To smut, or not to smut. The eternal question. After -much- consideration, here's what I'll do. For now, I'm going to write this fic without smut. If there's interest, and if I've got time, I'll be writing the smut pieces as side chapters that will be posted only on my fanfic page. (http://www.katachresis.net/fanfiction) Also, for those of you who follow Silent Laughter... you can find chapter nine there, since I can't upload it here.
Also, I've lowered the rating on this fic from R to PG13. Rinchan made fun of me. ^.~
--==--
Sesshomaru had been standing at the window, waiting for Miroku to wake. He had slept for quite a while, his body still not quite recovered from the shock of death.
He watched as the human moved in a dazed panic, amused. He chuckled, hardly realizing it.
The monk froze, then turned to face Sesshomaru, fingers quickly undoing the knot that held his power in check. Sesshomaru watched, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.
The cloth covering the air rip fell aside. And nothing happened.
"Wh..." Miroku lowered his hand, turning it over to stare at it. Sesshomaru slowly walked towards him, catching his wrist in a painful grip.
"The curse?" Miroku looked up at the youkai in confusion.
Tracing a single claw up Miroku's palm from fingertip to wrist, Sesshomaru paused. "It is not gone - it still marks your line. However, curses do not last after death."
The monk stared at his unblemished palm, eyes wide in his disbelief. He was shaking. "Death? I'm... dead?"
Sesshomaru shook his head slightly. "Not precisely." He let go of Miroku's wrist, reaching up to lightly brush his fingers along the fragile skin of the human's cheek.
Startled, Miroku looked back up, flinching away from the unexpected touch. "What am I then?"
A pause, then a smile. "...mine." The word was practically a whisper as Sesshomaru pressed his lips to Miroku's, sealing away his muffled protest. Clawed fingers dragged their way through his hair, tangled slightly from sleep, plucking out the small tie that kept it back.
Miroku's eyes went wide, his body still with shock as the youkai kissed him, gently but firmly, his tongue teasing at his lips. He reached up, to grab at Sesshomaru's shoulders, tried to push him away, and mostly tried to ignore the way his stomach dropped and his eyes wanted to slide shut.
Sesshomaru's hands slid down his body, to his waist, lifting slightly. Miroku found himself being carried across the room, back to the futon, and though he tried to stop the youkai, to twist out of his arms, Sesshomaru's grip was too strong to be broken. Sesshomaru lowered him to the futon, catching his wrists and pulling them over his head in one taloned hand.
Miroku lay still, glaring up at the youkai, tense, testing his grip, but finding it depressingly secure. Sesshomaru smiled predatorily, gold eyes flashing as he leaned down to claim Miroku's lips once again.
Miroku closed his eyes, feeling his lips tingle slightly as the youkai scraped them with his teeth, coaxing them apart, burying his free hand in Miroku's hair.
The youkai's body pressed against his, and Miroku shivered involuntarily, feeling the other man's warmth seep into him. Sesshomaru's tongue flicked into his mouth, and Miroku could feel himself hesitantly responding, closing his eyes. He felt himself being absorbed into the kiss, even though he tried not to, tried to focus on anything but the youkai's persuasive lips. It had been damned long since anyone had touched him in this way, and he couldn't help but relish it.
He almost didn't notice Sesshomaru's fingers slipping down his neck, over his shoulder, down to his chest to tug at his robes. And by the time he did notice it, he had stopped caring.
--==--
Miroku lay, pulled up uncomfortably close against a dozing Sesshomaru, feeling vaguely ill and having trouble breathing past the suspiciously large knot in his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the smell of the youkai, light and strangely reminiscent of plum blossoms. Trying not to feel the clawed fingertips that rested lightly on the back of his neck, tangled in sweat-soaked hair, or the shivers of pleasure that still ran through his body.
He was, quite unfortunately, screwed.
He was also exhausted. The youkai was a demanding lover. But the peace of dreaming eluded him.
How the hell had he gotten himself into this? He tightened his hand experimentally, letting his fingertips brush across the extraordinarily sensitive skin there. He felt strangely unbalanced, as if he had lost an extremely important part of himself.
Sesshomaru sighed, shifting in his sleep. Miroku looked up at him, watching the shadows play over his face. He was almost supernaturally beautiful. Sleeping like this he looked terribly innocent. Miroku lifted his hand, trailed his fingers along the crimson markings on the youkai's face.
'Mine,' Sesshomaru had called him. Miroku turned that over in his mind, the jagged edges of the thought scraping at him, irritating him. What could the youkai possibly mean by that statement?
He grimaced, remembering exactly where he was, naked in the youkai's arms. It was pretty obvious, at least in part, what Sesshomaru had meant. He had to wonder, however, if all the demon wanted was a plaything. If that was so, why was he chosen of all people?
Miroku dropped his hand, tracing the thin, faint line of a scar that crossed Sesshomaru's chest. He remembered that wound. It was the one he had tended. It had been sickeningly large, when he had seen it even his battle-hardened stomach had dropped. It was a miracle that Sesshomaru had survived it. Even with his treatment and the youkai's healing powers, there remained tangible evidence of the cut, a slight jagged interruption of the smooth skin.
There were other scars too, some recent, some thicker than the one his fingers rested on, some fading almost completely into the skin around them. The scars threaded around each other, weaving a story of battle, of hardship and pain.
Miroku could feel Sesshomaru's heart beating under his fingers, slow and soothing. He pressed his whole hand to the youkai's chest, as if he could capture that heartbeat, take it inside himself. He could feel sleep pulling at him as he slid closer to Sesshomaru, pressing his lips in a faint kiss to his chest. He sighed, suddenly exhausted, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on Sesshomaru's arm, finally able to relax into sleep.
--==--
The next morning, Miroku woke up alone. Light shone into the room from the paper doorways, making the room glow warmly. Miroku sat up, blinking, for a moment forgetting what he was doing there. When he finally remembered, he felt the blush rising on his cheeks. Suddenly, he felt quite vulnerable. Glancing around the room, to make sure he was alone, he got up, looking for his clothes.
They had been taken. Another robe had been left, folded neatly beside the futon. Miroku picked them up, silently appraising the light fabric. It was dyed a deep crimson that shimmered faintly, and trimming the sleeves was a pattern that he recognized, small sakura blossoms outlined in white. It was the mirror image of the patterns on Sesshomaru's robe, the colors inverted.
It was a mark of ownership, subtle, but there nonetheless. He sighed, slipping the outfit on, the silk of the robe molding to his frame. He looked down at himself and grimaced at the way the fabric draped - it accentuated his already rather slight form. Irritably pushing his still-loose hair back, he reflected with an ironic smile, that if he was going to play the role of a concubine, he might as well look the part.
Dressed, he cautiously poked his head out of the room, glancing around. The hall was suspiciously deserted, and the only sounds he had heard all morning were those he had made himself. He wandered through the halls, getting himself quite thoroughly lost and not caring one whit, intent instead on taking in his surroundings. Several times he whistled lowly between his teeth. He knew lords of the land that would absolutely kill for this place.
It was simple but lush. One might even call it sparse if it weren't for the quality of the craftsmanship, the expense of the materials used in what simple furnishings and decorations there were. Several times Miroku had to resist the natural urge to slip a statue or other trinket into his pocket.
His awed inspection of the palace was interrupted by the sound of running feet, a child's shriek - though whether it was of laughter or fright, he couldn't tell. He barely had time to register a whirl of blue robes, large chestnut eyes full of mischief, and short, unkempt hair, before the child ran straight into him, knocking him back a step. He blinked at the young girl who stared up at him from the ground in surprise.
"Rin! You come back here right this instant!" the highly irritated voice grated along his nerves, and Miroku's eyes narrowed as Sesshomaru's servant lurched around the corner.
Also, I've lowered the rating on this fic from R to PG13. Rinchan made fun of me. ^.~
--==--
Sesshomaru had been standing at the window, waiting for Miroku to wake. He had slept for quite a while, his body still not quite recovered from the shock of death.
He watched as the human moved in a dazed panic, amused. He chuckled, hardly realizing it.
The monk froze, then turned to face Sesshomaru, fingers quickly undoing the knot that held his power in check. Sesshomaru watched, a small smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.
The cloth covering the air rip fell aside. And nothing happened.
"Wh..." Miroku lowered his hand, turning it over to stare at it. Sesshomaru slowly walked towards him, catching his wrist in a painful grip.
"The curse?" Miroku looked up at the youkai in confusion.
Tracing a single claw up Miroku's palm from fingertip to wrist, Sesshomaru paused. "It is not gone - it still marks your line. However, curses do not last after death."
The monk stared at his unblemished palm, eyes wide in his disbelief. He was shaking. "Death? I'm... dead?"
Sesshomaru shook his head slightly. "Not precisely." He let go of Miroku's wrist, reaching up to lightly brush his fingers along the fragile skin of the human's cheek.
Startled, Miroku looked back up, flinching away from the unexpected touch. "What am I then?"
A pause, then a smile. "...mine." The word was practically a whisper as Sesshomaru pressed his lips to Miroku's, sealing away his muffled protest. Clawed fingers dragged their way through his hair, tangled slightly from sleep, plucking out the small tie that kept it back.
Miroku's eyes went wide, his body still with shock as the youkai kissed him, gently but firmly, his tongue teasing at his lips. He reached up, to grab at Sesshomaru's shoulders, tried to push him away, and mostly tried to ignore the way his stomach dropped and his eyes wanted to slide shut.
Sesshomaru's hands slid down his body, to his waist, lifting slightly. Miroku found himself being carried across the room, back to the futon, and though he tried to stop the youkai, to twist out of his arms, Sesshomaru's grip was too strong to be broken. Sesshomaru lowered him to the futon, catching his wrists and pulling them over his head in one taloned hand.
Miroku lay still, glaring up at the youkai, tense, testing his grip, but finding it depressingly secure. Sesshomaru smiled predatorily, gold eyes flashing as he leaned down to claim Miroku's lips once again.
Miroku closed his eyes, feeling his lips tingle slightly as the youkai scraped them with his teeth, coaxing them apart, burying his free hand in Miroku's hair.
The youkai's body pressed against his, and Miroku shivered involuntarily, feeling the other man's warmth seep into him. Sesshomaru's tongue flicked into his mouth, and Miroku could feel himself hesitantly responding, closing his eyes. He felt himself being absorbed into the kiss, even though he tried not to, tried to focus on anything but the youkai's persuasive lips. It had been damned long since anyone had touched him in this way, and he couldn't help but relish it.
He almost didn't notice Sesshomaru's fingers slipping down his neck, over his shoulder, down to his chest to tug at his robes. And by the time he did notice it, he had stopped caring.
--==--
Miroku lay, pulled up uncomfortably close against a dozing Sesshomaru, feeling vaguely ill and having trouble breathing past the suspiciously large knot in his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the smell of the youkai, light and strangely reminiscent of plum blossoms. Trying not to feel the clawed fingertips that rested lightly on the back of his neck, tangled in sweat-soaked hair, or the shivers of pleasure that still ran through his body.
He was, quite unfortunately, screwed.
He was also exhausted. The youkai was a demanding lover. But the peace of dreaming eluded him.
How the hell had he gotten himself into this? He tightened his hand experimentally, letting his fingertips brush across the extraordinarily sensitive skin there. He felt strangely unbalanced, as if he had lost an extremely important part of himself.
Sesshomaru sighed, shifting in his sleep. Miroku looked up at him, watching the shadows play over his face. He was almost supernaturally beautiful. Sleeping like this he looked terribly innocent. Miroku lifted his hand, trailed his fingers along the crimson markings on the youkai's face.
'Mine,' Sesshomaru had called him. Miroku turned that over in his mind, the jagged edges of the thought scraping at him, irritating him. What could the youkai possibly mean by that statement?
He grimaced, remembering exactly where he was, naked in the youkai's arms. It was pretty obvious, at least in part, what Sesshomaru had meant. He had to wonder, however, if all the demon wanted was a plaything. If that was so, why was he chosen of all people?
Miroku dropped his hand, tracing the thin, faint line of a scar that crossed Sesshomaru's chest. He remembered that wound. It was the one he had tended. It had been sickeningly large, when he had seen it even his battle-hardened stomach had dropped. It was a miracle that Sesshomaru had survived it. Even with his treatment and the youkai's healing powers, there remained tangible evidence of the cut, a slight jagged interruption of the smooth skin.
There were other scars too, some recent, some thicker than the one his fingers rested on, some fading almost completely into the skin around them. The scars threaded around each other, weaving a story of battle, of hardship and pain.
Miroku could feel Sesshomaru's heart beating under his fingers, slow and soothing. He pressed his whole hand to the youkai's chest, as if he could capture that heartbeat, take it inside himself. He could feel sleep pulling at him as he slid closer to Sesshomaru, pressing his lips in a faint kiss to his chest. He sighed, suddenly exhausted, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on Sesshomaru's arm, finally able to relax into sleep.
--==--
The next morning, Miroku woke up alone. Light shone into the room from the paper doorways, making the room glow warmly. Miroku sat up, blinking, for a moment forgetting what he was doing there. When he finally remembered, he felt the blush rising on his cheeks. Suddenly, he felt quite vulnerable. Glancing around the room, to make sure he was alone, he got up, looking for his clothes.
They had been taken. Another robe had been left, folded neatly beside the futon. Miroku picked them up, silently appraising the light fabric. It was dyed a deep crimson that shimmered faintly, and trimming the sleeves was a pattern that he recognized, small sakura blossoms outlined in white. It was the mirror image of the patterns on Sesshomaru's robe, the colors inverted.
It was a mark of ownership, subtle, but there nonetheless. He sighed, slipping the outfit on, the silk of the robe molding to his frame. He looked down at himself and grimaced at the way the fabric draped - it accentuated his already rather slight form. Irritably pushing his still-loose hair back, he reflected with an ironic smile, that if he was going to play the role of a concubine, he might as well look the part.
Dressed, he cautiously poked his head out of the room, glancing around. The hall was suspiciously deserted, and the only sounds he had heard all morning were those he had made himself. He wandered through the halls, getting himself quite thoroughly lost and not caring one whit, intent instead on taking in his surroundings. Several times he whistled lowly between his teeth. He knew lords of the land that would absolutely kill for this place.
It was simple but lush. One might even call it sparse if it weren't for the quality of the craftsmanship, the expense of the materials used in what simple furnishings and decorations there were. Several times Miroku had to resist the natural urge to slip a statue or other trinket into his pocket.
His awed inspection of the palace was interrupted by the sound of running feet, a child's shriek - though whether it was of laughter or fright, he couldn't tell. He barely had time to register a whirl of blue robes, large chestnut eyes full of mischief, and short, unkempt hair, before the child ran straight into him, knocking him back a step. He blinked at the young girl who stared up at him from the ground in surprise.
"Rin! You come back here right this instant!" the highly irritated voice grated along his nerves, and Miroku's eyes narrowed as Sesshomaru's servant lurched around the corner.