#sumsinecorde

there's an exhale. finger hooked beneath chin, he guides isshin's face upward. ' guess again. ' lifting his knee from it's prior position, he places it between hip and armrest: effectively bringing him down to shinigami's level. it's then that his face tips elsewhere, tilting towards his right so mouth can make contact with lips.

                                  »»————-　　————-««

Eyes that had been widened in shock, close slowly.  The foreign nature of the action overshadowed by a sense of curiosity, tempered by a level of trust that - in spite of their past - was stronger than any that he shared with another.  

Other than Masaki, of course.  

Breath that was held is released as lips touch, and his back straightens.  Chin tilts slightly, and a hand raises as lips move to meet those of the other - tentatively sliding up a thigh, to come to rest upon a hip - in an effort to hold him in place, and keep those lips right where they were.  

Or keep him from having the upper hand, should this be one hell of a trap.

‘T-T-This...is a trick...right?’

‘...the arrows gonna come from this side?’

‘...’

‘!!!’

@sumsinecorde

Strange how one could wake up so happy only to have that happiness so completely crushed less than an hour later. 

It shouldn’t be possible. Yet here they were. 

Masaki Kurosaki was many things, but she wasn’t weak. She was stubborn, she was compassionate, she was patient—strong of heart and will alike. So why did she feel as if she were made up of so much broken glass as Ryuken’s words echoed in her ears?

All she’d wanted to do was to be there for him. She understood better than nearly anyone else what he was going through. The pain of it all… So why wouldn’t she reach out? Why wouldn’t she try to comfort him? 

He was her best friend after all. He had been for as long as she could remember. They grew up side by side, their families were friends. No matter how cold he seemed at times, no matter how often he feigned annoyance or disinterest, she always stuck around, always worked to elicit smiles and laughs or at the very least looks of surprise and amusement. He was a sweet boy, Ryuuken, beneath all the posing and aloofness, he was sweet and thoughtful and kind. 

Now, staring at him while he refused to so much as look at her, she couldn’t seem to reconcile that little boy she fell in love with all those years ago with the young man sitting before her. He looked the same—even still bed-ruffled and half tangled in his bedsheets and reeking of weed and sweat and alcohol—just older. Yet somehow his looks were where the resemblance ended. Gone was the sweetness, gone was the kindness. 

No— She couldn’t, shouldn’t judge him so harshly. He just lost his mother. He was just lashing out like before. He was still kind, he was still sweet… He was still her Ryuu-chan. He was just in pain. Shouldn’t she understand that? That she should be patient with him. That she should be her usual stubborn self and refuse to give in to his aloof facade? After all, she would have given anything for someone to show her such kindness when she lost her own parents…

But… 

He could have offered her that kindness. 

He was right there while she mourned and grieved and cried every night in that house all alone. Yet he never did anything… 

Now… now, even when she offered him everything she had to give… He did nothing but try to push her away again like he did yesterday when she first arrived. As if yesterday never happened at all. 

‘ Sometimes you have to know when enough is enough, ’ her mother once told her. 

“ Fine. ” The taste of bile was heavy at the back of her mouth. She felt empty. She felt cold. She felt… used. 

Masaki found herself standing up mechanically, snatching up her clothes and putting them on as she found them. Bra, skirt, blouse… her left shoe. There was no sign of her socks or underwear. Yet there was a rising sense of anger and urgency and a sting at the back of her eyes—she just had to get the hell out of there. 

Spotting her other shoe by the door, she strode across the room to grab her bag from where it sat upon Ryuuken’s desk and hurried to the door. Pausing only long enough to slide on her shoe, she didn’t say another word, didn’t take another glance back at the man who decided to use her and not deign to even look at her afterward. 

‘ Sometimes you have to know when enough is enough, ’ her dead mother’s words echoed in her ears.

Though she had accepted that he was the way he was long ago and that she wouldn’t try to change him... That didn’t mean she had to sit back and take it when he decided to be cruel on purpose. She could only do so much, tolerate so much. If didn’t want her help... If he wanted to just suffer on his own no matter what she tried to do... She couldn’t make him feel better. She couldn’t force him to accept her attempts at comfort.

Masaki Kurosaki was not a weak woman. She was stubborn, she was compassionate, she was patient—strong of heart and will alike. However, her strength had its limits. She had her limits. This fact was made painfully clear to her as she ran down the building’s hallways, away from the man she had loved for years with tears streaming down her face. 

She loved Ryuuken… but she couldn’t do this anymore. 

Eyes that had been busied with the study of expression slide closed, and brows that had been previously knit begin to relax.  It was strange, the sensation.  But not unknown.  It was one that he’d not felt in a great long while, and never would he expect that the source of it would be him.