Adult-FanFiction.org : Inuyasha / Yashahime

Sachi
By : Quillwing717
Category: InuYasha > General
Views: 18692 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
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Warning!Warning! All caution and care taken beyond here. There be lemons in this forest.
Well, just one, technically. Graphic lemonade, piping hot, people (that means sex, for all you uninitiated out there). Read with care.
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Chapter 16: Quiet Move
She's dead. InuYasha killed her.
The words echoed a bit, as if their impact could only truly be felt with multiple reverberations. Kagome stared at Shippou, unmoving, struggling to process his words. Her voice was a faded ghost of its normal self. “What?”
Shippou clapped an icing-spotted hand over his mouth, and the spoon clattered in the empty bowl. “Oops. I wasn't supposed to say that to anyone.” He fixed pleading eyes on Kagome. “You won't tell Miroku or Kaede, will you?” When she didn't answer, he fidgeted. “Please?”
She'd dead. InuYasha killed her.
It couldn't be what it sounded like. He'd just said InuYasha had loved Kikyou. The thought hurt, and Kagome swallowed, pushed it away. “Shippou, what do you mean he 'killed her'? Was there some kind of accident?”
The tense lines bunching Shippou's forehead cleared, and his eyes grew wide and solemn. “No, I mean he killed her.” His fingers curled into a miniature set of imitation claws, and he swiped them through the air. “Like that.”
She's dead. InuYasha killed her.
Kagome felt the slow drain of blood from her face. Her lips felt numb. “But...why would he kill her if he loved her?”
He shrugged an uneasy response. “Dunno. She must have done something bad. Whatever it was, it happened before I met InuYasha and Miroku—it happened right before we came to the Sachi, and no one would tell me much of anything back then, either. I remember hearing about it on the news, but since Dad didn't pay that much attention to the news, I never did, either.” He darted a few cautious looks around the deserted kitchen. “But you can't tell anyone I said that, okay? I'm not supposed to talk about stuff that happened before Sachi. Ever.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He turned back to her, and the dark, haunted look in his eyes drew her up short. “It's dangerous.”
Kagome sucked in a breath, then reached out and brushed her fingers through his burnt-orange bangs. “You don't have to worry. We're in the Sachi, surrounded by friends.”
Shippou's hands fisted into tight little balls, and he looked away from her, his bottom lip trembling. “Being surrounded by friends and family doesn't mean you're safe,” he whispered.
A chill ghosted over her skin, and she hesitated, unsure of how to respond to that. He was serious. She thought back to the night they'd drunk hot chocolate in the kitchen, to the way his face had crumpled when he'd mentioned his family, then leaned down and folded his fists in her hands. “No one in Sachi would ever let anything bad happen to you.”
His head jerked up, and the green of his eyes so fierce it surprised her. “Of course you wouldn't, just like I wouldn't let anything happen to you! But if you talk about it, we could be found, and someone might be hurt, and it would all be my fault.”
Kagome felt sick, her stomach churning. Shippou was convinced they were being chased by someone dangerous. But that didn't make any sense because why would anyone come after a harmless kitsune child? “These people...are they chasing you?”
He looked frightened. “They're chasing all of us.” He sprang to his feet, and the bowl clanged again when he knocked it with his knee. The urgency in his face was the most naked and convincing emotion she'd ever seen from him. “You have to promise not to talk about it, okay, Kagome?”
She wanted to pursue it, wanted to ask more, but.... She knew how terrifying it was to feel like you were being chased. She bit her lip. “I promise, Shippou. I won't say anything. It'll be our secret.”
Relief sagged through his little body, and Shippou slumped back into a sitting position on the counter again. That her word alone could produce such a reaction from him when he'd been so scared made her heart melt. She smiled faintly. “Come on. You have to help me with the dishes now.”
Shippou nodded and turned back to his discarded bowl, scouring mournfully for any remaining hints of batter before picking it up and using it as a ferry for the other dirty dishes scattered about. Kagome busied herself with filling the sink with water.
A priestess, a monk, a youkai, and a hanyou go to live in a secluded inn, she mused. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.
Nothing funny about the implications, though. She'd realized—would've had to be an oblivious fool not to—that Sachi's residents were avoiding unpleasant things from their pasts, but she'd always figured it didn't matter. After all, the circumstances of her arrival at the Sachi had been hewn in mystery and danger, and yet they'd accepted her easily and openly within their walls. Sachi was a haven to all of them, and the precursors were just unimportant details.
But this was different. These details mattered; these details were causing all of them pain, even now, even inside Sachi. InuYasha had killed someone he loved. She remembered Shippou's clawing motion, a mimic of what she'd seen InuYasha do to the youkai that had attacked them, and shivered.
InuYasha had killed the woman he loved.
He'd loved her. He'd killed her. The facts refused to reconcile in her brain. What could possibly have happened to cause such a damaging tragedy? The InuYasha she'd come to know wouldn't do something like that to someone he cared about. He protected the people he cared about, he didn't hurt them. There had to be something more, some reasonable explanation. Shippou didn't have the whole story; he'd flat out said as much.
Miroku and Kaede were refusing to talk about it, and InuYasha was avoiding her as if she were diseased. If she wanted the whole story—if she wanted the truth, to find a way to end this painful impasse the two of them seemed to be at—she would have to get it from somewhere else.
****************************************************************** ********
Return immediately.
The words burned black against the white background of her screen, plain, simple type touching off a spiral of dread that threatened to break her.
Planted firmly in the cushioned desk chair that went along with the nice desk that graced the sitting room of her hotel suite, Sango stared at the simple command in blank dismay while a familiar sick, decaying feeling began to wash over her. That was it. She'd run out of time. She'd pushed his patience to its limit, and now she'd finally been summoned. Stomach churning, she glanced around and grimaced. Right about a month—given what she'd been sent to do, not a bad stretch of time.
He would want a verbal report, though. That meant bluffing her way through his presence if she wanted to continue the pretense.
Damn.
She palmed her tired eyes, rubbing at them in a soothing circular pattern. She set her shoulders and her jaw and tried to remain calm. She had a maximum of twenty-four hours left; she still had things to do.
Nothing. She'd found nothing—not true, but that's what her reports had said for the past month. There was a lot of risk in what she was planning to do; if she were smart, she'd take everything she'd found back with her and present it as a last-minute discovery to make up for all the time she'd wasted. But since she wasn't smart, she would only take some of it and use it as evidence for what she would tell him, not for what she actually thought. She would do this not only because she wasn't smart, but because she was loyal—and that loyalty had never been for him.
She would weave him as tragic and believable a narrative as she could muster, and hope it would be enough to convince him. It was possible. What she had should be enough. After all, everyone knew those two morons were loose cannons just waiting to blow; that they had finally done so was very believable. Probably.
At its best, her plan would force him to either give up or send someone else, which would cost time, if nothing else. And if she did a good enough job of camouflaging what she had found, she could take her sweet time getting back as well, without giving him any concrete action to hold against her. The thought of being able to do that, of being able to stick it to that bastard without having to face retaliation, pleased her almost enough to make up for the fact that she'd have to subject herself to his presence to do it.
She rested her fingertips against her forehead with a sigh. God, she was in trouble. It had been a long month. As beautiful and peaceful as Sonkyou was, the reason she was here trumped it all. The tension had been high from the first day, and it had built itself steadily into a headache, a stomachache, an all-over body-ache as the month had progressed. She didn't usually have such a hard time coping with a job, but this one struck so close to a protected part of her. And now she'd decided to engage in one of her little rebellions and had to go back to pull it off besides.
What she needed to do now—now—was to blow off some of this stress.
Her eyes narrowed, and she glared down at the keys of her laptop, her heart going a million miles too fast. She'd thought she'd had the perfect, down-and-dirty solution to her stress symptoms: a smooth-talker who seemed to be both experienced enough to back up the talk and physically appealing; but he hadn't shown for their “date” the other night, even though she'd waited well into the dark of evening. He'd left her sitting there feeling stupid and all worked up all by herself, and the past couple days had been all the worse for it.
Here she was, getting ready to gamble with something precious, and strung so tight she was having trouble thinking clearly. She needed to find a way to get herself under control, or someone would pay a very high price.
Cursing her own psychological weaknesses, she shot to her feet, slammed the lid of her computer down, and started pacing from one corner of the sitting room to the other. Curled up and napping in a corner of the sofa, Kirara opened her eyes, lifted her head, and gave a concerned “mew.”
Without stopping, Sango shook her head, ripping the ponytail out of her hair and raking her fingertips through the long strands, trying to relieve some of the deep ache. “No, I'm all right. It's just...we have to go back tomorrow. I just have to...go to the gym or something, that's all. You know how I get.”
Kirara's responding “mew” was somehow disapproving and sympathetic all at once, and Sango came to an abrupt stop. She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, then dropped into a crouch so she could scratch behind her companion's ears, right where she knew Kirara liked it. Kirara lifted her head into the scratch, purring, before she turned her head to look at the door to their suite.
A knock followed almost immediately.
Sango blinked, then stood. A glance through the peephole showed her white...a plastic bag?
After a moment of thoughtful hesitation, she opened the door. Her curiosity quickly morphed into surprise, then narrow-eyed anger when she saw who was standing in the hallway.
Miroku lowered the bag from peephole-level and held it out to her, meekly. “I come bearing profuse apologies and an offering of penance.”
Oh, God. It wasn't fair. Her body reacted to him like it had from the beginning; her skin tightened and tingled all over her body; inside she went heavy and warm and aching; the knot in her stomach went from sickening to fluttering excitement. It was relief, just from him showing up and standing there, and it really wasn't fair.
She pursed her lips and glanced down at white plastic weighed down by all manner of things, including a brown paper bag that smelled like heaven's bakery, but she didn't take it.
Didn't slam the door shut, either.
“I also bring a lame excuse, if that makes any difference?” Even as he spoke, his dark violet eyes moved over her in that way they had, assessing, probing, as if he were stripping her in both the figurative and literal sense. They lingered on the loose, messy drape of her hair around her body, traced the curves of her hips through her jeans, and on her chest before coming back to her eyes. He swallowed. His lips ticked up into a crooked, self-deprecating half-smile, and instant, smoldering want mixed with hope in his gaze. Then, before she could even begin to formulate an answer to his first question, he spoke again—quietly, as if it were a wayward thought that slipped out without permission. “Ah...you should wear your hair down more often.”
The gentle, appreciative note in his voice stole all the breath from her body. Her fingers gripped the door handle, her toes curled against the bare carpet. Sexual need was a sharp knife in her gut, and it was still better than the agony of contemplating her life.
A frown flickered in those deep eyes as he watched her war with herself, teetering between one extreme and another. After leaving her waiting in that cafe, the only thing he deserved was a good slap and a door in the face; but damn the man and his timing, because what she wanted at that moment was not what he deserved.
The frown on his face deepened to real concern. “Sango? What's wrong? Did my non-appearance at our cafe cause that much damage?”
Our cafe.
It was such an unexpected thing for a man like him to say that she had to swallow a stunned laugh; her chest seized around it, and her anger slipped away from her, dissipating into nothing. That was the problem with smooth-talking charmers: they always talked too much, said things they didn't mean. Lips inexplicably twitchy, she snagged the bag from his fingers with one hand, and reached out to grasp the open edge of his jacket with the other. One tug was all it took to have him inside and the door shut.
With his back to the door and a comically astonished “are you kidding me?” look on his face, Miroku watched her drop the bag on the carpet by her bare feet and tuck her fingers into the sweater under his jacket. “May I assume I'm forgiven?”
A smile curved her mouth. She pulled his sweater above his jeans, found a shirt underneath. “You may assume that I'll let you start making them.”
“Them?” He was so quick to take the hint, already bending down, his mouth a few breaths from her curved lips. His hands skimmed the slender dip of her waist.
Her smile widened and she stood on tip-toe to meet him, nipped at his bottom lip. “Your profuse apologies and lame excus—.”
His mouth caught hers, and it didn't even matter that he'd cut her off, because it had the same effect on her as stepping into a warm onsen after a hard workout. Her body went boneless, her muscles tight and limp at the same time, and all the worries that had been screaming at her non-stop for what felt like forever floated away. She leaned into him, and his hands on her rib cage guided her until she was half-standing, half-leaning between his legs. His mouth was hot against hers, and, just like she remembered, very, very good at the whole rubbing-stroking-nipping thing. Pure pleasure, throbbing and pooling low.
She opened her mouth to him, sucked his tongue in and tasted. He murmured his appreciation, slipped his tongue across hers in a teasing, velvet stroke, and then his hands made a firm frame of her face—warm, rough skin that held her in place for a deep, forceful shift in the kiss. She hummed at him, happy to let him plunder.
Since she was already pressed intimately against him, she slipped her fingers underneath his final layer of shirts and slid them along smooth skin. The feel of real muscle, tensed and vaguely trembling, in his abdomen delighted her, and she stroked a little higher, edging the layered shirts up until she found solid pectoral muscle. It was the first real hint she'd gotten at the true shape of his body underneath all the clothes that always protected him from the cold, and she was surprised by not only the lack of flab, but the definition of muscle. Apparently, her inn manager actually used his body.
Miroku's mouth skimmed down her throat, giving her a chance to breath. She gasped at the air. Against the thin skin of her clavicle bone, she felt the caress of hot breath. “It is a man's greatest sin to disappoint a woman, and I shall bear the shame with me to the grave.”
Sango blinked, still breathing hard. “What?”
She felt him grin, lazily, then felt his teeth nip, his tongue sooth. “My first apology.”
A breathy laugh nearly choked her, and she curled her hands into fists against his chest, scraping his skin with her nails. He moaned; her breath caught again; exhilaration whipped through her like lightning, and her stomach clenched around the feeling. She hooked her fingers and dragged them down his front, then hid a smile against his neck at his second groan. The faint scent of cologne, mild and pleasant and masculine, greeted her. She dropped a wet nip beneath his ear, mouthed the soft lobe. “That was a decent start.”
“Decent?” His fingers plucked at her shirt hem; his lips moved to her jaw. “I am a despicable worm for standing you up, and I will spend the rest of our acquaintance actively finding ways to make it up to you.”
She laughed again, stunned at the delight bubbling up in her chest. She pulled her hands away from his skin and pushed at his jacket collar. “Better. Getting this thing off would go a long way in reaching your goal.”
His hands left her shirt hem immediately. His jacket hit the carpet, his hands settled back on her hips, and his eyes met hers, heavy-lidded, dark, teasing. “Just the jacket?”
Not really in the mood for a slow strip-tease, she hooked her fingers under her shirt-hem and pulled both her shirts off in one smooth motion. They flopped to the floor beside his jacket. Her hair swished against her naked back. He sucked in a sharp breath and his fingers dug into her hips through the thick material of her pants, but she didn't wait to see his reaction to her functional sports bra. It wasn't really sexy, but it wouldn't be staying on long anyway, so she tried not to think about it. She bunched the layers of his shirts in her palm and pushed at them, breathing hard. “These too.”
Miroku seemed to have caught her urgency, because they all came off at once, shucked almost as fast as it took her to murmur the order. Then he had her waist again, and his hands were hot on her bare skin; his head dipped even lower, and she moaned at the kisses he dropped down her chest, into the tightly leashed swells of her breasts. His fingers moved, stopping briefly to tangle in her thick tumble of hair before fumbling at the complicated catch of her bra at the back. She would have helped him but she was too busy running her hands over the bunched muscles in his arms, the subtle strength straining at his shoulders; when the catch came free quickly, she figured he hadn't needed her help anyway. The material came loose, then her breasts were free, and he had his mouth around a pebbled nipple faster than she could gasp. Her fingers dug into his hair to hold him close while his tongue went all hot and skilled and adoring on her breasts, her back arching gracefully to give him better access. The hair-tie came loose, and his hair fell like cool silk around her hands.
“There were problems at Sachi,” he gasped into her skin, his hands sliding beneath her waistband to lovingly cup her butt. He cradled her against his erection with a groan. “A wild animal attack one day, then a guest molesting our staff the next. I couldn't get away.”
Melting at the sensations, she rubbed her hips against his, but pushed at his shoulders until he pulled his lips away, reluctantly, from the nipple he'd been batting at with his tongue. He looked down at her, askance, but she shook her head. He wasn't that much taller than her, but he had to be uncomfortable bent over like that, even braced against the door. She put her fingers on the button of his jeans. “Was that your lame excuse?”
Dark purple eyes riveted to her fingers as they slipped the button through its catch, that finely sculpted bare chest heaving with each breath. “Both of them. Sad, aren't they? Their only saving grace is truth.”
Sango smiled again. Plucked at tab of his zipper. “You saved a molested coworker?”
Snick. Snick. Snick.
From deep in his throat, a rough sound. His fingers followed the example of hers, thumbing the button free and working the pale brown fabric open. “No, the owner did. I only helped.”
That breathy laughter escaped her again. “That makes you an almost-hero.” She'd finished with the zipper and had him, hot, throbbing, heavy in her hand. Her thumb stroked a caress, feathery over the delicate skin. “Should I reward you anyway?”
A choked groan, and he was kissing her again, harsh and greedy as he shoved the pants from her hips. So excited she was barely breathing, she let them slide down her legs, then stepped out of them, kicking at them until they were away. That left her in only cotton panties. White, with pink ribbons lacing through the thin elastic band, her only private concession to femininity. Wet panties. She shivered as the cool air drifted over her.
Miroku surprised her by sinking to his knees, tracking slow kisses down her body as he went: her throat, the dip in her collar bone, the swell of a breast. One nipple. The other. A lick. A delicate nibble. Then a searing, wet trail from her diaphragm, lips and tongue paying close attention to her belly button. His hands, too, stroked downward from her shoulder blades, down spreading out down her back, settling on her backside. By the time he'd made it to her panty-line, Sango's head had fallen back, her nails cutting into his shoulders and tiny little sounds of pleasure the only breath moving in and out of her lungs. Her knees trembled, but his hands on her butt were firm and steady, supporting her beneath the cloak of her hair.
His teeth scraped down the sleek slope of her lower belly and grasped at the pink ribbon-and-elastic. Tugged. A cry slipped from her as her inner muscles clenched hard, a knee-jerk pleasure spasm. Miroku whispered something fierce against her skin, then she felt his mouth move, the brief lash of his tongue along the damp material between her thighs. Orgasm danced tremblingly close, grazed her, then slipped away. Sango shrieked, her limbs collapsing, her arms clasping tight around Miroku's head as he caught her and eased her down to the carpet in front of him.
“Enough apologies and excuses,” she gasped, mouth against his shoulder. “I'm going to use you for sex now.” God, she ached to have him inside her. She shook with it.
The hoarse sound he made could have been a curse. “Would you, please?” He pushed his hands beneath the only bit of material left on her body, naked hand to naked ass.
They gave another moment to a desperate, body-melting kiss before Sango broke away again. “Protection?” she murmured, nipping at his lips.
“Back pocket,” he said, littering kisses along her neck, hands stroking down her legs and taking her panties with them.
They had an awkward moment of struggle where he worked at getting her completely naked and she worked at getting into his back pocket that only resolved itself when she relented long enough to free a leg. They ended with her straddling his lap, inadvertently groping at his ass while his hands returned to deliberately groping at hers. His erection strained between them, searing in its nakedness, jerking with each tantalizing brush of wetness and heat.
She found the square of foil and gave a spare second to being amused that he was so prepared, but didn't for a moment think that it was because of her. Men like him were always prepared, just in case.
He must have been as close the end of his patience as she was to hers, because he showed a distinct lack of finesse first in ripping open the package, then fumbling with her to get it on. After that, there was no hesitation between them. By mutual, breathless consent (and his hands still on her ass), she draped over him, and he filled her in one fast, perfect thrust.
They stilled for a moment, feeling, adjusting, learning, her arms clutching at his back, his chest crushing her breasts, hearts beating together in head-long, tandem flight. He stretched her deliciously tight, and Sango moaned softly, lost to the sensation. Every inch of her clung to him, relishing the hot throb deep inside her, the most intimately there with her that anyone would ever be.
Then his hands on her backside urged her to move, and she did. Mouth clashing with his, thighs sleek and graceful and straining, she rode him, rising and falling in a primal rhythm that didn't leave much time leisure or indulgence. Beneath her, he did the same, grunting with effort, every muscle hard and determined. The jeans he still wore rasped against her inner thighs, and her tight nipples kept brushing against the heated skin of his chest.
They were too hot to last long, and she came first, orgasm hitting her in rolling waves that rocked her hard, shook her so deep that the shock waves took him with her. She felt him shudder, thought she might have heard him make some kind of noise, but it was drowned out by her own keening as she curled herself around his body and held on tight. Reality collapsed on her, receded into a white-noise background far beyond the pleasure wracking through her.
She didn't stir until he did, at some indeterminate point later, rousing her with his shifting and adjusting, stroking with his hands (which were still on her butt). She lifted her head from his shoulder and gave him a drowsy glare.
He grinned back, lazy, satisfied, and unperturbed. “Beautiful Sango. As amazing as what we just did was, and as much as I sincerely look forward to doing it again—” her eyebrows shot up at the assumption, but he ignored them, “—I'd also really like to be able to feel my legs again this lifetime.”
Oh. Right. He was still on his knees. She blushed, embarrassed at having completely forgotten his comfort—and vaguely impressed when she realized through how much of it he'd been on his knees—then forced her limbs to move just long enough for him to stretch out his legs beneath them. She curled right back up again on his lap. He didn't seem to mind, just leaned back against the door and rested his chin on her head while his hand combed through the tangled, wild mess of her hair. After a few seconds, he jolted, then strained his neck looking around the room. “Sango?”
Too content to really be curious about his behavior, she only turned her face into his chest. “Hm?”
He glanced down at her, frowning and uneasy. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but that was Kirara I saw on that couch when you pulled me inside, wasn't it?”
Sango's eyes popped open and she jerked upright. Miroku yelped at her sudden movement, but she was too busy glancing around the room to be concerned about which part of him she'd wounded. When she didn't see her youkai companion, she relaxed back into Miroku's steadying arms, flopping a loose hand in the direction of the room she wasn't using. “Don't worry about her,” she sighed. “She always pulls a vanishing act when people forget she's in the room and start.... Um, I'm sure she's gone. Kirara's not the peeping type.”
He picked up her hand and laced their fingers together. “I see. So do you make a habit of attacking and ravishing men who show up at your door? Because if you do, I'm certain I can show up at least three times a week.”
Just that easily, the squirming, fluttery feeling in her belly started up again. Her lips twitched. “It's not really a habit. Just a....” Liar. It's both habit, and need. “You caught me on a bad day,” she finished.
In her ear, Miroku whistled, low and intimate, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin. “This was a bad day? A beautiful woman grabs me and rips off my clothes, and she's having a bad day? I can only imagine what you do on good days.” He dropped a soft kiss at the base of her neck, another on her shoulder. His hand cupped at her breast, and he shifted again until his knees bent on either side of her.
Sango closed her eyes and rolled her head, giving him access to a wider expanse of skin. His thumb flicked at her nipple; her bare toes curled into the carpet. She raked her fingernail along the material covering his leg and fought to keep her tone casual. “You realize you're going to have to take these off, don't you? I've got marks all over my legs.” She tried, really tried, to make it sound like she was complaining.
She felt him smile, felt his teeth scrape over her shoulder. “Marks? Let me see.” He lowered his hands, a rough caress over her skin, between her legs. Parted them, until he could see the faint patch of reddish skin running along each inner thigh. His fingers brushed over them, and Sango bit her lip to hide her sharp breath. Then he soothed. Stroked. Downward.
Sango's spine arched, and she slid her hands over his. Guided, taught...
...moaned.
“Oh, yes. We should tend these immediately.” Light, teasing flicks, his fingers dancing with hers. Pleasure thrumming along her most sensitive nerve endings. “Isn't there some old saying about licking wounds to make them heal faster?”
More laughter, bubbling up from some deep, forgotten place inside her. “If you're a dog, maybe,” she murmured, turning her head up and tugging his down.
Miroku met her in a quick, open-mouthed kiss that was all tongue and enthusiasm, then pulled back with a soft laugh. “A dog? I am definitely going to remember that.”
Sango meant to ask him why that was funny, but she got distracted.
************************************************************ **************
Bliss.
It was the only way to describe an entire afternoon spent in sensual indulgence, Sango was sure. She lay face-down on in the mattress in her room, sprawled within a tangle of sheets and other bedding while Miroku smoothed his hands up and down her back. He kept dropping kisses on some neglected spot of skin, but made sure to stop periodically and pay homage to her backside, a feature which it hadn't taken her long to realize he adored. Not too long ago, she'd had a sheet covering her entire body, but Miroku had been working it gradually downward until it barely covered the back of her thighs.
In had taken them an hour—an hour—to make it the bedroom, especially after Miroku insisted on engaging in a “healing session” for her legs. And when they finally had dragged each other off the carpet and over onto the mattress, he had insisted on bringing the bag of goodies with him because a: they really were “the best snacks in Sonkyou,” (and after tasting the pastries, she couldn't disagree); and b: “it never hurts to be hopeful,” he'd told her cheerfully as he tossed her the box of condoms he'd bought along with the food. She couldn't deny they'd come in handy. More than a few times, and in more than a few ways.
And it had all been so much fun. Miroku was a hedonist of the first order, and he took unapologetic pleasure and enjoyment from every touch, whisper, taste, caress. Sango had never experienced sex this way. The lovers she took were lovers of necessity, a stop-gap way of dealing with the guilt and negative emotions that were her daily companions in the life—and even then, not until after she'd ignored them until the pressure threatened to break her. She traveled around so much the lovers she took were strangers; the sex she had was quick, sometimes good, sometimes bad, but never personal. She'd never lain in bed and taken time to revel in a wealth of naked sensations, had never felt every muscle and bone in her body go to liquid, had never laughed at so many silly, ridiculous, inane things. She'd never felt connected to anyone before.
She'd never had a day like this. She'd never had a lover like him.
Sango knew, somewhere deep down, that this was going to come back at her in a terribly painful way. That this afternoon might very well be the worst mistake she'd made in her life. But for the moment, she was content, so relaxed she could have been a cloud drifting in the sky. She shifted her head just a bit and sighed. “Amazing. Nothing hurts.”
Miroku paused, his hand on her nape and halfway through combing the long, long strands of her hair over her shoulder. He kept doing that, as if there were something fascinating about her hair. Distantly, she sensed his surprise. “Hurts? You were in pain?”
Her eyes flew open as she realized what she'd given away. Nonplussed that she'd let slip one of her most basic secrets, she didn't answer right away.
“Sango? When did you hurt? I didn't—”
“No!” The denial burst from her mouth before she had the chance to even consider whether she should let him think it was his fault or not. She turned, met the concern in his violet eyes. “It's nothing. Just a peculiar quirk of mine.” She hesitated, made a split-second decision. It wouldn't hurt to tell someone other than Kirara. Just this once. “When I'm under a lot of stress, sometimes it manifests in physical symptoms that cause me pain. Stomach aches, headaches. Muscles spasms. It doesn't happen often. Just sometimes. But I have a high-stress job, so....”
His eyebrows rose a fraction as he stared down at her. “When you're under stress.” Another moment or two of consideration. “And you were in pain before?”
He was watching her as if he could see all her secrets. It made her cautious.
“Yes.” Her eyes widened as she caught the implication, and she hastened to add, “I know I'm on vacation, but with my type of job, you never really...get to leave it.” She pressed her lips together and averted her gaze before he noticed the affect the words had on her. Now was not the time.
He moved, bracing his arms until he was directly over her. “And how, exactly, do you deal with this stress?”
She caught the hint of sensual curiosity in his voice and fought a smile. She ran her hands up his arms. “A hot, sweaty encounter is the only cure I've ever found.”
“Is that so?” His dropped to his elbows so that his body pressed hers into the mattress. “So you just pick random men to have sex with whenever you're feeling stressed? Should I feel lucky?”
She leaned up and pressed her mouth to his. “I never said it had to be sex. Just hot and sweaty.”
Intrigue lit up his face. She could almost see the possibilities running through his brain. “So you sleep with them or fight them?” He leaned back, and the way his eyes slipped down her body told her he was more attracted than repulsed by the idea of her being able to handle physical violence. “Martial arts?”
For some reason, that made her feel lighter. “Several kinds. I didn't get this ass you can't keep your hands off of by sitting on it all day.”
That prompted a chuckle. “I'd be very interested in seeing you practice.”
“No one to spar with.”
“What's wrong with me?”
She blinked. “You? But...” She was very, very skilled. “I don't want to hurt you.”
Unexpectedly, he smiled at that and bent to kiss her neck. “Your concern for my welfare is touching, but you might be surprised at how I handle myself.”
Wasn't that the truth. “I already am,” she muttered.
He laughed again, then rearranged them so that they were spooning, his arms wrapped around her from behind, the sheet tucked around them. They were quiet for a while. Sango dozed again, but only on the surface, because through all that luscious skin-to-skin contact, she could feel him thinking. It didn't surprise her when he asked another question. “What is it you do again?”
She opened her eyes. “I'm a troubleshooter, for a very rich company.”
“Troubleshoot and travel.”
“Yes.”
“And that's all you're going to tell me, isn't it?” He sounded wry, not offended, which let her smile.
Instead of responding, Sango picked up his right hand. The circular scar in the middle of it had been intriguing her since she'd met him. She could only think of a few items that would even make such a perfect circle, and none of the scenarios where any of them ended up through-and-through a hand were accidental. As curious as she was, she hadn't asked him about it, and she wasn't about to start now. Quid pro quo could be a dangerous game. So all she did was study, running her fingers over the back, tracing his palm with her nail. She knew she was taking far more enjoyment in the physical closeness, in the right to touch, than she should, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
“What about your family? Don't they miss you while you're doing all your traveling?”
Her hands stilled their examination.
Pillow talk, she told herself. It's just pillow talk. Everyone does it. It's natural to be curious.
Still, she was glad she wasn't looking at him. “No.” She could have left it at that; she should have left it at that, but for some reason.... “No family. Not anymore.”
“Ah.” His hand, damaged and awkward though it was, curled around hers. “I'm sorry.”
It was such a simple gesture, but it brought a lump to her throat. “It was a long time ago. I don't think....”
I don't think about it anymore.
I barely remember them.
It doesn't hurt anymore.
Lies. Lies she always told. It was protection; it was self-preservation. But she couldn't bring herself to lie to the man who had wrapped himself around her. Tears stung her eyes, shocking her, and a shudder shook her frame as she tried to hold them in. His arms tightened, tucking her a little further into his body.
“I understand. I only had my father and my teacher, but they're both gone. I was there, for both of them.” Miroku sounded quiet, calm, serious—so different from his normal flirtatiousness that she almost didn't recognize it. “It was...a long time ago, too.”
There was old sorrow in his words, a hint of tragedy that resonated. It made her heart ache. Sango wanted to turn around, to see the expression that went with that voice, but hesitated just long enough to realize what was happening. Somehow—somehow, without her noticing—he kept slipping deeper and deeper beneath her defenses. Even with that very first shogi game, she'd been sure she was going to send him on his way, only to end up playing with him all night. Then endless flirtations that shouldn't have been endless, repeated meetings she hadn't been able to muster the will to stop. And now, again without her noticing, they'd gone from sharing bodies to sharing...more.
Quid pro quo. Such a dangerous game.
It felt natural, but it wasn't good. He wasn't just relieving her stress; he was breaking her down without even trying, exposing her when she needed to be strong. It was probably for the best that she was leaving. And after today, she could never, ever do this again.
After today.
So instead of turning around and meeting his serious gaze and sharing that deep moment of mutual recognition, she squeezed his scarred hand and brought it to her mouth. Then, as an apology and a goodbye, she told him a truth she'd never willingly trusted to anyone else. She told him why. “I lied. There is someone left. A little brother. But he attends a private academy, so I never see him. We don't...talk. I don't even know if he remembers me.”
“I see. Someone to live for, right?” It terrified her, how he went straight to the heart of it. “But if he doesn't remember you, then you might as well have no family.” A spark of anger, a frisson that skittered along her spine, stiffening her back, but Miroku continued. “So the question is, why not go see him? Why keep yourself in isolation?”
She swallowed. “Isn't fear a good enough reason?”
He let her go, unwrapped himself and pulled at her shoulder, and she found herself on her back once again, staring up into dark, searching eyes. “For some people, maybe.”
But not for you. He may as well have said it out loud, it hung so clearly between them. He didn't think her a coward, thought she was stronger than fear. He was digging, trying to find the other reason, the one she didn't want him to know anything about.
A pure, clear, beautiful feeling hurt her heart and translated into a bittersweet smile. One afternoon and he saw her more clearly than anyone she'd ever met. She reached up and ran a finger over his lips, then laced her arms around his neck and tugged him down. “Then I guess that depends on how you define fear, doesn't it?”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before he gave in to her silent demand, mouth hot and slow, licking and tasting with relish. He nudged her mouth wider, took it deeper, and the slow burn melted down into her belly. Sango curled a leg around one of his and urged him to settle against her, felt him go hot and hard against her hip.
God, what an afternoon. Frustration, mind-blowing sex, vulnerability, and spilled secrets left and right. He was obviously her weak spot; who knew what else she'd tell him if he got her like this again? It was a good thing this was the only time. It was.
Miroku broke away, suspicion in his eyes. “You're leaving, aren't you?”
Sango put her hands on his chest, tumbled him onto his back and straddled his abdomen. His hands went to her ass, almost automatically. She gave him her slow, wicked smile and, lithe and nimble as a cat, rubbed herself against him. “More,” she said.
He gave her more. Outside, the sun started to set.
******************************************************************* *******
Miroku didn't make it back from town in time for dinner. Nothing wrong with that, except that they'd had a new arrival the day before, an older gentleman everyone called Tanaka-san, who made a habit of stopping in at least once a year, and who was apparently wealthy enough to warrant Miroku making himself specially available for shogi and conversation each night. Kagome had watched them the previous night, and she thought that Miroku had enjoyed the company, so his absence surprised her.
InuYasha wasn't surprised. He was thoroughly pissed, and he grumbled his way through the meal—first, about Miroku's recent habit of taking the truck when InuYasha wasn't around to stop him; then about Miroku's perverted “hobbies”, though the wide-eyed curiosity of a kitsune child (and the threatening glares from the two mikos across the table) kept him vague on the details. To Kagome, it felt like the first completely normal meal they'd had since she'd purified those youkai.
After dinner, Kaede suggested that, since Miroku had still not returned from Sonkyou, InuYasha and Shippou take his place playing shogi with their guest that evening. InuYasha absolutely refused, but Shippou jumped at the chance to play against a new opponent; so, of course, all three or them—Shippou, InuYasha, and Kaede, since she had a certain rapport with the elderly man—retired to one of the common rooms to play shogi for the evening. Shippou tried to convince Kagome to sit in with them, but she shook her head, pleading after-dinner cleanup. Shippou had gone to a lot of trouble to manipulate InuYasha into the game, and the evening would probably be nice for all of them. She didn't want to be the cause of it falling apart, and with InuYasha still mostly avoiding her, and her so flat-out confused, she was afraid she would be.
The facts made her sad, then mad, then frustrated, and she took it out on the furniture as she wiped down tables and scrubbed dishes. There weren't that many, because some of their guests had left that afternoon, so she finished quickly and started tea and coffee for anyone who might come wandering in looking for a hot drink. With the temperatures outside so icy, seeking out warmth in the kitchen was a common evening occurrence.
She did all this absently, because her mind refused to quit turning things around, wondering what was really going on. When she remembered the deep sorrow in InuYasha's expression when she'd asked about Kikyou, then put it next to what Shippou had said about him being in love with her and killing her, it made less and less sense. Because she knew, with certainty, that InuYasha didn't harm the ones he cared for. He'd harmed Hidaka, sure—mercilessly—but that had been for her, in protection and indignation. He'd slashed the youkai who attacked them to ribbons, but that had been a desperate attempt to keep her safe.
He might have loved Kikyou, but it had been Kagome he'd been kissing as if he didn't know how to stop, right there on the kitchen floor where anyone could have found them. Remembering made her all warm and squirmy inside, and she sipped her tea, swinging back to anger and frustration while she glared at the floor.
Unless....
Unless he'd been thinking of her when he'd been kissing Kagome? The squirmy heat in her belly chilled into a cold, sick knot, and she dropped her head to the countertop, horrified at the new possibility. Was that why he was avoiding her? Because it wasn't really Kagome he wanted?
Did that make sense if he'd killed her?
Kagome thunked her forehead against the counter a few more times for good measure. If only one of them would talk to her, help her understand. If only InuYasha weren't so stubborn.
“Kagome, Kagome!”
Kagome jerked her head up in time to see Shippou come skidding into the kitchen, take a flying leap, and land on the countertop next to her. His green eyes were round and sparkling with excitement, bringing a smile to Kagome's lips despite her internal mess.
“Tanaka-san wants to see his shogi set!”
Kagome nodded, not sure what he was talking about but willing to go along with his childish delight. “Tanaka-san brought a shogi board with him?”
“No, no! It's not really his anymore. He gave it to Miroku a couple years ago after Miroku beat him every game they played while they were here. Tanaka-san said it was a handcarved board with ivory tiles that he won in a tournament ages ago, really expensive, and he wants to see how Miroku's been taking care of it.”
Kagome blinked down at Shippou's expectant features, not sure what he wanted. “I don't know where it is. I haven't seen anything like that.”
Shippou nodded. “That's what InuYasha said. He thinks Miroku would keep something like that in his room. He's still playing Tanaka-san, so he wants us to go see if we can find it.”
Kagome blinked again. “InuYasha wants us to go into Miroku's room?”
Shippou hesitated. “Well, he didn't mention you, but I'm too small to carry and entire set by myself, so you have to help.”
Hands still wrapped around her tea, Kagome stared at him, feeling vaguely as if she were being played. “Has Miroku gotten back from Sonkyou yet?”
He beamed. “Nope. InuYasha said that if he gave up the right to privacy when he took the truck without having a good reason, and that we're not going to wait all night for him to deem to make an appearance.”
Kagome immediately didn't like the idea. “But....”
“C'mon, please?” Shippou was practically bouncing, his fluffy tail wagging. “I really wanna see this thing. Instead of black, the charcters on the tiles are stamped with gold. I didn't know Miroku had anything like that.”
“But....”
“Besides, I do some of my lessons in Miroku's room all the time since he keeps all his hi-tech computer stuff in there. I bet I could find a fancy set like that real quick.” He gave her his biggest, most innocent eyes. “Please?”
******************************************* *******************************
Like InuYasha, Miroku had always insisted on keeping his own personal space, so Kagome had never seen his room before. And, given that this was Miroku, she thought she could be forgiven for being a little hesitant.
“Pardon me for entering,” Kagome muttered as she stepped into the room. Shippou hadn't waited for her, and scampered in ahead, going directly to a set of doors and throwing them open.
Miroku had a generous amount of space in his room, one of the larger ones in the Sachi. The futon sat folded neatly in the middle of the tatami, dead center to the room, bedding halfheartedly folded on top, and various pieces of furniture lined the walls. The doors to the built-in closet that preoccupied Shippou took up half the space of one wall, and a chest of drawers sat next to a large, multi-pane window in the back.
But what caught and held her attention was the low table to her right, laden down with several slim computer towers, one wide, slim black screen, and surrounded by a few other devices she didn't recognize. The screen was dominated by a screen saver that scribbled over itself again and again in a constantly changing pattern. His laptop had its own little space off to the side, closed and quiet.
Kagome's brow furrowed as she stared at the workspace. “Wow. I didn't realize he kept so much in here. It looks expensive.”
“It is. That's not all of it, either.” Shippou's muffled voice drifted out from the depths of the closet. “There's more in here, too. I think one of the things Miroku studied in school was computers, so he knows a lot about them.”
Made sense, Kagome supposed, given that he was the only person she ever saw fiddling with the ancient computer they used out at the front desk. Keeping an ear on the thumping, shuffling, and whacking that marked Shippou's search through the closet, Kagome drifted over the elaborate set-up. Absently, she bent over and nudged the mouse with her fingers and the screen saver cleared instantly, leaving a factory-standard background and sprinkling of shortcut icons across the screen.
At least there were no pictures of large-breasted women. Kagome wouldn't have been pleased to see that anywhere near something that Shippou had regular access to.
Regular access....
Kagome's eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder, but all she heard was the crashing tumble of several small items (and with a wince, she wondered how much damage he was doing), and Shippou's preoccupied mumbling. Just to check, she clicked on the web browser. It popped up immediately, opening onto a search page. The cursor blinked in the box, like a taunt. Her fingers were typing before she really thought about what she was doing.
Kikyou.
Pictures of pretty blue flowers and gardening guides were the first returns. She pursed her lips, thought. Revised the search.
Priestess Kikyou, Tokyo.
A page of links to a series of human interest articles, all spanning back over a decade or more: Local Priestess, Unusually Gifted, Follows in Predecessor's Footsteps;
Priestess Kikyou Raises Record Amount For Local Charity;
Priestess Helps Police, Saves Child;
A Priestess called Kikyou: Educator, Philanthropist, and Ambassador.
Kagome swallowed as her stomach started to churn with unease. Were these all about Kikyou? If they were, she must have been amazing. She chewed on her lip for a moment, then started to click on the first link, wanting to know more about this woman whom InuYasha had loved.
Another crash in the closet, followed by a triumphant exclamation from Shippou, stayed her hand. She bit down hard on her tongue for a moment, then added a word to her search.
Priestess Kikyou, Tokyo, death.
This time, the results were littered with news articles, all of them clustered roughly around the same time, approximately five years before. Kagome stopped breathing, her heart speeding in her chest as her eyes skimmed the headlines:
Bloody Death for Famous Priestess;
Priestess Known As Kikyou Mourned by Local Shrine Associations;
Unnamed Suspect Held In Death Of Priestess;
Beloved Priestess Brutally Slain By Youkai Culprit.
Well, Shippou had said they'd talked about it on the news. Feeling weak, Kagome sank to her knees, then clicked on the one that claimed a youkai had been the cuplrit.

--Police are expected today to officially charge the suspect of Saturday night's brutal slaying of one of Tokyo's most beloved and mysterious religious figures, a miko known to most only as Kikyou-sama. Her body was discovered in a high-rise apartment early Sunday morning, after numerous complaints of loud noises and screaming and several calls reporting a domestic dispute brought police to investigate. The suspect in custody was arrested after being found with the body amidst the evidence of a violent struggle. Investigators so far have kept details sketchy, but neighbors who were present at the scene described it as “bloody”, “a mess”, and “traumatizing”. One neighbor, wishing to remain anonymous, described her body as being “mangled beyond recognition.”
After extensive questioning from police, the suspect, whose name has not been released, will be charged with murder in the first degree sometime Monday. Sources inside the department describe the suspect as male, of youkai origin, and a known acquaintance of Kikyou-sama's. A romantic connection between the two is suspected but not yet confirmed. More details are expected to emerge as records become public. The suspect remains in lockup pending official charges, but lawyers for the suspect have already filed papers asking for an injunction against the release of details to the media. A ruling on the issue is expected later today.
Kikyou-sama, an intensely private woman who used the surname Yamashina to rent the apartment, captured popular imagination almost fifteen years ago, after being singled out for what a respected priest called “a rare and unique power” during a holy festival at a local shrine. After an official investigation by the Association of Shinto Shrines confirmed her status, Kikyou-sama shot to immediate folk hero status when she refused to join the Association or take up any official position within a shrine. Instead, she traveled across Japan, quietly raising money for charities and contributing in a variety of ways to the local communities in which she stayed. The attention-shy miko has long been steadfast in her avoidance of media, including all attempts to trace her earliest years, which remain shrouded in mystery. In recent years, hints of a growing influence in business and political circles have emerged.
In a press release early Monday, the Shrine Association expressed sorrow at the loss of such a great spiritual leader. The head priest of the shrine where Kikyou-sama was discovered and local politicians have already announced plans for a memorial in her honor. Though she will be cremated, funeral plans have not yet been announced....

With a significant clattering and tumbling, Shippou popped out of the closet, a large shogi board of rich, polished wood and a glinting golden latch dragging beneath his arm and a red velvet bag that clacked with tiles hanging from around his neck. Various bits of clothes trailed behind him. “I found it! Miroku was keeping it in this huge chest....” He trailed off, sniffing at the air. “Kagome?”
Kagome didn't turn around. “That's great, Shippou. You should take it to Tanaka-san before everyone comes looking for it.”
“Me? But you're supposed to help me.”
Kagome clenched her hands in her lap, trying to contain their trembling. “We both know you don't really need my help, Shippou, not even with a board like that,” she said gently. “Please take it out, and I'll stay and clean up the mess you made, okay?”
Shippou was quiet for a moment. “Kagome, are you okay?”
“I'm fine, Shippou,” she said, sharper than she'd meant. “I just don't think we should leave Miroku's room like this.”
“O-okay.” Shippou's voice sounded small. Kagome felt guilty, but didn't take it back. With some grunting (because no, he didn't really need her help, but yes, the board was heavy), Shippou left.
Kagome waited until the grunting disappeared down the hall before she lifted her trembling hands to her face and gently traced her features. Suddenly her chest hurt, and she realized she'd been barely breathing for so long she felt dizzy. Her lungs expanded, pulling in a deep, shaky breath, but her eyes never left the screen.
The article itself was bad, with too many terrifying implications and not enough substantive information—and just enough description to leave vivid images swirling around in her head. The article had left the impression of a lover's quarrel, a crime of passion, and to her horror it seemed almost believable. But it was the picture, right there at the bottom of the article—of a woman in red and white shinto garb with a reserved, gentle smile—that she couldn't pull away from.
Kikyou.
She was staring at herself.
And the tears stung.
***************************************************************** *********
A/N: Bwahahahaa!
Surprised you with that lemon, didn't I? Surprised myself, too, not that it matters. Got this out a lot quicker than I thought I would. I guess NaNo is good for something after all, huh? Next chapter should be interesting, too.
Er...I think/hope/pray.
Anyway, I hope it was all right. I liked it, but I'm the author, so I don't count. XD
Hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I am enjoying all this chilly weather. We're moving right along now, aren't we? Drop me a note, please, to let me know how you think it's going.
~Quill
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Sachi	By : Quillwing717 Category: InuYasha > General Views: 18692 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.

Sachi