OK imagine Rukia reading a bedtime story to Ichigo, but he doesn’t pay attention and just stares at her, mesmerized.

BONUS:

Yeah I didn’t change their roles. It’s perfect, why would I change it.

Merry Christmas.

uwaaaa <3

Thorn

What happens when you die here?

He’d asked himself that the first time Rukia’s world had merged with his, that pivotal point of change and— fate, maybe. Something as wild as that.

It had come to him of its’ own accord, a striking question in this after-life world. Because, if you die to come here, where do you go next? Do you die to go back?

          (He doesn’t ever want to know.)

.

.

.

Your soul. It disappears. That bright, beautiful energy, her energy, and it is pouring through his fingers in floods and leaving behind rivets in his chest.

She steals his breath, again, but it is choking on a storm.

       “Rukia! Rukia!”

He no longer knows where his throat and mouth and nose and chest connect, just fire, and a lack of air, and a severe, dragging sense of hopelessness that caves his gut in. He screams her name until it scrapes his throat raw, and still he tries, tries to pool her attention, tries to cup her hand and force some sort of reiatsu to do something do something do anything—

            “Rukia—“ A broken, strangled sob, “—Rukia, Rukia—“

    He’s already too late - he knows this.

(He should know this.)

Why he seeks her reiatsu is beyond him; it carves him open more, spilling anger and bitterness and screams into the burnt earth. Seireitei lies broken, torn asunder by souls and thunder and the people who took her away, took her to death— bring her back, bring her back—

Movements fumble like a blind man’s and he is still pleading with her to wake, a breathless, rugged string of nonsense he can’t quite seem to fit together— “Please, fuck, no—“

Her skin might as well be marble, with all the heaviness, and the coldness, and that deep, irreproachable white marred with red on russet on blue. It doesn’t look half as pretty when fractured.

      (He had known. He had known.)

There was an ice cold fist to his heart and then that familiar, gaping valley splitting his gut as he had screamed, forced himself to move faster, faster- slow.

He feels like an earthquake; like his touch is watery, like her flesh falters under his fingertips. This is what happens when you die.

(Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.)

He envelopes her with tremors. Cradles her chin, and that spread of claret scarring her from skin to bone, blood to soul. 

Death, death is cruel, and inescapable, even to those who command it. Death burrows his hold to ice-hands, and closes his throat, and leaves his temples splitting.

      When you die here, you get nothing.

You get broken vocal chords and eaten-out hearts and cold, cold eyes that burn into the backs of yours.

      He is never getting that out.

Hopeless. It’s hopeless.

                  (She is gone.)

          The leftovers of her reiatsu hang in the air like iron to his back.

(It’s never enough)

8min redraw of this 4 y/o crap

Time passes, the years go by, and I still dont know how to draw Ichigo

Ichiruki till death.