He knew that he should let her sleep; that he should leave her alone. He knew that if he were to touch her, to taste her, she might awaken, and that would put an end to all his fun.
He knew that he should be content to watch her from a distance, to listen to the soft sounds of her breath as she slumbered. And that, in the morning, he would have the opportunity to be near her, to touch her, to taste her.
He knew all of this, and yet, he still couldn’t help himself. He knew all of this, and yet...
He just couldn’t deny himself the joys of her flesh.
The way that her skin felt under his claws; the way that her scent called to him, so pure and cloying.
The way that she tasted: like the sweetest nectar of the gods, brought down to earth for his own personal pleasure.
More. He needed more. He couldn’t get enough of her.
He knew that, should he try to taste her, he’d get slapped. He knew that, should he try to fill his body full of her, he would be smashed and beaten. But it was worth it.
Had there ever been a wine as luxurious?
Had there ever been a meat so delectable?
No; there never had been. Not like this.
Not like her .
He dreamed of gorging himself on her flesh; of drinking of her until he was fat and full of her life blood, all brimming inside him.
And now, he sat nearby, always watching, always listening, always waiting. The day that he had saved her life—the day he saved all of their lives—he had been equal parts devastated that he might lose her and elated that he got to drink himself beyond full of her. And while the poison had tainted her, while the poison had threatened to end her life, he could still taste it: her sweetness, and her delicateness.
It was always there: calling him, making him long to guzzle it down, to consume her, over and over, until he was fat and lazy and drunk with satisfaction.
Then he would digest it, and the cravings would begin all over again, until he could taste her once more: until he could eat his fill.
The slaps and the lectures were worth it. The pinches, the yelling, the tossing aside of his body.
All worth it so he could drink of her again, and again.
And so tonight, he would watch, and wait, until his opportunity arose to taste her once more. Because he loved it.
Blood. Kagome’s blood.
Myoga loved Kagome’s blood.