It was a simplistic, traditional ritual. Women all over the world partook in this right of passage. Among the many standards of beauty, this was one of the subtle but succulent inter-workings of a woman that teased and terrified men. Why, why did the sight of Yorouichi painting her toenails completely undo Urahara? Why did this simple thing seem so unbelievable, so beyond her? The fact that she took the time to sit in silence, crouching over her feet in solemn requiem seemed other-wordly, dreamy, mystified in Urahara's eyes. Every time he caught her doing it, a part of him melted. He was nothing but water pooled at the base of the futon. He could not stand. She was always undoing his resolve to be "chaste." Well, in fact, perhaps part of this weakness was spurred from her tendency to paint her toenails without a shred of clothing on her body? He wondered if even he was prone to such debase arousals?
"What is it now, Kisuke?" She would say half-amused, realizing he was watching her from the crack in the door. Usually she brought the tiny, tickling brush to her toe with finesse and ease, as if she had been doing it for centuries. Yet, when she would look up at him, her fingers would slightly shift, and a small mark of pink or lilac colored paint would smudge on her skin. Always with an exasperated sight she would reach for the cotton swab, swearing under her breath.
Usually, he would shrug or smirk and be on his way. The image would be burned within his mind's eye for weeks. He and Yorouichi had not partaken in carnal activities in almost forty years. As their time of exile lengthened, so did their time together. She would wander both the living world and the forbidden society of soul reapers. She would leave and remain in her feline form. A gap began to grow between them. It confused him, but yet it was welcome. Now, with so many things changing, with Soul Society's arms open again to his abilities and hers, he found that to return to their old habits distracting in dangerous times. Yet, amongst all this chaos of wars and battles, here she was on his futon, painting her nails the color of rain.
It had been two days since he had sent Renji and Rukia on their way to meet their friends in the barren waste of land that coward called home. He had spent hours devising different strategies of rescue, if things should go ill. His mind felt just as barren as Hueco Mundo, devoid of any real life, only burning questions and unquenchable curiosity. He felt exhausted. He had wanted to lie down and empty out these thoughts, these strategies. But here she was: Sitting naked on his futon with a bottle of nail polish in her hand. Her hair was pulled back in an unusual knot. Her eyes were stolidly focused on her task at hand.
She didn't even look up when he closed the door behind him.
After forty years of chastity, Urahara found that in weak moments like these, he was incapable of maintaining his usual control. His muscles were on fire. He felt reckless.
As he approached her quietly, he felt memories sliding before his brain. Their times together had always been heated. He did not lie to himself and supposed he had been her only lover, even though she had been for him. However, he knew, and she knew, he was the only lover she had actually really loved.
He loomed over her like a massive cloud of green. He felt very serious all the sudden.
"I know you are trying to mess me up." She whispered with a hint of sarcasm. He watched as she ran the brush over her left big toe. He waited in a tremor of anticipation as she spent special time and care on each appendage, marking her body with this simple, human chemical. It seemed to bring her pleasure, but he had something else in mind.
Urahara removed his had and set it on the small table. He began to shrug off his outer robes as Yorouichi took one last look at her handy work and laid the bottle on the side of the futon. Only now did she look up at him.
She knew; she could feel his yearning.
"What's with you all the sudden?" she said as she stretched her long limbs in front of her, still admiring her freshly decorated feet.
His eyes looked it, his body looked it. Yorouichi had always loved this man. She had given up everything for him. He knew she would never deny anything he asked of her.
Pulling him down to the futon was easy. He always fell so gently. His hair, quite shaggy and untrimmed now in exile splayed perfectly around his head like a halo. Delicately, deliberately she pulled off his clothing. He let out one of his boyish sighs.
"Awww, Yorouichi…I've missed this."
"You are spoiled, Kisuke." she retorted reaching out for his penis, which was ready and waiting to fall to her touch.
Remembering, resketching, recharting this devastating part of Urahara's body brought more pleasure to Yorouichi's body than she thought. She felt herself growing more aroused with every sweep of her tongue against him. He seemed to lack his usual restraint and let out the most tempting sighs and moans as she worked his body. Up and down, tighter and softer, faster then slower. She was remembering what it felt like to be young again, afraid again, and in love again.
She crawled, feline-like, back up his body, kissing skin as she made her way to his lips. They felt just as velvet and oil as they always did. Relaxing into his kiss, she felt undone, as he was undone, by the feel of his strong hands on her back, rubbing circles.
"Remember this?" he whispered into her ear. His voice was musk, gargantuan and delicate.
He turned her over on her side, parting her legs with his own. In this strange yet, intimate position, he entered her. Forty years she had been empty of him. Forty years of feeling incomplete. Now, with his whole body returned to its rightful place, snuggled up behind her, she felt like everything was set to rights again. This is why she had left Soul Society. This is why she risked her life. It was for him.
His hands came to circle her body, cupping her breasts. She curled her leg, locking it with his, as he began to move in an achingly slow manner. Spooning was something new for them, yet perfect. Her hands slid behind her to grab at his hair. His pace quickened.
"I want to see you." She said after a while. The building of pleasure in her body was intensifying. Somehow, as wonderful as spooning was, her favorite part about making love to Kisuke Urahara, was the blissful faces he made when spilling out into her.
He was coming undone. As quickly as she could manage, she shifted to straddle him. In an attempt to prolong the experience, she slowed their pace. Letting her body snake up and down, side to side over his member, she elicited wild and strange sounds from this usually collected soul. Yet, his control was left for another time, and uninhibited pleasure provoked his hands to search out Yorouichi's clit and begin to massage the spots he had long ago memorized.
With his hands on her, she could not maintain her slow pace. Quickly she was in a frenzy, her body shaking in spasms, her hair falling around her shoulders.
With a yell, they both came.
It took several moments for Yorouichi to fall, limp and dazed onto his heaving chest. She clasped onto him, feeling his soul energy pulse underneath her.
This was a long time coming.
He turned her over onto her back and began nibbling her neck and leaving untraceable soft kisses on her lips and eyes.
"I've missed you." He repeated in her ear.
"Mmmm." She returned his kisses and wound her fingers in his hair.
Then it hit her. Like a sudden jolt of lightning she bolted up, pull her legs out from the tangle of his own limbs.
"DAMN IT, Kisuke!"
Flustered, Urahara matched her gaze to her feet. The beautiful blue polish was utterly ruined, their love making unsettling the gloss before it could dry.
He sheepishly looked over at a very angry, steaming woman.
"I'll fix them." He conceded, reaching for the gloss. "I'll paint them again for you."
They both grinned.
"Alright, Urahara Kisuke, do it and do it well."
She leaned back offering her toes to him. He pulled out the brush, concentration building at his brown.