A/N: Writing exercise to hopefully kick my muse back in gear. NaNoWriMo seems to have killed her this year. This is Bleach, purely ShunsuixNanao, done in sentence format using a 30-prompt theme list I found on one of the many LJ communities I subscribe to.
Hope everyone enjoys! R & R if you like; I may consider doing a few more of these to keep myself in shape and have some drabble practice.
(Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own the couple or Bleach, and no one pays me for this.)
While her captain loved spring, Nanao loved the coolness of winter and the chill that brought him indoors when he napped.
He felt a moment of guilt when he overheard them say he had cut her wings but brushed it off; she would flourish and fly only with him as long as he could keep her there.
The sparkling, scratched surface of the lenses always gave her eyes a shine, a flourish that only he could truly appreciate.
Her favorite memories were of her captain on long, quiet weekends, lazing about in the barrack's courtyard and sipping tea with her in the cool of the evening.
When he had become the star she revolved around, she never knew.
While she relished in keeping him in line, in letting him think she threw every scrap of paper he left on her desk away, she actually kept them tucked safely in her accounts book, sandwiched between pages of rigid numbers and cool mathematics.
There was a spot on the hem of his pink kimono that would never come out; it didn't bother him because it was the one reminder he had of her clumsiness as a child.
She couldn't let him kiss her—one touch of his lips would shatter her resolve to fight him off.
His hands were large, calloused, covered in tiny brown hairs that she longed to feel the texture of.
He wouldn't let her leave the office without a scarf in winter, claiming the cold would ruin his "sweet Nanao-chan's" voice.
She couldn't help but tremble when his large hand tangled in her hair, pulling the brown, crinkled leaf loose.
He knew every scar she had, categorized them, counted them as his personal failures.
Everyone called her cold, frigid, cool, but only he seemed to really see what lurked underneath the well-maintained exterior she presented—there was a fire burning deep inside her, waiting to be let loose.
She envied his ability to let his emotion shine through his eyes while she was forced to hide everything she ever felt.
He enjoyed listening to everyone speculate about the contents of her ever-present book almost as much as he enjoyed being the only soul besides Nanao that knew what it was.
She made her way to the office with the morning chimes, her reiatsu instinctively searching for his and allowing her to relax when she felt him still curled up in his own quarters, heavily asleep.
The desires whispered through her mind, fleeting words and hushed voices—you could give in, you could let it be—but she always pushed them down deep, afraid to let herself have one moment of hope.
Her coughing startled him, made his heart leap in his chest.
Her logic was flawless; unfortunately, he still hadn't taught her to also think with her heart.
Each deep rumble cut into her heart like a knife, the jealousy almost too much to bear; she could never begrudge him happiness, but he never gave her his laughter, only these unnamed women he spent his nights with.
He remembered her as a child, too young to keep up but determined to do so at any cost.
As his warm, moist breath swept across her cheek, she couldn't help but lean closer into his chest, her pathetic heart eating up the small amount of time she was able to be close to him—even if he had to be drunk for her to get there.
He knew she didn't know how much her eyes could tell him; he could read the hurt, the pain, the longing that she suppressed daily and wished she would let him close enough to push it away.
He wondered if she would ever leave him, if the next woman or the next hangover would be one too many, but he dreaded the day she finally did.
She had been in love with her captain for thirty-six years, seven months, thirteen days, two hours, and fifty-six minutes.
She was afraid of spiders, so he always removed them from the room; he was afraid of loneliness, so she never let him feel it.
No matter how much he begged, pleaded, cajoled—even offered to do paperwork—she would never sit beside him, only across from him.
Her scream was loud and harsh on the battlefield, causing him to immediately swivel his head and look for the sparks of kidō that always told him where he could find her and keep her safe from her own ambition.
She kept flowers in the office because he liked them, because flowers were his passion; she let him believe it was just ikebana practice, though, to keep her true motive hidden.
His smile was teasing, touching, tender when directed at her; her smile showed her exasperation, reluctant enjoyment, her fondness when he was able to pull it out of her.