Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or its characters. This story was written purely for enjoyment and no profit was made from it.
Warning: Violence and adult language (All Grimmjow's fault, really).
Author's Note: Prompt fill. Paraphrasing, the prompt was basically 'Ulquiorra and Grimmjow get into a fight over Aizen, make it angsty.' So what we have here is essentially a short fight scene scribble and nothing else.
To Be Espada
By Sinnatious
"It's disgusting. Have you all forgotten what it means to be a Hollow?"
Ulquiorra doesn't react to his taunt. The bastard never reacts.
"Running after that guy like a bunch of lapdogs. It makes me sick."
Grimmjow scowls and kicks at a stray pebble – a bit of rubble from the last time Nnoitra got put in his place by Nel, probably. "Hey, are you fucking listening?"
Ulquiorra stops and turns. "Aizen-sama is worthy of our respect."
"Hell, he might be strong, but he ain't a Hollow." He slams his fists together a few times, relishing the smack of skin and bone, imagining his opponent's mask crushing between them. "All this crap about making Arrancar and sitting in here not fighting – why the hell are we putting up with all this shit?"
All these damn newcomers, who don't even deserve to be Numeros, much less Espada. None of them earned it, none of them clawed their way to the top from Gillian to Adjucas to Vasto Lorde. Now there's a damn farce of a city in the middle of Hueco Mondo, with white buildings and a fake sky and actual paths instead of endless dunes of sand.
"You have your orders," is all Ulquiorra says.
Grimmjow growls, and punches the wall. It fractures beneath his fist. "Don't you pull rank on me! I'm as strong as you are, and I'll prove it!"
The familiar form of Pantera settles around him, and his body thrums with energy and power and he can practically feel a cero crackling at his claw tips. He slashes, angrily, shredding the very air, burying his fingers in chips of rock.
Ulquiorra appears behind him, utterly nonplussed. "Keep overstepping your boundaries, and you'll find yourself no longer an Espada." He can't tell if it's a threat or a warning. Knowing Ulquiorra, it's probably both.
"Keep bowing down to some damn Shinigami, and you'll forget what it means to be one!" He rips his claws through the wall, tearing towards his opponent. Ulquiorra vanishes again, and again, evading each strike by a hair's width.
Grimmjow laughs maniacally. "Running away, Ulquiorra? Oh, that's right – Espada cuarta and above are forbidden from releasing their resurreccion now, aren't they?" he taunts. "Well then, this is gonna be easy!"
He lets loose a cero, and the hallway bleeds with crimson light. The resulting explosion cracks like thunder, and the ground shudders under their feet.
This is fighting. This is what being an Espada should be about!
Ulquiorra emerges from the smoke, two fingers extended – countering cero with cero. Grimmjow lunges towards him, nothing but a blur to any watching eyes.
His claws catch fabric, and skin, and tear.
He roars with victory at the slash – three bleeding stripes across the cuarta Espada's abdomen. First blood!
The more rational part of his mind, not yet caught up in bloodlust, recognises the strike had been too easy – that Ulquiorra hadn't bothered dodging.
And when he sees the slashes closing, almost as fast as he inflicted them, he realises why.
"Worthless trash," Ulquiorra says, then disappears.
The first blow slams against his back, makes him stumble. The next comes from the side, and leaves him reeling. One smashes into his stomach, and he nearly bites through his tongue. His hierro holds, but he's tossed back and forth, bones shuddering under each strike, barely able to catch sight of his assailant in time to register his presence, much less react.
Until the glow of a cero grows in his face, and Grimmjow is blasted into the wall.
Rock and plaster cracks and falls around him, and a slender, pale hand presses against his throat, pinning him to the wall. Dull, bored green eyes stare up at him.
"Do you have a problem with Aizen-sama's plans?"
"It's not fucking fair," he snarls – his words wet with his own blood, his bruised ribs shuddering painfully with every breath. "You're this strong, even without releasing your resurreccion, and you bow down to that?"
"Do you have a problem with Aizen-sama's plans?" Ulquiorra repeats, as monotonous as always.
Threats and taunts and arguments balance on the tip of his bleeding tongue, but Grimmjow shakes his head, and Pantera recedes, leaving him bruised and tattered and humanoid once more. The cuarta Espada lets him drop to the ground, sends him one last chilling glance in reproof, and strides away through the charred and crumbling hallway.
Ulquiorra is one damn cagey bastard. He was surprised, is all. How many Espada keep that kind of regeneration and speed? All the sensible ones funnel that power into strength and new weapons as early as possible. After all, who needs to regenerate, if you're too powerful to even touch?
Next time, it'll go differently. He'll get stronger. He'll get stronger and stronger and stronger, and then he'll remind them all what it means to truly be Espada.