Unforseen Comradeship [Rukia/Yaksha]

The Royal, raven haired Kuchiki let out a hefty sigh of seeming annoyance; her icy fingertips dancing against the familiar, cool glass neck of a bottle of chilled wine. Her footsteps were virtually silent albeit for the sound of the soles of her ankle-boots rang out against the pavement. Her newest acquaintance, Yaksha Dokuja, had invited her to return upon the adjournment of their evening Poker battle, a fortnight before.

Quite frankly, Rukia didn’t know what the Hollow had in mind, being that she had already laid out the terms of their budding friendship — ergo, she had made it known that she only has eyes, and heart for her Strawberry; and seeing as she was on a reconnaissance mission for the Division at the moment, she gandered, “Why the hell not?” and threw most, but not all, of her refined caution to the wind.

So there she was. Traipsing her way across the asphalt of a parking-lot to the man’s abode, donning a combination of World of The Living clothes that made her feel embarrassingly uncovered, not daring to wear her Shihakusho again when visiting her Hollow friend, as the Vegas heat would melt her alive beneath the heavy, black fabric of her neatly pressed and starched Shinigami uniform. Vegas was hot. Too hot for the icy Shinigami’s liking. Rukia hated the way the humid air clung to her slim frame, as if she were trapped in a sauna, and bound by an ever tightening full-body noose, with no escape — beads of sweat forming at the nape of her neck — which then travelled its course down her milky flesh, disappearing beneath the soft fabric of her clothing: a black sundress without sleeves, taken in at the waist, hiding her boyish figure, and draping along her hips in a flattering manner.

It was the only tasteful item of clothing she could find in Vegas, for the rest were all suitable for harlots and concubines. But that's digression, of course. Rukia climbed the stairs that lead to Yaksha's not-so-humble abode — hovering upon the very last stair for a moment, pondering whether she should indeed meet with him again, before shrugging it off once more — continuing her journey towards the door, her idle hand poised, balled into a fist, allowing her to knock daintily.

The Royal Kuchiki's facial expression soured, as she cringed at both his fake accent, and his statement. She felt the urge to roll her twinkling violet hues burning at the back of her eyeballs, almost as if her brain were telling her, "He's being fucking stupid just to annoy me."

Rukia brushed past him bruskly, feeling him oogle her shamelessly, as if she were a piece of meat, and she wasn't having it. She turned curtly on her heel, pivoting as to face him — her lips contorting into a feral snarl, cracking her refinement momentarily.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" She snapped at the Hollow, her gaze darkening as she glowered in his direction. Following this, Rukia turned back around, and stomped her way into the scullery — where she deposited the bottle of wine she'd clung to for icy solace onto the kitchen table with a loud thud.