gyen_gaoltosing (gyen_gaoltosing) wrote in samurai_7,
gyen_gaoltosing
gyen_gaoltosing
samurai_7

Plaything

Plaything

Pairing: Hyogo/Kirara; reference to Hyogo/Bogan; reference to Hyogo/unnamed lover
I borrowed the name Bogan from NarcissisticRiceBall on fanfiction.net. She derived the archer's name from "Bowgun Man", which I thought was brilliant.

Summary: When Hyogo is insulted by Kirara, he uses her own desire against her.

Rating: **NC-17** / **NSFW**
for adult themes, profanity, and graphic depiction of a sexual act

It's het, and it's AU (Kirara has just recently joined Ukyo's harem of her own free will).

One thing I want to say is that I was more than a little influenced by jun_i's version of Hyogo in her fic Anatomy of an Affair (which, not shockingly, is one of my favorite fics!) while writing this. I feel it important to note the similarities there, since my Hyogo generally has a different feel from her version.


Plaything

Just as he rounds the corner, Hyogo spies the special access elevator, the silver box a stark punctuation at the end of the hall, reflecting the busy décor of bright yellow tapestries and spring flower arrangements. He quickens his pace to catch the elevator as the doors slide open and the handful of people waiting begins to board. As the last person to enter, he slips into the front right corner, near the control panel. In an absentminded motion, he reaches for the button of the uppermost level of the palace, where his personal quarters are located, but he drops his hand when he sees it's one in the constellation of buttons already lit.

The elevator begins its ascent and Hyogo closes his eyes, allowing himself to connect to the weariness that has been intensifying within him throughout the day. Following the arrival of magistrates from three other cities in the dark hours of that morning, he has been on the move with Ayamaro all day, sitting in on a series of tense meetings where the details of a trade agreement were settled (he isn't convinced of the settled part, though, given how heated some of the arguments were today). At that moment, Ayamaro and the visiting magistrates are heading to downtown Kougakyo for a private dinner and a play afterward. Kyuuzou agreed to take the late night shift at Ayamaro's side, leaving Hyogo to do as he will for the night, and for that favor, Hyogo's gratitude is unending.

He knows he should use this time for something relaxing and restful, and mulls over his options. Bogan, a close friend, is probably already at one of their favorite clubs by now; he could meet up with the assassin, enjoy a few drinks and a good orgasm or two. He could also indulge in a hot bath there at the palace and just go to bed straight away. He's not sure which sounds better. He must be getting old, he muses to himself with the hint of a smile. Ten years ago, sleep was hardly a priority.

Hyogo feels eyes on him, some quiet examination of his person taking place, leaving him curious as to why. He looked everyone over just before getting on, and he doesn't remember noting anyone of interest, but it had been a cursory inventory, so he uses the metal walls of the elevator to peruse the faces of the passengers once more.

Mai and Toshi, two of Ayamaro's personal assistants standing on the edge of Hyogo's peripheral vision, have been arguing back and forth over (of all things) the management of Ayamaro's fashion budget. He's been aware of the two of them talking all this time, but only now finds himself listening. Conversations in the special access elevator can yield the juiciest tidbits of information or the most inane gossip, the tight space providing an intimate, confidential arena for anything that might be perceived as either remotely or wholly disrespectful.

“You're crazy if you think you can get that price for silk,” Mai squawks. “Good silk?”

Toshi throws up his hands. “Why does it always have to imported from so far away, though? That's all I'm saying. The cost of transport alone can be ridiculous.”

The elevator stops, and Ayamaro's assistants part to let through a tall palace guard standing at the back, and continue their discussion without missing a beat. Hyogo, however, has ceased to care (his attention began to wander somewhere around silk, or quite possibly at his realization of oh, it's Mai and Toshi). He's not even that enchanted by the very fine ass of the palace guard, at which he gets a long, delicious look, encased in that tight white uniform, before the elevator doors close again (he notes to himself, though, that he should definitely pursue a closer inspection of those goods in the near future).

No, no. What he's wondering about is this newest concubine of Ukyo's, the silent slip of a thing against the opposite wall of the elevator, the reflection of her red, blue, and white kimono the only real indicator of her presence. Perhaps she thinks she's being covert in her scrutiny of him, but tired as he is, her wide-eyed wonder irritates him as much as it flatters him, and it begs the question if--somewhere in her country bumpkin brain--she conceives of the notion that it's impolite to stare.

“Any silk that isn't made west of the thousand-mile border shouldn't even be called silk,” Mai says. “You might as well call it polyester.”

“Oh, please.” Toshi leans in, adds with quiet sarcasm, “You think Maro-sama notices the difference?”

Not even if it burned his skin, Hyogo answers in his mind.

The elevator stops just before his floor, and Mai and Toshi exit, taking their insipid clamor with them. But when the elevator doors shut and all should be blessedly quiet, it's even louder than before, because there's no one left to notice the improper gaze of the woman who is spoken for, and suddenly, she's studying him with an intensity that's deafening.

Hyogo takes his time as he turns toward her, making deliberate eye contact, the kind that should cause her to stop staring or at least force her to speak.

She's leaning in a casual way against the wall, though there's something prim in her manner, with her hands folded in front of her. She's muted in both temperament and appearance, which is a bit surprising, given that Ukyo's tastes tend toward the flamboyant and exotic. The women of the harem have worked hard to style this one, dressing her in sapphire blue and ruby red finery, taming her hair with oil and pins, and bejeweling the creamy skin of her neck and forehead--quite the upgrade from when she first arrived.

She fiddles with her hands a moment, apparently chewing on a thought, when she finally says, “Do you always wear that make-up?” There's sincerity in the question, her curiosity seeming to get the best of her.

“The fashion is common enough here in Kougakyo. Do men not usually wear any kind of make-up where you come from?”

She considers his question. “No. Not really. Not like yours. The men I know who paint their entire faces are often...paramours.”

He furrows his brow. “Paramours?”

“Prostitutes,” she clarifies. “Playthings for other men.”

Something rare happens in that moment: Hyogo is shocked into speechlessness. He cannot believe, however indirect, the implication there in her statement.

He gives her a long look over his glasses, and a cold smile crosses his face. “Do I look like somebody's plaything?”

She snorts and shrugs in a nervous, non-committal fashion.

“Does your master, for that matter?” He takes a step toward her. “Surely, Ukyo-sama has gotten close enough for you to have seen that he also 'paints his face.'”

“Oh, well, it's different with Ukyo-sama.”

Hyogo sneers. “Different?”

“He wears all of that just for fun. And he takes it off,” she adds with a wave of her hand, “beforehand.”

“Before what exactly?”

“Before...before bed.” That last part seems hard for her to say, especially given that she blushes.

Hyogo says nothing, simply waiting for whatever the hell else is to follow in this unbelievable interlude.

And then, once again, the concubine does something that he does not expect--she takes a step in his direction. “Do you do the same, samurai-sama?”

Coming even closer, the tilt of her head, the raise of her rib cage, her physical tension is a mix of shy and seductive. She parts her glossy lips and breathes through them with a soft anticipation, as if treating the sharing of air between them like foreplay. “Do you take your make-up off before you lie with your lovers?”

Hyogo blinks. He would laugh in earnest, except he's suddenly feeling quite mean.

The irony is that she'll never know that he was looking for just this sort of excuse to stay close to home tonight, and he would not have turned her down, not with her standing before him all wanton and willing. He would've messed up her hair in his hands and licked his way into her kimono, would've hooked her ankles on his shoulders and found that perfect rhythm, that perfect friction, and sent her back to Ukyo with an exhausted smile and a secret in her eyes, with no one any worse for the wear.

But no, no, this is not a mutual agreement she's trying to broker here. He attempts to reconcile that her audacity is born of naivete, that she's the new girl in town, and has been coached and encouraged into this. But it's not enough to override the insult, not enough to make up for the fact that there's something very, very wrong with this picture that he's on the receiving end of all this and not the other way around. He decides, then and there, that today marks the end of her innocence.

Hyogo opens a small door on the elevator's control panel, revealing a speaker and a touch pad of keys. He enters a private access code, which brings the elevator to a slow halt.

“What are you doing?” she asks with a note of panic. “Someone's going to call.”

“You think this is the first time I've stopped this elevator with someone in it?” he says with a raise of his eyebrow. “It's no matter, anyway, not with Ayamaro out of the palace tonight.”

Just as the concubine foretells, a sharp, tinny voice speaks from the control panel, asking if everyone is all right. And just as Hyogo promises, the guard on the speaker is easily put off with only a few words from him.

Hyogo faces the concubine, who has nestled herself into the corner of the elevator. She is watching him very carefully, her expression a weird mix of excitement and trepidation. He walks to where she stands, on the brink of invading her personal space, enough that she stiffens through her shoulders in response. “I'm sorry,” he says. “What's your name again?”

“Kirara.”

“Kirara-san. Please, do tell: Which fantasy was it that you were entertaining?”

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head with mild impatience. “I've worked in this palace several years now, and I know all about what Ukyo's women get up to. I know that the lower ranking women counsel each other on taking clandestine lovers. They make it a sort of game, you see, preying upon whomever strikes their fancy.”

She rolls her eyes and chuckles. “I'm hardly in a position to prey upon you, samurai-sama.”

“One word to Ukyo or even to Tessai that this conversation merely took place, with just a few words changed here and there, and I could be in a great deal of trouble. Some of us have jobs that we are very interested in keeping, you understand.”

“Yes, of course. I would never do anything like that--”

“All right, then.” He puts a gloved hand on the wall next to her head, leaning his weight on it, leaning over her. “So, tell me: Which fantasy was it that you had in mind? Was it the lady-like one, where we start off with massage oil and laughter, and there are candles lit all around us? I'm on top of you the whole time in the missionary position, and afterward you feel like I understand you, the real you?”

“I don't want this if all you're going to do is make fun of me.” She doesn't like him hovering so close, the way she's pressing back against the wall of the elevator, but she keeps watching his mouth, her eyes darting to different points on his face as she gets a good, close look at him.

“Maybe it was the more vulgar fantasy, then? We're in such a mad rush that you pull my pants down and hike your kimono up over your hips and, OH! I don't take my make-up off, so you end up with black lipstick all over your face and breasts, and you have trouble differentiating those marks from the bruises I leave when I turn you over and slam into you from behind. And all the while, you're crying out, 'Yes, fuck me, samurai-sama, fuck me, fuck me--'”

“All right, stop! Stop already.” She pushes him off and slides away. “This was a mistake. I see that now.”

He puts his hands into his pants pockets, letting everything hang in the air. She crosses her arms across her chest, her mouth a flat line of anger, and he enjoys how uncomfortable it seems to make her to stand there in silence together. Finally, he says, “What's the matter, Kirara-san? Did you think that I'd come more easily than this?”

When she doesn't answer, he continues, “Or, did you think that, because I was so obviously a 'plaything,' that I was a safe choice? Then, you could go back to the other concubines and say, 'Of course I didn't get anywhere with him! Why didn't anyone tell me he only sleeps with men?'”

That's when he must hit the nail on the head, because she turns away and pouts to her reflection in the wall.

“Little coward,” he says.

“Oh, fuck you,” she shoots back, though she still won't look him in the face.

Hyogo steps forward again. “How many times has Ukyo taken you to bed now?”

“Three times.”

“And was it not good? Does he pump away, and then roll over and go to sleep?”

Kirara shakes her head. “Ukyo-sama is an excellent lover. I have no complaints.”

Hyogo steps in closer, tilts his head in confusion, waiting for her to explain why they're here then. After a heavy pause, Kirara says in a small voice, “Ukyo likes other women, and sometimes other men, in bed with us. In the two months I've been here, I've hardly seen him. And when we are together, we're never alone.”

“He makes you service these other people?”

She gives a sad laugh. “I almost wish--then, at least, he'd see me. I'd actually be the focus of his attention for all of an hour.”

“Ohhh, I see.” Hyogo stifles a laugh. “As Concubine #37 or whatever that number is now, I'm not sure what would lead you to believe that you were special.”

He did,” she insists. “When his buyers first approached me, I thought of it all as nothing more than a good business deal. I was prepared to simply sign the documents and purchase the wardrobe and go through all the motions. But then, Ukyo started courting me, and there was nothing casual or indifferent about it. The things we started doing together, the things he said to me... I really thought...”

It's possible she might burst into tears, if the break in her voice is anything to go by. “All I have now is this huge, empty bed. And it's funny and sad at the same time because that's exactly what I agreed to in the contract.”

This is not the first time that Hyogo has heard this particular sob story from other lower ranking concubines, but he feels a bit badly for this one, though he isn't sure why. Perhaps it's because she seems to have sincere affection for Ukyo (for Ukyo, of all people), and he knows what that's like, that constant ache of looking everyday at the one you're in love with, of standing close enough to smell the warmth of their skin, of sometimes even seducing them into your bed, but knowing that you'll never get close to them, you'll never really have them. He knows that much too well.

Hyogo swallows, steeling himself. Though he might sympathize with this woman, sympathy in and of itself is not enough to steer him from his original objective. If anything, that little bubble of melancholy he allowed to surface only makes him feel meaner, makes him intend to show her no mercy whatsoever.

“Little wanting, needing coward,” he says with levity. He's inched his way to being right on top of her again. “Does it excite you more or less to know that I sleep not just with men, but with women, too?”

She looks up at him suspiciously, and with the most amusing hint of desire. “That could be...interesting,” she says, keeping her tone even.

He studies her face momentarily. “Are you wearing underwear right now?”

“Underwear?” she echoes, her eyes widening.

“Take it off.”

Her head falls back against the wall as she seems to stare through him, perhaps contemplating whether or not to go through with it.

“You came to me to get off, yes?” he asks.

After a moment, she nods.

“Then take off your underwear.”

Uncertainly, she bends down, slips her panties down her thighs, over her knees, unhooks them from each foot. Dropping them on the floor next to her, while she's still holding the hem of her kimono in one hand, Hyogo purrs, “Now show yourself to me.”

“I...I really shouldn't do this.”

“No, you shouldn't. That's exactly why you want to, and that's exactly why you're going to.”

At first, she waits so long that he wonders if maybe she doesn't have the nerve for it after all. But then, breathing hard, Kirara gathers all the layers of her clothing together and lifts it to her hips. He sets his gaze on her limited, astonishing nudity, letting her stew in her own impatience and vulnerability. He gets hard at the sight of her, loves that he can smell how aroused she is. “Who likes the hair so short? You or Ukyo?”

“Both,” she says with a hint of a smile.

“Touch yourself,” he tells her.

“But I want you to touch me.” He pulses at the sound of her desperation, and works to keep the pace of his own breath under control. Hyogo touches the tip of his tongue over his upper lip, and reaches out with palm up and middle finger extended to cup her mound. Kirara pushes forward, hungry to meet his hand.

“No,” he says, drawing back at the last second.

Stunned, she glares at him. “Why not?”

“I want to watch you do it.”

“But...”

“You came to me to get off, didn't you?”

“I pictured all of this going very differently,” she answers in exasperation.

He leans in close to one ear, using a low, sultry pitch, “But you're the one who wants to be special. And you are, Kirara-chan. Right now, you're the star of the show, you and only you. You have my full, undivided attention, and I want to watch you fuck yourself. I want it.”

Hovering an inch over her, he slides across her face, pauses at her mouth as if to kiss her, then shifts to her other ear. “Can you come like this?” he whispers.

She nods. The pins in her hair, her earrings, everything on her trembles.

“Does the thought of me watching you excite you?”

She nods again, starting to pant.

“Then do it. I want to watch you come.”

With one hand kneading away inside the lapel of her kimono and the other hand making diligent work of rubbing and penetrating between her legs, he can actually see very few of the literal details. But he doesn't at all need them, not when he's watching her face flush and her eyes scrunch closed, not as he listens to her grunt and whimper. His own excitement mounts as she gets closer to orgasm--every so often, her fingers move just right to brush against the crotch of his pants, and his cock jumps, making him want to shove her hand aside and fulfill the latter fantasy he'd badgered her with earlier--but he refuses to do anything other than stand there like a stone statue in front of her all the while, not giving her any space and not giving her any help.

There it is, finally, that urgent, repeated movement of her whole hand, working clit and labia in tandem, and he knows she's past the point of no return. “I want to hear my name when you come,” he commands, and there at the end, he can't keep the ragged edge out of his voice. “Convince me that that's my cock you're coming on.”

That's the last straw for any restraint she might have had, and spasms wrack her body. “Ah! Hyogo! Oh, Hyogo,” she calls out with abandon, hurting his ears in the small elevator, but it's completely worth it.

He lets her stand there with her eyes closed and her arms at her sides, catching her breath and letting the wall support her, for about half a minute, and then he keys in the code to restart the elevator.

Startled by the resumed ascent, Kirara fumbles for her underwear, tucks it into the palm she used to masturbate with. “What is wrong with you?” She hurries to make sure everything about her is in its proper place. “Couldn't you have waited another moment?”

“I need to get going. I'm meeting someone tonight,” he says offhandedly. "You were just the pre-game show."

When they arrive at the topmost level, where both Hyogo's personal quarters and the walkway to Ukyo's private grounds are, no one is waiting for the elevator, which doesn't surprise him but relieves him slightly. He tugs on the fingertips of his gloves to get them off, and starts heading down the hallway.

He can feel Kirara's eyes, however, boring into his back. Turning with the same discourteous expression he gave her when first he felt her looking on him, he finds her still standing inside the elevator, slightly tousled and thoroughly vexed. He strolls back to her. “What is it now? Didn't you get what you wanted?”

“What I wanted,” she says bitterly, “was to know what color your lips are underneath your lipstick.”

Hyogo conjures a thin smile. “I guess you'll never know.”

As they head in opposite directions, he thinks to himself, with just a touch of admonishment, You enjoyed that too much. Oh, did he ever. He's dying for a cigarette now.

He enters his quarters, and immediately pulls out something from his chest of clothes to wear to a club. He's going to meet up with Bogan after all, he's going to enjoy those few drinks, and most definitely a good orgasm or two.

Or three.

* * *

(A week later, after a routine check of the security cameras, Tessai quietly yet firmly pulls Hyogo aside to point out that, not only did Hyogo stop the special access elevator, he turned off the camera. And the fact cannot be ignored that the newest of Ukyo's concubines was in there with him when he did it.

Anxious and even a little angry, Tessai says, “If I'm to keep this quiet, Hyogo-dono, then I need you tell me, here and now--what the hell did the two of you do in that elevator?”

“Nothing. I never even touched her,” Hyogo answers in all honesty. “Not once.”)

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