Carousel
When Ulquiorra spoke it was gravel and stone; when he moved it was solemn and purposeful; when he breathed and stood it was empty grace- but when hands reached to touch him and kiss him and engulf him in hunger, he shook like leaves in autumn. Grimmjow made this observation, the tremors in his superior's body like minor blessings; to think, that he had such power with something so simple. A mouth over his neck, a few fingers over the small of his back, hands laced in his hair like lovers did, only they were far from that. To get their jollies off while everyone was away- what were they anyway?
Love was a strong word. In English: four letters, not unlike an epithet, like shit or fuck, but they didn't fuck, they roamed around their bodies and touched each other and Ulquiorra grunted instead of mewled, and Grimmjow considered that perhaps the other was muffling himself. Kiss- another four letters, and they did a lot of that too, often ravenous, seldom slow- though when they did it slowly, Grimmjow felt an feeble delight, unusual since he so often enjoyed things loud, furious, and violent. Like- four as well, though they didn't like each other at all, but at least they both enjoyed themselves. Four- Ulquiorra's number, which made him higher, stronger, better, and when Grimmjow explored him it was a constant reminder that the moment could easily leave and turn into blood- his blood, not Ulquiorra's, because four beats six easily.
I want to love you, said those temptresses in the human world, with their round breasts that would turn into sacks and the unavoidable cracking of their harpy singing voices as they aged. I want to fuck you, said those horny little boys- Kurosaki's age, maybe older, to girls like Inoue, their fresh faced innocence, and love was a synonym for fuck anyway, how ridiculous was that? I want something from you, Grimmjow would have liked to say to his- what was he? Associate? Fellow victimizer? Not friend, not lover, not anything.
He didn't even have an answer for what he wanted.
Honeymoons- he called them jokingly, but his not-lover was never one for jokes, though he was evidently one for Grimmjow's hands, and Grimmjow's mouth, and Grimmjow's silence, as though Ulquiorra's body was the one church he prayed to. And both of them wanted something, though neither said what or why.
Grimmjow wasn't an idiot; Ulquiorra closed his lids like dying moths and gritted his teeth and croaked his animal sounds shut, and as the man crushed his hands into broad shoulders, the sexta attempted to fill in the blanks as to why they were using each other.
"No honey," he said to him, green eyes dull.
He had never tasted honey in his life, though from the human books Aizen insisted on giving them, he assumed it was sweet; granted sweet was a relative term. Sweet like how one felt after killing, sweet like what he felt after he and Ulquiorra were finished with each other. Sweet, then sour, then outright empty, but he was always empty anyway.
"No moon," he said to him, pale hands cold.
"I know that," Grimmjow said indignantly. "Yeah yeah, no honeymoon, you aren't my honey, you aren't my moon."
For some reason it stung, though it wasn't a wound or a sore or something that festered, though they did a lot of festering too, sores, holes, hollows. It was more like a papercut kind of pain, but even papercuts can get infected.
One day, a mostly empty Las Noches, an uncommon event, left them alone in their beds to do as they wanted, and they tore their clothes off and Ulquiorra was forward and needy, and Grimmjow was angry, so angry and empty, because the hollowness was so hurtful, he wanted to hurt it back.
"It never means anything," he said all of a sudden, and Ulquiorra's eyes widened ever so faintly.
"Of course it doesn't," was the reply. "It never does, not just for us."
"Then why the fuck aren't we going all the way? If it means nothing to you."
Neither of them expected that.
Ulquiorra seemed like he was thinking about it, then sat up on the side of the bed, and spat into his own hands.
It was not a graceful position; he stood up and with one arm held to Grimmjow's shoulder for support, and with the other inserted a finger into himself. Grimmjow, noticing the familiar tremble magnified tenfold, took him into his arms, the pained noise that then echoed both worrying and arousing. Strange, for two creatures so used to hurting others and alternately getting hurt themselves, that this would deserve such silence.
"I can't do this," Ulquiorra said, voice surprisingly even.
"It's alri-"
"You do it." He took Grimmjow's hands and slicked them with spit, and the other was hesitant to act, but did so anyway, one finger, two fingers, and Ulquiorra visibly stiffened, mouth with half formed noises that were clearly only partially silenced. It wasn't concern Grimmjow felt - he thought- but he was also aware that hurting Ulquiorra would perhaps mean killing himself.
There was a spot he hit that elicited a loud string of sound; he hit again- Ulquiorra was now in his lap, clearly attempting restraint in his audible responses but failing. Grimmjow momentarily felt very powerful; a lying feeling, naturally.
After three digits, both stopped, Grimmjow becoming fully aware of his own desire below. Beneath the lust, there was a small voice asking why exactly they were doing what they were doing, but this was immediately silenced as Ulquiorra eased himself down on his cock, an awful grimace forming in his face- so awful, but Grimmjow could feel tightness and heat and very nearly ceased to care.
He was as still as he could possibly let himself, fearing death and pleasure - but oh, the pleasure; Ulquiorra was keeping a rhythm to himself, and the grimace turned to something less painful, before finally settling on the crook of Grimmjow's neck, nails digging little half moons that turned red on the other's skin.
It felt, finally, safe enough to move. They moved together, no crying out each other's name, no love, nothing but little sounds that grew more and more feral, and Ulquiorra was shaking and close to howling, and Grimmjow cared and didn't care at the same time, and thought garish things and beautiful things and yearning things, and then ceased to think at all, Ulquiorra letting out a sound like a wounded monster, because that was what they were, and Grimmjow came, and Ulquiorra had blood on the other's shoulders, fingers with a thin sheen of sticky red, shuddering as well.
After the fact, he immediately pulled away, attempting to stand. He looked at Grimmjow, as though examining something unfamiliar.
"Next week, same time," he said, leaving for the showers- the hidden limp, the black hair damp with sweat. His eyes told nothing.
Like it was an order.
Grimmjow could hear the sound of water, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling more empty than ever.