Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha.
Warnings: mild sexual implications, language
Pairing: Naraku/Kikyou
Dedication: For my beautiful ryo-creampuff-bakura, a.k.a. my cult leader. You deserve better friends than me, you beautiful person you.
Hearts Under Fire
by queen-of sinking-ships
He is looking at her again - that man, the teacher, the one with black hair and ghost skin and eyes like rubies that glimmered beneath the fluorescent lights of the music room, inviting and dangerous and confusing all at once.
Kikyou knew what the girls said about him between class periods; knew they came into his room with a fresh coat of lipstick and an enthusiasm that did not appear in any other corner of the school. In the stalls of the women's restroom, his name was peppered alongside pink Sharpie hearts and silver scrawls of i'd totally fuck him, LOL.
(Kikyou always considered the mural of teenage hormones to be an interesting, albeit mind-numbing, read.)
Aside from that, Kikyou knew little about the teacher. She knew he was unmarried, she knew he was young and handsome in the darkest, strangest way possible, she knew that she'd never taken a class of his -
She knew he was looking at her, right now; could practically feel his eyes set fire to the back of her neck, digging burning holes into the flesh just above the collar of her cardigan, intense and sharp and full of fire.
Kikyou hated it when men looked at her, especially during her violin practice.
So she turns sharply, pulling the instrument down by it's neck in one hand and her bow clenched tightly in the other, ignoring the sting of strings cutting into her palm. She could always re-tune it later, when she wasn't being leered at.
"Is there something I can help you with, sir?"
The man - God, what is his name again? - seems taken aback by her bluntness. For a moment, Kikyou feels guilt clouding her senses; perhaps she'd been too harsh.
Then something sparks within his hooded gaze; the fire's still there, embers swirling around a black iris, smouldering, but not gone.
Apprehension curls her lip, and Kikyou thinks, men are dogs.
"No," the teacher (shit, shit, what was his name? It started with, um, with an N - ) grins from his post in the doorframe, arms folded lazily across his chest. "I was simply going to compliment you on your talent."
A pale finger points to the violin resting in her lap. Kikyou glances down at it, while the hand holding her bow suddenly and inexplicably grows slick with sweat.
"Thank you," she mutters cooly, fingering the taut, white hairs stretched across the bow's length. Absently, Kikyou ponders over how much the sticky fibers resemble spiderwebs; with that thought, she stops touching it altogether, coiling her fingers away from the strings in disgust.
From somewhere across the room, a faint, deep chuckle pierces the air in the music room. Kikyou freezes - which, in the back of her mind, is a ridiculous notion, because her skin is hot, hot with embarrassment and annoyance and something else she cannot name.
"What is your name?"
Abruptly, Kikyou is aware of him hovering over her chair; when she twists to face him, his gaze is lava and she is stone, melting and twisting her to charred pieces on the speckled linoleum.
"Kikyou."
(Her tone is oddly calm for someone who's just been burned alive.)
Something in the man's expression shifts, and the fire goes out - immediately, he leans back, hissing out a goodbye between grit teeth and exiting the music room in a swish of obsidian waves and anger.
The building's air conditioner hums its discontent, filling the space he'd only occupied a few seconds prior with an icy breeze; yet Kikyou feels nothing but the crimson flush swiped against her cheeks and the boiling blood inside her veins. Tentatively, she loosens her hold on the violin - the instrument she'd been playing since almost-forever, the thing she adored above all else - and is surprised to find thin lines of broken flesh sliced into her palm, matching the scarlet stains on the metal strings hovering just above the violin's neck.
Naraku, her memory offers, though it is too late now, his name is Naraku.
Shutting her eyelids, Kikyou inhales deeply. The air smells like ash, and she can barely breathe.
His name is Hell.
a/n: Wrote this a long time ago, but I didn't know if it was the right time to post it. Now is the time - here's an accompanying piece to Ryo's super-hot, super-beautiful NarKik Teacher/Student!AU. You are catering to my deepest fantasies; for that, I thank you.
Also, I am not creative with titles; Hearts Under Fire by Lea Luna is the only song in my iTunes library with a significant violin component. Hurray for basic-ness.
Reviews, comments, critiques, are greatly appreciated.