kinkfest | To those who wait [Bleach, Kyouraku/Nanao/Ukitake, PG] (Reply)

Title: To those who wait
Author: venefican
Prompt: Bleach - Kyouraku/Nanao/Ukitake - disrobing, 'Pants are an illusion and so is death'
Rating: PG
Warnings: hints of sex, vague
Words: 731
Summary: Resistance is futile, it can be worn down as easily as a tower by the sea. Or, Nanao needs to know when to give in.

The last paperwork for the day. Night has fallen with a purposeful thoroughness upon Seireitei, the lamps are lit, the fires stoked and Ise Nanao is just this side of exhausted. But if she can get this done she can have tomorrow afternoon to herself.

‘Nanao-chan.’

There’s a new bookstore in 2^nd district.

‘Nanao-cha~n.’

If she leaves after lunch she can sit under the willow in front of her room and read until dusk. She might not get another opportunity. She just has to finish.

‘Nanaooo-’

‘Sir. Please. Silence.’

‘Come to bed, Nanao-chan.’

‘Sir-’ She looks up. A mistake. The Captain walks around half-naked a great deal, and Nanao doesn’t have enough fingers to count the occasions where she has opened her door to find him comatose outside, wearing nothing but some drunken sense of dignity. She frequently slams the door shut, but the point still stands.

Kyoraku has clothes on – small mercies – but he has just stepped out of the bath and the fire at the front of the room has set his skin to glistening. There’s a long expanse of tan skin and Nanao can feel her body twitching instinctively towards him. And from the smug smile now dancing its way onto his face, the Captain has seen it too. She smoothes her face, turns a blank look worthy of Mayuri on him, wills him to give up. He blinks at her, and then the unrestrained affection in his expression deepens until it pulses out of him, as palpable as his reiatsu. A living thing. She sighs, rubs at the bridge of her nose and sets her pen down. Defeat.

Rising to her feet, she slips away from Shunsui’s teasing fingers with an ease that is as second-nature as her kido. It took hard learning but it will still be there when she dies, how to shoot lightning like fireworks, and how to escape a man who would never let go, if he caught you.

When Shunsui undresses, she can generally trace his movements from the items of clothing strewn across the floor. Jyuushiro – turning towards her, eyes crinkling at the corners with his own warm brand of quiet affection – does it quickly; the cold is bad for him and drawn out movements worse.

Nanao tugs at her sash, winding the material around her hands and placing it neatly next to her removed sandals. There are two pairs of eyes on her, but she isn’t slow for any attempt at eroticism. It’s cold. Despite the fire there’s a bite in the air and she can feel it biting at her ankles and slipping under the loosened folds of her uniform. She finally slips out of the top, the material brushing against her skin as it slips to the floor, almost a lover’s touch in how light it is. She shivers. Why so shy? She has sex with these men; they’ve seen her in far more embarrassing states than this.

She rubs one hand self-consciously over a scar like a sunburst on her ribs. One of many – they wrap around her body like clothing. Maybe the war that will come will leave her with more – a necklace to go with the line that runs across her wrist like a bracelet, a belt to match the smooth white brooch over her heart. Try as he may, Kyoraku cannot play the omnipotent protector. Her scars are hers and while they are not beautiful they are badges of honour to be worn well.

‘Nanao-chan.’ She looks up, summoned again by Shunsui’s voice. He lies next to Jyuushiro, silver and brown and expanses of skin like a desert. She might get lost there and die. But the strangest part is she doesn’t think she would mind all too much.

Jyuushiro’s white hair spills over Shunsui’s shoulder, and they turn towards each other, framed by firelight. Captain and Captain and Nanao aching at them, suddenly so beautiful it hurts her. She almost wants to run away, get a cage, trap this moment that will never come again. So in maybe a hundred, two hundred years’ time she will have something to touch other than dust. She shakes her head at herself, steps out of the last part of her uniform, feels her pants pool around her feet.

The book will wait. Death will have to wait too.