Summary: He loved the feel of her hands in his hair.
Bleach and its characters belong to Tite Kubo. I'm just borrowing.
He loved the feel of her hands in his hair.
Byakuya hoped every good man was fortunate to have a wife like his. After the monotony and stifling atmosphere of work, he would come home to Hisana waiting for him, her kind eyes saying all her words could not. Often he would lay his head in her lap and she would run her small, perfect hands through his hair until the evening sun gave way to the summer moon.
He also loved watching those hands arrange ikebana, slender fingers clasped just right on a peony stem, bending back a leaf just so. They seemed to float across parchment as she wrote, characters precise and quiet, neither paper nor ink of fine quality; but in her hands, they were the finest he'd ever seen.
Byakuya loved them most when those hands drifted sweetly beneath his kimono to settle on his heart, feeling it beat feverishly against her fingertips.
It was never her hands that inspired the heat and want that often consumed him, slaked only when they lay in post-coital bliss, her cheek against his and one hand interlaced in Byakuya's own. Then, he would run a hand through her hair until she slumbered, her breath the soft morning dew on his skin.
Her hands were perfect, even in death.
Seems a little short for my tastes, but I suppose this works. Was listening to the Rurouni Kenshin OVA soundtrack while I wrote this. Still working on that multi-chaptered ByaYoru fic, tentative title being Love, Honor, Pride. Not sure yet. Hope you enjoyed.