(Untitled)

[pantherking]

Who: Dante Sparda (tries_too_hard) and Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez (pantherking)
When: Day 13, afternoon
Where: House #266
What: Neither Dante nor Grimmjow knows when to quit
Rating: R

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[tries_too_hard]

Thankfully, the shower seemed to have taken the orange out of his hair. That or just sleeping. Thankfully, it was his familiar red leather that he pulled on over the bandages. thankfully, he had Rebellion over his shoulder, and his guns at his hips. All in all, he felt a lot more confident. A lot more sure of himself.

In the end, it allowed him to stroll on up to the house he'd watched Grimmjow walk off to, it gave him nerve enough to stride up to the porch. It took him a minute, maybe two, but he knocked on the frame at last. Shifting on his feet to peer in the window.

[pantherking]

Half asleep though he was, Grimmjow heard the knock when it came, a sharp, annoying sound that jolted him out of his doze and firmly deposited his consciousness back on the slightly lumpy sofa. He cracked open one eye to glare malevolently at the cushion a few scant inches from his nose. What the fuck was that?

He took a half-hearted sniff, but either he was too close to the sofa or too far away from the source of the sound. The only thing he could smell was bland fabric and whatever the fuck created the lumps in the cushions. Well, whatever. It wasn't important.

Closing his eye, Grimmjow curled up into a marginally tighter ball and willed himself back to sleep.

[tries_too_hard]

Dante waited a few moments, but nothing came out to greet him. Losing patience fast, he knocked again. However this time, he didn't stop. He just kept knocking. Someone would answer eventually. Or, maybe, no one was in, which would just make him look dumb. But no one was around to see, in any case.

[pantherking]

Sleep was not to be had today. Not with that goddamn noise. If it was coming from something alive, Grimmjow was going to kill it. If it wasn't, he was going to destroy it. Once he could be bothered to get up from the sofa, which was a pretty distant goal at this juncture and unlikely to happen any time in the future.

That left yelling, and as his temper frayed, thinned, and eventually snapped, yelling was what Grimmjow resorted to doing. He was good at it. It didn't require much energy. And he could do it laying down.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he bellowed, wishing he had something to throw and settling for turning to face the back of the sofa.