It’s more fun when there’s some kind of ritual to it, makes this more enticing. Though, he can hardly stand to wait now that there’s already going to be a meeting. Coquettish looks from behind his fellow Espada are impossible to miss. The way she holds his gaze, long eyelashes fluttering, eyes bold and smoldering. She looks impossibly warm, even when they’re both so cold inside. Even when there’s barely anything between her smooth skin and the dead air of the bone white palace, silken clothes hugging the soft curves of her form. Maybe he has something warm to give her, and he can take some warmth from her in return.
It’s irritating when he catches Yammy’s glowering face like he’s daring Grimmjow to start something. He’s not looking at that lumbering bastard, he’s watching the rabbit behind him. It’s difficult not to let the hungry tension show in the stiffening of his muscles, the way his shameless leer follows her as she leaves the room. She’s not permitted to be in Espada meetings. There is a hunger; a hot, heady feeling dipping low and burning steadily as she sashays away. Her long legs swaying, he always liked that she was gifted with such an attractively shapely and long form. Legs for fucking days. Her pert ass is almost visible if she moves right, and he gives her a reproachful look that says she’s going to pay dearly later on.
Just last week, they fucked right here, on this table. The others could smell it, the way he left his scent and the way he railed her scent into the table, too. Lesser numeros are dispatched to clean the table daily, so it’s hardly noticeable now. Most of them are aware, and he doesn’t give a shit. Aizen sent someone else to warn him about it though. They’re free to do anything on their own time, in their own palace. But if they act like degenerate animals by defiling the meeting table, there will be consequences. Maybe a demotion to a humiliating three-digit number. He gets it.
Aizen takes notice and catches his attention wavering, but as soon as she’s gone and the doors shut, he finally turns back, expression deadpan. The meeting lasts for about an hour before he finally meanders out of the room, fists stuffed in his pockets. Boots clack and echo off of the high ceilings as all of the Espada go their separate ways to their own grand palaces within the colossal Las Noches. Soon, his feet are the only ones left walking as he reaches out with his mind to pinpoint her reiatsu. When he finds her general vicinity, he picks up the pace.
It’s less a game and more a hunt, but this kind of hunt has about the same amount of thrill. The end result being to satisfy his hunger, but is this a survival mechanism? Having a humanoid form gives him stronger urges than when he was just a beast, but these urges are more exciting. Whatever it is, he doesn’t really care to consider it too much. He likes it, and likes the idea of pinning her down in other ways.
What he finds when reaching her side of the palace, is just her scent and the warmth of the sofa where she had been. Then, he catches a flash of magenta as her hair flutters around a corner down the hallway. Instantaneous, he’s done walking -- the boom of a sonido will echo somewhere behind her. She should know better than to turn her back on a predator. If she wants to play this game of cat and rabbit, he’s more than eager to oblige. He stays just far enough away, but he doesn’t have to. She’s quick when she gets a head start. She didn’t survive this long if she was an easy meal, after all.
Tracking prey by scent has been a lesson he learned quick enough. When the hole was still so raw and so new. The thirst was deep, unquenchable. This is a hunger, a yearning that tugs as she places herself miles away again, using sonido. Excited by the fleeting scent of her as his rabbit lopes away, he follows with another hasty boom of sonido, and lands, sprinting down a corridor after her fluttering hair and skirt. Then she’s out of sight, and he comes to a stop. It would be easy to follow her reiatsu, but for the sake of sport, he doesn’t.
“The method to catching prey,” he drawls smoothly, “is knowing when they’re ready for it.”
The slow, metallic sing of Pantera slides from its sheath.
“Feeling what the prey is feeling,” he continues seemingly to himself, the flawless metal of the blade brushing along his palm. “Timing is everything. When you make your move, it has to be when the prey is ready. When they know it’s coming.” Nails tapping, and then, a bright, cyan light eats up the darkness. “That beat of anticipation when they know it’s coming.” Nails drag against the glowing blade, and an explosion erupts inside. When the smoke clears, the beast hunkers down on his haunches, tail lashing. “When every nerve ending is crackling, when they’re ready for it. It’s when they’re most alive.”
