[October 3] [Bleach] [Life, Dichromic]
Title: Life, Dichromic
Day/Theme: October 3 / snow white rose red
Series: Bleach
Character/Pairing: Aizen, Hinamori
Rating: PG for implication
Spoilers Warnings: Do not read if you have not seen to the end of the Soul Society arc.
White: the hand on her head, pale skin on dark hair; the pull of his lips as he praises her and grins.
Red: the scratch wounds on her arms; her uniform, red as youth; the stain on her cheeks as she watches him fight.
White: his captain’s robe, his kind words; and they are so pure, so pure and so powerful.
Red: the color her knuckles turn when she grips her adjutant’s badge too tight, and his calm, rosy face as he slides it up her arm, ruffling her hair afterward.
White: the wall behind him, the halo around him, for he is an angel fallen, perfection embodied in death and injustice.
Red: all she can see, that which clouds her vision, and she runs and screams and cries out and even months later, the color coats the insides of her eyes and she notices nothing else.
White: his smile; the large, soothing hands on her body, on her back, and then painful, driving, through her stomach.
Red: the color of nothingness as she falls and thinks “why,” and the color of his footsteps as he walks away, now, and for forever.
White: the coat that falls over her shoulders, less masculine than his but filling its (his) form nicely, and then the two syllables that fall from her lips and the flame that springs up behind her.
Red: the color of both their worlds as they’re engulfed in fire.
Day/Theme: October 3 / snow white rose red
Series: Bleach
Character/Pairing: Aizen, Hinamori
Rating: PG for implication
Spoilers Warnings: Do not read if you have not seen to the end of the Soul Society arc.
White: the hand on her head, pale skin on dark hair; the pull of his lips as he praises her and grins.
Red: the scratch wounds on her arms; her uniform, red as youth; the stain on her cheeks as she watches him fight.
White: his captain’s robe, his kind words; and they are so pure, so pure and so powerful.
Red: the color her knuckles turn when she grips her adjutant’s badge too tight, and his calm, rosy face as he slides it up her arm, ruffling her hair afterward.
White: the wall behind him, the halo around him, for he is an angel fallen, perfection embodied in death and injustice.
Red: all she can see, that which clouds her vision, and she runs and screams and cries out and even months later, the color coats the insides of her eyes and she notices nothing else.
White: his smile; the large, soothing hands on her body, on her back, and then painful, driving, through her stomach.
Red: the color of nothingness as she falls and thinks “why,” and the color of his footsteps as he walks away, now, and for forever.
White: the coat that falls over her shoulders, less masculine than his but filling its (his) form nicely, and then the two syllables that fall from her lips and the flame that springs up behind her.
Red: the color of both their worlds as they’re engulfed in fire.