Kakashi's POV. Dark, twisted, and downright vicious at some points. There might be a part III coming up, kind of like an interlude from Sasuke's POV. But who knows it's early in the morning and I'm kind of delirious. Please excuse typos, they'll be fixed later.

Obsession

Part II

Dead man walking. Head bowed and hands stuffed into pockets, I avert my eyes while walking down the street. My head aches. Heart aches. Belly aches. Muscles ache.

The mouth feels good.

It remembers the pressure from her lips. The warmth and sweetness. The memory flickers like a faint match against the fog. It's an intoxicating combination—of feather soft butterfly wings, with the taste of slick heat and honey, and tense fingers digging into the ground.

Each kiss releases a fervent plea. A silent prayer of unspoken admiration. The caressing contact of skin to skin. The sensation of sun and fire against my mouth. It's her youthfulness and fire bound together in one long endless summer.

The brightness burns—days, even weeks, after she gently, eagerly placed each kiss there.

The rest of me aches.

Words cannot describe what I feel towards Sakura now.

Pure terror, perhaps. Of her and myself. A new fear has crawled into my heart and settled there, burrowing deep into my chest. The thought of her body flushed up to mine occupies too many passing hours. My focus, unbidden, roams and searches for her. Even when knowing she won't be there.

She never looks at me anymore.

There used to be times when I could feel her gaze. Hers is very specific type of gaze; too quiet to be intrusive, but just long enough to be noticeable. An alarming prickle tends to go up the back of the neck, in a slow crawl, when it happens.

No shinobi would like it. Like she's feeling me up, searching through the features of my face one by one, though her hands remain at her side. What she's searching for I may never know. I never catch her in time, she always looks away, but the uncomfortable feeling remains.

Sometimes I get the urge to meet her gaze dead on, curious of what her reaction would be. But I know better—I know how one look would send her skittering away like a shy rabbit, or make her collapse inward with an embarrassing blush. Sakura is never the type of girl to back down from a situation. In public that is—when there's an audience to watch her reactions play out.

These moments are more private. Like a hidden secret. That trust... it's like something young and tender like a baby bird, nestled safe and trusting in your hand. To look up would be to crush those fragile wings, closing fingers into a tight fist, rubbing, smashing skin and bones and feathers together. Just the thought of it seems too profane.

Haruno Sakura. Always on the edge of my radar. The one girl who is always loud and brash when it comes to arguments in the day time, but then always surprisingly quiet and when it comes to eating dinner around the campfire.

I don't kid myself into thinking that I never knew. Because I've always known. While the boys were too busy devouring their meals, she was busy sending long languid gazes at her sensei's back. Even when focusing on my bowl of food, or watching the distant shadows on the dirt, I could feel that uncomfortable prickle start along my neck.

She was always there, hovering in the background. Just a bit of pink in my peripheral vision, a splash of warmth, or the constant voice jabbering away near my ear. I've become so accustomed to her being nearby that I never paid attention to how much space she occupied before. How much closeness there was. How much coldness there is now.

But none of this matters anymore. That certain encounter on the training field never happened, as we agreed to forget. I am her teacher. Her commander. It was my duty to keep her in check and put her in her place. This is the best way for the both of us.

That's right. I can put her in her place.

In so many different ways.

In so many different positions.

...

...

...

Why do my arms still tremble when I think about it?

Sakura would not make a good lover.

Thoughts turn dark at night. It's in these moments I must convince myself why I would not have her. How, if given the option, I would not take her for all the wealth, fame, or pleasure in the world.

But what wealth is greater than those found in the depths of her emerald eyes... or what fame is greater than her former admiration of me... and what pleasure is greater than those lasting kisses?

No.

I would sooner cut off my hands than touch her; or run my fingers through those soft, enticing, silky strands. Those locks that shimmer pink in the sun, but then turn a more intriguing shade in the dark. By the forest shadows the bright hue of her hair always draws the eye. It makes a person want to reach out, and…

No.

My heart is nothing more than a desert—a hot land where the sun scorches the earth and dust blows over in the wind.

How could I ever place the gentle love of my student there?

But what does any of it matter anyway when love isn't part of the equation.

I'm such a despicable person.

The rain pounds outside my window.

On quiet afternoons a man can't help but lay in bed and accept how his world has changed. How everything feels different. How colors are inverted, sounds are faded, and when he walks the ground is the sky, and how his sense of taste and touch are beginning to go.

Of course, I can still taste food and feel things with my hands, but in comparison to touching and tasting her everything else pales. How was it possible to live before? Memory is impossible. Thinking back, life was like a whitewashed canvas. Dull, and slowly peeling away like dried out paint. I realize that everything until now has been a complete waste.

I want her.

But no, I don't want her. Scattered thoughts run around like rats in a cage, scrambling back and forth, and crawling just beneath the skin. There's confusion with every pleasure-laced memory, sweat dampens my brow. The body feels like lead. I breathe. I live. I hold onto consciousness.

The phantom of Sakura haunts me. The ghost of her smile. The way her fingers dig into my arms as she leans down for a kiss. Soft rain washes out as background noise to this gentle dream. This persuasive and fleeting memory.

Fantasies of taking her roughly begin to play out. It would be a rainy day like this when walking around the towers. We would see each other, when I suddenly and inexplicably usher her into an abandoned room. I wouldn't touch her, but command her to take off her clothes. To turn around and grip onto the nearby table tight. The imagery runs on as Sakura follows my every order.

Strange fantasies of power play appear, and taking advantage of power dynamics. Thoughts that don't typically occur, and have never occurred until now, but remains visceral and persuasive. Especially in those quiet moments when a man has nothing to do but stare out the window and lay alone in bed.

It doesn't stop raining for a week.

Twelve. Brimming with energy, bright and cheerful. Her kunai hits every target. When she walks up a tree for the first time she gives off a catty grin. There's triumph on her face as she knocks her friend out at the chuunin exams, and terror on the rooftop when her teammates are about to crack each others skulls open.

Thirteen. She trades me for a new teacher.

Fourteen. We pass by each other in the hallways sometimes. Always with tense silence. We have heavy hearts. The boys are gone.

Fifteen. The outbreak of the largest war in shinobi history. When all is said and done, there's an unsettling peace. For some strange reason when we're sitting together in the aftermath, and she's healing me in the medics' tent, she asks me what it's like to kiss a boy. I have no answer.

Sixteen. Chaos and excitement occur at the hospital. Whispers say she brought a man back to life; revived him from the very edge of oblivion. But what's true and what's not? With so much panic in the room, it's hard to say what really happened.

However, I remember a time when a simliar event occurred. Back in the desert. An old woman gave up her life force so that the Kazekage could live again. A tremor of fear runs down my spine. I can't even imagine, can't even think how much Sakura gave away this time from caring too much—how many years she may have shaved off from her lifespan.

Seventeen. Pearly teeth and shapely legs, and I pretend not to notice. Training requires extra attention now to make sure they don't actually kill me. It's a lot of work. The victories are more relishing. I pretend not to notice this treacherous thing that stirs inside my chest whenever I manage to finally catch her after a long chase and pin her down into the ground. Always hard. Always forceful.

Then one day she kisses me, and I hate myself all the more.

I don't love her.

Yet I know more about Sakura… inside and out... than any stranger, friend, family, or lover ever will. Does that thought seem disturbing?

It disturbs me, too. I didn't ask for any of this. Jounin don't ask to have three children thrust upon them. To take care of them and protect them with a lasting life bond. To make sure they grow up in the proper shinobi way. To suddenly become their teacher. If under any other circumstance, if duty never required, then I never would have spoken to or known them in the first place.

What right do I have to know these things about her?

Yet, I know them.

Details. I can count back all the years on one hand. One finger down for each year. I do this often, tapping my fingers back and forth against the counter of Ichiraku when the team dines together, sitting in a row. Always in the same order, with Sasuke at the end, Naruto next to him, then Sakura, and me... and for the times when she sits just a little to close. Counting the years is a reminder of why she's too young and why I can't have her.

She's pretty. There is something stunning about the way she smiles. I know the physical details from her weight and height, to the measurement of her hips, and even the way she likes to lean back more on her left leg than her right. I carve every detail into my mind, hoping that someday this information may come of use.

It's all for mission work, I tell myself.

The strange things is… I can't recall which leg Naruto or Sasuke tend to favor at the moment. Must be a lapse in memory.

It's pleasurable to watch the smooth skin of Sakura's calf, as she takes a step back and rebalances her weight. Pure artistry in motion. The shape of her silhouette. Her stance is angled sharp and perfect. Though, she could tuck in her elbows a little more, and close the opening around her torso. It's a common mistake for Sakura.

She's never good at protecting her heart.

I calmly readjust her stance each time, and even ignore the way she stiffens under my touch these days.

Her green eyes, bright and accusing, could burn straight through any soul.

Heated throbs lace the bones.

Nothing satisfies. Not until I'm slacking off this frustration.

When I close the door to my apartment the symptoms begin. Muscles tense up out of habit. With throat dry and chest full of longing, the body yearns. The dark nights alone take on a bitter tone. When reading, the grip on my books tighten ever so slightly. Suddenly my cramped apartment that once held solitude now only holds loneliness.

You are not innocent. You are not what she wanted. The dark voice whispers in my head.

Out of the fog, one sharp thought becomes clear. Like a warm ray of sunshine that glows on my skin. But the keen edge has dangerous feel to it and fills me with dread. Like skimming a blade just over the knuckles. It's the thought of what happens to sensei who stray from the path.

The Will of Fire is something every person carries on the inside. We cannot escape it. Whenever one deviates from their assigned duty…

It burns me now. That hot fire.

I groan. The anguish waxes unbearable as my stomach roils. My head aches. Body aches. The pain wells up and bursts along my chest in a thousand bright spots, ripping my esophagus out from the inside, and clawing through my throat. It breaks through… seeping through teeth. The sludge spills over lowered jaw into the sink. Splat. Toxic waste staining the porcelain. My lungs are left in tatters. The aftertaste is bitter from vomiting.

Dead man walking.

We travel a narrow path between rice fields. Weeds poke out from the ground. In the background, a chorus of crickets.

A faint image stirs; the memory of taking this road before in another time with another different team. Minato-sensei stalks ahead, cool and composed while we follow behind in quiet stealth. Rin and Obito and myself—we were all just chuunin then. The hot air is thick. Each moment feels tense. Tall rice bushels hide dangerous things. Such as enemy ninjas, and traps, and bombs.

The war ends. Decades pass, and it's a new era. That old dangers fall away and are gone now. In the dusk the fields feel serene. No more skeletons sticking from the mud, but instead there's only lush greenery. The rice plants sway in the breeze, robust and healthy from the abundant rain. The farmers expect a good harvest season. The indigo sky blazes with wild charm and beauty.

The rice fields light up. Dusky sun on shimmering water. Like the neat rows of a well-maintained swamp. The croak of frogs and soft chur of insects fill the calm air.

For once, Naruto and Sasuke have nothing to say. They follow obediently as the team covers the final leg of travel. They are far from home in the outskirts of cloud country. It's been a tiring mission, and now a tiresome trek back. Somewhere along the way, Naruto found a stick, dragging it along in the dirt, and randomly whacking it out like a sword. He's beheaded hundreds of weeds in the past ten miles.

Sasuke takes the center, quiet and meditative as he observes the ground... surrounding rice plants... the sky... back to ground. Hands in pocket, wordlessly stepping around the beheaded weeds. This level of consideration for his environment is typical of the Uchiha.

Sakura drags in the back, solemn and reserved, uncaring as wilted plants go crushed underfoot. Her expression distant—remote as the setting sun. Her hair equally brilliant. Only the puckered line of skin around her gentle mouth seems immediate. Somewhere in the past week Sakura picked up a scar. Bright red and angry; bisecting the corner of her mouth. A rough scratch. She won't say from what.

She refuses to do anything about it. She won't bandage, nurse, or heal it.

Some people don't need masks to conceal their thoughts. We only have the features of their face to guess what's going on. Behind that cool look of professionalism it's hard to say what lurks beneath that calm and placid surface. Sometimes those lurking things are something truly dark and twisted.

Like a locked box.

Or flower closed up.

I can no longer tell what she's thinking. It's been that way, I think, ever since that incident months before. Perhaps her mind has always been knotted. The intense nature of living the shinobi life has a way of messing up a person's inner world.

Age adds a sharpness to her profile. Her features are maturing, lengthening. There's something wild about it. Almost uncanny, dangerous. Like any true killer. Any true shinobi, she starting to gain the intimidation factor.

Where silence once held one meaning—now existed endless shades and subtext.

What I wouldn't give to pry her mind open, to dig my fingers deep in her skull and pull out every string of thought, all the tangeld knots, and lay out all those musings she kept locked away inside. To drag everything out into the light, and go over each article with a perverse kind of pleasure. To finally crack open her mind. To pick her clean.

She glances up. A razor-sharp focus goes straight to the back of my head. The feeling of her gaze persists, strong, holding steady for five slow breaths. The uncomfortable prickle starts up. I remind myself to stay relaxed, to appear normal, as if I notice nothing. But for five breaths my chest feels very tight.

Like an animal

being hunted.

Perhaps she's learned a new lesson by now. The lesson that dangerous things aren't always what appear outside a person, but the dark things that go unnoticed inside. Her focus shifts. The sharp scrutiny drops and relaxes. The sensation dissapears.

My chest clears up. The rest of the travel goes on in silence.

We reach a remote farmhouse as night descends. The sky is dim now. The aged building looks like a wooden shack floating above the pink world of shimmering water. The lantern on the porch glows bright yellow, warm and beckoning among the swamp of rice. An elderly woman greets us and lets us stay for free. She's simply happy to have company, and perhaps used to seeing worn travelers and weary wanderers pass by.

For dinner, the team sits out on the porch—we don't want to disturb the hospitality of the home. The meal is simple. Rice and steamed dumplings. Some alcohol to wet our tongues. The sake is of the homebrewed variety, singeing the throat like fire. Potent and strong, but relaxing.

I take a shot

then another shot.

The robust song of frogs drifts and fall in chorus from the fields. Out of the darkness, dim lights float from plant to plant, as fireflies reflect their blinking fluorescence off the water. The wood from the porch is smooth. Beaten and worn from years of use.

Already, Sasuke has begun to drowse in his spot. And Naruto lays content, both arms curled around his head, and face plastered to the floorboards. I feel the stupor from the weary day of travel, from thoughts that run undirected, and the long hours of oppressive silence.

Sakura sits nearby. Her legs thread between the porch railings as she leans forward, the cup tilting away in her hand. She rests around the wooden posts, letting the rails spread her legs. Her skirt rides up ever so slightly from that position, revealing the hem of her black shorts.

Remote as always. Her eyes hold that distant glaze that comes with alcohol. The scent is strong in the air. Her wet lips—the scar. the relaxed way her hand holds the cup catches the eye.

The night is relentlessly damp and muggy. The loud cry of frogs and bugs thrums on, insistent. And the heat burns in my belly. I can taste the mix of honey and nightshade. Feel the toxic dusting of butterfly wings. Feel the touch of sun and fire as something dark stirs deep inside.

The roil of hatred. The touch of madness and desire. The longing to thread my touch through her hair, or skim my fingers along smooth skin. She sits now with her head tilted slightly, neck exposed. Unaware and vulnerable.

Madness. Madness. This has to be madness.

I have to be mad to want this. What sort of man lusts after a girl he's known since a child? The images of her are still clear in my head. Sakura at age twelve. At thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Now Seventeen. All run jumbled together in a confusing montage.

A full transformation from child to adult, while the man remains the same.

Even now she seems too young. It feels perverse, too lewd, as if I've singled her out, put my special stamp on her and marked her as mine, and have been waiting for the right time as she grows.

What sort of sensei breaks that sense of trust? It becomes a deep-seated desire for the older generation to protect the young. Something natural and inherent. It's sickening to think of the sensei who would spread his ward's legs, and take her in a deep embrace. Or for the jounin sensei who would ride, use, and abuse her ward. Regardless of gender. Any jounin would be hanged for the crime; for this single greatest possible breach of trust.

These thoughts aren't helping. My grip tightens on the cup. When it comes down to it, Sakura is grown now. She's matured, pretty, and fuckable. Any man would jump at the chance to be with her. Regardless of age or status. Sensei or not. They would fight and claw each other. Any man would take her. The temptation is not so hard.

Like a door opening

Or chains being cut.

When it comes down to it, she's the one who pinned me to the ground, straddled her legs around me first, pressed her lips to my mouth, and pumped me full of her chakra.

She did all those things. She did them first.

I down two more cups of sake, feeling the hateful burn from throat to stomach. The world feels warm and hazy, but my mind is sharp. My motions are slow and languid as I pour each cup. The motions get clumsy. Finally the moment arrives.

"Time to split up," I say.

Sasuke barely turns his head in acknowledgement. Naruto doesn't move at all. They're so drowsed and accustomed to the routine of splitting up for the night. There is no argument, no complaint when I separate the team. Naruto and Sasuke in one room.

Sakura and myself for the other.

She does not stir from the railing, but her shoulders tense ever so slightly. A sharp clarity fills the air while the boys gather their things.

I have not shared a room with her for months now. I've been careful to keep our distance. Not that it's too noticeable, as we don't share over-night missions like this so often anymore.

Now when I'm not looking, I sense her staring at my face.

Careful.

Wary.

She looks for my intentions. For my reasonings. It's only now when intoxicatied that she lowers her guard enough so I can get a small glimpse of her inner world. She wants to know why we're pairing up like this so suddenly when the memories are still so raw and tender from before. She wants to know how I could be so callous, so casual in my feelings, but unlike her, I've never given anything away in my life, and didn't intend to start with my thoughts tonight.

Anticipation coils in my stomach.

The boys finally stir and disappear inside; groggy, sleepy. When Sakura stands she waits for me to move out of the way. I move slighty, but just enough so her skirt still brushes past my arm. The scent of her skin, brief, catches in my throat. The quiet pad of her footsteps fade inside. The door closes. After ruminating a few moments in introspective silence and watching the last sliver of sun disappear, I stand up and follow her.

It's a large house and I find our rooms at the end of the corridor. The door to our room is open. The door to the boys' room is closed.

I slide through our door. There's no need to knock as Sakura can sense my presence. Just as keenly as I can sense her standing on the other side of the door, and at the most opposite end of the room as possible. The place is sparse and simple, with sleeping mats folded up by the wall.

Sakura stands by the corner, with her back turned. She's dressing down for the night, a familiar routine, undoing her belt and weapons pouch, then reaching to unbuckle her boots. She goes for her skirt. I rest one shoulder against the doorframe, and observe.

Her gaze feels sharp when she looks up. Her expression remains closed. Like one who's trying to keep a polite distance. The unfastened skirt is in her hands.

The air goes frigid. This level of coldness is unnatural for teammates. It hardens her appearance into something forced. The very opposite of the heat, and warmth, and fire that I know she keeps inside. The type of warmth that she never used to hide before.

"What do you want?"

Cold words. And cold eyes. Then there, just along the edges, the feeling of something keen and dangerous. It's as if she's giving me her killer intent, and I know I'm not dealing with something normal.

"As you were," I command, giving my finger a lazy twirl.

She doesn't take to this kindly, but blushes anyway, heat rising to her face. The skirt in her hand goes to her chest suddenly, as if to cover up in modesty. As if I haven't already seen everything before, from her undressing countless times on countless missions before.

"I can't..." she murmurs.

My god, she's actually blushing.

"Can't what?" I say.

"I can't undress with you watching me," she hisses. Her gaze darts to the door. It's still open. I occupy the door frame.

"We've seen each other undress hundreds of times before," I reply evenly.

"Yes, but you've never looked at me like that before."

That's an odd response. I stand very still, keeping my arms crossed, trying to not clench my fists too hard.

"Like what?" my voice stays quiet.

"Like you hate me."

Her back hits the wall with a quiet thud. I'm there instantly, pinning her against like in spars, and nuzzling my nose to her throat. Mask slips down, and tongue goes against skin searching for the sweet warmth of her mouth, and lightly runs over that rough scar. The skirt slips from her hand. As she opens her mouth in surprise my fingers twist into the silky strands of her hair.

How could this feeling ever come close to hatred?

I skim along her lips. Turning her head away Sakura lets out a sharp hiss. Her arms tense up as one hand gently grazes down her side, to her waist, to stroke her thighs, but everything feels so good and painful in a torturous way. I continue to explore, determined to taste every inch of her. Every bit of salt and sweat. When my tongue tastes the spot beneath her jawline, her body begins to tremble.

But then again how can I not hate myself? This situation. Something burns deep inside. It could be hatred. It could be passion. It feels good to crowd her and press against her body. My touch goes everywhere in a need to feel her, dragging across the soft downy hair of her arms, and warm toned skin of her stomach. My hand slips over her shorts to the area between her legs

She makes a sound that drags out as a moan.

Her legs buckle. She's gripping me, her fingers curling around my shoulder and the nape of my neck. She clings on hard for support.

There's a heated glow on her cheeks. Her body goes slack, beneath my touch. I press one hand to the wall while continuing to lean down, tasting her lips. Relishing the salt and sweetness. Between her legs, my fingers move in measured strokes. Feeling the heat and wetness.

For a moment her pink lashes flutter shut. There was a soft green glow there. A warm intensity to her gaze. Longing. Fire. I nuzzle her neck. I feel each shaky gasp that leaves her throat.

Finally, for the first time, I see her clearly.

I see Sakura. I see what's in her mind. Who she is, what she is.

Inside is a firestorm. Torrents. Raging rivers of fire lashing out with heat. She has felt the same pain, same sadness, and heated weight of it all. She knows the endless nights of longing

Suddenly, I know her. This is Sakura... everything familiar.

The flavor of honey and nightshade is sharp and intense when I take her mouth. This time made more potent by sake. Searching inside, curling my tongue around, I seek for more traces of this mix. This singular, earthy taste that is only Sakura. Her fingers dig in deeper. My grip tightens. Soft vibrations of her moans run up from the ribcage of her body.

Sakura. Sakura. Sakura. So young and warm. Soft and pliant. Yet her body holds that pleasant tension. My hands trail down her sides. The slick heat and heady scent of her arousal is strong. Briefly readjusting our positions, I angle her hips and press against her body, plundering her mouth for more, more...

But she doesn't want more. Suddenly she's closing her eyes, lips are shut, body goes tense, shaking her head, distancing...

disengaging...

Smack. The sound echoes loud in the room.

The hit stings sharp against my cheek.

Stunned, for a moment I can't move. Just as any time before, her slaps hold a powerful hit. She never holds back. She's panting, chest moving with the rapid shallow breaths. She's starting to push me away at arm's length. She goes shaky.

"How can you..." she begins. Reason has caught up with our actions. I've made her angry. Instant regret and self-loathing fills the center of my chest—straight to the heart. Headache and body aches. Hatred. Because this is everything we were trying to avoid in the first place.

She keeps her gaze firmly to the ground. Her shoulders shake. Suddenly I realize that she's not angry, she's crying. There are more tears and vulnerability—as if by kissing her I've inevitably, irrevocably unscrewed something loose. Something inside has been broken. I broke it. And now it's something I can't get to.

"I never knew you were so cruel, sensei."

"What are you saying?" my voice is bitter.

"You rejected me before. Why would you avoid me so completely these past weeks, if all you planned to do in the end was fuck me?" She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palms. "This must be some sort of game to you. You must enjoy playing with my emotions."

"Sakura, please..."

"Even now you're not taking me seriously."

"Sakura," it's impossible to look at her, "be reasonable."

"Ha. Right. Because what we've been doing lately is completely reasonable, right? Completely logical and devoid of any stupidity."

The pain still stings my cheek. Her words corrode like acid, and I imagine them melting through my skin and bones. It's heat again, but not the good kind. Mostly I just feel empty.

I stroke a strand of hair from her face. She's gripping her arms as if cold, and looking away, down to the ground. "It's disgusting how we've been treating each other," I agree.

My hand drops to my side. Neither of us move, and stand in complete stillness. The distance between us feels palpable. Something cold. Our walls are back up and there's a new silence.

Gentle moments pass in this stillness. Clouds cast the room in darkness, then bring back the dim light.

"It was never my intention to play with your emotions," I say quietly, looking to the ground. It's more like I'm speaking to myself. But she can hear me. She does hear me, though she doesn't stir. "I'm sorry."

The next move is hers. Everything is laid out before at her feet. She can have it all if she wants, or she can reject it all if she wants. Or we can both walk away one last time. Bury these ugly events one more time.

We can both die a quiet death of madness and desire, while hiding it behind a mask of cool professionalism one more time. The thought fills me with despair. It's the worst kind of feeling. Deep bitterness.

I come alive. She shocks me with the softest touch.

Light, hesitant fingers trail up my stomach, tracing the outline of my form. Skin against skin. She's slipped them under my shirt. In a shy, quiet exploration of heat, smooth skin, and hardened muscles. I feel the tingle of her chakra. It's mesmerizing. I don't reject her, but simply stay there in wordless acceptance. Allowing her to touch and explore.

A choked sound rises from the back of her throat, as her other hand begins to skim the dip of my hip bone, a stray thought crosses my mind. That perhaps it's time to teach her new things. I gently thumb the scar around the corner of her mouth.

Like two eagles falling.

Locked in tight embrace.

I lean down for a tender kiss, as she pushes back, I feel the drag, the darkness calling.

As a sensei there's not much more I can teach Sakura. She's already skilled when it comes to fighting and techniques. Her jutsus are above par. Her evasive maneuvers and chakra control are exemplary considering the level of medic training she's been through. No, there's not much I can teach her...

She takes my hand bringing it up to her stomach, to her breasts. Sensei, she breathes as I touch and feel. Under the cloth of her shirt her nipples harden beneath the warmth of my palm. She tenses up sweetly. Strains her body towards me. The vibrations of her gasps. Slowly, I lean down to take her mouth again.

...but I can teach her stealth. How to hold secrecy with each kiss. Choke back moans, and feel the silence unfurl from my tongue into her mouth. With each touch, fingers brushing on her hips, how to embrace the shadows.

There are some things I will never teach her. Like how to stop those delicious trembles, or the way she clings to my neck. We feel the fire; the slow dance and burning intoxication. This is obsession.

I support her as she wraps her legs around my waist. Pressing her against the wall, crushing her lips, tangling my fingers in her hair. To finally have her in my hold—and be able to kiss and touch her is the sweetest sort of madness. I get the feeling I'm corrupting something pure.

When Sakura surrenders to his arms… the slight weight of her body crumples into his grip. There is sweat on her skin. She shivers, thrills running down her body as Kakashi crushes her soft, pliant lips against his mouth.

And she feels triumphant.