The Tree House {Kenpachi, Yachiru}
Title: The Tree House
Characters: Kenpachi, Yachiru
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 917
Summary: There is a place where Yachiru would go to seek refuge from the outside world.
A/N: Just a quick one before I leave for hell. I'll be on a semi-hiatus after this, for the whole month of May, but I'll most likely post more fics in between... Hopefully. :/ Written for Table 33 of 5_prompts (prompt #5: picture prompt).
Everyone knows that the lieutenant of the Eleventh Division, a small child with ridiculously pink hair and wide, bright eyes, is open to everyone. Outgoing and friendly, she mixes around with one and all, but sometimes she can get a tad too out of hand. Occasionally, she even wreaks havoc in her own division, resulting in a tall, spiralling turret of smoke that could be seen even from the Rukongai, along with a frantic Yumichika, a pissed Ikkaku, and a very, very annoyed Kenpachi.
But that isn't all there is to Yachiru. Oblivious to outsiders, as well as many of the Eleventh Division's lower-ranking members, she's actually quite fond of some peace and quiet. Whenever she sees Kenpachi at his desk, which is rarely, mulling over paperwork and pulling at his spikes in frustration, she would make her way to the secluded division compounds. There a great, big, old oak tree stands. Nestled in the long, winding branches a ways up is a little tree house, made from scratch by Ikkaku with some assistance from Aramaki.
Yachiru doesn't need a ladder to climb all the way up there - all she does is hop from branch to branch, with no effort at all, and she reaches the top without breaking a sweat. A normal child would have screamed and bawled at how high up it is, but Yachiru doesn't. She's accustomed to it, having been through much, much worse in the Rukongai - but she knows that she hasn't seen the worst yet because her Ken-chan has always been there to protect her from it.
Yachiru would sit here, dangling her legs over the edge of the house's floor, using her knees as a table to draw. Her crayons are scattered around her - she likes pestering Kenpachi to buy her boxes upon boxes of coloured chalk and crayons whenever they go out to buy candy, and he gives in every time. Occasionally, though, he wouldn't have any money with him. Yachiru knows this even if he doesn't come right out and say it, but he buys them for her anyway with a quick threat, a glare and a spike of his oppressive spiritual pressure, and the shopkeeper's left to tremble behind his counter long after they've gone home.
It has always been a hobby of hers to draw. When she hears shouting from the courtyard - which is very often - she would draw Ikkaku and Aramaki having a spar, with Aramaki having his stomach stomped upon by the Third Seat. Sometimes she would conjure up a picture of Yumichika and mess with his hair, giggling to herself at the fluffy afro she ends up with.
But, more often than not, she would draw her Ken-chan. When she feels happy, she draws him stabbing a hollow - or even a fellow shinigami - and she grins at the bright red colour of blood. When she's feeling down, she draws him alone, his zanpakuto by his side, face lifted towards the heavens. She would place the piece of paper on her chest and lie down on her back and stare up at the skies, praying that, whenever he goes into battle, he would always come back out alive. She prays until she falls asleep, and when that happens, Kenpachi would have to come looking for her, and when he finds her he would gather her up in his arms as carefully as he can so as not to wake her and tuck her in bed, even when the sun's still shining bright.
When she feels a little of both, she would draw him without spikes and bells, without the captain's haori and uniform, and she draws herself without her lieutenant's badge, dressed only in a dark purple kimono. And she would stare at the half-finished picture, puzzling over and trying to figure out something that she knows is missing.
"Yachiru!"
She looks down at the sound of that gruff voice and spots Kenpachi, who's shielding his eye from the glare of the setting sun and jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"It's gettin' late, runt. Get down here, ye need a damn shower!"
"Okay!" Yachiru nods and scampers indoors to keep her materials. The crayons she leaves scattered on the floor, but the drawing she keeps safely in a small wooden box that she hides in a hole in a branch. She makes sure that the paper doesn't crumple and, after a quick last inspection, she leaps off of the edge and somersaults through the air. She doesn't need to aim her landing, because she knows that he would always catch her.
Yachiru lands in Kenpachi's arms, and she cocks her head to the side and examines his face. She even goes as far as poking his cheek and the bridge of his nose, pulling back to scrunch up her nose in thought.
"What're ye lookin' at, ye brat?" he growled, absently brushing dust out of her hair.
"Oh, nothin'." She flashes him a grin, settles herself on his shoulders and grabs his hair to steer him back to the barracks. His walking pace settles into a calming rhythm, and eventually, with drooping eyelids, she buries her nose in his hair and wraps her arms around his forehead to keep from falling off.
Yachiru ponders over the unfinished drawing and, unconsciously, she traces the long scar over the left side of his face with a fingertip. She feels him blink and drops her hand back onto her knee.
She knew she had missed something.
Characters: Kenpachi, Yachiru
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 917
Summary: There is a place where Yachiru would go to seek refuge from the outside world.
A/N: Just a quick one before I leave for hell. I'll be on a semi-hiatus after this, for the whole month of May, but I'll most likely post more fics in between... Hopefully. :/ Written for Table 33 of 5_prompts (prompt #5: picture prompt).
Everyone knows that the lieutenant of the Eleventh Division, a small child with ridiculously pink hair and wide, bright eyes, is open to everyone. Outgoing and friendly, she mixes around with one and all, but sometimes she can get a tad too out of hand. Occasionally, she even wreaks havoc in her own division, resulting in a tall, spiralling turret of smoke that could be seen even from the Rukongai, along with a frantic Yumichika, a pissed Ikkaku, and a very, very annoyed Kenpachi.
But that isn't all there is to Yachiru. Oblivious to outsiders, as well as many of the Eleventh Division's lower-ranking members, she's actually quite fond of some peace and quiet. Whenever she sees Kenpachi at his desk, which is rarely, mulling over paperwork and pulling at his spikes in frustration, she would make her way to the secluded division compounds. There a great, big, old oak tree stands. Nestled in the long, winding branches a ways up is a little tree house, made from scratch by Ikkaku with some assistance from Aramaki.
Yachiru doesn't need a ladder to climb all the way up there - all she does is hop from branch to branch, with no effort at all, and she reaches the top without breaking a sweat. A normal child would have screamed and bawled at how high up it is, but Yachiru doesn't. She's accustomed to it, having been through much, much worse in the Rukongai - but she knows that she hasn't seen the worst yet because her Ken-chan has always been there to protect her from it.
Yachiru would sit here, dangling her legs over the edge of the house's floor, using her knees as a table to draw. Her crayons are scattered around her - she likes pestering Kenpachi to buy her boxes upon boxes of coloured chalk and crayons whenever they go out to buy candy, and he gives in every time. Occasionally, though, he wouldn't have any money with him. Yachiru knows this even if he doesn't come right out and say it, but he buys them for her anyway with a quick threat, a glare and a spike of his oppressive spiritual pressure, and the shopkeeper's left to tremble behind his counter long after they've gone home.
It has always been a hobby of hers to draw. When she hears shouting from the courtyard - which is very often - she would draw Ikkaku and Aramaki having a spar, with Aramaki having his stomach stomped upon by the Third Seat. Sometimes she would conjure up a picture of Yumichika and mess with his hair, giggling to herself at the fluffy afro she ends up with.
But, more often than not, she would draw her Ken-chan. When she feels happy, she draws him stabbing a hollow - or even a fellow shinigami - and she grins at the bright red colour of blood. When she's feeling down, she draws him alone, his zanpakuto by his side, face lifted towards the heavens. She would place the piece of paper on her chest and lie down on her back and stare up at the skies, praying that, whenever he goes into battle, he would always come back out alive. She prays until she falls asleep, and when that happens, Kenpachi would have to come looking for her, and when he finds her he would gather her up in his arms as carefully as he can so as not to wake her and tuck her in bed, even when the sun's still shining bright.
When she feels a little of both, she would draw him without spikes and bells, without the captain's haori and uniform, and she draws herself without her lieutenant's badge, dressed only in a dark purple kimono. And she would stare at the half-finished picture, puzzling over and trying to figure out something that she knows is missing.
"Yachiru!"
She looks down at the sound of that gruff voice and spots Kenpachi, who's shielding his eye from the glare of the setting sun and jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"It's gettin' late, runt. Get down here, ye need a damn shower!"
"Okay!" Yachiru nods and scampers indoors to keep her materials. The crayons she leaves scattered on the floor, but the drawing she keeps safely in a small wooden box that she hides in a hole in a branch. She makes sure that the paper doesn't crumple and, after a quick last inspection, she leaps off of the edge and somersaults through the air. She doesn't need to aim her landing, because she knows that he would always catch her.
Yachiru lands in Kenpachi's arms, and she cocks her head to the side and examines his face. She even goes as far as poking his cheek and the bridge of his nose, pulling back to scrunch up her nose in thought.
"What're ye lookin' at, ye brat?" he growled, absently brushing dust out of her hair.
"Oh, nothin'." She flashes him a grin, settles herself on his shoulders and grabs his hair to steer him back to the barracks. His walking pace settles into a calming rhythm, and eventually, with drooping eyelids, she buries her nose in his hair and wraps her arms around his forehead to keep from falling off.
Yachiru ponders over the unfinished drawing and, unconsciously, she traces the long scar over the left side of his face with a fingertip. She feels him blink and drops her hand back onto her knee.
She knew she had missed something.