Chapter 4

Interlude.

Untold stories

He cracked open an eye. The crimson splatter still adorned the whiteness of his wall. He'd slept for a while, and no maid had yet cleaned the bloody mess on it or on the floor.

Tch. He'd just kill him/her when they came in, then. Much easier.

He wasn't particularly hungry, but it didn't matter. He'd hunt anyways. Jumping from the balcony, which faced outside the dome of Las Noches, he landed crouching, sand spraying in every direction. He ran towards the open desert, away from the place that had both freed him and bound him at the same time, to white sand that stretched anywhere his gaze could reach, the pale light of the moon creating watery shadows when it hit the castle or the stick-like 'trees', set in the sand in haphazard patterns. He headed towards his favorite hunting place, and his bloodlust only grew with each step of Sonido.

He was about to go insane just from the amount of adrenaline pumping in his veins (that is, if he had any 'sanity' left, a pitiful ideal to which humans, frail and weak, clung to desperately, without realising that maybe there never was any 'sanity') when he saw it: a grove of those brittle white trees, thick and sheltered from outside viewers. He could smell the hollows' reiatsu, a few of them weak, a menos or two and an extremely low-ranked arrancar, which, strangely enough, didn't seem to be attacking the others. He'd have to try sating himself on that. Anyways, there was always more prey somewhere out there, on the endless sands of Hueco Mundo.

A feral grin stretched on his lips as he thought of the nearby prey. With all the restraints Aizen-sama had placed upon them, ordering them to not kill any Adjuchas or stronger (not to talk about the rules regarding medium-ranked arrancar), it was hard to get anything remotely near to a decent meal. He had plenty enough reiatsu to pass around, but sometimes he just wanted the thrill of the kill: the desperate yells and pleads for mercy, the bones breaking and grinding against each other with every movement, the skull cracking and jutting out at strange angles, and the blood, the torrent of red blood gushing out of the wounds of his prey. Since he'd become a hollow, he'd eaten everything. The first to go, if he remembered correctly, had been his family: the mother he'd loved all his human life, his father, whom he admired more than anything else, and the little brother he'd doted upon since he was born. They'd been the perfect family, somewhat like the ones in books (that television-thingy hadn't been invented yet), until the mother he so loved killed him when he saw her with her lover. It was, contemporarily, the most painful murder he'd committed, yet one of the best. It had been the night he'd given up his frail humanity for ever and had indulged in his primal instinct: mindless killing.

Since then, he'd eaten not only to sate his power and bloodlust, but also to diminish his pain, as all hollows did. The only disadvantage of being a hollow was the perpetual feeling of emptiness that never seemed to disappear, always there, constant and nagging at the back of his mind to devour more to return whole again and to rid himself of that horrible sensation.

Not wanting to lose himself in philosophical debates in his mind, he drew closer to the prey. He could smell the terror in the air, an aroma as familiar to him as that of blood and reiatsu. He saw his victims' terrified expressions as he sent enormous waves of reiatsu crashing down on them. It seemed as if they would break under the pressure at any moment, or as if it took all their willpower and more to keep their bodily structure together.

The lesser hollows were the first to go: they were so weak he might as well have left them where they were. The Gillians were slightly more satisfactory as they seemed on an almost Adjuchas level (yet without personality), but to his dismay they didn't appear to understand what was happening, except for their outburst of poorly-aimed ceros.

But the arrancar lady, who was attempting to shunpo away, had reiatsu vaguely comparable to a Privaron Espada. His eyes glinted in bloodlust.

He caught her leg easily, and without any difficulty snapped it neatly in two. The girl howled in pain as the broken bone managed to pierce the side of her thigh, the blood pumping out of one of the main arteries in an almost hypnotic way, the dense red liquid seemingly following the rhythm of a song only he could hear in his mind. He tore off the bloody stump of a leg from her hip and then moved his hand to her stomach to disenbowl her. He pierced the girl's stomach and she screamed louder than before, making the adrenaline pump faster in his veins by default, groping around her innards before reaching under her sternum, clasping the still-beating heart on the palm of his hand.

The girl's eyes were petrified as her screams grew in intensity and volume. "Please don't, Grimmjow-sam…!"

She didn't have time to finish speaking before the azure-headed Espada tore her heart out and lapped at the blood on it.

Seems like today's meal wasn't half-bad.

XxX

When he awoke, he wasn't sure what had happened. He remembered sitting in a bathroom with a blade in his hands before… before what? He tried to remember but the only thing he could think about as he searched his memory was the stab of pain in his wrists that wracked around his entire body, the blackness, that feeling of utter despair and the sound of some liquid going down a drain as metal clinked on the stall's tiles.

And then he'd woken up here. It still seemed to be part of his school, but it must be one of the corridors he used less frequently. He'd never been to room 389, yet he was drawn to the light he saw shining behind the opaque glass for some unknown reason. His body felt heavy as he moved towards the door. Even when he'd carried enourmous backpacks for hours while hiking he'd never felt this, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. With every step he took, his imaginary burden seemed to lessen and his breathing slowed down. He was about to reach for the doorknob when the most intense pain he'd ever felt flared through his chest.

He screamed wildly as he felt the burning sensation envelop his whole body, as if fire consumed him. His chest hurt the most, and he was now aware of a gaping hole between his pectorals. It was so wide he was surprised he was still alive. That is, if he didn't die from the pain now.

He spasmed, and luckily the ache disappeared. The world stopped rocking around and it stilled. An uncomfotable sensation made his shoulder blades itch, but he payed it little attention. He moved his hand over his face, eyes closed as he inhaled shakily. He shifted the appendage on his face and then his fingernails clinked against something hard. He tapped a nail – which had been inexistent before – over the rigid substance that covered his face, but couldn't understand exactly what it was. He gave up, and reached towards a nearby radiator to pull himself up from the cold floor.

And then he caught sight of his hand. It was thin and black, the sharpest talons he's ever seen erupting from the tips. He looked down at his body and didn't see much except a black chest with some strange green design near the hole he'd felt before. His eyes widened in horror. He raced towards the closest window, nearly crashing in a nearby trophy case. His reflection was horrible: a white mask with black and green marks covered his face, curved horns sprouting at the top of his head. His hair was at least two feet long, and his eyes weren't too visible behind he mask in the gloom, but he could make out the colors: the pupils were green, like they'd always been, but the scleras were black. But the most horrifying detail was lower: the hole he'd felt before went cleanly from front to back and there was no blood or anything else around it. He could clearly see the other side of the corridor reflected in the portion of empty space in the middle of his chest. Intricate green markings originated from the gaping wound – if it could be so called – on his black chest. The rest of his body was black as well, yet unremarkable if not for the sharp claws and talons. Leathery green wings were attached to its back, similar to the ones of dragons he'd seen in fantasy movies or in video games. He pressed the palm of his hand against the cold glass, as if trying to grasp his other self in the window.

"What… what am I?" Even his voice was different: it was slightly raspy and seemed to come from the dephts of a dark, unending, hole.

His reflection didn't answer.

A laugh fluctuated around the air from room 389. Apparently, there was more than one person there. The black haired thing – what was he? A monster? An alien? A mythical creature? – approached the door, and reached once more to the doorknob. His hand slipped through, and so did the rest of his body.

Inside, there were some people, but his attention was drawn to two of them in particular, a woman and a man, dressed somewhat shabbily. His parents. The sight before his eyes triggered the surfacing of the memories he'd forgotten, and he remembered everything: his past life flashed by his eyes, he could see himself, only as a child, teased by his classmates and abused by his parents, an older version of himself hiding in the bathroom to cry after the jocks at his school had beaten him up for being an 'gay emo freak', the people insulting him in the hallways, his parents telling him he was a useless and pathetic, a disgrace to the family, that he should die, the boy he'd secretly had a crush on shunning him and revealing his secret to the whole school…

And then, the final decision: choosing to end the pain tearing through him, he'd taken his time to say goodbye to his pet fish, to listen to his favorite music, to survey his room thoroughly before heading for that final day of torture before he put an end to it all.

That day had crept so slowly he'd wondered if somebody was playing a trick on him by prolonging the time before the end. Everytime he opened his bookbag he'd think of the razor-sharp blade at the bottom of it, waiting to be pulled out and used. He'd breathed in the crisp air of mid-January and had finally felt at peace with himself. He was going to end the pain as soon as everybody left school.

He'd sat on the cool ceramic toilet and had extracted the sharp blade from the dephts of his bag, had thought about all the things that had happened to him – the good ones making a surprisingly short list for a sixteen year-old – and had pressed the metal against his inner wrist, softly at first, moving the blade up and down, and then more harshly. The red blood looked beautiful against his deathly pale skin, and then he'd slashed the other arm as well. He'd leaned against the stall's wall as he slipped down, the pain ebbing away to leave space for delicious numbness as more and more blood gushed out of his wrists. He was truly happy to die, and he let a small smile grace his lips as the darkness took him.

He'd have thought his mother and father – however cold and uncaring they'd been – could at least pretend to be shocked of their son's suicide. But there they were, laughing and joking with the teachers afew days later, as if nothing had ever happened.

A rage he'd never experienced before tore through his body. The only thing he wanted to do was to rip them to shreds until they couldn't be found, to make them feel the same pain he'd had to stand for most of his life and which he felt now as well, in what could only be the afterlife.

The anger surged and took control of him: he ran forward with an inhuman bloodcurling yell and used his claws to slash them through. A droplet of blood landed near the jaws on his mask, and he opened his mouth to taste the red liquid. It tasted like heaven to his parched mouth.

The two humans didn't seem aware of what was happening, thogh they were bleeding and fatally wounded, and the teachers were panicking and running haywire as an unseen force tore through the two parents. The screams and the fear in the air were pure bliss to him as his jaws wrapped around his mother's head and tore it cleanly off. It tasted somewhat like chicken. His father was reserved the same treatment.

He left them there, as the impotent beings they were, their innards splattered on the floor, and walked away.

As blood dribbled down his chin, he could feel the little humanity left him disappear completely. He howled to the crescent moon outside and flew away, his strong wings supporting him.

XxX

It was so white. The sand was white. The trees were white. The moon was white. Even he was white.

Only the sky was of another color. It was the darkest black he'd ever seen, no stars glittering, the moon's light not discolouring the sky in the least. Also parts of his body were black, like the paws and the markings running around him, all the way to his tail.

His stomach grumbled in hunger. He hadn't found any hollows in three days at the least, and he needed to eat or his strenght would wane and he'd return to being a mindless Gillian. Demotion had always frightened him.

As a hollow, he'd learned quite quickly that it was eat or be eaten. A lonely life. He'd always went ahead, no matter what or how, but now, as he seemed completely alone on the cold white desert, he wondered if he'd be able to continue on his path to power or if he'd stop here.

But when he thought he'd die from hunger, he smelt a whole pack of hollows roaming the desert nearby. He licked his lips and managed to accelerate on the white sand. The hollows were actually all Adjuchas. It was his going to be a good hunt for once. Killing lesser hollows was boring. They didn't put up much of a fight and most weren't even aware of being attacked until he'd chomped on a bit of their mask. Now he could finally have a good fight.

They'd sensed him coming and had tried to emit as much reiatsu they could to scare him off. They were all rather big, at least several times himself, and when they saw he didn't desist with the reiatsu trick, the biggest one tried to crush him under his foot. He dodged quickly to the side, kicking off from the sand to break a piece of its mask at the edge of the face, and then propelled himself from the other Adjuchas' mask to another hollow.

He'd eaten almost all of them when the last one, maimed and too tired to escape, questioned him in a terrified voice, something a hollow shoudn't ever use. They were creatures born from fear, and they governed it, instilled it in the hearts of those weak humans.

"W-who are you?"

His jaw twisted in a feral grin. "Me? I'm the King."

He leapt forward and the Adjuchas was no more.

XxX

For the second time of his second life, it was black again. His face hurt all over but he felt the strenght he'd been promised pumping through his veins. After what felt like ages, he managed to crack open his eyes in the gloom. He felt different. His whole body was white, there was no black limiting the view of his pale skin. His mask was gone, only a horn and part of the side remaining on his head. There was a sword on the floor, his sword, not unlike the ones he'd seen shinigami with. It was aquamarine and the guard was made of intricate silver designs. Distracting himself from the sword, he gazed around the room, half-cautious and half-curious. The room, mostly white as well, was filled with humanoid hollows. Some of them sneered at him, others ignored him and others seemed to almost fear him. None of their masks were complete. They were arrancar, the broken masks.

He'd joined them mainly to gain the power they wielded, but also for his incomparable admiration towards their leader, who, even if shinigami, was so powerful even the strongest Vasto Lorde were crushed by his reiatsu. He was like the moon: cold and detached, but, more importantly, he could be compared to that sliver of an orb shining on the desert because he was venerated by any hollow in the same way they honoured the moon, always watching and ever-present.

And Aizen Sousuke, God, spoke. His voice was smooth and polite, his demanour both bored and amused at the same time.

"Welcome to Las Noches, the palace of empty nights. You haven't told us your name yet, brother."

He raised his head slightly to face his new lord. "Ulquiorra Schiffer."

"Very well. With your strenght, which you have proven before to me, you are now the Cuarta Espada. I will summon you to speak about your first mission soon. You may go retire to your rooms for the moment."

Aizen-sama's expression hardened and his reiatsu escalated, and Ulquiorra shunpoed away with what could only be the rest of the Espada.

He wished he'd see the moon soon again.

XxX

He'd gotten used to life in Las Noches rather quickly. The days seemed to all blend into each other as he always repeated the same routine: wake up, eat, attend meetings, eat, sleep, annoy someone (better if Ulquiorra), eat and sleep again, and then repeat.

There was nothing to break the monotony except the occasional surge of rage towards Aizen or some minor brawls with the other Espada and lower-ranked arrancar, and after a while, even those fell into the pattern of his days. Things were getting so goddamn boring.

He almost missed his hollow days. Everything had been easier then. The only thing that hadn't changed was the terrible loneliness that kept creeping back into his heart when he was alone or when he wasn't killing something. There were moments in which he would like to just let go, but then his other side – the one born out of pure instinct and raw power – would tell him to get a grip and destroy everything.

It was such a lonely life. He was so fucking sick of it all.

Always alone, always killing, always fending for oneself. Most importantly, always alone. With the killing, with the hunger, with the primalness of it all he could deal with, it was his element, his favorite thing after all, but that tearing emptiness in him sometimes was too much to bear. The last scrap of affection and warmth he'd received was when he was still human – something he would like to be but despised at the same time – but even that memory was confused and muddled with all the others of the hollows he'd devoured. It felt like being one but many.

A bitter bark of laughter passed his lips.

So that's what God feels like.

XxX

Ulquiorra really pissed him off. He'd estabilished it the second the other Espada had talked to him – when he'd first seen the Cuarta he couldn't help marveling at a creature so powerful yet frail-looking. He'd always been annoyed by him: he seemed to not have the will to fight, but what really set him off was his emotionlessness. Grimmjow, by nature, was made of pure instinct and volatile emotions, never controlled, acting always by impulse.

Ulquiorra, instead, was his complete opposite. He was somber and contained, unchanging. They differed also in looks: Grimmjow was tanned, muscled, his hair of what they called in the human world 'an outrageous shade', while the Cuarta was pale, lithe, with standard black Japanese-ish hair. They were probably the the most different couple in the Espada – excluding all the dissimiliarities one could find between Aaroniero (a weird monster-thingy), Halibel (the only woman) or Barragan (an old-as-hell geezer with a massive god-complex) and the rest of them.

Yet, he was curious about Ulquiorra. How strong was he really? What did his Resurrection look like? And, though it was a too frivolous question for Grimmjow, what did the other Espada do in his free time?

His hollow side of him had also suggested multiple times that he should just kill him somehow to keep the annoying questions at bay. It had seemed a reasonable idea, but he'd resolved against it when he saw another arrancar's skull become a smudge on the wall in a fraction of a second. He'd just have to get stronger. And then he'd kick Ulquiorra's pale ass.

And that formed another chain of thought he really didn't need.

But, as he was hollow, every tipe of 'negative' – by the point of view of many a conceited idiot – emotion, like bloodlust, anger, lust, was amplified beyond recognition.

Shit. He needed sleep or he'd go crazy.

He lowered himself on the white bed, and with his forearm covering his eyes, he fell asleep.

XxX

It was cold. It was always cold in his room, but he never felt it. It was like living in a different reality, separated from true sensations and feelings.

It was like being separated from everybody else by an unending chasm.

He'd always been amazed by it, but even he felt alone. Sometimes he wished that someone would help him, save him from his misery, but he'd quickly repress that feeling and continue in his solitude. He didn't want to need help like some child clinging to its mother. Yet his heart burned for some kind of affection.

Lately, he hadn't been able to focus. Except on one thing, ergo, the idiot, Grimmjow.

How he'd began to think of the Sexta was unknown to him. He'd just gone to the human world, and passing near one of those 'stores', he'd seen a blue top – for women, no less – in a bright shade of cerulean. Like that piece of trash's hair. And things just snowballed down from there.

He didn't really know why, but he was far more interesting than the rest of the trash that inhabited Las Noches. For example, when he'd first seen him, he'd felt something like a jolt. Purely a conjecture of his mind, but he'd felt it anyway.

Was this what they called 'love at first sight' in the human world? That petty, useless presumption that was inexistent. But if it was just an invention of the human mind, then why had he felt it?

Did he have a heart? Was this the type of feeling one experienced with it?

All these questions had churned his head for days, months, maybe years… not many people kept track of the passing of human time in Las Noches, and he wasn't one that did. He had no interest in the changing of seasons humans had estabilished in the material world. Hueco Mundo was always the same, whatever period of the year it was for mortals.

And now, roughly 15 years since Grimmjow's promotion to Sexta – and about 25 since their first encounter – he was intoxicated by the brash blue-haired man. He'd started picking on him more, somewhat for amusement, somewhat just to see that intense expression of rage on the other arrancar's face. And Grimmjow seemed none the wiser to his childish attempts to gain his attention. Would he ever be noticed or would he remain the Sexta's antagonist for ever?

Turning away from the window, he snarled quietly.

He hated it. He hated how the other could make him feel like this. He hated how he could actually make him feel at all.

So he hated the source of the problem. He tried to imbibe the hate he felt in his heart – if there was one – and cursed Grimmjow into oblivion.

XxX

Their tongues contorted in a passioned frenzy. His hands, threaded in that silky hair, moved down to roam over that thin body. He relished as his partner moaned in his mouth as he brushed over a nipple. They parted languidly, trying to prolong the kiss, but finally detached themselves from one another as air became scarce. His mouth trailed kisses and harsh nips down Ulquiorra's neck and torso, and as he reached the other's boxers – why had he put them on? They were just in the way – and tugged them down in a single motion. Unexpectedly, the Cuarta's cheeks blushed a light pink as Grimmjow took in the sight of him fully naked. He snickered and leaned down, giving Ulquiorra's erection a long, slow lick. The thin hands of his lover threaded in his hair, tugging, as he moaned even harder when his cock was engulfed in the Sexta's mouth. He sucked on it as Ulquiorra's moans intensified and escalated in volume. He'd be surprised if at least the whole eastern wing hadn't heard him. Not that he minded. He smirked. After all, he was that good.

Before the Cuarta could come – he felt his balls tightening – he pulled away, his lover emitting a low whine, and he slowly traced a thin line of saliva towards his hole. He licked that too, giving Ulquiorra three fingers to suck on before plunging his tongue into the other. The pale man stopped laving at the fingers offered to him, moaning once more, but then took the three appendages back into his mouth as he got used to the sensation.

Grimmjow pulled back out and brought himself up to kiss the man under him as he slipped one of the moist digits in Ulquiorra's asshole. He shifted at the slight pain, but made no noise other than moans as he stroked his cock. When he was prepared, he slowly slid forward. He desperately wanted to be inside him, but seeing the pained expression on the Cuarta's face he tried his best to slow down. Just one more thrust and…

And he woke up. Horny. Hot. And annoyed. Why the hell did he have to wake up so soon?

After a significantly long 'shower', he realized there was actually a meeting. Now.

Shit. How the fuck was he supposed to face Ulquiorra after his wet dream?

Repressing his embarassment, he started to work on the more important task at hand: finding his clothes. Since he'd splattered the maid on the wall, service had been getting worse. Not that it was anything particularly significant, but he'd notice the occasional speck of dust, the bathtub that wasn't quite so clean, and so on.

And now, his uniform was nowhere to be seen. He dug up all sorts of things from various drawers, all the while cursing the maids who didn't do their service properly, but managed to find his clothes. Those fucking idiots had hid them under the bed. Oh well. He'd find a few hundred ways to kill them painfully during the meeting. It was only supposed to be the presentation of the new Tenth Espada after all. Nothing too taxing.

He shunpoed the fastest he could to the meeting room. Why the hell was it on the other side of the palace? Whoever had designed the stupid place was an idiot. But it had probably been Aizen-sama. Oh well. 'Idiot' suited him.

When he entered the meeting room, all the other Espada were seated and had received their tea cups. Where that man's obsession for the hot drink came from, Grimmjow didn't know. He'd probably picked it up in Soul Society. Tch. Not that he cared, anyway.

"I feared you would be late, Grimmjow. Please seat yourself."

Grimmjow had to abstain from snarling. He could practically feel the sneer in his voice, the contempt that seeped through. He hated it. How could his Ulquiorra stand it?

He sat down on the white chair as Aizen started babbling on aout random crap. Everyone knew he never payed attentions during these things, so why should he let them down just now? Especially his Ulquiorra.

Wait.

A.

Fucking.

Second.

What the fuck was wrong with him? His Ulquiorra? But wait – he'd referred to him in the same way before. Had he become a hormonal high-school girl or something? Dammit! He was supposed to be an arrancar, a ruthess killer that destroyed everything on its path, not some lovesick puppy!

Yet… the thought of him and Ulquiorra together, as a couple… – not that this night's (or early morning's) dream was helping at all.

As he thought things over, going from hysterical to calm and collected – his theory was that, if nobody knew, nothing could possibly happen – he lost track of time and before he was even aware of what was happening, the meeting was over. But more importantly, he didn't notice a certain Cuarta's covert looks in his direction. Something that the lord of Las Noches didn't miss.

Aizen was making his usual oh-so-cool-exit by ascending the stairs when he turned and spoke to Grimmjow.

"I wish you luck with your endeavor, Grimmjow. I have nothing against it." And with a knowing smirk and a sweep of his robe, he was gone, leaving a puzzled Sexta and a positively baffled Cuarta.

Only one thought ran through Ulquiorra's mind.

What could Grimmjow be possibly planning?

XxX

It had been a while since he'd been on Hueco Mundo's desert. Since he'd become an arrancar, he'd always stayed in Las Noches, except when he'd been sent on a mission by Aizen-sama. There was no other reason to venture outside. Yet, for some reason, here he was, staring at the moon, alone on the white sand. The moon was perfectly visible from the palace, but it felt completely different to observe it from here. It was like returning to his hollow days.

And than the silence was broken by the sound of sand swishing. Someone was shunpoing towards him, and judging by the reiatsu, it was Grimmjow. Ulquiorra had no idea of why the Sexta was here. It was as if he'd been following him. Could those recent stares from Grimmjow be the reason?

He gave a slight, but polite, nod of the head as the other Espada halted in front of him, acknowledging his presence.

For a few moments they remained like that, facing each other and unmoving.

None of the two moved, each staring the other. The Cuarta could hear his heart beating erratically in his chest, but he managed to control himself from jumping the idiot. Deciding that it was better if the other Espada got out of his way, Ulquiorra was about to tell that piece of trash – that attractive piece of trash, a part of his mind suggested – to go away or get ceroed out of his sight when Grimmjow leapt forward. Taken a bit by surprise, Ulquiorra couldn't react before he was pushed to the ground and pinned under the Sexta. The other's attempts to fight were useless: he'd never win. But it didn't seem that Grimmjow wanted to fight.

The Cuarta arched an eyebrow, the epitome of composure even when cornered on the sand.

"What exactly are you trying to do? You'll never win anyway."

Grimmjow stared at him for a minute or so, and then burst out laughing. "You wouldn't realize if it bit your ass, wouldn't you? I mean, are you fucking serious?"

"Of course I am, trash."

He laughed again. The Cuarta couldn't find anything vaguely amusing in their dialogue. So why was he laughing? He certainly hadn't 'cracked a joke' (if that was the correct terminology), and couldn't fathom exactly why Grimmjow was laughing without any apparent reson.

"I'm seducing you, idiot."

Ulquiorra's eyes widened slightly but didn't have time to retort as the Sexta's lips crashed down on his ferociously, prying them apart with ease and slipping his tongue into the Cuarta's mouth, who moaned appreciatively. He never thought a kiss could possibly feel this good. Not that he'd know.

As his lungs started bursting for air, Grimmjow's lips unlatched themselves from the other's, only to join his pale neck instants later, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh. Ulquiorra was sure there'd be a mark, but he felt too aroused by now to care. He knew his white skin had darkened to a lighter pink, because Grimmjow was smirking against his neck in triumph before biting down possessively and Ulquiorra felt more blood rushing to his face as his top was torn open, and then flung somewhere in the distance.

Grin widening, the Sexta licked around his left nipple, circling it with his tongue before sucking on it harshly, his fingernails raking down his chest, drawing blood, yet making him moan at the feralness of it all. He was surely bleeding in at least ten places, but the pain felt strangely wonderful on his skin.

His sandals were taken off quickly as Grimmjow's hands moved back up his legs – paying some fleeting attention to his straining crotch by ghosting his fingers over it – before pulling both his hakama and underwear down, exposing Ulquiorra's naked form to the cold desert air.

It was, at the same time, both completely natural and terribly embarassing to be held under the other arrancar's scrutiny.

"Got a problem down there, don't you?". Grimmjow tapped his erection, making yet another moan bubble from the Cuarta's mouth.

Grimmjow smirked again before throwing his clothes off as well, the other barely having time to observe his nudity as his lips were claimed in a heated kiss. The Sexta's hands were roaming all over his body, eliciting mewls of pleasure from Ulquiorra, before finally straying towards his nether regions and his ass.

Their lips detatched and Grimmjow started slowly pumping the Cuarta, while offering him three fingers to suck on.

Just as Ulquiorra was nearing his climax, the Sexta withdrew both his hands, ignoring the soft whine of protest at the loss of contact.

His legs were pried apart and a finger prodded his hole. He was given a meaningful stare by the blue haired man. There was no need for words: their exchanged gazes said everything without any need for explanation. After this, there was no going back.

Ulquiorra nodded slowly, the finger entering him and slowly stretching his hole, searching. Another digit was added, and a burn slowly started to build up in his lower back, but it didn't matter. Grimmjow's fingers curved downward and the Cuarta's back arched in pleasure as he moaned for the upteenth time that night.

"Found it."

Grimmjow eased another finger in, Ulquiorra wincing as pain coursed through his body, which was soon interrupted as the Sexta pressed against his prostate again.

Deeming him ready enough, Grimmjow removed his fingers and spat on his hands to lubricate his cock, as much as he disliked having to do it. Ulquiorra's legs were hoisted around the other's waist an he guided himself to the Cuarta's entrance.

Grimmjow seated himself inside the black-haired arrancar with a single thrust, but the other didn't outwardly show any signs of pain. Ulquiorra wrapped his arms around the Sexta's neck, who'd stopped moving, panting softly at the pressure around his erection.

Ulquiorra, puzzled by his stillness, couldn't help but question him.

"Who told you to stop?"

Grimmjow smirked again. "Fine. Just don't bitch if it hurts."

The Cuarta's breath hitched as the other withdrew quickly from him, then slamming back inside, hitting his prostate dead-on. Moans quickly filled the air as their pace quickened, both of them striving for release.

As they both approached climax, Ulquiorra's shaft was pumped roughly before he came moaning Grimmjow's name, the other grunting before ejaculating into the Cuarta.

They remained still for a few instants, regaining their ragged breath, and then Grimmjow pulled out, slinging an arm around Ulquiorra's chest as he plopped down on the sand next to the other arrancar.

Ulquiorra stared up at the white moon illuminating them under the pitch-black sky.

His loneliness had disappeared as he lay exhausted in Grimmjow's arms. He wanted to make that embrace on the desert sand last forever.

XxX

AN: yes, I know I've had too much candy. This is really way too fluffy. But still, it's nice.

I'll be adding more chapters like this that explain the stories of some other people, like Halibel and Urahara for sure.

And for who is wondering how Ulqui became a hollow in so little time (generally it takes months/years), the answer is simple, yet weird: he had an enormous reiatsu even before his death, so the hollowification progress (I'm calling it this because nothing else can come to my mind) speeded up. A lot. This is also why he looks more humanoid than other low-level hollows.

I apologize for the huge amount of time it took me to write this. *bows head as readers get ready to beat her up*.

And don't worry, the next chapter will continue with the main storyline! After all, these are just side-plots (yet we all know the smex was needed!)