A/N:I just really like this idea. I'm not doing the accent anymore, it's getting annoying. Mostly cause I text with it too…

her voice was grating on his nerves. He couldn't describe how much he regretted saving that annoying bitch from execution. He should have simply let the freaking soul society do what they wanted. He wasn't sure why he thought that. He figured that it had something to do with that colorless monster dwelling within his soul, the one that called out to him, taunting day and night, whispering, goading, insulting and praising him as it pleased. It's very words were molding him to its twisted will. And it was all her fault. Her's and Urahara's. Damn them both to hell and unrelenting torture, he wished they'd both just fucking leave. Or die. He liked that option. It barely registered as unusual to him, his thoughts had been growing steadily darker lately.

He understood she thought this was what he needed. He knew her intentions were good. He just couldn't help the growing hatred and nagging, burning desire to silence her forever. Slit her throat and watch the glimmering crimson spew from her pale flesh, as the hopelessness and fear, and pure shock over took the light in her eyes and then faded as her body disintegrated to miniscule ashes of reishi. He pictured the way it would flow through the light breeze and… Damnit! he needed to stop letting these thoughts interrupt him. He could hear that laugh echo in the back of his agonized head, a smooth voice urging him to continue that disturbingly pleasing fantasy. Part of him longed, yearned for it. Part of him said to just let go, that he couldn't escape it. Hirako even said so, sort of in an off-handed way. The only way to come out on top was to join the vizard, but both his own resolve, and his hollow's incessant demand that he avoid them prevented any kind of desire to accept their help. He couldn't help it. Not really. The hollow knew everything about him. His desires. his fears. His motivations. His cares. His agonizing depression. His absolute need to impress everyone, protect everyone, make everyone happy. It knew how to use this to its advantage. It could twist him and bend him and turn him. This way, that way. It could confuse him, play him like a game. Lift him up on a gilded throne and spoil him, or cast him into a pit of pure despair. He isolated himself from those he cared for, everyone but one. It liked her, so she was safe. It liked to encourage its "king" to hold the princess. Orihime was the one person it let him love, let him care for. It teased him when she looked over, forcefully moved his hand to hold hers when he was too nervous to even try. It even scoffed at him and called him pathetic when it did that.

Thing was, Orihime had noticed. He could see it, feel it , almost smell it. He normally wouldn't be able to tell, but it did. And as a result so could he. And it would cause a sensation in his other hand, like it was holding his hand too, proving that he was nothing more than its pawn. He could feel its breath on his neck, a constant reminder that it was watching him. Watching him and watching her. Its gaze was fiery and intense, imperious and captivating. He wanted to just lie down and let that piercing stare raze his thoughts and warp his mind. He felt warm air ghost across his ears in a mocking caress of such consuming intimacy, callous and beguiling, and even more corruptive. Its influence shone in his once warm cinnamon eyes, now eerily dyed a twisted, violent amber as its voice beckoned to him as he lie in bed. He tried not to let it, but sleep found him, and with sleep came its mocking face reflected back at him from the glass windows of millions of unchanging skycrapers. Biting cold wind lashed at him, and frigid rain pelted him constantly. Frozen white hands held his face. Ominous gold and ebony glared into his very core, turning his insides out with a mere glance. His heart skipped in time with a morbid beat, a dark dance of fear and dread, yet within it was the slightest hint of eagerness and glee. Because deep down he'd already accepted the hollow's commanding presence as inescapable. Its eyes continued roaming him, looking for any slight failure or wrongdoing it could chide him for. Much to Ichigo's shame, he knew that he'd resent himself for displeasing it. He'd do his bast to right whatever wrong he'd committed in a desperate attempt to please it. He waited for either condemnation, or possible rewarding. Finally, its eyes were through with their search, and to the teens relief, the hands that held his chin merely pulled him forward, and slid to his back. He felt the brush of lips against his left ear.

"Mine." came its only response to his appearance. Its nails crushing and scratching his shoulders, eliciting pained groaning from the orange haired teen, who didn't seem discouraged or gloomy. His scowling lips broke into an enthusiastic grimace. Yes, yes he was its. Only its, entirely its. It released him and he fell to his knees.

"I am yours, king." He said it with conviction. He truly believed that he belonged to the other. White lips widened in their constantly smirking glory. He looked up at the true "king" submissively.

"Good boy, Ichigo-" It paused to ruffle his hair, "give yourself to me." It squatted down beside him, "And kill her. Don't let a single shred of her worthless reishi escape from us." Sharp golden eyes locked with hazy obscure orbs that flicked between cold yellow and indifferent brown.

"Yes, master."

The next morning, Rukia's spiritual energy fluctuated dangerously low. Ishida, Urahara, and Renji all arrived at the scene to discover her mutilated corpse fading, and Ichigo standing, ebony bankai blade glowing with sadistic light, torn cloak and tattooed hands scattered about it like harbingers of death. His vermillion tufts were matted with dark ruby, and in the sunlight glistened with the devastating beauty of an open flame that framed the hard surface of the bone-white mask that crawled along his face, eyes glowing bright acidic yellow from behind the accursed object. One tanned hand was entangled tightly with a slender, pale shadow of a hand. Light peach flesh framing a petite structure, windowed by a flowing stream of pale auburn. Her gentle face was crowned with tiara of poisonous purple flowers that reflected in the soft color of her kind eyes. Her face was set with frightful determination. She didn't care what they thought, she would stand by Ichigo for as long as she could. Sure she was scared, but she'd been scared before. She'd grown, matured, and learned more in the past few years. All of the strength she'd acquired was for him. Because she knew it hurt him if she let herself feel pain. She felt the same for him, and because of that, she would stay at his side, even when he lost himself. Because love was the only thing strong enough to keep them both as sane as was possible, and they would both hold on to it for as long as they could.