Disclaimer: Naruto and associated characters are property of Masashi Kishimoto. They are not my property!

These stories are for mature audiences only, hence the "M" rating. Please use discretion.

Distraction

I look at you, and I can't look away. I know I shouldn't be staring, but thought and action are two very different things, aren't they? I've thought and thought about the stupidity of this little obsession I've grown, and I've taken both sides of the argument it's spawned. The age difference between us, I've told myself, might as well be an eternity. We're not in the same decade of life—hell, we're not even in adjacent decades. A woman like you, so soft, so innocent and lovely, a girl, almost, still in her teens--- a woman like you deserves far better than a tainted man like me. Doesn't she? But then I laugh at the fact that I've carried myself so far afield. Looking isn't the same as touching, and touching isn't the same as loving. Besides, you never have to find out.

But I want you to find out, I realize. I want you to feel my touch. And I so want to touch you. Your skin, I'm sure, is satin, your lips, velvet, your taste, honeyed. I'm intoxicated by your smell, redolent of the mock orange blossoms I came across in the southernmost countries. I smelled them for the first time and dreamt of you that night and for weeks after. You intoxicate me, and I find myself making any excuse I can just to get a little closer to you.

But then I find myself pushing you, harder than I should, berating you more than is necessary. Part of me is very afraid of your power over me, and part of me feels guilty at the feelings my lashing out evokes. Today, as usual, you're sweating, more than usual as the weather is oppressively hot, and because I've been oppressively demanding. You peel your sweat-soaked tank away from your skin, to allow any random breeze to cool you. I can't look away. I glimpse the skin of your abdomen, and although I've seen it many times before, in this context it's sensual, and as you uncover it, fanning yourself with the hem of your shirt, I experience a forbidden thrill. You turn towards me, but not before I bury my head in my book, and not before I note the shine of the small river of perspiration that runs downs your neck and into the cleavage barely visible at the top of your shirt. I want to lick it away. Your shirt's straps are skinny, I notice in that second, too skinny for you to be wearing a bra. Not that you'd need to. Your breasts are small, but perfect, and I long to feel for myself just how firm they are.

I abuse my Sharingan on your behalf. Well, to be honest, that's not the only thing I've abused. But again, I can't help myself. I find myself wishing that my gifted kekkai genkai were Byakugan. It's the first time I've ever been less than satisfied with this gift from my first real friend, and again I feel guilty. With some ostentation, I pull off my hitae-ate and mop at my brow. It remains off, so that the camera of my left eye can observe you and memorize the slightest details of your movements and expressions.

God, how I want you. And more than that, I want you to want me. You seem to be clueless, and that, of course, is my fault. My features are all but hidden, and I've schooled my own eye well. I do my best to calm my breathing around you, and I studiously ignore you, outside of the training grounds. But that doesn't mean I keep my distance.

You're still a virgin—I'm sure of it, just as I'm sure you're annoyed by it. I've discovered, quite accidentally, that the closer I sit to you, the farther the boys stay away. Even if I'm in the same room they're wary. That's fine with me, because I've come to the conclusion that I want you for myself. I want to mark you, claim you. I want to love you and make love to you. And I realize that this is the first time I've ever felt this way.

I try to focus on my novel. It's the best one of the series, but compared to you, its pages are desert dry and bereft of beauty. I don't want to read something by a man who's never experienced requited love. I want the real thing. I want you.

You're moving towards me right now, stalking towards me like a kitten investigating a downed insect: you're intent, yet tentative, aware that the toy you've been seeking may jump up and buzz madly. But you've always been tenacious. Even now, despite the way I've treated you, you're open with me, and eager to be a friend. You're like a daruma doll-- punched again and again, you always bounce back, ready for more.

How could I have been so wrong about you? The traits I dismissed as weak are anything but. You have the gentle strength of kindness. Your compassion is a balm. I want you to know this, but I'm afraid to tell you.

When did I become a coward? When in my life have I done anything but reach out and take what life offered? Why on earth should I hold back now?

Because you're young. Because you're untouched. Because experiences have shaped the clay of my personality and fired it into stone. Your experiences have yet to occur.

Would it be wrong to be a part of them? Would it be wrong to play the sculptor?

What would you do, Sakura, if I reached out and touched you? Maybe that would be too forward. Perhaps I should pull down the mask and let you see that you do provoke a reaction in me. Maybe I should kiss you. Maybe I should take you right here—

"Sensei? Kakashi-sensei? Is everything okay? You've been staring at that same page for over half an hour, you know… You don't look well. Your eyes are glazed over, and I've never seen you sweat before. You're not—you're not having a heart attack, are you?"