[incomplete] now with more 20% more jaw action
Who: Grimmjow, Lucyifer
When: After initial contact via journals
Where: Lucifer's restaurant
Rating: TBD
Warnings: Grimmjow's mouth, and perhaps etc?
Summary: He's not a dog, but whistle and he comes. Grimmjow goes to meet his new employer and stay somewhere that has a possibility of heat.
It had been well over a lifetime since his last job interview, but Grimmjow could remember that punctuality was usually quite important. Employers generally didn’t like it when their intendeds came an hour later than they were told to be where they were wanted, and in all honestly, he would have been on time. His god had let him know, more than once, that it was not appreciated for him to show up less than punctually when he was called for, and Grimmjow had seemed to pay attention to the lesson around the third time. Being punished hurt after all, and Grimmjow didn’t like non-battle related pains. They were annoying.
In all honesty, he would have been on time to go meet with Lucifer, but then he had come across a cat-like beastie that had tried to take a chunk out of him, and feeling his kindred spirit, Grimmjow had just had to slaughter the beast. The freshest coat of blood on his (nearly brown) uniform stood out with the remaining strips of white peeking out sadly, a testament to what they would have been had Grimmjow still had a change of clothes waiting for every time he ruined something he wore via blood or destruction. Part of the blood was his as well, but he was content with the bite mark on his arm. He liked his badges of honor afterall, though Ichigo’s wound was the only one he had ever felt that had been worth displaying.
He made his way to the front of Lucifer’s shop, hands in his pockets as he looked about the outside; much like a stray cat trying to decide whether to eat the kibble off of the stoop of an old woman’s porch. Deeming himself quite safe, he let himself in, pulling the door shut and immediately looking around, gauging what he could and attempting to locate a person who knew what he looked like (but regrettably not the other way around). Or Toby. He was a useful little masquerader, really.
He scratched a congealing strip of blood off of the area above his hollow hole, frowning down at himself before moving to wipe his hand on his pants, shrugging. He knew what his first exchange of goods/paycheck would be for, indeed. Something not white. What a novelty that would be.
When: After initial contact via journals
Where: Lucifer's restaurant
Rating: TBD
Warnings: Grimmjow's mouth, and perhaps etc?
Summary: He's not a dog, but whistle and he comes. Grimmjow goes to meet his new employer and stay somewhere that has a possibility of heat.
It had been well over a lifetime since his last job interview, but Grimmjow could remember that punctuality was usually quite important. Employers generally didn’t like it when their intendeds came an hour later than they were told to be where they were wanted, and in all honestly, he would have been on time. His god had let him know, more than once, that it was not appreciated for him to show up less than punctually when he was called for, and Grimmjow had seemed to pay attention to the lesson around the third time. Being punished hurt after all, and Grimmjow didn’t like non-battle related pains. They were annoying.
In all honesty, he would have been on time to go meet with Lucifer, but then he had come across a cat-like beastie that had tried to take a chunk out of him, and feeling his kindred spirit, Grimmjow had just had to slaughter the beast. The freshest coat of blood on his (nearly brown) uniform stood out with the remaining strips of white peeking out sadly, a testament to what they would have been had Grimmjow still had a change of clothes waiting for every time he ruined something he wore via blood or destruction. Part of the blood was his as well, but he was content with the bite mark on his arm. He liked his badges of honor afterall, though Ichigo’s wound was the only one he had ever felt that had been worth displaying.
He made his way to the front of Lucifer’s shop, hands in his pockets as he looked about the outside; much like a stray cat trying to decide whether to eat the kibble off of the stoop of an old woman’s porch. Deeming himself quite safe, he let himself in, pulling the door shut and immediately looking around, gauging what he could and attempting to locate a person who knew what he looked like (but regrettably not the other way around). Or Toby. He was a useful little masquerader, really.
He scratched a congealing strip of blood off of the area above his hollow hole, frowning down at himself before moving to wipe his hand on his pants, shrugging. He knew what his first exchange of goods/paycheck would be for, indeed. Something not white. What a novelty that would be.