Ways Of Doing

Title: Ways Of Doing
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Szayel Aporro/Grimmjow Jaegerjaques
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, humiliation
Status: One-shot, wc: 3,212.


"Well?"

"Well, what, Jaegerjaques," the words shifted out of Szayel's mouth, lined up and pretty like an overview in a scientific journal. Szayel always talked that way-- like he was certain that the world only worked because he knew which gears turned which other ones. It wasn't the first thing that had pissed Grimmjow off about the other Arrancar, but it certainly was one of the strongest. His lip curled and his eyes flashed to the ceiling; don't fight with him, don't argue no matter how much every instinct in you is telling you the skinny dick deserves it. In the end, maybe it was the need that really got to Grimmjow in that moment.

"Can you fix it or not? You're worse than fucking Ichimaru."

Grimmjow couldn't see it happening, Szayel's back suddenly turned to him, but he could hear the shuffle of Zael's mask up his nose, the one shaped like empty spectacles, there to do little else but show the world how intelligent Szayel thought he was. Another thing to piss Grimmjow off. He moved to follow after the pink-haired man, further into the laboratory-- dark, not too dark for hollow eyes. Cold, not too cold-- clinically so, the kind of cold that staved off rot and infection. It smelled like shit Grimmjow could barely imagine, although he was trying significantly hard. He moved to run a hand that didn't exist anymore over the metallic surface of a dissection table, growled when it occured to his brain that it was running on muscle memory. Ironic, seeing as this was the reason Grimmjow was there at all. Under any other circumstances, any at all, Grimmjow avoided Arrancar like Szayel. They didn't jive with his world-view and didn't sit well with his personal politics, if one wanted to go so far as to call them that. Szayel disappeared through a small doorway, one that Grimmjow got a feeling he ought not follow Szayel through.

"I've told you before; you weren't listening. This isn't a simple matter of realigning some arteries and doing some skin and muscle grafts. This is a matter of art. I've got to run tests, see if I can make you an entire new one. You really can't rush genius."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Grimmjow bit out in retort, eyes scanning the edges of the doorway beforre he decided that Szayel wasn't coming immediately out. Against his better knowledge, curiosity nibbling at the edges of his irritation and angry and boredom, he stepped away and across the large room, passing the metal table again. Grimmjow reached a thin finger out, tracing half-moons along the edges of mason jars full of stuff and things, all of which Grimmjow was patently unaware of the origins of, aside from the fact that was obvious-- they were organic. He'd seen enough eviscerated offal, enough brain matter spread over rough dirt or darkening sand to recognize the insides of something when they were presented to him.

Grimmjow starled a bit, finger of the only hand he had falling away from the mysterious jars and reaching over his chest to his hip, reminding Grimmjow of why he was no longer Sexta. Szayel's voice came from behind him, lips near the curve of his ear. He craned his head to stare, willing the surprise and guilt off of his face-- why should he be surprised, why should he be guilty? Grimmjow was never good at math, but he had been number six at one time and Szayel, Szayel was number eight.

"Shh, Grimmjow, you're getting what you've asked for." A shush, something that might have been a comfort noise from something else. It was empty, instructive, like a teacher talking to a problem pupil.

A soft thumb pressed roughly into Grimmjow's forehead, smearing a thick line of cold gel across it like a stroke of ink, soft linen of the other Arrancar's glove brushing the point of Grimmjow's nose. He sucked a breath in, surprised and chilled. Szayel's opposite hand followed, sliding a little white tab onto Grimmjow's face over the gel, some kind of electrode. A rough pat came that made Grimmjow's head bob and made him bare his teeth, Szayel followed it with a second white disc over the opposite temple.

"What are you doing?" The growl drawing the syllables out made the statement more of a threat than a question; don't lay a single finger on me unless you explain what you're doing with it. It wasn't a surprising sentiment, from a creature that had so recently had an entire arm cut off, an unfair punishment by any standards, in Grimmjow's perfidious mind, for biting the hand that feeds.

The hand darted out again, quick on thin arms and thinner wrists, touch aloof and uncaring about whatever threats Grimmjow could manage to level, smearing more of the lubricant on Grimmjow's chest, exposed beneath the lapels of his vest. Two more of the little discs that were starting to get on Grimmjow's nerves, purposeless to his mind. Slide, tap. Slide, tap. Grimmjow noted with some childish little brand of satisfaction that on the last shove to his chest, Zael had dragged the high glove-like arm of his white jacket into the stuff. It stained the fabric darker, clearer.

"These," came more measured, light tones from Szayel as he pointed to a nearby chair, whirling away with a shift of his hair side-to-side which Grimmjow couldn't help watch the movement with his eyes, to open a metal cupboard on the wall. "Are going to measure your heart-rate, amongst other things. Now go, sit down and stop giving me that idiotic, slack-jawed face."

"Yeah, if you say so," Grimmjow replied, moving away with some level of obedience, eyebrow raised and nose wrinkled; a disgusted, indignant look. There were really only two ways to respond to complete confusion, however-- rage or obedience. Grimmjow was smart enough to know when the rage was better saved for later, for when Grimmjow wasn't asking favors even while he'd curried none. He tossed himself heavily into the disreputable-looking metal chair, pressing the spread of his shoulders into it for a satisfying crack. His hand went to pick at the electrode stuck to his chest, fingers with short, chewed nails sliding across the cool gel. The arm that was missing, the phantom one, itched to hold onto the armrest that pressed against his side.

He looked up as Szayel returned, large pockets full of things Grimmjow didn't much want to know the details of, partially because he really didn't give half a fuck and wouldn't understand most of it anyway, partially because he was certain the majority of them all-- wires and clamps and the uneven shapes of other things --were meant for him. The other man pulled up close, leaning forward so that a slim chest was obscuring Grimmjow's vision, white fabric brushing against Grimmjow's cheek and neck. By the time he'd realized something was going on the shouldn't, by the time his instincts had caught on and started shouting run, run, you're being backed into a corner, the long, thick needle was jammed into the back of Grimmjow's strong neck; not strong enough, apparently.

He could feel the cold splinter of steel slide it, almost tickle the back of his spine in a way that made a bright, metallic taste well up in the back of his throat, made his eyeballs feel cold and his teeth itchy. It slid back out-- Grimmjow could feel the tiny trickle of wetness from the small hole, spinal fluid or lymph, heaven only knew what and Grimmjow didn't want to put too much thought in it. Szayel had already pulled away, a man experienced at darting in for a sample. He stood five feet away, syringe in one hand, thumb of the other running over the needle, smearing clear liquid still clinging to it over powdery translucent gloves. He was smirking at Grimmjow, edges of thin, pink lips pulled wide across a pale face.

It took Grimmjow almost a full minute to realize what was going on-- not to realize what had been done, he just knew Szayel had put something inside of him --almost a full minute of a suspicious glare, returned only by the low-lidded, self-satisfied smirk in front of him.

"I can't move my legs." The voice came out less angry than intended, an edge of disbelief that had no right to be in it, not living where they did. "Why can't--"

"You've presented me with a unique opportunity. I'm in a very good mood right now and not particularly fond of the idea of letting it run away on me."

The snarl boiled out of Grimmjow's chest, hand digging into the metal armrest until already-pale knuckles turned bone-white to match the mask on his face. Not strong enough, he slumped back into the chair despite his efforts, face growing hot with anger at Szayel, anger at his own helplessness under the circumstances.

"Go fuck yourself and die with your hand in your pants," Grimmjow spat around his clenched teeth, venom dripping from his expression, promising dark violence as he ground his jaw together.

"Charming," Szayel cooed, long-fingered hand at his hip in less than a second, a practiced stroke, a reminder that the man was still Octava Espada, all evidence to the contrary. Grimmjow only had the time to spare a wide-eyed glance at the other man, deeper confusion plastered across his features, not even time to express pain as the tip of the zanpakutou sliced through flesh and jostled dainty bones around, grinding against them as it slid into the white wall behind Grimmjow, a foot deep; he was pinned. He could smell his own blood leak copper-scent into the air, thin streaks of it bright where it smeared the white metal of Szayel's zanpakutou, darker when Grimmjow turned his head painfully on his sore neck to stare at it welling out of the clean tear in the middle of his quivering palm.

Szayel plucked his gloves off, leaned closer, honey-brown eyes darting quickly over Grimmjow's features, so irritatingly close. He tucked the fringe of Grimmjow's sideburn behind the shell of his ear with the back of one finger, gracefully curled. The other hand grabbed Grimmjow's mask, nails digging into the valleys of sharp teeth as the other Arrancar jerked Grimmjow's head to face forward. The hand trailed across Grimmjow's face, tickling until Szayel gripping his chin between thumb and forefinger, pinching indelicately.

"I should punch you so hard your pancreas explodes." The words came out lisped, clouded from the vice-grip being used on the lower half of Grimmjow's face, slowly growing red, blood pooling angry and hot just beneath the skin of his ears, along his cheekbones.

"Empty threats are what get you into this breed of situation, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. As if you knew where a thing like that was."

Szayel's comeback took a moment too long, giving Grimmjow the chance to wrench his head away, clamping his jaws over one of Szayel's delicate fingers. He could feel the side of his canine grind against the joint, tearing a cut in soft flesh before Szayel pulled back and clutched the hand to his chest, bringing the opposite one down across Grimmjow's unmasked cheek with an elastic slap.

"Rip your tongue out and feed it to you!"

Grimmjow choked the curse out, even as Szayel leaned forward, digging the point of his thumb along the sword through Grimmjow's hand, crushing the sensitive skin, taking away some of the black blood. Grimmjow could hear the little chuckle sneaking around Szayel's thumb as he rolled his tongue over it, turning to move across a few feet away from him and plug a small black box into the wall. A cord trailed out, connected to a a split of eight smaller ones, each with tiny clamps on the end, some perversion of a whip. His sandals clicked with cool indifference on the marble floor, leaving Grimmjow to bleed down the wall in impotent rage.

"Children will be silent and take their medicine when they are told," Szayel purred, pleasant noises of conceit. He pressed one palm against the spread of Grimmjow's chest, shoving back harshly and dragging one leg up to rest beside Grimmjow's thigh, thin, pointed knee digging into the muscle.

"Cut your head off and piss down your throat!" Grimmjow coughed, heart palpitating from the rough heel of a hand that had dug into his chest.

One of Szayel's effete hands moved over Grimmjow's chest and forehead, snapping the little metal clasps onto the electrodes where they tugged awkwardly. The other hand slid up, Grimmjow's sand-rough bottom lip, stained red from mingled blood from the bite, the smack across the jaw, Szayel's soft finger still slightly dusted in powder from the latex gloves.

"I can see," he chuckled low against Grimmjow's ear, heavy, moist breath tousling the hairs that Szayel had only a minute ago tucked securely back with some deeply false sort of tenderness. "That I will be getting some very interesting data in this particular experiment."

The toe of Szayel's sandal reached over, turning some small wheel in the middle of the cord until the black box buzzed to life; a grainy, digital readout telling Szayel things about Grimmjow that he didn't understand, that made him excessively uncomfortable, especially when the read like a scrawling pen-mark on the thing's tiny screen jumped as Grimmjow felt the slide of the Arrancar's hand through the opening at the side of his hakama, well-groomed nails tickling the hard jut of his hip, working slowly down the plane of his stomach. The muscles contracted, Grimmjow's mouth going dry as he opened it, voice coming out a nervous, hateful croak.

"Why the fuck are you doing this to me? What in your sick head makes you think I'm going to let you get away with this shit?"

The knee dug further into Grimmjow's thigh, Szayel's hand splaying across Grimmjow's slowly rising erection. The fabric was cool, slightly rough against the sensitive skin. Grimmjow was suddenly glad for the dead, numbly tingling weight of his legs-- it stopped his hips from arching to meet the mockingly gentle touch. Szayel's sharp nose nudged into Grimmjow's cheek, replaced by yielding lips that left a thin line of moisture, traveling to crush against the corner of Grimmjow's clenched mouth. Wet, smooth teeth scraped across Grimmjow's skin as Zael spoke against him.

"Learning something interesting, apparently." The hand looped into Grimmjow's hakama wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing with even pressure. "Does everything bother you so much that you feel the need to to strike out at everything that sits still long enough? I don't know why I care so much about you, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, aside from the fact that it would be a sad loss of another piece of cannon fodder for the frontlines. But you would be oh, so useful dead, laid out on the table behind us with your ribs spread and your skin pinned back."

Grimmjow jerked his head away with a violent movement, jostling his cut palm against the sword that was skewering it, sharp tang filling the air a second time as a new flow of blood joined the drying traces of it smeared down his arm. He received another backhand for his efforts, not nearly as hard as the other one with one of Szayel's hands forming a tight ring around Grimmjow's cock, but noise of the impact resounded off of the metal furnishings as it joined the ringing in Grimmjow's brain.

He barely had time to bite back a moan, swallowing it away back down his throat with a guilty bob of his adam's apple. It felt sore and tight. Szayel plowed on, face back in Grimmjow's own, hot breath smelling like everything else in the antiseptic metal room he haunted.

"But how absurd you are, when confronted with emotions, picking your way through the situation like a blinded man groping through a strange new room. I pity you most of all, above men like Ulquiorra."

Slow, slow strokes, his low, low mutterings. Szayel's hand was working up and down his cock, by now hard and leaking, the fabric of Szayel's jacket that covered his palm beginning to rub until it felt raw. But the pleasure was there and undeniable; Grimmjow hadn't been in a situation like this since he'd been born, but then, that was very recently. No, it wasn't the fact that he was getting jerked off by another male Arrancar. This wasn't about sex, that much was obvious to Grimmjow, the way Szayel was pouring out words above him, Grimmjow only half-listening but growing more and more agitated as the man went on. he was only half-listening, but the intonations and the bite of chilly metal in his palm were enough to make Grimmjow's stomach turn; non-existaent, like his second arm. His mind seethed, angry at itself for not wrenching himself out of the position he was forced into. Impotent.

Impotent.

This was about power.

"You lied to me, get your sick hands the fuck off of me," hissed Grimmjow, realizing the pointlessness of the words as they came out, a prisoner accusing the man on death row of murderer.

Szayel only laughed, a shrill noise coming out of a waspish smirk, tongue pinched between sets of white teeth. The hand worked faster up and down Grimmjow's length, his blue-haired head thrown back against the wall as Szayel worked viciously, getting the job done with clinical, deft hands. The hands that never faltered or wavered, strong, as if nature had bore Szayel knowing that he'd have to nurses and assistants to make up for clumsiness. The fingers rubbed over the glans, red from the lack of lubrication, before working back up to the base and giving a final squeeze, milking an orgasm out of him. Grimmjow swore as he came, a single 'goddamn' full of ineffectual resentment and unwilling relief.

He bowed his head low, chin resting against his chest.

"You're right. I can't do it." Whispered words, pointed tip of a hot tongue invading the curve of Grimmjow's ear as Szayel pulled away, wiping the thick white-yellow liquid that had gathered in and on top of his hand across Grimmjow's cheek as he lifted the Arrancar's head so that he was forced to look at Szayel; soiled with his own mess.

"Can't do what?" A shaky voice, full of piss and vinegar.

"Can't fix your arm. It was hopeless from the beginning. You should have know better."

"I'll fucking kill you! The first fucking good chance I get, Szayel Aporro, you're fucked!" Grimmjow hissed the first syllable of the last word, spraying saliva at Szayel's face, vindictive and immature, but the only retort available.

"I'm not ashamed to say it, Grimmjow. At this point I believe that I am, by a longshot, the last of your worries."

Szayel laughed at Grimmjow's expense a last time before turning on his heels, walking mincingly out the doors, head pulled back and shoulders made strong with a weight of self-satisfaction; you only had to win your battle when the war took place on distant shores. Grimmjow was left dazed, wet spots in his pants growing cold and sticky as he waited for his legs to start moving of their own accord again. He wondered vaguely, mind still thick and slow, how he would manage to bandage his hand if it was the only one he had.

There had to be a way of doing it.