In the House of Lies

BY : antilogicgirl
Category: Descendents of Darkness/Yami No Matsuei > General
Dragon prints: 1792
Disclaimer: I do not own Descendants of Darkness (Yami no Matsuei), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: In the House of Lies
Author: antilogicgirl
Series: Yami no Matsuei/Descendants of Darkness
Inspirational Music: Massive Attack’s “Mezzanine” album, and Lacuna Coil’s “Comalies” album.

Spoiler Warning: Spoilers for some parts of volumes 10 and 11 of the Manga (my take on the Kamakura arc, and ignoring some parts, too).

Summary: In a house built on sin, Tatsumi and Watari find a decaying family. The truths they will find there, buried beneath layers of falsehood and secrets will be infinitely more unpleasant than any of the lies that Hisoka’s father told him.


A/N: Hi, guys. I know I should be working on many other things right now, but after I finished reading what I have of the Yami no Matsuei Manga, I really felt dissatisfied with the way it was just left to dangle there right in the middle of two very large and converging plotlines. Surely, I’m not the only one…right? Well, you might not agree with the way I have chosen to pursue the plot on my own, and the way I completely ignore some things. But you know, that’s what fanfiction is all about, right? Anyway…


Heavy Yaoi, sexual situation, masturbation
Sup--Supernatural, spirit possession


Prelude: See No Evil

How many times, as a small boy, had he shut his eyes, closing out one darkness for another, and feeling less comforted than he had hoped? The light coming into the windows had cast shadows over everything in his room, and he had been frightened of them. Shadows, he knew, hid monsters. Yes…there were monsters in this house. In the cupboards, the closets…and in those that dwelt here.

Now a grown man, Kurosaki Nagare was swaddled in darkness again. The cloth that rested over his eyes was there for his own good, and the good of others. What horrors would be revealed, if he were to pull that knot, letting the strip of silk slide to the floor…no. He could not let them see. Miya, his followers, his new doctor and the assistant…none of them ever must see.

He did not need eyes to see this room. This place, he had entered countless times. His feet, bare or clothed, had shuffled over these tatami mats on so many days that he was unsure how long ago it had become unnecessary to light a candle. Reaching out his left hand, angled just slightly away from his body, Nagare’s fingers brushed over the lacquered wood of a picture frame. It was cool to the touch, the hard planes and corners familiar to his sensitive fingertips. In this frame, he knew, was a picture of his son. “Hisoka,” he whispered, so quietly that his ears almost did not hear.

It had been the most joyous day of his life when his son was born. Even more so than when he had met his wife. The moment he saw the tiny pink creature swaddled in blankets, freshly cleaned and quiet as he had always hoped, Nagare found something warm in his chest that had never been there before. When the boy’s eyes had opened for the first time, just after his small mouth had yawned widely, his breath had caught in his throat. It was like looking back in time. Having seen photographs of himself as a boy, as an infant, he knew those eyes.

Bright, almost unearthly green, filled with a keen intelligence and curiosity that seemed unnatural for a child that had just slipped from the womb; he realized immediately that Hisoka was special. He had taken the boy from Rui’s arms then, cradling him gently, looking into those mesmerizing eyes that were so like his, yet so different…and he could not look away. He did not let go of his son when Rui tried to take him back. Nagare had stood, walking out of the room, carrying his son out of the house and into the snow, hearing his wife screaming. Her voice echoed through the clearing around the house, and he felt the pounding of feet as servants rushed to their mistress’s side.

No one dared approach him as he stood there in the snow with his son. Ankle deep and still falling, pale flakes drifted down, crowning Nagare’s head and making the moment seem as if it would last forever. Hisoka’s eyes had widened and a tiny gasp had escaped him when one of the flakes lighted on his nose, melting onto his skin. Nagare had used a knuckle to wipe away the moisture, calling his son by name for the first time. He re-entered the house only when the boy had slipped into the first sleep of his life, those unearthly green eyes sliding closed and soft breaths puffing warmly out as steam.

When he returned the child to his mother, the only apology he offered was to say, “Hisoka enjoys the snow,” and he leaned over, placing a gentle kiss on the boy’s forehead.

His joy, his happiness, had been short-lived. Rui, his wife, had on that day begun the slow spiral downward into madness. Now, he suspected that it was his fault, but he could not be certain. Had he not been so selfish, had he not taken the boy away from his mother in the first moments when that bond was so new and fragile…perhaps she would not have…no. Nagare’s fingers drew back from the picture’s frame, as if it had burned his flesh, the way the memory did his heart.

It had never helped the situation that Hisoka would cry continuously in Rui’s presence. The babe soon grew ill, unable to suckle from his mother because he could sense her impending madness. They had been lucky to find a woman to nurse him in her stead. Nagare had been right. Hisoka was special. But his uniqueness was not something that any of them were prepared to handle. Early in the child’s life, he became isolated, unable to control what he called the ‘demons’ in his head.

Nagare had been horrified, panicked, and confused. Hisoka, his son and heir, was a freak. He could not be near the boy, for fear that those eyes…those terrible, penetrating eyes, would see through him, into his very soul. Selfish. He had been so very selfish. He had done everything he could to preserve the dignity of his family. Now, here he knelt, praying. He prayed that the ancestors, spirits, and whatever other entities would listen could forgive what he had done to himself, and to his family.

He had fathered a monster. Kurosaki Hisoka was not like them. He had a madness that was inborn. It was engrained in his very genetic structure, and there was no amount of training that could rid the boy of it. Perhaps his death had been a blessing in disguise, to put the child out of his misery and free them from him. Rui…now Nagare lived daily with what he had done to her. His heart was sick with it, and he told her so. That was why he came here every morning, every evening.

One last time, he bowed to the shrine. “Until the morning,” he said, rising from his place on the dark cushion he knelt upon. His face remained a mask of studied serenity, all the while he could feel the stirrings of his own monster. His demon never left him. Death, as sweet and welcome as it might be, was not an option for him. As he shuffled from the room, knowing his way by the number of steps and the angles at which he turned, he could hear that seductive voice slithering around his mind, trying to find the cracks in his soul.

“Little Nagare…my beautiful toy, why do you still pray? You are lost to any gods now.” He ignored the voice as best he could, trying to keep his breathing even. The very walls had ears, and servants frequented this part of the house far too often. Nagare could not allow himself to speak to the demon in his head. Not now. “Such discipline…such self-restraint. I do believe that you are worthier of me than your father was, little Nagare.”

His feet moved a bit more quickly over the tatami mats, and his ears caught the rustle of his hakama over the beating of his heart. The blood that muscle pumped began roaring through his ears as his body reacted to the demon’s wiles. True evil, he knew, was seduction. It crept up on the senses, tickling at desires that hid deep in the soul. It whispered of how easy it would be to give in, let that fire and need take control…

“I can take the pain away, Nagare. Relent, and all you shall feel is pleasure. Blood will flow, my puppet. Death will spread by your hands, and it will be beautiful. We shall feast upon virgin flesh, dine with carnal appetite, and we will be satisfied.” Phantom fingers teased at his skin, finding instantly all of the places that no one had touched in years. And still, the voice whispered. It sent trembles of self-loathing through his body, and he was lost. He had long since ceased his counting, and now stumbled blindly through the house, this burning suffusing his entire being, needing to be quenched.

Unaware of his whereabouts, Nagare cried out as he fell through an open door, only to tumble down a set of steps and collapse to a hard, earthy floor. The smells of outdoor things, of dirt and mold, water and vegetation, assaulted his nose. The south garden. It was the only one that the house opened up to. But getting his bearings was secondary to ridding his head of the voice that still niggled at him, teasing at the surface of his soul.

“Submit yourself to me. You want me, Nagare. You need me in ways that you cannot admit. It will be easier if you simply let go.”

“No…” Nagare choked, feeling his body begin to burn with that pins-and-needles sensation that always seemed to come when the demon gained control of his flesh. He fought it constantly, and won eventually, but the things it did when it held sway repulsed him to unprecedented depths. “…gods…stop it…”

“Should I remove the blindfold, Nagare? You are so beautiful in your suffering…it is a shame that you cannot see…but then, you have not seen for some time, have you?”

His soul burned in anger at these words, but his body was not his any longer. He felt every sensation; every nerve ending was aflame with the feeling of clothing sliding away from his skin, cool air caressing his flesh as bandages unwound from his arms, his torso. Nagare heard his voice let out a groan as he ripped away the last of his clothing, his hands sliding over heated skin, slick now with the sweat that formed as he tried to fight the advances of the voice, the monster within. His own hands moved over his flesh, but they felt like another’s. Nagare’s body trembled as his senses were overwhelmed with searing need. It had been so very long since anyone had touched him…but it felt more wrong than he could possibly express. Every place his fingers touched, he felt vileness slipping into his skin, the decay of ages entering every pore. The demon laughed in his head as it made him tease his own nipples to hardness. Fire kindled in the base of his belly, and he sighed at the pleasure that began to spread from these sensitive peaks to every corner of his body, even as his stomach threatened to empty itself.

Anger melted into shame when one of his hands slid down his abdomen, finding his member hard, dripping with sweat and arousal. Unsure now if it was his will, or the demon’s, Nagare’s hand gripped at his hardness. A spike of brutal, ripping pleasure drove up his spine, and back down to his belly as Nagare began stroking himself, the need for release, for some little measure of oblivion overwhelming his mind, his soul. Breath quickening, his hand moved faster, keeping time with the pace set by the demon in his head, that repeated the same three words over and over again.

“You are mine…”

No. He belonged to no one. He was his own. No being—human or divine—held possession of Kurosaki Nagare. No demon from hell or man on earth would ever have that power—

“Ah!” His voice came out as a choked, moaning cry as his other hand crept back, sliding fingers over his hip, to the base of his spine, following that line down. Lower the fingers traveled, gathering sweat from his skin, until they found the puckered ring of muscles between his buttocks. Another moan escaped his throat, this one sounding more wanton, filthy…willing.

“You are mine, Nagare. Do you enjoy this? Of course you do. Such a good little puppet. Such a beautiful toy. Do you wish for release, little Nagare? Do you want to spill your accursed seed onto the ground here…screaming as I ply your body with pleasures you have forbidden yourself?”

For an instant, Nagare regained control of his mouth, just as two of his fingers slid past the outer ring of muscle that caused his breath to catch before he groaned, “St…stop this…I will never…” his fingers began moving, massaging inner muscles, probing and searching. His breath caught once more, and his control was gone. All that he heard was his own voice moaning, panting and groaning. His hand moved faster as the fingers within him found a place inside that brought forth a scream of agonized pleasure.

“Fight me, if you can. You will submit to me, Nagare. Your body already belongs to me. See how you writhe at my touch? How your seed burns hot in your belly, only waiting for me to allow it to come? It is only a matter of time before your soul welcomes me, just as your body does. Soon, your spirit will open to me, swallowing me up, taking me in. You are mine. Mind, body, soul…you are mine to toy with.”

The fingers thrusting into him drove harder, deeper, and Nagare’s cries degraded into animalistic grunts, his body collapsing onto his side. Faster he stroked his manhood, the pleasure ripping at his consciousness, tearing him limb from limb, until finally, with one last rough pull, one brutal stab at that spot inside him, whiteness exploded across his vision. This time, the demon relinquished control willingly, allowing him to lie there, sobbing in his own sweat and semen, huddled in upon himself and wondering…

If he were to take off the blindfold, what would he see?


A/N: There you go. Do I have your attention now? Hehe. I guess there’s nothing like abusing Hisoka’s dad to grab the imagination. Review.

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