Summary: After the war, Rukia remains in the human world with Ichigo. Life is good. Pure fluff and smut.
For deathberryprompts 'Youth', I thought it'd be cool to write about the millennial lives of Ichigo and Rukia if they'd both stayed in the Living World. Featuring Cute Banter, MastersStudent!Ichigo, Food, andahealthysexlifewhatohgod.
Life, Domestic
Tuesday
.
.
Given the choice, Ichigo would change very little about his life. One can always have more money, more time, more space. But in the essentials, he is the luckiest man on earth, living or dead.
His life is full.
Ichigo lives in a small, one bedroom apartment, just off campus. He's studying literature and creative writing. He has a job waiting tables that has flexible hours and TAs for the professor that teaches Shakespearian Comedies.
He has a 'usual coffee place' where he can sit down and write, free of distraction. The baristas know him by name and have been encouraged by persons unknown to draw a strawberry on his cup every time. There is two days' worth of leftovers in his fridge, so he won't have to cook for a while. No one has asked him to kill a ghostly monster in weeks.
His sisters will be graduating high school soon, he has plans to go back to see them walk across the podium. His friends are scattered throughout Japan, abroad and various other planes of existence, but they call often.
Everyone he loves is healthy and whole, living the best lives they can.
Tuesday consists of a very early morning class, grading 'reflections' on Much Ado About Nothing and a lunch shift.
He clocks out after his last table is done at five thirty, hands off to the dinner shift and drags his feet all the way home.
Ichigo's apartment is on the tenth floor and overlooks an office's courtyard, so it's relatively quiet at night. There's no one else calling the elevator, so it carries him home swiftly.
The hallway light closest to his door flickers, worsening his headache. He wants sleep, food and a shower in that order. He doesn't care if he gets sauce from the restaurant on the sheets.
The lights are all on and the sounds of jazz and sizzling meat waft through the air.
The kitchen takes up a small corner, the counter is cramped with small appliances because of the limited cupboard space. A kettle, coffee maker, and French press crowd to the left of the stove, each containing the dregs of the morning and last night. Bowls, utensils and a dirty cutting board litter what little available space there is, including the small kitchen table.
"What are you doing?"
Rukia beams up at him briefly before turning back to the stove. "I'm procrastinating with cooking."
"Productive procrastination," he comes up behind her and leans his face into her right shoulder. "I like it." He presses a kiss there, or tries to, really he just sort of puckers them where they touch her.
Her skin is so warm and inviting at the end of what feels like the longest day of the week. Slowly he wraps his arms around her torso, holding on. They stay like that for a while: Ichigo quietly absorbing strength from Rukia, Rukia smiling to herself. Both are absolutely, completely content with their lives in this moment.
The incandescent happiness of sharing a life with your best friend.
"So, do we have a single clean bowl left or what?"
"We will when you wash them."
"What the hell?! No!"
"I cooked!"
Ichigo rolls his eyes but can't really argue with that. He playfully bites her shoulder. "You're such a pain," he growls around her skin, chewing. "And so spoiled, you didn't even clean the french press."
"Start rinsing, we don't have any clean plates."
Dinner is done before he can wash more than three plates and two sets of utensils. The table is still cluttered with cookery, so they sit down on the floor between the couch and coffee table. Rukia leans against his right side as she digs in. Ichigo's hand curls around her knee and traces meaningless swirls in and out of the valley where her thigh and calf fold together. He's right handed, but he eats with his left.
Every few bites she'll look up at him and smile. It makes their badly lit apartment seem so much brighter.
"Do you have a day off tomorrow?"
Rukia taps her chopsticks against her lips, taking a moment to think. "I'll need to prepare a case sometime before Thursday, so I can put it off another day."
He quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth goes with it. His smirk is hinting and gleeful. "We could sleep in… hang out… avoid responsibilities."
She sets the utensils down. "You have the strangest euphemisms. You don't need so many, you know."
"Do I need any at all anym- oomph!"
She's smooth. In one motion, Rukia has hooked a leg over his waist and situated herself in his lap. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him deeply, pressing him back against the seat of the couch. The tandem they reach is practiced, refined through years of familiarity, and unbending trust.
Their love is sturdy. Their hearts are steel; they reside with each other, in a place between them that's wholly theirs.
And they're going to do it on their living room floor, which hasn't been vacuumed in a few weeks.
Slowly, Ichigo slides them down, pulling Rukia on top of him. A loud crunch sounds behind his head. Rukia furrows her brow and Ichigo winces. She holds up his head to inspect the source and finds a crushed potato chip.
She positively shrieks with laughter at the sight.
"Hey, stop!"
She can't. She keeps laughing; a breathless, high keen.
"Come on, it's not that funny!"
This just makes her laugh harder. She snorts.
Ichigo sits up far enough that Rukia has to support herself by grasping his shoulders. The flat look he shoots her makes her laugh even harder. Her fingers slip and she falls back.
"Hahaha ow...ha...ha… I can't breath!"
"Shut up!"
"I...haha...CAN'T!"
He buries his face in her neck and blows a raspberry, but fails because he can't stifle his own giggles.
"Shhhh," he has to kiss her. It's the only way.
She sighs into his mouth, calming. Mission accomplished.
A pale hand cards through his hair, pulling him closer. His hands find the small of her back. They clench and unclench in time with their kiss.
As his hand slides up, pulling her t-shirt with it, his mouth travels downward. Ichigo stops to kiss her clavicle then lower to her heart, then lower again to the soft flesh below her sternum. Here he stops and scrapes his teeth along her skin, making her shiver.
Then he makes a big show of collapsing dramatically into her stomach, winding her. "Can't, too tired. You made me do dishes."
Rukia arches her back to buck him off. He gloms on like a koala, snuggling his face into her ribs.
"I can't be expected to do domestic things," he claims over her laughs, "Eat four servings and have the energy to make sweet love to you. I'm in a food coma."
"Grosssss!" she gasps, still in hysterics.
"Wait no, still hungry," he mock bites her ribs, dissolving her further.
"You're such a child!"
In a second, Rukia has him flat on his back. She seats herself firmly on his stomach and plants their joint hands on either side of his head. Slowly, she lowers herself closer to his face, enough that he can feel her breath and pick out the nigh invisible freckle in the bow of her lips.
"I suppose you don't have the energy to get out of this?"
"Why would I ever want to?" he replies cheekily.
A fond smile steals across her face. She kisses him this time, slow and unhurried.
And then she's gone.
The hands that held his down slip through his fingers. Her warmth and weight have vanished.
Her long hair tickles his face like a kiss goodbye.
The panic of long ago is gone, laid to rest by a thousand days of company.
Rukia bounds into the bedroom, with him hot on her heels. He doesn't bother to close the door behind him. Her shriek as he tackles her to the bed is cut off by his lips.
The wound of her past departures is long closed and healed over. She's here, she stays, she is building a life. With him. At this point they are so entwined in each other it's hard to imagine any life without her. But that's been the case since he was fifteen.
It's not that he doesn't think about Soul Society often, he does. He thinks about it in the way he thinks about finishing his Masters, kids and death. It's a long way off. He can plan for it, count on it even, but he isn't quite ready. Soul Society is his future, but it will keep.
In the meantime, he'll take this life and be thankful for every second of it.
She sheds her shirt and shorts while he occupies himself with her hair, the apple of her cheek, her chin, her throat.
"Pay attention," she grumbles, trying in vain to get his shirt off.
"I am paying attention, you just want me to pay attention to something different."
She kicks him.
Then his arms are full of her, bare and beautiful. Impatient.
He does as she bid; removes his pants and when the shirt comes up over his eyes and joins the growing pile on the floor, finds himself face to face with a stark naked Rukia. Her bra and panties swing from her pointer finger. She winks and crooks that same finger at him. Without hesitation he smashes his lips against hers again.
Hands travel down his spine and cup his backside, grinding his pelvis against hers. Strong fingers knead the flesh and the burn in his tired muscles is sweet.
He likes to hold her face in his hands as he kisses her. He likes to run his fingers through her hair and cradle the back of her neck to angle their heads just so. She's always cold to the touch, but she burns to him.
Rukia uses her foot to leverage him up and then under her. Her nails are gentle rakes that scratch a sweet itch as they travel down his chest and thighs. Her breath at his navel is torturous and oh so welcome. He glances down at her and brushes a loose lock of hair out of her eyes. He expects her to get on with it, but instead her sneaky pink tongue peeks out of her lips and runs a trail along his left hip bone, then his right.
"Wait wait waitwaitwait…" he gasps and clenches every muscle in his body. "Hold on."
He sits up and grasps her inner thigh. Like any two people who have been together a long time, they know how to communicate non-verbally. Rukia nods her head in assent and moves back up his body. Ichigo grabs a pillow from the headboard and stuffs it under his head. Rukia repositions herself so that her thighs brush his cheeks and her breasts press against his abs. She rests her elbows on either side of his hips.
The moment her lips touch the head of him, he spasms. Involuntarily, he grabs her and jerks her hips down to meet his mouth. In tandem, their tongues dart out over aching, unsatisfied flesh.
Rukia's mouth is warm and slick, in one stroke she takes the whole of him down her throat then bobs back up again. The rough flat of her tongue drags up and down his shaft with each movement, curling at the end as if to punctuate her rythme.
He uses his fingers to gently caress her lips, spread the wetness from her center and draw circles around the clit. As the circles get tighter and quicker she suddenly gasps, releasing him from her mouth with an audible pop.
He smiles to himself and runs his left hands up and down the curve of her spine. He brushes the backs of his knuckles along her ribcage and basks in her delighted sigh.
His tongue flicks out to aid the questing fingers of his right hand. He sucks her clit between his lips and pushes her higher and higher.
She breathes sharply through her nose at the slightest brush, but carries on pumping and teasing him into oblivion. The pleasure and joy builds at the base of his spine and bursts outward. Rukia swallows around him, licking and sucking gentler and gentler with each pulse. She eases him down to earth with languid strokes of her tongue, until it becomes just a little too much. She always seems to know when that will be, because that's when she lets go with a sweet sigh and a shit eating grin that (this time) he cannot see.
His repose lasts a moment and only that, before he returns to the task at hand.
He knows her every twitch, the way her muscles clench and turn to stone. He knows the way she loves to be gripped, tightly-almost crushing. Her thighs tremble against his cheeks and then-
And then.
They lay there like that, Rukia draped over him like an obscene blanket. She dapples his thigh with gentle kisses, and he slides his hands over every bit of her he can reach.
A gentle weight dances across Rukia's back, she snorts. "You forgot to close the door."
Ichigo makes a half hearted attempt to grasp at Spot, their bright orange cat, but she scampers just out of reach and curls into a little ball at the foot of the bed.
Rukia finds her way into his arms and unsubtly tries to shove the tabby off the bed.
Spot, for all her faults, loves Rukia and thinks she's playing. She hops over Rukia's foot and primly strolls to the head of the bed to snuggle up beside them. Rukia rolls her eyes. Ichigo finds this whole display decidedly adorable.
Life is good for Ichigo Kurosaki. He's got a calling, a family, great friends and Rukia. There's not a lot more that a guy could ask for.
"I call not doing the dishes tomorrow."
He could do with a few less chores though.