Written after seeing fanart, what's new? This is going in to a darker sort of Kakashi/Sakura that isn't often explored. I think. So, yeah.

Enjoy!

Sitting at the edge of his bed, thirty year old Hatake Kakashi wondered if he should hate himself. He wondered if he should make her stop, kick her out and make her go home. He wondered if he should use this moment to teach her a lesson for trying to keep him from going insane—he already was insane, he just wasn't advertising it to the general public.

The "her" in question was a girl he had trained for almost a year when she was twelve, Haruno Sakura. He had realized her capabilities before even she herself had, and had tipped the fifth Hokage off about a girl with perfect chakra control and a stubbornness streak a mile wide. When she had drifted off away from him he hadn't been surprised—she was going to become an excellent kunoichi, something he couldn't teach her.

He had taught her later on about how to deal with death, how to make ends meet in the winter when available missions dwindled, how to keep a plant alive even when the things in the fridge were demanding voting rights—how to live the non-existent life of a true shinobi who didn't have time to water the plants or clean out the fridge, who didn't mind just buying extra blankets and forgoing heating rather than paying an astronomical heating bill, how to keep living despite everyone around them dying.

But he hadn't taught her this. He hadn't taught her closeness and heat, rhythm and sighs.

More than a year ago in the midst of all the chaos of the war, of their village's destruction, she had told him she was done with Sasuke, and that she wasn't going to replace the Uchiha with Naruto. A month later she had begun pursuing him, Kakashi, with the singleminded intent of bringing him happiness, of giving him a sense of family and comfort. It was a move no doubt taught to her by a senior kunoichi—the move to become the lover of a broken man, to bring together exceptionally talented shinobi in the hopes of children, to keep men like him from going over the edge one night. It was a move no doubt suggested and approved by the Hokage herself to ensure his continued active-duty availability.

But Kakashi didn't think he had needed such things. At least, he hadn't until three or four months ago when he had gotten an exceptionally low psych exam result and been barred from returning to ANBU—something he had always planned on returning to once the village's troubles had ceased, once he was no longer needed desperately by Team Seven, once he was free from all of the entanglements village life could present. Sakura had arrived later that afternoon on the day he'd flunked and found him ruthlessly rearranging his apartment—making room for the only person who had been deemed fit to help him.

The order for her to move in with him hadn't been issued yet, they would evaluate him again in a week or so. They both knew that hardly anyone ever scored well enough on the second exam to gain re-admittance to ANBU. Kakashi knew that as well as anyone, as well as Sakura herself did. He decided not to fight his fate anymore, it was just throwing shuriken at straw dummies. Within three weeks they had gotten all of her things in with his. He and Sakura successfully shared the space without pulling kunai on one another, and she took pity on him and didn't force him to eat fried food. He bought pickled plums for her, umeboshi, in return.

And things had gotten better. Kakashi didn't flunk his evaluation badly enough for a full-on demotion to Chuunin (like Iruka had so many years ago), so he was still in high demand for Jounin missions, they hadn't made him go work at the Academy, and he had much more to come home to than a plant and his dogs. Sakura was on a leave-of-absence from active missions since it was difficult to become an emotional crutch whilst risking one's own life. But to make up for her confinement to the village, she spent time working in the clinic at the village gates in equal measure with daily training. The rest of her days she spent forcing him to bond with her. Initially he'd ignored those attempts, it made him sick to his stomach that most of the time when he glanced at her he saw a girl-child and not a woman. But he'd given in recently, giving her exactly what she wanted from him—to the letter more often than the spirit, in an effort to curb her actions even as he gave in to them. However even that was helping, in a strange weird way it was helping him see a little more light in his days than dark.

Until this evening, that is, which brings us back to Kakashi sitting on the edge of his bed, wondering if he should hate himself for this.

This was him allowing Sakura, a barely 17 year old girl—woman she kept insisting, as though that would make this better—to tug off his headband and mask, lift up her shirt and press that small breast against his mouth. The skin was soft, maybe the softest he'd ever known, and the involuntary puckering of her nipple was as interesting to feel on his lips as it made his stomach clench. Her hands were in his hair, making it a painful prospect of escape, and she was standing so that his legs were between hers. Even as he remained immobile against her breast, he knew that the line had been crossed and couldn't be uncrossed.

She leaned away from him for a moment, bringing his head back too before stroking the back of his neck and urging him close once again.

They each made a small sound at the contact. Hers, from above him with her forehead pressed into his hair, surprised and a little needy. His, a hum through his nose since his lips, his mouth, were occupied at the moment. The sound he made was one of defeat—he was really doing this, he was really really doing this, so he might as well get into it. His lips opened and he lapped delicately at her skin, taking the time to taste it properly.

At the same time, one hand found her back, fingers reaching in towards her spine and as they slipped across her skin-and Sakura made another one of those sounds that showed her surprise and inexperience but also her surety—if he stopped now she'd probably hit him. With that same hand he brought her closer to him, finally getting her to sit on his lap with her legs straddling him so pleasantly. He had to bend forward to continue his kisses at her chest, but that wasn't a deterrent.

As he opened his mouth to fully engulf her skin, to lick at her nipple, his other hand reached up to press against the front of her thigh, almost level with her hip bone but just shy of it. His thumb anchored itself at the transition between her legs, rubbing at the sensitive skin through her shorts.

The room was silent save for the occasional hum from him, the faint smacking sounds as he kissed his way across her chest, the rustle of clothing as their hips found a slow and unconscious rhythm against each other, Sakura's small gasps at it all—her breathing was ragged, shaking, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the newness of the sensations or because of who was eliciting them. Something small and horrible in him wanted it to be a fierce mix of both because he wasn't planning on stopping now.

He would hate himself later, he decided.

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