ext_265168 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
winged-hubris.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2007-06-17 01:00 am
winged-hubris.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-06-17 01:00 am
Log; Complete
When; June 11th, afternoon (backdated)
Rating; R/NC-17
Characters; Alturo [![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
winged_hubris], Cirucci [thunderwitch]
Summary; Cirucci is bored and frustrated when she goes to see the first Arrancar. Alturo entertains her with toast and plans of defeating shinigami, then she entertains him with more.
Log;
The smell of burned bread had permeated the apartment for the past half an hour, evidence than the metal box with two slots had a grudge against Alturo Plateado for failing to feed it enough bread from his first day there. The box -- a toaster -- looked worse for its defiance, dents marring its shining finish from the violence of irritation. Blackened toast rested in the garbage bin, piled high inside the matching black bag that lined it.
Destroying soul society had been simple compared to domesticity, but the City would not let him leave and he had to sustain himself somehow. Alturo growled and jiggled the switch on the side of the appliance until it popped up two and a half pieces (he had to make the best of the limited space inside!) of too-browned toast.
Good enough.
Alturo fished them out of the toaster and placed them on a plate, then went so far as to unscrew the lid of the peanut butter -- a treat he had been told tasted good on toast -- and then carry the lot into the limited living area. Being a host was not his concern, but the visitor would be Cirucci and he would show her that the knowledge passed to him came to use.
The door waited, wide open for any to enter, no fear of invasion held by the Arrancar as he waited for the arrival of the lady Privaron.
Cirucci was bored.
She was bored and she was irritated. Frustrated.
Alfons left. He couldn't, he had no right.
Shiro-Megane-Kun wouldn't play her games. Another with no right to deny her.
And now her nose was crinkling at the smell wafting out of Alturo's apartment, what was that, toast? ... He couldn't make toast.
She had a lot of work to do apparently.
"Alturo?" She murmured, poking her head in the open door, leaning on the door frame. "Coming in~" She shut the door behind her, sauntered in and followed the smell, and the pulse of his reiatsu, into the living room. Ah, there he was. One of her favourites here in the City, along with Luppi. She tried not to think of other favourites. Another favourite in particular.
"Toast, darling?" The Privaron arced one eyebrow appraisingly, let a small smirk come to her lips in some sort of twisted amusement at the slightly burnt and peanut buttered bread.
The approach the lady Privaron came noted by both her words and the more subtle reiatsu, and edge softer than his, but one he gauged to be capable of equally vicious things. A comfort of similar power that even he could admit to enjoying. Cirucci was unlike the other Arrancar, she had purity of power and corruption of intent; two sides that he wanted to see more of.
Alturo viewed the plate with a twisted sense of pride; embittered enough by failure, he had succeeded in making something slightly edible, instead of the burned bread he had been eating in his strict crusade to prove the toaster defeated no matter its antics.
"A fine dish," he asserted with a nod to it. "With... peanut butter, which tastes of peanuts." All words were said with a straight face and every ounce of a serious tone. Knowledge of the finer things of gourmet was absent from Alturo, who had lived too long ago to remember the taste of anything but souls. In reacquainting himself, even the most singed of foods had a sort of worth to them. If nothing else, the advice they carried in taste to never repeat the gesture again.
She blinked.
"... which tastes of peanuts." She repeated softly, with some amount of disbelief and shock on her features, mostly blank. She managed to hold her composure for a whole moment of pause where the one sound was her skirt rustling as she plopped down on the couch beside the first Arrancar.
"Al-" She began, but had to stop and cover her face with small gloved hands. If anyone didn't know better they may have thought she was crying, shoulders shaking and muffled noise coming from beneath her palms, leaning back and small feet kicking.
She was laughing.
The reaction did not suit his words. Alturo looked perplexed, brow furrowing for a brief moment as he looked to the dish, then to Cirucci next to him, who fuelled his puzzlement with her laughter, no matter how delicate or beautiful it sounded when filled with malice. This lacked that, malice replaced with honest amusement foreign to him.
"It tastes more of peanuts than of butter," he protested gruffly. Alturo knew this from comparing the three foods to see what similarities they had to be so named. "Or is there another flavour it better matches that is not in its name?"
She tried not to, really.
It was... oh, goodness. Cirucci finally managed to stifle her laughter in her hands, though she couldn't conceal a genuine amusement in her eyes.
"... Alturo." She tried to keep her voice level, grave, serious, but failed miserably, having to stifle more laughter behind kicking off her boots, tucking her stockinged feet under her legs, and settling into a curled sort of comfort on the couch cushion.
"It's... lovely toast."
Alturo lifted the half piece of toast in his hand when Cirucci tried to control herself, tilting it to and fro as amber eyes observed it and the crude way the peanut spread had been pushed across it. An inducer of euphoria? Surely it was not his words that had caused her laughter!
The tentative bite he took did not inspire like amusement in him and Alturo shook off his confusion about it, swallowing the contents with little flair. The taste still hung heavy in his mouth and in the flavour of peanuts. He shrugged and set it down on the plate again.
"It is sustenance, yes," he agreed, nudging the plate away from Cirucci in case it was the cause of her odd laughter -- though the genuine amused contentment he saw in her then made him rethink, but not enough to risk another laughing fit. "There are other things that can be prepared for the lady Privaron if peanuts are not to her taste," he continued. "I have found something called 'Pop-Tarts' which can be used in bread's place."
"... No, no~" She waved her hands dismissively, full mouth still twisted into a somewhat pout to try and suppress her laughter as she reached across his lap for a piece of the toast, careful not to get any of the peanut butter on her pristine white gloves. That just wouldn't do.
She bit into it delicately, the thickness of the food setting uneasily on her stomach, used to souls, not solid food, and accustomed of her own volition to foods light in nature, fruits, yogurts, and the like.
"Alturo mentioned plans?~" She wheedled, stalling on another bite. It really wasn't very good, but she managed not to let that show, kept her look interested, curious, smirking over the piece of toast and settling herself.
Alturo brushed off the crumbs that clung to his fingers, content to let Cirucci feast on the sort of foods that had been sustaining him. He would have to look into using the other appliances soon, but with the defiance of the toaster, he anticipated a pattern unwanted.
"Aizen is an insufficient example," he said, voice cold and sharp upon the name of the one he had faced. "Though he could not defeat me, he will not speak of it." Nor did Alturo intend to laud the encounter long; injuries sustained took time to heal and though they were covered and tended, they pained him unnecessarily. An unexpected and great cost for a draw.
Alturo's expression, though, warmed as the thoughts and intents laid in his mind came to light, a sharp edge of teeth shown in a smirk. "I have selected an Espada that will be more willing to speak after, for all the speaking he does now."
"Oh?" Cirucci shifted again, took another small nibble of the toast and watched him carefully. He was dangerous, capable of killing her, but then again, most of the males she preferred to associate with were, that power something she could relate to, crave, want to regain even though she'd lost her own rank, had it stripped from her and left to scar.
"Loud, hmm?" She sifted through them in her mind, and honestly, it wasn't hard. Ulquiorra hardly ever even spoke, Szayel-Aporro was very rarely loud, and that left Luppi, not a true Espada, considering he'd died, been left as a pair of legs and hips.
"Luppi?" She set the piece of toast down back on the plate half-eaten, scooted a little closer, head cocked and listening. She'd rather he not kill him, she could only soothe the would-be-Sexta's ego so much, after all, but she'd hardly say such, not with the other Arrancar's power so evident on his back.
"That is his name," Alturo acknowledged, gaze shifting to Cirucci. He shifted his position on the couch, not for such comfort as she had, but to ensure there was space enough for her to settle where she would, a freedom the lady Privaron held above any other in this city, to be in such proximity to him.
"He defies me openly, and so he will be given the lesson of power," he continued. Alturo observed Cirucci for her reaction, the same moment taken to appreciate her so much as one without a soul could. The power she lacked and lamented gained her rights to his perception. He held his arm to her, the only assistance he offered in helping her settle, and far more than he would grant any other.
"Death is not what I seek for him, that would turn his interest to bitterness. What Luppi shall meet is my power, it will be his opportunity to accept it and I would prefer him survive to speak of it sooner," he concluded, a short and simple outline of his intent.
The Privaron took his arm, settled closer to him so that her shoulders brushed his and recrossed her legs under her, smoothing out skirt and checking garters.
"Luppi is a little..." She paused, looking for a word. "... Irritable." She also meant psychotic, unpredictable, kinky, brash, and terribly a tease.
"He'll take convincing." Her nails were brushed against her palm, idly checking the sheen of black polish on claw-like tips with an appraising glance.
"But, Cirucci thinks Alturo can handle it." Even more than he could handle the toast.
Alturo, were it up to him to defend the unspoken comment, would state that the toast had been handled well enough. But it stood true that the Espada would be handled with that much more skill and prowess. After all, Luppi did not shout at him, demanding bread when the days were right.
"Luppi will be shown the reason for his consideration," Alturo noted, flexing his hand and eyeing it, not so manicured or cared for as Cirucci's. He did not expect the Espada to understand his stance, but power spoke a universal language.
"However, your support is noted," he continued with a nod, reaching for the plate of toast again and holding it to the Privaron that had made herself comfortable against him. The slices were a pre-emptive victory toast, a replacement for the wine most would consume in such moments.
She smirked, unable to care for Luppi’s safety, unable to care for any Arrancar’s safety but her own. She was a selfish creature, all Arrancar were. A selfless member of the their kind would be wiped out. Cirucci accepted the toast and hid a grimace, nibbling lightly, delicately.
“And after Luppi?” The Privaron wanted to hear that Szayel-Aporro was next, that he’d suffer for pinning her to that wall for hours, shrieking and writhing and him all the while playing chess. She wanted to hear Ulquiorra was next, for punishing her for touching his shinigami.
“Who next?~” Her voice came out a croon, tainted with the hate she held for those she routinely curried favour with, hate mainly for that black number on their flesh.
Alturo sensed that in her tone that held venom for more than shinigami, a fault not blamed upon her. The proper ranks of Arrancar had been disrupted, leaving those of their own power -- Cirucci Thunderwitch -- at the base of the scale, the balance of power overturned at the whim of Aizen. A balance that he would see righted, out of more than his growing attachment -- a word he despised, unnatural to Arrancar, but he did hold favour for this one -- to Cirucci.
"The next to speak outright against me," he replied, no target selected, unlike his increasingly ranked list for the shinigami. Alturo set the plate down, then reached to rescue the toast from Cirucci's smaller hand for his own consumption.
"Those who have wronged you."
She relinquished the toast gladly, not liking the heavy, sticky, taste of the peanut butter on her tongue.
“Cirucci likes hearing that~” Her voice changed to an approving murmur, letting nails she’d just examine skip up his shoulder, tracing swirls into his sleeve. This one was one of her favourites if, not only was he powerful, but he was her easiest to manipulate, the easiest to please, to arouse, thanks to his 2,000 years in isolation, his never having seen a female of their species, been with one, felt one against him, felt one be possessed by him.
“Alturo knows just what to say.” The Privaron inched closer, watched him through lidded eyes.
“And of Aizen?”
Toast crunched between his teeth and the last of what she had nibbled upon was gone, chewed slowly to savour a taste he could have held as gourmet, for all his experience with food. Alturo leaned back against the couch, stifling as much of his reiatsu as he could to keep from the strange discomfort of the green-hued wings reacting to the fabric, preferring the sensation of her nails upon his sleeve to distract him.
"Aizen will see nothing of me until his Arrancar are mine," Alturo replied with a snort and a shake of his head for the irritation that had been their encounter. Pale eyes turned to and roved her features and he raised a hand to trace his fingers over the lines of her mask. "When he will be forced to admit that those who reveal their own power are better than his toys."
Alturo played a game with his words, though lacking the skill Cirucci had. The Privaron had been the first to acknowledge him and would hold his favour longest, but his words came specifically to appease her and keep thoughts of others from her mind when they spoke. He needed her attention, proof that he had things more than words. And those who mocked the worth of her belief would be, as he stated, the first to feel the bite of his power.
“And once they’re yours?” She breathed, let her fingers creep up his shoulder to his neck, rubbing lightly beneath his jaw line, encouraging with words she didn’t necessarily believe. She had her doubts he could subjugate all the Arrancar. Had her doubts he could cut a clear enough victory over Aizen.
They were both playing with falsehoods, playing each other and being used in return. Such was the way of their kind.
“What will you do to Aizen then?” Even if she didn’t believe it could happen, she wanted to hear it, wanted to revel in it, the very idea, turning his chin to face her, words spilling from painted lips accustomed to making promises, insults, and praise.
Ultimately, and with no contest, Cirucci played the words better, her interest taken as genuine, her touches distracting thoughts to ensure the truth of her statements. Alturo smiled without warmth, his joy only an anticipation of cruellest nature, shared with her with a trust twisted and limited to her.
"There will be nothing left of him then," he breathed. The fabric of the couch ground against his back and the sensitive stretch of his shoulders as he shuddered and leaned to it, a hand held to Cirucci to invite her closer, a hunger for her presence growing.
"Those who turned me away will be gone, those who turned to me will not serve him." Alturo licked his lips, heady at the thought of his victory. "His destruction will be absolute."
“Sounds good~” Cirucci whispered, taking his hand with a coy smirk and another caress at his neck, adding weight to her words in the forms of pleasure and distractions that hid her lies and her false faithfulness, even though she would, in honesty, prefer to serve an Arrancar than a former shinigami.
Instead of coming down to him, however, she pulled against his offered hand, tugging him towards her instead, other hand reaching up to begin undoing the ties that held her hair up, one tail and then the other falling to send thick waves of black cascading down her shoulders and about her face, accented by the purple marks on her cheeks.
The aspirations that drove the first Arrancar were greater than his means, but by his confidence and pride, he did enjoy the thought of them, much as he enjoyed the warmth of her hand, a warmth unlike the fire of Fenniche or the Soukyoku. They were things to possess, in the present or the future, but they would be his.
Alturo took the lead Cirucci laid out for him, shifting his position to lay one leg as though kneeling on the couch, allowing him to lean closer and over the Privaron. "You will play witness to it all," he said, his words no more than a low breath, his fingers threading through her hair, holding her head still as he came closer.
"Oh?~" She crooned, neck arched into his hand, let her own smaller ones trace down his collar bone, fiddle briefly with the collar of his uniform before beginning to undo it, letting her nails scrape against his chest.
"Cirucci will have a lovely view." Her voice was sweetened, encouraging, a tone she used for one purpose and that was with males, to own them in her own way, twist their goals and ends to her own views, let them believe everything about her they wanted to, believe her sweet, vicious, cold, or warm, whichever they preferred and whichever would get the Privaron her way, one of her bare legs rising to wrap lightly around his hip, hooking against his thigh.
Sensations penetrated the layer of space so few had neared, an almost painful trail marked with each nail, no matter how harsh or light the pressure Cirucci laid upon him. Alturo pulled his hand through her hair, alternating between gentle and stiff in his motion in the desire to both preserve and possess the lady.
Alturo leaned more completely over her, drawing his knee further up the couch to brace his weight and balance, freeing his other hand to touch upon her thigh, fingers spread wide. "A view like none other," he breathed, leaning his head forward to touch his lips upon hers, hovering and quivering with hunger. "One sculpted in part by your own hand."
Her own lips touched briefly, speaking against his mouth in light flutters of touch and press.
“The question is…” She whispered, one arm falling behind her to brace in a leaned back sit, back arching towards him and thigh trembling lightly under gently touch, the other hand still deftly working the front of his uniform open.
“What kind of view…” Cirucci smirked against his mouth, nibbled lightly on his bottom lip before biting sharply, neatly, adding pain to pleasure, her own twisted preferences.
“Does Alturo like?” Idly, she had a thought that this had all started with toast. But that wasn’t a very exciting thought at all, and she managed to quickly suppress it with images of blood and carnage the first of their kind always managed to conjure for her, easy enough to hide her other frustrations, over Alfons, over Shiro-Megane-Kun, in that sensual violence as well.
The view that Cirucci gave appealed in no small measure, the brush of her body against him sensual, heightened with the thoughts of the havoc he would wreak upon those in opposition to him. Physical pleasure melded with sadistic ones, the truth Alturo learned intimately with Cirucci.
"That of bodies broken before me," he explained, words spoken over a low groan in the wake of pleasurable pain from her teeth. Alturo worked his fingers over her thigh with greater force, short nails scraping the skin and then the garter that wound tightly around it.
"Bloodied, gored," he continued, baring his teeth in an instant before her sought her lips as she had his, biting hard before he took her mouth with hunger in the kiss.
The Privaron squirmed, thigh pressing against his hand in a movement that pushed up her skirt, her stockinged calf rubbing slowly across the back of his own leg, toes tangling in the edge of his hakama and tugging.
“Don’t-” She began breathily, had to pull from the kiss to gasp in another breath she didn’t necessarily have to take, let him claim her mouth a few more moments, pulling him slightly closer by uniform front and baring to his belt, palm flat against firm muscles, the power inherent in all, and augmented in him.
“Don’t-” Cirucci dipped her hand down, scraping lightly where his belt halted the parting of his uniform. “Break me-” She smirked, laughed viciously, masochistically, tossed waves of hair behind her and drew her gloved hand in a half circle about his middle, “Too badly.”
There could be nothing held to Arrancar without violence, the primal instinct stronger than foolhardy notions of kindness, long stolen away in the dark abyss of the hold that marked each of their bodies. Alturo held Cirucci with less force than he intended to treat Luppi, with more carnal interest than the Espada would have.
The press of his hand had the force to break, but he held it from that, pale eyes looking down upon her, the painted lips twisted viciously, temptuous with her words. "Never so bad as I will the Espada," he offered with rough squeeze of his hand before he released her leg.
Alturo shrugged his shoulders back, a ripple of effort repeated to push the stifling jacket back enough to draw one arm from it and then the other, discarding it to the floor. Those injuries sustained from Aizen, tended and healed, still marked his skin, but it was a display he ignored. He arched his back to the air, then ground his body down upon Cirucci, his hand closing over her wrist to guide her to both the belt and ties that held the white hakama to his lean frame.
She smirked again, lifted against him with another hitch of a laugh and wriggle, though as her hand approached where he led, pale fingers skilfully working at the belt, tugging him by the hips closer to her, full lips moved to a pout at her own state of far-too-much-dress.
“Don’t play too gentle, either.” Cirucci warned, let nails dig roughly before she flipped the belt buckle, tugged rougher, both hands at the ties on his waist now, leaving her balance precarious in a sitting position, balanced mainly on her rear end, with one leg still wrapping around his thigh and her hands occupied.
Fingers re-threaded through her hair tightened their grip sharply, an assurance that Cirucci would not be treated as some delicate flower. Alturo tilted her head back by this hold, head nearing hers to let his breath play upon her ear. "That was never an intention," he assured, ending his words with his teeth tracing her earlobe, pressing hard upon the rim.
Alturo followed the guide of her hands, hips pressing forward to her touch. One hand helped to hold her precarious balance, the other moved to the snaps she had teased him with before, fingers fumbling a moment with each as he worked her collar open with rough jerks on each clasp.
She hissed out breath, nipped her bottom lip, let her hands jerk roughly at the ties of his hakama as he bared her own skin in return, the ties fumbled a moment before she undid the last knot.
"And..." The Arrancar's hand pressed lightly, teasing, smirking into urging, muscles taut and trembling from the awkward position, trying to steady herself with a grip on his hips, though her hands seemed lost without a black inked number to dig into, to rip at, to hate.
"Alturo's intents are?" Cirucci's voice was dark, sadistic, inviting pain as much as pleasure.
Their balance would hold only for so long, the tension in her muscles matched by his, unstable with the twitches and shudders that Cirucci drew from him. Alturo pulled back on her hair, the hand at her uniform pressing down to ease her back against the cushions of the couch, before they took a less graceful route and fell.
Alturo followed his body with hers, not so fluid, but strong as he moved to pin her. The snaps opened with force increased from each last, both hands moving to the task as he pulled at the uniform roughly, the sadism in his smile matched by carnal hunger.
"To have," he replied, exposing a breast and pressing a hand over it, a grip laid gentle and turned firm as he squeezed the malleable flesh. "To take." The other breast was exposed and he lowered his head, shifting back on the couch to allow his teeth to graze upon her, sharp bites leaving marks.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged, instead a breathy moan as her elbows dug into the cushions, arched her back to press against his bite, inviting the uncomfortable pain just as she invited pleasure, bare leg brushed against his hip, raised and tremulous.
“And,” Cirucci moaned, speaking in double meanings as she shifted beneath him, he was powerfully physically and so was she, his pin difficult to manoeuvre against but not terribly hard, not too hard to bring that tremulous leg down and tuck against her, hips shifting closed as if to deny him.
“What if you can’t take?” It was both a legitimate question and something aimed at infuriating him, bringing that smouldering power to bear against her, the feel of being in the company of something powerful was something she craved just as she craved the blood of shinigami on her hands. Her mind was still clear, not too distracted by her body’s sensations yet to not still contemplate the more powerful between Aizen and Alturo, only just enough now to keep her mind of her troubles with two human males as she breathed lightly, breath against his hair with his face against her chest even as she moved as if to let him go no farther.
To be denied, even in jest, was a tenuous move when Cirucci had awakened the ache in his body, the need for hers. Pale eyes had darkened with a flash of ire, turned to her features as though to read them as he straightened and ran his hands down the length of her torso. The feel of her skin and body where it lay concealed still beneath the clothes served nothing to calm him, his desire to see her naked and writhing growing, impatient.
"There is nothing I cannot take," he warned. Alturo let his hand follow her leg, fingers laying a brutal grip on her ankle, one that he used to pull it away and lift what sought to block him. The other hand still held her waist, drawing and lifting her hips with lessening regard to her comfort.
He did not wish to break her, the power and presence that Cirucci held was pure compared to the ones of the Hougyoku, but he would not let her rule this. The power was his, a ripple of reiatsu testament to that, and though he craved hers, he would take what she would not give. That was the way of the Arrancar.
Cirucci smirked, met his gaze with one just as fired, just as even, a challenge even as she responded in kind, unable to stop herself from wanting it just as she was quite able to make sure he worked for it as well. Her other hand dug in harshly to pale skin, dug until she felt hierro begin to break, feel a small amount of blood well under her nails. She laughed, a throaty noise, at his statement, tossed her head playfully and felt fingers slicking red.
"Then take it all." The Privaron dared, her muscles taut and resisting, not to her full power, no, but enough to make him need exert an effort, teasing viciously by beginning to slacken, let her legs drift open before seemingly changing her mind and drawing her knees together again despite the pressure he had on her, ever conscious of the power she had lost, the rank she had lost and the prestige, bringing her fingers back to her mouth to lick leisurely at the red stains he provided, eyes hooded and daring even as the same hand drifted down between he breasts, a faint red smear down skin as the nails, or were they talons, scraped across he Hollow hole with a shudder, gaze not leaving the one who called himself the first.
Alturo watched, shuddering under the pierce of her nails, but it was not the blood that welled up holding his attention. The defiance in her gaze, the game, and the challenge of power had his amber eyes locked upon hers. To the peripheral, he could see the blood and even licked his lips in an echo of hunger when she tasted his.
Not only would Cirucci be his, but he would have her moan and twist about, in punishment and payment for the torture offered. Alturo lifted his hand from her ankle, then lay one upon each of her knees and pried with his strength. His pale form leaned over her in this moment, his head bowed only to brush his tongue over her reddened fingers.
Teeth grazed over her hand, but he worked lower, arms still forcing her legs to part for him, sliding up her thighs to hike up the skirt that defied the hakama that many preferred.
Slowly she yielded to him, parted, still holding his amber gaze with hers, vibrant purple that challenged and dared, tightened muscles finally breaking under a superior strength that made her murmur appreciatively even to the violence of it, the idea of force and blood and everything in between, legs parting, bringing pale stained fingers back up from her skin to her lips, cleaning the last of the blood off with a low growl.
"Everything." She reminded, voice gone husky and inviting. "Everything you can." Another challenge to his pride she demanded him meet, to prove worth and desire and everything she wanted in her males, in Grimmjow, in Luppi, in Il Forte, Szayel-Aporro, in Noitora and in every other she lay with, and she expected the same, if not better, from one calling himself the very first, the one who came before all others, who ripped his own mask off and stood against the man she once called a god.
Copper scent traced the air, the hot taste of blood drifted from his tongue, faded as he watched her taste the last trace of it from her hands. More ebbed from the wound Cirucci had left, but even the craving for blood could not pay it heed.
Alturo kept his eyes on her expression, his one of pride challenged and need raw in every scope. The very nature of his power was raw, torn rather than sculpted, taken rather than bequeathed, and he reflected that in turn. "Everything it will be," he returned in heady words.
Leaned over her body, he laughed and set his body between her legs, hands rough as they worked up her inner thigh, fingers penetrating her where he had taken her on the bench, or she had taken him, that first time he had learned the fire that the female's body could awaken in him.
The Privaron bit back a high-pitched noise, unwilling to give him that from her just quite yet even as she bit her own lips, unwilling to tear her gaze from his, because the first one to move, to break that, was the weaker. And though she knew her power did not compare to his, she was also one of pride, pride in her stolen rank, pride in her blade still loosely on her hip, pride in the blood she had drawn and the blood she would spill, in the way she could affect males when she gave herself.
"Tell me," She demanded, or begged perhaps, considering her words hitched awkwardly with the feeling of being touched, invaded, taken, making her squirm in desire, knees brushing against his shoulders, shaking lightly as she sought to draw him in, to further the sensations she was accustomed to, that delivered the warmth she wanted deep in her body, the warmth that made her skin hot and flushed instead of sullen and cold, made her bones warmed and live instead of achingly chill.
"Tell me what it would feel like to crush them." And Cirucci wanted to do just that, was incapable of it on her own, but she wanted to hear it, wanted to paint that picture again of blood and violence even as she herself tried to prop herself on her elbows, rise up slightly to better press hips against hand.
The demands of lust, reaching beyond means, could be met with words of experience, vicious by nature and desire. Alturo laughed, subdued and low in his throat, driving his fingers deeper into Cirucci. Tenderness did not enter his thoughts or motion, but for the knowledge he would both be in anger if the other treated him less, coddled him in this moment when the violence, the press of bodies, and blood brought life to nerves that were dead.
The heat that he slid his fingers into intoxicated Alturo, but he kept his eyes on hers, working by touch, inexperienced and rough. "Exhilarating," he breathed. The screams of the defeated rang in his ears with that word, recollect sparked as he spoke in detail for the Privaron. Told of how they screamed when their ones broke and their skin tore, of the weak pleadings for mercy that incensed rage.
Alturo moved with fervour, his fingers sliding in and out of Cirucci, force increased with each stroke. His breathing came in heavy waves and his tongue licked his lips before he spoke again, the words that followed a strained whisper of physical desire, lust for the kill, raw passion for the moment.
Cirucci strained against him, managed to match his gaze still even as her hips lifted to him, offered, mouth open slightly in pants for breath as she fought to control her reactions, to temper the nerves stimulated sending shivers and trembles up her spine and made her small form shake.
“I want it.” She managed to gasp out, not just the touch, the sensual, but that blood he spoke of, the destruction and the screams of enemies, crushed and broken before her, a feeling she could only occasionally sate in this City, having to throw her passions to males instead for lack of proper fights, directing her angers and her fire to the press and feel, the light sheen of sweat on skin as her own fingers plied at the hole between her breasts, that added sensation what it took to make her gaze break.
Her eyes slid from his, averted, closed, as she gasped, once, twice, felt her control slip fully as she had to let herself give in to him, the stroking feel in a slick passion, head falling back in a whine of a high-strung moan.
"It will happen." Three words spoken not in promise, but in confidence, certainty that it could not be averted. The blood, the devastation, it would all come again, would be welcomed again. For his sake more than hers, in proof of his power, while he fed upon the sensation of hers plying against his.
Alturo slowed his hand, her gaze tearing away, victory allowed, left him to play his eyes upon the writhing beauty of her form, the eroticism personified, an addiction he craved. But to see her tremble under him would not be enough, his need satisfied not by sight alone.
He raised his hand from between her legs, lifting his fingers to taste the lady Privaron, looked down upon her. "You will see it when I take it, you will partake of it," be growled, dropping his hand on her shoulder to press her back, so that he could take equal pleasure from her.
"Yes." She managed to croon, a breathless word, drawing her hand from her own skin to grab his mask, haul his face closer to kiss him fiercely, drawing him closer and pressing herself back, the taste of his blood on her lips mingling with the taste of her on his, felt the sweat on their skins as she pressed herself to his chest, hooked a trembling leg and clinging stocking around his waist and arched, needy, always needing, wanting.
"They'll all die." Cirucci moaned, licked her lips and let her hand drift down to the light wound, fingers digging in viciously, red staining both the pale flesh of his side and her fingers. "And then there will be no more shinigami."
Alturo hissed, pain shooting across his side, skin ripping under her vicious touch, intoxicating him all the more in the bloodlust. Positioned, ready to take her, he thrust his hips forward and did that, drowning the moan against her lips.
Hungry, starved since their meeting, he pressed upon her lips with bruising force, relenting with a graze of teeth as his hips jerked into her again. "No shinigami at all," he groaned.
It was easy to give in to him once the fight, the initial pride of a challenge, had gone, easy to move with him when she hadn’t even finished letting her body prepare again, already being forced back into that taut state, muscles coiling and that tightness deep in her belly accompanied by the distinct discomfort of her body being invaded, taken, used, but of no consequence when coupled with the shudders of pleasure accompanying, her breath harsh and shallow. “Not even Aizen.” Cirucci promised, a dire promise, should said shinigami catch word of it, but it was no concern that he would, her lips used to promises but none that seemed so dark as this, the only time she could ever recall saying such a twisted though was when she had given in to a Numeros and said that she had loved him.
No, not even Aizen, who would be broken most, brought to his knees for what he had done, disgracing proud Arrancar of their own hand, replacing them, stripping the pale flesh that his hand found and his fingers dug against, the memory of a number scarred, one that meant nothing to him, but incensed him for what it represented.
Alturo jerked into her with greater force, a growl slipped from his throat and he forced his hand higher, a touch upon her breast, then further, fingers hooking on the remains of her mask, pale bone jutting out, petite and empowered.
Words would have been dry to speak, his instincts down tot he basic, most primal level of the dead who walked Hueco Mundo. Sate the hungry, possess it, fingers tightening on her hair, head lowering to her neck, teeth savage against the paler flesh as he continued to thrust into Cirucci.
She moaned, a loud and husky tone, always a vocal lover except when prevented, prevented by hands clasped tight on her slim throat, lips on hers, or the demand of a favourite, but had no such need now. The only words she bothered with was his name, grit out when he bit into her neck, accompanied by a thrust of her own, of her fingers deeper into his side, the feeling of blood on her hands something she loved and knew intimately just as she was known in the same intimate manner, legs wrapped tightly about his hips and arching, angling, easy enough to please when she had been touched, teased, already, head thrown against the grip he had on her mask remnant as she bucked against him in the selfish desire for completion.
Alturo kept his mouth against her skin, her neck worked over fervently, his body meeting her needy thrusts. The call of his name, carnal and devouring, of his attention, of his thoughts to these basic levels. Take her, drive into her, make her pant and moan as she did.
The body could not hold out so long as the mind craved for each sound and tremor, his climax fast, her heat tight around him, hazed by pain and blood drawn at her hand. He caught his breath, continued the rhythm to completion, before his breath released heavily upon her skin.
Easy enough again to follow suit, to cry out and write, squirm, shudder as her eyes closed against the sensation of her body’s limits being passed, unable to take more without release, nerves afire and sweat-sheened body taut, taut, taut, before it had to give in as well, give in with a whine and a shaky release of legs from his hips, of revelling in that warmth, the heat of friction not just between her thighs but tingling lightly in her entire body. She managed a contented groan, withdrew her fingers from his side to lick leisurely, slowly, body growing heavy beneath him.
Lethargy could settle quick upon the sated body, a temptation Alturo held at bay, breath evening out as he lifted his head and gazed down upon the lady Privaron, enjoying the taint of crimson he had drawn from him, the wound an ache in his side, no matter how faint.
He smirked and enjoyed the sight as he withdrew from her, drawing her skirt back down slowly, offering her a hand, but hardly from chivalry. There could be none in a being without that care, his offer an afterthought.
"The lady Privaron approves," he stated, words formed with care, thoughts found as the high faded, slow in its satiation.
“Approves.” She agreed tentatively, took his hand and rose up, shifted with the moisture between her legs and used hands with sticking gloves to redo the snaps on the front of her uniform, cover her chest, her Hollow hole, and the scar of a number. The Privaron wanted to give in again, to relaxation, but was unwilling to do so until her partner did as well, unwilling to display that weakness alone, unlike the shared weakness of the sexual when either one could try to take advantage but could also be stopped in the same manner.
Alturo nodded, approval for hers. He took a moment to draw his hakama up once more, looping the ties and setting the belt, but he left the jacket discarded to keep the blood from staining it now, in an aftermath.
The plate that had been forgotten found itself reached for, the last charred piece of bread lifted and turned over in his hand before set down again. Hunger enough had been sated, the thought of overpowering the taste Cirucci left upon him by her body and reiatsu with the peanut butter that tasted of peanuts disgusted him.
"You will stay until I begin this evening?" Pale eyes turned to her, expectant that she would accede.
Cirucci knew the right answer to that question. She nodded, slumped back against the couch and wriggled a bit, trying to settle the residual tingles still arching up her spine, the sticky feel between her legs, readjusting her garters and gloves, making a dissatisfied noise until she finally settled for simply discarding the accenting garments, kicking off her small boots along with stockings and gloves. “Until this evening.” She repeated, an affirmation. She would stay, she would tend him as he wished, give as he demanded, and, then? Then she would see how he fared against one who had been Espada.
Rating; R/NC-17
Characters; Alturo [
winged_hubris], Cirucci [thunderwitch]Summary; Cirucci is bored and frustrated when she goes to see the first Arrancar. Alturo entertains her with toast and plans of defeating shinigami, then she entertains him with more.
Log;
The smell of burned bread had permeated the apartment for the past half an hour, evidence than the metal box with two slots had a grudge against Alturo Plateado for failing to feed it enough bread from his first day there. The box -- a toaster -- looked worse for its defiance, dents marring its shining finish from the violence of irritation. Blackened toast rested in the garbage bin, piled high inside the matching black bag that lined it.
Destroying soul society had been simple compared to domesticity, but the City would not let him leave and he had to sustain himself somehow. Alturo growled and jiggled the switch on the side of the appliance until it popped up two and a half pieces (he had to make the best of the limited space inside!) of too-browned toast.
Good enough.
Alturo fished them out of the toaster and placed them on a plate, then went so far as to unscrew the lid of the peanut butter -- a treat he had been told tasted good on toast -- and then carry the lot into the limited living area. Being a host was not his concern, but the visitor would be Cirucci and he would show her that the knowledge passed to him came to use.
The door waited, wide open for any to enter, no fear of invasion held by the Arrancar as he waited for the arrival of the lady Privaron.
Cirucci was bored.
She was bored and she was irritated. Frustrated.
Alfons left. He couldn't, he had no right.
Shiro-Megane-Kun wouldn't play her games. Another with no right to deny her.
And now her nose was crinkling at the smell wafting out of Alturo's apartment, what was that, toast? ... He couldn't make toast.
She had a lot of work to do apparently.
"Alturo?" She murmured, poking her head in the open door, leaning on the door frame. "Coming in~" She shut the door behind her, sauntered in and followed the smell, and the pulse of his reiatsu, into the living room. Ah, there he was. One of her favourites here in the City, along with Luppi. She tried not to think of other favourites. Another favourite in particular.
"Toast, darling?" The Privaron arced one eyebrow appraisingly, let a small smirk come to her lips in some sort of twisted amusement at the slightly burnt and peanut buttered bread.
The approach the lady Privaron came noted by both her words and the more subtle reiatsu, and edge softer than his, but one he gauged to be capable of equally vicious things. A comfort of similar power that even he could admit to enjoying. Cirucci was unlike the other Arrancar, she had purity of power and corruption of intent; two sides that he wanted to see more of.
Alturo viewed the plate with a twisted sense of pride; embittered enough by failure, he had succeeded in making something slightly edible, instead of the burned bread he had been eating in his strict crusade to prove the toaster defeated no matter its antics.
"A fine dish," he asserted with a nod to it. "With... peanut butter, which tastes of peanuts." All words were said with a straight face and every ounce of a serious tone. Knowledge of the finer things of gourmet was absent from Alturo, who had lived too long ago to remember the taste of anything but souls. In reacquainting himself, even the most singed of foods had a sort of worth to them. If nothing else, the advice they carried in taste to never repeat the gesture again.
She blinked.
"... which tastes of peanuts." She repeated softly, with some amount of disbelief and shock on her features, mostly blank. She managed to hold her composure for a whole moment of pause where the one sound was her skirt rustling as she plopped down on the couch beside the first Arrancar.
"Al-" She began, but had to stop and cover her face with small gloved hands. If anyone didn't know better they may have thought she was crying, shoulders shaking and muffled noise coming from beneath her palms, leaning back and small feet kicking.
She was laughing.
The reaction did not suit his words. Alturo looked perplexed, brow furrowing for a brief moment as he looked to the dish, then to Cirucci next to him, who fuelled his puzzlement with her laughter, no matter how delicate or beautiful it sounded when filled with malice. This lacked that, malice replaced with honest amusement foreign to him.
"It tastes more of peanuts than of butter," he protested gruffly. Alturo knew this from comparing the three foods to see what similarities they had to be so named. "Or is there another flavour it better matches that is not in its name?"
She tried not to, really.
It was... oh, goodness. Cirucci finally managed to stifle her laughter in her hands, though she couldn't conceal a genuine amusement in her eyes.
"... Alturo." She tried to keep her voice level, grave, serious, but failed miserably, having to stifle more laughter behind kicking off her boots, tucking her stockinged feet under her legs, and settling into a curled sort of comfort on the couch cushion.
"It's... lovely toast."
Alturo lifted the half piece of toast in his hand when Cirucci tried to control herself, tilting it to and fro as amber eyes observed it and the crude way the peanut spread had been pushed across it. An inducer of euphoria? Surely it was not his words that had caused her laughter!
The tentative bite he took did not inspire like amusement in him and Alturo shook off his confusion about it, swallowing the contents with little flair. The taste still hung heavy in his mouth and in the flavour of peanuts. He shrugged and set it down on the plate again.
"It is sustenance, yes," he agreed, nudging the plate away from Cirucci in case it was the cause of her odd laughter -- though the genuine amused contentment he saw in her then made him rethink, but not enough to risk another laughing fit. "There are other things that can be prepared for the lady Privaron if peanuts are not to her taste," he continued. "I have found something called 'Pop-Tarts' which can be used in bread's place."
"... No, no~" She waved her hands dismissively, full mouth still twisted into a somewhat pout to try and suppress her laughter as she reached across his lap for a piece of the toast, careful not to get any of the peanut butter on her pristine white gloves. That just wouldn't do.
She bit into it delicately, the thickness of the food setting uneasily on her stomach, used to souls, not solid food, and accustomed of her own volition to foods light in nature, fruits, yogurts, and the like.
"Alturo mentioned plans?~" She wheedled, stalling on another bite. It really wasn't very good, but she managed not to let that show, kept her look interested, curious, smirking over the piece of toast and settling herself.
Alturo brushed off the crumbs that clung to his fingers, content to let Cirucci feast on the sort of foods that had been sustaining him. He would have to look into using the other appliances soon, but with the defiance of the toaster, he anticipated a pattern unwanted.
"Aizen is an insufficient example," he said, voice cold and sharp upon the name of the one he had faced. "Though he could not defeat me, he will not speak of it." Nor did Alturo intend to laud the encounter long; injuries sustained took time to heal and though they were covered and tended, they pained him unnecessarily. An unexpected and great cost for a draw.
Alturo's expression, though, warmed as the thoughts and intents laid in his mind came to light, a sharp edge of teeth shown in a smirk. "I have selected an Espada that will be more willing to speak after, for all the speaking he does now."
"Oh?" Cirucci shifted again, took another small nibble of the toast and watched him carefully. He was dangerous, capable of killing her, but then again, most of the males she preferred to associate with were, that power something she could relate to, crave, want to regain even though she'd lost her own rank, had it stripped from her and left to scar.
"Loud, hmm?" She sifted through them in her mind, and honestly, it wasn't hard. Ulquiorra hardly ever even spoke, Szayel-Aporro was very rarely loud, and that left Luppi, not a true Espada, considering he'd died, been left as a pair of legs and hips.
"Luppi?" She set the piece of toast down back on the plate half-eaten, scooted a little closer, head cocked and listening. She'd rather he not kill him, she could only soothe the would-be-Sexta's ego so much, after all, but she'd hardly say such, not with the other Arrancar's power so evident on his back.
"That is his name," Alturo acknowledged, gaze shifting to Cirucci. He shifted his position on the couch, not for such comfort as she had, but to ensure there was space enough for her to settle where she would, a freedom the lady Privaron held above any other in this city, to be in such proximity to him.
"He defies me openly, and so he will be given the lesson of power," he continued. Alturo observed Cirucci for her reaction, the same moment taken to appreciate her so much as one without a soul could. The power she lacked and lamented gained her rights to his perception. He held his arm to her, the only assistance he offered in helping her settle, and far more than he would grant any other.
"Death is not what I seek for him, that would turn his interest to bitterness. What Luppi shall meet is my power, it will be his opportunity to accept it and I would prefer him survive to speak of it sooner," he concluded, a short and simple outline of his intent.
The Privaron took his arm, settled closer to him so that her shoulders brushed his and recrossed her legs under her, smoothing out skirt and checking garters.
"Luppi is a little..." She paused, looking for a word. "... Irritable." She also meant psychotic, unpredictable, kinky, brash, and terribly a tease.
"He'll take convincing." Her nails were brushed against her palm, idly checking the sheen of black polish on claw-like tips with an appraising glance.
"But, Cirucci thinks Alturo can handle it." Even more than he could handle the toast.
Alturo, were it up to him to defend the unspoken comment, would state that the toast had been handled well enough. But it stood true that the Espada would be handled with that much more skill and prowess. After all, Luppi did not shout at him, demanding bread when the days were right.
"Luppi will be shown the reason for his consideration," Alturo noted, flexing his hand and eyeing it, not so manicured or cared for as Cirucci's. He did not expect the Espada to understand his stance, but power spoke a universal language.
"However, your support is noted," he continued with a nod, reaching for the plate of toast again and holding it to the Privaron that had made herself comfortable against him. The slices were a pre-emptive victory toast, a replacement for the wine most would consume in such moments.
She smirked, unable to care for Luppi’s safety, unable to care for any Arrancar’s safety but her own. She was a selfish creature, all Arrancar were. A selfless member of the their kind would be wiped out. Cirucci accepted the toast and hid a grimace, nibbling lightly, delicately.
“And after Luppi?” The Privaron wanted to hear that Szayel-Aporro was next, that he’d suffer for pinning her to that wall for hours, shrieking and writhing and him all the while playing chess. She wanted to hear Ulquiorra was next, for punishing her for touching his shinigami.
“Who next?~” Her voice came out a croon, tainted with the hate she held for those she routinely curried favour with, hate mainly for that black number on their flesh.
Alturo sensed that in her tone that held venom for more than shinigami, a fault not blamed upon her. The proper ranks of Arrancar had been disrupted, leaving those of their own power -- Cirucci Thunderwitch -- at the base of the scale, the balance of power overturned at the whim of Aizen. A balance that he would see righted, out of more than his growing attachment -- a word he despised, unnatural to Arrancar, but he did hold favour for this one -- to Cirucci.
"The next to speak outright against me," he replied, no target selected, unlike his increasingly ranked list for the shinigami. Alturo set the plate down, then reached to rescue the toast from Cirucci's smaller hand for his own consumption.
"Those who have wronged you."
She relinquished the toast gladly, not liking the heavy, sticky, taste of the peanut butter on her tongue.
“Cirucci likes hearing that~” Her voice changed to an approving murmur, letting nails she’d just examine skip up his shoulder, tracing swirls into his sleeve. This one was one of her favourites if, not only was he powerful, but he was her easiest to manipulate, the easiest to please, to arouse, thanks to his 2,000 years in isolation, his never having seen a female of their species, been with one, felt one against him, felt one be possessed by him.
“Alturo knows just what to say.” The Privaron inched closer, watched him through lidded eyes.
“And of Aizen?”
Toast crunched between his teeth and the last of what she had nibbled upon was gone, chewed slowly to savour a taste he could have held as gourmet, for all his experience with food. Alturo leaned back against the couch, stifling as much of his reiatsu as he could to keep from the strange discomfort of the green-hued wings reacting to the fabric, preferring the sensation of her nails upon his sleeve to distract him.
"Aizen will see nothing of me until his Arrancar are mine," Alturo replied with a snort and a shake of his head for the irritation that had been their encounter. Pale eyes turned to and roved her features and he raised a hand to trace his fingers over the lines of her mask. "When he will be forced to admit that those who reveal their own power are better than his toys."
Alturo played a game with his words, though lacking the skill Cirucci had. The Privaron had been the first to acknowledge him and would hold his favour longest, but his words came specifically to appease her and keep thoughts of others from her mind when they spoke. He needed her attention, proof that he had things more than words. And those who mocked the worth of her belief would be, as he stated, the first to feel the bite of his power.
“And once they’re yours?” She breathed, let her fingers creep up his shoulder to his neck, rubbing lightly beneath his jaw line, encouraging with words she didn’t necessarily believe. She had her doubts he could subjugate all the Arrancar. Had her doubts he could cut a clear enough victory over Aizen.
They were both playing with falsehoods, playing each other and being used in return. Such was the way of their kind.
“What will you do to Aizen then?” Even if she didn’t believe it could happen, she wanted to hear it, wanted to revel in it, the very idea, turning his chin to face her, words spilling from painted lips accustomed to making promises, insults, and praise.
Ultimately, and with no contest, Cirucci played the words better, her interest taken as genuine, her touches distracting thoughts to ensure the truth of her statements. Alturo smiled without warmth, his joy only an anticipation of cruellest nature, shared with her with a trust twisted and limited to her.
"There will be nothing left of him then," he breathed. The fabric of the couch ground against his back and the sensitive stretch of his shoulders as he shuddered and leaned to it, a hand held to Cirucci to invite her closer, a hunger for her presence growing.
"Those who turned me away will be gone, those who turned to me will not serve him." Alturo licked his lips, heady at the thought of his victory. "His destruction will be absolute."
“Sounds good~” Cirucci whispered, taking his hand with a coy smirk and another caress at his neck, adding weight to her words in the forms of pleasure and distractions that hid her lies and her false faithfulness, even though she would, in honesty, prefer to serve an Arrancar than a former shinigami.
Instead of coming down to him, however, she pulled against his offered hand, tugging him towards her instead, other hand reaching up to begin undoing the ties that held her hair up, one tail and then the other falling to send thick waves of black cascading down her shoulders and about her face, accented by the purple marks on her cheeks.
The aspirations that drove the first Arrancar were greater than his means, but by his confidence and pride, he did enjoy the thought of them, much as he enjoyed the warmth of her hand, a warmth unlike the fire of Fenniche or the Soukyoku. They were things to possess, in the present or the future, but they would be his.
Alturo took the lead Cirucci laid out for him, shifting his position to lay one leg as though kneeling on the couch, allowing him to lean closer and over the Privaron. "You will play witness to it all," he said, his words no more than a low breath, his fingers threading through her hair, holding her head still as he came closer.
"Oh?~" She crooned, neck arched into his hand, let her own smaller ones trace down his collar bone, fiddle briefly with the collar of his uniform before beginning to undo it, letting her nails scrape against his chest.
"Cirucci will have a lovely view." Her voice was sweetened, encouraging, a tone she used for one purpose and that was with males, to own them in her own way, twist their goals and ends to her own views, let them believe everything about her they wanted to, believe her sweet, vicious, cold, or warm, whichever they preferred and whichever would get the Privaron her way, one of her bare legs rising to wrap lightly around his hip, hooking against his thigh.
Sensations penetrated the layer of space so few had neared, an almost painful trail marked with each nail, no matter how harsh or light the pressure Cirucci laid upon him. Alturo pulled his hand through her hair, alternating between gentle and stiff in his motion in the desire to both preserve and possess the lady.
Alturo leaned more completely over her, drawing his knee further up the couch to brace his weight and balance, freeing his other hand to touch upon her thigh, fingers spread wide. "A view like none other," he breathed, leaning his head forward to touch his lips upon hers, hovering and quivering with hunger. "One sculpted in part by your own hand."
Her own lips touched briefly, speaking against his mouth in light flutters of touch and press.
“The question is…” She whispered, one arm falling behind her to brace in a leaned back sit, back arching towards him and thigh trembling lightly under gently touch, the other hand still deftly working the front of his uniform open.
“What kind of view…” Cirucci smirked against his mouth, nibbled lightly on his bottom lip before biting sharply, neatly, adding pain to pleasure, her own twisted preferences.
“Does Alturo like?” Idly, she had a thought that this had all started with toast. But that wasn’t a very exciting thought at all, and she managed to quickly suppress it with images of blood and carnage the first of their kind always managed to conjure for her, easy enough to hide her other frustrations, over Alfons, over Shiro-Megane-Kun, in that sensual violence as well.
The view that Cirucci gave appealed in no small measure, the brush of her body against him sensual, heightened with the thoughts of the havoc he would wreak upon those in opposition to him. Physical pleasure melded with sadistic ones, the truth Alturo learned intimately with Cirucci.
"That of bodies broken before me," he explained, words spoken over a low groan in the wake of pleasurable pain from her teeth. Alturo worked his fingers over her thigh with greater force, short nails scraping the skin and then the garter that wound tightly around it.
"Bloodied, gored," he continued, baring his teeth in an instant before her sought her lips as she had his, biting hard before he took her mouth with hunger in the kiss.
The Privaron squirmed, thigh pressing against his hand in a movement that pushed up her skirt, her stockinged calf rubbing slowly across the back of his own leg, toes tangling in the edge of his hakama and tugging.
“Don’t-” She began breathily, had to pull from the kiss to gasp in another breath she didn’t necessarily have to take, let him claim her mouth a few more moments, pulling him slightly closer by uniform front and baring to his belt, palm flat against firm muscles, the power inherent in all, and augmented in him.
“Don’t-” Cirucci dipped her hand down, scraping lightly where his belt halted the parting of his uniform. “Break me-” She smirked, laughed viciously, masochistically, tossed waves of hair behind her and drew her gloved hand in a half circle about his middle, “Too badly.”
There could be nothing held to Arrancar without violence, the primal instinct stronger than foolhardy notions of kindness, long stolen away in the dark abyss of the hold that marked each of their bodies. Alturo held Cirucci with less force than he intended to treat Luppi, with more carnal interest than the Espada would have.
The press of his hand had the force to break, but he held it from that, pale eyes looking down upon her, the painted lips twisted viciously, temptuous with her words. "Never so bad as I will the Espada," he offered with rough squeeze of his hand before he released her leg.
Alturo shrugged his shoulders back, a ripple of effort repeated to push the stifling jacket back enough to draw one arm from it and then the other, discarding it to the floor. Those injuries sustained from Aizen, tended and healed, still marked his skin, but it was a display he ignored. He arched his back to the air, then ground his body down upon Cirucci, his hand closing over her wrist to guide her to both the belt and ties that held the white hakama to his lean frame.
She smirked again, lifted against him with another hitch of a laugh and wriggle, though as her hand approached where he led, pale fingers skilfully working at the belt, tugging him by the hips closer to her, full lips moved to a pout at her own state of far-too-much-dress.
“Don’t play too gentle, either.” Cirucci warned, let nails dig roughly before she flipped the belt buckle, tugged rougher, both hands at the ties on his waist now, leaving her balance precarious in a sitting position, balanced mainly on her rear end, with one leg still wrapping around his thigh and her hands occupied.
Fingers re-threaded through her hair tightened their grip sharply, an assurance that Cirucci would not be treated as some delicate flower. Alturo tilted her head back by this hold, head nearing hers to let his breath play upon her ear. "That was never an intention," he assured, ending his words with his teeth tracing her earlobe, pressing hard upon the rim.
Alturo followed the guide of her hands, hips pressing forward to her touch. One hand helped to hold her precarious balance, the other moved to the snaps she had teased him with before, fingers fumbling a moment with each as he worked her collar open with rough jerks on each clasp.
She hissed out breath, nipped her bottom lip, let her hands jerk roughly at the ties of his hakama as he bared her own skin in return, the ties fumbled a moment before she undid the last knot.
"And..." The Arrancar's hand pressed lightly, teasing, smirking into urging, muscles taut and trembling from the awkward position, trying to steady herself with a grip on his hips, though her hands seemed lost without a black inked number to dig into, to rip at, to hate.
"Alturo's intents are?" Cirucci's voice was dark, sadistic, inviting pain as much as pleasure.
Their balance would hold only for so long, the tension in her muscles matched by his, unstable with the twitches and shudders that Cirucci drew from him. Alturo pulled back on her hair, the hand at her uniform pressing down to ease her back against the cushions of the couch, before they took a less graceful route and fell.
Alturo followed his body with hers, not so fluid, but strong as he moved to pin her. The snaps opened with force increased from each last, both hands moving to the task as he pulled at the uniform roughly, the sadism in his smile matched by carnal hunger.
"To have," he replied, exposing a breast and pressing a hand over it, a grip laid gentle and turned firm as he squeezed the malleable flesh. "To take." The other breast was exposed and he lowered his head, shifting back on the couch to allow his teeth to graze upon her, sharp bites leaving marks.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged, instead a breathy moan as her elbows dug into the cushions, arched her back to press against his bite, inviting the uncomfortable pain just as she invited pleasure, bare leg brushed against his hip, raised and tremulous.
“And,” Cirucci moaned, speaking in double meanings as she shifted beneath him, he was powerfully physically and so was she, his pin difficult to manoeuvre against but not terribly hard, not too hard to bring that tremulous leg down and tuck against her, hips shifting closed as if to deny him.
“What if you can’t take?” It was both a legitimate question and something aimed at infuriating him, bringing that smouldering power to bear against her, the feel of being in the company of something powerful was something she craved just as she craved the blood of shinigami on her hands. Her mind was still clear, not too distracted by her body’s sensations yet to not still contemplate the more powerful between Aizen and Alturo, only just enough now to keep her mind of her troubles with two human males as she breathed lightly, breath against his hair with his face against her chest even as she moved as if to let him go no farther.
To be denied, even in jest, was a tenuous move when Cirucci had awakened the ache in his body, the need for hers. Pale eyes had darkened with a flash of ire, turned to her features as though to read them as he straightened and ran his hands down the length of her torso. The feel of her skin and body where it lay concealed still beneath the clothes served nothing to calm him, his desire to see her naked and writhing growing, impatient.
"There is nothing I cannot take," he warned. Alturo let his hand follow her leg, fingers laying a brutal grip on her ankle, one that he used to pull it away and lift what sought to block him. The other hand still held her waist, drawing and lifting her hips with lessening regard to her comfort.
He did not wish to break her, the power and presence that Cirucci held was pure compared to the ones of the Hougyoku, but he would not let her rule this. The power was his, a ripple of reiatsu testament to that, and though he craved hers, he would take what she would not give. That was the way of the Arrancar.
Cirucci smirked, met his gaze with one just as fired, just as even, a challenge even as she responded in kind, unable to stop herself from wanting it just as she was quite able to make sure he worked for it as well. Her other hand dug in harshly to pale skin, dug until she felt hierro begin to break, feel a small amount of blood well under her nails. She laughed, a throaty noise, at his statement, tossed her head playfully and felt fingers slicking red.
"Then take it all." The Privaron dared, her muscles taut and resisting, not to her full power, no, but enough to make him need exert an effort, teasing viciously by beginning to slacken, let her legs drift open before seemingly changing her mind and drawing her knees together again despite the pressure he had on her, ever conscious of the power she had lost, the rank she had lost and the prestige, bringing her fingers back to her mouth to lick leisurely at the red stains he provided, eyes hooded and daring even as the same hand drifted down between he breasts, a faint red smear down skin as the nails, or were they talons, scraped across he Hollow hole with a shudder, gaze not leaving the one who called himself the first.
Alturo watched, shuddering under the pierce of her nails, but it was not the blood that welled up holding his attention. The defiance in her gaze, the game, and the challenge of power had his amber eyes locked upon hers. To the peripheral, he could see the blood and even licked his lips in an echo of hunger when she tasted his.
Not only would Cirucci be his, but he would have her moan and twist about, in punishment and payment for the torture offered. Alturo lifted his hand from her ankle, then lay one upon each of her knees and pried with his strength. His pale form leaned over her in this moment, his head bowed only to brush his tongue over her reddened fingers.
Teeth grazed over her hand, but he worked lower, arms still forcing her legs to part for him, sliding up her thighs to hike up the skirt that defied the hakama that many preferred.
Slowly she yielded to him, parted, still holding his amber gaze with hers, vibrant purple that challenged and dared, tightened muscles finally breaking under a superior strength that made her murmur appreciatively even to the violence of it, the idea of force and blood and everything in between, legs parting, bringing pale stained fingers back up from her skin to her lips, cleaning the last of the blood off with a low growl.
"Everything." She reminded, voice gone husky and inviting. "Everything you can." Another challenge to his pride she demanded him meet, to prove worth and desire and everything she wanted in her males, in Grimmjow, in Luppi, in Il Forte, Szayel-Aporro, in Noitora and in every other she lay with, and she expected the same, if not better, from one calling himself the very first, the one who came before all others, who ripped his own mask off and stood against the man she once called a god.
Copper scent traced the air, the hot taste of blood drifted from his tongue, faded as he watched her taste the last trace of it from her hands. More ebbed from the wound Cirucci had left, but even the craving for blood could not pay it heed.
Alturo kept his eyes on her expression, his one of pride challenged and need raw in every scope. The very nature of his power was raw, torn rather than sculpted, taken rather than bequeathed, and he reflected that in turn. "Everything it will be," he returned in heady words.
Leaned over her body, he laughed and set his body between her legs, hands rough as they worked up her inner thigh, fingers penetrating her where he had taken her on the bench, or she had taken him, that first time he had learned the fire that the female's body could awaken in him.
The Privaron bit back a high-pitched noise, unwilling to give him that from her just quite yet even as she bit her own lips, unwilling to tear her gaze from his, because the first one to move, to break that, was the weaker. And though she knew her power did not compare to his, she was also one of pride, pride in her stolen rank, pride in her blade still loosely on her hip, pride in the blood she had drawn and the blood she would spill, in the way she could affect males when she gave herself.
"Tell me," She demanded, or begged perhaps, considering her words hitched awkwardly with the feeling of being touched, invaded, taken, making her squirm in desire, knees brushing against his shoulders, shaking lightly as she sought to draw him in, to further the sensations she was accustomed to, that delivered the warmth she wanted deep in her body, the warmth that made her skin hot and flushed instead of sullen and cold, made her bones warmed and live instead of achingly chill.
"Tell me what it would feel like to crush them." And Cirucci wanted to do just that, was incapable of it on her own, but she wanted to hear it, wanted to paint that picture again of blood and violence even as she herself tried to prop herself on her elbows, rise up slightly to better press hips against hand.
The demands of lust, reaching beyond means, could be met with words of experience, vicious by nature and desire. Alturo laughed, subdued and low in his throat, driving his fingers deeper into Cirucci. Tenderness did not enter his thoughts or motion, but for the knowledge he would both be in anger if the other treated him less, coddled him in this moment when the violence, the press of bodies, and blood brought life to nerves that were dead.
The heat that he slid his fingers into intoxicated Alturo, but he kept his eyes on hers, working by touch, inexperienced and rough. "Exhilarating," he breathed. The screams of the defeated rang in his ears with that word, recollect sparked as he spoke in detail for the Privaron. Told of how they screamed when their ones broke and their skin tore, of the weak pleadings for mercy that incensed rage.
Alturo moved with fervour, his fingers sliding in and out of Cirucci, force increased with each stroke. His breathing came in heavy waves and his tongue licked his lips before he spoke again, the words that followed a strained whisper of physical desire, lust for the kill, raw passion for the moment.
Cirucci strained against him, managed to match his gaze still even as her hips lifted to him, offered, mouth open slightly in pants for breath as she fought to control her reactions, to temper the nerves stimulated sending shivers and trembles up her spine and made her small form shake.
“I want it.” She managed to gasp out, not just the touch, the sensual, but that blood he spoke of, the destruction and the screams of enemies, crushed and broken before her, a feeling she could only occasionally sate in this City, having to throw her passions to males instead for lack of proper fights, directing her angers and her fire to the press and feel, the light sheen of sweat on skin as her own fingers plied at the hole between her breasts, that added sensation what it took to make her gaze break.
Her eyes slid from his, averted, closed, as she gasped, once, twice, felt her control slip fully as she had to let herself give in to him, the stroking feel in a slick passion, head falling back in a whine of a high-strung moan.
"It will happen." Three words spoken not in promise, but in confidence, certainty that it could not be averted. The blood, the devastation, it would all come again, would be welcomed again. For his sake more than hers, in proof of his power, while he fed upon the sensation of hers plying against his.
Alturo slowed his hand, her gaze tearing away, victory allowed, left him to play his eyes upon the writhing beauty of her form, the eroticism personified, an addiction he craved. But to see her tremble under him would not be enough, his need satisfied not by sight alone.
He raised his hand from between her legs, lifting his fingers to taste the lady Privaron, looked down upon her. "You will see it when I take it, you will partake of it," be growled, dropping his hand on her shoulder to press her back, so that he could take equal pleasure from her.
"Yes." She managed to croon, a breathless word, drawing her hand from her own skin to grab his mask, haul his face closer to kiss him fiercely, drawing him closer and pressing herself back, the taste of his blood on her lips mingling with the taste of her on his, felt the sweat on their skins as she pressed herself to his chest, hooked a trembling leg and clinging stocking around his waist and arched, needy, always needing, wanting.
"They'll all die." Cirucci moaned, licked her lips and let her hand drift down to the light wound, fingers digging in viciously, red staining both the pale flesh of his side and her fingers. "And then there will be no more shinigami."
Alturo hissed, pain shooting across his side, skin ripping under her vicious touch, intoxicating him all the more in the bloodlust. Positioned, ready to take her, he thrust his hips forward and did that, drowning the moan against her lips.
Hungry, starved since their meeting, he pressed upon her lips with bruising force, relenting with a graze of teeth as his hips jerked into her again. "No shinigami at all," he groaned.
It was easy to give in to him once the fight, the initial pride of a challenge, had gone, easy to move with him when she hadn’t even finished letting her body prepare again, already being forced back into that taut state, muscles coiling and that tightness deep in her belly accompanied by the distinct discomfort of her body being invaded, taken, used, but of no consequence when coupled with the shudders of pleasure accompanying, her breath harsh and shallow. “Not even Aizen.” Cirucci promised, a dire promise, should said shinigami catch word of it, but it was no concern that he would, her lips used to promises but none that seemed so dark as this, the only time she could ever recall saying such a twisted though was when she had given in to a Numeros and said that she had loved him.
No, not even Aizen, who would be broken most, brought to his knees for what he had done, disgracing proud Arrancar of their own hand, replacing them, stripping the pale flesh that his hand found and his fingers dug against, the memory of a number scarred, one that meant nothing to him, but incensed him for what it represented.
Alturo jerked into her with greater force, a growl slipped from his throat and he forced his hand higher, a touch upon her breast, then further, fingers hooking on the remains of her mask, pale bone jutting out, petite and empowered.
Words would have been dry to speak, his instincts down tot he basic, most primal level of the dead who walked Hueco Mundo. Sate the hungry, possess it, fingers tightening on her hair, head lowering to her neck, teeth savage against the paler flesh as he continued to thrust into Cirucci.
She moaned, a loud and husky tone, always a vocal lover except when prevented, prevented by hands clasped tight on her slim throat, lips on hers, or the demand of a favourite, but had no such need now. The only words she bothered with was his name, grit out when he bit into her neck, accompanied by a thrust of her own, of her fingers deeper into his side, the feeling of blood on her hands something she loved and knew intimately just as she was known in the same intimate manner, legs wrapped tightly about his hips and arching, angling, easy enough to please when she had been touched, teased, already, head thrown against the grip he had on her mask remnant as she bucked against him in the selfish desire for completion.
Alturo kept his mouth against her skin, her neck worked over fervently, his body meeting her needy thrusts. The call of his name, carnal and devouring, of his attention, of his thoughts to these basic levels. Take her, drive into her, make her pant and moan as she did.
The body could not hold out so long as the mind craved for each sound and tremor, his climax fast, her heat tight around him, hazed by pain and blood drawn at her hand. He caught his breath, continued the rhythm to completion, before his breath released heavily upon her skin.
Easy enough again to follow suit, to cry out and write, squirm, shudder as her eyes closed against the sensation of her body’s limits being passed, unable to take more without release, nerves afire and sweat-sheened body taut, taut, taut, before it had to give in as well, give in with a whine and a shaky release of legs from his hips, of revelling in that warmth, the heat of friction not just between her thighs but tingling lightly in her entire body. She managed a contented groan, withdrew her fingers from his side to lick leisurely, slowly, body growing heavy beneath him.
Lethargy could settle quick upon the sated body, a temptation Alturo held at bay, breath evening out as he lifted his head and gazed down upon the lady Privaron, enjoying the taint of crimson he had drawn from him, the wound an ache in his side, no matter how faint.
He smirked and enjoyed the sight as he withdrew from her, drawing her skirt back down slowly, offering her a hand, but hardly from chivalry. There could be none in a being without that care, his offer an afterthought.
"The lady Privaron approves," he stated, words formed with care, thoughts found as the high faded, slow in its satiation.
“Approves.” She agreed tentatively, took his hand and rose up, shifted with the moisture between her legs and used hands with sticking gloves to redo the snaps on the front of her uniform, cover her chest, her Hollow hole, and the scar of a number. The Privaron wanted to give in again, to relaxation, but was unwilling to do so until her partner did as well, unwilling to display that weakness alone, unlike the shared weakness of the sexual when either one could try to take advantage but could also be stopped in the same manner.
Alturo nodded, approval for hers. He took a moment to draw his hakama up once more, looping the ties and setting the belt, but he left the jacket discarded to keep the blood from staining it now, in an aftermath.
The plate that had been forgotten found itself reached for, the last charred piece of bread lifted and turned over in his hand before set down again. Hunger enough had been sated, the thought of overpowering the taste Cirucci left upon him by her body and reiatsu with the peanut butter that tasted of peanuts disgusted him.
"You will stay until I begin this evening?" Pale eyes turned to her, expectant that she would accede.
Cirucci knew the right answer to that question. She nodded, slumped back against the couch and wriggled a bit, trying to settle the residual tingles still arching up her spine, the sticky feel between her legs, readjusting her garters and gloves, making a dissatisfied noise until she finally settled for simply discarding the accenting garments, kicking off her small boots along with stockings and gloves. “Until this evening.” She repeated, an affirmation. She would stay, she would tend him as he wished, give as he demanded, and, then? Then she would see how he fared against one who had been Espada.
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