Work Text:
Overture
The end of the world had already begun.
Harribel told him this just before she got herself bound up and garroted, on the waitlist for an execution "some other day."
Unrepentant, abhorrent (fancies the sound of
that
) and maybe a shade too greedy, but he has his charms.
Tick-tick—tock: stop.
On the clock, Grimmjow hisses like he's been made (hey, call me king) and vacates suspense. Shit, he's tired of this same-old game. No fun, no glamour, not even a good carcass to chew. Nothing but trash. Since Aizen’s deposition (down into the gutter-dirt grave) there’s been this malaise of boredom.
He’s had enough with traipsing like a drunk. Temptation whines like a bitch, and Grimmjow doesn’t have the patience (stamina) for uptight hags.
So, come to think, it only makes sense.
"You should join us.”
Ginning and sly, he leans over and whispers sickly-sweet: “Sorry, not interested.”
“Careful. We are not usually this
generous
.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, seeing what you did to Harriblel.”
“Yet you refuse?”
Grimmjow shrugs. “From how I look at things, I don’t pose much of a threat. There’s no point in killing me. Besides, I don’t work for ugly beasts. Strains the eyes too much, ya know?”
“I suggest you rethink your decision. We will talk again. Soon.”
Scowling, Grimmjow spits onto the ground. Preachy bastards always leave a foul taste behind, lingering past their prime.
And he’s still got Ichigo to think about.
Dead or alive, he’s coming to collect.