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Desire

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D  E  S  I  R  E


 

All along, he thought he was bloody immune to and devoid of any sort of desire—except repopulating his wrongly slain kin, or reaping revenge.

But right here, right now?

Watching her with his sharingan?

He has sudden urges and desires he can’t even begin to explain. He oogles at her for no apparent reason.

He watches her clench a fist, green eyes ablaze, and gather chakra. She swings it, and roars her trademark battlecry. As her knuckles graze the bandit’s jaws in a deadly upper-cut, the burst of chakra is palpable.

The man goes flying, jaw dislodged and shattered, blood spews out of his lips, and groans in imminent agony.

But Sasuke isn’t watching that man.

He’s watching Sakura.

Her pale, rose locks flutter around her. Her emerald eyes glitter with malicious intent. Her wooden anbu mask, sculpted as a tigress, hangs from her waist. A blue diamond adorns her forehead. He drinks in every inch of skin exposed—where a red swirl of the anbu insignia that tattoos her arm, and her knees that were exposed below her nin shorts, and above her heeled boots. Her milky skin, slightly flushed cheeks, the beads of sweat on the side of her face, her delicately sloped nose, chiseled cheekbones and those scars that each shinobi bare, leaving enternal marks to remind her of pain in a facade of duty.

And he watches her light pink skirt, the one with the—with the slit down the middle—fall gracefully over tennis shorts. Her silver armour gleams in the sun. Her anbu breastplate pushes up against her bust.

His breath quickens, flesh goes taut, adam’s apple bobs, stomach churns, and body writhes with the need, the want, the desire.

His right eye’s elaborate pinwheel spins with urgency. Simultaneously, the ripples that sprawl across his left eye’s lilac irises whir on overdrive.

He’s not asexual.

To another missing nin, she pins him down, planting two feet beside him and bashing her fists with monstrous punches.

Sasuke’s pulse quickens, imagining himself underneath the firm stance of her long, muscular feet.

Definitely not asexual.

‘That’s the last of ’em,’ Sakura proclaims with finalty.

Sasuke is still staring.

‘Alright!’ Naruto chimes. ‘We can go and grab some ramen.’

‘But let’s get home first,’ Sakura says, frowning down at her clothing. ‘I really have to get out of these clothes.’

His mouth goes dry, picturing her undress slowly, and exposing more and more of her porcelain skin.

He certainly isn’t immune to or devoid of desires other than just repopulating his wrongly slain kin, or reaping revenge.


He finds himself observing her more and more often.


They are at the training grounds.

Sasuke, Naruto, Sakura and Sai are battling each other.

He peers through the thick forest of old oak trees—the kind that had buff trunks, climbable branches that spanned out towards the sky, and tangled roots that lay gnarled upon the ground, sending some stupid genins into a stumble. Though it is sunny, the towering trees left what could scarcely be called light to the ground below, blocking out the skies with a canopy of shamrock green leaves.

He watches with a pair of mismatched eyes—one ruby, with an intricate pattern, and the other iris, with concentric circles, emblazoned with nine commas.

He has already sent Sai into a genjutsu, and is now in search for another target.

In the dappled sunlight, he could see several craters, evidently created by a chakra-thrumming fist, wielded by a warrior-like kunoichi.

She’s probably around here… He searches for signs of chakra, cursed eyes flitting through the expanse of the jungle.

Sensing flares of chakra westwards, Sasuke bolts.

He hears Sakura shout, ‘Ninpō: Sōzō Saisei—Mitotic Regeneration—The Strength of a Hundred!’ and spurs on speed.

He arrives to see Naruto’s hand with a spinning sapphire ball of chakra. ‘Rasengan!’ he bellows.

Naruto and Sakura both run towards each other.

Sakura grasps Naruto’s wrist, forcing his rasengan to simmer down, and gives Naruto a nasty right hook—

Only for him to poof! into an unfortunate log, which splinters immediately.

Several clones of Naruto materialize, hurling kunai and shuriken to which Sakura pays no mind, letting them sink into her skin, all the while destroying dozens of cones with a roundhouse kick.

Sasuke, thinking quickly, transforms into a Naruto-doppelganger, and joins the sea of orange-clad blonds.

He approaches Sakura, and instead of a rasengan in hand, Sakura gasps at a chirping chidori, with bolts of lightning cackling in Sasuke’s palm.

Sakura slams him against a tree, thinking he’d shove the Chidori into her stomach, but—

But his jutsu dissipates, eyes widening to their proximity, and the sudden image flashes into his mind—of her pinning him to a tree for a completely different reason—and it all happens again: he feels warm, his doujutsu starts to spin, and he shudders under her her bruising grip.

She frowns, but pulls back an elbow to square him, and does so without a hitch, sending Sasuke doubling over.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’ she demands, stepping away from him.

He’s reduced to a limp, heaving pile on the grass, wind knocked out of him.

‘You literally have no freaking focus!’ she says, loudly. ‘What’re you even doing? Your bloody chidori didn’t work, as if you lost all your chakra. Where’s all the stamina that you had when you fought Obito, and then Madara, and then Kaguya, and then even flipping Naruto?! Huh?’

He glares at her harshly. It’s obviously her fault! His mind screeches. ‘Shut up.’ he says, when the wheeze is lost from his voice.

‘I’m concerned, okay?! You’re getting sloppy.’

Sloppy? He thinks, incredulously. Oh, hell no. Uchihas are never sloppy.

‘It’s your flipping genjutsu!’ he says, because there’s no longer any other explanation.  She’s cast some sort of illusion; why else does he get such disturbing mental images? Especially those that haunt him in his dreams.

‘Genjutsu?’ her brows interweave, question painted in her eyes. ‘What genjutsu?’

‘Stop lying, dammit!’ he snaps.

‘I’m not lying!’

‘Shut up.’

‘Is it so hard to ask a bloody question to an Uchiha? Come on—let me heal you.’

‘No.’

‘What?’

No.’ he echoes, annoyed.

‘...What the shit?’

‘Don’t get anywhere near me.’ he says.

‘Stop being childish, Sasuke—’ But he’s already gotten up, preparing to leave.

Sai and Naruto watch from a distance, silent.

‘Turn around,’ Sakura says, warning and anger enunciated with each syllable. ‘And talk to me.’

Sasuke begins to walk away.

‘Sasuke,’ she says, and he has another image of her moaning his name instead of snarling it.

He continues, pushing all explicit thoughts away.

Sakura lunges, pushing him to the ground, and threatens to punch him.

His fantasy is met—her legs are planted on either side of his torso.

There’s but one thought in his mind—Shit.

‘Now you’re going to tell me what’s wrong, asshole.’ She growls, with that melodious, slightly husky, female voice of hers.

Sasuke’s face flushes, and he suppresses a shudder. His pulse races.

Sakura raises a skeptical eyebrow. She puts the back of her hand on his forehead, as if checking for a fever. ‘You’re burning up,’ she notes, and her tone is much more empathetic compared to the threats she had been giving just moments before. ‘Have you got a fever?’

That might explain it. ‘Get lost.’ he barks, pushing her away. He body-flickers, hormones like a storm raging amidst his body.

(‘I think that Sasuke’s experiencing sexual tension,’ Sai tells Naruto, in his bland, blank voice. Naruto agrees, laughing.)


He asks Kakashi, current Rukudiame, for a solo assassination mission,hoping for time away from Her annoying presence. But she still intrudes his mind, in the middle of the night. He sees things that makes him jolt awake, gasping for breath, craving a cold shower.

And those dreams will haunt him for years to come—only until he grows a pair.

Then he doesn't dream it. He lives it.