Disclaimer: I don't own InuYasha. All rights belong to Takahashi Rumiko.
A/N: Originally one-shot, made multi-chaptered as a belated gift for BelovedStranger. :)
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He is the voice behind that dream, drifting above and beyond, flowing and swelling, his name stitched on the walls of her throat. Always. Tonight. She twists and bends and shivers, fingers buried in that cleft between her thighs, the place that throbs and seethes for him, for the heat of his skin. Wild, untamed motions, she fools herself, imagines things that can never be—wet, and wetter, she comes close, tight muscles and restriction around her fingers. Screaming and thrashing and aching, she falls apart, unsatisfied. It is never enough, can never be the same. He is not there. Her fingers are not his. Everything is solely hers—the perspiration, the moans, the slickness and spasms inside. He is miles and miles away—from her touch, the strokes of her flesh, the grip of her body.
She cannot tell when it begins, when it will end—she can only feel. Perhaps it is the first time she lays eyes on him, perhaps the second, or even the last. It makes no difference. He will always be as he is. He can never change.
He is as cold as he is hot—death melted into gold, the quiet side of animal instincts, the nadir and zenith of heat. There is no middle, no halves, no limits with him. It’s all or nothing—but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters. She burns, she wants, she needs—
Take me…please.
Her body speaks for her, through the blue of her eyes, eclipsed, merged with her pupils. Cimmerian. Lust-fire.
His eyes slash though her, see the naked urge staring at him, a mosaic of desperation and lust and obsession—and answer for him. One word, full of poison, slathered on her lips, slow-spread toxicity…not meant to kill but sear, wound, and scar the fleshly parts of her soul.
Pathetic.