It was simple to set the scene. Without any true fighting to do outside of training and hardly anything interesting to do outside of watching the suck-ups scurry helplessly after Aizen, trying to keep on his good side, a lot of the lesser non-Espada arrancar kept each other company and that was when the baiting would start.
He'd begin with the simple, calling out to the other with some sort of nickname to make him twitch. And, when he had the bull's attention, he went on to other more fun lines of conversation until Il Forte was twitching and demanding that he 'come down here right now!', which was something Di Roy was smart enough to avoid, leaping to a more arial perch should the other follow.
Sometimes, however, he just wasn't fast enough.
Il Forte's fingers snagged the edge of Di Roy's hakama and dragged, yanking the other violently free from his perch. Di Roy hit the ground with a sickening thud, but he knew better than to wait to catch his breath.
He was, by far, one of the weakest of the arrancar number, which meant that, while he could lord over hollows, he knew getting into direct confrontation with many of his brothers meant a sure bruising or much, much worse if he couldn't talk his way out of things. Shiners were something Di Roy could handle his own fair share of, but an angry bull wasn't something that he wanted to cross with, at least not in a fair fight.
He reached up, fingers tangling against the white of his scarf as he moved. Distraction was key. Like a matador, he slung the scarf along, dipping carefully to avoid the nastily fast jabs of Il Forte's vicious blade. He had to keep moving.
The soles of his sandals skidded and he took to the air, letting the reiatsu build beneath his feet as he finally tossed the white cloth onto his pursuer. For a second, the blond hair beneath him was covered in a cloud of wrinkled white.
Di Roy laughed, fingers reaching for his zanpakutou just in case. He didn't have long to wait until he saw use for it. A sickening rip filled the air as Il Forte's sword penetrated his impromptu matador's cloth and followed him into the air just enough for Del Toro to find its mark and drag Di Roy down further.
He yelped, struggling to regain his height, but the bull had him more than just in his sights. Two more deadly slices of his blade and Di Roy hit the ground again with a wheeze as the breath was choked free of his lungs and the other's foot found its rest against his stomach.
Moving. Di Roy had to get moving again. He clawed at the foot as his single sane eye caught sight of the growing cero in his sibling's hand. "Shitshitshitshitshit."
Desperation drove him to switch his grip and he gave the foot a sharp pull, fingers scraping at the cloth that blocked Il Forte's tender skin from his reach. With a jerk, he managed to slip free, the cero's impact blasting the ground just inches from him, but Il Forte was far from finished. He curled his fingers against the collar of Di Roy's uniform as the other tried to scrap away with what life and dignity was still his.
"You're right, you are shit," Il Forte breathed, slamming the other face first into the pillar that had been his first escape with a strength that belied muscles well hidden within his elegant frame.
Di Roy gagged, throwing up his arms as the first crash came, but they didn't protect him against the second or third. He reached back, clawing at the fingers that held him suspended, but when Il Forte was in a rage, very little could fully distract him. All Di Roy could do by this point was squeeze his eyes shut and ignore the blood that was slowly beginning to mar the pure white of Las Noches.
When Il Forte had had his fill, dropping the other and swiveling away, Di Roy coughed, gasping for air as he stumbled to his knees.
"Same time next week, right?" he wheezed.