Naruto 1. Mission Scroll 1  Delicious Mistakes

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto, all rights belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

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**Authoress Notes:**

Born out of my inability to actually engage in the enterprise of writing a multi-chaptered fic, and the fact that there are a whole lot of ideas that I needed to file somewhere, I present to you - **Codename: KakaSaku Drabble Fest**.

This will be comprised of a series of unrelated ficlets/drabbles centered on, as the name so blatantly implies, the Kakashi/Sakura pairing.

The rating of the pieces will shift: please read the Specifics before each chapter.

**A great round of applause to nakenochny for beta-reading this, putting up with me, giving her input and for prompting the awesome name for this compilation. :D**

Without further ado I present to you the first one many (hopefully 8D) chapters to come.

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**Mission Scroll Number:** 1 – "Delicious Mistakes"

**Mission Specifics:** Sake and buried-in-denial feelings can only have one possible outcome...

**Mission Rating: T** ...for wayward hands.

**Targets:** Grown-up!Haruno Sakura – FOM!Hatake Kakashi.

**Team - **

**Mission Strategist and Weapons (writer):** Kat

**Logistics and Inventory (beta-reader):** nakenochny a.k.a. smashleeash (LJ)

**Kunai and Shuriken Count: **4.742

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"We should do it."

That phrase again. That agglomeration of four words said quietly and absentmindedly, at least in tone, from a time spanning over the course of six months now.

The reactions elicited by that sentence had evolved, ever since it was first uttered in that same quiet tone. It had been the second time for those words: those ones that said so much more than it seems at first light.

Still, he counted that as the true first time, since they were said without the aid or prompt from an alcohol induced rant.

He remembered with uncanny - and annoying - clarity the feelings that came over him at the time:  
The jump on the top of his lungs, almost making him splutter mindlessly; the shocked surprise in mild confusion.  
He still remembered the distinct feeling of his jaw slacking, and his fingers almost losing grasp of Icha Icha Violence as the inked words on the pages became as incoherent as a pack of hyperactive spiders, running over the white expanse of the bind sheets that comprised his loved novel.

He was a little more used to it now, even if the strange breathing arrangement where his airways seemed to shift from their right-full place - as his stomach did, but that was a minor detail he advocates to himself - still happens. And now, the shocked widening of a lone onyx eye had been replaced by a deep, second lasting frown, swiftly masked by the returning of the usual aloofness, before an eye crinkle announced the rising of a smile - however false it was - and the now worn out words that had became standard for his reply passed the confinement of his lips.

"We can't."

How many times had this happened already? Even him defending that he didn't keep track of it, he did. With this one, it was the eighth.

Eight times that seemed so much more; because, after the third time she said them, he started wondering when the next would come with an almost fidgety anticipation.

It was tantamount to what happens in battle: the seconds before an impossible to defend blow being almost as powerful as the blow itself, dragging on for much longer than the unit of time precisely marked by clocks.

Those first times, he had said nothing to counter her words, nor did he make any move to even acknowledge they were ever spoken: he eventually came to the conclusion that her resilience in bringing them up again was due to his own blatant disregard of them.

So he had decided, one day while on a mission when number five took place, to simply smile at her and say his counter, like a password he hoped would bring the demise of those words, with that intent, coming from her lips.

It hadn't.

The first times after he replied were met with silence and the avoidance to look at him (not that he had noted the very first time, because he hadn't been able to look at her in return) with a worrying of her full bottom lip by pearly white teeth.

But the dance continued. She would say them, he would counter, and silence ensued, paired with awkwardness that lasted about a week, before everything returned to some semblance of normalcy.

Repeat.

And now Eight had come. He was secretly annoyed she still continued with this: he actually enjoyed her company, their banter, their partnership that was sometimes paired up with Naruto or Sai's company in larger missions.

Why did she have to pull that cloud of awkwardness with those words?

His shoulders sagged, book forgotten in his hands, his charcoal gaze lost between the lines of Jiraiya's pure salacious genius.

It was going to be a long week.

He risked a sideways glance in her direction: she was straddling one branch of the tree they had taken vigilant positions upon, hands flat on the wood in front of her, roseate locks blocking her face from view.

He berated himself for doing it: he knew he shouldn't look at her at those times, after those words and all they meant were heavily hanging in the air between them.

Because in the end, he was not angry at her, but at himself.

He was angry at himself, for letting his heart rule his mind that one time: that piece of him that had been beaten to submission all those years ago when he was still a child.

That piece of him that felt the awful squeeze at his Father's death, at those stares he got in pity.

That piece of him that, even after covered in stone and rules to be followed, had broke free from its stony enclosure, only to be squeezed once more at the death of Obito.

After that, it was cocooned in solid blocks of steel.

And he wasn't happy, but he made everyone believe he didn't care.

Team Seven did so much to budge those steel doors as he did to strengthen the walls.

But the door was already partially opened now, the wedge his genin team had put in it wouldn't yield, and he got used to it to the point of forgetting it was there.

Sasuke leaving and returning, Naruto's fierce nature, Sakura's development.

His own death, his sort of redemption from past failures.

The War, all those that had fallen.

Konoha's rise from the ashes. His partnership with Sakura.

Sakura.

He was angry at himself, because of her. Because he felt like the rising feelings he had been having towards her should have never leaked that way, in the midst of great amounts of sake, in a celebration of the latest well accomplished mission. No; they shouldn't have leaked at all.

Not on that night six months ago, nor ever.

oooooooooo

"You know, you should really stop wearing that mask. That guy almost screwed you over, grabbing it and pulling it down, and you being more con-concern-ed? Huh... whatever, you freaked more at that than at the kunai he almost stuck in you."

Sakura stated, with a sake bottle precariously dangling from the tips of her fingers. A soft blush decorated her cheeks, and even the tip of her nose, which made him laugh at odd times when his alcohol-addled brain decided to take notice of it all over again.

"I was distracted by the massive length of the sword that almost cut you in half. Excuse me for caring." He shot back, one arm over the seat of the couch in her apartment, a lopsided grin on his lips.

She creased her eyebrows in confusion, her mouth opened slightly. She looked rather cute like that, in a pathetic sort of way. Suddenly, her back snapped upwards, and she sniffed the air haughtingly: her elbow set over the same couch he was leaning against helping her sudden movement, legs tucked under her.  
"Pffffffffffffff. I was the one distracted by your face in the first place. So your timeline is all", she made a vague hand gesture, with the soundtrack of sloshing sake inside the bottle she was still holding. "fuckered up-you're a pretty bastard, you know that?"

The confusion ball was slammed into his court: the little cup he was about to bring to his lips forgotten.

"...Huh?" A marvellous time to lose one's eloquence. Or as much as one could retain after a good amount of downed sake. He knew he was drunk, well, pretty pissed drunk to be honest – the fact that he was now sitting on the floor of her living room attested the uncommon inebriation level — but not as drunk as to start imagining things. It didn't help that he was torn between being surprised at her saying he was pretty, of all things, or being slightly put off by her calling him a bastard.

"Yeah," she dragged the word, the bottle she was holding banging on the coffee table as she – miraculously without falling – leant forward, her eyes squint in his direction, "you're a pretty bastard, and you keep it hidden most of the time, so I haven't really developed an immunity yet, and it's really distracting once it comes out... or once you pull it down... the mask I mean-man, I think I'm drunk." She deadpanned; her shoulders sagging as her upper body gravitated towards the coffee table, before she suddenly caught herself, eyes focusing on him. Her eyebrows creased again. "You really are a pretty bastard."

Her wide jade-hued eyes were staring at him intensely, shining, and for a moment the sight was like a tidal wave, wiping his mind clean of everything but it.

Her beautiful eyes, the flush on her cheeks and her slightly parted lips.

Another wave filled his mind; intertwined rivulets of thought about how beautiful she had become, how intelligent she had proven herself to be over the course of the years, how good he felt around her, how much he trusted her like he had never trusted anyone before. Snippets of dreams he would never admit he had about her creamy skin under his fingers, under the touch of his lips, under him, building up together with so much force it broke the proverbial dam he usually had them confined within.

"Consider us even then," he breathed out, "you're also very distracting. Even when you're not around."

He wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying: the slow blink of her eyes was hypnotizing. She frowned gently, the hand still grabbing the bottle over the coffee table leaving it, as she leant towards the couch again.

"You're lying." She admonished him, with a little pout on her lips. "Lying Copy-Nin."

He was about to shake his head in denial, when the first motion told him it was not that great of an idea.

"No I'm not." He shifted his position on the floor to sit facing her, the knee of his bent leg grazing hers, the other leg propped parallel to his torso, serving as poise for his cup holding hand.

The way she looked at him now did weird things to his chest; paired up with the smile that raised the corners of her lips, it melted his brain.

"Really?" She said, dreamily.

His main objective at the time was to keep that smile there. She always looked so damned gorgeous when she smiled.

"If you knew how many times I caught myself thinking about you over the course of the day, you would probably deck me."

Her smile widened a tad more at that, blush deepening. Her eyes lowered their gaze, and he found himself transfixed by the shadow her full lashes cast on rose-dusted cheekbones. So much so, that he didn't really take notice of her shifting closer, one of her knees snugly sliding between the couch and his own.

"I'd only deck ya if it was inappopri-inappropriate." She stuttered, embarrassed. But that smile was still there, and he felt empowered by it for some weird reason.

"You would deck me, definitely." He said, his voice carrying a playful tone. Her eyes snapped up to his face, her eyebrows slowly rising as her brain decoded his words. The blush managed to deepen again - even if he had thought it couldn't get any deeper than before- and emeralds lowered their gaze once more, as her flexed arm became a makeshift pillow for her head over the cream coloured seat of the couch.

"Maybe... maybe I wouldn't. If anyone knew that I also think about you, I'd probably be committed." His internal organs decided to rearrange themselves at her words. "It drives me crazy. Sometimes... sometimes I think we should just try it." She hesitated, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, nervous, before her eyes came to him: the soft motion of her head causing a lone strand of hair to cross over her forehead. "Kissin'."

His hand twitched slightly, the cup it had been holding forgotten; the sound muffled as it hit the carpet.

Colliding trains of thought.

Adding to the stupid elation of hearing her say she thought about him, and kissing him at that, there was the fleeting impression that this was probably not such a good idea. He couldn't really pinpoint the reason why though, for as his eyebrows knit together another thought popped in his head, toppling all the others.

'_So sweetly innocent'._

Even being now twenty-three years old, a full grown woman… Which was worse, because it was a sexy kind of innocence, that he realised was as endearing as it was alluring.

He didn't even realise it until his brain figured out his perspective of her had changed: he had lain over the couch, mimicking her position. She had her eyes closed. He closed his. An improvement: the floor stopped moving. It also made it easier for him not to fall into the temptation of brushing that stray strand of cotton-candy colored hair away from her features, both due to not seeing her, and his increasingly twitching hand being trapped from further motion due to his head over his arm.

"Not advisable." He said, in what he meant to be a matter-of-factly tone. It came out more breathless than anything.

"Why?" She whispered almost, coaxed into doing so due to his also low tone.

"Because I don't think I would stop at kissing."

Silence. "Maybe… that's a good thing..." Her intonation was thoughtful.

"Huh?" Eloquence strikes again.

"Well, you are all inside my head, and maybe if we... if we..."

"...Had sex?" His mind-mouth coordination is without a filter it seems. As if it wasn't ridiculously obvious from the subject of the conversation…

"Well..." He could imagine her blush just from the tone she was using. "We can start by kissing first. If it don—doesn't feel good, it means we aren't... compatible…! And we could go on our merry way, without me having to sneak peeks at you when you leave the bathroom door opened anymore."

"... You sneak peeks at me when I'm in the shower?" Shocked or pleased? Ambivalences, ambivalences…

"You don't?" She teased gently.

"... Once." He conceded. "And it was totally accidental."

Snorted giggle. "Right...!"

"I swear…! Alright, maybe twice. But I only saw your leg, so it doesn't count, since I see those every day."

"…Valid point."

She was smiling, even if he didn't see. He chuckled, eyes still closed: it seemed easier to keep saying things like these if they were.

"Even if they are distracting by their own merit." He added as an afterthought.

She giggled again.

"What?" The smile was evident in his voice.

"Imagine if Naruto was here listening to this."

"…I prefer not to."

She laughed. "He would freak out like… whoa."

"In the best case scenario." The worst being the kyuubi container thoroughly kicking his arse.

"Screw him." She giggled again, stopping for a breath only to start up a whole new round. "Ahah, it would be worse if he caught us in the act. Now _that_ would be the ultimate mess. I think he would spoon his eyes out."

"Or pass out after flailing and screaming at us."

"If we listened to him."

"Oh?"

"I'm kinda loud when… doing the nasty." She admitted with a tiny little voice.

"…Oh…!" The imagery swirling in his mind suddenly had the volume upped a notch.

More giggles. "Sai would probably render us in paper and take notes."

"…That sounds as disturbing as it does kinky."

"I knew it, all that smut-reading melted your brain." She half-teased, with a short laugh.

"I'm in no condition to advocate the fine condition of my brain right now."

Another round of shared laughter. She opened her eyes, half mast; eyelids heavy. The laughing died out.

"Kakashi…?"

Her tone made him open his eye: she was closer than he remembered her being when he closed it. He wasn't certain on who had shifted closer – if him, her, or both – but the reality was that he could feel her breath, caressing his face as she exhaled through parted lips. The distinct scent of sake turned sweeter when paired up with that which he could only label as being _'her'_, beckoning him in. His torso moved towards her, a little bit closer, stopping suddenly the moment he sensed her hand moving.

His eye moved to see the slender digits hovering at the side of his head still within his sight's range, only to roll back to her face. She was looking at him, biting her lower lip softly, a request for permission in the deep viridian orbs.

His attention was diverted slightly, as the hand of the arm he had been using to pillow his head previously, twitched again: this time, not only because of the will to brush her hair away, but to complain. Why didn't he let it move, if his other was spread over her bare knee?

Shift of sensory attention. Against the tips of his fingers, and warming the skin even through the enclosed by leather-gloves palm, he could feel the softness not of a knee but of her thigh, as his hand had travelled further up, in a ghostly caress. He could even feel the skin rising in goosebumps under his fingertips until they met the beginning of her shorts – sliding even higher over the stretchy material and rolling to round the curve of her hip.

His eye closed – not that it was seeing, for it was glazed, as he was mentally tracking the motions of his wayward hand – and she took the look before his eyelid slid shut as permission for her hovering hand to finally move; her thumb sliding on the side of his forehead protector and pulling it up and over his head, the rest of her fingers combing through his hair as she did, disclosing the scarred eyelid which hid the so famous Sharingan from her sight.

The feeling of nails raking softly over his scalp seemed so much more intensified than it should: it made the hand still set over the roundness of her hip clench there, eliciting a little gasp from her, as her thumb came down, sliding over the scar on his features, followed by her index. Hearts thrummed, as both his eyes opened – the rush of chakra to his Sharingan buzzing softly in his head – and everything about her seemed so much clearer through the haze of the spell both seemed to be trapped in.

Her half-lid look, lost, the parted lips grazed by the tip of her moist pink tongue – pink cheeks, pink silk hair – tempting him, as his hand on her hip moved down again, over shorts once more until it reached the hem – he got closer – and his fingers slid inside, the constriction between the material and her warm smooth skin correlating to other sensations of tightness and warmth – she got even closer, lost focus – and breaths mingle, as lips meet gently, in a soft brush.

Spellbound, jaws move to cause friction between lips, in a slow languid motion.

It feels warm and soft, moist and delicious, and his head tilts for a better angle, as he lip bites her full bottom one with a soft suckle. Sake and that sweet scent now turns to taste, and his hand reaches the curve of hip, higher – the hem of black shorts hooked on the metal plate of his glove, making the fabric rise up on her skin, denting it; showing to no one's eyes the slightly lighter skin usually under it.

The tip of his tongue slides out and against the line between her lips, coaxing them open, and her tongue soon follows to meet his, a little strangled sound coming from both of them. They slide against each other, with the smoothness akin to a curious child-like touch, revelling in the new sensation that shimmers between them both.

His index fiddles absentmindedly against the string of her panties, as he moves back slightly, lips parting, his own tongue retreating and rubbing on the roof of his mouth as if to mark her taste in him, nose brushing hers as heads tilt for the sake of a new angle to explore.

"This is going to be such a mess…" She whispers, before her lips meet his again, her hand sliding to the nape of his neck, as she returns his lip suckle with one of her own.

"It will…" That tugging thought of this being a bad idea is fighting to set itself in the forefront of his mind. "I am your sensei after all…"

He is kissing his student. His lips are against hers, and the tip of her tongue just grazed his bottom one. It shouldn't make the blood in his veins race, it shouldn't make him want to pull her closer… but it did.

"You _were_ my sensei." She corrected breathily against his mouth, the vibration of her words tingling against his lips. "You haven't been my sensei for ages…" soft kiss, "I count it ever since I got under shishou's wing…" brushed kiss, "…ya know…?"

'_I'm kissing my ex-student…' _ The thought is trying to scream at him, but he doesn't seem to hear it. "I _was_, but the fact remains. And I'm still your partner." His free hand cups her cheek. She leans closer for another rub of lips.

"Tsunade-shishou would hand us our asses if she ever found out…" Her hand slides over his hair again, in an uncoordinated motion.

"And Naruto would probably beat the lights out of me…" Foreheads touch, the tip of his nose nudging the base of hers. "…when he woke up from passing out that is."

She giggled softly. "And Sai would still ask for notes."

"And everyone would think I took advantage of you…" He sobered up a bit as he heard his own words. His eye opened, leaving the Sharingan closed… It hits him suddenly, that thought finally asserting itself with the force of a punch to the stomach, rising as a king in his head.

What is he doing? He's kissing his drunken student. He is—

"No one would need to know about it." She murmurs, her hand falling from his hair to his shoulder, her face tilting heavily towards his hand cupping it.

His brain screeched to a halt, as he moved back, his hand on her thigh quickly sliding off, as if her skin was burning his fingers now. And, in a way, it was. "Sakura…"

"I want you, right?" His insides decided to twist themselves, as guilt overpowered him. She looked at him, with a lost, glazed look. It got even stronger, almost making his stomach turn. "And you want me, right?"

This was more than a bad idea. It was a stupid, inane, incredibly dumb idea. What had he been thinking to let this _situation_ get to this point? Why did he have to say those first words in the first place?

The blissful haze of alcohol was leaving his system too quickly. What had he been doing?

His feelings for her were not an excuse: he was almost abusing his drunken ex-student, his partner, the woman who had been his genin… he had kissed her. And he enjoyed it; if she hadn't spoken when she did…

He didn't even finish this line of thought in his own head: the hand that was still serving as poise for her face left it, as he flinched back.

"Ka...kashi…?" She blinked in confusion, eyebrows furrowing.

"We can't do this Sakura. I'm…" His hand passed over his hair, as he gauged his legs reactions in an attempt to get up. "If we ever did…" he hesitated, eyes squinting shut, "we will never be able to go back to what we were."

"We dun know that… if we dun try it first." She countered, breathlessly, slightly slurred, her hand on his shoulder sliding from it as he leant his back against the couch again, still not trusting his legs to move efficiently.

"It's too much of a risk..." He kept his eyes closed: looking at her would not help his rational thought, especially paired up with the alcohol.

Realising he had his mask down, he pulled it up again. He needed to distance himself. He made a mental note never to drink like this with her again. It was a recipe for disaster. He opened his eye to see her frown from the corner of it, her hand hooking on the pockets on his vest.

"You think too much…" She derailed, as she gently threw herself closer, her cheek pressing against his shoulder, making him stiffen. "We'll talk about this later. You are too stubborn. No one would ever need to find out, and we could… get it outta our system..."

He felt his muscles tense even further at her words.

Was that what he really wanted?

To get her out of his system?

Was that even possible?

Was that how she felt about it?

What did _he_ feel about it?

The silence stretched. She didn't move an inch, her breathing even and soft. He couldn't find it in himself to push her away.

The answers to those questions were swimming like non-verbalized concepts inside his head. Because he couldn't afford to say, even to himself, that he wanted more than that.

It was too scary.

"We… should… do it." She whispered, half way into oblivion.

Those words kept pummelling his brain as he slouched, refusing to look at her again.

With some luck, he wouldn't remember this talk in the morning – he doubted it though.

With some luck, she wouldn't remember this talk either – he prayed for it.

With a long pained sigh he shrugged his shoulder away from her, eliciting a weak murmured protest as she tried to cling to his vest, but he dodged her, leaning sideways: she eventually set her head over her arm, silently whispering his name, her eyebrows knitting together in a saddened expression, her hand relinquishing its hold on him.

He got up at cost, realising the cup he used was on the floor, spilt sake over the carpet.

He should have picked it up.

He should have picked _her_ up, instead of covering her form with a blanket that had been over the back of the couch, but he didn't trust himself to do so.

He just… left.

oooooooooo

The day after, she had found him on training camp three, throwing a hiss fit for him not waking her up before leaving, for spilling sake over her carpet, and, when he finally rose his hand, without detaching his gaze from his book, and gave her a flat "Yo", she sat crossed legged in front of him, huffing before she asked how his head was, since hers had nearly killed her when she finally woke up that morning, and ranting about the wonders of Shizune's hangover medicine.

He sighed (which he thought that for her it probably meant that he was still experiencing the pains of too much alcohol indulgence) due to his relief.

She didn't remember anything.

His heart that had been thumping in the confines of his chest calmed down, returning to the normal beat from before he had sensed her chakra signature coming towards him.

His mind pushed that night into the deep recesses of his being, hidden and padlocked, along with his feelings.

So, when she came to him almost a week after, saying she remembered "that night", while shifting on her feet and looking at everything but him, he was slightly thrown off. Until she said those words again.

Those… words.

He suddenly sensed motion from her, bringing him out of his trip down memory lane.

"They're here." She didn't look at him as her legs came up to find footing on the branch, one hand already pulling out her black gloves from her hip pouch. "Time to kick some ass." She glanced at him for a second, offering a small awkward smile.

"Knock yourself out." He gave her his standard eye-crinkled smile, shifting on his own branch and pocketing Icha Icha Violence, while softly scolding himself mentally for having spaced out like that.

As he watched her leap to another tree, gathering chakra to her fist for her own version of pre-battle pep talk, he couldn't help but wonder… when would those words come from her lips again. But in the meantime…

It was going to be a long, very long week.

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Considerations regarding the mission are always welcome, and encouraged in the "review" section of this Mission Scroll. 8D


	2. Mission Scroll 2 Uncomfortable Comfort

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Naruto, all rights belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

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**Mission Scroll Number:** 2 – "Uncomfortable Comfort"

**Mission Specifics: **It's uncanny how certain things only sound right in certain situations.

**Mission Rating: G**

**Targets:** Grown-up!Haruno Sakura – FOM!Hatake Kakashi.

**Team - **

**Mission Strategist and Weapons (writer):** Kat

**Logistics and Inventory (beta-reader):** nakenochny a.k.a. smashleeash (LJ)

**Kunai and Shuriken Count: **661

* * *

**Uncomfortable Comfort**

Unbeknownst to the majority of the population, The Great Copy Ninja had a problem with a certain word.

It was a word that had haunted him since he was little.

It was a word that he had heard countless times, even if he couldn't quite pinpoint the situations due to their ancient nature, heard between cooing and attempts to pinch his cheeks.

It was a word that he thought was highly inappropriate for the son of the White Fang.

It was a word that made him uncomfortable, and had prompted his use of the infamous mask that covered his face.

And that word, was… cute.

It was flabbergasting when he had been an infant. He didn't understand why women had the impulse to try and grab him and squeeze so much he felt his chakra would slip right up the top of his head, just like a toothpaste tube.

"_Oh dear! What a cute little boy he is!"_ they said. It still made him shudder when remembering it. It was just… annoying. Especially, when you are a young genius, who doesn't really have his mind set on how he looks. He was a boy. Period. Cute was a word meant for little girls, and puppies and ki—well, not kittens.

As time progressed, so did the reason for the piece of dark cotton that covered his face evolved.

Having the distraction that his face seemed to be, covered, the target of attention when it came to him fell solely upon his superb achievements.

It served to hide so much more, after disgrace struck the Hatake clan, with his father's passing.

It became a good feature, since the mask helped him through the attacks of smoke bombs.

It was—well, all in all, Hatake Kakashi was very, very adamant on keeping his mask on at all times, and it became as important to him as a pair of pants—no it is not a weird analogy; he felt absolutely naked without it.

The lower portion of his face was as intimate for him as his privates: having it out in the open was tantamount to moon-flashing someone –which he had no inclinations to do whatsoever, out of the occasional drunken bet where his word was given without the proper reasoning of a sober mind, but that is another story altogether.

That was the reason why he kept it hidden still, why he had developed a flawless eating tactic with speed that would have made the Yondaime proud and why he wore a second mask under the main one when the occasional "curiosity bouts" from his colleagues threatened his… _modesty_.

So he was actually extremely dumbfounded right now, as his cheeks tainted with a darker shade than usual – pink hued – his hand wrapped around a feminine waist, a shapely leg draped over the crook of his elbow, his other hand—he really didn't want to think where his other hand was, for the sake of the propriety of his thoughts— and a slender female hand rolled about the bunch of cloth around his neck, formerly known as his mask.

Extremely confused, as she (his ex-student, current partner Haruno Sakura) seemed transfixed, gawking at him after falling from a tree and landing on this position – for he, as the gentleman he was deep in the recesses of his being, had tried to catch her before she hit the ground, never mind her catlike reflexes – her soft voice muttering in a breathy tone:

"…Cute!"

And why was he so confused? Because even being fairly naked, by his standards, and being uttered the vilest word he could think of… since it was Sakura, it actually felt damned good.


End file.
