Adult-FanFiction.org : Inuyasha / Yashahime

Love's Labors Won	By : Sentinel28A Category: InuYasha > Het - Male/Female > Miroku/Sango Views: 4074 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Ah, the payoff...thanks for the reviews!

SCROLL FOUR: LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD
   Unlike some youkai, such as Kouga or Inuyasha’s half-brother Sesshoumaru, the praying mantis was not sentient.
It lived to hunt, feed, eat, and reproduce. It possessed enough of a rudimentary intelligence to know that hunting
humans was to be done only in emergencies, when easier prey was scarce–humans had swords and occasionally
guns, which the youkai knew could kill it. So it confined itself to deer and the odd horse or bear. Due to the ongoing
state of civil war in the realm of Musashi, however, most of the game had either been chased off or hunted. This was
not too much of a problem for the villagers, who were mostly Buddhist and only ate rice and fish. It was a real
problem for youkai carnivores.
    And so, it had noticed the human earlier in the day, but kept itself hidden. Now that the human was defenseless
and asleep, it was time to hunt.
    The praying mantis was silent, gliding out of its cave on four legs. It took its time, skirting Sango’s campsite,
looking for a way in, staying upwind–the youkai knew that Kilala was there, and didn’t want the kitten smelling it.
Finally, it turned and began moving towards the lean-to. Nothing inside moved, reassuring the youkai that both
human and bakeneko were asleep.
    Suddenly, the mantis stopped. Its head moved from side to side, antennae vibrating. Something had moved, and
by the vibration on the air, it was human-shaped. The mantis retreated a little, weaving slightly, to hopefully fool the
unwary into thinking that it was a tree. The vibration stopped, and after a moment or two, the mantis continued
forward on the hunt. It extended its arms and bladelike spikes snapped into place, each one capable of decapitating a
human with one swipe. The mantis moved quicker, sensing that the wind had shifted. It was three steps from the
lean-to when there was a coughing snarl and Kilala burst from the blankets, in her full form, paws blazing with fire
and great fangs beared. The mantis skittered backwards and avoided Kilala’s pounce, then moved faster than Kilala
could react, rotating its torso and sweeping both arms out in front of it. Luckily, the swing was backhand and so
spared Kilala from being sliced in half, but the truarm still sent the bakeneko reeling headfirst into a tree, where she
lay stunned.
   The mantis turned, opening its razor-sharp mandibles to bite Kilala’s head off, but now it faced another threat. Not
having time to reach her hiraikotsu, Sango came out of the now-ruined lean-to with her sword drawn. As the mantis
turned, she sliced it across the face, taking off a mandible. Ichor spewed forth and the mantis screeched, instinctively
slicing a truarm at Sango, who nimbly ducked under it and aimed her sword for a upward thrust, into the youkai’s
head. The mantis brought both arms together, trying to chop Sango’s head off, but this was a fight she was used to,
and she rolled backwards, losing her opportunity but saving her life. Then the mantis did something she never
expected: it reared up on its hind legs and tried to kick her with its forward set. Sango avoided the rib-shattering
kick at the last minute, but she still slipped and fell, knocking the wind out of her. The mantis came down on all of
its legs and reared both arms back, blades aimed for her chest. Sango, gasping, could do nothing as death descended
on her.
    Then her view of the mantis was cut off by a blur of black and purple robes.
     Miroku had spotted the mantis moving towards the hot spring, and then saw Sango’s hiraikotsu where it leaned
against a tree. It was him the youkai had sensed a few seconds before. Now, he jumped in front of Sango and caught
both blades against the hardwood of his staff. One of the blades sliced forward a little, leaving a deep cut in the
wood and a smaller one in Miroku’s unbound hand.
    “Miroku?!” Sango exclaimed.
   “Run!” Miroku yelled over his shoulder. The mantis was pressing him backwards, and if he slipped as well, he
didn’t want to fall atop her. Sango scrambled to her feet and got away from them.
    Miroku wanted to find some fighting room, to fall back, unwrap the rosary beads, and draw the youkai into the
kazaana in his right hand. He knew he would never get to the rosary bead stage before the mantis ripped him apart;
worse, even if he succeeded, the sharp mandibles and truarm blades might cut his wind tunnel open past the point of
no return, which would kill everyone in a half-mile radius. It had nearly happened before, and this time there was no
nearby monk to fix the problem or an Inuyasha to save him. His ofuda prayer scrolls were up his sleeve; that was the
better chance.
   Miroku shoved the youkai backwards and stepped back a pace to give himself some room, but the mantis had
evidently selected him as being next on the menu. It stepped forward and took a swipe at his head; Miroku ducked
but one of the razor barbs cut his forehead. Shaking his head free of the blood, Miroku gave more ground as the
mantis bobbed and weaved, looking for an opening.
    Suddenly it was tackled from the side as Kilala reentered the battle, her fangs sinking deep into the mantis’ side.
She gagged and spit as ichor sprayed her muzzle, but the mantis had been knocked to one side, if not off its feet. It
screeched again, but managed to force Kilala back with a sweep of one truhand blade and fend off Miroku with the
other.
    “Miroku! Kilala! Back off! HIRAIKOTSU!”
    It was barely enough warning, but it was effective. Both Kilala and Miroku leapt backwards as Sango pitched her
boomerang barely a foot off the ground. It whirred through the air and tore all four legs from the mantis with
sickening crunches, then spun backwards, crashing through a number of branches on its way back to Sango’s hand.
The youkai collapsed, making grotesque, high-pitched squeals of pain as it thrashed on the ground. Miroku saw his
chance: he dodged left, avoiding a clumsy swipe of a truhand blade, then leapt aside the mantis, bringing down the
sharp end of his staff into the back of its head. The staff ripped through the youkai’s skull and out the other side, just
above its mouth. It trembled once, gave a small heave, then toppled forward, taking the staff out of Miroku’s hands
in its death throes.
   Miroku closed his eyes and said a brief prayer, both in thanks for his life and those of his friends’, and for the
repose of the mantis’ spirit. He then pulled the staff from the corpse and leaned on it, wiping the blood from his
eyes. Then he looked up at Sango with that impish grin. “Hello, Sango-san.”
    Sango knew her mouth was open in shock. She closed it before something flew into it. “M-Miroku? What are
you doing here?”
    “Fighting youkai–the usual, it seems. Are you all right?” She nodded dumbly. He nodded back, and looked over
at Kilala, who was wiping her muzzle in the grass. “How about you, Kilala?” The bakeneko mewed an affirmative
and went back to trying to get the ichor off.
    Finally, Sango got her senses back. “You–you followed me!”
    “I still have not apologized properly for my actions. Besides, I too had heard the villager’s tale, and those of the
villages you passed through today. I have fought this type of youkai before, Sango-san, and knew it was much for
one person–even a trained taijiya–to handle alone. Even with a great cat and her anger to assist her.” He motioned
at the dead mantis. “It seems I was correct. I am just thankful that I arrived when I did.”
    Part of Sango wanted to yell at Miroku, to tell him once more to go to hell, because had she not been wrenched out
of a sound sleep by Kilala’s snarl, she easily could have taken the mantis wide awake. Then again, without Miroku’s
timely arrival, she would probably be either dead or severely wounded by now. And there was that damned grin on
his face. Finally, Sango bit back her pride and bowed to him. “As am I. Thank you, Miroku-sama. You saved my
life–again.”
    “I don’t keep count. If I did, Inuyasha would insist he was ahead of all of us.” Suddenly, he slumped to the
ground. He blinked in shock. “That’s strange...why...”
    “Oh, gods, Miroku, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” Sango dropped her boomerang and quickly grabbed a
waterskin and her towel from the demolished remains of her lean-to. She poured some of the skin over Miroku’s
head, then pressed the still-damp towel to his forehead. She helped the monk up and led him to the hot spring,
washing the towel before returning it to his head. “Here, hold this. The warm water should help.” She dashed back
to the lean-to.
    “It’s not that bad, Sango-san.” Miroku had been wounded enough in his time to know that the cut was not deep.
His hand had been sliced deeper, and he immersed that in the warm spring. Sango returned with one of her blankets,
tearing a strip from it to bind his hand. “I’m an idiot,” she said.
   “How so?”
   “I allowed myself to fall into a deep sleep. I knew the youkai was probably in that cave, but yet I went to bed. I
know better than that. My father would be ashamed of me.”
    “We all make mistakes,” Miroku replied.
    “Like you this morning?” She smirked at him as she finished the bandage. “Not as good as Kagome, but it will do
until we get back to Kaede.” She noticed that she was shaking, and so was Miroku–the adrenaline from the fight was
still coursing through them.
    “It’s fine. And yes, like me.”
    “Well, you saved my life, so I suppose I forgive you–though that doesn’t mean you can grab my rear!”
    Miroku brought both hands up. “I have no intention to. I’ve lost too much blood tonight as it is.” His eyes
suddenly widened. “Sango, you’re bleeding!”
    “Eh?” She raised her right hand, and saw blood on the back of it. It was shallow, enough to ooze blood and that
was all. Either the mantis had managed to cut her or she had done it when she fell to the ground on her own sword.
Miroku seized her hand and studied it intensely. “Miroku, it’s just a little cut–nothing to be concerned over–“
    He looked up at her. “You’ve been using my name.”
    She blinked. “Oh. So I have...I’m sorry, houshi–“
    ”I rather prefer Miroku,” he said, and without warning, he bent forward and kissed the cut, almost as an animal
would do to its own wound, or that of another, as if trying to take away the pain.
    Sango felt her heart suddenly begin to pound and her head began to swim dangerously. She trembled, and Miroku
looked up at her. “Are you all right?” he asked softly. She shakily nodded. Then, before either could think better of
it, she leaned close and kissed his forehead, over the cut, tasting the saltiness of his blood and sweat. Her hands
dropped the towel and grabbed at his robe, feeling the chest beneath. Miroku, a little surprised, was pushed back and
down, against the rocks that surrounded the hot spring, Sango straddling him.
    Sango drew back, her mind racing. What are you doing? her thoughts screamed. If you keep this up, you know
what will happen! You can’t do this, not now, maybe not ever... Then her eyes met Miroku’s, those deep, soft eyes,
and conscious thought decided to flee.
    She could not know that she was having much the same effect on Miroku. Sango had always had such sad eyes;
even when she smiled, sometimes it would never reach them, reflecting deeper cuts than either had. He wanted to
hug her close, tell her it would be all right somehow, and never let go. The funny part, Miroku thought to himself,
was that he had never planned a seduction. All his concern had been for Sango alone, for her own well-being, not
any sort of desire on his part. Now, however, that desire he had felt for her–somehow different and infinitely more
interesting than the desire he shared for all women–came flooding back full force, sweeping him along with it.
    They hesitated for a moment, neither sure they wanted to move forward into entirely unknown territory, or draw
back to the now-unsatisfactory status quo. Her hands lay on his chest, his on her shoulders, neither moving. Miroku
swallowed, wanting desperately to take the next step, but fearing that Sango would slap him and they would be back
to being angry. Miroku had been in similar situations with other women, but he hadn’t loved them, really; he would
rather become celibate for the rest of his life rather than risk losing the respect of the woman before him. I don’t
know what to do swirled around and around his mind.
   Abruptly, Sango made the decision for both of them. She leaned back, reached upwards, and opened the kimono,
letting its folds whisper free. She wore nothing beneath it, as she had been sleeping. She was not quite bold enough
to let it come completely free, just to slide it off her shoulders, leaving her breasts free. Sango kept her arms at her
sides, as if offering her chest for Miroku’s inspection.
    Miroku barely stifled a groan. He had seen Sango’s breasts before, in the times he had peeped on her bathing.
They were deceptively small: her catsuit was form-fitting and tended to make her look more endowed than she was.
A life of constant training and battle had kept them small, and Sango wondered if perhaps Miroku would be
disappointed–after all, Kagome’s were larger, and some of the village women Miroku flirted with were rather well-endowed. She blushed self-consciously, feeling the blush travel down to flush the tops of her breasts. Miroku
reached forward at a glacierlike pace, Sango willing him silently, please touch me, Miroku, you’re driving me insane
just sitting there staring. When his rough fingers found her, her breath caught in her throat. He brushed her nipples,
causing them to tighten and tingle, becoming more erect than they already were. His hands moved around to the
sides of her breasts and gently brought her forward, into a kiss. Their breath was hot on each other, and Sango’s
eyes went wide a little when she felt Miroku’s tongue on her teeth. She touched it with her own, sending a delicious
thrill through both of them. They drew apart for a moment, then kissed again, gently; neither attempted to devour the
other, knowing that the kisses would continue, that they had time. Miroku’s fingers worked on Sango’s breasts,
teasing, then his mouth marched down her throat, across her collar bones, and down further to gently press against
one nipple, and then the other. A moan escaped her lips, and she felt her thighs spasm involuntarily.
    Suddenly, the kimono was too hot–any clothes would be too hot. Sango, with a final kiss on Miroku’s brow, drew
back and stood up, looking down at him. With unsure fingers, she untied the loose obi waistband and let the kimono
puddle around her ankles. She stepped out of it, now completely naked. It took a conscious effort not to cover
herself; other than her family when they had bathed together, Sango had never been purposely naked before a man in
her life.
     Miroku drank in the sight of her. Her lips were trembling, as were her hands at her sides. His gaze traveled down
her chest to her breasts, now flushed with passion, the nipples straining skyward, aching for his touch again. He let
himself continue down, across the sweep of her ribs, the flat stomach, to her hips, the beautiful long thighs, and the
small thatch of black curls where they met. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but words failed him.
    Miroku also stood, stepping out of his sandals. He reached up and undid the knot holding his robe together,
letting it fall to one side. The underkimono he shrugged from his shoulders, leaving him only clad in his fundoshi
loincloth, which was already tented with his erection. Sango’s eyes widened at the sight, and they got larger when he
unknotted the fundoshi and cast it aside. Miroku was very erect, and as she stared at him, he felt as if he was getting
larger and harder, as if it was possible. Her eyes were obviously tracing every detail of his penis, from its swollen
head to the tangle of his pubic hair, and Miroku knew if he didn’t do something soon, he was simply going to
explode.
    Taking the initiative, he reached forward and took her shoulders, drawing both of them down to the pile of their
clothes. He kissed his way from her lips to the hollow of her breasts, then tried to gently push her backwards.
Instead, with a trace of devilment in her eyes, she pushed him away, turned over on her hands and knees, and offered
him her back–and that part of her anatomy he had always loved, her bottom.
    Miroku moved forward, letting his hands play across her buttocks. This time there was no slap, but only the sight
of Sango’s thighs trembling every time he touched her. He leaned against her back, positioning himself. “Sango,”
he whispered, unable to do more than that, “is this what you want?” He had to ask and know. Sango hesitated,
knowing what they risked, but her desire and love–yes, love–for this man swamping that concern. She shakily
nodded. Miroku did as well. He then reached around and clasped her breasts, kissing the ugly scar on her back and
wishing he could make that pain go away as well. More by feel than sight, Miroku eased forward until he felt the tip
of his penis contact her sex. Sango sucked in her breath, gave him another nod, and allowed her thighs to part a little
more for him. Praying he would not hurt her, Miroku slowly, maddeningly slowly, pushed himself inside her.
    Sango gasped in pain. Though any hymen she might have had long ago had been destroyed by the exertions of
demon hunting, she was otherwise very much a virgin. Her vagina was being stretched and opened like it never had
before. Miroku’s hands caressed her breasts, the feeling of silk from the cursed right hand and the rough fabric of
his bandaged left taking her mind from the pain in her nether regions. He eased back, taking himself nearly out of
her, then slowly pushed in again. It was much easier this time, and her gasps turned to moans of pure pleasure.
    Miroku tried a few more thrusts, hoping it was good for her, that the pain had stopped. As for him, Sango was like
liquid fire inside, her strong muscles grasping him, slick with her desire. He worried a little that she was not
enjoying it, as she had not moved much, but as if to answer his unsaid fears, she suddenly began meeting his thrusts
with her own, more fervently so. He took his hands away from her breasts and instead clasped her hands, laying full
length across her back.
    Not surprisingly, Sango had been rather quiet as she writhed with ecstacy, her breath coming in short gasps and
the occasional moan. Miroku had long suspected that would be the case; she was trained to be silent in all things.
Though he had worried as well that he might reach his peak before she did–or worse, ejaculate the moment he
entered her, he had wanted her so long–Miroku was mildly surprised to find that he was able to control himself, to
give Sango the full joy of their love as he was.
    That is, until she suddenly arched her back, and screamed, “Miroku! Oh, Mirokuuuuu!” She stretched out the last
syllable of his name into a cry of pure pleasure as her orgasm hit with the force of a thrown hiraikotsu.
    Too soon, too soon! Miroku exclaimed in his mind, but it was too late. The feel of her orgasm was enough to push
him over the edge: Miroku gritted his teeth and then gasped as he spasmed and shot his seed deep inside of Sango.
He thrust erratically and uncontrollably as he came, then, spent, collapsed atop her. Both of them sprawled atop their
clothes, wheezing with exertion.
    “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered out to Sango when he could breathe again.
    “For what?” she asked softly.
    “For not being able to hold off longer.”
    She looked back, half in shock. “You mean, that wasn’t your best?” He shook his head. Sango fell onto her
stomach, exhausted. “Miroku, I can barely breathe...”
    Now that made Miroku feel much better. If it had been good for Sango, that was what counted. “Sango...” He
wanted to say the words, but they weren’t there. He couldn’t say them.
   “Shh, houshi,” she said softly, caressing his cheek. “Just...stay close to me.”
   He hugged her to his chest, cradling her like a child, his hands wrapped around her breasts. Miroku looked up at
Kilala, who was staring at them. Apparently deciding that Miroku posed no threat to her mistress and bored with the
humans’ lovemaking, the bakeneko turned and curled up in sabertooth form, watching the forest. Miroku smiled.
The great cat would guard them. Already Sango’s breathing had slowed and evened, and her eyes were closed.
Miroku, the happiest he had been in arguably his entire life, gave in to sleep as well. The morning would bring
questions, but those could wait.
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Love's Labors Won