Chapter Text
Her bridal clothes are so heavy. She’s a small woman to begin with, and the silken layers around her make her feel like she’s drowning. But it’s nothing compared to the way her heart stutters in her chest and sweat prickles at her back beneath the silks. Nothing compared to the way it takes every inch of discipline she has, hard-taught and hard-won from hours of learning how to be a proper noblewoman, to keep from bolting.
Today is her wedding day.
And Kuchiki Rukia, adopted daughter of the Kuchiki clan, has never met her groom. He’s a son of the Shiba clan, she’s been told. Better than you deserve, are the whispers she hears. It’s an alliance that will bring still more power to the Kuchiki family.
She catches a glimpse of herself in a small, silvery mirror: her skin is washed of all color. Nine layers of silk, each more elaborate than the last, drape over her until she can barely move. The ensemble is heavy, too. She swears it weighs half as much as she does.
The maids woke her early in the morning to dress her, helping her into a kosode of white silk that hangs to her ankles and then bright red nagabakama. A scarlet-hued hitoe follows, plain except for delicate gold embroidery at the sleeves, and then five more silk robes, each purest white, that drape over her and create a layered effect. The pattern is the reverse chrysanthemum and Rukia supposes that someone has decided it is the right choice for this day. Not that anyone but her new husband – her stomach twists at the thought – will see anything but the layers of fabric displayed at her sleeves.
A wide belt, bright red and shot through with gold thread, wraps around her waist and ties the heavy robes against her body. The outermost layer is a brocade silk karaginu, too long for her and its white silk contrasted with bright red roundels. A trapezoidal white mo, adding even more weight, spills down the back of her robes.
One of the maids clears her throat. “Allow me to arrange your hair, my lady Rukia,” she offers.
“And perhaps some color for her lips,” another suggests.
Rukia sits in silence as her hair is brushed until it shines, long and flowing down her back and legs like a river at night, then gathered and fastened with a single jeweled clasp. The same maid powders her skin and draws on the thin, fashionable eyebrows, then paints her lips bright red, a slash the color of blood on her white skin.
Finally, a fan is placed in her hand and the maids escort her from her room.
The wedding ceremony itself is to take place in the southern courtyard of her family’s estate, and Rukia anticipates a crowd but she is startled despite herself as the maids push the doors open. The courtyard is filled with men and women in clothing so colorful it nearly makes her eyes water. Her heart twists; Ichigo is nowhere to be found, his bright hair missing from the assembled wedding guests. But then, she wouldn’t want him here, watching her marry a man she doesn’t know or love.
After today she will need to put her lover from her mind and think instead of her husband. There are plenty of women in the court who carry on affairs, but she doubts Ichigo will want her after this. She wishes, though, that she could have said goodbye.
There is no procession waiting for Rukia, but as she enters the room all eyes are on her. A path is made for her and she walks, alone, toward the altar that has been set up at the front of the room. A priest waits, solemn in his garb, at the center of the courtyard.
The walk to the altar is slow, Rukia doing her best not to struggle under the weight of her silken finery. There is a rumor that the court will soon hand down new laws to end this excess, and she wishes fervently that the rumor is true. She raises her fan modestly to her face as she walks, the train of her mo following behind her. She wonders who her future husband is, this son of the Shiba family, and whether he has other wives already; she wonders whether he will remain here with her for a time or consummate the marriage and leave once more for his own home.
She reaches the altar and stands before the priest. A man steps up, young and dark-haired. He is in formal clothing as well, but they are much simpler and not nearly as fine as Rukia’s. He bows to Rukia nervously, and she takes a slow breath. This is the man I am being sold to? she wants to ask, but women are not supposed to speak in public. Her fan flutters, uncertainly, until the priest steps forward.
“My lady Kuchiki, your bridegroom has been called away on an urgent and unavoidable matter. As he is the only son of his family, his retainer will serve as his representative,” the old man explains.
Her stomach lurches: even now she is not allowed to know who her husband is? Rukia hides a panicked swallow behind her fan, along with a deep breath. The elders of her family stare at her from the front of the room, faces knowing. One of them is smirking. She lowers her fan and manages a regal nod.
The ceremony, such as it is, passes in a short blur. It’s so short, in fact, that she wonders why the elders bothered to demand a ceremony at all – particularly given that her new husband isn’t even here for it. But it would be an embarrassment, she supposes, if they canceled the ceremony altogether.
Just as quickly as it began, the ceremony is over. Rukia is escorted to her rooms once more to change for the banquet that will follow; the mo, karaginu, and two of the layered robes are whisked away. A different karaginu – scarlet-hued but plain – is pulled over her arms. She feels like a dress-up doll as she is escorted behind a number of kichō, tall, portable screens of silk fabric, in her family’s home. Here there are only women, each in their celebration finery. The men have their own celebration, one that would normally involve her groom.
Except –
He is not here, and his retainer has likely been dismissed now that his job is done. She squares her shoulders and ignores the whispers as she settles upon dull gray cushions before a low, lacquered table filled to the edges with dishes. The other women have already been seated at their own tables. Her arrival is apparently the signal for the banquet to begin, and around her women pick up their chopsticks. There is chattering, one woman exchanging gossip with another about the Minamoto clan while two others giggle over the Torikaebaya Monogatari.
Rukia is familiar with the story, and she does her best to listen without appearing to do so as she picks up her chopsticks. The meal before her is sumptuous, but today the scents turn her stomach: there are plates of raw trout, pickled in a sharp vinegar sauce, and grilled pheasant, as well as small bowls filled with vegetables from farms north of Heian-kyo. Tiny dishes filled with salt, vinegar, and hishio are lined up along the edge of the table, ready to season her meal.
“What are your thoughts, Lady Shiba?” one of the women asks. Rukia looks up from her untouched food. Ah, it’s the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower, perfectly correct in her robes in a pattern of deep green and fading red layers. There is an emphasis on the word Shiba that Rukia does not particularly care for from this woman. It sounds smug somehow. “I think it’s so romantic that Saishō simply can’t control himself and must have the Chūnagon when he discovers her secret!”
Rukia thinks of the men she has dissuaded with the point of a tachi or a well-placed fan to the gut. She thinks also of the one man whose advances she didn’t spurn, whose lips touched hers and asked rather than demanded. “How unfortunate for the Chūnagon that her friend’s perception of her changed so much when her secret was discovered,” she muses, “it put into jeopardy her later relationship with the Emperor.”
“I rather think Lady Shiba identifies with the Chūnagon,” another woman – a distant, adoptive relation of the Kuchiki clan known as the Lady of the Autumn Blossoms – titters. “She is most adept with a closed fan.”
Ah, so even on her wedding day she is the butt of a joke. Rukia raises her chin slightly and picks up her chopsticks and the small bowl of rice on her table. She can stomach that, at least.
“Oh!” the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower says, cheeks flushing a pretty pink hue. “Perhaps,” she agrees. “Perhaps you prefer the Chūnagon’s time with the Lady of the Reikeiden?” she offers.
“I prefer The Tales of Ise,” she says mildly. “But please, do not let my opinions keep you from your meals.”
The buxom woman’s eyes are wide and innocent as she picks up her own chopsticks. “Oh, I did not realize you were so famished, Lady Shiba! Forgive us.”
“There is nothing to forgive, of course,” Rukia murmurs in return.
A few minutes later, the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower flushes and titters in response to a remark made by her dining companion. “Oh! The Emperor would be too kind, to look in my direction, but it is Kurosaki Ichigo who has caught my eye. I glimpsed him from around my screens in the palace. He is such a handsome man.”
Rukia’s chopsticks creak in her hand and she forcibly loosens her grip. It is far too late for her to worry about Ichigo, but in her mind’s eye she sees that first moment once more, under the sun.
One Year Ago
It’s by chance that they meet the way they do. After all, women stay behind kichō in private and fans or even veils on the few occasions they are seen in public. Rukia’s sword practice is supposed to be completely private so as not to shame the larger Kuchiki clan, although her brother is aware of his adopted sister’s hobby and has tacitly encouraged it. Here in the littlest courtyard of the estate she uses her tachi, its hilt wrapped in white and its blade gleaming, in the series of exercises her brother has taught her. He believes, she thinks, that such movement will calm her mind.
Out of the cumbersome robes she normally wears, Rukia feels practically free in just hakama and a simple, narrow-sleeved kosode. There is no one else here; her teacher – one Shihouin Yoruichi – has long since judged her competent enough not to cut herself on her own blade if left alone with it. Her long hair is bound, gathered into a bun at the back of her head that has been tamed with no less than a dozen pins.
She hears movement to her left, and when her eyes open there is someone there: a man, tall and slender in his patterned dark blue kariginu. One of the higher-ranked men, then, she thinks. His hair is lighter than any she’s ever seen. It reminds her of the last rays of sunset on a clear night, golden and soft orange. She wonders how he could possibly have hair that bright. But more importantly, she wonders why he is here, in her private space.
“You’re a woman,” he says bluntly, and looks her over with more interest. His eyes are a lovely dark amber, but his brow is furrowed, and his face is set in a scowl. Screenless, fan-less, all Rukia can do is raise her arm to hide her face modestly. “You carry a blade well. Whose sword are you using?”
She glances down at the long blade in her hand and then at him, arm lowering as she meets his eyes for the first time. She watches as he sucks in a breath; ah, she thinks. She is known for her eyes, deep sapphire and violet in the right light. It is an anomaly that draws far too much attention to her. “It is my blade,” she says.
“You?” She expects the tone of disbelief in his voice and has long since inured herself to it; her clan calls her unnatural, after all. “You’re so tiny, you can’t be more than fourteen.”
Being called a child, however, is a new one. “I am twenty,” she says, and raises her chin. “And this is my courtyard.”
“Hn.” He smirks at her, eyes raking over her informal attire. Rukia resists the urge to cover her face with her sleeve. “And your husband does not mind that you fight?”
Her blade rises slightly. “I have no husband.” Her lord brother has declined to offer her up as a prize, and she – well. Rukia’s blade glints in the sun. She will not tolerate the ‘games’ that some men play to secure a wife or bedmate.
His expression changes, then, and looks more considering. “The Kuchiki clan permits an unmarried woman to dance about with a sword?”
“Do you often demand to know what another clan permits its daughters?” But the look on his face is worrisome.
He steps closer to her, one hand on the hilt of his tachi, and looks down at her. “No. But I’ve never seen a clan allow a woman her own blade.”
The words sting more than he knows, and Rukia controls her flinch. She is adopted, after all, and some do not consider her properly part of the clan. Especially not after her beloved sister’s death. “Do you have a purpose in harassing me in my courtyard?” she demands.
The man with the sunset hair smirks. “Spar with me, little moon blossom,” he says in return.
“Little what?” Rukia asks, startled by the sudden nickname. Her cheeks heat and she covers her face reflexively with her arm; it only makes his lips curve.
“Spar with me,” he says again, and this time there is a smile on his lips. But a voice calls for him, and he heaves out a low sigh. “Another time, perhaps,” the man tells her, and just as quickly as he appeared, he leaves.
She does not see him again for some time and thinks it’s a fluke or even that she imagined him – his hair, after all, is not exactly normal for a nobleman in Heian-kyō. But then there is a gathering, and Rukia’s robes are too long for her. They always are, because she’s meant to look graceful but she’s so petite that they drag on the floor far more than they are meant to. She, adopted as she is, still hasn’t forgotten the freedom of wearing only mobakama and a kosode instead of so very many layers.
She trips, and as the women of her adopted household laugh at her clumsiness a huge pair of hands, callused but gentle, suddenly catch her. Nervous giggles fill the air as Rukia raises her head to see her ‘rescuer’ – and then raises it higher, because he is head and shoulders taller than her. It’s him, the one who called her little moon blossom and demanded that she spar with him. Her cheeks flush, suddenly, and she is grateful for the white powder that covers her face.
“Are you unharmed, my lady?”
His deep amber eyes have little gold flecks in them, she notices. Though the space between his brows is furrowed, face set in a frown that’s nearly a scowl, there’s still something gentle about him as he helps her regain her footing amidst her many layers of fabric. He retrieves her fan for her next, offering it as she stares at him.
“My lady?”
“Ah! Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she says, and their fingertips touch as she takes the fan from him. The scowl on his face softens.
“Kurosaki Ichigo, at your service, my lady,” he says as the women around them giggle.
She hides her face behind her fan as she hurries away, cheeks still hot and robes dragging on the floor ungracefully.
This is the way of things, in Heian-kyō: at night, a man might decide he wants a woman – a specific woman, perhaps, but sometimes any woman will do – and will go to her sleeping futon to have her. Sometimes it is by arrangement and she offers a token, expected protest; other times it is not, and her protests are real – and frequently ignored. After all, women are irresistible, and men cannot control themselves. Sometimes, a man selects the wrong woman and finds himself on the wrong end of a fan “clumsily” shoved in his most delicate parts.
Rukia is aware of at least one woman who, in dissuading a particularly determined would-be suitor, shoved a tanto in his throat. She finds herself a little too understanding of that course of action, even if the woman in question turned the tanto on herself, next.
In any case, there is a reason that Rukia keeps her tachi close at hand. Eldest unmarried daughter of the clan though she is, there has been more than one man who thought she was fair game. It is unfashionable of her, and more than one woman in the clan compound has derided her for guarding herself so zealously, but she persists. Then again, they deride her as well for refusing to blacken her teeth, no matter how fashionable it is, so Rukia has little patience for what her clan considers appropriate.
The night after Kurosaki Ichigo introduces himself, Rukia is already lying upon her futon as the door to her room slides open. Her tachi is by her side, but when a weight settles next to her, a large hand grips her wrist before she can reach for it.
“Have I longed to no purpose, today, lost in thoughts of you?”1 his voice asks. His grasp gentles almost immediately, keeping her still without causing her pain.
“Don’t,” she whispers, struggling against his grip, but instead of falling upon her, his hand slides lower and he twines their fingers together.
“Not tonight,” he agrees. “That is not my purpose.” In the dim moonlight she can see his hair, sunset-golden and bare of the tall hats most men wear during the day.
Kurosaki Ichigo, she thinks: the man who wanted to spar with her, who caught her when she nearly tripped. Still, he is trespassing. “Not any night,” Rukia protests, voice kept low to avoid attracting attention. Even here in the Kuchiki estate, the walls are thin. His fingers squeeze hers lightly and he draws her hand to his mouth.
“I would not swear to that, my lady, if I were you,” he says quietly, and in the dim moonlight streaming in from a far window his gaze is dark on hers. “But tonight, I only wish to look at you without the layers of powder, silk, and brocade.”
Her cheeks burn and she is glad of the darkness, hoping it hides much of her blush from view. “Why would you want that?” she asks quietly. He is handsome, she is willing to admit, his voice pleasing to her ears, and the weight of his hand on hers is no trial. In fact, he is a little too handsome, with strong cheekbones and a stronger jaw. His eyes are bigger than is fashionable, but she likes them. She remembers them in daylight, amber-hued and with a hint of humor in them.
He chuckles, loud in the silence of her room, and shifts closer. He is so much larger than her, chest broad and covered only by a kosode and dōbuku. “Little moon flower, a pretty bud in the day, but I, in the night, would see you blossom for me.”
His poem, missing a line, not at all subtle, and far too forward, makes her blush again all the same. “Better to say that you wander much at night, my lord,” she says.
Ichigo’s hand tightens suddenly on hers until her breath catches in discomfort and he gentles his grip. “I am not given to wandering at night,” he corrects. “And you are known for your sharpness.”
“And why shouldn’t I be sharp, when a man thinks he can push aside my screens and have what he wants of me?” Rukia demands in return.
There is another soft chuckle. “Why shouldn’t you?” he agrees. “But is sharpness all you have, moon blossom? I heard your fingers have more than one talent.”
“My fingers,” she says flatly.
His lips find the tips of them and press, lightly, hand still joined with hers. It’s shockingly forward, even more than his poem. But he says lightly, “I am told that you play the yamatogoto.”
The mention of the stringed instrument startles her, and she looks at him more closely. “You seem to know more of me than I know of you,” Rukia points out.
“Play for me,” he says, “and I will tell you what you want to know, my lady moon flower.” His hand leaves hers, and she feels somehow colder for its loss.
“Now?” she asks.
“It isn’t so late.”
Her relief that she doesn’t have to chase him off at sword point outweighs her irritation at having her rest disturbed. So, she throws back her blankets and rises, wearing only her kosode, to retrieve the instrument as her visitor finds and lights her lantern. In the lanternlight he is even more handsome, the flame casting a golden glow on his face and hair. When she settles upon the futon once more with the yamatogoto on her lap, he settles a blanket from her bed over her shoulders solicitously to ward off the cold and then drapes himself nearby, having stolen the other blanket to serve as a cushion.
Rukia knows any number of songs by heart now, and she takes only a moment to tune the seven-stringed zither before her fingertips begin to pluck at the strings. It is a haunting melody she weaves, one that Ichigo listens to intently, eyes occasionally shifting from the instrument in her hands to watch her eyes.
She plays for nearly an hour as he watches her, an enigmatic smile drifting over his lips. He doesn’t touch her, but this feels more intimate than if he did, somehow: he is only arm’s length away from her, eyes dark in the lanternlight that gleams golden over the length of his body. Without his trappings, the billowing hunting coat and other layers, it’s clear that he is broad but slender, kosode and dōbuku draping against long legs and arms forming a pillow for his head. He is far too handsome, she decides.
When her fingers begin to grow tired, he reaches out and gently stills her hand at the end of a song as if he knows it’s beginning to ache even before she does. “I have been part of the Emperor’s military for three years,” he says quietly.
Her eyes watch his. “It’s peacetime,” Rukia murmurs. But he bears the look of someone who has fought in battles, not the softness of a military rank bestowed and not earned.
“There are rebellions. Clans that want more land, men who think they should be Emperor. The Fujiwara and the Taira fight over the same piece of land over and over.” Ichigo plucks lightly at one of the strings of her zither and laughs softly when she bats his hand away. “Possessive of your instrument, Rukia?”
She won’t admit that she likes the way he says her name, here in the lanternlight. “It is a work of art, and I don’t want you to break a string,” she snaps instead.
He just grins. “So sharp,” he tells her, a soft note of teasing in his voice. “You would like my sister, Karin; she learned to play the biwa and threatens me every time I go near it. I think she’d learn to use a sword if my father let her.”
“You have a sister?” Rukia asks, curious despite herself.
“Aa. I have twin sisters, both sixteen. Karin and her husband live in my family’s home. Yuzu loves to cook, and she sneaks into the kitchen whenever she can.” He hums under his breath thoughtfully and traces a line along the wooden floor. “She also told my father she’d rather not get married.”
“And what did your father say about that?” Rukia tucks the blanket on her shoulders more closely around her; it’s getting colder and her kosode is quite thin.
“He thinks she’ll change her mind eventually, but he decided to focus his efforts on me instead.”
Something thumps uncomfortably in her chest. “You’re married?” she asks, and a finger presses on the string below it so that the zither gives an unpleasant twang.
Ichigo’s eyes are intent as he looks at her, and he murmurs, “No. He is giving me some time to find my own bride.” He catches her shivering again and sits up. “I’ve let you get cold,” he says, admonishing himself. Ichigo takes the zither from her lap and sets it aside, blowing out the lamp to leave them in darkness once more. “Lie down.”
She does, and he drapes her blanket back over her. Then, though she gives a token protest, he lies down beside her on the futon and slips beneath the blanket as well. “I thought you said—”
“I did. But your reputation and mine will be better if I leave at dawn,” Ichigo tells her, lips curved in a smirk that she can barely see as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. There’s a soft dragging sound behind him and his hand comes up, a shadow that pulls her other blanket closer.
“And if other men think my blade has dulled enough to accost me behind my screens?” she asks even as she hides a yawn behind her blanket.
“Shove your fan in their soft parts and show them that they are mistaken,” he murmurs, and settles the second blanket over them both. When she stiffens, he huffs out a breath. “Sleep, Rukia.”
Her name, murmured from his lips, sends a shiver down her spine. “How do you know my name?” she demands, even as the warmth of him close to her but not quite touching lulls her towards sleep.
His hand brushes her cheek lightly. “There’s only one woman in Heian-kyō with eyes your color. Go to sleep. If anyone asks me about the state of your blade, I will show them the sharpness of mine.”
Her eyes fly to his, but Ichigo just draws her in a little closer and closes his eyes. With his warmth beside her, strangely intimate and yet not, she sleeps deeply and awakens only when it shifts away from her at dawn. His expression is soft and lit by the first rays of sunlight as he settles the blankets back around her. He whispers something but still half-asleep, she doesn’t catch it, only feels the light press of his lips at the corner of her mouth.
Later that day there is a message for her, though strictly speaking it isn’t necessary. Still, his careful writing praises her skill with the zither and in poetry tells her that he hopes she will permit him to visit again and that she will “stay her blade for him.”
Rukia considers carefully her response to this man whose behavior is so forward yet so restrained. In the end she writes five lines:
This blade may lower -
You push aside my kich
ō,
And demand a song
Yet my sleeves are damp at the
Thought you wouldn’t come to me
There are letters, at first, though Ichigo does not come to her again. They bear his mark and arrive with lines of careful poetry, words that compare her to the loveliest of flowers and tell her that he would never want her sleeves to be damp on his account. She responds, hiding her blushes behind powder and her fan, oh-so-carefully teasing him for his interest in her sleeves, and wondering if he thinks her so weak.
In response, he tells her of his own weakness, sharing a poem that she knows well:
These are not my words, my moon blossom, but they struck me deeply when I read them:
Aching with love
In the depths of sleep
I tread to you
A straight dream road
If only it were real…
[2]
She writes back, cheeks hot with the implications of his words:
If you seek a road
That leads to me, follow the
Sound of a zither,
Its gently plucked tune shall guide
You to a lantern-lit home
His letters stop.
Suddenly, almost three months have passed, and Rukia wonders if he has moved on to an easier, softer bed partner, though her last poem was terribly forward. But when the moon is shining nearly full in the night sky her door slides open once more and then shut, and his footfalls are soft as he rounds the corner of her kichō.
By now she has stopped expecting him, but before she can even reach for her tachi he murmurs into the moonlit room, “I thought you might lower your blade for me,” and Rukia does not protest when he settles next to her on her futon.
“It depends upon how far you have wandered,” she says in return. The growl beneath his breath startles her, his face suddenly only a breath from hers with amber eyes gleaming in the silvery light. It is early spring, but still cold, and though he is too close his warmth, like a banked fire, is not unwelcome against her thin silk kosode.
“I did not wander,” he tells her, voice low and gravel-rough between them. “The Emperor required my sword.”
“Fool,” she says into the darkness to cover the confusing feeling of relief that wells up in her chest. “You might have sent a letter to tell me.”
Her words give too much away: Ichigo’s lips curve, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek. “Did you miss me, my little moon blossom?” he asks, and chuckles low in his throat when her cheek heats against his hand.
“I’m not yours,” she objects, but there is only a little heat in her voice.
He chuckles again. “Not yet,” he agrees. Then: “Will you play your zither for me again tonight? You promised it would lead me home.”
“I am not here for your entertainment, either,” Rukia snaps, but again her cheeks betray her.
His fingers stroke along her skin and then through her hair, lingering in the heavy length of it. “No, you aren’t,” he agrees, and settles closer to her. When she stiffens, he tsks softly and presses a light kiss against her cheek, one arm sliding around her shoulders to tuck her close.
“Why do you call me moon blossom?” Rukia asks as his touch mollifies her.
Ichigo hums softly under his breath. “You remind me of the Princess Kagura, from the old story. Pale as the moon and just as beautiful.” When she splutters, he smiles, visible in the light streaming in from the sliver of window overhead. “And in the day, you are beautiful in your silks, but at night like this you are…” He leans in closer and touches his lips to hers, feather light. “A midnight-blooming flower.”
“Pretty words,” she says softly, though his poetry is not the cleverest she has heard. It lacks the finesse of the great court poets, whose minds create elegant phrases in only a few syllables. Still, midnight-blooming flower is a pretty enough turn of phrase. “But my blade is still sharp if you go too far.”
Instead of growing offended he chuckles softly and touches his forehead to hers. “I would have a thousand nights rather than one, my lady moon blossom. Stop my hand with yours when you have had enough; you won’t ever have to point your blade at me.”
“Is that so?” There’s a funny feeling low in her stomach, fluttering and spreading through her. He is so close to her, now, smelling of tea and something sharper, cleaner; he must have bathed recently. “But you barely know me.” Letters, after all, are not the same as speaking.
“I know enough to want to know more,” Ichigo says, a thoughtful hum in his voice. “Would you turn me away?”
Her cheeks turn pink and the fluttering is stronger, spreading up to her heart and setting it to beating faster. Somehow, even though he has seen her with a blade in hand and has even called her sharp himself, Ichigo is interested in her, not appalled or repulsed. “You want to know more about someone who is called manly by her own clan?” she blurts out.
He unsuccessfully tries to stifle a rude noise. “What about you is manly?” he asks incredulously, voice too loud. She shushes him but squirms uncomfortably beneath her blankets.
“There’s my sword,” Rukia lists, “and my unwillingness to blacken my teeth, and the way I chase men off. And my eyes are too large.”
Ichigo’s chuckle is low in his throat. “None of those things bother me, and they don’t make you manly.”
“There is my figure,” she adds. “I am nearly a board, not so generously shaped as the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower.” That ingenue, Inoue Orihime, is much sought-after at court and rumored to have caught the attentions of the Emperor. Rukia is smaller than the other girl in general, it’s true, but the curves of her breasts are modest.
He sobers in the face of her self-deprecating words and peels back the blankets from her futon to look at her, kosode barely hiding anything. “You are beautifully shaped.” Then he slides in alongside her, ignoring her huff at his forwardness.
“Ichi—” She has to stop, because his lips are on hers, gentle but persuasive as he kisses her. The fluttering in her body has never left but it grows stronger still, captured and captivated by the way his tongue darts along the seam of her lips and then dips inside when she parts them on a gasp for him. Genji tells of dreamlike nights but Rukia is wide awake as her she leans into his touch, coaxed into his arms by callused but gentle hands that rest at her back and hip to keep her close to him.
“Someday you might let me show you just what I mean.” He says the words against her lips as they breathe one another’s air. His fingers wrinkle the fabric at her hip as he squeezes. “But let me kiss you, Rukia, and show you just a little of it.”
She is supposed to struggle, she thinks, that is what is expected of her. That is what men prefer. But when she tries to pull away, he lets go of her immediately and stills his hands.
“I’ve offended you,” he says quietly, brow furrowing. Even in the low light she can see the guilt that fills his eyes as he reaches out to pull the covers back. Her hand at his wrist stops him.
“N-no it’s just…I’m supposed to, aren’t I?” she manages, cheeks hot with embarrassment.
He blinks at her, lashes impossibly long and eyes full of confusion for a moment before they clear. “That’s not – that is not what I want,” he whispers haltingly, a note of hurt in his voice. “I told you, Rukia.”
So her hand, a little hesitant, pulls him close as she murmurs an apology he accepts with a kiss, and when his arms are around her again, she leans up to brush her lips against his jaw. Ichigo hums thoughtfully and peppers kisses over her lips and cheeks, along her slender jawline and down the soft skin of her neck.
The first time she moans for him, low and breathy as his lips drift lower still, his hand clutches at the fabric of her kosode so tightly she’s surprised it doesn’t rip. His lips touch the modest swell of her breast and Rukia shivers under him, fingers finding the opening of his dōbuku and then his kosode as well. His chest is warm under her hand and he hums his approval as she touches him, as she makes room for her hands by spreading the fabric apart. His hand drifts to her thigh a moment later and she’s not fully aware of the noise she makes in her throat, low and nervous, but he is, and his fingers drift up to rest against her waist instead as his mouth finds hers again, soft and sweet.
When the light from the moon has moved some distance upon the floor, they are both tired and yawning, with jaws a little sore besides. Ichigo tucks her close under the blankets and strokes his warm hand along her back until she drifts to sleep, lips swollen and heart fluttering in time with his. He leaves at dawn again, murmuring his admiration for her in one ear as he presses one more kiss to her lips and tucks the blankets around her to keep her warm – though not nearly as warm as he did.