undergrounds | i been thinkin bout bustin you

Entry tags:

i been thinkin bout bustin you

yo Hillingdon Clan where u at

Home sweet dump.

It's a weird concept, the whole roof over his head thing. Don't get him wrong, it's not like he's never crashed on someone's couch or slept in an abandoned building. Grimmjow may have spent most of his life on the move, but he's not that much of an animal. It's the whole...reoccurence of it all that gets him. For as long as the shifter has lived, he's never known a singular place he always crawled back to. His parents never owned a house, slept wherever they could find shelter, and Grimmjow had been bouncing around the world so long, there was no desire to ever find 'home'.

So, finding consistent shelter at the Hillingdon House throws him off. He keeps telling himself it's just because it's safe, out of the way of prying eyes and only shared by people of like mind. Plus, the clan ain't so bad. So maybe...

He wanders the grounds, in and out of animal form, the want to always be moving still great even here. Even though he pretty much knows the lay of the land by heart, it never hurts to review.

ota - it's friday night somewhere

Some people make friends by bumping into them on the sidewalk or meeting on the train, by making bullshit smalltalk, pretending they care about this-that-and-so-and-so. Grimmjow makes friends by bar-hopping. Instead of finding common interests and hobbies to talk about, Grimmjow buys a round for everyone at the bar and challenges others to drinking contests. He doesn't have to give a shit about the weather or local-sports-team. By the time he's drank enough, he's everybody's friend.

Until he's not, which is fine, too. The shifter never turns down a chance to puff his chest out.

Tonight's one of those nights. He needs the chance to blow off some steam, break down some barriers, maybe get in a fight or two. Who knows where he'll be by the end of it. For now, he starts off in Pub-Whats-Its-Name on Street-Somewhere and buys a round for everyone seated at the bar.

come at me bro

[DO WHATCHU FEEL IN UR HEART]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Heiji, for his part, raised his glass slightly in appreciation; there was some dark and honeyed liquid rolling about inside. "Someone's havin' a good day. Thanks!"

He was seated at one of the stools, one elbow propped up on the bar.

Trevor's high. Or in the after-throes of it. What really fascinates him about the meth scene in London is that it's completely different: the drug, anyway. Tastes different. Experiences different. He's been indulging whenever he can spare the time.

So when he notices a gigantic cat prowling around, he almost wonders if his shit was laced. That doesn't make any sense, at least not to a veteran of the stuff - but he hasn't seen a whole lot of wildlife around the city. Even with all the shapeshifters, he just hasn't been here long enough to start calling it when he sees a random animal weaving around the concrete jungle.

Trevor freezes at the jaguar. Just stares at it. Then he takes a slow step back, raising his hands. He doesn't actually have a gun on him - once again - and so he can't just shoot at the thing.

"Uh... nice kitty... trust me, I taste like a sewer. Noooo bueno."

"Oh, come now!" called out a strong voice from the other side of the pub. "Don't neglect those of us whose backs aren't good enough to sit on those stools all night? Not that I'm sure I could fit on one anyway, you know. Not enough room!"

Slughorn patted his ample belly, entirely in good humor. It might be a very normal and reasonable interaction if not for the fact that the old(ish) man was sitting in a plush and comfortable armchair, which not a single patron seemed to have noticed.

"Bought to get even better," the young man replied back easily, looking pleased with himself. Of course, there had been nights for Grimmjow that had been relatively tame considering, but he always held out hope. "Just thought I'd share the cheer!" Pointed teeth flash in a smile before Grimmjow goes back to focusing on his beer.

Well, it's probably for the best Trevor doesn't have a gun on him. Not only would have it gone bad for both them, but it would have gone especially bad for him. Grimmjow wouldn't die to a bullet until he killed the fucking idiot who shot him first.

Anyway.

The urge to play the 'wild animal' part was pretty high. Chase the dumbass around, growl at him a little, but for once, Grimmjow does the peaceful thing. He sits his ass down, flicks his tail around in only the way an annoyed cat can. The guy is high, Grimmjow can smell it all the way from where he's sitting.

A smartass remark was right there on the tip of his tongue, a 'maybe next time' right on his lips. Of course, that was right before the blue-haired punk paid more than two seconds of attention to the guy. The armchair -- definitely out of place. Just like the guy himself, really.

It was a normal pub, populated mostly by college kids and people under the age of 40. Grimmjow had seem some salty, older guys in some of the places he'd been, but they were usually protecting their corner of the bar. This guy? There's a moment where Grimmjow nostrils flare, sniffing the air. Usually, supers have a strange smell. Well, most of them.

"Sorry gramps, just the luck of the draw. Maybe next time. Or maybe never."

There ain't a whole lot that's able to scare Trevor Philips. But when faced with the awe-inspiring forces of Mother Nature come to tear him to shreds, yeah. He's a little scared.

Anyway. Holy shit. The jaguar listened to him. Or at least seemed like it wasn't just going to jump him and rip his head off as revenge for all those coyotes he's shot in the past or something. Then again, cats were supposed to hate dogs, so...

He at least knows it's a bad idea to turn and run because that will spark up the predator drive, so Trevor just sort of copies it. Slowly sits down. What the fuck is he doing. "Yeeahh..." he continues, trying to sound all placating. "Just a couple of killers respecting each other's boundaries. Nothing to see here."

"Well, that's hardly sporting," the old witch huffed, sinking back into his chair. "You'll be old with a bad back someday too, you know. Now's the time to take care of others, so others will take care of you!"

This might be more plausible if Slughorn seemed less than hale and vital in any sense at all. Even for his apparent age, he seemed remarkably energetic despite his paunch and protestations.

If Grimmjow had known about the whole shooting coyotes things, he might've just laughed. He's got nothing against dogs or canines or whatever (except the smell), really. In fact, if he saw another panther or jaguar get slaughtered in front of him, the shifter doubted he'd be all that moved by the scene.

Survival of the fittest and all that shit.

He couldn't believe this guy didn't realize what he was. How many wild animals did he see running around in London? Especially one that probably belonged in a zoo. Then again, he was flying on some weird shit. Something really synthetic by the smell of him.

Not being able to jab back with any witty rejoinders was hard to suck up, but transforming right in front of someone usually led to freaking out. So he growled in response and leaned forward, as if actually paying attention.

Well, the guy liked to talk, so there's that, at least. While getting drunk with a bunch of people is good and all, Grimmjow's not doing that for the sake of altruism. He's still new around London, he still needed information. Rumors, gossip, whatever wants to fall out of a drunk's mouth, he'll take it.

And despite how unextraordinary the man may seem, maybe he knew something. It's enough for Grimmjow to plop down on a chair next to the guy, his own beer dangling from his fingers.

"I'll fuckin' be dead before then," he snapped back. Grimmjow could only hope, anyway. He didn't look forward to getting old and tired. "Shouldn't you be tryin' not to let anyone take care of you? Or maybe you're one of those types who'd rather be waited on hand and foot."

Heiji laughed. "I guess it's true. Folks do take drinking pretty serious in London."

Was that the hint of a challenge? ...Maybe.

London's a weird place full of people with weird accents. For all Trevor knows they might have these jaguars coming out of the fucking ocean like seals (except much cooler.) He blinks at how the jag leans in, almost as if it's listening to him... could it understand him?

Was he connecting with this creature on a spiritual level?

Being a logical, deep and thought-provoking scholar, Trevor asks it:

"Does your kind, like, get high off catnip." He's always wondered.

"I dunno," he drawled. "I've been a lot of places. London's not exactly rising up to my standards." Which was really only half-true. The states still held his personal record for how drunk he could get in one night. Americans drank absolute filth and didn't even care, unlike the rest of the world. Still, though, there was definitely a tone in the guy's voice.

Grimmjow wouldn't back down. "Think you can show me otherwise?"

His head leans to the side at the off-hand comment. Of everything you could ask... If he could answer, he might say that there was one time. One time in some country in the East, he might've sampled the local party scene, got a little crazy. Grimmjow thinks he might have ate one of the guys he was with, because in the morning he couldn't find either of them and he was particularly full.

But he can't talk so he doesn't say any of that. Probably for the best. No one needs to know he might have a taste for the flesh of others.

Grimmjow paws at his face, almost as if saying the question is ridiculous.

Heiji gave him just a hint of a smile. "Well, I can't exactly claim to represent London myself, but... what're we drinking?"

Yep, definitely challenging him to a drinking contest.

"You're a true gem among men," Cooper praises. The teen sitting at the bar dressed in motorcycle leathers barely looks old enough to be in the bar. No matter. He's been steadily drinking beer all night long. He's an Irish stereotype and will proudly admit to that fact. Besides, it's going to take a lot more than this to get him drunk. His vampire healing takes care of too much of the buzz.

Good heavens. This got personal and uncomfortable fairly quickly. Slughorn leaned faintly away in his chair, one arm wrapped around the tub of crystallized pineapple as if he feared it would be snatched.

"An early death's no aspiration," he said, drawing together his dignity as best he could. "These are fine years, fine years. Relaxation and comfort are things to be valued, and pursued, you know.

"Though I wouldn't want to rely on anyone to give it to me," Slughorn added after a brief thought, fingers rapping on the arm of his chair. "But it's nice to be thought of."

Eren's not partaking in the generously offered cheer. Alcohol does little for him, and he finds the ridiculous way it makes people act rather annoying. The only reason he's here tonight is because the pubs in this area have a strange habit of attracting supernatural types. And yes, by the smell of things, he's relatively sure he's found one. (Not that smelling anything other than human is a bad thing. Have you ever sniffed a human up close? Don't. They're gross.)

"You know," he starts, coming over to sit next to the shifter. "By the end of the night, most of them will be too drunk to even remember you. What's the point in wasting your money on 'em?"

Incredible. The jaguar is not tearing his throat out. No, it seems to be responding to him in its own majestic and unknowable way. Trevor stares at it with a sense of wonder. Must be what those little Narnia shits felt like when they met Aslan, huh?

"Okay, okay. Methamphetamine." Trevor proposes this next, like it's some amazing alternative.

Good, looks like he'd have fun after all. "You're sittin' in this bar. That's good enough for me." And putting up with him so far, though Grimmjow had acted significantly worse before. Right now, he was downright friendly. "And I let the challenger choose. You know, so you can't say I cheated or somethin', when you lose."

If the shifter ever heard Trevor call him majestic, he might piss himself laughing. Even if it was true.

But seriously, ugh, meth. Maybe that's what the guy's on? As far as drugs go, it's one of the few he stays away from. There's just no glamor in it and he doesn't need any more energy than he already has. The one time he did coke was enough; he'd stick to downers, thanks.

But that didn't answer the question, which he supposed would be yes. He nods once, in only the way cats can do. So, it's more like he looks down and then back up, which is good enough.

Grimmjow wouldn't know personal space if it gained a physical form and broke his nose. At the very least, the old man's pineapples are safe from any thievery. Fruit doesn't interest the Grimmjow too much.

"Not when you're--" the 'like me' quickly backtracks on his tongue, "--from my family." Granted, 'like me' could have meant anything, not that he wasn't human. Still, though, it felt weird saying it to someone who could've been just a normal geriatric. "Least you still got some spirit in you, I guess."

If Grimmjow has any problem with how baby-face the guy looks, it doesn't show and he doesn't say. Besides, he's not fooled. He knows a vampire when he smells one. The guy isn't giving him any trouble, though, so he stays civil.

But that could change at any moment.

"Maybe. Maybe I'm just doin' it 'cause I want somethin' in return."

"Loose lips and all that shit, right?" Getting people drunk wasn't something Grimmjow did out of the kindness of his heart. He may not be the smartest person in any given room, but he had picked up a few things here and there. The most important being that getting others drunk or, at the very least, in their good graces, generally made them more talkative.

And nothing was as critical in a hunter's arsenal than information.

So he got tongues wagging, listened. Sometimes it was bullshit, sometimes it was gold. "Why do you care? Maybe I got cash to throw around, maybe I wanna make some friends. Don't you got a moon to howl at?" If humans smelled bad, werewolves--. Okay, maybe Grimmjow wouldn't sink them that low, but still, werewolves always had that musty, dog smell lingering around. Not as bad as a human, but close enough.

Heiji leaned over the bar and grinned at the bartender, who placed two tumblers and a glass of clear vodka on the counter.

"Alright, then. Loser pays." Giving him an opportunity to suggest other stakes, though. It was only polite.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3

i been thinkin bout bustin you

OTA

H

OTA

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

OTA

no subject

ota

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject