Just a Little Taste
Author's Note: This was completed for a contest on LiveJournal, created by GinnySeta (ginnyseta) and posted at Arrancar Fans (arrancar-fans). This was also my first time writing either of these characters.
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The halls of Las Noches were never very well-lit. In fact, the place probably would've been rather dank and dark if not for the many large windows scattered throughout – each was tall and wide enough to let in a satisfactory blade of silvery moonlight – and of course for the flickering flames of several burning candles and wall sconces. What little light there was lent a somber, mysterious feel to the entire palace; such an atmosphere was fitting for a place built to house an army of heartless, cannibalistic souls and the gods that ruled over them.
It was in a deserted corridor of Las Noches' main wing that Apache had decided to settle for the evening. She'd dragged a snowy white chaise lounge lengthwise across the hall – she preferred being able to spot anyone coming her way without having to crane her neck, thank you very much – and was now sprawled out along the length of it, slim legs crossed ankle-to-knee and dangling casually over one curved arm of the seat, her upper back propped up and supported by a pair of onyx pillows.
She'd drawn her sword, the entire metallic length of it, and now with the hilt in one hand and a soft square of cloth in the other she was polishing it. As with every arrancar, her zanpakutou was the most precious possession she owned, and Apache cared for it with more tenderness and affection than she'd ever bothered bestowing upon an actual person. Normally she'd have completed such a task in her own quarters, in her mistress' territory, but it was bright there, with lots of illuminating light, and frankly she preferred the way the blade of her katana glinted under a moonbeam.
And so she sat, her small form nearly hidden by darkness if not for the semi-reflective properties of the alabaster surroundings. Apache moved the fabric she carried in small, steady circles, and each time she successfully buffed what she felt was a substantial amount of metal, she raised her zanpakutou high above her head. She turned it this way and that, proudly admiring her work, smirking and chuckling to herself as the iron blade shined in the light.
Apache wasn't alone for long. She felt him before she saw him. Suddenly the atmosphere felt heavy and thick, the weight of it seemingly baring down on her bones, minute stabs like the tips of blades prickling at her skin like static electricity, like a horde of claws teasingly scratching her hierro. Reiatsu. His reiatsu. The Fraccion narrowed her mismatched eyes and gritted her teeth. The look on her face was one of irritation rather than fear or outright anger; it would be him, wouldn't it?
And then there he was. Grimmjow Jeagerjaques, the Sexta Espada, trooping down the corridor with his posse of Numeros in tow. Apache clutched the woven hilt of her zanpakutou a little tighter, but stayed in place. It would be him, she thought to herself again, resuming her regime of polishing her blade with feigned indifference. He'd taunt her, surely, underscore her subservient title of Fraccion and mock her markedly inferior power and strength. The idea wasn't exactly something she was looking forward to.
Grimmjow was gaining on her every second. His confident walk was almost a cocky strut. He must know she was there; he could sense her reiatsu, surely. Apache in turn could feel each individual spiritual pressure of the Sexta's Fracciones, the combined force making her sixth sense hum, though all seemed to pail in comparison to their leader's own overwhelming force. She didn't move an inch despite it all, didn't even bother to steal a glance or two from the corner of her red and blue eyes. Just a few more steps, and she'd practically be face-to-face with all of them. One, two, three…
"Hey, Apache." There it was, that unmistakable, deep voice. "Ya wanna move your fuckin' ass so the rest of us can get the fuck by?" A couple of snickers punctuated the statement. Apache finally turned her gaze toward the group, her expression seemingly cavalier. Her eyes first landed on Grimmjow, standing tall, hands in his pocket, eyes narrowed deviously, lips spread in a wide, glistening porcelain grin. The rest stood behind him – Shawlong looking coolly apathetic, Edrad as huge and brutish as ever, Nakeem unresponsive as always, Il Forte with his usual smug smile, and Di Roy with his rather creepy, toothy grin. Each figure was half-hidden in the darkness of the shadows, and also half-exposed by the silvery white moonlight.
Apache smirked. "Hn…. Not really, actually," she replied smoothly, shifting slightly into a more comfortable position as if to emphasize her point. "I was here first. Sorry."
More snickering. "Ha! I don't think this bitch heard me right!" Grimmjow exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder to momentarily exchange a round of simpering grins. His eyes returned to her form a moment later, and he bent forward to lean in closer. "I said," he began again, a definite mocking edge to his voice this time, "move your fuckin' ass outta the way, Fraccion, unless you need me to move it for you."
"And I don't think you heard me right!" Apache shot back, obviously incensed. "I was here first and I'm not gonna fuckin' move!" She straightened her back, structuring her posture, and glared back at the Sexta with a face full of contempt. "And don't you fuckin' call me a bitch!" she went on, left hand still clenched around her katana.
Even more snickering. God, didn't those fucktards ever shut up? "Ha!" Grimmjow all but threw his head back as he laughed – a deep, guttural laugh, and one that echoed off the corridor walls. "'N the fuck are ya gonna do if I say it again? Have a fuckin' fit?"
A fit. Ha. She didn't know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that Grimmjow saw fit to lump her in the same category as Las Noches' many whiney female residents. But if that was how he wanted to play… "Halibel-sama wouldn't like it. She'd be pretty damn pissed if she knew you were calling one of her Fracciones something so…piggish."
Apache didn't have to say exactly what she was thinking to get the idea across; the look on Grimmjow's face told her he understood what she was implying only too well. You can't touch me. My mistress is more powerful than you. You're nothing but an animal to her. The Sexta's expression had soured. He was scowling, sneering, clenching his teeth, and narrowing his eyes, visibly growing angrier by the second. Apache smirked. Her words were true – an attack by one Espada on another's Fracciones was as good as an outright threat to the latter's master, and Halibel would never allow that. Granted, Halibel also wouldn't be pleased by her feistiest soldier's utter lack of respect…but that was something only Apache and her comrades knew.
Grimmjow drew back a second later, and before anyone dared take a breath, he raised his leg, bent at the knee, and jabbed the edge of the plush chaise with his foot. The piece of furniture went flying backward at an alarming rate, the four clawed legs scraping several feet of marble floor before catching on a crack and toppling forward. It might've remained upright if Apache hadn't been clinging to it; when it fell she went down with it, just managing to toss her zanpakutou to the side for fear that she might land on it.
Grimmjow was already stalking toward her, his posse hollering instigating words and jeering at the fallen Fraccion all the while. "You little fuckin' cunt!" he roared, fists balled, his stride becoming ever more carnal and predatory. "You think you can fuckin' talk to me like that an' get away with it?! I'll break your goddamn face!"
Apache was back on her feet in a moment, sonido-ing to retrieve her zanpakutou, and quickly replacing the blade in its sheath. She was neither stupid nor naïve; she knew better than to raise her sword against an Espada.
The small girl stood her ground but kept her knees bent, ready to spring out of harm's way at any second, if need be. Arms partially spread on either side of her, Apache's features hardened – this time in an expression of concentration rather than annoyance. "Only if ya can catch me first."
Grimmjow stopped mid-step, apparently surprised. His opponent's face was still stony serious, but inwardly she was pleased. Weren't expecting that, were ya? she thought to herself.
But a moment later the blue-eyed Espada was nearly doubled over, laughing. "You fuckin' kidding me?!" he bellowed between bouts of mirth. "Ya really think you're gonna dance your little ass outta my reach? Get the fuck out!"
Apache's teeth clenched between her closed lips, face growing faintly disgruntled. She was tempted to simply lunge forward and shut him up, though she knew such an act would be foolishly fatal.
The last bit of his laughter trickling to an end, Grimmjow crossed his arms and casually turned his head back to glance over his shoulder at his entourage. "You all. Fuck off."
His Fracciones, most of whom had been grinning and chuckling and nudging each other knowingly, suddenly paused and stared back at their leader, eyes wide.
"You all fuckin' deaf or what?" the Sexta began again, obviously irritated by his followers' frozen stances and confused expressions. "I said fuck off!"
"But…Boss!" Di Roy cut in, apparently more lost than the rest. "I thought we all was –"
"Ya want me to crush your face after I'm done with this little shit? Eh, Di Roy?" the Espada shot back.
Di Roy took an unsteady step backward.
Seemingly more aggravated than ever, Grimmjow turned his face back toward Apache's. "This ain't gonna take long an' it ain't a challenge, so there ain't no point to you all bein' here." His glowering features grew more pronounced. "Besides, this bitch doesn't deserve a fuckin' audience. Ain't worth it."
Slowly the group of Numeros began to retreat, cautious and uncertain at first, then faster and more briskly, until finally each had reached the end of the hall and was sonido-ing around the corner. "Finally," Grimmjow muttered under his breath as the last of his group disappeared in a blur.
Apache hadn't moved an inch or changed her position at all. Her adversary glanced back at her, grinned, chuckled lowly and sneered, eyes glittering intently and excitedly like those of a cat staring down its prey. The Fraccion swallowed, tiny drops of glistening sweat beginning to dot her forehead, temples, and the back of her neck like little crystals.
"Scared yet?" Grimmjow taunted.
A slightly shaky breath. "Only if ya can catch me," Apache repeated.
Grimmjow snickered once more and lunged.
He was faster, stronger, and more powerful. She was smaller, lighter, and more agile. Apache managed to dodge his first attack, leaping out of the way just in time, much to Grimmjow's surprise and disdain. Once, twice, three times – she knew she wouldn't be able to hurdle around forever, but for now it was enough. Never once did she reach for her katana; it was better to simply evade an Espada's attack and possibly live than to fight against them and certainly face death.
It wasn't long before he finally hit her, his large fist slamming into her stomach, sending her flying back and retching, coughing, gasping for air. She wasn't surprised; she knew it would happen. He was Espada and she was Fraccion. Apache hit the cold, hard floor on her left side, rolling a bit before laying still. She held her stomach and paused a moment to catch her breath; Grimmjow laughed manically, ready to pounce again. She jumped up onto her feet. It hurt like a bitch, no doubt, but she refused to fall. He hadn't caught her just yet.
His second hit landed a few minutes later, this time in the middle of her chest. It sent Apache flying farther, falling harder, and she bit her lip by accident when she fell, splitting her own hierro. Blood trickled in narrow rivulets down the left of her mouth and to her chin. Her head throbbed. Every inch of her seemed to be aching, stinging, or pulsing in angry bouts of pain. Grimmjow had stopped, sneering, probably waiting for her to cry out or curse him or simply remain where she was. It took her longer this time, but she managed to stand again. She would not fall.
The Sexta charged again; she bounded away. Lunge and dodge, maybe once or twice before Grimmjow landed another blow. Fist connected with shoulder, chest, and lower abdomen. Pain – it was all Apache could feel, taste, see, and suddenly she was on the floor again, cold stone against her cheek. She hardly remembered landing there in the first place.
Eyes open, squinting weakly, brow creased; she could see him standing there, the look on his face one of hungry triumph, fiery blue orbs daring her to get up again. It was amazing, that power of his, Apache thought; she feared it to the point of terror, craved it for the forbidden fruit it was, and yet wanted to revel in its glory. Most of the other Numeros in her position would've submitted to it, would've been content to accept their fate and embrace the pain. Grimmjow was waiting for her to shed tears. She could see it in his features, and it didn't surprise her.
It also didn't mean she'd give in to weeping.
He was Espada, she was Fraccion, but they were both arrancar.
Apache lifted herself once more, pushing past the pain, wiping the trickling blood from the corner of her mouth. The right side of her torso in particular was killing her; there'd surely be quite the angry bruise there later. A small groan escaped her lips as she stood; the hurting was intense, to be sure, but it wasn't enough to keep her down. She wouldn't let it keep her down. She was stronger than that.
Apache grinned, a devious little curl of a smile to match the one Grimmjow so often wore. The look on his face was priceless. "Still standing, ya know."
An instant later Grimmjow's hand was around her neck, pinning her to the wall, grip tight enough to make her gasp for breath. "Fuckin' little shit you are," he muttered. His voice was a low growl, not at all his usual bellowing, and somehow Apache found his threatening quiet to be more alarming than when he was loud. "Ya really want me to crush ya like the fuckin' bug you are, eh?"
His reiatsu felt as though it were bubbling against her skin. That power again. She hated it, feared it, wanted it, adored it.
"I just like having a little fun every now and then. That's all," Apache replied, wincing and gulping.
His eyes widened, grip loosening in surprise. "What the…" he trailed off. She might've laughed if it wasn't for the hand around her throat. "You got a fuckin' death wish? Ain't ya supposed to be cryin' or some shit?"
Hate. Fear. Want. Adoration. To dread or to revel.
"Nah." She tossed her head back a bit, throwing loose strands of dark hair away from her face. "I just like a little taste of power ever now and then." She smiled easily.
Revel.
Grimmjow drew closer, his expression one of suspicious uncertainty. Apache continued to smirk, smugly and daringly. "I won't let Halibel-sama know if you won't."
Only if ya catch me first.
A pause, a moment of thought. Grimmjow's expression was one of surprise at first, then contemplation, distrust, a snicker and a grin. He leaned in closer, releasing his grip, fingers pinching her neck as he released her neck from his grasp, the gesture just a bit too firm and stinging to be described as tender. Her hands slid to his shoulders, slim legs wrapping around square hips.
All arrancar lusted for power; all she'd wanted was a taste of it, his, and now it was hers.
Power and strength; now they'd both have what they wanted, with none but the light and darkness to see it.
Just a little taste.