#lasextaespada

OOC: I keep listening to RA. It’s all I have on repeat, except with the occasional break with whatever is queued up on my music app.

Also, it fuels my desire to write angst and get into every nook and cranny of Grimm’s mind. Although, I have art coms and birthday things to do for my mom, so eventually I’ll get around to the other missing replies and to posting more.

Here’s some Ra :)

Maybe one day I’ll get around to sharing some playlists

[ ✿ ] : @lasextaespada ➜ ❤️'d ™

' Wow I didn't think you'd actually come to the beach Grimmjow! I thought bug cats like you didn't like water.'

Jewel anchored her nails into the corpse’s armored eye sockets, crouching and cinching up as she leered at the old man yelling at her from across the dunes. Was he serious?!

“Haaaah?!” she croaked out, graveling, “Didn’t have your name on it! Go yell at a cloud about your inadequacies!!”

Clouds that would be bountiful because of her generosity.

How many times must one be beat until they're broken?

Till the rope is pulled too taut.

How long before it snaps?

Grimmjow had endured enough. The vile, death-laden wasteland of Hueco Mundo had acted mercilessly against its inhabitants. The cadavers of the insignificant had been piled high; the hordes of hollow flies swarmed, praying they were fortunate enough to lap up residual reiatsu for evolution.

One fly, beaming with pride over finding something worth ingesting wedged into the flesh of a rotten skull. Its expectations were squabbled with the white sole of a black boot. Shards of skull scattered about. The crackle echoing in the dessert's desolation.

"Hmm... that's too bad," Mocked a thoughtless jaguar.

It seemed such happiness was fleeting in all of the heartless beasts trekking these sands. Grimmjow straightened himself. He had been wandering aimless for days now-something he'd never done. His legs always carried him with a directive input. But like that fly, his resolve had become one with the hellscape he'd express twisted ardor for. Grimmjow picked up his boot and marched forward.

But something chipped his fortified wall. The crack stretched out far beyond the horizon. Past his foresight.

There was a racket in his chest. The swords of his shadows clashed, their bloodbath thickening his breath. Long strides crawled to a laughable drag and finished in a feeble halt. His goals were one perceived with great exaltation, and yet, bleeding time and time again didn't wedge the void inside the sixth even deeper. No.

Something else far more cruel turned his worldview upside down. It was the chilling truth that he would, forever find himself preying on the defenseless without a pack to rally around him, with or without his rusted crown.

OOC: I am in a writing mood *^*

That’s it. I just want to role-play.

OOC: It’s that time of year where I change my age on all socials. From 23 to 24. 🙂‍↕️

Will post a story soon!

Also, I just had to take a pic of Grimm with my birthday cake. My twin suggested I use this pic for Grimm’s birthday instead XD

OOC: I was the queen of bullshitting as a kid. I watched Grimmjow’s last battle with Ichigo and concluded, to my sister who was a teen at the time, that if they didn’t show him dead then he isn’t dead. Then, I proceeded to make fun of her for her fave (Ulquiorra) being dead. I did this for longer than you could imagine.

Now imagine how much I bragged when I found out I was right.

The vast grey gave nothing to its hellish inhabitants. Full of death and yet, void of everything at once—a land so unforgiving. So cold as to deprive the afterlife reprieve, be its people kind enough to gain sentience to build something of worth. Destruction usually unfurled in the musty desaturation of its skies. Corpses laid buried in impure sands. There was nothing to marvel at here, but sometimes, the souls trekking the sands built an affinity to the ugly and lifeless. It was, in every which way, home. You could either perceive it as such or live tormented by the distance between what comes after and what came before.

Hueco Mundo was the place Grimmjow found warmth where there was none. He belonged here. He hungered for battle like his home yearned for the cessation of its people's vitals. The soles of his boots crunched against the ground below, etching his path. Marking a line ignorance should not cross, lest they wish to call upon death.

In the air clung something so small, so very insignificant. If you laid unfocused, it'd be easy to miss. The sweet pin drop of spiritual pressure, beckoning predators follow its evanescence. As a panther on the prowl, Grimmjow did what he knew best: prepare his claws for the hunt and sharpen his fangs for the kill. His intent was undeterred.

As he neared, the flicker of power behind his focus grew. Success was overcast. The blue in intense irises came alive, electrifying and full of color. There it is. My prey. He tried not to allow himself to become overzealous, not trying to pretend he knew his opponent before reaching his destination. That kind of mindset separated the dead warriors from those who still thrived in this dry, barren land.

His reiastu flicked and whirred with anticipation as stealth guided him up and over sandy hills. Just a little ways left to go. This alone was a victory he'd revel in.

Soon enough, his keen eyes caught the first signs of life ahead. It was she who piqued his interest, and she who had been enough to get him this far. His presence loomed over her, her walls closing in. He had lunged into the space overhead, catching full view of her back, and it was then, in her very presence—his reiastu heightened. It's power roared. It clawed the air, doing away with the very last threads of peace for the unknown woman.

The air was dense.

Satisfaction spread across his lips. "I'm lookin' for a fight," he proclaimed, unable to conceal bloodthirst behind husky—almost sultry words.

Grimjow was not one to strike so impromptu. He wasn't like his comrades that way. Not until she stepped onto his level, he wouldn't dare attack. Yet her inability to move had him feeding his curiosity by conjuring up conclusions that she just might be a stealthy striker or worse—too afraid to act. Either which way, he kept his senses attuned to her, even if his jostled him into considering the possibility that there may not be a fight on the horizon for the starved jaguar.