Sub Grimmjow On This Fine Thursday - Blog Posts

had he possessed a heart, ulquiorra would resent him. perhaps even hate him, feel anything akin to the negative emotions that always drove human souls astray and kept them prisoner in this barren land. what he can sense instead is distaste, that alone was too much power over him. drawing his sword isn’t necessary, spiritual pressure being enough to crush the fingers clasping his wrist until it’s freed out of the grip. warmth veils him, unfamiliar, foreign.

‘ that you suggest blind obedience as a discipline case yourself is beyond my understanding. wonder all you want. power is the only rule that matters in hueco mundo. or have you forgotten the meaning behind those numbers engraved into our bodies? shall i remind you? ’

teeth and claws of nameless hollows surrender like this, that’s what his eyes have seen time and time again before his recruitment and arrival to the palace. this ploy, however, garners more than merely a display of intangible energy. ulquiorra steps forward, until the released energy slithers and devours grimmjow whole: he aims for the knees, the shoulders, any part of his body that can bend in a way that will break not the bones but his pride, so painstakingly secured. he awaits for groans, sharp threats, baseless confidence; in a way he’s developed a hunger of his own, too.

‘ this is how it should be — obedience goes in tandem with submission. you who stands two steps below on the ladder speak too loudly for what you're worth. ’ it occurs to him, belatedly, that perhaps this is what he wanted. rebellion craves violence, and violence’s nature is to be subdued, by any force or means necessary. his right hand finds its way back to grimmjow’s exposed torso, steadies the body about to rise on its own and pushes him down to his knees, fingertips sharp and whetted appetite. if he had a heart. though the absence is ever-present in his chest, what he does have is a stomach, an ego, the self. his foot manages to kick one of grimmjow’s legs to the side and spreads just enough of his limbs to dig a heel unnervingly deep and firm to grimmjow’s groin, drawing something just short of a gasp out of the beast.

grimmjow could probably get off like this - no, he definitely could, and the thought itself is horrifically unsatisfying enough to make him ponder the attention, reminding him where the limits lay. in the midst of all their bloodshed, he finds that he wants it. wants it just as much as he despises it. 

 ‘ stop squirming. stay still or fight it, it’s all the the same to me. fact remains that you’ll have to submit to one thing or the other. which will it be, grimmjow? ’

con't - @einshi

DEFEAT  BURNS  THROUGH  HIM  LIKE  RANCID  WINE  -  heady  on  his  tongue  and  thick  in  the  sands  that  adorn  hueco  mundo's  never  ending  drifts.  for  a  creature  that  coveted  carnage  and  battle,  the  6th  was  dissonant  -  ripe  with  his  rage  and  wearing  it  the  same  way  he  always  did  :  like  armor.  loss  wasn't  something  grimmjow  suffered  -  loss  wasn't  something  he  took  lightly,  and  while  the  curl  of  mottled  flesh  across  his  'skin'  would  be  an  ever  present  reminder  of  a  near  deathblow  at  the  hands  of  that  self-righteous  idiot,  what  stung  the  most  was  ulquiorra's  patient,  verdant  gaze  -  and  the  caress  of  claws  across  his  nearly  bare  chest.

the  feral  part  of  his  brain  screamed  'danger!  danger!  danger!'  before  souring  once  again.  ulquiorra,  of  course,  did  not  think  like  grimmjow  did  -  did  not  think  that  the  taking  of  a  fellow  espada's  life  would  mean  a  notch  in  the  belt  of  power.  he  didn't  have  anything  to  prove  because  grimmjow  wasn't  a  threat.  as  dark  claws  skim  over  the  area,  he  bares  his  teeth  -  a  sharp  match  the  mask  at  the  side  of  his  face  -  and  snarls.

but  it's  halfhearted.  if  he  truly  wanted  the  bastard  gone,  he  had  his  ways.

❝ 'm  not  ashamed  that  i  have  it. ❞   he  drawls,  aggravation  quieting  for  a  moment,  ❝ do  i  have  to  explain  why  to  you  or  do  you  think  that  rational  little  skull  of  yours  can  churn  it  out,  cuatro? ❞  perhaps  were  he  to  utilize  his  resurrección,  that  nuisance  of  a  tail  would've  been  flicking  back  and  forth  in  thought.  instead,  his  fellow  espada  is  only  granted  grimmjow's  stare  -  catlike  and  curious,  the  deep  turquoise  of  his  eyes  almost  glowing  in  the  perpetual  dim.  frankly  -  he  hopes  he  doesn't  have  to  explain,  because  having  philosophical  discussions  with  anyone,  let  alone  ulquiorra,  sounds  about  as  appealing  as  wiping  aizen's  ass  -  perhaps  even  less  so.

nostrils  flare,  looking  away  from  the  other  to  instead  track  caressing  fingertips.  it's  not...  unpleasant.  and  despite  the  bastard's  frigid  existence,  his  touch  is...  warm,  leaving  behind  tendrils  of  heat  as  he  palms  and  skates  lethal  digits  over  grimmjow's  hide.  as  the  action  persists  -  the  espada  finds  himself  easing  just  slightly,  and  though  he  never  quite  relaxes,  long  lashes  bat  over  his  cheek,  the  tension  in  his  jaw  easing,  and  he  shifts  his  chest  forward,  just  a  slight  inch,  the  same  moment  hands  drop  away.

grimmjow  is  quick  -  lightning  fast  -  his  own  dark  claws  curling  about  a  strong  but  delicate  wrist,  sharp  canines  bared  again  in  a  savage  smirk  as  he  grips  tight,   ❝ yeah  yeah,  of  course.  'aizen's  orders.' ❞  honorific  ignored,  and  it's  a  distinctly  good  impression,  actually.  ❝ ulquiorra. ❞  there's  his  drawl  again,  low  and  lazy  and  lit  back  with  a  cat's  growl,  ❝ are  ya  capable  of  independent  thinking,  or  you  prefer  blind  obedience? ❞  hand  discarded  then  -  tossed  to  the  side  as  he  leans  downwards,  spirit  pressure  swelling  with  challenge.  ❝ just  wonderin'. ❞