Author: keelhaul lizzie
Summary: This is biology.
Warnings: slash, pornstuff.
Date: September 26, 2006
&i've broken every door
Ulquiorra is born, fear somehow made corporeal, all the hard and bitter things in the ether (&snips and snails and puppy dog's tails) given form. When he opens his eyes, he thinks he sees the face of God; a god in some fleshly incarnation, made of blood and bone and sinew; a god given a name like any other man, sweet and metallic on Ulquiorra's tongue—Aizen Sousuke.
Ulquiorra steps out into the world, and for all he knows Aizen created it too, that ghost world of sand and crystallized trees, preserved forever like beetles in amber or small and pale things suspended in formaldehyde; worms and insects with their drained white hearts and all the creeping horrors of the human world he's never known.
Aizen is a scientist, after all, and with all his knowledge of the clockwork of the earth he's become better than human at last.
This is how Ulquiorra learns of humanity—through a microscope, cloistered and distant, labelled and shelved, sterile, dead. Safe. Humans come to Hueco Mundo like ghosts, passing through the ceilings, up and away, but they're unreal to Ulquiorra's infant eyes. He wants to pin them down like wet, dustless butterflies, figure out what makes them move and cry, see what their writhing, churning insides look like, all red and blue and baby pink.
Somehow he suspects that wouldn't be proper.
Nonetheless, Aizen does his best to teach him about human behavior—to curb his coldly childlike curiosity, or perhaps just because he doesn't want to end up like so many other mad scientists, his only creation the modern Prometheus.
Sitting on Aizen's bed (for sleep, Aizen told him, though Ulquiorra couldn't quite grasp what that was), Aizen kisses him, wet and soft and warm. Ulquiorra doesn't know what to make of this either, this heat and the feeling of his own blood surging through his blackened fingers, his ears, arms, legs, toes, but he suddenly needs this friction, and Aizen lays him down, spreading his little bony white legs apart like paper-skin wrapped around brittle calcium.
He fits himself inside, and Ulquiorra is like a frog with splayed clammy legs pinned under glass, his eyes wide, acidic chemical-green, phosphorescent in the darkness. He becomes a specimen, a study like so many other things, but so much better, and they both like to believe there's nothing crass about this act. Ulquiorra whimpers things in broken Spanish, incoherent (ay dios mio); begging for things he cannot articulate—things that somehow only Aizen can give him, because he knows Aizen created the universe with his own hands and wrought science and humans from nothing, from fear—all the hard and bitter things in the ether.
All the things that humans call it—sex-fucking-making-love—seem so mundane, because to him it feels like he and Aizen are overturning the cosmos; becoming gods, just like Aizen promised.
"You'll have brothers and sisters soon," Aizen murmurs into his ear, "but they'll never know as much as you."