Letters to an Admiral – Chapter One

By Priestess Skye

Rated MA

Word count: 1825

Universe: AU

Sequel to Dissention Among the Ranks – story can be found here

www . dokuga . com / fanfiction /story/1584/1 (just remove the spaces) The story was too MA to post here so the only place you can read it right now is at Dokuga

This is only the first chapter, yes this will be continued.

Disclaimer: Inuyasha and company do not belong to me. They belong to Rumiko Takahashi

The envelope sat on his desk mocking him. The air mail having delivered recent packages earlier in the week had dropped this unexpected surprise on his desk. He was done with her, through with whatever they had, his desires having been sated for the time being. She was soft, pliant, eager and greedy. She took whatever it was he had to give and she gave an equal amount back. It was an arrangement that suited him to a T. There were no strings, no upset tears and no one waiting for the other to return. As a man of the sea, he came and went as he pleased and was most happy sailing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. War games kept him interested. Relationships did not.

And yet, that letter taunted him, made him question why he had chosen to give in to those baser urges that one time. It smelled of her, the light floral scent of her body lotion mixed with the essence that was all her. He had managed to ignore it for the past week, having tossed it aside when he first saw it. But now it was burning a hole on the small, steel desk. The smell of it just seemed that much stronger in the tiny cabin and the fact that he was off duty for the night didn’t seem to help.

Everything was quiet, the men were going about their duties peacefully, he wasn’t required to be anywhere and he was caught up on his paperwork. He had even read the letters from his father and his hated brother. Grabbing the letter he thought to slip it in the bottom drawer with all his other unwanted mail. It was as if the paper was glue to his palm, the cursive scrawl of her handwriting calling to him. Without a word he tore open the black flap and groaned as he inhaled her scent once more. It was more prevalent on this piece. He recalled the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her as she rode him to bliss…

No.

He focused on the words instead.

Dear Sesshoumaru,

I can call you that now, can’t I? Admiral Taisho seems entirely too formal given the time we’ve spent together, but I still don’t feel as if I know you well enough to call you by your first name. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You have seen me at my most vulnerable, and I yours and I still don’t feel right for being so informal, yet what else can I call you that would suit you equally as much? We know each other in body extremely well. I know all of the little flaws, the way your skin feels, the heat of it, the strength of it. I know that it feels like beneath that layer of satin you have a layer of steel. In the same way you know mine. You paid rapt attention to the tiny, star shaped scar above my hip. Every other man I have ever been with ignored or condemned the imperfection. Instead you almost worshipped it, as if you were praising a battle scar, something deserving of attention.

I never did tell how I received that scar. I guess we were too busy doing other things and didn’t find much time to talk, though there were questions I had wanted to ask. Anyway, I have digressed. The scar. I’ve had this for years, probably since I was fifteen. My family used to own a shrine. I believe I told you that. On the back of the shrine grounds was an old well house. It was filled with superstitious tales my grandfather used to share with my brother Souta and I. For years, when we were younger, we refused to go near the well house. We would walk near it but as we got closer we would run away. Stupid, wasn’t it, being afraid of a simple wooden structure. To see Souta running out of it one day caused me some concern and he had told us that our cat Buyo was stuck in there. In the end, I fell into the well while looking for him and landed on an old bone laying on the bottom, the sharp end breaking through my skin. I learned that day that the well was known as the Bone Eater’s Well for a reason…

Sesshoumaru inhaled sharply at the images that assaulted him. He knew of the well, had known about it for centuries and knew the history of it. It was in his land, his own territories. He no longer controlled that area, but he still considered it his. She lived there, on his land, in his territory thus making her his, though really, she was his to begin with.

Shaking his head clear, he tried to dismiss that thought. She was nothing more than entertainment. He enjoyed women. He used them, though they never felt used. He always gave as good as he got and neither of them had left unsatisfied the following morning. Somehow though the image of her falling in the wall like that caused him to frown. He could see her at fifteen, just beginning to fill out in all the right places, her cheeks still containing a youthful glow, somewhat carefree. He could picture her all too well. Five hundred years ago he’d have had no qualms claiming a fifteen year old as his. They were young, full of energy and spirit, naïve to the bone. He could have molded her then, worked with her until she was completely dependent on his touch, until she continually begged him for more.

He could see her at sixteen, belly filled with his seed, eyes shining brightly at him as if he were some deity she worshipped. She would worship him. He wanted to worship her…

Sighing, he picked up the letter. She was not what he wanted, nor what he needed in his life. Feeling anger rise within him, he struggled to control his emotions. How dare she make him feel this way when his existence had finally settled! She was nothing, insignificant, a mere one night stand to give him the pleasure he had needed at that moment.

If anything she disturbed his peace, she’s the one who intruded; he could have survived another six months without her. And yet, his cock still twitched as he thought of her touch, the way her finger nails scraped along his chest, clutching herself to him as if his very presence was key to her existence…

I suppose this is very 1940s of me, sending you a letter when I know I could send you an e-mail. E-mail seems so impersonal these days, and I don’t like the idea of this being sent to a third party, though I’m sure somebody there must screen your mail. At least you’d think so just so military secrets don’t get out. I like the idea of putting my pen to paper and writing down all of my thoughts, even if I choose not to send you the letter. It’s therapeutic. I don’t think enough people write letters anymore and you seem like the traditional sort of guy who’d prefer reading a letter as opposed to an e-mail. I can’t imagine a man who has copies of Shakespeare and Yeats next to his bed not wanting to read a hand written letter.

I’ve been thinking about you. I don’t know why, nor have I tried to figure it out. Maybe it’s because I don’t sleep around. I’ve slept with all of two men, one being you, so regardless I feel some sort of emotional attachment, wanted or not. Isn’t that ridiculous as well? We both knew what we were getting into that day in the control room. I knew what I wanted; the vodka did little to cloud my mind. I knew what I wanted the minute I stepped onto the ship and was greeted by you. I think you knew what you wanted to. You were very … enthusiastic… in your approach. Your hands branded my skin when you touched me, claiming me as yours, even if it were just for a few hours. They were hot, needy, just as I was. I thought I’d take a chance, be bold, reach out and grab what I wanted just once.

And now here I am writing you a letter because I can’t get you out of my head. Would I have changed things if I knew this was going to happen? Probably not. It was too good. It was healthy. You made me feel like a woman during a time when I was feeling like I was a servant. That is a feeling that I cannot thank you enough for, nor can I ever return the gesture. I go to bed at night touching myself, wishing it were you. I relive that one night over and over again in an attempt to get it out of my system. Even now, as I write this letter and as I think of you, I want you inside me just like you were, hard and rough and demanding. I’m not telling you this because I’m desperate or because I’m eager to return to you bed. I simply need to get it out of my system. I think I just need you to know. You have forever changed me, and in my opinion, it’s for the better.

Take care, Sesshoumaru. Remember me fondly as I remember you. I hope.

Kagome

His fists clenched tightly together as he read the letter, the claws on the tips breaking through the soft skin below. His intensified hearing could hear each droplet as it hit the hard, metal ground. He didn’t care. The woman had far surpassed any allowable behaviour. She had served her purpose that one weekend, providing him with a twenty-four hour distraction while he was off-duty. His body had been sated, the baser instincts within him quelled. And she dared to write to him as if he were her long time lover.

Unwilling to stand for it he brought his hands to the edge of the paper, ready to do away with it so as not to have it around him as a constant reminder of that night. He didn’t need any reminders. He woke up hard every morning after dreaming of her every night. How dare she intrude on his inner most sanctuary.

He could feel the resistance of the paper between his fingers as he began to tug. Then he loosened his grip, allowing the paper to fall flat on his table. Sitting on the bed he dropped his head between his knees. It smelled of her. He could not destroy it because it smelled of her, sweet and something more.

Damn her.