Title: Better
Author: Picklesticks
Pairing: Kenpachi/Ichigo, mentioned past Ichigo/Rukia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 907
Warnings: Standard two-guys-kissing
Summary: Ichigo needs to be challenged to be happy.

There was something to be said for this, Ichigo thought hazily, curling a bit in his post-orgasmic haze and listening to the sound of heavy, slow breathing beside him. Girls were all well and good, soft and curvy and inviting, but he was at heart a person who thrived on struggle and conflict. His short-lived dalliance with Rukia had only lasted until he realized that while she was an excellent friend, bedroom games were just plain boring unless he took the time to get her riled up and angry first. And that just didn't work in the long run.

This was better. Much, much better. It had never even crossed his mind that it might be what he was really looking for, but somehow... it had all clicked. Ever since he'd come to Soul Society for good, he and Kenpachi had been sparring on a regular basis, a constant challenge as their power and skill levels remained so evenly matched. Their first fight had been as enemies, but slowly they began to find the common ground beyond simply fighting -- the rough-and-tumble sense of personal honor they both shared, the resolve to do something and be someone and never be forgotten.

And then Ichigo had gone in for the weekly spar, fuming from Rukia's harsh dismissal of him as a fight-obsessed little boy who needed to grow up (and how unfair it was -- she'd pulled age on him, reminding him with a smirk that she could have been his great-great-grandmother). His anger had been immediately visible, and in hindsight, he realized that he'd been fighting pretty far below his ability, all temper and no thought.

A solid blow caught Ichigo on the chest, flinging him backward. He slumped against the wall, panting and glaring at Kenpachi, feeling as though he was several kinds of failure all at once.

"The hell's gotten into you, Ichigo?" the scarred captain lowered his sword, studying him. "You ain't fightin' at all, just swinging."

"It's nothing!" Ichigo snarled, raising Zangetsu again. "Come on, let's keep going!"

"Put your sword down. Whatever's eatin' you, you gotta get rid of it first." Kenpachi's tone was actually... friendly? He pressed a hand to Ichigo's shoulder, a companionable gesture. "C'mon. I got some sake and snacks in my office."

And somehow, sitting in Kenpachi's cluttered (but surprisingly not messy) office, Ichigo had found himself pouring out the entire story over cups of stealthily powerful sake and nori crackers. Rukia, and her stupid dreams of fairy-tale relationships and "gentle" (boring, in Ichigo-speak) sex. His frustration at being treated like some dumb kid just because he hadn't been hanging around the afterlife for centuries. His need to be challenged, to be pushed to prove just how much he could do...

He was still a little hazy on how that talk session had led to sex. Probably the sake, the great social lubricant, had had more than a little to do with it. But he definitely remembered tumbling onto the small cot in Kenpachi's office, the two of them scrabbling for the upper hand in a way that had only managed to send his desire soaring. Even when he'd yielded enough to let Kenpachi settle between his spread legs, he hadn't surrendered fully -- and the next morning, there'd been plenty of evidence of that, bloody scratches and bite marks on both of them. But it was good -- it was perfect, everything Rukia hadn't been and more that Ichigo hadn't realized he'd been missing.

And that wasn't a drug he would only allow himself a single dose of -- oh no. He'd slipped out in the pale light of dawn, knowing that Yachiru would be coming in to rouse Kenpachi and definitely not wanting to be caught in such a compromising position with the guy who was for all intents and purposes her father. And for a few days, he'd avoided Kenpachi altogether, seeking to sort through his confusion and uncertainty. He'd been straight all his life, had been chasing after Rukia for years -- only to have that go sour on him once he'd achieved his goal, of course -- and suddenly, he'd turned around and hopped in bed with the guy who'd once upon a time tried to kill him?

But he'd been drawn back with magnificent inevitability, seeking after that taste of satisfaction and satiation he'd gotten from the 11th division captain. And the second time, the third time... no different. Knowing what they wanted, not needing the alcohol that blurred sensation and enjoyment as well as inhibitions, it had been if anything better. Fiercer, harder, more fulfilling. And now, when he'd long since lost count of the times, the intensity hadn't dimmed. They still sparred, challenging each other in deadly earnest to improve and exceed, but now more often than not those spars continued into the bedroom, swords falling by the wayside as their desires turned carnal and hands started to sneak through clothes to tease and grope.

A cool breeze blew in through the window, ghosting over Ichigo's sweaty skin, and he mumbled a little, drowsy now, curling against Kenpachi's bulk for warmth. There were blankets... somewhere... but it would require far too much moving now to try and retrieve them. Better to enjoy this warmth, he thought, smiling to himself as a large hand cupped the back of his head and stirred lightly through his hair. Much better. Maybe even perfect.