Author's Note: Well, this chapter was ready on Sunday, but since one of you keeps reminding me of the Wednesday update day, I withheld it until today. So everyone, please thank emeralddarkness for the delay. For future reference, and just to make it perfectly clear: I do not respond positively to being hounded to update.

Now that that's done with... hi! My friends, it sucks to be you because while this chapter contains about 4 thousand words of smut, I can't post much of it here. The update here at The Pit is edited-- you'll see where.

An unedited version with smut galore is available at my Yahoo group, at mediaminer dot org, A Single Spark (if I can get the entire 8 million words of the story so far uploaded there soonish), and my crazydiamond LJ. All URLs are on my user page, so click on my name above. I try to put character and relationship development in my smut-- it's not just PWP, so if you skip out on the smut, you might not understand their behaviour in later chapters.

Please thank Technoelfie (muse-inspiring) and Resmiranda (betaing) for this chapter, without them it would not exist. Literally.

Chapter 10

Inuyasha noticed immediately when Miroku and Kagura stopped following them. At first, he thought it was because of his superior skill at hiding his tracks.

"When I was a kid," he'd explained to Sango one afternoon as they ate, "after my mom died, there was always one or another of her crackpot relatives who got it into his thick skull to kill the hanyou." He said it flatly, without inflection to indicate how he felt about it. "I learned quick and early that being able to hide was survival."

He grinned at her then, the tips of his fangs peeping from his upper lip. "Even with Kagura's demon-powered nose, they're gonna have a hell of a time finding us."

Sango found herself grinning back until she remembered that she wanted to be found by Miroku and Kagura, wanted to return to Edo, wanted to have their little group put back together. The past few days had been unsettling, to say the least.

After that first day, when Inuyasha had held her and she had cried, things had been steadily and unrelentingly bizarre. Inuyasha was unnervingly willing to divulge all the ugliness of his past, spinning tale after tale of woe until Sango was sure her heart would break on his behalf.

His father had died while Inuyasha was still quite young, and since his human mother had no place in the youkai world, she had returned to her noble family. But the scandal of an illegitimate child, hanyou no less, was not something her parents and siblings could bear, and neither she nor her son had been received gladly.

Inuyasha, ever intelligent, realized that informing his mother of how his cousins mistreated him would only make her sad, and with her health failing, he only wanted to see smiles on her beloved face. "So that's where I learned to hide my emotions," he told Sango. "Letting others know you're hurt, or even happy, just gives them something else to use against you."

Inuyasha and Sango were in physical contact nearly all day and night long. He insisted they sleep in the treetops for greater protection, necessitating her curling in his arms all night lest she tumble to the ground while unconscious, and then she rode on his back all day as they traveled.

At first, it felt exceedingly strange to her. She was actually an affectionate person, but shy about expressing it. She'd only ever felt comfortable giving Kohaku the occasional cuddle. When he was gone, thanks to Naraku's treachery, and she'd joined up with Inuyasha and the others, there'd been no outlet for her besides dear Kirara and those all-too-brief times she'd managed with Kohaku.

Unless one was inclined to count the many, many times Miroku's wandering hand had accosted her, and Sango wasn't. There was little than angered her as much as that slight, lecherous touch. There was nothing affectionate in it, nothing personal. It was just a reminder that Miroku viewed her as an object, a convenient tool to getting what he wanted. He could just as easily rub her shoulders, which she would have appreciated, or taken her hand or caressed her cheek—all things that would tell her it was her he wanted to touch her, not just whichever backside was nearby.

But with Inuyasha, it was different. He clung to her for comfort, not for sex. She didn't feel used by him, as she'd been used by Naraku, as Miroku had been trying to do for years. It was often him coming to her for comfort, so there was no fear of rejection she needed to worry about.

And so, her desire for physical contact had lurched its way to the forefront. Overcome with sympathy for his terrible history, she found herself hugging him often, trying to erase the memories through force of will alone. Once that hurdle had been cleared, she had to get past the fact that the touching and holding was with Inuyasha.

She had meant it completely when she'd said she loved him. In spite of his gruff and outspoken behaviour, she believed he was a genuinely good person with all her heart. He was loyal and generous (sometimes), passionate and capable of astonishing gentleness and sensitivity (sometimes).

They'd always fought well together, sometimes seeming almost intuitively aligned to each other's thoughts and movements when battling demons, working seamlessly to defeat their foes. Both were warriors, unafraid of death or injury, willing to risk life and limb fighting for and protecting that which mattered to them. She had trusted him with her life countless times, and he had done likewise with her.

Sango was just now finding out exactly how deep the wounds in his soul had gone, and learning that she had far more in common with him than just a warrior's camaraderie. His devastation over Kikyo, over being shot by her and sealed to Goshinboku, had left a hole in his heart. And that hole had only been widened by Kikyo's continued determination to hate him even though it had been proven that it had been Naraku, not Inuyasha, who had struck the blow that ultimately killed her.

But aside from all that, she'd always considered Inuyasha to be Kagome's. It just seemed natural, after all, with her being Kikyo's reincarnation. She had seen their single-minded devotion to each other, time and again, when danger was present. Even when they were arguing, it was as if the rest of the world dropped away and nothing else existed.

And so for Inuyasha to hold her so tenderly when she cried for him was quite a lot to become used to. To feel his breath on her ear, his fingers combing her hair, felt entirely bizarre. Most disturbing of all, however, was the tightening in her chest that spoke of something more than mere friendship,

She'd never much considered herself a sensual, or even a sexual, person. Sure, she was aware of what happened between two people. Being the sole female in a band of demon exterminators had exposed her to some of the more earthy jokes, after all. Her father's friend, Tenshi, had been quite fond of the filthy limerick as an art form, and hadn't Morimoto travelled far and wide to add to his collection of soft-core pornographic sketches, which he then proudly passed around all the other taijiya, Sango included?

Thus, she'd been both flattered and insulted by Miroku's persistent attentions over the years, but ultimately unmoved physically by them. There'd been times she'd fancied herself in love with him, but something had always held her back from acting on the emotion. She'd always wondered what it was, what invisible barrier had prevented her from accepting his overtures.

She now knew what it was, because she'd found it with Inuyasha.

Sango wasn't sure if it were love. Love, to her, was a cerebral thing, something located deep within the brain, something lofty and elevated above mere mundane sensations. No, what she felt for Inuyasha was something infinitely more primal. She had considered herself his sister for years; sister, companion, friend and comrade.

Now that she knew more about his past, however, some maternal instinct had arisen within her breast, some basic urge to enfold him within her and keep him safe, to protect and soothe and comfort him. Quick on the heels of that came a rather alarming amount of desire, yet another need to take him inside, to surround him with all that she was, to watch his handsome face contort with pleasure as his body wracked within hers.

It was all very worrying and alarming. She was sufficiently confused about it, and so terrified of his reaction should she try to do anything that she'd been in a peculiar state of semi-paralysis for a few days.

There was just so very much intimate contact with him, after all-- she clasped her arms around his body when he ran, his lean hips and waist pressing hard between her legs with each stride. At night, she lay across his lap, his arms securely around her and her head against his shoulder, as they slept in a tree. When they ate, they sat side-by-side, arms and legs brushing. And when she held him, when he held her, their bodies were aligned perfectly, pressed together from breast to knees, hearts pounding hard enough to break through the flesh between them.

So she had to keep very still, had to prevent herself from rubbing against him, from reaching into his fire-rat garments to touch his skin, from lifting her face for his kiss. She knew he was aware of her strangely rigid limbs and torso, but he hadn't said anything yet. She wondered if he would. Then she wondered if he'd need to—it was getting harder and harder not to give in to her urges, and if she did, it would make all explanations moot.

"Where are we going, Inuyasha?" she asked one afternoon as she rode on his back. He was darting through the woods at incredible speed, his hair a silver cloak over both of them. She had to speak very close to his ear so he could hear her with all the rushing wind, and if it wasn't entirely by accident when her lips brushed against it, it wasn't completely by design, either.

"We're going to kill Naraku," he replied, and she blinked in surprise. She'd asked him every day since he'd kidnapped her, and every day he'd refused to answer. Until now.

"Why?" she asked him, arms tightening around his neck in an automatic response to the other hanyou's name.

"Because when he's dead and can't get his dirty mitts on the jewel, Kagome won't have any reason to withhold it from me," he answered. He sounded perfectly reasonable, but Sango could feel a tension in him, vibrating through his body.

"Inuyasha, stop for a minute," she said, and climbed down from his back when he halted. "Even if we kill Naraku, that's no guarantee that Kagome will let you have the Shikon. Don't you remember how she said the time wasn't right? That Midoriko is somehow giving her instructions on what's supposed to happen?" She conveniently left out the rest of what Kagome had told her, what seemed like years ago.

She sighed, her head drooping. "I don't think you're meant to get the jewel, Inuyasha," she ventured, trying to reveal as much about his fate as she could without actually coming out and saying it. "I think you were born a hanyou for a specific reason, and that becoming a full demon will defeat that."

His finger under her chin raised her eyes to his. "Well, Midoriko is gonna have to kill me to keep me from trying!" he said vehemently. "I'm no quitter! I've wanted to become fully youkai for almost all of my lifetime, and I'm not gonna give up now!"

He took a step closer, eyes slitted with anger. "Are you with me, Sango, or against me? Because that's what it's come down to. Either you're helping me, or I kill you for getting in my way."

Sango closed her eyes. It was easier to control the wild dance her stomach had begun at his proximity that way. "I'm with you, Inuyasha," she whispered, because there was nothing else she could say.

He grunted and turned away from her. She sighed and climbed back onto him, dropping her head to his shoulder and thinking so hard she gave herself a headache. She wasn't opposed to killing Naraku, not at all, but she was relatively sure that it couldn't be done by only Inuyasha and herself, especially lacking Hiraikotsu as she was.

It was best to humour him, she decided. Somewhere during the course of their quest for Naraku, she might be able to change Inuyasha's mind. Maybe she could convince him that he didn't really need the Shikon no Tama after all, that he was perfectly fine just as he was. Perhaps she could even get the shard out of his neck—she was positive he'd revert to his old self once it was no longer in him.

But a tiny part of her liked him this way—open, holding nothing back. She brutally choked back the sentiment and held onto him tighter, feeling the wind whip by them and watching the ground fly by under Inuyasha's feet.

Jaken was not stupid, no matter what Rin said. He had not only noticed the tension between his master and the miko, but understood the nature of it. It had nothing to do with struggling for power, with pride and insult, with freedom and captivity, and everything to do with sex.

No surprise, there. It had been a long time, after all, since his master had taken a lover, and with a receptive female in close proximity for the past week—ningen notwithstanding—it was to be expected.

And she was receptive; even Jaken's less-perceptive nose had picked out the scent of feminine arousal at various times. That these times matched when Sesshoumaru was close to her was not at all coincidental, he felt.

Jaken did not wonder why she would transfer her affections from Inuyasha to his infinitely superior half-brother; any fool could see that it was a definite step up. Part of him was slightly horrified that his master would consider taking a human for lover, but another part recognized her immense power and, if he were to be honest, personal appeal.

She was lovely, even drawn and worried as she continued to be for the worthless hanyou and her human companions. The shadows under her eyes were a delicate shade of lavender and against the pallor of her skin made her look appealingly fragile.

He was not the only one who noticed. Sesshoumaru was currently fixing her with an unwavering golden gaze, and the set to his jaw told Jaken that he was going to do or say something to her as soon as privacy was theirs.

Jaken took his master's place-setting from the table, stacking it with his own, and admonished the children to hie themselves off to bed, for he was fairly certain there would be no lessons tonight. He paused, hand in mid-pull of the shoji screen closing the room from the rest of the house, to watch the scene unfold before him. The miko sat, hands fidgeting nervously, as Sesshoumaru studied her, an almost clinical coolness to his examination.

Jaken closed the shoji firmly and made his way to the kitchen. Dragging a stool to the basin, he began washing dishes and hoped that the children's bedrooms upstairs were sufficiently far from the dining room and Sesshoumaru's chamber beside it to muffle any noises that might be subsequent.

Sesshoumaru sat comfortably, hand cupping his bent knee, and simply regarded her. She was fascinating to watch, he found; it seemed impossible for her to be still for any length of time. Always, her hands were in motion, fluttering like the wings of a white bird, or the expression of her face would shift from one emotion to another. It was impossible for her to disseminate; no sooner would one thought or feeling enter her head than it was displayed on her features for the world to see.

And he could tell that she was uneasy, yet hopeful in a way that he found almost amusing. She wanted him, that much was painfully clear, yet she seemed to feel her passion was doomed not to be reciprocated.

Was it because she was human? Sesshoumaru had not wasted any thought on the issue. He was not one to doubt his instincts, and on the rare occasions that he had impulses of the visceral rather than intellectual variety, indulging them had not led him astray, either. Reviving Rin was a case in point.

He wondered how responsive this Kagome might be to him. Already, he was intrigued by her reaction to him by the river, several days earlier, and that had been the merest caress of claw on breast. What might she do under the full onslaught of his attentions? How far would she allow him to go?

"Miko," he said, deliberately lowering the pitch of his voice so it was more a rumble than mere speech. She twitched at the sound of it, gasping a little, and turned to face him.

"Yes?" she replied, but her eyes did not meet his; instead, they seemed locked onto his chin, or perhaps his left ear.

"You have been avoiding me." He paused for effect. "Why is this?"

"Avoiding?" Her laugh was high-pitched and nervous, a sure sign that a lie was to follow. "I haven't been avoiding you, exactly. It's just that I know you're busy and I don't want—"

Her voice trailed off as he took her fidgeting hand in his, stilling its movements with the clasp of his fingers.

"Such frenetic movement," Sesshoumaru murmured, and turned her hand to brush his lips over the inside of her wrist. The flesh was warm and soft, the pulse beating against his mouth in a rhythm of near-panic that matched the waves of ki pouring from her, and his ears could pick up the faint sound of her heart, pounding in her chest. This would take no effort on his part at all.

He pulled away, slowly rubbing his finger over the spot he had kissed. It felt cool, and a little moist from the one quick touch of his tongue. Kagome was utterly still, putting him in mind of a prey animal when it knows a predator is near, and he found that he didn't like this lack of reaction on her part.

He pulled gently, turning her toward him. This had the interesting result of making the neckline of her kimonos gap, just enough to draw his attention. Sesshoumaru reached out and touched the tip of his finger to the edge of her innermost kimono's lapel, running it down to where the other side overlapped, feeling the difference in texture between skin and cloth before insinuating his hand underneath.

In a single, deft movement he slid his hand out to her shoulder, pushing the kimonos aside in his wake. There was a fleeting impression of soft, warm, before he pulled back again, watching her. To his surprise, he felt an answering interest within himself, a hunger sparking to life in his chest. It had been so long since he had indulged.

Her eyes were closed tightly, and there was a line between her brows as if she were in pain, but still she did not move—not toward him, but not away either. Sesshoumaru found himself enjoying this little game, and eager to indulge in more of it.

He dragged the point of a claw down the long line of her neck to the smooth cap of her shoulder; watching her shiver. A thin white line appeared on her skin, then turning pink before vanishing, and he suddenly wanted to trace them with his tongue. Leaning close, he gave a long lick from the curve of her shoulder, along her clavicle and up her throat before following her jaw to her ear.

She tasted of soap and salt, of desire and fear. He liked it, liked that she was not too frightened to be aroused, nor too aroused to be frightened. Her mouth was parted, panting softly, and without thinking he rubbed a fingertip across them, feeling the moist heat of each breath.

Kagome was caught between frenzy and terror as he touched her, licked her. This was what she had wanted for months, ever since the first time she had recalled a Kagome making love with her Sesshoumaru. Afraid he would stop, and afraid he wouldn't, she was awash in sensation and a relief so strong she squinched her eyes shut to keep from crying at the force of it.

Then something touched her mouth and automatically, she parted her lips to let it in, uncaring whether it was his tongue or anything else. It turned out to be his finger, but Kagome took it between her teeth, closing her lips around the tip before sucking, lightly at first and then stronger.

The pad of his finger was calloused and rough on her tongue, making it tingle, and she flicked her tongue under to the sensitive join of claw to finger. Memories of using her mouth on him assailed her, and her eyes flew open in surprise when he made a rough noise in his throat and pulled his finger away, sliding his hand under the heavy fall of her hair to cup the back of her head.

"Miko," he muttered. There was no time for her to study his expression, because then he was kissing her, his lips parting hers for the inward sweep of his tongue. Fiercely, hungrily, he tasted her, explored her, and she realized that his breathing was almost as ragged as hers. His face, when she placed her hands on either side of it, was growing flushed and hot like her own, and she knew that this time, he wasn't just studying her, wasn't just playing with her.

Feeling giddy with a womanly sort of confidence, Kagome rose up on her knees and wound her arms around Sesshoumaru's neck, sliding one hand down the back of his haori. His skin was hot, even a little damp, and her palm slid smoothly over it as she caressed it. Then, recalling something he liked, she curled her fingers and scratched her nails over him, side-to-side.

Gasping, Sesshoumaru tore his mouth from hers to pull back and stare at her with heavy-lidded eyes gone amber-dark with arousal. "Miko," he said again, his voice rougher this time, and his arm clamped around her waist like a vice.

She began pressing desperate little kisses over his face. "Kagome," she corrected, tracing one of his stripes from cheek to ear with her tongue. "My name is Kagome."

Her other hand was busy fighting to untie his hakama, brushing against his erection far too often to be coincidental, and Sesshoumaru fought to organize his thoughts. He hadn't expected this sort of enthusiastic response from her, but he hadn't expected such a deep burning for her within himself, either. But his body had been denied for far too long, it would seem, and now clamoured to have its way.

A sudden, fleeting sense of bewilderment had him circling her wrists with his fingers, trying to pull her free of him, but she—Kagome, he corrected himself, a little dazedly—slapped his hand away and finished wrenching his hakama open.

Here's where I would have put the smut, if ff dot net would let me. Alas.
He collapsed on her and reveled in the feel of soft, yielding flesh against and around him. He was swept by a tide of... well, one could not rightly call it affection, but certainly he was kindly disposed toward her in the aftermath of so much fulfillment.

"You are well?" he asked, lifting his face from her damp hair to look down at her. "Unhurt?"

Her face was luminous, and the smile she bestowed upon him gave him twin pangs in his chest and somewhat further down. "Yes," she said in a voice hoarse from shouting her gratification. "I'm well." She executed some sort of kittenish little scrunching motion that somehow tucked her even more closely against him. "Really, really well."

He dipped his head toward her again, trailing his mouth over the humid skin of her face. He mapped her face with his lips-- smoothness of flesh, texture of brows, feathering of lashes-- and decided he never wanted to move again. "But I am not crushing you with my weight?" he asked.

Her arms and legs tightened reflexively, as if afraid he would move away. "No," she insisted, a mulish edge to her voice, and he found his lips twitching in amusement.

"Liar," Sesshoumaru accused softly before kissing her. She tasted of satisfaction, tongue mating with his in a sensual, velvety glide, and he took advantage of her momentary distraction to roll them over so she was draped over him.

"Mhn," she moaned into his mouth when her weight pressed him, soft now, more deeply inside.

They lay there many long moments until he remembered that they were, in fact, on the floor of the dining room.

"Would you not be more comfortable in my bed?" he asked, shivering a little in delight as her hands stroked up and down his arms. He tried to work up a little discomfort in having her explore the remainder of his left arm, but discovered he could not. She seemed not at all repelled by the stump, scarcely noting it, so he would not either.

"Okay," she mumbled. "Wherever."

Sesshoumaru disengaged them, ignoring the pang of regret he felt, and helped her to her feet. Her hair was beyond wild, and he couldn't prevent the slight grin that made its way to his lips as he handed her one of her kimono to wear for the brief trip down the hall.

She merely shoved the tangled mass out of her way and pulled the garment on, her eyes never seeming to leave him for more than a few moments. He wondered absently what he had possibly done to inspire such devotion, even as he admitted he was grateful for it, and found himself taking her hand in his as he led her to his chamber.

There would be time for introspection later.