Szayel/Uryuu- Incinerate
He wondered how Ryuuken would react to seeing him this way. Pathetic and despondent, naked on a cold slab and being violated in so very many ways. Would he be amused? Indifferent? Would he prove himself capable of actually caring for his son? Uryuu shut his eyes tightly, feeling another fracture scuttle like a spider in his pride. Szayel Aporro's gloved fingers snarled over his chin and yanked it bruesquely over. Uryuu kept his eyes tightly lidded, as if it could make the wafting odour of preservatives and paradoxes wafting from the Octava's parted lips a little less real, a little further from him.
"Now, Ishida-kun. An actor who neglects his situation and lets his mind wander gives a poor performance, wouldn't you agree?"
The machine thrusting into him rammed hard against his prostate, as if to illustrate the Arrancar's point. Uryuu's back arched with a sudden, jerking motion, as if a rope around his midsection had been abruptly yanked upwards. He bit his lip, and the small amount of pressure was enough to reopen now deep-set imprints of teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and slid down to pool in the panting hollow of his throat. While Uryuu might have expected him to take yet another drop of him to bottle up and shelf, the feeling of Szayel Aporro's oddly cold tongue lapping up the warm liquid and following its trail to the precipice of his mouth. A different sort of redness spread across his already flushed face as his drugged body reacted to the sensations of actual physical contact. It was more than enough to tip him over into orgasm after being deprived of any sort of touch for so long.
Coming down from his high, but not at all his humiliation, Uryuu's eyes cracked open tentatively, lids batting back black and white splotches with little success. Between readjusting to the eerie white lights and the release of bittersweet pleasure, he could make out the Octava looming above, a dissatisfied look on his face, as if he had been made to eat something rotten with the knowledge that it had long since spoiled.
"Disgusting," he muttered, scorn overflowing in his words. Covering his mouth almost daintily with a gloved hand, Szayel Aporro spat on Uryuu's bare chest, seemingly forgetting his precisely placed decorum for a split second. "Begin the next trial," the Octava snapped at one of his many inhuman minions, who bounced or oozed or crawled or waddled off, all the while squealing apologies like a stuck pig.
And yet, as the machine whirred to life in programmed lust once more, and as the omnipresent throbbing of his lips swelled, what perhaps hurt the most was the sight and sensation of his blood, watered down to pink by saliva, splattered across his sternum.
"Now, Ishida-kun. An actor who neglects his situation and lets his mind wander gives a poor performance, wouldn't you agree?"
The machine thrusting into him rammed hard against his prostate, as if to illustrate the Arrancar's point. Uryuu's back arched with a sudden, jerking motion, as if a rope around his midsection had been abruptly yanked upwards. He bit his lip, and the small amount of pressure was enough to reopen now deep-set imprints of teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and slid down to pool in the panting hollow of his throat. While Uryuu might have expected him to take yet another drop of him to bottle up and shelf, the feeling of Szayel Aporro's oddly cold tongue lapping up the warm liquid and following its trail to the precipice of his mouth. A different sort of redness spread across his already flushed face as his drugged body reacted to the sensations of actual physical contact. It was more than enough to tip him over into orgasm after being deprived of any sort of touch for so long.
Coming down from his high, but not at all his humiliation, Uryuu's eyes cracked open tentatively, lids batting back black and white splotches with little success. Between readjusting to the eerie white lights and the release of bittersweet pleasure, he could make out the Octava looming above, a dissatisfied look on his face, as if he had been made to eat something rotten with the knowledge that it had long since spoiled.
"Disgusting," he muttered, scorn overflowing in his words. Covering his mouth almost daintily with a gloved hand, Szayel Aporro spat on Uryuu's bare chest, seemingly forgetting his precisely placed decorum for a split second. "Begin the next trial," the Octava snapped at one of his many inhuman minions, who bounced or oozed or crawled or waddled off, all the while squealing apologies like a stuck pig.
And yet, as the machine whirred to life in programmed lust once more, and as the omnipresent throbbing of his lips swelled, what perhaps hurt the most was the sight and sensation of his blood, watered down to pink by saliva, splattered across his sternum.