Ressurection of a Monk
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InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
6,732
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
6,732
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Chapter 5
© Salome Wilde, 2008
Resurrection of a Monk
Chapter 5
Long before the dawn, Miroku’s tears had dried and his voice was hoarse from crying out. He had been taken until nearly sunrise, when Sesshomaru had gone from abundant fluid reward to a final harsh, dry crest, and at last released him. After, the inuyokai had turned the monk around to have himself cleaned and soothed by his soft, servile mouth, then came to a sitting position, replacing his exhausted member into his robes. When finally allowed, Miroku simply collapsed where he was. Sesshomaru looked down at his well-used body: long scratches down his back, bite marks in his shoulder, claw marks in his hips. He already knew what his ravaged ass looked like. He had enjoyed watching himself ride the hapless slave. He would never have imagined the monk would be so pliant, so responsive, so resilient. Perhaps Tenseiga had at last proved its value.
Sesshomaru doubted that the poor monk had any idea the sun would be up in mere minutes. And that would be fine. Let him wake to a new day, unsuspecting a new life of service to his master’s inexhaustible appetites. Certainly, he could be punished well for his failure to rise and depart as he had been commanded. Sesshomaru—who was even tired himself after such energetic exploits, truth be told—allowed himself to shut his eyes and rest, too.
Miroku simply let himself breathe as his body fell to earth. His every muscle was screaming; his every nerve was shattered. Yet, striving toward prominence in his overwrought mind was the thought that he had served. He had brought Lord Sesshomaru pleasure. He had offered submission and, thereby, adoration. No word of praise for his part had been offered and none was needed. Words did not please his master; this much was clear. Magnifying the demon’s mastery and glory by remaining receptive, willing, obedient were what left him feeling worthy. Dawn was near, and he would depart. No matter how much physical pain it would cause him to rise and walk away, no matter how much emotional anguish, he would do it. This one final step would prove to Lord Sesshomaru the depth and manner of his adulation. He would not fail, even though it meant he would perhaps never see his god again. He let himself drift, determined to wake at the first sign of sunrise.
As day dawned, it was Miroku who awakened not Sesshomaru. His body still throbbing and screaming for rest, the monk forced himself, silently, into a sitting position. He would not wake his master. His head felt heavy; rising made him dizzy. He came to his knees and felt he might vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to stand. Reaching out his hand, he knew Sango would be there to steady him. Sango. And suddenly, it all came back.
Falling back to a sitting position, Miroku sifted through the thoughts that came not in pieces or in waves but whole, without gap. He had left his companions only two days ago, journeying alone, on a pilgrimage of sorts to the Uesugi Shrine. Several recent battles had forced him to use his wind tunnel more than he thought was safe. Yet, it had to be done. His companions were in need. He brought the images of Sango, Kagome, Inuyasha, Kirara, and Shippo to mind with ease. It was deeply reassuring just to be able to picture them all again. Yes, he had left them for a short trip, hoping he would find at the shrine its twin guardians, priestesses who were reported to have protective powers for the cursed. That they were also young and beautiful in appearance drew Miroku as well, though he did not admit that to his friends. He had no idea that Naraku would target him when he was alone, and the third use of his wind tunnel in only five days, plus the absorption of many saimyosho had devastated him. He remembered the feel of the poison taking effect and falling to the ground. Then, no more.
No more…until he had revived to find Sesshomaru standing before him. Sesshomaru! Lord Sesshomaru. His god and his master. His savior…was Sesshomaru. He looked over at the seated figure near him. His eyes were closed. He was majestic, imposing, even in sleep. How could Miroku reconcile the yokai he had come to worship with the creature he knew from deadly and futile battles with Inuyasha, the cold and distant lord who loathed humans and hanyo alike? He wanted to throw himself down and grovel at his feet: take the memories away, master; let me serve and fulfill you. And he wanted to run, as far and as fast as his broken body and torn mind could take him. He could no more face his companions than he could face Lord Sesshomaru. He drew himself to his feet with pain and forced his legs to carry him. The searing agony between his legs was the worst of it, for it ached as well as reminded him with every step of the man he had become only hours earlier for his indomitable demon god. Despite and through the pain, he walked, needing to put both Sesshomaru and his other self behind him.
“Monk,” came Sesshomaru’s voice, before he had gone half a dozen steps.
Miroku halted but did not turn. The impulse that halted him also enraged him, and his hands balled into fists.
Sesshomaru knew in that instant that the monk was his no longer. The momentary thought that he was leaving in obedience to his command vanished when he did not turn around when summoned. The clenched hands at his sides unnecessarily drove the point home. Sesshomaru narrowed his eyes in displeasure. He told himself he was relieved that any spoken discourse was now superfluous. He rose, ensured his swords were properly sheathed and held within his sash, and lifted into the air.
From behind him, Miroku spoke quietly and firmly: “Thank you for returning my life.” Even those few words were torture, for the idea of being beholden to Sesshomaru was repugnant to him. That his gratitude necessarily referenced acts of debasement so grotesque that he could not recognize himself in his own memory was certainly central to the pain. Though Miroku had come in the past months to treasure the company of likeminded companions and to appreciate their support, he was not one to surrender his pride. And it galled him that only minutes ago such a statement was untrue, false to his very soul. Only minutes ago that soul belonged to Sesshomaru. But he would think of this no more. Now was the time to leave, to return to his companions, those who knew him truly, who respected him as a partner in pursuit of the Shikon jewel, who valued his fighting skills, lamented his curse, and understood—even if they disparaged—his pursuit of women. Their company would soon return him to himself.
Sesshomaru did not remain to watch the monk’s retreat. His thanks were absurd. Either his life was forfeit, his fate Sesshomaru’s to determine, or it was not. His declaration of gratitude was a feeble attempt to deny the way he had that night given himself into Sesshomaru’s control, into servitude—and beyond. No, he did not want this Miroku, alive or dead. The monk he desired was neither of these things, neither alive nor dead. He simply did not exist. And Lord Sesshomaru had no time for fantasy. He soared through the sky. His solitude would soon return him to himself.
End
- - - -
Author’s Note: I like pausing here, as it seems right but also leaves open the possibility of revisiting the two at their next meeting. Will time let them forget, or will either or both still harbor unwanted desires for what their brief encounter made of them?
Resurrection of a Monk
Chapter 5
Long before the dawn, Miroku’s tears had dried and his voice was hoarse from crying out. He had been taken until nearly sunrise, when Sesshomaru had gone from abundant fluid reward to a final harsh, dry crest, and at last released him. After, the inuyokai had turned the monk around to have himself cleaned and soothed by his soft, servile mouth, then came to a sitting position, replacing his exhausted member into his robes. When finally allowed, Miroku simply collapsed where he was. Sesshomaru looked down at his well-used body: long scratches down his back, bite marks in his shoulder, claw marks in his hips. He already knew what his ravaged ass looked like. He had enjoyed watching himself ride the hapless slave. He would never have imagined the monk would be so pliant, so responsive, so resilient. Perhaps Tenseiga had at last proved its value.
Sesshomaru doubted that the poor monk had any idea the sun would be up in mere minutes. And that would be fine. Let him wake to a new day, unsuspecting a new life of service to his master’s inexhaustible appetites. Certainly, he could be punished well for his failure to rise and depart as he had been commanded. Sesshomaru—who was even tired himself after such energetic exploits, truth be told—allowed himself to shut his eyes and rest, too.
Miroku simply let himself breathe as his body fell to earth. His every muscle was screaming; his every nerve was shattered. Yet, striving toward prominence in his overwrought mind was the thought that he had served. He had brought Lord Sesshomaru pleasure. He had offered submission and, thereby, adoration. No word of praise for his part had been offered and none was needed. Words did not please his master; this much was clear. Magnifying the demon’s mastery and glory by remaining receptive, willing, obedient were what left him feeling worthy. Dawn was near, and he would depart. No matter how much physical pain it would cause him to rise and walk away, no matter how much emotional anguish, he would do it. This one final step would prove to Lord Sesshomaru the depth and manner of his adulation. He would not fail, even though it meant he would perhaps never see his god again. He let himself drift, determined to wake at the first sign of sunrise.
As day dawned, it was Miroku who awakened not Sesshomaru. His body still throbbing and screaming for rest, the monk forced himself, silently, into a sitting position. He would not wake his master. His head felt heavy; rising made him dizzy. He came to his knees and felt he might vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to stand. Reaching out his hand, he knew Sango would be there to steady him. Sango. And suddenly, it all came back.
Falling back to a sitting position, Miroku sifted through the thoughts that came not in pieces or in waves but whole, without gap. He had left his companions only two days ago, journeying alone, on a pilgrimage of sorts to the Uesugi Shrine. Several recent battles had forced him to use his wind tunnel more than he thought was safe. Yet, it had to be done. His companions were in need. He brought the images of Sango, Kagome, Inuyasha, Kirara, and Shippo to mind with ease. It was deeply reassuring just to be able to picture them all again. Yes, he had left them for a short trip, hoping he would find at the shrine its twin guardians, priestesses who were reported to have protective powers for the cursed. That they were also young and beautiful in appearance drew Miroku as well, though he did not admit that to his friends. He had no idea that Naraku would target him when he was alone, and the third use of his wind tunnel in only five days, plus the absorption of many saimyosho had devastated him. He remembered the feel of the poison taking effect and falling to the ground. Then, no more.
No more…until he had revived to find Sesshomaru standing before him. Sesshomaru! Lord Sesshomaru. His god and his master. His savior…was Sesshomaru. He looked over at the seated figure near him. His eyes were closed. He was majestic, imposing, even in sleep. How could Miroku reconcile the yokai he had come to worship with the creature he knew from deadly and futile battles with Inuyasha, the cold and distant lord who loathed humans and hanyo alike? He wanted to throw himself down and grovel at his feet: take the memories away, master; let me serve and fulfill you. And he wanted to run, as far and as fast as his broken body and torn mind could take him. He could no more face his companions than he could face Lord Sesshomaru. He drew himself to his feet with pain and forced his legs to carry him. The searing agony between his legs was the worst of it, for it ached as well as reminded him with every step of the man he had become only hours earlier for his indomitable demon god. Despite and through the pain, he walked, needing to put both Sesshomaru and his other self behind him.
“Monk,” came Sesshomaru’s voice, before he had gone half a dozen steps.
Miroku halted but did not turn. The impulse that halted him also enraged him, and his hands balled into fists.
Sesshomaru knew in that instant that the monk was his no longer. The momentary thought that he was leaving in obedience to his command vanished when he did not turn around when summoned. The clenched hands at his sides unnecessarily drove the point home. Sesshomaru narrowed his eyes in displeasure. He told himself he was relieved that any spoken discourse was now superfluous. He rose, ensured his swords were properly sheathed and held within his sash, and lifted into the air.
From behind him, Miroku spoke quietly and firmly: “Thank you for returning my life.” Even those few words were torture, for the idea of being beholden to Sesshomaru was repugnant to him. That his gratitude necessarily referenced acts of debasement so grotesque that he could not recognize himself in his own memory was certainly central to the pain. Though Miroku had come in the past months to treasure the company of likeminded companions and to appreciate their support, he was not one to surrender his pride. And it galled him that only minutes ago such a statement was untrue, false to his very soul. Only minutes ago that soul belonged to Sesshomaru. But he would think of this no more. Now was the time to leave, to return to his companions, those who knew him truly, who respected him as a partner in pursuit of the Shikon jewel, who valued his fighting skills, lamented his curse, and understood—even if they disparaged—his pursuit of women. Their company would soon return him to himself.
Sesshomaru did not remain to watch the monk’s retreat. His thanks were absurd. Either his life was forfeit, his fate Sesshomaru’s to determine, or it was not. His declaration of gratitude was a feeble attempt to deny the way he had that night given himself into Sesshomaru’s control, into servitude—and beyond. No, he did not want this Miroku, alive or dead. The monk he desired was neither of these things, neither alive nor dead. He simply did not exist. And Lord Sesshomaru had no time for fantasy. He soared through the sky. His solitude would soon return him to himself.
End
- - - -
Author’s Note: I like pausing here, as it seems right but also leaves open the possibility of revisiting the two at their next meeting. Will time let them forget, or will either or both still harbor unwanted desires for what their brief encounter made of them?