//rukia/kaien commission for my superpal @captainrukia
What You Need
It has been three days. She counts them as if there is any imaginable amount of time that needs to pass before you can act like you did before it all started to fall apart. It has been three days of darkened hallways, silent exchanges, breathy hesitations to ask how he’s holding up, if he needs anything...The fog of Miyako’s death hangs heavy throughout the barracks, and it slows all of their movement, all of their speech. And Rukia, such a waif, struggles against that thickness almost as much as he does.
Gone are his proud posture and his glowing smile. She has never seen him so brooding, and she hates the part of her that finds it fascinating. To see him beneath his new black cloud, his fists always tightened and his brow always wrinkling downwards. It gives new shape to the unnamable feeling that she already had, since first they met. It is a sort of pulsating in her veins, a gravity that keeps her tethered to him, a weakness to his sounds and scents. And now, when he is so broken, she finds it only gets worse. There comes a new aspect to her wanting:
She wishes she could fix him.
She can’t bring his wife back, and though it has taken her great pain to admit it, she does not want to. She can’t replace a woman like Miyako. She can’t speed up the arduous process of grief. She can only watch from a distance as he suffers.
One dark evening, as she tarries about her menial tasks, folding the freshly washed uniforms, placing them in the wooden cubbies. The repetition of it soothes her, until she hears familiar footsteps beyond the open door to the utility room. She knows him by his walk. She wonders if he knows her, too. She wonders if he wants to.
She stops her folding, and turns toward the sound. Funny how his presence is always too large for him to truly seem like a shell of a man. He approaches, seeming taller than ever, dwarfing her in his severity. She looks up, bringing a hand to her chest to clutch at the fabric of her uniform, as if she could contain her heart.
“Kaien-dono…” She’s not spoken his name in days, and it comes out foreign and hoarse. There is a look in his eyes that she feels privileged to see. The nighttime look, saved for his wife, saved for bed, saved for the love that preempts sleep.
He looks so worn down. She wants to fix it. She doesn’t know, cannot know, how.
With a sigh he drops his head, falls to his knees before her, as if ready for some kind of repentance. Like instinct, she raises her hands, and they tremble even as she lays them on his head with a decided confidence. She feels a deep breath against her belly as his arms wrap around her, clinging, as if he will fall through the floor should he not hang on tight enough.
There is hurt radiating from him. She realizes then that a tear struggles free from her eye.
They stay like that for a few quiet moments, the only sound his heavy breathing. He rests his head upon her modest chest, and she scolds herself for her blushing. She is only here as a comfort. She is only here as a pillar to keep him upright.
But after a while, his grip softens. It travels. Timidly, hands venturing just the slightest bit lower, higher. He nuzzles his head against her chest, and she curls her toes. If this is what he needs…
She knows it isn’t, not really. That he will only end up hating himself. But too strong is the want. Too perfect is the feeling of his head and hands and heartbeat. She runs a hand through his hair, encouraging him to stay. With a breath, he looks up, chin resting between her breasts-- ah, in her thrill, they’ve made themselves known through even the thick fabric. There is such a hungry sadness in his face. Her lips part in a sympathetic pout, and she tilts her head to the side.
If this is what he needs.
His hands climb her, over her skinny hips, rustling the knot of her obi. He slides his palms over the subtle plane of her chest, and she gasps. The way he exhales, it thrills her, the sound so ferocious and full of desire. He slips one hand beneath the fabric, fingers passing over her skin, kneading just-so, and already she melts. Her inexperience, maybe, or the sheer adoration she feels.
He unties the obi, and she shrugs out of her kosode. He looks up at her flushed face with glistening eyes. She offers him a subtle nod of permission. When he kisses her on the sternum, she feels the warm, wet inevitability. He plays there a while, kissing and suckling so gently, and she curls her fingers into his thick hair, whimpering. She tries so much to fix him with her pearly skin.
Eventually, his hands begin their traveling anew, rounding her bottom, caressing her thighs, the back of his knuckles grazing between her legs. She shivers. Even she has hardly dared to touch that place.
But it is his, if that is what he needs.
The rest happens quickly. Never do their lips meet. As he stands, he pulls her up, hands beneath her arms, settling her on the counter top. Staring one another down, they remove only what is necessary. As if keeping some manner of clothes on will save them from shame.
She bites her lip in a combination of excitement and fear to see him, throbbing and tinted the perfect red. He pulls her closer, and the pain is nothing compared to what she is sure he must feel.
He continues to devour her in so expert a way as he ruts, driving himself into her fragile virgin body in a staccato so reckless she wonders if she will bleed. She doesn’t care, if her blood is what he needs.
He curses beneath his breath, and she swears he is crying. She wraps her skinny arms around his neck, spreading her thighs as far as she can make them, allowing him to go deep. It is as if, could she get him far enough inside of her, enough a part of her, he will simply not have to exist in the same way anymore. She can keep him there.
Perhaps sensing her willingness, he presses his hands into the sides of her knees, holding her open, looking down where their bodies meet. The sight seems to both anger and elate him. She, too, cannot help but watch as he thrusts and thrashes.
He pulls away to spill himself upon her chest and belly. The volume of it carries so great a distance. They both look upon her sullied body with awe.
For a second, it looks as though he might finally kiss her. He runs a hand down her cheek, his expression, for once, unreadable.
But he retreats. He hides himself back within the folds of his uniform, and leaves her wilting on the counter top.
“I’m sorry…” he says as he pauses in the doorway.
She forgives him. She will always forgive him.
That night she manages to fall asleep with a smile on her face. She tries to will it away, and fails. For once, she was what he needed.
