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08 July 2011 @ 02:26 pm
Something’s Burning: Open up and let me inside. [Gintama, 2/8]  
GINTAMA and all characters/ideas/concepts/places therein are not mine, although the writing certainly is.

Title: Open up and let me inside.
Characters/Pairing(s): Kawakami Bansai & Takasugi Shinsuke
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A possible look into how Kawakami Bansai and Takasugi Shinsuke met, and why Bansai follows Takasugi in the first place. The second part of many.
Warnings? Graphic sex between two men.
Notes: This takes place before the start of Gintama, well after the end of the Joui resistance but years before the beginning of the series.

Something’s Burning: Open up and let me inside.

The summons came after a month of radio silence, in the form of a single slip of paper wrapped in black silk sitting on top of the lid of his piano. There was nothing but a date, a time and an address, along with a sprig of higanbana, the red flower of longing and unresolved karma. Of the sender himself, there was no trace but the faintest scent of hashish, cloves and opium staining the paper, and the fine, strict lines of the characters etched in black ink across the paper. The address was not a place, per se, but a boat docked in one of the canals criss-crossing Old Yoshiwara. It was a small but grand affair built in the traditional style, stringed with round, colored lanterns, manned by a single, blind boatman, sporting multiple rooms.

Kawakami Bansai stepped onto the boat right at the stroke of the clock. The paper lamp by the entrance rustled in the wake of his entrance; he did not care if he had been noticed. There was no need for secrecy anymore. After inquiring with the boatman, Bansai set off, heading for the room furthest from the entrance. He studied his surroundings as he walked, hearing his boots rap against the cedar flooring, feeling the gentle sway of the waves under the weight of the boat. Takasugi Shinsuke’s signature was on everything, it seemed, from the scent of opium to the strange art on the shoji doors to the preference for red and black on the frames, the screens. All of that, though, were minor things compared to the room he finally entered.

The scent of opium was the strongest there; it was the first thing he noticed, beyond the smoke cloying all around him, from a pipe, and from the candles scattered about the room and the odd light filtering in from the lanterns. No walls, only the door he had stepped through, and black wood curtains pulled low over the openings on the other three corners. There are some personal affects scattered about in the corners: a shamisen, an incense burner, a tea set, a sword rack, a pile of books. Nothing was of greater interest, however, than the bed in the center: a large one, raised on a platform and half-concealed by bamboo blinds painted with the same flower pressed against Bansai’s thigh, with the invitation he had slipped into the pocket of his pants.

“Good evening, Takasugi-dono,” the musician said, speaking to the shadow reclining beyond the blinds.

There was a quiet hum in response, and the slight silhouette of his favorite patron shifted about, over the sheets. A hand peeked out from under the blinds, rapping the ash out of a pipe into the box by the side of the bed before it disappeared again. The next thing that appeared was a foot before the silhouette shifted again, pushing itself up.

“You are right on time. How surprising.”

Bansai reached out, shutting the door behind him. He never took his eyes off of Takasugi’s silhouette; his headphones were on, but he had turned the music off long ago. “Have I ever been late?” he asked, as he listened to the rustle of silk, the human movements.

“Fair enough. Although…” there was a pause, accentuated by more rustling. Takasugi was seated now, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed, fringed by the end of his kimono. His shadow lifted its hands towards his head: a moment later, the edge of a bandage came loose, and started to pool to the floor. “Given the fact that we have not spoken for over a month, I could only wonder.”

Bansai was moving before he was even aware of it; his body, it seemed, had responded to the sight of those bandages snaking to the floor, and had wanted to move closer and take them in his hands. He pushed the blind in front of him aside, stepping up to the side of the bed.

“A month is a long time, I daresay. Were you hoping I would go and seek you out?”


Takasugi did not seem to notice Bansai at all: perhaps he was at home with the weight of another’s gaze upon him, even when he was in such a vulnerable state. His kimono was loose, rumpled, perhaps, from him dozing off in it; the bandages were unfurling in his hands, spilling between his fingers. His hair was wet from a bath, and his eyes were far off, distant.

The scarring, as each new whorl of bandages reveals, ran deep and old, a sharp contrast to Takasugi’s skin. What was left of the eyelid was sealed shut permanently, it seemed, by clean that ran diagonal from somewhere beyond Takasugi’s hairline and over the socket, and held together by stitches. Used to smooth surfaces as he was, Bansai reached out and pushed the bandages away, letting his fingers run over the scars. A deliberate violation, born out of curiosity and exactly thirty-one days too many of waiting.

He expected Takasugi to move away, to snap at him, perhaps, or tease him for his impatience. Nothing came. He was being allowed that indiscretion, if only for a moment.

“And I was under the impression that you were indestructible, Takasugi-dono.”

Takasugi chuckled in response, calm under the touch of Bansai’s fingers. “No one is indestructible,” he said. “It is foolhardy to even consider the thought.”

Bansai hummed, echoing what he heard only moments before from Takasugi himself. He bent lower until his face was exactly even with Takasugi’s, and moved to take off the rest of the bandages.

“And is it because of this belief that you are stronger?”

“Is it? I only speak of what I can do and what I believe I am, not of what I cannot do or what I am not.” Takasugi tilted his head, soft and curious. “Why do you hide your eyes?”

“It adds to the mystery, doesn’t it?”

“So you won’t tell me.”

The smile on Takasugi’s face was kind but unrelenting. He snaked one hand up, latching unto one of Bansai’s wrists. The musician could feel their warmth and pressure against the pulse thrumming away beneath his skin. He tipped his head down in a humble bow, putting his shades within reach of the man’s fingers.

All of it was an exchange, a means of establishing trust and familiarizing themselves with the new bond that had formed between them. He wondered, idly, what Takasugi would think now that he could see his gaze wander over the latter’s form, down his neck and at the curve of his shoulder, tracing the point where his kimono ended and his skin began.

Takasugi’s answer was in how his lips turned up further, in quiet amusement. The shorter man leaned forward, coming just close enough to whisper right into Bansai’s ear.

“I want you to join me. I may need someone like you, for what I am planning.”

Bansai turned his face until they were almost pressed cheek-to-cheek.

“Why me?”

“Because I want to have the luxury of watching you. Because you are, perhaps, the most skilled assassin I have ever encountered.” A pause, followed by small arms reaching out, snaking around Bansai’s neck. He could feel the touch of lips moving just over his ear. “Because you are the only one by whose hands I want to die by, after I’ve destroyed everything.”

“So you are mine to take?” the query was followed up by Bansai reaching down, letting his hands explore what his eyes had been looking at only moments earlier. Takasugi only laughed; it was a small and husky sound. The swordsman, it seemed, could laugh freely in the presence of a man could easily wring his neck with the very hand that sliding over his skin.

“Am I?”

Those words marked his place. Bansai pressed his fingers against the other man’s shoulder, feeling the fabric, the skin, the muscle beneath. He pulled back in the next moment, collecting himself beneath another cool smile.

“How may I be of service to you now, Takasugi-dono?”

Takasugi withdrew his arms, pulling back, running a hand through his hair. So smug, he was, so utterly self-assured.

“You can start by changing my bandages.”


The query came later, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, breaking the distance with the touch of Takasugi’s hand against Bansai’s cheek.

“You can be very gentle when you want to be, can’t you?”

Bansai paused, glancing sidelong at Takasugi and discovering that the latter was smiling at him again. The younger man had been watching him at work, searching his face, measuring his reaction.

It had been Bansai’s first real test, being allowed that close and given only enough leeway for his mind to wander into all sorts of dark places. The musician was impatient, faintly unsettled by how his new patron could invade his space and challenge his cool with little else but a look and the simple act of breathing the same air as he did. He knew that Takasugi could sense it. He knew, as well, that Takasugi did not care.

It took him a beat too long to respond.

“I try my best when the situation calls for it.”

Bansai turned away, tying the ends of the bandages. He was ready to pull back and retreat, thinking, perhaps, that he could pick up the shamisen he had spotted in the far corner of the room and play a song: anything, really, to keep his hands busy. He was stopped short by the feel of Takasugi turning against him, and Takasugi’s hand moving down, skimming past his neck and over his belly, hidden by the leather of his coat.

“And what, pray tell, does the situation call for now?”

Words were not going to do, it seemed, and he was tired of boundaries. Bansai moved in, planting a supple kiss against the curve of Takasugi’s jaw. He ignored the murmur of Takasugi’s breath, the feel of his eye on him. He ignored the cold and logical admonition of his own conscience at the back of his head, calling for control, discretion. His hand glided down Takasugi’s neck and dove under the neckline of his kimono, slipping it off of his patron’s shoulders. His other hand moved as well, taking Takasugi’s hand from his face, putting it between his own legs.

In the next moment, when Takasugi responded in kind, shifting under his grip to let Bansai disrobe him and taste/touch as he pleased, he knew that there was going to be no resistance. Good: that only made things easier.

Satisfied, the musician put his lips against the skin over his patron’s clavicle, tasting it, committing the detail to memory. His hands continued their exploration, feeling for what was hidden underneath Takasugi’s robe: the fine line of his ribs, the curve of his waist, and the corner of his hips. Takasugi’s own hand remained between his legs; he caught, almost distractedly, the tug of his belt coming off, the soft whine of the zipper of his pants going down. Bansai planted his hands on Takasugi’s shoulders and pushed him down, with his force and his weight. His lips move over Takasugi’s chest, making their way to his nipples. He worried them with his teeth; first one, then the other. He felt the other suck in a little air and quiver; it was the first real reaction he had managed to ring out from Takasugi. He felt himself grow harder at the sound.

“Eager, aren’t you?”

Takasugi was watching him again, tilting his head against the pillows, tracing the progress of Bansai’s mouth on his skin and hands on his body; he kept his hand between Bansai’s legs, teasing the man’s cock from over the cloth of his underwear. The smirk on his lips infuriated Bansai nearly as much as it thrilled him. He showed his patron as much, by sliding one hand close to Takasugi’s own crotch, fingers grazing the soft, inner skin of his thigh.

“I think ‘thrilled’ is a better word, Takasugi-dono.”

The musician pulled back, taking off his clothes: his coat first, then his shirt. He kept his pants on – far and enough that his cock was out and almost painfully hard. And all that while, Takasugi watched him.

“Thrilled, mm? Clearly, you are.”

He snaked a hand around the back of Takasugi’s head, dragging him up and forward; he wanted to kiss those arrogant lips, pry open that mouth with his tongue. Takasugi responded in kind, tasting him just much as Bansai was tasting him. His palms rested themselves on Bansai’s cheeks; his fingers tanged themselves, quite neatly, in Bansai’s hair. The rest of the space between them rapidly disappeared as the musician pressed closer, locking his hips against Takasugi’s lips, melding his skin with Takasugi’s skin. When the kiss was done, while both of them stopped to catch their breaths, he slipped his hand low and between them both and palmed Takasugi’s crotch through the cloth of his fundoshi. He smirked at how the gesture made Takasugi tremble.

“And what are we to do about this, I daresay.”


The word was a hiss against his ear, quiet and mocking. Bansai shoved Takasugi down again, with a single hand around the man’s neck; the force of the gesture was enough to make the latter wince. The musician did not care: he kept his grip steady, ignoring the shake of Takasugi’s breath under the press of his fingers as his free hand pulled the smaller man’s cock free of its trappings and down past the latter’s legs. When that was done, he let one finger stray back up, smoothing the tip of Takasugi’s cock. The gesture made Takasugi swallow.

“Do I look like I’m lost?” he asked, flicking it a bit, as if it were his tongue down there, licking at the rim. He was treated to the feel of Takasugi squirming against him, to the sight of Takasugi’s eyes fluttering just beneath his eyelids, to the sound of his hitched breaths melting into gasp.

No words; his patron, it seemed, was finally overwhelmed by the magnitude of his own need. Bansai bent down to kiss him again, lending him air. He kept his fingers wrapped around the column of Takasugi’s neck as he used his other hand to stroke him off. The man’s arms were free; he could fight Bansai off if he wanted to. There was nothing, though, but quivering and trembling and the roll of Takasugi’s hips against his, the sound of his patron’s moans against his ear.


He lost himself in the next few moments: the taste of Takasugi’s mouth was good, and the heat of the other’s skin made his own hum. He had done this with others before, had thought them to be beautiful. None of them compared, however, to the man he had beneath him, the one he was driving mad with the touch of his tongue, his hand.

Takasugi was a different creature now, a far reach from his smiling patron and from the mad dancer he became on the battlefield. He wasn’t looking at Bansai anymore: he was pressing his face against the side of the pillow, gasping over the sheets. His one good eye, however, cracked open when Bansai finally withdrew his hand from his neck; he sucked in a breath, looking at him as if he wasn’t really seeing him at all.

As he popped his fingers into his mouth, lubricating them with his own saliva, Bansai studied the bruises that had flowered on the column of Takasugi’s neck, in the wake of his fingertips. He looked over the rest of the man as well, admiring his handiwork, counting the bite marks, the trace of his kisses. When he moved to lift Takasugi up and unto his knees, the latter did not protest; those small hips twitched, even, as if in anticipation for what was going to come next.

Bansai knew his duties well. He did not delay further; he only smoothed his fingers over the line of Takasugi’s buttocks, and then slipped two of them inside the other’s ass. He could study, perhaps, the way a full shiver ran down the length of Takasugi’s spine, causing him to moan and arch up against him. He chose, instead, to dwell on the way Takasugi clenched around his fingers, warm and welcoming. Later, when he pulled his fingers out and replaced them slowly with his cock, he relished in the way Takasugi shuddered, and in the sound of him panting not-so-quietly at every inch that sank into him, filling him up.

He fucked his new master hard, anchoring him to place with a solid grip on his hips, pressing him between his weight and the bed. He made sure it hurt, because pain always left a deeper mark than any other sensation. He was not, however, overly cruel: he pressed his lips against the back of Takasugi’s neck and offered the closeness of his own body, covering him with warmth. He also made sure that he hit that spot that made Takasugi tremble with pleasure and whimper each thrust.

He stayed in when he came, filling Takasugi with more of himself, listening to his own breath come out ragged and uneven, echoing his master’s. No words, even after it was finished. Nothing, even after he finally pulled out, letting his patron collapse unto the sheets and try to learn how to breathe again.

Bansai pulled Takasugi’s body against his own, turning the other about to face him, running his fingers through that disheveled hair, the loosened bandages. He shut his eyes, content with drifting away on the roll of the waves beneath their boat.

He felt the brush of lips against his cheek, and arms wrapping themselves about him – not his neck, this time, but his waist. He did not move away.


The rain must have started sometime during the evening, while both of them slept: that much was obvious in how the entire world was already awash with gray and odd shadows by the time he opened his eyes.

Bansai was alone on the bed; the pillow carried the scent of Takasugi, and the things he liked to smoke. The pipe, however, sat forgotten on the brazier; tendrils of smoke whiffed up from the end, as the contents burned themselves out.

The musician stood up. He listened to the rain a moment, and then left the room. It didn’t take him all that long to locate Takasugi; the sound of running water in the bathroom was too strong, stronger than the sound of raindrops falling all around them.

“Good morning.”

Takasugi was standing under the rush of the shower head, back turned towards Bansai, face tilted towards the water. He was gloriously naked, of course, cloaked only a little by the steam rising up from the contact of the hot shower water against the tiles. The man glanced over with a smile. The gesture was crooked and confident.

“Why don’t you join me?”

An order disguised in the form of a question. Bansai shut the bathroom door behind him and moved to obey.
Current Mood: chipperchipper
Current Music: Stars - "Ageless Beauty"
azurecerulean: batman ulquiorraazurecerulean on August 27th, 2011 07:07 am (UTC)
OMG! Why didn't I know that something this fabulous had been lurking in your journal? I usually opt for one-shots, but this piece of gem is too irresistible to miss. ♥

*rushing to search the other 7 parts*
do not feed the animals: hawtness.izkariote on August 27th, 2011 08:36 am (UTC)
Lol. There isn't enough Bansai and Takasugi on the internet, in my opinion.
shira_zen on August 27th, 2011 08:12 am (UTC)
Magnificent. Truly magnificent.

Your Takasugi comes across as so... prettyyy~!
do not feed the animals: smirk.izkariote on August 27th, 2011 08:37 am (UTC)
He's a beautiful man. T^Tb

I'm glad you approve~
Elspethelspethelf on August 28th, 2011 07:55 am (UTC)
*fans self* Smokin' hot!
berry_ko: I swear this is yoghurtberry_ko on August 28th, 2011 09:37 pm (UTC)
That's it.
This is my favorite Bantaka fanfic ever.
Thank you so much, you rock!