There is nothing so detrimental to one’s self control as Spring.

Every year it was like watching a butterfly emerge from it’s cocoon to spread its colourful wings, as she shed the layers of quilted Winter kimono for the bright yukata that so became her and flitted about the fresh young flowers, sunlight turning her pale limbs luminous, perspiration gleaming on the curve of her neck, her scent dancing constantly on the wind and under his nose like a blatant proposition.

But she was not at fault. That was his own, and he would not remand her for his own shortcomings. No, the failing lay with him alone, and he would determine, every year,  to swallow his stirrings, rein in his mutinous desires, and summon forth the control that made up so much of his formidable strength.

And yet there he would find himself, shadowing her movements physically or mentally, drawn to her like a moth to a flame . . . Hypnotised by her bright eyes, fascinated by the perfection in her imperfection. She is fragile, she is weak, tenuous as a young doe; She is a prey animal, and he can silently admit, sometimes he does look at her through a hunter’s eyes, but it is not bone and blood and meat he craves. His is an altogether different hunger, and one that goes un-sated. And it will remain so, he is determined. He is not some mindless, rabid animal.

His beast in the deep has never broken the surface, but there are times when Sesshomaru feels it near.

He will not allow it. He will not allow it anywhere near her. Over the years he has shielded and saved her from monsters of every shape and form, and this is but one more whose claws he will preserve her from. It likes to watch her though, and there are times when the sight of her seems to soothe rather than rouse it, so he is willing to permit this voyeurism for the sake of blessed peace. Then however come the occasions when the effect produced is all the contrary, and he feels it in his bones, underneath his skin, like stealthy paws and pooling heat, and it crawls up his sternum and it slithers down his spine, and he is silent and burning and she has no idea.

He will never say.

---

There is nothing so dangerous as a Summertime’s eve.

The external heat is often as unbearable as the heat stewing inside his bones. Days are bright, hot, and languid. Nights are dark, oppressive, and restless. She will lay herself down, and he will watch her stir, and squirm, and stretch, her countenance strained as she dreams, her limbs spread wide, the moonshine pooling in the hollow of her clavicle drawing his eyes to her skin . . . Rin loses more sleep in this season than any other.

When she wakes in the early hours she is usually drenched in her own perspiration, her yukata clinging to her skin, and as she picks herself up and approaches him the scent of her is so strong Sesshomaru is tempted to simply rip away her clothing and lick her clean, if it would spare him his sanity.  But he wouldn’t dare.

When she cannot sleep and he is unwilling to remove himself from the campsite for fear of any stray Mononoke stumbling across her and her soft, sweet skin, he will lead her away from their companions and let her follow in his footsteps as he wanders the moonlit forest.

There is something about it, something about these long, dreamtime hours spent walking under the night’s velvet mantle; something so peaceable, so cathartic, so . . . Intimate in a manner all its own. In the daytime hours, he will rarely slow his step - if she cannot keep up, she will duly climb abreast Ah-Un. But in the darkness, he will wait, will guide, will even go so far as to offer a clawed hand to assist her around errant boulders or skeletal tree-roots.

 [tbc]

 -----

And there is nothing so absolute as a winter’s night.

There is no room to manoeuvre, no space to hesitate; it is so cold and she is so fragile and he is so full of everlasting heat. A cave can only give so much shelter; a carefully erected wall of clawed rock can only offer so much insulation; a reptilian dragon and imp can only provide so much by way of physical comfort.

He cannot sleep.

He will not sleep.

She is so tenuous, regardless of the unyielding hold her fingers clasp in his clothing. He refuses to close his eyes, refuses to look elsewhere for even a moment, so achingly aware of how easily lost a human life is . . . It is for that reason, he tells himself, so half-heartedly these days, that she is clasped fast against him in the darkness, cradled tight in his arms and legs, wrapped in silk and hair and heated skin as he opens not only his arms but his haori to her as the bone-chilling cold seeps further into the cave as the night crawls past, so mockingly slow . . .

[tbc]

------