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Falling by Stella Mira

Low In Poison

She is left shaking with remnants of half-release, not quite how it should feel. Half the pleasure, half the satiety, but it is better than nothing—that beast prowling inside her body tells her so, purrs with halved satisfaction.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” That rasp in Naraku’s voice has adopted other qualities—darker than fresh blood, rich with the scent of tobacco, thick with the taste of whiskey. It saturates her tongue, the curves of her breasts, glides down her throat to scorch the viscera of her belly.

“Why do you care?”

He chuckles, lazy strokes of his vocal cords, of his fingers. “Call it a mere whim. I’m curious, you see.”

His words give her the slightest of pause, but not his fingers…those never cease their languid exploration, mapping out every dip and crevice of her body, from the inside out.


It is not Naraku’s decadent motions that make her breath catch in her throat, but what lies before her eyes. He is as naked as she is, holding the chains of lust and lunacy, ties that cannot be severed—and he is coming to bind her beyond hope for escape. Kagome can’t be sure if Naraku’s next words are real or a figment of her imagination, but perhaps it is fortuitous not to possess that knowledge.

“How low you’re willing to fall.”

All sensations seep away, flow outwards. A slow haemorrhage. He cauterizes her senses, rips them from her nerves, gorges himself on them. One by one, they die—sight first, then touch, sound, taste, scent—only to be birthed anew, sharper than ever before. When they return, she feels too much. Hands grasping her thighs, lifting her up to twist and bend around him, skin against skin, that toxic light in his eyes.

“Look at me.”                

Languish, nefarious, his voice laves her hunger, waxes her lust. Kagome stares into his eyes, sips the venom disguised as light, so bright it evanesces all shadow and spite. Obsession matured, fermented over the time she has spent wanting him, reaching its apogee to spill even beyond. No limits, no restraint, nothing but the flex of muscle as he pulls her against him, the line of his erection as he slides between skin and nerves oversensitive. Breasts flat against his collarbone, nipples swollen and grazing, up and down, and a moan, low, incited by the promise in his motions—soon to be filled, to be raptured inside. What a foolish woman she is, to surrender without care, to spin her own web, forget even her own name in this moment. A mayfly’s dream. Shame, such shame, to break so easily, so soon—but she knows of no other way, no other man.

Teeth clamp on the edge of her lip, blunt but sharp, puncturing skin, tongue licking, drinking her in—a little fetish, a little torture. It gives her the excuse to succumb to baser instincts, take what she craves, what she desperately seeks, to move and writhe against him without breaking his rules. A gleam of that poison, a twist of hips, he sinks inside her…one slow thrust. Every inch takes him deeper, every spasm grips him tighter, until he can be taken no deeper, be gripped no tighter. Stretched, strained, never to last, over too soon, heat deliquesced into slithery flesh. She is burning around his erection as he withdraws, slips out of her completely.

“She is all yours. Do with her what you will.”

One slow thrust…all that he gives. Kagome can feel the weight of his cock, slick and heavy against her stomach, the force of his hands on her thighs as he lowers her to the floor. Still, she never stops staring at him, neck craned back, aching from the new angle, but she can longer see that brightness—there is only poison now. Her knees are weak, too weak to support her, trembling with please and more, then she falls—into naked lust, litheness stretched under skin, another body, another erection between the seam of her buttocks.

“Very low indeed.” A chuckle, teeth nibbling the curve of her ear, she takes the fall. The floor is cold but not cold enough, and inside she is burning, coils of lust and wetness around another flesh. “But so tight and wet.”

He is there. He is always there, away from her reach, above and beyond, inside someone else, a body that is not hers. She arches off the floor, a peal of sounds spilling past her lips, high with hard thrusts, low with slow twists, but she never takes her eyes off of him. Hot tongue wrapped around a hot nipple, wet fire with each lick and sweep, she lets go, gives in to convulsions, thrums of sensation. Pleasure ripples and swells, soaks through tissue, tight constriction. She feels the shudders, the groans, ravishment and male, embedded too deep, shock after shock—until it turns into something else, near painful, too sore to take in more so soon. It doesn’t matter that she is spent, that the man inside her is spent. She licks her lips, pants without breath, bearing the brunt, that rawness spreading inside, abrading her flesh to the point of abuse…until he is done.

She lies there until the last tremor dies in his body, imbibes the reverberations, the correlation spiraling through layers of skin between them. Her eyes lick the perspiration off his muscles, her ears devour the huskiness of his climax. Then he is standing, tall and naked, slick, gleaming heat. She barely feels Naraku drawing back, relinquishing the clasp of her body, her vision lustered with gold and white. Nothing—she sees, hears, smells nothing. Not the donning of fabric, not the laughter, not the satisfaction deluging the air.

“You were a pleasure, love.”

Her hand is being raised, delicately held, lips dragging over her wrist, kissing the pulse racing under thin skin. Brittle, made breakable, her voice finds its way out of her throat at the sound of footsteps, of the door opening.

“Why…why are you doing this?”

She doesn’t know if he will even answer such a question—but he does.

“You should have taken the offer.”

There is such naturalness, such frost in his voice, that it numbs the neurons in her brain—but she understands. This is a man who does not like to be defied. This whole affair is nothing but a matter of principle for him. It is too casual, so insipid, that it does not even leave the aftertaste of revenge—merely heat coated with a thin layer of ice. The void he has created inside her grows, whelms with echoes of his name, licked by the burn of his skin. A hollow place for anguish and need. She screams his name after him. Once.


Skye’s Weekly Challenge: Toxic


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