Adult-FanFiction.org : Bleach

I Hate You, I Don't	By : GrimmUlquigrrrl Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male > Grimmjow/Ulquiorra Views: 1287 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Ulquiorra hated Wednesday nights. He had been in a twist all day long, and had been such that he had allowed himself to be startled by the likes of Jaegerjaques. That was a true degradation of his ability to sense incoming danger, a talent he had honed. His stresses were such that he had made the almost fatal mistake of disappearing from them in a book, providing Jaegerjaques the opening to creep up behind him, a mistake that he would not be repeating. Wednesdays truly were the worst days. He gently let his bag down to the floor by the front door, careful not to turn his back on the ten or so men leering at him. Jaegerjaques was the least of his problems.

"Ulquiorra, welcome home," a brunette man said kindly, stepping through the crowd of people as if this were any regular day. For a Wednesday, it was.

"Hello father," Ulquiorra said with careful respect, feeling his tense emotions from the day drain out of him. It was best to be an empty husk during the activities which were to follow. He let himself slide away into a kernel inside his chest, small and concentrated and glimmering golden in his darkness, hidden even from him for his own good. He let the change occur as he had for years, accustomed to it now; anything but mindless obedience would make this end badly for him.

"How was school today?" his father asked.

"It went well," Ulquiorra answered, looking at his father's shoes as he had been taught.

"Good, good," his father said. "Are you ready to entertain our guests?"

"Yes, father," Ulquiorra said.

Ulquiorra allowed the men to approach and tie his hands behind his back with sturdy rope, his shirt ripped apart as he was tossed onto the kitchen table. Ulquiorra heard the buttons skitter on the ground and felt the hard wood smack against his spine painfully, but was removed from it now. "Well, boys," his father said, "I will be keeping tabs on your orgasms, as usual, so please be willing to pay."

They posed him like a doll with wire in its limbs, bending him and playing with him as they pleased. They folded and unfolded him like a lawn chair, taking their pleasure from him, and he ignored the pain. It hardly hurt anymore, really. He didn't even choke when peoples' intimates where forced into his throat. Oh, how things had changed. The table collapsed at some point in hour three, and he fell heavily to the floor. His arms were pinned between the floor and his body painfully and the grout between the tiles scraped at his skin, and he focused on it. His bony vertebrae clacked against the ground with each thrust.

It wasn't until eight o' clock that they stopped, leaving Ulquiorra laying on the ground. As usual, he was quite tired. Until, that was, a foot connected with his ribcage, violently shocking him into full awareness. He gasped for air as his wind rushed from the assault like a wounded woman, but received only another kick, this time to the back; he floundered wildly in his mind the way he did not dare in body. Were those steel-tipped shoes?

Suddenly he was a soccer ball, bouncing from one foot to the next, every nerve in his body jarring at each relentless kick. What was going on? His father always stopped any abuse that wasn't sexual-not out of care but fear that the bruises would be seen and non adequately explained away. Another boot sunk into his side, and it seemed as though the impact hit not only his flesh but the concrete dam inside himself. The dam fractured, water leaking through. Ulquiorra felt it crack. No. No! A foot came down on his face, and he heard a crack and tasted blood.

Terror came flooding into his veins at the taste, turning his blood at once to ice and fire. His eyes searched for his father between the legs of a dozen men; his father would stop them, as he had before. That much, at least, Ulquiorra could count on. But when he was yanked up by his hair and socked in the gut, he saw his father smiling. Immediately it all made sense.

His eighteenth birthday was in a few days. Ina few days he would be free, free to run, free to tell. His father couldn't take that chance.

As fists rained down on him, he understood. The lock sprang loose inside himself and the wild, untrained animals of terror, fear and panic leapt out. Suddenly it was all he could do to keep himself breathing through the massive weight on his chest, through the lump in his throat, through the swelling in his head, and he knew he was going to die.

For the first time in years, he struggled. He twisted and jack knifed, screaming. "No! One, get off! Stop! Stop!" he cried out, begging the men around him and begging God. He didn't really believe in God, he'd never had a reason, but in that moment he prayed. It wasn't he white nightclothes and the knees on the carpet and "I want this, I want that." It was a wrenching, desperate cry for Mercy! Mercy, please!

If there was any animal more dangerous than fear, it was hope.

He was slammed into the ground and black swam before his eyes. Someone yanked on his arms and he cried out as he heard a sickening pop. He screamed. He screamed for Heaven and Hell to heard him, he screamed for his neighbors, he screamed for himself, he screamed because he had to scream. It hurt-it was terrifying-the panic burned-and he couldn't keep it all in. Never, never in his life, had he felt emotion. Always he had hidden it from himself, and in the second before his death he felt it all. He wanted to go back. He wanted to go back!

Everything he had always stoically stowed away was jumping on him with teeth and claws bared. It was like a snake bite, a venom that bubbled and boiled inside him, and he cried. He hadn't cried since his mother left, but here he was, long past that age and crying. He was so weak. How could he be so weak? Always he had been the strongest, always people had looked up to him, if only for his brains and aloofness, but now he could see he was a fool. He was weak, weaker than the people he had always looked down on. What was he? Who was he? He cried.

The door burst open and the men scattered with shouts, and Ulquiorra cried.
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I Hate You, I Don't