Falling by Stella Mira

Under the Sun

Day after day, night after night, Miroku’s words swirl in her mind. Sometimes slow, sometimes quick, caged in a vortex of repetition, lust-ruined echoes with nowhere to go, neither up nor down, inside or out. Kagome hunts for the littlest of information regarding that woman—Kikyō—but all she unearths is uncanny resemblance. A susurrus of snares and death-wishes. Taishō Inuyasha has never made a public appearance for years either, more of a recluse than even his eldest brother, quite a contrast, flashy in another meaning. The media has grown wild over time, speculations aplenty, almost devastated by the loss of their golden prince…more like golden egg. Kagome devours whatever morsels she drags onto her plate, attempts to piece the macabre puzzle, to liberate herself from curiosity and obsession, to no avail.

Hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, but the heat turns into nothing—it simply lives. A viperous serpent that slithers and curls around her body, writhes and constricts, until its scales lose their rough edge, smooth flesh gliding over flayed skin, fangs gleaming with a sordid sheen. She feels nothing but that heat after the first strike, the pulse of her blood, as it clots with poison and corruption, flows from the wounds to form another skin, thin membrane over reason—whatever little of it remains. She falls and aches and waits for the trigger of this paroxysm, for him to come and tear through the membrane, engrave himself so deep inside her that she will have no need for reason. Even as she prepares herself in her dressing room, adorns silks and scents of cherries, even then, she waits for him, until the last coil of her obi, until the last brush of her rouge—but he never comes. Kagome does not see him again until the end of the deadline when his client arrives.     

Steps light yet leaden with impulses suppressed, she walks to his table, gives the customary bow. Her voice is mellifluous, notes of woman and desire, when she speaks, her smile a loose tilt of carmine.

“Welcome to Le Roi Soleil. I am called Kagome and I will be your hostess for the evening.”

Her gaze overpasses all patrons but one, the man seated at the head of the table. He has not changed but neither has she. Everything is as it should be—cold so low that it ripens into heat. It slips into her mouth, rushes down her throat, melts into magma searing flesh and organs, dripping and seething into the apex of her thighs. 


A dip of his chin, nonvocal acknowledgment. Teeth latch onto the inside of her lower lip, near rapture the wet flesh, and nails sink into the soft parts of her palms, but she doesn’t draw blood, has no blood rushing in those places, only lower.

“So this is the one called the Yamato Nadeshiko of Ginza? The rumors cannot compare to reality.”

It is truly a labor to take her eyes away from him, to hearken to another man’s voice—but she does. Handsome, she thinks, almost mechanically, but it makes no difference. His hair is too dark, easy waves, careless, his eyes slightly lighter, earth alloyed with henna, and his voice—

“It’s a pleasure, Kagome.”

Sleek, forked-tongued seduction. Kagome has been acquainted with his type more times than she can count in this profession—her male counterpart. Men such as he are the reason women end up as hostesses more often than not. Still, she inclines her neck, lashes fluttering once, and she sits beside him.

“Thank you for your patronage, Flint-sama.”

Cool lips brush by her ear. He inhales her scent, the taste of wild cherries, then the hiss of a breath, satiation in his chuckle. 

“Please, call me Naraku.”

“As you wish, Naraku-sama.” Kagome accedes to his request then pours him a drink. Through the glassy surface of the bottle, filled with gold, expensive liquor, she sees his distorted visage—fire spilling into the glass, swelling in the juncture of her hips and thighs. Her eyes slant towards his client—hers as well—delusions of undivided attention under curved lashes.

“You speak the language fluently.”

Laughter touches the rim of his glass, pleasant but too smooth, as if cultivated to perfection.

“For a foreigner? Well, yes, I am of Japanese descent on my mother’s side. That is one of the reasons I chose to do business with the Taishō. Sesshōmaru is well aware of this fact.”

That name on his lips, the intimacy of the sound, wrings a curl of envy inside her. It twists and warps and tangles into a spider’s web with her captive in its centre.

“Do you visit often then?” Polite, saccharine, she performs her work, and she does it well. Kagome has no other choice but to lie in this web, limbs bound by strings of silk and fire.

“Not as often as I would like. My free time is limited, I’m afraid. Even this is more of a business trip than anything really.”

Time languishes, glissades with leisure motions, painstakingly slow. Kagome listens and smiles, nods and laughs, but it is nothing more than a façade. It doesn’t matter. Naraku seems to be wearing a likewise façade as far as she can tell. It is well past midnight when he checks on his wristwatch and a wholly different expression slathers on his features. His eyes are both light and dark, fulvous chestnut, shadow of fresh blood…but he is not staring at her.

“Isn’t it time, Sesshōmaru? I do have an early flight, after all.”


It is the first time he speaks this night. His voice seeps through silk and skin, strokes that liquid heat surging inside, sizzling quietly, until it festers and grows into an inferno of need. Kagome can barely make sense of the implications in their exchange, but when she does, ice inundates her veins, freezes the merest lick of heat. Envy births itself anew in her body, flows outwards, suspended in the space between them by invisible threads. Her tongue drags over her lips, moisturizes the dry flesh, and she asks what she suspects.

“You have finalized the contract?”

Naraku is the one who answers, as always, but that façade has melted away completely. There is only lust—in his eyes, voice, everything.

“Oh yes, we took care of business already. This is strictly pleasure.”

His eyes linger on the line of her collarbone, as if he finds its delicate curves more erotic than the swells of her breasts beneath, as if he can feel their texture, the taste of her skin under his tongue with a mere glance.

“Do make the arrangements for a private room, love.”

She stiffens, an open reaction this time, too quick to conceal it under feminine prevarication and practiced tongue. It doesn’t go unnoticed, as she fears.

“Is there a problem?”

Kagome licks her lips once more, unsure of what will come out of her mouth if she parts it, but she is not given the chance to reply.

“She mistakes your intentions, Naraku. I did tell you not to play with words.”

Heavy, donned in smoke and apathy, his voice fills that empty space in the hollow of her throat—but she cares nothing for those things. Kagome only cares that he speaks again, has ears only for that veneer of vicious pleasure in his tone. Naraku raises his gaze to her eyes then, leans into her, close, much too close, and she sees, she knowsnothing has gone unnoticed.

“I was under the impression she would join us, Sesshōmaru. From the way she has been staring at you all night, I’d not be surprised if—”

What he whispers is reserved for that private room, for the wetness that deluges her thighs, too sinful to be spoken aloud. She shivers, feels his tongue touching that place, laving the slick heat, all the things he says made tangible…but it is not he whom she imagines. Naraku doesn’t give names either, only raw sensations.


That one word filters through her haze, slashes through need and please, sharp in vocalization, shaper in cognizance. A sound pours out of her mouth, almost a whimper, drowned under Naraku’s chuckle.

“You are cruel—but that is what I like in you.”

Kagome despises him then, more than herself. That envy takes another shape, becomes something she has no name for, all-consuming and violent. He speaks again, for the third and final time.

“Make the arrangements. Your services are no longer needed.”


Skye’s Weekly Challenge: Search

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I’ll say this now. If you’re not into male slash or threesomes, do not click the next button when it comes. Onwards! XD


INUYASHA © Rumiko Takahashi/Shogakukan • Yomiuri TV • Sunrise 2000
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