'HELLO, NOCTURNALITY'

Author's Notes: I know, I know. And you guys are free to hate me. I understand that I was slow before, but this chapter was headache-worthy, backbreakingly slow to develop and complete. In short, Chapter 7 was a pain in the ass and I'm glad to be through with it. Now, onwards to Chapter 8, which, in my prediction, will be the most anticipated one for all you IchiRuki fanatics. Hint, hint ~

Do enjoy this chapter here. Once again, I'm sorry you all waited two and a half eternities for an update.

Warning: Language, violence.

July 20th
Sapporo, Hokkaido

"You're leaving again?"

Slim fingers rose to gently caress the black tresses of her hair as lethargic lavender eyes captured the attention of a pair of sullen brown orbs across the room. Those eyes which once held the glistening charm of a passionate youth had, over the past few days, reduced to a dull glimmer as a result of stress and continuous, thriving vexation - a concern which only worsened with the fact that she of all people had managed to jump aboard and take a ride beyond the threshold to a mafia-filled hell.

The ginger-haired lieutenant found himself momentarily distracted by the uncommon scene of a sleepy Rukia stretching herself on the bed as he attempted to button up his suit in under ten seconds. With his soaken hair still dripping and eyes darting back and forth from the clock, Ichigo appeared to have become somewhat of an unruly mess. Still, Rukia had to admit the sight of the lieutenant and even the airily sweet fragrance of his shampoo inspired some endearment within her.

Ichigo, however, was nowhere as relaxed as she was; a private meeting with a syndicate boss was to transpire in less than an hour, and he was faced with the challenge of having to utilize his charm and wit to convince the Yakuza head of shifting aid to the Kuchiki-gumi. The task was enormous, and even more so given that Ichigo was currently alone in Sapporo, having only Rukia as both an assistant and (unbeknownst to her) a slight burden to accompany him.

"Yes. My meeting with the boss begins at about 7. I won't be back for a long time, so you must be patient and keep yourself safe."

The red-head slipped on his tie with relative ease (the buttons were much harder to deal with, strangely enough) and turned his back to Rukia as he stood in front of the mirror to correct any last-minute flaws with his appearance. Rukia only thoughtlessly rolled her eyes and buried her head back under the covers, quite frustrated with the lieutenant's tendency to disappear again and again into the night without ever disclosing enough information to allow her to rest easy.

Yet, this was becoming a routine which the girl was finding herself slow to adapt to, and though she worried for his well-being, she would never confess such sentiments in his presence for fear of becoming too much of a wifely figure. Rukia was prudent enough to understand that Ichigo could endure just about anything, and he did not want nor need an apron-wielding woman to be picking at his back; he simply needed an assistant to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and so far Rukia was doing...a pretty swell job.

She hoped that Ichigo was headed in the right direction, because remaining in a tight, confined space in the basement of an old Yakuza hideout for days and nights was much less than ideal for someone whose motivation for traveling to Sapporo was partly due to the drive for both exhilaration and excitement. Even more frustrating for Rukia was sharing a space with tight-lipped Ichigo Kurosaki who not only withheld all information of the operation, but treated her like a little girl devoid even of the notion of self-protection.

"What do you want me to do?" She asked, though already knowing what his answer would be.

"Nothing. Just stay inside and don't make a sound."

Of course.

After spraying himself with a few shots of cologne, Ichigo grabbed a suitcase from under the table and turned to the door before peering down at Rukia, who seemingly aimed to return to her early-evening nap. That was perfectly fine. What worried Ichigo was the possibility of Rukia becoming irritated enough to creep out of their cell; she had, after all, been slowly suffocating to death for days and days in this underground vault, and the only contact with the outside world was through Ichigo, who barely spoke a word to her anyway.

He ran his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable and displeased with the thought of making Rukia wait any longer. But, what could he do? Rukia did indeed volunteer for this assignment despite his protests, knowing perfectly well how gossamery and shatterable this operation was, and that the merest of abberations could result in thousands of blood-soaken bodies by the mid-winter period.

Ichigo knew for certain that he needed her abilities for something, but the right time continued to slip through his grasp, so stalling was necessary. Part of him wanted to thank her, though, for displaying such impeccable patience; waiting in a submerged bunker with barely any food or sunlight to seep through the cracks was a harsh slap in the face for the Cambridge graduate, whose capabilities brought her onto sky-high pedestals, yet here she was - willing to lie lower than a centipede in the dirt for the sake of the operation and for him.

How noble of her.

Ichigo's softer side compelled him to allow the girl to understand his appreciation of her, and he promised himself to do that, but not at this moment, of course. An important meeting, one which would mean nearly life or death for the Kuchiki-gumi, was to occur, and he had to leave - quickly, before the hour hand touched the seven. Unlocking the door, the lieutenant spared one final glance at the motionless figure that rested gracefully above the bed, and, with a sinking heart burdened with the guilt of inflicting further pain (or, boredom in this case) upon the person who only wished to help him, ambled noiselessly away into the hush of the humid evening.

July 18th
Hawthorne, Nevada

Crack.

Bloodcurdling shrieks of anguish swept feverishly throughout the empty darkness of the sunken dungeon room, growing louder after each ear-splitting crack descended mercilessly upon the blotched, sweat-stained flesh of the unfortunate captive. He sat on his bench whilst attempting to support a wilted head that dripped of neverending perspiration, and subconsciously licked at the wounds surrounding his bruised lips, too exhausted to open his eyes, and much too devitalized to even want to inhale another breath as doing so would only elongate his misery.

Two men stood in the cell alongside their prey, one holding a rather surreptitious instrument of torture that was soaked of warm blood, and the other nonchalantly conversing with an associate while enjoying the gory display of brutality before him.

"Do you hear that, Ulquiorra?" His cooly unconcerned voice asked.

"I do." A frigid entity replied back. "Though, I did not expect you to enjoy such savagery, Aizen. This certainly is another side of you which you have kept well hidden."

"Ah, but it is not I who engages in this. My right-hand man does a much better job in the art of extraction of information from our subjects, and he is considerate enough to understand how much I loathe the feeling of blood on my hands." Aizen smirked while glancing over at his silver-haired partner. "The current man we have here was captured last night, and his connection to the Yakuza has been verified after a series of...interrogations. Ulquiorra, I suggest you strengthen your guard during your stay in Sapporo."

"Hm."

"The Kuchiki-gumi, though merely a third-rate cluster of thugs by our standards, moves quickly on its feet, and I know this for certain. If the subject is correct, the man who has been sent after you is currently in the city and is preparing reinforcements through an alliance with another syndicate."

"Yes. I will be sure to take extreme caution, and I will have my own men encompass the city to root out any Yakuza rat they find."

"Very well." Aizen replied, raising a handkerchief to dab the beads of sweat which formed on his forehead. "Ulquiorra, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. And as a final note, make sure you inform me once your men have reached Morro Bay with my cargo."

"Understood..."

Beep.

Crimson fluids bubbled and dripped from the captive's half-open lips, streaming down from his chin into a bloody puddle on the concrete floor. Somber eyes peered upwards to gather a view of his tormentors and wearily dropped back down again as the silver-haired man, whose smirk metamorphosed into an unorthodox grin, plucked another instrument from the table and held it to his superior for further approval.

Aizen shook his head. "No, Gin. I believe this man has been quite cooperative, and it is about time we grant him release."

"Alright, I got ya." Gin replied lackadaisically, shrugging his bony shoulders. "One bullet, or two?"

"One bullet."

Gaunt fingers inserted a single silver bullet into the M-9 Beretta pistol and pointed it in the direction of the man's head, which seemed ready to topple over and collapse onto the floor. But, before Gin could continue onwards to the finale, he sent one last glance at Aizen and asked, "May I grant him an audience first, Boss?"

The brown-haired man responded initially with a rather obfuscated look, but then replied, "And what purpose will that serve, Gin?"

"Well, this critter was an apprentice of mine before he scattered away from the den, and I think that a kind lil' talkin' might do him good before he meets his maker. What do ya say?"

"If you wish. I, on the other hand, have no more business with him; do as you please."

"Much obliged."

Turning his heel in the direction of the exit, Aizen tossed his soaken handkerchief aside and walked away, quietly humming an old-century, operatic tune as though the past hour of bloodshed and torment was only a fantasy that had dispersed into the air and failed to exist any longer. Gin stepped forward to gather a better view of his captive, who began to tremble hysterically from the mere thought of what was soon to happen in that tiny, grime-filled cell. The simple sound of the trigger being tapped sent a wave of tumultuous jolts throughout what remained of his body, and he wept silently, tears burning his eyes, attempting to grip onto the last evidence of his dignity by muffling any noises which pressured for escape from his battered lips.

"Aww, Jesus." Gin whispered. "Look at ya, ya slobberin' piece of shit. I knew ya were never gonna amount ta anythin' in the end, and it amazes me that I had even once thought of you as a dutiful subordinate, when, in reality, you were nothin' but a rat that got fucked by the Yakuza."

The young man groaned, but failed to reply.

"Man, it sure is fuckin' miserable in this hellhole, ain't it?" Gin spoke as he loosened the buttons of his suit, cursing the Nevada desert for nurturing such torturous heat tantamount to the flares of the sun. "And ya know what's gonna be even more miserable and shitty? That's gonna be you dyin' here."

"..."

"...Kira."

Half-open eyes of sorrow glared upwards for a final time, struggling to make out a clear image of the silver-haired man through the sweat-stained wisps of blonde hair that dangled down. He glanced at the sly, demented complexion of his long-time mentor - his childhood pseudo-father - Gin Ichimaru, a man who had changed too much since their last time together as teacher and student. Yes, this man who was a pull of the finger away from sealing his ultimate fate had transformed into an abomination; and to think he once trusted him with his life...

"So, why'd ya do it, Izuru?"

Then, the captive glanced back at the gun.

"...Do what?"

"Don't fuck around with me. Why'd ya sell yerself out like a fuckin' pussy?"

The blonde, even in his wretched state, managed to murmur with admirable strength, "You were no longer the man I once knew."

Gin spat, impatient. "That's a hell of a load o' bullshit yer tryin' ta dump on me right now, Izuru-kun, when ya know perfectly well that I can blow yer brains out at any moment."

"You're a monster...sensei..."

"And yer a maggot worth nothin' but a pile of rottin' shit, and that's what yer gonna turn into." The fox-faced man sneered, instantly bloodying Kira's nose with a vicious blow to the face. "Ya disappointed me these past twenty-six hours o' interrogation, Kira. I thought I told ya never ta crack, and yet ya did. Oh, Jesus, ya gave us so much information...Ya became a traitor and a pussy-whipped bitch. Ya were never meant ta be anythin' great, and I knew it...I knew it all along. Well...fuck me fer not gettin' this done earlier."

Click, click.

"Goodbye, child."

Crimson splattered onto the wall.

July 20th
Sapporo, Hokkaido

It was done - mini-Operation titled "Reconcilliation and Alliance" (quite a redundant and unoriginal name) was secured and complete. And, for the first time in the evening, Ichigo Kurosaki could sip his sake without any hesitation nor anxiety; the Kuchiki-gumi had gained a valuable confederate after an hour-long intake of rice-wine and implied forgiveness, and though the lieutenant's cheeks flushed with a baby pink unfit for a soldier of the mafia underworld, relief clearly blossomed throughout his veins, as displayed by a charming smile he had not shown in years.

"To you and your health, Kyoraku-sama."

The ginger-head lifted his cup in thanks of his new ally's hefty contributions, and swallowed down another few fluid ounces of the poison which he abhorred with a passion, but, nevertheless, forced down his gullet in an attempt to appear friendly and, well...Yakuza-like. It seemed the temporary forfeiture of his own taste buds did indeed bring a most auspicious outcome; the Oyabun's spirit could rest well in the heavens for now.

"And to you, Lieutenant...and to Kuchiki-sama, whom I dearly miss." The brown-haired boss chimed through a slurred speech while scratching the tiny wisps of hair above his chin.

Shunsui Kyoraku: a wealth-hauler, Yakuza Boss, and dreaded monarch of Sapporo's blackened underground was most definitely fearsome as validated by his blood-stained resume which spanned a good two decades. Ichigo had been long immersed by the rumors and tales of this grand potentate of the north, who had single-handedly bottled up the Sapporo authorities and transformed them into mere puppets, ready to be commanded by the steel fingers of the Yakuza nucleus with a single snap. This man, despite harboring a rather mortifying weakness for the heavenly embrace of Japanese alcohol - which he simultaneously referred to as his "madonna"- belonged to a family submerged in not only wealth, but capacity for damage.

Historically, the Kyoraku plutocrats either involved themselves in the risque outlet of weaponry and instruments of death, or they became loan-sharks after privatizing elite armies equivalent to those of the legendary Cosimo de Medici; their supposed bountiful fountain of intelligence and capability was merely a result of continual bribing of the administration of the globe's most prestigious and elite universities, but, of course, not many people knew such a dirty secret.

Kurosaki Ichigo, having been creeping through the Yakuza systems for years, had risen to the surface and uncovered many of the tricks the Kyoraku family utilized to expand and maintain their empire. In short, their immortality and god-like statuses were mere illusions crafted once again by the perpetual transfer of money. He could have scowled; the Kyoraku family encompassed all the nastiest and most loathesome, brutish traits the ginger-head despised. Fear, manipulation, abuse, and extortion - those were just a fraction of the sins associated with the almighty and all-execrable Kyorakus. Likewise, however, those vices were also what made the family such a powerful and valued Yakuza ally; Shunsui Kyoraku was, needless to say, the jewel of the gilded crown.

"So, Lieutenant Kurosaki," Shunsui spoke up, immediately forcing Ichigo to pop out of his ephemeral thought bubble. "Now that we have finished with our negotiations, I will have my men prepare for their scavenger hunt around the city. This Schiffer fellow won't last long; after all, I control Sapporo."

"Thank you, Kyoraku-sama. Our Oyabun would be grateful for your aid."

"No need, Lieutenant." He chuckled, motioning for his bookish-looking, yet rather eye-catching, assistant to make note of his instructions. "This is the least I can do for an old friend. Christ, he was so young - too young - to die, but he was no doubt something of a remarkable leader. I'll make certain his family's influence lives on."

Ichigo held the glistening cup of sake to his immobilized lips, unsure of how to appropriately respond to such a prospect which would, of course, not only shower him with prodigious honor but conversely continue to chain him to the tainted Yakuza underworld. Many times he had pondered and questioned his motives, and why he would cross such vast lengths to contribute to and bolster an institution he could not whole-heartedly place faith in nor come to admire. Sure, his family's wellbeing placed first and foremost beyond anything else, but...to associate himself with someone as morally reprehensible and disgusting as the half-inebriated man he had shaken hands with compelled Ichigo to interrupt the present and, once again, re-examine his enigmatic self - even for just a transitory moment. But, of course, a life immersed with Yakuza culture and moral contamination rarely allowed much time for soul-searching.

Soon enough, Shunsui poured his flushed, orange-haired guest another cup of wine and invited an additional femme fatale cocotte (a.k.a Stripper) to occupy the two men with further display of lewd and raunchy entertainment, as if an entire mansion congested with lipstick-wearing, nymphomaniacal whores failed to be enough for the bushy, fourty-something-year old man (who, by the way, was far past his prime).

This was to be a long night.

As the prudent Lieutenant predicted roughly four hours ago, the evening had indeed extended far into the night, luring out the more rambunctious younger folk to roam the light-scattered streets of Sapporo. After refusing Shunsui's insistence on preparing a limousine ride for him, the ginger-head decidedly ambled back to his submerged hide-out in a dual attempt to both clear his mind of further intoxication and exhaustion, and also to remain inconspicuous. After all, riding in a glimmering luxury vehicle that utterly glowed under the city's luminosity was bound to turn some heads - and concurrently arouse the undesired attention of a certain group of rival mobsters who could have already engrossed the area.

Tugging on the hat which hid his fulgent head of bright orange hair, Ichigo glanced about the brilliantly-lit window shops that lined up adjacent to the crowded street, admiring the temporary relief of being able to once again spark a connection back to his "better days." Those days, he thought to himself, of school books and cereal for breakfast, of soccer practice with his sister and banters with goat-face dad...had been pushed far into the recess of his mind; clouded, buried, filled with cobwebs that required fire to extinguish.

Ichigo kept no secrets to himself; he missed his family so very much and would have sawed off his own limbs simply to see their smiling faces again and to also apologize for physically neglecting them as both a son and a brother. For several years the pathway to his quaint little house in Urawa gradually became blocked off by duties and priorities on behalf of the Kuchiki-gumi. Unfortunate, he oftentimes murmured to himself, that a life on the streets and a daily dose of the bitterness of life were what forced him to fully love his family beyond the limits. He wanted - needed - a way home. And if serving the Yakuza lords, committing attrocities, and defiling the society of innocents promised him a window to his loved ones, Ichigo would gladly continue with his current life for sixty additional years if necessary.

Perhaps, notwithstanding the odds which piled against such an ideal dream, he would even be able to cradle his sisters' children in his arms someday or nurture a family of his own and maybe, just maybe, feel human again.

Splash!

A jet of water collided with the pavement as it was tossed out of a bucket by an elderly woman to who had emerged from her home to do so. The abrupt noise and sensation of coolness on his pants snapped Ichigo out of his thoughts, which was somewhat disappointing (reminiscing of family life proved to be rather satisfying), and had he been either of the hot-heads Renji or Grimmjow, the poor woman would have surely been crushed into fine dust.

But, Ichigo simply offered her a smile and continued on his way.

Surely enough, while approaching a modernistic cafe which offered prettily dressed girls as waitresses, he noticed a familiar flash of red-orange wisps flutter breezily in the light, and sway so daintily they harbored the power to mesmerize any curious eye that looked on. That brilliant peppy hair...those demure gray eyes, and...oh no, that "chest of the gods."The ginger-head attempted to quietly scurry away without arousing any attention from the girl he first spotted, but, with a face that never failed to make a girl's heart rise, Ichigo was not successful at being unnoticed - and that applies even without his remarkably wild hair.

"Kuro...?"

A gulp ensued; the fish had been ensnared.

"Kurosaki-kun!"

Thin, milky-white arms instantaneously wrapped around his neck as Ichigo attempted his escape, and tugged him backwards until he could feel the girl's bosom press against his back. While most men would have thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of such substantial softness welcome them after a difficult night of hard liquor and unwanted intoxication, the Lieutenant silently grumbled knowing that this uber-unwanted encounter would further subtract resting time from him. Nonetheless, he tried to be cordial; she was an old friend, after all.

"...Inoue."

"Oh how wonderful, Kurosaki-kun, you still remember me!" The pepper-haired girl squealed, pressing her plump breasts together in sheer joy. On the other hand, Ichigo could not quite grasp the clear reason as to why this girl had the tendency to do so with her...body. Still, he - being a model gentleman - refrained from staring at her odd display of joviality and forced a smile from his lips as a gesture of kindness, though the yearn for sleep enslaved him.

"Yes, I do. We attended the same high school, didn't we?"

"You don't understand how much I've missed you, Kurosaki-kun." Her eyes seemed to fill with sparkles, though it may have been caused by the lighting. "And what might you be doing here in Sapporo? I thought you were still in Urawa."

"No, my family is still in Urawa, but I've moved to Tokyo for...business, and that's also why I'm here."

"Ah, I see, I see!"She chirped effervescently, tucking a soiled towel into her frilly apron's pocket. "Ichigo, why don't you have seat and I'll get you a cup of tea. How does that sound?"

Ichigo pressed his cap down further onto his head, realizing the high-pitched, squeaky voice of the girl in his presence turned many heads of both the customers and passersby, and the one thing he feared more than running into Inoue Orihime - a girl who had overtly and shamelessly pursued him all throughout their four years of highschool together - was garnering unwanted and unnecessary attention from the surrounding civilians.

"...No, I can't," He murmured, watching nonchalantly as the girl's smile gradually wilted with such a frigid response. "I'm sorry, but I have to return home now."

"Oh, alright...But you have to promise me you'll come back to see me."

Ichigo's gaze was suddenly dragged elsewhere by the emerging lights of a silver Mercedes roaming the streets, compelling him to stare away with sparked suspicion. Such a prized and uncommon vehicle was generally considered the property of either a high-powered CEO (likely) or a scavenger of a rival criminal syndicate (more likely), and would have automatically registered itself on the Lieutenant's mental hit-list had he failed to notice a young child sitting in the backseat with his mother cradling him. He sighed, realizing the night had rendered him more anxious than ever.

"I promise, Inoue."

She smiled, leaping onto his chest for another grand embrace that proved a bit too tight for comfort, as made obvious by the ginger-head's sudden outburst of a pained groan.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Kurosaki-kun!" Inoue giggled merrily as she returned to her tables. "Then, I hope to see you soon ~"

"9, 3, 3, 7, 2, 0, 0, 6."

Click.

Sweet relief immediately inundated the exhausted Lieutenant as he quickly punched in the Kuchiki-gumi's security code and managed to unlock the door - despite wielding a full hand of twitching fingers, no doubt aggravated by the sheer amount of alcohol he had forced himself to consume that evening. Stepping into the bunker, he was not surprised to find the entire room submerged in blackness, with only the minute blinking light of Rukia's laptop glowing through the dark.

Careful not to wake the girl who had, by then, fallen asleep on her bed, Ichigo switched on a dim nightlight and silently tugged his shirt off, tossing it onto his own bed before sitting down to remove his shoes. The night had successfully drained his young vitality, and after washing up, the Lieutenant walked into the kitchen for a quick refreshment until he noticed an odd, extrinsic aroma of sweetness floating about the room. Looking down at the table, he found what appeared to be a single mug of a milky, honey-brown concoction, and beside it sat a plate of fresh fruits and a thin, pancake-like delicacy sprinkled on with frail white sugar. A note was settled beside the plate.

Kurosaki,

I made dinner for you using what I was able to gather in the kitchen. Consider this favor not only a token of appreciation for what you have done so far, but also a display of my sympathy. I know you've been stressed lately (don't deny it), and assuming that you will continue this routine of yours for an additional week or two, I think it might do you good to enjoy a bit of my cooking. Remember, fruits are good for you.

- Rukia

Ichigo crumpled the note in his grip, failing to notice his lips curve into a small, subconsciously-formed smile as it was deposited in his pocket. He marveled at the ripe congregation of raspberries and grapes, though more curious about the glossy, russet dessert which had settled in the mug. Creme Brulee, Ichigo instantly thought to himself whilst poking the hardened caramel with a spoon; it was a classical European delicacy that Rukia oftentimes enjoyed during her residence at the Kuchiki-gumi headquarters, but the Lieutenant never could have guessed that she was able to actually make it herself, given the limited supply of foodstuff in their bunker. Nonetheless, the little woman was full of surprises.

And, as expected, her cooking was remarkable. Though she overtly despised the idea of engaging in domestic art and even more so the notion of excelling in such a pastime, Rukia was a well-rounded individual who proved herself not only perfectly capable in the university's classroom, but in the house as well. The dishes were filed neatly in the cabinet, the lavatory remained glistening clean at all times, and not a speck of loose dust roamed about - all thanks to her puritanical appreciation of cleanliness.

A soft and sudden mewl from the main room prompted Ichigo to inch closer to Rukia's bed; she momentarily tossed under the covers, resting her arm above her chest, but - sure enough - silently assured her escort of no such existing problem with a tender sigh exhaled from her lips. Annoying dream, perhaps. With that, the Lieutenant's mind could shut down for the night, as everything appeared to be well in place.

Anxious to resign to the comfort of his own bed, Ichigo turned his heel and retreated away from the girl, yet, for some odd reason, failed to pull his eyes away from that dainty, little body which lay nimbly under a sheet of white linen. Mellifluous almond eyes traced the delicate outline of Miss Rukia's frail figure; she appeared to be wearing a mere tank top and shorts - appropriate considering the weather - but, being so thin, those spaghetti-like straps of her top barely hugged her shoulders well enough and thus drooped downwards to reveal a teasingly beautiful portion of her clear, porcelain flesh. Perky, cherry pink lips reminiscent of a ripened berry shone faintly under the nightlight, graced with soft, black tresses which trailed across her face like a thousand black rivers on a plain of milky skin.

Ichigo blinked, nodding his head. What the hell was he doing?

He admitted, clearly anyone with half a head could conclude that Rukia was indeed a beautiful girl, especially during her period of slumber when he himself had described her as "utterly angelic." The first time Ichigo had found her asleep, Rukia was resting above a plethora of shopping bags, and never before had Ichigo noticed a girl more seraphic-looking than her; black, shining hair contrasted sharply, yet dazzlingly, with her pearl complexion, and the one physical aspect which impressed the young Lieutenant were none other than her rosy, full lips - as full as the bursting garden of ideas and collected wisdom in her head, but certainly more beautiful to the naked eye. He had wondered sometimes, just sometimes - not often - if anyone had felt and touched and enjoyed those beautiful, plummy lips on their own...

...and now he was once again carried away.

This unexpected train of thought was to be regretted in the morning (and violently pushed off its tracks, quickly), and yet he continued to wonder what Rukia would think, how she would respond, if she ever miraculously revealed his secret thoughts of her. With a horrified gasp, or a slap across the face in defense of her dignity, knowing that he had been aroused by the mere sight of her lips? Ichigo could have continued to debate the various different possibilities into the wee hours of the mid-morning, but, having determined that the little lady had occupied his mind for too long, pulled the covers over his shoulder and sanctioned for his mind to wander into the murkiness of his dreams.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I've lost my touch. Oh well, I'm sure AP Literature will restore my writing abilities in due time :D

1) The man who was executed by Gin was indeed Kira Izuru, a supposed student of some sort to the former. Sorry, girls.
2) The underground bunker which Ichigo and Rukia occupy was completely made up by me. I don't even know if the Yakuza own their own submerged hideouts, but, given that they're bursting with stolen money, I'm sure they do. Having the couple live in a luxury hotel was a bit...absurd by my standards, and left very little room for action.

And, just for fun, here's a few questions for all you readers out there: what do you think of Orihime making an intrusion into the story, and what do you think her role will be? In addition, what are your thoughts on Gin's and Kira's relationship before Gin became Aizen's crony?

Ahh, if you have any more questions for comments about this chapter, please do make it public in the Review section and I will answer/respond to them as soon as possible. And, yes, praises or words of inspiration (desperate woman here, lol) would be lovely and dearly welcomed. Thank you.

Ciao.