Tortured Heart
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InuYasha › General › DarkFic
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Adult
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Category:
InuYasha › General › DarkFic
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,827
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Tortured Heart
© Salome Wilde, 2008
Author's Note: Originally written for iy-wiltedrose, a Kikyou LJ contest community, for their "Abuse" prompt. It is a oneshot, not a fully fleshed out story. Just to give a mood and a moment, ideally with some dark power and impact on the reader. Let me know what you think.
Tortured Heart
Kikyou hangs, limbs spread wide and head down, from Naraku’s thick, foul-smelling webbing. His tentacles wave and twitch behind his back as he crouches before her. Her soulbringers fly around the room in sensuous loops. He has not paralyzed her this time; he wants her alert. Her garments display the rips and tears that give evidence of his sadistic whims—and also their limits: he has neither made her bleed nor stripped her bare and forced himself upon and inside her. He is not beyond these desires, but it is her will, even more than her body, that he seeks to ruin. He cannot dismiss from his mind the image of her grasping the inuhanyou to bring him to hell with her. Their embrace burns behind his eyes. Coming upon such a sight when his thoughts were already overfull of the grotesque love of weak Onigumo’s heart brought not merely shock but outrage. She defied him in life, in death, and now in reanimated unlife. He is determined: in whatever form, she does not belong to Inuyasha—and never will.
Thus far, he has summoned her, commanded her obedience, threatened her existence, even denied and ignored her. Nothing has given him what he seeks: freedom from her hold on the fragment of Onigumo that festers within him. So, now she dangles from his web, smelling of both insolence and apathy. But he will make her face the truth. Perhaps then, and only then, will he be able to escape his need of her. His dreams of her. His nightmares.
From the corner of his eye, he sees the neatly folded robes that mirror the tattered array the miko now wears. Always in his chamber sit these fresh, crisp garments that he forces his Kagura to don before he takes her…nightly. How many times has he rent them from his offspring’s grossly insufficient and self-smelling body? How many times has he sworn he will not do so again? It never satisfies, never can. Nor, of course, could the body of this Kikyou of bone and clay suspended before him. This creature is Kikyou but not Kikyou, just as he is that feeble sliver of Onigumo and yet so very much not Onigumo. If not for the desire he still holds for the long-dead miko, he would be rid of that fragment of his past identity for good.
His strategy now is clear. She will be forced to acknowledge her responsibility for his suffering and will face their bond. Then, she will either yield her existence or attempt to end his. Either will suffice. Not having to face this shell of the Kikyou with her scent and touch of mortality will give him ease. Likewise, facing a fiery miko who will direct her flames at him rather than the worthless Inuyasha will stir and please him. Provoking, coercing: something will work. It must.
As yet, she has quietly withstood his tempered violence. She neither writhes in her bonds nor condemns in word or gaze. Oh, her apathy drives him mad; it is lethal to his objectives. She must not have this power. He begins. “We are not so very different, you and I,” he coos, a smile beginning in his glowing red eyes. “We both deplore human frailty, both defy death and exist by feeding on the souls of others. Mortal pleasures offer pale comfort, and the prize we seek is beyond our power. And yes, Kikyou, you do seek power…to rid yourself of the hatred and jealousy you feel for your reincarnation and that pathetic white-haired mutt. You judge me, just as you have always done; such an easy route to denying how much we share. You are as much a monster as I—perhaps moreso—because I own the depth of my hatreds and the breadth of my cravings. Can you face and claim your own?”
He watches as Kikyou raises her head and her eyes meet his. They are dull, earthen, impassive. She is attempting to misdirect him, but she cannot. He sees her slender hands, bound at the wrist, balling into fists. His smile stretches and becomes a triumphant laugh. He cannot say where the dance will end, but it has begun.
Author's Note: Originally written for iy-wiltedrose, a Kikyou LJ contest community, for their "Abuse" prompt. It is a oneshot, not a fully fleshed out story. Just to give a mood and a moment, ideally with some dark power and impact on the reader. Let me know what you think.
Tortured Heart
Kikyou hangs, limbs spread wide and head down, from Naraku’s thick, foul-smelling webbing. His tentacles wave and twitch behind his back as he crouches before her. Her soulbringers fly around the room in sensuous loops. He has not paralyzed her this time; he wants her alert. Her garments display the rips and tears that give evidence of his sadistic whims—and also their limits: he has neither made her bleed nor stripped her bare and forced himself upon and inside her. He is not beyond these desires, but it is her will, even more than her body, that he seeks to ruin. He cannot dismiss from his mind the image of her grasping the inuhanyou to bring him to hell with her. Their embrace burns behind his eyes. Coming upon such a sight when his thoughts were already overfull of the grotesque love of weak Onigumo’s heart brought not merely shock but outrage. She defied him in life, in death, and now in reanimated unlife. He is determined: in whatever form, she does not belong to Inuyasha—and never will.
Thus far, he has summoned her, commanded her obedience, threatened her existence, even denied and ignored her. Nothing has given him what he seeks: freedom from her hold on the fragment of Onigumo that festers within him. So, now she dangles from his web, smelling of both insolence and apathy. But he will make her face the truth. Perhaps then, and only then, will he be able to escape his need of her. His dreams of her. His nightmares.
From the corner of his eye, he sees the neatly folded robes that mirror the tattered array the miko now wears. Always in his chamber sit these fresh, crisp garments that he forces his Kagura to don before he takes her…nightly. How many times has he rent them from his offspring’s grossly insufficient and self-smelling body? How many times has he sworn he will not do so again? It never satisfies, never can. Nor, of course, could the body of this Kikyou of bone and clay suspended before him. This creature is Kikyou but not Kikyou, just as he is that feeble sliver of Onigumo and yet so very much not Onigumo. If not for the desire he still holds for the long-dead miko, he would be rid of that fragment of his past identity for good.
His strategy now is clear. She will be forced to acknowledge her responsibility for his suffering and will face their bond. Then, she will either yield her existence or attempt to end his. Either will suffice. Not having to face this shell of the Kikyou with her scent and touch of mortality will give him ease. Likewise, facing a fiery miko who will direct her flames at him rather than the worthless Inuyasha will stir and please him. Provoking, coercing: something will work. It must.
As yet, she has quietly withstood his tempered violence. She neither writhes in her bonds nor condemns in word or gaze. Oh, her apathy drives him mad; it is lethal to his objectives. She must not have this power. He begins. “We are not so very different, you and I,” he coos, a smile beginning in his glowing red eyes. “We both deplore human frailty, both defy death and exist by feeding on the souls of others. Mortal pleasures offer pale comfort, and the prize we seek is beyond our power. And yes, Kikyou, you do seek power…to rid yourself of the hatred and jealousy you feel for your reincarnation and that pathetic white-haired mutt. You judge me, just as you have always done; such an easy route to denying how much we share. You are as much a monster as I—perhaps moreso—because I own the depth of my hatreds and the breadth of my cravings. Can you face and claim your own?”
He watches as Kikyou raises her head and her eyes meet his. They are dull, earthen, impassive. She is attempting to misdirect him, but she cannot. He sees her slender hands, bound at the wrist, balling into fists. His smile stretches and becomes a triumphant laugh. He cannot say where the dance will end, but it has begun.