Chapter Text
Ichigo doesn’t stir for hours.
Orihime stays with him, and when she has to leave, Grimmjow slips into her place without needing to be asked. His usual facade of cranky reluctance has fallen away in the face of the last twelve hours.
Who did this to him, she asks Grimmjow, and when he replies remember the fuck with the scythe who tried to finish me off? she feels Tsubaki’s presence in a way she rarely does and says is he dead?
Grimmjow smiles, slow and smug, letting it crawl over his face until even his mask quirks up, and says cero’d his head to ashes.
Good, Orihime says, low and fierce, and he looks at her, surprised, then approving.
Good that he’s dead.
Shame it was so fast.
She wonders if Hollow bloodlust is catching, because every time she looks down at Ichigo, sleeping the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted, she wishes she had Ishida-kun’s Antithesis. Wishes she could reject everything that happened to her husband and force it to happen to his torturer instead.
He moves, head rolling next to her, and when he looks up his eyes are bright yellow on deep black.
“Zangetsu?” Orihime murmurs.
He doesn’t come out front much around her. Shy, Ichigo says, but Orihime suspects that even if Ichigo’s forgiven her fear of his Hollow mask, Zangetsu hasn’t. She played a part in how Ichigo pushed his Hollow away, tried to ignore him and pull on his power without accepting him. He has little patience for humans in general, anyway.
“Mm,” Zangetsu hums. “Just came up to tell ya Ossan ‘n I’ve got Aibou. Keepin’ watch.”
“It’s not a disappointment to see you, you know,” Orihime says.
Zangetsu crinkles his nose at her. “Y’married Aibou, not me.”
“I married him knowing what he was,” she corrects. “And that you were part of him. We’re not fifteen anymore, Zangetsu.”
Zangetsu’s gaze drops for a bare second before it meets her own again. “…He ain’t gonna be up for questions for a while.”
“Are any of you?” Orihime asks, raising an eyebrow. It can’t have been a picnic for Ichigo’s sword spirits to stand by, helpless, and watch Nnoitra. They both love Ichigo, are as fiercely protective of him as he is of everyone else.
Zangetsu makes a small hah . “…We’re not as bad off. Ossan’s seen some shit before. Fragment of Yhwach an’ all. And I don’t…I don’t fucking like it but when I don’t like somethin’ I can quit thinkin’ about it easier’n humans.”
“Is there anything you think we should know, then?” Orihime prompts.
“Besides that we ain’t bottoming for a while?” Grimmjow snorts. Orihime just gives him her best disappointed-mom look. “Treat him like usual. He’s scared you ain’t gonna look at him the same.”
Orihime wants to argue that of course she wouldn’t, but she stops herself and considers. She doesn’t know exactly what Nnoitra did— she can guess, from his injuries, the way his throat was damaged, the burned-in brand on his back precisely where Grimmjow’s six still is. Cut-up cheeks and tongue, jaws held open too long, bruising turning his lower back and ass and thighs red-purple. She’s always been very imaginative.
Of course she feels bad about it. It’s horrible. It’s not fair, not right, it hurt him more deeply than any of their battles ever have.
“Fucker spouted off about breakin’ his pride.” Zangetsu’s voice is soft and no less lethal for it, and Orihime thinks that even if Grimmjow hadn’t beaten her to killing Nnoitra, Zangetsu would have. “Wanted him ruined. Made him beg. Said we were his.”
It’s becoming increasingly obvious that Zangetsu is not as okay as he wants to be.
“He’s dead,” Orihime murmurs, the only comfort she can think to give.
Grimmjow leans over and lets out one of their strange Hollow sounds, a sweet croon that relaxes Zangetsu a fraction.
“Gonna be a while before he knows he’s safe,” Zangetsu says, looking at them both. “Don’t trap him here. Let him patrol. Fight with him. He needs it.”
Ah. That’s what he’s getting at. Ichigo felt hopeless and helpless, chained down and collared, and the last thing he needs is Orihime to tell him he’s not allowed out of their bed.
“Don’t worry,” Grimmjow says abruptly. “I’ll watch her human bullshit.”
“Only if I can watch your Hollow bullshit,” Orihime retorts. Both Hollows snicker. Hearing her curse is rare, though it’s nearly always directed at Grimmjow.
“An’ you. He won’t blame you,” Zangetsu says to Grimmjow. “He asked. He knows he did.”
Orihime looks at Grimmjow, who’s doing a very good job not meeting her eyes. Which…there’s not much Grimmjow won’t happily own up to.
Orihime thinks of the stains in the bathroom and murmurs, “You touched him?”
Grimmjow doesn’t flinch, but his muscles all tighten like he’s trying very hard not to run away. “…He asked me," he answers eventually. "
“You did him a favor,” Zangetsu says pointedly. “Ain’t like you’ve never seen his dick before.”
“When he was in his own right mind,” Grimmjow growls back. “Which he definitely fucking wasn’t. Never seen him that Hollow.”
“Easier than Japanese,” Zangetsu says with an eyeroll. “Hollows are instincts, dumbshit. He turns more Hollow when he can’t handle being human.”
“That’s the fucking problem, lizard.”
“I fucking felt what he felt,” Zangetsu says right back, Ichigo’s lip curling up to bare his teeth. They’re blunt and human compared to Grimmjow’s, but it’s still a threat. “Would’ve been crueler to leave him, so shut the fuck up. Aibou’ll just get worse if he sees you on the self-pity train with him.”
Grimmjow’s jaw works, grinding his teeth together, but he snaps “Point made” out.
“Saved our asses anyway,” Zangetsu mutters. “More’n Ossan and I did.”
“What was that about the self-pity train?” Orihime asks, and both Hollows’ eyes go to her wide and shocked, like always on the rare occasion she’s an ass to them intentionally. She only does it when they need it, and boy, do they need it right now. “Szayel knew about you, Zangetsu. He knew Ichigo’s spirits. Grimmjow…”
“Kurosaki’s stronger than me but he ain’t a stronger Hollow,” Grimmjow answers her unasked question. “Not by much, anyway. Strength comes from how he’s a freak hybrid. Szayel caught a shinigami-Hollow-human stuck without a sword. Wasn’t ready for an arrancar in a second release.”
“Don’t think we ain’t fightin’ you in that as soon as Aibou’s awake,” Zangetsu warns. “How fucking long have you had that?”
“Eh, couple weeks? Why do you think I haven’t been around?” He slaps his hand over Zangetsu’s mouth before he gets an answer, recognizing the wide smirk, and then laughs. “Did you bite me, you asshole? You think your shitty human teeth are gonna break through hierro?”
Zangetsu bites again, and this time Grimmjow moves his hand away to pat him on the head like a dog, deliberately condescending. “Not even close.”
“What do all of you need?” Orihime asks.
“Good fight, sleep, fuck if I know. Probably gonna be fucked up for a while no matter what.” Zangetsu sighs. “What Nnoitra did ain’t that far out there for Hollows.”
“Basic-ass Hollows who don’t know their own damn names,” Grimmjow corrects. “Nnoitra’s evolved enough to know better. S’why he was in Hell. Original fuckin’ creeper asshole. Used to be Octava, y’know, before Szayel made Espada. Battled his way up to Quinta. Never could beat Ulquiorra, probably died mad about it.”
Orihime can’t talk about Ulquiorra even years later. She stays quiet.
“It’s gonna be hard not to think it’s because we were weak,” Zangetsu says, eyes meeting theirs. “Especially for Aibou.” He looks at Grimmjow. “If you’d been any later, there wouldn’t be much left to rescue.”
“Fuck that,” Grimmjow snorts. “Kurosaki woulda come back. He always does.”
“From battle,” Zangetsu agrees, voice heavy. “From war, but this wasn’t that. Made Aibou a prisoner. Played with him.” Gold eyes blaze. “I’m going to eat that pink motherfucker who took me away from him.”
Orihime can’t even find it in herself to be worried about that. If there was ever a time…
“Get in line,” Grimmjow says, curling his lip.
“You got the last bastard.”
“Better be faster than me then.”
Zangetsu gives a halfhearted snarl, but he’s clearly exhausted.
“Do you want some water?” Orihime asks.
“Aibou could probably use it.” Zangetsu takes the water bottle he’s offered, swallowing greedily. “Yeah, fuck, throat feels like when we had that shitty virus Kazui brought home last year.”
Orihime doesn’t have to ask why. She fixed the damage, but Ichigo didn’t have water for a day and a half and was screaming on top of that. She lets Zangetsu drain the bottle and throw it somewhere. “Rest,” she tells him, and Zangetsu settles back into their bed and closes Ichigo’s eyes.
In Ichigo’s dreams, Grimmjow doesn’t cero Nnoitra.
Instead he steps in when Nnoitra opens the door, taking in Ichigo hard and stuffed and desperate, and Ichigo’s heart lifts for an instant before Grimmjow shuts the door again and smiles.
“Brought you some friends just like I promised,” Nnoitra says, and snaps his fingers. Ichigo’s chains yank him across to the wall, spreading his legs and forcing his head and torso up. Grimmjow looks at him with a sort of amused condescension.
His cheeks burn and he drops his gaze. He can’t even explain himself with his mouth full like this. What would he say, anyway?
“Like it that much?” Grimmjow asks, tapping Ichigo’s cock with his boot. It hurts and Ichigo flinches back. “Don’t get shy now, Kurosaki.”
Does Grimmjow think he wanted this? He tries to shuffle back, but the chains won’t let him, holding him in place. Wrists and ankles tied to the ground, collar pulling him up and forcing him to stay up on his knees and not slouch. His cock juts out this way, metal cutting into him.
Grimmjow circles him, those sharp blue eyes taking him in. “Replaced me?” he asks, dangerously low, prodding the 5 burned into his back. It hurts, stings like Grimmjow’s poured acid into it.
No, Ichigo tries to say, but the gag turns it into a hopelessly garbled sound. Can’t move his tongue, or his lips. No, I didn’t, I didn’t, I wouldn’t.
“Didn’t know all I had to do to beat you was chain you up,” Grimmjow hums, finishing his inspection and standing in front of him. “Play with you a little. Look at that, cock’s so swollen you could stab somethin’ with it. Been crying too, haven’t ya?” He scoffs. “Wasted my time fighting you. You’re weak. Bowing down just from this.” His boot taps under the head of Ichigo’s dick and it hurts. Ichigo jolts back, tries, but he’s cornered and there’s nowhere to go. Grimmjow laughs and does it again, just to see him try to curl in protectively.
“Collared like a pet dog.” Grimmjow strokes his hair out of his eyes, but it’s not kindness. Fingers turn to claws that drag his head back to meet Grimmjow’s blue-blue eyes, narrow and slitted and angry. “Thought you liked fighting, but I guess I was wrong. You like this. Like being hurt.” The smile crawling onto his lips is small and mean as he pushes two fingers into Ichigo’s mouth, past the gag. Claws press down, gentle, for now. “Could’ve just asked nice, Kurosaki, didn’t need to go to all this trouble. I don’t mind hurting you.”
No, he didn’t go to Nnoitra, he didn’t ask, he didn’t—
Grimmjow’s claws choke his mouth with blood and the other hand pulls the plug out and he breaks, open and open and open—
“Kurosaki!”
He didn’t he didn’t he didn’t Grimmjow please—
“Kurosaki!”
He comes awake with a raw scream like he hasn’t since he was sixteen, a reaction he trained himself out of long ago. He couldn’t keep waking his sisters and worrying them, couldn’t say oh, it’s fine, I was just dreaming about the time I nearly became a cannibalistic ghost.
But he screams now, and there’s hands on him almost immediately, voices talking.
“Hey!” Blue eyes blue hair white mask. Too close to his face. “Asshole! Snap outta it.”
Grimmjow.
Ichigo’s hands are bound and he can barely move but he made a mistake, he forgot the collar and Ichigo can lurch forward and butt his skull hard into Grimmjow’s throat.
“Fucking ow! I’ll kill you, you goddamn—“
“Ichigo. Ichigo!”
Orihime.
“Shhhhh, shhhhh, it’s all right,” Orihime says, arms wrapping around him. “Hush. You’re home. You’re in our bed, you’re safe.”
Safe.
Safe?
He moves his wrists and realizes he can, they’re not chained down. He slowly moves his arms up and returns Orihime’s hug, breathing too hard and too fast. “Hime?”
“Yes. Grimmjow?”
“I’ll fucking live.”
Right. Ichigo pushes away and offers Grimmjow a hand up, which Grimmjow snaps his fangs at. “Back in your right mind, you little bastard?”
“Sorry.” Ichigo rubs his head. “If it’s any consolation, I think your hierro gave me a concussion.”
“Skull’s too damn thick for that.” Grimmjow springs back onto the bed, ignoring Kurosaki’s outstretched hand. “Sides, you did it to yourself, idiot.”
“Did I say I didn’t?” Ichigo has to stop and cough. His stomach growls. “Fuck I’m hungry.”
“Urahara brought food. I’ll get it.” Grimmjow slides back off the bed, and this time the pang in his chest screaming never leave my sight again is better. Ignorable.
Orihime gently bullies him into drinking some water, but he pushes it away after a few sips. It’s sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach, and if he keeps going, he’ll puke.
“Need food,” he says when she makes a soft complaint.
Orihime hums and puts the water back. Ichigo takes stock of himself. His head hurts a little, but not enough to be a real injury. He’s still buzzing with adrenaline.
Otherwise, he feels…better than he should. Nothing hurts. He’s felt this before— Hime’s healing works miracles— but it’s…strange. He should hurt.
He reaches for his chest, runs his hand slowly down it. No scar, no wound, most of the blood washed off from when Grimmjow bathed him.
“…Gotta piss,” he mutters, and rolls off the bed. Orihime doesn’t try to stop him, so he goes into their attached bathroom.
He does his business while trying not to actually look at his dick, but he can feel that the imprint from the ring is gone. His ass isn’t even sore, let alone anything else.
He looks at his unmarred skin in the mirror and turns around, twisting to look at his back. He has to see. He remembers, vaguely, Orihime’s trembling voice saying it’ll scar and he has to—
There.
It’s sunken into his skin, pale against it. A clean-cut 5 matching Grimmjow’s 6, in precisely the same spot.
He supposes, distantly, that he should be grateful Nnoitra didn’t decide to carve it into his tongue. At least it’s on his back. At least he can cover it with a shirt. At least…at least…
He’s kissed Grimmjow’s number a thousand times, sometimes sweet and sometimes vicious. Sometimes barely pressing his lips to it, kissing along the tattoo, intimate and soft in a way Grimmjow rarely allows, and sometimes sinking Hollow-sharpened teeth in and licking away the blood, letting Grimmjow growl and writhe under him, flip them over and clack their teeth together, claiming his own blood back from Ichigo’s mouth, biting until their tastes mingle together, reiatsu dissolving on their tongues.
You have to claim what’s yours.
It feels like he has a blade in his skin again, carving deep and scorching, a declaration of intent. You’re never escaping, never leaving, you’re mine, my prisoner, my toy, I will do whatever I want and you cannot stop me.
Aibou! Stop!
Zangetsu holds him still, embracing him in their inner world, and Ichigo realizes his hands are clawed and he’s half a breath from sinking them in and carving his own skin up, ripping through the scar until nobody can tell what was branded into his skin.
He pulls his hands away and turns from the mirror, forcing his breathing calm. If he wants to get rid of the scar he can. He can…talk to Urahara. Or the Fourth. Or a fucking tattoo artist.
God he hates it, though.
He pushes the door back open.
“Spare clothes over there,” Grimmjow says, jerking his thumb. “Food’s next to the bed. Eat before you pass out again.”
“I’m not tired,” Ichigo mutters. He looks at the clothes. Two outfits— one’s a shihakusho and one’s civilian clothes, a red-striped collared shirt and jeans. And strawberry-patterned boxers. Fucking Hat'n'Clogs.
Food first. Grimmjow shoves a plate at Ichigo— omurice, he thinks, but his stomach rumbles again and he barely manages to grab a fork (not chopsticks, his hand is shaking) before he tears into it.
“Slow down!” Orihime protests. “You haven’t eaten in two days, Ichigo—“
Ichigo growls loud enough to make it clear there will be consequences if anyone takes the food from him, then keeps eating. He cleans the bowl and falls back onto the bed with a sigh. “Fuck, I needed that.”
Orihime cards through his hair. “Do you want more?”
“Later,” he mumbles. He’s drowsy in the nest (bed, he reminds himself), but he can’t fall asleep right now. Too much to do. “Kazui? Urahara? Kyouraku?”
“Brat’s fine, Urahara introduced him to Nelliel an’ then put that kimono bastard on babysitting duty. Last I heard he was teaching Kazui that shadow game his damn zanpakuto likes. Urahara knows you’re back, so he oughta be fine. Didn’t tell anybody shit except that Princess an’ I had you an’ you weren’t dying.”
“Kyouraku? You let Kyouraku babysit our son?” Okay, he’s not the worst option of the Gotei captains. At least it’s not Mayuri. Kyouraku is friendly, affable. …He might be the best available captain, actually.
“Ain’t gonna hurt him, he knows you’d tear him apart for it,” Grimmjow says lazily.
“What do you want now?” Orihime asks him, still petting his hair.
Hm. What does he want?
He wants to be close to his lovers, and he reaches for them with a whine he can’t remember to feel strange about. Hime strips and falls into their bed immediately, and Grimmjow follows on Ichigo’s other side, already shirtless.
Head pillowed on his wife’s chest and back pressed against Grimmjow’s sturdy warmth, Ichigo feels safe.
Zangetsu gives a contented sigh, and he feels Ossan’s eternal vigilance relax a fraction. Something in him eases. It’s awful, still– he doesn’t know if he wants to tear Nnoitra into bloody shreds or never lay eyes on him again. Half of him wants sex, knows it’s usually what happens when they’re all in bed together, and half of him twists in revulsion at the thought. That…probably makes it a bad idea.
He inhales instead, opening his mouth a fraction so he can smell and taste the reiatsu in the air. Grimmjow’s tangles with his and Hime’s and forms a blanket over all three of them. Denmates. Pack. Safe.