154;

[thunderwitch.livejournal.com]

When; August 1st, night - August 2nd, early morning
Rating; PG-13/R
Characters; Cirucci {thunderwitch} & Alturo {wingedhubris}
Summary; Still disturbed by the fears inspired by Aizen, and to spite Luppi, Cirucci heads to pay the first Arrancar a visit and wakes to her least favorite surprise.
Log;

Things had changed. Aizen was back, and he was not weak as he had been, no. He did not recall fucking, loving any Shinigami. He was not dead. He was not weak-willed. No, it was the Aizen she had served, the one who could freeze what passed for blood in one glance, who could cut her voice off with a gesture and bring her to her belly like some worthless snake before him with a single crushing blow of his reiatsu.

It was Aizen, alright.

This showed nothing of merit to her survival instinct that she found herself at Alturo's residence, that she let herself in and shut the door behind her, confidant she hadn't been followed, enough to let some degree of tension leave her shoulders as she slumped back against the door, a small sigh on her lips.

It was time to play the game again.

>>>

The return of Aizen had not affected the first Arrancar on the level he had witnessed it doing to each of the ones who had declared loyalty to the shinigami at some point in their existence or another.

They quivered and insisted this was not the same man that he had fought, but the power could be no different to his perception and expectation. Aizen had not defeated him then, he would not defeat him now.

Alturo held his unshakeable confidence in that, ignoring that this incarnation of the man in their few exposures had been far different, almost undercutting him with words, but he would not be swayed to mingle with a man who had been with the Gotei-13 and served the man who had seen him sealed away those long centuries ago.

The arrival of another Arrancar was expected and had he a soul, he might have experienced relief that Cirucci entered unharmed, but had it been any other result, Alturo would have felt only disappointment that a Privaron would fall at the arrival of but a few mere lovers of the Hougyoku.

"You survived," was the only remark he offered in greeting as his eyes fell upon her form, against the door that offered some faux protection against what sought her out. That door would not withstand anything, but if one did dare to do such to his abode, it would be his fury that kept the lady Privaron from harm.

>>>

Cirucci nodded, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was taught, all nerves and anxiety bundled away in the core of her being, in that empty space in her torso, shoved from sight and visible only in the tight lines of her shoulders, the thin line of usually sensual mouth, the white of knuckles in fists against her side and the briefest tremble of weakness in long legs.

“… I did.” She smiled somewhat, an amused twist of her lips into a sardonic line, opened her eyes again and finally left the door, coming to stand beside him and ruffle her hair, as if unconcerned, though it was an act, like so much of her was.

“… He’s interested in meeting you, Alturo.”

>>>

To witness the tense fear of the Privaron firsthand learned Alturo of more to what currents under ran the hierarchy of Las Noches. What he despised of it before he loathed now, the upset of natural Arrancar being left in a state of bare survival, skulking about to keep their self-made existences intact, all too great an insult to let idle. The rank of Privaron would not be his to hold, and even with that rejection, he intended to see it rise to its rightful supremacy, where the purity of power outranked the grossly tainted power of the Hougyoku.

Alturo turned from Cirucci as she approached; the motion was not out of spite, but to lead her further into the apartment, to his quarters within. There, Rori would not stumble upon their discussions and be burdened unnecessarily in this tense matter, where her past could conflict most with it. He had no doubts about her loyalty, if she chose not to believe this Aizen, but neither did he have any need to involve her in each detail. None had that privilege, not even the lady Privaron that visited.

"His interest is not mine," he replied. Laughter came short, confident, with the shade of bitter that rose at every thought of shinigami.

>>>

She followed, always followed, never led, it seemed to her, but she did what she could, kept close to his heels and imagined a time when she could lead, when she could have a position of power again, a five re-inked on her breast where the scar lay now. But it was a dream, not a reality.

“Of course. It would be stupid to meet with him anyway.” What she offered to him was the explanation that it was this way because he was the more powerful, because they should not condescend to him. What she actually meant was because he’d probably kill you.
The fear, residual, was still with her. Aizen had that effect on them, was the reason they followed him. That crippling helplessness he could make them feel that, even long after they had risen from hands and knees before him, could still haunt them.

>>>

Alturo heard what Cirucci offered, but the apprehension in her arrival and the compliance in her actions -- the least bold he had yet seen her -- did not satisfy him. Pale eyes that glanced back at her were narrowed and his step faltered, motion paused as he eyed Cirucci coolly.

"Intelligence has no bearing on it," he warned. "It is his fantasy to meet that which inspired his Hougyoku, it is not my ideal to give him that which he wishes and has no ability to earn."

The fear annoyed Alturo, he had seen hints of it from those Arrancar he knew and it shamed the very concept of their existence. Aizen presented nothing but another shinigami who defied Hollows; it was a fashion different, but it denied them the power their hungry curse earned them. Nothing to fear!

>>>

Cirucci shifted, changed the weight of her from one leg to the other, watching, meeting pale eyes with a smoldering violet of her own, the fear repressed, shoved back, but accompanied by stronger emotions. Hate. Rage. Violence. Wrath. Bloodlust.

All characteristics of the Arrancar, the ones who had gone beyond the Hollow existence, who had reformed their sentience from the mass of Hollows who made a Menos, who had eaten and devoured other Hollows to become strong enough to regain intelligence, to regain a personality, and then go one step farther and rip the mask from their face.

“None.” She responded, hiding her doubt behind conviction, behind her shoulders tense and her words terse. She hated these moments sometimes, these serious, overborn moments, but she had to be serious, had to be involved, or it would never go according to her plan.

>>>

There came conviction, the hateful eyes that he desired to see in the lady Privaron, the anger replacing the fear, as it should. They were to inspire fear, not be subject to it, and no matter her hesitations, it was not a truth that he would tolerate.

Alturo nodded, both to accept her confirmation and to indicate she precede him through the door. "His return is nothing," he stated, simple and cold to belay the uncertainties. "The last did not defeat me, this will not be far different." There would never be room for hesitation or doubt; those seeds would be the end of him if he did.

"It is the fear that needs addressing."

>>>

“… We are made from the fear.” Cirucci intoned, spoke it as if it were a lesson she had been taught from her youngest times, as a child would spout a nursery rhyme or the alphabet. But she entered the room ahead of him, swayed to the bed and folded her knees, sat down on the floor beside and leaned her head upon arms against the sheets, eyes half lidded.

“There is no more fear of him than there is of others as powerful.” Lies came easily from her painted lips, came as easily as she gave herself, her favors, all given to be able to take in the end.

“There is no existence of an Arrancar without fear.” The Privaron murmured, walking the fine line of subservience and dominance, of flattery and insult, with “Even Alturo must fear, because we all do.”

>>>

The door closed with a sharp snap, the frame shaken with the force exerted of his anger and indignation at the suggestion that he feel fear. That was a pathetic emotion to be dominated by, when they were meant to inspire and feed upon it. They did not feel it, did not acknowledge it outside of the sadistic satisfaction to lord over it.

"Fear is not an emotion that an Arrancar should be controlled by," he replied, a savage anger growing to line his tone. Alturo strode steadily towards Cirucci, eyes vivid with the protective fury. "We exist in feasting upon it, not knowing it as our own!"

>>>

“… You’re letting it control you now.” Cirucci intoned, soft, soft words, soothing tones even with a phrase so incensed and sharp.

She raised her gaze to his, a calmed, almost reserved violet against his smoldering amber, near hesitant but not quite, though her form was curled inward, near afraid but never truly there.

“See?” She ran her fingers along her arm, a distracting tell of nervousness. His anger was something she feared, just as she feared Aizen’s anger, but she tried to hide it behind her own caustic words and bitter motions of painted lips.

>>>

Those Arrancar of the Hougyoku would have been struck down for being bold with such words, but it was that the lady was Privaron that held Alturo back for the moment, pale eyes livid with anger -- unlike fear in his perception. The true emotion toed the line, but it was nothing to acknowledge to himself and, in that, to her.

Alturo feared losing what he made, bring forced beneath the seal once again but he coated that with anger, the emotion that had brought the soul society of his world to ruin. It was that which would bring this Aizen to ruin in the same breath.

"Fear," he breathed, "does not control me." Alturo reached out and closed his hands about her wrist, idling the gentle touch upon her arm as he sought to lift her hand up and pull her against him.

>>>

Obediently, perhaps, Cirucci rose at his behest, unfolded long legs and stood against him, tired, softened, somewhat, though still taut, still on guard, on edge, from her meeting with Aizen, from even speaking about Aizen, willing to go along without physical retaliation.

"Sure?" She breathed back, a whispy, barely there noise, the hand he did not grip rising to his neck, nails plying against the skin there, against where other would worry the windpipe and jugular lay, scratching lightly, mouth against the other side of his neck, a slow poison, sluggish reaction and frazzled nerves.

>>>

Cirucci took her hungry comfort in flesh and Alturo steadied his breath and form, knowing enough that her plying words to come here insinuated a need for something, if a protection against the rule of Aizen.

Alturo took his comfort and sated but part of the cursed hunger in dominance, knowing that she played her body against him in deference, but knowing as well she could be dangerous. That the nails against his neck could easily be covered in blood.

"The hunger does, as it does all," he continued in a low tone, his hand running slow along her arm. "But the fear is only to be inspired and consumed."

>>>

She nodded, slow nuzzle against her neck, pulling him against her steadily, not fast, but steady. What she didn't say was that she was afraid, that Aizen did scared her, made that fear leap up in her belly every time he released the full blow of his reiatsu that sent her to her knees, to her belly on the floor like some worthless being.

What she did say, in her posture, in the frenetic pulsing of her own energy, was that she hated it.

"Mmm," Cirucci merely crooned in agreement, in assent, fingers stroking down the path of the artery and to collarbone.

“You’ll still kill him.” It was something of an assurance, a stroke back up at his ego after her bitter words from earlier, wanting her comfort and her own assurances, giving to receive.

>>>

Alturo could only provide those cold ones, the very sort of comfort that would be labelled cruel to others. Bloodlust consoled their kind and the twist of his lips, a sharp slip of white teeth revealed in a smirk, offered it to Cirucci.

"He will die," he confirmed, "time and again." Alturo retained his confidence, wrapped it in bitter anger so that it would not flounder as the Arrancar had been.

>>>

She loved his words, loved the promises of death, destruction, of the end of shinigami and the rise of Arrancar. From him, from Alturo, they almost seemed real, as if they really could occur, even imminently so, he was so confidant, so convinced. Without admitting it to herself, she leaned on that confidence, borrowed from it, drew him closer and closer and guided him, because she wanted those words in her ear, wanted them hissed and whispered, kissed out between groans and low noises, interspaced with heavy breath and the sound of friction.

What Cirucci Thunderwitch didn’t want was waking the next morning to a shiver.

A small hand reached behind her, expected to meet warmth, but met only a residual warmth where a body had been, where one should be. Violet eyes darkened, and she rolled over with a sense of dread, seeking out the signature of his powerful reiatsu through the City. Most of them had tendencies to leave her where she lay, to dress and leave her once they’d used her, but he’d no such tendency.

And he was not here.

It was with a foreboding sense of chill that the Arrancar realized he was gone. Gone from the City, as others before him had gone, left her there. As Grimmjow had gone, as Noitora had, as Wonderwyce had.

… As Il Forte had.

The Privaron’s nails dug in to rumpled sheets, cursed loud and spat out the most vile words she could think of, but the surge of anger was quickly replaced by a sullen smolder of hatred. She flung one of the pillows and sunk back into the bed, squirming to the side.

She wouldn’t move until the warmth had faded.