[Fic] Sengoku Basara: Shatter This Pedestal
12 Days of Christmas Meme
DAY 04
Fandom: Sengoku BASARA
Prompt: Kojuurou and Masamune, something totally nice and pretty and maybe porny?
Requester: izkariote
Warnings: R? Borderline NC-17?? I really don't know how to categorise these things, srsly.
___________________________________________________________
Title: Shatter This Pedestal
Series/Characters: [SenBASA] Kojuurou/Masamune
Disclaimer: Sengoku GARfest belongs to CAPCOM. No profit is made from this cash cow.
Word Count: 1,526
Notes: First and probably last time writing for Sengoku Basara. It's not really a fandom I can fic for, but hopefully the characterisations here are somewhat en point? Anyway, this isn't so much as "pretty" as it is "grisly." Lots of morbid imagery in the beginning because well, battlefields :Db. And um. Not sure if this counts as a PWP. I think there was a plot somewhere, but I lost it in my attempt to. Porn. I can't write it, but let it be known that I did try and. And. All you get is a hand-job with a cop-out climax, but. I should really stop trying to justify myself. /covers face and hides
Also, I dislike this title. If anyone can come up with a better one, please let me know.
Summary: The aftermath of an assassination attempt leaves Kojuurou with a battle-frenzied Masamune on his hands and very few options in which to deal with the matter.
___________________________________________________________
Shatter This Pedestal
by kasugai gummie
___________________________________________________________
The field was as still as a freshly turned grave, nearly silent save for the rattle of dying breaths and raucous laughter of carrion birds circling overhead. By the time Kojuurou finally lowered his sword and let go of the needle-point focus that rode with the heat of battle, the ring of steel and screams had become mere echoes in the back of his head. He took a ginger step back but stumbled nonetheless, shedding grace and coordination as he came crashing down from the rush of adrenaline. Armour and bone cracked underfoot, blood soaking the ground, and the first thing he sought out for with his eyes was the whereabouts of his young lord.
He’d lost track of him in the last legs of the fight, in an unforeseeable sequence of events that refused to overturn despite all of his best efforts to maim, gut, kill his way back to his lord’s side. They’d become separated, herded and corralled to different ends of the battlegrounds, and while Kojuurou believed that his former charge was more than capable of taking care of himself when it came to mowing down enemies in melee, it was still his duty to watch his back. A part of him would forever consider Masamune a responsibility.
And, well.
An ambush. It had been an ambush, fifty men strong, all of whom had clamoured for the head of a one-eyed dragon. Fifty men against just the two of them-odds only those of the Date clan could find, would find favourable.
Kojuurou shook his head and released the breath he’d been holding in when he finally caught sight of the familiar crest, blood-splattered and injudiciously nicked as it was, emblazoned on a familiar overcoat spanning an equally familiar back.
“Masamune-sama!” he called and began picking his way through dismembered limbs and pools of congealing blood. “Masamune-sama, are you alright?”
-only to take a step back when he came within sword’s reach, well-honed reflexes saving him from the inconvenience of having to nurse spilled entrails by the dirt road with the rest of their gutted opponents. Kojuurou hastily brought his sword back up to guard against the next slash, a downward stroke to be felt in his bones, all the while berating himself seconds later for his mistake. Wrong move.
It had been an ambush, an assassination attempt, and Masamune had never been one to react well to stabs in the back and underhanded designs on his life. Not after that first one anyway.
Oh, he’d thrown himself into the fray with as much zeal as he would have any normal battle. If their men had been here to witness, none would have noted anything out of the ordinary. Their leader was in top form after all, his blade an occasional streak of lightening or a single straight-edged claw.
But Kojuurou knew better. Kojuurou, who was currently on the receiving end of those rage-fuelled blows and had watched Botenmaru step into Masamune’s skin while his mother plotted behind her silk fan, knew what need be done.
He ducked to the right, just in time to bypass the sharp swing from the left and parry the ribbon-pathed slice coming up from below. Sometime between one step and the next, his lord had unsheathed a second claw to join the first. Kojuurou gritted his teeth, held his position and forced Masamune back by leaning forward with his full weight. “Masamune-sama, please.”
No answer. None save the notable haze of blood-lust and lack of recognition in Masamune’s eye, though that, in a manner-of-speaking, was answer enough. The younger man was punch-drunk on the remnants of his own adrenaline high and, with no other immediate way of siphoning it all off, was feeding it instead-stoking it with primal instincts and ghosts from the past. His lord, his tactically brilliant, charismatic liege, was like a rabid animal in this moment, high as a silk kite, pinioned tail snapping in the wind and lashing out indiscriminately to keep the age-old traumas hidden.
They broke apart, Masamune gearing up for another attack the moment his heel touched ground. But Kojuurou had enough.
“Forgive me, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou said and darted in low. Side-step-side, plus an extra burst of speed put him right in the middle of Masamune’s blind spot and in position to simultaneously disarm and tumble him over a conveniently tossed arm frozen in rigor mortis.
Down they fell, heedless of the grisly mat they wrestled over. Only years of sparring with Masamune helped Kojuurou avoid any unwanted lasting health complications. The knee to his chest was a mere hand’s breadth short of hitting his solar plexus, but Kojuurou answered in kind, gripping the armoured braces around Masamune’s forearms like a second pair of cuffs and slamming them to the ground on either side before their owner could find enough purchase to levy himself up and at him again.
He pinned him to what little ground there was still unoccupied by the newly dead, arms held as far away possible from the hilts of the remaining four swords, knees pinning long legs immobile on both sides.
“Get off,” said Masamune, stilling long enough to growl unseeingly up at his captor, the foreign words forced through teeth bared in a feral snarl. “Release me now you fucker.”
Kojuurou only tightened his grip and settled more firmly over the long, lean line of Masamune’s body. It appeared that his lord had picked up some new vocabulary from the sea-traders. Again. “You know I can’t do that, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou murmured. “Not yet.”
Not willing to chance letting go either hand, Kojuurou slid one knee over the metal plating guarding one outer thigh, down along the inner thigh and pressed it firmly against his groin.
His snarling captive stiffened, the barest glimmer of unwilling recognition flickering in his gaze. “Kojuu-What the hell are you doing?”
“You need release, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou told him bluntly. “You’re in otherwise no condition to return to Oshu the way you are now.”
“Bullshit, Kojuurou. Now get off me before I-”
Kojuurou chose that particular moment to sit back and unceremoniously stick his hand down Masamune’s pants. He wasted no time curling sword-calloused fingers around the already half-hard length of Masamune's cock-another side-effect of his lord’s pent up excess of adrenaline, he suspected.
“You’d only endanger your people and yourself.” It had been a gamble to release one of the captive hands, but it soon became clear enough that he needn’t worry about anymore escapist attempts. In fact, getting free and ripping Kojuurou a new one seemed to be the last thing on his young lord's mind.
Masamune broke off with a small, injured gut-punched sound on that first stroke. His fingers, even the ones still held down, dug furrows into the bloodied dirt beneath, scrabbling for purchase. On the second stroke he screwed his good eye shut, throwing his head so far back that his hair brushed the ground even while his back bowed in an eloquent arch. By the third, fourth, and fifth, he was bucking his hips up in time with each downward stroke, settling more than readily into that familiar tempo more appropriate, perhaps, to the empty onsen at night, or behind the dojo’s closed doors.
Kojuurou smiled wryly, swallowed dryly when Masamune re-opened his eye to fix him with an unconvincingly exasperated look, the vestige traces of blood-lust finally replaced by its more tractable cousin in that slit-eyed gaze. Obeying the unspoken command, he shifted so that he was no longer kneeling over Masamune’s prostrate form and hauled him up, right hand never pausing in his ministrations of wringing out each laboured breath as if it were to be Masamune’s last.
Sprawled in his retainer’s lap, one arm half-slung over his back, Masamune panted into the visible skin of Kojuurou’s collar, unable to call up the necessary mental faculties to form a coherent sentence but still somehow quite capable of introducing his fist into the shoulder next to where his forehead pressed, hot and slick with sweat.
Kojuurou worked him hard, fast and messy. Hard tugs, long pulls and the occasional squeeze near the head of Masamune’s cock at the apex of each stroke, and before long Masamune came with a breathless cry, spilling into the vice-like enclosure of Kojuurou’s hand.
Yet it wasn’t until after Masamune slumped forward like a marionette cut of his strings, hand loosely fisted into the lapels of Kojuurou’s coat and fingers twitching against the cloth in time with the aftershocks, that Kojuurou relaxed (as best he could given the circumstances and his own burgeoning problem).
He looked up at the overcast sky. From up above the wheeling flock of crows descended, giving them a wide berth even as they alighted to their feast.
They needed to leave now. They needed to evacuate the scene. But if Kojuurou held the warm, pliant body pressing in degrees against his chest for one indulgent moment longer, there was no one around to call him out on it.
He’d brought his lord back down from up high. He would next bring his lord home.
___________________________________________________________
Fin
Completed: December 16, 2009
___________________________________________________________
'm thinking Day 6 will be a music download day? I have like 10 covers each of Walking in the Air and Carol of the Bells ready to be shared. =)
DAY 04
Fandom: Sengoku BASARA
Prompt: Kojuurou and Masamune, something totally nice and pretty and maybe porny?
Requester: izkariote
Warnings: R? Borderline NC-17?? I really don't know how to categorise these things, srsly.
___________________________________________________________
Title: Shatter This Pedestal
Series/Characters: [SenBASA] Kojuurou/Masamune
Disclaimer: Sengoku GARfest belongs to CAPCOM. No profit is made from this cash cow.
Word Count: 1,526
Notes: First and probably last time writing for Sengoku Basara. It's not really a fandom I can fic for, but hopefully the characterisations here are somewhat en point? Anyway, this isn't so much as "pretty" as it is "grisly." Lots of morbid imagery in the beginning because well, battlefields :Db. And um. Not sure if this counts as a PWP. I think there was a plot somewhere, but I lost it in my attempt to. Porn. I can't write it, but let it be known that I did try and. And. All you get is a hand-job with a cop-out climax, but. I should really stop trying to justify myself. /covers face and hides
Also, I dislike this title. If anyone can come up with a better one, please let me know.
Summary: The aftermath of an assassination attempt leaves Kojuurou with a battle-frenzied Masamune on his hands and very few options in which to deal with the matter.
___________________________________________________________
Shatter This Pedestal
by kasugai gummie
___________________________________________________________
The field was as still as a freshly turned grave, nearly silent save for the rattle of dying breaths and raucous laughter of carrion birds circling overhead. By the time Kojuurou finally lowered his sword and let go of the needle-point focus that rode with the heat of battle, the ring of steel and screams had become mere echoes in the back of his head. He took a ginger step back but stumbled nonetheless, shedding grace and coordination as he came crashing down from the rush of adrenaline. Armour and bone cracked underfoot, blood soaking the ground, and the first thing he sought out for with his eyes was the whereabouts of his young lord.
He’d lost track of him in the last legs of the fight, in an unforeseeable sequence of events that refused to overturn despite all of his best efforts to maim, gut, kill his way back to his lord’s side. They’d become separated, herded and corralled to different ends of the battlegrounds, and while Kojuurou believed that his former charge was more than capable of taking care of himself when it came to mowing down enemies in melee, it was still his duty to watch his back. A part of him would forever consider Masamune a responsibility.
And, well.
An ambush. It had been an ambush, fifty men strong, all of whom had clamoured for the head of a one-eyed dragon. Fifty men against just the two of them-odds only those of the Date clan could find, would find favourable.
Kojuurou shook his head and released the breath he’d been holding in when he finally caught sight of the familiar crest, blood-splattered and injudiciously nicked as it was, emblazoned on a familiar overcoat spanning an equally familiar back.
“Masamune-sama!” he called and began picking his way through dismembered limbs and pools of congealing blood. “Masamune-sama, are you alright?”
-only to take a step back when he came within sword’s reach, well-honed reflexes saving him from the inconvenience of having to nurse spilled entrails by the dirt road with the rest of their gutted opponents. Kojuurou hastily brought his sword back up to guard against the next slash, a downward stroke to be felt in his bones, all the while berating himself seconds later for his mistake. Wrong move.
It had been an ambush, an assassination attempt, and Masamune had never been one to react well to stabs in the back and underhanded designs on his life. Not after that first one anyway.
Oh, he’d thrown himself into the fray with as much zeal as he would have any normal battle. If their men had been here to witness, none would have noted anything out of the ordinary. Their leader was in top form after all, his blade an occasional streak of lightening or a single straight-edged claw.
But Kojuurou knew better. Kojuurou, who was currently on the receiving end of those rage-fuelled blows and had watched Botenmaru step into Masamune’s skin while his mother plotted behind her silk fan, knew what need be done.
He ducked to the right, just in time to bypass the sharp swing from the left and parry the ribbon-pathed slice coming up from below. Sometime between one step and the next, his lord had unsheathed a second claw to join the first. Kojuurou gritted his teeth, held his position and forced Masamune back by leaning forward with his full weight. “Masamune-sama, please.”
No answer. None save the notable haze of blood-lust and lack of recognition in Masamune’s eye, though that, in a manner-of-speaking, was answer enough. The younger man was punch-drunk on the remnants of his own adrenaline high and, with no other immediate way of siphoning it all off, was feeding it instead-stoking it with primal instincts and ghosts from the past. His lord, his tactically brilliant, charismatic liege, was like a rabid animal in this moment, high as a silk kite, pinioned tail snapping in the wind and lashing out indiscriminately to keep the age-old traumas hidden.
They broke apart, Masamune gearing up for another attack the moment his heel touched ground. But Kojuurou had enough.
“Forgive me, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou said and darted in low. Side-step-side, plus an extra burst of speed put him right in the middle of Masamune’s blind spot and in position to simultaneously disarm and tumble him over a conveniently tossed arm frozen in rigor mortis.
Down they fell, heedless of the grisly mat they wrestled over. Only years of sparring with Masamune helped Kojuurou avoid any unwanted lasting health complications. The knee to his chest was a mere hand’s breadth short of hitting his solar plexus, but Kojuurou answered in kind, gripping the armoured braces around Masamune’s forearms like a second pair of cuffs and slamming them to the ground on either side before their owner could find enough purchase to levy himself up and at him again.
He pinned him to what little ground there was still unoccupied by the newly dead, arms held as far away possible from the hilts of the remaining four swords, knees pinning long legs immobile on both sides.
“Get off,” said Masamune, stilling long enough to growl unseeingly up at his captor, the foreign words forced through teeth bared in a feral snarl. “Release me now you fucker.”
Kojuurou only tightened his grip and settled more firmly over the long, lean line of Masamune’s body. It appeared that his lord had picked up some new vocabulary from the sea-traders. Again. “You know I can’t do that, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou murmured. “Not yet.”
Not willing to chance letting go either hand, Kojuurou slid one knee over the metal plating guarding one outer thigh, down along the inner thigh and pressed it firmly against his groin.
His snarling captive stiffened, the barest glimmer of unwilling recognition flickering in his gaze. “Kojuu-What the hell are you doing?”
“You need release, Masamune-sama,” Kojuurou told him bluntly. “You’re in otherwise no condition to return to Oshu the way you are now.”
“Bullshit, Kojuurou. Now get off me before I-”
Kojuurou chose that particular moment to sit back and unceremoniously stick his hand down Masamune’s pants. He wasted no time curling sword-calloused fingers around the already half-hard length of Masamune's cock-another side-effect of his lord’s pent up excess of adrenaline, he suspected.
“You’d only endanger your people and yourself.” It had been a gamble to release one of the captive hands, but it soon became clear enough that he needn’t worry about anymore escapist attempts. In fact, getting free and ripping Kojuurou a new one seemed to be the last thing on his young lord's mind.
Masamune broke off with a small, injured gut-punched sound on that first stroke. His fingers, even the ones still held down, dug furrows into the bloodied dirt beneath, scrabbling for purchase. On the second stroke he screwed his good eye shut, throwing his head so far back that his hair brushed the ground even while his back bowed in an eloquent arch. By the third, fourth, and fifth, he was bucking his hips up in time with each downward stroke, settling more than readily into that familiar tempo more appropriate, perhaps, to the empty onsen at night, or behind the dojo’s closed doors.
Kojuurou smiled wryly, swallowed dryly when Masamune re-opened his eye to fix him with an unconvincingly exasperated look, the vestige traces of blood-lust finally replaced by its more tractable cousin in that slit-eyed gaze. Obeying the unspoken command, he shifted so that he was no longer kneeling over Masamune’s prostrate form and hauled him up, right hand never pausing in his ministrations of wringing out each laboured breath as if it were to be Masamune’s last.
Sprawled in his retainer’s lap, one arm half-slung over his back, Masamune panted into the visible skin of Kojuurou’s collar, unable to call up the necessary mental faculties to form a coherent sentence but still somehow quite capable of introducing his fist into the shoulder next to where his forehead pressed, hot and slick with sweat.
Kojuurou worked him hard, fast and messy. Hard tugs, long pulls and the occasional squeeze near the head of Masamune’s cock at the apex of each stroke, and before long Masamune came with a breathless cry, spilling into the vice-like enclosure of Kojuurou’s hand.
Yet it wasn’t until after Masamune slumped forward like a marionette cut of his strings, hand loosely fisted into the lapels of Kojuurou’s coat and fingers twitching against the cloth in time with the aftershocks, that Kojuurou relaxed (as best he could given the circumstances and his own burgeoning problem).
He looked up at the overcast sky. From up above the wheeling flock of crows descended, giving them a wide berth even as they alighted to their feast.
They needed to leave now. They needed to evacuate the scene. But if Kojuurou held the warm, pliant body pressing in degrees against his chest for one indulgent moment longer, there was no one around to call him out on it.
He’d brought his lord back down from up high. He would next bring his lord home.
___________________________________________________________
Fin
Completed: December 16, 2009
___________________________________________________________
'm thinking Day 6 will be a music download day? I have like 10 covers each of Walking in the Air and Carol of the Bells ready to be shared. =)