Saki-chan Universe

Sahara_storm: Written in the exaltation of doing well in my first Info Tech exam of the term. This is supposed to be fluff. It actually was, for some time. In the revamping effort, it somehow veered slightly into smut. (Eep!)
Saki-chan goes to sleep in Naruto’s bed, and wakes up as Sasuke. Once the idea grabbed me, it would not let GO.
They are sixteen, or thereabouts.
Beware mistakes.


He loves to trace patterns on the pallid skin of her neck with a languid tongue, tasting musky perfume and girl-sweat. As the blood rushes to her face, (it delights him immensely, perversely, to know that he is the only one that will ever see that porcelain face redden in lust) it drains from his, to pool hotly in the apex of his thighs.

She loves to trial tentative fingers along the sinewy muscles of his arms; loves the throaty moan her ministrations tear from his lips. Her hands trip down his sides, homing in on his stomach, where she runs her fingers over the faint grey runes there. His pectorals jump, flex, and spasm. She likes that too.

Seeming to reach a limit, he lowers her onto the bed, and follows soon after with a hungry growl. They are a tangled mess of flexing limbs, squirming and biting and panting; flesh on flesh like sweat on skin.

There is Sasuke in the way she grips his jaw, calloused fingers divoting into his tanned skin as they kiss. It is transitory, though, and soon, she is Saki, and Saki alone, breathless and breathtaking. He loves how she is made up of the things he likes best about Sasuke – that almost ethereal prettiness that shouldn’t belong to a boy – sans all the things he dislikes – the sarcasm, the astringent remarks, the general assholeness.

There are a whole lot of things Naruto likes about Saki, but he is way beyond thinking now. He can only feel, with amplified sensitivity, the electricity that pulses beneath his skin with each stroke, each touch that he gets of her soft, soft skin.

She loves how he holds her, fingers bruising her waist as he travels southward to nip at her neck. There is security in his arms. Through the satin of her corset, his touch burns. Silently, she urges him on.

Nothing feels better than to sink into her, sink into heaven, that sugary, heady bliss. The ruffles of her skirt brush at his feverish skin as he plunges and plunders. It is tantamount to – no it’s goddamn fucking better than anything he’s ever experienced, this feeling that buds in his stomach. With excruciating slowness, its roots go deep, it blossoms, explodes in a frenzy of light and pleasure.

When they are both spent, they curl up together in his bed, half-clothed, sweaty, and blissful. It should be uncomfortable; it should occur to one of them that he really should walk her home now; it should be obvious that this, in all likelihood, isn't a very good idea. But they are both entrenched in this feeling that has all the markings and makings of love, and in how good it feels to be in each other’s arms.

….He loves to stroke her navy hair, and kiss her smooth brow as her fingers whisper her love against his chest. She loves it when he holds her close, guiding her as they move together to the peaceful realm of slumber.


Sasuke awakens with a scowl on his face. The three things that he realises in the next second do not make him any happier.

1) Somehow, during the night, he divested himself of whatever clothes he was wearing.

2) He is lying down very uncomfortably in a suspiciously wet spot.

3) He is not in his room. Or his house, for that matter.

It is a bedroom, if you squint your eyes just so and look beyond the clutter that pervades it. He can make out a bureau, a calendar above it, and to the left, a door. Everything else is obscured by an array of clothes, rubbish, weapons, and the odd scroll.

It doesn’t take him very long to figure out where he is – it shouldn’t; almost all of the clothes are coloured a garish orange, and most of the trash consists of empty Ramen packets – but that doesn’t make him hate the fact of the mater any less. He also has a pretty good idea of how he got here. It makes him dislike her even more.

Something cold and sour is rising in his throat, like bile. At best, Uchiha Sasuke can be said to have quiet unconcern for most things; blatant disregard for others. But there are some things, beyond his brother, that warrant the full fire of his hate.

He hates that he barely has a clue of what she does when she takes over. He hates that she submits to, belongs to, loves the idiot. He hates that she has become such an intrinsic part of him that the decision to slip on frilly white panties in the morning instead of sensible blue boxers isn’t a conscientious one. Most of all, he thinks, he hates that, far, far down into his psyche, in the dusty corner that are usually reserved for his angst and his trauma, he may actually need this.

Grimacing, Sasuke bats his introspective thoughts away. He will reflect upon the other part of his personality later. Right now, he has to get out of here. He makes an effort to move, but reconsiders that decision once he discovers the kind of painful effect that action has on indelicate parts of his anatomy. His scowl deepens.

Next to him, there is movement. One of the arms that shoot out in sync with Naruto’s yawn damn near takes Sasuke’s head off. Peeved, and a little displaced, he des not see the tanned face looming over his until it is but scant inches away from his own visage, murmuring,

“Morning, babe.”

Lips pucker. Sasuke reacts, instantly, mechanically.

Fifteen minutes later, Naruto is nursing a black eye, and Sasuke is in the bathroom, scrubbing the last of her make-up off of his face. He has not yet apologised, and does not plan on doing so. He does not see any reason for him to say sorry for a reflex action. It’s the dead-last’s fault anyway. He should closer inspect whom it is he’s going to kiss before he makes any move to do so.

Presently, Sasuke walks out of the bathroom, swathed in a ridiculous looking green towel, dotted with little yellow swirls (it was the only thing he could find that both looked and smelled clean, and wasn’t coloured some inane shade of tangerine). He is walking very stiffly, and this only serves to make his limp even more pronounced. He knows it, and is reminded of the fact that this is all Naruto’s fault. He glares at the blond, who meets it head-on with a glower of his own. (No matter that it is somewhat mitigated by his swollen left eye; it well enough conveys that fact that he is also Not Pleased.)

“I need clothes,” the Uchiha states shortly, folding pale arms over an equally pale chest.

“Well, good morning to you too,” his fellow shinobi mutters sourly, replacing that ice-pack with one hand, and gesturing negligently towards the closet with the other.

Sasuke does not even spare the weathered piece of furniture a glance.

“Clothes that aren’t orange.”

Naruto snorts rudely.

“Good luck.” As an afterthought, he sticks out his tongue.

Sasuke rolls his eyes in a ‘spare me from the idiocy’ sort of way.


By way of answer, Naruto gives a snarl. It bounces off of Sasuke’s back, who has already turned away, and is walking towards the closet. The growl breeds into a pout, making Naruto look distinctly puerile.

Terse silence is the monarch. After much rummaging, Sasuke comes up with pair of sombre black slacks and a plain white shirt. Without a word, he disappears into the bathroom with them. The door doesn’t slam as much as it closes with unnecessary force.

The blond glares at the wooden structure, as if somehow, his contempt for the person behind it could seep through. He hates how he makes this more awkward than it needs to be. He hates that the dark asshole has to bitch and angst internally over every little thing. Hates that he just won’t accept it.

There are a lot of things that annoy Naruto about his best friends, but he’s got to admit it; the bastard’s got fucking issues. And as much as he despises him, there is a begrudging sentiment that out-stems his abhorrence and unwilling admiration. It is strange and curling, and dangerously akin to love.

Sometimes, he finds it impossible to believe that his Saki-chan and the bastard are one and the same; other times, it stares him bald in the face. And each day, he muses as he hops off the bed, they seem to bleed together, becoming more indiscernible as individuals, and strikingly lucid as one. He gathers his girlfriend’s clothes, folding them fondly, if messily.

One thing remains certain above all. Once his Saki-chan always returns to him, this strange love/hate relationship shall continue to hold, adhered by her light and her love.

He is depositing the frilly garments into a paper bag when Sasuke walks out of the toilet, the borrowed clothes sagging slightly on his thinner form. Naruto offers him the bag; he accepts it wordlessly. Their truce is unspoken, but understood.

Naruto stretches; his boxers hang low. Sasuke looks away, annoyed. At whom, he is not sure.

"Mission tomorrow,” he speaks quietly. “ANBU Headquarters. Seven. Don’t be late.”

Naruto gives a careless nod in reply, scratching his stomach. The Uchiha makes a sound that could be a sigh.


They hate it, and they love it, when he leaves; taking Saki and leaving space that even air will not fill; taking the strain, and leaving relief.


He surprises them both, and says goodbye before he exits, the door of the apartment clicking softly behind him.


A/N:-They both were a little OOC, I think.

I promised myself that this would be the last one, but the plot bunnies are breeding, copiously, and nothing will stop them. (What are you feeding them, Asuka?)

No telling when I’ll be done with the next.