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 are so glib. Sweet pretty lies drip from your tongue like rice syrup. That tongue of yours is worth its weight in silver. You could talk a prince out of his purse. You could talk a whore into your bed, free of charge. I know. I've seen you do both.

I watch silently as you use your words to wrest the largesse from yet another village. I'd like to call you on it, but that soft futon and warm bath at the end are just too rare and fine to pass up, so I hold my tongue. My own tongue, so talentless compared to yours. My tongue that demands truths and knows no tact, my tongue that stumbles over the words I long to say. My tongue, that cannot voice my desires.

Your tongue knows no such hesitation. You charm the village girls, flattery and charm falling effortlessly from your tongue. They don't see the truth, but I do. I watch as you caress yet another rounded buttock, grab another handful of firm, innocent flesh. They giggle, enraptured by your sweet words, and never see your eyes lock with mine, how they darken to deepest indigo with desire. You fatten them on honeyed words, faithless touches, and all the while, you dare me to say anything.

Your tongue darts out and skims across the sweet pink fullness of your lip. Heat pools in my core; my knees turn to water, my tongue to wood. I could not say anything, even if I wanted. Only in darkness and solitude can I give voice to my longings. Have you followed me to the woods, spying shamelessly as my clever but inadequate fingers prod at my secret places, tugging at my flesh until my own second-rate tongue futilely grazes the aching pink buds of my own nipples? Have you heard the soft pants, the sighs that carry your name, as I wished that the tongue laving my heated aches were your own?

I wouldn't put it past you. But you'll never come out of the shadows, because when it comes to me, you are such a coward. It is easy for you to be brave in the face of battle, and easier still when surrounded by a bevy of women. Then you are bold, staring and daring, asking the question you'll never ask me: "Will you bear my child?" Why won't you ask me? Are you afraid I'll say no? Or afraid I'll say yes? No, you'll tease and flirt, ask a hundred hundred other women, but you'll never ask me.

Sometimes I dream of cutting out that silver tongue of yours, of keeping it in a box of rare sandalwood. Of taking it out and listening to it sing like a nightingale, only for me. Of using it to pleasure myself, as often as I want, knowing it is mine, and mine alone. Of letting it charm me as it has charmed all the rest. But that alone would never be enough. I want all of you, not just that perfect tongue of yours. If only my own poor tongue could tell you.

Damn you, Miroku, you silver-tongued devil.