It was even worse than Kagome had feared.

She knew the inhuman power in Sesshoumaru’s fingertips. But to feel them now, bearing down upon this most vulnerable spot, cool yet intent in their slow appraisal of the curls at her mound, the feminine contours that descended from it—to feel him lingering there above that slim divide in such charged, predatory stillness had her bent legs quaking with a distress she never could have imagined, nor prepared herself for. A trepidation she had never felt before, at the hands of any man.

Her stomach plummeted. Her mouth ran dry. Her body went taut as she froze in turn.

Then he was spreading her open, though already she seemed to be splitting apart at his touch of her own accord—her lower lips swollen and bursting outward like overripe fruit, the soft membranes of flesh between them so wet and tender that exposure to the air alone was enough to make her shudder and ache. And that hungry little pit at the center of it all—gasping and drooling like an open mouth, ravenous and oblivious to all sense of caution or shame.

“Kagome,” Sesshoumaru asked lowly, as the tips of his claws skimmed along the periphery of her entrance, “why do you weep?”

Kagome stirred against him, distantly confused. Her first wispy thought was of her cunt, and wasn’t it obvious why she was weeping there—but then with that same stir, she felt the moisture filming her cheeks. Though Sesshoumaru had unlaced his hand from hers in order to fondle at her sex, absurdly, her wrist had remained pinned to her back this whole time. Just as absurdly, Kagome laughed, her arm cramped as she brought her fingertips forward to prod at the damp tender skin beneath her eyes.

“Because I’m afraid,” she said faintly, her smile watery and trembling.

“Of what?” Sesshoumaru asked, and the brush of his lips against her jawline only increased her terror.

“Of you,” she answered shakily as she exhaled, turning her face away. “I’m terrified of what I feel for you.” She murmured this as though she was drunk. But she was only intoxicated with him, and worn down enough to confess it. “…And it’s going to be the ruin of me.”

“You are right to fear me,” Sesshoumaru said, “but of such ruin you needn’t despair. You are determined to save yourself, aren’t you, Kagome?—for your husband’s sake. Well, I too like the thought of you untouched.” He said this, even as the pad of his finger sealed to her slit and depressed it slightly, the silky bounds of that little aperture fluttering around the sunken bed of his claw. “Pristine, because I have set you apart in my eyes. Virginal except for my little brother’s floundering, which I now dismiss. I elevate you and debase myself, all to ensure that you remain so loftily preserved, like an idol upon the altar of my mind, and my satisfaction will be all the greater for it.”

At these obsessive ravings, Kagome’s blood seemed to congeal in her veins. He was deranged—she had deranged him. In trying to curb him, she had only honed his madness. She realized this now, and the gravity of her failure was flaying her alive.

His fingers slid upward, then. Abandoning the path to her womb, he caressed that hooded point which screamed out in diabolical harmony with the cry tearing from her throat—

“Sesshoumaru!”

“Yes,” he ground out, guttural and unhinged, kneading her furiously as she began to sob in earnest. “…That was perfect.”

His hands were a blur against her clamoring nerves—her nipple a point of fire, her clit inflaming more perilously by the second. On the verge of total combustion, Kagome writhed in her suffering, impaled by the cock stabbing into her from behind. Her hips rose unbidden as she convulsed from within, crazed by the thought of him forcing her over, holding her down, rearranging her insides to match the arc of his thrusts—

“Do not,” Sesshoumaru snarled suddenly, releasing her breast to jerk her face back toward him by the chin, “provoke me now.”

The bloody flash of his eyes sobered her slightly, and she realized then that her reiki had risen against him, sharp-edged and lashing. A tempest of scintillating energy, it whipped and smashed against the dark cloud of his own demonic aura. A lesser demon would have been sliced to ribbons, burnt to ash. Heart beating wildly, Kagome fought to rein in the torrent that was thundering to vent itself upon him. Tension wired through her weary muscles. Panic clawed up her throat.

“Sesshoumaru—Sesshoumaru, I can’t—”

“Fuck,” he snarled again, clutching her to him.

His youki surged, smothering and containing her as she exploded against him—and he against her. For a moment, she went blind. Her release stormed through them both with such soul-rending force that she barely registered the bracing slash of his claws into her upper arm, the bruising crush of his brow to her temple.

Dimly, she began to know more, as her mind cleared along with her bleary eyes. She saw the dark blood spreading out through her sleeve, the white-knuckled hook of her nails biting into the blackened silk above his folded knees. She felt the clawed hand welded flat against her, her hips still rocking into it with the ebbing of her desire—as he continued to spend himself into the small of her back, which was as soaked and sticky as the seam of her thighs.

Kagome shifted in vain. She tried to move, to free herself from him, but she couldn’t. She was as feeble as a newborn kitten. All she could do was moan piteously in her throat at how filthy she felt, how hollowed-out and desolate she was now that the high of her pleasure was fading.

Go away, she wanted to say. Please…just go…just leave me alone…

She couldn’t even cry anymore, she was so broken down. The unshed tears just burned in her eyes. In a few more minutes, even her adrenaline would fade, and then she would feel every cut and contusion. Already her head was pounding terribly—like a hammer was chipping away at the inside of her skull.

Limp and unresponsive, she was like a doll in his hands as he stripped her from the mangled sheath of her yukata. When his claws left the depressions in her arm, she nearly fainted at the sight—two of his fingers were blasted down to the last knuckle, the rest charred and flaking and steaming with blood. It was clear he had directed the brunt of her spiritual pressure through those cuts of hers and into his hand, like diverting the course of a flood through a sluice. Before her eyes his fingers were already reforming, yet Kagome’s head spun as she strained against the urge to gauge the extent of her own injuries.

Would she lose her arm? Would she bleed out altogether?

“You are only scratched, and bleeding a little,” Sesshoumaru said, sounding almost as tired as she was. But there was something self-satisfied in his tone, rough though it was. When his wet tongue slid, slow and numbing along the tears in her flesh, he seemed almost to be gloating. “…You did well.”

Kagome’s throat worked helplessly as he eased her down to the bed, laying her on her uninjured side. Her back stung a little, chilled in the damp spot where his cum had spilled against her. When his hard naked body pressed into her from behind, she wanted to scream.

Aligning her to him at the hips, he half covered her as he leaned his weight into her. Even in repose, his size was gratuitous. Between the gap in her thighs, his flesh lolled soft and spent—melding slickly with her own in some sick parody of union. It was oppressive, obscene. Tipped over onto her belly, Kagome struggled to breathe through her flaring nostrils.

Against her senses, there was a whisper of youki, and she felt the rush of his fur wreathing around them both. Musky warmth seeped through her skin; a preternatural calm diffused her. Kagome’s lungs labored a little less. Her shame grew a little less acute.

By now, his blasted claws had healed. Lightly, he ran them up along her side, to palm the breast he hadn’t mauled, before sliding back down and around her ribs to pull her up and into him—just as he had done so long ago, when he’d dragged her off Inuyasha’s dead body and enfolded her into his own.

But even at the thought of Inuyasha, Kagome’s eyes remained hot and dry. Sesshoumaru’s breathing had deepened to a gravelly rumble. Was he sleeping? Ever so slightly, she tested her bloodied arm, but his fur only tightened around her. Resigned, she began to move her lips instead, to form Inuyasha’s name, as if by doing so she could summon up a well of pure feeling from the wasted, bitter chasm of her heart.

Fang points nicked her neck as she tried, Sesshoumaru’s voice sounding half-asleep as he murmured, “Some part of you must remember…”

Remember what, Kagome wanted to demand of him, but her breath only sighed out of her in a grumble of fading frustration, and she fell into darkness at last.

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

White Claw is a helluva chaser. Sorry if this is rough, but I just didn’t wanna split it up anymore 😉 You guys are saints <3

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