Warnings: abuse, language, violence, angst, sex, character death, shota, and mega time-skipping. After this chapter, no/minimal time skips.

Thistle and Weeds

Chapter 1. "It's getting dark, darling. Too dark to see."

He slaps me again.

I swallow the blood in my mouth.

"Piece of shit," he slurs, backing me against the doorframe.

My baby sister is screaming and pounding on the other side of the bathroom door.

She's only five. I'm nine and pasty with scrawny arms and legs.

"This is my house, Kenny," he huffs, pulling at my hair until I'm screaming. He almost lifts me off the ground.

I drop onto the floorboards. I'm on my hands and knees and crawling back towards my post at the bathroom door before he kicks me in the stomach.

Momo's green and yellow bruises are all I see behind my eyelids.

"You're a lil' bastard, d'ya know tha? Your mum's a – a fuckin' whore. A whore," he repeats again, bracing himself against the hallway wall, his long black greasy hair hiding his eyes. He pushes himself further down the wall, cackling as he drags himself along.

I breathe heavily against the door. Momo's gone quiet.

I sit against the door, a human gargoyle. I hear the tv in the other room kick on. He laughs about something on the news, slurring his words together, talking to himself.

I still don't move.

I feel my face. Blood.

The cut along my left cheek from days ago must've reopened.

At least I hadn't lost my eye and Momo was alive.

I come back to myself when I hear Momo whisper my name, her voice blubbering.

She's a crybaby.

I shift my weight to stand up, ignoring the pain in my chest and head and open the door. Momo flings out, clutching at my bruised chest, her tears soaking through my shirt in seconds.

I drag her down the hallway, avoiding the living room.

We go to her room because it's the farthest away from our parent's.

I close her door, promising myself that one day every room in my house, my house, would have a lock. A big lock.

Then I take her to her closet where her comforter and some sheets are already creating a cozy nest full of her favorite stuffed animals. She grabs a light pink stuffed bunny with one eye missing and climbs into my lap. She's hiccupping as she tries to stop crying.

I hold her until she falls asleep.

I don't sleep.

I let my head lean against the back wall of the closet, but I barely blink.

The adrenaline starts to wear off. The pain increases.

I'm stiff all over and thirsty, but I don't move. I count Momo's heartbeats.

I finally close my left eye. It helps a little with the pain.

The man that calls himself dad falls in the hallway. He cusses. I want to kill him.

The closet door and bedroom door stay between us.

These are the facts:

Dad only drinks this much when he can't flip enough product.

Mom's passed out from the brown needle in her room.

My stomach rumbles, bile in the back of my throat.

Momo's in my arms.

I don't move.

1 Year Later.

I'm feeding Momo macaroni and cheese when she asks me if dad is dead.

"He went away."

Cops found enough dope in his trunk to put him away for the next five to six years.

He's a good actor: he'll probably get out in three.

Mom even said he was a good man trapped in a bad man's body.

Mom stayed clean while the cops were around. The only poison she'd had was a cigarette outside the courthouse. Long sleeved blouses hid the track marks. When she washed up and combed her hair and put on a bit of makeup, she could fake being human.

"Will he come back?"

Her eyes are on me.

So I tell her, "Not today."

2 Years Later.

I hate school.

I hate kids with big, fake smiles and white teeth. I hate teachers and their eyes. Their eyes are always on me.

I hate being stared at. Fucking hate it more than anything.

One of the boys tells his friend my hair should be in pigtails.

That I'm a girl, or a faggot, whatever that is.

I grab the legs of his chair and yank, watch him fall to the ground, his eyes wide, panicked.

I swing the chair around, knocking him in the face with one of the legs. He howls.

The teacher is on me in a second, other kids yelling and pointing.

I spit on him before the teacher drags me out into the hallway.

3 Years Later.

He gets out of jail the day after my fifteenth birthday.

When he shows up, he can't even take a shower because we couldn't pay the water bill.

He cusses her out, slamming his boots around, taking stock of what's left in the house.

She managed to keep her waitressing job for a while, but the habit was ruling her world.

Mom's sold almost everything by this point to pay for her shit. She pawned the television a week after his trial, followed by every stick of furniture. Everything from the living room and her bedroom was out on the front lawn for a yard sale a few times until everything was gone, even my basketball.

My bed frame got her about twenty bucks. Momo's little pink bike got fifteen. Mom's jewelry? About one-eighty.

I know she's fucked men. I hate her for it.

I watched a guy leave her room last week. When I checked on her, she was clutching about forty bucks and told me to order pizza.

She's lying on the mattress on her bedroom floor now, staring up at the ceiling with soulless eyes, an empty syringe and plastic string by her feet as he yells and yells.

"The car? The fucking car, Nanao?"

The car is something I could forgive her for. We got about three grand out of that.

She never bought more than a few days' worth at a time. I waited for her to cook up the first batch, inject. Watched her sigh, go to heaven.

Then I took the twenty five hundred and buried it in various places in the backyard, little stashes for survival. We went months without electricity, but we had food. Paid the rent.

"Where's my baby?" she answers, curling in on herself, a small smile on her face, "Why don't you lay down? Stay with me."

And he does. I want to throw up. I can hear him fucking her from Momo's room.

I distract her with crayons I stole from the convenience store. She loves them.

I let her draw on the walls, anything she wants.

She's ten now, but the way she draws that unicorn, the way she smiles at me as she explains that I'm the knight riding it, I remember her five-year-old bruises.

Everything goes quiet. Too still.

I don't like that.

"Get in the closet," I say, Momo still clutching a sky blue crayon as I push her into the nook behind her trench of clothes.


"Silent as a bunny," I command.

She knows what this means. A sick game we play.

Rabbits only make noise when they're in pain.

I slide the door closed and am almost to her bedroom door when it opens.

He leers at me.

"There's my boy."

I stare back, head high, muscles tense.

"Been a while, huh? Where's Mo? I wanna hug."

"At a friend's."

He slides his eyes around the room, "Then what'cha doin' in your lil' sister's room?"

"Cleaning," I lie. I bend down to pick up a raggedy stuffed bear by my feet and toss it onto her small mattress, "Mom sure as hell doesn't."

His eyes narrow, "Watch your mouth. She's your mother."

"She's a corpse."

"I said to watch your fuckin' mouth!" he bellows.

It doesn't matter how long it's been, I'm used to the volume, the bravado.

He might as well be a gorilla banging his chest, salivating at me.

He's a beast.

Which makes me one, too.

"I'd rather call her a corpse than a whore."

Fuck. I haven't been hit like this in…

but I'm older now, and he's fucked up.

Must've shared with mom after round two or three.

I wrap my arms around his center, slamming into him with all my weight, pushing him back out into the hallway.

I cackle as the air leaves his lungs.

He's on the ground, defending his face with scarred hands as I pummel at his chest and ribs.

He's kicking out, yelling, threatening, but I'm blind with rage.

I hear something crack. Yahtzee.

I can't stop laughing.

He howls in pain and manages to punch me in the face. It glances off my cheek. Hurts like hell, but I feel amazing.

I'm alive. I'm fighting back and still alive.

That means something. That means…

"You son of a bitch," I seethe, spitting in his mouth when he cries out again. I spit again, getting it in his eyes as I pummel his face.

Crack. His nose.



I grab him by the shoulders and slam him into the floorboards over and over and over.

I'm as tall as him. My chest filled out. My arms and legs are long and still a bit wiry, but I've gained an impressive amount of muscle since his leaving.

My only friend, Kensei, a wannabe gangbanger, fights me all the time. We love it.

He got jumped into a gang in spring. I'm thinking about it. I really am. I've helped Kensei

push drugs to bring in a bit of cash. Never take 'em, just help him out.

And I love what this man looks like right now. A cowering, freaked out, drugged out wimp.

"Pussy," I breathe, spitting in his face again as I get up and slam my foot down on his crotch.

He howls again, turning over on his side in the fetal position.

Why was I ever afraid of this man? He's a helpless little child.

He's at my mercy. I could kill him. Right now.

Right fucking now if my baby sister wasn't a room away from me.

Giddy with rage and adrenaline, I reach down and tug at his hair, pulling a lot of the greasy strings out. He starts kicking, threatening to kill me, threatening to cut my throat while I slept.

I stopped, slamming his head into the floor again before reaching into my pocket.

A switchblade.

I hold the blade to his throat.

"You shut the fuck up," I breathed, my hand shaking from excitement and anger, "You shut your fucking mouth before I slice you wide open like your slut wife's cunt. You're not my father: you're not even a human being, you spineless, dick-less piece of shit."

I don't know how I don't scream: I don't even recognize my voice. It's guttural, all animal.

This is me. This is who I am.

And this man, this man deserves worse than anything I can do to him.

I watch him smirk: something in his eyes makes me want to throw up.

"You got the balls to kill your old man? Huh? You put blood on your hands, kid, you ain't ever getting it off."

I cut his cheek. His entire body stiffens.

I watch the blood on his face, mesmerized.

I cut him again. I laugh.

It looks like the number 11.

I grin at him. He's terrified.

I lick blood from his cheek. He's thrashing and finally manages to push me off of him.

"You little fuck! I'll fucking kill you!"

He's on his feet, shaky, sweaty, blood thirsty, my red 11 on his face forever.

One gunshot. Two.

I hear Momo scream through the wall.

His body jerks backwards then sideways, his eyes bulging like a fish.

He crumples to the ground.

I feel his blood on my face. I know it's splattered across my jeans and shirt.

I blink, staring at my mom down the hallway.

He's convulsing on the ground.

The gun is still in her hand, her eyes dead as she stares at the dying body.

He cusses, grabbing at my leg, tells me to call an ambulance.

Begs me.

"I found it in the trunk of the car before I sold it. I saved it for you," Mom said, her voice dull, robotic.

He cusses my mom out, like the worst I've ever heard.

His grip on my ankle loosens.

Nobody moves.

Momo's crying is muffled through the wall.

"Don't come out!" I yell. I know she's at the bedroom door. The crying is louder.

"Kenny!" she screams.

"I hate him," mom says, leaning against the hall wall, closing her eyes, "I've hated him since the day he was born."

I don't know what to say. The blood on me itches.

She turns and wanders back towards her room, gun still loose in her hands.

I slide down the wall. He's still twitching, gasping, but he can't beg anymore.

Mom closes the bedroom door.

Another gunshot.

Neighbor must'a called the cops.

The pigs swarm down on us. I don't let go of Momo even though I have dead man's blood on my shirt and she's hysterical.

At the station, we're pried apart and I sit in an ice-cold interrogation room, one wrist chained to the chair.

Momo's still young. She's pretty and doe-eyed and bandaged innocence.

She'll be all right. We'll be all right.

A detective comes in. He's got curly brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He needs to shave. He looks tired, but he smiles at me before sitting across from me with a folder.

"Hi there," he says, taking a sip of his coffee. He opens the folder and starts to recite his 'theory'. Tells me forensics is scraping the house.

A cut-and-dry case.

We're kids. Total victims. Harmless and blameless.

"We're working on finding next of kin. Do you have any uncles? Aunts? Grandparents?" he asks.

I don't want to look at him. I hate this place.

I just want my sister. I just want to burn my house down, get jumped into the Soul Reapers, and turn this shit life around.

"I want my sister."

"She's safe," he reassures, closing the file, "I promise."

"Promises mean nothing to me."

His eyes are intelligent. I can't trust him, though. That's not enough, "What you're going through, the shock…I can only imagine."

This is boring. I don't want his fake sympathy. I don't want his anything.

I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that I feel this indifferent.

"You've lost half your family in one day, Kenny. This is not something to be treated lightly. The last thing I want to see happen is for you and your sister to be put through the foster care system-"

"They were nothing to me."

He flinches. My face, my eyes, so much like the dead man's, must look sociopathic.

"My prints are on the knife. I carved him. That mean's you'll gimme a shrink. That means Momo will be separated from me. That means no family in their right fuckin' mind would take me in. Don't matter if it was self defense or not."

I lean forward slightly in my seat, "Watching him bleed, watching him die…I've never been so hard in my whole fuckin' life."

I feast on the silence.

"You're right about one thing," the detective started, looking down at his copies of crime scene photos, "You won't be seeing your sister for a long time."

I was okay with that.

Of course I wanted her. To protect her, to provide for her: I'd been doing it for so long that she was practically my child.

But there was a family out there that could provide for her in a way that I couldn't, not without getting into some dark shit.

I was a year away from being able to emancipate myself: I couldn't provide for her until then anyway, not to mention make enough to support not only myself but her as well.

She deserved a big house with a mom that cooked and cleaned and smiled, a dad that came home and kissed her forehead and read to her at night. Fuck, maybe even a dog or a bird or something.

She'd have all the crayons and markers she could ever want. A princess pink bed with fluffy curtains on the windows and all the stuffed animals she could handle.

She wouldn't be afraid of doors or forced into closets.

She wouldn't have a brother to cry over every time he got beat on by a druggie drunkard.

"You pick angels for that little girl, do you understand me? The kindest, sweetest motherfuckers on the planet. You make her safer than safe."

The detective, Shunsui, said he'd do everything in his power for Momo for our sakes. He asked me a ton of questions, most of them answerable. Yes, those people had been drug abusers. Yes, he would drink until he passed out in his own vomit. Yes, she had prostituted herself and sucked cock for about the same price as going to the movies and getting some popcorn. Yes, he would beat me so bad as a child I'd go two days without moving.

Court was boring. Pathetic.

The news was even worse. Now everybody in town, maybe even the fucking country, pitied me for about a week.

The only reason I put up with any of the bullshit was because I got supervised meetings with Momo.

"I don't want to go live in a new house!" she cried, trying to bury her head into my neck.

The officer and psychiatrist watched us from the door. We were in one of the psychiatry offices, sitting on a couch.

Momo had already been adopted by some teary-eyed rich couple who'd been heartbroken at the news coverage. A sweet, innocent little girl like Momo: all you had to do was look in her huge sad eyes and you were putty.

It was a good thing. Rich couple with no kids meant she'd be spoiled silly, treated right. It was perfect.

"I can't come with you," I answered, running my hands through her hair as she tried to claw her way through my chest, "I have to go to…school for a while. You're going to have so much fun you're not going to think about the sad stuff. You can eat as much candy as you want. I bet they'll even let you have a horse. You'd like that, huh?"

She sniffled and looked at me. My heart was in my stomach.

"But you won't be there. Who's gonna tuck me in? Who's gonna hide me?"

I kissed her forehead. We'd been having therapy sessions together for about three weeks, the psychiatrist convinced my presence would help her deal with the unseen trauma she had experienced. I dunno about all that psychoanalytical bullshit, but anything to see Momo.

"You don't have to hide anymore."

"But…you read me stories, and play with me. You're my knight."

I saw the psychiatrist scribble something down out of the corner of my eye. Momo was ten, but maybe I'd raised her wrong. She talked like she was five.

"I'm asking you to be a big girl, Momo. To be brave. You can do that, right?"

She wrapped her arms around my neck and I held her there, perfect for that moment.

"I love you, Kenny."

"I love you too, Mo."

We were separated after that.

I had to see a psychiatrist daily.

I was allowed to receive mail from Momo. She sent me crayon drawings mostly.

The inner city group home for boys wasn't so bad. I was bigger than all the boys except a Spanish boy named Yami. He was always pissed off about something. We fought sometimes, but it was nothing serious. Apparently we both liked the adrenaline of fistfights.

He'd been jumped into The Hollows. What a fucking moron.

I caught up with Kensei. Got jumped into the Soul Reapers. Got the mark tattooed on my forearm. Got paid to beat the shit out of people who didn't pay up or fucked with the gang. It was nice.

I was ruthless. I got noticed. The higher-ups were impressed with a bastard from nowhere who could fight like a possessed demon.

I didn't have limits anymore. That was the difference. Since the death of the beasts, I was a new animal.

I took what I wanted when I wanted it with my own power, my own will.

I didn't fear anything, which made me unpredictable and scary as fuck. I wasn't sixteen yet, but I was getting big and the scars on my body, especially the one on my face, did a lot of talking for me.

If you fucked with me, I broke you. That was it.

Over the next six months, boys came and went. Some were back a few weeks later, laughing, while others never came back, adoptions having been filed.

Me and Yami stayed. We were bad eggs. That was okay with us.

A new brat was brought in. Scrawny little thing, thin as a pole and pale as snow.

His hair was silver, almost lavender in the right light. Slitted eyes like a snake.

He watched me a lot. I ignored him until one day I'd had enough and was beyond irritated.

"Wha' the fuck do you want?" I'd asked, exhaling cigarette smoke into his face.

He'd smiled, eyes slitted, "Mah, nothin', really. Jus' followin' the power."

"You high?" I said, wary. I might've pushed drugs, but I'd never touched them. I refused to.

He shook his head from side to side, "Nah, but my Ma used 'ta gimme 'ta her boyfriends 'ta pay for 'em."

He opened his eyes. Ice blue.

"But I'd suck ya, if ya asked me to."



So he did.

It was fucking awesome.

He even let me cum on his face and licked it up afterwards.

Fucking sick and hot.

Things progressed quickly from there.

After I fucked him in the ass, I learned his name was Gin.

He was fourteen. His mom had overdosed. He was alone, just like me. He loved music and cigarettes and sucking cock. He could pickpocket anyone. He looked so hot in white skinny jeans I'd get a boner just having him walk by.

And he was smart. Fuck, the smartest motherfucker I'd ever met, but funny, somebody I wanted to be around. He became a Soul Reaper. I'd take him with me when I had to chase money for the family. I watched Gin nearly beat a man to death with a metal pipe before lighting a cigarette, the hottest thing I'd ever seen.

We fucked four times on the dude's kitchen table while he was unconscious.

Then stole anything in his house worth a shit and pawned it and spent the money on beer and clothes and new tattoos. He got his navel pierced for me, so I humored him and got my tongue done. Hurt like hell three days later, but the swelling wasn't so bad. I'd had far worse pain in my life.

A year had passed. I was almost seventeen, violent, and okay with it because I had Gin by my side, grinning like a fox through his cigarette smoke.

It was like having a best friend you could fuck whenever you wanted however you wanted.

I got emancipated. Just a couple papers filed through the system. A fee I paid with drug money.

I changed my name while I was at it.

Zaraki. Zaraki Kenpachi.

Nobody would ever call me Kenny again. I couldn't even remember the dead man's last name. I'd never carried it, but I didn't want the whore's last name to linger in my memory either.

So I was reborn again. Me and Gin fucked to celebrate, and he screamed my new name so loud it made me cum.

My gang family set me up in a one-bedroom apartment. I easily maintained rent 'cuz I was taking on more jobs. I didn't even have to run drugs anymore: basic beat-ups, money-chasing, and bodyguard shit. I'd pick up prostitutes and mistresses for the higher-ups. They'd always want a piece of my dick, but women, especially loose women, made me want to vomit.

Sometimes I'd run men, too. Some my age, some older, but it wasn't my business. I was fucking a dude, so I couldn't judge.

The years started to blur. Jobs evolved. The real money was in killing.

Killing scum. Well, I had history with that, didn't I?

By twenty-one, there wasn't a man in the city that didn't cringe or piss his pants at the mention of my name.

My back was inked with a black and red demonic dragon, the glory of my rising name, the glory of my kills. Old Man Yamamoto didn't like me too much, said I was a loose bullet, but Kaien liked me a lot, said I was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, whatever that meant.

Kaien was in his late twenties, young as fuck to be head of one of Old Man's branches, but he was about the only man in the gang I ever listened to. He was too fucking cool to disrespect, you know? He wasn't like the others, scrambling for money and respect. He partied and banged bitches and smiled when he shot you, you know? That feeling, that feeling like if I could ever have a real family, he should've been my older brother. An unpredictable crazy fuck that still knew his business, kept his head when he needed to for the sake of keeping Old Man the fuck quiet.

Yamamoto was the only one who seemed to talk shit about me anymore. Kaien thought it was because he was scared of my power.

Fuck all that noise. If the Old Man didn't watch himself, I'd put a bullet between his eyes, too.

Other families feared me. Think about it: a bunch of old fucks shitting their pants over a 21-year-old bastard brat.

I was raking in so much cash I'd gotten a bigger place, a nice apartment. Gin practically lived with me. I didn't know what we were: we didn't get emotional, but we fucked the shit out of each other, and we were best friends, so it worked.

I don't care if he fucks others, just so long as he's on my dick when I want him, it's all good.

But most people know he's mine, and the threat of my name is usually enough to keep their dicks in their pants.

I fuck a girl or two to see what happens. I don't like it much. They sound weird and feel too wet. Or maybe they're too loose. I dunno.

"How 'bout a threesome?" Gin says with a smirk one night while we're lying in bed. He's smoking a cigarette, his cum still on his chest.

"Who you thinkin'?" I ask.

He grins, "How 'bout Blue?"

The new one, a low-rung yakuza. He's a Hollow, but we've dealt with him before. He was attractive, yeah, and also a total cunt with his attitude. We fought like crazy. Maybe 'cuz we were too much alike. He fought like he didn't care if he died, like me.

It was sexy as hell.

"Yeah. Why not?"

I liked fucking Grimmjow.

Maybe a little too much.

I'd watched him fuck Gin for a while and then gotten antsy, getting behind him and just going for it, slaying his hole.

I'd only pummeled him a minute before he came, but it was hot watching him shoot his load all over Gin.

We all smoked afterwards and watched a football game on tv.

We became the world's most fucked up exclusive triangle relationship.

I didn't fuck anybody but them, and Grimmjow didn't let anybody fuck him but me. I let him fuck Gin, but Gin preferred bottom, so I was usually greedy and got both their holes in one night.

And when I was out of town, they had each other. Or when one of them was called out on business, I had the other. We always had someone to fuck, which was the point, right?

It lasted a while. I'm shit at keeping track of time: it doesn't mean anything to me, but one day I come back to my pad and the stereo is on and it reeks of pot and Gin and Grimm are just going at it like animals so I grab a beer out of the fridge and settle in to watch the show.

I'm surprised how long Grimm lasts but when he comes it reminds me why I only let animals be around me. He roars, and it's so loud, and then Gin's shaking and clawing at him, and then they make out with tongue and shit.

That's when I know this isn't just sex. This is something I don't understand, and it pisses me off.

They don't just wanna fuck. This is something deep and personal.

They light cigarettes. Gin stares at me. Grimm's eyes are still wild-looking.

"You hard?" Gin asks.


"You gonna be a punk if I say I love your man?" Grimm asks me, holding out his pack of cigarettes.

I get up from my chair and approach the bed, swipe the box.

I tug one out with my teeth, light it.


"Nah. Go wild. Jus' don't do it in front'a me no more."

Gin kisses Grimm before slinking out of the bed and kissing me on the cheek, "We had a lotta fun. Still best buds?"

"Forever, ass hole."

He laughs. Grimm chuckles and bumps fists with me.

They get dressed and kiss again before leaving.

And I laugh as I light another cigarette, 'cuz it's so damn funny and I don't feel a fucking thing.

About 3 Years Later.

It's almost midnight, but I decide I want coffee.

I head downtown on foot. Nobody's fucked with me on the streets in years. Besides, I like to walk. I'd actually managed to cut back on the smoking in the past few months, been working out more. Maybe I'll hit the gym tomorrow after punk-chasing runs with Gin.

There's an all-night diner downtown. Best pancakes in the fucking city and the coffee is my drug of choice: I don't go often 'cuz I don't wanna spoil the magic.

I walk in. Take a corner booth. Grunt at the waitress with the perky tits.

She brings me my coffee. I'm sated.

She keeps dropping hints, annoying me with her body language and tone of voice.

What about my appearance says I appreciate the cutesy approach?

"I don't care how wet your pussy is, I'm not interested," I finally say.

She blushes and stutters, not sure if she should be offended or embarrassed. She might cry. Or run. Either is okay with me.

She drops my pancakes on the table and high tails it to the other side of the diner.

"That was rude."

I don't know who's talking, but I might kill 'em.

No. Not might. Will.

I look up. The booth in front of me is occupied.

Bright grey eyes are looking back at me. Blonde hair, attractive face. I'd say pretty boy, but there's something impish about him, something that reminds me of Gin.

He looks nothing like Gin, but there's a confidence there, a devilry. I don't know how I know that, I just do, so I narrow my eyes at him.

He's not an idiot: he can see my tags; he sees the scars. If he doesn't know who I am, he at least knows what I am.

He looks pretty damn normal. White shirt, blue scarf. The table is covered in empty cups of coffee, a half-eaten slice of pumpkin pie, and thick books.

"I think you should apologize," he continues, picking up his fork and taking a bite of pie, chewing it with a humming sound before looking at me again, "She's the sweetest waitress here and is responsible for this orgasm-inducing pie. If she stops making amazing pies because you're not a people person, then I'll have to stop coming to this diner. If I have to stop coming to this diner, that means I have to scout this god-awful town for the second best pumpkin pie, and I will be furious knowing that I could be enjoying the best pie in the city if it wasn't for a grumpy guy who couldn't be polite and just let a girl dream."

He takes another bite.

I just stare at his mouth.

"Oh," he says, smiling at me. I mean, a fucking knock out smile.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs, "You like men. Still, I think you should apologize. Or leave her a nice tip."

He gets up from his booth with his plate of pie and fork and sits across from me. I watch him lift some of the sweet-smelling stuff onto his fork and hold it out to me like I'm a toddler.

"Come on. I promise it's delicious."

"Are you fuckin' crazy?" I grumble, totally uncomfortable.

It's been a long time since somebody's made me uncomfortable. Usually that's my job, cuz, ya know, my fist is in their throat or something. Or I'm sawing off their fingers. Or breaking their ribs when they get feisty and think they have a chance and decide to hit me.

He shrugs, "Well, that's not the medical term for it."

And I realize I haven't hit him yet because I kind of respect him. How can he sit here, trying to feed me a piece of his fucking pie? I'm a yakuza: I'm trouble, I'm evil, I'm all kinds of fucked up.

I could slit his throat right here if I wanted to.

But I'm not.

"Fine," he says with a shrug, "More for me."

He bites it. I stare at his mouth again.

"Your pancakes are getting cold."

I take a drink of my coffee and decide to confess.

"You think it's smart 'ta fuck with me?"

By this point the pie is almost gone, "Hm?"

He looks at me with the fork still in his mouth, his bangs over one eye, and shit, I don't like that I don't wanna hurt him right now.

I wanna laugh, but it's kind of hot, too.

"I'm a Soul Reaper, you fucking idiot."

"Are you sure you don't wanna try this pie? Only a few bites left."

I shouldn't kill him. I keep reminding myself that he's just a crazy fuck in a restaurant, totally innocent. I really shouldn't hurt him.

"My name's Kisuke," he says, holding out a hand, a smile on his face, "Urahara Kisuke. I dunno if you're thinking about killing me, but your face says you are, so if you decide to, would you at least make sure my grave marker is in the shape of a cat? I'd also like to be buried with my favorite hat. It's white with green stripes."

"You too stupid to get scared?"

"Do crazy people get scared?"

What a fucking psycho. He's probably my age, maybe a year younger, but what a fucking weirdo.

So I take his hand in a firm grip. Hard, then drop it.

He smiles again. Blood rushes to my dick.

Fuck. What the hell.

He finishes his pie, tells me to be nice to the wait staff, goes back to his table and gathers up his books. He waves to me before leaving.

I still don't know what the fuck just happened.

I finish my meal and leave the girl a hundred dollar tip.


I don't think this story is going to be very long, but I got really caught up in Kenpachi's background. I got a bit obsessed with trying to make a strong AU origin since there's nothing on his young life in canon: part of Kenpachi's appeal is not knowing exactly what happened to him to make him the man he is, but at the same time, I'm a sucker for back story. I'm going to be updating my other stuff soon, no worries. I just got crazy inspired listening to music the other day. Just to clarify, it's not associated with my story Tipping The Scales in any way, they're not connected. Thanks.