All "InuYasha" characters belong to Rumiko Takahashi and associated copyright holders. No money is being made from this fan fiction. No infringement is intended. Nor do I make any claims to David Gilmour's work - I could never be so talented.
Some of them standing, some are waiting in line
As if there was something that they thought they might find
Taking some strength from the feelings that always were shared
And in the background, the eyes that just stared
What was it brought you out here in the dark?
Was it your only way of making your mark?
Did you get rid of all the voices in your head?
Do you now miss them and the things that they said?
On your own admission, you raised up the knife
And you brought it down, ending another mans life
When it was done, you just threw down the blade
While the red blood spread wider, like the anger you made
I don't want this anger burning in me
It's something from which it's so hard to be free
But none of tears that we cry, in sorrow or rage
Can make any difference, or turn back the page
- David Gilmour, "Murder" 1984
"Did you get rid of all the voices in your head?" she smirked over one bare shoulder at the long demon flat on his back and knowing what she was doing, rolled her eyes at the salty sheen of drying sweat on his pale bare skin.
Red eyes sliced over to her defiant show of mock pity, knowing the game and still helpless to stop the fire that rose in his heart. Damn the mouthy bitch…! He licked very dry lips and scratched his panting chest. She'd been going through his vinyl again.
"Do you now miss them and the things that they said?" she tritely lobbed back at him while she leaned off the rumpled bed to reach for her blouse and the remains of her soul. Lifting it to the watery morning light that spilled through the dusty glass, the priestess sighed in irritation as she noted the conspicuous absence of at least 5 of the 6 buttons. She'd just sewed them back on last week! Sex-knotted hair formed a fuzzy halo around her face, and pushing the strands into some kind of order about her tired head, Kagome stood up, and gingerly stretched her sore arms into her manhandled shirt. He'd held her arms hard behind her again and damn if that didn't make her so SORE in the morning after. Knowing she was pushing the dark being behind her to rage with her taunting and her false indifference, the long-legged girl stepped lightly over the varied piles of clothes and sheets to look down on the world from the dust-cloudy lens of the high window.
It was trying to rain, again. She remembered where she'd heard those taunting words and the liquid voice that gave them to her, just like a dull steely rain. Her thighs hurt where the welts were the newest, even as thinking about their origin made her cheeks flame in embarrassment and desire. Lifting a finger to the dusty pane, the naked but clothed girl traced a strange face in the grime and shivered at herself in disgust and need.
Again.
Again.
Springs protested in their rusty voices at the weight that shifted and lifted from behind her somewhere. Kagome shook the long black sleeve of her treasured but stolen shirt when it threatened to smear her cloudy doodle and knew Naraku loved to see her in his clothes, even better if she couldn't hide behind the safety of buttons. She knew he liked her bare and defenseless and gods help her, she loved it too. Closing her eyes in resignation, she barely twitched when she felt a hot clawed hand slip around her hip to find her shamefully hot and wet. Kagome leaned back into the warm yet clammy body that pushed her into the window sill before her and knew she was lost.
"What was it brought you out here in the dark?" her lover's slick rasp whispered behind her with a vicious sarcasm she could never even hope to emulate. "Was it your only way of making your mark?" he drawled into her tangled locks.
Impossibly black hair slithered over her shoulders and under the collar of his nicked shirt, toying with the silky scar-mapped skin within. She felt her lover's lips resting against her ear as he rumbled hot breath against her with the illusion of gentle love and care, even as he forced her hard against the cold brutal wood of the window's ledge, capturing her fast between his violent desire and a long, hard fall from a sheer height.
The bitter irony of the idea of her death and her undoing being separated by nothing but an unseen, thin sliver of glass was not lost on Kagome and laughing at the bile she could taste in the back of her throat, smudged her drawing and pushed back hard against her tormenter.