Chapter Text
It all started one evening in the back rooms of the Urahara shop.
Just a regular evening: most Thursdays and Fridays they all crashed out on the tatami with too much sake and laughter. Urahara and Yoruichi and Tessai and Kon and Ichigo—and sometimes, just sometimes—Grimmjow would even take a break from brooding in Hueco Mundo and join them for a while. Ichigo didn’t understand or ask about the borderline violent housemate routine he had with Urahara, other than to guess it was probably a leftover from their team-up a few years back. So, some nights he was there, but mostly he wasn’t.
It was on one of the nights he wasn’t there, a night when Ichigo had drank far too much and was thinking deep thoughts about the universe, that he found himself struck with a question he’d never thought of before.
“Hey, Yoruichi…how the hell do you turn into a cat, anyway? Is it a family technique?” Reclining back on his palms in front of the low table, he turned to frown at the woman laying spread-eagled beside him, licking spilt sake off her fingertips.
“Curious about my pussy, Ichigo?” Her smile was broadly self-satisfied. “You’re supposed to ask these things in private, you know.”
“Everyone here has seen your pussy already,” Ichigo replied. “In every sense of the word.”
“It’s true,” Urahara said agreeably, filling the tokkuri with sake again right there at the table. “Tessai-san, remember the time we walked in on her doing the nude splits in a handstand? You almost bled to death.”
“I was doing yoga,” Yoruichi said sharply. “We could have all been adults about it until Kisuke flicked pez into a place pez isn’t supposed to go.”
Tessai just shook his head sadly at the memory. “Never has a sight haunted my nightmares so persistently.”
“I’ve never seen Yoruichi-san’s bearded clam,” Kon said, occupying Ichigo’s body. He was pink in the cheeks from alcohol and whatever filth he was thinking about. “Educate me, sensei.”
“It’s not bearded, for one thing,” Ichigo said into his cup, taking a huge swallow. He absently returned Yoruichi’s swaying high five. “You’d better not give my body a hangover, Kon.”
“You don’t let me get it blind drunk, you won’t let me get it a tattoo, you won’t let me get its dick pierced—why are you denying this form the pleasures of the living world?” The complaints were said over the rim of yet another shallow dish of sake.
“Because I want to be beautiful on my wedding night. Shut the hell up.”
“I wonder where Grimmjow is this week?” Urahara wondered, apropos of nothing. With his hat discarded he looked like a slightly dishevelled hobo. His stubble was absolutely dire. “I bought four bottles of sake thinking he’d turn up. Now we’re forced to nigh poison ourselves.”
“Or we could just save it for next week,” Kon suggested, his flushed cheek pressed to the cool lacquer of the table. “Said nobody ever. Fill me up, Urahara.”
“That’s what she said,” Urahara replied cheerfully, going around the table yet again. Tessai pulled off his apron and mopped his brow with it.
Most nights there turned into that kind of mess, really. Hangovers aside though, it was fun to sit around a table with the kind of people who could move mountains, but who mostly preferred to crack disgusting jokes and dig up old embarrassing traumas. They’d all lived the kind of lives that resulted in a wealth of drinking stories. Even Tessai, who despite seeming pretty taciturn had a staggering array of sex kidou techniques. That guy lived for bondage, and once he was knee-deep in sake he’d tell everyone about it.
“All right, all right,” Kon said an hour later, squinting around the room at them. “I’m going home, but I want you all to know this is human discrimination. Your shinigami forms are too powerful to compete against.” For no reason whatsoever he tugged his t-shirt off, giving Ichigo an eyeful of his own naked chest. His workouts in the bunker were really starting to sculpt him out. “It’s really hot in here. Bye.”
“What, you’re not going to let me tweak your nipples in farewell?” Yoruichi called from the floor as he staggered away, making pinching motions with her fingertips. Kon was too drunk to appreciate the offer and lurched his way out the door. “Ah, I’ll get him next time. Ichigo, you’re staying pretty cut these days. Don’t you worry about Kon running into Orihime-chan one evening? You know, their glistening eyes meeting in the purple twilight, a stray button left undone on her dress, parted lips as soft as rose petals…” She trailed off into a throaty sound of pleasure. Ichigo rolled his eyes.
“Kon talks a good game, but he can’t even jerk off without bursting into tears and telling me about it. He’s complete shit at lying.” Ichigo didn’t add that Inoue had been hand-in-glove with Tatsuki lately, and if things went the way he knew Tatsuki was hoping, Urahara would finally lose his betting pool and give Tessai enough cash to buy a new collection of velvet ropes. “Besides, he’s more likely to be found fucking a knothole in that old tree down the road. He drank way too much.”
“I’ll pick the splinters out for you,” Yoruichi said, patting his crotch companionably. “I’ve got good vision and some really tiny knives.” Her boast was followed by a watery burp that sounded like it came from her toenails. She licked her teeth curiously. “Shit, when did I eat natto?”
Urahara leaned over the table. “You didn’t, but between the soy beans and that bloated belly full of sake you’re nursing, I’d say you made some.”
“I’m going to name him Byakuya,” Yoruichi replied, patting the swell of her stomach. “For the sheer grief it’s going to give me when this comes flying out. Ichigo, help me to my room. I’m done.” She half-sat up with a groan, tugging at the neck of her orange sweater dress. Her hair was sticking up all over. Ichigo stood with only a slight wobble and grabbed her by her shoulders, figuring he’d better not throw her over his shoulder if he wanted to keep his shihakushou clean. Together they made their way down the hall in the world’s worst approximation of a three-legged man race.
“I don’t have or want any heirs,” Yoruichi said suddenly as Ichigo tugged her into what he was pretty sure was her room. “Ichigo, there’ll be no-one to carry on my legacy.”
“You have a little brother,” he reminded her, forcing her arms onto his shoulders so he could hike her dress up. He dragged the stretchy neck of it up over the back of her head. “Besides, nobody could replace you anyway. You’re a hard-drinking, ex-captain ninja cat.”
“And I’m hot,” Yoruichi added, letting him tug the dress off over her forearms.
“And you’re hot,” he agreed, poorly folding it and then dropping it on the floor anyway. She stumbled over to her futon and face-planted into the pillow while he looked around for a glass he could fill with water. And maybe one for himself—he was feeling a bit sweaty and dry in the mouth. Great. No way was he going back to his body until Kon had recovered. A compounded hangover would probably kill him on the spot.
“Here, drink this,” Ichigo said a few moments later, hands full with a water jug and elbowing the shoji door shut behind him. Yoruichi was sitting up by then, yanking her white bra into place. There was a thoughtful frown between her brows as he passed her a clean glass of water. After she’d drained it, he took it back to refill again.
Ichigo had it half-full when she spoke, clearer and more sober than she’d sounded a few moments before.
“You’ve gotta have a clear and complete sense of the anatomy of the form you’re taking.”
“Huh?”
“What you imagine, you become.” Her smile was crooked. “Once I tell you the trick to re-shaping your spirit form, anyway. How about it, Ichigo? Do you want to learn the Shihouin secret to shapeshifting?” Her voice dropped. “Do you want...the pussy?”
Filled with sudden excitement, Ichigo tried not to react. Yes!
“I am dying for your pussy.”
“Good.” She pushed back the covers of her bed. “Get in with me Ichigo, before I vomit in my own lap. I can’t talk about this while sitting up.”
“I’m in my uniform.”
“Ichigo.”
“God, fine.” He started tugging at his sash. “You know, this would actually be less weird if we had any interest in each other.” Dumping his clothes off, he shot under the covers and yanked them up to his chest. Beside him, Yoruichi laughed a sake-scented wave of air across him in the dark.
“What, you don’t find the pez in my clunge story sexy?”
“You know—”
“Rhetorical question. Now shut up, I’m teaching.”
“Fine.”
So began one of the most incoherent, rambling lessons Ichigo had ever received, and that included the time Urahara tried to explain the nuances of eighties versus nineties western rock bands. But unlike Urahara’s lesson, this one Ichigo listened to raptly, and hoped to hell he remembered it all in the morning. If not, he’d make her tell him all over again.
Ichigo had kind of died more than once, so he could say with confidence that he was in more pain the next morning than he’d been either of those times. It wasn’t just the hangover, either. Trying some of the reiryoku-moulding meditation techniques Yoruichi had rattled off in her drunken haze had actually started stretching his muscles in ways that left him feeling like he’d been put over the rack.
It took him longer than he’d admit to get his uniform back on into some kind of order, mostly just tucking everything in haphazardly and leaving his kosode gaping open. But he was dressed enough to make it home, where he fully intended to shower and nap, irrespective of whether Kon was using his bed or not.
Ichigo shoved the bedroom door open and walked face-first into Grimmjow. It was an honest to goodness forward march that shoved his mouth right into the side of his neck, too, which meant he had to leave the country as soon as possible and assume a new identity. But instead of being brutalised Grimmjow only shoved him away and scratched his neck irritably. His eyes were on the dimly lit bedroom Ichigo had just staggered out of.
“Huh,” was all he grunted, putting the most likely two and two together. “Whatever polishes your sword, I guess. You seen Kisuke?”
“I’ve seen death,” Ichigo moaned, jamming his thumb into his temple. His eyelids were flinching with every pulse of his headache. “Where were you last night? I drink less when you’re here.”
“Don’t blame me for your shit choices, Kurosaki.” Sizing him up, Grimmjow frowned in disgust. “Guess I’m not getting a fight out of you today.”
“Fuck no.”
“You’re a disappointment in every fuckin’ sense of the word.”
“Good. Maybe now you’ll stop following me into the bathroom and get a real life.”
Grimmjow scowled. “Think I’m here for you? I got other shit to do.”
“So go do it then,” Ichigo said sourly, stepping around him. He didn’t see Grimmjow stick his foot out until his ankle hit it and proceeded to go down like a sack of shit. His stomach lurched dangerously as he pushed himself up on his knees. “I swear to god, Grimmjow—”
“Take it out on me when you’re not sweating old sake. You fuckin’ stink.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Grimmjow jaunted away down the hall in search of Urahara. “Later.”
“Asshole,” Ichigo muttered, shoving himself to his feet with difficulty. His entire body was singing a note of pure pain. Heading for the door, he managed to get out into the fresh morning air without any further interruptions, leaving him with just his churning stomach and the torturous bright sunshine.
The dynamic between Grimmjow and himself had shifted a lot since their life or death battles in the old days. Those were, what, three years gone? More? Urahara’s intervention and strange pseudo-partnership with Grimmjow meant that while they still traded insults like physical blows and fought in the downstairs bunker sometimes, it was far more likely they’d just skirt each other with displeasure and go their separate ways. Ichigo couldn’t say he really liked it that way, but he supposed it was better than being skewered in the guts.
Grimmjow had never really softened up toward him like Ichigo had assumed he might. Irritable, judgemental and easily riled, once he’d realised the extent of Ichigo’s human ties to the living world he’d backed right up in disgust, declaring that he’d wait until they were both dead and on even footing before having their fated battle. Something about Ichigo never going all-out while he still had loved ones tying him down, or words to that effect. Silently Ichigo suspected Grimmjow just didn’t like the idea of ruining his mutually beneficial partnership with Urahara if he did manage to kill him. Like it was even a possibility.
The point was, they’d never gotten along, never seen eye to eye outside a fight, and Ichigo had long since given up on that ever changing. Grimmjow, it seemed, just wasn’t built for being friends with anyone.
Putting it out of his head, Ichigo decided hauling his carcass home and resting up was definitely the order of the day, but after that he was going to get straight back into the lessons Yoruichi had been giving him the night before. It was as good a hobby as any, wasn’t it? He didn’t need to be thinking about Grimmjow and his disapproving scowls. That guy couldn’t even turn up on time, let alone anything else.
Yeah.
Hell with that guy, Ichigo was going to turn into a cat.
Ichigo spent three days alone with his verbal tutorial ringing in his ears before he started to wonder if he’d missed something important. He’d memorised anatomy texts, he’d watched about seven hundred cat videos on YouTube in a row, he’d even cornered his father about bone structure similarities between humans and cats. He’d listened to purring audio on loop in the hopes it would help him meditate his way into a new shape.
All he ended up with was some screaming muscles and at one point, a possible hernia until he got Isshin to kidou him a quick healing. The reiryoku moulding seemed to be on point, but he was missing something. Stubbornly refusing to ask for help until he absolutely needed it, Ichigo persisted on the floor of his bedroom for hours, his legs tightly folded and eyes scrunched shut.
“You look like you’re about to shit your pants,” Kon noted idly from the bed, tossing a tennis ball up at the ceiling and catching it. He’d been almost exclusively occupying Ichigo’s body while he tried to learn the technique. “Stop straining so hard. Yoruichi doesn’t make that face when she changes. Just text her for some pointers already.”
“That’s quitting talk,” Ichigo said, not bothering to open his eyes. “I can feel my muscles and bones shifting every time I try it, so I’m doing something right. I’ve just gotta—” The familiar ding of his phone receiving an incoming message interrupted his speech. His eyes popped open. “Who is that from?”
“Yoruichi,” Kon said patiently. “She says come over.” Ichigo leaned over and grabbed the phone from him, jabbing him in the ribs until he let go.
[Yoruichi]: come over, stupid. i forgot a bunhc of stuff about visualisation. tell kon he can lick my armpit exactly once if he gives me foot rubs for hte next 12 years
What the hell? Ichigo scrolled up slightly to the message above it.
Ichigo needs cat tips. Related topic: I need cat teats. Do you need…cat treats?
“Fucking hell, Kon.”
“It was worth a shot. Kinda worked, too.”
“You’re not licking her armpit with my tongue.”
“Fucking tyrant! I hope you get stuck with a barbed dick forever!”
After the shouting argument that resulted from that comment, Ichigo headed back down to the shop to complete his training. Naturally everybody was there, including Jinta and Ururu staring with pubescent rage at each other over their phones in the corner of the room. Urahara and Tessai were playing some complicated card game at the table with what looked like M&Ms for chips. Grimmjow was rubbing his zanpakutou down with an oily cloth and frowning at him contemplatively as he walked in.
“Oi, what brings—”
“Ichigo!” Yoruichi called from the hallway, completely overriding Grimmjow’s words. “Hurry up, I’m ready for you.”
“Coming,” Ichigo replied, swinging his swords down to lay beside Tessai. “Don’t lose these in the card game, yeah?”
“I’m in front by ten thousand yen and one healthy kidney.”
“Oh, cool.” Apparently Tessai didn’t fuck around with cards. Ichigo headed down the hall without another glance, though he could feel eyes following him until the door closed.
Yoruichi was serious about giving him more lessons, despite how the invitation came about. Not only did she drag him into her bedroom and slide the door shut, but she’d shucked her clothes and transformed the instant they were alone. On four legs instead of two, she licked her paw delicately and stared up at him with gleaming golden eyes.
“See how easy that was?” she asked him in her jarring old man voice. “That’s practice, and a good application of mind over matter. Your own reiryoku-based body can do the same, as it happens.”
“But I’m not just reiryoku,” Ichigo said, pulling his clothes off. “Or I mean, not just that of a shinigami. I feel like I’m tearing myself apart whenever I try the techniques you talked about.”
“Reiryoku binds all spiritual things together,” Yoruichi said. “It’s indiscriminate lifeforce. The only reason you look like you do now is because you’re certain in your belief that this form is you. The same happens when your hollow aspect has taken over in the past. Instinct, Ichigo. It governs your skin, your bones, your eyes, your strength. Active shapeshifting isn’t just visualising a form, it’s believing it, too.” Stretching hard, Yoruichi dipped her head low and arched her back. “Come feel me. Study the reiryoku under my skin as I change back and forth, but I want you to feel it in yourself, too.”
They spent hours in her room like that, hand to skin as reiryoku was guided back and forth, one form to another, until Ichigo felt like he could send it rushing under his own skin like that, too. Sweat broke on his brow as Yoruichi guided him closer, both of them tired from the endless push and pull of energy between them. She really was a dedicated teacher when she wanted to be, Ichigo thought hazily as she tugged him down to rest his face on her human shoulder for five. Punishing as hell, but dedicated.
It was about then that the shoji door slammed open, letting a gust of cold air into the darkened room.
“Dinner time,” Grimmjow barked, then did a sharp double-take. “Fuck’s sake. Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”
“Good evening, Grimmjow,” Yoruichi laughed breathlessly, her lean and entirely naked body shining with sweat. Her thighs were lifted on either side of Ichigo’s hips like city gates. “Tell Kisuke I’ll be out shortly.”
Ichigo expected the door to shut again, but Grimmjow lingered an instant in the doorway, a black silhouette surrounded by glaring white light.
“Kurosaki? You staying?”
“Hell no,” Ichigo mumbled into long purple hair. He didn’t even have the energy to move. “Shut the damn door any time, pervert.”
“Fuck you.” The door slammed with a bang. Yoruichi laughed.
“I think he likes you.”
“He’s an asshole.” Shoving himself up on noodle-arms, Ichigo rolled away and tried to recall the feeling again of reiryoku pushing under his skin like the tide. An inhale of the soul, she’d described it. An anticipating rush, a pulling in of power, and a form he could picture so clearly it felt like a second skin.
The world around Ichigo ballooned for a moment, distorting into something fishbowl-like and desaturated of colour. His skin itched all over like fire-ants had bitten him from end to end. When it settled, Yoruichi was scrambling over to him on her knees, a towel hanging off her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and excited.
“Almost! Almost, Ichigo!” Scruffing his hair with an exuberant hand, she laughed. “Sometimes this happens, though.” Fingers tugged at something attached to his head. Reaching up, he felt around the top of his head with curiosity, sifting through the strands of his hair.
“They’re adorable,” Yoruichi said, rubbing the soft tips of what felt like two enormous triangular ears growing out of the spiky mess of his hair. “Orange, just like your usual hair, but so soft. Ichigo, you’re going to make a beautiful cat.”
“What?” Ichigo said loudly, half-deaf with his partial transformation. His butt felt wiggly, too, so he patted around it until— “Oh, shit!”
An enormous, long, immensely fluffy orange tail was growing out of his tailbone, right at the place where his spine met his ass. Yoruichi grabbed it like it was a wild snake, rubbing her palms down it, hand over hand like she was climbing a never-ending rope. Her laughter was throaty with delight.
“Ichigo, you’re already so close!” She slapped his shoulder proudly, almost dislocating the joint. “As expected of the only student of mine who managed bankai in three days.” Grabbing all of his clothes, she shoved them into his lap and pointed at the door. “Go home, practice, and remember what I taught you.”
Blinking hard, Ichigo realised he wasn’t sure yet how to get rid of his extra appendages. “But—”
“I said get out, I’m hungry.”
That was how Ichigo was forced to run home under cover of darkness with a pair of cat ears and a tail, completely abandoning his swords for another day. At least Yoruichi had opened her window for him to jump out, leaving the rest of the household to think whatever filthy thoughts they wanted. Grimmjow sure knew how to read into a situation, Ichigo thought as he jumped up onto the rooftop of his own house, knocking on the window until Kon peered outside suspiciously.
“Oh!” Kon exclaimed as he slid the glass open, tweaking Ichigo’s ears the moment he landed on the bed. “I read about this on the Internet! Can I pull your tail?”
“No.”
“Can I brush it?”
“No!”
“Can I brush it for good luck while you think about turning into a cat?”
“N—okay, yeah.”
“Sweet. Wait here; I’m getting Yuzu’s good comb.”
So thus they spent another evening, thinking communal cat-related thoughts like a prayer circle for furries all across the world.
Yeah, Ichigo had surfed the Internet, too.
It took him another two days, but early one morning, long before the sun had even touched the horizon, Ichigo completed his full transformation in the yellow lamplight of his bedroom. He could see it: big, ginger mittens with tiger stripes of pale caramel running horizontally up his front legs, a fluffy chest of similar colouring and a tail like an enormous plume of orange-cream smoke wrapping around his body. Whiskers like white reeds spread off the curve of his narrow muzzle, sensitive and as broad as his own feline shoulders. His tongue felt like a tapering stretch of wet sandpaper in his mouth, running along teeth like pointy little knives.
Fuck. Yes.
Ichigo was a cat.
“Kon! Kon!” he called, excited beyond all reasoning. But Kon slept like the dead, and that morning was no exception, leaving Ichigo with nobody to gloat to. He hadn’t told his family what he’d been studying for, though his father probably thought he was on the veterinarian track after the kinds of questions he’d been drilling him with. With no other option, Ichigo pushed the window crack open far enough to squeeze his small body through, deciding that surprising Yoruichi was probably the best and first way to shock and delight his peers.
Running across town as a cat was a new, slightly terrifying experience. Though he could see in the dark a lot better, his small stature meant the world looked stretched and grotesque to his rounded eyes, so used to seeing things as they usually were. His curved ears picked up sounds that felt like they were coming from right beside him, not sixty feet away. Everything smelled like a more potent version of itself; from the bakery with its fresh loaves being pulled from the oven, to the hot dumpster in the alley half a block away, reeking with all the discarded food from the restaurant beside it. Even the pavement smelled like old bubblegum and the weeds that grew from the unattended cracks between the ground and brick walls. Everything smelled like something, turning the air rich with a tapestry of everyday human life.
High, high above, Ichigo watched the sun break over the horizon with slow fingers of light. He couldn’t see colour quite like he was used to, but it still seemed like one of the most majestic sights he’d ever laid his eyes upon. It was huge and bright, and the world around him was alive with growing things and small sounds of waking up, the world breathing a massive sigh as it rose for the day.
It was also chilly as hell, so Ichigo ran for his fluffy ginger life while the light was still low, twisting through back streets and jumping over fences to get a feel for his new limbs all the way up until he reached the back entrance of the Urahara shop. The door was closed and locked, as were the windows. Should he yell for entrance? No, that’d just spoil everything.
Wandering around the side of the building, looking for an open window, he finally found one in the bathroom of all places: just a narrow sliver of room he could push his way through. His shoulders squeezed together fluidly under his fur; they weren’t fixed in bone like human shoulders, which helped him fit through tight spaces a more rigid shape couldn’t. Anatomy study actually paid off when his own instincts were still somewhat human. With a squirm and a swish of his tail he was through, padding on silent feet through the dark halls of the shop and toward Yoruichi’s room.
Pausing in the hallway, Ichigo listened for motion. Nothing. A few sounds up further that said someone was preparing for the day, but other than that he was in the clear. Pawing the door open with difficulty, then using his chin to force it open further, Ichigo squeezed through. God, he was tired, but it was all going to be worth it when—
The fucking room was empty.
Futon rolled up, bedding folded and placed in the corner, curtains open and tidily arranged. It looked like the guest room it had always been before Yoruichi moved into it. Helplessly, Ichigo felt a small swell of panicked dismay. What the hell? After all that effort? Maybe she’d just gone out for the night. People usually put futons away when they weren’t using the room, anyway. She’d be back soon.
Yoruichi would have told him if she was leaving. Wouldn’t she?
Unsure of the answer and feeling like the rug had been pulled from under him, Ichigo slowly hunkered down into a small ball in the centre of the room, tucking his paws under his chest and curling his tail tight. His eyes slowly squinted shut once, twice.
He’d just wait a while and rest.
She’d be back soon.
The sun was blinding and there was a dusty broom head in Ichigo’s face when his eyes opened next.
“Ugh, a stray!” Jinta grunted in disgust, pushing the bristles into his muzzle. “Get out of here! Get! Flea-bitten feral!” A few bristles pricked him on the nose so hard he yowled. Jinta yowled right back and started fencing with it: quick jabs that Ichigo could only barely dodge on his feet.
Four feet.
Cat.
Oh shit, right, Ichigo thought in a blind panic, his fur blowing out on end as he tried to duck another sweep of the broom. Yoruichi. Transformation. Jinta seemed huge and terrifying compared to his usual sullen teenager routine, furious at the sight of him in the room. Should he tell Jinta who he was? Would he believe him? Ichigo wasn’t even sure how to change back yet!
“The fuck’s all this noise?” another voice grated, just as strangely soft footsteps entered the room. “Jinta, you piece of shit, I’m gonna shove that broom up your ass if you don’t shut up.”
Ichigo looked up, up, up into a face that made his new cat bladder loosen with dread.
Grimmjow was squinting sleepily at the room with the face and bed-hair of someone who did not want to be awake at that hour. It boded terribly for Ichigo, who couldn’t spot a way out that didn’t involve shooting past the both of them. Scratching under his mask with slow, tired fingers, Grimmjow scowled down at him around Jinta’s furious explanation of why he was in the spare room bullying a stray cat.
“How’d it get in?” Grimmjow asked finally, in a small break between Jinta’s squawking. “Windows? Isn’t it your job to shut the fuckin’ windows at night? No wonder you’re pissing your pants.”
“I’m getting rid of it now!” Jinta said stubbornly, throwing the broom aside to reach for him with calloused hands. “Here, kitty.”
Mortifyingly, Ichigo’s instinct wasn’t to run but to hunch down on himself like a crumpled accordion, knowing he wouldn’t make it around them. He still hissed as best he could though, and when hands came too close he struck out with claws that felt like tiny little translucent daggers.
“Ow!” Jinta yelped, pulling his hand back. It only tore his skin deeper as Ichigo’s claws dragged clear. Take that, you little shit, he thought fiercely as he raced for the door in a blur of ginger fur. “You little fuck!”
A hand closed around his tail and pulled so hard Ichigo saw brilliant silver stars of pain. His howl telegraphed every bit of that sensation for a long, agonising second—until a large hand caught him under the midsection and lifted his body. The hand on his tail vanished at the same time a different yelp of pain hit the ceiling in surprise.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Grimmjow grated, kicking Jinta and tucking Ichigo under his arm like a loaf of bread. “You little sadistic son of a bitch. Go fuckin’ set an anthill on fire.”
“But it’s just—”
“Get out."
“You don’t even live here!” Jinta bellowed as he finally listened to his survival instincts and ran out of the room. The broom stayed askew on the tatami.
Too surprised to panic, Ichigo hung over the large hand bracing his undercarriage like he weighed nothing at all. He guessed that to Grimmjow, he probably didn’t. When he struggled a little though, Ichigo found that the hand was only holding him up, not holding him captive. After some wiggling he hit the floor with a thump and whipped around to stare up at Grimmjow, so overwrought by everything he was actually panting a little. His tiny plum-sized heart was hammering in his chest. How embarrassing. It was for that reason alone that he didn’t scratch out when Grimmjow knelt down, all half-zipped black jumpsuit and limp blue hair hanging in his eyes. He really did look like he’d only just opened his eyes for the day.
“Calm down,” Grimmjow said on a yawn. “Shitty cat, I’m not gonna hurt you. Can’t you smell it?”
Ichigo didn’t know what he meant. He watched Grimmjow reach out with a clenched fist, presenting his scraped knuckles for inspection. Cautiously, carefully, Ichigo sniffed the skin hovering in front of his nose.
It didn’t smell like any secret intention. Just smelled like faint soap, and maybe old shampoo from scratching his scalp. Some kind of sweat-dirt-oil smell lay under that, but Ichigo didn’t know what the hell any of it was supposed to mean. Grimmjow just smelled like skin, and warmth radiated from his hand. The blue eyes that studied him had lost some of their tired squint in those moments; they were suddenly contemplative. Maybe even a little uncertain.
“Guess you don’t recognise what I am. Wrong shape.” Tipping his head a little, Grimmjow unfurled a finger until it pointed right at Ichigo’s nose. “Got a home?”
What was he supposed to do, answer? Ichigo felt himself shrink away as the silence stretched. Grimmjow wasn’t acting like himself. He was supposed to punt him into a wall or something, not sit there and talk nonsense about shapes. Staring hard at the finger in front of him, hoping it wasn’t about to generate a cero that’d blow him into the next life, Ichigo nodded his face forward and scratched the base of his whiskers against the bony fingertip. It felt pretty good; like he was getting rid of an itch he didn’t know he had. It felt like when he ran his hair in its opposite direction after a long day. When Grimmjow didn’t move he tried it on the other side of his face as well: yeah, just as good.
Ichigo was so caught up in rubbing his face that he forgot about Grimmjow’s other hand until it covered the top of his head, warm and careful. Then it stroked away, all down the long length of his shoulders and back, even lightly circling his sore tail and pulling the plume of it through the ring his fingers made. Then it came back for another pass.
It was probably all kinds of wrong to be enjoying it, but Ichigo had never experienced anything like it. An entire hand that was big enough to touch half his body, all the way down. A big, warm, sword-roughened hand with long fingers and a light touch.
Grimmjow’s hand, as gentle as falling feathers.
Weird.
Ichigo shut his eyes and pushed his face into the waiting palm that had opened in front of him.
“Some stray,” Grimmjow said with a hint of amusement. “C’mon, I’ll get you some food. Big fluffy bastard like you could probably use some meat and eggs.”
Forgetting he should play dumb, Ichigo almost followed his command. Instead, at the last moment, he licked his paw the way he’d seen Yoruichi do and pulled it over one of his ears. It caused Grimmjow to try to grab him again, only this time Ichigo gave into his instinct and bit him hard in the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger.
“You fucker.”
Instead of yelling or grabbing him by his scruff, Grimmjow broke into a savagely pleased smile, tugging his hand gently away in experimental force. Ichigo snarled around it and pulled back, clamping his small jaw down and trying to grab his entire wrist with his front paws. With his hind legs, he kicked in repeated, digging strokes that did absolutely nothing to Grimmjow’s hierro.
Grimmjow actually laughed. Not a violent, terrible, I-want-to-feed-you-your-father’s-intestines kind of laugh, either. He laughed like he was happy about something. About being bitten? Ichigo was currently the size of a watermelon. There was no good fight coming his way. Finally, reluctantly, Ichigo relaxed his jaw and was rewarded by a brisk, pleasurable kind of rub of the fur around his ears.
Ooh.
“Cmon, food,” Grimmjow said, unfolding to his full height. “Then let’s see if I can’t train you to piss on Jinta’s bed.” He rubbed his fingertips together in a scratchy sort of sound that had Ichigo trotting after him before he could even tell himself to be a fierce, feral independent cat. Besides, food sounded pretty good. Also, he had a leaf stuck in the fur under his belly, and only something with opposable thumbs was going to be able to get it off.
Darting after Grimmjow to follow the scent of frying eggs, Ichigo decided that maybe the visit wouldn’t be a total bust after all.
A couple of hours couldn’t hurt, surely.
Just a couple of hours.
