InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ As Daylight Dies ❯ As Daylight Dies ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: Inuyasha belongs to Rumiko Takahashi.

 

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The hut was dark. A stiflingly hot and sticky summer breeze wafted through gaping holes in the walls. The sun had set long ago; thick clouds obscured the stars and moon and threatened to pour rain at any moment. Only the faintly glowing embers of a fire left untended lit the building's interior. In the growing gloom, Sango sat and glowered, her back pressed against a wall so rotted that it seemed a miracle that the damp wood could support her weight.

 

For all the darkness that pervaded her thoughts, her attention was focused solely on the man that lay sleeping fitfully on the mat before her. Everything else was brushed aside, insignificant beside the fact that she had allowed this man to be wounded in battle.

 

His injuries were not so severe as to be life threatening, not even remotely so, but their presence was jarring. They had been through so much together that she had allowed experience to lull her into complacence; she had not expected their foe to be so fierce, or her aim to be so unpracticed, or her reflexes so dulled. What was supposed to have been a small, weak demon had turned into a serious threat, with only a moment's lapse in judgment.

 

She had slain the beast, in the end, but that fact seemed to matter little. She remembered their departure from the scene, her husband leaning heavily against her, breathing hard and bleeding. He was as unaccustomed to injury as she was to seeing him hurt.

 

Weary from the battle and weakened by his injuries, he had not been able to make it far. They had been lucky to stumble upon even this pathetic excuse for shelter before the change in weather hit; thick clouds had lingered overhead all day, but they had yet to unleash their burden of rain.

 

The soft summer breeze shifted into a much cooler wind that whistled through the holes in the hut wall. The slight respite from the heat did little to improve Sango's mood. It meant there would be rain, and soon.

 

She found herself longing for days past, when she had been able to make use of Kirara's companionship. With the demon's help, they would have simply flown home to tend to both the physical wounds and the sting of injured pride.

 

Instead, they were forced to take shelter in this gods-forsaken hut and hope that it would hold until the storm passed. She supposed, rather sourly, that it had been standing this long without falling in on itself that one more storm was unlikely to make much of a difference.

 

Miroku groaned quietly and opened bleary eyes to look at her, though she doubted he could see more than the dark shadow of her outline on the wall.

 

She yearned for some of Kaede's herbs to ease his pain. She knew something of the stitching and binding of wounds, but she knew little of the art of herbs, and could not even produce the simplest of healing poultices. That job had always been left to others in her village.

 

She wanted to laugh at her misfortune; instead, she frowned. She could create the most potent poisons her people had known, but she lacked the knowledge of which herbs might ease pain or assist in relaxation.

 

"You shouldn't scowl like that, Sango."

 

She narrowed her eyes. She had let the fire go untended long enough that she could barely make out his silhouette where he lay on the floor. "How can you see whether or not I'm 'scowling'?"

 

He laughed a little at her indignant response. "I know you, Sango. I don't have to see you to know that you are blaming yourself for this."

 

"I'm not… blaming myself for this," she protested. "I wouldn't -"

 

"But you do think that it's your fault," he pointed out. She had nothing to say to that, and turned away in spite of the fact that he could not see her do so. "We both underestimated that demon, Sango. We were lucky to walk away at all."

 

"I know," she said, her voice quiet. Did he not realize that she had been berating herself ever since the fight ended? She was a demon slayer. Her father had trained her well. If she really wanted to, she could pick the fight apart move-by-move from the beginning, to determine each and every mistake that had been made.

 

And to some extent, she had been doing that. She had analyzed and reanalyzed everything she had done during the fight and after, and had come to the conclusion that she should have stayed home with the children and allowed Inuyasha to accompany her husband to the fight. Years with little or no practice, in addition to the bearing of many children, had done nothing to improve her demon-slaying skills.

 

There was no getting around it. She was no longer cut out for this line of work, loath though she was to admit it.

 

Her eyes clouded with tears. Shame, frustration… Maybe she was simply expecting too much of herself. It hurt nonetheless.

 

It was starting to rain. She had expected a thunderous downpour, but it was soft and gentle.

 

"Something's bothering you. Tell me what's wrong." When she remained silent, he added, "If you're not going to talk, at least come sit beside me so I can see you."

 

She moved to sit next to him without protest, lying down and resting her head against his chest; the beating of his heart measured a familiar cadence against her cheek. For a long time the only sounds were his heartbeat, accompanied by the pattering of rain against the roof, and the soft dripping of water as it leaked through the ill-kept roof. Such quiet was a luxury; she could see why he would want to enjoy it together.

 

She sighed and closed her eyes, letting contentment wash over her in waves.

 

With contentment came desire, pulsing gently but insistently between her legs, almost urging her to take advantage of the situation. She stiffened, angry with herself for feeling such things at such a time as this. A small voice in her head protested that they got very little time to themselves, but that was quickly drowned out by another voice, loudly pointing out the reality of the situation. He was hurt. She shouldn't be feeling this way; she was likely to make his injuries worse should she try anything. They would find time later, somehow, to be together. When his injuries were healed.

 

"I'll see to the fire," she said, needing an excuse to put some space between them.

 

His hand caught her before she could escape, slipping an arm under and around her, gently rubbing the small of her back with his hand.

 

"Stay here," he said, his voice quiet.

 

She did not ask questions lest she give away her inner conflict, but that same conflict kept her from fully relaxing. She knew Miroku would probably not turn her down, but at the same time could not imagine seeking her own pleasure at the cost of his wellbeing. He was obviously already aware of her agitation and, knowing him, could guess at the cause. She wished he would just behave for once in his life, and let her fret and worry while he focused on rest and recuperation.

 

But if he did that, then he would not be Miroku, she thought sourly.

 

"Relax," he whispered.

 

She might have begun to do so if his hand had not suddenly insinuated itself against her bottom. The strong fingers rubbed and massaged her flesh; she knew he took great pleasure from touching her there, and tolerated it without complaint tonight. It was a familiar gesture, and reassuring.

 

His hand moved further, searching, no doubt, for the opening to her kosode. She glared at him, though there was no way he could see her expression in the dark. "You've been injured. You should rest."

 

She could not see his smirk, but knew it was there even so. "That doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself."

 

"You're in no condition -"

 

"You would pass up a night alone?"

 

Alone, with no battle to be fought, no children to be cared for, no duties to fulfill…

 

"…If you think you're up to it," she acceded.

 

"Sango, my dear, I am always up to it," he teased. "I could be dying and I would still want you. Why, as a matter of fact, I recall wanting you very much when I was dying -"

 

"Oh, shut up," she said, and kissed him. When she pulled away, breathless, she whispered, "Tell me if I hurt you."

 

"I like it when you hurt me."

 

Her face heated; she was suddenly glad for the lack of light. If he could have seen her blushing so profusely, she was certain that Miroku would have teased her mercilessly about it. Married so many years, comfortable with the physical aspects of their relationship, and still blushing like a virgin at his jokes…

 

She had removed his kesa before helping him lie down, so that he might use it as a blanket; now she had only to push it aside and undo the ties to the koromo robe to gain access to his bare flesh.

 

"Do you like it when I do this?" she asked, unabashed as she knelt beside him to take his manhood in her hand and lick along its length. He was growing harder with every heartbeat, and the feel of him, warm and strong, in her hand was at the same time reassuring… and doing nothing to quell her arousal.

 

"Mmm, do it again," he murmured.

 

She did, relishing his reaction to her touch. Having been so forcibly reminded of his fragility, she felt almost comforted at the physical reminder that he was still alive and by her side.

 

While she was thus occupied, he managed to shift the fabric of her kosode to the side and slip a hand between her legs. She thought she heard him whisper, "Let me taste you, Sango," but ignored it in favor of taking him into her mouth, sucking gently and swirling her tongue around him.

 

The gentle movement of his fingers against her heated flesh, slowly but surely, began to drive her to distraction. The slick digits rubbed and teased, but never gave enough to send her over the edge, and as soon as she moved her hips against his hand in a vain effort to increase the friction, he would pull back, denying her release.

 

She groaned with frustration and reached between her legs with the hand she was not using to support herself. He caught her before she could touch herself. His grip on her hand was soft but firm, his thumb gently massaging her wrist.

 

She felt trapped, compromised. He had never done anything like this before; he had always sought his pleasure through hers, and had denied her nothing over the course of their marriage.

 

Something deep inside of her throbbed with need.

 

"Miroku…"

 

"You know what I want."

 

He released her hand so he could run a finger along her folds. His touch was so light that she could barely feel it…

 

And then, almost without thinking, she shoved the fabric of her kosode out of the way as best as she could, her wits being too addled to deal with the knot of her belt, and she skittered sideways to straddle his face.

 

He licked eagerly at her flesh, slipping his tongue between slick folds of flesh and paying special attention to her clit. She very nearly sighed with relief at the touch. This was what she had needed for so long. Soft, moist, hot…

 

She rocked her hips gently against his face, to deepen the contact and increase the friction, and let out a shuddering breath that she had not realized she had been holding.

 

She was more than ready, and had barely turned her attention back to his erection when a powerful orgasm claimed her. She gripped his shaft hard and cried out at the force of it, curling forward as her muscles tensed under the onslaught of pleasure, and momentarily forgetting who and where she was…

 

"Cheater," she mumbled when at last she came back to herself, resting her head against his hip and trying to catch her breath.

 

"I was not aware that we were playing a game."

 

She lifted her head enough to turn and look at him. "You're injured. You shouldn't be exerting yourself."

 

"Ah. I am fairly certain that my wounds will not bleed much, as most of my blood is presently -" He paused, swallowing hard, as she licked, swirling her tongue around the head of his penis and taking it into her mouth. "Elsewhere."

 

"Is it?" she asked innocently, shifting so that she was no longer straddling his face, but sitting beside him again. She worked his shaft with one hand, alternating strong strokes of the hand with gentle licks and sucks and kisses. When she slipped her other hand between his legs to gently fondle his testicles, he stiffened and groaned, his hands fisting in the bedding.

 

"Sango, if you don't stop now, I won't last much longer," he managed between breaths.

 

"Alright," she acquiesced. But she gave him one last, hard lick as revenge for his insubordination.

 

She pulled away then, pausing to undo the knot of her obi and open her kosode more fully before moving to straddle his hips.

 

His hands urged her forward; she leaned toward him, and their lips met for a lingering kiss. Before they parted, she reached between them to guide him inside of her. She was shaking, ever so slightly. Quivering, almost.

 

She loved the feel of him inside of her, and took it slow, sliding down the length of him until he was fully sheathed within her. Her inner muscles clenched around him; he groaned, running his hands along her waist and hips, urging her to move. When she didn't, he did, slipping a hand between them to tease at her clit.

 

She shivered. Her hips moved, rocking back and forth almost of their own accord. She did not need to think about it. Need and lust had taken over, blissfully allowing her to ignore the reality of their situation. She did not see the bandages wrapped around his middle, did not feel the twinges of overstrained and overtired muscles, ignored the way he shifted so that he could meet her movements thrust for thrust.

 

All that existed, for a few moments, was the two of them and their joining.

 

His fingers teased a second orgasm from her almost before she knew it. He did not stop moving until well after the white-hot pleasure had settled, driving her ever onward. She squeezed her eyes shut and wanted it never to end.

 

"Gods," she whispered. Miroku did not respond, but allowed their movements to gradually still, as if waiting for her to catch her breath. His hands were a warm, erotic weight on her hips, reminding her that they were still joined, holding her to him until the last of her tremors had subsided.

 

She shivered once again when his hands slipped upward to cup her breasts. He was still hard within her, and not quite able to keep himself still. He had to be close now.

 

"I thought you said you couldn't last much longer," she panted. She could almost feel him smirk.

 

"Ah, Sango, have you ever known me to lack stamina?"

 

She laughed a little at his gloating, because it was true. He had more than lived up to his reputation, not that she was complaining. Well, maybe a little. Between their lovemaking and the fight earlier in the day, she was exhausted. To judge by the sound of his voice, so was he.

 

His hand brushed her face, gently rubbing her cheek. "Can you keep going?"

 

She nodded. "If you promise not to take very long," she teased.

 

He chuckled softly in response. "Come here." His other hand joined the first, gently cupping her face and pulling her toward him for a deep kiss. The distraction helped her not to flinch as he began moving his hips again beneath her. The friction of his swift, rough movements against her sensitized flesh was enough to make her moan into his mouth.

 

He picked up the pace, pulling away from the kiss to bury his face against her neck as his movements grew ever more desperate and frenzied. Suddenly he jerked beneath her, thrusting his hips against her several times, as deep and hard as he could, and crying out in a rough and wordless sound as he came.

 

Sango wished she could see the look on his face.

 

For a long time the only sound was that of their labored breathing. When she felt him go soft inside of her, Sango gingerly pulled away, fussing with her clothing for a moment before snuggling up beside her husband.

 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

 

He drew a shuddering breath, released it. "My love, I've never been better."

 

She smiled.

 

It stormed through the night, shaking the hut with thunder and lighting the sky with flashes of lightning, but the lovers slept soundly.

 

The morning came slowly, the growing light filling Sango with a sense of languor. Deep down, she wanted the night to last forever, and was a bit saddened by their necessary return to the everyday tasks of village life.

 

 

With the children and all of the duties they both had to fulfill for the villagers, it was not easy to find time to be together…

 

She roused herself, noting that Miroku still slept, got dressed, and crept out of the hut to survey the damage from the storm. The damage seemed to be minimal, and the hut did not appear ready to cave in on itself at any moment… at least no more so than it had when they arrived.

 

Her throat was dry. They had no provisions with them, having planned to return to the nearest village to stay the night as honored guests of the local headman, but she did have some basic supplies in her pack, including a water bottle that had been a gift from her friend Kagome. A gift it seemed she had been given a lifetime ago.

 

As the hut stood on the top of a small rise, she had to head downhill for some distance to find water. She enjoyed the solitary walk. It gave her time to think.

 

Her body still thrummed with pleasure. It had been ages since she and Miroku had had a night truly to themselves, since they had been able to take their time with their love-making. She couldn't remember a time he had teased her like that. Even the memory of it made her cheeks heat.

 

She splashed water on her face to cool the blush before drinking her fill; she bottled some water to take back to Miroku and set off again. Her thoughts returned to the previous night, but this time they were darkened rather than filled with wonderment at the memory of pleasure.

 

She paused on the threshold of the hut, considering. Something seemed ever so slightly off about the entire affair.

 

Last night, between the darkness and the blood that had coated him, she had not been able to easily discern Miroku's wounds. And he had been quick to assist with, and even take over, the binding in spite of his professed pain and fatigue. As she had been so distracted with worry and self-doubt, she had not questioned his behavior, but all of this was awfully suspicious in the light of morning, and considering the night's activities.

 

Miroku was awake now, but did not seem perturbed by her hesitance.

 

Sango eyed her husband carefully as he dressed; he preened under her gaze, but she was focused on the bandages, rather than admiring his anatomy. Indeed, most of the bandages were free from blood. There was little sign of injury at all. His movements seemed easy enough, and free of pain. She narrowed her eyes.

 

"…Sango?"

 

Her gaze had turned into a glower, a look she had perfected over the course of their marriage.

 

He tied the kesa just-so and turned to face her. "Is something the matter?"

 

"You… faked your injuries last night, didn't you?"

 

"Well, not entirely. I may have merely exaggerated the extent of my injuries," he said in an attempt to placate her. When her expression continued to darken, he added, "It's not so bad. And besides, it did earn me an uninterrupted night alone with my wife."

 

She gave a wordless sound of rage at that, unable to fully articulate her outrage, and swatted his hand away as he grabbed for her bottom. But as they set off down the road, she giggled, and did not protest if he walked a little closer to her than was absolutely necessary.

 

She had known what she was getting into when she married this man… and he had yet to disappoint.