A/N: Part Deux, now with 100% more smut and awful double entendres. I regret nothing.

Cultural notes:

Butsudan (lit. Buddhist Altar) & Jubitsudō: A butsudan is a home shrine that can be as small as a wooden cabinet, or as big as an ornate platform. It usually contains an array of religious items, such as candlesticks, incense burners, bells, food offerings etc. and some home shrines are also placed amidst memorial tablets of deceased relatives.

In older times, the nobility had their own private place of worship where Buddha statues and ancestor tablets were kept, the jubitsudō, a structure separate to the rest of the home. The practice of moving the altar indoors didn't start until the Heian period (794 to 1185), so given how old some of the noble families in Bleach are implied to be, it would make sense if their ancestral homes were built with an outdoor shrine.

The significance of the number 108: 108 is considered to be an important number in Buddhism. Listing all the relevant examples would take up a lot of space (do google it if you get the chance; it's a good read), but suffice it to say that it is considered to represent spiritual completion.

Kaimyō (posthumous name): The idea behind a posthumous name is that it prevents the deceased's spirit from reappearing when their earthly name is called, which is why when forming the Kaimyō, only very old and obsolete kanji is ever used, to reduce the chances that the name will ever be read out loud. Meaning that the posthumous name is not meant for everyday use, in which case the deceased would still be referred to by their earthly name.

Clothing: There is a fair amount of sartorial terminology included in a couple of scenes, but I won't mention it here. It comes up organically later on, for one thing, plus I don't want to flood you with information you're going to forget by the time it's relevant unless it's words you already know (I had a cheatsheet next to me the whole time I was writing this and I spent days researching that stuff, lol)

CHAPTER 2: Choice

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High above him, the clear, spangled night sky stretches wide, the stars unobscured. With every exhale, a small smoke ring floats up before his vision, expanding, growing wider and thinner until it's caught up in the gentle breeze and fades out of sight.

Stretched out against the cool grass, one arm folded behind his head, Kisuke draws in another drag from his pipe and rolls his tongue inside his open mouth, blowing out another ringlet. The slow, repetitive routine should, by all rights, have a soporific effect, but sleep has been eluding him for the better part of the last three weeks.

Led by Ōmaeda, his squad has been camped out in the forest outside the Fifth District in Southeast Rukongai for three days now. Previously, they had been closely following the trail of a group of possible insurgents from the Tanaka clan. It's been an exhausting few days, but the operation currently lies at a critical point, and subsisting on little sleep is something they've all been trained for.

Perhaps he more than others.

It would probably be more honest to say that he has been very deliberately avoiding sleep until driven to exhaustion, either physical or mental.

Because every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is her face.

He's had a far less difficult life compared to most, though it would be untruthful to claim he hasn't known his fair share of pain. And he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the memory of watching Yoruichi's face fall ranks second only to losing his mother a few decades ago.

He seems to find new ways, both small and big, to anger her on a near constant basis, but it is not often that he can claim to have legitimately hurt her. In fact, it's only ever happened once in the past.

And three weeks ago, he broke his long-held promise to himself to never again dare to cause her such pain.

It is not a defense, or even remotely an excuse, but he can freely admit to himself, without a hint of dishonesty, that he never once expected this to happen. He has enough self-awareness to understand when his actions have the potential to result in personal injury, and this was one instance where he truly thought that he would at best annoy her, at worst disappoint her. Neither result was something he'd been looking forward to, but both were possibilities he could live with.

But hurting her? That was a scenario not even his own considerable imagination could ever conjure up.

Because hurting her could only mean that the events of the night before had meant something to her.

Hurting her could only mean that she cared, far more than she let on.

He is not an oblivious man. He doesn't hold the monopoly in their relationship when it comes to furtive looks, whether wolfish or doleful. He has caught her staring over the years, and the overall number is not insignificant, either. He knows she is curious, perhaps even mildly interested.

But he has never allowed himself to entertain the notion that she, too, might long for more. Doing so would have been far too dangerous, far too painful. And in those rare occasions when he thinks he might even catch her gaze soften when focused upon him, he convinces himself it is but a trick of the light.

At this point, lingering on the events before his departure and trying to decipher them is pointless, anyway. If there was ever a possibility that she might return his feelings, he has surely quashed any desire on her part to pursue this, even out of curiosity.

He supposes that's a good thing, in the long run.

He knows himself well enough to be certain that he will be perfectly content going through the rest of his days as nothing other than her friend. He has lived with the shadow of yearning over his heart for a long time now, and he will gladly continue to do so, if only there is a way to repair any damage done to their friendship. Meeting her, knowing her, forever changed his life for the better. He has nearly no memory of his life before she was an inextricable part of it. What little he does remember is of a bleak, lightless existence, so diametrically different to one with her in it, that the mere recollection fills him with dread and despair.

Counting on time and distance to fix what is close to broken is a risky endeavor; he knows as much from past experience. When the mission reaches its end a few months from now, he will either return home to a friend, or to a bleeding, gaping hole in his life that will never heal.

And it is the second possibility that truly keeps him up at night, heart pounding in his chest, throat sealed up in terror, his only comfort the hairband she left behind that still carries her scent. It wasn't his proudest moment, stowing it into his bag once he discovered it in the bathroom after her departure, and he resolves to return it as soon as possible.

But he cannot bring himself to regret holding on to it, even temporarily.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a long-suffering sigh pierces through the clamor.

"Can I expect this to be the norm from now on? Spending the rest of my existence trapped in a mire of your boundless self-pity?"

As is often the case lately, the owner of the drawling, throaty voice sounds exasperated with him. Fierce, unyieldingly proud, ill-tempered princesses with little patience for his tomfoolery: seems to be the story of his life.

Hello, Benihime.

"…Well?"

Chuckling, Kisuke takes another drag out of his pipe, unable to resist taunting her a little. I must admit, I am touched. Could it be that you are concerned about my well-being?

"What concerns me is my own mental well-being," she says, a little too defensively. "But I will confess to some curiosity."

Over?

"We've been away from home for some time now. While the previous fortnight wasn't exactly pleasant, it's only in the last few days that you've become truly unbearable—"

Why, thank you.

"—so what changed?"

He can always count on her to be astute in her observations, sometimes inconveniently so. But every now and then, she surprises him with a question of frank concern, or rather curiosity, as she chooses to term it. I… I guess I want just thinking about the ceremony, he tells Benihime. Her Genpuku. It's happening in one week.

"And?"

It's just… I promised her I'd be there.

More than anything, he finds himself realizing that he wants to be there, to witness the crowning moment of her achievements, to watch her hard work be recognized and celebrated.

"Well, has it occurred to you that if you stopped wallowing like a sentimental fool, you might just be able to put that brain of yours to better use?"

He fails to see the connection between their discussion and her comment, but it is clear from her tone that there is one. Meaning?

"Meaning that you are cleverer than all these imbeciles put together, you dolt. If there's anyone that can find a more efficient way to resolve this convoluted mess, it's you. So stop moping about and do what you do best: find a solution."

She's talking about the Tanaka case, he realizes, urging him to come up with a strategy to resolve the conflict far earlier than even their most optimistic projections. The implicit half of her sentence is easily discernible: end this now and return home, fulfill his promise.

Kisuke shifts uncomfortably atop the bed of grass. That's easier said than done.

"Oh, don't give me that. You are using this mission as an excuse to stay away for as long as you possibly can. Do not presume to lecture me on what is easy or hard until you've at least genuinely tried, boy."

And there it is, her peerless ability to be inconveniently astute.

The use of the word 'boy' is not lost on him, either. It is Benihime's belittlement of choice whenever she finds him to be either too arrogant at her expense, or too cowardly. He is a little ashamed to admit that it is wickedly effective. Rather, it would be, under different circumstances.

Because there isn't a single synonym for coward she can come up with that he hasn't already mentally hurled at himself over the past weeks.

"Unless, of course, you were planning on hurting her a third time?"

A woman after his own heart –quite literally at that- she always, always goes for the jugular.

Kisuke's breath freezes in his lungs at the sound of Benihime's words, and though he recognizes them for the open challenge they're meant to be, he also recognizes them to be the truth. And the mere thought of failing Yoruichi, again, especially after what last transpired between them, is agony.

He is up on his feet before he is even consciously aware of doing so, Benihime's self-satisfied chortling following him all the way to his tent.

Though he is prepared to dodge a number of stray blows, Ōmaeda surprises him with only moderately hostile swearing when Kisuke jostles him awake, in search of the insurgent profiles. It takes a few hours of headache-inducing brainstorming, his body already worn out by the strain of the last few days, but come morning, he is the first to step out of his tent to greet the dawn.

Securing Benihime's sheath against his obi, he pulls his mask up, resolve burning in his bloodshot eyes.

About time we ended this, don't you think?

A shudder passes through her, one he can feel all the way down to the base of his spine. "What are you going to do?"

I'm bringing you out to play.

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.

There is something to be said about the trials of noblewomen when some of them –well, one of them- would gladly choose to be thrown, unarmed, into a pit of Menos rather than face the prep work that comes before a public appearance.

Yoruichi tries to look straight ahead her mother circles around her, vulture-like. Her keen eyes are examining and appraising the work her two handmaidens, Mizuho and Tamako, have completed so far.

Yoruichi's skin still feels raw from the vigorous scrub she was given in the tub earlier on; though the subsequent oil coat had helped, even her white silken underwear, thin as wax-paper, applies more pressure than she's comfortable with on her skin. Her mother exactly doesn't help matters when she starts pawing at her, her hazel eyes combing through every inch of her for stray hairs that may have escaped the thoroughly unpleasant waxing and eyebrow threading.

To top things off, Yoruichi is quite certain she is slowly developing a migraine, after every droplet of water had been wrung from her hair, every knot untied, until it hung down to her lower back like a shimmering sheet of ebony.

It's not that she doesn't appreciate all the hard work that went into giving her the appearance of a plucked chicken –albeit one with shiny hair- she just wishes it wouldn't have been so painful. Or utterly useless, considering she's going to be covered in a mountain of silk soon enough.

Her forearms pass the inspection, and Yoruichi's mother pulls the sleeves of her han-juban back in place, satisfied with the result. Thankfully, she sees no reason in untying the short top, and moves on to her legs, or at least the portions left uncovered by her susoyoke. She examines her bare calves, then very casually tugs at the skirt-like slip.

Yoruichi slams her hands against her thighs just in time to stop the folds from parting. "Mother!" She's not exactly modest about her own body, but her blithe attitude for most matters doesn't usually apply to her parents.

"Oh, don't make a fuss, Yoruichi—"

"If the ancestors are going to be looking that close, then maybe I don't want their blessing," Yoruichi hisses, her hands still firmly plastered down.

Looking at her mother is often like looking into a distorted mirror of herself: they are nearly identical, save for her mother's chestnut brown hair, and the permanently sour expression, much like the one she's currently wearing. "Stop being vulgar. You know perfectly well this is symbolic in nature; a cleanse for the body, followed by a cleanse for the soul."

"Mizuho and Tamako spent an hour scrubbing me down; I'm cleansed! This body is—UGH."

Undeterred, her mother pulls the lapels of the slip apart and continues the examination with the kind of disinterest befitting a physician. Yoruichi decides to simply take a few deep breaths and endure it, not wanting to prolong the ordeal. When her mother is satisfied that her body is entirely free of hair save for three key areas, she moves on to the third one, standing up at full height to observe the long mane Yoruichi consented to regrow as per her request.

Behind her mother, Mizuho looms with a brass little bucket in hand, awaiting instructions.

Please don't wax my hair down, please don't wax my hair down, please—

Her mother gives a casual flick of her wrist, and for the first time in hours, Yoruichi lets out a sigh of relief. The rest of the journey ahead is child's play compared to what she's already been put through.

"Hair and makeup," Yoruichi's mother says curtly, returning to her former seat by the table to finish her lukewarm tea.

Tamako and Mizuho hurry forward to help Yoruichi into a thick robe that will keep her undergarments clean for the rest of the process. The two of them begin to work in tandem, Mizuho's clever fingers pinning the front bangs of Yoruichi's hair back to give Tamako an unencumbered palette to work with.

For the next few minutes, Tamako sweeps the golden-brown oshiroi mixture across Yoruichi's face, neck and shoulders with a thick brush, rubbing the excess off, then reapplying a new layer until her skin glows like dark amber. Mizuho secures her hair into a low knot with countless little pins, while Tamako begins to redraw and enhance her muted facial features: a thick coat of charcoal for the brows and a deep red safflower mix on her lips. Mizuho puts the finishing touches on her work by plunging a golden decorative comb into the knot, and one bira hair fork on either side; the little dangling sheets of gold chime pleasantly when Yoruichi moves her head even a fraction.

By now familiar with her mother's process, Mizuho and Tamako hang back to let her appraise the result. She gives very few instructions which are immediately carried out, and before she knows it, Yoruichi is being helped up to her feet to be dressed.

The handmaidens remove the robe, then begin to pile and carefully fit every layer one by one. First, the thin underdress, a dark-gold naga-juban that is secured in place with a thin undershash as slim as a cord. The pale gold kosode follows, a kimono far more comfortable than anything she'd ever worn in the past. Unlike a furisode, the sleeves stop at a regular length, and the accompanying obi is meant to be tied down to a far simpler knot. The process still includes punishing ribcages for the inexcusable crime of merely existing, but at the very least, she won't have to be weighed down by a complicated knot on her back. The obi is simply secured in place at the front, then falls down like a golden waterfall before her feet.

The last item on the list is also deemed to be the most important. Tamako and Mizuho carry the heavy overcoat forward with a reverence normally reserved for kings and emperors, and even Yoruichi feels a tremor pass through her at the sight of it. The gold uchikake has been passed down her family for centuries. A masterpiece of delicate brocade that still holds together, it stands as a testament to both superior craftsmanship and her clan's spellwork. She has no doubt the fabric has been imbued with a dozen protective spells, yet Mizuho and Tamako still employ only the lightest of touches at they handle the garment.

Adorned with dark gold maple leaves matching her obi, it is a work of art, and as it flows heavily down her back, Yoruichi can feel the burden of history resting upon her narrow shoulders.

A soft sound from the vicinity draws her attention, the kind of gentle sigh Yoruichi doesn't usually associate with her mother. She supposes the situation calls for it, but as she stares at her reflection at the full-length mirror Mizuho and Tamako have brought out from her room, Yoruichi begins to feel her back break out in sweat.

Her lungs struggle under the strain of the tight obi as she tries to take a steadying breath, and the sudden, persistent urge to yank off the uchikake and burn it to a fine crisp takes hold of her. Her outward mask –a project two hundred years in the making- never once shatters, betraying none of her inner turmoil, and she mechanically goes through the motions as the two handmaidens help her up into her platform zori.

Stomach churning, a wave of nausea seizes her body as the gravity of the moment crashes down upon her. For years and years, the notion of becoming the head of her family had always been but a concept, too far away and too intangible to fully grasp, but it is truly happening.

Today.

Right now.

Hundreds, thousands of separate paths, from well-trodden lanes to tiny little ribbons of dirt, all begin to converge into one, narrow road, and she can feel the walls closing in on her, the air growing heavier under the weight of every choice not taken, every path not traversed—

"May I have a moment?"

The words come out with more urgency than she means to convey, and they startle both the handmaidens and her mother to a sudden halt. The chip in the mask doesn't go unnoticed by her mother, whose hawk-like gaze descends upon her, half in concern, half in wariness.

Yoruichi forces her face back into the calm, sober expression befitting her station, and she gives her mother a reassuring smile. "I will be careful not to mess up my hair and clothes. I just need a moment," she says, jaw locked tight. "If we're done, that is. I will call for you when I am ready."

Tamako and Mizuho look to her mother in unison, and the ever-poised Lady Shihōin Hana regards her daughter in silence for a full minute. Something passes between them at that moment, perhaps some hitherto unrevealed understanding, and her mother gives a nearly imperceptible nod her handmaidens have no trouble discerning.

The second the door shuts behind them, Yoruichi lets out a gasp, hand grasping at her chest. She has half a mind to tear out that damn obi, but instead, she grabs hold of the mirror frame to steady herself and takes slow, shallow breaths until she no longer feels like she's drowning on dry land.

Panting softly, she opens her eyes to the sight of her mirror image, a complete stranger bearing a sole, single resemblance to her: the fear and resignation echoed in each other's eyes.

Her lip curls in distaste at the sight and she begins to right herself before the mirror, something vaguely resembling resolution solidifying within her. If there is one thing she can be proud of, it is the fact that she has never run away from a fight, even at the bleakest, darkest hour, when all seemed hopeless.

"I think… So far you've managed to do things on your own terms, even when you didn't entirely agree with what was expected of you."

Oh not now, don't think about him now!

It figures, that she would manage to go an entire week –all right maybe three days - without thinking about Urahara bleedin' Kisuke, only to fall back to square one at the worst possible moment. Four whole weeks of dodging Kūkaku's progressively more intrusive questions, burying herself in her work, and she was going to fall apart now?

There is simply no escaping the idiot, it seems, not when he's nestled so deeply under her skin, not when it's his words of encouragement that come to her, unbidden, when she needs them the most.

Sighing, Yoruichi drags her fingers down along her the mirror's surface. Whether she wants to admit it or not, merely summoning his memory has driven the shadows back, reignited the flickering flame of hope somewhere deep within her.

"You know who you are. You've known long before anyone ever told you who they thought you were. And in my experience, you never really listened to them, anyway. You're the freest, most fearless person I have ever known."

It's been nearly thirty years since he's said those words, and thought the recollection is more than enough to inject some fight back into her, mostly, she just wishes he were there to speak them out loud.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Yoruichi shuts her eyes and pulls herself up straight. Perhaps it is fitting that today is also the official celebration of her Coming of Age. What better day than today, to push childish fears away once and for all? However long it takes, she can start by taking the first step forward right this moment.

Don't be afraid.

Kisuke's words resonate within her, crystallizing into a talisman she resolves to carry over her heart as she is led down to the estate's courtyard by her father.

The entire clan awaits her there, from her youngest cousins to her grandparents, and she stands in stark contrast to them all, a golden beacon in a sea of soft, muted purple. Two servants clad in blindingly white haori that bear the Shihōin crest on the back approach and flank her, each bearing a parasol they hold high above her head.

The procession, headed by her father and his three brothers, leads the clan down the path toward the family shrine. The journey is familiar, one she has made herself countless times since childhood; of the four ancient maples gracing her clan's ancestral home, the one by the shrine grounds is the oldest and grandest, sitting at the top of a hill that overlooks the entirety of the Seireitei. The one part of the trip she has always hated is the walk up the long, stone stairway that is carved along the slope of the hill.

But right now, as she stands before the first step, she finally appreciates the reason for its existence: this is the part of the journey she is meant to undertake on her own.

The two parasol-bearers stand aside, and Yoruichi's gaze settles on the top of the hill. The eyes of the entire clan rest upon her, but she can only look forward as she takes a deep breath, tucks her hands beneath the obi to lift her kosode, and begins to ascend the staircase alone.

One hundred and eight steps. She takes them one at the time, willing her breath to remain even as she puts one foot after the other, her platform zori wobbling gently on every well-trodden step.

"You're concerned you might trip?"

The soft snort escapes her before she can stop it, and she hopes her family is well out of earshot by now. Not on your life, you jerk. Lips clamped tight, Yoruichi quickens her pace, her footing growing steadier the higher up she ascends.

When she reaches the top of the hill, she wants nothing more than to drop to her knees in relief and enjoy the breeze cooling her sweat-slicked back, but she collects herself quickly, allowing only a smile and a sigh to escape her lips before she presses forward.

Beneath the shade of the grand maple tree, whose lowest-hanging branches graze the amethyst gabled roof, sits the eternal resting place of her ancestors. The entrance is sealed by a pair of tall, wooden doors, the ancient hinges whining in protest as Yoruichi pushes them open.

Removing her sandals by the entrance, Yoruichi steps into the dim antechamber. The path forward is lined by low-rising benches bearing hundreds of lit candles, leading into the oratory, which is separated from the antechamber by a pair of sliding panel doors. There she is meant to pay her respects and reflect upon the past, the future and her new role as the head of the clan.

Inside the oratory, a large, opulent red pillow sits at the foot of the altar. The tabletop is crowded with more candles and fresh offerings placed there by her clan earlier this morning. Rows upon rows of glossy black memorial tablets loom upon the wall behind the altar, bearing the crimson-engraved kaimyō of her ancestors.

Kneeling carefully upon the pillow, Yoruichi picks up the bell from the altar and gives it a single ring. The gentle, trilling sound fills the silent oratory. A stick of incense next, which she lights off a candle and plunges it into the silver censer where it begins to burn. The cloying, pungent scent fills her nostrils as she reaches for the prayer beads, the last step in the brief ritual. Looping the string around her joined hands, she places the rosary between thumb and forefinger and closes her eyes, head inclined in prayer.

It occurs to her then that for all the exhaustive rehearsals over the past week, going over every single step of the process with her parents, she has no idea how long she's meant to spent in the shrine. Her family is meeting her at the entrance afterwards to lead her back down the stairway, where she will be presented with the ceremonial dagger of the clan. That much she does know, but she was never told how much time she's supposed to spend paying her respects.

More importantly, she hasn't the faintest what said respects are even supposed to resemble.

When it comes to her family tree, she can name every single leaf, from the earliest founder, back when the clan wasn't even called Shihōin, down to the children from every extended branch, but aside from the knowledge of their names, she knows nothing about who her ancestors were. Beyond praising their numerous past deeds, she has no idea what sort of mental conversation she's supposed to have with the dead.

The soft rustle of sliding panels being pried open is the sound of salvation; part of her feels guilty for having spent so little time in prayer, but she's done enough introspection these past few days to last her ten lifetimes. Eyes still shut, she waits for the sound of approaching footsteps to, but none ever come.

A knot forms between her brows, and it is only then that she realizes the sound came from her right. Opening her eyes, Yoruichi glances toward the direction of the breeze she can feel on her cheek and finds that it's actually the window to her right has been opened.

Perhaps it is the effect of the incense in closed quarters, or perhaps it is the sight of the Onmitsukidō soldier waving at her from outside, but Yoruichi is suddenly grateful that she is kneeling down. Even so, she still wavers on the spot before she looks around her in alarm, then makes a futile attempt to rise on her feet. All the while, she glares at the black-clad intruder, whose eyes she would've had no trouble picking out of a crowd of thousands.

Pulling his mask down, Kisuke presents her with the broad grin she already knew he'd been wearing, then straddles the windowsill and slips into the shrine.

If she is being entirely honest, her immediate reaction is a fleeting moment of glee. Her traitorous heart swells at the sight of him, but a legendary streak of stubbornness is, among other things, her birthright. That momentary joy is crushed beneath the bulk of every morsel of bitterness she has held on to for the past four weeks, and she screws her face up into a deep scowl.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

A little too late, she realizes that this is the wrong question to be asking. More pertinent is the matter of how the hell is he even there, when he's supposed to be miles away, knee-deep into the political intricacies of the Tanaka situation.

Kisuke appears to be a little short on breath as he stands tall in the middle of the room, his ever-curious eyes taking in the surroundings. He pulls his head covering away to run a hand through his hair, and the candlelight bounces off the thin sheen of sweat on his face. "I thought you might appreciate a status report," he says, then glances down at her. "Your remaining loose ends in the Intelligence Division are now officially tied up, so to speak."

Once again, she is grateful for her current position, as her heart drops down into the pit of her stomach in free-fall. "Oh gods, you started a civil war, didn't you?"

"Of course not!" Kisuke says, stuffing his head covering into his obi and ruffling his hair. "I am happy to report that the insurgents of the Tanaka clan have been identified and are already in custody; not a whiff of a diplomatic episode to be found."

They both know he's not here for a report, and it is not the lie that gets to her, but rather his self-satisfied expression. He can tell that she's impressed both with the swift end to the mission and the fact that he somehow managed to sneak into the Shihōin complex on a day when security is at its tight—

The tunnel. That's how he did it. The tunnel he dug back when they were children, linking the estate grounds to the cave beneath the Sōkyoku Hill. The tunnel he had sworn would be sealed the moment they entered the Academy and would no longer have any need for.

"YOU ASS—" The cry dies on her lips as she clamps them down shut, suddenly all too aware of her surroundings. At this point, she honestly wouldn't be surprised if the entire body of her deceased ancestors rose from the grave in unison, informing her family that she was uniquely unfit for the honor about to be bestowed upon her.

Fueled by her spiking rage, she pushes herself up to her feet and grabs hold of Kisuke's top, dragging him out into the antechamber. He gives a faint whimper in protest as he stumbles behind her, then loses his footing entirely when she shoves him down onto the floor.

He immediately rolls to a sitting position on the wooden panels, shrinking under her stare as she looms above him, arms folded before her chest.

"You said you were going to seal that tunnel!"

"Right. Yes. About that—"

"More importantly, what are you doing here?"

Hand rubbing his sore side, he hesitates before speaking, shoulders jerking into a gentle shrug. "I promised I'd be here… didn't I? I thought… you wanted—"

"That was before—" She purses her lips. –everything.

His eyes search for hers beseechingly, but she looks away at once, refusing to give him an inch. The silence stretches on between them, pregnant with every truth left unspoken, every issue left unresolved. He is the one who breaks it first, and she hates that the defeat in his voice holds the power to make her heart contract painfully. "Well, I… I suppose I'd better leave you be, then."

Her eyes remain resolutely focused on the floor as he gets up. He makes a move to head back to the oratory but seems to think better of it, then walks over to open the side window in the antechamber.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him linger there, hand against the window frame. "You look…"

Arms still wound tight, she glances in his direction, stone-faced.

She expects a shallow compliment, a last-ditch attempt to soften her up, but he offers none. Instead, he smiles at her, and says, "…ready. Your clan made the right choice, Yoruichi-san."

And at that moment she wants to lunge at him, claw his eyes out and punch the living daylights out of him, because this isn't what's supposed to happen. She is not supposed to be able to calm herself by bringing up his image, his words. He is not supposed to return so soon, in this fashion, when she has been trying her hardest move past this, to learn how to set aside any feeling for him that isn't strictly platonic.

He is not supposed to leave.

Not like this. Not again.

"Running away again?"

Kisuke's fingers flex involuntarily against the frame, but he otherwise remains still, his back turned to her. He seems to be hovering on the precipice of a decision, his shoulders stiff with tension, his body already half-way out the window. After what feels like an eternity, he looks at her over his shoulder, then turns fully, taking a seat on the windowsill. "I guess that's… fair."

Truer words…

When it becomes clear that she won't be making this any easier for him, he speaks again. "I only…" He sighs. "The path you walk is hard enough without any added… complications. I didn't want to be an obstacle to this, to your future."

It is a tired old argument, an easy excuse, but one she cannot entirely fault him for. His constant presence in her life has been the cause for many a raised eyebrow, long before such a thing was even warranted. Her family has sought to put an end to their friendship in the past, and in that endeavor they once very nearly succeeded.

His fear is not an irrational one. And neither is hers. Ever since she had come to realize how she felt about him, the one thing that held her back from acting, other than fear on no reciprocation, were the consequences of what being found out would mean for him. Her future wasn't the only one at stake here; her clan had the power to end his at a moment's notice.

"You've worked too hard for too long to risk it all for…" Kisuke goes on, hands gesturing vaguely at himself. He lets his words trail off and for a second he breaks eye-contact, as though steeling himself to say something unpleasant. When he meets her gaze again, a sad smile strains his lips. "Some people are simply not worth the risk."

"Don't you think that's up to me to decide?"

"Of course, but—"

"But… what?" she says, her impatience with his self-loathing spiel reaching a critical point. "Whatever happened to having everything?"

"Everything you deserve," Kisuke says, his eyes filling in the words he left unspoken.

Yoruichi doesn't know exactly who, or when, but what she does know is that someone made him feel inadequate, once. And he's never stopped believing it since. She has no doubt whatsoever her family had an added hand in reinforcing that ridiculous fallacy. From then on, he built his entire life, his entire self around the conviction that he was broken, somehow, unworthy, putting up walls to keep people from seeing the truth.

He's even done it to her more times than she can count.

Shaking her head, she begins to close the distance between them. "You are still so ridiculously afraid I will one day see something that will scare me away."

He offers no defense for this, looking at her as though her suggestion is not only a possibility, but a certainty.

"And it pisses me off, because I deserve better than this," she says, coming to a stop before him. "After one hundred and forty years, I deserve to be trusted enough to not get spooked and run the other way."

This time, he does protest, his eyes blown wide and suddenly fearful. "I do trust you; please don't ever say—"

She cuts him off by slamming her hand against his mouth, lowering herself until their eyes are level. "I'm not done."

He visibly recoils when she looms over him, his back flat against the frame, and when she shuts his mouth, his eyes follow the movement then flit back up to her. He makes no move to remove her hand, or anything other than stare at her in shock.

"I know exactly who you are," Yoruichi says. "I've known since we were children. And all those parts you're too afraid to show are not something I tolerate because I like the rest of you. Get that through your head, already."

Kisuke's face remains frozen in shock, but only for a moment longer, because at the sound of her words, everything about him becomes softer. The fear in his eyes, the rigid muscles beneath her palm, his tense shoulders, it all visibly loosens, and he is left wearing an expression appropriate to someone who doesn't know whether to trust his own two eyes.

"As for what I deserve…" she says, her hand releasing his mouth with a touch of wariness. He doesn't interrupt her, he hardly even moves, not until she leans in closer and trails her fingers down to the front of his top and grabs a fistful. "You let me be the judge of that. Understood?"

Though he nods in response, the sudden proximity sends his eyebrows chasing the rim of his fringe, and Yoruichi's resolve momentarily wavers. It is difficult to remember now, as his chest rises and falls rapidly and his eyes burn with naked longing, when it all began.

And as she stands there, pinioned on the spot by the sheer weight of what moving forward would mean, of what shattering their carefully honed balance act might cause, she finally understands.

There was never a moment, a single point in time when her world had suddenly shifted, her feelings gelling into something new. What she felt for him had always been there. It had never changed, but had simply grown, expanding to fill voids of her that hadn't existed in childhood, taking over her until every single particle of her being loved him.

His sharp intake of breath when they're millimeters apart elicits a jolt she can feel all the way down to her abdomen, and as she closes the distance, it occurs to her that she entirely new to this. It's only a kiss, the latest in a line of many, but she doesn't know how to kiss someone and mean it. She's never had the opportunity to learn how. Her lips press up against his cautiously, and she knows that she's overthinking this, she's expecting too much, she's afraid of too much, her stomach tied up in knots over something that should be simple, and gods, why is it not, why can't it just—?

She can feel him relax before she hears it, the soft moan that resonates in his throat. By all rights, he shouldn't be enjoying this, the clumsy fit of their lips together, but he inexplicably is, and that gentle, delectable sound effectively cuts through the noise in her head and reminds her to breathe.

And when she does, when allows herself to stop thinking and simply be, the learning curve becomes all too easy. She tilts her head to the side, her tongue gently coaxing his lips open, and it only takes the lightest sweep for him to readily slant his mouth against hers. Her tongue brushes against his just as she feels the tentative touch of fingertips against her cheek.

Oh…

Breath hitching in her throat, her knees grow weak, and Yoruichi feels the sudden need to pause, to process this, even as every part of her begs for more. She pulls back, only realizing she'd closed her eyes when she slips them open once, her fist loosening its hold on Kisuke's top. And when his eyes lock upon hers, his grey irises nearly swallowed by black, everything seems to slow down to a stop.

…so that's what it's supposed to feel like.

Hovering in uncertainty, her hand settles cautiously on his chest, her eyes never leaving his. There is clear desire there, the kind of heavy gaze she is all too familiar with, but she knows for a fact that she has never been looked at this way before, like she were the lifeline to a drowning man.

Yoruichi doesn't know what to expect next; this is uncharted territory. A dash of bashfulness perhaps, a call-back to his earlier shock when she'd taken the first step forward, or maybe a smile, or a soft touch. Anything but what actually happens.

His stare, grey and cool like iron, betrays his next move a fraction of a moment before it happens, but even her honed reflexes aren't up to the task when he loops his arm around her waist and swivels her around. For a moment she is weightless, her vision swimming, the world only returning to focus when her back bumps against the wall behind her. And suddenly he is there in every sense of the word, so very tall, and her hands scramble against the front of his top for purchase, the tips of her toes skimming the floor even as he holds her up. His palm is big and warm on her face, and there is a fleeting moment of tenderness when his thumb brushes against her cheek, before he is kissing her in earnest, full of want and purpose.

She spends all of half a second considering the inappropriateness of the venue for such a kiss, before her mind goes blissfully blank. She forgets all about the shrine and the ceremony. She comes dangerously close to forgetting her own name until he reminds her, when his lips part from hers long enough to draw a calming breath.

"Yoruichi…"

The way he speaks the word almost sounds like a prayer, fittingly enough.

He doesn't make it easy on her to stay sensible: as his fingers slip up to her nape, tracing its shape, and his lips caress hers leisurely, he tests the limits of her ability to focus. Ignoring the parts of her that come alive and demanding in his embrace is a grueling battle, but it's becoming harder and harder to breathe for reasons entirely unrelated to the ministrations of his tongue. That damn obi.

Kisuke seems to sense her discomfort. Though he doesn't let go, his hold on her slackens and her feet finally touch the floor. He steals one last peck before pulling away, his fingers still threaded in her hair. Her own palms relax upon his heaving chest, tracing the ridge of his collarbone over his uniform. She has every intention of gently pushing him away, but when she opens her eyes and comes face-to-face with his expression, she wishes he would go back to holding her flush against him, support her bucking knees.

Forehead all but pressed against hers, he is still tantalizingly close. He swallows hard, the fire in his eyes far from quenched, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse and low enough to set off a pulse between her thighs. "Should I not have…?"

Swallowing hard, Yoruichi bunches the rough fabric of his top between her fingers. Her hands itch to travel to places they shouldn't, traverse planes and trace curves she has only explored in her imagination. "No, no, it's just…" she whispers, trying to put into words what she only half-heartedly thinks. "This isn't really the place… or the time…"

Her words might've held more power if she weren't gently, but insistently pulling him forward again. Kisuke's lips curl into a lopsided smirk as he leans in, that self-satisfied, infuriating and completely beguiling expression that she's all-too-often wished she could wipe off his face.

This time, she succeeds.

When her fingers rake through his hair and grab hold, he stops smirking into her mouth and lifts her up until she's on tiptoes again, with little regard for her meticulously styled hair and carefully fitted kimono. She, too, is beyond caring, wishing only that the tightly wound obi weren't stifling her ribcage every time her chest swells in a deeply drawn breath.

It's not long before she finds herself pressed up against the wall again, and when he slips his thigh between her legs, all she can think of, inexplicably, is a conversation that took place decades ago.

"It does throw me a little, when the first time I saw you at your debut in court you couldn't stop shaking in your shoes. Makes me wonder whatever happened to that meek little boy."

"He met you."

Liar, she wants to say, as a moan ekes out of her and reverberates in their joined mouths. Liar, liar, liar. All I did was draw out what has always been there. She's not certain which notion she finds more thrilling, but it matters little right now, just as long as he never stops kissing her like—

His entire body grows rigid under her touch in time with hers, and neither of them has trouble pulling away this time. They turn toward the entrance in unison, and she doesn't have to look at him to know they're wearing identical expressions of horror. The ceremony is over; her parents –whose spiritual signatures are rapidly approaching- are coming to escort her out and over to the Onmitsukidō compound.

Reality comes crashing back and it sobers her up instantly, even though her body is still in recovery and adamantly protesting at the sudden change of pace. Kisuke only has time to curse under his breath before she's all but shoving him out the window. There is little time to feel remorse when she pushes him hard enough to trip and he topples onto the grass outside with a clumsy flop. She's about to close the window shut, when he regains his balance and leans against the frame.

"I'll just—"

She spares him a second's glance in between shifting back and forth to keep an eye on the door, and she can tell he's going to make a run for it. Logic dictates that he very much should, and yet… Pursing her lips, she lowers her voice to a whisper. "You'll be there." He'd promised her, hadn't he? That he wouldn't miss it? "And after the ceremony…" she trails off, biting down on her lower lip. "Meet me up in my room."

Kisuke nearly loses his balance again when his elbows buckle. "Your…" His wide-eyed stare is an odd mix of longing and terror.

"You found a way to sneak in here, you'll find a way up to my room."

The determined authority in her voice seems to quell his fears, and his brow relaxes again, lips curving up into a warm smile. "Yes, Yoruichi-san."

As much as she'd like to respond to his smile properly, she can sense her parents are nearing. Gaze flitting from him to the door and back again, she turns around to close the window, but Kisuke is still there, and the fool reaches for her once, pulling her into a quick peck she can't even find the heart to chastise him for.

She can only look away from his brilliant smile as she shuts the window on his face, certain that her cheeks must be ablaze. Honestly… They just about dry humped against the wall, but it's a chaste kiss that has her blushing like a teenager.

Shaking her head, Yoruichi rushes back into the oratory to shut the window Kisuke originally came in, her heart pounding. Kneeling down onto the pillow before the altar, she grabs the silver censer and brings it up before her, checking her reflection frantically.

Her hair –thank the heavens- is not in as sorry a state as she thought it would be. Her fingers work quickly as she tucks stray locks back in place, and does the same for her ruffled clothes. She knows she must make for a ridiculous sight right now, and her eyes subconsciously shift over to the memorial tablets on the wall. Don't judge me; you haven't met my mother.

The two spiritual signatures grow dangerously close, and Yoruichi quickly checks her reflection against the censer once more. The result is far from perfect, but it'll have to do. Placing the censer back on the altar, she grabs the rosary and assumes the position of prayer once more.

When she senses her parents come to a stop at the entrance, she collects herself, summoning every morsel of poise hidden deep within her; she knows they're watching. She places the prayer beads back on the altar and rises to her feet, making her way toward the exit.

Her father welcomes her back with a beaming smile on his face, an expression she's surprised to see is almost mirrored on her mother's features. In a rare display of affection, he cradles her face in his palms gingerly, his sharp, onyx eyes full of pride.

"Still a little flushed?" he says. "I don't blame you; it was quite the ascent."

She hopes he cannot read the glimmer of dread in her eyes at his chosen words, as she tries not to think about any other kind of ascent that may have taken place just a few moments ago, her ears burning. At any rate, he seems to dismiss her renewed blush as the result of this tender, familial moment.

From behind his shoulder, however, she can see her mother's brows coming together as her eyes center in on her lips, oddly enough. She's fairly certain her mother cannot read minds, but Yoruichi sees no other possible reason why she would be focusing her gaze there.

Oblivious to this, her father rests his hands against her shoulders. "Are you ready, my dear?"

"Ready, father."

Though her mother says nothing, her gaze begins to sweep past their surroundings shrewdly as the three of them descend the stairway. To her surprise, Yoruichi finds that she cannot bring herself to care about her mother's unfathomable ways right now. Her heart is still too full, her mind too preoccupied with the mental image of the utterly smitten expression on Kisuke's face, all flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes and red-stained lips—

Uh-oh.

With a shaking hand, Yoruichi brings her hand discreetly up to her face under the pretext of pushing a lock of hair away, and quickly brushes a finger against her –hopefully still painted- lips.

It comes back completely free of color.

.

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Kisuke supposes there are worse places to be stuck other than the top of a closet. Especially one as meticulously clean as Yoruichi's. It is one of the perks of living in the Shihōin estate that he sorely misses: everything is always spotless, even the smallest nooks and crannies.

He briefly considered hiding under the bed, but he cannot discard the possibility, no matter how remote, that a stray kick might betray his position at any given moment. Which, aside from making the impending situation awfully awkward, would also be a highly unsatisfying end after all the effort it took to break into Yoruichi's room.

It's not the first time he's ever done this, but it's the first time he's had to do it when the castle is on high alert. Blending in with the Onmitsukidō guards returning to the castle was an easy enough feat, but keeping an illusion spell going, even under cover of darkness, while careful not to leave traces of his spiritual signature behind was a little trickier. About fifteen minutes' worth of sneaking around, trickier.

If Yoruichi asks, he'll tell her he did it in nine.

His chest swells at the mere thought of her, at the idea that by now, her retinue must've reached the estate, that he will be seeing her soon.

Heart racing, the image of her floats into his mind, eyes heavy, lips swollen, inviting him up to her room, asking him to— He cannot even complete the thought without his throat going dry, still convinced that any minute now, he is going to be wake up in his futon back in the Fifth District, short of breath and broken hearted that the last time he ever saw her was that horrible morning four weeks ago. That it was all nothing but a dream.

It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

He's been dreaming about this, about her for so long, that it's hard to believe his mind hasn't finally given in to complete delusion. From boyish daydreams of holding her hand to later fantasies of kissing her, touching her, she has always occupied his thoughts and his dreams, injecting them with color and a deep yearning that was at times almost unbearable.

It seems ridiculous now, that his greatest fear used to be confessing his long-harbored feelings only to have her turn him down. As of this moment, all he can think about is what happens if this falls apart, whether a year or an hour from now? Worse yet, what happens if it doesn't? What happens when her clan begins to put pressure on her to fulfill all of their expectations, all of—

His train of thought is brought to a halt when he senses her spiritual signature in the distance. It is almost comical, how quickly his worries drain away, only to be replaced with an eager anticipation the intensity of which he has never felt before. Willing himself to calm down, he takes his time casting the illusion spell, making certain he is completely untraceable.

He hears the doors open in the living room, his ears now peeled for any incoming sound. There is some muffled conversation, an edge of impatience in both Yoruichi's voice and her spiritual pressure, and then the collective mass of distinct signatures moves toward the bedroom.

The first person to enter is Sakumo, one of Yoruichi's personal guards since childhood, and he wastes no time before marching about the room with purpose, very obviously checking for intruders.

Shit. Are they on to us? He had known the possibility was a very real one, and he had made certain to take precautions against it, but he hadn't honestly thought it would come to it.

Sakumo is followed by Yoruichi, Lady Shihōin and her two handmaidens. Yoruichi looks almost bored with the proceedings, and lays down her ceremonial dagger atop the cabinet by the door as soon as she enters.

"Are you done?" she drawls at Sakumo. "Or should we check under the bed for boogeymen?" She directs that second question at her mother, arching an eyebrow.

Lady Shihōin maintains eye-contact with her daughter, before she says, "Sakumo, check under the bed."

Yoruichi lets out a sigh. "You do see how ridiculous this is, I hope?" she says. "I appreciate the concern mother, truly, but the estate, the whole complex is impenetrable tonight. There are guards stationed on every corner; I am perfectly safe."

Though the look on Lady Shihōin's face plainly states that she is not convinced, she calls Sakumo down. "Well, this was an important day for our clan," she says. "If there was ever a time when we were most vulnerable to an attack, it was today. You cannot fault me, I hope, for wanting to make absolutely certain this place is, indeed, impenetrable?"

Kisuke considers it a massive victory for his self-restraint that he does not blow his cover at that very moment.

He cannot make out Yoruichi's expression from this angle, but it takes her a few seconds to respond. "No, mother. Of course not. Your tireless vigilance is, as ever, most appreciated."

Sakumo and Lady Shihōin bid Yoruichi goodnight and leave soon after, but the two handmaidens linger behind as Yoruichi checks her reflection on the full-length mirror between the cabinet and the large bed.

When they move to help her out of her clothes, she waves them away gently. "No, no, thank you. I will undress on my own. You may be excused," she says.

The handmaidens make their exit as well, but it's not until he hears the thump of the heavy double doors that Kisuke feels it safe to release the illusion. Having seemingly expected it, Yoruichi looks up in his direction at the hiss of the spell dissipating.

Kisuke crawls forward until he can peek down at her from the edge of the closet. "Ever considered enlisting your mother for the Interrogation Squad?" he says, tugging at the neck of his black undershirt to pull the mask below his chin.

Yoruichi lets out a chuckle and takes a step back, giving him room to descend.

The wait between leaving her at the shrine and seeing her again was nothing sort of torture. And yet as soon as he climbs down, now only a few feet away from her, he finds that he is at a loss of what to do next. A bit of time and distance have served to cool his head –somewhat, he can still taste her on his lips and it's all he can do to hold himself back- and he knows that this situation is going to require more careful handling. If they were dangerously close to being discovered earlier on, it's nothing compared to how much easier it is to be found out here, straight in the lion's den.

She seems to sense this as well, her smile and disposition decidedly more bashful than it was a few hours ago.

They hover a little awkwardly, and as he takes her in, a vision in her resplendent outfit, the only thing he can think of to break the ice is to take a small step back and give a bow. "My most heartfelt congratulations to Shihōin-dono, Defender of the Realm, Goddess of Flash, Empress of Felines and Champion Record-Breaker, the first of her line to kick the competition to the curb a mere two months after reaching adulthood."

It has the desired effect: Yoruichi laughs, and a surge of pride washes over her face, rendering it nothing short of radiant. It is an expression he immediately resolves to commit to memory, bring out whenever things feel at their grimmest. "You were there?" she says.

"Of course I was."

The warmth in her eyes is all the incitement he needs to start closing the distance. Tentatively, he holds out his palm and she fills the aching emptiness of his hand with hers. His thumb traces the outline of her knuckles and he reaches out for her other hand, wondering if it's possible for his chest to contain the sheer joy of being bestowed with her smile, with a gaze that holds the power to make him feel whole and good and worthy.

Inclining his head, he dips down to meet her in a kiss that is barely more than a feather-light touch. And though he strives to keep the brush of their lips chaste, his fingers betray his true feelings as they clench against hers, eager to explore.

Yoruichi pulls away first, her eyes downcast even as a playful smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I need… help," she says as she wordlessly motions to her clothes, then her eyes flit up to him, the invitation clear and absolute.

A shaky breath escapes him as he nods and grins back. "I live to serve my Lady. But first…" He slips his hands away, holding up one finger.

Yoruichi arches an eyebrow at that, but she says nothing as he approaches the doorway and bends down on one knee. Kisuke presses his hands against the threshhold, and a wave of orange energy spills out of his fingers, crawling up the walls until it encompasses the entire room. There is a bright, silent flash, then the barrier disappears from sight. Its continued presence is only evident by a very faint hum that's only audible in close proximity to the walls.

"A barrier?"

Kisuke returns to full height and turns to her. "Yes. Not a very powerful one, but it serves its purpose," he says. In a silent demonstration, he finally allows his spiritual pressure to flow out freely, knowing that it will be undetectable by anyone outside her room. He has half a mind to tell her it's not designed to block out sound, only his presence, but he thinks that might make for an overly cheeky statement. He'll let her know… eventually.

The short break, for all its necessity, has disrupted their established rhythm, but Kisuke finds himself growing bolder under the tacit approval in her eyes when he approaches her, by the way she responds to his kiss, the way she bows against him.

He pulls away long enough to drink in the sight of her once more, certain he will never tire of it. "You're so…"

Yoruichi responds to this with a light, airy scoff. "You don't need to compliment me, you know," she says, but a soft, rosy glow settles on her cheeks all the same. "Flattery won't get you anything you're not already getting."

He chuckles at that, dragging one knuckle along the underside of her jaw and tilting her chin up gently with his crooked finger. "It's not flattery." He means to say more, but he loses his train of thought when his eye catches his own reflection on the full-length mirror in the back. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, he slowly shifts her around until she's facing the mirror. "See for yourself," he whispers into her ear as he steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

The next time their eyes meet it's through the mirror. If she's taken aback by his initiative, he's even more surprised with the person reflected behind her, the brazen man who leans down, laying a soft kiss on her neck and nuzzling the soft hair on her nape with the ease of someone who has done it a hundred times before.

For the first time tonight, he is grateful for the many layers of clothing that separate them. Reality has forced him to slow down, and in doing so, in taking the time to explore, to breathe in the familiar, intoxicating jasmine scent of her hair, he is reminded of who she is, of who they are, of how unexpectedly natural the shift in their relationship feels, like the joyous end of a long journey.

And the beginning of a new one.

His fingers dig into the curve of her waist, fisting the opulent brocade between them as Yoruichi leans back against him, chest heaving and eyes heavily lidded. Her pulse flutters beneath his lips when he reaches up to relieve her of the heavy gold uchikake that rests on her shoulders. The voluminous garment lands beside them with a dull thud, and in its absence, he can finally feel the outline of her body against his when he pulls her back into his embrace.

Yoruichi guides his hands to the front, over to the knot that lies beneath the waterfall of silk. One of the most innocuous acts they have engaged in today, and yet the simple notion of undoing a meticulously tied obi is enough to make his knees grow weak.

His mind is assaulted with memories from their adolescence, from the days when he would sit by his window, eager to catch a glimpse of her in formal dress on the way to a function, or at the end of year celebrations in the Shihōin manor. He is reminded of the sharp ache that would always tug at him at the sight of her, ethereal and elegant, of the way the mere peek of her neck or wrists beneath the swathes of silk would send his heart racing. He has seen far more of her over the years than would be considered appropriate, is as intimately familiar with her body as their previous relationship would allow, but this… this is different in a way he cannot fully articulate.

It is the difference between being allowed and being invited to observe, and it is this silent, frank permission that fills him with confidence more than anything else has today. He begins to work the knot, and as she leans her head back, the muscles of her neck cording with every heavy gasp, he wonders if she can sense it, the stirring of his arousal against her lower back.

Her chest expands in a sharply drawn breath the moment the obi loosens around her. A momentary wave of complete and utter relief washes over her, and when she reaches up for him, her golden eyes come ablaze with intent. The scorching, open-mouthed kiss she pulls him into momentarily shuts down all higher mental functions, sapping him of any grace whatsoever.

Kisuke fumbles blindly with the length of silk until it unfurls completely, dropping to the floor in a soft whisper, then tugs at the lapels of her kosode. Their limbs become entangled when they try to pull off the impossible, him pulling at her clothes while she maintains a firm hold on his hair, neither of them eager to break the kiss. With a frustrated huff, Yoruichi eventually lets go. Her kosode joins the rest of her finery on the floor, and she swivels around to face him and draw him down for another taste of his lips.

The battle to be a gentleman and take things slow is lost at that precise moment, but in all honesty, he's not entirely certain that side of his ever stood a sporting chance to begin with. What little constraint he's ever had was no more than an artificial construct, and he's all too happy to watch it crumble before his eyes with every layer and inhibition shed.

His hands seek out the arch of her waist with every intention of moving lower, but his efforts are cut short when Yoruichi parts the lapels of his top. The kiss is broken, their haggard breaths in sync as he shrugs it off, then Yoruichi's fingers dip below his waistline to untuck the hem of his undershirt. Growing more impatient by the second, Kisuke reaches around his back and pulls it over his head. By the time it hits the floor, he is already cupping her face in his hands, her lips welcoming his back with fervor.

Somewhere in the thick haze that has completely clouded his mind, he realizes that there is yet another barrier that separates them. As her hands claw at his back, he reaches down, undoing the cord that holds her dark gold robe shut. When he feels it fall open, his hand moves out of its own volition, eager to experience the soft warmth of her bare flesh, only to come up against… more cloth.

His eyes snap open in disbelief, and though he tries, he cannot contain the exasperated grunt he breathes into her mouth. Yoruichi's roaming hands come to a halt, as do his movements, and she pulls away from the kiss. For one long, terrifying moment he fears that he has put her off, but instead, she lets out a stifled snort. It starts out as the base of her lungs and slowly rises, until her whole body is quivering with laughter.

Shaking his head, Kisuke relaxes his grip around her waist and bumps his forehead against hers gently. "Should I be expecting twenty more layers beneath this?"

Yoruichi's eyes join his in glancing down at the slim white underwear beneath her robe and she chuckles. "No, this is the last one."

His gaze travels up to her face as she loops her arms around his neck, her soft, amused smile a match for his. "Guess you weren't kidding when you said you needed help," he says.

In response, Yoruichi lets out a brief peal of laughter and stands up on her very tip-toes long enough to brush her lips against his. When she pulls away he moves with her, eager to deepen the kiss, but she seems to have other ideas. Pressing one finger against his mouth, she glances over her shoulder toward the cabinet by the doorway. Lip caught between her teeth, she lowers herself back down, one hand trailing the length of his arm as she pulls away.

The robe slips off her shoulders as she slinks forward, and when she turns to him, her eyes seek his out as she pushes herself atop the cabinet. The image is a clear mirror to the morning of his departure, with one key difference: when she stretches her arm out in invitation, there is not a speck of uncertainty in her expression, only keen desire.

It takes a great deal of effort not to come to a complete still, lost in appreciation of just how beautiful she looks in that moment. Legs dangling off the edge of the cabinet, she draws her knees up slightly to press her feet against the glossy wood. The movement causes her susoyuke to ride up, one shapely calf peeking out from the slit on the side. White has always suited her, and the pale, nearly translucent underwear seem to glisten under the soft light of the lanterns. She's wearing little more than scraps of silk by now, her silhouette as clearly visible beneath them as though she were fully nude. At some point during their fervent embrace, tendrils of hair escaped her meticulous updo, now tickling the curve of her shoulder.

Transfixed, he ambles forward and it's all he can do not to audibly gasp when her fingertips follow the trail of hair at the base of his abdomen. Her fingers disappear beneath his waistline to form a fist around the hem of his hakama, and she pulls him forward with a sharp tug. Lips parted, he finds himself within breathing distance of her once more. They're nearly of a height now, which was clearly her intention. As though reading his mind, she parts her knees just as he takes one step closer, filling the space between her legs.

Yoruichi's palm settles against his belly in a touch so tentative it makes his muscles jump, then relax once more as she begins to trace his abs. Her hand slowly crawls its way up his chest, coming to a rest against the hinge of his jaw. For all their languid movements, the moment he turns his head to lay a kiss on her wrist, his lips press against the rapid pulse of her heartbeat. Emboldened by this, eager to reestablish the rhythm they had built up to a few moments ago, he places his hands down on her knees.

The stroke of his palms forces the slip to ride up to her hips, and he spends a few moments caressing the smooth contours of her thighs, before hooking his hands around the hollows beneath her knees and pulling her flush against him. The sudden shift causes her to sink her nails into his neck in reflex, her free hand bracing against his chest as he lips part and her pupils grow wider. Chest heaving, she runs her heel up the back of his thigh, until her legs come to lock behind his waist. He can feel the heat of her, even through the thick material of his hakama, as she tightens the grip of her legs and issues a challenge though her darkened eyes.

He is not certain if he pulls her up to him or if she moves out of her own volition, but in the blink of an eye, her lips form a hot seal against his, then move lower to trace the ridge of his jaw. Kisuke's head rolls back; the hand that isn't busy holding her up by the waist follows the curve of her ribcage, coming to cup the swell of her breast.

The silken garment does little to conceal the shape of her, to mute the hardening of her peak against his palm, but starved for the feel of her skin, he reaches down, undoing the pale red ribbon that holds the han-juban together. Yoruichi aids him without hesitation, and the sound of his panting is soon joined by the gentle tinkling of the golden bira in her hair as she shrugs her top off.

Kisuke opens his eyes to the sight of her long neck, and is immediately seized by the overwhelming urge to let her hair loose. It seems downright quaint, considering; she is right there, in his arms, half-nude and willing, but the mere idea that he will get to fulfill a fantasy he has been harboring since adolescence is even more titillating than the bite of her teeth against his earlobe.

He pushes her away gently, and he can see the surprise in her eyes when he spares no glance below her collarbone, but instead runs his knuckles against her fevered cheek, threading his fingers into her hair. Perhaps there is a hint of a gentleman in him, after all. "May I?"

A knot forms between her brows; the question is still written there, in the dilated pupils of her golden eyes, but she nods all the same, now looking more curious than perplexed.

The ornate, golden hair comb comes out first, then the tinkling bira, and one by one, he teases the pins out with a gentle hand. Thick, glossy strands of black hair slip out of her updo and tumble past her shoulders, down her back, framing her flushed face. He can see her out of the corner of his eye, watching him intently, her eyelids growing heavy when his fingers begin to massage her scalp. With the last pin gone, Kisuke takes a step back to look at her, his hand raking through a raven lock that reaches down to her belly button.

Her chest contracts when his knuckles brush over her breast, his nails grazing softly down her side until his hand comes to settle on her thigh. His mind is, as ever, split in two: it seems to be a running theme with him, the two warring sides of the scientist and the warrior, logic and bloodlust, tenderness and perversion. He can't decide if he wants to bask in her beauty and whisper sweet things in her ear, or bend her over the edge of the bed and fuck her till his name is the only word she can remember.

Preferably both. In due time.

Yoruichi isn't consumed by similar dilemmas. She seems to have lost her patience for gentle touches, diving back into his embrace and drawing him into a deep kiss. And as his arms encircle her, his fingers tracing her shoulder blades, he is startled to discover how very small she truly is. She has always had such presence that he never once thought of her as such, but he finds that he enjoys the way his arms wrap entirely around her narrow shoulders, the fit of her against him.

She moans into his mouth when he traps the peak of a breast between his fingers and gives a gentle tug. Arching into his hand, the clasp of her arms grows tighter around his neck, her heels guiding him closer. What little clarity he's been able to hold on to dissolves when she begins to grind against him slowly, firmly, turning the already uncomfortable situation in his hakama downright agonizing.

Desperate for a respite, he reacts instinctively: hands digging into her backside, he drags her to the very edge of the cabinet and tilts her backward until her shoulders are touching the wall. As his hands roam across her chest, stroking, kneading at the soft flesh, his lips part from hers and he begins to lave a downward path, along the column of her throat, past her collarbone, his mouth finally closing over the crown of one breast.

Yoruichi's head rolls back until it bumps against the wall, arms locked around his head. She gasps out his name as he focuses all his attention on her mounds with hands, tongue and gently grazing teeth, only beginning to kiss a trail down her stomach when she is well and truly squirming beneath him.

Her eyes snap open, golden irises nearly swallowed in black, watching as kneels down and props each leg up against his chest in succession, pulling off her tabi. There is little need to concern himself with the slip wrapped around her hips. His current view makes it perfectly clear she is wearing nothing underneath. And so he brushes his lips against her ankle, following it up with a series of kisses that trace the line of her inner leg: up the calf, into the soft hollow under her knees, and over to the inner thigh.

By the time he's only a kiss away from the juncture of her legs, her muscles quiver at the slightest contact with his warm breath, her readiness unmistakable both though body language and heady scent. Pushing his self-restraint to its limits, Kisuke wraps his hands around Yoruichi's hips and looks up at her, his gaze a slow unfurling of intent for what's to come.

Without warning, her pulls her forward until she is supported by her elbows. The lower half of her body remains suspended in mid-air only for a moment, until he moves in between her legs and props her thighs up on his shoulders, his mouth pressing against her cunt.

He has only time to tease her with his tongue once before a loud moan escapes her throat and he desists immediately, laying a kiss on her inner thigh. "Shhh…" he says, unable to smother the smug grin that tugs at his lips. "The barrier doesn't mute sound."

Yoruichi's thighs clench around his neck, the muscles taut with sudden tension. "What?" she hisses at him. "And you're only telling me this now—?" The rest of her sentence bleeds into a groan when he descends upon her again, her back arching. "Oh you jerk," she grunts out, eyes shut tight as she grasps a fistful of his hair, ostensibly torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. "You… you…"

She seems to be unable to put into words exactly what he is, but she keeps her hand firmly entwined in his hair in a punishing grip, holding him in place as she starts to rock her pelvis against his mouth. She mewls and she whimpers and it is the best sound he has ever heard since he first made her laugh.

Sweat pools at her lower back, the clasp of her thighs beginning to grow deliciously tight, when Yoruichi suddenly pushes his forehead back. He looks up at her, already dreading that he did something wrong, that she changed her mind, but instead, Yoruichi gently extricates herself and takes a seat atop the cabinet again. "Come here," she says, her voice hoarse with desire.

It never occurs to him to do anything but obey, and just as he opens his mouth to ask what he did wrong, she launches herself at him, holding on to him for dear life. The taste of her is still on his lips when their mouths join, and he doesn't need to be told why she stopped him. The fervor with which she has wrapped her entire body around him is explanation enough.

Arms reaching around to hold her up against him, he rises up to full height, and the increased zeal of her kisses along the base of his jaw tell him he hasn't misunderstood her. He covers the distance to her bed in a few, long strides. His knees have only barely touched the mattress when she turns the tables on him, rolling them around until she has him pinned down on his back, straddling his lap.

And while he has no objections to this turn of events, things begin to progress fast after this. His legs are still draped off the side of the bed when she unceremoniously peels off her slip, and before he can even fully appreciate the sight of her, she has moved on to yanking his hakama down. He makes a futile move to reach down and finish the job, but Yoruichi seems unwilling to do more than removing the bare minimum obstacles. By the time he can process what is happening, she has pulled his hakama just past his hips, far enough to leave him exposed, her hand is wrapped around his cock and she is positioning herself above him, her eyes boring into his.

"Wai-w-wait…" Even as he speaks the words, he knows full well that he has never before been more turned on in his life. "Shouldn't we…? Maybe we should slow down?"

Yoruichi lets go of him and the sudden absence of the pressure of her warm hand makes him want to scream. But she is draping herself over his chest, the long curtain of her hair tickling his face as she leans in to whisper against his mouth. "Time enough for that later." She nibbles on his lower lip, then shuts down the possibility for reciprocation with a press of her finger. "And be quiet," she says, immediately putting her warning to the test with a slow backwards tilt of her hips. Her wetness brushes up against his cock, and his entire body bucks. "The barrier doesn't mute sound."

He supposes turnabout is fair play.

At any rate, he is given no time to respond, and he counts it as a resounding victory, the fact that he doesn't come undone as he watches himself slowly disappear inside her. And as his head sinks deep into the mattress, fingers digging into her ass, he loses the battle of staying quiet barely one second in.

Despite her warning, she doesn't chastise him for it. If anything, she looks supremely pleased with herself when she splays her palms against his chest and begins to move. It doesn't take her long to build up to a fast rhythm, and it's then that the reason for her impatience dawns on him: she is close.

And the idea that he brought her to the brink, to the point that she took charge because she simply could not wait any longer, is beyond exhilarating. Even more so than the stunning view of her riding him at a gallop, long tendrils of hair swaying along with her movements, the gleam in her eyes downright predatory.

Though he is still trying to process that this is real, this is happening, the inescapable reality gnaws at him: if they keep going at this pace, this is going to be a very short-lived session. Part of him is screaming at his mind to let go and enjoy this, the heady paralysis induced by the sensations her gyrating hips are creating. And yet he knows that minutes from now, when looking back at this moment, he will come to regret doing no more than holding on for dear life and trying to stave off his own premature climax.

As Yoruichi pants above him, Kisuke decides to take action by moving one hand away from her hips, and over to their juncture. When his thumb brushes over her clit, the reaction is immediate. Yoruichi lets out a strangled cry, her walls tightening around him once. His thumb begins to draw circles around the bundle of nerves, and he can not only feel the effect it's having on her, he can see it in her tightly shut eyes, the sweat that pools between her breasts, the way her teeth dig into her lower lip as she struggles not to make noise.

Thighs shaking, she lowers herself down, planting her hands on either side of his shoulders. With every upward stroke, the strong muscles of her slick abdomen brush against his, and he meets each grind of her hips with a thrust of his own, experimenting with the angle until her breath catches the same way it had when his finger had found her apex. She crushes her lips against his in a savage kiss as his hands slip up to her breasts, her movements growing frantic.

He senses it only a moment before it happens, in the way her spiritual energy coils deep into her core in a tight spiral. He meets her eyes just a split second before her eyelids slip shut and her lips part, her body collapsing against his. His fingers plunge into her hair as she buries her face in his neck, the scent of sweat and jasmine and Yoruichi suffusing him, his hand holding her in place by the hips as she convulses around him.

Her climax is a whirlpool and he is swimming by the edge, struggling not to get caught by a current as enticing as a siren's call. The feel of her, the way she tightens in his arms and chokes out a broken but clearly audible version of his name, all threaten to push him over the edge. Yoruichi slumps against him, and he can feel the beat of his pulse where they're still joined, an aching, dull throb that is both sweet and unbearable.

Running his tongue over his parched lips, he turns to her, pushing the damp strands of hair away from her face. Yoruichi looks up to meet his gaze, her fingertips tracing his collarbone, and there is such a serene, warm look in her eyes that if he weren't already mad about her, that look alone would've made him a goner. Everything else becomes an afterthought, any impatience or discomfort, and he brushes his thumb against her flushed cheek, unable to comprehend what he has ever done to deserve this, to deserve her.

His fingers trace the slick dip of her backbone as she reaches up for a kiss, and even after having her come undone in his arms, it is the soft moan she lets out into his mouth at that very moment that makes his face go up in flames.

From the moment he first kissed her hours ago, his body has been in a constant state of want, want, want, but every muscle, every cell is now singing, crying out with need, the need to show her everything he cannot adequately put into words.

Kisuke pulls her up with him as he sits up on the mattress and tries to finish what she started earlier. Tries being the operative word. With her body wrapped around him, her mouth nuzzled into his shoulder, even something as simple as pushing his hakama off becomes a task. Somehow, he manages to toe off his sandals, and he's willing to bet that if he had any concept of time right now, he would be stunned at how long it takes him to kick the rest of his clothing off while she nibbles her way up his neck.

Curling one arm around her waist, he repositions them on the bed, laying her down on her back. Their movement causes him to slip out, and he is not prepared for the utterly unpleasant sensation of being parted from her warmth. He settles on top of her, his bent arms bracketing her face, intensely aware of his erection as it presses against her belly.

In an effort to curb the urgent need to be inside her again and give her a moment to collect herself, he distracts himself by reveling at the expanse of bare flesh laid out before him. The sharp tang of her perspiration lingers in his mouth as he follows the seam of flesh down her middle with his lips. Folding one arm behind her head, Yoruichi relaxes into his languid kisses, her fingers combing through his damp fringe of hair.

She pushes it back just as he meets her eye, and laves a trail along the ridge of her ribcage up to her breast. Her chest curves off the mattress as her swirls his tongue around her peak, and she drags her heels along the back of his calves, a soft sigh escaping her throat. Her entire body begins to curl around him as he sucks and caresses, her arms locked around his face, legs squirming impatiently against his thighs. With a sharp tug at his hair, she forces him up again and into a kiss, and he snakes one hand down low, finger teasing at her wet folds.

Yoruichi ends the kiss abruptly with an impatient huff, which puzzles him at first; he can tell she's enjoying herself, if not by her quickening breath, then by the way she grows slicker under his touch. His unspoken question is answered when her hand joins his down below, grasping his cock.

She couldn't have found a more effective way to put an end to his ministrations if she'd tried; already sensitive from their earlier coupling, he can now focus on nothing other than the sensation of her warm hand stroking his length. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know she is awfully smug for having rendered him into a gasping, heaving mess; he can feel her gaze on him as he struggles to keep his elbows from buckling, but he is aware of little else, save for the rhythmic clenching and relaxing of her fingers. He is only brought back to the present when she rests her damp forehead against his, and when he opens his eyes, the lust in her heavy-lidded eyes anchors him and fills him with purpose.

He grasps her wrist gently, and a silent understanding passes between them. Letting go, she moves her hand up to brace against his chest, and when he skims the soft skin of her inner thigh, she parts her legs, her eyes boring into his. Never breaking eye-contact, he hooks one hand under her knee and brings her leg up to rest against his lower back. Yoruichi's other hand slips up to cup his jaw and they are close, breathing the same air, gazes still locked as he pushes his hips forward and enters her again in one long, fluid motion.

He never fails to be fascinated by it, the sheer single-mindedness of his body in a heightened state of arousal. There is a certain point of no return, a moment past which all higher mental functions simply cease to exist and the locus of gravity shifts to the juncture of two warm bodies moving together. It is a primal thing, an animalistic instinct that reduces all coherent thought to mere gasps of language –Yes, There, Please. A crude mental state to be sure, but he has always embraced it for what it is: a welcome respite from the relentless, exhausting barrage of external stimuli that flood his mind on a daily basis. Raw, unrefined little morsels of data, begging to be reshaped and buffed into glossy chain links of information that will lock onto his constantly expanding mental network.

He has always treated sex as an escape in the past, though he cannot deny that there have been fleeting moments of genuine intimacy with past partners, feelings that at times even approached affection. But he had long ago made peace with the fact that true emotional commitment was impossible for him, when his heart had been claimed long ago.

Whether in lucid daydreams that made his chest expand with ache and longing, or half-remembered, feverish dreams, he has pictured this, with her, over and over again. The fantasy is never the same, always a different permutation, a mood that ranges from romantic to downright savage, but the unifying factor is that he had always expected reality to feel different. More.

And as he slips into her, throat drying up, fingers shaking against her calf, he is stunned to discover just how much more. Tricking the body is easy, and he knows about a dozen different ways to incite any given physiological response. Tricking the soul, however, is impossible outside of a direct illusion. Their earlier union, pleasurable and passionate though it had been, was all about the quickest route to momentary satisfaction. With his mind far too occupied trying to process it all, he hadn't been able to fully appreciate this, the gravity of the moment.

Not until now.

He is woefully underprepared for the pure, unadulterated joy that seeps into his every pore, the way his very being cries out in bliss at the intimate brush of his spiritual energy against hers. In his mind's eye he can see them, long, shimmering swirls of red and white, weaving around one another, like living silk or wisps of smoke, vibrant and pulsating.

His mouth parts wide open in perfect sync with hers as he buries himself to the hilt within her. Yoruichi's pulls him forward until their foreheads are pressed together, her nose brushing against his, his lips hovering above hers infinitesimally, and when he starts to move she exhales into his mouth with a sigh that sounds almost reverent.

The arm that's not bearing his weight inches up to her, and one by one, he takes each hand and lays it down above her head onto the pillow. Her entire body curves up to him as he threads their fingers together, her mouth slanting up against his. She slides her other leg up, locking her ankles behind him and angling herself so that when his hips slowly pump into hers, he hits the right spot inside of her.

Sweat begins to pool in his lower back at the effort it takes not to drive into her with everything he's got. Whether knowingly or not, she rewards him for his restraint with every soft pant and whimper that escapes her as his mouth kisses a trail from her lips to her neck.

But for all the control he manages to exert upon his body, there isn't a force strong enough to keep him from whispering into her ear in broken, lax murmurs, a thoroughly ineloquent, quite frankly embarrassing spiel about how good it feels to move inside her. He would like to say more, cherry pick his words with care and compose a veritable soliloquy about the way she makes him feel, the way his heart swells every time she smiles, but articulacy slips further and further away from his grasp the longer he moves inside her.

Much to his chagrin, his foolish mind convinces him to try anyway, and he does, and it's a mess of unintelligible words interspersed with her name, over and over and over again.

He releases her hands when he feels her tug at his fingers, and Yoruichi uses her newfound freedom of movement to pull him into a deep kiss. Her ankles slip down just past his hips, and she begins to spur him on, punctuating every thrust by digging her heels into his thighs. And if her actions weren't clear enough, her eyes, dark gold and imploring, convey the message with no room for doubt when she pulls away.

The request can't come a moment too soon; the pressure in his abdomen has built up to near-discomfort and with her candid encouragement, Kisuke all but slams his pelvis against her, in a firm, but contained pace, forcing her legs to part even wider. A yelp of intense pleasure tumbles out of her mouth and she hurries to press her lips against his skin, wary of her cries being overheard. She smothers her moans into the crook of his neck, but he can still hear the stifled sounds in the vibrations of her throat, the tenseness in her muscles, in the way her nails dig into his back.

His so far carefully restrained rhythm begins to stutter with loss of control, but the small, continuously shrinking part of him that is still capable of logical thought and observation tells him that by this point, she is beyond caring. As his entire body flexes and tightens, everything becomes ignorable, from her sounds, to the desperate, patternless grasp of her hands against his hair and his back.

Everything but the sharp bite of her teeth into his shoulder, which only serves to drive him into a frenzy.

His hand digs into her hip to keep her in place as he pounds into her, until they can't get closer, he can't go any deeper, until her every stifled moan is a plea for release he is only too glad to grant her. He draws upon very last reserve of self-control to hold on, waiting for just the right moment, and when she finally, mercifully clenches firmly around him, he lets go.

His mind blanks out into pure, white euphoria, as warmth pours forth from his core to the very tips of his fingers, the relentless clap of their hips faltering to its end with a few deep, final thrusts. Every wave is like a jolt of electricity rippling through his body, bringing him one step closer to blissful release, until he is completely spent.

The world comes rushing back into focus, and when he can make sense of his bearings once more, he finds himself slumped over Yoruichi's sweat-slicked body, his nose buried into her neck, reveling in the thick, syrupy haze of their afterglow. Her arms cradle his back and waist gently, her chest rising and falling beneath him as she struggles to catch her breath.

With what little energy he has left, he supports himself up until he's facing her. Cheeks flushed, damp hair plastered against her forehead, eyes large and limpid beneath lowered lids, she makes for the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. When his thumb traces her lips, he sees his own lax smile reflected on her.

What a fool he is, thinking he knew anything of need until that very moment.

How could the need to kiss her, touch her, ever hold a candle to this, to the sudden, desperate urge to tell her how he truly feels?

He has loved her before he ever learned to love even parts of himself, ever since he was a boy, far too young to understand how love could split someone's chest open in half with their own express consent, lay their heart out open and vulnerable.

And as he lies there, chest cracked open, heart held in his hands, he searches for the words to offer it to her readily. Yet they are not enough, nothing ever will be, he reasons, even though they tug at the tip of his tongue, three simple, deep words that will convey everything he means to say.

But he is a fool and a coward, and instead of speaking up, he tries to pour everything he cannot bring himself to say into a kiss, hoping that she understands, that part of her already knows.

.

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.

Like most members of the Second Division, Kisuke is not muscular, though he often appears to be. She blames his broad shoulders for the deception, when in reality, he is of a leaner build, honed out of all his hakuda training from childhood and time spent sparring with her. Stealth and speed is what he's built for, and it certainly doesn't hurt that the overall result is quite visually pleasing.

It is impossible to train with someone every day the way they do and not catch glimpses of one another's body. A flash of the chest through the robes, an injured shoulder, a cramping leg that needs to be massaged… Over the years, she has come to know his figure just as well as he knew hers.

The mild slump of his back and shoulders, an indication of the constant war between the mandated, rigid military posture and the scientist who spent all his formative years slouched over books; the way his left arm always hangs a little stiffer than the right, because he tends to use it more it at the end of a sparring session in order to build up its strength; the long, jagged scar that runs down the underside of his right bicep, the one she accidentally caused before they'd learned how to heal themselves properly.

This, however, is the first time she is being afforded a full, unencumbered view.

His arms, she has already spent decades watching mid-spar; she is well acquainted with the long, sinewy muscles, the trim wrists and slim, long fingers. They'd led an easy life before joining the Academy, and though his skin is soft and nearly unblemished all the way through, his hands have always been the exception: calloused, steady, so very elegant and sure in their movements, the result of working with them on a nearly daily basis since childhood, performing the kind of delicate labour that builds up dexterity and precision.

He really does have magnificent hands; she has always thought so, and is reminded once again as his arm curls around her, his fingers grazing languidly against her bare hip.

Head nestled in the juncture of his shoulder and chest, she draws her own lazy patterns against his pectorals, feeling an odd sense of pride about the sheen of perspiration that still clings to his body; she likes the idea that she drove him into such exertion.

Her eyes follow the line of dark blonde that starts out just above his belly button and branches out to a sparse thatch of hair between his jutting hipbones. The rest of her view is blocked by the covers and her own leg, wrapped loosely around his, but she suspects she'll get plenty of opportunities in the future for further perusal.

"You were thinking about me, weren't you? Going up the steps to the shrine?"

Yoruichi looks up at Kisuke, scowling at him only half-heartedly. "I was not."

One arm folded behind his head, Kisuke chuckles, and the vibrations reach all the way down his belly. "Yes, you were," he says. "You were laughing. You were thinking about what I said about you tripping."

Lifting her head off his shoulder, Yoruichi shifts until she's draped over him, arms folded atop his chest. Kisuke's hand follows her movement, coming to rest over her waist, just below the rim of the covers. "I might've been," she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

The grin that spreads on his lips is both endearing and infuriatingly smug, much like Kisuke himself, and he bites on his lower lip. "Been thinking about me a lot these past few weeks?"

"You… don't want me to answer this truthfully."

He opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it, his expression simmering down. "Yeah, okay, I get that." He has a big enough imagination to picture the many colorful expletives she hurled his way in the weeks they spent apart.

Burying her chin in the fold of her arms, Yoruichi slides her foot along his leg. "Were you? Thinking about me?"

His grin comes back full force, only this time, it's lacking any hints of arrogance. "I think it's safe to say you occupied a good deal of my thoughts, yes."

Eyes glimmering with mischief, she crosses her ankles and lifts her calves up playfully. "Dirty ones, too?"

"Normally, I'd say almost exclusively, but Ōmaeda was sleeping in the futon next to mine."

Yoruichi smothers her laughter behind her forearms. "Poor you. Cockblocked by Ōmaeda for a full month."

"You misunderstand me; I meant that given the sleeping arrangements, it was impossible to think dirty thoughts about anyone but Ōmaeda, so—"

Whatever he means to say next is lost when she laughs again and pushes herself up, capturing his lips into a kiss. He smiles against her mouth, his fingers doing delectable things against the hollow of her spine. But just as she's beginning to think the kiss is leading somewhere, he pulls away, cradling her face in his palms.

He neither says nor does anything other than look at her in silence for a long time, his fingers eventually brushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes. It was easier to hold her own against his penetrating stare in the throes of passion, but now that he seems to be content to simply gaze at her, Yoruichi begins to feel flustered by the intensity of the emotion behind it.

Pulling away gently, she slips off him, lying down onto the mattress again. She's already missing his warmth, the sheet cold against her back, but she can't bring herself to look at him when she says, "You're such a…"

Kisuke turns to his side to face her, propping his temple against his fist. "A what?"

Yoruichi fumbles with the rim of the blanket, tugging it up to her collarbone as she struggles to find the right words. "It was easier when you were ogling me. I… I don't know what to do with… this." She ventures a glance at him, hoping he can see that she's not turning him away, she simply has no idea how to do this, any of this without making a fool of herself.

He's always been the eloquent one, the silver-tongued diplomat, unparalleled in his ability to bring a smile on her lips with a mere sentence. He seems to simply know the right thing to say: sweet, but not cloying, just right, and he does it so naturally, in a way that leaves her feeling in awe of him. Whenever he stops doubting himself, there is a sheer brazenness about his words and actions, an unapologetic streak of sentimentality that she's always been smitten by, but could never bring herself to replicate.

She's always had a hard time articulating her innermost fears and desires, counting on him to read the subtext behind her guarded words. She doesn't think this will ever change, and part of her can't help but fear that perhaps he wants or expects it to change, as they cross over the threshold to something new.

Kisuke seems to consider her words, the knot on his brow one of pensiveness, and not of injury, she's glad to see. And then without warning, he pushes himself up onto his elbow and lifts the covers up with his free hand. "Fair enough."

She can only roll her eyes at him, pleasantly aghast at his reaction. He proceeds to stare at her naked breasts with great interest, as though appraising a particularly thought-provoking piece of art. "Are you done?"

"Mmmm, a moment, please," he says, now shamelessly stroking his chin.

"Like you've never seen them before."

"True. But I've never been afforded the chance to study them up close."

Yoruichi's eyes narrow down into slits, alarm bells already going off in her head. "What's there to study? They're breasts."

"The left one is slightly bigger."

Her head snaps down toward her chest at once. "What?"

"It is, look," he says, and as though to illustrate his point, he pokes at the mound of her left breast.

By now she's well aware that he is messing around just to draw a reaction out of her, but her playful mood took a serious downturn from the moment commentary on her misaligned anatomy came into play. Slapping his hand away, she yanks the covers up to her neck. "Okay, you are officially banned from looking at my b—"

"Awww, now I feel better about my wonky thumb."

Don't fall for it, don't fall for it, don't— "Your what?"

His grin bright and puppy-like, Kisuke arches both eyebrows at her. "You've never noticed?" he says. Not waiting for a response, he lies down next to her until they're shoulder to shoulder and holds his left hand up before her, palm facing away. "Watch this," he says, bumping his head playfully against hers.

And so she does, watching as he proceeds to slowly fold his thumb over the back of his hand, unassisted, in an angle that should be impossible.

The hair on her nape stands up on end, arms erupting in goosebumps at the unnatural sight. "Ahhh! How are you doing this?" she demands, reaching for his hand and examining it from all angles, checking to see if this is some sort of trick.

Kisuke laughs and pulls this thumb right again, wiggling it. "Double-jointed."

Yoruichi lets go of him with an ostentatious, affected little shudder, then turns to gaze at him, a soft smile stretching her lips. "Freak."

"I suspect that would be quite hurtful, if it weren't coming from someone with uneven br—"

Of all the ways she has ever employed to shut him up –and there have been many- smothering him with a pillow is another first for that night. Beyond an initial yelp of surprise, he doesn't resist, and when she leans over him, pillow still pressed against his face, to ask, "You dead?" he gives her a double thumbs up.

With a victorious smirk, she pulls the pillow down to find the idiot grinning at her, pink cheeked, his hair all mussed up. "See?" he says. "You do know how to do this."

She's about to scoff at him for the patronizing words and ask how this is in any way different to how they normally goof around –nudity notwithstanding- when she realizes that this is precisely his point:

With Kisuke, she can always be herself.

He must notice it in her eyes just as it happens, the full meaning of what he said sinking in, and his expression shifts into a beatific smile.

Laying the pillow aside, she drapes herself over him again, returning his smile as she pushes the hair away from his face. "My mother probably has the place surrounded, just in case," she says, and she can feel the color rise on her cheeks at the transparent lie she's about to utter. "It won't be safe to leave till morning. So… you… you probably shouldn't… go."

They both know he can sneak past the guards any time he wants with little trouble. He could do it with his eyes closed, but Kisuke seems all too happy to leave that particular truth unacknowledged. "Guess I'll just have to stay," he says, sweeping his knuckles against her cheek.

"Yes. You'll just have to."

.

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redamancy

(n.) the act of loving the one who loves you;

a love returned in full

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A/N: Believe it or not, properly fitting a kimono requires many more little bits and pieces than what was mentioned, liked towels stuffed beneath the obi to flatten the flare of the buttocks, countless more cords to secure everything etc. The whole idea was to give a woman's body the appearance of a perfect cylinder, no bulging breasts or shoulders or anything.

As you can see from the finished story, I invoked artistic license and skipped a fair bit of all the above (plus, that particular style Yoruichi is sporting is decidedly flowier). The point of the scene was for the layer removal to be titillating (and a little cute/funny), not to flood the reader with unnecessary detail, since that would've detracted from the overall tone. At any rate, I hope you found that particular scene enjoyable and not too drawn out.

Kisuke's second quote when Yoruichi is getting ready is taken verbatim from my multi-chapter fic. As Yoruichi herself mentions, it was spoken when they were graduating from the Academy as an encouragement to make her own choices even when she has to go down a predetermined path.

Speaking of Kisuke, one of the bigger challenges of this piece was writing a love scene though his POV, seeing as I lack the requisite parts. So to that end, if you're in a position to offer some feedback about whether I pulled it off convincingly, I would be most grateful 3

On the title of the story: Redamancy, as explained, is the act of loving someone who loves you, which felt fitting for a Seemingly Unrequited Pining turned requited prompt. As for the chapter titles, some of you may have found the use of 'Choice' an odd one. As the saying goes, we do not choose who we love, and while that's true, I believe choice plays a major role when it comes to love. Because whereas you do not choose who you love, you do choose to allow yourself to be loved. And that is just as important.

I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please don't hesitate to drop me a line :)