InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Hope ( Chapter 69 )

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~Lemon Warning~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There is no clean version of this chapter. You have been warned.

 

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~~Chapter 69~~

~Hope~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“W-w-wait! Uh, can w-we talk about this?”

 

“No,” Isabelle stated flatly, the light of stubborn resolve burning bright in her gaze as she peered over her shoulder at him, but continued to drag him down the hallway toward the bedroom.

 

He tugged on his arm but couldn't shake her off. Cheeks burning as his brain refused to process anything that was happening, Griffin tried to come up with something—anything—to put off what he knew was inevitable. “This isn't—I don't—we can't—”

 

“It is, you don't have to, and we certainly can,” she argued. “You said it, didn't you? I'm your mate—that's what you said. You said it, Griffin Marin, and I'm not giving you a chance to change your mind.”

 

“I-it's still daylight outside!” he pointed out as she pulled him into the bedroom and kicked the door closed.

 

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, letting go of his hand and neatly stepping in front of the door to block his only means of escape. “Now either get your clothes off, or I won't be responsible if I rip them.”

 

Caught between complete embarrassment and reluctant belligerence, Griffin shook his head stubbornly and grunted as he tried to fight the heated blush that suffused his skin at the implication of her words. She was stalking toward him, her eyes blazing with determination that both scared and thrilled him at the same time. He couldn't move, couldn't understand the logical sound of his own thoughts telling him that she was going to get him if he didn't do something fast. The color of her eyes seemed to shift and flow like liquid gold, and Griffin . . .

 

He knew in that instant that he was a goner, or maybe . . .

 

Or maybe she really could save him . . .

 

“I-Isabelle,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breath: a hiss or a sigh or something in between. She closed the distance with a few strides, her body pressing against his as she rose on the balls of her feet, her hands slipping around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair. Her mouth was sweet, gentle yet powerful—as much of a paradox as she'd ever been, and yet for once, just for once, he didn't stop to question it or doubt himself. The flow of her youki surrounded him, urging him with a delicate grace, with an understood sense of hope and beauty even as she devastated his senses with little more than a soft sigh, a whisper of an exhalation as she acquiesced to him.

 

His arms wrapped around her, holding her close—so close that she gasped, and whether she could sense his emotions or was simply seeking a proximity that he couldn't refute didn't matter. She touched his cheek, ran her fingertips over the jagged scarring as she leaned away, her smile radiant and tremulous, quivering on her lips like rain as her eyes brightened, as the pungent tang of the salt in her tears made him frown. He'd never understand her, would he? Never would be able to reconcile himself to the understanding that she really had chosen to be with the likes of him . . . and yet it was simple, wasn't it? Reaching out with trembling hands, he clumsily smoothed her hair off her face as her lips parted slightly; as the dew of her breathing condensed on the heels of his hands. For a moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something, but the expression faded, only to be replaced with a tender little smile as a solitary tear slipped down her cheek.

 

But he was the one who leaned down, who covered her lips with his own. Cradling her face as though he were afraid that she would break, he shivered like a frightened child, asked her to be his in the only way he knew, and she . . .

 

Her acceptance was as easy as the fluctuation of her heartbeat. She'd known, and she'd understood everything he'd never been able to say; knew everything about him. Her tongue slipped out to flick against his lips, and with a ragged groan, he felt his mouth slacken as a shocking desire slammed through him, obliterating cognizant thought as the need to touch her—a primitive thing—took over. Whispers in his head couldn't be discerned, the voice of his youkai blood merging with the other nonsensical sounds that made no sense. A tug on the buttons of his shirt seemed so very far away. Even the thickening of her evolving scent couldn't seem to permeate the foggy haze that enveloped him . . .

 

He could hear the gentle rustle that was more of a movement than an actual sound as she pushed his shirt off. She tugged at the bottom of his t-shirt, and he caught her wrists with a low rumble, tugging her arms up and placing them on his shoulders, willing her to wrap them around his neck. She complied with a content little sigh as Griffin's hands fell to her hips, drawing her close, grasping her firmly until a smothered cry cut through his oblivion. He . . . he'd hurt her . . .?

 

“Isa . . . belle . . .?” he rasped out, swallowing hard as a vindictive anger shot through him.

 

She blinked quickly and smiled though he could tell it was more for his benefit than for hers. “It's okay,” she murmured, her voice tinged with a huskiness that he couldn't credit. She started to press close to him again, but he pulled back as a slow fragment of memory invaded his overwrought emotions. The panther-youkai with his filthy hands on her, his claws digging into the soft flesh of her hip, her breast . . .

 

“Damn it!” Griffin blurted, shoving Isabelle's hands away as he pinned her with a chagrined sort of look. The familiarity of self-loathing seeped over him as she shook his head. She looked confused, almost panicked, for a moment, but he wasn't going to be sidetracked. Shooting her another scowl, he reached for the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head, grimacing at the sharper scent of her blood, and while it had taken on the staler, less noticeable tinge—a smell that could easily blend into other baser scents—he couldn't help the low growl that slipped out at the sight of the rusty-looking stains that had ruined the pristine white lace of her bra.

 

His fingers were shaking as he slipped her skirt off, ignoring the crimson stains marring the light fabric, letting it pool around her feet in a slapdash heap.

 

He picked her up with infinite care and moved to the bed where he sank down and settled her on his lap, casting her a warning look should she decide that he was being ridiculous. He could tell that she thought he was worried over nothing, and he ignored the hint of amusement that sparkled in her eyes as he pulled her against his shoulder so that he could see over her back to unfasten the bra.

 

She couldn't contain her sharp hiss of breath when he tugged the garment free. The dried blood had stuck to the wounds, and the movement had reopened them just a little. With a grimace, Griffin pushed her back far enough to allow him to look, and he winced as a vivid blush shot to the fore. `Stop that!' he told himself brusquely. `She . . . she's injured, and I . . .'

 

`Mate . . . hurt . . .'

 

He might have frowned at the almost visceral tone of his youkai voice if he weren't so preoccupied. The wounds weren't so severe that he needed to worry, and yet the idea that Alastair Gregory had hurt her in any way wrung an anger so intense from him that he had to grit his teeth together to keep from losing his temper entirely.

 

He didn't stop to think about what he was doing as he leaned down and lapped at the injury, understanding only that he needed to do this, needed to soothe her. The taste of her blood was a hurtful thing, wrenching a low moan from him. She gasped softly, her arms wrapping around him as though to hold him to her, as though she couldn't bear to let go.

 

Still it took him a minute to comprehend that it wasn't pain that was making her draw such shallow, stunted breaths as she squirmed on his lap. As though she needed to be closer to him, she uttered a strangled sort of sound, pressing her body nearer.

 

`She . . . wh . . . she . . .?' he stammered as he pulled back to scowl in concentration. He snorted indelicately and shook his head, twisting around to lay her on the bed. “Y-you behave,” he grumbled, studiously trying to avoid looking at her despite the perverse draw on his youki to inspect the other wounds—the ones on her hip. After a minute of deliberation, he sighed. “L-let me see your . . . your hip.”

 

He heard the bed creak as she shifted, and he swallowed hard, trying not to think about the idea that she was removing her panties. When he looked, though, he couldn't see past the smear of blood dried on her hip, and before he could stop it, a vicious growl surged out of him. Crumpling forward, he uttered a broken sort of sound, squeezing his eyes closed against the unrelenting guilt that he hadn't been there to protect her, in the first place. Licking away the lingering reminders of the violence she'd had to endure, he did the only thing he knew to do . . .

 

It was worse with his eyes closed.

 

Everything about her seemed to speak to him, to call to him in whispers; in the delicate grasp of her youki on his. Her ever changing scent undulated, wrapping him in a strange sense of bemusement even as the bittersweet tint of her blood dissipated from his lips. It began as a slow comprehension, a vague sort of draw that he couldn't completely appreciate. The earthy scent, the absolute heat that lured him seemed to resonate in the air like the invisible strings of a kite in the summertime sky. Everything and nothing or maybe it was simply the understood simplicity: the reaction of a heart that had lain dormant for far too long, and yet . . .

 

Yet there was something about her—something he'd often sensed but had never fully appreciated. He'd known as certainly as he knew himself . . . and maybe she really could set him free.

 

Her scent thickened in the air like a physical thing—an entity that he could reach out and touch. She uttered a low moan that drew a grimace from him. Drawn by the lure of the intoxicating scent that surged around him, he couldn't think, couldn't comprehend anything other than the base need to touch her, to feel her, to taste her.

 

Without opening his eyes, he dragged his lips over the rise of her hip, down the hollow of her skin. Flesh breaking out in a riot of goosebumps, she shivered under his touch, quivering in absolute surrender as she allowed him the time to do whatever he wanted. Nothing made sense to him. In the haze that had engulfed his mind, the only thing that he knew was the visceral need to touch her, to keep touching her. As though he believed that he could understand exactly what it was that she could feel, he couldn't resist the lure of her body on his; couldn't fight against the reality that was both beautiful and somehow more frightening than anything he'd ever known in his life.

 

`My . . . mate . . .?'

 

The thought gave him courage, pulled him in closer. His eyes flashed open when he realized that the erratic beat of her heart was in perfect harmony with his. She was staring at him, leaning up on her elbows, with such a sweet smile on her face that he had to blink and look away. Skin delicately flushed, her lips parted slightly, her breathing raspy and a little harsh despite the happiness in her expression . . . why did he feel like he didn't have the right to touch her, to hold her?

 

He started to push himself up on his hands, his mind tumbling over itself as he struggled to make sense of her, of him, of them.

 

She rolled onto her knees and reached out to stop his retreat. Her smile brightened as she slipped her arms around his neck, her lips warm, welcome as she pressed them against his. Her breasts strained against him, her body scorching him through the paltry fabric of his t-shirt, and he couldn't do anything but wrap his arms around her, allowing her to surge around him like the rising tide.

 

A beautiful creature, as wild and wanton as a summer storm, and yet there was an underlying gentleness in everything she did. She nibbled on his lip until he moaned, his arms tightening around her as though he were afraid that she'd dissolve right before his eyes if he didn't hold onto her.

 

`I . . . love you . . .'

 

He started to pull back, wanted to look at her. Her grip tightened on him, a surge of instant panic that he was trying to leave her, yet that wasn't it, at all. No, he needed to know . . . but she hadn't said it out loud, had she? He knew that . . . too intent on kissing him, she hadn't uttered a word, and still he'd heard her as plainly as he would have if she had spoken.

 

`I . . . I . . . love . . . you, too . . .'

 

Griffin would never know if the words in his heart had been heard, but maybe they had. Her hands slipped down his shoulders, down his chest, her claws teasing him through his t-shirt.

 

Dragging his mouth away from hers as his head fell back, as a ragged groan was wrenched from him when she slipped her hands up between the thin fabric and his bare skin. A wash of fire consumed him, licked around the edges of his very being as he struggled for a semblance of the reason that was fast slipping away. Too much sensation, too much emotion, and it was all wrapped up in her. She suckled the roughened flesh of his throat, her lips stripping away the very last of his defenses, leaving him bare, leaving him reeling—leaving him breathless . . .

 

And she wasn't finished. Leaning away just long enough to drag the t-shirt over his head, she trailed kisses down his neck, along his collarbone, her hands kneading his chest, his shoulders, deliberately taking her time as she touched him to her heart's content. He was powerless to stop her, his eyebrows drawing together in a marked frown as fought for control of his rioting senses.

 

It didn't work. The tug on his pants felt oddly far away, but the shocking burn of her hands on him cut through his stupor with a vengeance. Stroking him with long, slow motions, she uttered a sound—almost a purr—from low in her throat. A gentle squeeze that wrung a growl from the depths of him . . . a soothing yet entirely demanding pressure as she pushed his skin down his shaft . . . He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming entirely undone. With another guttural growl, he pushed her back as he kicked his pants off impatiently, falling on her, his lips seeking out hers as she lifted her body to meet him.

 

The lingering memory of the moments that they'd stolen once before tinged the reaches of his mind. Whether it was a blessing or a curse wasn't clear, but those same thoughts were enough. It was different, though, wasn't it? The pervasive feeling of guilt was conspicuously absent this time. All that remained was the absolute knowledge that this . . . it was right, and Isabelle . . .

 

Bracing her feet on the mattress, she lifted her pelvis against his, her motions clear, her desires absolutely unquestionable. The searing burn of the balmy heat that radiated from her to him was an invitation—a complete acceptance—that he couldn't ignore. She welcomed his body with her own as he shivered, shuddered, trembled.

 

Driven by a primitive ache, he ground his hips against hers. Her answer was a sharp gasp as she arched her back, her breasts rubbing against his chest as she undulated, as she created a rhythm that he matched. Gathering her close, he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to hold onto the moment even as he lost the last of his control.

 

The slick friction was too much, goading him until he was reacting entirely on instinct. Isabelle was relentless, rising like a phoenix from the flames time after time. As though her passion was fueled by his, she keened quietly, her breath coming in smothered gasps. Meeting his cadence with her body, she rocked against him, drew him in deeper and deeper with every stroke. A fine sheen of sweat broke over his skin. He couldn't contain the fevered sensation that centered on the tightening grip she had on him. The tingling that rose deep within him was almost too much to bear. An ache so deep, so encompassing, that it bordered on painful swelled inside him, grew with a frightening tenacity.

 

Isabelle cried out, his name spilling from her lips as her body convulsed around him. Her arms tightened, and she clung to him, half-panting, half-sobbing—a poignant menagerie of sound and smell and sensation. Her will broke his, the painful ache of want and need converging, burgeoning into a pleasure so intense that it was almost too much for him to endure.

 

But it kept rising, looming larger and larger as it threatened to engulf him. Isabelle goaded him faster, her body demanding as it gave, lifting to meet his movements with a reckless abandon that he understood. Every beat of his heart echoed hers, his body mirrored in her motions as the sensation swelled and grew. The last lingering doubt disbursed; the inebriating realization that she—Isabelle—was his mate—his true mate—his only mate . . . and if he'd had to wait over six hundred years to find her all over again, then he gladly would . . .

 

And it was the beauty of that last shimmering moment that would remain in his memory forever: the last instant that defined the difference between `before' and `after' . . . and the salvation that Isabelle had given to him . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Isabelle closed her eyes as she snuggled against Griffin's shoulder, unable to keep the silly smile off her face as she reveled in the knowledge that the stubborn man really was and forever would be hers. He hadn't said a thing since he'd rolled over and pulled her close against his side, and while his breathing was still a bit labored, his heartbeat was starting to return to a normal cadence.

 

“You're stuck with me, you know,” she remarked lightly, sparing a moment to kiss his chest as she idly traced a jagged scar that diagonally traversed his skin.

 

He grunted something unintelligible and yanked the sheet up over himself, and she didn't have to look to know that he was probably blushing, too.

 

“I promise you'll be happy that you are, though,” she went on, wiggling her hand free to shove the sheet away.

 

He snorted and held onto the fabric. “Depends on your definition of `happy', Jezebel,” he countered mildly seconds before she felt the warmth of his lips pressing against her forehead.

 

She laughed softly, rolling to the side so she could push herself up on her elbows. “I'm going to shower you with love and affection and lots and lots of—”

 

“Don't finish that,” he cut in, his face blossoming in embarrassed color.

 

“Yes, well, speaking of that . . . you up for another round, Dr. Griffin?” she teased.

 

“Control yourself, woman,” he growled with an exasperated shake of his head. “I knew this was a mistake . . .”

 

She heaved a petulant sigh but couldn't help the smile that widened, either. If he ever figured out exactly how much she enjoyed teasing him, she supposed that she'd be in a world of trouble. “As long as you stop making eyes at all the girls you see on the street,” she went on lightly, figuring that she'd get a decent response from him for her efforts.

 

Griffin shot her a strange sort of glance, almost as if he felt guilty for something. Isabelle didn't get a chance to consider it, though, because he snatched up the sheet and hastily rolled out of bed.

 

She laughed—she couldn't help it—since he was so adamant that he remain covered that he'd inadvertently left her completely bare. She didn't mind, and she kicked up her feet, crossing her ankles, and propped her cheek on her hand as she watched him shuffle across the room to the dresser.

 

“You can't take it back, you realize,” she drawled lazily.

 

He sighed, sparing a moment to frown back at her before resuming his task of rummaging through his drawers in his quest to find clothes. “It . . . that's not it,” he muttered, bending over to yank a pair of underpants on without dislodging the sheet that covered his shoulders.

 

“If you can actually manage to get dressed without dropping that sheet, I'll be really impressed,” she quipped.

 

“J-Jezebel,” he snorted.

 

“Why don't you come back to bed and cuddle with me?” she suggested.

 

“N-no,” he stammered as he leaned against the dresser to pull on a pair of old and faded but meticulously clean jeans. When he got to the t-shirt, however, he couldn't keep the sheet on, and with a frustrated growl, he let it drop and jerked the shirt over his head as quickly as he possibly could.

 

She frowned at the configuration of scars that marred his skin: jagged, angry reminders of a violent past and of everything that he'd ever lost. The pain he'd felt over the centuries since his childhood had so abruptly ended had always been something that she understood, and yet the visual reminders . . . She winced. `Never again,' she told herself with a shake of her head. Never again would he have to deal with that kind of loss, that kind of pain. She'd make sure of it, wouldn't she? She'd make sure that nothing like that ever, ever happened to him again.

 

“W . . . we have to . . . talk,” he said in the companionable silence that had fallen. Pausing for a moment to drape his hands on his hips as he scowled at the dresser, he shook his head suddenly and stooped over to swipe up the discarded sheet.

 

“Talk later, big guy,” she replied, brushing the more depressing thoughts aside. “I don't think I'm done claiming my mate yet . . .”

 

He whipped around to pin her with a warning frown but stopped short, cheeks burgeoning in a reddened hue when he spotted her lying in the middle of the bed. She almost laughed when he swallowed hard, and with a muffled curse, he stomped over, shaking out the sheet that he dropped over her prone body. “Y-you be good,” he growled, shaking his head and letting his hair fall into his eyes in the process.

 

“I'm trying to be good,” she countered with a giggle. “You're not making it easy, you know.”

 

“I find that difficult to believe,” he retorted with an indelicate snort. “Now listen, will you?”

 

“I'm listening; I'm listening,” she insisted, waving a hand in a delicate flutter as she let her gaze wander over him.

 

He blushed a little darker but didn't comment as he started pacing the floor beside the bed. “It's just . . . you didn't . . . didn't let me talk earlier . . .” he began with a determined sort of glower.

 

“That's because your idea of talking is never conducive to the stuff I had in mind.”

 

That earned her another loud snort as he kept moving back and forth beside her. “Are you listening to me?”

 

She couldn't help the little laugh that escaped her as she watched the surly bear. “Of course I am,” she replied in a tone that stated quite plainly that she was doing nothing of the sort.

 

“I don't even know why I bother,” he complained.

 

“You want to know what I'm thinking?”

 

He shot her a fulminating glare but shook his head. “No. I want you to listen.”

 

“I'd listen better if you'd come over here and lie down with me again.”

 

“You wouldn't,” he insisted. “I'm not falling for your trickery.”

 

“Trickery?” she echoed with another round of giggles. “I like that . . .”

 

“You would. Now shut your yap and listen to me.”

 

She stretched out her arms under the pillows and let her forehead fall against the downy softness. “But you know what I'm doing in my head, don't you?”

 

He stopped for a second before resuming his stride. “N-no, I don't . . . and I don't think I want to.”

 

Her laugh was breathy and warm like a caress. “I just pulled your shirt off,” she intoned.

 

His cheeks reddened just a little, and he snapped his mouth closed. “Don't defile me,” he retorted.

 

“Now I'm reaching for your pants, Griffin . . .”

 

He halted mid-gait and swung around to face her, his expression like a gathering storm as he glowered furiously at her, planting his hands on his hips as he tried not to blush and failed. “Wh—you—Put my clothes back on!” he growled, the fierceness in his tone completely undermined by the violent color that washed into his features.

 

“But I like you much better when you're naked, Griffin Marin.”

 

He sputtered a few moments before he was able to form coherent words, which simply added to Isabelle's amusement. “Nothing but a wicked, wicked woman,” he muttered before shaking his head and heaving a defeated sort of sigh. “Listen to me, will you? Just listen . . .?”

 

Isabelle sighed, too, figuring that he wasn't about to calm down until she agreed to hear him out. With that in mind, she rolled over and sat up, carefully drawing the sheet up, though the action was more for Griffin's benefit than it was for herself. “Okay, I'll listen,” she agreed.

 

Griffin didn't seem reassured, and he stared at her for several seconds before he finally nodded once in terse agreement. “I . . . I meant to tell you sooner,” he admitted at length as he dug his hands into his pockets and shuffled over to the window. “But your family, and the testing, and . . .” Heaving another sigh, he slowly shook his head, and she didn't miss the way his shoulders slumped just the tiniest bit—a show of defeat . . .? Isabelle waited for him to continue.

 

“One of the girls in my classes,” he finally continued in a much softer tone. “She . . . she, uh . . . I-I-I didn't want her to, but she . . . She kissed . . . me . . . and I didn't stop her . . .”

 

Isabelle's eyebrows rose at his admission. She could tell from the way he was acting that he fully expected her to be furious with him, and maybe if he were someone else, she might have been. Too bad she knew him too well to think that he'd instigated anything of the sort. No, if anything, she was irritated only that he had spent any length of time worrying over it . . .

 

To be completely honest, she couldn't help but be a little amused, as well. Griffin looked like he wanted to tear something to shreds, and she'd better say something quickly before he gave in to the urge to do exactly that. “So . . . I take it you didn't like it?”

 

“N-no!” he countered with a vehement growl. He swung around to face her, blinking when he caught sight of her smile. The self-disgust in his expression didn't disappear completely, but he did seem to understand that she wasn't upset with him. “No,” he said again in a much quieter, much more apologetic tone of voice. “But I . . . I didn't . . . I should've stopped her . . .”

 

Isabelle scooted off the bed, careful to wrap the sheet around herself and tucking the end in between her breasts before she walked over to Griffin. “Do you have any idea how many girls wanted to kiss you when I was in school?” she asked, her tone light but her gaze serious. She caught his chin when he started to look away, forcing him to keep his eyes trained on hers.

 

“She wanted me to change her grade,” he muttered.

 

She laughed softly and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “And you honestly think that's the only reason she'd kiss you?”

 

He snorted but blushed and made a face. “What other reason is there?”

 

“Are you kidding me? The aloof, brooding ancient linguistics professor with the eyes that could melt hardened steel? Please, Griffin . . . every girl in your class wanted to fuck you . . . or do you honestly think that we enjoyed your lectures so much that we didn't dare miss a class?”

 

“Uh—y—Jezebel!” he breathed.

 

She laughed at his perceived outrage. “They can dream all they want,” she went on as she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. “You're mine, and those girls . . . well, I suppose they'll just have to think about you at night and get a lot of practice in masturbation.”

 

Griffin groaned, and she could feel the change in his temperature as what she was sure was a quite livid flush broke over him. “I-I'm going to . . . going to go for a walk,” he muttered. “Why don't you take a nap or something?”

 

She sighed but shrugged, reluctantly letting her arms drop before taking a step back. “Will you lay down with me when you get back?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. She knew as well as anyone that Griffin's body was probably protesting. She also knew that as tired as he had to be, lying down tended to be as difficult for him the actual exertion.

 

“We'll see,” he replied in a completely noncommittal tone.

 

She nodded and smiled before kicking the sheet out of the way as she turned back toward the bed again. His hand shot out to stop her. “You could . . . come with me . . .” he mumbled. “Just don't . . . don't scare off the wildlife.”

 

“You . . . want me to come with you . . .?” she asked slowly, a bright smile surfacing on her features.

 

He cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest, and nodded. “Y-yeah . . .” he finally said, the barest hint of a reluctant smile quirking the corners of his lips. “I, uh . . . yeah.”

 

 

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A/N:

 

Sorry for the late updates. I took a bit of a break to refresh myself- and to raise some puppies. I suppose that after this many years of working on this series, it's understandable that I might need a bit of timeto consider where I'm going from here and to get everything straight in my own head. Now to finish this story and get prepared for Purity 8! (and 9. For anyone who hasn't seen what I've posted so far, you can find Purity 9: Subterfugehere: http://www.mediaminer.org/fanfic/view_st.php/151286/ ) Expect daily updates with the rest of this story (It's already done lol) and please do enjoy!

 

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Final Thought from Isabelle:

Silly old bear!

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Avouchment): I do not claim any rights to InuYashaor the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~