Characters: Kenpachi-centric, Yachiru
Word Count: 512
Summary: Kenpachi denies being wrapped around Yachiru's finger.
A/N: Written for prompt #6: pleasure of 12_stories.
She lies sleeping in the middle of the bed, little body curled up in a tight ball, the quilts twisted around and under her.
Kenpachi has no idea how long he’s been sitting on the window ledge, gazing out across the Seireitei. The moonlit streets and rooftops make for quite a stunning sight, and for a while he just can’t tear his eyes away. He’s never one for beauty, brushing it off as being superfluous – because what’s beauty when you’re just going to die and rot anyway?
Kenpachi isn’t staying up by choice, really. The fact that he’s about to nod off and sleep right there on the window ledge is because of the brat herself. She, taking the middle spot of the bed as if Kenpachi’s supposed to sleep elsewhere, as if the whole bed is hers. A few times he’s made a move to shove her off so that he can get his own fair share, but every time, he stopped himself. Or rather, the serene look on her face caused him to stay his hand, clamp his lips over the curses readied on the tip of his tongue.
It’s odd, how she can do this to him without even trying, while being asleep. It’s ridiculous. Kenpachi isn’t a fool; he’s overhead the conversations that Ukitake and his friend had in regards to Yachiru, how she’s got him wrapped around her finger. The fact is undeniable, but still, Kenpachi feels like he’s submitting to her, and that irritates him.
He, the violent, bloodthirsty beast of the Eleventh, having afternoon tea with a child, sipping from a pink cup? He’s gone through that, and it wasn’t a very pleasant experience. Ikkaku’s bursting in to find his captain only made it worse, and Kenpachi had skinned his ass when Yachiru had gone to sleep.
But still, Kenpachi never really minds it. Sure, it’s irritating when she wakes him up by means of launching herself of the edge of the wardrobe and landing right on his stomach, when she breaks into a captains’ meeting screaming “Ken-chaaan!” at the top of her lungs, when she latches onto his head and uses his hair like reins to steer him, when she gives him lousy as hell directions and gets them lost. But it’s the kind of irritation that doesn’t grate on his nerves.
Kenpachi gets off the ledge and, after rummaging around the cupboard for a while, pulls out a thick blanket, one of the many pink ones that Yachiru forced him to buy but never uses. Carefully so as not to wake her, he places it over her figure and settles on the edge of the bed, reaching for his pipe on the side table.
As he sits there, leisurely puffing out thin swirls of smoke, he finds that his attention is held captive not by the moonlit streets and rooftops, but by the sleeping brat herself.
It isn’t noticeable, but he allows a smile to grace his features. Wrapped ’round her finger my ass.
But he knows that it’s nothing but the truth.