Disclaimer: Bleach = so not mine and so not filling my empty pockets. Someday I'll sit and come up with a better disclaimer.
Characters/Pairing: Grimmjow
Content: uh... nothing to worry about unless beaten dog!Grimmjow bothers you.
Summary: Strong. Defiant. Confident. Repeat ad nauseam. If he does it enough, maybe he might believe it again.
Word Count: 469
Concrit: go for it.
Notes: Written for the first round of the bleachedblackk bite sized fic challenge back in February. Only now getting around to posting it here. Oops. Prompt: I need some nice angsty dark (not necessarily sexual) dominated Grimmjow. (While I love what I find, none of it is angsty enough.)
CLOSE ENOUGH
Outside – strong, defiant, confident, perhaps overly so. Inside – the same. Or, at least, that's what Grimmjow tells himself whenever the approach of distant feet sounds in hollow echoes from... somewhere else. Somewhere not here. Somewhere out there.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Clear and unmuted, the sound of those footsteps funnels into his sensitive ears. The walls holding him in never muffle anything, despite their ability to keep him securely detained. It's an odd thing to note, however, that the only sound that ever comes is the footsteps.
Strong. Defiant. Confident. Repeat ad nauseam. If he does it enough, maybe he might believe it again.
Stripped bare of all dignity and everything else, he's lain trapped in vivid white blankness for what he is sure feels far longer than is reality. This is better than the singular alternative given him, though. Better to huddle, naked and starving, in unrelenting solitude than go out there.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
A shudder of ugly fear wracks his frame as the footsteps draw closer, every muscle in him tensing to the point of sharpness. The relentless tapping slows, coming to a halt outside the door of his prison. His haven.
Go away. Go away. Go away. Goawaygoawaygoaway.
The door, as always, appears as first a crack in the featureless wall. Pushed farther open, it brings with it a pale shadow that stretches across the floor. As it nears his tightly curled toes, Grimmjow sucks in a harsh breath and squishes himself deeper into his corner. It does no good – the shadow still reaches him, touches him in a mockery of darkness.
A loud crash signals when the door completes its swing inward, slamming against the inside of his cell. Grimmjow buries his face into the fold of his arms, against the bony caps of his knees. He has no wish to look upon his jailer. His tormentor.
"Well now, not even a growl or a hiss to greet me," speaks the voice, grating on his eardrums. "How wonderful. I was beginning to think it might never be appropriately subdued."
Hated. Feared. Where once he had lashed out in fury, Grimmjow now only wishes it would never come again. It's a fruitless thing.
"Nemu, have it brought to the lab and prepared for the new round of tests. Obviously, enough time for healing has passed."
The healing is always slow and unaided, quite often seeming more painful than the processes that make it necessary. Many times, it's a deed barely accomplished.
"Yes, Captain."
Grimmjow doesn't know if he manages to stifle the whimper that claws at the inside of his throat. He doesn't know if he even cares anymore. Is this what broken feels like? No, he's certain it isn't, but decides it must be close enough to compare.
END