unwritten_icons | Not Much Has Changed [Byakuya, NC-17]

Title: Not Much Has Changed
Characters: Byakuya, mentions of Hisana, Yoruichi, one-sided Byakuya/Yoruichi
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He imagines that a woman like Yoruichi would scratch and bite, cry at the moon like the cat she took the form of.
Genre: Er. Porn. That's just about it.
A/N: I swear on my life this isn't how I originally started this. It wrote itself. I swear.

Warning: NC-17 for a reason. Descriptions of masturbation, oral sex, the likes. Not for kids. (But tastefully done, if I say so myself).

Byakuya Kuchiki is a man of routine.

Each morning, he wakes before the sun. The space of time between pulling the blankets aside and gathering his bathing materials is soft, peaceful. He enjoys the rare times of quiet and solitude, though he himself doesn’t like being alone, not since his wife’s death.

Then, he ensures that Rukia is safe in her bed, the head of it facing the sliding doors, which he opens just enough to peer inside. She usually sleeps on her side, curled into a loose ball; arms bent gently toward her head, slim hands gripping the blankets. Her black hair is messy, but it only adds to her charm, the beauty that will, he knows, capture the heart of some poor bastard he will have to slice to pieces one day.

Byakuya Kuchiki is, after all, an elder brother. Blood makes no difference.

Once satisfied, he closes the door and makes his way, quietly, to the Kuchiki bath house. The quality of the wood is fine and hard, but the rest is simple, uncomplicated. The same servant fills the baths each morning, as he has done every morning, even before Byakuya was made head of the clan. He knows to leave once the baths are filled.

Being of a noble house, the baths are large and luxurious, but not presumptuous. Since the mornings have been darker, Byakuya has had the servant light the room with lamps and candles, and they give everything a soft, relaxing aura as he enters and closes the door behind him.

The bath itself is large enough to fit three people comfortably, the edges neat and square, and Byakuya can feel the heat of the water from where he stands.

Steam rises, thick and heady like the first day of summer, and Byakuya inhales it deeply through his nose. The warmth of it clears his mind, prepares him for the long day ahead full of paperwork and training his over-eager lieutenant. Byakuya appreciates Renji’s desire to succeed and overcome his weaknesses, brazenness aside.

His sleeping yukata is folded and the wooden geta are set aside by the door, and the noble selects a scentless soap to wash with before the soak. A short stool and bucket of clean water have already been set out for him, and Byakuya sits, skin already moist from the steam.

He starts with his hands, scrubbing the tips thoroughly into his palm to clean beneath the fingernails, then his arms, the bump of old scars a reminder of past battles. The scar on his chest where Gin’s blade pierced him, and not Rukia, is faded at the edges, a badge of their siblinghood.

Feet next, then up muscled calves and firm thighs, each movement strong and sure. The muscles of his back shift when he reaches to clean his sides, fingers running past deeper, heavier scars. Byakuya thoughtlessly scrubs his abdominals and pectorals, up his neck and behind his ears. The water he rinses with is colder than the morning fog, and the coldness is harsh, refreshing.

Byakuya licks his lips and moves his hair aside, away from his mouth. It clings to the side of his pale face, conforming to the arch of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw; much like the hand of his wife did when he kissed her.

The noble sucks in a breath and shakes his head. Every day he is reminded of her. Small things. It still hurts.

He wills the image of her smiling face away when he steps into the hot water, deep enough to submerge past his navel. Beneath it, Byakuya flexes his hands, kneading the muscles in his forearm, fingertips pushing up, between the joint in the elbow, into the thicker flesh of his bicep. It’s been two months since the Winter War, but his arm and leg still ache from severing his own tendons with Senbonzakura.

Byakuya sighs and lets his arms rest, palms up, atop his thighs. Through the slats of the window, he can see morning creeping its way into the Seireitei, orange and red light warming the sky. Rukia and the more responsible members of the Gotei 13 will be rising soon.

Byakuya lets his head drop loosely back, lips slightly parted, caught in a hiss, when he moves one hand between his legs.

Over fifty years without his wife has been difficult. He is a noble, yes, he is a Captain, yes, he is a brother, yes, but Byakuya Kuchiki is also a man. He is a man who loved (no, still loves) his wife dearly, enough to be satisfied with her sweet kisses and gentle laughter. They never consummated their marriage, she too ill and he too in love to care.

That is not to say he is inexperienced; before his wife, he had a select number of lovers, but their faces and names have been forgotten.

In his mind’s eye, Byakuya sorts through erotic scenes and sensations: the brush of a woman’s hair against his chest, her breath warm on his thighs. Her flushed cheeks after a kiss, the way her lips shine, like freshly sliced fruit. If he’s fortunate, she will taste like fruit, too, but sharper, saltier, and Byakuya loves the way her hands comb through his hair as he pleasures her, with lips and tongue and teeth, softly, roughly.

Byakuya’s eyebrows draw together, and a noise escapes from his mouth, deep and long. He pulls the foreskin up and over, wrist rolling back down again. The other hand digs into the flesh of his thigh, blunt fingernails marking. He disliked it when his partner only lied beneath him, making no more than a few soft sighs or a purr of pleasure.

He imagines that a woman like Yoruichi would scratch and bite, cry at the moon like the cat she took the form of.

Byakuya jerks slightly, pelvis moving smoothly with each stroke, breath coming quickly when he circles the head with his thumb and forefinger and twists. Byakuya does this until the flame of arousal sparks into a slow-burning blaze. When he wants a quick, fierce release, Byakuya uses both hands, but today, there is no rush.

A glow is beginning in his chest, tingling in his toes.

He leans back on one arm, letting his wet hair fall behind him. More sensations come and go through his imagination; teeth on his neck, the slap of her thighs as she thrusts enthusiastically against him. If he concentrates hard enough, Byakuya can even feel the pulse of her arousal as he licks her, slowly, sucking hungrily on her clit. Gods.

Every now and then, he’d let her pleasure him the same way. If she’d been with him often, she’d know how to touch and kiss him, how good her hair felt on his thighs.

Byakuya bites his lips and sets his jaw. His chest is flushed and the hot water seems cool against his overly sensitive skin. The hand which grips his leg moves up, thumb sliding easily along his abs, between the curve of his pectorals, to rub harshly against one nipple, and then the other.

Not many women minded when he left bruises on them. Some left a fair share on him, which were always concealed until either she or another removed his uniform the following night.

Faster, now. Everything is faster, his breathing, his heartbeat, the push and pull of the hand around himself. Byakuya can feel the heat rising up his throat, coloring his cheeks and hazing his vision. Briefly, he drags the flat of his palm over his testicles, pulled tight, before lightly digging the pad of his thumb into the hyper-sensitive slit. The water flickers and splashes against the sides of the bath.

Hisana’s skin was pale and smooth, and although most of the time she was ill, Byakuya likes to remember her when her cheeks weren’t slaked of color, and her large, dark eyes shone when she smiled. Hisana did not smile often. Each morning, he awoke before her, and she was always curled into him, her hands in his hair.

He says her name softly and swiftly as he comes. Byakuya’s whole body shakes. His head feels light and he can’t concentrate. One by one, the images fade, and he breathes in, slowly, eyes closed, lashes spiked with moisture. Although he hasn’t moved, it feels like he’s ran miles, like he did as a boy chasing Yoruichi.

The thought of her makes him wince. He’s reminded of them both each day.

Not much has changed, he realizes.