Work Text:
There’s a bite in the air, unnatural even this deep into fall. It’s a cold that chills to the bone and makes even the hardiest soul yearn for the cozy warmth of a kotatsu. Shinigami wrap thick hanten around themselves as they hurry to and from their duties; those responsible for the ongoing cleanup and repair of the Seireitei keep warm through sheer physical labor.
“You have your final fitting with the tailor tomorrow afternoon,” Byakuya says during supper. He sits perfectly in seiza, hand cupping a delicate porcelain bowl still half-full with miso soup. He sips, once, and swallows before setting the bowl back on the low wooden table between them. This is a routine they have formed, since she stood in front of the others, Renji beside her, and announced their impending marriage.
She sits across from Byakuya in silence and eats. He reminds her of all the many tasks ahead of her before the wedding day. Sometimes Renji joins them and teases her for her gluttony when she asks for a second portion. “Careful, you won’t fit into your wedding kimono,” he said two weeks ago when she took an extra dumpling.
“Yes, Nii-sama,” she says, and takes a small sip from her own bowl.
Tonight her portions are appropriately sized to facilitate the correct proportions for the kimono.
“The appointment at the marriage office is next week,” he adds.
Tonight the miso soup is overly salted.
“You will, of course, take the Abarai name. I have arranged for the line to become a branch of the Kuchiki family.”
Tonight the cold cuts through fabric and into the skin beneath, a sharp chill that has even Byakuya suppressing a shiver. Wealthy though the Kuchiki clan is, the manor is as drafty as any house within the Seireitei.
“Yes, Nii-sama.”
Shear him away.
Rukia startles and nearly drops her cup of tea. Hot droplets sear her skin, making her hiss faintly at the unexpected pain. Byakuya raises a questioning brow as she reaches for her napkin and dabs away the droplets. “My fingers slipped,” she lies glibly.
She dreams that night of a battle for her soul, won only when a black sword pierces through to the heart of her.
And then it changes: something has laid waste to the Seireitei, destroying what has only recently been rebuilt. Ice destroys what’s left of the rubble, and bodies, already disintegrating into reishi, lie where they fall. She stands atop Sokyoku Hill, scythe in hand, and her laugh is low and distorted.
We will shear them all away.
When Rukia wakes from half-remembered dreams of destruction it’s to a winter wonderland inside her bedroom: ice creeps up the walls and even across her duvet. She breathes out a cloud of white air as Sode no Shirayuki calls a warning: her temperature is dangerously low.
It’s an effort to increase it, to draw her reiatsu back into herself and let the world warm until the ice has begun to melt. Water soaks into the tatami mats; they will mold unless one of the servants blots and dries them. Rukia folds away her futon and duvet in silence and dresses for the day in her uniform. She wraps the badge around her bicep and pulls on her fingerless gloves, giving a perfunctory glance in the mirror before she leaves her rooms.
Byakuya isn’t there for breakfast, and it’s just as well; he might ask her about the icicles still melting on the engawa outside. She eats alone and hurries away to the division, to the mountains of paperwork on her desk. It seems a fresh pile shows up each morning no matter how late she works each night.
“Lieutenant! The latest reports from the builders are here, Lieutenant,” Sentaro calls as soon as she walks in through the door of the officers’ building. This was the second building of the division to be completed after the war, following a temporary barracks for the surviving soldiers. It was a rushed effort, and it shows in the fact that her office door sticks. When it isn’t completely jammed, it squeals horrendously each time she slides it open or shut. No amount of oil quiets it and it’s been on the builder’s list to fix for over a year. Or so they tell her. “I’ve left them on your desk.”
“Thank you, Sentarō,” she says calmly after forcing her door open properly.
Rukia’s office, like the rest of the building, was a rush job built to Captain Ukitake’s preferences rather than hers. Though she could resent the fact that the office was made for a dead man on the instructions of his oldest and dearest friend (she keeps to herself her suspicions about what else Ukitake was to the Head Captain), she resents more the fact that it makes her miss him.
Silently she reads the pile of reports from the builder, making notes on a separate sheet to craft a summary. What’s on time; what’s delayed; where are they exceeding the budget and where they are finding savings. The last of those is painfully infrequent, particularly as, the report reminds her, there is a continued shortage of materials given the ongoing repairs required to all sectors of the Seireitei.
She reviews the expense budget for the mess hall – it’s running under – and a request from her fifth seat to transfer to the Eighth division. Rukia silently makes a note of it all for her report.
“Head Captain Kyōraku requests a regular, consolidated report of the decisions he must approve,” Nanao had told her when she became the acting captain.
So she writes them daily, sends them to his attention, and waits for him to respond. After all, Kyōraku informed her, he must approve and authorize every decision she makes prior to implementation.
Rukia has lost division members over the delays his reviews have caused, but there is little she can do about it despite her protestations.
After all, she is an acting captain and even now, three years after Captain Ukitake’s death, the captains have chosen not to act either to install her as a permanent captain or choose another replacement for Ukitake.
Kyōraku won’t hear of her taking the captain’s examination. She could force the issue by seeking endorsements from the others, but even her own brother will not endorse her, and his refusal stills the tongues of the others.
After all, “It would be seen as nepotism,” he explained calmly when she questioned it.
So, she serves in an acting capacity, hiding her resentment behind the façade the Kuchiki clan has taught her to assume.
You are losing control, Sode no Shirayuki warns as the office grows colder.
Another voice whispers back, Let her. Let me. Or do you not see what she has let herself become? She was given power and then bound with a leash so they could pull her to the ground. Rukia stills, her brush in hand. A single drop of ink splatters onto the paper beneath it, ruining the last twenty minutes’ worth of work.
“What?” she asks, her breath visible in the air once more and coming in quick, startled puffs as she stares wide-eyed at the wall across from her desk, which is covered in frost. Sode no Shirayuki does not – has never – sounded like that.
Sentarō pokes his head into her office and yelps.
“Is everything alright, Lieutenant? It’s colder in here than it is outside!”
Rukia takes a breath to calm herself. “I’m fine,” she says, and forces a smile on her face as she draws her power back again. As she did in the morning she struggles with it, as though her powers are bucking against her, refusing to be subdued. “I am practicing the preparation technique for my bankai and got carried away. Would you have hot tea sent in, please?” This lie, too, slides easily off her tongue.
At the fitting for her shiromuku the tailor refuses her request to shorten the hem. “You will be wearing brocade zori with a height of eight centimeters, Kuchiki-san,” she says. Her tools are arrayed around them, brought to the Kuchiki manor expressly for Rukia’s fittings. Only a commoner would go to a tailor rather than having the artisan come to them, or so Rukia has surmised given the steady parade of artisans who have come in and out of the suite of rooms Byakuya has generously allocated for wedding planning.
She’s barely set foot in them since the engagement announcement. Why would she? As Lieutenant Matsumoto informed her, none of the decisions are hers to make.
“Eight? That’s very tall,” Rukia protests.
“The shoes have already been ordered, Kuchiki-san, per Captain Kuchiki’s instructions.” Rukia frowns as she stares into the mirror with the too long white furisode wrapped around her. She’s worn zori before, of course, but never anything so high. Perhaps it’s because Renji is so tall.
The tailor calls for her assistants. One brings in a heavy-looking, styled black wig; the other carries a pure white silk wataboshi. They’re both in identical pink kimono.
In an instant she is back on the bridge, leashed and bound with her face veiled. “I won’t wear a wataboshi,” she objects, “or anything else that covers my face.” Even the pure white of the shiromuku makes her blood run cold.
“Oh but Kuchiki-san, the Kuchiki Clan placed the order with exact specifications. And we must ensure the wig and wataboshi fit properly,” the assistant says, ignorant to the cold sweat she’s broken into beneath the white silk of her juban.
“Very well,” Rukia acquiesces. She will take the matter up with her brother, she thinks, as the assistant fits the wig to her head. It itches and slides down, too large for her, but the other woman draws the tall silk wataboshi over it anyway. It impedes her vision, hems it in so she can see only directly in front of her, and even that is limited, because it’s too big, drooping down too far. You make yourself small, the voice taunts. In the mirror Rukia sees her irises lighten until they are pale lavender gray. Look at you. You’re a frightened rabbit when you should be a Queen.
She stares; sees her own lips briefly pull into a rictus before her eyes are back to normal and it’s only her ordinary reflection in the mirror. The tailor and her assistant don’t seem to notice. They murmur to each other about switching out her obijime for another and whether Kuchiki-sama would mind if they turned up the hem of the wataboshi instead of picking out the stitches.
“The wig will need to be adjusted; I thought you said you measured!” the tailor grumbles.
“I did!”
What’s happening to her?
Only what you let happen to you, Rukia, the voice hisses. Ice creeps across the tatami mats. You let them leash you. You let yourself become small. Will you let them do this, as well?
For what?
Loyalty? They tried to destroy you.
Love? A memory flashes past her eyes, a hand wrapped around her throat and slamming her into a lamppost. Is that love? The voice in her head snorts with derision.
She forgave him for that. Even if he never asked. How could she hold a grudge against her only living friend from the Rukongai?
Duty? Her eyes turn pale again. What duty asks this of you?
She is a lieutenant of the Gotei 13. She is a member of the Kuchiki Clan. She has a duty to both. Renji is her friend, and he loves her. Nii-sama has gone to much trouble to arrange everything: her wedding kimono, the ceremony, the reception, the appointment at the registry office.
Sode no Shirayuki calls out as the ice draws closer.
“Here, take the wataboshi and wig off, Oomori, and I’ll help you out of your kimono, Kuchiki-san,” the tailor says.
Hands pull the white silk from her head at last; the wig follows, and Rukia barely hears the confused gasps from the women around her. She stares in the mirror once more: the color has leeched from her hair, leaving it the lavender gray of her eyes. Her skin, too, is washed out.
Is this what you want? the voice asks, and this time Rukia recognizes her for who she is, what she is. Her pale eyes widen. Say it, Rukia. Do you want the dog to pull you from the sky and chain you to the ground?
“No,” she whispers.
The voice laughs. Then I will shear them all away.
Around her the world explodes.
There’s a bite to the air tonight. Clouds hang low over Karakura and even without rain the air feels oppressively heavy. Ichigo scowls as he yanks his backpack higher over his shoulder and hurries back towards his apartment. The math class he’s required to take this semester is boring as hell; it’s also annoyingly late in the day and as far as it’s possible to get from his bus stop while still technically being on campus.
Streetlights illuminate his way as he trudges along the path that leads to the northeastern edge of the campus. He could have taken a bus from the south end of campus, but it would drop him off so far from his stop he’d be walking in the cold anyway. At least Yuzu’s probably cooking something hot for dinner; she mentioned beef stew this morning when he left the house.
Ichigo huffs. Twenty-one years old and he’s living at home like a high schooler, attending college as a day student and going home each night to sleep in his childhood bed. Could have gone to Tokyo, he tells himself for the third or tenth or maybe hundredth time.
Well, no, he couldn’t have; not with the clinic bringing in barely anything the past few years. Goat Chin may be annoying, but he couldn’t leave him or the girls to fend for themselves when the business suddenly slowed down – nearly ground to a halt – just after the war ended.
Instead of going to the University of Tokyo he enrolled in the College of Karakura. Instead of getting his own apartment he lives at home and works two part-time jobs.
Unagiya-san’s expecting him despite class not ending until after five; he’ll work for her until nine, then walk home and eat dinner with one hand while doing his assigned reading with the other. At least tomorrow his last class ends at twelve, so he’ll get seven hours of work.
On weekends he works at the ice rink. They need extra hands now that it’s cold enough to skate again. They pay better than Unagiya can, and his boss doesn’t mind that he does his math homework behind the concession counter when customers start to trickle out after the late afternoon rush. He tries not to mind that it hurts every time he looks out over the rink and remembers…
Ichigo scowls and pulls out his bus pass. They went skating once and it’s been years. Hell, it’s been years since they’ve even seen each other. The only reason he’s thinking about any of that now is because Inoue told him about the wedding.
Damn that Rukia, she couldn’t even tell him herself that she’s marrying Renji. She couldn’t even invite him. No, she left that to Inoue.
Not that it’s any of his business who she marries.
Not his business at all.
The chill in the air is sharper when he gets off the bus twenty minutes later, a five-minute walk from the Unagiya Shop. It might as well be twenty, it’s so cold. Ichigo yanks his hood up and shoves his hands in his coat pockets as he hurries past the bus while it starts to pull away from the curb again. Was it supposed to be this cold? He didn’t pay attention to the weather channel this morning.
She’s waking up.
Ichigo stops so fast he practically skids on the suddenly icy sidewalk, regaining his balance only after a few helpless windmills of his arms. “…What?”
The Hollow rouses, his voice low and harsh inside his head. Just what I said, King.
Who’s waking up? What the hell is he talking about? And why the hell is he awake now, after so long? Yhwach drained most of his powers and they’ve been slow to recover, it’s why he’s here in Karakura instead of there – there where he could be with…
Shut up shut up shut up. Even if he was (still) the most powerful shinigami in the damn universe it wouldn’t mean anything.
But when Ichigo closes his eyes he sees her. When he sleeps at night, he dreams of her.
And just now, when the world shudders and chills, he feels it.
“Rukia,” he whispers. And in a heartbeat he’s running straight past the shop, ignoring Unagiya’s annoyed shout when he passes her without even an acknowledgement.
He’s panting and out of breath when he reaches Urahara’s shop. He shoves the door open with a grunt, ignores Jinta (which is more than he deserves, chasing after Yuzu like he still is) and strides past the overflowing shelves and the counter into the back.
“Kurosaki-san,” Urahara says with some surprise when Ichigo finds him in a small tatami room, huddled under a kotatsu with a garish futon for warmth. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Can I offer you tea? Or are you after some Hollow-B-Gone? Jinta can help you.”
“Cut the crap, Urahara,” Ichigo grumbles, but he toes off his shoes before he steps onto the woven rush floor. “I need you to open a gate to Soul Society.”
Urahara lowers the cup of tea in his own hand; it settles on the wooden top of the kotatsu with a faint click. "You haven’t been to Soul Society in some time,” he observes. “I thought you said you were done with all of that.”
He did. Now he wishes he hadn’t, maybe he could have tricked someone into showing him how to open his own damn senkaimon. “Something’s wrong,” he says instead of answering directly.
The old shopkeeper raises an eyebrow; it stretches the scars on his skin, leftovers from the use of his bankai. “Something that twelve captains and their many lieutenants cannot address?” he asks archly. Though there’s a glint in his eye Ichigo recognizes, a glint that says…
“You know something,” he accuses.
Urahara lifts his shoulders. “Mayuri Kurotsuchi isn’t the only man who has spies in the Seireitei.” He pulls his cane from beneath the futon and uses it to get to his feet with a faint grunt. That, too, is a leftover from the war. “Yes, Kurosaki-san, I think perhaps you are… needed.”
“Something is wrong then,” Ichigo says bluntly. “What is it?” The cane taps his forehead before Ichigo can dodge it, pushing his soul from his body. Instinctively he breathes in, feeling lighter than he’s been in almost three years. And now, without the weight of his body, he feels it more clearly: Rukia. Something’s wrong with Rukia. He races for the training ground door ahead of Urahara.
“So you do feel it then,” Urahara says slyly when he reaches Ichigo at the senkaimon a few minutes later. “You have faced her once before, Kurosaki-san. But I think it will be different this time.” With that cryptic explanation the senkaimon opens, and Ichigo rushes through without hesitation.
The dangai is dark and cold, colder than Karakura. He swears he sees ice climbing up the undulating walls as he runs past them. Is Rukia hurt? Is she facing whatever, whoever Urahara referred to when he said he’d faced her before?
In no time at all he bursts through the other end of the senkaimon in mid-air, one hand instinctively reaching back to grab Zangetsu’s hilt as he falls and catches himself. “Shit,” he whispers. Directly in his line of sight is the Kuchiki Estate.
It’s become an ice palace. Did Rukia lose control of her power? Is she hurt? With a thought he’s moving in shunpo, rushing closer to the ice, to the feel of her power. Damned uniform, it’s not nearly warm enough against the frigid air that buffets him when he gets closer. “Rukia? Rukia!” he calls when he lands in the courtyard. Byakuya’s expensive gardens are covered in thick layers of ice and frost, plants shattered and even the hardy maple trees split from the force of her power.
And it is her power; he can feel it now. Hers but… different.
The hollow rouses again. Well. Isn’t she a surprise?
“Shear them away. Shear them all away,” a low voice murmurs.
Ichigo turns, startles at the sight of her. “Rukia,” he whispers. This – he remembers this, a sight out of his worst nightmares. When she forgot everyone. Forgot him.
Before him she stands on bare feet, unflinching in the cold. Her hair is gray, washed of its sleek black color, and her eyes are pale when he meets them with his. The kimono wrapped around her is pure white and shredded where the far too long hem has dragged along the ground. Was she getting married today? But – no, Inoue said that wasn’t for almost two weeks.
The scythe in her hand is taller than she is, and he recognizes that too – the long white staff, and the bloodred, wickedly curved blade that tried to destroy him.
The kids died. The hollow that possessed them did too. What the hell happened?
I told you. She woke up, the hollow says.
“Rukia,” Ichigo says, louder this time. “What’s going on? Did – did someone attack you? Where’s Byakuya? And Renji?”
She laughs, lower and harsher than he’s heard in a long time. “They forgot Rukia and left her to die. The redhead said she couldn’t be saved. Or did you forget?” Those pale eyes narrow. “You were the only one I couldn’t shear away. But I won’t make that mistake again.” The scythe spins in her hand and she rushes him.
He barely gets Zangetsu off his back in time to block her, and their blades screech and spark against one another as she shoves him back with enough force that Ichigo slides across the frozen ground. “Rukia! You need to snap out of it!” Again and again, he blocks, barely able to keep her at bay even with his huge cleaver of a blade.
But she is beyond listening, and though he holds back she doesn’t. “You left her too,” she hisses. She’s more… conscious, this time. More malicious. He dodges and her swing takes out half the courtyard, leaving only ice and shattered stone in her wake.
“I never—”
“You did!” The scythe swings and the tip catches on flesh, drags down until Ichigo’s sleeve is flayed open and so is his arm, blood dripping scarlet onto the icy ground and freezing where it lands. “She let you, and you left.”
“She – you told me to!” The words tear out of him and he catches the flinch before she turns on her heel and runs. “Rukia!” Ichigo shouts, a desperate edge in his voice now as he chases her across the icescape. She leaps away, leaving him no choice but to follow. He barely notices the other shinigami around them now, the shouts about an intruder, the calls for reinforcement as they ready for a counterattack.
She does, and where she swings they fall, taken down by black reiatsu edged in violet. Buildings fall with them, newly rebuilt walls reduced to rubble in an instant.
“Rukia!” Ichigo blocks her next swing. “Damn it! Rukia, listen to me, we can – whatever’s going on we can fix this just come back!” Her scythe starts to cut through Zangetsu, and he’s forced once more to disengage. Her scythe comes for him again and shreds open the front of his uniform, revealing his chest before he leaps out of range.
“I’ll carve out your heart,” she hisses.
The hollow whistles, impressed. That’s one angry bitch, he observes. Then: Switch with me.
“Wh-what?”
You’re slow. And you won’t go all out against her.
The hollow will kill her or die trying. Ichigo shouts his denial in between dodging another swing, in between blocking her strike at the unseated officers below them.
“It’s Kurosaki!” “Kurosaki’s fighting her!” familiar voices call and Ichigo doesn’t dare look to see where they’re coming from, but he recognizes Ikkaku and Yumichika. They must be near the Eleventh Division grounds.
There are too many people around; she’ll kill them, or he will, fighting her. “Tell everyone to keep back!” he shouts at Ikkaku, risking a glance even as he kicks off of Rukia’s weapon. The blade shreds through his sandal and bites into his flesh. “Fuck!”
It’s an effort to focus but he blinks blood out of his eyes – did she cut him there? Or was it shrapnel from the rubble? – and watches her. If she wants to kill him so bad, maybe she’ll chase him instead of fighting the rank and file below. When he backs away, she chases, canines sharp in her mouth, and Ichigo leads her towards the old Sokyoku Hill.
Switch with me, the hollow says again.
“Damnit!” Ichigo hisses. He swings and this time she’s a fraction too slow. Zangetsu slices right through her obi; it flutters away and leaves her kimono to fall open, revealing the thin white silken juban beneath it.
He can’t help the heat that comes to his cheeks at the sight of her slender legs but he’s too busy trying not to get cut to pieces to let his gaze linger.
If he can just get the right angle maybe he can do the same thing he did last time, pour his power into her and chase away whatever scrap of darkness has been hiding all this time. “I won’t let you kill her.”
Kill her? You worry too much. I know how to handle her. Just don’t drown us all before I… get her back to normal, the hollow purrs.
Rukia’s blade nearly slices his throat open with her next strike and Ichigo grunts as his grip slips, the hilt of his own sword slick with blood. “I will shear them all away,” she hisses. “Until there are no more chains, until she is—”
“Fine,” Ichigo whispers, and lets himself fall into the flooded world of his soul.
The hollow is waiting for him. He’s taller now, like Ichigo is; he’s still a mirror image, clad in white where Ichigo wears black. “Don’t worry,” he says, his voice laid over with harsh static. “I know better than to kill the Queen.” And then he’s gone, leaving Ichigo to wonder what the hell he means by that.
She falls still when he does. Something’s happening; she senses it in the air, a shift in his energy. Rukia knows him as Ichigo but her memories tell her there is something more to him, something… darker.
Something that is waking up even as she watches the black of his uniform fade to white; that garish orange hair bleaches out until it, too, is white as snow. And when he opens his eyes, they’re golden. “Yo,” he says, a smirk spreading over his lips. In an instant he’s in front of her, his white blade resting against her neck. “Told the King it’s my turn. Why don’t we have a little fun before you let the Queen come back? Tag, you’re it.” And then he lifts his blade away, as though the kiss of sharp metal was only a tease.
How dare he! “I don’t care what form you take, I’ll kill you,” she snarls. Yet he has the audacity to laugh, to jump out of range. Another building falls, crumbling into ash with the strength of her attack.
“You’ll need to catch me first,” he says, and when he runs, she gives chase.
High above the Seireitei they clash over and over, a game of tag that leaves streaks of scarlet blood on white silk, white cotton. Unlike Ichigo, her new opponent clearly has no problem cutting her.
“Damn you’re sexy,” he calls when she’s toppled half a dozen buildings with a single swing.
It brings her up short. Sexy? Before she can process that he’s come up on her from behind and swung, cutting not into her but into the thick layers of the furisode. “That looks so heavy to fight in,” he purrs, and just like that the lower half of it is gone, its tattered remains falling to the ground.
“You…!”
He laughs. “Guess I’m it. Gonna chase me?” And he’s gone even as she shrieks with rage and follows.
But it is easier to fight without all that heavy fabric. “Damn him!”
He stops short when they reach the Sōkyoku, cursing a blue streak, and though she could kill him she waits, curious. Why is he angry about the way it stands tall, built not of plain wood but of heavy stone? “Hey,” he says, and turns to her with a smirk. “Wanna call a truce and destroy this thing with me?”
“A truce,” she says, wary.
“They tried to kill her with this thing once,” he says, and there’s sufficient rage in his voice to match hers. “I can’t believe these assholes rebuilt it after he destroyed it to save her.”
To save her. She remembers that, now. How Ichigo held back the flaming bird with only his zanpakutō, and then he destroyed the Sōkyoku, he held… She shakes her head; no. It doesn’t matter that he saved Rukia once; he’s still like everyone else. Still… the thing is huge. It mocks her, this shining edifice of death above the place Rukia calls home. “A truce,” she agrees, “To destroy it.”
“Bankai,” he purrs, and – oh.
Rukia, she thinks. Why didn’t you say Ichigo’s alter ego is so damned sexy?
His ruined uniform is whole again, cut low and tight around his chest. His hakama are cut closer, too, and his white coat is edged with black as it ripples in the cold wind. “Like what you see?”
Her cheeks heat. “Don’t be presumptuous,” she orders haughtily, and uses shunpo to get up to the top of the towering edifice. How dare these wretched shinigami taunt her like this? It oozes power but she will shear it away, cut it away until all that remains is rubble.
Below her he is calling, “Getsuga tensho!” Black reiatsu spills from his zanpakutō but though the stone chips the Sōkyoku holds firm; it does the same when she slashes at it with her scythe.
His power and hers alone; they are insufficient. It must be together. He reaches that realization in the same moment and leaps up to join her, teeth bared. “C’mere,” he orders, and before she can protest his arm is around her waist, pulling her close.
“You…!” Instinctively she struggles, feet kicking at him to get loose.
It makes him chuckle. “Aim that at the gallows, not at me,” he advises, and it’s only because they have a truce, and not because he’s warm and muscular, that she follows his lead. He cackles as he swoops down and thrusts; her swing is perfectly timed with his.
Their power blends in the instant it leaves their blades, a tsunami of black edged with red and violet that overtakes the shining Sōkyoku. He uses shunpo to pull them away from as it explodes outwards in a shocking display that fills the air with a thick cloud of dust. When it begins to clear he cackles and whoops, swinging her around in his arms. “Bastards. Let them try and rebuild that.”
She snarls, but she can’t argue with the sentiment. The Sōkyoku has been reduced not to rubble but to ash, and half the hill with it. “Now where were we…”
He laughs and lets her go. “You were trying to kill me, my ravenous princess. See if you can catch me after venting all that rage.” And he’s closer to the hill with a single step, Zangetsu held loosely in his hand.
“You…” She snarls and follows as they slip in and out of shunpo, blades clashing. The screams of the shinigami below them are so very amusing; she drinks them in even as she chases after the slippery white bastard. Damn him! He dips lower and she follows, the white sleeves of her furisode fluttering in the air as she dives to meet him, blades clanging once more.
“Aha! Still here,” he crows and dips into a cleft of rock below the Sōkyoku Hill. She follows eagerly. She has him cornered now, she –
Can’t see him. What a strange place: what looked like a small crevice is a huge cavern with a false sky, far too large for the hill that holds it. Cautiously she moves deeper into the space, her ire momentarily diminishing in the face of this… curiosity of a space.
“Gotcha!” The weight of him drives the breath from her lungs as he pins her to the rocky ground beneath them. She lashes out blindly, one hand tightening into claws while the other tries to swing her scythe. “No need for that,” he murmurs in a voice that has heat of a very different kind sparking low in her belly. His huge hand wraps around hers over the handle of her weapon and he carefully, easily peels her fingers away before tossing it far from them.
She glares at him, struggling to breathe in. “Y-you dare…”
But he laughs and pins her wrists to the ground. “You know what I think, princess?”
“What?” The word comes out as a breathless snarl.
“I think you’re here because the Queen’s spent all this time doing what everyone else wants.” He smirks when she glances away, silently conceding the point. “I think you woke up when she put on all this white shit.”
“They all want her leashed,” she hisses. “They treat her like a child in one moment and a pawn the next, a horse to carry their burdens. And she lets them.”
“Shh, I know,” he croons, and he’s stroking his fingertips through her hair. “But we’re here now, and I know what she wants. I know what you want, too.”
“To shear them away! To destroy them as they tried to…!”
“Nah, believe it or not she actually likes some of those fools. I think you should kill them all, but he won’t let me help, and he wants her back.” He glances away and sighs, but then he’s back, his golden eyes focusing on her. Only her. “Tell me what you want,” he coaxes.
Her cheeks are hot again. So is the rest of her, lying pinned under him like this with his body caging her in. “She doesn’t want to marry that… baboon.”
“No,” he agrees. “Bastard’s never been worth her time, but she’s too loyal for her own good, isn’t she?”
“She wants him. But she let him go, like the selfless little fool she is,” she hisses, and struggles against his grip. But he tightens his hands around her wrists fractionally, a warning, and he draws first one and then the other of her arms overhead, until he can wrap one hand around both wrists. She lets him, she lets him because it sets her alight, because it feels good.
It’s been so long since Kuchiki Rukia’s body has felt good.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he murmurs, and with his free hand he brushes his thumb over her lower lip. It makes her shiver and she bites at it to make him stop or to trap him, she isn’t sure which. “He’s always wanted her. He wishes he’d dragged her back to that little town of his, or that he’d stayed here with her. You should hear him, some nights, writing awful poetry about how he loves her. Dreaming about how he’d hold her in his arms and never let her go, like some sap from his novels.” But it doesn’t sound like he hates it.
His voice transfixes her. “And you?” she asks.
“Che. I think she’s perfect for him. In every way.” He brushes her lip again and then shifts, thumb rubbing her cheek. “But I want someone more… ravenous.” And he seals his mouth over hers.
She’s been kissed before, or Rukia has. It was. Wet. Vaguely unpleasant.
This feels like being set on fire. He kisses her like a man starved, like he’ll devour her with every touch, every brush and drag of his lips. Pinned like this she can only writhe beneath him, giving as good as she gets with her mouth until she works one long, bare leg over his thigh to drag him closer. He groans and rolls his hips against hers, laughing softly when she struggles to get him to let go of her wrists. “Have to promise you won’t try to hit me,” he murmurs into her mouth, but she’s already half-drugged by him and only moans in response.
He lets go anyway, drawing her arms around him, hissing his approval when her nails sting the back of his neck. His hands slide down her arms and over her breasts, covered only by the remains of her wedding finery, and it’s so easy for him to shove all that white fabric aside. “He hates seeing her in white,” he growls when he pulls back to look at her. “Reminds him she was helpless.”
“We’re not helpless anymore,” she snarls, and drags him in for another kiss, and this time it’s her devouring, tongue slipping into his mouth to find his, her pale hair ruffling against his cheeks.
He laughs again, but it’s warm and fond even with the harshness of his voice, and before she knows it she’s letting him yank away the last of the furisode and the white silk underthings beneath it. He yanks the wrap off to set her breasts free and draws back to stare at her. “You’re gorgeous, my princess,” he praises, and yelps with surprise when she flips them.
“Enough staring at me,” she orders, straddling him and using nimble fingers to untie his sash. She goes after the ties of his hakama next, swearing when they prove more complicated. When she yanks open the top half of his uniform she mutters, “She’s such a fool.”
“That mean you think I’m hot?” he teases, and hisses when she drags her nails down his bare white chest.
“Conceited,” she snaps but it only makes him laugh. He rolls his hips, shocking a gasp out of her. Even with fabric still bunched between them that is one… impressive package. Maybe he’s allowed to be arrogant.
Golden eyes stare into hers as he slides his hands up her thighs to her hips. “He’s the King. You think we’re the modest type?” he teases, but his fingers are burning hot where they grip her tight enough that she’ll have marks.
Good. She wants to be marked. She wants proof she’s had him. Proof Rukia, the self-sacrificing bitch, won’t be able to deny or run from. “I don’t want modest. Or gentle,” she sneers. The next breath leaves her in a huff as he flips them once more.
“What makes you think you get a say in what I give you?” Then his mouth is on hers again, rough and demanding. His teeth nip at her lips, his tongue slides against hers until she can barely breathe and when he pulls his mouth from hers it’s only to work his way down her neck. She hisses with the first press of his teeth against her jugular and returns the favor with the sting of her nails into the back of his neck, making him growl into the tender skin of her throat.
He worries a patch of skin on the other side of her neck with his lips and teeth, the start of a hickey that blooms red, only barely avoids drawing blood from her shoulder as he works his way down. “He’s been wondering what these look like under all that fabric,” he comments, and smirks up at her from between her breasts. “He’s more of an ass man but I bet they’re sensitive.”
The first touch of his tongue on her nipple has her shuddering and grabbing for him, fingers threading through white hair to keep him close. “You…”
“Thought so,” he snickers, golden eyes on hers for an instant before he lowers himself to his work, sucking her nipple into his mouth and working it until it’s hardened and red, until he’s pulling low moans from her lips with each pull on her skin. He graces the top of her breast with another bite that has her crying out before he turns his attention to the other. “Can’t neglect this one,” he teases, and when she rolls her hips against his stomach he smirks. “Oh? I was right, wasn’t I? You’re so sensitive I bet I can make you come like this.”
“S-shut up,” she hisses and cries out when he pinches it between his fingers. She yanks his hair in retaliation, making him snarl.
“We already fought, princess, and I won.”
“You cheated,” she snaps but then she’s moaning again because the feel of his mouth on her tit is so fucking good. He’s right, the asshole, she can come like this. She throws her head back and lets out a cry that’s embarrassing in how shaky it is, shoving him closer with the hand on the back of his head and clutching at him with the other, hips grinding, desperate for friction and she hears him laugh huskily into her skin before she’s over the edge, crying out as her orgasm punches through her. She clenches on nothing as he helps her ride it out with one hand on her hip.
“Told you,” he says with an infuriating smirk on his lips when she’s lying breathless beneath him. “Now be good for me a while longer.” Then he starts sliding lower down her body, mouthing at the underside of one breast and then kissing the space between them, down towards her stomach.
“Hah.” Even coming down from the high of it, even without her scythe she’s not powerless, and she whispers, “Sai.”
“Wha—ow! What the hell?” With his hands bound it’s easy for her to push him onto his back, and she smirks as he scowls up at her and fights the invisible binding around his wrists.
“You look so hot like this,” she practically purrs. His scowl is fierce, but he falls still as she smirks down at him from her perch atop his chest. “You keep calling me a princess, and I think I deserve a throne.” That scowl shifts into confusion until she slides down and grinds herself against his cock. “So why don’t you be good for me?”
He grunts and arches to keep his weight off his wrists, to rock his hips up against hers. “Got a throne for you right here,” he agrees. Thin rings of gold encircle pupils blown out by arousal, white skin flushes pink as she grinds against the thick length of him until he’s throwing his head back and moaning. “F-fuck, princess,” he growls as she giggles. His dick feels so good sliding against her clit like this, and watching him – oh, watching him fight her little restraints while shoving himself against her is delicious.
The scent of him is delicious too, warm spices and a hint of musk – and blood, his blood, smeared on them. “That’s the idea. But say please,” she teases, her low voice threaded through with her power. She gets a growl in answer, a stare as she leans closer and brushes her lips against his with deceptive softness. “Say please or I won’t fuck you.”
Warm lips seize hers instead. “I don’t beg,” he growls, and rolls his hips up. His eyes meet hers and there’s a silent acknowledgement between them before she wraps her hand around his cock and lowers herself even as he thrusts up, hard.
“Aah!” The feel of him pushing into her hot and thick has her crying out, head thrown back and nails dragging down his chest as he stretches her open around him. It almost drowns out the sound of his moan.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growls. “You’re so fucking hot like this, and you’re mine.”
One delicate eyebrow raises. “Who says I’m yours?” she asks, to bait him. It works: with a grunt he breaks the kido binding and his hands slide to her ass, squeezing hard.
“All mine,” he growls, a gleam in his golden eyes, and then they’re moving together, his every thrust pulling low moans from her lips. He releases one ass cheek to tangle his hand in her hair and drag her closer to kiss her hard, nipping at the corner of her mouth with enough force to bruise.
It’s equal parts fighting and fucking and it’s not long before she’s dizzied with the pleasure of it. His cock fills her, hits just right when he rocks up into her and, “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she demands hoarsely but he’s lifting her off him even as her nails drag down his chest hard enough to break skin.
“My turn, sweetheart,” he says with a little laugh when she scowls, and he’s shoving her onto her knees and then down, hand between her shoulder blades as he thrusts inside her hard and fast and it feels so good she could choke but it’s not until he leans over her, chest against her back, one hand reaching around to work her clit that it’s perfect. “Gonna make you come for me,” he breathes into her ear.
“You—”
Fingers slide between hers, squeezing a hand so much smaller than his. “You’re gonna scream for me too,” he murmurs, still circling her clit with his fingertips and groaning when she tightens around him. He fucks harder, shallower.
The tension breaks and she cries out as pleasure washes over her a second time. “F-fuck!”
“Good girl,” he teases while she’s still shuddering beneath him. “Fuck yeah, feel you milking me. You want me to—”
“Shut up and fuck me harder,” she snarls beneath him, “or are you done already?”
His laughter is low and softer now, but more dangerous. “Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you until you pass out.” He gets her on her back again, blatantly ignoring her complaint that she’s not a doll as he presses her legs back and thrusts home. “That’s it,” he teases when she gasps as he hits that spot inside her just right with every thrust. “Yeah?”
She grips his forearms and cries out, head thrown back. “O-oh!” With a few thrusts she’s close again and something – something’s looming, strange and new.
Golden eyes watch her as he thrusts, a smirk curving over his lips. “So perfect for me. Come for me again, princess.” And trapped beneath him like this, pressed into the ground, all she can do is take him, take him until her legs are shaking against his chest. He slips his hand between them and strokes her clit with his thumb, groaning when she tightens around him and the first telltale trickle escapes her. “Let go,” he coaxes.
Pleasure wracks through her in wave after wave, taking with it all reason and thought, pulling from her a wordless, choked cry. Ankles crossed behind his neck she shudders and shakes under him, losing herself in the praise he offers, a litany of good girl, good girl, come all over me, princess, and then he’s pinning her down and thrusting hard and frantic, head hanging down until he breaks for her, buries himself inside her and fills her with a low, satisfied groan.
They’re sweat-slick against each other as he slides out, bringing with him a spill of white. She forces her eyes open and turns her face away from the satisfied look on his face, but then he’s on the ground beside her, drawing her into the warmth of his arms. It feels… nice. Comforting, having his heart beating under her ear and his strength cocooning her. In the aftermath his hollow-tainted reiatsu is calmer, and it twines with hers, drapes over them like a blanket.
“I told him I knew how to handle you,” he murmurs, tucking her closer against him. She’s too worn out to hit him, but she grumbles in indignation. Then she’s slipping away and he is too, relinquishing control.
Rukia comes awake all at once, adrenaline surging and deserting her in the same instant. The pain hits next, a full body shock of it. She’s sore everywhere. “What… what happened?” she asks with a faint groan. Unfamiliar aches course through her: hips and thighs, and little stinging sensations at her shoulders. Her lips feel swollen.
She’s so warm, tucked against… skin. Cautiously, Rukia opens her eyes and tries to raise her head.
“Hey,” Ichigo says quietly.
He’s as naked as she is, and he has some… very impressive bite marks on his chest and shoulders, not to mention the claw marks on his skin. Did she do that? “I-Ichigo!” Her cheeks burn and so does the rest of her, all the way down her chest. There’s white silk draped over her. It’s torn and dusty but warm where it covers her. It brings everything flooding back. The fitting with the tailor. The voice in her head. The explosion of power as she let everything go: the rage and anger, the resentment and fear. Fighting first with Ichigo and then with his hollow.
He'll be as good to you as his hollow was to me, the voice inside her murmurs, sleepy with satisfaction. Despite the pain her body thrums with that same satisfaction.
“Rukia,” he murmurs, catching her attention. Ichigo’s so much more hesitant than his hollow was: he draws her closer into his arms slowly, and his lips are soft, careful and questioning when he touches them to hers. But kissing him is so sweet, so perfect it has tears pricking at her eyes.
She’s meant to be getting married in less than two weeks. Her wedding clothes are torn to shreds; so is much of the Seireitei. “Ichigo…”
What do you want? the voice asks.
Rukia pulls back from him, but she keeps one hand on his warm, smooth cheek. “Was he telling the truth?” she asks. “The hollow.” And oh, he’s always handsome but he’s adorable when he blushes and glances away before finding the courage to meet her eyes with his soft, warm brown ones. She missed them.
“The hollow doesn’t lie. I should have been braver,” he admits. “I should have told you.”
She leans in to kiss him again, her hand sliding down his neck to his chest, to rest on the scars she gave him, the red scratches that her darker self left behind. “I should have told you, too.” Then Rukia sits up and flings the ruined white fabric away from herself. “And now I’m going to go tell Nii-sama that I’m not marrying Renji, and that he is going to endorse my bid for captain, if he knows what’s good for him.”
That’s more like it!
She reaches for Ichigo’s discarded uniform. She can use the top half to cover herself until she can find something else to wear; he’ll be fine in his hakama and shitagi. It makes her blush to feel his eyes on her like this. “Get dressed, you’re coming with me.”
Ichigo sits up too, but he scrubs a hand through his sweaty hair and blanches at the mention of Byakuya. “Shit, is he going to try and kill me again?”
Rukia snorts. “I’m sure he’ll be preoccupied with other things. I destroyed half the manor.” She feels strangely… unrepentant about that. Clearly the darker parts of her haven’t entirely gone away yet.
“Tch. There’s a hot spring in here, let’s at least get cleaned up first,” Ichigo suggests.
It’s a very lovely hot spring, and she discovers that Ichigo is even better than his hollow was, especially with his mouth. “It’s only fair we get some time together, now that they’ve had their fun,” Ichigo murmurs against her thigh just before he slides it over his shoulder.
And, well.
Telling Byakuya can wait. He’ll be busy rebuilding the manor anyway.