Rating: M for sexual content

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: Sasuke realizes he's twisted.

Author's Notes: After a few people recommended it, I decided to upload this as an individual fic; it started as a oneshot in my collection 'A Bit of a Mix Up' but has morphed into a longer piece. I am forever thankful for my reviewers, it gives me the motivation to continue writing! I'm working on the fourth chapter to this right now (took a break to post this!) and hope to finish it by tonight?! Hopefully... somehow it always seems to take me longer than I plan to write.

I left the other chapters still posted in my oneshot anthology because I don't really want to lose the reviews if I delete it e_e But new chapter(s?) will be uploaded here only.

Twisted

The seconds ticked by on the large grandfather clock located in some dark hallway of the Uchiha compound. Each tick reverberating throughout the empty house, seemingly bouncing off the walls and growing louder.

A pale, dark haired male sat in a rather uncomfortable wooden chair, located in a large room of which the only accessory was a bed and a bedside table with a vase of shriveling daffodils. The constant ticking of the incessant clock echoed loudly in his ears. On more than one occasion, he mused that the infernal ticking was a countdown to his ever-waning sanity.

His dull eyes remained focused on the prone body lying on the bed before him. Soft, shoulder length pink hair sprawled out on the pillow the girl's head rested on. She wore a dark red, loosely fitted red kimono with pastel outlines of the flower she received her namesake. Her slender arms lay outstretched on either side of her small frame, the only part of her body aside from her neck and head that was above the bed sheets. Her facial features were soft and feminine, forever holding a sense of purity and innocence that most people lose when they enter adulthood. If her eyes were open, they'd reveal a spectacular pair of vibrant green eyes that shine with a mixture warmth and a fiery intensity for life.

But alas, those eyes remained shut. Hiding their beauty from the world in an eternal sleep.

As the male watched over her, he remained deep in contemplation. He longed to see those green eyes filled with life once more. To hear her voice, like music, ring through his ears. He wants so badly for his sleeping beauty to wake up, but he is no prince, and she is no princess. So, he sits and waits by her side, day after day, listening to the seconds tick by. Listening as he comes one second closer to the brink.

He shifts in his chair, trying to find a position that bodes well with his aching back, the ache a clear indication of hours spent unmoving. Soon, he gives up and accepts the pain, because the presence of physical pain is a useful distraction to the constant ache in his heart. Physical pain is good, he thinks, because it's part of his punishment.

Punishment for harming something so pure and innocent as the creature before him.

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It happened in a flash. A tremendous fight between best friends and companions; torn apart by power and revenge. Brother against brother. The battle lasts for hours, but as it draws to a close, one stands over the other. Without hesitation, his arm lights up with electricity and the sound of a thousand birds chirps menacingly in the air. He drives down, prepared to take a life but time appears to slow down and in that moment he remembers growing up with this loud-mouthed blonde, going on missions together, and learning all the basics about being a ninja with him.

Suddenly, he wants to stop, but gravity is bearing down on him and the momentum of his fist is carrying him forward, directly in the path of that annoying orange-wearing boy. He doesn't want to kill a brother. Not again! But he's helpless to stop it. He shuts his eyes, preparing for impact.

The first thing he feels is the warmth that embraces his hand and forearm. The sound of his hand tearing through flesh and bone soon follow. The unmistakable snapping of bone, the squelch of skin and blood, and the agonizing gasp of pain before his hand springs through the other side of the body. His eyes remain locked shut for what feels like eternity, but for what can only be a few seconds. Slowly he opens them, not wanting to see the carnage before him but powerless to resist. He remains unmoving, rooted in place, as she stumbles against his chest. The only thing he can see is pink hair and blood. He wants to pull back, yank his arm out and run away but she rests a hand on his shoulder and her head plants firmly against his chest. Her labored breathing turns into shallow pants. Then, her body starts to lose all functioning and her hand slips from his shoulder to fall limp at her side. She starts to fall forward but his free hand grabs her to keep her upright; his other hand is still impaling her chest.

Somehow, even in such a state, the pink haired female manages to sputter out his name through all the blood she's coughing up, and against every fiber of his body's wishes, he looks down at her and meets those green eyes for one last time before she closes them forever. Faintly, she smiles at him with the last of her energy before falling completely limp in his arms.

This is the cost of his revenge and betrayal.

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It was a miracle, really, that Tsunade was able to stabilize her condition. In took every trick the Hokage had and then some, but she persevered for her own reasons. She never wants to witness another precious person of hers to pass away. Unfortunately, her efforts fall short. Despite normalizing the body and brain functioning, her beloved student remains trapped in an inexplicable coma.

Days later, Sasuke is recalled from his prison cell to the Hokage's office. Surrounded by the company of his sole remaining teammate, sensei and the village elders, he waits to hear his punishment in silence, numb and barely aware of the world around him.

Death, he hopes. It's the only thing that will release him from this eternal hell he's living. It's the maximum sentence and the only thing worthy for someone who betrays their village, turns on a brother and inflicts a serious, long-term injury on a teammate.

Instead, he receives a punishment much worse.

"Uchiha Sasuke. You are to be the primary caretaker of Haruno Sakura. From this day forth you will house her and ensure that every necessity is taken to preserve her health and wellbeing. Should you fail to live up to this responsibility, you will be declared an enemy of Konoha and all your rights and property will be revoked."

Silence stretches through the room as he contemplates the words spoken. He opens his mouth, ready to refuse and accept whatever punishment comes with being an enemy of Konoha, but the blonde woman speaks once more.

Her voice is softer than just a minute ago, "Remember Uchiha, Sakura gave up everything in order to bring you back. For the sake of her last wishes, I trust you will make the right decision."

He is helpless to object.

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When she first arrives in his house, he takes every effort to be free of her company and away from the constant reminder of his horrible actions. He trains outside all day, until he's haggard and barely left with any breath. He makes sure to sleep in a room on the opposite side of the house. He uses every excuse possible to avoid her. The only time he comes into contact with her is when he has to change the intravenous fluid, which provides her with the necessary nutrition needed for survival. When the nurses come to check on her twice a week, he stands at the doorway to the room, never closer.

He doesn't want to see her, he doesn't want to look at her, he doesn't want to be reminded of what he did to her.

This continues for months, until one day, for some inexplicable reason, he finds himself standing at her bedside and looking over her lithe body. She's a shadow of her former self. A pale reflection; nothing more than the outer shell. Her hair is course and overgrown, her skin is dry and lips cracking from lack of moister. The sight makes the colour drain from his face.

Quickly, he departs from the room and uses every skill he possesses to scratch the image from his mind, promising to himself that he'll never get so close to her again.

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A week passes and, despite his best efforts, he still he cannot erase the image from his thoughts.

He curses, kicks and punches as he trains late into the evening. Hating himself for being so weak. If he was stronger, like Naruto or Kakashi, he'd be able to sit by her side, smile at her, talk to her, scream at her, anything! But he's a coward who should be dead. He's denied even that.

Every waking moment the image of her frail body hovers in his consciousness, drawing him in. He starts walking past the hallway that leads to her room daily, for no reason. This continues for days. Then, he finds himself at the door to her room. He stands there, wanting to go in but desperately wanting to flee at the same time. He stands for several minutes at a time before finally pulling himself away.

It becomes a ritual. Every day he returns to her door through some compulsion to be near her. Each day he stands there longer than the previous, and the effort it takes to pull his feet away grows, as if there's some kind of magnetic force field that intensifies its pull with every visit he makes.

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In some twisted way, he grows accustomed to the nightmares he has each night of her broken form in his arms. Of that ghostly smile that graced her lips the moment she gave into unconsciousness. It's the only time he gets to see those vibrant green eyes of hers looking up at him.

He wakes with a start, labored breathing filling the dark room. The sheets are twisted around his body, damp from the cold sweat covering his body. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and leaves his face buried in his hands as he tries to catch his breath.

Another vivid dream of that day. He grits his teeth, annoyed by his anguish.

His mind flashes to the image of her helpless body lying in the bed, so close yet so far away. Then, suddenly, the thought grips his mind. Is she alright?! Had she finally slipped into the beyond, and was lying dead in her bed?

The irrational fear creeps into every corner of his body. That familiar, cold numbness sneaks its way into his toes and ascends through his blood, up to his knees, thighs, stomach, until it grips his heart in a frosty chill. It's one of those mind-consuming fears that infects every cell and nerve in the body, until the chest tingles and it's impossible to think of the most basic tasks, like how to breathe. One of those fears where thinking of death is actually a comfort, because then all of this will mean nothing and that pathetic excuse of a life you lived finally ceases to exist.

He throws the sheets off and jumps out of bed, moving quicker with each step until he finds himself in an all out run to her room. Without a moment's hesitation he throws the door open with such force that it's unhinged from the wall and tumbles loudly to the floor, but the sound is forgotten and ignored. He rushes to her side and leans down, his ear hovering over her nose and lips. He stands unmoving anxiously waiting. Waiting. Until at last, he feels the soft exhale of air brush against him and can finally let out a shaky breath.

The relief hits him like a wave and he finds his body giving out beneath him. His head falls against her chest, buried in the sheets that divide them, his arms sprawl out over her sleeping form and legs bent to kneel against the side of the bed for support.

She's still alive.

His fingers draw inward as he pulls himself closer, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, listening to that steady heart beat, breathing in her scent as if it's essential to his survival. The sweet aroma wafts in through his nose, making his chest and brain feel light and tingly. He stays like that, immobile for minutes, maybe hours, until he finally turns his head too look at her.

She's so peaceful and relaxed looking that he can almost pretend she's merely asleep in his bed, about to wake up at a moment's notice. He watches her, like one watches a lover, memorizing the steady rise of her chest, the dip of her collar bone, the curve of her neck, the outline of her lips, and the way her hair falls on the pillow like a pink halo. His hand snakes up to those pink tresses, overgrown through months of neglect. He takes a lock of hair in his fingers, rubbing it between his thumb and his index finger before bringing it to his lips. Once, petal soft hair is now course with split ends.

As he brushes her hair across his lips he frowns. It's not right. She always paid careful attention to her hair. It probably took several hours a week for her to keep it so healthy and kept.

He feels a prickle of anger form in his heart. How could he let her get into such a state. It's unforgiveable. She gave up everything to see him returned to his birthplace. She sacrificed herself so that he wouldn't have to live with the sorrow of having killed his best friend. She loved him incessantly despite all the grave crimes he committed. Yet here he was, failing in the most basic tasks of caring for her hair.

With a great deal of effort he pulls himself up. He doesn't really want to move but the problem concerning her hair possesses his body to act on its own accord. Slowly, he pulls back the covers, unveiling her entire form to him. Something pulls at his heart but he ignores it, instead bending down to snake his arms beneath her knees and back. He pulls her up, resting her snugly against his chest as he carries her out of her room for the first time since she arrived in it. His eyes remain stuck on her face, as he walks down the hall.

He twists and turn with expert grace until he reaches his destination. It's a bathroom located on his side of the house. Her side is too much of a reminder that she's damaged and broken.

Carefully, he sets his precious cargo down in the large tub, paying particular attention to support the base of her skull in his hand. He brushes the loose strands of hair off her face. With equal gentleness, he slides the loose fitting kimono off her shoulders, letting it pool in a heap around her mid-section. Aware of her modesty, he keeps his eyes plastered on her face, never once letting them wander to forbidden places. Then he reaches up with his spare hand and turns the faucet to let lukewarm water rivet down her forehead and through her hair. He tilts her head back further, to prevent the waters liquid tendrils from working their way down the plane of her neck and chest.

When her hair is wet and matted to her face, he grabs a bottle of shampoo from the ledge and slowly works his hand into her scalp, massaging and combing through her tangled hair as he lathers the soap deep into every crevice. He does the same with the conditioner, slowly easing his fingers through her hair and relishing the way it clings to his hand in the same way that a newborn wraps it's fingers around that of its parents.

He rings the water out and sets her up against the edge of the tub, being sure to fasten the kimono back around her chest before he fetches a brush hidden somewhere in one of the drawers beside the sink. He spends a good 30 minutes combing her hair, making sure to get every little knot out of the way. It's almost perfect but he hesitates a moment, deep in thought as he tries to discover what's missing.

It strikes him as he sweeps some hair off the small of her back. The length isn't right.

Quickly, he departs and returns with a kunai of which he uses to trim her hair and return it to its proper, shoulder-length style. When he's done, he takes a moment to admire his handiwork. It's the first time he's cut someone's hair that is not his own.

Washing her hair becomes part of their daily routine. He promises himself that he will never let her hair grow course again. He will never let it lose its luster because one day, his sleeping beauty might open her eyes and he didn't think he could look at them without a twinge of guilt knowing he didn't take the best of care of her.

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He starts to sit with her after he trains in the morning, and then again in the evening. It's getting more and more difficult to concentrate on training with Naruto or Kakashi because the entire time his body wants to be somewhere else. Even when they're talking to him, his thoughts are on her. It's an antsy feeling where his body stands on edge as if a constant electrical current is running through him.

He receives no escape, even at night, because she consumes his unconscious mind then too.

Having to eat ramen with Naruto after days of begging is particularly tortuous. He only gives in to avoid the questioning stares that focus their attention on him every time he denies the request. Through the entire meal, his body screams at him in a desperate plead to get back to her side.

Amidst the one-sided laughter, the blonde male turns serious as he clears his throat and looks over his friend with concern.

"She'd want you to be happy Sasuke," his tone is barely above a whisper.

Dark eyes stare blankly into compassionate blue ones, before he suddenly sets down his money and departs.

He's already been away from her for too long.

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The days blend together and before he knows it, it's been a year since their lives became entwined.

He finds himself staring at her unmoving form, like so often he does. On this particular occasion, his attention is stuck on her pink lips. He oddly wonders if it's possible for someone's lips to grow stuck together through lack of use but shakes the thought from his head. Then he focuses on the slight cracks that mar those formerly soft, moist lips. He can almost remember the way they quirked up in an insecure smile after she would ask him out on a date during their genin days.

Without realizing it, he finds his fingers dancing along the edges of her lower lip, tracing left and right. He catches himself wondering what it'd feel like to have those lips on his.

The thought disturbs him and he quickly takes his leave, vowing never to let his thoughts wander like that again.

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Sitting in his familiar spot, he takes a bite from a deliciously ripe tomato, catching the juices with his hand before it can slide past his neck and onto his chest. It's a rare moment of what could be described as satisfaction, only broken by the sound of rustling fabric that reaches his ears.

Glancing up, his breath catches in his throat. The tomato drops, forgotten on the floor as he sees two half-lidded green eyes gazing up at him.

"This… has to be a dream" he says breathlessly. He's paralyzed in his seat, afraid to move and break the illusion.

She winces slightly as she tries, unsuccessfully, to pull herself up. He jumps up and eases her into a sitting position, still unsure if he's really awake.

"Sasuke-kun," she murmurs softly, that gentle smile gracing her beautiful features once again. It's enough to make his breath hitch in his throat.

She's awake, she's really awake! His stomach performs a flip and he almost smiles.

He grabs her lithe body and holds her tightly against himself, nuzzling his face in her neck and sighing deeply.

She giggles lightly, running her fingers through his messy black hair. For the first time in a long while, he feels alive. A flame lights in his chest and the urgency to get even closer itches at his side. His tongue darts out, brushing against her throat. She gasps, and pulls him closer. He starts kissing along her neck, travelling up to her face before pausing above her lips.

"Why are you stopping?" She licks her lips to moisten them, gazing at him with eyes full of yearning.

The sight sends any semblance of self-control he possessed out of door and into oblivion. He climbs on top of her, straddling her hips as pulls her into a hot and needy kiss. His tongue runs along the bottom lip and unhesitatingly she opens her mouth, inviting him in. Their tongues dance and slide along each other, each clinging to the other as if they were one.

His hands are sliding down her chest, rushing to untie her obi and remove the offending material. At the same time, his hips rub against her, the ache pooling in his loins and quickly sending him over the edge. He moans into her mouth, his need quickly growing harder in his pants.

"Sakura," he gasps, starting to move more vigorously against her.

She doesn't answer, and her hand drops from his hair, landing limply at her side. He pulls back, confusion written across. As he sits back to gaze at her, he starts to feel the pull of something, wrenching him away from her prone body and into darkness.

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He bolts upright in his bed, hot and sweaty with the sheets tossed haphazardly over his form. Shifting his legs slightly, he lets out a hiss at the painful ache between his legs.

It was all just a dream. A dream that left him with an unshakeable reminder of his treacherous thoughts.

He shuts his eyes in deep concentration, trying to will his body back under his control. Instead, he sees her lips, descending down his chest to his navel, travelling further… he releases a throaty moan. This is not what he wanted. He desperately tries to think of something, anything, else but his focus keeps returning to his pink haired teammate.

It's sick, it's disgusting. He keeps telling himself as his hand snakes down his abs and under the waistband of his boxers. There was something wrong with him. He shouldn't be thinking of her unconscious body as his hand wraps around his manhood. He groans and bites his bottom lip. She was under the same roof as him, for God's sake! She's helpless and defenseless to his advances. He starts to pump himself, up and down. The entire time he pictures it not as his own hand but has hers, wrapped coyly around him as she squeezes and scrapes her fingers against him.

Faster, he strokes himself into a frenzied pace, gasping and grunting, as he draws nearer to completion. His breathing comes out in pants and sweat is dripping down his bare chest. He feels himself twitch in his hand, as he gives the final few rough strokes. Again, those maddening pink lips of hers flash through his mind in a final yank that has his hips thrusting up in release. Unabashedly his head is thrown back in a silent scream as his orgasm rips through him, sending afterquakes riveting through his body. His hot seed fills his hand and soaks his boxers. He pants, unmoving on the bed.

Absentmindedly he thinks to himself that his vow not to let his mind wander lasted less than a day.

As his afterglow leaves him, he's left with a nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He was definitely slipping.

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It always happened the same way now. He'd lay with his head down on his pillow; thinking to himself the most remote, boring subjects to drift to sleep to. Sometimes it was challenging math equations, other times it was Naruto's yammering on about the importance of ramen to one's diet. No matter what it was, the result remained the same. He'd wake up to a coil in his stomach wound so tightly that no number of cold showers had any effect.

He had to resort to the shameful and indecent act of jerking himself off to thoughts of his female teammate who lay unconscious in his own house. At times in the middle of his lust-filled haze, the thought crossed him, what would she think if she were to wake up one night to sounds of his gasps drifting through the house?

The thought made him cum harder.

Whenever he finished, the basest form of disgust washed over him and violated him to the core. He felt dirty even after he washed away all evidence of the deed in the shower. No amount of soap or water was enough to wash away his sin.

Finally, one evening he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't do this one more night in a row. He couldn't stand to abase himself and then look in the mirror, barely recognizing his own reflection. It felt like the skin he lived in was foreign. He hated it. He hated having no control or resolve, merely a slave to his primitive and carnal desires. Surely, there had to be a solution, something that could end this madness and set his mind straight. He never used to be like this. He was always in control; when he spent three years in Orochimaru's lair, he never once felt compelled to submit to nightly passions. When he killed Itachi and joined up with Obito, his thoughts, perhaps consumed by reckless desire for revenge, still remained pure and uninhibited by bodily need.

He never felt this way until he was forced to take care of her.

His fists clench at his sides as he thinks of the pititful depths he's been driven to while under her spell. Maybe this was all part of her plan. Force him to understand a whole new level of suffering for rejecting her all those years ago. He had to give it to her, this was some master plan. Manipulating his thoughts and desires until they were filled only with thoughts of her.

He storms into her room, the door never replaced since that night he tore it from its hinges. Marching up to her, he grabs her shoulders and shakes, never more frustrated or angry with this girl in his life.

"Wake up!" He bites out. She says nothing.

"Wake up," he yells again, fisting the fabric of her kimono in his hands. Still, she remains silent. He commands repeatedly, over and over, for her to wake up. He can't take it anymore.

"Please, please wake up," He starts to beg and finds himself climbing on top of her, pinning her body under his and shaking her again, in a desperate plight to rouse her. It doesn't succeed.

"I… I can't go on like this anymore," he feels unfamiliar hot liquid escape from his eyes and watches as they fall unceremoniously on the unconscious body below. Soon, they're rolling down in an uncontrollable stream, dampening her clothes, neck and face.

He grits his teeth as he leans his head closer to hers.

"If you wake up," he finds himself pleading with her, "I'll do anything you want." His pleas fall on deaf ears.

After a few, unmoving minutes, he lets his heavy head rest against hers.

"Do you really hate me this much," he murmurs against her with tears caught in his lashes.

This must be her revenge.

He grows mesmerized by the feel of her shallow breath brushing across his face. It makes him forget why he came here in the first place, or why he's straddling her with her lips mere millimeters apart from his own. Again, curiosity takes hold of him, making him wonder what it'd feel like to have their lips connected as one. He can't resist, it's like gravity pulling him down.

His lips graze against hers, softly at first. They remain still, as if testing her reaction to his touch. Of course, she does nothing. His tongue darts out, cautiously, moistening those dry lips of hers before he presses against her more firmly.

If he could just…

He takes hold of her chin, forcing her mouth open and delving that hot, slick tongue of his deeper inside her mouth. Melding his lips to hers, he hungrily devours all that he can, roughly claiming her mouth with his. Their saliva mixes and reaches every corner of her mouth.

It's even better than he imagined it would be.

With a sigh, he pulls back, the need for air too great to continue satisfying his wanton curiosity. The sight of a string of saliva connecting their mouths is enough to make him groan, as a shiver travels down his spine. He wants more, he needs more.

A roll of the hips against hers is enough to snap him from his reverie. The illusion broken by the realization of his twisted desire.

He draws back in disgust, wiping his filthy mouth with the back of his hand and quickly scampers off her as if she's a deadly toxin. He backs away in partial disbelief, his eyes lingering on her form for only a moment before he quickly hurries out of the room. Making it to the bathroom, thoughts of his sick perversion force him to retch up a mixture of dinner and stomach acid into the toilet.

As he sits there with his head pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat, he crumbles. It's too much to bear.

He's a monster. A sick, disgusting monster.