#[ drabble ] his silver tongue weaves words; but he doesn’t lie

[godkilller]

          They met when the cicadas sang and every cooling breeze was a gift.

          The air was hot and hazy along the swaying tree line spanning across a crooked horizon of mountains beyond. If not for the brilliant beacon of her soul, perhaps they would not have seen her amongst the blurring waves of summer heat blanketing her fallen form on the ground. She was a filthy thing, diminished by the lingering dark, the leeches of creatures which dwelled, too, within this grand forest. A victim of their hunger for a mortal’s essence, this poor human. A little girl all alone.

          When the kami neared, they stopped at the treeline with piercing eyes ablaze. A faint after-image of three men, adults, filthy humans, came to memory that didn't belong to them. Hers, rather.

          These men huddled around her, poking and prodding, such despicable things... as though she were an ant to be squished, prey to be toyed with by the end of a stick. The acts of man could disgust at times, how eerily soulless one could be of their own free will. The influences of demons could excuse very little when regarding a tainted heart. Scorched footmarks indicated such influences had been present, the taste of ash in the air burned at their nostrils. It was a miracle this child still had her soul at all.

          The kami would not appear to her in the same height, the same manner, as the assailants that left her broken and crying. Nor was she young enough, an infant or toddler perhaps, for them to reveal their true form without causing her distress, confusion, and frustration while living out the rest of her mortal life knowing celestial beings walked amongst humans. Perhaps she was already jaded, left incapable of witnessing their genuine form in its entirety, all innocence drained from her. If that was the case, they could have walked forth regardless of appearance, and her mind would fill the gaps and the incomprehensible with something bland and utterly human, normal, capable of being processed with ease.

          No, she still had a thrumming slice of light in her. Best to be reasonable and not test her faith. Instead, they shifted into another smaller form with complete fluidity, elegant robes and tails twisting into the winds and morphing, vanishing, shrinking, dissipating akin to snowfall in the summer air. In the gust of wind that breathed out around him, he stepped outward anew; a child, too. Non-threatening, he even went a year or two younger than her for the sake of her utmost comfort. Friend. I am your friend.

          He stepped forward, put on a smile, and padded down from the confines of the lush trees and brush which cloaked him from sight. The rustling footsteps, bared feet on soft ground, seemed to indicate his approach well enough to rend the girl alert, scrambling to sit up and wipe at her eyes as though being caught in the act of emotion was something of an embarrassment.

          In fact, she got quite defensive over the matter. Puffed her cheeks and everything. Until compassion washed over her, and concern.

          Huh.

          “What’s up with those marks? Are you bleeding?” Puffy eyes widened at him, and she rubbed at them again with the back of her hand as though to clarify what she was seeing.

          Quieter, as though sharing a secret, she spoke again. "Did they get you too?"

          Blinking, he raised a hand to observe, as though unaccustomed to its lightness, its flesh and bone, its power restrained; he felt tiny, contained into this little vessel to appease her. Idly, he found the issue upon the backs of both his hands. Red, smooth, these markings flowed up his wrists and arms beneath the robes he donned, then peeked out at the nape of his neck. As though the canvas for brushwork, brilliant in color, it stained his skin. He could only surmise that a blatant and decently sized crimson circle resided directly at the center of his forehead. Similarly colored lines beneath his eyes, as well as matching painted strokes of red trailing both legs, feet, buffered at the ends by circles just above his toes.

          These were the blood-red designations of a kami, often following him through his other transformations unless he chose to deliberately obscure them. Seemed like he forgot, for a moment, to hide them from her.

          “Oops!” He proceeded to dust himself off as though he recently tumbled through the same dirt she sat on. Each swift and hurried pat, swish, and brushing gesture seemed to quickly vanish those markings from his skin, magic. Like wiping away at a blemish, regardless of the fact that his divine marks were anything but a blemish, and he became less so inhuman.

          He finished the adjustment, straightened up his simplistic yukata, then smiled wide and with triumph. A little shrugged gesture, hands displayed, to show her he was done.

          “Better?” A flop of his hands at his sides, what skin that showed from dark yukata was now as pristine as the rest of him, as though his feet had not touched the ground beneath, as though he did not belong in the same breath as the dirtied rags on her shoulders. In any dimmer lighting, were the days not shining with warming rays of the sun, perhaps a faint cool glow would accompany his form. Numerous efforts were required in order to properly project humanity to her, his restraint being the key. He was attempting to dial things down.

          Normally, he would not have even tried to fit in; appearing in a roar of blinding light and tranquility. Or send a messenger in his stead, copper fur and a mischievous grin. Perhaps he was a tad bit rusty, playing human.

          She blinked at him slowly, recovering from a dazed state. Discreetly, invisibly, he nudged her away from the thoughts that lurked around his strange markings, at the way they dissipated before her very eyes. She blinked thrice more, then seemed to accept his soft tampering of her memory... unbeknownst to her. Not something he did too often, an unfair trick. He disliked influencing humans in such a manner.

          “Y—… yeah... but why’s your hair silver ?”

          ...Ah, he forgot about that. Rustier than he initially thought, then.

          Should he tamper with her again, or knock her out and wipe her memory… and start all over? That felt excessive. But...

          “Oh, uh—”

          Before he could even fathom how to casually adjust his hair color before her very eyes without causing alarm, or whether or not he should simply stun her into a daze to undo his missteps altogether… he felt the girl moving away from the topic on her own accord, thoughts trailing elsewhere, like where he came from, or if it was safe for her to stay here — if the demon-influenced men would return with their scary eyes.

          So he left it as it was, his hair apparently silver. Absently, he decided from here on out to do a once-over by the reflection of a nearby water source… to avoid any further slip-ups.

          She seemed unafraid, otherwise, especially in meeting his vibrant gaze with her icy blue eyes in kind. Others would avert, look away, unable to lock onto his eyes without a feeling of being pierced, of their soul being seen in its entirety, a hushed multitude of whispers caressing their temples, their minds, as his presence quietly overwhelmed them.

          No, she was staying resolute. She could look into his eyes without divinity swallowing her whole. A brave girl full of heart, she did not fear. At least for now.

          “What’s your name, anyway?” She was quick, cutting, a no-bullshit approach to the one who interrupted her moment of vulnerability and sadness. Her nose scrunched, and that telltale sign of wariness began to show.

          Ukanomitama-no-Mikoto seemed like a mouthful, though it was first to come to mind; a lesser-known alternative to the given name humans doted upon for him. And there were too many others, far too many, and far too on the nose. Who was he, again? In days of old, they’d split into three. Or five. Into various shapes, sizes, and genders too. Today, he picked a boy, as lithe as she was. A non-threat, limbs thin akin to stalks of bamboo.

          “I dunno, I’m a lil mixed up right now.” An understatement, apparently.

          “That’s stupid, you don’t even know your name? I know my name, it’s Matsumoto Rangiku . Yours… hm, it’s Gin , ‘cause of your weird hair.” A head tilt was all her harsh tongue earned, a wholly unbothered air. In fact, he bloomed pleasantly at her decision to name him. Accustomed. Accepting. Appreciative. How often humans took in his kin, his shrines, naming torii and foxes alike, giving title here and title there, naming foods and offerings… and naming him, over and over. Naming, naming...

          Gin, then. He was Gin.

          Her thoughts, her scrutiny, veered closer to feeling some semblance of humor about him; how silly, this boy who hadn't even noticed he had those weird red stains on his skin, didn't even know his own name. Silver hair, too. How silly. She thought of him like a wild animal trotting over to her from the brush, as though feral and unaccustomed to seeing another person, unafraid due to ignorance and confidence combined. Curiosity, yes, she titled his motivation quite well.

          Sharp, this girl.

          Through her eyes, her assessment of him seemed fair, and Gin smiled wide in acceptance. The verdict this girl reached was of dismissal, distracted by the sharp reminder of hunger growling at her stomach.

          “Hungry?” He asked, as though unaware, a boy simply answering the cue of that telltale sign. He knew she felt weakened and hadn’t eaten after she ran from her keepers. Several days, now. Midday, she was coming up on the fourth before he intervened, darkness clutching at her to drag her further off into the woodlands and mountains beyond.

          A wandering soul awaiting oblivion, and the leering creatures thought her theirs.

          No, not quite yet.

          Gin knelt down to be at her height, crisscrossing his legs beneath him to settle in, and reached behind his back as though to unfasten a bag of a traveler. Nothing was there, really, nothing at the moment. Yet his patient palm subtly glowed with purpose and want, materializing within it a fruit readied to be eaten. He reckoned she’d want something sweet, and by his divine right it felt appropriate to give her one meant for longevity, delivered directly from the plentiful harvests he presided over.

          “Here, I got this for ya,” Gin offered out the persimmon from behind his back, and watched as she squinted to peer around him, seeking out the tell of his little trick. Ever the skeptic, she sought out answers she could not immediately identify, this nameless boy that had blood-red marks on him, who did magic tricks with fruit.

          Scoffing out a blow of air, she relented, then took it.

          “Did you hide this up your sleeve? You’re so weird,” she whined out, though appeased herself swiftly with a big bite of his offering. Already, the diminishing glow of her soul was mending itself, illuminated by the unseen fury of celestial light embodying him. They sat together as she ate.

          “Maybe, I like pullin’ tricks like that.” He reached back again, mirroring his earlier actions, and returned his palm out before him carrying another persimmon within it. He plopped the fruit into her lap and swayed back and forth playfully. “See? Pretty cool, huh? Wait, I think there’s one more …”

          Reaching back, Gin brought forth a rock instead and acted visibly confused.

          “Eh? How’d that get in there?” He dropped the rock, then made a show of searching his sleeves. She barked out a laugh, cheeks full of fruit and a smile full of light.

          Gin beamed.

[godkilller]

          DRABBLE    //    REDEMPTION VERSE.

          THERE WERE STILL SPECKS OF BLOOD ON THE LIGHT BLUE WRAPPINGS, and Gin surmised it was his own, not Aizen’s, from when his Zanpakuto had been tucked within the folds of his crimson-stained white robes. Not drawn, not used in defense, no, nestled away whilst its master was cut down. A few small blemishes ultimately missed by its temporary keepers, the confiscated blade had been otherwise cleaned and stored away, kept sealed, awaiting something. Gin hadn’t seen it since that day; a whirlwind of destruction, that gleaming blade, toying with the Kurosaki kid via collapsing buildings cut like they were brittle things. Then, plunging, biting, devouring that gaping hole into Aizen’s chest, filled only by a suspended Hogyoku agleam in the pale light of its slain host... falling, falling, and falling right into his waiting hand.

          Shinso hadn’t been the last thing Gin’s right hand held, after all.

          But, the Zanpakuto had been the most familiar with that particular palm instead. Now, as the Second Division Shinigami patiently extended the sheathed weapon out for Gin to take, it felt utterly different...

          There was a seal still placed on it, akin to a muzzle for the spirit-housing sword to not so loudly beckon for its master whilst kept away, so an absence of presence, of connection, felt relatively normal; to be expected. Yet, there was more.

          SOMETHING WAS OFF. It felt... clumsy. This was not the grip meant to slay anything, this was some messy hold meant better for a broom than a sword. He turned it in his hand, then adjusted his grip lower towards the center of its sheathe to find balance as if that would help his derailed experience. Shinso was wrong. Heavier. No, lighter, not quite right. Instinctively, Gin shifted to consider slipping the sheathed blade into its place at his hip, though found he needed to switch sides mid-motion, which he did so quickly to remedy the mistake. SLOWLY, SHINSO FOUND ITS PLACE AT GIN’S RIGHT SIDE, the opposite side that he was accustomed to, adding more fuel to the fires of his disorientation.

          Rangiku was quick in thanking the guards in Gin’s stead, a cheery and upbeat tone meant to swiftly dismiss them without outright saying it; a classic, though he hoped she felt no strain in the act. Gin turned to leave halfway through, knowing full well that their anticipation couldn’t be appeased no matter Rangiku’s passive aggressive urging — they were waiting for Gin to clear the grounds in accordance with his reinstatement regulations. RIGHTFULLY NERVOUS, having at last handed back an ex-criminal his beloved and powerful weapon. Even at half-strength, Gin reckoned he could level the Gotei 13′s various barracks in the surrounding area within one fell swoop.

          That is, if he even had it in him anymore to do so.

          Rangiku caught up to him shortly, especially pleased with herself, made unaware of Gin’s quiet worry; could he even manage his Shikai at this level of discomfort and disarray ? 

          ❝ I actually got them to give you the whole day, you know, instead of the three hour limit they wanted you to do at first? I mean, that was ridiculous, who wants to train with such a strict schedule anyways? It takes me hours just to get Haineko to say a sentence of something useful to me. The last thing I’d need would be to feel rushed. ❞

          RANGIKU’S ATTEMPT AT CONVERSING NORMALLY OVER AN ABNORMAL SITUATION — GIN NEEDING PERMISSION TO HAVE HIS SWORD — WAS APPRECIATED.

          ❝ How long’s it been since ya tried talkin’ with her ? Maybe you oughtta take the day, too. ❞ Gin kept his stride despite Rangiku’s slowing a step or two in response.

          ❝ Don’t poke fun, I’m respecting her space. ❞ A huff, a pout. Rangiku’s hand flew back by habit to rest on the hilt of her sword as though a reassuring shoulder pat whilst coming to the defense of a friend. Haineko was not an easy spirit, Gin knew that much from her various complaints about any meditation being ‘time spent wasted’, mostly. HE WOULDN’T JUDGE, but he also couldn’t help but wonder... did the spirit feel like it was missing something, was Haineko so temperamental about helping Rangiku become stronger because it was a Zanpakuto with a gaping wound ? Was she unable to ascend any further because of what Aizen took ?

           That was a topic for another day. Gin smiled, instead, and kept matters light.

          ❝ Is that what they’re callin’ it these days ? ❞

         RANGIKU SHOT HIM A LOOK, the look, and Gin relented to her.

          ❝ Alright, alright — you’re right. ❞ 

          They walked towards the gates leading beyond the Seireitei together, quiet, for the rest of their route. IT WAS NICE OUTSIDE, a light breeze on a cool day, and the sun was shining past the curtain of gray that had been the previous few days, making its light feel all the warmer despite winter’s telltale chill. The two Shinigami took to a path through the Northern Rukongai, towards the mountainous range far beyond, avoiding the cleared streets for less commotion and conflict with the residents lurking within their shacks. INSTEAD, THEY TOOK THE SCENIC ROUTE, crunching leaves and swaying trees above, brisk, they both knew where to go, even if things had changed since the last century or so. The clearing was vast, outlined by barren trees towards the outskirts of a vacant skeleton row of houses left abandoned, dry dirt at their feet telltale of grounds over-farmed for rare nutrients. Rangiku idly unpacked their provisions; a decently sized blanket geared towards a picnic set-up, a few snacks packed lovingly, some sake bottles  ( of course she would )  ... and at that point Gin turned away to see her unearth nothing further, shaking his head yet smiling all the same. He surveyed their space, the trees, and hummed softly.

          ❝ Dunno — ❞ he projected his voice back to her as he gazed out, then scuffed his foot against the dirt as though testing it, an absent fidget. Looking back to her as she situated their little day outdoors, he couldn’t help but recall the tremoring fracture of Haineko as it absorbed Shinso’s impact, meant for an unconscious Hinamori. HE ALMOST BROKE HER SWORD THEN, back when he had far more control, and now...

          ❝ ... Maybe y’shouldn’t be out here with me, I might nick ya. ❞ Their eyes met for a brief moment before hers went back down to arranging their things, busywork as she thought. Gin watched. She seemed to catch his uncertainty, or at least a portion of it.

          ❝ Well... how about we start small... ❞ Rangiku replied with a gentle hum, then subsequently pat the space next to her as she situated herself onto the blanket, with Haineko on the opposing side, sheathed and set proper. Gin obeyed, approaching and slowly lowering himself down next to her as desired. He slid Shinso free from his waist, then set it down in a way which mirrored Rangiku, head tilting at her suggestion. ❝ Let’s both drop in and say hi. That’s easy, right ? ❞

          ❝ Thought y’were givin’ her space. ❞ Gin eyed her with a weakened playfulness.

          ❝ The lengths I’ll go for you. ❞ SHE DID NOT MISS A BEAT.

          Fair enough, Jinzen it was. Gin shrugged and sighed out, then took Shinso to place the sheathed blade into position across his legs within his lap. He sneakily peered at Rangiku for a moment as she also assumed the meditative position, endearingly so, especially the subtle frown of concentration caressing her expression, the fluttered eyelashes pressing closed in focus, the stray hairs tickling at her temples with the slightest kiss of a breeze. Gin hesitated only a second longer, then shifted and closed his eyes, too.

          THE CONNECTION SURGED WITHIN AN INSTANT.

          Whipping winds rushed around him, and he was no longer seated within a pleasant clearing, dirt and grass and swaying trees, no. GIN WAS WITHIN A BARREN WORLD NOW, assaulted by snow and ice and freezing air that ripped at his form. When he opened his eyes to seek the giant serpent within his inner world, the space not even two steps ahead of him wasn’t visible past the blizzard and downpour of snow and icy mist, graying his surroundings in such brutality that nary an outstretched hand could be seen, let alone a mountainous range of sleek silver scales stretching for kilometers down a frozen lake. If he couldn’t see Shinso, then the near-blind spirit certainly couldn’t see him. GIN VENTURED OUT ONTO THE ICY SURFACE MADE SMOOTH, black shoes the sole contrast in an otherwise white outfit — ah, wait, Gin stopped to inspect himself, a jarring moment of two hands raised to observe a familiar pale outfit he hadn’t been wearing prior to entering this world; Shinso hadn’t seen him since Karakura Town, of course, so perhaps there had been a disconnect in what he was wearing when manifested... among other things which needed updating. Gin flexed his right hand, curious, and then clutched it shut. It felt cold, no aid to be given by his current environment, but it was distinctly more numb than his left. Odd.

          Clearly, they needed some catching up.

          Careful steps slid forward across the frozen water, though Gin did not fear falling through; it rarely thawed, he must’ve been just a kid when it was thinned enough for his curious childish eyes to catch fish swimming beneath his feet. Sometimes the snow died down to a gentle dusting, a pleasant whisper of winter as opposed to this oppressive force. Gin did not shiver quite yet, though shielded his eyes in searching for his Zanpakuto’s massive spirit; SURELY HE’D SPOT HIM BY NOW...

          Maybe he’d taken shelter, in which case Gin doubled back from wandering across the stilled lake, treaded back through heavy snow till it reached his knees and numbed his legs with a wet clinging chill. NOW he was shivering...

          ❝ Shinso ?! ❞ Though Gin did not normally SHOUT, he attempted to do so now, only for it to feel as though his voice had been swept away by the winds and swallowed right up. No luck, he’d just have to go looking around; the shack had to be his next best bet, perhaps his spirit wasn’t in its truest form right now, hunkered down to survive the turmoil and relentless weather beneath a rickety old wooden home not nearly big enough for a thirteen kilometer serpent dragon to squeeze into. Gin had half the mind to Shunpo over, make things quick, but with the winds and howling pelts of snow, he couldn’t quite tell which direction to go. At least, a few spare boards of wood knocked against his ankle, a hissing collision that told Gin to veer right, THERE IT WAS, somehow — almost practically buried, this pathetic thing he called home once, long ago. The raised point of its triangular rooftop was half caved, that same damned spot as always seemed to have given way for the ice and snow to pour in. The entryway was completely swallowed, snow climbing to the last few breaths of its threshold. Gin would have to dig.

          By the time an opening presented itself, his hands were sufficiently numbed, reddened and bared till he felt blistering begin from the bite of cold... but at the very least he could wedge his way inside —— small quarters, and half was obstructed from the pile pooling in at the doorway, and another opening from the roof let snow pillar upwards in the pale light filtering through. THE SHACK MADE EVERYTHING SOUND QUIETER, softened sounds kept at bay via the buried snow packing its wooden frame into place. IT WAS SMALL ENOUGH FOR GIN TO KNOW THAT HE WAS ALONE IN HERE, no one else could be curled up in any corner, and he braced himself against the neighboring wall once he finished wriggling through the snow. He shook both his hands to get feeling back into them, but his left merely stung as his right moved in numbed silence. On the dirt floor, a gleam caught Gin’s eyes.

          There, disregarded on the ground, was his blade.

          Gin took it, breathed in, and then turned to clamber his way back outside. Shinso had to be near, on the lake somewhere, for this sword to be laying around. THERE WAS NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, A SIMPLE ABYSS. Maybe the serpent had traveled across the stretching grand lake fully, into the mountainous horizon beyond ? Had his Zanpakuto spirit retreated inward so thoroughly ? Well, now Gin had the blade, so he could hone in, at the very least, if he got warm. Speaking of warm, IT WAS FREEZING ! 

         ❝ Who’re ya, HYORINMARU now ?! ❞ A futile prod at the absent spirit thusly swallowed by the winds again. Gin kept his stride onto the lake again, glad to be freed from knee-high heavy snow swallowing his every step. Here, he could glide across the sleek surface with a single step, the frozen waters only subtly dusted by snow as the winds stole all else and kicked it back up into the cold air. Gin huffed out a visible breath, then veered onwards.

          The first thrum of energy, awakening, wasn’t quite felt; his palm was completely numbed into a state of occasional biting stings, hot across the rayskin gripped within a raw palm, and Gin thought nothing of it. Until the second pulse, a shudder cracking the ground beneath his feet —— and the blade in his hand was the beacon, the epicenter for the following waves, tremors, threatening to dart another fissure across the glassy ice below. Gin fought instincts to retreat, and instead knelt down to inspect the lake’s surface. FROSTED, CAPTURED BUBBLES OF AIR AND OTHER DEBRIS WITHIN THE WATER AS IT WAS FROZEN MADE FOR AN IMPERFECT REFLECTIVE SURFACE, and thus Gin was able to squint past its thick ice and into the depths, in which a gleam of rows of silver scales laid dormant below.

          It was Shinso in all of his magnificent glory, stretching its large snake-like husk for miles beneath the ice, swirling its silver-armored hide as though frozen in the act of coiling, slithering, writhing out in a gaping expression, massive fangs shrinking Gin in size, mouth opened wide just underneath where its master now stood, forked tongue reaching blindly out for the surface it did not breech. AH, HE MUST HAVE DROWNED INTO THE ICY WATERS, capsizing during Gin’s downfall, and then stolen away by the Second Division to never recover. Locked into a frozen tomb.

          The blade beckoned within his hand, and he knew Shinso needed more than some idling observations. FREEDOM.

          Gin plunged his blade into the ice, stabbed deep, then withdrew it to stab and chip again at another spot, cutting and wedging the blade in attempts to fracture the frozen lake. IT WAS MINISCULE, HIS EFFORTS WITH A SMALL BLADE, but bit by bit ... Gin reckoned he could carve the spirit free with the dormant wakizashi in his hand, all thirteen kilometers of him if need be...

          There was blood mixed with chunks of shattered ice, shreds of snow and frozen water tainted by crimson as Gin worked with blistering hands rubbed raw in the cold. HE WAS CERTAIN HE COULDNT FEEL HIS FINGERS ANYMORE, and both hands were needed to anchor his strikes downward as he worked to free his frozen companion from the ice. Gin couldn’t let go either, his hands were both stiff and clamped shut around his weapon; like it or not, this was his only option. By now, there was an ample section around the grand snake’s snout almost to the point in which Gin could reach down and touch scales rather than ice. HE STILL HAD PLENTY MORE SNAKE TO DIG OUT, and kept to his duty despite the sting of winter beating him down. He must’ve dug for hours more, clearing out adequate space around the serpent’s head. Gin paused to breathe, having clambered his way down towards the beginnings of Shinso’s throat beneath the smooth surface, and quietly shivered into a curled position during his break. HE COULDN’T STOP SHAKING NOW...

          ❝ Th-this would be easier i-if I h...ad a shovel, y’know, ❞ Gin shuddered and clamped his jaw, then focused back on keeping his momentum, his motivation, his drive — he struck his blade back into the ice. A tremor shook the lake again, odd sounds creaking and groaning, echoing, rebounding into the abyss as the ice shifted beneath Gin’s feet. IN AN INSTANT, THE ICE BEGAN TO SPLIT, shattering and breaking apart into freezing waters below, and Gin was promptly swallowed into the depths.

          Had he not been numbed by it all prior, Gin figured his subsequent drowning into icy waters would have struck his body like a building being slammed onto his chest. His lungs instantly jolted to a choking halt, and his entire frame went rigid in arrest, sent plunging down into swirling dark water, ripping currents — falling, falling, brittle to the bone with cold Gin felt akin to dying, shards of freezing glass pelting around him, and a final gasp of his lungs expelled the last of his air. SURELY HE WAS DYING, could he even die inside his inner world ? He couldn’t remember the specifics, the logic in him whispered something but he couldn’t hear it, and everything was fuzzy.

          A solid surface struck him, lifted, until Gin breeched the surface in a splash and sputter, coughing and hacking at the water that managed to squeeze itself into his ragged breaths. THE WINDS WERE RELENTLESS STILL, merciless to his now soaked frame shivering atop the massive sleek scales of Shinso’s coiling body. From the corner of Gin’s eyes, half-shut by slickened bangs and wet hair already freezing in the winds, he saw the large shadow of Shinso’s raising head, the darting flick of his forked tongue casting a delayed dash of air displaced by its large, quick motion. Gin cracked a smile even in his pain, his shivering pathetic state.

         ❝ G-good to s...see ya, ❞ and a cough, a teeth-clattering shudder. Gin straightened the best he could, hunched for warmth he could not find, yet feeling a spark underneath the intense gaze of the serpent housing him. WAVES OF WATER CLASHED AGAINST KAMISHINI NO YARI’S MONSTROUS FORM BELOW, Gin was raised higher now, almost enough to cut above the low storm clouds up high, into the night sky beyond the gray. The serpent was its own mountain range, coils stretched beyond visibility and off across the rest of the grand lake now shattered below. HE COULD FEEL SHINSO’S RELIEF; at being released from his tomb, his state of suspended death, yet also at Gin, MORESO AT GIN, glad to see its master still alive.

          BOOMING IN HIS TEMPLES, HIS MIND ALIGHT, NUMEROUS VOICES SPOKE AT ONCE...

          Are you alright  ( where did you go )  is Aizen still alive  ( why did you not draw me out )  why did we not fight  ( why did I feel you give in )  did we win  ( where is Rangiku )  did Ichigo prevail  ( did Karakura Town fall )  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU ? WE DID NOT FADE SO WE KNEW YOU DID NOT DIE, AND YET... WE COULD ONLY WAIT AND DESPAIR !

          ❝ We — n-need to... t-talk. ❞ 

[godkilller]

DRABBLE    //    REDEMPTION VERSE.

          JOLTING TO LIFE, EYES SNAPPING OPEN THEN SQUEEZED SHUT, HE IMMEDIATELY SWALLOWED BACK A COUGH. A strained, rough and rude awakening in the dead of night. A brief moment of disorientation led Gin to swiftly feel for the presence beside him; had he been coughing in his sleep, did she wake up from it ? In observing, in the slow, ragged breaths that followed, he found that she hadn’t. Thankfully. Sluggishly, careful, Gin began the tedious process of untangling himself from the sheets, from the mess of limbs splayed together, without further disturbance. FEATHERLIGHT MOTIONS. He held his breath at times, cautiously detaching himself, until at last freed to roll himself to the edge of their shared bed.

          He sucked in another breath, especially, as a familiar burning ache clawed within his throat, prompting him to go rigid in refusal to hack up a lung in the bedroom.

          Straightening up, Gin chose his footing deliberately, extremely avoidant of certain known sections of their dark abode’s flooring to creak or groan under a step’s weight. He snuck himself out of their room, down the hall, and towards the washroom with a practiced silence. There, and once enclosed, he promptly heaved and coughed into the cold basin. A white-knuckled grip at the sink’s edge kept him steady as he strained to keep his volume down, keep his fit quiet. Wheezing coughs were rough, heavy, wet against his throat, and his lungs felt drowned.

          Sputters subsiding, Gin shuddered and lowered himself down onto the cool floor, propping his back against the opposing wall behind him. Calmly, quietly, quietly, he tiredly cursed out something broken and huffed in a few breaths. In, out, until he felt control ease back in. The washroom floor was nice, chilly even, he felt overheated in comparison. Gin closed his eyes. Breathed. The air ached around him, this sad and pathetic kind of crispness to it, sharp, the way a blade cut through skin.

          Absently, he sought past the loosened opening of his yukata and reached to press his palm to his heart, a small raised scar seeped with that same weight, constant, thrumming in pangs. He could feel it linger at his fingers, as though some black fire spreading upon touch, and Gin half expected to be able to see some terrible black and purple hue licking at the digits when he brought them to his gaze. Eyes narrowed in the dim dark.

          Nothing.

          Just his hand, without ailment, shaking subtly. Gin sat illuminated by a high moon outside draining through the washroom window, dazedly staring at his hand, and confirmed to himself that he was in some feverish daydream. Stupidly sitting here... imagining thick flame eating at his chest, the back of his neck, sticking to his temples and biting, shivering. Damn it if it didn’t hurt sometimes, as though pierced anew... when he lost himself in the ache of it all, he could feel the blade nestled in his ribcage. It slid narrowly past his heart, this poisonous fang flooding his lungs, his veins.

          Gin knew he should’ve gotten up and went back to bed, really, he knew better than to linger in the cold air like this. At this rate, laying around on the floor, he’d end up making himself more sick. BUT HE NEEDED JUST A LITTLE LONGER... to make sure he didn’t return to bed only to wake Rangiku up an hour later to his rasping coughs. At least one of them deserved to sleep through the night.

[godkilller]

          THE DOWNPOUR WAS NUMBED, faded off into the back of Gin’s attention whilst he stood beneath its mercy, unbothered otherwise with how he was promptly drenched by the rains. Rushing footsteps splashed across the walkways beyond as Shinigami hurriedly made their travels swift during the storm. Gin stood still, silent, and looked on. A familiar entryway before him was merely a few steps ahead, pleasant yet bare, and would provide plenty of cover if he dared near it further. His feet carried him here on a memory, an idle thought triggering muscles to lock into routine, swaying into motion to follow the unseen currents of prior decades trailing around him. Sucking him in like a yawning black hole. By all means, it was an average dwelling. Vacant, even, and all the more inviting for Gin to take shelter within till the storm passed. Yet... Aizen Sousuke used to live here.

          No, that was wrong. Not just Aizen —— Gin, too. He may as well have lived here alongside the other, and now he’d have to carry on with that bittersweet memory of good tea and a warm glow, burning incense, a flame’s reflection against gleaming glasses. HOW GIN WOULD SIMULTANEOUSLY TENSE YET RELAX once he passed through the doorway, as though readying himself both for battle and for a calmer tide; the duality of finding comforts with his loathesome enemy, of wanting to stay sharp whilst also understanding the heart he wanted to one day stab. 

          The reinstated captain took a step, a single one, and the rest was history. After all, wasn’t that how it all started?

          It was a barren place, emptied; nothing vandalized akin to the Third Division’s office upon Gin’s reentry into the Gotei 13 —— no one dared to bother with Aizen’s private quarters in comparison to the much more public venture of ruining the traitor’s operations as captain instead. NOTHING WAS LEFT BEHIND, certainly nothing to note of the man who almost crushed Soul Society. Aizen was far too private, far too guarded. Their blueprints and plots for conquering Las Noches would have been burned after their discussions, not necessarily out of paranoia or excessive precautions, but out of thoroughness and cleanliness. They were not fools enough to flaunt their goals into a visible paper trail, though Gin imagined he’d find some fake journal in Aizen’s pretty little handwriting stuffed somewhere special and just obscure enough to be possibly considered a catch, like a little last-laugh present for anyone who dared comb through his abode once he betrayed his title. It wouldn’t have anything in it worth Gin’s time, though. Certainly not closure.

          Anything else abundantly personal didn’t exist. Their board games and tea cups, pots, and other modes of socialization didn’t carry a scent to most, nothing to indicate the mind of the man no one could understand. BUT GIN REMEMBERED MORE THAN THE FACADE OF HIM, he remembered pleasant chats and chuckles, snarky quips, and good praises for his wit and sharp nature, AND THE WAY THAT HAD MADE HIM HAPPY. And that was what made it worse.

          That Aizen wasn’t simply some awful, dark, terrible man capable of monstrosities, he was not solely a force for Gin to tunnel his hatred towards, some big terrible villain. HE WAS MANY THINGS. There was a detestable amount of warmth retained in the way Gin still politely scuffed off his shoes at the door, and made sure to not excessively drip onto the walkway into the main room. He stepped quietly, as though to not disturb the non-existent host at such a late hour, until Gin stood in the center. As much as the Rukongai kept its grasp around Gin’s roots, his growth attributed to its harshness yet vital strings tying him to his fate, his happening across Rangiku... this place, too, held worth.

          GIN GREW UP HERE, he learned various strategy games here in the dim light, was taught with a gentle tone how to properly fasten his Zanpakuto to his side for ceremony, and how pronounce 'non sequitur’ and how best to serve tea including the proper way to pour it for another. THEY DIVULGED THEIR SECRETS UNDER THIS ROOF, in this room. Just beyond, towards the outer walkway, Gin learned of Kyoka Suigetsu’s one great weakness. He celebrated his promotions to lieutenant and later his captaincy here, over a few drinks —— an unshakable sensation that Aizen’s proud praises for his rising subordinate were not false or shallow in performance. Here, his cleverness grew cheeky, became bold; Aizen humored his mischief, his pranks and his blunt and challenging speech. At some point they became equals, or at the very least in the way their sizing up of one another ceased to be a thickly coated tense prowl, but rather a smooth-flowing dance. By the time Gin reached Bankai, a shift happened, a clicking into place: Aizen must have known then that he now shared his dwellings with the only person who could kill him.

          Something like respect, perhaps. Or acknowledgement. An understanding.

          In this room, Gin ventured to understand Aizen. Watched him with his flowing poetry, his fake glasses, his wafting incense and elegant posture, his flowing robes and perfection a gaping wound; YOU’RE SO INCREDIBLY LONELY, Gin had thought at him, SO PAINFULLY HOLLOW YOU’LL KEEP SWALLOWING EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE UP UNTIL NOTHING’S LEFT ————

          A rolling rumble of distant thunder shattered the illusion. Gin blinked, then slowly raised his remaining hand to swipe away the dripping rainwater from his eyes. He stood alone, empty, in a vacant room.

[godkilller]

          DRABBLE    //    VAMPIRE ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.

          ❝ Body’s been drained recent, reckon that devil’s still breathing down our necks — keep your gun up, boy, ❞ a gruff command as the elder of the two Hunters arose from his previously knelt position … inspecting a fresh kill sprawled out, blue lipped and contorted; Gin had ripped a measurable chunk out of their throat and in the act of force caused their feeble neck to snap ajar, crooked and ugly. Both legs were ripped from the knees, a sign of desperate and agonized crawling appearing in the form of dark streaks within the dirt of the neglected barn’s floor.

          The younger one had to be within his older teens, early adulthood; though there was no distinct tremor showing across the barrel of his shotgun held level, alert, Gin could still detect the tangible scent of doubt, insecurity, hesitation that would inevitably make him the best candidate for his first pick.

          ❝ Couldn’t have gone far from here, it’s open fields and the sun’s coming up soon. It’ll have to find shelter till night. ❞ Ah, Gin could have chuckled at the Hunter’s severe underestimation of his strengths. A grin ripped itself across his features quite viciously, instead, sharp and devious. Bloodied hands perched atop bent knees, crouched as he surveyed his prey from above, Gin deliberately did not clamber to hide, nor did he move to stop the telltale dripping of blood to fall from his clawed fingers, down, down, and onto the dusty tractor below.

          The lightest tap, tap, tap of the liquid’s pooling at last alerted the teen, who moved forward as though to vanquish the equipment itself as the threat … spooked, perhaps, into perceiving shadow and monster within the machinery. HE NOTICED THE BLOOD, ITS PITTER-PATTERING DRIP, THEN LOOKED UP —————

          ————— AND GIN LUNGED.

          The boy yelped and staggered back, a lagging gesture of raising his gun allowing Gin ample time to reach out, grasp its barrel, and clench his grip to collapse its throat. THE KID MUST HAVE THOUGHT HE COULD PULL THE TRIGGER FASTER, because the subsequent shot he attempted to fire promptly BLASTED BACK INTO HIS FACE. The vampire released his hold upon the weapon and let the kid thud onto his back. His gurgled scream melted with his father’s, who outcried oh so passionately and shot a biting silver bullet into Gin’s side with vengeance.

          It only burned a little, and did nothing to stop him from advancing into a blur of motion, a snarl — two panicked shots went wide — and a slamming impact with the man’s side shook the barn’s creaking frame. Gin pushed till his sharpened claws felt a gush of fresh blood swell from their point of entry, a crack of some ribs driving his hand deeper into the man’s gut. His silver-loaded gun went tumbling.

          HE CLAMBERED AT FIRST, THEN SEEMED TO ACCEPT HIS FATE … slumping, sputtered out like a dying engine, Gin tilted his head as his prey seemed spent already … ?

          A desperate blood-slicked hand grasping prayer beads interlocked around his outstretched arm.

          ❝ I-imperet illi Deus ... supplices deprec—— ❞ A wheezing cough spat with blood as the man attempted his little spell.

          PATHETIC.

          A roaring display of fangs shifted into sight, an ugly and aggressive row of dagger-teeth elongated whilst jaw opened wide, a hissing release of breath spoke death, brow marred itself into pale anger, ferocious, as eyes flared aglow in the darkness fading into dawn. Rather … reversed, jolted away from the savior of day, the darkness ceased its dying into the light. A dreadful groan of the air, the wood in the walls, the ground itself beneath them signaled blackened winds and a plunging heaviness.

          ❝ —— … t.. tuque, Princeps militiae ca — elestis, ❞ Gin lifted him with ease from his feet via the hand embedded into his stomach, and the winds howled. Behind him, he felt the strained wheeze of life cling to the younger one, some progress made in his feeble attempt to sit up in the bloodied mess of his shattered rife’s ruin ... its bite brutal across his face and chest. Non-fatal, it seemed, though the injury was enough to dispute his chances of surviving Gin at all; a red flare in the dark, his blood.

          ❝ D-dad———— ❞ a whine, a plea, a sorrowful exchange — oh, it was enough to make Gin scrunch his nose up as though catching wind of a terrible scent; sick.

          ❝ S...satanam a..liosque spiritus malignos ! ❞

          THE BEADS WERE BEGINNING TO BURN, searing their holy prayer into his skin even past his layers of clothing. That was enough. Though the spell’s strength wouldn’t defeat him, Gin disliked the idea of allowing the Hunter to finish it. No angel or wrath of any god was going to come save them now.

          Gin ripped his hand away from his stomach, ravaging an organ or two in his exit, and moved swiftly to deny the body a chance to fall from its lifted state. No, rather, it remained arrested, held stiff in the air, arms lifted akin to a doll’s in control; THE MAN HOVERED IN A SECOND’S WORTH OF A LULL BEFORE BEING THROWN BACKWARD AGAINST THE WALL. Gin twirled his outstretched hand, rolled his bloodied wrist, and the Hunter’s body turned upside-down with his arms out. Oh, look, Gin made him into an inverted cross ! Cute.

          A nearby muddy bucket clambered and slid at Gin’s will across the grounds and bumped itself into the wall just beneath his prey’s head. Idly, Gin surveyed his surroundings as he kept his hand out, steady, invisible grasp keeping his food frozen in place. Ah, there we are, nice big gardening shears.

          The subsequent rushing thunk of the bladed tool being sent into the Hunter’s jugular was, in Gin’s taste, a satisfying use of his powers. His prey writhed and choked on thick blood and blades alike until he swiftly stilled. A stream of crimson gushed and poured perfectly into the awaiting bucket below. Good.

          A strangled sob filled what would have been a pleasant silence thereafter.

          Gin turned, lowered his hand, and stepped lightly towards the boy, looming, the air weighed down with doom and despair thick as the splashing of blood into an amply filled bucket. THE BARN GROANED, DARKNESS STILL TRAPPED WITHIN ITS OLD HUSK, GIN ITS BLACK HOLE AT THE EPICENTER, a trembling ordeal. The young hunter’s broken, bleeding face screwed up in distraught terror; an unholy thing laid before him to witness. Scooting backward whilst the beast advanced, his lackluster retreat ended quickly; back against an overturned wheelbarrow, Gin lingered and prowled just at his feet’s edge. 

          He didn’t have a bucket to use for this one. The more direct method, then.

          A shame.

[godkilller]

DRABBLE  //  VAMPIRE ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.

continued from here.

          THE DOWNPOUR WAS INTENSE, IF HE HAD ANY HUMANITY LEFT IN HIM HE’D PERHAPS SHIVER UNDER THE WEIGHT OF WET CLOTHES AND CHILLING WINDS. But Gin continued on, diluted blood trailing in his wake. Some was his — a weeping wound at his side, unable to heal due to the biting sting of silver festering between ribs — but most of the blood flooding away from his form, the rain washing away his sins, had not been his. 

          Just a little run-in with two hunters; an older man and his son, who had been hot on Gin’s tail for... hm, maybe a month or two, lurking behind each kill the silver demon took until finally they arrived when the ripped throat was still warm, still freshly slain, and the beast had descended upon them with wrath from above. HOW ANNOYING.

          Their fates were brutal, but swift. So quick, in fact, that Gin still had to pluck out that bullet that managed to hit him. Better to do so away from the kills, away from the bloodshed soon to be detected by the hunter’s next of kin, or their contact most likely... checking in when their phones went silent, never to answer another call again. As one of the older kinds of vampires, he had learned that it was always smarter to duck down and weave, as opposed to draw out a rampage of bloodshed in the same place.

          Not that many could stop Gin, or even hinder him. Regardless, it was common practice to vanish after such a high profile slaughter; hunters had friends, after all.

          The rains would clear him of any trail they could possibly follow. And the dismal weather also allowed Gin to seek out his shelter, his temporary yet comfortable home, a simple apartment bared of personal items save a few. He had fled the outskirts, the farms and fields, and found shelter in the dull cityhood of gray skies and deep seasons of dark cold air, less active streets during these downpours, yet still perfect pickings for food. 

          The lack of blatant sunlight currently allowed Gin to move freely in his quiet retreat, too. A nice bonus after a long night. He slid down the last backroad to shift upward, a blurring motion landed him outside his loft’s fire escape, the clambering raindrops pattered against metal and obscured the remaining hints of blood dripping from him. Better than chancing the lobby, the stairs inside; Gin bypassed all possible interaction as he swept his window open from the outside, then hunched down and hopped through.

          Drenched overcoat was immediately dropped from his shoulders, peeled from arms and abandoned in a heap against tile floors. Though the motion of undress did tug and stretch at the wound in his side, Gin did not hiss nor cringe, a passive act unfitting of a man injured. He sat himself against the countertop beside him, slowly rucked up his shirt, and sucked in a breath. There were tendrils beginning around the bullet hole, stretching out across pale skin akin to a poison, grayed veins wailing and burning.

          Gin sighed out the air he had been holding... and straightened. His fingers twitched, shifted, sharpened claws emerging on will, elegant and terrible — then they plunged themselves directly into the straining wound. Skin tore, squelched, and bled whilst he dug past his knuckles, nearing his wrist, into his own side.

          Prize found, sizzling against the bloodied pads of his fingers, Gin withdrew the bullet from inside of his ribcage with a huff. Blood gushed on exit, a wound widened by the act, yet as the silver was removed from his body, the telltale signs of poison, of the weakening effect silver had, the vampire’s wound began to mend itself. Sluggish at first, then rapidly.

          Gin closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, still holding the offender within his hand as a subtle stinging, a slight wisp of smoke from burning flesh rising into the air of his darkened kitchen. He loosened his thumb’s pressing hold and allowed the metal to roll down his index finger, lulling into the center of his palm, as though idly admiring the warped bullet for what it was worth: this was what could kill his kind, if it struck their heart.

          Lightning struck outside, the storm raging harder, illuminating past the wide window across the room, shading him into something inhuman, a dark entity. Eyes aglow, vibrant blue sharp as daggers as they observed his palm.

          The beast closed his hand and clenched, crushing the bullet into dust, into feeble particles that joined the blood, the rainwater, on the floor. 

[godkilller]

DRABBLE: CAPTAIN VERSE

           Rain pitter-pattered its way down rooftop tiles, growing puddles collecting droplets in excess across the Fifth Division. Sloshy footsteps, scurrying Shinigami, the day had grown dim in light of the passing storm of thick clouds above. Sunlight swallowed, Gin walked swift, sacrificing the use of an umbrella ( unlike the distant passerby during his journey from the Third Division ) in favor of going completely unnoticed. A shadow in the dark, haori billowing behind long strides. Besides, it was faster without that protection, and it was not too terribly cold out for all the trouble------a preference of his, perhaps, as others were already bundling up for the oncoming winter chill. It was easy enough for Gin to move in the darkened light undetected, not many wished to venture outside in the gloomy weather, so the captain felt no issue in turning outright down that familiar path to route towards Aizen’s quarters.

          Gin invited himself in wordlessly, aware that his attendance was expected.

          Incense, as always, wafted to greet him. Tidy, only one pair of shoes beside his own ( that he was in the process of removing ) remained. Tousen would not be joining them tonight, it seemed, but that made plenty of sense considering it’d draw too much attention for three captains to meet outside of official business hours----not within the walls of their offices, or on the grounds of their respective divisions. No, to meet rather in the privacy of Aizen’s personal dwelling would raise alarm. Alone, then, they’d conduct their strategies.

          Gin hated how homey the man crafted the place into. Warm. Surface-level nostalgic.

          Late nights swayed into his peripheral vision akin to a ghost, young, seated straight, trying to stay awake without indication of struggle----Tousen and Aizen’s low tones speaking of experiments, tea warming his hand. A terrible displacement, to feel comfortable in the den of his ENEMY. Yet, he had to embrace the sensation of settling, of accepting the false sanctuary forced upon him. Now, with decades piled on, Gin stood with only the vague echo of the distaste he once held. A testament to his loathing, he supposed, that there still remained a tangible dislike. Combatting comfort, always. Never quite resting.

          He shook his head briefly at the thought, letting wet silver strands dry via quick motion, then crouched to place his discarded shoes, muddied, beside Aizen’s. He did not sneak, nor cloak his arrival, yet Aizen had clearly awaited blatant sound to arise for him to voice some semblance of a greeting. How polite.

         ❝ ——you’ll catch a cold, Gin, ❞ his voice traveled well into the main entryway of his home; Gin did not pause in walking towards the silhouetted figure by candlelight, seated beyond shoji screens awaiting. Revealed upon the sliding of a nearby door, Aizen sat before a small situation of paper and ink, flickering candles, the smell of incense swaying against the outermost wall. He was without his Shinigami uniform, rather donned with earthly toned robes, broad shoulders draped with an extra layer to stifle the looming chill. A single cushion awaited, and Gin stepped forward.

          ❝ WORRIED ‘bout me ? Don’t call for a meetin’ when it’s pouring, then, ❞ Gin delivered his reply swiftly, quick alongside the prompt plop of his form to seat himself across from the other’s poised stature. He hadn’t gotten too soaked during his walk, and soon enough in the all too inviting warmth of Aizen’s home, the touch of rain upon him would dry off. Sickness hadn’t struck Gin down for several years now----so the concern was misplaced, an outdated lecture from the days the Rukongai’s starvation still remained fresh, his body unaccustomed to the demanding lifestyle of a rising Shinigami’s regimen. Now, strange care from a parental figure ill-suited for him hovered from spoken words. Patronizing.

          ❝ Should we pause our tasks until spring ? I thought you didn’t mind the cold. ❞ 

          ❝ I wouldn’t mind a break, ❞ a falsified whine, exaggerated, lived and died purely for the sake of creating an exchange between them. His dramatics were easy enough to rely on when all else between them suffocated in silence.

          Gin earned a weak, soft, annoying hum in reply. Aizen’s gaze hadn’t left the poetry each brushstroke seemed to create, fluid----though the Third Division captain knew the other’s attention would not dare deviate in his presence. Leaning, Gin casually tested the invisible boundary in constant place between them, prodding in the form of a curious gaze, a playful grin, to tilt his chin in order to observe the other’s writing in motion. Under the guise of curiosity, absent-minded, humming low, GIN WATCHED HIM. Every motion of his wrist, the lightness of the brush’s graze across the surface, ink refined, elegant, perfect. A free-flowing thought made into word, into artistic commentary so pridefully humbled, reigning towards undefined regal tones. Royalty wouldn’t have suited him, though----too many confining rules, fit-the-box narratives. 

          Whilst lingering, Aizen’s posture did not falter nor stiffen, to brace, in Gin’s proximity. Reiatsu remained regular, a steady flow, a pulse unbothered----but GIN KNEW AIZEN WAS WATCHING HIM CLOSELY. Glasses glinting in the dim light, obscuring dark eyes omnipresent, focused. The air didn’t lie, subtle, thickened. Miniscule, but enough------------

          A shame the other’s Zanpakuto wasn’t within visible reach. Could be an illusion.

          ❝ Some classic soft-spoken  “ cap’n Aizen ”  poetry, I see... Careful, if ya come across as too thoughtful, everybody’ll start to think you’re up to somethin’. Y’should say some dumb shit sometimes, it’ll throw th’ scent, ❞ Gin scooted back, away, satisfied with his observation enough to recline against propped arms pressed behind, leaning. 

          ❝ Perhaps you’re right, Gin, you’ll have to show me. ❞

          ❝ Ahhh, don’t be so loooonely, cap’n Aizen, it shoooows...  did ya call me here to bicker ‘n be snobby, or plot ‘nd be snobby ? ❞

          ❝ Hm. My apologies, ❞ poetry discarded, gently placed aside to properly dry and for ink to settle----the fellow captain moved to replace blank paper with blueprints, various maps, sectors of Hueco Mundo charted via their efforts thus far. Las Noches had yet to be conquered, yet Aizen sat himself within its throne in his mind already. Fair enough, though, to go ahead and plan for his immediate changes, his desired ruling’s conditions. Gin knew this Arrancar at the helm currently was quite the bored slob, apparently, and it’d do them no good to run an army amongst rubble and ruin. Straightening his relaxed posture, Gin settled closer once more to properly observe.

          ❝ We’ve made contact with three, this area has no further pieces to offer, ❞ there, Aizen gestured, whilst speaking, across the outskirts----mostly dunes, several caverns hidden beneath white sands and shattered rock. The lands of eternal night stood vast, though luckily the subjects of Aizen’s attention were fairly easy to single out once one became accustomed to scouting out their unique signatures of power. Convincing them to join, however, felt half-assed. Aizen promised very little, in actuality, out loud to them. Instead, so far... most were relying on faith ( an odd phenomenon to witness an inhuman entity to endure ) that the Shinigami meant to bring changes that wouldn’t immediately result in their own demise. Across the desert, dozens were already unsettled by the dull king’s reign. Gin and Tousen would destroy his generals, his top soldiers, before his sunken eyes, beneath that starless sky----at least, that was the plan.

        ❝ How many are ya thinkin’ of eventually roundin’ up for th’ main act ? ❞

          Aizen hummed once more, regarding the various outlines, maps, with vague interest. CONSIDERING HIS OPTIONS, Gin knew the look.

          ❝ I don’t wish Soul Society’s complete destruction, rather, a rebirthing of sorts, ❞ a smooth voice, casual regardless of the topic of Soul Society’s unmaking.

          ❝ ----not too many, then, I reckon. A handful ? ❞

          ❝ Yes... I think that’s sufficient. We don’t want to underestimate our opponents. ❞

          On and on, the storm rolled through the night.

[godkilller]

DRABBLE:  REDEMPTION VERSE

          ❝ Y’could start a whole collection outta these, ❞ Gin projected his voice past his shoulder, back towards the bedroom in which Rangiku was currently stationed——cleaning up her belongings into boxes. Out by her messy kitchen area now stripped ( almost ) bare, Gin sought to sort through the various sake cups she owned, gently stacking, then wrapping bunches with paper to promise survival during travel. IT WASN’T LIKE THEY WERE MOVING VERY FAR. Just northwest, a fair walk through the Eleventh Division. Mostly a residential route, quiet, though Gin had no qualms with using Sentan Hakuja to ease their move. Though his range felt severely depleted due to the strict regulation of his reiatsu———despite becoming a captain again———he figured he could manage.

          While Rangiku was an incredible hoarder, her quarters were suitably sized for a Lieutenant’s rank, allowing ample room for her cluttered ways. For two, however, her domain did not accommodate well. Thus, they felt no hesitation in taking advantage of his more spacious living quarters given in tandem with his haori. It felt right, it felt akin to leaving behind the massive heap of piled clothes, sprawled garments, make-up clattering onto the floor during the mornings due to surfaces overcome, overwhelmed. The looming results of their shared depressions, their coping and lack thereof, their simultaneous struggles to leave the bed. Now, they could start over. Refresh.

          Gin hadn’t ever used his full space when he held the rank prior to the war, so the addition of Rangiku, officially, felt perfect.

          The Gotei 13 had very few instances of shared living amongst its officers, so their union already was the matter of gossip as of late. Better, now, with his reinstatement; things weren’t wholly negative, but Gin’s name still brought hushed tones into conversations. It was fifty-fifty, recently... one part, the lingering reputation of his traitorous acts. The second ? The customs they were currently breaking by continuing to not legitimize their relationship.

          How odd, strange, improper... for a couple to live together without being married.

          PERHAPS HE’D REMEDY THAT——some day, soon... maybe. He knew he should. For now, he needed Rangiku to realize she had over two hundred assorted sake cups shoved within various cabinets throughout her dwelling. Crouched, Gin puffed his cheeks whilst trying to properly arrange a stack into a nearby half-full box, though two fell free of his wrappings, clinking together to roll past a folded tablecloth. He threw his hand up in dramatics, pout audible as he declared, with a whine, into her ( getting there... ) emptied old home.

          ❝ This’s jus’ EXCESSIVE, Rannnngikuuuuuu... ❞

         Gin knew better than to try and throw anything of hers out, deeming it undesirable, and so the majority of the boxes around him were filled to the brim with solely her stuff. In their new home, maybe, he’d exist more prominently via his own belongings. Collecting the escaped drinkware, he plopped them less gently into the box to call it done, then moved to delve deeper into the shelf to his left. Untouched, randomized items alongside a few more glasses and ceramics, pots and dishes, and other additions to her collection were unearthed. Gin paused to withdraw his hand, nose stinging, then promptly turned slightly to sneeze into his sleeve. WEH...

          ❝ It’s so duuusty ‘cause y’started drinkin’ right outta the BOTTLE ! ❞ Another sneeze.

          Gin whined once more, with feeling, until it echoed...

         ... JUST LITTLE DOMESTIC THINGS.

@dokuhai​

[godkilller]

          There had been several talks throughout his stay within Soul Society following Aizen’s defeat------multiple mentions of exile, imprisonment, and even the vague threat of execution lingered into the conversations made in private with the old man. Fair points. Yet Gin behaved, he showed up each time he was summoned despite desiring nothing more than to simply vanish from everyone’s thoughts. Though he abhorred the spotlight, the ex-captain still ventured out past sneering glares, muttered fears, and strong disdain. Whispers of grief surrounded Tousen’s name, particularly in mentioning that the deceased deserved this second chance more than the serpent------if only he had survived instead.

          Gin felt not even a hint of disagreement.

          The traitor was subjected to regular monitoring, check-ups ( as if prolonged feigned loyalty to Aizen were a disease... and actually... Gin wouldn’t dispute that concept ) as well as other regulations upon his reiatsu, where he was allowed to go, what he was able to do------Shinso had been taken immediately until further notice, and the First Division grounds were entirely OFF-LIMITS, for example. Perhaps Yamamoto saw it best that Gin was given no length of proximity to the residence below of which housed Aizen Sousuke himself. Whether or not this was out of interest for Gin’s personal safety, the security of Aizen less he felt some pang of subordination left in him to release the man, or something else entirely was left unsaid.

          The vacancies left in the wake of Aizen’s betrayal ached to be accommodated, fulfilled in case yet another threat presented itself to the now considerably weakened Soul Society. The loss of a single captain was monumental; three had shaken the very foundation. Though a few Shinigami showed promise, strength, in order to fill the respective wounds of the Gotei 13, none were anywhere near experienced enough with their capabilities, leadership, and especially Bankais to confidently receive ample genuine recommendations for the assessment. They seemed more content to continue serving as lieutenants, third seats.

          Gin had overheard the Visored were all candidates, as well as the rumor of Urahara, Yoruichi, becoming potentially welcomed back... though it was ultimately gossip. The thought of Shinji’s company returning to the very organization that shunned and attempted to execute them in their time of need seemed also unlikely. His first captain seemed far too uninterested, bitter even, about the past grievances to so readily step back into line among the comrades that he was forcibly antagonized against. Especially considering Yamamoto’s own prejudice towards hybrids murking the waters of their return, Gin was still presented as an understandably last option for the Gotei 13 to weigh the pros and cons of reinstating. They decided, not him. The traitor had relinquished his choice on the matter of his continued existence the moment the Fourth Division decided to save his life. Leashed by that debt, repayment and reparation expected, he was called upon. Word traveled fast.

          Tasked to pass the captain’s assessments, particularly of his ability to wield his Zanpakuto with stability, strength, and confidence deemed exceedingly acceptable by all onlookers, Gin tackled the unforeseen difficulty of his lack of ambidexterity. Performing the desired test under raised scrutiny, his reiatsu sealed near half, and with his non-dominant hand... all left Gin reeling with potent uncertainty thick in his throat. However, he had no other goal to pursue------the concept of achieving something for himself was then fixated upon not so much for himself, but for the sake of Rangiku’s worried glance as he retreated in their home, in her presence, for months prior. It’d do him no good to so visibly rot in front of her. So he took the haori.

          He still did not advocate his reinstatement.

          The feelings were strongly mutual among the more mouthy Shinigami left outraged, incredulous, by Gin’s acceptance. A persimmon tree stood withered, burnt bare, outside of the building----and he dared to make a more vulnerable display of mourning as he knelt to inspect the trampled garden, sinking to touch the base of his old work and risking a sullied new haori for the trouble. Gone now were a few decades devoted to his tree’s growth----an unfortunately easy target for the fire of anger in drunkness, his previous villainy fresh as the ashes swiped across his palm. He stayed lowered for a moment, empty right sleeve pooled upon dead roots, and hummed softly to himself, then straightened with a sigh.

          When Izuru arrived shortly afterward, in the early morning, dark circles and quiet disposition overwhelmingly present... Gin sent him home before he could enter. Their first encounter following the Winter War could start perhaps on a better foot than this, he figured, and Gin knew a mere ruined garden couldn’t have absorbed the entirety of his vandals’ wrath. A broken window was enough of an indicator from the outside, crisp morning air whispering through the jutting hole. He spent his first day on official duty cleaning a freshly ransacked office. Shattered glass, a discarded empty sake bottle served as an indication of an enabler, resided alongside garbage. The words ‘traitor’ and ‘scum’ were among other emotive, explicit kanji and scribbled markings across the Third Division’s office inner walls, papers scattered and torn, chairs overturned with legs mangled, the base of his desk’s front had been kicked in with wood snapped, and there were black ink smears in trails, footprints, across the room’s floor panels. Quietly, Gin closed the door behind him and stood within the destruction. A strong sense of loyalty, honor even, was not seen as worth seeking to punish------

        GIN KNEW HE DESERVED IT.

          The captain withheld the experience----he thought better than to dwell, have Rangiku dwell, upon the negativity that desperately wished to join their existing stack of struggles.

          Among other issues, his squad needed recruitment. Currently the Third stood thinned of bodies as a result of its decaying status as a deserters division as well as lackluster attempts to maintain its manpower. The Fifth and Ninth Divisions both suffered this stagnation, too, and Gin found himself surrounded by perhaps a dozen, maybe a little more, lingering loyal subordinates who recalled him with fondness still----somehow. Thoughts of inviting them out for drinks, dinner, in a nostalgic sense of routine grazed his mind whilst he finished gathering shards of glass. Though he appreciated their endurance of judgment by their peers and felt genuine pride in having managed to positively impact even just a few of his original subordinates ( the mere idea that his comrades saw in him something to value... ) Gin found he was incapable of mingling among them just yet. They hadn’t come to the grounds that day, taking continued leave to instead wait upon their captain and lieutenant to prepare their tasks for the following day. Gin hadn’t spoken of anything with Izuru, they were both horribly avoidant of what matters they could possibly discuss. Gin didn’t know where to start, but he knew that he didn’t want to begin like this.

          He was still moving in slow motion, sluggish and empty, and heavy shoulders carried the Third’s sigil upon his slouched back with no ounce of pride. Cloudy cleaning, single-handed restoration soaked away hours, daylight dimming, and his body ached painfully. He managed to fix the desk, smoothed over rough edges with careful carving, stripping away all protruding pieces, and most of the ink had washed away with persistent scrubbing. Papers were either thrown away due to damages or organized into piles, and his window was for the moment patched up to avoid a destructive draft from undoing his amends. The walls were harder to clean, still faintly inscribed with messages of hate if one squinted just right. Gin was exhausted when he returned home later in the evening. Funny how their once scandalous shared inhabitance paled now in comparison to his loathed return to rank.

          Maybe Rangiku knew to dial down her excitement, thankfully not daring to treat his homecoming as a childish ‘first day of work!’ ceremony. Instead, she embraced him warmly upon entry, and he succumbed with ease into her arms. Had she been waiting for him? Gin thought he made his return at a fairly reasonable time to avoid the sins of his past, but then again his perception wasn’t quite as sharp as it used to be. Either way, gratitude at Rangiku’s presence surged whilst he bowed his head and turned to burrow his face into wavy strands and that signature scarf of hers. They stood in the doorway together, lingering, as she smoothed her fingers across his back, up the base of his neck, in slow motions. How she soothed him without saying a word. Gin fought the unfitting desire to at last speak, to say something silly, or something vague and typical------or to resound off yet another unworthy expectation, one more forbidden topic, of her; DON’T ASK HOW HIS DAY WAS.

          At last, he whispered against the curve of her collarbone exposed, eyes shut, remaining hand finally raising to softly return her embrace with tired strength.

        ❝ ------------------I'M HOME. ❞

[godkilller]

DRABBLE:  HITMAN AU

          ❝ Y’really want your last words to be ‘bout callin’ me Aizen’s bitch, huh ? ❞ Gin walked slowly, prowling forward with an uncaring air whilst his prey crawled, strained grunts and groans leaving taut jaw bloodied, adding spat breaths’ worth of crimson to the streaked trail behind him. Both his kneecaps were utterly gutted, shattered via bullet(s) with gaping wounds weeping, producing deadweight legs to helplessly drag across the tile floor.

          A pawn rarely talked until the impending sense of dread, death, gathered closer. Thus, the killer loomed behind, crisp footfalls light----yet heavy, too, as a reminder.

          This would go quicker if the guy spat out who, of his pathetic little company, had the balls to steal from Aizen’s neck of the woods. No amount of tough-guy energy could erase the whimpers, the choked sobs of fear and pain, threatening to overcome him. So Gin genuinely doubted it’d take much longer to break the target. Or, he could always shoot something else.

          ❝ It’d be a real shame for sure----what’ll that lady of yours think of sucha word choice ? Maybe I oughtta go ask her... ❞ Gin slowed his speech deliberately, chin tipping up in outright cruel arrogance, as he watched the man beneath him pause his futile retreating motions. Clambering fingers curled into fists as he trembled, cursing beneath pained breaths. TRANSPARENT. He probably didn’t even fucking care about this girl Gin failed to name; he likely had multiple women in his life he used then tossed aside. What, was his bloodloss already so great that he suddenly had delusions of defending a life other than his own ? Cute !

          ❝ C’mon, don’t be so sad... you’ll get to be together. ❞

          At last, a worthwhile reaction surged within the poor deadman’s whimpering form. Whatever the man had hoped to achieve in his desperate kick, jolting strike towards Gin’s ankles, it hadn’t worked. His legs were practically useless, operated on strings of pure will alone, and essentially flailing limbs worth no threat to the gunman. Swift, several silenced shots struck his lunging shoulders----both, then a third into his chest; he did not strike the heart. Gin lowered down into a crouch by his feet whilst the man gasped and fell onto his back, flopping, against the slick floor. A wet cough escaped him, a fish out of water.

         Out of time.

         ❝ That was good, that was real heroic----y’ready to talk, now ? ❞ Glassy eyes began to gaze emptily, seeking the flickering florescent light fixture above, and Gin sighed.

          Two solid taps from an extended left hand, meant to be slightly obnoxious, aimed to idly maintain the other’s conscious state. Prolonging his passing didn’t necessarily promise Gin any sort of answer... he knew this grunt didn’t know shit to begin with. Ultimately, the killer hardly expected anything fruitful from this exchange besides the act of SENDING A MESSAGE to his known associates. But this guy was already dying in a state of utter uselessness, so Gin didn’t find it necessary to even begin to enlighten him of his overall pointless existence any further.

          Absently, the killer observed his weapon, akin to checking beneath one’s fingernails whilst awaiting a reply----gazing across the gun’s surface as it moved in his hand  ( grabbing the helpless man’s drifting attention, watch closely, this is what will deliver the finishing blow ) ... Gin ignored a sputtered cough, guttural, struggling for life. Until, of course, it was no longer a cough but a curse. At him. The near-incoherent words of “fuck you” barely left lips before several more shots were sent, rapid, ruthless, directly through that pathetic mouth of his. 

          No-names really didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

[godkilller]

          ❝ I hope we always get to do this, ❞ she spoke wistfully, punctuating her aspiration with the crisp plop of another pebble thrown into the cool waters. Beside her, the lounging deity hummed----thoughtful, though a signature stretching smile soon spread despite her vaguely serious sentiment.

          ❝ ...throw rocks into a lake? ❞ Gin teased. Rangiku scoffed. The familiarity of their exchange, the playfulness, the rolling of her eyes and puff of her cheeks... merely added to the serene normalcy of their getaway. As though they had always been together, here within the trees, for centuries.

          The mountainous horizon met a summer sun with vigor, the vibrancy of life hardly disturbed by the cities and villages at its base----most who shallowly entered were merchants traveling for goods to trade, or hermits, and even then they dared not venture too deep into the mysterious woods far too ancient to be respectfully tamed. Old torii resided, dominated by extending greenery leeching across their faded red husks. No paths were pressed within the soft grass leading through the mountain, they departed from tentative trade routes swiftly under Gin’s leadership long before reaching their secret destination. Through thick foliage he guided her, insistent, and she trusted him to not lead her astray. Gin took her within its depths, past the silver rocks and twisted trees, further still into the army of ancient branches, towering trunks, and raging roots until they spilled into the mouth of a grand lake.

          Water sparkling clear, they rested in a hidden valley of their own. A sanctuary from her human duties; the god could steal Rangiku away to be a little less of a mortal for a few hours... surrounded by all things ( unbeknownst to her ) spiritual... until she was required to retire home. There, they could spend hours undisturbed------though the present visit counted as merely her third time within the deity’s natural domain, she seemed comfortable enough to linger gladly. She stood without her typical elegant robes, fine fabrics, and rather freed herself in the simplicity of a plain outfit best suited for the summer days, wavy locks captured in a makeshift bun hanging loosely by the base of her neck. She looked beautiful.

          ❝ ----no, I meant... like, spending more time together like this. You’re always vanishing off somewhere or I’m too busy to sneak out. ❞ Rangiku persisted, defending her earlier statement with a signature pout, and Gin knew better than to even weakly mock her. Straightening up, the god appeared as anything but divine. Though silver strands did betray his facade of mortality with a tint of strangeness, a slight unique trait to be glimpsed at with uncertainty----the main betrayal resided in his eyes.

          Though the shape-shifting deity could control all aspects of his appearance, whether human or not, it was a different gesture entirely to dismiss the vibrancy of the eyes. Keepers of the soul, it was widely considered by all celestial and dark alike as a great deception to cloud or otherwise alter the eyes with whatever power available. Demons and spirits could not cloak their eye color no matter the unnatural hue, though gods obeyed via unspoken pact, a promise made to not so shamefully deceive others of one’s true form. But the fox-like entity did not quite play to such clean-cut rules, a trickster and maker of mischief. Gin often remedied the tell by simply squinting his eyes to levels that rendered his vibrant gaze unseen. Though, with her, he felt an openness------especially considering Rangiku didn’t know the significance of their gazes meeting, nor the truth behind the potency of his azure eyes.

          Her soul was exposed to him by a mere glimpse, she didn’t know. She couldn’t have known how he knew her with a gaze. Blurred beyond the curves of her body burned her very core, brilliant and tangible if he so wished to reach out and touch her. Brush slender fingers against the wispy humming light of her sheer existence past what soft skin sheltered her. Thoughts of keeping her fire burning for an eternity flowed through his mind, how he vehemently matched her wistful sentiment of wanting this, ALWAYS. What fate guided her to his shrine that night forever linked them. Love seemed far too human, too simple, but perhaps that was the joke of it all. How the bored god had desperately wished for a complication, for an issue to dissect, a puzzle to solve, something new and tangled for him to carefully and slowly unwrap, unravel... now, he wanted plain. Human. Their connection could be of a simpler nature; her, the chrysanthemum renowned within the Hanamachi she called home, and him, the boy from under the bridge. They could remain within their dynamic and he could watch her bloom. Perhaps he’d become her Danna, eventually, in another form. How selfish he became, wanting to encompass her in every way. Emotions expanded beyond the spectrum of colors available to a mere mortal’s soul----here, the divine’s 'soul’ gleamed with tendrils of unseen light, multitudes of flaring flourishes painted across the canvas, ink staining past describable hue. He thought himself incapable, and yet he still looked upon her with it. Enthralled, mesmerized, absolutely captivated, unable to pull away... the god had fallen in love with a human.

        ❝ ----------well, maybe soon y’won’t haveta sneak out anymore. ❞ He spoke smoothly, uninterested in touching upon his vanishing act. Omnipresence did not behave in the ways humans daydreamed about, but he couldn’t fault them for wishing it so. Gin didn’t enjoy his departure, but could not simply dwell as a pretend-mortal to forsake his divine duties. As nice as that idea sounded...

        ❝ Oooor... you could just stop disappearing randomly. ❞ She pushed the issue regardless, bent knees shifting against grass to scoot her frame closer to his in assertion.

        ❝ Where do ya think I go? Y’know, when I vanish and all? ❞ Silver tongue, refined, delicately dipped upon the topic. And he spoke with truth. Intrigue, genuine, tipped his chin upwards in observance of her. There his gaze watched, piercing blue as the cloudless heavens above, and there his gaze entered. Thoughts of him aimlessly wandering off to other cities to flirt among women or perhaps even capture one as a lover, forsaking every thought of her to be overcome with some sort of affair in secrecy, floated briefly in her mind. The image itself was sharp, a thought revisited perhaps or at the very least formulated with focus, worried, and tinges of concern for her own importance. His smile remained as she desperately swatted the concept from her immediate thoughts. He delved no deeper for her internal turmoil of an answer, curiosity appeased.

        ❝ I don’t know, that’s the whole point, you just---- ❞ she waved her hands, uncertain, then flopped them back beside her to absently grip upon blades of grass, tinkering with discarded pebbles and rocks that were of her previous attention. Now, the stress-relieving motion aided her through admittance. ❝ --and sometimes you’re gone for weeks. ❞

        ❝ I always come back though, right? ❞ He lacked any hesitation or uncertainty when he answered----nearing pride by the strength of his conviction: he would always return to her. Regardless, Rangiku whined at his answer, as she deemed it insufficient in terms of strength to chase away her insecurities, though he knew her better than to count a fleeting thought as her ultimate weakness. Over time it would brew, grow, or simmer depending on her emotions at that given moment. Whilst the concept itself upset her, she did not feel distraught nor did she strongly wish to confront him on the matter. The value she placed on their time spent together greatly exceeded her desire for answers----and for that, Gin was grateful. One day, perhaps, he’d indulge her with the truth in its entirety. He’d speak of ageless tales, otherworldly and far beyond human harvests, a quiet prayer spoken with coin dispensed. For today? He wished only to throw a few more rocks into a lake.

          Rangiku sighed lightly, then smiled with warmth as she smoothed her thumb across a round stone she had captured idly to ease her nerves. Clouds receeded across her thoughts, and once more she embodied the very golden rays that danced within stray strands kissed by a gentle breeze. Delicate, yet dazzling.

          ❝ Mm... hey, Gin, can you promise me something? ❞

          Perhaps the gesture was a tad too animalistic in nature----the simple cant of his head with eyes glinting beneath the shade of an arching branch----which therein indicated the attentive energies of someone far greater than a mere man. A promise was not made lightly, even within the mortal plains. What pacts of demons boasted was that of unending loyalty to their bonds despite the parasitic dynamic they presented, and spirits too held themselves to the standards of eternity within any connection made, any promise spoken, seals made. The shapeshifter deity existed in this same eternity, ingrained within the bloodstream of the ground they sat upon, the air they breathed. The very mountains they lay nestled between remained with integrity to their protective force promised upon the feeble villages below to stay off evils that endured for centuries. 

       TO WHAT END, THEN, WOULD HE KEEP HERS?

         ❝ Never change. ❞