#Gin over here 'you may not be wrong..'

[luveline]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[dreamingofaizawa]

You Promise?

Jushiro Ukitake x Fem!Reader

***18+ fic ahead, if you are not 18 or older please make your way to the nearest exit and detour around the page***

Warnings: Penetrative sex, fingering, lots of kissing and h*nd h*lding (gasp), Jushiro is a gentle lover (I'm in love with him methinks), lots of groping (mans is handsy okay? he just wants to feel you ;-;)

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: I'M ALIVE BITCHES AHAHAHAHAHAHA But on a more serious note it's been like...over a year since I've actually posted anything for real o.O My sincerest apologies for vanishing off the map with no warning ;-; On a brighter note, my writer's block has decided to *poof* into thin air apparently, and obviously this is a fic tailored to Bleach!! I've been watching it recetly and holy SHIT why are there SO MANY HOT CHARACTERS? MY BISEXUAL ASS CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT. Anyways, I'm alive, and I'm back, and hopefully I can toss aside this writer's block for good until the next one comes along.

ENJOY LOVELIES <3

It’s a warm day in the Soul Society, a cool breeze flitting through the Seireitei being the only reprieve from the blaring heat. And it’s calm, you decided. Calmer than it’s been in a long while, even with the stress of the former Squad 5 captain Sosuke Aizen’s plans looming on the far horizon. When he defected along with the other two former captains, Gin Ichimaru and Tosen Kaname it sent shockwaves through the Soul Society like none other. The events leading up to the moment of betrayal nearly tore the Seireitei and the 13 Court Guard Squads completely apart, trust between even the closest of friends fraying dangerously. 

“What’s wrong love, you seem distracted today.” You blink, your focus returning to here and now. That voice was none other than your captain, Jushiro Ukitake, as he sat in his bed. The thin blanket that usually draped over his legs was tossed aside in the heat, his usual captain’s uniform switched out for a lighter garment. Despite all that has happened, this is the man you’d always stand beside no matter what. Even if you didn’t love him the way you did, even if you weren’t constantly suffering through a surely unrequited love. A forbidden one, surely. Not that there were any real rules regarding captain-subordinate relationships that you knew of. You’d stand beside him even in the face of certain death, that’s just the kind of man he is. 

“My apologies captain, I didn’t mean to daydream.” His smile is gentle, sweet, kind as he regards you perched on the edge of his bed. Surely that smile could cure all your heart’s quarrels. If only.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure it gets boring watching over me day and night.” That’s right, you thought, it’s been just you for the past few months while Sentaro and Kiyone are out on a mission. You hadn't even noticed the passage of time. It’s already been three months?

“Not at all, Sir. I enjoy your company. I’ve just been thinking that it’s been quiet lately, that’s all. Not that I’m complaining.” He chuckles, the baritone reverberating through your chest. You’ll never tire of that beautiful sound.

“It’s good to know this old man isn’t a burden to you. You must have many more important things to do besides looking after me.” What nonsense.

“You could never be a burden to me, Captain Ukitake. I may have been assigned to you for the time being, but I volunteered my time to you long before that. The only menial task I have is some easy paperwork every week or so, so don’t worry about my mundane paper pushing.” You smile at him, really smile. You want him to feel your dedication to him, your willingness to be here. You want to be here. A breeze drifts through the window and out the door of the room, sending his long white hair floating in the wind. It’s a majestic sight, truly. He’s so handsome, so gentle, so strong even in his sickness. You commit every waking moment in his presence to memory. 

“Such a kind girl you are,” he reaches a hand out, grasping yours gently and staring deep into your eyes, “What would I do without you?” For a moment you’re stunned, those eyes of his piercing you in the heart, the heat from his hand on your skin almost burning you. It’s not unusual for him to hold your hand, especially in moments like this where he wants to express his gratitude to you. But no matter how many times he reaches out to you, you’ll never get over the fluttering of your heart and the warmth it brings you. You laugh then, easily coming up with an answer to his rhetorical question.

“Probably have Sentaro and Kiyone fighting over who gets to give you your medicine tonight.” He chuckles at your quip, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. He’s been looking healthier lately, happier, in the calm of late. He turns suddenly, smoothly standing from the bed with your hand still in his.

“It’s a nice evening. I’ve been meaning to go see the koi pond. Would you join me for a walk?” His smile is infectious as he asks, and how could you possibly say no? Who are you to deny him such a simple pleasure? If he feels well enough to go for an evening stroll, you’ll happily indulge him. You allow him to pull you with that unnatural strength that captains have, easily standing you up beside him. He’s clearly been wanting to go outside, he’s already out the door by the time you grab his white haori and slide the paper door shut behind you. He may not have chosen to wear it, but you’re taking it just in case it gets a little too cool. 

As you fall in step beside him, you take a deep breath and soak in all the scenery. The sun is slowly setting over the Soul Society, casting the sky in hues of yellow and gold. Not a cloud lingers in the sky. A constant light breeze flows through the barracks, and the combined warmth from the setting sun’s rays and the cooling wind settles into your bones, your body feeling light and refreshed. It’s a perfect evening for a stroll. It doesn’t take long for your eyes to settle on your captain. Gold is cast over his form, his hair and skin glowing in the light, breeze gently tousling the white strands around his face. It’s a sight reserved for your eyes, and you can’t help but want to stare at him forever. It takes you a moment to realize you’ve stopped walking altogether, and it takes far too long for you to realize the captain is staring at you as you stare at him. Heat crawls up your chest into your face, and you avert your eyes.

“I apologize, Captain.” You can’t think of anything else to say. You’ve been caught staring at your captain, surely with a doe-eyed expression of admiration and longing. He probably read you like a book. You’re stunned again when he grabs your hand, resuming his relaxed stroll along the gravel path to the koi pond behind the barracks for the 13th squad. It’s all you can do to keep up, even in his slow pace his individual strides are incredibly large.

“I don’t mind at all, love. I’d be nervous having such attention on me, but I’m used to a pretty girl always looking at me these days.” Your eyes blow wide open and your jaw slacks as you stare up at him again, only to see a sideways glance and a sly mischievous smirk gracing his features. Is he…flirting?

Before you get the chance to think about what just transpired, you’re being tugged to sit next to the captain. You were so focused on Captain Ukitake you hadn’t realized you’d reached the koi pond. It’s a beautiful spot, you can’t deny that. The pink sky reflects off the surface of the water, the sound of a small fountain trickles into your ears. It smells of fresh water and wet stones, and the evening air tastes crisp and clear. It’s almost hypnotizing, mother nature’s own perfume.

Your attention shifts back to the captain beside you, as he once again grasps your hand firmly in his. It’s so much bigger than your own, and slender and strong. The callouses from hundreds of years of wielding a zanpakuto rough against your skin. His thumb traces shapes into the back of your hand, and as you look up at him you find his eyes already locked on you. There’s something hidden there, something dark and deep and gravitating.

“I want to thank you for being here with me for these past months. You know you don’t have to.” Again, nonsense.

“Captain Ukitake, I already-“

“Jushiro.” He interrupts. You nearly let out a gasp.

“What? Captain…”

“Call me Jushiro. We’ve known each other long enough, I’d much prefer you use my given name.” It’s all you can do to blink in the shock. Sure, you’ve known each other for a few centuries, but you’re still his subordinate. He’s still your captain. And saying his name so casually may just feel like a stab in the heart.

“It would make me happy if you did.” Of course he’d pull that card. If he insists.

“Well… okay, Jushiro.” Goodness, it feels strange. Knowing his name and saying it are two very different things.

“Good, thank you. Now what was it you were saying?” Oh… you almost completely forgot.

“Right. I may not have to, but…I want to. Like I said earlier, I enjoy your company. That wasn’t just me being nice. I really do enjoy being around you, Capt- ah, Jushiro.” That’s definitely going to take some getting used to.

“I’m glad to hear that, love.” He’s been calling you that for a while now. Love. Every time he says the little nickname it feels so soft, so sweet. At least, to you it does. His smile is brighter than the sun, it’s been so long since you’ve seen a smile like that you can’t help but smile too. The silence that falls is comfortable and light, the two of you enjoying the sunset over the pond. Dusk comes and goes, stars soar in the sky, a few lanterns cast a warm glow over the garden and over your faces. With your hand still in Jushiro’s, you can feel when he gives a small shiver at the breeze flowing over you.

“Here, I brought this just in case.” You pull your hand away to unfold the captain’s haori and drape it over his shoulders, right where it should be. 

“Thank you, love. But what about you?” You have to admit, it is a bit chilly. But you’ll be okay, with your shihakusho.

“I’ll be alright, don’t worry about me.” He chuckles as you get comfortable next to him again.

“Well that’s like asking me not to breathe. Here, come closer.” That’s definitely not a good idea. Your heart will surely burst from your chest. You’re already struggling as is, what with the hand holding and names. He doesn’t give you much choice though, hooking an arm around your waist and tugging you fully into his lap. With your legs draped over one side and your head cradled against his chest, he wraps the haori fully around the both of you and rests his chin atop your head. Even through your layers of shihakusho, all you can feel is the heat of one hand on your hip and the other resting on your mid thigh.

This is how you’ll die, surely, but you’ll never be happier.

“I can feel your heart racing. Are you alright?” You hold your breath at his observation, your face warming under his gaze. But holding your breath doesn’t change the fact that he’s absolutely right. Your heart feels like it might just burst. In all the years you’ve known the man, Captain Jushiro Ukitake has never once made such a move for bodily contact unless a life was in danger or unconscious. And you have never even once been anywhere near this close to him, not even when you were wiping the sweat from his brow in his especially pained moments. It feels like the breath you’re holding is punched from you, coming out quick and shuddering, when his hand cups your jaw and tilts your head up to look him in the eyes. His face is so close, his lips are right there…all you’d need to do is lean.

“You’re turning a concerning shade of crimson, my dear. Are you alright?” Shit. You need to answer, don’t you? But he’s still smiling…oh he’s teasing you!

“I’m fine! Just fine, thank you.” It’s a squeak, really. If you’re being honest it probably sounded to him like you were trying incredibly hard to keep from moving, and that included breathing. That hand slips from your cheek down to your chin, tilting your head even further back.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help the teasing. You’re just so cute, so pretty. I’m so glad I’ve been able to keep you around.” There’s no way this is real. It’s a dream, surely. You’re deep in sleep and your brain has gifted your heart a beautiful show. His hands release you, dropping far too quickly for your liking. He’s concerned now, it seems.

“Are you sure you’re alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He sounds so dejected, that gorgeous smile fading into a disappointed frown. You can’t control your own limbs as they react to what your heart wants, reaching for his haori and tugging hard so he’s no longer leaning away from you.

“No! I promise I’m not uncomfortable, I promise! I was just shocked, that’s all.” Mentally, you slap yourself for nearly begging the captain to stay wrapped around you. But you’ll be damned if you let this moment slip through your fingers. That smile returns, although slowly and reluctantly.

“You promise?” Nodding fervently, you lean into him and bury your head into his chest once more. Screw everything, whatever reservations you had about keeping your feelings hidden are being tossed out the window. When his arms wrap around you once more it’s all you can do to refrain from turning and kissing at what little is exposed of his chest.

“Good. Then, since we’re comfortable and alone, I have a bit of a confession to make.” A confession? What kind of confession could only be spoken while alone?

“When you were assigned to me it wasn’t random. I requested you specifically, not only because of your capabilities as a shinigami in my division, and not solely because of your short stint training under Captain Unohana. Not that your healing capabilities are anything to sniff at, of course,  you’re a wonderful healer! And you’re an amazing fighter, no doubt about that, and of course you-” he cuts himself off, his breath catching in his chest where your hand lay splayed in the center of it.

“Captain… Jushiro…I understand what you’re trying to say. You chose me for many reasons. Which of those reasons require a confession? And why are you suddenly so nervous?” You can see his adam's apple bob in his throat when he swallows down whatever words caught in his throat. His brows pinch together ever so slightly, he nibbles at his bottom lip for a moment. He really is nervous, you can see it clear as day. It’s not often he gets nervous, even in the face of opponents stronger than any he’s seen he’s a stone pillar.

“Yes, well. I requested you to be at my side because I’ve held very real and very strong feelings toward you, for a very long time now. You’re a beautiful woman, a strong fighter, a wonderful person. Having you so close these few months have only solidified these feelings. I just don’t see any point in hiding them any longer.” At that, you lean back and stare up at him, into those deep, dark eyes of his. He can’t seem to return the gaze, his eyes flitting around to avoid eye contact.

“Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?” He laughs at that, a hearty laugh that makes his chest bounce. His eyes finally fall on yours.

“No, love. This is definitely not a dream.” It doesn’t feel real. You reach over and pinch your arm as hard as you can, jumping and wincing the tiniest bit from the small shock of pain.

“I told you.” His nervous smile is infectious, you’re only able to return it as he leans close to you and rests his forehead against your own.

“Please tell me you feel the same. I don’t think I can take any more of this.” A giggle slips past your lips and you reach up to loop your arms around his neck.

“I’ve had a massive crush on you for decades.” That seems to click his resolve into place, and the next thing you know you’re being kissed silly by Jushiro Ukitake. The breath is stolen from your lungs, his fingers dig deep into your hip and thigh if only to get you closer. You hate that you need to breathe, need to part from the kiss far too soon for your liking. There’s a tension between you now, a string pulled taut waiting to be cut loose as your breaths mingle. He looks frustrated now, taking a moment to consider things you were not privy to.

“It’s late, we should be getting back now.” Of course, he was right. Which meant this was where you parted ways. You may be overseeing his health and spending days tending to his needs when he can’t do something himself, but he has ways of summoning you to him should an emergency arise, so you remain in your own quarters in the barracks at night. You’re shifting to stand, but he holds you tight to his chest and instead stands with you held in his arms.

“Jushiro! Please, don’t strain yourself! I’m perfectly capable of walking.” He only smiles that lopsided smile and in an instant you’re standing at the door to his quarters. A flash step at a time like this is insanity!

“Jushiro!” You gasp up at him as the door is opened, then closed as you’re carried beyond the threshold.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, love, but I just couldn’t wait. Now I want you to tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable, I will stop what I’m doing.” What? What in the world is he talking about? You gasp when you feel his lips peppering gentle kisses along your exposed neck, grabbing his haori for any kind of stability as you’re thrown mentally sideways. His lips carve a path down your jugular to your collarbone and along what little is bare of your shoulder. They almost burn, those heated kisses of his, and you can’t help but tremble at the euphoric feeling of his lips on your skin. You’re laid gently on his bed, still being lavished with kisses turning deeper and sharper, you’re sure there will be marks on your skin by morning. His fingers are hot where they brush against the fold of your shihakusho, gently tugging the fabric to reveal more of you to his hungry gaze. Your sash is untied and dropped to the floor, followed by a piece of his clothing and then a piece of yours. Disrobing was second priority, your chest heaving as he never left your skin cold for longer than necessary to remove a barrier of cloth.

When he finally feels he’s smothered you in enough kisses, you’re both completely bare before each other. He’s hovering over you, one knee beside your hip and both hands on either side of your head, his other leg extended to keep his foot planted firmly on the ground. Those eyes, half-lidded and pupils blown with lust, roam over your body like he’s committing every inch of your skin to memory. You do the same, taking in the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, the muscles in his arms and legs flexed as he holds himself above you. You can feel an impossible heat rise in your body when your eyes land on his already fully hard erection. You can’t help but gasp and avert your eyes. A tiny voice in your head reminds you that this is your captain, for crying out loud!

“The things you do to me, woman.” He holds your jaw in his palm and a searing kiss is shared between you, your lips melding perfectly together. His tongue licks at your bottom lip, and you let it tangle with your own. There’s no fight for dominance, just the push and pull of your bodies as your entire being tries to join with him. He’s almost lying on top of you, and in a moment of opportunity you hook a leg over his hip and twist your bodies, rolling over until he’s on his back beneath you and you’re straddling his stomach. He only looks shocked for a moment, and you don’t give him much more time to right himself before attacking him with another breath-stealing kiss. His hands, large and strong and insistent, can’t keep still on your body. They’re everywhere, your hips, breasts, thighs, squeezing and feeling everything he’s been wanting to feel. He’s gentle with his hands, softly holding a breast while his thumb brushes over your nipple, making you jolt and moan from the unexpected sensation. Happily, he swallows the sound only to make you produce it again and again, toying and tugging at every piece of you that he can reach.

“Jushiro, please.” You beg, feeling heat pool in your belly. You’re sure he can feel you leaking all over his stomach, your hips unable to keep still the longer he spends teasing your body. Gripping your hips, he begins to sit up and you can’t stop yourself from placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back down, almost warning him.

“Don’t overexert yourself for my sake.” Good gods that smile was going to kill you. In your moment of concern he pulls the same move you had, a hand gently cradling your neck and flipping the two of you over so he’s hovering over you once again. It’s all you can do to gasp as your balance is thrown. When you’re refocused, you’re peering up at a halo of white as his hair curtains over your shared space. Nothing else in this world matters, only the two of you exist right here, right now. Your breathing picks up as the hand bracing your neck travels down your chest, trailing your skin in a scorching path to your lower belly and even further to the mound of your sex. His eyes pierce yours, silently pleading for permission, and your nod of approval is met with his lithe fingers slipping between your legs and gathering all the slickness produced from your pussy. He can’t help himself, teasing his fingers along your entrance and brushing up against your clit to make your body jolt. The gasp you let out is music to his ears. But his pace is torturous for you, impatience getting the better of you when you reach down to grip his wrist. The unoccupied hand comes and gathers both your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Oh, no, I'm not done yet. Be good for me and keep your hands to yourself, won't you?” The sentence is punctuated with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, before his fingers continue their leisurely pace. He studies your face as one finger slips into you easily, a second soon following and your breaths are coming hard and fast. He curls and pumps his fingers, searching for all the angles that have your back arching beautifully and your voice calling his name like a siren. Anything that makes your eyes flutter he tries to emulate once again. His third finger only fuels the fire in your blood, the stretch making your head spin from the sheer pleasure. It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been since you’d landed on the bed, being at the mercy of Jushiro’s lips and hands alone have left you breathless and aching. You’re left utterly empty when he removes his fingers from your heat, gazing in wonder at just how sloppy and wet you’d left them. Gossamer strings stretch and snap when he spreads his fingers apart, and in your embarrassment you shut your eyes and turn your head, unable to cover your face with your hands still pinned. A throaty moan snaps your eyes open, only to witness the most glorious sight you’ve ever witnessed. The hand covered in your wetness was now wrapped around his aching cock, Jushiro’s head hung low as he stroked himself slowly to relieve some of the ache. It doesn’t last long, the sight makes you moan and his attention is back on you.

“Still think this is a dream?” You shake your head no, unsure if you’re able to form a coherent sentence after the sight you’ve just had the privilege of viewing. 

“Good.” Your hands are released as he grabs your hips, twisting again so he’s leaning up against the headboard and a mountain of pillows, with you straddling his waist again. He’s holding you close, fingertips tracing nonsensical shapes into your hips.

“Are you ready for me? I’ll let you set the pace so I don’t hurt you.” You lean in close and kiss him breathless, before lining him up and sinking down onto him. The both of you moan into each other’s mouth, breathing heavily as you lower yourself slowly onto his cock, feeling every twitch as your pussy grips him tight. Finally fully seated, you’re both panting hard, a sheen of sweat decorating your bodies. His arms wrap around your waist, tugging you so your chest is against his and your arms wind around his shoulders, your hands burying themselves in his hair. A groan is muffled in your neck from the shift, your responding gasp quiet as a prayer in his ear. 

“I need to move, love. Are you ready?” 

“Yes, I’m ready Jushiro. Don't hold back.” With a loud moan his hips buck up, his feet plated on the bed to leverage against you. Your vision nearly whites out at the movement, breath stopping for an instant, his tip hitting a spot deep inside you too perfectly. He doesn’t stop but for a moment, tightening his grip on your waist and lifting you up off his hips only to drop you back down as he thrusts up, his pace steady and deep. Starbursts dot your vision with every thrust, every stroke of his dick inside you makes you shake and the pleasure is too much and not enough all at once. You’re hiccuping between guttural moans, his own groans matching yours beat for beat, your voices creating a sinful melody neither of you want to stop listening to.

Your equilibrium is thrown again when Jushiro lifts you higher, keeping himself seated deep in your pussy and maneuvering up onto his knees, gently laying you down on your back once more. The angle shift makes your body tremble and your cunt squeeze down on him, his groan deep and long as he adjusts. You’re given no more time to think before one of your legs is thrown over his shoulder and his full weight is being used to fuck into you relentlessly. Moans are punched from your lungs, fingers bruising your thigh in his steel grip and the other hand coming down to rub tight circles onto your puffy clit. You scream then, your back arching almost painfully as your orgasm hits you full force without warning or preamble. You hadn’t felt just how heavily it was building, pleasure distracting from pleasure, and your vision whites out while your legs shake and squeeze around Jushiro’s waist, pussy clenching down on his cock tight enough to slow his punishing pace.

“That’s it love -shit- such a good girl for me.” He continues dragging in and out of you, pushing through the tight grip of your walls and shoving you into overstimulation, your legs trying fruitlessly to close around his hips.

“J-jushiro please I- ah!” He stills deep inside you, the curve of his cock pushing up against a spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back and you see stars. Tears begin to fall from the sheer white-hot pleasure, you barely feel it as liquid splashes over Jushiro’s thighs and stomach, and his own orgasm is yanked out of him at the sight. His body curls over you, cock twitching as he cums deep inside you with a deep, throaty moan, every muscle in his body tensed from the strength of his release. When you’ve both ridden out your glorious highs, he drops your leg in favor of pulling your limp body close, lying back with you on top of his chest. He doesn’t remove his softening cock from you, it would be far too sensitive for either of you if he didn’t allow it to slip out on its own. You’re both panting heavily, sweat coating your bodies, sweltering heat being cooled by the night breeze as it filters through the window. His hands are gently soothing you, one on your head and the other caressing down your spine to ground you from your earth-shattering release. When you finally come to, filtering out of your daze, you turn your head and place a chaste kiss on Jushiro’s warm cheek.

“Is it too soon to say I love you?” Your body jolts when you feel his cock twitch hard, still buried deep inside you. His groan is low and almost pained, surely he’s just as sensitive as you are.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” He doesn’t have the energy to laugh, so he settles for kissing you silly again.

“Just give it a few minutes.” It takes more than a few, and by the time you’re both cleaned up and comfortable under the sheets your bodies ache from the strenuous activities. His arms have found a home on your body, your head buried in the crook of his neck, peppering tiny kisses on his skin as he slowly massages your shoulders and neck. 

“Are you okay, Jushiro?” He hums in response, he’s never felt better in his life, he’s sure.

“I mean physically. Your health is my top priority, I’d hate to have strained your body tonight.” He chuckles then, energy beginning to return in a sleepy haze.

“I’m fine, my love. I’ve done much more, physically, while I was feeling a lot worse. This won’t put me out of commission. I promise.” You lift your head, leave a peck on his lips.

“You promise?” He nods, brushing a few strands of your hair out of your face. His returning kiss is deep, long and knocks the wind out of you. There’s no doubt in your mind you are in love with this man.

“I promise.” With that, you relax in his hold once more and allow your mind to fall into the throes of sleep. You think you hear a soft snore as your consciousness slips away, but that’s not something you need to think about.

BONUS:

You’re slowly pulled from your sleep by a steady, rhythmic thump. You know the sound, but your subconscious can’t quite place it. You’re only half awake when a voice filters through our brain, and it’s far too late when it finally dawns on you that it’s the voice of another captain, their footsteps approaching far too quickly for comfort.

“...missed you at the meeting so I’m just coming to check-” the door is only halfway open, and even by then Jushiro’s quick reflexes have a sheet covering both your naked bodies as you lay there stunned, your wide eyes meeting the slowly widening eyes of Captain Kyoraku of the 8th division. He blinks, eyes flitting between you and Jushiro, a knowing look crawling itself onto his face.

“Well well well, would you take a look at that. Congrats Jushiro, you’ve finally told her.” The other captain peers at you, and you bow your head in shy greeting.

“Good morning, Captain Kyoraku.” His smile is wide and joyful.

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” his eyes transfer over to Jushiro, “The meeting wasn’t anything important, you’ve already been excused from it.” Jushiro sighs, both from relief and irritation.

“Thank you, Shunsui, but we are both very naked and I’d appreciate it if you closed the door.” The pink-clad captain chuckles and tips his hat down to cover his eyes.

“Of course. Have a good day, lovebirds.” The door shuts and his footsteps recede into the distance. You suppose those surprise visits from the Captain of squad 8 will be approached a little more cautiously from now on.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

THTH 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Ransom Drysdale

Summary: You have a secret, but what do you do when it threatens to come out.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Bored brainless, you sneak out after your parents shut off their bedroom light. You don’t risk alerting them by borrowing the car so you light up your cell phone and use it to guide your way through the dark. Some people might call you stupid, it’s not exactly safe with all the breaking twigs and rustling in the trees. There are bears up here. You know, you’ve seen them too. Whatever. 

You come in sight of The Horn, annoyed by the dew that wets your ankles. You’re almost too tired for fun now. God, you hate this place. You want to be like those women in the movies who can catch a yellow taxi or even just walk to a club or a restaurant or a salon. Here, you can’t even get a good haircut. 

You smile at the bearded man who watches the door. Al knows you and his rocky exterior cracks just a little. You push inside, met by the castle of yellow lights and the garble of voices. The clink of glass awakens you and you approach the bar, eager to sate your sudden thirst. 

You wait for the bartender, Bill, as an old drunkard in plaid rambles at him. Is that Loretta’s husband? You thought they were such good people. That’s the thing about Hammer Ford, it’s all fake. 

Finally, Bill heads in your direction. Before you can greet him, a shadow slides in next to you, planting and elbow on the trim as his other hand hovers menacingly on the stool at your other hip. The man pens you completely. 

“Gin and tonic and whatever the lady wants,” he says. 

Bill gives him a look. You do too. It’s the same man from the cafe; the newcomer. There’s been a few of those lately. The designer emblem on his sweater staves off your instinct to send him away. 

“You know what I like,” you say to Bill as you face the stranger, “thanks.” 

“Mm,” he looks you up and down, still crowding you, “and what do you like, bunny?” 

Your cheek twitches and you swallow, “what?” 

He smirks and peeks over the bar. His gin and tonic is set on the wood as he reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet. You’re frozen there, mind racing. It has to be a coincidence. Your drink is put up next; rum and coke, with three maraschino cherries in a highball glass. The man pays and faces you with a wink. 

“Those ears suit you,” he holds up his wallet with one hand. 

“How...” your breath wisps out between your lips. 

“I didn’t expect the real thing to be even better,” he takes the highball glass and offers it to you, “and I rarely admit when I’m wrong.” You take your drink, speechless as you watch him. He reaches for his own glass and whistles at Bill, “can I get a lime for this?” 

The bartender growls. He doesn’t appreciate being spoken to like a dog. He plunks a lime wedges into the glass and huffs. The stranger is entirely unbothered. 

“How did you... find me?” The question spurrs the startling epiphany. He’s one of them. A fan. 

“I can’t tell all my secrets,” he turns to the bar and brings his hand to the small of your back, “let’s sit. Chat. How about it, pinky?” 

You take a gulp of the drink. Oh boy. Pinky... part of your username is the colour pink with and exclamation as the i. It’s definitely one of them. You’re heart is racing. This is an actual nightmare and yet it’s exciting. The very sort of thrill you’ve been longing for. 

He ushers you across to a table and you sit in the wobbly old chair. He takes the one across from you, agitated by it’s crooked stance, and sets his drink down. You keep your hands on your glass, stirring it with the skewer of cherries. You watch him, trying to figure out what to say. 

He’s not bad looking. Thank god for that at least. His hair is combed back tidily away from his clean shaven face. His jaw is square, his nose romanesque in a way, and his clothing betray wealth. It could be a lot worse. 

“Why are you--” 

“You haven’t been online. At least I know you’re not lying. Service is shit around here.” 

His tone makes you wince. You’re not shy. Sometimes, that has been your greatest flaw, like now. Being so bold on the internet has dug you quite the hole. 

“How do you know it’s me?” You’re still reeling, questions bubbling up one after the other. 

“I’d know your ass anywhere,” he bites his lip and leans forward. 

“But why--” 

“Why am I here? Well, I was bored... and I hate waiting,” he sneers, “I’m not that type. I don’t wait.” 

“Wait... for?” 

“The pictures, the videos, it’s getting a little dull,” he hisses, “figured I’d have some of the real thing. You know, I see a resort on Insta, I usually get a flight. I see a new bagel joint, I got down and try the cream cheese, I see you...” 

His smirk remains. You talk a big game but you’re not prepared for this. For him. In the flesh. 

“_ransom_ware_?” You utter. 

“You know me,” he chuckles, “people call me Ransom. You can call me Mr. Drysdale, bunny.” 

“Ransom--” 

“Ah, what did I just say?” He taps his ear, “I know you can be a good lister...” he drawls your real name and you nearly choke. 

“How--” 

“Keep asking all these stupid questions and I’ll have to shut you up,” he warns, “go on, enjoy your drink, loosen up.” He leans on his elbows and looks around, “tell me I’m not a hundred times more intersting than these redneck fuckers.” 

You stare at him. You flutter your lashes and follow his gaze around the room. Others watch. You know this will be on the tongues of the town by morning. If your mom finds out... 

You look at him and find him staring. He sips his drink and tilts his head, “you really are too pretty for this place.” 

“Um, thanks,” you give that smile you give, the one that gets you a your three cherry special from Bill. 

He scoffs, “that doesn’t work on me, bunny.” His eyes drift down to your shirt, a checker halter with buttons down the front. “I came all this way. For you. That means you owe me...” he clucks and pokes his tongue into his cheek, “I mean I am your best tipper, aren’t I?” 

You take another gulp. You’ve got maybe one mouthful left. He eyes the glass. 

“Thirsty?” He winks. 

[lulublack90]

Prompt 14 - Forgotten First Meeting

@wolfstarmicrofic May 14, word count 964

Sirius had been set up on a blind date by his brother's best friend, Pandora. She’d declared she was tired of seeing him moping about with no one to love and demanded he allow her to set him up. Sirius apparently had no choice in the matter, and he couldn’t explain why he hadn’t just sacked it off and not turned up to the restaurant. But he had, and he’d even spruced himself up a bit. 

“Table for two, should be under Black, might be Lovegood.” He told the host waiting just inside the restaurant. 

“Ah, yes, here we are two for Lovegood. Will your guest be arriving soon?” The host looked behind Sirius as though his date would just materialise out of thin air. 

“Hopefully,” He told the man. “It’s a blind date, so you never know.” The host nodded sagely, as though he got that a lot. 

“Ms Lovegood, enjoys sending her projects to us. She’s never once had a no show, I might add.” Sirius felt himself redden. He and Pandora would be having words. “Right this way Mr Black, we have your table all set up.” Sirius followed him into a corner where a small table was set for two. It felt very intimate already. 

“Thanks,” He gave a half smile to the man before he sat down. He opened the menu and glanced at the dishes. 

“Can I get you a drink Sir?” Asked a waiter. 

“Oh, yes. Gin and Tonic, please.” 

“Right away, Sir.” The waiter bustled off. 

A tall, bean pole of a man stopped beside his table. Sirius looked up and up and up from his seat. The man was well over six feet tall and fit as fuck. Sirius felt his insides do a little jig. Pandora had done good. His date didn’t look as impressed.

Sirius jumped to his feet. 

“Hi, Sirius Black.” He told the giant, holding out his hand for him to shake. 

“Remus Lupin.” The giant responded, engulfing his hand with his own. Sirius’s heart stuttered as he imagined those hands somewhat lower on his body. 

“Sit, please, sit,” Sirius stammered, “Do you want a drink? Er.” He looked around for the waiter and was relieved to see him walking towards him with his drink on a tray. 

“Here you are, Sir.” The waiter said, placing Sirius’s gin and tonic on the table in front of him. “Would you like anything, Sir?” He asked Remus. 

“Whisky, neat, please” Remus replied. The waiter disappeared again. 

“So, Remus. How do you know Pandora?” Sirius dove in, not comfortable with silences. Remus narrowed his eyes. 

“We went to school together.” Was the only answer he gave. Right, thought Sirius, short and blunt. This was going to be difficult. 

The waiter returned with Remus’s drink. 

“Do you know what you would like to order or do you need a minute?” Sirius looked over to Remus. Neither of them had looked at the menu properly. 

“I think we might need a minute, thanks.” Sirius smiled weakly at the waiter. 

“Steak, rare, please.” Remus said as he glanced at the menu. The waiter looked at Sirius, who quickly looked down at the list of mains. 

“Erm, I’ll have the chicken chasseur please.” He handed the menu to the waiter, and they were back to silence again. 

“So, er, what do you do, Remus?” Sirius broke the silence. Remus scoffed this time. 

“I work in a library,” He said bluntly. 

“Wow, I bet that's interesting,” Sirius pushed a bit. 

“I’ve been digitising all the old records. It’s mind-numbing.” Remus looked around as though trying to find the nearest exit. 

“Have you found anything interesting in the old records?” Sirius tried again. 

“No,” This wasn’t going well. 

“Sorry, have I done something wrong?” Sirius asked. They’d barely been there ten minutes, and he couldn’t think what he could have done in such a short time to anger him so much. 

“Do you really not remember?” Remus snapped. Sirius shook his head, taken aback by Remus’s tone. “Are you serious?!” Sirius had to bite his tongue not to respond how he usually would to that question. When he didn’t answer, Remus went on. “We’ve already met. You’ve been to my flat. Slept in my bed, amongst other things.” Sirius stared at him, trying his hardest to remember. 

Remus shook his head in aggravation and one of the wall lights glinted off a silvery scar running across his face and Sirius remembered. 

“Oh my God, Remus!” He hit his forehead with his palm. How could he have forgotten? He’d been so drunk that night and in the morning Regulus had rung him crying about something their mother had said to him. Sirius had had to sneak out to go calm his brother down. He hadn’t gotten Remus’s number and had forgotten where the flat was. 

That had been months ago and Sirius had never been very good with faces. “I’m so sorry.” He pleaded for forgiveness and explained what had happened. Remus still seemed a bit grumpy, but he stayed. They ate their meals and Sirius treated him to a big piece of chocolate cake as an apology. Remus cheered up after that. 

“So,” Sirius said shyly to him once he’d paid the bill. “Will you see me again or did I totally blow it last time?” He looked up through his eyelashes, knowing full well what effect that had on people. Remus closed his eyes for a moment, but gave in. 

“Yeah, go on then.” He grinned. “Fancy a night cap? At yours this time, that way you can’t sneak out,” Sirius beamed at him and, taking his hand, practically dragged him from the restaurant. He could just hear the host chuckling to himself as the door closed behind them.  

[luhafraser]

Did anyone really think that Sam posting from London wouldn't be the start of another "play"?

Does anyone really believe that from Gran Canaria until now, nothing else would appear if they were really together?

Wow, only Caitríona seems to have stalkers in Glasgow... Too bad Sam can't use this in an interview. 😜😂

At this point this whole shitshow seems more about generating content, engagements, likes, views, hashtags... buzz... whatever...

What I see is the same story and it continues to have the same effect in this fandom... We are all here giving our opinions, theorizing, refuting this or that, posting about and joking...

I'll say again I'm curious to know what happens in moments of total silence, in trips that aren't shown, everything that isn't posted, what "fans" and russians don't capture... 😉😂 Where was Caitríona during the "Hyrox Circus" Weekend? Isn't she the one who keeps being stalked? With detectives after her? 🤔😝😂

Hey Sam... I'm curious to know what happened between you and Graham... Because you guys didn't stop being friends just because of whiskey, right?! What else is there?

I didn't see you and Caitríona get into a fight over the gin. Forget me not, however forgotten it may be, was still the first. By that logic, you would have "robbed" Cait just as much as Graham would have "robbed" you.

I hope I'm wrong about everything I think and say... But considering this here 👇 You were right when you said that "there's always a Tony" and apparently you're "Tony" this time... #shame 🫣😝😂

[rosewaterandivy]

Teaser 🖊️

A series of vignettes following President Owens’ senior personnel as they navigate just another day working in the White House.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” Steve Harrington croons softly before taking a sip from his now empty glass. The bartender nods to him as he readies the next round.

“Two old fashioneds, coming up.”

The sound of cocktail shakers and lulled conversation surrounds them as he traces an idle finger through the water rings on the bar top.

Clearing his throat, he begins, “I don’t think we’re gonna run the table, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His companion chuckles, “It’s deep background. I won’t even come close to using your name.”

He scoffs, "You’re not gonna come close to getting a quote, either." He nods his thanks to the bartender and grabs his drink.

“Then why are we sitting here?” His companion, the reporter, grouses. And yeah, that is the question, isn’t it?

Well, for one, this may be a Capitol Hill bar but damn if they don’t make a decent old fashioned. He wanted a drink, maybe didn’t think twice about the press crawling all over the Hill today, and well, here he is sat next to some reporter angling for a quote.

“You sat down!” He fires back indignantly, setting down the drink.

Christ, the gall of these guys.

“Is she on the way out?” He presses.

He rolls his eyes, “No.”

“Seriously?” The guys turns, trying to level with him, “Look Harrington, I know you’re colleagues… But did Caldwell say-”

“That’s a generous term.” He takes another sip, “You realize this conversation won’t end well for you, yeah?”

This guy will not let up, “Who do I gotta call, huh?”

“Well, you could call 1-800-BITE ME.”

“Harrington!”

Steve chuckles lowly, fingering the glass, “Look, she’s not going anywhere. It’s a non-story and you know that. Or you would, if you had any sense.”

The reporter admonishes him with a pointed finger, “Okay, you’re lying low, aren’t you? I get it.”

“Aw, that hurts. Why would I lie to the free press of all people?” He polishes off the drink, glancing over the guy’s shoulder.

Huh. Well, ain’t that something?

“Okay,” he allows, drumming his fingers on the bar top. “Then why do you keep looking over my shoulder?”

Steve raises a solitary brow. “Because Hillary Clinton just walked in with her emails.” Can this guy just fuck off already?

“Wait, what?” He turns to look. Steve places a hand on his shoulder to stop him before his cover is blown.

“There’s a woman over there. I think she’s lookin’ at me.”

“Really?”

“Gotten pretty good at sensing this kinda thing,” He reassures him with a smile.

And this reporter, the fuck, slowly and obviously turns to look, to corroborate Steve’s story before turning back. “Yeah, I think she was.”

Steve forcefully claps him on the shoulder, “I wanna thank you for the real casual way you did that just now. She probably didn’t notice that.” He shifts in his seat and drops his hand from the guy to get a better look at the woman in question. She smiles at him and raises her glass.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The soft cadence of the morning news plays dully in the background as Jim Hopper glances through the headlines. He pauses at the crossword section before offering, “17 across is wrong. Can you believe that?”

“What else is new?” Joyce replies, handing him a cup of coffee. “You should file a complaint.”

Jim, lost in plotting his revenge against the New York Times crossword editor, doesn’t hear the phone. “Y’know, I think I will.”

Joyce takes the call as Jim settles himself on the couch, papers still in hand. “Hop there’s a-”

“I’m in the shower!” he calls, nearly spilling his coffee to grab his paper.

“It’s POTUS.”

With an exasperated sigh, Jim drops the morning paper and motions for Joyce to patch the call through.

The New York Times can wait… for now.

The vacuum runs in the office as you fitfully attempt to sleep, arms crossed, hair mussed and face pulled in a grimace. Turns out, your desk isn’t as comfortable as you remembered. A lamp remains on, casting a soft glow on the surface; papers scattered, pens uncapped, and cell phone nearly dead.

Beep-beep-beep…beep-beep-beep…beep-beep-beep.

The alarm blearily wakes you; scrubbing a hand across your face and blinking wearily before swiping across the screen of your cell to unlock it. Quickly, you read the message and grab the phone on your desk, keying in a four-digit code.

“Hey,” you croak, voice laden with sleep, “Got the message. Now, what the fuck going on?”

“Sir,” The flight attendant urges, “Sir, I’m going to need you to put away your phone.”

The man in question continues the lazy perusal of emails, ignoring her.

She sighs, “Sir, please put your phone away. It interferes with our navigational systems.”

He smiles, “You know when you say that, it sounds pretty ridiculous, right?” He chuckles before continuing his task.

Another flight attendant comes down the aisle from the cockpit. She leans over the empty seat in front of him, “Mr. Munson? A message was just patched up to the cockpit for you. I’m not sure I’ve got it right.” She reads from the scrap of paper in her hand, “POTUS in a roller skating accident?”

He glances up at her, “You got it right sugar, thank you.” And drops his attention back to the phone, quickly typing out a message.

“Again, you cannot use your phone until we land, sir.”

He scoffs. “We’re flying in a Lockheed Eagle series L-1011. It came off the line 20 months ago. It carries a SIM-5 transponder tracking system. Are you telling me I can still flummox this thing with the latest IOS update?”

This poor woman.

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “You can call once we land, sir.” And takes her leave of him.

“Hey sugar,” he calls after her, “I never got my peanuts.”

“How ya doin’ Steve?” she calls snuffing a joint out on an ashtray.

“Let me tell ya somethin’ doll,” his voice echoes from the bathroom, “I am envious of this water pressure you have here.”

She giggles before settling back against the pillows, “I know.”

“Ya consider running hydraulics in there?” He moves from the hall back into the bedroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair, clothed in his boxer briefs. He makes a cursory search for his pants and shirt from last night until she perks up from the bed.

“Oh!” she moves to the nightstand to find their phones, “I’m sorry, your message--your phone went off when you were showering. I grabbed it, thinking it was mine. ‘POTUS in a roller skating accident. Come to the office.’ And I memorized it, just in case.”

Steve makes quick work of his clothes while she rattles on about… well, something or other.

“Hey, I’m sorry but I have to go.”

She stops rambling, “But it’s 5:30 in the morning.”

He sighs, “I know this doesn’t look good.”

“Not really, no,” she pouts.

He sits back on the bed, “But I really like you and if you give me your number, I can call you.”

She scrambles toward him across the duvet, “Why don’t you stay here yourself and save yourself the call.”

He huffs a laugh, “It’s not that I don’t see the logic in that, but-”

“POTUS was in a roller skating accident.”

He hums in agreement as she airdrops her contact to him. “Hmm..” she hums passing Steve his phone and drawing him toward her for a lazy goodbye kiss. “Tell your friend POTUS he’s got a funny name, and he needs to learn how to roller skate.”

Steve pulls back, securing a tie around his collar. “Well, I would, but he’s not my friend, he’s my boss. And it’s not his name, it’s his title.” He grabs the rest of his belongings and makes toward the door to leave.

“POTUS?”

He pauses at the door, “Yeah, President of the United States.” He opens the door and walks down the hallway, “I’ll call ya!”

Jim Hopper makes his way into the White House, tossing his belongings to the security officers and stepping through the metal detector. It goes off every time. Flashing his badge and keying in his code, he quickly walks across the corridor and into the bullpen. Greetings fly by as he maneuvers through the desks and filing cabinets.

“Hey Franz,” he offers, avoiding yet another file being handed to him. He turns against the corner of a desk and keeps walking.

“It’s Frank!” someone corrects from the filing cabinets.

“Whatever!” Hopper replies as he descends on Erica’s desk. “Morning, Mayfield. Is she in?”

Max smiles and greets, “Morning Hop. She’s back in her office.” Then continues to type away on her computer.

Hopper rolls his eyes and clears his throat, waiting. He fiddles with some papers as the minutes trickle by. Erica continues with her work, seemingly oblivious. “Can you go get her?”

“Oh, sure.” She replies, “You alive back there?” she yells down the small hallway.

Hopper smiles, ears still ringing from her caterwaul, “Wonderful job, top-notch, really.��

Instead of returning to her work, Max rests her chin upon her hand and glances up at Hopper, “I heard it’s broken.”

He scoffs, “You heard wrong, Red. It’s not broken, it’s a mild sprain. He’ll be back later today.”

Max processes the new information. “What caused the accident?”

Hopper shoves the papers under his arm, “What are you, State Farm?” He crosses her desk admonishing, “Go, do a job, would ya?” He waits until clearing her desk completely before rapping his knuckles against the surface and mumbling, “He was swerving to avoid a pothole.”

Robin Buckley steps into Hop’s office first, balancing a binder precariously in the crook of her elbow trying to dodge the numerous people flitting in and out of the room. She spies Hopper rounding the corner of his desk and beelines for him.

“Is there anything other I can say than the President skated himself into a tree?” Her tone is resigned with the hint of a whine because only something this ridiculous would happen after she’s finally gotten the Press Corps to somewhat respect her.

“He hopes to never do it again,” Hop supplies, kicking his feet up on his desk and sending a stack of papers careening to the floor.

“Seriously Hop, they’re laughing pretty hard.”

“He skated into a tree Rob, whaddya want me— ‘The President while roller skating on his vacation in California came to a sudden arboreal stop.’ The fuck you want from me?”

Robin scoffs and jots down a few notes, “A little compassion would do a world of good Chief.”

Steve joins her soon after, prompting Hop’s attention as he scribbles furiously at his crossword.

“Harrington, what’s the word on the migrants?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, “The intel you got from the deputy is the same as mine. 1,200 migrants embarked from a fishing village in Cuba 30 miles south of Havana.”

One of the aides pipes up, “Where are they headed?”

Eddie settles into a worn club chair and tosses a dossier on the floor, “Vegas, duh.”

“Miami,” You correct kicking the door closed behind you. “Though the navigational equipment is severely lacking.” Typing out a message on your phone, you press send and pocket it. “Y’know if one of these guys could throw a split-fingered fastball—”

“Kid,” Hop warns.

“We’d send in the U.S.S. Eisenhower,” You continue, voice brokering no argument.

“Okay," Robin allows, "That’s not entirely true.”

“For fuck’s sake, forget about the journey,” Eddie grouses from his seat, “The voyage is not our problem.”

Robin turns, craning her neck to look back at him. “Then what’s our problem genius?”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and beleagueredly rubs at his eyes. “Our problem is what we do when the Nina, the Pinta, and the Get Me the Hell Outta Here hit the port of Miami.”

“Harrington,” Hop prompts, not glancing up from his paper.

The Communications Director straightens up. “Can’t send ‘em back. They’d go to jail at best and at worst—”

“We’ll get spanked in what?” Hop hypothesizes, “Three districts? Dade county—”

“Kiss those seats goodbye,” Eddie agrees. “Texas—”

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about Texas right now," Robin advises.

“Not to mention that it’s wrong? Like, morally wrong?” You say to no one, since they’re all seemingly ignoring your very valid and correct talking points.

“Harrington, keep the Kid in the loop on this throughout the day.”

“And normally, I’d be happy to,” Steve attempts to needle his way out of it, “But my day’s a little tight and isn’t this more of a military area?”

Hop drops his pen and heaves a sigh. Eddie looks at him like he’s spouted two more heads. Robin barks a laugh and then coughs to cover it up.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, with one of those smiles that tells Steve you’re about to eviscerate him publically and ruin his day. “Do you think the United States is under attack from 1,200 migrants in row boats?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like our chances,” He hedges.

Eddie scoffs, “Mind boggling to me that we ever won an election.”

“Who’s getting trigger-happy— Conroy?”

“Yeah, wants to send in the National Guard.”

Which prompts a bit of cross-talking. First from you, who says, “He shouldn’t.” Then from Steve with a “He’s right.” And lastly from Robin: “It’d create a panic situation.”

Eddie chuckles to himself, “I agree with the Kid, Steve, and Robin. And you know how that makes me crazy Chief?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Hop says shuffling some papers around on his desk.

“They’re running for their lives. You don’t fuckin’ start a game of red rover with Cuba, and you don’t send in the National Guard.” He eyes you, and can hear you thinking from across the room.

“Right.” You nod, “Because you send in food and doctors.”

Steve has inched his way closer to the door by this point, he’d much rather be dealing with the new aides in the Communications office than spend another minute being delegated responsibilities for the day.

“Harrington,” You call out, “See that I.N.S. works with the Red Cross and Centers for Disease Control.”

“Sure.” He sighs, “Lemme get my C.D.C. guy on the phone.”

“Jesus!” Hop drawls, “Go— talk to him!”

“Uh, yep.” He unearths his phone, “Calling him now.” Steps out of the office and makes his escape just as Hop sighs.

“Okay, now let’s talk about you and your dressing down of the Christian right on public prime-time television, Kid.”

[case-almost-closed]

Hey, I would like to ask a Gin x fem reader. Here's my idea and it's okay if you don't have time or inspiration for it!

Maybe some "critical" scenario in which he's about to get shot or badly injured (perhaps she's already on the organization and was very reliable to Gin, which is weird since he doesn't trust anyone, but then something happend and made him be suspicious of her; another idea is that she's not with them and that she has helped Akai, Conan, etc. Therefore she knew beforehand their plans on shooting him) and she kind of gets in the way or pushes him, therefore saving him? (Weird as well because he has even shot himself lol but maybe a bullet that was meant to go straight to his head). I know it may seem off character (or maybe we just haven't seen enough different scenarios of him), but maybe he shows appreciation, or is kind of surprised? I wouldn't know how to end it though.

The main thing was her saving him from anything and creating a better relationship, the other things were just ideas. It's so hard liking a character that's kind of like a cold wall, just... write it in your own way (I think you do it really well). Maybe make him show like- the closest thing he would demonstrate as gratitud or affection... I would gladly take something romantic but seems impossible with him and it makes me want to cry.

And sorry for making you write for him bc he's actually hard to represent but- there isn't enough writings about him I guess and it's making me anxious, at this point it's not even funny lol.

Playing with fire

Gin x fem!reader Words: 2.1K Warnings: Toxic "relationship", manipulattion, very toxic, it's Gin what did you expect? A/N: I am so incredibly sorry!! I totally forgot that this was sitting in my WIPs!!!! I hope it's okay, how it turned out though I'm not quite sure, it's that good. I tried the romance thing, but like you said, it's Gin.

She had known from the start that it would not be easy. Her mission - infiltrating the black organisation - was one that had failed many before her, many whose intention had not been to spy and eliminate the other members one by one. And yet this had not been the most difficult part. Nor had it been the hardest part to convince the other members of her loyalty. At first, she still remembered the face of the man she had had to kill, but by now she had to admit that she could hardly remember his features.

No, the hardest part had been keeping her priorities and true loyalties straight.

No one had warned her how much something like this could tug at your nerves, shake your mind until you no longer knew which way was up and which way was down, what was right and what was wrong. And the mysterious, silver-haired man in the hat certainly didn't make it any easier for her.

She had been warned about him. He would know no scruples, no mercy, no emotions. And she had loathed him, oh she had hated him, truly. He epitomised everything she had sworn to destroy. And yet time seemed to tear down her walls, hard and high, and every time he entered the room now, her eyes were glued to him. Every time he looked in her direction, her pulse quickened and her heart beat in her throat.

Every time he laughed, that small, knowing, dark laugh, she felt hot and adrenaline shot through her body, making her jittery.

She hated the feeling and loved it at the same time. It was wrong, it was poisonous. But, oh, it felt so good. Gin had her in the palm of his hand and he didn't even have to do much for it.

And yet, there was this one, this ethical, part of her that resisted it devastatingly.

That didn't want to accept that Gin had an effect on her, that was the only obstacle between Gin and control over her. And she clung to it desperately.

But today her dilemma was to come to an end. It was all planned and, from the looks of it, it would be successful. She, Gin and a handful of other members would meet in a remote, abandoned building to negotiate a deal. And if all went according to plan, it would be the last one Gin would sign.

She knew exactly where the sniper would be, where Gin would have to stand and from which direction the shot would come. One little movement of the finger on the trigger and she would finally be rid of these tormenting thoughts about Gin. After the other members, no more than two, were killed, she would fake her own death and go into hiding. The FBI would make it look like an accident and she would never have to worry about this organisation.

And yet she couldn't shake off this unpleasant, queasy feeling as she waited with him on the roof of the building. "You're distracted, Madeira." After all these years, she was already more familiar and comfortable with that name than her own. Gin didn't even look at her as he lit a cigarette, just stared at the door to the staircase entrance where the others would soon appear.

She endeavoured to look calm and impassive and leaned her arms on the railing, letting her gaze glide over the city. For a moment, she thought she saw a flash in the sniper's hiding place, but she was sure she had only imagined it. "It's not exactly interesting up here."

Gin still didn't look at her, just blew smoke into the cold night air. "It's not supposed to be interesting. Just beneficial." She could hear the rebuke in his voice and straightened up, now facing the entrance as well. "Of course." Discreetly, without moving her head, she looked down at the watch on her wrist. Ten minutes to go until the planned murder. Although, could it be called murder if it was for a good cause?

She struggled to look as normal as possible, to keep her heartbeat steady. Gin was excellent at reading her, even if she didn't know how he managed to take her pulse without even looking at her. Another five or six minutes passed and she was beginning to think they weren't going to turn up when muffled footsteps and laboured breathing sounded from the stairwell. She immediately straightened up, while Gin didn't change a bit. The only movement was the rising and falling of his chest, which was soon to stop forever.

She knew it was necessary, even right, but she felt this incredible urge inside her to do something about it. To push him aside, to warn him, just anything. Instead, she stood impassively in the background while Gin took up the negotiations. Well, that sounded like the other men had a choice. They didn't. Gin dominated the conversation as usual, subtle yet effective threats and even from a slightly further distance she could see the sweat of fear glistening on their foreheads. What the conversation was really about, however, she didn't know. Her gaze kept wandering back to her wristwatch, the hands of which were approaching the big 12 on the watch face far too quickly for her liking.

"We're done here." She glanced up from her watch - twenty seconds to go - and saw Gin satisfied, or at least as satisfied as he could look, accept the case and turn towards her, only to tilt his head slightly. "You're pale. Something's wrong."

Ten more seconds.

"I - " she faltered, the lump in her throat not allowing her to get any more out. The narrowing of his eyes was palpable, even if she couldn't see anything through the curtain of hair. Eight seconds.

"Spit it out," he ordered her and she flinched, not because of his rebuke, but because she had spotted the small red dot dancing across the brim of his hat. Five more seconds.

"I..I..." Gin snorted dismissively and turned away.

What happened next was so fast that she didn't quite realise what exactly happened, only that it had happened and that she had ruined the FBI's carefully devised plan. As if in slow motion, she saw the second hand on her watch creep up to twelve and something inside her stirred. Something that protested that it was wrong, not right, to kill this brilliant, intelligent man in front of her.

Her body reacted before her mind could follow. She leapt forward and crashed into Gin, causing him to stumble back at the exact moment the sniper in the building across the street pulled the trigger. It was silent, fast and would have been fatal without her, but instead of Gin's head, the bullet pierced her shoulder. As if in slow motion, she could see Gin's face contort, but not in shock or fear.

His face was an image of total satisfaction, the likes of which she had never seen on him before.

But as soon as the bullet had left her shoulder on the other side, she felt as if time was running twice as fast. She didn't even have time to scream in pain before she fell to the ground and banged her head against the railing. Black dots began to dance before her eyes and the last thing she saw was Gin bending over her before she lost consciousness.

~**~

It hurt a little when the man pierced her skin one last time with the needle to stitch up the wound, but she didn't make a face, her eyes still fixed on the floor in front of her. Anything to avoid looking into the corner where Gin was leaning.

The doctor - well, she didn't think he was really a doctor anymore - bowed slightly and left the room. She was tempted to call after him, to beg him to stay and delay the impending conversation with Gin even longer, but she remained silent.

The talk was unavoidable and the longer she kept him waiting, the worse it would get, she was sure of that. Because it was clear that she had been exposed. She had half-consciously overheard Gin talking to someone about the fact that she had revealed her true loyalties, which would be punished.

She wasn't stupid, she knew what punishment meant in the black organisation: death. If she was lucky, she would be shot in the head and it would be over quickly. If she wasn't so lucky, which she suspected she was, her death would be delayed and made as painful as possible, probably with an interrogation about her connection with the FBI. For the life of her, she couldn't explain why they had patched her up.

The door closed silently and they were alone, the only sound her heavy breathing, fuelled by the pain in her shoulder. She could feel his burning gaze on her, but she kept her own gaze lowered and remained silent. For a few moments, there was complete silence, which further strained her nerves, but she didn't dare let a sound escape her lips.

"That was stupid." Gin's words made her flinch slightly because, despite the fact that he was almost whispering, they seemed loud to her.

"But I don't have to tell you that, you already know that, right Madeira? Or should I call you agent instead?"

Still silent, she lifted her gaze to look him straight in the eye in defiance. If she was going to die, then not without putting up a fight, even if that fight consisted only of a glaring look. With his next words, however, he knocked her completely off balance.

"I already knew it. We all knew it. Well," he grinned slightly. "The important ones knew." His words drilled into her like more bullets, only they hurt more than the sniper's bullet ever could have. They had all known. All her work had been for nothing. She didn't ask 'how' because she doubted Gin would tell her. Besides, it was no longer important. Still, she couldn't hold back a few questions.

"Why?" Her voice sounded raspy and rough, though she didn't care. "Why didn't you kill me directly?"

Gin tilted his head slightly before taking a few steps towards her. Her body instantly stiffened on the cot. Far too close, he stopped in front of her and looked down at her. His hair had fallen so far from his forehead that she could see his eyes and there was something almost maniacal in them that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Because I knew you could be won over." One of his fingers grabbed a strand of hair and twirled it. "By the time we found out, several months had passed. The situation was starting to fray your nerves then. You were becoming easier to read and it was more than obvious to someone like me that you were starting to lose your focus, your loyalty." The strand fell back against her and Gin began to walk slowly around her, his shoes making a clicking contact with the ground.

"Because I knew you found me... interesting. And I could see how far I could take advantage of that."

Against her will, she blushed and Gin laughed darkly. "Oh, no need to be embarrassed, Madeira. If it makes you feel any better-" he leaned down so that she could feel his breath against her ear. "- I've taken a liking to you, too. Everyone loves a new, shiny toy. And let me tell you-" his fingers ran over the back of her neck, "-you've been my favourite in a long time."

She had to swallow because a lump had settled in her throat. Gin was playing with her, that much was clear, after all, he had just told her himself, but she didn't know why he was delaying her death. Was it for his own entertainment? To give her hope that she wouldn't die after all, just to put a bullet in her chest? She wouldn't put it past him.

Gin seemed to read her mind as he chuckled harshly. "Oh don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. You saved my life and I'm not giving up my new toy anytime soon. You've ruined your position with the FBI. At least the boss isn't inclined to kill you immediately." He moved again so that he was standing directly behind her. She didn't feel comfortable not being able to see him, but she didn't dare turn around.

"You're asking why I didn't have you killed earlier and still don't? Do you want the answer?" He didn't wait for a sign from her. All at once, his hand shot around from behind, grabbed her by the throat, squeezed and pulled her head back. His face was right next to hers, so she felt his breath brush across her face as he murmured his next words, which sent a shiver of pure fear and excitement simultaneously down her spine.

"Because I want to prove to them that I can break you."

[tailsbeth-writes]

Espresso martini, Henry and Liam. Hehehehe

I may write more about this in a Oneshot, it's actually given me some fun ideas! 😇

Henry will admit he's a little nervous as they walk to the bar. He might be clinging to Alex's hand like it's a life raft when they see Liam wave them over. Alex is grinning like the Cheshire cat though and it makes Henry's heart fuzzy.

‘ACD, bain of my life, how are ya?’ Liam drawls as he and Alex hug, slapping each other's backs. Henry can't help but think about them doing this as teenagers, after a lacrosse game. Match? Oh, mere details Henry can't bring himself to be bothered by.

They slide into the booth and Alex goes to order Henry's usual gin and tonic at the bar when he stops him.

‘Actually, make it an espresso martini. It's a special occasion, no?’ Henry cocks his brow because he knows it will drive Alex crazy, and by the way Alex bites his lip, it's working.

‘Make it two, I'm on vacation!’ Liam chirps in. Henry smiles at him and back at Alex who rolls his eyes and heads to the bar. Liam settles into the usual small talk with Henry, who is thankful when Liam gets into a long story about his flight to New York. They don't know each other super well, but Henry has managed much worse situations. If he can deal with a high tea with the Austrian ambassador who obsessed over clownfish, then this is nothing. When Alex comes back, he's got the two cocktails but is lacking a third drink.

‘I am so sorry but I need to run out. Work emergency, I would tell them to shove it but that would be six months do-’

‘Go, I'm here for a week dude. We'll catch up another night.’ Liam interrupts with a nonchalant shrug. Alex looks to Henry, who is playing with the anxiety ring June bought him to replace the signet ring.

‘Can you entertain Liam for this evening, baby?’

Henry takes a sip of his martini, he knows this is Alex’s polite way of saying ‘You can go home, it's okay.’

‘We’ll be fine, love. Go save the world or whatever it is you do all day.’ He teases before sliding out and giving him a parting kiss. Alex calls out a quick ‘be good’ with some finger guns and high tails it out the bar.

‘I forget how embarrassing he can be… how do you do it Henry?’

Henry barks a laugh and holds up his glass to toast.

‘To Alex Claremont-Diaz, the most idiotic man with the biggest heart.’

Liam clinks his glass with him and they gulp the deep brown cocktails.

‘He hasn't changed. Did he ever tell you about the time he brought the wrong underwear for after training?’

‘Tell. Me. Everything.’

*Several espresso martinis later*

Alex ❤️

almost home

did you get back okay?

Come drink with us!

Still at Martie’s.

Baby, its almost midnight

Dont you have a call at 8am?

Pez says

it's ok

Ok?

Oh Henry how many have you had

only a few

The bartender gave us some free shots

Lovely chap

Coming to pick you up sweetheart 😂

Hows Liam?

But you've got me Alex

We're married darling.

You don't need to pick me up

So silly ❤️❤️❤️

Oh youre so gone

Liam is calling Spencer

He's going to propose when he arrives on Wednesday

How romantic!!

Wait he told you that?

Yeah

He told me lots

I know all about your 'straight' boy days

I am never letting you two drink alone again

[recurring-polynya]

I was cleaning out my WIPs folder a few months ago, and I found the original draft of my Kira-and-Rose-Review-a-Restaurant story. It was nearly complete, and it's not anything earth-shattering, but it's also mildly entertaining, so I thought I would finish it up and send it out into the world. Then, of course, I procrastinated on that for months, but, hey! It's Kira's birthday! Happy birthday, Kira!

(read on ao3)

🍴 🐟 🍶

“Captain,” said Izuru, clutching his folders like a lifeline, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“My companion will have the tekkadon, but he would like the orange sauce on the side,” Captain Outoribashi informed the waiter. He squinted at his lieutenant. “Is that alright? Do you like tekkadon?”

“Er, yes, it’s fine,” Izuru excused. “Sir, when you said we could go over these budget requests over dinner, I thought we would go to a ramen stand or something. This is far too--”

Rose waved a hand. “It’s covered, don’t worry about it.”

Izuru chewed the inside of his cheek while his new captain continued to order a rather frightening amount of food. The waiter seemed to be taking all this in stride.

Captain Outoribashi couldn’t be more different than Captain Gin, he kept reminding himself. Rose was elegant and mannered, and was trying very, very hard to make everyone in Squad Three feel comfortable and welcome. He also had absolutely gorgeous waves of shining hair, velvety purple eyes that you could just fall into, and amazing taste in absolutely everything. Izuru would never have assumed in a million years that his captain would have any sort of… interest in someone like him, and yet, here they were. In a fancy restaurant. After work hours.

“Sir,” he started again, when the server had left. “It’s not about the money-- well, also, I feel you may have been misinformed, it’s true that I come from a noble family, but, uh… not a very well-funded one. It’s, just, er… I feel that a captain and a vice-captain should have a very professional relationship, you see, and this place is rather upscale, and I feel like you’ve gotten the wrong idea--”

Rose blinked at him. “You’re friends with Lieutenant Hisagi, no?”

Izuru’s cheeks colored. “Well, yes, sir, we’ve known each other since our school days.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Izuru felt all the blood in his body fall down into his feet. “Tell me… what?”

“Well,” said Captain Outoribashi, with a sneaky smile on his face. “One of the first things I realized upon my return to Soul Society was that old curmudgeon Kyouraku Kenji had retired and that the restaurant review column had been vacant for nearly three years!”

“Wait, what?” Kira sputtered.

“According to your friend,” Rose rambled on, “His former captain felt that the column was elitist or somesuch and didn’t want to continue it, but what could be more egalitarian than communicating the rapture of fine dining to the masses? I thought I was going to need to lean on my good friend Kensei for a little old-fashioned favoritism, but Lieutenant Hisagi was perfectly willing to hand me the post, can you believe it? I assumed he might have mentioned it to you, you’re also a Bulletin contributor, are you not?”

“You’re here to review this restaurant?” Kira managed to get out.

Rose put an elegant finger to his lips. “Shh! We’re supposed to be secretive about it, but I refuse to use a nom de plume, so I am sure we’ll be quite infamous before long.”

“'We'?” Izuru echoed.

“Well, I need to try as many dishes as possible,” Rose mused. “I have to bring companions. You had a noble upbringing, so I’m sure your palate is quite sophisticated. And you’re a writer! I hope you don’t mind, but I was already planning on blatantly stealing any particularly clever turns of phrase that pass your lips.”

Kira felt frozen absolutely solid. Why did his captains always have to be so interested in him? Why couldn’t he get an icy asshole like Kuchiki who would forget he even existed whenever he was out of eyesight, or a battleax like the Kenpachi, who would just break his arms first thing in the morning? Who was he kidding? He knew very well he wouldn’t last ten minutes in Squad Eleven before someone ran his underwear up a flagpole.

Rose’s face fell. “If you’re not interested, just say so. I’m sorry for presuming. Do you happen to know anyone who likes fine dining? Kensei has excellent taste in cuisine, but he dislikes ambience, and you can’t take Hirako anywhere. Beyond that, I’m afraid I’ve fallen out of touch with many of my old acquaintances.”

No! Kira scolded himself. He has offered you a reasonable boundary and you can just say no. Say no, Izuru. Say it. Just because he’s lonely doesn’t mean it’s your job to be his friend. You’re his lieutenant and that’s all you have to be.

“An assortment of shiokara,” the waiter returned, setting a tray on the table holding a number of sampler bowls. “And your sake.”

“Do you like shiokara?” Rose asked, gesturing at the pots of fermented fish before picking up the sake. “Also, do you drink?” he asked belatedly. “I love it, but only with shots.”

“Ah, same,” Kira finally managed. “I tend to think of it as bar food, though, I’m a little bit skeptical of the artisan nonsense from the menu.” It was out of his mouth before he even thought about it-- you’re not at the izakaya with Hisagi and Abarai!! he reminded himself.

“Oh, Kira, you cannot say something like that and then refuse to give me your opinion on the finished product!” Rose sighed. “Please, just help me with this first review! I’ll…” he frowned. “I don’t know what you like. I’ll let you pick the music we listen to in the office for a whole week.”

Kira had already experienced the horror of Rose’s automatic music player that he had brought back from the World of the Living. “Er, that’s okay,” he replied. “I don’t really know any of the music you have. It’s probably better if you pick.” He grabbed a bite of firefly squid with his chopsticks. “I’m here, might as well.”

Rose’s face glowed.

---

  “ ‘...I found the dish quite pleasant, although more adventurous diners may find the flavors too subtle. My delightful dining companion, a man of culture and manners, proclaimed that ‘you could throw a rock toward Rukongai and hit a bar with better shiokara than this.’”

“Savage,” Rangiku declared.

Momo slammed her Bulletin down on the table. “How did you convince him to let you go along? I wish my captain took me to fancy restaurants!”

“Who says it was me?” Izuru frowned, sipping his sake. “I don’t think it ever said the guy’s name. It could have been anyone.”

“Later on, he says that you described the rosewater agar agar as ‘smelling like your great- aunt’s house,’" Renji pointed out dryly, "which is the same thing you said about that facial cream Yumichika tried to get you to use."

"Why do you pay attention to things like that?" Izuru griped.

"Because he took it very personally and complained to me for a month about it!"

"Anyway," Shuuhei broke in, "Captain Outoribashi told me it was you. He wanted to make sure you got your co-author stipend." He jerked his chin. "He said he wasn't sure if you were going to keep doing it with him."

Izuru shrugged. "It was sort of by accident that I ended up going anyway."

"Well, if you don't want to, tell him that I like going to fancy restaurants," Rangiku offered.

"I think it's a nice opportunity to get to know your new captain!" Momo announced. "But if you really don't want to, I also like going to fancy restaurants."

"I also think you should do it," Renji said. "I don't care about fancy restaurants, but that was the funniest restaurant review I've ever read. Captain Kuchiki thought it was hilarious, too, by the way."

"He what," said Izuru.

"He chuckled softly and shook his head," Renji translated.

Izuru had to take a minute to process that one.

"Also, that sweet, sweet co-author stipend," Shuuhei pointed out.

Izuru glared at him.

"Look, it's too soon to have more than anecdotal feedback, but my editorial instincts tell me this column is going to be a big hit. You and Captain Outoribashi have rapport, Izuru! Chemistry!"

Izuru frowned, deeply. "He's my boss, Hisagi, and he's only been that for three weeks. All I want with him is an appropriate work relationship with healthy and firmly respected boundaries."

"How about a 10,000 kan per month dining budget?" Shuuhei replied, and took a shot of sake. "Alcohol permitted."

"Oh," said Izuru. "Well. Maybe that, too."

~

If you enjoyed this, maybe you'd like to read their review of the Seireitei Waffle Hut?

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

All Shook Up

You Eat Yet? | Masterlist | You Got a Minute?

Pairing: Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto x Reader

Rating: M (though it may have explicit chapters in the future)

Notes: Welcome back! I hope y’all are having a nice week!❣️ Also no worries, there’s another chapter incoming, it just doesn’t have a name yet.

Warnings: ...Angst. Soz. Stubborn reader.

Summary: The other three drinks you’re tasked with presenting have to be abso-fuckin-lutely on point. And for better or for worse, getting it right becomes a bit of an obsession. And you can go with a couple of standards that you’ve had, but you want one to be just yours.

Mack frames it as a trial—as if he’s never seen your specials bring in money. Still, it’s a step in the right direction—a show of interest, and a sign that he wants to bring Barky’s into the 21st fucking century. 

So you start fiddling with recipes when you’re home. You already know you’re going to put the slow gin fizz up for consideration. It’s a little time-consuming, sure, but considering how much it paid out the last time it was on the menu, you can justify it to Mack. 

The other three drinks you’re tasked with presenting have to be abso-fuckin-lutely on point. And for better or for worse, getting it right becomes a bit of an obsession. And you can go with a couple of standards that you’ve had, but you want one to be just yours.

-- 

“Babe,” Carmy groans from your couch. 

“...What?” You call back after a moment. 

“C’mere, c’mon. Siddown.” 

“In a minute.” 

You hear Carmy sigh, then grunt again as he pushes himself off to stand.

“You said that twenty minutes ago.” 

Your eyes are set on the shaker as you add some vodka to the shaker. One…Two…Pop! You draw the bottle away with a jerk of your wrist, setting it aside and reaching for the cinnamon. Your hand hesitates over the container, eyes narrowing slightly before you shake your head a bit to yourself. Add that to the rum, if anything…Or you could try a cinnamon syrup…Cinnamon syrup, that would be better. You turn, crouching down and beginning to rifle through your cabinet for a small pot. 

"Babe."

“...Yeah? No, this’ll only take me like, less than ten minutes,” You reassure, straightening up. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

Carmy doesn’t answer. Or—well, maybe he does, but you’re in your head, getting down the cinnamon sticks and sugar. 

-- 

It has been at least an hour. Your head is killing you, you’re tired, and your eyes are crossing—but you’ve got it down, you know you’ve got it down. 

“Can you come here and try this?” You call out. Your kitchen smells heavenly—sugary and light, with only a mingling of alcohol under it. You glance over as you hear the floor creak. 

“C’mere, take a sip,” You urge. Carmy takes a few steps closer. He takes hold of the proffered glass. You watch, stomach tingling with anticipation as he takes a whiff, processes, then takes a sip. You bite your lips, brows raising as he hesitates, then swallows. 

“Good?” You ask, nodding, “Right?” 

“...Yeah,” He agrees…But he says it in a way that doesn’t seem like he quite buys it. Your brows lower and furrow, a frown taking over your lips. 

“What?” You ask, immediately defensive. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“Nothing is wrong with it,” Carmy insists, peering down between the glass and your face. “It’s just…It’s too much.” 

“What?” 

“It’s too sweet.” 

“Oh—Please,” You scoff. “That’s such a guy thing to say. What, you don’t like it, 'cause it's a girly drink?"

“No! I did not say that. It just—It needs something to balance it. A few dashes of bitters.” 

“Oh, sure,” You scoff, turning from him, “Thanks, great advice from someone that’s not a bartender.” 

“I may not be a bartender, but I know how to create a flavor profile that fucking works.” 

“Yeah, you know what, great. Thanks for the feedback,” You agree dryly, beginning to clean your counter before looking at Carmen. He watches you with an almost blank cruelty, eyes searching your face.

“You don’t think I know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“When’s the last time you drank a sandwich, Berzatto.” 

The two of you stare one another down icily before Carmy wordlessly slams the drink down on the counter, the remaining liquid sloshing over the side before he turns. He shakes the few drops that landed on his hand off as he heads for the door. You don’t stop him; you just stare at the back of his head as he goes, irritation roiling through you. “Some bitters,” You scoff to yourself as the door slams shut behind him. “Some bitters.” You take a sip of the drink, hesitate, then turn away. You start making the drink again, grumbling all the while. 

“Tell me to add some bitters, like someone made him the fucking king of fucking bartending—bitters. Guy learns one fucking thing at smart guy chef school and thinks he can do my job better.” You add bitters to the shaker before slap the top on it. You take it up, shaking it with a renewed vitriol. You strain it into a fresh glass. 

“Add some bitters, like he’s got a perfect fucking pallet, like he knows—” You pause in your rant to raise the glass to your lips. You take a sniff and go still, stomach flipping with fear. But—No. No. This is your area of expertise. You know what you're talking about—he doesn't.

You take a sip and you…Freeze. 

Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck—

You spit it into the sink, pouring out the rest of the mixture and dropping the glass as you hiss:

“Son of a bitch!”  

Tag list: @bobawithpomegranate ; @brandyllyn ;  @artemiseamoon  ; @amneris21 ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @backoff-imreading​ ; @quietpainter ; @milf-trinity ; @distinguishedfilipina ; @peoniarose​ ; @missredherring​ ; @estrela-rogers​ ; @silkiers​ ; @sammiekay01​ ; @velmalav​ ; @themartiansdaughter​ ; @eddiemunson4ever​  ; @whoahoney​ ; @wittyno​ ; @winchestershiresauce ; @artaxerxesthegreat

[reductionisms]

gintama and the powerscale: looking at 4devas bitchslap

today i attempt to answer a question that's been in the back of my mind for over 3 years: is gintama actually about losers?

i'm certain we all know this line:

rough. what about the following page?

in the manga about losing?

i think the bitchslap is very provocative. here, shinpachi-- the narrative-- punches gin for saying, in effect, "please stay alive". he justifies it by arguing that no one's going to die, that they're not going to lose-- but gin, who would normally respond, says nothing.

well, what can he say? gintama is, after all, full of losers; gintoki's job, then, is to tell the losers that yes, they'll keep losing, yes, everyone might die, but, despite it all, they still have to live. against this, the bitchslap declares the opposite: no one's going to lose, no one's going to die. mystifyingly, gintoki does not refute it.

unsurprisingly, the bitchslap's actual context is the narrative parallel between gintoki and jirocho. jirocho's arc process is: make a promise->fulfill promise alone->fail because alone->learn to get help from others->fulfill the promise with help from others.

but since sorachi is sorachi, jirocho's development within 4devas must be clarified by gintoki-as-thematic-mirror. gintoki thereby becomes jirocho's other self. preceding "life doesn't have to be fun" is:

following the shinpachi bitchslap is:

so gintoki is: promises to protect otose->protects otose by himself->fails to protect her->the present conversation. considering that kagura and shinpachi ask to go with gin to fight jirocho, that gintoki is punished by the narrative (literally punched across the room) for saying no to this, and, finally, that shinpachi tells gintoki he's wrong because "no one will die since we'll protect you!/us three have protected so much all this time!", i think we can say that the "development" 4devas demands from gintoki is: promise to protect otose->protects otose by himself->fails to protect her because he's by himself->learns to get help from others->protects otose.

so, what's the issue? within arc, gintoki's subplot holds. but while the message may hold for 4devas, it doesn't necessarily hold for gintama prior. pre4devas gintama, which is (supposedly) about living as a loser, doesn't seem to focus on present outcomes. it says: "you've lost in the past, and the important thing is that you keep fighting". it does not say, "if you keep fighting, you will win". certainly, sometimes gintama situations work out, but gintama doesn't really come out and say that this is a guaranteed or logical outcome. 

yet according to 4devas, if you work together with others, you will win. in fact, shinpachi punishes gin for assuming they won't win (⇔that anyone will die). that is, in the manga which, until this point, should have been about not-winning, no matter how good you are, no matter how hard you try, we get a message that guarantees winning.

I actually think this gets at a (the) deeper intra-gintama tension. we consider: is gintama about how to live in a world where no matter what you do, nothing ever works out, or is gintama about shounen-overcoming to concretely change the world because things do work out? similarly, does gin, as a character, change? (⇔according to gintama's "thematic unity", should he change?) and, finally, if we take that some things are unchangeable and some things aren't, how the hell do you tell the difference? is there an actual difference, i.e., is it so that you can take the correct set of actions to affect change, and therefore unchangeability is innately your fault?

(is 4 devas just sloppy writing?)

alright. here we go.

1.Is gintama about how to live in a world where no matter what you do, nothing ever works out, or is gintama about shounen-overcoming to concretely change the world so that things do work out?

we have thus far identified two strands of thought: in the first, that the world is changeable, in the second, that it is not. ultimately, though, we are dealing with a question of justification. if the bitchslap is justified, gintama is about shounen-overcoming; conversely, if “life isn’t fun/i just want you to live” is justified, then it deviates from shounen. the latter is justified in the world where linear change (that is, linear progress) is impossible; this is equally the world where you keep on losing, where surviving is loss itself and to die is to win. 

take gintama's favorite, seppuku. seppuku is a way to “win” your death. it allows you to defeat your circumstances by virtue of escaping them, alternatively, and less metaphorically, to preserve the honor of yourself and your loved ones through your death. 

yet you only commit seppuku is when there is no other option. in other words, suicide becomes a win only if there is nothing you can do to change your circumstances, that is, in a world where linear change is impossible. 

in a world where linear change is impossible, to die is to win. killing yourself proclaims a last mastery over the oppressive unchangeable. further, by dying, you are finally able to do something for your self, and this is what makes it a victory, because dying is actually the only thing you can do– it is the only victory available to you. 

then to stay alive in a world where linear change is impossible is to lose. more exactly, it is to continue losing for all of eternity. life is not fun, and survivorship is humiliating; living is to be a loser, in all senses of the word. you've lost your fight and you've lost everything precious to you. in such a world, if you’re not suicidal, it’s because you haven’t realized your situation yet. again, living is not the desirable outcome.

i’m not going to go through all of pre 4devas gintama, so i’ll make a general claim: gintama’s world pre4devas trends towards one without linear change. certainly, there are sometimes victories, but these are better called losses. for instance, the festival arc. gengai wants to win against (change) the world that took his son from him. this world is oppressive and unavoidable. there is an acute sense of the heaviness of fate; it is a sneaking suspicion that things would work out this way no matter anything anyone did, that they would be the same no matter even if gengai’s son was the strongest being in the universe. against this, gintoki stops gengai’s macrocosmic ritual suicide because it is also futile. gengai cannot change anything meaningful by killing the shogun, even in the present; in fact, as if a metaphor, the shogun has already left. in the end, gengai can only bow his head to cry about the futility of life. what is it that you want me to do?/how can you expect me to go on living?

following arcs repeat this pattern. gintoki defeats villains who are trying to kill themselves. when they yell at him, he doesn’t give them some guarantee of future success or happiness, just condemns them to live. hasegawa embodies this perfectly– he makes the decision himself to not win (not kill himself) and thereby lives on as an ontological loser. gintama recognizes the causality.

one might make the point that life doesn’t work out only for people who are not gintoki. gintoki, after all, seems to win his arcs pretty often, and he’s never trying to kill himself. to that, i raise 1. the decisive moment, where gintoki loses, 2. gintoki doesn’t really seem certain he’ll "win"– moreso, he responds to events straight off, with little apparent regard to odds of success, 3. we have one arc where gintoki does "lose"-- the guardian dog arc (gin loses because kyoujirou dies in spite of gin's calls to life), and 4. gintoki is a depressed loser himself (either he’s still actively suicidal or he already chose life in the non-changeable world– that is, to be an ontological loser). the optional 5. is that gintoki is a shounen protagonist, so he has to win semi-frequently to keep getting serialized. this is the probably the best answer. i would still argue that there’s a lack of givenness, a lack of training, a lack of assuredness, a lack of linearity about these wins. gintoki is not naruto; he does not progress through stronger and stronger villains, growing reciprocally more powerful with each one, and he does not make friends for the purpose of growing stronger together.

in any case, the world of gintama prior to 4devas looks like a world where linear change is impossible. if it was not, the world would not be crawling with so many losers. 

equivalently, the pre4devas message seems to be: life is losing, but you still have to live. when gengai asks “what do you want me to do/how can you expect me to go on living?” gintoki says, “beats me, just live a long life”. obviously this is shounen-atypical. our suicidal villains are all suicidal because they recognize there is no way to change anything; in short, there is no training arc, no powerscaling, no naruto. what do you do when the world is like this? gintoki denies you your suicide, so you are left being a loser. in other words, you are left figuring out how to live as a loser. is this not, “life doesn’t have to be fun, i just want you to live”?

into this comes the bitchslap.

the stakes are clear. the bitchslap acts against “life doesn’t have to be fun, i just want you to live” to declare, no one is going to die! i hope i have done a good enough job to convince you that this actually means, life is not losing. in any case, it is fundamentally opposed to [life doesn’t have to be fun/just live] ⇔ [life is losing, to live is to be an (ontological, in every sense) loser]. shinpachi, spokesperson of the “living is not losing” ideology, literally punches gin, the loser, through two rooms. 

so sorachi presents two opposite philosophies and chooses only one of them. fine. the problem now becomes, is this choice justified?

in a world without linear change, this choice is not justified. logically: the existence of the world itself declares that living is to be a loser. this is essentially what gin says. anything that is therefore not “life is losing” is unjustified. since “life is not losing” is not only not “life is losing”, but its actual opposite, “life is not losing” is the wrongest you can ever hope to possibly be about life in such a world. 

i made the general claim that gintama pre-4devas hesitantly takes the form of the nonlinear world. we've never had to directly consider this yet, simply because the narrative has never opened itself up to such a discussion. but, as I have tried to argue, I feel like the world itself trends this way, and gintoki’s continual calls to loserhood (living) therefore make implicit sense.

following this thread, that is, following the assumed thematic thread of the 300+ chapters before 4devas, gintoki is right to say “life doesn’t have to be fun/i just want you to live”, and the bitchslap is unjustified.

yet the bitchslap is justified, and its justification lands us in a world where living is not losing, no one is going to die (because we all work together!). this raises several important questions about feasibility, because the bitchslap is a direct, no, opposite departure from gintama’s prior loserhood. in no particular order: given our 300 chapter background of unchangeable loserhood, how do we justify and/or explain that living is not losing?, [related to the results of the former question] how do you define when things are changeable and when they aren’t?, and, assuming gintoki is wrong, does that mean he undergoes character development? 

anyways: how can we justify that life is not losing?

option a) powerscaling

this is straightforward: apply powerscaling logic to gintama. shinpachi actually does this himself; he says no one is going to die because gintoki has fought and defeated much stronger villains prior. further, he claims gintoki has managed to do so by working together with his friends (callback to the theme of 4devas). so shounen.

nevertheless, taking a cursory glance at pre 4devas gintama, we find that gintoki has defeated villains much stronger than jirocho. there is housen (equal in strength to umibozu, strongest in the universe after utsuro), jiraya (equal to the combined oniwabanshu), nizou the butcher (with the individual power of a battleship), et cetera. if we posthumously apply this logic, then yes, gintoki has defeated stronger, which implies either that 1. he was always stronger than all these villains or 2. that he has grown in strength through the enemies and now is stronger than them. here, whichever implication is truthful really doesn’t matter. what matters is that rationally, gintoki should be able to defeat jirocho, and it is ridiculous that he thinks he will not (the “life doesn’t have to be fun”). 

this method presupposes that pre4devas gintama actually cared about the power scale, or, in other words, that the power scale had meaning for pre4devas gintama, that it applied to pre4devas gintama. i think that there are enough perfectly strong people always absurdly losing to prove that it doesn’t. put another way, the power scale can’t apply in the world with no linear change (because strength doesn't matter in such a world). equally, there is also no amount of camaraderie that will enact change. from a bird’s eye standpoint, the power scale rationale holds, but a deeper understanding of pre4devas gintama calls it into question. 

so the powerscaling rationale applies itself to gintama after the fact, to times and places where it never applied previously. obviously we can allow for posthumous revelations that change our interpretation of prior events. but, selfishly, i would say that this is not one of them. there is simply not enough buildup for it. 

option b) genre

this is essentially gintama's meta-textuality, including its tendency to parody/subvert itself and its genre.

gintama is broadly shounen. if we read for genre, we can divide it into past (that is, everything established in-canon as having happened before the first chapter) and present (the current timeline, as is within first chapter and onward). gintama past is a war-hero tragedy, complete with genre-typical archetyping, structure, and hallmark events. gintama present is a satirical comedy that parodies and subverts anything it can get its hands on, including its author.

obviously, in tragedy, souls die. nothing works out, even if you do everything you can, even if it's enough, even if it should. likewise, in true comedy, souls don't die. if people die, they come back to life, or it's not that serious (⇔they needed to die⇔their soul lives on). everything is for the joke: you die for the joke, and it resurrects you in the end. et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

gintama, again, is self-referential, metatextual, etc etc etc. while each member of the cast does their own legwork, by far the most frequent meta-textual commentary vehicle is shinpachi. (that arc where otae comments on him not fulfilling his duty as a straightman because he's distracted by his crush on his penpal...?) shinpachi, as the straightman, has to tell gin he's not acting enough like a shounen protag so that comedic absurdity lands as a joke. essentially, we need a point of reference to come back to for anything in gintama to work; and it is shinpachi who, quite literally, holds up the narrative in this regard.

prior to 4devas, shinpachi straightmans largely for comedic storylines. that is in line with gintama's internal logic; there are a couple gags in serious arcs, but things that would be typically gagged (say, stabbing someone with a sword) instead have more realistic consequences to demonstrate that the arc is going to be serious. since shinpachi (or another straightman) is essential to land most gintama gags, it makes sense that he would drop the straightman-get back into your genre!-act to be serious when the narrative turns serious itself. that is, of course, if we read gintama genre as simply a feature of gintama's comedy, and not anything else.

conversely, what if gintama genre is significant for the story beyond comedy?

gintama's past is tragedy, but gintama's present is comedy. the story even moves settings to signify the change: the past takes place in the rural, idyllic south, while the present is in the red-light district of a booming metropolis. in fact, this red-light district is essential to gintama's comedy; its very existence is absurd. kabukicho residents are the outcasts of society, who don't fit into their genres, who aren't conforming to the tragedy of their era, who instead are laughing at it. kabukicho itself is comedic on purpose, in a very serious way. and 4 devas is the arc about kabukicho.

what does it mean, then, for shinpachi to punch gintoki and scream, no one's gonna die? if kabukicho is the present, the present is comedic, and kabukicho is comedic; while shinpachi is a resident of kabukicho, shinpachi is also the straightman who holds together all of gintama's comedy, and shinpachi punches gin because gin assumes they'll lose and people will die. essentially, the punch is a metatextual wakeup call. shinpachi the straightman says to gin, get ahold of yourself, you're thinking in the wrong genre. it's not the past anymore (gin's past, the tragedy, where people die), because we're in kabukicho, and this is comedy, so even things which would realistically end in tragedy, here, will not.

this argument is better than the power scale. unfortunately, it has some continuity issues. that is, how do you have a serious arc in a comedy? in this comedic present, lots of actions don’t work out simply for comedic effect (hasegawa). but actions have to start working out--that is, having consequences-- for any serious plot to move along. when does this begin? how valid are such developments? what is the limit to their working out? if we assume actions start working out in a serious arc in a comedic present, doesn’t that also imply that the comedic limit (which prevents actions from having consequences) on the power scale is gone? if the serious arc does not take place in a realistic world, does not take place in a tragedy, doesn’t that mean there are effectively no negative consequences? if this is all true, then why do people “lose” in serious arcs pre4devas? (what counts as a happy ending?)

i will pick up these thoughts another time.

onto the final option. 

option c) gintoki character development

option c assumes the thematic pivot. now, all the disjoint between pre and post4devas can be explained away if we assume gintoki undergoes character development throughout gintama present. i will discuss the specifics of that idea in the next section. suffice to say, we just take the pre4devas living-is-losing philosophy, which has been previously unchallenged, and say, well, it worked up until a point because there was no challenge strong enough to make gintoki question himself, and now, here is the challenge that is strong enough to make gintoki question himself. weirdly enough, the challenge is jirocho, who is a complete one-off villain. it does make more sense if we consider that gintoki is struggling with losing a parent figure again. but, then, why not shouy… yeah, that's for later.

so gintoki’s previously unchallenged living-is-losing is finally challenged in 4devas. he is proven wrong, and he must learn from it, and this course of development was always intended, from the very conception of his character and from the very beginning of gintama, so now the rest of gintama is going to be about gintoki growing as a character. 

taken another way, if we reverse-mirror from jirocho onto gintoki, jirocho learns that he can’t do anything alone, that he needs to pass on his duties to his successors in order to achieve success. equivalently, gintoki, who is not a loser, as in, who will not lose anyone else to the oppressive world, needs to learn to pass on his duties to his successors (the yorozuya, kabukicho). promises, promises! handing down promises and trying to fulfill them. (you need your friends to help you fulfill them!) sound familiar?

along these lines, i mean, the pivot makes sense. 

it just raises even more questions. well, perhaps i’m raising them. nevertheless.

if gintoki needs to learn that he will not lose, that he can fulfill his promises (⇔win the scenario) if he passes them onto/works for them with his friends, then why did nothing work out in the past? what makes kagura and shinpachi any better, any stronger, any more capable of winning than katsura, takasugi, and sakamoto? (bookmark this for later). further, has gin actually gotten stronger and/or more capable of defeating various enemies than he was as a war hero ten years ago? on what basis can we say that he can win now, when he couldn’t win back then? 

continuing, if gintoki needs to grow as a character by realizing that he won’t lose because he has people who will help him win, then gintoki and friends are "morally" convicted for failing shouyou. the possibility of character development (⇔linear change) implies that gintoki could have done something, anything, to prevent, well, the final result, and he didn’t. it implies that it wasn’t a truly impossible scenario, that it wasn’t a situation where both choices were wrong and you still had to choose; that there was a way out, if only he had been better about it, better about it earlier. so gintama turns powerscaling shounen; the struggle against the impossibly oppressive world (c.f. zura’s final lines to takasugi in benizakura) is done away with; there is no reason for takasugi to revolt for the sake of gintoki’s crying face. 

finally, and most importantly,

why did the hell did this only happen halfway through the goddamn manga?

2. Does gin change?

okay. i accept that i’m pretty bad at representing my opposition. i think, however, that i have the right to complain, if only because my opinion is certainly the exegetical minority.

in any case, i, not we, because this is probably just a me problem, am now forced to consider: does gin change during gintama present?

to answer this, i must return to some events pre-bitchslap. let’s go back to the graveyard.

it takes a full gintama reread to recall, so i’ll spare you: this is the first time we’ve seen gintoki freak out to this extent. the last time we saw anything even comparable was in our direct predecessor arc, red spider. there, after zenzou reveals jiraya's career history, gintoki does not react; zenzou and yoroyuza implore him not to go after jiraya because he’s too dangerous, and still gintoki does not reply; we see only his back. gradually, we notice that his hand is trembling on his bokuto. then we realize that it is trembling in silent anger, over shouyou. the pivot to his face reveals that his face is shaded. and when gintoki confronts jiraya, we get a lesson about becoming human. 

the comparison. when gintoki arrives and sees otose, presumably dead, we are only given his back. it rains. the rain trembles. jirocho addresses gintoki, calls him immortal. we see gintoki’s front, but not his face, which remains shaded. jirocho finishes speaking and the panels immediately cut to gintoki, who attacks without a word in advance. his face is mostly covered in shadow. the veins in his eye are popping. he looks crazed, insane, completely apart from his usual self, almost inhuman, silent throughout. he only hacks and hacks, with no reason, none of his usual logic or continuity, no real skill, and is thereby easily put down by jirocho. 

jirocho pierces gintoki’s forearm into a family plaque. gintoki’s eye stays popped out, not looking at jirocho, nor really anything at all. we get the sense he is almost not hearing or seeing anything jirocho says. so jirocho stands there and calls gintoki an attack dog, a guard dog, shiroyasha, with no reply. he does not address gintoki by gintoki’s human name. he only calls gintoki “gintoki” once, in the very beginning, before they fight. gintoki remains there, in the graveyard, silent and unseeing. when jirocho leaves he drags himself towards otose’s body and lays down like death.

the parallels, i hope, are pretty strong. red spider pivots on the revelation of shouyou: the flashback metatextually confirms that the child in the corpse field is a demon, but that shouyou’s love and care for it makes him human. to gintama, these are essential ontological positions. gintama’s ideal self is human; its villains are all struggling to be human themselves, and become human by encountering gintoki, a human. thus, gintama character development is presumably that of becoming human. i agree with this. i’m not that heretical. 

anyways, enough of the anthropology. here i'm going to focus on the non-human, the demonic, the ghostly. red spider gives us a set up. we have a glimpse of a never-before-seen anger, triggered by a perceived disrespect to shouyou. this anger is signified to us in that gintoki suddenly becomes entirely unintelligible. usually, we see his face, even if he never truly tells us what he’s thinking. now we suddenly lose access to even the face; we only see his back, the trembling hand. this is gintoki’s true anger. further, while this anger and human-ness are not related to each other within red spider, they show up in the same arc process. to me, that’s enough to think that sorachi’s subconscious is associating them thematically. 

4devas takes this setup and progresses it. the anger is developed, expounded upon. we know it is the same anger because it is triggered by disrespect to gintoki’s “new” shouyou (at least in parental capacity), otose. the signifiers are the same: we completely lose access to gintoki as a something knowable. this time, he does not even respond to jirocho’s provocations. so, yes. it is the same anger, but raised a few powers above the glance we had in red spider. 

before gintoki freaks out, jirocho calls him gintoki, once. then he calls him an immortal. then gintoki attacks. after this, jirocho calls him a dog, calls him shiroyasha, that is, a demon. he pins him to a headstone. metatextually, we find that gintoki is a ghost in a graveyard. explicitly, jirocho calls him demonic, beastly. here, in his incredible anger, gintoki loses his humanity. 

let’s skip forward from 4devas. in courtesan of a nation, we get a panel pretty much the same as that first attack panel in the graveyard. it, again, directly follows a provocation about shouyou (predictable much)? gintoki’s explosive strength is insane– he bites through a sword– but, as tsukuyo will note for us, he isn’t acting his usual self; he’s acting irrationally and actually hindering their fight. tellingly, he gets put in timeout by poisoned darts and is forced to calm down. i won’t go through it, but rest assured: the silence, the insane look, the back, are all present. gintoki becomes unreadable. 

flashing way, way, forward, into the utsuro era, whenever utsuro shows up, gintoki immediately goes mad dog and attacks him with no prior explanation. (the shouyou provocation). everyone comments on this. they say, you act crazy when you see him, you completely lose your head. you lose the ability to fight properly.

so, this offers us some insight into the 4devas situation. gintoki’s anger degrades him into something other than human. in this ontological state, he loses the ability to fight. in other words, he lost to jirocho not because jirocho is stronger than him, which he is not, but because gintoki himself lost it, and lost his ability to fight along with it. after all, per shouyou, only a sword that cuts to protect your soul can protect anything, and a sword that cuts to protect your soul is the sword of the ontological human. when we degrade from humanity, we therefore lose the ability to protect entirely. i think this was probably obvious to most of you (thought it was not to me).

this actually makes a lot of sense for the bitchslap. in this light, that is, of an inhuman gintoki who must return to his own humanity, shinpachi tells him he won’t lose to jirocho because he never was supposed to lose in the first place. “you won’t lose because we’ll be there with you” actually means that those who love gintoki make him human, thereby allowing him to fight properly. and, you know what, yeah, there’s nothing wrong with this. the bitchslap is here justified.

and yet, is it really?

firstly, just to get it out of the way, this justification of the bitchslap only works if we isolate “life doesn’t need to be fun”/the bitchslap from context. if we put them back into context, we realize that gintoki is refusing to let kagura and shinpachi accompany him to fight jirocho, which is why he says “life doesn’t need to be fun” in the first place. assuming the obvious rebuttal against perceived suicidality, shinpachi also punches gin because he and kagura want to come along; his justification is that gintoki won’t lose. if we assume character development, then, yeah, gintoki won’t lose. but that doesn’t let us escape from gintama’s overarching sense of unassuredness in victory, from its general stance against child soldiers (in the end of 4devas we have a callback to the bitchslap: gintoki won’t let kagura and shin come with him to fight hada, asks them to trust him instead). in any case, kagura and shinpachi explicitly asking to come along seems a little ridiculous. gintoki refuses seita in yoshiwara, kagura and shin in red spider, et cetera and et cetera… there is a precedent set that makes their request sound out of theme. whichever way we look at it, for or against, i think we can say something’s a little off with the writing.  

on the theme of bad writing, we come to my second major complaint: bad writing. 4 devas is the first time we truly see the demon (gintoki). that is equivalent to saying, this is the first time we see anything in gin that needs to change, and, that this is when gin's "character development" is introduced. but, this is nearly halfway through the work. introduce character development at 1/4, 1/3, 2/3, or 3/4 instead.

yeah, yeah, sorachi is killing himself writing on a weekly schedule, he doesn’t plan his arcs, wsj is evil. i want to clarify that i don't really care about that here-- sorachi's actually heinous crimes aren't poor thematic execution. but i still can call it bad writing.

alright. let’s continue to assume that this is character development. if it’s character development, then gintoki must have had this issue before 4devas. how come we never see it? were the enemies just not strong enough to provoke it? (but, housen?) were the fights just not personal enough to bring out the beast? (maybe–but i don’t think that’s strongly supported either). if it’s character development, then gintoki must have had this issue in the past; but in his definitive past moment, that is, that which is revealed to us in the shogun assassination flashback, he doesn’t. gintoki loses, and thereby saves all of time. if he had been anything less than human this would not have been possible. from our bird’s eye view of gintama chronology, gintoki has been human since the very moment he met shouyou. 

well, let me grant that his ontological status could oscillate. we then trace a history of gintoki’s humanity. he is inhuman prior to shouyou; shouyou makes him human; he is human at the decisive moment on the cliff. just because he is human in that moment doesn’t mean he stays human after. maybe– just maybe– the moment broke and degraded him into the demon. in that case, we should see him turning into the demon from the very beginning of gintama. yet he does not do this. our earliest post-moment memory of him is when he sacrifices himself, with no sign of anger, for the child asaemon. that, alone, should have enough provocation to the memory of shouyou to make him go absolutely insane. i allow that the yaemon calls him a demon here, so maybe he is. but, where are sorachi’s beloved signifiers?

further, gintama pre4devas is premised on the idea that gintoki doesn’t turn into the demon, that he doesn’t change (c.f. katsura introduction). gintoki is the human mirror, the human self, the human model that each empty, inhuman, suicidal villain is chasing after. he is the one who they can measure themselves against and realize their wrong. how many times, over and over again, does this happen? if gintoki was anything less than human throughout pre4devas, its already episodic plot would fall to complete pieces. 

but 4devas asks us to believe that he is. how? 

maybe, again, gintoki had just not met an enemy strong enough to provoke him into it before 4devas. maybe gintoki had just not been sufficiently provoked into memory; otose’s death, after all, is no small thing. or maybe gintoki has been secretly oscillating between human and inhuman offscreen, in his own unknowable heart. i think that much is true. it’s more his outward actions i’m unsure of. 

i think there are 2 options. either sorachi should introduce the demon earlier, to successfully make it a fundamental part of gin's character, or we should remove the need for him to change at all. returning to my original qualification, yes, i understand that gintama is not planned and poorly written. sorachi inserts an important plot development far later than he should; in his situation, that is not inherently his fault. whatever.

my final complaint about character development centers around other people. shinpachi claims gintoki won’t lose because they (yorozuya) will protect him. in a reading for character development, “gintoki losing” is equivalent to gintoki being the demon. the yorozuya, therefore, turns gintoki human so that he can win. this is very sweet. but, zura and takasugi couldn’t help gin at all in the decisive moment, and he still did what was 'right' (⇔stayed human). what guarantee is there that the yorozuya will do any better than the joui 3? 

gintoki needed someone to save him in order to become human (shouyou). that is the same for every other villain in all of gintama. can a person who you protect make you human? gintama says yes, and i agree with it. ethically, too, i agree with this. i think my scandal with 4devas, and specifically, my scandal with 4devas’ suggestion of gintoki’s character development, then, is shinpachi’s assertion that the yorozuya will develop gintoki, will make him human. because,

well, what about his friends from the past? they couldn’t save him, they couldn’t make him human. in fact, he had to save them. and if there is anything that destroyed his humanity, it is his saving of them. so for shinpachi to claim such a thing, when he has not lived through gintoki’s past (when he was not there for the decisive moment, when he can do nothing (in 4devas) to protect gin from the world), seems like it lacks a bit of logic. after all, how is he different from takasugi, from katsura? how can he protect and make human when they could not? how is he any different from anyone else?

but, maybe, shinpachi doesn’t have to understand gin or his sufferings to claim that he will save him. maybe we sometimes have to say things that sound ridiculous and shounen and make no sense, just to declare them and set a standard somewhere, to get them out into action. maybe this is a lesson about friendship, about trying again, because, well, shinpachi has a point, that i’m not even sure he’s making. it’s this. if you refuse even to pretend to believe, then what is left at all?

my very final thought. perhaps i can accept that gin starts getting character development halfway through the work. even accepting such, what does it do to the significance of his past?

which leads me into a question that has been haunting the last 8000 words: if some things are unchangeable and some things aren’t, that is, if there is a difference between shinpachi/kagura and takasugi/katsura, or, alternatively, if there once was no linear change and suddenly now there is, then how the hell do you tell the difference?

3. If some things are unchangeable and some things aren’t, how do you tell the difference?

we are now at a place of thematic departure. our analysis of the bitchslap has collapsed into a central point: the bitchslap is justified if the world is changeable, and it is unjustified if the world is not.

the difficult thing is that gintama is not clear cut about the ontological status of its world. i have conjectured, repeatedly, that things prior seem largely unchangeable, yet into this comes the bitchslap. retrospectively, things start looking a little murky, and we are forced to reevaluate– perhaps sometimes things are unchangeable, and sometimes, maybe, not. 

so, what can change, and what doesn't, and when, and why? 

i want to emphasize the thematic importance of this question. to do so, i am going to say something ridiculous. here it is: gintama is fundamentally moralistic. okay. what the hell? the dick and balls manga? well, it is a shounen, and shounens all carry messages about friendship, hard work, etc., etc., to inspire their young readers. more pressingly, though, gintama is weirdly moralistic, and by this i mean both that it’s strange for gintama to have morals and that its morals are shounen atypical. rather than honor and victory, gintama tries to align itself with losers and victims. rather than the good self as one who grows continually stronger (to protect, or for whatever purpose), gintama tries to tell us it’s okay to lose, et cetera, et cetera. the point is, gintama positions itself as a story about how to become a good person. any question that leads us to "moral" consequences is therefore important to gintama itself.

as i have touched upon previously, supposing that the world is changeable, there is a certain level of wrongness to loss. obviously, this is a huge generalization, but stay with me. there are so many things can render the world personally unchangeable (disability, circumstance, exhaustion, absurdity, personal will); it is only if you can confidently and definitively say, it was possible for me to do more, it was possible for me to enact change, but i failed to do so, that losing becomes morally wrong. in the sense i'm considering, it’s akin having extra food on hand and ignoring someone starving right in front of you.

now the "moral" undertones of the question start to take shape. assuming gintama’s world is linearly changeable, then the joui 3– in particular, gintoki– are wrong for failing shouyou. why? because there remained something they could have done to bring about the “happy ending”. similarly, we realize that hasegawa is wrong for not managing to get a job, that gengai is wrong for letting his son die at all, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. in any case, we can agree that the question of which things, and where, and why, holds "moral" and thematic consequences for gintama as a whole. 

so the most obvious solution to things seeming sometimes changeable and sometimes not is, well, that sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren’t. for instance: maybe the joui war was nonlinear (unchangeable), but the present is linear (changeable). this fits into several contexts as neatly as i could ask for. it satisfies our conviction that gintoki is right for losing in the definitive moment. it also allows for the bitchslap to be justified in 4devas. finally, and most convincingly to me, it follows the lines of our genre justification: past is tragedy, so of course it is nonlinear, and it thereby makes sense for our present comedy to be linear. 

still, there are issues with this argument. as i’ve stressed before, we have several instances of nonlinearity (linear change being impossible) in gintama present. we could argue that these nonlinear scenarios have no personal impact for gintoki, which is why they are nonlinear. perhaps. as counterproof i have really only gintoki failing to save kyoujirou in the guardian dog arc. besides, i guess it makes some sort of convoluted sense that things are different for your protagonist in order to teach him to hope in life again. so rather than a clear past-nonlinear/present-linear divide, we might assume linear change applies only in the present, only to gintoki. why not?

counter argument: if linear change is possible for gintoki in the present, why doesn’t he have a training arc or a noticeable powerup? counter-counter argument: perhaps gintoki’s linear change is his becoming human, which is achieved through forming new bonds. counter^3 argument: if gintoki is supposed to stand in for the “self” (which, in this context, he certainly must, if he needs to “develop and grow”) then why don’t the same rules (namely, nonlinearity-unchangeability) that apply to all the other “selves” in gintama not apply to gin?

therefore the most interesting explanation actually involves gintama time. sorachi gives time about just as much treatment as genre– sazae-san format, the characters always joke, while they defeat a roster of suicidal villains in the same cyclical way, superimposed– but i’ll be biased and say that i think it might carry the more eminent thematic importance. that is, [the past] is something that weighs so heavily on, and within, each person, each arc, and even the settings themselves. a couple theme songs comment on this. “face over there, then over here, come, let’s grab hold of the era!”? 

then the cycles of gintama present are clearly nonlinear. what about the past? i think the past is also nonlinear, simply because the joui failed against an undefeatable enemy. the world where linear change is possible must have it always possible; if you can only achieve linear change up to a certain point, then this world is not properly linear in the first place. takasugi’s obsession seems to justify me here. 

but shinpachi calls gintoki to trust in linear change as possible and achievable, in the present. is he suggesting a destruction of cyclical time? (is cyclical time not just eternity?)

where is time not cyclical in gintama? that is, where does it flow? 

time is cyclical, eternal, both in present and past. even the end of 4devas is just the end of another cycle: gin inevitably rises, and tells jirocho not to kill himself fighting alone, so shinpachi’s call to linear change– that is, the destruction of eternity– which is so fumbled in its setup, falls upon deaf ears. yet shinpachi must be calling to something within gintama if his call is to have any sort of (misguided) grounding. what on earth could he be calling to?

the investigation is remarkably simple: there are really only two events that alter the course of gintama permanently. the first is pre-canon, the definitive moment. the second is takasugi’s “salvation” in shoass. we should be clued into their identicality by that they are presented together, in fact, superimposed upon each other; and, well, these moments truly do break eternity. the decisive moment ends the suicidal cycle of the joui war, while takasugi’s "salvation" reconciles, finally, gintoki to his past, takasugi to his self, and time to its natural flow. time immediately starts moving after both of these moments are revealed to it. eternity is shattered; gintama actually breaks out of the sazae-san format. 

so, maybe, the shattering of eternity allows for linear change, allows for character development in that the I can momentarily complete its humanity. truly, stubborn and hateful as i am, even i can accept the bitchslap in all its cliche shounen-ity if i take it as a call to escape eternity. that does not mean i can accept the writing around it, but, the main scandal is dealt with, and i can sleep with peace in my heart, knowing that the rest i can chalk down to bad writing. 

as a final note. i, personally, cannot trust in linear change. i think it is suspicious, perhaps too similar to the subjectivity of modern philosophy, or else to what people love to tell you when you’re feeling down and out and just want to lie in the hole and complain for a bit (it gets better!). so while here i have equated the shattering of eternity with linear change for sake of convenience, i want to be clear that time is far more nuanced than my equivalence makes it seem. in fact, i think that the sort of time which shatters eternity is a different type of time from our linear/nonlinear conception altogether. 

yet the call to time, i think, is gintama in its purest. it is what gintoki tells his suicidal other selves– that killing yourself only continues your fetid, empty eternity, that winning is to remain complacent in your self. that it is only the complete and utter loss of staying alive which can break you out of your self and into time again.

in that way, our beloved, bitchslapping shinpachi takes on the soul of gin to tell gin, who, in the moment, seems suicidal, to shatter his own eternity. it is simply bad luck that every single part of this set up is fumbled almost to the level of kishimoto writing political discourse. shinpachi, i’m sorry for doubting you. (i still do). i’ll start believing in the power of hard work and friendship. i promise i’ll never shittalk shounen ever again.

anyways.

conclusions

so, to my question: is gintama about losers?

i have no idea. i don’t think sorachi knows either. he probably felt like a loser in his early 20s, and then the taste of success destroyed his resolution to continue living in a world where nothing works out and he introduced the powerscale. 

but, again, is gintama about losers? the justified bitchslap tells us that gintoki is wrong for assuming he will lose. the problem is, no matter how much i think about it, no matter how much i analyze and justify and write myself into circles, i just can’t convince myself that gintoki deserved it. why? i just can't bring myself to think that he was wrong, that he was wrong for being a loser. 

because gintoki, when his enemies are shocked at his resilience, when they question how he returns to life, how he gets up, how he keeps fighting, when he’s so clearly a loser, always says, it’s no big deal, only that i haven’t fulfilled my promise yet and i won’t die until i do. he is eternally confident in only these words– i will keep standing up– almost like they are his very being. gintoki fights with no regard to his life, but not suicidally. the suicidal kill themselves because it is the only way to achieve victory in their oppressive world. conversely, gintoki knows he will win, no matter if he lives or dies, even as he loses, if only he stands up again. 

even in death, even in absolute loss, even in living. 

gintoki calls on antagonists to lose because their suicidal victories ignore their duty to the world of the living. suicide, in the sense that they commit it, is entirely self absorbed. gengai is avenging his son only for his self (would your son really have wanted this?); once saved, he starts making toys for children. if gintoki had killed takasugi and zura, it would be for his self. instead, he chose to lose, completely and utterly, and it saves the world.

so just like shinpachi calls gintama to a time beyond the linear and nonlinear, gintoki’s victory, that is, the winning in losing, is a winning beyond the self. the victory that shounen assures is, after all, ultimately for one’s self– whether that is growing stronger or protecting your important people. when the self discovers that it cannot win, it loses its reason for existence. it is emptied, it eats itself alive. “revenge achieves nothing”, et cetera, whatever. it is a nothingness that becomes literal.

gintoki tells those who are tortured by their inability to win that they must lose. why? because it is only when embracing the freedom which ontological loserhood offers that they can become human. equivalently, it is only as a loser that they can receive time, fulfill their promises, that is, fulfill their responsibilities to the world, that is, make change, that is, win. 

and this winning is not a winning for your self; it is a winning in losing.

so, yes. gintama is about the righteousness of being a loser, even if shinpachi might say it is not (though, in a very roundabout way, he is saying that it is). losers know they cannot win for themselves, but that they just might be able to win for the rest of the world. perhaps the bitchslap is actually declaring that nobody’s going to die, only because gintoki is not fighting for his self; that nobody’s going to die, that gintoki’s not going to lose, because gintoki is already, well, a loser. and, well, i think i can actually live with that. 

more likely, though, we can mark it down to this:

thank you for reading.

[mrsaltieri-real]

His Perfect Victim (Mickey Altieri X OC!Dahlia Levine)

Chapter 3: Rejection

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: language, alcohol consumption, talks of Dahlia dying, mentions of stabbing and scarring, Mickey being an asshole, smut, p in v, jealousy, angst

Chapter 3! It isn’t as long as I initially planned but it just ended at the perfect spot I didn’t feel the need to drag it out any further. God I love this series so much it’s ridiculous but I’m really going to be putting poor Dahlia through it. Thank you to @bisexual-horror-fan for editing and beta reading this once again! My fucking star!

God, what the fuck was wrong with me?

I stood a foot or so away from the door, many people chatting and drinking away cheerfully around me in a haze of noise and blurred figures as I remained hesitating. How long have I been here? A minute? Five minutes? An hour? Time seemed to have no meaning as I listened to the bouncing music coming from inside Sid and Hallie’s dorm room, the loud laughter and shouting.

It was all uncomfortably familiar.

Suddenly the door swung open and out stumbled Hallie, evidently already plastered, who grinned eagerly when she saw me.

Hands out she exclaims with a smile, “Dahlia! You came! Randy owes me twenty bucks.”

I was immediately engulfed in a warm embrace by Hallie the minute I walked into her dorm room, unable to stop my body from automatically tensing defensively. I consciously knew she wouldn’t hurt me, but my subconscious was immediately put in self preservation mode. Hallie seemed too drunk to notice as she pulled back, an even bigger smile on her face.

“Come in, have a drink!” Hallie finally released me after what felt like an eternity and I smiled half-heartedly at her. I definitely needed a drink if I was going to get through tonight.

I hadn’t been to a party since Stu’s in Woodsbro the night everything changed. In that moment glancing at all the unfamiliar faces I felt painfully aware of that fact, half expecting some jackass in a Ghostface costume to leap out at me no matter how ridiculous that may sound.

Hallie had wandered off to greet more guests, leaving me alone to make a beeline toward the large table full of drinks, eyes scanning the array of booze for whichever would get me drunk the fastest.

“Look who actually turned up.”

I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. I hadn’t even been here two minutes and he’d already found me. I refused to turn and look at him, lifting a red solo cup from the stack and tapping the tops of the bottles for something that sounded at least appetising.

“May I?” His voice floods my ears and I suppress the urge to sigh. This time I did look up at him with a slightly raised brow. “You the connoisseur of cheap booze?”

Mickey laughed a little, shaking his head at me before replying, “I just have an idea of what people like. See,” My eyes followed his finger that now pointed over to Randy, who was sitting chatting to a group of people with his drink gripped in one hand as he waved his other hand around in manic gestures clearly in a deep discussion, “I made Randy a Gimlet.”

“What the fucks a Gimlet?” I muttered, toying with the cup in my hands.

Mickey laughed again, dropping his hand and looking back at me before explaining, “Simple syrup, lime juice and gin shaken over ice. He can’t handle his booze but likes to make it look like he can so it’s pretty perfect for him. Sidney-“ His eyes flickered over to where Sid was standing in the corner with Derek, laughing at something he said, “- Whiskey sour, of course. She’s complex.” I nodded my head, somehow that made perfect sense for her.

“Okay, what about Hallie?” I asked, squinting my eyes to try and make out what she had in her hand as she stood chatting to a few girls. I loosely registered the smell of rum and lime on her breath before her unwelcome embrace.

He made a move of his hand towards her direction as he said, “Hal? I made her an AMF.”

Eyebrows pinched together as I questioned him curiously, “AMF?”

“Adios Motherfucker.” He smiled slightly as he leaned closer.

I couldn’t help but smile back. That was somehow absolutely perfect for her even without context.

“And Derek?” I asked, nodding over in his direction.

“Are you kidding? Beer. He’s a frat bro, you think he’s gonna let me make him a fucking cocktail?” Mickey rolled his eyes, lifting his drink to his lips. It was hard to look away as he took a sip, his tongue darting out and licking the leftover liquid from his lips. I couldn’t help but ask, “And you? What have you got?”

He offered his drink to me and I hesitated for a moment. A soft laugh before he said flatly, “I haven’t got the fucking herp, Dahl.”

I felt my cheeks heat up at his nickname, quickly taking his drink so I could hide my face in it only to be taken by surprise at the overwhelming but delicious taste and aroma of mint, “A Mojito?”

“You look surprised. What, a man can’t enjoy a cocktail?” His hand rose to his chest in mock offence and I couldn’t help but smile again, handing him his cup back.

“You think you can make me one then?” I asked curiously before pressing on further, “You hardly know me.”

He sounded confident as he asserted, “I’m intuitive, I’m sure I can work out what you like even with our limited interaction. Unless of course you want me to get to know you better first?”

Was he flirting with me?

I looked at him blankly for a second before diverting my eyes down. He didn’t miss a beat, immediately changing the subject back to the drink, “You know what a Paloma is?” As he spoke, he took the cup from my hands, his warm fingers touching mine for just a second making my hand jolt back, an action he seemingly chose to ignore, “Tequila, lime juice, grapefruit soda,” With every ingredient he listened he free poured them into the cup until the drink was prepared, handing it to me with a flourish, “Can't exactly salt the rim but here.”

I took the drink from his hand, sniffing it suspiciously before taking a small sip, only to be surprised at how delicious it was.

“Wow.” I mumbled, taking a larger sip.

“Easy,” He chuckled, moving to make himself another drink, “I’m already gonna have to end up carrying Randy to bed. I don't want to have to carry you too.”

I paused for a second before forcing myself to look up at him and meet his eyes, asking with sudden bold curiosity, “What did you mean earlier?”

He looked genuinely surprised at my question, his hands pausing over the bottles as he glanced at me before asking, “What?“

I explained, “Earlier today, you said I’m not going to be able to stay away from you. What did you mean?”

He was quiet for a moment, returning to assemble his drink before walking to the free couch next to the table, raising his hand to the side for me to sit beside him to which I did so.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, just that we’re in the same social circle. I admit to being an ass when we first met, so I do apologise for that. It was just… interesting to meet you.”

I didn’t miss the emphasis he put on the word “Interesting.” It made me pause, eyeing him suspiciously. He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes set into the corner of the room as though I wasn’t even there. “What do you mean interesting?”

He blinked, drink rising up to his lips again as I waited impatiently for his reply only to wish I never asked, “Not everyday I meet someone like you.” He responded simply with a subtle curve of his lips.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Mickey leaned back on the couch, hand resting on his knee as he turned his head to look at me, eyes doing that stupid once over on me that I was growing to hate. Then he said it. “Someone who's supposed to be dead.”

My mouth fell open with a plop at how candidly he said it, staring at him in disbelief. Just when I thought he could be sweet.

“I’m sorry, supposed to be dead? The fact I fucking died is interesting to you?“ I snapped, the alcohol making me bolder than I usually would be.

Or was it the alcohol? Or was it yet again Mickey somehow awakening the parts of me I thought would never see the light of day again? The anger bubbling in my stomach was distantly familiar and honestly, it felt really fucking good.

Mickey groaned, head falling back against the back of the couch. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Fucking hell you’re so sensitive Dahl. Bit of a lightweight, no?”

“Dahlia.” I wanted to shout at him, not appreciating the new nickname he seemed to have branded me with.

“Jesus, fine. Dahlia.” He said my name dripping with sarcasm before he quickly finished his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing, “You’ve gotta stop being so damn oversensitive about shit. Your little broken bird act is kind of getting old to be honest.”

“Oh God, Mickey! I’m so sorry that I’m not living up to your fucking expectations. What do you want from me? Your fascination with the fact I died is really fucking creepy.” I couldn’t help but spit the words out at him. I was only slightly aware that people were beginning to look at us but for once, I didn’t care. I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of me and fuck, it was working.

“Oh, come on.” He laughed, a real laugh, raising his palms up, “You walk around campus like a ghost, you hardly speak to anybody except Sid and Randy, why?”

What was the use in trying to argue with this guy? I sighed, slouching back on the couch and closing my eyes, anger lessening, something more akin to sadness overtakes while I answered him, “They’re the only ones who understand.” I said quietly.

I felt him move to sit back next to me, feeling his eyes on my face although I refused to open them. He stayed quiet for once, waiting for me to continue.

“I don’t like you but I’ll be honest with you-“ I heard him let out a stifled laugh before I continued, “- I’m assuming you know Billy Loomis was Sidney’s boyfriend. Well, it’s lesser known who his accomplice was to me. We don’t share a last name and hell, we look absolutely nothing alike, but Stu Macher was my cousin. I loved him like a brother so when he just stood by and watched that stupid asshole drive a knife into my stomach-“ My fingers automatically touched the healed over wound over the material of my shirt and I winced, not in pain but at the memory before I continued, “- And I died, I’m pretty sure the part where I can… Feel went with me.”

Mickey was silent as he intently listened to me speak before I felt his hand clasp over mine that was still tracing my scar through my shirt, making my eyes snap open and look at him as I asked him in an undeniably self conscious tone, “What?”

“Nothing, I just think that’s the most I’ve heard you talk since I’ve known you.”

His face was close to mine, slightly tilted back as his head rested on the cushions behind him and mine did the same.

Now this feeling was new.

I saw his eyes drop to my lips for a brief moment before looking back into mine. Did I want this? Did I want him?

My mind started to race and my heart began to thud unsteadily in my chest as I watched his tongue swipe his bottom lip as he leaned forward. I could feel the pulse in my ears as I froze in place, unable to make my body move.

Fight or flight, fight or flight?

In a second, I made a decision.

I shot to my feet, dropping my empty cup to the floor and stumbling back a little, my eyes wide and his shown surprise. For the first time I saw a flash of an emotion that wasn’t sarcastic or pissed but I couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what it was.

“Dahlia?” He asked, looking slightly concerned.

“You can’t just do that!” I hissed, hands shaking a little as my eyes flickered around my surroundings. Thank God, nobody was looking.

He leaned forward, his posture significantly less relaxed as he questioned, “Jesus, do what?”

You rushed out, “Lean forward and try to… Kiss me like that!”

Mickey looked at me blankly for a moment before his head fell back and he let out a loud, obnoxious laugh before managing to get out, “Are you fucking kidding me? You thought I was trying to kiss you? We were just having a conversation, Dahlia. How self involved are you?”

Of course, I know now Mickey isn’t used to not getting what he wants. He had grown accustomed to girls tripping over themselves to fuck him and the fact I didn’t, the fact I went out of my way to get away from him? He hates it. I could tell in that moment with the way he laughed but his eyes were blazing that he had an edge to him. I suppose that should’ve been one of many red flags.

Instead I scoffed at him, grabbing a random bottle of booze from the table before stalking off to go drink in peace.

I settled down on a chair in what I guess was supposed to be the communal living room, crossing my legs and eagerly knocking back the rum in my hand straight from the bottle.

“Jesus, Dahlia.”

I glanced up and saw a tipsy Randy flop down beside me, his drink spilling over the side of his cup as he did so but he didn’t seem to notice, eyes on me as he spoke, “Going hard, huh? What’s up?”

“Mickey.” I muttered simply.

“Ah.” Randy was quiet for a moment, looking at me thoughtfully.

Randy and I had what you would call and sandbox friendship. We met in kindergarten when he’d attempted to snatch a toy from my hand and I’d smacked him over the head with it in retaliation. I can’t really remember what led to it, but after that we became inseparable. We got “married” at recess with Sid and Tatum officiating but it was just childish fun and games. I of course loved him, but it was never romantic in any way.

During my time in the hospital, he visited every single day. During this time I wasn’t talking much so we just watched movies until visiting hours were up, he’d go home and then come back the next day to do it all over again. Never horror. He knew me well enough to know that after everything with Billy and Stu, for me at least real life was scary enough.

“Is he giving you a hard time?” Randy asked, rolling his head to look at me, he said in a more serious tone, “Ignore him, okay? Mickey can be an ass.”

“Oh, I know.” I muttered, bringing the bottle to my lips once more, “Such a fucking ass.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Randy’s eyebrows shoot up and I sighed, “What?”

He shrugged, “Nothing. It’s just I haven’t heard you speak with venom like that in… Fuck, forever. It’s disconcerting.”

I looked at Randy, a deep frown on my face as I asked, “What do you mean?”

“No, I don’t mean anything by it. I don’t know what Mickey did or said but I’ve gotta say, he really brings the fire out in you, you know?”

I dropped my eyes to the bottle in my hand, fingernails tapping lightly on the glass. I knew Randy was right. Whenever I was around Mickey he just revived me somehow. As annoying and infuriatingly difficult he was, there was no way I could dispute that fact.

In the space of a month I’d felt more irritation and fire than I’d probably felt in my entire life. Honestly, I never thought I’d feel anything again.

What was it about him?

I lifted my head as I heard footsteps approaching Randy and I and looked up to see Sidney hastily walking over to us.

“Dahlia, Mickey’s looking for you. He’s in my room, said he wanted to find you to apologise or something?” She shrugged a little, hand waving down the hall and toward hers and Hallie’s shared room.

I frowned, my grip on the bottle tightening which Randy seemed to notice as he asked, “You want me to come with?”

“No, no.” I mumbled, starting to stand up before the room spun a little. I blinked, feeling myself fall back on the couch and Randy quickly gripped my arm with a small, nervous laugh. “How much of that have you had?”

I shook my head as I mumbled, “I’m fine.”

Sidney looked at me, soulful brown eyes doubtful. “We all know you’re a lightweight Dahlia. Maybe Randy and I should take you back to your dorm.”

“I’m okay, honest.” In truth, I really just wanted to hear Mickey apologise to me. Who knew he was capable? “What number is your dorm?”

Sidney told me her dorm room number and I felt both her and Randy watching me cautiously as I slowly walked away, trying my best to walk in a straight line. Fuck, I really was a lightweight. Was it down to Mickey’s strong ass cocktail or the straight rum? Probably the straight rum.

My hands both rested on the walls as I walked down the corridor, eyes blurring as I blinked unseeingly at the number of the doors until I found Sidney’s.

I heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the door and infringed a little, hand hesitating on the door knob. Even hammered, something felt off. I didn’t know Mickey that well, but I did know he wasn’t one to apologise.

Fuck it.

I turned the door handle and pushed the door open, eyes widening and mouth falling open and the sight before me.

A blonde girl was lying face down, ass up on what I assumed to be Sidney’s bed without a stitch of clothing on her. She was gasping and moaning into the mattress beneath her, and who else would be behind her? Mickey.

He had her arms behind her back, one of his hands circling her wrists and the other gripping her hip, pulling her back as he thrusted into her. His head was back, groaning softly before it fell forward and he released her wrists, moving his hand up her back until it found her hair and twisting it around his fist, yanking it back so she was sat up, her head leaning on his shoulder as she gasped out, “Oh my fucking God Mickey, please don’t stop!“ with her eyes screwed up tight and her chest heaving. I saw her face and for some reason it seemed to bother me to see how attractive the girl was.

His eyes opened and met mine from over her shoulder, quickly roaming over my stunned form before he smiled.

He fucking smiled, a sick and almost depraved smile directly at me, a slight upturn of his shoulders before he mouthed, “Fuck you” to me as he pushed the writhing, moaning girl down on her stomach. His fingers kneeding the soft flesh of her ass as he continued fucking her, his eyes now never leaving mine as I remained frozen at the door.

Walk away, walk away! Why the fuck are you stood watching this shit?

The voice in my head was screaming at me until she was finally loud enough for me to listen. I turned on my heel, quickly slamming the door behind me.

What the fuck?

Why would he tell Sid he wanted to apologise to me if he was busy fucking some slut in her bed? Why would he want me to see that?

I was clearly drunk because I could feel tears burning my eyes, and I wasn’t sure if they were out of anger or something else. I shook out my head, hands coming up to tap on my cheeks lightly in an attempt to snap myself out of it as I heard Mickey let out another loud laugh and the girl let out an even louder cry of what I could only assume to be pleasure.

Guess this is how he acts when he gets rejected.

What a fucking asshole.

Chapter Four HERE

[puckish-rogue-archive-deux]

Bossu Birthday Extravaganza (Dec. 9th)

Hey yo! It's time we got around to talking about the beeg boy's birthday coming up on December 9th! Now, I wanted to get this out of the way pretty early cause I wanted to give people who were interested in participating enough time to do whatever it is they'd want their Muse to do. Cause I mean, let's be real, all our personal schedules are more or less up in the air at all times. So I figured this would make things simple. Plus I could probably just answer everything the day of as well!

Anyway, let's talk presents. I'm sure a lot of you may think that a guy who has that much cash on him would probably be hard to get things for since he can just buy up whatever the hell he wanted. WRONG. You think a guy like him is gonna miss out on the beautiful and ego-building thrill of receiving gifts? Fuck no. He looooves getting stuff. Loves it when people think about him. Makes him feel all special inside. Just remember that he is both a man who loves to indulge himself, but is also very happy with the simple things in life.

So I won't get into too many specifics because I am a tired old man, but I will lay out some ideas of what he likes so your silly ol' muses can get inspired.

Physical Media: Books, movies, music, games, anything goes! He's got a love for all kinds of genres. But if we're specifically talking movies here, his all-time favorites will forever be Spaghetti Westerns, Action, Horror, Noir, and Crime stuff because he's that obvious sometimes.

Clothing: Self-explanatory. The bozo is pretty fashionable despite what some might say (I'm looking at all you nerds who keep thinking he looks like the fuckin Grimace at all times). Might need to get his measurements though due to his size. He'll definitely appreciate whatever you get him! Even if it's on the goofier side. Also, clothing would include accessories as well.

Weaponry: He is a sick freak ok.

Food: Whether it's something homemade, you're talking him out to eat somewhere, or anything else, he looooves getting food. If you're thinking of going on the sweeter side cause of birthday and all, please do. He's got a killer sweet tooth and will devour an entire cake on his own if he felt like it. Alcohol also falls into this category as well. He likes beer, tequila, bourbon, rum, Shōchū, Seco Herrerano, champagne, soju, gin, and sake.

Homemade Stuff: Despite what he may say, the Boss is a very sentimental bastard deep down inside. Please give him something from the heart. It will kill him. It will be embarrassing. And I will laugh.

Weird Knick-Knacks: Funky little souvenirs or anything similar is right up his alley. Just real oddball shit.

Besides physical items, you can always just take him someplace that he enjoys! Go for a scenic walk in like a park or someplace nice in general. Maybe check out some neat museums. A national landmark or two. He likes to go around different places all over the world and just immerse himself in the environment! It's fun for him!

[nuwildcat]

WIP Wednesday Cocktails and Chapter 2 of Silvered Perceptions

Right so if you’ve read my fics you pic up pretty quickly that Porsche, Tay, and I share a love of cocktails. I have officially given in and admitted that I just love to write a good cocktail into a story. Upon the suggestion of @dr-lemurr​ I am going to make a post this week including the recipes for the cocktails featured in this weeks chapter!

First all of these cocktails are served in chilled glasses. This is super easy to do, you just add ice and water to the cocktail glass while you are preparing the drink and then toss it out before pouring!

Cocktail 1 (Porsche’s experiment) The Tamarind Daiquiri:

This drink requires a cocktail base made of Tamarind, lemongrass, fresh ginger, and brown sugar. I’ve linked the recipe here.

2 ounces White Rum (We went with a Phuket local rum called Chalong Bay)

1 ounce Tamarind Base

1 1/2 ounces fresh lime juice

Combine the liquid ingredients in a shaker with ice and shake for 30 seconds, or until the shaker starts to ice over on the outside. Strain into the chilled daiquiri glass and garnish with a twist of Lime peel.

Cocktail 2 (Kinn’s Drink) The Revolver

2 ounces of Bourbon

1/2 ounce of Tia Maria (coffee liqueur)

2 dashes of orange bitters

Combine ingredients in shaker and shake until chilled, 15 seconds. Strain liquid into chilled Nick and Nora glass. Flame orange peel over the glass to release essential oils and twist to garnish.

Cocktail 3 (Tay’s Drink) The Hanky Panky

1 1/2 ounces of Gin

1 1/2 ounces of Sweet Vermouth

2 Dashes of Fernet-Branca (a bitter Italian digestivo)

Combine into a shaker with ice and shake until chilled, 15 seconds. Strain into chilled coupe glass. Twist an orange peel over glass and then garnish with twist.

Here’s a snippet of Chapter 2!

After pulling the empty keg out from under the bar, Porsche grunts as he levers the much heavier full one into its spot. Twisting the line into place is easy, he’s done this a hundred times and will probably do it a hundred more.

Yok bustles behind him, bringing freshly cleaned fruit over to the cutting board she has set up and preparing to get chopping. They open the bar together most nights. It’s easier. The two of them have been doing this for so long that they don’t need to speak when they’re working. Jom often joins too, but he’s busy with a family party tonight.

Porsche and Yok are most of the way through the prep and starting to goof off as Yok has him make the new cocktail he’s working on for the menu. He’s come up with a tamarind, ginger, and lemongrass base that they are trying to pair with the right alcohol. Today he’s mixing it with a Thai white rum from Phuket, Chalong Bay Rum, and lime juice to make a funky take on a Daiquiri.

Yok sips hers and hums, smacking her lips in satisfaction. Porsche is pleased with how this one came out. They can use the local aspects of the drink to make it sell better.

“Best thing I ever did was hire your scrawny ass,” Yok teases him.

Porsche scoffs dramatically, “Scrawny? I was not scrawny!”

Yok tips back her head cackling. It pulls a smile out of Porsche as well; he loves this woman with all his heart.

“You were though! Still trying to fill out and figure out your way in the world.” She reaches over and pinches his cheek. “You may have been a fighter even then, but it took you time to grow into those long legs and yourself.”

She isn’t wrong. Porsche struggled to fit in, not looking or acting like an omega “should”— whatever that fucking was. Yok, who knew something about the struggle to find one’s own identity, acted as a guide and a confidant. She never judged, but she did make a great shoulder to cry on.

This chapter will come out tomorrow, so keep an eye for that! Still need to read chapter 1? You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44397949/chapters/111665977

[zigraves]

We talk now and then about what our RPG characters or OCs or fanfiction tropes say about us. All my recent TTRPG characters in the past three years are... certainly going some places.

Body, sapient cordyceps grown on a witch's shambling corpse, itself only the fruiting body of a far greater mycological network; eat of our flesh, breathe of our spores, take us into you like an infectious benediction and become me-I-us-we, join us, you-I-we are immortal and we are together and we are a million-who-are-one and you will never be alone again.

Shai, she who ate her own comrades and was exiled, who is tactician and mathematician and monstrous hyena; whatever you are, whoever you are, even be you friend or foe, you are safe only so long as I do not hunger. You are safe only so long as I am sated. You are safe only so long as there is something else for me to feast on.

Marbas, he who was demon-dead before the game began and dead thrice more within it; I am a monster, I have been a monster, I ache to be a greater monster yet, and for all that still I will bargain to keep you safe and I will give up what little respect there is for me if I think it the better means to protect that which I want as mine - respect is nothing compared to power.

Alythatrys, a haunted suit of armour dead so long it had forgotten what it was to be anything other than a tool, to have a self beyond duty; let me savour life by watching yours, let me hold true priorities when all others are driven by needs to eat and sleep and be connected, let me give up even undeath, even the self, if it will save those things that matter - no, not let me, rather you cannot stop me.

Nadine, who made themself blank so they may project and wholly become any identity they need to run a heist or make a mark; I will turn my mind to your work, but in turn I will vacate my body - let my flesh be possessed by ghosts, spirits, demons, and let me come to know it anew, invigorated and refreshed by that very alien inhabitance.

Like

There are some monsters here but I don't think they fuck in the conventional sense (You could try. Advisability is variable). There's something utterly wrong with each and every one of them on a "you cannot fix this and should not try to" level.

and then, somehow, also, there's a perfectly nice human cis lady who's been using the truly arcane power of Not Being A Dick About It to undermine every major hierarchy in magical society, unionise the newly awakened, and develop friendly working relationships with greater spirits to the point of fucking over the mages who are used to binding spirits like tools. Her name is Vor, like the ancient nordic goddess of knowledge, and she likes books and gin, and doesn't eat pork or rare steak. Her familiar is a fragment of a lich's dying mind.

[evita-shelby]

Tie your heart to mine

Chapter 2

Gif by @violaobanion

“I wanted to buy flowers, but the woman who sells them on the corner was gone by the time I got there.”

For a boy so afraid of commitment, he is quite determined to woo her.

To show her he is more than the wayward boy who runs from any sort of commitment.

He’s offered to escort her to the camp site, the plot of land Zilpha Lee bought before she shuffled off her mortal coil.

And now they were here at the doorway of her Vardo she wonders if this had been foreseen by the Lee Matriarch.

She’s drunk enough to feel brave, some gin she had on her.

Gin for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness.

Gin for eradication of everything that tells her this is a bad idea.

Diane has been dreaming of kissing Tom’s cocksure grin off his face since she met him in May.

It was June now, now she knew he didn’t give a shit who her family was because he had fallen for Diane the girl and not Diane the MP’s daughter.

But she’s still afraid to tell him even if she is feeling bold enough to fuck him.

“It's fine, I don’t want flowers.” Diane wished she could be taller, even with heels she barely reached his chin.

She stands on her tip toes as close to en pointe as she could in her Louise heels and brought the hand on his shoulder to his neck, letting her nails rake over his nape.

In the privacy of her modest caravan, Di gets to do anything she wants without fearing someone is going to recognize her.

Johnny Dogs and his family could tell on her, but Thomas Shelby knows little and less about the boys and girls that have fallen for her during her time on the road.

“Then what do you want, Di?” he asked with that cheeky smile of his and holding her closer to him, leaving her just a whisper away from his curved lips. “Not a mind reader, you know.”

It takes all her bravery to say it, and yet it is all worth it. “Kiss me.”

And he does. Not the chaste thing the boys before him gave her out of fear of her father but a kiss long and deep enough to have her get the wrong idea about him.

“I could give you an even better gift if I didn’t share a room with my sister.” He jokes when they part and she remembered the Lees and Dogs families would kill him before dragging her to her father for judgment and a date for the wedding.

Only reason Diane wasn’t made to marry Jack Nelson Jr was because Tommy hated Jack Nelson Sr too much to let it happen.

“I don’t think your sister will stay friends with me if my kin shoot you for trespassing.” She adds.

“I thought you said those things they say about your people were just exaggerations.” He points out thinking she was just exaggerating.

“I know you’ve heard of the Lee Family and what they do, Tom.” The Lees were still rather infamous for their criminal activities even if they had stopped for the most part.

Name still struck fear at the racecourse even if they now legally operate as bookmakers and security detail for Shelby Co.

“You’re a Lee, aren’t you? Diane Lee.” he said, savoring out what he assumed was her full name as he kissed her again.

There is a bit of wariness in his tongue as he said it, as if the idea of her being in a gang would pose an issue to him the boy who steals because he wants to.

“Not a Lee. My aunt is a Lee, I’m just travelling with them.” She corrects. If he figures out, she’s a Shelby all on his own, she may have to reassess her idea of him. “Not a Gold or a Dogs either before you ask.”

“Then who are you, Diane?” he asks knowing he won’t get an answer just yet.

Despite his height, they fit on her bed comfortably. Night’s too warm to keep the blankets for more than modesty and for a moment everything is perfect.

“What does it mean, Di?” he asks, playing with the card on his hands. Has it upright and then reversed as he flips it between his fingers.

The deck, same deck her mother had made for her when she saw she inherited her clairvoyance, had fallen off the shelf and onto the bed in their last fuck.

They had laughed about it and before they knew it, she was unsticking the Judgement card off his back saying it was his card.

“When it’s upright, it means that you like being the master of your own fate, that your choices are your own and one of them will change your life soon enough.” She explained, looking up to him and shifted slightly on his chest for a better look at his face.  

“When it’s not?” he asked flipping it over and suddenly taking this very seriously.

“Means you’re judging yourself too harshly, making bad judgments and choices. That you’re holding yourself back even when you know you can be better.” She answered, getting that shiver of bad she gets sometimes.

Something bad is going to happen to him, and just the thought of it makes her feel pained.

Not a normal amount of pain she gets when she feels empathy for a stranger, but the sort that tells her she might have fallen for him.

Oh, fuck, she has feelings for Tom.

When her hosts tell her they are leaving for greener pastures, Diane starts inquiring about that nice room at the boarding house by Victoria Park that was a little closer to Longsight and the factories she could take sudden interest in than Manchester City Center.

A boarding house that includes someone to keep the house and cook for her without needing a servant to spy on her.

And the factories would let her family know this wasn’t just a whim. That she was serious about only needing a year before joining the family business.

After all it was on a crate by the Manchester Car Parts Company that smuggled her mother out of Mexico so she could marry her father, a man she had only known for like three months.

“So, you’ve never been to one these?” Lois asked as she caught the lipstick Diane tossed her.

And her room is very nice and has good feelings about it, something that appeases her witch of a mother.

Tonight, they go to a BUF rally because Lois misses her boyfriend and Tom thinks this will get her back on her feet.

Can't take it if the both of them aren’t well, Tom had admitted during another night in her vardo while hiding from the police after him.

“My parents would kill me, and the Blackshirts don’t like my people, it wasn’t as if I had much desire to go there.” Diane answered just finishing her last retouches before they go out with a handful of other protesters to make Mosley and his crowd get so mad, they don’t even last the hour here. “Is there anything else I should know beside the words to the song?”

“Sometimes they throw a strop and the dibble comes after us.” Lois said and does not explain to the girl who only has half an idea of what the Mancunian girl is saying.

“The dibble?” Di asks and gets her answer thirty minutes later.

Credit for Tom's tarot card being Judgement/ Resurrection goes to @ewanmitchellcrumbs who answered my ask about it.

Strop:mancunian slang for tantrum

Dibble: slang for cop

Guess who appears next chapter?

A hint: she's loosely based on Mortica Addams.