tampered | Log; complete

Log; complete

When; Today~
Rating; PG-13+ We're talking blood, kiddies~
Characters; Szayel-Aporro Grantz [

unresearched] and Cirucci Thunderwitch [

thunderwitch]
Summary; While affected with 'out damned spot' Szayel gets a little blood happy~ The Thunderwitch is there to help!
Log;

He dripped. He dropped. He leaked without having been punctured.

Szayel Aporro left a trail of blood.

He stalked. He smiled.

He flicked dripping drops off of his fingers, appreciating the spray of red on the wall. Marking it. Noting it. His feet squished, shoes squelching, carpet staining underfoot. It was a bad joke; a messy, disgusting sheen of congealing red coating his white uniform. It had marked him out the second he'd stepped outside, people moving aside faster than rats to cheese. Moths to a flame in reverse. He smiled.

The younger Grantz flexed his hands, more droplets flying free from his body. It was such a shame to think it would clean itself up when the curse ended. Such a shame to not be allowed the chance to cleanse it himself. A pity.

And it wasn't enough. Dripping blood from countless souls was not enough. He wanted more.

And the Privaron had all too kindly given him the opportunity to add more to the oozing mess that fell from him in dripping drops. He didn't stop to think on how to play it out. Cirucci Thunderwitch was Privaron. Privaron had a place. Privaron would settle for the role of shinigami for the day.

He'd painted his walls, and now he wiped blood off on the door that marked Noitora's abode. He knocked. It didn't matter which one answered. The Privaron would be the one he dragged outside.

He waited on the act to start.

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Cirucci Thunderwitch had been debating for the past five minutes what she would do. The doctor is in. He was coming, she knew he would be coming. Which meant she had to run. Not that Noitora had been much help, with his leering, laughing, jeering, making her want to wrap her hands, larger, less delicate hands, around his throat, his throat slimmer, longer. Fuck this City, fuck the curses. Noitora as female had amused her enough, but her, her, MALE?

That was going too far. Thankfully she'd managed to borrow some of Noitora's clothing, but... no one could see her like this, let alone... Szayel Aporro was coming. She'd paced, breath quickening in remembered fear. Would running be too cowardly? Would he expect her to run, would he be prepared? Would dignity matter, to face what she knew would come?

... So she, or, rather, he, opened the door. He was still recognizable as the normally female Thunderwitch, the same delicate, petite build, the same skin, same facial marks and hair, (albeit loose on his shoulders), just noticeably male, however effeminate.

Cirucci opened her mouth to greet him, took a moment to appreciate the blood, had to appreciate it, before she smiled flatteringly and immediately ducked to the side and aimed to kick into a sonido out the door past him, away, away, away from the Octava Espada.

He smiled- No, he smirked. A false, sickly sweet thing. It dropped with as much venom as his body did with blood, hovered behind him as he dropped low, kicked out where she moved to use sonido.

It sent it's own spray out, and his gaze followed the droplets instead of his foot connected with her body. Because despite the curse Cirucci Thunderwitch was a woman with wiles and would probably attempt to use her charm. Not that it had ever bothered him.

The Octava's hand followed the course of his kick, grabbed her collar. "You're long overdue for a visit, aren't you?" His voice dripped as much as that sickly sweet smile, as much as the blood coating his arms, legs, torso. It still needed more, every inch and molecule covered.

Enough to drown Aizen in.

"If you'd just sit still, this little checkup won't take long at all." She was disgusting, more than him in his bleeding glory. She was the whore, the discarded and disgraced. He didn't really care.

She was in his hands because he couldn't be bothered to find a shinigami to toy with. She was in his hands because she at least already knew what his response would be if she remarked on the colour of his hair in opposition to his stained clothes.

Because so much of this act had played out before, and he didn't have the time nor patience nor want to create a new one, to learn another punchline. Not yet.

People didn't know yet.

He smirked, twisted his body, threw force into the movement and her with it, letting her free to stumble a few steps down the corridor. "Running will only drag it out for you."

She should have known, she did know, when his foot connected with her side, felt the air rush out of her lungs before he snatched her up by her collar, thrashing and her hand reaching, fumbling for the zanpakutou at her side.

"I'm only overdue," He was glaring, fairly spitting out words, "Because you never seem to want me." Cirucci could never avoid the sexual insults, the offers and insinuations, because it was an intrinsic part of her, no matter what she had been, Quinta Espada, or what she was now, the 105th Privaron.

But she didn't have time to fully reach for her zanpakutou before he'd thrown her, stumbled back and choked on the vile words she wanted to throw at him, the insults and jibes and angry, angry. This shape was different than her usual, weighed different, balanced different, and it was evident in the way he tried to land back how he would in female form but over compensated for top weight and lurched, twisting ankle to switch into sonido.

She hated running away, but she hated this body and hated Szayel Aporro more.

He hated plenty, in an apathetic manner that bordered on disinterest most times. But he couldn't forgive those that ran. Running was so... Human.

His hand drifted over his zanpakuto's hilt, more a lovers caress than anything he'd ever granted another. "Thunderwitch, I hate to have to remind you." He took a step closer. Dripped blood. Oozed. "I would have thought you'd learned by now." Another step, blood, blood, blood. She wasn't bleeding yet, and that really had to change. "The difference between the number eight and the number one hundred and five."

He wanted her outside, in the fresh air, in a wide space where the blood could spray high and wide and coat other people.

"Move, Thunderwitch." Move outside. Follow the steps he dictated.

Let the act play out, his smile still dripping venom.

"What's the difference between five and eight?" Cirucci shot back, her lip curled up in utter disgust to hide the hints of fear creeping over skin, up spine, in the dilating of pupils. But she obliged, not out of his order, but for her own escape, broke into sonido to careen down the hallway, hearing the blood behind her, as well as pounding in her ears.

Down the hall, a hairpin turn that nearly slammed her shoulder into the opposite wall, braced with a turn of the foot and continued, totally bypassed the stairs and instead threw her body off the balcony at the end of the hall, falling, dropping, bracing with reiatsu to land heavily with a rush of breath and a wince as her body undercompensated again, wasn't used to this extra weight or differences, was used to being shorter, thinner, lighter, didn't have time to dwell on it, though.

Because she was running again, palm scraping on concrete before she kicked into sonido again, rushing away from the city proper and towards the forest.

He ignored the jab, wondered if Noitora would bother to follow him - he'd stolen his entertainment, his precious company, was following her with agile steps and speed that he tempered, allowed her to think herself the faster. Up until her attempted break, at which point his hand ensnared a one fragile neck, threw her back towards the building she so wished to depart, encroached back into personal space, her face, still so feminine. He threw her back again.

She would not leave this area. There were people here. People who needed to drink in the blood as he did.

He smiled, wondering if it was starting to become a disturbing thing, more a grimace than not.

Szayel Aporro dropped his hand to caress his sword again, his eyes betraying the full intention of the surprisingly gentle move. He had never once touched his blade from love, nor concern, nor care, nor protection. What love was love of the fight, concern of failing a line, care of assuming the correct stance, to protect a sample.

"Come now, Privaron." He dragged the word out, let it drip as his smile did, his fingers did. Sarcasm, venom, causastic and biting. His reiatsu oozed as the blood did, contained in the small area between the two and gathering in pressure, in demand. "You always have to make things harder on yourself." He wanted her to bend, to suffer and bow so slightly beneath his mere presence.

A startled cry, one of fear barely bit back escaped when his fingers latched onto her throat, bit back with the clip of teeth against her lip when she was thrown back, bit farther with the small taste of copper when she was thrown again, felt the back of her head crack against the side of the building, felt pain blossoming there with the burst of color between her eyes.

"I-" Privaron. His poor, pathetic, Privaron, wasn't that what he'd called her. "I'm hardly out to make things easier on you, Szayel Aporro." She managed to get out, her own hand falling to Golondrina at her hip, her own warning against his advancement, against the creeping, crawling, feelings of shame and powerlessness, even embarrassment from this form, as he encroached into her personal space.

"So go elsewhere." Cirucci grit out, the white of uniform stained from the blood of his fingers, his kicks. But her eyes, the bright, startling violet, were beginning to shake, the pupils dilating wildly at the press of his reiatsu, that oppressive pressure on her body that bent her, made her shoulders hunch and her knees bend, neck shaking to prevent her gaze and head dropping, unwilling to give him that subservience with just that much, her own reiatsu flaring back in retaliation, trying to ease the weight on her that made her breath short and shallow.

There. There. His smirk did not waver, did not fall to something more dangerous, but the air did. It turned to static, dripping and oozing like the blood from his fingers. He wanted everything to drip, the air to shake, to distort.

"I will go nowhere." Even now she sought to order him? He who only beant to Aizen himself? Octava, but proud. Aware of how to move to avoid the others above him in rank.

Szayel Aporro Grantz unsheathed his zanpakuto. A finger, hand, arm, leg, torso, decapitation, all words that could fall from his tongue in the way sweet nothings fell from others. His bed was the dissection table and theater all at once, this playing out as he saw fit.

His reiatsu did not ease, his blade leveling at the others neck. "But you, you must understand, are free to leave at any time. You simply need to say you are done."

She tried to stop her brows from furrowing, the bead of swear from slipping down her neck, the gulp, the further dilation in her eyes as his reiatsu increased.

Cirucci had Golondrina out, yes, but she was afraid. She was afraid to release the blade, afraid because she could remember the wings ripping from her back, remember the arms detaching, talons falling, the metallic screech of falling feathers.

She hated that sound. But her fist on the hilt tightened even as her breath did, as her neck was forced to trembled as slowly, slowly, her reiatsu lost to his no matter how she pushed it, as the pressure of his pushed her down, down, until the quiver in her knees was noticeable, too, over a wry smirk she managed to force onto her own mouth.

"I highly doubt... you'd finish with me... on my whim." The Thunderwitch panted, drew back to spit at him, the blood from the bitten bottom lip as another drop of sweat coated the side of her face.

"Unless... you mean something else. Either way..." She slowly uncoiled the wires of Golondrina, waiting hoping that the reiatsu would abate, knowing she couldn't fight like this, not when the hole in her chest ached from the feel of his power around her.

Fornicarás was dripping blood already, the blade coated in it's own sheen of the beautiful liquid. But it needed more, and he pulled away from her neck only to reassert his dominance, to slide cold steel through flesh and bone, the left shoulder. A slight twist.

He fully intended to allow her, in this unsightly form, to tell him to stop. If she did, it would be decapitation, swift and sudden with maximum spray, left to bleed out.

"Either way, you still have the horrific habit of not finishing your sentences." He pulled free, pulled up to tear at skin and muscle as Fornicarás touched air again. Not for the sound, but for the red drops of rain.

He loved the blood lust.

"Like I'd-" She had to cut off in a breathy, clipped whine, as the steel bit into her shoulder, a gasp as it twisted in flesh and stained her uniform deep red when he pulled it out, her grip on Golondrina spasming and tightening to stop from crying out fully in pain.

"Like I'd beg you for anything." Cirucci spat out, trembled and brought her free hand to clutch her shoulder but thought the better of it, choosing to remain proud and stand tall as she could, which wasn't much, still sinking under the weight of his reiatsu, slowly, slowly, forced into that subservient pose with her eyes stinging from pain.

"I never said you needed to beg so. Just the mere word would suffice, I am an understanding sort." Her right shoulder this time, clean through, the sword biting the wall behind. Allowing her some leverage to remain standing, as painful as it may be.

"Do you still wish to order me?" He dared her to, voice dripping the venom his smile did. The Octava stood in a puddle, none fresh in regards to death, but enough. His need, sated slowly. Her hand next, perhaps. The one so tightly wound around her hilt as his was, the difference that his leaked blood while hers was simple sweat.

For now.

"It's begging." She snarled over another cry, hid it behind the whining hitch in her voice and the anger on her face, twisted in pain, hierro flesh pierced so much easier by a zanpakutou of their own kind. And even now, she knew anything she could do, would do, would be pointless.

He had her reiatsu. He'd autopsied her. No attack, no method, would work when he could dispel it, counter it, shove it back in her face and laugh at how futile she was. Her pride, twisted and foul, demanded she take this pain, take it, over begging for anything over attacking him knowing it would only make her look the fool.

"And I'll order who the fuck I want, Szayel Aporro." She still couldn't stop her mouth, or the insults that tumbled out. She knew it wasn't wise to provoke him further, but it was shameful to keep her mouth shut, to muffle groans and cries, gasps and flutters of breath when she sagged again the blade in her shoulder, pressed the blade hard into her muscle and skin and scrambled to stand up straighter to prevent that pain.

He wrenched, down. Meticulous but harsh, quick in the action as he freed his blade once more.

"Privaron, I wonder I shouldn't return your tongue to the Tenth Division's whore." At the very least to spare himself the whining. But her hand- That foul, disgusting thing she used so often to touch and tease and type and caress. That was all his and his alone in this moment, and he was quick again to pierce flesh, smile widening at the crack of bone and steel meeting, pushing against the wrist that dared to prevent the complete removal of the offending body part. She should be glad he had chosen the left hand first.

Szayel Aporro pushed more force into the blow, voice level, calm, reiatsu heavy. "You speak so much, but so little of it means anything."

Eyes widened and teeth bit into lip harder, harder, to choke back a scream, muffled to a long, high-pitched whimper as her fingers spasmed, Golondrina's wiring coming undone from where it had been looped when her hand fisted and curled, thrashing like some pinned insect around the bloody steel of his blade, her other hand forced to reholster Golondrina on her hip and move her right hand, curling around his blade and tugging defiantly, trying to rip it out from where it was grating against bone, face flushing and draining of blood as it leaked from both shoulders, down her arms and across her chest.

"Don't be upset that my words never mean anything to you, Szayel Aporro." The Thunderwitch ground out. "It's not my fault you swing the other way, and don't appreciate what I can do for you." It was a default, a fall-back, unable to do much more than fall back when that pain was lancing through her body. "I could say your name just as easy as any of the others, and I guarantee, it would sound so much sweeter than any noise I could give you now."

She would not beg him, no, but she could bring herself to offer.

"No noise from you sounds sweet to me." He laughed, and it was everything it was meant to be, dripping like he did. It was tempting to snap the neck, but instead he brought his free hand forward, clasped it around her resting on Fornicarás. His grip tightened, digging her palm into the steel even as he pushed it forward that little bit more, determined to snap the last shred of bone keeping the hand connected.

"And simply because I don't fall for you does not mean I swing the other way. Poor Privaron, you always were a little blind." Eyes next? Or too soon? If it were a shinigami - and in many ways that was what this was, a lesson for them as much for the Privaron - what would he do? Not the eyes. They needed to see the hand limp and useless. They needed to see every flick of the blade up and down, to anticipate every time it would sting flesh.

He waited for the last snap of bone to resound as he ignored the blatant offer. Szayel Aporro was after blood, and nothing else would do.

Cirucci felt bone creaking.

Her other palm clambering on the steel as he shoved it down onto it, felt that pressure that built before skin split, drawing herself up as much as she could under the weight of his reiatsu.

"If I'm blind, then you're just deaf." She snapped, feeling a copper sensation building with bile in the back of her throat, thrashing weakly in his grip, though it only aggravated her shoulder wounds, ripped and tore and made her cry out fully now, the first true noise of pain she'd made so far, tremulous and tender.

Because in her wrist, she felt that last bone snap.

{ooc: and because I can, ♥ (http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b179/megumi_naritani/CirucciMale.png)}

Deaf? Maybe. He never had cared about the screams another made while he played. He found it easy to ignore the pleading and begging.

He smirked, pulled the blade free without concern to the way it ripped through her skin, tore the hand that held it or the wrist it had shattered, would leave it largely unconnected now. In fact, that amused him. He normally preferred intact subjects, but this wasn't the time. This was not a practice but it didn't need to be perfect. It needed to be bloody, and his zanpakuto dripped with the fresh blood as much as it did with the other conquests, the castoff making patterns on the concrete.

"That's no excuse to yell louder." The Octava released her hand, brought Fornicarás back up to her neck, trailed back down to her right shoulder, bit into skin again. Wrenched down. As if he sought to disconnect her arm as well. His audience didn't seem to be too appreciative of his methods, but it wasn't about appeasing them. He just wanted more blood to drip.

"But come now, orders?" He teased, baited. "You are a fool." Fornicarás came up again, threw more rain down on the two as it came back to hang at her neck. He could snap the shoulder blade, there was still her eyes, leg, feet, so many choices, and he was already bored.

Her eyes stung, and she didn't want to look, didn't want to see but far too dilated eyes fell to her hand anyway, shook in fear and pain when they saw the hand, bloodied, ripped, tried to move the appendage but only made pain lance through, made crimson gush from an artery and the only movement was the limp swinging of flesh when she moved her arm.

"I'm-" Cirucci bit back another scream, tried to choke on the bile in her throat rather than do it again but she whimpered long and loud, working hand, palm bit in by steel, coming up weakly to grasp his blade again where it wavered in front of her neck, trying to move it from that delicate spot.

"- Not the only fool here." The Thunderwitch had to throw all her disgust into the words just to get them out, just to insult him now, when he'd done this to her and her legs were shaking, when she stumbled now under the weight of his reiatsu and dropped to one knee only to immediately trying to struggle up again.

{ooc: Cirucci agrees with you.}

No, there were humans around, the other Espada, Luppi, numeros, that stupid runt. Plenty of fools to keep her company. He smiled at the pathetic attempt to insult him, at the way she fell.

"If you stay down there, this will get boring." He sighed, sword returning to the torn shoulder, digging deeper and hitting bone. The Octava had to admit a satisfaction in hearing bone cracking and snapping, after all.

"..." God, she hated him. Almost as much as she hated Noitora, whom she hated for that five tattooed on his tongue, more than she hated Halibel on the virtue of her being female Espada. She snarled, more in pain and also in rage when he sheathed his sword again in her flesh, ripping already ripped flesh, ruining tendons and muscles before it bit deep into her bones and snagged, until she choked on bit back sobs and instead released her anger in a bala, weak and tremulous as it was, hard to concentrate her reiatsu like this as she struggled up on shaking knees, with her shoulders and arms painted crimson and stains on her uniform, trying in vain to stay on both her feet, to keep her head up, to stay proud.

Too proud.

He had to laugh at that, at the pathetic, pathetic attempt to show some form of strength. Strength he easily dismissed, destroyed, tore apart like he was tearing her shoulder apart, pulling, yanking.

He pulled, sword replaced by hand, tearing. Perhaps Lumina would like to play with an arm. Or Noitora would have it, a little... Gift. Or save it for Aizen, to reattach it if it came free fully. He twisted.

"You should be glad I chose you instead of a shinigami, little Privaron."

She screamed.

Cirucci thrashed wildly, working hand rising to claw at his chest, his face, rising to try and gouge out his eyes, anything. Her breath quickened, far too fast, too shallow, hyper, as she felt, couldn't hear it over the blood, the beat pounding erratic in her ear, her scream of pain turning into more a shriek of rage, even in this form still too high-pitched not to grate on ears.

"Let me go, Szayel Aporro!" The Privaron tried to make it sound like a command, not the bitter cry it was, as she felt the muscles tearing, felt tendons rip and the bone begin to pop ominously.

Oh, but he couldn't do that. His simple rule had been she had to ask him to stop, and letting go? Well.

Maybe he could do that, if she'd let go.

That grin, and he turned from her, his grip still tight on her arm. Really, Lumina should have it. But if Lumina had it, she'd come back for it, and then he'd have to attach it, and- On second thoughts, he dropped it, let it dripdropthud or whatever noise it was to the ground.

Fornicarás leveled at her throat again. "Tsk, tsk. I warned you about orders already," a murmur, soft and nearly gentle in tone as he glanced at her, wondering if she was worth turning back to or if he should just end it.

Or drag it out.

She'd bit through her bottom lip, neatly ripped through with the overbearing grit of her her teeth, at that pain, straining not to scream, not to cry, her arm falling limp at her side with a shaky breath, released shaky and bloody, a lamed pant.

"And I already told you what I thought of listening to you, Szayel Aporro." Her legs trembled and she had to fall back against the wall behind her, support herself there, but she managed to keep her head up, keep her eyes glaring despite the sweat of exertion under the pressure of his power, of pain and stress, slicking skin and running blood together, raising her chin against the point of his blade.

She was afraid, yes. She was afraid of him. But that fear was a part of her anyway, and her pride was more important.

He really hated the show everyone put on. He was bored of it. Bored of how everyone competed to be the bigger asshole, the better insulter, the faster angry. Aizen certainly knew how to use it to his advantage, but it was dull.

A pain to put up with.

He moved, sonido evident in the wavering of the air, the way he was suddenly to the side, the trail of blood that hung in the air for a moment before falling, his blade by his side laced with flecks of blood and fragments of bone that had not been there mere seconds earlier. And his hand now held the previously discarded limb, the potential offering. The Octava held her arm out to her, regarding it like he did a broken child's toy. And he sighed. "Your manners are so lacking. You've spent too much time with Grimmjow." Calm, patient, like a doctor analyzing mundane results as he inspected the torn limb. Casual in his approach, apathetic.

"Do you want it back?"

She forgot to scream, at first.

Cirucci looked down, looked at her shoulder, at the exposed bone, the muscles and tendons, red stained ivory and pinks and fleshy tones, eyes widening, dilating even farther to bare pinpricks of iris amoung shaking violet. Her whole body quaked and she fell, unable to support herself anymore when her entire body had gone numb, fell to the ground, felt her knees hit the pavement before she lurched forward, barely able to prevent herself from slamming face first, cut palm catching her, bent over in a mockery of a bow, trembling from the effort it took not to cry, to scream and beg for him to stop.

"Give it back." The Privaron whispered, looking down at the blood-stained street with vision blurring and doubling even as her hand, the one she had left, groped at her side for Golondrina.

He had to admit, she looked pretty now. But boredom was setting in, and the crowd had to have gotten the point. She wouldn't, potentially couldn't. It was still an order, after all.

He threw the arm beyond her reach, moved forward to stand in front of her again, grabbed for her collar and pulled her up, forward, stared at her.

Leaned in to whisper, "It's all yours," as his blade slipped forward, the perfectly calculated angle allowing it to slip between her ribs as he forced it in, avoiding major organs but enough to let fresh blood drip down, "If you can reach it."

Her vision swam, hauled up from that disgustingly subservient position, eyes trying to focus on his face, only managed a wry smirk when she tried to speak before it twisted into a horrified grimace, before she thrashed weakly, whimpered softly, the feel of steel in soft, soft, flesh that made her eyes sting all the more and wetness gather in the corners.

"Go to hell." She managed, voice muffled when blood dribbled from her mouth, down her chin to land on his already blood clothing, just more for the violence lust it inspired in him. "You fetch it back for me." Defiance came too easily for her even like this, so used to defying, defying her rank, her place, her body, the Espada...

It hurt, and her vision swam again, dimming when she felt warmth on her cheeks, pain finally drawing tears from her eyes as everything throbbed and hurt.

"I'm not the one that needs it, Privaron." He wasn't the one crying, either. Disgusting.

He was bored and done with her, if she was going to be that pitiful. Fornicarás was wrenched free from her side, pulled up, ripping skin and cloth as it did so, tracing a line up to her neck before flying free, more drops of blood to drip down. Szayel Aporro smiled.

"You're pathetic."

Though no other creature could be blamed for tears, for crying from that much pain, an Arrancar always could. With her arm lying discarded like a piece of trash on the ground out of her reach, the shoulder ripped and bleeding free down her side, with the other immobilized too, by a blade through the muscles and against the bone, with her hand useless anyway, with a blade in her stomach, even, she was expected not to cry, not to cry out, not to scream or whimper.

It was shameful, and Cirucci Thunderwitch was ashamed, but that didn't mean she could stop her body's responses to such things, could only manage to squeeze her eyes shut so no more than the first tears fell and watered down the blood on her cheeks.

"And you're an ass." She coughed, had to stop what else she was going to say to choke on her own blood, to choke and begin to gag.

"Go get it." The Privaron managed to half-command again, through her eyes were dimming. Grateful, he'd said? She was lucky he'd chosen to play with her, and not some shinigami?

... What a joke.

He took it as a compliment. "You're tempting me to take it with me."

Szayel Aporro wouldn't, because he didn't want her to come get it, didn't want another to come get it from him. Didn't want to have a thing to do with what happened next. But she didn't need to know that.

He sheathed his zanpakuto without wiping it off, let it click back into place with a satisfied smirk. He pulled her forward again. "Next time, I'll take the other one too." Maybe a leg. An eye.

A male her was no fun, and he dropped her with out ceremony, stepped back - paused with foot crushing bone further, excess weight on her hand - turned, waved casually as it caused more blood to fly, walked away. "Try not to die, there's no fun in that."

He wondered if he could add more blood to the dripping.

She snarled wordless, enraged, managed not to scream when her shoulder, the stump there, slammed into pavement, instead quivered, her entire body shaking from the tremors of pain lancing through her body, curling in.

The arm would have to wait until he left, she wouldn't crawl in front of him. Never would she crawl.

"I won't." Cirucci spat out in a choke of blood dribbling down her chin, watching his retreating back with the hole in her chest aching from fury and pain. "You can't get rid of me that easy, Szayel Aporro!" She floundered to rise, her hand refusing to respond, numbed and broken, and instead had to lay on her belly like some worm, trying in vain to rise as more blood coughed out and down her lips.

She hurt.

If she didn't know her own limits better, she'd swear he would hurt worse for this.

{ooc: *toddles off to make owie post*}

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