Chipen - Blog Posts

he’d known grimmjow’s mouth to be full of needles, ready to be spat. patience begins to waver. it had, perhaps, collapsed even earlier, when the scarce distance had been narrowed, when his kick had connected with taut muscle. or maybe a more primal part of him - the monster that constructed him - isn’t quite so averse to giving in to his desires, or the temptation that presents before his eyes.

the sully of lord aizen’s name gives him leverage. the heel that’d dug itself into grimmjow’s groin pierces deeper still. ‘ you’re crossing the limits, grimmjow. what exactly do you wish for, running your mouth like this? what else if not to be punished. that, i can give you. ’ 

it’s within my power, anger is foreign, but he understands discipline. if lord aizen asked… what are the boundaries to hierarchy? ulquiorra couldn’t remember the last time he’d received orders that rose doubts. perhaps. perhaps not. as long as it’s necessary. it’s pointless. it’s dark, the only source of light comes from the partitions near the tall ceiling, gray moonlight. an appropriate place for grimmjow to confront his feelings, to be taught. a place to be cornered.

this was not supposed to happen.

hands on hips, fabric moved down and teeth around sensitive skin - grimmjow is as fast as he fights, and though ulquiorra could’ve dodged the action, something hooks him in place. the two of them, ulquiorra staring down at the other arrancar in their perfect isolation. there’s nothing between them but the empty air and silence that no longer than a second is all but devoured: grimmjow’s teeth gnaw at his hip-bone, claws tearing their way in, where there should be tender skin, had they been human. but they are not. ulquiorra’s eyes flare open, a moment of confusion, evaluation - it would be a lie to say that he’d been unaware, that he hadn’t seen beyond the goading, the circling like two predators testing the limits of their territories.

‘ grimmjow, you — ’ ulquiorra whispers through gritted teeth, earning him little. his body tenses with anticipation, watching with rapt attention as his shaft disappears inside grimmjow’s mouth, teeth pressing at parts that he hadn’t know could respond in that way to the rough treatment. everything sounds loud, even louder in the silence. the wetness of it. their gasps. white noise pounding and unforgiving in his head.

the sudden closeness astounded him, only momentarily. pride, as he wields it, is sharp, like the edge of a sword. his hands grip at grimmjow’s hair, forcing him into stillness, ‘ is this what you wanted? is this your idea of what punishment should be, because it is not if you’re enjoying it. ’, and presses forward, fingers tight, the almost urge to shove, to savor. to hurt, to break. to destroy.

ㅤㅤㅤIN  HUECO  MUNDO  -  THERE  ARE  NO  GENTLE  TOUCHES,  and  among  the  espada  -  this  rings  especially  true.  they  were  primitive  creatures  in  their  own  right,  boiled  down  to  their  singular  aspects  and  governed  entirely  by  those.  grimmjow  was  a  being  of  destruction  in  all  he  did  -  all  he  felt,  for  in  pursuit  of  whatever  feeling  or  fight  had  caught  his  attention,  the  arrancar  would  raze  the  world  to  the  ground,  and  then  himself  in  the  process.  he  supposes  it  might  be  similar  to  ulquiorra  -  but  with  grimmjow,  at  least  his  destruction  wrought  joy  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  at  least  he  felt  complete  when  pain  crackled  through  his  body  and  he  saw  his  efforts  rewarded  in  depthless,  emerald  gaze  -  saw  the  reflection  of  himself  crazed  and  hungry  and...

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ hah! ❞   he  can't  help  it  -  the  indignant  laugh  that  leaves  him,  the  startled  noise  of  outright  surprise.  it's  like  catching  the  scent  of  blood  in  the  water.  fresh  ichor  scattered  across  the  sands.  he  feels  his  mouth  salivate,  feels  every  predatory  instinct  hone  in  on  the  man  above  him,  even  as  bones  grind  beneath  his  touch,  even  as  his  jaw  aches.  he  just  purrs  louder,  and  louder,  and  louder  -  and  skates  that  feline  rough  tongue  between  the  bat  bastard's  elegant  fingers,  and  sucks.

ㅤㅤㅤnext  thing  he  knows,  he's  own  his  back,  staring  up  at  him,  stomach  smarting.

ㅤㅤㅤyet  somehow  -  grimmjow  doesn't  look  that  angry.  instead  -  he  looks  smug.  were  his  tail  out,  it  might  have  been  swaying  with  delight.  ulquiorra  only  gets  the  benefit  of  his  bright  eyed  stare  though,  the  amused  curl  of  his  lips,  and  the  way  sharp  black  claws  rake  into  stone  flooring,  cracking  the  tile  beneath  them.  ❝ you've  never  done  this  before,  have  you? ❞   grimmjow  sounds  positively  elated  actually,  especially  as  the  fourth  looms  over  him  -  all  monochrome  colors  and  depressed,  empty  gaze.  his  hands  are  surprisingly  alive,  the  sensation  almost  sensuous  and  he's  not  above  baring  his  throat  a  bit  further,  and  also  not  above  another  jolted  out  purr.

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ i  don't  think  that's  what  you're  actually  interested  in  right  now,  dumbass. ❞  there  it  is  again  -  that  permeable  smugness,  and  grimmjow  is  lightning  quick,  snapping  a  hand  upwards  to  quite  blatantly  rest  upon  the  heat  of  his  companion's  crotch.  ❝ never  fucked,  ulquiorra?  never  leaned  into  anything  carnal  with  another  arrancar? ❞  as  grimmjow  speaks,  his  grip  tightens  -  dangerous  and  divine  all  at  once,  ❝ guess  i  shouldn't  be  surprised.  aizen  isn't  telling  you  to  do  it  so  why  would  you? ❞   his  fangs  glint  in  the  night  then,  and  the  espada  raises  onto  one  elbow  -  the  inviting  dip  of  tongue  over  a  bloodied  canine,   ❝ c'mon. ❞  he  purrs  again,   ❝ come  at  me  again.  i  wanna  see  what  you  really  want  to  do  to  me. ❞

there’s not a breath to be taken without precaution. whether it’s the will of the hot, sinister flavor of victory or a more primal apprehension, ulquiorra isn’t sure. but he wants to hear the monster growl again, cry if he must. beg, like the rest of them had when faced with something larger than themselves.

it’s hardly a sweet sound, grimmjow’s baritone carried defiance the kind that you could only find in untamed hollows, the misguided souls that are still too raw and persistently detached from authority, save from the chains that bind them to the skeletal forms. there is no placid trolling to it. unlike ulquiorra’s own voice, apathetic, cruel in its manner devoid of empathy, grimmjow’s groans feel more corporeal than ulquiorra’s own presence. the applied pressure burying itself deep into grimmjow’s marrow becomes the only symbol of his wicked existence in a room so wide and empty.

tongue darts out to wrap itself around ulquiorra’s digits, the sensation a shot of liquid fire when it’s met with the hierro layer that always seemed to run cold. curiosity. confusion. the reasons for such action escaped him, though he’d heard bits of it from other espada — desire, lust. it hardly matters now. ulquiorra doesn’t relent.

‘ what are you doing, grimmjow. ’ fiercely, his right hand clasps around the other’s jaw. bones give in, something cracks. it’s nothing compared to the damages of drawn out battles, the sort of commodity that blood-thirsty beings seek and get drunk off on most nights - it always is night time - so he applies more pressure just to make a statement. 

ulquiorra’s gaze doesn’t falter. ‘ how convenient. your mouth taunts and yet you choose to take the punishment with baseless threats. go. try to defeat me. you can’t? or do you not want to? what could you possibly say to make excuses for yourself after this—? ’ the heel that had remained motionless aims a kick to his stomach, sending him back to the floor. ulquiorra is quick, looming over grimmjow’s tall figure sprawled on the ground. slowly, as if testing the waters, ulquiorra lowers his head, locking gazes. here, now, there’s only grimmjow and him. here, only one man could judge him.

‘ your body is more honest than your tongue. what should i do with it? ’ frigid fingers run down grimmjow’s bared throat, down to his sternum, keenly aware of their new proximity, the heightened nerves beneath his touch,  ‘ should i rip it out and feed the troops with it, or should i make you swallow your own sword? show me, i might begin to understand you. ’

THE  PROBLEM  WITH  CRAMMING  THE  ESPADA  TOGETHER  -  WAS  too  much  power  and  too  many  big  personalities  for  the  proffered  space.  they  were  no  better  than  feral  animals  really,  scratching  an  existence  out  of  survival  of  the  fittest.  the  primordial  part  of  him  knew  sharper  teeth  and  claws  meant  victory,  but  ulquiorra  (  despite  him  knowing  better  )  had  a  vast  well  of  untapped  power  -  an  unending  wealth  of  dominance  that  might  sink  into  grimmjow's  flesh  at  any  moment.  he  hated  it  -  loathed  it  through  the  emptiest  part  of  him.  the  bastard  had  no  spark  -  no  fire.  his  cold,  unfeeling  mish-mash  of  souls  was  appalling  to  number  6,  who  felt  unerring  destruction  to  his  very  marrow.

but  that  was  the  thing  about  being  an  arrancar...  sometimes,  the  wires  got  a  little  crossed.

spirit  pressure  swells  around  him  -  a  threat  and  a  promise.  it  writhes  against  his  own,  melding  against  his  skin  and  cracking  his  defenses  far  too  quickly.  grimmjow  feels  that  he  can't  breathe  (  or  at  least  he  thinks  that's  what  this  sensation  is  )  -  each  inch  of  him  grinding  in  agony.  the  weight  of  a  million  souls  presses  down  down  down  -  and  white  teeth  are  bared  again,  the  phantom  outline  of  a  tail,  black  claws  taking  shape  as  he's  pushed,  pressed,  and  bent.

his  knees  hit  the  hard  floor  with  a  painful  crack,  and  the  hiss  he  lets  out  his  predatory.

of  course  grimmjow  tries  to  stand  -  of  course  wildness  and  rage  and  the  thirst  for  a  fight,  fight,  fight  permeates  his  very  being,  pooling  saliva  into  his  mouth.  ulquiorra  -  a  worthy  opponent,  right  there,  ready  to  struggle  for  the  top  spot...  yet  strong  pressure  and  a  hand  keeps  him  on  his  knees,  and  grimmjow  is  about  to  lean  down  and  simply  sink  his  teeth  into  his  arm,  tear  into  him  with  unfettered  savagery  when…

❝ nn- ❞

he's  not  so  much  ashamed  by  the  noise  that  leaves  him  -  not  so  much  ashamed  by  the  heat  that  curdles  in  his  limbs  when  ulquiorra  does  that  with  his  foot  -  as  he  is  by  the  sheer  knowledge  that  he  has  effectively  been  scruffed  like  an  an  unruly  cat  -  and  has  to  stare  up  at  the  fourth  with  a  different  sort  of  guarded  hunger  in  his  gaze.

❝ you're  so  fucking  annoying, ❞   he  eeks  out,  breathing  still  labored,  body  wired.  black  tipped  claws  sluggishly  raise,  coiling  about  his  wrist  again  -  except  this  time  he  forces  ulquiorra's  hand  upwards,  and  the  pad  of  his  rough  tongue,  feline,  skates  along  fingertips.  ❝ all  self-righteous  an'  haughty.  you  think  you've  gotten  the  best  of  me? ❞  yet  his  voice  is  breathless,  whether  from  the  swell  of  desires,  or  the  thorough  disciplining  -  it  was  hard  to  say.  even  so,  he  bumps  his  jaw  against  the  back  of  his  fellow  espada's  hand,  rubbing  lightly  -  the  faintest  rumble  resonating  from  deep  within  his  core.

❝ just  wait,  you  bat  bastard. ❞   the  purr  rises  and  swells,  a  continuous  cacophony  while  grimmjow  dares  to  eek  his  hips  upwards,  and  dares  to  smirk  once  more.   ❝ just  wait,  until  i  get  my  fangs  in  you. ❞

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'. ❞

❛  this is the choice — this is the point of no return.  ❜ / grimm to ulqui

🐝  *  ―  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen

words are too abstract for reprimand. ulquiorra sees no fault in honesty, however quaint. what drives his senses into alert is the prospect of a fight: grimmjow isn’t the type of creature that will sit and obey, not without a baseless display of strength and the back row of teeth clenched and ready to bite authority. that is the charm of carnivorous species, their mouths are made for mauling.

though his voice attracts ulquiorra’s attention, bringing his steps to a halt, there’s little else to tempt him into wasting more time than necessary to hear an explanation.

‘ so you say. ’ patterns are obvious. bait is dangled in the shape of a discussion, perhaps he wants to divert ulquiorra’s focus elsewhere, using provocation. very well, two can play this game. ‘ or are you implying desertion? neither lord aizen or i have any interest in wayward soldiers. ’ 

cowardice is too direct, and he still hasn’t gotten the answer he wants to hear yet. grimmjow can’t hide truths for too long. the other espada have since scattered, each to their own section of the palace, so the only remaining figures in the hall are the two of them, separated only by the empty space and a couple of steps that, if his temper were any similar to grimmjow’s, he would’ve crossed the bridge moments ago. he’s more manageable when hungry, not like this.

ulquiorra eyes him once more, unsure what to make of this talk, ‘ for argument’s sake, let us believe there is a choice. what is your intent? i had assumed fighting was your main drive. you’re unpredictable as always. ’

❛  why is it secret? what have we to hide?  ❜ / jazz hands, gin to aizen.

🐝  *  ―  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen

a smile, ‘ it’s unlike you to reflect on such thoughts. ’

then, a pause.

secret is too simple, too vague. hiding is rash, leaves out too many openings for the mind, and isn’t it such a dangerous weapon, a man’s assumptions? it captivates him more than it sets the alarms, so he makes a show of considering it, head tilted up and eyes scanning the wide expanse of the night sky. 

‘ nothing at all, gin. precaution would be more accurate. there’s a timing for everything — every step, however little, serves its purpose. picture it as a round of shogi: pieces ought not to be used for anything else but what the rules have them predestined to do. ’ that said, his right hand reaches for the piece on the board, holds it between two fingers and examines its edges, worn out and slightly yellowed with time, each turn to emphasize his words as he continues, his voice serene, ‘ …they are the pieces. as for us… ’

sousuke places the rook back on the board with a tud. his attention returns to gin, sitting on the opposite side of the table, haloed by the lamp light and its golden gleam. his fingers lingered there for a moment. how ironic, that he revels in all the pleasure that the inadvertent misery of his comrades offers, letting it seep down into his core.

‘ are the pieces aware that they are being moved around? they aren’t. we are the players, gin. it’s not a secret nor are we hiding. unawareness isn’t equal to deception. does that answer your question? ’

❛  is this what you wanted to see?  ❜ / also grimm to ulqui....

🐝  *  ―  𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. // @chipen

he knew better than to taunt. but this is not taunting: it’s exploration, it’s mindplay, the sort of dynamics that only the espada found delight in, and while delight itself is not a source of pleasure and much less what he seeks, ulquiorra would be concealing the truth if he’d denied that seeing grimmjow this exposed, open and raw like fresh-cut meat didn’t gnaw at the corners of his mind with new-found curiosity.

‘ if i say yes, will it change anything? will it make you cover the scar again?... or maybe you will mirror shame as humans feel when their most vulnerable sides are exposed?  ’

arrancar flesh didn’t bend, hard like a carcass. even more difficult it is for it to scar, to leave behind traces of soul energy that isn’t your own — for grimmjow’s body to have patched itself up like molten stone on a crass surface, that must mean the boy drove him into a position where it was either stay and fight or early suicide. grimmjow is strong, so it ought to be the former.

there’s only a brief fire in his eye, like the sharp flutter of a candlelight before it’s blown out. his hand moves slowly, pointedly reaching its destination atop grimmjow’s bare chest, where skin meets tissue, muscle and whatever else their bodies are made of. cold, hardened — the quartz trees on the outside would bend beneath his touch, yet this body doesn’t.

ulquiorra glances up, surprised to find a vacancy of fury in his features. where there should be anger, there’s only an unwavering gaze thrown back at him. ulquiorra is patient, far too patient, and albeit only momentarily, ulquiorra has the sinking feeling that something is amiss, that the longer his fingers remain static it would only give grimmjow another reason to gloat, same as he always did, always expectant that ulquiorra will react in kind. ( he didn’t - on most occassions. )

he knows it’s inevitable, so his hand is withdrawn, back into his pockets.

‘ it’s pointless. i’m merely assessing the damage on lord aizen’s orders. ’