Title: A Little Bit Dirty
Universe: Bleach (Yakuza AU)
Theme/Topic: Yakuza+suits
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing/s: Kenpachi, Byakuya, and innuendo.
Spoilers/Warnings: Violence
Word Count: 2,250
Summary: Byakuya has some desires that don't exactly fall in line with his rich-boy image.
Dedication: for juin's holiday fic request! Gotta do yours and hils' first because you both live in the future and stuff. Merry Christmas, bb!
A/N: So I realize that this may be the only Bleach I seem to write nowadays but let me just reiterate that I have a major suit kink so if I see this on a request list chances are I am going to choose it over everything else. I am easy like that.
Disclaimer:No harm or infringement intended.

Kuchiki Byakuya, as the heir to the Kuchiki zaibatsu, has always tried to lead a very structured, very neatly regimented life. He understands that as a public figure there are certain expectations tied to every thought he has and every action he takes, and so he tries to live in such a way that he not only exemplifies the values and the strengths of the Kuchiki to outsiders but also so that he may serve as an example to future generations of the family that may come after him.

Before he met Zaraki Kenpachi, he had only ever slipped once in his duties as the Kuchiki heir.

He married—at a very young age—a woman who was both his social and intellectual inferior. Despite his grandfather's doubts and his parents' very outspoken and oftentimes public disapproval of Hisana, he had loved her fiercely enough to willingly throw away everything he was for her, should it have come to that.

His grandfather, far wiser than his parents, had seen no advantage in disowning the Kuchiki's only heir, especially one who had, up until this small burst of unexpected rebellion, exemplified every one of the family's most desirable behaviors. Kuchiki Ginrei had welcomed Hisana into their home and taken great pains to educate and decorate her into fitting in properly, hoping that he could perhaps mold her into what could be expected of the wife of his grandson. It hadn't worked, and Byakuya suspects that it is part of the reason why Hisana had wilted in this place, a beautiful, flowering cactus that had thrived in its harsh desert environment only to drown in the overbearing care of this lovely, if stifling, garden.

His only regret is that he did not have the resolve to let her go, even when he'd known the Kuchiki house was not good for her. That had been his fault, and not the fault of his grandfather, who attempted to accommodate her. Neither was it the fault of Byakuya's parents, who, before their accident, had gone out of their way to condescend Hisana whenever in her presence. In retrospect, Byakuya thinks his wife had been overjoyed at the cold reception her in-laws insisted upon meeting her with, if only for the fact that it was real and familiar to the life she had led before marrying him. Everything else in the Kuchiki household was not.

Byakuya does not let himself feel any other regret over meeting her than that. It is because of her that he has Rukia now, after all, and his adopted sister is a great source of joy to him now, however much he may have to hide it in order to appear as an heir to the Kuchiki should.

Needless to say, Byakuya had thought that his wild, slightly rebellious days were well behind him. Hisana and his memories of her would—he thought—suffice.

And then Yamamoto Genryuusai had thrown Zaraki Kenpachi at him and Byakuya suddenly feels like he is in danger of slipping again.

At first, Byakuya had thought it a simple matter of delineating who was the master and who was the subordinate in their relationship. Zaraki had been hired to serve him, after all. His plan had been to simply train Zaraki as one might an ill-behaved puppy. With consistency, command, and no loss of composure.

It is, he is discovering, not nearly as easy as the books might have one believe. Or perhaps, in this case, it is the fault of the dog.

Because Byakuya has since learned that none of it works. Giving Zaraki ground rules, dressing him up in $10,000 suits, and explaining etiquette and boundaries to him day in and day out only go so far.

It seems that Zaraki Kenpachi will not be changed without leaving behind some scars of his own influence in return. There is no master or subordinate in this relationship. There is only a constant, steady exchange of blows.

Zaraki Kenpachi is the kind of man who carves a graffiti of destruction into everything he touches.

And if he is anything, he is magnificent at it.

Tonight, Byakuya sits at his empty table alone and tries to get some work done before returning home. Across the room, Zaraki ruins another incredibly expensive suit by repeatedly slamming his fist into the face of the number four Espada they had encountered at the tail end of Byakuya's dinner meeting earlier. Zaraki is being exceptionally brutal, Byakuya thinks, because this Espada had so brazenly strolled through the doors of the establishment after them without realizing that he was clearly foraying onto a side of the street that would not afford him the regular protections of his gang. Zaraki does not take kindly to those who would invade his territory. This does not just apply to transgressors affiliated with organizations outside the Gotei-13. Byakuya has seen Zaraki happily take apart members working under their own flag as well, simply because they failed to acknowledge that they were encroaching on his turf.

Byakuya watches the act with a quiet fascination that he never would have allowed himself to indulge in before he met Zaraki, noting the way the splatters of blood create a grotesque pattern on the gray of his jacket, how it arcs in bright red splashes across his pink tie and destroy the crisp lines of what was formerly a very expensive waistcoat.

Zaraki seems to revel in the mess. Byakuya, inexplicably, feels his pulse start to speed up at the sight of the free-flowing enthusiasm on his bodyguard's face. Thankfully his appreciation passes without notice, as he manages to keep his expression carefully neutral, save perhaps for the slight twitching of his fingers.

There is a small rush of excitement gathering in his belly at the tableau Zaraki makes, his intimidatingly large form unexpectedly stunning in the suit Byakuya had purchased for him, even as he holds the unconscious body of the encroaching Espada up above the ground one handed, eyeing it like Yachiru might a favorite toy accidentally broken in a moment of rough play.

Zaraki eventually grunts and tosses the body aside, before turning to the Espada's entourage, now cowering meekly in a corner of the bar under Ayasegawa and Madarame's casual, almost lackadaisical, watch.

At that moment, Byakuya is not ashamed to admit to himself that Zaraki is magnificent like this, in the same way watching a tiger rip out the throat of a prey animal is magnificent for all its pure, animal savagery. A killer in its natural environment.

No amount of expensive dress and unsolicited etiquette reminders can take that away from Zaraki.

It is enough, for a moment, to make Byakuya wonder what that kind of wild abandon might feel like. The skin on his fingertips feel itchy and energized, as if urging him to try and see.

He pushes the temptation back and looks deliberately down at his empty glass of scotch and the account paperwork he had been busying himself with when the roving gang of Aizen's underlings had entered, hoping to make a statement against what they believed was the now waning power of the Gotei-13.

The statement they have made tonight doesn't say much beyond the fact that Zaraki will need new clothes again. And perhaps, that Byakuya is forced to admit that he feels a small thrill racing up and down his spine every time he sees Zaraki in his natural environment, stained with the blood of his victims and pure in the joy he feels from the simple act of physical conquest, violent or otherwise.

Byakuya's pulse pounds longingly in his own ears. He tells himself to concentrate on the papers in front of him. These kinds of thoughts, he knows, are the exact opposite of what a proper and upstanding heir of the Kuchiki should be thinking. He should not want, of all things, to roll up his sleeves and join a melee just to see what it would feel like.

Instead, he works.

"Get out of here," Zaraki growls eventually, presumably because he could find no other worthy opponents amidst the lot of drug runners and pimps who had come into this establishment, looking for trouble.

The sound of terrorized running is the next thing Byakuya hears as he studiously examines his file folder of facts and numbers.

A beat.

And then, surprisingly, Zaraki speaks again, this time to his two subordinates, who remain seated at the bar. "I said get out of here," he repeats, voice low and dangerous.

This gives Byakuya pause to look up, just in time to catch the slightly raised eyebrows on Ayasegawa's delicate features and the confused indignation on Madarame's harder ones.

But in lieu of asking questions, Ayasegawa grabs Madarame by the wrist, twitters something indecipherable to his friend, and drags him out of the doors after the Espada in a dignified manner.

Byakuya looks questioningly at Zaraki.

Zaraki yanks off his bloodstained tie and looks back at him with blatant interest as he plops into one of the chairs his subordinates had just vacated.

"You've ruined your suit," Byakuya finds himself saying after a breath, needlessly. "Again."

Zaraki tosses the bloodstained tie onto the floor and tears the cufflinks from his wrists next. "Buy me a new one," he grunts, while Byakuya eyes him with quiet fascination layered under the guise of cool disapproval.

"They are very expensive," he says.

Zaraki grins. "You're very rich," he answers. "Hell, I bet you could afford as many of these as you or I could ruin, sweetheart."

His words cause Byakuya's eyes to widen slightly, in surprise. Zaraki always seems to hit the underlying issue on the head somehow. What's worse, it is always in a casual, terrifyingly sharp and straightforward manner.

Zaraki presses the point. "You could bloody up your nice, expensive designer clothes and scrape the skin off your knuckles pummeling a guy and you'd have enough money to make it look like it never happened afterwards. If you wanted to, you could make it so your grandpa and Yamajii and all their cronies would never know you did a thing."

Pause. Snort. "Though I don't get what the point of hiding it would be anyway. If you wanna do it, sweetheart, you do it."

Byakuya doesn't answer. He turns back down to his work and counts backwards from ten to calm the temper he feels boiling just beneath the surface at Zaraki's brazen accusations.

Zaraki must notice that he is doing this—that he needs to do this— because he leans forward then, rolling his bloodied sleeves up to the elbow. He looks like a well-worked beast basking in the glory of a successful kill. It's disgusting and thrilling to Byakuya all at once. "Look, princess," he begins, that feral, knowing smirk gracing one side of his scarred face, "you ever want to jump in, get your party dress dirty? I won't tell. Hell, I'll let you have first pick of the prey next time."

Byakuya flushes slightly, but the bar is dim and isolated enough that he tells himself it might have gone unseen. Part of him, the part that is making his heart beat very fast and his fingers itch to move, wants to look at Zaraki and breathe, "Yes," to everything he is offering.

As it is, he manages to set his pen down, close his file folder, and stand. "Tomorrow we will need to get you new clothes," is what he says instead, eyeing the bloody, magnificent mess of Zaraki's muscular bulk critically.

Zaraki snorts. "Yeah, okay," he says, and stands as well. He cricks his neck, first to the left, and then to the right, single eye never moving from Byakuya for a second. Byakuya's breath hitches slightly, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.

But maybe Zaraki does hear it anyway, because he grins and steps forward suddenly, right into Byakuya's personal space. He leans down so that they are nose to nose then, so that they are looking right at each other. Byakuya can feel the hot puffs of Zaraki's whiskey laden breath against the skin of his cheek. "One day, sweetheart," Zaraki vows, voice a low, rumbling growl between them in the quiet of the bar, "one day, I'm gonna ruin that fancy suit of yours. Tear it up, cover it blood and sweat and booze. I'm gonna get it a little bit dirty while it's still on you just like that and it's gonna be the time of your life. You'll see."

Byakuya's feels all the blood rush to his extremities at the promise in those words. If it's a fight or flight response or something else, he's not entirely sure. All he knows is that his fingers itch to do something.

He quells it.

And after a breath, after a quiet sigh and a cool look, all he says in response is, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Zaraki." His voice comes out sounding much more unaffected than he currently feels. He is proud of himself for it. He is a Kuchiki, after all.

And then, without another word, he turns and strides determinedly out of the bar and back into the frosty December air. His heart continues to pound traitorous rhythms of wild want in his ears, warming him even through the cold of deadest winter night.

Zaraki's animal cackle of promise follows him out.

The sound of it lights him on fire.

END