#narsan

[bubbelsworld]

[baddvstx-vsvp]

NarGed’ci olduğum çok mu belli.... 😍

[boomerangst]

enough to kill you

for @mirsan-week​ day 3: promise + red.

title: enough to kill you

summary: one of those ‘sango takes kohaku’s place’ canon divergence fics

relationships: mirsan, narsan

rating: t (contains major character death)

read on ao3

that’s right folks, it’s time to put the angst in boomerangst. 

so ready to be  d o n e  with this one it turned out so much longer than I planned ugh

[narkik]

title: much of the beautiful, something of the terrible

summary: “But where, meantime, was the soul?” [sango-centric, with shades of mirsan]

a/n: loosely based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe — specifically, “The Premature Burial” and “The Masque of the Red Death”, from which both the title & summary were taken. written for @sweetimo: i know you like horror, plus you’re the greatest. i hope you enjoy! :’)

It has been nearly ten years, but the dirt does not forget.

When she pushes in the bulbs of pale-fleshed lilies, soil clings to the rinds of her nails; when Miroku returns from his travels and kisses her deep at the door, the soles of his shoes are always sullied with dark. If their youngest tumbles in after a day of rolling in the fields with his friends, Sango bites back a scream at the stain of mud on the tile, crumbled and brown and painting memories of things that will never really leave.

It has been nearly ten years, but the dirt does not forget; more importantly, the dirt does not forgive.

.

Once, long ago, Sango danced with the plague. It had been an accident - she has never been interested in flirting with evil — but the dark is always clever and Sango is only human.

.

After their cat, Kirara, dies (forest; bug; poison in the bite) Miroku consoles the children’s tears by performing an entire funeral, complete with a little grave-marker and sermon, bidding Kirara a swift and safe journey to the bounty of Heaven, in God’s name we pray, amen. The twins push soil over the body and their brother crosses himself diligently; Miroku threads rosary beads between his fingers and kisses his children with all the love any father can muster.

From his side, Sango stares at the ground, anxious. The graveyard is getting loud again. Beneath her feet, the earth begins to sink, ever-so-slightly.

.

He had been hideous, beautiful; dangerous with every step. Sixteen years of girlhood ended that evening, from the moment he lifted his mask - which was shaped in the mockery of a burned, twisted man-corpse — to reveal a cruel, hollow face framed with inky hair that tangled into the curve of his hood.

“Who are you?” Sango had blurted. The manor was full of warriors and nobility, built by the fiercest men and protected by the best of blessings. It was constructed to double as a refuge from the plague, a safe-house of sorts, so that the noble families would not be touched by the vile curls of death which marked the neighboring lands. No one there should have been a stranger.

The man in red flashed his teeth — a sharp, sickening sort of gesture that made her hair stand on end and her blood numb with cold.

“Your brother let me in.” His voice was silk in the air. “And it’s a masquerade ball, love. You’re not supposed to know who I am.”

With that he moved as though to reach for her hand; instead, his gloved fingers furled around her wrist, not-so-gently tugging her closer.

“Come with me,” said the man, “won’t you?”

Repulsed, Sango tore away, taking his glove with her —

He had no hand. He had no arm either — yet, still, the curve of his sleeve stayed bent, held up by limbs that were not there.

Then there was smoke bleeding from his eyes; his laughter was full of disease. Sango remembers screaming, remembers everyone screaming, as the world fell dark with violet and bone.

.

Like everyone else in the manor, Sango contracts the plague that night. The illness is brutal and ugly but swift; she is buried in her family plot, right beside her brother and father and those of her blood. Her coffin is deep and snug in the earth, packed in with fistfuls of rock and worm. Finally, Sango has been laid to rest; now, she is at peace. She must be at peace.

There is no other alternative.

.

Winter bites a wound into Miroku’s palm - a slip on the ice, the scrabble of gloves, a pointed twist of iron hidden by snow. Upon seeing the wide yawn of broken skin, the dangling seams of sinew, Sango thinks, Jesus Christ.

Infection sinks into him. Pus curdles the blood. Time passes and flesh grows weaker, sicker.

(How can you be a pastor when you need both hands to pray?)

.

Sango remembers everything about waking up dead.

From the thick of shadow to the empty air to the screaming and sobbing and the splinters sinking beneath her nails as she worked to claw her way out — there is not one detail that isn’t crystal-clear, like the memory is still fresh and raw and not just some terrible incident which took place almost a decade ago.

The dirt is a greedy thing. It does not take well to those who try to escape.

.

“I don’t want you to die,” she sobs, choking on the gloom. Fire crackles and spits off an oil lamp; in the blush of its light, Miroku’s cheeks are sunken and pale.

“Sango,” he rasps, her name crumbling soft in his mouth.

Instinctively, Sango leans closer - careful to avoid the swollen, purple knot of nerves and bandages at the end of his wrist - straining to hear him past the fever. “Yes?” she asks, desperate.

Miroku presses his lips to her ear. Briefly, she closes her eyes, trying to preserve the moment.

“There is someone behind you,” says a voice that is not her husband.

Sango jerks away, frightened as she looks over her shoulder, looks about the room - but Miroku’s eyes are shut, even as he smiles.

.

The doctor pronounces her husband dead just before the clock chimes twelve.

.

Sango remembers everything about waking up alive.

The interior of her coffin is poorly-padded, and terribly uncomfortable; strangely enough, Sango has been put to rest on her side, placed so that the rich, thick velvet moulded with the dark and crushed her nose. Once it dawns on her where she is, panic becomes marrow as her memories scramble to remember how she’d gotten here.

Miroku had died. But she had not (though doesn’t recall falling asleep). Then why —

Abruptly paralyzed with realization, Sango forces herself to twist her neck, to press her fingers behind her, making out the shape of shoulders, touching the whispers of skin, finally coming to rest on the crinkled, blood-encrusted bandages at the end of a stumpy wrist.

Just as fast, she feels fingers taptaptapping up her spine. The space is suddenly too small for a scream; quite sensibly, the shadows seem to stuff her lungs (Can’t have her waking up the dead now, can we?), rendering Sango breathless.

“Your husband let me in,” says something (someone) that is not Miroku, but is using his touch, “And you’ve been declared dead, love. You aren’t supposed to know who I am.”

.

Up above, the dirt is content. It has her back, now. It will not allow her to escape again; it will learn from its mistakes.

The dirt does not forget.

.

.

.

[buckee]

i really want to read smut narsan, do you have some fics you can rec?

uh, i don’t have any /smut/ recs specifically, but i do have narsan fic recs!

@scribefigaro wrote me an amAZING narsan fic for inuyasha secret santa this year !!! :’) it’s called Before the Sunrise and i highly recommend it, it’s my New Favorite Thing

last year, @thequeenwillruletheboard wrote me a fic for mirosanta that had narsan in it!!! it was called Triumph and it was a jessica jones au :’)

Hitchhiker is the fic that got me into narsan and is probably one of my favorite fics of all time tbh!!! i adore narsan on the road heh (read this one if you liked ‘Before the Sunrise’!!!)

Abrasions is really good, but it’s also vERY dark and violent, so if that’s not your thing then i’d skip this one :’)

Deprived is another fic that got me into the ship!! it’s beautifully written and another fave of mine

Free Fall is short & really, really good. again, i wouldn’t rec it if #darkfic isn’t for you

There Once Was a Girl is probably one of the best canon-divergent fics ever??? it also provides a vERY interesting HC about why naraku keeps kohaku around for so long :’) i love it

as a side note: my first inuyasha fic was a narsan fic, actually – if you’re interested, it was called things you let go in order to live, and is one of my favorite things i’ve ever written tbh

i hope this helps anon !!! narsan is one of the best ships tbh.. have fun reading ;))

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