of your legs.
That you're lucky he's just a person: not a god, not a monster, and not something in-between when you scrape him from the dirt.
You're lucky he's only human: all of them have a weakness, and you tapped him to his limit — he's tired, he's damaged, you broke him, you're powerful, he's fast, you've got him, and then he looks you in the eye, and you ignore him for what he is. And you're a lucky little bitch that he's normal while he fights.
You see him hurt. You see him bleed. You see his body's a fucking mess. You see him throw. You see him seize. You see him gagging on his spit. You see him shake. You see him try. You see him blister with every bite. You see him purple. You see him red. You see he's lighter than the sunset.
Because you raised him from the earth. Because you've nailed him to a shoulder. And he's your painting for the night — Mona Lisa at his finest. Because when he smiles, dirty, you can see him for what he was.
You could see him through the nose, through the eyes, and through the mouth. And know it's all an act.
He can't hit you anymore.
That you're fetching for another, you're looking to be hurt, and you're asking for a fuck when you trace him with your knife. You're begging for a fist and a dirty bleeding eye as you rack him for a hit, taste him near the lips, and thumb him.
He's your painting. You're the artist — you want more.
That it costs you, and you know it and you swipe him across the nose, and watch him when he growls, but you'll ignore it when he bites. Because you've had enough. You're sick of it: his righteous little wants.
You've got him where you want him. You'll deface his shitty grave. You'll litter broken vases just to pound him through the earth, that even death won't protect him from a knuckle through the ribs. But remember, it won't protect you when you're a fucker tempting fate.
Because you were lucky — wouldn't you know that? — but never noticed. Your mistake: you thought he was only human because of everything you had to see, but that's fortune for the asses. And yours is running empty.
~ Damn, You're Reckless ~
Because you know exactly what you did, and no one made you do it. You're the reason he ain't dead when someone had to fuck him. Because his defiance would've killed him, but you fixed him to your will. And bent him.
Hung him.
He's a portrait near your neck. He's a trophy you had to wear. He's sutured — he's yours.
That you heard him die, but not really. (Heard him choke, heard him wheezing) Wound him tight, but never broke. (Wound him harder around the throat)
Saw him tear, but it's instinct for him to water without a breath. (Saw him yellow, saw him red, saw him darker behind the lids)
(Saw him blistered, saw him veined, saw him raw around your hands)
(Saw a stranger staring back, saw a monster below the skin, saw a creature behind the eyes)
(Saw destruction bleeding in)
As he's divinity, he's divine — he's a god who's only human. And you're a human playing god, and he allowed you something special. Because what is he, if not a vice, if not someone you had to lose, or a name you wouldn't share just to keep him within your mouth?
That's Ichigo.
Not Orange.
Not Smartass or Cunt.
Not Fucker or Motherfucker.
Those are nicknames; they aren't him. Because he's got one — he has a name — and you ought to use it while you can.
It might be the last thing you ever say. And he'll look at you, No shit.
Because one.
What he needed. What he asked for. What he wanted. What he sought here. What he tasted. What he had once, but now he doesn't.
Because one.
Then he hears it. And told himself it had to be nothing.
Because when he heard it. Deep inside. A closet without a latch, where what shouldn't — couldn't, hasn't been a problem — said, Fuck you, you're going to die. You had your chance. Let me out.
It's a mirror without a body, and without a name to call its own, but the one it's wearing is not a lie when it taps him through his thoughts. And it's a voice, but not his own.
It's a question meeting bone. Here to lick him and see him fret. But it's not a danger to himself.
Because — because Aibou, you need to breathe; because he couldn't, it had him crazy; because Aibou, you're only human; because he's human, here he pricks — because the world's fading back. And none of it's making sense.
The human body's got a fault.
Breathe.
It ain't working.
He mistook this for a meal; his pharynx is a bitch, and swallowed what intestines would wager between his lungs. And knew what's relative to what he's asking and wanting, more and more. When he spat, hacked, seized, whored — ground, take, beg, and plore.
Breathe.
Try. (Again, do it)
Remember. (Breathe, it's right there for him to take)
Mouth. (Hungry, empty, more)
Lungs. (Wager, fighting for a turn)
Fire. (Red, gagging, blue)
Air. (Nothing, none of it, more)
Search. (Trying, failing, due)
Breathe.
His nose, a whistle blowing bubbles. His tongue, a sucker bleeding black, red, and blue. His mouth, then a hunger's there to bandage where it hurts, but what he's asking isn't framed for what his body needed most.
Then his hands, reluctant when you force them to fucking move, but they're onto you as you pry him — he's gum you had to lose.
One.
An arm has him tightly in a noose.
It's yours: you have him like an animal by the throat.
One.
His heart, you could find it inside his mouth.
Feel it: it sings, it wails, it hurts.
One.
He clenches. You tighten. You're done.
Then he fights: his struggle. Your elbow — that's enough.
Then one.
Just one.
Only this: he's human. And you're human; you're breathing.
You'll likely be alive — if he's not — when this is over. But you're the reason he hasn't died. You're the reason he has a dot, and another and many more, while gnawing for a taste. For what he needed and what he plored.
Because.
Because he had it, and you took it, and that was mercy. That was human for you to steal without losing your own life, and it was human for you to wipe away the water near his eyes.
It was animal when he lashed you — to remind you he's not an act. You're not his tamer, this ain't a circus, and he'll kill you when you're open.
Breathing's the only question he'll answer without a fight.
That his reflection, what Number Two would've pissed himself if he had seen it, and the stranger you might've noticed when he hooked you and found your eyes, finds a fracture in his thoughts and a stutter behind his mouth.
Big enough for a monster who's armor below his skin.
Breathe.
That reflection pulls a finger down his skull. Leaving nothing for him to hold, he's slipping through the cracks. Because arguing won't save him.
Dying never helps.
They've done this enough times to know what doesn't and fucking works. And know it hurts — they're not sorry, it's just a part of staying alive, but they'll feign it for their host.
It's like falling dead asleep.
As he could move mountains, he pierces the morning lights, but his limits are a body that's trying to make this work. And a mind falling faster to what he's missing, what he lacks.
That he hears nothing. But a tremor, where his breathing might've been. Where his heart may've stuttered as another's moving in.
He hears nothing. But your arms, where his own couldn't protect him. Where your veins, your blood, are music to his senses. Where he's tapping — only tapping — but wants to puncture through your meat. And tear you into pieces; you're the fuel he needs to eat.
He hears nothing. But then he hears this: a presence, a voice, a heel, a lick, a monster and a god. Not you, not him, nor the cackle inside his head, nor the Finally, your hero's come to save you near his ear.
Or Aibou, you've done enough. Breathe, you're going to live.
Or Aibou, and then pressure near the baseline of his skull, it's not their place to save your ass. But who am I to stop them?
That he rattles, and you feel it like a warning you ought to hear, and you see it behind his eyes when he's darting for an answer. Because he feels it like a fire.
He's surrounded by a flood; he's a forest finding water when you robbed him for a drought.
Because he knows this: he knows a name, he knows a face, he knows the power, he knows the etching, he knows the tear, and he knows the feeling on his skin. He knows a hunter when he meets them, he knows an animal while they hunt, he knows the flavor they had to chase, and he knows he's off the menu.
But it doesn't stop him from bending. It's instinct to bare his neck; it's a favor for a monster. Submission was the price.
He knows the creature, the hollow, the stranger you've never met. The name you've never heard and never will when you're lucky. And knows you're scared (rightfully), confused (you had to be), there's a tingle down your neck (you're lucky to be breathing) and you feel like a piece of meat (he's staring through your head).
There's a monster behind your back; there's a monster near your neck. A dimension you'll never see; an entire world around his teeth. And biting through your skin is a power — then a demon. And fighting for a taste is a monster — but only human.
That something tells you, You've fucked up, but you ain't sure where you heard it. And he knows it when he looks you; something feral is on the surface. That he knows they're not an ally, he knows they're not a threat, and he knows they won't hurt him when he could hear them.
They're pissed.
He knows he's a nuisance with what he's asking without a breath. He knows this is trouble — that he's trouble — for doing it. But he knows, and he knows this if you're to ask him why he smiled, that they'll protect him.
Like he's their own. Like he's someone they wouldn't lose. Like he's a secret that the world had no business to figure out. And that he's theirs — mine, me, myself, and I.
And he'll do the same: he's a monster, he's a pattern on the same cloth, but he's a handkerchief for a gentleman while they're the holsters for a gun. But a patterned little square's a distraction for a fight, wound around the knuckles to beat you more than twice.
Should they need it. Should they ask. But that's an insult towards a god. But they'll ignore it because they're hungry; they're starving for a fight.
Because they'll find him on his back, they'll find him in your arms, and they'll find him for the gods because you've torn him down the middle — scattered for a platter, putting whore in hors d'oeuvres. That he's a sample, a recipe, to whet the palette for what's to come.
That he's an open private book, stolen for an auction, and the numbers are at thousands — they're betting ten million.
Because he's theirs. Because you have him. Because he's fighting for a chance. Because he's damning for permission. Because you've got him around a leash. Because he's a freak, and they're unnatural, and you can't tame him inside a cage.
Unless you're him. You're a monster. You're a circus going to blow. You're an act without insurance because nothing waives a kill. That you're on the outside looking in, and you see him for what he is. And know him.
He knows them, like the voices in his head. He could trace them anywhere if he's to hear them and feel their power. And know their eyes, slanted when they mar him with displeasure, glinted that a monster's — that their own — was fucking like this.
Bare.
Arrested.
Bloody.
Purple.
Beaten.
Tasted.
Bruised.
Surviving.
That they point him out; they ring him out with a gesture for his ears.
Them licking down a pulse — down their own before they stained it. Them catching between their teeth the remnants of a hunt that's heavy on their creases, it's something he had to eat, and it's something he would fight for when he hears it on their lips. And it's a warning, and reunion, that'll crush him through the earth.
And break him down the middle.
Because he's weak.
But no, they won't.
As they're Mercy, they're Destruction, they're an Angel — he's on his knees. He's got a prayer on his lips. Reciting, he doesn't breathe.
Because his Answer, like a finger coming to test him on his faith, peeling down your elbow just to get you away from him, and breathing You're in trouble, but you're worth it on his lips until he's tasting their reiatsu because it's candy for his teeth, is the air he ought to eat.
Air he doesn't need. But he devours — he chases — and he tears it for a feasting.
He's never been this hungry.
(Oh Aibou, you've made a mess)
He's never been this sated.
(You've got something, here and there)
He's never had this.
This, he tells himself, should be everything I…
He doesn't finish.
Because what it is, and then what is it, has him knotted through the bone. Like it's steroids, or an overdose, here to light him on fucking fire. And it's healing him, or numbing him, or making him feel asunder.
Because it parts him for what he is before it builds him.
Up from nothing.
That his monster, his hollow, eats it up. It's a dowry: from who to whom, from whom to who?
(Does it matter? I'll take them)
(There's more I want to eat, that it's laughter down his senses when he — when he breathes, when he takes, when he takes, when he doesn't fucking give, when he's yellow for a bite, when he's a monster in your arms)
That he rips this for another, and it writhes him — the entire way, and it feels like a part of this, a part of them, will always be here, on his veins, when they're landing behind your back.
A garganta above your head.
A desert on the edges, with none of it spilling out.
A hunter, the hunted, then another: a row of teeth is about the least of all your worries, seconded by a knife, and thirded when they wield you something harder that you couldn't dodge.
That you rupture: your back, your muscles, your nerves, your veins, your standing are as shattered as what you have left. Because they tore you.
Into ribbons.
You're confetti for a party. You're a fool you ought to know. You're falling to your knees. You're a stain beneath their boots. And their power, a pair of jaws are coming at you and for your heart, and you think a part of you is running miles before they rip you to give to Orange — it's like the summer burning brighter.
Cascading what's tomorrow's.
And you can hear the cicadas; they die around you, and you're as empty as their husks. And you feel something at your neck, and it tells you without words that you're a lucky son of bitch that the Orange has a heart.
(Breathe)
(Pissing)
(Fight it)
(You shudder)
Because there's a monster — a stranger you've never had before, but you'll remember the way they feel when they could slice you on their mouth — and everyone's their victim.
You're the first one they had to hunt, and there's nine of you they had to eat. And if this is all it takes, they'll finish you in five minutes. And present you: you're a gift for a circus you shouldn't have had, and for a monster — an Orange — who could taste them through the air.
Whether he knows it, or if it's instinct that he's flicking for reiatsu, a few things never change when they pin him for a gaze. But the one thing that has them reeling, has them biting, and they shouldn't grin, are the brown. Honeyed. Eclipsing in those eyes.
There's nothing yellow, nothing dangerous, when he looks at them. And he's soft. And he's tender, shaking, grasping around the dirt. Bloody in every way. Fucked up, but he'll make it. Testing if he could say this, and then he shudders.
He's human.
"Grimm – "
– oh.
He doesn't say it, but they hear him, and it's a choir at their lungs. Just to see him: hear him breathe. Hear him swallow his own question. And hear his gratitude through his eyes and what some would call a smile.
With how it taps them — on the hole; how it doesn't hurt to receive it, and how it threads them to his person. They could almost feel his heartbeat.
Then he looks away.
He doesn't smile because he's trouble and here's a fight. There are nine little shits who messed with the wrong guy. And he's hurting, twisting — he's tender where it counts. And you're an optimistic little bitch if you think you're fighting nine-to-one.
Destruction has him standing; Destruction has his back, and Destruction knows your names and will tell you to fuck off.
When they raised him. (Their shoulder, his arm, their neck, his elbow on a purchase, and they wield him — he's a weapon)
When they held him. (He's on their chest, and they're easy for him to trust, and he can take this for a while, and they've got him for a punch)
When they're the armor to his bones. (A collision doesn't faze him, a collision doesn't hurt him when he should feel it on his ribs, and when he punches, he knows a bone is about to shatter at his fist)
When they're the mirror to his body and these wicked, dirty hands — when they're everything he asked for, when he's everything they always wanted — they're tempted for a bite. And he hears it on their mask.
He feels it on his skin when he mirrors.
(Follow me)
~ Damn, You're Reckless ~
Don't tell him you're a coward; you've got to show him through your eyes. Show him you've had enough when he hooks you for a fight. Show him you're a scramble; you're over easy in his sights.
Show him how you see him — your pupils: they're eggs, tossed around for a whisking, inseparable from the whites — when he's right there. At your face. And there's nowhere for you to run.
(Hide, cower, you've got it)
(Make it fun)
Show him you're a pussy without saying, God, I'm sorry or Fucking – You're a freak! when you're the asshat punting flowers.
Show him you're a baby without yelling, Fucking save me or all the other derivatives to get your shining knight in armor. And show him you can do it.
Don't you fucking piss and cry.
His patience is waning; you're a bitch for entertainment. He has to hit you, but you've knot him around his feelings — around his heart. That it takes a monster to remind him why he has you where he does, a muscle to come and break him from the instincts at his core.
Aegis.
Warrior.
Protector.
Sword.
Parts of you irritate him where his duties aren't aligned, and you remind him — it's a stretch — of the kind of people he wouldn't fight. That you've pushed him, but a monster's going to reel him 'til you drop.
You're not someone to even fight for; there isn't anyone who's going to mourn you. You're the kind of person who tugs at hearts before you stab them behind the back. And that's the one thing — your mistake — that's going to bite you in the ass.
When he grabs you, knocks you, and sends you on your way. And you're a puzzle thrown together, just to toss you through the air, and all of you's on the concrete, and you're battered through a knuckle.
(Because you're scattered for the ages, a mosaic upon the ground)
(What keeps you fucking breathing is your dirty, shattered mouth)
Don't ask him for his mercy; you've got to show him through your eyes. Show him you're a sinner, that he's your god — your salvation, and you're remorseful when he hits you. For every trespass, you've done against him.
Show him you're a liar, but you're desperate for an answer. Show him who you are when you've got no one to hide behind.
Show him you're a mirror; you're a vanity of what you fear, that you're a bauble for a demon to admire themselves in. And when he sees you, he sees himself — that's flattery for a beast.
Show him that you're asking — and preferably, on your knees — forgiveness for your actions. You were following Number Three. And that you're innocent: he has to know this.
You're a follower, not a lead. But it doesn't make you an observer when you're a willing participant.
It doesn't make you a fucking witness when he finds you on the scene. And it never makes you a bystander: you're as guilty as Number Three, for doing nothing — doing wrong, doing something you shouldn't have done — when there was something you could've said. Or something you should've fought.
But you didn't. That's the story. And you had your chance, you had your fun.
Until it's his.
Now, he's striking. And then he strikes you on the nose. And you're asking for repentance because you're naughty — that, he knows — and the only one who'll come and save you is an Orange.
He's your god. He's your temple. He's your rock. He's your conscience because you lost it. He strikes it through your eyes. He's your answer because you're breathing. And he reminds you when you cry because he was generous with his warnings.
It'll cost you for a third. But it's pretty simple, once you hear it. As it's lower than you thought: Close your eyes.
(It's not that hard, he can't hurt you anymore, he can't hurt you if you listen — you're a follower, you're devout)
Don't move.
He's testing.
What are you without a breath?
What are you? You're just a person.
(You had to breathe, you're insistent it's your privilege for being human, and then he pops you, and then your eyes are the colors of a star going to bust, because you must, because you're angry)
(Now, you know)
(Can you feel it, can you hear it, can you see it through your bones?)
(He warned you — after all, and he's merciless when he welts you, returning the favor from when you laughed, when you were an animal inside a circus, and saw him struggle for a gasp, saw him wringle for a breath, saw him fighting for a chance, and you believed he didn't deserve it)
(You thought of him as nothing human, and then there was an encore at your mouth when you wrung him and needed more)
(When you said this to Number Four, and you were looked at, and you were crazy, and you were senseless in your words, and you were raising the kind of person you knew to be at the moment, Choke him! Hang him high! Make him bleed! Son of a bitch!)
(Fucker!)
(You can't say it, he's got you around a leash, and he's more than happy to shut you up because your colors are on the breeze)
(You try to scratch him, it isn't working)
(You try to punch him, he's made of steel)
(You try to bite him, he bites you back — you feel him tearing down your neck)
(You feel him snapping for a vein, you feel him reaching for your throat, when you see him at your fingers)
(The human mouth is pretty dirty)
(But a monster's even worse when it rips you for an Orange — you're possessed, and you know it, when you're takeout for a bunch of animals)
(You're possessed, and he shows you what it feels like to be an object, and what it feels like to have your freedom be negotiable when he pries it, and you can't do anything — but send a prayer — because there's no one's who's going to save you)
(No one's going to beat him when he's a hunter among the sheep, no one's going to try him when here's the wrath of deities)
(No one gives a crap that you're in a hundred thousand pieces when he reams you for a dozen, and you're throwing all your petals, and you're the color of every organ trying to make it)
(But you're going to die)
So don't call him a motherfucker, or a fucker, or a cunt; you've got to show him through your eyes when you slice him for a fight. Show him who's the asshole when he's a bottle and you're a knife; show him who's a loser when you tear him from one of the boys.
(Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him — you hear it, loud and clear, because if anyone's going to stop him, you're just as crazy as he is)
(But you're better, faster, harder with your punches)
That you show him you're a fighter when he reams you to a fence. Show him you're a winner when you lock him to your stance: tight, raveled, and you're a coil that'll never miss. Because he's wide, loose, but he'll catch you because he can.
He's got you for a swing, and you're nothing in these hands. You're a socket feeling pressure because he's got you for a dance. And he's a fisher without a net, here to toss you for a feast.
That you've got to show him who you are; you ain't someone for him to beat. You're trouble; you've got a name that no one's going to question if they find him in a ditch. Because they know you — you're a demon.
Well, fuck you. Here's a real one.
He's a monster for the ages.
He'll show you what he is because you're a fucker who doesn't know him; he'll show you who you are because you're an insect and fucking nothing. And he'll show you who's Destruction when he knows them by their name.
He's got them for a fist — sayonara, you little bitch.
He'll show you how he earned this: his scars — venerated, and his name's on the surface of all the worlds you'll never know, and he knows more than you do about the trouble in Karakura.
Because he's Ichigo Kurosaki.
Shattered. Pieced together. Lacquered. Art. Protector. Warrior. Then the glass you wouldn't dodge, if you know what's best for you. And a bottle that doesn't break, no matter what you do. That he's got you — hard — and there's nowhere for you to run, and you're pissing for a plea when you feel him on your heart.
(He could steal it, and you knew it, and you would ask him if he wanted more)
You're wondering how the fuck he managed to beat you with how you are, and then he slams you.
(You remember he's a bruisin' of a guy: there's nothing pretty with how bites you, and tears you from hell and back, and crushes who you are until you're a muscle pulled apart, because he marks you until you've lost)
(There's no way you're coming back)
That once. You're a tumbler; you're somewhere on the counter.
Twice. You're a bottle; you're waiting for a waiter. You're waiting for a lemon to rub you around the rim before he drinks you for a while, and then you're falling out of his hands.
Then thrice. You're a mug on the other side of the bar: thrown, tossed, scattered for a show, damned, caught, and battered for a blow.
Because at fourth, you're smashed. You've shattered, blue and black.
He ain't sorry, and you're a mess, and you're mouthing for a chance. And you're reaching for a towel — he yanks you for a mile, and you can feel it on your body that he's hungry; you're fucking scared. And you hear him thinking.
Not in words. Not to warn you, he's had enough. He's got this rusted dirty red near the centre of his eyes. He could eat you to your toes, but he'll toss you for the birds. Because he's human?
Because he's nice.
You're lucky to be alive.
He can't eat you when you're a gift for someone who shouldn't have died. For that girl down the road when she was looking. But someone wasn't. And that fucker's still alive while she's seasons in the dirt. And you assholes were mosquitoes trying to bitch off and be a nuisance.
Flowers, ruined. Vases, broken. Her memory, you've pissed it with the amount of times you kick her. And her silence, you've wrecked it — there's nothing to come back to when your home's desecrated, and you're always on the run.
That he's angry — still is angry — and he breaks you into slices. Like you're an orange for his sisters when they walk with him around the city. And he leaves you with Hideyoshi and the others at her grave. And you could taste it on your lips.
(The smearing, your blood)
(His own where you taste it, his own where you touch)
(The vibes you have to check)
His warning, you won't forget. Because it's pungent on your skin. Because it's sour: he doesn't like it, but he does it when he has to.
He ain't a fighter — wouldn't you know that? — when he deals you for another. But he's a lighthouse, a protector. He's a monster for a ghost when the world ain't forgiving.
He's an omen: he isn't hungry, but he'll swing you for a meal. And fight the rest of you for a girl whose voice you'll never hear.
He's on a mission until you drop.
He'll crush you; you'll have to stop.
That you see him widen up, and Come and get me is on his tongue, and he's a broken thing of glass when you see him spit.
(Breathing hard)
That the rest of you, the six of you, and then the two of you with a knife, know you've had him to his knees. You've hurt him more than once, and you'll do it as many times to crush him into dust.
Because six-to-one: you've got an advantage, you outnumber him with muscle, and he's exhausted to the marrow that you know he's on a deadline. He might be macho, but he's human. Adrenaline's the poison. He's only breathing because he has to, but you know he's bound to drop. And he'll forfeit, and you'll win this, and you'll tear him for the boys.
Because six-to-one isn't easy when he's slow enough for you to hit.
Just wreck him — even harder — before he wrecks you for a work of art. Surround him, none of the shit about whose dick can stand the longest, or who could handle a raging fire when you could douse him for a while. And have at him.
Cut him hard.
Take him fast.
Beat him senseless.
Until it hurts you to try to punch him. He's a diamond; you're a bunch of talc. And he's standing like a weirdo, his arms crossing out, and they're narrow. They can't protect him; they're a bullseye for his heart.
So why the fuck — why's he breathing? Why's he taking but isn't hurt? Why's he chipping through your knuckles when he's nothing but a statue? And is he a monster?
Is he a freak?
Is he an animal — you hear him scream, and there's a reckoning below your feet like the world's opened up, and there is hell you ought to see — because he wields it?
(A force of nature)
This power?
This energy?
(Going to burst, going to shatter: the human body can't contain what he's feeling — deep inside, that the rest of you are going to die — whether you want to when he's like this)
(But you're lucky — don't you know it? — that a monster's on his side, tasting all the power that his body can't control, eating where his excess tries to faucet through his mouth)
(That they're close, and close enough, to feel him breathing on their mask, that the cool, breathy warmth of it touching him keeps him sane)
(That he bumps them on the forehead, because where else would he be if he's ticking human bomb getting treatment from an expert, that he's breathing pretty hard just to feel them in his lungs — and then blowing, and then his mouth could fit a dozen different names)
(But the one he's reaching for is theirs)
(It's a prayer, it's what he repeats, it's what he tells them that he's still here, it's the most honest thing he knows is true, and it's what keeps him — numb and loose)
(While reeling, existing)
(I'm here, he feels their mouth tumbling down his freckles, just to reach him where he is, just to meet him near the juncture of where prayer becomes an answer)
(That he doesn't miss it — how they smile — how everything they've given him could leave him, all at once, when they're inches from where he needs them)
(Close enough, that he could kiss them, when they lick him from the brink, and there are a few things in this world that could mess him — just like that)
(Knowing fangs, their mouth, and their tongue were in-distance, but the distance was a name they wouldn't swallow or say it back, that could you blame him if it ached him somewhere tender — deep inside?)
(Don't be cocky, Number Six, says a monster in his eyes, flashing for a second, their host wasn't there, and there's a smile in those words that a monster would always hear)
(If you're his shield, don't distract him)
(He trusts you, I don't)
(If there's something you want to tell him, you've got to tell him before he's yours)
(Don't string him like a bitch, you've got a long way before you earn him)
(And isn't that quite a warning: a monster with principles, against a monster with an interest for what should kill them — but never wants to?)
(And isn't that how it is when one's chasing what they want?)
(And isn't that what's at stake when they've saved him — now, it's twice?)
That there's no one way all this power, this sudden turn and shift, and this outrage, and then a spiral of energy from his person, is from a little girl who must've risen because she's bitching about her flowers.
When it feels like — like a monster, and everything you're afraid of, and everything you never knew found a closet to this world, and so much more — perhaps the Devil made an entrance because It could. And to hear It will melt your face off.
You're in striking human distance.
When he breaks out, you hear him swinging. You hear his breathing before you see him. You hear his heart, and you hear your own, running faster before you notice.
That it's one thing to think a monster's going to kill you where you stand, it's another to know a person's about to smash you in the face. Because he's a bullet, he's at your head.
Because he has you in a fist — he's got your silhouette; he has you where he wants. Then you're somewhere in Shinjuku when he throws you for a punch. Before he grabs you for another, you're dented at his touch.
You're a crater: you're busted, and you're the other side of the moon. And you're broken in every way that lacquer couldn't save you: a set of knuckles at your collar, a pair of fists behind your spine, something kicks you when he doesn't, and it breaks you when you whine. And you've ascended when he picks you; you're a flower for a grave.
Surrounded by your brothers. Broken, you're in pain. You're a splinter that doesn't hurt him when he's got you like a rag.
That the five you know you're missing a bunch of brain cells when you run. Because the five of you are a muscle who aren't qualified for this shit. He destroyed your ligament, like it's easier than picking teeth, and you're all a bunch of guys trying to mess with him before you're fucked.
Because it takes forever for him to hit you once he decks you until you're blissed. So you ream him for a dozen. And one of them has to land.
One of them's bound to stick because he's breathing through his mouth. One of them's going to stop him; you're waiting for a chance, and you're going to slice him where it hurts him until you have him for a win. And one of them has to wear him.
He's human — he's like you — and he's a muscle feeling acid when he takes you by the wrist.
Because he takes one of you without missing, and then the other for a swing. He ducks away before you punch him; you're a target for a friend. And you're a broken, dirty eye with a liver going to burst, and the other you's going to kick it.
He should kill you for the trouble.
Because it hurts. And it hurts. And fucking, you're going to drop. Because it tears you into ribbons, all of you's going to burst. And all of you won't exist if you're anything but a flower.
You're quiet, and you try to be. You're begging for relief. You're on your knees, on your hands, on your face — he hears you weep. If there's anyone you would pray to, God — it had to be him. As he's your answer, and you're scared, and you've got nothing.
Not a name.
The three of you still standing, the two of you with knives, need a hobby when this is over. You're going to wish you really died. And you're going to wish he made you do it when he's got you where he wants.
Like the animal you made him be, he's going to ask you for a fight. And you tell him you're fucking sorry until he cracks you like an egg.
(Don't tell him you're fucking sorry when he knows you'll do it again)
(Don't tell him you're going to change when you want to chip him with your hands)
(Don't tell him you were wrong when you would fucking do it again)
(Don't tell him what you'll do, just show him through your eyes)
Then one of you had to stab him, one of you had to live, and one of you is terrified of what he'll do because you've done it. Because you're a human, fucking fighting.
Because you're the ringer, he's a lion — you tell yourself that you can do it. He has nothing; you have a knife. You've got it all; you could win this. And he's an animal you're going to capture; you'll leash him for a beating; you'll tame him until he bows.
That he takes it — he takes you — even farther from where you have him, and you see his little smile when he has you by the fist. Like he's happy you tried to cut him. Like you see him for what he is.
Because you pierced him, he's bleeding. You watch him; he doesn't care. He's only shaking because you're breathing. You think the world's falling apart; you think nothing he's ever done could fucking break you.
But you're wrong.
"That's not my first time." It's a secret; it's a whisper within your ear. "I've been stabbed there." You serrate him, and he allows it. Through the palm. "But it's a first."
He looks at you, like he really wants you to listen. And you never noticed how his eyes are as warm as the horizon. Or how his voice — airy, quiet for you to hear — pricks you down the arm when he glances at your hands.
"In this body." Then he smiles. And something tells you it shouldn't be there.
Because it's a smile if you're fucking clueless, it's a smile if you know you're blind. And he looks to you like this is normal, that it doesn't hurt him for a moment.
(When it does, but he hides it)
(He's a natural for feigning comfort)
"You're the first one."
(Congratulations)
You could hear it from the wind. And there's a snapping in the distance that you know it isn't far. Because you feel it — near your face, near a dimple it ought to taste. But he distracts you for a moment. He has you by your sleeve.
Tightening where it hurts, and it doesn't hurt you like a punch.
It kind of feels like what he is, like his own strength and no one else. But at the same time, you ain't sure if it's even real — with what you've seen. And when he rips your little knife, like it's a band-aid for a cut, you're convinced he has a ghost.
Or he ain't a human you should've fought.
That you crumble, you're a goner. The world's a fucking mess. And you're a piece of dust for a story while Orange has a name: he's a character — the main one — and you're a few hundred fucking words to bring the other you's into question.
They have no idea what to do. Because stabbing doesn't fuck him. Punching barely works. And the rest of you are a sacrifice to a girl who lost her flowers.
That one of you fucking faints because it's nicer than a fist, and it's the easiest out of your options if you want to be breathing when the story ends.
But the last one — Number Three, the problem for you eleven — won't be falling without a hit. Because surrender ain't an option. Because you need him, you hate him, and you want him to know his place. Because Orange is a nuisance, you've got to show him who he's fucking with.
(But will you?)
(You're alone, he's more than you can handle, this ain't the first time someone dangerous tried to snuff him from the world, and you're an interesting son of a bitch if you think there's anything you can do to stop him)
(He's everything you'll never be, and you're everything he's surpassed)
(And he won't fight you like a monster when he's human — that's enough: it's enough for him to use his hands, his assets, his instincts, when the worst of you is off his body)
(And his monster's got it checked)
(And his monster's…)
(They don't move — though they want to, though they can — when he flicks them what a monster wouldn't ignore in the shadows: his hand, knuckle, then fingers at his nose, like he's pinching at a splinter, so his breathing ain't a whistle, and he looks at them with a tinge of yellow)
(Arguably, from the sunset)
(And arguably, from a mirror that would shatter what it was to be a weapon)
(To break a person)
(I can do this, they could feel it with how he pulls himself together, hear it at the centre of where standing wasn't a problem, and taste it from his eyes — the heart of him, his stance — when he licks away the blood he's excited from a wound)
(Let me do this, let me try, he's insistent without a fault)
(It's instinct to never listen when the heart's well-involved, but it's been a long time since they've heard it — beating clearly through the sun — that a part of them wants to watch, a part of them wants to hunt, and a part of them wants a bite for every injury that you've dealt)
So do it.
Who's stopping you?
Who's going to punch you and say, Enough!
Who's going to tell you that you're an idiot when he's a fester for his wounds? Who's going to tell you that you're a knuckle — just waiting for a cut — when he could rose you down to hell with his shattered, bottled fist? And who's going to tell you that you're crazy, you're a fucker, you're a bitch after everything you thought you knew?
And you're going to fight him.
Damn the kid.
So don't you dare, don't you do it, if you're going to do this for your pride — don't tell him who you are. You've got to show him through your eyes that you've beat him to the ground, that you were everything he was scared of, when you thought he was only human. And you're not someone for him to step on.
You'll sign him on the heart. You'll stab him for another. You'll scorch him for your brothers and show him you're the sun. You'll stitch him around the necks of just about everything he's ever loved, and lose him to a river. And watch him fucking drown.
Show him that you're ready; show him you ain't a cunt. Show him that you took him down, and you'll do it until he dies.
Punch him.
Round him.
Send him for another.
Pack you. Ring you. Slaughter where it hurts. You're permeable; you're human. You're tired — that's a poison.
Fuck him.
Beat him.
Take him through the wringer.
Fuck you. Break you. Throw you for another. You're slowing down; you're pretty soft. You're going to drown, then he hits you.
Snatch him.
Tear him.
Kill him; you're a god.
Screw you. Trap you. Knock you to the ground. He's only human — or, you thought — because you've had him where you want, but he's only human because he wants to. If he's a monster, you won't survive.
Show him he's a fire; you're a monsoon going to blow. Show him who's disaster and who's the fucker who's got to go. And he'll show you what it takes to be a monster and a god. What it means to be human when the world is on his plate, and why he's fighting without his powers, and why he's winning while he's hurt.
Then why a monster — a stranger, a hollow he knows by name — doesn't join him, but they watch him. They watch you fucking bleed.
They watch you try to hunt when your instincts are a scream. That you're lucky it's one-on-one: he's a generous motherfucker; he doesn't kill you for what you've done. But you'll wish he did; you don't know it.
(Nothing will prepare you)
Until he shows you what he is.
(He's not an Orange, you fucking prick)
He doesn't tell you that you've done enough; he doesn't tell you that he will win. He'll show you through his eyes that he's earned this — and he was right. Then show you that you're weak when you've got no one by your side.
He shows you what it takes to be a person and do what's right. He shows you what it makes: a family full of scars, friendship in the face of Death, emotions when it's hard, and a wounded beating heart that knows the difference in what makes a monster. And he shows you how a beaten, purple, bruised, fucked up sort of person could smack you until you lose.
Because you're angry, you're an ocean going to swallow what you touch. He's a fire, he's the sun, he's a drought who's got you burnt, when you chase him with a knife.
(Slit, slice)
(You missed him)
You're just like Number Two; you're just like the other ten. He can read you through the violence you've graciously given him, and it's what makes you fucking blind because you hate him — you want him dead.
That you swing at him — you're a guillotine going to rip him for a pike. And he ducks away.
He catches you.
He grabs you.
He pulls you hard.
And the weight of him, the weight of you, the violence in your blood, and he's a lizard bearing claws when he climbs you like a tree, and you're a building behind the fences of a demolition reckoning, tips you over.
Then you're falling.
Then he has you where he needs.
Then he's got you on the shoulder. Then you're a howler for a swing. Then you fuck him where you can; he has nowhere for him to run. And then he takes you for a ride; you're the cushion to break his fall.
You're the reason he has to end this. You're justice for a girl. And every flower and fucking vase that you've shattered in Karakura.
That he takes you — as he is, as you ruin what he's for, as you send him around a knuckle and he floors you where you howl, and as you're nothing he wouldn't do to make the world a safer place — because he's a martyr.
Because he cares.
Because it's instinct to play it fair. Because you're a piece of shit who'll attack him, and he's got you a room in hell. And knows someone has the key when you rip it from his hands.
Because there's someone in his eyes — they're as vibrant as the ocean, and you could see them for what they were when you're swallowed at their sight — when you steal him.
Grab him.
Would've minced him with your knife.
And were almost going to stab him where he won't feel it.
Until he breathes.
That there's a monster you've never seen when you spot it through his reds, through his bangs, through his browns. They're a mirror for what's at your back.
When he decks you with an uppercut. When he hits you on the jaw. When he punches where a bone is going to splinter into two. And someone hits you through your head; it grazes up your neck, and pops him in the eye when you're a towel being wrung.
Someone cleaves you between their hands with the barest hint of a knuckle.
Someone maims you to hell and back until your soul is made of tatters: you're a threat, you're offensive, and he's someone they wouldn't give, and you're an asshat without a reason and of the two of you, he had to live.
(You're only human — him or you?)
(You're an idiot, don't you know that?)
(Always telling you to watch your back because there are assholes who'll try to cut it, what he doesn't know about their actions shouldn't be pressed or used against them, if it saves him from a lifetime a lot of humans would fucking grieve)
(Don't, stare him down, keep him safe, watch him breathe, You're as fucked up as Number Three, they know he's hurting with where they've got him)
(That they adjust him around their hand, so he's perching on their palm, so it's gentle on his skin when he's mosaic full of purple, but they could choke him — if they wanted to — if they wrung him around the neck, if they squeezed him like a fruit that they would lick between their hands)
(Damn, you're reckless)
(And they meant it — it's a warning, but not a growl — and it's quiet while they thumb what's nasty around his mouth)
(But he's trouble that's fucking worth it, that they'll scramble another human, that they'll take another person and rid them of what's — )
(Mine, they would've sauntered if destruction didn't exist, as it's one thing to know what's theirs and another to fucking voice it, in a world where anything could be stolen before they knew it)
That the latter, it's like a diamond. The latter hits you hard. You have no idea if you exist; you don't know — you don't know your name. While the former, it's from a boy you think you've wrestled with all you had. And together, you're a giant whose graveyard's on the earth. And you're somewhere.
You're on your face.
You have no idea where you are.
The world is a sunset bleeding through a bridge, and you're a fragment near a field and the remnants of a road that no one's made a dent in if you're not a flower or a piece of nature. But you're here — beneath the cracks — because you're a puddle.
You're here to sit; you're there to stain through every fragment that meets you where it hurts.
And you see people. You think you know them, but they're strangers in your eyes. Whisked away, scattered, dandelions where they lay, around a picture and a bunch of flowers for a memorial — for a girl.
For Mizumi Himiwara.
She haunts you beyond the grave.
She's the ghost along your tongue when you see her grinning back, through a framed yellow portrait in a graduation cap and gown. Minus all the red, from when you crushed her beneath a wheel — when you found her staring back and wore a smile she might've had — and dug her around an outline of where she splintered on the road.
Until synonymous with the earth, she's forever beneath the ground. And that's exactly where you'll be, if you stay here and can't fucking breathe, and perhaps the boy you must've fought when you see him through the cracks.
He isn't crawling very far before you hear he's on the ground. And he's a metre away from you, grasping around the earth, and you hear him try to flip — and try to wobble from his chest — until he's facing the horizon and the mercy of all the shadows.
And he's a rusted, weathered bolt when you catch him sitting up, rising from an elbow that he's kicked out for his balance. And he's got this dirty bloody eye that's pulsing for an answer.
That he's squinting through the other while he's hissing at the air, he's a smile and the hardness of a one-sided glare. That you hear him, and he's angry, and he's a fire — crackling, and he's the air around your neck when you wanted a summer breeze. But nature was a bitch when you've got him for the wind.
And he's brushing from his face all the grime, dirt, and blood trying to kiss him. A distraction — forgiveness, though it hurts. And then you listen: you could barely hear him because he's mouthing around a bust.
There's a shiner behind his lip that makes it hard for him to talk, and he's breathing through his mouth.
His nose wants to fall.
"How long were you watching?" The sound of it — like a whistle — was quiet. But not a warning. Not anything to be afraid of.
But when he growls — for an answer — and he's a shatter of broken glass, going to slice you down the wrist and leave some roses on your heart, you almost tell him that you're fucking sorry.
But then he frowns.
He looks at you, and those eyes are going past you, and there's something yellow in his eyes that the horizon doesn't fill, as he follows a piece of dust.
Drifting from the bridge.
That he cranes away, but something has him — something's caught him for the sunset — and he's staring at the horizon, like he wants to fucking burn it.
That you see him biting through his lip, you see him fester for a breath, when he leans away. Glaring up. You hear his audible, "What the fuck?"
~ Damn, You're Reckless ~
You feel his power: jolting, lashing, and real. You feel his red: not a fire, but a boil going to spill. You feel his hollow through his neck; you feel a ripple on his skin that's like a pebble, then another, and then the ridges of a back, and then a monster at the water — reaching for a snack. And you feel his archer; you feel the arrows that would slice you upon request.
He'd never bite you without a sword, but he's tempted for a stab. And you feel his heart.
When he tears you.
Around his fingers.
But you don't budge.
You ain't a generous fucking monster: your fingers loose a little, and you have him around the throat before he thrashes with all his might. You hold him within the shadows and the mercy from the sun, and you trace around his bruises and puncture — now, they're yours.
Now, he's hissing.
Then he rises.
His breathing hits you hard. And then the shudder from his elbow, if it doesn't tell you that you're fucked. Or that he hates you with all his inches, but he's shorter — it isn't much.
He tells you that you're an asshole, and every pleasantry you must've heard, that you pinch him around the apple of his tender, puffy cheek. Until it's rising, and you're the highest of all the bruises that he wears, and distract him from all the others.
You're a nuisance; you're a pest.
You're everything he'd never ask: you're grinning wide, and you wear it sharp, so he sees you for what you are when you've got him around a collar. And you've crowded upon his elbow the entire weight of him — he's leaning back. And you're crouching.
You're at the water; you're waiting if he's going to bite. Because he's a puzzle, pieced together. And you want to break him.
Start again.
You smell his anger — it's a swelter, it's everything you ought to have, and it's something you would ache for because you want it; you want his teeth, you want his fervor, you want his swallow, and you want him rushing back when he nips you, and it's a warning, and he's addicted to your taste — and he stains you. And you'll carry this; you'll wear him around your hands.
And never lose him. On anybody.
Because you need him.
He's yours.
That you would know him by his curses, and the waver in his voice when that mirror inside his body had to surface before it plunged, and what you've left for him as a present while he licks away the blood. And when he tells you — he doesn't ask you, and there's nowhere you'd rather run, or any avenue you could shift him and try to play him like a mouse — that you're an asshole.
A motherfucker.
Where you socked him.
In the eye.
No, you're the worst thing he's had to deal with. And he's fought some shitty guys.
He doesn't meet you, face-to-face, until you squeeze him around his jaw. He doesn't meet you, eye-to-eyes, until you've raised him to your sights. He doesn't meet you, breaths-to-none, until he's wheezing around your touch. And out of everything he could've mentioned, that was his one —
– he shouldn't complain.
And you should tell him a hollow's thank you is made of actions in lieu of words, that he should hitch you for a fight and you'll be the happiest — you'll return a bite, you'll send him running, you'll have the key that'll turn him purple behind your bite.
That you could hear him, and hear his heart, and hear excuses behind a hiss. And you shut him up; you remind him that he's a human and you're a beast, and nothing stops you from being a dick. You could slice him for a murder, and just mail him to all his friends, and they'll stitch him back together.
And you tell him there's a difference between you and the fuck he is — that one of these days, it's going to kill him if he pussies ever again.
Because he has powers.
Fucking use them.
Go shinigami a few asses. Go quincy the sons of bitches who need a pounding before they learn. Go hollow for the rest of them who're going to push him into a corner, and show them what it takes if they want to survive this and be remembered. And use his titles to his advantage.
Because everyone owes a favor.
That you see him snarl, you see him twist it, you see it warble from his mouth, when he bites you. He doesn't hurt you. He's a meatsuit around a god, and you're a follower of his worship.
You strangle the fucking sun.
You choke him to his place and remind him he's only human. And his pupils never end when they're the color of your own shadow. And how you've got him around your hand.
His whites, a greyish purple.
They're the color of biting steel if he could slice you with just an eye, but you're very lucky — what a curse. The human body could never hurt you. But if anything could be a weapon, his squinting bears a cut. And if anything's bound to hurt you, it's the emotions in your mouth.
It's the fissures: mentions, questions, doubts, worries, apologies, sentiments you'll never say.
Because you feel him, taste him, smell him for what he is, hear him for what he will be, and see him for what he was. Because you could say he's just a fool, that he's everything you'd never want, that he holds you from the instincts you would've fallen to the unknown, and that you hate him.
Yet you're gentle.
It's destruction, one of its forms, to grasp him while he's broken and squeeze him until he's whole. And hold him. Like he's the world. Like he's something you must've lost. But you found him, and he has you. And he's synonymous to your fucking heart.
That you're a monster feigning human — or perhaps, you're just a person — when he peers at you, when he finds you, and when you see him staring down your mask. Like it's the only thing he wants to catch, just to remind himself that you're a beast, and for everything in his mouth to fucking die there.
On his tongue.
He's not a stranger to losing shit.
Cursing you is even easier.
He has to hate because you're you, and you'll hate him just as hard. You hate him for being an idiot. You hate him when he's a hero. You hate him because he's human, because he's a fragile thing of glass, because he's everything that you're not,
because he's everything you might've had. That you hate him, out of principle.
You had to save his fucking ass. You had to shield him from the world. You had to be here because he's —
He's yours; he's handsome with how he chips you, though he's broken.
He's sweet; he's fearful, and he's splendor you ought to praise.
He's something else; he's a scabbard, and you wouldn't miss for a thrust.
And he's sharp; he could slice you, and you would thank him in your blood
— nothing more than an idiot when you growl at him.
He looks at you.
"Grimmjow."
You could taste him. Because the smell of him is in your mouth. You've always wondered what it would feel like to have him dying near your lips. But you want him dead — because you've killed him, not the bullshit from other men.
"Why are you here?"
You see his shiner; you see it splitting down the middle. You see his busted bottom lip, and something tells you that you could touch. And you're at the inside of his mouth before you tell yourself — No, I shouldn't.
Because he's bleeding. It's tacky. You stick to him, and he's a wound. And something tells you he wants a taste, but you never find him reaching out.
"You're the main attraction."
Was it obvious that one of them should've been mine, or that the most dangerous ruination was wanting something you shouldn't want?
Was it obvious that your answer wasn't an answer, but an observation?
Some quiet, little notice that wasn't little when you looked. That you'll punch him, burn him, and tear him from his name if he insinuates you've got a heart.
You'll steal his between the ribs. And eat it.
While he dies.
While he's there. And you wear his skin.
"Couldn't miss you at your worst."
It's all teeth, hands, and glare that you're a monster — and he's a human — and there's nothing more than that. Because it's one thing to fucking lie, and then another to hide the truth, and then it's something very different to make it liable.
What you wouldn't lose.
That the only way to protect it was to say it doesn't matter. And if the world knew the difference, then fuck it.
You're a hoarder.
You're the embodiment of destruction. You know the power that's in a prayer. You'll steal him from the world; you've stolen from everyone.
Destruction has no limits.
You can't lose him if he's your light.
If he's a fire, Prometheus would've stolen from the gods, then he's the fire that you'll swallow, to rob the riches of the earth.
