Bleach and its characters belong to Kubo Tite. No compensations of any type is being made with this work. This is a work of fan-fiction, meaning it is not canon to the original storylines of the series. Please do not re-post or distribute this anywhere. Thank you.
Rating – PG-13.
Notes: No beta. Unedited. All mistakes are mine. Comments welcome. This takes place after Yoruichi joined the Onmitsukidō and Kisuke joined the Gotei Thirteen, but before Yoruichi becomes Captain of the Second Division.
Inspired by this picture that is copyrighted by Kubo Tite, Shonen Jump, and everyone else that apply.
Urahara Kisuke flinched again as the rubbing-alcohol-dosed cotton ball graced his marked skin and breath hissed through his teeth. Burying his face in his crossed arms, he rolled his hips and pressed into the pillows under him to cope with the burn. He hated the alcohol, and in his very humble and possibly biased opinion, none of the scratches on him needed it. Regardless, Yoruichi insisted on getting the alcohol.
“So they’ll be clean,” she had said. There has been a few occasions in the past where Kisuke wondered if Yoruichi just enjoys watching him roll his naked form on the futon. He really needs to figure out how to rein in the woman once she’s transformed midway between cat and warrior princess when the battles were said and done. It’s hard maintaining order in the Ujimushi no Su* when he can’t even sit properly from all the gauze on his ass. (*The Nest of Maggots)
And to think, he wasn’t even on the receiving end of the attacks. No, no, their training ground took the brunt of those, and he’s going to have to repair the area again in his spare time. Had the space been any smaller, he would have been able to see from one side to the other from how flat the surface looked. The ground, Kisuke noted, had more cave-size pits than he could count with a simple glance. Some of those pits look like the size of a small moon.
After Yoruichi finished attacking the make-shift enemies he constructed, she fell into “play mood” and insisted he played. Cat and mouse, for a few cycles on and off.
And like the love-struck idiot that I am, I agreed. Without hesitation.
“Hold still,” Shihōin Yoruichi ordered, voice smug and hiding laughter before swiping the cotton over yet another claw mark, this one deeper than the last.
Kisuke didn’t bother holding back the whimpering cry this time. “By the grace of the goddess and her legion of warrior cats, just kill me now. It hurts less,” he moaned.
“Puts hair on your chest,” Yoruichi replied.
“I like my chest how it is!” Kisuke replied before yelping again and rolling away from the woman. “You know… I’ll take my chances at an infection. Ouch,” he said as he pulled a blanket over his hips to cover himself. “Wait, you want hair on my chest?” he asked as he swiped a palm over his pectorals.
Yoruichi punched him in the arm. “Lie. Back. Down. You’re still bleeding,” she said with a sweet smile, voice cold enough to make Hyōrinmaru feel warm and cuddly.
Kisuke obeyed. “Hai, Neko-hime-sama.”
“Don’t call me that,” she groused with a twitching eyebrow as she squeezed the alcohol out of the cotton ball right over the cut. Kisuke hollered but held still.
Kisuke felt the touch change from frustration to resignation to gentle annoyance. Yoruichi was brooding inside herself, and he didn’t have to think too hard to know she was angry at herself again. The first time she achieved her metamorphosis state, he had been wounded bad enough to require help from Unohana Retsu. Kisuke had never seen her so scared, and it took a lot of coaxing on his part to get her to release once more, including a promise to her that he would do all he could to help by analyzing everything. They even made sure Ukitake Jūshirō knew where they were going to be so he could keep an eye on them should things get out of hand.
Kisuke never needed the assistance of the Fourth Squad again.
The scratches and claw marks were little now compared to that first time. He knew how to turn and twist to avoid the worst of it. The others he took on simply just because he wanted to. There is a sense of bewildering amazement knowing she chose him to be there, and Kisuke never, never want to let Yoruichi down. So if she wanted to play, even if it was rough, he’ll play and enjoy it. The aftermath was a tiny, inconvenient price to pay for the privilege.
Yoruichi peeled the sticky tabs off the last band-aid. “I’m sorry, Kisuke,” she murmured as she gently applied pressure on Kisuke’s skin to make sure it would hold before pulling the blanket back over him. Leaving all the used things where they are, she dragged her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them. “I hate this, you know. I hate that it has to be you, that I’m not strong enough to leave you out of it,” she murmured before burying her face inside her arms. “I hate that most of the time I hurt you,” she muffled and Kisuke had to strain to hear her.
Kisuke died a little inside at the voice and sat up, taking every little sting and pull in stride. He pulled on his shitagi and scooted towards the small woman. “Yoruichi-san,” he said softly as he wrapped his long powerful arms around her. “I don’t mind. None of it. I love that it’s me,” he whispered. “I love that I’m the only one privy to this part of you. Because anybody else who sees this will be dead after it’s all over. I’m the only living soul in the whole world who gets to see this and know it inside and out. What’s not to love about that?” He rubbed her arms, flanks, and the outside of her legs.
Yoruichi didn’t move, so Kisuke put his feet under him, found his center, and picked up Yoruichi. He moved them back onto the futon, set her inside the circle of his legs, thread them between her calves and thighs and wrapped them around her butt. Snagging the blanket, he flipped it in a smooth yank and wrapped it around them. He sat there, the back of his hands rubbing up and down her arms as he planted kisses where her cat ears had been an hour or so ago.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
A hand came loose to grip his shitagi as Yoruichi raised her head. Tilting her head in search of a kiss, Kisuke obeyed the silent demand and did so. Lips changed, and where smooth skin touched him, it transitioned into soft black fur. A tiny cat tongue licked his lips once, twice, before she crawled inside Kisuke’s shitagi and nestled next to his hip.
Kisuke smiled, settled himself down, carefully shifted the cat up to his ribs, and pulled the blanket around them before sinking into a much needed, blessed sleep. He’s certain someone will nag him about his own bankai in the morning.
All in its own time.
– – – – –
I had a small conversation with a friend on Tumblr who asked me if I hold writer’s workshops. After telling her that my writing sucks *points to current example as evidence* it would be rather pointless for me to hold writing workshops when I fall short of my own expectations. That led to a rather interesting talk about writing which I completely enjoyed and find myself damning the darn time-zone thing to hell and back. She’s somewhere in Europe and I’m on the East Coast of USA. Six hour difference.
As writers, we have a lot of ideas that come and go. We try to write them down, for those of us with a ready notepad and pen, but many of these ideas don’t typically make it to the development stage until years later. More often than not, what we think how an idea would go down tend not to go down the same way on paper.
It’s an immensely frustrating and discouraging thing. Weeks can lead to months. Months add up into years. We often end up feeling like we’ve lost purpose. After a hiatus, it’s almost always harder to restart, but it’s not impossible. One just might find oneself questioning if the extra effort is worth it.
And for the life of me and the good of all things, where do I find the patience?!
This is to you, my friend, as an example of an idea that stewed for a day or two that wouldn’t leave me alone, that was supposed to be funny and cute and adorable and light and instead turned into this little mess of a drabble.
Despite it all, I think I did it a little bit of justice. It’s not the best, but it’s mine. I can be proud of it. You should be proud of yours too, no matter how big, small, or crazy it may sound. And if you ever want someone to just bounce something crazy off, or share how funny you think a certain bit of conversation may be… hit me up.