#chimaericrealities

Aizen has a secret~ Aizen has a secret~ Aizen has a seeeecret~! And Grimmjow is gonna find out what it is.

And it had better be worth it, cuz Grimmjow isn’t a huge fan of crawling through vent, personally speaking. He’s more of the ‘find a costume and charm his way in’ kind of guy, which is a stunt he absolutely can’t pull in this particular building cuz - if Aizen’s smart, and he is - all of the security guards know not to let a dangerous psychopath like Grimmjow anywhere near Aizen’s private office, no matter what pretty skirt and blonde wig he hides his firearms behind. And his secret.

His information is reliable, he already checked. Gin his favourite handler on a good day told him, himself. Grimmjow obviously hacked the security feeds to confirm. Pity the feeds don’t give him anything more than idle gossip - no way would Aizen allow cameras and mics in his private space. 

He pauses only once on his way to his destination, attention briefly caught by a the sight of a naughty coat-room snog between two security guards on duty as he passes silently overhead. The handsy exchange, however, doesn’t promise the euphoria uncovering whatever is hiding inside Aizen’s private suite and Grimmjow moves on quickly, disabling and avoiding security checkpoints, lasers, and pressure alarms until he’s finally settles past the prying eyes of Aizen’s security forces and can pop the screws out of their place over the grill, carefully fitting his body through the small hole it makes before he can drop comfortably onto the floor and into an apartment he hasn’t yet had the pleasure of seeing.

The space is nice - a large open plan living room and bar, not that Grimmjow suspects he needs it. There’s probably a wine cellar tucked away somewhere. A kitchen around the corner through one of the many many doors he can see. The furniture is pristine. White and pure, with tasteful wooden accents.

The view is stunning. Tokyo laid out in all her glory behind two stories of large arching french doors which open onto a deck that has even Grimmjow’s stomach swooping. It surely can’t be safe to have a balcony this high with nothing more than thin metal to prevent a long drop. He wonders if Aizen’s ever pushed anyone off of it, Grimmjow sort of wants to try. Body bits would splatter paint the pavement, Jackson Pollock style. 

The whole place screams Aizen. 

He slides his backpack off his back as he circulates through the room, fingers trailing over the cashmere blankets thrown over the back of couches, poking the few sculptural nick nacks and finally settles on his back zipper to extract his ‘house warming’ gift.

He leaves the bottle of Bordeaux on the bar, it’s little red ribbon only mildly askew and vanishes from the living room in search of his prize which he finds where he expects it: Aizen’s bedroom, propped on silken porcelain sheets like a precious jewel.

THE SOUL PANTHEISM: A Bleach Roleplay Community

FEATURING: AIZEN SOSUKE // @chimaericrealities

"Helooooo—" he called out cheerily into the gloom. "Room service~"

He wasn't entirely joking; he was waving, by way of greeting, a multicolored skewer of sweet dango: perhaps a result of Tessai's badgering insistence not to arrive at a party empty-handed. Though... would the man eat, were his wrists not constrained? Or more to the point, would he eat anything Kisuke had to offer...? He was inclined to find out—

@chimaericrealities || Starter from plotting!

The room is way, way bigger than Shinji expected. 

He stands in the doorway with a backpack slung across his shoulders. His right hand grips the handle of a big, beat-up suitcase with wheels. In his left hand, he holds his prized possession: a vintage Crosley record player, once bright red, but faded and dinged up around the edges now. It’s the portable kind that folds up small and nice. It’s a touch of comfort, a touch of home, in a place that Shinji can already tell will smack him across the face with an abundance of new, unfamiliar experiences. 

The place looks empty, so Shinji takes a few steps inside. After about half a second’s consideration, he shrugs out of his backpack and deposits it on one of the extra-long twin beds. It doesn’t look like Shinj’s roommate has so much as swung by yet, so Shinji figures he gets to call dibs on which side of the room is his - not, he reflects idly, that it makes much difference. The room is unadorned and completely symmetrical.

He walks his way over to the window and peers down into the quadrangle below. Two kids toss a frisbee back and forth. A group of friends sprawl together on a picnic blanket. Some folks stroll down the paved pathways that cut through well-manicured grass. One lonely-looking kid reads a book on a wrought-iron bench. 

It’s... so classic. It’s so fucking collegiate. Who knew, eh? 

@chimaericrealities

((Oh boy, I’m gonna try so hard on this one.

@chimaericrealities​ || Starter

Grimmjow doesn’t fidget, despite his appearance, he does have good patience for the most part, and that more often than not presents itself as an ability to keep himself remarkably still and composed when he wants or needs to be.

Right now, however, he’s failing on all fronts. He sat himself intentionally on the other side of the room, no matter that everyone knows the seat immediately to Aizen’s right is his preferred spot. He’s stolen Starrks today. The Primera is powerful, but he’s not particularly interested in - anything. So he didn’t do more than raise a curious brow when he found Grimmjow in his spot.

Aizen, to the best of Grimmjow’s knowledge, seemed to not even notice. That made it worse.

Grimmjow’s knee is bouncing under the table. He can’t keep it still, every time he forces himself to stop it starts again the second his attention returns to Aizen’s words. Something something about a sect of shinigami enemies in the living world. Hybrids. He doesn’t care.

It’s impossible to care when Aizen is right there. Almost almost in reach.

Grimmjow’s done is very best to avoid the shinigami for the past several... Days, weeks, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t need him. He doesn’t, but his body and his mind don’t seem to agree.

His mind says he’ll never bend to Aizen’s whim. His body says his teeth ache. His mouth is watering. He has to swallow, over and over, to keep it from pooling under his tongue. His stomach says he’s hungry. His knee is bouncing again, and he presses his foot flat to the floor, toe to heel.

Sousuke peers at Ichigo from the corner of his eye, lids narrowed in speculation.

"Why would I hide from those who cannot hope to see what's before their own eyes?" he asks, arrogant and skeptical.

"Unless you intend to give away my game?"

Considering he's lived almost all of his life with the awareness that other people don't usually see what he sees, Ichigo thinks this should come more naturally. Instead, he's left casting a glance over his shoulder to watch Shinigami of various ranks scramble through buildings and divisions as if they're bees in a nest someone just kicked.

He makes a face, filled with a mild, secondhand embarrassment that it's this easy to make them all look like idiots. "I don't think I'd look so smug if i'd spent the last several decades of my life captaining this mess." Not that Ichigo had any plans to lead anything here ever if he could help it. And not that Aizen had been focusing on his captaincy. 

Sousuke examines Grimmjow’s tense form; if he isn’t mistaken, Grimmjow would probably be sagging under the blood loss if he hadn’t been found out. And the blood continues to drip down from the shoulder wound to stain the white stone as well.

“Grimmjow,” he chides, his peaceful expression never wavering, “have you been fighting with the others again?”

He senses the growing agitation of the spiritual pressures nearby; the smell of so much blood would be obvious to many of the other Arrancar. His presence would act as a deterrent against any more fighting for now. Still, it would be best to remove the source of the agitation.

Without invitation, Sousuke pulls the sash from his waist and presses a section it against the front of the wound. He uses one hand to apply direct pressure while the other wraps the sash into a makeshift tourniquet.

“Let’s stop the bleeding before the others get too worked up, shall we? Then you can tell me how you got so injured.”

Grimmjow is frozen in place, caught by the gaze of his creator like a butterfly by pins.

Violence is not unusual within Las Noches halls, but there is a well known if unspoken rule that the violence should never cross Aizens path. The shinigami has neither the time nor patience for the petty hierarchical quarrels of his soldiers. He has no real interest, Grimmjow reminds himself, and keeps his mouth shut back ramrod straight for once. He’s almost surprised to find that he can meet Aizen’s gaze level, like this, though the blood loss keeps drawing his gaze to the left. Aizen always seems so far above him, on his throne, that it feels unnatural now.

Still. Slouching right now might indicated weakness, rather than carefully tempered rebellion, and he doesn’t allow himself the luxury no matter how bad his wound demands the support of a stable wall.

“No, Aizen-sama.” Not fighting with the others. This wasn’t an intentional disobedience or beckon for attention. In fact, he wishes Aizen where anywhere but here in front of him now, cuz it makes it look like Grimmjow went looking for him. He straightens his gaze when he realizes it had dropped to Aizen’s throat, and then further to his wrist. “Just Nnoitra.” Prick. For once, Grimmjow hadn’t been the one to start the altercation.

He flinches back when Aizen presses his sash to his open wound, blood and reiatsu rapidly stain the fabric, and the very action shocks him. Contact with Aizen is rare, yes, but not completely alien to Grimmjow, but this deviates from their normal.