InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Don't Hate the Game ❯ We Fly High ( Chapter 4 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: YoukaiFate 
WARNING! DARK AND EXPLICIT IMARGERY! NC17!
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Action / Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 05.27.2008 | Pages: 4 | Words: 7.5K | Visits: 477 | Status: Completed
WARNING! DARK AND EXPLICIT IMARGERY! NC17!
Anime/Manga: InuYasha Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Action / Romance / Hentai / Drama | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 05.27.2008 | Pages: 4 | Words: 7.5K | Visits: 477 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha or the song by Jim Jones that I have used for this chapter. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
DON’T HATE THE GAME
A/N - It’s been a looong time. I had most of this chapter typed out, but lost interest in the story. I apologize for the roughness of this chapter, I finally decided to post as is after spending hours editing and driving myself nuts. I don’t know if I will continue this story, I’m still debating, though I keep hearing some really awesome songs I could use for it. =) I must warn that this chapter is VERY dark. Naraku is a sick character to write. I enjoyed the darkness while being surprised at the depths my darker bunnies could hop. (Fate)
WARNING! NC17 VERY, VERY DARK AND EXPLICIT CONTENT! (EDIT ON FFNET)
“We Fly High” by Jim Jones
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. (We in the building!)We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
Smoke lay like a thick, billowing blanket under the dim lighting of the club’s VIP room. Sitting back at his ease against the padded red velvet, the dark-haired man in the expensive white suit flicked the nervous blonde waitress away with a negligent wave of his be-ringed hand. She went quick, as they all did, her steps faltering a bit in the suicidal stilettos never meant for anything other than short, mincing steps.
The busty blonde waitress would have suffered heart palpitations to know that the slight stumble in her step had drawn the man’s lazy attention, his red eyes narrowing slightly as they glided up the long length of her fishnet stockings. She paused as one of the other males sprawled around the lounge waved her over, growling out his terse order as his companion casually leaned forward to touch the back of her thigh in a lingering caress. The waitress jumped, her mascara-lined eyes wide as she bit her lip and moved out of the youkai’s reach, her silver pen flashing as she scrawled out the other’s order.
The interplay between the nervous blonde and his two youkai bodyguards drew the dark-haired man’s wandering interest, and he licked his lips slightly as he eyed the blonde’s rather obvious charms. They were all but spilling out of her low-cut French maid’s outfit like a pair of overripe peaches and trembled slightly with the nervous rapidity of her quickened breath.
He wasn’t the only one eyeing the little onna. Her hammering heartbeat drew more than a few interested glances of smirking speculation. The youki in the smothering, smoke-filled room seemed to swirl around her, nipping at her fright, and she was more than a little relieved to finally flee, all but running by the time she made it to the door.
Interesting. That blonde had shown a surprising capacity for emotion not usually found in the hardened staff of this particularly discreet club. She must be new, then, or was as yet untainted by the dual daggers of lust and greed that always permeated a night club of this kind---if the free drugs and drink didn’t corrupt them first. He must remember her name---Andie or Audrey or something stupid like that---and ask for her…specifically.
He contemplated a neatly manicured claw, the heavy ruby at the base winking sullenly---and bloodily---in the dim, murky lights. He smiled slightly, contemplating to what heights of pain and terror he might take the luscious little blonde---and almost followed his initial inclination to follow her out and just take her, right now, while she was still unnerved by his youkai’s attentions, but there was a slight disturbance near the door, and he frowned, recognizing what it herald.
He sighed, slightly put out. Being top dog always had its dirty jobs. Eyes narrowing on the bony little man being thrust forward between two of his tougher youkai, the dark-haired man leisurely stood, his white suit shining faintly between the darker colored threads his men favored. The bony little man’s eyes bulged as he was forcefully shoved forward so that he fell on his knees at the hanyou’s polished black wingtips.
Your boy getting paper (Money!), I buy big cars. (Foreign!)I need fly rides to drive in my garage. (Choose one!)Stay sky high (Twisted!), fly with the stars… (Twinkle, twinkle…)T 4? Flights, eighty grand large. (Balling!)So we lean with it, pop with it. (Bankhead!)’Vertible Jones, mean with the top, listen. (Flossing!)I’m staying clean with the bottom, yeah. (Do it!)
“But, Naraku---Mr. Onigumo---I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to---”
Protests were useless, but they always seemed to think whining about their fate might spark some pity or compassion within him.
Pity they were always so wrong. He did like to play with them, though, drawing the hope out of them until that last little bit of savory wonder---the desperate hope that they just might survive the encounter---and then finishing with that last wash of incredibly delicious despair, when they finally realized that no, they wouldn’t…
I hopped out, saggy jeans and my rock glistening, (Balling!)But I spent about eight grand.Mami on stage doing the rain dance, (I think she like me…)She let it hit the floor, made it pop--- (What else?)Got my pedal to the floor screaming ‘Fuck!’ at the cops. (Do it!)
It had been rather messy, in the end. The man had screamed like a girl, especially when Naraku had grown tired of those bulging eyes full of stark terror and arbitrarily decided that popping them out of their sockets with his own claws would solve the staring problem quite nicely.
*Sad.* The bony little man had been weak, and rather pathetic. A shame, really. The dark hanyou had been all primed for a delectable little feast of singular pain and terror, but that incompetent fool had died too quickly for Naraku to derive any true pleasure from his death, damn him. *How disappointing.*
Bailey had been as inept in dying as he had been as a mule while living. One who spoke too often and spoke too much, one whose loyalties were always divided between his need for crack and his need for money to get the crack that kept him going.
*Damn junkie.*
Flicking the man’s blood off of his claws, Naraku waited impatiently for one of his men---Goshinki, the brute---to hand him a damp towelette. Distastefully wiping his fingers clean, Naraku grew more irritated upon seeing the stupid little club owner. He was babbling incoherently that he couldn’t keep this quiet, no matter how many G’s they used to pay him off. The slow, grinding music kept playing in the background as the strippers on stage desperately tried to keep the focus of the packed sheep in the lower floor on them and off what had just occurred on the VIP level.
They were smarter than the club owner. He was signing his own death warrant the more he babbled.
“Mr. President---Onigumo-sama---” The man tried to appeal to the white-suited figure directly, but the hanyou paid him no attention, having spotted a bit of dark stain blemishing the pristine cuff of his sports coat.
How incredibly tedious.
Unbuttoning the offensive jacket, Naraku let it fall on the floor behind him as he slid out of it. “Bring me another,” he snapped at the nearest soldier lazing around on his dime. Snapping a hasty salute, the nameless youkai rose to obey.
“Onigumo-sama…” The pleading whine was getting on his last nerve.
“Kill him,” he ordered Goshinki, who grinned toothily at the unsought reward, his red eyes glowing happily.
There was a whimper behind him, and a choked scream abruptly cut off.
The dancers on stage kept dancing, their naughty aerobatics not quite enough to keep a few customers from glancing nervously over their shoulders toward the disturbance taking place in the VIP room. The smart ones kept their eyes on the stage show, and Naraku calmly took a mental tally of the foolish gawkers as he straightened the midnight-blue silk collar of his buttoned shirt.
“Four youkai for sixteen men should be sufficient, I think,” he suggested mildly, waiting for the smarter lieutenants of his thug army to catch on. After a terse moment, four youkai silently peeled themselves from the hungry group and made their way below. Screams rose, and a dancer shrieked as the man right in front of her abruptly disappeared, his blood spraying across her face. The youkai grinned up at her as she tried to back-pedal away, and that sent the others running for whatever cover they could find. Chaos erupted inside the strip club as Naraku waved the other youkai forward to take care of the rest.
Blood flowed, and Naraku watched with idle amusement at the bloody massacre unfolding before him.
How sweet.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz.We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
The youkai returned with a new coat about the time Naraku was ready to leave. Allowing the underling to assist him into the crisp white sports coat, Naraku then motioned him to join the others in finishing off the last denizens of the club. What a waste. He had always liked this particular strip joint. It was classy, well, comparatively speaking. Damn shame to lose it.
“Burn it,” he ordered tersely as the side door was opened for his discreet exit. The youkai nodded with a feral glint in his reddened eyes.
“Mr. President?” The voice was soft, deferential.
Naraku turned at the opened door of the stretch limo, which was held open by yet another of his silent guards.
“Yes, Juuroumaru, what is it?” His voice was testy, for he knew this particular youkai, bloodthirsty as he was, was also dangerous. As long as Naraku kept him and his brother Kageroumaru’s unholy appetites fed, he held their loyalty. The moment they ran out of victims, though…
“I brought you a gift.” Juuroumaru jerked on the thin wrist he held tight in his claws, and the busty blonde waitress from earlier stumbled forward to hit the side of the black limo with a thud and a wince. Her heels were missing, her stockings torn. One nipple peeked out of the slight tear in her bodice, and her hair was a platinum tangle. A faint streak of blood was smeared across her forehead.
She trembled, too terrified to speak as the dark hanyou looked at her greedily.
Poor little rabbit.
“You did well, Juuroumaru.” Naraku smiled thinly as the youkai bowed. Facetious little ass-kisser.
He considered the terrified blonde, almost as if she were a fine delicacy and he didn’t know quite where to start. He abruptly decided that soothing her would be best, so that he could draw out her deepening despair all the more as she abruptly realized the inevitability of her fate.
“Little rabbit, you have nothing to fear from me. It was by my orders that your life was spared. I was so taken with your beauty---how could I not? You are…delicious.” He reached out a finger to gently touch her cheek. The blonde shook like a leaf in the wind at his touch, but there was a faint spark of hope in the light blue eyes that darted back and forth, looking for any escape. Finding none, she bit her lip and stared at him, uncertain, but hesitantly hopeful that what he said might be true.
*So easily manipulated, these humans.*
“Come with me, away from all this…” He waved airily at the building behind him, where the sounds of glass smashing and furniture breaking rose in chaotic disharmony amid the terrified screams and hoarse yells of pain and fright. An alarm sounded as the first columns of thick smoke rose, the flames creeping up to eventually engulf the entire building.
He held out his manicured claws, his eyes caressing her, his voice plaintive. “I want to save you, little rabbit. You---affect me, like no one ever has. You don’t deserve to see any of this destruction---which was necessary, for the peace of Kyoto. You understand the necessity, don’t you? It was a den of vice and vile menace and had to be forcefully shut down. I want to save you, little one. Won’t you---let me?”
Still biting her lip, her mascara-run eyes wide and haunted, she hesitantly slid her small hand into the warmth of his outstretched palm. With a warm, reassuring smile, Naraku graciously allowed her to enter the wide seat of the stretched limo before him, even daring to kiss the back of her hand as he settled beside her and the door was closed behind them.
She giggled, a nervous, high giggle that got on his nerves. Still keeping his smile in place, he flipped open the stocked beverage bar as the car smoothly pulled away from the curb. The girl stiffened, her fingers clutching the tanned leather seat on either side of her thin frame as the car turned sharply left, speeding away from the chaos left behind.
Slow down
Hey the night could be gone tomorrow,
So I speed through life like there’s no tomorrow, (Speeding!)Hundred G’s worth of ice on the auto, (Flossing!)And we in the street life until they call the law. (Balling!)I made the whip get naked (What happened?)While I switch gears, bitch looking at the bracelet. (Got ’em!)
“Champagne?”
She met his warm red eyes with doubtful wonder, her fingers clutching the thin stem of her fine glass as he toasted her with his and she gulped down the rather pricey vintage with no regard for its subtle potency.
She was staring at him in blue-eyed vacuity by the third bottle. By the fourth, he was able to taste the fine liquor on her sweet lips. By the sixth, he had persuaded her to lick the spilled foam from off his dick. She was shameless, the darling little hussy, and greedily shared the snuff of expensive white street-sugar he gave her for dessert.
He was up her tight, virgin ass by the eighth bottle. The limo kept rolling, the music bumping as he ground his big dick deeper into her tight hole and she screamed, the pain as he deliberately tore her snapping through the haze of PCP and marijuana. The cocaine finally took effect to heighten her awareness of every tiny scratch he made across her tender skin, which tore so easily under the merest flick of his caressing claws.
Her screams rose with the music and the foam of spilled champagne as she desperately tried to fight him, her sobs and terror and pain so brightly burning within him he could not help himself, so immersed was he in all the delightful beauty of it. She was eventually reduced to a hoarse, pleading litany for him to just kill her.
“Please, just let me die, oh gods, please, just let me die…”
Displeased with this new spectacle she had made of herself, he abruptly decided he was done with it. Carving a bloody bracelet deep into her wrist with the broken stem of her own goblet, he sat back at his leisure, a glass of champagne in hand as he watched her watch her own death spurting across her opened palm. The last, weak screams of utter horror were so sweet to his ears he had to close his eyes and savor the sound as he sipped the delicious vintage from his full glass.
How wonderful it all was.
Step out, show me what you’re all about---Flashbacks of last night of me balling out. (Harlem!)One A.M.---we was at the club. (What happened?)Two A.M.---ten bottles of bub. (Money ain’t a thing.)And about three something I was thinking about grub,So I stumbled to the car through the drinks and the drugs. (Twisted!)
He awoke with a faint headache. Frowning, he tried to remember just how he had gotten to his own bed, and finally dismissed the minor mystery with a shrug of his shapely shoulders. Pushing back the silken sheets, his idle thoughts turned to breakfast, and why it was not already here, in his rooms, when he had just awakened. He did not like to be kept waiting.
The paneled door opened and there she was, with tray in hand.
“Kagura,” he drawled her name out like a caress. Her beautiful face was completely composed, her discreet ensemble of prim blue suit and low heels impeccably neat and in good taste, not one black hair of her upswept chignon out of place. He could never find fault with her, though he often tried, and dared not trust her.
“Good morning, Mr. President.” She laid the tray on the gleaming mahogany table beside his drapery-hung bed. She ignored his nakedness as she ignored everything but her duties as his personal assistant.
“Would you mind fetching me my black robe?” he asked her, lazily drawing out the words to see if he would get a reaction.
There wasn’t any, of course, and so he grabbed the offered silk robe from her hands with an irritated scowl. Shrugging his way into the embroidered black silk, he waved at her to start reciting his schedule for the day as he picked up the coffee---black, and bitter, as he liked it---from the silver tray. He finally belted the robe closed after savoring the first sip and half-listened as the wind youkai’s inflectionless, soft voice droned on.
“Stop---I have a meeting with who at ten?” His voice was harsh as he barked out that question.
Kagura, used to the hanyou’s abrupt interruptions, continued smoothly, “Higurashi Kikyou. She is a miko of some renown, my lord.”
He shot her a glare, his red eyes measuring the serene expression on her blank face. “I know who Kikyou Higurashi is.”
“Of course, sir.” Kagura bowed, her form correct to the last detail.
“Of course.” He moved to the ornately-carved desk beyond her. Pulling a cigarette from the smart silver case on top of the desk, he took his time lighting it. Inhaling deeply of the ganja-spiced tobacco, he dropped the match on the expensive Aubusson carpet with casual disdain, grinding it out under his bare heel without flinching.
Still no reaction from the impassive wind youkai, and so he turned to stare into the cherub-flanked mirror above the desk, inhaling deeply and allowing the cloud of spicy smoke to swirl around him in ghostly, maddened wraiths.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz.We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
Kikyou.
It wasn’t that old dried up stick of a useless miko he wanted. It was her cousin.
*Kagome.*
Even thinking of that delicious little inky-haired angel with the meltingly innocent blue eyes had his dick hard in seconds.
How irritating.
Reaching through the part in his silken robes, he idly stroked his aching member, watching to see if he got any reaction from the wind youkai still watching him in the mirror.
Was that---distaste---in her steady red gaze?
With a slight, obnoxious smile, his eyes glowing a bit at the pure naughtiness of it, he pushed aside the loosened robe, exposing his dick and the long-fingered hand he clenched around it. Stroking himself, he watched the wind youkai watching him, and noted how her prim mouth thinned just that little bit, how her nostrils flared as if with disgust and her bloody eyes unfocused as if she would pretend not see what he was doing so blatantly before her.
“Watch me,” he ordered, certain she would, because she could do nothing but obey. He held her heart in his claws, did he not? Her younger sister, Kanna, the idiot youkai of the void, forever childlike because she had the adult brains of a five-year-old moron. Emotionless little brat, white and skinny and far too runtish for his taste, though he had tried her out, just to see.
Not that the wind bitch knew that particular fact. She might just try and claw him to death in a hot youkai rage over the liberties he had taken with her defenseless little sister, safely imprisoned within this very house where he could rub it in the wind youkai’s face. He would have to kill her then, and he found her too useful---and too amusing---to do that just yet.
Someday, though, the wind bitch would grow tiresome, or she would do something stupid, like betray him, or something even stupider, like try and free her little sister, and then he would have no choice but to kill her---pleasant as that thought was.
His strokes quickened as her eyes focused on his busy fingers. He thought of his unwilling watcher, and then of the girl, Kagome, who had escaped his claws---for now---but would be his, eventually, to do with as he pleased, and it was that thought that had him closing his red eyes in satisfaction, groaning as his seed shot forth to cover his hand and the desk and chair in front of him in sticky euphoria.
Lifting the still-burning ganja to his lips, he slowly opened his glowing eyes as he inhaled deeply. The wind youkai stared at him, her face expressionless once more. He glared at her through the mirror, but not a single muscle moved. She might as well have been a living statue, the irritating bitch.
Stabbing the spent cigarette into his dark coffee, Naraku scowled.
“Leave me,” he ordered abruptly, and the irritating bitch finally went, leaving him alone in the heavy silence of his bedroom suite. Shrugging out of the dirty black silk, Naraku stalked over to the opulent bathing room, where he might wash the sticky film from his claws.
Man, could you buy that?I keep twenty in the pocket, (Light change.)Talk about eighty if the Bentley is the topic. (That Grey Poupon?)But, of course, we gotta fly--- (Where?)To the hood to roll dice on the side of the curb.But I know a G Bent might sound absurd… (Get your money up!)Drive eighty up Lennox ’cause I got a urge. (Speeding!)
*That disgusting, filthy, perverted, half-bred youkai bastard!*
Kagura seethed as she stalked from the hanyou’s rooms, her heels tap-tap-tapping on the echoingly marble floors of the palatial residence Onigumo Naraku had taken as his own after his bloodthirsty youkai mobs had destroyed the old ningen family in one single bloody night of Reparation, as the self-styled “President of Kyoto” called it.
*Bloody massacre, was what it was!*
In one single night, the youkai denizens of Kyoto City had risen up to destroy their long-time ningen oppressors in a riot of bloody vengeance, killing anyone who dared cross their roving path as they summarily dealt justice---and death---by the simple expedience of their mob-frenzied rage. “Reparation” is what Naraku, rising out of the aches of the crippling riots he himself had incited, had called it. Reparation for past crimes against the youkai good---bloody debts that had long stood due at cowardly, weak, variously human hands, who had long ruled over their second class youkai citizens, sneering down their blunt noses at the ‘lesser demons.’
There had been just enough truth in Naraku’s stirring words to cause a grain of discontent to form within the hearts of the poorer youkai of the city. It was true that ningen families had always ruled in Kyoto City, true that humans had always been given the favor of any ready job, resource, living space or dispute, true that humans had often looked down on the lesser denizens of the city, true that it had only been a scant fifty years since youkai had been finally freed from the yoke of impractical slavery and yet still bore the stamp of human scorn and racial prejudice.
*They still didn’t deserve to be murdered in their beds!*
Youkai had basically put themselves on a base human’s level. It was---distressing. There had been those fighting for youkai rights, youkai liberty and youkai welfare, in the right way, in the courts and on the streets, imploring citizens to open their hearts to embrace all the diverse specie within the walls of the ancient city.
*For the little good it did.*
Kagura knew first-hand how despised youkai were. Had her own half-sister Kanna not been summarily ousted from every respectable institution that might have been able to help her in some way, and just because some ningen had need of the limited bed-space? Poor, innocent Kanna, she had been vaguely hurt and anxious to find herself arbitrarily dismissed from each of her ‘homes’, so that more affluent human patients could be given preference.
Kagura had struggled to support them both on a limited salary while going to law school at night. She felt the injustices heaped on her kind keenly, and knew that she wanted to fight it---the right way, through the law, which held no personal grudge, just truth.
She had all but jumped at the chance to make a little extra money fixing the books of a small, affluent pawn-shop on the lower east side. She had had a few pangs in breaking the very laws she wanted to uphold, but the pinched, anxious expression in Kanna’s black eyes had hurt her more, and so she had taken what she had considered to be a simple, one-time-only job.
Only to be drawn more deeply into the darker activities of the Onigumo crime family. Fixing the books came first, and then that little carry-this-sack mule job to the upper west side, then that stint as a working dealer, hoping to earn the money to pay back the loans she borrowed for Kanna’s latest surgeries.
She had been drawn deeper and deeper into the unbreakable net of money and scandal, until she now found herself serving that disgustingly little jumped up street-thug as his personal assistant---the title a mere prop for the bastard’s ego, which was ginormous and---like his ambition---knew no bounds.
She didn’t try to hide her loathing, and Naraku never hid the fact that he rather enjoyed it. He had taken her sister as hostage for her good behavior, because she knew too much and he enjoyed playing with her emotions and hatred---the sick fuck.
Now, Kagura was virtually his slave, to do with as he pleased.
Her fists curled at her side, the painted nails digging into her palms as the ever-biting anger and frustration nipped at her soul. Keeping her face expressionless, her balled fists hidden by the flared jacket of her smartly tailored suit, Kagura could only cling to one thought---that the hanyou might think he had her to heel, but she would one day bite the hand that fed her, and serve that foul bastard up some of his own shit.
*If Naraku ever finds out what I am doing, he would kill me right then, no questions asked.*
Hell, one day he would kill her anyway, in a pique or in a mood, or in one of those mad rages he was so fond of falling into. It was better this way, to go down fighting, if only secretly. She knew people, had contacts with the growing underground movement known as the Silent Brotherhood, made up of those who detested the dictatorial rule of a half-youkai crime boss.
*One day, we’ll get him---*
“Kagura!”
Her head shot up, and she stifled the uneasy surprise that flickered through her red eyes as she turned to face the massive hulk of a youkai brute striding toward her down the marbled hall. Goshinki was a hideously deformed youkai, his horns twisting above the pearlescent mane that covered his ugly, purple face. There were rumors that the youkai could read minds, with enough instances that Kagura carefully shielded her traitorous thoughts, deliberately thinking of nothing but counting repetitive numbers.
*One-hundred-one, one-hundred-two, one-hundred---*
The purple monster scowled down at her, hefting a bulging brace of dusty files from under his arm and negligently tossing them on the marble-tiled floor at her feet.
“Naraku wants you to take this shit to old Myouga.”
*One-hundred-six, one---*
“The historian?” Kagura was surprised enough to cough as the youkai’s flat eyes flickered.
“Yep.” Goshinki wasn’t forthcoming with anything else, and Kagura met his penetrating gaze with one of her own.
*One-hundred-seven. One-hundred-eight…*
“Hmph.” Turning smartly---and far too gracefully for such a large, bulky frame---Goshinki finally sauntered off, looking for other, more stupid, prey.
Kagura watched him go with some relief. Stooping down to gather the disheveled files up, she stared at the papers that spilled out. *The Shikon no Tama? What’s that?*
There was no answers given, at least in the quick scan she gave the exposed page of dusty, archaic writing. Just a meager reference to some youkai bauble supposed to grant wishes, like Aladdin’s lamp. How---silly. It was totally unlike the wily hanyou to be interested in such nonsense. Interested enough that he would seek out the crusty old mutterings of a minor flea demon, and send his personal assistant to return them, so important they were…
Holding the files to her chest, Kagura hurried her steps. If she used the Bentley, and she hurried, she just might be able to take a little, unnoticed side-trip along the way to go seek out some of her friends to let them know just what the dark hanyou might be up to. They might even know what the stupid ‘Jewel of Four Souls’ was---or would mean to the dark hanyou, and why he suddenly seemed so taken with finding the damn thing.
The rap game like the crack game---Lifestyles, rich and famous, living in the fast lane. (Balling!)So when I bleep, shorty, bleep back,Louis Vuitton belt where I keeping all the heat strapped.I beat the trial over Rutger, (Let's do it!)All guns loaded---in the back, motherfucker! (Dipset!)
“But, Mr. Onigumo, sir---”
Naraku negligently waved at his bodyguards to take the babbling Minister of Public Welfare out of his official Presidential Office. They did, with as much aplomb as they always had---by snatching the poor youkai up by the back of his collar and force-marching him out the door. The Minister’s pale face turned purple with outrage, but there was nothing he could do but march along, his dignity forsaken the day he decided to apply for the job.
Months before Naraku might have chided his ‘staff’ for treating an appointed Minister so roughly---but that was when he actually gave a shit what the stupid ministers thought, back when he was trying to pretend that he was a snobby little politician. Now, he didn’t bother. They could fit in with what and who he was---top dog.
Politics was much like the street---hard, cut-throat, and the biggest front with the biggest gun and the shit to back it up always on top. Naraku had once been a low-ball dirty hustler on the back streets of Kyoto City, but he had watched and he had learned, and now he owned this city---lock, stock, and building.
The door cracked open, and one of his lounging guards pulled out a gun as an earnest, young page scuttled inside. The youkai visibly swallowed, trying to ignore the grinning guard, who started spit-cleaning his weapon with casual disregard for the younger youkai’s nervous agitation.
“Uh…Mr. President?”
The shit never stopped. Naraku sighed, feeling irritated with all of it, and leaned back in his heavily padded leather chair. Where was Kagura, anyway? She should have been here to ward off such stupid nonsense.
*That’s right. I sent her off after Myouga.*
The thought was slightly encouraging. That skanky old flea might have found some valid information concerning the Jewel. It might even prove helpful.
Mood improved a bit, Naraku decided to humor the poor youkai, whose agitated heartbeat and restless stirring was making his jaw clench. “What?”
“Uh, sir, there is another minister waiting to see you.” The page was acting as his butler, or whatever, in Kagura’s absence. Naraku actually missed the bitch---there would have been no twitching out of her, no matter how much his guards tried to intimidate her.
She would have also gotten right to the point a whole hell of a lot sooner. Frowning at the stupid whelp, Naraku bit out, “Who?”
The youkai jumped, his eyes still on Goshinki’s gun, which the purple brute was now carefully putting bullets in. “Uh…sorry, sir. It’s Honoka-san, the Minister of Finance.”
“Ah, yes. Honoka.” Naraku leaned forward, elbows on his desk as he steepled his fingers together in front of him, his posture all too casual for the darkening glint in his narrowed red eyes. He glanced over at Goshinki, who had stiffened at the Finance Minister’s name.
“Was that today?” Naraku asked, mildly ironic.
“Yes, sir,” Goshinki nodded, his flat, cold eyes gleaming faintly.
“Hmm. I forgot.” Naraku drummed his fingers on the top of his gleaming desk, thinking. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten, sir,” Goshinki supplied as the page’s eyes darted from one to the other, uncertain of the private joke that had the purple bully smiling slightly.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Don’t I have a meeting scheduled with that miko---Kiki-something---at ten?” Naraku asked, knowing the cold stick’s name but more amused to pretend he didn’t.
“Yes, sir---Mr. President, sir,” the page stuttered, still baffled by the silent game the two youkai played in front of him.
“How---inconvenient.” Naraku looked truly disappointed, though his red eyes glinted as Goshinki’s smile widened, showing a row of brilliant fangs. There were rumors that the president’s chief bully-boy and house-thug used Vaseline to give him that Crest-worthy smile.
“Goshinki, I fear you will have to meet with the treacherous Mr. Honoka all by your lonesome. Do you feel competent enough to handle the job?” Naraku’s rather mild, chatty tone warned the brute that he’d better not fuck it up.
“Of course, boss---er---Mr. President.” Goshinki bowed, that awful smile growing bigger.
“See to it, then.” Naraku waved the ugly man out. Goshinki did as he was told, hauling the yelping page after him by grabbing the youth by one arm and hurrying him along. Naraku waited for the paneled doors to slam closed behind the unlikely pair before opening the shallow drawer on his right. The desk was a massive affair, carved out of black mahogany with inlaid ivory embossed along its edges. He had had the thing moved in here from his own private offices, after having the old President’s desk, which had been embossed with the city’s seal, burned. He refused to use what a vile ningen fool had ever used. It was a new regime, his regime, and it was something they---the stuffy politicians, the bankers and the lawyers and the good youkai of the city---should never forget.
Like he would ever let them.
Pulling out the silver-plated little derringer, Naraku took his time polishing the sweet little piece. It was a lady’s gun, and the decorative swirls on the silver surface were shaped into fanciful flowers and ivy. Sweet, that.
Fitting bullets into the chamber, Naraku put the little gun in his pocket. Drawing another, larger weapon from the same drawer, he cocked the safety back, checking the chamber. This one was hardly as elegant as the other, but it was better for distance and accuracy. Satisfied it, too, was primed and ready, the hanyou casually slipped it underneath his fitted Armani jacket, in the waistband of his matching pants.
Snapping his fingers, one of his ever-present bodyguards darted forward with a small, velvet case. Opening the box, Naraku took his time pulling out a silver-backed mirror and its matching Tiffany brush. Checking his profile in the mirror’s surface, he smoothed one black brow with a damp finger. Satisfied that he looked the part of world-class schmooze and presidential incumbent, he finally looked up.
“I think I might take a stroll in the Presidential gardens. The miko might feel more at home among the weeds, don’t you think?” His sarcastic sally was met with toothy grins from the five youkai lounging around the luxuriously-appointed office. As he pushed back his seat and stood up, his soldiers came smartly to attention. One darted forward to open the door for him with a bow made silly by the man’s ugly, lime-green mohawk.
Disgusted, for it irritated the dark hanyou no end that his men could still look like the gangsters and street toughs they had once been, he snarled, “Shave that shit off, Rensa.”
“Y-Yes, boss---Mr. President,” Rensa gulped, bowing again. Idiot.
Sweeping from the room, Naraku led his nervy entourage through the expansive halls of the presidential palace, certain that the miko would be waiting for him exactly where he wanted her to, and wondering why it was she had come, the cold little bitch.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. We fly high, no lie, you know this.
Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. (Balling!)
We stay fly, (Fly!) no lie, (No Lie!) you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
She was waiting for him, her serene expression calculated to get under his skin. He wondered what that pale, skinny face would look like with a bullet hole right in the middle of those elegantly arched brows.
Amused, he waved at his men to spread themselves out and around the perimeter of the small, inner garden. A fountain tickled tranquilly in the middle of a stone patio, fancifully-carved benches placed here and there for privacy or ease. The miko, robed in the traditional red and white of her calling, stood to one side, her hands hidden in her long sleeves as she regarded him with a tranquil expression.
“My dear, Kikyou,” Naraku smiled, his red eyes gleaming. “This is certainly a surprise.”
“Is it?” She asked, her tone icily sarcastic.
“Shouldn’t it be?” He almost purred as he stepped closer to her. “I would think that a miko of your insignificance would hardly have anything to see me about, youkai that I am.”
“Youkai?” Her smile was slight, mocking. “Isn‘t ‘hanyou’ more appropriate?”
His eyes narrowed dangerously as his claws flexed, itching to wrap themselves around her white throat. Damn stick.
“Have you seen your cousin Kagome lately? I heard that her spiritual potential has far outstripped your own, though I wonder why it was she was never trained as you were. I would think that the head priestess of Kyoto would ensure her own family, at least, would receive the proper safeguards in training her holy powers. An untrained miko can be dangerously unstable---any rogue bastard with ill intentions could use that raw power for their own benefit. Such a dangerously delightful tool, don’t you think?” His voice dropped to a velvety whisper as the miko went rigid with icy anger.
“Perhaps it was jealousy that drove her closest family to desert her and leave the poor defenseless innocent untrained. Isn’t it true that your cousin’s potential far outstrips your own meager powers, dear Kikyo? And isn’t it true that your rank as lead priestess would be in dispute if one of such ability chose to argue it?” Naraku smiled silkily as the priestess’s emotionless mask cracked just a little to show the hot rage that sparked in her dark eyes.
“I have done as much as I can for my cousin, but that is none of your concern, is it, Mr. President?” Kikyo hissed, eyes glittering.
“Of course not.” Naraku smiled, his eyes just as hard.
One of his youkai shuffled their feet at the heavy tension that hung between the two of them, and the slight sound broke it. Naraku smiled slowly, his eyes glowing in slight amusement, feeling somehow as if he had won the silent battle between them. Leisurely strolling over to the nearest bench, he settled himself with languid grace. Staring at his carefully manicured claws, he asked, “Why are you here, miko? What is it you want?”
“Want?” The cold stick seemed suddenly amused. “What I want, Naraku, you could never provide.”
“Really? How utterly disappointing,” Naraku sneered, his red eyes narrowing. Abruptly tiring of the stupid game, he placed his palms flat on his bent knees and leaned forward. “Tell me, miko, what the fuck do you want? What brings you here, of all places, where you are so unwelcome?”
An elegant brow rose. The cold stick regarded him with a faint smile, her dark eyes fathomless. “The Shikon no Tama.”
Hiding his surprise, Naraku regarded the pale miko under lowered lids. Lounging back with insincere nonchalance, he said drolly, “Perhaps we do have something to talk about. Please, sit, Miss Higurashi, and tell me more…”
You mens need to stay focused,When you dealing with a mother-fucking G!You know my name---Jones, One Eye, Capo Status.Only above motherfucker,This Dipset ByrdGang we born to fly!
Y’all know the rules, fall back or fall back.Someone tell my bitch, I’m looking for her.Ya dig? Another day, another dollar.Fast life fucker.
DON’T HATE THE GAME
A/N - It’s been a looong time. I had most of this chapter typed out, but lost interest in the story. I apologize for the roughness of this chapter, I finally decided to post as is after spending hours editing and driving myself nuts. I don’t know if I will continue this story, I’m still debating, though I keep hearing some really awesome songs I could use for it. =) I must warn that this chapter is VERY dark. Naraku is a sick character to write. I enjoyed the darkness while being surprised at the depths my darker bunnies could hop. (Fate)
WARNING! NC17 VERY, VERY DARK AND EXPLICIT CONTENT! (EDIT ON FFNET)
“We Fly High” by Jim Jones
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. (We in the building!)We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
Smoke lay like a thick, billowing blanket under the dim lighting of the club’s VIP room. Sitting back at his ease against the padded red velvet, the dark-haired man in the expensive white suit flicked the nervous blonde waitress away with a negligent wave of his be-ringed hand. She went quick, as they all did, her steps faltering a bit in the suicidal stilettos never meant for anything other than short, mincing steps.
The busty blonde waitress would have suffered heart palpitations to know that the slight stumble in her step had drawn the man’s lazy attention, his red eyes narrowing slightly as they glided up the long length of her fishnet stockings. She paused as one of the other males sprawled around the lounge waved her over, growling out his terse order as his companion casually leaned forward to touch the back of her thigh in a lingering caress. The waitress jumped, her mascara-lined eyes wide as she bit her lip and moved out of the youkai’s reach, her silver pen flashing as she scrawled out the other’s order.
The interplay between the nervous blonde and his two youkai bodyguards drew the dark-haired man’s wandering interest, and he licked his lips slightly as he eyed the blonde’s rather obvious charms. They were all but spilling out of her low-cut French maid’s outfit like a pair of overripe peaches and trembled slightly with the nervous rapidity of her quickened breath.
He wasn’t the only one eyeing the little onna. Her hammering heartbeat drew more than a few interested glances of smirking speculation. The youki in the smothering, smoke-filled room seemed to swirl around her, nipping at her fright, and she was more than a little relieved to finally flee, all but running by the time she made it to the door.
Interesting. That blonde had shown a surprising capacity for emotion not usually found in the hardened staff of this particularly discreet club. She must be new, then, or was as yet untainted by the dual daggers of lust and greed that always permeated a night club of this kind---if the free drugs and drink didn’t corrupt them first. He must remember her name---Andie or Audrey or something stupid like that---and ask for her…specifically.
He contemplated a neatly manicured claw, the heavy ruby at the base winking sullenly---and bloodily---in the dim, murky lights. He smiled slightly, contemplating to what heights of pain and terror he might take the luscious little blonde---and almost followed his initial inclination to follow her out and just take her, right now, while she was still unnerved by his youkai’s attentions, but there was a slight disturbance near the door, and he frowned, recognizing what it herald.
He sighed, slightly put out. Being top dog always had its dirty jobs. Eyes narrowing on the bony little man being thrust forward between two of his tougher youkai, the dark-haired man leisurely stood, his white suit shining faintly between the darker colored threads his men favored. The bony little man’s eyes bulged as he was forcefully shoved forward so that he fell on his knees at the hanyou’s polished black wingtips.
Your boy getting paper (Money!), I buy big cars. (Foreign!)I need fly rides to drive in my garage. (Choose one!)Stay sky high (Twisted!), fly with the stars… (Twinkle, twinkle…)T 4? Flights, eighty grand large. (Balling!)So we lean with it, pop with it. (Bankhead!)’Vertible Jones, mean with the top, listen. (Flossing!)I’m staying clean with the bottom, yeah. (Do it!)
“But, Naraku---Mr. Onigumo---I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to---”
Protests were useless, but they always seemed to think whining about their fate might spark some pity or compassion within him.
Pity they were always so wrong. He did like to play with them, though, drawing the hope out of them until that last little bit of savory wonder---the desperate hope that they just might survive the encounter---and then finishing with that last wash of incredibly delicious despair, when they finally realized that no, they wouldn’t…
I hopped out, saggy jeans and my rock glistening, (Balling!)But I spent about eight grand.Mami on stage doing the rain dance, (I think she like me…)She let it hit the floor, made it pop--- (What else?)Got my pedal to the floor screaming ‘Fuck!’ at the cops. (Do it!)
It had been rather messy, in the end. The man had screamed like a girl, especially when Naraku had grown tired of those bulging eyes full of stark terror and arbitrarily decided that popping them out of their sockets with his own claws would solve the staring problem quite nicely.
*Sad.* The bony little man had been weak, and rather pathetic. A shame, really. The dark hanyou had been all primed for a delectable little feast of singular pain and terror, but that incompetent fool had died too quickly for Naraku to derive any true pleasure from his death, damn him. *How disappointing.*
Bailey had been as inept in dying as he had been as a mule while living. One who spoke too often and spoke too much, one whose loyalties were always divided between his need for crack and his need for money to get the crack that kept him going.
*Damn junkie.*
Flicking the man’s blood off of his claws, Naraku waited impatiently for one of his men---Goshinki, the brute---to hand him a damp towelette. Distastefully wiping his fingers clean, Naraku grew more irritated upon seeing the stupid little club owner. He was babbling incoherently that he couldn’t keep this quiet, no matter how many G’s they used to pay him off. The slow, grinding music kept playing in the background as the strippers on stage desperately tried to keep the focus of the packed sheep in the lower floor on them and off what had just occurred on the VIP level.
They were smarter than the club owner. He was signing his own death warrant the more he babbled.
“Mr. President---Onigumo-sama---” The man tried to appeal to the white-suited figure directly, but the hanyou paid him no attention, having spotted a bit of dark stain blemishing the pristine cuff of his sports coat.
How incredibly tedious.
Unbuttoning the offensive jacket, Naraku let it fall on the floor behind him as he slid out of it. “Bring me another,” he snapped at the nearest soldier lazing around on his dime. Snapping a hasty salute, the nameless youkai rose to obey.
“Onigumo-sama…” The pleading whine was getting on his last nerve.
“Kill him,” he ordered Goshinki, who grinned toothily at the unsought reward, his red eyes glowing happily.
There was a whimper behind him, and a choked scream abruptly cut off.
The dancers on stage kept dancing, their naughty aerobatics not quite enough to keep a few customers from glancing nervously over their shoulders toward the disturbance taking place in the VIP room. The smart ones kept their eyes on the stage show, and Naraku calmly took a mental tally of the foolish gawkers as he straightened the midnight-blue silk collar of his buttoned shirt.
“Four youkai for sixteen men should be sufficient, I think,” he suggested mildly, waiting for the smarter lieutenants of his thug army to catch on. After a terse moment, four youkai silently peeled themselves from the hungry group and made their way below. Screams rose, and a dancer shrieked as the man right in front of her abruptly disappeared, his blood spraying across her face. The youkai grinned up at her as she tried to back-pedal away, and that sent the others running for whatever cover they could find. Chaos erupted inside the strip club as Naraku waved the other youkai forward to take care of the rest.
Blood flowed, and Naraku watched with idle amusement at the bloody massacre unfolding before him.
How sweet.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz.We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
The youkai returned with a new coat about the time Naraku was ready to leave. Allowing the underling to assist him into the crisp white sports coat, Naraku then motioned him to join the others in finishing off the last denizens of the club. What a waste. He had always liked this particular strip joint. It was classy, well, comparatively speaking. Damn shame to lose it.
“Burn it,” he ordered tersely as the side door was opened for his discreet exit. The youkai nodded with a feral glint in his reddened eyes.
“Mr. President?” The voice was soft, deferential.
Naraku turned at the opened door of the stretch limo, which was held open by yet another of his silent guards.
“Yes, Juuroumaru, what is it?” His voice was testy, for he knew this particular youkai, bloodthirsty as he was, was also dangerous. As long as Naraku kept him and his brother Kageroumaru’s unholy appetites fed, he held their loyalty. The moment they ran out of victims, though…
“I brought you a gift.” Juuroumaru jerked on the thin wrist he held tight in his claws, and the busty blonde waitress from earlier stumbled forward to hit the side of the black limo with a thud and a wince. Her heels were missing, her stockings torn. One nipple peeked out of the slight tear in her bodice, and her hair was a platinum tangle. A faint streak of blood was smeared across her forehead.
She trembled, too terrified to speak as the dark hanyou looked at her greedily.
Poor little rabbit.
“You did well, Juuroumaru.” Naraku smiled thinly as the youkai bowed. Facetious little ass-kisser.
He considered the terrified blonde, almost as if she were a fine delicacy and he didn’t know quite where to start. He abruptly decided that soothing her would be best, so that he could draw out her deepening despair all the more as she abruptly realized the inevitability of her fate.
“Little rabbit, you have nothing to fear from me. It was by my orders that your life was spared. I was so taken with your beauty---how could I not? You are…delicious.” He reached out a finger to gently touch her cheek. The blonde shook like a leaf in the wind at his touch, but there was a faint spark of hope in the light blue eyes that darted back and forth, looking for any escape. Finding none, she bit her lip and stared at him, uncertain, but hesitantly hopeful that what he said might be true.
*So easily manipulated, these humans.*
“Come with me, away from all this…” He waved airily at the building behind him, where the sounds of glass smashing and furniture breaking rose in chaotic disharmony amid the terrified screams and hoarse yells of pain and fright. An alarm sounded as the first columns of thick smoke rose, the flames creeping up to eventually engulf the entire building.
He held out his manicured claws, his eyes caressing her, his voice plaintive. “I want to save you, little rabbit. You---affect me, like no one ever has. You don’t deserve to see any of this destruction---which was necessary, for the peace of Kyoto. You understand the necessity, don’t you? It was a den of vice and vile menace and had to be forcefully shut down. I want to save you, little one. Won’t you---let me?”
Still biting her lip, her mascara-run eyes wide and haunted, she hesitantly slid her small hand into the warmth of his outstretched palm. With a warm, reassuring smile, Naraku graciously allowed her to enter the wide seat of the stretched limo before him, even daring to kiss the back of her hand as he settled beside her and the door was closed behind them.
She giggled, a nervous, high giggle that got on his nerves. Still keeping his smile in place, he flipped open the stocked beverage bar as the car smoothly pulled away from the curb. The girl stiffened, her fingers clutching the tanned leather seat on either side of her thin frame as the car turned sharply left, speeding away from the chaos left behind.
Slow down
Hey the night could be gone tomorrow,
So I speed through life like there’s no tomorrow, (Speeding!)Hundred G’s worth of ice on the auto, (Flossing!)And we in the street life until they call the law. (Balling!)I made the whip get naked (What happened?)While I switch gears, bitch looking at the bracelet. (Got ’em!)
“Champagne?”
She met his warm red eyes with doubtful wonder, her fingers clutching the thin stem of her fine glass as he toasted her with his and she gulped down the rather pricey vintage with no regard for its subtle potency.
She was staring at him in blue-eyed vacuity by the third bottle. By the fourth, he was able to taste the fine liquor on her sweet lips. By the sixth, he had persuaded her to lick the spilled foam from off his dick. She was shameless, the darling little hussy, and greedily shared the snuff of expensive white street-sugar he gave her for dessert.
He was up her tight, virgin ass by the eighth bottle. The limo kept rolling, the music bumping as he ground his big dick deeper into her tight hole and she screamed, the pain as he deliberately tore her snapping through the haze of PCP and marijuana. The cocaine finally took effect to heighten her awareness of every tiny scratch he made across her tender skin, which tore so easily under the merest flick of his caressing claws.
Her screams rose with the music and the foam of spilled champagne as she desperately tried to fight him, her sobs and terror and pain so brightly burning within him he could not help himself, so immersed was he in all the delightful beauty of it. She was eventually reduced to a hoarse, pleading litany for him to just kill her.
“Please, just let me die, oh gods, please, just let me die…”
Displeased with this new spectacle she had made of herself, he abruptly decided he was done with it. Carving a bloody bracelet deep into her wrist with the broken stem of her own goblet, he sat back at his leisure, a glass of champagne in hand as he watched her watch her own death spurting across her opened palm. The last, weak screams of utter horror were so sweet to his ears he had to close his eyes and savor the sound as he sipped the delicious vintage from his full glass.
How wonderful it all was.
Step out, show me what you’re all about---Flashbacks of last night of me balling out. (Harlem!)One A.M.---we was at the club. (What happened?)Two A.M.---ten bottles of bub. (Money ain’t a thing.)And about three something I was thinking about grub,So I stumbled to the car through the drinks and the drugs. (Twisted!)
He awoke with a faint headache. Frowning, he tried to remember just how he had gotten to his own bed, and finally dismissed the minor mystery with a shrug of his shapely shoulders. Pushing back the silken sheets, his idle thoughts turned to breakfast, and why it was not already here, in his rooms, when he had just awakened. He did not like to be kept waiting.
The paneled door opened and there she was, with tray in hand.
“Kagura,” he drawled her name out like a caress. Her beautiful face was completely composed, her discreet ensemble of prim blue suit and low heels impeccably neat and in good taste, not one black hair of her upswept chignon out of place. He could never find fault with her, though he often tried, and dared not trust her.
“Good morning, Mr. President.” She laid the tray on the gleaming mahogany table beside his drapery-hung bed. She ignored his nakedness as she ignored everything but her duties as his personal assistant.
“Would you mind fetching me my black robe?” he asked her, lazily drawing out the words to see if he would get a reaction.
There wasn’t any, of course, and so he grabbed the offered silk robe from her hands with an irritated scowl. Shrugging his way into the embroidered black silk, he waved at her to start reciting his schedule for the day as he picked up the coffee---black, and bitter, as he liked it---from the silver tray. He finally belted the robe closed after savoring the first sip and half-listened as the wind youkai’s inflectionless, soft voice droned on.
“Stop---I have a meeting with who at ten?” His voice was harsh as he barked out that question.
Kagura, used to the hanyou’s abrupt interruptions, continued smoothly, “Higurashi Kikyou. She is a miko of some renown, my lord.”
He shot her a glare, his red eyes measuring the serene expression on her blank face. “I know who Kikyou Higurashi is.”
“Of course, sir.” Kagura bowed, her form correct to the last detail.
“Of course.” He moved to the ornately-carved desk beyond her. Pulling a cigarette from the smart silver case on top of the desk, he took his time lighting it. Inhaling deeply of the ganja-spiced tobacco, he dropped the match on the expensive Aubusson carpet with casual disdain, grinding it out under his bare heel without flinching.
Still no reaction from the impassive wind youkai, and so he turned to stare into the cherub-flanked mirror above the desk, inhaling deeply and allowing the cloud of spicy smoke to swirl around him in ghostly, maddened wraiths.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz.We stay fly, no lie, and you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
Kikyou.
It wasn’t that old dried up stick of a useless miko he wanted. It was her cousin.
*Kagome.*
Even thinking of that delicious little inky-haired angel with the meltingly innocent blue eyes had his dick hard in seconds.
How irritating.
Reaching through the part in his silken robes, he idly stroked his aching member, watching to see if he got any reaction from the wind youkai still watching him in the mirror.
Was that---distaste---in her steady red gaze?
With a slight, obnoxious smile, his eyes glowing a bit at the pure naughtiness of it, he pushed aside the loosened robe, exposing his dick and the long-fingered hand he clenched around it. Stroking himself, he watched the wind youkai watching him, and noted how her prim mouth thinned just that little bit, how her nostrils flared as if with disgust and her bloody eyes unfocused as if she would pretend not see what he was doing so blatantly before her.
“Watch me,” he ordered, certain she would, because she could do nothing but obey. He held her heart in his claws, did he not? Her younger sister, Kanna, the idiot youkai of the void, forever childlike because she had the adult brains of a five-year-old moron. Emotionless little brat, white and skinny and far too runtish for his taste, though he had tried her out, just to see.
Not that the wind bitch knew that particular fact. She might just try and claw him to death in a hot youkai rage over the liberties he had taken with her defenseless little sister, safely imprisoned within this very house where he could rub it in the wind youkai’s face. He would have to kill her then, and he found her too useful---and too amusing---to do that just yet.
Someday, though, the wind bitch would grow tiresome, or she would do something stupid, like betray him, or something even stupider, like try and free her little sister, and then he would have no choice but to kill her---pleasant as that thought was.
His strokes quickened as her eyes focused on his busy fingers. He thought of his unwilling watcher, and then of the girl, Kagome, who had escaped his claws---for now---but would be his, eventually, to do with as he pleased, and it was that thought that had him closing his red eyes in satisfaction, groaning as his seed shot forth to cover his hand and the desk and chair in front of him in sticky euphoria.
Lifting the still-burning ganja to his lips, he slowly opened his glowing eyes as he inhaled deeply. The wind youkai stared at him, her face expressionless once more. He glared at her through the mirror, but not a single muscle moved. She might as well have been a living statue, the irritating bitch.
Stabbing the spent cigarette into his dark coffee, Naraku scowled.
“Leave me,” he ordered abruptly, and the irritating bitch finally went, leaving him alone in the heavy silence of his bedroom suite. Shrugging out of the dirty black silk, Naraku stalked over to the opulent bathing room, where he might wash the sticky film from his claws.
Man, could you buy that?I keep twenty in the pocket, (Light change.)Talk about eighty if the Bentley is the topic. (That Grey Poupon?)But, of course, we gotta fly--- (Where?)To the hood to roll dice on the side of the curb.But I know a G Bent might sound absurd… (Get your money up!)Drive eighty up Lennox ’cause I got a urge. (Speeding!)
*That disgusting, filthy, perverted, half-bred youkai bastard!*
Kagura seethed as she stalked from the hanyou’s rooms, her heels tap-tap-tapping on the echoingly marble floors of the palatial residence Onigumo Naraku had taken as his own after his bloodthirsty youkai mobs had destroyed the old ningen family in one single bloody night of Reparation, as the self-styled “President of Kyoto” called it.
*Bloody massacre, was what it was!*
In one single night, the youkai denizens of Kyoto City had risen up to destroy their long-time ningen oppressors in a riot of bloody vengeance, killing anyone who dared cross their roving path as they summarily dealt justice---and death---by the simple expedience of their mob-frenzied rage. “Reparation” is what Naraku, rising out of the aches of the crippling riots he himself had incited, had called it. Reparation for past crimes against the youkai good---bloody debts that had long stood due at cowardly, weak, variously human hands, who had long ruled over their second class youkai citizens, sneering down their blunt noses at the ‘lesser demons.’
There had been just enough truth in Naraku’s stirring words to cause a grain of discontent to form within the hearts of the poorer youkai of the city. It was true that ningen families had always ruled in Kyoto City, true that humans had always been given the favor of any ready job, resource, living space or dispute, true that humans had often looked down on the lesser denizens of the city, true that it had only been a scant fifty years since youkai had been finally freed from the yoke of impractical slavery and yet still bore the stamp of human scorn and racial prejudice.
*They still didn’t deserve to be murdered in their beds!*
Youkai had basically put themselves on a base human’s level. It was---distressing. There had been those fighting for youkai rights, youkai liberty and youkai welfare, in the right way, in the courts and on the streets, imploring citizens to open their hearts to embrace all the diverse specie within the walls of the ancient city.
*For the little good it did.*
Kagura knew first-hand how despised youkai were. Had her own half-sister Kanna not been summarily ousted from every respectable institution that might have been able to help her in some way, and just because some ningen had need of the limited bed-space? Poor, innocent Kanna, she had been vaguely hurt and anxious to find herself arbitrarily dismissed from each of her ‘homes’, so that more affluent human patients could be given preference.
Kagura had struggled to support them both on a limited salary while going to law school at night. She felt the injustices heaped on her kind keenly, and knew that she wanted to fight it---the right way, through the law, which held no personal grudge, just truth.
She had all but jumped at the chance to make a little extra money fixing the books of a small, affluent pawn-shop on the lower east side. She had had a few pangs in breaking the very laws she wanted to uphold, but the pinched, anxious expression in Kanna’s black eyes had hurt her more, and so she had taken what she had considered to be a simple, one-time-only job.
Only to be drawn more deeply into the darker activities of the Onigumo crime family. Fixing the books came first, and then that little carry-this-sack mule job to the upper west side, then that stint as a working dealer, hoping to earn the money to pay back the loans she borrowed for Kanna’s latest surgeries.
She had been drawn deeper and deeper into the unbreakable net of money and scandal, until she now found herself serving that disgustingly little jumped up street-thug as his personal assistant---the title a mere prop for the bastard’s ego, which was ginormous and---like his ambition---knew no bounds.
She didn’t try to hide her loathing, and Naraku never hid the fact that he rather enjoyed it. He had taken her sister as hostage for her good behavior, because she knew too much and he enjoyed playing with her emotions and hatred---the sick fuck.
Now, Kagura was virtually his slave, to do with as he pleased.
Her fists curled at her side, the painted nails digging into her palms as the ever-biting anger and frustration nipped at her soul. Keeping her face expressionless, her balled fists hidden by the flared jacket of her smartly tailored suit, Kagura could only cling to one thought---that the hanyou might think he had her to heel, but she would one day bite the hand that fed her, and serve that foul bastard up some of his own shit.
*If Naraku ever finds out what I am doing, he would kill me right then, no questions asked.*
Hell, one day he would kill her anyway, in a pique or in a mood, or in one of those mad rages he was so fond of falling into. It was better this way, to go down fighting, if only secretly. She knew people, had contacts with the growing underground movement known as the Silent Brotherhood, made up of those who detested the dictatorial rule of a half-youkai crime boss.
*One day, we’ll get him---*
“Kagura!”
Her head shot up, and she stifled the uneasy surprise that flickered through her red eyes as she turned to face the massive hulk of a youkai brute striding toward her down the marbled hall. Goshinki was a hideously deformed youkai, his horns twisting above the pearlescent mane that covered his ugly, purple face. There were rumors that the youkai could read minds, with enough instances that Kagura carefully shielded her traitorous thoughts, deliberately thinking of nothing but counting repetitive numbers.
*One-hundred-one, one-hundred-two, one-hundred---*
The purple monster scowled down at her, hefting a bulging brace of dusty files from under his arm and negligently tossing them on the marble-tiled floor at her feet.
“Naraku wants you to take this shit to old Myouga.”
*One-hundred-six, one---*
“The historian?” Kagura was surprised enough to cough as the youkai’s flat eyes flickered.
“Yep.” Goshinki wasn’t forthcoming with anything else, and Kagura met his penetrating gaze with one of her own.
*One-hundred-seven. One-hundred-eight…*
“Hmph.” Turning smartly---and far too gracefully for such a large, bulky frame---Goshinki finally sauntered off, looking for other, more stupid, prey.
Kagura watched him go with some relief. Stooping down to gather the disheveled files up, she stared at the papers that spilled out. *The Shikon no Tama? What’s that?*
There was no answers given, at least in the quick scan she gave the exposed page of dusty, archaic writing. Just a meager reference to some youkai bauble supposed to grant wishes, like Aladdin’s lamp. How---silly. It was totally unlike the wily hanyou to be interested in such nonsense. Interested enough that he would seek out the crusty old mutterings of a minor flea demon, and send his personal assistant to return them, so important they were…
Holding the files to her chest, Kagura hurried her steps. If she used the Bentley, and she hurried, she just might be able to take a little, unnoticed side-trip along the way to go seek out some of her friends to let them know just what the dark hanyou might be up to. They might even know what the stupid ‘Jewel of Four Souls’ was---or would mean to the dark hanyou, and why he suddenly seemed so taken with finding the damn thing.
The rap game like the crack game---Lifestyles, rich and famous, living in the fast lane. (Balling!)So when I bleep, shorty, bleep back,Louis Vuitton belt where I keeping all the heat strapped.I beat the trial over Rutger, (Let's do it!)All guns loaded---in the back, motherfucker! (Dipset!)
“But, Mr. Onigumo, sir---”
Naraku negligently waved at his bodyguards to take the babbling Minister of Public Welfare out of his official Presidential Office. They did, with as much aplomb as they always had---by snatching the poor youkai up by the back of his collar and force-marching him out the door. The Minister’s pale face turned purple with outrage, but there was nothing he could do but march along, his dignity forsaken the day he decided to apply for the job.
Months before Naraku might have chided his ‘staff’ for treating an appointed Minister so roughly---but that was when he actually gave a shit what the stupid ministers thought, back when he was trying to pretend that he was a snobby little politician. Now, he didn’t bother. They could fit in with what and who he was---top dog.
Politics was much like the street---hard, cut-throat, and the biggest front with the biggest gun and the shit to back it up always on top. Naraku had once been a low-ball dirty hustler on the back streets of Kyoto City, but he had watched and he had learned, and now he owned this city---lock, stock, and building.
The door cracked open, and one of his lounging guards pulled out a gun as an earnest, young page scuttled inside. The youkai visibly swallowed, trying to ignore the grinning guard, who started spit-cleaning his weapon with casual disregard for the younger youkai’s nervous agitation.
“Uh…Mr. President?”
The shit never stopped. Naraku sighed, feeling irritated with all of it, and leaned back in his heavily padded leather chair. Where was Kagura, anyway? She should have been here to ward off such stupid nonsense.
*That’s right. I sent her off after Myouga.*
The thought was slightly encouraging. That skanky old flea might have found some valid information concerning the Jewel. It might even prove helpful.
Mood improved a bit, Naraku decided to humor the poor youkai, whose agitated heartbeat and restless stirring was making his jaw clench. “What?”
“Uh, sir, there is another minister waiting to see you.” The page was acting as his butler, or whatever, in Kagura’s absence. Naraku actually missed the bitch---there would have been no twitching out of her, no matter how much his guards tried to intimidate her.
She would have also gotten right to the point a whole hell of a lot sooner. Frowning at the stupid whelp, Naraku bit out, “Who?”
The youkai jumped, his eyes still on Goshinki’s gun, which the purple brute was now carefully putting bullets in. “Uh…sorry, sir. It’s Honoka-san, the Minister of Finance.”
“Ah, yes. Honoka.” Naraku leaned forward, elbows on his desk as he steepled his fingers together in front of him, his posture all too casual for the darkening glint in his narrowed red eyes. He glanced over at Goshinki, who had stiffened at the Finance Minister’s name.
“Was that today?” Naraku asked, mildly ironic.
“Yes, sir,” Goshinki nodded, his flat, cold eyes gleaming faintly.
“Hmm. I forgot.” Naraku drummed his fingers on the top of his gleaming desk, thinking. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten, sir,” Goshinki supplied as the page’s eyes darted from one to the other, uncertain of the private joke that had the purple bully smiling slightly.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Don’t I have a meeting scheduled with that miko---Kiki-something---at ten?” Naraku asked, knowing the cold stick’s name but more amused to pretend he didn’t.
“Yes, sir---Mr. President, sir,” the page stuttered, still baffled by the silent game the two youkai played in front of him.
“How---inconvenient.” Naraku looked truly disappointed, though his red eyes glinted as Goshinki’s smile widened, showing a row of brilliant fangs. There were rumors that the president’s chief bully-boy and house-thug used Vaseline to give him that Crest-worthy smile.
“Goshinki, I fear you will have to meet with the treacherous Mr. Honoka all by your lonesome. Do you feel competent enough to handle the job?” Naraku’s rather mild, chatty tone warned the brute that he’d better not fuck it up.
“Of course, boss---er---Mr. President.” Goshinki bowed, that awful smile growing bigger.
“See to it, then.” Naraku waved the ugly man out. Goshinki did as he was told, hauling the yelping page after him by grabbing the youth by one arm and hurrying him along. Naraku waited for the paneled doors to slam closed behind the unlikely pair before opening the shallow drawer on his right. The desk was a massive affair, carved out of black mahogany with inlaid ivory embossed along its edges. He had had the thing moved in here from his own private offices, after having the old President’s desk, which had been embossed with the city’s seal, burned. He refused to use what a vile ningen fool had ever used. It was a new regime, his regime, and it was something they---the stuffy politicians, the bankers and the lawyers and the good youkai of the city---should never forget.
Like he would ever let them.
Pulling out the silver-plated little derringer, Naraku took his time polishing the sweet little piece. It was a lady’s gun, and the decorative swirls on the silver surface were shaped into fanciful flowers and ivy. Sweet, that.
Fitting bullets into the chamber, Naraku put the little gun in his pocket. Drawing another, larger weapon from the same drawer, he cocked the safety back, checking the chamber. This one was hardly as elegant as the other, but it was better for distance and accuracy. Satisfied it, too, was primed and ready, the hanyou casually slipped it underneath his fitted Armani jacket, in the waistband of his matching pants.
Snapping his fingers, one of his ever-present bodyguards darted forward with a small, velvet case. Opening the box, Naraku took his time pulling out a silver-backed mirror and its matching Tiffany brush. Checking his profile in the mirror’s surface, he smoothed one black brow with a damp finger. Satisfied that he looked the part of world-class schmooze and presidential incumbent, he finally looked up.
“I think I might take a stroll in the Presidential gardens. The miko might feel more at home among the weeds, don’t you think?” His sarcastic sally was met with toothy grins from the five youkai lounging around the luxuriously-appointed office. As he pushed back his seat and stood up, his soldiers came smartly to attention. One darted forward to open the door for him with a bow made silly by the man’s ugly, lime-green mohawk.
Disgusted, for it irritated the dark hanyou no end that his men could still look like the gangsters and street toughs they had once been, he snarled, “Shave that shit off, Rensa.”
“Y-Yes, boss---Mr. President,” Rensa gulped, bowing again. Idiot.
Sweeping from the room, Naraku led his nervy entourage through the expansive halls of the presidential palace, certain that the miko would be waiting for him exactly where he wanted her to, and wondering why it was she had come, the cold little bitch.
We fly high, no lie, you know this. (Balling!)Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. We fly high, no lie, you know this.
Foreign rides, outside, it’s like showbiz. (Balling!)
We stay fly, (Fly!) no lie, (No Lie!) you know this. (Balling!)Hips and thighs, oh my, stay focused.
She was waiting for him, her serene expression calculated to get under his skin. He wondered what that pale, skinny face would look like with a bullet hole right in the middle of those elegantly arched brows.
Amused, he waved at his men to spread themselves out and around the perimeter of the small, inner garden. A fountain tickled tranquilly in the middle of a stone patio, fancifully-carved benches placed here and there for privacy or ease. The miko, robed in the traditional red and white of her calling, stood to one side, her hands hidden in her long sleeves as she regarded him with a tranquil expression.
“My dear, Kikyou,” Naraku smiled, his red eyes gleaming. “This is certainly a surprise.”
“Is it?” She asked, her tone icily sarcastic.
“Shouldn’t it be?” He almost purred as he stepped closer to her. “I would think that a miko of your insignificance would hardly have anything to see me about, youkai that I am.”
“Youkai?” Her smile was slight, mocking. “Isn‘t ‘hanyou’ more appropriate?”
His eyes narrowed dangerously as his claws flexed, itching to wrap themselves around her white throat. Damn stick.
“Have you seen your cousin Kagome lately? I heard that her spiritual potential has far outstripped your own, though I wonder why it was she was never trained as you were. I would think that the head priestess of Kyoto would ensure her own family, at least, would receive the proper safeguards in training her holy powers. An untrained miko can be dangerously unstable---any rogue bastard with ill intentions could use that raw power for their own benefit. Such a dangerously delightful tool, don’t you think?” His voice dropped to a velvety whisper as the miko went rigid with icy anger.
“Perhaps it was jealousy that drove her closest family to desert her and leave the poor defenseless innocent untrained. Isn’t it true that your cousin’s potential far outstrips your own meager powers, dear Kikyo? And isn’t it true that your rank as lead priestess would be in dispute if one of such ability chose to argue it?” Naraku smiled silkily as the priestess’s emotionless mask cracked just a little to show the hot rage that sparked in her dark eyes.
“I have done as much as I can for my cousin, but that is none of your concern, is it, Mr. President?” Kikyo hissed, eyes glittering.
“Of course not.” Naraku smiled, his eyes just as hard.
One of his youkai shuffled their feet at the heavy tension that hung between the two of them, and the slight sound broke it. Naraku smiled slowly, his eyes glowing in slight amusement, feeling somehow as if he had won the silent battle between them. Leisurely strolling over to the nearest bench, he settled himself with languid grace. Staring at his carefully manicured claws, he asked, “Why are you here, miko? What is it you want?”
“Want?” The cold stick seemed suddenly amused. “What I want, Naraku, you could never provide.”
“Really? How utterly disappointing,” Naraku sneered, his red eyes narrowing. Abruptly tiring of the stupid game, he placed his palms flat on his bent knees and leaned forward. “Tell me, miko, what the fuck do you want? What brings you here, of all places, where you are so unwelcome?”
An elegant brow rose. The cold stick regarded him with a faint smile, her dark eyes fathomless. “The Shikon no Tama.”
Hiding his surprise, Naraku regarded the pale miko under lowered lids. Lounging back with insincere nonchalance, he said drolly, “Perhaps we do have something to talk about. Please, sit, Miss Higurashi, and tell me more…”
You mens need to stay focused,When you dealing with a mother-fucking G!You know my name---Jones, One Eye, Capo Status.Only above motherfucker,This Dipset ByrdGang we born to fly!
Y’all know the rules, fall back or fall back.Someone tell my bitch, I’m looking for her.Ya dig? Another day, another dollar.Fast life fucker.