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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Pirouette In the Snow

Snow clung to the streets of Moscow like a second skin, glittering beneath the orange glow of street lamps. Sakura tugged her coat tighter as she stepped out of the airport shuttle, boots crunching against packed ice. Her breath puffed in quick bursts, tinged with both awe and nerves.

Russia wasn’t the kind of place most med students could afford to visit, but she’d saved every yen she could spare—late-night tutoring sessions, extra shifts at the campus clinic—just to stand here.

Not for sightseeing. Not for vodka or cathedrals.

For ballet.

Her suitcase rattled behind her as she made her way toward the hostel tucked between taller buildings. The streets smelled faintly of exhaust and cold metal. The Cyrillic signs loomed strange and unreadable, though she had practiced a few phrases, tongue clumsy around the harsh consonants.

Inside, her room was small and spare, but the bed was warm enough. Sakura set her bag on the chair and pulled out her ballet shoes—worn, pink satin, the ribbons frayed. She hadn’t danced in years, not seriously, but the sight of them grounded her. A reminder of the girl she used to be, the one who dreamed of being weightless, untouchable.

By the time evening fell, she dressed carefully. A black dress, modest but elegant. Gloves that hid the scars on her knuckles from hours of sparring in MMA gyms. A braid over her shoulder to keep her pink hair tamed against the snow.

When she stepped outside, the cold bit instantly, searing her cheeks red, stealing the air from her lungs. But the streets were alive—couples bustling toward the theatre, lights gleaming like jewels against the frost.

The Bolshoi Theatre towered above her when she arrived, its columns lit with golden light. Sakura stood frozen for a moment, staring up, her chest tight. She had seen photos. She had watched old recordings.

But this—this was holy.

Inside, she let the usher guide her to her seat, the velvet plush beneath her palms. Around her, voices mingled in Russian, laughter echoing through the high arches.

And then—the lights dimmed.

The orchestra sweller, and the curtain rose.

Sakura’s breath caught, eyes wide as dancers took the stage, their movements precise, fluid, transcendent. Music wrapped around her like a tide. For a brief, impossible moment, she wasn’t a med student buried under exams or a girl who fought through bruises to prove herself.

She was simply a child again, dreaming of spinning endlessly, weightless and free.

For a few hours, she was exactly where she belonged.

The theatre glowed like a jewel against the Moscow night, golden light spilling through frosted windows. Sakura sat straighter in her seat, gloved hands folded in her lap as the curtains swept open. The orchestra pelted more, dancers leapt across the stage—precise, ethereal, untouchable.

For a moment, she was ten years old again, back in a studio with chalked floors and aching feet, dreaming of pirouettes and perfection. She let herself smile, soft and private. This trip had been meant as a reprieve, a reward for surviving another brutal semester of med school.

She didn’t notice the eyes watching her from the mezzanine.

The performance ended in a storm of applause. Sakura lingered in the afterglow, the music still caught in her chest, before slipping out into the night. Snow fell in slow, delicate flakes, settling in her hair and on the hem of her coat.

She didn’t make it more than two blocks. She felt a rapid unease, people had cleared the street where she was, as if they knew something she didn't. Her legs tensed for a moment and she was fighting back the urger to run.

If only her thoughts had yelled louder.

A van screeched to a stop beside her.

Hands—gloved, rough—clamped over her mouth and arms. Her bag hit the pavement with a muted thud. She fought, twisting her body, remembering every strike her MMA instructor had drilled into her. Elbow—connect. Knee—miss. She heard a grunt, but then a blow to the temple sent her vision tilting sideways.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The first thing Sakura felt was cold.

Not the kind she knew from winters in Konoha, or even the bite of Moscow’s streets. This was deeper, merciless—the kind that sank into her lungs with every breath, stole the heat from her bones, left her skin raw and burning.

She gasped, her exhale puffing white in the dark.

The floor beneath her was iron, slick with frost, the chill seeping through her thin dress. Her wrists screamed when she tried to move, plastic biting into raw skin where the zip-ties cut too deep.

She pushed herself upright, head swimming, the world tilting.

The room was dim, lit by a single bulb that buzzed and flickered above her. The walls were poured concrete, stained with damp. Heavy bars cut across her line of sight—it was a cage, large enough to pace, small enough to remind her she was nothing more than a trapped animal.

Her breath came faster.

Russian voices echoed outside the bars—low, clipped tones, sharp consonants cracking against the silence. She couldn’t make out every word, but fragments clung to her: приказ… оружие… дисциплина. Order. Weapon. Discipline.

Her stomach turned.

A door clanged open, metal on metal. The voices hushed.

And then she saw him.

He stepped into the light, and her heart stuttered in her chest.

Tall—towering compared to her—broad shoulders wrapped in black. A mask covered the lower half of his face, shadowing his features, but his eyes… one sharp, slate-gray, the other hidden beneath a black patch. His hair was silver, wild, a stark contrast against the darkness of his uniform.

He didn’t move like the guards. He didn’t move like anyone she had ever seen. Each step was measured, soundless, the kind of gait that belonged to predators, not men.

The soldiers straightened when he entered, their voices low, reverent, afraid.

Sakura’s fingers curled into fists, trembling. She forced herself not to shrink back, even though every instinct screamed to curl into the corner of the cage.

He stopped in front of her cell, gaze sweeping over her with clinical detachment. Not lingering on her face, not on her body. Just… assessing. Measuring.

“Это она?” His voice was low, roughened by Russian, each syllable dragging like gravel. Is this her?

One of the soldiers nodded.

“Да. Твоя новая медик.” Yes. Your new medic.

The gray eye flicked back to her, unblinking, unreadable. For a moment, she swore the silence between them thickened, pressing down on her chest until it hurt.

Then he turned away. Just like that.

Her lungs finally remembered how to work. She sucked in a sharp breath, chest heaving, the sound loud in the silence he left behind.

Her hands shook against the bindings.

Because she knew—without knowing his name, without understanding why they wanted her here—that he was the one to fear the most.

He was what they had made.

And they had brought her here to keep their monster alive.

Chapter Text

Her breath fogged in front of her, every inhale a knife, every exhale a shiver.

Hours passed—at least, she thought they did. It was impossible to tell time here. The single bulb overhead buzzed, occasionally dimming until the shadows pressed in close, then sputtering back to life.

The cage was no bigger than a hospital room, but colder, the walls sweating frost. There was no cot, no blanket. Just the iron floor, unforgiving and slick. Her bare fingers ached from where she’d tried to pry at the plastic ties until her skin split.

Sakura sat curled against the wall, hugging her knees, forcing her breathing steady. *Don’t panic. Don’t break. You can’t afford to break.*

The voices returned.

Russian again—always Russian, fast and clipped, like gunfire. She picked out pieces, her studies in medical school flashing faintly in her mind. *Солдат… ранен… регенерация.* Soldier. Wounded. Regeneration.

Her stomach knotted.

Boots struck the floor outside the cage. A group of soldiers passed, rifles slung over their shoulders, laughter rough and mean. One stopped, smirking down at her. He said something she didn’t understand, a curl of mockery in his tone.

She met his stare anyway, jaw set. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of shrinking back.

The soldier’s grin widened, but he moved on.

Sakura’s chest rose and fell, sharp and uneven. She pressed her forehead to her knees. *Think. Focus. Don’t let them see you crack.*

Then she heard it—steps, slower, softer.

Different.

She lifted her head. Through the bars, down the corridor, she saw him again. Silver hair, dark clothes, mask. Tall, broad, his shadow dragging across the concrete floor.

The other soldiers lowered their voices as he passed. The air seemed to thin around him, their bravado withering.

He didn’t look at her this time. Didn’t even break stride. But the silence he left in his wake felt heavier than the voices before.

Sakura’s hands curled into fists, nails biting her palms. She hated the way her pulse jumped, hated the icy thread of instinct whispering that he wasn’t like the others—that he was *worse.*

She forced herself to breathe. Slow. Even.

But when the bulb flickered again and shadows swallowed the walls, the image of that gray, unblinking eye burned behind her lids.

She had laid on the floor for what felt like a day. They brought her food but she merely picked at it. They brought her a change of clothes but she stayed in her all dress from the ballet, still not accepting her circumstance. She hadn't seen the man again, the one she was brought for.

She cradled her head in her hands again, her eyes shifting to the military set of pants set out for her. Eyeing them, becoming tempted in this dreaded cold. Her face moved side to side in her hands, humming a light tune from her childhood. She needed to stay grounded, to stay alert!

She was going to get the hell out of here.

A loud noise sounded once over the intercom system they had. A scratchy, outdated noise that made her clamp her ears shut.

She watched as all men near her scurried off to go towards the left hall she could barely make out from the bars. Her mind racing.

Invasion?

Am I saved?

Is there help?

She only had to wait another thirty minutes to find out.

The cage door screeched open. Two soldiers entered without a word, their gloved hands clamping down on her arms.

“Wait—!” Sakura struggled, heels scraping against the frost. “Where are you taking me?”

Neither answered. They dragged her down a corridor that smelled of bleach and iron, the cold seeping deeper with every step.

When they shoved her through a steel door, she stumbled hard onto her knees. The clang of metal behind her made her flinch.

The room was sterile, bright. A tray of instruments sat ready, a med kit open beside it.

And in the chair—him.

The Soldier.

He sat slouched, broad shoulders relaxed but dangerous, his black shirt peeled back to expose the wound along his upper arm. Blood had dried in jagged streaks down pale skin, stitched once already by hands too clumsy for precision.

His gray eye flicked toward her as she knelt on the floor. The rest of his face was hidden, unreadable.

“Your medic,” one of the soldiers muttered in Russian. “Make him useful again.”

The door slammed shut, leaving her alone with him.

Sakura forced herself up, palms damp against her dress. She swayed a little as she looked at his broken up stitches, something he must've done himself.

“I don’t—” Her voice broke. She swallowed, steadied it. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Kakashi didn’t answer. He only held her in his gaze, unblinking.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She took a step toward a surgical tray, fingers trembling as she picked up the scissors to cut away the ruined stitches. This was indeed a medical bay of some sort, though fairly barren in supplies, or perhaps hidden.

When she reached for his arm, he moved first. He glared at her, threatening her with just his eyes. His hand closed around her wrist, firm, unyielding.

Her breath caught.

The eye narrowed slightly, studying her face as though he could read the thoughts she was trying so desperately to bury. Then, just as suddenly, he let go, offering the arm instead.

“Do it right,” he said, voice low, rough, Russian dragging through his vowels. “Or I won’t need you.”

Her pulse spiked. *Won’t need you.* The meaning was clear. They'd get rid of her, dispose of her, kill her. She needed to focus, she was going to live.

Sakura forced her hands steady. It was easy, unfortunately she was a natural at high-anxiety situations, but this wasn’t a class, wasn’t a hospital lab—this was survival. She cut the ruined stitches, cleaned the wound, and grabbed the needle.

"Big poke." She said out of routine. Everything was routine for her, and she didn't look up to see his reaction when she threaded the needle through.

Kakashi didn’t flinch. Not once.

His gaze stayed locked on her, sharp and heavy, as if he were measuring not just her skill, but the shape of her fear.

Minutes stretched long until the stitches lay neat, precise across the torn flesh. She tied the last knot, exhaled shakily, and stepped back.

The silence pressed.

Then—his eye dropped to the wound, before slowly passing back up to her.

“You’ll do.”

The words weren’t praise. They were judgment, verdict, sentence.

Sakura’s throat tightened.

Because she knew now—clearer than the cold air burning her lungs—that they hadn’t brought her here to ransom her, or to trade her. The tool they were melding or maybe just sharpening at this point, was the only reason for her stay. She needed to not just keep herself alive, but this rabid dog too.

--

---

She was being taken back.

Sakura stumbled as the soldiers dragged her back down the corridor, the cold concrete biting at her fingers. Every step scraped her resolve raw, the reality of what she’d just done replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t stop.

She’d touched him. She’d stitched him. And he had *watched*. Like a lion in a cage, waiting for the moment she would just stick her head in.

Her knees were weak, every nerve ending screaming, but she forced herself to stand tall, shoulders squared. She wouldn’t give them—him—the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

“Careful,” one soldier muttered in Russian, their words rough and clipped. She didn’t understand, but the tone was enough.

The cage loomed ahead. She paused, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the iron bars. Inside, the frost seemed sharper, the shadows deeper. This small cell had become both a prison and a sanctuary—a place where she could hide, however briefly, from the cold predator who had claimed her skill for his survival.

She sank to the floor inside, curling against the wall. Her hands ached from the needle, the cold, the tension. Her stomach churned. *He’s a weapon. And I—just stitched a weapon.*

Her mind replayed the gray eye, the mask, the impossibly controlled movement. Him grabbing her wrist, he was massive, much bigger than her.

The fear was sharp, hot, unrelenting. A stark contrast to the forever bone chilling temp in her cell.

Minutes—or hours—passed. Every sound in the compound echoed: footsteps, distant voices, the faint hum of machinery. Every shadow could hide him, every corridor could conceal a hand or a glance that would stop her heart.

At this point she had given up, she stripped herself from the damn dress and put on the very oversized black T-shirt and well pocketed military pants. Tucking her arms into the shirt for extra warmth, anything.

Sakura pressed her cheek to the wall, shivering, breath coming in quick bursts. She hated the way her pulse still raced when she thought of him, in pure fear. She hated the way her hands felt like they couldn't stop shaking.

Because he existed.

And now, in some way she couldn’t yet understand, *she existed for him*. A toxic relationship, a poorly written fictional story. Her mind thrashed in itself to make sense of her predicament before she leaned her face into her palms.

Chapter Text

They had finally given her a jacket. A very small positive in a cavern of negatives, swallowing her with each step drop deeper.

She had a small meeting with some officer, at least she presumed. He kept her in a room where he had a very rough translator, that wasn't HIM, translate the orders of her permanent stay.

She was to be a medic not just for THE soldier, but all of the soldiers in this bunker. Her primary objective was to keep the silver haired Soldier alive. She was to be watched and escorted wherever she went, she was to do only as she was told. Her hope dying with each word they translated to her. She learned later that same day, that the main soldier was on a recon mission in Romania. A quick sigh of almost relief passed through her lips.

Days all faded in together, her cage or cell, was soon her only haven where she didn't feel completely watched. When the morning came she would be dragged from her cot to the medic bay where she tirelessly patched wounded or sick soldiers. She still fought with tongue and struggle, she still had built enough in her that could at least give them hell for trying.

One afternoon a soldier tried to grip her wrist, she broke it. They had hit her for that, she had a bruise underneath her cheekbone for about a week, and a patient with a newly broken wrist to treat. It did send a message to them as much as her though. Learning from each other.

--

The next time the cage opened, she didn’t fight.

Not because she had given up—but because she was already learning the rules. Fighting wasted energy. It made them laugh. And worse, it made her stumble when she needed her strength most.

They dragged her down the same sterile halls, past the same buzzing lights, into the same cold room. He was there again—sitting in the chair, mask in place, eye tracking her as if he’d known she was coming. It had to have been a month or more since she's last seen him. Her blood froze in her body, a loud buzzing in her ears, ringing louder as she stared at him.

The wound she’d stitched several weeks back was clean, neat, no sign of infection. She felt a flicker of pride—*her* work had done that—but it soured instantly under his gaze.

The soldiers shoved her forward, setting the med kit at her feet. One muttered something in Russian, his tone sharp.

She caught only a word: *учить.* Teach.

Her stomach knotted.

Kakashi tilted his head, the movement subtle but sharp. He watched the soldiers step out of the room, his arms crossing over his chest.

“You’ll learn,” he said, voice low, dragging. “Russian. Enough to understand.”

Her lips parted, shock flaring hot. “I—what? No.”

The soldiers shifted in the hall, hands brushing the butts of their rifles. Kakashi didn’t move, didn’t need to. His eyes darted from them back to her.

His gaze locked on hers, heavy, unblinking. “Да.” *Yes.*

Sakura’s pulse thrashed. “Why? So I can understand when they threaten me?”

The faintest crease tugged at the corner of his eye, as though he found her stubbornness both irritating and faintly… amusing.

“So you’ll know when I do.”

The words landed like a weight. His tone wasn’t kind. It wasn’t even instructive. It was a statement of inevitability.

Her jaw tightened. She wanted to spit back, to tell him she didn’t belong here, that she wasn’t his anything. But the memory of his hand around her wrist, the controlled violence in his every movement, silenced her.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, towering even as he sat. “Say it.” His voice was soft, commanding. “Да.”

Sakura’s breath caught. The soldiers were watching. Refusal would mean pain. She knew that now.

Her hands clenched into fists. She forced the word past her lips, the foreign syllable rough on her tongue. “…Да.”

The gray eye lingered on her a moment longer. Then he leaned back, mask hiding whatever expression might have flickered across his face.

“Good, Malyshka.”

The words made her stomach twist, heat crawling under her skin in equal parts fury and fear.

And in that moment, Sakura understood: this wasn’t just about patching his wounds. This was about control. About shaping her into something useful—not just to them, but to *him.*

---

Several nights later, when sleep was hard to find. She thought back through all information she had. Collecting it in a spider web, anything she could use to her advantage.

She learned from some soldiers who spoke late at night, that the towering Soldier "the wolf" Kakashi, was an experiment gone incredibly right. He had been under lab experiments performed by some sick scientist, tortured, reprogrammed. Failure was never an option for him now, that he was so Hell bent on getting what he needed done that even God couldn't send Heaven to stop him. He had many nicknames, they all spoke them in hushed tones when he wasn't around.

She lay in her cot, bundled in her jacket and her thin wool blanket. Shivering all the while, she had determined that even the largest of furnaces couldn't warm this place. She was in the coldest ring of Hell.

She stood up, the soldiers noticing walking over and asking her in simple words what she needed. She had told them she wanted to go read more, her medical books. The only things offered of "gifted" material she was allowed.

They took her to her infirmary.

The infirmary was quiet. Too quiet.

Sakura sat at the desk, candlelight flickering against the walls, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. The soldiers had dragged in three bodies earlier that day—two living, one not. She’d patched the living, wrapped the dead. Her hands still smelled of antiseptic and iron. She didn't wonder a lot on the inflicted wounds on the third, she didn't need to. He was the one with the broken wrist from before, she was sure he had gotten himself into some other trouble.

The door opened.

Her head snapped up.

Kakashi stepped inside, mask flecked with blood, gray eye flat and unreadable. He moved like a shadow, deliberate, controlled, but there was something in his shoulders—tighter than usual, heavier. She hasn't seen him since his return a couple days back.

He didn’t speak at first. Just shrugged off his coat, letting it fall across the chair across from her. His shirt was torn at the sleeve, blood soaking into the fabric.

“You’re hurt,” Sakura said before she could stop herself. Her eyes a bit confused as she analyzed it. He was back at the bunker, wasn't this place supposed to be base?

His eye cut to her, she'd forgotten everything she was thinking about. “Not enough to kill me.”

The words landed cold. He sat in the chair, spreading his knees, arm extended toward her like an order.

“Fix it.”

Sakura hesitated, pulse thrumming. He was colder tonight, harder. The air around him buzzed with the static of restrained violence, and she could feel it crawling over her skin. Like bugs.

She gathered her tools, forcing her hands steady. “You could say please, you know.”

The corner of his eye creased, but it wasn’t amusement. More like a wolf baring teeth. “You think you’re owed courtesy here?”

Her breath stopped. But she leaned in anyway, scissors sliding through the fabric at his sleeve. “I think you need me alive. That’s worth something.”

Silence. His eye tracked her face, unblinking, while she cleaned and stitched the wound. The wound wasn't bad, not even very deep, but they were scratches, not of an animal either. His heat radiated off him, suffocating, her own breath quickening despite herself.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured at last, his voice low, almost conversational.

Her hand froze for half a second, swab poised. “I’m not.”

“Liar.” The word was blunt, stripped bare.

Her jaw clenched. She pushed the swab onto his wounds, pushing much harder than necessary. “Maybe. But fear doesn’t mean I’ll break.”

That made him still. His gaze sharpened, pinning her as effectively as a hand at her throat. For a long moment, the room was only candlelight, breath, and the faint scratch of the record player’s silence in the corner.

Then—he leaned back, arm flexing beneath her touch, testing the stitches she’d made. They held.

"I'll bring you a record."

He got up, before she was even finished and left.

---

The next night, the soldiers left her in the infirmary as she pretended not to notice them coming to get her and take her back to the cell. She ignored long enough that one sighed and spoke to the other in a rough tone, both soon leaving her.

The compound was quieter after they left her. The soldiers had retreated to their quarters, their voices muffled through layers of concrete.

Sakura sat stiffly in a chair against the wall of the infirmary, arms crossed, jaw set. She’d watched him come into the infirmary, walk past her to put on a record. She was waiting, for any moment that violence in him could stir. Could go after her.

But Kakashi hadn’t liked it. Not at all. Her analyzing him, trying to predict him. Like the scientists, like the officers.

Now he loomed in the room with her, pacing slow, deliberate. A wolf circling. The only sound between them came from the record player in the corner—its scratchy speakers spilling an old Russian song, the notes heavy and mournful.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. She hated the way her skin prickled under his gaze, the way every inch of him filled the room, the way his silence pressed harder than shouted words.

Finally, he stopped in front of her.

“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, calm, but sharp enough to cut.

Sakura swallowed, meeting his stare. “I’m not your puppet. I can tell by everything you do, that you're used to having everything else out of your control. But me being kidnapped doesn't make me your hamster."

Something flickered in his eye—anger, quick and hot, barely leashed. He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to keep meeting his gaze. His height dwarfed hers, his presence overwhelming.

Her chair scraped against the floor as her back pressed into it, but she refused to look away. Her ears ringing louder and louder as he closed in.

The record hissed softly between songs, then spun into the next track. A low baritone voice filled the room, mournful and rich: *“Ко мне летит колокольчик, колокольчик…”*

Sakura’s brows knit, caught between the weight of his stare and the unfamiliar words.

Kakashi exhaled slowly, as though grounding himself. His voice softened—still rough, still dangerous, but steadier now.

“It’s called *Колокольчик*,” he murmured. “The Little Bell.”

Her lips parted, surprised he was speaking so quietly.

He went on, tone low, translating as the record spun. “It says… *to me flies the little bell, ringing… calling me down the long road.*”

The melody swelled. He leaned in, one hand braced on the chair beside her head, his eye locking hers. “It’s a song about distance. About voices you can hear, but never reach.”

Sakura’s breath caught. The closeness was suffocating, the heat of his body radiating through the cold air. Anger still burned in him—she could feel it in the taut line of his shoulders, the sharpness of his gaze—but the translation had steadied him, anchored him.

Her heart hammered. She hated the way her body reacted—heat crawling under her skin, pulse racing not just from fear, but something darker, something she could name in lewd medical terminology. She was disgusted with herself.

The song’s refrain echoed, haunting, wrapping around them like smoke.

Kakashi’s voice dropped to a whisper, Russian thick on his tongue. His breath a mix of smoke and mint. “*Ты слышишь его, да?* …You hear it too?”

Sakura’s throat tightened. She nodded once, breath trembling, mind buzzing. The ringing.

He lingered there a moment longer, his eye searching hers, the line between threat and something far more dangerous blurring. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pushed off the chair, stepping back.

The distance hit like a plunge into cold water.

The record kept playing, the voice carrying the melody of longing and roads that never ended.

Sakura pressed a shaking hand against her chest, furious at herself—for her fear, for her reaction, for the way she couldn’t stop hearing the words echoing inside her.

Just please stop the ringing.

Chapter Text

The pale light of dawn leaked through the frosted window, staining the infirmary in blue-gray. The compound was still half-asleep—boots not yet pounding, voices not yet raised. For once, the halls were quiet.

Sakura stood barefoot near the cot, the chill nipping at her toes. She'd just got back from a shower, her feet still bare from the change.

Folded neatly at the foot of the bed was a bundle of clothing. Not the threadbare, ill-fitting things she’d been wearing since her capture—this was warmer, thicker. A wool sweater, dark trousers, heavy socks.

She frowned, touching the fabric. “Where did these come from?”

A voice answered from the doorway. “Me.”

Her head snapped up. Kakashi leaned against the frame, arms crossed, mask still in place, eye fixed on her. He was all shadows in the dim light, the silver of his hair catching faint glints from the window.

“I didn’t ask for clothes,” she said, hugging her arms around herself.

“I don’t recall giving you a choice,” he replied flatly.

Her jaw tightened. But the sweater was warm when she pulled it on, soft against her skin. She hated how much relief slid through her body as the heat wrapped around her.

He moved into the room, slow, measured. “*Свитер.*”

Sakura blinked. “…What?”

His eye narrowed slightly, like he was dealing with a stubborn child. He tugged at the hem of the sweater she now wore. “*Свитер.* Sweater.”

She stared, lips parting. “You’re teaching me? Now?”

“You live here. You’ll learn.” His tone brooked no argument.

Her pulse flickered, torn between resistance and the strange comfort of the routine. “Fine. Sweater. *Svee-ter.*”

He made a faint sound in his throat—approval, maybe. His hand brushed the wool at her shoulder, lingering a beat too long before he pulled away.

He pointed to the trousers folded on the cot. “*Брюки.*”

“Brrr…you-kee?”

His eye softened just slightly, almost amused. “*Брюки.*” He drew the sound out, slower, deeper, and the word curled around her like smoke.

She bit her lip, repeating it carefully. “*Bryuki.*”

This time, he nodded. A quiet victory.

Sakura’s breath clouded in the cold air. The lesson should have felt simple. Neutral. But the way he looked at her—like each word he placed in her mouth belonged to him—made her skin flush under the sweater.

She turned away, gathering the trousers. “Why bother teaching me?”

His voice was low, rough with something she couldn’t name. “Because I don’t want anyone else putting words in your mouth.”

Her hands stilled, fabric clenched between her fingers. She didn’t turn back around.

The silence stretched, heavy and intimate, until the compound began to stir awake beyond the walls—boots, voices, steel.

When she finally glanced over her shoulder, he was already gone.

The sweater was still warm.

---

She didn’t like the silence. Didn’t like how it pressed in, heavy, the deeper they went into the compound.

Kakashi walked ahead of her, tall and deliberate, his shoulders filling the narrow hall. He hadn’t said much since he’d given her the clothes earlier. Just: *“Follow me.”*

She hated how easily her body obeyed.

They stopped at a door she hadn’t noticed before, set into the wall past a heavy steel bulkhead. Kakashi produced a key, turned the lock, and pushed it open.

Inside, the space was small. A bed bolted to the floor, a narrow desk, a chair, a trunk at the foot of the bed. A barred window near the ceiling let in the thinnest line of gray light.

Not a cell. Not quite. But not freedom either.

Sakura stood in the doorway, throat tight. “What is this?”

“Your room.”

She blinked. “My…room?”

He nodded once, stepping past her to flick the light switch. A single bulb hummed to life, spilling a pale glow over the stark furniture.

“You’ll stay here now.” His voice was matter-of-fact, final.

Her pulse picked up. “Why?”

“Because you’re not a prisoner anymore,” he said. His eye shifted, sharp. “You’re mine.”

The words hit harder than she wanted to admit. Heat climbed her neck, anger and something else twisting tight in her chest.

She forced herself to scoff, dropping her oversized coat onto the bed. “This isn’t freedom. It’s just a prettier cage.”

He tilted his head, the faintest crease forming at the corner of his masked mouth. Not amusement. Something darker. “A cage protects.”

Her fists clenched. “Protects who? You? Or me?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped past her toward the door, pausing with one hand on the frame.

“You’ll sleep here. It’s closer.”

Her stomach tightened. “Closer to what?”

He glanced back, his eye catching the light. “To me.”

And then he shut the door, the lock clicking softly into place.

Sakura stood in the small room, breath shallow, staring at the chest near the bed.

The morning after she was moved into her new room, the compound was alive with its usual noise—boots on concrete, the clang of steel doors, muffled Russian echoing down the halls.

Sakura sat on the edge of her narrow bed, lacing the new boots she’d been given. They were stiff, heavy, not quite her size. But better than the thin shoes that had left her toes raw and numb.

The door opened without warning.

Kakashi stepped inside, his presence filling the small space. He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Her stomach tightened. “Why?”

His eye narrowed, the command sharper this time. “Up.”

Something in her snapped.

The anger from the night before—the humiliation of being shown off like property, of being moved into this “room” he called hers—boiled over. Too much, too little, too rough, too heightened. She snapped, like any caged animal.

She rose, but instead of obeying his silent gesture to follow, she moved fast.

Her foot snapped up, aiming for his ribs.

Kakashi caught her ankle. His reflexes were inhuman, precise, but his eye widened just slightly at the force behind her kick.

She twisted, dropped her weight, used his grip to swing around and drive her fist toward his jaw.

He blocked it, but barely.

The sound of their boots scuffing against the floor echoed in the cramped room. Sakura’s pulse thundered as adrenaline surged, muscle memory from years of MMA practice firing in her veins. For a moment—just a moment—she wasn’t prey. She was *fighting.*

She feinted low, pivoted, and aimed a sharp elbow at his chest.

This time, he countered fully. His hand shot out, catching her wrist, and with a brutal twist he spun her around, pinning her against the wall. His chest pressed into her back, his breath hot against her ear through the mask.

For a beat, neither moved. The silence pulsed with her ragged breathing, his steady one.

“…You’ve trained.” His voice was flat, but there was a new edge in it—interest, calculation.

Sakura swallowed hard, her cheek against the cold wall. "A woman needs to be versed in some self defense in case men like you KIDNAP HER.”

His grip tightened, testing the line between restraint and something rougher. Then, slowly, he let her go.

She stumbled forward, spinning to face him. Her fists were still up, jaw tight.

Kakashi stood across from her, eye narrowed, mask in place, but his posture was different now. Less dismissive. More… attentive.

Finally, he tilted his head, voice low.

"No better time to learn then."

He opened the door to her room and lead out, his head tilting back a bit to look at her.

"Come on." He ordered and began stepping out of the hatch.

She hesitated before hearing others boots stalking down the hall towards them, frightened she followed him. Quickly jogging to catch up to his stride.

He said nothing as he lead her deeper into the echoing halls of the bunker. So many twists and turns that she was already memorizing on her head, saying the left, left, right, two steps, right...etc. over and over in rapid succession.

He opened another hatch, the door gushing with a small burst of air as he pushed it inward. Her eyes adjusted to the darkened room to see it was a training room.

---

The training room was dim, the air sharp with cold and the faint scent of steel and sweat. A single hanging bulb hummed overhead, casting their shadows long against the concrete.

Sakura stood barefoot on the mat, chest rising and falling with effort. Kakashi moved like a predator circling prey, loose and sure, his mask in place, his eye fixed on her every twitch.

“Again,” he ordered.

She braced, threw a jab. He caught her wrist, twisting until her balance faltered, and swept her legs out from under her. She hit the mat with a thud, breath rushing out in a gasp.

He crouched, not letting go of her wrist. “*Бой.*”

Her brows knit. “What?”

“Say it. *Бой.* Fight.”

She glared up at him, chest heaving. “Boy.”

Wrong.

He leaned down, his knee pressing into her groin just enough to remind her he was in control. His voice was low, the Russian rolling rough in his throat. “*Бой.*”

She swallowed hard, heat prickling at her neck. “Boi…” The sound was closer this time, softer, almost right.

His eye narrowed, but he let her wrist go, pushing off of her to stand. “Better. Up.”

Sakura scrambled back to her feet, palms stinging, sweat slicking her temples. She refused to let him see the way her pulse thundered.

They circled again.

This time, she ducked his strike, aiming a sharp kick to his thigh. He caught her ankle midair, twisted, and dragged her forward until she stumbled right into his chest.

“*Схватка.*”

Her breath caught. He had her so close she could see the faint scars around the edge of his mask, could feel the heat of his body radiating through his clothes.

Her mouth went dry. “…Sss…khv…atka?”

His grip on her ankle tightened. “Wrong.”

And then he swept her leg, sending her crashing down again. He loomed above her, one knee planted by her hip, his hand braced against the mat near her head. Trapped.

He leaned closer, his voice a growl in her ear. “*Схватка.*”

Her lips trembled as she repeated it, more carefully this time. “*Skhvatka.*”

The tension broke. He pushed off her, standing, giving her space. “Good.”

Sakura rolled onto her side, clutching her ribs where she’d hit the mat. She hated the burn in her cheeks, hated how each correction made her pulse spike with more than just adrenaline.

He extended a hand. Not gentle, but steady. Commanding.

She took it, and he hauled her up effortlessly.

“Again tomorrow,the men are drinking tonight. Do you care to join?" he asked simply, turning toward the door. "I wouldn't let them do anything."

Sakura stood panting on the mat, her lips still tingling with the shape of the Russian words.

"And you," she panted lightly. "What about you?"

He stared at her, his face, his eye, unreadable. There was a dark under force in his stare and the loud, single note played again in her ears. Her heart was chugging, like a train would, loud in her ears, she felt it palpitate as the wolf inside him felt all to near. She shuttered, he almost moved to her. She saw it but he turned away, walking out.

"I'll sleep tonight." She shook out.

"Very well." He didn't give her a second look, just left. Closing the loud hatch with a clang.

They would be drinking, staying up late. They'd done this before once when she was still in her cage. They took forever to get moving the next morning.

This was her opening, she had memorized her path it took from her old cage to a seemingly larger hatch in the West Hall leading out. She couldn't fight them all, the fight just now proved that.

She would try in the early morning when they all finally would settle from their drunkenness. Still drunk and groggy and physically exhausted.

She would run.

Chapter Text

The compound was alive with noise.

Laughter, shouting, the heavy slam of mugs on tables. The men were drinking—loud, reckless, their Russian rolling down the hallways like waves. The sharp scent of vodka seeped under doors, carried on their voices.

 

Sakura sat on the edge of her narrow bed, arms folded tight around herself. She could hear them from her room, the raucous cheer of men who had survived another mission, another day in this frozen wasteland.

Somewhere in that din was Kakashi.

She pictured him leaning against the wall, silent while the others laughed, his mask pulled down enough to sip from a glass. He never quite joined, but he never left either. Always watching. Always there.

Sakura’s stomach twisted.

 

Tonight, though—tonight might be different.

She waited. The hours stretched. The noise swelled, peaked, then began to fade. Boots thudded less often. Voices slurred. One by one, the soldiers stumbled off to collapse in their bunks. She'd heard the sounds all shift and scuttle, before disappearing altogether into an eery silence.

 

By the time they had finally quieted, it was deep into the night. It was now time to act.

 

Sakura’s pulse hammered as she slipped her boots on, laced them tight, and pulled the heavy sweater closer around her. She had no plan. No map, other than loose remembrance in her brain. Hallway left, hallway right, all just garbled in actual progress to any real notion of an escape. Just a direction—out. Away from the smell of iron and vodka and the constant shadow of gray eyes tracking her.

 

She moved silently through the hall, each step deliberate, careful not to let her boots squeak or thump. The compound felt eerie in its silence, as though it were holding its breath. Just as she was.

 

She had rounded corners, flattened to walls, saw a few guards, quietly humming as the moved down the hall to "scout" she knew they were all satiated tonight. The low stride, the slumped shoulders, the relaxed humming. She waited multiple moments before passing down another few halls. When she saw a hall illuminated with a red tint around the corner her heart hammered fast. She took in a silent inhale, she purposely told herself not to run, to still remain quiet. She almost flew in an odd way, her ballet days allowing her to travel in quick strides without making a large enough noise to wake a rabbit. At the bulkhead door, she hesitated. Her breath fogged the air, her hand trembling on the latch.

 

The ringing began, slowly drowning the hallways in a sharp tone, she didn't listen to it.

 

Then—she pushed.

 

The metal hatch groaned when she first touched it.

 

Sakura froze, breath trapped in her throat, ears straining for footsteps in the corridor behind her. Nothing. Just the distant rise and fall of drunken snores and the slight echo of low humming. She shook her head harshly.

 

Her hand trembled as she pushed again, slower this time, steady, forcing the heavy latch to turn. A cold draft whispered through the crack, and her heart hammered so hard she thought it would give her away.

 

She slipped out.

 

The shock of the night hit her immediately—the bite of Siberian air, sharper than any blade, searing her lungs with its first breath. She hated this feeling, like her bones were freezing as she breathed each breath in. Her lungs scorching from the unforgiving air. She clutched the borrowed sweater tighter around her frame, teeth also already aching from the cold, and pressed her boots carefully into the snow.

 

For a few steps, she managed silence. Stealth. Her footprints the only mark in the endless white. Her ears trained for some siren or alarm to go off, as she walked her mind felt a bit safer.

 

Then the first bark shattered that.

 

Her head snapped toward the sound. Rows of cages lined against the far fence, thick shadows curled inside them. The guard dogs—hulking beasts, their eyes glowing faint in the dark—had caught her scent. They looked like demons that wound and fell into each other, trapped in those cages. Like a fairytale creature, as if they'd all mold into one giant creature and gnaw her in one ferocious bite.

 

Another bark erupted, louder, more frenzied, and then the chorus began. Dozens of throats baying, the metal of cages rattling as they lunged against their bars. As if it could break at any moment and all hell would be sent towards her.

 

Sakura’s pulse spiked.

 

She frose and watched, breath sharp and shallow. The dogs were drawing attention—too loud, too wild. Any second, a soldier would come, or alert the others. She had to move.

 

She broke into a run.

 

Snow crunched under her boots, each stride louder than she wanted, echoing in her skull. The barking followed her, ragged and unrelenting, urging her forward with every beat. It echoed off the snow and into the sky, passing her ears with each dark lament from them.

 

Her lungs burned harder, the icy air scraping raw down her throat, but she didn’t dare slow. If she thought—if she hesitated—it would be over before it began.

 

Her only thought was *out.*

 

Past the cages, past the compound, into the endless white. Away from the shadows that pressed close around her every waking hour. Get away from HIM.But as the barking faded behind her, swallowed by the open expanse, a colder realization set in.

 

She wasn’t just running from the compound.

 

She was running straight into his territory, the area he trained, he withstood, he knew.

 

The wolf was a hunter, and a killer more than anything else.

 

--

 

The night swallowed her whole.

 

The compound was long behind her now, its hulking silhouette lost against the horizon. The only sound was the ragged rush of her breath and the crunch of snow under her boots. Her thighs burned. Her lungs screamed. Still she pushed forward, forcing her legs to move through the knee-deep drifts.

 

Sakura slowed only when her body demanded it, doubling over with her hands braced on her knees. Steam curled in the moonlight from her mouth, but it was quickly failing as her lungs were being eaten alive with the cold. Her heart thundered so loudly she could barely hear the world around her. She stayed there a moment in the nice silence, the moon opening the whole snow yard in a blue hue. Her ears focused on how lovely that silence was to the awful ringing shed heard in that bunker, nothing to break it.

 

But then—it did.

 

The faintest shift. A soft crunch in the snow, too steady to be the wind, too measured to be chance.

 

Her head snapped up, breath caught.

 

Silence.

 

The barren expanse of white stretched on, endless, shimmering under the cold light. There was nothing—no one.

 

She told herself it was her imagination. Her nerves. The silence was playing tricks. She straightened, wiped at her nose where the freezing air had made it sting, and started again. She ran all the way to the edge of a few trees that started into a large wooded area, filled with pine trees, so thick and tall anyone could get lost in them easily.

 

Sakura peered into the forest a moment, unmoving, before hearing another sound that was not from her and again like an animal escaping death she pushed against her own need for rest. Because even dying in these snow covered pines, her body becoming one with this forest, was better than what awaited her at that bunker.

 

This time, it was closer. Echoing around her in that moonlit forest, a weight against the snow, a crack of a branch. She almost yelled out in helplessness.

 

Her skin prickled.

 

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes straining to cut through the pale shadows of the snow and trees. Nothing. Empty.

 

But she felt it. A presence, sharp and electric, crawling up her spine. That fear, that ringing.

 

He was out here.

 

Her pace quickened, half stumbling, half running. Panic clawed up her throat as she veered toward a frozen bank of a creek, desperate for cover. The open trees left her too exposed, too easy a target.

 

The further she went, the louder her own breathing sounded in her ears, ragged and harsh. She could barely hear the crunch of snow behind her anymore—but she *knew.*

 

Kakashi didn’t need to chase like a soldier. He was more calm, tracking. Silent. Patient. Waiting for the moment she was too tired to fight back.

 

Sakura’s chest heaved as she pushed herself harder, her legs trembling, lungs raw from the cold.

 

Then, cutting through the stillness—

 

A voice. Low. Smooth. Russian syllables drawn out like a knife.She didn’t understand the words, but the tone made her stomach twist. It felt like glass under her skin.

 

It wasn’t loud. He wasn’t calling to her. He was reminding her.

 

*He was close enough to speak.*

 

Sakura’s heart stopped. Then she ran harder, the world tilting as the realization snuck in.

 

The trees loomed tall and skeletal, their branches rattling in the wind like bones. Sakura stumbled between them to the bank, her boots slipping on ice beneath the snow. Her legs were lead, each step a battle, but fear kept dragging her forward.

 

She could still feel it—that weight behind her. That *knowing.*

 

The forest was too quiet now.

Just her breathing. Her heartbeat. The crunch of her boots.

 

She pressed her back to a tree, her chest heaving, trying to silence herself, to listen. Maybe she’d lost him. Maybe—

 

Snow shifted.

 

Her head whipped to the right.

 

And there he was.

 

Half-shrouded in shadow, tall and motionless between the trees, silver hair catching the moonlight like a blade. His eye glowed faintly, pale and sharp, fixed on her. He hadn’t bothered to hide. He didn’t need to.

 

Her stomach dropped, cold rushing through her veins colder than the night itself.

 

Sakura’s voice scraped out, broken, barely a whisper. “No…”

 

He stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. The snow didn’t betray him, didn’t crunch under his weight the way it did hers. He was silent in the way predators were silent, every movement honed.

 

She bolted.

 

Her body screamed at her to stop, to give in, but terror carried her deeper into the woods. Branches whipped at her arms, her legs ached, her lungs clawed for air. Behind her, she didn’t hear him—but she knew he was there. Always there.

 

She crossed down the slippery ice and still pushed onward, even as she slipped and clumsily pulled herself up, off of the ice. She was back in the thicket, her arms pumping, her hair escaped her braid and flared behind her.

 

A flash of silver in the corner of her eye. The blur of him moving through the trees, quick.

 

Her heart thundered so loud it drowned out everything. She crashed through brush, snow flying in arcs around her boots. She could almost taste blood in her throat, she knew she'd scraped her arm on a limb. Now she was positive her nose had begun bleeding, tasting it over her lips.

 

A hand closed around her wrist.

 

She cried out as her momentum was wrenched sideways, her back slammed against a tree. The impact rattled through her bones, and before she could think, his body caged hers in—towering, immovable, blocking out the cold moonlight with his shadow. His breath still even.His mask was pulled low enough for his breath to fog against her cheek. His eye burned into hers, sharp and merciless, his patch was now off the other one where a scarred over one now joined the other to stare her down. She cried out again her head going numb and her breath betraying her. Her mind grew fuzzy, black around the edges.

 

“я говорил тебе,” I told you. He murmured, Russian curling off his tongue before shifting, low and deliberate, into English. “You don’t run from me.”

 

Her pulse roared in her ears, wild and frantic, as if it might burst through her skin.

 

And for the first time that night, the silence wasn’t empty—it was suffocating her, filled with him. It settled into the numb feeling that has her head folding forward into his chest, a sharp inhale, or growl, or both, was the last thing she heard before she collapsed into him.

 

•••

 

Her pulse was a drum in the dark. He could hear it even over the whisper of the wind, smell it sharp and sweet against the snow.

 

Sakura’s body sagged against the tree, her chest heaving, every breath tearing like glass. She’d fought harder than he expected—longer than most would last in this cold. The others certainly never even wandered out here. But her legs were trembling, her fingers numb, her eyes glassy with fatigue.

 

Still she glared at him, teeth gritted, defiance burning even as her body betrayed her.

 

Then the strength left her all at once.

 

Her knees buckled. Kakashi caught her before she hit the snow, one arm locking around her waist with ease. She crumpled against him, her head falling against his chest, breath shallow and broken.

 

For a moment, he grunted and growled. Breath escaping him with tortured warmth.

 

Her skin was flushed from the cold, damp strands of pink hair clinging to her face. She was riddled with marks on her arms and legs. A faint trickle of blood ran down from a laced mark across the bridge of her nose, most likely from when she ran through the thicket. It bled a trace from its lash, a thin line falling to the corner of her mouth and threading down chin.

 

Something primal stirred in him. His hands instinctively tightened around her.

 

His mask slipped farther down with practiced ease. He bent his head, slow, deliberate, and let his tongue trace the crimson line along her chin. The metallic tang bloomed on his tongue, warm against the bitter cold, and he lingered longer than he should have—long enough to feel her twitch faintly, even in her exhaustion. He lapped a second time not caring about her reaction, then pulled back slightly, his breath puffing around his mouth.

 

“хороший,” he murmured against her skin, the word lost to the night.

 

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

 

Kakashi adjusted his grip, hauling her effortlessly into his arms. She was light—too light—and limp against him, her head tucked under his jaw. The scent of her blood clung to him, sharp and intoxicating. Something was begin to shed some sort of different light in that darkened room of his mind. Like a subtle knock on his consciousness he had built to protect him. Instead of the banging that usually occured when someone broke him.

 

He started back toward the compound, boots silent across the snow. The forest bowed to him, silent witness to the inevitable. She could run again. She could fight. She could bare her teeth like a cornered fox.

 

But in the end, he would catch her. It was his only gift from this hell hole, and no one else could have it. He deserved this. He deserved some penance for his sacrifice, his intel, his torture. He cleared his mind as he approached the compound.

 

The dogs were silent now as he crossed the yard, as though they recognized him. Their tails fucking and some laying down or hiding away.

 

Inside, the warmth of the compound struck, thick and suffocating after the clean bite of snow. He carried her down the corridor, ignoring the few bleary soldiers who glanced up, only to quickly look away.

 

He travelled with her down the halls, his eyes and body stopping at her door. To the room he'd gifted her. She was also owed it.

 

He stared at it for a long moment before continuing with her down the hall, to his own room.

 

He didn’t take her back to her room, he felt something awaken in him. Something that felt alive, felt warm, a stark contrast from his normal. He couldn't tell if it felt good or not, but he could tell she was it's center, and he wanted to continue it. To carve it in him deeper, to overdose on it if he could.

 

He looked at her chin again and he damn near salivated.

Chapter Text

The storm outside still howled against the compound’s steel frame, but inside his quarters it was quiet—too quiet. Sakura stirred awake slowly, her cheek pressed to the rough weave of a blanket that smelled faintly of smoke, vodka, and pine.

 

She blinked at the dim light. The walls were concrete like her cell but there were books here. A desk. A chair shoved into a corner. This wasn’t her room.

 

It was his.

 

The realization jolted her upright, but a heavy arm slid across her waist, pushing her gently but firmly back down onto the mattress.

 

“Stay.”

 

His voice was low, ragged from exertion, but commanding. Kakashi sat propped against the headboard, his hair a wild silver halo, still slightly damp from the snow. His mask was off, revealing a sharp jaw and mouth that made the man seem even more dangerous. His clothing still on, even his boots, her eyes dragged back down between them, she was under the blanket, but not him. 'Good.' she thought. His gray eyes tracked her every movement as she did.

 

“You carried me here,” she whispered, throat tight.

 

“I did,” he said simply. His hand raising to his shoulder as he wound that arm in a stretching motion.

 

“I should be—”

 

“You should be asleep,” he cut her off, the words soft but edged.

 

She clenched the blanket in her fists. “I had to try.”

 

He tilted his head, studying her. The air between them felt heavy, like the moments before a blade fell. He almost rolled his eyes.

“You’re brave,” he said finally. “But stupid.”

 

Sakura swallowed.

 

"This is a HIGHLY monitored facility, dogs, alarms. Tracking every damn movement you make and if it isn't them that is, it's me. You aren't that dumb."

 

His eye darkened. In one fluid motion, he shifted forward, bracing an arm on either side of her as he leaned over, his face inches from hers. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

 

“Listen carefully, Sakura.” He said her name like a warning, not a tremble of kindness. “You don’t get to run. You don’t get to try. ”

 

She tried to hold his gaze, but his closeness, his heat, made her pulse race. “Why is that, I'm a human not a-?”

 

“Because you were given to me.” The words fell heavy, deliberate. “They brought you here for my 'good work'. For me." He snarled. "Do you understand what that means?”

 

Her stomach twisted. “No,” she whispered, her eyes daring a hesitant glare.

 

“It means you are mine to use. To pull around. To keep.” His fingers traced up her arm—not a caress, but a gesture of ownership—before stopping at her chin, his grip forceful, tilting it up so she had no choice but to look into his eye. “Everything you do. Everywhere you go. Every breath you take. Everyone you speak to. I decide. ”

 

Sakura’s lips parted, a shaky breath escaping. “I'm not a pet, I'm a human, I have rights.”

 

Kakashi’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile, not quite anger. “You can tell yourself that. But the world you came from? It’s gone. Here, I make the rules. Here, I own everything.”

 

His thumb brushed the edge of her lower lip, slow and deliberate. “Including you.”

 

For a moment she thought he’d kiss her, but instead he pulled back just enough to let the weight of his words settle.

 

“You run again,” he murmured, “I’ll bring you back again. And again. And again. Until you stop forgetting what you are.”

He sat back, finally releasing her chin with a quick shove, but his gaze stayed fixed on her as if daring her to move.

 

Sakura’s heart pounded, fury and fear tangled inside her chest. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to claw at the figurative chain still hanging at her throat. But the intensity in his eye pinned her in place.

 

She fidgeted under his stare before slowly getting up. Her glare holding him as he slowly smirked, before doing a quick jerk forward but not reaching her. She squeaked and jumped off his bed as he laughed heartily, her mind fought against itself as she almost smiled in the trade. She shook her head roughly.

 

"You're an animal." She said and quickly turned for the door.

 

"Oh yes, I'm the animal. You can play the dutiful prey if you want... Run away when you know to do it morally, when it seems right, but it's okay.. if you like it." He whispered and she shook her head again, ghosting out the door before he could see her rising blush.

 

•••

 

The infirmary had gone quiet.

 

Sakura sat on the counter, reorganizing supplies she’d already counted three times. Gauze, sutures, alcohol swabs lined up in rigid order. Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her mind from spiraling. Her attempt hasn't worked, and she wasn't sure she could pull it off again and succeed anymore than last time. He knew from the beginning that was clear now, but a part of her wondered if his talk was all just that, manipulative talk to make her think she was helpless. The guards looked at her differently now, she was considered an outsider before but now she was a deemed an escapist, as if a new shackle was on her wrist, branding her. Like how they spoke of different patients in her classes, giving them colored wrist bands for fall risk, aggression etc.

 

The guards outside her door hadn’t checked in for over an hour. Too quiet.

 

She felt him before she saw him.

The faint shift in the air, the silence sharpening. She turned her head, pulse stuttering—he was there, leaning in the doorway, silver hair a disheveled halo around the mask that concealed the lower half of his face back in place.

 

He hadn’t made a sound.

 

Her throat went dry. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

 

One dark eye lifted, half-lidded, unimpressed. “You heard me.”

 

“I—” She snapped her mouth shut, realizing what he meant. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears she hadn’t heard him, but in a way he was right.

 

Kakashi pushed off the frame, steps unhurried, measured. Like a wolf padding across snow to the rabbit she had become.

 

Sakura moved away from the counter, spine stiffening. “If you’re hurt, I’ll patch you up. Otherwise, I’d like to be left alone.”

 

He stopped only a breath away. Too close. His height again shadowing over her. That steel-gray eye pinned her in place.

 

“Alone?” His voice was low, Russian vowels dragging the word into something heavier. He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You don’t get that remember?”

 

She forced her chin up. “Then I’ll take what I can.”

 

Something flickered behind his gaze, quick as lightning—amusement, hunger, or maybe just the faintest recognition of a challenge.

 

Kakashi’s hand moved. She tensed, ready to strike—but he didn’t touch her. Instead, he reached past her, plucked up a vial from the counter, rolled it between long fingers.

 

“You organize when you’re afraid.” His tone was blunt, clinical. “You were afraid the first night, too.”

 

Her stomach knotted. “You don’t know anything about me. I stayed one night in your cot, we are still strangers. ”

 

He leaned closer, the scent of leather and iron filling her nose, his voice dropping until it brushed her ear.

“Not yet.”

 

The vial clicked against the counter as he set it down again. Then he was gone, the silence rushing back like a tide sucked out to sea.

 

Sakura stood frozen, pulse hammering in her throat, the words echoing.

Not yet.

 

•••

 

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper. Sakura had been working there more often now, patching up soldiers and keeping records under Kakashi’s watchful eye. He allowed her back to her own room, but it did feel a bit more monitored than before. He also was making his presence known more around her. Passing her in the halls, speaking loud enough she can hear from the other rooms. The guards also spoke about him possibly having to be questioned soon for her escape several nights back. She wondered what that would entail. Did he respect the commander? What was the power dynamic like between them? Kakashi was so stubborn and head strong it was hard to picture him in any submissive role, even just taking any order.

 

She was beginning to learn the pattern of his moods, the thin line between silence and violence. Enough to tread carefully. Enough to breathe when he let her.

 

Tonight, she sat at her desk, scribbling notes in her neat hand. Her hair had slipped loose from its braid, it was getting fairly long, strands brushing her cheek. She reached for the pen again—

 

And froze.

 

Her jacket, folded neatly on the chair beside her, was gone. She had just received her own jacket a few days back, after her little snow run. They had given her a very small, thin wool fabric jacket. Taking the old one away, less a reason for her to go running off in the snow, but now the new one was gone.

 

Slowly, she turned.

 

Kakashi leaned against the wall, her jacket draped carelessly over his arm. The gray eye met hers, unreadable behind the mask.

 

“Do I need to ask why you have my jacket?” she asked, voice tight.

 

“It’s not yours, really.”

 

The words were blunt, almost lazy, but the weight in them pressed against her chest like a hand.

 

She stood, fists clenching. “You don’t need it.”

 

He tilted his head, gaze steady, as if she were a puzzle he had all the time in the world to solve. Then he brought the jacket up, fingers brushing the fabric slowly—deliberately.

 

“It smells like you,” he said, low. Curling it into his face with a smirk that spelled something poisonous.

 

Her stomach dropped. Heat shot up her neck, fury and something terrible colliding in her chest. “Give it back.”

 

He stepped closer, closing the distance between them in two strides. She backed up until her thighs hit the desk.

 

“*Нет,*” he murmured. *No.*

 

The word curled dark on his tongue, final. He shifted the jacket over his shoulder as if it already belonged to him, his posture casual but his eye burning into hers.

 

“I will be gone for a little while.” His hand idly rubbed the cloth of her jacket. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “I will need something to remind me why I keep you around."

 

Her breath caught, heart racing in her ribs. She wanted to chastise him, take the jacket out of his hands—but the sharp thrill that cut through her fury made her hesitate. His eyes looked down at her and his smile rose higher.

 

He leaned closer, so close she could feel the heat of him, the faint musk of his. “You’ll get it back,” he murmured, Russian slipping soft between his words, *“если захочешь меня догнать.”*

 

*If you want to chase me.*

 

He laughed.

 

The jacket hung off his shoulder as he turned, walking out with the casual certainty of a man who never asked for permission.

 

Sakura stood frozen, breath ragged, every nerve on fire.

 

•••

 

The corridor stank of smoke and a low smelling dampness. She had heard them several hallways down, dragging someone to her. It had been several days like he had said, but when she saw him, it was as if she had forgotten what he looked like before.

 

Sakura was in the infirmary again, sorting supplies, when two soldiers shoved the door open and half-carried Kakashi inside.

 

His wrists were raw, rope burns dug deep into skin, and his head lolled as if the weight of consciousness was too heavy. The soldiers barked something in Russian—too quick for her to catch—but she understood enough: commander… questioning… endure.

Her stomach clenched. Torture.

 

They dumped him on the cot like a broken weapon and left, the lock slamming into place behind them. They were harsher than usual, and two men she wasn't accustomed to in her hallway escorts.

 

“Jesus,” she whispered, rushing to his side. His breathing was shallow, ragged, his hair matted with sweat. The mask had been ripped away, leaving his mouth bare, his lips split and bloodied.

 

She reached for water, cloth, anything—but his hand shot up, trembling and fast, clamping around her wrist with bruising force.

 

“Нет…” His voice was hoarse, low, trembling with violence. No.

 

“It’s me,” she said quickly, crouching closer. “It’s just me.”

 

His eye snapped open—wild, unfocused, the gray blown wide with terror and fury. His grip tightened. For a second she thought he might break her wrist. He was shaking with ferocity and his breathing sounded like an engine running out of fuel.

 

Her breath hitched. She forced her voice steady. “You’re safe. It’s me.”

 

His chest heaved, each breath jagged, too quick. His gaze darted, unfocused, as if he were still strapped to that chair, still caught in the commander’s questions, the pain.

 

Sakura did the only thing she could think of. She leaned over him on the cot, pinning his shoulders with her hands. “Look at me!” she demanded, voice sharp, cutting through his haze.

 

His breathing stuttered. His grip faltered. His gaze finally, slowly, focused on her face. Like a caged beast waiting to decide their next move.

 

“There,” she whispered, softer now, her hair falling around them like a curtain. “You’re here. Not there anymore, it's the infirmary.”

 

His chest rose and fell, slower now, trembling. The strength bled out of his hand until it slipped from her wrist entirely.she wasn't used to seeing him this way, like he could actually break, like he wasn't the scary, creature that lurked behind shadows to watch over the bunker. Like a pasture dog on duty.

 

Sakura reached for the cloth again, dipping it in water, wiping the blood from his mouth, his cheek, careful, tender. He flinched once, then stilled under her touch. She felt something build in her, like she needed to protect this patient, like she actually wanted to save this one. She was so used to just performing her duty in here, not feeling connection.

 

Sitting under her was the tattered scraps of Kakashi. Broken in ways she didn’t understand.And against all logic, all reason, something inside her wanted to hold him together.

 

“You’re safe,” she repeated softly, pressing the cloth to his temple, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “I’m treating you, you'll be alright.”

 

His eye slid shut, his breath evening out at last.

 

Sakura stayed there long after he stilled, her own heart pounding, her chest tight with something she refused to name.

Because she wasn’t supposed to feel this. She wasn’t supposed to want to be the one he reached for when the world broke him.

But she did. And that terrified her more than anything.

 

•••

 

The infirmary was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the far table. Sakura sat in the chair beside the cot, her legs drawn up, exhaustion tugging at her. She hadn’t left his side since the soldiers dumped him in here hours ago.

 

Kakashi stirred before dawn. A low groan escaped his lips, and his eye flickered open—unmasked, raw. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head slowly, focusing on her.

 

“You stayed..." he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. It almost sounded like disappointment on his tongue.

 

Sakura straightened quickly. “You need water.”

 

She reached for the cup on the table, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist—not rough this time, just firm. His fingers were warm and calloused.

 

His eye locked onto hers. “Sit.”

 

Something in his voice froze her in place. She lowered herself back into the chair, her pulse thudding. He released her wrist, but his eyes remained on her before drawing over to the wall.

 

“There were others before you,” he said quietly, as if confessing a secret.

 

Sakura blinked. “Others?”

 

“Medics. Caretakers. Women and one man that the commander 'gifted'.” His gaze drifted to the far wall, his expression unreadable. “They didn’t last.”

 

Her stomach knotted. “What… exactly happened to them?”

 

He didn’t answer immediately. His eye went distant, haunted, like he was staring back into something only he could see. “One couldn't take it, immediately got herself killed. The other man thought he was safe, trusted the wrong soldier and got himself hanged by the commander himself. One girl did it herself...” He let the words hang, heavy. “They had no sense of survival, they had gave up immediately, not an ounce of fight.”

 

Sakura’s mouth went dry. “You—”

 

“I didn’t care about them.” His voice cut through hers, sharp but low. “They weren’t… of any interest to me."

 

The silence between them stretched taut.

 

Then his gaze snapped back to her, pinning her like a knife. “But you.”

 

Her breath caught.

 

“You stayed,” he murmured. “They were terrified of me. To scared to even keep eye contact. You fought, you bit back, even when you wanted to run.”

 

He shifted slightly, wincing from the pain in his ribs, but his voice grew steadier, deeper. “I haven't had an interest in anything since I was captured by these fucks.”

 

Sakura’s chest tightened. Her fingers crossed each other in her lap.

 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I'm not sure why.” His thumb brushed absently over the blanket, as if imagining her skin there instead. “Maybe because you’re stubborn. Maybe because of that fight in you. Maybe I'm just so desperate for the touch of someone else who isn't seeing the wolf they whisper about.”

 

Her pulse roared in her ears.

 

"You're just a human... After all." She swallowed and her eyes peered up to his. "Like all the others that I treat."

 

Kakashi leaned his head back against the cot, closing his eye briefly. “That’s why you’re still here,” he said softly, almost like an afterthought. “That’s why you’re still alive.”

 

The words landed like a weight in her chest. A warning and a confession all at once.

 

When he opened his eye again, it burned into hers. “So don’t mistake it for mercy. My interest. And my interest…” His lips quirked again, a ghost of a smile. “…is dangerous.”

 

Sakura’s fingers tightened around the edge of her chair. She couldn’t tell if she was shivering from fear or something else entirely.

 

"Can I have my jacket back?" She asked, sighing.

 

His smile faded immediately and he stared off, like something she had said caused him to remember something unpleasant.

 

"No."

 

•••

 

Sakura was back to a regular routine, patients in, patients out, no more rumors of the impending commander coming after the wolf. The men had less to talk of these days, some new recruits came through, some obvious spies of Russia, knowing multiple languages and having their hands tied with what they could tell her, with information she honestly couldn't use. Kakashi's harsh bruising from the torture had finally turned a nice dark purple before beginning to fade, she was seeing him more and more. He would play cards with her at night, he would ask her questions about her books. He found interest in her MMA days but he was even more enthralled with her days in ballet class. He would leave things and take things as he pleased, something she was so used to now. She was becoming comfortable with him, even in silence her breath didn't seem so loud in her own ears. The ringing that she dreaded had paused, and his hands never grabbed her anymore. She didn't focus on that thought for too long. His words still playing in her head from before.

 

*"It’s interest. And interest… is dangerous."*

 

She shook the memory away as a soldier was brought in, his arm wrapped in a bloodied bandage. He was young, younger than most she had treated, with dark hair that curled at his temples and eyes far too kind for a place like this.

 

“You’re the medic?” he asked in halting English, his accent heavy but words clear. He was new, she had never even heard anyone speak English other than the spies or Kakashi.

 

Sakura gave a brisk nod. “Yes. Sit down.”

 

He did as told, grimacing as she peeled away the dirty cloth to examine the gash beneath. “You’re good I've heard,” he said after a moment of silence, watching her hands. “ Better than the last one we had.”

 

“Hold still,” she muttered, focusing on cleaning the wound. He wasn't new? He knew the last one? Maybe he could tell her more about them.

 

But he didn’t stop. His voice lowered, cautious, as if he were testing how far he could go. “You don’t belong here.”

 

Her fingers faltered for just a moment before she forced herself to keep working. A trap?

“…That’s not your concern.”

 

He leaned forward, lowering his voice further. “I know what they’ve done. What they could do. You don’t have to stay here.” His eyes met hers, earnest, almost pleading. “I can help you leave.”

 

Sakura’s chest tightened. A flicker of hope, dangerous and sharp, sparked in her chest. She stabbed it multiple times. “You… you don’t know what you’re saying. They’ll kill us both.”

 

“I’ll find a way,” he insisted. “No one deserves this.”

 

She swallowed, unable to form a reply. Her hands came away from him slowly.

 

And then—too fast for her to anticipate—he reached up, his good hand catching her wrist. Before she could protest, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

 

Her eyes widened. She froze, the sharp tang of vodka on her tongue, her mind spinning. Her mind screaming. She didn’t even kiss back—too startled, too confused.

 

And then the air shifted.

 

The door to the infirmary creaked open with a groan of old hinges. Heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, fast, clunking. Loud.

 

Sakura jerked away from the soldier just as Kakashi stepped fully into the room. His mask was on, but his mouth was drawn into a deep scowl, his eyes turning a deeper shade of grey, fixing fast onto the soldier next to her.

 

Sakura, panted, her lips parted in shock.

 

Kakashi’s gaze lingered—too long—on her mouth.

 

The silence was suffocating.

 

Sakura’s stomach plummeted, the hair stood on her arms and a sick excitement filled her mind.

Chapter Text

"Подонок!" Kakashi yelled.

 

The silence shattered.

 

The soldier started to speak, “Sir—”

 

But Kakashi was already on him.

 

One instant he was across the room, the next his hand was fisted in the soldier’s shirt, dragging him off the cot like he weighed nothing. The younger man crashed to the floor, wheezing as Kakashi pinned him down with a knee to the chest. Grabbing both wrists in a paralleled pull, away from his body.

 

“SHUT UP!” Kakashi growled, low and guttural. Not even English, not even Russian—something primal that scraped raw from his throat. His eyes burned, feral.

 

The soldier sputtered, “She—she doesn’t d—”

 

The words cut off in a wet gasp as Kakashi slammed his head back against the concrete.

 

“Kakashi!” Sakura’s voice cracked, horrified. She stumbled to her feet, her pulse screaming in her ears. She has forgotten this, she was too comfortable in their nightly talks, she had slipped.“Stop it! You’ll kill him!”

 

Kakashi didn’t move. His hand tightened around the soldier’s throat, abandoning his other arm, knuckles white, his entire body trembling with rage.

 

The young man’s eyes rolled back, face turning red, choking on air.

 

“Иди на хуй.” 'Go Fuck Yourself' Kakashi breathed out to him, voice dropping into Russian now, harsh and cutting.

 

Sakura rushed forward, hands grabbing at his arm. “Stop! Please—stop!”

 

For one agonizing moment, he didn’t even look at her. His attention was locked on the soldier, on the imagined trespass, the kiss he’d witnessed. She felt a rise in her chest, a swell of something disgusting at this scene unfolding. No, she didn't cause it, but she knew he was doing this for her. She felt a cold sweat hit her neck and she shivered as she tugged harder on him, she yelled again.

 

Slowly, like a recently oiled cog, his gaze flicked to her.

 

Her hand was small against his wrist, trembling but stubborn, refusing to let go. Her wide green eyes begged him—no, demanded him to stop.

 

His chest heaved. His grip didn’t loosen.

 

“Kakashi,” she whispered, softer now, like she was coaxing the beast she knew back into its cage. “Please.”

 

The taut silence stretched to a breaking point. Then, with a sharp sound of disgust, Kakashi released the soldier, letting him collapse in a coughing heap on the floor.

 

But he wasn’t finished.

 

In the next breath, he surged up and caught Sakura by the wrist, yanking her toward him with a force that knocked the air out of her.

 

"No." He looked around and dragged her further out into the hallway. He looked at the soldiers gathering around to the sound of her yelling earlier.

"пусть они все увидят." 'Let them all see.'

 

She gasped as his mouth crashed against hers—rough, punishing, nothing like the hesitant kiss the soldier had stolen.

It wasn’t affection. It was a show.

 

He bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and when she gasped, he devoured the sound, tasting her like he meant to erase any trace of the other man. She panicked and a coil built within her as he sloppily lapped at the blood dripping from the wound he afflicted on her lip. His tongue tracing down and up, feeling warm on her lips.

 

Her knees nearly buckled under the force of it, her hands pressed against his chest—not pushing, not pulling, just caught in the storm of him. She almost let out a noise but reality struck her.

 

When he finally tore away, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark and burning into hers. A smear of her blood glistened on his lip and across his cheek.

 

Without another word, he turned to the open hatch, the soldier gasping still, holding his throat. Kakashi's voice like steel. “If you touch her again,” he hissed in Russian, each word a dagger, “I will cut off your hands and feed them to you.”

 

The soldier coughed, trembling, too stunned to reply.

 

Kakashi didn’t spare him another glance. His hand stayed locked around Sakura’s wrist as he dragged her from the infirmary, her heart hammering as he pulled the hatch shut forcefully. Yanking her down the hall and through the soldiers.

 

Kakashi didn’t stop dragging her until they reached the narrow corridor outside his quarters. He shoved the door open with one hand and hauled her inside, slamming it shut behind them.

 

Sakura wrenched her wrist free, her breath ragged. “What the hell was that?!”

 

His eye narrowed, shadowed beneath his damp hair. His mouth still panting out breaths, lingering anger still prevalent in the force of each breath, he hadn't burned out all of his rage. “What I had to do.”

 

“You nearly killed him!” she shot back, voice cracking. “You could have crushed his windpipe! For what—because he kissed me?”

 

Kakashi stepped closer, his head whipping in her direction as he barked. “Because he touched what’s mine!”

 

Her stomach knotted at the word. Anger flared to mask the tremor in her chest, but it was difficult to maintain. “You're not a child. I’m not your property, Kakashi!”

 

He stalked another step closer his teeth baring as he scowled down at her. The air between them was suffocating, charged. His gaze locking hers, daring her to challenge him again. “Aren’t you?”

 

Sakura’s breath hitched. She hated the way her pulse spiked, hated the way her face flushed hot, hated the way her body betrayed her anger by trembling with something that wasn’t just fear. Something fluid moved and touched her loins before travelling up again.

 

“I—” she began, but the word caught in her throat. Her throat felt hot, she forced a dry swallow.

 

Kakashi’s head tilted, eyes narrowing. His voice dropped low, almost curious. “…You’re flushed.”

 

Her lips parted. “I’m a-angry,” she stammered.

 

The corner of his mouth twitched, humorless, as he braced a hand against the wall beside her throat. He leaned in, his presence swallowing the space between them, his pants calming. “No,” he murmured. “That’s not anger.”

 

Her cheeks burned hotter, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She forced a scowl across her face and backed her face from him.

 

Kakashi’s gaze slid from her eyes to her lips, then back again. “Your pulse is racing. Your pupils…” His voice dropped, rough, deliberate. “…this is fun.”

 

Sakura pressed her palms against his chest, meaning to shove him away—but instead her hands lingered against the heat of his skin beneath his shirt. She couldn’t make them move, instead they clawed into his shirt, forcing the fabric around her palms.

 

“I think you should shut up now.” she whispered, voice thin.

 

Kakashi leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Scared you may take the bait?”

 

Her whole body shivered, caught between fury and something deeper, darker, that she absolutely knew the name of. Her eyes almost began a silent plea as she gazed up at him through thick lashes.

 

He didn’t give in. Not this time. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his expression unreadable, but his gaze burned. “You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said softly, blunt as ever. “But I see it.”

 

And with that, he stepped back, leaving her against the wall, flushed and trembling, her heart hammering traitorously in her chest.

 

"Face them whenever you want."

 

He never closed the hatch door, allowing her free reign to leave, but he was right, she needed a moment.

 

•••

 

She'd went the rest of the week with no trouble. She hadn't seen or even heard anything about the soldier that kissed her, she didn't really want to think about what could have happened.

 

She leaned back in her small wooden chair, in her own room. Her door, opened very slightly so she could hear the soldiers whisper and talk to each other about gossip, this was the only interesting part of living here. Listening to these hardened men speak like school girls.

 

She was growing more curious about the ones before her that Kakashi confided about. There departures seeming extreme, but she got the sense that something wasn't being fully told. She'd tried to get it out of some of the men who came to her, but since the last soldier who spoke to her got the wolf's treatment, they were unsurprisingly silent.

 

She oiled her lamp and sparked it up higher, illuminating her room in a warm glow that felt mildly comforting. She leaned her head back, the book she was reading drifted onto her lap. Her head shot up quickly at the twinge sound of her hatch opening wider.

 

Sakura froze in her chiar, the book still balanced in her lap, its pages dimly lit as he approached. She hadn’t spoken to Kakashi in three days, not since he’d nearly snapped the neck of the soldier who dared to kiss her.

 

Her silence had been her only weapon. She avoided him, kept her eyes on her work, refused to hover when he entered a room. She thought it would frustrate him, maybe make him stay away. He seemed to take it as punishment, not prying any further through the week.

 

But now, his shadow stretched across her doorway.

 

“Sakura,” his voice came low, quieter than she’d ever heard it. “Can we talk?”

She hesitated. Her eyes crossing him as he lingered in the doorway, her head finally nodding.

 

Kakashi stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate softness. His mask of control was back in place, but she caught the flicker of something else in his eye — something unsettled.

 

“I shouldn’t have lost control,” he said without preamble, his words blunt but edged with gravel. “Not like that.”

 

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t answer, just looked down at the book still in her hands. Was this a part of his little manipulative game? Was this another minefield she could step into?

 

His gaze followed her book. “What is that?”

 

“…A novel,” she said carefully.

 

He crossed the small space in two strides, crouching down before her, onto her cot, so they were nearly eye level. His presence was overwhelming even in stillness. “You read often?”

 

“I used to,” she admitted, wary. “When I had time.. when I wasn't you know, kidnapped.”

 

“Tell me.” His voice was flat, but it wasn’t an order, though he completely ignored her statement.

 

Sakura blinked. “Tell you… what?”

 

“What kind you like,” he clarified, and for a moment she thought she saw guilt flicker beneath his stoic facade. “Books. Stories. Anything.”

 

She narrowed her eyes, studying him. He was trying, in his own fractured way.

“…Medical texts,” she began, cautious. “I read them a lot. But also… old literature. I like that you all have a couple of Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Russian classics.”

 

Something unreadable passed through his eye. “They are complicated." He mused.

 

“Yes,” she said, a little bolder now. “It is complicated, and difficult. But beautiful, too, in its own way."

 

Kakashi’s lips pressed thin, as though he were holding back a thought. Then, unexpectedly, he said, “Bring me one.”

 

Her brows lifted. “…What?”

 

“Tomorrow,” he continued, his tone steady, deliberate. “Show me what you’d have me read. If you want me to understand you better… let's start there.”

 

For once, Sakura was speechless. This man had forcefully taken everything from her, he had ripped and torn away her pride, her freedom, her thoughts. She expected dominance, an order disguised as kindness, but this was different. A crack in his armor? Her guard stayed up as she narrowed her eyes.

 

She searched his face, suspicious. “…And if I don’t?”

 

His gray eye darkened, and for a heartbeat she thought the possessive man she knew was back. But then he exhaled sharply, turning his gaze away. “Then I’ll find another way.”

 

He rose to his full, towering height, lingering at her door. Before leaving, he added in Russian, voice low and measured.

 

“Я не хочу потерять тебя.” ( I don't want to lose you. )

 

Her mouth faltered. She didn’t know the meaning, but the weight in his tone made her heart twist. She hadn't noticed the blush slightly tinting his ears as he left the room, or heard him ball up a pair of her panties into his pants pocket as he walked down the hall.

 

•••

The next night.

 

The corridor outside his quarters was dim, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb. Sakura hesitated with her hand raised, knuckles suspended inches from the metal door. She told herself she was only here because he had *asked* — ordered, really. He wanted another book.

 

*To learn her,* he'd said.

 

She wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

 

Finally, she knocked.

 

There was a pause, then the lock disengaged with a sharp click.

 

Kakashi stood in the doorway, hair unkempt, pants slung low on his hips, long sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Casual — but not relaxed. He never truly was.

 

She held out the book like a peace offering.

 

“This one’s… fiction. You said you wanted something so you can ‘learn more about me’.” She didn’t add, even though I don’t know why you care.

 

His eye flicked to the book, but instead of taking it, he stepped aside — silent invitation. She looked around his shoulder into the dull room and sighed.

 

She entered cautiously.

 

His quarters were tidier than her last visit. Sparse. Bed, desk, small shelf with other books lined neatly in order. All except one on the nightstand… it was slightly humped up, like paper was underneath.

 

Sakura didn’t notice.

 

But Kakashi did.

 

She approached the shelf and placed the new book down carefully. “You’va… actually read these?”

 

“Mn.” He moved behind her. Close enough that she felt the static of his body heat across her spine. “Pages worn from use are proof enough, aren’t they?”

 

He said it so casually that it took her a moment to understand.

 

Sakura sat on the edge of his long cot, legs tucked beneath her, a small Russian primer open in her lap. He had decided they could read together in this small room. The exchanged book Kakashi had given her to study from was worn, its pages marked with faint pencil strokes — corrections, translations, little notes in his curt handwriting.

 

Across from her, in the single wooden chair by the wall, Kakashi sat with the novel she’d brought him earlier. He hadn’t said whether he liked it. He hadn’t said anything at all.

 

He just read.

 

Not lazily, not casually. He devoured the pages with surgical precision, eye flicking back and forth like he was analyzing a classified report rather than a fictional narrative.

 

She tried to focus on her own page.

 

*Я… я…*

 

Her lips moved silently.

 

Kakashi had made her speak aloud typically, and had corrected her every time she slipped. Her cheeks heated at the memory.

 

She cleared her throat softly. “How do you pronounce this one again?”

 

His eyes lifted from his book. He didn’t lean forward. Didn’t even lower the page.

 

“Which?”

 

She hesitated, then held up the primer, pointing to the word. She felt embarrassed, like a school kid asking for help.

 

моё.

 

He set his thumb in his book to mark the page and stared at her, silently.

 

She waited.

 

Finally, he spoke.

 

“‘Mah-YO.’” He repeated it slower. “Moё.”

 

She mouthed it again. “Mah-yo.”

 

He hummed — approval, or tolerance, she couldn’t tell.

 

She glanced back down, scanning the sentence she’d been trying to decipher.her eyebrows scrutinizing it.

 

*Это моё оружие.*

 

He spoke before she could translate it.

 

“‘This is my weapon,’” he murmured, eyes already back on his own page.his foot gently tapping, his knee softly bouncing with it. Slowly timed.

 

She blinked.

 

She swallowed and tried again.

 

Another word. Longer. She stumbled over the pronunciation, jaw clenching in frustration. “This language is ridiculous. Why does every other word sound like a threat?”

 

“Because it is meant to be,” Kakashi said simply. "It could be worse, it could be cursive Cyrillic.

 

She stared at him.

 

He didn’t look up this time — but she could see the faintest curve of amusement at the corner of his covered mouth.

 

She exhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself.

 

“Say it again,” she muttered, pointing to the word.

 

He did.

 

She repeated after him.

 

They fell into a rhythm; she learning, he correcting in as few words as possible.

 

No warmth. No praise.

 

But something in his cadence softened with each repetition. Not quite gentle — but patient. Like he valued her effort more than he let on.

 

Minutes passed. Or hours. Time blurred. She has been here too long.

 

At some point, she stopped reading aloud. The silence settled again, thick but not entirely uncomfortable.

 

She risked a glance at him.

 

He was still on the chair, still reading her book, but his thumb lingered on a line.

 

She looked away quickly. She didn't want to know, didn't want to give into a trap he was obviously setting.

 

Her gaze drifted slowly toward the nightstand. His other books lined about in some crass order. Their pages worn and well read, probably nights of insomnia in his first bit of kidnap. God, did she know how that felt.

 

The book still sitting on top of his stand did have creases on the edges, but her attention was stolen by the pale fabric peeking from beneath it. Her eyes refocused and she felt her throat constrict as she saw a peek of familiar lace.

 

Her breath stalled.

 

That-

That was..

 

Her underwear.

 

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t dare breathe wrong. Her eyes peered to the side slightly to catch his knowing gaze. His head draped into his hand, those eyes piercing her still.

 

Kakashi’s voice was low. Almost amused. Almost warning.

 

“You came to give me something of yours,” he murmured. “I’ve simply been… collecting in advance.”

 

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

 

She forced her voice not to shake. “That— is not the same as—”

 

“I disagree.” He stood up, violently. She could feel his knees against hers. “Books tell me how you think. But this…” His knees bent down to her, his hands brushed up her thighs, slowly, just reaching beside her hip.

 

He picked up the folded piece of fabric with deliberate slowness.

 

“…tells me how you feel.”

 

Her cheeks burned. Fury. Embarrassment. Something else she refused to name.

 

She jerked her gaze to him, trying to decide on a course of action.

 

“i'd like it back,” she hissed. Her mouth set.

 

“Нет,” he said softly. No.

 

A beat of silence stretched tight between them.Then he tucked it into his pocket, final and unhurried.

 

“You brought me a book,” he said, voice calm as ever. “I’ll study it. But Sakura…”

 

His gaze locked on hers, unflinching.

 

"There's better ways to study you."

Chapter Text

Sakura wiped down the metal table in her infirmary, watching the faint rust-colored smear stretch beneath the cloth. Kakashi’s blood from earlier. He had been boxing someone in the training rooms, things got heated, so he said. A particularly large wound across his forearm, like a large scratch. It slewed across the metal table below her. Still tacky in places where it had dried.

 

She should have been disgusted by it.

 

She wasn’t, she was used to it all now. Everything from him.

 

Her hand stilled.

 

She stared at her wrist, a faint red line still staining the skin where she’d wiped sweat from her brow earlier with a hand she hadn’t realized was bloody.

 

Not her own blood. His.

 

She should wash it off. She stared at it for awhile.

 

Instead, she lifted her wrist and brought it close, slowly… as if hypnotized. She examined, a large chill ran up her spine and she slammed her hand back down on the table.

 

It didn’t smell like anything but iron.

 

The memory hit before she could block it, the feel of him beneath her hands just hours earlier. His skin was warm even when his body ran cold, a sweat forming. Muscles shifting under her palms as she stitched him, his breath steady but rough… not from pain.

From restraint, perhaps.

 

She’d felt it then. The way he held still for her. Not because he couldn’t fight, but because he wouldn’t.

 

A strangled sound caught in her throat.

She turned quickly, grabbing the basin and dumping the bloody water out with more force than necessary. The clang echoed against the walls and she winced.

This was wrong.

 

She shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

 

She shouldn’t replay the way his shoulder muscles flexed when she held him steady.

She shouldn’t remember how, just once, his gaze had flicked down to her lips while she worked.

 

She pressed both hands flat to the cold counter, trying to steady her breathing. Trying to ground herself.

 

It’s survival, she told herself.

 

Attachment under duress. Trauma bonding.

 

That’s all this is.

 

She knew the psychological tolls this sort of thing could have on you. How a certain type of ware on a person can manipulate, can change your mind.

 

She looked back down at her wrist.

 

Dammit.

 

This time, she scrubbed at it violently, smearing it across her skin until it went pink.

 

“Stop it,” she whispered fiercely to herself.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, scrubbing harder. Softly it began, the sharp tone. The ringing.

 

But… if he were different…

 

She slammed the thought down before it finished forming.

 

“No.”

 

Not him.

Never him.

 

She set the cloth aside and grabbed her clipboard. She walked the narrow corridor with the clipboard hugged to her chest, muttering to herself under her breath things she had jotted down. Things they were running low on.

 

“Morphine… gauze… saline’s almost out… Where the hell is Yekaterin from supply—”

 

She turned the corner and slowed, peeking ahead.

 

A door was cracked open, warm light spilling across the hall. Voices drifted out over the low static of an old radio. Male laughter, clicking of pens, low Russian murmuring, the faint scent of cigarette smoke.

 

She wouldn’t usually linger, but that song was playing. The one Kakashi brought her.

 

A Russian folk tune, low and mournful. The kind sung in trenches and funeral processions. She still barely understood it, even from his lecture, and something in it made her chest ache.

 

She found herself standing still. Listening.

 

The song ended. A sharp click. Then a stern male voice, an announcer. She listened carefully, the tone was sharp and forward, but thick in some ways. Her mouth moved around the syllables carefully, recalling terms she had read.

 

*“…Японский шпион… пропал без вести…”*

“…Japanese spy… gone missing…”.

 

Her breath stalled. Her hands hugging that flimsy clipboard.

 

…Japanese spy?

 

She took a step closer, pulse flickering in her throat. She leaned toward the gap in the doorway, her frame pressing just a bit closer. Trying to catch more—

 

A hand clapped onto her shoulder.

 

She gasped, whirling around.

 

Kakashi stood behind her. Expression relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other still resting loosely on her shoulder as though the near-death fright he’d just given her meant nothing. His dark eyes fell on her eyes, questioning.

 

“Looking for something, little nurse?” he asked lightly, hand squeezing lightly, directing. She'd just seen him struggling against her needle earlier that day, now he was completely composed.

 

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You nearly stopped my heart!”

 

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “If that’s all it takes, we should work on your conditioning.”

 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes and trying to regain composure, but something was off.

 

He was smiling beneath the mask she could feel it in his voice, but his eyes...

 

They were too sharp. They were so alert it sent a tremble in her voice as she glanced back toward the radio room.

 

“Did you hear that?” she asked, voice quieter. “Someone on the radio. The-”

 

“Probably just propaganda,” he cut in, stepping subtly between her and the open door. Snuffing out a fire before it could burn. “They'll announce anything to rile the troops.”

 

His tone was dismissive. But his posture, the placement felt very deliberate.

 

Blocking her view of the room, redirecting her attention to him or perhaps the opposite hall.

 

Like a hand over a child’s eyes.

 

She narrowed her gaze slightly. “You’re unusually chatty today.”

 

“You’re your usual stubborn,” he replied smoothly.

 

She exhaled with a following click, brushing past him with mock annoyance. Yanking her shoulder from him, but damned her cheekiness, she grinned.

“I’m going to requisitions. Don’t sneak up on me again.”

 

He didn’t follow, taking it like an order.

 

But as she walked away, she could feel him watching her. Not playfully, but calculating. Her head turned back to see him enter the radio room without a second glance to her.

 

•••

 

The bath she was gifted this afternoon was well deserved. Her cheeks flared a bit as she snuck her mouth under the water. She sank deeper into the barrel, arms draped over the iron rim. Pulling herself back up she felt her hair slink wetly onto her back. Her chin tipped back as steam curled around her face. The room was lit only by a single bulb overhead, buzzing faintly, throwing soft gold across damp stone walls. For once, she felt almost… human again.

 

She exhaled slowly, eyes closed. Listening to the drip of water somewhere in the pipes.

 

Her brain was quiet for once, caressing her in its emptiness. She sighed carefully, her chest lowering into the water. God she was stiff, but she at least had a break.

 

That was before a flash of his eyes somewhere in the darkness of her empty mind had her sitting up, eyes opening wide.

The weight behind her was unmistakable. Unbreathing almost as he stalked into the room. Her hair, even as it was soaked, seemed to stand up.

 

“Kakashi…” she whispered, hearing her breathy tone, she chided herself inwardly.

 

No answer.

 

Her pulse thrummed in her throat, sharp and fluttering. She swallowed, trying to sound stronger than she felt. Trying not to sound so eager.

 

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

 

Still nothing. Just the soft hush of steam and her own heartbeat hammering loud in her ears. She forced herself to move, to turn, to face him, but before she could.

 

A gloved hand settled on her shoulder.

 

She wanted to show nothing. To seem unfazed by his forward act, but a sharp inhale escaped, sounding desperate.

 

His touch was firm, unhurried. Slowly, deliberately, his other hand came to rest on her opposite shoulder. He was kneeling she could feel the warmth of him at her back, even through her damp hair.

 

“Kakashi…” she said again, more of a warning this time. Her breath trembling as she reached up to brush his hands away.

 

Her fingers met leather and she pushed, weakly.

 

He didn’t budge.

 

“You shouldn’t be—” she whispered.

 

His thumbs pressed lightly into the tense muscles at the base of her neck. She let out a groan, rolling her head slightly back and forth. Delving deeper into the pleasure that shocked through her back.

 

“You can’t just—” She tried again, more force in her voice this time, but not in her hands. Her palms rested against his forearm, not shoving, barely pressing.

 

Testing herself more than anything. He pressed harder and rolled his thumbs, his body leaning in. Close enough for the ends of his hair to brush her cheek. Close enough for her to feel his breath ghost over her ear, hot compared to the now cooling water.

 

“listen.. I'm serious stop,” she murmured, but even she could hear how soft it came out. How unconvincing.

 

His hands slid from her shoulders, down her collarbones, slowly pausing just at the water’s surface. His thumbs grazed bare skin, claiming by a streak of fire that rushed where his fingers trailed down.

 

Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Her eyes now rolling and eyelashes batting, quivering.

 

“Kakashi… don’t.” This time she did push, though it was still small. A symbolic resistance rather than a real one.

 

He stilled, not pulling away, but pausing as if weighing her sincerity. The silence stretched the water lapped quietly against the sides of the barrel.

 

Her breath stuttered, and she opened her eyes more to look at him. She hated how much her body leaned back toward him despite the panic coiling in her chest. She hated how good his warmth felt against the chill of the room.

 

“…Please,” she whispered, unsure herself whether she was pleading for him to stop or begging him to continue.

 

Slowly, deliberately, his head dipped until his masked mouth hovered just beside her ear. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low Russian murmur, a command disguised as comfort.

 

“Не беги… маленький кролик.”

Don’t run, little rabbit.

 

Her grip on his arm tightened, not to remove him, her fingers tightened. Her face fully looking towards him as he let out a warning exhale. He gripped her chin, she felt him yank her face to him. His mask was already torn down his chin as he devoured her mouth fully. His teeth gnawing at her lips and the skin around her mouth. Fiercely, his lips mingled with her in a possessive way. Breaths echoing along the barrel, only broken by the insistent tapping of a droplet in the pipes. He pulled back a moment to look down at her lips and then up to her eyes, his mouth twitching but staying as stoic as it could. He stood up roughly, rounding the tub before undoing his boots, yanking at the strings quickly.

 

She leaned back, her hands in the water scittered up to grip the sides of the tub. Pushing herself up as she watched him. His hand flew off his boot to grab her wrist, growling lowly.

 

"Don't back out now." He threatened, his voice muted, and breath ragged. He shoved his other boot off and quickly stepped, fully clothed, into the tub.

 

His mouth on hers as his hand regripped her chin. Water splashed out of the tub and made a wet slipping sound against the stone floor. His other hand flew under the water, tracing over her thigh, she squirmed but when he slipped his tongue into her teeth she melted.

 

Each kiss was more heated than the last, his eyes kept peering into hers the occasions she opened her own. She felt a heat pool inside her and she couldn't think straight to quell it away. She needed to focus, she needed to berate him to run. As the fight began to grow in her, she felt his hand grip and push down on her thigh.

 

"I.." what was she trying to say? What did she need to do? Did she want this to stop, no. Did she want it to continue, no?

 

He pulled his face away and moved down to her neck where his teeth found her pulse line. Scraping against it, biting aggressively to get her to continue her noises. His other hand lowered, gripping her hip and sliding down her thigh to meet his other hand, stopping just a moment before sliding into her folds. She jumped and squeaked, feeling him slow down even further, causing her to shudder.

 

"Fuck, just let me..." He lapped at her throat and pulled away to stare at her. His eyebrows were pitiful, looking at her in almost a plea. She felt her chest rising and falling, but there was not enough air in this room for her to catch her breath. "мне нужна настоящая вещь."

 

Her head tilted in confusion in her haze, she watched him pull his hand back out and suck on his fingers. Growling as he dragged them out of his mouth.

 

"Understand?" He asked her and she hesitated. Before she could reply, he sucked in a breath and plunged his head under the water. Her eyes shooting wide, and her hands were frantic to stop him. Pressing against his shoulders, he shook them to get her off. As he did he brushed against her more, his face against her cunt, under the water.

 

Both of his hands grabbed her hips and she felt him yank her towards him. Soon enough he slid his mouth and tongue over her. She gave up quickly on trying to pry him from her, instead she grabbed the sides of the tub and pulled herself, only to be yanked harder. She watched bubbles rise to the surface as he aggressively ate below the now cold surface of the bath.

 

It had to have been three minutes, this man was insane. Some freakish experiment, something inhuman being, she was convinced now. She was also too close to her orgasm now, that it didn't matter to her if he was the goddamned devil.

 

"Ahh... Kakashi!" Her hand dove under the water, tugging at his hair that swayed softly underneath the water. Her thighs began to tremble, her head shot back as a particular suck on her clit sent her into a spasm. Her head falling back against the tub, her breath panting into the air. She could feel her back was still arched as she came down. Her nipples stiffening in the cold air.

 

A loud sloshing of the water and her eyes registered his lifted head. Panting heavily himself, he pushed his hand through wet hair, slicking it back so she could see his predatory eyes again.

 

"You're nuts..." She breathed out.

 

"I'm fucking hard." He admitted and grabbed her hand, hesitating near his crotch.

 

She finished the question with a quick answer. Her hand splaying over his hardened cock before she greedily undid his belt.

 

He'd shamed her, he'd taken her things, he'd harassed, ordered, and broke her.

 

She was fully under his stupid, manipulative spell. As she undid his fly she laughed, it started like a huff and ended when he gripped her hair roughly.

 

"Something funny?" He cocked a brow.

 

"Of course your cock is perfect... Nothing about you can have flaw?" She asked looking up with a skeptic grin.

 

He grabbed his shaft, pointing the tip of his cock to her. His eyes rolled at her question, but his grin was a bit cocky, it faded quickly.

 

"Don't make me beg rabbit. If you laugh anymore.. if I feel one more breath of yours on me, I'll tear you apart." His eyes glowing in the faded light. "I'll do something I'll regret."

 

She leaned forward, eyes locked to his and opened her lips cautiously.

 

"Hah.. hah." She acted as if she were testing a mic, her next note a jab.. if it weren't for the cock being shoved in her mouth.

 

"Трахни меня.." he groaned loudly into the air. Fuck me.

"So much better than my hand, come on rabbit."

 

He didn't ask as he began to fuck her mouth, the pace not tender, but slow. He wrapped her hair thoughtfully around his hand, fisting it. His other hand drew lines with his fingertips, tracing her cheeks and temple.

 

She hated how much she loved this, she'd never been fucked by any ex or college boy like this. Her eyes struggled to stay open but if she closed them, his fingers would grip her chin and shake her lightly.

 

"Open, I want to see them."

 

He picked up pace, stopping only to bounce his tip on her tongue. Then hissing when she closed her mouth back around him, going back to humping her face.

 

A rabid dog.

 

"No.. no." He pulled out swiftly.

"I didn't get this far to cum in your pretty mouth."

 

He pulled off his wet shirt, throwing it to the floor with a harsh slap. He crouched down into the tub, pausing as if to decide something. His hair dripping droplets into the water, his eyes darting around the room.

 

"... There." He whispered, talking to himself. He picked her up, easily pulling her out of the tub, and into the cold air of the room. She stiffened and clawed against him, like a cat waiting to be dried off. He cocked a grin at her and swiftly kissed against her neck. "I want to take whatever you're willing to give me."

 

He walked her to the small glass panelled wall the room had for changing. She never questioned it, she didn't need to. It was fogged over with steam, but he slid his knuckle down it and grinned deeply. He placed her down and pointed at it briefly.

 

"Chest, against it. Spread your legs." He ordered, she shakily complied.

 

Her nipples stiffened more against the cold glass, a breath knocked out of her in shock. He stood back a bit and looked her over before cursing again. His fingers sliding between her folds again, finding her clit.

 

"I know this isn't just the water now is it?" He questioned, fingers driving into her. She could feel two? Yes, two fingers, driving past his first and to his second knuckle.

 

"Ahh...nn." she gritted her teeth a little. The sensation igniting a tremor through her. She pressed her chest in involuntarily, harder into the glass and bit out, "Cold."

 

"I'll warm you up." He chewed before she felt his cock rub between her thigh and across her pubic area. He let out a soft whine before she felt him light up, his fingers leaving her and smearing across his cock.

"Say when."

 

She felt a strong of confusion before he slowly dug his tip into her, pushing past her entrance, causing her to moan. Her breath fogged against the glass, her damp hair sticking to her cheeks.

 

She didn't bother to say a word, even when he was completely sheathed. Knocking his tip against her womb as he growled fiercely against her back. His arms cradled around her stomach as he began to start a slow rhythm, purposely rubbing his tip in harsh thrusts against a specific area that caused her legs to give out. He just held her, it didn't matter if her feet were touching the ground, she wasn't going to fall.

 

"All that chasing before, when you ran away." His voice was ragged and breathless. "I wanted to drill you into that snow."

 

She felt her womb heat and her body followed. He continued to slap against her as the pace agonizingly sped up. She felt his tongue and teeth against her back and neck, she swallowed through her moans. A drop of her juices flowed down onto her thigh as he continued his punishment.

 

The glass was becoming warm from her being against it and as he leaned up, now holding her with one arm he slammed his fist against it for refuge. Grunting and using her as a man would a Fleshlight. She blushed deeply watching the stones beneath her flow back and forth with his thrusts. Her head tilting up to see his hand had cracked the glass. He really was a super soldier.

 

As suddenly as she had looked up the room spun, his hands changing their grip on her as he lifted her from his cock.

 

"I'd like to see your face when I cum...either..." His face looked down at her as he set her feet on the ground. His eyes asking her the unspoken question.

 

"I'm obviously not on any birth control." She said plainly, his face unchanging. Her face still flushed and her breathing heavy, her pussy pulsing around nothing, waiting, tempting her.

 

He silently watched her and then his eyes tracked a drop of her essence that trailed down her thigh, he smirked. She furrowed her brow.

 

"Right, outside for now then."

 

"For n-" she couldn't finish as he grabbed her up, setting her near the barrel again, but her hips were sideways, pressed into the wet tile floor. He used his hands to tilt her so he could get a deeper angle into her cunt. The squelching sound of him entering back in was enough to make a whore blush. She felt him digging again, back into her. Finding any crevice he could fill and making sure it met his cock.

 

She looked up to see him visibly edging, she herself was in the same boat. He gripped her thigh and hugged it against himself. His muscles beginning to sweat as he collided harsher inside of her. She was feeling that familiar pull, the approaching climax on the edge. He moved his hand down her thigh slowly, his fingers finding her clit. He played with her in the best way possible, as if he'd studied women doing this. Damn his over qualified, super soldier bullshit.

 

"Fuck Kakashi," she felt the moan rip from her throat and echo loudly across the walls. Her cunt fully spasming as he continued to thrust into her. She felt a wave crashing out of her, extracting some vulgar demon.

 

His hand let go of her thigh, instantly flipping her onto her back. He drew out his cock that was now covered in a nice gloss from her. Immediately his hand pumped himself over her, his other hand tracing back up the underside of her thigh, pushing it towards her, bending her.

 

"Я тебя обожаю." He grunted out, cold and precise. She couldn't make it out, but she watched him release ropes directly onto her womb and chest.

 

They panted there for a moment, staring at each other in silence. Then he slowly stood up, his feet padding behind her to grab a towel she'd set out of herself. He came back without a word and gently cleaned her up, his eyes tracking over her skin. His stoic look back on his face until he met her eyes again and he winked, almost too quick to see.

 

"не сделано."

 

Not.... Done?

 

---

 

It was unbearably quiet, the corridors fully empty when she finally headed towards her own room. It was odd not to see a single soldier, but she was kind of grateful. Kakashi hadn't finished with her after his first orgasm. He dragged her to his quarters, he ravished her; his unmatchable stamina driving her into a delirium that she couldn't shake off.

 

She was glowing warm from sex. She was falling deeper into a Stockholm she wasn't proud of. He knew it too.

 

Sakura walked quietly, wrapped in a thin blanket over some of his extra clothes. Her skin buzzing softly under the blanket.

 

She wandered almost.

 

Not running.

 

Not hiding.

 

Just grazing her feet along the floor of the halls.

 

She paused near the common room. The door was ajar lights low, no voices inside. Just static from the battered radio left on.

 

She hesitated.

 

Earlier today she had been stopped before she could listen. Now no one was around.

 

She slipped in silently.

 

The room was empty. A poker table littered with half-played cards and discarded mugs. Cigarette smoke still lingered.

 

She approached the radio — its orange dial glowing faintly.

 

The announcer’s voice crackled through.

 

“…повторяем сообщение… пропавшая женщина… японского происхождения…”

“…repeating report… missing woman… of Japanese origin…”

 

Her breath caught.

 

She gripped the back of a chair.

 

“…подозревается в похищении… возможно, удерживается за границей…”

“…suspected abduction… believed to be held abroad…”*

 

She swallowed. Hard.

 

Her throat tightened.

 

They were talking about her.Someone out there knew she was missing. Someone was looking.

 

Her chest trembled with a surge of emotion she didn’t recognize.

Hope.

 

Raw, aching hope. The kind that hurt.

 

She stepped closer to the radio, almost afraid to breathe too loudly, as if she might scare the voice away.

 

“...Please…” she whispered, not sure who she was speaking to.

 

The broadcast continued, but before she could catch more—

 

*Click.*

 

The radio snapped off.

 

Sakura froze, her eyes peering downward to the radio. A hand rested casually on the power switch.

 

She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

 

Kakashi stood just behind her; silent. She could see his reflection in the dark glass of the radio. Face unreadable, eyes unwavering. The cold quietness creeped into the whole room like someone sniffing a candle.

 

"Time for bed." He coldly remarked.