Disclaimer: Inuyasha and co. owned by Rumiko Takahashi, Shounen Sunday, Shogukukan, Viz, etc.
(A/N: One word: horrifying. This fic is a horror/angst for a reason, and it goes into the Inuyasha Kagome relationship at a rather different angle. You have been forewarned –it will get ugly and it has been known to make people cry.
Anyways, hope you enjoy! XD)
They stumble into the room they had for the night, his hands heavy and needing upon her shoulders, his lips searing and wet as they press in on her own. There is no one near by or in the surrounding rooms. She feels like she'll float off the ground, in that silly, irrational way that all girls do when they feel what she does, and if it were not for the pain, the longing, the ferociousness of his heavy kisses she might have done just that. Icy thrills run along the length of her spine.
She doesn't know how long she's been dreaming of this moment. The shameful thought always comes when she wants it, and even at times when she doesn't want it. His claws make quick work of her shirt, torn to ribbons and discarded. She is so caught up in the feeling of his rough, callused hands against her skin that she can barely breath, let alone berate him for tearing up her clothing. The skirt goes in a similar fashion, but it is only a clean, swift cut so that the green material pools around her feet.
They came to this place a little before the sunset, perhaps a few hours ago. It was not different from the usual –the monk they travel with tricked the innkeeper into giving them a night's stay, and she was grateful. No hard, forest floor. Not that it matters anyway, because as long as he is nearby she can go to sleep. She is an insomniac otherwise, and it drives her crazy to know that she needs him in that fashion as well.
Their other friends are off somewhere, probably in the village and looking at all the things that they live without. They lead horrible, stressful lives. She doesn't know how she even came to be in this room with this strange boy that she has loved for eternity and a day –perhaps it is because he held her wrist longer than usual, perhaps it is because he spoke soft words, perhaps it was because his first kiss to her had been so sweet and longing.
Somehow she manages to push the red, soft cloth of his haori away from his narrow shoulders, watching as it slides down his back. As he pushes her down onto the futon, she pulls out the tails of his cream undershirt –there are yellow stains all over it, the color that light clothes got from old, stubborn bloodstains that never go away. In places there are sloppy stitches, while more patient ones in other places. She buries her nose in the crook of his neck after ripping it away, her fingers pulling it away from his abnormally long arms.
Her fingers fumble with the ties on the matching pair of hakama as the night air fills with their gasps and low moans. Suddenly it is interrupted by the undeniable snap of her bra. She pushes his pants down in a swift, harsh movement, her mind jumbled. Her mother wouldn't approve, her friends wouldn't approve, her grandfather would have a heart attack, and her younger brother would never stop smiling. It seemed only children would be able to understand why she did what she was doing –they weren't blinded by the walls that people built around their hearts.
His lips trail across her face, down her jaw line and towards the space between her breasts, her hands squeezing his shoulders as his fangs scraped her pale, alabaster skin. Little trails of red follow in his mouth's wake, love bites and the indents of his nails upon her skin. The blood spins around in his mouth, his spit scalding and thick as he swirls his tongue around the brown-pink ending of her breast. Hot air is sent out from his flaring nostrils as he takes desperate, harsh breaths, washing over her skin; his breath is loud and so are his little growls and snarls as he makes her his own, completely, totally his.
It is a mistake, but yet how can he control the rising heat in the pit of his stomach, the warmth pooling around him and spreading through his body, the muscles in his arms and legs straining as he fights to keep himself over her without crushing her frail body? It is enough to drive him, or anyone else for that matter, mad.
Her cries become more intense, more terrifying as his nails draw blood, patterns that only wild animals can understand appearing on her thighs, across her back and chest. He needs her. Now. This is the only time he could have her after all; once this night was done what of it then? They will pretend nothing has happened and would continue on their quest, walking till their feet bled and their hearts burst, till time itself stopped.
Love is definitely something that had sparked this. They both love each other, far more deeply than can possibly be accounted for, so far that it seems impossible to anybody else; their love is something that time couldn't control, that nobody can break. They didn't talk about it though, and they kept it under wraps, fearing that the other would shun them and turn away, walking to a place that the other couldn't reach.
Slender arms are locked around his neck, the instable hands of the gasping miko running through his long and coarse hair, the same color of the pale silver moon that hangs in the grid-like window above them. Branches filled with the spring buds leave dancing shadows across their bodies, the wind swaying the limbs of the trees in an ethereal dance that is as old as theirs. Pain and pleasure walked hand in hand, blood as flowing as the sweat that make his unruly bangs stick to his tanned forehead, the salt of her skin.
The setting doesn't fit this, the hurt, the want, the tears, the cries. Polished wood of mahogany and hanging scrolls that depict the flight of birds and the rise of mountains, a small table of lacquered bamboo in the corner make the imperfect scenery. At least the once crisp white sheets they lay on are covered in sweat and blood, staining the sheets a dark crimson. A padded, wooden block used to support the head during sleep had been pushed aside long ago, clattering upon the floor and laying forgotten, always forgotten.
He wants to have her with the wind rushing across their bodies, the hum of crickets and the howl of wild animals filling his ears along with her screams. Here he can only hear her little mewls and gasps, covering any sounds she would have made with his own mouth, letting her taste the salt of her own skin upon his tongue. He will make her scream, make her beg and cry for it; since it is for only one night he wants it to last, to stay with him till he drops.
His claws and fangs have grown, unbeknownst to him but she can tell. The red haze that covers his vision reflects in his once amber-gold eyes, making her breath quicken even more, her fear and ecstasy increasing by leaps and bounds. He is turning into a monster as this continues and she wants it to stop, but her hands and her body just won't obey, her reasonable half screaming for it to come to an end and never return. But she needs him, in her heart that has cried silently for years and in her soul that has been tied to his inescapably. His hands may be rough and callused, his touch hard and needy, but she doesn't want this to be gentle, can't stand if it wasn't harsh and overwhelming, can't breath or think.
It hurts, but beyond that hurt is something that she never imagined as they became one, no ups or downs, no beginning and no end. Time becomes an object of little consequence and it is stopped dead in its tracks, her lungs burning for want of air and his long, razor sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of her wrists, which are held high above her head to keep her from thrashing and hurting herself. Instincts make them meld into each other perfectly, their bodies taut, muscles that she had never used before pulling and working, writhing beneath him, making her breath come in short, hurried gasps-
He loses himself as she screams.
He opened his eyes, liquid amber-gold. A sharp stab of cold made him freeze and immediately he knew something was wrong, like his whole being had somehow been shattered when it should have been balanced. He strived to always be level and calm, but that didn't always work, always losing his cool and letting anger drive him and his claws.
Turning over onto his side, he felt something slide against his back and the smell of blood reached him, making his nose twitch. Suppressing the sudden urge to throw up from the sheer amount of it all, he slid away from the smell, strong and dead, rolling over onto the floor, the wood icy as it touched his naked form. He whirled around and raised his claws, ready to defend himself and anybody else if need be. The smell of blood hung so thickly in the air that it took a moment for his amber-gold eyes to adjust and the shock to seep in from seeing a still, feminine form on the bed in front of him, not moving. No rise of the chest or twitch of the fingers, only the stillness of the dead.
Fear made his throat close. The rise of the female's hips was familiar, the long, wavy black hair that lay tangled across the sheets. "Kagome?" His voice was weak, timid; it wavered, tears threatening to choke him. She couldn't be dead! He swore to protect her and by the gods had he sworn. "Kagome? Wake up." On his bloodied knuckles and the balls of his leather hard feet, he rolled forward and tried to sniff the air without throwing up, trying to smell the life of her.
The sickly sweet scent of rot and death made bile rise to his throat, the girl's quiet and loving scent of dry wells and magic fading into the night air, the days of spring, traces of the life once within her nearly gone forever. The ears upon his head twitched, moving towards her in hopes that he was wrong, that he could catch something, a movement, a scent, a sound, anything! But nothing came from her slightly parted mouth and her gray, sightless eyes gazed off to a place that he could never reach, a thing that he could never see.
A burning sensation made itself known in the back of his parched throat, the unfamiliar pounding behind his eyes making him feel useless and weak, something that he hated. So he went to the extremes and used a word he never used; after all, she would wake up and smile at him if he said it, right? She always would smile if he did something nice. "Please wake up." He leaned forward onto his knuckles and pushed his nose into her palm, nuzzling the soft skin so that she would open her eyes, smile at him and let her gray eyes glitter with unbound happiness. She always did that kind of thing, found joy in the most simple of life's pleasures. His voice cracked as the blood overwhelmed his senses and he slowly pulled back, still thinking that she couldn't be dead, had to be alive.
Nothing happened, even after his display of raw emotion, so he looked and looked at her, trying to breath normally as he pushed her eyelids down, the blood on his fingertips staining that pale color of her skin. It was strange to see her look so peaceful in her perpetual sleep, as though she would wake up when dawn broke as she always did, to never have her tweak his ears happily or root him on in the middle of battle; only the ghost of her would remain in the cruel existence that was his fate running its course. He'd lost again, but this time he was the one to be left behind.
His muscles trembled and he gave out, too tired mentally and physically to do much of anything besides shiver and try to curl up at the girl's side, trying to get her to breath again even though he knew it wasn't possible. He had done this before; but then he was just a pup, curling up at the mangled body of his mother. Other people, other demons, had killed her because no one was there to protect her, and then he had cried for her, howling as though he were the one being torn apart, trying to make her warm again by giving her his warmth.
For days he had stayed like that with his mother, but now it was different, so different. He didn't know who killed her, what had been done so that she could no longer live and smile and laugh and dance. What had happened? He snarled, his gold eyes turning dark with rage. His oath to protect her till the day he died had failed. She was dead, not even a woman yet, only the sixteen-year-old girl that had befriended him, loved him, turned him back to humanity when all he wanted to do was become a monster with no conscious, to live only to kill, but now she was dead, and he realized how utterly hopeless and lost he was without her.
His hands, still fresh with blood, entered his hair, the claws raking through the coarse mane. He sniffed the air again and his ears twitched, the sounds of laughter from the other room making him want to go and shake his comrades, yelling at them. The skin of his back rubbed against hers. Couldn't they see that she was dead? No, apparently not, since the demon slayer's voice was filled with laughter as the low rumble of her lover, the perverted monk, gave out a free joke. A kitsune, the same kitsune that the girl who was dead had adopted in a sense, made his voice ring out, loud and grating.
They laughed while he suffered, the warmth gone from her body, cold as ice. It was usually so warm and comforting, her lap the perfect place to rest his head on the teetering line between life and death. But now, she was dead and she couldn't push the hair away from his eyes and put her hand upon his cheek, whispering comforting words and complete nonsense. Had he comforted her when she died? How did she die? Was he just sleeping beside her the whole goddamned time?! His body slipped from hers and he rammed his hands into the floor made of icy wood, dead wood.
Anger and pain ripped through him as his claws broke the floor, the sharp points digging into the calloused flesh of his palms, spreading more crimson blood across the floor. He bled. The boy looked at them, turning them over and over like they were foreign objects, shaking violently. His blood, her blood, covered them, mingling together in ways that terrified him. His pointed nails were chipped and broken, his pinky twisting in the wrong way, but he felt no pain anymore; it was as if he were watching someone else suffer on the little box with moving pictures he had seen in the dead girl's time.
Slamming his hands palm back down onto the broken wooden floor, a dry sob escaped his cracked and bleeding lips, his eye's wide and unnatural lines of red bleeding into his amber-gold eyes. He was past trying to comfort himself, remote and hurting. Letting go of his feelings was futile but he tried, tried desperately, yet nothing would rid him of the hurt coursing through him. If feed off him like a parasite but he willingly took it back now that he had stopped fighting, the raw and scarring hurt as vital to him as breath. Tears coursed hotly down his icy cheeks and the stamina, the will to live that had always been present within himself, flickered like a flame, dying. He wanted to die along with it.
What was the point in it anymore? He looked at the girl's closed eyelids, the smeared blood of his blood, her blood, drying into a dark brown. It was an awful color, death visible to the eye; what had happened to make her die like this? She was naked, but he didn't notice, instead staring at the claw marks that ran down her back, which were now strips of gaping flesh. Handprints were all over her body, trailing across her stomach and breasts.
He looked at his hands and bit back a terrified yelp as he forced himself to make his hand touch her stomach, watching with horror as the handprint fit his own, trailing the warm skin down her freezing body, the splayed hand repeating the motions of whatever killed her. She was so cold. Pulling away as if something had tried to bite him, he started to tear at himself, claws digging into flesh; he would have torn off his clothing, his skin, anything, just to get out of the killer's form. He was soaked in her life, his hair crusted with it, running down his stomach, around the inside of his thighs and to his back.
He couldn't remember anything, but he saw signs of her struggle against him, half in pain and half in erotic bliss. The bed that her dead form was on had signs of love on it, the layer of sweat and salt and bitter tang hanging in the air beneath the blood, all that blood. His skin had her pathetic half-moon indents still on it, on his thighs and shoulders. He was sure that there were lines of red from his shoulders to his hips, were she clawed at him while he kept her in his loving and deadly grasp.
Howls of rage escaped him, filling the room. He was still clawing at his skin, new welts of blood rising up to join hers. The pain was nothing compared to the ache in his gut, the scream that was bubbling in his throat. His fists once again found the floor. He felt his hackles rise, the delicate hairs racing along his legs and arms, across his back and down from his navel, rising in the cold air, the goosebumps forming along his bloodied skin, his blood, her blood.
He rose with them, stretching out to his toes, his hands splayed across the broken wood. It dug into the pads of his thumbs, his muscles tense, pulling. There was a pause in the other room as he felt something inside him snap with the rustling of cloth and the thud of footsteps. A voice reached to him through the hazy red mist, the voice of the monk, as the snap of the rice paper screen opening. He had forgotten that language; all that was left of him snarls and growls and smells.
His head snapped to the girl's body, staring at the limp form with weird, half red, half gold eyes. A heart that was beating dully in his chest tugged then constricted and he jumped to grab the dead girl, pressing her cold body to his warm one, soaked in her life. The cold sucked out his warmth, his growls rising and the red haze taking over at last, and all he knew was what would happen. His death was waiting.
He saw the monk's face as he turned around, the girl in his arms, and it would have haunted him if he had the humanity to be haunted. The monk saw blood smearing the walls and the floor, across the once white sheets and still flowing out of the boy's body, who looked as though he had purposely decorated himself. The girl's head lolled back without support, her eyelids still closed and her tongue being forced back. She would have choked on it, if she still had enough life to choke. But she didn't; she was dead.
The monk gripped his staff and yelled out a name foreign to him, for he was lost, gone forever. He snarled savagely as the man dared to take a step forward, into the place of this girl's death, the place where he must die as well. Another face joined his and it too stung the far reaches of his mind, but didn't do anything else. Her eyes widened at the blood and she turned away, her eyes filling with tears as he could hear her emptying her stomach out into the hallway.
The man with lavender eyes took another step forward, the hoops upon the staff sounding forlorn and mourning, as the other pressed the girl closer to his naked and bloodied body. His flowing blood smeared on her torso and arms, across his mate. Her smell told him that she was his, but she was dead. His instincts told him that she would have had pups as well; she smelled fertile. Yet she was dead and he was her mate, so they both would have to die. It was the only way.
He growled. This man didn't want to kill him; horror and confusion radiated from him in waves, almost mingling with the blood, but he had no anger, no smell of bloodlust. The monk would not kill. Noticing a sheathed sword leaning up against the wall, he reached for it, but he hesitated as his hand began to cool. His claws bit into his calloused palm as he pulled away, not daring to pull the blade from its resting place and use it to turn it against himself.
Wanting to give up, he just lay down and stopped growling, wrapping his body around hers. With tenderness that surprised him, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her dead frozen lips, and the bloodied eyelids. Tired, drawn, spent, he felt his life slowly trickle out of him. Everything was turning cold and black, the blood everywhere, exhausted. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and his pain was fading like the light at sunset. He had to die because she was dead, his mate, his charge, his love, his life.
His brilliant silver hair caught the morning rays of the sun, the last thing he ever saw the dried blood on her closed eye, the jingling of the staff's golden hoops mingling with the shouts of the monk as he cried out a name that would fade within the folds of time.