InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Shakujou to Hiraikotsu ❯ A Fool’s Errand ( Chapter 3 )

 

 

A Fool's Errand

by Scribe Figaro

 

 

It is a fool's errand to try to enumerate all the things that draw me to you, that bind me to you, and if I should try I worry that I might imply some artificial order of importance to your aspects, or in failing to mention some wonderful thing about you, I may imply that particular thing is not significant.

 

If I should make a list like this, you should realize that it would be brief, truncated, wholly insufficient, bearing only superficial resemblance to my feelings. It is not that this list is too long to commit to paper. It is that this list changes, moment to moment, as you reveal more of yourself to me, and I learn more about myself through you.

 

I did not fall in love with you. It is not something that happened. I am falling in love with you. Over and over, ever day, I fall in love with you, again and again. Yesterday, it was some offhand comment you made, an expertly-delivered verbal checkmate, that touched my heart, that forced me to distract you from the grain you were milling, to stifle you with kisses, and to only come to my senses at the sound of the stone mill-wheel rolling off the edge of the floor, striking the packed dirt firepit with an earthy thunk, and finding us both sprawled on the floor, the stone mill overturned, grain spilled on the floor. To one side of us, our children - the twins old enough to be used to this sort of thing, our son still curious but kept in line by his sisters. To the other side, Inuyasha and Kagome-sama, scandalized. Ah, but they should be used to this too.

 

We sit up, and you tighten the fold of your yukata across your chest, as somehow you were exposing more cleavage than appropriate in mixed company. You blush lovely, avoiding my eyes - I think perhaps we would be on the floor again if you didn't - and say “It's okay, we're married” although I'm not sure to whom. And you glance at our children, with a reassuring and motherly smile - the twins are old enough to figure out when to find somewhere else to be, and even with Inuasha-ojichan and Kagome-obachan in the room they were starting to gather their things, intending to take our son to play outside, to catch fireflies in the twilight.

 

Inuyasha and Kagome-sama were doing no such thing, of course. Have you noticed their protests about such displays are completely silent until after we have stopped ourselves? Have you ever thought about continuing such a display, just to see how long it would take, what it would take, for one of them to demand we stop?

 

Ah, but they spied on our proposal, didn't they? That and every other moment we were alone, they were there, in some hiding spot. Listening. Watching. Kagome-sama's time in the modern era, those three years she was required to complete her obligations in that era, wasn't that the first time we didn't have to worry about our privacy?

 

I think Inuyasha would be embarrassed enough to leave us, if he was alone. But not Kagome-sama. I think she wants to watch. I think her investment in us - her completely unnecessary attempts at matchmaking - might even lead her to believe she deserves a front seat at a matrimonial performance. I think she would never admit to this, but given the opportunity, I think she would sit still and silent while we conceived our next child. Unfortunately for her, we're not going to give her that opportunity, are we?

 

I think you feel the same way. I nearly missed the glance you shot Kagome-sama, as I carefully poked at the ashes of the fire to extricate the stone mill-wheel.

 

Jealous?

 

We tried our best to restrain ourselves through that visit. But Inuyasha and Kagome-sama wouldn't leave, would they? After about twenty minutes, when you had finished milling the grain for the week, you became angry at me, complaining about the grain I had spilled, how we didn't have enough for the week now, how I better go and get next week's supply from the village storehouse, right now.

 

The bucket we use to measure grain and the bucket we use to measure rice are right next to each other, and completely different sizes, and I of course picked up the wrong one, an extremely foolish mistake for a man who has lived in this home for five years.

 

I can only imagine your complaints of exasperation when you realized this, and picked up the correct bucket, and apologized to our guests.

 

Those members of the village who know their letters and numbers, and can record their transactions in the storekeeper's ledger, have special permission to take their household allowances without the storekeeper's supervision, so it is not particularly strange for you to send me to the storehouse at this late hour, when it would be unattended. Kagome had this privilege as well, so she would not be particularly suspicious at either one of us collecting our grain ration at such a late hour, and perhaps would be further thrown off at your apparent anger and frustration with me.

 

I was waiting for not much more than a minute when you slipped into the door. It was fully night time now, and near the roofline of the storeroom were tall wooden slat windows, casting bars of soft white moonlight over the floor, over the bundles of straw that lined the walls, over the stacked woven bundles of grain and rice that ran up and down the length of the building in narrow rows.

 

The bucket you held made a hollow rattle as you dropped it against the ground, beside the open door, and you walked right past me, along the narrow shaft of moonlight the door cast, ending at a waist-high rice bundle at the end of one row of the storehouse, and there you stopped, and gripped your yukata at the knees, and pulled the fabric up. The moonlight illuminated your muscular calves, your smooth thighs, and my breath caught, as it always does, when you bunched your clothes at your waist and revealed to me your beautiful, naked bottom.

 

I would say “bottom,” because even at this point there is some sort of innocence about you; your nudity fascinates me in an artistic sense, which is to say, I can be happy to stand here, and watch you undress, and appreciate your form. At this stage I have not yet taken leave of my senses.

 

But you accomplish this in a single gesture. Naked from the waist down, you lean forward, and place your hands on the rice bundle before you, spread your feet slightly, and now you are bent over, and your backside is in the air. And now it is not your “bottom” any more. It is your round, beautiful, tight, muscular ass, and you are presenting it to me. It takes me about ten seconds to undress - my kesa I do not have time to fold properly, but I have the sense to place it on a shelf so it does not get dirty; my koromo and undershirt over my shoulders and open down the front; the flap of my loincloth pulled out of the waistband and hanging uselessly down my backside.

 

I am hard for you now, and I announce this by placing myself between your thighs. The sparse, trimmed hair of your mound scratches my cock, although not in an unpleasant way. You reach back with one hand to feel me, to guide me into you. Your fingers spread your labia, and a line of wet heat touches the length of my cock. I draw back a little, and the head of my cock moves down your mound, and over your clitoris, and now it slips between your folds, into this valley of you, and as I move along the length of your warmth, as I cross the entrance into you, your hand gently pushes my cock upward, and I slip into you just a little bit, and you are so wet, and I am so hard, and I press all of myself into you.

 

We make love sometimes, but not this time. We did not kiss, we did not grope. Our foreplay was in our imagination, our anticipation, our want. At this time, we are fucking. I am taking you from behind, and I am taking you hard.

 

I want to kiss you. I want to undress you further. I want your breasts. I know you want to kiss me, to touch me, to feel some portion of me other than my hands on your hips, my thighs against your thighs, my cock inside you. But there is no time for that. Only thrusting. Only inarticulate moans. We are not making love. We are fucking.

 

Our coitus is not lengthy. It is not intended to be. Not because we have guests we must return to, although that is part of it. It has been nearly half an hour since I spilled the grain, held you down and kissed you, and you and I have been building toward climax that entire time. You exercise some discretion in your orgasm, crying out inarticulate words through clenched teeth. If you were completely silent - and I am very glad you never are - I would still know your climax, by the sudden heat inside you, by the way you tighten around me, by the way your body orders my body to release inside you.

 

I am relieved, as the struggle to restrain myself had become nearly impossible. Knowing I have satisfied you, feeling that sense of accomplishment, I surrender, I empty myself inside you, accentuating my orgasm with rapid, disorganized, involuntary thrusts. I want to fill you, to flood you, to leave a part of myself in the deepest reaches of you.

 

We remain that way, and I soften inside you, and only when it becomes clear that I am too deep, and you are too tight, for me to slip out of you, do you carefully move forward, moaning as my semierect cock slips through the tight grip of your body.

 

You turn to me, murmur your satisfaction, place your arms around me, and kiss me. You tell me how hard I was, how deep I was. I tell you how wet you were, how tight you were. We kiss for a few moments more, and I take this opportunity to correct a previous omission, and I loosen your yukata and cup your breasts.

 

When we realize we can delay no further, we clean ourselves up, and dress, and collect the grain. We return, and have some more drinks with our friends, and we talk about the adventures we've had, and all the while my cock is wet with your arousal, and your vagina is filled with my cum, and when our guests leave some hours later, when our children have been put to bed, we kiss, and we grope, and when you are atop me you guide me into you again, and this time we are making love.

 

END