Welcome to our first ficcie miccie. We hope you all enjoy this story!
We shall proceed to cry tears of our own blood in glasses and then sell it on E-bay.
Good god, we hope we get a good price on the stuff.
If not.
It'll be light bulbs Going BOOOOOOMMMMMMMSSSIIEEE anyway, please enjoy this story, as we will probably be vomiting our own spleens on this bloody thing trying to keep Itachi and Sasuke in bloody freakin character. My hearts already trying to beat itself to death. (HOMG WORD PLAY play with words please)
Oh Yes! Please keep in mind we do not own Naruto (See any rabid, sexually frustrated Uchihas ready to pounce each other, WE THINK THE BLOODY HELL NOT GAH?)
So, this is an AU where we forget anything happened between the time of the fourth Hokage's death (Oh Sarutobi, how you do remind us of a windmill, were still not sure how), and Orochimaru being his little ol snaky (yet somehow stimulatingly arousing) self. Pretend that cannon just threw itself over the bridge, and then died a most, excruciatingly, painful death! THANKIES.
(Gawd, that's a lot of words nobody's probably going to read. Let's just sit in a box of oranges and CRRRYYYYYY)
Anyway. Hope you have a happy parallel day! BE GOOD OUR DEARS!
Want a warning of non-con, and lemony limey goodness? WELL YOU AINT GONNA GET ONE CAUSE YOU SHOULDA READ THE BLOODY SUMMARY!! unless your randomly throwing the mouse around the screen and clicked.
Holy moly.
I gotta try that one out.
3
Alouette&Belette
"Im pretty sure it's perverted to read peoples minds"
It all seemed so out of character for him. So, somewhat, well. Personally, if one was to tell previous (Konoha) village that Sasuke Uchiha was going to reduce himself to that of a mere brothel boy, they would have sworn their right kidney it would (could) never ever, ever never happen. Not in a million sworn years. Oh hell no. no way in hell was Sasuke, the ever poncy, the I-could-blow-a-freakin-hole-in-your-skull-if-you-even-look-at-me-one-way-or-the-other prancing, purebred pony in the stables sort of guy.
Someone obviously would have lost a kidney to some kidney seller.
"WHO WANTS A KIDNEY?"
"A KIDNEY?!"
"Did he just say a kidney?"
"Holy shit. He said a bloody kidney"
"…that's so incredibly skewed that Im tempted to buy it."
And yet, it was even harder to believe Sasuke had reduced himself to the scent of a mere whore. (What wonder led, that such a word also felt similar in its presence and sound of 'hoard')
How, why, where, who? All these questions would have laden some sort of significance of the situation that he had now delved himself into, head first, but still, it was all in desperation, all of it. Every last step of it. From toes, to knees, to every bloody piece of vein lay strewn across the expanses of his body. He hadn't completely opened to the concept, per-say, but he hadn't completely 'hated' it at the same time. When the man had come foreword with his, to some extent 'seedy' prospect. The fact that the job seemed easy, doable (No pun intended, please patrons, refrain from twitching) and seemingly highly profitable job (in which the importance of this job was the fact it included 'wealth' and that, in its own, was enough for Sasuke to nod his head, and then lower it, bow it to the debauchery of what he had just openly embraced wholeheartedly.
Arms wide open, as if to say;
'Take whatever piece you want of me, I am completely open to it'
What had led him here, and what had ultimately been his forceful push towards the disgrace (that he, not so alone, agreed that this job was of such a status) of selling the one thing his little pounding heart relied on.
His body.
Luckily, ironically, in brothels such as these, such as every one everywhere (He had not heard of a brothel that sold peoples souls, apart from the ones called 'Relationships')
One only needed to be beautiful, and be able to flaunt it, with such grace of a dainty, lithe male, highly wrought peacock.
He looks at you, gazes, the brilliant, seemingly tentative brilliance of his colours that lavishly dance across in groups, and sudden bursts of exuberance that played upon the visual concept. Once you have had a small, preview of taste, it is then that you pay higher of your patience and wealth that he will twirl, and his tail feathers open lovingly and spread themselves before you, wantonly, you want to touch, and yet somehow. You feel the closeness of breaking to the point of drowning in such brilliance.
Saturated in the peacock's brilliance, the tail feathers, the colours (Painful aches and pains) are departed from your sight, and you can only think of what it would be like to touch. And lavish your body in it.
Sasuke had been known to most of his clients, and the other whores around him as the 'Ornate Peacock' he was by far, the more silent brooder of them. Though most of the patrons of the patrons (the sellers, the givers, the breakers, the insanity reducers) were to take on a psyche, a persona if you shall call it such to appease the taste of the patron. They take a good look at the patron entering, and deduce the options.
Flirter, seducer, pretty, ditzy, simple, intelligent, deadly, forgotten, dying, sickly, innocent, naïve, too-knowledgeable, bitch of bitches and so on so forth.
Sasuke would neither put on a personality (much to the owners dismay) or act like himself. He would simply lay there, and allow whatever the patron wanted to lay upon his poor body (he had no soul to watch anymore) in a way it was neither a hindrance to his job or countered the patrons interest in him.
He was the stone cold boy who allowed whatever to happen, who never forced anything. Sometimes, he appeared a doll. If he felt like acting, he would. But usually not many ever witnessed the seducing side he had hidden beneath his lithe exterior of a shell.
Because of this mysterious, shadowed, unparallel aura sauntering around his prescence,he had become one of the most highly wanted, and viewed, beloved of all whored out bodies, and personas out of the entire village (what was its name again?) He would have to remind himself someday) he had soon risen to the status of 'Oiran' only a few of the boys, or girls had ever risen to such a 'flowered' (1) status. He no longer had to subject himself to common folk, but that of the noble, the rich, and the pockets that spewed gold from its silk embroidered edges. He no longer had to be subjected to thatched kimono's, and opened collars that had obviously been stained by a many a patron's semen as ever.
He, was desired by only the wealthy, the rich, the ones who deserved to exist in his own head, his own ticking skull. Sasuke no longer was a brothel whore, but an Oiran of the esteemed 'Akai Kamome'. The most sought after Oirans existed in this place, this little house of heaven, where the angels lay asleep before you, the cushions plush, gold, red, blooming colours, so ironically suited to the name of 'Oiran'.
Sasuke had shown his worth, more worth than what a mere 'body-seller' could ever hope to achieve. He had shown he was more than just a pretty face, a pretty shiny shell to fuck.
An Oiran wasn't just a person who sold her/his love to men, but sold so much more than what they could hope to find in the real world! Oh, so much more in a person! Arts, music, dancing, calligraphy and the beloved of all arts, ever to hope, one could ever achieve but that of conversational wit. The art of sophistication in ones own speech topics, the ability to counter every little dribbled word someone else had to say.
Luckily, for Sasuke, only the highest rank could ever hope to patronise him. If they had the money, then they had the worth of him presenting subtle, yet glamorous entertainment their way. An Oiran never accepted casual clients, which was far from appropriate of the learned etiquette. They were summoned by Feudal lords, or people of higher standing that that of a commoner. A formal invitation was needed.
Oh the beauty of his dance, the beauty of his speech. It was unrivalled. And he had no question as to why he was doing this.
This was far better, than being torn asunder by the ANBU, or questioned by the knuckle-headed (why knuckle?) bright coloured blonde, Naruto.
He had run away from a person he was selling his body to.
To only be welcomed with open arms, and begging pleas to once again, sell his body for (at least) something more materialistic.
"OH MY! Im sorry Uchiha-sama…"
Once again, the butterfingered boy (Butter? How appropriate) had dropped the porcelain in appearances powder on the tatami mats. The powder glints scattering like marbles in a game of maki. Sasuke sighed, for what seemed to be the more countless time of the lot and shifted slightly, to ease the numbing pain of kneeling on his knees for what seemed to be…well, an eternity to be the more least extravagant on its effect. He had become use to the kneeling, as an Oiran is expected to be, but never the less, getting use to something doesn't exactly mean it doesn't cease to have its feral effect on you.
Oumu brought a cloth to the ground in a hurried state of panic, and Sasuke never failed to find amusement in watching him twitch, Oumu was a boy with little confidence. Sometimes, he would pretend he did have what it took to take the more 'dominating' of patrons in conversation. But when that had come to a startling somewhat, vile halt. Oumu got moved to what he was still pretty horrid at.
Attending to the Oiran's needs.
Sasuke told himself on countless occasions he needn't have anyone at his side whilst making himself up. But the makeup of an Oiran had proved to himself, which it was highly an impossible feat. Even to such a prodigy as Uchiha. And so, Oumu became his right hand, in a sense. He did everything Sasuke could not. (Sasuke fumed at the curator when he said such a phrase, in such a way as if insulting Sasuke's ability)
"Uchiha-sama, I truly am sorry. Please forgive me!" Oumu wavered, and shaked in apologetic bows.
This was truly starting to get frustrating. If only Sasuke had sixty five billion arms.
What the hell?
"Yeah, Okay, Oumu, apology accepted. Just hurry up with it all right?" Sasuke huffed out, annoyed, wavered in his patience (when did he ever have any patience in his stance? Oh that's right.)
Oumu bowed once more, and proceeded to clean the remains of the white powder off the mats. Sasuke adjusted his obi, tightening the strings, and the floral embroidered silk (Oh fit for a prince!) the good part about being a high class courtesan was that everything about your life seemed to fit based around the high class life. Sasuke drank high class Sake, Rice, Noodles, Soba, Sukiyaka, Miso and green tea. He wore high class garments of silk and embroidered decorations of undergarments and such. (If only you could see the under clothing of such an Oiran…Oh! the delights, and deluded fantasies that grew)
Sasuke would never admit it. He liked the high class life. He enjoyed being pampered. It was the attention he had denied himself for such a long, long life. Perhaps, to fit a hole that had been gaping for something more…
Human.
Who knew, at least Sasuke felt like he was doing something, other than just watching the days pass by where he just simply waited for his revenge to come to him in a gold gilded platter.
Sasuke's fists tightened around his kimono and his sense seethe red his thoughts. That man was still out there, oh yeas, Sasuke had not forgotten about him. He was doing this because of him, that much was for sure.
Itachi would die. He would fall red to the ground, his heart leaping, and bounding across a wooden floor of the Uchiha district, like a fish out of water.
The clan's ghosts would watch him die bountifully; his blood would bathe against the moonlit sky that hounded Sasuke's nightmares (Dreams).
Sasuke raised his head and looked into the mirror of his room. He hadn't changed much. He was still 12. And he was still alive. And he was still aching with revenge chipped solidly inside his tiny beating muscle.
"Uchiha-Sama?" Oumu's nervous ridden voice awoke Sasuke to a state of reality. (What was the bleeding difference?)
Sasuke twisted his neck slightly and looked over at Oumu who was busy finishing the V shaped nape insinuatingly accentuating the beauty of Sasuke's swan like neck. Sasuke had already highlighted porcelain features when it came to his skin; he almost appeared so pale in his skin texture that the white makeup hardly were to be noticeable by any detail driven entity.
No wonder men adored him so much. He was almost more mechanical as a naturally born, prodigy of a beautiful portrait of a boy.
Oumu once again delicately, still with the noticeable shake in his right hand which egged Sasuke into a corner of annoyance in such delicate details of the human psyche. The cold freshness of the mixture of white paint, and waxy substances calmed Sasuke's nerves and dealt him a pleasurable experience of rest, and relaxed quality.
"Uchiha-Sama?"
"Yes?" Sasuke replied, almost monotonously.
Oumu dipped the brush into the palette and made sure he hadn't missed any important details of the painting and began.
"What's it like to have- we-well...yo-"Stuttering? Great. Now he was stuttering again.
Just bloody awesome.
Life rocked. (Throw rocks life, please…)
"What?" Sasuke made no attempts to hide any annoyed tonality of his voice.
Oumu placed the small brush into its original form of rest, and placed the combination of palette and brush back into the painted box alongside pins, mixtures, and other bone lead combs. He twiddled his fingers together, and blushed a bright red, looked up at Sasuke and then to the side.
"Yo-You know, th-that thing-"
"What thing? Oumu be clear about what youre asking or otherwise don't say anything at all" Sasuke snapped.
By now the babies would be crying for a swift suicide. (Extravagant? Sasuke was an extravagant person by nature, by birth, by profession…)
Oumu jumped and quivered, whimpering in apologies.
Sasuke closed his eyes and started to toy with the obi's fabric attempting to tighten the pressure it presented.
"You want to know what sex is like, right?" Sasuke spoke, more matter of fact than 'I already knew what you meant'
Oumu blushed, giggled softly and nodded slowly. Sasuke swivelled around adding at least some lessened pressure on his knees on the Tatami mat facing Oumu. Sasuke's black berried eyes gazed into the green of Oumu's shutter ridden windows. His soul was so, wholesome. So unadulterated. No one had toyed with his feelings; no one had decided to rip his own heart graciously out of his drenched chest and proceeded to swallow it, dumping it to the belly of the beast.
Sasuke felt the pang of envy once. He didn't need it again.
Sasuke crossed his arms and looked intensely at Oumu; expectantly Oumu did his usual shaky, twitchy lips. And his thumbs twiddled once again.
"Well. It's like someone's cleaving you in two, the first time. Your ripped apart, torn asunder, and there are no sorrys, no time for 'oh wait's. You burn; the feeling of being filled is almost as harsh, cold and painful as stabbing your own skull with a kunai."
Sasuke looked Oumu in the eye the whole time through such an excruciatingly, realistic tale of untruthful passion, and lessened decoration of sex.
Sex was sex to Sasuke, it neither meant something, or meant uselessness. It had its uses. Making children, making families (Which were destined to break, and fall, tumble away) and pleasure which appeared to him, so dearly one sided on half a platter of silver and rust. Oumu's reaction was crestfallen hope.
Sasuke chuckled at the hopefulness of the youthful Oumu. His hopes that it was a pleasurable experience. If only. Over time, sex became mechanical. Like eating, or drinking, or walking, it was just something you did. Not something you wanted to do, but had to do if you were to get anywhere. It seemed all that much important. And yet Sasuke held it in such, depression, and such monotonal care.
Sasuke read it as one thing.
Penis goes in, thrust a few times, and then cum inside or on someone's face or mouth.
That was all there ever were to be.
Sasuke had become so good at the mechanical disguise of sexual tendencies that he sometimes forgot it was happening. His mind wandered, but still he remained faithful to the task before him.
The Shoji screen door slid open and a fellow Oiran appeared from the doors cover.
"Uchiha, Kyouken-dono wants to speak to you"
Sasuke nodded and Oumu simply stared, obviously more exalted in the way the Shoji screen moved than anything else.
The Lady with the painted lips stared at Oumu, her nose high and her eyes cat like, a panther looking at a ladybug.
"And pray tell, where is your manners, Oumu-chan??" she bled out, her fine lips curved into a satirical sense of the word 'serious'.
Oumu's skin brightened beneath his eyes, rushed up in a less than graceful way and bowed apologetically, as low as his back deemed it able to. The Oiran with the painted lips simply scowled at him and softly closed the screen, Oumu breathing harshly, nervous sweats breaking across his skin, and littering its complexion.
Sasuke smirked and once again rearranged the obi so it tightened in restriction. He liked it tight, because it never appeared quite, tight enough for him. The obi's bow at the front was once again fondled with by his delicate artisan like fingers.
"You shouldn't let her get to you, you know" Sasuke turned to Oumu.
Oumu's gaze remained towards the shoji screen, his eyebrows wavering in defeat, a pout evident and disappointment glancing from the windows of his glassy eyed skull. He then lowered himself to sitting beside Sasuke and he toyed with the hem of his Yukata. The pale blue little stitched rabbits prancing in glee across the edges were a pretty touch.
"I can't help but feel…not quite to their level" Oumu whispered.
Sasuke looked at Oumu; the poor boy wasn't at their level. That was as true as ever. And everyone could see it.
"Well. No point whining about it, is there?" Sasuke stood and brushed his Kimono down, the patterns prancing and dancing about the folds, and material wrinkles. Oumu gazed up towards Sasuke as he gracefully flowed across the floor with the abundance of grace. Sasuke walked in his geisha steps towards the shoji screen, slid it open with his 4 cms of pale perfection and left the fragranced room.
"SASUKE-KUN!!"
The older man roared once Sasuke appeared as a shadow behind the door. Sasuke knelt before the door, but before he could place fingers the screen, the door flew open, crashed against the walls, shattered, paper flying in every direction, and the olde man upon Sasuke like a cat to a dog's hind. Sasuke's not so surprised at this direction of action from the man was certainly evident, and he made no attempt to pry the man off him.
He was so use to this treatment by the man that he lost the reflex to scream and chidori his ass out into next week.
The human mind was a weird and wondrous thing.
"AHH! There's my first class budding beauty!!" Kyouken praised Sasuke as he threw his arms to Sasuke's shoulders and held him at arms length, only to proceed to throw in a hug once more.
"WELCOME UCHIHA!"
"UCHIHA! WELCOME!"
Sasuke just sighed and knitted his eyebrows together in a subtly annoyed fashion.
Huddled close together on top of Kyouken's oak desk were two ninja gulls. Their expanse of their feathers were grey, with black smudges upon their dutiful wings. Their eyes beady and appeared to many a person as though thickened plots lay strewn in a messy area of their small brains. Their eyes were bright gold, and their webbed feet were orange. The one annoying thing about them was their tendencies to repeat what the other said.
Backwards.
This just added to frustration of having to put up with the exasperating birds.
When Sasuke had entered they flapped their wings, lifted their pale necks and squawked their wings waving in a seemingly human like tendency of hello, and goodbye.
Shiro and Kuro were the titles they held upon their labels of names. Personally, Sasuke didn't agree that they were the most original of names. But, alas. He needn't complain.
He hoped the curator got makeup smudged on his stubby cheek.
Kyouken was a tall man. He was broad shouldered and a quite, beautifully built man. His fame for having mixtures of Victorian fashioned clothing, and antiquities of furniture and other curios in question was never doubted, or missed. He enjoyed mixing everything around him. He wore a black silk kimono with silver butterflies at the edges, moulding into the higher figuring of the kimono. He wore a fur lined open coat over it and kept a fan at his hand and side everywhere, or place he went. His hand was never devoid of a paper fan usually with some kind of story behind the bloody thing.
Upon his feet he wore high levelled traditional Japanese sandals. With fluff poms atop the cross between the big toe and the second toe.
Kyouken, as his name suggested, was a rabid, mad, dog. And there was no other metaphor to ever describe him as such.
When Kyouken finally let go of Sasuke he looked Sasuke over, and his grin grew. Who knew such a feat were possible to ever witness.
The world never ceased of miracles.
"What do you want?" Sasuke managed to pass between his lips before the man hugged the dear life out of his chest again.
Kyouken smiled greatly, opened one his fans in his right hand, waved it across his face and Sasuke could only watch as the moons, and the suns, the rabbits, and the ponies pranced across the ceramic coloured paper. the fragrance of vanilla passed through the room, on Kyouken's oak desk, chiselled into its front scenes of wolves leaping through flower laden fields, the moon gloating above them in the sky, wolves lay strewn across the walls, small scenes of hunting wolves, wolves at men's throats, wolves described by painters, and paintings with blood gorging from the flaps of their lips, the upturned snarl, and the bearing of teeth.
Lamps and statues of ornate dragons sat littered at the corners of the room. The faint scent of sunshine filtered through the small round window and the chandelier above them twinkled among the light given by the sun.
Kyouken jumped up, snapped his fans together and pointed it at Sasuke.
"YOU! MY DEAR! HAVE A NEW FORMAL INVITATION!!"
… oh wohoo.
…oo cliff-hanger?
(1) This is a pun for the word 'Oiran' or, more so the kanji used to create the word. Oiran consists of the kanji for 'Flower' and 'First' and so, well. Yeah.