I'm eighteen, so I can write dirty stuff. Cirucci/Gin drabble. Dedicated to stormcoming
, the Cirucci-mun over at polychromatic
for inspiring me with her characterization.Untitled #3 -- 3-10-08
In the job description for Privaron Espada - female Privaron Espada - it says nowhere that anyone is to be fucktoy to superiors. It's more of an understood rule, one that Cirucci Thunderwitch is well acquainted with. It's usually not such a terrible arrangement. She readily caters to the most twisted of whims because those whims are her own. Sometimes, it's nice to remember that bleeding can be pleasurable, that submission isn't always humiliating, and that domination isn't entirely out of her reach. She can identify most of the heterosexual male arrancar chiefly by their kinks. None of them disturb her.
None but his.
He kisses her softly and touches her in the same way, thin lips following her curves with a perfect smile. He is always slow. Considerate, even. They don't speak of what they do often, but when they do, he doesn't call it 'fucking' or even just 'having sex'. 'Makin' love' is his euphemism of choice, and everytime she hears it, it's enough to make her gag. He's good at what he does, and when her mouth screams pleasure but her eyes spell mutiny, he chuckles low in his throat and places his hands over both. But she can't imagine him to be anyone else, not with his scent and his reiatsu bearing over her. When she actually manages to picture another face, he speaks to her in soft, sing-song tones, words that make her burn with shame and dizzy with want.
It's the worst sort of abuse she can imagine.
He never breathes hard or moans or even changes his expression. Fucking her is a walk in the park. Nothing worth exertion. And he never comes unless it's on her, warm and terrible. When it's over, he holds her close for as long as he can before she can think up an excuse that's not too trite. This bothers her most of all. One day, she dares to ask him whether or not he has more important things to do than to just lay with her. In return, he asks her what's wrong with a little 'cuddlin'. She sweetly replies nothing, but has to stop herself from recoiling.
All this affection is such a lie that it makes her own pale in comparison. She can do fake, but not this kind of fake - the kind that borders on mockery and pity. When it's over, she takes the longest baths she can imagine, scrubbing every part of her drops of him landed. It's like screwing a fox. She's not really into beastiality, but she can't say no. And some nights, when he treats her like porcelain but talks to her like the nothing she is, when she's whispering his name like it's the only one she knows, she forgets what the word even means.