Like most members of the Second Division, Kisuke is not muscular, though he often appears to be. She blames his broad shoulders for the deception, when in reality, he is of a leaner build, honed out of all his hakuda training from childhood and time spent sparring with her. Stealth and speed is what he's built for, and it certainly doesn't hurt that the overall result is quite visually pleasing.
It is impossible to train with someone every day the way they do and not catch glimpses of one another's body. A flash of the chest through the robes, an injured shoulder, a cramping leg that needs to be massaged… Over the years, she has come to know his figure just as well as he knew hers.
The mild slump of his back and shoulders, an indication of the constant war between the mandated, rigid military posture and the scientist who spent all his formative years slouched over books; the way his left arm always hangs a little stiffer than the right, because he tends to use it more it at the end of a sparring session in order to build up its strength; the long, jagged scar that runs down the underside of his right bicep, the one she accidentally caused before they'd learned how to heal themselves properly.
This, however, is the first time she is being afforded a full, unencumbered view.
His arms, she has already spent decades watching spar; she is well acquainted with the long, sinewy muscles, the trim wrists and slim, long fingers. They'd led an easy life before joining the Academy, and though his skin is soft and nearly unblemished all the way through, his hands have always been the exception: calloused, steady, so very elegant and sure in their movements, the result of working with them on a nearly daily basis since childhood, performing the kind of delicate labour that builds up dexterity and precision.
He really does have magnificent hands; she has always thought so, and is reminded once again as his arm curls around her, his fingers grazing languidly against her bare hip.
Head nestled in the juncture of his shoulder and chest, she draws her own lazy patterns against his pectorals, feeling an odd sense of pride about the sheen of perspiration that still clings to his body; she likes the idea that she drove him into such exertion.
Her eyes follow the line of dark blonde that starts out just above his belly button and branches out to a sparse thatch of hair between his jutting hipbones. The rest of her view is blocked by the covers and her own leg, wrapped loosely around his, but she suspects she'll get plenty of opportunities in the future for further perusal.
"You were thinking about me, weren't you? Going up the steps to the shrine?"
Yoruichi looks up at Kisuke, scowling at him only half heartedly. "I was not."
One arm folded behind his head, Kisuke chuckles, and the vibrations reach all the way down his belly. "Yes, you were," he says. "You were laughing. You were thinking about what I said about you tripping."
Lifting her head off his shoulder, Yoruichi shifts until she's draped over him, arms folded atop his chest. Kisuke's hand follows her movement, coming to rest over her waist, just below the rim of the covers. "I might've been," she says, narrowing her eyes at him.
The grin that spreads on his lips is both endearing and infuriatingly smug, much like Kisuke himself, and he bites on his lower lip. "Been thinking about me a lot these past few weeks?"
"You… don't want me to answer this truthfully."
He opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it, his expression simmering down. "Yeah, okay, I get that." He has a big enough imagination to picture the many colorful expletives she hurled his way in the weeks they spent apart.
Burying her chin in the fold of her arms, Yoruichi slides her foot along his leg. "Were you? Thinking about me?"
His grin comes back full force, only this time, it's lacking any hints of arrogance. "I think it's safe to say you occupied a good deal of my thoughts, yes."
