Falling by Stella Mira

Fallen Gods

Kagome chooses the same room as last time, the inception of her lust, unsated, sewn on every surface and object in this room. Perhaps for sentimentality’s sake, or perhaps for the scent saturating everything inside—hers. She has lost count of how many hours she has spent in this room after the end of her shift each night, haunted by what ifs and fantasies, but he will never know that. It is both a curse and a blessing. Her steps are quiet, too quiet, as she walks before them, until she comes to a stop before that room. Lowered lids, heavy limbs, she stands still, refuses to open the door, enmeshed in that insidious web, skin peeling, assimilating into the silk threads. She cannot tell how long she stays like this…until sensation nullifies the envenomed bonds, thread by thread—warmth on the curve of her back, a cuff of muscle around her waist, hot lips on the nape of her neck.

“Let her stay.”

Weakness suffuses joints and ligaments, shivers rushing across the slim bones of her spine, and she leans back into the man, allows him to speak for her desires. Naraku—she knows he doesn’t seek to slake her cravings but his, and still…she can’t find it in herself to care at this moment. Respiration struggling in her lungs, she waits and waits and—

“Do as you please.”

Breath gushes out of her lungs, almost strident, ringing in her ears, and she feels those lips moving over the juts of her vertebrae.

“Your choice, love.”

She has no choice—the grin on those lips, skin-felt delectation, confirms that he is well aware. Gently, carefully, Naraku guides her inside, warm weight at her back, never relinquishing his hold on her. She sees nothing, rendered blind. Touch gorges on all other senses, becomes a monster hungering for the merest nibble of attention. Only when he walks before her, overwhelms her vision with his presence, does sight return. Poised over the minibar, he pours himself a drink, takes his leisure in his sips.

“Tell me—” Temptation in dulcet tones, nimble fingers, ties uncoiling, cool air and naked skin. “What is it that draws you to him?”

Inhalation, spine bent, undulations of hips and swells. Layers of satin are slinking lower, down her shoulders, baring strips of skin, nipples distended and hard, tufts of black below her navel.

“The same thing that draws you.”

It is a strangled sound, a hiss and a moan, tamed under his touch. Fingers snake down her body, glide over her hipbones, over that bundle of nerves and sensitive tissue. Round and round, he circles that spot, until she melts into a mass of spasms and sweat.

“No, love. You and I are very different. This is nothing but a passing fancy for me—but not for you…”

Kagome hearkens to the sound of his voice, to the rasp of satisfaction in it, but merely that. Spreading her thighs apart, teasing and rubbing slick skin and softness, he exposes her to Sesshōmaru’s eyes—so wet for him, always wet. She makes no move to hide, allows his eyes to feast on the taste of lust and cruelty, his favorite flavor. Naraku can have her if she can have this…willing, ripe for the taking, no deceit, no coercion. Kagome no longer cares for such petty, insignificant things. Not now, not when she has him where she wants him. It makes no difference to Kagome, any manner she can have him, nothing else matters.

“She’s dripping wet just by staring at you.” Low, slathered with sin, Naraku’s voice ignites the underlying want, forces her to acknowledge the lure of the man. He grinds against her buttocks, once, twice. Heat seeps through thin fabric, takes the shape of hard flesh, the promise of fulfillment. Nails rake and scrape across his forearms, shallow welts. Kagome guides one hand higher, makes him graze the expanse of her stomach, the lines of her ribcage, envelop a heavy breast. It swells and spills into his grip, aching for more. A chuckle, husky with arousal, wetness smeared on the arc of her neck—Naraku flicks a turgid nipple. His fingers are slipping inside hot-tight flesh, slow penetration, in and out.

Slim fingers, dexterous, Naraku knows how to touch her, where to knead, when to press. Her hips twist, swallow each thrust and stroke, relish the strain, the stretch inside, intrinsic gyrations, wanting. It feels so good, to have a man do this for her, not herself, but not enough. Naraku cannot give what she truly needs, despite the lavishness of his motions, rough skin, rough tongue, plunging and licking. Blood melting in her veins, she writhes and arches against his torso, but she keeps her stare transfixed ahead, on their audience, invitation, pleas wrapped in azurites, pupils dilated.


Kagome watches as he puts down his drink, neck slanted, as if intrigued by this display, though she cannot tell what rouses his interest—but then he begins to undress and she consigns thought to oblivion. The jacket falls first, a heap of black fabric on the floor. Her eyes trace the motions of his fingers as he unfastens his dress shirt—hard muscle, contoured beneath taut skin, clenching and unclenching. She moans, teeth bleed her bottom lip, Naraku’s fingers never cease their languorous rhythm. Fire spreads faster than a forest ablaze, emulations of muscles inside, tense contractions—and he is moving, coming closer, unhurried steps, anticipation in hitched breath.

She stares up at him, eyes gone dark with lust, nerves ravished raw, and when he leans forward, she feels all that hard muscle, coolness merging with the fever that racks her body. It grows and mounts and thrives, slickens her flesh to the point where she is nothing but liquid want…but she is not the one he sees.

Trapped between the seam of thews and sinews and perspiration, insanity seeps into her pores. Her breath fans across the hollow of his neck, and she watches helplessly as his lips, those perfect lips, slide against Naraku’s. A flash of teeth, sinking into warm flesh, tongue sinuous and teasing the teeth marks, the heat of reaction lancing through her. Fingers grasp her jaw, angling it high, bruising in their demand, cords toiling in her throat. A gasp, suffocation, the pad of a finger rubbing that spot on her lip, blood welling, zesty and viscous.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Drunk on his voice, she comes undone, rides Naraku’s fingers to the last stroke, to the last pulse, drenching her thighs, dripping down to her knees—but he doesn’t grant her the revelry of release. Too soon, much too soon, he speaks again, through that high, loosens the grip of muscles inside, tightens the clutch on her jaw. 

“If I want to touch you, I will. But you do not have that right. Do you understand?”

She can’t help but nod, silent pact, bitter to sample, unpalatable. It is not enough for him. His eyes glare with a toxic glint, pry her lips open, press her to admit things she detests.


Shadow of a smirk, tongue dragging, lapping at sultry blood, reddened lips, he rewards her, or so she likes to believe. His hand trails across her side, clasps her hip, one brutal squeeze, fire in the flesh, then he is moving away.

“Good. Carry on.”


Skye’s Weekly Challenge: Demonstration


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