Disclaimer: I don't own Sengoku Basara or its characters.

A/N: Second in the Loved/Beloved series. You know where to find Loved!

Masamune's Engrish is in bold. Thoughts and stream of consciousness are in italics.

Prompt: Inside

Premise: One of them is going to die, and he knows it.


It's been a wonderful life, you bastard.

The sun beamed down on the paddy fields, raising the steam of sweating labour and warm onigiri, tracing the gleaming muscles of the workers as they toiled over the green stalks. Their ruler stood unheeded on a slow-rising hill, feeling the wind crease against the fine wrinkles of his skin as he surveyed his lands. Far below, at the bottom of the slope, he could make out the vague forms of a young man and woman, the former attempting to foist a clumsy bouquet of flowers on the latter.

My eyesight's going...I can barely see what those young idiots are getting up to.

He could almost hear the frown in his rival's voice, disapproval echoing through the words.

I suppose you'd like to tell me I'm being a fool. That this is how most men court their beloveds...

"Fair enough," he mumbled aloud, eyeing the couple's progress with a doubtful blue-grey eye. "But I'd do it differently."

And now, I suppose you want to tell me that jumping your bones wasn't romantic at all.

A slow smirk stretched the leathery lines of his face. His back straightened under the memories of lust.

Don't glare. You were a passionate one. Louder than any woman I had...before you...

He suppressed the guilt of the two women he had had, after, telling himself it had not been infidelity. The first, curvacious and sassy, taken in a frenzy of desire and desperation. The second, gentle and comforting, taken because he was simply desperate.

They writhed, did you know? Moaned and screamed their heads off...I only had them once, but I was a good lover, eh!

Privately, he muttered, "Suck on that." And hoped wildly that the sudden chill in the breeze raking in from the north was the result of jealousy, and not the portent of a cold autumn.

The sane part of him insisted on a weather change.

The obsessed, foolish part – by far the larger – gleefully latched onto the jealousy theory and decided to stick a bit of wasabi in the sores.

Nice bodies on them. Soft. Kinda huggable. Easy to hold, too...I think I prefer it, after all. You know me, I'm a lazy old man. All those planes and slippery-smooth muscles of yours were just too much work.

He twitched as the wind rose in a wail and brushed a snowy lock of hair out of his eye. "Damn it. Better go down...looks like a thunderstorm tonight." With some difficulty, he negotiated his joints on the steady mount he had brought with him, and trotted back down to the castle that was his base.

Not that I'm going to get any sleep. All thanks to you, you rotten piece of filth.

Because it had been a musky, volatile summer's day like this, forty years ago, that he had lost his body – and his soul – to a heartless, mayfly beauty.


"Masamune-dono?"

The tentative whisper echoed through the courtyard, skimming over the quiet fish in the pond, going about their business as though red-clad enemy generals were a tediously common sight in the middle of the night.

The man who was feeding them felt otherwise. He felt so strongly otherwise, in fact, that he pointed a sword at the intruder before he bothered to ask what Sanada Yukimura was doing, sneaking into his home out of the blue.

Yukimura flashed a rather hurt look at his disgruntled rival, ignoring the man's weapon in favour of scowling at the ground. "I'm not here to assassinate you, Masamune-dono."

Masamune pretended that he wasn't completely confuzzled. Even he knew that the Takega general was incapable of such a deed...but it would have been a comfort, because he had no other answers.

"Then what're you here for, Red?"

The boy's mouth opened to make an eager declaration, then closed with a snap before it could escape. Soft brown eyes peered about the courtyard, and if Masamune hadn't seen Yukimura's hands clenched into tight fists at his side, he would have sworn that the young tiger was in a nervous fidget.

Bemusement brushed aside in favour of the abnormally clingy affection he felt surging inside him whenever the fluffy-haired samurai was around, Masamune wrapped his hands around Yukimura's fists, stroking the tense digits till they relaxed and wrapped around his own.

"What's up, Sanada Yukimura? You in trouble?"

His companion shook his head, lips clamped together.

"Red?" Unbeknownst to Masamune, his voice had softened, the rough accents smoothing to a low caress.

Instantly, with his characteristic straightforwardness, Yukimura responded.

"I have come to declare my affection for you, Masamune-dono! If you will accept this humble Yukimura, I shall offer you my heart...on...a platt...er..." he trailed off, suddenly uneasy at the stiffening of the Dokuganryu's stance. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he ignored the looming ache in his chest and finished his little speech - "I shall understand, if you wish to never lay eyes on my again. But I felt that I would be doing myself – us – a disservice if I did not request this one night of you."

"Huh?"

An uncomfortable blush dusted the boy's cheeks and he leaned closer. In a significantly lower voice, he elaborated, "I've been taking lessons from Sasuke, Masamune-dono. I shall not be clumsy. One night...I beg you?"

Before Masamune could register the request that was being made of him, let alone make up his mind on what he was going to do with it, Yukimura closed the inches between them and pressed bold, quivering lips on his.

And then, of course, there could be no thought.

Just the push and pull of bodies designed for battle, as they grew accustomed to pleasure.

Just the slide and nip of teeth, as they tasted and savoured.

Just the tickle and stroke of calloused hands, as they wandered in wanton curiosity.

Just the puffing of strained breaths, as they mingled in heavy gasps and muffled groans.

Just fingertips on skin and tongues on pebbling nipples and hard arousals grinding in a frenzy of want.

Just soft and slow, eager and shy, wanting and wanted, quick and wild, hungry and aching.

Just, for one night, the giving of pleasure and gentle kisses to battle-hardened souls.

They spent the dawn curled under the light blankets on Masamune's futon, little touches and petulant nibbling punctuating what neither could express out loud.

Then the dawn was over, and Sanada Yukimura slipped away with a bashful grin and a piercing lack of promises.

It was not until three uncomfortable weeks later that Masamune discovered where his future had gone – to a battle that Kai could never win, a battle of honour and not conquest.

He did not return.


The storm was falling silent, parting way for the first rays of sunlight. The old man wriggled out of his bedding, reaching the doorway in time to catch them, letting the residual breeze dry the cold sweat of a night spent shuddering in remembrance.

He didn't dwell on it, beyond the need for a bath. After all, it was how he spent nearly every summer night, these days.

It's senility. I've grown old, after all. So don't get smug...it's senility, you fat bastard!

He could feel the absurdity of his choice of adjectives. He knew he wasn't the only one – his rival would have found the idea hilarious, too.

But you were young, back then. Right now you'd be like me. Back bent and knobby-kneed and crotchety. Only fatter. Much fatter. All that dango had to go SOMEWHERE.

His retainer was emerging from his own room, waving a stack of scrolls at him – a reminder of the trade treaties that required negotiation. Nodding in compliance, the man turned away from the sun, from it's early red heat, and shuffled into his morning ablutions.

Bet you'll be a fatso. I'll get up there – can't be long now, going by the state of my health – and first thing I'll see is a big, fat, naked belly. Trying to look hotshot in a red leather jacket.

Against his will, he snorted at the mental image accompanying that thought.

Against his will, a tear crept down his weathered, sunken cheek, turning the snort into a choked sob.

You'd better be there. When I get up there – and it won't be long – you'd better be there, waving your pork roast belly in my face, you damned bastard.

He left it there, glimmering on his skin, drying in the sunshine as he crossed over to the main hall in search of breakfast.

Be there.


Red leather flaps in the breeze, moulding itself to a lithe, youthful body. Brown eyes crinkle in wretched amusement, impatience dancing at the edges of their owner's mouth.

"I'll be here, Masamune-dono."

He flicks a pebble into the stream he lounges by, a motion completed a million times before, bored and apathetic. He thinks of the old voice that croaks and grumbles at him from below, tuning it out when it gets too repetitive. The decades have taken their toll, he thinks, and decides that the one he is waiting for would enjoy being young again.

He is proud of the life he has been following from above, fiercely proud of its progress.

Yet he wishes it would end. These days, he thinks that it's high time it ended.

His ears, buzzing with forty years of griping directed at him, still manage to catch an odd snippet, mingled with a pitiful plea.

He scowls derisively, but he can't let the insult go.

"I am not fat, Masamune-dono."

After a moment, he adds – softly, desperately - "Hurry up."


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