Paradiso at Gato Negro
A Sailor Moon Fanfiction
Written by Nikki Miyawaza
Disclaimer: Do you really want me to say the dread words that every fanfic writer loathes to say? Fine, I'll say it. I really do shave my legs. Or was it, "I really wuv my legs?" But honestly, I DO wuv my legs. Sailor Moon, Ruruouni Kenshin does not belong to me, but the doorman who cusses at least once in this chapter does. He's my part-time plumber. You don't know what my pet crocodile puts in the toilet!!! His name is "Snooger."
Chapter I: The First Floor
***
The view was of stars masking the great painting in the sky, full of enigma as it stared at the lowly, mortal skyscrapers in New York. Nothing was more magnificent than this. This paradise available to both the wealthy and the poor, a scenery to bewitch man into submission.
Here was the view from Gato Negro's roof, unknown to anyone, but her.
When she lived as a child in Gato Negro, the daughter of a low-paid butler in a high class hotel, the roof was her only salvation from the cold bantering the adolescents of Gato Negro's guests, the children of middle- aged business who owned prize wives and found pleasure in virgin (not anymore) half of their age and congressmen who, over the years, became too twisted to find integrity in their vocation, the taunting laughter when they flaunted in their seasonal fashions as she walked in second-rate rags. And her father would merely reply, as she came to him with her face in childish tears,
"Child, my dear Serenity, you don't realize that you and they are one and the same. We all feel pain, however there is where the line is crossed. Children like them are rejected and spoiled, wealthy and lonely, while you are loved and happy in these ragged conditions. Don't give them the satisfaction of your tears, for it is you who should be pitying them."
And now, the father that she knows and loves, lies vulnerable in the stark, bare room in King's County Hospital. Once more, Serenity D'Ubervilles was that lonely child, face drowning in salty surrender, even at the fruitful age of 23, looking over the fireflies in office buildings, creating the scene of a world that never seizes to halt.
How was she going to pay for his heart operation, hospital payments, and apartment bills, working as some cheap maid at Gato Negro? Where was she going to earn 20 grand?
This was her father's epic end to the tragedy he lives? And all those damn surgeons, blinded by the cruelty of greed and money, would risk an honorable man's life because payments were not made?
Fuck them!
"But how's that going to help me save Papa from dying?"
However, young D'Ubervilles did not realize the heavy weight and truth in her words.
***
"No, father. This convention in New York City is a highly prized event, and is not considered 'a meeting between smart assholes who talk about bullshit.' If that was true, then I'd live in the fucking convention. I have to go now. Good luck on the campaign."
A highly drawled sigh escaped his lips with velvet anguish. This conflict between his father and himself originated even in the hazy years of childhood. A recollection of regretful moments doused whatever spark of emotion his father claimed to have for his God-given son. Darren Shields, the democratic representative for California, was a man of deep politics. As any proud man of the government, he found some wry satisfaction in delivering new Shields blood into politics, namely cultivating the roots of his respected identity into his son, Darien Shields, to become the second Shields in politics.
Yet, the defiant man of 29 found the medical path as his succession, becoming a renowned surgeon, the epitome of success and ego, high rank and class. His father, however frowned upon this twisted vocation, and the bond between father and son could not find salvation with their differences.
Darien had upon his face a pained expression, marring his handsome features, which he inherited from his father, that wooed women of ages alike and unlike. It was his charm and wealth, or merely his sexual allure, that attracted them like a moth to a cold, stoical flame, and his indifference and lack of commitment that devastated them. Never was he bound to "the ring," or ever will be as he often proclaimed to his beer buddies.
An act of impulse allowed his head to follow the path towards the rooftop of Gato Negro. At that very moment, the world and his conflicts had not existed, nor the jetlag he witnessed during his 13.5 hour flight, beauty caused him to catch his breath, in attempt to find his breath.
She was an astounding creature, with her natural beauty, enrapturing her in a cocoon of mystical wonder. Untouchable in every sense of the world, this golden goddess had her flaxen (almost a lunarian silver hue) tresses play some seductive game with the schoolboy wind, who acted the hormonal victim. Her attire, which should have balanced the indescribable perfection, was one of a servant, even when she should be draped in some Greek mythical toga to complete time's greatest portrait, or upon silk sheets, wearing nothing but the satin skin nature has given her, golden ribbons curling his bed sheets while her siren voice called ecstasy.
{What I'd give to have her in my bed.}
His gorgeous lips smirked in lecherous humor.
Never had such a woman caused the Hunger to replace self-control. However, this unknown siren became the Muse of unspoken erotica, whereas he, as a man and not an indifferent playboy, would give unbound reaches to claim her in his bed, as his own. Only his to witness the sweet honey and taste.
"Mine."
Already his voice owned a husky trait, forced and sexually agitated.
"Where is such a beauty found?"
A statement only meant for America's most notorious Casanova, and within a foolish blink of his eye, no longer was the vision perched on the roof, like the prized nightingale she was. Like an illusion, the goddess of Gato Negro was a creature of neither reality or fantasy.
She was gone, and somehow this unnamed angel from the mundane earth would not leave his senses, despite his efforts to banish such a threat to his masculine pride and shelter from the bind of a demanding wife, a person who could lead him into his state of unhealthy emotion. There, upon the marble steps of Gato Negro, he stood as some Athenian statue to marvel at, which some passerbys, both women and men, did. Still, yet moving, powerful and genuine.
{Damn it, where is she?}
"Sir, is something wrong?" the accent of some native New Yorker rang out form his reverie. The doorman held an expression of professional concern, and Darien replied, in effort to compose himself,
"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. She will not get to me. I swear it."
The doorman stared strangely at the young surgeon, and as he passed by when the door was opened to the iridescent warmth of the hotel inside, he swore that the balding doorman muttered an incoherent phrase that sounded similar to,
"These rich people today. All that money must have fried their brain into shit."
Ignoring such a comment, Darien Shields could only continue to recall the sight, the hunger, and the restrain of his untamed alter-ego, like the fierce spirit of the Battousai within the comic hero Kenshin Himura known in the manga he loved so dearly when he was younger. So like the legendary manslayer, both characters needed to find some control in the face of women. In his deeply-strung words, laced with annoyance, regret, and lust, he whispered to no one entirely,
"I will find you."
Then he turned his attention to the luggage boy, standing in the corner, most likely an amateur in his field, awaiting the harsh command of the rich and famous. In a voice that spoke of authority, yet respect, Darien asked the boy to bring his luggage to room 206, the Aria Suite.
***
Lost in her vision of reverie, recalling the brief moment that she stole some forbidden capture of some Adonis that graced the unworthy, marble steps of Gato Negro, where as he should have walked a path of god's silk and the clouds, still virgin from the city's arrogant pollution. The distance blurred any pencil-thin details, however is entire embodiment caused a stirring to occur.
[Where do I get one of those? If normal guys looked like that Adonis, I wouldn't be a virgin anymore.]
Lust. She was in heat, and it was his mere presence that caused this? His hair, the hue of hell and all things that belong to fallen angels, it was seductive, intimidating, and raw with power. His eyes, pools of wonder, like an ocean, hidden in the murky depths of the underworld, where the souls are residents of abandoned tragedies in their shipwrecks. They surpassed mortal blue, yet somehow they showed something that never crossed her mind in all her innocent spinster years: the bare ability to be wanton.
To heavily stirred by such an emotion in a brief occurrence, she looked away, hid from his sight, unable to analyze the power of his gaze, a look that penetrated passed the barriers she built amongst her soul, so no other can cause her to wither into nothingness. Yet this one person caused her to become an object of reckless abandon with a mere stare.
"Girl, you have to unpack the luggage for the Aria Suite. Gossip says that some hot-shot playboy is rooming in, and he gives generous tips. If not, if I'm wrong, honey, then just the shot of his fine package is enough for us starving girls. Right? I think he's deserves a A?"
Her notorious partner-in-crime rang out. Molly Estrella has always been the one who keeps her eyes on guys, like some auctioneer and their stock of man slaves. However, even with her recent engagement with a homely man named Melvin Currier, the complete opposite of the grade-A men she stalked (literally), Molly still rates the male guests with accurecy of a movie critic.
"Molly, really? Does it matter if they have a nice package? They are all the same, rich bastards with power, money, and gorgeous bimbos in their minds. I wouldn't be surprised if this one turned out to be married with three wives."
The redhead looked at Serena with a pitying glare, then making an attempt for a wistful shake of the head.
"When did you get to be such a pessimistic bitch? Men aren't that bad, actually they really are quite good. Mmmm."
[OMG. Save me from this un-virgin. I might just take a lesbian lover at this rate.]
"Eeeewwwwww!!! Not my virgin ears, not my virgin eyes. Molly, that is disgusting."
Their conversation led them to the front door of room 206, the Aria Suite. Then Molly turned to Serena with an envious stare with a feather duster in hand as if it was some weapon used for the battle ahead.
"No, what I think is disgusted is how you can be 23 and still a virgin. Hello? Girls are grandmas at that age in New York. Take this duster, and tell me if he wears boxers or briefs. Ciao, Rena."
[Boxers or briefs? Briefs, duh!]
As expected, the Aria Suite was the embodiment of perfection, of convenience, and a world the other side across the partisan line would never dream to witness in their meaningless lives. Sounds hypocritical from a woman girl who is amongst the crowd in rags, but the thought is based on logic and truth.
"People like me would never be able to be in suites like these, but we'll always be the one that makes it pretty. Rather pathetic."
Walking to the master bedroom of the suite, taking slight steps, in taking the primary sights of the suite, due to her extreme "klutziness," Serena lost her footing and landed on the satin sheets of the bed, which felt heavenly, and she would've enveloped herself in the warmth if it wasn't for her task at hand. In attempt to remove herself from the bed, she wrapped the high-quality comforter tightly around her, until the petite little moon bunny was completely enwrapped, unable to escape the surrounding bed sheet.
[Why does this happen to me? What have I done? God! Weehee, look at me. I'm crawling on the floor like some fucking insect.]
With her innovative mind and wry humor, she took the instincts of a caterpillar, and now Serene found herself imitating its appearance as well [Imagine Serena with fat comforters around her so she looked like a fat, pudgy caterpillar]. Crawling she went to his doorknob to somehow find some relief from her situation, then after some wriggling, exhaustion overtook her body and limply, she fell on the suitcases, which was found opened. Nose-first, Serena D'Ubervilles, a woman of dignity, had her face in his underclothes, to find that he wore boxers.
"Boxers! I knew it. They smell good."
Then a voice rang from the merciless heavens, deep and rich, and the beginning of her end.
[Uh-oh. I'm dead now.]
"Thanks. I use Tide."
With weary eyes, cautious and defiant, she looked to her captor, the man who would be the reason Gato Negro would close their doors to her and leave her homeless, heartless, jobless, and money less. If he told about the incident that occurred today . . .
"Hi."
The spawn of Satan replied his wry amusement, his dark eyes staring down upon her like some forgotten pharaoh finding some sick pleasure in his slave's condition.
"Hello there. I believe those are mine."
And the last thing she can remember saying before this chapter ended was . . .
[Who'd you think it belong to, genius? Santa Claus? I'm stuck with a dimwit.]
***
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Or do you just plain love my kawaii-ness? Review, you minions of japanimation and you'll get a life-time supply of manga and anime DVDs!!! Or just annoying hobo at your door asking for a razor to shave his legs. Either one is good for me. Now, seriously. (WHEN THE HELL AM I SERIOUS?) Review, my wittle friends. I wuv you all! *has a sign on the back of her shirt that says "DANGER: WARNING, UNDER ANGER MANAGEMENT"* You won't review . . . YOU WON'T REVIEW?!?! Holy $@#*&! You @#$%&*. Who the @#$% do you think you @#%$^ are? Sorry, please review, my darlings.
Disclaimer: Do you really want me to say the dread words that every fanfic writer loathes to say? Fine, I'll say it. I really do shave my legs. Or was it, "I really wuv my legs?" But honestly, I DO wuv my legs. Sailor Moon, Ruruouni Kenshin does not belong to me, but the doorman who cusses at least once in this chapter does. He's my part-time plumber. You don't know what my pet crocodile puts in the toilet!!! His name is "Snooger."
Chapter I: The First Floor
***
The view was of stars masking the great painting in the sky, full of enigma as it stared at the lowly, mortal skyscrapers in New York. Nothing was more magnificent than this. This paradise available to both the wealthy and the poor, a scenery to bewitch man into submission.
Here was the view from Gato Negro's roof, unknown to anyone, but her.
When she lived as a child in Gato Negro, the daughter of a low-paid butler in a high class hotel, the roof was her only salvation from the cold bantering the adolescents of Gato Negro's guests, the children of middle- aged business who owned prize wives and found pleasure in virgin (not anymore) half of their age and congressmen who, over the years, became too twisted to find integrity in their vocation, the taunting laughter when they flaunted in their seasonal fashions as she walked in second-rate rags. And her father would merely reply, as she came to him with her face in childish tears,
"Child, my dear Serenity, you don't realize that you and they are one and the same. We all feel pain, however there is where the line is crossed. Children like them are rejected and spoiled, wealthy and lonely, while you are loved and happy in these ragged conditions. Don't give them the satisfaction of your tears, for it is you who should be pitying them."
And now, the father that she knows and loves, lies vulnerable in the stark, bare room in King's County Hospital. Once more, Serenity D'Ubervilles was that lonely child, face drowning in salty surrender, even at the fruitful age of 23, looking over the fireflies in office buildings, creating the scene of a world that never seizes to halt.
How was she going to pay for his heart operation, hospital payments, and apartment bills, working as some cheap maid at Gato Negro? Where was she going to earn 20 grand?
This was her father's epic end to the tragedy he lives? And all those damn surgeons, blinded by the cruelty of greed and money, would risk an honorable man's life because payments were not made?
Fuck them!
"But how's that going to help me save Papa from dying?"
However, young D'Ubervilles did not realize the heavy weight and truth in her words.
***
"No, father. This convention in New York City is a highly prized event, and is not considered 'a meeting between smart assholes who talk about bullshit.' If that was true, then I'd live in the fucking convention. I have to go now. Good luck on the campaign."
A highly drawled sigh escaped his lips with velvet anguish. This conflict between his father and himself originated even in the hazy years of childhood. A recollection of regretful moments doused whatever spark of emotion his father claimed to have for his God-given son. Darren Shields, the democratic representative for California, was a man of deep politics. As any proud man of the government, he found some wry satisfaction in delivering new Shields blood into politics, namely cultivating the roots of his respected identity into his son, Darien Shields, to become the second Shields in politics.
Yet, the defiant man of 29 found the medical path as his succession, becoming a renowned surgeon, the epitome of success and ego, high rank and class. His father, however frowned upon this twisted vocation, and the bond between father and son could not find salvation with their differences.
Darien had upon his face a pained expression, marring his handsome features, which he inherited from his father, that wooed women of ages alike and unlike. It was his charm and wealth, or merely his sexual allure, that attracted them like a moth to a cold, stoical flame, and his indifference and lack of commitment that devastated them. Never was he bound to "the ring," or ever will be as he often proclaimed to his beer buddies.
An act of impulse allowed his head to follow the path towards the rooftop of Gato Negro. At that very moment, the world and his conflicts had not existed, nor the jetlag he witnessed during his 13.5 hour flight, beauty caused him to catch his breath, in attempt to find his breath.
She was an astounding creature, with her natural beauty, enrapturing her in a cocoon of mystical wonder. Untouchable in every sense of the world, this golden goddess had her flaxen (almost a lunarian silver hue) tresses play some seductive game with the schoolboy wind, who acted the hormonal victim. Her attire, which should have balanced the indescribable perfection, was one of a servant, even when she should be draped in some Greek mythical toga to complete time's greatest portrait, or upon silk sheets, wearing nothing but the satin skin nature has given her, golden ribbons curling his bed sheets while her siren voice called ecstasy.
{What I'd give to have her in my bed.}
His gorgeous lips smirked in lecherous humor.
Never had such a woman caused the Hunger to replace self-control. However, this unknown siren became the Muse of unspoken erotica, whereas he, as a man and not an indifferent playboy, would give unbound reaches to claim her in his bed, as his own. Only his to witness the sweet honey and taste.
"Mine."
Already his voice owned a husky trait, forced and sexually agitated.
"Where is such a beauty found?"
A statement only meant for America's most notorious Casanova, and within a foolish blink of his eye, no longer was the vision perched on the roof, like the prized nightingale she was. Like an illusion, the goddess of Gato Negro was a creature of neither reality or fantasy.
She was gone, and somehow this unnamed angel from the mundane earth would not leave his senses, despite his efforts to banish such a threat to his masculine pride and shelter from the bind of a demanding wife, a person who could lead him into his state of unhealthy emotion. There, upon the marble steps of Gato Negro, he stood as some Athenian statue to marvel at, which some passerbys, both women and men, did. Still, yet moving, powerful and genuine.
{Damn it, where is she?}
"Sir, is something wrong?" the accent of some native New Yorker rang out form his reverie. The doorman held an expression of professional concern, and Darien replied, in effort to compose himself,
"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. She will not get to me. I swear it."
The doorman stared strangely at the young surgeon, and as he passed by when the door was opened to the iridescent warmth of the hotel inside, he swore that the balding doorman muttered an incoherent phrase that sounded similar to,
"These rich people today. All that money must have fried their brain into shit."
Ignoring such a comment, Darien Shields could only continue to recall the sight, the hunger, and the restrain of his untamed alter-ego, like the fierce spirit of the Battousai within the comic hero Kenshin Himura known in the manga he loved so dearly when he was younger. So like the legendary manslayer, both characters needed to find some control in the face of women. In his deeply-strung words, laced with annoyance, regret, and lust, he whispered to no one entirely,
"I will find you."
Then he turned his attention to the luggage boy, standing in the corner, most likely an amateur in his field, awaiting the harsh command of the rich and famous. In a voice that spoke of authority, yet respect, Darien asked the boy to bring his luggage to room 206, the Aria Suite.
***
Lost in her vision of reverie, recalling the brief moment that she stole some forbidden capture of some Adonis that graced the unworthy, marble steps of Gato Negro, where as he should have walked a path of god's silk and the clouds, still virgin from the city's arrogant pollution. The distance blurred any pencil-thin details, however is entire embodiment caused a stirring to occur.
[Where do I get one of those? If normal guys looked like that Adonis, I wouldn't be a virgin anymore.]
Lust. She was in heat, and it was his mere presence that caused this? His hair, the hue of hell and all things that belong to fallen angels, it was seductive, intimidating, and raw with power. His eyes, pools of wonder, like an ocean, hidden in the murky depths of the underworld, where the souls are residents of abandoned tragedies in their shipwrecks. They surpassed mortal blue, yet somehow they showed something that never crossed her mind in all her innocent spinster years: the bare ability to be wanton.
To heavily stirred by such an emotion in a brief occurrence, she looked away, hid from his sight, unable to analyze the power of his gaze, a look that penetrated passed the barriers she built amongst her soul, so no other can cause her to wither into nothingness. Yet this one person caused her to become an object of reckless abandon with a mere stare.
"Girl, you have to unpack the luggage for the Aria Suite. Gossip says that some hot-shot playboy is rooming in, and he gives generous tips. If not, if I'm wrong, honey, then just the shot of his fine package is enough for us starving girls. Right? I think he's deserves a A?"
Her notorious partner-in-crime rang out. Molly Estrella has always been the one who keeps her eyes on guys, like some auctioneer and their stock of man slaves. However, even with her recent engagement with a homely man named Melvin Currier, the complete opposite of the grade-A men she stalked (literally), Molly still rates the male guests with accurecy of a movie critic.
"Molly, really? Does it matter if they have a nice package? They are all the same, rich bastards with power, money, and gorgeous bimbos in their minds. I wouldn't be surprised if this one turned out to be married with three wives."
The redhead looked at Serena with a pitying glare, then making an attempt for a wistful shake of the head.
"When did you get to be such a pessimistic bitch? Men aren't that bad, actually they really are quite good. Mmmm."
[OMG. Save me from this un-virgin. I might just take a lesbian lover at this rate.]
"Eeeewwwwww!!! Not my virgin ears, not my virgin eyes. Molly, that is disgusting."
Their conversation led them to the front door of room 206, the Aria Suite. Then Molly turned to Serena with an envious stare with a feather duster in hand as if it was some weapon used for the battle ahead.
"No, what I think is disgusted is how you can be 23 and still a virgin. Hello? Girls are grandmas at that age in New York. Take this duster, and tell me if he wears boxers or briefs. Ciao, Rena."
[Boxers or briefs? Briefs, duh!]
As expected, the Aria Suite was the embodiment of perfection, of convenience, and a world the other side across the partisan line would never dream to witness in their meaningless lives. Sounds hypocritical from a woman girl who is amongst the crowd in rags, but the thought is based on logic and truth.
"People like me would never be able to be in suites like these, but we'll always be the one that makes it pretty. Rather pathetic."
Walking to the master bedroom of the suite, taking slight steps, in taking the primary sights of the suite, due to her extreme "klutziness," Serena lost her footing and landed on the satin sheets of the bed, which felt heavenly, and she would've enveloped herself in the warmth if it wasn't for her task at hand. In attempt to remove herself from the bed, she wrapped the high-quality comforter tightly around her, until the petite little moon bunny was completely enwrapped, unable to escape the surrounding bed sheet.
[Why does this happen to me? What have I done? God! Weehee, look at me. I'm crawling on the floor like some fucking insect.]
With her innovative mind and wry humor, she took the instincts of a caterpillar, and now Serene found herself imitating its appearance as well [Imagine Serena with fat comforters around her so she looked like a fat, pudgy caterpillar]. Crawling she went to his doorknob to somehow find some relief from her situation, then after some wriggling, exhaustion overtook her body and limply, she fell on the suitcases, which was found opened. Nose-first, Serena D'Ubervilles, a woman of dignity, had her face in his underclothes, to find that he wore boxers.
"Boxers! I knew it. They smell good."
Then a voice rang from the merciless heavens, deep and rich, and the beginning of her end.
[Uh-oh. I'm dead now.]
"Thanks. I use Tide."
With weary eyes, cautious and defiant, she looked to her captor, the man who would be the reason Gato Negro would close their doors to her and leave her homeless, heartless, jobless, and money less. If he told about the incident that occurred today . . .
"Hi."
The spawn of Satan replied his wry amusement, his dark eyes staring down upon her like some forgotten pharaoh finding some sick pleasure in his slave's condition.
"Hello there. I believe those are mine."
And the last thing she can remember saying before this chapter ended was . . .
[Who'd you think it belong to, genius? Santa Claus? I'm stuck with a dimwit.]
***
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Or do you just plain love my kawaii-ness? Review, you minions of japanimation and you'll get a life-time supply of manga and anime DVDs!!! Or just annoying hobo at your door asking for a razor to shave his legs. Either one is good for me. Now, seriously. (WHEN THE HELL AM I SERIOUS?) Review, my wittle friends. I wuv you all! *has a sign on the back of her shirt that says "DANGER: WARNING, UNDER ANGER MANAGEMENT"* You won't review . . . YOU WON'T REVIEW?!?! Holy $@#*&! You @#$%&*. Who the @#$% do you think you @#%$^ are? Sorry, please review, my darlings.