Hey there,

I always imagine Gin still has a thing for Sherry, and it secretly makes Vermouth's head a mess. Scene sets after episode 425.

And C'mon, he seems fine after he's been shot through a bulletproof vest.


Warm soapy water ripples violently against the white tub. It signals a man plopping down in it, breathing a heavy sigh as he sinks and leans back. The cold tiles do wonders on his trapezius – that otherwise is curtained by long, silver hair – after an unsuccessful assassination attempt and an ambush.

It weighs him down, but certainly the Organization will come up with a new lead soon.

The event on the rooftop just that evening jogs through his mind and clouds his mood. Suddenly the pain radiating from one of his broken ribs feels very prominent.

With the remaining mental energy he has left for the night, the man in a hair bun ignores the thought and tries to bask in his rare solitude.

As much as he ignores that though, his senses flare up at an imminent figure in the shadow, creeping up the open door just adjacent to the tub. The Baretta lying on the tub ledge is instantly snatched and aimed at the source of intrusion, as if the man is programmed by muscle memory. The movement twists his torso, puts pressure on the ribs, and forces him to draw out some breath, but he does not care. He's been through worse before.

The disturbed water settles down slowly and laps up his chest.

"Are you sure you want to do that, Gin? The last time you pointed a gun it ended rather badly for you didn't it?" The intruder finally steps out from the shadow, a winning grin across her pale face.

The same grin through the rifle scope that evening. Olive eyes narrowed on the thought, locking on her crystal ones.

"Tch. I could smell your perfume." He hisses, lowering the firearm back onto the ledge and drops down his arms into the water. This isn't the first time Vermouth sneaks up on him; something other Organization members would never even dare to think about.

The woman's hips sway under silk grey bathrobe. It slides with her motions as she steps closer.

"Your fresh injury needs a cold shower, Gin. Not a hot bath." She taunts.

A layer of soap covers some of the water surface, and the rest are translucent. Yet, Vermouth doesn't need to look to know that Gin is completely bare.

Gin scoffs to her statement, or one of her usual invitations, he thinks.

The hourglass figure perches on the tub's edge, legs crossed as if she owns the place. A delicate yet athletic thigh peeks out from the silk, skin already slightly covered with a sheen of sweat from the condensation. Gin's gaze snakes up her hips, that are accentuated by her posture, to the cleavage disappearing into the plunging neckline.

Stray blonde strands start to plaster on her face, but her beauty is none lost.

Vermouth catches his wandering eyes. "It's funny,"

Impatient, he spits. "What, Vermouth?"

"If only you were right about the listening bug, the person sitting here would be … your precious Sherry. Turns out that Mouri is non-related, and you almost caused a bloodbath in the middle of a city,"


The bug he was so confident it belonged to Sherry.

She continues after a silence "Too bad, Gin. I know you were expecting her,"

Gin, for once in ages, agrees with her. Though he would rather be shot again than having to admit it.

He curses the thought of Sherry and her disappearance, being so close to getting the answers he wants on the hotel rooftop some time ago. He curses Akai Shuichi. Most importantly, Vermouth who is sparing little distance between their faces, halting merely inches from his.

Refusing to play, he lies. Through a close-lipped smirk that conceals gritted teeth and a frosty glance on her.

"No. Because she would be dead,"

Something in him churns.

Vermouth's expression lightened, eyebrows rising as if sarcastically, before she burst into a stream of chuckles.

He stays calm, although the clenched jaw betrays him. He averted his eyes. The blonde, of course, has grown accustomed to his body language to not notice it.

Still catching her breath, she holds his jaw in her palm. The position forces him to look upwards, cold gaze locking again with hers. His neck is exposed; a vulnerable position.

"My, my, Gin…who would've thought you had gone soft…you out of all people?"

Her voice is honey, sounds sweet and sultry and dangerous. The kind he had listened on missions through his earpiece when she's luring a target for Chianti and Korn's clean shot.

It takes effort not to glance some degree lower at the soft, full mounds right under his nose. Another thing that doesn't need effort is the twitch in his loins as her other hand begins a sinful path on his clavicle.

Sharp fingernails press on his pectorals and vanish into the not-so-warm water to brush over the purple patches on his ribs. Her thumb draws circles on his hipbone.

Rough vocals echo in the bathroom.

"You do this to Mouri too on your off days? Is that where you always go?" he says.

She flashes a grin, like she's winning something. She claims a hold on his semi-hardened member.

His eyes widen and out of sensitivity he almost jolts at the sudden touch, at her assertive movements. "Getting stiff are we, Gin?"

He doesn't fight it, lets her have her way because honestly, he had fucking planned the night for himself before she ruined his private time, and if he could make something out of this, he would.

The tension in his shoulders dissipates as he closes the remaining distance and pulls the blonde into a brutal kiss, which she readily responds with unclasped lips. She almost falls out of balance but is stabilized with his tight grip on her side.

Vermouth multitasks, languidly and deliciously coaxing him into full hardness while biting into his lower lip. Icy fingers find her robe's belt and yank it off, leaving her upper body bare.

He feels her slight shiver as the water temperature has fallen a while ago, so he scoops her up and steps over the tub. It earns him another amused chuckle from the blonde, and a pang of ache under his ribs.

It isn't any different from the times they spent alone, yet something is shady.

"Mind telling me what actually you are here for?" He says as he sets her on a nearby counter next to the sink. His hair bun has come loose, and so has the rest of her bath robe.

"Just checking on my dear colleague," Despite her snide remarks, she's starting to lose breath in between teeth-clashing kisses, one leg wraps around muscular hips.

Gin leans over, trapping her as he plants his hands next to her sides. His canines dig into her neck, just below the jaw, and that will be difficult to hide even with her endless line of fashion outfits. In turn, her ragged sigh on his shoulder cools a wet spot from the earlier bath.

"Is there something you're looking for, Vermouth?" He asks, marking red and purple patches down her chest, voice a few tones lower than what he'd use in a normal conversation outside.

The blonde sighs at the vibration, and sometimes it seems like she's trying not to.

Either way, pride sparks in his chest on the fact that the untouchable Vermouth, sly and seductive and secretive, the Boss' favourite, is writhing under him, arching into his unforgivable bites and touches.

She aligns him into her, slowly sinking onto his tip which is already leaking thin pre-cum. She has done this more than once before, all of the times eliciting a growl from the silver haired man.

"What if this is what I'm looking for?" She manages between his hip rolls.

Pale, slender legs wrap around his defined waist, erupting a loud moan from both of them as the position allows deeper thrusts. And deeper does Gin go.

Veined hands grasp her hips, as she holds onto his neck for support, vicious and thirsty in contrast to normal couples making love. And they know that that isn't the case. It never was, between them.

Half forgetting his injuries, Gin pounded into her, hilt to tip and tip to hilt, skin slapping like glass breaking, and she's failing miserably to stifle her moans.

"Yesterday was not enough then," It was his turn to smirk now.

"We both know it wasn't-"

He almost cuts her short as he fully retreats, reversing their positions just so he could haul her up the opposite wall.

She takes quite a hard landing, but she loves it. Even more when her hamstrings and buttocks are propped up over Gin's solid, ivory forearms. Those arms usually clad in black even in broad daylight, this is a limited sight of display.

Gin fucks into her, his muscles taut from bearing her weight and her nipples hard from rubbing against his skin. His breath hitches as painful ribs beg him to stop, but he won't. He keeps on fucking, almost light-headed from the tight and moist warmth surrounding him.

His moans and pants are racing Vermouth's whimpers, sweaty hips slamming hastily against round buttocks, until he feels her clench around him, and he slows the rhythm.

She shudders and lets her head fall back. Her back intensely arches, voice all guttural, and his lips turns into a smirk knowingly at the sight.

Gin's hips snap, twice, thrice, pressure surging in his belly as though it's a bottle of champagne and is being shaken. A jolt of pleasure blooms in his loins and licks up to his spine. He withdraws from her just in time for a release. A broken, hoarse moan followed by breathy pants escape his lips as thick, white spurts coat their bodies.

A wave of endorphins hits him, so he releases the woman and finds that he has so sit on the tub's ledge to cool down. He glances at Vermouth, seemingly recovered from her high. She bends down and angles a soft kiss on his lips.

They kiss like that for a while, a gesture he secretly enjoys, but again, will never admit.

Gin is a merciless and thorough man, but he is still a man.

Were it to be someone else doing this to him though, it would mean a different thing.

He let the thought perish and burn in an invisible mental pit.

Overwhelmed with post-sex hormones, they wash off quietly and gathered their things out to the room.

"Take that towel off and get some clothes on. I'll get ice for your poor ribs," she slides into one of Gin's purple turtleneck over herself, the hem reaching her thighs.

She glances over her shoulder to him before making a beeline to the kitchen.

Gin chuckles as he sat on a couch, his demeanor back to normal but less menacing. He lights up a cigarette.

"Heh..do you know whose place is this?" he says although she's out of hearing range, half contemplating on shooing her away but in the end he does not.

Instead, he vaguely remembers Sherry bitching him about a knife wound he obtained after one of his trainings.