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

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

Prompt: Outside

Premise: Masamune takes his pleasure where he chooses. Yukimura is desperately in love with the one-eyed dragon. What is the price for a dream fulfilled? What is the consequence of a rival despoiled?.

Warnings: Graphic violence and possible triggers.

Also, I recommend that you read this while listening to: www. youtube watch?v=MMZ98XHyKYg (remove the spaces) Or don't, but this is the song that you can blame for this...thing I call a story, anyway.


"You should be ashamed of yourself – you know that, don't you?"

Masamune narrows his eye in irritation and slides the door shut with enough force to crack the screen in half. Outside, Yukimura feels the rain slide under the collar of his leather jacket – five centuries have not managed to change his sartorial preferences – and wonders why he is here.


Yukimura is not his name, of course. He wishes he was that lucky. He is Yukimura only to Masamune, and to the world he is something he does not care to be. He tries his best to be dutiful and loving. Mostly, he succeeds, for he has never failed except at the things that mattered most. Now there he has failed spectacularly, and he even feels halfway proud of it until he thinks of Masamune.

And then he just wants to die.

Because he will leave his room, cross the city to where Masamune spends his days tucked away in a quietly expensive apartment, and he will turn into the world's most honest, most earnest stalker. He will dog Masamune's steps till the one-eyed man radiates violence. A part of him wants it, wants the heavy pressure of Masamune's fists pummelling his face and body.

The other part of him waits in the rain, like every other time, for Masamune to emerge. Yukimura – that is how he prefers to think of himself – knows that he will while the hours away with a little guessing game he has invented. Rose perfume, or lilies? Jasmine, or something sharper and spicier and not floral at all? Pure musk, or the heavy sweet-sourness of fruits?

It is his only way of knowing which of the women that reside in the discreet white building has been touching Masamune. Their faces and names have been committed to his memory; when he moans in his bed at night, he is dreaming of their hot, dark blood gushing over his hands, pouring between his lips as payment for taking what has always been rightfully his.

One of these days, Yukimura promises himself, he will snap. It will be spectacular, he thinks, and sketches Masamune's expression with pleasure. The one-eyed man, his one-eyed man...what will go through his head? Yukimura does not know, but he is willing to find out.

The doors open, and Masamune stalks out. He seems frustrated, and makes straight for the lamppost where Yukimura leans straight and slim. His face is twisted in anger, but Yukimura is pleased that Masamune has acknowledged his presence so blatantly. He feels a curiously fierce rush of joy, but then there is a blue eye and warm breath about two inches from his face and he simply forgets to function.

"Go. Away." Masamune speaks in a low voice, trying to not create a scene in public.

"You cannot perform with the knowledge that I stand here, waiting for you to come to your senses?" Yukimura asks. Though his manner is as studiously polite as in the old days, he cannot mask the possessiveness that comes with the freedom of this modern era. He does have to keep reminding himself that he can, though. It's still not quite natural for him to be so demanding.

Ah well, he reasons, a man has limits. Masamune is quite adept at crossing every last one of his. Yukimura decides that much as he adores his once-rival, he simply will not take such abuse. Hence, before Masamune can say something derogatory or worse, he adds, "You owe me, Masamune-dono."

It is an honorific that Masamune has not heard in five hundred years. Of course, he has spent a good four hundred and eighty-something of them in a state of non-existence, but it still counts. Open shock replaces the rage in his eye, dogged by a pain that lashes Yukimura to the core.

Ah, how could I have forgotten, he thinks, the last time I saw Masamune suffering like this? Back then...

But he comes up blank. It is a part of his memories that has never returned to him; he remembers every last detail of his previous life as a feudal samurai, save this. He is now nineteen years old, about the same age as he had been when he had seen Masamune's face this haggard, but he cannot, for the life of him, recall why. He assures himself it is of no consequence. After all, they had both died young – that much Yukimura does remember – and perhaps Masamune was simply feeling sentimental about their lost love back then. Such melancholy over trivial matters fitted the Dokuganryu to a T. Masamune would have seen the loss of their natural lifespans as defeat, and he was a man who took everything with a confident smile – except defeat.

A defeated Masamune was a hellish Masamune to deal with, as Yukimura knew quite well. How many times had his rival thrown him against the ground and practically snatched affection from him, without heed for location or timing, just because he needed comforting over some trivial issue that he had had to cede?

Yukimura had never been able to keep count after the first forty, but he still remembered every touch, every hard kiss, every stroke of Masamune's penis inside him, every brush of Masamune's tongue and teeth against his own member, and each aftermath – their bodies sweaty and tired, their arms around each other in a close embrace. Masamune had always been a hard lover, yet a tenderly possessive love. To come to Yukimura for consolation and reassurance after any defeat had been his natural routine in those days.

That was why Yukimura could not fathom the reason this Masamune did not react in the same way to what he must have undoubtedly seen as the greatest loss of his life. His lives, in fact, because Masamune was like him, not the sort to distinguish between past and present as long as the players were the same. But perhaps the burden of this defeat was too much...? Yukimura doesn't know for certain, but he can see that he has toppled his rival's equilibrium completely and waits patiently for an answer.

From the closeness of Masamune's body, he hopes it will be a kiss. Their kiss.

For a moment, Masamune's lips are almost upon him, and he closes his eyes. Anticipation is written plainly on his face, but there is no more than a fleeting ghost across his lips. He opens his eyes, confused. Masamune is walking away from him with cruel purpose. He is returning to the brothel, and before the door shuts him off from sight, Yukimura catches a glimpse of him pulling a voluptuous peroxide blonde towards him, his palms skimming across her body.

He goes numb, and decides that it is high time he snapped.


Late that night, Yukimura leaves a gift on Masamune's doorstep. It is hair, a rough mass of bleached blonde hair, neatly wreathing a pair of lusciously curved, pink-nippled breasts. Yukimura has arranged the whole with his customary attention to ornamental detail and wrapped it in tasteful blue velvet. He rings the doorbell and leaves.

It is not yet time for him to see Masamune's face; that is a pleasure he will deny himself if the one-eyed man gets the point. He knows that Masamune will find him – he always does.


A week passes in a haze of sleepless vigil. Yukimura's apartment remains empty of sex and purpose; Masamune has not called.

Very well, he decides, he shall simply have to go back to the beginning. He returns to Masamune's place, hoping to try and speak with him as he had first done when the weight of his memories had exploded and he had known that his lover, his soul was alive in this era. He had gone with hope and a smile, bursting with energy – and that I where he stops trying to think of the ensuing confrontation. What he had hoped would be a tearful reunion had in reality been a cold slamming of the door in his face, and an order to leave.

If it had not been for the gleam of horrified recognition, of longing and desire, in Masamune's eye at their first glimpse of each other's reborn selves, Yukimura would have thought that this Masamune remembered nothing of the past. Some days, he thinks that he would prefer that to this, because Masamune's deliberate depersonalisation of Yukimura is turning him into a monster.

Much later, after Masamune has ignored the doorbell and made a point of letting Yukimura follow him to the brothel again, Yukimura is cleaning tissue and ligaments from his fingernails, and wondering how to get the stain of crushed eyeballs our of his tablecloth – he had decided that the girl's eyes were far too dull and ordinary to be presented to Masamune – before he puts the finishing touches on his newly prepared gift. As he watches the girl's bones and leftover organs slowly charring in the fireplace, he decides that he already has become something unnameable.

He does not care, however, if it helps him win his lover back.


Yukimura is unsure of the direction of his feelings. His second gift seems to have made an impact – Masamune has not left his home in two weeks. Even his groceries have been home delivered. And yet, Yukimura is dissatisfied. He has doused himself in blood as promised, but he feels alien and unfulfilled. An uneasy part of him wonders if it has been the right course of action to take. He had wanted to stop Masamune from going to those women, and he has. But the intention was never to turn Masamune into a housebound recluse.

It is almost as if Masamune has grown afraid of Yukimura. The sienna-eyed young man enjoys a quiet laugh at the very idea. His Masamune! Afraid! He thinks it unlikely.

And yet...he eyes eyes the door uncertainly. Masamune is within; he can hear the sounds of someone shuffling inside, the thump of boots walking towards the door. Yukimura feels relieved. He has been waiting for hours, debating the wisdom of ringing the bell and entering the normal way – or not entering, because a part of him is firmly convinced that Masamune needs further persuasion, but Yukimura is tired of coming p with creative ways to put a woman on a platter – or breaking and ambushing his other half that way.

The boots approach the door; he has been saved from making the decision. He can feel his hopes rising in wild flight. Perhaps Masamune has finally decided to see him, has prepared his speeches and declarations of love eternal? The door opens, and they are together once again, face to face. Masamune is gaunt and stunned; Yukimura is so delighted at the absence of rancour in Masamune to notice anything else.

"I do not need speeches, you know!" he announces cheerfully, with his ancient enthusiasm. "All I wish, Masamune-dono, is for to treat me the way you used to." He finds, to his amazement, that he has to fight off a blush at this point, but he soldiers on bravely. "You just have to take...me..."

Yukimura trails off, not in shyness but in horror, because Masamune is retreating within his apartment, his face a blank mask of nothing. Before the door can shut fully, Yukimura lunges forward and forces his way in. Something in swirling inside his belly, something black and unhappy.

"No," he says, shocking himself with the force of the command. He has never commanded Masamune to do anything.

Masamune gives him a short, frozen look, and simply turns away, going further into his home. His shoulders are stooped, his hair greasy and unkempt. For the first time, Yukimura sees the condition the one-eyed man is in.

"Masamune-dono?" his voice comes out in a terrified whisper, he darts from behind to enclose Masamune in his arms. He can feel the other man's ribs, his thin flesh and weakness and grows more scared than ever. "What has happened?' he asks, panicking. "Masamune-dono...why are you doing this? Why don't you come to me...why have you kept running away from me, Masamune-dono?"

Masamune shudders.

"Is it the women? That was just...I wanted you to stop, Masamune-dono! It won't happen again!" Yukimura is aware that it is a futile line of questioning, though. Masamune has been closed to him from the very beginning of their existence in this era. The thing in his belly churns again, stronger. He makes an attempt to identify it. Is this despair? He buries his face in Masamune's shoulder, his tongue darts out to press a hot, needy kiss on the skin there.

Masamune goes stiff, and then shudders. This time, Yukimura has no difficulty recognising the body language.

Rejection.

Total rejection.

Something worse.

Dimly, he thinks to himself, I have been waiting for this, and does, in fact, snap.


What happens next is deliberate. Yukimura remains, even in the frenzy of his rage – that is what has been unsettling his gut all this time – focused on the task before him. It does not take him long to overpower Masamune and tie him to the bed, spreadeagled. He even takes the time to neatly fold his once-lover's clothes and set them on a chair. Masamune struggles weakly, and it only drives Yukimura's fury higher, because he knows that the one-eyed man is accepting this atrocity.

There is pain in Masamune, pain on his lips and his penis and his anus, and then within him, because Yukimura is ruthless. He uses no tools save himself to tear Masamune outside and in. Yukimura chews his lips, scratches deep ruts down his torso and back till strips of flesh are hanging off Masamune. There are pieces of skin stuck under Yukimura's fingernails but he disregards the filth because he is not going to bother with preparing Masamune for entry.

Still, Masamune does not scream. He moans, too weak and aching and tired to react with more energy. The sound is wonderfully alluring to Yukimura's ears, even if it clashes with Masamune's body, lying quiet and passive when Yukimura's penis rips through his anus, slamming inside him with merciless, brutal desire. He achieves orgasm at last, grunting and straining, lifting Masamune's hips off the bed to see the slimy mixture of blood and semen and feces that spills out.

He dares to see Masamune's face. The one-eyed man looks almost peaceful; once again, Yukimura is struck by his attitude to the entire ordeal. With deliberate malice, he scoops up some of the mess that is still dribbling out of Masamune and wipes it across the other's lips, forcing it into his mouth. Masamune retches and vomits reflexively and Yukimura has to then untie him and hold him up so that he doesn't choke on the bile.

He feels a tiny bit better now.

Finally, Masamune looks at his face, meets his eyes carefully. Yukimura is expecting hatred, fright, shock, revulsion, a whole gamut of things of that nature. What he finds has him scuttling back from the bed and the man in it, his edges cracking and melding in a guttural series of cries that he cannot make sense of.

Masamune gets up slowly, almost crawling towards Yukimura, who trapped between the bed and the wall. He reaches the wild-eyed man, cupping his face tenderly, whispering.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Red. Sorry, I'm sorry. Red, believe me, won't you? I am so sorry. Sorry..."

Yukimura cannot hear it anymore, because he has already heard it. The pain in Masamune's eyes has never changed and he finally knows why. The memory is faint and blurry in parts but he sees now, their last day together, their last fight together, overlaid with Masamune's hurting eye and crying face and desperate apologies. Yukimura wishes he would stop, because seeing Masamune like this is worse pain than the metal of the sword that has sliced his belly open. He tries to tell Masamune that it does not matter, that there is always rebirth and new lives and even if there isn't, he forgives him.

He doesn't really, but he says it with all his heart because he knows that Masamune will destroy himself with guilt otherwise, and he hopes it will work.

It seems as if it did not, a dry voice in his head speaks. A part of Yukimura now is glad about what he has just done to Masamune and thinks of it as revenge. Not for accidentally gutting him five hundred years ago, but for never giving Yukimura the chance to remember and forgive and rediscover their love in this new lifetime. Masamune has chosen guilt at Yukimura's death over Yukimura himself, and the once-samurai cannot stand to think that his memory has been of more significance to this man than his living flesh and feelings.

He pushes Masamune away, forces him outside to the balcony and the fresh air.

"..sorry, I'm sorry, Red. So sorry..."

Yukimura is done with the guilt and the apologies. He is done with Masamune, but he decides that he would like to give him a farewell gift.

"Masamune-dono."

"Red...I..."

"If I forgive you, Masamune-dono, will you stop? Will you live?" Yukimura's eyes are burning with tears and repugnance over it all, over what Masamune is and what he has been forced to become because of Masamune, but he has to say it.

"Yes," whispers Masamune, reaching for Yukimura.

At last, Yukimura thinks, even if neither of them has the right to this anymore. He reaches out, brushes Masamune's mangled, filthy mouth with his fingers. It is cool and peaceful outside. From the garden thirteen floors below them the scent of night flowers drifts up like a fleeing glimpse of another life. Yukimura takes it all in with a smile.

Then he jumps.


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