Second warning that this fic will discuss references to Anko's past with Orochimaru and alludes to child abuse/SA. And per usual, I have nothing kind to say about Konoha itself.

Enjoy, if you're so inclined. xox
-Vivi

Anko sits still as a statue, the stone cold against her bare legs. Even so, she dares not even shiver.

A small sound beside her makes her flick her gaze towards it, down to the floor at her left. Dark liquid is settling in a wooden bowl, and though she knows what it is, the metallic stench of it still makes her crinkle her nose in distaste. Not that she's averse to a little blood—or a lot of it, in this case—but the dimly-lit room and the chill in the air and her state of undress and the presence of a man in her blind spot have made the unease seep all the way into her bones.

Kakashi gives a small hum before he speaks. "I'm going to begin."

Him being, well, him is about the only thing keeping her rooted to her spot at the center of the sealing room deep beneath the Hokage's tower. Like any fine shinobi, he's an expert in all things arm's-length; she'd never seen him offer anything more than that blank stare and a sentence or two at a time. Growing up, he was one of the only boys in the village who'd never given more than a cursory glance at her wild antics, his attentions diverted always to more important things. It'd burned her from the inside out in her youth, but here and now she can only be grateful for his distance and professionalism.

Thanks to his warning, she doesn't flinch when his middle finger makes contact with the sensitive patch of skin where her neck swoops down into her shoulder. Coated with his own blood, his fingertip is warm as he makes the slow, fluid strokes comprising the first of many characters he's memorized to further bind her seal. Without conscious thought, she tilts her head to the right—her muscles move like a stringed instrument beneath his fingers—to allow him more space to work.

The rise and fall of her chest stays steady, evidence of years spent perfecting the suppression of the spiking anxiety that always accompanies being touched by a man. Her breasts feel heavy, nipples hardened and ringed by goosebumps both from the temperature and the intimacy made necessary by the jutsu's preparation. She swallows, exhaling evenly through her nostrils while she stares so hard at a crack in the stone that her eyes ache with the strain.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, voice monotone as he outlines another character against one of her protruding vertebrae. The cursed seal at the base of her neck gives a slight tug.

She's silent for a few beats of her heart, blinking slowly as he wets his finger once more in the bowl and brings it back up to resume its trail down her spine. What could his angle be, to say such a thing? Surely he isn't making some attempt to get to know her, to forge some momentary relationship for reasons upon which she can barely even speculate?

Her body stays frozen as she asks, "What for?"

"You're tense." It's said flatly, plainly, as if he'd simply commented on the late hour instead. "I know something like this must not be easy."

It sends something like rage fluttering through her, for the briefest of moments. She's sure he feels her whole body tighten and then forcibly relax, can probably see from the side as she clenches and releases her jaw. No one so much as breathed in the Leaf who hadn't heard something or other about the very many men she'd bedded. Being with one like this should be simple for her, maybe even boring, in his eyes.

"Didn't think you'd know much about anyone, Hatake." She hadn't meant it to come out so scathing, but that's true about almost everything she's ever said to anyone. And worse, the one person in the whole village to avoid pissing off is Kakashi. With a pinprick amount of shame she adds, "Least of all me."

He says nothing for a long while, his finger at the small of her back. "I pay attention." The first line of the sealing technique is complete, and she knows that he notices the barely-restrained shiver that snakes its way down her spine when he touches her shoulder again. "And you seem to've been handling this mark well enough up until now."

"Don't overstep," she warned lowly, on-edge from his blatant prying.

He's quiet as he makes the first new mark on her skin, another fragment of the ring that will eventually surround her cursed seal. "My apologies again."

All is silent for the time it takes him to make the next few strokes and wet his finger again, replacing it on her back. She shuts her eyes and swallows to force down another anxious shiver. Somewhere far off to her right in some dark corner of the room, water drips through a crack in the cement ceiling, the slow, rhythmic plop of it threatening to drive her mad.

Maybe it's that she can't stand to sit here in silence while a man touches her—or it could be the fact that he's kind enough not to press anymore that makes her break, just a bit.

"I just—" But it catches in her throat. She balls her fist on the concrete, inwardly cursing her own weakness and searching for the right words. "Well enough isn't sustainable, so I just...want to be sure he can't see me anymore."

He makes a small sound of acknowledgment, and for a moment she thinks he'll push. And where is it you want to go unseen? Which she, of course, cannot divulge. Or maybe, It was careless of you to let him see through you all this time. And that, of course, she would deserve.

But that's it. There are no follow-up questions or chastisements; he merely carries on writing his symbols down the length of her back, pausing only to dip his digits back into the bowl of blood. Her cursed mark feels hot in a way it hasn't since it was new, impossible to ignore and itching. With the second line complete, it gives another heavy pull of discomfort. She thinks of Sasuke, even though she swore to herself she would not: he had been forced into this, unlike her. When she tries to place herself in his stead, she cannot. Even at his age, she would've gone kicking and screaming. She'd always insisted on handling things all on her own.

"He must've changed its composition over the years," Kakashi muses into the cold air, his voice bringing her back to reality. Briefly, she allows herself to think what his breath would feel like at her neck, were his mouth unobscured by the mask he always wears. "Compared to Sasuke's, yours is..."

He's chosen his words as carefully as she'd expect from someone like him. He didn't suspect that it'd been improved, necessarily, but of course was keen enough to sense the differences. An explanation can't hurt, she figures, and she shifts to straighten slightly, careful not to disrupt his efforts.

"There's a clan sensei obsessed over," she offered. "Said it would've made them easier to apply—but they'd lack a certain...personal touch. Guess he finally got his hands on one of them."

She doesn't elaborate, content enough that he won't try to ask after it. Even if he does, she doesn't have anywhere near the energy to talk about Orochimaru's hypotheses and how much she'd believed in his research, how enthusiastic she'd been as a young girl to help him. The thrill of being chosen, singled out and made to feel special. She doesn't know if it's better or worse that the Uchiha kid is spared from that particular approach.

The tremor can't be suppressed this time. Kakashi's hand freezes, hovering there right above her right shoulder, halfway through the third line, but he recovers as quickly as she does. By the time she evens her breaths and stills her shaking limbs, he's already finishing up. She can hear the rustling of his clothes as he shifts, just the black standard-issue long sleeve shirt and matching pants—she'd come to him long after he'd shrugged off his flak jacket for the night.

"The next will go down your left arm." He's moving to her side already, and then he'll see—he'll see—and then soon he'll need to touch—

Dread seizes her, squeezing at her heart and gripping at her throat. The flinch comes hard; she shrinks away from him as she brings up her legs to hide her breasts. It's enough, of course, to stop him again, though this time he's frozen up in that eerie way only a shinobi can manage. Even if she'd only twitched, she thinks, he would've stopped.

"Take your time," he says, and she wonders if he's really as tired as he sounds or if she's imagining it, her brain eager for ammunition to use against itself, to soak in any drop of disapproval it can pull from him. He's drawn back, sitting cross-legged at her side with his head turned toward the front of the room. "If you'd prefer to stop—"

"No," she rasps, swallowing to try and reclaim the strength that'd fled from her voice. The thought of it—of a man fine with stopping, of a man withdrawing from her—almost makes her sick, makes the panic thicken in her pumping blood. That always meant she was worthless, after all.

But she reminds herself then: this is not sex.

She pulls in the stale air through her nostrils with forcible slowness, holding it in her lungs and counting the passing seconds with idle taps of her finger on her biceps. Relaxing her muscles as much as she can, she slides her feet back along the floor—one leg she stretches out in front of her, the other folding to tuck her toes beneath the thigh. When finally she releases the breath, she shuts her eyes and straightens her back, stuffs down the small wave of nausea that this, too, she learned from the man who hurt her the most.

"No," she says again, calmer, opens her eyes but keeps them level on the stone. "It's fine. We keep going."

Kakashi nods, his tousled white hair all she cares to discern from her peripheral. The touch of his still-warm blood on her bicep makes her skin break out in goosebumps, and she gives a harder sigh than is perhaps warranted at her own frustration. So what if he sees her bare chest? Who hasn't, by now? And then, hadn't it been her own decision to parade around the village so scandalously little clothing in the first place?

"It's stupid," she bites out, the words not meant to be spoken aloud, "isn't it?"

He gives another small sound, this one inquisitive.

"This." She glances away, her dark fringe falling over her eyes. "Me."

"How?"

She forces a laugh, bitter and hollow and humorless. "Freaking that you'll see my tits. As if—as if I've ever cared about that before."

The character he's writing at the bony protrusion of her elbow swirls inward, and she shivers again. She curses under her breath, loathing herself for such a pathetic lack of composure. Every shred of control she'd managed to take hold of since her squandered girlhood feels like it's slipping through her fingers.

"I'm of the mind," he murmurs, "that we are allowed to react in different ways to similar situations."

She gives a rude suck of her teeth. "Spare me your philosophical lectures. You know how I am with that sort of thing."

"I don't," is all he says in response.

The line down her arm is complete, and the next of them will necessitate him writing over her breast. He knows it just as much as she does, but he's hesitating, isn't he? Anger rises like bile in her throat, fueling her confidence in the assumption.

Before she's even given conscious thought to the action she's reached out her hand to snatch his wrist, the motion a flash. She shifts, subtly arching her back so that the apex of her breast meets his guided palm. The contact sends a sharp wave of arousal that knots in her lower stomach, her nipple hardening against the heat of him. She swears she can feel the ghosting touch of his thumb testing the curve of her, her pulse picking up pace to the extent that she can feel it against the pressure of his hand. She wants him to squeeze as hard as he wants, to really feel her, to tug at the hardened bud and pin her to the floor.

But he doesn't do any of it. She furrows her brows, gathering her courage to look him in the face.

His one-eyed gaze had always seemed tired to her, though she knows how sharp he is beneath the facade. It looks now like a coal threatening to burst into flame, smoldering somewhere just under the surface as he studies her. She wonders, as she often had when she looked at him for too long, if his stare would be half as intimidating if she could see the rest of his face. If he's angry too, well, she can use that just fine.

"You know," she breathes, "what people say about me."

He pulls his hand away, watching her for another few beats of her heart before turning to wet his finger again. With his attention now back to her curse seal and the one he's currently forming to bind it, she feels that heavy cloud of tension begin to dissipate, equal parts a mercy and a cause for alarm. She is unaccustomed to being so close to a man, so alone with one, who doesn't give in to his baser instincts, especially once she'd been so bold. He says nothing of her inappropriate goading, simply works as diligently as he had before.

"I have a question for you, Mitarashi."

She purses her lip, displeased that he's used against her her own tactic for keeping an emotional distance. The conflicting feelings within her are gnawing at her brain: hadn't she just been grateful for that distance, for the fact that he'd never paid her any mind or pursued her of his own accord? Why, then, should she resent him for not taking advantage of her explicit allowance of the exploration of her body?

He's already trailing the ink that is his blood around her puckered nipple by the time she asks, dejectedly, "What?"

Part of her wants to laugh when he pauses, unsure, surely, if he should lift up the heft of her breast and make the next character there, or simply where it rests against her ribcage. He opts for the ribs, the mark half on the curve and half on the bone.

"I wonder if you've believed everything that's been said of me, over the years."

She goes rigid. From what little she does know about Hatake Kakashi, it's that he never, not once, spoke of what happened with Rin. Not in anger, not in defense, and certainly not in passing. She'd heard from secondhand sources—those of her class who were cool enough to hang with Kakashi's peers—that he'd been accused of comrade-killing. She'd passed him by, exhausted but pissed, on his way out from Lord Fourth's office late in the night, finally free from some long-winded and overly complicated mission report, she'd figured at the time. The guy was a prodigy even by prodigy's standards: chuunin at six and admitted to ANBU shortly after his promotion to jounin, a boy like him was sure to be neck-deep in whatever mess of the week Namikaze and the council were cleaning (or, more likely, creating).

And it was true, she'd heard quite the sensational talk in those first few years since he'd come back to the village all by himself. He waltzed back home with his hands in his pockets, someone had said. Like he didn't even care one bit. Another had all but hissed, I bet he did something to her she didn't like. Killed her before she could report him. That'd earned some knowing snickers from the other boys in the group, as if they'd all had the urge some time or another.

Sitting on the cold floor of the sealing room, she has to fight to keep her head from spinning in anxiety. Men really are all the same, aren't they? She steadies her breathing with intent, focusing instead on the anchoring pull now that her seal is almost entirely surrounded by Kakashi's hand-written markings. It draws up the memory of him in the days and weeks after he'd returned from that mission, as quiet as ever but with a dangerous air that hadn't been present before. Even in her youth—before Orochimaru had changed the course of her life forever—she could see how he'd returned a different person, heard of the brutal fights he'd start.

In her worst moments, she'd hated herself for not being more like him, for not retreating into herself and instead taking false comfort with as many willing men as she could find. Hated herself for trying to wrestle what control she had left of her life from the darkest reaches of her mind, for becoming hard and sharp and needling. When she was kicking some moron in his stomach for chuckling behind her back, she always felt better than when she was going down on one instead.

All she can say is, "Of course I didn't, you idiot."

He begins work on the penultimate line, one that will cut diagonally between her collarbones and pass along her right breast. This time, she is less apprehensive of how that will feel. She wants to tell him, I saw the way you were with her. That for all of his blank stoicism and how he was a bit of a stickler, he was kind to Nohara. Careful with her. Respected her, most of all.

A bit like how he's making her feel now, and she thinks that is why she cannot bring herself to say it.

He hums again, crossing over her anatomy in a way that gives her the impression that he has her memorized. "Well, then."

Two words, and they speak for themselves. She almost lunges at him, can feel the surge of energy through her limbs. But whether she would try to gouge out his good eye with her fingernails or tug his mask down to kiss him, she doesn't know. How long had it been since she had someone so unflinchingly on her side? Not the barely-concealed looks of contempt she'd receive when Sarutobi would pat her shoulder as she cried in his office, and certainly not the slick bodies and the muffled moans of the boys—and the men, eventually—who decided that, for a night, they would look past their opinions of her just to have a warm body to fuck; no, what Kakashi has implied goes far beyond all of that.

But she squeezes her eyes shut, forcing away the tears stinging in their corners. His empathy is overwhelming, so much so that she feels sick in the face of it.

"So we were both traitors, for a time." When she blinks them back open, they're wide. She knows, though, that it makes her look crazy, undesirable, and schools her expression. But he's close, so close, having scooted directly in front of her to give him better access to her body, and it eats at her resolve.

"But you"—humiliatingly, her breath hitches—"were never called shit like Orochimaru's whore."

He stops, looks her dead in the eye in a way that makes her heart ache. "I beat someone half to death for that, once."

She can barely feel herself breathing. A hundred-million things fly through her mind, but the one taking up the most space there is the knowledge that Hatake Kakashi, whom plenty of people feared, had stood up for her. Had fought for her. That in the list of things that would set him off, putting any sort of smudge on her already-besmirched name had been among them.

When she collects herself enough to speak, her voice is small as a whisper. "Who?" It's not what she wants to say, but it will suffice.

"I can't say I even remember his name." With his seal so near to completion, her curse mark throbs in protest: an outcry of evil surrounded on all sides by incomprehensible kindness. "Some chuunin half-wit. What I do remember, though, is how it feels to hear whispers in your wake everywhere you go."

Her tears break free, the dam of her useless now that she's been so seen. Her chest heaves and she falls forward, barely catching herself, her surging emotions dulling the smack of pain in the bones of her forearms. He's joking, isn't he? Some terrible joke at her expense, to make her feel so safe with him before revealing some true intention he'd kept hidden until now? Or perhaps he's nothing more than Lord Third's pawn, gathering all he can, all of the things she wouldn't in an eon reveal to that old bastard, ready to report it all back to him like a good little spy.

It can't be. Even as she thinks it she cannot convince herself of any part of it. She'd put his hand upon her breast her damned self, seen the intensity of his stare. Hells, even the fact that he's here with her at all, doing her this colossal favor is proof enough of his kindness. She realizes then that he hadn't even hesitated when she asked.

But even now, she fights—how can she do anything less? It is how she was raised. In the Village Hidden by Leaves, pushing away the help of others is second nature.

"Slut," she whispers in spite of her clenched jaw, her aching teeth. "Traitor bitch." Her hair falls loose of its knot, spills over her shoulder. "As if I'd ever leave with that—that...after he..."

Kakashi says nothing, his hands—one of which is wrapped, still bleeding, in medical gauze—limp in his lap. Then they blur, obscured by the tears welling and pooling onto the floor.

"Like I'd asked for any of this, wanted it," she spits. Tipping forward, her forehead hits the ground as she brings up her hands to tug at her hair and claw at her scalp. A pitiful cry comes from somewhere deep in her throat, primal and aching. This ritual wasn't supposed to devolve into this, wasn't supposed to make her feel so miserable and raw and laid bare. Maybe she can crush her own skull and finally be done with it all. "Orochimaru's whore."

"You're not."

It shouldn't be enough to quell her antics, but she can feel her whole body give pause in hopeful anticipation. She should know better, for how many times had she allowed herself this feeling only to be let down?

He hasn't let her down yet, though. They hardly even know each other and yet he knows her, saw his reflection from where he'd gazed at the core of her.

"You're not," he says again, strained. Both of his hands close around one of her fists, closed so tightly it hurts. But his gentle touch helps, if only a bit. "You were a child. We didn't ask for blood and strife. It isn't fair that it's what we've inherited."

"Children suffer every day in this damned place," she retorts, half-snarling. "I'm the only one pathetic enough not to move on."

"Not is quite different from cannot."

"I have strength enough." But enough isn't sustainable, right? She wants to hate his sweet words, wants to call him soft and weak and unfit for the brutal life they all must lead. She pulls her hand from his, righting her posture wildly, her whipping hair sending an erratic, bursting breeze across her face. "It shouldn't be this hard!"

The shrill word echoes in the little room, her shout so loud she almost worries it will have been heard above ground. She sits there on her knees, the rapid rise and fall of her exposed chest and the flush of her cheeks and her swollen eyes making her turmoil plain to see. She feels unhinged, so near to spiraling, until she notices that Kakashi's eyebrows are pinched together as his gaze catches hers, refusing to let go.

"I know that it is." His voice is still so calm, piercing through the chaos of her mind and instilling a quiet clarity there instead. "It's hard because it hurts, Mitarashi."

The tears on her face are drying. Her sobs have faded, her breathing evening. Every nerve in her body, every learned instinct, wants to resist his kindness. But she is naked and he doesn't care. She is covered in his blood, markings of his own making and bearing traces of his chakra that aim to do nothing but destroy the last of her connections to her old masters. Soon, he will activate the seal; it will hurt, she knows, and he will apologize for it in advance, but it won't be nearly as painful as the night she'd been branded with the cursed mark itself.

There are worse things, to have this part of herself bound by the blood of a man she'd hardly spoken to. A man gentle enough to draw back and wait for her, to not shy away from her outbursts. A man who, for a time, had been as much of an outcast as she once was. Still is, really. To carry his chakra inside of her is a privilege, she knows, one she cannot afford to waste.

A semblance of sense returns to her, slowly at first. She reaches up to wipe her eyes, sniffling one final time while she smooths the hair that'd stuck to her face. As she straightens her back she tries to look him in the eye, instead hovering somewhere at his chin. She needs to be strong, stronger than she may be capable of, and not just for herself. She thinks of Sasuke, of Sarutobi's insistence to keep him here in spite of her begging, in spite of what he knows Orochimaru has done to her. If she can just hold on, she could spare one child the same fate.

Will that be enough, to make up for the crushing weight of it that haunts her every step?

"Let's keep going." She wants to wince, to switch tracks so plainly as if nothing out of the ordinary had even happened. But she can't take much more of the risk associated with her guard being down for so long—it'd done nothing but land her in trouble in the past. As much as she wants to let him into her entirely, she can't bear it. Not yet, especially not when she's keeping her truest intentions hidden deep in her heart. "Almost done, aren't we?"

He says nothing, and despite herself she glances up to his eye, finds him searching her face. But then he leans down, wetting his fingers in his blood, his demeanor, too, betraying none of the heightened emotions that'd risen up between them. A perfect mirror of her, but so much more than her all the same.

"Almost done," he agrees easily.