You couldn't go wrong if you had a plan, right?

Grimmjow had a plan. Highly detailed and cunningly thought out, it involved the complicated strategy of going to a club, getting pissed out of his head, possibly having sex with a random stranger and waking up in his own hotel room, no memory of how he got back there lingering in his mind. Usually one of his bodyguards – whichever of them was feeling the most patient that night – came and found him and dragged him up however many flights of stairs it was to his room.

It was a foolproof plan.

Slinging a dark jacket on – it was November, after all – the blue-haired man sauntered down the stairs, trying out his smouldering I'm-going-to-make-love-to-you look on a passing hotel maid. The girl blushed deeply and hurried on with the pile of linen she was clutching, looking back coyly over her shoulder as she went. Yeah, he still had it. A bellboy stuttered a hasty greeting as Grimmjow swaggered past; God, you'd think these people would get used to seeing anyone even remotely famous around with the Espada Talent Agency lording it over the city.

His footsteps followed an often-trodden path down the street to his current favourite nightclub, Las Noches. This club was the shit, known for its brilliant DJs, sexy dancers and handy back exit in case of police raids. It was another well-known fact that there was a running trade in cocaine among the less reputable people who frequented Las Noches – hence the back exit.

The bouncers let him in without question – he was a regular. Grimmjow stood at the entrance for a brief moment, letting the pounding music wash over him and scoping the club for any lookers. Jeez. There were more hot women here than seemed fair. Guys too, come to think of it. Grimmjow didn't care who he fucked, so long as they were moderately attractive and the sex was great.

Shoving his way through the press of gyrating bodies, the singer finally reached the bar at the far side of the room.

"Yo!" He yelled to the bartender against the thud of the music. Grimmjow was a familiar face in this club; a bottle of beer, his usual order, was promptly uncapped and slid along the bar to him. He had a reasonably high tolerance for alcohol, born from many years of drinking the stuff. As such, it took at least two bottles to get him moderately drunk.

Taking a long swig, he leaned back against the bar and surveyed the dance floor once more. He could go for those ice blonde twins… or the guy with the snakebite piercings… nah. Tonight, Grimmjow wanted something more like… more like… that. His roving eyes lit upon a slim girl with heavily layered black hair falling softly around her face, dancing alone and looking straight at him with a come-hither gleam in her very green eyes.

Never one to beat around the bush, the blue-haired man's first words to the girl when he reached her were, "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

"You're not bad yourself." She shot back in a surprisingly husky voice. She was a little shorter than him, and her skin was very white under the rapidly flashing strobe lights; she definitely resembled somebody he knew, but he couldn't place it. Not that he gave a damn, anyway.

Grimmjow moved closer to her, placing one tanned hand possessively on her hip as they swayed to the beat.

"What d'you say we take this elsewhere?" He murmured in her ear, his hot breath blowing gently on her neck. That always got 'em. He drew back to give her the look he had practiced earlier on the hotel maid, watching smugly as it took full effect. The dark-haired girl licked her lips, looking coyly up at him through mascara-thickened lashes.

"I'd like that."

There was a tap on his shoulder; irritated, the singer half-turned, only to meet with a hard punch to the jaw that sent him reeling backwards into his would-be partner for the night.

"The fuck, man!" Grimmjow howled, staggering upright and away from the girl. His assailant was a freakishly tall guy with long dark greasy hair and, for reasons known only to himself, a white eyepatch covering the upper left side of his face. With a shock of recognition, Grimmjow realised it was another guy from the Espada (as it was commonly known). Noah Jackson. Violent, perverted, and very, very drunk.

"Oi," Jackson slurred, "Get the fuck off my girl."

"Your girl?" Grimmjow sneered back nastily, squaring up to the man. He'd never liked him, and even less so when he was stoned.

"Yeah." The dark haired man said simply.

"For god's sake, Noah, I dumped you weeks ago!" The girl burst out from behind the pair of adversaries, anger making her voice shrill and high-pitched. "Get over yourself and go get a life!"

Huh. So it was a case of sour grapes, was it. Chattering onlookers had already started to gather round the drama, always interested in any scraps of gossip to keep them afloat on the sea of popularity.

"Baby, we're over when I say we're over." Jackson grinned widely, casting her a lecherous leer. "And as for you… reckon I'm gonna have to teach you a little lesson." He said, this time addressing Grimmjow. The rock star's eyes narrowed in a manner that indicated revenge was imminent; nobody talked down to him like that and kept their face the way it was.

Before Jackson could move Grimmjow launched himself at the taller man, taking him by surprise and tackling him to the floor. The crowd cheered him on as he landed punch after punch in Jackson's face, all the while wearing a psychotic grin that had even the men around him recoiling in fear.

"Hey- hey!"

Suddenly he was grabbed by the arms and hauled off by two large bouncers; the fight hadn't gone unnoticed by security.

--

"And stay out!" The manager hollered three minutes later, slamming the back door to Las Noches with a resounding crash. Grimmjow glowered at the wall, beyond pissed off. Oh, yeah, he had to go and choose the chick with all the emotional baggage.

…Shit. He'd just realised who the girl reminded him of. She was Ulquiorra Schiffer with tits, for God's sake.

The door was banged open again and this time Noah Jackson was propelled out, staggering into the dustbins with a series of loud clanging and clattering. The dark-haired man slid down to lie in a twitching heap, not seeming to know or care that Grimmjow was watching him closely. The latter snorted in disgust.

"Tch! Can't even hold your drink prop'ly."

"Shurrup." The crumpled pile on the floor rasped. "I'mma… fucking kill ya, you sonuvva…"

"I can see why that chick dumped you," Grimmjow taunted, the adrenaline coursing through his veins overriding the tiny voice in his brain that said this might not be a good idea. Ignoring Jackson's unintelligible growl of a response, he continued, "Although, if I was her… I'd have kicked you out the moment I saw your tiny dick."

"I said, shut the fuck up!" Jackson roared, suddenly shooting to his feet and lurching forwards with surprising accuracy. The yellow light from the streetlamp above glinted off something lurking in his hand; oh, fucking fantastic, he had a knife. Grimmjow had to pick a fight with what was probably the one guy in the club that carried a switchblade knife around in his pocket. He wasn't about to try and tackle this psycho with bare hands. Reluctantly, feeling his dignity being shredded to pieces like a cat claws a cushion, Grimmjow turned on his heel and ran for his life.

Please don't kill me for the ridiculously overdue update? Just maim me, I can take the maiming. D: I'M SORRY, REAL LIFE AND LAZINESS GOT ON TOP OF ME. _ HOWEVER I have the next three chapters bullet pointed and planned out ready to write. Can't promise a super quick update but it should be less than the disgraceful three-or-so months it's taken me to post this one.

Anyway, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Consider this my Xmas present to you all, my beautiful gorgeous readers.

You're even more attractive if you review. XD

~Featherz