I'm so happy. I finally--finally--got inspiration for my OTPOAT. Finally. Even if it's only a drabble, that doesn't change the fact that it's been over freaking half a year since I wrote for them. Oh my effing Aizen. Squeee. 8D
Unbeta'd. Therefore all mistakes are mine, and mine alone. Also--cross-posted. Sorry about that.
So yeah. Enjoy? 8D
Pairing/Fandom: Nnoitra x Szayel/Bleach (Yeah. That's right. I went there. )
Warnings: An extremely vague mentioning of man x man luvin's, Szayel's thought process going from sardonic to sentimental in the span of fifteen seconds, and a dubiously warranted insult (however small) to Nnoitra's intelligence.
Wordcount: 325. Apparently. MS Word likes to lie to me.
A cry, a grunt, and a subsequent stilling of the frantic motions that had, only seconds before, been shaking the bed. It was a routine, almost; what they did behind closed doors--or open ones, if Nnoitra felt so inclined. Except it wasn’t ‘routine’ at all, for that word implied a fixed agenda; something expected, and unchanging.
Szayel rolled onto his side, the moment his lover rolled off of him. For once, he disregarded the immediate urge to move closer to the other--to run his hand along the man’s sweat-slicked chest; evidence of their activity. As if there were any need.
A long time passed like that--not that he was keeping track, in any way--but it must have been long, for Nnoitra to even think to question his unnatural disengagement.
"You still alive over there, Szay?" he asked, reaching over to run a hand through the pink tresses.
“Mmm. I was...thinking.”
“Oh yeah?” Nnoitra’s interest was perked, if only barely. “About what?”
'Thinking about this mess we call ‘life’. What is it even good for? We feed on each other, and take pleasure in the savagery that dictates our meaningless existence. Day in, day out--it’s all the same. All so monotonous. The only surprise is you--the things you say, the things you do...the way you look at me when you touch--' He felt himself flush, and quickly derailed that train of thought.
Nnoitra was watching him now--sitting up in the bed, and facing him; head tilted curiously, and brows drawn together in what might have been taken for worry, had Szayel not known any better. Which he did.
And then he realized that Nnoitra was still waiting for an answer.
Simplicity. It was all the Quinta could handle, as far as Szayel was concerned. Besides, there was only one answer that mattered; that could sum it all up in less than the blink of an eye.