ext_265180 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2007-09-26 10:35 am
thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-09-26 10:35 am
Log; Complete
When; Sept. 25th, early morning
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Cirucci {![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttons
Summary; In which a Quincy has an injured/head injury Privaron in his home who can't let go of that one last scrap of pride, even now, and the Quincy can't discard a sympathy. tl;dr~~?
Log;
When she woke, she hurt. It hurt, everything hurt, and she rolled over into her pillows and buried her face in them. Except they weren’t her pillows, and they weren’t her sheets. The Privaron froze. It rushed back and she groaned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. She had to get out of here. Now.
She dragged herself up, a sneer crossing her lips when she noticed the blood-stained sheets, her blood-stained uniform, stripped it off hastily and threw it into the corner, wiping her hands of the ripped fabric. She knew where he kept his clothes, rifled through until she found a big enough shirt, shrugging in to that instead. Her uniform disgusted her right now. Small, bared feet tiptoed out, wanted something, her throat was dry, But it wasn’t so much tiptoe as jilted stumbles, weak and soft. It disgusted her, But she began to rifle through his kitchen, small hands trembling and looking for a cup.
Her head turned, purple eyes hazed as she caught sight of the Quincy. Sleeping. Stupid boy. She shook her head, almost laughing, but the motion made her dizzy and she had to clutch the counter to hold herself up, the cup in her hand tumbling to the ground as she cursed.
>>>
Ishida had been dreaming. A strawberry was locked into a terrible, juicy battle with a grapefruit. The strawberry slipped on a banana peel, and promptly shattered into six jagged pieces—or, he sat up abruptly, a thin, cotton blanket falling in a twisted heap in part to the carpet, the rest tangled around his legs-- the shattering had come from outside.
He gazed around his living room in a dull, blurry daze. His thin hand groped out, fingertips leaving paths on the glass of the coffee table as he recovered his glasses and shoved them unceremoniously onto his face. Living Room, not bedroom. He remembered the night in gradual, even, disagreeable steps, blinking, stifling a yawn, as he glanced into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" He called, unable to keep from sounding irritated, grumpy at being woken up and by a Privaron. Ishida detached the cover from his legs – striped, as he wore white pajamas, top and button, with blue stripes – and walked into the kitchen. He looked for the cup, first, and scowled, intending to say something about it and sweeping, until he looked up and noticed how little she was wearing.
"Is that my shirt?" Ishida asked, stupidly, eyes popping until he began to blush and staggered, backward, out of the kitchen, his head turned. "Pants," he managed, "put on some—"
>>>
“…” She sort of look at him like he was insane. Her lip curled into a smirk but it died, fell in to a grimace as her hand fell to her abdomen, clutching.
“So upset about…” Cirucci moved her hand from her abdomen to grip the counter again, her previously dislocated shoulder, amateur replaced, still hung somewhat limp, cradled awkwardly under her breast.
“A shirt, Shiro-“ She seemed off, something was distinctly off about the way she stood, long pale legs baring bruises, his shirt baring more that were previously unseen, fingers, long, bony finger marks on slender neck, an angry red mark of teeth across her bosom, centered over the puckered skin where a five had once lain, the shape of the scar still showing what respect she had once held. “Megane-Kun…”
>>>
Ishida had not waited, instead beat a quick retreat to his room, grimacing at the bloody uniform and sheets. A quick change into trousers, a zip-up shirt, socks and shoes, and Ishida had returned to the kitchen to hold out another pair of pajama pants. Blue, with a plaid white pattern, and he looked directly at her, with the understanding that it was to reevaluate her injuries now that it was morning.
A frown seized his expression. "I should have fashioned a sling," he said, aloud, scrutinizing her arm, an uncomfortable, tight feeling closing his throat as he tried not to see the teeth marks, the fingers on her neck, would not feel defensive or protective of her.
"But really," Edging around her, Ishida opened a side closet in the corner and pulled out a broom and dustpan. "Really, I should find-- Inoue-san. I'd rather not bother, however, I have little doubt that at least you needed multi-layered stitches, something I couldn't begin to presume to do, and I may have done more damage than good, which—" would serve you right, he couldn't quite say, glancing up to see the bruising on her neck. "Which, well... she could put to right."
>>>
“No.” Cirucci snapped immediately. She snatched the pants from him slowly, but didn’t move to put them on, held them to her but didn’t move other than to clutch tighter at the countertop. The shirt was mostly undone, she was hot, too warm, and she wasn’t about to put more clothes on, not like this, when she was burning up and a cold sweat had broken out on her skin.
“I’ll not have her seeing me-“ A rattling breath. “Like this- I hate the way she looks at me…” Her eyes dilated as she spoke, biting back pained noise, the kind swelling in her abdomen underneath the extensive bruisings, the internal injuries he couldn’t address and she wouldn’t have seen to, dislocated arm moving slowly, creaking, to clutch her stomach, fingers weakly digging in.
“I won’t.” Nearly imperceptibly, her legs trembled.
>>>
Glass chinked as the broom nudged it into the plastic. Ishida glowered at the shards, then up to her bruised eyes. No? And why wouldn't she cover herself? In his self-absorption, caught up in his inconveniences, he had yet to accept the moisture on her brow, her dependence on the counter.
"Don't be ridiculous," Ishida said, dismissing her protest, and bent to pick up the pan and discard the glass into the trash bin. "The way she looks at you? Inoue-san—" He paused, swallowing emotion rather than logic-driven words, and rephrasing. "She'll do much better for you. This isn't the time for pride Ci—Thunderwitch" hypocrite "so—"
Broom and pan returned to closet. Ishida turned, forced to look at her in full, again. It was difficult to follow, but the glare became narrowed concern as he noticed the position of her hands, the faint quiver in her legs. Let none declaim the Quincy's observational ability.
Exasperated, the fussy, hiss-y tension in his arms releasing: "…Why are you even standing?"
>>>
“Because I’m not so weak as to need to lay down.” She managed, by going very slowly, carefully, not to cut herself off, not to sound as weak as she felt, the longer she remained standing the worse the pain in her belly, of internal bleeding left to its own device, the worse the trembled in her slender legs and the worse the cold sweat on her skin.
“I won’t let-“ She tried to talk too fast again, swallowing hard, throat dry and parched. “I won’t let anyone see me like this-“ The Privaron would never be able to explain her shame to anyone but another Privaron. Only they knew this shame, this unconditional, ever present shame, and to have more shame heaped onto it… it almost became unbearable.
Cirucci tugged weakly at the front of her, his shirt, loosening around her chest, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight, staggering slightly as she nearly lost her balance when the floor tilted.
>>>
"Obviously," Ishida retorted, the dryness of his tone saying precisely what he thought of that obvious lie. She seemed to be struggling even to speak, never mind stand, and Ishida could prognosticate a déjà vu situation rushing fast toward them.
Watching her swallow, wary expectation becoming apprehension in his muscles, he advised in a quiet rush, "Take it easy." To amend, or ignore the possible tenderness in that, he added, previous critical tone restored, with, of course, not a hint of complaint, of course not, "I suppose I don't count, or have you forgotten that I can see you?"
Her tugging exposed more of her breasts, not all, but he was blushing and wanting not, not to look, even as she staggered, but because she staggered forced it, taking a step to her to brace a hand at her elbow. "Idiot, you—" but, yet again, on looking at her, he failed to finish the invective.
"…Sit down. I'll make breakfast."
>>>
“…” She wrenched away from him, slow and jerky motion, barely making it to the table with the aid of the countertop, not so much sitting down as falling with some measure of dignity. The Privaron seemed to be at a loss for words, dazed, really, her eyes out of focus as she slumped forward onto the tabletop, arms stretched over the surface and breasts propped up, shirt rising higher up her hips as she splayed out, limp.
Stupid Quincy. She wanted to kill him, clench her small hands around his throat and squeeze until those eyes, those sympathetic blue eyes, glazed over in death. Then, then, she could say he couldn’t see her, that he hadn’t seen her like this.
“I want souls.” She muttered bitterly. “And fruit.”
>>>
He let her, moving back, watching with a failed try at indifference as she made the table and sagged. Watching meant noticing, with whites beginning to curl around his irises and pink bleeding again into his pale cheeks, when his shirt slid up, exposing her–
Ishida turned away so quickly, he smashed his elbow on the counter and yelped before he could bite it back, shoving his hand over the smarting, trembling bone. His face burned, and his eyes were clenched shut, as if those feeble gestures could expel the image from the backs of his eyelids. Still, he stepped back and toward the table, released his aching elbow to take hold of the back of one chair and skid it from the table, pulling it out and left so she could sit.
"Too bad. I have mango," he gritted out, teeth clenched. "And—raspberries, you might try them with yogurt, or granola, both…"
>>>
She didn’t respond to the yelping or the chair, merely slipped into it clumsily and splayed out again, the position eased the tension and the pain tight in her abdomen, the uncomfortable feeling of loose blood and damaged vitals. Arrancar healed faster than humans, but, such blows from an Espada… her body had crumpled under them.
“Shiro-Megane-Kun should let me snack on his soul.” Cirucci whispered into her arms, a vain attempt at snark lost in her weakness, the utter lack of strength in her body and the cold sweat that continued to soak into her skin, causing the shirt to cling even more uncomfortably, tight to curves and flesh.
“… That and the yogurt and granola fruits.”
>>>
Still exposed, but Ishida was nothing if not determined to put every ounce of his self-control into leveling his gaze at the back of her head as he turned his. Every once was not required, and his gaze was unamused, lids encroaching on his restricted pupils.
"I should have let you keep bleeding in the hallway," he amended, a bland matter-of-fact. Ishida stepped around the kitchen to, true to his word, prepare breakfast. He reassured his skepticism with this: she would be more bearable, perhaps, on eating. Ishida put the kettle on, retrieved a box of granola from the cupboard and the fruit from shelves in his refrigerator, along with plain yogurt. With precise, expert movements with a cutting knife, he had the mango ready, and divided it between two bowls. Into hers he set the raspberries, and with a pivot on his heel, set the bowl in front of her (not looking, not looking), a cup of yogurt and spoon beside it. After pouring his own granola, the box joined her cup – she could decide what she wanted, how much and it what capacity.
The water warmed and Ishida, mixing yogurt into his granola, raspberries, and began to eat while standing.
>>>
“So why didn’t you?” The Thunderwitch managed a half-spat out sentence muffled in her arms, small hand groping weakly for her food, face in her injured arm’s elbow while her good hand blindly maneuvered the yogurt onto the fruit, fingers clenched around the granola and pouring a few seconds, listening to the small noises of the bits of food colliding.
The smell of it hit her nostrils and she suddenly bolted up and gagged, stomach roiling and damaged organs rejecting the idea of food, let alone human food, the inner skin of the hole between her breasts aching at the idea of a soul so nearby, a powerful soul, one that would fill her belly and this, this is what she offered herself? This-
The Privaron dry retched into her hands, doubling over onto her knees, only blood came up, crimson stains blossoming on lips and palms, choking on the tacky taste of old blood, bled yesterday and still in her body, petite form wracked with seizures as she vomited.
>>>
His teeth came down hard onto the spoon as she jerked into convulsing action, he jumped, the bowl in his hands clattering back onto the counter. She gagged, and he winced to hear it, the foul fluid caught in her throat before it trickled over her chin, and he could see the wrenching shaking of her shoulders, muscles. His eyes were wide again as he pulled the spoon from his mouth, shock bleeding into repressed disgust and summoned chagrin, a frustration too forced as he looked at the palpably sick Privaron.
Food had not been the answer. Ishida wet paper towels in fisted, then folded bunches, and kneeled on one knee beside her. He offered her the paper, only just not reaching to push strands of curling, glossy but uncombed black behind her ears, away from the mess.
"I don't think you have much of a choice," he interjected, boldly, into the silence, leaning on his bloated ego, "whether I ask for Inoue-san's assistance or not. I – refuse to let you – do this, be like this, because of –" his errors.
>>>
“No-“ Cirucci snarled, choked again on blood and palms hit the floor before she weakly grabbed the wet towel from his hand and covered her mouth, retched and spasmed until she couldn’t anymore, until she was trembling, legs splayed on the cold tile floor and the sweat soaking the shirt now, so hot, it was so hot, it was burning-
“I’ll kill...” She barked out harshly, “Any… healer…” No one could see. Not this shame, bad enough he was seeing it, bad enough he hadn’t killed her yet.
Again.
“No.” She struggled up, back into her chair, body shaking as she forced her stomach down, forced a spoonful of food down her throat.
>>>
Because she was weak, her threats voiced weak, warbling off-key songs of a broken-winged bird, helpless and ineffective on the floor, trying to beat into the air with hollow-boned, stupid pride. His eyes took it in as if impassive, as if an unmoving, unfeeling wall, but behind lenses and shallow glass eyes Ishida struggled, came up with simple, cold focus: she wouldn't do much against a healer now, but Inoue-san's help would make her more than capable of it in the immediate aftermath.
Ishida was still kneeling when she shook up, shook into the chair, shook around spoon and food and swallowed, and he tried not to think about cleaning up a different sort of vomit, later. He glanced at his hand as it curled into a fist, then relaxed it.
"You'd prefer to be in pain?" He asked, not at all incredulous though the words asked to be sounded in that way, with the appropriate inflection. "You'd rather bleed and—crawl, and spit everything back up?" Shaking his head, he stood, selecting an argument sure to stir something in her, "You'd rather be at my mercy? In my debt?"
>>>
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face, and she turned to him, out of focus eyes vainly trying to direct the fury in them in his direction. A smudge of blood still staining her bruised lips.
“Shut up-“ Cirucci choked out, half rising from her seat but she had to immediately fall back, legs akimbo as she nearly toppled over, small hands shaking as she held herself up, felt twinges and shoots of pain in her belly.
“I can-“ Her palm moved, almost as if she were charging a cero, a pulsing, fluctuating flow of reiatsu in her hand but it was directed into her own body, focused there. “Heal… myself… in a little while-“ The Privaron’s breath came harsh and ragged, barely there. “I’m… not in anyone’s debt-“
>>>
"Really," Ishida said, a question without the lift, spoken as crisp and cynical. It wasn't as if Ishida wanted the Thunderwitch in his debt, outside of the logical reasoning of using it as a means to detract her from her obsession or from possible hostility against those he would see left in peace.
"Of course not." And he may have sounded, a little, really, only the tiniest amount, plaintive. Acknowledgment of debt meant acknowledgement of his sympathy happening, yet, he thought it
rich that she could receive treatment (however faulty) and temporary sanctuary in his apartment, and not call it a debt. Would the blood ever come out of his sheets? Served him right for owning them in white.
Chiding himself for bothering, Ishida inched closer after hear near fall, so to keep her from crashing to the ground. Alert though not alarmed, tense not out of danger but concern, Ishida observed her self-treatment with a mixed measure of curiosity and skepticism. He could have pushed the point out of his need for recognition, but the kettle sounded, and Ishida found himself better occupied with setting out the cups, bags, and pouring.
>>>
Her reiatsu was too unstable, and she snarled weakly in anger at it, at the fact that it didn’t respond well, that her brain was hazy and her body was hot but the sweat was cold, trying to struggle up out of her chair but confused as to how she somehow ended up back in her chair again. Was she on her back? Was that the ceiling?
Her vision blurred.
“… Tea’s only for when we sit… at the Espada table…” She murmured with a dazed smile. “I’m… I don’t really drink… anymore…” There was more shame in that, because her place… It wasn’t at that table anymore, among those proud ranks. No, her attempts to regain that place always ended with her like this, with Noitora slamming her head into the wall until she couldn’t think straight, even now.
>>>
His back was to her as his thin wrists curved away from the cups, as steam rolled up and the water browned. She could snarl and he could shrug it off like a chill; if the choice swung between aggravation and commiseration, he would by necessity lean to the former.
Still, as he moved back to the table and let the glass down with a chink against the wood, Ishida raised his and pressed his wrist against her forehead. Cold sweat, made to burn by the skin beneath it. He tried not to blanch. It was disorienting, to feel the fluctuations of reiatsu so close by.
"You'll let that man ruin tea for you?" Ishida asked, somewhat aghast. He did not swoon for tea, but really! And a moot point, as he very much doubted that she'd have much luck at drinking it in her state. "Tea—tea may not have been enjoyed by you, before then, but it certainly isn't his to claim."
>>>
“Tea is his.” Cirucci whispered, trembling fingers grasping for a cup and clutching it, hot, hot, hot, clutching it anyway, didn’t feel it so much when she already felt so hot. “We don’t eat… we don’t eat any human food… just souls, it was nice… tea was only…” She sagged forward, eyelids hooded, tea cup shaking.
“Tea is his. We wouldn’t… eat or drink if we didn’t have to.” She somehow managed to eye him hungrily, she was starving, but this food… Cirucci raised the cup to her lips, a tentative sip, but the minute it passed her lips she gagged again, managing to choke it down, throat bobbing.
“… Hungry.” The Privaron murmured dazedly, unfocused and lacklustered eyes, breath harsh, open pants.
>>>
Even with her delirium, her eyes made him uncomfortable – his skin crawling, as if to try and escape his bones before she could make the want in her eyes a reality. His mind knew better than to fear, knew himself more than capable of preventing her advances – even if she could devour souls here – healthy or ill. Her eyes, yet, reminded him of her monstrosity. Worse: he should have been more unsettled by it, and yet, it was easy to cast off the feeling, to be imperturbable.
"For something you can't have," Ishida said firmly, and a little bored by the transparent and impossible threat of her hunger. "I think we can agree that, that being the case, here where you must eat and drink, tea is no longer his."
As if tea was so important. Restraining a sigh, Ishida glanced to his left, to the white wall beside the refrigerator, a hand finding hold on its opposite elbow. "You should lie back down."
>>>
“You’ll kill me when I go to sleep.” The Privaron whispered slyly, lips twitching up maliciously. “Because you couldn’t kill me before, you’re going to kill me now.” Her voice was quiet, but childish, slipping forward, the front of his shirt hanging open, breasts, but more importantly, the hole between them, blatantly visible.
“If you won’t, Noitora is going to come and find me, I wasn’t supposed to run.” Her lips twisted into a sneer, a sneer at the teeth marks on her breast, on her scar, bruises on the insides of her thighs where her legs had been pried apart, on her hips, where she’d been held down, on her wrists and neck. “He wasn’t done…” Purple eyes glazed, a shudder, evident of memory, suddenly growing quiet before she laughed manically, waving her wrist limply.
“You’d better do it before he does.”
>>>
She possessed an impressive repertoire of damage; if the Thunderwitch was a broken, discarded weapon, a broken doll, she was also a broken record, or the doll with the string in her back, stuck on the same words. Ishida rolled his eyes and examined the ceiling for a time – and it helped him not look at her exposed chest.
"I chose not to kill you, before, and I choose not to do it now." Brisk words, matching his steps closer as, without looking down, his hands reached. Long, nimble fingers seized not buttons, but the snaps, beginning to fasten them. Self-control made his touch rigid and robotic, resisting letting fingertips graze the angry red over her breasts, the purple on her neck, as if insignificant touch could heal.
"Be quiet," Ishida commanded in quiet, one hand dropping from the shirt to curl around her wrist and stay it. He looked down at her, now, his eyes focusing on hers and nothing below lest a familiar flush crawl up his neck. "I wouldn't allow it. So … be quiet."
>>>
“It’s hot-“ She muttered weakly in protest, trying to slap his hands away, weak little tugs with fingers that held no real strength anymore, falling quiet as he fastened up his shirt, ashamed of her, or was it for her, she didn’t know, that was too much thought for right now.
“If that’s what Shiro-Megane-Kun wanted…” The Privaron rasped, smirking bloody and crazed. “He should have just asked.” Her other hand reached up to begun tugging the snaps off again, the way she stood, the way she spoke and looked, an explicit offer of herself, of her body.
“He should have just asked if he wanted a turn… Cirucci can be quiet if that’s how you want her.” It became painfully evident that she was used to this, a beaten out subservience that arose only, was able to be let out only, after pride was battered and bruised and she had no options left, no fight in her, only a body to bargain with and sweetened words to lie with, to croon and moan and scream whatever was wanted of her, purple eyes distant, distinctly not there, out of focus body still covered in that cold sweat, still trembling.
>>>
At first, incomprehension – Ishida was naïve in very, very few regards, and sexuality was one of them, so as her fingers clawed at the snaps he had only just fastened and her smirk became crude in its insanity, he didn't understand. Even with her pose, the lift of her breasts, pushing against the thin folds of his button-free shirt – it took him until the use of "turn" to begin the reaction.
Releasing her wrist as if it were burning, acid, Ishida stumbled back, arms bent up in a defensive recoil. I don't, his mouth flapped, wordlessly, horror and disgust bucking in his stomach at the association, that he would use her as the Espada did, that he would require it for sparing her. It offended him as much as it nauseated him, and he glared at her in angry pity that, just as soon, became cold necessity. She was out of her mind- far more so than usual. Words, his feeble, flustered, gagging protests wouldn't stop it.
Ishida took the step and struck her – with not much more force than one would use in swatting a fly, restraint at the thought of hitting a woman, even one he'd before impaled on Seele Schneider, holding him back. Even knowing he had to, had to have had to, Ishida reeled back and stared at his hand, dropped it, stared at her, his breathing not hard but his shoulders so tense it almost hurt.
"No," he said, and again, for good measure. And once last, third time.
>>>
Though his slap was barely enough to register on an already bruised cheek, she recoiled, flinched as if he would strike harder, would strike with the strength an Espada possessed, the back of a bony hand enough to send her smacking into the nearest wall and crumpling helplessly. But she crumpled now, in shock. She hadn’t actually expected him to hit her, hadn’t expected anything, considering the dazed, overstuffed feeling in her head, the absolutely dumbfounded expression on her face.
“… I don’t-“ She didn’t understand. She couldn’t think, slumping onto her back, drawing up her knees and pushing them tightly together, locking her ankles defiantly, defying the presence of all the bruisings up the backs of her thighs, eyes staring blankly up at him, at the ceiling.
“I don’t understand.”
>>>
Like a deck of cards, like a discarded marionette. He could have heard the wood knocking as her limbs folded and skin and bone hit floor. But it wasn't like watching wood and paint and something inhuman; something in his expression softened, and Ishida looked down at her.
"…That's fine," he told her, following her vacant gaze to the ceiling before he dropped to one knee beside her. His hand, guiding his arm toward her neck, paused in brief, once more tempted to brush back the strands of hair that clung to her sweat sticky forehead. Instead, it flattened against the floor beside the curve of her shoulder bone.
"It's… unnecessary. You don't need to understand. … Get up." Or, he'd have to pick her up, and with her wearing so little, it would make him – a touch uncomfortable.
>>>
She would have cried, if the act itself wouldn’t have made her want to end her own life. Her eyes rolled wild and unfocused, entire body trembling as she tried to rise, legs scrambled, shirt hitching up, arms sound to rise, palms to brace, but nothing worked and panic was welling up in her throat.
Blows to the head, repeated, hard blows, and her thoughts had fragmented, scattered with hands clenched in her hair and shoving her skull against hard stone until she bled and things had gone dark. Then more blows, slaps that whipped her neck to the sides and punches that left her jaw up and mouth open, choking on saliva and blood. Internal bleeding her body was trying to reject inside of her, poisoned system beginning to fail her.
“I can’t-“ The Thunderwitch almost sobbed, hated this, knew she hated this, this overwhelming weakness and yet she was… was she still too proud to take a healer? Yes. “I can’t-“ A hard swallow, nearly choking. “Move-“
>>>
The shirt, the shirt, why hadn't she put on the pants? His sixteen-year-old hormones battled with the simple fact that this, a battered, feverish woman writhing on his kitchen floor, wasn't in the least erotic, even to said hormones. It was only pathetic, and pathetic in a way that wasn't hers alone. This, he reprimanded himself, this was not the time to be uncomfortable.
"… Okay," now, too awkward to be soothing, his eyes finding an impermanent focus on the protrusion of the mask on her skull far far from the hem of his shirt, Ishida slid his arm underneath her shoulders, the other, under her knees. To hold her any less tenderly, carefully, would be too rough for her current state.
Lifting, beginning to stand, his sigh came in his next words, tempered with caution for her reaction, "I'll put you in bed, then I think Inoue-san wouldn't mind visiting…"
>>>
When he picked her up she whimpered, clutched at her thighs and tightened, sore, abused muscles and the sudden reeling in her head, battered skull protesting the movement as much as it was able, a lurching in her balance and equilibrium, sending the word spinning and her head lolling back limply, body giving out as it reached the limits of her endurance, beads of sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, slipping in to the overly exposed Hollow hole in the middle of her chest, the fabic visible beneath her.
“I said-“ The Thunderwitch managed, arm falling over her, over limply bobbing to the side, “I hated… the way she looked… at me-“ And it was the most foolish thing, but she couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the pity in Orihime’s eyes, the pity in Ishida’s eyes, at least, was beyond her sight now, couldn’t focus her own eyes to view his, couldn’t see much anymore, a dank haze of head trauma and too much exertion for a wounded body.
>>>
Her neck, wet with sweat and hot, hot against the skin of his forearm, distracted his attention from, first her mask and second the space directly in front of him, table and door-frame. Glancing down, his eyes widened around the rims of his spectacles: Ishida nearly dropped the Thunderwitch.
The whimpering, dark marks and fevered skin were not erotic, no, but nudity was nudity, and he had failed to refasten the snaps, and his shirt had slid up to her hips, so Ishida was struck by more than the disorienting fact of looking at her chest and seeing straight through, to the fabric of the back of his shirt. His fingers convulsed, not enough to hurt where they held but a small spasm, bright, warm red rushing up his neck and flooding his cheeks, tightening his throat as he walked.
"Then don't look at her," he choked out, though it was already a given that he could not involve Inoue-san: the smallest chance of the Thunderwitch taking it out on her was too much. Looking hard at the ceiling, his chin pointed up, up, Ishida moved into the living room and into the coffee table, tripped over a lump in the rug, and nearly walked into the wall rather than the hallway to his bedroom, where he set her down as he had the night before.
>>>
Limp and weak, body finally caving in to the darkness that sought to devour her, the Thunderwitch didn’t immediately respond, panting for breath, chest heaving and trying to breathe, to speak, having trouble now with the most basic of motor functions, with seeing, speaking, hearing, everything-
“No. I’d rather die-“ And truly, if she had the choice between this shame, all of this shame and this weakness and the utterly pathetic pain that made her eyes shimmer, she was inclined to choose death. Except death never truly occurred here, and she would always come back, she would always e the one to return, only to further shame, to further mockery from the ones called Brothers, had already taken it earlier that day. Just say please, poor, pathetic, Privaron. Szayel Aporro had offered. Just say please, and I’ll give you a little check up, mm?
“I won’t say please…” Cirucci whispered hoarsely, fingers spasming and arching into already blood-stained sheets.
>>>
He wouldn't address her any longer—that, that decision Ishida came to as her fingers worked like clipped, straining talons in his sheets, as he regretted that the sheets were soaked with blood and not clean, pristine, for her or for him he would not conjecture. To address her would be to cave to his need to protest, to make her accede to his way, his choice made right by his having selected it. It was too much for her, the fight, and he let it fall.
But he thought it, words, for her, words better kept alone and inside and unvoiced, stupid and kind and meant for other creatures. I never asked you to say please, he thought, as his fingers moved again over his shirt, tugging together the open folds and snapping them closed. As they dusted lower, to pinch its ends and pull it, gentle tugs, over her hips, over and below.
And I'd rather you didn't die – a bitter, thin twist of his mouth, here, because he'd rather it for his pride and his guilt, as well as any concern, and Ishida pulled the covers over her. He would fetch a cold cloth for her forehead, soon, but for now, backed away from the bed, detaching, urging her to calm and sleep without saying a word, watching her stupid, proud agony.
>>>
Her stupid, proud, agony made her body still vainly try to respond, occasional half rising spasms, hands curling and uncurling in sheets and weak rising in her knees, but it was all foolish, mere instinct, to rebel and try despite.
No words escaped her, she was beyond them now, a moment of panic rising in her chest, breathing accelerating and eyes darting about frenetic and dilated, unfocused, trying to rise but only sweating more, hot, too hot, trying in vain to push the sheets off, but… her will died, eyes squeezing shut even as she panted hard for air, low,, needy breaths, but those two died when sleep, or unconsciousness, it was hard to tell, claimed her, her chest stilling as if dead.
Deep down, the Thunderwitch wished it was.
>>>
Perhaps Ishida had begun to lose his childhood when his father began to look at him like a disagreeable, unwelcome stranger. Perhaps it left, stolen, gone, when his grandfather crumpled beneath the attacks of Hollows, and adult hate blossomed in his breast in the next hour, as indifferent shinigami stood over the broken, aged body. But for all that Ishida knew in the wound confines of his genius mind, for all that he honed his cool exterior and had seen "heaven" and a kind of "hell", Ishida was sixteen, and here, he felt a boy.
A second ticked by, like an uneven heart beat, where Ishida thought she had died. It was difficult to tell, as she was Privaron, and dead at that. Her chest stilled, her breath gone, her fits, her wild eyes, her human weaknesses that he should never, ever have seen. She looked
dead, might have been dead, if sleep was like death, and Ishida felt young and inexperienced and, fleetingly, afraid: if she had died, died in death, it wouldn't be from the Espada but from his failed care-taking.
But his hand, as he pressed it to her forehead, felt the burning of fever. Without musing on the fact of the dead catching heat in sickness, Ishida hastened to find a cool cloth, shaking off the intensity of relief that left him weak-kneed and dizzy, light-headed, his eyes moist and briefly, briefly unfocused. Relief, for an enemy – shake it off, shake it off.
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Cirucci {
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttonsSummary; In which a Quincy has an injured/head injury Privaron in his home who can't let go of that one last scrap of pride, even now, and the Quincy can't discard a sympathy. tl;dr~~?
Log;
When she woke, she hurt. It hurt, everything hurt, and she rolled over into her pillows and buried her face in them. Except they weren’t her pillows, and they weren’t her sheets. The Privaron froze. It rushed back and she groaned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. She had to get out of here. Now.
She dragged herself up, a sneer crossing her lips when she noticed the blood-stained sheets, her blood-stained uniform, stripped it off hastily and threw it into the corner, wiping her hands of the ripped fabric. She knew where he kept his clothes, rifled through until she found a big enough shirt, shrugging in to that instead. Her uniform disgusted her right now. Small, bared feet tiptoed out, wanted something, her throat was dry, But it wasn’t so much tiptoe as jilted stumbles, weak and soft. It disgusted her, But she began to rifle through his kitchen, small hands trembling and looking for a cup.
Her head turned, purple eyes hazed as she caught sight of the Quincy. Sleeping. Stupid boy. She shook her head, almost laughing, but the motion made her dizzy and she had to clutch the counter to hold herself up, the cup in her hand tumbling to the ground as she cursed.
>>>
Ishida had been dreaming. A strawberry was locked into a terrible, juicy battle with a grapefruit. The strawberry slipped on a banana peel, and promptly shattered into six jagged pieces—or, he sat up abruptly, a thin, cotton blanket falling in a twisted heap in part to the carpet, the rest tangled around his legs-- the shattering had come from outside.
He gazed around his living room in a dull, blurry daze. His thin hand groped out, fingertips leaving paths on the glass of the coffee table as he recovered his glasses and shoved them unceremoniously onto his face. Living Room, not bedroom. He remembered the night in gradual, even, disagreeable steps, blinking, stifling a yawn, as he glanced into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" He called, unable to keep from sounding irritated, grumpy at being woken up and by a Privaron. Ishida detached the cover from his legs – striped, as he wore white pajamas, top and button, with blue stripes – and walked into the kitchen. He looked for the cup, first, and scowled, intending to say something about it and sweeping, until he looked up and noticed how little she was wearing.
"Is that my shirt?" Ishida asked, stupidly, eyes popping until he began to blush and staggered, backward, out of the kitchen, his head turned. "Pants," he managed, "put on some—"
>>>
“…” She sort of look at him like he was insane. Her lip curled into a smirk but it died, fell in to a grimace as her hand fell to her abdomen, clutching.
“So upset about…” Cirucci moved her hand from her abdomen to grip the counter again, her previously dislocated shoulder, amateur replaced, still hung somewhat limp, cradled awkwardly under her breast.
“A shirt, Shiro-“ She seemed off, something was distinctly off about the way she stood, long pale legs baring bruises, his shirt baring more that were previously unseen, fingers, long, bony finger marks on slender neck, an angry red mark of teeth across her bosom, centered over the puckered skin where a five had once lain, the shape of the scar still showing what respect she had once held. “Megane-Kun…”
>>>
Ishida had not waited, instead beat a quick retreat to his room, grimacing at the bloody uniform and sheets. A quick change into trousers, a zip-up shirt, socks and shoes, and Ishida had returned to the kitchen to hold out another pair of pajama pants. Blue, with a plaid white pattern, and he looked directly at her, with the understanding that it was to reevaluate her injuries now that it was morning.
A frown seized his expression. "I should have fashioned a sling," he said, aloud, scrutinizing her arm, an uncomfortable, tight feeling closing his throat as he tried not to see the teeth marks, the fingers on her neck, would not feel defensive or protective of her.
"But really," Edging around her, Ishida opened a side closet in the corner and pulled out a broom and dustpan. "Really, I should find-- Inoue-san. I'd rather not bother, however, I have little doubt that at least you needed multi-layered stitches, something I couldn't begin to presume to do, and I may have done more damage than good, which—" would serve you right, he couldn't quite say, glancing up to see the bruising on her neck. "Which, well... she could put to right."
>>>
“No.” Cirucci snapped immediately. She snatched the pants from him slowly, but didn’t move to put them on, held them to her but didn’t move other than to clutch tighter at the countertop. The shirt was mostly undone, she was hot, too warm, and she wasn’t about to put more clothes on, not like this, when she was burning up and a cold sweat had broken out on her skin.
“I’ll not have her seeing me-“ A rattling breath. “Like this- I hate the way she looks at me…” Her eyes dilated as she spoke, biting back pained noise, the kind swelling in her abdomen underneath the extensive bruisings, the internal injuries he couldn’t address and she wouldn’t have seen to, dislocated arm moving slowly, creaking, to clutch her stomach, fingers weakly digging in.
“I won’t.” Nearly imperceptibly, her legs trembled.
>>>
Glass chinked as the broom nudged it into the plastic. Ishida glowered at the shards, then up to her bruised eyes. No? And why wouldn't she cover herself? In his self-absorption, caught up in his inconveniences, he had yet to accept the moisture on her brow, her dependence on the counter.
"Don't be ridiculous," Ishida said, dismissing her protest, and bent to pick up the pan and discard the glass into the trash bin. "The way she looks at you? Inoue-san—" He paused, swallowing emotion rather than logic-driven words, and rephrasing. "She'll do much better for you. This isn't the time for pride Ci—Thunderwitch" hypocrite "so—"
Broom and pan returned to closet. Ishida turned, forced to look at her in full, again. It was difficult to follow, but the glare became narrowed concern as he noticed the position of her hands, the faint quiver in her legs. Let none declaim the Quincy's observational ability.
Exasperated, the fussy, hiss-y tension in his arms releasing: "…Why are you even standing?"
>>>
“Because I’m not so weak as to need to lay down.” She managed, by going very slowly, carefully, not to cut herself off, not to sound as weak as she felt, the longer she remained standing the worse the pain in her belly, of internal bleeding left to its own device, the worse the trembled in her slender legs and the worse the cold sweat on her skin.
“I won’t let-“ She tried to talk too fast again, swallowing hard, throat dry and parched. “I won’t let anyone see me like this-“ The Privaron would never be able to explain her shame to anyone but another Privaron. Only they knew this shame, this unconditional, ever present shame, and to have more shame heaped onto it… it almost became unbearable.
Cirucci tugged weakly at the front of her, his shirt, loosening around her chest, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight, staggering slightly as she nearly lost her balance when the floor tilted.
>>>
"Obviously," Ishida retorted, the dryness of his tone saying precisely what he thought of that obvious lie. She seemed to be struggling even to speak, never mind stand, and Ishida could prognosticate a déjà vu situation rushing fast toward them.
Watching her swallow, wary expectation becoming apprehension in his muscles, he advised in a quiet rush, "Take it easy." To amend, or ignore the possible tenderness in that, he added, previous critical tone restored, with, of course, not a hint of complaint, of course not, "I suppose I don't count, or have you forgotten that I can see you?"
Her tugging exposed more of her breasts, not all, but he was blushing and wanting not, not to look, even as she staggered, but because she staggered forced it, taking a step to her to brace a hand at her elbow. "Idiot, you—" but, yet again, on looking at her, he failed to finish the invective.
"…Sit down. I'll make breakfast."
>>>
“…” She wrenched away from him, slow and jerky motion, barely making it to the table with the aid of the countertop, not so much sitting down as falling with some measure of dignity. The Privaron seemed to be at a loss for words, dazed, really, her eyes out of focus as she slumped forward onto the tabletop, arms stretched over the surface and breasts propped up, shirt rising higher up her hips as she splayed out, limp.
Stupid Quincy. She wanted to kill him, clench her small hands around his throat and squeeze until those eyes, those sympathetic blue eyes, glazed over in death. Then, then, she could say he couldn’t see her, that he hadn’t seen her like this.
“I want souls.” She muttered bitterly. “And fruit.”
>>>
He let her, moving back, watching with a failed try at indifference as she made the table and sagged. Watching meant noticing, with whites beginning to curl around his irises and pink bleeding again into his pale cheeks, when his shirt slid up, exposing her–
Ishida turned away so quickly, he smashed his elbow on the counter and yelped before he could bite it back, shoving his hand over the smarting, trembling bone. His face burned, and his eyes were clenched shut, as if those feeble gestures could expel the image from the backs of his eyelids. Still, he stepped back and toward the table, released his aching elbow to take hold of the back of one chair and skid it from the table, pulling it out and left so she could sit.
"Too bad. I have mango," he gritted out, teeth clenched. "And—raspberries, you might try them with yogurt, or granola, both…"
>>>
She didn’t respond to the yelping or the chair, merely slipped into it clumsily and splayed out again, the position eased the tension and the pain tight in her abdomen, the uncomfortable feeling of loose blood and damaged vitals. Arrancar healed faster than humans, but, such blows from an Espada… her body had crumpled under them.
“Shiro-Megane-Kun should let me snack on his soul.” Cirucci whispered into her arms, a vain attempt at snark lost in her weakness, the utter lack of strength in her body and the cold sweat that continued to soak into her skin, causing the shirt to cling even more uncomfortably, tight to curves and flesh.
“… That and the yogurt and granola fruits.”
>>>
Still exposed, but Ishida was nothing if not determined to put every ounce of his self-control into leveling his gaze at the back of her head as he turned his. Every once was not required, and his gaze was unamused, lids encroaching on his restricted pupils.
"I should have let you keep bleeding in the hallway," he amended, a bland matter-of-fact. Ishida stepped around the kitchen to, true to his word, prepare breakfast. He reassured his skepticism with this: she would be more bearable, perhaps, on eating. Ishida put the kettle on, retrieved a box of granola from the cupboard and the fruit from shelves in his refrigerator, along with plain yogurt. With precise, expert movements with a cutting knife, he had the mango ready, and divided it between two bowls. Into hers he set the raspberries, and with a pivot on his heel, set the bowl in front of her (not looking, not looking), a cup of yogurt and spoon beside it. After pouring his own granola, the box joined her cup – she could decide what she wanted, how much and it what capacity.
The water warmed and Ishida, mixing yogurt into his granola, raspberries, and began to eat while standing.
>>>
“So why didn’t you?” The Thunderwitch managed a half-spat out sentence muffled in her arms, small hand groping weakly for her food, face in her injured arm’s elbow while her good hand blindly maneuvered the yogurt onto the fruit, fingers clenched around the granola and pouring a few seconds, listening to the small noises of the bits of food colliding.
The smell of it hit her nostrils and she suddenly bolted up and gagged, stomach roiling and damaged organs rejecting the idea of food, let alone human food, the inner skin of the hole between her breasts aching at the idea of a soul so nearby, a powerful soul, one that would fill her belly and this, this is what she offered herself? This-
The Privaron dry retched into her hands, doubling over onto her knees, only blood came up, crimson stains blossoming on lips and palms, choking on the tacky taste of old blood, bled yesterday and still in her body, petite form wracked with seizures as she vomited.
>>>
His teeth came down hard onto the spoon as she jerked into convulsing action, he jumped, the bowl in his hands clattering back onto the counter. She gagged, and he winced to hear it, the foul fluid caught in her throat before it trickled over her chin, and he could see the wrenching shaking of her shoulders, muscles. His eyes were wide again as he pulled the spoon from his mouth, shock bleeding into repressed disgust and summoned chagrin, a frustration too forced as he looked at the palpably sick Privaron.
Food had not been the answer. Ishida wet paper towels in fisted, then folded bunches, and kneeled on one knee beside her. He offered her the paper, only just not reaching to push strands of curling, glossy but uncombed black behind her ears, away from the mess.
"I don't think you have much of a choice," he interjected, boldly, into the silence, leaning on his bloated ego, "whether I ask for Inoue-san's assistance or not. I – refuse to let you – do this, be like this, because of –" his errors.
>>>
“No-“ Cirucci snarled, choked again on blood and palms hit the floor before she weakly grabbed the wet towel from his hand and covered her mouth, retched and spasmed until she couldn’t anymore, until she was trembling, legs splayed on the cold tile floor and the sweat soaking the shirt now, so hot, it was so hot, it was burning-
“I’ll kill...” She barked out harshly, “Any… healer…” No one could see. Not this shame, bad enough he was seeing it, bad enough he hadn’t killed her yet.
Again.
“No.” She struggled up, back into her chair, body shaking as she forced her stomach down, forced a spoonful of food down her throat.
>>>
Because she was weak, her threats voiced weak, warbling off-key songs of a broken-winged bird, helpless and ineffective on the floor, trying to beat into the air with hollow-boned, stupid pride. His eyes took it in as if impassive, as if an unmoving, unfeeling wall, but behind lenses and shallow glass eyes Ishida struggled, came up with simple, cold focus: she wouldn't do much against a healer now, but Inoue-san's help would make her more than capable of it in the immediate aftermath.
Ishida was still kneeling when she shook up, shook into the chair, shook around spoon and food and swallowed, and he tried not to think about cleaning up a different sort of vomit, later. He glanced at his hand as it curled into a fist, then relaxed it.
"You'd prefer to be in pain?" He asked, not at all incredulous though the words asked to be sounded in that way, with the appropriate inflection. "You'd rather bleed and—crawl, and spit everything back up?" Shaking his head, he stood, selecting an argument sure to stir something in her, "You'd rather be at my mercy? In my debt?"
>>>
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face, and she turned to him, out of focus eyes vainly trying to direct the fury in them in his direction. A smudge of blood still staining her bruised lips.
“Shut up-“ Cirucci choked out, half rising from her seat but she had to immediately fall back, legs akimbo as she nearly toppled over, small hands shaking as she held herself up, felt twinges and shoots of pain in her belly.
“I can-“ Her palm moved, almost as if she were charging a cero, a pulsing, fluctuating flow of reiatsu in her hand but it was directed into her own body, focused there. “Heal… myself… in a little while-“ The Privaron’s breath came harsh and ragged, barely there. “I’m… not in anyone’s debt-“
>>>
"Really," Ishida said, a question without the lift, spoken as crisp and cynical. It wasn't as if Ishida wanted the Thunderwitch in his debt, outside of the logical reasoning of using it as a means to detract her from her obsession or from possible hostility against those he would see left in peace.
"Of course not." And he may have sounded, a little, really, only the tiniest amount, plaintive. Acknowledgment of debt meant acknowledgement of his sympathy happening, yet, he thought it
rich that she could receive treatment (however faulty) and temporary sanctuary in his apartment, and not call it a debt. Would the blood ever come out of his sheets? Served him right for owning them in white.
Chiding himself for bothering, Ishida inched closer after hear near fall, so to keep her from crashing to the ground. Alert though not alarmed, tense not out of danger but concern, Ishida observed her self-treatment with a mixed measure of curiosity and skepticism. He could have pushed the point out of his need for recognition, but the kettle sounded, and Ishida found himself better occupied with setting out the cups, bags, and pouring.
>>>
Her reiatsu was too unstable, and she snarled weakly in anger at it, at the fact that it didn’t respond well, that her brain was hazy and her body was hot but the sweat was cold, trying to struggle up out of her chair but confused as to how she somehow ended up back in her chair again. Was she on her back? Was that the ceiling?
Her vision blurred.
“… Tea’s only for when we sit… at the Espada table…” She murmured with a dazed smile. “I’m… I don’t really drink… anymore…” There was more shame in that, because her place… It wasn’t at that table anymore, among those proud ranks. No, her attempts to regain that place always ended with her like this, with Noitora slamming her head into the wall until she couldn’t think straight, even now.
>>>
His back was to her as his thin wrists curved away from the cups, as steam rolled up and the water browned. She could snarl and he could shrug it off like a chill; if the choice swung between aggravation and commiseration, he would by necessity lean to the former.
Still, as he moved back to the table and let the glass down with a chink against the wood, Ishida raised his and pressed his wrist against her forehead. Cold sweat, made to burn by the skin beneath it. He tried not to blanch. It was disorienting, to feel the fluctuations of reiatsu so close by.
"You'll let that man ruin tea for you?" Ishida asked, somewhat aghast. He did not swoon for tea, but really! And a moot point, as he very much doubted that she'd have much luck at drinking it in her state. "Tea—tea may not have been enjoyed by you, before then, but it certainly isn't his to claim."
>>>
“Tea is his.” Cirucci whispered, trembling fingers grasping for a cup and clutching it, hot, hot, hot, clutching it anyway, didn’t feel it so much when she already felt so hot. “We don’t eat… we don’t eat any human food… just souls, it was nice… tea was only…” She sagged forward, eyelids hooded, tea cup shaking.
“Tea is his. We wouldn’t… eat or drink if we didn’t have to.” She somehow managed to eye him hungrily, she was starving, but this food… Cirucci raised the cup to her lips, a tentative sip, but the minute it passed her lips she gagged again, managing to choke it down, throat bobbing.
“… Hungry.” The Privaron murmured dazedly, unfocused and lacklustered eyes, breath harsh, open pants.
>>>
Even with her delirium, her eyes made him uncomfortable – his skin crawling, as if to try and escape his bones before she could make the want in her eyes a reality. His mind knew better than to fear, knew himself more than capable of preventing her advances – even if she could devour souls here – healthy or ill. Her eyes, yet, reminded him of her monstrosity. Worse: he should have been more unsettled by it, and yet, it was easy to cast off the feeling, to be imperturbable.
"For something you can't have," Ishida said firmly, and a little bored by the transparent and impossible threat of her hunger. "I think we can agree that, that being the case, here where you must eat and drink, tea is no longer his."
As if tea was so important. Restraining a sigh, Ishida glanced to his left, to the white wall beside the refrigerator, a hand finding hold on its opposite elbow. "You should lie back down."
>>>
“You’ll kill me when I go to sleep.” The Privaron whispered slyly, lips twitching up maliciously. “Because you couldn’t kill me before, you’re going to kill me now.” Her voice was quiet, but childish, slipping forward, the front of his shirt hanging open, breasts, but more importantly, the hole between them, blatantly visible.
“If you won’t, Noitora is going to come and find me, I wasn’t supposed to run.” Her lips twisted into a sneer, a sneer at the teeth marks on her breast, on her scar, bruises on the insides of her thighs where her legs had been pried apart, on her hips, where she’d been held down, on her wrists and neck. “He wasn’t done…” Purple eyes glazed, a shudder, evident of memory, suddenly growing quiet before she laughed manically, waving her wrist limply.
“You’d better do it before he does.”
>>>
She possessed an impressive repertoire of damage; if the Thunderwitch was a broken, discarded weapon, a broken doll, she was also a broken record, or the doll with the string in her back, stuck on the same words. Ishida rolled his eyes and examined the ceiling for a time – and it helped him not look at her exposed chest.
"I chose not to kill you, before, and I choose not to do it now." Brisk words, matching his steps closer as, without looking down, his hands reached. Long, nimble fingers seized not buttons, but the snaps, beginning to fasten them. Self-control made his touch rigid and robotic, resisting letting fingertips graze the angry red over her breasts, the purple on her neck, as if insignificant touch could heal.
"Be quiet," Ishida commanded in quiet, one hand dropping from the shirt to curl around her wrist and stay it. He looked down at her, now, his eyes focusing on hers and nothing below lest a familiar flush crawl up his neck. "I wouldn't allow it. So … be quiet."
>>>
“It’s hot-“ She muttered weakly in protest, trying to slap his hands away, weak little tugs with fingers that held no real strength anymore, falling quiet as he fastened up his shirt, ashamed of her, or was it for her, she didn’t know, that was too much thought for right now.
“If that’s what Shiro-Megane-Kun wanted…” The Privaron rasped, smirking bloody and crazed. “He should have just asked.” Her other hand reached up to begun tugging the snaps off again, the way she stood, the way she spoke and looked, an explicit offer of herself, of her body.
“He should have just asked if he wanted a turn… Cirucci can be quiet if that’s how you want her.” It became painfully evident that she was used to this, a beaten out subservience that arose only, was able to be let out only, after pride was battered and bruised and she had no options left, no fight in her, only a body to bargain with and sweetened words to lie with, to croon and moan and scream whatever was wanted of her, purple eyes distant, distinctly not there, out of focus body still covered in that cold sweat, still trembling.
>>>
At first, incomprehension – Ishida was naïve in very, very few regards, and sexuality was one of them, so as her fingers clawed at the snaps he had only just fastened and her smirk became crude in its insanity, he didn't understand. Even with her pose, the lift of her breasts, pushing against the thin folds of his button-free shirt – it took him until the use of "turn" to begin the reaction.
Releasing her wrist as if it were burning, acid, Ishida stumbled back, arms bent up in a defensive recoil. I don't, his mouth flapped, wordlessly, horror and disgust bucking in his stomach at the association, that he would use her as the Espada did, that he would require it for sparing her. It offended him as much as it nauseated him, and he glared at her in angry pity that, just as soon, became cold necessity. She was out of her mind- far more so than usual. Words, his feeble, flustered, gagging protests wouldn't stop it.
Ishida took the step and struck her – with not much more force than one would use in swatting a fly, restraint at the thought of hitting a woman, even one he'd before impaled on Seele Schneider, holding him back. Even knowing he had to, had to have had to, Ishida reeled back and stared at his hand, dropped it, stared at her, his breathing not hard but his shoulders so tense it almost hurt.
"No," he said, and again, for good measure. And once last, third time.
>>>
Though his slap was barely enough to register on an already bruised cheek, she recoiled, flinched as if he would strike harder, would strike with the strength an Espada possessed, the back of a bony hand enough to send her smacking into the nearest wall and crumpling helplessly. But she crumpled now, in shock. She hadn’t actually expected him to hit her, hadn’t expected anything, considering the dazed, overstuffed feeling in her head, the absolutely dumbfounded expression on her face.
“… I don’t-“ She didn’t understand. She couldn’t think, slumping onto her back, drawing up her knees and pushing them tightly together, locking her ankles defiantly, defying the presence of all the bruisings up the backs of her thighs, eyes staring blankly up at him, at the ceiling.
“I don’t understand.”
>>>
Like a deck of cards, like a discarded marionette. He could have heard the wood knocking as her limbs folded and skin and bone hit floor. But it wasn't like watching wood and paint and something inhuman; something in his expression softened, and Ishida looked down at her.
"…That's fine," he told her, following her vacant gaze to the ceiling before he dropped to one knee beside her. His hand, guiding his arm toward her neck, paused in brief, once more tempted to brush back the strands of hair that clung to her sweat sticky forehead. Instead, it flattened against the floor beside the curve of her shoulder bone.
"It's… unnecessary. You don't need to understand. … Get up." Or, he'd have to pick her up, and with her wearing so little, it would make him – a touch uncomfortable.
>>>
She would have cried, if the act itself wouldn’t have made her want to end her own life. Her eyes rolled wild and unfocused, entire body trembling as she tried to rise, legs scrambled, shirt hitching up, arms sound to rise, palms to brace, but nothing worked and panic was welling up in her throat.
Blows to the head, repeated, hard blows, and her thoughts had fragmented, scattered with hands clenched in her hair and shoving her skull against hard stone until she bled and things had gone dark. Then more blows, slaps that whipped her neck to the sides and punches that left her jaw up and mouth open, choking on saliva and blood. Internal bleeding her body was trying to reject inside of her, poisoned system beginning to fail her.
“I can’t-“ The Thunderwitch almost sobbed, hated this, knew she hated this, this overwhelming weakness and yet she was… was she still too proud to take a healer? Yes. “I can’t-“ A hard swallow, nearly choking. “Move-“
>>>
The shirt, the shirt, why hadn't she put on the pants? His sixteen-year-old hormones battled with the simple fact that this, a battered, feverish woman writhing on his kitchen floor, wasn't in the least erotic, even to said hormones. It was only pathetic, and pathetic in a way that wasn't hers alone. This, he reprimanded himself, this was not the time to be uncomfortable.
"… Okay," now, too awkward to be soothing, his eyes finding an impermanent focus on the protrusion of the mask on her skull far far from the hem of his shirt, Ishida slid his arm underneath her shoulders, the other, under her knees. To hold her any less tenderly, carefully, would be too rough for her current state.
Lifting, beginning to stand, his sigh came in his next words, tempered with caution for her reaction, "I'll put you in bed, then I think Inoue-san wouldn't mind visiting…"
>>>
When he picked her up she whimpered, clutched at her thighs and tightened, sore, abused muscles and the sudden reeling in her head, battered skull protesting the movement as much as it was able, a lurching in her balance and equilibrium, sending the word spinning and her head lolling back limply, body giving out as it reached the limits of her endurance, beads of sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, slipping in to the overly exposed Hollow hole in the middle of her chest, the fabic visible beneath her.
“I said-“ The Thunderwitch managed, arm falling over her, over limply bobbing to the side, “I hated… the way she looked… at me-“ And it was the most foolish thing, but she couldn’t take it, couldn’t take the pity in Orihime’s eyes, the pity in Ishida’s eyes, at least, was beyond her sight now, couldn’t focus her own eyes to view his, couldn’t see much anymore, a dank haze of head trauma and too much exertion for a wounded body.
>>>
Her neck, wet with sweat and hot, hot against the skin of his forearm, distracted his attention from, first her mask and second the space directly in front of him, table and door-frame. Glancing down, his eyes widened around the rims of his spectacles: Ishida nearly dropped the Thunderwitch.
The whimpering, dark marks and fevered skin were not erotic, no, but nudity was nudity, and he had failed to refasten the snaps, and his shirt had slid up to her hips, so Ishida was struck by more than the disorienting fact of looking at her chest and seeing straight through, to the fabric of the back of his shirt. His fingers convulsed, not enough to hurt where they held but a small spasm, bright, warm red rushing up his neck and flooding his cheeks, tightening his throat as he walked.
"Then don't look at her," he choked out, though it was already a given that he could not involve Inoue-san: the smallest chance of the Thunderwitch taking it out on her was too much. Looking hard at the ceiling, his chin pointed up, up, Ishida moved into the living room and into the coffee table, tripped over a lump in the rug, and nearly walked into the wall rather than the hallway to his bedroom, where he set her down as he had the night before.
>>>
Limp and weak, body finally caving in to the darkness that sought to devour her, the Thunderwitch didn’t immediately respond, panting for breath, chest heaving and trying to breathe, to speak, having trouble now with the most basic of motor functions, with seeing, speaking, hearing, everything-
“No. I’d rather die-“ And truly, if she had the choice between this shame, all of this shame and this weakness and the utterly pathetic pain that made her eyes shimmer, she was inclined to choose death. Except death never truly occurred here, and she would always come back, she would always e the one to return, only to further shame, to further mockery from the ones called Brothers, had already taken it earlier that day. Just say please, poor, pathetic, Privaron. Szayel Aporro had offered. Just say please, and I’ll give you a little check up, mm?
“I won’t say please…” Cirucci whispered hoarsely, fingers spasming and arching into already blood-stained sheets.
>>>
He wouldn't address her any longer—that, that decision Ishida came to as her fingers worked like clipped, straining talons in his sheets, as he regretted that the sheets were soaked with blood and not clean, pristine, for her or for him he would not conjecture. To address her would be to cave to his need to protest, to make her accede to his way, his choice made right by his having selected it. It was too much for her, the fight, and he let it fall.
But he thought it, words, for her, words better kept alone and inside and unvoiced, stupid and kind and meant for other creatures. I never asked you to say please, he thought, as his fingers moved again over his shirt, tugging together the open folds and snapping them closed. As they dusted lower, to pinch its ends and pull it, gentle tugs, over her hips, over and below.
And I'd rather you didn't die – a bitter, thin twist of his mouth, here, because he'd rather it for his pride and his guilt, as well as any concern, and Ishida pulled the covers over her. He would fetch a cold cloth for her forehead, soon, but for now, backed away from the bed, detaching, urging her to calm and sleep without saying a word, watching her stupid, proud agony.
>>>
Her stupid, proud, agony made her body still vainly try to respond, occasional half rising spasms, hands curling and uncurling in sheets and weak rising in her knees, but it was all foolish, mere instinct, to rebel and try despite.
No words escaped her, she was beyond them now, a moment of panic rising in her chest, breathing accelerating and eyes darting about frenetic and dilated, unfocused, trying to rise but only sweating more, hot, too hot, trying in vain to push the sheets off, but… her will died, eyes squeezing shut even as she panted hard for air, low,, needy breaths, but those two died when sleep, or unconsciousness, it was hard to tell, claimed her, her chest stilling as if dead.
Deep down, the Thunderwitch wished it was.
>>>
Perhaps Ishida had begun to lose his childhood when his father began to look at him like a disagreeable, unwelcome stranger. Perhaps it left, stolen, gone, when his grandfather crumpled beneath the attacks of Hollows, and adult hate blossomed in his breast in the next hour, as indifferent shinigami stood over the broken, aged body. But for all that Ishida knew in the wound confines of his genius mind, for all that he honed his cool exterior and had seen "heaven" and a kind of "hell", Ishida was sixteen, and here, he felt a boy.
A second ticked by, like an uneven heart beat, where Ishida thought she had died. It was difficult to tell, as she was Privaron, and dead at that. Her chest stilled, her breath gone, her fits, her wild eyes, her human weaknesses that he should never, ever have seen. She looked
dead, might have been dead, if sleep was like death, and Ishida felt young and inexperienced and, fleetingly, afraid: if she had died, died in death, it wouldn't be from the Espada but from his failed care-taking.
But his hand, as he pressed it to her forehead, felt the burning of fever. Without musing on the fact of the dead catching heat in sickness, Ishida hastened to find a cool cloth, shaking off the intensity of relief that left him weak-kneed and dizzy, light-headed, his eyes moist and briefly, briefly unfocused. Relief, for an enemy – shake it off, shake it off.