Hello hello~! This is a birthday present for my dear friend, Deranged and Morbid. I've also been wanting to do something like this for a while, so when this little opportunity popped up, who was I to turn down the enticing offer?

Enjoy~

WARNING: Rated M for sexual situations in later chapters, including a shit ton of YAOI, BONDAGE, DOUBLE PENETRATION, THREESOMES, and whatever else my messed up perverted mind can cook up. Also rated M for language. There's gonna be a fair dosage of stupidity, and probably some angst in later chapters.

DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters from the anime/manga, Bleach. And that fact makes me cry. Quite regularly.

Full summary:

25 year old art student Ichigo Kurosaki has led a fairly mundane life- he always got good grades, was in excellent shape, had a father and two sisters, and a job at a local club. When the leaders of two notorious gangs, The Hollows and The Espada, begin fighting for possession of the sweet berry, things can get a little… twisted.

Innocence,
sunk the flow and drowned in covers,
send for all your absent lover's things.

Sheepish wolves,
looking lived in eating buttons,
wink, just don't put your teeth on me.

Accidents,
let the evening in the backdoor,
filled the room ceiling to the floor.

Beat backbones.
Grazed the poem and made it strange,
I wasn't born to be a skeleton.

Go on,
grab your hat and fetch a camera.
Go on, film the world before it happens.

Jealous orchard,
the sky is falling off the ceiling
while I'm tucking fibs into a cookie jar.

Bombed reverie,
its useless searching in the cupboards
when everything you have is on your back.

-"She's a Handsome Woman" by Panic! At The Disco—

Twisted

Chapter One:

Sticks and Stones

A demonic laugh pierced the night, sending even the worst nighttime beasts hiding in their holes. It was the laugh of a murderer. A psycho. A predator of the worst kind.

"Mah mah, quite tha bark ya got there," Shiro purred, his distorted voice dancing along the gang member's skin like a sharpened blade. He smirked, his gold eyes glinting in the shitty lighting of the lone street light at the mouth of the ally. He inhaled slowly, his blue stained tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

He loved the smell of fear. And tinged with the scent of blood as it was, it made for quite the arousing taste.

Shiro dug the tip of his blade into the soft skin just under the man's jaw, slowly tracing a path down his neck, stopping just above his bobbing Adam's apple, entranced with the way the crimson liquid slid down the skin.

He couldn't trap the chuckle that slid past his pale lips, his grin one of sheer chaos. "Let's see jus' how high we can get ya ta sing, ne?"

Ichigo POV

One of these days, he was seriously going to throw his alarm out the window.

Ichigo Kurosaki sighed, a tanned hand shooting out of the mass of blankets, hitting the snooze button with startling accuracy. A soft groan bubbled from the sheets at the stop of the incessant beeping before they slowly started to move. Ichigo planted his feet and hands on the mattress, stretching his lithe form like a cat would, waking from a long nap in the sun.

He grumbled slightly, pulling his half naked form into a sitting position, the dark blue silk sheets pooling in his lap. Scratching absently at his torso, he peered up at the wall behind his bed, covered in half completed sketches and abstract paintings, the dominant one stretching nearly to the ceiling from just above his headboard. The silk screened skull was surrounded by randomly colored flames, a thin black border running around one set of blue flames, a textured layer of red on top of that, and multiple layers of other colors on top of that.

He had been inclined to put it there when he had bought the loft, though he wasn't sure why. When his best friend Shinji Hirako had seen it, he had started babbling about how much it resembled the sign of the Hollows, an infamous street gang. Ichigo had had no idea at the time that he was making it, just knowing that it completed the room, no matter how much it resembled the gang sign.

Peering at the clock through safety cone orange hair, Ichigo scowled as 7:00 pm glared up at him, the red letters blinking mockingly at him. Ichigo groggily climbed out of bed, stumbling slightly before walking down the 3 steps that led to the main platform, the honey hued hardwood cool beneath his sleep warmed feet. The loft was rather large; a separate platform for the bedroom and bathroom about half the size of the main level that contained the kitchen and studio. The wall facing east was covered in windows, tan blinds covering the first two levels, but the third one was left open, allowing the bright city lights to shine through at night and the sun in the morning. The walls were exposed brick, but he had covered them in posters and paintings, both his and purchased ones.

Comfy leather sofas and chairs sat in the middle of the studio, surrounded by easels and canvases, boxes of paints and brushes, sketchpads and canvases. Some of the canvases had work on them, others were only half done, while the ones piled on the floor were all completely clean, waiting for him to pick them up and breathe life into them.

Not that he'd been drawing or painting all that much lately. He had kind of lost his muse for the time being, and he knew that he needed to get it back if he wanted to get right back into school once summer rolled to an end.

Padding into the kitchen, Ichigo reached into a cupboard, pulling out a bowl for cereal and setting it on the counter before walking over to the taller cupboard, grabbing the first box his fingers touched.

After scarfing down a bowl of half stale cereal and grabbing a quick shower, he wandered out into his room, throwing open the closet and glaring at the wall of colors that stared him down. He pulled out the mandatory white dress shirt and black waistcoat then ambled over to the dresser situated by the closet, pulling out a pair of purple skinny jeans and a black studded belt.

After pulling on the constricting material of the jeans and tucking the bottom of the dress shirt into the waist of his jeans, Ichigo walked back into his bathroom, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. Stubborn brown eyes glared back at him, the color of caramel swirled with melting chocolate. His orange hair fell in unruly locks, brushing just above his shoulders. A light dusting of freckles colored the skin across his cheeks and nose, mainly visible on his sun kissed skin on the rare occasion that he blushed.

It was his hair that really bugged him though.

He'd been picked on because of it since as long as he could remember. He could still remember the kids at school calling him names, pulling at it, throwing things at him, some even going so far as to cut it. Without even a reason, the other kids had immediately written him off as an attention getter simply because he had a different colored hair. And it had only gotten worse.

In junior high, the kids had kicked it up a notch, slamming him into lockers to try and be rid of the "faggot with a dye job." That was where he had met Shinji. They had both been thrown into the same bathroom stall after yet another brutal beating. Unlike him though, Shinji had never been afraid to stand up to them.

Shinji had been picked on for years before hand, just like him, only it had started out with the accusations of being gay. But Shinji had never denied them because he always knew it to be true. He had found from a young age that he had no interest in girls, only ever having been even remotely attracted to the other boys on the playground, and that attraction had only grown over time.

Not to mention, he had always had impeccable fashion sense. He had actually annoyed his mother on several occasions when he had refused to leave without having on a hat that complemented his outfit perfectly, or the right pair of shoes.

The beatings only increased the older he got, but by the time he was 13, he had had enough.

He started taking tae kwon do classes, quickly accelerating through the belts. And as he got stronger, he got taller. He filled out, his long limbs quickly becoming covered in lean muscle. But the teasing still didn't stop. It only got worse, accusations of being gay now an everyday thing, along with the relentless teasing of his hair. The physical beatings got worse too. He wasn't the only one getting stronger after all. But he started doing something he could never have done before.

He fought back.

He put up a tougher front at school than he would normally. Rarely ever smiling, save for when he was with his friends or at home, with his mom. He had been a little kid forced to grow up too fast, simply because he got what he believed to be the tail end of genetics. All because of his stupid fucking hair, he had to learn to keep his distance from people.

All because of his fucking hair, his mother was ripped from his grasp in a flurry of screeching breaks and the sickening crunch of bone meeting metal.

"Mommy, hurry up! We're going to be late!" a 14 year old Ichigo called back to his mother, the only woman he felt safe around other than his friend, Orihime. He wouldn't be caught dead calling his mom 'mommy' in front of anyone, but when it was just them, he couldn't help becoming a bit of a kid.

A soft laugh tinkled behind him, like rain chiming against the glass of a window. Light, airy, carefree. His mother had always been like that, with brilliant orange hair that dropped to her waist and the warmest brown eyes in all of Karakura.

On her, Ichigo thought, the orange hair looked like liquid sunlight, beautiful and elegant. Completely different than how it looked on him.

"I'm coming, my protector," she calls to him, running slightly to catch up to him. Masaki Kurosaki had always called him that, her protector. It was the other meaning of his name, the one protector. While most people recognized its more common meaning of 'strawberry,' his mother had always seen him as her savior, her protector.

But he couldn't protect her from the hate that people had for him.

Even though he was just in junior high, his last year at last, many high schoolers had a harsh hatred towards him. Some more than others.

One of those high schoolers happened to be named Luppi. And Luppi just happened to have a car.

"Oi, faggot!"

The feminine voice was nearly drowned out by his mothers cry as she hurriedly pushed him out of the way, her fingers just leaving his shoulders a mere second before the truck hit her full on, sending her careening down the street in a whirlwind of blood and silent screams.

Ichigo caught himself just before he hit the pavement of the street, his head spinning. He could do nothing but stare at the gray stone beneath him, his breath coming in harsh pants, fading into the background along with the screams of pedestrians rushing to the woman crumpled in the middle of the street.

Ichigo dazedly pushed himself off the pavement, stumbling blindly to where his mother laid on the unforgiving ground. The concrete had turned a dark grey, damp with the light drizzle of rain and the blood quickly blooming from her head.

Too quickly.

"M-mom?" he breathed, staring down at his mother. His knees gave out from beneath him, his brain barely registering the sharp pain of his kneecaps meeting the pavement.

"Mommy? Mommy, say something…" He clutched at her hand, her arm, her chest, trying desperately to find any kind of movement.

But there was none.

He stared down at her body through his blurry eyes, not feeling the hot streams of tears running down his face, dripping onto her prone body. He didn't feel it when the paramedics came and pulled the body of his mother onto a stretcher. He didn't feel it when he was seated onto a leather bench in the back of an ambulance. Didn't feel it when it sped off down the street toward the hospital. Didn't feel it when a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and a paramedic started whispering apologies to him.

Somewhere deep inside of him, he knew that there was nothing he could have done to save her.

Then again, he had also thought that his mother would always be there for him. Had always thought that she would be there to hug away his pain, to whisper words of happiness and comfort to him when he needed it.

Time had seemed to stop, nothing but the sound of his pounding heart in his ears offering him a mock sense of security that he was still alive.

But Ichigo was positive that the rest of him was dead.

He was positive that the rest of him had died along with his mother.

He would learn that Luppi had been drunk at the time, and that he had ended up driving into a ditch and dying on impact.

But none of that mattered.

Because he would never get to see his mother again.

The one person that had loved him without question was gone.

The distant sound of a door opening brought him back to the present. Turning just in time, Ichigo smiled as his best friend of nearly 12 years come sauntering into his bathroom. Letting out a sing-song knock-knock, his piano toothed grin on full display as he sidled up next to Ichigo, Shinji Hirako kissed him on his cheek before turning to grin at the mirror.

"Mah mah," he sighs, propping his arm on Ichigo's shoulder, grinning at their reflection in the mirror. "Don't I look positively ravishing tonight?"

Rolling his eyes, Ichigo runs a hand through his obnoxious hair, unable to help a rare grin from stretching across his face. "Sure Shin, ya look amazing."

"Damn straight I do." He grins wider, tilting his head to the side. Clad in a skintight pair of red skinnies and a pair of black converse, Shinji had stuck with the mandatory dress shirt and waistcoat, but swapped them out with a black shirt and silver waistcoat, topping it with a black and white stripped newsboy hat. "It's you that needs to finish getting dressed."

"Yeah, yeah," Ichigo grumbles, shrugging Shinji's arm off before turning on his heel and trudging back into his room, Shinji hot on his heels.

Shinji plopped down on his messy bed, launching into a long string of babbles that Ichigo mostly tuned out, nodding and "mmhmm"-ing when needed as he pulls on his belt and waistcoat, slipping his feet into a pair of lime green Converse high-tops.

Shinji slides off the bed to throw a leather cuff at him before cocking a hip, appraising his best friend's outfit as Ichigo rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, slipping on the cuff.

A grin stretches across Shinji's face as he saunters up to Ichigo, his hand on his hip. "You're getting laid."

Ichigo sputters, his hands dropping to his sides. "Shin!"

"Some poor, unsuspecting guy-"

"Shinji!"

"-is going to have his mind blown tonight."

Groaning, Ichigo drops his face into his hands, Shinji cackling like a madman at his best friend's obvious discomfort.

"Ichi, when are you gonna admit to yourself that you're hot? 'Cause you are! Any guy should be biting at the bit to sink their teeth into you." With a smirk, Shinji flips his hair over his shoulder. "It's a wonder that, even with all of my help, you're still a virgin."

"Shin," Ichigo groans, his head falling back in his fruitless attempt to hide the light blush coloring his cheeks from his friend. "You know I don't have time for a relationship. I have work, school, it just doesn't fit in. And it's not that imp-Hey! Stop that!"

Ichigo scowls at his friend, having noticed Shinji mouthing the words as he was saying them.

"Yeah, yeah, save it Ichi. We all know you're afraid to do anything after Shuuhei," Shinji said, giving the orangette a bored look. "Ichi, the man was a jackass at heart. There's nothing you could have done to keep that relationship together. Now, that being said, do I wish that I could cut off his balls then force them down his neck? Yes, absolutely."

Shinji puts his hands on his hips, giving his friend a hard look. "Ya need to move on. Like, now. There are a bunch hot guys at the club." Shinji sighs happily, flipping his hair over his shoulder as he stares off into space, obviously off somewhere else. "None like my sexy as sin Nnoitra, with that devilish tongue that can reach anywhere, those long, long fingers that feel so good when they're sli-"

Ichigo slaps a hand over Shinji's mouth, his cheeks stained a deep red. "I have no desire whatsoever to hear the end of that sentence," he says lowly, scowling at his friend. "Now let's go or we're gonna be late for work."

Shinji grins, cocking his head to the side, watching as his friend turns and stalks toward the front door. "You really need to stop blushing! Someone's gonna try and lick it off one day and I won't be there to stop them!" Shinji calls, his only answer the slamming of the front door.

They could feel more than hear the music from the club when they pulled up in the employee parking lot, alongside a Porsche, a Maserati, and a Corvette.

Yeah, this wasn't some lame ass club for the poor people wanting to have a good time. This was an upscale, kick ass, show no weakness, best on the market drugs and booze club.

Gang territory.

Territory for the two biggest gangs in the city: The Hollows and The Espada. The two biggest rivals in Japan.

Fights were common on the streets, but were one to start up here, it would be total annihilation on both sides. All employees had to be completely unaffiliated with anything having to do with any gang to avoid favoritism. Any employees who were thought to go against that rule would be found the next day, badly beaten or dead. But sometimes they got lucky. Every once and a while, a gang would take pity on them and take them in as servants or sex slaves.

It was a brutal business; one that Ichigo had no desire to be a part of.

But hey-

Fate's a bitch.

Shiro POV-

"Piss off, ya whore."

Shirosaki Ogichi scowled at the busty strawberry blond that had chosen to attach herself to his arm, practically purring. Definitely high on something. Judging by the way she was grinding against him, probably Ecstasy.

The woman just giggled and leaned in closer, trying to land a sloppy kiss on his mouth. Shiro sighed and turned towards her, putting a finger on her forehead and pushing back. The woman leaned back, stumbling slightly. "I'm sorry," Shirosaki sneered. "Tha' was insensitive. I asked ya ta stop bein' so stupid withou' thinkin' abou' how incredibly difficult tha' would be for ya'," he said, his distorted voice tinkling like broken glass.

The woman, Rangiku, the woman had giggled, blinked up at him, her lips pushing into a pout. "C'mon, please?" The woman smiled proactively, leaning her amble bosom against his chest. "I promise to make it worth your while."

Shirosaki growled in disgust, his hand itching for the 9mm glock in his back pocket. The woman purred, looking up at him through her lashes, clearly not getting the hint that he was not interested.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Shiro ran the tip of his blue stained tongue over his ashen lips, the tip of a sharpened canine peeking out. "Listen 'ere, E slut," Shiro practically purrs, his distorted voice causing those unfortunate enough to hear the contempt in his voice to shiver.

" Tha' only thin' I want ta do with your wasted ass is cut it up an' throw it in tha' back a' some shitty car. Understan', sweet'art?" Shiro drawls, his voice a step away from a growl, the woman's face twisting in confusion, her wasted brain having trouble sorting through so many words.

"Now fuck off," he sneers, shaking the woman off his arm and stepping into the swarm of bodies dancing and grinding on the dance floor. Kami, women like her just pissed him the hell off. Maybe that's why he preferred men over women. They just threw their bodies around, looking for some disgusting man to run their grubby paws all over their bodies.

Shirosaki sighed, running his inverted gold on black eyes over the crowd, looking for anything that could attract his attention. Hopefully he'd find a good dance partner, someone who knew what to do with their hips. No need to let the whore ruin his night.

But it was all just the same to him. The same men and woman crowded together, sweating and panting, high on something or other, just looking for their next fix of whatever it is their bodies craved tonight. They were just mindless bodies grinding against one another to the beat of the music, the glass lit floor vibrating to the beat, the lights reflecting off of the steel accents. The VIP sections were off to either side of the dance floor, the black furniture and silver tables stationed behind water filled floor to ceiling tanks, giving the dancers below a distorted view of the more important people.

Between the VIP sections was the bar, a huge steel backdrop the base for it, with black cupboards above and below a monstrous row of shelves, covered in every type of booze imaginable. And not the low quality, $10 bottle of liquor you can buy at your local grocery store. Of course not. This was high quality shit, the only kind that either of these gangs would tolerate. The bar was long, stainless steel topped with black and grey granite. And behind that bar was the real reason so many people came to this club.

The bartenders.

Every night there was a group of about four or five tenders that would be there all night, save for the time between midnight and one in the morning. They would come dressed in a dress shirt and waistcoat, and their choice of pants and shoes. They could wear hats and makeup, but they had to have the mandatory shirt and waistcoat on.

Then, at midnight, they'd send out one last wave of drinks and move into one of the back rooms. They'd change into all black outfits, each of them the same, put on wigs, and cover their faces with masquerade masks. They were allowed to choose the masks, but it had to cover at least their eyes. Half of them would move out onto the dance floor, while the other half disappeared into the VIP rooms in the back.

The half that went to the dance floor would be allowed to dance or DJ for the hour, while the ones that went to the back would either bartend or, Shiro's favorite, choose one person to personally entertain however they saw fit.

But there was one overlying rule for the bartenders. Absolutely no one could figure out who you were.

Finding nothing of interest on the floor, Shiro started to move over to the bar. If he couldn't find someone to keep him company on the dance floor, then he could at least strike up a conversation with one of the bartenders. They were trained for that type of work anyway- both bartending and entertaining the customers.

And if you were lucky, you'd be graced with the service of a Vastro Lorde- one of the club's best bartenders. These guys were legends, known throughout the city, whether you were in a gang or not. They knew every drink in the book, and even those that weren't. And they could entertain even the pickiest of people. They were sexy and sleek, and reserved for people high up in gangs or those who had loads of money and power.

But nobody knew who exactly they were. The only way you could tell if they were one or not was by the fact that they all wore a mask. The most there was ever rumored to be was two, but one of them had recently disappeared- rumored that they were taken by one of the gangs, though both of them strongly denied any connection to the missing Lorde.

That left only one.

Shiro slid into one of the stools behind the bar, running a black nailed hand through his ashen white locks, his lips pursed as he scanned over the workers behind the bar. A blond haired man with a piano toothed grin, a tall, busty woman with sea green hair and a pink birthmark over her nose, a midget with black hair and violet eyes, and a tall man with bright orange hair.

Shiro blinked, biting the silver ring on his lip as he slowly dragged his eyes over the toned body, watching his muscles flex as the young man threw a bottle in the air and caught it by the neck, pouring a splash of the vodka into the glass he was holding. Setting it on the countertop and grabbing another bottle in the same motion, his limbs moved like liquid as he quickly finished fixing that drink and passing it to a man who passed him a rather thick wad of yen, the man's number obviously scribbled onto a piece of paper on top of the pile.

The orangette didn't miss a beat, tucking it in his pocket without a second glance and pouring a line of 5 shots, not a single drop hitting the counter.

It was a rather arousing sight.

Shiro smirked, looking rather smug with himself as he let out a sharp whistle to draw the bartender's attention, slowly dragging his eyes over the man's ass. I'd love to see how those hips moved on the dance floor, Shiro thought to himself, licking his lips as he brought his eyes back to the man's head as his face was finally revealed to him.

Shiro's jaw nearly hit the floor.

The man's face was covered in a mask.

Grimmjow POV

He had to have him.

The busty strawberry blonde that had been seated on his lap nearly fell to the floor when Grimmjow Jeagerjaques stood up abruptly, going from purring dirty things in her ear to nearly launching out of his seat in his need to get to the orangette.

Grimmjow was half way down the short set of stairs when the man turned around, revealing his face to the blue haired man.

Holy shit…

All coherent thought flew out the window at the sight of the mask on the man's face. Covering the man's eyes and most of the left side of the man's face, the mask was the white of bone. Several crimson stripes tore across the smooth surface of the mask, looking like spilled blood. The bottom of the mask was carved to look like teeth, transforming half of the man's mouth into a deranged grin that looked like it would start spewing out maniacal laughter at any second.

He was the last Vastro Lorde.

The man's tangerine orange hair formed a halo of fire around the mask, the black and white of the man's shirt only further drawing attention to the vibrant colors on the man's head.

And those legs, miles long and covered in tight purple denim. Grimmjow was half hard just imagining what it would feel like to have them wrapped around his waist, to have those long fingers tangled in his hair as his masked face let out scream after scream of pleasure.

Grimmjow let out a growl, his teeth bared in a predatory grin, his body carried with an almost feline grace as he stalked toward the bartender, determined to make the man his.

Grimmjow cut his way through the crowd, his imposing demeanor causing the people to part almost on their own accord, his menacing growling adding to their discomfort.

Grimmjow slid along the side of the bar, slipping onto one of the barstools, his 6'2" frame allowing his feet to touch the floor, even when sitting on one of the tall stools. Running a large hand through his baby blue hair, which he's forced to point out is 100% natural on several occasions, Grimmjow leans forward, letting out a quick whistle to grab the man's attention.

Molten brown eyes turn from a patron across the bar to his oceanic blue ones, Grimmjow's ego swelling when the young man's jaw noticeably slackens.

Oh yes. This would be a very fun game.

Ichigo POV

Shinji was right. The club was teeming with sexy men.

He had nearly stopped in his tracks at the sight of the albino perched on a barstool, his ashen skin stretched over a lithe, 6' frame, seemingly glowing under the bright lights of the bar, pure white spikes piled in an untamable mass on his head. A red graphic tee and black, unbuttoned waistcoat was pulled over a toned chest, the tightest leather pants Ichigo had ever seen wrapped around legs that stretched on for miles.

And when those eyes had locked with his- Kami, he had nearly melted. Golden sunlight shaped into pools resting atop obsidian skies, surrounded by the palest moonlight.

And now here he was, staring at yet another Adonis, cerulean eyes boring into his, tanned skin pulled back in a sharp toothed grin that spelled trouble.

With a promise.

Sky blue hair the color of shallow ocean waters was styled into a look of tamed chaos, a few daring locks falling into the strangers eyes. Teal markings were tattooed below the man's eyes, giving him an almost feline appearance. A skintight white tee was pasted onto a clearly defined chest, the fabric clinging to the rocklike muscles for dear life. Suspenders stretched from the waist of the man's loose, dark, acid-washed jeans, over his shoulders, a leather jacket and black fedora polishing off the old school look.

Ichigo fought the urge to check for a nosebleed.

"What can I get for you?" Ichigo asked, leaning over the bar to hear the man's answer. Just stay calm, Ichigo. It's just a guy. Only 5 more minutes and you can disappear again. Just 5 more minutes, just five more- Kami, what is that delicious SCENT?

Ichigo fought the urge to audibly purr when the man's scent reached his nose, the smell of rain and peppermint mixed with an unnamable musk assaulting his senses.

"Gimme somethin' strong," the man said, his voice going straight to Ichigo's dick. Deep and gravelly, it sent heat racing through Ichigo's body. Ichigo leaned back and walked to the back wall on shaky legs, grabbing a bottle of scotch and pouring a glass, turning back to the man and setting it in front of him, his eyes flicking up to the man's in the process, his breath lodging in his throat.

Kami, those eyes are gorgeous. Like liquid sapphires. I wonder what it would be like to have those eyes all over me, to have that sinful tongue on my own, those sharp teeth nipping at my lips. To have those long fingers, on my skin, moving lower, pushing deeper into me, until-

Ichigo quickly stopped that sentence before it had a chance to finish, looking away, hoping against hope that the man didn't notice the blush he was sure to have on his cheeks.

Grimmjow POV-

Kami on Earth, this man was going to be the death of him.

He wanted to lick that delicious blush right off of his cheeks, wanted to rip that blasted mask off of the Vastro Lorde's face and suck out his soul. He wanted to devour him.

A feral smirk pulled at his lips, displaying sharp canines. Ichigo started at the sight of them, and Grimmjow's libido flared when a tongue peeked out to wet those pouty lips, a flash of silver reflecting in the bar lights.

This kid had a tongue ring too?

"The name's Grimmjow Jeagerjaques," Grimmjow purred, dragging his eyes over the bartender's form. "Remember it, cause you'll be screamin' it soon enough."

The barkeeper swallowed noticeably, the blush deepening on his cheeks. He nodded once and leaned away, hurrying to the other side of the bar.

Grimmjow's eyes followed his ass the entire way there.

Shiro POV

Shiro was going to make this man scream his name so loud he'd forget his own.

"W-what can I get you?" the bartender asked, his eyes looking anywhere but at Shiro's.

Shiro chuckled, placing a black nailed finger beneath the young man's chin, tilting his face up to his. "Nervous?" Shiro purred, delighting in the shiver that ran down the younger man's body, his eyes fluttering.

The young man stuttered, at a loss for words, that breathtaking face a mere breathe away from his. Shiro's eyes slowly dragged over his face, drinking in the delicious blush on the man's cheeks, half hidden by that damned mask. He had to refrain himself from licking those pouty lips mere inches away from his, especially when the man's mouth opened a bit, the silver of a tongue ring flashing at him.

"Mah mah, ain't you positively mouthwaterin'," Shiro purred, laughter dancing in his eyes as the man could only stare, at a loss for words. "The name's Shirosaki, bu' anyone with lips like yers can call me Shiro."

The bartender blushed deeper, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, managing to break his eyes away from Shiro's intoxicating gaze.

"Come now, don' be rude," Shiro purred, playfully leaning closer. Flicking his tongue against the shell of the bartender's ear, his libido flared at the breathy moan the man lets out. "When someone tells you their name, ya' should tell 'em yers."

The man jumps when his watch beeps incessantly at him, signaling midnight. Shirosaki sighs, letting the man go and leaning back in his stool, giving the man a perverted smirk as he drags his eyes over the lithe body, watching as the blushing orangette scrambles into the backroom to get changed.

The smirk on the albino's face grows as thoughts of the man undressing for him fill his mind, half hard at the thought of pulling the man into a VIP room and having the orangette do just that. Yes, the man would be his.

That much Shirosaki was certain of.

AN: Wooh! 15 pages and 5,893 words. Not bad to start, ne? Reviews feed my plot bunnies, so please review!

Seriously. Those things get terrifying when they're hungry. O.o

Ja ne~