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tampered2007-11-08 07:23 am
whatanentrance.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-11-08 07:23 am
LOG; BACKDATED; COMPLETE
When: November 5th (BACKDATE? :D)
Rating: R for Gore
Characters: Dordonii![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
whatanentrance & Cirucci thunderwitch
Summary: Cirucci wants to show off her restored number, only, Dordonii doesn't react quite as expected. As ever, tl;dr. Except that D is for DO because it's SO AWESOME you don't CARE if we post long. YEAH.
Log; (
"Dordonii?~" The Thunderwitch's voice was light and airy outside his door, carefree, a little rap on the former Tercer Espada's door, RAP RAP of dainty knuckles on the wood, the lilting songbird tone accompanying as the former Quinta Espada leaned against the wall beside his apartment, her other hand moving to her breast.
"I know you're home~" She called when she didn't get an immediate response, fingers stroking light. There was a number inked beneath that fabric, a black five, strong and proud, though it hid behind a cowardly illusion that kept the Quinta Espada, the current Quinta Espada from seeing it.
… She wouldn't live long if he saw it, and she knew that, knew it when she'd seen the look on his face as he leered at the scar there. He liked that scar of hers.
But knowing it was a scar, truly not, any longer, made a surge of pride fight up in the Hollow hole between her breasts, made her eyes close and lips smile in contentment as she waited, kicking one foot.
She had to show Dordonii.
--
Dordonii would never intend to be rude, though it must be said that he did give the weak little respect. He did not, then, intend to ignore the immediate summons of the Thunderwitch, the former Quinta. No, but the song of her voice had melted unheard into the steady beat of that ingenius human invention, the Stereo.
Well -- the beat of the song through the stereo, but the meaning was clear enough. One kept his body, the fluidiity of his movements in top condition through not only the practice of fight, blade, and release. Dance -- Dordonii adored the movement of his feet, and the quick, drumming beat of this had a neat match with her knocking, the RAP, RAP hitting even with the TAP-A-TAP-A-CHA, and his toe thudded down, down, down!
Improvised; what he meant to teach next in his class. The song finished, Dordonii fluorished in magnificent, not at all understated gestures. As the melody faded, another rose; a voice most familiar. Dordonii perked, disinclined to doubt. He bounded to the door, swung it open, beaming.
"Ah, ah, ah! The most pleasant of surprises, at my door!" Dordonii crooned, stepped back, bowed over and gestured in sweeps with his arms. "Grace him, enter!"
--
Cirucci smiled indulgently, stepping in and pecking a quick kiss to the other Privaron's cheek as her hips swayed a bit to the remnants of the music he'd been listening too.
"Dancing all alone, Dordonii?~ Poor thing." She smirked a little, small frame moving easily through a hop of a step, a brief twirl when she spoke of dancing, ended back at him with one small hand on his arm, a sort of happiness about her, nearly childish and playful that could easily escape her in this City, clear on her face, in the almost gentle, never gentle curl of her painted lips, the almost content, never content lull in her violet eyes.
"I have a surprise." The Thunderwitch murmured conspiriatorally, voice low and husked, a low rumble in her throat and a wicked curve to mouth, knowing, confidant in the tattoo on her breast, so much more powerful than the scar that had been there, had been there so long she had almost forgotten what the real thing had looked like, but no longer.
No longer.
--
He had offered his cheek, expecting and pre-empting her small gesture of affection.
"Hardly! Though, her concern moves him," His lips spread into a ready, confident smirk, "I do not dance alone, dancing is neversolitary, no matter the number of people. We move with the music, yes?" Dordonii, too, not quite in a mirror of her method, danced in a volatile movement of his feet, in when referring the dance. There were many truths in the statement, such as the way in which the music did so effectively rule out the ticking, something that had delighted him to realize, had so magnified his affection for it, for remembering dance, for realizing that he might teach.
So enlivened by the euphoria that did settle on his large frame after the pulse of music had rocked through him, Dordonii noticed her glow as a by-product of his own, figuring her glee as a link to his, not immediately connecting it to a greater.
"Aaah?" Another croon, low and eager, as he swayed to her and curled an arm over her waist, like recapturing a spun partner, continuing a movement interrupted only in brief, hip to hip. His fingers curled over the fabric of her dress, slid, but did not cling, ready to rebound, manuever her to the beat that continued in his head, an off-shoot of faded ticking and triumphant tap-a-taptaptap.
"I love surprises," Dordonii grinned, close to her ear, his goatee a tickling curl. "Some surprises, will she delight him?"
--
"She will, you know she will." Cirucci promised, giggling a little at his antics, their antics, at the sway of hips and legs, at a fluid twist as she twirled lightly in his grip, let her arms above her head and leaned over the circle of his arms, back again and they around his neck now, moving with him.
She could not hear the music he was playing for himself, couldn't guess where it was going since the song had ended but the Thunderwitch had experience moving, and moving with, moving against others, especially her males, and following the cues his body provided for her was something she could do with grace and ease, with the soft crinkle of white fabric and the bounce of equally soft dark hair.
"Look." One pale hand fell back to her breast, patting the fabric over the left side of her chest, inviting, lips smirking up, prouder and prouder every moment, wanted to see what he would say, wondered what he would, what look would cross his face, if it would be anything like the desperate pride, needy aspirations, and wanton weakness on her own face when she beheld it, fresh and new as if it had never been taken from her.
--
She twirled; his hands slid around, yielding like the air to the twisting shape of her body. Dordonii laughed as her arms settled around his neck, the back of which was damp with perspiration. Had she not something, some secret that unraveled in her voice, that lit like a coal which burned her words into something crisp, alluring, he would have let the music play again.
Look, she bid him, and Dordonii rose his cut eyebrows, sharp angles over his eyes, his grin eager like the curve of a sharp blade. He did grin, anticipating much from the quiver in her muscles, the satisfaction in her tone, the cat that had tasted the canary and let the feather curl bright out of her mouth. Yet, his eyes knew the area, and Dordonii almost doubted.
The Thunderwitch almost glowed, could have instructed him in a dance on the ego that lent such strength to her spine, yet she gestured to what he knew had been scar. But, never thinking first of that human niña, he could not anticipate what he found.
Strong, long fingers were gentle as they hooked in the fabric and pulled it aside, exposing flesh, white, contrasted not in pale with distortion but in dark, vivid black, the even lines of a five. Dordonii looked, and he looked, and a minute passed without a single expression. His eyes saw; his mind did not believe.
--
She had wriggled excitedly, lips curled still in that cheshire grin, self-satisfied and smug, confidant beyond any confidence she could afford to have, that a Privaron could afford to have, more pride than any Privaron could afford to have, but she was always gambling.
Cirucci gambled with her safety, with her body, most of all, gambled the bruises and the bites on her skin, the sore feeling in her muscles and the used feeling between her legs, gambled and lost and then paid her price, on her knees, still somehow managed enough pride to be able to gamble again the next day and the next, to wager that same pride, stripped away and yet still always there, that scarred five on her breast that was no longer quite so shameful.
Was it shameful, that scar? Yes, and that was the point. It was a shame, to them, that they had been at the top, had been the most powerful, and then…
"Well?" Her voice meant to be strong, always, always, but it faltered under the shock in his eyes, the blank settling over his expression, and though she tried to think, to move, she found herself freezing up in tandem, a sudden spike of panic, fear, something spring up in her breast, a slight widening of her eyes in response to the movement of his, a delicate bite on her bottom lip begging him to stop.
--
Dordonii tilted his head to the right, the angle thirty degrees. After thirty seconds he straightened his neck, tilted left, the angle thirty degrees. Give or take.
His hands, which had held and grazed her waist like air, like cradling currents that swing in the breeze of a melody that hopped and throbbed with life, had become still, flat, paper that now fell.
His hand would have dropped from the fabric, only he could not stop looking, would not stop looking, the blank expression becoming in small, narrow twists, something darker.
His mouth opened. Words translated on his tongue, wrapped, wrapped.
"Señorita," quiet, almost tsking, as an unsettled, disgusted horror shifted into his eyes. His hands released, let go of her very suddenly: just that, an instant, he did not want to see, would not
see. "What -- has she done?"
A surge of nausea washed the music from his mind; in its place: tick, tock, tick, tick, tick.
--
"Wha-" Cirucci seized up, bottom lip trembling in both surprise and panic, shoulders rising and stiffening, entirety of her rejecting his reaction, rejecting that look on his face, rejecting that tone of voice, everything, everything.
"What do you mean, Dordonii, I-" Her fingers reached up to skin that flesh, caressing, almost hiding it now, from his view, from his scorn and doubt and-
She didn't understand, she didn't, why would he-
It was wonderful, wasn't it, this mark, this number… why…
--
Tick, tock; Dordonii knew her lip shook, knew her muscles seized, and
yet remained insensate, uncaring. A second wave of nausea had left him
tensing, rage building in his readying muscles.
Yet, yet, most unlike him: he did not erupt into it. He did not shriek, pint, and gesture in erratic emphasis. Dordonii looked at her and he turned away, his large hands becoming large fists at his sides which shook, and Dordonii felt weakened by his anger, like he might kneel to it, as his own scar panged.
"What," without looking at her, and his voice was a low, dangerous hum, "has she done? What did she think she was doing? Did she think it-- it could matter again? It could be that easy? Does she think with the number must come the strength, the meaning?"
Dordonii swallowed, whirled, took a hard step toward her and reached. He batted aside her protective hands, pulled the material, glowered at the offending thing.
"Has she lost her mind?" and they both had, but Dordonii looked at her as if he could hit her, wanted to, could have, shove with repression. "Does she think-- do you really think this means anything, Cirucci Thunderwitch, Privaron?"
--
"Dordonii-" She had not come here expecting to be rebuked, to face that glowering look in his eye, the eyes of someone who had always been with her, a Privaron, had ripped off his mask in the same time as she, the time when they had made themselves and he had been her superior, the third to her fifth, and then to this, for this to happen-
"What do you mean?" Her voice rose dangerously, too high-pitches, too nervous, too upset, too offended, her lips curling into a sneer, she, too, taking on the appearance of someone ready to attack, the way her fingers scraped her flesh when he pulled her hand from the protective curl over the tattoo, the way her knuckles twisted, talons, truly, the way she tries to recoil from him.
"It's mine!" Her voice broke. "It's mine, Dordonii! Why can't I have it?!" That he would deny it to her, she didn't know why, couldn't understand why, and yet he had, he was denying her this right, this pride, and it made her furious, made her other hand grab at his own uniform, fist and yank, though it seemed so futile. He was her higher in rank, her was stronger, 103rd, not 105th, and only that, he was much larger than she, muscle and sinew where she was lithe and petite.
Futile, just the scar on her breast she'd hidden behind her past glories.
--
Recognizing the signs did not instill fear into Dordonii; he knew his strength compared to hers, knew he was the stronger, whatever her number pretended. It was not a need to put her in her place, an irritation at her presuming some greater strength than his -- not that what made Dordonii recoil and swell.
"No," he retorted, his voice strong but strangled, "It isn't yours, just as mine is no longer mine. He gave them to us, He took them away, what purpose is there in pretending otherwise? The number changes nothing."
His hands closed on her shoulders, gripping in vice, gripping as his arms tenses and let musicles move and shook her, and his eyes glowered like coals in the dark cut of his face, his teeth grimaced from his lips.
--
She shook easily under stronger hands, winced and bit her lip and tried to keep from making it too easy, to keep her neck from lolling with the motion, a flush of anger tinting cheeks, neck and breast. Her fist in his jacket clung stubbornly, couldn't think of what to do, there was no point to trying to do the same to him and an expression quite like distress echoed across delicate features.
"And what has he done for us?! Look at what he did to us, Dordonii!" Her free hand dug her nails into the fresh looking ink, sharp talons piercing her own skin easily and not even caring, a horrible mimic of what had ripped her pride from her in the first place.
"It's not fair!" Her voice broke again, high-pitched falling into a whiny sort of desperation, the contorted pain on her face far more telling than her words. "We were- It was us, and then he made them! And they took-" She tried to recover herself, but it didn't work, her fire slowly giving way to the distress always present in her, that broken quality, the grudges and bitterness all pouring out, let open by his shock and rebuke.
"I-" Her hand spasmed, nails dug in deeper and she shook her head, sending dark curls flying. "I want it back!"
--
In the norm, Dordonii was not one taken to random acts of violence. He did not lash out without the intent to begin a battle, to fight at his utmost, did not waste time with the weak, with movements of no consequence. Nothing, he did not waste a thing -- he believed every flourish, ever spin, every little kick, had its purpose.
This, however, this, the bones of her shoulders hard beneath the calluses of his palms, fingers, this was an outburst, this was not with clear intent. His eyes found her nails, sharp and long and
cutting into her number. Widened, with paths of red trailing from the iris.
Then he released, let his right fall, tightened it over her wrist and pulled her hand from the ink. "Idiocy, Cirucci. It will not come back. That you could --" His teeth gritted, a spasm of his own, restraint and rage and sick, sick regret, "That you could think to take it back, and pretend it meant you--"
He shook his head. He let her go; turned away. "She came to show him this? She thought he'd be delighted? He would humor her delusions? ... He thought if he could defeat that niño, he could be worthy again. Nothing will do it. Nothing will give us worth. We are nothing, we are scar tissue, putting it back doesn't --"
A quiver began, at the base of his back, into his shoulders. Quietly: "She should leave. I cannot look at you."
--
She stiffened further, dug her nails in stubbornly but he pulled them away, leaving the space under those sharp talons bloodied, a stain beginning to blossom, crimson on white skin, white fabric. She was actually speechless for a whole minute. Dordonii had never said anything like that to her, couldn't- couldn't look at her? N- No, that was wrong, that was what Espada said to her, not Dordonii…
"Then…" She crumpled, almost, not at the buckling of knees but the way her shoulders fell, her chest caved and head hung, the sad cast to her that made her appear, for one moment, altogether broken, unable to be fixed or put back together. "Then rip it off, goddamnit." Her voice was a harsh whisper that erupted violently into a half-cry, anguished and hurt.
"If I'm not worth it- If we're not worth it then RIP IT OFF!" Her whole body heaved with the noise, eyes shut tight in denial of his reaction, of the fact that she knew it was truth, of the fact that, at the end, her voice had sounded something like a sob and something suspiciously like wet, ragged, breath of a woman before she cried.
--
His chin, the twist of beard, heralded it first, the way his face shifted toward hers, despite what he had said. Though he looked at her, it was with eyes he had never yet set on the Thunderwitch, and so it was not quite, not quite Dordonii looking at Cirucci.
"That is not my task," He returned, with a bite, with teeth bared. "If you want to fool yourself, you must remove the veil -- or, the Quinto will do it for you." Disdain, not cold but hot in his tone, the easy way to predict the trouble she had opened for herself, to play pretend.
He wished he could play pretend. He would not be tempted. Dordonii was not overly-familiar with this of human emotions, having been so long separate from tears, but he could make an educated guess, and a sneer shaped his mouth. "Does she cry? Is the Privaron letting herself be this human? Self-deluding, hoping, seeking worth, crying at the denial of praise for stupidity, ah, he thought he dealt, in the Thunderwitch, not with a youngster."
Dordonii snorted.
--
"He won't…" She smiled somewhat sadly, eyes off to the side, vainly seeking his and failing, a sniff, brief, and she was flushed fully in shame now, that he would point that out, that the edges of purple eyes brimmed with tears unshed, that she had cried three times in her existence, once, when Szayel Aporro had ripped her arm from her shoulder, broken her wrist from her other arm and left her to dangle on the blade through her belly, once, when Nnoitra had used her out of anger at her insubordination until it had just hurt so badly, so shamed, that she broke, and once, once, because Il Forte had said he had loved her.
And now Dordonii, he wouldn't even- Not even for her, for a Privaron-
Her eyes fell to the mark on her breast and they burned, they burned with love and hate, scorn for her own weakness and a desperate need for worth.
It was true, after all, that Cirucci Thunderwitch was utterly worthless. Her only way to validate it now was through others, through others acknowledging her, made that way by the scar that should be on her breast and the foolish ties she kept to worth, worth-
Will you look at me, then? She wanted to ask, but she couldn't, no, she instead lowered her head, her fingers caressed her skin, whole and unblemished, before they tore in and began to rip, the sickening, squishing noise of tearing flesh and muscle, her small, bit back noises, and the unshed pain in her eyes, shimmering wet, more than she could bear, shaking in disgust, at herself, that he would be right, that everything he had said was right.
--
It made him, perhaps, something of a hypocrite. Be it a trait of the Privaron or not, that Dordonii certainly was one of the most eccentric Arrancar could not be denied, and that he had certain more human reactions, certain leniencies, a certain chocolate naivete that had fueled him for much too long. His passions could be said, by some, to be irregular, to make him weak.
Dordonii was not ignorant of his faults, of his strangeness, even while he spun within the highest pulse of his over-reaction, he knew what it made him. In part, he may have acted as he did now, with hot-cold eyes, with scorn and disregard for his fellow, because he acted against all that was in himself that made him weak -- that made it too tempting to follow in her footsteps and stew in futile hope again.
He heard the sound, but did not wince. It was familiar and harsh in his ears, not disgusting, rouger than the cut of metal and steel into skin and sinew, more base. Dordonii let himself turn then, let himself regard her as her nails were claws, and like talons pierced the soft flesh of the trembling rodent, a prey of ink.
Dordonii did not wince. Sympathy did not enter into and soften his black eyes, the firm line of his mouth. He watched, watched for the disappearance of the number into blood and shame and strips of skin, rent muscle, even exposed bone. Better she do it than the Quinto.
--
It hurt.
Of course it hurt, she was rending her flesh from her body, nails cutting away at the black ink, stips of bloodied flesh, thin strips of pride slowly peeled away from her, the fresh injury where an old one had been. It hurt, because it bled, and it hurt her pride more, though it would seem impossible something so battered, so small, could still feel pain at all. She didn't cry, though soft little whimpers escaped her lips as she continued, through her own action, to bleed.
White fabric stained crimson slow, as it soaked in and bled, wounds like that always bled, sloughed off black and left it red, baring muscles, corded muscle that rippled as her arms moved, as she breathed and whimpered and bit back cries by biting her lip. It was slow, she couldn't bare to rip it from her fast, removing it with all the care she had as she removed it, as much love in that action as hate.
She had put it back on a whim, and it had only brought her trouble. Because Dordonii was right, he was, there could be no meaning in it, when she had not the power to back it up, when the true Quinto Espada could throttle her with little to no effort on his part, if he so wished it. And, in the end, it had been a happy illusion. As long as she could hide it, it could be her secret pride, but she never could keep secrets, not of her pride, and it had festered into a secret shame.
She almost wished she could erase all of it, erase even the memory of that number when she had earned it.
Cirucci shook her hand and flung flesh from beneath her nails, sent blood flying from her dirtied fingertips, She finally crumpled completely, slowly, lowered herself to her knees on the floor with blood dripping freely from her breast, face even paler than usual, strained, from the pain of what she had done, but more from the fact that it was replaying before her eyes, the first time this has occurred, staring at the 103rd's feet blankly, on hand, blood stained, wet and slippery, clasping her breast, the sting and the aching pain of injury self-inflicted, a pride thrown away to save it.
--
Dordonii watched: She finished; where once the five had stood in stark, harsh contrast against the pallor of her skin, now blood ran fresh and red. She finished, she fell, her legs bending in like twigs, like he could observe where the bark would crack and green show before they snapped completely. She finished and he watched, still, black eyes.
Black eyes flared, now, in recognition, recognizing her figure (pathetic?), recognizing something within, beyond it. His firm mouth spread open, exposed those teeth, drew wide and hard into a fierce grin, and Dordonii near writhed with pride.
"SeNorita," Dordonii purred, a growl in his throat, gravel flavoring the word. "Does she see what she has done?"
His steps forward were slow, purposeful, one before the other, a dance of toe to heel. Fluid; he slid to one knee before her, crooked a finger beneath her chin and raised it, lifted it, pressed his other hand against the mess of blood and skin, palm over wreck.
"My senorita," the croon, the light in the black alive, burning, insane, the way his cheeks were dug with expression, "she has removed it herself, she has chosen -- you took it away. Your scar, not theirs. We will not dream of what he gave us, we will not yearn for him, we -- "
As he spoke, his words had quickened, heightened in volume to a fervor, and here, he threw back his head and interrupted his own stream with a roar of fierce laughter. "FREE, let us be
free of numbers!"
--
She winced when he touched it, it burned, the contact of anything on that bloody mess, and she wanted to say it hurt, it did hurt, it burned and made her tremble with the effort not to moan softly, to beg him not to touch it, to acknowledge what she had done, and he did do hat at least, and she slumped forward after a brief moment when their eyes met, only shame in purple eyes before pressing her flushed face against his shoulder.
"I…" It hurts, it hurts. "I did." The soft dripping of her blood on the floor was drowned by his laughter and she closed her eyes briefly, a fluttering, her breath ragged, body strained.
Her pride hurt more than her body did.
"How nice." She seemed somewhat removed from the situation, all she could see in her eyes was it happening, over and over, ripped and torn and all that shame, slumping against him with a small whimper.
"…" Both her hands fell away from her breast, leaving only his thee, the wet feel of blood and ruined flesh. "… It's always been mine."
--
His mania did not take hold of him and dash, leaving her sunken and hollow behind. It was tempered by the way she sagged, by the harsh contrast of this, her face meeting his shoulder, her blood, her distance, contrasted with her pride, her euphoria and gloating, light, full steps as she had been as she entered not long before.
Not for a moment, the slightest of seconds, did Dordonii think, wonder, would it be better for her to live and pretend, if it pleased her. He dismissed such notions as weak; had humored it too long in himself and could not bear to see any semblance of it thereafter.
His hand stolen the rest of her chin, Dordonii snaked his arm around her, slid his palm over the raw mess, raised his hand to his mouth and licked the blood from the lines and indents of his wrist with some intense, fleeting relish. He combed his fingers then, into her air, the glossy curls, almost a tender touch, words meant in small comfort, this time in the City giving him dangerous ideas, ideas of freedom from the futile fatality of Hueco Mundo:
"It was yours, and mine was mine -- because he gave them to us. He took them. So to him, we are worthless ... but we are dead, señorita, we can be of no use to Aizen-sama ever again, not in ways that count to him. We must -- we must find our way, cast aside as we are."
Dordonii did not mean it as rebellion. If Aizen were to request something of him, he would comply. As the strongest, Dordonii would bend knee to Aizen-sama. But someday Aizen would leave and Dordonii would remain, and he could not stand to survive without some hope, without some purpose that, in the end, Aizen would be unable to give him. Having come to this realization, like lying beaten on the ground covered in the shrimp's saliva and the nino's pity, Dordonii resolved: with this half-assed second chance, he would seek his way. Human as it sounded, what else could he do?
--
She hated him in that moment even as she demanded comfort from him, as she whimpered and pressed harder against him, as the soft drip drip of her blood on the floor became a wetter sound as blood hit growing puddle, not just floor. Her vision doubled so she refused to open her eyes, nuzzling needily into the touch of his hand, knowing those hands could have ripped her number off, as Nnoitra's hands could have, as any Espada's could have, and maybe it was best like this, the shame of having it taken away from her like that would have been…
It might have even been too much.
"I-" Her voice sounded pathetic to her ears and she hated that, too, hated how it hurt her pride so much she wanted to cry, to scream about how unfair it was, that she, a Privaron, could have served so loyally so long and then been so discarded.
"How could he just throw us away?" Bloodied hands clutched as his jacket, anchored and kept her from toppling in faint. "How could he… we- we were the Espada, Dordonii, it was us, and then… why didn't he just kill us then?"
--
Dordonii closed his eyes. His lids lifted for a moment, fleeting, as his eyes slide in their sockets, dark iris and black pupil looking through narrowed vision, to the side, to an answer that was anything but. It wasn't easy. Even saying it, even spewing hope and meaning -- it wasn't easy to believe it.
It wasn't easy to answer her. His mouth worked, his jaw, the muscle there, trying to shape the words that would be wet and sour on his tongue. The way Aizen-sama had taken them in hand and let them go, the way they had tasted it, it, the top, and the way Dordonii's brief euphoria, his proclamation for hope, could not replace the knowledge that-- could not make it okay that Aizen-sama would leave and not miss them, and there would be the top and worth and it would never be for them.
He shook his head. "We had our uses," and did his words have a vacancy? A sick detachment? "We... could fight, we were strong. Not strong enough."
--
"Fuck it." She spat, weakly, all weakness right now and she hated it, hated the sound of her blood splashing on his floor in a rush when she abruptly stood, the front of her uniform stained crimson and it hurt, shit- shit- her knees trembled but she made to stride out, away from him, from one who had away enough over her worth that she could rip her own number out again just to get acknowledgment.
But she only made it a few steps before she whimpered, before it hurt, loud, fired, painful, and she slipped down to the floor again, cradling her breast, curling in over it and biting her lip hard to stop from crying in pain, breathed shakily, harshly, hands seeking to staunch the steady flow of blood, to stop it from leaking out the sham of life she possessed. Of course it couldn't kill her, but blood loss was blood loss, and little white hands could do very little against the rents and gouges in vein-rich flesh.
--
Again, watching; at least now he looked, and acknowledged, the way her muscles shook and yielded and couldn't bear up, the way the red blossomed and stained the white. Dordonii had thought he would try to mend her, to wrap her wound, but watching her now, the way she stood
and the way she crumpled (he could take, in hand, a sheet of paper and listen to the sound it made when he closed his fist around it, she sounded like less), he thought differently.
He would not simper over her. Dordonii stood, glanced at his still bloody hand, rubbed the tips of his fingers together, smearing. "It was good of you to take it yourself," he said, calmly, a strange calm that didn't quite match the fire still in his eyes. "They would have, in time, or Aizen-sama might have let you have it, but it wouldn't mean anything."
His fingertips rubbed together. If he had only beaten Kurosaki Ichigo. Futile hopes; clinging to rewind. "We play these games, Thunderwitch. We pretend. It's disgusting. Aren't we isgusting?"
And finally, Dordonii looked away. "You can help yourself out. Stand up, Cirucci: you've borne worse without looking so pathetic."
--
She wanted to say it hurt. Because it did.
But this hurt was not what kept her down, kept her lip savaged as she bit into it, kept her hand clasped to her breast. This hurt was altogether not physical, and she snarled at him, turned and ferally bared her teeth to him, not ashamed of the bestial reaction, couldn't be ashamed anymore, with bits of her flesh on his floor, one palm, bloodied, slapped on the floor between her knees to support her weight, the other curled protectively over her breast.
"Shut up!" Cirucci hissed, a brief spark of defiance flaring up in deadened eyes. "We always look pathetic, we're Privaron, Dordonii, remember?" She pointed accusingly with a red talon, lip sneered, daring him to do as she had done.
"Get me some fucking bandages and water, goddamnit-" She winced, cradled herself closer, and snapped a snarl in his direction again, at his eerie calm demeanor that she despised.
--
He remembered; cocked his head to the side, swung an arm inward to his waist as he bent into an exaggerated, gallant bow. He remembered, Dordonii-sama at your service, Privaron, pathetic, formerly worth more than a damn. His smile, stretched over the length of his mouth, had a twist.
"At your service;" his smile became a bared, magnificent grin, magnificent, he murmured it, the awful way she snapped at him, commanded him, the regal and terrible arc of her finger, her command. Dordonii fetched. Into the bathroom, some kit that had been left behind, water, the works. He fetched, but he would let her tend herself.
He dropped the necessities in front of her, curled his arms over one another, bowed his chin toward her, observing.
--
"Fuck, you're useless, Dordonii-" She didn't mean it but she knew the act, the fire, spite, spit, hate, defiance, dominance, she knew how to act, when she needed to, like it didn't hurt, like she didn't want to scream and cry and bury her face away from everything and sob because it hurt her, because her pride was once again stripped away, leaving her naked with shame.
Her bloodied hands mechanically cleaned herself, sopped a cloth and wiped the blood and gore, could she call it that, she wondered, shredded flesh, from her chest, unrolled bandages and contemplated, finally turning to him again with a false glare, had no anger in her, not truly, no hate, no spite, mainly just emptiness with a little shame.
"Help me with this." She grit out evenly, gesturing that she would have trouble wrapping bandaging behind her own back, clasping the dirtied cloth to her breast to keep the blood flow staunched.
--
His shoulders began the wince, but he stopped it through force of will, halting the tensing lift, the cringe against that accusation he hardly needed another person to voice. It was one thing to know it, to repeat some mental mantra of it, another for another to make it real in voice. But his critical eyes kept watch, watch for a sign of her weakness, something to single out and reprimand.
"Gladly." The Thunderwitch did him proud, whether through her hostility, her glare, her self-reliance. He could see that she would need help with that, and so he nodded, swung down to a heavy knee beside her and took the bandage in hand. A flourish, exaggerated, nearly lost him the bandage, but did not cow his enthusiasm.
Dordonii circled the cloth, made it tight, fastened it in place. The blood could only seep so far, and he smirked at their handiwork. "Yet another scar," and there was a bitterness there. "We don't have numbers, señorita, we have scars."
--
"… No shit." Cirucci forced out a laugh, and it sounded too loud, too harsh, too forced to her ears. She looked down, at a breast bandaged and hidden, wondered if she could keep it like that forever. But she couldn't she knew that, just as she knew she was tired of this act already.
"… I really hate you right now." She muttered, bitterly, angrily, but not really, act, act, act, force fire into eyes that wanted to dull over and gloss, into voice that wanted monotone, into body that wanted to sag under the weight of such shame, but couldn't, not with him, not with a Privaron who bore it so much better than she, who could accept it with more grace, more logic than she.
--
A chuckle, inappropriate but strong, rumbled out of the depths of his chest. Dordonii slid his hand over her head, an almost paternal pat, if a Privaron could be paternal. Ever the long-suffering elder, Dordonii agreed with a nod, "Of course, ah, ah, ah, I don't doubt it."
"You'll thank me, someday!" when you're older, only she wasn't younger, and if he seemed to bear the weight of their shame and rejection better, it was perhaps as much pretend as her putting back the number, when all it was was ink destined to scar over. And he felt no guilt, did not shy back to see her this way and swallow a lump to know it was he who had done it. No: it was prompt it, or feel the temptation himself. His heart, heartless space, was hard in the face of this.
--
She would never understand Dordonii. He was Privaron, too, but not the same as she. They were completely different people, different types and goals and minds and morals and everything in between, but more importantly, they were Privaron.
"Tch." Cirucci would never thank him for this, this, no, this was going to be that dark, secret shame she never spoke of again, slumping back onto his chest and closing her eyes with a sigh, soft escape of breath, eyes closing.
"No, I won't." And she wouldn't. She never would.
--
"Ungrateful," Dordonii said, did not quite spit it. His eyes narrowed; not quite a glare.
No, she would never thank him for this, and he understood, his head tilting, cocking again to the side, his shoulders lifting in a shrug that could not become as expressive as it might have, pulling up his arms, disregard, que sera sera, because his arms slid in response to her movement, cradled around her, accepting her weight. Leaving one arm wrapped so, he lifted his other, moving to graze the pad of his thumb over a mark on her cheek, flicking it up through a curl.
What will we do, Cirucci? He thought of asking it, opening his mouth and requesting the help. In this place, with our sorry selves. He shut his mouth, a click of his teeth, ran his tongue behind them. It didn't matter so much, right now.
--
"Brute," Cirucci shot back immediately, with a sigh again, was disgusted that she couldn't even muster the proper anger anymore at him, that it died with every emotion she'd had when she'd ripped that number from her breast.
But she nuzzled into the touch regardless, instinctual even, settling back against him and glad off him if only because her nerves had frayed so that she needed to sit and the floor did not seem so comfortable, eyes drifted shut and body slowly relaxing and sinking onto him as she drifted off.
If he had asked her, in that moment, what they would do, she would not have answered.
She would not have had an answer.)
Rating: R for Gore
Characters: Dordonii
whatanentrance & Cirucci thunderwitchSummary: Cirucci wants to show off her restored number, only, Dordonii doesn't react quite as expected. As ever, tl;dr. Except that D is for DO because it's SO AWESOME you don't CARE if we post long. YEAH.
Log; (
"Dordonii?~" The Thunderwitch's voice was light and airy outside his door, carefree, a little rap on the former Tercer Espada's door, RAP RAP of dainty knuckles on the wood, the lilting songbird tone accompanying as the former Quinta Espada leaned against the wall beside his apartment, her other hand moving to her breast.
"I know you're home~" She called when she didn't get an immediate response, fingers stroking light. There was a number inked beneath that fabric, a black five, strong and proud, though it hid behind a cowardly illusion that kept the Quinta Espada, the current Quinta Espada from seeing it.
… She wouldn't live long if he saw it, and she knew that, knew it when she'd seen the look on his face as he leered at the scar there. He liked that scar of hers.
But knowing it was a scar, truly not, any longer, made a surge of pride fight up in the Hollow hole between her breasts, made her eyes close and lips smile in contentment as she waited, kicking one foot.
She had to show Dordonii.
--
Dordonii would never intend to be rude, though it must be said that he did give the weak little respect. He did not, then, intend to ignore the immediate summons of the Thunderwitch, the former Quinta. No, but the song of her voice had melted unheard into the steady beat of that ingenius human invention, the Stereo.
Well -- the beat of the song through the stereo, but the meaning was clear enough. One kept his body, the fluidiity of his movements in top condition through not only the practice of fight, blade, and release. Dance -- Dordonii adored the movement of his feet, and the quick, drumming beat of this had a neat match with her knocking, the RAP, RAP hitting even with the TAP-A-TAP-A-CHA, and his toe thudded down, down, down!
Improvised; what he meant to teach next in his class. The song finished, Dordonii fluorished in magnificent, not at all understated gestures. As the melody faded, another rose; a voice most familiar. Dordonii perked, disinclined to doubt. He bounded to the door, swung it open, beaming.
"Ah, ah, ah! The most pleasant of surprises, at my door!" Dordonii crooned, stepped back, bowed over and gestured in sweeps with his arms. "Grace him, enter!"
--
Cirucci smiled indulgently, stepping in and pecking a quick kiss to the other Privaron's cheek as her hips swayed a bit to the remnants of the music he'd been listening too.
"Dancing all alone, Dordonii?~ Poor thing." She smirked a little, small frame moving easily through a hop of a step, a brief twirl when she spoke of dancing, ended back at him with one small hand on his arm, a sort of happiness about her, nearly childish and playful that could easily escape her in this City, clear on her face, in the almost gentle, never gentle curl of her painted lips, the almost content, never content lull in her violet eyes.
"I have a surprise." The Thunderwitch murmured conspiriatorally, voice low and husked, a low rumble in her throat and a wicked curve to mouth, knowing, confidant in the tattoo on her breast, so much more powerful than the scar that had been there, had been there so long she had almost forgotten what the real thing had looked like, but no longer.
No longer.
--
He had offered his cheek, expecting and pre-empting her small gesture of affection.
"Hardly! Though, her concern moves him," His lips spread into a ready, confident smirk, "I do not dance alone, dancing is neversolitary, no matter the number of people. We move with the music, yes?" Dordonii, too, not quite in a mirror of her method, danced in a volatile movement of his feet, in when referring the dance. There were many truths in the statement, such as the way in which the music did so effectively rule out the ticking, something that had delighted him to realize, had so magnified his affection for it, for remembering dance, for realizing that he might teach.
So enlivened by the euphoria that did settle on his large frame after the pulse of music had rocked through him, Dordonii noticed her glow as a by-product of his own, figuring her glee as a link to his, not immediately connecting it to a greater.
"Aaah?" Another croon, low and eager, as he swayed to her and curled an arm over her waist, like recapturing a spun partner, continuing a movement interrupted only in brief, hip to hip. His fingers curled over the fabric of her dress, slid, but did not cling, ready to rebound, manuever her to the beat that continued in his head, an off-shoot of faded ticking and triumphant tap-a-taptaptap.
"I love surprises," Dordonii grinned, close to her ear, his goatee a tickling curl. "Some surprises, will she delight him?"
--
"She will, you know she will." Cirucci promised, giggling a little at his antics, their antics, at the sway of hips and legs, at a fluid twist as she twirled lightly in his grip, let her arms above her head and leaned over the circle of his arms, back again and they around his neck now, moving with him.
She could not hear the music he was playing for himself, couldn't guess where it was going since the song had ended but the Thunderwitch had experience moving, and moving with, moving against others, especially her males, and following the cues his body provided for her was something she could do with grace and ease, with the soft crinkle of white fabric and the bounce of equally soft dark hair.
"Look." One pale hand fell back to her breast, patting the fabric over the left side of her chest, inviting, lips smirking up, prouder and prouder every moment, wanted to see what he would say, wondered what he would, what look would cross his face, if it would be anything like the desperate pride, needy aspirations, and wanton weakness on her own face when she beheld it, fresh and new as if it had never been taken from her.
--
She twirled; his hands slid around, yielding like the air to the twisting shape of her body. Dordonii laughed as her arms settled around his neck, the back of which was damp with perspiration. Had she not something, some secret that unraveled in her voice, that lit like a coal which burned her words into something crisp, alluring, he would have let the music play again.
Look, she bid him, and Dordonii rose his cut eyebrows, sharp angles over his eyes, his grin eager like the curve of a sharp blade. He did grin, anticipating much from the quiver in her muscles, the satisfaction in her tone, the cat that had tasted the canary and let the feather curl bright out of her mouth. Yet, his eyes knew the area, and Dordonii almost doubted.
The Thunderwitch almost glowed, could have instructed him in a dance on the ego that lent such strength to her spine, yet she gestured to what he knew had been scar. But, never thinking first of that human niña, he could not anticipate what he found.
Strong, long fingers were gentle as they hooked in the fabric and pulled it aside, exposing flesh, white, contrasted not in pale with distortion but in dark, vivid black, the even lines of a five. Dordonii looked, and he looked, and a minute passed without a single expression. His eyes saw; his mind did not believe.
--
She had wriggled excitedly, lips curled still in that cheshire grin, self-satisfied and smug, confidant beyond any confidence she could afford to have, that a Privaron could afford to have, more pride than any Privaron could afford to have, but she was always gambling.
Cirucci gambled with her safety, with her body, most of all, gambled the bruises and the bites on her skin, the sore feeling in her muscles and the used feeling between her legs, gambled and lost and then paid her price, on her knees, still somehow managed enough pride to be able to gamble again the next day and the next, to wager that same pride, stripped away and yet still always there, that scarred five on her breast that was no longer quite so shameful.
Was it shameful, that scar? Yes, and that was the point. It was a shame, to them, that they had been at the top, had been the most powerful, and then…
"Well?" Her voice meant to be strong, always, always, but it faltered under the shock in his eyes, the blank settling over his expression, and though she tried to think, to move, she found herself freezing up in tandem, a sudden spike of panic, fear, something spring up in her breast, a slight widening of her eyes in response to the movement of his, a delicate bite on her bottom lip begging him to stop.
--
Dordonii tilted his head to the right, the angle thirty degrees. After thirty seconds he straightened his neck, tilted left, the angle thirty degrees. Give or take.
His hands, which had held and grazed her waist like air, like cradling currents that swing in the breeze of a melody that hopped and throbbed with life, had become still, flat, paper that now fell.
His hand would have dropped from the fabric, only he could not stop looking, would not stop looking, the blank expression becoming in small, narrow twists, something darker.
His mouth opened. Words translated on his tongue, wrapped, wrapped.
"Señorita," quiet, almost tsking, as an unsettled, disgusted horror shifted into his eyes. His hands released, let go of her very suddenly: just that, an instant, he did not want to see, would not
see. "What -- has she done?"
A surge of nausea washed the music from his mind; in its place: tick, tock, tick, tick, tick.
--
"Wha-" Cirucci seized up, bottom lip trembling in both surprise and panic, shoulders rising and stiffening, entirety of her rejecting his reaction, rejecting that look on his face, rejecting that tone of voice, everything, everything.
"What do you mean, Dordonii, I-" Her fingers reached up to skin that flesh, caressing, almost hiding it now, from his view, from his scorn and doubt and-
She didn't understand, she didn't, why would he-
It was wonderful, wasn't it, this mark, this number… why…
--
Tick, tock; Dordonii knew her lip shook, knew her muscles seized, and
yet remained insensate, uncaring. A second wave of nausea had left him
tensing, rage building in his readying muscles.
Yet, yet, most unlike him: he did not erupt into it. He did not shriek, pint, and gesture in erratic emphasis. Dordonii looked at her and he turned away, his large hands becoming large fists at his sides which shook, and Dordonii felt weakened by his anger, like he might kneel to it, as his own scar panged.
"What," without looking at her, and his voice was a low, dangerous hum, "has she done? What did she think she was doing? Did she think it-- it could matter again? It could be that easy? Does she think with the number must come the strength, the meaning?"
Dordonii swallowed, whirled, took a hard step toward her and reached. He batted aside her protective hands, pulled the material, glowered at the offending thing.
"Has she lost her mind?" and they both had, but Dordonii looked at her as if he could hit her, wanted to, could have, shove with repression. "Does she think-- do you really think this means anything, Cirucci Thunderwitch, Privaron?"
--
"Dordonii-" She had not come here expecting to be rebuked, to face that glowering look in his eye, the eyes of someone who had always been with her, a Privaron, had ripped off his mask in the same time as she, the time when they had made themselves and he had been her superior, the third to her fifth, and then to this, for this to happen-
"What do you mean?" Her voice rose dangerously, too high-pitches, too nervous, too upset, too offended, her lips curling into a sneer, she, too, taking on the appearance of someone ready to attack, the way her fingers scraped her flesh when he pulled her hand from the protective curl over the tattoo, the way her knuckles twisted, talons, truly, the way she tries to recoil from him.
"It's mine!" Her voice broke. "It's mine, Dordonii! Why can't I have it?!" That he would deny it to her, she didn't know why, couldn't understand why, and yet he had, he was denying her this right, this pride, and it made her furious, made her other hand grab at his own uniform, fist and yank, though it seemed so futile. He was her higher in rank, her was stronger, 103rd, not 105th, and only that, he was much larger than she, muscle and sinew where she was lithe and petite.
Futile, just the scar on her breast she'd hidden behind her past glories.
--
Recognizing the signs did not instill fear into Dordonii; he knew his strength compared to hers, knew he was the stronger, whatever her number pretended. It was not a need to put her in her place, an irritation at her presuming some greater strength than his -- not that what made Dordonii recoil and swell.
"No," he retorted, his voice strong but strangled, "It isn't yours, just as mine is no longer mine. He gave them to us, He took them away, what purpose is there in pretending otherwise? The number changes nothing."
His hands closed on her shoulders, gripping in vice, gripping as his arms tenses and let musicles move and shook her, and his eyes glowered like coals in the dark cut of his face, his teeth grimaced from his lips.
--
She shook easily under stronger hands, winced and bit her lip and tried to keep from making it too easy, to keep her neck from lolling with the motion, a flush of anger tinting cheeks, neck and breast. Her fist in his jacket clung stubbornly, couldn't think of what to do, there was no point to trying to do the same to him and an expression quite like distress echoed across delicate features.
"And what has he done for us?! Look at what he did to us, Dordonii!" Her free hand dug her nails into the fresh looking ink, sharp talons piercing her own skin easily and not even caring, a horrible mimic of what had ripped her pride from her in the first place.
"It's not fair!" Her voice broke again, high-pitched falling into a whiny sort of desperation, the contorted pain on her face far more telling than her words. "We were- It was us, and then he made them! And they took-" She tried to recover herself, but it didn't work, her fire slowly giving way to the distress always present in her, that broken quality, the grudges and bitterness all pouring out, let open by his shock and rebuke.
"I-" Her hand spasmed, nails dug in deeper and she shook her head, sending dark curls flying. "I want it back!"
--
In the norm, Dordonii was not one taken to random acts of violence. He did not lash out without the intent to begin a battle, to fight at his utmost, did not waste time with the weak, with movements of no consequence. Nothing, he did not waste a thing -- he believed every flourish, ever spin, every little kick, had its purpose.
This, however, this, the bones of her shoulders hard beneath the calluses of his palms, fingers, this was an outburst, this was not with clear intent. His eyes found her nails, sharp and long and
cutting into her number. Widened, with paths of red trailing from the iris.
Then he released, let his right fall, tightened it over her wrist and pulled her hand from the ink. "Idiocy, Cirucci. It will not come back. That you could --" His teeth gritted, a spasm of his own, restraint and rage and sick, sick regret, "That you could think to take it back, and pretend it meant you--"
He shook his head. He let her go; turned away. "She came to show him this? She thought he'd be delighted? He would humor her delusions? ... He thought if he could defeat that niño, he could be worthy again. Nothing will do it. Nothing will give us worth. We are nothing, we are scar tissue, putting it back doesn't --"
A quiver began, at the base of his back, into his shoulders. Quietly: "She should leave. I cannot look at you."
--
She stiffened further, dug her nails in stubbornly but he pulled them away, leaving the space under those sharp talons bloodied, a stain beginning to blossom, crimson on white skin, white fabric. She was actually speechless for a whole minute. Dordonii had never said anything like that to her, couldn't- couldn't look at her? N- No, that was wrong, that was what Espada said to her, not Dordonii…
"Then…" She crumpled, almost, not at the buckling of knees but the way her shoulders fell, her chest caved and head hung, the sad cast to her that made her appear, for one moment, altogether broken, unable to be fixed or put back together. "Then rip it off, goddamnit." Her voice was a harsh whisper that erupted violently into a half-cry, anguished and hurt.
"If I'm not worth it- If we're not worth it then RIP IT OFF!" Her whole body heaved with the noise, eyes shut tight in denial of his reaction, of the fact that she knew it was truth, of the fact that, at the end, her voice had sounded something like a sob and something suspiciously like wet, ragged, breath of a woman before she cried.
--
His chin, the twist of beard, heralded it first, the way his face shifted toward hers, despite what he had said. Though he looked at her, it was with eyes he had never yet set on the Thunderwitch, and so it was not quite, not quite Dordonii looking at Cirucci.
"That is not my task," He returned, with a bite, with teeth bared. "If you want to fool yourself, you must remove the veil -- or, the Quinto will do it for you." Disdain, not cold but hot in his tone, the easy way to predict the trouble she had opened for herself, to play pretend.
He wished he could play pretend. He would not be tempted. Dordonii was not overly-familiar with this of human emotions, having been so long separate from tears, but he could make an educated guess, and a sneer shaped his mouth. "Does she cry? Is the Privaron letting herself be this human? Self-deluding, hoping, seeking worth, crying at the denial of praise for stupidity, ah, he thought he dealt, in the Thunderwitch, not with a youngster."
Dordonii snorted.
--
"He won't…" She smiled somewhat sadly, eyes off to the side, vainly seeking his and failing, a sniff, brief, and she was flushed fully in shame now, that he would point that out, that the edges of purple eyes brimmed with tears unshed, that she had cried three times in her existence, once, when Szayel Aporro had ripped her arm from her shoulder, broken her wrist from her other arm and left her to dangle on the blade through her belly, once, when Nnoitra had used her out of anger at her insubordination until it had just hurt so badly, so shamed, that she broke, and once, once, because Il Forte had said he had loved her.
And now Dordonii, he wouldn't even- Not even for her, for a Privaron-
Her eyes fell to the mark on her breast and they burned, they burned with love and hate, scorn for her own weakness and a desperate need for worth.
It was true, after all, that Cirucci Thunderwitch was utterly worthless. Her only way to validate it now was through others, through others acknowledging her, made that way by the scar that should be on her breast and the foolish ties she kept to worth, worth-
Will you look at me, then? She wanted to ask, but she couldn't, no, she instead lowered her head, her fingers caressed her skin, whole and unblemished, before they tore in and began to rip, the sickening, squishing noise of tearing flesh and muscle, her small, bit back noises, and the unshed pain in her eyes, shimmering wet, more than she could bear, shaking in disgust, at herself, that he would be right, that everything he had said was right.
--
It made him, perhaps, something of a hypocrite. Be it a trait of the Privaron or not, that Dordonii certainly was one of the most eccentric Arrancar could not be denied, and that he had certain more human reactions, certain leniencies, a certain chocolate naivete that had fueled him for much too long. His passions could be said, by some, to be irregular, to make him weak.
Dordonii was not ignorant of his faults, of his strangeness, even while he spun within the highest pulse of his over-reaction, he knew what it made him. In part, he may have acted as he did now, with hot-cold eyes, with scorn and disregard for his fellow, because he acted against all that was in himself that made him weak -- that made it too tempting to follow in her footsteps and stew in futile hope again.
He heard the sound, but did not wince. It was familiar and harsh in his ears, not disgusting, rouger than the cut of metal and steel into skin and sinew, more base. Dordonii let himself turn then, let himself regard her as her nails were claws, and like talons pierced the soft flesh of the trembling rodent, a prey of ink.
Dordonii did not wince. Sympathy did not enter into and soften his black eyes, the firm line of his mouth. He watched, watched for the disappearance of the number into blood and shame and strips of skin, rent muscle, even exposed bone. Better she do it than the Quinto.
--
It hurt.
Of course it hurt, she was rending her flesh from her body, nails cutting away at the black ink, stips of bloodied flesh, thin strips of pride slowly peeled away from her, the fresh injury where an old one had been. It hurt, because it bled, and it hurt her pride more, though it would seem impossible something so battered, so small, could still feel pain at all. She didn't cry, though soft little whimpers escaped her lips as she continued, through her own action, to bleed.
White fabric stained crimson slow, as it soaked in and bled, wounds like that always bled, sloughed off black and left it red, baring muscles, corded muscle that rippled as her arms moved, as she breathed and whimpered and bit back cries by biting her lip. It was slow, she couldn't bare to rip it from her fast, removing it with all the care she had as she removed it, as much love in that action as hate.
She had put it back on a whim, and it had only brought her trouble. Because Dordonii was right, he was, there could be no meaning in it, when she had not the power to back it up, when the true Quinto Espada could throttle her with little to no effort on his part, if he so wished it. And, in the end, it had been a happy illusion. As long as she could hide it, it could be her secret pride, but she never could keep secrets, not of her pride, and it had festered into a secret shame.
She almost wished she could erase all of it, erase even the memory of that number when she had earned it.
Cirucci shook her hand and flung flesh from beneath her nails, sent blood flying from her dirtied fingertips, She finally crumpled completely, slowly, lowered herself to her knees on the floor with blood dripping freely from her breast, face even paler than usual, strained, from the pain of what she had done, but more from the fact that it was replaying before her eyes, the first time this has occurred, staring at the 103rd's feet blankly, on hand, blood stained, wet and slippery, clasping her breast, the sting and the aching pain of injury self-inflicted, a pride thrown away to save it.
--
Dordonii watched: She finished; where once the five had stood in stark, harsh contrast against the pallor of her skin, now blood ran fresh and red. She finished, she fell, her legs bending in like twigs, like he could observe where the bark would crack and green show before they snapped completely. She finished and he watched, still, black eyes.
Black eyes flared, now, in recognition, recognizing her figure (pathetic?), recognizing something within, beyond it. His firm mouth spread open, exposed those teeth, drew wide and hard into a fierce grin, and Dordonii near writhed with pride.
"SeNorita," Dordonii purred, a growl in his throat, gravel flavoring the word. "Does she see what she has done?"
His steps forward were slow, purposeful, one before the other, a dance of toe to heel. Fluid; he slid to one knee before her, crooked a finger beneath her chin and raised it, lifted it, pressed his other hand against the mess of blood and skin, palm over wreck.
"My senorita," the croon, the light in the black alive, burning, insane, the way his cheeks were dug with expression, "she has removed it herself, she has chosen -- you took it away. Your scar, not theirs. We will not dream of what he gave us, we will not yearn for him, we -- "
As he spoke, his words had quickened, heightened in volume to a fervor, and here, he threw back his head and interrupted his own stream with a roar of fierce laughter. "FREE, let us be
free of numbers!"
--
She winced when he touched it, it burned, the contact of anything on that bloody mess, and she wanted to say it hurt, it did hurt, it burned and made her tremble with the effort not to moan softly, to beg him not to touch it, to acknowledge what she had done, and he did do hat at least, and she slumped forward after a brief moment when their eyes met, only shame in purple eyes before pressing her flushed face against his shoulder.
"I…" It hurts, it hurts. "I did." The soft dripping of her blood on the floor was drowned by his laughter and she closed her eyes briefly, a fluttering, her breath ragged, body strained.
Her pride hurt more than her body did.
"How nice." She seemed somewhat removed from the situation, all she could see in her eyes was it happening, over and over, ripped and torn and all that shame, slumping against him with a small whimper.
"…" Both her hands fell away from her breast, leaving only his thee, the wet feel of blood and ruined flesh. "… It's always been mine."
--
His mania did not take hold of him and dash, leaving her sunken and hollow behind. It was tempered by the way she sagged, by the harsh contrast of this, her face meeting his shoulder, her blood, her distance, contrasted with her pride, her euphoria and gloating, light, full steps as she had been as she entered not long before.
Not for a moment, the slightest of seconds, did Dordonii think, wonder, would it be better for her to live and pretend, if it pleased her. He dismissed such notions as weak; had humored it too long in himself and could not bear to see any semblance of it thereafter.
His hand stolen the rest of her chin, Dordonii snaked his arm around her, slid his palm over the raw mess, raised his hand to his mouth and licked the blood from the lines and indents of his wrist with some intense, fleeting relish. He combed his fingers then, into her air, the glossy curls, almost a tender touch, words meant in small comfort, this time in the City giving him dangerous ideas, ideas of freedom from the futile fatality of Hueco Mundo:
"It was yours, and mine was mine -- because he gave them to us. He took them. So to him, we are worthless ... but we are dead, señorita, we can be of no use to Aizen-sama ever again, not in ways that count to him. We must -- we must find our way, cast aside as we are."
Dordonii did not mean it as rebellion. If Aizen were to request something of him, he would comply. As the strongest, Dordonii would bend knee to Aizen-sama. But someday Aizen would leave and Dordonii would remain, and he could not stand to survive without some hope, without some purpose that, in the end, Aizen would be unable to give him. Having come to this realization, like lying beaten on the ground covered in the shrimp's saliva and the nino's pity, Dordonii resolved: with this half-assed second chance, he would seek his way. Human as it sounded, what else could he do?
--
She hated him in that moment even as she demanded comfort from him, as she whimpered and pressed harder against him, as the soft drip drip of her blood on the floor became a wetter sound as blood hit growing puddle, not just floor. Her vision doubled so she refused to open her eyes, nuzzling needily into the touch of his hand, knowing those hands could have ripped her number off, as Nnoitra's hands could have, as any Espada's could have, and maybe it was best like this, the shame of having it taken away from her like that would have been…
It might have even been too much.
"I-" Her voice sounded pathetic to her ears and she hated that, too, hated how it hurt her pride so much she wanted to cry, to scream about how unfair it was, that she, a Privaron, could have served so loyally so long and then been so discarded.
"How could he just throw us away?" Bloodied hands clutched as his jacket, anchored and kept her from toppling in faint. "How could he… we- we were the Espada, Dordonii, it was us, and then… why didn't he just kill us then?"
--
Dordonii closed his eyes. His lids lifted for a moment, fleeting, as his eyes slide in their sockets, dark iris and black pupil looking through narrowed vision, to the side, to an answer that was anything but. It wasn't easy. Even saying it, even spewing hope and meaning -- it wasn't easy to believe it.
It wasn't easy to answer her. His mouth worked, his jaw, the muscle there, trying to shape the words that would be wet and sour on his tongue. The way Aizen-sama had taken them in hand and let them go, the way they had tasted it, it, the top, and the way Dordonii's brief euphoria, his proclamation for hope, could not replace the knowledge that-- could not make it okay that Aizen-sama would leave and not miss them, and there would be the top and worth and it would never be for them.
He shook his head. "We had our uses," and did his words have a vacancy? A sick detachment? "We... could fight, we were strong. Not strong enough."
--
"Fuck it." She spat, weakly, all weakness right now and she hated it, hated the sound of her blood splashing on his floor in a rush when she abruptly stood, the front of her uniform stained crimson and it hurt, shit- shit- her knees trembled but she made to stride out, away from him, from one who had away enough over her worth that she could rip her own number out again just to get acknowledgment.
But she only made it a few steps before she whimpered, before it hurt, loud, fired, painful, and she slipped down to the floor again, cradling her breast, curling in over it and biting her lip hard to stop from crying in pain, breathed shakily, harshly, hands seeking to staunch the steady flow of blood, to stop it from leaking out the sham of life she possessed. Of course it couldn't kill her, but blood loss was blood loss, and little white hands could do very little against the rents and gouges in vein-rich flesh.
--
Again, watching; at least now he looked, and acknowledged, the way her muscles shook and yielded and couldn't bear up, the way the red blossomed and stained the white. Dordonii had thought he would try to mend her, to wrap her wound, but watching her now, the way she stood
and the way she crumpled (he could take, in hand, a sheet of paper and listen to the sound it made when he closed his fist around it, she sounded like less), he thought differently.
He would not simper over her. Dordonii stood, glanced at his still bloody hand, rubbed the tips of his fingers together, smearing. "It was good of you to take it yourself," he said, calmly, a strange calm that didn't quite match the fire still in his eyes. "They would have, in time, or Aizen-sama might have let you have it, but it wouldn't mean anything."
His fingertips rubbed together. If he had only beaten Kurosaki Ichigo. Futile hopes; clinging to rewind. "We play these games, Thunderwitch. We pretend. It's disgusting. Aren't we isgusting?"
And finally, Dordonii looked away. "You can help yourself out. Stand up, Cirucci: you've borne worse without looking so pathetic."
--
She wanted to say it hurt. Because it did.
But this hurt was not what kept her down, kept her lip savaged as she bit into it, kept her hand clasped to her breast. This hurt was altogether not physical, and she snarled at him, turned and ferally bared her teeth to him, not ashamed of the bestial reaction, couldn't be ashamed anymore, with bits of her flesh on his floor, one palm, bloodied, slapped on the floor between her knees to support her weight, the other curled protectively over her breast.
"Shut up!" Cirucci hissed, a brief spark of defiance flaring up in deadened eyes. "We always look pathetic, we're Privaron, Dordonii, remember?" She pointed accusingly with a red talon, lip sneered, daring him to do as she had done.
"Get me some fucking bandages and water, goddamnit-" She winced, cradled herself closer, and snapped a snarl in his direction again, at his eerie calm demeanor that she despised.
--
He remembered; cocked his head to the side, swung an arm inward to his waist as he bent into an exaggerated, gallant bow. He remembered, Dordonii-sama at your service, Privaron, pathetic, formerly worth more than a damn. His smile, stretched over the length of his mouth, had a twist.
"At your service;" his smile became a bared, magnificent grin, magnificent, he murmured it, the awful way she snapped at him, commanded him, the regal and terrible arc of her finger, her command. Dordonii fetched. Into the bathroom, some kit that had been left behind, water, the works. He fetched, but he would let her tend herself.
He dropped the necessities in front of her, curled his arms over one another, bowed his chin toward her, observing.
--
"Fuck, you're useless, Dordonii-" She didn't mean it but she knew the act, the fire, spite, spit, hate, defiance, dominance, she knew how to act, when she needed to, like it didn't hurt, like she didn't want to scream and cry and bury her face away from everything and sob because it hurt her, because her pride was once again stripped away, leaving her naked with shame.
Her bloodied hands mechanically cleaned herself, sopped a cloth and wiped the blood and gore, could she call it that, she wondered, shredded flesh, from her chest, unrolled bandages and contemplated, finally turning to him again with a false glare, had no anger in her, not truly, no hate, no spite, mainly just emptiness with a little shame.
"Help me with this." She grit out evenly, gesturing that she would have trouble wrapping bandaging behind her own back, clasping the dirtied cloth to her breast to keep the blood flow staunched.
--
His shoulders began the wince, but he stopped it through force of will, halting the tensing lift, the cringe against that accusation he hardly needed another person to voice. It was one thing to know it, to repeat some mental mantra of it, another for another to make it real in voice. But his critical eyes kept watch, watch for a sign of her weakness, something to single out and reprimand.
"Gladly." The Thunderwitch did him proud, whether through her hostility, her glare, her self-reliance. He could see that she would need help with that, and so he nodded, swung down to a heavy knee beside her and took the bandage in hand. A flourish, exaggerated, nearly lost him the bandage, but did not cow his enthusiasm.
Dordonii circled the cloth, made it tight, fastened it in place. The blood could only seep so far, and he smirked at their handiwork. "Yet another scar," and there was a bitterness there. "We don't have numbers, señorita, we have scars."
--
"… No shit." Cirucci forced out a laugh, and it sounded too loud, too harsh, too forced to her ears. She looked down, at a breast bandaged and hidden, wondered if she could keep it like that forever. But she couldn't she knew that, just as she knew she was tired of this act already.
"… I really hate you right now." She muttered, bitterly, angrily, but not really, act, act, act, force fire into eyes that wanted to dull over and gloss, into voice that wanted monotone, into body that wanted to sag under the weight of such shame, but couldn't, not with him, not with a Privaron who bore it so much better than she, who could accept it with more grace, more logic than she.
--
A chuckle, inappropriate but strong, rumbled out of the depths of his chest. Dordonii slid his hand over her head, an almost paternal pat, if a Privaron could be paternal. Ever the long-suffering elder, Dordonii agreed with a nod, "Of course, ah, ah, ah, I don't doubt it."
"You'll thank me, someday!" when you're older, only she wasn't younger, and if he seemed to bear the weight of their shame and rejection better, it was perhaps as much pretend as her putting back the number, when all it was was ink destined to scar over. And he felt no guilt, did not shy back to see her this way and swallow a lump to know it was he who had done it. No: it was prompt it, or feel the temptation himself. His heart, heartless space, was hard in the face of this.
--
She would never understand Dordonii. He was Privaron, too, but not the same as she. They were completely different people, different types and goals and minds and morals and everything in between, but more importantly, they were Privaron.
"Tch." Cirucci would never thank him for this, this, no, this was going to be that dark, secret shame she never spoke of again, slumping back onto his chest and closing her eyes with a sigh, soft escape of breath, eyes closing.
"No, I won't." And she wouldn't. She never would.
--
"Ungrateful," Dordonii said, did not quite spit it. His eyes narrowed; not quite a glare.
No, she would never thank him for this, and he understood, his head tilting, cocking again to the side, his shoulders lifting in a shrug that could not become as expressive as it might have, pulling up his arms, disregard, que sera sera, because his arms slid in response to her movement, cradled around her, accepting her weight. Leaving one arm wrapped so, he lifted his other, moving to graze the pad of his thumb over a mark on her cheek, flicking it up through a curl.
What will we do, Cirucci? He thought of asking it, opening his mouth and requesting the help. In this place, with our sorry selves. He shut his mouth, a click of his teeth, ran his tongue behind them. It didn't matter so much, right now.
--
"Brute," Cirucci shot back immediately, with a sigh again, was disgusted that she couldn't even muster the proper anger anymore at him, that it died with every emotion she'd had when she'd ripped that number from her breast.
But she nuzzled into the touch regardless, instinctual even, settling back against him and glad off him if only because her nerves had frayed so that she needed to sit and the floor did not seem so comfortable, eyes drifted shut and body slowly relaxing and sinking onto him as she drifted off.
If he had asked her, in that moment, what they would do, she would not have answered.
She would not have had an answer.)
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