Warmth [Renruki] [Birthday challenge]
Title :: Warmth
Prompt :: “Into the sunset” [renji_rukia birthday challenge]
Pairing :: Renruki
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 665
Summary :: When they were young, she had always insisted on brushing his hair.
When they were young, she had always insisted on brushing his hair. It became a sort of nightly ritual with them - Renji sitting on his pallet and Rukia kneeling behind him, stretching up to first comb her fingers through the long locks, and then work out the remaining snares with an actual brush.
“It’s just hair, Rukia,” Renji had muttered once. “So why the hell are you so fascinated with it?”
Rukia had blushed nearly as red as the aforementioned hair spilling over her fingers, and she was grateful that she sat behind him and he couldn’t see.
“It’s pretty,” she forced out, softly. “Reminds me of a sunset.”
He’d grunted, but silently allowed her to continue her work.
And Rukia knew that he had to enjoy it just as much as she did - more often than not, he would simply grow so relaxed that he fell asleep, ending up with his head pillowed on her lap.
Rukia would sit with him like that for long stretches at a time, as long as she thought she could get away with, continuing to stroke her fingers through his hair and smiling down at his sleeping face. (She loved how much more open and relaxed it was than normal, and how much warmer it was with his shared body heat.)
He never seemed to remember all this in the mornings, and by then she had slipped away to her own bed, but that suited Rukia just fine - this way, he wouldn’t try and make her stop.
But the ritual ended on its own, abruptly, when they joined the academy. (Rukia couldn’t very well sneak into his room every night, no matter how much he teased her about her size.) Still, though, Renji flatly refused to ever cut his hair, and merely continued to let it grow.
Ikkaku had inquired about it, once, pointing out that short hair (or, as in his own case, no hair) was a good deal easier to deal with during battle.
Renji had only given a lazy shrug of one shoulder. “Rukia likes it,” he said simply. “Or at least, she did when we were kids. So, I still keep it long.”
Ikkaku hadn’t pressed the issue any more, after that. He knew what it was like to have to keep the person you love happy in terms of beauty, after all.
And so, years later, his still-long hair fell, tumbling wildly around him as he faced Ichigo, almost matching the bloodstains that were blossoming on his clothes. And he thought, desperately, Was this really all I could ever do for her?
For her part, Rukia seemed to think differently. And finally, finally, finally, she managed to make him understand.
“R-renji,” she gasped, reaching up to fist her hands in his hair, and he silenced her by capturing her lower lip with his.
“Mine,” he growled as her fingers moved from his hair to his back, blindly tracing the lines of his tattoos as she shuddered helplessly beneath him. “Mine.”
By the time he had her crying out, arching sharply up unto him with heaving breaths, his hair had fallen completely down, parted on either side of his face and surrounding them like the setting sun of their own little world.
And when Renji awoke the next morning, this time, Rukia was still sleeping at his side, warm against him with his hair draping across her shoulders.
Really is our own little world, Renji thought in a dazed fog, still almost unable to just believe. But when Rukia whimpered his name in her sleep and nuzzled her face into his chest, he decided to just give the hell up on logic.
All he needed to concentrate on was her.
Pulling Rukia closer still (but moving carefully so as to not wake her) and moaning softly at the feel of her bare skin sliding on his, Renji kissed the corner of her mouth and closed his eyes.
The outside world could just fucking wait.
Prompt :: “Into the sunset” [renji_rukia birthday challenge]
Pairing :: Renruki
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 665
Summary :: When they were young, she had always insisted on brushing his hair.
When they were young, she had always insisted on brushing his hair. It became a sort of nightly ritual with them - Renji sitting on his pallet and Rukia kneeling behind him, stretching up to first comb her fingers through the long locks, and then work out the remaining snares with an actual brush.
“It’s just hair, Rukia,” Renji had muttered once. “So why the hell are you so fascinated with it?”
Rukia had blushed nearly as red as the aforementioned hair spilling over her fingers, and she was grateful that she sat behind him and he couldn’t see.
“It’s pretty,” she forced out, softly. “Reminds me of a sunset.”
He’d grunted, but silently allowed her to continue her work.
And Rukia knew that he had to enjoy it just as much as she did - more often than not, he would simply grow so relaxed that he fell asleep, ending up with his head pillowed on her lap.
Rukia would sit with him like that for long stretches at a time, as long as she thought she could get away with, continuing to stroke her fingers through his hair and smiling down at his sleeping face. (She loved how much more open and relaxed it was than normal, and how much warmer it was with his shared body heat.)
He never seemed to remember all this in the mornings, and by then she had slipped away to her own bed, but that suited Rukia just fine - this way, he wouldn’t try and make her stop.
But the ritual ended on its own, abruptly, when they joined the academy. (Rukia couldn’t very well sneak into his room every night, no matter how much he teased her about her size.) Still, though, Renji flatly refused to ever cut his hair, and merely continued to let it grow.
Ikkaku had inquired about it, once, pointing out that short hair (or, as in his own case, no hair) was a good deal easier to deal with during battle.
Renji had only given a lazy shrug of one shoulder. “Rukia likes it,” he said simply. “Or at least, she did when we were kids. So, I still keep it long.”
Ikkaku hadn’t pressed the issue any more, after that. He knew what it was like to have to keep the person you love happy in terms of beauty, after all.
And so, years later, his still-long hair fell, tumbling wildly around him as he faced Ichigo, almost matching the bloodstains that were blossoming on his clothes. And he thought, desperately, Was this really all I could ever do for her?
For her part, Rukia seemed to think differently. And finally, finally, finally, she managed to make him understand.
“R-renji,” she gasped, reaching up to fist her hands in his hair, and he silenced her by capturing her lower lip with his.
“Mine,” he growled as her fingers moved from his hair to his back, blindly tracing the lines of his tattoos as she shuddered helplessly beneath him. “Mine.”
By the time he had her crying out, arching sharply up unto him with heaving breaths, his hair had fallen completely down, parted on either side of his face and surrounding them like the setting sun of their own little world.
And when Renji awoke the next morning, this time, Rukia was still sleeping at his side, warm against him with his hair draping across her shoulders.
Really is our own little world, Renji thought in a dazed fog, still almost unable to just believe. But when Rukia whimpered his name in her sleep and nuzzled her face into his chest, he decided to just give the hell up on logic.
All he needed to concentrate on was her.
Pulling Rukia closer still (but moving carefully so as to not wake her) and moaning softly at the feel of her bare skin sliding on his, Renji kissed the corner of her mouth and closed his eyes.
The outside world could just fucking wait.