The movement was fast, precise, and above all deadly. Kankuro rounded the corner, having tracked the other, and slammed into him. The blue-haired weirdo was sturdy and didn't budge very much, but the distance was closed, and his lips edged around the skeletal jaw with deft action, locking lips with him. Suna never backed out of a mission.
His day was slow, indistinct, and above all, semi-tolerable.
Grimmjow was nearly to the end of his twelfth trek down the hallway in as many minutes when a mare’s tail of gray and purple barreled into his person, bullish enough to chance threatening his balance.
Before the ruffled hollow could gather his faculties enough to retaliate with a fist through the suicidal bastard stupid enough to charter ambush on the goddamn Sexta Espada, something pliable, plush even, settled over his mouth.
By instinct his hand shot out for Pantera’s hilt but collided clumsily with the warm body now imposed between his hand and sword—
Thwarted digits skirted up the length of the stranger’s back and seized roughly around the nape of the man, agile fingers contracting with a bone-crushing capacity that echoed the manner of constrictor snakes.
And they were separated in an instant, torn apart lengthwise.
Grimmjow held the other at arm’s length against the spiderwebbed plaster of the white-washed wall, features feral as trace amounts of scarlet dripped down the contours of his snarl. Twin tracks of blood along the other’s face alluded to what had transpired in the span of a heartbeat.
It was only then he got a good look at the moron. Patterned facepaint, metallic headband, two-tipped cowl…didn’t feel all too human either.
“The fuck are you tryna do, dipshit?”
