Title: Stick-Armed Boy
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Grimmjow/Ulquiorra
Rating/Warnings: R for themes of sex, violence, messed up shit.
Status: for bellumina, wc: 1,242.

a/n: this is probably utter shit. it felt like pulling teeth. i've been working on it for days now, trying to figure out how to handle Ulquiorra. it ended up being off-prompt, which makes me go 'Woe!', but it's finished. I think I'll try the characters in 'fic again soon, because the difficulty makes me think I don't write the archetypes enough.



Grimmjow Jaggerjack was one of the first.

Grimmjow was one of the first, but Aizen didn’t trust him. For good reason, after all, because even Grimmjow didn’t trust Grimmjow; he was the sort of individual that oozed unrest, with the sort of unacceptable smile that contained far too many teeth; which ate small birds and watched you from high places.

~~*~~

Ulquiorra was born much later. He was small and willowy-looking and Grimmjow had a sneaking suspicion he may have been a Vasto Lorde, the remnants of the hollow mask curling into a majestic horn above his dark head. Aizen told Grimmjow to train the new Arrancar, power being nothing if not combined with knowledge and a strong background.

It was then that Grimmjow realized he was being replaced with a new, more expensive toy.

But he taught Ulquiorra everything he knew, because the Arrancar was small and thin, with stick-like arms and downturned features, and Grimmjow hadn’t had the experience of being in a humanoid body in longer than he cared to think about. Ulquiorra’s voice never quavered. Grimmjow wanted to change that.

~~*~~

Grimmjow crouched low under the featureless sky of Hueco Mundo, teeth bared and eyes bright. The small shape of Ulquiorra formed itself out of the smoke and dust and paling red glow of Grimmjow’s final attack, eyes closed lightly, face unreadable. Standing, Grimmjow made his way over to the other Arrancar, sandals breaking the thin layer of crude glass created by the heat of the recently fired cero. It made a high, crisp sound that hurt Grimmjow’s teeth, but he grinned anyway, because he knew it made Ulquiorra nervous by this point.

Ulquiorra never reacted to it, possessing of a disposition which Grimmjow considered some twisted, silent form of Napoleon complex, but Grimmjow knew that he made Ulquiorra nervous in the way that predators did. He knew that Ulquiorra knew that he knew, and Ulquiorra knew that Grimmjow knew.

Furthermore, Ulquiorra wanted Grimmjow to know that he frankly didn’t give a damn, and Grimmjow wanted to kill him for it.

“Oh?” he said to the younger Arrancar, humor in his voice, “Think we’re some sort of tough guy, do we?”

“I beg your pardon,” Ulquiorra mumbled in his soft, deep voice. Grimmjow narrowed his impossibly blue eyes at Ulquiorra’s back as he turned around, heading back to shelter from the endless white desert. “I believe we’re done here.”

Grimmjow flipped him the bird.

Plainly stated, they fucking hated one another with the burning passion of a nuclear chain reaction, poisoning the atmosphere everywhere they settled together. But something so petty as unadulterated hatred was not going to stop Grimmjow goddamn Jaggerjack from getting what he wanted.

He was starting to realize that what he wanted was to take Ulquiorra by his delicate, boney little hips, throw him against a cold, rough wall and fuck him until he screamed. Until black Arrancar blood seeped slowly down the back of Ulquiorra’s skinny, unattractive china-plate thighs. Until Ulquiorra gave Grimmjow any kind of reaction at all, just so Grimmjow could prove he could do it.

“Fine,” he cackled like a hyena, “Run away like a rodent. You’re about the right size. Squeak, squeak.”

~~*~~

Grimmjow eyed Ulquiorra from the glittering outcroppings he was perched against, watching the freshly-made Arrancar’s movements through one of the larger chambers in Their Magnificent Lord Aizen Sousuke’s Castle. Ulquiorra entered the room through an arching doorway and moved silently across the ground, without grace or purpose, like some pale imitation of a life-form. It always struck Grimmjow, the way the small new Arrancar drifted in and out of reality, almost as if he was just a recording.

The white boy was going about his services to Aizen, as the fucking lapdog did every day (in as far as there was such things as days in Hueco Mundo, without a solar or lunar cycle); a silent, clockwork doll.

Ulquiorra placed the scroll of paper he was carrying onto the ridiculously large stone-slab table in the middle of the room and turned to face the rocky wall in which Grimmjow was lurking theatrically.

“I see you, mousey,” Grimmjow singsonged, lacing his voice with as much dripping, impolite perversion as possible. His lips spread thin across his face, splitting with his inhumanely wide, toothy smile.

“Of course.” Ulquiorra’s face remained static, unmoved by the teasing.

“Kitty hasn’t seen you in a while to do his job. Where you been at?” Slowly, Grimmjow brought himself down from his perch, clinging to the rock with his feet and nimble fingertips, bringing a scattering of dust and rock to the ground. Grimmjow reached a hand out to wrap it around Ulquiorra’s half-helm, but it was batted disinterestedly away. His smile fell from his face, lips closing like an old wound. He tapped the table with his hip, zanpakutou’s scabbard clacking woodenly.

“What the fuck is this table here for, anyway? We don’t eat, we sure as hell don’t need nowhere to sit and read the newspaper. It’s like it exists for fucking tea parties. Ever thought about shit like this?”

Ulquiorra moved Grimmjow out of the way bodily, not giving him a second glance. Grimmjow wanted to spit on him.

“’Course not, mousey.” He whipped out two gangly hands, grabbing Ulquiorra by his white jacket, turning him around to face him. Ulquiorra barely frowned as Grimmjow pawed at his chest, touch lacking care or delicacy.

“I can understand why you would be so irritated by my very presence, but you must have realized the eventuality of the situation,” Ulquiorra said, Grimmjow clearly reading the undertones; you’re trash, you would be doing Aizen a favor if you curled up in a corner and rotted away. “And a man such as yourself should know his place.”

Grimmjow shook him by the fabric of his jacket, snarling in his throat. Still no reaction.

“Say something, bitch! React!”

Nothing.

Frustrated, Grimmjow moved one of his hands down to Ulquiorra’s white hakama, palming the Arrancar’s testicles and cold, inhuman cock. He leaned over, thin lips by Ulquiorra’s well-formed, pale ears. Grimmjow could see the blood vessels playing under the thin skin of them, fragile and mortal in close proximity. He giggled, breathing hard.

Nothing. Ulquiorra stood beneath Grimmjow, silent. Grimmjow gripped his genitals tighter.

“What would you look like if I ripped you out of your clothes. Mine’s blue, you know. You can tell by my eyebrows.”

Ulquiorra’s slit pupils looked away, body language closed; the smallest of reactions, it only egged the taller Arrancar on.

“I wonder if you’d beg me,” Grimmjow cooed, gruff voice honeyed and sexual, “If I did this.”

Grimmjow struck like a mongoose, one hand on Ulquiorra’s thin arm, bruising the white flesh purple. He ran his long, sinuous tongue slowly around the edge of the tell-tale hole of the Arrancar, circling the negative space of Ulquiorra’s neck slowly, darting in. The skin was familiar and velvety, reminding Grimmjow of every reason he had to hate the other man.

Ulquiorra squirmed away, throwing Grimmjow back with preternatural strength, a painful blush running across his cheeks.

Who was the fucking trash now, hussy?

“If you think I’m playing this idiotic game with you,” Ulquiorra coughed, clearing his throat. “You are hilariously mistaken. I suggest you leave. Now.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grimmjow simpered, Cheshire grin wide and deranged.

“What,” Ulquiorra muttered as dispassionately as possible, face falling back into its typical moue. “Is that supposed to mean?”

“Heh,” was the only response Grimmjow gave, turning and sauntering away with the practiced, offensive sort of nonchalance of a bosouzoku. Smiling.

When you won the most important battle, who the fuck cared if you won the war?