Gintama Fan Fiction ❯ lust is a song by led zeppelin ❯ lust is a song by led zeppelin ( Chapter 1 )

This goes out to all the Gintama fans who never get their share of the goods. Let me say now that Gintama is beyond divine (proof of which is that even the fillers are good - yes, all ye infidels, even the bloody FILLERS rule), however, unless one is not familiar with the delicate oddities of Japan, its greatness cannot be fully conveyed (what I mean is that it is a hellish job to translate it and I take my hat off to the kind people who still do so).

 

This is my own take on a scene is episode 39 (it didn't appear in the manga, not like this anyways). For those who have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, well, then it's just funny porn. For those of you vaguely remember Katsura ending up in a ramen place with a woman named Ikumatsu, know now that when you see a half naked chick and then the scene cuts to the following morning, it's a polite way to say “sex” in Japanese culture.

Those of you who knew right off what episode 39 was about, I love you, you can have my children.

 

Side note to whom it may concern: Ikumatsu was the historical Katsura's wife. She did not, to my knowing, make ramen.

 

I don't own Gintama. If I did it would be a rather different show. Perhaps it is better this way.

 

 

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“…I am getting too involved,” he whispered and let the rest of his breath go out with a small swishing sound. There she sat, a white robe falling half way down her back. The flimsy piece of cloth was there to set the imagination ablaze, not really to cover anything up. One of her thighs was carelessly naked and in the mirror in front of her, Katsura could make out the stunning line of her belly button, the living white silk between her breasts - and nothing more. And that really didn't help at all. The sneak preview was quite possibly worse than if she entered his room like of mother born and threw herself down on his hard…bed. Then he could just assume she had temporarily lost communication with her brain and would, in all his chivalry, ignore her.

 

But this, this was pure evil! Questions plagued him. Is this seduction? Did she leave the door open on purpose? Or was this just her way of preparing for bed, indecently undressed and combing her oddly coloured hair in long, long strokes of a simple wood comb? Maybe it is perfectly innocent, right? It could be perfectly innocent and not, certainly not an invitation to wild and passionate…lurkers. That lurk. On innocent women. He, Katsura, was not lurking to be sure. He would never lurk in such an dishonourable manner. Right? This was not lurking, right? He might just be meant to see this, right? In which case it COULD just be exactly what it looked like…

 

Many other such questions, often repeating themselves in a particular pattern (in some advanced schools of thought it is known as a circular pattern), buzzed in Katsura's tortured mind. Truth be told, in the last few minutes, their number diminished greatly seeing how a large amount of his traitorous blood decided to emigrate south of his head. Down under, so to speak. God damned Quislings! The word “foreplay” cackled evilly somewhere behind his eyes.

 

This was getting ridiculous. He commanded his body to turn on one hip and muse no more about her curvaceous form. After all Katsura Kotaro was a man of supreme will-power. He had absolute command over his body and over its desires. Not that it wasn't something every man should strive for, but in his craft particularly it was indispensable. One needed to overpower base instincts, like fear, for example, in order to be a samurai. And Katsura was a supreme samurai. He was supremely trained in reigning supreme over his panic or insecurity or blood loss or marmalade---

 

Katsura had, indeed, managed to command his body to flip. Of the two hips it had, though, it decided to flip itself on the wrong one. If anything, now he didn't have to crane his neck painfully as he was watching Ikumatsu run the comb through lock after lock of pale brown hair. Over the day, she was a business-woman worthy of praise. She ran her little shop as if it was all she ever dreamed about and one couldn't ask more of any man. Her dedication to her work was formidable. If he wanted to gape at her, he should do so while she worked her magic in the kitchen, concerned with nothing else.

 

But, said the part of his mind that was by no means located in his head, now she's just so-

 

Censored, censored, censored, screamed his Rational Self, still influential enough to stop him from falling under the spell of its darker parasite twin.

 

Then again.

 

Along with “why not”, the most dangerous two words in the world. Katsura tried to remember the last time he held a woman to his body; tried, with some difficulty, to recall the feel of something alive pressed on his chest. Or the warm feel of somebody's relaxed breathing on his shoulder. God forbid, when was the last time he woke up to find somebody else's hands resting on his back? When had this happened?! When had he become so distant, so removed from life, so—

 

---underfucked.

 

His Rational Self was haemorrhaging severely. It was now as white as a death mask and slightly disoriented. With a dying tigers ferocity though, it brought on a new train of thought. What would the people he knew do in this situation? People he admired and could count on? People he used to fight side by side with?

 

Gintoki would have jumped her fifteen minutes ago. But then again, there are only so many situations in which you could take Gintoki as a role model, and none of those had anything to do with…em, women.

 

Sakamoto… looks up to Gintoki far too much.

 

Takasugi- no, that's just perverse.

 

Let's see, who else? Elizabeth? Now, that was just disturbing.

 

So basically, everybody he knew, would have already been lying on her, kissing her lips. Lying next to her, kissing her hair, if they were really fast. Goes to say a lot about the kind of people he hung out with.

 

What if he did go over there? What if he were to open the doors just a bit more and call her name? This was now his Ratio speaking in the disdainful voice of a dying lord who left all of his money and estate to the church, just to spite his relatives. What if he did and she refused him? What if she drove him out of her house? The Shinsengumi were patrolling every street, he could smell them if he concentrated hard enough (as a note, the Shinsengumi necessarily smelled of tobacco, mayonnaise and sulphur - that last one was Okita). He couldn't fight in this condition. His leg still hurt, he couldn't contact any of his people, he would be fucked.

 

No. No, he wouldn't, snickered the Evil One.

 

Ikumatsu shifted a bit. Nothing fell open, but the smallest possibility that is could have was enough to glue his eyes on her once more. He felt the yearning, this time not as a blood-drain, but as a tide. It was an onslaught of desire and what was left of Katsura, the rational thinker, Katsura, the stoic samurai, was washed away with it.

 

Getting his body to stand up soundlessly was a lot more effortless than propriety commanded. He stole another moment leaning behind the half closed door. She was incredible. Had anyone ever told her that? They hadn't told her enough, nobody could tell her enough. She finished with her hair and was fiddling with her face, rubbing a sweet smelling pomade in small, gentle circles. Her own smell, clearly a female smell, mingled with this boxed sweetness. Katsura wondered if she could hear his breathing and his heart beat. Because he could, with every fibre of his being. His fingers hooked the sliding door and his inner stoic expired in the ensuing hiss.

 

For a moment he thought about cowardly retreat. He was going to run back into his room and cower under his blanket. And if she didn't torch him with a flame thrower, tomorrow morning he would be smaller than a flea. He would be a droplet of water. You couldn't even trip over him.

 

Her expression was unreadable. Katsura wasn't sure what he expected. In his fantasies, it was lust written on her imagined face, but surely surprise had to come into his calculations at least once. She didn't seem surprised. But, again, she didn't seem anything. Which could easily mean she was angry.

 

His sense of warriorsmanship alone kept him from retreating. Instead, he took a daring step forward. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. If one didn't know him well enough, one would miss how pale he was and that he was actually biting his lower lip. But his eyes were focused on her face, reflected in the mirror which her gaze hadn't left even for a moment.

 

I am getting too involved, echoed in his mind as the final death spasm of moral resistance.

 

Smoothly, he came to kneel behind her, watching her watching him in the mirror. She set the little plastic box that said Facial Cream next to her comb and placed both hands palm down on her half-naked thighs. She waited. She didn't speak and she didn't fret and she didn't reach for the flame thrower. Which was a good sign.

 

Gently, Katsura reached into her lap and picked up her hands. They were warm and pliable. And they weren't shaking. Her eyes as well didn't waver. Incredible, incredible woman. Or was this his lust speaking?

 

Katsura guided her hands out, spreading them slowly. And there they stood, the two of them in the mirror, his black hair covering one of her shoulders, their fingers intermingled somewhere on the edge of the sliver surface. His placid, deceptively young face was next to hers, reserved and intelligent one, and they looked like polar opposites of the same principle. The way a man and a woman should look.

 

He left her hands to float in midair and circled her waist. She was not thin per se, not bony like some women. Rather, she was slender and soft. Katsura drove his palms up, only slightly pausing when they scratched her nipples, and he turned her head towards him. He kissed her testily; fluttering kisses of dry lips, nothing too intrusive, but as her arms came to circle his head and her back twisted to catch more of him, a happy voice in Katsura's head said, well, this is going better than expected. And with that, the last poltergeist-like howl of his moral fibre gave in.

 

It was so easy to kiss her. Some women tend to be difficult. They would either stop every now and then as if they were tasting wine or they would give up mid-way and just stand there with their mouths open like fish on dry land, waiting for him to dazzle them. This from his exuberant experience of four.

 

Three. He was drunk once so it doesn't count.

 

But Ikumatsu was adaptive and dominant at the same time. When he paused to think of a new trick she understood it was her turn to come up with something. And she explored. She had hands dug in his hair, then she would have them intertwined with his, resting lightly on her chest. He pressed himself on her to feel when her spine curved and shivered under the pressure of her own passion.

 

Still no words passed between them. He gave up on self-control and pulled her down. Now he could finally see her. With one hand above her head and the other settled on his shoulder where it waited while he drank up the sight of her, she could easily have been the single most compulsively sexual thing he had ever seen. Her chest was like the ship's mast on the summer breeze, heaving and falling with the capricious August wind. He could get all poetic about her chest. With a shaky gesture that he feared she might interpret as flamboyant or dismissive he pulled one of the flaps open to reveal a small, firm breast. Katsura slid three frightened fingers around it and down to trace her ribcage and circle her bellybutton. Below that was heaven.

 

He couldn't tell when her legs appeared around his waist but it was not so long ago. She pressed his back with her heels to pull him closer but in a vicious moment of masochism, he refused to let the prelude end just yet. Katsura kissed her possessively, hovering above her, expecting, rather foolishly, that she would stay still while he tortured himself. She didn't. She was unwrapping him; very artistically, she was peeling off bothersome layers of cotton between them as if they were candy wrappers. She slid his grey robe off his shoulders while he watched, bedazzled and confused. What was this woman doing? It was as though she wanted it, she planned everything!

 

“Ikuma-?“

 

He was going to say something, he really was. He had every intention. But Ikumatsu was way ahead of him.

 

For the first time in what felt like decades there was a living, breathing, coiling person on his chest, kissing his neck and shoulder. He let her roll him on his back and open his clothes, pulling them around him like an array of grey pebbles. He reached to her silky thighs and between them. She busied herself with muffled moans and kisses to his chest, one of her hands slowly reaching down to pay back the favour. His desire was turning into pain. Katsura felt as if he would burst into tiny packets of crisps any time now.

 

Ikumatsu looked as if she was thinking the same thing. With a rapid resolution that freaked him out a bit, she saddled his waist and bent to kiss him. He had trouble kissing back.

 

She was as warm from the inside as she was from the outside. Katsura was going to pass out. His goading inner voice was now saying: `OK, you can do this, it's like riding a bicycle, it'll all come back to you', in a rather patronizing voice that somehow keenly reminded him of Gintoki.

 

He pushed up, she pushed down and the bicycle ride was on. Everything went out of his head all at once. He lost memories of childhood. His name and occupation became debatable. The only thing he could even see was himself, sitting up to the woman moving in his lap. He whispered sighs into the skin of her neck and her skin understood perfectly. He was predictably quiet; she was not. And he found great pleasure in listening to her. First indecipherable gurgles and vocals interchanging in a rhythm. Then requests. Oh the requests. They filled his ears with echoes of perversions and fed his ego large lumps of chocolate fried in sugar and wrapped in Happy Meals.

He needed a breather or he would black out and die.

 

He lifted her off himself enough to spin her, crouching, around towards the mirror. She leaned the back of her head on his shoulder, with a mewing sound that meant `more'. Her lower body was still moving the way it did until a moment ago. Taking deep, soothing breaths Katsura took his time to look at her.

 

“…beautiful,” he whispered as if it was a word he never spoke with meaning before. Ikumatsu pulled at his hands and hair, trying to get the contact back. He spread her knees apart carefully as she arched her back inward and her pelvis back for him. He tried a slower pace, but a bite on his chin, the only place her teeth could reach if she snaked backwards precariously, warned him not to play stupid. She wanted it harder, she had said so. And Katsura obliged.

 

Both of them were sitting on their heals, moving together in at somewhat frantic pace, looking at the reflection in the mirror as though it wasn't them, the unknown two that resembled themselves, but had these dumb, void expressions of pleasure. These were two completely different people under completely different circumstances. She went rigid and for the first time that evening shut her eyes in an expression akin to someone who just got shot and didn't expect it to hurt. Katsura tried to remember why looking at their blissful doppelgangers in the sliver glass made him slightly melancholic, but then even that vanished from his head and he pressed a moist forehead to her sticky shoulder.

 

He regained consciousness in a white bed five feet away from where he had last seen himself. Sleep was catching up to him so quickly he fought it on a self-defence reflex, simply because the great content drowsiness of a fat cat felt like an attack on his consciousness. Next to him was his wonderful woman, saying something.

 

“—tsura.”

 

“It is not Zura. It is Katsura,” he corrected automatically. To his credit, his voice was clear.

 

Ikumatsu propped herself on one elbow and arched an eyebrow. “I didn't say Zura. I said Katsura.”

 

“Oh, sorry. I have some problems with that nickname.”

 

Ikumatsu gave a knowing smile that said: I don't think I wanna know, and she retook her position on his right shoulder. Sensations were slowly returning to him and Katsura became aware that her right arm was spread over his chest and the hand was playing with his black hair. In a similarly possessive fashion, her leg was capturing his hips together, rubbing the place he could still only define as wet, hard and tingly.

 

“I said, it took you long enough, Katsura,” mumbled Ikumatsu.

 

Katsura racked his brain and found many meanings to this phrase, but some of them made no sense and some of them made too much sense so he thought it safer to ask. “What do you mean, Ma'm?”

 

“I mean I never spent so much time combing my hair in my life.”

 

Katsura could imagine his own face. It was not significantly different from the faces of those poor souls who had their pictures taken while riding a particularly nasty ride in the amusement park. After three loops across god's wide heaven, four dives underground into an unknown abyss, and seven haunting, metallic sounds that could be screws coming out of the whole damn thing, their blissful expressions of excitement and amusement would turn into frozen smiles of people who can think of only one thing: oh my god, we are going to die, we are going to die. And in this great joy ride of emotions, they would simply forget to change their expressions, thus left with eyes stretched open in horror and equally wide grins that flies had a tendency of crashing into.

 

It was so for Katsura as well. On one side he was ecstatic, his ego now the size of a minibus full of children, on the other he felt used, played, screwed and the better for it. He also felt incredibly stupid because now that his Rational Self was being re-infused with blood at a steady pace, it had to withstand the jives shouted from the Deep South. Something along the lines, `what if she kicks us out of the house, that's what you said, right, you impotent moron?'

 

Also, a part of his brain was shamed to tears because, as inflected from one of his former trains of thought, this made Gintoki right. He should have jumped her hours ago.

 

“You think I am an easy lay, now, don't you?” he heard Ikumatsu say over a great distance. She was pointedly looking somewhere over his shoulder, away from his eyes.

 

“Easy?” his voice cracked in a mad cackle, but seeing how that comment made no sense to her, he cleared his throat and tried again. “No, I would never think that. I am not that type.”

 

That made no sense either. Ikumatsu sighed. “But I did turn out to be easy, didn't I? I turned out to have been planning the whole thing from the moment I caught you stealing my bra.”

 

Katsura snickered. Both his inner selves stared at him in silence and befuddlement. Since they couldn't find the strength to ask `did you just giggle?', they asked nothing and returned to their bickering. “Yes, that must have really made you think: I want to have sex with this person. Look, he has my underwear in his hands! He is perfect.”

 

Ikumatsu laughed a short, ringing laugh and Katsura felt flowers blooming in his stomach. After a short pause in which he enjoyed her renewed peace of mind, he asked: “May I stay?”

 

“I wasn't going to use you and throw you into the streets. I am not that type.” Ikumatsu said in a happy voice.

 

“No, I meant, may I stay here tonight? In this bed. Ma'm.”

 

“You have to stop with this Ma'm thing,” she faked offence as she crossed her hands over his chest and rested her chin on them.

”You are still my boss.”

 

“I'll be your boss in the morning.”

 

Katsura thought how he would like her to boss him around a bit more tonight as well, but kept it to himself. His libido was like a shark - give it a finger and now it's gonna want the whole arm. The melancholy crept back into his mind with the ease of a bad habit. He couldn't give it the whole arm. He shouldn't have even thrown it a bone. Because soon he will have to stop pretending to be interested in ramen and return to his cause. And perhaps he would never see her again.

 

`I am getting too involved' hit him like a slap in the face.

 

“I would like you to, in any case,” said Ikumatsu from another time and space. When he didn't show he understood what she meant, she elaborated: “To stay here. Nobody has for a very long time. And I would rather like to remember what it used to feel like. Waking up next to someone in the morning. Looking for each other's clothes.” With every sentence her voice became more and more distant and her smile, private and soft.

 

Katsura sat up enough to catch her lips and mumbled: “I know what you mean,” into her hair. He didn't have the heart to tell her it was a mess now that he was through with it. He might comb it for her. He might rub the cream in for her as well. That wasn't very innocent, right there. Her breathing was becoming deeper, the small fist holding a lock of his hair opening up, relaxing, letting go. And, mussing through erotic scenarios on one hand while feeling her calm satisfaction on the other, Katsura let himself be lulled into sleep.

 

His last thought of the day was, `Eat your heart out, Gintoki. Look who I got to do!' And with a sadistic cackle he lost conscience.

 

 

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