Disclaimer: Mmph. Look at the disclaimer of another Inuyasha fanfic.
They're obviously cloning the disclaimers, and since I'm too lazy, look at
theirs. It's what I would say if I enjoy wasting my time, typing pointless
legal stuff. Plus, I'm poor, so don't sue. The government is my friend. I
swear.
Chapter II: Letters Without Replies
There's a man at the bus stop. For every morning, at exactly 9:00, he waits there, and hours pass by. Then he leaves. It's like he's waiting for someone, someone who never came. I begin to approach him; his figure becoming larger and more menacing as I come closer. Then, I stop in the middle of the road. No, I'm not the someone he's waiting for. I thought this as the sun fell across the line of the horizon. It's like some damn scene from a love story.
It was the afternoon after the incident yesterday. Unconsciously, I rubbed my bruised wrists which was left by Inuyasha. I doubt he knew the dodgy strength he possessed; a man like him knew only of passion and impulses, actions lead by the first thoughts, by what moves him. Retreating, I walk to the familiar telephone pole, leaning against its crude sturdiness. I couldn't approach him today, nor tomorrow, maybe I won't be prepared until after eternity. I turn my head towards the bus stop once again, finding it empty, abandoned, maybe less destute without him. He's gone to whatever home that carries him.
I trailed across the street to the bus stop. Taking a seat, I could still sense the warmth that lingered on the wood. My fingers routinely searched underneath the bench for yet another letter. Finding a paper attached to the bottom, the fingers clumsily, hurriedly, freed it from its taped binds. I unfolded it in anticipation. The letter emitted the same unearthy smell. It was Inuyasha . . .
It began as it always did, with the date, as if a constant reminder how time stops for no one, not even the dead and their tragedies.
December 4, 2003
I sit and I wait, sitting and waiting as the cars speed by as if always in a hurry, the people are no different. I also write letters, letters to you. At times, I wonder if writing letters are enough to return you to me. Then, reality beats me down until I can see just black and blue. I could do nothing else but write letters that receive no replies. I have nothing else to occupy my life, but these letters. I shall be an old man, illness distorting me into a shadow of who I once was, and still writing letters to you, for I still shall love you. Then, death and age, hand and hand, will claim my life, like it did yours, and I shall perish with my letters.
And I shall die contently.
Is this just an obsession, or is truly love? Or maybe a chaos of both? The word "chaos" defines life at the bus stop. The riot outside stirs something within me, a longing, maybe to become part of it. Yet, I would never abandon you, or this bus stop, even for a moment. It takes but a moment for you to pass by, and I, in the process of blinking, will miss you.
I want to draw you in an embrace, to take in your wonderful, wonderful scent, and live in a state of ecstasy. I long for human contact, demonic contact, a touch, a taste, a look, a whisper, anything to inform me that I live in reality. Yet what good is reality when it is filled with misery? Today, I scarred myself for causing another pain. I delved underneath the surface of my skin and created a deep gorge. It stings, but the guilt pains me like no physical pain.
I ask forgiveness, but I'm unable to forgive myself. Kikyou, mate, pardon me for becoming a man you would have no respect for. Maybe then, I could find the will to release the guilt into the reality outside the bus stop, where it can hide amongst its kin.
Return to me.
Inuyasha
The letter ended with his name, Inuyasha. It seemed simple, yet intimate. Far more than the "Your Darling's" or the "Love's" in mundane, poorly crafted love letters. His were raw, honest, affectionately so, and filled with undying devotion for a woman whose denied him for another man. I stared at my bruised wrists. Was this the same man who wrote such letters?
Then, I came to realize that he was stricken by guilt and burden by it. He was sincerely sorry for what he's done to me, even if he hasn't spoken it with words. That drew a premature grin on my face, uncertain, but happy nonetheless. I was sober, for that I was sure, and I haven't taken any drinks. I was underage. However, I felt the weight of my sleepless nights making my eyelids lazy, and the scent of Inuyasha overcoming me with a sense of comfort. Slipping the letter in my backpack, I laid on the bench, though the rough surface of the bench was not a good bed, and felt the sleep drawing me in. Pitch-black. I was out cold.
***
"I'd break any rules or moral code just to be with you," Yuu Matsuura, from the graphic novel, Marmalade Boy, Vol. 8 by Wataru Yoshizumi, was Monday's phrase of the day in my Words for The Wise book. Somehow it isn't advice that would take me anywhere, stir something within me, or guide me through a path of righteousness. Yet, these things have a way of ironically smacking you in the face like a paradox with a mask.
Ticklish.
I felt warmth and moisture trailing down the path of my neck, lingering here and there as if it was in a search for something, but found a distraction in something else. It felt like an insatiable rush of the tides, drawing me in, but the menacing threat of it makes it a dark allure. I brought my hands to the roof of this head, fingers brushing through velvet silk material like a puppy's ears.
Growl. A deep rumbling came from the base of my throat.
I opened my eyes to find two amber orbs, a childish guilty look reflected in his eyes, under a haze of drugged seduction. They were familiar. Then, I realized it was Inuyasha sprawled intimately against my own body. Shocked, my impulses provoked me to scream, and that I did. It echoed through the streets, causing the birds to flee from the branches, and the children biking from the opposite street to stare. His ears were twitching, and an expression of agony marked his face.
"Bitch! Stop screaming. It's just me." Yet, I wouldn't stop my incessant screaming, not for anyone, and especially not for Inuyasha, my repeat offender for molestation. Then, he brought his hand to my mouth, closing off the noise. Still infuriated, I bit his hand on impulse, causing a string of foul language from the dog demon. His hand still remained on my mouth, but now he glared at me with a look that could bring crowds to silence.
"You bit me."
"No shit." I mumbled under his hand. It was then a scarlet blur collided with the side of Inuyasha's cheek, smearing against his skin like a stain on a white shirt. As the red slosh trailed down his shirt, I realized it was a tomato thrown ruthlessly at Inuyasha. I turned my head to look for whoever thrown it. I scanned through the crowds from left to right to find a middle-aged woman with her eyebrows drawn tight and a disapproving grin. In her hand was a bag of tomatoes which she took from her grocery bags.
"Monster! Get away from that innocent girl. You're just a raping, murderous freak. Get away!" Her screams echoed the streets, and hollow silence amongst the crowds were filled with her profanities. Inuyasha was still in a state of shock, barely moving, barely breathing. His eyes were now as hollow as the silence, a pool of drowned amber staring at the floor. Despite all the strength and aloofness he displayed, I knew he was hurt, beyond that, he actually believe the lies that bitch yelled. My nails were digging into my palm, hands into fists, as I stared at the woman in consuming rage. As I moved with my impulses, I jumped up from the bench, sharply, defiantly.
"How dare you?! How can you even compel yourself to throw that tomato at him? Who gave you the decision to decide whether someone who worthy to talk to another person? There is only one monster here, and it's you. Take your tomatoes, and go away. You have no right to even be in a 20-mile radius of him," I spat to her. She looked miffed, and with her nose held up high, took her tomatoes and left. I turned to Inuyasha to find his back facing me as he slouched sadly. I started to reach for him before he interrupted me with a voice I've never heard coming from his mouth.
"Don't. Bitch, that lady was probably right. I'm just a monster. A freak. I've been one all my life. Who was I to think I was anything else? And you're an innocent girl. I can smell it in your blood. It's virgin blood. It draws demons and hanyous. They can't deny themselves from defiling a virgin. It's like adrenaline to a demon. I will take you if you don't get the fuck away from me. It's not going to be candlelight and sweet words. Fucking is fast and deep and rough, especially when concerning a virgin." he growled menacing, every bit a demonic undertone. There was a roguish glint of his eye, indicating that he'd "enjoy" it, every sultry, heated moment of it. I shivered, partly out of fear and partly out of a sensation at the base of my abdomen.
That caused me to hesitate a few steps, backing up a few feet before striding to him with a determined air. I kneeled before him, taking out a handkerchief from my pocket and wiping away the tomato juice from his face. His eyes flashed briefly an emotion of surprise, and then as the tide ebbs away, it disappeared to God-knows-where. They were hard again, cold ambers in the shadow of carnality.
"I trust you. Despite who you think you are, you're not as bad as you think you are. So I trust you. I know you'll never doing something like that. You're not that kind of man. Plus, I may be a virgin, but I'm not attractive enough to be jumped on by some horny demon. Do you think I'm attractive, Mr. Person-I-Don't-Know-Your-Name?" He then looked at me as if I grown two heads and I asked him if he'd like to kiss one of them.
"You think you can just ignore reality with your happy-go-lucky humor? Wrong, bitch, the world is cold and cruel, and it always has a frown on its face." He turned his head to look at me with eyes hazed with this untouchable frost like glass-paned windows. There was no emotion contained in them. I extended my arm to his shoulder in some form of reassurance, anything to comfort the inner demon. Like a stitch of lightning, his fist grasped my paper-thin wrist with an iron-clad grip. I was sure that I was bruising underneath his hand; skin turning an ugly black-and-blue.
"Just stop it. Stop it. Stop offering yourself to me. You're a virginal tease. You don't know that you're offering yourself as a sacrifice to me. I'm trying my best to control my demon blood, but once I see red, I cannot guarantee you your chastity. Leave me. Leave, or be claimed." His warm breath hovered on the skin of my face, as he pushed his face an inch away from mine abruptly. Growls, his growls, passed with every well-drawn breath, and his canine fangs jutted out from his mouth. It added a feral look to him, the one of dominance and seduction like those pocketbook characters as sadistic slave owners with their female servants. Nonetheless, I spoke and received my consequences.
"I don't believe that. I can't believe that. You aren't that demon creature those stereotypes claim you are. You are a man of dignity and character. You are the man you are. I don't think you'll rape me like you say you will. I'll prove to you one day, and you'll believe me."
"Don't speak too lightly, little girl."
"So what? I'm a little girl now, and not a wench. Big improvement there, boss." Even before I spoke those words, his grip on my wrist moved to grab my other wrist in a bouquet of tiny, feminine hands above my head. Our position allowed him to bring his body closer to mine, touching intimately with his "bulge" brushing against my abdomen.
"What dignity? What character? For all I care, I just want to fuck you." Bringing his mouth down to mine, he roughly took what he wanted; rough tongues traveling and our hands entwined, groping the other hand in search for something that couldn't be found. He then drew blood from my lip with his canines, and the sting of the wound and saliva gave me this sensation between pain and ecstasy. His tongue lapped my cut, unable to find some satisfaction in the end.
He was addicted to my blood. It drove him wild, heady on my Kagome drug. I doubt he knew that, and if he did, Inuyasha would deny it; he doesn't like depending on another. His perspective thinks it makes him weak, so unlike a demon, more human than anything else. Like Anne Rice's Lestat character from An Interview with A Vampire, he took my blood, agonizingly cutting the wound in shallow punctures, drawing more blood each time.
It hurt physically, but I was more than numb at this point. I just drowned in this sea of blood and the vampire-esque Inuyasha and the thrill. The blood and his lips were doing something to me that a virginal tease like me (so I quote) wouldn't know of: arousal. Plain arousal of the mind, the senses, and the body. Inuyasha then, reluctantly more than anything else, backed away. His thumb brushed my swollen lip, tainting his finger with a drop of red blood.
He brought it to his lips and licked it off, as he kept my gaze with a satisfied, male-pride grin. He knows, probably smelt it with that damned nose of his.
Inuyasha could sense my arousal, and now he was grinning like a masochistic little boy that received a set of whip and chains for Christmas.
"Like I said, it's all about rutting and screwing you. I am addicted to your blood, your scent, your skin. I will not hesitate to claim you if you come near me again, and there won't be any love-making. I will get you out of my system if I have to. Anything to end these fantasies." Gathering his haori-rat red coat, he slipped it on and strolled away, muttering, leaving the wind to gather the hovering scent of arousal and sending it far from here.
His last whisper before I couldn't hear his mutterings anymore were, "I swear if I have to fantasize about her with those whips and chains, I will go crazy and rut with the next person I see. Could even be that damned Kouga. Fuck."
Fuck, indeed.
A/N: Well, how's that for a bout of writer's block. So those reading, I guess you've figured what kind of story this is. It's that faint line between Dark and Fluffy, Realistic and Fantasy. It's a fat ass freak show. I guess that's the kind of story I give birth to. Maybe it's because I'm a weird, Catholic schoolgirl who listens to Incubus and Postal Service while reading a novel and who is obviously not getting enough loving. Or haven't met a cute guy with nice biceps and sexy hair. Sexy, fuck-a-licious hair.
God damn, I'm starting to sound like one of the Fab Five from Queer Eye. You know, the gayest one of all . . . Howard Dean. Wait, is Howard Dean part of the Fab Five?
Chapter II: Letters Without Replies
There's a man at the bus stop. For every morning, at exactly 9:00, he waits there, and hours pass by. Then he leaves. It's like he's waiting for someone, someone who never came. I begin to approach him; his figure becoming larger and more menacing as I come closer. Then, I stop in the middle of the road. No, I'm not the someone he's waiting for. I thought this as the sun fell across the line of the horizon. It's like some damn scene from a love story.
It was the afternoon after the incident yesterday. Unconsciously, I rubbed my bruised wrists which was left by Inuyasha. I doubt he knew the dodgy strength he possessed; a man like him knew only of passion and impulses, actions lead by the first thoughts, by what moves him. Retreating, I walk to the familiar telephone pole, leaning against its crude sturdiness. I couldn't approach him today, nor tomorrow, maybe I won't be prepared until after eternity. I turn my head towards the bus stop once again, finding it empty, abandoned, maybe less destute without him. He's gone to whatever home that carries him.
I trailed across the street to the bus stop. Taking a seat, I could still sense the warmth that lingered on the wood. My fingers routinely searched underneath the bench for yet another letter. Finding a paper attached to the bottom, the fingers clumsily, hurriedly, freed it from its taped binds. I unfolded it in anticipation. The letter emitted the same unearthy smell. It was Inuyasha . . .
It began as it always did, with the date, as if a constant reminder how time stops for no one, not even the dead and their tragedies.
December 4, 2003
I sit and I wait, sitting and waiting as the cars speed by as if always in a hurry, the people are no different. I also write letters, letters to you. At times, I wonder if writing letters are enough to return you to me. Then, reality beats me down until I can see just black and blue. I could do nothing else but write letters that receive no replies. I have nothing else to occupy my life, but these letters. I shall be an old man, illness distorting me into a shadow of who I once was, and still writing letters to you, for I still shall love you. Then, death and age, hand and hand, will claim my life, like it did yours, and I shall perish with my letters.
And I shall die contently.
Is this just an obsession, or is truly love? Or maybe a chaos of both? The word "chaos" defines life at the bus stop. The riot outside stirs something within me, a longing, maybe to become part of it. Yet, I would never abandon you, or this bus stop, even for a moment. It takes but a moment for you to pass by, and I, in the process of blinking, will miss you.
I want to draw you in an embrace, to take in your wonderful, wonderful scent, and live in a state of ecstasy. I long for human contact, demonic contact, a touch, a taste, a look, a whisper, anything to inform me that I live in reality. Yet what good is reality when it is filled with misery? Today, I scarred myself for causing another pain. I delved underneath the surface of my skin and created a deep gorge. It stings, but the guilt pains me like no physical pain.
I ask forgiveness, but I'm unable to forgive myself. Kikyou, mate, pardon me for becoming a man you would have no respect for. Maybe then, I could find the will to release the guilt into the reality outside the bus stop, where it can hide amongst its kin.
Return to me.
Inuyasha
The letter ended with his name, Inuyasha. It seemed simple, yet intimate. Far more than the "Your Darling's" or the "Love's" in mundane, poorly crafted love letters. His were raw, honest, affectionately so, and filled with undying devotion for a woman whose denied him for another man. I stared at my bruised wrists. Was this the same man who wrote such letters?
Then, I came to realize that he was stricken by guilt and burden by it. He was sincerely sorry for what he's done to me, even if he hasn't spoken it with words. That drew a premature grin on my face, uncertain, but happy nonetheless. I was sober, for that I was sure, and I haven't taken any drinks. I was underage. However, I felt the weight of my sleepless nights making my eyelids lazy, and the scent of Inuyasha overcoming me with a sense of comfort. Slipping the letter in my backpack, I laid on the bench, though the rough surface of the bench was not a good bed, and felt the sleep drawing me in. Pitch-black. I was out cold.
***
"I'd break any rules or moral code just to be with you," Yuu Matsuura, from the graphic novel, Marmalade Boy, Vol. 8 by Wataru Yoshizumi, was Monday's phrase of the day in my Words for The Wise book. Somehow it isn't advice that would take me anywhere, stir something within me, or guide me through a path of righteousness. Yet, these things have a way of ironically smacking you in the face like a paradox with a mask.
Ticklish.
I felt warmth and moisture trailing down the path of my neck, lingering here and there as if it was in a search for something, but found a distraction in something else. It felt like an insatiable rush of the tides, drawing me in, but the menacing threat of it makes it a dark allure. I brought my hands to the roof of this head, fingers brushing through velvet silk material like a puppy's ears.
Growl. A deep rumbling came from the base of my throat.
I opened my eyes to find two amber orbs, a childish guilty look reflected in his eyes, under a haze of drugged seduction. They were familiar. Then, I realized it was Inuyasha sprawled intimately against my own body. Shocked, my impulses provoked me to scream, and that I did. It echoed through the streets, causing the birds to flee from the branches, and the children biking from the opposite street to stare. His ears were twitching, and an expression of agony marked his face.
"Bitch! Stop screaming. It's just me." Yet, I wouldn't stop my incessant screaming, not for anyone, and especially not for Inuyasha, my repeat offender for molestation. Then, he brought his hand to my mouth, closing off the noise. Still infuriated, I bit his hand on impulse, causing a string of foul language from the dog demon. His hand still remained on my mouth, but now he glared at me with a look that could bring crowds to silence.
"You bit me."
"No shit." I mumbled under his hand. It was then a scarlet blur collided with the side of Inuyasha's cheek, smearing against his skin like a stain on a white shirt. As the red slosh trailed down his shirt, I realized it was a tomato thrown ruthlessly at Inuyasha. I turned my head to look for whoever thrown it. I scanned through the crowds from left to right to find a middle-aged woman with her eyebrows drawn tight and a disapproving grin. In her hand was a bag of tomatoes which she took from her grocery bags.
"Monster! Get away from that innocent girl. You're just a raping, murderous freak. Get away!" Her screams echoed the streets, and hollow silence amongst the crowds were filled with her profanities. Inuyasha was still in a state of shock, barely moving, barely breathing. His eyes were now as hollow as the silence, a pool of drowned amber staring at the floor. Despite all the strength and aloofness he displayed, I knew he was hurt, beyond that, he actually believe the lies that bitch yelled. My nails were digging into my palm, hands into fists, as I stared at the woman in consuming rage. As I moved with my impulses, I jumped up from the bench, sharply, defiantly.
"How dare you?! How can you even compel yourself to throw that tomato at him? Who gave you the decision to decide whether someone who worthy to talk to another person? There is only one monster here, and it's you. Take your tomatoes, and go away. You have no right to even be in a 20-mile radius of him," I spat to her. She looked miffed, and with her nose held up high, took her tomatoes and left. I turned to Inuyasha to find his back facing me as he slouched sadly. I started to reach for him before he interrupted me with a voice I've never heard coming from his mouth.
"Don't. Bitch, that lady was probably right. I'm just a monster. A freak. I've been one all my life. Who was I to think I was anything else? And you're an innocent girl. I can smell it in your blood. It's virgin blood. It draws demons and hanyous. They can't deny themselves from defiling a virgin. It's like adrenaline to a demon. I will take you if you don't get the fuck away from me. It's not going to be candlelight and sweet words. Fucking is fast and deep and rough, especially when concerning a virgin." he growled menacing, every bit a demonic undertone. There was a roguish glint of his eye, indicating that he'd "enjoy" it, every sultry, heated moment of it. I shivered, partly out of fear and partly out of a sensation at the base of my abdomen.
That caused me to hesitate a few steps, backing up a few feet before striding to him with a determined air. I kneeled before him, taking out a handkerchief from my pocket and wiping away the tomato juice from his face. His eyes flashed briefly an emotion of surprise, and then as the tide ebbs away, it disappeared to God-knows-where. They were hard again, cold ambers in the shadow of carnality.
"I trust you. Despite who you think you are, you're not as bad as you think you are. So I trust you. I know you'll never doing something like that. You're not that kind of man. Plus, I may be a virgin, but I'm not attractive enough to be jumped on by some horny demon. Do you think I'm attractive, Mr. Person-I-Don't-Know-Your-Name?" He then looked at me as if I grown two heads and I asked him if he'd like to kiss one of them.
"You think you can just ignore reality with your happy-go-lucky humor? Wrong, bitch, the world is cold and cruel, and it always has a frown on its face." He turned his head to look at me with eyes hazed with this untouchable frost like glass-paned windows. There was no emotion contained in them. I extended my arm to his shoulder in some form of reassurance, anything to comfort the inner demon. Like a stitch of lightning, his fist grasped my paper-thin wrist with an iron-clad grip. I was sure that I was bruising underneath his hand; skin turning an ugly black-and-blue.
"Just stop it. Stop it. Stop offering yourself to me. You're a virginal tease. You don't know that you're offering yourself as a sacrifice to me. I'm trying my best to control my demon blood, but once I see red, I cannot guarantee you your chastity. Leave me. Leave, or be claimed." His warm breath hovered on the skin of my face, as he pushed his face an inch away from mine abruptly. Growls, his growls, passed with every well-drawn breath, and his canine fangs jutted out from his mouth. It added a feral look to him, the one of dominance and seduction like those pocketbook characters as sadistic slave owners with their female servants. Nonetheless, I spoke and received my consequences.
"I don't believe that. I can't believe that. You aren't that demon creature those stereotypes claim you are. You are a man of dignity and character. You are the man you are. I don't think you'll rape me like you say you will. I'll prove to you one day, and you'll believe me."
"Don't speak too lightly, little girl."
"So what? I'm a little girl now, and not a wench. Big improvement there, boss." Even before I spoke those words, his grip on my wrist moved to grab my other wrist in a bouquet of tiny, feminine hands above my head. Our position allowed him to bring his body closer to mine, touching intimately with his "bulge" brushing against my abdomen.
"What dignity? What character? For all I care, I just want to fuck you." Bringing his mouth down to mine, he roughly took what he wanted; rough tongues traveling and our hands entwined, groping the other hand in search for something that couldn't be found. He then drew blood from my lip with his canines, and the sting of the wound and saliva gave me this sensation between pain and ecstasy. His tongue lapped my cut, unable to find some satisfaction in the end.
He was addicted to my blood. It drove him wild, heady on my Kagome drug. I doubt he knew that, and if he did, Inuyasha would deny it; he doesn't like depending on another. His perspective thinks it makes him weak, so unlike a demon, more human than anything else. Like Anne Rice's Lestat character from An Interview with A Vampire, he took my blood, agonizingly cutting the wound in shallow punctures, drawing more blood each time.
It hurt physically, but I was more than numb at this point. I just drowned in this sea of blood and the vampire-esque Inuyasha and the thrill. The blood and his lips were doing something to me that a virginal tease like me (so I quote) wouldn't know of: arousal. Plain arousal of the mind, the senses, and the body. Inuyasha then, reluctantly more than anything else, backed away. His thumb brushed my swollen lip, tainting his finger with a drop of red blood.
He brought it to his lips and licked it off, as he kept my gaze with a satisfied, male-pride grin. He knows, probably smelt it with that damned nose of his.
Inuyasha could sense my arousal, and now he was grinning like a masochistic little boy that received a set of whip and chains for Christmas.
"Like I said, it's all about rutting and screwing you. I am addicted to your blood, your scent, your skin. I will not hesitate to claim you if you come near me again, and there won't be any love-making. I will get you out of my system if I have to. Anything to end these fantasies." Gathering his haori-rat red coat, he slipped it on and strolled away, muttering, leaving the wind to gather the hovering scent of arousal and sending it far from here.
His last whisper before I couldn't hear his mutterings anymore were, "I swear if I have to fantasize about her with those whips and chains, I will go crazy and rut with the next person I see. Could even be that damned Kouga. Fuck."
Fuck, indeed.
A/N: Well, how's that for a bout of writer's block. So those reading, I guess you've figured what kind of story this is. It's that faint line between Dark and Fluffy, Realistic and Fantasy. It's a fat ass freak show. I guess that's the kind of story I give birth to. Maybe it's because I'm a weird, Catholic schoolgirl who listens to Incubus and Postal Service while reading a novel and who is obviously not getting enough loving. Or haven't met a cute guy with nice biceps and sexy hair. Sexy, fuck-a-licious hair.
God damn, I'm starting to sound like one of the Fab Five from Queer Eye. You know, the gayest one of all . . . Howard Dean. Wait, is Howard Dean part of the Fab Five?
