Execrable
By: The Hatter Theory
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Inu Yasha
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Right and wrong have no place in the clearing. There are rules and boundaries and walls, there are whispers that force conscience back and beat it down with ruddy, angry, twisted fingers. If there is dark and light both are swallowed in the bastard child of shadow, devoured and cloaked until there is nothing but the whispering, the slick flesh sound of sin and contemptuous, uncaring greed. But there is no wrong, and there is no right. Sin is want and greed is temptation, and none of it matters, none of it exists outside of sensation and breathless-heady-dizzying-drunken-wanton-whirling-addiction.
Right/Wrong-Up/Down all become irrelevant because fuck, he needs her, more than he has never needed anything. Never never never. She is the sea he is throwing himself into, coarse and explicit and blasphemous and HE DOESN'T CARE because she is poison and relief and medicine and pain. What bitter cure for a disease that infects blood and bone, toxic and shattering.
Keening and soft and moaning and arching in his hands and he wants to break her, shatter her and make her less and more. He wants to destroy her and obliterate her existence to hide the shameful dirty stain that lingers outside of the walls and whispers. Desperate, diving, dizzy he digs claws into her flesh, feels her surrounding him, tightening and clenching and damned if he'll stop, damned if he'll let it go because this is defiance and delusion. Madness and obsession and sweet, cooling, burning relief from the craving. He wants to raise her up, to pray at her feet because she is the goddess that is humbling herself, cries ringing in the dark and giving her very blood for his pleasure. Reverent and hateful, violent, he is drawing more, licking up the crimson stains and tasting divinity humbled.
Peaks shatter. Grinding her beneath his fury, his all consuming mind breaking unfathomable urge to force more on her, to make her feel more, to poison her as he's been poisoned, infect her with the dependence and need, to steal from her what spark of sanity she has blown out in him.
Love and hate have no place in his heart, in the places where their bodies connect. And there is no place untouched, nothing left behind unmarked because she has slipped into every moment, every breath until he is nothing, there is nothing around him, that does not bear the stigma of her touch. Imprinted on every sigh and glance, she is burned into his retinas, cast on everything he sees and he has to retaliate, has to paint his fixation in her gaze so that she drowns and suffocates as he does, losing breath and sleep to dreams and whispered, focused needing.
Steps too far, over the edge and into the abyss and falling, as he has been falling for months and there is no bottom to the darkness. He instinctively knows landing will rupture sanity and leave nothing but dust behind but the weightlessness of his heavy plummeting, the direct drop into the ether that is her and her soul and her eyes is the only freedom he has ever known, and it is a prison with fresh air that is so cold it cuts his throat. Growls and moans and wordless exhalations of want and pleasure are sand that exacerbate the wounds and turn him raw from the inside out only to be healed when she screams pleasure into his mouth.
Everything he has ever wanted burns, fades, disappears in the breaking and taking and mending healing of her greedy innocent lust. He is tainting, despoiling her, cursing her with every thrust, shattering the statue of a goddess and building it back up even as she is contaminating him with her purity. The bruises he inflicts become a shrine to his obsession, every drop of blood homage to this human woman that calls him god and yet humbles him, irreverently uses him and takes everything he has known and pulls it apart.