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Ichihime Month | Day 3 | Hurt

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Ichihime Month | Day 4 | Strength

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IH gift exchange for mutsukitooru from scribbles-kun! prompt: “they get each other the same gift they spent ages pondering over and it’s hilarious”

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: G? T? Somewhere in between? Genre: fluff/obligatory aliens Word count: 1,929 request from ohirime ! who wanted a fic “where ichigo picks his oh so cute /and lost/ girlfriend orihime up from a train station on a very late hour and then they have a train ride together”

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Renji/Rukia Rating: G? idk Genre: some fluff/a little angst/a tiny sprinkling of Byakuya Word count: 2,955 request from anonymous: “something where Rukia is the first one to confess her feelings”

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: PG Genre: fluff/stressed teenagers Word count: 4,541 Request from katochocola for a fic where “orihime had scribbled ichigo’s name on a textbook of hers and she ends up forgetting she did and later on ichigo didnt bring his textbook so he borrows orihime's”

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: dances over the PG line a bit. a little language and such. Word Count: 4,830 total A/N: so I wanted to do this pairing prompt challenge thing that gives 10 genres with which to write 10 drabbles. I think it was originally supposed to be 100 word drabbles *guffaws for an hour* anyway that didn’t happen and some got a bit lengthy, so I guess I’ll just post them in groups? okay so… here’s the first three with the prompts ‘angst’ (it’s not very angsty. i tried.) ‘au’ and ‘crack’. (all the prompts are as follows if anyone else wants to do it: angst, au, crack, crossover, first time, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, smut, ust)

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: G Genre: sleeping beauty crossover/slight goofiness Word Count: 6,550 A/N: part 2 of the 10 genre prompt thing. just one drabble/oneshot thing this time because of the length.

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: PG for the first, I guess. G for the other two. Genres: first time. fluff. humor. Word Count: 2,583 A/N: part 3 of the 10 genre thing. just one more after this and i’ll stop buggin’ ya.

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: T, more than M. There’s no actual smut… technically… Genres: hurt/comfort. smut. ust. Word Count: 4,514 A/N: last of the 10 genre challenge hoorah.

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The Fight

Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: T

Ichigo winced as the door slammed behind him, feeling a twinge of regret as soon as it happened; but it wasn’t enough to stop his stomping progress away from their apartment. He scowled ferociously at the solid concrete steps and their refusal to respond to his hard footfalls with the satisfying thump and rattle wooden stairs would have provided. His anger needed an outlet in noise and lots of it.

Why did she have to be so impossible? So unreasonable? So stubborn? Ichigo growled at the memory of that stubborn chin in the air and those furrowed eyebrows above flashing brown eyes and that tightened mouth that refused to say anything remotely rational. He reached the bottom of the stairs and paused; waiting, straining, begging for some evil thing to manifest itself so he could kill it—or at least send it into the next life very violently. Which was the same thing, he realized, except…not, because the evil things he “killed” were usually already dead, but— The tips of his ears perked at a distant hum, a tremor in the air, and he grinned an awful twisted grin as he set off after it. Not five minutes later, he had finished. And he was irritated. It was nothing but a short and easy fight that had done nothing to release the boiling, oozing, sinking lava in his chest. Now he was angry, frustrated, and irritated. Grand. Ichigo continued down the streets, hands shoved in his pockets. Evening was fast approaching, and he found himself following a few drifters into a bar. The place was mostly empty as it was a little too early for anyone except drunks, the after-work crowd, and a few people who actually wanted to meet for conversation and not stilted, sweaty mating rituals. He looked around uneasily before sliding into a stool, misjudging it the first time and ramming his hip into the side with a grunt. He cleared his throat after he set his bottom on the seat properly with a self-conscious glance around the bar and leaned his forearms over the counter, his back and neck stiff as he tried to decide what to do with his hands so he looked cool, like he belonged in any bar he chose to saunter into. The bartender, a young man around his age, walked up and raised a questioning, pierced eyebrow. “Uh,” Ichigo said. The bartender’s attention was grabbed by a wave and a bark from another customer, and as he watched him walk away, Ichigo’s mouth still hanging open with whatever stupid thing he was about to say, he realized this may have been a bad idea. The only times he had been in bars before was when he was dragged in by friends. They were in groups and he would slouch nonchalantly in some chair and, with a shrug, have whatever someone else was having. Going into a bar alone and angry and with the express purpose of getting drunk was disconcertingly new territory. Because that was what he was doing, he realized. He came in here to be alone and get drunk. That was what people did when they got in fights, wasn’t it? He scowled at the lines of shelved liquor bottles. Someone near him ordered something, and he ordered the same thing when the bartender and his eyebrow returned. It wasn’t like this was the first time he and Orihime had argued. They had had arguments of all kinds ranging from light-hearted to nearing dangerous levels of hurt and anger, while never quite reaching that point. But they were pretty rare and had never lasted very long at all before one of them crumbled in either laughter at how silly they were being or in regret and apologies and kisses and other things. This one, though—he nodded his thanks, took the drink, sipped it, gazed at the sloshing liquid for a moment, and then gulped it down, not even tasting the concoction—this was a Fight. He caught sight of a miserable looking man with a bottle and a glass and decided that was much more up his alley. The bartender may have given him some kind of look that was judgmental or pitying or disdaining or a combination of two options or even all three. Since he couldn’t pinpoint the look, Ichigo suspected the look had been nothing but the blank look of someone who couldn’t care less and that he was merely being paranoid. With that last flare of blessed logic, he pulled back the urge to glare his best go ahead make my day look before it made it to his face and threw the first shot of alcohol down his throat. After a moment, Ichigo’s nostrils flared and his face turned red as he held back the coughing and choking. Flinging booze down his gullet is where his Clint Eastwood imitations end. Orihime always said he wasn’t the bad boy he thought he was. He scowled at that and scoffed and flung back another shot, finding the fire scratching down his throat to be a sudden comfort. Ha! Now he was gulping hard liquor with the best of them. That’ll show her how much she knows him. Ichigo sniffed dismissively at the total lack of triumphant feelings at that thought. No matter how much he scowled or insulted, she was always going on about how kind and sweet he was. His snort echoed against the bottom of his empty glass. She was probably eating her words now. After what happened earlier, no one knew better than her how much of a bastard he could really be. He drowned the heavy feeling in his chest in more alcohol. Things were starting to feel a bit fuzzy. Good. He idly turned the bottle around, not even sure what he had ordered. Whiskey. All he needed now was a pair of cowboy boots and a poncho. He smirked a little, thinking how Orihime would be delighted with the picture and would insist he make her fantasies come true. What would she be? He tapped the side of the bottle with his finger, and then paused as a little smile crept up one side of his cheek. He would hopefully suggest saloon girl, but she would probably insist on being a pirate or something that was nowhere near any dusty wild west town at any time in its history. The sound of glass clinking against glass made him look up and see the same miserable looking man looking even more miserable as he drooped further towards his liquid comfort. Ichigo’s smile slipped away as he remembered why he was here. Halfway through the bottle, his heart began to really hurt. He hated this, hated this whole thing. Sitting in a bar, alone and drinking his troubles away. He felt stupid and sad and the feelings only increased as the place began to gain a crowd of happy people, or at least people giving happiness their best shot. He wasn’t even giving it a half-hearted shot so what was he doing here? “Hello,” a gentle female voice said. It almost sounded like—Ichigo popped his head up, but the hope that had leapt into his throat dropped like a cannon ball. He eyed the smiling woman seated next to him, her long, dark hair nothing like the ribbons of caramel that filled his life. Her lips were moving, she was saying something and she looked nervous but determined. He tried to concentrate on her words, but all he could see was the shape of her mouth and how that shape formed words and how it was all wrong. She scooted her stool closer to him, and he could smell her perfume. She smelled like some kind of flower. Roses, maybe? Whatever. He wrinkled his nose. That was wrong too. He didn’t want to smell flowers, he wanted citrus and a little bit of mint. He wanted caramel and pirates and cute chins that could turn stubborn. The woman next to him slid her fingers over his forearm and oh god that was… no, no, no, talk about wrong, and he jerked so harshly, the alcohol in his glass sloshed out onto his hand. Her hand recoiled and he could feel the offended humiliation coming off of her in waves. He frowned and tried to search where he had encouraged her, but his brain was pretty murky. She was saying something about lips and that sounded… yes, he could see how staring intently at her lips might send the wrong message. “I’m… sorry.” Ichigo pulled out his wallet and put down a few bills that more than covered everything. “I’m…” He slid off the barstool and stumbled on his feet slightly, trying to shove his wallet into his back pocket. “I have someone I…” The wallet finally slid into place on the fourth try. “I have to go back to my… my someone. She…” He finally looked up at the woman and saw embarrassment written all over her face. Guilt stabbed him in the gut and he shook his head and waved his hand towards her. Orihime would want him to say something nice so, “Y-You’re very pretty.” He was vaguely sure he was right, he wasn’t paying that much attention. “But you’re not… She’s my someone.” She sighed and gave him a smile of understanding, and he felt relieved that he was making some kind of sense. “We… We fought and…” And what? What now? “Uh, well, good luck.” He stumbled away from her and through the crowd of people that had suddenly descended upon the bar. Or was it suddenly? How long had he been there? He crashed into a woman and she grinned up at him and he shook himself. What was he doing here? He didn’t want to be here. Cool, night air finally hit his face and he sighed in relief, leaving the cacophony behind him as he made his way towards the only place he wanted to be right now. At one point a policeman approached him, and he was sure he would spend a night in the slammer, which would really seal that bad boy image for him, but then the officer helpfully escorted him to the apartment building. Apparently, Ichigo had saved the cop’s daughter’s dog or something, and he was grateful and wanted to see the poor young man home safely. Orihime was right. What bad boy Eastwood wannabe saved little girls’ dogs? She was always right. He must have slurred something about it, because the policeman nodded sagely and said something like the woman is always right, m’boy, in that wink-wink, all-knowing, one-man-to-another tone. The cop insisted on following him up to his door, watched him scratch the paint around the lock a few times, and then sighed, took the keys, and unlocked the door for him. Ichigo took the keys back and bowed a little too deeply in gratitude before stumbling inside. Ichigo scowled around the dark apartment. Had she gone to bed? Hadn’t even left a light on for him? She really was mad. And so was he, he reminded himself. So angry he could spit. He lost his balance and cursed when his hip rammed into the corner of some piece of furniture. There was a faint light ahead, and Ichigo followed it into the living room. He breathed in deeply at the comforting smell of citrus and mint… a lot of mint. More mint than usual. His eyes found the bright head of hair facing away from him under the lamp that was the only the only light on in the house. His socked feet shuffled along the hardwood floor and her shoulders stiffened as he rounded the couch where she sat and plopped down on the chair across from her. He winced when his bad aim caused his bum to slam onto the arm. His issue with not being able to place his ass in a seat correctly was getting old fast. She wasn’t looking at him, just staring at the table and the shot glass filled with green liquid next to a bottle of that nasty mint alcohol she loved. A clock echoed throughout the silent room as it ticked the seconds by. He didn’t even know they had a ticking clock. He studied her, watched the slight sway as she sat there and the slow way she blinked. “You’ve been drinking?” he said. Her lips pursed a little before answering his question by grabbing the glass and throwing its contents to the back of her throat. She shuddered slightly and reached to grab the bottle, leaning over and eyeballing glass and bottle with exaggerated care as she, amazingly, managed to fill the glass without spilling a drop. The bottle thudded when she harshly set it back down, and she went back to staring at her two green companions. She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “What’s it to ya, bub?” If Ichigo wasn’t so angry, he’d laugh. Whenever Orihime got drunk, she would become some character. Last time, it was Uchiha Sasuke and she kept her hair in her face and her fingers laced under her chin and wouldn’t stop mumbling about revenge. He looked at the more than half empty bottle. “How much did you drink?” Orihime regarded the bottle and then shrugged. “It was full when I got it.” Ichigo sighed, and Orihime narrowed her eyes at him again, swaying as she leaned back a little. “What’s a matter, shurriff? Can’t a,” she hiccupped, widened her eyes, and hiccupped again before continuing. “Can’t a person drink in the privacy of thur own home?” He narrowed his own eyes, partly because he was matching her expression, mostly because he was trying to figure out who she was supposed to be this time. “Why are you all the way over there?” She squeezed her eyes shut before popping them open again. “What? Yer the one all the way over there.” He harrumphed at this and got up, promptly losing his balance and shakily grabbing the arm of the chair. “Ah!” she pointed accusingly. “Yer drunk! Go home!” “I am home,” he said as he teetered around the table to collapse next to her on the couch. She glared as his heavy weight jostled her. “That’s true, ‘spose. Sssmartypants.”

“I am smart,” he agreed as he picked up her shot glass, sniffed, and put it down as he wrinkled his nose. “That’s mine,” she said. “You can have it.” She turned her body towards him and gave him an appraising look. “You tryna say something, punk?” He mirrored her position, folding one leg underneath him. “Yeah, I’m saying your taste in booze stinks.” Orihime gasped. “You take that back, you, you yellow-bellied yellow-livered canary bird.” “That’s a lot of yellow,” he pointed out. “And how does me pointing out your bad taste in alcohol make me yellow?” She opened her mouth, closed it, and frowned. “Give me a minute.” Ichigo looked at her empty hand, laying palm up on her lap, and reached over to gently grasp a few fingers. “I think I’m drunker than you,” she said, looking down at her captive hand. “How did that happen?” He shrugged. “Why are you drinking?” She looked at him like he was daft. “Because we had a big fight!” She tried to tug her hand away and failed. “A-And that’s what people do, when they fight. Right?” Ichigo nodded. “I think so.” He scooted closer. “Where did you go?” she asked as she studied the closing distance between their knees with a frown. “There was a hollow. And then a bar.” “That’s why you smell funny.” “A woman flirted with me.” Orihime snorted. “She has good taste.” “Thank you,” he said, thinking that was very generous of her considering everything. She shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” The hand holding hers moved to run along the skin of her bare thigh. Orihime eyed the roaming hand imperiously. “Do ya feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?” “You’re Clint Eastwood,” Ichigo guessed. She tipped an imaginary cowboy hat at him. “Yes, ma’am.” “I’m not Clint Eastwood,” he said, and she just looked at him. “Or a bad boy of any kind. I save little girls’ pets.” Orihime closed her eyes and nodded slowly like an old sage well used to young knowledge seekers coming to her with new revelations of old truths. Ichigo started to pull his hand away, but she stopped it and placed it firmly back on her thigh. “I missed you,” he said as he reacquainted himself with her knee. She jerked when he found her ticklish spot and bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You were only gone a few hours,” she said. “I’m sorry I left like that.” Her eyes flicked up to his, and she shrugged again. “I’m sorry too.” “For what?” “For…” she trailed off with a frown. “Um… what were we fighting about?” Ichigo blinked, realized he wasn’t anywhere near being angry anymore, and couldn’t for the life of him remember what they fought about. “I don’t remember?” Orihime hummed in thought. Or it might have been from the way his fingers were exploring underneath the fabric of her shorts and slowly approaching her hip. He scooted even closer until his knee gently bumped hers. It was probably both. His Orihime was good as multi-tasking. Whereas he was having trouble remembering he was even having a conversation as his fingers squeezed the curve of her bum. “If neither of us can remember,” she mused, her voice a little too breathy. “Then I suppose we’re not fighting anymore. Your hand is going on quite the journey, mister.” He let out the sigh of a long-suffering parent. “It was itching to go on an adventure. I couldn’t bear to hold it back from its dreams any longer.” She nodded and looked down to her shorts where his wandering hand was forearm deep. “What about your other hand? More of a homebody?” Ichigo brought up his other hand and looked at it in exasperation. “No, just a bit nervous about taking the plunge. Needs some encouragement or something.” “Oh, I see,” she said sympathetically. “Well… if I may?” “Go ahead, make my—” he stopped short at the glare she gave him. “No stealing my lines, punk,” she admonished. He waited, contrite. Eyeing him suspiciously, she grasped his free hand in hers, rose up on one knee, and swung the other leg over his thighs so that she was comfortably straddling him. “Good thing there are two mountains to explore, one for each hand,” she said as she placed the shy brother on her other thigh before placing both her hands on his chest. “Good thing,” he mumbled as he quickly moved inside her shorts. Orihime squeaked. “That one catches on fast!” Ichigo smiled, happy to be surrounded by caramel and citrus and mint. He kissed the not-so-stubborn-anymore chin, too, smelling the boozy mint on her breath. The funny thing about her awful alcohol, that he had tried—and gagged on—when she had first discovered it and couldn’t stop squealing in delight, was that it tasted different on her. It was sickening by itself (or in anything else. He remembered a dramatic episode from last year when she was making his favorite triple chocolate cookies and he caught her just in time before she poured the green liquid from hell into the precious batter. She had huffed and pouted and insisted that it would be amazing, but finally relented when he ended up on his knees in the middle of the kitchen getting flour all over his trousers. She had managed to sneak it into other things, and he knew for a fact that it would taste anything but amazing). But on her? Mixed with her own taste? He kissed her with several chaste but searing kisses before slipping his tongue past her lips and gently engaging hers. It wasn’t bad at all, that sweet minty-ness on her tongue. She pulled back and contemplatively tasted her own lips. “What did you drink?” “Huh? Uh…” He thought back, remembering the miserable man in the bar and Clint Eastwood. “Whiskey.” Her mouth twisted cheerfully. “Clint Eastwood wannabe,” she accused. “This town’s not big enough for the two of us.” He tilted his head and suddenly wondered. “What if we remember what we fought about, and we have another duel?” Orihime slid her hands up to the sides of his neck. “Then… I guess we’ll fight again, but…” She ran her thumbs along the skin at his jaw causing him to shiver. “If we get really mad and need to drink, let’s just drink together and glare at each other. Nobody goes anywhere. Deal?” “Deal,” he said, and kissed her to finalize the promise. “So… even though we don’t remember, can we still have make up sex?” She started, looking at him in horror. “Of course!” Ichigo made a satisfied noise and slipped his curious hands out of her shorts and up her sides, taking her t-shirt with them. “So,” he said as she lifted her arms and he tossed the shirt somewhere behind the couch. He faltered slightly at the lack of a bra. “I-If we fight twice, that means we get make up sex twice,” he reasoned. She could only answer with a strangled moan as she arched her back into his hands at her breasts. “So,” he said, gently licking her skin between his fingers. “We should definitely try our hardest to remember our very serious talk and fight again.” He nipped at her collarbone. “What do you say?” Orihime took his head in her hands and tilted his face. “Go ahead,” she said against his lips in a sweet, husky voice that Clint Eastwood would never, ever use. “Make my day.”

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IH Week. Fanfic. Prompt: Masks

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IH Week. Fanfic. Prompt: Christmas

Also a very belated and only partial request fill for dohaerysdays

“So? Who is she?”

Ichigo’s elbow slipped out from underneath him, nearly sending his chin crashing onto the counter. “Huh? What? Who?”

Ikumi rolled her eyes as she stirred the frying vegetables in front of her. “The girl you were daydreaming of.”

“Girl? There’s no girl. No daydreaming. I don’t daydream.” He cleared his throat and attempted to look bored.

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Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/Orihime Rating: T

A bum’s very late little Halloween fic with a vampire.

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Request from ichiderp (see this post for requesting details if you missed it ^_^)

Fandom: Bleach Pairing: Ichigo/OC-Akane Rating: T

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Request from tetsuryuu-no-hime (see this post for 100 follower mark requesting details if you missed it and want to request^^)

Fandom: Fairy Tail Pairing: Gajevy Rating: T (just a little language)

What happened when Gajeel ran after Levy in the Fairy Tail special chapter The Fairy’s Punishment Game.

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