Dawdling away
Grimmjow

Salome

Grimmjow's hair have exactly the right colour. And length. Very important. She digs her hands in deep and grabs them, pulling. He doesn't mind. After all, he is an Espada and what guy would complain about something like that?

She wonders how they get to feel so silky. Things like shampoo don't exist in Hueco Mundo as far as she knows, but - mah, why does she even care? They feel perfect.

She tilts his head to one side and pulls it close, putting her cheek against his hair. It smells warm. She tries to curl a lock around her fingers, but they're always just this bit too short.

She pouts, he laughs. Cutting his hair in Pantera-form had been a brilliant idea. Silently, he agrees and half a year later, he prowls on her balcony, asking for a re-cut.

18.3.09 13:36


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Espada. Hope.

This is why we live:

Because we don't care enough to die. Because we are too bored to will anything to change. Because we live on instincts and instincts always better the head in suicide questions.

Because we are proud. And show-offs. So we fight and strive and survive to show them that we can, just because we can.

 

Because she had to come and flutter around and look and touch us, just so, and we were lost. And living was taken away to be replaced by meaning. Or at least a picture. Not a meaning but desire.

And so we followed, just because we wanted to, just because we could, and she didn't push us away. Wasn't afraid, but smiled. Continued to touch us, stroke us, caress us and the warmth - despicable uncomfortable warmth - washed our thoughts away, put our brain to sleep. With each touch, each stroke, each gentle word she whispered or laughed, each smile, this picture was solidified. Engraved in our consciousness.

A promise, a curse, of life.

And so I live.

18.3.09 13:35


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