A rework of an old poem, now placed into a small story. Dark-themed, graphic, border-line Necrophilia, given Kikyou's state. You are forewarned.

Ownership forsaken.

The best things in life were brief, and the greatest pleasures were moments stolen. That was the truth of the world they lived in, the thought of forsaking duty's call to spend time with their beloved one.

He was shackled, bound by a submission that he couldn't shake, lest any trust he had gained from the newly seventeen-year-old girl he - sometimes - considered it a pleasure to be friends with be shattered beyond hope of reparation. It was a precarious dance, edging along the surface of a blade of ice, toes clenching the tip, twisting around and around, cycling towards the oblivion of a masquerade that left his mind in tatters, time and again.

But with her, he was free, free from the obligation of the facade he donned. Part of him was the fierce protector, yes, the loyal leader of a pack, his unshakable duty set in place. But the other part, a side that eclipsed any thought of kindness, of seeming tenderness was stripped from him the moment he laid eyes on her.

With her, with his past beloved, he could be himself. She wanted for him to tear into her, to make her bleed, feel as if she had never felt in her life. By her bidding, he made her bleed false red rivers, flowing into a steady pool that she knew to be existence. Down her hips, her pallid hips, the blood hit the earth, rinsed away by the rain, any trace of their coupling scattered with the coming storms.

There was no need to pretend with one another, for they both knew how cruel they could be. Her eyes would become blades, daggers to the flesh, the heart, razing anyone of their pride and identity if she wasn't cautious. The still-brimming power within her, a power once of purity could inflict much damage to anyone of her choosing. He could be vicious, despising the world and the creatures in it until his eyes bled claret, the forests knowing his howls, small animals his iron-tipped claws. The night bore witness to his rage, and it always comforted him with a blanket of velvet, nursing his soul to somnolence and back, for he would remember her.

They were beasts in human form, and there was no need to claim otherwise.

Innocence was washed away, time and again, with the ebb and flow of a current of passion that made them tremble, moaning into the feathery moonlight. They tasted blood on their lips, the churning muscles of their bodies meeting their limbs, the places where they tasted, sinking their teeth into sand-baked, or in her case, snow-white skin. Fingernails met flesh, breaking it, revealing the visceral nature of their souls. Beneath the sham of their bodies were spirits, a bare-bones act that left them both reeling, eager to know what was underneath, to the core and back.

Lips met a shuddering chest, claws traced the graceful column of a throat, and acceptance was known. No matter their current statuses, they would always know the creatures within, the spirits that yearned for something darker, for a way to reveal sinister intent without self-destruction.

And every month, beneath the wisps of willow limbs, a scattering of faraway stars their only witness, they found the courage to keep living.