Bleach 1. Before You Lose Your Voice

The copper scent of blood, just a hint of it, had led her to the Octava's rooms.

She had been looking for the elder Grantz brother, had been looking for him since she'd heard a whisper from the Sexta Espada about a foray into the human world, unauthorized. It had taken a while to extricate herself from Grimmjow's company, it left a bad taste in her mouth, but she did it, left him and went looking for the Quince. Why? Because she knew he would be going.

She knew he would be going just as she knew the feelings in her breast were a jealousy, jealous that he would go to the human world, maybe feed on souls as so few were allowed to foray these days, jealous that he would get to fight something other than the fights she engaged in, occasional spats with the other Privaron over territory, with Numeros over their disrespect, with Espada over their ranks. The 105th was not quite certain of what she was going to do when she found him, but she was going to do something.

He wasn't in his own quarters, Di Roy was, lounging about and rifling under the bed. He'd not been very helpful, something along the lines of "probably off blowing steam, what's it to ya, Thunderwitch, weren't ya busy giving Grimmjow a blo-" She'd slammed his head into the floor and stalked out.

He wasn't around her area of Tres Cifras, that had been a long shot, but he occasionally came to her and not the other way around, so she'd tried it anyway. "Lost something, Niña?" She'd run into Dordonii on her way back, glowered when he'd made his little dramatic entrance and blocked her path. "Getting into trouble again, ah, leaving Tres Cifras?" She brushed past him and huffed.

But then she'd stopped, paused and breathed.

Blood.

It was a scent she was accustomed to, could revel in, made her heady and violent. Her eyes, cark and violet, flit to the side, down the long corridor that led to the Octava's labs. Softly, small booted feet made their way down the hall, almost faltered a few times, but continued.

He was Espada, and that in itself was reason for her not to be around. But she was curious, her interest piqued, the overwhelming scent growing stronger and stronger the closer she got to the white doors. She could feel the muddled reiatsu behind the door, couldn't distinguish them thanks to the younger Grantz's construction preferences, waited until she was just against the wall to try and listen carefully, unable to hear anything but the muffled murmuers of someone talking, a bit back noise, and the pattering of feet.

Then two of the Octava's fracción slammed through the doors, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her in.

"What's this? A little lost bird is far from home." Szayel Aporro's voice seemed bored, with a hint of annoyance laced through it. He sat on the edge of one of his examination tables, the perfect white of his uniform ruined with red spatters, and on the table lay the bloodied form of another Arrancar.

Golden strands of hair slipped through the Octava Espada's fingers and the near unconscious form fell flat on his back. It was Il Forte, the Numero's she had been looking for. His eyes, lidded, and gaze dazed, fell upon her. Cirucci could see the shame in them, the anger, the helplessness at his current position.

His chest rose and fell erratically, perfect straight lines weeping crimson decorating it, the tool used to create them laying innocently on a tray set to the side. The scalple reflected the bright overhead lights in scattered silvers and reds, spotted with fresh blood.

The fracciónes who had dragged her in still had hold of her, not allowing her to continue or retreat. Even if they had let her go, she felt that she wouldn't be able to move, suddenly stuck to this spot, as if held by some unknown force. A feeling, a sick feeling, sunk to the bottom of her stomach while anger rose in her chest, gripping her and making it hard to draw breath.

"What are you doing outside of Tres Cifras, Thunderwitch?" That sharp, commanding voice brought her attention back to the younger. One of his gloved hands coming up, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with the tip of his thumb. So small and insignificant that she hadn't noticed it at first. "It's dangerous to wander too far on your own." His lips pulled up into a smirk, mocking her.

"I was looking for your dear elder brother." Cirucci returned his smirk with a sweet smile. "I had something I wished to speak with him about." Her words were laced with honey, something she was well practiced at.

"What would a whore like you want with Il Forte?" His tone matched hers, so falsely sweet it was sickening. "Garbage like you should stay where you belong and not soil others." He looked down at Il Forte, fingers of one hand ghosting across one of the various wounds he had inflicted on the blond Numeros. Il Forte's eyes closed at the contact, and she could not tell if it were from pain, disgust, or even pleasure.

Cirucci's stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"What I wished to speak to him about is a private matter, Octava Espada sama." She used his title intentionally, false respects and courtesy a useful tool against the arrogant usurpers who dared call themselves Arrancar when they could not even pull their own masks from their faces. A sheild against her power hungry betters. "But, a trifling thing, nonetheless."

"Well, goodness, if it's a mere trifle why would you risk coming to my labs?" His eyes watched her, predatory, over the rims of his glasses, daring her to say she hadn't come, daring her to think she didn't know the dangers of interacting with him, of even being i near /i him.

She didn't disappoint.

" i I /i didn't come here." She snapped, tearing her hands from the grip of the two servants he kept, watching them bobble on spindly legs and retreat slightly, cackling between themselves so fast she couldn't decipher the words, not that she cared to.

"No, no, Lumina and Verona dragged you all the way from Tres Cifras, didn't they?" It was disgusting, how he affected a paternal look, gestured the Arrancar closer to pat them on the head, smearing his brother's blood across the bone masks on the bases of their necks as they giggled and danced under his praise.

Caught in something of a lie, the Privaron couldn't respond, raised her chin defiantly and watched him, watched the uneven rise and fall of Il Forte's chest, the twitching in his muscles as he made to rise and didn't, the curving of Szayel Aporro's mouth as he grinned.

"Lies from a lying tongue, Thunderwitch." The Octava chastised, pursed his lips and picked up his bloodied scalpel, running a gloved hand over the tip as he spoke. "Have you ever considered cutting it out? I assume some will be upset, after all, that would drastically decrease your proficiency in oral sex, but their ire at that loss is something I find I can deal with."

"How about not?" It was hard to keep herself in check when, not only was it in her nature to be emotional, to be violent, but she also hated, i loathed /i the Espada without exception. "Now, I'll be leaving." It took an effort, but she tore her gaze from his, deep brown from burning violet, and spun on her heel as if to leave.

The scalpel hit her right between the shoulder blades.

She snarled in instinct, hand flying to her zanpakutou and turning to face where the attack had come from, eyes widening when she saw Il Forte's hand hanging limp over the autopsy table, a sneer on his face, his brother's hands occupied still playing with another scalpel.

It took her a second to remember to breathe again, to think again. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The pounding of her pulse beating her eardrums with what seemed minutes in between each. She tightened her grip on her zanpakuto, warmth spreading over and down her back, a sticky trail making it's way along her spine, caressing the edges of her hollow hole. "Il Forte?"

"Bitch." The word was delivered in a raspy, broken voice. She could see an anger to match her own burning in barely open eyes. It was difficult to breathe, like an iron band had been wrapped around her chest. "I'll cut out that filthy tongue myself." Il Forte moved to sit up once more, struggling to make his weakened body obey him, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder and a look from the Octava.

"You?! I'd like to see you try." She spat back at him, free hand coming up behind her to pull the small blade from her flesh, more blood gushing forth from the wound. She stared at the small object, clenched tightly in a delicate fist. "You're own brother..."

pressure bore down on her, Szayel Aporro's reiatsu a crushing weight, dropping her to her knees. "I didn't hear you, Privaron. What was that you said?" Suddenly her head was wrenched back by a fist in her hair, and she was staring into the eyes of the Octava, the flat of the scalpal pressed against her cheek, the one she help falling from her lax grip with a too loud sound against the stone floor.

Defiance rose in her, eyes narrowing into a challenging glare. "I said that he could never bring harm to me, not when he's so weak to his own brother." Her eyes slid back to the blond. "Why come to me when you can find comfort in your family, Quince? You're younger brother can take care of i all /i your needs." She screamed as her head was pulled back further to the very limit before bone would snap, the sharp tip of steel twisting into the soft flesh of her cheek at the same instant.

"Perhaps you should reflect on yourself, little bird. Maybe the services you offer aren't as appealing as you lead yourself to believe." He leaned down over her, face so close she could feel the warmth of his breath across her face. "Power is where the true alure lies, but what power lies with a Privaron, hmmm?" A fine line was carved from one tear mark to her jaw, and she was hauled to her feet. "The pathetic little whore can't even stay out of trouble, can't even keep herself in one piece, and she dares speak of others."

She slammed against the far wall with a sickening crunch, sliding down to the floor. Staggering to her feet, she glared at each of the brother's in turn. The younger had a smile, radiating killing intent, and the older had so much hatred directed at her she wondered if he was really the same she held in her arms so many times before.

It was disgusting, to think that she had become lax with him, to think that, after so long, she had begun to take for granted that he would not betray her. Strange, she did not usually become attached to her lovers. They were there for her pleasures, for her amusement, and in the cases that they were Espada, were stronger than her, they were there for her to curry favor.

"Privaron have power." She managed to grit out before the Octava's hand cuffed her throat, coating the pale skin and stark dress with light red stains. Her words dissolved to gasps as his grip tightened, his other hand reaching to her hip and disarming her, Golondrina clattering across the floor as her own hands scrambled at his wrists, nails digging in and scraping only served to bring a sneer to his mouth.

"And look how you use it." He calmed slightly, she could see his muscles in long limbs relaxing, even as his grip on her throat tightened. "Tramping around…" His other hand returned to her hip, pressed her hard against the wall in a warning as one of her legs began to rise to kick at his groin. "Trying to start fights in i my /i labs." A tsking noise in the back of her throat even as she started to choke, grip on his wrists weakening as she struggled, her thrashing growing weaker and weaker.

"Make me an offer." His anger reappeared, his moods capable of changing faster than she could follow, his voice a snarl as he loosened, enough to let her chest heave for breath and her mouth move soundlessly, "Make me an offer for why I shouldn't kill you." Cirucci had no doubts that he would and could kill her. But still she couldn't help one last smirk, weak and hesitant as it was, battered.

"How about I just go back to fucking your brother and go about my way?" She could hear Il Forte behind them, hidden by Szayel-Aporro's form from her, grunt in something like anger or warning, but she hardly cared. She'd said it to upset the Octava, not please him.

He laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure that, as much as Il Forte might enjoy that, it does nothing for i me /i ." His laughter was low, a chuckle in his throat, as he gestured with his other hand, grand dramatics. "Come now, Privaron, I can sense Grimmjow on you, what did you do for him?"

She almost flushed, thrashed again but stopped at the warning pressure on her neck, though she still refused to answer him, refused despite the dangers inherent in doing so. His gaze narrowed, lips pressing to a fine line, before he simply slammed her head back again, drawing her into a hard kiss, teeth knocking together and his thumb digging in to her windpipe to make her open her mouth to let his tongue slip into hers, probing, tasting, before she bit down hard, drawing blood that made the coppery scent become a copper taste blossoming in her throat.

"Well, well." Szayel Aporro laughed again, casually tossed her to the ground and wiped his blood from his lips, smirking. "Feisty little birds been sitting on her knees for the Sexta, eh?"

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, spitting his blood, his taste, from her mouth with disgust. "Something you'll never have the pleasure of knowing." She brought her heaving lungs back under control, evening the rise and fall of her chest. "Something as filthy as you can only crawl into the bed of his relations."

The back of the Octava's hand met her already injured cheek with enough force to break the bone lying beneath ruined flesh, sending her flat to the floor again, but she only picked herself back up, a colorful bruise already beginning to form around the tear mark. "I already have you on your knees." His booted foot connected with her chest, buried between her breast and forcing her back to the floor, crushing her there. "And now I have you on your back." He pressed harder, forcing the cartilage that connected her ribs to sternum to it's limits. "Shall I make you scream for me? To call out in a fiery passion like your lovers have never known?" He ground his heel further down, the pop of several ribs coming free proceeding a vibrant scream. "It's said that a birds song is most beautiful in the moments before it loses it's voice."

She couldn't breath, pain radiated through her body, and the pressure on her chest didn't let up, no it only grew worse as the rest of her ribs tore free under the Espada's booted foot. She clawed at that foot, pulled at the hakama, her feet kicking as she tried to get away. She was suffocating, oxygen cut off. The room was spinning, and her vision becoming hazy.

"No you don't." His voice cut through the fog clouding her mind, the pressure on her sternum disappeared, then she was sent tumbling several yards by a swift kick in the side. She coughed, sucking in air with shallow, pained gasps. It wasn't enough. "You still haven't given me your offer." She blinked up at him, standing over her. She no longer had the strength to rise.

She let her eyes slid past the Octava, meet a gaze of the same color, but one that had lost it's edge, resorted back to a weakened state, something of sympathy but more of understanding. Il Forte tried to rise again, instead paused and met the woman he had betrayed with an even stare as something passed between them, a reason for his own actions.

i I won't suffer alone. /i 

"F...fuck...you..." The words were forced past painted lips, addressing both of the Grantz brothers, blood spilling forth with them, and a scream of pain caught in her throat as she was mercilessly kicked again. She coughed up yet more blood, so much blood, staining the front of her dress worse than the state of the back. One of her ribs had punctured a lung.

"I refuse." He laughed at her, watching her dieing on his laboratory floor, but she wouldn't die like this, not yet. "You're useless corpse doesn't appeal to me." Anger again, accompanied by yet another kick. "The thought of seeing you disgusts me." And again. "YOU DISGUST ME!"

If she could have screamed, she would have, but she couldn't even breathe, she was drowning in her own blood. Her vision swam in and out of focus, and white room bleached out until all she could see was the vague form standing above her, the Octava and blood. Her blood.

Szayel Aporro watched as Cirucci lost consciousness, dirtying his laboratory with her presence, and his floor with her tainted blood. His anger had abated, and all he felt for the woman was cold detachment. "Lumina, Verona." The two Arrancar bounced over, babbling their nonsense. "Take her somewhere else." He turned back to Il Forte, who's eyes followed him now, watched only him, and he smirked. "Oh, and make sure she doesn't die just yet."

The Octava sat back on the table's edge, and he reached out to the Numeros, hand stopping short as he stared at the blood stained glove covering it. With a snarl, he peeled of the offending garment, and the other as well, tossing them both into a waste bin.

"Where were we, brother?" Pale fingertips caressed blond locks, the feel of them against the now bare skin almost foreign to him. Il Forte's hand, the same that had betrayed Thunderwitch, grasped his own stopping the movement in a gentle grip.

Szayel Aporro smiled.


	2. Affrimation

Il Forte slammed his head back against the white stone wall, causing cracks to spiderweb over the surface and crimson to stain his blond hair. Gasping for breath, he clutched, tight fisted, his shirt closed. He stood there for several second, each stretching on into eternity, before he moved on, dragging himself along the walls of the corridor.

Szayel Aporro couldn't say he was pleased to detect that all too familiar reiatsu entering his domain at this time. In irritation he pulled the white yukata closed tighter over his thin frame, adjusting the black obi around his waist so that it held the garment securely. He was not in the mood for whatever idocy his brother was about to drag in with him.

The latch on the door clicked, and it swung silently inwards. Szayel Aporro tsk'ed in irritation at the lack of any formalities, it was one thing to come into his labs unannounced, but to barge into his personal chambers without so much as knocking was another matter entirely.

Il Forte stumbled into his room, door swinging shut behind him, perspiration beading his skin, and breaths coming in heavy pants. He seemed uninjured, no blood stains or obvious wounds or bruising, save for the blood in his hair, but just by looking Szayel Aporro could tell that it was only a small wound, a bump on the head at most.

It was rare for Il Forte to come to him at all, especially when unwounded, but the way he grasped at his chest told the Octava all he needed to know. There was a pain he could understand all to well, one that he could not escape, but was more subject to because he was the more powerful. His arms dropped from where they had been folded in annoyance over his chest, an he walked over to the blond, taking his face in his hands and forcing their eyes to meet.

This was more than simply being about the consumption of souls, it was far more complicated than that, something that could only ever truly satiate a simple hallow. This was about the confirmation of existence, meaning, purpose. This pain could be kept at bay for the most part, but the stronger one was, the more power one wielded, the more insistent the need.

"Il Forte." Szayel Aporro's words were clipped and cold, but the tension drained visibly from Il Forte's shoulders nonetheless. There was an understanding there, between them.

"Szayel Aporro." His name was whispered weakly from soft lips, they brushed against his own, softly. Desperation and need lacing that simple gesture, a trust that was often absent in Il Forte's rasping voice.

The Octava pressed their mouths together, pulling Il Forte further into the room, and taking control of the situation. He was never gentle with the blond, taking him by force more often than not, and dominating him amidst blood and screams of pain. This, however, was different. Il Forte had come to him, come to reaffirm his existence, his need to be in this world now, to continue in this world. This was to destroy pain.

Cirucci stood just around the corner, the Octava's rooms just a few paces down the hall from where she stood, masking her reiatsu. She had been there for some time, waiting. The brother's, one she despised with every fiber of her being, and the other she sought to own, both locked behind that door. She hated when they were together, hated the Espada more and more for it. He was twisted and disgusting, and he had what she wanted.

After what seemed an eternity, the door finally clicked and swung open. She risked a peek around the corner, watching Il Forte exit. He turned, and leaned back into the door for a few seconds before turning on his heel and striding purposely down the hall, no doubt putting as much distance between himself and Szayel Aporro as possible. At least he seemed relatively unharmed.

She turned to leave, but froze mid step. "Thunderwitch." That cold voice felt like ice water in her veins, the hair on the back of her neck rising as she felt that she had been caught by a deadly predator. She stepped from around the corner, only to catch the Octava disappearing back through the doors to his rooms, left wide open in invitation for her to follow.

She entered cautiously, fully prepared for the sharp, metallic smell of blood to assault her nose. She blinked in surprise when it didn't. Her eyes wandered around the room, searching for the blood she knew should have been there, Il Forte's blood, always his blood.

"Wandering far from home a bit late, aren't you?" Her eyes snapped to Szayel Aporro, somehow more foreboding in his simple sleeping yukata than in his uniform. More personal, more apt to anger, no chains of rank to hold him back from striking out as he wished when he was like this. Or so she felt. His calm voice was disarming.

"I was just out for a walk." She laughed lightly like a birds soft song. "I hope my wandering didn't disturb you." Her words were honey, sliding of her tongue with the intent to sooth any anger, and turn any attack.

"You were looking for Il Forte." Szayel Aporro smirked at her, and anger rose in her chest at his arrogant attitude, both knowing he was right, both knowing the other realized this. "I'm afraid you just missed him."

"I saw him leaving." She crooned back at him, words like silk over cold iron. "A little late to be dragging him here for your twisted games, isn't it?"

He showed no reaction to her words, only widening his smirk at her. "I would think so too, but I didn't call him here. I wasn't expecting any late visitors."

She laughed again, harsher this time, in disbelief that he could try so obvious a lie on her. "Yes, I'm sure he came here just to see his beloved younger brother." She expected him to strike at her, his violent moods were too common for him not to after that. It was almost strange that he hadn't struck out at her the second she had entered his room.

"Tell me, little bird, do you know Il Forte's tell?" Szayel Aporro calmly folded his arms, hands disappearing into either sleeve. "That little thing that gives away when he is lying, that he doesn't even know he does?" She nodded cautiously. "Then ask him yourself."

She didn't know what to respond with, the Espada was always hard to predict, but more often than not he acted out violently, and now he was so calm. She took a moment to look at him, study him while she had these few precious moments, still expecting him to turn. His hair was tangled, his lips bruised, his normally covered neck was littered with bite wounds and bruises, and she could see more hidden just under the edge of his yukata. "You..." She ground the word out angrily.

"I what?" He stepped closer to her, and she backed a step towards the still open door, knowing she couldn't run. "Is it that you know I'm telling the truth, that you don't have to ask him after all? Or is it that you're angry that he came to me instead of you? Though, maybe, that isn't even it. It could be that he came to you, but you were too busy whoring yourself out to others that you couldn't even be useful. Then there is always the possibility that you never even crossed his mind." He stepped closer still, and she felt her feet freeze to the ground. "Well, which is it?"

Cirucci's fists clenched and unclenched, and she fought for something to say, anything, but drew up a blank as all she could do was glare at the Octava Espada. Neither of them moved as they waited for her to come up with something.

When she could find nothing she turned, hair fanning out around her with the sudden movement, as she stalked out the door, what she could only describe as insane laughter following her.

Normally when traveling outside of Tres Cifras, Cirucci masked her reiatsu, suppressed her energy and the tell tale signature so harshly that it hurt, that the center of her, the hole where she lacked, ached from it, a tempered desperation to not be caught outside her domain. She checked hallways and corridors before heading down them, clung to the shadows and the edges of rooms, but not now.

She was far too angry for that now.

Her reiatsu was blazing, temper unchecked, and she strode down the middle of the halls, small booted feet far too loud in her pace, almost tempted to kick into sonido but her caution did extend to that at least, to not let that reverb echo loud and clear throughout Los Noches. Only one Numeros didn't clear out of her path. He limped away with five long gashes across his chest from clawed nails.

Cirucci Thunderwitch found Il Forte where she though he would, in his own chambers, and she didn't care to look at whether it was surprise or expectancy on his face when she simply walked in, he didn't rise from where he lay, at least, for all intents as if he were about to sleep, hauled roughly upright by her gloved hand and slapped clean across the face.

"How dare you." She snarled, her vicious temperament, around males and those she needed curry favor with hidden behind sweet veneer, showing through, evident as she fisted her little hands in his clothing and pulled, threw him to the ground and out of his bed. He rolled, landed gracefully enough, long blonde hair tangled about his face and the anger she expected in return blazing in his eyes.

"Watch it, Thunderwitch." He snapped back, stood and blew the hair out of his face as he watched her for movement other than the trembling of her fists, watching to be wise of if her hand would reach next for Golondrina at his hip, Del Tore lying still behind her, beside his bed.

"No, you watch it." The Privaron's voice was far too high pitched, grating on the ears, as she advanced again. Il Forte did not retreat, did not show that weakness or that he was intimidated by the smaller Arrancar, even though he knew, despite the lower number, that her power certainly was not. He was unwilling, also, to break out cero, bala, to get her away from him, knowing if he took that step, if he escalated the game, that she would finish it with the same manners, and it would not be pleasant.

It was always best to keep her to the physical if he could.

"You've no right to be here." He pointed out, a blow at her rank, her status as Privaron Espada and no longer the Quinta Espada.

"You've no right to fuck with your brother." The Thunderwitch's responses were immediate, but his actions, reactions, matched hers, just as used to this play as she was. Her hands reached out, snatched a long strand of blonde and he matched her, opposite hand yanking hard on a coiled strand of deep, dark, purple.

"You don't own me, Privaron." The Quince spat. He hated her saying it aloud, because when she said it, it became real. It became some undeniable weakness, relying on his brother for anything, let alone that, let alone needing, but she always came out and said it, threw it in his face so that he had to confront it, had to deny it, and he loathed it, loathed his brother for it, and loathed her for making him hate himself for it.

"That's where you're wrong," Cirucci's voice suddenly quieted in volume, that high, grating anger in her voice abruptly replaced by a sort of strong, steady word, low and dangerous. "Cirucci does own you, Quince."

"No, you don't." And it was true. In seeking their worth, they owned each other. It was a twisted partnership, something that served only irritate them both when they weren't satisfied with it. She hated when he went to his brother. He hated it when she came to him still with another male's reiatsu clinging to her form.

They hated each other, and they loved to do so.

It didn't matter how much he said she had no claim to him, didn't matter how many times she said she did. Because no matter what they said he usually managed to shut her up by covering her mouth with his, let her try and erase the marks the Octava left with her own, the hard nips and bites soothed by a pant of breath or the feel of tongue pressing before her lips found another place to reclaim, to reassert her claim that had been usurped in her absence.

They were selfish, too, for each place on his skin she touched she dedicated to spiting the Octava, and every time he kissed her, very rarely on the mouth, that was far too sensual, far too romantic sometimes, too personal, he was using her for his own pleasure, gave it in return so he could revel in the noise she made when trying to force out his name.

It was later, the Thunderwitch finally asleep and sated, lying across his chest, that Il Forte finally got around to reflecting on how twisted it was, how sick, how wrong. But it never seemed that way during, never seemed it until later when he was alone with his thoughts, quiet only for the sound of the Privaron's slow breath and his. It was too easy to slip to such doubts, such questions of himself, when it was like that.

He woke Cirucci.


	3. Baring Truths

Cirucci's head swam as she came too. Bright lights were above her, she could see them even through her closed eyelids, turning her vision a pinkish red color. She squeezed her eyes shut further, trying to block out the light.

The first thing that registered to her was pain. More pain that she could ever remember experiencing before in her life. Everything hurt. Everything hurt in the sense that she could say she quite literally hurt inside and out. To her, it felt as if she had been sliced apart, run through with a zanpakuto more than once, and from every angle.

She could taste blood.

That's when it came to her, the memory of what had happened, and, more importantly, where she was. With the memory the pain seemed to intensify ten fold, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Now she didn't want to open her eyes, she didn't want to see what had become of her, what he had done to her body.

Slowly Cirucci opened her eyes, at first only seeing the blinding white of the overhead lights. They seemed like they should have been warm, too warm so that they made her sweat a little, but she was cold and drained of strength. Her eyes traveled down, noting her too pale skin, almost as white as the stone walls of Los Noches, and then there was bright, startling red. It wasn't blood, there was far too little of it really, it was muscle, exposed organs, and the underside of that white skin.

She felt sick, but as the feeling rose, she saw her stomach move, the muscles twitching and constricting, preparing for her to vomit. She turned her head to the side and concentrated on doing nothing of the sort.

She could see her pale hand, stretched out straight to the side, painted nails resting gently against the palm and only centimeters away from a thick binding strap. She didn't know what it was, it seemed to be some sort of cloth, far too weak looking to be expected to hold even the weakest of Arrancar, but at this point she doubted she could break it if she tried.

Szayel Aporro was a sick, twisted man, even by her standards. He'd caught her off guard, lazily making her way back to her own rooms in Tres Cifras from those of Il Forte. Unlike the Octava, she actually enjoyed the company of the older Grantz, though didn't often seek him out. She preferred when Il Forte came to her, but there were times when she no longer wanted to wait and hunted him down for herself. Those were dangerous times, wandering outside of her domain, in a place she was clearly not supposed to be, but worth it.

This time, however, she had been too careless. Szayel Aporro had come seemingly out of nowhere, all softly spoken backhanded words. Veiled threats, and an offer she couldn't refuse. As much as she hated him, he was stronger, and Espada, she had no choice but to follow where he commanded. So she had done just that, knowing that nothing good could lie in store from the younger sibling.

Cirucci had been right. He'd brought her back to this place, this sterile, sickening domain and his unpredictable mood had changed to that of violence. Gloved hands and flung her by her hair, shattering bone as she had slammed into one wall, sliding down and leaving a bright trail in her wake. The blood had run into her eyes, making it hard to see, and even harder to defend herself.

He'd been yelling at her, calling her a whore as he always did. What could he possibly understand? He knew nothing of her, or why she did what she did. He couldn't possibly understand standing at the very top, being a member of the Espada, and then having it stripped away and being sent to live in exile, to beg for scraps at the feet of the usurpers. He was the usurper, living where she had once called home, the power to crush any opposition in just a single word.

She hated him.

And he hated her. Cirucci knew he hated her, he made it painfully clear. Szayel Aporro had told her how useless and dirty she was, how she defiled everything she touched, that she was nothing more than a disgusting whore and good for nothing. He'd pointed out the flaws in her existence, what made her so empty, and he showed her pain. She could remember him strapping her to the table, watching through swimming vision as he had cut into her, carving away at her, opening her up and exposing her weakness.

"The whore is finally awake." His voice brought her out of her thoughts, back to the present, where she was stills strapped down and laid open. Her eyes darted around the room, finally finding him, his bright hair the only thing standing out in the perfect whiteness of the room. He stood in the doorway, obviously having been gone, hands folded behind his back and a small smile on his lips. "I should have thought you'd have come to sooner, but one cannot expect too much of a Privaron." He began closing the distance between them, booted feet clicking slowly over the stone floor with each drawn out step. "Il Forte has been asking after you, he knows you're here. He knew from the beginning that I had brought you to this place." Finally he came to the edge of the table she lay on, leaning down over her so her vision was filled with his face. "But only just now has he asked about you, though I don't think I'll let him see you just yet."

"Don't lie to me." She spat weakly, tried to muster the saliva to actually spit at him but her mouth was dry, the only taste her dried out hopes and desperation. Her throat moved, trying to swallow but choked instead.

She probably should have seen this coming. He'd threatened her before after all. She'd even heard that he'd threatened i Grimmjow /i before, the Sexta, a dangerous move when one was the Octava. But Szayel Aporro was a possessive man, when he thought something belonged to him. And Il Forte?

Belonged to him.

"Why bother?" His hand stroked gently across her cheek, the soft brush of glove against her clammy skin. "Why bother lying when I've taken all this care to keep you so well?" Brown eyes fell to her chest, other hand checked the needle in her arm connected her to fluids.

"Just enough to keep the pain tolerable, so you won't scream needlessly, blood thinner to prevent clotting, cut around the arteries so you won't bleed out, temperature adjusted to keep the organs exposed to air, sedatives to keep you from hyperventilating, from struggling…" He went on, muttering under his breath as he surveyed his handiwork, a work of art, splayed and offered on his table like a presentation. The look he was giving her made her skin crawl even more.

"So?" She couldn't manage much more than that, short clipped words in between winces, gasps, bites on her lips as she tried to move, felt her unresponsive body shudder, which only drew her gaze to the flesh of organs, which once again led to heaving and the pain.

"So…" The Octava smiled. Cirucci was always more disturbed by his smiles than anything else. His smiles were what his more wicked desires and acts, his veiled nature hidden behind a smiling face. "I've done so well, why, I believe I could keep you in this state for a week at least without you dying."

She blanched.

"… A-" She started to say that Aizen wouldn't allow it, but she knew that wasn't true. He had given the Octava free enough rein, just like all the Espada had. To do as they pleased and associate how they willed, experiment, even, how they willed.

"… P-" She started to say that the other Privaron would seek her out, and, while she knew at least one would probably look for her, she knew nothing would come of it. Espada were higher ranked, and they would be turned away, back to Tres Cifras where they belonged.

"… My-" She started to say her lovers would wonder where she'd gone, and they probably would. Maybe be concerned, at least some, until they found another female who could attend to their needs, for she was expendable, to most, merely a means to vent and distract.

Defeated, she shut her mouth, breathing through her nose to try and keep the stale taste of blood from her tongue, watching him, violet eyes dilated not only from the light, but from fear, pure and unadulterated fear. Helpless to watch as he took out a needle and primed it.

"But that would be no fun." The Arrancar smirked, injecting the needle into her IV and pressing down. The liquid, whatever it was, passed into her with a hot burning, like boiling water had replaced her blood, making her cry out despite anesthesia and strain, arch, Szayel Aporro's mouth turning to a fine line of distaste as his gloved hands covered her abdomen, carefully rearranged a kidney until the pain eased somewhat.

"Humans call that truth serum, Privaron." He set the needle down again, a simple gesture demonstrating more care for his equipment than her life, but she knew he cared less than nothing for her life, only for her suffering. "Now, I think, I will let Il Forte see you."

She was so cold, yet her veins burned, the serum coursing through her like a liquid fire. Her vision was blurred as she watched Szayel Aporro disappear through the swinging doors again. She didn't know how long he was gone as she sat there, forcing herself to remain perfectly still as to not upset anything else that was free to move around at the moment. It was minutes, maybe even hours later, it all seemed the same with the strange things her mind was suddenly doing, that Szayel Aporro returned, Il Forte in tow.

Il Forte stood just inside the doorway, unmoving as his eyes fixed on her, she could feel them on her flesh, examining her body as he never had before. The younger Grantz did not hesitate to close the distance between them, coming to stand next to her once more. "Come, Il Forte. I'm sure she's just dieing to see you." His voice was light but held no mirth at his joke, a deadly undertone was laced through there that she could recognize even through the haze that filled her mind.

The blond Numeros came to stand next to the Octava staring down at her with an impassive look on his face, but his eyes betrayed him, the disgust in them written out clearly. She blinked at him, not sure what she should be feeling. Whatever it was that the Espada had given her had made it impossibly hard to think all of a sudden, thoughts refused to form, slipping away before they had a chance. She knew, however, that she didn't want him to see her like this, so weak.

"Nothing to say, brother?" Szayel Aporro asked with fained surprise. "You were demanding to be allowed to speak with her just a moment ago, why the sudden change?" Cirucci could somehow feel that this was not going anywhere she liked. "Then we will just have her speak instead." His smirking face loomed over her again, her unfocusable eyes blinking at him. "Thunderwitch, please, tell Il Forte what he is to you."

She opened her mouth and closed it, not wanting to speak, she didn't hadn't a clue as to what she would say, only that she did not want to say it. The smirk on the Octava's face evaporated and he cut off the flow of liquid from the tube connected to her arm; in only a few seconds her back was arching and she was screaming in pain. He released it again, allowing the chemicals to take the edge off the pain once more.

"Tell him."

Tremors passing through her uncontrollably as her body calmed, she began to speak. "Il Forte," What was he to her? A way of being needed by another, of confirming her existence by being desired, filling the void where her heart had once been with his lusting after her body, by seeing her out. He just like so many others were there to want her, to demand her attentions, give her that little bit of power over them and their lives. She was using him like all Arrancar used each other. "You are nothing to me."

"Good girl." A gloved hand stroked softly through her hair, causing her thoughts to scatter once again, wandering away from the momentary grasp she had had on them, breaking her focus. "You're nothing but a whore, aren't you. Offering yourself to whoever is willing, whoever catches your interests for the moment in time." HIs words were to sweetly spoken, the insults coming out as if speaking ot a child who would mistake them for compliments by the tone of voice alone.

"That's right." She wasn't quite sure why she was still speaking, or what was coming from painted lips. Her eyes, dimmed and dulled were wandering, first on the Octava's face, condescending and wickedly amused, to Il Forte's blank and unamused. Would that be upsetting to him? Did she care?

Szayel Aporro chuckled, turned from her constrained vision and left her with the noise of metals clinking together as he rifled through his medical equipment, coming back with a large needle and thick thread, his hands disappearing once more from his vision as she felt pains lancing through her abdomen, felt the tearing of skin from being held back, the noise of fingers tenderly replacing organs and suturing, the splash of disinfectant that made her cry out, head thrown back and hair sticking to her neck as she simply screamed, screamed until the Octava made a tsking noise in his throat and increased the anesthetic.

Il Forte stood there, stood blankly until he finally moved, moved to her head and bent by her ear.

"What do you think of my brother?" He asked with a smile. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was smiling. Knew because she knew him, even as she knew that Szayel Aporro had looked up from his stitching and frowned, the next few jabs into her skin that much harsher, that much more painful as she struggled to speak, throat spasming until she felt cool fingers stroking against her jugular, she was unsure which brother they belonged to.

"I hate him." She finally got out, waiting for a punishment from the Octava, for retaliation, but receiving none, and that put her more on edge that a hard slap would have. There was silence, the slow sound of the dripping IV, the even breath of two males, her own, loud and erratic in her ears, and the low hum of electricity in the blinding lamp above her eyes, that made them water until the moisture spilled out as if she cried.

Cirucci Thunderwitch did not cry.

"Would you kill Il Forte?" It was the Octava's voice again, before her vision blanked when he pressed against her abdomen, checking the stitching with a critical eye, his own reiatsu leaking out from behind the filters he usually kept it behind. He himself, she was sure, had no desire to see her whole again, but he had a reputation, and he always cleaned up the messes he made.

"Yes." His reiatsu filtering into her was an invasive feeling that made her writhe, made her arms strain weakly against the bonds that held her to the table, kept her tied down, even though they were unnecessary, she couldn't move even unbound, could only thrash lightly in response to the feeling of his reiatsu touching her, entering her body, knowing he was repairing damage but rejecting it all the same.

"Would you kill Szayel Aporro?" Il Forte behind her head, hands slowly brushing her hair from where it stuck with sweat to her neck, coaxing by speaking into her ear, quietly, softly, though once again she knew without seeing that his eyes were not on her, they were on his brother.

This was a game to them. A challenge. And she was an instrument to play on.

"I would." Her voice was nearly a whisper, the answer coming unbidden. Her life still lay in the Octava's hands, even if he was putting her back together now, he could break her just as easily. His reiatsu was pulsing through her, repairing damage, and she waited for it to change, to tear her apart instead.

"Does anyone's life have meaning to you, does his?" If she didn't know any better, she would say that Szayel Aporro was enjoying himself from the sound of his voice. His voice carried a hint of laughter, of a condescending sort of indulgence for this situation. He was well aware of Cirucci's thoughts on him, seemed to revel in her hatred of him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, more moisture running down her cheeks, and inhaled a shuddering breath, repaired skin feeling too tight, restricting. "My life is important, only mine."

Before Il Forte had a chance to ask another question the Octava cut in asking another almost before Cirucci had finished speaking. "And, if it could save you now, would you throw Il Forte away from yourself? Would you ignore his existence to protect your own, reject his need to crawl into your bed like so many others?"

"Yes, I would forget him now." She wanted to live, each second was a chance to gain power, to manipulate others to her favor and perhaps reclaim her seat amongst the Espada. She could grown stronger and would cut all ties to do it. "I would hate him, kill him, to spare my life."

There was silence, and she opened her eyes to see the two brothers staring at one another, the younger with a pleased grin and the older with murderous intent in his eyes. Il Forte hated Szayel Aporro, but he didn't. She knew he was drawn to his brother despite liking nothing about him, like a moth to it's death in a candles flame.

The two of them stood like that for several moments, the silence stretching on, until Il Forte turned to leave the way he had come.

Szayel Aporro's eye's never left his older brother, watching the blond, and speaking one last time before the Numeros left the room, causing him to pause at the door. It wasn't to Il Forte that the Octava spoke, it was to Cirucci. "Would you give yourself to me insead, forsaking my brother, to save yourself?"

"Yes." She choked on the word. It was reviling, disgusting, even though she favored bedding Espada best, because Espada were the ones most powerful and it was through them that she could gain the power she wanted. But bedding this one was disgusting, he was disgusting, the serum still burning hot in her veins, her thrashing becoming slowly stronger as his reiatsu and his needle knit her back together again.

For a while, again, no one spoke, and she was the only one who moved, feet scrabbling for purchase on cold metal and her shoulders twisting in their binds. Il Forte did not move from where he stood, until he spoke.

"Who would you rather?" His voice was terse, tight, because just like all of them, he needed worth. Cirucci's worth proven in that she was worthy to plat the Octava's games, worthy enough to be taken, to be used. Szayel Aporro's worth in that eight etched onto his skin, in the fact that he had control over the life of a Privaron and a hold on his brother's actions.

"You." That slipped out easily enough, a breathy noise, the proof of worth he himself had sought. Il Forte turned around, gaze level as he locked eyes with his brother.

"Good girl." He spoke to her even as he watched his brother, mocked him by reusing his own words only turned against him, and Cirucci didn't need to look to see the Octava's lips purse.

She heard footsteps when Il Forte left.

The next thing was the needle being removed from her arm, the ache in her torso only dull, the mark of incision only discolored, repaired in full by a more powerful reiatsu that was even now becoming oppressive as his anger began to seep from the cool mask, his glove, bloody, fisting in her hair.

"Do you think you've won?" He grit out, and, the serum slowly burning out but still present in her veins, she blankly nodded, watched his gaze flash dangerously and her head snap back, but he stopped abruptly, paused, and then gently ran fingers coated in her blood over her neck, soothing noises in his throat.

"Not going to break you again so soon." He seemed to need to verbally remind himself to stay his hand, still not removing the bonds from her wrists and ankles. She was trying to speak but her throat was still dry, still responded only with breath and small groans. Szayel Aporro smirked.

"You're mine, still. He left, but he left you." It wasn't a question so she didn't respond, tried to force her eyes to focus, to not dilate and quiver even as he leaned in, let his hand rise to her face where the blood ghosted over her cheek.

"Do make every effort you make with him." The Octava chastised, patting her cheek once more he casually removed his gloves and began undoing the collar of his uniform.

"I will." Unbidden, she spoke again.

She blamed in on the serum burning out her veins.


	4. By Proxy

Szayel Aporro pushed open the door to Il Forte's room as if it were his own, not bothering to wonder who would be inside or in what state of undress. Those things he already knew. Il Forte was not due to be back for a little while yet, but that did not mean that the room was empty, despite how well the occupant tried to mask their reiatsu.

"Thunderwitch." A smile graced his lips, more akin to a simple showing of teeth than something friendly. "I knew I would find you whoring yourself out here." The Privaron Espada was laying on his brother's bed, dress discarded, lounging about in her undergarments as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

For that whore it probably was.

"Too bad, isn't it?" She did not bother trying to cover herself up, nor did she stand from where she was. "Cirucci already occupies Il Forte's bed, no room for you." Her words were honeyed and falsly sweet, as she offered the same sort of smile back, a baring of teeth bordering on feral.

"Don't be so sure of that." He still stood in the door frame, watching her, examining her every move. Cirucci had set her clothes just by the edge of the bed, within arms reach, zanpakuto ontop ready to be used if necessary. She was, at least, a cautious little bird. "I did not come here to find Il Forte."

Cirucci sneered, sitting up on the bed to regard the Octava. "So you came here to find someone else, in the Quince's rooms?" She maintained that facade of innocently alluring words, like steel veiled in silk, soft and deadly.

"That would, in fact, be the case. As I stated before, I knew I would find you here." Szayel Aporro stepped further into the room now, shutting the door soundlessly behind him, save for the small click of the latch falling into place. "I came to the Numeros quarters to hunt a little lost bird, and it seems I was successful."

She tilted her head to one side, regarding him with critical eyes, still her smile never slipped, just as his did not. "What would you want with Cirucci, i Espada /i ?" So much venom dripped from that singular word it sounds far more vulgar than any thing else she might have called him. She had a talent for making titles sound like insults.

"I'm here for your," his smile widened into his more familiar sadistic one as he paused looking for the correct wording, "particular services." He came further still into the room, and toward her, keeping a watchful eye on her zanpakuto least she dive for it. Even if he could kill her easily enough, she would still try her hand at taking his life if she felt the need, possibly if she only simply felt the desire, to do so.

"You've come to the wrong girl." Cirucci fluttered her voice, as if she were making an attempt to be respectful, but Szayel Aporro knew better than that, knew the look in her eyes was one of loathing no matter how sweetly her lips managed to smile.

"Have I?" The Octava had to resist a warning placement of his palm on the hilt of his blade, wanted to intimidate her, make her eyes widen in fear, make her muscles recoil to back away from him, to get away, that fear something he could revel in, to express his power. But now was not the time for that, no, not for the purpose of why he had come here. "From what I hear, you are exactly the girl to come to." She almost dropped her smile when he shook his head, pink hair settling back against his neck as he tsked.

"… I'm not in the mood." Was the excuse she offered next, long fingers slinking across sheets towards her zanpakutou as the Espada did not cease his advance, a caution well warranted. She had the reputation as the whore, and, well… his reputation was a bit darker than that.

"Sprawled out in a state of undress on Il Forte Grantz's bed, and you aren't in the mood?" He could have chuckled; it was that easy to thrash her excuses and leave them in tatters all around her. The Privaron glared openly now, the thin veneer of sweet feminine wiles torn away by his insistences, leaving her bared as what she was: a worthless slut with a grudge against the Espada who had replaced her, who had black numbers inked on their skin where she only had a scar.

"I hate you." She finally spat, her fingers tightening on her blade's hilt, her own warning, and to indulge her, he paused, as if considering. They studied each other for a long moment, but not too long, Szayel Aporro knew how long it took his elder brother to complete certain tasks, how long he took to get back to his rooms. He had time, but he always did hate wasting time.

The reverb of his sonido was followed by her angry curse, her own body flung to the side to avoid him, fast, but not fast enough to avoid his gloved hand closing down on her hair and hauling her back with a shriek, slamming her back onto the bed and straddling her small form in an efficient motion. One hand fell on her mouth, tight enough that her jaw clenching couldn't open to bite him, one knee pinned her free arm at the elbow, disregarding her violent thrashings as his other hand gripped her wrist hard, rammed it into the wall once, twice, three times until she finally had to let go of her blade.

"I hate you, too." He whispered in her ear, nipped against jaw and hairline even as her spine arched up against him, bucking to try and shake his grip, a powerful little thing physically, far more powerful than such a petite form belied, but not as powerful as he was, no, his grip only tightening, maneuvering both arms above her head so he could hold her there with one hand and move his legs, easy enough to shift hard, to bite hard enough that she paused to curse against his white glove, leaving him the time he needed to hook the edge of his boots against her calves and pin her legs that had come far too close to kneeing between his legs.

"Now," The Octava's voice was taking on a dark and feral cadence, something primitive and nearly bestial rising up in this position of power he'd taken, in her form thrashing and unwilling beneath him.

He liked them unwilling.

"You, dear, dear, Thunderwitch, are going to indulge me." He slowly loosened his grip on her jaw, ever so slightly at a time. "And, you are going to…" Szayel Aporro paused, one eyebrow raised as she bit his hand. "… Enjoy it."

"Get the fuck off of me, Szayel Aporro." The Espada did have to admit that he admired that spark of fire, that defiance. It was something he could at least not begrudge her, and he did like the sharp edge to her voice, the fight she had left in her. It wouldn't be enjoyable to him unless there was a fight in them to break in the first place.

"Shush," He cautioned, knowing she was too proud to scream for help, to scream at him in case it attracted the attention of another to see her, the former Quinta Espada pinned beneath the Eighth, helpless to his desires. Not that he desired her, oh no. That wasn't why he was here, wasn't why his hand moved from her mouth to her underwear, skillfully cut it away from her body with the zanpakutou she'd dropped, eyes locked on her, the violet shade darkening in a smoldering anger at the violation of another handling the sword that sealed her true shape.

"Get i off /i of me," Cirucci snarled, low and breathy, still trying in vain to struggle against the powerful pin he had her in, against the sensations he was arousing, thin, bony hand stroking, petting against pale porcelain following the dip of collarbone down between her breasts, let his mouth follow the touch of fingers, tongue lapping at the thin skin around the Hollow hole, soft, near gentle licking until her cursing, her threats, began to hitch in her throat and the arching of her spine seemed less like a thrash and more like an insistent writhe.

"There, now, was that hard?" He chuckled, a condescending noise before her dragged his tongue hard against the interior of the Hollow hole, eliciting a breathy choke as she tried to deny the moan in her throat.

"Stop it." Cirucci tried to spit out but it ended up more of a whine as his hand finally reached between her legs and he laughed again at the dampness there, at the signs of her arousal she couldn't hide even beneath all that hatred in her non-existant heart.

"Mixed signals." Szayel Aporro noted, watched the skin, the muscles in her torso ripple and twitch against his breath, hot against the sensitive hole that centered on the saketsu chain, against the source of reiatsu, a spot sensitive to both pain and pleasure. "You really need to work on your self control, Thunderwitch, this is quite unbecoming of you." His hand trailed slick down her thigh and began to untie his hakama, smirking as she renewed her motion, still trying to break his grip, fingers stretching to try and claw at his wrist, hips bucking to try and press his legs from prying her open, muscles in her legs straining to close, to deny what he was doing.

"Fuck you, Octava." She managed a more steady wording, at least, until he calmly buried himself in her, with a sort of squeal of surprise from her lips, for as much as she disgusted him she was attractive, could be arousing, but only like this, only in that he was using her, demeaning her, making her realize just how useless and powerless she was against an Espada like him.

"Correct." The younger Grantz brother pushed her harder against his elder brother's bed, lazily picked up a slow and even pace, eyes clear and focused, watching the sweat beginning to bead on her skin, watched muscles strain, her back arched towards him even as her eyes betrayed she wanted to sink away, watching as he kissed lightly, almost carefully, at breasts and neck, not her mouth he knew better than to give her opportunity to bite his tongue.

"You're-" Her words became strained, halting, as she tried to speak around the pants for breath that had become a steady noise in the room, interrupted by an occasional groan or stifled moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of pleasured noises, not of her own free will, though he was determined to wrest them from her despite. "Disgusting." The insult lost its sting in the ragged way she spoke when he changed the cant of his hips, his own self control strong enough that he was able to keep his own noises to an occasional low growl when she tried to buck against his hips, whether in resistance or need he wasn't sure anymore.

"No more so than the whore." He reminded calmly against her throat that tipped back to his tongue even as she cursed him, even as the only thing tumbling from her painted lips any more was anything but curses, but they were curses and his name, and that was enough to fuel his own desires, to encourage his pace faster and harder at the realization that beneath them was Il Forte's bed, he was fucking Il Forte's whore and she was saying his name.

The Thunderwitch finally gave in, broke beneath him with a satisfying moan, finally accepted the use of her body and caved beneath the sensations of being taken, the Espada's reiatsu pinning her just as efficiently as his body, her own plying back in retaliation even as she began to cry out, to shift towards him and not away from him, to arc her back to press against his mouth and not from, to thrust her hips at his until it bruised instead of shrinking back into the mattress.

Underneath her pleasure cries, came the tell-tale clicking of a latch.

Szayel Aporro didn't need to look up to know that the eyes on him from the doorway were Il Forte's, and beneath him, the writhing, moaning, whore was too distracted to even take notice. He had to wonder, how would his brother react to the sight before him? The thought, the idea of the anger, the violence, sent shivers through his spin.

His self control was slipping just a bit as he sucked hard on her neck, raising a bruise there as she moaned out his name in responce. He trailed his teeth lightly over her skin, biting down occasionally only to sooth over the mark with his tongue, eliciting more noises from her. Her legs, which had come up at some point to wrap around his waist, tightened pulling him in deeper. Each trust came hard and fast, burring him in her fully and drawing his name from her lips more often than not.

Il Forte was waching him, and that thought turned over and over in his mind as he fucked his brother's whore, taking everthing from the older and making it his own. The breaking point came when Cirucci threw her head back, a scream dragged ragged from her painted lips, muscles tightening around him, legs drawing him closer still. Only a few more thrusts and he orgasmed as well, panting hevily but having managed to keep himself from making an equally embarrassing noise.

The weakness in his limbs passed quickly, and he pulled himself away from her, the Privaron still recovering herself. Szayel Aporro calmly stepped back, still not having turned to face Il Forte, who hadn't moved just yet. As he pulled back on his hakama, he watched the Thunderwitch shakily begin to regain her self composure, pulling the bedsheet up around herself even as she reached for her zanpakuto.

She held the sheet in one hand, her blade in the other, as she stood from the bed. "If you ever--" It was as if her voice had caught in her throat, and Szayel Aporro almost laughed to think of Cirucci Thunderwitch speachless. Yet, here she was, mouth working to try and form a word before she finally settled on something. "...Il Forte."

Sweat slicked hair and shirt clinging to his body, Szayel Aporro still managed to turn and regard his older brother with an arrogant look, reveling in the emotions he saw playing across that face so much like his own. He didn't say anything just yet, he would watch this play out between the two first.

"What is this?" That simple question was delivered in a voice so cold it could have turned the desert to ice. The blond stood perfectly straight and perfectly still, hands fisted at his sides in an attempt to hold himself back.

Cirucci regained her own self centered, haughty air, drawing herself up to regard the Quince. "Nothing is going on here. Szayel Aporro was just leaving." She shot him a glare, almost as if to dare him to argue, but he didn't, he also didn't leave. "I was waiting, for you, of course." She flashed one of her sweetest smiles, the lie on her lips coming as naturally as as her moans and screams in the moment of passion.

"Nothing." Il Forte repeated flatly, one hand snaking towards his own zanpakuto, but he didn't quite grasp the hilt, he kept his anger in check. "I see." He stepped to the side, clearing the path from his bed to the still open door. "Get out."

"I-"

"Get out i now /i ." The command left no room for argument, Cirucci gathered her things, still wrapped in Il Forte's bed sheet, and stormed out of the room, once again shooting Szayel Aporro a glare, one that promised a painful retribution. Her small feet against the cold stone the only sound between the three of them, slowly fading down the long outer cooridor.

The remaining two stared at eachother, Il Forte moving to stand over his younger brother, grasping the hilt of his Zanpakuto in a white knucked grip after a moment. "What the hell were you thinking, Szayel Aporro?"

He smiled at the blond, arms resting casually at his sides, as if the threat wasn't there behind those words. "Just as she said, nothing."

"Don't test me." The warning was delievered in a low growl, accompanied by more than an inch of steel being bared. Szayel Aporro felt the adrenaline in his veins start to pick up a little once more, and he regarded the situation with pleasure.

"You expect me to resist that slut's charms when you practically keep her in your bed?" Szayel Aporro leaned closer, voice low and steady as he stared up at his older brother. "That hardly seems justified.

"I expect you to stay away from what's mine." Il Forte shot back, nearly yelling as his voice raised in volume. The hand on his zanpakuto shook with barely surpressed violence, his breathing was ragged and a touch erratic, but otherwise he managed to maintain an overall calm outward appearance.

The Octava, however, threw his head back, laughter spilling from his lips in a great loud burst. "Yours? Don't be so foolish, how can what is passed around by so many, many others be claimed so easily?" His sharp brown eyes held a sadistic gleam. "She does not belong to you, she just allows you to use her for the few moments that someone else is not. Like just a moment ago, when she lent her body to me, and I can only guess who it will be next; she may not even make it back to Tres Cifras." He trailed his gloved fingerd gently down one of Il Forte's cheeks, speaking softly. "You, Il Forte, cannot own, but can only be owned. Even now, you possess nothing."

"You know nothing, you're as naieve as you are arrogant." The blond practically spat back, shoving his sword back into it's sheathe. "I am no one's property, and I possess far more than you. I possess the one thing you never will." Il Forte gave a smirk of his own. "She may be a whore, but she comes to me far more often than not because she needs me, she wants me to be the one to erase the pain of her empty existance. You, you have nothing but a cold, empty lab, and data."

Szayel Aporro laughed once more as he brushed past the Quince. "You're wrong, I have you, and you need me." The door was a soft click behind him as he left Il Forte to that final thought. His laughter continued all the way back to his own quarters, knowing that his brother would only prove the statment correct by his own doing, again, just as he had so many times before.


	5. Redirection

Il Forte had found himself in this place more than once, sometimes of his own depraved doing, but more often than not of Szayel Aporro's doing. Though he had to wonder if even when Szayel Aporro brought him here if it weren't still his own fault, he couldn't say he put up too much of a fight, or that it surprised him when he woke up to cold metal at his bare back and too bright artificial lighting shining in his eyes. It was all so familiar to him anymore.

His own breathing, just over the sound of the steady hum of electricity, was all that reached his ears. Low and steady, calm as if just waking from a pleasant nap, rather than a drug induced one. The sedatives still hadn't worn off completely, and experience told him it wouldn't be too much longer. He could just feel the pain, at the edge of his senses; at little tightness in his ribs where the skin and muscle had just been repaired, the dull ache in his muscles from the abuse they had undergone, and the uncomfortableness of his own skin after having had it peeled away to expose what lay underneath.

The thought of being cut open and experimented on didn't bother him as much as it once had, his brother was far too careful to try anything that had too high of a chance to kill him. He'd been injected with things, had modifications made and unmade to his skeletal structure, and had been host too countless reishi based creations. Some of the things that had been done to him made him stronger, some weaker, and some had had no noticeable effect, the only constant was that it was all undone again in preparation for new experimentation.

Il Forte had to admit, there was a rush about it, knowing that he would be physically changed in some way when he came too, even if it was simple undoing the previous change so his brother could monitor the results. He had been cut open, and only the Octava Espada really knew what changes had taken place and whether they would cause pain, pleasure, or both. He had become Szayel Aporro's favorite lab rat, the first to be subjected to the different stages of varying experiments, and always needed to provide critical information of some sort. He was needed for the success of these experiments, he was important to them, and how they would react with Arrancar, and only he was entrusted with the task of bearing the burden of them.

It disgusted him.

He was being used, torn apart and put back together again for Szayel Aporro's personal gain. Nothing more than an object, a toy, for his personal amusement and use to his own ends. Everything he was was stripped away and treated as if it meant nothing, because, to his younger brother, Il Forte was nothing. He was expendable, but treated like property, abused, and mistreated, but not allowed to touch or be touched by another. Those Il Forte wished to spend time around, who's company he actually enjoyed, were threatened, and could end up dead. More than one had.

The adrenaline was beginning to course through his veins, washing away the lingering effects of the sedatives used. He could here his blood rushing in his ears, his breathing picking up a little, and had to wonder that if this time he would be able to leave before anything else happened. He wondered if he really wanted to leave.

Il Forte sat up, swinging his pale legs over the table's edge, and sliding off to the floor, toes curling as the cold stone made contact. The air in the room was cool and dry, the sterile smell of the place assaulting his nose, but no longer enough to make him sick as it once had. Whatever had been used on him to put him under dulled his ability to detect reiatsu, making it impossible to know where his younger brother was, and when he would return. Still, he knew it would be soon.

He used the table as a support, testing his legs ability to hold him up. They were still a bit shaky, but he could walk on them, run if need be, but not far. They key was getting out of the Octava's domain and back to his own without being stopped, without being detected, a difficult task considering he was in the very heart of Szayel Aporro's domain.

He only managed to make two steps forward, small, shaky steps, when the door swung open on silent hinges.

"Up already, Il Forte?" Szayel Aporro wore a predatory grin, seeming like an impassible wall between him and the only exit. "It would appear that I need to change your dose again."

Il Forte shivered, the temperature of the air causing small bumps to raise on his exposed skin. "I'm leaving." He took another step forward, meaning to try and force his way out this time, stop things before they started.

"In that condition you couldn't leave even if I were kind enough to allow it." The younger's boots clicked lightly as he strode purposefully across the floor, closing the distance between them. He came to a stop just before Il Forte, looking up through bone frames at the taller Grantz. "Now, behave yourself." A white gloved hand came up to plant itself firmly against Il Forte's chest, palm resting against smooth skin, just next to the hole there. Firm pressure, both reiatsu and physical, pushed the blond back. All three steps until he was pressed up against cold steel once more, looking down at Szayel Aporro.

"What makes you think I'm going to stay here?" Il Forte growled, voice low, hands going back to grab the edge of the examination table to keep balance as he leaned back, away from that hand on his chest.

The Octava's smile broadened, showing teeth. "What makes you think you're not?" He stepped closer, but Il Forte had run out of places to retreat too. "You cannot leave until I'm finished with you, and I'm not finished yet." Il Forte could feel the warmth of Szayel Aporro's body through the small space between them, his brother's breath brushing against his cheek in small puffs.

"No." He grabbed Szyael Aporro's wrist, hesitating for just a moment before pulling the hand that pinned him away. "I'm leaving." He brushed passed his younger brother, back straight and proud despite the lack of clothing.

Il Forte made it less than two steps this time before he was yanked back by his hair and slammed into the table once more, bent over it, face pressed agains the dull metal surface painfully. Szayel Aporro leaned over him, anger low and deadly in his voice. "I'm not finished yet."

"Get the fuck off me." He pushed back against the table, trying to force himself back upright but the pressure against him was too much, and he was still too weak.

The responce he recieved was a gloved finger pushed inside of him, dry and uncomfortable. Il Forte bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain, muscles tensing automatically against the intrusion. He forced them to relax, letting the tension fade away least he hurt himself more, because it wasn't going to stop here.

"Not only am I going to be ontop of you, but inside of you." He wriggled his finger, forcing it deeper inside. Il Forte choked back a noise, holding himself still.

Another finger was added, more painful than the last with the lack of lubricant, stretching him open with scissoring motions, and moving around inside of him. They brushed against his prostate, and pleasure shot through him, mixing with the pain in strange, addictive ways. Il Forte could feel his defiance melt a little bit as it happened again, his body betraying him by reacting to the stimulation.

"You do not come and go of your own free will." Szayel Aporro lectured, thrusting his fingers in deep. "You come because I want you to, because you are mine. You only leave when I want you to." His words ghosted over Il Forte's ear, causing the blond strands of hair there to shift ever so slightly with each sylale. "And, even if you try to deny it, you want to be here." He thrust his fingers in deep again, right against the prostate eliciting a small moan from Il Forte despite how he fought against it. "You want this."

A third finger was added, and the older Grantz cried out in pain, sure he was going to begin bleeding from the friction of the cloth inside of him. He was being forced open, wider, to accomodate what Szayel Aporro planned for next. Il Forte was anticipating it too, even though he hated himself for it, he was growing hard at the thought if it, even with all the pain.

Suddenly he was empty, left panting heavily against the table, sweat beading on his skin, and sticking his hair to his face. Intense reiatsu pinned him there, even as the warmth of Szayel Aporro's body left him. Il Forte didn't need to see his brother, or hear the rustling of cloth to know what was happening. Szayel Aporro was getting undressed, removing the layers of clothing that seperated him from the world around him. His long sleeves, gloves, and leg coverings all a barrier being removed.

First there were hands on his hips, plenty of warning, then he could feel Szayel Aporro pushing his own erection deep inside of him, steady and controled. At least now, Il Forte noted, he'd used some sort of lubrication to ease the way. He didn't want to bleed, that would make this worse, the tacky substance only causing him more pain and humilation in the end.

Szayel Aporro pushed himself in completely, not sparing Il Forte anything, and the blond gasped, air having been forced from his lungs. His eyes watered at the stinging, too full, feeling. His younger brother pulled out, and thrust in again, just as slowly, just as completely, over and over. He set up a steady pace, and the pain began to dull, until Il Forte hardly noticed it anymore.

He tried to hold himself back, deny what this did to him, bit his lip until he broke the skin and could taste his own coppery blood. Small sounds escaped past his lips nonetheless, moans, gasps, half formed words. Each only served to encourage his younger brother, faster, harder, picking up the pace. What was worse than the sounds though, was he was shoving his hips back, meeting Szayel Aporro every thrust with his own, taking part in this depraved act. He was breathing hevily, fingers grasping uslessly at the smooth surface of the table.

Il Forte choked on a moan, breath catching in his throat, as one thrust hit right on his prostate, that soft spot deep within him. His vision went white and he screamed the second time, denying to himself that he had called out Szayel Aporro's name. He writhed against the younger, begging and pleading for more, and screaming when he got it. He was shaking and desprate, then he was pathetic as a hand snaked around and grasped his neglected erection, pumping him in time to each thrust.

He came soon after that.

Il Forte called out as he found his release, feeling Szayel Aporro come inside of him after only a few more thrusts, growling out his name in his ear possesivly as he did so, on hand fisted in his blond hair, forcing Il Forte's head back at an odd angle. Teeth scraped lightly over Il Forte's earlobe, just enough to hurt, but not enough to cause damage, soothed over by a warm tongue after.

For a few moments, that must have stretched on into eternity, neither moved, the sounds of heavy and erratic breathing the only sounds. Finally, Szayeal Aporro moved, pulling away, Il Forte stayed where he was, squeezing his eyes shut. Soon enough the sounds of bare feet padding over the stone floor dissapeared in the direction of the doors, then faded all together.

Il Forte pushed himself up, shakier than when he had come too earlier, and looked around for something to clean himself off with. He found a small towle, and wiped the mess off of himself before tossing it into the nearest waste basket and making his own way to the door.

He hated himself.

There were not many ways to deal with it. He could ignore it, and he often did. He washed, dried, wiped all traces from him and continued like nothing had happened, like he wasn't sore, pained, used, and discarded. Among Arrancar, such things were common. The weaker were prey to the stronger, and even though he served under the Sexta Espada, he was hardly under any protection. No, and so he ignored it.

What else to do? One could vent. It wasn't rare for another Numeros to catch the brunt of his anger, to find themselves in a fight that left them bleeding, wounded, with Del Toro's marks on them. But there was more than one way to vent, to release the tight frustration in his chest, the wound up hatred in his throat.

"Surprise, surprise." The dulcet voice was enough to lessen the tense muscles of his shoulder to some extent, to let his mind focus on being its own, and not owned. He closed the door behind him, walked in without ado and sat on the bed there beside the female he had come to, only giving her a grunt in response to her greeting.

The Privaron watched him, violet eyes calm. He'd caught her in a good mood.

"Problems in paradise?" She smirked, propped herself up a bit from where she lay sprawled lazily on her sheets, bare legs kicking slowly, idly. As if she had all the time in the world. She did. In exile to Tres Cifras, the Privaron sat as they always had, preserved in time as the guardians of the outer castle of Los Noches, older than all of them.

Il Forte turned his head, looked at her, and raised one eyebrow with a sneer, tossing his hair in front of his shoulders and hunching over, elbows on his knees. Cirucci watched him for another moment before she made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, rising to her haunches and slipping behind him, small, strong, hands pressing into the tense muscles of his back.

"You're a lucky male." She reminded him with a sniff, bare inner thighs pressed against his hips, the pads of her fingers kneading out knots and kinks, pressing hard enough to make him groan lightly, letting his eyes close and focus on the sensation. Her fingers worked up from the base of his spine, spreading out around the shoulders and back down until he'd relaxed, the female behind him constantly reminding him how much he owed her, but he wasn't listening.

"… It was the Octava?" All that she'd done was erased in one instant, that one sentence crooned sadistically in his ear, the same ear another had whispered in earlier that day, the hair on the back of his neck rising again, just as it had, muscle tensing back at the reminder.

"None of your business." Il Forte stood abruptly, made to leave, but was stopped by the other Arrancar's hands in his hair, long, blonde strands he began to contemplate getting rid of the more he felt that pressure on the back of his scalp.

"You came here." She reminded him gravely, releasing him and leaning back, an offer he knew all to well in the line that ran from calf to thigh until bare skin disappeared under the short skirt, the thin, small, waist, lithe arms and the curve of breast accented by the way she held her head back, appraising him. "And you won't even leave with what you came here for?"

"I'm not begging you, Thunderwitch, I'm not in the mood." The Numeros snapped back, but he made no move to leave. No, just as with his brother, he put himself in these situations. He placed himself there, within the reach of danger, and with this one, he could always count on her being unpredictable. Last time he had come she had cut him. This time she welcomed him. Such was their way.

"I'll beg." She offered slyly, but he knew a lie when he saw one. She expected a payment for her services, her time, her body, but they had an understanding. News from Los Noches reached her first of all the Privaron Espada, as did the occasional tip or knowledge of time Aizen Sousuke was not watching them all, times when the true Espada were out and she could roam outside her domain without fear of attack.

"I'll… beg nicely." She would, he knew, but she wouldn't mean it. "Please", "more", "beg", those were mere words she could use, could manipulate, could make you feel like they were just for you, but once again, Il Forte knew. He knew how she was, how he'd watched other males stake their claims and seen them discarded easily for the next. But he didn't care, the offer to erase an unpleasant, a sickening experience with one in which he had control, the power, the demands, too tempting.

Small hands, the same small hands were on his neck, down his chest, slipping the jacket off his shoulders even as his own hands unsnapped her dress, tugged at it until he grew frustrated with the complicated garment and she broke from him, from his mouth, to shimmy out of it herself, his eyes caught, reveling as first the pale white skin of thigh, rear, back, and chest were exposed until it was only skin, pale against the dark purple hair she loosed from the style to curl in waves about her face. She was beautiful, in that way, he associated such with her, even as he associated his brother with everything ugly and wrong, because they were both the same, and yet, they were not.

Because he never kissed his brother on the mouth, his own now against firm, full lips that parted against his mouth, the intrusion of tongue as Cirucci finished removing his jacket, let her hands fall to the ties of his hakama even as she groaned when one of his hands stroked cruelly across the scar on her breast.

"No." She reminded against his lips, brushing his hand down to trail up and down the well muscled thighs, to snap at the vibrant colored garters still on her legs even as her gloves, silky and cool as opposed to Szayel Aporro's, course and hot, traced patterns against his hips.

"How'd he do it?" Cirucci's words were sharp, always sharp, aimed to incense and fire in revenge for his own reminders of her own shame, even though she knew she would hurt for it, that she'd allow herself to hurt for it, for every pain was a concession, her own power greater than the Quince's in her bed.

So she wasn't surprised, when his hand fisted in her hair and pressed back and down, maneuvering out of his hakama and leaving them discarded as Cirucci began to emit small noises of discomfort at her position, bent over backwards, spine arched and on her knees, legs splayed. With no warning, Il Forte slipped fingers inside of her, watched her stiffen before she relaxed, shoving deja vu to the back of his head as her mouth opened in a shaky breath.

The motion was familiar, the thrusting, scissoring of digits, curling and stroking until her folds became slick and damp, until she'd began to moan, to sigh and pant with desire. He withdrew, licked his fingers idly. It was a musky scent, heady, and a bitter salt of a taste. But it didn't suit her, no, it wasn't cruel enough, beautiful enough…

Il Forte was glad, though he would never thank her, that she didn't fight, didn't thrash too much when he shoved her down onto her stomach, when he let his hands ply over her hips. She begged, as she'd promised, having been teased and then left wonting, trying against the hand on the back of her neck, pinning her to the bed, to rise onto elbows, not held too uncomfortable, breasts pressed hard against the mattress, hind end raised on knees, a throbbing pulse in her belly coiling and demanding.

"Please?" She whined, and he recognized the sarcasm, the idea that she didn't have to beg, but he didn't care, reenacting the scenario all to well. His hands tightened their grip on her hips, enough to bruise against the hierro, waited until she'd bucked against his pin to try and raise herself from the submission, to bury himself in her in one fluid thrust.

She gasped and spread her legs to accommodate him, her hand flattening to palms on the sheets before fisting and trying to rise again, but it was easier to hold her down when she wasn't exactly trying to ease her discomfort, the distinctive feel of being filled, not just sexually, but being filled with the use, the idea of being worthless, nothing to these males and yet making it something, forging her worth in their callous use of her.

He thrust again and again, over and over, slow, even thrusts that made her breath hitch each time he buried himself to the hilt, reveling in the domination, the submission she offered him in his name on her lips, muffled against the sheets, but that wasn't enough. He hauled her back by her hair, thrust hard and fast and held her there, impaled against him and yet unable to move, to draw friction and pleasure from him, pulling back harsh enough that she rose back onto her haunches, body taught, sweat streaked, in front of his own, in vain trying to writhe, to squirm and renew the sensations of movement between her legs.

"Il Forte," Cirucci whined, his hands on her hips holding him tight on his erection, her upper body twining about, gloved arms managing to reach behind and ply at his own hips to renew his actions, her breath only a silky pant as she rocked, tried to buck, rise and fall, anything to reach the satisfaction she craved, needed, now that he'd brought her to that point and then held it just out of reach.

"Beg," He reminded her with a snarl, with a voice that promised nothing for her pleasures if she denied him, but she was trembling and desperate, pathetic even, as one of his hands came between her thighs, spread her wider and stroked where she was forced still, until her voice rose in compliance.

"Please, Il Forte-" She choked out on a moan and a gasp all at once, her cries renewed when he grabbed her arms, hauled her back onto his hips where he kneeled and allowed her just enough slack to move before she was riding him, before her own needs took over and she gave him that, that satisfaction that derived from the fact that she wanted it, that he had made her want it. In a tangle of limbs she managed to turn to face him, to redirect her moans and cries against his mouth, pressing hot kisses against his jaw, his neck, even as he grunted in time to her motion, to her hips rising before slamming down on his own enough to sore, but it didn't matter anymore.

It was a whirl of sensations, feelings, the tight, slick feel where their hips met and he filled her, the feel of sweat-soaked gloves on his chest, bracing as one of his own hands gripped the soft curve of her ass, guiding each downward push against his awkwardly positioned jerks, his other hand gliding over the scarred breast where a five had once rested, the flesh soft in his hand, hard at the tip, and her lips moaning and cursing him every time his fingers touched the discolored spot where a rank had been inked, trying to warn him off, to push but too occupied in the mere instinctual, the both of them not so much as having sex anymore so much as fucking, rutting, until he pushed her down again, not content with her on top of him. It was too much like she had the control and he didn't want that, pressed her face into the sheets even as he raised her hips again and renewed taking her from behind, to watching the sweat trickle down between her thighs, watch the moisture pooling between them begin to thicken.

Her cries, moans, name, begging were muffled in the sheets but it was enough to encourage him, to drive him to slip his body on top of her, sweaty, slipping, to hold one hand over hers, clenching sporadically in the sheet as her other plied at the hot friction of him pumping in and out, spreading herself wider to take him deeper, deeper, until he bit her shoulder, hard, to muffle the shout of his climax, emptying himself in her with the last couple jerks spurred on by adrenaline, that enough, with her own frantic fingers and bucking hips, for her to seize up and shriek his name, to shudder and tighten around him until he finished with a final spasm, withdrawing his spent flesh and sitting back to regain his breath and revel in the helpless state she occupied, flat on her stomach, face flushed and mouth open wide to pant and moan as she trembled in the aftermath, her own slick digits wiping semen and fluid from her thighs.

There was no more mention of Szayel Aporro, she knew better, and he did, too.

He was lucky, he mused, that she hated herself enough to play his part.


	6. Just a Toy

Okay, this one wasn't written with Raigekijin, but for her. My first time writing het ever, I feel so dirty. Anywho, I hope you like it everybody.

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Il Forte wasn't surprised to see Cirucci Thunderwitch on his bed when he entered his room. He'd felt her reiatsu before he had entered, and even if he hadn't, it was no uncommon occurrence. They were always seeking out each other, that is, when she hadn't crawled into the bed of another.

He wasn't jealous of her other lovers, though, because in the end, she belonged to him. She would always, always, come back to him; after all, he was her favorite.

"Cirucci." Il Forte leaned against the door, having pulled it shut behind him, arms folded over his chest and a smirk gracing his lips.

Sitting up, Cirucci stretched as if she had been there for some time, but it was a show. A little more leg exposed, dress pulling tighter over her breast, and the exposed pale flesh of her neck that was normally hidden behind the high collar of her uniform. All an invitation for him to come to her, to submit to her. "You're back. Cirucci thought she would be waiting forever." Her voice was soft, like the chiming of bells, but even more like silk over a steel blade. The hint of something dangerous lurking there.

He didn't move from his place against the door, watching her. As beautiful as she was, she was dangerous. Playing with her was like playing with fire, so very easy to get burned. "I had other things to do. Not everything is fun and games." He'd been called out earlier, as it happened, just when he was thinking of going to see her. Not that the trip had been entirely a bad thing, certain parts aside, but things were definitely looking even better now.

"Cirucci knows." There was that sharp edge again, softened by the honey in her voice and how she beckoned him to her. Long, pale fingers pulling at invisible strings tied to him, closing that gap between them until he was standing next to the bed and her slender arms snaked up to wrap around his neck, pulling him down onto the white sheets. "Il Forte is very busy, so much attention centered on him."

Il Forte allowed himself to be pressed to the bed, the Privaron climbing ontop of him, her thighs pressing against his sides as she straddled him. Even if he didn't allow her this control, he couldn't have stopped her. Stripped of rank or not, she was still more powerful than him, capable of even killing him if she wanted to. "That isn't always a good thing, sometimes it's better to be ignored." As he was speaking his clothes were being removed, shirt unzipped and pushed off his shoulders, hakama untied.

"Il Forte likes the attention." Cirucci's words were a soft purr against his neck, lips traveling lower to his collar bone, tongue peeking out to taste his skin as small hands traced patterns over his bare skin. "He never says no when someone wants him." The sound of fabric on fabric was almost too light to miss as Cirucci pulled out a strip of cloth she had been hiding somewhere. "He never says no, no matter how someone wants him." She wrapped the cloth around one of his wrists, guiding his arm up over his head, then the other, tying his bound wrists to the headboard of the bed.

Il Forte smirked again, tugging at the bonds to find them secure. "I know how to say no, and I do say no." He pulled at the times on his wrists again, for emphasis. "But, not to you."

"Of course not to Cirucci." She smiled up at him, eyes cold and hard. Anger lurking there. Il Forte, for a moment, thought that maybe he shouldn't have given into her little game so easily. She was licking, kissing, and biting a trail straight down his chest and abdomen, pulling off his hakama the rest of the way her nails leaving little red welts on his thighs, just enough pressure to hurt, but not so much that it was a bad thing.

Then, she stopped, mouth hovering over him. Pink tongue darting out over full lips, but nowhere near where it should be. "Not to Cirucci, and not to Szayel Aporro either." She sat up again, pulling the gloves off her hands, as she stared down at him, the soft, sultry look from before completely gone, the cold anger from her eyes now set in every feature of her face. "Il Forte can't say no to anyone who wants to fuck him, even if it is his brother. Even when he is supposed to be with Cirucci."

It was like being doused in ice water, like taking a cold shower after a wet dream. Those words killed any desire he had for her at the moment, and not because he didn't want to fuck her. He growled at her, struggling to free himself, to toss her back out into the hallway. "Get out." He practically spat, bucking his hips to dislodge her.

"Now, now. That's no way to react." The sweetness of her tone didn't match the daggers in her glare. "Just because Il Forte doesn't want to think about who he slept with doesn't mean he didn't sleep with them." She pressed her hands flat against his chest, baring her light weight down onto him, a warning for him to stop moving. "No need to be ashamed, nothing wrong with being dominated by your younger brother. Nothing wrong with liking it."

"You stupid bitch." Il Forte hissed out, the nails dragging down his chest drawing lines of blood this time. Suddenly he was sick, wanting to throw up, wanting to never hear another word from those painted lips. Flashes of why he had been called away earlier played through his mind, what he had done in the quarters of the Octava Espada. Ashamed of what he had submitted himself too, ashamed of having enjoyed it. Szayel Aporro, no matter how much he hated him, no matter how much he denied it, had power over him.

Cirucci ignored him, sliding back down his body to sit between his legs. "He didn't touch you here." She wrapped a hand around him, squeezing the soft flesh firmly, sending a shock through his nerves. "No, Il Forte is such a compliant lover, that he wouldn't have to." She squeezed again, lowering her head and taking him into her mouth, experienced tongue practically forcing the blood in his body to all rush there, towards the warmth of her mouth.

Il Forte forced his hips to remain flat against the bed, refusing to thrust up, to give in so easily, even if he was already growing hard. Even if his body wanted her, he didn't. "I am not your toy." The words were forced out through grit teeth, and he bit his own tongue to keep from moaning at the way her teeth scrapped so lightly over him. One of his hands twitched, the muscles in his back locked up with the restraint he was forcing on himself. The heat building in his stomach didn't stop just because he wanted it to, his body was obeying Cirucci like it never had obeyed him, proving his words a lie as his toes curled against the mounting pleasure.

Cirucci pulled away, dark hair framing her face as she glared at him. "No, you are Szayel Aporro's toy. His little pet to use and break as he pleases." Il Forte tasted blood as he bit down to hold back a whimper as cold air hit his erection, pushing him back from the edge of release. "It must be very nice, if you leave Cirucci waiting to go play with him." She put a finger into her mouth, sucking on it like she had been sucking on him. Torturing Il Forte with the sight of her working over her own fingers. "Il Forte must enjoy being his little brother's toy so much." She moved onto the second finger, then the third.

"I'm not my brother's toy either." He could deny her, and he could deny Szayel Aporro, he needed neither of them. He only had to say no, only had to make it stop with his own power. But, he wasn't fighting now. He wasn't saying no to Cirucci as she slid her hand down under him, saliva slicked fingers running along his skin.

Cirucci laughed at him, pressing the first finger into Il Forte, past the ring of tight muscle. "What is it like, being his play thing?" She wriggled her finger in deeper, until it was all the way to the last knuckle. Il Forte arched his back up off the mattress, away from the intrusion, pain shooting through him causing his breath to catch in his throat. She wriggled the finger around, feeling as the muscles began to relax. "Does it hurt; does Il Forte like pain?" She pulled her finger out, then shoved in two at the same time, a quick sharp gesture.

"Fuck!" Il Forte cried out, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. It hurt, he thought he was going to be torn apart with as little finesse as Cirucci seemed to posses, but at the same time his body continued to betray him. He was still hard, painfully so, more painful than the fingers digging around inside of him, stroking at him. He forced himself to relax further, to accommodate, but that didn't make it sting much less, damage having already been done. It wasn't so bad that it was unpleasant though, no, it was the opposite.

"You scream so prettily. Is that what Szayel Aporro likes? Hmmm?" She pulled her fingers back out, and thrust them back in again, deeper, harder, twisting them every which way. She did it again and again until she struck something that caused Il Forte to cry out again, but this time it wasn't pain. "Just like that. That's what it's like, isn't it, when he fucks you?" She pushed the third finger inside of him, eliciting a moan and his ground down on her fingers, trying to force them deeper still. "Such a good little lover, so willing, so easy to please."

Il Forte didn't say anything, hating himself even as he pushed back against her hand, wanting more. Letting out little gasps and noises each time her fingers thrust inside of him, lights blooming behind his eyes each time she hit his prostate. Whimpering because it was not enough.

Cirucci stopped, stilling her fingers inside of him, just holding him there, watching Il Forte disgustedly. He practically sobbed at the lack of movement, opening his eyes, peering through the blond hair clinging to his face. "Beg for Cirucci." Her words dripped venom, the demand one that held no pleasure for her. "Show Cirucci how weak you are."

Il Forte swallowed, there was a lump in his throat, one caused by self loathing and disgust. Disgust at what she was doing to him, and that he wanted more, disgust at what she wanted him to do. "...Please..." The word was foreign to him, strange on his tongue. "Don't stop. Please, more." He hated himself, he hated her.

"Good boy." She dug her fingers deeper into him, pulling back and slamming them in again. Her other hand wrapped around his still neglected erection, moving to finish the job her mouth had left undone. She pumped in time with her thrusts, not quickly, but not slowly. She drew out the torture she was putting Il Forte through.

"Oh go- please, more. Damnit, more!" Il Forte arched into her hand, tried to force himself closer to both of them. Crying out at the slightest movement, the slightest stimulation, pushed right up to the edge, but not enough to go over it. He was so close he couldn't stand it. "Cirucci!"

"No!" She snapped at him. "Not Cirucci, say his name. Call out his name." She continued with her steady pace, watching him suffer, writhe and beg for more.

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking several deep breathes, wanting to refuse to give into that demand. But, even as he did, his brother's face flashed before his mind's eye. The memories of Szayel Aporro over him, inside of him flooding to the surface. "Aporro..." It was just a whisper, so quiet that he wasn't sure he had said it, didn't want to have said it.

"Louder." Cirucci demanded, pushing her fingers against that spot again, forcefully, roughly.

"SZAYEL APORRO!" Il Forte screamed, finally finding his release as he collapsed back against the bed, exhausted as he shouldn't be.

Cirucci pulled away from Il Forte, staring down at him, sweat soaked and his stomach white with his own seed. She sat there for several seconds, watching as his breathing settled and he recovered. She didn't say anything, had nothing to say to him any more.

Angrier now than when she had started, she snatched up her gloves and stormed out, leaving Il Forte still bound to the bed.

Maybe someone would find him.

She only hoped it was his brother.


	7. Easy to Please

This one also written for Raigekijin, since she asked so nicely.

* * *

Szayel Aporro ignored the curses and attempts to escape from the Thunderwitch and he dragged her down the endless white hallway. She tossed about, forced to walk along bent so that her torso was adjacent to the floor from his grip on her hair just above the base of her neck.

"What is this, _Espada_?" The title, rightfully belonging to him, sounded like a curse more foul than any word he could think of, coming from her tongue. It dripped venom that should have burnt holes in the hand attached to her head, should have caused the stone of the floors to crack from the sheer amount of disdain she managed to seep into it.

He glanced down at her, not turning his head, but simply his eyes. Peeking under the rim of his glasses as her pale face, flushed with exertion, before focusing back on the path set before him. He supposed she had the right to ask for some sort of explanation, just the same as he had the right to ignore her, or in any case, use her to his own ends.

He'd entered her rooms, without a word to her, not a sound escaping his lips as he had grabbed her, with more than a little struggling on her part, and proceeded to drag her back in the direction of his labs. Almost surprisingly, she was fully dressed, and shockingly alone. He had expected the little whore to be whoring herself out to one Arrancar or another. Frankly, he wouldn't have been surprised to find her with a hollow if she thought it might bring her even a shred of power.

That's all the stupid bitch wanted, power. She'd give up every last scrap of dignity for it too. He planned to show her she had neither, everything she did, every thing she gave up, and every choice she made was in exchange for nothing.

The thought brought a smile to his lips, cracking his otherwise calm mask. He couldn't kill the Thunderwitch, but he could destroy her. The other Espada didn't care if he broke their toy, as long as she remained a pretty, and functional doll.

He didn't care much for them anyway, no, this wasn't about the other Espada. This was about teaching the whore to stay away from what was his. He'd given enough warnings, punished her enough times that she should have learned long ago. She was a stubborn bitch, strong willed if nothing else, and arrogant to a fault.

"Szayel Aporro." Cirucci snapped at him, bringing his attention back the present, as he pushed past the door leading to one of the smaller examination rooms. "If you want to play with Cirucci, you have to ask nicely," She smiled up at him, covering her anger with honeyed and soothing words, offering to him what was his right to take if he so chose.

"You'll be playing this game my way." He threw her onto the cold examination table, leaning down over her so his face was inches from her own, he could feel her slightly labored breaths brushing over his cheek as she tired to hid her panic. He could smell the fear on her, as much as she tried to hide it from him. She was terrified of him, of what he could, and ultimately would do to her. "So, be a good girl and scream for me."

Grabbing hold of either of her arms, he pulled them up, over her head, crossing them so her hands lay one atop the other, pinning them there by the wrist with one hand as his other reached for the tool tray sitting none to far away. There was a moment of silence from Cirucci as she looked at him as if she didn't understand why she should be screaming, but it was quickly filled with her cries as the cold metal of a scalpel was forced through the palms of her hands and buried into the table on which she lay.

To make certain she did not try and remove herself, he bent the handle of the scalpel so it lay against her palms. She would have to rip through her hands to pull away from the table.

Cirucci thrashed. "Fuck you. You sick bastard!" She spit at him, kicking her booted feet wildly, trying to bend just right to hit him.

With a loud crack, Szayel Aporro effectively silenced her. A bright red mark blossoming on one pale cheek, accented by the purple markings just below her eyes. "I decline. You don't get that many medical examinations, who knows what sort of thing you could be carrying." She was seething, glaring up at him with all the hate he felt for her.

No, he hated her more than that.

"You really are desperate. Insatiable." He pushed the bone frames up his nose with one gloved finger, looking at her from over them this time. He walked around the other side of the table, slowly, examining each inch of her as he did so. Her white dress, with it's complicated straps and buckles, garters just peeking out from underneath the skirt that had ridden up her legs with her struggles from moments before, long white legs, and rounded bosom. She was a model of feminine beauty, something eye catching and tempting.

She was a whore, trading sexual favors for personal gain. Seducing others just for sex. When he had made his way to the other side of the table, he leaned over her once again, lips close enough to her own to brush them when he spoke. "How pathetic are you?" He didn't wait for an answer, grabbing the front of her dress by the collar and ripping down her front, destroying the garment and leaving her exposed the cool, sterile air in one swift motion.

Her body was pale and unmarked, only the hole between her breasts marring her skin. He almost expected finger nail scratches, bruises, and bite marks. Arrancar were violent creatures by nature, none of her lovers would have been gentle with her.

"Cirucci is beautiful, isn't she?" The words were filled with scorn, but she twisted under his gaze, exposing more of her soft curves to him, spreading her legs just a little, inviting him. It was her way of bartering, of distracting, and of getting what she wanted.

Szayel Aporro smiled at her, drawing his zanpakutou and holding it loosely at his side, watching her muscles ripple with the fear that shot through her as she tried to remain still and seemingly unconcerned. She was doing an admirable job considering the position she was in.

Bracing one hand next to Cirucci's head, he was over her. Staring down into those eyes that held so much hate and disgust for him, he could almost find her attractive. But he wanted nothing to do with her, and he wanted her to have nothing to do with him, nothing to do with what was his. "You must be, to tempt so many to you bed." The other hand, holding the zanpakutou came up, poised over her, but she couldn't see it past him. "Or perhaps it's that you are so easy to please that draws them, the satisfaction that they can please someone with no consequences and with little effort other than being present."

"Cirucci is a difficult lover." She protested sweetly, pouting in a seductive manner. "So few really please her." He legs fell open just a hair more, beckoning him to be one of her lovers, trying to save herself from what he was planning by being the actress she thought she was. "She needs someone talented, someone smart enough to please her."

"I know just how easy you are to please." He pressed the hilt of his sword between her thighs, watching as her eyes widened in realization. "It wouldn't take a man, not even anything living to bring your sexual fantasies to reality." Steadily he pressed the hilt forward, soft wet sounds reaching his ears as he watched her face twist with so many unreadable emotions.

She held still, perfectly so, as he buried inch after inch of the zanpakuto's hilt inside of her. She didn't so much as breathe as he pressed it in up until his hand was resting against her skin, the warmth between her legs soaking through his gloves, betraying her.

With a smirk, he pulled it out again just as slowly, almost until it was completely free, before slamming it back in forcefully. A sharp gasp escaped the Privaron's painted lips, and her back arched up off the cold steel table, her body fighting to press into the hilt even as her mind said to pull away.

Szayel Aporro delighted in the conflict written in every quivering inch of her body. "So very easy, the friction, the momentum, anything remotely the right size and shape will do for you. Won't it. Because you're desperate, to be needed, to be used and thrown away. You don't really want power." He pulled it out again and thrust back into her, deeper this time, sliding his hand further back to allow her more. "You just want to feel like your needed."

"No, no Cirucci is—" Her protests were cut off by a moan, and then a scream as he twisted the hilt inside of her, ecstasy written over her face and in each labored breath, she ground her hips down, silently begging for more. "not like that."

"Of course you are." Faster, forcing the hilt into her harder, watching her writhe and twist about, moaning in pleasure even as she protested in broken words and sentences. "You're nothing but a filthy whore, looking for her next fix. Thinking you're using others, but really just being used."

"No." She shook her head back and forth, disagreeing angrily even as she let out another scream of pleasure.

"Yes." Szayel Aporro hissed low, his lips brushing her ear. "Fucking everything that moves, even going to far as to seek out what you should never touch." He was slamming into her at a quick steady pace, her body covered in a sheen of sweat.

Cirucci, still shaking her head in adamant denial, threw her head back in one loud scream, wordless. Her muscles spasmed as an orgasm washed over her nerves, her mind blanking and all of her protests dieing as she still continued to grind down against the sword hilt.

Slowly, Szayel Aporro straightened, removing his zanpakutou from between the Privaron's lets, saying nothing as she regained her breath and recovered her sense. The wounds in her hands had torn from the way she had pulled and twisted only moments before, but she seemed un aware as she tried to muster a glare to aim at him once more.

"You don't even need to seek out a willing partner, after all," He caressed her still red cheek with the back of one hand, "you have a zanpakutou of your own." Re-sheathing his sword, he turned on one heel and exited the small, brightly light room, his fraccione scurrying in behind him to clean up the mess. Il Forte should be in his chambers at this time.


End file.
