Fandom: Inuyasha
Title: The Road From Thebes
Pairing: Sesshoumaru/Izayoi
Summary: Even things forbidden can taste bitter. Post-death of Inu Taisho.
Warnings: Sexual situations, though I pretend to be high-minded about it. Contains light bondage, light sadism, pseudo-non-con, pseudo-incest, and general psychological fucked-upness.
Author's Notes: Will make a little more sense if you've read Oedipus Rex. Written about a year ago, now slightly brushed up and polished.


Just a boy, just a boy, she thinks, and he looks so like his father.

Sesshoumaru feels like his father did as well, all muscle and sinew and bones of iron beneath cold hard satin skin, but not so much like him that she can be entirely fooled. He is still the son. She did not bring this one out of her body, but there is still a compulsion to return him there, to fold him up and pull him in.

She likes him underneath - her body, her skin, her life, she likes him everywhere - and he doesn't seem to care. It doesn't matter, since she always demands him without asking. He submits without protest, as though he has no choice.

Maybe he simply wants to be just like daddy, as all boys do.


It is tragically amusing to her that he could break the bonds she uses, and yet he never does. And she will never ask him why, because he's too perfect like this, too beautiful to touch, too strong to be bound.

She binds him, she touches him. It is perfect, and yet it is not, because he's not the one she's looking for.

That one is gone.


He is always quiet, and tonight it is no different. Full of pride, stripped naked, wrists to ankles, he kneels and waits for her to slide up his body and around his heart - though she'll never have it - waits for her to take what she wants. Bound and haughty, he's just a sullen, stubborn boy; he won't move toward her, even though he wants it, too.

Beneath her gaze he quivers, just a little.

Izayoi smiles.

He looks sixteen but his eyes speak differently as they watch her advance. Beneath the aching slide of her tongue over his jaw he tastes like fire and blood. He tastes like a plague; like a disease he consumes her without moving, and as she wraps her legs around him and feels the jagged edge of his breathing against her throat, she threads her fingers into his hair, pulls him back.

Always, always, before she begins to move, she whispers in his ear. Hot breath washing over his skin, murmuring about how nice he feels, thanking him for being a good boy, telling him how much he looks like his father, how his father would be proud, and he says nothing.

He pants against her.

Want me, she thinks.

Without words he tells her that he does.

Then she nudges her hips against his, catches the tip of his ear lightly between her teeth, and he growls into her bones.

Love me, she thinks.

He doesn't even have to tell her, with words or without, that he doesn't.

In the end, the things she reaches for are reachless.

And roads always go both ways, but he shifts inside and it is too late to turn back, so she reaches anyway.

Together they fuck hard. They fuck inside riddles, inside a curtain of black and silver hair, inside greedy fingertips on cold skin and he bites her lip and sucks her blood and she hisses against his mouth. Sliding, slipping, hard and fast, each moving helplessly against the other, she knows that she has lost again. She can hear the chorus sing the curtain down.

Izayoi, lost where he left her, throws her head back, wants to die, and she can feel his fangs, oh, sharp, as he suckles at her breast, like a babe in the rain, like the place where three roads meet.

She comes violently, and thinks of Laius dead.