undergrounds | 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 | Flat

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.

"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.

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?"

For his own part Sasuke's taken the time to investigate every last rock in the vicinity of the aged compound, thorough to a fault when it comes to details even if he's unfathomably good at missing the big picture. Or maybe he's just spent too much time memorizing the board and not the players, familiar with the grounds but not the figure coincidentally approaching him on them.

'Figure' is about the only word he can use for this creature, after all.

"... Hey. What's your name?" Somehow this feels like the only appropriate response. Just. This is how to avoid a mauling, right?

"I'm not sure you want to challenge me," Balem said, leaning back in his chair, "I can hold my drink quite well."

Sitting there wearing his freshly pressed suit and tie, Balem certainly didn't look like a heavy drinker. If anything, he seemed rather lightweight, but fae of his age and magical aptitude generally didn't get tipsy unless they really wanted to.

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Hillingdon Shounen Bash

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