This was an ongoing idea I've had for a little while. It's my first time formally writing with this pairing, so I'm sorry if it's like out of character or stuff like that. I think Nel is kind of hard to write, but work with me. So this is rated high T because of some retrospective semi-smut and how the F-bomb exploded everywhere . Damn Nnoitra XD

I don't own Bleach, Nnoitra, or Neliel.

With a disgruntled screech, he was forcefully thrown onto the sand; Santa Teresa clanged roughly next to his lanky side. The strength of her counter always threw him back. It was always during his last rush, his last attack. It was always when he felt that he might have had one step ahead of her, when he felt that he might have had the slightest chance at the rare upper hand. And then she'd push him back effortlessly. Indifferently.

Like she didn't give a damn.

And then he'd fall, back down at her feet.

He gasped in a rush of sandy air before clenching his jaw tight. A small trickle of salty fluid ran down his throat as he weakly propped himself on his hands. This time, she made him fucking bleed. He gulped in the blood, feeling the silvery pixels of sand travel coarsely down his throat.

"Y-You...f-fuckin' bitch-h—! You're g-gonna fuckin' pay!"

Sheathing her green zanpakuto—Gamuza, as it was rightly named—Neliel sighed at him, or maybe, at herself. He didn't know, and he didn't give that much of a damn.

"If you're to say such things, you should be standing at my equal."

He spat down in the sand, and she stared down at him, expressionless; her hair waved gently in the wind behind her.

"Shit!—tha' hell I'm equal ta' you!"

She glanced away, and began to turn.

"That..." Her soft voice trailed off questionably but returned just the same as she locked eyes with him, "...is why you always fall."

Her words were so ambiguous sometimes, just fuck it. But he knew her meaning. It didn't take a fucking genius.

Nnoitra gritted his teeth as she began to walk away through the sand, back to the upper floors of Las Noches, and back to her little sanctuary of "peace". She'd read her books, she'd talk to those useless fracción of hers, she'd laugh and smile and not think anything of fucking throwing him to the ground just twenty minutes before.

He gulped in the vehemence trailing down his throat, coursing throughout his veins and tall body.

Fuck it all. He hated her.

His eye narrowed.

Nnoitra Jiruga fucking hated her.

He would never admit that she was stronger. He would never admit that she was his superior, that she was better, faster, more skilled, and smarter. Never in his life would he ever call her something respectful—lady, sama, master, fuck no—he'd rather die by the hand of some fucking weakling scum arrancar than bow down to the likes of her.

Stupid fucking bitch.

Yeah, that was one of his "pet" names for her. Out of all the other colorful things he had, that was one of his favorites.

Neliel Tu Odelschwanck—'Stupid Fucking Bitch'.

Tch.

Tres Espada his skinny ass.

Hell, he would wait. Damn, and she would see. She thought she was so damned smart—she could read, she was fluent in so many damned things it was almost as if she thought she was still a fucking human. Stupid. Stupid fucking...

He hated her. The lust of his hate was almost as potent as his lust to battle, to kill, to taste the blood of his mutilated victims as he wiped the gore and bone and mask and flesh off his glimmering red blade. The lust of his ardent hate was just as magnified as the velocity of one slash of Santa Teresa's crushing steel against the body of his crying prey.

He would never admit that she could overcome him—he would never admit defeat to the specie of scum that was woman. Especially her. To hell with everyone else; he hated her, that stupid fucking bitch! There would be a day when she'd see him rise to the top, above her, and when he did, he'd make her scream. He'd make her scream so loud that her face would turn white, that she'd suffocate; that everyone could hear the echoes of their "passion" all throughout Las Noches. He'd make her squirm and writhe as his blade would drown in her blood. She'd bruise. Bleed. Crack. Break. Cry. He'd destroy her. He'd drag her through the very sands of the hell they were in and back. He'd fuck her up. And those useless fracción of hers—he'd get them first. It would prompt her to make the first strike. Yeah, he'd get them first. He had always wanted to see her pissed to the point of destruction. It showed that she was just as fallible as he was.

Bitch.

The honor she always talked about—it was all shit. They were all monsters, all beasts. Fuck her! She was just as much a fucking beast as he was! She wasn't a human. None of them were. She wasn't above any of them.

He just needed a plan. And he had time for that. He had all the time in the fucking world, because he wouldn't die. He couldn't die. She wouldn't kill him, so he would kill her in return. He'd return her favor.

Stupid fucking bitch.

"N-No, it's not over!" He spat out more blood, and it coursed through the pale-silver sand in little red rivulets, catching grains as it went, and quickly turning into clots permeated by the dry air. "I can still fight!"

The clang of Santa Teresa could be heard around her, even as her back turned away.

"It's not fuckin' over, Neliel!" Nnoitra rose to his feet, crutched by his zanpakuto. He hissed in blood and sand, crunching and grinding it under his clenched, sharp jaws. "Don't ya' turn your back on me, you bitch!"

He spat down once more, the crimson blood still dripping vulgarly down his lips, down his pointed chin. She gulped in a sigh—He'll never learn—but she continued walking towards the marble domes of Las Noches.

A blink.

A breath.

A step.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Her ears pricked—a flash of her silver blade blinded through the hot Hueco Mundo sun as she quickly twisted around, her green hair whipping the air; she parried the last flailing attack from the tall, lanky man before her. She saw her reflection in the metal of his blade—she saw her indifference of the situation. The sleek curve of his zanpakuto was only inches away from her calm face, but she was stronger. And he knew it.

Effortlessly, she pushed him back with the nonchalant clang of Gamuza, and he fell down to the sand with a forced, defeated grunt. He cursed her name. He cursed her body. He cursed the very soul she tried to keep pure of wasted blood, yet he did not curse himself.

"It's over, Nnoitra. I'm done..." She turned back briskly, her hair wisping freely in the light wind. "...I'm done."

Her repetition was soft, and he gulped in his burning, acidic hatred.

"Fuck-k you!—I said not ta' turn yer back on me, ya' damned bitch! I-I—" He gasped in dry air, and choked. "—gah, fuck!"

Elegantly pivoting back, she nimbly strolled her way towards his laying and bruised figure. She expertly sheathed her blade and looked down at his limp body; they locked gazes for only a split second—reciprocating thoughts they only wished to express in words—until he glanced away, narrowing his eye to a mere, snakelike slit at a sandy dune on the horizon. His exposed chest heaved deeply as he lay there, and finally Neliel sighed. Not at him, no—but at herself.

He spit at the ground passively, propping himself up on his elbows, ignoring her movements near him—yet, his attention was immediately caught as she delicately placed herself next to his left side on the sand. Her sword was removed from her hip, and laying freely between them on the ground.

He sneered at her dumb-ass stupidity.

Disarming herself in front of an enemy.

Sitting next to him while he was still down.

The damned bitch!

"The fuck you doin'?"

His voice was full of so much poison, so much venom and obvious vile against her, but...

It didn't faze her in the slightest. Pulling out a book from a small pack she held connected to the harness for Gamuza, she even smiled a little. Maybe if she didn't necessarily want to say it, she did value his daunting sexist, vulgar, and lecherous company. And, at some rare times, he was rather aptly suited to converse with.

He was so different from all of the others.

He scowled, his eye tilting down in a narrow glare. Half of his eye patch was dyed in blood; strands of his black, short hair were matted on his bloody forehead and high cheeks. A lone rivulet of crimson trailed down his chin and dripped carelessly down into the sand.

"Eh? The fuck you sittin' there for Neliel? Commin' ta' rub it in my face?"

His nose crinkled in anger. He lost. He fucking hated it—and he knew he was in a compromising position. Santa Teresa was thrown feet away, yet still connected to the chains at his hip. If he was to make a hostile move, she could evade it easily, and maybe make a counterattack—she was closer to her weapon than he was to his.

She could cut his damned head off in one quick slice if she wanted to.

"Fucking bitch—"

"—Would you rather I turn and leave you here?" Her deep-lashed hazel eyes skimmed the page of the book in her gloved hands; she didn't bother looking up, for she knew she had surprised him with her comment. She continued, "If so, I can call Tesla for you. He loves serving you, despite how horrible you treat him, Nnoitra."

There was a pause.

"Tch. Tha' fuck, he's my damned fracción."

"Nonetheless. Fear is no way to lead."

He scowled, smudging the blood off of his pointed chin with the back of his hand. His voice was but a mumble.

"Geh...bitch."

She let the insult slide, because she always ended up doing so anyway. Besides, his insults were almost countless.

She turned a few pages—a few minutes passed—until she turned her head towards him. His gaze was still menacingly piercing, but his eye was lazy and weak. His brow had started to stop bleeding, coagulating at the top of his eye patch and slowly trailing down, but his movements had become lethargic and weary. He had fought at full power, yet he still hadn't been able to get one hit direct hit on her without a nimble parry.

Slowly, he was destroying himself with trying to prove that he was better. Why couldn't he learn?

"Tha' fuck ya' starin' at, huh?"

She sighed, and indignantly rolled her hazel eyes.

Removing the white glove from her right hand, she reached towards him. Her motion faltered as she sensed the warm radiation of his hot skin, but she touched his face nevertheless, wiping the slick blood away from his parted lips. She knew he wouldn't attack her. But if he did, she didn't know if she would be able to counter it, even if she wanted to.

Finally, she spoke.

"You really are reckless..."

Her voice was soft, tender—much like the delicate stroke of her fingers. She wasn't reprimanding him, nor pitying him, accusing him or condemning. He nonchalantly leaned into it.

"...I don't understand it sometimes."

She was accepting him.

He would never tell her how much he loved the feeling of her soft lips against his, or how much he loved the feeling of her small hands pressed against the bare skin of his chest. He would never tell her that he loved her, that his need was as dire for her as their need to breath. For that, he fucking hated himself. He was fucking weak. Fucking weak in the means of love, declaration—and so he hated himself.

He didn't know why he kept returning to her, even after she had defeated him time and time again. What he couldn't understand was why she kept accepting him, after all the threats, after all the spilt blood. Maybe because they were the same—fuck, he was a fucking sadist, this everybody and their fucking grandma knew. Yet...because she, and he, would always come back to each other, she was surely a masochist. He fucking hated it. He would never tell her, but she wasn't the one he hated. He hated himself, it—their weakness.

But, he fucking loved it. It would run rampant through his mind time and time again. Then to keep his feelings dormant he'd exchange his lust for her for the lust to fucking kill. Dammit all. Dammit—fucking—all.

He loved the feel of her warm skin on his, the brush of her pale green hair on his face, that fucking way she moaned a little when they would kiss. He loved it. Lusted after it, kept it hidden, and then destroyed it—yet it would all return back to him and crush him under the weight. Nonetheless...he loved it.

Fuck, he loved roughly grabbing her hips, crushing her close to his body. And though, even if she wasn't particularly rough, he loved the piercing rush of her fingernails digging into his hard forearms, his back. He loved swallowing her ragged gasps and tangling his hands in her fine hair.

Shit.

He loved her to the very brinks of hate. And even when she'd win and cast him back down to the ground, he'd still fucking come back to her—morning, night, again and again. He was dependent. Yet, she was independent. There was no way he could control her—he always felt that she was controlling him, and it was fucking true, and it was something that he couldn't deny, even if he wanted to. She controlled his actions, she controlled his hate.

She controlled his love.

Yet, what he wouldn't ever say, and what he would never admit to her in light or dark, was that he loved her. He hated the thought—and so he hated himself. He needed her in ways that he had never known before—and, because of this dependency he wanted to shed in blood, he'd cast a shadow over his eye, and it would only get darker as each clash of their weapons echoed in his ears.

If he could destroy her by means of destroying his weakness, then so be it. He couldn't stand the addiction of their love, of the fight he couldn't win.

Love.

"Ah, Nnoitra-sama, why have you called such a late audience with me?"

He gritted his teeth.

"There's someone I need ta' wipe out."

They all knew it was him. It was his fault. They all knew Szayel had helped him with it too. Life had become boring and eventless without her. Yet...they continued to dump their pity onto him—though now it was worse. They had "loved" her too..."love"...they were all monsters...they didn't know "love"...they all "loved" her too...

But they didn't love her in the same way he did. The fuck if they knew what love was!

If the addiction isn't fueled then the hunger perishes, yet his addiction only grew. Withdrawals, yet no relapses. She was gone.

Gone.

He destroyed her room the night of her expulsion. He destroyed everything that she had left with her. Her room was nothing but rubble, and her possessions were nothing more but shreds of clothing and paper; he thought that in destroying the material things, her shadow that had always followed him would die too. But he could still feel her presence, he could still feel her fingers on his skin, and he could still hear her soft, loving voice echo in her ears. He could still smell her hair; he could still see her hazel eyes looking blindly at him as he slashed her mask.

He could still feel the warmth of her blood—it was something that he couldn't wash off.

So weeks went by. Countless weeks. Time meant nothing when you couldn't die, when no one was stupid enough to challenge you, when she wasn't there.

He knew she would come back someday. Without a doubt—she was Neliel Tu Odelschwanck, and nothing could hold her down. He had tried. He had kicked her down. Ruined her. But he didn't succeed. He didn't kill her. He could make her bleed, but he couldn't fucking kill her! He could only cast her out—maybe she'd feel the pity he felt. Now. Maybe. The pity of a child. Maybe...

She'll return someday.

He'd have to wait. Maybe she'd wait for him too. Maybe she'd forget, maybe he'd forget. Maybe when the time came, they'd see who would die—who was worthy of death, and who was worthy for the victor. Who was worthy for the fucking love. Maybe his love would disappear under the bloodlust that was now his only carnal desire.

Huh, yeah, fuck that.

Doubt was for the weak. She would never forget, and neither would he. She would return—revived back in her adult form, and not that fucking kid form he reverted her to—and he knew that he'd die by her hands when the time was ready. So he would be ready. He would be the superior; he'd tower down at her, much as she used to do when he was down on the ground. Time was on his fucking side this time.

But she'd win.

Resilient bitch.

He had destroyed her to rinse his body of despair. Yet because he did, its weight only pulled him farther down into its abyss. Her expulsion only fucking threw off his equilibrium, all because he was a fucking selfish, bitter, son of a bitch; all because he couldn't stand her superiority, he banished her to exile—it was almost the same as if she did die, because she was the only one worthy of fighting against his blade. Fuck himself, because he wasn't even worthy of hell—but he was in it, they were all in it, but she wasn't.

All the things he wouldn't say...

I'm a fool.

I need you.

I was wrong.

I...miss you.

You were better.

Stronger.

I...love you.

Fuck.

Neliel...

Nnoitra Jiruga looked out into the desert of silver sand, of white bare trees, of where she was hiding out somewhere, away from him.

His eye narrowed in self-loathe.

The next time he would see her, he would die.

"I'm sorry."

Yeah...so there it is. It's so baaaaad. Hopelessly romantic as hell, yo. Eh. It's so choppy...I'll have to do another edit later.

Please review! Would be greatly appreciated! Point out typos, OoC-ness, suckiness, and the like. I greatly heart NnoiNel, so...yeah. *shrug* I thought I'd maybe make it official. If it works out I guess it'll be a prelude for what's to come next. Thanks for reading! :D