Chapter Text
Kissing isn't something Rukia gives much thought to.
She acknowledges that people do it, but she's always seen it as a sort of abstract thing, something other people do.
The girls at school certainly talk about it a lot.
And while she's never been part of the social circle of Soul Society, Rukia is aware that romance is as much a topic of conversation as anything else is. She just -- hasn't had much reason to think about it as it relates to her which is why she's thrown when Tatsuki says, with a suggestive wiggle of her brow, "I hope Ichigo does it properly."
“Why would -"
“Don’t be shy, you can tell us!” One of the girls insists and Rukia doesn’t have to fake her bashful embarrassment.
Apparently, since her absence during her recuperation period in Soul Society, Ichigo's behavior had been markedly different. Not quite night and day, not quite his endless rain, but noticeable. Noticeable enough that when she'd come back, relieving Renji of his probation, Ichigo's change had been noted too; dissected and rationalized with the popular conclusion being that something was going on between the two of them, and not in the "I'm a Shinigami and so is he, and we fight Hollows and purify souls" kind of way.
It had been several years since then, however, and though the rumors have become less persistent with time, it's become an accepted, if not unconfirmed fact.
Ichigo had brushed it all off with the same carelessness as everything else, and Rukia had taken the same route.
Not that anyone really believes them, obviously.
Not giving an answer, however, has a negligible chance of succeeding because for one reason or another, the girls at school are very curious about Ichigo’s kissing prowess, and theories get thrown around: he’s the type to push you up against the wall, there’ll be tons of roaming hands, maybe he’s the kind that likes to get a little teeth in -- he seems like the type, doesn’t he? Or maybe, they swoon, maybe he’s gentler than he looks, maybe –-
The girls prod and pout and beg for details Rukia can’t give because she doesn’t have them, though she plays it off well enough with a teasing, “A lady never tells”, she will ask because Ichigo’s been insistent since day one, "I don’t want you getting involved with something dumb, or being taken advantage of, ask me first."
Which leads to this conversation:
“How do you kiss?”
He almost chokes on his juice. “What the fu..”
“The girls at school want to know,” Rukia says, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “So…?”
Still, he's stuttering, wiping the juice that's dribbled from his chin with one hand and loudly slamming his glass on his desk. “Why would anyone…what?” Which just makes Rukia roll her eyes because honestly, he's so dense.
Questions about his kissing prowess aside, Ichigo's made waves enough in Soul Society on pure strength alone that people still ask her about him whenever she goes back. That it's immediately followed up with a comparison of his power in relation to his good looks, and Rukia's convinced everyone's in love with him.
Although, while his skill in combat and on the battlefield is impressive, she supposes that it's not too farfetched that Ichigo's a little on the slow side, socially.
Now that she's looking at him, fiddling a little and looking constipated, she realizes Ichigo's actually embarrassed, and oh, “I see. So you haven’t been kissed yet.”
He splutters but doesn’t disagree because while he’s saved the town and Soul Society a few times, reached Bankai in less than a week, and is a senior in high school with an impressive grade point average and an early acceptance into university, Rukia supposes with his full schedule, he just doesn’t have time for things like romance and dating which is a thought that leads her to wonder how much of that is her fault. Shinigami duties certainly take a huge chunk of time as it is, its a full-time job in Soul Society, after all, add the twins' burgeoning spiritual abilities, the constant rescue attempts Ichigo stages whenever Soul Society delays her with paperwork, Ichigo's insistence that he be her first point of contact whenever she has questions about the World of the Living, and its a wonder Ichigo has any time at all to be normal.
It's not a good feeling which is why she decides to offer, “I could give you your first kiss.”
“What,” he deadpans, practically collapsing like his strings have been cut, sitting on his bed and looking unamused and unimpressed.
She shrugs like it's nothing. “It’s not a big deal." And not exactly a great trial to bear. Ichigo is - he's attractive - objectively speaking. Auburn hair, tanned skin, whiskey brown eyes; sure he's quicker to scowl than smile, and it only serves to make him look more intimidating with his angular features, but it kind of works for the reputation he has going, whether he's been kissed or not, which is why she adds, in the hope of assuaging his embarrassment, "Kissing is considered a greeting in some cultures.”
He glares. “Who the hell told you that? Was it Keigo?”
“Focus, Ichigo,” she orders, rolling her eyes again. “Can I kiss you, yes or no?”
“Is this,” he pauses to lick his lips, “is this some game the girls convinced you to play or something?”
Rukia sighs. It’s like he doesn’t even know her. “No, I didn’t confirm or deny that I knew how you do it, but now I’m curious so.”
“So…”
“Yes or no?”
He’s looking at her, expression carefully blank, considering, thoughtful, which leads her to prompt for his sake if not for her own pride that he wouldn’t want to kiss her that, “It’s not a big deal, you know.”
His forehead furrows, and he opens his mouth like he's going to start yelling. Except his jaw clamps shut, and with another considering glare, he nods short and quick. “Fine.”
And it - does not go the way the girls at school describe it because: Yes, Ichigo does pull her closer by the hips, his knees bracketing hers - but also the only part where they’re touching is their lips. The contact is slightly wet from when he’d licked his lips earlier, the pressure is gentle, closed-mouthed, chaste - until it isn’t. He’s squeezing her hip, and she’s opening her mouth to protest at the pinch, and his tongue brushes against hers and it's warm and tastes a little like the strawberry juice he was drinking, and really, it’s all downhill from there.
Her legs are trembling, and she’s got her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, her other hand digging into the meat of his shoulder as if to anchor herself, and he outright growls when she tries to steady herself - knee brushing almost teasingly against a thickening heat between his legs.
When he tilts them so he's lying on the bed, his hand is splayed along the back of her thigh, kneading and squeezing as if to goad her on.
It works.
She squeezes back, nails digging into his bicep, fingers running down the vertebrae of his spine, making his neck arc and his hands tighten, and it’s not so much kissing anymore as it is a whole other fight.
Except it isn’t that too because Ichigo’s tongue is sweeping against hers, punctuating each pass with a few nips of his teeth, and a few tugs against her lips, his other hand cradling her head, digits threading through her hair. Despite his exploration, his experimentation, he’s gentle, quietly prodding is this okay, is this okay, is this okay…
Her answers come hesitantly at first until it’s spilling from her. Until she’s saying yes with her hands running over his chest, until there’s an answering pressure between her thighs cradled by his hips, until he isn’t kissing her mouth anymore but mouthing at her neck and exhaling her name and she’s answering back with his.
And even though they’ve stopped, a small eternity later, they’re still wrapped around one another, tangled.
His hand rests on her thigh, where her school skirt had lifted, his thumb circling almost teasingly the flesh beneath making her squirm a little against the heartbeat against her cheek before she blows warm air against his neck and the exposed part of his chest - he’s missing a button. The thought is distracting to her for some reason.
“So," he asks, a little breathless, "kissing still not a big deal?”
“Well, I can see where the appeal might come from,” is her magnanimous response which is drowned out by a gasp as he flips her over.
“Really,” he drawls, “only just the appeal?”
She hums, feigning disinterest even as her arms snake around him and as her legs widen to make room for him. “Perhaps I need to be convinced.”
Golden eyes darkening, he practically purrs into her ear, “If you insist.”