Summary: Byakuya Kuchiki was young and naive. He was just the type of man who would actually fall in love with his whore… (Using the 5 stages of love themes.)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Bleach.
Stage One: Attraction
Tiredly, she straightened her posture and gave her guest a careful once-over. She was not impressed with the circumstances. It was hard enough to please the men in her care who were eager to receive what she had to offer. The task of eliciting even a pleasured smile from this man, who sat only three lengths in front of her, seemed insurmountable.
His face was blank – emotionless. Not even the gentle flicker of candle light or the encroaching darkness of nightfall gave his visage an illusion of interest. His eyes were cold, and his gaze was averted to the papers he had brought with him.
'He brought paperwork!' She was still incensed about that. Her mind could not let that offence go; try as she might to push it to the back of her thoughts, it kept popping up.
'Why did he bother coming?' The question plagued her for a moment. Careful consideration, however, quickly revealed the why of his presence. Only five days ago, she had received one of her benefactors, a gentle nobleman with an easy smile and even easier outlook on life. He mentioned, during their weekly session, that he had recommended her services to a friend of his. According to his admittedly brief and disinterested dialogue, the friend was worried after the sake of one his family members, and was thusly looking for a good woman to act as a "sheath" to a very reckless "blade".
If the man she was entertaining (or should have been entertaining) was considered "reckless" she was at a loss for what her benefactor's "friend" considered placid. Perhaps most nobles really were this tiresome. She did recall some of the women at her stable air their preferences for the academy students and Gotei 13 soldiers who hailed from the slums over the court nobles. She was beginning to see why.
'It is never a good sign if your mind is traveling to such idle thoughts. You have a job to perform! Think of it as a challenge. He is clearly reserved and repressed. It might take actual skill to seduce him – more than a coy smile and a suggestive glance.'
She remained incredulous as to whether she could woo this particular nobleman.
"Would you like me to sing for you?" Asking the question, she bent slightly to pour a cup of tea for herself. (She secretly wished it to be a cup full of liquor… hard liquor.)
He glanced up on hearing her voice. It was a fleeting look, but it conveyed his disinterest in a way that words could not. "No," he murmured, turning his attention back to his paperwork.
"Would you like me to play for you?"
"No."
"Dance?"
"No."
"Sex?"
She smirked at the reaction that particular question garnered. He looked absolutely mortified by her candidness. Well, he appeared as mortified as his deadpan expression would let on. His eyes, at least, widened when his gaze shot up to meet hers.
A self-satisfied grin curved the corners of her lips. 'At least that got his attention,' she mused.
"You didn't answer me," she said in a low dulcet voice.
Clearly embarrassed by her forwardness, he dropped his eye-line to the papers lying on the tatami mat. He was tense, every fiber in his body stiffened. She could see the muscles in his jaw clench, and she very much suspected that a breath had caught in his throat, preventing him from chiding her for her impertinence.
"It is not necessary," he murmured pointedly. Even he was surprised by how well he managed to modulate his voice. He sounded appropriately disgusted and austere.
She, however, was not so convinced by his protest. She had found the chink in the armor, and, like a cat stalking her prey, she was more than willing to play with him – tease him – until he finally submitted.
"Your work must be very interesting." Her canorous tone squelched the sarcasm-laced observation.
He stared up at her from his work. His lips sloped into a frown, and his once deadened eyes narrowed. She could almost taste his frustration as she held his gaze. The temperature plummeted, and an unsettling aura blanketed the area. The tension existing between the two would have strangled the submission into most women. Hisana, however, felt slightly provoked by his unwillingness to humor her. Something deep within her flared at his stubbornness until her only desire was to see his defenses crumble.
Instinctively, her voice lowered a few octaves as she murmured a breathy, "Most men find me distraction enough."
"I'm not most men," he retorted evenly. He then quickly occupied his attention with the papers and ink. But, she could tell he was hesitating – waiting for another invitation or remark to come his way. At least, she could sense that he found her unnerving. At most, he was unsettled by her casual air.
She would settle for 'unnerved'.
She wanted 'unsettled'.
Unsettling someone often proved to be an advantage in her experience. Do it just enough, and they would forfeit their silly pride and willingly acknowledge their own lack of experience. Then, it was easier to lead them. She, however, had a sneaking suspicion that unsettling Byakuya Kuchiki enough for him to submit would be a maddening if not impossible task…
"You must enjoy paperwork, then," she continued, ignoring his barb for the time being. "They must bring you endless amounts of pleasure."
He bristled at that. It was an almost imperceptible action on his part, but his shift in posture did not go unnoticed by her wolfish stare.
"No," he murmured; his voice sounding with more repugnance than before.
"Really? You seem so intense staring down at the parchment. The brush so firmly clenched between your fingers that I can see the whites of your knuckles." She could have kept on going, but an agitated glare on his part silenced her.
Her quietness, however, was only momentary. Cocking her head to the side, she feigned ignorance. "Did you find me distracting just then?" she asked drily.
That was it. She had finally managed to break his stony veneer of indifference. His eyes narrowed; his lips pulled into a thin line; and his stare hardened. She could tell he wanted to say something – something biting or clever. Instead, he kept his silence, and held her gaze.
And what a scorching gaze it was! She could feel her entire face heat, and, if she was not mistaken, she could feel his reiatsu climb and swirl with the air already dripping with tension. He was a powerful man – not just socially but physically and spiritually. She was slowly realizing just how strong he was with each passing second.
But it would take a lot more than reiatsu to slake her curiosity. She wanted to know what lay beyond those well trained features and fortressed face. If it took that much effort to shackle and contain his true desires, there must be a very passionate man beneath, she intuited.
She broke the silence with a forced sigh. "Look at those papers. It will take you forever to finish all that work alone. Let me aid you, milord."
Her false attempt at subservience was duly noted by him. The word "milord" struck a discordant note – a proverbial "thunk" – sinking like a weight between them.
Before Byakuya had a chance to air a protest, Hisana had already invaded his cherished bubble of personal space. Seated in perfect seiza beside him, he could feel his blood pressure rise at her nearness. She furthered her invasion when she bent to pluck a form from in front of him. A flash of the white underside of her wrist caught his gaze. Reflexively, he clenched his jaws. The sight perturbed him, eliciting a small shiver.
He wanted to say something. He wanted to end this farce. He had only come out of some sort of obligation to his family. He had come to show them that he was unflappable – unstirred by the baser sources of pleasure. Gone were the days of reckless and hotheaded behavior. But now… Now, he could not deny the feeling of his blood simmering in his veins. He was irritated beyond reason, but most perplexing was that he was not entirely sure why he was so disproportionally bothered. Sure, it was the woman, but what about her provoked this feeling?
Watching her with a steady gaze, he wanted to protest her intrusion, but he was afraid of what words might come out in lieu of his disapproval. It had been awhile since he had last felt this unsure of himself.
She glanced up at him, and smiled chastely. Gently, she eased the pen from his fingers. "Don't look so worried. It is just form-filling," she said before glancing down at the sheet in front of her.
For a moment she appeared pensive. Her gaze stayed on one word in particular, and she did not move.
"You can read?" He meant the question to sound biting and offensive.
She, however, did not appear stricken in the least. "Of course," she murmured, "it's – just – well - I've never seen calligraphy this impressive before. It is so clean yet so beautiful." She glanced up, and meeting his eyes, she deepened her stare. She appeared genuine in her compliment. "It must have taken you many years to reach this level of proficiency. Calligraphy is a very demanding art form. The amount of focus it requires is incredible. One must have very good control and precision as he grips the brush firmly in his hand. He must be tentative yet confident and fluid as he makes the strokes. The beat of the brush in synchrony with the movement of the hand as it slides across rough paper must be intense, arousing. The fine musculature of the hand must be at once tight and yielding to the needs of the word and smoothness of the parchment. And the release – seeing the creation and experiencing it as you pull away – must be pleasurable, sensual even."
His eyes widened, and every fiber in his body clenched. Silently, he sat aghast at both her tone and words. He had never heard such a pornographic interpretation of calligraphy in his entire life.
Watching his expression with much delight, she sat up, pressing her thigh against his as she repositioned herself. The contact felt electric, sending a toe-curling shiver down even her spine. When she withdrew her leg from his, she made sure to scrutinize his features for any sign of unwanted emotion. He remained uncomfortably stoic; it was as if his inner restraints began snapping into place once her warmth faded from him.
"You must be very good at swordplay," she observed in a throaty voice.
"How would you know?" he hissed.
He finally prickled. He shrugged away the burning trills of some unnamable feeling. Much to her chagrin, however, he did not drop the impassive expression. His gray-blue eyes remained as inscrutable as when he first arrived, papers in hand.
"I wouldn't," she replied, a cryptic look in her eyes, "it was a guess." Without a warning, she placed her hand against his. Her touch was so light that he barely realized she was turning his hand palm-side up. Wordlessly, he watched as she gently stroked the base of his wrist up to his fingertips. He hesitated before pulling away.
"Judging by the calluses, it seems I was correct. Unless, of course, you are occupying your hands with other strenuous endeavors besides gripping a sword."
Again, she felt his spiritual pressure intensify, and she wondered what it was that he was experiencing. Was it disgust? Anger? Anxiety? Want?
"Do you wish anything of me?" she asked in a throaty voice.
He watched her with the same look he watched a volatile opponent on the battle field. There was something decidedly feline in the way she eyed him. It was a slyness – a knowing slyness – that emanated from her blue eyes. It was the agile way she held herself, anticipating anything.
She reminded him of a certain cat he had known in his youth. Hisana's game, however, was very different from the one he had played with the Cat years before. The intent – to provoke him, to toy with him, and then to trap him – was the same now as it was then. The only difference was the method used, and he had to admit that the current mode was definitely better suited to her than him.
He was stubborn, however. And he did not submit easily. Not as a child, and not now. Even if every inch of him crackled with some strange desire to yield, he was unrelenting.
"Since you seem so taken by physicality, perhaps I could entice you with some dancing?"
He remained unmoved.
"Then, perhaps you could indulge me?"
His eyes narrowed, but he did not verbalize his sentiment.
"I've never seen a true battle posture. I would like to see one."
Before he had a chance to decline her proposal, she added, "There is a decorative daishō on a stand over there." She jerked her chin in the direction of the props. "Obviously, they would fall apart under much force, but they should suffice. I mean, if you can."
His brows lowered at her half-hearted challenge. It was simply asinine – a ridiculous request. Why would he need to prove himself to this mere woman?
"Perhaps, that was presumptuous of me to propose something so trifling. Let us go back to filling out these papers," she said, carelessly waving her hand at the thought.
"No," he muttered. For some reason, the idea of returning to paperwork with her looming nearby proved more offensive than playing soldier. 'Aren't courtesans supposed to be charming and well-mannered?' he kept wondering to himself.
In the time it took to bat an eye, he had reached the daishō and withdrew the katana from the stand. Hisana was much slower and calculating upon rising to follow him. (This was in part due to him being vastly her superior when it came to flash-step, and partly due to the heavy and restrictive nature of her garments.)
Without hesitation he assumed a basic position with sword firmly gripped in both hands. He glanced over his shoulder to find Hisana standing a few centimeters away. She watched him; her gaze traveling his body. She observed him with the discerning stare of a teacher, and like a vulture she circled him.
He stood with feet parallel. The left foot was his lead, and its heel was slightly raised. His posture was appropriately straight; not forced. The shoulders were relaxed; the hips were forward. He appeared solid.
"Humph," she hummed. She was far from impressed by the stance's simplicity. Folding her arms in front of her chest, she added, "That doesn't look so hard."
She was baiting him, and the rational part of his brain knew it. It was not even particularly convincing bait, but he couldn't help but give her a pointed sidelong glare. "Really?" he said rigidly.
"Really," she retorted, playfully. "Any dancer could mimic that with ease."
He narrowed an eye at her insinuation.
"Do you want to see?" Emphasizing her coyness, she lifted a brow and cocked her head to the side.
No. No, in fact, he did not want to see her try to replicate his pose. He knew it was a basic posture, and that is why he chose it – to end this farce as soon as possible. But, before he had the chance to lob a barbed comment her direction, he was aghast to find her shedding some of her clothing. Unwittingly, his eyes widened and his lips parted at the sheer audacity he was witnessing. It was like a social train wreck; he couldn't stop watching because it was so novel and…
She knew exactly what she was doing. He was fairly sure that she knew that he knew what she was doing. And she didn't give a damn.
"Don't look at me like that," she simpered teasingly. "These robes are not conducive to you seeing my form."
And he did not say a word. He simply had no script to follow for this behavior.
Dishabille and in position, she glanced back over at him. "See," she noted effervescently. Her expression brightly begging the question: Well? How is it? She was practically willing him to indulge in her shape, and instinctively he did. His gaze, however, was unlike the one she had used to observe his stance. It was tentative, unsure, at first. It slowly deepened, and while he tried to maintain a look of objectivity, he felt oddly intrigued by her positioning.
He was sure it was intentional. She had merely taken the basic stance he had demonstrated and turned it into a more flowery version – more befitting for a dancer than a swordsman.
"Your stance is wide," he noted drily. With a flick of the wrist, he positioned the decorative sword downward as if he were about to sheathe it into some invisible scabbard. Using the hilt of the sword as an instructional aide, he poked her lightly in the back. "Too arched," he murmured. Then, he gently ran the prop from her abdomen to her chest. "Bring your chest up, and relax your shoulders," he commanded.
Hisana complied. Deviously, she looked askance in his direction. Her head rose, exposing the length of her neck, and the rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled became more pronounced.
"Your hips are wrong as well," he said evenly.
A wolfish grin curled the corners of her mouth. Seductively, she watched him, and, trying her best to appear chaste and unassuming, she asked for further instruction: "How may I correct them?"
He prodded her with the hilt, but she would not comply. She either tilted too far to the side, forward, or backward. She moved like a limp doll.
He was certain she was toying with him. Contorting her body in strange positions to allure him or trap him.
"Maybe you could be a little more hands on with your approach," she suggested in a breathy voice.
He narrowed his eyes at her invitation.
"Come now, I don't want to be a bad student."
Every muscle in his body tightened at her inflection. He had been willingly led. And the only question lingering like a dark haze over his thoughts was: How far would he continue?
Hisana continued to watch him struggle with her meaning. His eyes were dilated, his breathing still, and his posture stiffened. Glancing up through heavy eyelashes, she held his gaze. She could tell he wanted to play along, but something was staying his hand (both literally and figuratively). All he needed was a little coaxing, she mused.
She gently took one of his hands in her own and pressed it against her hip. It did not take long for the hand grasping the sword to follow suit. Trying his best to remain collected and indifferent, his hands sank into the thin layer of silk separating his palms from her skin underneath. The heat from her body warmed his hands as he tried to straighten her hips. She was surprisingly responsive as he attempted to mold her body into the pose.
"Well?" she murmured, gazing into his eyes. She stretched upward and forward; the space between the two rapidly diminishing with each passing second.
He looked hesitant at first. Just when she was certain he had given in, his entire expression suddenly deadened, and he closed up like a clam.
"Enough," he said warningly. "I've had enough." He quickly placed the prop sword back on its stand and collected his papers.
While she would not express it, she was livid. She had wasted a night's full on energy on this man. This arrogant man who stubbornly spat on her charms.
"Good evening, Lord Kuchiki," she managed through clenched teeth as he moved to the door. Swallowing her frustration, she forced a bow in his general direction.
He did not offer her the same regard. Instead he slid the door open, not waiting for her to perform the action as was customary.
Feeling the chill of his wake, Hisana glanced up to find he had left, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Wearily, she crossed the floor and retracted the door all the while wondering when she would see him again…
And she was most certain that he would return.
