Rukia wears his clothes all the time.
It’s both a big deal and not.
She spent almost her entire first stay in Karakura dressed in clothes that were his sisters' which, he grants, is less weird than wearing his clothes because at the very least Yuzu and Karin’s stuff fits her.
Because when Rukia wears his clothes she literally drowns in them, but she still wears them, like she's establishing dominance. Even after she officially moves into the Kurosaki house and her brother gives her the equivalent of a black card for 'necessities'.
Ichigo knows its partially his fault.
It had started with his school blazer a few years ago: Rukia was shit at remembering what the weather is like, and how you’re still affected by the cold, for fuck’s sake, you’re going to get sick! After which he’d practically forced it on her to wear.
She’d accepted it begrudgingly because I’ll be fine, you’ll freeze which was neither here nor there because Ichigo’s never actually been sick in his life.
(Until about two days later when he was. But that’s another story for another day.)
Point is, he can take some responsibility for his actions.
He’s a grown man. A grown man with a fully functioning lizard brain that goes stupid seeing Rukia in a blazer a few sizes too large, engulfed in the material, warm with the phantom of his body heat, and knowing that it’s his.
It isn’t surprising then that he puts up no more than a cursory complaint when Rukia starts wearing the rest of his clothes: his jackets over her sundresses, his sweaters over her shorts and skinny jeans, his shirts as dresses with a belt wrapped around it on occasion, his boxers – just because.
“They’re comfortable,” is her blanket defense.
And he can’t argue with that, not when he can so easily slide his fingers along her waist, her thighs, and the material just slides aside, giving as easily as she does.
Lifting her hips impatiently against his, she grumbles at him, “You’re the worst.”
He hums, continuing to flick at a nipple, hand squeezing the mound from underneath yet another shirt of his that she’s wearing. “I don’t hear you complaining.”
She arches as he pinches, breathing hotly against her ear, eyes tracking the tease of pale skin the shirt exposes with the movement. “Are you?” he asks soft and dark, tugging the shirt back into place, the weight of his hand stopping the boxers from slipping down any further.
With a whimper she presses into his neck, her head shakes minutely before she’s murmuring with a sinuous roll of her hips against his, “Ichigo.”
Almost innocently, “Yes?”
He feels teeth against his skin and almost viciously, she presses her ass against his cock, rocks back once – twice. An effort, given that he’s holding her from behind on the couch, raking his nails just so over the front of the boxers, teasing at the way she spreads her legs, and trailing his fingers almost thoughtfully at the moisture at her center, before she’s pleading, a hint of urgency, of desperation, “Ichigo, please?”
He withdraws his hand, and she bucks back in reflex but whimpers as he slides the elastic down exposing her inch by inch, the hand still at her breast toying almost playfully with that same, overstimulated nipple.
“Wet for me, beautiful?” he prods a hint of a tease that makes Rukia groan, a flush of embarrassment and arousal heating her skin, her neck, her cheeks that he wants to mouth at it, see if it tastes as good as she does. He satisfies his curiosity by catching her lips in a kiss that's mostly tongue, a scrape of teeth in a move that's mimicked by way he thumbs her nipple through the shirt she's wearing.
When he finally pulls away, when Rukia opens her eyes, the blue in them is a thin ring, and her lips are wet and red and kiss-swollen, and Ichigo wants to ruin her.
Instead, he presses another kiss against them, then against her damp temple before pressing into her, petal-soft and soaked.
Her eyes shut slow and dazed at being filled, even just a little. She bares the pale column of her neck; exposed and vulnerable, her throat moving in a long husky moan while beneath her ass, his cock gives a kick, weeps for attention.
She hitches her hips back, knowing just what he needs to drive him crazy and keep him from flying apart at the seams.
His finger slides in with ease and she’s so warm, so perfect, and at her low groan, her arch of relief; she squeezes and squeezes one finger after another, every careful prod slick with her. Her moans emanating with her ecstasy in a haze of his name and pleas of more-more-please-Ichigo-please-oh-oh –
She’s spluttering and moaning, rutting up into nothing as he resumes pumping her with his fingers; her wetness seeping down her thighs, his hand. He licks his lips, withdraws to her protests.
Cuffing her hips with his palms, he squeezes them and murmurs against her ear, “I want to be inside you.”
“You were,” she protests, voice strained and sex rough, “god, you’re an asshole.”
He snickers, lifting her easily so that she’s draped over the arm of the couch, ass in the air that he bites teasingly at the cheek of before sliding the boxers off the globes, and then removing his own, his cock springing free, engorged and wet with precum.
Ichigo almost regrets having to put a condom on, but it's not like it really makes a difference when he presses into her, full tilt from behind, his thighs flush against the delicious curve of the ass she’s presenting, and she’s gasping, fuck Ichigo into her arm as he bottoms out.
Her high whines and wordless moans are drowned out by the sound of naked skin sliding and slapping obscenely as he withdraws inch by inch, and drives right back in with a snap of his hips; the back of her thighs reddening from above the boxers still tangled around her knees as they move against each other.
It isn’t until they’re breaking apart, one after the other, lying limply and squished up side by side on the couch that Rukia finally wiggles out of his boxers, his shirt.
“You know,” she says casually, still winded, eyes bright and cheeks still flush. “If you wanted your clothes back, you just had to ask.”