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Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Photo
March 5th,12:46 AM, Tuesday

Hatake Kakashi did not want a cellphone.

He had said this. Many times. Out loud. In meetings. In shops. To anyone who brought it up. He had held the line with the stubbornness of a man who still washed his clothes in a river sometimes. When Genma first raised the idea, Kakashi had laughed. A short, nasal sound. Dismissive. Absolute.

Then Genma got petty about it.

The harassment campaign was low-grade psychological warfare. At first it was jokes. “You know they let you call people now, right? Even outside the village?” Then came the increasingly dramatic gasps when Kakashi pulled out his notebook to jot something down. “What is that? Is that a pen? Is this pre-village?” And finally, when all else failed, he enlisted Yamato.

Yamato, who just so happened to casually invite him to lunch and then disappear mid-meal, only to send Kakashi a message from Genma’s phone: “imagine if u had a phone rn. crazy.”

So, eventually—wearily, bitterly, with the resignation of a man who has fought many wars and lost far too many battles—Kakashi got a phone.

He hated it.

He hated the stupid glossy thing. Hated how smug it looked charging on his counter. Hated how it chimed at him. Hated that it somehow already knew what time he usually woke up and had the audacity to offer him a morning briefing like it was his personal assistant. Hated that the screen smudged if he breathed near it. Hated that when he turned the brightness down, it decided he meant to adjust the entire user interface font. Hated that it had, in the span of three days, made him feel like an elderly man staring down the dawn of a new empire and deciding to just die in his hut instead.

And yet…

Tonight—well, technically morning—he found himself staring at it again. Reclined on his bed in just a pair of sweatpants, shirtless, his mask still on, hair askew from the pillow. The phone rested on his stomach, screen glowing upward like a cursed scroll. He watched the lock screen dim, brighten, dim again. A new message from Genma had come in an hour ago. Something about “do u know what memes are. have u tried memes.”

He hadn’t answered.

Not because he was offended. But because—gods help him—he had tried memes. For five minutes. His right eye still twitched if he saw a picture of a cat with a caption under it. One of them had said “no thoughts, head empty” and he’d seen something of himself in it that made him sit in the dark for thirty-seven minutes without moving.

Still, he stared.

And, inexplicably, started thinking.

About how everyone else seemed to be having fun with theirs. Not functional, efficient, mission-logging fun. But ridiculous, brainless, Genma fun. The kind of fun that made you wonder, a little deliriously, why the fuck did I do that, while smiling like an idiot.

He didn’t do that sort of thing.

He was thirty-four. A jonin. An elite shinobi. A war veteran. A former captain of the ANBU Black Ops. His idea of fun was buying discounted dango and reading erotic literature in peace. He did not indulge in whimsy. He did not take selfies, for the love of all that was sacred.

…Which, of course, is why two minutes later he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with his mask off, his hair messily tousled, and every cell in his body screaming abort, abort.

“This is stupid,” he muttered aloud to no one. “This is catastrophically stupid.”

He did it anyway.

One tap. One shutter sound.

And then there it was: his own face, angled lazily in the mirror. Hair wild. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Mask nowhere in sight. Shirtless. The lighting was terrible. The expression on his face even worse. He looked like a man trying to appear careless and failing miserably. His left eyebrow had made a break for the border. His mouth—normally hidden, mysterious—was doing something halfway between a pout and a frown, as if he was contemplating his own taxes.

It was objectively the worst photo ever taken of him.

Naturally, he saved it.

And then, in a moment of profound existential disassociation, he tapped “Share.”

The screen brought up a small list. Three names. Genma. Yamato. And… Sakura.

He meant to tap “Genma.”

He tapped “Sakura.”

There was no time to react. The message sent with the velocity of a thousand chakra-amped kunai. Delivered. Read receipt: active.

He stared.

And stared.

And then dropped the phone like it had bitten him.

“No,” he whispered. “No no no. No, absolutely not. That did not just happen. I did not just—oh my god.”

His entire soul left his body.

She was going to see it. She was going to know. The sweatpants. The tousled hair. The lack of a mask. The pout. That wasn’t even a real facial expression, that was a glitch. He didn’t even mean to look like that. He hadn’t posed, per se. He just hadn’t not posed.

His legs turned to water. His whole body was humming with something between shame and primal horror. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, feel the back of his neck go hot, feel the absolute certainty that he had just committed digital seppuku.

He snatched the phone back up. Still nothing. No reply.

No reply.

That was a death sentence.

And then—purely on panic autopilot—he began to type.

kakashi: please ignore that
kakashi: I was trying to send that to genma
kakashi: for blackmail purposes
kakashi: not in a weird way
kakashi: okay in a slightly weird way
kakashi: not that weird
kakashi: oh my god
kakashi: just delete it
kakashi: pretend you never saw it
kakashi: I mean obviously you saw it
kakashi: but unsee it
kakashi: how do I unsend something
kakashi: do phones have genjutsu???
kakashi: is there an IT ninja for this???
kakashi: I will pay you
kakashi: I will pay you to pretend I never sent that
kakashi: I’m going to walk into the sea
kakashi: tell the Hokage I died honorably
kakashi: actually don’t tell her anything
kakashi: oh god you haven’t replied
kakashi: please respond
kakashi: or don’t
kakashi: actually I’m blocking you
kakashi: no I’m not
kakashi: oh no I just pinned the chat how do I unpin this

And then—just when he was about to throw the phone out the window and follow it—he saw it.

At the bottom, three dots.
Typing.
Then they stopped.
Then started again.
Then stopped.
Then started again.

He made a noise. A real noise. A whimper crossed with a death rattle.

He threw the phone under the bed like it was cursed and physically retreated from the mattress like it might explode.

He sat on the floor, barefoot, maskless, half-naked, panicking, vibrating with the energy of a man who had survived war but not a texting app. His hands were pressed flat to the floorboards, grounding himself like a summoned beast back from the brink. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his ribcage and file a complaint.

He was Hatake Kakashi. Elite jōnin. Feared in ten nations. Trusted with S-rank secrets. A symbol of calm, control, and lethal grace.

And he had just accidentally thirst-trapped his own teammate.

And then followed it up with a breakdown in text form.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Photo Received
March 5th, Tuesday, 12:48 AM

Sakura Haruno was having an aggressively normal evening.

She’d finished her shift at the hospital an hour late, stopped by the market for curry paste and a single piece of chocolate cake she fully intended to eat in the bath, and had just—just—sat down in her clean pajamas with her hair in a damp braid and her favorite pair of fuzzy socks. There was a heating pad across her thighs, a book on her lap, and her phone balanced precariously on the windowsill so she could text Ino between chapters without having to move.

She was, in short, the living embodiment of domestic peace.

ino: you’re gonna rot alone if you keep choosing books over men
sakura: good
ino: you say that now but you’re like 3% one good kiss away from collapsing into someone’s lap and marrying them
sakura: bold of you to assume I’d survive the kiss

Sakura smirked. She flipped to the next page. The main character was about to get kidnapped again, which was honestly rude, considering she’d just escaped in the last chapter. She made it four more lines before her phone lit up again.

This time, not Ino.

Kakashi?

Her brows pulled together. That was strange. He never texted her first. Ever. He barely texted her back when she initiated. She wasn’t even convinced he knew how to use the phone Genma had forced on him.

She tapped the notification.

It was an image.

The preview showed silver hair and… skin?

Oh.

Oh.

She tapped it fully open and—

Sakura’s brain stopped working.

There, staring back at her with all the tired swagger of a man who absolutely did not mean to be doing this but somehow still pulled it off, was Kakashi.

Shirtless.

Maskless.

Sweatpants hanging so low she saw the top of his hip bones.

Hair wild. Mouth in a pout-frown hybrid. Expression somewhere between what the fuck am I doing and yes, I know I’m beautiful, unfortunately.

Sakura dropped her phone on her lap like it had personally licked her.

Her mouth fell open. Then closed. Then opened again.

“What the fu—”

Nope. No words. Her brain was a dial tone.

She blinked. Picked the phone up again. Just to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe she’d fallen asleep. Maybe this was a fever dream. A chakra imbalance. A genjutsu prank. A side effect of the bath bomb.

Nope. Still there.

Kakashi. Half-naked. Looking like a magazine cover for Hot Shinobi Who Don't Know What They're Doing But Somehow Ruin You Anyway.

She opened her mouth again and whispered, “What?”

Her cheeks burned. Her spine was suddenly made of static. A small sound escaped her—half squeak, half wheeze.

Because there was no caption.

Nothing.

Just the photo.

Sakura stared at it for another solid ten seconds before whispering again, helplessly, “What?”

And then, like a summoned demon of chaos, the texts started.

One. Two. Five. Ten.

She scrolled up.

kakashi: please ignore that
kakashi: I was trying to send that to genma
kakashi: for blackmail purposes
kakashi: not in a weird way
kakashi: okay in a slightly weird way
kakashi: not that weird
kakashi: oh my god
kakashi: just delete it
kakashi: pretend you never saw it
kakashi: I mean obviously you saw it
kakashi: but unsee it
kakashi: how do I unsend something
kakashi: do phones have genjutsu???
kakashi: is there an IT ninja for this???
kakashi: I will pay you
kakashi: I will pay you to pretend I never sent that
kakashi: I’m going to walk into the sea
kakashi: tell the Hokage I died honorably
kakashi: actually don’t tell her anything
kakashi: oh god you haven’t replied
kakashi: please respond
kakashi: or don’t
kakashi: actually I’m blocking you
kakashi: no I’m not
kakashi: oh no I just pinned the chat how do I unpin this

Sakura made a noise. A soft, sharp, wheeze of laughter that got caught in her throat and turned into a cough. Then another.

Then she broke.

She howled.

She doubled over laughing, pressing her heating pad to her face to smother the shriek.

“Kami,” she gasped. “He’s spiraling.”

And it was exquisite. Glorious. A complete, nuclear-grade panic meltdown. From Kakashi. The man who remained calm during invasions. Who blinked once when faced with a dozen armed assassins. Who had casually dodged a flying cleaver aimed at his face without missing a bite of dango.

And here he was. Apparently crawling out of his own skin because he accidentally sent her a thirst trap. At midnight. Shirtless.

Her fingers trembled as she tapped out a reply.

sakura: you sent that on purpose

She watched the typing bubble appear. Then vanish. Then appear again. Then vanish.

Then:

kakashi: I did NOT

Another beat.

kakashi: i am logging off this earth

Sakura pressed her face into her knees, laughing so hard her ribs hurt. Her whole face was on fire. Her ears were ringing. The mental image of Kakashi, clutching his phone in existential horror, possibly hiding under a blanket, maybe considering hopping the border—it was too much. It was too much.

She wanted to text back “why are you hot”, but her brain short-circuited halfway through typing it. Instead, she sent:

sakura: I’m keeping it.

Another long pause.

Then:

kakashi: i regret the invention of electricity

She giggled, still a little stunned, still a little dazed.

Because beneath the humor and the unholy chaos, there was one other tiny, inescapable fact.

She had just seen his face.

All of it.

And damn it all if the man wasn’t beautiful.

Sakura meant to put the phone down.

She really did.

She had laughed herself into a full-body flush, dropped the phone on her mattress, and rolled away from it dramatically like she was repelling a cursed scroll. She’d flopped face-first into her pillow and declared, out loud, “That is not my business.”

Then she turned her head.

Peered at the glowing screen.

Bit her lip.

And picked it back up.

Just to confirm it had really happened.

You know.

For science.

The photo was still there. Still pinned like a warning label on her retinas. Still Kakashi, shirtless, maskless, half a smirk frozen on his ridiculous face like he was halfway through talking himself out of taking it even as he tapped the shutter.

Her stomach made a quiet, traitorous swoop.

She zoomed in. Immediately. Unthinkingly. Like her fingers had moved without input from her brain.

And oh no.

Oh no, it got worse.

Because the photo wasn’t even good. The lighting was uneven. The mirror was slightly smudged. His expression was about thirty percent confused, twenty percent irritated, and the rest was just “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” His posture was casual to the point of slouchy. His hair looked like it had been attacked by a raccoon in his sleep.

And still. Still.

It was easily the most devastating thing she had ever seen.

His mouth—his mouth—had absolutely no right to look like that. It was full-lipped, naturally downturned, and curved ever so slightly in the corner, like it knew something the rest of him hadn’t caught up to yet. She had never seen him look so unguarded. Not even when he slept on missions.

He was all hard angles and lean muscle, skin pale and clean, collarbones drawing a sharp line under his neck. She could just make out the faint shadow of his chest hair trailing lower, vanishing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. She had never in her life thought about Kakashi's hipbones before.

She was now.

She cleared her throat violently.

And zoomed out.

Her heart was racing, which was absurd. It was a photo. A bad one. From a man who, up until twenty minutes ago, didn’t even know how to attach a file.

A new message appeared.

kakashi: i assume u are laughing at my corpse

kakashi: let me know if u need directions to where i’ve buried myself

Sakura pressed a knuckle to her mouth, trying to smother the smile that absolutely would not die.

She should reassure him. Say something normal. Something kind.

Instead, she glanced at the photo one more time.

Just one more.

Just to get it out of her system.

And—

Okay.

Okay, no, actually, wait. His jawline. How was that fair? Sharp enough to wound someone. And the beauty mark—on the left, just beneath his bottom lip.

Her head slowly tilted.

She had not been prepared for that.

How was no one talking about this? Had anyone seen him like this? Was she the first? Why did that thought make her chest ache and her brain short-circuit at the same time?

She tapped out a reply:

sakura: did you know you have a mole on your mouth?

Pause.

kakashi: i have never been more terrified of a sentence in my life

sakura: it’s kind of unfair

kakashi: what is

sakura: your face

There was a full sixty seconds of silence.

Then:

kakashi: i am blocking you for my own safety

sakura: no you’re not

kakashi: i’m thinking about it

Sakura stared at the screen, pulse thudding in her ears, and realized with sharp, bone-deep clarity that this had officially become A Situation.

Not a harmless mishap. Not a little oopsie.

This was an event. A turning point. A “my teammate has a beautiful face and I think I’m feeling feelings” moment.

She set the phone facedown and crawled under the covers.

And whispered, “Oh no.”

Because she was definitely going to look at that photo again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: No Peace for the Wicked

March 5th, 1:43 AM, Tuesday

Kakashi was in bed.

Technically.

He was horizontal. He was under the blanket. He had a pillow beneath his head and the lights were off. His room was quiet, calm, and cool. All the known conditions for sleep were in place.

And yet.

He stared at the ceiling.

His eyes were dry. He was certain his corneas had desiccated. He had not blinked in ten minutes. Possibly longer. He was practicing the noble art of paralysis via embarrassment. His bones felt like they were folding inward, like his skeleton had decided to implode from secondhand shame.

“She kept it,” he said aloud to the ceiling.

The ceiling said nothing. The ceiling, unlike him, had dignity.

He turned onto his side. Then immediately flopped back. Then flung the blanket off with the melodramatic flair of a shunned lover in a romance drama. The air hit his bare chest, cool against his skin, and he felt even more exposed, even more ridiculous. His phone lay beside him, dark and silent, radiating smug malevolence like it knew exactly what it had done.

He stared at it.

“Why didn’t I triple-check?”

His voice was hoarse, barely a rasp. There was no one to hear it but the empty room and his wounded pride.

He had never misfired a kunai. Not once. His aim was legendary. His timing was unparalleled. He could catch a falling senbon between two fingers in the middle of a backflip, asleep, blindfolded, and mid-cough. He had once deflected a poisoned dart with the edge of his forehead protector while dead asleep and dreaming of pickled plums.

But apparently the mortal enemy of the Copy Ninja was not an S-rank assassin or a forbidden jutsu.

It was touchscreen sensitivity.

He dragged both hands down his face, palms rasping over skin still uncovered. His unmasked face. His very visible, very expressive, suddenly very famous face. The one Sakura Haruno had now seen.

At length.

In high resolution.

While he was shirtless.

And to make matters worse—objectively, soul-crushingly worse—he was ninety-nine percent sure she liked it.

He didn’t know how to handle that.

It was worse than if she’d screamed and blocked him. Worse than if she’d filed a harassment report with Tsunade. Worse than if she’d responded with a six-minute voice memo of horrified laughter. Because now—now she had said things.

Complimentary things.

About his face.

He groaned into his palms, fingers clawing slightly at his scalp.

He could never look her in the eye again. Not without dissolving into a puff of smoke and launching himself into low Earth orbit. Not without conjuring a diversion explosion and disappearing into the forest like a cryptid on the run.

He was thirty-four years old. A trained shinobi. A living legend. He had infiltrated palaces. He had fought and survived gods. And he had, in a moment of profound, terminal brain failure, sent a thirst trap to a woman he wasn’t even supposed to be thinking about like that.

“Why was I shirtless?” he whispered.

But he knew why.

Oh, he knew exactly why.

Because he had been trying—foolishly, disastrously—to have fun.

That mythical thing Genma kept insisting was good for him. “Live a little,” Genma had said, smirking like the devil. “Do something impulsive,” he’d said, pouring more sake than strictly necessary. “Take a selfie. Send it to someone who cares.”

And what did Kakashi do?

He stripped to his sweatpants, looked in the mirror, and promptly destroyed his own life.

He sat up abruptly. The room spun slightly with the force of it. He blinked hard and stared into the dark void of his bedroom like it held answers. It didn’t. It only offered the faint glint of moonlight off the edges of his bookshelf, the quiet tick of the old clock on the wall, and the mocking silence of everything he held dear.

“Maybe I should defect,” he muttered.

He stood up. Paced. Sat down again. Stood up again.

His legs carried him halfway to the door before he stopped himself. Where was he even going? To the Hokage’s tower? To turn in his headband and request permanent exile? To the ocean?

His brain, unhelpfully, replayed the moment he hit “send.” The casual swipe. The low click. The flash of movement. The second of blank, stupid satisfaction before reality clamped down like a bear trap.

Then the horror. The dawning realization. The gut-lurching vertigo as he saw the recipient’s name.

Then the silence.

Then the panic.

Then—her reply.

sakura: you sent that on purpose
sakura: I’m keeping it
sakura: your face is unfair

He could feel his soul leaking out of his ears.

She was teasing him. That was the only explanation. That had to be it. She was amused. Laughing in her room, probably curled up in bed with a cup of tea, rolling her eyes and giggling into her pillow at the sheer absurdity of her old commander melting down like a rookie on his first mission.

Except the way she said “unfair” wasn’t just amused.

It sounded… appraising.

Interested.

And Kakashi had no idea what to do with that.

Because he didn’t flirt. He didn’t seduce. He barely functioned as a social creature most days. His idea of a romantic gesture was offering the last dango stick without comment. He once forgot his own birthday and ate cold rice for dinner.

He could not—would not—survive Sakura Haruno finding him attractive.

He flopped back onto the bed with the grace of a dead tree falling off a cliff and buried his face in the pillow. This time the groan was full-bodied, resonant, and deeply unmanly.

He had to sleep. He needed sleep. He had a training session in six hours. He needed his brain. He needed chakra stability. He needed to not lie awake re-living every frame of a godforsaken mirror selfie like it was a crime scene.

He needed peace.

But his thoughts were rabid squirrels.

Was she still looking at it?

Had she saved it to her phone?

Had she taken a screenshot?

What folder did she put it in?

Did she zoom in? God, what if she zoomed in? What if she saw that his eyebrow was doing that thing?

What if she showed Ino?

What if she showed Tsunade?

What if—

He sat up again, hands braced on his knees, chest rising and falling.

“No,” he said aloud, trying to talk sense into the chaos. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She’s mature. She’s not—she wouldn’t—”

But then he remembered the way her texts had looked.

Playful. Sharp. Bold.

Exactly like her.

The words echoed in his head with a weight he wasn’t prepared for. A perfect, ruthless summary of everything that made her dangerous—not on the battlefield, but here. In his room. In his phone. In his head.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t deflect. She took, she teased, she kept.

And it was killing him.

He dropped his head forward into his hands and let out a muffled noise of pure, undiluted despair. It sounded like a man dying on the inside. Because he was.

There was no recovering from this.

No plausible excuse. No clean escape route. No ninjutsu known to man could erase the image now burned into her brain. His face—his actual face—with its too-soft expression and stupid hair and that weird, haunted pout he hadn’t meant to make. That she liked.

He had proof she liked it.

And now, now she was out there somewhere, awake, aware, probably smiling to herself with that wicked little curve of her mouth that meant trouble was blooming like sakura blossoms in spring.

He would have to fake his own death. Move to Rain Country. Change his name. Grow a mustache. A big, bushy one that covered half his face. He’d wear goggles. And a scarf. He’d become a recluse. Raise ducks.

Yes. That was the only way.

He flopped onto his back one final time, a dramatic exhale leaving his body like the last gasp of a ghost.

The ceiling loomed above him in blank silence.

The same ceiling that had watched this entire spiral unfold without judgment. Watched him panic, pace, collapse, groan, and writhe in mortification. Maybe that’s why it said nothing. Maybe it was wise enough to know there was nothing left to say.

He let his arm fall over his eyes, covering them like a man preparing for execution.

Breathed in.
Out.

Held it.

Then muttered, bitterly—

“I’m never sleeping again.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: The Vault Is Sealed
March 5th, 2:06 AM, Tuesday

Sakura had tried to sleep.

She’d really made an effort. Phone off. Blanket up to her ears. Breathing exercises. A completely unconvincing lie to herself that if she just focused on how not attracted she was to a certain someone, her brain would settle like a sweet, docile lamb.

Instead, she had laid awake for twenty full minutes, vibrating with the energy of someone who had just accidentally walked in on a deeply private moment—except it hadn’t been an accident. Not hers, anyway. She was the recipient. Of a photo. That photo. One that currently lived in her phone like a lit fuse under a blanket.

She rolled over, yanked the device from her nightstand, and opened her most dangerous group chat: the one-on-one with Ino.

sakura: something happened
sakura: something unhinged. like spiritually disorienting

She hit send before she could change her mind, already wincing in the dark as the words left her screen. Her fingers were cold. Her face was hot. Her pulse had not once returned to normal since the photo incident, and now the weight of what she'd seen lived in her chest like a live wire. She could practically feel the static buzzing behind her ribs.

Ino responded with terrifying speed.

ino: oh god
ino: did you set something on fire again
ino: was it Tsunade’s sake
ino: did you sleep-punch a diplomat

Sakura let out a soundless wheeze. The image of her knocking out a diplomat in her sleep might’ve made her laugh on a normal night. Tonight it just made her heart race harder. It was so off-base it almost felt surreal—like this whole situation. Like the fact that she was texting Ino about Kakashi. Kakashi. Her team leader. Her once-upon-a-time commander. Her very shirtless, maskless, sweatpants-wearing commander.

sakura: no
sakura: worse

She gripped the blanket tighter around her legs as she typed, her thumbs shaking just slightly. The words felt too dramatic and somehow not dramatic enough. How did one rank this kind of emotional event? There were no forms for this. No protocol. No ranking system for “accidental sexy identity-shattering crisis images from men you weren’t supposed to want.”

ino: …worse than punching a diplomat?
ino: I’m scared. What happened

Sakura stared at her phone for a long moment, thumbs hovering. Her stomach did a slow, weightless turn as she debated what to type. There was still time to lie. Still time to say it was a dream, or a misunderstanding, or an accidental filter mishap from someone else’s phone entirely.

But then she remembered the way Kakashi’s name had popped up. The way her heart had stopped. The photo. His face. The panic spiral that followed. She wasn't imagining any of it.

She pressed her lips together. And told the truth.

sakura: someone sent me a shirtless photo.
sakura: by accident.
sakura: and then had a complete breakdown in my messages

And now it lived in her memory, eternal and irreversible. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see it—the soft tilt of his shoulders, the wild hair, the dim light painting shadows down his chest, and that absurdly kissable mouth that had ruined her entire internal equilibrium.

She tucked her chin into her knees.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

There was a pause. Then:

ino: oh.
ino: OH
ino: who???

sakura: I’m not sure I should say

ino: sakura
ino: I am your best friend and I will guilt-trip you so hard your ancestors will feel it
ino: who sent it

sakura: …Kakashi

ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino:
ino: I blacked out for a minute
ino: I had to sit down and I was already sitting
ino: KAKASHI
ino: KAKASHI HATAKE
ino: SENT YOU A THIRST TRAP???

Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose and let her phone drop to her chest for a second. She was honestly surprised Ino hadn’t apparated directly into her apartment yet. The silence that had preceded that avalanche of messages had been terrifying—like the calm before a hurricane. And now that it had hit, it was worse. So much worse.

Thirst trap. That was such an unholy phrase to apply to Kakashi, and yet—horrifyingly—accurate. She swallowed hard, then picked the phone back up with trembling fingers.

sakura: it wasn’t on purpose!!
sakura: he meant to send it to Genma, I think?
sakura: which raises more questions than answers honestly
sakura: but anyway, yes
sakura: and then he panicked. catastrophically. it was… really something

Sakura bit the inside of her cheek, half-expecting her screen to combust from how hard her heart was pounding. She felt like she’d just confessed to a crime. Which—if her brain and moral code were to be trusted—was not that far off. It had felt criminal to see him like that. Too much skin. Too much expression. Too much him.

And too much of her wanting it.

ino: I need to see it.
ino: for research
ino: for documentation
ino: for MY SANITY

Sakura groaned into her pillow.

Of course. Of course this was going to be her life now.

sakura: I’m not showing you the picture

ino: excuse me

She closed her eyes and braced herself. This was where it was going to get ugly. Or guilt-trippy. Or manipulative. Or all three. Ino could weaponize curiosity like no one else.

But Sakura had already made up her mind.

sakura: Ino I’m serious. I know this is chaos and hilarious and possibly the single most life-altering moment of my adult existence
sakura: but he didn’t mean for me to see it
sakura: and he definitely didn’t mean for you to
sakura: it would feel wrong
sakura: I’m not going to make it worse

She stared at her own message, chewing on her lower lip.

It was the truth. As tempting as it was to share it—hell, to scream about it from the rooftops—she couldn’t. Not when he’d looked so genuinely panicked. Not when she could still feel the clumsy desperation in his texts. Not when she knew what it felt like to be seen when you didn’t mean to be. It would cross a line she didn’t want to cross.

Not with him.

ino: …
ino: okay yeah
ino: that’s annoyingly ethical of you
ino: you’re being a better person than I would be and I hate it
ino: …but I respect it
ino: fine
ino: describe it in disturbing detail

Sakura rolled onto her back and sighed.

Her fingers hovered for a moment over the keyboard. Then—slowly, traitorously—she gave in. Just a little.

sakura: shirtless
sakura: no mask
sakura: sweatpants
sakura: beauty mark on his lip
sakura: bedroom lighting
sakura: looked like he got out of bed, regretted everything immediately, and still somehow looked stupidly hot
sakura: I’m not okay
sakura: I’m really not okay

Saying it out loud (well, typing it) didn’t help. It only made it more real. More vivid. The image burned behind her eyelids like it had been seared there. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient, aware—was reacting to it in ways she didn’t have the mental bandwidth to unpack.

ino:
ino:
ino: I need to lie down
ino: you’ve seen his face
ino: and you’re still breathing????
ino: you’re stronger than me
ino: and I’m going to scream into a pillow for a while

sakura: I already did that
sakura: twice

Her voice was barely a whisper in the dark. She could feel the residual tension in her arms from gripping the pillow so tightly during the last round. Her bedroom was far too warm now. Her thoughts far too loud.

ino: is he still spiraling??

sakura: probably
sakura: I told him I was keeping the photo
sakura: he said he regrets the invention of electricity

Sakura snorted. She hadn’t meant to. But it escaped her, sudden and involuntary. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying to smother the sound.

Of course he said that. Of course he had no idea how to flirt. Of course the first thing Kakashi ever said in response to a compliment was to question the advancement of modern civilization.

And of course—somewhere between the panic and the pouting and the devastating lack of a mask—she had started to fall for him.

ino: oh my god
ino: marry him immediately
ino: I mean it
ino: do it for the nation

Sakura bit her lip, staring up at her ceiling.

The ceiling stared back, judgmental and cracked slightly in the left corner like it was holding in a snort. Her chest felt too full—tight with something anxious and giddy and deeply ill-advised. She wasn’t even sure what Ino meant by “do it for the nation,” but the terrifying part was that she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

sakura: I think I have a crush on him
sakura: or I’m having a stroke
sakura: not sure which

The moment she hit send, her breath caught in her throat. The words felt too big and too small at the same time. Too casual for what she was actually feeling. Too real for how early it was to be admitting it. She shut her eyes tight, trying to will her heartbeat into something less humiliating.

ino: welcome to hell
ino: population: you
ino: and also kakashi, apparently

Sakura let her phone fall onto her stomach and covered her face with both hands.

She didn’t move for a long moment. Just lay there, warm and breathless and vibrating with disbelief. Her face burned under her palms. Her heart thudded with the slow realization that something had changed tonight—permanently.

Because this was her life now.

And the photo wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither was the feeling.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: The March of the Doomed
March 5th, Tuesday, 6:58 AM

Kakashi walked into the training field like a man on the way to the gallows.

The air was crisp. The sky was obnoxiously blue. Birds were chirping like idiots. Somewhere off in the distance, a child was laughing, which felt deeply inappropriate considering he was currently experiencing what could only be described as social suicide in slow motion.

Genma and Yamato were already there.

And he was already sweating.

It wasn’t the physical kind, either. Not the honest, good-natured kind that came from sparring and movement and exercise. No, this was existential sweat. The kind that seeped out of your skin when you had done something—say, accidentally sent a shirtless selfie to your twenty-something female teammate at one in the morning—and were now forced to walk among the living as though you were a functional member of society.

Genma waved lazily when he spotted him. “Well, well, well. Look who finally showed up. Thought maybe you died.”

“I considered it,” Kakashi muttered, adjusting his mask. His new mask, because the old one was currently stuffed in the back of his closet out of sheer, irrational shame. He could feel it judging him from under the pile of laundry.

Yamato blinked. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Physically, or…?”

“Just assume no across the board.”

Genma snorted and leaned back against a tree trunk, arms folded across his chest, senbon twitching between his teeth. “Someone’s cranky. Didn’t get your beauty sleep?”

Kakashi flinched. Subtle. Barely perceptible. But both of them saw it.

Yamato squinted. “Did… something happen?”

“No,” Kakashi said instantly. Too instantly. It sounded like he was reading from a cue card labeled I AM INNOCENT.

Genma tilted his head. “You sure? Because you’re walking like you’ve just been served a summons and spiritually evicted from your own body.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Genma said, nodding slowly. “So not fine.”

Kakashi dragged a hand down his face. “Please,” he said hoarsely, “just punch me in the face so I don’t have to make conversation.”

Yamato looked deeply alarmed.

Genma looked intrigued. “Wait. Did you kill someone?”

“No.”

“…Did you sleep with someone?”

“ Genma. ”

“Because there’s a very specific flavor of dread in your aura right now, and it is giving ‘I committed an emotional crime in a moment of horn-fueled weakness’. ”

“I did not sleep with anyone,” Kakashi hissed. “No one was horn-fueled. There was no horn. I am anti-horn. I—”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

Kakashi pinched the bridge of his nose. This was a mistake. Everything was a mistake. He should have called in sick. No, better—faked a mission. Or died. Dying would’ve been ideal.

Yamato stepped closer, peering at him. “You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“No, you’re, like, ghostly. Paler than usual. What happened?”

Kakashi exhaled through his nose. Long. Suffering.

And then Genma’s expression changed. His brow lifted. A slow, wicked grin curled on his face. “Oh my god.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I swear on every grave I’ve ever dug, Genma—”

“You sent something to the wrong person.”

Kakashi’s entire body tensed like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Oh my god,” Genma crowed. “ You did. You did. I knew it. I knew giving you that phone was going to end in divine chaos.”

Yamato looked between them, confused. “Wait, what did he—what did you send?”

Genma was vibrating. Not metaphorically— actually vibrating. His whole body was thrumming with restrained energy, like he was physically holding himself back from launching across the field.

“He sent a photo,” Genma said, voice high and tight, like it had been wound up and snapped loose.

Kakashi said nothing.

Which was the worst possible thing he could have done.

Genma’s eyes went wide. His head tilted. And then—slowly, dangerously—he turned. Not quickly. Not even sharply. But in the slow, methodical way a predator circles something bleeding. Like a shark circling blood in the water.

“You sent a photo,” Genma said, too calmly now.

Still, Kakashi said nothing.

Because what could he possibly say?

Genma took one ominous step forward, grin widening. His voice dropped to a low murmur, dark and delighted. “You sent that kind of photo.”

Kakashi made a sound like a dying kettle—an agonized wheeze that started in his throat and barely escaped his mouth. He ducked his head slightly, hand half-lifting toward his face like he could somehow cover the damage already done.

Yamato choked. Actually choked . “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Kakashi snapped, his voice cracking like a branch under pressure.

“Who did you send it to?!” Yamato demanded, eyes wide with panic and secondhand horror.

Kakashi closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged; a man resigning himself to fate.

“…Sakura,” he muttered.

There was silence.

For a full two seconds.

Then Genma just collapsed .

On the ground. Laughing so hard he rolled onto his back and beat the dirt with one hand. “Sakura! You sent it to Sakura?! Of all people?!”

Yamato looked horrified. “Oh my god. Did she respond?”

“She kept it. ”

That set Genma off again. “She kept it?? Of course she did!! I’m gonna throw up, this is so much better than I could have imagined—”

Kakashi pointed at him with menace. “I swear to the gods, Genma, if you breathe a word of this to anyone—”

“I would never ,” Genma said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m just going to take this moment and cherish it forever. You, the great Copy Ninja, breaker of hearts, bane of assassins—spiraling because your teammate saw your selfie? ”

Yamato was still blinking in disbelief. “Wait, wait— did she like it?”

Kakashi dropped to sit heavily on a nearby stump. “That’s the worst part,” he muttered into his hands. “I think she did.”

Genma leaned back with a grin like a cat who had just knocked over a priceless vase.

“Well then,” he said. “You poor, stupid bastard. You’re doomed.”

He crouched in front of Kakashi like a fox that smelled blood under the snow. “Okay. So. What exactly did you send her?”

“No,” Kakashi said immediately.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“For science, Kakashi.”

“No.”

Yamato stepped in, calm but watchful. “We’re just trying to help. You said it was a photo. Accidentally sent. That’s already very concerning.”

“It was a minor mistake,” Kakashi muttered.

“A minor mistake,” Genma repeated, incredulous. “You’ve been pacing like a man on death row since you got here.”

“I am handling it. ”

Yamato raised an eyebrow. “You sat on a stump and whispered, ‘She kept it,’ like a cursed prince from a scroll.”

Genma leaned closer. “Kakashi. My friend. My extremely private, emotionally walled-off friend. What level of photo are we talking? On a scale from ‘oops I sent the wrong grocery list’ to ‘I accidentally sent the emotional equivalent of a marriage proposal.’”

Kakashi rubbed both hands over his face, dragging them down with a groan that sounded like his soul was trying to escape through his pores. “It wasn’t a marriage proposal.”

“So it was romantic,” Genma gasped, delighted, clutching his chest like someone in a scandalous stage play.

“No,” Kakashi said firmly, his voice muffled behind his palms.

Yamato narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Is there nudity involved?”

“No!” Kakashi barked, head snapping up. His whole body tensed like he was ready to dive out a window. “There is no nudity!”

“Shirtless?” Genma asked, far too calmly. The smirk spreading across his face was slow and evil, like a sunrise over a battlefield.

Kakashi’s silence was damning.

His eye twitched. His jaw flexed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Genma let out a low, giddy whistle and sat back like he was settling in for the best gossip of the year. “Oh, my god ,” he breathed. “You sent her the goods .”

Kakashi slumped forward with the posture of a man praying for spontaneous combustion.

“Oh my god.” Genma stepped back, hands on his head. “You sent her a thirst trap. You, Kakashi Hatake, who won’t even make eye contact in group photos. You sent your twenty-something teammate a shirtless photo— by accident. ”

Kakashi groaned. “It was supposed to go to you! ”

Genma blinked. “I’m sorry— me? ”

Kakashi winced. “I was trying to make fun of myself. It was a joke. A stupid moment. You said to try being impulsive. So I did. I was going to send it to you and say something like ‘how’s this for cringe’—and then my thumb slipped. ”

Yamato looked like he’d aged ten years. “So let me get this straight. You took a photo of yourself. Shirtless. Maskless?”

Genma’s eyes widened. “Wait. Maskless? ”

Kakashi didn’t respond.

Genma looked like he’d been shot in the chest. “ I’ve never seen you maskless. Not once! We’ve known each other for fifteen years! You sent Sakura a photo of your actual face before me? ”

“I didn’t mean to! ”

“You meant to send it to me! ”

Kakashi groaned again and buried his face in his hands. “This is why I didn’t want a phone.”

Genma stepped forward, solemn now. “Kakashi. Listen to me. I say this with the sincerity of a man who has blackmailed five different ANBU captains: you have no idea the power you’re sitting on. You need to let me see it. For the good of the village.”

Kakashi closed his eyes like he was praying for divine intervention.

“I’m never going to hear the end of it,” he muttered.

“You weren’t before either,” Genma said, eyes gleaming. “Might as well lean in.”

Yamato nodded beside him, face unusually serious. “We’ll be gentle.”

Kakashi squinted. “That’s the most suspicious thing you’ve ever said.”

Yamato didn’t deny it. He just crossed his arms and waited.

Still, Kakashi hesitated. The phone in his hand felt heavier than it should have. Like it had gained mass from the shame inside it. He stared down at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering uselessly above the edge.

Then he sighed—sharp, final.

“She already saw it,” he muttered. “And I was going to send it to you anyway.”

Genma perked up like a dog hearing a treat bag.

His whole posture changed—chin lifted, eyes lit, shoulders squared like he was preparing to accept a sacred relic.

“Fine,” Kakashi snapped, pointing a finger like a kunai. “But you get one look. One. No jokes. No commentary. No group chat screenshots. You breathe a word of this to anyone and I will erase you from Konoha’s census records.”

“I accept your terms,” Genma said solemnly, like he was swearing a blood oath.

Kakashi unlocked his phone, fingers moving with reluctant precision. He scrolled. Hesitated once. Just once. The screen glowed faintly against his face in the dark room.

Then—expression grim—he turned the phone toward them.

Yamato leaned in first.

Froze.

Genma followed.

And made a sound. A full-body, wheezing inhale like he'd just witnessed something sacred and profane at the same time.

The silence that followed was weighty.

Then:

“…You’re hot, ” Genma said, utterly dazed.

Kakashi tried to yank the phone back. “Okay, that’s enough—”

“No no no no no.” Genma batted his hand away. “This is historic. This is life-altering. You look like someone who just rolled out of bed after ruining a dozen hearts and is thinking about doing it again. You look like regret, mystery, and sex all had a baby.”

Kakashi’s soul attempted to evacuate his body.

Yamato was blinking in slow disbelief. “It’s actually… a very vulnerable photo. But kind of devastating. I see why she kept it.”

Kakashi snatched the phone back and shoved it into his pocket like it burned. “You’re both insufferable.”

“You sent that to Sakura, ” Genma said, laughing so hard he had to bend over. “Accidentally. With that face. Oh my god. You’re doomed. ”

Kakashi sat back on the stump and dropped his head into his hands.

Again.

“I need a mission,” he mumbled. “A long one. In another country. Maybe underground.”

Genma clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t need a mission. You need a plan. Because that girl is going to look at you like a steak for the rest of your life.”

Kakashi said nothing.

Mostly because—deep down, against his better judgment, and buried beneath eight layers of embarrassment—

He really hoped she would.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: The Dinner Gauntlet
March 6th, Wednesday, 6:53 PM

Kakashi stood outside the restaurant like it was a war zone.

Technically, it was the same little spot they always went to for weekly dinners—Team Kakashi, the whole damn dysfunctional pack of them. A low-pressure tradition. Easy conversation, good food, something to keep the bond alive when missions weren’t doing the job.

But tonight?

Tonight it was a trap.

He could feel it in his sternum. A subtle, creeping wrongness that raised the hairs at the back of his neck. The kind of ambient awareness ANBU relied on to detect poison, lies, betrayal. Only this wasn’t that. This was worse.

Because Sakura would be there.

And Sakura had the photo.

And Kakashi had no chakra technique, no coded language, no high-level Black Ops protocol that could prepare him for the emotional whiplash of seeing her face again knowing that she had seen his.

He’d nearly cancelled. Genuinely. He’d typed out the message—“Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Got called to the tower.” Hovered over Send. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again. He wasn’t proud of how long he’d stared at the screen, thumb twitching, spine curled forward like a man trying to fold himself out of existence.

Which was how he now found himself standing in front of the sliding door, in full uniform, heart pounding like he was about to be ambushed by seven missing-nin and a bear. He could feel the weight of every weapon he carried like they were useless props. Not a single one could help him here.

He wasn’t nervous. That would imply something rational.

He was unwell.

Still. Ditching would be obvious.

And Sakura would know why.

And that—that was somehow worse.

So with the enthusiasm of a man about to have dental surgery with a senbon and no anesthetic, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The restaurant smelled like grilled meat and sesame oil and miso, warm and familiar in a way that made his stomach flip. His boots thudded softly on the tatami floor as he scanned the tables. The lighting was low. The air hummed with quiet conversation.

Naruto was already shouting.

“Kakashi-sensei! You’re late!”

He wasn’t, actually. He was three minutes early. But Naruto was always here obnoxiously early, pretending it was for the seating but really just hoping to be the first to pick appetizers.

Sai was seated beside him, looking quietly amused, fingers poised neatly around his tea cup.

And then—

There she was.

Sakura sat across from the boys, long pink hair tucked behind one ear, her elbow propped on the table, cheek resting lightly in her hand. She looked—damn it—normal. Calm. Relaxed. Possibly even amused.

Her other hand toyed absently with the edge of her menu, but she wasn’t reading it. Not really. Her eyes flicked up as he approached.

And then she smiled.

It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was devastatingly neutral.

Which was worse than anything he’d prepared for.

“Hey,” she said casually, like they hadn’t had a full-blown text spiral the night before that had ended with his soul leaving his body. “We ordered gyoza already. You’re good with the usual?”

“Sure,” he managed. His voice came out hoarse. Too hoarse. He cleared his throat, tried again. “That’s fine.”

He slid into the open seat beside Sai and across from her. His uniform felt tighter than usual. His collar too high. His mask suddenly suffocating. He kept his posture straight, his hands folded too neatly on the table like he was being inspected.

He tried not to fidget.

Tried not to sweat.

Tried very hard not to remember that she had zoomed in on his hip bones.

Naruto was rambling about something—training, maybe? A mission? The moon? Kakashi didn’t know. He was too busy short-circuiting every time Sakura moved. Every time she shifted in her seat. Every time her fingers reached for her tea. Every time her eyes flicked to his and then away, like she wasn’t looking at a walking secret she now owned.

The air felt too still. Like the kind of tension before a trap was sprung.

Sai leaned over. “You look pale,” he said helpfully. “Did you eat today?”

Kakashi twitched. “Fine.”

Sakura looked up immediately, concern flickering across her features. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are,” Sai confirmed, tone factual and gently observant. “Your hairline is damp.”

“I’m warm.”

“It’s cool in here,” Sakura replied, sipping her tea. Her voice was smooth. Even. Too even.

He felt like the walls were closing in.

Sakura tilted her head slightly. “Rough day?”

“Define rough,” he said, forcing his tone into something wry.

“On a scale from ‘mission with Naruto’ to ‘accidentally sent something extremely personal to someone you can’t stop thinking about’?”

Naruto, mid-dumpling, blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

Sai squinted. “Are we using an emotional trauma scale?”

Kakashi closed his eyes. “I’m going to jump out the window.”

Sakura took another sip of tea, face composed. But there was something in her eyes—just a flicker. A gleam. Mischief, maybe. Or victory.

He deserved it.

After all, he had pulled the pin on this grenade.

She was simply enjoying the fallout.

Dinner arrived in waves. Bowls of miso. Plates of dumplings. Grilled skewers and sautéed vegetables and pickled sides. They passed dishes like clockwork. Naruto inhaled everything. Sai asked too many questions about chopstick etiquette and the historical symbolism of root vegetables.

Kakashi tried—genuinely tried—to participate like a normal human being. But every time he opened his mouth, he could feel her eyes on him. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just… there. Peripheral. Aware. Like she was cataloging every twitch of his fingers, every change in his voice, every subtle crack in his armor.

She hadn’t said a single word about the photo in front of the others.

She was wielding that silence like a weapon.

And it was working.

Eventually, Naruto excused himself to chase down more rice. Sai followed, possibly just to escape the slow, thick tension hanging over the table like fog.

Which left them alone.

Across the table.

Chopsticks in hand.

The noise of the restaurant softened around them. Muted. Distant.

Sakura’s voice was soft. Measured. “You survived.”

“Barely,” he said.

She smiled again. Small. Quiet. Terribly knowing. “You look nice.”

He nearly dropped his chopsticks. One end of them clattered against the edge of his plate, and he fumbled them back into place like a man recovering from a near-death experience.

“…Thanks.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then she said, just loud enough for him to hear:

“I didn’t just save the photo.”

His heart stopped. Froze in his chest like it had been flash-frozen by an ice jutsu.

“I memorized it.”

She stood.

Gathered her things.

And walked away—graceful, unhurried, a picture of absolute composure—before he could even breathe.

He sat there, chopsticks in hand, pulse wrecked, lungs hollow, body still in the seat but soul in the stratosphere.

He wasn’t sure what hurt more: the tease in her voice… or the fact that he liked it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: Seen, Delivered, Regretted
March 6th, Wednesday, 11:39 PM

Kakashi stared at the ceiling.

Then at the wall.

Then at the phone glowing on his nightstand like it had something smug to say.

He shouldn’t text her.

There were rules. Boundaries. Professionalism. Entire doctrines written—probably—about not engaging in casual late-night banter with a teammate who had, less than 24 hours ago, seen you shirtless and maskless in a moment of purest accidental vanity.

Also, she was Sakura.

Off-limits. Brilliant. Kind. Completely lethal. And far too perceptive to fall for the silent suffering routine he’d been perfecting since dinner.

Still.

He picked up the phone.

kakashi: Thanks for not bringing up… anything at dinner tonight.

There. Friendly. Neutral. Sane.

The response came fast.

sakura: You mean not mentioning that I’ve seen more of your body than anyone else on the team combined?

sakura: Yeah. You’re welcome.

He winced.

kakashi: I’d love to believe you’ve already forgotten it.

sakura: Oh, I have. Absolutely.

sakura: Forgotten every detail. The lighting. The angle. The perfectly casual sweatpants. Gone.

sakura: Especially the mouth. Didn’t even register.

Kakashi made a sound like a dying animal and dropped the phone on his chest.

Why had he started this?

Why was he still typing?

kakashi: Are you trying to give me an aneurysm?

sakura: Little bit.

kakashi: This feels like revenge.

sakura: I mean, you did emotionally detonate in my inbox.

sakura: I’m just matching energy.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. She was too good at this. Too quick. And way, way too comfortable being in possession of information he had never given willingly to anyone.

kakashi: You could delete it.

sakura: Oh, I absolutely could.

sakura: Or I could preserve it. For science. Or emotional support. Or, you know. Artistic appreciation.

He could feel the heat crawling up his neck.

kakashi: You’re enjoying this too much.

sakura: And you’re pretending you don’t like that I am.

He paused.

And typed.

kakashi: I’m not pretending anything.

That got a longer pause. The typing bubble came and went three times before her reply finally appeared.

sakura: Huh. Okay.

sakura: That’s interesting.

He cursed under his breath. Considered throwing the phone. Didn’t.

kakashi: You looked at that photo and still chose to sit across from me like nothing happened. I’d call that dangerous.

sakura: I was being polite.

kakashi: That’s what you call it?

sakura: What would you call it?

He hesitated.

Then, in what he would later classify as a lapse in judgment:

kakashi: Torture.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

sakura: I thought shinobi were trained to resist interrogation.

kakashi: Not when the interrogator has seen their hip bones.

Another pause.

Then:

sakura: So you know you looked good.

kakashi: I know I haven’t sent a photo like that before. Ever.

sakura: You should do it more often.

He choked on absolutely nothing.

kakashi: You’re flirting with me.

sakura: I’m just being curious.

kakashi: About what, exactly?

sakura: If the rest of you looks as good as the part I’ve seen.

He dropped the phone.

Actually dropped it.

It landed on the bed. He stared at it like it might start glowing from heat.

It’s not like he was a virgin. Or a monk. He’d indulged the female species before. But it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like this—playful, bold, teasing like they could.

And it had absolutely never been someone like her.

Someone off-limits.

Someone who mattered.

He picked up the phone with shaking hands and typed:

kakashi: I’m not sure whether to be flattered or deeply alarmed.

sakura: Why not both?

kakashi: Because I’m trying to maintain a shred of dignity.

sakura: I saw your pouty mouth in sweatpants. That ship has sailed.

kakashi: I hate you.

sakura: No you don’t.

kakashi: No. I don’t.

A long pause.

Then:

sakura: I’m going to bed.

kakashi: Probably for the best.

sakura: Try not to have a meltdown over my next compliment.

kakashi: That implies I survived this one.

sakura: Goodnight, Kakashi.

kakashi: …Goodnight, Sakura.

He set the phone down.

Covered his face with both hands.

And smiled—helpless, exasperated, and just a little unhinged.

Because he was so, so screwed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: A Moment of Mercy
March 7th, 6:03 AM, Thursday

Kakashi woke up face-down and confused.

His mouth was dry. His arm was asleep. His blankets were on the floor for reasons unknown, and his phone was wedged between his ribs and the mattress, buzzing softly like it had something very important to say.

He groaned. Rolled over. Squinted at the screen.

One new message. From Sakura.

His stomach immediately attempted to somersault.

He thumbed it open with more trepidation than he’d ever felt disarming explosives.

sakura :
listen, I just want to say—
if this whole thing is actually making you uncomfortable
like really uncomfortable
I’ll delete the photo
we’ll pretend it never happened
I won’t joke about it, I won’t mention it again

sakura :
seriously
I respect you too much to make this weird
and I’m really sorry if I already have

He stared at it. Read it again. Then again.

The hand holding the phone fell to his chest.

Because that—that was her. That was what it meant to be her friend. To be seen. Even after a spiral of bad decisions and hormonal brain static, she still thought to pause, to check , to offer him a way out with absolutely no pressure attached.

She was smarter than him. Better than him.

And that text, gentle and quiet and way too kind for six in the morning, just made him ache.
A dull, low ache in his chest that spread out like warmth and shame and something softer he didn’t want to examine too closely. It caught behind his ribs and curled tight, winding through every part of him that had forgotten what mercy looked like when it wasn’t attached to a mission or a favor or an obligation.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, eyes half-focused on the faint water stain above his bed that he always told himself he’d fix but never did. His breath was steady. His heartbeat wasn’t. There was too much in it. Gratitude. Relief. Guilt. And underneath all of that, the reckless, traitorous glow of something that felt suspiciously like hope.

Heart full of something he couldn’t name.

He shifted the phone from one hand to the other, thumb hovering, then finally settled his fingers on the screen. He could hear the birds outside. The world was just starting to wake. He should’ve felt calm. He didn’t.

Then typed:

kakashi:
You didn’t make it weird.
I made it weird.
You’ve been surprisingly gracious, considering I handed you a live grenade and panicked like a teenager.
I’m not uncomfortable.
Not with you.

He paused there, the blinking cursor mocking him. His other hand rubbed over his chest like he could push the words back in before they stuck. But they were true. That was the worst part — the best part. The part that made this harder to swallow.

He hovered for a second longer, eyes flicking to the clock glowing on the nightstand. Too early for honesty. Too late to take it back.

Then added, because it felt like the only real thing left to say:

kakashi:
You can delete it if you want.
But I don’t want you to.

He hit Send before he could overthink it, thumb trembling just a little. The blue bar slid across. Gone. Out in the world now, lodged between them like another soft, half-dangerous secret.

Her reply didn’t come right away.
A minute passed. Then two.
Each second ticked down with surgical precision — like ANBU waiting for a signal that never came.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm, phone balanced on his chest, thumb tapping mindlessly at the sheet. He told himself not to read into it. He’d survived worse silences than this — days of radio static, weeks in the field waiting for a coded hawk. But this was different. This was her. And that made it all the more impossible not to chase every possible meaning in the space where her words hadn’t yet arrived.

Then the typing bubble appeared.

sakura:
okay.
I won’t.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It felt sharp and useless and necessary all at once.

And underneath that, a second message — quick, like she didn’t even think twice about it:

sakura:
and just so you know
if the positions were reversed?
you’d have memorized it too

Kakashi stared at the screen. His lips parted like he might say something out loud — to the ceiling, to the universe, to no one. The words stuck.

He closed his eyes, chest tightening with an embarrassing, involuntary rush of heat that made his pulse jump. He could feel it at his temples, under his tongue. He should’ve been too old for this — too composed, too hardened to feel that rush like a shinobi half his age.

Then he dragged the pillow over his face and howled quietly into it — a muffled, low sound that was half-laugh, half-helpless groan. He pressed it down over his hair, blocking out the light, the birds, the part of his mind already replaying her face as she typed that.

He really should have put the phone down.
Should have rolled over, shut his eyes, let the mature, responsible part of his brain reclaim the wheel — the part that knew how to seal these things off before they got complicated.

And yet...

kakashi:
probably.
and then would have immediately handed my resignation into tsunade
and moved to wind country to become a goat farmer
peaceful. lonely. zero chance of seeing you again.
very healing.

He read it back to himself twice. Winced a little at how dramatic it sounded. Then again, everything about this was dramatic — the photo, the meltdown, the fact that he was lying half-naked in bed trying to explain himself with livestock jokes at dawn. He could hear Pakkun’s judgmental little snort in the back of his head. He could feel how true it was, too — the desperate, half-serious instinct to disappear somewhere dusty and anonymous where no one could look at him the way she did now.

There. That was fine. A little self-deprecating. A light roast of his own unhinged reaction to a woman he cared about deeply seeing more skin than anyone besides Pakkun had in five years.

Totally fine.

He hit Send before he could think about it too much, then flopped his head back into the pillow, eyes blinking up at the faint morning light seeping in through the curtain.

Her reply came thirty seconds later.

sakura:
a goat farmer?

He snorted out a short breath through his nose. Of course she’d latch onto that part. The least cool part.

sakura:
that’s your escape plan??

sakura:
not even something cool like a blacksmith or a recluse sword master in the cliffs?

sakura:
just. goats?

His lips twitched at the corner. He tipped the phone sideways, let it rest on his chest while his thumb hovered, debating how honest to be about the appeal of goats. They were simple. Predictable. Unimpressed by shinobi reputations.

kakashi:
they don’t talk
they don’t judge
they don’t know what i look like without my mask
ideal companions

He pictured it for half a second: a rough little farm, some dusty clearing in Wind Country, just him and a herd of indifferent animals, no pink hair to ruin his equilibrium every time he blinked. The idea was so bleak and so peaceful it almost made him laugh.

sakura:
they absolutely would judge you
with those creepy rectangle pupils and their little square teeth
“look at this guy,” they’d say. “can’t even handle one flirty text thread with his hot teammate”

Hot. His brain snagged on it immediately, stumbling over the word. Not pretty, not cute — hot. He pushed his tongue into his cheek, fighting a rush of warmth at the base of his throat.

kakashi:
ok first of all
no one said “hot”
i distinctly remember “crisis” and “regret” being used

He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyebrow, willing his face not to feel so obvious, even though no one could see him. The memory of her face — calm, amused, mercifully patient — pressed in behind his ribs like a handprint.

sakura:
and yet you’re still texting me

He let out a low, huffing laugh. She had him there.

kakashi:
against my will

His thumb hovered again, because that wasn’t true and they both knew it. But it was easier than saying because I can’t not. Because silence from you feels worse than the embarrassment.

sakura:
no one’s making you

He swallowed. Stared at the blinking cursor. The quiet dare in her words felt like the edge of a kunai against his jaw — not threatening, just sharp enough to remind him it was there.

kakashi:
you are
with your face
and your thumbs
and your ruthless goat slander

He squeezed his eyes shut after sending it, half-expecting her to call him out for the ‘face’ part — but also hoping she would.

sakura:
wow
what a confession

sakura:
“kakashi hatake: brought to his knees by pink hair and livestock banter”

He barked a low laugh at that, the sound muffled by the pillow he half dragged over his mouth. If Genma ever got wind of this, he’d never live it down.

kakashi:
i’ve had worse headlines

He meant it. He’d been called worse by enemies, allies, civilians, himself . This one — pink hair and banter — he could survive.

Another pause. The moment stretched just long enough to make him wonder if he’d ruined it with too much honesty wrapped in too little honesty.

Then:

sakura:
you really would’ve left?

He went still. Thumb hovering, breath caught somewhere in his chest. He could dodge. He could joke. But that felt like a disservice to the small truth she’d handed him first. So he didn’t.

kakashi:
maybe
i panicked
that photo was…
more revealing than i’m used to being
and you matter
which made it worse
and also
maybe
better

He read that back three times. The last line made his fingers curl into the blanket beside him. He hovered. Almost deleted it.

Didn’t.

Hit Send.

He didn’t breathe until the bubble flickered.

The typing bubble returned. He could almost picture her — hair messy, one knee up, thumb tapping. Face soft. The only face that had ever made him want to stay instead of run.

sakura:
it wasn’t worse
it was just better

Kakashi dropped the phone onto his chest again. The screen tilted sideways and settled against his collarbone. He covered his eyes with his forearm and exhaled, long and low through gritted teeth, a half-growl that melted into a small, exhausted laugh.

Somewhere, a goat probably just judged him.

And honestly?

Fair.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Take Photo. Send Photo. Spiral.
March 7th, 9:37 PM, Thursday

Sakura had made it a whole fifteen hours before the spiral caught up to her.

Which, honestly, was impressive. Given the sheer weight of everything she'd been carrying since the photo landed in her inbox — and then the full-sprint emotional rollercoaster Kakashi had taken her on via texts — she considered lasting until nightfall a minor miracle.

But here she was.

In her room.
Phone on the bed.
Brain short-circuiting.
And wearing the stupidest grin imaginable.

She flopped backward onto her pillows with a muffled groan. The mattress bounced beneath her shoulders, her hair fanning out messily around her face. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to the ceiling, voice half-laugh, half-plea for mercy. “This is so stupid.”

And yet.

Her phone buzzed next to her hip — a sharp, traitorous spark of hope shot through her chest — but when she turned her head and squinted at the screen, it was just a calendar reminder. A shift change notification. Nothing from him.

Which somehow made it worse. The absence of his name on the screen made her thoughts even louder. Louder than they’d been all day, echoing off every quiet corner of her skull.

Because Kakashi— her Kakashi, Mister I Hate Phones and Intimacy Is For Other People — had not only sent her that photo, but had gone and texted her back again. Last night. This morning. Like it was normal.

Like this was normal.

She was not okay.

She’d spent most of her workday floating around the hospital like a ghost with a stethoscope, drifting from chart to chart, room to room, trying not to drop anything or burst into flames every time her mind played the world’s cruelest slideshow of his jawline, his mouth, his voice . At one point she’d nearly handed the wrong chart to a patient’s mother because her brain had conjured up an image of his bare shoulders and refused to release it.

And then there was that last message.

“you matter. which made it worse. and also maybe better.”

Who said things like that?

Who said things like that and then acted like it was just part of the conversation? Like it didn’t detonate half her rational thought process and short-circuit the other half for good measure?

She slapped both palms over her face, heels of her hands digging into her brow. Heat bloomed there, traitorous and warm and soft . She let out a strangled noise and screamed into her palms for good measure.

When she peeled her hands away, her skin felt hot and her grin was back — worse than before. Stubborn. Giddy. Impossible to fight.

“Okay,” she said aloud to the empty room. “You need to get this out of your system.”

And by get it out , she meant… indulge it. Just a little. Dip her toe in the same dangerous current he’d dragged her through. Return the favor. Balance the scale. Symmetry, she reasoned — that’s what this was. Emotional symmetry .

Not because she was trying to escalate.

Not because she wanted to one-up him.

And definitely, definitely not because she’d spent several unhinged minutes throughout the day wondering what his face would look like if she flipped the script and sent him a photo. No. That was irrelevant. Completely unconnected to her current plan.

She sat up. Swung her legs off the bed, toes curling into the warm floorboards.

Stood.

Walked to the mirror.

Paused halfway there and ran a frustrated hand through her hair, catching her own reflection — wide eyes, cheeks pink from embarrassment alone. She pivoted away from her own reflection, crossed the room, came back again like she could pace the madness out of her system.

Scowled at herself. “You are not a teenage girl,” she hissed at her reflection.

But her reflection just looked back at her like, Really?

Eventually — because the universe was clearly determined to see her undone — she grabbed her phone, propped it up against a wobbly stack of old anatomy books on her desk, and backed up until the full mess of her reflection fit into frame.

Sports bra. Clean. Plain black. A few loose strands of hair falling forward from where she’d yanked the rest back into a sloppy knot hours ago. No makeup — not that she ever wore much anyway. The overhead light was warm, too bright to be dramatic, painting her skin in an honest, tired glow. No smolder. No deliberate angles. No posing.

Just her.

She lifted her hand, fingers forming a peace sign. Pulled one cheek up into a ridiculous, toothy grimace-smile. Almost cartoonish. Nothing sexy about it — or at least that’s what she told herself.

Snap.

There.

Captured. Stupid and real and hers . She looked like a chaotic post-workout mess who had definitely not been spiraling about her team leader for days straight. Very normal. Innocent. Harmless.

And not remotely mocking.

Okay, mildly mocking.

Okay, fine — it was a little tease. But a gentle one. The kind she knew he could handle. The kind she wanted him to handle.

She stared at the photo for a full minute, thumb hovering over the delete icon. Her pulse felt like it was stuck somewhere between her collarbones. The air around her hummed with her own reckless heartbeat.

Walked away.

Walked back.

Sat on the edge of her bed, bounced her knee a few times like that would bleed the adrenaline out. No luck.

She let out a long, exasperated sigh — then opened the thread.

Tapped his name.

And hit Send.

The moment the screen flicked back to Delivered , she made a small strangled squeak, flung the phone onto the comforter, and launched herself facedown onto her bed like the universe itself had kicked the door in to arrest her for crimes against sanity.

Her face burned against the sheets. Her arms scrambled to pull the pillow over her head, smothering the tiny, manic laugh that slipped out anyway.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

Probably.

Except now she was going to sit there vibrating on the sheets waiting for his reply, and it better be fast because her poor heart could only take so much.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: Critical Hit
March 7th, 9:52 PM, Thursday

Kakashi was reading.

Well—pretending to read.

The book had been open for ten pages. He hadn’t absorbed a single sentence.

His eyes traced each line out of obligation, not comprehension. The words blurred, rearranged, scattered like leaves on a breeze. He turned a page once, out of habit, and immediately forgot what came before it. Not that it mattered. His brain was too full, too preoccupied, too unwilling to let go of the morning’s conversation.

Mostly because his brain was still short-circuiting from everything he and Sakura had said that morning.

“You matter.”

“It was just better.”

“You’d have memorized it too.”

The words kept echoing, circling back like homing birds. He could still see the message bubble. Still feel the weight of it landing in his chest. Like a sigh. Like a punch. Like a gift he hadn’t known how badly he wanted until it arrived in the quiet of early morning.

He’d meant it as a joke.

A flustered, half-deflecting, please don’t realize I’m spiraling over your approval kind of joke.

Something dry and safe to throw across the moment like a tarp. Something to stop it from catching fire.

But she hadn’t laughed it off.

She hadn’t even blinked.

She’d leaned in.

Not with flirtation. Not with innuendo. But with sincerity so casual it disarmed him. With that impossible blend of steel and softness she always carried—like a kunai wrapped in silk.

And now Kakashi was left pacing a mental minefield of what the hell does this mean, while his chakra system attempted to reroute enough energy away from his nervous system to keep him upright and hydrated.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the way he sat against the wall. One leg bent, the other stretched out. Elbow braced on a low windowsill. The light was dim now—sun melting down behind the rooftops—casting everything in soft, long-shadowed amber. He stared blankly at the open page in his lap, jaw tight.

He needed to move. To run. To do literally anything else.

He was debating rereading the entire book from page one when his phone buzzed.

Sakura.

He stared at her name on the screen, blinked once, then picked up the phone. A new message. No text this time—just an image attachment waiting silently beneath her name.

He tapped it open.

And everything in him halted.

There she was.

Hair half-down, cheek pulled into a crooked grin. One arm bent in a casual peace sign, eyes gleaming with mischief. She was dressed in nothing but a black sports bra and low-slung lounge pants, standing in front of her mirror like she’d been caught in the middle of teasing a friend—or killing him slowly, cell by cell.

He made a sound—just a short, soft exhale that escaped before he could stop it—and stared like it was the only thing he remembered how to do.

His first thought: she’s mocking me.

Of course she was. Of course. This was retaliation. A gentle roast. A perfectly executed counter-strike in the unspoken war of who can make the other more unhinged. She’d even hit him with the grimace smile. The peace sign. The little oops, did I do that? smirk.

He groaned softly, dragging one hand down his face like he could physically scrape the blush off his skin.

His second thought: this is adorable.

Because she was. Cheek flushed, eyes bright, posture relaxed—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. Not really. It was light, playful, her.

There was no smolder.

But there was Sakura.

And that was enough to short-circuit his entire evening.

His third thought hit like a blunt object to the chest:

Thank god I’ve seen her train in sports bras.

Because if he hadn’t? If this had been the first time he’d seen that particular expanse of skin—shoulders, collarbones, the faint curve of her waist, the soft sweep of her stomach—he would’ve blacked out. Folded. Ceased to exist. There would have been a polite little pile of ash on the floor and a memo to Tsunade that said, “Tell her she won.”

But no. He’d seen this before. Dozens of times.

In training.

Sweaty. Focused. Hair pulled back. Her chakra flaring hot and alive around her as she pushed herself past her limits, always chasing better, stronger, more.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, truly shouldn’t. He wasn’t a teenager. He wasn’t new to intimacy, or emotion, or vulnerability. And yet something about this hit differently—because it wasn’t just a photo. It wasn’t just skin.

It was her.

And this wasn’t training. It wasn’t battle gear or a flak vest or even the standard off-duty uniform they all rotated through on mission breaks. This was something else entirely. It was her space, her world—low lighting, bare shoulders, that black sports bra hugging her just right, and the soft slope of her collarbone visible where the fabric dipped. No armor. No headband. No mission tension tightening her jaw.

Just Sakura.

It was late at night. It was private. Intimate in the quietest, most unassuming way. She wasn’t trying to send a message, but she had. And he had received it loud and clear.

This was a part of her life he’d never been allowed into before—never even dared to imagine entering. Not really. Not like this.

And yet, here it was.

His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath as he closed his eyes. The inhale dragged deeper than it needed to, like he was trying to center himself from the inside out. His ribs ached faintly around the edges, like his body was bracing for something invisible and fast-approaching.

This was dangerous. Not in the way ANBU operations were dangerous—there were no blades hidden here, no poisoned darts, no traps laid in the dark. No. This was a different kind of threat altogether. A softer one. The kind that rewired you, cell by cell, thought by thought. The kind that made you want.

It didn’t kill you quickly. It didn’t even cut. It just pulled you in gently, altered your orbit, and made it impossible to land where you had before.

This was what spiraling looked like.

And he knew—he knew —this was no longer a joke. Not from her. Not from him. Not even in the way they used to flirt with the idea of something unspoken.

Not anymore.

He opened his eyes and let his gaze fall back to the screen, where her image still waited. His mouth tilted, just slightly—barely a smile, not even enough to qualify as a grin. But it was real. Soft. Almost reluctant. The kind of expression that only surfaced when something inside him cracked loose and rolled free, and he didn’t bother chasing it down again.

She’d done that.

He stared at the photo for the sixth time. Maybe more. He’d lost count.

The light from the screen lit up the angles of his face in the dim room. His cheekbones caught the glow, the bridge of his nose, the slight curve of his mouth still half-lifted in disbelief. His eyes traced the details again, unwilling to look away. The tilt of her head. The angle of her hips. The way her grin was crooked and chaotic and unmistakably her .

She hadn’t posed. She hadn’t performed.

She’d existed.

And it had leveled him.

He had no idea how to respond.

Every possible reply lived in one of three categories:
A) Deeply unhinged
B) Alarmingly sincere
C) Something that would absolutely land him in emotional jail.

He was currently juggling all three.

Finally, he thumbed open the message box, hesitated, and—against all better judgment—started typing.

kakashi:
peace sign was a nice touch
really drove home the emotional violence of the moment

He stared at it. Hovered over Send.

Then—because it was already too late for dignity—tapped it.

Seconds later:

sakura:
oh good, I was aiming for lightly unhinged…. violence would’ve required flexing

kakashi:
don’t
finish
that sentence

sakura:
you started it

kakashi:
you sent a photo in a sports bra

sakura:
and you sent one with your mask off
and your sweatpants halfway to criminal

kakashi:
I didn’t pose with a cheeky little peace sign like I was about to ruin someone's week

sakura:
no, you posed like someone who accidentally started a cult

He snorted—short, sharp, almost involuntary—and let the sound trail into a breath that felt too full for his chest. Because she wasn’t wrong. He had looked like that. A little wild. Like a man teetering on the edge of obsession and trying not to show it, like the cover image for some emotionally reckless underground shinobi zine titled Masked & Unwell: Konoha’s Quietest Threat.

He leaned back against the wall behind his bed, phone resting against his thigh, thumb hovering over the screen without typing. There was something oddly comforting about this. About her tone. About the way she could call him out with absolute accuracy and zero malice. No one else had ever teased him like this—not about that . Not about the way he looked without the mask, or the way he revealed more than he meant to just by existing. But Sakura did it like it was normal. Like it was okay. Like she’d seen it all and decided to stay anyway.

And that—whatever that was—felt better than it should.

kakashi:
if I had a cult, the only rule would be “no photos”
too late for that, apparently

sakura:
well.
i’m glad you didn’t block me

kakashi:
still time

sakura:
but you won’t

kakashi:
you’re right
I won’t

There was a pause.

Longer this time.

His thumb hovered again.

He typed slowly:

kakashi:
you look good, by the way…….really good

Delete.

Re-type.

kakashi:
you look…
strong. cute. a little like you were about to bully me. it was unsettling.
in a good way

sakura:
…are you saying my photo unsettled you?

kakashi:
yes. absolutely.

sakura:
interesting

kakashi:
I’m reconsidering my entire worldview
goats may not be enough

sakura:
then get cows
I hear they’re emotionally supportive

kakashi:
I’ll need the support if you send me anything worse than that

sakura:
“worse” as in…

kakashi:
don’t
test me
I will combust

sakura:
noted.

He was about to type something else—something vaguely self-deprecating and probably regrettable, maybe a joke about catching fire mid-mission or needing emotional life support after one more teasing text—when her next message landed, and it stopped him cold.

Because the rhythm had shifted.

Their whole thread until now had been built on flirtation and banter and sidelong deflection, like two shinobi sparring with foam blades instead of kunai. The kind of exchange where every jab was softened by laughter, every hit designed to sting just enough to be fun. But now, with this message incoming—he felt the mood pivot.

He didn't know how. Not yet. But his body registered it before his brain did. His spine straightened. His pulse edged a little faster. That subtle gut-clench, like standing on a rooftop and realizing the wind had changed direction.

Something was coming. Something real.

And he wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

sakura:
you look good too, you know…I didn’t say it before
but I meant to say you looked…calm
and real
and a little nervous…it was the first time I thought
maybe you’re not just a myth

He sat back.

Phone in hand.

Something warm and quiet curled low in his stomach.

All the teasing, all the chaos—none of it had prepared him for that.

He hesitated.

Then, finally:

kakashi:
I don’t feel like a myth when I talk to you
mostly I feel like a man who’s about five seconds from losing his entire grip on subtlety

A beat.

sakura:
that’s okay…I was never planning to stay subtle either

He lowered the phone.
Stared at the screen.
Regretted everything.

And then—didn’t. Mostly.

Because somehow, in the middle of this increasingly unhinged chain of events, he’d forgotten what it felt like to flirt with someone who wanted him to flirt back. To say something reckless and not feel it rebound like a kunai to the gut. To risk exposure and be met with laughter, not judgment. The panic had been real—but so was the thrill underneath it. And that scared him more than anything.

Kakashi had put the phone down. He had. Really. For five minutes.

Or technically, four and a half. Though by the time he got to minute two, he’d already started reaching for it again—fingers twitching, mind spinning, pulse still loud from the last exchange.

And then—because apparently self-control had left the building along with his dignity—he was picking it up again, staring at Sakura’s last message like it was some kind of ancient code carved into a stone tablet.

"I was never planning to stay subtle either."

It echoed. Like a shout in a canyon. Or a whisper in the middle of a quiet room when no one else is talking. He didn’t know what he expected from her—mockery, maybe, or retreat—but not that. Not the soft confirmation that this thing, whatever it was, wasn’t just a glitch in the matrix of their friendship.

It haunted him in a way that didn’t feel entirely bad.

But it was the other line that really got him.

"It was the first time I thought maybe you’re not just a myth."

A myth?

What the hell did that mean?

He frowned at the screen, eyes scanning the words again, searching for layers. Had she meant the version of him that lived in her imagination? The one behind the mask, behind the name? Or had she meant him , entirely—like he was something unreachable until now?

The idea twisted something low in his chest. Tight. Curious.

Because if she’d thought of him that way—distant, untouchable, fictional—then what did that make this ? Her messages, her photo, the teasing warmth he still felt in the space between his ribs?

He unlocked his phone and opened their thread again. Thumb hovered. Then, before he could overthink it into oblivion:

kakashi:
also…myth???

kakashi:
like what kind of myth?
am I a tragic tale? a shapeshifter? a polite ghost with great hair?
I need clarification immediately

sakura:
I mean…
you are a little ghosty

kakashi:
ghosty HOW
I was literally at the team meeting this morning

sakura:
yes
but you were 1) twenty minutes late
2) silently brooding
and 3) somehow drinking tea that no one saw you make….very ghost behavior

kakashi:
okay
fair

kakashi:
but I’m still real
right?

sakura:
are you?

kakashi:
sakura

sakura:
okay okay
yes, you’re real
but pre-photo?
I think you were more like a concept

kakashi:
a concept

sakura:
you know
“team leader.”
“war hero.”
“guy who says weird things and then disappears in a puff of smoke”
you didn’t feel like someone who existed off the mission clock

sakura:
you know
“team leader.”
“war hero.”
I think you were more like a concept

kakashi:
so what
I was like a chuunin training video ?

sakura:
more like a local cryptid
respected
feared
and likely to vanish if approached directly

He sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, torn between laughter and despair.

kakashi:
wow
just wow
here I thought I was mysterious and cool

sakura:
oh, you were

kakashi:
…do you want me to combust?

sakura:
I’m just being honest!

kakashi:
so what changed?

sakura:
you…you got human all of a sudden

kakashi:
was it the panic texting?

sakura:
it helped…. but really it was the look on your face
like you were trying to disappear and confess your sins at the same time

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

kakashi:
it was a cursed moment
one I will never emotionally recover from

sakura:
oh you’ll recover
eventually…I’m not saying you’re not still myth-adjacent
just
less statue
more very flustered man with elite abs

Kakashi blinked.

kakashi:
I hate how casually you said that

sakura:
oh my god
that’s the first time I’ve mentioned them, isn’t it

sakura:
I was doing so well

kakashi:
tragic collapse. right at the finish line.

sakura:
whatever. you do have them
I’m allowed one moment of weakness

kakashi:
noted
and deeply stored away forever

sakura:
you’re insufferable

kakashi:
and you’re the one cataloguing my torso

He flopped back on the bed, one arm slung over his forehead like a dramatic heroine in a novel he’d definitely never read.

kakashi:
so
if I’m not a myth anymore
what am I now?

A pause.

Then:

sakura:
a problem

He snorted.

kakashi:
your problem?

sakura:
absolutely

kakashi:
and how are you planning to handle that?

She didn’t reply right away.

Then the typing bubble flickered back.

sakura:
still deciding….might need more… data

His stomach flipped. Once. Twice.

He didn’t trust himself to say anything for a full minute.

Then finally:

kakashi:
dangerous territory

sakura:
tell me you don’t want to know what I’d do

He stared at the screen.

And didn’t answer.

Because he did want to know.

He just didn’t trust what he might say if he admitted it.

Kakashi stared at the last message like it had teeth.

"Might need more… data."

He reread it.

Then again.

Data?

He was a shinobi. A strategist. He knew how to read between the lines of enemy codes and traitor reports and poisoned scrolls. And yet one four-word message from a twenty-three-year-old medic had reduced his entire cognitive system to static.

Data.

What the hell did that mean?

What kind of data?

He tried to leave it. He did. He set the phone down. Stared at the ceiling. Tried to read. Took a sip of water. Got up. Sat down. Picked up the phone again like it weighed fifty pounds.

Typed.

Paused.

Deleted.

Typed again.

kakashi:
…what does “data” entail….just so I know how fast I need to run

Her reply was infuriatingly prompt.

sakura:
you said it yourself
dangerous territory

sakura:
I’m just a humble researcher
with questions

kakashi:
oh no…not questions…I’m doomed

sakura:
not yet…but you might be

He pressed a hand to his face.

kakashi :
…like what kind of questions…hypothetical? anatomical? Ethical?....I need categories

sakura:
hmm
let’s say
physiological, psychological, and tactical

kakashi:
tactical??

sakura:
I’m just saying
I’d like to understand your weaknesses….strictly for personal field research

kakashi:
I’ve been defeated by your tea sipping
what more do you need

sakura:
field-tested vulnerability……not theoretical

He blinked slowly at the phone.

There was a war happening in his brain. One half was curled in the fetal position screaming SHE’S FLIRTING. SHE’S FLIRTING AND SHE MEANS IT. The other half was calmly calculating the fastest exit route to Wind Country.

But no part of him was putting the phone down.

kakashi:
okay
I’ll bite…..if I were a subject in your study
what’s the first test?

She was quiet longer this time. Just long enough for him to wonder if she’d finally reached her limit.

Then:

sakura:
I’d start by asking what happens when I say…..“take your mask off again”

His heart slammed once, hard.

kakashi:
immediate failure
spontaneous combustion
possibly crying

sakura:
noted
test #1: repeatable result confirmed…..test #2 will involve
observation of physical response
to verbal cues
under mild pressure

kakashi:
define “mild pressure”

sakura:
like if I said “come here and sit down”.....but I was already sitting on your bed

He let his head fall back onto the pillow and covered his eyes with one hand.

He was not okay.

He might never be again.

kakashi:
you’re not subtle

sakura:
I told you I gave up subtlety

kakashi:
I’m starting to think you were never trying

sakura:
maybe not…maybe I just wanted to know what you’d do

kakashi:
I’d sit
very carefully
and probably forget how to breathe

sakura:
fascinating….I’ll put that in the report

kakashi:
should I be scared of test #3?

sakura:
probably

Sakura stared at her phone.

Then at the ceiling.

Then at the ruler in her desk drawer.

“Don’t do it,” she said aloud to no one. “Be normal. Be sane. You are a highly respected medical professional with a spotless mission record and zero history of sexual harassment via stationary.”

She held the ruler up.

It was wooden. Twelve inches. Completely innocent.

She was not.

Her heart was pounding. Her brain was screaming. Her self-control had long since fled the scene.

For science, she thought. It’s for science.

She snapped the photo.

A single ruler. Lying flat on her desk. Framed with almost embarrassing precision.

Caption:

sakura:
for… sizing reference
strictly academic
ignore me
pretend I didn’t send this

She sent it.

And immediately realized she was going to die.

There was no walking this back. No normal interpretation. She could say it was for research, but she already knew how he was going to read it. There was no universe in which he opened that and thought, Ah yes. Medic research. Obviously.

Still—

She tried.

Oh, she tried.

sakura:
like
not that kind of research
obviously
I meant like
proportions
muscle ratios
chakra distribution probably

sakura:
i’ve gone too far
i can feel my license evaporating

She groaned and face-planted onto her desk, forehead thunking against the wood with a dull thud . What was wrong with her? Who just sent a ruler like that? Who framed it so precisely?? Who captioned it “strictly academic” and expected to be taken seriously?

She was going to spontaneously combust. Right there. At her desk.

And she deserved it .

Kakashi was lying on his side, phone resting on the pillow, still staring into the abyss of their last messages, trying very hard to unspool the rising tension in his chest by sheer force of will.

The buzz came.

One new photo.

He opened it.

And saw—

A ruler.

A literal, wooden ruler. Centered in the frame. With lighting. And context.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then his entire consciousness flatlined.

There was no rational thought. No witty comeback. No “play it cool” reflex.

Just:

She is not asking what I think she’s asking.
She can’t be.
She wouldn’t.
She—
No.
No.
Nope.

Because he’d seen ruler photos Those ruler photos. The kind that circulated via whispers in ANBU locker rooms. The kind of ruler photo that wasn’t about centimeters. The kind that implied things.

His entire chakra network misfired.

He stared at the phone like it had just tried to seduce him.

kakashi:
…what exactly are we measuring

No reply.

One minute.

Two.

Then—

sakura:
surface area
obviously
like
combat wounds
or something

He made a noise. Not a real word. Just a soft, ragged exhale with notes of horror and hysteria.

kakashi:
you sure?

sakura:
totally
definitely
it’s a medical thing
very professional

kakashi:
I am in a fugue state

sakura:
good

sakura:
I mean—
oh no

He put the phone down.

And then rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with both hands.

She wasn’t asking. She wasn’t. That would be absurd. That would be unhinged.

…Wouldn’t it?

He blue-screened for a full five minutes. Not moving.

Still flat on his back. Still staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers. Still physically unable to process that Sakura Haruno—medical prodigy, chakra powerhouse, apple of Tsunade’s eye—had just sent him a ruler.

With context.

With intent.

And then followed it up with the least convincing backpedal in shinobi history.

"Surface area."
"Combat wounds."
"Very professional."

It was, in a word, not.

He sat up slowly, like a man recovering from whiplash.

This could go two ways.

Option A: This was a joke. A weird one. A momentary lapse in judgment, brought on by late-night texting and unresolved tension and too many emotionally charged conversations in one week. In which case, he needed to laugh it off and move on and never speak of it again.

Option B: She meant it.

And if she meant it —if she was asking —then he needed to know.

Because if she wanted answers, if she wanted to escalate this unhinged little experiment of theirs, then Kakashi needed to be absolutely sure he wasn’t just responding to a misfire.

He needed clarity.

He picked up his phone, typed slowly:

kakashi:
serious question

kakashi:
are you actually
actually
asking what I think you’re asking….or was this a truly elite lapse in professional judgment

sakura:
define what you think I’m asking

Oh no.

Oh no.

That was not a denial.

That was a trap.

kakashi:
I’m not falling for that
this is how people get sued

sakura:
you’re being very dramatic

kakashi:
you sent a ruler photo, Sakura

sakura :
for sizing reference!!.....i told you
for wounds. bandages. field kit calibration. etc.

kakashi:
okay
follow-up question……in this fictional scenario
what exactly is being bandaged

sakura:
…

sakura:
I hate you

kakashi:
that’s fair

Another long pause.

Then—

sakura:
okay
fine
I might have been asking…..theoretically
lightly
not in a creepy way
just
in a “scientific curiosity got away from me” kind of way

sakura :
and I’ve regretted it every second since

kakashi:
so you do want to know

sakura:
shut up

kakashi:
I’m just clarifying for the report….it’s important.....to define the scope of the inquiry

sakura :
I will end this entire experiment right now

kakashi:
no
don’t do that
the data’s been interesting so far

Another pause.

sakura:
you’re enjoying this

kakashi:
against my will
and with great personal cost

He flopped back onto the bed again, phone resting on his chest, one hand dragging down his face.

She wanted to know.

She actually wanted to know.

Which meant he had two choices:

1. Be an adult, and end this conversation before it exploded.
   
   
2. Be… himself, and see just how deep this rabbit hole went.

He hadn’t decided yet.

But his heart was already answering for him.

Kakashi stared at the phone resting on his chest.

His heart was doing something it hadn’t done in years—thudding like he was about to jump off a cliff. Only this time, there was no mission waiting below. No blades, no enemy, no battlefield.

Just Sakura.

Texting him about rulers.

Asking questions she shouldn’t be asking.
That he shouldn’t be answering.
And yet—

Here they were.

There was a fork in the road. One path led to caution, self-preservation, and pretending this was all a fluke. The other?

The other was Option 2.

And god help him—

kakashi:
okay
let’s test a theory

sakura:
I’m listening
with concern
and mild regret

kakashi:
if I were to hypothetically answer
your accidental sizing question….would you prefer centimeters or inches

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

sakura:
kakashi

sakura:
are you serious

kakashi:
only in the interest of advancing scientific knowledge
and because I’ve clearly lost my mind

sakura:
inches
obviously
I’m too tired to do conversions

kakashi:
understood
now
are we talking pre- or post-battle chakra depletion

sakura:
I’m going to scream

kakashi:
I’m just saying
stress affects blood flow
need to factor that in for accuracy

sakura:
you’re actually running the numbers
I can’t believe this is happening

kakashi:
you started it

sakura:
so

kakashi:
careful
we’re in a peer-reviewed space now

sakura:
peer-reviewed?!
what kind of paper is this??

kakashi:
title pending
but early drafts suggest
“Stress, Stimuli, and Shinobi: A Case Study in Professional Collapse”

sakura:
authors: Hatake, Haruno
ethics approval: absolutely not

kakashi:
funding provided by late-night brain rot and bad decisions

sakura:
conclusions: I am going to kill you

kakashi:
results inconclusive
further testing required

She didn’t respond for a full minute.

Then—

sakura:
you didn’t actually answer, though

kakashi:
didn’t I?

sakura:
you deflected
you joked
and you very intentionally avoided specifics

He stared at the screen.

Smirked.

kakashi:
you want specifics?

sakura:
I’m a scientist
I always want specifics

kakashi:
alright then
since we’re already on this cursed train—

He hesitated. For a long time. Ten minutes. Going back and forth.

Then:

kakashi:
seven and a half……give or take
depending on temperature, terrain, mission proximity
at least last time i measured
which was a very long time ago

sakura:
I just blacked out

sakura:
I am genuinely lightheaded

sakura:
you can’t just say things like that

kakashi:
you asked
very academically, I might add

sakura:
that was a ruler joke
Also, “in a very long time”...kakashi, unless you had a traumatic injury or you are secretly 85, they don’t shrink

kakashi:
that’s that they’ll say at my funeral
and you don’t know that….maybe mine has been responding to prolonged stress and trauma 

He was smiling now.

Wide. Real.

Because she wasn’t backing down.

And neither was he.

And maybe, just maybe—

This wasn’t a mistake.

The phone buzzed again.

Kakashi, still half-sitting in bed like a man bracing for impact, glanced down at the screen with the wary exhaustion of someone who knew—deep in his soul—that whatever was waiting there was going to be a lot .

And it was.

sakura:
having this information is a problem…
it has invited a bunch of problems with it  
one of those problems is visualization  
and now I have a very minor urge for proof
for science

Kakashi stared.

Then slowly set the phone on the mattress beside him, covered his face with both hands, and made a low, broken sound that might’ve been laughter or a strangled prayer.

Proof.

For science.

He dragged his palms down his face and squinted at the ceiling like maybe the gods were watching and might offer him guidance.

No one responded.

Of course not.

They were probably watching this unfold like it was a live drama with popcorn.

He picked the phone back up.

And typed, carefully:

kakashi:
are you
actually
asking what I think you’re asking again…..because we just had this conversation
and last time I thought you were joking
and then you weren’t

Her reply came fast.

sakura:
I’m not not asking
I’m just saying that my scientific brain is struggling
with visualization
and curiosity
and the desire for, you know peer-verified, evidence-based confirmation

He made another noise.

Something like a wheeze.

Because this was beyond flirting. Beyond teasing. This was Sakura Haruno—medic, genius, war hero—sending ruler photos and asking for visual proof.

He had no protocol for this.

He had no mission scroll labeled “Responding To Crushes With Extremely Well-Defined Arms Who Are Casually Requesting Dick Pics With Medical Precision.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Thought about standing up. Walking it off. Putting the phone away.

Instead, he typed:

kakashi:
I just want to be extremely clear
if I did provide “scientific confirmation”
Hypothetically……that would be received…
how, exactly?

sakura:
responsibly
with awe
and some light trembling

kakashi:
and you wouldn’t
for example
scream
block me
report me to Tsunade
or laugh until I had to relocate

sakura:
not unless you include a funny caption……in which case I will laugh
but also probably stare for a concerning amount of time
or it is wildly deformed….shaped like an L or something…

Kakashi let his head fall back against the headboard, the motion soft but decisive, like he was surrendering to something he couldn’t out-think anymore. The phone sat in the dip of his stomach, screen dark now, though the last message still burned in his thoughts.

He was on a cliff.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. Or at least that’s how it felt—like the bed beneath him was the last bit of solid ground before a drop that didn’t end. And he was standing right at the edge, arms slack at his sides, heart thudding like it already knew what was coming.

Fully aware of the height.

He knew exactly what this was. Knew what it meant, what it could mean, and how little room there was for missteps now. They weren’t toeing a line anymore—they were on the edge of something wild and irreversible.

Fully aware of the fall.

Because if he let go of the last thread of caution still coiled around his ribs—if he said what he really wanted to say, admitted how this had unraveled him—it would be the point of no return. No mask. No distance. No pretending the timing was inconvenient or the feelings weren’t mutual.

And still—
Still—

He’d never wanted to jump more in his life.

Because it wasn’t just the photo. It wasn’t just the flirting or the tension or the way she looked at him like he wasn’t a puzzle to solve, but someone worth knowing.

It was her. Every part of her.

Even the part that made fun of his dick.

…………………………

And, for the record, it was not shaped like an L.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Sanity Is a Moving Target
March 7th, 10:03 PM, Thursday

Kakashi had his phone in one hand and his entire mental stability in the other, and he was rapidly losing his grip on both.

He was still clothed. Still not in the process of taking any pictures. Still theoretically on the non-unhinged side of the line.

But he was thinking about it. And that alone was uncharted territory.

This was madness. Deep madness. The kind that crept in during S-rank missions at hour forty with no sleep and too much chakra burn. The kind where logic went to die and bad decisions came to live.

Because Kakashi did not do this. He did not flirt. He did not send scandalous photos. And he definitely did not get semi-hard at the idea of his teammate scientifically evaluating his dick.

And yet.

Here he was.

Staring at a message thread where Sakura—medical kunoichi, top of her class, terrifying in hand-to-hand combat—had very calmly requested visual confirmation of his “ruler claims.”

For science.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed clarity. A failsafe. One final check before he even considered going further down this cliff of insanity.

kakashi:
okay
I need you to say it…. clearly…. no metaphors
no “academic curiosity” loopholes
no ruler euphemisms

kakashi:
are you
actually
asking me to take that kind of photo
and send it to you

He hit send.

Then set the phone down and stood up, walking a slow, agitated circle around his room like he was prepping to defuse a bomb.

Because what the hell was he even doing?

Entertaining the idea? 

Of sending that kind of picture?

To Sakura?

That was past the line.

That was the line’s house burning down while the line moved to another country under a fake name. He wasn’t that guy. He didn’t do that. He was thirty-four. He had control. Boundaries. A reputation.

…Didn’t he?

Because he was entertaining it…all the way down the hole of doom his brain had cheerfully thrown him into where her amazed in-awe expression lived and her response of “wow, immediately come and rail me into the kitchen counter”...it made his footsteps get forceful. He briefly wondered what his neighbors must think. That he was having some kind of fit? 

Well…that was accurate actually. His hand jerked like it wanted to take it upon itself to yank his sweatpants down and grab his dick like it was a microphone, point it straight at the camera like he was showing off the centerpiece at an auction…well, maybe not, maybe an angle would be better, capture the light a little, show off the- nothing. Show off nothing. Something was wrong with him. Deeply.

He stopped pacing when the phone buzzed.

One message.

sakura:
yes…I’m asking

Kakashi stared at the screen.

Then sat down.

Then stared some more.

She was serious.

She was actually serious.

And he was officially living in a different reality than the one he woke up in that morning.

Sakura had survived war, plague, chakra depletion, and watching Naruto eat expired fish jerky on a mission once without flinching.

But apparently, typing one tiny word—

yes

—had just destroyed her entire nervous system.

She threw the phone across the bed like it was cursed and immediately launched herself face-first into her pillow.

She screamed.

Then kicked her legs in the air like a teenager in a bad rom-com. Then screamed again.

“Oh my god, ” she hissed into the pillowcase. “I’m insane. I’ve actually lost it. There are no thoughts. Only chaos and dicks.”

What had she done?

What had she DONE?

She had been flirting, yes. But flirting was one thing. Teasing was one thing. The ruler was a bad idea, obviously, but it was a funny bad idea. The kind of thing you could play off later as “haha wow remember when I joked about visual data for science haha anyway let’s never talk again.”

But this ?

This was a confession. A demand. A request for nudes.

From Kakashi.

Kakashi. Team leader. Unflappable, unreadable, secretive Kakashi. Whose entire personality had been crafted from shadows, sarcasm, and abstinence.

And she just—she just asked. And he saw it. And now he knew.

There was no pulling it back. No framing it as a joke. No covering it up with professional-sounding language or faux curiosity.

She had sent it.

Fully sober. Fully serious. With exactly zero filter.

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling with wide eyes, hair fanned out, heart pounding.

“What if he sends one?” she whispered. Was she even prepared for that reality? She couldn’t even track how they had arrived at this point, skipping over perhaps a dinner, or any kind of sane interaction that wasn’t living in digital nudity…which, until very recently in her cursed timeline, she did not think Kakashi would ever entertain. But now she was getting a very rude awakening that he was, in fact, a man. Who was apparently attracted to her or something, or at least willing to indulge in the same insanity that was unraveling her own nervous system.

And then covered her face with both hands and made an incoherent strangled noise.

Because she wanted him to. That was the worst part.

She wanted to see. Wanted to know . Wanted to be the one person he let break the rules with. She wanted—

“Oh my god, ” she whispered again, absolutely horrified at herself. “I’m out of control.”

She sat up. Tried to pace.

Failed. Sat back down. Got up again.

This was fine.

This was fine.

He probably wouldn’t send anything. Probably. Hopefully. Definitely?

Right?

Or maybe he would. Maybe he was already—

She made a high-pitched internal sound and immediately flopped backward onto the bed, blanket thrown over her face, consumed by the realization that her hormones had unionized and staged a coup against her common sense.

What if he actually sends one?

She didn’t know if she’d survive it.

She also didn’t know if she would survive it if he didn’t. She might actually march straight to his apartment and demand that...no, she would ask very politely, while offering him tea, that maybe if he could find it within the kindness of his heart to lower his sweatpants and show her…her brain was still trying to reconcile the idea of him having one. She knew he had one , but him having a male body as an abstract concept derived entirely from just...being a man…it was entirely different to him having one in the context of her possibly seeing it. It felt like getting to see a rare creature in the wild that you had to feed treats to to coax it out. 

This was Kakashi , her brain said, circling back to the utter absurdity of this fact. Two weeks ago he had accidentally stepped on her heel and acted like had shoved a paper bomb in her vest. He blushed if you looked at him for longer than three seconds. He hid three quarters of his face…or at least he did until the cursed mirror selfie that started this whole descent into mutual madness…and he absolutely had not existed in a current sexual reality. A distant fantasy maybe, one where she could perhaps construct some kind of alternate version of him that nibbled on her earlobe and whispered things in her ear that made her spine arch…but now she was rapidly learning that Kakashi had facets . 

One of those facets was ‘how Kakashi is when he decides he wants someone’, and it felt like someone had pointed a laser directly into the desire center of her brain, she could feel his focus and want without him even in the room. Or in the building. Or even the same village sector. 

The facet that had her quivering in anticipation of what was going to come through in his next message. Of ear nibbling and dirty whispering becoming her new reality. 

Kakashi was losing his mind.

He was sure of it now—completely and thoroughly. The spiral had tipped past “mildly inappropriate messaging” and was now skidding sideways into historically bad decision-making.

Because she had said yes.

Clear. Unflinching. No metaphors. No jokes. Just a single word that detonated his willpower like a paper bomb.

And now?

Now he was sitting in bed, pants still on, phone still in his hand, thinking about how to send her something without unraveling the very fabric of reality.

He wasn’t going to send a full nude. Obviously. He was not that unhinged. Not yet. He was Kakashi fucking Hatake. He had limits. Standards.

…Mostly.

But there had to be a compromise, right?

A middle ground.

Something suggestive. Bold. Charged. But not… completely explicit.

Something that would—

His brain, unhelpfully vivid, offered an image of Sakura biting her lip, tilting her head, that infuriating ruler balanced between her fingers.

His cock twitched. No hesitation. No conscience.

He glanced down.

Right. Okay.

kakashi:
give me a minute or two

Casual. Like he was making tea. Not about to do what he was very much about to do.

He set the phone aside, leaned back into his pillows, and slipped a hand under the waistband of his sweats. Just to finish what his brain had already started.

He wasn’t fast about it. He didn’t rush. Just slow, deliberate strokes over himself, thumb brushing the head, breath catching more than once as his body settled into it— responded to it. Not just from touch, but from the thought of it.

Of her. Of this. Of Sakura asking. 

By the time he was fully hard, his heart was pounding in his chest and there was a distinct buzzing in his ears that sounded like, What the fuck are you doing? and also, Don’t you dare stop now.

He grabbed his phone again.

Pulled the waistband of his sweats just tight enough to show the curve, the line, the shape of it—all of it outlined and thick, straining against soft fabric. No skin. Nothing exposed. But no questions left, either.

The photo was dark. Suggestive. Clear. Obscene only in implication. It looked good. Too good.

He stared at it. Stared at himself.

And hit send.

kakashi:
I’m not unhinged enough yet to send a… that
so you get this

He dropped the phone to the mattress beside him.

Then covered his eyes with the back of his arm and exhaled, long and slow and wrecked.

He had actually done it.

No going back now.

Nothing to do but watch the guilt and lust and confusion and madness all fight in a big arena while something that felt suspiciously deeper than lust sat on the sidelines munching on popcorn and pointing at him with a flair of “ just go kiss her you moron” and then his polite consciousness was poking that on the shoulder with its last shred of doomed energy, weakly explaining that no, this is Sakura, you cannot lust after Sakura, and god forbid you decide you l-

Nope. No. That word was too big. Too many syllables. It was only one. One was too many. 

Fuck. 

He was supposed to be a composed man. He was supposed to be four steps ahead of everything.

Turns out he was, except when it came to his own stupid feelings.

Sakura hadn’t even moved from her bed.

She was still lying there, half-wrapped in a blanket, still mentally screaming into the void, still fully convinced that her entire bloodline was going to feel the shame of that last message.

Because she’d said yes.

Not figuratively. Not suggestively. Not with even the tiniest drop of plausible deniability.

Just yes.

And now, every second that ticked by without a reply from Kakashi was a second spent fully unraveling her own soul. She was about to convince herself that he had fallen asleep or gone outside to scream into the forest when her phone buzzed.

A message.

From him.

She did a breathing exercise. Didn’t work. She counted to ten. Didn’t work. She bullied herself into being halfway convinced that whatever she was about to see wasn’t even that great, just a picture, nothing but a photo…disappointing, probably. 

She inhaled slowly. Steadied herself.

Then read:

kakashi:
give me a minute or two

She stopped breathing.

Her stomach dropped.

Her toes curled involuntarily.

He hadn’t said no.

He hadn’t made a joke. He hadn’t ghosted. He hadn’t filed a report with the council.

He’d said give me a minute or two like he was just casually finishing up a chore.

Or getting hard for her.

Her entire nervous system lit up like a busted circuit board.

She rolled to her side, stared at the phone, heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. Counted the seconds. Restarted when she hit a minute. Could feel the nervous excited sweat pooling on the back of her neck. 

And then—

The message came first:

kakashi:
I’m not unhinged enough yet to send a… that
so you get this

She slapped her face with both hands and let out a muffled shriek into her pillow.

Her brain stuttered through an experience that felt suspiciously like fainting preparation. 

She wheezed. Laughed.Then nearly cried.

Because how dare he be this calm about it. This beautifully obscene and calm. This was not a normal man. This was an emotional assassin.

Then the image appeared.

A photo.

The photo.

She tapped it open.

And flatlined. Choked. Breath tried to claw its way out of her mouth but gave up and let her quietly suffocate. Her spirit was launched straight into orbit. Her ancestors felt the disturbance.

Because there it was. His bulge. Obscenely obvious, thick, and straining against the dark fabric of his sweats. No skin, no full frontal, no gratuitous lighting trickery. But there was nothing left to the imagination, either. It was full-on, intentional, brazen implication.

And she—

She blacked out for half a second.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, hand slapped over her mouth, as if it could muffle the heat radiating from her entire body .

Her brain did not send helpful messages. It sent noise. Static. Sizzling mental images layered on top of the photo, imagining what was beneath the fabric, what it would feel like, how heavy he must be, how hard —

Her fingers were shaking as she tried to type.

sakura:
kakashi.

sakura:
what the fuck

sakura:
I am not okay

sakura:
I need a moment
to process
to recover
to scream into a hole

Another message, because one was not enough:

sakura:
how dare you
you absolute menace
you said you weren’t that unhinged and then sent me a fucking thesis on girth through cotton

She stared at the photo again with wide manic eyes and a stupid goofy inappropriate smile on her face.

Then curled into a fetal position.

And giggled like a gremlin on fire.

Kakashi was still hard.

Painfully. Righteously. Stupidly hard.

And now he was just sitting there, fully clothed from the waist up, dick tenting his sweatpants, bathed in the soft blue light of his phone screen like some ancient monk contemplating the collapse of his personal ethics.

He had sent it. He had actually sent it.

Not the full thing—no. He still had some shred of restraint left. But the fact remained that he had framed, adjusted, stroked himself hard, and sent his teammate a perfectly lit photo of his fully erect cock, outlined in fabric, with the tone of someone giving a casual weather update.

And now he was staring at her responses.

sakura:
kakashi.
what the fuck
I am not okay
I need a moment
to process
to recover
to scream into a hole

sakura:
how dare you
you absolute menace
you said you weren’t that unhinged and then sent me a fucking thesis on girth through cotton

He read them.

Then sat there.

Wondering who the fuck he was anymore.

A thesis on girth through cotton? What kind of life was he leading? He used to be respected. Feared. He used to wear masks and silence like armor. He had been a war hero. A prodigy. A shadow among shadows. And now?

Now he was sitting in bed at nearly midnight with a full erection, basking in praise for his outline.

He blinked at the wall for a long, silent moment. Then down at his lap. Still very, very hard.

And sighed.

Then typed:

kakashi:
see, now i have to take care of it
so that’s annoying

He hit send.

And immediately stared at the message like it had crawled out of his phone and slapped him across the face.

Because that?

That was unhinged. That wasn’t just naughty. That wasn’t just flirting. That was full-blown, pants-still-on, erection-still-happening mutual descent into madness. And he had started it.

Worse: he didn’t even regret it.

The moment his next message came in, Sakura knew she was done for.

kakashi:
see, now i have to take care of it
so that’s annoying

Her entire spine dissolved into particles.

She actually dropped the phone onto her stomach and slapped both hands over her face, eyes wide, brain screaming. “Take care of it? ” she whispered. “ Take care of it?! He’s jerking off and calling it an inconvenience like it’s laundry— what is my life. ”

She rolled onto her side, curled tight, and screamed into her pillow like she was being murdered by her own attraction.

Because he wasn’t even trying to be seductive.

He was just stating facts. Calmly. Casually. Like his cock being hard—and now actively needing attention—was a minor obstacle in his evening routine.

She absolutely could not handle that.

And now all she could picture was him—flat on his bed, one hand wrapped around himself, eyes half-lidded and heavy, that lazy little frown he got when he was thinking too hard, his chest rising slow, his hips twitching as he stroked himself in that calm, quiet way she just knew he’d have—

“ Nope nope nope ,” she hissed, practically vibrating with the effort of not combusting.

She was sweating. She was intrigued. She was spiraling at terminal velocity. And the worst part?

She wanted to ask.

She needed to know.

Not just what he looked like. But how he did it. How he touched himself. What sounds he made. What kind of moan, if he even moaned. Was he vocal? Silent? Did he groan when he came? Did he whisper her name?

“Okay,” she said aloud, “if I don’t tease him, I’ll implode.”

She picked up the phone, thumbs already moving.

sakura:
annoying?
is that the word we’re going with here…not, say, urgent or frustrating or viscerally necessary ?

Then, before she could lose her nerve:

sakura:
you touch yourself like it’s a chore, huh?
that’s so very on brand

sakura:
do you sigh the whole time
or is it more like
disappointed grunting

She snorted to herself. Nervous. Breathless.

Then paused.

Chewed her bottom lip.

And, god help her, added—

sakura:
…do you ever say anything?
like
out loud?

sakura:
do you ever moan
or curse
or say a name

She stared at that last one.

She could delete it.

She should delete it.

Instead, she hit send and immediately threw herself off the side of the bed to go lie on the floor like a woman who had made powerful and irreversible choices.

The moment he hit send on “so that’s annoying,” Kakashi exhaled like a man bracing for impact.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

Silence, maybe.

Or a string of shocked emojis.

Possibly an all-caps “KAKASHI WHAT.”

What he did not expect was for her to come back swinging.

sakura:
annoying?
is that the word we’re going with here….not, say, urgent or frustrating or viscerally necessary?

He blinked.

Then choked.

Then—without meaning to— laughed.

Not a snort. Not a wheeze. A full-body, stunned laugh like someone had flipped his emotional table and dumped cold water over his head.

It was so her. Challenging him. Mocking him. Using words like viscerally necessary while he was actively hard and vaguely losing his mind about it.

And then—

Then it got worse.

sakura:
you touch yourself like it’s a chore, huh?
that’s so very on brand…..do you sigh the whole time
or is it more like
disappointed grunting

He made a sound. Not a moan. Not a gasp. More like a short, sharp what the fuck.

Because she was teasing him. Openly. Mercilessly. And he loved it. He was somehow getting harder, because now he was imagining himself from her perspective. The sighing. The possible grunting. He hadn’t thought about it before. He just… did it.

Routine.

Efficient.

Quiet.

But now? Now he was wondering if maybe he was the sighing type. Maybe he did groan. Maybe he should start recording himself just to check.

And then her last two messages dropped.

sakura:
…do you ever say anything?
like
out loud?

sakura:
do you ever moan
or curse
or say a name

He stopped breathing.

A name.

Her name? That’s what she meant. She was asking if he said her name. And he— He was going to combust. Right there. Fully clothed. Completely erect. Phone in hand. Absolutely rethinking everything he had ever done with his hands alone in the dark.

He swallowed. Hard.

Then typed, very slowly.

kakashi:
you ask dangerous questions
for someone who clearly wants dangerous answers

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting next.

Maybe a pause.

Maybe a softening of tone. A step back. A “haha okay anyway goodnight” to give them both a graceful exit ramp off this spiraling hell ride of tension and shameless digital thirst.

But no.

Of course not.

Because this was Sakura. And Sakura didn’t do graceful exits.

She sent emotional torture:

sakura:
can you send me a selfie of your face after

He stared at it.

Unblinking. Mouth slightly open. Absolutely blue-screened. Because— what?

What the fuck?

What kind of psychosexual boss battle was he in? She had bypassed flirty, vaulted over teasing, and landed squarely in feral.

She wanted his face.

His face.

After.

As in: flushed, heavy-lidded, breathless, post-orgasm—his face.

He dropped the phone onto the bed like it had stung him. Stared at the ceiling. Then ran both hands down his face, over his jaw, into his hair, and just sat there, completely emotionally fried.

“What the fuck is happening,” he muttered aloud.

She wanted a post-orgasm selfie.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was an extra data point in a mildly horny research paper.

And the thing was? He thought about it. He pictured it.

He pictured finishing— because of her, thinking of her, jerking off to the memory of her voice in text form—and then picking up his phone, opening the front-facing camera, and actually doing it.

He could see it. Messy hair. Lips parted. Sweat at his temples. That glazed-over haze he never let anyone see. Unmasked. Unmade. And she’d see it.

She’d see him.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and exhaled so hard his shoulders shook.

She was going to kill him. She was going to absolutely fucking end him. And the worst part?

He didn’t hate the idea. Not even a little.

He made peace that his life would either be ruined after today or inviting the beginning of something chaotic and so bright it made him want to squint despite every window in his apartment being securely closed. 

Her phone buzzed again.

She was still lying on the floor. Staring at the ceiling. Brain humming like a swarm of bees in a microwave. Nervous system shot. Skin flushed.

And then she saw it.

kakashi:
give me five-ish minutes

She stopped breathing.

Her stomach dropped clean through the floor. Every single muscle in her body tensed at once.

He agreed.

He was actually going to do it. Not just jerk off. Not just think of her while doing it. Not just say it. He was going to take a photo after. Of his face. And send it to her.

Sakura made a sound that could only be described as a small, horrified wheeze. Because now?

Now she was imagining it again. 

Her mind filled in the blanks faster than she could stop it—his hand wrapped around himself, that perfect jaw tight, mouth slack with pleasure. Eyes dark and heavy. Hair mussed from how he always ran his fingers through it when he was trying not to lose control. That quiet, subtle intensity that lived in his every movement now focused inward, turned into heat and tension and slow, deliberate pressure.

She pictured his hips moving. His breath catching. The tiny sounds he might make. The low groan when he finished.

And then—

Him reaching for his phone. Still flushed. And looking directly at the camera.

For her.

She let out a full-body shiver and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her divine intervention.

It did not.

“Five minutes,” she whispered. “Okay. Okay. I can survive five minutes. That’s fine. That’s manageable. That’s—oh my god he’s doing it right now.”

She shot up.

Paced.

Sat down again.

Her thighs clenched of their own volition, heat simmering low and slow in her belly. All she could think was: he’s doing it right now. Because of me. And I’m going to see his face after he comes. Her pulse spiked again. Five minutes? Impossible.

It was already killing her.

Five minutes.

He told her five-ish minutes.

Which meant he had about four and a half left to lose what remained of his composure, stroke himself to orgasm, and take a picture of his face —his face —like it was just part of a mission checklist.

He exhaled. Sharp. Controlled.

Then leaned back into the pillows and slid his hand beneath the waistband of his sweats again.

No hesitation this time.

His cock was already hard—still painfully, achingly hard from before—but this time, the pressure was laced with something new. Anticipation. Awareness. The knowledge that Sakura was waiting. That she was thinking about this. That somewhere, maybe lying on the floor or clutching her pillow in agony, she was picturing him doing exactly what he was about to do.

That image hit him like a jolt straight to his spine.

He wrapped his fingers around himself and gave a slow, deliberate stroke, base to tip. His hips twitched. His lips parted.

Another stroke—longer this time. His hand dragged up his length, slow and tight, thumb circling the head on the way up.

Fuck.

His eyes slipped closed.

Every part of him felt wired, alive. Skin hot, chest rising with each breath, a low burn twisting deeper in his stomach with every pass of his hand. He pumped again, then again, rhythm steady, deliberate. Controlled, but barely. His wrist flexed with each movement, the glide of his palm firm but not rushed.

He wanted to savor it. Stretch it.

And still—

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her.

What her mouth would look like parted in disbelief when she saw the photo. How flushed she’d be. What she’d do with her hands while staring at it. Whether she’d save it.

The thought made him groan—low and rough and real —the sound catching in his throat like something he hadn't meant to let out. His hips lifted slightly into his own grip. His free hand braced at his side, clutching the sheets. He stroked harder now. Faster. Not by much—but enough. Each pass slicker, tighter. His jaw clenched. His chest stuttered with breath.

She was going to see his face after.

She asked for it.

Her voice in his head: Do you ever moan? Curse? Say a name?

He bit back another groan, hand tightening reflexively around the base of his cock.

Yes, he thought. Yes, Sakura. I say your name.

He was close. Too close. His body tensed, his thighs shifting, abs tightening beneath the rising, spiraling wave of pressure cresting in his gut. He stroked faster now, fist sliding up and over the head with a flick of his thumb, the rhythm just right, the edge right fucking there—

And with a sharp, silent gasp—

He came.

His whole body arched, pleasure ripping through him like a shot. It hit hard and deep, his hand slowing instinctively as he rode it out, breaths ragged, mouth parted, lashes low and unseeing.

His mind blanked out for a beat.

Just the thrum of aftershocks.

Just heat.

Just her.

He lay there, arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls. The sweat at his brow cooled too fast. The guilt didn’t come.

Only—

Now you have to take the photo.

He swore softly under his breath.

Then dragged his clean hand over his face, reached for his phone with the other, and opened the front-facing camera.

His hair was a mess. His cheeks flushed. His eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips parted just enough to betray the high he hadn’t fully landed from. And he did not look even remotely like the approved version of himself he had presented to her every day before this one.

He hovered for one second.

Then hit the shutter.

And sent it.

Sakura was pacing again.

Or trying to. It was hard to call it pacing when she could barely move in a straight line. Her legs were jelly, her brain was soup, and the only thought ricocheting around inside her skull was:

He’s doing it.

He was doing it. Right now. Because of her. For her. Stroking himself in bed, getting off with her name in his mouth, probably flushed and quiet and so close and—

Her phone buzzed.

She stared at it like it might bite her.

One message. No text. Just an image. She sat down so fast she nearly missed the bed. Her fingers were shaking when she opened it.

And then—

Oh.

Oh.

She forgot how to breathe.

Because there he was.

Kakashi.

Maskless. Damp silver hair pushed back. Mouth parted. Cheeks tinged with heat. That devastating, smoldering look in his eyes like he’d just barely come back to earth. It wasn’t just arousal. It wasn’t even about sex anymore. He looked intimate. Raw. Real. Like she was seeing something no one else had ever been allowed to witness—something fragile and stupidly gorgeous, like watching a solar eclipse through bare glass.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

Her entire body flooded with heat. There was no smirk. No flirty caption. No smugness. Just proof. That he had done it. That she had caused it. That she had driven him — Kakashi —to that edge. And he had let her see what was on the other side. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to slow her breathing.

It didn’t work.

Every part of her buzzed.

Because she hadn’t just gotten a picture. She’d gotten evidence. Of his desire. His loss of control. His trust.

And now?

Now she was just sitting on her bed, staring at his flushed, ruined face, desperately trying not to whimper.

Kakashi hadn’t moved. He was still slouched back into the pillows, phone resting on his bare stomach, sweat drying on his chest, heart rate only barely returning to something sustainable. He had done it. He had taken the photo. Sent it.

His face, post-orgasm.

To Sakura.

And now he was floating in a strange limbo, somewhere between mortified and feral, staring at the ceiling like it might offer spiritual counsel.

His phone buzzed.

He looked down, a slow chill of anticipation crawling over him.

sakura:
I don’t know what I expected
but it wasn’t that….. you look like you forgot your own name
like you just went somewhere and haven’t landed yet……you look beautiful
and completely undone….it’s hitting me way too hard….because I did that to you
and now all I can think about is doing it again
but with my hands instead

His breath caught.

Actually caught , mid-inhale. Locked in his throat.

He reread it.

Three times.

Because the first time, he didn’t believe it. The second time, he thought he might have hallucinated. The third time, it hit him like a pressure point strike straight to the ribs.

I did that to you.
All I can think about is doing it again.
With my hands instead.

He stared at the words. Stared through them.

And then tipped his head back with a quiet, disbelieving groan.

She was destroying him. With words. Not touch. Not even a voice. Just text on a screen, and he was practically writhing beneath it. His hands twitched at his sides. Still bare from earlier. Still remembering what they’d done. And now she was talking about her hands— hers —on him instead.

He swallowed hard. Useless.

Because there was no part of his body she hadn’t just set on fire again.

He pulled the phone closer. Typed one-handed.

kakashi:
i’m not surviving that visual…..you touching me like that
with your hands
knowing what they can do
knowing you’d be the one in control…..I wouldn’t last sixty seconds

Then, after a beat:

kakashi:
and I’d let you ruin me anyway

Send.

He dropped the phone beside him again. Pressed both hands over his face. And exhaled like a man who knew he was never getting out of this alive.

The reply came faster than he was ready for. He wasn’t even done spiraling from the last message—was still lying in bed with his arm flung over his eyes when the buzz came. He groaned. Not because he didn’t want to read it.

Because he did.

Too much.

He dragged his hand down his face, picked up the phone, and braced himself.

sakura:
do you really mean that……not just as a tease
not because we’re both unhinged right now…..would you actually want that?...for me to touch you like that….for real….not just words

Everything inside him went quiet.

Not in a cold way. Not in fear. Just quiet. Still. Because that was the real question, wasn’t it? Would he want her to touch him? Not in theory. Not in a late-night spiral of teasing texts and blurred lines and ruler jokes.

But actually.

Would he let her climb into his lap and press those capable, clever, chakra-warmed hands against his skin? Would he let her map his body like he was a battlefield and she already knew the softest places? Would he fall apart under her touch—not just because she was skilled, not just because it had been so long —but because it was her ?

He swallowed hard.

The answer came faster than he expected.

kakashi:
yes….if you wanted to
if you meant it…..I’d let you do anything

Send.

He didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t pace. Didn’t agonize. Just sent it. Because it was the truth.

And because somehow—somehow—it didn’t feel terrifying to say anymore.

It felt inevitable.

He was still sitting with the weight of what he’d just sent—still letting the quiet, irreversible truth of it settle in his chest like a stone in still water—when the next message came through.

He blinked at the screen.

Then read it.

sakura:
ok…..how about tomorrow night

No punctuation. No emoji. No softener.

Just six words that detonated inside his skull like a live explosive. He stared at it. Nothing happened for a full ten seconds. Because it wasn’t a question anymore. It wasn’t a maybe. A what if. A blurred line behind a screen. It was a plan.

A scheduled event. An appointment with intimacy. Tomorrow night.

As in: she would come over. Or he would go to her. She would touch him. He would let her . And the thing that had only existed in suggestion and implication would become something real. He sat upright too fast, body still flushed from earlier, pulse thudding like it had just remembered it had work to do.

“Tomorrow night,” he repeated aloud, like his voice might help clarify the reality.

But it didn’t.

Because tomorrow night now meant hands. Mouth. Skin. Heat. The unbearable, exquisite possibility of her kneeling between his knees or crawling into his lap and watching him fall apart like she had earned it.

And he was not ready. He wanted it. He’d said he wanted it. But now it had a timestamp.

And he didn’t know what to do with himself.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment.

Then:

kakashi:
i’m going to be honest
seeing it written out like that just caused a full system shutdown

kakashi:
like it was still in the theoretical space
and now it has… scheduling

kakashi:
i think i need to lie down

kakashi:
i am lying down. i need to lie down more deeply

He set the phone facedown on his chest.

Stared at the ceiling.

And let himself fully, absolutely, gloriously feel the very last of his sanity float away from him, waving at him as it dissolved into the air dust. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The Knock
March 8th, 8:58 PM, Friday

He hadn’t knocked yet.

He was standing at her door. Arm half-raised. Breath shallow. And still— still —he hadn’t knocked.

The hallway was quiet. The night was warm. And he was dressed in his usual jonin uniform, minus the flak vest, minus the gloves. Just the deep navy shirt with its red shoulder sigils, the fitted pants, the same black sandals he always wore, and his ever-present mask.

It should’ve felt normal.

But nothing about this was normal.

His shirt clung to his frame in a way that suddenly felt intentional. His mask had never felt this hot against his skin. His hair—messy as ever—felt like a liability. He hadn’t even done anything different to it, and yet it still felt like it was trying.

He had stood in front of death gods, missing-nin, foreign lords. He had infiltrated enemy strongholds with nothing but shadow cover and a bluff. He had given missions from this very door with the ease of someone dropping off a newspaper.

But tonight?

He was here for her. Not for orders. Not for plans. Not for sparring. He was here because she’d said 'How about tomorrow night'. And he had said Yes.

He shifted his weight, nerves flaring in his stomach. He could feel how taut his body was under the fabric, how tight his muscles had coiled beneath the anticipation of what might happen next. It wasn’t arousal—not yet. It was readiness. Like his body already knew something would break open tonight.

She was behind that door.

She was waiting.

And he had never been more aware of his own heartbeat.

Finally, with a breath he didn’t quite realize he’d been holding, he lifted his knuckles and knocked.

Once. Twice.

Then stepped back.

And waited.

The knock was soft.

Just two short raps.

So quiet she almost wondered if she’d imagined it—if maybe her own anticipation had hallucinated it into being.

But no.

She felt it in her chest.

That sharp, charged thud that said he’s here.

She crossed the apartment in two strides, heart hammering, hands suddenly unsure what to do with themselves. She paused with her fingers on the doorknob, took one steadying breath, and opened it.

And there he was.

In all of his awkward, breathtaking, absolutely-does-not-know-how-to-arrive-for-sexual-intent glory.

He was just standing there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched like someone had dropped a cloak of discomfort over him at the last second. Dressed in his standard jonin uniform sans the flak vest—navy shirt, navy pants, black sandals, and that damn mask that somehow made it worse tonight.

His hair looked extra wild, like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times on the way over and then lost a fight with the air itself.

He blinked at her. Said nothing.

Just stood there on the threshold like a cryptid, looking mildly startled and mildly guilty, as if she might throw holy water at him if he stepped inside without a verbal blessing.

She stared at him for a second too long.

Then leaned against the doorframe and smirked. “Are you waiting for an invitation, or do I need to cross a line of salt first?”

Kakashi made a sound that might’ve been a nervous laugh or a slow system reboot.

“I didn’t want to assume,” he said, voice low. Rough.

“You’re literally already here.”

“Yes, but I could still turn around.”

“Don’t.”

She stepped aside and opened the door wider.

He moved slowly, like a cautious animal creeping into a new habitat. One step inside, then another. Shoulders still tight. Chin ducked slightly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look at anything too closely.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

And he just—stood there.

In her entryway.

Perfectly upright, hands still in his pockets, like he’d glitched during a loading screen and was waiting for instructions.

She watched him scan the room and then immediately look at the floor like her coffee table was classified.

“Kakashi,” she said, amused, “you’ve been in here before.”

“Right. But not for… this.”

“This is still my apartment. Same couch. Same walls. Same kitchen.”

“Yes. But now they’re… suggestive.”

She almost choked on her laugh.

“Are you worried the furniture knows?”

“I don’t know what the protocol is,” he muttered. “Do I sit? Do I ask? Do I compliment your bookshelf and then collapse into a chair? What do people do in these situations?”

“You’re not ‘people.’ You’re you. ” She walked past him, brushing his arm lightly with her fingers as she went. “Which means you can keep standing awkwardly by the door until I tell you otherwise.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just stayed rooted to the floor like he was waiting for the room to approve his existence. And god help her, it was so him it hurt.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Kakashi.”

He glanced up.

“You’re allowed to be here.”

His eyes softened.

Slightly.

But he still didn’t move, still standing just inside the door.

Back straight. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders pulled in like he expected someone to throw a net over him and drag him away for crimes against propriety.

Meanwhile, Sakura was… doing things.

She moved around the apartment like none of this was strange at all. Tossed her keys on the counter. Lit a candle. Adjusted something on the bookshelf. Said something about tea he didn’t fully process because his brain had been reduced to the sound of soft footsteps and her casual, lived-in presence.

He nodded.

Yes. That was normal.

Normal human interaction.

People lit candles. That was fine. Totally unrelated to seduction. Probably. Maybe it was for ambiance. Or bugs. Or murder. Hard to say.

She opened a cupboard.

He nodded again.

Cupboards. Great. Classic furniture.

He remained exactly where he’d been since stepping inside , like a newly-awakened vampire that hadn’t figured out what era it was yet.

His heart was doing something strange in his chest. Not racing. Not panicking. Just… lurching. Every time she looked at him, every time she didn’t look at him. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to flee or drop to its knees and kiss the floor.

He shifted his weight.

Looked down.

And very suddenly remembered—with staggering, unnecessary clarity—the many times he’d stood in this apartment covered in blood.

His blood. Hers. Sometimes both. There had been a mission once—short, brutal, personal—and he’d come through her door with a cracked rib and a busted hand, tracking footprints across her carpet while trying not to pass out.

She hadn’t even flinched.

She’d shoved him onto the couch, sat on his chest, reset the bone, and cursed at him the whole time.

He stared at the carpet now, blinking slowly. Had that been the same rug? It was a nice rug. He might’ve bled on it four times. And this—this soft-lit space with its books and warm lamplight and slightly crooked picture frame—this was her.

His teammate. He should not be here. He should not want to be here. He should not be looking at her legs and thinking about how they might feel pressed against his hips.

And yet.

And yet —

He wasn’t panicking. He was… still. Focused. Grounded. Weirdly lucid. And that lucidity whispered something unnerving:

You don’t feel wrong about this.

He blinked once. Twice. Watched her move. Listened to her hum under her breath as she pulled mugs from the shelf.

And wondered, with something like awe—or terror, or surrender—if this was what losing your grip on reality quietly felt like.

Because if this was a psychotic break? It felt kind of like coming home.

She pointed to the bedroom.

Didn’t say a word.

Just turned from the counter—mug half-filled with something he hadn’t registered—and with the ease of someone rearranging the world to her liking, she nodded at her bedroom door like she was directing a confused dog.

“Go and sit.”

Not rude. Not demanding. Just… expectant.

Kakashi, operating entirely on some broken automation protocol buried in his ANBU training, nodded like a wind-up soldier and crossed the room, entering her bedroom with the feeling that he was going to come out of it with reduced pelvic function and possibly bruises.

Each step felt like crossing into a different kind of war zone.

He didn’t take in the rest of the room. Couldn’t. His vision had narrowed to exactly three things: the bed, her following behind him, and the rapidly escalating sense that he was moments away from spontaneous combustion.

He reached the bed.

Sat down.

Robotically.

Straight-backed. Perfect posture. Like someone had dropped a dignitary onto a foreign couch and instructed him to “look natural.”

His thighs tensed. His spine locked. His palms pressed flat to his knees, fingers twitching once like they were trying to find traction in the crushing weight of the moment.

And she was in front of him.

Not hovering. Not prowling. Just… there. Soft and real and breathtakingly close. Her body radiated heat. Her arms were loose at her sides. Her eyes—

Oh gods. Her eyes.

They were so focused. Not predatory, not shy—just steady. Certain. As if she already knew what was about to happen, and was simply watching him realize it in real time.

His heart stuttered violently.

Because this?

This was different.

Sending photos was one thing.

Typing filthy messages in the safety of separate rooms, letting implication do the heavy lifting—that was manageable. That was fantasy held at arm’s length.

Even telling her he was going to touch himself had felt removed. Private. Something behind a curtain, curated and controlled.

But this?

Sitting on her bed, in her space, fully clothed, fully erect, already, he noted with no small amount of awe at how his body was gleefully on board with all of this, with her eyes on him—

That was real.

And the inevitable next step? Would be one of them reaching for the waistband of his pants. And then she’d see it. Not hinted at. Not outlined. Not alluded to in inches and jokes and theories.

She’d see it. The thing he had only allowed her to imagine. The thing that had—somehow, inexplicably—become the object of her curiosity. Her want.

And that—

That was a level of vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated, even when he’d taken the damn photo. He could handle the idea of being looked at through a screen.

But being witnessed?

By her?

It made his pulse spike and his lungs tighten and his throat go dry in a way that had nothing to do with shame. He wanted it. He wanted her to look. He just didn’t know how to survive it.

The silence was heavy.

Not awkward— charged. The kind of silence that vibrated, full of possibility, of heat just shy of ignition. Sakura hadn’t moved. Neither had he. She was still standing there, watching him sit on her bed like he was a delicate piece of ancient pottery and any sudden movement might make him shatter.

His hands were braced on his thighs, steadying.

Barely.

He wasn’t breathing properly. He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

And then—

Her brow furrowed. Her head tilted slightly. And she said, cautious but genuine:

“You… have done this before, right?”

He blinked. His body stilled. He felt his ego leave, make a full loop around the planet, and slam back into his chest like a falling brick.

“I—” His voice caught in his throat.

Sakura looked at him like she wasn’t sure if she should clarify or apologize or run. He raised one hand slowly, palm open, and let out a stunned, strangled breath.

“Yes, ” he said. “Yes, I’ve done this before.”

She watched him.

He couldn’t read her expression. Was it amusement? Concern? Curiosity? All of the above?

Which—fair. This was not his most competent moment. He had been behaving like an unplugged mannequin for the last several minutes.

But still—

“Just to be clear,” he added, voice dry, “you’re not about to be responsible for unlocking some kind of sealed virgin prince situation. I’m not… untested.”

Sakura snorted.

“Untested,” she echoed, clearly delighted.

He groaned and rubbed a hand over his masked face. “Poor word choice.”

“Very.”

“I panicked.”

“I noticed.”

He slumped a little.

And then—somehow— somehow —he felt the tight coil in his chest loosen. Not completely. But a little. Because the question had been mortifying, yes, but also weirdly… restoring.

There had been an undercurrent to it. A softness. A kind of concern that made something warm curl behind his ribs. He sighed again. Sat straighter. Tilted his head just enough to meet her gaze.

“I’ve done this before,” he said, steadier now. “Just not like this.”

Her voice was soft. “With someone you… wanted?”

“With someone who made it impossible not to.”

That earned him a pause. And then—

A slow, devastating smile.

Her eyes hadn’t left his.

She stood in front of him, close now—so close—and her voice was low, calm, like she was asking about the weather and not about to ruin him from the inside out.

“Can I start?”

It wasn’t sultry. It wasn’t breathless. It was genuine. Respectful. Still playful, but serious enough to root his entire nervous system to the spot.

Kakashi had a moment.

A moment of piercing, unfiltered clarity—an aerial snapshot of his own existence collapsing inward.

This was happening.

It was happening.

He wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t caught in a feedback loop of unhinged texting and fevered mental images. He was sitting on her bed, Sakura standing in front of him, eyes fixed on him like he was hers already—and she had just asked for permission.

To start.

To touch him. To take the fantasy they'd built in pieces and turn it into something real. He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.

Once. Muted. And then—

Then she moved. There was no warning. No easing into it. No pause to let him mentally prepare. Her hand slid past the waistband of his pants, slow and smooth and utterly deliberate, and—

Contact.

Not skin. Not yet. But her palm pressed right against the front of his boxers, and she rubbed. Once. Firm. Controlled. Right over him. His spine lit up. His breath caught in his throat.

Her hand cupped him through the thin cotton, fingers shifting slightly as if she were testing weight and shape, like she needed to confirm that what she'd seen in that obscene and still high questionable photo was real.

And he was already halfway gone.

She stepped closer. Between his knees now. Her knees brushing his. Her body fully in his space.

And while her hand worked—smooth, rhythmic strokes through the fabric, maddening in their precision—her other hand reached for his face.

Specifically, the mask.

She tugged.

Not hard. Not dramatically. Just curled her fingers in the soft fabric and pulled it down to his chin like she’d done it a hundred times.

It was too much.

He had trained for sensory extremes. He had survived poison, torture, genjutsu that cracked the mind in half. And yet this —this hand stroking him through cotton, this quiet, competent hunger, this steady presence of her —was what finally broke his mental defenses.

She could’ve leaned in and whispered “Can I stab you?” and he was fairly certain he would’ve said yes.

Gladly.

With gratitude.

He let out a low, fractured sound—half-breath, half-groan—and tipped his head back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Her thumb dragged over the tip, pressure perfect, and he jolted.

“You’re already so hard,” she murmured, almost to herself.

He swallowed. Didn’t trust himself to speak.

Because he was.

Hard and heavy and throbbing now, restrained only by the thin layer of fabric she was relentlessly working against. And it was that— her decision not to rush —that was killing him.

No urgency. No frantic groping.

Just long, confident strokes. Her hand curling slightly at the base, rising again with just enough pressure to make his thighs twitch beneath her.

His hands were useless at his sides. He wanted to touch her. Grip her hips. Slide his fingers up the back of her neck and pull her in. But he couldn’t move. He was frozen under her hand. His body completely at her mercy. Every nerve focused on that maddening, beautiful friction.

And she was watching him. Still. Like she wanted to memorize every reaction.

And gods help him—he was giving her everything.

He was trying to survive. Really, truly trying.

He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Not with her hand doing that —slow, steady, thorough—through his boxers, and it was unraveling him with scientific precision. His palms were flat on the bed. His thighs tense. His breath came shallow and uneven, and his mask hung around his chin like it had been demoted from duty and forced to watch.

Every time her thumb dragged up over the tip—subtle, intentional —his stomach flinched.

She hadn’t rushed. Not once. She hadn’t gone for skin. Hadn’t teased or laughed or played coy. Just touched him like she’d been given permission and wanted to do it well. And now, impossibly, her hand paused.

He almost cried.

And then she asked—quiet, focused, still maddeningly calm:

“Can I see?”

His brain misfired. He choked. Actually choked—on nothing. A dry, wrecked little noise that came out somewhere between a breathless laugh and a dying sound effect.

He coughed once. Tried again. “As if I was ever going to say no.”

Sakura smiled. Not smug. Not wicked. Pleased.

And something about that—her satisfaction at his complete and immediate surrender—made his cock twitch against her palm.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her hand gave one last, slow pass over him through the fabric before she hooked her fingers in the waistband of his pants.

Then paused.

Not for long. Not because she was hesitating. But like she was marking the moment. His heart was in his throat. He was letting her do this. He was about to be exposed—completely, undeniably—and somehow, impossibly, he didn’t feel panic.

He felt known.

And then—

She slid his pants down. Not far. Just enough. And the boxers with them. And there it was. Him. Fully hard. Flushed deep. Heavy and twitching slightly with each stuttering breath. The air hit him and he exhaled, sharp and unsteady. He couldn’t look at her.

He couldn’t. He stared straight ahead at the wall like it held ancient wisdom.

And then—

A soft, reverent intake of breath.

“Oh,” she said.

Just that. Simple. But not casual. It was full of something he couldn’t quite name. Admiration. Maybe wonder. Maybe relief. She reached. Wrapped her hand around him properly this time. No fabric. Skin on skin.

And he groaned.

Low. Frayed. Completely beyond pride.

“God,” he muttered, already melting beneath her grip.

“See? ” she said, a smile in her voice. “I asked first.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Confirmation Bias (Sakura's POV of part of Chapter 12)
March 8th, 9:16 PM, Friday

She hadn’t stopped touching him.

Her hand was still moving—slow and steady over the heat of him, just beneath the soft cotton of his boxers—and she could feel how close he was to falling apart. Every little twitch in his thighs, the way his breath caught every time her thumb skimmed over the head—he was holding on, barely.

She loved it.

Not in a cruel way. Not as a power trip. But because it felt right. Like her hands belonged on him. Like every tease, every late-night message, every spiraling question had led to this. Her, standing between his legs. Him, barely breathing.

But there was one thing missing. One very specific thing. And she wanted to see it. Badly. Her thumb traced a slow line upward. She watched his jaw clench.

Then:

“Can I see?”

The question slipped out quiet, but firm. There was no hesitation in her voice—just need. And curiosity. And something a little more reverent than either.

Kakashi choked.

He actually made a sound that was half a laugh, half a startled cough, like her question had broken through whatever carefully-constructed emotional firewall was still keeping him upright.

Then, in a voice roughened by disbelief:

“As if I was ever going to say no.”

The tension that followed crackled. She smiled. She couldn’t help it. She slid her hand slowly down over him one last time through the fabric, then dipped her fingers into the waistband of his pants.

Paused. Not for show. Not for drama. Just to breathe. Because this was real. She was about to see him . Not implied. Not silhouetted. Not pictured. Present.

Her fingers pressed into the waistband, and she began to slide the fabric down—slow, careful, deliberate. The elastic caught slightly on the curve of his hips, and his stomach flinched under her hands, a brief but involuntary reaction. He shifted just a little to help, thighs tensing, his breath hitching as the cotton eased lower.

And then—there he was.

The head of his cock cleared the waistband first, followed by the long, rigid line of him rising free as the fabric gave way. It sprang upward faintly, heavy with need, and hung there between them—undeniable. Exposed. The soft sound of the waistband settling below his hips felt almost loud in the silence that followed.

Her breath caught.

Because yes, the photo had been accurate. He was big. But seeing him now, flushed and twitching in the open air, nothing between them—there was a rawness to it that no image could have captured.

Thick, but not obscenely so. Long. The kind of hard that made her mouth dry up and her thighs tense at the same time. The flushed crown was smooth and swollen, glistening faintly in the low light, and a single drop of arousal clung to the tip like it had nowhere else it wanted to be. She followed the line of his shaft with her eyes—veined, full, impossibly rigid—and felt her whole body tighten. The way the skin shifted slightly as he twitched. The contrast of that dark, intimate pink against the pale skin of his abdomen. It was raw. Honest.

Beautiful.

And so incredibly vulnerable.

Because this wasn’t just him naked. It was him exposed in the most intimate way a man could be—hard and flushed and leaking for her. It wasn’t theoretical anymore, not imagined or hinted at. This was his desire made visible. Heavy, trembling, aching. And she was the reason. That part of him—thick and hot and so achingly stiff—wasn't for anyone else. Just her. He’d let her see it, let her take down his guard, let her into a space so private it bordered on sacred.

 And gods, the way it made her feel—

Powerful, yes. But more than that. Trusted. Chosen. Desired in a way that didn’t just sit on the surface.

He wasn’t looking at her. Not even close. He was staring past her, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance like he was trying to transcend the moment and survive it from another plane of existence.

And it was so Kakashi she almost laughed.

Instead, she reached for him. Wrapped her hand around him fully. Skin to skin. The weight of him made her exhale.

God, he was hot. Not just warm—feverish. Velvet-soft skin stretched over steel. He twitched in her grip as soon as she touched him properly.

And then he groaned. A quiet, guttural sound like her hand had knocked the air right out of his lungs. She felt heat rush up her spine.

She was touching him.

That thought hit her all at once—sharp and staggering. Her fingers were wrapped around Kakashi. She was the reason he was making those sounds, the reason he was this hard. Something about that cracked open a whole new level of sensation—thrilling, a little surreal, and impossibly intimate.

Gods, this was real.

After all the nights she’d imagined it. After every teasing glance, every joke half-laced with meaning— this was happening. She was holding him. He was letting her. And not just letting—responding. Needing.

Her heart skipped, then thudded harder. And she didn’t stop.

“God,” he muttered.

His voice was low and wrecked, like the word had been dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. When she glanced up at him, he was watching her hand on him—eyes dark, dazed, locked on the sight like he couldn’t believe it either. His brows were drawn, mouth slightly parted, breath coming in shallow waves.

His hair was a wild mess, more so than usual, silver strands falling across his forehead in soft, disheveled spikes. One lock clung to the sweat at his temple. Another shifted with every exhale. There was a flush creeping along his neck, high on his cheeks, and a faint tremor in his abdomen where he was trying to hold still. His whole body was tense with restraint, but his face—his face looked undone.

She smiled, slow and devastating. “See? I asked first.”

He twitched again.

And she couldn’t help it—she started to stroke.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Quiet Kind of Ruin
March 8th, 9:18 PM, Friday

He’d survived missions he hadn’t expected to walk away from.

He’d withstood interrogations, chakra poisoning, long winters in the mountains with nothing but splinters in his lungs and frost in his joints.

But this?

This was undoing him.

Sakura’s hand was around him—skin to skin, warm and sure—and she was stroking him with this careful, devastating patience like she was learning him. Like she wanted to remember what made his breath hitch and his thighs twitch and his head tip back with that barely-contained groan that slipped through gritted teeth.

And he was letting her.

He wasn’t just letting her—he was leaning into it , hips shifting forward like his body had already decided she was allowed to take whatever she wanted.

Which was why, when her hand paused, he almost whimpered. Almost. Instead, he opened his eyes—barely—and saw her move.

She was kneeling between his legs, brow furrowed slightly as she eased her hand away from him. Then, without a word, she reached for the waistband of his pants and boxers again.

And slid them down the rest of the way. Not rushed. Not with performance. Just… intent.

Like she’d decided he didn’t get to wear anything else if she was going to touch him properly .

He helped, clumsily—lifting his hips, kicking them off with a graceless, breathless shift of his legs. His shirt was still on. His mask still bunched around his neck. And it was disorienting, how naked he felt already.

She tapped his knee lightly. “Up,” she said, voice soft.

He blinked at her. “Up?”

She smirked. “Slide back. Lie down.”

He nodded. Mutely. Because language was for people with functioning brains and he hadn’t qualified for that status since her hand first entered his pants. He shifted up the bed, back pressing to the pillows, legs dropping open slightly as he settled.

Sakura climbed in after him, knees bracketing his thighs, body folding in gracefully until she was sitting between his legs—back straight, face calm, hands planted on his bare hips like she’d done this a dozen times.

And she looked at him.

Just looked.

His skin felt too tight. His chest burned. His cock lay hard and flushed and completely exposed between them, and all he could do was stare at the ceiling and breathe.

Until she spoke again.

“Are you… blushing?”

His eyes snapped to hers. She was smiling. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just— delighted.

And he realized she was right. He was. Not from embarrassment. Not really.

But from this —from her, from the soft light in the room, from the unbearable intimacy of her gaze on his skin and her body curled between his legs like she belonged there.

“I...this just…it’s—well, this. ”

Been awhile? Scary? Hard? Overwhelming? It’s not like he was the guy that just whipped himself out at every given opportunity…or ever.

His cheeks were burning.

She grinned. “That’s really cute.”

And then she wrapped her hand around him again, and cute exploded into something that sent heat lancing straight up his spine.

He hissed through his teeth.

She watched his face as she stroked—slow, smooth, steady—her hand sliding up his cock with perfect pressure, thumb ghosting the head, fingers curling just tight enough to make his breath catch.

Then she did it again. And again. Watching. Studying.

Her free hand slid to his stomach, splaying flat, grounding him while she ruined him.

“You’re responsive,” she murmured, voice low. “I like that.”

He couldn’t even answer.

His throat was dry. His lungs felt tight. His fingers clutched the sheets like he could anchor himself that way.

Her strokes sped up—barely.

Just enough.

And he knew, from the intent in her eyes, the way she angled her hand and shifted her grip slightly— she was testing.

Finding out what he liked best. He moaned. Not loud. But broken. Cracked open at the seams. And from the way her lashes dipped, the way her lip caught between her teeth, he knew she’d felt it.

Felt the weight of his trust. Felt what it meant that he was giving this to her. And he let her take it.

All of it.

She was killing him.

Beautifully, patiently, with hands that had once cracked bones and now coaxed pleasure from him like she’d been born to it.

She hadn’t rushed. She hadn’t lost focus.

God, her hand.

She stroked him like she was listening to something, some private rhythm only she could hear. Slow when he twitched. Firmer when he gasped. Her thumb swept over the head again and his legs flinched and his throat caught on another sound, and she smiled like she’d just learned the secret to the universe and planned to use it against him forever.

He was gone.

He was already gone.

His shirt clung to his chest. The back of his neck was damp. His jaw slackened every time she twisted her wrist just so. He had no idea what his hands were doing—clenching at the sheets, fisting against his own thighs—he just knew they weren’t on her, and that felt criminal.

And then—

Then she looked up. Not at his cock. At him.

Eyes heavy, warm, steady.

And she asked—

“Can I use my mouth?”

Kakashi’s entire brain evacuated the building. No warning. No glitch. Just full-blown whiteout . She said it like she was asking to borrow a book. Calm. Respectful. Like it was something she might genuinely have to negotiate.

Like she wasn’t already kneeling between his legs with the knowledge that he would die for her without hesitation.

His head tipped back with a soundless breath, vision blurring for a second from sheer disbelief. His voice—when it finally returned—was cracked and hoarse and horrified with awe.

“…Why would you ever need to ask that?”

She blinked. Just once. Curious.

And he reached down, hand sliding into her hair, his palm cradling the back of her head—not to guide her, not to push, but to anchor himself —because his next words felt like a prayer.

“Please.”

That was all he could say. That was all he needed to say. Because if this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up. And if it wasn’t? Then she was real. And she had just asked to bless him with her mouth.

And Kakashi—blushing, trembling, overwhelmed—had no earthly idea how he’d ever become worthy of that mercy.

…he’d had blowjobs before.

A handful. Maybe less. Mostly forgettable.

Moments behind closed doors in dim rooms, rushed and transactional, the kind of closeness you blinked through and tried not to think about later.

This was not that. This was Sakura. Between his legs.

Looking up at him with those unflinching eyes, hair falling soft around her shoulders, one hand still wrapped around the base of him like it was hers now. She hadn’t moved yet. Hadn’t rushed.

She was still asking. Still listening. And he was shaking.

Actually shaking.

Because it had never felt like this before. Like worship. Like gravity .

She leaned in slowly.

Pressed a kiss—just a kiss—to the tip of him. Soft. Closed-mouth. A barely-there brush that somehow made his thighs flex and his hips lift, like his body couldn’t comprehend restraint anymore.

Then she parted her lips. And took him in. Warm. Wet. Perfect. He groaned. Loud. Unfiltered. Real. He saw stars for a moment. Forgot to breathe.

Her mouth closed around the head, tongue circling gently, slowly, deliberately like she wasn’t trying to rush him to pleasure but draw it out until he couldn’t see straight.

The hand in her hair had no strength . No command. It just rested there—trembling slightly—as if to remind him this was happening, that she was here, that this wasn’t some ruinous fantasy built in the heat of desperation.

She sank further.

Inches of him disappearing into her mouth, her lips stretching around him, cheeks hollowing slightly with pressure. Her tongue moved with skillful ease—no wasted motion, no showy theatrics—just focused intent.

It was the most devastating thing he’d ever experienced.

Not just the heat of her mouth, not just the suction or the way her hand stroked the base in sync with each bob of her head—but the closeness . The trust. The reverence in the way she looked up when she slid back and let her tongue flick the underside before taking him in again.

It felt like his whole soul was being witnessed. Like every broken piece of him had been invited forward and laid bare, and she had chosen to kneel in front of them anyway.

“ Fuck, ” he whispered, voice rasping through his clenched teeth. “Sakura—”

She moaned softly around him. The vibration shot straight through him. His hips jolted. He wasn’t going to last.

He knew it. Could feel it building low and deep, a burn rising fast, cresting already as her mouth worked him with unbearable tenderness. She pulled back slowly, lips slick, breath warm, and looked at him —not smug, not coy. Just there .

With him. For him.

She took him back in again, slower now, letting him feel every inch of it.

And Kakashi felt his entire being shatter around her name.

“ Sakura, ” he choked. “I— I’m gonna—”

He couldn’t finish.

She didn’t stop. She just slid her hand down to brace his hip as her mouth took him deeper, firmer, smoother.

And then—

He came.

Hard.

Silently, mouth open, back arched, hand fisting in her hair—not pulling, not guiding, just holding on as if she was the only thing keeping him from falling straight off the edge of the world, unable to do anything about the spasms of his body transcending into some higher plane of existence. His thighs and stomach locked tight, pleasure blooming everywhere like a busted dam. 

And she didn’t flinch.

She stayed.

Held him through it.

Let him fall apart in her mouth, in her hands, in her bed, with no shame and no fear. 

He collapsed back into the pillows, chest heaving, mind white and empty. And when she finally slid back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes still locked on his—

He felt holy.

Ravaged.

Loved.

And he would never, ever , forget it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: The Softest He’s Ever Looked (Sakura's POV of part of Chapter 14)
March 8th, 9:18 PM, Friday

She hadn’t meant to pause.

Not really.

But once her hand wrapped fully around him—skin on skin, thick and hot and twitching in her grip—she had to stop.

Because god.

He was so much.

More than she expected. Heavy in her hand, flushed deep pink at the tip, smooth, thick, solid . Every subtle movement of her fingers drew a reaction from his thighs, his breath, his expression—like he couldn’t not respond.

And she loved it.

Loved that she could do this to him. Loved the way his hips gave little stuttering jolts. Loved that he didn’t hide his gasps, that he was already this undone with just her hand.

She needed more room.

“Up,” she murmured, tapping his knee.

He blinked at her, hazy and flushed. “Up?”

She smiled. “Slide back. Lie down.”

He obeyed without a word.

Scooted up the bed like a man in a daze, legs shifting wider for her instinctively. His thighs parted. His cock bobbed slightly from the movement— perfectly exposed now—and her mouth went dry all over again.

She climbed in with him. Settled between his legs, knees folded beneath her, hands braced gently on his hips.

And looked up.

He wasn’t meeting her eyes. He was staring off toward the ceiling, jaw slack, chest rising like he’d just run up six flights of stairs. His mask still bunched around his neck, and his shirt was still on—but everything else was gone, and he looked beautiful like this.

Open. Flushed. Bare to her in a way she wasn’t sure anyone had ever been allowed to see.

And when she realized— really realized—just how overwhelmed he looked, how quietly red his cheeks had gone, she froze for a second.

“Are you… blushing?”

His head snapped toward her like she’d caught him mid-crime. And oh, the look on his face.

That faint flicker of panic behind his eyes. That helpless, exasperated tilt of his lips like he knew he couldn’t hide anything from her anymore.

“I...this just…it’s—well, this. ”

She grinned. “That’s really cute.”

And then she wrapped her hand around him again.

And he groaned. It was quiet. Guttural. Rough. But it was real.

She started stroking again—slowly. With intention. The pads of her fingers gliding along the underside, her thumb brushing the head, her other hand resting flat on his stomach to anchor him as she worked.

And he melted.

She watched him dissolve. Carefully. Reverently. And decided, right then and there, that she wanted to learn everything that made him fall apart.

She couldn’t stop staring at him.

His chest, lean muscle hidden under the dark blue jonin shirt. His mouth. His eyes.

He was falling apart under her hands—silently, beautifully, with the kind of restraint that only made his little reactions more addictive. The tremor in his thighs. The tension in his jaw. The way his breath caught when her grip shifted just a little bit firmer.

She loved this. Not because she liked watching him squirm—though, god , she did. But because she could feel how much he was trusting her. And she wanted to give him more.

So she asked.

“Can I use my mouth?”

The question came out quieter than she intended. Almost reverent. She hadn’t been trying to shock him. But his reaction was immediate.

He blinked like she’d slapped him. Then his mouth opened in a soundless half-laugh, half- what the fuck , and he tipped his head back, stunned.

“As if I was ever going to say no.”

She smiled. But he wasn’t done.

He reached out—just one hand—threading his fingers gently into her hair, like he needed something to hold on to, something to ground him before she took him any further.

“Please,” he whispered.

And the sound of it— that voice, thick and wrecked and already unraveling—went straight to the base of her spine.

She took her time.

She wanted to savor him.

She kissed the tip first—light, soft, her lips barely brushing over the flushed head of his cock—and he made this beautiful, broken sound deep in his throat that told her he wasn’t ready, but he wanted it anyway .

She opened her mouth and took him in.

His hips jolted. His breath stuttered. His hand flexed in her hair, not pushing, not guiding—just there , like he was holding on for dear life.

He tasted clean. Warm. Slightly salty. Familiar and unknown all at once.

She moaned softly around him, just to feel him twitch in her mouth. And he did. Hard.

God, he was responsive.

Every little thing she did—angle, suction, pressure—he reacted to. The tiniest adjustment of her tongue along the underside made his thigh tremble. When she went deeper, slow and steady, he whispered her name like it meant something.

“Sakura—”

She didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

She wrapped her hand around what her mouth couldn’t reach and started stroking in sync. She looked up at him—saw the way his lashes fluttered, the flush high on his cheeks, the way his chest rose in jagged, struggling rhythm—and felt powerful in the most intimate way.

He warned her.

“I— I’m gonna—”

But she didn’t pull away. She didn’t flinch. She wanted to give this to him.

And when he came—when his hips bucked hard against her mouth and his whole body arched like he was trying to escape the pleasure—she stayed. She felt the way his thighs locked tight beneath her hands, the way his stomach trembled under her palm. His cock pulsed in her mouth, thick and hot and twitching against her tongue, and she could taste him, feel him, hear the way his breath caught as his orgasm tore through him.

His hand clenched in her hair—tight, but not rough—like he couldn’t bear to let go. A broken sound slipped from his throat, deep and wrecked, and she felt it in her bones. Like his whole body was unraveling in her hands.

She slowed only when the tension began to fade, when his groan gave way to a long, breathless silence and his grip loosened in her hair.

Finally, she let him slip from her mouth, carefully, reverently, her lips tingling, jaw a little sore. She sat back on her heels, breath steadying, and looked up at him.

And what she saw—

Completely undone.

Chest heaving. Mask still loose around his neck. Eyes barely open. Like he’d just been taken apart cell by cell and thanked her for it . And she thought—

He’s mine.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Actual Oblivion
March 8th, 9:32 PM, Friday

He couldn’t move.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because he physically couldn’t . His arms were boneless. His legs were somewhere below him—maybe. His lungs were doing their best, but the air felt like soup, and he was floating in it. He was still panting.

Not from effort. From impact .

Whatever Sakura had just done to him— that —was not sex. It was not casual. It wasn’t even something that belonged to language. That had been sacred. That had been an event . He was going to remember this like people remembered eclipses or near-death experiences or divine revelations in the middle of a storm.

His body was still humming. His mind was gone . And then she moved.

Crawled up the bed like she wasn’t the one who had just dismantled him with her mouth and a little breathless mercy. She didn’t even look smug. Just warm. Soft-eyed. Gentle.

And she curled up beside him. Not on him. Not draped across his chest like a trophy. Just next to him . Like they were already something. And then, in the quietest, most absurd little voice:

“Was that nice?”

Kakashi blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He turned his head just enough to look at her.

She was propped on one elbow, cheeks flushed, expression too casual to be innocent.

“…Was that— nice ?” he repeated, voice hoarse, as though his vocal cords had been steamrolled.

She nodded. Just once. Like she hadn’t just committed a war crime with her mouth.

His lips twitched. Then he laughed. A single breathy exhale, the kind that escaped before his brain could stop it. Then another. Then a full, quiet, body-shaking laugh that crumpled him further into the pillow as he brought a hand up to cover his eyes.

“ Nice, ” he said again, like the word had just been invented. “That was devastating, Sakura.”

She shrugged. “Devastating is nice.”

He turned toward her, arm flopped out gracelessly, fingertips grazing her wrist.

“You just gave me a religious experience,” he muttered. “I might not recover.”

“Oh no,” she deadpanned. “Should I call Tsunade?”

He groaned. “Don’t bring her into this.”

Sakura laughed—soft and golden.

And he thought, in the quiet that followed:

Yes.

This is what home feels like.

She tucked herself comfortably under the crook of his arm, head resting lightly against his shoulder like she did this all the time—like this was normal . As if she hadn’t just given him the most intimate, earth-flipping, borderline divine experience of his entire life and then followed it up by casually curling into him like she hadn’t just made his entire nervous system glitch.

And he was doing his best.

Really.

He was doing his best to breathe normally. To think normally. To not act like every atom in his body hadn’t been rearranged and renamed hers .

His arm around her shoulder flexed slightly. Just to feel her. Just to make sure she was still real.

And then—quiet, small, like a sideways confession:

“What if I wanted you to touch me?”

He froze.

Not dramatically. Not with panic. Just—

Still.

Like every part of him paused to listen at once. Because she’d said it so softly . No teasing. No smugness. It wasn’t a dare.

It was vulnerable .

And that — that —was what hit him in the chest the hardest.

Because this woman, who had just knelt between his legs and taken him apart with the patience of a healer and the precision of a damn marksman, had the audacity to ask him that like she hadn’t just reduced him to starstuff five minutes ago.

His heart did something unholy. He turned his head slightly, looked down at her, just enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in her lashes, the soft flush still lingering at her cheeks.

His voice, when it came, was cracked but sure.

“Then I’d ask where.”

She blinked up at him.

He raised one hand slowly—palm open, completely nonthreatening—and brushed her hair back from her cheek.

“I’d ask what you wanted.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t speak.

“And I’d probably lose my mind,” he murmured, thumb grazing her jaw, “because the idea of touching you is already destroying me, and I haven’t even done it yet.”

She stared at him.

He couldn’t tell if her breath caught—or his.

But it didn’t matter. Because this was the kind of moment that turned the air into something heavy. Charged. He let his hand settle gently at her hip. Just a touch. Just enough.

And waited.

Because she’d asked.

And now he would, too.

There was a beat of silence.

Not awkward.

Loaded.

She was still looking at him, lips parted, breath soft against his shoulder, like she'd just offered something she wasn't entirely sure how to say out loud.

And then she gave a little one-shoulder shrug. Barely a movement. Nervous. Charming. A flash of vulnerability that sucker-punched him harder than any enemy ever had.

“Anywhere you want.”

He forgot how to breathe.

Her voice was steady. Just barely. But underneath it, laced between the words, was that telltale hesitation— hope trying not to sound like need .

And then she added, quieter:

“But there are a few places that could use immediate attention.”

That was it. That was the line that did it.

Because now she was blushing. Not coy, not playful—just flushed and trying to sound casual while making what might’ve been the most intimate offer anyone had ever given him.

And he was stuck . Frozen in it. Lost in it. Because—

Anywhere you want.

Those words shouldn’t have been enough to break him. But they did. They wrapped around his brain like silk and squeezed. Because she’d meant them. She’d said it without expectation, without pressure, without a script—just an open door and a request for him to step through it.

And he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But now that it was real—now that he was here, bare and steady and wanted —the weight of doing it right hit him like gravity reasserting itself all at once. He had done this before. He had made people come apart with his hands. His mouth. His voice. He had been good at it. Talented, even. But none of those other moments mattered . This did.

Because she mattered.

And there was something terrifying and beautiful about the fact that she had let him fall apart in front of her first—and now, she was offering herself in return.

And he had one job . Don’t rush. Don’t fumble. Don’t fuck it up.

He looked at her.

She looked so kissable like this. Skin flushed, breath shallow.

He lifted a hand—slow, careful—and cupped her jaw. His thumb brushed her cheek.

“Then I guess I’d better ask where to start,” he said, voice rough but reverent.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Because her body arched ever so slightly toward his.

And suddenly, he knew exactly where to begin; he started with a kiss.

No rush. No hunger. Just—

A shift.

He leaned in, slowly. Gave her every chance to change her mind. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Just looked up at him with wide, open eyes and parted lips like she was already halfway to meeting him there.

And everything aligned.

It wasn’t a dramatic crash. It wasn’t fireworks. It was quiet.

Like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place after being twisted in the wrong direction for too long. Like tectonic plates, strained and waiting, finally settling under the right pressure. Two uneven planes pulled into balance.

Her lips were soft. Warm. Familiar and new all at once. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, and she leaned into it—not just her face, but her whole being , like she'd been waiting to land.

And he felt it— that shift.

That undeniable snap of something ancient and aching in him settling into place. She made a sound—soft, barely a breath—and his pulse spiked in response. Her hand came up to rest on his chest, splayed lightly over the center like she could feel how hard his heart was beating.

He kissed her again. Deeper. But still careful. Still deliberate . Because this wasn’t just a kiss. This was the beginning of something irreversible. Not a threshold— a promise. When he finally pulled back, it was just far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Her nose brushed his. Their breath mingled in the warm, charged air.

His voice, when it came, was low and real and rougher than it should’ve been for how soft the words came out.

“…That felt like something.”

Her eyes opened. And her smile—barely there, quiet and wide and devastating—confirmed what he already knew.

“It did,” she whispered.

And just like that, they were steady. Together. She had no idea what she’d unleashed. That kiss—that soft, seismic alignment —had broken something loose in him. Not his restraint, not completely. Just the last thin membrane between affectionate and menace .

And now?

Now he was going to take his time.

She shifted onto her back, flushed and waiting, legs bent slightly, eyes already glazed with anticipation. Like she thought he might go easy on her after that.

And maybe he would have. If she hadn’t just said “anywhere you want.” If she hadn’t laid there like a challenge wrapped in reverence, trusting him completely.

He started slow.

His hand brushed her collarbone first—just a sweep of fingers, light as breath. She inhaled. Chest rising. He did it again. Slower. Then drifted lower. But not to her breasts. He bypassed them entirely and dragged his fingertips down the side of her ribs, just under the edge of her shirt.

She twitched.

Kakashi smiled— softly , but with intent.

“Sensitive?” he asked, voice low and innocent as a wolf in monk’s robes.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t start.”

He leaned down. Kissed just under her jaw. Whispered against her skin, “Too late.”

His hand skimmed across her stomach now—still outside her shirt. Still maddeningly light. She tensed under him, hips shifting slightly, just enough for him to notice .

But he didn’t change direction. He let his hand drift up. Slowly.

Under the hem of her shirt, but only to graze the underside of her ribs. His thumb slid just below the curve of one breast, not quite touching.

She exhaled hard through her nose.

“Kakashi,” she warned, and it sounded like a warning, but she didn’t stop him.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t correct him. Which meant he had permission. Which meant she wanted this.

Which meant—

He brushed her inner thigh next. Out of nowhere. No build-up. Just the back of his knuckles dragging upward, featherlight, stopping just short of where she needed him most.

She jerked slightly. Legs tensing.

“Oh?” he murmured. “There too?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Absolutely.”

His other hand found the inside of her elbow, fingers dancing up her arm to her wrist, circling it gently. Pointless. Teasing. Not remotely helpful.

She groaned. “ You are the worst.”

“I’m being thorough.”

“You’re being a menace.”

He leaned in, kissed the corner of her mouth, then whispered:

“Is that a complaint?”

Her breath hitched.

And she didn’t answer .

Which was an answer.

He let his hand slide just beneath the waistband of her shorts, barely inside. Enough for heat. For pressure. For promise.

And then withdrew entirely.

She gasped—half in frustration, half in disbelief. He smiled against her skin. And thought, now we’re getting somewhere.

He was having fun now. Too much, probably.

But after everything—after her hands, her mouth, after trusting him with the kind of vulnerability that could level mountains—it only felt fair to savor this. To tease. To stretch the tension until it hummed between them.

And god, she was so easy to tease.

Not weak. Not naïve. Just responsive . Her hips shifted with every pass of his hands. Her thighs clenched at the barest touch. Her breath caught in all the right places, and the frustration in her voice every time he didn’t quite give her what she wanted was slowly making him lose his mind in the most delightful way.

She was staring at him now, half-glared, half-pleading.

“Are you ever going to stop messing around?”

He raised both eyebrows like she’d just insulted his honor. Which, to be fair, she had—if he had any left.

He shifted to hover over her a little more, his hand braced beside her head, his other hand resting idly—uselessly—on her waist.

Then he pouted.

Actually pouted.

Complete with a furrowed brow and a soft, exaggerated sigh.

“I don’t know where anything is,” he said solemnly.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’m lost.” He looked down at her, tilting his head just slightly. “Anatomically.”

“Kakashi—”

“I’m unfamiliar with the terrain. You’re going to have to show me.”

“You’ve literally given field medical briefings. You’ve taught anatomy. ”

“Not from this angle.”

Her mouth dropped open in horror. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

She smacked his shoulder—light, but thoroughly unimpressed. “Unbelievable.”

“Still lost,” he murmured, letting his hand drift up her bare side again. “Might need a map .”

“Kakashi—”

“Possibly a demonstration .”

She made a sound that was 70% indignation, 30% flustered arousal. “You-you, this is-”

He grinned now. Sharp and stupidly smug. “You seem flustered.”

“Monster.”

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning down until his mouth brushed her ear. “Maybe. But wouldn’t you rather be thorough?”

She inhaled sharply.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Still hovering. Still waiting.

And then—

He tapped her hip, very gently.

“Show me,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Coordinates of Collapse
  March 8th, 9:52 PM, Friday

She didn’t hesitate.

That was the first thing that stunned him.

Sakura didn’t flinch or blush or fumble. She didn’t roll her eyes or call him a pervert—though he’d expected at least one of those things. No, she just reached for him. Calm. Quiet. Completely in control. Her fingers curled gently around his wrist. And then she guided him.

Down her stomach. Under the hem of her shorts. Lower still.

His pulse kicked hard in his throat.

Her skin was warm—warmer the further she pulled him. And soft. So unbearably soft. His fingers barely grazed the edge of her underwear and he could already feel how hot she was underneath.

Still, she didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter. She pressed his hand between her legs. Right there . Firm. Grounding.

And whispered—

“There. That’s where.”

Time cracked around him. She wasn’t teasing anymore. She wasn’t baiting or bratting or performing. She was showing him. Trusting him.

And Kakashi—Kakashi who had touched women before, who had done this before, who had walked into this room with confidence buried beneath nerves—felt his brain completely short out.

Because it wasn’t the contact that undid him.

It was the way she looked at him while doing it.

Like this wasn’t about proving anything. Like she wasn’t ashamed of needing it. Like she wanted him to have this. To know her. To learn by touch what she hadn’t said aloud.

And he couldn’t look away from her eyes.

Even when his fingers twitched. Even when he felt the heat of her through the thin cotton, already damp, already ready for him. She was flushed, chest rising slowly, but her expression never wavered.

“You said you needed help,” she whispered. “That’s the place.”

And just like that—

Every clever retort evaporated. Every ounce of smugness scattered. He was left with nothing but the overwhelming need to touch her the way she wanted to be touched. He nodded—just once.

Quietly.

His hand was still pressed against her.

Right where she had placed it. Firm and hot and achingly close to everything she clearly needed from him. He just let his fingers rest there. Testing. Feeling. Committing her to memory. The way her hips tilted up ever so slightly—subtle, silent, instinctive—like her body was trying to close the distance he hadn’t taken yet.

He started to move.

Slowly.

His fingers traced lazy, featherlight circles over the fabric. Just enough pressure to suggest something deeper. The thinnest barrier remained between them—cotton and control—and he stroked it like a man touching something sacred.

And she reacted .

Her hips twitched. Her thighs tightened. She let out a breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan, but it cut right through him anyway.

He smiled—soft and wicked.

“You’re already wet,” he murmured, voice rough and low and dangerously close to pleased.

“Maybe,” she shot back, breath catching, “because you’ve been teasing me for twenty minutes.”

He hummed, unbothered. “I take my time.”

“You take liberties.”

“I take what I’m given.”

His fingers pressed harder, drawing a longer stroke along the center of her. Her breath stuttered. Her hips followed him now, not subtly. She was chasing friction.

He gave it. Barely.

And still didn’t slip inside.

Her panties were clinging now—slick and damp—and his touch was focused, controlled, impossibly deliberate. He dragged the pad of his middle finger in slow, shallow circles right where she was most sensitive, feeling the pressure of her thighs starting to tremble around him.

And still—

Still—

He stayed outside. Just to watch her squirm .

Because he could feel her tension coiling—higher, sharper, needier with every breath. And gods help him, he wanted to give in. Every nerve in his arm was screaming to sink into her. But some horrible, ridiculous part of him still wanted her to beg.

Not with words. With movement. With breath. With the way she whispered his name like it meant please .

And she did. Just once.

“Kakashi—”

Not whiny. Not commanding.

Just broken.

That did it. He slid his hand down again—lower—and slipped two fingers beneath the fabric.

Finally. Her panties stuck slightly as he pulled them aside. And then—skin to skin.

Heat. Wet.

She was soaked.

The tips of his fingers dragged through slickness and he almost groaned from the sensation alone.

Her whole body jumped. Her back arched just slightly. Her legs parted wider.

And Kakashi? He was falling apart inside. Quietly. With discipline. A man trying not to shake apart from the inside out while keeping his face composed.

He circled her slowly—once, twice, then dragged his fingers lower to stroke gently through her folds. His other hand moved instinctively to brace at her hip, grounding her, holding her steady while he found every spot that made her thighs twitch or her breath catch.

He slid one finger inside.

Just one.

And felt her tighten around it.

He let out a sound—not loud. Not fully restrained either. Like pressure venting.

“God,” he murmured.

And then, like he was apologizing to no one, added under his breath:

“…I’m never going to recover from this.”

He could feel it. The way she tightened around his fingers every time he curled them just so. The way her breath caught when he pressed his thumb higher, rubbing soft, insistent circles over the swollen bundle of nerves that made her hips twitch under his hand.

Sakura was close. And it was ruining him .

Not just the physicality of it—not just the heat of her or the obscene, perfect slickness coating his fingers. It was her . The way she gave herself to him without flinching. Her eyes open. Her hand clutching at the sheet like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her lips parted, chest rising in soft, gasping waves as he worked her toward it with steady, measured control.

She was trembling now. He could feel it under his palm—the minute shaking of her thigh where his hand braced her open, the slight tension in her abdomen, the tremor in every breath she tried to steady and failed.

His thumb pressed tighter. His fingers curled deeper.

She gasped—sharp. Real.

There.

Right there.

He didn’t change pace. Didn’t speed up. He refined . Shifted the angle, flexed his wrist, watched her face as her brows knit and her mouth dropped open like something had hit her .

“You’re close,” he murmured, voice low and reverent.

She nodded. Couldn’t speak.

Her hand reached blindly—found his forearm, fingers digging in. Not pulling him closer. Just holding on .

And he swore—silently, inwardly—that he would not rush this. Would not dare.

So he gave her more. He pressed in deeper, stroked the front of her wall with careful, perfect rhythm, his thumb sliding slow circles over her clit in time with every thrust of his fingers. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t performative.

It was devoted.

And when she let out a choked, breathless moan and arched into him—hips rocking, thighs squeezing around his wrist—he knew it.

She was falling. She clenched around his fingers once, twice, then shuddered , her breath catching on a broken sound that hit him like lightning.

“ Kakashi— ”

His name. On her lips. Raw. Helpless. And then she came .

Hard.

Her body locked around him, heat flooding his palm as she gasped and gasped again, her thighs trembling under his hold, her back arched, hair splayed out across the sheets like a halo.

He didn’t stop. Slowed, yes. Gentled. But didn’t leave her. Not until she dropped back into the mattress with a long, open-mouthed exhale, her arm thrown over her eyes, her whole chest heaving like she’d run miles.

His hand slipped free with care.

She was beautiful. Sweaty. Glowing in the low light of the room like she’d been carved from something finer than flesh.

He wiped his hand against the sheet absently, still breathless, still reeling , and settled beside her—careful not to crowd, but close enough to feel the heat between them still humming.

She didn’t speak.

Not yet. Neither did he. Because what could he say? He’d just been trusted with everything . And he’d give her the quiet to catch her breath.

But inside?

He was on his knees, watching her recover.

Laid out on the bed like she’d been dropped from orbit. One arm flung over her face. Chest rising and falling in deep, unsteady waves. Her legs had finally started to relax, though he could still see the occasional tremor ripple down her thigh like her body hadn’t gotten the message yet.

He stayed quiet. Reverent.

But also, if he was honest with himself… a little smug. Because he hadn’t just made her come. He’d guided her there. Carefully. Slowly. Like something sacred.

He could still feel the heat of her around his fingers, the flutter of her walls clenching down so tight he’d had to breathe through it or risk coming all over himself just from watching. He lay beside her now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lightly on the sheets between them.

And in the silence, where her heartbeat was still catching up and his was just barely slowing down, he turned his head to look at her. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t flustered.

But she was flushed. A gorgeous pink climbing up her throat and across her cheeks. And her lips were parted like she was still trying to decide how to process what just happened.

So, naturally—He decided to ruin her.

Casually. Quietly.

He cleared his throat.

And said, with the calm neutrality of someone asking about her grocery run :

“Was that nice?”

There was a beat of stillness. Then a sharp inhale from her side of the bed. Her arm slid down slowly from her face.

And her expression —

God.

She looked betrayed.

Appalled. 

Like she couldn’t believe he’d just used her own words against her with that exact dry, unreadable tone she had just weaponized against him.

He watched her sputter—eyes wide, mouth working uselessly—and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

She blinked at him.

Twice.

“You—” she started. “You horror .”

He shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Just checking in.”

“That was not the same—”

“I’m just making sure you felt seen.”

“Kakashi—”

“Cared for. Attended to.”

She launched a pillow at his face.

He caught it one-handed and calmly placed it under his head, staring at the ceiling like the most obnoxious man alive.

But when she turned toward him—flushed, laughing now, arm draped across his stomach—he felt it again. That ache in his chest. The kind that came with realizing he was probably going to love her until the end of the world. And maybe a little after.

Now he was floating in that odd, peaceful nowhere—muscles slack, mind quiet, skin still humming with residual heat—when he felt it.

The weight of her gaze. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just waited.

And her eyes? Locked.

Kakashi opened one eye halfway and confirmed what he already suspected.

She was staring at his cock. Completely unblinking. Silent. Focused. It wasn’t even subtle.

Her expression was oddly analytical—brows faintly drawn, bottom lip caught gently between her teeth like she was trying to make sense of something complex and deeply important. Like she was observing a very specific phenomenon and had absolutely no intention of looking away until she understood it.

He glanced down at himself.

No pants. No boxers. He hadn’t bothered to put them back on, not after what she’d done to him, not after the way she’d curled up beside him like something hers .

And yes—he was hard again.

Not fully, not yet, but definitely getting there.

Lying heavy against his thigh, slowly filling, flushed and twitching slightly. He stared at himself. Everything looked fine. Normal. No sudden mutations. No new markings. Still attached. Still reacting to her like it always did—with reckless, undignified enthusiasm.

So why the forensic scrutiny?

He glanced back at her. She hadn’t moved. Still staring. His lips twitched. Maybe it was the heat in the room, maybe it was the steady pulse between his legs—but something mischievous began to unfurl low in his belly. He shifted slightly, feeling the stick of sweat on his chest and back. Too warm.

Without thinking, he reached for the hem of his shirt and dragged it up over his head.

The moment it came off, he sighed—quiet and pleased—as cooler air washed across his bare skin. Sweat cooled on his collarbones and chest. His stomach rose and fell in a long, deep breath.

Relief.

But the sound she made—just a breath, barely audible—drew his eyes back to her.

Because she’d stopped looking at his cock.

Her gaze had lifted .

Up his stomach. Up his chest. Over the sharp lines of his collarbones and the stretch of muscle beneath his pale skin. He watched her take him in like she was memorizing a painting, like she couldn’t decide which part of him deserved her attention most.

Her eyes dragged back down.

Lower.

Returning to where he was hardening again, now fully awake and very aware of her attention. And for a moment, neither of them said anything. She looked like she didn’t realize she was staring.

And he—

He realized he liked it.

Her eyes on him. Her silence. The intensity of it. The fact that she wasn’t shy, wasn’t flustered—just utterly captivated. He could feel himself responding. Not just physically. Everywhere.

And then a thought—dangerous and warm—slid in:

She wanted to see my face after I came.

Would she want to see it while I touched myself?

The idea coiled around his spine and tightened. He didn’t speak. Didn’t warn her.

He just leaned back a little more, spreading his thighs slightly. One arm tucked under his head, casual. His body open to her in a way it never had been for anyone.

And then his hand—slowly, deliberately—drifted down.

She didn’t move. Her breath hitched.

He wrapped his fingers around himself. Then he spoke, quiet and rough:

“You’re staring.”

She didn’t deny it. Didn’t blink.

So he began to stroke. Slow. Measured. And thought, with something like reverence and ruin coiled in his chest—

If you’re going to stare…

You deserve a goddamn show.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: The Problem with Staring (Sakura's POV of part of Chapter 17)
March 8th, 10:09 PM, Friday

She hadn’t meant to stare.

Not really.

But somewhere between the post-orgasm haze and the absolutely criminal way he was lying beside her—bare skin from the waist down, tousled silver hair, one hand behind his head like he hadn’t just ruined her entire concept of pleasure—her eyes had drifted down.

And… stayed.

Because he was aroused again.

Already.

And her brain—fickle, unhelpful, and increasingly ruled by some dark little gremlin in her subconscious—started running the numbers.

He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved .

But there he was. Just… lying there. Cock resting against his thigh, thick and half-hard, twitching slightly with every slow inhale. No hands. No stimulation. Just her, lying beside him like a siren and clearly the only reason his body had decided round two was necessary.

And now she was stuck. Because all she could think— all she could think—was:

Should I ask him for sex?

The idea landed like a rock in her gut. Immediate. Heavy. Because she wanted to. Not out of obligation or momentum. Just— want. That simple, that brutal.

But was it too much? Too quick?

They hadn’t talked about that part. They hadn’t set rules or asked questions or tested any language around it. He’d touched her. She’d gone down on him. But that —the act itself—still hovered like an unopened door.

And maybe she should leave it closed.

Maybe she should bask in what they’d already done and not sprint straight into full-on sex like a woman with no chill or strategic reserve.

Or…

Maybe she could ask anyway.

Her eyes dropped back down.

God, he was beautiful.

Completely unbothered by his own nudity. Just laying there like a painting—relaxed, half-lidded, body stretched out and lazy in the aftermath of both giving and receiving. His cock twitched again, and her breath caught slightly. She wanted to touch it. Climb on top of him. Sink down and—

Her thoughts slammed to a halt as he shifted beside her.

Just a little. A low sigh. And then—*

His shirt came off. She hadn’t expected it.

He peeled it off like it was nothing—like he’d just realized he was warm and did what any normal person would do—and god help her , she forgot entirely what she was thinking.

Because his chest?

Was not casual.

Lean muscle pulled tight beneath pale, perfect skin. Scars, yes, but faint—quiet reminders of who he was, not what he’d survived. His abdomen rose with a deep, steady breath, and all she could do was watch .

Her eyes traveled up. His chest. His neck. His jaw. Then back down. And there it was again.

Hard. Waiting. Wanting —maybe.

And the worst part?

He caught her.

Didn’t even need to say anything. Just tilted his head slightly and looked at her, like he’d known the exact moment she started thinking impure thoughts and was just now giving her space to make the next move.

Her whole body locked up.

And then—

His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate. It drifted down his stomach. Past the defined line of his navel. Down. He wrapped his fingers around himself.

Started to stroke.

Sakura forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t say anything until she was visibly staring again, and then—casually, smugly —

“You’re staring.”

She didn’t deny it.

She couldn’t . Because her mouth was dry, her thighs were clenching, and the only thought left in her brain was:

If I ask him for sex now, I don’t think I’ll survive it.

But god, she wanted to ask. Especially if he was going to give her this kind of show first..

He was touching himself.

Right next to her.

Openly. Unapologetically. Slowly.

And somehow— somehow —this wasn’t awkward or clinical or distant. It wasn’t teenage fumbling or an accidental walk-in or any of the detached, abstract things she’d always assumed it would be.

It was mesmerizing .

His fingers were long and sure, wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, stroking in a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her want to make a goddamn field study out of it. The way his palm flexed, the way his thumb dragged over the head on every third or fourth pass—it was so practiced, so precise , and so incredibly intimate that it took every ounce of willpower she had not to climb on top of him and beg .

Her mouth was dry. Her breath was uneven. And her entire understanding of male masturbation had just been completely and permanently corrected.

Because this?

This was hot.

Unreasonably, devastatingly hot.

Not just because of his body—which was stupidly beautiful, lean and scarred and sculpted in a way that made her want to bite her own knuckles—but because it was him . Because Kakashi was doing it. Next to her. Not trying to hide it. Not flinching from her attention. Just stroking himself, slow and controlled, watching her watch him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She swallowed.

Felt her thighs clench.

And before she could stop herself—

“Can I watch for a little while?”

Her voice was quiet. Barely a whisper. He turned his head just enough to look at her. Expression unreadable. And then—God help her—he nodded.

Didn’t say a word. Just kept stroking. And something in her spine melted. Because now it was permission. Now it wasn’t just her sneaking glances like some pervert who didn’t know what to do with herself. Now she could look.

So she did.

She watched the way his hand moved. The way his stomach tensed. The way his cock twitched against his palm, leaking just slightly at the tip with every slick drag of skin. Every now and then he shifted his grip, angled his wrist, flexed his hips just a fraction—and it was so deliberate , so controlled , it made her whole body ache.

“Do you like watching?”

Her eyes snapped to his at the velvet heavy sound of his voice. His lips parted on a soft inhale and his eyes fluttered shut, mirroring the twist of his wrist below. 

“ Yes ,” she breathed, flooded with so much desire that it made her shudder. Her gaze drifted back down and locked. She couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to miss even a second of this offered intimacy. The way he sometimes loosened his grip and just teased the head, then tightened again, flowing into a stroke all the way to the base.

And she thought, a little dizzy—

How did I not know this could be sexy? How did no one tell me this could be holy?

Because this wasn’t crude. This wasn’t a punchline. This was a man unraveling because she was there to see it. And she was suddenly very, very glad she asked.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Three Words and No Air
March 8th, 10:14 PM, Friday

She was still watching him.

Still lying beside him like this was perfectly ordinary, like she hadn’t just asked for permission to observe something private and then turned it into something sacred with her gaze alone.

Like she hadn’t just admitted that she liked watching .

Of course she did.

And god, what a gaze .

She wasn’t shy about it now. Not hiding. Her eyes tracked every movement of his hand, slow and steady over the length of his cock, like she was trying to memorize him stroke by stroke.

She looked curious. Focused. Her bottom lip was red from where she’d been chewing it. Her pupils were blown wide. And her breathing—shallow, tight, hungry —was as distracting as the heat building low and fast in his spine.

And still—she said nothing.

Did nothing. Just watched.

He thought, absurdly, she’s going to watch me come.

And that alone—

The idea of it—

Was nearly enough.

Because the way she was looking at him wasn’t casual. It wasn’t pornographic. It was personal. Like she had been invited into something she didn’t quite know the shape of yet but still wanted —badly—and was trying to hold still in the middle of it so she didn’t scare it away.

His hips flexed slightly. His breath caught.

She noticed.

He could feel her watching every shift of his body, every twitch of muscle and rhythm of breath, like she wanted to see the moment he broke. And he was going to. Gladly. Right there, in front of her, under her careful eyes and reverent silence, he was going to—

“I want you.”

He froze.

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t performed. They slipped out of her mouth like they’d escaped on accident. Like she hadn’t meant to say them—not yet—but they’d forced their way out anyway.

Three words. And his entire body locked. He turned his head toward her slowly. She looked like she regretted saying it. Not because she didn’t mean it. Because she did.

And now it was real.

His hand stilled on himself. Not completely. Just long enough to feel the echo of her words settle deep in his chest.

I want you.

Not I want this.

Not I want sex.

Not let’s fuck.

You.

He swallowed hard. His cock twitched in his hand. And for the first time all night, he didn’t know what to do with himself. All movement had stopped.

Because Sakura—sweet, brilliant, evil Sakura—had just said the three most destabilizing words in the human language, and he couldn’t breathe right.

“ I want you. ”

And now it was sitting in the space between them like a live explosive.

His brain was stuttering violently. His hand was frozen mid-stroke. His mouth was open. Nothing was coming out.

Then—

A breath. A ragged inhale. And—

“Okay,” he said, voice barely functional. “Wait. Hold on. Just—just hold on.”

He turned toward her fully, cock still hard, flushed, and very much ignored as his body scrambled to not misread the moment.

His eyes searched hers.

“You—” He paused. “I mean. When you say ‘I want you’—do you mean… like… now?”

She blinked. Wide-eyed. Still flushed. Still chewing that same spot on her lip.

“Like… now now?”

No answer. Just that look. That terrifying, devastating look that suggested she was maybe about to crawl into his lap and destroy his last three brain cells.

He ran his other hand through his hair, raked it back, already spiraling. It didn’t escape him that the sight of him still holding his own cock while also crashing into an abyss must look very comical. He let go for a moment. 

“Okay. Okay. Are we talking about wanting me as in… emotionally? Because we’re going to need to build a whole separate conversation tree for that—”

She snorted. Quiet. Dangerous. He didn’t let her interrupt.

“—or are you saying that you want me to have sex with you right now, because I am trying— really trying —to be responsible here, and I need to be absolutely one hundred percent certain that I’m not misunderstanding whatever level of feral energy is happening in your brain at this exact moment.”

He was talking too fast. He knew he was. But he couldn’t stop.

Because his heart was thudding against his ribs like it was trying to punch its way out, and the heat in his stomach was twisting tighter, and the image of her underneath him —panting, flushed, pulling him in—was already too vivid.

And now she was sitting up slightly. Meeting his eyes. Her mouth opened. And he braced for it. She looked like she was considering it. Not hesitating. Not embarrassed.

Just… thinking. Like she was running a final diagnostic on whatever unhinged statement had just exited her mouth and determining whether or not she wanted to commit to it in broad daylight.

His pulse was in his throat.

And she was just sitting there. Legs folded loosely. Cheeks flushed. Bare shoulder peeking out from the blanket. Watching him spiral with the kind of calm amusement normally reserved for small animals caught in large traps.

Then—finally—

She gave him a small grin. Not wicked. Not seductive. Just genuinely amused. And she said, in that maddeningly even tone:

“Well… I’ll want to tomorrow.”

His brain skipped a step.

“And the next day.”

His spine locked up.

“And the one after that.”

Breathing? Overrated.

“And probably every day for the next several months.”

He stared at her like she was speaking a forgotten dialect of Ancient Foreplay.

She tilted her head slightly, all mock-thoughtful, eyes shining.

“After tonight, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop thinking about it.”

Then—

Then, she shrugged. Casual. Devastating.

“So why not now? And why not both? The sex...and you. Actually having you is more important than the sex…just maybe not right this second.”

Kakashi’s brain blue-screened. Fully. Completely. There wasn’t even a reboot animation. Just static. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

She raised her eyebrows like she was waiting for him to catch up.

And all he could think—all that echoed through the collapsing shell of what used to be his functioning adult mind—was:

Well. Shit.

He couldn’t let it go. He wanted to. God, he wanted to more than anything—wanted to shut up and touch her and feel her wrap her arms around him and pull him into her body like she meant it.

But something ancient and reflexive in his chest—the last rattling defense mechanism he hadn’t burned down yet— refused to stay silent.

Because this? This wasn’t teasing anymore.

This wasn’t wandering fingertips or swapped photos or late-night confessions whispered into the backs of pillows. This wasn’t the charged curiosity of friends toeing a line and pretending they’d still be fine after.

This was sex .

And not casual sex. Not random sex. Not once-in-a-while, this might happen again sometime sex.

It was her.

And if she let him inside her—if she offered that—there would be no coming back from it.

So before he could stop himself, he sat forward, hand still half-forgotten between his thighs, mouth dry and heartbeat slamming in his throat.

“Sakura.”

She blinked. That easy smile still tugging at her lips. He shook his head once. Slow. Cautious.

“Do you understand what you’re asking me?”

She opened her mouth, probably to say yes , but he kept going. Gentle. But firm.

“You’re asking your captain —your team leader —to have sex with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Kakashi—”

“No,” he said, cutting her off softly. “No, I need to say this.”

Because she needed to hear it. Not because he thought she didn’t mean it—but because she did. Because she meant it so much it shook something loose in his chest and made him feel seventeen and ancient all at once.

He exhaled.

“I’ve crossed lines with you already. A lot of them. And I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.”

He watched her closely now. His voice dropped lower.

“But this? This is a different line.”

She stopped smiling. Not because she was retreating. Because she was listening.

“If we cross this one, we don’t go back. Not really.”

He sat back slightly, suddenly aware of how tight his stomach had gotten, how much tension was still coiled in his body.

“Everything else—what we’ve done already… you could call it fooling around. If you wanted. You could say it didn’t mean anything. That it was just something we tried.”

He swallowed.

“You could decide, in a few weeks, that you didn’t want to do it again. That it was good, but it wasn’t it . And we could go back to being whatever we were before.”

He looked at her now—really looked.

And said, quieter:

“But this? This would stick.”

There it was. The truth. It wasn’t about guilt. It wasn’t about roles or rules. It was about her. And what it would mean if she gave herself to him completely.

Because he knew himself. And if he had her like that—if he was allowed to press his body to hers, slide inside her, hold her while she gasped against his skin—it wouldn’t fade. It wouldn’t be something he could walk away from. It would brand him. And he needed her to know it.

Before he gave in to the part of him that already belonged to her.

She was quiet while she thought. Then her mouth opened a little, her brows knit together, and she looked up at him with a soft smile. 

“I already couldn’t go back to”—she lifted her fingers in air quotes—”’whatever we were before’. I don’t think we’ve been there since you sent that obscene selfie.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Line He Doesn’t Want to Cross Lightly (Sakura's POV of part of Chapter 19)
  March 8th, 10:19 PM, Friday

He sat up.

Not sharply. Not with panic. Just… deliberately. Like her words had cracked something open in him he couldn’t ignore. And suddenly, she knew.

He was going to say something Important™.

She could feel it in the way he looked at her—still hard, still naked, still flushed and breathing like her attention alone was its own form of heat—and yet now there was something serious behind his eyes. Something heavy. Ancient. Like he wasn’t just thinking about them —but about everything that came with them.

“Sakura.”

Her name came soft. Low. But wrapped in caution.

She blinked. That little smile still clinging to her lips. He didn’t smile back. Didn’t scold. Didn’t frown. Just said, slowly:

“Do you understand what you’re asking me?”

She started to answer, instinctively— Of course I do —but he kept talking. Gentle. Firm. Something just beneath the surface of his voice made her stop.

“You’re asking your captain. Your team leader. To have sex with you.”

Her stomach flipped. Not in panic. But in recognition . Because she was.

And he said it like he needed to put the words in the air and feel how real they were. Like saying it aloud made it something heavy and sacred and not to be played with.

“I’ve crossed lines with you already. A lot of them. And I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.”

Her chest tightened. Warm. But he kept going. And his voice dropped— lower , steadier, less afraid and more anchored .

“But this? This is a different line.”

He was watching her so closely. Like he was terrified she’d nod without thinking. Like he wanted her to understand in a way words alone couldn’t hold.

And then—

“Everything else… what we’ve done already… you could call it fooling around. If you wanted.”

His eyes didn’t waver. Neither did his voice.

“You could say it didn’t mean anything. That it was just something we tried. You could decide, in a few weeks, that you didn’t want to do it again. That it was good, but it wasn’t it.”

She could feel something catching in her throat. Because she couldn’t imagine thinking that. Not now. Not after this. Not after him.

“But this?” he said softly. “This would stick.”

And that’s when she realized what he was really afraid of. Not her. Not guilt. Not rules.

He was afraid that if she let him touch her— really touch her—he wouldn’t survive it if she ever wanted to take it back. He wasn’t warning her.

He was protecting himself. And protecting her from the possibility that she was following lust, when she knew, had known, from the moment he walked across her threshold, that she was following her heart . 

And somehow, this made her love him more.

Because it wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. The restraint. The caution. The impossible gentleness of a man who could break mountains and instead chose to hold her heart like it was something fragile. Like he believed he was the dangerous one.

And she realized, all at once, that she’d been loving him for a long time now.

Not just the first time he brought her tea when she was sick, or the first mission where he bled and still made sure she ate. Not just the ridiculous text messages or the way he looked at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world some days. It wasn’t any one of those moments—it was all of them, building quietly into something undeniable.

It was in the silence of their morning walks, when they didn’t need to speak. In the way he always sat between her and the door, without drawing attention to it. In the reluctant little smile he gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking. And now—right now—it was in the way he panicked when he realized she was serious, and how deeply he listened, how he asked again and again without words: Are you sure?

Every piece of him was suddenly vivid in her mind. The way his lashes caught the light. The faded scar that curved under his ribs. The quiet way he said her name, soft as breath. And the part that ruined her most—the way that even now, naked and blushing, he was still trying so hard to be good.

Not for anyone else. For her.

And she loved him for it. Gods, she loved him for it.

It had crept in slowly, so quietly that she hadn’t noticed it happening. But now that she had, it was like naming something she’d always known. A truth she’d already been living with for months.

And looking at him now, so open and terrified and trying to protect something fragile between them, she knew that she didn’t just want to sleep with him. She didn’t just want the heat of his body or the thrill of his hands on her skin.

She wanted all of it. The quiet. The ache. The tenderness. The mess. She wanted him.

She opened her mouth.

“I already couldn’t go back to ‘whatever we were before’. I don’t think we’ve been there since you sent that obscene selfie.” 

She didn’t even know what “whatever we were before” was anymore. She didn’t remember it, like it was some kind of distant era overshadowed by now . 

And she was completely and utterly fine with that.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Just Kakashi
March 8th, 10:22 PM, Friday

She was quiet again.

He’d said his piece—more than he meant to, probably—and now he sat there, watching her absorb it. Hearing the words I couldn’t go back bouncing around in his skull.

His heart was pounding. Not with lust anymore. With fear.

Because he'd handed it to her, raw and trembling: the truth that this wasn’t just about sex. That this wasn’t casual for him. That once this line was crossed, it would be carved into him. Permanent. Irrevocable. And he needed her to know. To understand that what she was asking wasn’t just another step forward. It was the point of no return.

She watched him. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Just thinking .

She bit her lip again. Her brows drew together slightly. And he braced for retreat. For hesitation. For the soft letdown— maybe not tonight , maybe not like this —because it would hurt, but it would be safe .

And then she said—

“You’re my best friend before you’re any of those other things.”

He forgot how to breathe. Her voice was quiet. But steady.

She sat up a little more, sheet slipping down her chest, hair falling loose over one shoulder, her expression open and terrifyingly sincere.

“And I don’t want anyone else.”

Her words came slow, like she was still figuring out how to say it right, how to explain what he had made so complicated.

“I want you . Not the team leader. Not the captain.”

She looked him right in the eyes. No hesitation. No retreat.

“Just Kakashi.”

And that —

That shattered him.

He stared at her. Because in all his spirals, in all his precautions, in all his carefully managed emotional architecture, he hadn’t accounted for the possibility that she’d say exactly what he needed to hear. Not as validation. As truth. He didn’t say anything. Not yet. Because his heart was in his throat and his hands were shaking and something in his chest felt like it was splitting open in the best possible way.

She wanted him. Just him. No title. No mask. No armor.

Just Kakashi.

And it was going to ruin him.

He forced his limbs out of their stunned paralysis. The fear had drained from him like a fever breaking—swept away by her words, her clarity, her eyes when she said just Kakashi . Like the universe had paused to let him feel what it was to be wanted with nothing attached. 

Just him. Just her. And now, all he felt was certainty . But even so—he was careful. Like she was something rare.

He shifted across the bed and reached for her with both hands, gentle as breath, guiding her back onto the pillows. She went easily, fluidly, without hesitation, eyes never leaving his. One hand curled lightly in the blanket. The other slipped behind his neck as he leaned over her, settling into the space between her legs like he was always meant to be there.

Her thighs cradled his hips. Her warmth seeped into his skin.

And he exhaled. Deep. Quiet.

Like this —not sex, not the act—just this moment, her beneath him and looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered, was something he'd been holding his breath for his whole life.

He kissed her.

Softly.

No agenda. No rush. Just mouth to mouth, breath to breath, the shared quiet of people who had finally arrived at the same place.

One of his hands drifted—slowly—to the hem of her shirt.

Paused there. Fingers teasing the fabric. He didn’t move it yet.

Just touched the edge of it, brushing over the dip of her waist and the warm skin just above the waistband of her underwear like it might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough.

The tension was bleeding out of him like a slow leak, deflating every tight coil of doubt in his chest, leaving behind nothing but the grounding weight of her .

But still—

Still.

He hovered there. Cleared his throat once, almost silently. Then mumbled against her mouth:

“Can I—uh—get this off you? The shirt. I mean. I know we’ve technically already crossed several lines of decency and I did just have my fingers inside you, but I feel like it’s polite to ask.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Deadpan. Sincere. Embarrassed.

She barked out a laugh. Right against his mouth.

A short, startled burst of sound that cracked through the heat between them and made her smile widen with something halfway between fondness and are you serious . Then she nodded, still grinning, her breath warm against his lips.

“Yes, Kakashi. You can take my shirt off.”

He let out a breathy huff of relief—and then immediately realized he had no idea what to do with his hands.

Which was ridiculous. He’d fought wars. Disarmed bombs. Sutured open wounds with chakra-frayed nerves and trembling fingers. But somehow, sliding a cotton tank top over the head of a woman who had already let him touch her everywhere else made his brain trip over itself.

Still, he managed.

Gently.

Carefully.

His fingers found the hem again, slipped under it, brushing against the warm skin of her waist. She lifted her arms obediently, eyes soft and curious, and he pulled the fabric up, slow and reverent, baring her inch by inch until it passed over her head and she was—

He stopped.

Stared.

She blinked at him. “Kakashi?”

His breath caught in his throat. His hands were still holding the shirt mid-air like he’d forgotten what gravity was. He blinked, once, twice—then slowly lowered it, setting it aside like it was something fragile and breakable.

She was watching him now, a faint flush blooming across her chest. And he didn’t say anything. Because he couldn’t. He had seen breasts before. He had touched them. 

He had—objectively—known what to do with them. They were not new to him.

But these ?

Hers ?

They were divine.

Not just because they were full and soft and impossibly pretty. Not because her nipples had already begun to harden in the cool air. Not because they bounced slightly with each breath and made his brain melt into pudding.

It was her. It was the way she looked back at him without flinching. The way she let him look.

The way she lay there like a woman giving a gift, not performing, not hiding, just being —open and bare and letting him see her.

And he was just sitting there. Staring. Completely undone. Like a man dropped to his knees in the middle of a temple. Like something holy had peeled itself out of mist and laid down in front of him and said, Here. Touch.

And he hadn’t touched yet.

Because all he could do was look.

Then—before he could move—

She reached up.

Casually. Like she wasn’t about to break what was left of his composure.

Her hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over the curves, palms lifting and adjusting like she was inspecting them for damage.

Then she tugged on her nipples. Not hard. Just a quick, clinical little pull with her thumbs and forefingers. She looked down at herself, frowning slightly in concentration.

Kakashi forgot how to breathe.

She tilted her head.

“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, still looking down, “still normal.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

She looked back up at him—expression innocent, dry, mildly amused.

“Just checking. With the way you’re staring, I thought maybe they’d changed color or something.”

He made a sound . Not a word. Not a laugh. Not anything dignified. Just a strangled, choked, disbelieving noise from somewhere in his chest that sounded like reverence colliding with cardiac arrest.

He broke.

Laughter punched out of him in one hoarse breath. He dropped his head down to rest in the valley of her chest, hand sliding across her ribs as his forehead met her skin with a soft, helpless thud.

Still laughing. Still reeling .

“You can’t say things like that.”

She grinned down at him, fingers still casually cupping her own breasts like she knew what she was doing.

“You’re the one who was staring like I’d grown a second pair.”

He groaned against her skin. And somewhere in the middle of laughing and dying and pressing his face into her stomach like a man undone, he realized—

God help him, he was in love with her.

Face down against her bare chest, his laughter still hiccupping out of him in breathless little bursts, her skin warm beneath his cheek, her fingers in his hair like she was amused by the slow-motion implosion of his dignity.

Still normal.

God.

He didn’t even know how she’d said it with a straight face.

She was so matter-of-fact. So dry. Tugging on her own nipples like she was making sure a parcel hadn’t been damaged in transit. He huffed another laugh and tried to compose himself, dragging a hand up along her ribs like an apology for the delay in worship.

And then—

Her hand moved. Down. Quick. Smooth. Dangerous.

He jerked .

Actually jerked—an undignified full-body twitch that lifted him slightly off her stomach as her fingers wrapped around him again.

Still hard. Still flushed. Still aching and very ready for any attention she wanted to give.

“ Shit, ” he hissed, half-gasp, half-prayer.

But she was already smirking.

“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “Just checking to make sure there’s still only one of these, too.”

He lifted his head slowly. Stared at her. Absolutely speechless. She was grinning now. Innocent. No, not innocent. Proud of herself. Probably writing mental footnotes for future torment.

“For consistency,” she added, stroking her thumb up along the head, just to be awful.

He dropped his head to her shoulder and let it rest there like the weight of his suffering could be redistributed across her clavicle.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“You’ll die happy.”

He nodded, voice muffled against her skin. “True.”

And still— still —he didn’t stop smiling.

Because her hand was around him.

Her body was under him.

And there wasn’t a damn thing in the world he wanted more.

But there was only so much a man could take. He had let her laugh at his staring. Let her tug on her own nipples , let her grab his dick mid-sentence and claim it was part of a routine inventory.

Now?

Now she was smirking. And that look in her eyes—like she was plotting his downfall in real time and he was just a willing casualty. Which he was.

But still. He had a reputation to uphold. So he took a breath. Let it fill his lungs. And then he moved.

Not rushed. Not forceful. Just focused —like a man remembering exactly what he was built for.

He lowered his mouth to her chest, one hand bracing beside her ribs, the other sliding up to cup her breast fully. His thumb brushed over her nipple, slow and reverent, and then he leaned in. 

His mouth was against her skin. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate circle around her nipple before he finally closed his lips around it and sucked—just once, deep and sharp enough to pull a full-body twitch out of her.

She gasped. Her thighs squeezed around his hips. And he didn't stop.

He gave her the full weight of his mouth and hands—alternating between tongue and teeth, lips and palm, building a rhythm that felt like something filthy masquerading as worship.

She squirmed. Moaned. Arched under him with the kind of slow, twisting need that made his cock throb in her hand. He smiled against her skin. She was unraveling.

Then .

She opened her mouth.

“I know we just talked about how you aren’t my team leader to me right now and all that important profound stuff…”

He slowed slightly, still teasing, still tasting, the low hum in his chest vibrating against her skin.

She kept going. And there was a grin in her voice. That grin.

That grin.

“…but is calling you sensei too much?”

Kakashi froze. Fully. Entirely. Mouth still on her nipple. Brain: offline.

There was a high, hollow ringing in his ears like someone had thrown a kunai into a tuning fork inside his skull.

He lifted his head slowly. Very slowly. Eyes wide.

“ What ?”

She gave him a look of absolute shit-eating satisfaction. Innocent. Evil. Divine.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then dropped his forehead to her sternum with a quiet, muffled—

“I hate you.”

She giggled. Wrapped her legs around him like a vice. And whispered, sing-song sweet:

“Didn’t say no.”

He went back to wrapping his mouth around her nipple, trying his best to act like she didn’t just …done that. But he was malfunctioning. Fully. Not externally—he was still moving fine, still letting his hand stroke across the underside of her thigh as though he were in control of anything at all.

But internally?

All systems were down. Because she had said it.

“Is calling you sensei too much?”

With that voice. That grin. That unholy little upward lilt at the end that somehow sounded like a joke and a goddamn summoning jutsu for his entire nervous system.

And now it was stuck in his head.

Sensei.

Sensei.

Sensei.

His name, he could handle. Kakashi was intimate. Personal. Heavy with trust. But sensei ? That was a weapon. And she knew it. She had weaponized it.

He switched sides now, licking a slow path across the center of her sternum, then dragging his mouth down again to capture the other nipple with the same ruinous attention—but his brain was not where his mouth was.

It was reeling. Short-circuiting. Panicking in slow motion.

Because somewhere deep in his psyche, that word hit the emergency override button labeled “abandon all rational thought” and now he was flying on instinct and muscle memory and lust and not much else.

He needed to do something else to distract himself. And thankfully he had just the perfect thing. The hand that was cupping her drifted down over her ribs, over the flat plane of her stomach, and then he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts, watching her face as he slid them down, panties following, slow and deliberate. She lifted her hips to help him, graceful and maddening and so very calm for someone who had just sent him into an existential crisis.

He was determined to ruin that.

He tossed them aside. Took a breath. Abandoned her breasts altogether with a quiet pop, and smoothly slid down and settled between her legs. Nudged her thighs apart. And then— looked.

And—

Nope. He froze. Completely. Because holy shit.

The sight of her—

Bare, flushed, parted just enough, glistening under the soft light of the room, waiting for him —hit him like a fist to the solar plexus.

His thoughts didn’t just derail. They ceased to exist. Her scent. Her heat. The way she shifted slightly beneath him, thighs flexing, like she was inviting him in —

His mouth actually parted.

Not to speak. Just to breathe. He dragged his gaze up to her face. She was watching him. Still smug. Still smiling.

And he, a grown man with jōnin credentials and multiple commendations for mental focus under pressure, could only manage one thought as his hands slid slowly up her thighs, trembling slightly—

I am not walking away from this the same.

Then the menace wiggled .

Actually wiggled.

Not a stretch. Not a twitch. Not an accidental shift of weight. No—this was a deliberate, smug little full-body shimmy that made her hips roll against the mattress and her thighs part wider, like she was presenting herself on a velvet cushion beneath temple lighting.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. And she did. Because she smirked.

And then she spoke.

“I have...sort of a kink.”

His brain clicked into full alert. Too fast. Dangerous levels of focus. Like rapidly ascending through an ocean, past the surface only to shoot straight into the surface of the moon.

She hadn’t even let him react before she kept going, voice smooth and playful and very self-satisfied:

“Want to hear it? Of course you do.”

He couldn’t look away. She was naked, flushed, radiant in the low light, stretched out beneath him like a gift from whatever god he’d never bothered to believe in—and she was talking like this. Like they were flirting in line at a market and not preparing to commit mutually assured destruction.

“This ought to be particularly interesting to you,” she went on, tilting her head, “since you read smut.”

He twitched. Involuntarily. God help him, she saw it. Smiled wider. She paused.

For dramatic effect.

And he knew it was for effect, and he still fell for it.

She dragged one hand down the center of her body, fingers brushing between her breasts, over her stomach, down between her thighs—but stopping short.

Waiting.

Smiling.

And then she said—

“Describe me.”

Then dipped her finger into the pink wet folds casually and swirled. 

Kakashi blinked. Hard. His entire body had gone very still. His blood had not.

She was still watching him. Expectant. Amused. Gorgeous.

But he was frozen. Because his brain—down to its last functioning neuron —was doing a slow reboot, trying to comprehend what the fuck had just exited her mouth.

Describe her?

Describe this ?

She wanted him to articulate— in words —what she looked like, what she was doing to him, what it felt like to see her like this? He dragged his eyes—slowly, very slowly—from her thighs, her slickness, her soft curves, her smirking mouth—

Up to her eyes. Just to confirm she was real.

And all he could manage again was:

“Huh?”

Flat. Hollow. Like the word had wandered out without clearance. It was becoming a thing . She grinned. And he knew— knew —he was already doomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: The Gauntlet Has Been Thrown
March 8th, 10:47 PM, Friday

She didn’t let up.

Of course she didn’t.

He was still kneeling between her legs like a man turned to salt, staring up at her in disbelief, and she looked— smug.

Smug in the way only someone very naked and very aware of their power could be.

“Hmm,” she mused, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her lower lip. “You do read the sex scenes in the Icha Icha books, right?”

His eye twitched.

She said it like she wasn’t lying there splayed out beneath him, glistening, radiant, demanding literary commentary like it was foreplay.

“Or are you one of those shy little prudes who skips over them?”

His jaw actually dropped.

Her voice dipped lower, playful and faux-concerned, the kind of teasing that burned more because it was so confident.

“Because if you are,” she continued, stretching luxuriously, “this kink is going to go very poorly for me. And you wouldn't want that, would you?”

She smiled. Bright. Cheerful. Demonic.

He felt something in his spine snap.

Challenge. Unholy challenge. And oh, did it take. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t blink.

Just stared at her like she’d thrown a kunai through the code of his personality and called him a coward.

Then—very calmly—he placed one hand on her inner thigh.

She stopped smiling. He leaned forward. His voice dropped.

And he said, with the kind of precise, murderous softness usually reserved for kill orders:

“You want me to describe you?”

Her breath caught. Too late. He was already moving.

“Lying back like this,” he murmured, fingertips dragging up the inside of her thigh, “with your legs parted for me like you’ve never once heard the word shame—”

She gasped, and he didn’t miss the way her hand slid against the blanket like it was preparing to find something to curl in her fist.

“—your skin flushed, your breasts rising every time you inhale, already aching from how I touched them.”

He deliberately let his tongue wander out and tease his bottom lip.

He leaned closer.

Didn’t even blink.

“And this—” his hand brushed between her legs, slow, featherlight, just enough to make her thighs jump “—wet, and warm, and so fucking soft I don’t even want to blink in case I miss something.”

She moaned—choked, quiet, desperate.

He wasn’t done.

“You look like a fantasy someone made real just to see if I’d survive it.”

He spoke the next words directly above her clit as his mouth hovered.

“Still think I skip the good parts?”

Her hands finally clutched the sheets. He smiled. Like a man with nothing to lose.

She wasn’t answering his question.

Which was fine.

Because she was currently too busy squirming beneath him, thighs tense, hands knotted in the sheets, and lips parted like she’d forgotten how vowels worked.

He’d earned it.

Every sound. Every twitch. Every breathless little gasp that escaped her when he whispered what she looked like, what she felt like, what she was in this moment—laid out for him like something too holy to touch and too irresistible not to.

But now?

Now she wanted a performance.

She wanted him to speak her pleasure into existence, wanted the literary version of his mouth as he did unspeakable things to her body.

So.

He would be exact .

And he would also—because he was him —be unreasonable .

Without a word, he leaned down between her legs, gripped her thighs with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch—

And gave her one, single, obscene flick of his tongue over her clit.

She jumped . Inhaled sharply, spine arching an inch off the mattress.

He pulled back. Sat up slowly. Wiped the corner of his mouth with maddening precision. And looked at her. Waiting. Expectant. Smug as sin .

She blinked, dazed. “What—?”

He tilted his head, like he was waiting for her to connect the dots. Which she would , eventually. She was brilliant, after all. But right now she was also very naked, very wet, and very overstimulated from a single flick of his tongue.

He gave her another few seconds.

Then said, casually:

“Well?”

She stared.

He just raised his brows. Patient. Unmoving.

“You did ask me to fulfill your kink,” he added lightly. “So I assume you’ll be providing live feedback?”

Her mouth dropped open. Then slowly, slowly , curved into a disbelieving grin.

“Are you—” she tried, then laughed— actually laughed —incredulously. “Are you asking for a performance review?”

He leaned in again, voice soft and deadly:

“I don’t continue without grades, Sakura.”

She couldn’t believe him.

No—she absolutely could.

Because this was Kakashi —a man who could neutralize enemy combatants in his sleep, recite literature while dodging kunai, and apparently reduce her to molten nerve endings by whispering graphic prose about her own body like he was narrating a holy text.

And now?

Now he was sitting there , perfectly still between her thighs, arms resting on his knees, looking entirely too composed for someone still very, very naked—and asking for a goddamn performance review.

Not of the flick of his tongue—that had been devastating enough—but of the words . The ones he’d said right before. The ones that had made her legs fall open and her brain melt into some kind of short-circuited soup.

“ You did ask me to fulfill your kink ,” he’d said, dry as sandpaper and twice as smug. Like they were mid-training exercise and not seconds away from her dissolving into his mouth.

She blinked at him.

He arched a brow, expectant.

She stared another second.

And then—because of course —she started to smile.

“Okay,” she said slowly, like she was conceding a point in a debate. “Valid.”

That startled him slightly—just enough for his posture to shift.

“I just think,” she continued, lifting her chin slightly, voice syrupy with menace, “that maybe a few sentences isn’t enough to draw a full conclusion .”

His expression changed. It was subtle—but there. A flicker of something darker under his skin. Awareness. Anticipation. Maybe fear. Hopefully fear. Good.

She licked her lips and gave him the full grin now.

“I’ll need a bigger sample size.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her.

So she laid it out.

“So. Keep going.”

She gestured toward herself—one hand lazy on the sheets, the other propped behind her head like she was lounging under a sun lamp and not spread out like a feast.

“And since I assume you can multitask—legendary ninja, brilliant mind and all that—” she tilted her head, “—you can use your tongue while you describe what you’re doing.”

He blinked. Twice. Mouth parted.

Staring at her like she had just slapped him with a scroll labeled Mission: Die for Her. She leaned forward slightly, voice softening with mock sympathy:

“I want… live commentary.”

There it was. That tiny flinch in his fingers. His eyes darted down her body. Back up. His breath went tight.

“You want live commentary,” he repeated slowly, like he was still buffering.

She smiled, teeth and sin.

“Word for word.”

And then she laid back. Spread her thighs just a little wider. Tilted her chin like a woman who knew the match was already over.

“Start the sample.”

Another challenge. Another impossibly reckless, devastating, perfectly Sakura challenge.

He should’ve expected it. Of course she wouldn’t just let him off the hook with a single whisper of filth and a conveniently timed tongue flick. No. That would be far too merciful.

Instead, she wanted a sample size .

With live commentary.

While he used his mouth.

He stared at her—fully, hungrily, reverently—as she reclined like a queen demanding a live reading and a full-course meal at the same time. Legs spread. Eyes bright. Smirk carved into her lips like she already knew she’d won.

And maybe she had. But that didn’t mean he was going to take it lying down. Or rather—he would , but not without leaving her in ruins first.

He inhaled once. Deep. Centering. Then settled between her legs again.

"All right," he said, voice gravel-soft, deadly calm. “You want live commentary. A bigger sample. Constructive oral analysis.”

She blinked. Smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

“Then I hope you’re ready to rewrite your grading scale.”

And with that, he lowered his head. No teasing this time.

His mouth found her instantly, tongue parting her folds with practiced reverence, a slow, thorough lick that started low and dragged up —deliberate and unrelenting—until he landed against her clit and circled once, slow and firm.

Her hips jumped. Good. Now for the commentary.

He let his lips brush her, then murmured against her skin:

“You’re so wet, Sakura. I barely have to part you. My tongue just—” he dragged it over her again, slowly “—slides in.”

She made a noise—something between a gasp and a choked plea. He kept going.

“You taste like heat and salt and something mine, ” he breathed, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh before moving back in. “I could write poems about this.”

Another flick. Gentle. Then firmer.

She shuddered.

“But instead,” he murmured between strokes, “I’ll just keep using my mouth and hope your grading curve includes moaning my name.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair.

Hard. Pulling.

He groaned into her— actually groaned , the vibrations sending another tremor through her thighs—and doubled down.

Tongue steady. Lips open. Hand sliding beneath her thigh to keep her wide and grounded as he gave her everything he had. He would exceed expectations . He would fly past outstanding. And if she wanted legendary ?

She was going to get it, and she was already unraveling. 

It was in the way her hips moved—restless, searching, desperate for friction even though she already had it . In the way her thighs trembled every time his tongue circled her clit. In the way her hands clenched in his hair like she didn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away before she combusted entirely.

And him?

He was methodical .

Because if she wanted commentary, he’d deliver a full lecture. But this time—now that she was gasping and half-sobbing and so close he could feel the tension building in her spine—his words turned sharper. Quieter. More devastating.

Not poetry. Not filth. Facts.

“You’re pulsing,” he murmured into her, between long, slow strokes of his tongue. “I can feel it in your clit—tiny little flutters every time I lick here—”

He flattened his tongue, pressed hard.

She cried out, hips jolting.

He pulled back. Just slightly. Let his breath ghost over her, hot and ragged.

“You’re right there , aren’t you?”

She whimpered. Nodded. Tried to speak. He didn’t let her.

“You want to come on my mouth,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers, voice barely audible. “You want me to watch you while you fall apart, don’t you?”

Her head fell back, mouth open, panting. Perfect. He flicked his tongue again—once, twice—then slowed just enough to feel her try to chase it.

“Sakura—do you know how fucking beautiful you look like this?”

Her breath hitched.

“All pink and open, wet for me, dripping down your thighs because I said you looked like a fantasy—”

A sound ripped out of her throat. He grinned.

“You’re going to come,” he breathed. “And you’re going to remember it.”

He sealed his mouth over her clit, sucking once—hard—and slid two fingers inside her, curling deep, precise, unrelenting.

Her body jerked. Her hands fisted in his hair. And then she shattered.

Quiet at first—just a broken exhale, a stutter in her breath—but then it hit her full force, her thighs clamping around his head, her whole body arching off the bed as she came on his mouth and fingers, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

He didn’t stop until she trembled. Didn’t stop until she twitched every time he licked her.

Only then—only when she collapsed fully back into the sheets, blinking at the ceiling like the stars had rearranged themselves—did he kiss the inside of her thigh and sit back on his heels.

Chest rising. Fingers wet.

Mouth kiss-swollen. She was speechless.

And he was satisfied.

Her brain had leaked out of her body.

That was the only reasonable explanation.

She was still lying there, technically. Her limbs were present. Her brain was vaguely aware of her name. But the rest of her? Scattered into the astral plane, drifting somewhere above the treetops, stunned into pure silence by the fact that her mouthy, smug, irritatingly talented best friend had just blown her entire nervous system out through the top of her head.

And now—

Now he had the audacity to speak.

She felt the mattress shift. Felt the warmth of him rising slightly, lifting off her legs, settling back on his heels with maddening control.

And then:

“Well?”

Again . 

The word dropped like a rock into the shallow pool of her stunned consciousness. She blinked. Actually blinked at the ceiling.

Well?

She turned her head. He was staring down at her, bare-chested, mouth flushed, two fingers still glistening with her orgasm—and wearing that face.

That face.

Mild curiosity with a layer of devil beneath it. Like he knew he’d just dismantled her chakra system like a misaligned gear assembly and was now waiting for notes .

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her lips moved again. Still nothing. Eventually, she managed to lift her arm and gesture vaguely at him.

Not helpful. Not coherent. But definitely something.

He raised an eyebrow.

She cleared her throat—tried to, anyway—and finally croaked:

“You’re asking me to form sentences.”

He tilted his head, ever so slightly.

“It was your kink.”

Her chest rose. Fell. Sharply.

“I’m going to punch you.”

He smiled. Slow. Satisfied.

“So I’ll mark that as ‘broke the rubric,” he said, and she watched helplessly as he slid his fingers into his mouth and licked them clean.

She groaned and covered her face with both hands.

Her thighs were still twitching. Her breath still hadn’t recovered. And this asshole was out here collecting reviews like he hadn’t just committed an act of war on her nervous system.

You asked for it.

She peeked through her fingers. He was still looking at her. Still smiling.

And God help her—

She wanted more.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Grading on a Curve
March 8th, 11:03 PM, Friday

He was still catching his breath.

Not because he had done anything strenuous. No—he’d just knelt between her thighs like a devoted acolyte and used every tool at his disposal to completely dismantle her higher brain function.

And he had succeeded.

Magnificently. She had gone still in the way only truly wrecked people did. Limbs lax. Breathing shallow. The rise and fall of her chest uneven and stunned, like her body hadn’t caught up to the fact that it had survived . He’d asked her one little word— Well? —and it had taken her a full thirty seconds and possibly divine intervention to attempt a reply.

Which made him feel…Smug. Content. Sore-kneed, a little. But mostly? Triumphant. Until, of course, Sakura remembered she was a menace. She shifted. Just slightly.

He watched as she slid her hand down her own stomach, fingers dragging slowly across the curve of her pelvis like she was reacquainting herself with her own anatomy after temporary death.

His eyes narrowed. She didn’t break eye contact. Not once.

And then—

Her fingers slipped between her thighs. He inhaled, sharp. Watched, hypnotized, as she dipped one finger inside herself—slow, shallow, obscene. Drew it out just as slow. Coated. Shining.

Kakashi could feel the world starting to tilt.

And then, without a single ounce of shame—

She brought that finger to her mouth.

And sucked. Not quick. Not clinical. Full lips. Hollowed cheeks. A soft pop when she let go. He forgot how to blink.

Then, the cherry on top.

She licked the corner of her mouth and said, in a voice so breezy it should’ve been illegal:

“Satisfactory.”

Kakashi blacked out. Not literally. But his brain did what all overtaxed systems do when pushed past the limits of normal function: it crashed.

He just stared. Dead silent. No words. No quips. No clever retorts.

Because Sakura had just graded his performance by tasting herself like a gourmet dessert and calling it satisfactory —like she was doing a quarterly review and not actively ending his life.

It was one thing to taste her on his own fingers, which had earned him a very overstimulated whine. But this…

He made a sound. It may have been a whimper. She smiled.

And Kakashi—still kneeling, still hard, still unreasonably in love with her—could only think one thing:

Round two.

He crawled up her body like gravity didn’t apply to him anymore.

Every inch of skin passed beneath his hands like it was sacred ground. Her stomach, her ribs, the soft curve beneath her breasts—all of it flushed and shining and his , though the concept still felt too enormous to settle.

When he reached her mouth, he didn’t kiss her right away.

He hovered. Watched her. Let himself bask .

This menace of a woman—this unrelenting , gorgeous, chaos-wielding creature—had just sucked her own orgasm off her finger like it was a lollipop and called his best effort “satisfactory.”

And he loved her. Fully. Terribly. Without armor. So when he finally did kiss her, it wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Soft. Worshipful. Like he was the one trying to make sense of the moment, not control it. And for the briefest moment, in that kiss, he considered—truly considered—that he could just… get up.

Walk away.

Not permanently. He wasn’t suicidal. But as a matter of self-preservation, if she kept deleting his brain cells with that grin and that voice and that utterly reckless body, he might need to retreat just to reboot.

But then—

Then she murmured against his lips, casual and deadly:

“If you leave this bed, I will stab you with a kunai.”

He smiled. Pressed his forehead to hers.

“Well,” he breathed, “what is sex without a little violence?”

Her laugh warmed his mouth. He shifted slightly—just enough to reach down between their bodies, guide himself—

And then froze.

Oh.

The sensation of her heat right there, slick and open and waiting , sent a full-body tremor through him. His hips stuttered forward on instinct, just brushing against her folds, and he swore his vision flickered at the contact.

Fuck.

Okay.

Okay .

He forced himself still, just long enough to inhale.

And then, with all the poise of a man not moments from collapse, he looked down at her, brushing hair back from her forehead like he wasn’t about to ruin both their lives , and said—

“You’ve been bossy all night.”

She raised her brows.

He tilted his head.

“And while I normally enjoy improvising…” he let his voice drop, slow and gravel-soft, “you’re going to have to spell out exactly what you want now.”

Her breath caught. Good.

“Soft, slow love making?” he murmured, voice brushing the shell of her ear. “Rough, hard fucking?”

Her mouth parted.

“Or something in between?” he added, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. He kissed down her jaw. 

She was quiet. Flushed. Glowing.

And he smiled—smug, dangerous, loving.

“Because I,” he whispered, “am a man of many talents.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: All of the Above
March 8th, 11:08 PM, Friday

Her brain was swimming.

Somewhere between the feeling of Kakashi’s body— all of it —settling against hers, the heat of his skin, the reverent way he kissed her like she was made of something precious, and the absolute audacity of him saying she had to spell it out …

Her thoughts were hanging on by a shaky thread.

He was hard and heavy against her, positioned so perfectly she could feel the tip of him nudging at her entrance— not pressing , not yet, just waiting —and somehow that restraint was more devastating than anything else.

And then he’d said it.

“ Soft, slow love making? Rough, hard fucking? ”

Right in her ear. Like he didn’t already know that question was going to rearrange her entire internal filing system. And now—of course —he was watching her. Expecting an answer. The most important multiple choice question of her life.

She was quiet at first. Not because she didn’t know. Because she did . She was just trying to sort out how to say it without short-circuiting both of them on the spot. Her eyes trailed down his chest—bare, pale, unfair . His arms on either side of her, strong and trembling slightly like he was just barely holding himself up. His breath was uneven. His eyes were dark. And he was so close .

Soft, slow love making?

Kami, yes.

She wanted to be touched like that. Wanted to feel every inch of his body settle over hers like a blanket, wanted his lips to linger on her skin, to hold him in the quiet afterward like something sacred.

Rough, hard fucking?

Also yes.

She wanted to know what he looked like when he lost control. Wanted to hear the sounds he made when he couldn’t hold back. Wanted to feel him thrust into her hard enough that she forgot every other man she’d ever known even existed.

Something in between? Yes. Yes to all of it. Yes to him .

She smiled slowly, flushed and certain and reached up to tuck a strand of silver hair behind his ear—just so she could touch him.

“I want all of it,” she said softly. “Everything you’ve got.”

He stilled above her. Her voice dipped lower. Steadier.

“I want you to go slow, then hard. I want you to make love to me like I’m yours, and then fuck me like you’ll never get another chance.”

His eyes closed. Just for a second. Like he was in pain. Her smile widened. She tilted her head slightly and added, completely unhelpfully:

“I’m greedy.”

And that was when she felt it. The tiniest shift in his hips. Just a twitch. But it told her everything . She’d broken him again. And she couldn’t wait to see what happened next. The humor, the teasing, the banter—it didn’t vanish. It just deepened. Softened into something quieter, steadier, heavier .

His forehead pressed to hers. Their noses brushed. And for a second, she just breathed him in. The clean warmth of his skin, the salt of sweat, the lingering scent of whatever soap he used—fresh pine and wind and something distinctly him .