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If this was a joke or an insult on some level, it was less than hilarious. The Quinta Espada’s arrival was met with a lowly fracción that had trouble simply standing within the blonde’s presence? A lanky individual gingerly approached the dancing visitor, and interrupted the philosophical melodies of Nelly. In retrospect, he was probably a charming man. But to Vaaen, he was nothing but a disgrace; it punctured the very core of his being knowing someone so weak even shared the same species as himself. Nevertheless, the groove that consumed the overpowered man’s body halted, and he returned to the proper confident stance one of his stature should have possessed.

“Excuse me, Lord Quint—”

Vaaen’s war-calloused finger grazed the tall fellow’s lips, interrupting his train of thought only to replace it with agonizing fear as the Espada’s eyelids dimmed. The ridges of his nostrils began to flare, and his eyebrows meshed the furious display with a downward angling. Ocatava’s servant knew not what was streaming through the Juggernaut’s mind, but in actuality, he was simply changing the playlist. El Renacimiento’s fifth sword withdrew his forefinger from the lower sapient’s lips, and his pupils awakened with an unbounded fury that far succeeded any titan he’d come across in his lifetime.

“You’re disgustingly weak.” The Quinta Espada’s deep voice carried out the tone with dead emotion, yet with an overbearing amount of passion that the subordinate’s bone gained an irrefutable shiver. Before he could begin to comprehend the sentence, Vaaen’s right arm had already pierced through the entirety of his chest like butter, breaking through the man’s spine and poking his bloodied fingers through his back. An paralyzing agony seized the weakling’s body, allowing the Espada to close in on the male’s ears, “Know wrath. If you survive, find me in three centuries and show me true strength.” With the painful seed lodged into the now future corpse’s membrane, he simply threw the male off to the side and knelt over the incapacitated body. Using the lower officer’s clothing as a toilette, he wiped the blood off his right arm and smiled at the man prior to finding the Ocatava Espada on his own accord, “But have a nice day!”

Appropriating his hands within his pockets, the male ogled at the exquisite sights of the kingdom with full immersion into his music, effectively scaring the shit out of ninety-seven percent of the occupants with his wandering. Eventually, his pattering would make its way to the rumored throne room of the domain’s alpha.

He entered with a slow, inquisitive walk, angling his head to the side in examination of the surroundings. Failing to use an ‘inside’ voice, the Espada exclaimed, “Ooh, this place is fucking huge and scary!” No more than twenty meters away from the eight’s place of rest, would he stop to visually investigate the throne of blades and skulls. “You're probably the creepiest pale bitch I know.” The less than friendly nudging was hypocritical at best; he was calling the kettle black in one thousand different languages. He did, after all, quite literally reside in hell.

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“I live in hell, bitch.” An unwarranted irritation crept into the tone of his verbiage. The man’s war-tainted fingers curled upon his ears and slid down his headphones, bringing down his unremarkable layers of civility with it. The distorted, demonic decibels of alternative metal failed to come close the particles of anger that swelled within his optics. The logic that invoked the kettle’s heat would remain exotic to those who failed to naturally embody destruction. If the female that rested in his frontal vision didn't comprehend it, he would break her until his rage impregnated her membrane with immovable seeds.

If there was anything that could have been deciphered in the dilation of his pupils, it was the devastating lack of care within them; not a molecule of a fuck littered the hell-garden of fury he possessed. “Where are my manners” The same strain of whimsical confusion that regulated his tongue seemed to seize the entirety of his body. Vaaen’s hands navigated their way to his hips, and his confident eyes wavered downwards as if deep contemplation were assuming the throne. As if.

The Quinta Espada left a booming static in his previous location, and clearly reappeared mere inches before the female alpha of the domain. Through a whimsical veil, the male’s ethnicity emerged. As if he were a subordinate to her, he took a bowed crouched, while his light-blue gems failed to leave her own. He could have destroyed her, her most trusted fracción, and her entire land in one fell swoop. He knew this; the smugness in his eyes knew this. While his left hand rested so gracefully upon his left pectoral, his right outstretched the tenderly grasp her own. If he stretch proved fruitful, the male would have proceeded to plant a soft kiss upon the back of the Ocatava’s hand, and allowed the polished fluency of his native language to abduct his tongue, “Buona sera, mia bella cagna raccapricciante.”

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It was disconcerting how often his native tongue went misconstrued for Spanish, or totally misunderstood. It was especially disappointing when he’d formulated his language in a beautiful complimenting insult. Being a man with foresight, it was a given due to the fact that he lived in the most hellish dimension available. Surprisingly to even him, her incorrect dialect incited not fury, but merriment. For a moment, the burrowing of his brow was the only movement within his seemingly paralyzed body. By the time his mouth had attempted to correct her, the skin encompassing his eyes had already crinkled, and a jubilant chuckle had detonated off his tongue, “Italiano.”

With a graceful speed, the male Espada tenderly slid his calloused hand off the Octava’s own, and streamed the awakened jolliness through his voice box, “Do you remember much of your human or hollow life, Vargas?” He rose to his proper stance, turning his back to her as he began to nonchalantly pace forward. A certain zealotry collided with his exuberance; giving birth to a lethal edge on his articulations. And whether or not she answered, he would proceed to speak, and possibly cut her off. “I do. I almost find it awkward to look in the mirror nowadays.”

Vaaen’s musing came to a halt, and he unhurriedly turned his towards her. The smug smirk on his face could have polluted the most righteous of atmospheres, “I mean, look at us.” He took a few steps towards her, and placed the palm of his right hand outward at the seated female, in hopes of prompting the woman to utilize the gesture and vacate her throne. Yet the display in his fiery-coveted pupils demanded the action, overpowering the polished kindness that gleamed off his hand, and off his lips, “What do we do now?”

CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GS

{wrath} {word 286} {hot in here}

complacency shall burn.

“We are fire.”

The very millisecond the younger Espada accepted his gesture; she would find his unfathomable strength reeling her into an intimate space with him, forcing a stance reminiscent to a Salsa rendition. Her simplistic sentences poured oil to the flames of his rage, causing his eyes to ignite of an indescribable passion. There was little space for any particles of lust, for no emotion could stand in comparison to the amount of wrath that littered his plagued soul. These aforementioned jewels of rage would beam into the Octava’s own, and she undoubtedly feel the depths of his power whether or not she wanted to.

“We bring ruin to any surface fortunate enough to have our presence.” The very walls encompassing the two would begin to rumble as if an army of bulls were crashing against them, and any weak inhabitants near them would suffer a gruesome death simply for being near the emotional flare of his Reiatsu, and even those as strong as this domain’s alpha would accumulate beads of sweat. “Each and every being we scorch should be grateful to die by our hands! We show them true strife, and we are the ones who allow them growth.” While enjoyment flew and dancing within the entirety of his anatomy, undying rage integrated with his visage: his golden eyebrows burrowed downwards, veins began to pulse within his neck, and his lips twitched upwards as they continuously expanded.

“You’re too beautiful to not be unleashed, you should not be in this filthy, decadent kingdom. You deserve to be defining mayhem and wrath whenever you please.” It was his duty to allow her to raise hell upon complacency; his honor.

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{wrath} {word 316} {hot in here}

complacency shall burn.

Vaaen’s wickedly dilated pupils gawked into the Octava’s own, no more than mere inches away from her face. And as he stoic gibberish wavered, a tingle of comprehension danced within his stomach, within the depths of his soul. He was beyond impressed with the wrath she incorporated into every single decibel of her verbiage. Their individual capacities and rationalizations for conflict were exceedingly distinct, yet their love for battle and their methods resonated of the same pitch. She was nowhere as gorgeous as Nabill himself, and neither was he, but she was a close second to the list. And he refused to stand here and let her suffer in this complacent hellhole she called a kingdom.

Whether she would approve or not, Vaaen saw to it that he paced backward and ventured to twirl her body slowly in a 720° spin. While unromantic in his nature, the pivot in itself was filled to the brim with sentimentality, a grave contrast to the vicious glint lingering in his eyes. “You are bound like a dog.” He stated calmly, culminating his twirl as he less than gently stretched to bend her left knee with a curl of his left hand, where he would allow her locks of white hair to become a slave to gravity, allowing his prominent hand to ease onto her lower back.

The Quinta’s lips would have daringly been no more than four inches from Carrla’s own, his eyes gazing into hers with contents ravaged by countless years of war and unabated rage. “There will be no peace, there will only be passion. Every Quincy and Shinigami will fear the depths of your wrath, and your mayhem will bring us all knowledge and power.” The male’s rich cigar and spearmint breath would proceed to invade her senses, “I will break your chains and see to it that no complacent shackle binds you.”

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{wrath} {word 352} {hot in here}

complacency shall burn.

Each and every murderous syllable that exited her lips was quite literally one of the most exquisite symphonies to his ears, and they completely overpowered the annoying screech of her stoic film. Looking into her eyes, he could see a woman who had the potential to become one of the most gorgeous constructs of wrath to ever exist. Had he followed his ambitions, he would become her true conduit from destruction and mayhem. The warmth of his breath invaded her soft pores through his deep, malicious chuckles. She understood, and there wasn’t much more he could do except bask in her vicious elegance. Had he the care for sexual pleasures, her bones would have been broken and she would have become a slave to his desires.

“You could be so beautiful.” He articulated his words slowly and deeply; as if manifesting his wrath was pure eroticism to him. The hand that curled about her leg tenderly traveled her body and twirled about her cheek. His eyes emanated of such a predatory essence that it undoubtedly appeared as if he was liable to take a bite right out of her at any given moment. “But you are useless to me as you are, woman.” Unless the female widened her mouth to speak, a bout of silence would erode the sound waves.

And easily as his hands invaded the privacy of her body, they would vacate her silky, albino skin and leave her to most likely fall onto the ground with his body no longer supporting the stance. “You will go to the Menos Forest, and your shackles will begin to dissolve there.” He stared down at the woman with unabated rage and jubilance outlandishly blended into his visage. The Quinta was a man of his word, and she would be liberated from his imprisonment.

With an ominous lack of celerity, the fur about his overcoat would twirl with his wind as he silently strolled towards one of her walls—leaving his imprint hollow in the wall as he walked straight through it and exited without a proper adieu.

MADE BY KIROUKO OF GANGNAM-STYLE