Resurrection of a Monk II
folder
InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
4,620
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
4,620
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Chapter 1
© Salome Wilde, 2008
Resurrection of a Monk II
Chapter 1
“Why do you think she’s upset with you, Miroku?” Kagome snapped, a flash of fury and concern in her big brown eyes. “You haven’t paid attention to her in weeks. And now she’s crying. You took her up on the offer to ride alone on Kirara’s back together to see that beautiful sunset, and she says you never said a word and didn’t even try to grope her! All you do lately is mope. If you’re not sick, what the hell is wrong with you, monk?”
Miroku shrugged. He hadn’t realized his apathy was so obvious. But then, he could not be bothered to realize it. Shrugging was becoming a habitual gesture since he’d returned to his companions after his time with Sesshomaru. He slept little, could not concentrate, and fought, when he must, with adequate stamina and passable skill but in a dream-state. After, he found himself unable to recall the details as the others rehashed the battle at the campfire or over sumptuous meals he barely ate and when eaten scarcely tasted.
So, now Kagome was piercing his trance-like haze with her determined young voice to invoke guilt in him for doing wrong by Sango. It was not a route that would succeed. He had been doing Sango wrong since he first began their hollow flirtation, he was coming to realize. That combination of female flesh-fondling and panicked attempt to father a child was a grotesque effort to stem the knowledge that his desires ran in an entirely oppositional direction. As was becoming clear to his confused mind and tortured heart, he wanted to surrender himself to the rough caresses of another in a childlike devotion to one who could claim and own him fully. He wanted Sesshomaru.
Under the guise of meditation—and, in truth, it was a sort of blank-mind contemplation—he now often sat alone under the stars and invoked the name of his one true master. Yes, when he had first come back to his friends, he had rejoiced in their generous affection, the warmth that flowed from them at his safe return: the embrace of Kagome, the warm eyes of Sango, the trill of Kirara, the cheer of Shippo, the ridiculous scoff of Inuyasha. His body ached from the harsh use Sesshomaru had given it, and he allowed this pain to drive him toward his comrades, toward the healing of those who treated him as their equal, who cherished his place in their lives, each in their own way.
He threw himself into daily life again, into the quest for the jewel shards, the defeat of Naraku, the pleasures of picnics and conversation and hope for the future. But soon, far sooner than he ever would have imagined, he had fallen into depression and then into a numbness whose only escape was when he was wounded in battle. Suffering the pain of scratches, sprains, and burns in secret satisfaction, Miroku felt alive again.
Second to longed-for injuries was waiting for Inuyasha to declare that he sensed his half-brother nearby. Miroku held no illusions that the daiyokai would come to him or want him back. That he would not suffer his presence a moment seemed likely. He had offered to serve with his life when Lord Sesshomaru had rescued him from death, but like a fool he had become frightened at his subservience once his memory had returned and had twisted this into disgust. What is new to us is so often threatening, he mused. If we would only take the time to know ourselves before we act. At first, Miroku felt shame as he remembered the feel of his lips upon Sesshomaru’s slippers, of being taken on his hands and knees, of long-clawed nails digging into his yielding flesh. But now he cherished the memories and craved even more. Though he knew he was no longer the man Sesshomaru had mastered for that brief moment in time, neither was he the confident, lecherous monk of only a moon’s cycle ago.
When his sullen silence at last drove Kagome away, with a sound of disgust trailing behind her into the darkness, he returned to his meditation. Let them all fall away, return to their lives of contentment in their quest, of friendship without qualification, of confidence in their abilities, of faith in their place in the world. They belonged to each other, and he no longer belonged to them. Sesshomaru had marked him with more than his sword, his claws, and his cock. He had marked the monk with his indomitable will, and Miroku’s remembrance of that will, pouring forth from the height of those molten eyes as he knelt before his perfect master, shone brighter than the heavens on this full-moon night. “Come, Sesshomaru-sama,” he mouthed. “Reclaim me and let me live again.”
Resurrection of a Monk II
Chapter 1
“Why do you think she’s upset with you, Miroku?” Kagome snapped, a flash of fury and concern in her big brown eyes. “You haven’t paid attention to her in weeks. And now she’s crying. You took her up on the offer to ride alone on Kirara’s back together to see that beautiful sunset, and she says you never said a word and didn’t even try to grope her! All you do lately is mope. If you’re not sick, what the hell is wrong with you, monk?”
Miroku shrugged. He hadn’t realized his apathy was so obvious. But then, he could not be bothered to realize it. Shrugging was becoming a habitual gesture since he’d returned to his companions after his time with Sesshomaru. He slept little, could not concentrate, and fought, when he must, with adequate stamina and passable skill but in a dream-state. After, he found himself unable to recall the details as the others rehashed the battle at the campfire or over sumptuous meals he barely ate and when eaten scarcely tasted.
So, now Kagome was piercing his trance-like haze with her determined young voice to invoke guilt in him for doing wrong by Sango. It was not a route that would succeed. He had been doing Sango wrong since he first began their hollow flirtation, he was coming to realize. That combination of female flesh-fondling and panicked attempt to father a child was a grotesque effort to stem the knowledge that his desires ran in an entirely oppositional direction. As was becoming clear to his confused mind and tortured heart, he wanted to surrender himself to the rough caresses of another in a childlike devotion to one who could claim and own him fully. He wanted Sesshomaru.
Under the guise of meditation—and, in truth, it was a sort of blank-mind contemplation—he now often sat alone under the stars and invoked the name of his one true master. Yes, when he had first come back to his friends, he had rejoiced in their generous affection, the warmth that flowed from them at his safe return: the embrace of Kagome, the warm eyes of Sango, the trill of Kirara, the cheer of Shippo, the ridiculous scoff of Inuyasha. His body ached from the harsh use Sesshomaru had given it, and he allowed this pain to drive him toward his comrades, toward the healing of those who treated him as their equal, who cherished his place in their lives, each in their own way.
He threw himself into daily life again, into the quest for the jewel shards, the defeat of Naraku, the pleasures of picnics and conversation and hope for the future. But soon, far sooner than he ever would have imagined, he had fallen into depression and then into a numbness whose only escape was when he was wounded in battle. Suffering the pain of scratches, sprains, and burns in secret satisfaction, Miroku felt alive again.
Second to longed-for injuries was waiting for Inuyasha to declare that he sensed his half-brother nearby. Miroku held no illusions that the daiyokai would come to him or want him back. That he would not suffer his presence a moment seemed likely. He had offered to serve with his life when Lord Sesshomaru had rescued him from death, but like a fool he had become frightened at his subservience once his memory had returned and had twisted this into disgust. What is new to us is so often threatening, he mused. If we would only take the time to know ourselves before we act. At first, Miroku felt shame as he remembered the feel of his lips upon Sesshomaru’s slippers, of being taken on his hands and knees, of long-clawed nails digging into his yielding flesh. But now he cherished the memories and craved even more. Though he knew he was no longer the man Sesshomaru had mastered for that brief moment in time, neither was he the confident, lecherous monk of only a moon’s cycle ago.
When his sullen silence at last drove Kagome away, with a sound of disgust trailing behind her into the darkness, he returned to his meditation. Let them all fall away, return to their lives of contentment in their quest, of friendship without qualification, of confidence in their abilities, of faith in their place in the world. They belonged to each other, and he no longer belonged to them. Sesshomaru had marked him with more than his sword, his claws, and his cock. He had marked the monk with his indomitable will, and Miroku’s remembrance of that will, pouring forth from the height of those molten eyes as he knelt before his perfect master, shone brighter than the heavens on this full-moon night. “Come, Sesshomaru-sama,” he mouthed. “Reclaim me and let me live again.”