Title: Yield; Make you
Word Count: 628
Pairing: GrimmUlqui
Warnings: somewhat old writing is somewhat old
Summary: And what a glorious play it is. If you like dispassionate assholes.
There's no affection in how we go about our actions. A person who claims we are in love is deluded. You're so mechanical I want to puke watching. You always go at it like a script. Same thing over once, twice, thrice. Nothing changes. Lips barely responding to the harsh kisses I force down your throat.
(Just because I can. Because I know it degrades you. And I can. It's not like we really need things meant for couples.)
Those same lips- black on white, white on black- don't stray from their likeness to a straight line even as you dispose of the standard issue fabric that shields your wiry frame. And then its step over them and to the bed.
(And hell if I don't throw up then-)
I know you won't wear that set of garments. They don't get anywhere near the bed, anywhere near the semen but they've been defiled by the act none the less. And what a glorious play it is. If you like dispassionate assholes.
And I can't help but think of him when you snake your arms around my neck- unnaturally pale as ever- in a light hold that could so easily become one to choke the half life that's in me out. I suppose that gives me a rush even if nothing else about this does.
(God I hate to admit it but yeah, you're fucking above me. Stronger. You could kill me.)
I get a little bit dizzy every time I court death. Though chasing after the strongest enemy in a group would be severely more thrilling than this. There's a difference between bloodlust and lust and lust just doesn't come easy when your partner does little more than blink at you.
One of these times I'm going to ask what reward he gives you for doing this. Him who would be god and lord and savior and sovereign over the damned. And you wonder why I go out of my way to disobey him. What sort of an ass would want to reign supreme over us? But I gave up my say in the matters or idiocy and foolishness. Because I play along.
(That's what makes me gag the most after you leave. And for a second I'm more disgusted with myself than you.) You strip. Lay back. Wait for me climb over you. Spread your legs slightly. And I pick up my part of the silent dialogue and slam in. And you don't scream, don't twitch. Just stare. It pisses me off- frankly that's the only reason I keep thrusting in to you. If I want a fucking orgasm I can wrap my hand around my dick and go to town. But I don't stop.
And that's what he wants. Because this is just another order. Said during a meeting mind you, right there with everyone. Even his little pets that came along for the ride. 'Perhaps if you had an outlet Grimmjow.'
(I'll give an outlet you sorry little bitch-)
That was the wording and when he asked if you'd be inclined to help all you did was fucking nod. Just another reminder how sad you are. You'd get down on your high and mighty knees and lick his boots- or cock- clean if he asked if you were inclined to wouldn't you? What a whore. If he commands it you'll do it.
And that's why when you climax you say nothing-perhaps a sharper exhale of breath. And I finish off groaning out obscenities before pulling out as roughly and as quickly as I can. Because screaming or moaning out each other's names is for those that give a shit. Those with passion.
And passion? That's a fucking afterthought of what could have been, honey.
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