Here is yet another Mirosanta 2015 fic for the beautiful Em ( thequeenwillruletheboard on Tumblr)! The description is, unsurprisingly, the actual prompt! This was my first time I tried writing smut, and I'm actually quite happy with how it turned out. Who knows, maybe there's more smut coming our way. Happy 2016!
Title: The Mirsan Way to Trauma Recovery
Description: "The horror we've been through has left me numb so please come here so I can at least feel you." Written for Mirosanta 2015.
Rating: M for all the MirSan smutty smut.
Step One of Trauma Recovery: Safety and Stabilization
Near the very end, they are on their knees, and all they can hold onto is each other.
The weight of tragedy is tangible around them, pressing into their bodies and nearly crushing the two completely. Sango is stoic and silent, waiting for the conclusion to reveal itself, holding onto her demon slayer training for some familiarity in the suspense. Miroku clenches and unclenches his fist and feels for the truth in his palm with hesitant fingers.
They don't know if it's over, or if it's… over. They have no idea, they are waiting, although they're not particularly sure what they're waiting for. All they know is that somehow, they have found each other despite the chaos, and they are afraid to let go because more change would mean yet another wall to climb before they get to the end.
"Miroku..."
He grabs her hand with his uncursed one and presses the back of it to his lips. "Sango," he breathes against the skin of her suit. "Sango, I'm here. I'm here."
A sob tears apart in her throat. "Something is wrong. We can't win this war without a sacrifice."
"We've sacrificed enough, don't you think?" Miroku wonders out loud, a trace of anger in his voice. "Your brother, Kikyo, Koga's tribe..."
Sango swallows. "Your hand."
"Yes. My hand." He holds it out and both of them look upon it, the purple cloth that covers the curse he's wished into a weapon.
"Will we ever feel safe?" Sango wonders aloud.
"Perhaps," he considers, "perhaps one day, we will look back at this without shivering."
She frowns with doubt but doesn't say a word. The two wait for their friends to return to them, alive and well — hoping for the best, refusing to think of the worst.
Step Two of Trauma Recovery: Remembrance and Mourning
They can describe their lives in one sentence: everything has gone to shit, but they have tried to create joy in it. The two consider postponing their wedding, but Miroku's hands have a tendency to wander and Sango refuses to be weak in the face of tragedy: they will not allow pain to keep them from love.
It is simple and beautiful. They do not have much in the way of possessions, but they have each other. Both of them have little to no family to attend the wedding, but they have their friends, and as they make vows to Buddha and to each other, Inuyasha and Shippo and Kohaku do their best to put their darkness aside to let this small bit of light in.
After the ceremony, no one is quite sure why they were drinking sake so diligently: to forget the past, or to rejoice in the future.
The night of their wedding, they come together in a storm of emotion. Intimacy does that to you: it wrings every last drop of vulnerability out of you, as you lay on your back and cry out in pleasure so intense that it reminds her of pain. You lose yourself in the motion of bodies, and his name is like a lifeline on your lips.
"Miroku, Miroku, Miroku!"
His fingers work their magic and she responds in kind, back arching, breath shuddering, breasts heaving. He is panting, both in exertion and in desire, and his words are sweet and scandalous in her ear as he urges her to come, to release, to give him everything. And so she does, and it's as sweet and scandalous as it gets.
When they collapse, they fall into each other. They don't say it, but both feel it and know it, together: this was the best kind of distraction.
Step Three of Trauma Recovery: Reconnection and Integration
The trouble with avoiding the past is that eventually, you begin to forget it. It stops existing, becomes only a mild memory that you have successfully kept out of your home and out of your head. You stop feeling it, glancing over it in your thoughts. You move past it but you have surely not moved on.
Happiness is easy to exaggerate in the midst of routine, and both have surely mastered that. They kiss, smile, find laughter in their children and look at each other with swelling chests and hope and pride, that they have made a life of ruins and can shine and polish the exterior of their happy end.
It's easy to fool your closest companions, when you know them well enough to deceive them.
They are far from unhappy; in fact, they are unbelievably happy. But the foundation of their lives stands on the very idea that they must not give their emotions to the horror they have left behind.
Perhaps the greatest misfortune, in Miroku's perspective, is that they have lost a reason to reach out to each other. They conceal their pain and in turn, rely on their own selves to pull them out of the shadows. They do not turn to each other like they did before, emotionally, mentally… physically.
Some days, he misses it. Other days, he accepts it. And in private, he knows he will stop minding the distance between them, too.
Step Four, Optional and Maybe Not Legitimate: Sex
"Momma, why don't you hold hands with Papa anymore?" Asami asks one day as she makes daisy chains in her mother's lap.
A pleasant and vague answer comes to Sango easily. "Because Papa and Momma like to hold hands in private," she answers. It's a lie; Miroku once loved to shower affection upon her in front of the entire world, so proud was he to have earned her heart. But they are adults now, with lives to live and duties to fulfill. There is no time for romance, these days.
Still, her daughter's question perturbs her, as does her systematic response to it. She can remember the woman she used to be, and her own ghost reminds Sango of how far she has run away, how deeply she has changed.
It can't be right, Sango won't let it be. She tries desperately to mourn deeply for all she has lost: a family, her best friend, the community that raised her. But she feels nothing, and that in itself is the only thing she feels, the agonizing loss of herself.
She goes everywhere that day, trying to return to where she cannot go. The well that stole Kagome from them and one day, gave her back. Inuyasha's home in the trees. Kaede's hut. And finally, Miroku's arms.
When he finds her in their shared bedroom, she is holding her knees tightly to her chest, curled up into herself. It reminds him of The End, when they waited for the end of their journey, when they waited for the beginning of the rest of their lives.
"Sango," Miroku breathes, rushing to kneel by her. He covers her body with his, wishing he could cover the pain instead but he's never been able to do that, although not for lack of trying. She lets him touch her, not quite leaning into him but not leaning away, either.
A moment pulses between them when Sango's muscles relax, when she stops resisting him and starts embracing him. The tension is thick and suddenly it's impossible for Miroku to ignore how softly her hair feels on his skin, and Sango's fingers twitch with impulse.
And for once, it's her lips that spill his name like a prayer. "Miroku."
"Yes," he breathes.
She touches him slowly, turning in his arms and running her hands up to his shoulders as she lifts herself off the flow to wrap her legs around his waist. Her caress is a question, her body a command. He can hardly remember to breathe when she begins pushing him down to his back, trailing after him with that open mouth of hers.
It has been so long. The gaps between his fingers over her hips are large enough to fill the time he's longed for her, his eyes fluttering shut with anticipation. He even tries to count the kisses she leaves down his neck, marking each new inch of bare skin as she unravels the clothing he hides his soul in. He loses count after 7.
She goes neither quickly nor slowly. It's a steady stream of sensation, and the wetness of her tongue that occasionally flicks at his ribs make him shudder, make him sigh, make him nearly weep. It has been so long since they have been vulnerable.
When there is no part of him untouched by the night air, when Miroku is naked and longing to return the favor, he maneuvers their bodies smoothly so that he hovers over her now, his eyes open and searching. She looks him up and down, hungry, lost, lonely.
In the back of his mind, he thinks that his wife looks a little empty. But he's lived an entire life with emptiness in his right hand; a little bit of lack does not scare him.
"Tell me why," he murmurs deeply into her ear as his hands expertly remove the cloth that stands in his way. Tell me why you have decided to let me in now, why you touch me, why you are so willing and open and free today.
She answers with a gasp, and Miroku presses his groin against her encouragingly, knowing how she likes to feel the full weight of his body against hers. "Tell me," he encourages.
"I want," Sango pants in between her words, "I want to feel again." Her nails dig into his naked shoulders and he welcomes it, the pain and the pleasure and the marks that will remain after this night as they devour each other to the fullest.
He worships the crook of her neck, weeps at the sight of her breasts, praises the stars at the scent of her lust. All the while, Miroku keeps his tongue at her earlobe, biting and nipping and relishing the way she squirms. How sensitive time makes the female body. The slightest movements send her gasping, and he is, admittedly, the same. He is ready to burst — but where is the fun in that?
Her grip is tight but he manages to maneuver a hand between her legs, running an index finger between her thighs — a tease guaranteed to make her whimper. And whimper she does, along with a warning squeeze of his shoulders. The message is received: satisfaction is more important than the game.
"You want to feel again," Miroku reiterates. A finger slips into her entrance and she inhales sharply. "And this is the only way?" Moving in and out slowly, he curls his finger upwards each time, exploring his wife as curiously as he did their first night together.
The way she bites down on her lip as she nods is more than he can bear, and he adds another finger before he planned. He moves more aggressively, more quickly, more desperately — for as longing as she is for release, so is he. His thumb is rough against her clit, and she is beginning to gasp as he likes, and there is no way in hell that Miroku will ever forget the sight of her breasts bouncing in rhythm with his fingers. How had he forgotten before?
There are no words left between them, only the familiar motions they once knew so well. It is like learning each other all over again. There are new scars to run their tongues over, new wrinkles, new signs of age and children on their bodies. It is a wonderful world of skin and desire and an old love that feels like new, and before Sango can begin to build up to a climax, Miroku is already sinking down to where his fingers once played and using his tongue in place of his hand.
Her mouth is silent as it traces the shape of an 'o,' and she closes her eyes and loses herself in everything physical. He moves so skillfully that she wonders briefly, distantly, if he's been practicing without her. The thought angers her suddenly, a primal, protective, this is mine instinct that pushes Sango to new heights she has never even thought to climb.
There is a new aggression running through her, more animal than woman, more woman than wife. The exhilaration of a foreign facet of her self brings her to orgasm, and Sango cries out, fingers curling against the floor, searching for something to grab. It sounds like weeping, it sounds like sobbing, it sounds like pain, but there is nothing but pleasure between them.
As his wife gathers her breath, Miroku moves up her body, marking his path with reverent lips, and begins to absentmindedly flick at her nipple with a thumb as he begins sucking at her neck. "I've missed your taste," he murmurs, his voice husky.
Without warning, Sango grabs the sides of his face and slams his lips to hers, kissing him with fervor. He forgets the rest of the world, forgets that there are still children in their home, and he groans loudly into her mouth as he kisses her back. His hands move to her sides and he's gripping her waist, lowering his torso down against hers.
It's the closeness of him that reminds Sango of his need, as well; it's pressed up against her, impossible to ignore. She grabs him with a boldness he has forgotten, and he inhales sharply. "Do you mind?" she asks with an innocence that is completely unfitting for the present situation. With the grace and strength of a slayer, she repositions herself on top and moves her fingers deftly by instinct and long hours of practice.
Both of them are surprised at how easy it is to fall into each other. At how they have forgotten every detail and have forgotten no detail at the same time, at how they feel young again, lost and traveling and blind. They feel invincible, in a way that they have only truly felt with each other.
Miroku moans her name when she slides down and takes him into her mouth, moving her hand to cup his balls. His breath catches, he releases an unholy expletive, his voice breaks as she takes in more, rolling her tongue generously. "Am I in heaven," he exhales.
The only answer he receives is a low hum, and the vibrations make him grunt, strained, desperate, warning. She pulls back immediately, and he is simultaneously grateful and disappointed that he does not come just yet.
"I need more," she confesses as she travels back up to his mouth. The two are shameless in their lust, this feverish attempt to devour each other, to find themselves in mouths and skin and sweat. "I need more," she repeats into his mouth.
"Mmmmmm." Miroku doesn't know if he has the brainpower to speak, the only thing he can pay attention to is his own need, her need, their need. Her hands are all over him again, a blaze going up into smokes, everything going to hell as they abandon every last inch of adulthood they have left to become teenagers again. Running around thinking they can save themselves, that they can save others, that they can save the world. That they can control their future.
They are young again. They are young and starving for something. After years of adventure, they can't be blamed for wanting something new and exciting again: shameless sex, a bottomless appetite not just to fuck, but to feel, to be alive. To be together.
"Are you ready," he murmurs after he wrestles her to be on top, looking down at her with shining eyes. She looks up at him with a desire that looks almost like fear, because it has been so long since the two have let themselves feel anything besides nothing. And it's scary, to open up again.
There is something so beautiful about her trepidation, and so Miroku kisses her softly, more reassurance than passion. "It's okay," he says into her skin, his lips traveling to cover her ear, neck, her collarbone. There is nothing he wants more than to love every part of her with a kiss.
"No, I want this," she insists, grabbing his face and locking eyes with him. "I want you," she repeats in a whisper.
And the heat between them simmers and feels more like warmth instead as he enters, and he releases the moan he's been biting back at the familiar ecstasy of it, and she closes her eyes in silent bliss. The speed picks up and still their bodies are gentle, open arms more than clasped fists, holding each other and not grappling in the darkness for another body to own.
In the middle of it is the love that they've forgotten, the love that they have neglected in favor of the horrifying past they endured together. It turns out that when you run away from the bleakness of the past, you abandon the hope of it, too.
When he hits her G-spot, Sango cries out his name, and the sound of it is enough to make him come, and he pulls out smoothly before he does. The two are gasping, the silence of the night magnifying each noise they make in the absence of sex. Miroku quietly collapses beside his wife and the two lie together, staring up to the roof peacefully.
A few minutes pass before Miroku takes hold of her hand. She squeezes his fingers in return.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"I feel," is her simple answer, for that's been the goal all along. Sango looks over to smile at him, and he somberly meets her gaze.
Without a word, he leans in and chastely kisses her temple. "I love you, Sango." He hesitates just a second before continuing with the truth. "Even if I don't always feel it, I know it."
Her eyes flutter shut at the sweetness of his lips. "I love you, Miroku. Even if I don't always feel it, I know it," she echoes.
He brings the blanket up over their shoulders and closes his eyes, falling asleep in a matter of minutes. Sango remains awake, running her thumb over his, remembering all that's happened.
"Maybe it's time to tell our children how we met," she suddenly whispers to her sleeping husband. Lost in his dreams, he's incapable of replying, but Sango knows that she will bring it up again the next morning when the two rise to the sun together, naked and less alone.
The thought excites her, makes her look forward to the morning, and so she shuts her eyes and waits for sleep so that the next day can begin.