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thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2007-03-11 01:31 am
thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-03-11 01:31 am
Log; Complete
When; March 10th, evening
Rating; R/NC-17
Characters; Cirucci {![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thunderwitch} & Zaera-Polo {unresearched}
Summary; Not satisfied with the way her meeting with Il Forte went, Zaera-Polo promises the Privaron a lesson she should heed, frustrated himself with what is expected of him, but the lesson gets lost in the selfish pursuits of other such things.
Log;
She had been here just yesterday, and it wasn’t often she attended the same one twice so close together, with one exception. Which unnerved her, as did the Octava’s words. When he was at his most cryptic was when he was most dangerous. Cirucci was still bleeding, though it had mostly clotted from where Il Forte had opened the wound in her side, sore and painful, as was all of her at the moment. And the Privaron knocked cautiously, wondering why the simple sound sounded like a death knell or some such, trying to dismiss such thoughts as foolish, as many of her musings had been of late. But she couldn’t shake the feeling, shifting awkwardly as she waited. Nervous? Perhaps.
He snapped the book he'd been reading shut, throwing it casually on top of a pile of other books, all unnamed on the spine and none particularly interesting in his current mindset. No, he wanted something much more than learning, than understanding. He wanted his purpose. And while there was nothing stopping him from that - for crying out loud, Cirucci and Il Forte had gone unpunished and they'ed killed a shinigami - he somehow couldn't be bothered. Didn't want to deal with the uproar it would cause, the irritation that would come from the Octava so much as fingering the hilt of the sword still strapped to his side.
This place, quite frankly, bored him, even with the large number of shinigami present. The knock at the door however, was very, very welcome. Smiling - smirking, rather - he didn't move from his seat, grabbing another book instead and fingering through the pages. "It's open," he muttered, loud enough for her to sense the impatience behind the words but not so loud for it to come across as the order it was. Let her find out for herself what her lesson was.
The Thunderwitch opened the door and wondered idly what it was about Grantz brothers not even opening their own damn doors ever. But that amusing thought only distracted her for a brief second before the unpleasant apprehension resettled in the pit of her stomach, not daring show any weakness by wincing or gripping her side at the constant ache. Stupid Il Forte. Well, he’d called for Rori, he’d realize his mistake… while she had to face one she couldn’t recall. She hadn’t said the wrong name last night had she? … She didn’t think she had… The Privaron did not speak, closing to door behind her and waiting there, to be told what her next move should be, what it was allowed to be. … There would be no risking anything today with him, not when she could see that smirk on his face.
Zaera-Polo threw the book down to join the rest once more, moving antagonisingly slowly as he stood. The smallest chuckle escaped him as he straightened, watching her not move. How unlike her. Had he really come across as that angry, irritated, hungry? No matter, not to him. Let her worry about what he was going to teach her, let her fear the enigmatic expression gracing his face and the way a hand came to naturally rest on the zanpakuto he wore. Let her anticipate pain and pleasure and everything in between as he waited in turn for her to break and say something, anything, to move and succumb and beg for mercy and - mm, yes. Let there be the one thing he craved for above all else, his eyes taking full note of the blood stain on her clothes. Tch, and he'd only just cleaned her. He'd been hoping for a fresh canvas.
He'd make do.
… He was waiting for her. The fear slipped, and she quashed it, forcing it down to the hole in her chest, symbol of what she was, what she lacked, and the fear she was made from. … Had to be normal, had to be the same. Her lips quirked up into a smirk of her own, making her way towards his seat, minimizing the slight limp she wanted to acquire to ease the pain at her side, brushing the swing of one ponytail from her face as she slipped onto the arm of the seat, perching lightly, tipping her head to view the pile of books. “Nothing to read, darling?” She murmured, not yet touching, merely coming closer, into reach, like willingly walking into the maw of a dangerous beast.
"Nothing of interest." Was she trying to play coy? She really didn't get it. She at least knew he was in control even now, knew not to push too far too soon, but... He'd been hoping she'd attempt to be defiant. Attempt to try and see how far his patience extended. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, kneeling down so he had to look up at her face, the smallest of smirks slipping into place, the sort that made numeros run to do whatever he said. But answering her question aside he remained silent, hand still on zanpakuto but the other resting on his knee, looking for all the world as if he was bowing to her though his expression, the fact that he didn't defer his gaze gave it all away. There was only one person he'd truly bow for, after all. And it certainly wasn't the Privaron.
… What was he- she frowned, not moving from her perch on the chair arm, though she let one leg sling over the side to dangle, easing the pressure of bunched muscles in her side. Cirucci looked down at him, puzzled. … He was just trying to bait her or something, unnerve her, wasn’t he? What was he waiting for? She usually could tell what the boys wanted, how they wanted her to act, to appear, to even speak. But Zaera-Polo… she hardly ever knew. And that frustrated her, as well as made her nervous. “Gotten bored of the lesson, Polo-darling?” She crooned, testing for what he wanted, what he desired. “I can go if you have, don’t want to disturb your reading time.” She said it flippantly, as if she had better things to do, more important matters to attend to.
Heh, there it was. The hand not on his sword shot out, found a grip on the fabric of her top and pulled her off the seat, down, roughly. Onto him. "Privaron," was hissed into her ear, the same hand trailing up her unwounded side and moving the fabric with it. Had she honestly believed he'd want her two nights in a row? He was one of the least carnal, the one most likely to content himself with other things. Granted, the City had taken away most of those other things but. Two nights in a row. The Octava almost laughed but contained it as he pushed the Privaron back against the chair, eyes cold and smirk still in place. "The lesson is for your sake, not mine. And it will be one you won't forget." Ah, how he loved reminding people of their lower positions, hand not moving as it held her back and he advanced slightly, sitting up ever so slightly so that he was looking down again.
She’d wriggled a bit at the touch, she was sensitive to such things, always had been. At finding her back against the chair she pushed a bit, having been pinned quite enough lately, in her own opinion. His gaze was met by hers, steady, the hints of her fear hidden as well as she was able. “I hardly expected it to be for your benefit, Octava,” she spat out, “you don’t need any lessons.” And it was both insult and flattery, in tone and wording. But she didn’t struggle hard yet, only slight pushes against the seat, one leg snaking closer to her body, placing her stocking foot, she hadn’t bothered with shoes, against his chest as if to halt his progress.
He glanced away as the smirk widened, finally moving the other hand from sword to leg, starting at the thigh as fingers ran down the outside to her ankle, slowly turning his attention back to her. She really didn't want to be here, he guessed. Would rather be with the trash he called brother. Would rather dote on Wonderwyce. But he didn't care. He was Espada. Grip light on her ankle then, he moved the foot, other hand pulling her forward and into his lap with a near feral grin. Bringing his other hand to rest on her thigh once more Zaera-Polo none-too-gently nipped at her neck before raising his head to murmur into her ear, "Try not to scream."
A sigh had escaped her lips at the feathery touches, a slight shudder, responding as she always did to such ministrations. The Privaron settled in his lap with a small wriggle, baring her neck further, eyes open and alert, even as she tried to concentrate on the sensation, knowing they wouldn’t stay pleasant long. At his decree, and it always had the sense of that, his statements, always seeming like condescending orders and edicts, she tensed against him, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other at his hip. … She didn’t know where he would strike, where she’d bleed, but she knew she would.
Keeping his hand on her thigh for now, the other moved to her throat as sonido came into play so that she was on the floor in a nonexistant heartbeat with a thud, below him, under him. Where trash like her belonged. The grip was lax for now but heavy, a reminder as he moved to undo her top with that all too familiar enigmatic expression that kept him out of trouble and in it. The existing wound first, fingers lightly moving across the damaged area, around it, teasing and nearly kind. He wanted her to fight back, to resist the feelings he was allowing her, to realize the danger she was in if she merely submitted to his minstrations but at the same time it was fine if she didn't, allowed the Octava the satisfaction of truly catching her off guard. With such thoughts in mind his fingers slipped tighter on her neck, softer on her side. Which hand she moved to stop would tell him enough.
She’d frozen for a moment as her world turned over, leaving her now on her back and looking up. A soft murmur of something, words perhaps, were lost, too quiet to be heard, perhaps not meant to be, pale skin baring under his hand at her chest. His hand at her throat was unwelcome, another thing they all seemed to enjoy doing. But she could still breath, still talk, and his hand at her side… she writhed a bit, a hand coming up to cover the still freshly clotted wound that Il Forte had opened again only recently, the teasing touch slowly creeping up her spine with a tingle of pain and pleasure. She realized the potential dangers of not offering any resistance, of not being feisty, at least a little, and she was willing to offer that, at least.
The smirk turned dangerous as he slipped the hand higher, pulling aside the fabric properly but still not lowering himself, not granting her the further satisfaction of her job and him against her, no kiss or bite. Let her beg for it. She was doing so little to please him, after all. The Privaron really did need this lesson and he idly licked at what little blood had found its way onto his hand as he stared at her, making no further move to undress her or himself as he loosened his grip on her neck, let his hand rest beside her head to support him as he continued to stay silent, partially to unnerve her and partially to see how long it would take before she would question, demand, vocally beg versus what her body was telling him.
It didn’t take long. It never did. A slight whisper of a whimper, hating that silence, that stillness, trying to draw him closer, reaching up to bring him down with her, hands finding purchase on his uniform and tugging lightly, arching her torso enough to kiss lightly at his ear. “Zaera-Polo…” It was a barely audible whine, full of promises and want, preferring pain and pleasure, blood and sweat, to that silence and that wait he made her despise, probably loved to make her despise.
He allowed her inches, still supporting himself though closer, enough for her to tell the difference in body temperature but not enough for her to really feel it. He hated how rushed she'd been before, how self-interested she had been as he'd licked blood clean, moved carefully to irritate the wounds and let them continue bleeding. This time he'd get his way, hand trailing back down the uncovered skin and fingers playing at the most sensitive skin - her hollow hole. "Cirruci," he murmured, allowing her the courtesy of her name in the tone that suggested she'd have to move fast if she wanted to keep his attention on the good side of things though the wicked smile already indicated she had no hope.
It was a game she could never win, no matter how hard she tried. He always won. She tugged on his uniform again, hard this time, at the touch of the hole in her chest that sent shivers across her skin, made her moan into his ear, no longer kissing but nipping, licking, trying to bring him closer, closer, not so far away, so tantalizingly close, that warmth he refused her, baited her with, lorded over her. His name was whispered again, like a cadence, his name, she wouldn’t make another mistake like that again. The Thunderwitch still didn’t know what lesson he meant to instill, other than the one he usually liked, that he was superior. Higher ranked, higher power, better Espada than a mere Privaron like her. At those thoughts, those actions, one leg rose to stroke against his hip and thigh, toes catching hold of the white fabric of his hakama and tugging there as well, expressing her dissatisfaction with the state of the garment.
He grunted at the insistance but refused to help her. If she wanted his clothes off she'd have to do it herself, the Espada content to tease, trying to draw out more than just his name. He wanted begging, complete control and utter subjugation, a fight, blood, death and pain and pleasure and hurt and tears and everything else that was supposed to come with being an Espada, one of Aizen-sama's elite. With one last teasing caress he pushed her back, down, hard against the floor, giving her that little bit more as he leant down with her, both hands now on either side of her head, voice level and calm and completely unaffected by her attempts to win him over and convince him she was worth the effort. "What's wrong, Privaron? Tired already?"
“No.” She snarled, a flash of anger at his attitude, always so goddamned- him. But her voice hitched at that last touch, always susceptible to those distractions. She was tired, of his attitude, his damned nonchalance, his smug face that reminded her of another one, and her body was tired, lagging, sore, wounded, worn. But she ignored it for now, trying to draw back on that anger she’d had when fighting his pet, which was easy to do, considering thinking about one drew thoughts to the other, and any thoughts of Zaheela lit a hatred in her. Cirucci moved her legs, trying to kick one of his to the side and use such an opportunity to raise herself from the floor, the fire smoldering back in her glance.
He let her with a smirk, one hand instantly moving to her hair and the other to her hip, pulling her with him, onto him once more the closest he'd let her get so far, but still holding back, refusing to kiss her, to do anything beyond hold her as his grip tightened in her hair and the other hand moved to pull at her skirt briefly before trailing back up her side, constantly teasing and taunting her. He wanted her to want it, to force it out of him. The Espada wanted just one word to come from her, knowing full well he probably wouldn't get it. But it wouldn't stop him from trying.
Laying on his zanpakuto was uncomfortable but he left it for now, slipped nimble fingers across the Privarons back to touch the skin around her hole again, fully intent on his goal before he'd give in.
Now it was her hands by his head, slipping her leg over his hip to straddle him and take a bit of control for herself. But she kept getting distracted, unable to ignore the touches, the teases, each time she tried to focus he managed to waylay her mind, so easily steered of course by such things. Biting back a moan she dipped her head to kiss him, since he wouldn’t, nip at his bottom lip and wriggle against his hips as he once again tortured her by playing at the rim of the hole in her chest. “Zaera-Polo-“ She grit out, one hand moving to run a thumb across the arm of his glasses, so damn intelectual, non-responsive- “Decide what you want.” Cirucci wasn’t even sure what that was meant to mean, but she wanted him to finish what he had started, didn’t care what he wanted, what did he want? Begging? Please? If need to, she would, if only to assuage that feeling he was rousing in her, assuage the fear, assuage the frustrating not-touching when she wanted touch.
He allowed her the satisfaction of eliciting a moan with the kiss, smiling as she broke the first part of the obstacles he'd set her. He forced her back into the kiss, fierce, pushed her back, up, sitting to ease the pressure on his lower back from steel and scabbard, finally fully freeing her from her top, hands dropping to her hip and practically tormenting her as his thumbs slipped beneath the band, tugging the cloth down ever so slightly. But it was still her duty to remove the rest. "I know what I want. You have to try and give me that," he growled against her lips, dangerous, suggesting her failure to please.
She almost groaned against his mouth, irritated that now he was foisting it on her, making her do all the work, blaming her- no. That just wouldn’t do. “Then tell me what you want.” The Privaron hissed, frustrated at his teasing and non-committal touch, moving her hands to where his rested at where her top fell away from skirt and made her writhe with want that he wouldn’t yet fulfill, skimming past his fingers to insert her own under the edge of his uniform top, inching their way up and under the tight fabric, nails scraping over his stomach and sides. “You want me to beg?” She hissed, eyes narrowed, she was unwilling to let them surrender to the half-glazed look of pleasure fully yet. “Fight?”
"Where's the fun in merely telling you?" He spat back, growling again from the touch, from irritation that she still didn't get it. Would never get it, could never be good for much beyond the act itself. He moved one hand up, back to the wound, fingers digging in deep and smile growing once more from her response, from the familiar and satisfying feel of blood. There wasn't enough of it yet and his other hand idly traced up her chest, knowing just how and where to touch as it made its way to her neck, to the spot where it had been stabbed before falling away again - a nip at her mouth, her shoulder bone, a lick at the spot he'd just touched as if to see if the taste of blood still lingered.
A shudder, before she let out a low keen, bucking against his hip at the fingers in her wound, burrowing her face against the crook of his neck and shoulder to stifle her noises, shuddering under his fingers, his mouth, one touch bestowing pleasure and the other pain, all at once. What did he want- Her mind struggled to focus on that, figure it out, damn his cryptic hints. So she tried to settle on both, digging her nails into the muscles of his chest, no gentle caress, as she tried to shrug him out of his shirt. “Please…” She whined against his skin, body aching, not just from want.
Well hell, she'd said it. His smirk was triumphant as he pulled them both up, kicked into sonido, dumped her roughly on the bed in a rush of air and yanked the skirt down - he could give her that much help - fingers trailing blood down her skin as the Espada leant over her, pinned her down and gave her an open shot at his own shirt. "Please what, Cirucci?" He damn well nearly purred the words, knew what she wanted and how close he was to getting what he wanted, demanding to hear the words. Trash was so good for entertainment, really.
And she took it, not willing to let that opportunity pass her by, running hands across bare skin, not that damned fabric, that got in the way. And the red of her own blood stained her skin, she knew he liked that, always did that. “Please-“ the word was something she didn’t like to use, but would if she had to, and the Octava knew where to touch, where to torture, torment, pain… “Stop being so damned teasing and get on with it.” Her voice was still hitching, octave switching at his words and touch, never able to silence or hide the effect the sensual had on her. She wouldn’t beg fully, not yet, wouldn’t beg to be hurt, beg for her pleasure.
Hn. He pushed down, forced himself against her with a warning growl, a near feral snarl as he bit shoulder, licked, kissed her roughly. He had no intention of doing as she said, far too happy to continue to frustrate her, to push her. He shrugged the shirt off fully for her, threw it to the side as he moved drop a hand to her thigh, to the stockings, the last of her clothes. "Why," he muttered, slipping his hand down the inside of her leg this time, voice tinged with something akin to lust, "Should I do that?"
Her body was constantly moving, unable to be stilled under him. At the question, she managed to twist her lips from a light pant of frustration into a smirk. “Where’s the fun in merely telling you?” The Privaron breathed airily, echoing his annoying response to her own question earlier, leg twitching under his fingers.
At least she was still fighting back. The Octava smirked, rewarded the Privaron with a gentler kiss, free hand running down her side, fingers itching to rend skin from bone, digging in harder than they needed to, caressed hip as he pulled away and moved lower, rolled the stockings down but both hands on the inside of her leg, fingers still managing to trace patterns in their course. "You imply you don't enjoy this." And then, as if for nothing more than to see the response it would elicit, to see if he could get her to ignore his earlier warning of not screaming, he dropped his head, bit hip softly, thigh gently, licked both.
“Oh, but-“ She stopped speaking for a moment, breath hitching in her throat and one hand tangling in his hair, soft toned rose of a color. “You know I do…” Her voice was husky, low, and breathy, this was tormenting her. “That’s why you’re taking your time about letting me have it~” Her other hand was clenching and unclenching in the sheets, body aching and tired of writhing and moaning and being unable to complete the act.
With his hakama the only thing preventing her Zaera-Polo couldn't help but grin as he let one hand idly move back up her leg, always on the inside, let fingers play against the sensitive skin for a moment longer than normal as he moved back up her body, pausing only to irritiate the inner skin of her hole. "And how badly do you want this?" His disgust from earlier - from essentially being told love was wanted from him - was fast fading, the lesson forgotten with the mere fact that the Espada was in full control of the one who had killed the reason for the feeling. Damn this place to hell for it had done, but at least it had its moments.
Cirucci bit her lip to prevent more sounds of pleasure escaping just yet, taking a moment to reply. “You know…” She trailed off as he once again as he returned touch to the hyper-sensitive skin of her Hollow hole, making her change the course of her words. “Bad.” She finally answered in a pant of breath, brow furrowed and body protesting and encouraging, sore and pained, but enjoying nonetheless, wanting more despite, the purely carnal, sensual, pleasurable, without any emotions or silly words like love and commitment attached.
He ducked his head to lick at the blood around the wound briefly, forcing her into a kiss so she would taste it too. The Octava hated her for not giving a decent answer, for muttering just the one word when he wanted more, wanted her to plead for the touch he'd so far given willingly. He hated enough to draw back for air, to glare at her, snarl as he kissed her roughly again, biting this time, pulled back again. Moved. Lay beside her and closed his eyes with the smallest of sighs. "And how bad is bad?" He growled back, not caring if she gave up on attempting to please the unpleaseable or tried twice as hard. Her intellect lacked and how he wished it didn't, that she could stir more than just a physical response from him. A small part of him wondered if she even knew which brother she was trying to please, to irritate with her actions but he really didn't want to know, especially if she was thinking of Il Forte.
She was having to work for the breath she didn’t need, constantly seeking closer, closer, more contact, more touch, tasting her own blood on his lips. And when he moved, withdrawing the tempting, the torture, she took a moment, chest heaving, willing legs and arms to stop trembling, weakened, stressed to limits from being constantly tensed and not allowed the limp relaxation of the aftermath. The Privaron then turned onto her side, wincing at the aggravated wound, looking at him, just looking. And she did see him, sought to aggravate him, please him, not his brother, certainly not now. Whether out of spite, for his spite deserved to be returned, or some jealousy at his seeking her younger, inexperienced sister, it could not be said, but the similarities between the two only fueled her, the same eyes, same facial structure, build, even some traits they shared, more alike that either would probably admit, so great was their animosity and mutual distaste. Her eyes softened for the briefest instant before she closed them, that look all but gone when she re-opened her eyes, slinking closer on limbs that trembled frome exertion, pale skin marred by the crimson of her own blood, fingers dancing at his hips and seeking the removal of those troublesome hakama as she answered his question. “Bad enough to say please~” She breathed into his ear, the movement of her lips brushing against it. “Bad enough to say it however you’d like, Zaera-polo.”
He let her tug and pull at the fabric of the hakama, refusing to help her, to look at her still but she was becoming such an irritation, all fumbling hands and shaking limbs that he just couldn't take it any more. With another low growl he forced her back, threw her down with a look that suggested she should scream now if she ever wanted to move again as he straddled her, hands reaching for the blade still tied to his hakama that she had failed to move very far. "Enough to die for it, Cirucci?" Cold eyes regarded the Privaron, briefly contemplated if this would be more fun if she had a tail - threw those thoughts out because, ugh, love and all the irritation that came from it - hands resting on sheath and hilt but still once more, the Espada constantly waiting on her reactions.
If she’d been less tired, less exhausted, perhaps she may have screamed. But she didn’t, only looked up at him, a suddenly serious expression on her face, no distractions now, only sore, only the ache in her side, with still that need, but a need not being tempted and teased, only left to throb. She didn’t move, merely lay there, looking up at him as if he were suddenly that much more interesting to try and puzzle out. “If I died for it, it wouldn’t be much fun for me, Zaera-polo.” She finally stated matter-of-factly. If he truly felt like killing her there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. Releasing Golondrina was out of the question, that form was weakened as well, let alone her blade had been discarded earlier on and left behind in the living room where this whole game, this lesson, had began. And he was Espada, that would always be true, and she was Privaron. His orders were to be obeyed, no matter how fickle, how precocious, how pointless, or how painful. “So I’d rather not.” Cirucci didn’t pretend not to see the look in his eyes that was an order to scream, to beg, do something, but until he voiced it she would not, until he gave her reason other than sheer intimidation, she would not.
He chuckled at the brave front, removing the still sheathed blade and discarding it, the hakama ties with it before hands dropped to her hips, the Espada refusing to move from his sitting position just yet. He refused to give her any satisfaction without his own to follow, left her to finish removing the fabric. She really had spent too long with Il Forte if she was refusing to be vocal about anything and while he didn't mind the small gasps and moans the Octava still wanted more. Wanted to see how far he could push her. His motivation then as selfish as ever he allowed his hands to resume teasing, fingers running up and down her sides and daring her to pull him down.
Goddamn him. The Privaron actually cursed aloud as her body tensed back up again, muscles seizing under his fingers. Foreplay was all well in good, in fact, she generall loved when she was allowed indulge in it, most Arrancar just wanted their fuck before going on their merry way, but this was… there was a point in which the build-up surpassed the point of when the point should have been gotten to. Her legs lifted suddenly, wrapped tightly around his hips braced by propping herself up on her elbows, glaring, her emotions clear enough on her face, flushed and dazed with arousal.
Oh, he grinned, smirked, chuckled, rolled his eyes as he pulled the hakama free for her, moved hands to lower her back as he let her finally appreciate his warmth. Honestly, she never managed to hold his intellectual curiosity for long, but it didn't really matter right now as he smirked against her neck. The Espada nipped at her collarbone, one hand digging into flesh at her hip, the other working its way up her side once more as he growled, pushed into her with a slight hitch to his breathing.
Wamrth, that… was appreciated. She sought it, craved it, even though she’d never admit it, could only find it in the friction between bodies. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed and a small gasp at the feeling of finally being filled, being allowed respite from just the teasing motions and given something more satisfying that phantom touches of hand and mouth. Her back arched into him, hands scrabbling for purchase at his back, nails digging in sharply, his name ground out of her lips at his ear, turning her head to nip and nibble on the cartilage easily available with his head near her collarbone.
He groaned against her as he moved, hands not once ceasing to rest, constantly wandering across the surprisingly unmarred skin considering she'd been dealing with him for a while already and the worst he'd done was aggravate the wound she'd arrived with. He bit down on her shoulder with a growl, fully intent on gaining the response he'd been waiting on all night so far - his name. Loud. Not merely hissed into his ear. The Espada licked away flecks of blood that had made their way to her shoulder, the collarbone, hunger slowly being satiated by the Privaron though he knew it would only be a temporary reprieve from the bloodlust.
His name was more of a gasp this time, half-strangled as he bit into her shoulder, hands spasming against his back and digging nails in tighter, loosing herself in the sensation, the pleasure, the pain, the carnal instinct that was as part of her as her lust for blood, to kill shinigami, to exist heartless and lacking. A soft sigh followed at the touch of tongue against skin becoming slick with a slight sheen of sweat, legs lifting her hips off the bed to move with him, move against him, anything to find the release she sought, wound tight by his earlier refusals to sate. But she hadn’t yet been loud, though there was a low pitched whine building in the back of her throat, interrupted by small mewls of pleasure, trying to focus and trying to bury herself all at once, eyes glazing over.
He had to admit to missing the added sensation of a tail wrapped around his leg but if Cirucci was good for nothing else, she was good for making him put aside everything and forget in favour of the baser side of himself. He growled again at the pressure on his back, grounding himself with the pain as he focused on eliciting further noises from the arrancar beneath him, hands still teasing and rhythm steady as he pushed her down with every attempt she made to grind against him.
If he wanted her to vocalize, he’d found something good, now denying her even this, her own methods of facilitating further pleasure. A half-sobbed noise of frustration escaped her followed by a whimper, still trying to do as she wished, thigh muscles tightening about his hips and trying to press closer, bring him closer, the warmth spreading through her body enough to make her continuously shudder at the feeling she’d been missing and could now only find in the beds of others, considering her bed that had only held on had been unoccupied for- well, it had only been a few days, but it seemed an eternity to her. An idea managed to surface in her clouded mind and her hands acted, inching towards the hole in his own chest, to return the torment he’d put her through, neatly trimmed nails dancing lightly across the edge of soft skin.
She was rewarded with a low groan against her neck, the slightest of pants before the Espada bit down again, harder this time. His body responded to her shivers as he picked up the pace, so close to what he wanted and refusing to allow the other arrancar to be fully satisfied before he got it, even as he felt the familiar feeling brewing. He brought a hand up to rest at the crook of her neck, a warning if she failed again though she had at least finally picked up on one thing.
A warning she heeded, willing to give him what he wanted now that she was, to an extent, getting what she wanted as well. A sort of squeal escaped her as his teeth sunk in even harder in her flesh, arching under him, her leg’s grip faltering for a moment, coming back to rest on the rumpling sheets before she regained control, gripping tighter this time and still trying to grind her hips against him, trying to gain her own pleasure as well, hands still circling the rim of flesh around the hole In his torso, knowing well first-hand how sensitive that spot was to touch and pain, though her touch was not one of the latter. Steady pants for breath escaped her lips, stained a light red from her own blood transferred by his kisses, occasionally a whimper or mewl of frustration as he continued to deny her what she needed to gain release, the limp exhaustion of the afterglow her tense and aching body craved, the need coiling deep in her belly.
He let her at last, grunting softly at the full contact granted to her, at her hand placement. He wouldn't deny it was for all intent and purpose a weak spot of his - a weak spot of all arrancar - and he returned the favour, dropping the hand from her throat though it would be easy enough to replace it there if needed. His other hand dropped to her thigh, pulled her that little bit closer to elicit another whimper, dug fingers into willing flesh that it wouldn't be all pleasure as he allowed the more carnal side of his brain to take over.
There it was- the contact, closer, snug, filling, that she desired, and now gained. Her whimpers came obligingly, overtoned now with a thrumming keen on her lips each time she panted with his movements, eyes now fully out of focus and hands occassionally slipping, shivering as she neared the climax she’d been seeking, the blinding explosion of sensation that would let her relax, ease her body’s tensions, muscles all taught and sweat and blood now, writhing as his fingers dug in deeper and his name gaining volume. It had been a while, since she’d been allowed to be vocal, Il Forte never liked it, and Grimmjow had silenced her after her mistake, only to demand it later. But her body was almost there, nearly, then finally, and if a scream was what the Octava wanted, it was what he got, her entire body clamping muscles and tightening around him, all warmth and pleasure, pain and exhaustion, and the feel she loved, of sensual completion.
He smirked as he followed with a gutteral moan, arched against her and satisfied, pausing only for a moment after to kiss the Privaron bruisingly to show his - appreciation? Zaera-Polo allowed his hands to linger for a moment longer before he moved away, to the side, idly licking the dry-ish blood off the one hand as he lay there without a word, nothing to say for the time being, no words to offer her that she'd understand or take the right way. If she wanted to remain warm he wouldn't push her away, if she wanted to leave he couldn't care less. He was tempted to ask if she was happy, but that would just be cruel and he really didn't feel like the discussion that might come from her answer so he let his mind rest as his body calmed instead, leaving her to do as she wished.
She lay still, panting for breath, chest heaving as slowly, her body relaxed, sunk into a comfortable weakness, a soothing limpness, heaviness. And it was a welcome soreness, eyes fluttering weakly, slowly losing the glazed quality that was replaced by exhaustion. … So tired, but warm, though that too began to leave Cirucci as he moved away, and she instinctively sought it, though it seemed to take forever to touch again, just her back against his warmth, that was enough. She sighed, a soft noise, one hand coming to rest against her side, sticky and tacky with half-dried blood and the new and brighter crimson, pressing gently to stop the bleeding. Tired. … Very tired, weak… and the Privaron considered the effort to return to her apartment too much, the effort to move too much, body settling where it now lay. She idly realized if he still wanted to kill her it would be too easy, but she didn’t worry about it, considering sleep claimed her before she even finished the thought.
Rating; R/NC-17
Characters; Cirucci {
thunderwitch} & Zaera-Polo {unresearched}Summary; Not satisfied with the way her meeting with Il Forte went, Zaera-Polo promises the Privaron a lesson she should heed, frustrated himself with what is expected of him, but the lesson gets lost in the selfish pursuits of other such things.
Log;
She had been here just yesterday, and it wasn’t often she attended the same one twice so close together, with one exception. Which unnerved her, as did the Octava’s words. When he was at his most cryptic was when he was most dangerous. Cirucci was still bleeding, though it had mostly clotted from where Il Forte had opened the wound in her side, sore and painful, as was all of her at the moment. And the Privaron knocked cautiously, wondering why the simple sound sounded like a death knell or some such, trying to dismiss such thoughts as foolish, as many of her musings had been of late. But she couldn’t shake the feeling, shifting awkwardly as she waited. Nervous? Perhaps.
He snapped the book he'd been reading shut, throwing it casually on top of a pile of other books, all unnamed on the spine and none particularly interesting in his current mindset. No, he wanted something much more than learning, than understanding. He wanted his purpose. And while there was nothing stopping him from that - for crying out loud, Cirucci and Il Forte had gone unpunished and they'ed killed a shinigami - he somehow couldn't be bothered. Didn't want to deal with the uproar it would cause, the irritation that would come from the Octava so much as fingering the hilt of the sword still strapped to his side.
This place, quite frankly, bored him, even with the large number of shinigami present. The knock at the door however, was very, very welcome. Smiling - smirking, rather - he didn't move from his seat, grabbing another book instead and fingering through the pages. "It's open," he muttered, loud enough for her to sense the impatience behind the words but not so loud for it to come across as the order it was. Let her find out for herself what her lesson was.
The Thunderwitch opened the door and wondered idly what it was about Grantz brothers not even opening their own damn doors ever. But that amusing thought only distracted her for a brief second before the unpleasant apprehension resettled in the pit of her stomach, not daring show any weakness by wincing or gripping her side at the constant ache. Stupid Il Forte. Well, he’d called for Rori, he’d realize his mistake… while she had to face one she couldn’t recall. She hadn’t said the wrong name last night had she? … She didn’t think she had… The Privaron did not speak, closing to door behind her and waiting there, to be told what her next move should be, what it was allowed to be. … There would be no risking anything today with him, not when she could see that smirk on his face.
Zaera-Polo threw the book down to join the rest once more, moving antagonisingly slowly as he stood. The smallest chuckle escaped him as he straightened, watching her not move. How unlike her. Had he really come across as that angry, irritated, hungry? No matter, not to him. Let her worry about what he was going to teach her, let her fear the enigmatic expression gracing his face and the way a hand came to naturally rest on the zanpakuto he wore. Let her anticipate pain and pleasure and everything in between as he waited in turn for her to break and say something, anything, to move and succumb and beg for mercy and - mm, yes. Let there be the one thing he craved for above all else, his eyes taking full note of the blood stain on her clothes. Tch, and he'd only just cleaned her. He'd been hoping for a fresh canvas.
He'd make do.
… He was waiting for her. The fear slipped, and she quashed it, forcing it down to the hole in her chest, symbol of what she was, what she lacked, and the fear she was made from. … Had to be normal, had to be the same. Her lips quirked up into a smirk of her own, making her way towards his seat, minimizing the slight limp she wanted to acquire to ease the pain at her side, brushing the swing of one ponytail from her face as she slipped onto the arm of the seat, perching lightly, tipping her head to view the pile of books. “Nothing to read, darling?” She murmured, not yet touching, merely coming closer, into reach, like willingly walking into the maw of a dangerous beast.
"Nothing of interest." Was she trying to play coy? She really didn't get it. She at least knew he was in control even now, knew not to push too far too soon, but... He'd been hoping she'd attempt to be defiant. Attempt to try and see how far his patience extended. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, kneeling down so he had to look up at her face, the smallest of smirks slipping into place, the sort that made numeros run to do whatever he said. But answering her question aside he remained silent, hand still on zanpakuto but the other resting on his knee, looking for all the world as if he was bowing to her though his expression, the fact that he didn't defer his gaze gave it all away. There was only one person he'd truly bow for, after all. And it certainly wasn't the Privaron.
… What was he- she frowned, not moving from her perch on the chair arm, though she let one leg sling over the side to dangle, easing the pressure of bunched muscles in her side. Cirucci looked down at him, puzzled. … He was just trying to bait her or something, unnerve her, wasn’t he? What was he waiting for? She usually could tell what the boys wanted, how they wanted her to act, to appear, to even speak. But Zaera-Polo… she hardly ever knew. And that frustrated her, as well as made her nervous. “Gotten bored of the lesson, Polo-darling?” She crooned, testing for what he wanted, what he desired. “I can go if you have, don’t want to disturb your reading time.” She said it flippantly, as if she had better things to do, more important matters to attend to.
Heh, there it was. The hand not on his sword shot out, found a grip on the fabric of her top and pulled her off the seat, down, roughly. Onto him. "Privaron," was hissed into her ear, the same hand trailing up her unwounded side and moving the fabric with it. Had she honestly believed he'd want her two nights in a row? He was one of the least carnal, the one most likely to content himself with other things. Granted, the City had taken away most of those other things but. Two nights in a row. The Octava almost laughed but contained it as he pushed the Privaron back against the chair, eyes cold and smirk still in place. "The lesson is for your sake, not mine. And it will be one you won't forget." Ah, how he loved reminding people of their lower positions, hand not moving as it held her back and he advanced slightly, sitting up ever so slightly so that he was looking down again.
She’d wriggled a bit at the touch, she was sensitive to such things, always had been. At finding her back against the chair she pushed a bit, having been pinned quite enough lately, in her own opinion. His gaze was met by hers, steady, the hints of her fear hidden as well as she was able. “I hardly expected it to be for your benefit, Octava,” she spat out, “you don’t need any lessons.” And it was both insult and flattery, in tone and wording. But she didn’t struggle hard yet, only slight pushes against the seat, one leg snaking closer to her body, placing her stocking foot, she hadn’t bothered with shoes, against his chest as if to halt his progress.
He glanced away as the smirk widened, finally moving the other hand from sword to leg, starting at the thigh as fingers ran down the outside to her ankle, slowly turning his attention back to her. She really didn't want to be here, he guessed. Would rather be with the trash he called brother. Would rather dote on Wonderwyce. But he didn't care. He was Espada. Grip light on her ankle then, he moved the foot, other hand pulling her forward and into his lap with a near feral grin. Bringing his other hand to rest on her thigh once more Zaera-Polo none-too-gently nipped at her neck before raising his head to murmur into her ear, "Try not to scream."
A sigh had escaped her lips at the feathery touches, a slight shudder, responding as she always did to such ministrations. The Privaron settled in his lap with a small wriggle, baring her neck further, eyes open and alert, even as she tried to concentrate on the sensation, knowing they wouldn’t stay pleasant long. At his decree, and it always had the sense of that, his statements, always seeming like condescending orders and edicts, she tensed against him, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other at his hip. … She didn’t know where he would strike, where she’d bleed, but she knew she would.
Keeping his hand on her thigh for now, the other moved to her throat as sonido came into play so that she was on the floor in a nonexistant heartbeat with a thud, below him, under him. Where trash like her belonged. The grip was lax for now but heavy, a reminder as he moved to undo her top with that all too familiar enigmatic expression that kept him out of trouble and in it. The existing wound first, fingers lightly moving across the damaged area, around it, teasing and nearly kind. He wanted her to fight back, to resist the feelings he was allowing her, to realize the danger she was in if she merely submitted to his minstrations but at the same time it was fine if she didn't, allowed the Octava the satisfaction of truly catching her off guard. With such thoughts in mind his fingers slipped tighter on her neck, softer on her side. Which hand she moved to stop would tell him enough.
She’d frozen for a moment as her world turned over, leaving her now on her back and looking up. A soft murmur of something, words perhaps, were lost, too quiet to be heard, perhaps not meant to be, pale skin baring under his hand at her chest. His hand at her throat was unwelcome, another thing they all seemed to enjoy doing. But she could still breath, still talk, and his hand at her side… she writhed a bit, a hand coming up to cover the still freshly clotted wound that Il Forte had opened again only recently, the teasing touch slowly creeping up her spine with a tingle of pain and pleasure. She realized the potential dangers of not offering any resistance, of not being feisty, at least a little, and she was willing to offer that, at least.
The smirk turned dangerous as he slipped the hand higher, pulling aside the fabric properly but still not lowering himself, not granting her the further satisfaction of her job and him against her, no kiss or bite. Let her beg for it. She was doing so little to please him, after all. The Privaron really did need this lesson and he idly licked at what little blood had found its way onto his hand as he stared at her, making no further move to undress her or himself as he loosened his grip on her neck, let his hand rest beside her head to support him as he continued to stay silent, partially to unnerve her and partially to see how long it would take before she would question, demand, vocally beg versus what her body was telling him.
It didn’t take long. It never did. A slight whisper of a whimper, hating that silence, that stillness, trying to draw him closer, reaching up to bring him down with her, hands finding purchase on his uniform and tugging lightly, arching her torso enough to kiss lightly at his ear. “Zaera-Polo…” It was a barely audible whine, full of promises and want, preferring pain and pleasure, blood and sweat, to that silence and that wait he made her despise, probably loved to make her despise.
He allowed her inches, still supporting himself though closer, enough for her to tell the difference in body temperature but not enough for her to really feel it. He hated how rushed she'd been before, how self-interested she had been as he'd licked blood clean, moved carefully to irritate the wounds and let them continue bleeding. This time he'd get his way, hand trailing back down the uncovered skin and fingers playing at the most sensitive skin - her hollow hole. "Cirruci," he murmured, allowing her the courtesy of her name in the tone that suggested she'd have to move fast if she wanted to keep his attention on the good side of things though the wicked smile already indicated she had no hope.
It was a game she could never win, no matter how hard she tried. He always won. She tugged on his uniform again, hard this time, at the touch of the hole in her chest that sent shivers across her skin, made her moan into his ear, no longer kissing but nipping, licking, trying to bring him closer, closer, not so far away, so tantalizingly close, that warmth he refused her, baited her with, lorded over her. His name was whispered again, like a cadence, his name, she wouldn’t make another mistake like that again. The Thunderwitch still didn’t know what lesson he meant to instill, other than the one he usually liked, that he was superior. Higher ranked, higher power, better Espada than a mere Privaron like her. At those thoughts, those actions, one leg rose to stroke against his hip and thigh, toes catching hold of the white fabric of his hakama and tugging there as well, expressing her dissatisfaction with the state of the garment.
He grunted at the insistance but refused to help her. If she wanted his clothes off she'd have to do it herself, the Espada content to tease, trying to draw out more than just his name. He wanted begging, complete control and utter subjugation, a fight, blood, death and pain and pleasure and hurt and tears and everything else that was supposed to come with being an Espada, one of Aizen-sama's elite. With one last teasing caress he pushed her back, down, hard against the floor, giving her that little bit more as he leant down with her, both hands now on either side of her head, voice level and calm and completely unaffected by her attempts to win him over and convince him she was worth the effort. "What's wrong, Privaron? Tired already?"
“No.” She snarled, a flash of anger at his attitude, always so goddamned- him. But her voice hitched at that last touch, always susceptible to those distractions. She was tired, of his attitude, his damned nonchalance, his smug face that reminded her of another one, and her body was tired, lagging, sore, wounded, worn. But she ignored it for now, trying to draw back on that anger she’d had when fighting his pet, which was easy to do, considering thinking about one drew thoughts to the other, and any thoughts of Zaheela lit a hatred in her. Cirucci moved her legs, trying to kick one of his to the side and use such an opportunity to raise herself from the floor, the fire smoldering back in her glance.
He let her with a smirk, one hand instantly moving to her hair and the other to her hip, pulling her with him, onto him once more the closest he'd let her get so far, but still holding back, refusing to kiss her, to do anything beyond hold her as his grip tightened in her hair and the other hand moved to pull at her skirt briefly before trailing back up her side, constantly teasing and taunting her. He wanted her to want it, to force it out of him. The Espada wanted just one word to come from her, knowing full well he probably wouldn't get it. But it wouldn't stop him from trying.
Laying on his zanpakuto was uncomfortable but he left it for now, slipped nimble fingers across the Privarons back to touch the skin around her hole again, fully intent on his goal before he'd give in.
Now it was her hands by his head, slipping her leg over his hip to straddle him and take a bit of control for herself. But she kept getting distracted, unable to ignore the touches, the teases, each time she tried to focus he managed to waylay her mind, so easily steered of course by such things. Biting back a moan she dipped her head to kiss him, since he wouldn’t, nip at his bottom lip and wriggle against his hips as he once again tortured her by playing at the rim of the hole in her chest. “Zaera-Polo-“ She grit out, one hand moving to run a thumb across the arm of his glasses, so damn intelectual, non-responsive- “Decide what you want.” Cirucci wasn’t even sure what that was meant to mean, but she wanted him to finish what he had started, didn’t care what he wanted, what did he want? Begging? Please? If need to, she would, if only to assuage that feeling he was rousing in her, assuage the fear, assuage the frustrating not-touching when she wanted touch.
He allowed her the satisfaction of eliciting a moan with the kiss, smiling as she broke the first part of the obstacles he'd set her. He forced her back into the kiss, fierce, pushed her back, up, sitting to ease the pressure on his lower back from steel and scabbard, finally fully freeing her from her top, hands dropping to her hip and practically tormenting her as his thumbs slipped beneath the band, tugging the cloth down ever so slightly. But it was still her duty to remove the rest. "I know what I want. You have to try and give me that," he growled against her lips, dangerous, suggesting her failure to please.
She almost groaned against his mouth, irritated that now he was foisting it on her, making her do all the work, blaming her- no. That just wouldn’t do. “Then tell me what you want.” The Privaron hissed, frustrated at his teasing and non-committal touch, moving her hands to where his rested at where her top fell away from skirt and made her writhe with want that he wouldn’t yet fulfill, skimming past his fingers to insert her own under the edge of his uniform top, inching their way up and under the tight fabric, nails scraping over his stomach and sides. “You want me to beg?” She hissed, eyes narrowed, she was unwilling to let them surrender to the half-glazed look of pleasure fully yet. “Fight?”
"Where's the fun in merely telling you?" He spat back, growling again from the touch, from irritation that she still didn't get it. Would never get it, could never be good for much beyond the act itself. He moved one hand up, back to the wound, fingers digging in deep and smile growing once more from her response, from the familiar and satisfying feel of blood. There wasn't enough of it yet and his other hand idly traced up her chest, knowing just how and where to touch as it made its way to her neck, to the spot where it had been stabbed before falling away again - a nip at her mouth, her shoulder bone, a lick at the spot he'd just touched as if to see if the taste of blood still lingered.
A shudder, before she let out a low keen, bucking against his hip at the fingers in her wound, burrowing her face against the crook of his neck and shoulder to stifle her noises, shuddering under his fingers, his mouth, one touch bestowing pleasure and the other pain, all at once. What did he want- Her mind struggled to focus on that, figure it out, damn his cryptic hints. So she tried to settle on both, digging her nails into the muscles of his chest, no gentle caress, as she tried to shrug him out of his shirt. “Please…” She whined against his skin, body aching, not just from want.
Well hell, she'd said it. His smirk was triumphant as he pulled them both up, kicked into sonido, dumped her roughly on the bed in a rush of air and yanked the skirt down - he could give her that much help - fingers trailing blood down her skin as the Espada leant over her, pinned her down and gave her an open shot at his own shirt. "Please what, Cirucci?" He damn well nearly purred the words, knew what she wanted and how close he was to getting what he wanted, demanding to hear the words. Trash was so good for entertainment, really.
And she took it, not willing to let that opportunity pass her by, running hands across bare skin, not that damned fabric, that got in the way. And the red of her own blood stained her skin, she knew he liked that, always did that. “Please-“ the word was something she didn’t like to use, but would if she had to, and the Octava knew where to touch, where to torture, torment, pain… “Stop being so damned teasing and get on with it.” Her voice was still hitching, octave switching at his words and touch, never able to silence or hide the effect the sensual had on her. She wouldn’t beg fully, not yet, wouldn’t beg to be hurt, beg for her pleasure.
Hn. He pushed down, forced himself against her with a warning growl, a near feral snarl as he bit shoulder, licked, kissed her roughly. He had no intention of doing as she said, far too happy to continue to frustrate her, to push her. He shrugged the shirt off fully for her, threw it to the side as he moved drop a hand to her thigh, to the stockings, the last of her clothes. "Why," he muttered, slipping his hand down the inside of her leg this time, voice tinged with something akin to lust, "Should I do that?"
Her body was constantly moving, unable to be stilled under him. At the question, she managed to twist her lips from a light pant of frustration into a smirk. “Where’s the fun in merely telling you?” The Privaron breathed airily, echoing his annoying response to her own question earlier, leg twitching under his fingers.
At least she was still fighting back. The Octava smirked, rewarded the Privaron with a gentler kiss, free hand running down her side, fingers itching to rend skin from bone, digging in harder than they needed to, caressed hip as he pulled away and moved lower, rolled the stockings down but both hands on the inside of her leg, fingers still managing to trace patterns in their course. "You imply you don't enjoy this." And then, as if for nothing more than to see the response it would elicit, to see if he could get her to ignore his earlier warning of not screaming, he dropped his head, bit hip softly, thigh gently, licked both.
“Oh, but-“ She stopped speaking for a moment, breath hitching in her throat and one hand tangling in his hair, soft toned rose of a color. “You know I do…” Her voice was husky, low, and breathy, this was tormenting her. “That’s why you’re taking your time about letting me have it~” Her other hand was clenching and unclenching in the sheets, body aching and tired of writhing and moaning and being unable to complete the act.
With his hakama the only thing preventing her Zaera-Polo couldn't help but grin as he let one hand idly move back up her leg, always on the inside, let fingers play against the sensitive skin for a moment longer than normal as he moved back up her body, pausing only to irritiate the inner skin of her hole. "And how badly do you want this?" His disgust from earlier - from essentially being told love was wanted from him - was fast fading, the lesson forgotten with the mere fact that the Espada was in full control of the one who had killed the reason for the feeling. Damn this place to hell for it had done, but at least it had its moments.
Cirucci bit her lip to prevent more sounds of pleasure escaping just yet, taking a moment to reply. “You know…” She trailed off as he once again as he returned touch to the hyper-sensitive skin of her Hollow hole, making her change the course of her words. “Bad.” She finally answered in a pant of breath, brow furrowed and body protesting and encouraging, sore and pained, but enjoying nonetheless, wanting more despite, the purely carnal, sensual, pleasurable, without any emotions or silly words like love and commitment attached.
He ducked his head to lick at the blood around the wound briefly, forcing her into a kiss so she would taste it too. The Octava hated her for not giving a decent answer, for muttering just the one word when he wanted more, wanted her to plead for the touch he'd so far given willingly. He hated enough to draw back for air, to glare at her, snarl as he kissed her roughly again, biting this time, pulled back again. Moved. Lay beside her and closed his eyes with the smallest of sighs. "And how bad is bad?" He growled back, not caring if she gave up on attempting to please the unpleaseable or tried twice as hard. Her intellect lacked and how he wished it didn't, that she could stir more than just a physical response from him. A small part of him wondered if she even knew which brother she was trying to please, to irritate with her actions but he really didn't want to know, especially if she was thinking of Il Forte.
She was having to work for the breath she didn’t need, constantly seeking closer, closer, more contact, more touch, tasting her own blood on his lips. And when he moved, withdrawing the tempting, the torture, she took a moment, chest heaving, willing legs and arms to stop trembling, weakened, stressed to limits from being constantly tensed and not allowed the limp relaxation of the aftermath. The Privaron then turned onto her side, wincing at the aggravated wound, looking at him, just looking. And she did see him, sought to aggravate him, please him, not his brother, certainly not now. Whether out of spite, for his spite deserved to be returned, or some jealousy at his seeking her younger, inexperienced sister, it could not be said, but the similarities between the two only fueled her, the same eyes, same facial structure, build, even some traits they shared, more alike that either would probably admit, so great was their animosity and mutual distaste. Her eyes softened for the briefest instant before she closed them, that look all but gone when she re-opened her eyes, slinking closer on limbs that trembled frome exertion, pale skin marred by the crimson of her own blood, fingers dancing at his hips and seeking the removal of those troublesome hakama as she answered his question. “Bad enough to say please~” She breathed into his ear, the movement of her lips brushing against it. “Bad enough to say it however you’d like, Zaera-polo.”
He let her tug and pull at the fabric of the hakama, refusing to help her, to look at her still but she was becoming such an irritation, all fumbling hands and shaking limbs that he just couldn't take it any more. With another low growl he forced her back, threw her down with a look that suggested she should scream now if she ever wanted to move again as he straddled her, hands reaching for the blade still tied to his hakama that she had failed to move very far. "Enough to die for it, Cirucci?" Cold eyes regarded the Privaron, briefly contemplated if this would be more fun if she had a tail - threw those thoughts out because, ugh, love and all the irritation that came from it - hands resting on sheath and hilt but still once more, the Espada constantly waiting on her reactions.
If she’d been less tired, less exhausted, perhaps she may have screamed. But she didn’t, only looked up at him, a suddenly serious expression on her face, no distractions now, only sore, only the ache in her side, with still that need, but a need not being tempted and teased, only left to throb. She didn’t move, merely lay there, looking up at him as if he were suddenly that much more interesting to try and puzzle out. “If I died for it, it wouldn’t be much fun for me, Zaera-polo.” She finally stated matter-of-factly. If he truly felt like killing her there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. Releasing Golondrina was out of the question, that form was weakened as well, let alone her blade had been discarded earlier on and left behind in the living room where this whole game, this lesson, had began. And he was Espada, that would always be true, and she was Privaron. His orders were to be obeyed, no matter how fickle, how precocious, how pointless, or how painful. “So I’d rather not.” Cirucci didn’t pretend not to see the look in his eyes that was an order to scream, to beg, do something, but until he voiced it she would not, until he gave her reason other than sheer intimidation, she would not.
He chuckled at the brave front, removing the still sheathed blade and discarding it, the hakama ties with it before hands dropped to her hips, the Espada refusing to move from his sitting position just yet. He refused to give her any satisfaction without his own to follow, left her to finish removing the fabric. She really had spent too long with Il Forte if she was refusing to be vocal about anything and while he didn't mind the small gasps and moans the Octava still wanted more. Wanted to see how far he could push her. His motivation then as selfish as ever he allowed his hands to resume teasing, fingers running up and down her sides and daring her to pull him down.
Goddamn him. The Privaron actually cursed aloud as her body tensed back up again, muscles seizing under his fingers. Foreplay was all well in good, in fact, she generall loved when she was allowed indulge in it, most Arrancar just wanted their fuck before going on their merry way, but this was… there was a point in which the build-up surpassed the point of when the point should have been gotten to. Her legs lifted suddenly, wrapped tightly around his hips braced by propping herself up on her elbows, glaring, her emotions clear enough on her face, flushed and dazed with arousal.
Oh, he grinned, smirked, chuckled, rolled his eyes as he pulled the hakama free for her, moved hands to lower her back as he let her finally appreciate his warmth. Honestly, she never managed to hold his intellectual curiosity for long, but it didn't really matter right now as he smirked against her neck. The Espada nipped at her collarbone, one hand digging into flesh at her hip, the other working its way up her side once more as he growled, pushed into her with a slight hitch to his breathing.
Wamrth, that… was appreciated. She sought it, craved it, even though she’d never admit it, could only find it in the friction between bodies. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed and a small gasp at the feeling of finally being filled, being allowed respite from just the teasing motions and given something more satisfying that phantom touches of hand and mouth. Her back arched into him, hands scrabbling for purchase at his back, nails digging in sharply, his name ground out of her lips at his ear, turning her head to nip and nibble on the cartilage easily available with his head near her collarbone.
He groaned against her as he moved, hands not once ceasing to rest, constantly wandering across the surprisingly unmarred skin considering she'd been dealing with him for a while already and the worst he'd done was aggravate the wound she'd arrived with. He bit down on her shoulder with a growl, fully intent on gaining the response he'd been waiting on all night so far - his name. Loud. Not merely hissed into his ear. The Espada licked away flecks of blood that had made their way to her shoulder, the collarbone, hunger slowly being satiated by the Privaron though he knew it would only be a temporary reprieve from the bloodlust.
His name was more of a gasp this time, half-strangled as he bit into her shoulder, hands spasming against his back and digging nails in tighter, loosing herself in the sensation, the pleasure, the pain, the carnal instinct that was as part of her as her lust for blood, to kill shinigami, to exist heartless and lacking. A soft sigh followed at the touch of tongue against skin becoming slick with a slight sheen of sweat, legs lifting her hips off the bed to move with him, move against him, anything to find the release she sought, wound tight by his earlier refusals to sate. But she hadn’t yet been loud, though there was a low pitched whine building in the back of her throat, interrupted by small mewls of pleasure, trying to focus and trying to bury herself all at once, eyes glazing over.
He had to admit to missing the added sensation of a tail wrapped around his leg but if Cirucci was good for nothing else, she was good for making him put aside everything and forget in favour of the baser side of himself. He growled again at the pressure on his back, grounding himself with the pain as he focused on eliciting further noises from the arrancar beneath him, hands still teasing and rhythm steady as he pushed her down with every attempt she made to grind against him.
If he wanted her to vocalize, he’d found something good, now denying her even this, her own methods of facilitating further pleasure. A half-sobbed noise of frustration escaped her followed by a whimper, still trying to do as she wished, thigh muscles tightening about his hips and trying to press closer, bring him closer, the warmth spreading through her body enough to make her continuously shudder at the feeling she’d been missing and could now only find in the beds of others, considering her bed that had only held on had been unoccupied for- well, it had only been a few days, but it seemed an eternity to her. An idea managed to surface in her clouded mind and her hands acted, inching towards the hole in his own chest, to return the torment he’d put her through, neatly trimmed nails dancing lightly across the edge of soft skin.
She was rewarded with a low groan against her neck, the slightest of pants before the Espada bit down again, harder this time. His body responded to her shivers as he picked up the pace, so close to what he wanted and refusing to allow the other arrancar to be fully satisfied before he got it, even as he felt the familiar feeling brewing. He brought a hand up to rest at the crook of her neck, a warning if she failed again though she had at least finally picked up on one thing.
A warning she heeded, willing to give him what he wanted now that she was, to an extent, getting what she wanted as well. A sort of squeal escaped her as his teeth sunk in even harder in her flesh, arching under him, her leg’s grip faltering for a moment, coming back to rest on the rumpling sheets before she regained control, gripping tighter this time and still trying to grind her hips against him, trying to gain her own pleasure as well, hands still circling the rim of flesh around the hole In his torso, knowing well first-hand how sensitive that spot was to touch and pain, though her touch was not one of the latter. Steady pants for breath escaped her lips, stained a light red from her own blood transferred by his kisses, occasionally a whimper or mewl of frustration as he continued to deny her what she needed to gain release, the limp exhaustion of the afterglow her tense and aching body craved, the need coiling deep in her belly.
He let her at last, grunting softly at the full contact granted to her, at her hand placement. He wouldn't deny it was for all intent and purpose a weak spot of his - a weak spot of all arrancar - and he returned the favour, dropping the hand from her throat though it would be easy enough to replace it there if needed. His other hand dropped to her thigh, pulled her that little bit closer to elicit another whimper, dug fingers into willing flesh that it wouldn't be all pleasure as he allowed the more carnal side of his brain to take over.
There it was- the contact, closer, snug, filling, that she desired, and now gained. Her whimpers came obligingly, overtoned now with a thrumming keen on her lips each time she panted with his movements, eyes now fully out of focus and hands occassionally slipping, shivering as she neared the climax she’d been seeking, the blinding explosion of sensation that would let her relax, ease her body’s tensions, muscles all taught and sweat and blood now, writhing as his fingers dug in deeper and his name gaining volume. It had been a while, since she’d been allowed to be vocal, Il Forte never liked it, and Grimmjow had silenced her after her mistake, only to demand it later. But her body was almost there, nearly, then finally, and if a scream was what the Octava wanted, it was what he got, her entire body clamping muscles and tightening around him, all warmth and pleasure, pain and exhaustion, and the feel she loved, of sensual completion.
He smirked as he followed with a gutteral moan, arched against her and satisfied, pausing only for a moment after to kiss the Privaron bruisingly to show his - appreciation? Zaera-Polo allowed his hands to linger for a moment longer before he moved away, to the side, idly licking the dry-ish blood off the one hand as he lay there without a word, nothing to say for the time being, no words to offer her that she'd understand or take the right way. If she wanted to remain warm he wouldn't push her away, if she wanted to leave he couldn't care less. He was tempted to ask if she was happy, but that would just be cruel and he really didn't feel like the discussion that might come from her answer so he let his mind rest as his body calmed instead, leaving her to do as she wished.
She lay still, panting for breath, chest heaving as slowly, her body relaxed, sunk into a comfortable weakness, a soothing limpness, heaviness. And it was a welcome soreness, eyes fluttering weakly, slowly losing the glazed quality that was replaced by exhaustion. … So tired, but warm, though that too began to leave Cirucci as he moved away, and she instinctively sought it, though it seemed to take forever to touch again, just her back against his warmth, that was enough. She sighed, a soft noise, one hand coming to rest against her side, sticky and tacky with half-dried blood and the new and brighter crimson, pressing gently to stop the bleeding. Tired. … Very tired, weak… and the Privaron considered the effort to return to her apartment too much, the effort to move too much, body settling where it now lay. She idly realized if he still wanted to kill her it would be too easy, but she didn’t worry about it, considering sleep claimed her before she even finished the thought.