kyalin

Your single-minded pursuit of violence, in your squad where the most battle-hungry, blood-thirsty beats unite, is nothing out of the ordinary. Inside the 11th division, you are merely one among many, but amongst other Shinigami, you are deemed one of the most unhinged reapers.

Although your bloodlust is no curiosity, your Zenpakuto’s is. It carries one of, if not the eeriest ability, lethal to both the wielder and the opponent, for it offers you unimaginable might at the cost of your blood. Simply put, the more impaired your body is, the stronger you become. Although the activation of Shikai is not necessary for the increase in energy, pain for the sake of victory is, however, mandatory, and as a result, you have long since learnt to embrace it instead of forsaking it. In combat, you rarely dodge, constantly, intentionally pushing yourself to the brink of collapse, for only then, you are unrivalled.

It is also in consequence of your susceptibility to injuries that the squad four’s station is more or less your dwelling, and its inhabitants, your second family. Even though your habitation under the roof of fourth division primarily is to be on the mend, there are in fact twofold motives to your incessant visits to the infirmary.

“Captain, your true-blue patient, once again, comes bearing gifts!”

Soaked to the skin in scarlet, but still on battle-induced high, you sport the goofiest of grins as you barrel down the hallway and through the door, leaving a bloody trail in your wake.

“Ta da!” With your arms, you make a gesture for dramatic flair as though the miscellany of wounds littering your body is your most prized possessions.

“Why, if it isn’t the charming little thorn in my side.”

Unohana Retsu, the Captain of squad four, receives you with a saccharine smile. Although on its own, her remark may sound satirical, bordering on exasperation, the lovely lilt of her honeydewed voice betrays her amusement. You know better than to take offence regardless, beam becoming only brighter as you step towards your lady, but alas, it is as if your feet have been swallowed by a pool of quicksand. The treachery of your legs bring about your immediate descent into darkness, though the entwining of arms around your body prevents the inevitable collapse.

Unohana is unbothered by the blood that soils the pristine white of her Captain uniform, thickly oozing warmth and spreading like a plague across her immaculately-donned attire.

She remembers vividly your first appearance at the hospital; during one serene day in Seireitei, you have arrived, entirely bloodied and irrevocably broken, at the doorstep of her division. Irrevocable that is, has she been away, but she has not, and thus, you have lived to see another day. Following your first visit, your presence as often as not is found in the hospital, and every time, you come in the form of wrack and ruin, but a damaged thing for her to fix. Your perpetual proneness to injuries has Unohana doubting your worth as a Shinigami especially since you occupy the fourth seat of squad 11. On the other hand, it will be a lie to say that she is not fascinated by the way you always manage to carry your broken body on your own two feet no matter the gravity of your conditions, a feat someone of Zaraki’s caliber cannot even achieve.

At the first sight of the Captain, a silly smile will crawl onto your lips before you will certainly fall. She has not always been bothered to catch you, letting her subordinates see to it that you are relocated to her quarters until after she has put you back together.

It becomes more and more apparent to Unohana with every one of your unceasing visits that you appear to be enamored of her. From the infirmary to the Ikebana Club, you will follow her like a love-sick puppy at the first opportunity. You do little to hide the fact, actively expressing your whimsical affections with both words and actions. Your eyes will peruse her, teeming with twinkles, as she tends to your wounds. Whenever you come to visit her, despite being drenched to the bone in your own blood, a dreamy smile will be found, taking permanent residence on your face.

“I’d like to woo you.”

One evening, as you offer the Captain your unabashed confession, she has countered you with a wry chuckle.

“You are a fool.”

“A fool for you.”

Over the rim of her teacup, royal blue eyes fix you with a hollowed-out stare accompanied by pale lips thinning into a line.

“My heart holds no place for trifling affairs.”

Her change in demeanour do you no harm, and you stand firm.

“What is courting if not an elaborate battle? One of these days, I’ll conquer you, my lady. So, watch me worm my way into your heart.”

“By all means. I’d like to see you try.”

After the exchange, you disappear for a period of time. She has half a mind to believe that you have met your untimely demise if it is not for your Reiryoku that she can positively, quite tangibly feel. And then, one day, as Unohana retreats to her quarter for the night, she is visited by a Hell Butterfly. It comes bearing a letter from you, challenging her to a duel, which in hopes of putting a stop to your folly once and for all, and you in your place, the Captain readily accepts.

“Do you know how I came to bear the title of Soul Society’s best healer?” Hair cascading down her shoulders and eyes lacking their usual shine, the woman that hauntingly calls out to you is not Captain Unohana Retsu of the 4th division but Unohana Yachiru, the first Kenpachi. “So that I could enjoy fighting forever. When my opponents are merely one step away from death’s door, I heal them with the flimsiest hope of being promised a prolonged fight.”

Still, in the face of a cold-blooded, blood-thirsty killer, you are unfazed. If anything, you are enchanted; under the silky, silvery cloak of the moonlight, she looks every bit the epitome of a nocturnal nymph, ready to ruin you at any moment.

“You are an intrigue, an enigma. That much, I know. Within cages upon cages, lies a blood-thirsty beast who sings oh so sweetly to me.”

All too suddenly, the sharp tip of her Zanpakuto catches the lapels of your uniform, effortlessly slashing the fabric until a portion of your flesh is revealed, and her suspicion, confirmed.

“Hmm, what a pity.” The hum leaves her lips in a lazy, condescending drawl as the blade draws blood on a cluster of spider lilies printed between your collarbones.

“If you lust for blood, my lady, blood I’ll happily shed for you.”

“Oh? There’s only ever been one person to have come close to sating my appetite for bloodlust. You have on your body traces of myself whereas I wear on my body the one scar left by him. If it isn’t the finest evidence of how insignificant you are to me, what, pray tell, do you think is?”

“I know not the answer, but by the end of our battle, I dare say, my lady, that you will see me in a new light.” Your hands wrap around the blade that is pointed towards your chest, as though it is her dainty digits fitting into your fingers. With wild abandon, blood starts oozing out of your palm. It dribbles down the length of her Zanpakuto, before in a soft pitter-patter, continues raining onto the earth in front of her feet. “Let us commence, shall we?”

She has been sorely disappointed, she will admit, when for the better part of the battle, you continue taking hits after hits with no acceptable counterattacks. She has been naive to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, you will really prove her wrong.

The sinking of her Zanpakuto into your heart is designed to be a shallow blow, not to kill but to incapacitate you. Should it proves perilous to your life, she can simply fix you, for, after all, killing you, at least for now, is not her objective. You, on the other hand, seem too intent on greeting death in the eyes, evident in the way raw, bloodied fingers lock around her forearms to yank her forward even as she goes to pull her Zanpakuto out of your chest. The recklessness of your action forces her Zanpakuto into your flesh, buried to the hilt as it enters through your chest and exits through your back. Regardless of the obviously fatal blow, your hold on her frame remains surprisingly strong, stubborn arms trapping her in a bone-crushing embrace.

When you whisper, your lips caress the shell of her ear.

“Let me show you what I’m capable of.”

To say that she is tickled pink will be an understatement. Although the amusement that she feels is nowhere near enough to offer her a sense of ecstasy, what little of it that swells inside her body, though fickle, is great enough in and of itself to go unnoticed. It has been a very, very long time after all since she has been offered a fight of such class that can pull at her heartstrings, and when finally met with someone who can hold out against her relentless attacks, she relishes it down to the last drop. By no means are you as strong as her. Still, your might is not to be trifled with, your resolve even more so.

Given her experiences and her mastery of the blade, it is not entirely a surprise that she outdoes you. It is, however, nothing short of miraculous that you do not go down without leaving a trace of yourself on none other than the great and the glorious Kenpachi. Unohana will soon find out that by sticking her Zanpakuto into your heart for the second time, she has unknowingly staked your claim to herself. It comes in the form of a cherry blossom that begins blooming on her body as your wound heals into a scar.

It appears, after all, that you are not entirely without worth.

Presently, your head is cushioned by her pillowy thighs. Once again, she has restored you to mint condition after you have collapsed in her arms. Slipping through willowy fingers like smooth satin is a forest of your strands as Unohana languidly plays with your hair.

A hum that spills forth your lips notifies her of your return to the conscious world, and when your gazes collide, she sees so much love in your eyes. You always look at Unohana as though the stars hanging high in the sky are her doing, overflowing with wonder and worship and nothing in between.

Taking into your hand the thick braid of her hair with deep reverence, you kiss the words into her fragrant hair.

“I love you.”

“You are a fool.”

“A fool who has managed to worm her way into your heart, no?”

At your words, she offers you a soft affectionate smile before leaning down to press a delicate peck on your forehead.

“That you have, against all odds.”

She who craves bloodshed and you who prosper by shedding blood: a match made in heaven.