Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha. All rights belong to Takahashi, Rumiko-sensei.
A/N: Some words, spilled ink, take them or leave them, not meant to tell a story…just things that hurt. 'Tis not AU, even if it seems that way, though.
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She never liked such places. Dimly-lit, mantled in anonymity, lethe disguised as sweetened liquor, and the taste of honey-scented tobacco on her tongue. He liked them even less than she did – and that was why she always called him here.
"Aren't you tired of stalking me?"
A murmur of despisal, husky and slightly mocking, satisfaction under the thickness of her lashes.
"If you don't wish for my company then you should stop calling me."
The barest stilling of lips, nothing hidden in his voice, as if he never cared at all. It was a fallacy, a shield of indifference, for he was too cold to say otherwise. Even if he wasn't – his actions betrayed he wasn't – she couldn't accept anything else from him. Perhaps she should, but she never would, they both knew that.
"You should stop answering."
She couldn't help but laugh, a cluster of complications and snares. Her laughter wasn't as it had been, lacked careless joy, yet it still carried life, held traces of woman in it.
"Take me home."
It was never what she meant, never what he heard. Take me, her eyes whispered, her body tempted. Home was a relative term, one that no longer existed for either of them. He took her, allowed her to take him, as he always did when she felt like it.
Heat, memories of past, and promises of now – the only things that remained, still burned with wet flames. Forest wine and wildness, from his tongue, his lips, she sipped. Slowly, insidiously, he sank inside her, filled her with lies of affection, remnants of long-forgotten pleasure – warm, perspiring. So long as his hair was silver and his eyes gold, so would her thighs part, her breasts ache, her essence spill for him. When it was over, when he had sated her hollow lust, only then would she speak.
"Why...why do you come?"
"You call."
The same question she always asked as she smoked his scent away. His answer, too, was the same as ever, as he let her erase all proof of his touch. Embers of what once was, a cycle of ache and overlaid sensation. It was rather simple, a manifestation of deep-rooted want, old-festered desire. They both liked it as much as they hated it – this semblance of love, a mere imitation of dead lovers.
"I should stop doing that."
A chuckle, donned in mists of smoke, and a slice of reddened lips.
You won't.
Words unspoken, yet skin-felt, and a peal of golden silence.