A/N: ...Okay. This started out as a little drabble. It didn't have any pairings, it was supposed to be a little test-drive for Cirucci. Having finished, I must say... I'm a lillte hot under the collar. xD I haven't written smutty het in a while. This was also my first time writing Aizen, Cirucci, Gin, and Szayel/Cirucci in general, so feedback makes me happyface. ...Yes, this is a songfic to Death Note's "Misa no Uta". I found everything about it eerily appropriate for this couple, and I really tried to reflect that. Sorry if some of the metaphors gross anyone out, but this is supposed to be a dark fic. Oh, and this is dedicated to violet_tide of LJ , who introduced me to this couple. Spot the stupid and obvious reference to your name? xD *deep exhalation*
Alright, now I can go write RenIshi! (Urk, 'danna's birthday is soon and I haven't even started on it!! Dx)
Footsteps echo through her lonely hallway like claws of a bird clacking daintily on cold, lacquered marble. The other Arrancar around her turn and stare at her retreating wings, the bouncing violet plumage she pulls back into pigtails as sweetly polished as the rest of her. She pays them no mind; they are not worth her attention. This white stone expanse belongs to her, pointing in perfect tune with her blooming lilac eyes to a pair of burning gold orchids nestled smugly in intricate white pots. The Octava stands patiently, hands clasped behind his back like a child's doll playing a schoolboy. In that, they are not so different.
""Ah, there you are. So glad you could make it."
"It's hardly like you gave me a choice."
She snaps back, no more able to bite back her retort than to fly away from her cage of thick columns and long, gloved fingers. His moods are volatile, and as such, every snappy comeback that leaves her lips is likely to be her last. But the Octava is amused, and his girlish giggle sends any unfortunate passerbys scuttling away in proper terror.
"Indeed, I didn't. If birds have wings, they do tend to fly off." He's mocking her, and they both know it. The eternal phoenix stares down at the sullied swallow and preens in the glory of his rebirth; she flaps a single wing in vain hopes of reaching one of the bloody feathers that fall from his breast. "Shall we go inside?" He gestures to a door that has suddenly come forth from the wall. She waits for him to move, he waits for her to break. At last, defeated, she places a dainty foot over the threshold and prays the semblance of protection her clunky white boot gives will spread across her entire body for at least a little while. Even as the last sliver of light is squeezed like skin cut under medical scissors by the door, she can still see his triumphant smile. Once again, she has willingly flown into his hands.
Careful what you do,
'Cause God is watching your every move.
He takes her gloved hand in his, and she freezes abruptly, as if seized at the culmination of orgasm or death throes.
Hold my hand in the dark street.
For if you do, I know that I'll be safe.
With one fluid movement, he steps up behind her and places the chain of bone that is his free arm across her waist, effectively cutting off any escape from one cage into another. The difference in their heights does not seem to matter anymore, and his vampirically sharp teeth nip and tease the high collar of her dress. His breath is cold on her throat, like the preservative gasses he dresses his dolls in so he can play with them until he's broken them. Nontheless, her pulse jumps, and her own web of denial spins it so that the exhalations are warm and passionate, promising lovemaking over hatemongering. A moan escapes her full lips, and she leans back into his delicate frame, allowing her fingers to twine around his and guide them up her body like spiders up a wall. The wings sewn onto her dress press firmly between them, and she knows they will leave marks on her back and his torso. They effectively waltz down the pitch-black corridor, two playthings slowly learning to work their own strings.
Even if I'm far away and alone,
I can be sure that you'll find me there.
This I know.
He lays her down on a cold metal table uncomfortably parallel to the floor before slowly, tortuously placing himself on top of her. Wisps of pink hair tumble forward to stroke her cheek; the most loving touch any part of him will provide unto her. Golden eyes watch her, intent and bored, full of lust and utterly impotent all at once. She does not know what her own eyes look like. Perhaps they are scared of this demon, perhaps they pretend he is another of the pretty faces from her days past as an Espada. Darkness is supposed to provide her with miserable solitude and shelter, instead it unfurls into bloody wings and sets her agony alight into a twisted pleasure. He never tires of this game, this beautiful lie that removes her from herself so he may fill in the cracks with whatever he pleases.
"Why do you do this?"
You draw me close for a while, so quiet.
You tell me everything.
Their lips meet like a collision of Lucifer and a Saint Teresa drowning in dirt. His tongue swipes across her lower lip, almost as if he wishes to devour her lipstick alongside all her other artificiality. There is no sound; both know better than to lose control so easily while the tempo of the dance is just picking up. He breaks the kiss and his response is immediate, telling her already that he'd been formulating a reply rather than taking any actual pleasure in touching her.
"Because I love to see my specimens squirm uner my fingers. Because I love to watch birds with clipped withgs and brothers with lingering consciences give in to me. Because..." She winces almost invisibly at the mention of Ilforte, recently deceased. Quickly, she tells herself it is because of the gory and humiliating nature of his demise rather than the skewed companionship she'd had with him. He takes advantage of the gap in her shield to lean in close to her ear. His fingers reach behind her back and begin to unbutton her dress, his words compose themselves centimeters away from the point where she can hear them. "Because I can."
She shivers. The answer is the same every time she asks, yet she cannot help but ask again, like some sort of common parrot.
If I forget what you say, then you'll come to me,
And tell me again.
"Do you understand now?" He purrs, slowly peeling off her shell like skin from one of the Hollows he dissects. She whimpers in spite of herself, the frigidity of his laboratory coupled with his icy words and body too insubstantial to provide heat anywhere but her imagination.
"I can't say I understand insanity." She breathes in response, partly to his question, partly to the tongue now making its way down to the thin white band that is the only support--or perhaps protection-- her breasts have.
"I'll take that as a compliment." He murmurs onto her chest.
Yes, you tell me once again.
Her hands probe the arch of his back and the stark, jutting shoulder blades over which clothing pulls taut to cover already taut skin.
"You'd take a blade to the face if you felt it'd make you perfect." She remarks dryly from behind now griited teeth. He shakes his head like a schoolmaster chiding a misguided student.
"But if I were to be wounded like that, that would imply that I either condoned being injured or was unskilled enough to dodge the blow. Neither of those are qualities of the perfect being." When her little girl legs wrap around his slender travesty of a waist, he adds; "Not that I would expect you to understand."
But what happens whenI know it all?
Then what should I do after that?
She hates him for his hubris, for his ability to make her feel a farce, for the fact that he is right about his perfection. His hamartia has long since been analyzed and dropped into a little glass box whilst he throws away the key, cackling in the demented voice of a spirit who would gladly drop to hell, if only he could fill the gaping hole in his chest. She knows this; she is privy to his secrets, from the location of his Espada tattoo (how she'd love to tear it off him like they did to her) to the reason he was once at her level, a discarded, broken scum. This intimate knowledge is, perhaps, her own little tragic flaw; it seemed to her that those who knew the Octava too well met untimely ends, if poor, stupid, beautiful Ilforte was any indication. She kisses hhim again, and he tastes of formaldehyde, sugar, and ashes dropped and stirred artfully into a cup fof tea. It disgusts her, but at the same time draws her in. She feels her hands take ahold of that teacup, his waist, the liquid burning her fingers through ceramic, through his clothes. If she pours it all over herself, will the scald set up a barrier against his vortex of perfection and ill will, waiting to suck her in and devour her whole?
His tongue probes a nipple with scientific precision, snapping her thoughts like a twig holding up an anvil. She shivers and arches into him, allowing want to take over again, allowing him to strip her bare and take what he wants, provided he give just a taste of power back.
What then?
From his throne room, Aizen Sousuke watches Szayel Aporro and Cirucci perform their bizarre dance of passion. He has seen this played out between the Privaron, the Octava, and the Quince multiple times, but always it is to the same song of insecurity and near-blind faith all Arrancar sing silently to him. He closes his eyes.
"Gin." He calls, and in an instant, his right-hand man is there. Aizen does not need to open his eyes to see the omnipresent grin.
"Ya called, Aizen-sama?" The lord of Las Noches affirms with a nod.
"When Szayel Aporro is finished, please inform him that I request Cirucci Thunderwitch and her fellow Privaron Espada in my presence immideately."
"O'course, Aizen-sama." Gin pauses, and with it is the slightly eerie silence that always rings inauspicious tidings; the silence of the silver-haired man's plotting. "This wouldn't happen t'be anythin' t'do with these intruders, now would it?"
"Qucik to catch on as always, Gin. I was thinking, perhaps, that we send Miss Thunderwitch to meet the Quincy. After all," Aizen pauses, a benevolent smile masking the evil oozing from the corners of his lips. "She seems to have quite a thing for young men with glasses." Gin chuckles.
"O'course. ...I gotta say, you're a real sick fella." The other man turns and walks away, presumably to carry out his orders. Aizen returns his attention to the screen to find the Octava and the Privaron kissing with something that could appear to be passion, if the Hollow holes did not betray their desperate lonliness. At last, he opens his eyes and allows the fake smile to slip off his face like an egg from the ovary. The expression now there is some spawn of pure evil and remorse, much akin, too much akin to the faces of his Arrancar.
"Aren't we all, Gin?"
~FINIS