By silver_neko_kitsune
There are certain questions that, no matter how long she thinks about, will never reveal proper answers.
She doesn’t only think; she really wonders. She wonders why she bothers to spar with him even if acts like he hates her; she wonders why she lets her hand hover ever so close to the hilt of her sword whenever his lanky figure approaches with that arrogant crescent moon blade, that blade which reminds her more of a pair of angry horns rather than an a weapon of style and elegance, honed to control and precision, for battle.
A beast is nothing but an animal, Neliel thinks with exasperation dragging her usually kind and colorful thoughts down to a dull grey, and she’s always thought of him as a beast — so she should stop associating with him so much. After all, he’s expressed nothing but derision towards her, nothing but hotheaded conceit. A fight without reason, without cool logic behind it — arrogance stifling her every time she looks into those cunning snake eyes.
But when Nnoitra approaches with Tesla, silent and always respectful to somebody so foolish, she can do nothing but give him a weary look and follow him to their usual sparring grounds.
The color of envy flows before Nnoitra’s eyes, dancing around him and taunting him, making him grind his teeth and squint his eyes into an ugly glare as he tangos with it, his fingers gripped so tightly onto his weapon that his knuckles are a ghastly white.
i hate this woman i hate her i’ll beat her into submission this time
But Neliel and her long, mocking hair, flowing in the wind so delicately and with such fluidity that he can’t help but be reminded of the finer things in life — of gleaming stones and fragile china and soft flower petals mingled with new spring leaves, — evades his wild attacks and easily blocks them like they’re nothing to her. She moves so swiftly and flexibly that for a fleeting moment, his one-track mind betrays him in the worst way and makes him think almost poetically.
Neliel’s like the sea, the way that she twists and maneuvers until she’s close against him, staring blankly with her infuriating doe eyes and crimson mark beneath them.
Neliel’s like the sea, the way that she lashes out savagely but just as enticingly as her blade crashes against his torso, making the same crimson stain his white clothes and her quick but powerful sword —
— that bitch —
Even as she stands victorious and even as he’s sending her looks that would freeze water anyway, he can’t help but staring at her soft green hair, moving fluidly just like the rest of her body, a part of Nnoitra isn’t only gritting his teeth at the fact that he’s lost yet again, but also the fact that Neliel’s like the sea.
He’ll never be able to keep her.
As always, Nel doesn’t bother with the finishing blow. She only lets out a sigh, one of relief or exhaustion or annoyance she’s not too sure of, makes an easy comment that dispels most animosity that he could have picked up from her, and then walks away like nothing’s happened even if her mind is occupied with thoughts of Nnoitra.
I really don’t understand–
She lets her lips curve downward slightly, cutting off her own thought. After a few moments of nothing but silence both from her lips and in her mind, Nel finally admits to herself that, yes, she understands, but she doesn’t want to have to face the fact that she’s been patiently fighting Nnoitra all this time to give him chances.
Neliel looks up at the imitation Earth sky in a moment of idleness — there’s the sky, so limitless — before her gaze suddenly flits downward with her hands clasped lazily together, her dark lashes contrasting nicely with her pale skin. She can imagine herself in her head: looking demure in the sudden gesture, proper if not for the sword at her side, inviting and kind in the artificial light of day.
And for a minute, she hates herself for it, because in her mind’s eye, she’s just like the vast and lovely expanse above.
here comes that woman again that wench who calls me an animal
He keeps a smirk on his face even if his eyes are cold — subzero temperatures, ice, captured water, he thinks to help make the smirk feel a little easier — and greets Neliel as she approaches him with her hips naturally swaying. Nnoitra’s eyes narrow the slightest as he follows the pendulum motion, never ending, back and forth, always hypnotizing.
How can somebody so damn enticing be so damn difficult? She holds herself with such dignity in that fine hourglass figure of hers. Not paying attention to the fact that he’s being obvious, he lets his gaze roll over her curves and indulges himself in undressing her with his eyes. It’s only when Neliel’s eyes meet his own with her disarming thick lashes but stern gaze that he stops, enough of his mind not concentrated on her body to remember who won their match earlier in the day.
The first thought is that, really, Nnoitra is aggravatingly easy to read at times like this. She feels his eyes raking over her body, scrutinizing every inch of her form and reminding her that, no, Nnoitra didn’t hate her. He merely hates her power. For Nnoitra to truly hate her, he will first have to stop spending so much of his (probably minimal) brain power contemplating her body.
He stops after she sends him a bemused look and she continues on, wondering how many times she’s going to have to run into this man in a day. One would think that meeting one person by chance would happen only a few times a week in a complex as big as Las Noches is.
Nel’s lips tug upward, just a little, when she gets close to rounding the corner, but the half-smile falls when Nnoitra speaks up again.
He asks for a rematch.
Somehow, in some way, in between all of the blocks and advances, the swift chopping motions he does with Santa Teresa, and all the times he has to evade Neliel’s concise weapon, Nnoitra finds the time to wonder what kind of beast his opponent finds him to be.
Of course there’s always the obvious connection between him and the praying mantis, he thinks idly with a mental snort, but who knows what goes on in a woman’s head, especially in a nonsensical woman like Nel?
she makes no sense women aren’t supposed to be so dangerous like monsters she’s just weak and i’ll prove it
The metal crescent swings down with a judging force before his eyes, somehow stopped by Neliel’s slender arms and slim blade, and the rage of his attack makes him think of horns, sharp and ready for goring. The devil’s horns or bull horns, he doesn’t know–hell, isn’t the image of the devil supposed to be based off of a cow anyway?
But he doesn’t see the color of blood being tangled and lured in front of him. He only sees the color of sin.
Olé, olé, he thinks bemusedly with a wild grin as he attacks again, and wonders how the crowd will react when their beloved matador is bloodied up.
Nel’s eyes widen into clearly seen sharp attentiveness, no longer dreamy as Nnoitra manages to wound her for the first time in a long time, his snake eyes gleaming in victory.
She shouldn’t be egotistical enough to be surprised; after all, even Nnoitra has managed to hit her at certain, though exceedingly occasional, times. Her expression hardens and she doesn’t let the mantis, the snake, the devil or whatever Nnoitra was supposed to be strike her a second time.
So he loses.
He loses and there’s humiliation and resent written clearly on his face. He hates her power and dominance with all his being right then and Nel just stands there, calmly regarding him with her mind lingering on the red-edged tear in her clothes, just the slightest bit of regret on her facial expression.
“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Nnoitra hisses out. “Just kill me already.”
But she’s calm like always, determined not to let him get to her — nor does she want him to get the wrong idea, though Nel’s not sure why she’s bothering with correcting him either. “I do not pity you, and I’m not bothering to kill you either,” she says evenly, but he only spits and gets up.
She turns to leave and drift away as if nothing’s happened as always, although she’s hesitating within her mind. She certainly doesn’t pity him, Nel reminds herself, that’s not why there’s regret on her face. She just feels so… tired of always having to be so powerful, always having her beauty being so misleading.
It’s not as if Nnoitra’s pig-headed comments have finally gotten to her; it’s simply that she is a woman with consciousness and emotions: thus, an insignificant but bothersome part of her has always wanted a man — a man who can dominate her, remove the leading role that she’s always borne.
And Nnoitra's just come so painfully close to that, too.
I’m such a masochist, aren’t I? Nel thinks as her thoughts keep drifting back to the blooming red flower on her abdomen.
Nnoitra feels his usual grin coming back when he sees the look on Neliel’s face as she glances at her wound. Neliel Tu is his enemy and he thus knows her well down to most every mannerism she holds around him — and he certainly recognizes the fleeting expression she wears when she glances down at her wound.
she’s pleased by that cut i gave her that masochist that sick woman–
But he’s not complaining, not at all. After all, this kind of opportunity was rare to come by for him. Thus, Nnoitra ignores the stabbing sensation in his own torso, and approaches Neliel, his eyes lit in anticipation.
She suddenly stops before him and turns back to look at him, opening her mouth to say something — but he silences her quickly enough, not with another wound, not with strangling fingers tight around her pretty little neck, but with his lips against hers. The kiss is by no means soft or gentle or in any way romantic; Nnoitra’s a hard kisser, his freezing cold lips taut over his awful teeth before he forces his tongue into Neliel’s mouth.
He’s caught her at just the right time; she’s too shaken, still too distracted by that damn wound and her own weak, feminine thoughts she probably had to protest much. Nnoitra takes the opportunity to pull her closer towards him with his inhumanly long arm, finger absentmindedly tracing a three on her back.
That number. It’s just a number, he thinks.
It means nothing to him now, for he is taking away the power she has as the third Espada, controlling and taking her power as his own.
Neliel Tu Oderschvank wonders about too many things with muddy answers, she finally decides — like why Nnoitra’s kissing her, why she’s a masochist, why she’s not pushing him away–
But then she feels the finger on her back, tracing a design that is all too familiar to her, the sensation too light and too gentle compared to Nnoitra’s heavy kiss.
Then she stops questioning, and simply kisses back.
