“Well, that was unproductive,” pants Zura at length, his hand pressing against his sternum, over his heart.
“What kind of sweet nothing is that, ah, you bastard?” Gintoki snaps, but it’s too breathless to have any real bite. He’s bowed over with hands flat on the kitchen counter, on either side of where Zura’s perched, his legs splayed. Staring down at those still spread legs and the sheen of stickiness on Zura’s stomach, he gives a defeated kind of groan (he can’t catch a break, every damn angle of this jackass is right out of a dirty fantasy).
He receives a snort in return. Thank god for misinterpretations. “You hit my head on the cabinet,” the other man asserts, complaint in his tone. “That’s not very sweet, either.”
Gintoki gives him a flat, dead-fish eyes look. He decides to let it go (because if Zura sounded as stupidly, stupidly sexy as he looked, he’d never get anything done). “We’ll buy you a helmet. Always thought you needed one anyway,” he says instead, which is (per usual) the wrong thing to say, as Zura gives him a hard shove in the shoulder, trying to disengage.