Masamune and There's only one room? ❤❤❤
This has the exact same premise as Mitsuhide’s, but it’s semi-NSFW so please be warned!
“Count on Lord Nobunaga’s lucky charm to bestow upon us this stroke of fortune!” Masamune dramatically announces as he all but throws his bundle of goods to the floor of your shared room. You gasp, shout-whispering his name—it’s late, and you really don’t want to alert the whole inn that Date Masamune, the One-Eyed Dragon, happens to be staying the night.
“Didn’t you keep your writing tools in there, you moron?” You scold him as you scramble towards his luggage to check. “What if your bottle of ink spills? I thought you value calligraphy.”
He laughs, and you feel your irritation quickly simmering down into something quite trivial and mild. He has that power over you. You examine his belongings anyway. He tackles you into a hug from behind, looking over your shoulder. It doesn’t look like a pack of items that just got flung onto a hard floor.
“See?” He pecks your temple. “Lucky charm indeed.”
“For the last time, I’m not a lucky charm,” you pout, literal war flashbacks of you being dragged into battle on top of Nobunaga’s horse replaying in your mind. “Also, if I really did bring luck, we wouldn’t be stuck in a weather like this.”
Masamune spares a glance out the sliding doors leading to the balcony: the low thunderous rumbles from earlier has gradually evolved into heavier rain and lightning. Whatever journey anyone’s going on has to be postponed for later, lest they want to be left drenched and unable to see five feet in front of them, or worse, struck by thunder.
“Storm,” he murmurs, almost melancholy. But he turns to you with that boyish smirk that gets your stomach double-flipping. “At least I’m stuck with you.”
“Of course you’re happy about that.” You retort, still keeping up a snarky facade like you’re not secretly happy about it too. Except…
“What?” He asks as he gets up to move to the futon, beckoning you with his arms to do the same.
“The guests we saw downstairs? The ones checking in before us?”
“What about ‘em?” His eye sparkles. You know he knows. He just wants to hear you say it. You hesitate—should you even entertain his thought, even though it’s something you legitimately want to discuss?
Finally you let it slip, but not without sounding a bit hesitant. “They look… seedy,” you say, situating yourself in his arms. Masamune holds you reassuringly, a contradictory teasing look on his face. How can a man feel safe and dangerous at the same time?
“Yep,” he replies, confirming your thoughts. You bury your face in your hands as he once again laughs at your dismay.
“I knew it! This place is a love hotel!” His laughter dies down with a pleased sigh.
“I was going to ask what a hotel is, but I think I get it now. Not your fault, Kitten,” he runs his fingers through your hair in hopes to calm you down, “it’s not as if we have a choice—the first two places we passed by were full.”
That seems to restore a little bit of your cool, Masamune thinks as he continues stroking your hair.
“And it’s not as if we haven’t shared a room together, right?”
You nod, meek and embarrassed at your sudden outburst, even though he evidently thinks it’s cute, if the increasingly intimate touches aren’t enough clues.
“It’s not really the sharing aspect that I’m worried about,” you mutter. He raises a conspiratorial brow, before ducking down to press his lips against your ear.
“What are you talking about? It’s not as if we haven’t done it either.”
At that, your face explodes into a bloom of red, one that reminds him of a boiled tomato. He snickers, more out of endearment than mockery, and he nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and nibbling your skin liberally. You sigh, defeated, but also because you’re enjoying the treatment. You’re suddenly reminded of where you are and grip his shoulders, a sign for him to stop.
“We’re not doing it on a dirty futon.”
He smirks, and you can tell the words that are inevitably going to come out of his mouth—something teasing, like, “oh? I didn’t say I wanted to.” But thankfully he holds back, patting the fluffy bedding instead.
A loud moan from the room next to yours make you jump out of surprise, and it doesn’t look like the red on your face is fading any time soon. As for Masamune, it doesn’t look like the sound bothers him at all. Instead, he hugs you again, gathering you in his chest and staring on amusedly as you bury your face in his kimono, hand over your ears. There are muffled noises from next door and you dare not think of what takes place.
“Impossible for us to sleep like this,” he says, voice rumbling in his ribcage the way thunder does within clouds. “Must be a hell of a romp if you can hear the woman from above the rain like this.”
“I’d rather go on without any commentaries of other couples’ sexual activity, Masa,” you reply, face still against his chest. He strokes your nape the way one would a scared kitten. Then he leans down, kissing your earlobe.
“Not my thing, either,” comes his velvety answer, as his ministrations slowly feel more… encouraging. You wriggle within his grasp while his hands wander, fingers toying with every crevice and curve from above your clothing. His movements are far slower than usual—purposeful, strategic, building up a familiar warmth beneath your gut. You hear the sounds again from next door and somehow it feels less embarrassing.
“Are you turned on?” He asks right into your ear. You feel the tension of the obi around your waist loosening. His hand dances on your back, drawing a deliberate line from your nape to your tailbone. You bite your lip. He sees and decides that he’s got his answer. The fabric of your kimono shifts, leaving your collarbone and shoulders exposed, resting precariously on your chest.
“You know I can make you scream louder than that,” he whispers, teeth scraping the shell of your ear. “I bet you’d love it, too.”
“What makes you so sure?” He stiffens at the change of your tone, one that he knows oh-so-well. He feels your hand slipping into the fold of his kimono onto his naked chest, palm pressed flat against his heart. Your voice is soft in comparison, and he finds it proud, yet full of promise.
“I conclude from the countless amount of times I’ve had you,” his retaliation is a low, guttural growl that makes you shiver, melting against him even more as his hands continue to grasp your behind, “I’m sure I haven’t forgotten how to do it.”
You tilt your head up, lips dangerously close to his. He can taste it—your breath, your tongue, but every time he moves closer, you turn just the slightest, enough to evade him. He can see the beginnings of a smile on your lips, parted just the right amount as they are. God, he wants to kiss you.
“If I recall correctly,” you begin, lashes fluttering as you press light, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, “the last time we slept together, I had you moaning something along the lines of please put it in?”
Oh, he recalls, your relentless, almost vengeful temptations. If he hadn’t said it, he’s sure you’re not merciful enough to give it to him. Your mouth was hot and wet and perfect, yes, he recalls, so much that he couldn’t resist asking you for it.
“Not as loudly as you begged for me to fuck you.”
At this point, whatever noises outside—the neighboring guests’ obvious sexual conquests and the unrelenting storm—are no longer your concern, only adding to the sweet, heavy air in your shared room as Masamune tugs your kimono down, leaving you bare.
“Is this a competition?” you ask, voice husky and eager. He can just feel his blood rushing south.
“Only if you want it to be,” he answers hurriedly and kisses you.
