Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.
Inside his own mind, Ichigo wrestled to control his own limbs as the hollow laughed insanely.
Bastard, I will win this! He gritted, and tried to forcibly plunge his consciousness into the rips in the hollow's control: he was repelled each time.
"Ichi-Ichi-Ichi-nii," the hollow sing-songed, and jolts of pain lanced through Ichigo's consciousness; he was dimly aware of it coming from his left hand, but he had relinquished his focus on what the hollow was doing in order to throw everything into fighting for control.
He was so close. He knew he'd almost grabbed control for a moment there; Ichigo had seen the look in Rukia's eyes, and it was her face that hung in his memory, full of hope and wonder, that kept him fighting now. Hang on Rukia, he thought grimly, I'm coming, and soon I'll be murdering this bastard for what he's done...
"Not likely!" Came the derisive call, but Ichigo ignored it; he knew the thing was talking big. He'd be in control soon, he was sure of it. All he needed was Rukia to give it one more distraction...one more point of pain for it to give its attention to, and he would be out.
Rukia could feel the blood beginning to dry on her skin. She tried to focus on that, instead of the blade at her throat, the hand on her chest, the breath in her ear, the hard body behind her. It had been moving slowly for the past while, leisurely opening the front of her shinigami robes, hissing profanities in her ear, taking its time to draw lines of its own blood over her bare flesh. She'd been holding back a sob since it had begun its slow violation, but the tears trickled and dripped, warm and ticklish, down her cheeks, each an expression of helpless rage and self-loathing.
How had this happened? How had she allowed this to happen? That this thing would humiliate her, would touch her so intimately, would put its disgusting, blood-dripping hands to parts of her body that no man had ever touched; how could she be so weak, so pathetic as to let this happen? It said it couldn't kill her; fight back, Rukia! What can the consequences be; the worst is happening already! And yet, she couldn't do anything but stand, throat aching with anger and hurt, shaking with rage and worthlessness, averting her eyes from Ichigo's hands violating her body, trying not to feel.
Ichigo, Ichigo is coming, she thought, and it was a mantra. Ichigo will come; Ichigo will beat this thing, and take back control, and this will end.
But wasn't it Ichigo's hand, big for a fifteen-year old's, calloused from wielding Zangetsu, on her body? Wasn't it Ichigo's chest that she was pressed against; her head at his collarbone because he was too damn tall for his own good? Wasn't it Ichigo's breath warm on her cheek? Wasn't it Ichigo's zanpakutou, slim and deadly, pressing against her throat?
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine his face. The Ichigo in her mind was a strange figure, with black nails and yellow eyes, hissing profanities and wielding a white sword, smiling cruelly and evoking equal parts lust and revulsion within her.
She'd almost loved him.
Sharp nails dragged over her chest, leaving reddish scrapes soon covered over with a wash of blood as it palmed her left breast with its freely-bleeding hand, viciously tweaking the nipple. Rukia stayed silent; she would not give it the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. Her cheek burned where Zangetsu had struck it, where Ichigo had -
Where was Ichigo? He could not be the thing standing behind her, the thing with hands that ran defilement over her skin, reaching ever lower, rendering her naked in her mind and in reality. Ichigo could not be the strange figure in her mind, with a mouth that smiled even as it cursed her, with eyes that spoke honesty through a black mask.
Ichigo had saved her once, she remembered dimly; he was in a cape, and wielded a power so huge it overwhelmed her captors. Where was Ichigo now?
Inconsequential. The voice drifted through her muddled mind, familiar and freezing. A glint of white caught Rukia's eye: her sword lay on the grass, bloodstained and calling out.
Your boy cannot save you now, Shirayuki's voice, cold and commanding, swirled through Rukia's consciousness. You are the one who is supposed to save him.
But how -
Forget your fear, Rukia! Icy clarity blasted through Rukia's mind: she was awake and listening, propelled out of dull shock by the voice of her zanpakutou. Ichigo risked his life over and again for you - now you will do the same for him. He needs you now, Rukia, and though I may not be in your hand, my spirit guides your every action, your every attack.
Rukia was suddenly hyper-aware; Zangetsu hummed with conflicted energy against her throat, the hollow's hand dripped with gore and malice as it dipped down to caress her inner thigh, fingers leaving bruises, red-black reiatsu screeching and fouling against her own white energy.
You have but one chance, Rukia, Sode no Shirayuki instructed, focused and with deadly intent. I will guide your hands.
She knew what to do. She knew what to do, and she knew the consequences for what she was about to do, and dried tear-tracks cracked as Rukia smiled thinly.
Strike now!
Rukia reached up, quicker than lightning, Sode no Shirayuki's strength coursing through her: she grabbed Zangetsu's hilt, forcing it away from her throat. At the same time, she brought her head forward and then snapped it violently back: Rukia heard a crunch as her head connected with its cheekbone. Its left hand, still on her thigh, tightened; as the not-Ichigo fell backwards, Rukia tumbled back as well, landing on top of it hard enough to knock the breath out of it.
"Not so fa-" it began, bringing its arm around her waist like a vise, but cut itself off in the middle of the sentence.
"No," it said, and Rukia could feel a shudder go through it; it began to screech. "NO! I fucking had you! I did! You bastard, you-"
Rukia wrenched its arm away from her body; it let her go, curling into a fetal position on the bloody grass, clutching at its head. Rukia ran to Sode no Shirayuki and picked her bloodstained zanpakutou up, sending a silent thank you to the spirit of her sword before striding back to stand over the thing on the grass.
It was convulsing and muttering under its breath, too low and too fast for Rukia to make out what it was saying. The reverse Zangetsu twitched in its grip. She kicked the zanpakutou away; it convulsed, but made no other movement, and Rukia put Shirayuki's blade against its throat. It was not Ichigo. She knew this now, with deadly certainty; Ichigo was fighting it, inside, but if it resurfaced once more, she would put it to the sword: there was no other recourse.
"I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hateyouIhateyouIhateyou -"
Ichigo swore and clawed at the darkness: the hollow's eerie voice howled all around him, but Ichigo knew he had won. Even as he ripped and tore at the stuff that surrounded him, bits of light were beginning to shine through; pain throbbed and rang through his consciousness, and he knew that Rukia had managed to get a hit in.
Suddenly, disorientingly, he was back on the sideways buildings of his inner world, and his hollow crouched before him. Before Ichigo could say a word, it bounded up, snarling, claw-like fingers grabbing for his eyes. Ichigo kicked out and felt his foot connect solidly with its chest; it flew several feet away, landing in a crumpled heap. It raised its head, eyes burning like twin yellow coals of spite.
"You may have won this time," it sneered, "but I'll come back. I'll always come back. You'll never be without me, and you can bet that she'll never be without me either, so long as you're around."
It spat, then turned and leapt off the side of the building; Ichigo ran to the edge, looking over, but there was no sign of it.
"Ichigo." Zangetsu's solemn voice rang from behind him; Ichigo turned around to look up at his zanpakutou's familiar - if unsmiling - face.
"Zangetsu!" Ichigo said, the relief in his voice coupled with anxiety. "Is it gone, then?"
"You heard it yourself," Zangetsu answered. "This is not the end of it, Ichigo. You must not allow this to happen again."
"I know," Ichigo said seriously, determinedly. "I have to defeat it, somehow. But just continually trying to beat it back from taking over isn't working...But I will work on it," he promised, sensing some urgency underlying his zanpakutou's silence.
"Farewell, Ichigo," Zangetsu said. "Your battle now lies in the world outside."
"Battle?" Ichigo asked, somewhat confusedly, but suddenly he was lying on his side in the grass of Karakura park, and he hurt.
"Aaah," his breath hissed as he sucked in a gasp; his left hand felt like it had been put through a meat grinder; pain lanced through his right shoulder, and a deep ache was throbbing in the left side of his face. Where is Rukia? Ichigo cracked his eyes open, seeing a figure directly before him.
"Ruki-" his throat was rough, but that wasn't the reason that his voice died in his throat. Ichigo stared, horror and something deeper welling up inside him at the sight of his best friend.
Rukia crouched, eyes determined and deadly, zanpakutou pointed directly at his throat: blood coated the blade, running all the way from spatters on the hand clutching the hilt to where it dripped gently from the tip. Her hair was streaked with sweat and blood; one side of her face was covered with deep black and purple bruises, radiating from an angry, raised welt that ran from her ear to the side of her mouth. It was the exact shape of Zangetsu's blade.
"Rukia, it's me..." he whispered, slowly raising himself to a sitting position. She said nothing, but rose as he sat, keeping her sword in direct line with his throat, as if at any moment he might lunge at her. Her eyes betrayed no flicker of recognition.
She was standing now, and Ichigo tore his eyes away from the damning mark on her face only to focus on her front: her robes were open, ragged and torn, exposing her torso from collarbone to navel. Drying blood painted itself across her scratched and bruised skin; Ichigo followed the trail down to her hip and realized, with a sick jolt, that it went lower than he himself could see. There were marks the size and shape of his own fingers marring the skin of her waist and what he could see of her breasts. Bile rose in his throat, panic and nausea bubbling together to overwhelm him.
"Rukia -" his voice cracked. "I'm so-"
"Don't say it!" Her voice was like a whip, cutting him off mid-word, venomous and impersonal.
What had he done? Rukia's dark eyes bored into his own, as if to say, Isn't it obvious?
"Oh God..." He buried his face in his hands, but recoiled as his left burned and throbbed; he felt blood, sticky and wet, on the side of his face.
"Get up." Rukia's voice was like steel. When Ichigo remained sitting, wretched and horror-struck, she took a step closer, her sword whispering against the neck of his shinigami robes. "Get up." She commanded once again. "We are going to Urahara's."
Ichigo stood up carefully; her sword remained dangerously close to his jugular, and he could feel an indescribable emotion rising to choke him: she didn't trust him. He couldn't blame her; he didn't trust himself, but it broke something within him nonetheless to see the absolute lack of emotion in her eyes. Fuck. There were no profanities strong enough to adequately curse the hollow within him for causing this...to curse himself with for being weak enough to let it out.
And so Ichigo walked before her with careful steps, shoulders bowed, eyes burning and throat aching, a headache lancing through his brain, no evidence whatsoever of the hollow. Not even a chuckle. It had done its job well.
A/N: I keep waiting for someone to review and call me a sick, twisted fuck for doing what I'm doing to these characters. I think that this chapter may just garner some of those. Oh God, Rukia, Ichigo, I'm so sorry...