Title: Nanshoku Visages
Series: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Genre and Pairing: Silkpunk, PWP. X27.
Words/Progress: 1600; Complete.
Notes: M. AU. Features Tsuna as a member of a brothel. Mild Violence. Can be interpreted as having elements of waterplay.
Summary: It's been years since he has been that strange creature called Tsunayoshi Sawada. He is but a number now and he gracefully concedes to the welcome frigidity of existing simply as 27.
He has a name—remembers it; plays it again and again in the back of his mind like an ever-rolling, life-giving waterwheel—but it has long eroded into a greasy collection of sounds on his tongue after years of disuse. The syllables just feel wrong and uncomfortable as he works his tongue around them, staring at his reflection in the small reflecting glass in the receiving quarters. For a moment he wonders if he should be concerned; alas, it's been years since he has truly been the boy his mother named (the same mother who laid a hand on his head and said they would teach him to be a great kabuki actor as she sold him to three shadowed men for the opportunity to mind the well in their village).
In all honesty, it's been years since he has been that strange creature called Tsunayoshi Sawada. He is but a number now and he gracefully concedes to the welcome frigidity of existing simply as 27.
Almost needless to say, he is not the actor his mother naively foretold. He may live most of his day similar to one—ugly rags to serve as clothes when not working or preparing to work; chores that make his knuckles swell with exhaustion; eating nothing more than bowls of rices, wheats and (rarely) small game he or one of the other boys manages to wring—but his performances are of an extremely different variety. For, at the moment, layers of glittering silk (finer than most kabuki had at their ready disposal) weigh on his lithe body; the delirious musk of incense chokes him; and the airy conversation of his Lady and his especial patron churn outside the screen to the empty-save-them-two side hall.
Impatiently, he spies the reflecting glass again. There he finds nothing unusual in his hair painstakingly styled in dozens of jutting spikes and valleys, in his benevolent eyes colored the brown of fresh mud, or in the happy-go-lucky quirk of his lips that appealed to all his visitors except the one he will have tonight, and this final consideration fixes the smile even more firmly to his mouth.
He does not have long to distract himself, however, as a jolt of pain flinches against his ear and jaw. A cluttering thud sounds beside him but he stays still, transfixed to the strange image of himself in the off-lighting of the room. His patron ignores him ignoring him and sits down on the futon before tossing all the unnecessary linens and things on it to the floor. They are quiet, then, for a great deal of time, far longer than he should even allow; far longer than what is polite and decent. Only the man's rugged breathing disturbed their peace. (Years ago, 27 would have been sweating and just generally being a simpering, insecure idiot after so long a period... if he could even dare pull such an insolent trick then. Thankfully he has grown up, so he continues peering at his calm face looking back at him.)
Finally: "React to me."
Even after having grown tired of his features, he stays deathly still. Then:
"You have been acknowledged," as a small pillow(?) hits his shoulder.
Still nothing.
A rough, angry grunt comes from behind him. "Turn to me." A beat. "Now, child." The familiar epithet clips in a disturbingly stale, affectionate way that leads 27 to behave, if only for the time being.
His hand curves over that which was thrown at his head, knowing what it is already and knowing what he is expected to do with it. He opens the tightly-sealed container and indulgently smells the liquid trapped inside: the scent feels like rust on his tongue. Despite himself, he trembles at the treat he knows it to be.
Breaking eye contact with his reflection, he turns to his patron and is genuinely surprised to see that the man already nursed a bulge at his groin, lifting the fabric of his kimono in the most subtle and lewd of fashions. Pushing aside the shame of not noticing the need of his patron while he misbehaved, 27 unceremoniously rushes to his patron's side. He has barely sat down before the container is at his lips, taking in some of the mineral-heavy water, slouching it around his mouth as delicately as he can. Pleasure at the elegance of the taste temporarily blinds him from his purpose, but he swallows as according to the brief ritual cleansing performed by all his peers; and the sting of the liquid down his throat is enough for him to gasp a contented i thank you for your efforts.
He barely finishes his sentence before he is shoved down. And above him there is a face jaded and scarred horridly across the left side; wild black hair that yearns to be dance between fingertips; hungry pupils blown, swallowing already dark eyes; and the aggressive sneer of an aggressive soul.
Above him there is the man who also has a name that is never used between them but exists as an echo in those rare bursts of reckless euphoria during which 27's mouth contorts around the sharp X's in his patron's name.
Above him there is musky incense that wisps around them as his patron licks a stream of tingles up his neck and to his ear; that crowds them as they touch and play and hands—two wandering sets, one like grass roots and the other like silt—grope and pull the fabric away from their heating bodies. His patron hardly shows a sign of change from his usual demeanor, but 27, on the other hand, is a mess of needy limbs. He bucks into the immovable form and cries out in pleasure wantonly and fully. Lips finding purchase against lips, he pushes the found-again water container into one of the heavy silthands. Understanding the encouragement (not, nor ever, an order), his patron takes the water into his mouth, his fingers following seconds later. It takes but a moment before moist fingers fall below his pulsing cock and tightening balls—falls lower and lower before two slip into him at once.
Four twitches of the fingers are all he gets before they are removed. His eyes try to focus on his patron's face but before they can, an ugly slap crosses his face with the same hand that had just been touching him so intimately.
"Used?"
He does not swear or deny anything, choosing to bite on his lip in humiliated frustration instead. It is not his fault, he wants to say, that the Lady had slipped in a male associate into his schedule knowing that his patron was stopping by for a visit in but a few days.
"Used."
It really was not his fault... but the second slap came down anyway, this time to his neck, winding him.
He whimpered uselessly and in a way that read of his arousal in spite of (or, perhaps... because of) the pain. That was the closest he would ever come to begging. That was the closest he would allow himself to apologize for something not in his control.
His patron growls something feral and pulls away. Pouring over half of the flask's liquid onto his cock, the man steadies himself on his knees and jerks himself, again and again. 27 can only watch as his patron's free hand holds his knee up and open, 27's heaving chest and his painful erection wet with pre-come quite a visual combination. Somehow, 27 knows that his patron wishes to fuck him (coarse) and worship his littler body (blasphemous) and make him feel like entertaining dozens of murky men are worth it if only he could spend a handful of nights like this; instead, his patron grunts solemnly as he comes onto 27's thighs, slumping.
His patron does not touch him, nor gives him permission to touch himself, so he croons and twists and wills himself to calm even though the man's eyes never stop touring his exposed body. It is only until 27's erection has finally subsided and a third slap is delivered (to the outside of his right thigh) that his patron shrugs on his garments and grabs the water container before making his way to leave—actually leave him once again without any promise of a return (but he always does: always, like a wave upon a thirsty shore).
And then, as quickly as he was accompanied, he is alone. His body pulses with unspent desire and heat that counter-intuitively steadies his trembling legs. Gingerly, he presses against the three places his patron's hand connected—the three places he is sure to bruise horribly. From where he lays on the futon, he glances out the reflecting glass and he can still see himself. He, now named 27 despite there not being exactly twenty-six others before him, stares at his changed visage. Hair unkempt and eyes like mud and a heaving chest and the shadow of bruises forming: this is what he sees in himself in the glass and what his patron saw on his knees in front of him as he sought orgasm.
Unbalanced, he stands and returns to exactly where he stood before, closing his eyes and opening them quickly—watching the boy opposite him do the same. He closes them and opens them again and again and then once more for good measure. Absently, he says his name—names: one that is but a random number and the other that tastes like grease on his tongue—aloud before realizing that both sound utterly impecunious when he still had the treat mineral-water still curling the edges of his mouth.