Chapter Text
You had known Kakashi for years—long enough to share blood, missions, silence, and the kind of tension that never quite tips into anything. You even served together in ANBU. But timing was never kind; when he wasn’t buried in his ghosts, you were wrestling your own.
Then one day, it just… happened. You didn’t mean to walk in on him—swear to the gods. You thought the training ground would be empty, a place to breathe, maybe lose yourself in the rhythm of movements, anything to mute the noise in your chest. But of course, fate’s a bastard. There they were—Team 7.
Naruto was flailing mid-air after botching a Shadow Clone move, Sakura yelling something sharp across the clearing, Sasuke ignoring them both with surgical focus as he perfected a shuriken arc—and Kakashi, of course, was perched on that same old log, book in hand, mask in place, forehead protector slouched with studied carelessness. Same as ever.
But when you stepped out of the trees, his head tilted—not surprised, not startled, just faintly amused.
“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes still on the page, “didn’t know this was shared custody ground now.”
You folded your arms, raising a brow. “Didn’t think you’d be training. Or pretending to.”
He finally looked up, his visible eye crinkling with a smile.
“I am training. Reading Icha Icha counts as psychological warfare prep.”
You sighed, but a smirk tugged at your lip anyway. “I’ll use the other side of the field.”
He almost—almost—closed the book. “Stay if you want. I’ll keep my chaos genins contained.”
You offered the kids a polite nod. “They look harmless. You, Hatake, not so much. Behave.”
He didn’t react, not exactly—but the page he’d been pretending to read hadn’t turned in five minutes.
You moved to the far end of the field and let muscle memory take over, the kind of warm-up you do when your body needs to drown out your mind. Kakashi didn’t stare. He watched.
His students were chaos incarnate.
Naruto launched first—“Sensei, are you even paying attention?”—followed by Sakura’s deadpan,
“You’re staring again.”
Sasuke, barely glancing up, added flatly, “He’s always like that when she’s around.”
Kakashi didn’t blink, didn’t shift—just flipped a page without looking. “I’m training my peripheral vision. Very advanced jōnin technique.”
Naruto whispered “Guys, are they like… exes or something?” Sakura rolled her eyes so hard it was practically a jutsu.
Sasuke didn’t bother lifting his head. “Worse. They have feelings.”
Naruto gagged, full-body drama. “Ugh. That’s so much worse than dating.”
Kakashi sighed and finally looked up. “You’re all terrible at stealth, by the way.”
“HEY!” Naruto suddenly shouted across the field. “You wanna spar?! I bet you could kick Sasuke’s butt!”
Sasuke didn’t even blink. “Tch. She could kick your butt blindfolded.”
Naruto snorted. “Pfft—true.”
Then Naruto grinned like a fox with a matchstick. “Actually, I think Sensei should spar with her. You know, for... training purposes.”
Kakashi didn’t glance up. “I’m retired from public humiliation,” he said, flipping a page with aggressive elegance.
Sakura elbowed Naruto. “Shut up and let them flirt in peace.”
You stretched a leg behind you, slow and deliberate, then raised your voice just enough.
“Don’t flatter yourselves. No one’s flirting with Hatake.” Beat. “He’s barely a challenge.”
Kakashi closed the book—slowly, with ceremony—and finally looked over. Under the mask, you knew he was smirking.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You throw bait like that, don’t be surprised what bites.”
You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips. “Hmm.” Casual. But the challenge was sharp enough to cut.
The seals flicked through your fingers too fast for genin eyes to follow, and Kakashi’s eye narrowed instantly—Oh, she’s showing off.
Shadows bloomed underfoot, not cast by light but born of chakra, creeping like sentient vines, thick and twitching with restrained intent.
Sasuke instinctively took a step back.
“What the—?” Sakura gasped, eyes wide. “Sensei?! What’s she—?!”
Naruto, of course, leapt straight in. “COOL! Shadow vines! LET’S G—” He didn’t finish; a single root snatched his ankle mid-air and faceplanted him with a satisfying thud.
“Ughhhghgh—rude,” came the muffled complaint from the dirt.
Sakura veered right, Sasuke moved left, and you smiled.
The shadows split. Two tendrils lashed out—one snapped toward Sakura, just close enough to make her yelp and dive, while another lunged at Sasuke— just to test him. His Sharingan flared instantly.
And behind it all, Kakashi moved. Because he knew. Knew your style, your first move—always misdirection. He spun mid-air, dodging something only he could see, landed light, and muttered,
“Team 7. Formation C. Don’t get caught. And whatever you do—don’t blink.”
Sakura blurted, “What’s C?! We don’t have a C—!”
“We do now,” Kakashi said.
He went for your wrist—aimed to tag.
A simple touch, enough to say “got you.”
But your hand intercepted.
Then—another seal mid-air.
Then—
BOOM.
A burst of smoke. Clone?
You were already ten steps back.
“You always go for the wrist first.”
He exhaled. Smirk beneath the mask, eyes gleaming.
“Old habits.”
“Old habits make easy prey.”
“Or very good bait.”
And just like that, you were circling again.
You pivoted sharply—just outside the reach of Kakashi’s grab.
No wasted motion. Just instinct and grace.
Then your attention snapped to the kids.
Especially Naruto, trying to crawl out of a mess of shadow loops like a child born into c
lumsiness.
“Eyes up, Uzumaki,” you called. “You think an enemy’s gonna wait for you to tie your shoes?”
Still dodging Kakashi’s half-hearted grabs like he was just a part of the scenery.
He went for you again—a low sweep, silent, sharp.
You stepped over “Not now, Hatake,” casual as breathing. “You had your chance.”
You stepped into their space again. One arm behind your back—pure pressure and precision.
“Teamwork. Strategy. Intent. You three have raw power, but no unity.”
***
They fought well. Not flawlessly—but together. They covered for each other, adapted on the fly, jutsu clashing and weaving like instinct, their shouts ringing out with urgency instead of fear. And when you finally landed in front of them, when they showed something real—not attack, not defense, but choice, unity—your shadows receded, the field stilled, and calm returned like breath after a sprint.
Naruto grinned, bruised and beaming, Sakura straightened with lungs on fire, and Sasuke adjusted his stance, eyes sharp but not cold.
“Good job,” you said, a small smirk tugging your lip. “Maybe your sensei’s not so bad after all.” You winked at the trio.
Then you turned— toward Kakashi.
He caught your strike on reflex, smirk already tugging beneath the mask.
“Should’ve known you weren’t done.”
You moved again. Shadow vines erupted from the ground, serpentine and sharp, weaving to bind, mislead, collapse his footing.
Kakashi flickered—and reappeared mid-air, releasing three tagged kunai. You parried two. The third struck dirt—boom—flash bomb. In the blinding white, your clone switched places.
When the smoke cleared, you were behind him. Leg swipe—feint. He ducked, hands already a blur—Lightning Blade. The Chidori screamed across the field like tearing sky.
You didn’t retreat. You ran into it. Seals mid-charge—your body dissolved into mist. Shadow Veil Technique. Then from the haze—BOOM—a spike of shadow erupted beneath him.
He leapt, just in time, landed with a scratch on his sleeve and a laugh in his chest.
“I’ll return the favor.” His next seals were one-handed—faster, smoother, confident. Then—gone. And suddenly—on you. Sweep. Punch. Palm to shoulder. Elbow to ribs.
You matched, barely—caught his wrist, pivoted, tried to throw, but no luck today.
“You’ve gotten faster.”
“You’ve gotten predictable.” You drove a heel toward him—he caught it. You locked. Spun. Broke apart again, breath sharp, eyes locked—smiling.
***
Kakashi adjusted his mask with a flick of his fingers. “Class dismissed.”
Naruto immediately screamed, Sasuke muttered something about copying every move he’d just seen, and Sakura looked one blink away from tears of awe.
You exhaled—just once, slow and steady—letting the moment settle before cracking a smile, just… satisfied. “Good. You earned a treat”
They were a mess—bruised, dirt-streaked, running on fumes. You looked at them with a soft laugh. “ a treat from me.”
Naruto blinked. “Wait—what?”
“She’s kidding… right?” Sakura asked.
“…She doesn’t look like she’s kidding,” Sasuke muttered.
You planted your hands on your hips. “Come on. What are your favorites? Sweet, salty, deep-fried despair? Your call. I’m buying.”
Naruto regained 200% of his chakra on the spot. “RAMEN.”
“You’re always—” Sakura began, groaning,
but he cut her off with, “Ichiraku’s! Extra pork, miso, double noodles! And dessert!”
You just laughed and turned to walk.
Naruto bounced after, Sakura trailed with a reluctant smile, Sasuke followed, quiet but pensive.
Kakashi fell in step beside you, close enough to brush shoulders. “You didn’t have to treat them.”
“No,” you said, glancing his way. “But I wanted to.”
The ramen shop was small and cozy. Around the table, bowls steamed and laughter spilled like old music; Naruto talked with his mouth full (as always), Sakura tried and failed to stop him, and Sasuke, though mostly quiet, gave himself away with the smallest smirk. They laughed. They ate.
The chaos softened into something comfortable, earned. As the bowls emptied and the kids slumped into food-heavy peace, glowing from the afterglow of a mission survived together, Kakashi looked at you. You held his gaze, just a second too long. Then you stood, smooth and calm, pulled your wallet before he could move—paid.
He blinked, surprised, silent. You stepped out into the night without breaking stride, back straight.
“See you later.” And with that, you vanished into the shadows.
*******
The village had gone quiet. Lanterns glowed low behind windows, the hum of life dulled to a hush, even the wind gentle, like Konoha itself was holding its breath.
And then—knock knock. Soft.
You opened the door like you’d been expecting him. Kakashi stood there—hands in pockets, mask on, hair a windblown disaster.
You raised a brow, leaned against the doorframe, waiting.
“You’re not surprised.”
“Should I be?” you said.
“You looked like you wanted to follow me the second your shoulder stopped stinging.”
He chuckled—low, almost shy.
You moved, just slightly, opening the door enough to let him pass. He stepped in like the threshold was a trap. The door clicked shut behind him.
“Hatake,” you said. Warm in a way that slipped under his skin like heat from a hearth he didn't realize he’d been cold without.
The room held its breath, thick with silence and something heavier. Your voice hadn’t asked a question, but it cracked something open—no jutsu could’ve done it better.
He stepped forward. Then again. Close enough to feel your chakra brush against his—quiet and steady.
“Say it again,” he murmured. “Like that.”
You didn’t step back. Just tilted your head, lips parted in the hint of a smile
“You need to deserve that.”
He froze—not in insult, but in interest, breath hitching, eye sharpening as he read you like a mission scroll. And he liked what he saw.
You leaned in, voice brushing against his skin.
“Or maybe…” His fingers twitched near your arm, a tell. But the sentence died on your lips—not because you didn’t know the words, but because your throat locked around all the things you maybe weren’t ready to give him yet.
The space between you throbbed with potential as Kakashi leaned in just enough to let you feel it—that want simmering beneath the calm.
“Or maybe,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you’re just scared I’ll earn it.” The words lingered, daring. You rose to your toes, and whispered into his ear,
“Just remove this stupid mask…”
He moved slowly, fingers brushing your cheek, the other hand tugging the mask down until it hung loose at his neck.
Then he grabbed your wrist, pinning it to his chest, the steady thud of his heart a war drum between you. His other hand slid up your back, pulling you in until your foreheads touched. “I’ve wanted this…” he breathed against your lips—not kissing, not yet—“…longer than I’ll ever admit.”
Then he kissed you—hard, controlled. His grip slid from your wrist to your waist, then lower, gripping you. And in that kiss, there was no mask, no ANBU, no title. Just Kakashi Hatake.
.
His kiss devoured—but you, you fed it, arching into him, pressing chest to chest while your hands worked his vest open like you had a right to every breath inside him.
The vest hit the floor with a heavy thud, and then it was just fabric, friction, and hunger. His hands roamed—one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh.
His mouth dragged down your jaw, teeth grazing your neck, tongue flicking where your pulse screamed your want.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice barely a breath against your skin, “and I’ll try…”
But he was already beneath your tunika, fingertips skating along the line of your spine, still holding back—barely—just enough to make you crave breaking his control.
So you bit his lip, hard enough to drag a sound out of him, and before he could recover, you shoved.
You stumbled. A couch caught you. Something fell—lamp, scroll, dignity? Didn’t matter. Neither of you flinched.
Kakashi fell back onto the cushions, breath caught, mask forgotten, vest abandoned somewhere in the wreckage—bare-chested, flushed, and staring up at you.
You straddled him, thighs snug around his hips, dressed in something simple and soft that made you look more dangerous than any blade.
“You always this reckless in enemy territory?” he asked, hands resting on your hips like they were waiting for permission. You leaned in, lips grazing his ear.
“Only when I know I can win.” Then you rolled your hips—slow, deliberate—a grind that pulled a hiss straight from his throat. His hand clutched the back of your thigh—not to stop you, just to feel .
“You think this is a game,” he growled.
“Hatake,” you whispered, tone molten, “everything with you is a game. But this time? I’m not playing to lose.”
Then you caught his wrists, pinned them above his head with a grip that was iron-clad—unrelenting—while your mouth? That stayed soft. Teasing.
Your mouth ghosted down his neck, warm breath trailing behind each kiss, each bite, each soft sting soothed just enough to drive him mad.
He didn’t struggle—didn’t pull against the grip that pinned him—but his hands twitched, aching to move.
Your hips rolled, slow and merciless against his, just raw pressure, rising tension, and the sweet burn of restraint. But when his breath hitched—just once—it was victory.
“You’re holding back,” you whispered against his throat, teeth grazing that spot beneath his ear you knew too damn well. “Trying to behave?”
He hated how well you read him.
“You’re not used to someone taking control, huh?” you teased, voice silk over steel.
He laughed, low and breathless. “You think you’re in control?”
And then he bucked—sharp, sudden, hips driving up to lift you just an inch, a reminder that he was still dangerous under all that stillness.
“Y/N,” he murmured, “you sure you want to challenge me?”
You moved, so your lips were brushing the shell of his ear.
“I.” Kiss. “Want.” Another kiss, slow along his jaw. “You.”
His breath caught again, fingers curling into fists beneath your grip, knuckles white—still pinned, pretending control wasn’t already slipping. Then—kiss, deeper now, slow and tasting him. And into that kiss, you whispered, “I want you to show me.”
Your hand slid down his chest, slow, fingertips tracing hard muscle and warm skin until they hooked at the waistband of his pants
“Show me,” you whispered, voice like sin, “how hard do you want me?” And that was it.
The moment the game ended. He didn’t answer—just broke the pin, not out of defiance but desperation, because he needed his hands on you now.
He gripped your hips, hard and unyielding, then flipped you, the cushions catching your gasp and almost-laugh.
Now he was above you, mouth crashing to yours, voice wrecked and raw.
“I’ll show you…” A kiss, deeper than before, bruising, breathless. “…but I’m not stopping until you admit—” Another kiss, this one dragging down your throat, tongue chasing your pulse, “—that you like it when I take control.”
His hand slid up your thigh beneath your dress, slow and sure, while his mouth found the hollow just above your collarbone. You tasted like heat and salt
“You’re already trembling,” he murmured, lips brushing skin, “that for me… or are you just that sensitive?”
Your body jerked—just once, a shiver under his touch. His hand moved to the base of your dress. He paused, just long enough to look at you.
Ask me to stop, the gentleman whispered.
Beg me to continue, everything else in him roared.
You didn’t say a word. You just raised your arms—slowly.
That shattered every ounce of restraint he had left. He grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion.
The fabric hit the floor without a sound.
His eyes moved over you like a scan—focused, deliberate, using his Sharingan like he was memorizing every detail: the curve of your neck, your breasts, the way your stomach moved with your breathing, how your thighs clenched around him like you were holding yourself together by a thread.
You blushed. He saw it. “You’re…” he started, swallowed hard. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
You tried to look away, but he caught your chin, brought your face back to his. “No hiding,” he said. “I want to see it all. Every shiver. Every blush.”
His hands finally landed on your hips—hot and needy—but you pushed him back, firm but playful, and he let you.
Kakashi stumbled into the cushions, half-laughing, half-growling, eyes gone dark with hunger.
You stood up.
There in front of him—bare, still blushing but owning every second. Then you reached for the waistband of his pants, fingers curling around fabric. His body was tense, flushed, heat rolling off him.
Fingertips dragged down, knuckles grazing tight muscle, your eyes locked on his. And when you finally pulled them down? There. He. Was. Hard. Heavy. Straining. Your breath hitched. And Kakashi—he wanted to look away, to deflect, joke, hide. But the deal was made. No hiding. So he sat there and let you see. Let you look.
He let you kneel in front of him like a goddess in disguise.
His hands gripped the couch, knuckles white—not for balance, but to stop himself from grabbing you right then and there.
When he finally found his voice, it came out rough. “You sure you want to play this game, Y/N?”
You pushed his knees apart with both hands—firm, no hesitation. He let them open, breath stuttering, eyes locked on yours. You moved in, slow and close, the heat of your bare skin brushing his thighs.
“I am,” you said, voice low as your hand slid between his legs, fingers parting him with maddening softness. You found his balls—warm, full, and so sensitive the touch made him jolt.
Your fingertips rolled with slow, devastating precision, every stroke sending sharp heat through his spine. He groaned, deep and guttural, head falling back, thighs flexing around you like his control was hanging by a thread.
You stayed right there, between his thighs, breath brushing the base of his cock while your hand worked him with merciless gentleness, rolling his balls in slow, calculated strokes.
You watched him—watched how his head tipped back, mouth parted in silence, hands gripping the couch like he needed it to stay grounded.
You leaned in and let your lips barely touch the head of his cock—a warm kiss, nothing more.
A sharp, shaky inhale tore from his chest. “Fuck…” he breathed, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Then you tasted him—slowly. Your tongue moved with intention, curling around the tip, tracing the ridge, collecting the first beads of arousal. He was already thick, hot, throbbing in your mouth—and you only took a little, just enough to make him crave more.
One hand kept teasing him, light and steady over his balls. The other wrapped firm around the base of his cock—controlling depth, speed, everything.
Then your mouth moved again—slower, deeper, slick glide down his shaft, tongue pressed tight underneath, throat tightening as you took him in.
He groaned—loud, unrestrained, wrecked. “Shit—Y/N—”
You pulled back slowly, breath hot and heavy, a strand of spit still connecting your lips to his cock. Then you dove back in—playful now, letting your head bob in a building rhythm.
Your hand moved in sync, wrist twisting just right at the top as you sucked, then slid down again—deeper, wetter, no mercy.
His thighs were shaking. His jaw clenched. He was panting now, mouth open, caught between begging you to stop or never stop again.
You felt every inch of it—his tension, his pulse, the way his cock throbbed in your mouth like it couldn’t take much more.
His breath turned ragged, broken into short, desperate pulls like a man drowning in heat, in rhythm, in you. His thighs tensed again, locked and twitching, trying—trying—to hold on to some trace of shinobi discipline. But you didn’t stop.
Your hand held him steady at the base, guiding him into your mouth with slick, wet slides, lips sealed tight, tongue pressing under every inch. The other hand still cradled his balls, gentle torment that made him curse under his breath.
“F-Fuck—” he choked, hand flying to your hair, fingers curling hard. “Wait—shit—” He jerked, hips twitched like his body had made the choice for him.
It was the way you looked up at him, eyes locked while his cock slid deeper into your throat—it shattered him. His hips bucked forward, and your mouth took it, all of it.
That was the point. One more broken groan tore from his chest as his cock throbbed between your lips, your throat tight and swallowing around him.
His hands held your head, not to hurt, but to use—to anchor himself in the mess of want and need. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Now He fucked your mouth—controlled chaos, hips snapping forward with a pace that was rough, relentless, and steady.
Your spit coated him, your throat swallowed every twitch, every thick inch, and the sound—gods, the sound—wet and obscene, his hips hitting your face, your mouth gasping and sucking like you needed it as much as he did.
“Gonna—shit—take it—” he rasped, voice wrecked and hoarse like it was being torn out of him. His thighs shook, his balls drew tight, and then he lost it. He shoved deep, buried to the root, and came—hard, hot, pulsing in waves that hit the back of your throat while his entire body trembled. Hands fisted in your hair, breath shattered, he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
“Fuuuck—” he groaned, teeth clenched, and when he finally pulled back, your lips released him with a soft, sinful pop.
Your mouth was slick, your eyes wild, and he looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever survived.
“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck.” He just watched as you swallowed him whole, like it hadn’t even been a choice. His breath staggered out, chest rising hard, still, he didn’t look away.
“You… fuck,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You broke me.”
You looked up at him, smirking, breath still catching in your throat.
“I know,” you said simply. His release still lingered—on your tongue, your lips, your breath. He was leaning back, hair a mess, cock twitching in the aftershocks.
Kakashi stared at you with eyes like he couldn’t believe what had just happened—what you let him do, what you took without asking.
And then you asked, casual
“Never raped someone’s mouth?” The smirk said tease, but the way you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand... He blinked.
Then groaned. Fuck, that sound—half-regret, half-obsession.
And you weren’t finished. “Or never felt such a perfect mouth?”
That sealed it. His eyes dropped to your lips—still wet, still swollen.
He leaned forward, hands sliding down your arms
“I didn’t mean to go that far,” he rasped, pausing just long enough to mean it.
“But I’ll be thinking about that for the rest of my life.”
His hands dropped lower, gripped under your arms, and with one smooth, need-laced pull, he dragged you up into his lap. You straddled him, flushed, your heat pressed right against his softening cock—and he didn’t care. He wanted more. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot, voice low.
“So tell me, Y/N… do I get to taste you now?” Because if you nodded—just once—Kakashi was ready to worship you like you were both shrine and sin, and he was long past redemption.