Komamura x Matsumoto
I want to thank you for our talk, holding hands while we walked
You made me feel alright:
and I wonder how you feel, if it's really no big deal- is it alright?
You said there's nothing for you to say,
it would have happened either way, so it's alright
She liked the fact that she could rely on him.
Despite the fact that she was completely unreliable herself, he never held it against her, never played petty games with her like other men had done, and she had known many men in her time. He was everything that you would want in the man who wished, without condition or complication, to stand by your side for their rest of both of your lives. She liked that.
She liked that fact that he didn't mind when she went out and got drunk with the guys. He never told her that she couldn't, never tried to intrude on her play time, never got jealous or paranoid or checked up on her; she liked that he didn't mind it when, inebriated, she ended up coming back to his instead of her own rooms and collapsing on his sofa or bed or kitchen table or even, if he gave her half the chance, on top of him. She liked that he had told her where a spare key was, in case he was asleep or away or working in the office and she stumbled back there without thinking. He never told her off for drinking too much, either, and she heard no word of complaint in the morning: just woke up (late, inevitably) to an awkwardly written (the poor man had never quite learnt the art of fine calligraphy, his paws too huge to handle pens well) note with his initials at the bottom. He always had orange juice in, because he knew that it was the only thing she drank when she was hung-over: she liked that a lot, because she knew that he didn't ever drink it himself. It meant more to her than she ever told him.
He noticed things. He remembered things that she had said.
For the love of god, he actually managed to look at her face when she was talking (well, most of the time, anyway).
She liked the fact that those paws were far different to the hands of any other man: he could do none of those subtle, teasing things that those anonymous men could do, but in all honest she had grown bored of such things years ago, and the way that he restrained the strength but still made her feel like a mouse caught by a cat was, quite frankly, almost too erotic to bear. His movements were sure, and solid, and perfect. His ran his bistre claws up and down her sides with infinite tenderness and care, and sometimes she liked to look at them, so dark a brown, with such a marvellous sheen to them that they looked oiled. She liked that she was the only one who was allowed to play with the taupe coloured pads on his palms: that when she traced light lines on them he squirmed like a little child being tickled.
She liked the way he would bury his muzzle into her neck and exhale, deeply, at the end of a long day. It always, without fail, made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
She liked the face that when meetings were called that required the presence of both Captain and Lieutenant from each division he always made sure not to look at her, even when she was staring so obviously at him that Kyouraku snorted with laughter in the shadow of his hat and had to hide it as a cough. And when they were alone later, he would turn those eyes on her, those goldenrod eyes with pupils of a bottomless black that made her feel like she were falling, made her think for an instant that she should catch onto something, to save herself, before she realised that, with him, she could let gravity do exactly what it wanted with her, because at the bottom of anywhere he would be there to catch her with his massive, wonderful presence.
He would never falter; he would never look away.
He could literally catch her too, she thought- he could definitely pick her up, anyway, and carry her around. In fact, sometimes he had to: like that time that she had sprained her foot when he had taken her out walking (and for this man she was even willing to endure hiking, and you know what else? she even liked it a little) and he had picked her up, and held her in his arms until it had begun to feel a little better and she could walk with ease again.
And though she might have stayed there a little longer than necessary, she liked that he hadn't insisted on bearing her for the whole day, or even all the way home, that he hadn't called off the trip or turned back: he knew as well as she was what she was capable of and what she was limited to. He never tried to pretend that she was anything other than what she was, flaws and all.
She remembered the first time that she had seen his bankai, and she had known the second that it had emerged that it was perfectly him: huge, strong, terrifying until you realised that it would only protect you.
Just like him.
"Do you love him?" her Captain had asked her, embarrassed by his abruptness but refusing to show it. The change that had come over her had surprised him- suddenly, she was actually doing work on time, and though she was still staring off into space and not doing enough work, she was talking about herself less too. He was actually a good influence on her: Hitsugaya really, really, really hoped that this one would never let her go.
"I like him, a lot," was the only response that he got before she poured herself a measure from a bottle of sake that had appeared from behind one of the piles of overdue paperwork that crowded her desk at all times (in fact, he hardly remembered the colour of the top of the desk: as far as he could recall it might not have even had one). It had a tag around the neck that read 'with congratulations, from Kyouraku'.
Okay, so she hadn't changed that much.
She had thought that looking at him was the best thing in the world; and then she had learnt that talking to him was even better. Being with him, though, was just perfection, because she got to do both of those from the comfort of his bed, even though he was always uncomfortable when she stared, which was one of her favourite ways to pass the time.
He was a magnificent creature, like some heraldic beast of old, though he hid his beauty behind layers of human shame and clothing. The fur that covered his face was a copper patina, darkening almost to auburn behind his ears and at the small of his great, expansive back. It was mixed through with the sheen of sienna; in places, it was the russet colour of autumn leaves fallen and dried on the ground, the sort that she had enjoyed kicking through as a child, pulling happy faces as they crunched underneath her feet. In the sunlight, if you looked hard enough, there was a blaze of saffron-gold that made him look like he was glowing underneath the bright light of summer days. It faded through to fallow in places, and then into the earthy-yellow and flax areas of much lighter fur that might almost have been called blond.
She had never been one to deny her own good looks, but his just astounded her. Even underneath that fur, the shape of his face was quite breath-taking, with its animal muzzle from which came such profound and lovely statements. Those eyes, that smile, when his voice echoed deep through her like it was shaking her to very core. The tensed power of those coiled muscles underneath his skin, that you could only feel, never see.
The shell of his ears was sandy brown and wheat and softer than silk. His throat had a smattering of the faintest apricot mixed in with the cream, and down onto his chest his faded into a Navajo white, the place that would be his undercarriage had he walked on all fours as nature had intended him to. Around his lower stomach it became the purest isabelline colour of bone, where it was also the softest fur. She liked to lie on top of him as he lay with his back against the bed, all of her off the covers and resting on him, feeling small against his massive bulk, curling her fingers in and out of that fur and listening to the throaty noise he made when he was happy that was almost, almost a purr.
His whiskers were chocolate dark; his nose was redwood taupe. She liked to rub her own nose against his, because it was cool and felt nice.
He always flinched for a moment when she did that, and it made her throw her arms around him, because on some internal level of thought she knew that there was a part of him, for all the times she tried to show and tell him, that just didn't realise that she thought that all of him was quite perfect, that he was the best thing that had ever happened to her, that she could like him.
That she could, in her heart of unspoken hearts, love him.
I think the worst part of it all
You don't know how beautiful you are
And that isn't alright
Her Space Holiday