Bleach - RenRuki Fanfic - Let Go, 1/1
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it ain't mine.
Author: FemmePhantom
Title: Let Go
Rating: PG-15 for language and some adult situations.
Genre: AAAAAAAAAAAAAANGST!!!
Spoilers: Absolutely none.
Word Count: 1,310
Summary: Felt like writing something angsty. This is the end result. It bounces around more than I'd like, and it went a completely different direction than I was planning on, but I still kinda like it. More A/N at the bottom. Unbeta-ed.
He knows he has no right to feel jealous. He gave her up, long ago. Let her go so she could move on to bigger and better things. He let go for her sake, and it had been killing himself on the inside for over fifty years.
He knows that the sight of her with that orange-haired punk shouldn’t bother him. But he can’t stop himself from clenching his jaw and digging his nails into his palms, leaving half-moon shaped marks into his skin.
She doesn’t belong to him. Maybe she never did. But she doesn’t belong to that kid, either. But she should be with you a voice in the back of his mind whispers. With a jerk of his head, he silences the voice and continues to watch her eat lunch with her new friends.
He throws down the butt of the cigarette he just finished and lights a new one just as quick. He breathes in the smoke until his lungs feel heavy and his head is a little dizzy, but it doesn’t help. He keeps hoping it will.
Later in that punk’s room, the three of them are having a post-battle discussion. At least trying to, until he insists that it’s getting late and the two of them should do their homework. She argues for a bit, and then gives in and lies out on the bed, surrounded by various papers and books. He hates how comfortable she looks on his bed. How “at home” she looks.
The two of them are engrossed in their work, their world, and he’s forgotten again. No one notices when he leaves.
He sits on the roof across the street, waiting to see how long they’ll stay up. If she’ll leave once the light goes off. She does, and then flash-steps back up to the window that he’s left open for her. He throws another cigarette butt down on the ground, along with his now empty pack (his third one that day).
He goes back to the shop and works out at the underground training area until he can no longer stand upright. He seals his sword and then falls down.
He dreams of when they were children. When he wakes up, he has remnants of tears on his face, and he knows what he has to do.
He doesn’t say goodbye. He can’t. But this time, he letting go for his sake not hers.
Weeks, then months pass, and he thinks he’s moved on. Even his captain is mildly impressed with his newfound work ethics (but you’d have to know where to look to see it). He doesn’t even think of her every day, anymore. But he still has a hard time remembering how to breathe when he does.
She shows up unexpectedly one day. He walked into his captain’s office to hand in a report, and there she was; in all her radiant glory. He forgets how to breathe. He does his best to compose himself, but his actions are jerky and strained, at best. But he manages to put the report in his captain’s hand, and offer a swift bow before he leaves.
He hears her come after him a few moments later, and he hates himself for stopping. She’s hidden from him around a corner, so he can’t see her, but he can hear her. And he swears he can smell her, and all but taste her, too.
She takes a step forward and starts to say something, but she’s cut off by a blur of orange, asking where she’s going in such a hurry.
He doesn’t wait to hear the rest.
The next day he expects to find the two of them gone. But for some reason, they’re still here. And he feels his chest tighten at the sight of them walking along the streets they he once walked with her.
He heads off to the eleventh squad for a good fight.
He’s in the infirmary, barely conscious when he hears her voice. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too damned heavy, and he’s still so weak. He almost starts to hope, and then he hears the other’s voice, as well. He stops fighting the drugs and goes back under.
He leaves the infirmary the next morning without talking to anyone. Somehow, he manages to get back to his room before he passes out, again.
She’s yelling at him the next morning, calling him selfish and stupid, and a whole bunch of other things. But he ignores her. When he doesn’t acknowledge her, she gets louder and closer. She’s all but standing on a chair trying to yell in his face.
He takes it for as long as he can before he turns and yells, “Just shut the fuck up!”
She blanches at his words.
He starts to tell her what’s on his mind. How he feels about her. How much he misses her. How much he loves her, and how much he hates her. But all he says is, “Just let it go.”
She leaves then, and he can smell her tears as she walks past him. He figures that’ll be the end of it, but he was never that lucky.
After that, she and her orange-haired sidekick were dogging his footsteps every minute of every day. Trying to get him to talk. Trying to get him to listen. Trying to see what’s wrong. It’s literally making him sick. He can’t eat, he can’t sleep, he can’t breathe with the two of them around.
He heads off to a bar once he’s done with his duties for the day. He finishes off one bottle, then two, then three, and then he lost count. But he remembers seeing a girl at the bar. Smallish, with short, dark hair. She’s well into her cups, too. She’ll do.
He takes her back to his place. He kisses her sloppily and desperately at the doorway to his room. There is no finesse, no loving words or gentle touches. He’s rough and primal as he yanks clothes out of the way. He’s hard and brutal as he buries himself inside of her. He thinks he hears her yell, but he’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or pain. And he doesn’t care either. He closes his eyes tight and thinks that if he pretends hard enough, that this substitute is really her.
He can’t quite tell what makes him open them all of a sudden, but he opens his eyes and turns his head towards the front of the house, and he sees her. Hand over her mouth, eyes wide, shock rolling off her in waves.
He locks eyes with her, his brain tells him he should stop, but his body won’t let him. He stares at her as he fucks the cheap imitation pressed between him and the wall, the vixen’s moans becoming louder and louder.
Her nails are digging through the fabric of his jacket, and she’s arching her back urging him for more. Encouraged, he speeds up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper. His eyes never once breaking their hold on the real thing.
The imitation clamps her muscles down on him as she climaxes, and he follows soon after with a guttural groan. She turns and runs away once he does.
Exhausted, spent, hurt, and hating himself, he lowers the girl back down till her feet hit the floor. And as soon as he’s done that, he collapses to his knees in front of her.
He’s trying to hold his emotions in, but he’s been doing it for so long, he’s finally full up. He leans his head against her stomach, hoping she won’t notice the shaking of his shoulders. The girl runs her fingers through his sweat soaked hair and pulls him closer. She noticed.
“Shhhh,” she tells him. “Just let it all go.”
A/N: I did this one, and decided I didn't want to use names, and that I wanted it to be very passive in the sense that there's not much "directly" spoken dialogue. I think it makes the few spoken lines in the story that much more compelling. But, that might just be me.
Feel free to leave a review to feed the author. ;)
Author: FemmePhantom
Title: Let Go
Rating: PG-15 for language and some adult situations.
Genre: AAAAAAAAAAAAAANGST!!!
Spoilers: Absolutely none.
Word Count: 1,310
Summary: Felt like writing something angsty. This is the end result. It bounces around more than I'd like, and it went a completely different direction than I was planning on, but I still kinda like it. More A/N at the bottom. Unbeta-ed.
He knows he has no right to feel jealous. He gave her up, long ago. Let her go so she could move on to bigger and better things. He let go for her sake, and it had been killing himself on the inside for over fifty years.
He knows that the sight of her with that orange-haired punk shouldn’t bother him. But he can’t stop himself from clenching his jaw and digging his nails into his palms, leaving half-moon shaped marks into his skin.
She doesn’t belong to him. Maybe she never did. But she doesn’t belong to that kid, either. But she should be with you a voice in the back of his mind whispers. With a jerk of his head, he silences the voice and continues to watch her eat lunch with her new friends.
He throws down the butt of the cigarette he just finished and lights a new one just as quick. He breathes in the smoke until his lungs feel heavy and his head is a little dizzy, but it doesn’t help. He keeps hoping it will.
Later in that punk’s room, the three of them are having a post-battle discussion. At least trying to, until he insists that it’s getting late and the two of them should do their homework. She argues for a bit, and then gives in and lies out on the bed, surrounded by various papers and books. He hates how comfortable she looks on his bed. How “at home” she looks.
The two of them are engrossed in their work, their world, and he’s forgotten again. No one notices when he leaves.
He sits on the roof across the street, waiting to see how long they’ll stay up. If she’ll leave once the light goes off. She does, and then flash-steps back up to the window that he’s left open for her. He throws another cigarette butt down on the ground, along with his now empty pack (his third one that day).
He goes back to the shop and works out at the underground training area until he can no longer stand upright. He seals his sword and then falls down.
He dreams of when they were children. When he wakes up, he has remnants of tears on his face, and he knows what he has to do.
He doesn’t say goodbye. He can’t. But this time, he letting go for his sake not hers.
Weeks, then months pass, and he thinks he’s moved on. Even his captain is mildly impressed with his newfound work ethics (but you’d have to know where to look to see it). He doesn’t even think of her every day, anymore. But he still has a hard time remembering how to breathe when he does.
She shows up unexpectedly one day. He walked into his captain’s office to hand in a report, and there she was; in all her radiant glory. He forgets how to breathe. He does his best to compose himself, but his actions are jerky and strained, at best. But he manages to put the report in his captain’s hand, and offer a swift bow before he leaves.
He hears her come after him a few moments later, and he hates himself for stopping. She’s hidden from him around a corner, so he can’t see her, but he can hear her. And he swears he can smell her, and all but taste her, too.
She takes a step forward and starts to say something, but she’s cut off by a blur of orange, asking where she’s going in such a hurry.
He doesn’t wait to hear the rest.
The next day he expects to find the two of them gone. But for some reason, they’re still here. And he feels his chest tighten at the sight of them walking along the streets they he once walked with her.
He heads off to the eleventh squad for a good fight.
He’s in the infirmary, barely conscious when he hears her voice. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too damned heavy, and he’s still so weak. He almost starts to hope, and then he hears the other’s voice, as well. He stops fighting the drugs and goes back under.
He leaves the infirmary the next morning without talking to anyone. Somehow, he manages to get back to his room before he passes out, again.
She’s yelling at him the next morning, calling him selfish and stupid, and a whole bunch of other things. But he ignores her. When he doesn’t acknowledge her, she gets louder and closer. She’s all but standing on a chair trying to yell in his face.
He takes it for as long as he can before he turns and yells, “Just shut the fuck up!”
She blanches at his words.
He starts to tell her what’s on his mind. How he feels about her. How much he misses her. How much he loves her, and how much he hates her. But all he says is, “Just let it go.”
She leaves then, and he can smell her tears as she walks past him. He figures that’ll be the end of it, but he was never that lucky.
After that, she and her orange-haired sidekick were dogging his footsteps every minute of every day. Trying to get him to talk. Trying to get him to listen. Trying to see what’s wrong. It’s literally making him sick. He can’t eat, he can’t sleep, he can’t breathe with the two of them around.
He heads off to a bar once he’s done with his duties for the day. He finishes off one bottle, then two, then three, and then he lost count. But he remembers seeing a girl at the bar. Smallish, with short, dark hair. She’s well into her cups, too. She’ll do.
He takes her back to his place. He kisses her sloppily and desperately at the doorway to his room. There is no finesse, no loving words or gentle touches. He’s rough and primal as he yanks clothes out of the way. He’s hard and brutal as he buries himself inside of her. He thinks he hears her yell, but he’s not sure if it’s from pleasure or pain. And he doesn’t care either. He closes his eyes tight and thinks that if he pretends hard enough, that this substitute is really her.
He can’t quite tell what makes him open them all of a sudden, but he opens his eyes and turns his head towards the front of the house, and he sees her. Hand over her mouth, eyes wide, shock rolling off her in waves.
He locks eyes with her, his brain tells him he should stop, but his body won’t let him. He stares at her as he fucks the cheap imitation pressed between him and the wall, the vixen’s moans becoming louder and louder.
Her nails are digging through the fabric of his jacket, and she’s arching her back urging him for more. Encouraged, he speeds up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper. His eyes never once breaking their hold on the real thing.
The imitation clamps her muscles down on him as she climaxes, and he follows soon after with a guttural groan. She turns and runs away once he does.
Exhausted, spent, hurt, and hating himself, he lowers the girl back down till her feet hit the floor. And as soon as he’s done that, he collapses to his knees in front of her.
He’s trying to hold his emotions in, but he’s been doing it for so long, he’s finally full up. He leans his head against her stomach, hoping she won’t notice the shaking of his shoulders. The girl runs her fingers through his sweat soaked hair and pulls him closer. She noticed.
“Shhhh,” she tells him. “Just let it all go.”
A/N: I did this one, and decided I didn't want to use names, and that I wanted it to be very passive in the sense that there's not much "directly" spoken dialogue. I think it makes the few spoken lines in the story that much more compelling. But, that might just be me.
Feel free to leave a review to feed the author. ;)