Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Inuyasha and all its characters; they belong rightfully to Rumiko Takahashi.
Warning: This is a dark fic and will contain violence and other issues that some people may not find comfortable to read, there will not be any explicit sexual content, but there will be references and innuendos. This story is rated R for a reason.
It had ended.
A little gruesomely for my liking, but we can hardly be choosers of such things, and battles are always bloody anyway. I have proof, still fresh and vibrant in my memory like yesterday.
I had paid no heed to their urgent insisting that I stay and be tended; I was dirty and I wasn't all that hurt anyway…at least compared to them.
I don't know why it happened but I can secretly say that I wasn't completely surprised. It had been bound to happen eventually.
I'd been having trouble to begin with, my body weak with exhaustion and injuries, but I was determined to be clean. I was covered in dirt and blood and it was disgusting.
My hands shook and the soap kept slipping from my fingers. I could barely even stand, but I had to wash it away, all of it, down to the last speck of mud. I could still see the faces, still hear the screams, still feel the blood on my skin…taste it on my tongue…
It happened on one of those times when I dropped the soap. I was trying to pick it up again without collapsing, my knees wobbling as I bent down to retrieve the white bar beneath the water, clutching the riverbank to support me.
I was too focused to notice, paying too little attention to hear him approach on the opposite bank, slip off his things, and enter the water.
It was only when he came up right behind me, sliding a hand around to rest flat on my stomach that I really noticed.
I nearly screamed. My first thought was to run, but the slight prick of claws against the smooth skin of my belly, and his all too familiar aura surrounding me stilled that instinct.
I had a mind to say it, but realization that it would only send us both crashing down to the riverbed with him on top…well I thought better of it.
My heart was in my mouth. It took up too much room for my tongue to work, so I remained silent, rigid.
A part of me wanted him there; in fact, most of me wanted him there. Years had passed and I was no longer the young and innocent fifteen-year-old girl who would have shrieked herself silly and then sat him for all she was worth. No, you didn't live to see what I had seen and then relate yourself to the word 'innocent'.
I wondered for a moment what it was he intended to do; though secretly I hoped for something I'd long waited for. My pulse was racing fast enough, and even immersed in the relatively warm water as I was, I had Goosebumps prickling every inch of my flesh.
But alas, he surprised me and he simply stepped closer, his every contour touching me. I nearly choked on the sensation of his unnaturally close, not to mention nude, proximity. But all he did was bend down over me, his arm reaching past to grasp the bar of soap which I had sought, his left hand splayed across my stomach and supporting my wobbly frame.
He straightened, bringing me with him, and wonder of all wonder, he began to bathe me, slowly, gently, meticulously even, showing greater care than he ever had before over the past five years.
He didn't even get aroused, despite our abnormally intimate, naked, position, and I wasn't sure whether I should be insulted…or thankful.
I didn't say anything, and neither did he. My silent acquiesce appeared to be enough for him, and I was too fearful to venture words, not to mention tongue-tied.
I simply let him help me. By then my legs were so weak that I didn't think I could have refused him if I wanted to, the loss of blood from my head wound was making me so dizzy that I was now solely dependent on his support.
I was glad for his mutual silence, though the tension was still unspoken and present.
Inside I was just as shocked as at first, my stomach twisting in knots of panic and uncertainty. I hoped dearly that he wasn't planning on using me…she had, after all, died two years ago…
But his touch elicited unbidden yet stimulating thoughts, and I was hard-pressed not to give in to them. I was well aware that he could no doubt smell the initial spike in my scent, but he made no outward show of it whatsoever.
I was glad for that…partially.
I was not so young that the current thoughts that plagued my conscience would induce a heavy blush to stain my cheeks, though my skin still felt flushed and my heart thudded painfully against my chest. I was no longer one to consider such things in the way a young girl would. I was not a child anymore, but a woman, if a young one. I wasn't ignorant of sex, or the things that Miroku and Sango did when they were alone. Although personally I had no real experience in the matter, but I wasn't stupid either.
I admit that I wanted him, as intimately positioned as we were it would have been impossible for me not to feel such inklings of desire, but seeing how impassive he was I found myself too frightened to doing anything about it. Knowing that he could hear my fast pacing heart and smell the distinct scent of my arousal was not comforting. I felt uncomfortably exposed, and surprisingly it was not my state of nakedness that had me feeling so.
But it was increasingly hard to focus on lathering the soap when I could feel the tips of his claws running up and down my arm, as he slowly rubbed off the dirt with his rough and soapy palm.
I could feel the little hairs on my arms standing on end, my skin tingling with gooseflesh. His breath was warm against the back of my neck, sending continual shivers up and down my spine.
I dropped the soap.
I hadn't meant to, but the sudden feel of his hand sliding down my side and along my curves had me gasping so sharply that I wasn't even aware the bar had left my hands until I heard the tiny splash that signaled it.
I froze, and I felt him still behind me, his hand tense against my abdomen.
We remained as still as statues for some time, but eventually, he leant down, his hand still present on my stomach to keep me steady, and he plucked the soap from the stony bed, straightening into his former position and continuing to scrub away the dirt that still stuck to my shoulders and face.
He practically finished washing me by himself; I was feeling too disoriented and clumsy, and I didn't really mind, so I let him.
When he was done he tossed the soap, and I watched the white bar fly through the air to land next to my dirtied clothes on the bank, blinking slowly. I made to disentangle myself and climb upon the bank, but his arm abruptly encircled my middle entirely, tightening its grip.
I gasped at the unexpected stiffness that I suddenly felt pressing against me, and my heart once again rose into my throat, small spots dotting my vision and I could sense a heat beginning to build between my thighs. I gulped nervously, suddenly discovering that I was trembling.
He moved his mouth next to my ear, a throaty growl rumbling in his chest and I could feel it vibrate against me.
It then happened all so fast that sometimes I pause to speculate whether it even happened at all.
One minute we were standing there, pressed against each other, and the next I was spun around and thrust against the grassy bank, staring into his smoldering eyes.
He said nothing, and I had to wonder if that was really for the best or not.
His mouth then closed over mine, his kiss brutal and possessive, not at all like the one and only time we'd kissed before.
That kiss had been chaste and brief, yet this was hungry and full of need…bruising. He nipped at my lips and shoved his tongue into my mouth, exploring at his leisure and almost devouring me.
I did my best to respond, knowing I was at a disadvantage with my inexperience. This was, after all, only my second kiss…which was extremely pathetic, when I thought about it.
He was surprisingly…efficient. I'm not sure there's a better way to describe his…technique.
And it was rough. There were no other words for it.
It hurt too, but I'd known that in the beginning, so I guess I can't complain.
He wasn't what I would have called mindful of my virginity, but at least he waited for the initial shock to fade before continuing, though he certainly didn't hold back afterwards. I think I once caught his eyes flash red.
In reflection the term 'rut' really did come to mind; it seemed to describe the very essence of what we had done. The forceful, almost violent act of our intercourse was nothing that I would have associated with love, or even emotion for that matter. It was more like an instinctual act of physical feeling enforced with raw, uncontained arousal.
I can't say I didn't enjoy it, because the simple truth was I had, despite its harshness, though whether I was truly, secretly satisfied managed to escape me.
It was not so much the feeling or the sensation, but more the entirety of it all that had me confused. For a long time I'd envisioned this moment, but when it actually came it was so starkly different from my expectations that I could not help but find myself feeling slightly cheated.
I had always pictured a more romantic setting of where we would make love, and a river had not been one of them. But then again we hadn't really made love. He had fucked me – we had done it, and I was left feeling strange and disappointed and sore.At the time I had wondered, briefly afterwards, if one could even "make" such a thing as "love".
I remember his claws digging into my skin as he'd clutched me, held me so tight as if he'd feared that, should he have let go, I would have just drifted away, dragged from his possessive embrace by the river's current.
I was bleeding by the end, and he'd seemed to have lost his earlier fervor because he went slowly when we had disentangled ourselves, even taking the time to gently clean my bloodied thighs. He'd had to hold me up, my already weak body completely exhausted by our vigorous and crude sex.
I must have passed out though, because I'd woken sore and groggy, my head bandaged and the rest of me all but smothered with blankets.
I'd had the audacity to doubt my hazy memories, and a sharp streak of doubt had assailed me. But when I'd lifted the blanket, and then the edge of the sleeping kimono I'd apparently been dressed in; it had revealed the bruises on my thighs - as if the pain deep in my stomach had not been enough to clarify it for me - and scratches on my breasts, the result of his eager hands attempting to fondle. But then, then I had known that it was real. But I had not felt happy.
I still don't.