❝ BLOOD AND PETALS DEVOUR THEIR LUNGS, BREATHS DEVOTED TO EACH OTHER. ❞
花 ━━ Chōsō and Tsukumo Yuki aren't always destined to meet. In the worlds they do, falling in love comes inevitably, a pull of magnetism neither can ignore. A strange gravity th...
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It's been three days. Just three days, but Chōsō can't help his worry. Yūji is on his own―kind of, maybe, with that boy he seems so attached to, Fushikuro?―and he's the only brother he can watch over, for now. The only one at risk.
(Kechizu and Eso are already dead, after all.)
Kenjaku is a dangerous opponent, a cunning one, and although Yūji has allies, and is working on freeing the Six Eyes user, he still worries.
It's natural that he does, of course. He's the older brother.
"Got a lot on your mind?"
The question comes from who's been his companion these last three days, one Tsukumo Yuki. She's a weird woman, passive-aggressive with their ward, and with a strange fixation for asking him questions he's never before thought about.
Like what are his hobbies. Or if he's ever grown a garden. If he'd like to travel. What kind of food is his favourite, what kind of music does he like.
And what is his type of woman.
She's a strange person, altogether. He doesn't know much about the world, knows how to fight and how to protect because that's what he does―what an older brother does―but he doesn't know about music or about cinema, much less about food.
He also doesn't know much about women, since he's only met two of them, and interacted with just her. He doesn't know how to define the "type" of woman he'd like the most. Doesn't know enough to evaluate, and, most of all: doesn't get, exactly, what should he be looking for.
(Is it the curves? Of her smile, of her body? The way her hair waves through the space, silky and golden-like? Or is it how long are her legs, how she walks with confidence and grace?)
(He doesn't know.)
"I guess," he answers, "I am worried about Yūji."
She hums, a sound he engraves on his memory almost unconsciously. It's a nice sound. She's nice, all around. Not a particularly nice person, maybe, but pleasant enough.
(She's enticing, sometimes. When she speaks her mind. When she stretches out. When she wakes him up for his watch, so close he can feel her blood pumping, in and out of her heart.)
"So why don't I take your mind off of him?"
It's a strange offer. "How?"
She looks at him with that look she often gives him: half-amused, half-mischievous. Being on the receiving end is―confusing. He likes it, somehow. But it also irritates him, grates him, and puts him on alert.
As he's thought before, she's strange.
"You're strong, right?" She asks, continuing despite not waiting for his response. "Let's spar."
The prospect intrigues him. Still: "Should we?" When we're supposed to be guarding Tengen? When there could be an attack, right here, right now?
But Yuki shrugs, unconcerned. "This is mind-numbingly boring," she says, looking at him sideways from where she's stood up. "A bit of exercise won't kill us, pretty boy."
Blood rushes to his cheeks, despite his control. "Please abstain from calling myself that, Tsukumo-san," his voice sounds strangely flustered to his ears, but maybe she won't notice. Still, he stands up. She's right. A bit of exercise will be good for both of them. "I suppose it will not hurt."
"Haven't I told you to call me Yuki? All that Tsukumo-san crap is making me feel old," she complains while she stretches, arms above her head, her back curving. It's strangely captivating. "So, a light spar. No techniques, just hand-to-hand combat. Sounds good?"
Chōsō just nods, already in position. Her smile is distracting, and it sends his heart racing for a moment. Maybe it's because we're about to spar, he tries to understand. He doesn't, but yet again: this woman is strange, and so is everything she makes him feel.
They start. She's fast, and her hits dwell on his flesh. But he's fast, too, has to be, was made to be, and his punches break skin when they connect. She favours kicks, he's found, and has a mean hook that made his nose bleed. He has to pay attention to her because the moment he's distracted she strikes, and as beautiful as she is―he knows that much―the grin she sports is a warning all on its own.
She's enjoying this, and curiously enough, so is he.
Chōsō's never truly favoured fighting. He's good at it, strong because how else would he protect his brothers? But he's not inclined towards it. He never liked fighting his brothers, and anyone else was an enemy to be eliminated. This kind of fun, dodging and striking and flipping her to the side―it's new and exciting; like everything seems to be when it comes to her.
(It's strange.)
"You're not bad, Chōsō," she compliments him, flushed and glowing. "Seems like I've got to up the ante."
He can't ask her what she means by that, because before he can even mutter one word she's right in his face, and he's lowered his guard. She grabs him by the arm, flipping him upside down, before twisting and slamming him down the floor. That hurt, he thinks, trying to regain his breath. He feels more than he sees her weighing down on him, and by the time his eyes open and he's regained some vision, it's to Yuki on top of him, a smirk on her lips, smug and radiant at the same time.
"Seems like I win, pretty boy."
It's strange, the way his body reacts. Her voice is full of smugness, a cocky thing that should annoy him, and yet: that glint in her eyes, the way her skin glistens, sweaty and luminous, her chest rising and sinking in compass with her heavy breathing―it all makes his body react in ways he's never known before. Similar to the adrenaline rushing through his veins during a battle, but softer, somehow, more enthralling; a thrill that begins where her thighs touch his abdomen and ends with him confused and excited and curious and terrified, all of those at once.
Chōsō wants to kiss her. Touch her. Learn all there is to her body and her reactions and her sounds. He... wants her.
And―oh.
That's what it is, he realizes. That's what she was looking for when she asked that question about women. What attraction is, to him, in particular. Right now, it's this: her, above him, hair a golden halo and glistening skin. Her, touching him, daring him to react, and how her lips entice him.
His body begs him to react, allow himself to close the space between them and press everything he is against her.
But it's all new, still. Confusing. Enticing.
Just like her.
"Did I not tell you not to address me by that name?" He ends up saying, a bit exasperated.
She just smirks, satisfied. He lays there, defeated, in more ways than just the one. He thinks of her, and the way she makes him feel, and in the end, just resumes their sparring.
In some ways, that of which he's still not sure of, he wants her.
