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Description
My one and only InuYasha oc, Youko of the Inu youkai clan of the Eastern Lands. Youko's father was a daimyo who served under Sesshoumaru and InuYasha's father, the Inu no Taishou of the Western Lands. She owns two spearlike Sengoku-Era Japanese weapons, one which cuts and one which heals (but with nowhere near Tenseiga's healing strength). She can reflect back the emotions of any individual whom she physically touches--just an odd demonic power quirk of hers, which of course deeply incenses the ever-stoic and "impassive" Sesshoumaru. Youko has a little sister, Hoshiko, the oc of .

If you're really interested in her backstory, feel free to ask. I am probably going to write a fanfic or something about her. She's my token "oc youkai chick who marries Sesshoumaru after the manga ends" character So many of them exist, lmfao. Because it disgusts me to marry him off to his ward/daughter, Rin (personal preferences, don't knock em, because we all know they left that plot open to interpretation at the end of the manga), and Kagura, with whom I personally see him best suited, lol dies. SO. lol.

Rumiko Takahashi owns the InuYasha world, and I own Youko. Please do not use or redistribute without permission (like anyone would, but lol).

and without further adieu, a little "preview" for that doujinishi/fanfic that MIGHT occur:

Standing at the top of the chasm with a cool poise that surpassed any natural mortal confidence, was what appeared to be a man no older than twenty, an age contradicted by his waterfall of thick, sleek white-silver hair.
It was the same man she had run into at the river.
He was clad in fine garments of white and royal purple with a honeycomb crest on his sleeves, crude but maliciously sharp shoulder guards, hefty black leather torso pads, and elegantly small, pointed black shoes that looked like they had been crafted in the Chinese Mainland rather than Japan. Clearly the man was some kind of aristocrat, or took great pains to appear effortlessly as one. Youko could not suppress a snort at the haughtiness exuding like miasma waves from his appearance and stance…but then she took a look at the man inside the clothing.
Even from a distance his beauty, at once fragile and firm, childlike and mature, was…agonizing. He had a majesty one might expect from a vision just before obtaining nirvana, and so it was almost as if there was a danger to his beauty.
He was tall, the sinews of his muscles both compact and gracefully fluid. They were carved into his skin as though from alabaster. His pale face was without blemish and without blush. His nose was small, his lips full and pouting, his cheekbones, each decorated in twin magenta slash marks, high and perfectly symmetrical. They framed eyes of the most smoldering topaz hue, like bits of amber molten into honey, lidded in a feral bloody red. Above those unblinking and restless eyes, the young man’s forehead sported a Prussian blue crescent moon. Glistening fair bangs tumbled in an oddly disarming, youthful fashion over that moon. A half crescent turned to the right…this was the mark of the man’s mother—a mark any respectable youkai noble would recognize. This was no human, but the firstborn son and de factor heir of the Inu no daiyoukai of the West. One of only two descendents of the Inu no Taishou, and the younger, if the rumors were to be trusted, was a hanyou and a bit of a hot-blooded, mortal-chasing disgrace.
The eldest Inu Clan heir’s exquisite face was arrogantly composed. Youko got the distinct impression that his detached visage veiled the potential to be both tender and cruel, and granted neither extreme, but instead only the stoic façade, to a bothersome and tedious stranger.
And he was staring fiercely at her.
So Youko did the only thing sensible under the circumstances.
She turned her back on him and walked away.
An incredulous noise, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, erupted behind her. There came the sound of lightning striking a hard surface and simultaneously a gust of wind, and the man was right behind her, bearing down on her without actually touching her. She would have struck at him if he had.
He looked like he was either pouting or contemplating her death. Or both.
Ah, excellent. She had pinched a nerve. Perhaps he’d challenge her again, then…
When she was a child, Youko’s parents used to repeatedly scold her for being what they called “quixotic.”
Oh, bah.
“You do not remember me?” The man seemed personally affronted when he rumbled this, drawing himself up to his full towering height.
A long, rich cream fur that was perched across his shoulder and that reminded her of some kind of canine mane or tail plumed almost comically when she hesitated to reply. The men of the Inu Clan wore these furs, called mokomoko, in human form as symbols of their status—and reminders, as they were detachable parts of their true forms, of their actual enormous stature….that of a hardy but graceful white dog, which, Youko well remembered from her earlier encounter with this man, was indeed titanic. Youko’s clan, too, wore their mokomoko on their human bodies; hers were smaller yellow twin furs woven into each side of her hair.
The man grunted at her again, a sound rather like “hmmmph,” and she realized she had been gawking at his beautiful yet amusing shoulder fur for quite a stretch.
“Oh, gomenasai,” she chuckled smokily. “I was just admiring your mokomoko. It’s rather…voluminous.”
Flattery didn’t seem to permeate the interloper’s frosty shell. “I said,” he reiterated tersely, “do you really not remember who I am?”
“That would bother someone like you, wouldn’t it?” she crooned.
His mokomoko bristled twice its original size at this.
Youko trumpeted a laugh. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t really become the enigmatic strength of a samurai if his fur is so grumpy that it gives away his slip in composure…”
The man’s eyebrows quirked. Was he, too, amused? “You would doubly insult this Sesshomaru by forgetting him and deriding his appearance?”
Apparently not.
“Of course I know you.” Serenity pervaded her words and seemed to cause him yet more consternation. “I saved your life.”
“…Hai,” the man, Sesshomaru, replied, his tongue seeming to curl cautiously around the single word of confirmation. “Hai.”
“I still bear the scar from shoving you out of the way of—”
“Do not attempt to derive sympathy from the likes of me. You will find yourself deeply frustrated.”
Even to Youko’s realistic and grounded ears, the statement felt forced, cavalier. “Then why did it matter so much to you to ask?”
He stepped back from her. “…Father is dead now.” The shift in subject was slightly bizarre.
“I am aware,” Youko nevertheless steadily replied. “And so are both of my parents. My younger sister Hoshiko and I travel alone now.”
Sesshomaru’s face, for a fraction of an instant, contracted as though in a pang of sorrow. But the expression was so evanescent that Youko might have imagined it. And then he said, “I regret to learn this. Your father the Inu no daimyo of the East and his wife were faithful allies of my own father.”
“Be not sorry,” she murmured, with a faintly sad, yet tranquil, smile. “Your kin was no cause of their death. Rather, the Panther Demon Tribe that threatened to invade our lands, and sought revenge after my family and clan sided with your father in his first battle against them…as you well know, Sesshomaru-sama. Then, you must remember my name as well.” She spoke this last statement with confidence.
Sesshomaru’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“What is my name?”
“You are Youko.” He stepped toward her again.
“Youko-sama.”
His eyebrows knit, and again he retreated a pace. “You are Youko-sama.”
“Arigato. You are more fidgety than I recollect.”
“I am n—“
“YO, SESSHOMARU.” A third voice, male, youthful and grating, punctuated Sesshomaru’s would-be retort. The inu daiyoukai’s entire face froze in a mask of grudging, longsuffering patience.
Ah. The hanyou brother. “That must be…” Youko began.
“His name is Inuyasha,” Sesshomaru said, as if to remark, “I hate rain,” or “the garbage stinks.” His fur was poofing up again and his nostrils curled slightly.
Youko covered her mouth to hide a smirk. “Oh my,” was all she could muster.

Description
My one and only InuYasha oc, Youko of the Inu youkai clan of the Eastern Lands. Youko's father was a daimyo who served under Sesshoumaru and InuYasha's father, the Inu no Taishou of the Western Lands. She owns two spearlike Sengoku-Era Japanese weapons, one which cuts and one which heals (but with nowhere near Tenseiga's healing strength). She can reflect back the emotions of any individual whom she physically touches--just an odd demonic power quirk of hers, which of course deeply incenses the ever-stoic and "impassive" Sesshoumaru. Youko has a little sister, Hoshiko, the oc of .

If you're really interested in her backstory, feel free to ask. I am probably going to write a fanfic or something about her. She's my token "oc youkai chick who marries Sesshoumaru after the manga ends" character So many of them exist, lmfao. Because it disgusts me to marry him off to his ward/daughter, Rin (personal preferences, don't knock em, because we all know they left that plot open to interpretation at the end of the manga), and Kagura, with whom I personally see him best suited, lol dies. SO. lol.

Rumiko Takahashi owns the InuYasha world, and I own Youko. Please do not use or redistribute without permission (like anyone would, but lol).

and without further adieu, a little "preview" for that doujinishi/fanfic that MIGHT occur:

Standing at the top of the chasm with a cool poise that surpassed any natural mortal confidence, was what appeared to be a man no older than twenty, an age contradicted by his waterfall of thick, sleek white-silver hair.
It was the same man she had run into at the river.
He was clad in fine garments of white and royal purple with a honeycomb crest on his sleeves, crude but maliciously sharp shoulder guards, hefty black leather torso pads, and elegantly small, pointed black shoes that looked like they had been crafted in the Chinese Mainland rather than Japan. Clearly the man was some kind of aristocrat, or took great pains to appear effortlessly as one. Youko could not suppress a snort at the haughtiness exuding like miasma waves from his appearance and stance…but then she took a look at the man inside the clothing.
Even from a distance his beauty, at once fragile and firm, childlike and mature, was…agonizing. He had a majesty one might expect from a vision just before obtaining nirvana, and so it was almost as if there was a danger to his beauty.
He was tall, the sinews of his muscles both compact and gracefully fluid. They were carved into his skin as though from alabaster. His pale face was without blemish and without blush. His nose was small, his lips full and pouting, his cheekbones, each decorated in twin magenta slash marks, high and perfectly symmetrical. They framed eyes of the most smoldering topaz hue, like bits of amber molten into honey, lidded in a feral bloody red. Above those unblinking and restless eyes, the young man’s forehead sported a Prussian blue crescent moon. Glistening fair bangs tumbled in an oddly disarming, youthful fashion over that moon. A half crescent turned to the right…this was the mark of the man’s mother—a mark any respectable youkai noble would recognize. This was no human, but the firstborn son and de factor heir of the Inu no daiyoukai of the West. One of only two descendents of the Inu no Taishou, and the younger, if the rumors were to be trusted, was a hanyou and a bit of a hot-blooded, mortal-chasing disgrace.
The eldest Inu Clan heir’s exquisite face was arrogantly composed. Youko got the distinct impression that his detached visage veiled the potential to be both tender and cruel, and granted neither extreme, but instead only the stoic façade, to a bothersome and tedious stranger.
And he was staring fiercely at her.
So Youko did the only thing sensible under the circumstances.
She turned her back on him and walked away.
An incredulous noise, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, erupted behind her. There came the sound of lightning striking a hard surface and simultaneously a gust of wind, and the man was right behind her, bearing down on her without actually touching her. She would have struck at him if he had.
He looked like he was either pouting or contemplating her death. Or both.
Ah, excellent. She had pinched a nerve. Perhaps he’d challenge her again, then…
When she was a child, Youko’s parents used to repeatedly scold her for being what they called “quixotic.”
Oh, bah.
“You do not remember me?” The man seemed personally affronted when he rumbled this, drawing himself up to his full towering height.
A long, rich cream fur that was perched across his shoulder and that reminded her of some kind of canine mane or tail plumed almost comically when she hesitated to reply. The men of the Inu Clan wore these furs, called mokomoko, in human form as symbols of their status—and reminders, as they were detachable parts of their true forms, of their actual enormous stature….that of a hardy but graceful white dog, which, Youko well remembered from her earlier encounter with this man, was indeed titanic. Youko’s clan, too, wore their mokomoko on their human bodies; hers were smaller yellow twin furs woven into each side of her hair.
The man grunted at her again, a sound rather like “hmmmph,” and she realized she had been gawking at his beautiful yet amusing shoulder fur for quite a stretch.
“Oh, gomenasai,” she chuckled smokily. “I was just admiring your mokomoko. It’s rather…voluminous.”
Flattery didn’t seem to permeate the interloper’s frosty shell. “I said,” he reiterated tersely, “do you really not remember who I am?”
“That would bother someone like you, wouldn’t it?” she crooned.
His mokomoko bristled twice its original size at this.
Youko trumpeted a laugh. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t really become the enigmatic strength of a samurai if his fur is so grumpy that it gives away his slip in composure…”
The man’s eyebrows quirked. Was he, too, amused? “You would doubly insult this Sesshomaru by forgetting him and deriding his appearance?”
Apparently not.
“Of course I know you.” Serenity pervaded her words and seemed to cause him yet more consternation. “I saved your life.”
“…Hai,” the man, Sesshomaru, replied, his tongue seeming to curl cautiously around the single word of confirmation. “Hai.”
“I still bear the scar from shoving you out of the way of—”
“Do not attempt to derive sympathy from the likes of me. You will find yourself deeply frustrated.”
Even to Youko’s realistic and grounded ears, the statement felt forced, cavalier. “Then why did it matter so much to you to ask?”
He stepped back from her. “…Father is dead now.” The shift in subject was slightly bizarre.
“I am aware,” Youko nevertheless steadily replied. “And so are both of my parents. My younger sister Hoshiko and I travel alone now.”
Sesshomaru’s face, for a fraction of an instant, contracted as though in a pang of sorrow. But the expression was so evanescent that Youko might have imagined it. And then he said, “I regret to learn this. Your father the Inu no daimyo of the East and his wife were faithful allies of my own father.”
“Be not sorry,” she murmured, with a faintly sad, yet tranquil, smile. “Your kin was no cause of their death. Rather, the Panther Demon Tribe that threatened to invade our lands, and sought revenge after my family and clan sided with your father in his first battle against them…as you well know, Sesshomaru-sama. Then, you must remember my name as well.” She spoke this last statement with confidence.
Sesshomaru’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“What is my name?”
“You are Youko.” He stepped toward her again.
“Youko-sama.”
His eyebrows knit, and again he retreated a pace. “You are Youko-sama.”
“Arigato. You are more fidgety than I recollect.”
“I am n—“
“YO, SESSHOMARU.” A third voice, male, youthful and grating, punctuated Sesshomaru’s would-be retort. The inu daiyoukai’s entire face froze in a mask of grudging, longsuffering patience.
Ah. The hanyou brother. “That must be…” Youko began.
“His name is Inuyasha,” Sesshomaru said, as if to remark, “I hate rain,” or “the garbage stinks.” His fur was poofing up again and his nostrils curled slightly.
Youko covered her mouth to hide a smirk. “Oh my,” was all she could muster.