(no subject)
Title: Ink
Pairing: Aizen x Ulquiorra
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Aizen attempts to teach Ulquiorra about art
Warnings: some fondling, suggestion of naked bodies
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured in this fic, and I do not gain any sort of profit from posting this in any way, shape, or form. / All characters featured in this work of fiction are assumed to be of legal age within the state of California (and all other U.S. states/territories).
Black marks against paper. That's all they were. Marks that at once seemed so random when viewed up close, but when you took only a few steps back they formed themselves, somehow, into the image of a bird, a horse, a flower, a face. That something so simple as a mark of ink against parchment could create these complicated images boggled Ulquiorra.
Why bother? He could see several of the things shown in the polished wooden frames within the very room he now stood in. The flowers, represented in thick and thin black lines that somehow communicated their broadness and their fragility at the same time, sat not five feet away on a small table before a couch. In life they were more colorful, a gentle lavender and healthy green, while on the parchment they were the cream of the paper and the darkness of the ink. The representation in the ink really did the true thing no justice, which made Ulquiorra wonder all the more why Aizen kept such things in his room. What was the point?
"I didn't know you had such an interest in the arts, Ulquiorra."
Giving no hint that the other's sudden appearance possibly startled him, Ulquiorra turned to face his lord and master. That he stood naked before him did not bother the Espada, and he felt no shame in seeing his master equally unclothed. It was simply a part of his duties to see to Aizen's needs both as his weapon in Hueco Mundo and the human world, and also to his more personal needs within his chambers. Without being told he came back to the large bed Aizen kept, easily able to fit Ulquiorra and his full wingspan when released, taking a spot near the bottom.
Aizen motioned casually to the pieces hanging on the wall as he came over to the bed, slipping beneath the covers and resting back against the pillows. "Do you like them?"
Acid eyes turned back on the parchment and ink. "They seem to serve no purpose."
"No purpose?" Aizen cocked a brow.
Ulquiorra nodded, letting his eyes slide back to his master. "You have the real thing available to you. There is no need to have representations."
Aizen shook his head, though Ulquiorra recognized the motion as not one of disappointment but amusement from the powerful former Shinigami captain. "That is not their purpose."
"Then what purpose do they serve?" Ulquiorra pressed.
The bed creaked as Aizen rose once more, going to the vase of flowers. He picked it up, proceeding to walk casually to his balcony. With perfect calm he tossed the entire thing over the edge, letting it fall to its doom. He returned to the chamber, walking to the inked representation of it and lovingly stroking the edges of the frame.
"Do you see now?" he inquired, looking over his shoulder at the Espada.
Ulquiorra focused on the drawing, seeing the lines that formed petals and stems. He saw and recognized that, though he recognized them now as a generalization of flowers, not simply the ones that had been on the table.
"You are able to get new ones. It still serves no purpose."
A sigh escaped the other man, turning fully now to face Ulquiorra. "While it's true I can get new ones, I do not have them now, and it will take time to get them. In between that time, the image serves as a reminder of their beauty. An immortalization of it even as the flowers wilt and die." He closed his eyes, looking as if in sudden rapture. "Yes, the flowers in the painting are immortal, forever locked in their supreme moment of beauty. Time cannot touch them as it does the real thing."
Once more Ulquiorra studied the inked drawings, following the slow curves, the widening and thickening of each stroke. But still he could not grasp it. They were just lines on a page. That was all.
Aizen seemed to detect his failure to comprehend, but instead of frowning he merely came closer to Ulquiorra, holding out a hand to him. Keeping the immediate reluctance from his features, the Espada took the hand and let Aizen lead him towards a closet area, full length mirror stationed to one side. Aizen positioned Ulquiorra in front of it, giving the Espada a full and uninterrupted view of his naked body - unblemished save for the black tears running down his cheeks and the hole in his chest.
Pale, cream colored hands touched his chest, just beneath his hole, pressed to the line of his belly and drew down. Long fingers followed the path of his muscles, caressing shadows and dips, sweeping over him like a brush sweeping over parchment. Green eyes followed the track of the immaculate nails over his hard and yet pliable flesh, watched as they worked back up over the sinew of his arms, the slop of his shoulders, through the strands of his hair. Unnaturally warm lips pressed to his free ear, hazel eyes glittering in an amusement Ulquiorra could not mimic.
"You, Ulquiorra, are a work of art," Aizen whispered against his ear.
"Aizen-sama?"
"The lines of your arms, the play of shadow over your white skin, the contrast of your eyes to your paleness, your eternal tears," the former shinigami's fingers touched the lines running down his face. "You, Ulquiorra, are magnificent. Perfect. A true work of art."
Ulquiorra didn't see it. He was the Cuarta, the fourth strongest of the Espada, gifted with the power of Murcielago, the representation of the sin of Nihilism. How any of this translated into artistic beauty simply eluded him. Power was power. There was nothing beautiful about it; it was simply a fact and a weapon to be used to further Aizen's agenda.
Aizen stepped back, running a knuckle down Ulquiorra's spine. "I shall have to have a portrait of you done, to remember you in this moment of perfection."
Emerald eyes narrowed, meeting Aizen's gaze in the smooth surface of the mirror. "Espada do not age, Aizen-sama."
The man nodded, accepting the truth of this, turning away and retreating to the silk and pillows of his bed. "True enough. But you can be killed."
He wasn't sure if there was an actual threat present there, or if it was Aizen-sama playing his word games. Ulquiorra could never play those same word games back, but learning to interpret said word games helped to keep him where he stood now: in Aizen's good graces. But still, he returned his examination to his reflection. He tried to make his eye flow over the things Aizen had seen: the muscles, the sharp 'v' of his hips, the swell and curve of his calves, the harder lines of his chest, the sharp angles of his face contrasted by the smoother dips and curves of his mask. A part of him could see that translated into the stroke of a brush, the purposeful splattering of ink over paper. But beauty? No. The concept belonged to those with hearts.
"Ulquiorra, do not grow vain," Aizen called from the bed.
Turning from the pane of glass, Ulquiorra obediently came over to his creator, relenting to the coaxing hands that drew him over the sculpted body. Softly fingers brushed his cheeks as he looked down into amber eyes that glittered with nothing but egotistical malice.
"Yes, a portrait of you will look lovely on my walls," Aizen purred.
What else could Ulquiorra do but agree?
Pairing: Aizen x Ulquiorra
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Aizen attempts to teach Ulquiorra about art
Warnings: some fondling, suggestion of naked bodies
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured in this fic, and I do not gain any sort of profit from posting this in any way, shape, or form. / All characters featured in this work of fiction are assumed to be of legal age within the state of California (and all other U.S. states/territories).
Black marks against paper. That's all they were. Marks that at once seemed so random when viewed up close, but when you took only a few steps back they formed themselves, somehow, into the image of a bird, a horse, a flower, a face. That something so simple as a mark of ink against parchment could create these complicated images boggled Ulquiorra.
Why bother? He could see several of the things shown in the polished wooden frames within the very room he now stood in. The flowers, represented in thick and thin black lines that somehow communicated their broadness and their fragility at the same time, sat not five feet away on a small table before a couch. In life they were more colorful, a gentle lavender and healthy green, while on the parchment they were the cream of the paper and the darkness of the ink. The representation in the ink really did the true thing no justice, which made Ulquiorra wonder all the more why Aizen kept such things in his room. What was the point?
"I didn't know you had such an interest in the arts, Ulquiorra."
Giving no hint that the other's sudden appearance possibly startled him, Ulquiorra turned to face his lord and master. That he stood naked before him did not bother the Espada, and he felt no shame in seeing his master equally unclothed. It was simply a part of his duties to see to Aizen's needs both as his weapon in Hueco Mundo and the human world, and also to his more personal needs within his chambers. Without being told he came back to the large bed Aizen kept, easily able to fit Ulquiorra and his full wingspan when released, taking a spot near the bottom.
Aizen motioned casually to the pieces hanging on the wall as he came over to the bed, slipping beneath the covers and resting back against the pillows. "Do you like them?"
Acid eyes turned back on the parchment and ink. "They seem to serve no purpose."
"No purpose?" Aizen cocked a brow.
Ulquiorra nodded, letting his eyes slide back to his master. "You have the real thing available to you. There is no need to have representations."
Aizen shook his head, though Ulquiorra recognized the motion as not one of disappointment but amusement from the powerful former Shinigami captain. "That is not their purpose."
"Then what purpose do they serve?" Ulquiorra pressed.
The bed creaked as Aizen rose once more, going to the vase of flowers. He picked it up, proceeding to walk casually to his balcony. With perfect calm he tossed the entire thing over the edge, letting it fall to its doom. He returned to the chamber, walking to the inked representation of it and lovingly stroking the edges of the frame.
"Do you see now?" he inquired, looking over his shoulder at the Espada.
Ulquiorra focused on the drawing, seeing the lines that formed petals and stems. He saw and recognized that, though he recognized them now as a generalization of flowers, not simply the ones that had been on the table.
"You are able to get new ones. It still serves no purpose."
A sigh escaped the other man, turning fully now to face Ulquiorra. "While it's true I can get new ones, I do not have them now, and it will take time to get them. In between that time, the image serves as a reminder of their beauty. An immortalization of it even as the flowers wilt and die." He closed his eyes, looking as if in sudden rapture. "Yes, the flowers in the painting are immortal, forever locked in their supreme moment of beauty. Time cannot touch them as it does the real thing."
Once more Ulquiorra studied the inked drawings, following the slow curves, the widening and thickening of each stroke. But still he could not grasp it. They were just lines on a page. That was all.
Aizen seemed to detect his failure to comprehend, but instead of frowning he merely came closer to Ulquiorra, holding out a hand to him. Keeping the immediate reluctance from his features, the Espada took the hand and let Aizen lead him towards a closet area, full length mirror stationed to one side. Aizen positioned Ulquiorra in front of it, giving the Espada a full and uninterrupted view of his naked body - unblemished save for the black tears running down his cheeks and the hole in his chest.
Pale, cream colored hands touched his chest, just beneath his hole, pressed to the line of his belly and drew down. Long fingers followed the path of his muscles, caressing shadows and dips, sweeping over him like a brush sweeping over parchment. Green eyes followed the track of the immaculate nails over his hard and yet pliable flesh, watched as they worked back up over the sinew of his arms, the slop of his shoulders, through the strands of his hair. Unnaturally warm lips pressed to his free ear, hazel eyes glittering in an amusement Ulquiorra could not mimic.
"You, Ulquiorra, are a work of art," Aizen whispered against his ear.
"Aizen-sama?"
"The lines of your arms, the play of shadow over your white skin, the contrast of your eyes to your paleness, your eternal tears," the former shinigami's fingers touched the lines running down his face. "You, Ulquiorra, are magnificent. Perfect. A true work of art."
Ulquiorra didn't see it. He was the Cuarta, the fourth strongest of the Espada, gifted with the power of Murcielago, the representation of the sin of Nihilism. How any of this translated into artistic beauty simply eluded him. Power was power. There was nothing beautiful about it; it was simply a fact and a weapon to be used to further Aizen's agenda.
Aizen stepped back, running a knuckle down Ulquiorra's spine. "I shall have to have a portrait of you done, to remember you in this moment of perfection."
Emerald eyes narrowed, meeting Aizen's gaze in the smooth surface of the mirror. "Espada do not age, Aizen-sama."
The man nodded, accepting the truth of this, turning away and retreating to the silk and pillows of his bed. "True enough. But you can be killed."
He wasn't sure if there was an actual threat present there, or if it was Aizen-sama playing his word games. Ulquiorra could never play those same word games back, but learning to interpret said word games helped to keep him where he stood now: in Aizen's good graces. But still, he returned his examination to his reflection. He tried to make his eye flow over the things Aizen had seen: the muscles, the sharp 'v' of his hips, the swell and curve of his calves, the harder lines of his chest, the sharp angles of his face contrasted by the smoother dips and curves of his mask. A part of him could see that translated into the stroke of a brush, the purposeful splattering of ink over paper. But beauty? No. The concept belonged to those with hearts.
"Ulquiorra, do not grow vain," Aizen called from the bed.
Turning from the pane of glass, Ulquiorra obediently came over to his creator, relenting to the coaxing hands that drew him over the sculpted body. Softly fingers brushed his cheeks as he looked down into amber eyes that glittered with nothing but egotistical malice.
"Yes, a portrait of you will look lovely on my walls," Aizen purred.
What else could Ulquiorra do but agree?