Sengoku Basara: While It Lasts (for dune_master )
Title: “While It Lasts”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Summary: Yukimura witnesses something that he shouldn't. [Kojuurou/Masamune; implied Masamune/Yukimura; PWP]
Disclaimer: Sengoku BASARA belongs to Capcom, Production I.G. and whatnot.
Prompt: Yukimura watches Masamune with Kojuuro for dune_master
A/N: This is a weird story that I nearly broke my brain over while writing. While all physical action goes on with KoMasa, I’d rather risk saying it’s a SanaDate story.
WHILE IT LASTS
It hits him hard, like a heatwave, when he sees shadows dancing behind the screen doors, stark outlines of bodies locked together. Yukimura holds his breath. He does not dare peek inside the room even though he knows well enough what is going on there.
The painted silhouettes spatter over the other side of the doors so light he could break them with his fist like paper. It seems for a moment that should he do this, he will find nothing behind them. The shadow theatre will be gone, a memory in his inflamed mind.
Even if he were to pretend otherwise, there is no mistaking Masamune-dono’s rough voice, and Yukimura feels drawn by the sharp cadence of sounds that go south faster than he could imagine.
He needs to see it. Needs to put faces on those shadows.
Carefully, Yukimura slides the door open, just a crack, enough to see Date shift on top of another man. Flickering light dances across the relief plains of his body. He has his back on the door, and Yukimura watches, enthralled, as Masamune lowers himself upon the other’s length. Yukimura’s heart skips a beat, but overall he is unusually calm, observing the scene with a near-medical detachment. Date rocks his hips, bobbing up and down, and as he swings forth for a moment, Yukimura catches a glimpse of the other man’s face. Katakura-dono. Oddly enough, he does not feel surprised.
Date’s back is lined with scars. Some of them look old, others have only just begun to heal. Yukimura finds himself wishing he could run his fingers down those sharp, clear lines, feel the texture going from smooth to wiry-rough and back.
There is a distinct gash on Masamune’s back, dangerously close to the top of his spinal column. Yukimura recognizes it as a memento of their latest semi-friendly scuffle. The gash is covered with coated blood. Disturbed by the heat, it has begun to leak some fluid that trickles down Masamune’s shoulder, leaving a muddy-red streak across it.
Yukimura wishes he could press his mouth against the wound, rip the crust off with his teeth and lick clean the blood that flows by his doing.
Katakura-dono digs his fingers into Masamune’s hips, and their joint rhythm grows faster, jerkier. And yet, Masamune does not moan. He swears in a violent mixture of Japanese and the Western language and his breathing is sharp and noisy, but he gulps down every rising moan like his life depends on it.
Yukimura clenches his fists. A hot sensation pools in his abdomen, but he cannot move, cannot synchronize his rhythm with theirs for fear of tearing down the illusion of being invisible.
In his mind, he sees himself running his tongue down Masamune’s spine, scraping his nails down towards the small of his back - he can see clear drops of sweat beading in every hollow of Date’s skin and cannot help wondering what that slick, salty skin must taste like.
And then maybe - just maybe - he would feel the tight, overwhelming heat that surrounds Katakura-dono now. He would do it from behind because he could not possibly look into Masamune-dono’s eye.
The influx of tantalizing images is so devastating that Yukimura has to grind his jaws against one another to choke down a groan. His body is a living torch, a tangle of emotions, both imaginary and real, and he is almost happy that he cannot be touched: otherwise, he would simply burn to ashes.
“Might as well open the door,” a hoarse voice breaks his reverie. “For better view.”
Yukimura shudders. At first he cannot grasp if the voice is part of his fancies or not, but Date is staring at him over his shoulder, a strange smirk gracing his lips, and Katakura-dono’s gaze is fixed on him too, his face unreadable, and-
-fuck-
Yukimura stays rooted to the spot, unable even to think. His lips feel painfully dry and his mind has gone numb, so that he cannot come up with any excuse even if he wants to.
Masamune smirks. “Join in?”
Yukimura’s breath hitches. His head is spinning with desire and need.
And yet, he cannot imagine breaking this up. Cannot allow his fantasy to sweep him away.
“Watching is enough,” he says in a small, yet resolute voice, and he knows that the One-Eyed Dragon will take it as yet another challenge.
July 14-17, 2010
And here's the other version of that request, a picture by artsatalex that inspired several high points of this story:
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Summary: Yukimura witnesses something that he shouldn't. [Kojuurou/Masamune; implied Masamune/Yukimura; PWP]
Disclaimer: Sengoku BASARA belongs to Capcom, Production I.G. and whatnot.
Prompt: Yukimura watches Masamune with Kojuuro for dune_master
A/N: This is a weird story that I nearly broke my brain over while writing. While all physical action goes on with KoMasa, I’d rather risk saying it’s a SanaDate story.
WHILE IT LASTS
It hits him hard, like a heatwave, when he sees shadows dancing behind the screen doors, stark outlines of bodies locked together. Yukimura holds his breath. He does not dare peek inside the room even though he knows well enough what is going on there.
The painted silhouettes spatter over the other side of the doors so light he could break them with his fist like paper. It seems for a moment that should he do this, he will find nothing behind them. The shadow theatre will be gone, a memory in his inflamed mind.
Even if he were to pretend otherwise, there is no mistaking Masamune-dono’s rough voice, and Yukimura feels drawn by the sharp cadence of sounds that go south faster than he could imagine.
He needs to see it. Needs to put faces on those shadows.
Carefully, Yukimura slides the door open, just a crack, enough to see Date shift on top of another man. Flickering light dances across the relief plains of his body. He has his back on the door, and Yukimura watches, enthralled, as Masamune lowers himself upon the other’s length. Yukimura’s heart skips a beat, but overall he is unusually calm, observing the scene with a near-medical detachment. Date rocks his hips, bobbing up and down, and as he swings forth for a moment, Yukimura catches a glimpse of the other man’s face. Katakura-dono. Oddly enough, he does not feel surprised.
Date’s back is lined with scars. Some of them look old, others have only just begun to heal. Yukimura finds himself wishing he could run his fingers down those sharp, clear lines, feel the texture going from smooth to wiry-rough and back.
There is a distinct gash on Masamune’s back, dangerously close to the top of his spinal column. Yukimura recognizes it as a memento of their latest semi-friendly scuffle. The gash is covered with coated blood. Disturbed by the heat, it has begun to leak some fluid that trickles down Masamune’s shoulder, leaving a muddy-red streak across it.
Yukimura wishes he could press his mouth against the wound, rip the crust off with his teeth and lick clean the blood that flows by his doing.
Katakura-dono digs his fingers into Masamune’s hips, and their joint rhythm grows faster, jerkier. And yet, Masamune does not moan. He swears in a violent mixture of Japanese and the Western language and his breathing is sharp and noisy, but he gulps down every rising moan like his life depends on it.
Yukimura clenches his fists. A hot sensation pools in his abdomen, but he cannot move, cannot synchronize his rhythm with theirs for fear of tearing down the illusion of being invisible.
In his mind, he sees himself running his tongue down Masamune’s spine, scraping his nails down towards the small of his back - he can see clear drops of sweat beading in every hollow of Date’s skin and cannot help wondering what that slick, salty skin must taste like.
And then maybe - just maybe - he would feel the tight, overwhelming heat that surrounds Katakura-dono now. He would do it from behind because he could not possibly look into Masamune-dono’s eye.
The influx of tantalizing images is so devastating that Yukimura has to grind his jaws against one another to choke down a groan. His body is a living torch, a tangle of emotions, both imaginary and real, and he is almost happy that he cannot be touched: otherwise, he would simply burn to ashes.
“Might as well open the door,” a hoarse voice breaks his reverie. “For better view.”
Yukimura shudders. At first he cannot grasp if the voice is part of his fancies or not, but Date is staring at him over his shoulder, a strange smirk gracing his lips, and Katakura-dono’s gaze is fixed on him too, his face unreadable, and-
-fuck-
Yukimura stays rooted to the spot, unable even to think. His lips feel painfully dry and his mind has gone numb, so that he cannot come up with any excuse even if he wants to.
Masamune smirks. “Join in?”
Yukimura’s breath hitches. His head is spinning with desire and need.
And yet, he cannot imagine breaking this up. Cannot allow his fantasy to sweep him away.
“Watching is enough,” he says in a small, yet resolute voice, and he knows that the One-Eyed Dragon will take it as yet another challenge.
July 14-17, 2010
And here's the other version of that request, a picture by artsatalex that inspired several high points of this story:
