Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Megumi would like to say there isn't a Jujutsu sorcerer alive who hadn't heard of the self-proclaimed Panther King of Curses. He would like to say, however, that he thinks something got exaggerated or mistranslated along the way.

“Tch,” the curse huffs with Itadori’s mouth as it kicks at the mushy, disintegrating remains of the dead second-grade, “not even fucking worth eating.”

The curse hasn't even spared Megumi a glance yet. He's not enough of a hopeful fool to believe that it's because it’s not aware of his presence yet, but he keeps any movements slow and still in a weak attempt to buy time for himself. 

What could he even do? Against a curse like this?

Megumi doesn't get the chance to plan, to even think, the curse’s attention turns to him now, burying him under the weight of its cursed energy with a stare like liquid blue fire. 

“What about you?” Grins the curse. “Are you strong?”

Its pupils are slit, thin slivers of black against a deep blue, the eyes themselves underlined with pointed turquoise markings. Crawling up its neck from under Itadori’s jacket are black rosette spots, its hands, tipped in flexing turquoise claws, are a solid black before dissolving into more rosettes that continue up into Itadori’s sleeves.

On its right cheek rests a mask-like jawbone, its teeth wicked and pointed to match the sharp canines peeking past the curse’s grin.

A grin that's interrupted by the curse’s own hand grabbing at its jaw and pulling it back.

“What do you think you're doing with my body?” Says the curse with Itadori’s voice. “Give it back.”

“Oh?” It drawls with the curse’s, a mix of confusion and interest and glee, “You can still move?”

“I mean, it's my body.”

What can Megumi do?

He can't tell if the one speaking is Itadori or the curse- 

(What he can.)

“Don't move. You're no longer human.” Megumi states with far more confidence than he feels as he draws up what cursed energy he can. “Under Jujutsu regulations, Itadori Yuuji, I will exorcise you as a curse!”

(Thankfully, he thinks with both gratitude and unbelievable amounts of dread, Gojo-sensei shows up and takes the matter out of Megumi’s hands entirely.)

Grimmjow isn't sure what to think of the whole situation.

Between being chopped up and sealed by those cowardly motherfuckers who refused to face him head on again to to being re-reincarnated into a fucking teenager, he’s had a thousand years of maddening semi-awareness to think and plot and plan and want to die of fucking boredom.

First; if those fuckers who sealed him are still somehow alive, he's going to fucking hunt them down and kill them. So fucking slowly.

It’s amazing that Grimmjow is still fucking sane. If not for the many centuries he had under his belt wandering Hueco Mundo as an Adjuchas and later as an Arrancar, who knows? Maybe he would’ve been batshit when he suddenly manifested in some random teenager.

Which brings him to his second concern; he suddenly manifested in some random fucking teenager.

What the fuck doesn't even begin to cover the many, many things Grimmjow is suddenly feeling towards that. He hadn't even been sure what would happen to him when he was sealed - because he knew death and this wasn't it - he’d expected it to end but he never really thought of the how or even the when and why.

Sure, he’d entertained the idea of another rebirth-type scenario but, this isn’t it. He couldn’t plan for this. 

Confined to a body that isn’t his. Inhabiting it like some sort of misplaced zanpakuto spirit. 

(No, he muses to himself, like Zangetsu.)

Third; he really wants to fight the rambling blindfolded motherfucker who just fucking appeared out of nowhere. 

He can see how the ambient reishi naturally flows around the man, strangely avoidant yet so elaborately entwined with his own at the same time. 

He's also a huge asshole, Grimmjow decides as he watches the man-child torment the black-haired kid. An asshole, but far from an idiot.

Sensei, the kid had called him, a teacher? Mentor? He must be. Grimmjow takes the opportunity to carefully listen to every damn word coming out of the man's mouth. This isn’t something he can rush into anymore, isn’t a problem he can solve with a punch through the chest. He needs to figure out where he sits in this, as a curse inhabiting a human. As something that shouldn’t exist where it does.

Badly, he would assume.

(“‘Too dangerous to live’.” Laughs a ghost from millennia passed. “That’s what they called us.” .)

“Sorry, but I ate it.”

Hold up, the brat fucking WHAT-

All in all, Satoru decides, the vessel looks remarkably stable for holding such an immense curse. They would have no trouble with passing for human, if standing on the edge of the punk/scene aesthetic with what was essentially bright turquoise eyeliner and nail polish.

The slit pupils will be lost in the vessel’s brown eyes, passed over by those not looking for them. The same could be said for the elongated canines.

Their cursed energy is strange too. If the kid had any naturally, it’s completely eclipsed by the curse’s which is kept tightly packed, rather than the more common free-flowing aura, and centres in both the navel and the right side of the vessel’s jaw.

Interesting.

“Can you swap out with Sukuna?” He asks.

There, a fluctuation in the curse’s energy, an angry flicker of blue across the vessel’s eyes.

The vessel blinks, little microexpressions of displeasure and confusion. “That's not his name.” It says, unsure in its information yet certain in their meaning.

Satoru smiles, a playful thing. “No,” he agrees, “I don't think it is.” For Ryomen Sukuna may have been what the human-turned-curse was born, yet it had claimed its own name when it rose again. A name that is so carefully missing from the histories. 

A denial of a legacy, one last insult to the sealed Panther King.

Turquoise energy flicks again, pleased. An expressive curse then, how quaint. 

It's like a cat, conveying nothing with their gaze and everything with their tail.

The vessel’s brows furrow and Satoru wonders if the pair are communicating, if the vessel can clearly hear the curse’s orders yet, if it will act upon them.

“I think I can,” they say, returning to the original subject.

Perfect.

Yuuji isn't exactly 100% sure what's going on but is doing a pretty solid job of just accepting what's happening at face value, if he does say so himself.

Idiot, scoffs the new voice in his head. It's deep and growly and reminds Yuuji of the stray cat he found one day that just looked at him and hissed without hesitation.

‘What?’ He pointedly thinks in the direction he’s pretty sure the voice is coming from, somewhere in the back-right of his skull. ‘ Are you some kinda genius or something?’ If he is then maybe Yuuji could leech a few braincells by proximity, or offend the dude with his own stupidity.

Fuck no. States voice-whose-name-is-very-much-not-Sukuna, tone sitting somewhere between amused and annoyed. Let me fight him. He says next, which has pretty much been on repeat since blindfold guy showed up.

Yuuji gives the equivalent of a mental shrug. Blindfold guy did basically give him permission to let out guy-who-never-actually-gave-his-name which made Fushiguro’s face do a weird looking twitch of annoyance. Which wasn’t that strange actually since Fushiguro seemed to be consistently in some state of annoyed-slash-done with the world around him.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out but the moment there's a bit of mental give, Yuuji is effectively shoved back into his own head. And wow, that feels weird.

It's even weirder to see, to feel. It's like he's in one of those really expensive cinemas watching a movie with booming surround sound and the classic plastic 3D glasses but at the same time he's also riding a rollercoaster that’s going through twists and turns and loops as dude-puppeting-Yuuji’s-human-body dances about swiping turquoise talons at blindfold guy.

But nothing ever hits, blindfold guy dodges every swat and strike like it's nothing. Like the thing in Yuuji’s body hadn't obliterated the curse he and Fushiguro had been about to die to with a single rip of claws that didn't even connect.

(And there had been a moment where his mind cinema had been staring at Fushiguro’s far too close face after blindfold guy dodged out of the way and there had been fear at the back of Yuuji’s mind and what if, what if? Because Fushiguro was hurt and tired but his body sharer hadn't even tried to attack the bleeding teen - easy target - in front of them-)

“My student’s watching,” says blindfold guy. It echoes through Yuuji’s left ear (it’s so loud, too loud) and he can feel the pressure from where blindfold guy is leaning against his human body. “So I’m going to show off a little.”

It's cocky, it's disrespectful, it's challenging and the curse using Yuuji’s body is losing and-

And Yuuji has heard nothing from the curse but gleeful laughter. Nothing but laughter as he is thrown about like a ragdoll. Nothing but laughter as blindfold guy is so clearly baiting him. So clearly humiliating-

“Fight me for real!” Shouts his body with the curse’s voice. The statement echoes both inside and outside Yuuji’s head -so loudloudloud-  as blindfold guy effortlessly sidesteps a blow that shatters a good portion of the building beneath them.

Fight me for real, the curse said, and Yuuji is abruptly made aware that blindfold guy isn’t trying.

“If I did, I would kill you.” Says blindfold guy, voice still the same carefree tenor and not sounding strained in the least.

“And?! I’ve died before!” Cackles the curse with his manic laughter. Like dying meant nothing to him. Maybe it didn't.

Blindfold guy laughs, “So you have.”

Yuuji doesn't know anything about the curse he contains in his body.

“And what name did you claim when you came back?” It’s curiosity and a mocking dig wrapped up in one. 

The world moved on without you. Yuuji hears. Your name wasn’t important enough to remember.

“I,” another swipe of claws, it shatters concrete and glass alike, “AM GRIMMJOW JAEGERJAQUES!”

It's pride and gloating and a challenge wrapped up in one.

‘Hajimemashita,’ Yuuji replies quietly, a little shocked, a little stunned. Both out of polite habit and not, unheard to all but one, ‘I’m Itadori Yuuji.’

The dust clears, blindfold guy is unharmed.

“Eight… Nine…” He counts, “Should be time.”

Yuuji pulls. He steps forward.

Hajimemashita. Responds Grimmjow, unheard to all but one. Yuuji can hear both the smirk and the growl in it. 

The curse is confined back into Yuuji.

And with a tap to the forehead, Yuuji is fading.

Fading, and yet-

Something pulls instead-

And yet-

Yuuji

              falls.

He lands on his back. He lands on sand white as bone and dead quartz trees around him. He lands with a black starless sky and a pale crescent moon watching him. 

He lands with a rib cage enclosed above him and a fortress of towers in the distance. 

“Well?” Drawls a lazy tone. “Are you going to just lay there?”

Yuuji very abruptly, and very quickly, gets to his feet. 

There’s a throne, raised above the sand surrounding it. 

There’s a throne, pale and white and tall and powerful. 

There’s a throne, and the curse is not sitting on it. 

It feels far too much like a statement to not be one. The curse sits at the foot of the throne instead, to the right and just in front of it, arm resting over a bent knee while the other leg hangs over the edge of the raised platform, lazily kicking. Like a cat flicking its tail as it’s figuring out whether you’re worth its attention. 

Grimmjow looks both completely at ease and coiled to strike. He looks like he’s guarding it. 

He’s wearing Yuuji’s body, dressed in a black hakama with a white trim and a matching open jacket with an empty scabbard on his hip. His feet are bare and black and match his hands, being tipped in sharp, curled claws. There are rosettes and jagged edges inked on his skin, his eyes are blue and underlined in turquoise, there’s a mask of bone on his cheek. 

And there’s a hole straight through his stomach. 

For all that he’s sharing Yuuji’s skin, it doesn’t feel at all like Yuuji’s staring in a mirror when he looks at Grimmjow. 

“Why the fuck am I here?” He asks with a scowl that doesn't look like it fits on Yuuji’s face.

It's such a general and all encompassing question that Yuuji actually has to give thought to what the curse is really asking. 

Why am I in your body? Why yours and why me? What did you do?

Yuuji doesn't think he has an answer the curse would like.

Because I needed the cursed energy. Because I was weak. Because Fushiguro was down for the count and I had to do something to help.

Apparently he can't conjure up an answer quick enough for the curse’s liking, or maybe it’s been listening to his half formed thoughts and found them unsatisfactory. Yuuji watches Grimmjow get to his feet, all languid and graceful, and stare down at him with far too many emotions for Yuuji to name. 

Disappointment? Disgust? Disinterest?

Yuuji doesn't get the time to think on it further as Grimmjow chooses the moment to launch himself forward with a strength that shatters the platform under him. Yuuji, barely able to dodge the first swipe of claws, doesn't manage at all to block the kick that sends him flying across the dunes and smacking into the rib cage. It cracks behind him.

He’s fought before; whether it was the wrestling club, the karate club, the aikido club, or another that wanted him for his strength and their competitions. Half of them didn’t enjoy taking no for an answer so was it really Yuuji’s fault if he beat them up to leave him alone? 

Well, the clubs didn’t give up, so Yuuji didn’t stop learning to fight. 

This isn’t that. This isn’t a fight. This is little more than a beating.

That’s not to say Yuuji doesn’t try, he does his best to block hits he can barely see but that means nothing to the claws that leave him bleeding or the impacts that leave him bruising. 

It’s a complete reversal to what he saw earlier, where Grimmjow had been the one whose hits always missed. Now they never did. Grimmjow blasted through what little defence Yuuji raised -if he could raise any- and Yuuji was becoming incredibly familiar with the feel of the sharp sand that dug into his skin and clogged his clothes.

Grimmjow isn't even laughing this time.

Regardless, everything ends eventually.

It ends with Yuuji sore and tired and tasting blood from a bitten cheek. 

It ends with Yuuji held up by his jacket against what's left of the throne’s raised platform.

It ends with Yuuji staring at the curse wearing his own face and seeing nothing but a blank expression.

“Why?” Grimmjow asks again. Yuuji plays the struggle but is too exhausted to do more than weakly grab at Grimmjow’s arm or kick his feet.

“Because I was weak.” He says tonelessly, and a little pathetic. “Because I didn't want to die. Because I wanted to protect Fushiguro and my senpai. Because I needed to be strong. Because I needed to win.” He lists. “Pick one.”

Grimmjow makes a sort of short growling sound without changing his expression.

Yuuji lets himself give another weak kick. It smears sand across Grimmjow’s darks. It's the first hit he's gotten on the curse since they started.

“Look,” Yuuji tries, “I didn't know curses existed ‘till a few hours ago! It's not like I intended for whatever this is to happen, Fushiguro said that only curses could exorcise curses and I improvised!

“I didn't mean for you to get caught up in anything but at least you're not dead anymore, if you were dead before? I don't know, you said you'd died before but-”

Yuuji’s feet are back on the ground, the hand Grimmjow isn't using to keep ahold of Yuuji comes up and scrubs at the curse’s face. It's a very why the fuck is this happening to me gesture that’s only emphasised by Grimmjow’s mutterings that are about 80% cursing and ends in a groaned “fucking Kurosaki” which means absolutely nothing to Yuuji.

Slitted blue eyes return to Yuuji. “You don't even know who I am, do ya? Not the way that your pal or the blindfolded motherfucker did.”

Personally Yuuji thinks blindfold guy is a little nicer sounding but then again who’s Yuuji to judge.

“Nope. Uh, sorry? I guess?” He apologises.

The next sound Grimmjow makes is another growly sigh-groan that makes Yuuji’s ears want to twitch, now that they're not ringing anymore. With that thought, all the aches and pains from his… fight are slowly but surely dispersing.

“Are… are you healing me?” Grimmjow’s hand hadn't fully let go of him yet, instead it's moved to be pressing against his chest with tiny coiling wisps of blue coming off the claws.

“Short answer; yes. I was,” Grimmjow’s face scrunches up, “angry.”

“...Is that your version of an apology?”

“Shut up.”

“It looked like it hurt to say.”

“Do you want me to beat the shit out of you again?”

“Not particularly?”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

(Unluckily for Grimmjow, Yuuji is an incredibly chatty teenager.)

“Hey,” the brat starts up again, looping back from where he’d been looking at one of the cracked ribs that was slowly putting itself back together. “Why’d blindfold guy knock me out?”

Grimmjow groaned from his perch at the foot of the dumb fucking throne. The brat was ignorant and naive, though it seemed to not be by choice since he was slowly but surely getting out all his questions (Wait, how old are you? Why do you look like me? Were you really going to eat that curse?). Especially since Grimmjow had let loose that Itadori’s presence was more of a kindness (gross) than a formality seeing that the alternative was returning the brat to unconsciousness, which the brat had denied (“If that’s alright with you? I mean, if I’m not intruding or anything?”).

“Because, brat,” he explains, “while as a witness, you’d usually be treated as a variable, but you now house me which makes you a threat. And as a threat, let alone a vessel, you’ll be facing an execution.”

Was it harsh? Of course, why the fuck would Grimmjow ever pull his punches? But did the kid need to hear it? Absolutely.

“However, even as I am now,” disgustingly weak, low on reiatsu, Pantera missing - likely sealed, “there would be few - if any - sorcerers in the immediate area who would be able to exorcise me - blindfold motherfucker aside. That fucker got all the advantages of his clan’s selective breeding - so they’ll take all the time they can while you're out to figure out what they’re going to do with us.”

Itadori swallows. “Us?” He asks, a little wary.

And that's the point isn't it. Vessels were rare, disgustingly rare, compatible vessels even moreso. Should Itadori be executed, who’s to say how long Grimmjow would again be sealed for, a century, another millennia, more? Fuck that. And Grimmjow doubted the kid was keen on dying either.

(Brat was far too young, the last thing Grimmjow needed to see was another child soldier break under war again.)

Bottom line, Grimmjow was a babysitter now. Great.

“Us.” He confirms. “Given that I’m not keen on being sealed for another fucking thousand years, your survival is now my survival. Congrats, brat. We’re stuck with each other.”

There’s no definitive reaction from the kid, which, fair, Grimmjow did just dump a lot of heavy information on him, but there's a recognisable clenching of the fists that Grimmjow knows.

“You’re not gonna let them kill me?”

Grimmjow grins, “Ya aren’t done fighting yet, brat.”

Itadori takes a shaky breath. “Promise?”

Grimmjow rolls his eyes but answers anyway, “Sure, kid. Promise.”

Only then does the kid seem to finally relax, like Grimmjow had lifted the weight of the world from his shoulders.

(Good.)

“That said,” he starts, stretching his senses outward, “I think they’re waiting for you to wake up now. You need to act like we never spoke.”

“What?” The brat starts at that. “Why?”

“Because then you’ll get the sorcerer’s unbiased opinions on this bullshit and in turn, they won’t think you’ve been influenced by me which would only ever be bad for you. You need to figure out who you can trust, what allies, if any, we have.”

“Oh, like ‘ looking underneath the underneath’?” The brat asks with a stupid ass grin, like Grimmjow is supposed to know what that means, before it turns into a frown. “They really don't like you, do they?”

Grimmjow doesn't bother to hold back his laughter. “Oh, you have no idea, brat.” He waves his hand, dismissing the kid back to consciousness. “Give me the body if I need to bust us out. We’ll talk later.”

There's a protest of sorts on the kid’s lips but he doesn't get the chance to voice it. With that, Grimmjow lounges back against the foot of the throne and settles in to listen.

He can already hear Kurosaki’s ghost laughing at him, who the fuck would choose to put Grimmjow on babysitting duty?

Gojo Satoru, a suspended execution, Suku- Grimmjow’s claws, he corrected mentally. (Grimmjow was apparently picky about who could and couldn't know his ‘real’ name, something about spite that Gojo-san somehow figured out on his own since he only ever called Grimmjow Grimmjow when it was just the two -three- of them.)

It was… a lot to take in.

It was like Grimmjow had said, in the end they wanted the both of them dead.

Not gonna happen, the curse drawls. Yuuji hadn't pursued the topic, there was too much for him to think about.

You're a strong kid, so help others, echoes jii-san.

Yuuji works past the lump in his throat and tends to jii-san’s bones.

“If all the parts of Grimmjow were gone,” he starts, as if he actually had a choice in the matter, “would there be fewer people who get harmed by curses?”

“Of course,” states Gojo-san. Common knowledge said his tone.

In his head, Grimmjow was hissing curses at the man, something Yuuji was certain he was going to have to get used to with how often the Jujutsu sorcerers in general were setting him off.

Either way, if the sorcerers were dead set - ha… - on killing them then they needed to get stronger.

“Do you still have that claw?”

The man did, even handed it over unprompted. It was wicked and curved, about as large as Yuuji’s pinkie in full, and a deep black-flecked muted cyan in colour rather than the solid shade of turquoise his own nails had become. 

It was also speckled with bits of rotted black flesh at the base of the bone.

“Gross,” Yuuji feels the need to comment.

I can’t fucking believe you ate one willingly, is Grimmjow’s observation.

‘They’re your claws.’ Yuuji points out, turning the claw over. There’s even what looks like old blood dried and sealed beneath the quick.

Exactly! That means I fucking know where they’ve been!

Yuuji did his best to suppress both a shiver and a scowl, ‘You’re not helping.’

(He swallowed the claw.

And prepared for transferring schools.)

“Hah? So you're not the boss?” Asks the maw of bone on Itadori’s cheek. “What use is all that strength of yours if you let yourself be ruled by the weak?”

“Oi!” Protests his future student (regardless of Masamichi’s opinion, the higher ups weren’t about to let Itadori Yuuji go freely), clamping a hand over the jaws to hold them shut. “Sorry, sensei. He likes his opinion known.”

“Quite the amusing body you have now.” Satoru acknowledges, watching curiously as the maw dissolves back into cursed energy only to reappear on the back of Yuuji’s hand, all sharp fangs and bone intact.

“What use is a king who can’t protect his kingdom?” Asks the biting jaws, more to Itadori than himself, “Why bow to those weaker than you?” And back to Satoru, “I’ll just kill you next time we fight, then!”

“It’s an honour to be targeted by the Panther King.” Satoru hums, ignoring the (well placed and rather well deserved) jabs at the higher ups. It paints a rather interesting picture for the curse and how it rose to power, since the specific records of the time remain to be suspiciously vague or missing entirely from the archives, leaving only the broad strokes of history behind.

Strong curse bad, exorcise on sight, etcetera, etcetera. 

Not-so-secretly, he’d hoped that dropping the news of ‘Ryomen Sukuna’s’ vessel on the higher ups would be enough to make at least some of them keel over with heart attacks. But alas, no dice, not even so soon after his last ‘scandal’ with dear Yuuta-kun and Rika-chan.

(As for ruling, well the Jujutsu world isn't nearly ready enough for a coup-de-Satoru.)

Itadori pulls the maw from his hand with a carelessness that spoke of having familiarised himself with the action. Curious, given that there had only been a scant few moments where the vessel had been left alone.

Detached, the jaw dissolves.

“So he’s really that famous?” Asks naive little Yuuji-kun. “Was he really a king?”

“Under his first name, of course,” Satoru agrees, watching the irritated flicker of energy. How rude of the ancient elders indeed, to deny Grimmjow Jaegerjaques its name and legacy, and here is Gojo Satoru poking at the wasps nest with a stick. 

“Ryomen Sukuna,” poke poke, goes Satoru with his stick, “is a fierce imaginary god with three tails and three faces. But he’s actually a human that really existed, though it was over a thousand years ago.”

He watches both Itadori and Grimmjow’s cursed energy as he speaks an abridged, bland tale of biassed history books. Itadori listens well, but the energy hissing about him says that Grimmjow is less than pleased with the retelling.

What do you know? Asks Satoru with his stick poised, unable to leave well enough alone. Tell me, tell me.

“Who’s stronger,” Itadori asks without looking at Satoru, “you or him?”

Satoru hums. The vessel is curious, sure, but Satoru gets the feeling that that's not the only reason he’s asking.

“If Grimmjow regained all of its power,” he says, “it might be a little draining.”

The curse’s energy flickers, crackling like a live flame. “Would you lose?” Grimmjow’s vessel asks.

Ah, Satoru thinks.

“I’d win.”

It’s wary.

The vessel is unhindered by the dark, Masamichi observes as the boy’s head flicks all about, trying to keep the cursed corpse in sight even if he can't quite keep up with it yet.

The vessel’s reasoning is finicky, unsound, yet there is a conviction behind each of his words. So he continues to barb the boy as he relights the candles, Satoru may be fine in the dark but Masamichi eyesight isn't exactly what it used to be.

“Are you going to blame your grandfather when you're killed by a curse, too?”

That, at least, is enough to get a response. Enough of a response that he sees Satoru take a slow step forward in the corner of his eye, and Masamichi can feel it. The cursed energy in the room just rose.

The vessel growls, it's a near animalistic snarl with bared teeth and sharp claws. When Masamichi’s cursed corpse shoots in for the attack, the vessel pounces, the two rolling across the floor with stuffing and drops of blood flying.

“I’m not dying yet.” The vessel states from his place above the corpse, pinning it to the ground. There's blood on those fangs of his, a small trail dripping down the boy’s chin, likely the result of an unlucky punch from Masamichi’s cursed corpse leading to a bitten cheek. Idly, he wonders how sharp those teeth must be, to draw that much blood with something that couldn't have been more than a nick.

But the vessel isn't done talking, so Masamichi sets in to listen.

Yuuji spends a good two hours unpacking and organising the few things he could bring from his apartment into his new dorm, knowing that if he didn't do it immediately he would do it never. After that, he’d gone on to bother Fushiguro for a bit and raid the kitchen for some sort of dinner before returning to his room again.

He’d been putting off thinking about it for a while but today had been… a lot. The last two days have been a lot.

Yuuji huffs out a breath in front of the bathroom mirror and gets to work on refamiliarising himself with, well, himself. With everything that's happened he feels like he needs proof, some sort of evidence that regardless of it, he’s still him.

That Yuuji is still Yuuji.

He leans in, studying his reflection, and brings up a hand to rub at the turquoise under his eyes. Just in case it wasn't permanent.

(It is, it's all permanent, your life has an expiry, you're on borrowed time-)

“Your dumb fucking hair doesn't match my colours at all.” Says the maw on Yuuji’s right cheek. His right eye has turned blue, too, slit pupil obvious now that it's no longer blending in.

“It's not like I asked my hair to be the colour it is.” Yuuji protests before getting distracted by his teeth. He'd been feeling that they were different all day but he hadn't been able to actually look at them yet.

“That’s natural?” Asks Grimmjow, who sounds a little sceptical.

“Yes.” Yuuji groans, “The teachers at school always complained about it, like I was trying to be some sort of delinquent.” Of course all the fights that various clubs pulled him into didn't help that reputation at all but whatever, that wasn't his fault. “Why? What was yours?”

The curse takes a moment to reply. “Blue.”

Yuuji chuckles, “And that was natural?” He leans back and opens his mouth, checking out his new vampire teeth from every angle. They look sharp, he's only half surprised when he tests a tooth on his thumb that it breaks the skin with barely any pressure, a bead of blood trickling to the surface.

“Careful with those.” Grimmjow huffs.

Yuuji licks the blood from his thumb and hums, grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste because no matter what; teeth are teeth.

“Gonna take me a while to get used to,” he says, “I already cut my mouth open like four times in the doll fight alone.”

“So get better.” Is Grimmjow’s unhelpful advice.

Yuuji smothers his own reply with a mouthful of toothpaste but still thinks ‘bastard’ loud enough that he hopes the curse hears it. Judging by the growl Grimmjow lets reverberate through Yuuji’s skull, he did.

Which brings Yuuji to another point; ‘Hey, did you mess with my hearing?’ Things had been weirdly loud since he had swallowed the first claw but he hadn't really thought of it since. ‘I know my eyes are definitely better now, but things are louder too.’

“I didn't mess with shit, you just got my base senses.” Grimmjow huffs. “If anything, I’m dampening them for you, lest your idiot brain explode from overload or some shit.”

Yuuji attempts to retaliate by shoving his toothbrush in Grimmjow’s bone-mouth but only ends up smearing toothpaste against his own cheek when the maw dissolves itself instead.

“Mean.” He says after spitting out his mouthful, ignoring Grimmjow’s provoking laughter.

Yuuji washes out his mouth and rubs off the spread toothpaste, swallowing down a few mouthfuls of water while he's at it and wiping his mouth with his shirt as he rises.

With the edge of his shirt pulled up to his mouth, Yuuji’s reflection makes him freeze.

Huh, is Grimmjow’s helpful observation, so you got that too.

There's a hole straight through his stomach.

Chapter Text

The river has risen again, he observes. They’d had nothing but heavy rain for a solid week and the dour atmosphere had the curses thriving on it. He isn’t complaining of course, that's a job for the other idiot sorcerers. No, in fact he welcomes them.

Welcomes the chaos of an open battle, of blood spilt and convictions sought.

Welcomes the chance to fight because there's always been an itch for it that craves and craves regardless of how he can't quite sate it. A constant growl for something more.

His fingers tap a nonsense rhythm against the katana on his hip as he ponders. He could use a good fight, maybe a pack of first-grades, a special-grade if he’s lucky. Something that will let his blood howl beneath his skin, something for the thing roaring in his head to gorge it's fill on.

Tap, clink, clink, tap, go his fingers against the hilt.

In the flowing river, his distorted reflection stares back. He keeps expecting something to look different every time he checks, the dumbasses that are forced to interact with him always have something smart to say when they find him doing nothing but staring into his own eyes from the blade of his katana.

Tap, clink. 

‘Obsessed with himself and his sword’ the few brave enough to approach him would laugh, before he’d beat the shit out of them just to see how brave they really were. It was hardly a secret that he was despised. Too wild, too feral, the higher ups called him, yet they would only titter and scold when he drew his blade against them in challenge. Cowards.

Clink, tap.

They used to try and domesticate him, when they pulled the dirty street rat away from the corpse of the semi-first-grade curse they’d been sent to exorcise muttering about ‘talent’ and ‘large amounts of cursed energy’ and ‘possible clan bastard.’ They tried dressing him up in pretty kimono, gave him to some poor, miserable clan-wife who served him tea and tried to indoctrinate him into the Jujutsu world. Like a perfectly blind little sorcerer.

Clink. 

When that fell through, they treated him as a weapon instead. ‘Put that sword of yours to use, boy’ they said. Oh, he took to it, and took to it well, but he hated every moment of it. He wasn't meant to live under someone's thumb, it made his hand clench around his blade and the thing in his head roar and scream.

Tap.

He doesn't remember where he got the sword, just that he’d always had it, his first memory is his own eyes reflected back at him through the blade. He remembers thinking he looked wrong, that he looked more human than he should. That something like him shouldn’t fit in human skin.

Tap, clink, tap.

The thing in his head agrees with a rumbling purr.

Tap, clink…

He huffs and draws the blade. It's lighter than a normal katana should be and feels more like an extension of himself than an actual sword, but then again normal wasn’t exactly a sound baseline in the Jujutsu world. (Not when the Kamos threw about their own blood and the Gojos were obsessed with inbreeding until one of them got their special eyes.)

Especially when it feels like the katana is listening to him, like the growls and howling roars he’s always been hearing in the back of his mind almost sound like a name. When the blade was all he had when he was a child starving in the streets living off whatever scraps he could stab, whether that ended up being animals, or curses.

“Sukuna!” Calls one of those uptight Zenin fuckers that like to pretend he’s no better than the curses they exorcise, something he's pleased someone else has picked up on. “New orders for you.”

(Be wary of the beast shaped like a man.)

He sheaths his nameless katana and turns away from the rushing river.

“Fucking get on with it then.” The sorcerer called Ryomen Sukuna growls.

Nobara’s first thought, on meeting Itadori Yuuji, is that he clearly has no sense of fashion (come on, blue? Turquoise?? With that hair??). Her second is that, no, he actually has no fucking sense at all (what do you MEAN he’s the vessel of the Panther King??). Her third, he’s just straight up an idiot.

She wishes the sigh she lets out would carry away all her woes, set them free upon the wind. Clear thoughts to bring clear skin and whatnot.

Good lord, this is her life now, time to deal with the bullshit as it comes.

The girl’s got spunk, he’ll give her that. Definitely wild enough to keep the brat and the other one in check whilst also being just enough of an idiot to fit in. Reminds him of Nelliel, a rather annoying thought.

Oh fucking hell-

Have you always been able to do that? He projects to the brat after he punches through fucking concrete like it's nothing, something very much considered weird for a regular human with no cursed energy.

Grimmjow isn't exactly keen on going through the brat’s memories to find the answers for his fucking growing list of questions - too much of a dick move, in his opinion. Makes him feel too much like that fucker - so he files away the mystery of Itadori’s parentage with the rest. The mere fact that the kid is such a perfect vessel for him suggests manipulations at best, an idea that doesn't thrill Grimmjow in the least.

He really hopes Itadori isn't some backdoor scientist’s experiment left to roam free before becoming a war weapon when it's convenient. The brat already has enough help reminding Grimmjow of Kurosaki on his own and each growing similarity both makes Grimmjow want to fucking stab someone as much as it feels like someone is stabbing him.

‘It’s just concrete?’ The kid sends back, making Grimmjow want to bang his head against the armrest of the throne he's leaning against.

Is this what it's going to be like now? Dealing with a manic, naturally overpowered brat? Fuck, maybe he should have had more than three conversations with Kurosaki Isshin before they left the Material World behind.

But then again, Kurosaki’s opinion of his father wasn't exactly encouraging and Grimmjow wasn't even thinking of entertaining the idea of a child at the time let alone being responsible for one because that was a Thing now, what the fuck.

Fuck he needed a fight, due fucking two days ago at least. He doubted the brat was going to let him out long enough to seek one out, if he's lucky to be let out at all - a thought process he'd been carefully ignoring and is happy to continue doing so, shoving all that anger in to a bloody little Cero and firing it off into the distance. It tears through several dunes before detonating beautifully, leaving behind large crystal-like peaks that could pass for glass if he didn't know what the dunes themselves were made of.

Hmm, stronger than he remembers, proof that his power didn't stop growing even when he was sealed. Good.

By the time the shockwave reaches all the way back to Grimmjow, he can keep pretending that it helped at all. Worst comes to worst, he can activate the Domain but he doubts he has the reiatsu to summon any real fight it could bring.

‘Did something just happen?’

Fucking hell he forgot about the brat.

“Can we talk?” Yuuji asks the ceiling of his dorm, after what he considers to have been enough procrastinating. 

He's been laying back on his bed alternating between being on his phone and straight up twiddling his thumbs for about an hour since they all got back after their sushi trip. Kugisaki had retired immediately, detailing an impressive sounding skincare routine, while Fushiguro had quickly - and rather pointedly - sent them off with a goodnight before shutting himself in his dorm. And Yuuji had… dawdled, to be honest.

The dorm wasn't home yet, and who knows if it ever would be, and almost but didn't quite register as a safe space yet either. Sure Yaga-kocho and Gojo-sensei were nice and didn't particularly act like they were going go back on their choice for him to be not-executed-yet and instead executed-now but-

Then talk.

Yuuji takes a breath and cuts off that train of thought again.

“I meant, like, in person?”

Grimmjow doesn't respond with words but there's a very raised eyebrow feeling coming across followed by a solid shrug and then Yuuji is falling again.

In an attempt to not land on his back and completely wind himself again, he manages to land solely on his ass which hurts probably just as much. Ow. 

“Well that’s one thing you’ll need to work on.”

“Shaddap,” Yuuji groans out. The desert hadn't changed much, though there were some rather huge, impressive looking glass sculptures in the distance that were slowly breaking apart, kicking up clouds of sand in their wake.

In front of him, Grimmjow is prowling, pacing in front of the throne, glancing at Yuuji barely a quarter as much as he's glaring at anything else in his vicinity. Fortress, throne, desert, Yuuji, throne, glass, fortress, ribs.

Grimmjow scoffs, or huffs? Snorts? Makes some sort of animalistic equivalent of all three at once, “You’re the one that wanted to… talk.”

Yeah, it sounded a little weak to Yuuji too. He just didn't want to admit he was fleeing.

The desert just felt… secure, in a way that his dorm didn't.

(And Grimmjow had promised.)

His hand rests over his stomach, over the void in his belly as his eyes trace its twin on the pacing curse. 

“Are you okay?” Yuuji asks before the logical left brain can pipe in with a maybe don't set off the agitated curse?

Grimmjow honest to god just growls back, teeth bared and everything. Paces, paces, eyes to the throne, glass, Yuuji, fortress, and on. No verbal response yet at least.

Yuuji… lets it happen, he takes a metaphorical step back and just lets the man pace. He doesn't keep track of the time but it's a while before Grimmjow snaps out of his pacing with a sound that's almost a roar.

Grimmjow spins on the spot, pupils thin and sharp and fierce. “Fight me.” He says.

What.

“What.”

Fight? Fight Grimmjow? Grimmjow who had absolutely no trouble beating the crap out of him a few days ago? Grimmjow who could crush him into crumbs between his fingers like a particularly disappointing biscuit with little effort? That Grimmjow?

“What.” He says again because his brain had done a full circle and really wasn't giving him anything else to work with.

Grimmjow huffs, jumping down from the raised podium. He lands in front of Yuuji - who debates for a second on whether he should take a step back in response but ultimately doesn't, there's something to say about his dwindling self preservation instincts there - stirring up a small cloud of sand.

“Fight me.”

Ah, yes, that clears up nothing, thank you, Grimmjow.

“Dude, you might not have noticed while you were beating the crap out of me,” Yuuji confesses, “but you kinda beat the crap out of me.”

If anything the statement makes Grimmjow’s scowl morph into a smirk. “All the more reason to get better, brat.”

This feels like the beginning of a pattern. That's incredibly ominous.

“Spar with me, then.”

And that? That's different. Because fight sounded entirely different from spar coming from Grimmjow, different enough that Yuuji actually starts considering it. He swears he can hear the last of his self preservation die with a final choked out ‘ you're a fucking moron’. 

It even sounds like Fushiguro, who Yuuji knows for a fact would probably be ranting something along the lines of “no, no, don't do you that, you idiot, no” if he knew what was going on. As is, Fushiguro isn't here.

Yuuji flexes his hands, an unconscious mirror of Grimmjow’s, and says, “Okay.”

And it wasn't nearly as bad as Yuuji had expected it to be. Grimmjow moved as slow as he could bring himself to be, strikes both readable and giving Yuuji enough time to figure out what he wanted to do with them. Of course that didn't mean Grimmjow was in any way a nice sparring partner. Even with his blows so clearly held back, Yuuji could feel the bruises forming and blood beading from the shallow swipe of claws, regardless of Yuuji’s guarding.

He caught several blows to the left side of his ribs before he caught on that he was leaving that side open, likewise getting tripped up until he started using his legs.

“Again.” Grimmjow would demand with a grin.

And Yuuji would get up with a smile. He was so far from winning and Grimmjow’s skin makes it feel like Yuuji’s punching solid marble but that didn't even matter to him, it was fun.

“Again.”

And Grimmjow would get a little faster each time, a little more manic.

“Again.”

There's blood running from Yuuji’s nose, Grimmjow is largely unscathed. He's laughing.

“Again.”

They both are. High on the adrenaline rush.

When Yuuji hits the ground next he's on the wrong side of exhausted to try and get up again, yet he finds himself feeling sated. Grimmjow comes to stand over him, breathing a little heavily but nowhere near panting. The curse grins.

“Again.”

But it's not get up, it's let’s do this again.

Yuuji huffs, satisfied and drained.

“Yeah,” he smiles.

Grimmjow crouches down, splaying a hand over Yuuji’s maybe-but-most-likely cracked ribs with soothing blue energy wisping about.

“Get some rest, idiot.”

Yuuji doesn't even get a mumbled thanks out. There's a brief sensation of falling before Yuuji sinks into a soft mattress without complaint. He uses what spare energy he has left to bury himself under the covers and passes out.

He sleeps more soundly than he has in days.

It becomes a pattern. A routine.

Yuuji would lay back in bed, send a wordless question through his mind and Grimmjow would pull him down.

“Again.” The curse would demand with a grin.

“Again.” Yuuji would agree.

And off they went.

It’s like that for two weeks.

There's a noticeable improvement to Itadori’s sparring capabilities, and Megumi knows better than to attribute it to Gojo-sensei’s teachings.

“What do you see, Megumi-chan?” Asks the idiot sensei himself.

Megumi spares him a glance. Gojo-sensei, as predicted, is splayed across as much space as he can physically take up with a combination of the man’s gangly limbs and practised man-spreading, yet his covered gaze hasn't looked away from the field beneath them.

There’s something in the man’s tone, that rare bout of seriousness that comes about once a month or so, that has Megumi turning back to his two classmates. Kugisaki is by no means bad at hand-to-hand, but paired against Itadori - who apparently never had any sort of formal training - it's very clear who has the upper hand.

“Would you say Itadori-kun’s fighting style is… familiar?” Gojo-sensei asks next.

Familiar?

He sets in to watch. Watches the swing of Itadori’s fists, the hunch of his shoulders, the balance of his footwork, the prowl- oh.

Megumi has seen the King of Curses in action once. An incredibly up-close-and-personal-front-seat-extraordinaire type of experience that he could only watch because literally what else could he have done. It's not something that would be erased from his memory anytime soon. So yeah, it's familiar.

That could be a problem.

“Is Itadori being influenced?” He questions. 

Gojo-sensei draws out a long and irritating hmm. Below them, Itadori scores a hit across Kugisaki’s face which devolves into a lot of yelling from Kugisaki while a pale-faced Itadori falls into a reverent dogeza as he begs for forgiveness, spar forgotten by the both of them. Idiots.

“Maa, that remains to be seen.” Remarks Gojo-sensei, getting to his feet and clapping his hands to command the attention he isn't receiving. “Now! My cute little students, your amazingly powerful sensei will be away on a mission tomorrow! Remember to eat your veggies and be good! Megumi-chan is in charge!”

Infuriating man.

“How does someone have three faces?”

It takes Grimmjow effort to look away from Las Noches sitting idly in the distance.

Now that the brat is here frequently enough to drag Grimmjow out of his boredom-induced lazing, it's even more annoying to have it out of reach. He could probably shift the Domain, return the throne to its rightful place when he gets the time. 

The brat would probably get a kick out of exploring Las Noches anyway, he'd already watched Itadori try several times to reach the fortress without making any progress. The curious little shit that he is.

The fucking rib cage is an annoyance. The physical manifestation of his body-prison, not that the brat’s aware of it. Would it raise itself above the fortress to contain it all? Or would it dig itself in? He doesn't know which option annoys him more.

“What are you talking about now, brat?”

Apparently Itadori has taken the open invitation to his Domain as permission to stay and be annoying long after the end of their spars. Fuck forbid if he learns how to get into the Domain on his own.

Tch, whatever. As long as Grimmjow isn't stewing in boredom for the rest of his existence.

“Well, Gojo-sensei said you had three faces,” Itadori says, looking up from where he's propped up against the podium beneath him. The kid frowns. “But he also said you have three tails.”

“I’m not in control of how fucking poetic old people want to be with their wording.” Grimmjow huffs. “They’re not technically wrong though.”

Itadori’s brows scrunch together. “So you… do have tails?”

“Yes.”

“And you're trapped in my body, and only I can let you out,” the brat trails off into mumbles while Grimmjow repeatedly chants “don’t kill the kid” to himself. “...Are you a bijuu?”

“The fuck’s a bijuu?”

“-Wait, no, that doesn't explain the face thing.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“My guess is that the phrase came from the three levels of power I would present myself as, each fucking different from the last.”

“Ohhh.” The brat marvells, despite Grimmjow knowing for a fact that the kid didn't understand a word of that at all. “Like a Super Saiyan?”

Okay, you know what-

“If you're able to try thinking again then clearly we haven't sparred enough. Get the fuck up.”

“Aw, come on- wait- Grimm-!”

“Is that morse?” Asks Kugisaki, grabbing Fushiguro’s attention along the way.

Yuuji pauses, staring at where his fingers had been tapping against the table with a frown.

“I have no idea.”

Fushiguro gives him a weird look for that while Kugisaki interjects with a pointed “how do you not know whether you know morse or not?” while she waves her spoon at him.

“Well, I mean, I’ve never learnt it?” Which is also true. “How do you even know it was morse?”

Kugisaki huffs, “That's why I was asking you, baka!”

Ah, Fushiguro’s doing that sigh thing again that makes Yuuji feel like he disappointed a parent.

Wait- is that why sensei left him in charge?

Who the fuck else would deal with you two idiots?

‘You?’

Fuck off.

“Mean.” Yuuji pouts. In his head, Grimmjow hisses like a cat. Yuuji tries to visualise dumping a bucket of water on the man. It must do something because it sets Grimmjow off on an absolute tirade of cursing.

Maybe he is a cat, he thinks, which prompts the rest of his brain to catch up with the reasoning of ‘ well he is called the Panther King’ followed by ‘oh that makes sense’.

Yuuji was thinking Sanbi when he should have been thinking Nibi. Ahh, but then the tails don't add up again.

Yuuji needs to watch more anime. He needs more source material.

“Itadori?”

“Hm?” Yuuji snaps out of his theorising, turning his attention back to his classmate.

Fushiguro is watching him with furrowed brows from the other side of the table. “Have you… been talking to the curse?”

Yuuji blinks. “Um…”

UHH.

His hesitance is probably telling enough on its own, what with Fushiguro closing his eyes and taking a careful breath like he’s secretly praying to the gods for unyielding patience.

Yeah, Fushiguro is absolutely the parent of the group.

No shit.

‘Shaddap.’ Yuuji sends back before wavering. ‘What should I say?’

Grimmjow’s hum feels like it reverberates through Yuuji’s mind. Soothing and grounding at the same time.

That depends on you, brat. Insists the curse. I said that you would have to figure out who to trust, what allies we have. Do you trust them?

Yuuji’s gaze flicks between his classmates. Fushiguro and his patientwaryconcerned gaze waiting for his answer, Kugisaki by the sink, washing her dishes and pretending she isn't listening to their conversation.

He takes a breath, and shrugs. Emanating a carefree air. “It's not like I can shut him up.”

Brat.

At least his blaise attitude bleeds some of the tension from Fushiguro’s shoulders.

“Just,” Fushiguro starts, stops, and starts again, “just be aware that it could be influencing you. Manipulating you.”

As if. Grimmjow’s scoff is loud enough that Yuuji almost thought he had manifested himself to complain. I don't have the patience for manipulation. I don't fucking play that long game bullshit. Which was pretty in line for what Yuuji already knows of Grimmjow.

Even since the beginning, the curse had had a real sort of no-nonsense, get-shit-done attitude. It was almost comforting in a way. If Grimmjow had a problem with Yuuji it would probably be solved with fighting and/or immediate yelling.

Like it already had been… several times…

Shut the fuck up.

‘I mean, am I wrong?’

There was no reply, Yuuji takes that as a win.

“It's fine, Fushiguro.” He placates instead. “If anything happens I’ll make sure to complain about it. Loudly.”

Fushiguro doesn't look happy per say with that answer but he does settle a little more.

“Or you could, you know, be less annoying.” Pipes up Kugisaki as she returns to the table.

Yuuji can't help his sputtering. “Wh- I’m not annoying! Fushiguro am I annoying?”

Yes.

“You’re biassed! It doesn't count!”

“You're all annoying.” States Fushiguro, already pulling out his phone so he can ignore them all.

Yuuji makes a very manly sound of complaint that doesn't sound at all like a wounded animal. No sir. He also doesn't hear Grimmjow’s ‘keep dreaming, brat,’ of course not. That would be mean.

“Pardon the intrusion.”

Yuuji also very clearly notices the new person’s approach and doesn't yelp in surprise, stop laughing, Grimmjow! Kugisaki was startled too!

“Ijichi-san.” Fushiguro greets calmly, continuing to ignore everyone else in the room.

Ijichi-san, apparently, looks like a well put together adult which Yuuji feels like they all need right now.

“Apologies,” the man bows to the room, a little wide-eyed and surprised by the sheer chaos Yuuji and Kugisaki had been brewing for the last minute. “I am Ijichi Kiyotaka, I’m here to escort Fushiguro Megumi, Kugisaki Nobara and Itadori Yuuji. You’ve all been requested for a mission.”

Finally, some entertainment.

Yuuji can hear the grin in the curse’s voice.

He still keeps his window shut.

It's been nearly a year since Aizen, a month since Grimmjow had finished gorging himself on enough Hollows to fully heal, and two weeks since he finally fucking tracked down Kurosaki.

Two weeks since he found Kurosaki completely powerless and utterly human.

And the dumbass still keeps his window shut, like he had at any point denied Grimmjow’s forced reentry into his life.

Grimmjow slams the idiot’s window open, an action that still startles the human even after the Arrancar had been visiting near daily. He thinks Kurosaki needs it, an action that proves someone is actually there. A functional fucking doorbell at the cost of Grimmjow nearly shattering the damn thing half of the time. 

Depending on his mood, of course. Maybe one day he’ll just break it out of curiosity.

“Who’s there?” Kurosaki asks, having jolted up from his desk. This, too, is familiar.

The guarded hope in the dumbass’ eyes still hasn't faded, even if he knows by now that Grimmjow isn't one of the million other names he'd asked for the first time the Arrancar had burst through the window. The only one who had bothered to, apparently.

The raised arm though, - his non-dominant left, just in case Grimmjow gave up and finally decided to rip it off - that’s for Grimmjow. And Grimmjow alone.

Brat was finally keying in to the fact that Grimmjow was going to keep coming back. Good.

The Arrancar reaches out to Kurosaki’s raised palm and taps.

F-U-C-K  Y-O-U

Kurosaki, probably used to his bullshit by now, huffs, “Hey, Grimmjow.”

Chapter Text

Screaming. The screaming of something desperate. Desperate for an end to the pain, for something-anything-someone-please-help-me-save-me-end-me-

The dying screams of prey caught by predator, watching pack-herd-school-flock flee to keep their own lives intact rather than risk it for another why-are-you-leaving-me-why-are-you-abandoning-me-

(LEAVING ME TO DIE LIKE A DOG-)

It screams and he laughs as it struggles-

His (namelessnamelessnameless) sword is pinning it's writhing body to the dirt, limbless and bleeding, regeneration long run out-

He’d chased it and it ranranran, he hadn’t enjoyed the hunt in so long- sink his teeth in and TEAR-CONSUME-COMPLETE-

(EMPTY-SO-EMPTY-HEARTLESS-HEARTLESS-HEARTLESS-)

A cackle cuts through its screams.

He stops.

In one movement, he pulls his katana from the curse and decapitates it. The curse disintegrates, forgotten.

The silence reigns. Ryomen waits with his blade in hand and a grin on his face.

“Where are you?” His voice is breathy and eager, riding the high of a hunt.

He knows that cackle, he has to with how quick his battle rage is to rise again in response.

Ryomen laughs, the one that comes from the very base of his lungs, that shows off his teeth and the blown pupils of a focussed predator in his eyes.

“WHERE ARE YOU?!”

The cackling returns, surging higher and higher in volume until Ryomen can barely distinguish it from his own.

He whirls on his feet, one hand coming up to his blade with his fingers curled as if he were to rend gouges in the metal when he thinks he catches a flash of white -

(A black and white mask, eyes glowing against black-)

“I know you!” He calls to the empty surrounding forest. In his head, a pair of howling roars and screeching laughter drowns out the world around them.

“I KNOW YOU!” Ryomen laughs.

He is not alone anymore.

You are far too optimistic, brat.  

The odds had been against the kid from the start. It was only a matter of time until something like this was pulled.

Grimmjow was used to expecting a blade to his back at every turn, Itadori would have to learn from the very beginning.

Brat! Let me out!

“Huh?”

He hadn't even had the chance to comprehend that it was all going wrong.

Kugisaki was taken. The dog was dead. Fushiguro was shouting. The curse was here. His hand is gone.

His hand is gone- where is it- what happened- where is his hand it's gone it's gone it's gone-

Itadori!

“It's fine!” 

It's fine- tourniquet- he can tourniquet- his belt- his hand is gone it's gone it hurts-

“I can still fight!” He tells both himself and the curse in his head.

The curse across from him, however, all pale skin and wide-eyed grin and wrongwrongwrong, cares not. It spits compressed power at them and instinct has Yuuji pushing Fushiguro out of the line of fire because if anything Yuuji can take it, it's fine, it's fine-

The blast smacks him into concrete, splintering rock to dust he is burning he is bleeding his hand is gone- his chest is- he's- he's-

“Itadori!”

Fushiguro is- Yuuji is- the curse is laughinglaughinglaughing- he's burning he's bleeding he's-

Going to DIE.

No- no he wont- he's not done yet- he still needs to protect- just needs to get up- just-

His hand is gone his flesh is burning-

He's just-

(Afraid.)

Switch with me or both you and your friend are dead.

Grimmjow- Grimmjow, he’ll- he can-

I’ll take care of it, but you need to let me out now.

And Yuuji… he's just- not strong enough, is he?

He's just…

(Afraid.)

He falls.

There's a shift.

Even when Megumi could see it coming, could hear Itadori mumbling to himself -- not himself, you know exactly who he's talking to. Stop denying it. -- and completely uncaring or worse unaware of the gaping wound in his side, he knew what was coming. Knew that if Itadori didn't consider himself strong enough against the special-grade then something else would have to be.

And that something just happened to be sharing Itadori’s body, likely waiting for the very moment when Itadori could no longer hold it back.

Worse, Itadori had clearly gone into shock and that was dangerous.

It was no longer a matter of if Itadori’s control would slip, but when.

Taking his eyes off the immediate threat of the special-grade was a stupid decision however.

It’s only the curse’s garbled screech that gave Megumi enough warning to clasp his hands and command Nue forth. A risk, certainly, as the curse had already proven strong enough to destroy Demon Dog White, but he had his own life to worry about right now.

In the end, his actions mattered not, not when the mere air itself became a waterfall of familiar, oppressing pressure, of overwhelming cursed energy.

Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was awake. 

Megumi is in an awful position. He's stuck with the special-grade in front of him and the fucking Panther King itself between Megumi and the exit and the simple fact that both could kill him so fucking easily.

It's the special-grade that breaks the stillness first, jumping back with a hissed shriek to put more distance between itself and the King of Curses. Sensing the opportunity, Megumi takes the chance to also get some space from the pair. He can’t take any chances without knowing the range of Grimmjow’s possible attacks so instead of diving past the curse with little more than a hope to reach the exit, he instead bids Nue to carry him to a vantage point on the next floor up that at the least puts the two curses in his line of sight.

Seeing the Panther King in person a second time does not miraculously make Megumi’s survival rates any higher than they had been the first time. If anything, with Itadori compromised, they’re even lower at the risk of the curse not being brought back to heel before it starts killing everything.

Megumi watches Itadori’s curse-marked body stand and lazily stretch, careless and unconcerned.

Why would it be, he hisses to himself, it's already the strongest thing in the building.

The curse in Itadori’s body grins, a flashy baring of pointed teeth.

“Well?” It asks, a challenge to both Megumi and the special-grade. Yet it twists Itadori’s expression into something between boredom and annoyance, almost as if the curse is in a rush.

The wound in Itadori’s side is gone, clothing scorched away to reveal unmarred skin and what can only be described as a complete void through Itadori’s stomach.

On the other side of the room, the special-grade screams louder, the sound echoing through the building. It makes Grimmjow’s expression under its bone mask twitch more into the annoyed side.

“Shut up.” It chides, commands, of the other curse. With a careless flick of its wrist, the hand Itadori had lost was regrown, complete with the curse’s markings and claws. “Let’s get this over with.”

Megumi watches the curse clasp one hand over the other, claws digging into skin as the cursed energy in the room skyrockets.

He only has one moment. One moment to feel the helpless sense of complete and all encompassing dread threaten to drown him. One moment to hope that he has even a chance of getting out of this.

“Domain Expansion.” Damns the curse, ripping its talons through flesh in an act that sprays blood forth. It lands on bleached white sand as the rest of the Domain settles into being and wastes no time sitting idle, bubbling and boiling into grotesque shapes and limbs. From the Panther King’s blood, curses pull themselves into existence.

Curses with masks of bone and holes through their bodies. With bent limbs and animalistic traits, with horns and claws and fangs.

Behind them stands Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, raised above them all on a stone platform with a pale throne sitting behind it.

“Reinado del Rey Hueco.”

And the conjured curses scream.

They pounce on the special-grade, tearing at it with tooth and claw and laughing howls.

It's…

“Quite the show, ain’t it?”

Megumi whirls around at the sudden voice behind him. There's nothing but a flash of white in his peripherals. Beside him, Nue searches for an unseen enemy, Grimmjow and his summoned curses still remain below them.

They're eating the special-grade, he realises, tearing chunks from its body and consuming as it shrieks.

A cackle on the wind has him spinning again. “A shikigami user?” A flutter against Nue’s wings, there and gone. “Ain’t fought one ‘a those in, what? A thousan’ years?”

“Come out!” Megumi demands, as if he has any power here.

There's no sand beneath him, he realises. It laps at the concrete on the floor below, spreading visibly but slow enough to be outran. The Panther King’s Domain hasn't reached him, hasn't enclosed him. 

An open Domain? Incomplete? Or ever expanding?

Which is more horrifying?

A swirl of sand darts up the stairs towards him and Megumi lets Nue pull him back again. Another cackle as the sand stirs. Megumi can make out a shape now, not fully corporeal but decidedly there.

It's unnaturally pale, enhanced by the white kosode hanging off its shoulders, left open to expose curse marks and the hollow void through its chest but undeniably bound right over left. Both it and the matching hakama are trimmed in black, held back by a matching obi. Behind a mane of white hair, golden eyes on black sclera stare back, the left glowing from beneath the socket of a black and white striped mask shaped like a portion of a skull with a single, sharp horn protruding from its side above the ear. The hilt of a large sword peeks out from behind its shoulder, another white blade is tucked into its sash.

If not for its mask and colouring, it could pass for human.

With each step it takes, more white sand spills into being beneath its waraji. With each step forward it takes, Megumi takes one back.

“What? Is the kittycat not entertaining enough for ya?” It cackles again, flickering in and out of vision.

It's too similar to Grimmjow, too humanoid compared to the other things the Panther King summoned from sand and blood to be anything but a threat.

“What are you?” Slips past Megumi’s lips before he has a choice in the matter.

The figure tilts their head, grin stretching just a little too wide to be human.

It opens its mouth to answer, baring sharp fangs and-

“Fushiguro.”

Megumi flinches, the white curse closes its mouth with a click of teeth. It has the gall to look disappointed.

Below them, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques stares back.

“Kugisaki could use your assistance.” States the Panther King.

The special-grade has no noise left to make, Grimmjow’s conjured curses chitter and laugh under a melody of snapping bone and dripping flesh, the white curse is still and silent beside him.

Megumi flees.

“I don't remember calling for you,” is the greeting Grimmjow gives after Fushiguro and his shikigami have made their exit.

Zangetsu clicks his tongue, appearing by Grimmjow’s side with a quick sonido.

“Aw, c’mon kitten, didn't ya miss me?” Grins the zanpakuto spirit.

The summoned Hollows start to disperse into whorls of sand, dissolving back into the Domain now that the only thing left of the special-grade is an evaporating puddle of curse blood. One walks up to deliver a single blood-covered claw before it poofs out of existence.

“I miss fighting with you.” Grimmjow says instead, which is as much of an admission as it isn't.

He manifests a maw on his palm to swallow the claw in one bite.

As one, the pair dismiss the external Domain to sink into Grimmjow’s internal one, all foreign traces of the decrepit building blending back into Hueco Mundo’s familiar atmosphere.

Itadori is at his usual spot, curled up with his back to the throne’s podium. His eyes are glassy and unseeing. He doesn’t react when Grimmjow places a hand to his cheek in an attempt to redirect his gaze. 

“Yer cub is stubborn, kitten.”

Grimmjow tsks. “He’s young.”

“He’ll be a martyr, Grimm.”

The thought pulls a hiss from his lips as he lifts Itadori into his arms, the boy doesn’t react to his new position. 

“I won’t let him.” States the Panther King, unbowing stare slipping to Zangetsu. 

Zangetsu’s lips pull back in a snarl, baring pointed teeth. “Good.”

There's a lot they aren't saying. They don't talk about Itadori’s survival, how his acceptance balances on a knife's edge. 

Kurosaki’s survival had only ever been relative to how useful he was at the time. A weapon to be used and discarded as needed. They will try to do the same thing to Itadori, if they don't outright kill him. Already they were trying to get him out of the way despite their apparent acceptance of his existence.

Grimmjow is unsurprised. Time and time again it's the old men on their deathbeds choosing to seek self-preservation rather than the perseverance of the next generation.

The only reason Grimmjow was putting up with this school farce to begin with is because he’s not yet strong enough for his liking. He’s out of his depth, a thousand years out of date with old information and majority of his very soul sealed away.

If he and Itadori run, they will send the Six Eyes, and Grimmjow can't hide from him as he is now.

He closes his eyes and takes an unneeded breath and-

              -the Domain shifts.

At once, Las Noches surrounds them. A complete replica of the immense fortress he knows down to every crack in the wall, every sign of battle damage and every repair. Every wing and every room. The product of hundreds of years of familiarity.

Grimmjow starts walking, in his arms, Itadori remains unresponsive. Zangetsu falls into place on his right, bracketing their fragile masks between each other. For a moment Grimmjow can almost pretend he's back in the real Hueco Mundo.

It makes the emptiness in his heart ache, with the lack of orange in his peripherals. That it is only he and Zangetsu left with the memories, the yearning.

All at once, Grimmjow longs for Ichigo.

His arms tighten around Itadori. Kurosaki would fucking love the kid, would side with him against the fucking world. Zangetsu catches the movement and Grimmjow watches his face curl up into a scowl, probably thinking along the same maudlin lines as he is.

Their room is the same as it had been before, the barebones of necessity covered in trophies. A window big enough to jump out of, remnants of altercations hidden in dents and scratches on the walls. A nest of pillows and pelts in a variety of patterns made up one corner, a basic desk and chair that Grimmjow never used covered in papers in another, a third held a pale and scratched up wardrobe and messy bookcase. In the fourth sat a mess of shelves covered in what added up to a bunch of crap, bits and bobs from the Material World, claws and bones of various Hollows. 

Keepsakes. Some his and some Kurosaki’s. Conquests and victories.

Zangetsu strides into the room, pulling his bladed self from his back and settling in the chair, one leg thrown over the other and his sword in his lap. If the zanpakuto’s eyes roam the papers, Grimmjow won't be the one to point it out.

He lays Itadori down on the pelts, knowing the claim he is making in doing so. The fact that Zangetsu does not object is telling.

It isn't a joke anymore, Grimmjow knows he and Zangetsu will hold each other to this.

“Itadori,” he calls, a hand on the kid's cheek, “Yuuji,” he says a touch more firmly.

Nothing but that eerie blankness. Dissociating, he thinks Kurosaki called it.

A frustrated puff of air escapes his nose. “I can't leave his body unattended.”

Zangetsu’s responding scoff is more theatrical than needed.

“You know I’ll keep yer cub safe, Grimm.”

Grimmjow pulls himself away from Itadori to meet the Hollow’s eyes.

“¿Le das tu corazón?”

Zangetsu holds a fist to the hole in his chest, right above where a human’s heart would rest. “Le doy mi corazón.”

Grimmjow mirrors the gesture with a nod and a growing hum in his chest.

With a grin that might have a little less teeth than usual, he leaves the Domain.

Nowadays, there is no one he would trust more with a piece of his heart.

He stands outside the window on a foothold of air. Looking in shows Kurosaki in bed, face down with his covers strewn about and so very still. He would’ve thought the fucker dead if not for the smallest shifts that showed he was still breathing.

Grimmjow hates it. 

Hates what had chewed up Kurosaki and spat him out weak. Kurosaki isn’t supposed to be weak, he was supposed to be strong enough to give Grimmjow the fight he promised. Supposed to face him with the same fucking burning look in his eyes and actually challenge him.

There had been a moment, on the first night Grimmjow had been standing across from the unseeing Kurosaki, where he wondered if snapping the human’s neck would have been a kindness. 

Grimmjow opens the window and enters. 

There’s no exclamation, no dumb fucking smile or hopeful eyes. If anything, there’s a tension rising in Kurosaki’s shoulders. 

Grimmjow hates it. 

He leaps over the bed to stand in front of Kurosaki’s blind gaze. There’s no fire in them today, no roaring heat or smoking coals, just cold stone and ash blowing in the wind. 

Grimmjow reaches over and places his fingertips upon Kurosaki’s unmoved hand. The skin beneath his touch tenses. He hates it. 

“I’m not really good company right now, Grimm.” Kurosaki’s voice is quiet, soft, weak. It makes Grimmjow want to reach over and tear the human’s throat out. 

Would it be a kindness or mercy?

Grimmjow does nothing. 

“Nobody told me what would happen after.” Kurosaki continues after enough silence passes, when it’s clear that Grimmjow isn’t leaving. “They didn’t say I would lose them. That I would lose everyone.”

Kurosaki’s pack, his humans and his shinigami, his fraccion, had left him behind. Abandoned him. Had left him to die. 

Grimmjow hates it. Grimmjow does nothing. 

Grimmjow’s fraccion is dead. 

“But it’s okay because we won, right? It mattered, right?” 

Hollows are pack animals, a pack is much harder to kill than one after all. But Hollows had ripped out their hearts and learnt to survive. Pack became fraccion, and a fraccion was the heart for the heartless. 

Grimmjow wonders how much of a Hollow Kurosaki truly was - still is, perhaps. Wonders if he could ever feel his fraccion like a heartbeat. And if he no longer could. 

Grimmjow hates it. Grimmjow does nothing. Grimmjow’s fraccion is dead. 

“They didn’t want to teach me. They said ‘what you want to protect is not what I want to protect’.” Kurosaki’s breath stutters. “They were talking about me, weren’t they.” 

It's not a question. 

Grimmjow knows who they are, the zanpakuto and the Hollow. Kurosaki hadn’t spared any details telling Grimmjow of anything and everything leading up to and including Aizen. 

He knows that Kurosaki believes his Zangetsu cared for him, but Grimmjow doubts that he understands the Hollow in him yet. That the Hollow so clearly considered himself Kurosaki’s fraccion, and all that entails. 

Kurosaki had already had his Hollow’s everything, and he didn’t even know it. 

Grimmjow despises it. Grimmjow says nothing. Grimmjow got his fraccion killed. 

He reaches over and cups the back of Kurosaki’s neck. 

Kurosaki breathes. The tension leaks from his skin and the withheld tears slip from his eyes with silent sobs. 

Grimmjow can feel the beats from Kurosaki’s living, beating, human heart beneath his fingertips. 

“I think I could fight for you.” He says. 

Grimmjow’s voice is unheard. He can’t bring himself to hate the words anyway. 

Chapter Text

It is only because he expects and senses her rapid approach that he doesn't put his katana through her when she takes a running jump onto his back.

“Get off, brat.” Ryomen grumbles.

“LILY!” The child shouts instead, scrabbling at his haori. “Camellia!” Is next, followed by the angry rhythmic hissing of Inumaki snaketongue that he only half understands.

Lily and camellia. Hatred and longing, he had been missed in his delayed absence. 

He had been due to visit the Inumaki compound over a month ago, had he not gotten… distracted on his last mission. The clans would have missed his capacity as a weapon but he doubted that a very scant amount of people actually missed him, the brat on his back being one of the few.

He huffs, reaching over his shoulder and grabbing the back of the kid’s kimono, flipping her forward to his eye level instead. Little Inumaki Aiko glowers at him with as much hatred as a twelve year old can muster whilst looking like a scruffed kitten.

She crosses her arms and hisses, baring her tiny fangs and clan-marked mouth over the standard Inumaki high collar. A feisty little snakelet, for all that her clan tries to wear her down.

Ryomen simply raises a brow, “You can do better than that.” 

Her snarl could use more work too, he’d have to show her how later if she continued both on her insistence on defiance and her apparent attachment to him. Not that he blames her given the circumstances.

Any daughter of a branch family has their worth determined from the moment they are born and life planned for them by the time they’re toddling. By the time their cursed techniques are meant to come in.

And little Aiko, born from a low branch mother and main line bastard, happened to have the highly sought after Cursed Speech of the main line, rather than any of their ‘weaker’ variants. And she was powerful.

Had she been born average, she simply would have fallen to the background. Living on the battlefield or in one of the clan compounds could have been her choice, perhaps she would have had a say in choosing her own husband too. 

Alas, she is only a little girl who had to get her clan seals inked early lest she choke on the blood of technique backlash. And her clan head still needs an heir since his sickly wife had finally passed on the birthing bed with her third and last stillborn.

How inauspicious for the grieving Inumaki head.

How unlucky for little Inumaki Aiko.

The head is in his thirties, Ryomen doubts Aiko has even started bleeding yet.

A tiny child, who speaks in delicate hanakotoba and careful calligraphy and lyrical hissing, destined for a gilded cage of clan walls and the blood of the birthing bed.

Had he known her destiny, maybe he wouldn't have saved her and the others from that hoard of curses several years earlier. Perhaps she wouldn't have imprinted on him like a stray duckling either.

Unperturbed, Aiko hisses at him again. It's better than her last.

“If I said I brought gifts, would that appease you, little snake?”

Ryomen watches her nose scrunch up, weighing the worth of her anger. Eventually, he receives a nod and the rhythmic Inumaki hiss that he knows is synonymous for affirmation and drops the child on her feet to rummage through his pack, ignoring Aiko’s returning glare.

“Here,” Ryomen says, handing her the slim wooden box covered in delicate floral carvings.

There's an impatience to Aiko’s unboxing but it's tempered by both the question of the gift’s fragility and the no doubt extensive lessons she now has to take as the future Lady of the clan. All grace and poise and such.

A long kanzashi, topped in delicate beads and jewels in the shape of peonies and edelweiss flowers, and sharp enough to be a weapon if needed.

Peonies and edelweiss, for her bravery and her courage.

It had cost a pretty fortune and a favour to get it commissioned but it was all worth the look of awe and wonder in Aiko’s eyes.

She of course wastes no time yanking her pale hair out of its delicate styling, thrusting the hairstick into his hands and expectantly turning her back to him. The trust she gives so easily catches on something in his chest and, fuck, he's already a month late for this meeting, they can wait a little longer.

Ryomen huffs, dragging his nails through Aiko’s hair to get the few stubborn remains of her last style out. Fucking hell, he’s never done someone else’s hair before, how the fuck does he do this.

Ya know what t’ do, kitten. Y’ve done it before.

Fucking- fine. He lets his hands work, twisting braids and looping strands into curls, making sense from nonsense before finishing it to loop around the hairstick.

“The things sharp enough if you need to use it,” he murmurs as he works, careful of the pair of servants who have been carefully standing by the compound’s entrance not daring to interrupt them. “Anyone tries to hurt you and you stab ‘em like I taught you.” Aiko gives the slightest nod with another agreeing hiss. 

Ryomen may work on Inumaki orders at times, maybe even considered a clan-friend by some, but that doesn't change the gossip and rumours. Perhaps they are right to be pale with fear, to shrink in on themselves merely to avoid his eye contact.

They know he indulges Aiko, perhaps even values her, and that is the sole reason they haven't rushed in to drag her away from him. They know his strength, the half of the clan that didn't watch him rip apart the pair of special-grades and their horde that day certainly told the rest what had happened. How he had feasted.

“Bluebell,” Aiko beams after he’s done, turning to face him. Smile wide and dimpling the snake eyes on her cheeks.

Bluebell, gratefulness.

Ryomen goes to ruffle the brat’s hair, regardless of how much time he spent on it, but the moment his hand rests on her head he just… 

He can fit her entire head in his hand, akin to a soft flower petal in the grip of something that drips destruction itself.

She is so small. So young.

His pause has her looking up in concern. He brushes off the look with a flick to her ear.

Ryomen doesn't tell her to not be a brat, because why would he not encourage that, but he tells her that unless important shit’s come up he’ll be in the area for a few days.

Later, in his meeting with the Inumaki head, one of the idiot advisors hisses out a question that even the interpreter hesitates to translate for him. The immediate stiffening of the clan head and half those present is telling, however.

“Speak.” He has to demand of the poor girl with the unmarked mouth. 

She audibly swallows, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Kohei-san asks if you desire Inumaki Aiko-chan.”

When his cursed energy surges and forces the entire complex to their knees, stealing the breath from their lungs and freezing the blood in their veins, he speaks slowly and carefully to get his point across.

Aiko is his, he proclaims, not as a bride or bed warmer but as someone who he could consider a sister. 

She has his heart, he says to Inumaki-sama now, he can’t protest the betrothal but he will steal her away at the slightest hint of mistreatment.

After the suffocating tenseness that is the mess of the remainder of the meeting, Aiko catches Ryomen on his way out.

She hands him a small bouquet of hydrangea, zinnia and daffodils.

Pride, loyalty and respect.

Ella tiene tu corazón, Grimm.  

Ryomen doesn't reply.

Grimmjow ignores the few lingering souls as he makes his way through the centre. He isn't a shinigami, he has no zanpakuto to perform a konso to help them move on.

He had tried with Pantera out of curiosity, once with Kurosaki and once again when he regained his memories. It didn't look like it hurt the soul, but it did seem to hasten the change from soul to Hollow. Not entirely unexpected in retrospect.

Pantera is more of an echo of himself, rather than a true reflection of the soul as a Shinigami’s zanpakuto is, after all. She is just as much of a Hollow as he is. And even if he can wield Zangetsu, there's no guarantee the spirit is Shinigami enough to outweigh the Hollow in them both to pull off the technique.

The thought is irrelevant now, he has no clue where Pantera is, and whether he can wield Zangetsu or not, it means nothing when Grimmjow is not the zanpakuto’s master.

(Theoretically, he knows how Zangetsu passed through the Cycle with him, but that doesn't mean either of them are willing to attempt binding themselves to each other. Not when neither of them can quite give up Ichigo yet.)

It is enough to suppress the presence of the dead, blocking them from Itadori’s senses. The boy hardly needs to have his beliefs re-written again so soon. Curses may be born of ideals and concepts, but it was only the dead that made souls, that made Hollows.

And yet, it might be the dead Itadori needs.

Hopping over the centre’s gate, Grimmjow is not exactly surprised to see Fushiguro still waiting for them, but he is pleased by it. 

Ah, loyalty, the true way to a Hollow’s heart.

Ya gonna steal that one too, Grimm? Comes Zangetsu’s unwelcome addition, accented with a cackle.

‘You, shut the fuck up.’  

Grimmjow makes his approach steady. He can see the tensing of the kid’s shoulders, can already taste the brat’s wariness on his tongue just as easily as he can taste the falling rain.

He comes to a stop in front of the boy, more than enough space between them for comfort but not far enough for either of them to need to shout.

“Kugisaki?” He asks.

Fushiguro twitches at his voice, his hands automatically flexing in preparation to form shapes in response to a threat. Even in the rain, he is sweating. Unfortunate, given that Grimmjow is trying his best to be unthreatening - which is to simply not act particularly threateningly.

The kid’s throat bobs in a swallow, “She’s fine.” Credit to Fushiguro, his voice doesn't waver. “And Itadori?” He asks before he loses his nerve.

“Resting,” is the nicest answer Grimmjow can give.

Itadori has been in true life-or-death combat twice, disregarding his time against the curse in Tokyo with Kugisaki that wasn't even close in the scope of things, and has had to be saved by an outside force -Grimmjow- twice. For someone who had constantly seen themself as strong, as had been encouraged by those around him also, that can be quite a blow to the spirits.

Even more so for Itadori, whose very life hangs by the wills of a handful of old men. Old men who are clearly willing to sacrifice the collateral of an entire class for a chance to eliminate both Itadori and Grimmjow.

Because this was planned. Spontaneous perhaps, but planned nonetheless. With the Six Eyes out of the way, it would have been all too easy to set up a mission set to fail, for three students to fall to a curse that just happened to be more powerful than expected.

Grimmjow wants to snarl, to gnash his teeth at the thought. It is only the fact that Fushiguro already looks like he’s on the edge of a panic attack that he doesn't. Brat doesn't deserve that.

It is just. Far too familiar than it has any right to be.

Regardless, Fushiguro is not happy with his answer. It shows in the pinching of his lips and the tight furrow of his brow.

At the moment, Grimmjow can honestly say he doesn't give a fuck.

Itadori’s hair is dripping raindrops into his eyes. He could pull up the hood of the brat’s uniform to keep it out.

He does not. He runs his claws through his hair until it's off his forehead.

How long has it been since he felt the rain?

“Answer this, brat,” he says, “at the end of it all, are you going to stand by when they try to execute Itadori?”

Fushiguro’s poker face breaks into a spectrum of pale fury. Grimmjow doesn't get a real answer before the brat snaps and he's forced to knock the kid unconscious.

Unfortunate.

Yuuji wakes up. Well, he doesn't wake up, kinda, since he doesn't remember falling asleep. It's more like he's just been daydreaming or something. Like he's returning from the sort of unawareness that should be accompanied by a screen fading into colour and a ‘hey, you, you're finally awake,’ but-

A groan escapes him as he rolls over. He feels stiff, sore, and his mouth is full of fur that Cruella de Vil would kill several small animals for.

And then, three for three, there's a ghost with an entire Buster Sword in its lap staring him down.

“Um…”

Wow, so eloquent, good job. Fushiguro would be so proud.

Wait- shit, Fushiguro-

“Yer friends are fine, cub.” Says the ghost, voice sounding all echoey and distorted which is honestly exactly what Yuuji expected a ghost to sound like. “Grimm got ‘em out. They're alive.” Golden eyes shining like the moon on a starless sky flick to meet his. “Yer alive, too.”

It comes back in flashes, then. In flickers of blood and pain.

One of Yuuji’s hands flies to his stomach, the other-

The other is still there-

His gut is smooth and uninjured. Torn uniform revealing nothing but unblemished skin and the now expected void.

He’s-

“Yer alive, Yuuji.” The ghost says again. 

Yuuji swallows down his shaky breaths, arms wrapping around himself. He can’t- he has to-

“Yuuji,” the ghost interrupts, quiet and commanding all wrapped up in one tone, “yer safe. Ya can cry and scream all ya want. It’s only me an’ Grimm who’ll hear an’ we ain’t gonna say shit.” He says. “Let go.”

The sob catches on the back of his tongue.

You’re safe, he says, and Yuuji can touch, taste and smell nothing but Grimmjow’s cursed energy. No matter wherever the absolute fuck he is right now, clad in white walls and buried in soft furs, it is so intrinsically familiar to his very soul.

You’re safe, he says, with what can only be Grimmjow’s Domain all-encompassing and all-consuming as it unforgivingly surrounds him.

You’re safe, he says, and Yuuji doesn't know when he started equating the security of Grimmjow Jaegerjaques and his Domain to safety but…

It's true, he realises. Grimmjow had promised Yuuji his life itself and was keeping that promise. 

Safety? Yuuji hasn't felt safer since before he first met the Panther King.

His arms tighten around him, knees tucking up so he can bury himself away further as he hides his face and sobs.

He forgets about the ghost, he forgets about the special-grade, he forgets about his execution date.

He forgets about everything that just doesn't matter so he can be nothing but a kid having a breakdown where no one can see. Like if only for a moment, he is a child under the covers, protected by the very monster under the bed that others tell him to fear.

He shakes and he cries, heaving sobs and gasping breaths and smearing tears and snot on charred sleeves.

He doesn't even startle when a hand falls on the back of his neck, sharp claw tips that could carve through his flesh so easily coming to rest against the thick artery in his neck. A twitch of those claws could see Yuuji bleed out so easily and yet the thought doesn't even cross his mind.

“Easy, cub,” soothes the Panther King, the one who promised Yuuji his life, as he rests his forehead against the top of Yuuji’s head. “I have you.”

Yuuji doesn't even blink at Grimmjow’s words. He shouldn't even expect anything else at this stage. When and how Grimmjow became the most trusted figure in his life is something he’ll never know.

Yuuji times his breathing to the rumbling coming from Grimmjow’s chest, if he wasn't in the middle of a panic attack he might've even called it a purr. Grimmjow would've punched him for it, but he still would've done it anyway.

And yet…

“They could've died.” Yuuji says seconds-minutes-hours later. His hands are scrunching up the fabric of Grimmjow’s jacket and unwilling to let go.

“They could have.” Grimmjow hums in agreement, voice barely louder than a murmur. It's a tone Yuuji doesn't think he's ever heard from the curse.

“If you didn't show up it would've killed Fushiguro.”

“Probably.” He answers in the same tone.

Yuuji swallows. “Why am I so weak?” He asks, a touch desperate, a little hysterical. “You had to come save us again!”

Grimmjow shifts, tucking his chin over Yuuji’s head, pulling him closer. Yuuji doesn't fight it. Doesn't bother to. 

(He is safe.)

“You were set up to fail, kid.” The curse states, rumbling. “It ain’t a coincidence that this was the mission you lot were given the moment Gojo was called away.”

It's like the push of a domino, a coalescence of thoughts and moments swirling together to one morbid realisation.

Just because Gojo-sensei didn't want him dead doesn't mean that others don't. 

Just because his official execution was suspended, it didn't mean that they would stop trying to kill him.

All at once, he remembers a particularly nasty teacher he had had from grade school. She’d been wrinkled and stern, grey hair held back in the tightest bun Yuuji had ever seen and she had absolutely hated his classmate Azuma. Yuuji didn't know why of course, being six and therefore not included in the adult conversations, but he remembers how his sensei would look at his classmate.

Complete and utter loathing.

He remembers the day Azuma had broken his arm, remembers the clear snap that sounded like it had echoed through the very playground. Azuma had been pushed from the top of the monkey bars, as clearly evident by three boys laughing and pointing from above. But sensei would hear none of it.

Accidents happen, she had scowled without blinking, dragging away Azuma who had been crying in pain with every jostle of his arm.

Yuuj wondered if the Jujutsu sorcerers would make the same excuse for his death.

Accidents happen, he could imagine them saying, pointing at Yuuji’s corpse being devoured by a special-grade that just happened to be stronger than expected.

Accidents happen, when a sorcerer mistakes him for a curse and hurries to exorcise him.

Accidents happen, when they rescind his right to live.

Yuuji buries his face somewhere in Grimmjow’s throat, uncaring of the twitch of the curse’s hand on the back of his own neck.

Grimmjow’s grip tightens for a moment and the curse hisses a curt “Fine. Fine.”

The world warps and Yuuji finds himself looking through his own eyes again. Grimmjow still holds control of his flesh body, Yuuji doesn't fight it.

(He is safe.)

Look, the curse commands.

Yuuji looks.

It's… his old school. Battered and bruised, sure, with yellow tape and orange cones sectioning off the rebuilding efforts, but it's still his old school that Grimmjow is perched upon.

Grimmjow tugs his attention away from the building itself. Closer, he guides, setting their eyes upon the adjacent windows. It was late in the day, the light rain would have kept away the outdoor clubs but it's not them they’re looking for.

It's strange, seeing his old club room from the outside.

The rain blurs the window but does nothing to truly obstruct his view, and for the first time in three weeks, Yuuji lays his eyes upon Sasaki and Iguchi. Alive and healthy.

You didn't need my help to save them, Grimmjow says to Yuuji’s silence. They would have died had you not interfered.

‘Fushiguro would have got them out.’ It's a weak argument sure but he voices it anyway.

Grimmjow shrugs with Yuuji’s body, the motion rough in a way Yuuji doesn't think he'd be able to pull off.

Doesn't matter, the curse dismisses, ain’t how it happened. You were stronger than them and you risked that strength because you wanted them to live.

Grimmjow isn't looking for a response so Yuuji doesn't give him one, choosing to continue drinking in the sight of his old classmates. They're not alone in the room, evidently having found a new member since the club hadn't dissolved.

Yuuji finds that he doesn't quite mind being replaced. He feels content, happy with their mere safety and ability to continue their occult interests. It's why he doesn't quite fight as Grimmjow turns away from the school.

Come, we have one more to visit before the Six Eyes catches up.  

That gets Yuuji’s attention.

‘Sensei’s coming?’ He asks as trees and buildings zip by. Yuuji’s pretty certain Grimmjow could go faster than his current speed but it would probably be more noticeable, they didn't need extra attention right now.

He will be, if he isn't already. The Panther King growls. While I doubt he had a hand in today’s mess, we’re still incredibly valuable to the sorcerers. They won't let us leave without a fight, and it's a fight I won't be truly starting until I know I will win it.

Yuuji chews his lip - a habit he only indulges with his front teeth lest he want a mouthful of blood - and ruminates.

‘You’re going to run. Not now, sure, but… eventually. Right?’  

“I’m going to fight, brat.” Grimmjow says with the certainty of a vow, a final jump from one roof taking them to-

All over again, Yuuji’s chest tightens.

‘Grimmjow what-’ Their pace slows to a walk, but not a stop. ‘Why are we-’

The curse continues walking, past the rows and rows of family graves. Slowly, Yuuji starts to see things in the corner of his vision, forms slowly solidifying.

‘Grimmjow?’

“I ain’t one for pep talks, kid.” He says, That was fucking Kurosaki’s job, echoes a little quieter.

Yuuji almost misses it entirely, instead focussed on the transparent figures walking past, some watching him back. Some wave when they notice his staring.

Ghosts, actual ghosts. They had to be, not like the white one he saw before in the Domain who only looked a little human. These just looked like people, regular, everyday people. Normal, save the severed chains hanging from their chests.

‘Are they- are they real?’ Was the one in the Domain like them?

They’re real, kid. And Z-... hmm, well, he’s something else.

Yuuji didn't reply to that, too busy trying to think over whatever conclusions he could and should draw from all this. Later, he thinks, a thought echoed by Grimmjow. The curse had brought him here for a reason, had brought him to literal ghosts for-

Oh-

Grimmjow comes to a stop in front of one grave, only giving a brief nod in respect.

I’ll leave you to it, cub.

Yuuji stumbles to his knees at Grimmjow’s sudden surrender of his body and has to remember how to breathe.

On top of the family grave is a ghost, legs lazily crossed and a familiar tobacco pipe held in one hand, the chain coming from it's chest dropping down to lazily collect in a pile amongst old offerings.

[Oh, Yuuji,] Huffs the ghost of Itadori Wasuke, [What have you gotten into now?]

Somewhere along the way, Grimmjow stopped leaving.

Or, more specifically, whenever he left for his irregular trips of ever-lessening frequency to Hueco Mundo, he just kept coming back to Kurosaki. 

The only reason he really ‘needed’ to leave in the first place was to hunt anyway. Something which was solved by simply stalking the humans that used to follow Kurosaki when they ditched classes and killing the Hollows before the brats ever got close.

If that happened to raise tensions and accusations between the lot then that's hardly Grimmjow’s problem, amusing as it is.

They’d left Kurosaki behind, why should Grimmjow give a shit about them?

Even now, months since he first showed up, Grimmjow doesn't think the brats had even said a single word to Kurosaki.

It's fucking tragic, and it fucking infuriates him. He has a front row seat to the neglect Kurosaki is receiving from literally everyone in his life, it turns out. Even the shinigami have perpetually kept their distance.

Grimmjow has long taken efforts to hide his presence in Kurosaki’s house, especially given the fact that everyone else in the house is currently more adept at seeing the dead then Kurosaki himself is. He’s fucking hardly one for hiding, but every good predator knows how to stalk prey without being seen.

So that's what he did, keeping his reiatsu clamped down and hidden as he split his time between eavesdropping on shinigami and human conversations alike before figuring out what he wanted to relay back to Kurosaki. Everyone else was so keen on keeping him in the fucking dark so of course Grimmjow delighted on spreading their bitching.

And if he subtly fucked with a few of them by unleashing his reiatsu here and there or luring Hollows to and fro then who the fuck is going to complain.

He was hardly going to hold back on being a nuisance, not with the shit they said about Kurosaki, not with how it was always poor Kurosaki and it's a shame about Kurosaki.

Kurosaki wasn't a fucking shame. Kurosaki had given his everything for those that didn't even stick around to wait for him.

So, Grimmjow stuck around, generally just being around Kurosaki whilst stubbornly ignoring the bond growing between them. An effort that he knew for a fact was set for failure, especially given that he was currently lounging across Kurosaki’s legs while the human grunted at whatever homework he was doing.

A weighted blanket, he had called Grimmjow once.

Grimmjow had punched him in the gut.

No one was surprised by this outcome.

Grimmjow flexed his claws, legs thrown over Kurosaki’s in the now familiar affirmations of his presence that no longer needed his conscious thought. Night had already fallen, moonlight leaking through Kurosaki’s open window. He’d already run around Karakura tonight, seeing none but the usual sights, nothing out of the ordinary.

A growl escapes him, unheard by the ginger who continues to fill his silence with mumbled sums. Something was setting him on edge and Grimmjow couldn't fucking figure out what it was.

He shouldn't be here, not with Kurosaki, not with how agitated he was, either he could lead a threat to Kurosaki and be discovered or he could leave the fucking vulnerable human unprotected.

Clearly Grimmjow’s priorities had settled into simply inconvenient.

So, Grimmjow stayed, settled between Kurosaki and both the window and the door, wound up tighter than a spring and just waiting for everything to go wrong.

It is two weeks later when it does, two weeks of readily sitting vigilant between Kurosaki and the outside world with Pantera in his grasp, when the intruder arrives.

The moment Grimmjow senses the senkaimon open, he has Kurosaki between his back and the wall, arms spread to cover as much of the human as he can. Perched on the bed as he is, he's now entirely flush with Kurosaki. A perfect fucking meat shield.

Kurosaki’s startled stuttering questions still to silence when the window Grimmjow had taken to closing behind him lately opens. One of his hands that had been previously thrashing against the Hollow comes to rest over Grimmjow’s hollow hole, or at least attempts to inasmuch as Kurosaki can't exactly touch him.

(He bets the idiot doesn't even register the move, doesn't even notice as he aims to cover one of Grimmjow’s weak spots without thinking.)

In through the window steps a shinigami, Grimmjow even recognises him.

The blonde shinigami who wasn't a shinigami, or at least, the blonde shingami who hadn't been a shinigami seeing as he was now garbed in white captain robes.

Captain of the 5th, even. Aizen’s replacement. Or, no, Aizen had been a replacement himself. A replacement for the shinigami who got turned into a Hollow.

A shinigami who wasn't a shinigami, indeed. A not-shinigami who was holding unbreaking eye contact after taking in as much as he could. Surprise and shock had already twisted across his face, there and gone, but aside from moving a hand to his zanpakuto, the man made no move to attack. So neither did Grimmjow. But neither was he inclined to move from his position.

Sure, he remembers the blonde fighting against him and aside Kurosaki before all the real shit went down, but that had been over a year and a half ago. Before he and everyone else had abandoned Kurosaki.

“Grimm?” Asks the teen in question, starting to fidget the longer Grimmjow goes without movement. “Who is it?”

He's even asking Grimmjow rather than whoever it is he can’t see, rather than circling through a list of names as he had done when Grimmjow first showed. And, the fucker would evidently trust his answer, too.

The not-shinigami still watches, observing and not. Then again the man was at least partially a Hollow, if anyone was going to take Kurosaki’s apparent fucking trust in a Hollow it would be one of the Visored, as Kurosaki called them.

Without taking his eyes away from the shinigami, Grimmjow reaches down with his left hand to tap at Kurosaki’s arm across his waist.

B-L-O-N-D-E  S-H-I-N-I-G-A-M-I

H-O-L-L-O-W,  He adds, V-I-S-O-R-E-D

The Visored’s gaze slips to Grimmjow’s fingers at first before swapping between both Kurosaki and Grimmjow with unhidden curiosity.

“Shinji?” Kurosaki asks when Grimmjow finishes tapping. Grimmjow may not be able to see his face from his current position but he can hear the frown in Kurosaki’s voice and feel the tension against his back.

Shinji, apparently, only cocks his head.

“Well,” he starts, “ain’t that interestin’?”