Author's Note 1: Let me start off by saying that I know for a fact that this story has been done many, many times before. In fact, it has been done so spectacularly well in Personification of Fluff's "Landslide," my favorite one-shot of hers, that no other author should even attempt a retread. But I'm doing it anyway. Mine is a little different. For one thing, it's not so fluffy. Second, the tight spot is a lot tighter. In fact, I would say this story was more influenced by Stephen King's Gerald's Game than any of the other "tight spot" fics out there. (I seem to mention him a lot in my AN's, but GG is my favorite book of his. Let me just say of it that if I ever had any spark of interest in bondage games, that book effectively extinguished it, stamped it out, and salted the earth from which any further curiosity about it could come. But I digress.) I wonder what it says about me that I go back to do what's been done again and again. Sometimes I worry. But who cares, so long as I'm at least entertaining myself. :)


Discomfort

By Starzki

Chapter 1: In Position Imposition

(grrr)

Miroku and Sango's positions wouldn't have appeared all that uncomfortable to the casual observer, had there been anyone around to casually observe them.

Which there wasn't.

It would have been nearly impossible to see the pair underneath their imprisoning blanket of vegetation, anyway.

But, had this hypothetical casual observer been able to see them, he or she might have even thought that the two looked rather cozy.

But this hypothetical casual observer, not hypothetically having the necessary empathetic abilities to actually feel what they were feeling, would have been wrong, anyway. The two, even unconscious, were, in fact, very uncomfortable.

Miroku had landed on his back and Sango had landed on top of him as the serpentine vines, animated by the cruel magic of the forest witch they had crossed, had knocked them off of their feet and effectively buried the unconscious duo under a complicated matrix of undergrowth.

Perhaps more should be done to describe the previously possessed plant life that trapped our cozy-looking couple since the casual observer, being purely hypothetical, would be an unreliable source from which to get such information.

Perhaps the hypothetical casual observer should be disregarded entirely, since he or she was only good for describing Miroku and Sango as appearing not at all uncomfortable.

Which, as has already been discussed, was an inaccurate description of them.

Anyway, the forest witch had seen to it that the plants she used to fight her opponents were as unforgiving as possible. None of the vines, roots, branches, or other plants or parts of plants that she used as her weapons had the cushion of leaves or moss or other greenery. She liked to use plants that consisted of solid wood and sharp bark in order to deal out the most injury to her foes. Branches and roots with bends and knots were especially sought by the witch for the reliable damage they could do on the human body. Or in this case, bodies.

Flat on his back on the ground, Miroku could have very possibly been comfortable if not for the tree root that had ripped through his thick robes and was now nestled neatly between the his ribs of his lower right back. His skin was unbroken, but even unconscious, his body clenched and spasmed around the root in an attempt to dislodge it. His normally serene deep breathing was interrupted with hitches in his diaphragm and intercostal muscles as they tried to accommodate the intruding annoyance. Sango's weight on top of him was not helping his breathing at all, either.

The back of his head was slightly elevated by a mound of dirt. If he was awake and could open his eyes, he would be able to see the top on Sango's head as it laid on his chest. Unfortunately, a hard and biting part of a tree or shrub had pinned his head down tightly. He would not be able to so much as nod or give the slightest shake of his head.

Trapped to the right, the left, and from above by the vines, roots, and other ugly undergrowth of the forest, Miroku could not move his shoulders, arms or legs. Only the slightest shifts, mere millimeters, were possible and would ultimately be futile. The monk, if awake, would have the most movement in his fingers and toes. The relative weakness of those digits when compared to the aged strength of the forest growth would do nothing to help either Sango or himself from that predicament.

As uncomfortable as Miroku was, Sango was infinitely worse off. Miroku had landed on his back, legs straight and relaxed as they stretched out. Sango, even unconscious felt twisted and mangled by the encounter with the forest witch.

True, she had been slightly cushioned in the fall by landing partly on Miroku, but the tangle of vegetation had caught a few of her limbs before becoming the unmovable bars of their unique prison.

Sango's head was positioned squarely on Miroku's chest. Her right ear pressed into the spot directly over his heart. Roots and vines pressed into her head and neck would keep her head in this exact place, allowing for no movement away from Miroku. Awake, she would only be allowed the smallest twitches downward, into the monk.

Although trapped and if conscious, Sango would barely complain about the position of her head in comparison to the rest of her. Her new pillow was soft and very warm. Likewise, she would not, if she weren't knocked out, complain about the position of her right leg. It had fallen straight along the outside of Miroku's left leg and was pleasantly relaxed in her head-trauma-induced stupor.

Unfortunately, the rest of Sango was twisted and stretched to the very limits of her flexibility. The animated vines and roots had encircled her left leg and pulled it back and away from the rest of her body. While her hips lay flat, pressed around Miroku's left thigh, her left leg was bent back to a severe angle away from the ground. Furthermore, while the viselike grip of the cemented weeds held her left thigh straight back away from her, more frozen vegetation twisted her knee to bring up her shin and leg to point toward her head and away, to her left. The effect was that while some roots and branches pinned most of her flat atop of the monk, others seemingly were trying to twist her left leg off at either the hip or knee. She had been at the point just before pain when the plants had stopped moving.

The suffocating vegetation had trapped Sango's right arm, too. Like her left leg, her arm was twisted out and behind her at the shoulder. Her arm was extended straight at the elbow. In her fall, as her right arm had flailed in order to attempt the last catch of the hiraikotsu, her body had fallen forward, pulled by Miroku in his attempt to shield her from the onslaught. Her straight arm was at the midpoint between straight up and straight out from her shoulder, bent up and behind her.

Sango's left arm had drawn itself around Miroku as he had grabbed her. Trapped underneath his body, just under his right flank, Sango's hand had twisted, her palm pressed into the ground by Miroku, who was, in turn, being pressed by her. If she had been conscious, Sango would have been able to feel the folds and weave of Miroku's robes pressed into the back of her hand. But, to describe her state of awareness one last time, she wasn't awake to be cognizant of the monk's robes or anything else around her.

Miroku, however, was beginning to wake. The first thing he was aware of was the great, ugly root burrowing into his back. Wincing at the pain, he tried to stir and found that he could not. Dizzying memories of his last seconds of consciousness came back to him and his eyes shot open in alarm. His first concern was for Sango. Taking stock of his surroundings, he was immediately aware of the unusual warmth pressed into his chest and along his torso, down his left leg. Straining his eyes downward and peering through the filtered forest light and shadows created by the moved and oppressive plant life, he saw the top of Sango's head and an abbreviated view of her brow, eyes, nose, mouth and chin.

The steady rhythm of her breathing against the left part of his abdomen assured him that she was still alive. He didn't know if she was injured.

"Sango," he whispered, trying to shift and rouse her. Although the muscles in his body contracted painfully and shuddered with effort, his movements did not sway even the wisp of hair that played along the bridge of her nose.

"Sango," he said, louder. The demon hunter did not stir at his words. Miroku felt himself begin to panic. He wanted to touch her face and get her to wake up. His right arm seemed within inches of being able to accomplish this feat. While Miroku's right bicep laid along the ground and at a right angle to the rest of his body, his elbow was fully bent, his right hand tucked up nearly under his armpit, the fingers of his right hand extended down the wall of his chest. There was slight movement allowed of his right hand and wrist by the plants in a small space under the unusual blanket that confined him. However, attempts to reach Sango's face were thwarted by the prayer beads that were snagged on an inconvenient knot in the root holding down his wrist.

"Sango!" Miroku tried for a third time, increasing the volume of his voice. This tactic seemed to work. Miroku felt the tiniest contractions of muscle movement against his length as Sango struggled to pull herself into consciousness.

"Houshi-sama?" she asked groggily.

"Are you okay, Sango?" Miroku questioned with concern in his voice.

"My leg…"

"What's wrong?"

"It's okay, I think. I'm just uncomfortable. The forest witch?"

"She must have gotten away," Miroku answered.

Sango grunted in exasperation. She strained and tried to move or shift without any success.

"How about you? Are you okay, Houshi-sama?"

"Yes, for the most part."

"Houshi-sama?"

"Yes, Sango?"

"Where is your hand?"

"Right here by my side."

"I mean your other hand," she seethed at him, angry gravel in her voice.

It appeared that when he grabbed Sango near to help her fight off the onslaught of possessed plants, he had inadvertently grabbed his favorite part of her. And now his hand was pinned unmercifully to her rump by the matrix of iron-like vegetation. He couldn't move it away no matter how hard he tried.

TO BE CONTINUED


AN 2: Well, I guess that's that in terms of the set up for the rest of the story. I promised myself that I would never do another multi-chapter fic unless I had written the whole thing out. Now I'm even lying to myself. But the whole story is planned out, at least. But I can't make any promises about the regularity of updates. I'll get to them when I can.

The perspective in this chapter was a little wonky, but terrific fun to write. It'll be more normal next chapter. Thoughts? Reactions? Suggestions? Anyone?