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thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2007-12-22 06:25 am
thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-12-22 06:25 am
Log; Complete
When; Wed, Dec. 19th, midnight
Rating; R
Characters; Cirucci {![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttons}
Summary; With the long anticipated running out of a deity deal returning her to her heartless state, Cirucci couldn't help one more minor victory over the Quincy before she went to go take care of the one who'd given her a heart in the first place.
Log;
She had known immediately. She had felt it immediately.
Cirucci Thunderwitch’s eyes snapped open, the purple vibrant and unnatural, but not as unnatural as the hole in her breast. Slowly, nearly timid, the Arrancar’s hand rose, nails dug in to the bandages tight across her chest and pulled aside, ripped, until she felt the vacuum of space between her breasts.
Slowly, just as slowly, a wicked smile spread across her face. With a sense of sadistic purpose, she rose. The Quincy’s couch, that was where she was. Of course, it was where she had been the past week, no, more, fighting the emotions in her chest courtesy a heart that did not belong. Everything seemed so real now, as opposed to the blurry haze of life she’d been floating through.
And so she suppressed her reiatsu again, to the dim flicker flame she’d been forced to just moments before midnight on the second week, and crept into the bedroom down the hall. Her fingers were itching, and she slipped closer, until her hand hovered briefly over the Quincy’s neck.
She did not breathe.
>>>
Had she not suppressed her reiatsu, Ishida might have woken, alerted by his oversensitivity to the spiritual. It would have affected him physically, a quickening beat through his blood, pulsing through vessels that would pressure open his eyes, jolt his mind into a conscious beyond the sub, beyond sleep.
But Ishida had been asleep for at least an hour. He breathed, the moonlight dulled by a curtain pulled over the window, the thin sliver that pushed between the folds of cloth left a bright thread on his comforter that never reached his face. It looped over his wrist, that covered by the long sleeve of his pajama top. (Navy blue, with small, white quincy crosses patterned).
Had she breathed, he might have woken, but Ishida remained well asleep, deeply, his face untroubled, not stern, not a composed indifference, unmarked by lines or furrows of concentration. Just a boy, almost at peace.
>>>
Cirucci let out her breath, slow, so slow, and removed her hand from hovering so close to the delicate skin of his throat. There was a moment when it seemed like she would tighten, that her talons would dig in and simply rip into trachea and jugular, but with a shake of white skin she instead withdrew.
“Ishida.” She breathed, and her hand moved again. She leaned, situated herself on mattress edge and leaned over him, hair, down, falling loose about her face. Weary, almost, but softened by her emotional rollercoaster, in the way she had been forced soft.
Her hand moved to his neck again, but traced delicate along that windpipe, a shiver of motion in a sharp nail, in the bright glow of moonlight reflecting in her eyes, illuminating already pale figure.
>>>
As much as Ishida had set himself toward a certain perspective when it came to acting as a Quincy, war, a hard world, where mercy was absurd, he had hardly grown up in a war zone with his senses and nerves and body necessarily tuned to jump and leap, even in sleep, at the drop of a hat. She said his name in an exhale, she sat, the mattress mostly silent as her weight let it sag some toward her, or balance his.
And her nail began its path down his neck, the skin shifting, a little, as air moved through his windpipe. He felt it, sensory nerves transmitting the touch, and he stirred. It began in a short pull of breath, with a furrowing, the message hitting his brain like a tocsin. Eyelashes stuttered dark against his cheeks, the whites of his eyes showing first as they cracked open.
"Nn..." He woke faster once he could see, comprehending the meaning behind the blurred, shadow images his retinas read upside down. One hand jerked from beneath the cover, to grope on the bedside table for his glasses; the second moved to swipe hers away.
"Ci--Thunderwitch?"
>>>
“Ishida.” She repeated again, slowly, still damnably slow, withdrew her finger and hunched a little, forward, over him, to balance her arm thrown over his body to brace on the other side. How cruel of her, she was acting as she had this past week, the subdued state of affairs, the emotional look on her face, the conflicted twist to her lips, the digging in of her nails, her chest rebandaged to hide the hole and the snaps undone enough that the wrappings peaked out.
“I…” What an actress, in the dulcet tone, the apologetic lilt and crook of her own slim neck.
“… I didn’t mean to wake you.” She explained falsely, eyes lulled soft by the anticipation and the negative emotions thrumming in her breast.
>>>
Without knowing the precise date that she would lose her heart, he couldn't know. Ishida, though now instinctively suspicious of her, had little reason to believe that this little show wasn't genuine. It helped that he was still drowsy, his glasses sliding over his nose, lenses brining a kind of clarity to her dark outline, her tortured expression. His eyes darted to where her arm arced over his body, back to her face.
Even through his grogginess, irritation flashed, like the hissing of a cat, hair raising on its back, lifting his voice into that indignant notch. "You didn't mean to wake me?" He echoed, almost pressing his hand to his head in aggravation. Ishida shifted, the heels of his hands now against the sheets, to try and push himself into a seated position.
"You didn't -- no, first, get off my bed, then maybe I'll begin to tell you why that's not the first thing wrong here. You might reassure me that this is the first time you've done this while you move."
>>>
“Oh-“ How annoying, how annoying, how annoying, but her act didn’t falter, she made a frown, a purse of her lips, as if caught in the wrong and ashamed of herself, slowly still backed away, slipped off his bed to her knees beside the frame, looking sufficiently chastised with an “I’m sorry” murmured quiet.
“It’s not like I-“ The Privaron managed an affronted look, at the accusation that she could have done this before, such a thing, a small flush barely visible in the moonlight, bare legs pale, inwardly praising herself for such good acting skills.
“… I couldn’t sleep.” She finished lamely.
>>>
Upright, with the woman off his bed, Ishida felt more at ease. If only by a margin. The tension build in his shoulders had loosened, at least, though not by much. He looked down at her, his look vague by the shadows, sharpening as his eyes adjusted to the dark, but also stern. That she knelt there, looking like that at him, made him again uncomfortable.
It annoyed him that he should have to feel that, in his own room. He really hoped she'd lose her heart soon. Her moving to the ground had let him observe that she only wore his shirt now (snap-up), had discarded the pants, and he was glad for the dark, for the time to fight the blush, and a thought that flattered her legs.
Exasperation assisted the fight. "You couldn't sleep," a flatline repetition. "...That isn't my problem."
"What are you doing?" To business! He gestured at her, where she knelt. "It isn't my problem and you have no right to my room. Get out and try harder. ...Take an ..." A yawn, and he rubbed a finger beneath his eye, "aspirin."
>>>
She pursed her lips, hung back, shrinking under his tired beration of her behavior, shrinking as she had from everything over the past two weeks, over emotions, over guilt, over every little thing that had seemed so consequential, so worth being upset over, that now merely disgusted her.
“… I had a question.” Cirucci whispered soft and low, her fingers tangling in his sheet, hesitantly leaning forward, closer, a sort of female desperation and altogether sort of innocence, twisted and warped.
“… What’s it like to be in love?”
>>>
This couldn't wait for the morning? Surprise kept him from asking that outright, though after his eyes had recovered from their brief widening, they spoke it in the skeptical slant of his eyebrows. Though closer, she hadn't leaned enough for him to squirm, or to feel obliged to scoot or edge back, and Ishida remained still. He wanted to drop his hand, to free his sheets from her grasp.
But, he didn't give much thought to her question, the finger that rubbed becoming a bent wrist, pushing at the rectangular frame of his glasses.
"I don't know," he replied, tone casual and irritated. "I'm sure I've told you that. Ask Alfons in the morning." Let me get back to sleep.
>>>
“But-“ She let emotion play on her face, let fear and rejection and betrayal and pain flit across her features.
“I don’t want to ask him. He wants me to love him, and I don’t-“ Her voice hurt, from being so emotional when she felt none of it, when she leaned up again.
“No, I do-“ Cirucci was acting flighty, and there it was, when she suddenly reached up and her hand went to his neck, to feel the delicate pulse pulse in his veins, when her knees found the bedframe then the mattress again, and her lips found his, a frantic, emotional action, tremulous and tender, though in her mind all that was left was cold and calculating, and an excitement thrumming through her own veins, of thrumming wicked and sadistic, testing, testing, one, two, three.
>>>
"Thun-" her hand found his neck and shock shut his mouth, just in time for her kiss. If he hadn't been entirely awake before, he was now, now too alert to the cold pressure of her fingers on his rapidly heating neck, the slump of the mattress to her knees, the beginning of her thighs beneath his (thankfully) long shirt. Again his eyes were wide, the white almost bright in the dark room, but his hand had frozen on her wrist, where it had closed to pull, but his muscles never began the motion.
Awake, disoriented, but the Thunderwitch hadn't been a monster this past week, and what had made her disagreeable hadn't been anything but what made humans repulsive. Ishida was out of practice with thinking her a monster, had been knowingly a fool to let her stay, to open himself to softening toward her, to letting her curl up in one corner of his couch while he showed her action movies and fed her caramel popcorn and talked to her about styles of direction. And she was beautiful, and he was lonely, a teenager. He thought to tell her, this isn't love.
A moment passed in which Ishida didn't move, but it passed, and his fingers slid on her wrist, and his eyes closed as he kissed her.
>>>
Cirucci was undoubtedly a good kisser. She had been twisting men around her little fingers since before Ishida had been born, and she had planned to continue it long after he was gone, before her death so rudely interrupted that. But she was a good one nonetheless, because no one would use a whore who couldn’t even kiss, all passion and warmth, with a quiet noise of breathy moan slipped in between the touch of lips.
She didn’t close her eyes, she never did, because that would be vulnerable and like this she was not, no, she was finally in control, and she could thank Alfons for that heart if only because it had unwittingly given her more power over the one she both hated and wanted most.
The Thunderwitch let her chest heave, out of the breath she didn’t necessarily need but continued to draw out of force of habit, slowly broke from him, just slightly, a small breath again, and a querying look, soft and hesitant, looking to him for reaction, her fingers reaching, grasping.
>>>
In direct contrast, Ishida had little to no experience with kissing. Aside from the curse with Light, his experience revolved around resisting the Thunderwitch's violent previous attention. He understood the theory behind it, had imagined a few scenes with a certain classmate, but had no actual experience. But his uncertainty wouldn't have lasted long, the hesitation behind it, if because of hormones or his own unshakable pride, a confidence that lingered even beneath insecurities.
When she broke it, his eyes opened, and he didn't even berate himself for having closed them. Breathless and stupid, his heart beat loudly in his ears, his eyes moved quickly. To her knees, to the proximity of her mouth, to her fingers, which his met, not to lace together but to clasp her hand from the side and look at it, dumb.
He could still feel her on his mouth. Ishida wanted to kiss her, the intensity of it hit him like a solid force, like a clenching in his gut and the way his heart pushed and pushed the blood through his body. He shook his head, because his mind knew, knew better if it didn't suspect.
"You shouldn't," he began, trying to look at her and see only her eyes, to be direct, unyielding in one rejecting way. "You shouldn't," but he licked his lips, and that was the mistake, where the blue of his eyes darkened, and the directness of his gaze changed into something greedy. Later, he could blame it on midnight.
Ishida took the initiative and leaned, pressing his mouth to hers, and he wasn't uncertain.
>>>
“I’ve…” Ooooh, it was so hard to act like this when she was winning, when he initiated and she gave a small noise into his moth, so hard to act so soft when she had this sudden urge to rip his throat out, to go through with it, but he’d just come back, so a death… in this place, was worthless. She had become accustomed to settling for dominion over others as opposed to just killing them, which was so superficial here.
“I’ve done lots of things I shouldn’t, Ishida…” She broke a bit, to whisper husky, to explain, with softened eyes and call him Ishida, not Shiro-Megane-Kun.
“And I don’t think-“ She was manipulative, in the way her fingers pulled across his skin, her other hand down his throat to chest, in the way her hips levered up and she leaned forward, each word punctuated by a soft fluttering of her mouth against him, his, cheek and jawline.
“And I want…” The Privaron whined quietly into his ear, a wicked smirk hidden there.
>>>
"Yes," he agreed, his whisper urgent and impatient, needing for this, for the words and talking to be finished, less of this sound and more of that which she had pressed into his lips. She'd done plenty of things she should've have, if "shouldn't" even applied to Arrancar, but the last thing Ishida wanted was to be reminded of what she was.
Her words stirred his mind, even as his eyes were almost black, hungry on hers, or her hips, her thighs, the way his shirt hung on her body. He should, the way should applied to him, Ishida, focus on those words, and let the meaning take him to logic and withdrawal, but her touch, her mouth made it difficult, as his breath became shallow, quick.
"You don't," he shivered, forced himself to say. They were distracted words; his hand fell, slid over her knee, and he shivered again to drag his palm up, over her thigh, a searching caress. "You don't, this isn't…"
Before this, before this forcing himself to think, he should have thought, perhaps, of Orihime, he should have felt guilty. Not that, if he loved her, he let himself think it. He thought of her briefly, now, but it wasn't really because of her that he went on, reluctant, his words hollow as his hands touched.
"This isn't, you don't love me. I don't love you." There. And he shouldn't, the words opened the second gate, and his brow furrowed, he couldn't let her do this while she had a heart. Ishida pulled back, reluctant and aroused.
>>>
His inexperienced, clumsy teenage boy touches weren’t enough to wrest the noises she made for him out of her lips, but she let them, let her skin, where she was soft, tremble under his touch, shiver and quake. A small little moan, encouraging,
“I do.” She whispered, and when he recoiled she followed, straddled his hips and brushed, a grind too much for him right now so simply brushed friction to him and the little need in her voice, sincerity and honesty. Because, honestly, she would love to fuck him, because it would be owning him, to make him want her like that, this was intoxicating to her, to have him wanting her.
“Please,” Her hand on her heart, where one had been and where he thought one still lay, underneath the bandages, and her lips caressed, nipped after his, the intentional drag back of her shoulders to burst the top snaps of his shirt, a lusty rub on to him, in the skillful way she managed to unintentionally brush her breasts to his chest, her hips to his, her hair to his cheek and her mouth to his.
>>>
Had he been thinking clearly, Ishida might have analyzed the situation well enough to know that it was impossible. His inexperience could never make one such as her react like that, but then, such a conclusion was too disagreeable to his pride. He should have known better than this, but his body wanted it.
"You don't," he said, the words a struggle, because he'd forgotten to breathe at all as she straddled him, her legs over his, her body close, logical protest dissolving into incoherent half-thoughts against the layers of fabric between them. Sensory overload; if he did not touch her again, it was because there was too much to touch, hair and hips and breasts, shoulders, skin, thighs, cheek, neck, ears, the joints of her fingers. He shook and stilled, blushed and swallowed, and lusted, lusted, his hips moving, less awkward, not that jerk of restraint she had once teased.
Ishida slid his hand on her leg again, his skin rough with calluses and his touch not gentle, cupping over her rear and looping his thumb beneath the waistband of her panties. His mouth met hers, open, because he'd meant to say no, and did say, "You," before he kissed her, instead, not as hard as he wanted, and raised his other hand to push back her hair, let it fall between his fingers, silky and fragrant.
Covers, and sheets, and thick cotton pajamas, and he was increasingly uncomfortable. He broke the kiss, shaking his head, but not letting go of hers. "You don't, and we—shouldn't, you don't know what you want, like this, you're just … confused."
He spoke, in a breathless, recalcitrant whisper, and combed her hair back, behind her ear, savored its texture, trailed his fingers over her ear and down her neck, to the exposure of her collarbone, back to her hair.
>>>
If men knew better once she had made them want her, Cirucci Thunderwitch would be nowhere near as good as she was at playing them. No, she was good at making them want her, and then good at what followed, at manipulating to get what she wanted, whether it involved sexual favors or other things, it didn’t matter, as long as she could secure some measure of anything out of it. And this? This was for the ultimate victory, to break his spirit, that pride of his. She could only begin to imagine how ashamed he would feel, if he coupled with an Arrancar, and thought of his humiliation, of everyone knowing how weak he had been, sent a thrill up her spine that translated into a wriggle, to excitement and to a press of tongue against his open mouthed kiss, a hot tangle of warmth and flesh and saliva before he pulled away for that stupid protesting.
“Shh…” Cirucci whispered with a coy little smile, just for him, soft and pliable, in the way she arched into the touch of his hand, fingers against undergarments, quivered and dragged their chests together, her fleeting, teasing kisses on his mouth as she hushed him, and his protests.
Small hands crept down the plane of his chest, thumbs skimmed waistband and she nudged, toyed with his arousal to banish all other thought from his mind along with the nuzzle into his hand, the way she tipped her head back to his touch and breathed unsteadily, letting out a quaking breath and baring her slim neck, eyes half-closed and his name mouthed out.
One more push, she knew, and she slipped a hand back to begin undoing the snaps down his shirt, baring the bandages that his some of her breasts, but mostly the hollow hole and her shameful scar, another hand coming to clasp the back of his head, to run finges through his own and needily arch to him, on him, against him, and acting became her existence in that place, in this situation, wanting so bad to be wanted.
>>>
That smile, did she smile for him? Did it match the turmoil of her expression minutes before, this shift into confidence? His mind fought for reason, to reason, for something to spark in his eyes beneath the heavy shade of lust that obscured the flaws in this, what he needed to pluck from the angle of her mouth and twine around his fingers, make into barbed wire. She wouldn't always have a heart. She wasn't her, with warm-colored hair and a warmer smile, and he didn't love her, he only wanted her, and he didn't believe in that.
Ishida tried to protest, again, but it was better to let her kiss him, to shudder when their chests met and his skin burned, and he ached, made blind and thoughtless with a little, panted groan when she nudged him. Inexperience made him dumb, her attention overwhelmed, made him clumsy and slow, and flattered, where thoughts had dissipated into raw instinct.
"No," he gasped, into her mouth. The word acted as remnant; his eyes hadn't closed but fixed on her breasts, and he blushed but was past blushing, blood rushing below his face, the burning heat less concentrated in his neck. With the bandages, she might've been wearing an extremely low-cut top, because they covered nipple, and it was frustrating. Trailing his fingers over her hips, he dragged his hand down from her hair, cupping his palm in brief over one breast before sliding it, along bandage, under her arm, to her back, feeling out the wound.
His mouth sought hers, his tongue, as Ishida was a quick learner. But his hand spidered toward where his arrow had pierced her, the white wrappings reminding him, not a push toward guilt but a strange interest, a need that pulsed in his gut, in his groin where he pushed desperate against her. A need, to see where he had marked her, to feel where his arrow had pierced, to press his tongue to clotting blood and his residual reiatsu in her.
>>>
Inwardly, Cirucci was calculating, and she was winning. If she was only capable of displaying on her face what she was thinking, then her mouth wouldn’t be that attractive pout on full lips, no, it would be a wicked snarl stretched thin with insanity and a twisted sense of entitlement. His shame, his helplessness, that blatant want in the sound of his voice, all of it was owed to her and she would enjoy every minute of it, did, the sound of the groan he gave made her breathe tremulously, excited more by his want, which was shameful enough, to want someone like her, than by his physical reactions, by the ones he sought to pull from her.
“Please?” She begged soft, into his mouth in response to no, accompanied by the best of woman’s insistence, by the soft, no, hard, changing fluidly between the two, grinding against his hips, her hands falling to beg with her voice, not above begging when it suited her. To work the snaps down his shirt, to caress down the skin she bared.
“I- My… heart…” Cirucci Thunderwitch pretended flawlessly, in the sudden hitch in her voice and arch of her back when his questing fingers found the wound, pressed, in his haze, too hard. And while like this, hierro skinned, it barely registered, she with a heart had been so much weaker, hurt more easily, and a short whine escaped her throat in protest, a little wince and soft, soft, whimper, using it as an excuse to try and draw his hand from her breasts, from the bandages that covered proof that she was lying wholly to him.
“Hurts-“ She whispered hoarsely, intentionally ambiguous on whether she meant his touch or her heart, hazed her purple eyes with lust and ground a bit harder in retaliation, flattered and incensed in the manner which she spoke, moved, worked. She prided herself, as perverse as it was, on her skills in the bedroom. Espada were less likely to kill a useful woman, after all, and she had liked living, was prideful, but still wouldn’t die for something she could easily avoid simply by rolling over.
“… please?” Repeated weakly, not giving him chance to protest or pull fully away from her, inviting him in the arch of her spine, bared curves marred only by bandage, pale flesh with the lightest hint of flush and proof, where she rubbed against his hips, of consent, of mutual arousal.
It was just hard to tell she would get off easier on his pain and shame than his own satisfaction.
>>>
No, but his mouth couldn't form the word, his vocal chords preoccupied with another groan as she ground and his hips met hers, a dry thrust between fabric layers. The cooler air against his exposed chest lifted hair, where the only scar he bore was the one given by Ryuuken's arrow, the stomach ordeal erased by Orihime's gift. His skin drew back from her touch, into muscle and uneven breathing. He remembered the sound of his name, whispered like that, in her voice, and almost lost. Her name was forced hoarse and willing, willing and reluctant, from his breathless mouth, not Thunderwitch, but Cirucci.
His fingers eased at the whimper, conquering a brief war; a surge, a brief thrill, at the sound, at the way her voice had changed when his fingers pressed his mark. Disgust with that (himself) and concern for her suppressed it and with it the intensity of his touch. But they stayed, circling the wound, callused tips spreading over and beyond the bandage, experimenting.
Losing and inexperienced, Ishida sucked in a desperate breath, shaking in his wrists and tensed shoulders as the pressure built and hurt, hurt to see all that skin, he couldn't begin to touch it all, feel it, memorize it like a masterwork pattern, to recall in precise stitches and clear whites, depthless black, velvet violets. He didn't love her, but he kissed down her chin, to her neck, to breathe and close his eyes and shudder as he thrust and tried to resist, and his hand flattened, fingers spreading, palm hard against her back as he focused – palm hard, and it pressed, onto bandage and
… hollow. He felt his eyes open, opening, lids pushing far into sockets before he could see it, see were curls of her hair brushed against his nose. Ishida exhaled.
>>>
Cirucci was not stupid. She had thought about this, in the short space between couch and the boy’s bedroom. She was a capable actress, and to act as if she had not known about that, to try and insinuate she was just as capable of these emotions while heartless would not have been hard for her. The problem lay in her reiatsu, for it had surged back to her with her return to this incomplete state, to this lacking body missing the core heart and left with nothing of love and affection and kindness. Because she had to suppress her reiatsu to even begin to get this close to him, she had known the moment he discovered the hole through her chest the game was up.
She had won, but not as wholly as she’d wished. She wouldn’t force him, though she could if she moved quickly, so much stronger physically than a human was. Because there was no victory in that, no, the victory here was in that she had, through no force, made him want her.
“Uryu…” The Thunderwitch moaned out, and in no part because her Hollow hole was deathly sensitive, and the touch of fingers, the movement of bandages scraping rim made her shudder and jerk up, drag hips across his in involuntary reaction to the pleasurable stimulus, the first truly unexaggerated voicing she had given him in that breathy name, in the further whimper of disappointment that her game was up.
But she continued her act, just to see, just to see even though she knew she had not made him fall so far as to be able to consummate anything with an Arrancar, with a woman who had a hole through her chest, with one who felt no guilt for killing, no remorse and no love. But even with that, she was a sensuous and selfish woman, and she was unwilling to give up her own pleasure in the moment, in the pleased twitches in her thighs as she jerked into his fingers, her own clutched, on shoulder and back of shirt, as she jerked onto him only to steal one last frantic kiss, press of lip and tongue, before his brain caught up with his hands and the little moans from sensitive reitsu charged skin.
>>>
And Ishida inhaled, slow, through his nostrils, inhaling the scent of her, of her neck, damp with perspiration or his saliva. His palm pressed, his fingers, and the wrappings caved into air, into space, into the hole that made a hollow. Despite himself, he had to, wryly.
Ishida smiled.
Too much. Like her body, stretched out, near bare, before his eyes. Like her body, on his, skin and pressing, pushing, insistent pressure that moved, incited, left a twitch in his fingers, in his pained arousal. Like the shame, the disgust, whatever emotion washed over him first and clenched in his gut that he told himself must be disgust, if only to deny that she was still beautiful, and his body recoiled but wanted, hating and hungering for a monster. He should never have let her stay; he was a fool, and Ishida smiled for it. His eyes too wide, and closed, and too wide, narrowed. He was weak to his name, flustered, shocked into a rigid come down but unable to stop his hips from jerking.
But when she kissed him, his mouth was closed, his eyes narrowed, hard, blank. His hands fell, and moved between them, and Ishida ignored his discomfort to pull back, tilt back his chin. He let his pendant catch the thin moonlight, and tasting her on his mouth (not licking, not), said, once he had breath, hoarsely, quietly, firmly:
"Get out, or you'll regret it."
Almost, get out or I'll kill you, but even through the rage that made him quiver differently than he had only moments before, he could see, identify what that sort of threat would signify, shame leading to over-compensation.
>>>
What a shame.
The Thunderwitch smiled in turn, not even wicked so much as indulgent, slowly pulling away from him, a disgustingly benevolent look on her face, chest still moving in erratic, not quite shallow breath, a residual flush and tint of sweat, that not quite gone haze of lust in violet eyes.
“I should have known you wouldn’t like that time of reimbursement. Or reward.” She murmured smoothly as she moved just as much like that, in the fluid uncurling of long legs, arms, stretching out lazily before casually redoing the snaps up his shirt, how kind of her, how twistedly kind to do that for him. Because just losing the finality here didn’t mean she still didn’t plan to get it later, and there was no reason to sabotage her efforts by lashing out.
“Mind if I borrow this? My uniform’s bloody and ripped.” She hadn’t looked at it since Nnoitra had ripped it to expose the smooth expanse of flesh down a chest that vainly protected a beating heart. But she discarded the wrappings, withdrew, kind, so kind or her, to the far foot of his bed to do it, talon simply ripping them, petting fondly, briefly, at the proof of her existence before she folded the wrappings and left them, standing and stretching again, letting her reiatsu flare out all at once in a smile of satisfaction and a quick shiver of happiness as moonlight played across bare legs and her back.
“You know, Ishida.” She spoke as she did up her hair, facing away from him. “I’m proud of you. Not many can resist.”
>>>
As if to speak normally, as if what had happened had not happened. It meant nothing; two could play at that game. Ishida did not shrug physically, but his voice held that type of dismissal, a struggle, with his body as it was – it was experience in playing that let him do it, even if the look in her eyes left him ill.
"I've no interest in rewards, you might have asked." His lip curled, a kind of spasm, the lone sign of his revulsion in her generous attention to his shirt. But to really recoil would, again, give another kind of advantage; Ishida could play this game, too, he was a terribly fast learner after all. Again, his voice shrugged, an indifference he didn't feel. Detaching, he pulled himself from the reality of this, the sweat on the small of his back, the throb of his arousal.
"You've borrowed it this long, what's another day?" He looked to the window, the pulled curtain. Not at her, not as her listened to the bandages rip, fold, and felt the sudden force of her spirit pressure.
His teeth grit, ground together, bone on bone like their hips had if inhibited by fabric and skin. He resisted the memory. Resist. To be compared to that kind of lot? Ishida nearly sneered. "I'm also not interested in your pride."
>>>
“It was a little spur of the moment. Remember, you talked about debt, and how I wouldn’t want to be indebted to you, well, you were right~” Cirucci giggled, “It’s how I pay my debts, usually,” shrugged her shoulders, and turned to look at him, even if he wouldn’t look at her, with the somewhat bruised appearance of her mouth, the still dazed look in her eyes.
“I’ll give it back, of course.” To assure she was not so obsessive as to keep his shirt, though honestly, when the Shiro-Megane-Kun was concerned, obsessive could most definitely be used.
“I told you I was invested.” Invested in his defeat of the Octava Espada, but, of course, only to save her own pride, for at least if he won against him she could say, well, the human boy who took me down only could because he was strong enough to take one of them, the accused new Espada, down.
“… Damn it.” She couldn’t help a little teasing, though, smoothing down his shirt and shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot, hips wriggling a little and a pout, reaching down to check. “Look what you did.” A little chastisement, for leaving a woman wanting was such a shame, more a shame when the woman was her and she now had no one to go back too for that. None she wanted, anyway.
>>>
Perhaps he would replace the curtains. With the snow outside, with the white paint on the walls, white curtains had been a little too much, even with the pale blue stitching. She spoke of debts, and Ishida left his hands at his sides, palms flat against the disturbed sheets, fingers twitching now and again with the urge to dip into his lap, to stroke.
Ishida nodded; she would give it back. He couldn't let her keep anything of his. Perhaps he'd throw out that jar in the freezer. With Doumeki moving in, the last thing he wanted – well, Doumeki wouldn't ask questions. His arm moved, raised his wrist, his fingers to adjust his glasses, close now to falling off his face. She was invested; he only just swallowed a sqwaking exclamation, an indignant, flustered, protest of her investment. He wasn't a fucking stock.
"You'll take the blame for that," He said, finally, having let the rest hang and dissolve into his silence, unanswered. A beat, two of his heart but one of his clock, and Ishida wiped his mouth with his still-aloft wrist. "Get out."
>>>
“Oh, please.” She smirked, wriggled a bit to settle her hips and did up the last snap on the shirt, finished pinning up her hair to bare her thin neck and the sheen of sweat in back, a gentle teasing tone. “I wasn’t working myself off, you know.” But she didn’t press it further than that, was completely happy with this small victory, battle, not the war, but she was quite confidant she could win the war, too.
“But, really.” Cirucci paused, to add weight to her words, shift hips and smoothed down the shirt again, over the hint of rear and tops of thighs. “You’re not half bad, for a human male. I imagine you’re quite considerate, in that way. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find some nice human female and settle down and have a family, hmm?” Another pause, and she looked up, then back at him, a smile, not a smirk,”
“You make good popcorn, too. Even though I really don’t like human food.”
>>>
Curtains. His instinct was to veer toward blue, but given how much of his color scheme already contained white and blue, he wondered if he shouldn't experiment a little. The trick, of course, would be finding a color that worked with the existing scheme; he may need to settle for blue. His ears picked up the vibrations of the snaps, his eyes were glad for the certain, lest she be reflected in the window.
He tensed, almost imperceptibly, going rigid along his shoulders, down his back, knots of tissue, clenching in his jaw. Popcorn wasn't difficult to make, and she spoke of a nice human female, a family, as if if she had her way, she would corrupt it for him. Ishida refused; refused, when he left this City, he would strike her from memory, and she would be powerless against it. Now this, from her? He didn't need it from her, her compliments, her false appreciation. Ishida could have said it, all of it, and spent those words, but he was tired, and he was impatient, and sick of himself for both. His fingers twitched; when he put down his hand, it was hard, hard to keep it against the sheets. Ishida looked at her, finally, though the motion of his chin, turning on his neck, was stiff and slow. Cold eyes, even not atypical irritation restrained.
"I won't repeat myself again."
>>>
“Mm, right, right.” Cirucci murmured dismissively, and in return for his cold and stiff she gave warm and soft, if only to ingrain that image of her in his mind, the soft, the touch, warmth, little noises and the feel of her. She had quite the idea how hard to forget that would be, especially for such an inexperienced mortal male.
“Ah-“ She paused, halfway out the door, small hand hovering over doorframe before she suddenly repressed her reiatsu once more with a wince, it was painful to do it for long, but she wasn’t about to risk Nnoitra catching wind and bargaining on the likelihood of how bored or malicious he could be feeling.
“… Thanks.” She muttered. “For watching me.” Rather, for putting up with her, nursing, for not babying when she cried, for being cold and reserved when he could to remind her how pathetic emotions were.
Not to mention she’d almost developed, over the past two weeks, this disgusting habit of saying it automatically.
>>>
Suspecting, knowing her intention didn't prevent her success; this kind of attack was one Ishida had only a beginner's experience in repelling, and to forget it would be difficult if not impossible. Fury, shame, disgust with not only the Arrancar; these stirred beneath his skin, alongside his impatience, concealed until her departure. After his behavior, it was all he had, that small pride.
Her gratitude was a surprise; he could have dismissed it as a trick, but her attitude in it was different. Still, there was little reason for him to treat her unlike anyone else, even if unlike his words, there was plenty need for it. "There's no need for gratitude," he said, toneless.
The words were reflexive and insincere. Looking at her for too long he couldn't, wouldn't do, where her fingers curled thin over the frame, where he could feel the ghost of their contact in his hair, against his skin, the suggestion of her body beneath his shirt. His gaze if not his attention returned to the window; self-controlled until the front door clicked closed and he could submit, revolted, to relief.
>>>
Cirucci smiled, and tossed her head, almost laughing. How very like her Shiro-Megane-Kun, her Shiro-Megane-Kun, to still try and be so proud. She liked that in him, because the only things she liked in others were the things resembling herself, since the 105th Privaron Espada truly loved, truly loved only herself.
With a last shrug, she left, padded down the hall and recovered the tattered uniform, her boots, gloves, stockings, frowned disdainfully at the dried blood. Made way to the kitchen, then, and peaked into the freezer, let a little smile flit across her lips at the sight of a familiar gift.
Cirucci Thunderwitch let herself out and closed the door, and didn’t think twice to regret anything she’d done. If the hole had still been filled, with muscle, with flesh, with a beating organ, perhaps, then, she would have recognized a twinge in her heart.
Rating; R
Characters; Cirucci {
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttons}Summary; With the long anticipated running out of a deity deal returning her to her heartless state, Cirucci couldn't help one more minor victory over the Quincy before she went to go take care of the one who'd given her a heart in the first place.
Log;
She had known immediately. She had felt it immediately.
Cirucci Thunderwitch’s eyes snapped open, the purple vibrant and unnatural, but not as unnatural as the hole in her breast. Slowly, nearly timid, the Arrancar’s hand rose, nails dug in to the bandages tight across her chest and pulled aside, ripped, until she felt the vacuum of space between her breasts.
Slowly, just as slowly, a wicked smile spread across her face. With a sense of sadistic purpose, she rose. The Quincy’s couch, that was where she was. Of course, it was where she had been the past week, no, more, fighting the emotions in her chest courtesy a heart that did not belong. Everything seemed so real now, as opposed to the blurry haze of life she’d been floating through.
And so she suppressed her reiatsu again, to the dim flicker flame she’d been forced to just moments before midnight on the second week, and crept into the bedroom down the hall. Her fingers were itching, and she slipped closer, until her hand hovered briefly over the Quincy’s neck.
She did not breathe.
>>>
Had she not suppressed her reiatsu, Ishida might have woken, alerted by his oversensitivity to the spiritual. It would have affected him physically, a quickening beat through his blood, pulsing through vessels that would pressure open his eyes, jolt his mind into a conscious beyond the sub, beyond sleep.
But Ishida had been asleep for at least an hour. He breathed, the moonlight dulled by a curtain pulled over the window, the thin sliver that pushed between the folds of cloth left a bright thread on his comforter that never reached his face. It looped over his wrist, that covered by the long sleeve of his pajama top. (Navy blue, with small, white quincy crosses patterned).
Had she breathed, he might have woken, but Ishida remained well asleep, deeply, his face untroubled, not stern, not a composed indifference, unmarked by lines or furrows of concentration. Just a boy, almost at peace.
>>>
Cirucci let out her breath, slow, so slow, and removed her hand from hovering so close to the delicate skin of his throat. There was a moment when it seemed like she would tighten, that her talons would dig in and simply rip into trachea and jugular, but with a shake of white skin she instead withdrew.
“Ishida.” She breathed, and her hand moved again. She leaned, situated herself on mattress edge and leaned over him, hair, down, falling loose about her face. Weary, almost, but softened by her emotional rollercoaster, in the way she had been forced soft.
Her hand moved to his neck again, but traced delicate along that windpipe, a shiver of motion in a sharp nail, in the bright glow of moonlight reflecting in her eyes, illuminating already pale figure.
>>>
As much as Ishida had set himself toward a certain perspective when it came to acting as a Quincy, war, a hard world, where mercy was absurd, he had hardly grown up in a war zone with his senses and nerves and body necessarily tuned to jump and leap, even in sleep, at the drop of a hat. She said his name in an exhale, she sat, the mattress mostly silent as her weight let it sag some toward her, or balance his.
And her nail began its path down his neck, the skin shifting, a little, as air moved through his windpipe. He felt it, sensory nerves transmitting the touch, and he stirred. It began in a short pull of breath, with a furrowing, the message hitting his brain like a tocsin. Eyelashes stuttered dark against his cheeks, the whites of his eyes showing first as they cracked open.
"Nn..." He woke faster once he could see, comprehending the meaning behind the blurred, shadow images his retinas read upside down. One hand jerked from beneath the cover, to grope on the bedside table for his glasses; the second moved to swipe hers away.
"Ci--Thunderwitch?"
>>>
“Ishida.” She repeated again, slowly, still damnably slow, withdrew her finger and hunched a little, forward, over him, to balance her arm thrown over his body to brace on the other side. How cruel of her, she was acting as she had this past week, the subdued state of affairs, the emotional look on her face, the conflicted twist to her lips, the digging in of her nails, her chest rebandaged to hide the hole and the snaps undone enough that the wrappings peaked out.
“I…” What an actress, in the dulcet tone, the apologetic lilt and crook of her own slim neck.
“… I didn’t mean to wake you.” She explained falsely, eyes lulled soft by the anticipation and the negative emotions thrumming in her breast.
>>>
Without knowing the precise date that she would lose her heart, he couldn't know. Ishida, though now instinctively suspicious of her, had little reason to believe that this little show wasn't genuine. It helped that he was still drowsy, his glasses sliding over his nose, lenses brining a kind of clarity to her dark outline, her tortured expression. His eyes darted to where her arm arced over his body, back to her face.
Even through his grogginess, irritation flashed, like the hissing of a cat, hair raising on its back, lifting his voice into that indignant notch. "You didn't mean to wake me?" He echoed, almost pressing his hand to his head in aggravation. Ishida shifted, the heels of his hands now against the sheets, to try and push himself into a seated position.
"You didn't -- no, first, get off my bed, then maybe I'll begin to tell you why that's not the first thing wrong here. You might reassure me that this is the first time you've done this while you move."
>>>
“Oh-“ How annoying, how annoying, how annoying, but her act didn’t falter, she made a frown, a purse of her lips, as if caught in the wrong and ashamed of herself, slowly still backed away, slipped off his bed to her knees beside the frame, looking sufficiently chastised with an “I’m sorry” murmured quiet.
“It’s not like I-“ The Privaron managed an affronted look, at the accusation that she could have done this before, such a thing, a small flush barely visible in the moonlight, bare legs pale, inwardly praising herself for such good acting skills.
“… I couldn’t sleep.” She finished lamely.
>>>
Upright, with the woman off his bed, Ishida felt more at ease. If only by a margin. The tension build in his shoulders had loosened, at least, though not by much. He looked down at her, his look vague by the shadows, sharpening as his eyes adjusted to the dark, but also stern. That she knelt there, looking like that at him, made him again uncomfortable.
It annoyed him that he should have to feel that, in his own room. He really hoped she'd lose her heart soon. Her moving to the ground had let him observe that she only wore his shirt now (snap-up), had discarded the pants, and he was glad for the dark, for the time to fight the blush, and a thought that flattered her legs.
Exasperation assisted the fight. "You couldn't sleep," a flatline repetition. "...That isn't my problem."
"What are you doing?" To business! He gestured at her, where she knelt. "It isn't my problem and you have no right to my room. Get out and try harder. ...Take an ..." A yawn, and he rubbed a finger beneath his eye, "aspirin."
>>>
She pursed her lips, hung back, shrinking under his tired beration of her behavior, shrinking as she had from everything over the past two weeks, over emotions, over guilt, over every little thing that had seemed so consequential, so worth being upset over, that now merely disgusted her.
“… I had a question.” Cirucci whispered soft and low, her fingers tangling in his sheet, hesitantly leaning forward, closer, a sort of female desperation and altogether sort of innocence, twisted and warped.
“… What’s it like to be in love?”
>>>
This couldn't wait for the morning? Surprise kept him from asking that outright, though after his eyes had recovered from their brief widening, they spoke it in the skeptical slant of his eyebrows. Though closer, she hadn't leaned enough for him to squirm, or to feel obliged to scoot or edge back, and Ishida remained still. He wanted to drop his hand, to free his sheets from her grasp.
But, he didn't give much thought to her question, the finger that rubbed becoming a bent wrist, pushing at the rectangular frame of his glasses.
"I don't know," he replied, tone casual and irritated. "I'm sure I've told you that. Ask Alfons in the morning." Let me get back to sleep.
>>>
“But-“ She let emotion play on her face, let fear and rejection and betrayal and pain flit across her features.
“I don’t want to ask him. He wants me to love him, and I don’t-“ Her voice hurt, from being so emotional when she felt none of it, when she leaned up again.
“No, I do-“ Cirucci was acting flighty, and there it was, when she suddenly reached up and her hand went to his neck, to feel the delicate pulse pulse in his veins, when her knees found the bedframe then the mattress again, and her lips found his, a frantic, emotional action, tremulous and tender, though in her mind all that was left was cold and calculating, and an excitement thrumming through her own veins, of thrumming wicked and sadistic, testing, testing, one, two, three.
>>>
"Thun-" her hand found his neck and shock shut his mouth, just in time for her kiss. If he hadn't been entirely awake before, he was now, now too alert to the cold pressure of her fingers on his rapidly heating neck, the slump of the mattress to her knees, the beginning of her thighs beneath his (thankfully) long shirt. Again his eyes were wide, the white almost bright in the dark room, but his hand had frozen on her wrist, where it had closed to pull, but his muscles never began the motion.
Awake, disoriented, but the Thunderwitch hadn't been a monster this past week, and what had made her disagreeable hadn't been anything but what made humans repulsive. Ishida was out of practice with thinking her a monster, had been knowingly a fool to let her stay, to open himself to softening toward her, to letting her curl up in one corner of his couch while he showed her action movies and fed her caramel popcorn and talked to her about styles of direction. And she was beautiful, and he was lonely, a teenager. He thought to tell her, this isn't love.
A moment passed in which Ishida didn't move, but it passed, and his fingers slid on her wrist, and his eyes closed as he kissed her.
>>>
Cirucci was undoubtedly a good kisser. She had been twisting men around her little fingers since before Ishida had been born, and she had planned to continue it long after he was gone, before her death so rudely interrupted that. But she was a good one nonetheless, because no one would use a whore who couldn’t even kiss, all passion and warmth, with a quiet noise of breathy moan slipped in between the touch of lips.
She didn’t close her eyes, she never did, because that would be vulnerable and like this she was not, no, she was finally in control, and she could thank Alfons for that heart if only because it had unwittingly given her more power over the one she both hated and wanted most.
The Thunderwitch let her chest heave, out of the breath she didn’t necessarily need but continued to draw out of force of habit, slowly broke from him, just slightly, a small breath again, and a querying look, soft and hesitant, looking to him for reaction, her fingers reaching, grasping.
>>>
In direct contrast, Ishida had little to no experience with kissing. Aside from the curse with Light, his experience revolved around resisting the Thunderwitch's violent previous attention. He understood the theory behind it, had imagined a few scenes with a certain classmate, but had no actual experience. But his uncertainty wouldn't have lasted long, the hesitation behind it, if because of hormones or his own unshakable pride, a confidence that lingered even beneath insecurities.
When she broke it, his eyes opened, and he didn't even berate himself for having closed them. Breathless and stupid, his heart beat loudly in his ears, his eyes moved quickly. To her knees, to the proximity of her mouth, to her fingers, which his met, not to lace together but to clasp her hand from the side and look at it, dumb.
He could still feel her on his mouth. Ishida wanted to kiss her, the intensity of it hit him like a solid force, like a clenching in his gut and the way his heart pushed and pushed the blood through his body. He shook his head, because his mind knew, knew better if it didn't suspect.
"You shouldn't," he began, trying to look at her and see only her eyes, to be direct, unyielding in one rejecting way. "You shouldn't," but he licked his lips, and that was the mistake, where the blue of his eyes darkened, and the directness of his gaze changed into something greedy. Later, he could blame it on midnight.
Ishida took the initiative and leaned, pressing his mouth to hers, and he wasn't uncertain.
>>>
“I’ve…” Ooooh, it was so hard to act like this when she was winning, when he initiated and she gave a small noise into his moth, so hard to act so soft when she had this sudden urge to rip his throat out, to go through with it, but he’d just come back, so a death… in this place, was worthless. She had become accustomed to settling for dominion over others as opposed to just killing them, which was so superficial here.
“I’ve done lots of things I shouldn’t, Ishida…” She broke a bit, to whisper husky, to explain, with softened eyes and call him Ishida, not Shiro-Megane-Kun.
“And I don’t think-“ She was manipulative, in the way her fingers pulled across his skin, her other hand down his throat to chest, in the way her hips levered up and she leaned forward, each word punctuated by a soft fluttering of her mouth against him, his, cheek and jawline.
“And I want…” The Privaron whined quietly into his ear, a wicked smirk hidden there.
>>>
"Yes," he agreed, his whisper urgent and impatient, needing for this, for the words and talking to be finished, less of this sound and more of that which she had pressed into his lips. She'd done plenty of things she should've have, if "shouldn't" even applied to Arrancar, but the last thing Ishida wanted was to be reminded of what she was.
Her words stirred his mind, even as his eyes were almost black, hungry on hers, or her hips, her thighs, the way his shirt hung on her body. He should, the way should applied to him, Ishida, focus on those words, and let the meaning take him to logic and withdrawal, but her touch, her mouth made it difficult, as his breath became shallow, quick.
"You don't," he shivered, forced himself to say. They were distracted words; his hand fell, slid over her knee, and he shivered again to drag his palm up, over her thigh, a searching caress. "You don't, this isn't…"
Before this, before this forcing himself to think, he should have thought, perhaps, of Orihime, he should have felt guilty. Not that, if he loved her, he let himself think it. He thought of her briefly, now, but it wasn't really because of her that he went on, reluctant, his words hollow as his hands touched.
"This isn't, you don't love me. I don't love you." There. And he shouldn't, the words opened the second gate, and his brow furrowed, he couldn't let her do this while she had a heart. Ishida pulled back, reluctant and aroused.
>>>
His inexperienced, clumsy teenage boy touches weren’t enough to wrest the noises she made for him out of her lips, but she let them, let her skin, where she was soft, tremble under his touch, shiver and quake. A small little moan, encouraging,
“I do.” She whispered, and when he recoiled she followed, straddled his hips and brushed, a grind too much for him right now so simply brushed friction to him and the little need in her voice, sincerity and honesty. Because, honestly, she would love to fuck him, because it would be owning him, to make him want her like that, this was intoxicating to her, to have him wanting her.
“Please,” Her hand on her heart, where one had been and where he thought one still lay, underneath the bandages, and her lips caressed, nipped after his, the intentional drag back of her shoulders to burst the top snaps of his shirt, a lusty rub on to him, in the skillful way she managed to unintentionally brush her breasts to his chest, her hips to his, her hair to his cheek and her mouth to his.
>>>
Had he been thinking clearly, Ishida might have analyzed the situation well enough to know that it was impossible. His inexperience could never make one such as her react like that, but then, such a conclusion was too disagreeable to his pride. He should have known better than this, but his body wanted it.
"You don't," he said, the words a struggle, because he'd forgotten to breathe at all as she straddled him, her legs over his, her body close, logical protest dissolving into incoherent half-thoughts against the layers of fabric between them. Sensory overload; if he did not touch her again, it was because there was too much to touch, hair and hips and breasts, shoulders, skin, thighs, cheek, neck, ears, the joints of her fingers. He shook and stilled, blushed and swallowed, and lusted, lusted, his hips moving, less awkward, not that jerk of restraint she had once teased.
Ishida slid his hand on her leg again, his skin rough with calluses and his touch not gentle, cupping over her rear and looping his thumb beneath the waistband of her panties. His mouth met hers, open, because he'd meant to say no, and did say, "You," before he kissed her, instead, not as hard as he wanted, and raised his other hand to push back her hair, let it fall between his fingers, silky and fragrant.
Covers, and sheets, and thick cotton pajamas, and he was increasingly uncomfortable. He broke the kiss, shaking his head, but not letting go of hers. "You don't, and we—shouldn't, you don't know what you want, like this, you're just … confused."
He spoke, in a breathless, recalcitrant whisper, and combed her hair back, behind her ear, savored its texture, trailed his fingers over her ear and down her neck, to the exposure of her collarbone, back to her hair.
>>>
If men knew better once she had made them want her, Cirucci Thunderwitch would be nowhere near as good as she was at playing them. No, she was good at making them want her, and then good at what followed, at manipulating to get what she wanted, whether it involved sexual favors or other things, it didn’t matter, as long as she could secure some measure of anything out of it. And this? This was for the ultimate victory, to break his spirit, that pride of his. She could only begin to imagine how ashamed he would feel, if he coupled with an Arrancar, and thought of his humiliation, of everyone knowing how weak he had been, sent a thrill up her spine that translated into a wriggle, to excitement and to a press of tongue against his open mouthed kiss, a hot tangle of warmth and flesh and saliva before he pulled away for that stupid protesting.
“Shh…” Cirucci whispered with a coy little smile, just for him, soft and pliable, in the way she arched into the touch of his hand, fingers against undergarments, quivered and dragged their chests together, her fleeting, teasing kisses on his mouth as she hushed him, and his protests.
Small hands crept down the plane of his chest, thumbs skimmed waistband and she nudged, toyed with his arousal to banish all other thought from his mind along with the nuzzle into his hand, the way she tipped her head back to his touch and breathed unsteadily, letting out a quaking breath and baring her slim neck, eyes half-closed and his name mouthed out.
One more push, she knew, and she slipped a hand back to begin undoing the snaps down his shirt, baring the bandages that his some of her breasts, but mostly the hollow hole and her shameful scar, another hand coming to clasp the back of his head, to run finges through his own and needily arch to him, on him, against him, and acting became her existence in that place, in this situation, wanting so bad to be wanted.
>>>
That smile, did she smile for him? Did it match the turmoil of her expression minutes before, this shift into confidence? His mind fought for reason, to reason, for something to spark in his eyes beneath the heavy shade of lust that obscured the flaws in this, what he needed to pluck from the angle of her mouth and twine around his fingers, make into barbed wire. She wouldn't always have a heart. She wasn't her, with warm-colored hair and a warmer smile, and he didn't love her, he only wanted her, and he didn't believe in that.
Ishida tried to protest, again, but it was better to let her kiss him, to shudder when their chests met and his skin burned, and he ached, made blind and thoughtless with a little, panted groan when she nudged him. Inexperience made him dumb, her attention overwhelmed, made him clumsy and slow, and flattered, where thoughts had dissipated into raw instinct.
"No," he gasped, into her mouth. The word acted as remnant; his eyes hadn't closed but fixed on her breasts, and he blushed but was past blushing, blood rushing below his face, the burning heat less concentrated in his neck. With the bandages, she might've been wearing an extremely low-cut top, because they covered nipple, and it was frustrating. Trailing his fingers over her hips, he dragged his hand down from her hair, cupping his palm in brief over one breast before sliding it, along bandage, under her arm, to her back, feeling out the wound.
His mouth sought hers, his tongue, as Ishida was a quick learner. But his hand spidered toward where his arrow had pierced her, the white wrappings reminding him, not a push toward guilt but a strange interest, a need that pulsed in his gut, in his groin where he pushed desperate against her. A need, to see where he had marked her, to feel where his arrow had pierced, to press his tongue to clotting blood and his residual reiatsu in her.
>>>
Inwardly, Cirucci was calculating, and she was winning. If she was only capable of displaying on her face what she was thinking, then her mouth wouldn’t be that attractive pout on full lips, no, it would be a wicked snarl stretched thin with insanity and a twisted sense of entitlement. His shame, his helplessness, that blatant want in the sound of his voice, all of it was owed to her and she would enjoy every minute of it, did, the sound of the groan he gave made her breathe tremulously, excited more by his want, which was shameful enough, to want someone like her, than by his physical reactions, by the ones he sought to pull from her.
“Please?” She begged soft, into his mouth in response to no, accompanied by the best of woman’s insistence, by the soft, no, hard, changing fluidly between the two, grinding against his hips, her hands falling to beg with her voice, not above begging when it suited her. To work the snaps down his shirt, to caress down the skin she bared.
“I- My… heart…” Cirucci Thunderwitch pretended flawlessly, in the sudden hitch in her voice and arch of her back when his questing fingers found the wound, pressed, in his haze, too hard. And while like this, hierro skinned, it barely registered, she with a heart had been so much weaker, hurt more easily, and a short whine escaped her throat in protest, a little wince and soft, soft, whimper, using it as an excuse to try and draw his hand from her breasts, from the bandages that covered proof that she was lying wholly to him.
“Hurts-“ She whispered hoarsely, intentionally ambiguous on whether she meant his touch or her heart, hazed her purple eyes with lust and ground a bit harder in retaliation, flattered and incensed in the manner which she spoke, moved, worked. She prided herself, as perverse as it was, on her skills in the bedroom. Espada were less likely to kill a useful woman, after all, and she had liked living, was prideful, but still wouldn’t die for something she could easily avoid simply by rolling over.
“… please?” Repeated weakly, not giving him chance to protest or pull fully away from her, inviting him in the arch of her spine, bared curves marred only by bandage, pale flesh with the lightest hint of flush and proof, where she rubbed against his hips, of consent, of mutual arousal.
It was just hard to tell she would get off easier on his pain and shame than his own satisfaction.
>>>
No, but his mouth couldn't form the word, his vocal chords preoccupied with another groan as she ground and his hips met hers, a dry thrust between fabric layers. The cooler air against his exposed chest lifted hair, where the only scar he bore was the one given by Ryuuken's arrow, the stomach ordeal erased by Orihime's gift. His skin drew back from her touch, into muscle and uneven breathing. He remembered the sound of his name, whispered like that, in her voice, and almost lost. Her name was forced hoarse and willing, willing and reluctant, from his breathless mouth, not Thunderwitch, but Cirucci.
His fingers eased at the whimper, conquering a brief war; a surge, a brief thrill, at the sound, at the way her voice had changed when his fingers pressed his mark. Disgust with that (himself) and concern for her suppressed it and with it the intensity of his touch. But they stayed, circling the wound, callused tips spreading over and beyond the bandage, experimenting.
Losing and inexperienced, Ishida sucked in a desperate breath, shaking in his wrists and tensed shoulders as the pressure built and hurt, hurt to see all that skin, he couldn't begin to touch it all, feel it, memorize it like a masterwork pattern, to recall in precise stitches and clear whites, depthless black, velvet violets. He didn't love her, but he kissed down her chin, to her neck, to breathe and close his eyes and shudder as he thrust and tried to resist, and his hand flattened, fingers spreading, palm hard against her back as he focused – palm hard, and it pressed, onto bandage and
… hollow. He felt his eyes open, opening, lids pushing far into sockets before he could see it, see were curls of her hair brushed against his nose. Ishida exhaled.
>>>
Cirucci was not stupid. She had thought about this, in the short space between couch and the boy’s bedroom. She was a capable actress, and to act as if she had not known about that, to try and insinuate she was just as capable of these emotions while heartless would not have been hard for her. The problem lay in her reiatsu, for it had surged back to her with her return to this incomplete state, to this lacking body missing the core heart and left with nothing of love and affection and kindness. Because she had to suppress her reiatsu to even begin to get this close to him, she had known the moment he discovered the hole through her chest the game was up.
She had won, but not as wholly as she’d wished. She wouldn’t force him, though she could if she moved quickly, so much stronger physically than a human was. Because there was no victory in that, no, the victory here was in that she had, through no force, made him want her.
“Uryu…” The Thunderwitch moaned out, and in no part because her Hollow hole was deathly sensitive, and the touch of fingers, the movement of bandages scraping rim made her shudder and jerk up, drag hips across his in involuntary reaction to the pleasurable stimulus, the first truly unexaggerated voicing she had given him in that breathy name, in the further whimper of disappointment that her game was up.
But she continued her act, just to see, just to see even though she knew she had not made him fall so far as to be able to consummate anything with an Arrancar, with a woman who had a hole through her chest, with one who felt no guilt for killing, no remorse and no love. But even with that, she was a sensuous and selfish woman, and she was unwilling to give up her own pleasure in the moment, in the pleased twitches in her thighs as she jerked into his fingers, her own clutched, on shoulder and back of shirt, as she jerked onto him only to steal one last frantic kiss, press of lip and tongue, before his brain caught up with his hands and the little moans from sensitive reitsu charged skin.
>>>
And Ishida inhaled, slow, through his nostrils, inhaling the scent of her, of her neck, damp with perspiration or his saliva. His palm pressed, his fingers, and the wrappings caved into air, into space, into the hole that made a hollow. Despite himself, he had to, wryly.
Ishida smiled.
Too much. Like her body, stretched out, near bare, before his eyes. Like her body, on his, skin and pressing, pushing, insistent pressure that moved, incited, left a twitch in his fingers, in his pained arousal. Like the shame, the disgust, whatever emotion washed over him first and clenched in his gut that he told himself must be disgust, if only to deny that she was still beautiful, and his body recoiled but wanted, hating and hungering for a monster. He should never have let her stay; he was a fool, and Ishida smiled for it. His eyes too wide, and closed, and too wide, narrowed. He was weak to his name, flustered, shocked into a rigid come down but unable to stop his hips from jerking.
But when she kissed him, his mouth was closed, his eyes narrowed, hard, blank. His hands fell, and moved between them, and Ishida ignored his discomfort to pull back, tilt back his chin. He let his pendant catch the thin moonlight, and tasting her on his mouth (not licking, not), said, once he had breath, hoarsely, quietly, firmly:
"Get out, or you'll regret it."
Almost, get out or I'll kill you, but even through the rage that made him quiver differently than he had only moments before, he could see, identify what that sort of threat would signify, shame leading to over-compensation.
>>>
What a shame.
The Thunderwitch smiled in turn, not even wicked so much as indulgent, slowly pulling away from him, a disgustingly benevolent look on her face, chest still moving in erratic, not quite shallow breath, a residual flush and tint of sweat, that not quite gone haze of lust in violet eyes.
“I should have known you wouldn’t like that time of reimbursement. Or reward.” She murmured smoothly as she moved just as much like that, in the fluid uncurling of long legs, arms, stretching out lazily before casually redoing the snaps up his shirt, how kind of her, how twistedly kind to do that for him. Because just losing the finality here didn’t mean she still didn’t plan to get it later, and there was no reason to sabotage her efforts by lashing out.
“Mind if I borrow this? My uniform’s bloody and ripped.” She hadn’t looked at it since Nnoitra had ripped it to expose the smooth expanse of flesh down a chest that vainly protected a beating heart. But she discarded the wrappings, withdrew, kind, so kind or her, to the far foot of his bed to do it, talon simply ripping them, petting fondly, briefly, at the proof of her existence before she folded the wrappings and left them, standing and stretching again, letting her reiatsu flare out all at once in a smile of satisfaction and a quick shiver of happiness as moonlight played across bare legs and her back.
“You know, Ishida.” She spoke as she did up her hair, facing away from him. “I’m proud of you. Not many can resist.”
>>>
As if to speak normally, as if what had happened had not happened. It meant nothing; two could play at that game. Ishida did not shrug physically, but his voice held that type of dismissal, a struggle, with his body as it was – it was experience in playing that let him do it, even if the look in her eyes left him ill.
"I've no interest in rewards, you might have asked." His lip curled, a kind of spasm, the lone sign of his revulsion in her generous attention to his shirt. But to really recoil would, again, give another kind of advantage; Ishida could play this game, too, he was a terribly fast learner after all. Again, his voice shrugged, an indifference he didn't feel. Detaching, he pulled himself from the reality of this, the sweat on the small of his back, the throb of his arousal.
"You've borrowed it this long, what's another day?" He looked to the window, the pulled curtain. Not at her, not as her listened to the bandages rip, fold, and felt the sudden force of her spirit pressure.
His teeth grit, ground together, bone on bone like their hips had if inhibited by fabric and skin. He resisted the memory. Resist. To be compared to that kind of lot? Ishida nearly sneered. "I'm also not interested in your pride."
>>>
“It was a little spur of the moment. Remember, you talked about debt, and how I wouldn’t want to be indebted to you, well, you were right~” Cirucci giggled, “It’s how I pay my debts, usually,” shrugged her shoulders, and turned to look at him, even if he wouldn’t look at her, with the somewhat bruised appearance of her mouth, the still dazed look in her eyes.
“I’ll give it back, of course.” To assure she was not so obsessive as to keep his shirt, though honestly, when the Shiro-Megane-Kun was concerned, obsessive could most definitely be used.
“I told you I was invested.” Invested in his defeat of the Octava Espada, but, of course, only to save her own pride, for at least if he won against him she could say, well, the human boy who took me down only could because he was strong enough to take one of them, the accused new Espada, down.
“… Damn it.” She couldn’t help a little teasing, though, smoothing down his shirt and shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot, hips wriggling a little and a pout, reaching down to check. “Look what you did.” A little chastisement, for leaving a woman wanting was such a shame, more a shame when the woman was her and she now had no one to go back too for that. None she wanted, anyway.
>>>
Perhaps he would replace the curtains. With the snow outside, with the white paint on the walls, white curtains had been a little too much, even with the pale blue stitching. She spoke of debts, and Ishida left his hands at his sides, palms flat against the disturbed sheets, fingers twitching now and again with the urge to dip into his lap, to stroke.
Ishida nodded; she would give it back. He couldn't let her keep anything of his. Perhaps he'd throw out that jar in the freezer. With Doumeki moving in, the last thing he wanted – well, Doumeki wouldn't ask questions. His arm moved, raised his wrist, his fingers to adjust his glasses, close now to falling off his face. She was invested; he only just swallowed a sqwaking exclamation, an indignant, flustered, protest of her investment. He wasn't a fucking stock.
"You'll take the blame for that," He said, finally, having let the rest hang and dissolve into his silence, unanswered. A beat, two of his heart but one of his clock, and Ishida wiped his mouth with his still-aloft wrist. "Get out."
>>>
“Oh, please.” She smirked, wriggled a bit to settle her hips and did up the last snap on the shirt, finished pinning up her hair to bare her thin neck and the sheen of sweat in back, a gentle teasing tone. “I wasn’t working myself off, you know.” But she didn’t press it further than that, was completely happy with this small victory, battle, not the war, but she was quite confidant she could win the war, too.
“But, really.” Cirucci paused, to add weight to her words, shift hips and smoothed down the shirt again, over the hint of rear and tops of thighs. “You’re not half bad, for a human male. I imagine you’re quite considerate, in that way. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find some nice human female and settle down and have a family, hmm?” Another pause, and she looked up, then back at him, a smile, not a smirk,”
“You make good popcorn, too. Even though I really don’t like human food.”
>>>
Curtains. His instinct was to veer toward blue, but given how much of his color scheme already contained white and blue, he wondered if he shouldn't experiment a little. The trick, of course, would be finding a color that worked with the existing scheme; he may need to settle for blue. His ears picked up the vibrations of the snaps, his eyes were glad for the certain, lest she be reflected in the window.
He tensed, almost imperceptibly, going rigid along his shoulders, down his back, knots of tissue, clenching in his jaw. Popcorn wasn't difficult to make, and she spoke of a nice human female, a family, as if if she had her way, she would corrupt it for him. Ishida refused; refused, when he left this City, he would strike her from memory, and she would be powerless against it. Now this, from her? He didn't need it from her, her compliments, her false appreciation. Ishida could have said it, all of it, and spent those words, but he was tired, and he was impatient, and sick of himself for both. His fingers twitched; when he put down his hand, it was hard, hard to keep it against the sheets. Ishida looked at her, finally, though the motion of his chin, turning on his neck, was stiff and slow. Cold eyes, even not atypical irritation restrained.
"I won't repeat myself again."
>>>
“Mm, right, right.” Cirucci murmured dismissively, and in return for his cold and stiff she gave warm and soft, if only to ingrain that image of her in his mind, the soft, the touch, warmth, little noises and the feel of her. She had quite the idea how hard to forget that would be, especially for such an inexperienced mortal male.
“Ah-“ She paused, halfway out the door, small hand hovering over doorframe before she suddenly repressed her reiatsu once more with a wince, it was painful to do it for long, but she wasn’t about to risk Nnoitra catching wind and bargaining on the likelihood of how bored or malicious he could be feeling.
“… Thanks.” She muttered. “For watching me.” Rather, for putting up with her, nursing, for not babying when she cried, for being cold and reserved when he could to remind her how pathetic emotions were.
Not to mention she’d almost developed, over the past two weeks, this disgusting habit of saying it automatically.
>>>
Suspecting, knowing her intention didn't prevent her success; this kind of attack was one Ishida had only a beginner's experience in repelling, and to forget it would be difficult if not impossible. Fury, shame, disgust with not only the Arrancar; these stirred beneath his skin, alongside his impatience, concealed until her departure. After his behavior, it was all he had, that small pride.
Her gratitude was a surprise; he could have dismissed it as a trick, but her attitude in it was different. Still, there was little reason for him to treat her unlike anyone else, even if unlike his words, there was plenty need for it. "There's no need for gratitude," he said, toneless.
The words were reflexive and insincere. Looking at her for too long he couldn't, wouldn't do, where her fingers curled thin over the frame, where he could feel the ghost of their contact in his hair, against his skin, the suggestion of her body beneath his shirt. His gaze if not his attention returned to the window; self-controlled until the front door clicked closed and he could submit, revolted, to relief.
>>>
Cirucci smiled, and tossed her head, almost laughing. How very like her Shiro-Megane-Kun, her Shiro-Megane-Kun, to still try and be so proud. She liked that in him, because the only things she liked in others were the things resembling herself, since the 105th Privaron Espada truly loved, truly loved only herself.
With a last shrug, she left, padded down the hall and recovered the tattered uniform, her boots, gloves, stockings, frowned disdainfully at the dried blood. Made way to the kitchen, then, and peaked into the freezer, let a little smile flit across her lips at the sight of a familiar gift.
Cirucci Thunderwitch let herself out and closed the door, and didn’t think twice to regret anything she’d done. If the hole had still been filled, with muscle, with flesh, with a beating organ, perhaps, then, she would have recognized a twinge in her heart.
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um.
LOOK THIS NEVER HAPPENED.