Deep in the lairs of Sound Village, in Sasuke's large, secluded room with the flickering candlelight and textured walls, he dreamt of her.

In the dead of night when even lethal missing-nin slept, Sasuke would sweat under his heavy winter blanket, reveling in his subconscious world of soft, feminine gasps and slick skin creating delicious friction and gossamer kisses to his shoulders and neck. He would dream of vibrant peridot eyes shining with hazy lust beneath him, coral hair spread untidily on his pillow, delicate arms wrapped around his neck and endless slender legs folded around his hips; the mere image of her under his own body threatening to break him, the luscious pressure deep in his belly coiling and coiling until it—

And this is normally when he would wake up.

Even if it was freezing in the lair, he would sit at the foot of his bed sweating like he was surrounded by the fires of hell, breathing like he had just run to Kirigakure and back. His hot, intense dreams were so confusing—she was a symbol of the past, of what he walked away from—and here he was, so far away, just letting her invade his mind and intrude on his precious REM time.

And then, after another internal rant of frustration, he would resolve to take care of his need himself, and afterwards he would abandon the blanket and curl back up in his bed, trying not to pretend that there was soft pink hair splayed across his pillow instead of unruly black.

Then, the night after, she would return, emerald eyes glowing under dim light and needy whispers in his ear (Sasuke-kun please please I need—).

And so the cycle would repeat, night after night of bare breasts, slender legs, subtly-curved hips and soft skin, swollen and well-kissed lips just begging for more attention—so Dream Sasuke, his subconscious self, the man he was endlessly jelaous of, would give it to her, never faltering in his rhythm (inoutinoutinoutharderfastpleasesasuke-kunineedyou).

Sasuke understood that he was a teenage boy, and not without hormones (contrary to popular belief), so this should be perfectly normal, a rite of passage even. But he didn't understand why it had to ber her. She wasn't particularly pretty...

Oh, who was he trying to fool? With her face shiny with persiration, damp blush-pink hair sticking to her face, luminous eyes at half mast and hot breath protruding from luscious lips to fan against his cheek, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The prospect of performing such an act on her in real life terribly frightened Sasuke. She seemed so untainted, even while whispering pleas in his ear under dim lighting in his sleep, so much that even touching her would seem to ruin her. To defile such a delicate, perfect being was something too dirty for even Sasuke to do, and even if he didn't know it himself, the knowledge of that was the driving force he possessed to ignore her and shut her out under the pretense of having to wipe away any emotion other than pure hate. But in his dreams, he had this dangerous primal urge to feel more and more soft skin under his fingers, under his lips, until there was not a spot left untouched on her body, and then he would begin the process all over again—wash, rinse, repeat. And it is so unfathomably frustrating how he can never—he is there, she is there, he is inside her and she is pulling him in and pushing him out and they are so close—but climax never comes.

And then, he sees them again.

That night, climax does come to him—to them, and the unattainable peak they had both been working toward for the past four years was finally in their grasp, clutched tightly so as not to let it slip through their fingers. And beneath him, she is breathtaking, she is pulchritudinous, she is beauty personified; lids squeezed tight over translucent jade, ravaged lips falling apart in a silent scream, head tilted back against the pillow to reveal the smooth expanse of neck that he cannot help but shower his lips upon...she is everything he had been trying to achieve. And he has never felt such god-awful pleasure, roaring through every nerve ending until it was bordering precariously on pain, but oh, how delicious it was; rock-hard thighs and powerful flanks quivering with strain until finally, he would collapse, and she would let out her last moan—a low, keening, mellifluous sound that flows through her lips, lips impossibly soft, just like the rest of her.

And then, they would lay in the aftermath, all steady breathing and entangled limbs and absent-minded caresses on still-slick skin.

When he wakes, he does not jerk forward with a start, as per usual. His eyes softly flutter open, and he sighs and rises and stretches, limbs stiff after the best not-orgasm known to man, and there is a feeling; he feels dirty, lusty, prurient, even evil, but mostly he feels sated, and that is all he needs for now.


Because Sasuke's a teenager, and he has wet dreams too. ;)

I do believe Deidre's/the blanket's fic is up next. :D