Fault Lines [NelNnoi] [Bleach]
Title :: Fault Lines
Pairing :: Nel/Nnoitra
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 230
Summary :: She always fucking laughed.
Notes :: KAJHFGKAFH THIS IS ALL MY SACRIFICE’S FAULT IT IS A GOOD THING I LOVE YOU. ♥
She always fucking laughed.
She laughed when they sparred, every time their blades crashed together and he was shaken to the core from the jolt of it. She laughed every time she won their mock-battles, the soft sound punctuating the single drop of blood she drew from his throat in victory.
Never more, never less.
She laughed every time he grabbed for her, long-fingered hands clamping down on a deceptively delicate wrist, trying to stop her or to move her (he never knew). She would press closer in answer; body thoughtlessly crowding his, with lips parted not in invitation but in subtle threat, and eyebrows arched as if to say, Well?
And then she would twist gracefully from his grip and walk away without a word. She offered him her back, its curve relaxed and open, never once tense or wary, and he was certain she could hear the grinding of his teeth.
(She won’t fuckin’ take me seriously, he thought, and as his hands clenched into fists he never paused to consider -- Maybe it’s trust she’s displaying, and not condescendence.)
He swore he’d seen that pose for the last time.
He’d break it apart with his own hands, cast it aside and replace it with what should have been there all along.
That night, he was the only one who laughed, with her blood splattered on his lips.
Pairing :: Nel/Nnoitra
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 230
Summary :: She always fucking laughed.
Notes :: KAJHFGKAFH THIS IS ALL MY SACRIFICE’S FAULT IT IS A GOOD THING I LOVE YOU. ♥
She always fucking laughed.
She laughed when they sparred, every time their blades crashed together and he was shaken to the core from the jolt of it. She laughed every time she won their mock-battles, the soft sound punctuating the single drop of blood she drew from his throat in victory.
Never more, never less.
She laughed every time he grabbed for her, long-fingered hands clamping down on a deceptively delicate wrist, trying to stop her or to move her (he never knew). She would press closer in answer; body thoughtlessly crowding his, with lips parted not in invitation but in subtle threat, and eyebrows arched as if to say, Well?
And then she would twist gracefully from his grip and walk away without a word. She offered him her back, its curve relaxed and open, never once tense or wary, and he was certain she could hear the grinding of his teeth.
(She won’t fuckin’ take me seriously, he thought, and as his hands clenched into fists he never paused to consider -- Maybe it’s trust she’s displaying, and not condescendence.)
He swore he’d seen that pose for the last time.
He’d break it apart with his own hands, cast it aside and replace it with what should have been there all along.
That night, he was the only one who laughed, with her blood splattered on his lips.