This is a fic request by g0ldf1sh101. Hope this is at least a tiny bit close to your expectation, hon. ;) The title is taken from the title of Season 16 of the anime, the beginning of the Fullbring arc.

It began innocently enough.

A couple of beers at the local bar in the evenings. A shot or two now and then. He enjoyed the buzz from the alcohol thrumming in his blood, the heat swirling in his chest, the smell. It was intoxicating, addictive, thrilling.

It made him forget.

Sometimes when he was drunk enough, he could almost be convinced that the past two years hadn't happened. He had never met Rukia, never had his powers awakened. He didn't know how to wield a sword, much less kill anything with one. He was never in a war, never seen anyone die.

When the alcohol drained from his blood, the fact that everything did happen only hit him harder each time, until finally, he turned to something much stronger. He met people who were like him, who had their own demons to hide, and they taught him. He started small - only a pill here and there - he was careful. He wasn't a doctor's son for nothing. Then gradually, as he got used to the sensations, he became bolder.

And then one night, completely lost in the haze of his drug-induced high, he sold himself for the first time. He hadn't meant to. He'd just met this hot, equally inebriated man; one thing led to another, and before he knew it he was on his back, leg spread and moaning like a whore. By the time he came around, the man was gone. In his place was a hundred dollar bill.

That sealed it for him. He wasn't doing it for the money, although it was a perk. He relished the danger, the pleasure, the pain. For a few short minutes - or if he was lucky, a few hours - he could forget who he was, what he was, and most importantly, what he could never be again.

If he could no longer protect, what use was he?

The trigger that finally changed him forever, was the first time he bled. His client had been a tall, heavyset man who easily outweighed him by at least fifty pounds; piss drunk and possibly also high on something else. He'd thought that it was exciting at first when the man held him down by the throat, but the fun vanished when he realized he couldn't breathe. He'd had to spit in his client's face before the man let go.

It didn't end there. The man had let go of his throat only to clamp one palm over Ichigo's mouth to silence him. Ichigo had not experienced pain of that caliber since his near-death battle with Ulquiorra. He had screamed and struggled, but his client was bigger, stronger, merciless.

He was left bruised, bleeding, and barely able to walk. Yet, it was at that moment that he learned something that both stunned and frightened him. The pain, the fear, the adrenaline rush from the close brush with death, had made him harder than he had ever been. He felt invigorated, alive.

He became picky after that, only taking customers who were willing to inflict pain on him. There weren't many in this small city, but the few who were, were more than happy to accomodate him, and he welcomed them. Every blow to his face, every cut, every time he doubled over to throw up the contents of his stomach, reminded him of the things that used to fuel him. It was almost like being in the war again, spurred on purely by the instinct to survive, to win, to outlast the enemy. It was something he was familiar with, something he could deal with.

And so he lived on like this. A regular college student during the day, a sinful creature out to seek pleasure in the darkest places of the night.

Tonight, just like any other night, he took to the street as soon as the sky turned black. He headed for the bar he frequented; a dingy little place that most people think twice before entering, where the lighting was often so bad that he could hardly see his drink. The bartender nodded to him as he entered, and he nodded back with a small smile. Hopping onto a bar stool, he tossed a handful of bills on the counter.

As the pleasant warmth from the alcohol began to spread through his body, he vaguely registered someone's presence beside him. He flicked his eyes up and found himself staring at a strange-looking man. A fedora kept most of the man's facial features hidden in the shadows, leaving only his mouth and clean-shaven chin visible while everything below was covered by a scarf and a thick trench coat.

Ichigo's lips quirked slightly. He knew the type: typical middle-aged office worker, outwardly shy and polite while harboring the sickest, most twisted fantasies inside. They often approached him like that, unwilling to show themselves for fear of being seen with a character as unrighteous as he.

"Two hundred," he stated.

The man hesitated for a few seconds before nodding stiffly. Smirking, Ichigo slid off the stool and walked out of the bar. He didn't slow down or wait, but he knew his client was close behind; the man's heavy, excited breaths giving him away.

The motel receptionist took the man's cash with barely concealed distaste, then they headed for their designated room. As soon as the door closed behind them, Ichigo reached for the light switch.

"Don't," his client said nervously.

Ichigo's lips curled. Another one who's too ashamed to see his face contort in pain under their torture, no doubt. Yet, at the same time, his pulse began to race. This was the kind that dished out the best pain. Without the guilt of witnessing their victim's suffering, they would not stop so easily.

So, without complaint, he shrugged out of his jacket and flung it to the side. He heard the sound of rustling fabric followed by the dull thud of a heavy coat landing on the carpet in front of him. Without bothering to wait, he reached out to grab his client. His fingers closed over a slender arm. The man jerked back with a surprised hiss but Ichigo held on.

"Come on," Ichigo said, keeping his voice deep and sultry. "Come out and play."

He gave the arm a slight tug and felt his client step closer to him. With his free hand, he touched the man's still-clothed chest, letting his palm linger so that the man could feel his body heat. Still grasping the man's hand tightly, he guided the trembling limb to his crotch.

"You know what you want," he murmured next to the man's ear. "Now come and get it."

His client let out a low moan. There was another stretch of hesitation, then the man finally moved on his own. Ichigo let his eyes slide closed as shaking fingers fumbled with his zipper. He zoned out, his body reacting automatically as his customer undressed him.

A warm, calloused palm cupped his exposed manhood gently, tentatively, while another touched his cheek. Ichigo almost flinched. Usually when they were so close to his face, it meant there would be a slap soon, so he clenched his eyes closed and waited.

The hit never came. Instead, the man stroked his face slowly, the palm and fingers melding to the curves of his cheek and nose and lips as if the man was trying to map out his features. A thumb caressed his lower lip almost lovingly before the man stopped and let out a sigh.

"What?" Ichigo taunted with a sneer. "Are you afraid?"

His client remained silent.

Impatient and beginning to feel annoyed, Ichigo grabbed the hand that was hovering over his flaccid cock and yanked it down between his legs. He let go of the wrist briefly to find the man's fingers, then, holding the forefinger and middle finger, he brought his client's hand to his entrance.

The man grunted in surprise and went rigid as Ichigo bit his lip to stifle his groan of pain. Yes, finally, this was what he had been waiting for. It looked like he would have to show this client the ropes if he wanted to get any satisfaction out of this tonight. But before he could even reach the first knuckle, his client straightened up and shoved him away.

"Hey!" Ichigo yelled, furious that he had been robbed of his prize.

White pierced his eyes painfully as light suddenly flooded the room. Ichigo threw up his arms to shield his eyes, but not before he finally saw his client's face.

Kisuke thought his heart would break as the boy's eyes widened.

So it was all true. When Rukia had gone to him, stricken and frantic with worry, he had taken her words with a grain of salt. Ichigo? Selling his own body? It must had been a mistake, perhaps Rukia had witnessed a tryst between the boy and a lover, someone Ichigo would rather keep as a secret in fear of being judged for his preferences.

Yet, even as he tried to convince Rukia that Ichigo would never do such a thing, he couldn't get it out of his head. In the end, he had no choice but to admit that he would only be able to rest if he saw Ichigo personally. Imagine his shock and horror when he heard about this "fine young man with fiery orange hair" who prowled the streets at night for takers, who turned paying customers away if they refused to raise a finger against him.

Now, as Kisuke stared at his former student, he wondered how on earth had he not seen this coming. The boy had survived a war that would forever be regarded as one of the most devastating one in the history of Soul Society, he had lost comrades, spilled blood, and in the end had lost everything; yet everyone had simply expected him to move on, to become the normal human being that he had never been in the first place.

"What are you doing here?" Ichigo rasped.

Kisuke tore his eyes away from the dark circles, the sunken cheeks, the sallow, sweaty skin to look at the boy in the eye. "I wanted to see how you're doing," he replied.

Ichigo looked confused for a second before letting out a bark of laughter. "As you can see, I'm perfectly fine," the boy said, spreading his arms to the side, seemingly unaffected by his state of undress in front of Kisuke. "Although, it'd be better if you could still give me that two hundred bucks before you leave."

Kisuke stared, struggling to organize his thoughts, as Ichigo threw his head back and laughed at his own snappy comeback. This was impossible to accept - Ichigo: the bright, warm-hearted young man who had been willing to throw his life away for his friends; reduced to something so despicable, so low. This was more than a cry for help. Much worst. This was Ichigo giving up on himself, giving up on life altogether. It was just too difficult to swallow.

"How could you do this to yourself?" Kisuke blurted before he could stop himself. "Look at you-"

A burst of pain blurred his vision as a fist slammed into his jaw. Kisuke staggered backwards, instinctively reaching up to touch his injured face.

"Don't you dare preach to me what I can or cannot do," Ichigo hissed, his eyes narrowed and seething with venom.

Kisuke blinked. Ichigo had not held back, he could taste the metallic tang of blood from his split lip, and part of his mouth felt numb. "Ichigo, let me help," he tried.

The boy let out a peal of mad cackles that sounded eerily like the Quinto Espada's. "Now you tell me you want to help," he said, wiping the corners of his eyes dramatically. Kisuke watched as Ichigo continued to chuckle to himself, but when the boy looked at him again, there was a hint of sadness in those honey hued eyes.

"It's too late, Geta-Boshi," Ichigo said bitterly. "Now I have this," he spread his arms again. For the first time that night, Kisuke noticed the plethora of scars and healing wounds that marred the boy's body. "And I'll be damned if I let you take it away from me," Ichigo finished coldly.

It was the familiar determination in the boy's voice, or perhaps it was the mental image of Ichigo being ravaged by his vile, cruel clients; Kisuke felt something flip in his mind. Anger, an all-consuming flame of fury like no other, filled his chest, and with one swift flash step, he had Ichigo by the boy's spiky hair, pinned against the wall.

Without a word, he descended on Ichigo, crushing their lips together so forcefully that the back of the boy's head knocked into the wall. Ichigo struggled, grabbing Kisuke's wrist and trying to twist out of his grasp, but Kisuke held on relentlessly. He pushed his tongue roughly past Ichigo's lips and tasted the cheap alcohol in the boy's mouth. He felt Ichigo try to push back, to expel his invading tongue, and then Ichigo's body stiffened suddenly.

For a moment, Kisuke was confused, but he understood immediately when Ichigo latched onto his lip wound and sucked hungrily. Much as Kisuke didn't want to admit it, it was the single most erotic sensation he had ever felt, and his body reacted. He pressed Ichigo against the wall and ground his clothed erection against the boy's thigh; groaning into Ichigo's mouth when the teen bucked up to seek more friction.

He was never an impatient lover, or a harsh one, but his anger, coupled with Ichigo's pleading moans, clouded his judgement. He kicked the boy's legs apart and reached his hand down. Finding Ichigo's entrance, he breached it, pressing two digits into the snug passage without warning. It was a tight fit, dry and hot and quivering around his fingers.

"Is this what you want?" Kisuke demanded fiercely. He deepened the intrusion and felt Ichigo jerk against him. "Is it?"

Ichigo gasped. "Yes!" he moaned. "More!"

Kisuke knew he shouldn't, that he was defeating the very purpose he came here for, but he complied anyway. He forced another finger inside and began to thrust faster, harder, in and out of the boy. Ichigo clung to him desperately, his hips rising and falling in the same erratic pace. He buried his face into Kisuke's chest to muffle his cries, but Kisuke could still hear them. It broke his heart.

"How are you even enjoying this?" he asked in a whisper. He cupped the boy's cheek with his free hand.

Ichigo peered at him through his lashes, his mouth parted as he drew in ragged pants. "I...I don't...know."

Kisuke finally stopped and withdrew his fingers. He tried not to look, knowing what he would find, but the feeling of warm, sticky fluid covering them was impossible to block out. The Ichigo that he knew had worked so hard to protect people from pain, yet here he was, punishing himself over and over again with that very thing.

"You don't get any pleasure from this, do you?" Kisuke asked softly. He knew there were people who did, but Ichigo's expression told him the boy wasn't one of them. It was simply a distraction, that much was clear.

Ichigo bit his lip and turned away, averting his eyes.

Kisuke sighed. Running his thumb over the boy's cheek bones, he took the plunge. "Let me take care of you," he said.

Ichigo studied him with guarded, tired eyes, as if to gauge the meaning behind his words. Then, letting out a long, shaky sigh, the boy nodded. Kisuke picked him up easily, noting the significant weight loss on the formerly muscular frame, and laid the boy gently on the bed. He started slow, letting his hands and mouth caress and comfort the distressed body, kneading out the knots in the muscles and kissing the fresher, still-healing welts and bruises on the pale skin.

When he finally took the boy into his mouth, Ichigo let loose a string of curses and reached down to bury thin, long fingers into Kisuke's hair. He rubbed small, sensual circles over the boy's hip bones as he bobbed his head, letting Ichigo slide all the way to the back of his throat before pulling away. The grip tangled in his hair tightened painfully, but he ignored it.

It didn't take long for him to bring the boy to completion. The ache in his chest lessened slightly as he listened to the boy's scream of ecstasy, before reality sank in once more and he was faced with the knowledge of Ichigo's long road to recovery. That is, if it was even possible for someone to heal from something like this.

But, that was that, and this was now, and for now he would be satisfied if the boy would let him in at all. He placed one last kiss on Ichigo's inner thigh and crawled back up to lie down next to the teen. Ichigo looked exhausted, but his eyes were still open and swirling with emotions.

"Let's go home," Kisuke said, gathering the boy into his arms.

He waited with baited breath as his words hung in the air. For what seemed like forever, Ichigo remained quiet and still, his body just barely touching Kisuke's. Then, finally, the boy relaxed and shifted closer to rest his forehead against Kisuke's chest.

"Take me home."

The End.