Authors Notes: I was reading a Harry Potter fic, and thinking about the 'you're beautiful' mush that every romantic fanfiction I've ever read spouts (yes, the fics spout) and it just occurred to me that in a serious love/hate relationship, there wouldn't have to be the 'you're perfect' stuff. So, I was thinking on how to express that, and quite frankly, my disgust of infatuation in general, when I thought of Naraku (it doesn't hurt that I was watching Inuyasha at the time). Now I love Naraku/Miroku because I adore love/hate relationships, and I thought that Naraku might not think of Miro-kun as 'beautiful' per-se. This is what came out of that rather-lonely, three-in-the-morning, creative burst, and I hope I just explained where this story came from as opposed to making things more confusing for you. Anyhow, a special shout out to DarkStar, who reads everything I write while it's still in the 'hand written' stage, and who tells me when I've done something stupid ^_^. She's awesome; go read her Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi fic. (Advertising? Me?)
Disclaimers: I don't own Inuyasha, the manga or the TV series. That very special deed belongs to Takahashi Rumiko-san, and Bandai – the makers of Gundam (which I don't own either T_T).
~Not Beautiful~
Would it be unduly cruel of me to say that you are not beautiful? I love you, but you are flawed. So flawed in fact, that I continuously look upon you in disgust; and yet, I cannot help but look. You are as have you always been: human. Meaty, clumsy, awkward. You could not move gracefully to save your life, and though you look so strong, with those muscular arms and broad shoulders, you would be so easy to break. I would do it too.
Given half the opportunity I would sneak into your living quarters, steal you out from under the note-worthy nose of he whom you call friend, and spend the rest of eternity breaking you. Breaking you, holding you, hating you, and loving you.
It has been three generations since someone as perfect has been delivered unto me. So perfect as to be imperfect. I cursed him and in so doing cursed you; knowing that each first born son of your line would come to haunt me, keeping me alive. One can only live on the sweet taste of revenge for so long; and it was sweet. Convincing that damned priestess that she had been betrayed, watching her life come crashing down around her ears; it was so sweet.
Does that make me a parasite? Living off of your hatred of me, needing your need for revenge. I suppose it does, but I would be your parasite any day. I could lift the curse any time I felt so inclined, but then I would lose my host and my will to live. Maybe I'll let you kill me some day, you or one of your descendants – you will follow me into hell of course, that's the trap of your notorious wind tunnel. You kill me, the residual magic of my curse consumes you; it works out even.
You must hate me for what I've put you through; though your lechery is far more widely known than your curse. You must hate that you feel the need to leave behind a son; knowing that if you fail in your quest you must pass it on to another, an innocent soul, just as it was passed on to you. You must hate that I have the power to control every aspect of your life; I could ruin everything that you've strived to achieve with a flick of my wrist and a wave of my hand. All the money you've amassed by conning rich nobles, all the prowess with women that you've managed to sleep with (casually neglecting to explain the covering on that precious right hand); I could destroy it all, and you know it.
Ah the lechery, I wish you would turn some of that lechery towards me; I doubt I'd mind. I would wrap my oh-so-elegant fingers, fingers that could crush you, around your arms and never let go. I was supposed to be devoid of human emotion and need, but not even the body of a construct can deny you. Even as I'm watching you through the rice screen that is your room for the evening, I can imagine making you perfect – making you mine, imbedding in your skin Shikon jewel shards to keep it forever young, enslaving you to me. But even that perfection would ruin you, it's your defiance that draws me, it always has been, just as your grandfather's did. Kagome isn't the only reincarnated soul.
You are thrashing in your sleep, probably some nightmare involving deep seated insecurities and most probably: me. I would wake you, bring you closer to the real nightmare, and try to comfort you all the while scaring the living hell out of you. Alas, I cannot for you would pull me into that wind tunnel of yours and what a sweet irony that would be. The great Naraku, defeated by his own curse. You might laugh in the few seconds you had to live.
Dawn will soon be here and I'll be forced to leave my post. The dog will wake up and sniff around, assuming that I was here to mock him. Maybe I'll throw him a bone and leave a puppet behind to mark my passing. Maybe not. You too will wake, shaking off the ominous feeling that has plagued you for many months, the feeling that accompanies your dreams, the feeling that haunts the shadows of your mind, the feeling that I was near enough to taste but not to see. You will try to rid yourself of the heaviness and tension left in the air, but you will fail as you always do, to banish the perpetual nightmare.
I am a demon, needing no sleep; but I do dream. I Dream of raking my nails down your oh-so-strong back and sinking my teeth into your imperfect shoulder, scaring you, marking you with my immaculate fingernails and powerful incisors. Further accentuating your flaws by adding more; heightening your seeming perfection by offering a contrast.
Were that I could affect your sleep, invade your dreams and make you mine forever. If only I were bold enough to wake you, sweating and shivering with fear, from your dream state and listen to the screaming. I am not bold enough and so you sleep easy, but were that I could join you in your mind and assuage those same fears. Instead as the morning larks grow ever louder, I must depart on the breeze lest I be seen by dawn's first light leaving in my wake a mere whisper to be over-shadowed by the ringing cacophony of the rising sun.
"Miroku."