A.N: I must apologize for the incredibly late update, but most of it was because of my own laziness and then the typhoon that was the ending of the manga (lol what ending) happened and it affected me fractionally to say the least. Speaking of, I've written an alternative ending that is pretty much non-compliant to 686 and implies IchiRuki. It's called Connotations and has been posted a week or two ago if anyone wants to give it a read.
Back to business: This chapter is particularly long compared to the previous ones, and more or less fleshes out Rukia and her relationship with Ichigo, which I found kind of necessary since we're jumping straight into plot next chapter. A lot is happening here and I debated splitting it in two but I think I'll stick with this length with upcoming chapters. Please remember to read & review!~
Anger rolled off the orange-haired butler in waves, shoulders drawn stiff with tension while descending the winding staircase. As the soles of his shoes thudded against each step, a flash of red eroded his vision, and as a familiar manic peal of laughter ran through his mind like static, electricity— Ichigo pressed two digits to his temple in an attempt to dissuade his inner demon. The ache in his fangs was testament to the burning desire to rip the very soul out of the white-haired man embracing his lord— his Rukia, in the confines of her study. The embodiment of instinct that lurked within—bloodthirsty and desperate for any chance to break free—thrived upon his fact, and took glee in tormenting its host.
'He has the Queen,' taunted the malicious voice, echoing and ricocheting at the back of his mind.
The words burned and seared into the demon's conscience, and his eyes burned the colour of molten gold.
'You should rip him apart, limb from limb, King. Right in front of her, and then take her right there.'
His hands curled around the sleek rails— cool iron against his fingertips, an anchor to stability. Ichigo's hunched form vibrated with unconcealed rage as the distorted voice cackled hysterically at the minor victory, until the sound pounded and pounded against his eardrums until the branch of self-composure snapped into pieces, and Ichigo's lip curled back into an animalistic snarl.
"SHUT UP!" he roared, and as the taunting laughter faded, so did the crimson haze of fury. His grip on the banister slackened and elongated fangs reverted to blunt teeth. Blood still pumped heavily through his veins and thrummed against his veins. The colour from his eyes did not fade, nor did the negative pulse of anger.
Rukia was his, his, his and his alone, his name was marked and scorched upon her very soul, the ghost of his hands and mouth on her skin, every part of her impossibly and inexplicably belonged to him in ways no ordinary human could comprehend nor challenge—
"Kurosaki-kun?" It was a timid voice that caused him to turn, suddenly aware of the other presence in the open space.
"I heard shouting… I was worried something was wrong," Inoue Orihime continued with a bit more courage, and Ichigo smiled inwardly to himself. At this very moment, Inoue reminded him of a startled doe.
And he was the poised lion, ready to strike.
There was a flicker of fear in her slate eyes as he continued down the steps, until he stood right in front of the frightened female. She was taller than Rukia by about half a head, he noticed, but quailed easily under his impenetrable stare, prompting the ghost of a smirk to flutter across his lips. Until this moment, the most his presence had instilled in the busty maid were fanciful caprices. Now all of that was replaced by unadulterated fear by the menacing aura of darkness surrounding the handsome male.
Ichigo smiled a predator's smile, before reverting into the charming persona of the mysterious butler he was.
"I'm afraid you were mistaken, I haven't heard a thing, Inoue-san," the orangette finally replied smoothly, gently brushing past the female as he proceeded else.
"Inform Renji to start preparing dinner early. I, however, will not be here until a later hour."
"H-Hai," stumbled the confused girl, her eyes briefly lingering upon Ichigo's retreating form before hurrying off toward the kitchens.
Night fell quickly, and between the timescope of Ichigo's abrupt departure and when the clock finally struck twelve, the manor was devoid of the household butler's presence. Activity went on as per usual; Renji managed to just barely burn dinner while a joint effort was made by Hanatarou and a very shaken Inoue Orihime to serve both their lord and the new guest on the premises.
Unlike what one would expect of a woman who was had just been reunited with her fiancé, Rukia's stature and overall demeanour remained quite frigid; calm and controlled as she engaged in small talk with said man, whose gaze concealed understandable concern. No one in the room could quite see the turmoil that stormed behind the coolness of her gaze, as waves of guilt, despair, frustration and struggle battered against the barrier of conscience, its hard steel reduced to a crumbling pillar of stone.
Long after the table had been cleared and the three — four, including Hitsugaya's — had retired for the night, the butler returned with even more of a burden on his shoulders than before. A fist routinely clenched and unclenched at his side, a calming mechanism as the orange-haired male crossed the threshold and strode down the corridor, lit under the flickering wicker of carefully arranged candles. Against the soft illumination, a shadow of well-defined shoulders and the swish of a tailcoat descended, coming to a pause at a familiar room.
A gloved hand pushed, and the barrier preventing entry came as no surprise. Her aura thrummed not nearly as bright behind the wooden frames, streaked with a murky hue he couldn't pinpoint as one singular emotion. Heaving a sigh, Ichigo knelt at the base of the dual doors, his fingers brushing the area where her shoulders were pressed, right at the other side, barely inches away.
"I'm sorry, Rukia," he murmured, in a tone much heavier with remorse than one would anticipate. For a moment, he listened in, only to be met with nothing but utter silence.
Rising to his feet, the demon brushed a hand down his front and retreated to his own quarters, extinguishing the candles as he went.
It took all of the tireless lessons of etiquette forcefully instilled by former tutors for the noblewoman to not gape in horror as various dishes were lined out before her. Steamed rice, miso soup, *tamagoyaki, *natto, and *kobachi were presented before her and the household's guest, who apparently wasn't accustomed to being awake at six the morning, as Rukia finally re-emerged from her disturbing stupor at her butler's sudden nonchalance, her gaze slanting towards the white-haired man who was having trouble not mirroring her earlier expression due to the uncanny precision and . . . immaculateness displayed by her butler.
"And a fruit salad, so that your appetites won't be spoiled," Ichigo concluded, lowering the final dish onto the breakfast table. Rukia contemplated hurling it at his infuriatingly perfect face, but suppressed the primitive urge.
"Since Hitsugaya-san has been away for quite some time, traditional Japanese dishes will be prepared for the course of his visit, as you can see." The butler gestured toward the table and then stepped away, quite aware that his actions and overall demeanor was being monitored by the other man.
Eyes of cerulean flickered upwards, a gloved hand reaching for chopsticks and a bowl of rice. "While I… appreciate the gesture, it certainly isn't necessary— "
"But I insist," Ichigo interrupted, his mouth curling into a shark's smile. "After all, you are our guest."
There was something in the orange-haired butler's tone that struck a chord in the white-haired noble, who decided that conceding was an advisable retreat. As he chewed silently, Toushirou kept a watchful eye on Ichigo as he left the room to fetch the morning paper, unable to shake that feeling that appeared whenever in proximity with said man. It snaked and coiled against his throat, almost suffocating, like smog and smoke.
He cleared his throat, which earned the attention of Rukia, who quickly shifted her gaze towards him. It didn't go unnoticed where her eyes had previously been, however.
"Your butler… he's…" Toushirou hesitated. " … Unique, if I may say so. You seem rather close," he commented lightly, resting the empty bowl onto the table.
Although far from the realm of sight, the petite woman's heartbeat quickened. Nevertheless, Rukia attempted to maintain composure, offering a slight nod as she took a sip of tea.
"I suppose we are," she murmured, her gaze darting from the pristine surface of the table to her fiancé. The cup was deposited gently into its saucer, and Rukia leaned in on her elbows before elaborating.
"Ichigo… rescued me from my captors." It wasn't far from the truth, at least.
Flashback — Approximately Three Years Ago
17th June, 1871
Location: UNKNOWN
As heavy lids fluttered open, the ethereal dreamscape faded; feathers of ivory and the unnerving helm of darkness, a source of unexpected comfort— torn away. Her skin felt clammy and unusually cold, as though her back was pressed down against a block of ice. Palms flexed forward, only to be obstructed by metal binds encircling her tiny wrists.
A ceiling.
That was the first thing in sight as she cracked open a lid, dimly aware of the shuffle of activity in the room—rather, the warehouse, as the sloping apex of the rooftop suggested.
The lined face of a vaguely familiar man loomed far too close a proximity for her liking, and suddenly, there it was: a spike of pure, unadulterated fear, bloomed at the zenith of her chest and ripped into her throat, where her heart beat wildly, pounding against her eardrums, at the point of bursting.
A grin crossed the depraved man's obnoxious features, one that sent an involuntary chill down her spine.
"Finally awake, eh?" The male's foul breath hit her nose, and she recoiled back as far as she could, flattening herself against the cool surface.
There was the fleeting sound of a blade being drawn against steel, and her eyes pressed shut, one rebellious sliver of violet left exposed to see the cleaver being wielded at her, the sharpened steel pressing against the skin of her throat mere seconds later, drawing delicate beads of blood against milk-white skin.
"I reckon you'd sell better if you were chopped up in pieces, especially—"
However, her almost-murderer never got a chance to finish that decadent taunt, as screams and shouts of pain echoed from nearby, followed by the unmistakable thuds of fallen men. Swift as a shadow, her assailant was torn away from her line of sight, the clutter of the butcher's knife falling to the floor before a final scream tore from his throat.
The brush of gloved fingertips effectively breaking through her bounds prompted the young noble to finally open her eyes, greeted by the acquainted sight of orange hair and a smirking visage.
"My, my, what a troublesome little human you are…" the demon tutted at the now sitting female, dressed in nothing but a crisp white shirt that dwarfed her form.
"And you take too long. We all have our flaws," she replied smoothly, offering a saccharine smile while daintily dabbing a stolen handkerchief at the thin line of blood along the line of her neck.
A pause ensued, before she spoke again.
"And it's not 'human'. It's Kuchiki Rukia."
End of Flashback
"….But apart from that, he's a man of many talents and I'm quite fortunate to have him as a butler. He encouraged me to establish Funtom Corporation and recruited the rest of my staff as well, sans Hanatarou. He still remains the only member of our... previous staff."
With that, Rukia fell silent, and the prodigy nodded in understanding, taking on an emphatic role. The fire that destroyed the first Kuchiki Manor took more than just possessions— most of the household's servants and both Rukia's parents perished by those very flames.
Hitsugaya wasn't sure if Ichigo had the best or worst timing, because his return was able to slice through the thickening tension in the room.
"Am I interrupting something?" the orange-headed man's smooth voice caused lavender irises to rotate his way, narrowing upon the two broadsheets neatly tucked into the crook of his arm, a wad of letters held gently into a single gloved hand.
"Not at all," Rukia responded curtly, straightening as she observed Ichigo offered one of the newspapers to the white-haired prodigy, who hesitated greatly before accepting with a strained murmur of thanks.
The rigidity between both men was stifling, but the noblewoman sought after much more important matters. After much difficulty, much to the irate woman's displeasure, Rukia finally managed to catch the butler's gaze, opting for silent communication. Her eyes shifted to the letters in hand, and arched an obsidian brow.
Thankfully, Ichigo understood immediately.
"…As much as I'm certain the young master would appreciate some time for leisure, I'm afraid she has quite an eventful day today," he began, silently motioning for Orihime to clear the table. "Hitsugaya-san, you're free to explore the manor or visit the gardens in the meantime.
"And I loathe this monotonous type of module," said master sighed, rising to her feet, but bent to place a chaste kiss against Toushirou's cheek. "We'll meet again, or so I hope," she joked lightly, earning a small chuckle.
"Don't be theatrical. I'll see you soon." He promised, and she offered a gentle wave before trailing intently behind the demon up the staircase.
As soon as the door of her study closed, the brunette boosted herself onto the hardwood desk and crossed one stockinged feet over the other, held out a hand and cast an expectant look towards the orangette.
"Well? I assume a letter from Aizen arrived, and I assume you're already aware of that. So I'd like to see it."
Rukia's demanding tone earned a smirk from Ichigo, who handed them over obediently.
Sadly, not silently.
"I would never peruse your private mail unwarranted, young master," hummed the butler, who was clearly guilty of doing just that.
"Certainly not," was her saccharine response— albeit distracted, as slender digits leafed through the small stack of mail.
Dark brows furrowed, swiftly separating the various business proposals and notice of prospective investors into a pile, until the final envelope remained in her hands. Pinning her butler with a displeased stare, Rukia raised the letter, flickering the clearly already-opened seal back and forth with her thumb.
Ichigo, however, remained feigning ignorance, and even had the gall to show amusement.
To this, the young lord rolled her eyes. "Was it really necessary to lie?"
Nevertheless, she retrieved the sheet of paper doubled inside the envelope, unfolding it quickly. Eyes of amethyst quickly scanned the first few lines, her forehead already creased with lines of confusion.
Dearest Rukia,
Concern strikes me not for the first time on this day. In the darkness of the night, evil has shown time after time to thrive under the safety of the shadows. A known enigma without a name surfaces without motive; a pillar of malevolence to the lady who braves the night.
I pray that my trepidations be quelled soon, and peace returns safe and sound. Seek those who combat with the security of slumber, and do take care. Dark times descend, and it is prudent to remain wary of those who enter your home. Keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer.
Hoping you're well,
Sosuke Aizen.
After having read (and re-read) the quite short correspondence, the noblewoman pursed her lips in thought, her palms resting against the slate surface of the desktop.
"He's referring to Jack the Ripper, no? And 'ladies of the night' must be the prostitutes murdered by him," Rukia concluded softly, looking at the male for approval.
Ichigo offered a hum of approval, leafing through the pages of the newsletter. "And to the fact that murders have become more frequent. There was one last night." A gloved digit tapped at the front page, which displayed the rather bold title of 'JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN — 6 MORE MURDERED'.
"He appears to be rather methodical," he went on, mostly to himself, "Lacerations to the abdominal area before the throat is slit. In some cases, organs were reported missing from that of the victim's corpse."
"This seems to be more than the case of an organ trafficker," Rukia said, brows knitting together. "The black market is a questionable place but this is blatant murder. And blatant murder usually expresses aggression or contains some type of statement."
Ichigo could almost see the wheels turning in her pretty little head— her little, brilliant head, and it made him wonder why she wasn't nearly as credited for her intellect.
A slim forefinger curled beneath her chin, the ridge of her thumb pressed into the purse of rosy lips.
His heated gaze lingered.
"A surgeon," Rukia said finally, snapping her fingers. "That would explain everything. Resources, connections, experience, most of all."
"A plausible notion," the dark-eyed demon replied flippantly, cornering her with ease against the desk.
Amber hues flecked crimson under the candlelight, and concealed relish as the girl so easily within his reach gave an involuntary shudder. He saw struggle in her eyes, conflict— it had been days since they had been this startlingly close, and his palms hovered dangerously near to her hips before settling against the surface of the desk, caging her in.
"But, what if it was just the mere act of an organ trafficker?" The inquiry falls against the shell of her ear, prompting the sweet hitch of her breath. "Would you still refuse to see the malevolence that lurks within humans?"
Rukia hums; the soft sound reverberates within her throat and while the thick lashes framing her eyes descended aflutter— slim digits weaved into tangerine locks, lazily carding through the unruly mass of hair as a lazy smirk graced her porcelain features.
"Ah, but why does the Underworld exist, and who makes use of it? Those with power, with influence," the noblewoman replied in a silvery murmur, and violet eyes lit with an inexplicable merge of mirth, solemnity and playfulness. "No one would like that would risk everything for something as trivial as murder, no matter how much irony weighs in this statement. I would know, after all."
She paused, then asked, "But who would?"
"I don't know," he responded in tandem, and for the first time, he didn't know.
Her fingers preened his hair for the final time, before gracing defined cheekbones with a gentle (almost loving) caress.
"Those who have nothing," she said simply, allowing gentle palms to anchor against Ichigo's broad shoulders. She almost forgot how they felt—strong and sturdy beneath the tender squeeze of her fingers.
"Or at least, those with nothing to lose. Human rationale is governed by virtues of restraint. However, it is often lost, within certain circumstances, which draw relation to the Seven Deadly Sins."
Their proximity bordered on hazardous; soft breaths fanned out against Ichigo's lips and her gaze dipped from sight's reach.
"Greed."
The flicker of that memory glimmered beneath the surface of her carefully-assembled façade — a warehouse, a cleaver against her throat, the scorch of smoke against her lungs and the repulsive scent of burning flesh — and as pools of ameythst lifted, he found himself drowning in them.
"Envy."
The flicker of that memory glimmered beneath the surface of his normally composed features — hair white as snow, the woman he desired enfolded in another man's embrace — and tawny hues darkened, looming closer with the tilt of his chin.
"Lust."
Her tongue wrapped around the word like silken lace—rich with sultry promise. If there was ever a breaking point, this was it. Hands deftly parted her thighs, blunt nails raking up the dark sheen of fabric pulled taut against her skin, broad hips lodging between her thighs in a moment of wonderful friction.
"Wrath."
A yellow-eyed demon flared at the back of his mind, only to be obliterated, silenced by the powerful surge of desire as soft digits weaved into orange hair, lips planting sensual kisses down the smooth column of the noblewoman's throat as palms squeezed into the swell of her hips and netted legs hooked around his waist in a haze of pleasure.
"Sloth."
Timbre hitched, roseate lips unconsciously parted in a laboured breath as Ichigo's sinful mouth descended upon the swell of a supple breast, nipping into the creamy skin. The fabric of the brunette's apparel dipped to reveal half of a spectral skull inked just above her heart (engulfed in a burning violet haze), which beat erratically as his lips neared, engulfing every single nerve in her body in a scorching heat. Slender digits curled into the vibrant mass they were currently buried within and pulled, pioneering the demon's head forward, prompting the astral collision of their gazes, locked like the heavens under the sun.
"And Pride," Rukia whispered, just a beat before their lips met in a passionate union. Through layered apparel, the Kuchiki girl could still feel the heat of his body pressed taut against her chest, thick strokes of blistering arousal blooming at the pit of her stomach as his hips ground insistently into her heated warmth.
Before things could escalate more than they already had, the petite girl wrenched away with a heavy pant, her modest chest heaving as she inhaled a lungful of much-needed air. She is a welcoming sight of flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips, a dainty palm pressed against his chest, also lifting along the weight of heavy breaths.
"Though, you can infer which of these work in tandem with the theory at hand, and those that are rather based off… indulgence," Rukia breathed out, the sweep of her tongue moistening her lips as she worked to adjust her current apparel.
Her thumb and forefinger pinched into each side of the uneven bowtie at his neck, straightening it with methodical precision before smoothing her palms down his clothed chest, noting distractedly how familiar the firmness of defined muscle felt under her skin.
Worrying her lower lip, she glanced to the side. "It would be prudent to prioritize the task at hand. Contact our usual . . . clientele, Kurotsuchi and Kenpachi if necessary."
Ichigo offered a vague nod, reluctantly parting from her enticing frame and lifted the newspaper, staring down at the article with an unreadable expression.
The orange-haired male straightened and cleared his throat— a smidgen more disarrayed than he typically appeared, much to Rukia's amusement.
"Seeing as the most recent murder was last night, perhaps we should pay a visit to Urahara," he murmured thoughtfully, choosing to disregard the look of utter dismay of the noblewoman. It was common knowledge that Rukia was not fond of the eccentric man.
"Do as you see fit," she replied softly, sliding off of the desk as lean digits brushed imaginary dust off her dark apparel. "I'll remain here and complete my studies until further notice. Uncover as much as you can. Mysteries are tedious, and you know rather well I'd never pursue a ghost."
Lavender irises hardened into steel, however momentarily, as a familiar smirk graced her butler's handsome visage. Calloused fingers curled into the crook of her own, drawing her dainty palm forward to press a lingering kiss just beneath the gentle swell of knuckles.
"Yes, my lord."
Behind the closed door of the study, Hitsugaya walked away, a troubled expression marring his features.
Morning soon rolled into early afternoon; the heat of midday substituted by a soothing breeze. Towering sakura yet to take bloom produced rivuleting shadows at the very core, tended diligently by the tender hand of Hanatarou (though, it was really Ichigo most of the time). From rosy peonies brimming with colour to gentle springs of irises, larkspur, and honeysuckle, bearing an overwhelmingly honeyed fragrance that wafted along with the breeze, swept along by rain-kissed leaves. A spray of orchids border clusters upon clusters of roses— a hue exhibiting harmony against the deep, velvet beige of Black Magic, fringed by abysmal shades of carmine swirling into a boundless vortex of sanguine. Sunlight flecked against the dark petals, offering an almost translucent glow that seems far too ethereal, in a way that rendered the laws of the universe asunder.
Like a pillar of grace, Rukia stood at the very core, an arm stretched as the swell of knuckles caress the gentle dip of silken petals, and though executing great precision, her mind was anywhere but the present. Sharp features slacken into a faraway look, as though left astray by the plush smoothness just beneath her fingertips.
Enwreathed in a kaleidoscope of flora each more vibrant than the next, he found her to be a kindred spirit with the luminous blossoms, the most exotic of them all.
Toshiro cleared his throat, observing with furrowed brows as the noblewoman immediately stiffened. Her arm fell back to her side, and she turned.
Genuine surprise seemed to grace her countenance—with a force, he noted, and the subtle shift in her disposition didn't go by unnoticed.
"Ah, Toshiro," she greeted, poised and amiable as ever. However, the articulately constructed veneer was swiftly beginning to become opaque, and the white-haired noble could see the subtle cracks. "I hadn't noticed you until now. Have you had a tour, perchance?"
"… No." He hesitated, sapphire optics softening in apprehension. "But, is everything alright?"
For a split second, the foreign manifestation of conflict almost graced her countenance, but vanished as fast as it had appeared.
Slim shoulders squared, and Rukia managed the ghost of a smile.
"I appreciate the concern, but everything is quite alright," the noblewoman murmured, and shifted away from the verdant rosebushes. Long locks of ebony flowed down her back, and palms clasped behind her back in accordance.
Hitsugaya inhaled deep, because under no circumstance this confrontation should occur, over a matter so trivial nonetheless. However, matters of the heart tended to transcend the barriers of rationality, no matter how well-fortified.
"Rukia, I know about your involvement in the underworld endeavours. And I've been aware for quite a long time, but I was unable to come to terms with it . . . until now?"
"And why is it so challenging to believe?" Rukia inquired calmly, and her gaze narrowed into a pointed stare.
A myriad of expectations had flittered through his mind moments before those leaden words had been uttered, most of which had been well-thought out during many, many hours dedicated to soothing inner turmoil.
But Toshiro could have never predicted this.
"Because you aren't this type of person," he says quietly, but deep down, knows that this argument is weak.
The seam of pursed lips was parted by a flash of tongue, swiftly moistening the dry skin as a sigh bloomed within the refines of her chest, and exited in a heavy exhale.
"The type of person I am isn't decided by who you'd rather me be," Rukia answered shortly; warning underlying the low timbre of her voice, with unfathomable eyes that could slice through iron.
Her steps are effortless as she returned to the rosebush, idly tracing a forefinger along the velvety plunge of a deep red—almost black, rose petal. The sunlight streamed through obsidian tresses, casting the impression of an iridescent hue against curled locks spilling across her shoulders in dark rivulets.
"I won't deny anything that was said, because it's the simple truth. The Kuchiki's have served as watchdogs for the siege as long as records can attest to."
Opaque amethyst remained dark and hardened to steel, even as her piercing stare diverted. Carefully, the dark-haired girl wound her fingers along the flower stalk, wary of thorns.
A resounding snap echoed as deceptively frail digits effectively severed the beautiful bloom, now cradled into her palm.
"And I know how you must feel about that. Your father, Ukitake-san, was a good man, and managed to look past the nature of our duty and bound our families together. But today, neither of our parents is alive, and such ties can surely be severed given the right incentive."
Speechless, the prodigy could only stare helplessly at the woman who was to be his wife — a notion that could, quite possibly, be taken away in the blink of an eye — seeing this taciturn side of her for the very first time.
"Rukia …"
Before anything else could be uttered, said female softly shook her head and fixed her impenetrable gaze upon him, never wavering.
"Make no mistake, three years have passed, and if you thought I would remain the same, then clearly you were mistaken."
Flashback — Approximately Three Years Ago
23rd August, 1871
Location: Kuchiki Manor
Midway into a leisurely stroll, Rukia turned on her heel and stared forward. In turn, Ichigo stopped as well, broad palms clasping behind his back. On the soil the previous had been burnt to the ground, the newly-rebuilt version of the Kuchiki Manor stood proud and majestic. Having still been a mere work-in-progress a week or so ago, Rukia found a swell of pride in her heart at the finished production, an almost-mirror image of the house she had lived in for so many age.
And though new fixtures entered her life, much like the demon at her side, whom, strangely enough, became a source of security rather than a thorn at her side. Yet, timeworn ghosts still resurfaced from time to time, much like the absence of her parents still lingered at the back of the mind and fashioned a lump at her throat.
Rukia tore her gaze away, effectively breaking whatever wistful reverie she had fallen into successively broke. Slim shoulders fell lax and she turned to the orange-haired male.
"You did well on overseeing the reconstruction. It almost looks exactly the same," she said quietly, pushing a dark lock of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."
Her feet set in motion, and he followed at her side.
"Have you given any thought to my name? We've been together for months now and you still seem undecided," her demon butler stated nonchalantly, his dark eyes observing her countenance.
"I have," Rukia answered, as the wind picked up. Soon, dark tresses only barely brushing along her shoulders were sent aflutter along the strong gusts, which the girl steadily brushes away from her youthful features.
And truly attesting to the multi-faceted young woman he had been given the innate pleasure of knowing for the past months, a smirk graced her porcelain face.
"But, perhaps I've grown quite fond of referring to you as 'carrot-top'," she replied innocently, batting impossibly long lashes in an attempt of beguilement.
However, no matter how much of an anomaly the orange-haired male considered the petite lord to be, she was often quite . . . exasperating.
He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and glanced forward pointedly. "Be serious."
"Kurosaki Ichigo," she said almost instantaneously, her pretty mouth stretching into a rare simper. "That is the name I've decided on. Kurosaki means 'dark destination'.
"And I'm assuming the 'strawberry' refers to my hair," the butler responded dryly, unable to muster even a vestige on incredulity of the notion.
"Ichigo was the name of my dog."
He froze, and the brunette flashed her sweet smile, amethyst irises shimmering with mirth as a slender arm lifted to pat his cheek.
"So what does that make you, demon?"
End of Flashback
In a jarring motion, Rukia deposited the bloodred flower to his hands and stepped back quietly, a cloud of emotions storming her eyes.
"Endurance and times brings change. So does experience. There is beauty in even the darkest of hours, and the strangest of things. If you cannot accept that, then there's nothing left I can say," the young woman finished in a wooden voice, her rigid form turning toward the entrance.
A sliver of lavender cut through the rest of his resolve as her stride stalled, and her head turned slightly.
"Until then, please consider the alternative."
The poise and elegance the Kuchiki girl always carried never wavered, not even as her feet crossed the gates.
Still reeling from what had just occurred, the white-haired man nearly started upon noticing the demon of a butler leaning ever-so-casually against one of the many saplings.
"I see there are many things that you still don't understand," the orange-headed male spoke, the vestiges of a smirk still quite intact.
"There are."
A flicker of surprise surges through chestnut depths, but soon soothes into nothingness as gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his tailcoat with inherent ease.
"Then allow me to enlighten you:
In a world of kings,
She is the queen."
Flashback — Two Years Ago
8th March, 1872
Location: Kuchiki Manor
Long after the throes of passion had subsided, Rukia's breathing had evened from breathless pants and the deep scratches lining Ichigo's back was but a dull ache, the petite brunette shifted away from his warmth and pulled the sheets around her slender frame and respired heavily.
The moonlight filtered through obsidian tendrils promising starless skies and velvet darkness— and cuts across her visage, casting her in an almost waiflike glow. Her body shifted and the milky column of her throat is left exposed as her chin raised, littered with teeth marks and rubicund welts expertly left behind by her lover.
"I've never owned a dog before, only rabbits."
Her voice resounded uncharacteristically gentle, a similar expression softening the usual sharpness of her gaze, gleaming with moonshine.
She felt Ichigo's gaze on her, his silence a prompt to proceed. An unfamiliar emotion swelled within her heart, borne from the vulnerability evoked from the confession at hand.
So, after a deep breath, Rukia continued.
"There was a story I was fond of as a child, about a young boy named Ichigo. Ichigo means 'he who protects'," she murmured quietly, pulling the silken sheets tighter around her bare frame.
She never expected any type of reciprocation, she never does. This is why her eyes, indigo burdened by an innate melancholy, widen with disbelief as a pair of strong arms wrapped around the soft swell of her hips, drawing her back into his temperateness.
"So she does have a sentimental side," he mused, amusement flickering within chestnut depths as he tightened his hold, the noblewoman's slim form writhed to achieve absolute comfort. "I almost believed in that little front you've built so flawlessly. Almost, my little lord."
Immediately, she gave an unladylike snort.
"Don't flatter yourself. Though, I do believe the name suits you," the brunette reiterated thoughtfully, heavy-lidded eyes on the verge of falling close as she leaned heavily against his chest.
End of Flashback
A/N: So, a lot of flashbacks revolving around Ichigo and Rukia's (complicated) relationship, some of it fashioned off Kuroshitsuji scenes for any fans of the anime. There's already conflict between Toshiro and Rukia. The next chapter will be vastly different, so be prepared for a lot of your favorite characters! Also, what did you guys think of the chapter? R&R please!