A Rickety Bridge

Chapter Six: Sango’s Request

Mushin used to say that rain was therapeutic, for the earth and for living things, and the slapping of rain against the roof was the only sound that didn’t make the old man snarl after an all-night drinking binge. Miroku had to admit, there was something to this philosophy. It didn’t soothe his conscience or his worries, it didn’t offer answers to his problems, but it was calming. The clean smell cleared his head and made meditation easier, left him with the illusion of solitude though the rooms on either side were occupied. He sat in front of the open sliding door, a shaded veranda between him and the ground that was fast becoming muddy. He had meditated all day, trying to center himself, order his thoughts. The dilemma of Sango was growing more difficult. He did not like the reality, but he was going to have to make a decision soon.

She was special to him, he knew that. He felt more friendship and trust for her than he had for any other woman. She was a comrade in arms, an equal, and an ally. He had assumed this meant that romantic love was out of the question. But the craving for her was too great and persistent. And now he’d developed a feeling he’d never had for a woman before: possessiveness.

Countless girls in countless villages had given themselves to him, promised themselves to his hand. When they moved on and married other men, he felt nothing but relief. But two days ago, when that slimy catfish had tried to take Sango, Miroku had utterly snapped. Besides eliciting the shouting of words such as “bastard” and “shit” which he generally liked to keep for moments of quiet reflection only, the attempted abduction had also led to the declaration that Sango was his woman.

Never in the past six years of his association with the fairer sex had Miroku declared any one of them to be his own. Jealousy was an enfeebling and binding emotion that distracted one from far more important and productive endeavors. Like seducing other women. But all that noble posturing was immaterial now; the disease was inside him, living, breeding, and spreading.

Which brought him to the matter at hand—whether or not to take Sango. Miroku was not Inuyasha, who could in good conscience advertise a blooming beauty as his own, chase off and challenge her suitors, feel indignation and betrayal when she paid attention to other men, yet never consummate the relationship. Miroku refused to stake a claim and neglect to build a house. There was no gray area—Sango was his woman, or she was not.

It was easier to just think about the rain.

But then, she appeared—tainting the peace of the rain by standing in it. She held a pink umbrella Kagome had brought through the Well over her head as she picked her way through the mud daintily, and Miroku smiled. This girl...she could slay all manner of youkai without batting an eye, lug a boomerang as long as she was tall over her shoulder for miles, take wound after life-threatening wound, and she still managed to worry over a little wet dirt.

He knew that she was coming to talk to him. There was a moment of indecision, but it quickly dissolved; he would follow her lead. Whatever she needed or chose, he would agree. Perhaps there was something cowardly and evasive in that, but Miroku didn’t much mind—when it came to women, cowardice and evasion were acceptable, even sometimes necessary, tools of survival. He had no idea what he wanted anymore. Strange feelings and longings were twisting the facts in his head—it was entirely likely she could see their situation more clearly than he could. Her face was visible now, and it had a determined set to it. That was promising. Besides, if she chose something he found he couldn’t bear, he wouldn’t have to live with the agony of her moving on or the loss of his freedom long. He had maybe a year of life left—less if Naraku got lucky.

“Good evening, Sango,” he greeted as she hopped gracefully onto the veranda.

Her smile was demure and nervous, but the most genuine he had ever seen on her lips. “Houshi-sama,” she inclined her head as she lowered the umbrella. “May we speak?” she paused blushing. “In your room?”

Miroku swallowed heavily. His pulse began to race. “If you wish,” he answered calmly, rising to his feet and stepping aside so that she could enter.

Closing the sliding door quietly, he turned to face her. Outside, under the umbrella she’d been nervous, yes, but there was also buoyancy and eagerness. Here in the muted dark enclosure of his room her hands were clasped tightly, and the reflection of the gray-blue light painted her face deathly pale. She was having some very sudden second thoughts, he could hear it in her every unsteady breath.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” he inquired mildly. He knew it made him a bastard, but he wasn’t going to let this be easy for her.

Giving herself to a man before marriage was always a nasty proposition for a girl, as it left her ruined. Normally he felt only the barest twinges of guilt finagling silly virgins out of their clothes. They were simple, easily romanticized and excited—if not him, then surely some other dashing and worldly traveler. But this was different. Sango was not in his room tonight because he’d rescued her village from a murderous youkai, or because his miraculous powers of healing had saved her mother, or even because he was handsome and rakishly charming and had stolen a kiss at the water well. For some perverse and unjustifiable reason he couldn’t work out, she was there because of him. Because she thought he was something better than he was. Well, he washed his hands of it. If she wanted to lose herself to him tonight, if she wanted to give herself to a philandering conman, she would have to ask.

After the longest stretch of silence sufferable, she cleared her throat delicately. “Houshi-sama, we have been betrothed for a few months now.”

“Yes,” he agreed placidly when she paused.

“O-our union—we-we nearly consummated....” she stopped.

He looked at her, smiling kindly.

Sango swallowed. “That day by the fire when we...kissed?” her voice was a little steadier.

He nodded.

“Make me feel like that again.”

All the sound drained from the room. Had Miroku been holding anything, he would have dropped it. He would have bet all the gold he had lifted from their host’s temple that Sango would never be able to make such a request. Her voice still trembled audibly, but it was shot through with unreserved longing. Well...that was close enough.

A stride and a half and she was in his arms, and she gasped into his lips. Against his better nature, he had been growing hard since she entered his room. He couldn’t stop himself from grasping her brilliantly firm backside and pressing that stiff length into her. Her body jumped. He wanted to be very clear.

Pulling back from the kiss, he looked down at Sango’s dazed eyes and flushed cheeks. “This is not going to just be a kiss like last time,” he told her evenly, plainly. “I’m going to make love to you. Do you understand that?”

She bit her lower lip while nodding, distractedly staring at his mouth. “Keep going,” her voice was so tiny.

He groaned and promptly obeyed. One hand lingered ecstatically on an exquisite buttock, at last able to touch and fondle as it wished: without interruption or repercussion. The other traveled up to caress the side of her face as he plundered her mouth. His patience and delicacy were gone, but not his finesse—it was a hard, unrelenting kiss, but he also knew it was a good one and that she was enjoying herself.

His fingers slid into her hair, and he stroked the glossy strands down her back, grasping the bow of her loose ponytail.

“Not,” she broke the kiss, “...not unless you take yours out, too.”

He was surprised by the request. “But my Order...” Miroku stopped, considering.

There was nothing going on in this room his Order would approve of (well, maybe the prayer incense burning in the corner). What difference would this make? It was a demand no woman had ever made of him, but it was easily indulged. Reaching up behind him, he unbound his hair. He spared a moment to let a wide-eyed Sango thread her fingers through his locks, but it was impatiently. His restraint had been tested and tested over the past two weeks, and had finally snapped when she’d breathily asked him to give her an orgasm.

He pulled at the belt of her yukata and watched as the fabric swung open, parting like a curtain. Sango shivered involuntarily, but didn’t stop him as he pushed the garment off her shoulders and to the floor.

Usually her formfitting slayer’s suit lay beneath, but not this time. Delicate, proud shoulders were thrown back stiffly under his gaze. Her nervous toes curled in her sandals below beautifully bare legs. The line of her supple, pliant thighs accented at her hips and tapered at her waist. Her hard stomach drew his hand, and the soft tangle of curls concealing her femininity his eyes. The only covering that remained was her breast bindings.

Miroku could feel her taut belly tremble beneath his palm as he moved his hand up to grasp the knot of the bindings. He wanted to rip the strips of cloth from her skin, but she was so skittish and he didn’t want to scare her off. As it was, her lips were trembling apprehensively—so he kissed them. He teased and nibbled her lower lip, then pulled her tongue into his mouth. He used every trick in his repertoire to keep her mind off what he was doing with his stealthy hands. He may have succeeded a bit too thoroughly, for when the kiss ended and her eyes floated open she was clearly taken aback to see the fabric of her binding bundled in his hand, and dropped to the floor.

She wasn’t the only one shaken. To his mild surprise, the sight of her naked breasts affected him more than he would have thought possible. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen or touched them before. He’d even had them in his mouth. But this…

Perhaps it was that Sango had come to him this time, not the other way around. His misdirections, his coaxings and his cons, they were all fake. His charm was fake. But it had won him something real. With her exposed breasts, Sango’s tangibility shot down his throat, making it painful to breathe, and shocked through his engorged cock. If he didn’t get himself inside her soon, he was going to explode.

Panting heavily now, he reached for the stays of his own garments. He refused to take her clothed like some simpering nobleman. His fingers moved over the knots deftly, but he paused when a second set of hands joined his.

Miroku looked up at Sango, not quite able to keep his smugness at her impatience out of his grin. He saw her gaze harden in reaction and her hands began to pull back, but he caught them in his and placed them back here they were.

“If you wish to undress me, Sango, I will not struggle.”

Her eyes narrowed at the challenge in his tone and she took the bait, pulling the robes from his body as swiftly as her inexperienced and trembling hands could manage.

When he stood before her nude, she stopped abruptly, as though it were just occurring to her what removing his clothes would mean. He watched her face as her eyes moved down his body in rapt fascination. His chest and arms drew their share of attention, and his swollen length made her cheeks glow. Still, he waited to pull her to him. Miroku didn’t think he’d be able to recover if she ran scared now. He would just have to grit his teeth and abide.

Then, unexpectedly, she stepped forward and touched him experimentally. Her cold fingers trailed his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles and sensitive nipples. He drew in a strained breath, closing his eyes against the desire he saw darkening her eyes. She leaned closer and he felt the tip of his distended cock brush her delicate bellybutton, the slight touch bringing generous drops of pre-come. Miroku shuddered bodily and growled low in his throat.

In one unannounced movement, he scooped Sango into his arms and carried her to his palette in the corner. She gasped against his shoulder and clung to him until he lowered her onto the soft blankets, and himself beside her. He took her mouth in a demanding kiss, expressing the urgency and intensity of his lust. She seemed to respond to that, her thighs falling open and her hips moving in shameless invitation.

He slid his hand down her body to caress her aching core. Using a technique he’d discovered and perfected as a result of their never-ending wear, he dragged the rosary that crossed his palm against her swollen clitoris. Sango made a harsh carnal sound in his mouth, but he wouldn’t let her pull away from the kiss. The glassy-wet texture of the beads fondled her nub deliciously, soaking his skin and the cloth beneath the string in her wanton juices. She humped his hand in abandon as he carefully moved his body between her legs. The arm he was using to prop himself up trembled at the thought that he was finally going to take her—his Sango. However, there was one last disclaimer he had to offer her.

He forced himself to pull back from the kiss. “Sango,” he panted, “you do know that it hurts for most girls the first time, don’t you?”

She looked up at him with swollen, wet lips and heavy-lidded eyes, nodding.

Miroku stared into those eyes for a long moment before proceeding. The acceptance, the trust there solidified the magnitude of the moment. Reverently, he parted the folds of her sweet, scorching center. He eased his near-bursting length to her entrance and began to push.

Full bodily, he shuddered atop her. Sweet Buddha, was every girl this hot inside? This slick with fevered cream? Surely not—he would’ve remembered. He pressed in slowly, feeding her inch after inch, until he was sheathed fully to the hilt. He heard her make a soft, breathy “ohh” sound in his ear and his fist clenched the blanket. Her barrier had been nearly nonexistent, but still, he had to ask if she was in pain. He swallowed and opened his mouth, but words failed him as her impatient hips bucked up against his.

Clenching his teeth, he grunted and thrust back. The rhythm of sex seemed to come naturally to her as she rose to meet him beat for beat. All thoughts of being gentle with her because she was a virgin went out of his head as he crashed into her clenching tunnel harder with every stoke. She bit her lower lip and her nails raked his back roughly but absently. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. Her eyes were closed and wet with tears of pleasure, her cheeks flushed red with lust and exertion. He could feel her climbing higher and higher with him, whimpering noises rising from deep in her throat.

Suddenly, her nails dug into his shoulders and her mouth parted in an “O” of surprise. “H-houshi-sama,” she moaned throatily, her eyelids twitching in ecstasy. Her searing core clenching and wringing him dry.

It was too much. He buried his face in her neck and let himself explode, filling her with his seed. Claiming her as his.

He could feel every pump of blood his heartbeat spurred in the aftermath. He never wanted to move, never wanted to pull out of her. But he could feel himself growing drowsy and he didn’t want to pin her in his sleep. Summoning the energy to roll to the side, he groaned onto his back. He was pleasantly surprised when she followed, resting her head on his chest.

“Sango...”

“Don’t,” she cut him off, her voice soft, drained. “Please don’t ruin this with your pretty lies.”

Miroku stiffened.

Sango didn’t seem to notice as she yawned and settled in to sleep. In only moments her breathing was steady, but he was wide awake now.

He had dreamed of taking Sango for so long, but it was the dread of this moment that had held him back. He had thought that lying next to her in the post-coital tangle of sheets would be nothing short of smothering. Instead he’d felt weak with relief, with joy, with anticipation for the next time—for the future. In the wake of her words, he felt her slide away and out of his reach.

Where...where the hell were the shackles?—the cause and effect shackles of commitment that had always been the backhanded promise of Sango’s embrace?

He’d thought foolishly that Sango’s coming to him, giving herself to him meant that she saw him as something more than himself. Always he’d seen an idealized version of himself in the reflection of her eyes. But that was a fanciful delusion on his part. Sango saw him with perfect clarity: not the man he wanted to be, but the man he was. And she’d just proved it. It was one thing to point out his decadence in daily life, it was another after making love. Clearly the barriers were very much still between them. Even when he was inside her he was “houshi-sama”.

It meant that she loved him, but that she was tired, resigned. That she had gone and done the one thing he thought she would never do: accept him as he was. The thought churned his gut utterly, and he knew that something inside of him was breaking.