Sengoku BASARA: All Those Things Are Better Left Unsaid [Masamune/Kojuurou; for artsatalex]
Title: “All Those Things Are Better Left Unsaid”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13… I guess
Timeline: pre-anime
Summary: Masamune thinks he knows what he wants. Kojuurou knows that he doesn’t. [Masamune/Kojuurou]
Disclaimer: Sengoku BASARA belongs to Capcom, Production I.G. and whatnot.
Prompt: rejection for artsatalex
ALL THOSE THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT UNSAID
His young lord is hot-blooded and impatient. He is not used to taking ‘no’ for an answer and he does not like the sound of it.
He acts on impulses like he is an impulse himself, a pencil of blinding light piercing through the darkness.
The night is hot and the fight was heavy. Masamune knocks his forehead against Kojuurou’s and slams his hot mouth, salty with the aftertaste of blood, against that of his retainer. Kojuurou knows for a fact that Masamune-sama abhors kissing (just as he knows virtually every other habit and predilection of his lord). He tastes a sharp tang of sake on Masamune’s tongue, and that is how he recognizes the realization of this impulse as an act of perfect drunken despair.
Masamune’s body is jammed hard against his, and Kojuurou’s posture becomes uncomfortable as he is bound to support both his weight and Masamune’s; yet he does not dare move and he wills himself to forget for the briefest moment what he is and who that hot, hungry body belongs to.
Date’s hand crawls up Koujuurou’s shoulder and fingers dig themselves demandingly into the rough fabric of his clothes. The other hand scrapes down Kojuurou’s lap. Masamune pushes himself forth and ends up inadvertently pressing his crotch against Kojuurou’s knee. His lips breeze across Kojuurou’s cheek. He swipes his tongue over the rim of Kojuurou’s ear, and as the overwhelming sensations jolt through his system, Kojuurou wants nothing more than to push his knee fully against the obvious bulge in Masamune’s trousers and tear a sound from the young lord’s mouth. Any sound, be it a passionate moan or a fierce growl.
Masamune takes the initiative of course, much like he always does in battle, recklessly, saucily. His tongue, oddly coarse, catlike, draws a line down the side of Kojuurou’s jaw, past the scars. There is nothing lewd about it, only raw passion, a natural desire of a predator to sink its teeth into the prey and feel its flesh give way. But that desire answers to no name, that predator knows no master, and Kojuurou sits still as a statue, for he knows that Masamune-sama will hardly ever remember this tryst in the morning.
“How long must you wait for orders?” Masamune slurs, angrily.
“Just a little longer.” Kojuurou sounds mildly patronizing and a bit broken.
“I’m ordering you!”
Kojuurou places his hand on Masamune’s shoulder and firmly, yet respectfully pushes him away.
“And I am defying.”
Masamune’s mouth curves like he thinks it is a joke that he is unwilling to appreciate. He glares at his retainer and he shakes his head impatiently like an agitated horse, messy hair falling over the eyepatch.
Kojuurou’s lips tighten.
“Why?” Masamune half-laughs. “Haven’t you told me there is no shame in bloodless, painless surrender?”
“Only when the side that has lost is in the right state of mind to surrender.”
Date scoffs. “You have no ambition, don’t you?”
“Neither do you if you expect me to let you relinquish your pride.” Date’s face twitches slightly, and Kojuurou bows his head and adds hastily: “Forgive my insolence, Masamune-sama.”
Masamune then fires his entire, seemingly inexhaustible vocabulary of insults, peppered with coarse-sounding Western curses, at Kojuurou. He does not raise his voice, and Kojuurou misses out on half of what he says while he quite disreputably allows his mind to wander back to the scorching memories of Masamune’s tongue exploring his skin. Masamune lingers before him, his hair and clothes smelling strongly of blood and steel and horse sweat, his breath laced treacherously with too much alcohol, and that wretched shred of distance between them that Kojuurou would like nothing more than to eliminate is already teeming with curse words as if they were vermin. Kojuurou cannot lie to himself about the nature of use he could put this mouth to, but he knows his place and he knows he should ignore every sordid fantasy that nests in his mind right now.
Kojuurou gets up to leave no sooner than his young lord’s tirade is over. The night is too hot.
“I’m not that drunk, you know,” Masamune winks at him, seemingly in a good mood again. “I know who you are.”
Kojuurou lowers his head respectfully. “Of course, Masamune-sama.”
(But will you know tomorrow?)
July 12, 2010
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13… I guess
Timeline: pre-anime
Summary: Masamune thinks he knows what he wants. Kojuurou knows that he doesn’t. [Masamune/Kojuurou]
Disclaimer: Sengoku BASARA belongs to Capcom, Production I.G. and whatnot.
Prompt: rejection for artsatalex
ALL THOSE THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT UNSAID
His young lord is hot-blooded and impatient. He is not used to taking ‘no’ for an answer and he does not like the sound of it.
He acts on impulses like he is an impulse himself, a pencil of blinding light piercing through the darkness.
The night is hot and the fight was heavy. Masamune knocks his forehead against Kojuurou’s and slams his hot mouth, salty with the aftertaste of blood, against that of his retainer. Kojuurou knows for a fact that Masamune-sama abhors kissing (just as he knows virtually every other habit and predilection of his lord). He tastes a sharp tang of sake on Masamune’s tongue, and that is how he recognizes the realization of this impulse as an act of perfect drunken despair.
Masamune’s body is jammed hard against his, and Kojuurou’s posture becomes uncomfortable as he is bound to support both his weight and Masamune’s; yet he does not dare move and he wills himself to forget for the briefest moment what he is and who that hot, hungry body belongs to.
Date’s hand crawls up Koujuurou’s shoulder and fingers dig themselves demandingly into the rough fabric of his clothes. The other hand scrapes down Kojuurou’s lap. Masamune pushes himself forth and ends up inadvertently pressing his crotch against Kojuurou’s knee. His lips breeze across Kojuurou’s cheek. He swipes his tongue over the rim of Kojuurou’s ear, and as the overwhelming sensations jolt through his system, Kojuurou wants nothing more than to push his knee fully against the obvious bulge in Masamune’s trousers and tear a sound from the young lord’s mouth. Any sound, be it a passionate moan or a fierce growl.
Masamune takes the initiative of course, much like he always does in battle, recklessly, saucily. His tongue, oddly coarse, catlike, draws a line down the side of Kojuurou’s jaw, past the scars. There is nothing lewd about it, only raw passion, a natural desire of a predator to sink its teeth into the prey and feel its flesh give way. But that desire answers to no name, that predator knows no master, and Kojuurou sits still as a statue, for he knows that Masamune-sama will hardly ever remember this tryst in the morning.
“How long must you wait for orders?” Masamune slurs, angrily.
“Just a little longer.” Kojuurou sounds mildly patronizing and a bit broken.
“I’m ordering you!”
Kojuurou places his hand on Masamune’s shoulder and firmly, yet respectfully pushes him away.
“And I am defying.”
Masamune’s mouth curves like he thinks it is a joke that he is unwilling to appreciate. He glares at his retainer and he shakes his head impatiently like an agitated horse, messy hair falling over the eyepatch.
Kojuurou’s lips tighten.
“Why?” Masamune half-laughs. “Haven’t you told me there is no shame in bloodless, painless surrender?”
“Only when the side that has lost is in the right state of mind to surrender.”
Date scoffs. “You have no ambition, don’t you?”
“Neither do you if you expect me to let you relinquish your pride.” Date’s face twitches slightly, and Kojuurou bows his head and adds hastily: “Forgive my insolence, Masamune-sama.”
Masamune then fires his entire, seemingly inexhaustible vocabulary of insults, peppered with coarse-sounding Western curses, at Kojuurou. He does not raise his voice, and Kojuurou misses out on half of what he says while he quite disreputably allows his mind to wander back to the scorching memories of Masamune’s tongue exploring his skin. Masamune lingers before him, his hair and clothes smelling strongly of blood and steel and horse sweat, his breath laced treacherously with too much alcohol, and that wretched shred of distance between them that Kojuurou would like nothing more than to eliminate is already teeming with curse words as if they were vermin. Kojuurou cannot lie to himself about the nature of use he could put this mouth to, but he knows his place and he knows he should ignore every sordid fantasy that nests in his mind right now.
Kojuurou gets up to leave no sooner than his young lord’s tirade is over. The night is too hot.
“I’m not that drunk, you know,” Masamune winks at him, seemingly in a good mood again. “I know who you are.”
Kojuurou lowers his head respectfully. “Of course, Masamune-sama.”
(But will you know tomorrow?)
July 12, 2010