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Mitsuhide's Desire

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The night air was warm and heavy against his skin, and he shifted restlessly, pushing the bedclothes aside. Nobunaga had insisted on the most extravagant European furniture for his generals' rooms, and so Mitsuhide found himself trying to sleep on a ridiculously ornate four poster bed. Swathes of velvet, meant to insulate against a bitter northern climate, hung around the bed faintly swaying in the breeze. He had left the windows wide open, hoping to cool the room enough that he could sleep, but the air that wafted in was as humid as the chamber itself, and each gentle flurry stroked over his limbs like a warm hand.

Attempting to sleep was hopeless in any case, he knew that much. The events of the evening had already played out again and again in his mind for the hour that he had spent in the bed so far, and he knew himself well enough to realise that those thoughts would be torturing him well into the dawn.

Like so many times before, Mitsuhide had spent most of the evening staring intently at the table in front of him, determined not to let his eyes wander. It had been late, but not late enough to excuse himself without seeming rude, and so he suffered determinedly in silence as the noise of the festivities echoed around him. The hall had been filled as usual with the sound of officers drinking and laughing, arguing and flirting, and surmounting it all, there were the insistent groans and murmurs coming from the head of the table.

He had tried to clear his head, to distract himself with thoughts of the upcoming battle, but it was a futile struggle. Everything led Mitsuhide back to the one thing he didn't want to think about. More frustrated at his own lack of control than at the debauchery around him, he had drained the last of the sake from his cup, and set it down on the table with a sigh that emerged somewhat louder than he intended.

"Are you feeling unwell, Mitsuhide?"

There was something in Nobunaga's tone that had quietened the revellers around him, and soon all eyes were on Mitsuhide. Even the young soldier draped across Nobunaga's lap had looked up at him, his lips still wet and parted, his hand still resting half-inside the folds of the lord's robes.

Mitsuhide's cheeks had burned fiercely with embarrassment, but he had forced himself to meet Nobunaga's gaze as he spoke. "No, my lord, not at all."

"Perhaps you're tired." Nobunaga had kept his eyes locked on Mitsuhide, even as he guided the young soldier's head back down to continue his ministrations. "You should go and rest, Mitsuhide. You'll need your strength in the next few weeks."

"Yes, my lord." He had nodded, grateful for any reason to tear his eyes from the two of them, and made his way as calmly as he could out of the hall. The sounds of the revels had haunted him through the corridors, as he hurried back to his room.

And now here he was, troubled and sleepless, once again. Mitsuhide questioned himself, as he so often did; why was he here, serving a man whose methods caused him so much disquiet? Why did his admiration for Nobunaga only grow, with each ruthless stratagem, each massacre of a battle? What did it say about him, that could he harbour so much lust for a man capable of such brutality?

His cheeks blazed with shame, even alone in his bed, at the ease with which the thought of Nobunaga stirred up his passions. He slid one palm down to stroke at himself lightly, desperate for some kind of relief. At times, he had gone for weeks without touching himself, hoping that ignoring those desires would allow them to wither and fade, but they had only grown more insistent. Now he surrendered to the urge almost as soon as it appeared, telling himself that he was only being pragmatic by getting the deed over with as quickly as possible.

He could justify the hand wrapped around his length, slowly but firmly stroking it, but the hand he slipped down between his thighs was harder to rationalise. Mitsuhide drew his legs up, shifting his hips to give better access, and stroked his fingertips across the cleft of his rear. He was so sensitive there, it took every bit of his self-restraint not to moan out loud as he slipped the tip of one finger inside.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he let his imagination run loose. He pictured his lord in battle, blade flashing and eyes fierce, flecks of blood sprayed across his armour. The cold smile as he drove his sword into yet another hapless enemy; the satisfaction in his eyes as he stood surrounded by the bodies of the fallen; Mitsuhide pictured himself the object of that cruelty, captive and utterly subjugated. Moving his hands faster, stroking and fingering himself desperately, he breathed out his lord's name in a soft, half-moaned whisper.

A deep chuckle interrupted his reverie.

Mitsuhide's eyes flew open, and his muscles froze.

He had no time to react; a hand gripped his throat, pinning him down to the bed, and another pushed Mitsuhide's own hand aside and took hold of him. He arched his back, unable to control his body's response, and looked up into those dark eyes. He wanted to cry out, to run and hide in shame, but his voice had deserted him and his body did nothing but yield to Nobunaga's touch. Kneeling on the bed, his dark silk robe billowing in the night breeze, he seemed like an apparition, a vision conjured up to torment Mitsuhide.

The hand around his throat tightened, and sharp nails pressed into his flesh. Mitsuhide could feel his pulse throbbing under Nobunaga's grip, his breath becoming shallow, his mouth dry. The hand stroking him tightened too, increasing its pace, and Mitsuhide bit his lip, stifling a groan. That same cruel laugh taunted him, and his cheeks blazed even as he bucked and pushed up into his lord's hand.

Then without warning he was flipped over onto his stomach, and the impact forced a strangled moan from him. Nobunaga's body pressed him down into the bed, the silk of his robe falling aside as he moved, his skin hot against Mitsuhide's bare flesh. Trembling, his heart racing, Mitsuhide found himself pushing up against his lord's body. His face burned with shame and desire as he arched his back against Nobunaga's chest and pushed back with his hips, offering himself up.

For a moment Nobunaga knelt up, keeping him pinned down with a single hand on his back; there was a brief slicking noise, and then he pressed back down onto Mitsuhide, nudging his legs apart firmly. All the fevered visions Mitsuhide had conjured up, alone in his bed, all the times he had touched himself with Nobunaga's name on his lips, nothing came close to the feeling of his lord pushing slowly, relentlessly into him. His fingers clawed at the bedclothes, his back arched, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he was steadily impaled.

It was as if he was falling into an abyss. The sensation of being taken, filled and stretched, subsumed everything else; there was nothing in his world except Nobunaga's touch, deep and merciless. He ached and burned as his lord moved inside him, shuddering with each thrust. Mitsuhide's tongue loosened a little more with each stroke, and his gasps became soft moans, whispered pleas and exclamations.

With a groan, Nobunaga seized hold of his hips and pulled him up onto his hands and knees, holding him in place as he moved. It was deeper, harder that way, and moans fell from Mitsuhide's lips almost constantly. His legs spread themselves wide, and he pressed his forehead to the bed, panting hard and gripping the twisted bedclothes in clenched fists.

"You belong to me, Mitsuhide." Nobunaga's voice was low and smooth, as if he wasn't exerting himself at all. "Body and soul."

Crying out, Mitsuhide reached one hand down to stroke himself as his lord pounded into him. It was true, there was no escaping that; he did belong to Nobunaga, and he had all along, from the moment he laid eyes on him. He might as well have been in chains.

Mitsuhide touched himself desperately, spreading his legs wide and arching his back. He was lost, and he knew it. Groans of pleasure, whimpers of pain as Nobunaga's nails raked across his back, he could hold none of it back now. He surrendered the whole of himself to his lord, writhing and moaning, crying out his name.

Those strong hands gripped his shoulders, yanking him upright suddenly and sweeping his hair aside to bare his neck. Mitsuhide acquiesced immediately, tipping his head back, and shuddered at the touch of Nobunaga's lips. His hand worked faster, stroking and squeezing himself frantically, and he flung himself back to meet each stroke of his lord's hips. Tightening his grip on his shoulders, Nobunaga sank his teeth into the soft flesh of Mitsuhide's throat, groaning against his skin. The pain was exquisite, and Mitsuhide cried out in shock as the sharp sting of the bite pushed him headlong into his climax. He shrieked and wailed, convulsing and thrashing under Nobunaga's touch as each wave of pleasure overcame him.


...


His opponent was completely outclassed; Mitsuhide knocked the sword from his hand easily, and advanced on him. Even amid all the noise of the battlefield, Mitsuhide could clearly hear the soldier's whimper of terror. He ran the peon through without hesitation, paused to shake the blood from his blade, and turned to face his lord. The same cold smile as always played on Nobunaga's lips as he pulled his sword from the fallen soldier before him. Their eyes met, and Mitsuhide felt a twinge of pain; running his fingers lightly over the bruise on his throat, he stood transfixed for a moment, his heart thumping hard and loud in his chest. Then the sound of the war-drum brought him back to his senses, and he pressed onward, cutting down whoever stood in the way of his lord.