The Uchiha district was a mausoleum of silence, its empty streets lit only by a sickle moon that hung like a kunai slash across the black sky. Wind hissed through cracked shutters and rattled the paper doors of houses that had not known laughter in eight years. Sasuke moved through the compound like a ghost himself, sandals whispering over the polished wooden veranda of the main house. The day had been an insult: stuck on a team with the dobe and the banshee, under the command of a masked jonin who showed up four hours late and then dismissed them with a lazy wave. Tomorrow was the bell test. Tomorrow he would prove he needed no one.
He slid the shoji shut behind him, the click of the latch louder than any explosion in the stillness. The room was exactly as it had been since the massacre: tatami worn thin in the exact spots his feet had trod a thousand nights, a low desk still holding the scroll he'd been reading at age seven, the faint scent of cedar and old blood that no amount of airing ever quite erased. He stripped off the sweat-damp training gear with economical movements, letting the cloth fall where it would. Naked, he stood before the full-length mirror his mother had once used to tie her hair.
Moonlight carved him in silver and shadow: lean muscle sliding under pale skin, collarbones sharp enough to cut, the faint white scar under his left ribs where Itachi's kunai had kissed him and left him alive. His eyes—onyx, always too old—stared back with the usual contempt. For the world. For the village. For the loudmouth idiot who had somehow become the fixed point around which his irritation orbited.
Naruto.
The name tasted like rust in his mouth. Tomorrow he would crush the dobe, take both bells, and be rid of him forever. Sasuke turned away from the mirror, killed the lantern, and slid into the futon. Sleep did not come gently; it never did. It came like a chokehold, dragging him down into the dark.
He dreamed—or thought he did—of heat. Not the clean, killing heat of Amaterasu, but something wetter, clingier, like summer air before a storm. It started in his spine, a slow molten trickle that pooled low in his belly and refused to cool. He shifted restlessly, kicking at the sheet tangled around his legs. The futon felt too small, the air too thick. His skin prickled as if a thousand tiny tongues licked him all at once.
Sasuke woke with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The room was unchanged, moonlight still slicing through the shutters, but his body was wrong. Hot. Too hot. He sat up, clawing at his throat, fingers brushing skin that felt… different. Softer. Feverish. A low whine escaped him—high, needy, nothing like his voice—and the sound sent a bolt of pure terror through him because it sounded like pleasure.
He staggered to the mirror.
The reflection that stared back was still his face—same sharp jaw, same straight nose—but everything else was sliding, melting, reshaping itself like wax under flame. His cheekbones lifted, softened; his lips plumped until they looked bee-stung, obscenely red even in the dim light. Long lashes swept down over eyes that had gone huge and glittering, the Sharingan tomoe spinning lazily as if drunk. Black hair, once a jagged fringe that shadowed his gaze, was growing—growing—spilling over his shoulders in glossy obsidian waves that reached the small of his back, thick and fragrant with something sweet, like night-blooming jasmine.
Lower.
His chest heaved with panicked breaths, and as he watched, two soft mounds pushed out from his pectorals, slow and relentless. Skin stretched, tingled, then gave way to aching sensitivity. Nipples darkened and stiffened into fat, rosy peaks that begged for fingers, for mouths. The weight of them pulled at his—her?—chest, and when she cupped them instinctively, a broken moan tore out of her throat. Pleasure so sharp it felt like pain lanced straight to her core.
Her hands flew away as if burned. "No," she hissed, but the voice that came out was honey and smoke, a bedroom purr that belonged to someone else entirely.
The heat sank lower, curling between her legs like a cat stretching in sunlight. Her hips cracked—audibly—and widened with a grinding pop that should have been agony but felt like the most exquisite stretch after a lifetime of being bound too tight. Her ass swelled, rounding into a perfect heart shape that made her thighs brush together when she shifted. Between them, her cock—still there, still hard—gave a pathetic twitch before it began to shrink, retreating like a tide, inverting, folding in on itself with wet, filthy sounds that echoed obscenely in the silent room. A new ache bloomed, empty and clenching, dripping already.
Sasuke—no, the creature in the mirror was not Sasuke anymore—stared down at herself in horror as slick painted the inside of her thighs. Her new pussy was pink and perfect, puffy lips glistening, clit swollen and peeking out like it was shy. She touched it with trembling fingers and nearly collapsed, knees buckling as lightning shot up her spine. The moan that ripped out of her this time was pure porn, loud enough to wake the dead.
Inside her skull, something vast and cold was melting.
Memories flickered—Itachi's silhouette in the moonlight, blood on tatami, the scream that never came because his throat had closed with grief—but they felt distant now, like stories about someone else. New thoughts poured in to fill the vacuum, sticky and bright and simple.
Naruto.
Naruto's sunshine hair. Naruto's ocean eyes. Naruto's stupid foxy grin that made her want to drop to her knees and never get up again. Naruto's strong hands, calloused from training, how they would feel tangled in her hair, yanking her head back while he fucked her throat raw. Naruto's cock—because of course she knew exactly what it looked like now, thick and long and curved just right to hit every spot inside her until she screamed his name like a prayer.
She whimpered, pressing her thighs together, but that only made it worse. Her nipples throbbed. Her pussy clenched around nothing. She needed. She needed so badly it felt like dying.
"N-Naruto-kun," she tested the word, and it tasted like candy on her tongue. Her voice was breathy, girlish, the kind of voice that made men stupid. Perfect.
The old Sasuke clawed at the inside of her mind, frantic. This is wrong. This is a genjutsu. Break it. Focus your chakra—
But the new Sasuke—Sassy, her mind whispered gleefully, Sassy-chan—giggled and twirled a lock of hair around one finger. Why fight it? Fighting was hard. Thinking was hard. Being pretty and wet and empty for Naruto was easy. It felt right. It felt like coming home.
She padded to the closet on legs that now swayed with an instinctive, cock-hardening roll of her hips. Her old clothes were laughable now; the black high-neck shirt would never stretch across her tits, the pants would split the second she bent over. But hidden in the back, forgotten since her mother's death, was a box of Anko's old things—gifts from a cousin who had loved scandalous shinobi fashion. Sassy pulled out a tiny black crop top that was more string than fabric and a pleated skirt so short it barely covered the curve of her ass. No panties. Panties were for girls who didn't want to get fucked immediately.
She dressed slowly, savoring the way the fabric rasped over her nipples, the way the skirt fluttered against her bare pussy when she moved. Fishnet thigh-highs, because why not? A choker with a little silver bell that tinkled when she walked. She painted her lips crimson, smacking them at the mirror, then practiced her smile—vacant, adoring, promising everything.
The Sharingan spun lazily in her eyes, but it wasn't copying jutsu anymore. It was memorizing the exact shade of blue Naruto's eyes turned when he was happy. It was cataloging every line of his body, every vein on his cock, every sound he made when he came. Perfect for a perfect bimbo.
Sassy took one last look in the mirror. The girl staring back was a wet dream in human form: tits spilling out of her top, ass peeking beneath the skirt, lips parted like she was already begging. She blew herself a kiss, then turned and sashayed toward the door, hips rolling, bell chiming softly with every step.
Tomorrow was the bell test, but bells didn't matter anymore. Revenge didn't matter. Nothing mattered except finding Naruto-kun and wrapping herself around him until he never wanted to let go.
She slipped out into the moonlit street, barefoot because shoes were annoying and she wanted to feel the cool stones under her soles while she hunted for her future husband. Somewhere in the village, Naruto was sleeping, completely unaware that the last Uchiha had just become the neediest, sluttiest, most devoted cockslut he would ever meet.
Sassy licked her lips and giggled, the sound high and bubbly and utterly brainless.
"Soon, Naruto-kun," she whispered to the night, voice dripping with syrupy promise. "Sassy's gonna make you so happy you'll forget your own name."
And then she vanished into the shadows, leaving the empty Uchiha compound behind forever.