DISCLAIMER: Inuyasha and all its characters are created by Rumiko Takahashi. I merely occasionally borrow them for my own twisted purposes.

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You do not love me. I know this.

You do not even like me. You call me mongrel, the half-breed bastard of your father's human whore. You despise me. My very existence is an insult. And yet...

What is it that brings you here, that makes you seek me out, again and again? Is your need to dominate me, to defeat me, so great that you must try to break me until you succeed? Fool. You have already won. You own me, body and soul, and you do not even know it. And I will do my damnedest, move Heaven and Earth, to keep it that way. If you knew, you would have no reason to return. Why fight the battle when you have won the war?

So I pretend. I fight you, tooth and claw. I snarl and struggle, deny and defy. I call down the foulest curses I can imagine upon your head. And I do not mean them, not one word. There is no heat behind them. All the hatred, the vitriol, is directed solely at myself, at how I degrade myself for the illusion of your attention.

We face each other, opposites, I a being of flesh and fire, you of carved moonlight and ice. Red and white, we clash, we tear at each other, I let you wear me down. Slowly, I give way before you. I let you win. It is all a game to me, a sham, a ruse, all a means to an end. All to get you to touch me.

And you do. You rend my garments, lay me bare before you, ready for your abuse. I continue to resist, continue this charade, make you believe I hate this. I do hate this. Every good lie has a grain of truth. I hate deceiving you. I hate being unable to bare my soul to you as well.

And then we are there, in the one honest moment. The moment when you take me, dry and unprepared, the moment when I cannot lie to myself that this has anything to do with love. You tear into me, uncaring, and in pain lies the truth. It is all so clear, how little you care for me, and in this truth is the whole of my pain.

Then the moment is past. Your journey through my passage eases, slicked with our juices, and you begin to pump into me in earnest. I am glad that you take me from behind, where you cannot see the maiden blush that blossoms on my cheeks, the relief and the growing pleasure. I hide the emotions I know you would reject. I maintain the facade, growling at you and goading you, never giving an inch, unable to resist trying to crack the mask of your disdain even as I fear what lies beneath.

You thrust into me, and I give myself up to the sensations running through me, shuddering and whimpering, letting you win this skirmish as I imagine that you do this for our mutual enjoyment. You strike that sweet spot within me, filling me and leaving me wanting. Your hot seed pours into me and I cry out, wordlessly shouting your name, ecstasy washing over me in waves, drowning me.

You do not hold me. You do not speak softly to me, call my name, caress my cheek. You do not speak at all. You leave me without a word, broken and sobbing in the dirt. I will not watch you go. I do not want to see the truth, to see the absence of all desire behind the dispassionate mask, the lack of all feeling except the need to dominate. If I do not watch you, I will not need to face it. The truth can remain unacknowledged.

Until next time, my brother. Until you come for me once more, and we do it all again. Until then.

You do not love me. I know this.

But for a moment, I can pretend.