#a dangerous pile of gintokis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gamechangeroo · 4 years ago

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Part 3/3

Click to read the Prologue and Chapter 1 first.

Chapter 2: Whether You Are Under or Over Them, Tables Are Places of Conversation

Gintoki woke up to a table crashing through the divider between his bedroom and the Yorozuya den. It was a loud enough projectile that he almost arrived in the waking world fast enough to dodge it.

Almost.

Instead, it startled him upright in time for him to feel the full brunt of the pain as the edge of the table crashed into his quadriceps, and the face flung forward to smack his torso.

He ended up sprawled on the ground, pancaked beneath it in a drowsy haze of achy irritation, listening to the annoying screams of idiotic children coming from the next room.

“How dare you barge into a lady’s home at this hour?!”

“Did I interrupt naptime, little girl?”

“How about you go to hell, sadist!”

Crushed into the floor, Gintoki swiveled his head to stare at his miraculously unharmed Justaway clock flashing merrily away mere centimeters from the table’s edge. The hour hand was smack dab on the three, which meant he had only been home for two hours before the bastard beagles had sniffed him out. Damn.

He sunk deep into the furthest depths of his drowsy brain to poke at parasite-kun with a mental stick. This is your fault, asswipe!

As it had done since ‘the convenience store incident,’ the thing wholly ignored him, hiding in the metaphysical plane where sadistic cops could not bring handcuffs and arrest warrants. Lucky it.

Back in the annoyingly physical world, Gintoki heaved the table off of his abused chest with a short grunt, and shuffled out into the firing zone. There he found Kagura being dragged across the floor by her unbound hair courtesy of a disheveled Sougo, whose forehead was bleeding rather copiously. Most importantly, however, the table that usually rested in the center of the room between two couches was conspicuously missing.

“Danna,�� Sougo greeted, spraying flecks of blood from his lips as he spoke.

“Tax thief,” Gintoki returned, scratching the skin that lay just below the elastic of his boxers. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“We have your sword at the station,” Sougo said, barely dodging a fist Kagura sent at his jaw. “How about you come with me to pick it up?”

“Nice try,” Gintoki shot back. “My sword is right here.”

He waved a hand toward the innocent, wooden sword lying next to the upended table on his futon in the other room. He had taken to buying his Lake Touya in bulk these days, which was a particularly great strategy for times like these when he needed his next one quick.

“I see,” Sougo assented. “In that case, why don’t we just go for a drive? There’s a cool new sweets shop that just opened near the Shinsengumi barracks that I know you would really like. My treat.”

He had to give it to the kid; Sougo had returned his suspect claim with one of equal bullshit. Actually, Gintoki didn’t have to give him anything at this hour of the morning. He settled on staring the intruder down dully.

However, Kagura was still short enough so that these sorts of lies flew over her head, and she instead used the opportunity to scoff and sneer at her opponent.

“Too little too late, sucker. Team Yorozuya is already getting some sugar from a different daddy.”

Sougo looked curiously between Gintoki and the girl who was trying to stab his left eye with a chopstick, uttering a simple, “Oh?”

This little alien child was far too gullible, and far too willing to share their shady Amanto food deals with government dogs, who might find ways to take the parfait train away!

Grinning wide, Gintoki quickly started doing damage control: “Yup! We landed a fat cat client, who throws money at his problems until they go away. Or, rather, throws money at us until we fix them. By them I mean poodles, and by fix I mean not shitting on his sofa.”

After only a half second of confusion, Kagura nodded, playing along, “That’s right! We’re training a fat cat to shit money on us!”

That’s not… not off base. It would have to do.

It did not do though. The brat obviously was not drinking their Kool-Aid. He opened his mouth, looking like he was about to ask more seemingly-innocuous questions that were actually terribly insightful traps, when Kagura’s foot met his face with frightening speed, and Sougo, like the table earlier, flew across the apartment and crashed through a door – their front door this time.

Executing her version of damage control, Kagura gave Gintoki a cheerful thumbs-up, as if to say, I got this.

Well, Sougo was not drilling for state secrets anymore now that his head was busy drilling into their door. It would have to do.

After giving the victorious girl a half-assed head pat, Gintoki took a moment to put on some pants, a shirt, and his yukata, before dragging Sougo out of the hole his body had made in their entranceway. The bloodied and likely concussed officer nodded shortly in thanks, as he staggered out of the house, Gintoki in tow.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Danna,” Sougo said, opening the back door of the police car for him.

“What better way to show that I’m an upstanding citizen who would not even consider breaking the law? I would never impede the grand process of Justice,” Gintoki quipped, waving to Kagura as she flapped her arm lazily back at him from the balcony, seeing him off.

“You’d better bring me back some good stuff, Gin-chan,” she hollered.

Gintoki had no idea if there existed any food in Edo that even came close to the godly succulence that came out of the ovens in the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian embassy, so this was a rather tall order now that her standards were so high. Maybe the imaginary sweets shop next to the Shinsengumi headquarters would exceed his expectations.

...

Kondo Isao stared down one fish-eyed Sakata Gintoki from across the black, square interrogation table. A dim, flickering lamp swayed back and forth above them, shadowing the hollows, crevasses, and scars on both faces, showing each man the light and darkness of the warrior in front of him. These two figures alone in this arid, windowless room painted a severe, powerful image.

With a harrumph, the leader of the Shinsengumi folded his arms in front of him, and said, “Now, when it comes to the sword ban in Edo, we normally turn you a blind eye. The good you have done not just for the government, but for the whole city, isn’t something any of us here will be soon inclined to forget.”

Gintoki’s expression remained unchanged. “But,” he prompted.

A firm smile was there and gone on his lips in half a moment before Kondo continued, “But. When you start using Laser Swords, heads higher up than us start to take notice. If we don’t do something to reprimand you, it could be our jobs on the line.”

“Laser Swords?” Gintoki asked incredulously, the mood in the room changing suddenly from solemn to just… strange.

“Well, what do you call it?” Kondo returned, leaning forward in his chair and looking somewhat eager. “We had a bit of a poll here in the office to decide what to put on reports, and Laser Sword won, though Disco Stick was a close second.”

“I wouldn’t call the Disco Stick anything, because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gintoki replied obstinately, and crossed his feet on the table, rubbing the edges of the dirty soles against the clean, cold metal. “I am being brought in on false, unsubstantiated charges.”

Kondo nodded calmly before turning around to face the interrogation room’s one way mirror, cupping his hands, and yelling at his own reflection, “Oi, Yamazaki! Write down another vote for Disco Stick!”

After staring intensely into his own eyes for a few moments, Kondo turned back to Gintoki, looking satisfied that his request had been done.

“There is a lot of compelling evidence piling up, Danna,” Kondo resumed. “We have two eye-witnesses claiming a white-haired, permy samurai cleaved a convenience store in half with the wooden sword that we found at the scene. This is the same sword many of us have felt the brunt of at one time or another. We know what your weapon looks like.”

“What a terrible conspiracy theory,” Gintoki drawled and yawned outwardly, while steaming internally.

Two eyewitnesses? Who else could they be, but the cashier and Robber #1, and how dare they team up against him – particularly that cashier! That convenience store worker was working with the man who was about to slit his throat for money to throw the man who saved him from said man under a bus! Thankless bastard!

“Kondo-san, you know my weapon, and you know that it is no Disco Stick. Are you sure your pair of witnesses weren’t flying high on a little illegal disco of their own?”

Take that, cashier! We’ll see who is taking who down by the end of all this!

Now Gintoki was not just a rebel; he also had a cause. For each question Kondo asked him, he had an answer to give that undermined the reputation of a certain someone.

Where was he this evening at midnight? Well, human beings are notoriously terribly at remembering precisely what they were doing and when they were doing it. Everyone rewrites their own history in their own minds to make themselves out as better. We are useless witnesses, us humans. Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

Did he stop at a convenience store this evening? Well, convenience stores in Japan have been going downhill these days. Rumor has it the main chains like Eight-Twelve have been hiring felons to man their registers to cut costs, and not the mild sort of felon that ended up in the slammer because the slipped on a banana peel and bonked heads with a high-flying government leader. No, they’re hiring the sorts of felons that slipped on a banana peels and pushed a high-flying government leader to the ground in order to keep their balance. Terrible, dangerous thugs. Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

Yes, but, did he stop at a convenience store this evening? Well, they are called convenience stores, but they are not convenient at all. It is a well-documented fact that convenience store employees are trained to make customers feel inconvenienced and uncomfortable, because the more down in the dumps they are, the more likely they are to purchase the comfort food lining the aisles! Didn’t you know, Gori-san?

“Enough with the Gori-san!” Kondo finally snapped, successfully diverted from the line of inquiry, as Yamazaki burst through the door.

“The result just came in,” Yamazaki announced with all the gravitas his plain visage could muster, carrying a slip of paper to Kondo’s side. “Here it is, Chief Gori-san.”

“We are conducting a serious investigation, and all anyone can do is crack gorilla jokes?” Kondo scolded, holding the paper in front of his face to hide a shamed flush that colored his cheeks. The teasing was totally getting to him. “I am severely disappointed.”

Thoroughly chastened, the everyman in uniform apologized, before skittering out of the room. With this little show of leadership, the gorilla seemed to get a bit of his groove back, and summarily began scanning the paper under Gintoki’s dull-eyed stare.

As he watched the Shinsengumi leader’s eyes swing back and forth like a beady typewriter, Gintoki bounced a leg impatiently beneath the table.

Just what evidence had they pulled on him? It better not be too incriminating, because he needed out of this government-sanctioned dungeon that smelled like each member of this stupid sword-club rubbed their armpits on the walls after they worked up a sweat arresting innocent men and women every night. It was about time for his pre-breakfast breakfast at the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian embassy, oi.

At long last, Kondo finally glanced up, cleared his throat, and regarded Gintoki with a firm gaze.

“It is all here,” he said. “This makes things very clear.”

There was decisive evidence?! Shit. Gintoki waited with baited breath.

“What you’ve done tonight comes with serious consequences,” Kondo warned – his expression severe. “You have swayed many of my men. The voting majority is now in favor of Disco Stick.”

It was Gintoki’s turn to fling a table.

“WHO CARES ABOUT THE NAME!”

Twitching beneath the flung projectile, Kondo coughed, “You say that as a winner, but would you still be whistling that tune from my shoes? I lobbied for Cumming Wood with all I had.”

Gintoki was not necessarily proud of what he was about to do, but his blood sugar levels were low. Anything that would get his mouth near a parfait sooner was on the table, or, in this case, underneath it. With a sigh, he lifted one side of the table, and crawled next to Kondo before placing the table softly on top of both of them.

From his place on the floor, the gorilla stared at him with a quizzical expression that was somewhat prolate due to the table crushing his face. Gintoki scooched toward the befuddled commander and whispered in his ear, “Just how much does Cumming Wood mean to you?”

Kondo’s face tensed, as he started to catch on. In a low voice, he returned, “What… what do you mean?”

Well versed in these sorts of negotiations, Gintoki knew what Kondo was actually asking: What do you want for it?

Gently, so as not to spook his prey, Gintoki murmured, “I mean, if you were to let me go now, and let these underlings of yours know, as you and I do, that I had nothing to do with any of this, I might be able to convince those guys to do a recall vote.”

“A re-recall vote?” Kondo repeated, entranced. He scooted closer to Gintoki, causing a table leg to clang loudly against the nearby wall, as the base wobbled on top of them both.

“Cumming Wood is a great play on words. They obviously haven’t thought about it hard enough, so they just need some time to… reconsider,” Gintoki proposed casually.

Kondo’s face almost could not contain his wide smile, as he slipped deeper and deeper into Gintoki’s web. “It is a great pun, isn’t it!”

“Yes,” Gintoki affirmed – his voice soft, but commanding. “I could help your men realize that they made a terrible mistake. Really, we’ve all just made mistakes here. You guys didn’t vote for Cumming Wood, you guys brought in the wrong man. If we all own up to these errors, we could all get exactly-”

“What the hell?”

Dammit!

“Toshi!” Kondo screamed like a man who had just been sucker punched by his own self-respect. He pushed the table off of both of them in a flash, wrapping his arms around his own body, as if to cover up his misdeeds. “This isn’t what it looks like!”

“No, but I don’t actually know what it looks like.”

One Demon Vice-Commander stood in the doorway of the room, his expression a grand mixture of frustrated discomfort and all-consuming confusion, looking like he would rather be absolutely anywhere else. If Gintoki had offered him a choice between continuing to stand right there, and doing the backstroke in a pile of Saduharu’s diarrhea a few kilometers out from this spot, Gintoki honestly did not know which the guy might have picked.

“Hijikata-kun,” he greeted jovially enough from his spot on the floor next to Kondo’s interpretation of ‘A Deflowered Maiden is Greeted by Her Father.’

If this asshole’s existence had to ruin his chances at bribing his way out of here, Gintoki’s existence might as well serve to cause Hijikata some mental agony. He waved his fingers impishly.

To his credit, Hijikata appeared to regain his mental footing rather quickly. It only took a few seconds for his expression to change from DEFCON(STIPATION) 1 to neutral, as he strode quickly to Kondo’s side.

“Kondo-san, the results from Squads 5 and 8 just came through,” he reported, blatantly ignoring his superior’s shamed position on the floor. “I would recommend we discuss them outside.”

Staggering to his feet, Kondo grimaced and shook his head, muttering, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

The gorilla put a hairy-knuckled hand on his Vice-Chief’s shoulder, and squeezed it lightly. He continued, “I… I have been compromised. You’ll need to take over the investigation from here.”

“Huh?” Hijikata had the decency to look halfway alarmed, as he glanced between Gintoki and Kondo. “What did he do?”

Kondo waved off Hijikata’s concern with a sad, distant smile – his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “He… he used Cumming Wood against me.”

Immediately, Hijikata’s expression shuttered, and he pushed a sniffling gorilla toward the exit.

“No need to worry. I’ll take it from here,” he said, firmly slamming the door on his superior before the man could say another word.

The room fell into an incredibly heavy silence. Hijikata stood stiffly with his hands still on the door he had shut, while Gintoki eyed him from his spot on the floor. He watched the tense back of a man that knew he had to follow Cumming Wood, and Gintoki realized he had a decision to make. Did he want to get out of this Shinsengumi hell hole sooner than later, which meant playing nice with this police dog whose leash was a little too long for his short temper? Or, would it be more satisfying to kick this mutt while it’s down and rot in jail forever?

Neither! Neither is good! Is there any option where Gin-san can escape while kicking the dog?

He heard the flick of a cigarette lighter, as Hijikata turned to face him. Gintoki gave his most surly expression in response to the man’s sharp gaze, but did not speak. He was using inhuman amounts of self-restraint right now, which the world should recognize and justly reward!

After another eon of quiet, Hijikata stepped over the upended table and strode over to the one chair remaining upright, sitting where Gin-san’s butt had been only minutes before. Gintoki took this as a victory, and sneered.

Catching the sneer, but not the meaning, Hijikata let out a put-upon sigh.

Finally breaking the silence, he said, “I suppose now is as good of a time as any.”

“Huh?” Gintoki snorted, as sparking hostility gave way to confusion. That was not really the opener that he was expecting.

Giving him a long, assessing look, the Shinsengumi devil uttered, “You’re an idiot.”

Finally in familiar territory, Gintoki welcomed this insult as a declaration of war.

“Says the man who follows the orders of Commander Cumming Wood!”

“Shut it!” Hijikata bristled. “You leave Kondo-san out of this!”

“I’ll leave him out of it if you jackasses leave me out of it!” Gintoki yelled indignantly, as he scrambled to his feet. He was feeling the urge to tower over his opponent.

By the red splotches creeping across his face, Hijikata looked about ready to rise to the bait himself, but settled for blowing an aggressive puff of smoke in Gintoki’s direction, which, where this guy was concerned, was a pretty lukewarm shot to fire. Mr. Mayo was holding himself back. Maybe it had to do with how there were probably half a dozen or so Shinsengumi ducklings watching his performance through that one way mirror, or maybe he realized he needed to take a shit when he entered the room and now he was stuck here, or maybe Gintoki didn’t really care enough to guess. All he knew was that he had spotted a weak point, and there was no way he wasn’t about to exploit it. Gintoki walked toward the man with heavy steps.

“There wouldn’t be a situation to leave you out of if you a– wait, what are you-”

The bastard paused mid-sanctimonious speech, shock paling his face, as Gintoki lifted the cigarette from Hijikata’s lips, put it between his own, and inhaled.

Jutting out his jaw in a show of dominance, smoke leaking through his nostrils, Gintoki hissed, “You take my freedom? I take your cigarette.”

All at once, Hijikata’s face lost all traces of humanity, leaving only a beast out for blood. Gintoki sneered in victory and prepared to parry any attack this hot tempered loser would try to throw his way.

However, just as soon as his temper had flashed, Hijikata slammed a lid on it. The only signs of its existence now rested in his hands, which were gripping his uniformed thighs so tight that he might have been close to bruising his own bones.

“Yorozuya,” he hissed, sounding like a viper with a sore throat. “Stop acting like a child and listen to me.”

Who wanted this stupid cop’s olive branches if he was going to give them out covered in demeaning insults? Gintoki knew just where this asshole could shove his pathetic attempts at half-assed anger management.

Taking another drag from the cigarette, Gintoki threw it lazily to the ground, stomping it to ash with his boot.

“That one tasted like secondhand shitty cop. Gimme another,” he demanded in as derisively provocative of a tone as he could manage, gesturing toward the rectangular bump in Hijikata’s uniformed pocket.

Hijikata pupils were so dilated by this point that his irises were completely consumed by black. The atmosphere around him vibrated like the air above summertime pavement dances and shimmers on the hottest days of the year. Gintoki blatantly ignored the warning signs and reached out to pick the prick’s pocket.

The tips of Gintoki’s fingers brushed the box and lighter, before pinching their edges and lifting them. He rummaged about in the package, taking out a cigarette, and began showily flicking the lighter.

Hijikata’s lips cracked into a crooked, cutting smile.

“Okay,” he said. “You win.”

...

Lounging about on the cold, stone floor of the Shinsengumi holding cell, Gintoki ignored any regrets that came to visit, while also doing his best to ignore the real world smells of piss and human suffering that emanated from his immediate vicinity. There really wasn’t any way this terrible fate could have been avoided. Hijikata might as well have ordered Gintoki to snatch his cigs at sword point, considering how coerced this hapless citizen had been into committing this non-crime.

Speaking of non-crimes, just how long could these shitty excuses for cops keep him here for rustling the jimmies of their commanding officers? Gintoki let this question echo throughout his mind to make sure that his friendly, neighborhood brain parasite heard about the unfair dilemma its host was being put through. However, to his complaints, the indignant prisoner received no response inside his head or out.

#gintamafanfic #incomplete

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citruspeel · 7 years ago

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undercover [6/6 (end)]

Lazy afternoons were Gin’s favorite. Especially when he’s drinking strawberry milk and lazing around reading JUMP. ...what? Did you expect some action with undercover courtesan Tae? You probably did, didn’t you? Gin did too, but lazy afternoons were all he got...

...so far.

[gintama fan fiction]

[gintoki x otae]

[2k++, final part]

Intro + Illustrations | Part 1 + Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Tae tried not to stare at him as she continued folding her way through their pile of freshly laundered clothes. The amount was more than usual - Gin and Kagura had been staying over at their house for a week, and were to stay for one more for what Hijikata had described as ‘post-op detailed security.’

After the ruckus that was her undercover oiran stint, she understood how anyone would want to get her killed.

“Eeeeh…”

Tae blinked; Gin’s voice brought her back to the present. It was hard to believe how he could calmly slurp up strawberry milk while reading JUMP, with nary a care, when just the other day he was stuffing a wig down Takasugi’s throat.

She felt her cheeks redden. Memories of that night always made her stomach hitch.

When Gintoki had barged into the room, she was still reeling from thinking about him as Takasugi had his way with her. He looked irritated, to say the least. An unspoken history between him and Takasugi also seemed to intensify this irritation. He addressed their target with utter contempt – maybe she wasn’t the only reason Gin was so incensed.

“Look, you fucking edgelord,” she remembered him starting. She found it hard to concentrate with her heart wanting to leap to her throat. She knew Gin had said something before he unceremoniously threw his wig to Takasugi’s face, but in the resulting brawl, she never did hear it. Tae did, however, as she fished behind a divider for her naginata, catch what he said afterwards.

“See, this is why that courtesan before said you weren’t fun,” Gin said, meeting Takasugi’s sword blow after blow. The floor creaked under them as they maneuvered throughout the room. “You can’t even tell when a girl likes what you’re doing or not!”

Takasugi smirked as he parried. “Why? Would you know how our courtesan here likes it?”

Gin scoffed as he swung, his foot stomping down on the pristine futon to ground himself. “Of course I do! When she likes it, she doesn’t freeze – she melts into you – ”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, GIN-SAN?!”

Takasugi had staggered backward as Gin’s shoulder received the full blunt end of Tae’s naginata. Gin lost his balance and landed on the futon, eyes widening in surprise as Tae pinned him down with her weapon and a foot on his chest. She had done it out of anger (what did he mean, melt?!), but the sight of him gaping up at her, now also blushing beet red at remembering what he said, made heat flood all the way to her fingertips.

“Oh, I see,” Takasugi coughed out. Gin and Tae both prickled at his voice. They turned towards him, ignoring the small, tinny chorus of protests coming from Gin’s earpiece.

But before they could silence him, Takasugi stumbled backwards, falling to the floor with a thud.

“The alcohol, it’s –”

She never got to finish her sentence. Gin took the chance to slither from her grasp and pin down Takasugi, trying to shove the itchy wig down his mouth.

A rumble soon followed. As Gin and Takasugi fought over the wig, Kagura had appeared and yanked Okita out of the panel at the back of the room. The captain had been idly sitting, ever the spectator, chewing gum as he watched the ‘live show’ unfold. However, before Hijikata and Shinpachi could arrive, Takasugi’s liaison agent had entered, knocked Gin out with his guitar and immobilized them all with strings.

She couldn’t forget the last look Takasugi had thrown her way before his assistant led him away. He looked amused, even interested, as he glanced from her to the unconscious Gin.

What did he say…?

“Eeeh,” Gin’s voice again snapped her back to the present. She looked up from Shinpachi’s clothes and saw him eyeing her, head propped up on a hand, body splayed out on the ledge like a cat basking in the sun. He pushed around the milk carton’s straw across his lips with his tongue. “What’s the matter with you?”

She watched him let go of the straw and lick the corners of his mouth clean of strawberry milk.

Tae bristled.

“N-nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows as he scanned her from head to toe. “You’re red.”

Tae pursed her lips together and went back to folding.

“Don’t tell me��were you thinking of Takasugi?” Gin sat up and scooted next to her, unabashedly studying her face.

“What?” Tae avoided his eyes and reached for another shirt to fold. “Of course I’m not.” If you only knew who I was thinking about –

“You did kiss that shorty.” He clucked his tongue. “Don’t tell me he’s better than me. He even asked us once if kissing was like drinking out of a Yakult bottle.”

“Well, how should I know if you’re better?” She shrugged. “All you did was a…peck.”

“A peck?” Gin narrowed his eyes. “How was that a peck?”

Tae didn’t know what she was saying, but she let it all spew out anyway. “You did leave after just one kiss, Gin-san. You’re lucky Takasugi-san didn’t push further, or else he would’ve known you were a terrible teacher.”

Gin said nothing. He only propped his elbow on the table, rested his head on his hand and stared at her in disbelief. She could tell he was waiting for her to look at him, but she resisted. A part of her feared what he (she?) might just do.

“Terrible, huh.”

Tae took a deep breath; an unease was starting to settle over the two of them, a tension that she didn’t know how to resolve. It didn’t help that she couldn’t remember what it was that Gin had said when he had barged in. Was it linked to that? He did know she was just teasing, right?

“Yes.” She gulped a lump in her throat. Why was she still going along with this? “You were absolutely terrible, Gin-san.”

Gin nodded slowly to himself as he watched her.

“Oh well, maybe I should take back what I said.” He then leaned back on his hands and shrugged.

“What did you say?”

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“…you didn’t hear me?”

“No. You threw your wig and it whizzed past me, so I never heard it.”

“Sucks to be you. I’m not going to repeat it.” He crawled on his arms halfway to reach his unfinished JUMP, which he left out on the ledge, but her hand clamped down immediately on his wrist.

“Ahh!!” Gin yelped. “Just what the hell are your hands made of?!”

“I’m just giving you a little massage,” she smiled as kneeled beside Gin, tightening her hold on Gin’s wrist. His hands were just a few inches shy from getting the magazine. “A little thank you for repeating what you said.”

Gin writhed against her grip, but she didn’t relent. He looked up at her, shrugged, then used his full strength to flip their hands and trap hers under his. The movement caught her unaware and sent her toppling over him as he laid on his back on the floor, hand still pinning hers.

“I said,” he murmured, voice low. He knocked his head back to look her fully in the eye as she loomed over him, her brown hair glowing gold in the sun as it cascaded over her shoulder. “You were something I didn’t want to share.”

Tae didn’t know if it was the sunlight or his words that made her nerves flood with warmth. She felt her hand go limp in his as Gin’s eyes bored into hers. She was at a loss on what to do; her heart was raging against her chest, her mind going blank, her face blushing bright.

“I…”

Words left her as he cupped her cheek and pulled her down to him. His lips were soft and warm, like the afternoon sun. His kiss felt like a memory she’d want to relive over and over again.

At their parting, his eyes were on her, dazed, astonished. His thumb grazed the edge of her lip and rested at the corner of her mouth. Tae felt like there were thousand thoughts behind his gaze; it was strange, for she only had one.

His eyes locked into hers, searching, asking. His lips were slightly parted, as if he had a question he couldn’t voice out. She blinked at him, once, twice, slowly, her free hand holding her up over him as she breathed in to calm herself. It was impossible; the lack of distance between them made electricity thrum across her skin. She could feel him tense under her, his muscles bristling under his clothes as he watched her, waiting with bated breath. Words wanted to tumble out of her mouth, but before she could speak, her body answered for her.

She leaned down and placed a feather-soft kiss onto his lips. It was light, shy, curious – an answer to his silent question. She felt him relax under her, felt him smile against her lips. He broke away from her but kept his forehead on hers.

“Terrible, huh?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she replied, her mouth a hair’s breadth away from his. “Very terrible.”

He took his time when he kissed her again. She was taken by surprise as to how his leisurely pace, claiming her lips with his own in repetition, was awakening a want inside her. It was a need that crackled dangerously down her spine. His fingers were lost into her hair as he reached up to tilt her head. Her heart quickened as he pressed the tip of his tongue against her lower lip, begging entry; her hand grasped at what she could as he slowly, tortuously, ran his tongue against her own. Tae didn’t know how her body withstood – he ignited her nerves in a way they had never been before.

Strawberry milk would never be the same, now that the taste of it in his mouth was spreading a heat that invaded her to her fingertips. It was a wonder how he made her feel both weak and invigorated at the same time. Soon, she learned his trade and met his kiss with matching fervor. She let herself melt into him again as he pulled her close, clutching loosely at his arm and shoulder as his hand found purchase by her waist.

He broke away. In a rustle of fabric, he moved to trap her between him and the floor. Their breathing sounded loud in the silence of the afternoon. Tae wondered if they should stop - the door was wide open, after all - but Gin wasted no time in taking her breath away. Soon, his lips were on her again, peppering her jaw with soft, lingering kisses.

She aimed to say his name, to make him pause, to help her regain her sanity, but only a small gasp escaped her. He had brought his attention to the base of her ear and was gently dragging his lips across her sensitive skin. Her grasp on his arms tightened; she was surprised at the touch. She felt him grin at his discovery, which he teasingly repeated to his desired reaction.

Gin’s hand gently held her nape to keep her accessible as he went on with his ministrations. His other hand covered hers, large, warm, comforting, grounding her back down to earth as his mouth took its time. Her heart rallied, beating fast, seemingly unable to keep up with the whirlwind of sensation. Her mind wheeled to and fro as her hand traveled up to his hair, grasping, as if he was her remaining hold on reality.

This is bad.

She could hardly think of anything else. The sliver of afternoon light that crossed into the room gave him a glow, making him unearthly – almost devilish – as he rose from the crook of her neck and held her gaze with heavily-lidded eyes. He traced her lower lip with his thumb before kissing her again - soft, warm, deep, slow - somehow unlocking a thirst within her that she felt only he could satisfy –

“Aneue!”

“Anego! Gin-chan! We’re home!”

“Woof!”

“…goddammit.”

In the weeks afterward, it was decided that Operation Oiran was a failure.

Hijikata assured her that it was his bosses’ fault that the operation had failed, and that she shouldn’t feel bad about the loss. It was their lack of foresight that brought the mission down. Okita jokingly said that it was entirely Gin’s fault, which led to Kagura kicking his ass for even daring to say that about Gin, even if he was right. Shinpachi went straight to Kondo and reprimanded him for even trying to pull Matsudaira’s crazy plan off, while Kondo cried and begged for forgiveness.

“We never should have agreed, Aneue,” Shinpachi said as he and his sister climbed up the steps to the Yorozuya. “The danger they put you in! I swear, that Gorilla will have to pay for this…”

His words went in one ear and out the other. Tae found that it was hard to concentrate when, as they entered, Gintoki was sitting by his desk, feet up and crossed, drinking strawberry milk straight from the carton.

“Yo,” he said lamely, mouth still on the carton’s lips. Shinpachi shook his head, disappointed, saying his usual greetings out of habit before going to the kitchen to find Kagura.

Gin’s eyes gleamed at her.

“So, do you regret it?” He asked, placing his feet back on the floor and leaning forward onto his desk. Tae loomed over him as she placed her hands on the corners of his table. “Going undercover, and all that?”

Tae reached over and took the carton from his hands, taking a sip. The milk was sweet and tart, every drop a trigger.

“You know what?” she said, licking her lips. Gin smirked. “Not at all.”

“ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH MY SISTER, GIN-SAN?! ARE YOU FLIRTING?!?!”

“Shinpachi, calm down, Anego and Gin were just...eyefucking -”

“Kagura-chan! Where did you learn that?! We, we weren’t - ”

“Not just with the eyes, Kagura, but we’ve also - UOGH!”

“KATSURA WAS RIGHT, WASN’T HE? ANSWER ME, GIN-SAN! GIN-SAAAAAAAAAAAAAN”

A/N: Finally! Haha. What started out as a hurried piece of fanart became a ficlet, then became a 4-parter, which evolved into 6. Haha! It’s been a while since I wrote borderline smut LOL a chaptered fic. Was deciding against it at first but when you’ve got that nagging feeling, you just can’t let it go. It just badgered me to finish it. Here it is, lots of mistakes and 12k+ words later. :D

Huge thanks to the GinTae peeps for the encouragement and keeping the GinTae flame burning! Huhu you’re all too kind.

Hope you enjoyed! Til the next fanfic, I guess? :D

#Gintama #Gintoki x Otae #Sakata Gintoki #Shimura Tae #gintae #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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kuraiamore · 8 years ago

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GinZura fic, A Helping Hand

pairing: Katsura Kotarou/Sakata Gintoki (GinZura)

fandom: Gintama

rating: M - sexual themes

summary: " ...And don’t talk to me about the pain of using my left hand, I could tell you all about the pain of using my left hand!"

In which Katsura overhears Gintoki's complaint, has an idea, and somehow, feelings are revealed along the way.

Set immediately after the Battle at Rakuyou. Light smut, much fluff.

AO3 or read below. Please enjoy!

It’s been three days since they’ve departed from the ruins of Rakuyou, and though the men are slowly beginning to regroup, the mood on the Kaientai remains painfully sombre. Katsura knows it can’t be helped; even with the Amanto drugs and high-tech medical equipment Sakamoto has onboard his ship, their wounds are slow to heal, and seven bodies lay covered in white sheets in the chilled air of the cargo hold.

His steps grow heavier and his shoulders slouch when he thinks of them: there is nothing he can do for the two of Sakamoto’s men, but he has five letters to write—words of condolences which he knows are too often meaningless in the throes of grief—to the unsuspecting mothers and fathers and siblings and wives he imagines waiting by front doors and open windows. Words which escape him, vanishing like coils of smoke when he reaches for them, and leaves him dripping clumpy trails of ink that steep through the thin sheets of paper Sakamoto had kindly provided him. (Also his left wrist is broken, so he struggles with holding down the paper, and he gets headaches from the constant whirring and droning of the ship, and he has a mouth ulcer.) After only three days, the low table in his cabin room is stained with smears of black from where he had hurriedly tried to wipe away the liquid. He hopes Sakamoto won’t charge him for it.

During the hours he does not spend tending to his men and other Joui business, he seeks out a moment of solace in Gintoki’s company, often finding the silver-haired samurai sprawled out in lonely corridors, dark corners and rarely used storage closets, his crutch propped up beside him. He doesn’t ask why the other man hides away in these little nooks; he knows Gintoki’s habits, the worst and best of them, and is well-acquainted with his need for solitude and a quiet space to nurse his tender sorrows during dark hours. Yet Katsura is sure his presence is acceptable, perhaps even welcomed, by the other man. For all the pains they’ve lived through together, Gintoki has never once shied away from sharing them with him (and he has seen the sheer stubbornness with which Gintoki had evaded the worried glances and sympathetic offers of comfort from others, so it must mean something). So Katsura sits with him for as long as possible and savours the pensive calm, two heartbroken souls bonded over a lifelong burden, until the nagging sense of duty and leadership at the back of his mind becomes unbearable and he begins twitching with restlessness. Gintoki never says a word when he leaves.

It’s a relief, then, when he steps into the dining hall that night after Elizabeth has changed and redressed the bandages on his head and stomach and sees Gintoki back to his usual bluster, seated at one of the long communal tables in the hall. Kagura and Shinpachi sit on either side of him, mostly recovered thanks to Yato healing abilities in the case of the former, and relatively light injuries in the case of the latter. Shinpachi is sighing into his mostly empty plate of rice and curry while Gintoki glares down over the top of the young girl’s red hair, ignoring his own half-full plate of meat, rice and vegetables. His eyes are lightly scrunched up underneath sharp eyebrows and his good arm waves furiously in the air as he yells at a bored and unimpressed Kagura. The handle of a spoon hangs out of the Yato’s mouth, and when Katsura steps closer, he spies an empty pudding container in one of her hands.

“—completely ungrateful brat, taking advantage of the pain of Gin-san’s current condition to steal his pudding!”

“Shut up,” she says, words partially mumbled by the spoon, “s’not like you’d be able to eat this pudding with your current condition, yes? Look how long it’s taking you just to get through your meal. The pudding was getting tired of waiting, it was losing its chill, you see? If anything, I’m saving you the pain of having to use your left hand.”

“What is there to see other than you eating my pudding, you gluttonous gorilla girl?! And don’t talk to me about the pain of using my left hand, I could tell you all about the pain of using my left hand! The grip is wrong, the pressure and the angle are wrong, I keep pulling in the wrong direction, and my left tires out faster than my right!”

“Do we have to have this conversation while we’re eating? It’s digusting, you know! But, also, Gin-san, we’ve seen you fight with two swords before; aren’t you ambidextrous?”

“Gin-san’s sword and Gin-san’s sword are two different things! One is far more fragile than the other, and needs careful handling!”

“Urgh, I think it’s your head that needs careful handling,” Shinpachi says with a withering glare, pushing away his plate, clearly done with the conversation.

“It’s the head that’s the most sensitive! Handle with care!” Gintoki shouts out with a whack of his hand against the table, now completely distracted from his earlier pudding woes. Heads swivel towards him as the other diners in the room look over the commotion.

Katsura surprises himself with a quiet laugh, suddenly recalling the silver-haired samurai making such a declaration almost ten years ago, during a sleazy, drunken argument with Sakamoto. A second later, his mind reminds him of other sleazy, drunken encounters—behind village inns and small town bars, away from the men, always in the dark—encounters that he thought he’d outgrown, no more than the wild foolery of an excessive youth. Yet looking at Gintoki, he can’t help but wonder if there’s any chance at all to relive them, if the other man would ever acquiesce to such a thing.

(They are in the middle of a war again, a dangerous part of his mind whispers, and surely Gintoki could not begrudge a helping hand.)

He mulls over it as he grabs a plate and piles it with food from the bain-marie, nods at his men when they call out, “Katsura-san!” (he thinks he sees Gintoki’s head perk at the sound of his name) and goes to sit with them. It seems the mood is lightening for everyone, the rebels happily discussing the latest reveal of the week’s current hottest tv drama series (the antagonist of the series had turned out to be none other than the half-sister of the main character’s love interest, who, caught between love and familial duty, bizarrely self-destructs into a questionable polyamorous relation with the main character’s friend’s cousin’s teacher and that teacher’s student). For once, Katsura is grateful for the inane chatter; it gives him mindless noise to zone out to as he eats his meal and glances every so often at the Yorozuya trio, still deliberating with himself.

He becomes so lost in his thoughts, he almost misses Gintoki and his kids leaving the dining hall. He scarfs down the rest of his food, drops off his dirty plate and cutlery into the cleaning racks and makes his way out into the corridor. He sees them at the end of the hall through the throng of bodies walking up and down the passageway, quickly darting through the crowd to catch up to them.

“Gintoki!” he calls out, just before they turn the corner.

“Huh? Zura?” Gintoki drawls, pausing mid step even as he stretches out the infernal nickname, letting the vowels roll lazily in the air.

“I’m not Zura, I’m Katsura! I was wondering if you have some spare time tonight, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Gintoki’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to speak, but Shinpachi beats him to it.

“Is there something wrong, Katsura-san?” the boy asks, looking up at him with the kind of charming concern only his particular brand of earnest, wholesome character can achieve.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly, pasting on a smile in case his words aren’t enough to reassure, “there’s just something I’d like to talk to Gintoki about. In private.”

“Ne, Zura, you don’t want to hang around this guy in private, Gin-chan does dirty stuff in private!” Kagura pipes in loudly, sending the people unfortunate enough to be walking by them at that exact moment rushing away in vicarious embarrassment. Katsura thinks it would be best not the say that he is very much hoping that dirty stuff will happen.

“Oi!” Gintoki lifts his crutch and smacks it, not at all gently, on Kagura’s backside. “Shut up, little brats like you shouldn’t be talking about adult stuff they should know nothing about! Just what do you think your father would do to me if he heard you saying stuff like that, ha?! You’re lucky he’s not on this ship or—”

“Oh, I promised a call with Papi tonight! I’ll see you later, Gin-chan, Shin-chan, Zura!” With a wave, she runs off down the corridor, the three remaining men smiling fondly at her retreating back.

“What a horrible girl,” Gintoki grumbles, though he still hasn’t wiped the soft expression from his face.

“Leader has grown up well,” Katsura agrees, before turning his attention back to the silver-haired samurai. “So, tonight? My room?”

A pause.

“There’d better be alcohol.”

***

Katsura does not prepare any alcohol. He does this not to be contrary to Gintoki, or out of some fanciful notion of wanting to face the night with a clear, sober head, but because everyone knows you’re not meant to mix drugs and alcohol together. Admittedly, he remembers this only when he sees the little bottle of pain pills the Kaientai doctor had given to them after all the fighting.

(“Take one any time you’re feeling too much pain,” she had said, throwing them all a bottle each, even Shinpachi who protested at first on account of lighter injuries but relented under a threatening glare, “this is some strong shit, works amazing on humans, no risk of addiction at all. Super expensive, though, so don’t go overboard, we ain’t got a huge stock and probably won’t be able to get more ‘til we’re back on Earth. So you better make sure you ration ‘em carefully or otherwise it’s back to paracetamol and that ain’t gonna do you folks any good with your injuries.”

Katsura takes her advice seriously, and only swallows a pill at night, when, without the distraction of his Joui responsibilities, the flaring in his stomach and back sinks back into his consciousness and burns too bright for sleep. Gintoki, he knows from talking to Shinpachi, has almost finished his bottle, and has started filching from Kagura and Shinpachi as often as he can.)

He tries again at his letters while he waits for Gintoki’s arrival, hasn’t progressed much beyond several variations of ‘It is with deepest regret and utmost sympathy that I inform you’, staring blankly at the white spaces surrounding lines making up each character, when he hears a knock at his door.

Putting down his brush, Katsura stands up and opens the door with the push of a button near its frame, the door sliding open with a faint hiss. Gintoki’s bored expression greets him on the other side and he quickly steps aside to let the other in. He can see Gintoki’s eyes roaming over the small room, moving systematically from the bed and its side drawer pressed up to one side of the room, the set of larger drawers on the other, the door leading to the en suite bathroom between them, and finally coming to a rest on the low table in the middle, strewn with Katsura’s writing supplies. He hobbles over and sinks into the zabuton cushion, setting his crutch aside before glancing down at the mess of paper, ink and brushes.

Katsura’s stomach flutters and he hurries forward, but he’s not quite fast enough before Gintoki notices the words haphazardly inked onto discarded paper, catching the tight lines that draw across his face.

“Zura… these…”

“Katsura, and those are not what I called you here to talk about.” He steadies himself with a breath. “I heard your conversation with Kagura and Shinpachi in the dining hall today. If your left hand is really giving you so much trouble, then I would like to offer my help.”

Gintoki stares at him in astonishment. Katsura stares back.

“Zura,” Gintoki says tentatively, bringing the left hand in question to scuffle the hair at his back of his head, “did you fall over and hit your head or something?” He sets his hand back down and suddenly switches to a mock-offended tone. “Handling another man’s sword isn’t something to joke about, oi.”

“I’m being completely serious, Gintoki,” Katsura says, frowning slightly.

Another staring match ensues, incredulity building again on Gintoki’s face before it falls into something indecipherable.

At Gintoki’s extended silence, Katsura takes another deep breath then slowly unties his own sling, pulls it off his shoulder and places it on the bedside drawer where he keeps his bottle of pills, careful to keep his bandaged arm from making an unnecessary movements. He pauses thoughtfully, and moves the tissue box from under the table to the drawer as well.

“Oi, Zura, shouldn’t you keep that on?” Gintoki says, and there’s concern etched onto his face. Even with his forehead wrapped in bandages, Katsura can tell that his brow is furrowed from the displeasure in his eyes as he looks at the abandoned sling.

“I’m not Zura, I’m Katsura. It’s only a minor wrist fracture, plus the Amanto meds are speeding up bone recovery, so you don’t need to worry,” he says, and then with what he hopes is a somewhat more cajoling tone, “it’s fine, come on.”

After a pause that seems to stretch on for too long, Gintoki reaches for his crutch. Katsura moves it away and presents his good side to his friend and comrade instead.

“Zura,” Gintoki says again, and this time the worry leaks into his voice, “stop pushing yourself, oi.”

“Katsura! And I could say the exact same thing to you, Gintoki,” he returns in a mild chide.

Gintoki grunts in response, glancing once more at Katsura’s injured hand before throwing his free arm over the other’s shoulders. He allows Katsura to support his weight and manoeuvre him to the small single bed pushed up against a corner of the room, a soft groan (of relief? of discomfort?) escaping him as his butt settles on the firm mattress.

Katsura frowns slightly and wonders if maybe Gintoki is in more pain than he’s willing to let on. Kneeling in front of the silver-haired man, Katsura racks his eyes over Gintoki’s face and body, cataloguing his slack, tired eyes and the long deep breaths coming from his parted lips, the way his muscles seem to tremble underneath the thin pyjamas, how the bandages on his cheeks and the cast on his right arm make his skin appear pallid and grey. He brings his uninjured hand up and traces the back of it across Gintoki’s jawline, feels a pang in his chest when Gintoki’s eyelids flutter shut and he leans, almost imperceptibly but for the light increase in pressure, into Katsura’s touch.

Katsura licks his lips and wonders just who is comforting who.

Slowly, he lets his hand fall away and reaches out to the grab the pills, unscrewing the top with his teeth.

“Hand out,” he says, when the top finally comes off and he lets it drop from his mouth to the floor. He holds the bottle in front of Gintoki’s face and gives it a little shake.

“What are you, my mother?” Gintoki grumbles, but holds out his left hand obediently. Katsura taps out two pills into his palm.

“Do you need water?” he asks.

Gintoki shakes his head, so Katsura leaves him to swallow the pills dry and busies himself with closing the bottle and putting it off to the side, taking the time to slip his haori off his shoulder and fold it away into the set of low drawers on the opposite side of the room. When he looks back, Gintoki is gazing at him with those impenetrable red eyes, his now empty hand resting in his lap. Unable to help himself, Katsura crosses the room again, leans down and plants a kiss on top of Gintoki’s mess of silver curls. Drawing back, he coughs lightly into his right hand, suddenly finding the corner edge of the bedside drawer exceedingly fascinating.

Gintoki says nothing, not even when Katsura climbs onto the bed with him and awkwardly shuffles his way across the mattress, propping the pillow up against the wall and settling himself into its squishy curve. He kicks the blankets back until they’re bunched up around Gintoki’s figure towards the end of the bed, thankful that it’s Gintoki’s uninjured left side facing him.

“Come here,” he says when he’s finally done, spreading his legs and gesturing to the open space between them.

Gintoki doesn’t move except to turn his head and lock his eyes with Katsura’s once again. There’s another pause, the room growing heavy with something Katsura isn’t sure he can name, something like suspense or anticipation, but headier. A sliver of anxiety rushes through him, and he panics inwardly for a second, wondering if he had been wrong in taking this chance, if he had overstepped some boundary drawn up since the end of the Joui war, if he had assumed too much. His mind plays out five variations of Gintoki scolding and ranting at him, each insult worse than the last (rationally he knows that for all of Gintoki’s boorish behaviour, the man is not cruel and would never look down on another for wanting to help, but under Gintoki’s intense scrutiny, his overactive imagination kicks into gear, and he is helpless to stop it). He opens his mouth to… to apologise and offer to walk Gintoki back to his room, or… or something, anything, then closes it abruptly when Gintoki begins to slide over.

Ignoring the thudding of his heart, Katsura reaches out with his right hand and helps keep Gintoki steady as he moves over the bed and deposits himself between Katsura’s thighs, letting himself be directed by Katsura’s pushes and tugs until they’re sitting back to chest against each other. A spasm of pain throbs dully in Katsura’s chest as Gintoki leans back and settles his weight more firmly on him, silver head resting on a broad shoulder, but he keeps his muscles relaxed and breathes through it until the throbbing ebbs away and he feels nothing but the warm pressure of Gintoki’s body against his. Pressed together like this, he can’t resist bringing his right hand up to Gintoki’s chest, and finds himself breathing in time with the slow pulse he can feel under the layer of cotton and skin, his earlier tension melting away. As he gives himself a moment to savour the sheer elation and relief of being back with Gintoki, of having survived another battle with a comrade, he feels another hand clasp over his and smiles sadly to himself.

Maybe, he thinks, this is something they have both been unknowingly wanting.

Slowly, he slips his hand out from underneath Gintoki’s and places it instead on his lower stomach, just underneath the arm sling. He can hear Gintoki breathe noisily and feels the corresponding movement of his stomach—rising up and down with every inhale and exhale—as he pushes his shirt up slightly and lets his fingers skim across the newly exposed skin. He hitches the shirt up just a bit more, his fingers coming into contact with the bandages wrapped around Gintoki’s chest. He traces their edge then slowly glides his hand back down, fingers pressing lightly in search of tender spots.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, just to be sure.

“No,” he says, his voice breathy.

Katsura feels a pull at his left leg and realises that Gintoki’s fisted his good hand into the fabric of his kimono.

“Are you sure?”

“Goddammit, Zura,” Gintoki groans, “yes, I’m sure.”

Katsura opens his mouth to remind him for the umpteenth time that he’s not Zura, he’s Katsura, but is stunned into silence as Gintoki turns his head and buries his face into Katsura’s neck. His wild perm fills up the bottom left corner of Katsura’s vision, a quarter of the room fuzzing out into silvery-white. The curls tickle his jaw and chin, warm puffs of air heating the column of his neck.

Automatically reacting to anything soft and fluffy thrown into his face, he finds himself nuzzling Gintoki’s hair, his left arm snaking through the gap between Gintoki’s arm and body to rest on his chest, effectively trapping the other samurai in a loose cuddle. Together, they sink further onto the mattress until they’re reclining, the new angle allowing Katsura to peer over Gintoki’s shoulder and bandaged arm, down to where his right hand is still lays pressed to Gintoki’s exposed stomach.

He drags his fingers over the waistband of Gintoki’s pants, lets his thumb duck underneath to briefly rub at coarse hair. Gintoki lets out a shaky breath and it’s all the signal he needs to slide his hand across to the side and begin pushing both pants and underwear off narrow hips. It takes their combined effort, one hand each, before the garments are satisfactorily pushed down far enough to not impend the night’s planned activity, hanging across the middle of Gintoki’s thighs.

From his viewpoint looking down, Katsura thinks the whole thing looks terribly obscene, especially with the way Gintoki’s cock is already plump and half-hard, laying thick against his inner thigh. He trails his hand across the junction where leg and body meet, watches Gintoki’s cock give a small twitch and feels a curl of heat flare up in his belly. Sternly, he reminds himself that tonight is for Gintoki, that he is merely a helping hand whatever strangled feelings he has. He reaches further down and giving the waiting cock a small squeeze.

Gintoki lets out a small noise that could be considered a whimper, and his cock pulses and thickens in Katsura’s hand. Katsura’s mouth goes dry.

Bushido, he thinks wildly to himself, though if there was ever a samurai code, he clearly wasn’t following it now.

Gintoki jerks his hips as if to pull Katsura out of his head and back into the present; Katsura tightens his grip in response and the cock in his hand hardens fully, pink and flush and astoundingly hot. He gives it an experimental stroke, because it’s been ten years and his memory of what Gintoki likes is somewhat faded, but Gintoki reacts just like he remembers, back when they were bumbling, war-torn teenagers, his entire body tensing as he lets out a soft moan. Deciding that he very much liked that sound, Katsura gives another stroke, moving slowly from base to tip.

“Shit…”

He pauses then, unsure if he heard correctly, hand hovering over Gintoki’s erection. When neither of them make another sound though, he continues, this time using trailing fingers and a light pressure to tease and caress until the first drop of pre-cum oozes out. He dips his forefinger into the slit and rubs in quick, tiny strokes until the head is glistening. Gintoki squirms in his lap.

“Try not to move,” he admonishes, taking his hand away and petting instead at Gintoki’s leg, trying to encourage the other man to relax and still, “you’ll aggravate your injuries.”

“Shut up, don’t care,” comes the mumbled reply, and Katsura would lecture him on the importance of rest and health, except Gintoki is already settling, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest in time with his deep breaths.

Humming in approval, Katsura rewards him with another kiss atop his head, hand still stroking the tense muscles of his thighs. Gintoki turns his face away and Katsura is graced with the view of a blushing red cheek, the colour spreading over his cheekbone and up to the tip of his ear. Taking advantage of the offering, Katsura flicks his tongue across the shell of the ear, then nips down on the earlobe.

Gintoki lets out a short, startled moan that fades into a whimper as Katsura starts working at his cock again, swirling his palm over the head with every upstroke. He takes his time—playing with the foreskin, fondling Gintoki’s heavy balls, alternating between fast and slow, loose and tight—as he pleases, gratified at every turn with the moans and whimpers he elicits from the man in his lap. By the time his cock is slick and wet and feeling impossibly hard, Gintoki is outright panting, his head thrashing from side to side and neck arching over Katsura’s shoulder with each deliberately too-tight stroke.

“Fuuck,” he moans, low and overwhelmed, and Katsura laments not quite being able to see his face.

He can imagine it though: red eyes darkening into rubies, the corners crinkled with delicious frustration, hazy and unfocused; parted lips, plump, pink and glistening from biting teeth and flicking tongue; his cheeks completely flushed; the tendons of his neck standing out; sweat gleaming on his skin. The thoughts break his restraint, and he pumps at Gintoki’s cock faster, unable to focus on anything but the hardness and heat beneath his hand.

“Aah… Ahh!”

The moans, though they send an electric thrill between his own legs, break his trance and he’s suddenly aware of Gintoki’s tensing muscles, the way his abs are flexing and his legs are shaking, knows instinctively that the other is on the edge of coming. Hardly aware of himself, he slides his hand back down to the base, and holds tight.

“Hah...? Zura, wha…?” Gintoki squirms again, trying to dislodge Katsura’s grip, but Katsura is too far gone to scold him again.

“Just a bit longer,” he says, when the rush of blood finally leaves his head and thinking is a little easier.

Gintoki makes a noise like a sob, hips bucking lightly, tugging unhappily at Katsura’s kimono. Katsura shushes him with another nip of teeth to his ear, and briefly tightens his hold on Gintoki’s torso. In the back of his brain, he registers a flare of pain running through his injured arm up to his left shoulder, but it’s quickly muted when he feels Gintoki’s whole body shudder against his. He lets go of Gintoki’s cock and starts petting everywhere else his hand can reach—his legs, his hips, his lower abs and stomach—until Gintoki lets out a shaky breath and calms down again, stilling his body once more and waiting for Katsura’s touch, cock twitching against his stomach.

Katsura starts off slow and teasing again, fingers tracing the veins he can feel protruding under the hot, silky skin, softly stroking the frenulum, rubbing little circles over the weeping slit at the head of Gintoki’s cock with the tip of his thumb, perhaps taking a little too much delight in Gintoki’s high-pitched whimpers. He’s suddenly, headily aware of the musky scent of sweat and skin and pre-cum he’s breathing; it makes him feel dizzy, another spike of arousal shooting from his brain to his dick, now half hard underneath his kimono, and he can’t help but lean down and run his tongue across the splay of Gintoki’s neck.

Gintoki moans, loud and rough like he can’t control his voice anymore, tossing his head to the side once more and displaying more of his throat to Katsura’s greedy mouth. The taste of Gintoki’s sweat and skin on his tongue; the tingling sensation on his lips as Gintoki’s throat vibrates with every desperate noise that slips out; the pounding, furious rhythm he can feel pulsating on his cheek where it’s pressed up against Gintoki’s pulse point, it’s all too intoxicating to resist. His licks become open-mouthed, hungry kisses, strong and passionate enough to bruise.

He pulls himself back a moment later and gentles his kisses in apology, laving his tongue over the blossoming spots of colour, but Gintoki doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the other samurai is even more turned on, judging by the state of his lower region. His cock has darkened in colour like an overripe raspberry, and steadily drips clear, viscous fluid, a small puddle forming on his stomach. The sight makes Katsura himself tremble; he doesn’t remember Gintoki ever being this sensitive, doesn’t understand how he could have forgotten if he had been. Pushing the thought away, he slides his fingers through on hot liquid coating Gintoki’s stomach, marvelling at its thickness and slippiness. He scoops up as much as he can in a single palm and spreads it over Gintoki’s erection, dragging his hand in a long, firm pull.

“Dammit, Zura…!”

He ignores Gintoki’s curse and keeps his strokes slow, dropping his hand down every so often to palm at his balls, slipping under them once in a while to rub at his perineum. He thinks Gintoki must be reaching his limit again, because the tugging on his kimono starts up again and Gintoki’s bandaged arm jerks several times in its sling, as if he wants to reach down and finish off the job himself. Katsura speeds up his pace slightly, and Gintoki’s body starts to tense and tremble again, hips lifting off the mattress to thrust desperately into Katsura’s grip.

“Zura, Zura, please, it’s been too long, please…”

For a few seconds, the rhythm of his hand falters as his brain fumbles with the words, because he can interpret ‘too long’ in too many ways, and he doesn’t know which one Gintoki means, but then the man in question pushes his hips up again and gives out a frustrated cry, and Katsura’s brain zeroes back on the pulsing cock in his hand.

“Come on, Zura, please, faster, don’t tease me anymore, Zuuraa…!”

The desperate way Gintoki moans his name, breath hitching at the end of the long vowel, is simply too sweet to ignore.

“Tissues,” he tells Gintoki, craning his neck to nuzzle again at the tufts of white hair flicking around Gintoki’s temple.

“Oh god, who cares, just move your hand, come on, please, I’m so close, fuck, Zura, please, I’m so close…!”

Katsura stops moving his hand entirely.

“Tissues,” he repeats, and somehow his voice comes out stern even though he’s sure his brain has turned to goo, though it’s miraculously still functioning rationally enough to tell him that tissues are very much needed.

Gintoki lets out a groan and throws out his left arm, banging his elbow and slapping his hand haphazardly down onto the bedside drawer until he hits the tissue box. Katsura expects him to swipe maybe a few sheets of tissue paper, but it seems Gintoki is feeling too impatient for even that; he simply grabs the entire box and throws it blindly to their right side. The tissue box hits the walls and lands on the mattress, next to Katsura’s hip. Clearly deciding his job to be done, Gintoki drops his hand back down to his side but instead of fisting it into Katsura’s kimono like before, his hand clenches around the fleshy part of Katsura’s outer thigh. At the same time, he turns his head and suddenly they’re face-to-face.

Katsura only has a second to glimpse the tears leaking from the corners of Gintoki’s eyes, and the absolutely wrecked expression he makes with his bright rosy blush and tousled hair, before Gintoki’s lips surge up to his and they’re kissing, deep and hard and sloppy. Their tongues slide together and Katsura takes the chance to slip between Gintoki’s parted lips, flicking his tongue up against the roof of his mouth. Gintoki’s dick twitches in his hand and he reacts with a quick tug, timing it with a swipe of his tongue against Gintoki’s lower lip. He keeps his hand going, feels arousal and exhilaration when Gintoki moans shakily against his mouth, the vibrations thrumming their way to his chest and quickening the already frantic pace of his wildly beating heart.

Gintoki pulls back with a gasp, buries his face back into the crook of Katsura’s neck like he’s too embarrassed to look up, and stays there, panting. His legs spread wider and hook themselves around the outside of Katsura’s knees, the waistbands of the pants and underwear around his thighs stretching tight. His feet dig into the mattress and his hips begin thrusting up again, skin glistening with sweat.

“Please,” he begs once more, voice hoarse.

His cock feels like fire under Katsura’s hand, his fingers now sliding smooth and fast over the flushed skin, moving from base to head and down again. More seminal fluid spurts out and sprays across Gintoki’s stomach, which tense and flex in reaction. Barely three more pumps, and Gintoki’s whole body is trembling again, muscles locking, the hand on Katsura’s thigh tightening to the point of pain. He ignores it, focusing on the rhythm of his hand, the scent of Gintoki’s straining body, the way it quivers with every stroke, the harsh pants he can hear and feel against his neck. He feels Gintoki’s dick throb and swell.

“Zura, gonna…!” is all the samurai can manage, before his orgasm overtakes him and his body arches as far as his bandages and Katsura’s arm will let him, shuddering violently. Thick strands of ejaculate erupt from his cock and coat his stomach in white, a few drops catching onto the bottom of his shirt.

Katsura works him through it, keeps stroking until he squeezes out every last drop of come Gintoki’s battered body will give. He stops only when Gintoki collapses back against his chest and lets out a pained whine, then switches to light caresses, trailing his fingertips around the slowly softening cock. It makes Gintoki shiver, and he whimpers another protest when Katsura’s wrist accidentally brushes over his too-sensitive head.

Smiling softly to himself, Katsura allows himself a brief moment of indulgence and nuzzles his cheek back into Gintoki’s fluffy hair, then grabs a tissue and quickly cleans off his hand before it became sticky and gross. Dropping the used tissue off to the side, he pulls out a few more and sets about wiping down Gintoki’s stomach and hips, even dabbing lightly where his semen managed to spray into his shirt. By the time he’s done, he finds that he’s built a little hill of tissues near his right hip and Gintoki, the selfish bastard, has already fallen asleep, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

Katsura finds himself loathed to move, cosily nestled as he is between the mattress and Gintoki’s body, even as he tells himself that he needs to get up and throw away the tissues, turn off the lights, probably take care of his own erection still throbbing sweetly under his kimono. Hell, he can’t even pull Gintoki’s pants and underwear back up with the way he’s trapped underneath the man’s sprawl, Gintoki’s legs still hooked over his own, can’t reach the rumpled blanket at the end of the bed. He doesn’t quite consciously notice the way his head bobs forward again and comes to rest atop Gintoki’s as he thinks over his predicament, silver perm serving as a soft and fluffy headrest.

As he sits and thinks, lazily drawing figure eights on Gintoki’s stomach, his arousal subsides into a low shimmering warmth that spreads, slow and hazy, from his core down to the very ends of his fingertips. Before his entire body turns to jelly, he forces himself up, beginning the long, extraneous process of extracting himself from under Gintoki’s weight. Shuffling his legs, carefully pulling back his arms, gradually edging himself sideways, he slowly extricates himself while gently lowering Gintoki back onto the pillow. It’s some work to get Gintoki’s pants and underwear back up without an extra hand to help him and Gintoki’s unmoving hips dead weight on the mattress, but he manages, dragging the blanket over his still, supple form.

He moves the tissue box to the drawer, grabs the discarded tissues and dumps them in the bin in the bathroom, takes the time while he’s there to brush his teeth. As he steps back out into the main room, he catches sight of the low table and the writing instruments still littered across its surface. He thinks he should tidy them away while he’s up, but as he bends his knees to reach down, a sharp burst of pain flashes across his lower back. He stops mid-crouch and gingerly rises back up to full height as the pain recedes momentarily from his back and flutters across to his left shoulder, leaving his whole torso twinging with stabbing aches. Clenching his teeth to keep from making any sound that could wake Gintoki up, he shambles closer to the bed and grabs the bottle of pills, fumbling with it single-handedly until the lid comes off. He pops a pill into his mouth and swallows it heavily, feeling too sluggish to make his way back to the bathroom for some water. As he puts the bottle back down, his instincts flare up and he turns his head to see Gintoki watching him with half-open eyes, his cheeks still pink with post-orgasm warmth and his hair sticking up in about a hundred directions. He looks soft and drowsy and absolutely adorable.

“I told you to stop pushing yourself, oi,” Gintoki says, his words thick and slightly slurred.

“Go back to sleep,” Katsura replies, not ungently.

“Get back in here then,” Gintoki says, pushing the blanket around his chest down as he scuttles to the side. Katsura looks dubiously at the narrow space.

“The bed’s too small for both of us to sleep on comfortably,” he points out.

“It’s fine, come on,” Gintoki insists, scooting back even further until his bandaged arm taps against the wall.

This time, it’s Katsura’s turn to pause for a moment, searching the soft lines of Gintoki’s face for something he’s not sure he’ll find, remembering the words Gintoki had gasped out like a confession (‘too long’, as if Gintoki had also counted the years and months and days that had ploughed on mercilessly since three broken childhood friends refused to say goodbye before a makeshift grave). Silently, he flicks the light switch hanging on the wall over the side drawer, plunging the room into darkness except for a sliver of light emanating from the digital clock popping up on the wall on the other side of the room. He waits a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light before climbing back onto the bed, grateful for the pill sweeping away the pain. There’s rustling as he settles himself back onto the mattress, Gintoki impatiently flinging the blanket back over them. He was right though; the bed is slightly too small for them, two fully grown men, to lay beside each other, the edge of Katsura’s hip sticking a little over the side of the bed. The line of Gintoki’s left arm is solid and warm against his right, their breathing sounding too loud and awkward and unnatural in the dark.

Hesitantly, Katsura raises his right arm up, bringing it to hang over the top of Gintoki’s head, just above his curls. He doesn’t even need to ask: Gintoki moves into his space immediately, skidding over until they’re squished back together, resting his head on the space between Katsura’s shoulder and chest, just under his clavicle. Katsura pushes back so he’s not at risk of falling over the edge of the bed, settling the two in the middle of the mattress with Gintoki practically half-laying on top of him, his uninjured arm extending across Katsura’s stomach so his hand curls lightly around the top of Katsura’s left thigh. In response, Katsura curves his good arm around Gintoki’s waist and holds him in a loose embrace. Underneath the blanket, Gintoki throws a leg over Katsura’s. Katsura lets out a quiet chuckle at them, tangled up in each other in a sleepy facsimile of their earlier position.

“What’re you laughing ‘bout?” Gintoki asks, but he’s nosing at Katsura’s skin, already drifting back off into dreamland.

“Nothing,” Katsura says, dropping a kiss on his forehead, feeling the slide of silver strands over his lips, “go to sleep.”

He expects Gintoki to make another sleepy retort, but the man either heeds his words or decides that he doesn’t care anymore, his breathing evening out again, body loose and relaxed. Katsura presses another kiss to forehead, thinking of battles past and future, of swords gleaming bright and fierce as the silver soul of the samurai nestled in his arms. His own breathing slows to the rhythm of Gintoki’s inhales and exhales, a languid heat seeping into his bones from every contact point between Gintoki’s body and his. When he falls asleep, he dreams of two young boys, one who had been a corpse-eating demon, one who had been a lonely general hiding under a coward’s cloak, sharing a hand-made onigiri under the full bloom of a plum tree, blissfully innocent of the red horizon glowing in the distance.

***

Katsura wakes up and can’t feel half his body. It’s a long, groggy moment before he remembers why, both he and Gintoki apparently having fallen into such a deep sleep that hardly either of them had moved during the night. He flexes the fingers of his right hand, grimacing when uncomfortable tingles run in prickly sparks up and down his entire arm. It’s a few more seconds before he realises that Gintoki is also awake, feeling the other man’s body tensing against his.

“Gintoki…?” His voice sounds rough and charred to his ears; he clears his throat.

As if moving under a great weight, Gintoki wearily pushes himself up into a seated position. Katsura notes that their legs are still entangled. The room is dark; Katsura briefly contemplates reaching over and turning the lights on, but as his eyes become accustomed to the low shadows, he makes out the silhouette of Gintoki’s back, the way his head is slightly bowed. He struggles into full consciousness and props himself up on an elbow.

“Gintoki?” he tries again.

The ship hums around their silence.

“Zura,” Gintoki finally says, and the way he says his name this time is nothing like Katsura has ever heard before, shy and unsure and laced with a vulnerability that makes Katsura’s heart clench. “Zura, last night—I know that we—before— when we were young, but now… now it’s different, you know? We’ve walked down different paths, and if… if last night was something you did out of your memory of the past, then you don’t have to do it anymore, okay? Gin-san’s a big boy, he can take care of himself, so just… don’t push yourself…”

Gintoki falls silent, his frame trembling. Katsura sits up fully, the blanket falling to his waist with a breathy whisper, reaches out and places a hand on the quivering back, the texture of Gintoki’s bandage sling rough under his palm.

“Gintoki, that was for you,” he says, and the quiet tremors stop. “Whenever you want me, or need me, I’ll be there as your left hand or your right hand. I was back then, I am now, and I will be, for this war, and the next, and the next, and even after when the fighting stops and we’re nothing more than lazy, useless, senile old men.”

Gintoki barks out a laugh. “Oi, Zura, aren’t you already an old man, waxing dirty poetry like that?” The muscles on his back relax, and Katsura feels the pressure on his hand increase.

“A true samurai wields both the sword and the pen,” he says matter-of-factly, dropping his hand away and pushing himself forward until they’re sitting back-to-chest again, his arms wrapping themselves around Gintoki’s waist. He drops his chin onto a shoulder. “I mean it. I’m here for you, Gintoki.”

The silence stretches on for so long this time, Katsura wonders if maybe one of them had fallen asleep again. He only just manages to keep himself from jumping up in surprise when Gintoki speaks again.

“Hey Zura, after we go home and kick Utsuro’s arse, I’ll treat you to some soba.”

Katsura laughs. “All right. And we’ll go get strawberry parfaits afterwards for dessert.”

“…So it’s a date, then?”

“Yeah, Gintoki, it’s a date.”

#ginzura #katsura kotarou #gintoki sakata #gintama #gintama fic #my writing #my fic #oh god #i can't believe i wrote fic again #shameless promotion i guess #moose's fault

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