InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Nasty Little Habit ❯ Nasty Little Habit ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha, Rumiko Takahashi does.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note: I know, I know, I'm supposed to be working on The Sweetest Escape, but as so many authors before me, this idea popped into my head, demanded to be written, and refused to leave.

 

I was listening to Tony Braxton's song Spanish Guitar, and this came to me.

 

01/18/08—Just a few little edits, nothing major.

 

 

 

 

 

Nasty Little Habit

 

 

 

 

 

She peered into the mirror critically, the car visor's dim lights bathing her face in a warm glow. Sighing, she added a bit more gloss, rubbing her lips together and puckering them once, twice, three times. There was a smudge of eyeliner underneath her left eye, near the corner. She delicately wiped it away with the tip of her pinky, careful not to smear any of the painstakingly crafted job she'd done on the rest of her face.

 

 

 

 

 

“You don't have time for this,” she told her reflection exasperatedly. “You're supposed to be studying.” Frowning at herself, she shook her head and rolled her eyes with frustration. “This is a complete and total waste of time. So you should just put the keys back into the ignition, turn the car on, and drive home. Drive home. Drive home,” she muttered through gritted teeth. Her reflection blinked back at her almost impishly. It knew she was going nowhere. It knew just what was about to happen. Just like every other Thursday night at 7:53 pm.

 

 

 

 

 

Here she was again. Here she was again, applying her makeup in her rusty little Buick, in her usual parking space in the lot of The Ooka Bar. It was a nasty little habit.

 

 

 

 

 

As if of their own volition, her fingers pulled the zipper shut on her small makeup bag and tucked it into her purse. Her hands yanked the door handle back with just right amount of force to make the rusty old clamps give way. Her legs swung themselves out and her feet hit the ground, and her body pulled itself from the driver's seat out into the cold night air, her breath steaming in front of her. She slammed the door shut in her frustration with herself and pulled the long black pea coat tight around her body as she surged forward toward the club's entrance.

 

 

 

 

 

“This is stupid, Kagome. This is so, so stupid—coming here again and again. There is something wrong with you. There is clearly something terribly wrong with you; you're absolutely, madly obsessed. There's no way you're going to get that college diploma you've been working on for the past three years if you don't let these little compulsions go and just study,” she muttered to herself. The scolding speech fell on her own deaf ears. It was the same thing every Thursday. Not one sentence, not one word, not one syllable changed. And neither did her actions.

 

 

 

 

 

The giant and ridiculously muscled bouncer nodded at her in recognition and held the dinged, graffiti-marred metal door open for her. She nodded her thanks and blinked her eyes rapidly as she entered to adjust to the dim light of the bar.

 

 

 

 

 

The Ooka Bar was a complete dive. It was filthy, it looked two steps above an abandoned building, and it reeked of cigarettes, sex, and over fifty kinds of hard liquor. Those that frequented Ooka's were only of the most unsavory sort; drug pushers and drug dealers, pimps and their charges, those that utilized the services of those charges, and violent, belligerent drunks. Kagome didn't belong there. She was by no means absolutely innocent. She'd tried her hand at a few recreational drugs, had her fair share of hangovers from a night of heavy drinking, and had known the pleasure of a man's bed. But she was sure that her mother would have an absolute fit if she were knew where her college student spent the bulk of her Thursday nights.

 

 

 

 

 

Thick billows of cigarette smoke clouded the air, giving the entire interior of the building an inherently hazy look. The ramshackle bar to her right serviced various seedy-looking characters who eyed her lustfully as she passed. A scantily-clad woman, most likely a prostitute, leaned provocatively toward the man next to her. He was clean shaven, well-dressed and totally out of place, just like her. `Yup. Definitely a prostitute,' Kagome thought in passing.

 

 

 

 

 

Moving through the maze of round, wobbling tables, Kagome made her way to her usual seat, near the wall, just out of sight of most of the other patrons, yet with a perfect view of the small stage at the front of the room.

 

 

 

 

 

“What'll it be tonight?” came a gruff voice, the waiter, holding his pad of paper, stubby pencil poised above it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Just a coffee. Black. Thanks,” she said briefly, not bothering to look at him. He was unimportant. She hadn't come to see him. She tore her waiting gaze away from the stage to glance at her watch. 7:58. `Any minute now,' she thought with anticipation. She kept her eyes trained to the stage.

 

 

 

 

 

She patted her hair self-consciously, glancing away from the stage for only a moment. It was a pretty empty house tonight; there were only about seven other people seated and waiting for the show as she. That was odd. Usually the bar was full, almost packed on this night. It wasn't the first strangely empty night, though.

 

 

 

 

 

A thump on the stage caught her attention, and her eyes whipped back to the stage to catch whatever action was unfolding. Her breath quickened and her heartbeat picked up, her hands twitching around the handle of her purse in anticipation. `8:04,' she thought, glancing at her watch briefly. `Just like always.'

 

 

 

 

 

He always brought the chair out first. It was a rickety, splintery old thing, and it didn't look safe to sit on. But it was always the same one. The very. Same. One.

 

 

 

 

 

Then he would retreat back stage for a few moments and return shortly, the long, strange shaped case in hand. He sat the same way every week: turned slightly to the right, his left thigh hanging off the front of the chair, his right off to the side. With his foot, he slid the case closer, making a perfect forty-five degree angle with it to the chair.

 

 

 

 

 

The case snapped open with two nudges of his left toes, encased in the absolutely filthy work boots he wore every time she saw him. He reached into the case and lifted out his instrument: an absolutely gorgeous deep blue acoustic guitar. He looped the black strap around his neck, and allowed the thing of beauty to lightly straddle his right thigh. He pulled the microphone closer to him, and with one, two, three twists to the left, always to the left, he lowered it and angled the amplifier to his instrument.

 

 

 

 

 

Her coffee came. Hurried, she emptied exactly half a packet of sugar to the oily looking liquid and stirred it with her finger, sucking off the excess. It was a nasty little habit.

 

 

 

 

 

Everything had become quiet. She wasn't the only one the guitar player had under his spell. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, black like always, and selected one long cylinder, replacing the green box. He took out the same red lighter he always had and after four clicks on the turn that Kagome always counted along with, he lit his cigarette. He was consistent. He was order. He was method. She liked that.

 

 

 

 

 

She didn't know why she returned week after week, month after month. It was a nasty little habit. She was compelled by some force more powerful than she to come and see him every Thursday night, when the bluesy, mellow chords would begin pour from the strings of his guitar at exactly 8:07 on the nose. She was compelled to sit in the same seat, to order the same drink, and to stare at him, entranced at…something.

 

 

 

 

 

If it hadn't been for a ridiculous mistake in a moment of panic, she would have never stumbled upon this strange propensity towards obsession that she didn't know she had.

 

 

 

 

 

The first chords of some unknown but smooth and intoxicating melody floated to her ears from the strings of his guitar. Kagome took a sip of her coffee and closed her eyes, savoring the rich flavor of the drink, and the rich sounds that enveloped her. She didn't keep them closed for long; watching him was half the fun.

 

 

 

 

 

The shadowy light of the bar enshrouded her, and only made him seem to glow that much more fiercely. He pointed his right foot, keeping it up so that he could easily reach the neck and strings of the guitar he strummed so effortlessly, so beautifully. Kagome could easily imagine the sinewy line that would mark his undoubtedly well-developed calf, were it bared to her view. The beige cuffs of his shirt were pushed up to the crooks of his elbows, exposing the skin she just knew was so smooth. The lean muscles in his left forearm flexed and jumped, moved like water under his tanned skin. His long fingers moved deftly and with practiced ease over the strings, caressing them like a lover. Kagome sighed, holding her mug just under her nose. She could almost feel those fingers flitting across her face, across her back, feel those perfectly sized hands running over her…well. She could think of a much better use for those talented and perfect hands. It was a nasty little habit.

 

 

 

 

 

His hat, always the same worn and shabby cabby hat, shaded his chiseled face. She didn't need much light to know what it looked like, though. She knew what it looked like. Strong angles and smooth planes, a perfect nose and hypnotizing eyes of gold made up his face—a god's face. His amazing silver hair was tied back into its usual ponytail with a tiny leather strip. Her mind fooled her fingertips to feel the silk that she knew it must be like, to run her hands through the mane. For the umpteenth time Kagome wished that he would shake it loose, just so she could see, just once. But then she supposed it wouldn't follow the rules of the usual routine they engaged in, even if it was only her who knew.

 

 

 

 

 

His cigarette dangled from between his lips. He took long drags on the stick, expelling the smoke through a tiny hole in the side of his mouth. He didn't sing. He never sang. In her opinion, there was no need. The rich melodies carried themselves. Words would only get in the way. He didn't need to sing. She wondered oftentimes if he didn't sing simply so he could have a smoke as he plated. It made no difference to her. She could think of a better use for that mouth anyway. But then…Kagome had always had quite the imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

What was it about him? Was it the cool, calm vibe he exhibited? Was it how he could capture all of her attention by simply being there, despite his inherently shabby appearance? Maybe it was his music. Were the wordless notes of his playing the thing that had her returning faithfully every week? Did the smooth sounds of the melodies play on her ears so much that she had the compulsion to keep coming back?

 

 

 

 

 

No. It wasn't his music. That was a part of it, but not the biggest part. It was him. There was no reason to lie. It wasn't as though anyone else could read her thoughts. No one else could know her secret; that she thought he was the most beautiful person she'd ever laid eyes on. That she, a relatively level-headed college student, usually an advocate for monogamy and relationships first, had desired nothing more for the past four months than to have him in her bed.

 

 

 

 

 

He reached the song's crescendo, and his head lolled back as if in ecstasy, exposing the perfect column of his throat, his flawless face finally fully exposed to the light. His lips twitched ever so slightly and a small clump of ash from his cigarette fluttered to the floor where it smoldered. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and Kagome's jaw unconsciously hung slightly open. She blushed. She could see herself torturing that throat. She could see herself stroking his vulnerable skin before latching on with her mouth and refusing to relinquish her hold until she was satisfied, until she'd tasted him thoroughly. Her blush intensified. The very same blush she always wore when her thoughts wandered concerning the stunning man onstage. That same nasty little habit.

 

 

 

 

 

He was done. All too soon, his set was over. Kagome checked her watch as she always did. 10:05. Two hours had never flown by so quickly. She set down the now cold mug of coffee, leaving the bill on the table, and slung her purse over her shoulder, standing to leave.

 

 

 

 

 

She made a beeline for the door, preparing her little soothe-me-down on her way out. She fished out a cigarette of her own, lighting up as she pushed her hip against the door, nodding once again to the bouncer. This was her routine, her nasty little habit.

 

 

 

 

 

Kagome stood just outside, her back turned to the door of Ooka's, holding her cigarette daintily between her index and middle fingers, her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders hunched. It was even colder now than it had been two hours ago. Even still, she would stay, play out the rest of her act. She would finish one and a half cigarettes before getting into her car, and going back to her apartment, finishing the night by lying to herself that she was about to study. She would reflect on the guitar player as she smoked, fantasizing and dreaming as she always did.

 

 

 

 

 

Her first cigarette was out. She threw the spent butt to the cold ground, squishing out the embers with a toe, pulled out number two, her numbed fingers having trouble getting the light. Finally, on the seventh click the flame came to life and she lit up a second.

 

 

 

 

 

The door to Ooka's creaked open and then slammed shut, pushing a gust of warm air in her direction. She paid whatever patron was leaving no mind, just in case it was some slimy old pervert looking for a young piece of ass. She was in no mood to use the pepper spray she carried with her tonight. The silence of the night was perfect, and fat snowflakes drifted lazily to the ground around her. She inhaled the sweet smell of fresh snow and cigarette smoke.

 

 

 

 

 

“How many more Thursdays are you going to come here without saying hello?” came a rough, deep voice from behind.

 

 

 

 

 

Kagome whirled around, ready to promptly tongue lash the person who dared to disturb her peace, when she froze. Her eyes widened comically and she gasped, subsequently choking on an obscene amount of smoke. Hot tears stung her eyes and her cheeks turned pink from her coughing as well as her mortification as she tried to regain her breath before she lost an unredeemable amount of poise. Too late for that. She pressed a hand to her chest, still managing to stare at him incredulously.

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, reaching a hand out, perhaps to pat her on the back and get her breathing normally again. Her watering eyes darted to his outstretched hand, the left one, the same one he plucked the guitar strings with. `If he touches me, I swear, I might just pass out,' she thought through her choking fit.

 

 

 

 

 

After what seemed like an eternity, her ability to breathe normally returned, and she embarrassedly cleared her throat, and carefully blotted her eyes. She was amazed to find that she had not dropped her cigarette, and with a shaking hand, she brought it to her lips, taking a deep drag on it.

 

 

 

 

 

“All that choking and you still…” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Smoking's bad for you, you know,” he said. Kagome gave him a wide-eyed disbelieving look. He smirked at her before rounding those perfect lips to take a puff on his own light and holding it. She melted.

 

 

 

 

 

“I know. It's a nasty little habit of mine,” she said, her voice wavering.

 

 

 

 

 

“So back to my question,” he began, exhaling, sending curling wisps from between his luscious-looking lips. His voice…the only word she could think of to describe it was smooth. “Why do you never say hello?”

 

 

 

 

 

Kagome pressed her lips together firmly and looked away from him. “I…I didn't know I was required to,” she said softly, her voice shaking against her will.

 

 

 

 

 

“Well, you're not,” he agreed. “I just thought, you know, since you come in so often…I'd at least get the chance to meet you. One of these Thursdays…” she gasped, this time taking care not to inhale any of her own smoke and send herself into another choking fit.

 

 

 

 

 

“You…how did you know I—?”

 

 

 

 

 

“It'd be kind of hard to miss you,” he said earnestly, eyeing her hard. She fell into his eyes; they twinkled and called her, and she couldn't resist their siren's song. Everything about him…he was smothering her. His smell, of earthy leather and fresh pine and sharp cigarette smoke, intoxicated her. Being this close to him…She had no idea that she could get so turned on from simply standing near a person she'd never once met.

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh…Kami,” she whispered tremulously.

 

 

 

 

 

“What?” he asked curiously at her murmur. She hadn't intended for him to hear. She shook her head.

 

 

 

 

 

“Nothing…nothing…”

 

 

 

 

 

“Aw, come on, tell me. `Oh, Kami,' what?” he prompted playfully.

 

 

 

 

 

“I just…I never thought…” she trailed off, almost incapable of gathering her thoughts and stringing together a proper sentence. Her foot was tapping slightly in agitation. “I never thought I'd be…here. Talking to you…” she admitted reluctantly, embarrassedly.

 

 

 

 

 

“Well, that's because you never came over to say anything,” he pointed out easily. His eyes ran over her form quickly; if she'd blinked she would have missed it. “Why is that?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Why what?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Why haven't you ever come over to talk? You're here enough.”

 

 

 

 

 

Kagome looked at him for a long time. She could lie. It would be so easy to lie. It would take hardly any effort at all, especially with all the time she was using up by thinking on what her response ought to be. But why? She had a feeling that this man, so apparently self-assured and confident knew the thoughts that ran unmercifully through her head. That charming gleam in his clear eyes told her that much. She took a deep breath and barreled on head first.

 

 

 

 

 

“Because…If I never talked to you…if I never heard your voice or got to know you then you could always…you could always be perfect in my head, in my fanta—dreams. In my dreams. That way, if you were any different from what I always thought you to be, I'd never know,” she explained. “I…I like to…to look at you. And…I can look at you and I can imagine that you talk and…touch and…make love however I want. Then if I don't speak to you…none of that can be messed up. My fantasy is still alive,” she mumbled, her voice dropping exponentially in volume. Her face was aflame. She took three long drags on her cigarette before it burnt out. Her trembling hands quickly snatched another out of the box in her purse and she felt around for her lighter.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fantasy…” he murmured, as though he'd never heard the word before. “Is that why you come here every Thursday? Because you like to look at me?”

 

 

 

 

 

“I like your music, too,” she amended quickly. “Don't get me wrong. I love to hear you play. It's beautiful. It's just…I…well. I think that you are already pretty aware that I think you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, so…yes.” She slapped a hand over her eyes, clenching them shut. “Kami, you probably think I'm some kind of psycho stalker…”

 

 

 

 

 

“No, no, no,” he rushed to say. “No, I…I'm intrigued actually,” he remarked, as though surprised that he felt that way. “Tell me…what made you decide to come to Ooka's in the first place?” he asked. “You don't seem like the type of girl that fits in here.” Kagome turned helpless eyes toward him and shrugged.

 

 

 

 

 

“It was a mistake, actually…” she admitted, recalling that first time she'd seen him two months ago. “My ex and I…we'd just broken up. At that restaurant down the street—Mitsumi's? I just remember leaving, and thinking that I needed a drink, a stiff drink. I didn't have my car, because he'd driven. I just wandered in, really. And I sat down and I ordered, and the next thing I knew, you were playing.” She stared at him.

 

 

 

 

 

“There was—is—just something about you…it made me want to come back. And I came that Friday and you weren't there, and I couldn't believe how disappointed I was. And so I came back the next night and the next, and you still weren't there. And then I came the next Thursday, and there you were again…and I just can't stop coming. I'm…I'm like obsessed.” Her face heated as she essentially spilled her guts, not knowing why she was so suddenly open to sharing her fixation with him.

 

 

 

 

 

“I…I get these compulsions to just come every Thursday like clockwork, like a habit, and I can't seem to stop. Believe me, I should really stop!” she exclaimed. His lips quirked up a bit into a slightly crooked smile. She shook her head, her brow crinkled in frustration with herself. “I—I'm supposed to be studying right now, and instead, I'm here! I came here to listen to you, and to look at you, and to watch you, and to…to think about you and—and this is crazy!”

 

 

 

 

 

“…”

 

 

 

 

 

“I don't…I don't know what it is about you…I mean, I do. I do know what it is, but I don't know why I…Why it's you that does this to me…” she said helplessly. She flicked ash from the tip of her cigarette and rubbed her temples. “This is so crazy…”

 

 

 

 

 

“I agree with you there,” he said. “It is crazy.” He gave her a sly grin. “It's kind of hot though,” he murmured. Kagome's head whipped up and she gaped at him just before a wave of intense tingling heat flooded her entire body, head to toes.

 

 

 

 

 

“Ooohh,” she moaned, suddenly a bit dizzy. She pressed the heel of her free hand to her forehead. “This—this isn't me…this isn't me, I swear,” she repeated.

 

 

 

 

 

“What isn't you?”

 

 

 

 

 

“This,” she emphasized, waving her cigarette-toting hand about them. “This…this practically throwing myself at you.” Long, long, calming drag on her cigarette. “I don't do this. I know that probably doesn't mean anything, given recent events—but I'm serious. This isn't me, but you are…you are addictive,” she said in awe, frowning as though she couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth. “You are. You're like crack or something. It's ridiculous. It's almost sickening,” she finished with disgust.

 

 

 

 

 

“No, it's not sickening. That's not the word I'd use.”

 

 

 

 

 

“What word would you use?” she whispered shakily.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hm…exhilarating,” he said finally after a pause. Sparks lit up in those eyes, robbing her of breath with their intensity. She gulped.

 

 

 

 

“I am not a whore,” she blurted. `Well, that was tactless,' she thought dryly. “I mean…I do not just…just…lust after every guitar player that I meet—not that I meet a lot of guitar players—not that I'm lusting after you…I mean, I am, but…but not really. I…” Her words left her and she just stood there with her mouth opening and closing like a fish as she tried to continue. She pressed her hands, humiliated, to her face.

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay…let me say this,” she said evenly, taking her hands away from her face and holding the out in a gesture meant to calm herself. “I am…a very level-headed person. Usually. I think things through, I plan, I organize. I don't make rash decisions. Usually. I'm focused. I am in college working toward going to med school next fall. This…is not what I do…but apparently it is…aw, shit!” she hissed.

 

 

 

 

“I am just burying myself in a hole deeper and deeper, and humiliating myself, and you! You've barely even said ten words! This is insane! I don't even know you! How can I want you so badly and I don't even know you? I don't' even know your na—”

 

 

 

 

 

Before she could finish her last word, his hand was cupped firmly around the back of her neck and his other, perched lightly on her hip. But for once, she didn't give a shit about his hands. All of her attention, all of her nerve endings had gathered to the junction between their mouths as he lavished her with the deepest, most intoxicatingly passionate kiss she'd ever received.

 

 

 

 

 

For once, she had no time to be shy. Her cigarette fell to the ground forgotten as her hands gripped the lapels of his worn leather jacket; she pressed herself fully against him, screaming in victory as the hard muscles she just knew were there presented an unyielding surface for her to revel in. She wantonly opened her mouth wider, allowing him all the access he needed to sweep her into a dizzying haze of pleasure and fulfilled fantasy. She didn't know it was possible, but the warmth that had already filled her abdomen increased tenfold as she took the lead, delving her tongue into his mouth and moaning without restraint as he reciprocated the action.

 

 

 

 

 

All too soon, the natural pause that every kiss seems to have pulled them apart. Though she still clung quite desperately to his coat.

 

 

 

 

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk entirely too much?” he grinned down at her. She blinked up at him, dizzy, and more than a little hot and bothered.

 

 

 

 

 

“Um…yes. Yes, I've been told once or twice,” admitted, nodding self-consciously. “How…how is that possible?”

 

 

 

 

 

“What?”

 

 

 

 

 

“How is it possible that you kiss exactly how I've always imagined you would? That you touch me just like I thought…” Realization dawned on her. “Oh…Oh, Kami…” she groaned, clamping a hand over her eyes. “Oh, Kami, I am a whore…”

 

 

 

 

 

“No, you're not.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes, yes, I am!” she wailed. “I just completely threw myself at you—I kissed you and I don't even know you! I don't even know your name, and I—”

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said soothingly, taking her hand away from her face. “I kissed you first, remember? If you're a whore, so am I,” he smiled. “Hell, I'm an even bigger one.” She managed a weak one as well.

 

 

 

 

 

“I doubt anyone would fault you if you were,” she said coyly, if not a bit quietly. He chuckled, displaying once again a straight row of pearly whites, complete with two short fangs that gleamed devilishly.

 

 

 

 

 

“You're kind of neurotic, you know that?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Mm-hm…in addition to being obsessive, a blabbermouth and cripplingly shy, I am also a bit neurotic. I have several neuroses, actually. You wouldn't want to hear them all—”

 

 

 

 

 

He kissed her again, long and lingeringly, sucking provocatively on her bottom lip as he pulled away.

 

 

 

 

 

“There you go again. Talk, talk, talking away.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I know. I'm sorry. It's a nasty little habit of mine. I'll be quiet.”

 

 

 

 

 

“You got a name, lovely?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Ka—Kagome. And you?”

 

 

 

 

 

“Inuyasha,” he supplied. He winked at her roguishly, sending that unstoppable tingle through her again and again. “So since you're so obsessively into me,” he began, winking again, a self-assured smirk tweaking his mouth, which now held an excessive amount of her lip gloss. “If I were to ask you for your phone number, what would you say?”

 

 

 

 

 

Kagome gasped, her heart tattooing rapidly in her chest. Was this really really happening?

 

 

 

 

 

“I…I'd s-s-say it's…555-1212,” she answered tremulously.

 

 

 

 

 

“And if I were to call you, say, around 12 noon tomorrow, and I were to ask you if you wanted to grab some dinner, then maybe have a walk through the park, what would you say then?”

 

 

 

 

 

“I'd ask you where and what time,” she said confidently. His grin widened.

 

 

 

 

“If I were to ask you if you'll be here next Thursday, same time, what would you say then?”

 

 

 

 

 

“I'd say…I'd tell you that I've got this nasty little habit…and I just can't seem to break it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note:

 

 

I don't know why I wrote that. The stupid little idea just wouldn't leave. Anyway, just let me know what you think!

 

(yeah, I know, no lemon…I just don't think I'm up to that right now…)

 

Review!

 

Wowzer313