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tampered2007-09-02 01:34 am
evilsincebirth.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-09-02 01:34 am
Log; Complete
When; 29th August. Night.
Rating; R. Thread sex (with all the disturbing things Dietrich can make you feel and like it. HAS INVISIBLENOT REALLY THERE SPIDERS). Soul nipping. Maybe this is NC-17?
Characters; Cirucci Thunderwitch (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thunderwitch) and Dietrich von Lohengrin (evilsincebirth).
Summary; In which Cirucci is a hungry Arrancar and Dietrich is a fiendish Puppetmaster. Pain vs Pleasure.
Log;
Since he returned to the City, Dietrich took the habit to assure empty apartment in the same building as extra hideouts and storage. He took potential victims to it before transporting the remains to the laboratory and assemble the pieces into new Autojägers. Today, though, it was a special occasion. The lady in coming was not one of his many victims, but a special new experiment he wanted to try.
He had taken precautions in case the Arrancar decided to murder him in the lonely apartment. Keeping autojägers close by to attack when the situation turned against his favor.
But that wasn’t the only preparatives he had taken. Dietrich was a Duke and, as a nobleman, he understood women liked the romantic welcome and the gallant mannerisms in most outgoing. He had arranged the place to appear sophisticate and archaic with a pleasant perfume of roses and ready a basket of apples to her leave. The puppetmaster had picked a single white lily to offer to Cirucci when he greeted her. Lessons of pain and teachings of pleasure, today would bring.
Cirucci was hungry. This wasn’t so important, she was always hungry. No matter what she did, how much human food she ate, her belly was always empty, never souls to sate her lusts or gluttony, But she wanted this one. It was powerful, wasn’t it? If Light bothered, it had to be, and Light’s soul was one of the most delicious she’d ever had. The Privaron arrived where she was told, cocked her hips and knocked, hating the act of knocking, so mundane and domestic, but she did it anyway, flipping her hair out behind her ears as her small boot tapped impatiently. She was hungry.
Dietrich heard the knock and opened the door, giving a bow as he motioned Cirucci to come inside. “Welcome, I have been waiting for you, milady,” he said politely with his lips tugging up an angelical smile. “Was your day a fortuitous one?” asked the Puppetmaster, shutting the door after she entered. He waited for her answer, following the script of pleasantries he had learned from his parents and from Isaak. The Magician enjoyed the gentleman act more than he did.
Cirucci didn’t bother with pleasantries as she brushed past him and inside. She was in a foul mood, Noitora had made her so, and she didn’t even feel like reveling in false flattery. Her hand waved dismissively at his manners and posturing, elegant white glove cut off to reveal long, thin, fingers with black tipped nails, more like talons, that curled into a sneer like her full lips did when she inhaled. “Flowers.” She sniffed. Honestly, she liked flowers. They were pretty, but they were also weak, and thusly, Cirucci Thunderwitch did not like flowers.
She was all dressed in white to contrast his dark clothing. Dietrich favored the browns, grays and blacks with the occasional spotless, white shirt in his wardrobe. He didn’t care to appear as a snappy dresser or a fop; nature had favored him enough to wear the clothing he wanted without affecting his introductions. “Mmmhmm. Roses.”
Dietrich approached Cirucci, sweeping another bow and gently taking her hand. “I never introduced myself formally, did I? I am Dietrich von Lohengrin, a Duke from Germanicus. Pleased to meet you, milady,” he murmured, pressing his dry lips on her white knuckles.
Cirucci watched him impassively, dark violet eyes lidded, hidden by long lashes, and just watching.This was how she was, and she hated seeing it in other people, the flattery, the politeness, the subservience… she hated it in herself, and in other people it only served to remind her. This man, mortal, thing, to others he was Dietrick von Lohengrin, a duke from Germanicus. To her, he was a meal.“Cirucci Thunderwitch.” She murmured, twisting those knuckles under his lips to grip his chin firmly, her own rising pridefully. “105th Privaron Espada.”
A pridefuldoll flower she was, Dietrich could tell already she was underestimating him. That was a good thing. He wanted her to mislead her about the true range of his power and his intelligence. That was the easiest way to manipulate, in his opinion. He straightened and reached for the lily on the table, offering the blossom as gift. “When the lady Cirucci wants it. Should we go somewhere more comfortable? I assume this will be painfully unpleasant for me.” He examined her expression and noticed no change. No, they couldn’t see the threads wrapping around their bodies either.
Inside, the Devil grinned. Excellent.
“Comfortable?” Cirucci smirked, her eyes drifting to the wall, imagining if his head would crack if she threw him against it, wondering how loudly he’d scream, they always screamed or cried or fought so hard not to, when those talons of hers dug in and she tried to rip their souls out. It must hurt. “By all means, mortal, get comfortable.” She was underestimating him, to an extent. She knew there had to be something about him, something powerful, but she was unsure what, relying on the taste of his soul to tell her, not his mouth, not that filthy, lying, mouth. The Privaron gestured for him to go along, snatching the lily from his hand and idly turning it over against the white fabric on her breast.
“Oh. I will.” Dietrich braced himself, his own threads wrapped around his body. The pain of the soul is different to the one of the body but there was a connection. He found out shyly about that during the daemon way and this experience will make him able to spin down the exact dynamics between the anchors. He didn’t need spiritual powers to master the supernatural field with science and well done research. “This way, please.” Placidly, he offered his hand at Cirucci to guide her to a sofa where he could sit. Enduring the torture whilst standing was a bad move. He needed his concentration on his threads and not on the legs to support his weight.
Cirucci shrugged, swatted his hand out of the way and approached the sofa herself, hips swaying, long, bare legs marked only by the violet of her garters and the white of stockings. The Arrancar plopped onto one side, somehow gracefully, a languid movement crossing one leg over the other, small booted feet kicking idly as she continued to ply the lily across her dress near distractedly. “Come now, dinner.” She teased, insulted, wanted to see what this power he had to have, wanted to know about it, know it, considering that stupid L kept acting like she should be offended that she was not in his position.
Dietrich observed her. He did it because she wanted to be appreciated. This was why Cirucci moved that way, and how she teased when she swayed her hips or brushed the lily with her dress. She was a lustful creature and by the need of attention, and soon he would test if she had received pleasure enough. A girl wouldn’t complain or need to attract so much attention of a man she had claimed to dislike if she had been satisfied.
“I warn you beforehand,” Dietrich said with a whisper, leaning over without touching her. “I will taste nothing special for I lack any special inhuman ability besides my intellect.”
“Mm, you say that.” Cirucci whispered, smirking with painted lips, before her gloved hand reached and fisted in his shirt, inhuman strength fairly throwing him onto the couch in the same motion that she straddled his hips, though she didn’t touch him, except for the hand on his clothes, even kept her own hips raised, bare thighs not brushing against his own, no, holding him as beneath her, one like her. “Just try not to scream.” The Privaron snickered, her other hand, clutching the lily, braced beside his head as she brought her mouth close, just this close to his, and opened slightly. Her breathing evened immediately, predatory gaze on his as she latched onto the mortal soul in him. Then she pulled.
“No screaming? I thought you enjoyed the loud ones, Cirucci,” murmured Dietrich playfully, straddled and held down by the Arrancar woman. He had control, even in his submissive position. Ahh. But she didn’t know anything of this. His melancholic, brown eyes opened wide in wonder and allowed her to pull him down, body tensing to make this experience enjoyable for her. Dolls responded better to pleasure because was so alien to them that made them more vulnerable, confused and ready to be used when the puppeteer needed to. She leaned on him; he was still with his hands clutched on the cushions of the sofa, holding the invisible strings that wrapped both of them.
The Puppetmaster felt the pull, painfully and aware of the soul tearing outside his body. His black and wicked spirit. But he held aware, finally screaming in agony and keeping his mind aware to apply pleasure to the Thunderwitch. How will my soul taste if you feel countless fingertips grazing your body? As if tongues lapped your sensible breasts and warm breath kissed your mouth for a moment then let go?
“Just tr-” Cirucci had been ready to mock him. To dare him to try to muffle the pain, to try and dull the senses and not scream. It would have been funny, to watch this little chit of a mortal boy try to do that, try to withstand the pain of this that, any place but in the City, would kill, would kill as easily as she breathed and plucked the weak soul straight out of his body. But then, then… something happened. He hadn’t touched her, she knew that, was inclined to bracing in case her prey thrashed or fought, but he didn’t move. He didn’t touch her, and yet suddenly ever nerve thought the soul she passed for a body burned. A gasp, a moan, she wasn’t sure ripped from her, warm against his mouth, her grip on his soul faltering though she clung to it, clung to it though it honestly didn’t taste good at all. It was weak, his soul, no power to it, nothing, and yet-
The Privaron stiffened, arching back and starting to tremble. Noitora’s goddamned tongue, Szayel Aporro’s too skilled hands, Luppi’s Trepadora, Grimmjow’s overwhelming brutality, Il Forte’s pride and the way he’d said he loved her, nothing, none of that compared to this. Whatever this was, she didn’t know, knew only that her eyes had snapped open when she felt it and her hand knit harder in Dietrich’s shirt, too shocked to do anything but respond, to heave a pant as she felt sweat bead between her breasts and caress the inner skin of her Hollow hole, clinging stubbornly to his soul and tugging jerkily in turn with the uncontrollable reaction in the short thrust of hips against air.
The angel-faced “Satan” would have smiled if he wasn’t enduring an excruciating agony as contrast with her pleasure. His mind was busy, soothed by the numbness of his nerves that served to focus his attention in all the suffering she was subjecting on her. He could have laughed at the knowledge he obtained of her lesson of pain - at the little nerves and the way his body response at this type of unique assault. It was similar to the daemon touching, but far more entwined with the body. The living shell was more vulnerable in this position.
So, so easy to kill.
He closed his eyes, feeling her response as pleasure to continue. So easy was to break in her defenses, hm? You are mine, he thought, still screaming while his threads manipulated her nervous system to feel his bidding.
The timid touch of fingers became expert caresses on her thighs, on her face, on her lovely black hair. From the end to the root, the hair was being brushed; whispers into her ear and strong embraces. She would feel as if the layers of her clothes peel slowly to wanting, strong hands desirous to pleasure her; the grip of them imprinted on her skin.
Stubborn, trying to kick herself back into thought, into action, Cirucci jerked harder at the soul of Dietrich von Lohengrin, sought to rip it free if just by will alone, though she knew it wouldn’t come free like it would if she were home. She would devour it and this pleasure would cease because he would be dead, he could be dead far before he even saw her, no, let alone was able to make it feel like-
Her thoughts were interrupted again with a high-strung whine, the comforting, invasive pleasure that made her legs tense and spread, made her wet and aroused, made her want to close her eyes and give in to it, something so sweet and tremulous, but she fought against it, despite her weakness to it. Cirucci Thunderwitch gave herself so often to males who cared so little of her pleasure that she’d trained herself to be so easy to please, made herself so easy that she wouldn’t always be left wanting when they had finished, and yet it played against her now.
“Stop-” She squirmed into nothing but air, not warm flesh, not sweat and friction, almost as if she’d beg him, her voice so husky like that, but she didn’t beg, no, Cirucci Thunderwitch didn’t beg. “Stop screaming already, you little bitch.” The Privaron moaned, unable to focus fully on tasting his soul or that intense pleasure.
Hhm. That ought to be an interesting reaction; Dietrich didn’t stop at her words or the jerk against his soul (to scream or to make her his puppet). The more she jerked at his soul, the more her senses would become overwhelmed with pleasure. He felt the emptiness for a delicious fleeting minute of agony, the true state he wanted to achieve: to be like Mein Herr and be hollow without evil or good just above that. He was wicked and twisted while his lord was beyond those labels.
To die and be reborn like Mein Herr did, to not be a pathetic man linked to the family who sought to take the life they had given and, finally, to engulf Earth with the renovation fire of revolution.
“I—I can’t…” he uttered lamely, breathlessly before a new wave of screaming ensued.
The Puppetmaster stopped daydreaming and gathered his attention to his pretty Arrancar doll. White and deadly like the lily. He would not use the sensation of rough penetration as he read everyone did already; instead he sent the impression of petals of flower, like the lily she had tucked close to her, slowly descending from her lips to her bosom down to her flat stomach and navel, tickling her legs and lapping at her toes until it entered inside her. Meanwhile cold lips caressed her neck, nibbled at her ears, nipped her chin while the invisible hands appeared to restrain her from moving and beckon her to surrender.
She didn’t mean to, she didn’t, but she pressed closer to the puppetmaster, trembled too much, unwittingly her lips close to his ear as she moaned, couldn’t help but moan with that sensation, that gentle, smooth, invasion unlike most she was accustomed to, the way her limbs locked and she couldn’t even move, but didn’t have to move to continue ripping at his soul.
“You can.” Cirucci choked out. His soul didn’t even taste good, weak, lackluster, not even filling in her belly unlike the filling lower down, the kind that made her arch and pant, unable to think clearly, not like that, not like this, the way it felt, stroked and coiled and made her rock against nothing, delicate, feminine voice crying out softly, most of it choked back on her pride and hidden by the sounds of his screams of pain.
What this was, she didn’t know. Was it his soul, was that what it was? Was it that power of his, some power, she didn’t understand, it didn’t manner. She was growing angry, beneath the sweat that made her already tight dress cling and press, beneath the silken pant of her voice and her pale, arched neck, and beneath the growing warmth in her body urging her to loss her thought.
He could, couldn’t he? Have his threads stop sending sensations of pain now he could locate the spots that were anguish for release. It wasn’t a question of ability, it was of desire.
But I don’t want to…
He was also sweating and squirming beneath her weight. His senses alarmed by the amount of pain they were enduring and his brain, his fiendishly clever brain, was already taking measures, greedily digesting this knowledge while his body suffered. He became tired of screaming and instead muffled his voice to not lose it. Silencing as his limbs twitched and flinched when Cirucci moved closer to him.
“Wh-what are you-” he tried to question through swallowed breaths as if he was confused to see her sensual display. What a proud creature, she was. None too different from his Baron. He liked those, they broke more beautifully at his whims in the end. Her back was his next target as he kept the friction in the other spots: Fingernails trailing down from the back of her neck, down from the spine with a shivery caress, to finally stroke the roundness of her rear.
“Stop it!” Cirucci nearly snarled, her hand in his shirt finally losing grip, had to fall to the cushion beneath her to support herself, her voice losing it’s edge to a half-choked cry, to the way she bucked against invisible hands, arched her back, slim waist and rocking hips, hated it, but she touched against Dietrich, didn’t want to touch the mortal but she was pressing against nothing, thrusting against nothing, and she was scrabbling for purchase against the couch, toes curling in her boots, breasts pressed against his chest, gasping into his ear.
“I don’t care…” She whined, bucked against his hips, felt herself moist and wanting, being pleasured some way, some how, “What it is you’re doing,” The hole between her breasts ached, felt sweat beneath the white fabric of her uniform, the insides of her thighs, “Just stop it,” She managed to make it sound like a command even in that whining, begging, tone, in the way she clung stubbornly, albeit weakening, against his sorry excuse for a soul.
“I-I don’t know what… I’m not doing a-anything,” he managed to utter as she insinuated herself on him. Oh, he wasn’t going to return her shameless heat. He was in deep anguish to bother to have his body react in such way against her. He could force himself to, but rather kept her confused mirroring his own dazed and lost expression as the Arrancar’s control slipped in a few minutes after their session started.
Test the phobia and the special limbs. Let’s see what she will do next.
He focused and drew back the soft sensation as if feathers were brushing against the shoulders and tailbone - feathers falling onto her body and held there to press in her sensitive spots. Feathers that soon shifted in the tiny, hairy sensation of eight long legs of multiple spiders crawling unseen over her structure and beneath it. More and more spreading everywhere with one goal: to touch and pleasure her.
Her entire body stiffened, more, if that was possible, her lips trembling as her mouth fell open, panting heavily for breath, erratic and far too shallow, jerking and writhing under the touches. The body parts on their own weren’t terribly significant, shoulder blades and tailbone, but that was where, when she released, the bones joined her flesh, where her bony, iron, wings anchored at shoulder blade, and the long tail pressed into her spine like those touches did know, invaded her very being, still combined eith everything from before, causing her to choke on a cry, caused her fingers to tighten and dig into the puppetmaster’s shoulder, sharp, black talons neatly piercing in, felt her thoughts, every thought she tried to gather scatter and blue as quickly as it had come as she fairly squirmed over him and fought not to lose control fully.
That did hurt. Nnng. Dietrich cringed at the physical injury, stirring him from the dazed created by the spiritual pain and making his struggle more frantic. He gritted his teeth, flashing a very fleeting and cruel grin before the agony darkened his features and anguish groans escaped his throat. She was getting closer to his body and the invasion of physical space wouldn’t be allowed without his consent.
So your body is made of iron, bone and flesh, my proud swallow. One ought to wonder... What if you feel the soft flesh alone? he wondered, sending that complex commands to the nerves through her body. Then he took advantage of a calculated confusion to move her hand like a marionette wing away from his bleeding shoulder, to a side over the cushion. I’m done with you today.
He struck Cirucci like a snake did to a bird. His soul had been a powerful, deadly serpent and he recalled quite vividly how Hilda had felt. The snake advanced, wrapped around her legs first, with its forked tongue taking on her skin, scales brushing every inch of her in the unstoppable path up the Hollow hole between her breasts. It coiled and claimed inside her.
Did her hand move? Did she tell it to move?
That was the least of her concerns right now. The Thunderwitch let out a keen at the brush of scales against the hypersensitive skin of her hollow hole, the place where her saketsu chain anchored, where all her power rested, where her reiatsu thrummed and pulsed, the hole straight through her torso that marked, marked to clearly, the fact that she didn’t have a heart.
It was over, her resistance, the delicate, soft, sensitive, body she had finally breaking under the assault of sensation that made her cry out, almost a scream but she had enough dignity to choke it back and make it a long, low, moan, make it that instead of what the noise wanted to be, the husky, breathy, needy whine of completion, of satisfaction, her entire body trembling, sweat streaked, as the Privaron struggled to gather her wits, tried to refocus, talons finally letting go of Dietrich von Lohengrin’s soul under such feel, even having to sink against his body, hot and flushed, violet eyes dilating and unfocused in the aftermath of what had been the most pleasurable touch she’d ever experienced, and yet, she had not been touched at all.
He had won. She had pecked his soul and flushed his body with intense pain and yet she surrendered to just a taste of pleasure he could offer. Dietrich prided himself in his conquests, as unspoken they were, they were marked and he knew where to strike next if he needed her for something - His precious deadly swallow.
When Cirucci released him, everything vanished: The snake, the feathers, the fingernails, the spiders, the flower, the fingers, the hands and hungry lips against her flesh. Only the threads remained, inactive, invisible for Dietrich to manipulate in the future. He didn’t need her to feel pleasure or pain or to see what was he capable of yet.
His body was trembling; both shocked and relieved that his spirit was finally released. He stared at her with puzzling confusion, averting his gaze, and not even laying a finger on her. He choked his words, wishing to curl up into himself and rock the agony away, displaying the image of a perfect, vulnerable victim that inwardly hid the sinister wings of the devil.
“D-Did you finished?”
“…” Cirucci felt weak.
Her body felt weak, weak and heavy and limp, her eyelids felt heavy and everything was hot, sticky, tight, something. She hated touching him, though, hated that she’d had to sink against his body and mold hers, trembling and jerking slightly in tingles arcing though her body of an aftermath, against his, hated it so much she managed to haul herself off of him to flop on her back on the couch beside him, though it was too large for her legs not to drape over his lap.
“… Tch.” The Privaron finally got out, dazed and confused. What… what was that? Not at all concerned for propriety or his shame, if he had any, popping the first few snaps down the breast of her dress, too constricting, too fitting and sweaty, as she spread her legs, pale fingers dipping between them and coming back wet.
She frowned.
The reaction of the aftermath was interesting and expected from his observations. She was a proud bird and her silence and confusion displayed how much. Silence was a way to keep her dignity as much she still had intact.
Poor, lost bird. So helpless against a few pets and caresses?
Groggily, Dietrich moved to the furthest extreme of the couch, clutching a fist to his chest, easing his swallowed breathing. He was disoriented to the experience but fortunately, he had endured something similar at the mercy of Doctor Jackal during the daemon day. He looked at her after apparently recovering his senses and observed her behavior.
“If you are hungry…” he trailed off, reclining on his side of the sofa to pick the basket of supple apples left before she came. He assumed the shock will sluggish his motions for a time. “Do you want an… apple, milady?” Dietrich offered solicitously, forcing a pained smile as he picked a bright, red fruit.
“Oh, fuck you.” Cirucci snapped, lashed out with her gloved hand, the long white arm crumpled against her skin from sweat, knocked the apple from his hand with a half-snarl, soft and breathy still, propping herself up and wiping fluid from her thighs with disdain, straightening her provocative garters and stockings that had been rubbed askew, drew back to run her hands through her hair, lifting strands sticking to her neck.
“And your nasty, unsatisfying soul.” She insulted to defend herself, her own reactions, unwilling to admit the flush still to her skin, the slightly disoriented look to violet eyes. “Not even worth eating, no power in it or anything.” Her gaze turned cold. “But I know you have it in you. Somewhere.”
Tche. I’m not in the mood for that, my proud puppet, he thought with a mental grin while his face was the perfect picture of confusion at Cirucci’s outburst. He watched the knocked down apple rolling across the floor and studied her.
“Nasty, hm? You should have expected but… unsatisfying?” Dietrich questioned arched a delicate eyebrow, taking in her obvious sexual release. He sawed down the sofa, wiping the sweat of his forehead with a handkerchief and schooling his body to stop shaking like a leaf. “You ought to realize,” he started, reaching out for the apple basket to pick a fruit himself. He bit down the apple, tasting the flavor like he did with pleasure and pain. “I didn’t lie to you when I said my power was my intelligence, you know.” His gaze was warm to her cold eyes. Brown eyes still holding traces of the anguish experience. “Why would I lie about that?”
“Wasn’t even filling at all.” The Thunderwitch spat, referring to the soul itself because even she couldn’t bring herself to say that the other part, whatever the hell the other part had been, hadn’t satisfied her. And it was disgusting, she was ashamed to have been satisfied by that, because nothing had been there, nothing had touched her, and yet-
The Privaron reveled in sex, mostly, for the feel of another body. Her own had a sullen chill to it, dead, she was, by her own hand and yet it still bothered her, that cold, and she was always seeking warmth, seeking to warm herself and her cold bones in that friction, in the body heat of another, but this pleasure, whatever it had been, had been wholly without what she sought in sex, an yet…
And yet she’d still broken under it, and she hated it.
“Because everyone lies.” Cirucci rudely wiped wet fingers on the couch, unsure if she wanted to flee or stay, which one would last, fleeing this chit of a mortal boy out of fear of that slick sensation, or staying to try and preserve her pride.
Dietrich propped his shoulder blades and stretched his arms, regaining the feeling of his own body. It was easy when the only injured was his shoulder. “A little rough, hm?” he pointed out, holding the wound with his handkerchief. It wasn’t deep or serious and would be have Esther take a look at it when he returned home.
He stood, ignoring the disorientation and the wave of nausea the sudden motion provoked. The Puppetmaster waited for a moment until regained his balance to walk away from her. “Your excitement ruined my gift,” he said, stopping when he opened the door, almost exiting the place, turning to point the crushed flower with an amused expression. His eyes were dead cold and his lips curled up in a cruel grin. Poetry wasn’t his forte, it was Isaak’s. The old man couldn’t shut up about it during his babblings. Wouldn’t he be proud if he knew he recited poetry that day?
“While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.”
From outside the apartment, an Autojäger had brought him another lily and passed it to his master from behind the door. He took it with the hand smeared with blood, staining the pure petals with red.
“Not all the time, milady. For you--” He tossed the flower that had apparently come from nowhere to her lap. “Goodbye.”
Rating; R. Thread sex (with all the disturbing things Dietrich can make you feel and like it. HAS INVISIBLE
Characters; Cirucci Thunderwitch (
thunderwitch) and Dietrich von Lohengrin (evilsincebirth). Summary; In which Cirucci is a hungry Arrancar and Dietrich is a fiendish Puppetmaster. Pain vs Pleasure.
Log;
Since he returned to the City, Dietrich took the habit to assure empty apartment in the same building as extra hideouts and storage. He took potential victims to it before transporting the remains to the laboratory and assemble the pieces into new Autojägers. Today, though, it was a special occasion. The lady in coming was not one of his many victims, but a special new experiment he wanted to try.
He had taken precautions in case the Arrancar decided to murder him in the lonely apartment. Keeping autojägers close by to attack when the situation turned against his favor.
But that wasn’t the only preparatives he had taken. Dietrich was a Duke and, as a nobleman, he understood women liked the romantic welcome and the gallant mannerisms in most outgoing. He had arranged the place to appear sophisticate and archaic with a pleasant perfume of roses and ready a basket of apples to her leave. The puppetmaster had picked a single white lily to offer to Cirucci when he greeted her. Lessons of pain and teachings of pleasure, today would bring.
Cirucci was hungry. This wasn’t so important, she was always hungry. No matter what she did, how much human food she ate, her belly was always empty, never souls to sate her lusts or gluttony, But she wanted this one. It was powerful, wasn’t it? If Light bothered, it had to be, and Light’s soul was one of the most delicious she’d ever had. The Privaron arrived where she was told, cocked her hips and knocked, hating the act of knocking, so mundane and domestic, but she did it anyway, flipping her hair out behind her ears as her small boot tapped impatiently. She was hungry.
Dietrich heard the knock and opened the door, giving a bow as he motioned Cirucci to come inside. “Welcome, I have been waiting for you, milady,” he said politely with his lips tugging up an angelical smile. “Was your day a fortuitous one?” asked the Puppetmaster, shutting the door after she entered. He waited for her answer, following the script of pleasantries he had learned from his parents and from Isaak. The Magician enjoyed the gentleman act more than he did.
Cirucci didn’t bother with pleasantries as she brushed past him and inside. She was in a foul mood, Noitora had made her so, and she didn’t even feel like reveling in false flattery. Her hand waved dismissively at his manners and posturing, elegant white glove cut off to reveal long, thin, fingers with black tipped nails, more like talons, that curled into a sneer like her full lips did when she inhaled. “Flowers.” She sniffed. Honestly, she liked flowers. They were pretty, but they were also weak, and thusly, Cirucci Thunderwitch did not like flowers.
She was all dressed in white to contrast his dark clothing. Dietrich favored the browns, grays and blacks with the occasional spotless, white shirt in his wardrobe. He didn’t care to appear as a snappy dresser or a fop; nature had favored him enough to wear the clothing he wanted without affecting his introductions. “Mmmhmm. Roses.”
Dietrich approached Cirucci, sweeping another bow and gently taking her hand. “I never introduced myself formally, did I? I am Dietrich von Lohengrin, a Duke from Germanicus. Pleased to meet you, milady,” he murmured, pressing his dry lips on her white knuckles.
Cirucci watched him impassively, dark violet eyes lidded, hidden by long lashes, and just watching.This was how she was, and she hated seeing it in other people, the flattery, the politeness, the subservience… she hated it in herself, and in other people it only served to remind her. This man, mortal, thing, to others he was Dietrick von Lohengrin, a duke from Germanicus. To her, he was a meal.“Cirucci Thunderwitch.” She murmured, twisting those knuckles under his lips to grip his chin firmly, her own rising pridefully. “105th Privaron Espada.”
A prideful
Inside, the Devil grinned. Excellent.
“Comfortable?” Cirucci smirked, her eyes drifting to the wall, imagining if his head would crack if she threw him against it, wondering how loudly he’d scream, they always screamed or cried or fought so hard not to, when those talons of hers dug in and she tried to rip their souls out. It must hurt. “By all means, mortal, get comfortable.” She was underestimating him, to an extent. She knew there had to be something about him, something powerful, but she was unsure what, relying on the taste of his soul to tell her, not his mouth, not that filthy, lying, mouth. The Privaron gestured for him to go along, snatching the lily from his hand and idly turning it over against the white fabric on her breast.
“Oh. I will.” Dietrich braced himself, his own threads wrapped around his body. The pain of the soul is different to the one of the body but there was a connection. He found out shyly about that during the daemon way and this experience will make him able to spin down the exact dynamics between the anchors. He didn’t need spiritual powers to master the supernatural field with science and well done research. “This way, please.” Placidly, he offered his hand at Cirucci to guide her to a sofa where he could sit. Enduring the torture whilst standing was a bad move. He needed his concentration on his threads and not on the legs to support his weight.
Cirucci shrugged, swatted his hand out of the way and approached the sofa herself, hips swaying, long, bare legs marked only by the violet of her garters and the white of stockings. The Arrancar plopped onto one side, somehow gracefully, a languid movement crossing one leg over the other, small booted feet kicking idly as she continued to ply the lily across her dress near distractedly. “Come now, dinner.” She teased, insulted, wanted to see what this power he had to have, wanted to know about it, know it, considering that stupid L kept acting like she should be offended that she was not in his position.
Dietrich observed her. He did it because she wanted to be appreciated. This was why Cirucci moved that way, and how she teased when she swayed her hips or brushed the lily with her dress. She was a lustful creature and by the need of attention, and soon he would test if she had received pleasure enough. A girl wouldn’t complain or need to attract so much attention of a man she had claimed to dislike if she had been satisfied.
“I warn you beforehand,” Dietrich said with a whisper, leaning over without touching her. “I will taste nothing special for I lack any special inhuman ability besides my intellect.”
“Mm, you say that.” Cirucci whispered, smirking with painted lips, before her gloved hand reached and fisted in his shirt, inhuman strength fairly throwing him onto the couch in the same motion that she straddled his hips, though she didn’t touch him, except for the hand on his clothes, even kept her own hips raised, bare thighs not brushing against his own, no, holding him as beneath her, one like her. “Just try not to scream.” The Privaron snickered, her other hand, clutching the lily, braced beside his head as she brought her mouth close, just this close to his, and opened slightly. Her breathing evened immediately, predatory gaze on his as she latched onto the mortal soul in him. Then she pulled.
“No screaming? I thought you enjoyed the loud ones, Cirucci,” murmured Dietrich playfully, straddled and held down by the Arrancar woman. He had control, even in his submissive position. Ahh. But she didn’t know anything of this. His melancholic, brown eyes opened wide in wonder and allowed her to pull him down, body tensing to make this experience enjoyable for her. Dolls responded better to pleasure because was so alien to them that made them more vulnerable, confused and ready to be used when the puppeteer needed to. She leaned on him; he was still with his hands clutched on the cushions of the sofa, holding the invisible strings that wrapped both of them.
The Puppetmaster felt the pull, painfully and aware of the soul tearing outside his body. His black and wicked spirit. But he held aware, finally screaming in agony and keeping his mind aware to apply pleasure to the Thunderwitch. How will my soul taste if you feel countless fingertips grazing your body? As if tongues lapped your sensible breasts and warm breath kissed your mouth for a moment then let go?
“Just tr-” Cirucci had been ready to mock him. To dare him to try to muffle the pain, to try and dull the senses and not scream. It would have been funny, to watch this little chit of a mortal boy try to do that, try to withstand the pain of this that, any place but in the City, would kill, would kill as easily as she breathed and plucked the weak soul straight out of his body. But then, then… something happened. He hadn’t touched her, she knew that, was inclined to bracing in case her prey thrashed or fought, but he didn’t move. He didn’t touch her, and yet suddenly ever nerve thought the soul she passed for a body burned. A gasp, a moan, she wasn’t sure ripped from her, warm against his mouth, her grip on his soul faltering though she clung to it, clung to it though it honestly didn’t taste good at all. It was weak, his soul, no power to it, nothing, and yet-
The Privaron stiffened, arching back and starting to tremble. Noitora’s goddamned tongue, Szayel Aporro’s too skilled hands, Luppi’s Trepadora, Grimmjow’s overwhelming brutality, Il Forte’s pride and the way he’d said he loved her, nothing, none of that compared to this. Whatever this was, she didn’t know, knew only that her eyes had snapped open when she felt it and her hand knit harder in Dietrich’s shirt, too shocked to do anything but respond, to heave a pant as she felt sweat bead between her breasts and caress the inner skin of her Hollow hole, clinging stubbornly to his soul and tugging jerkily in turn with the uncontrollable reaction in the short thrust of hips against air.
The angel-faced “Satan” would have smiled if he wasn’t enduring an excruciating agony as contrast with her pleasure. His mind was busy, soothed by the numbness of his nerves that served to focus his attention in all the suffering she was subjecting on her. He could have laughed at the knowledge he obtained of her lesson of pain - at the little nerves and the way his body response at this type of unique assault. It was similar to the daemon touching, but far more entwined with the body. The living shell was more vulnerable in this position.
So, so easy to kill.
He closed his eyes, feeling her response as pleasure to continue. So easy was to break in her defenses, hm? You are mine, he thought, still screaming while his threads manipulated her nervous system to feel his bidding.
The timid touch of fingers became expert caresses on her thighs, on her face, on her lovely black hair. From the end to the root, the hair was being brushed; whispers into her ear and strong embraces. She would feel as if the layers of her clothes peel slowly to wanting, strong hands desirous to pleasure her; the grip of them imprinted on her skin.
Stubborn, trying to kick herself back into thought, into action, Cirucci jerked harder at the soul of Dietrich von Lohengrin, sought to rip it free if just by will alone, though she knew it wouldn’t come free like it would if she were home. She would devour it and this pleasure would cease because he would be dead, he could be dead far before he even saw her, no, let alone was able to make it feel like-
Her thoughts were interrupted again with a high-strung whine, the comforting, invasive pleasure that made her legs tense and spread, made her wet and aroused, made her want to close her eyes and give in to it, something so sweet and tremulous, but she fought against it, despite her weakness to it. Cirucci Thunderwitch gave herself so often to males who cared so little of her pleasure that she’d trained herself to be so easy to please, made herself so easy that she wouldn’t always be left wanting when they had finished, and yet it played against her now.
“Stop-” She squirmed into nothing but air, not warm flesh, not sweat and friction, almost as if she’d beg him, her voice so husky like that, but she didn’t beg, no, Cirucci Thunderwitch didn’t beg. “Stop screaming already, you little bitch.” The Privaron moaned, unable to focus fully on tasting his soul or that intense pleasure.
Hhm. That ought to be an interesting reaction; Dietrich didn’t stop at her words or the jerk against his soul (to scream or to make her his puppet). The more she jerked at his soul, the more her senses would become overwhelmed with pleasure. He felt the emptiness for a delicious fleeting minute of agony, the true state he wanted to achieve: to be like Mein Herr and be hollow without evil or good just above that. He was wicked and twisted while his lord was beyond those labels.
To die and be reborn like Mein Herr did, to not be a pathetic man linked to the family who sought to take the life they had given and, finally, to engulf Earth with the renovation fire of revolution.
“I—I can’t…” he uttered lamely, breathlessly before a new wave of screaming ensued.
The Puppetmaster stopped daydreaming and gathered his attention to his pretty Arrancar doll. White and deadly like the lily. He would not use the sensation of rough penetration as he read everyone did already; instead he sent the impression of petals of flower, like the lily she had tucked close to her, slowly descending from her lips to her bosom down to her flat stomach and navel, tickling her legs and lapping at her toes until it entered inside her. Meanwhile cold lips caressed her neck, nibbled at her ears, nipped her chin while the invisible hands appeared to restrain her from moving and beckon her to surrender.
She didn’t mean to, she didn’t, but she pressed closer to the puppetmaster, trembled too much, unwittingly her lips close to his ear as she moaned, couldn’t help but moan with that sensation, that gentle, smooth, invasion unlike most she was accustomed to, the way her limbs locked and she couldn’t even move, but didn’t have to move to continue ripping at his soul.
“You can.” Cirucci choked out. His soul didn’t even taste good, weak, lackluster, not even filling in her belly unlike the filling lower down, the kind that made her arch and pant, unable to think clearly, not like that, not like this, the way it felt, stroked and coiled and made her rock against nothing, delicate, feminine voice crying out softly, most of it choked back on her pride and hidden by the sounds of his screams of pain.
What this was, she didn’t know. Was it his soul, was that what it was? Was it that power of his, some power, she didn’t understand, it didn’t manner. She was growing angry, beneath the sweat that made her already tight dress cling and press, beneath the silken pant of her voice and her pale, arched neck, and beneath the growing warmth in her body urging her to loss her thought.
He could, couldn’t he? Have his threads stop sending sensations of pain now he could locate the spots that were anguish for release. It wasn’t a question of ability, it was of desire.
But I don’t want to…
He was also sweating and squirming beneath her weight. His senses alarmed by the amount of pain they were enduring and his brain, his fiendishly clever brain, was already taking measures, greedily digesting this knowledge while his body suffered. He became tired of screaming and instead muffled his voice to not lose it. Silencing as his limbs twitched and flinched when Cirucci moved closer to him.
“Wh-what are you-” he tried to question through swallowed breaths as if he was confused to see her sensual display. What a proud creature, she was. None too different from his Baron. He liked those, they broke more beautifully at his whims in the end. Her back was his next target as he kept the friction in the other spots: Fingernails trailing down from the back of her neck, down from the spine with a shivery caress, to finally stroke the roundness of her rear.
“Stop it!” Cirucci nearly snarled, her hand in his shirt finally losing grip, had to fall to the cushion beneath her to support herself, her voice losing it’s edge to a half-choked cry, to the way she bucked against invisible hands, arched her back, slim waist and rocking hips, hated it, but she touched against Dietrich, didn’t want to touch the mortal but she was pressing against nothing, thrusting against nothing, and she was scrabbling for purchase against the couch, toes curling in her boots, breasts pressed against his chest, gasping into his ear.
“I don’t care…” She whined, bucked against his hips, felt herself moist and wanting, being pleasured some way, some how, “What it is you’re doing,” The hole between her breasts ached, felt sweat beneath the white fabric of her uniform, the insides of her thighs, “Just stop it,” She managed to make it sound like a command even in that whining, begging, tone, in the way she clung stubbornly, albeit weakening, against his sorry excuse for a soul.
“I-I don’t know what… I’m not doing a-anything,” he managed to utter as she insinuated herself on him. Oh, he wasn’t going to return her shameless heat. He was in deep anguish to bother to have his body react in such way against her. He could force himself to, but rather kept her confused mirroring his own dazed and lost expression as the Arrancar’s control slipped in a few minutes after their session started.
Test the phobia and the special limbs. Let’s see what she will do next.
He focused and drew back the soft sensation as if feathers were brushing against the shoulders and tailbone - feathers falling onto her body and held there to press in her sensitive spots. Feathers that soon shifted in the tiny, hairy sensation of eight long legs of multiple spiders crawling unseen over her structure and beneath it. More and more spreading everywhere with one goal: to touch and pleasure her.
Her entire body stiffened, more, if that was possible, her lips trembling as her mouth fell open, panting heavily for breath, erratic and far too shallow, jerking and writhing under the touches. The body parts on their own weren’t terribly significant, shoulder blades and tailbone, but that was where, when she released, the bones joined her flesh, where her bony, iron, wings anchored at shoulder blade, and the long tail pressed into her spine like those touches did know, invaded her very being, still combined eith everything from before, causing her to choke on a cry, caused her fingers to tighten and dig into the puppetmaster’s shoulder, sharp, black talons neatly piercing in, felt her thoughts, every thought she tried to gather scatter and blue as quickly as it had come as she fairly squirmed over him and fought not to lose control fully.
That did hurt. Nnng. Dietrich cringed at the physical injury, stirring him from the dazed created by the spiritual pain and making his struggle more frantic. He gritted his teeth, flashing a very fleeting and cruel grin before the agony darkened his features and anguish groans escaped his throat. She was getting closer to his body and the invasion of physical space wouldn’t be allowed without his consent.
So your body is made of iron, bone and flesh, my proud swallow. One ought to wonder... What if you feel the soft flesh alone? he wondered, sending that complex commands to the nerves through her body. Then he took advantage of a calculated confusion to move her hand like a marionette wing away from his bleeding shoulder, to a side over the cushion. I’m done with you today.
He struck Cirucci like a snake did to a bird. His soul had been a powerful, deadly serpent and he recalled quite vividly how Hilda had felt. The snake advanced, wrapped around her legs first, with its forked tongue taking on her skin, scales brushing every inch of her in the unstoppable path up the Hollow hole between her breasts. It coiled and claimed inside her.
Did her hand move? Did she tell it to move?
That was the least of her concerns right now. The Thunderwitch let out a keen at the brush of scales against the hypersensitive skin of her hollow hole, the place where her saketsu chain anchored, where all her power rested, where her reiatsu thrummed and pulsed, the hole straight through her torso that marked, marked to clearly, the fact that she didn’t have a heart.
It was over, her resistance, the delicate, soft, sensitive, body she had finally breaking under the assault of sensation that made her cry out, almost a scream but she had enough dignity to choke it back and make it a long, low, moan, make it that instead of what the noise wanted to be, the husky, breathy, needy whine of completion, of satisfaction, her entire body trembling, sweat streaked, as the Privaron struggled to gather her wits, tried to refocus, talons finally letting go of Dietrich von Lohengrin’s soul under such feel, even having to sink against his body, hot and flushed, violet eyes dilating and unfocused in the aftermath of what had been the most pleasurable touch she’d ever experienced, and yet, she had not been touched at all.
He had won. She had pecked his soul and flushed his body with intense pain and yet she surrendered to just a taste of pleasure he could offer. Dietrich prided himself in his conquests, as unspoken they were, they were marked and he knew where to strike next if he needed her for something - His precious deadly swallow.
When Cirucci released him, everything vanished: The snake, the feathers, the fingernails, the spiders, the flower, the fingers, the hands and hungry lips against her flesh. Only the threads remained, inactive, invisible for Dietrich to manipulate in the future. He didn’t need her to feel pleasure or pain or to see what was he capable of yet.
His body was trembling; both shocked and relieved that his spirit was finally released. He stared at her with puzzling confusion, averting his gaze, and not even laying a finger on her. He choked his words, wishing to curl up into himself and rock the agony away, displaying the image of a perfect, vulnerable victim that inwardly hid the sinister wings of the devil.
“D-Did you finished?”
“…” Cirucci felt weak.
Her body felt weak, weak and heavy and limp, her eyelids felt heavy and everything was hot, sticky, tight, something. She hated touching him, though, hated that she’d had to sink against his body and mold hers, trembling and jerking slightly in tingles arcing though her body of an aftermath, against his, hated it so much she managed to haul herself off of him to flop on her back on the couch beside him, though it was too large for her legs not to drape over his lap.
“… Tch.” The Privaron finally got out, dazed and confused. What… what was that? Not at all concerned for propriety or his shame, if he had any, popping the first few snaps down the breast of her dress, too constricting, too fitting and sweaty, as she spread her legs, pale fingers dipping between them and coming back wet.
She frowned.
The reaction of the aftermath was interesting and expected from his observations. She was a proud bird and her silence and confusion displayed how much. Silence was a way to keep her dignity as much she still had intact.
Poor, lost bird. So helpless against a few pets and caresses?
Groggily, Dietrich moved to the furthest extreme of the couch, clutching a fist to his chest, easing his swallowed breathing. He was disoriented to the experience but fortunately, he had endured something similar at the mercy of Doctor Jackal during the daemon day. He looked at her after apparently recovering his senses and observed her behavior.
“If you are hungry…” he trailed off, reclining on his side of the sofa to pick the basket of supple apples left before she came. He assumed the shock will sluggish his motions for a time. “Do you want an… apple, milady?” Dietrich offered solicitously, forcing a pained smile as he picked a bright, red fruit.
“Oh, fuck you.” Cirucci snapped, lashed out with her gloved hand, the long white arm crumpled against her skin from sweat, knocked the apple from his hand with a half-snarl, soft and breathy still, propping herself up and wiping fluid from her thighs with disdain, straightening her provocative garters and stockings that had been rubbed askew, drew back to run her hands through her hair, lifting strands sticking to her neck.
“And your nasty, unsatisfying soul.” She insulted to defend herself, her own reactions, unwilling to admit the flush still to her skin, the slightly disoriented look to violet eyes. “Not even worth eating, no power in it or anything.” Her gaze turned cold. “But I know you have it in you. Somewhere.”
Tche. I’m not in the mood for that, my proud puppet, he thought with a mental grin while his face was the perfect picture of confusion at Cirucci’s outburst. He watched the knocked down apple rolling across the floor and studied her.
“Nasty, hm? You should have expected but… unsatisfying?” Dietrich questioned arched a delicate eyebrow, taking in her obvious sexual release. He sawed down the sofa, wiping the sweat of his forehead with a handkerchief and schooling his body to stop shaking like a leaf. “You ought to realize,” he started, reaching out for the apple basket to pick a fruit himself. He bit down the apple, tasting the flavor like he did with pleasure and pain. “I didn’t lie to you when I said my power was my intelligence, you know.” His gaze was warm to her cold eyes. Brown eyes still holding traces of the anguish experience. “Why would I lie about that?”
“Wasn’t even filling at all.” The Thunderwitch spat, referring to the soul itself because even she couldn’t bring herself to say that the other part, whatever the hell the other part had been, hadn’t satisfied her. And it was disgusting, she was ashamed to have been satisfied by that, because nothing had been there, nothing had touched her, and yet-
The Privaron reveled in sex, mostly, for the feel of another body. Her own had a sullen chill to it, dead, she was, by her own hand and yet it still bothered her, that cold, and she was always seeking warmth, seeking to warm herself and her cold bones in that friction, in the body heat of another, but this pleasure, whatever it had been, had been wholly without what she sought in sex, an yet…
And yet she’d still broken under it, and she hated it.
“Because everyone lies.” Cirucci rudely wiped wet fingers on the couch, unsure if she wanted to flee or stay, which one would last, fleeing this chit of a mortal boy out of fear of that slick sensation, or staying to try and preserve her pride.
Dietrich propped his shoulder blades and stretched his arms, regaining the feeling of his own body. It was easy when the only injured was his shoulder. “A little rough, hm?” he pointed out, holding the wound with his handkerchief. It wasn’t deep or serious and would be have Esther take a look at it when he returned home.
He stood, ignoring the disorientation and the wave of nausea the sudden motion provoked. The Puppetmaster waited for a moment until regained his balance to walk away from her. “Your excitement ruined my gift,” he said, stopping when he opened the door, almost exiting the place, turning to point the crushed flower with an amused expression. His eyes were dead cold and his lips curled up in a cruel grin. Poetry wasn’t his forte, it was Isaak’s. The old man couldn’t shut up about it during his babblings. Wouldn’t he be proud if he knew he recited poetry that day?
“While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.”
From outside the apartment, an Autojäger had brought him another lily and passed it to his master from behind the door. He took it with the hand smeared with blood, staining the pure petals with red.
“Not all the time, milady. For you--” He tossed the flower that had apparently come from nowhere to her lap. “Goodbye.”
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She says now she has to go back to Arrancar.
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Also Dietrich wonders when you will stop to pimp his soul as sex? He doesn't want to be whored around that way. ♥
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Maybe when she gets hold of Radu for tasting to compare, she says.
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Radu is HIS. Body, soul, mind.How would he who fails at being human and is such a "little person inside" taste indeed.
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And Dietrich says he is far more powerful than that vampire noble.
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Though she's not averse to bleeding him.She says fuck him, his soul is weak.
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Also WTF NOW CIRUCCI WILL BE CRABBY, GG DEITRICH. >:/
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You don't have people with supernatural powers based in spirit or magic
granted Dietrich and Isaak are "magic users" in canon profile which makes me go WTF SUNAO?Instead, you have uberpowerful people with supertechnology who can do basically the same... with scifi babble explanation behind it.
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WOMEN. Who complains about good sex?
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Technology escapes her.
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Playmate says "O____o"
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