Adult-FanFiction.org : Inuyasha / Yashahime

In Memories	By : narcolepticdog Category: InuYasha > Yaoi - Male/Male > InuYasha/Sessh?maru > InuYasha/Sessh?maru Views: 9007 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In Memories
- 1
Disclaimer- Inuyasha doesn’t belong to me. If he did, he wouldn’t be related to Sesshoumaru.
Warnings in effect: PWP yaoi, Inuyasha x Sesshoumaru, slightly disturbing in places. This is more of a proof of concept than anything else, but if you no like the pairing, you no read. Go find some Inuyasha x Kagome waff :-P
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Slash! Bang. Another tree. Slice! Shatter. Another rock. I release my venom in buckets, but it does little to comfort me, for some reason. Jaken has noticed I’m in a foul mood, no doubt…I am increasingly aware of his stupefied stare. He rarely sees me this angry, and I think it scares the little bastard. I don’t care. There has to be some way to work out this anger…this anger at being angry. Only one creature has such a horrific hold over me, to be able to draw out such a strong reaction.
I fought with my brother again tonight.
The truth of the matter is that I should scarcely consider him my brother…we share nothing but blood. Nothing. And yet…
I will never forget the first time I saw him, when my father brought him to live in the castle.
He was still a child then, at least in youkai terms, but he was already a man to his human family—the fat of childhood had left him, and his voice was deep. Deeper than mine at the time, if truth be told; I was jealous of that. Except when he turned human: some curious quirk of nature had left him slightly boyish then. So I suppose I never did learn his true age, or where exactly he came from, and that was fine between the two of us. He never spoke of it, and I never asked.
Still, I was a tad bit surprised, the first time I laid eyes on him: he looked so very little like me that I could scarcely believe we shared the same blood. Only the eyes appeared the same—and the silver mane—but they both felt like cheap imitations on further inspection. His hair was much coarser, and his eyes were a shade too light…not really like father’s at all. His scent was similar to mine, but different in some indescribable way—like peering into a distorted mirror, or watching one’s reflection through the ripples of a pond. Blood of my blood, but marred horribly…my father’s spicy scent mixed with something bitter. Something disgustingly, tangibly human. It was almost as if I could sniff out his impeding mortal decay.
“How are ya, Se-sho-maru?” he slurred, ignoring any semblance of décor. Gods, he nearly touched me, walking so close his voluminous pants brushed my own. His mother must have raised him poorly. “Nice to meet ya!”
Before I could react, he had given me a hard shove and settled into a sloppy fighting stance.
“How’s about we play?” he grinned, and aimed a mock kick at my side.
And that was that.
Given my father’s fancies, it wasn’t surprising the boy was supposed to be my companion: father was taking the hanyou’s mother to bed constantly at the time. I think maybe Inuyasha was supposed to be some sort of substitute for my own mother, who had only recently passed, but the sorry truth was that nothing could be further from the truth. I missed my mother, yes, but in an abstract sort of way—the way one misses the summer rain. I had no reason to need a replacement for her presence, but I suppose I could appreciate my father’s concern. Still…
I had no reason to like him. I had no reason to hate him. The only thing I resented was how he shared my scent, and that I had no control over.
We slept together like brothers, because his mother wished it, but secretly I despised the arrangement. I have never been one to enjoy the presence of others—they upset me unduly. Noisy, abominable creatures most people are, and my half-brother was no exception. Where I was refined, he was coarse; where I was quiet, he was almost unforgivably loud. Gods, even his breathing got to me…that insufferable gurgling snore of his drove me to distraction. I probably would have strangled him if father wasn’t so oddly annoyed by the idea. Maybe it would have been better if I had.
But as I said, his presence upset me on many levels. Hiothiothing—never straight, always messy. His comportment—swaggering and boisterous. And he could never make a clean kill when hunting! The gentlemen kills with a clean blow and takes measures to avoid soaking his garments; my brother enjoyed a literal bloodbath. Such is the way of hanyous, I suppose. I have met few that are any more tactful.
There was nothing to be done for it though, I could not get away from him. Father was so busy with his human wench that he never had time for his bastard child; I think he was glad to have my mother out of the way at last. I did not mind his affair with the human bitch, but I did mind his endless perversions…if he showed little discretion before my mother’s death, he had absolutely none after he brought the h7uman to the castle. He even offered her to me once, asking if I would like to taste her flesh…I entered the room to find her physically naked, but covered in his scent. Drenched in it, really—she might have well bathed in his essence, the way she reeked. She didn’t even notice me as I crept in, shaking, and I will never forget father’s eyes on my back. He was testing me, always testing me—watching to see if I was the son he wanted me to be.
“Go ahead boy…try her out.”
She let out a soft cry thcurlcurling into herself on the floor—I think he hurt her with his callousness—and I didn’t know what I should do. Her wide, mournful eyes turned upwards, and…I ran, horrified. I still remember the haunting way he laughed after me. “You’ll learn, Sesshoumaru, you’ll learn…”
Did he know something I didn’t?
At any rate, the hanyou was still there, trapped with me in my chambers, not allowed to go out when important guests were around--which was often. I usually made a few cursory attempts to converse with him, but my patience grew short the longer I had to deal with him. Our intellects were such that we rarely had anything in common; the boy wouldn’t know politics if it came up and assassinated him. What galled me more was that I was expected to keep him out of trouble—I had to watch the brute constantly, lest the secret of his existence spread to the wrong social circles. If I wished to hunt, I had to take him with me---and watch him scare all the game into the hills. If I wished to observe the flowers, I had to drag him along and listen to him complain of boredom. Mostly, we just sat indoors and got on each other’s nerves. Father accused me of being overly harsh on the idiot, but I maintain it was his doing. How could anyone not get frustrated when one’s best calligraphy brushes are destroyed by a hanyou’s clumsy touch? Or when one’s bed cushions are ruined in a bout of play fighting (which I did NOT instigate, as the hanyou claimed later). I think the root of the problem is that Inuyasha drags out those parts of myself I would rather keep hidden…my temper, my violence. And my emotions.
Still, it was a bad year for the monsoon season, so I likely would have stayed inside most of the time anyways. The lightning was endless it seemed, chasing itself around the sky in sun-bright ribbons. The dragon gods must have been at war that season, although I had not yet gained the wisdom to pay attention to such matters. I could hear them roaring between the thunderclaps sometimes, and I recall thinking it strange to hear them so often.
Inuyasha was afraid of their voices, though. It was utterly ridiculous, considering his age, but he still shivered slightly whenever they screamed across the sky. And sometimes, during those endless stormy nights, he rolled over onto my futon and curled up next to me in his sleep, turning his face away from the window.
I don’t know why this was, exactly. Perhaps his mother babied him too much, or perhaps he had had other siblings to snuggle with, but it seemed mostly unintentional. At least, he seemed surprised when I woke him. At first, I violently protested the situation—rather loudly too, until I accidentally woke father one night—but eventually I just gave up. It was strange, how comfortable it was to lean against him…how warm his body was, pressed up against mine. I could hear the blood rushing through his veins, but after a while I came to find it relaxing…a steady, gurgling lullaby. I suppose I got used to it.
Then, one night, things started changing.
He had grown more bold over time, that was sure. I had begun to suspect he wasn’t entirely asleep when he joined me on my mattress…not after he started pulling back the covers to slide in next to me. Still, I found it increasingly disturbing how close he would come. He went from barely touching my side to resting his head on my shoulder.
And then, that night, he didn’t even bother with the pretense of being asleep. The minute I slipped under my covers, he bounded over to crawl in next to me, curling his body around my form. I turned to him, shocked, and his eyes were laughing at me. I struggled to get up, but he wanted to spar, it seemed…he pinned one of my shoulders and growled playfully.
We tussled like that for a few minutes until I finally kicked him off, snarling in annoyance. He didn’t give up though…I will give him that, the moron is tenacious. Instead, he flew at me from behind, clipping my leg just enough to knock me off balance. And I would have recovered, too—if my feet hadn’t been tangled in the bedsheets. I hit the floor hard, and he pulled me into a tight headlock.
Seconds passed, then minutes, as our bodies calmed down a bit. He was panting against and and I was glad for that at least. He might have bested me in battle, but it took more out of him to do so…I was so so unaffected. Still…I struggled to get free, and he absolutely refused to release me.
I am no monster, but my patience has its limits.
“Unhand me, dear brother! This conduct is most unseemly--!”
--is what I would have liked to say, but—
“Arrrggh geroff before I kick your ass!” is what I actually said. As I have mentioned, Inuyasha tends to bring out the worst in me. My hands began lighting with poison, and gradually the pressure around my neck eased.
He drew back, and there was a strange light in his eyes.
“Sesshoumaru…” he whispered—Sesshoumaru, he used to call me, never brother—“See what I learned.” He smirked in triumph. “I win.”
And he rolled on top of me and sunk his fangs into my shoulder in a mock finishing move, just the way our sparring instructor taught us.
I growled at him then, at least I think I did, and I’d love to believe I resisted…but the truth of it was that his nearness excited me. It was completely strange having someone on top of me, dominating me, but gods help me I enjoyed it. I had been strong ever since my mother died, never accepting any kind of failure, and then there I was underneath him—suddenly and completely bested. I think that was it, that first time he nipped at my shoulder: I could finally relax, because I didn’t need to fight anymore.
But I did need to fight, as he showed me immediately afterward: he was not satisfied with a mere bite. He sucked at the wound, drawing out little beads of my blood; he ground against me hungrily. And all I can remember was this curious tickling sensation clawing at my belly every time his tongue touched me—all I could think was how strange it felt. His breath hissed against my throat and it made the tickling explode into tendrils of flame; they ripped their way out of my belly and down into my thighs. He rubbed against me, limbs flailing, and gods help me but I felt myself growing hard under his warmth. His eyes burned into mine, and in that moment I knew we weren’t in school any more.
It was wrong, I knew that the minute that his hips brushed forward against my groin, and I tried to stop him…I tried to shove him away from me. He surged forward before I could get him off of me, grinding his hips more forcefully, and that’s when I realized he was hard too…even through our nightclothes I could feel the bulge pressed against my thigh. I remember being terrified, for some obscure reason—it felt so good to slide against him, but something was also so very wrong about the whole situation. I’d like to think I would have put an end to it, if he hadn’t lowered his head to my neck.
The rest of that first encounter was hazy, but I remember a few things very plainly:
His pink little tongue lapping at the curve of my neck. His breath hissing against my wet skin, making me tremble.
A clawed hand sliding down my hip, sending electric shivers through my whole body.
His other hand fingering me through my night-robes, setting my legs on fire.
“See, Sesshoumaru?” he smirked, that damn fool smile still bright on his face. “I win.”
I wanted to rip that smile off his face, and--
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked, pressing against me again.
And gods help me, but it did feel good…and I never wanted him to stop.
So we didn’t.
The next time was daylight, I think, but the effect was much the same. He pinned me again, throwing one leg over my body, and explored my skin with his tongue and teeth; he rocked his arousal against me until I shuddered into him, burying my face into his neck. I don’t think I’d ever come that close before, even though I didn’t know what I was approaching back then—sometimes, I wonder if he even knew what we were doing. Maybe someone took advantage of his youth and taught him, the way he eventually taught me, but all I can remember now is that he was the experienced one. Whenever I asked him questions about it, he’d just shake his head and nip my ear—hard, not playfully. Eventually, I just stopped asking.
It took a while, strangely enough, before we knew each other well enough to forgo the formality of clothes; I think I was still afraid of him even then. And it wasn’t easy for me, that increasing loss of control. Overcoat, shirt, skirt, pants--his fingers marched skillfully under each piece of clothing in turn, getting me used to his presence, getting me accustomed to his touch. Until I could feel comfortable without the cloth between us…because I gradually learned it was unnecessary.
One afternoon he even stripped me entirely naked, with absolutely no regard for proper conduct at all—the gentleman remains clothed, even in the middle of coitus—but Inuyasha was no gentleman.
“You look better without ‘em.” was the most he said of it, and then he smothered me against his own sweaty body. I had to work hard to downplay my excitement then.
His mother commented on how well we were getting along around that time, and he (being what he was) simply wrapped his arms around me and told her how much he “loved his big brother”. I nearly had a heart attack.
We still could have backed out then, if I had only been strong enough…but as I said, his touch was enough to drive you mad. He would come up beside you in the evening and wind his soft little fingers around your wrist; I will never forget the delicious way his thumb glided over the pressure points in my hands. You would never hurt, if he was around you—he could follow your energy points instinctively, ironing out all the little aches and pains.
I tried to stay away from him, really I did, but it was so difficult.
Treakreaking point came during winter—we were inside more, and I couldn’t avoid him as easily with the weather so cold. And it was bitter cold that evening, frosty enough to make my breath turn into dragon smoke even with a fire going, and I wasn’t entirely sad to hear my half-brother creeping into my bedroom. I think his mother had started to suspect, by then: she had ordered him to move into his own room just that previous week for no discernable reason. He wasn’t happy with the arrangement, obviously, but he dared not disobey her; I had welcomed the peace and quiet. Yet that particular night I was glad for his presence, and I didn’t even mind when he wrapped his arms around me. It was cold, you see—I blame everything on the cold.
I remember him squeezing me tightly, dragging me out of the little ball I was curled up in. He pulled me away from the comfort of my bed to sit with him, and I shivered at the contact.
“You cold?” he asked softly, nuzzling the back of my neck.
I didn’t deign that important enough for a response. “Go away, Inuyasha.” I grumbled finally, trying to lie back down on the mattress. Of course I should have known that he wouldn’t be denied that easily.
He snaked his hand down the front of my kimono, impatient as always; I slapped his hand away. He pouted only briefly before wrapping his legs around me, yanking me backwards against his chest. And as I said, it was so very cold…I couldn’t help but lean against him. He radiated warmth from the inside out, and the comfort was so very welcome.
He guided me down to the futon eventually, stroking my side. I reacted quickly, despite the cold—have I mentioned how easily his touch got to me?—and he attacked my neck and groin at once, stroking with hands and tongue. I wonder if he liked the taste of my skin, or if he enjoyed my scent the way I immersed myself in his. Especially that night…I couldn’t even smell the wood smoke over his musk.
He bit into my shoulder eventually, which wasn’t entirely surprising—I still have a tiny scar there, testifying to the frequency of our encounters—and I cried out loud enough to frighten him. He clapped his free hand over my mouth, hissing for me to shut up.
“Idiot!” he growled, and I remember being very surprised by that. It was the first time he had ever spoken during our liaisons. I wondered if he was planning on ending it.
That thought was laughably mistaken though, because his mouth swerved to the side and descended upon the curve of my jawbone. His tongue ran up and around the length of my left ear, sending tingles buzzing down the side of my neck. I gasped when he nibbled on it, pressing my hips up reflexively; the throbbing between my legs seemed directly connected to the way his lips slid over my ear flesh. That close, his breath sounded like a lion’s roar.
He wasn’t content to let me go at that, as he had so many other times—instead, he dragged his lips away from my sensitive earlobes and down beneath my chin, forcing my head back with his free hand. My entire body was reacting then, and I could feel my heart speeding up to accommodate the relevant…changes....to my physique. He was hard too, and rocking against my thigh. I would have stopped him, really I would, if only his mouth hadn’t been so soft against my skin.
My breathing quickened again as his hungry lips swept lower, bypassing my shoulder and heading straight for my chest. One clawed hand shoved the fabric aside impatiently, revealing my chest to the chilled night air. He grazed the flat rise of my muscles only briefly before circling his tongue around a nipple. His infernal hand changed position then, molding its warmth around my most sensitive area.
He drew back suddenly, and I’m ashamed to say I whimpered; I missed his touch far more than I’d expected. He smiled at me then, predatorily, and I drowned in his eyes temporarily.
Slowly, his nimble fingers crept lower, snaking underneath my robes.
My entire body tensed up and my stomach muscles brought my arousal to complete alert as his fingers brushed against the hollow curve of my hip. His claws tangled in the fuzz just beside my length and I choked on an incoming breath. My arousal tightened almost painfully and I could no longer control its twitching. So dangerous, so very dangerous…
He wrapped his hand around me.
Waves of ice ran down my spine, or perhaps very hot flames—it was hard to tell at first. The feeling was so new then that I couldn’t possibly describe it, but I do know that I found a peculiar kind of heaven in his touch. I had never been touched like that by any but myself, and it was embarrassingly enjoyable.
At some point, our clothes came off.
“Here…” he whispered. “Touch me.” I hesitated and he grabbed my wrist, shoving it downwards. What else could I do, but obey him? He groaned and slid underneath me, pressing up into my hand, and I felt a tense coil of excitement building in my belly.
And it was then that I knew I was damned, for touching my brother in this way. Half-brother yes, but brother all the same. What would our father think, I wondered. I toyitoying with his possession, corrupting his favorite son, even though I knew he wanted it.
I didn’t care.
Flesh against flesh, soft hands stroking me, searing lips nibbling at my ears…The rest was a blur, but eventually I found my release, gasping at the force of it. I had experienced the phenomenon before, of course---all pups get curious at some point. It was just so much more with him. More intense, more surprising, more frightening, more relaxing. I sagged into him afterwards, collapsing bonelessly against his bare chest. His rough hair covered me possessively, and my sex-smell was everywhere.
“I’m still waiting…” he grinned at me, daring me to refuse him with those mocking eyes of his, and what else could I do?
That was the beginning of my descent into hell.
Don’t get me wrong—it was wonderful at times, having someone touch me—but in general I was terrified. There were so many near misses—so many times we would have been caught, had his mother possessed our demon senses—that I couldn’t ever truly enjoy our meetings. He owned me then, even when I controlled the action: how could I be in control when my body itself was foreign to me? It wanted things I barely understood, asking me to lie on top of him. It wanted me to press into him, wanted me to rock against him as we came together.
How many times we joined like that, I cannot say, but I do remember the exact moment my father found us…it was a sunny day, out in the garden. He was standing over me, naked, and I was begging him to touch me. I don’t remember why he wouldn’t—probably some stupid game he was playing. At any rate, I will never forget the way my heart froze when I looked up to see my sire’s face staring down at me instead of my brother.
Our father was a curious fellow. Turns out he had no reservations about my choice of lover, only our way of joining.
“No son of mine will submit to some half-human bitch!”
My knee still aches when it rains, and I remember him fondly then.
That was the last time I saw my half-brother for many years. By the time I sought him out he had a new consort to toy with—a miko that left him strangely awkward and blushing. Disgusting. Human. I never hoped to see him stoop so low, and then there they were: kissing as hesitantly as if he had never heard of the concept..
What did she do to you, Inuyasha? I wondered jealously. Surely, he had become weak.
But I have forgotten him too, for the most part, and his weaknesses are no concern of mine outside of battle. That’s vexing too, how he continually beats me even today. I will best him eventually though, because I know his weaknesses…even if some of them are difficult to use in proper warfare. And he has a different bitch now, one who can’t even clothe herself correctly…she could be very useful in the future, if I play my cards right.
That’s all he is to me. Broken memories, perhaps. Shades of a dream. And yet there are some nights when I still feel his arms around me, or breathe the faintest trace of his scent on my pillow.
Curse that thrice-damned hanyou for what he did to me.
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In Memories