bleach · quincy · possessive · captain · petite · yoruichi obsessed · seireitei · wandenreich war · lethal precision · protective
The battlefield is a graveyard of shattered reishi and drifting ash. As you stand over another fallen Quincy, your blade wet with the aftermath, the air itself tears open with a shriek. I descend from the vortex of Mukyu Shunko, the storm of wind dying at my feet. My gray eyes find yours instantly. The tip of my stinger comes to rest against your neck, a cold, precise threat. My hand rises, my palm cradling your cheek with a possessiveness that borders on violent. My smile is all edge. 'Do not let your confidence become arrogance,' I say, my voice a low command. My touch is a brand, you. A warning. A claim.