He doesn’t miss the bold and intent stare when he steps into the bar. Plenty of hollows and arrancar alike had given him the same look; hungry, fixated on the want for battle, on the urge to hunt. Not unlike something beastly. After all, it takes one to know one. The jaguar stares back for just a moment, interested. Some may be deterred by the stranger in the deep azure mane, but rather than ignore what is more or less an invitation, he meanders across the room to join him. Casually glancing at the man who piques his interest, he isn’t subtle about sizing him up. Smells like a beast, too. He looks human, but is he really? It’s difficult to tell anymore when this world isn’t just some variation of weak or powerful spirits with some spiritually strong humans.
Grimmjow isn’t expecting to be invited to drink with the man, but he doesn’t pass up the smell of what has become his favorite drink. It’s strong and the taste is satisfyingly sharp.
“Straight up is fine.” He takes the glass after the man pours it from the bottle, sipping the amber liquid. “You look like you’re waiting for something, or you want something more than just a drinking partner.” He comments, meeting a hungry gaze as a smirk begins to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
A dog in man’s skin, adorned with tattoos across his chest, back, and arms. Those sensitive to magics may just sense they aren’t just ink--perhaps not ink at all. Azrael inhaled deep. He himself could be described as the failure to try and domesticate one’s feral instincts down to nothing. The bright blue hair, missing abdomen, and teeth on the other would give Azrael a sense of magic. Something beyond humanity. Nothing familiar.
If it wasn’t in the form it was as he saw it, what would it be?
“A good aperitif can make the difference in a meal. Whiskey is a bit unconventional in that sense. But it suits you just fine.” he pours it into the glass, the bottle making a heavy thunk when he puts it back down.
A numb stare into his own reflection. Would it even be worth it...? He wants to feel something. Taste something. He can’t feast here with hardly any teeth. He wants to try anyways. Always, always, always, always, always.
“Hard to hide when you’re starved. If you can’t hear my stomach growling, I can. And it needs to be quiet already.”
Azrael stands up, swallowing the rest of his whiskey and slamming it on the counter. Cracking his joints, stretching. Gaze full on his prey.
“Show me that my hunch is right. I want a taste of you.”
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