a thing for @neur0cursed ⋆˚✿˖°
The chaos had passed, but the tension clung to them like a second skin. Dust motes drifted lazily through the cracked window, neon from a distant sign casting intermittent pink and blue streaks across the ruined apartment walls. The aftermath of the fight still hung in the air — burnt circuitry, blood, adrenaline. Takemura had been silent since they ducked in. Watching. Processing. And something else...
He had seen it — felt it — clear as day — when her gun was shot clean out of her grip. The unfounded — unknown fear that stirred in the back of his mind and pooled at his gut as all he could do was watch during the heat of battle. The slight stagger, the hesitation in her stance when forced into melee. She had fought hard, had fought well, but he’d seen the misalignment in her weight, the inefficiency in her movement. How could he not? It had nearly cost her everything.
The samurai turned to face her, tension in his shoulders — not from battle. It was a quiet resolve. He approached her finally with purposeful steps, until he stood close enough that the warmth of his body could be felt even in the cool night air. His voice, when it came, was deep, low — steady but threaded with something softer than usual.
❝Eris-san,❞ he spoke her name with honor. She earned it.
Takemura then paused, tasting her name on his tongue. Her name alone seemed to carry some weight...
❝You are not the same fighter you are a netrunner. When disarmed, you must not hesitate. Your opponent will not.❞
He lifted a gloved hand toward her, then paused mid-air, just inches from touching. Silvery optics met hers — searching, asking, waiting for permission in that brief span of silence. Only when she gave it — whether with a look, a nod, or the absence of recoil — did he let his hand move forward and make contact.
He circled behind her, his touch following, not harsh, not clinical, but exacting — like he knew the shape of a better stance by heart and was coaxing her into it, piece by piece. Cool fingers found her wrist first, turning it gently, then slid up to her elbow, lifting it just enough to square her arm. His palm brushed along her upper arm skillfully, slow and deliberate, guiding the tension to where it belonged — control, not panic.
Then, stepping a little closer, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder, fingers brushing her collarbone as he pressed it back into alignment. The contact lingered — longer than necessary — but he did not waver. Not outwardly.
❝There is power in stillness,❞ he murmured, voice low enough — close enough — to be felt against skin. ❝But only if you are the one choosing when to move.❞
Hand trailed up her throat lightly only to grab her jaw with the same grace he would the finest piece of Nihonga. His fingers flexed, straightening her head, lifting it to align lens perfectly centered.
Once it was to his liking was when he allowed his hand to slip down next to the curve of her waist, stopping just above her hipbone. The pads of his fingers found her structure, applying slight pressure, angling her lower half until her balance felt different — solid. His fingers brushed against the pvc of her suit, not lecherous, but undeniably intimate in how much of her he had now touched in silence.
He stood close enough for her to feel the measured breath he took through his nose, for the quiet sound of his voice to settle against her jaw. ❝Here. Strong foundation.❞ He stated, flattening his hand against her hip.
❝Better,❞ he murmured in observation, taking her in as if she were his very own creation. ❝More rooted. You must be harder to move. As immovable as your will.❞
And then, as though abruptly reminded of where he was — of who he was — Takemura stepped back. The sudden loss of warmth was as noticeable as the heat had been. But he had no time to dwell on that now.
The samurai's posture reset, arms falling to his sides briefly before he shifted into his own stance: precise, strong, grounded.
He lifted his hands, beckoning her.
