(A/N: New story, same old plot. Have fun with it, if you will. A/U.
WARNINGS: Yaoi, swearing, drug use, sex, heavy sexual references and violence, mucho OOC-ness. Read at your own risk.
Additional Note: Don't claim to know Japanese, but I know 'kitsune' supposedly means 'fox', and somewhere along the line, someone told me 'jin' meant something akin to 'people of'. So, the term 'kitsune-jin' would mean something roughly along the lines of 'people of the fox', or so I'm guessing. I'll be using the term whether it's right or wrong, so please bear with me, and if it is wrong, when I use it, I'm referring to people who have ancestors that evolved from foxes. Don't ask me how, 'cause I sure don't know.
Disclaimer: Naruto and all related characters are the property of Masashi Kishimoto.
Now, on with the story!)
Chapter 1: Insomnia on the Street
Sex and drugs, drugs and sex.
That was the mantra inside his head; that was the rule of thumb he lived by.
Fuck, that was how his whole family lived, repeating the mantra that gave them life, that made their lives a living nightmare.
Sex and drugs, drugs and sex.
It was the only way to live now in Konoha. If by offering sex and drugs to the world you could eat, you were a lot better off than most humans.
Offering yourself up to be literally raped by the strangers that infiltrated his house at all hours of the day meant that you might get a piece of bread, or a slice of meat, or a piece of cheese, and fuck, you were doing good. You were fucking royalty. People should have been licking your feet.
But they weren't. You were licking theirs.
And if by selling the drugs that the addicts craved, that the stupid teenagers wanted to try and that the old men who lived in unfathomable poverty needed to drown their sorrows in, you got a roof over your head that didn't leak, you might as well have been living in a palace.
That was how they lived. Sex and drugs, drugs and sex.
That was what he knew. It was all he'd ever known. And now, he had to admit that it wasn't the best environment for a young, impressionable child. With too much pride to sell himself to a master and remain a slave for the rest of his meagre life, he found himself on the floor, pressed to the torn up mattress, with his back pressed to the wall as he struggled to survive. He wasn't sure which was the better alternative anymore.
His family had long since disappeared, but their tradition held out in the last of their blood.
He couldn't help but think back on it, what had forced them to live in desperation, and their utter desperation that destroyed them in the end.
He was only a small child when it had happened, and all he really remembered was the fire and the blood that had been burned into his memory. He'd been too small to remember much more than a nonsensical blur.
He'd been told that when the kitsune-jins had taken over, it had been violent, and it had been bloody. It had been a massacre, it had been a bloodbath. The fox-people swept in from the wild North lands where they had lived in savage barbarism for thousands of years while the humans became civilized.
And while they were civilized, they grew weaker, until they could no longer defend themselves from the pillaging vandals who ransacked their village, burned it to the ground, raped their women, killed their warriors and forced men, women and children into bondage, then rebuilt the village from the ashes in their own fashion.
The humans, once the rulers of their society, were forced to squirm and wriggle in the dirt of society to survive. They were turned out of their homes, sold to cruel kitsune-jin masters, with mothers and children, husbands and wives separated from each other.
Those who weren't sold to slavery were out of jobs and soon, out of money. They roamed the streets, the fathers trying to find something to do, someway to pay their debts and feed the hungry mouths at home. And those hungry mouths were always multiplying, or so it seemed.
And the stupidest thing they could have done was throw away what little money they did have on worthless things like sex and drugs. But that was what they did. They drowned their sorrows with alcohol, in mass amounts, and some of them became drunkards.
Others dabbled with the worse chemicals - cocaine and heroin, morphine and other things that could be cultivated and sold to the masses. Those few human farmers who still worked the land began to cultivate these drugs, and the public just ate them up.
It wasn't as if the kitsune-jins encouraged this type of behaviour, but their government did nothing to help the desperate poor, and did nothing to stop the drug epidemic within their city walls.
Of course, as many of them had their hands blackened with sins as humans. They were lustful sinners, and they bought up whores off the street like they were going out of style. The poor kitsune-jins did it, the poor humans did it; the rich kitsune-jins did it.
And that was how they made their money. That was how his family became so notorious. Once, they had been a well-respected human clan, but now, they were more like a giant prostitution ring than a family.
Well, they had been.
They had made their fortunes selling sex to the kitsune-jins, and drugs to the humans. They had systematised it, so well that it was almost scary. Children were attendants to the whores, until the age of twelve, when they themselves became whores, regardless of sex, and then, until the age of forty, when they turned to being drug dealers. Those who were ill, or injured, or pregnant were drug dealers, rather than whores, until such time as they could return to work.
Women were sometimes merely nurses, to look after the whores because the customers were never, ever gentle.
And of course, all good things come to an end, and the era of the Uchiha clan closed with a bang.
When the new king had been crowned, he'd decreed that drugs and prostitution were illegal. He ordered the law-keepers to crack down on those who sold drugs, or sold sex, and to punish all those who bought either or.
And that was what brought the family to their horrific end.
The kitsune-jins got them, because they were so well-known, because they were so notorious. They were amongst the first to go. The whole family went down, in a bloody massacre, with the blades of the police swinging and singing, dazzling in the rum light with blood and silver mingling together.
The house was burnt to the ground, and all corpses with it. Of course, they'd had the indecency to raid the dwelling beforehand and remove all its fortunes, and then spared him, for he'd been too young to have been involved in anything.
They'd left him with nothing, and they'd said they were doing him a favour. Yes, some favour it was, where he'd had to beg and steal and suffer day to day for the last twelve years of his existence.
He had no home, he had no food, he had no money and he had no status. He had nothing. At first, stealing had been easy. Hardly anybody, no matter how poor they were, could deny a small boy of five a slice of bread near five o'clock when he'd had nothing else to sate his appetite for the rest of the day.
So, then, it hadn't really been stealing. If they caught him with it, they let him go, with a sort of sad small smile on their face and without a word. But as he got older, the gracious attitude had dissolved and become more bitter.
It seemed that everybody could deny an eleven-year-old his daily bread. "Go away!" they cried, and their voices still rung in his ears. "We have five children! We can't afford to feed you too!"
They told him to get a job and he could have nearly laughed at how ridiculous that was. He had no skills, he had no education and no money with which to obtain anything of the sort. He'd been raised in an environment of illicit activity and it was the only thing he knew.
He'd also been raised with a stubborn pride and he refused to swallow it and sell himself to the shackles that so many other humans called master, just for a cup of water, a straw bed, a crust of stale bread and a leaky roof.
So, without any alternative left to him, he returned to his roots.
His body became the skill he used to earn his bread and it became the tool he used to keep the roof over his head patched. It became the thing he loved the most, and the thing he hated the most, because he had to work for the chicken-scratch he made, and even then, it was barely enough. He hated it, he hated it because it put him in pain and he was breaking down inside, but he couldn't help it, he needed the money.
Drugs and sex. Sex and drugs. It was the only way of life in Konoha.
And after he turned to sex for money, he turned to drugs to drown his sorrows.
Dirty needles, and secret meetings in the alleys, with bags full of exotic powders to be snorted, pills to be ingested, liquids to be injected and rolls to be smoked became a staple in his life and before he realized it, he was falling down the spiralling tunnel to addiction.
And he no longer felt hunger pains - he felt withdrawal pains, which were twenty times worse and left him curled in the fetal position for several days at a time, waiting for his fix. And during that draught, he had to face reality, and had to realize that he was letting complete strangers rape him and abuse him, just for a little cash, a little dope.
It was eating him up inside and the drugs and the sex were starting to take hold of his body. And then he needed the drugs more, and more to forget why he hated himself and just do what he needed to do.
He was thin, too thin, and he was pale and he never got enough sleep. He had bruises and bloody, infected wounds all over his body, and his hair straggled across his face. He was always dirty, no matter how many times he would wash if he could afford it. He never ate, and he was always in pain.
He rarely went outside. When he did, people stared, they looked and they said things about him, and he was worrying more and more that they knew what he was doing and they were going to send for the cops to get him, and behead him, or whatever it was that they did nowadays to the ones who violated the laws set by the king.
But, fuck, he wasn't his king. He wasn't a kitsune-jin, so why should he be bound by kitsune-jin law, and why should he bend and grovel to a royal son-of-a-bitch who did nothing to help him and by making illegal what he did to get by, force him to go even lower.
They were talking right now. He barely listened to them, and he didn't care. He needed his fix and he was on his way to meet his dealers.
"Heard he does..."
"Lives up at..."
Gossip. Didn't these people have anything better to do? No, they were too poor and the women sat in their yards pulling poor wool through their ancient spinning wheels, watching their dirty children play in the dirty yard as they gossiped with each other. Their clothes were patched, and they went barefoot, and their hair straggled around their faces in the heat, unwashed for what seemed like weeks.
He walked on. They could say what they liked. He was going to get his dope, and then he was going to whore himself out to make up for the money he so freely gave away. Vicious, vicious circle, always came back and bit him in the ass, generally in the form of some new jackass who wanted to do god-knew-what with his body for a silver dime.
A left here, and right here, and he was on his way, making a weaving pattern through the dirty, forgotten alleys which were full of rats and over-flowing trash bins. To the normal observer, it would have seemed that he had absolutely no clue where he was going - another lost soul in the streets of Konoha.
But he knew where he was going, and the need inside his collapsing veins drew him back to them, like the divine light draws the holy back to the Father. He was anything but holy.
And when he saw them, he dropped the cold, stoic mask he'd assumed while he walked through the streets, his ears having been assaulted with words he couldn't care about, and let a smirk fall into place on his lips.
They looked at him, their eyes narrowed dangerously. Oh, they knew why he was there, and they knew who he was. He'd been here too many times for them not to know.
He swung his hips as he walked, a little trick he'd learned from the aging female prostitutes, which drew men's glances downwards and away from their faces. When he did it, however, it wasn't to draw attention away from his face, but to draw attention to him as a whole. He knew full well that his face was pretty and effeminate. He knew that he could make his eyes burn with lust, and he knew he could look up through his bangs beseechingly, and he knew his nose curved just right, and he knew that his lips looked lush and oh-so-kissable.
It was his body that was the problem. He was thin and moreover, he was male, which forced many men to scour the other dank alleys at night and ignore him. He had to do something which made him radiate sexual appeal, and swaying his hips as he walked was just one of the things he did to achieve that.
They were still looking at him, their eyes unreadable. He just kept smiling and prayed his voice came out smooth and rich, like he wanted it to. "Hello, Gaara-san; Neji-san."
He made sure the smile never faltered. Both males just looked at him, their eyes, green and white respectively, pinpointing him and trying to break him. He greeted their challenge, and stopped just a few feet from either of them.
"Uchiha," Gaara said, his voice carrying no evidence of anything.
Neji said nothing, his eyes still narrowed in a glower.
He opened his mouth to continue, hoping to play them up with words like he usually did, until they were willing to just jab the needle into his arm and let him go. By the time he was done playing with them, they would have done anything for him.
"You owe us money," Neji interrupted, seeing him poised for his game.
He blinked and cocked his head to the side, looking as adorably pathetic as he could. "I do?" he asked innocently. "Well, can't you let it slide, just this once? For me?"
He knew he was pouting, and he drew circles on the bare skin of Gaara's arm, near the elbow, then ran his hands up to rest on the red-head's shoulders.
"You know how much I do for you. . ."
Neji cut in. "You don't do anything for us, Uchiha, so shut your mouth. You owe us money, and we're going to get that money one way or another."
Gaara looked over his shoulders, his gaze so cold that he quickly removed his hands from the other boy. "So, Uchiha, pay up, or you're not getting any."
Desperation. Panic. They couldn't take it away from him, no, no, no! He felt frantic, as if he was on the edge of something he couldn't be pulled back from.
"You know very well I don't have the money to put a roof over my head, let alone pay you. But, nevertheless, what do I owe you?"
He was getting snarly now, which wasn't good, because if he'd been more like honey, they might have let him away with it.
"A lot," was all that Gaara said, refusing to make final how much he was indebted to them.
Neji smirked. "So, you can pay up, or you're not getting any until we've got all our money back and then some."
What did these two think he was? Rich? He had told them, he didn't have the money to feed himself, to cloth himself, or to house himself, let alone pay off drug debts. He had the sinking feeling that his were unbearable.
"How do you want me to get the money?" he asked, well aware that his tone was becoming more and more angry.
Gaara smiled at him. "Oh, just the way you make all your money, Uchiha. But you're not going to see a cent of it until you've paid off all your debts."
He snorted and looked at them bitterly. "And how long will that be?"
"A while," Neji told him. "You're about ten thousand dollars in debt, and we hear that you only get a dime for every go."
He paled. "That means -"
"You're fucked either way."
Both found this incredibly hysterical, considering his profession was, indeed, getting fucked.
"And you ain't gettin' a drop of this stuff 'til you're all evened up, ya understand?" Neji taunted, dangling a paper bag in front of him and he almost wanted to grab it and run with it.
Gaara clapped him on the back. "Aw, c'mon now. It ain't gonna be so bad. It's what ya do anyways, whore."
Tch. Not so bad, indeed. He'd obviously never been slammed up against the crumbling brick of a building, and splattered it with blood, from the back of his head, or his face as some dumb fuck rammed his cock into his body over and over again, until he finished and dropped him, then threw him a measly dime. He'd obviously never had nothing more to do than anticipate the next one, and he'd never had to control himself to make sure he never screamed, never cried, never bolted and never begged to be spared.
Tch. A piece of cake, really.
And as his blood dribbled down that goddamn wall, he made sure it dribbled down his chin as well, keeping himself silent as he was broken up again.
He was thrown back a final time, and the man bit his shoulder, hard, to keep from crying out. If he did, the cops might find them, and besides, you weren't supposed to enjoy a whore.
He slid down the wall, feeling the world spin and shake before his dizzy vision. He felt sick, and wouldn't have been surprised if his body wasn't shutting down on him. Dully, he heard the man make a dry comment, and the dull clink of metal on cement, signifying he'd been paid.
He scrambled to find it, because if he didn't, he might loose it and it meant one more time he'd have to put up with the torture. He'd lost all his profit one night down the sewer when he tripped and fell, and he'd had nothing to show for it, but a bunch of bruises, and one more night of this.
He was out there, every night, for nearly eight hours, and it was becoming a real job. He knew that men in factories worked eight hours, daily, and now, so did he. The men in the factories often saw their paycheck for a fleeting moment, and then it was gone. His followed suit.
His back ached, and his body was so torn up inside that he was sure he was going to die from blood loss. The crimson stuff never stopped dribbling out of his abused asshole. Bruises adorned his whole body, and he wouldn't have been surprised if one day he snapped in half, because he was so thin and frail.
Worst of all, the withdrawal pains had come back, sometimes so viciously that all he could do was curl up, with his knees to his chest and scream and cry. Once or twice, he'd sent himself into convulsions, for a painful half-an-hour at least.
He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and he wasn't getting better.
Gaara almost thought it was funny. He was the sadist of the two, and he thought that seeing the last of the Uchihas on his knees in pain, and need was funny. He had no sympathy for his pain, and if he was choking on his own blood, Gaara merely kicked him in the stomach, hard, until the blood came pouring out of his mouth.
Neji was little better. He only cared that he gave him whatever he'd earned on the street that night and then, that he was out of his sight for the remainder of the time.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The night was dark, and it was deep. The cobblestone was crooked from upheaval over the years as he walked across it. The light from the lamps was warm and yellow, if not faint and flickering in the wind.
He stopped in front of one of the old store fronts, and pushed open the rotting door. Lamp-light from the windows flooded out into the street.
Inside the shop, it was busy, and it was loud. Humans crowded all together at small tables, laughing and chatting with each other. Drained glasses sat in swarms on the table. Waitresses meandered to and fro, serving the already drunk with more alcohol.
He made his way to the bar, making sure his hood stayed low over his head and eyes. He sat down on a vacant stool, folding his arms neatly across each other. Underneath his hood, his ears twitched, trying to find out what he could pick up from these peasants tonight.
The bar-tender, still wiping down a glass, found his way over to him and asked him what he wanted. What he ordered, he didn't know and he didn't care, still trying to find someone who was gossiping.
The drink arrived and he lifted it to his lips, drinking the bitter brew without caring.
A loud round of laughter broke out at one of the tables and, just like everyone else in the bar, he turned to look at the rowdy bunch. One of the humans was sprawled across the lap of another human, pawing and raking, like a female animal in heat.
He snorted and turned away. Who knew humans were so disgusting?
"Holy shit! If you're that horny man, go find a slut!"
His ears twitched. Maybe this was the lead he was waiting for. Who knew drunks were good for something?
"Yeah, if you need a slut, there's one down on Fourth Street."
"Only a dime, sure you're family won't miss it too much!"
"Right pretty little fucker too."
He found himself smiling. He placed his money on the counter and rose slowly. He turned to leave.
He was going to find this so called prostitute. After all, as a member of the kitsune-jin special forces, it was his job to seek out and destroy those who engaged in illicit activity.
He looked at the street signs, trying to find out how to get to Fourth Street. He'd been to this part of town only once or twice, rarely wanting to engage in any contact with humans. He found the creatures disgusting, rude and unruly.
Of course, he'd been raised to view them that way. The helpless poor who lined the streets were there because they were human and it was unwritten law that kitsune-jins were the natural masters of humans.
Humans were bad. They lived in small shacks, filled with lice and disease. They rarely washed. They often died from disease. He never stopped to think that it was because they couldn't afford to help themselves.
They begged for food, and they took up drugs and sex. They never once sought a job, though if they had, they would have been ruthlessly been turned out for seeking employment.
He sniffed the air, and listened. The scent of blood was on the air, and faintly, he heard the grunts and cries that signalled an act of mating. Following his inherited senses, he went left down the street, walking at a slow and steady pace, to make sure that none saw a quicker escape.
He passed a harem of whores in an alley way, all who sought his attention, and clamoured for his money.
"Darling, darling! Over here!"
"Out of the way, Nas! I saw him first! You-who, hot stuff!"
He paused for a second, throwing them a bland look. He looked away, a smirk crossing his features. "You have five minutes to clear off this space or face trial in a court of law for engaging in illicit activities."
Their words died on their lips and they stared at him. He looked at them, his eyes blazing with anger. "Get moving!"
They scattered, like leaves on the wind. He kept walking.
Finally, he reached Fourth Street. With no sign that the whore he was seeking was here, he kept walking, carefully scanning every alley he passed.
As he rounded the corner which took him back onto North Street, he found what he was looking for.
He drew a little closer, watching with interest as the brutality that was more like rape than willing exchange of sex for money occurred.
The big brute of a man held his little whore against the wall, and fucked her, fucked her like there was no tomorrow. He was disgusted.
He could smell the blood, and he faintly heard the noises dying on her lips. He almost winced when bone and flesh connected with the brick of the abandoned building she was leaning against.
And in a flash, it was all over, and the man dropped his whore and his money, a single silver dime. "You're not worth what they charge for you," he growled, and then he turned and walked away.
The whore scrambled for her money, clutching it as if it was the sole thing on earth that could save her.
He was suddenly confused.
The whore stood up, and instead of pulling her skirts down, hiked up the pair of pants she'd been wearing. The money wasn't dropped down her bosom, but placed in a small bag, which was tied about her ankle.
Most curious of all, the whore's chest was completely flat, and her hips were straight. In fact, she looked more like a he.
That puzzled him. Why would anyone pay for a female that looked like a man? It didn't make sense.
The whore ran a hand through her tangled hair, which he noted was short and dark - more like a boy's cut than a woman's. She winced, then made her way to the curbside, checking left and right.
She saw him. Her slanted black eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise. Her pale face became more washed out, like the moon. And for a brief second, he thought for sure it was Uchiha Itachi, who had somehow escaped from Orochimaru - yet again.
That passed when he realized that this person was too young, and too short to be Itachi, and also, far thinner and more haggard looking. Itachi's hair was longer, something he'd forgotten briefly.
This whore also lacked the slave's trademark scars, that ran beneath his eyes.
"You there," he said, feeling the silence had gone on long enough.
She shook her head and looked around, as if she wanted to leave. He walked quickly toward her. "What are you doing here, in the middle of the night?"
There was no response, save for her trying to run away. Not one for letting his quarry go, he tackled her to the ground, effectively pinning her there, no matter how hard she struggled. He grabbed one of the slender arms and twisted it back, being reward with a whimper of submission.
"What are you doing here in the middle of the night?"
"I'm quite sure you know," was the decidedly brash reply, in the decidedly male voice.
"State your name."
"It's none of your business."
"What's your profession?"
"I have none."
He was growing exasperated. "I suggest you answer these questions truthfully, or you'll be going straight to hell, courtesy of the kitsune-jin Elite Forces."
"Kitsune-jin Elite Forces, huh! They can kiss my ass, for all I care!"
He suppressed the whore, forcing her head down to the ground. "Please, just answer the questions. I don't want to hurt have to hurt you."
"You don't want to? Ha! Fucking liar! That's just why you murder all those prostitutes!"
"You're next if you don't shut up," he growled, digging his heels into the whore's sides.
He let her up. She snarled and dusted herself off and that was about the point where he stopped referring to her as she, because this was definitely a boy.
"Excuse me for living," was the snarky reply.
"Excuse me as well, then. Now, if you'd just answer my questions -"
"Why should I? You're not my elder, you're no authority over me, kitsune-jin."
He slapped the slut, then, unable to bear the rudeness that just rolled off of him in waves. How dare a human talk to him such!
The midnight-haired boy stumbled back, clutching an already bruised cheek.
"State your name," he growled through gritted teeth.
". . .Uchiha Sasuke."
"What's your business here?"
This answer took a little longer. He waited, unsure if the boy was trying to formulate an accurate lie, or at the very least, a good cover story.
". . .I'm. . .selling my body," was the reply he finally heard.
"You do know that prostitution is illegal in Konoha?"
". . .yes. . ."
"Then you do know that you're under arrest for engaging in illegal activities?"
There was no response. "You...can't," was the final, weak protest.
He quirked an eyebrow. "Can't I now?"
"No! You can't!" The other boy was vehement now. "I've gotta pay the money back! They'll have me dead if I don't!"
"We'll have you dead if you don't follow orders. Now, why do you owe people money?"
"Drugs!" he blurted before he could stop himself, then realized that he'd just sealed his own fate by saying that.
"Drugs too? Well, now there's no way I can let you go."
Stupefied, the dark-haired one let himself be hauled to his feet. Before he could register anything, his hands were bound and a lead had been placed about his neck, choking him.
Sex and drugs, drugs and sex.
Vicious, vicious little circle, always came back and bit him in the ass.
- - - - - - - - -- - - -
[A/N: Eh heh. Review?]