#naruto x reader

FUCKTOBER 2026

Brought to you by T1TRACK

A month of bad decisions, morally questionable men, brat behavior, and pure pleasure

WARNING: Reader discretion is advised. All works under the cut are intended for mature audiences only. Everything has been individually tagged for potential triggers and explicit content. Themes may include possessiveness, free-use dynamics, degradation, violence, surveillance, isolation, financial and emotional abuse, coercive control, consent ambiguity, and other potentially distressing material. Read the warnings carefully and proceed at your own discretion!

Your entry to Poundtown awaits you HERE [TAG LIST]

I have a request but it’s totally okay if you don’t want to take it 🫶🏼🫶🏼

A scenario where perhaps shikamaru makes a gentle and sweet reader cry? I really loved the dynamics because let’s say reader is like the complete opposite from Shikamaru who is slightly grumpy and lazy and just very laid back and he’s with a reader who is super friendly and kind to everyone and also very extroverted and bubbly??? and maybe he says something like “do you ever stop talking?” and then she pauses and then she starts crying 😭 but then he feels bad and he’s kinda awkward about it all whilst he comforts her

I’m sorry if it’s a lot!! tysm for your hardwork🥹🫶🏼

Shikamaru loved you.

He truly did—more than he’d ever thought possible, considering how thoroughly you were his opposite. Where he was lazy, sharp-tongued, and chronically unimpressed by the world, you were gentle. Sweet. Kind in a way that sometimes made his chest ache. You tried to be friendly with everyone you came across, even the grouchy old woman two doors down who never returned your smiles. You were talkative, endlessly so, filling every quiet space with soft chatter about nothing and everything. Most days he didn’t mind. He liked it, actually. He liked the way your voice curled around the edges of his thoughts, the way your little rambles about the new bakery on the corner or the way the light hit the leaves outside made the endless drag of missions and meetings feel less heavy. You were the only person who could make silence feel incomplete.

But today had been a disaster from the moment he opened his eyes.

It started with Ino. A petty argument over nothing—something about flower arrangements for a joint clan event that neither of them actually cared about—and somehow it had spiraled until he was snapping at her in the middle of the street, voice low and cutting in a way that left her staring at him with wide, offended eyes. He’d walked away feeling worse, not better. Then he’d shown up extremely late to an important strategy meeting with the Hokage and the other jōnin commanders. By the time he’d finally sat down, his tea had already gone cold; he’d knocked the cup over anyway, watching the dark liquid soak into the crotch of his pants like some cosmic joke. He’d skipped lunch after that, too irritated to eat, and spent the rest of the afternoon grinding through paperwork with a headache pulsing behind his eyes.

By the time he dragged himself home, all he wanted was silence. A cigarette. Maybe half a pack. Just to sit on the porch with the late afternoon light filtering through the trees and let the world stop demanding things from him for five goddamn minutes.

You were already home.

He heard you before he saw you—soft humming from the kitchen, the clatter of bowls, the warm, buttery scent of cookies baking for the new neighbors who’d moved in last week. You always did that. Always found some small way to make strangers feel welcome. It was one of the things he loved about you, even when it exhausted him.

You fluttered out of the kitchen the second the door slid shut behind him, flour dusting one cheek, smile bright and immediate. You rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth the way you always did, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your hands came up to rest lightly against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt for just a second before you pulled back, still smiling.

“Welcome home,” you murmured against his lips. “I made those honey cookies you like, and also some for the neighbors—do you think I should add the little sesame ones too? Or is that too much? I was thinking about maybe taking over a small plant as well, something easy to care for, but I couldn’t decide between the lavender or the—”

He should have stopped you. Should have kissed you quiet and told you he needed a minute. Instead he just stood there, coat still on, the weight of the day pressing harder against his ribs with every word that spilled from your mouth.

You kept going.

About the neighbors’ daughter who had waved at you that morning. About the way the kitchen window had stuck again. About how you’d almost burned the first batch because you’d gotten distracted watching a bird outside. About how you were thinking of trying a new recipe next week, something with matcha, and maybe he could taste-test—

“Do you ever stop talking?”

The words came out sharper than he meant them. Flat. Tired. Cruel in a way he almost never was with you.

You froze.

The smile vanished mid-sentence. Your eyes went wide, already shining, and your lower lip trembled once before you pressed it between your teeth. For a second you just stared at him, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. Then the tears came—fast, silent at first, welling up and spilling over before you could blink them back.

Every ounce of irritation drained out of him at once.

“Shit,” he breathed. “No—hey. Don’t—”

But you were already turning away, shoulders curling in, one hand coming up to swipe at your cheeks like you could hide it. Your breath hitched, small and broken, and the sound punched straight through whatever was left of his bad mood.

He moved before he thought about it.

Shikamaru crossed the space between you in two strides, catching your wrist gently before you could escape into the kitchen. His fingers wrapped carefully around the delicate bones there, thumb brushing over the inside of your pulse point as he tugged you back. You tried to pull free, head ducked, but he didn’t let go. Instead he drew you fully against his chest, one arm wrapping tightly around your back so that your body was pressed flush to his from chest to hips. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair and holding you there as your face buried against the warm, solid plane of his shoulder.

You were smaller than him, soft where he was all angles, and right now you felt fragile in a way that made his stomach twist. He could feel every small tremble that ran through you, the way your breath stuttered against the fabric of his shirt, the damp heat of your tears soaking through to his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered against your hair, voice rough. His hand stroked slowly down the length of your spine, palm broad and warm, then back up again in a steady, soothing rhythm. “That was—fuck. That was a dick move. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. Just pressed your face harder into his shoulder and cried, quiet little sobs that shook your whole body. Flour from your cheek transferred onto his shirt. He didn’t care. He only held you tighter, one hand still buried in your hair, gently massaging the base of your skull with careful fingers while the other continued its slow path up and down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the thin fabric of your top.

He stood there holding you for a long minute, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the day and everything to do with the fact that he’d made you cry. He was terrible at this. Always had been. Tears made him awkward, made him want to look anywhere else, say anything else, fix it with logic instead of whatever soft thing you actually needed. But you weren’t just anyone. You were his. His baby. His sweetheart. The only person who could make him feel like the world wasn’t quite so troublesome after all.

“I had a shit day,” he said eventually, voice low against your temple. His lips brushed your skin with every word. One hand slipped under the hem of your shirt without thinking, settling warm and bare against the soft skin of your lower back. His fingers spread wide there, stroking slow circles just above the waistband of your pants, grounding both of you. “Ino got under my skin. I was late to the meeting. Spilled tea all over myself like an idiot. Skipped lunch. Came home wanting nothing but quiet and a smoke and… and you were just being you. Talking. Being sweet. And I snapped like an asshole.”

Your fingers curled tighter into the front of his shirt, knuckles pressing against his chest. He felt another tear soak through the fabric, warm against his collarbone. He responded by sliding his hand higher under your shirt, palm gliding up the warm plane of your back until his fingers could curl lightly around the nape of your neck from beneath the fabric. His other hand stayed in your hair, gently carding through the strands, scratching lightly at your scalp in the way he knew always made your shoulders loosen.

“I love listening to you talk,” he continued, quieter now. Honest. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin just behind your ear. “I do. Even when it’s about nothing. Especially when it’s about nothing. You’re the only thing that makes this place feel like home instead of just somewhere I crash between missions. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

You sniffled, still not looking up. “You sounded like you meant it.”

The small, hurt sound of your voice made something in his chest crack.

Shikamaru exhaled slowly and guided you both over to the low couch in the living room, never fully letting go. His hand stayed under your shirt the entire way, warm and steady against your skin. He sat and tugged you carefully into his lap, settling you sideways so your legs draped over his thigh. The position brought you even closer—your hip pressed snugly against the soft give of his stomach, your shoulder tucked under his chin, your cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wrapped both arms around you this time, one hand sliding fully under your shirt to rest bare against the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, while the other cradled the back of your neck, thumb stroking idle circles just below your ear.

You went willingly, still sniffling, face tucked under his chin. He could feel the dampness of your tears against his throat. In response he tightened his hold, drawing you more firmly against him until there was no space left between your bodies. His hand under your shirt moved in slow, deliberate strokes—up the length of your spine, then down again, palm warm and heavy, fingers tracing each vertebra like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I was frustrated,” he said. “Not at you. Never at you. You’re… you’re the opposite of everything that pisses me off about this job. You’re soft. You’re kind. You care about people enough to bake them cookies just because they moved in next door. I’m the one who’s a mess today. Not you.”

He pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, lingering there so that his lips brushed your skin with every breath. His hand under your shirt slipped a little higher, fingers spreading across the warm plane of your mid-back, then drifted lower again to rest just above the curve of your hip, thumb stroking gently along the soft skin there.

“Look at me.”

You hesitated, then tipped your face up. Your eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, cheeks flushed. The sight made his throat tight. He brushed the pad of his thumb carefully under one eye, wiping away a lingering tear, then did the same to the other. His hand stayed cupped against your cheek afterward, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye as he studied your face.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer. “Really. I hate that I made you cry. You’re my favorite person in this entire troublesome village, you know that? The only one I actually look forward to coming home to.”

Your lip wobbled again, but this time it was different. Smaller. Less broken.

“You called me your baby once,” you whispered. “When you were half-asleep. I liked it.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Well. You are my baby. My sweetheart. Even when you talk my ear off about cookie recipes and neighbor kids and stuck windows.”

He leaned in and kissed you—gentle, careful, nothing like the sharp edge of his earlier words. Just soft pressure, an apology pressed against your mouth. His hand under your shirt tightened slightly at the small of your back, drawing you even closer as you kissed him back after a second, one hand coming up to rest against his jaw. He felt the way your lips trembled against his, the soft hitch of your breath, and answered by deepening the kiss just a fraction—still slow, still careful, but lingering, his mouth moving against yours in a quiet, steady rhythm that said I’m here. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.

When he pulled away he kept his forehead against yours, noses brushing. His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb still stroking gently beneath your eye.

“Forgive me?” he murmured.

You nodded, small and shy, and the last of the tension in his shoulders finally eased.

Shikamaru shifted, settling deeper into the couch, and pulled you more securely against his chest. One hand resumed its slow path up and down your spine beneath your shirt—broad palm gliding from the base of your neck all the way down to the small of your back, then up again, the motion unhurried and grounding. The other stayed curled around the back of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tense muscles there, thumb stroking idle circles just below your ear. He could feel the way your body gradually softened against him, the way your breathing began to even out, the residual tremors fading under the steady warmth of his hands.

“Stay here a while,” he said quietly, lips brushing your hair with every word. “Let me hold you. I’ll even listen to whatever you want to tell me about those cookies. Just… give me a minute to stop being an idiot first.”

You let out a soft, watery little laugh against his collarbone, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. In response he tightened his arms around you, one hand slipping fully around your waist now so that his palm rested warm against the soft curve of your side, fingers splayed wide. His other hand continued its slow massage at the nape of your neck, then drifted down to stroke along the line of your shoulder, then back up into your hair again, gently carding through the strands.

Outside, the late afternoon light filtered through the trees the way it always did. Somewhere in the kitchen the oven timer would go off soon. The new neighbors would get their cookies. Life would keep being troublesome in all the usual ways.

But right now, with you warm and quiet in his arms—your body soft and pliant against his, your cheek resting over his heartbeat, his hands moving in slow, continuous strokes over your back and neck and hair—Shikamaru decided the world could wait a little longer.

He pressed one more kiss to your hair, then another to your temple, then a third to the still-damp skin just below your eye. His lips lingered there, soft and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered one last time, just for you, voice low against your skin. “I love you. More than I know what to do with sometimes. And I never want to be the reason those pretty eyes fill up like that again.”

They’d always been like this. Kakashi and Obito. Two sides of the same coin, glued together since high school, both walking onto the university campus as starting players on the football team like it was the most natural thing in the world. Broad shoulders that strained against team hoodies, easy arrogance that filled every room they entered, the kind of bodies that turned heads—thick thighs, defined abs that flexed when they laughed, calloused hands that knew how to grip a ball and how to grip you. And somehow, against every stereotype, they’d both decided the quiet girl who lived three doors down from their shared suite—the one who spent more time buried in textbooks and research papers than at parties, glasses slipping down her nose, soft sweaters hiding the curves they couldn’t stop touching—was the one they wanted.

You.

It had started as a joke. Obito teasing you about the way you chewed the end of your pen during study group, voice low and rough. Kakashi watching you over the rim of his own notes with that lazy, half-lidded stare that somehow felt sharper than anyone else’s, silver hair falling into one visible eye. Then it became something else. Shared late-night study sessions that turned into both of them walking you back to your dorm, shoulders brushing yours, the heat of their bodies seeping through your clothes. Both of them texting you. Both of them showing up at your door with takeout and that same competitive gleam in their eyes.

You’d never stood a chance.

Now the three of you existed in a strange, electric equilibrium. Their girlfriend. Their shared secret. Their favorite competition.

Tonight it had started the way it always did—playful, then not. The three of you had piled onto the oversized couch in their suite after the game, you still in the soft oversized sweater you’d worn to the library, the fabric soft against your bare skin underneath. Them still damp from the showers, smelling like clean soap, warm skin, and that lingering trace of victory sweat. Obito’s arm had been around your waist, heavy and possessive, fingers already slipping under the hem to stroke the soft skin of your hip. Kakashi’s hand had been high on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles that made heat pool low in your belly. One of them had kissed the side of your neck—Obito, hot mouth and the scrape of stubble. The other had immediately done the same on the opposite side, harder, Kakashi’s teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver, the dual sensation sending sparks straight down between your legs.

And then the argument began.

“I go first.”

“Like hell you do.”

“You went first last time.”

“That was two weeks ago and you came before I even got all the way in—”

“Because you were taking forever—”

You’d tried. God, you’d tried. Soft hands on both their chests, feeling the solid muscle under their shirts, quiet voice, the reasonable suggestions you’d learned never actually worked. “We could flip a coin.” “You could both just… not keep score for once.” “I don’t care who—”

They’d both looked at you like you’d suggested they stop breathing.

So now you were on your back in the middle of their bed, sweater long gone, the cool air of the room kissing your flushed skin. Bra unhooked and tossed somewhere across the room, the slight red marks from the straps still visible on your shoulders. Underwear shoved down your thighs and forgotten, the soft fabric left tangled around one ankle. Kakashi was between your legs, silver hair falling into his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw tight with focus. Two long fingers already working into you with that precise, ruthless patience he brought to everything—slick, wet sounds filling the quiet room as he stretched you open, the pads of his fingers dragging against your inner walls, the heat of his breath ghosting over your clit. Obito was stretched along your side, mouth hot on your breast, the wet heat of his tongue swirling around your nipple before his teeth caught it every time you made a sound, the sharp little sting blooming into pure pleasure. One big hand squeezed the other roughly enough that the slight ache went straight down between your legs, your nipple stiffening against his palm.

They were both hard. You could feel it—Obito’s cock pressing thick and heavy against your hip through his sweatpants, the heat of it searing even through the fabric, a wet spot already forming where the head leaked. Kakashi’s against the inside of your leg whenever he shifted, the hard length of him throbbing, the thin material of his pants doing nothing to hide how ready he was. Neither of them had taken their clothes all the way off yet. They were too busy fighting for territory, the air thick with the scent of your arousal, clean sweat, and their cologne mixing into something heady and overwhelming.

“She’s soaking already,” Kakashi murmured, voice low and almost conversational as he crooked his fingers and watched your hips jerk, the wet schlick of his fingers pumping in and out loud in the quiet room. Your cunt clenched around him, slick dripping down his wrist in warm rivulets, the smell of you rising sharp and musky. “Look at that. Dripping down my wrist.”

Obito lifted his head just long enough to look, silver eyes dark and hungry, lips shiny with spit. “Because I’m the one playing with her tits. She always gets wetter when I bite.” He demonstrated, teeth closing around your nipple again, the sharp pressure making you gasp, the dual sensation of pain and pleasure shooting straight to your core. Your back arched, pressing your breast harder into his mouth.

“She gets wetter when I finger her properly.” Kakashi’s thumb found your clit—swollen, sensitive—and circled once, twice, deliberate, the pad of his thumb slick with your own wetness. The pressure was perfect, almost too much, the little bud throbbing under his touch. You gasped, a broken sound that made both of them grin. He smiled that small, sharp smile. “See?”

Obito growled and ducked back down, sucking harder, tongue flicking rapid and wet against the peaked tip, free hand sliding down your stomach to try and steal some of the space between your legs. The rough calluses on his fingers dragged over your soft skin. Kakashi blocked him with his forearm without even looking up, the muscles flexing.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Kakashi—”

“You can have her mouth later. Right now I’m making her come first so I get to fuck her first.”

Your head tipped back against the pillows, the soft cotton cool against your overheated skin. “Guys—”

They ignored you completely.

Kakashi’s fingers curled again, pressing that perfect spongy spot inside you while his thumb kept up its steady, devastating rhythm. The dual pressure had your thighs trembling, the wet sounds growing louder, more obscene, your slick coating his hand up to the knuckles. Obito’s mouth moved to your other breast, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out—the sharp sting blooming hot—then soothing with broad, wet strokes of his tongue. His hand finally managed to slip lower, two of his thicker fingers joining Kakashi’s, stretching you wider with a burn that made your eyes flutter. Both of them working you open at the same time, knuckles brushing, the combined stretch intense, the wet heat of your cunt sucking them in greedily like it was a contest of who could make you shake harder.

It was filthy. It was overwhelming. It was exactly how they always were. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air—your arousal, their skin, the faint musk of their cocks straining against fabric. Your breath came in short, punched-out gasps. Every nerve felt alight.

You came the first time with both their names tangled in your throat, thighs trembling hard around Kakashi’s wrist, the muscles in your cunt clamping down in rhythmic pulses around their combined fingers. Slick gushed warmer, wetter, soaking the sheets beneath you. Obito’s teeth locked on your nipple, the sharp pressure grounding you even as white-hot pleasure ripped through your belly. Your whole body shook, toes curling, a broken moan spilling out as the orgasm rolled through you in waves.

The second the aftershocks started to fade—your cunt still fluttering, hypersensitive—Kakashi was already pulling free, the wet pop of his fingers leaving you making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. He shoved his sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock. It sprang out heavy and flushed, the head shiny with precome, veins standing out along the thick shaft. The sight of it made your mouth water even as your core clenched around nothing.

Obito’s head snapped up. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I made her come. I go first.”

“We both—”

Kakashi didn’t wait. He lined up, the blunt, hot head of his cock nudging your entrance, smearing through the slick mess of your previous orgasm. He pushed into you in one long, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt while you were still fluttering. The stretch punched the air out of your lungs—thick, burning-good, the drag of every inch sliding deep until his hips met yours with a wet slap. You felt every ridge, every throb of his cock as it pulsed inside you. He groaned low in his throat, forehead dropping against yours for half a second, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, then he started moving—deep, controlled rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. The wet schlick-schlick of his cock fucking into your soaked cunt filled the room, each thrust sending little sparks of pleasure up your spine.

Obito made a sound of pure outrage and surged up, mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss, tongue pushing past your lips to taste you, all heat and need. His hand went back to your breasts, pinching, rolling, tugging your nipples until they ached in the best way, the dual sensation of Kakashi’s cock stretching you and Obito’s rough hands on your tits making your head spin. “You’re such a fucking cheater,” he muttered against your lips between kisses, voice rough, the scrape of his stubble against your cheek. “Next one is mine. The second she comes again I’m pulling you out and—”

Kakashi fucked into you harder, deliberately angling so the head of his cock kissed that spot on every stroke, the pressure intense, almost too much. The wet sounds grew louder, your slick coating his cock, dripping down onto the sheets. “Then make her come faster next time.”

Obito took the challenge like a personal insult. He shifted, mouth trailing down your throat—hot, open-mouthed kisses, the occasional scrape of teeth—down your chest, latching onto one nipple again while his fingers found your clit and rubbed tight, fast circles in time with Kakashi’s thrusts. The little bud was swollen and slick, every brush of his rough fingertips sending sharp jolts through you. You were still sensitive, still fluttering around Kakashi’s cock, and the dual assault was almost too much. Your hands fisted in the sheets, the soft cotton twisting under your grip. Your back arched, pressing your breast harder into Obito’s mouth, the wet heat of his tongue relentless. The wet sounds of Kakashi fucking you filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, underscored by Obito’s low encouraging murmurs against your skin, the scent of sex thick enough to taste.

“That’s it, baby. Come for us again. Come on his cock so I can have my turn. Gonna fill you up the second he’s out—”

Kakashi’s rhythm faltered for half a second at the words, then he drove in deeper, one hand sliding under your thigh to open you wider, the stretch pulling at your muscles, the heat of his palm searing against your skin. “She’s gonna come on my cock. And I’m gonna stay right here while she does it.”

You broke again with a broken whimper, cunt clamping down hard around Kakashi, the rhythmic pulses milking him as pleasure crashed through you again—hotter, sharper, your vision flickering white at the edges. Slick gushed around his cock, the wet sounds turning filthy. He hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering, the thick length of him throbbing inside you, but he didn’t come—he never did, not until the rules were satisfied. The second your orgasm peaked he was already pulling out, cock shiny and throbbing, coated in your come, the sudden emptiness making you moan. Obito was shoving him aside with zero finesse, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Obito sank into you in one rough thrust, thicker, hotter, the stretch different enough that a fresh moan tore out of you—fuller, the burn of it perfect as he bottomed out. You felt every inch of him, the heavy weight of his cock stretching your walls, the heat of him searing. He didn’t start slow. He fucked you like he was trying to erase the feeling of Kakashi still lingering inside you—hard, deep, almost punishing strokes that made the headboard knock against the wall with every thrust, the wet slap-slap-slap of his hips against yours loud and rhythmic. Kakashi stretched out on your other side, mouth immediately on your breast, sucking the mark Obito had left earlier, the wet heat of his tongue soothing the bruise while his hand slid down to rub your clit in lazy, maddening circles. The dual sensation—Obito’s thick cock pounding into you, Kakashi’s fingers on your swollen clit—had you trembling again already.

“Listen to how wet she is,” Obito gritted out, voice rough, the words punched out with every thrust. “That’s from me. She always gets like this when I’m inside her.” The wet sounds of his cock fucking into your soaked cunt were obscene, your slick coating his shaft, dripping down onto his balls.

Kakashi’s laugh was soft and mean against your skin, the vibration of it against your nipple making you gasp. “She’s this wet because I fingered her open and made her come first. You’re just finishing what I started.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later. Right now focus on making her come again so I can get back in.”

They switched every time.

You lost count after the fourth orgasm. Your body was trembling, oversensitive, soaked between your thighs, the sheets beneath you damp with slick and sweat. Every time you came—clenching hard around whoever was currently buried inside you, the rhythmic pulses of your cunt milking them, the sharp crest of pleasure leaving you gasping—the other one would immediately take his place, sliding home while you were still pulsing, while the previous one’s come wasn’t even a possibility yet because neither of them would let go until the other had also gotten his turn. The wet schlick of a cock leaving you and another immediately filling the emptiness was constant. They kept you right on the edge of too much, mouths and hands never leaving your body—hot tongues on your nipples, rough fingers on your clit, the scrape of stubble against your soft skin. Competitive commentary never stopping, their voices low and rough, breath hot against your ear or your breast.

“She’s close again—feel that? Tightening up already—”

“Then hurry the fuck up so I can—”

“I’m not rushing just because you’re impatient—”

“She’s dripping down my balls, Kakashi, I can feel how bad she wants it—”

Your voice was wrecked. Soft pleas, broken moans, the occasional desperate “please, just—both of you—” that only made them more determined to outdo each other. The taste of their kisses lingered on your tongue—mint and heat and need. Kakashi would slow down deliberately when he felt you getting close, grinding deep and making you chase it, the thick head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot until you were whimpering, thighs shaking. Obito would immediately speed up the second he was back inside, chasing your orgasm like it was a scoreboard, the wet slap of his hips against yours harder, the stretch of his thicker cock making your eyes roll back. Hands everywhere—on your tits, squeezing until the soft flesh overflowed their palms, on your clit, rubbing tight circles that made sparks burst behind your eyelids, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises you’d feel tomorrow in lecture, the dull ache of them already blooming. Mouths trading places on your nipples, your throat, your lips, the wet heat of their tongues, the occasional scrape of teeth. The wet slap of skin on skin, the low filthy talk, the way they kept looking at each other over your body like this was still somehow a competition they could win. The air was thick with the scent of sex—your arousal, their sweat, the musky heat of their cocks.

By the time you came the sixth time—shaking apart around Obito’s cock, vision going white at the edges, your cunt clamping down in hard, rhythmic pulses that made him groan—they were both breathing hard, both clearly holding back by sheer stubborn will. Sweat slicked their skin, the heat of their bodies pressed against yours almost overwhelming. Obito stayed buried deep through the aftershocks, forehead pressed to yours, muttering broken praise against your mouth, the thick length of him throbbing inside you as your walls fluttered around him. Kakashi’s fingers were still working your clit in soft, relentless circles, drawing the orgasm out until you were whimpering from overstimulation, the little bud so sensitive every touch felt electric.

Then Kakashi’s voice, low and rough: “Last one. Make her come one more time and we both finish.”

Obito’s hips jerked, the movement grinding him deeper, the head of his cock kissing that spot and making you gasp. “Deal.”

He pulled out with a wet sound, the sudden emptiness making you moan, a thick trail of your slick connecting him to you for a second before it broke. Kakashi slid back in like he belonged there, slower this time, deeper, every thrust deliberate. The stretch of him after Obito was different—still thick, still perfect, the drag of his cock against your sensitive walls almost too much. Obito stretched out beside you again, mouth on your breast, sucking hard enough to leave another mark, hand between your bodies to rub your swollen clit in time with Kakashi’s strokes. You were so sensitive it bordered on pain, every brush of fingers and drag of cock sending sparks up your spine, your cunt clenching helplessly around Kakashi. His control was starting to fray—his breathing uneven, the muscles in his arms trembling where he held himself over you, the wet sounds of his cock fucking into your soaked cunt louder, filthier. Obito was just as far gone, hips rolling against your thigh like he couldn’t help it, cock hard and leaking against your skin, the wet heat of his precome smearing across your hip.

“Come on, baby,” Kakashi murmured against your ear, voice wrecked, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “One more. Give it to us and we’ll fill you up. Both of us. You’ll be so fucking full—”

Obito’s teeth scraped your nipple, the sharp sting grounding you even as pleasure built again, hotter and sharper than before. “Gonna come so deep inside you. Mark you up. Make sure you feel us walking to class tomorrow—”

It hit you like a wave—sharp, overwhelming, your whole body locking up as the orgasm tore through you. Your cunt clenched hard around Kakashi, the rhythmic pulses milking him as white-hot pleasure crashed through your belly, your thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He cursed, hips snapping forward once, twice, and then he was coming with a low, broken groan, pulsing deep inside you, flooding you in thick hot spurts. You felt every pulse, the heat of his come painting your walls, the way it filled you until you felt almost too full, the wet warmth of it seeping around his cock.

The second Kakashi’s hips stuttered to a stop Obito was pulling him back by the shoulder. Kakashi slipped free with a wet sound, come immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, warm trickle, the sensation making you whimper. Obito pushed back in before it could go to waste. The heat of it—Kakashi’s come still inside you, Obito’s cock sliding through the mess—made him groan like he’d been punched. The stretch of him through the slick heat of another man’s release was filthy, perfect. He fucked you through the last trembling aftershocks of your orgasm, short, deep thrusts, chasing his own, the wet schlick of his cock moving through the combined mess of your slick and Kakashi’s come loud and obscene. Then he was coming too, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a rough, punched-out sound of your name. You felt every pulse of him, the hot rush of his release mixing with Kakashi’s, filling you until the pressure of it made your eyes flutter, the excess already starting to leak out around his cock in thick, warm rivulets that trailed down your thighs.

For a long moment the only sounds in the room were heavy breathing and the quiet, wet noise of Obito still buried inside you, grinding through the last pulses, the wet heat of their combined come seeping out with every tiny movement. Kakashi had collapsed half on top of you, mouth soft against your throat, one hand still cupping your breast like he couldn’t quite let go, the weight of him solid and warm. Obito’s forehead was pressed to your collarbone, shaking slightly, the thick length of him still twitching inside you as the last of his orgasm faded.

You were a mess. Thoroughly, completely claimed. Come leaking out around Obito’s cock every time either of you shifted—thick, warm, the scent of it heavy and musky in the air—thighs sticky with slick and release, body marked with bites and fingerprints that pulsed with a dull, satisfying ache, voice gone, throat raw from moaning. The sheets beneath you were ruined, damp and cool against your overheated skin. Every nerve still hummed, oversensitive, the lingering stretch of Obito inside you and the slow trickle of their come making you feel claimed in the most visceral way.

Obito eventually lifted his head, silver eyes half-lidded and smug, lips kiss-swollen. “I came last. That means I win.”

Kakashi’s laugh was quiet and exhausted against your skin, the vibration of it sending a little aftershock through you. “I came first. And I made her come more times. Try again.”

You closed your eyes, a helpless little smile tugging at your mouth even as another slow trickle of their combined release slipped out of you, warm and filthy, the sensation making your spent cunt give a weak little flutter around Obito.

Some competitions, you were starting to realize, never actually ended.

A delicate balance of not being full smut but letting him be a good boy and still finding release...

good lord I hope the anon submission worked. please ignore if not LMFAO

The soft amber glow of the single lamp in Kakashi’s apartment painted warm pools of light across the low couch and the scuffed wooden floor. Outside, rain whispered steadily against the windowpane, a cool, steady hush that made the small space feel sealed and private. You were curled against his side, the solid line of his body a steady heat under the soft dark-blue fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. His arm rested heavily around your shoulders, the weight of it grounding. One of his fingers was tracing slow, idle circles against the bare skin at the back of your neck. Every pass of that calloused fingertip sent faint sparks down your spine.

You could smell him—clean cotton, a faint trace of the soap he used, and underneath it the warmer, masculine scent of his skin that always seemed stronger after a long day. His mask was still up at first. When he turned his head, the edge of the cloth brushed your temple, carrying the faint warmth of his breath. The couch cushions dipped under your combined weight; the fabric of the upholstery was slightly rough against the backs of your thighs where your pants had ridden up.

For a long while it stayed gentle. His fingers carded slowly through your hair, the pads of them catching lightly on strands, the soft tug sending pleasant shivers across your scalp. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the quiet thump of his heartbeat under the layers of cloth. When you shifted closer, the soft rustle of fabric filled the quiet space between raindrops.

The first kiss was careful—mask still in place, only the press of worn cloth and the shape of his mouth behind it. You reached up and drew the mask down yourself, slow enough that he could have stopped you. He didn’t. The second kiss was bare skin, warm and deliberate. His lips were softer than you expected, slightly chapped at the edges, and the faint taste of him was clean and familiar. When his tongue brushed yours, the wet heat of it made your stomach tighten. A low sound vibrated in his chest, felt more than heard.

You shifted until you were half in his lap, one thigh draped over his. The position was still more affectionate than anything else—bodies pressed together, mouths moving in unhurried rhythm. His hand settled at your waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your shirt. You could feel the controlled strength in the way he held you, the heat of his palm seeping through the cloth. When your hands slid up under the hem of his shirt, the skin of his sides was smooth and warm, the faint ridges of old scars catching under your fingertips. He made another low sound against your mouth when your nails skimmed lightly over his ribs; the vibration traveled straight through you.

Time stretched. The kisses deepened. The soft, wet sounds of mouths meeting filled the quiet apartment, mixed with the rain and the occasional shift of fabric. Your leg slid further across his thighs. The hard line of him pressed against your inner thigh through layers of cloth—heat, pressure, the unmistakable shape of him already fully hard. Both of you stilled for a second.

Kakashi’s visible eye was half-lidded, dark in the low light. His breathing had gone uneven; you could feel the warm puffs of it against your cheek. The tension in his thighs under you was like coiled wire.

“We don’t have to,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges, the words vibrating against your lips. “We can just… stay like this.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, then lower along the line of his jaw where the skin was warmer, slightly rough with stubble. The faint salt-taste of his skin lingered on your tongue. “I know.” Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “I want this. Just… clothes on. Grinding is okay. Nothing more tonight.”

He exhaled slowly, forehead resting against yours. You felt the fine tremor in the muscles of his jaw. He nodded once. “Okay.”

The restraint in that single word made something tight and aching coil low in your stomach.

You shifted fully into his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips. The couch dipped deeper under your weight. His hands guided you down until the soft heat of you settled directly over the thick ridge of him through the layers of fabric. Even through your pants and his, the pressure was immediate and intense—solid heat, the subtle throb of his pulse against you. You both breathed out at the same time, the sound soft and shared.

Kakashi’s fingers flexed against your sides, digging lightly into the fabric. He didn’t move at first—just held you there, letting the contact sink in. You could feel him twitching faintly under you, already fully hard, the heat of him seeping through the cloth. The knowledge that he was that affected just from kissing and the weight of your body made your own pulse kick harder between your legs.

You rolled your hips once, experimental. A slow, deliberate grind that dragged the seam of your pants along the thick length of him. The friction was muted by fabric but still sharp enough to make your breath catch. Kakashi’s head tipped back against the couch, a low, rough sound escaping his throat. His hands tightened, the pressure of his fingers almost bruising.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word barely more than air.

You did it again, slower this time, watching his face in the low light. The way his eye fluttered half-shut. The faint flush high on his cheeks that the lamp turned gold. The way his lips parted on a quiet exhale. You could feel every inch of him through the layers—the shape of him, the heat, the way he twitched when you ground down harder on the upward stroke. The fabric between you was already starting to warm and dampen from the friction and the growing wetness between your legs.

His hands slid lower, cupping your ass through your pants. The heat of his palms soaked through the cloth. He guided the rhythm without forcing it—slow, deep rolls that pressed the thick length of him firmly against you. You moved together like that for long minutes: the soft rasp of fabric against fabric, the quiet wet sounds of your mouths when you kissed again, the growing slick heat between your legs soaking into your underwear until the cloth clung to you. Every time you pressed down, the hard ridge of him dragged against your clit through the layers, sending sharp, bright sparks up your spine. You could feel how wet you were—the dampness spreading, the slight coolness of the air whenever you lifted slightly before grinding back down.

Kakashi kept trying to hold back. You could feel it in the careful way he moved—short, controlled rolls of his hips instead of the deeper thrusts his body clearly wanted. His breathing had gone ragged, warm against the side of your neck. Every few strokes he would still completely, jaw tight, throat working as he swallowed, as if trying to drag himself back from the edge. The muscles in his thighs trembled under you.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured against your neck, voice strained and low. He pressed open-mouthed kisses there, the wet heat of his mouth contrasting with the cooler air of the apartment. His tongue flicked once against your pulse point and you shivered. “Can feel how wet you are even through this…”

You answered by grinding down harder, circling your hips so the head of his cock dragged right against the most sensitive spot through the fabric. The pressure was perfect and maddening at once. His breath punched out of him in a rough sound. One of his hands left your ass to fist the back of the couch, knuckles going white against the dark upholstery.

“Careful,” he warned, almost a growl, the vibration of it traveling through his chest into yours. “You’re going to make me—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, slower, deeper, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the clean heat of his mouth. “It’s okay. I want to feel you come like this.”

Something in him seemed to snap a little at that. The careful restraint cracked. His hands gripped your hips tighter—firm enough that you felt the press of each fingertip through the cloth—and he started moving with more purpose. Short, grinding thrusts upward met every downward roll of yours. The wet sounds of fabric shifting and the soft, filthy noise of your bodies working against each other filled the room, mixed with the rain and the quiet, broken sounds he couldn’t quite hold back. You could feel him getting even harder, the thick shape of him throbbing under you with every stroke, the front of his pants growing darker and warmer where the head of his cock pressed up against the fabric.

Your own pleasure was building in tight, aching waves. Every grind pressed him firmly against your clit. The layers of clothing made it almost more intense—the constant, relentless friction without the relief of bare skin. You were soaked through your underwear and into your pants; the damp cloth clung and shifted with every movement, heightening every sensation. You could feel the dampness of him too—the heat of precome soaking through his boxers and into the front of his pants, making the fabric slicker, the slide of him against you smoother and more urgent.

Kakashi’s forehead dropped to your shoulder. His hips stuttered. You felt the fine tremor running through his entire body. “I’m close sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice rough and strained against your skin. “Been holding it… fuck, you’re going to make me come in my pants like a teenager—”

“Do it.” You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the way his body tensed under you, the way the thick length of him jerked and throbbed. The wet heat between you was almost overwhelming now. “I want it. Want to feel you lose it just from this.”

He made a broken sound against your neck—half groan, half helpless breath. His hands clamped down on your hips hard enough to leave marks later and he thrust up sharply, grinding the full length of himself against you in short, desperate strokes. You could feel the exact moment he broke—the way his whole body went rigid, the choked-off groan that tore out of him and vibrated against your throat, the sudden wet heat blooming against the front of his pants as he came hard into his boxers. Pulse after pulse of it, hot and thick, soaking through the fabric until you could feel the warmth of it spreading between your bodies. He kept moving through it, slower now, dragging the oversensitive length of himself against you while the pulses of his orgasm soaked the cloth, the wet heat of it intense even through the layers.

You kept grinding against him, chasing your own release against the still-hard, twitching shape of him. The friction was slicker now, the soaked fabric sliding and catching in a way that made every stroke sharper. The pressure finally tipped over and you came with a sharp gasp, clenching and trembling in his lap, the waves of it rolling through you while he held you through it, still twitching faintly against you.

For a long time after, neither of you moved. Kakashi’s breathing was harsh and warm against your neck. His hands had loosened but still held you, thumbs stroking absently over your hips through the cloth. You could feel the mess he’d made—the front of his pants damp and warm and heavy against you, the evidence of how completely he’d lost control still pressed between your bodies, cooling slowly in the quiet air. The scent of sex and warm fabric hung between you, mixed with the clean smell of rain from the open window.

Eventually he lifted his head. His eye was dark, a little dazed, the usual cool composure thoroughly wrecked. A faint flush still colored his cheeks. He looked down between you at the obvious wet patch darkening the front of his pants, then back up at your face.

A quiet, almost self-deprecating huff of laughter escaped him, the sound soft and rough.

“Well,” he said, voice still low and wrecked. “That was… effective.”

You leaned in and kissed him softly, slower this time, tasting the lingering heat of his mouth. He kissed back, unhurried, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently over the sensitive skin there.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft rain tapping against the window and the low, uneven sound of Kakashi’s breathing. You’d been dating him for a little over two months—long enough to learn the careful way he always kept one hand on the small of your back, the way his eye crinkled when he was genuinely amused, the way his body tensed every time a make-out session threatened to tip into something more. Long enough for frantic, clothed grinding that left both of you aching and sticky, his cock hard and leaking through his pants while he pulled away with a flushed face and a quiet “not yet.”

Tonight there was no more not yet.

Kakashi sat on the edge of the bed, completely naked. His lean, scarred body was flushed from collarbone to navel. His cock stood thick and heavy against his stomach, the flushed head already shiny with precum that had beaded and slowly slid down the underside in a glistening trail. The scent of him—clean skin, faint ozone, and the sharper, warmer musk of arousal—rose between you every time he shifted. He looked like he wanted to cover himself. He didn’t. He only watched you with that single dark eye, silver hair messy from your earlier kisses, the mask discarded somewhere on the floor.

You straddled his lap wearing nothing but a pair of soft pink lace panties. The thin fabric was already dark and soaked between your thighs, the wet heat of your cunt pressing directly against the bare, throbbing length of him. The first contact made him inhale sharply through his nose; you felt the warm, sticky smear of his precum against the lace and the way his cock jumped hard under you.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, smiling down at him.

He swallowed. You watched the thick bob of his throat. “I… I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You brushed silver strands back from his forehead, then let your fingers trail slowly down the side of his face. His skin was hot. You traced the sharp line of his jaw, then the soft, slightly chapped curve of his lower lip. His mouth parted under the gentle pressure; you felt the warm, damp pant of his breath against your fingertips. “You’re nervous.”

A soft, embarrassed sound left him—half whimper, half laugh. “It’s just… the first time I’m having sex. With you. I don’t want to—”

“Mess it up?” You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and open. You tasted the faint salt of his skin and the lingering sweetness from the tea he’d drunk earlier. “You won’t. But I do need something from you first.”

His eye flicked up to meet yours, already glassy. You settled more firmly onto his lap, rolling your hips once so the slick, lace-covered seam of your cunt dragged along the underside of his cock from base to tip. The friction was wet and filthy; you both felt the way your folds parted around him through the thin fabric, the way more of your arousal soaked into the lace and smeared across his shaft. His hips jerked involuntarily. A fresh bead of precum welled at his tip and smeared against your panties.

You didn’t move again. You simply stayed there, warm and dripping, one hand still stroking through his soft silver hair while the other kept tracing his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly. “Exactly what you want. Look at me while you say it.”

Kakashi’s breath hitched. Color flooded his cheeks and spread down his neck in a visible flush. “I… I want you.”

“That’s not enough, baby.” Your voice stayed soft, affectionate, but firm. You rolled your hips once more—just once—letting the soaked lace catch on the head of his cock and tug slightly before sliding free. He whimpered, a high, broken little sound. “You know what I mean. I want the words. If you can’t say them, I won’t touch you where you need me most.”

His hands finally settled on your waist, fingers flexing hard enough that you felt the slight bite of his nails. The heat of his palms sank into your bare skin. “Please…”

“Please what?”

You waited. Patient. Loving. Watching the way his eye darted away and then forced itself back to yours because you’d asked him to look. A faint sheen of tears gathered at the corner, pure embarrassment and raw want tangled together. His cock throbbed hard against you, the thick vein along the underside pulsing under the wet lace. You could feel every twitch, every leak of precum that kept soaking the fabric further.

“I…” His voice cracked. He tried again, quieter, the words shaky and almost slurred with how hard he was blushing. “I want… I want to be inside you. I want to feel how wet you are—how hot and tight. I want you to ride me. I want to watch your face while you take every inch of me.” The last part came out barely above a whisper. “Please. I need it. I need you so badly it hurts.”

The tears spilled over, just a couple of them, tracking warm and wet down his flushed cheeks. He looked wrecked already—beautiful and overwhelmed and so desperately honest. The scent of his arousal was thicker now, mixed with the sharper, sweeter smell of your own wetness.

Your heart ached with how much you adored him.

“There you go,” you breathed, smiling down at him like he’d just given you the most precious gift. You cupped his face in both hands and kissed the wet trails away, tasting the salt of his tears. “Such a good job, baby. Of course I can do that for you. You did so well telling me.”

He made a small, broken sound against your mouth.

You reached down between your bodies, hooked two fingers into the crotch of your panties, and pulled the soaked lace to the side. The sudden cool air on your overheated folds made you shiver; the head of his cock kissed your entrance immediately—hot, slick, blunt. You felt the wet kiss of precum against your clit, then lower, right against your opening. Kakashi’s breath stuttered. His hands tightened on your hips hard enough to leave faint marks.

You sank down.

Slow. Deliberate. One smooth, continuous glide that stretched you open around the thick, velvety heat of him. You felt every ridge, every vein, the way the flared head popped past your entrance and then the long, solid slide of his shaft filling you deeper and deeper until your ass settled flush against his thighs and he was buried to the hilt. The stretch was delicious—full and aching in the best way—and a soft, throaty moan slipped from you as your cunt fluttered and clenched around every inch, trying to pull him even deeper. Wetness spilled out around the base of his cock, dripping down onto his balls.

His head tipped back, a low, punched-out sound leaving him as the wet heat of you swallowed him completely. “Fuck— you’re… so warm. So tight— I can feel you pulsing—”

“Shh.” You stayed fully seated for a long moment, letting him feel it, letting yourself adjust to the thick stretch. Your hands returned to his hair, stroking the soft silver strands while you rocked your hips in the tiniest circles. The movement made his cock shift inside you, the head rubbing against that sensitive spot deep in your cunt. More of your slick leaked out, the wet sound soft and filthy in the quiet room. “I’ve got you baby. You’re doing so good for me already.”

Kakashi’s eye was half-lidded, glassy with pleasure and leftover shyness. He looked up at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. When you finally lifted yourself—feeling the long, slow drag of his cock sliding out until only the swollen head remained inside—then sank back down again in one long, wet glide, his whole body shuddered. You felt the way his cock twitched hard inside you, the way more precum spilled deep.

You set an unhurried rhythm—rising until the head tugged at your entrance, then taking him deep again in one continuous, slick slide. Every time you bottomed out, a soft, needy sound left him. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room: the soft slap of skin, the obscene squelch of your cunt swallowing him over and over. His hands stayed on your hips but never tried to take control; he just held on, fingers digging in when the pleasure spiked too hard, the pads of his thumbs stroking restless circles against your skin.

“Look at me Kashi,” you reminded him gently when his eye started to close. “I want to see you.”

He obeyed, cheeks still pink, lips parted around shaky breaths. You leaned in and kissed him while you rode him, swallowing the little whimpers he couldn’t quite hold back. You tasted the salt of his earlier tears and the heat of his mouth. Your free hand slid down between your bodies so you could stroke the place where you were joined—fingertips brushing the thick base of his cock every time you took him deep, feeling how wet and stretched you were around him, how your own slick coated his shaft and dripped onto your fingers.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” you whispered against his mouth. “All of this is because of you. Because you were so sweet and so nervous and still wanted me anyway.”

Kakashi’s answering moan was almost a sob. “I—I wanted you every time we stopped. I just… didn’t know how to ask without sounding pathetic. You feel so good—fuck—”

“You’re asking now.” You rolled your hips harder, grinding down so the head of his cock dragged firmly against that perfect spot inside you. Your own pleasure was building steady and sweet, a deep, coiling heat low in your belly. You could feel the way your walls fluttered and squeezed around him with every grind. “And I’m giving it to you. Exactly like you asked.”

His thighs tensed beneath you. The wet sounds grew louder, messier. You kept the pace deliberate, never rushing, watching every flicker of expression that crossed his face—the way his brow furrowed when it felt too good, the way his lips trembled when you clenched around him on purpose, the way a fresh tear slipped free when the pleasure edged into overwhelming.

“You’re taking me so well,” you praised, voice low and warm and a little breathless. One hand stayed buried in his hair; the other stroked his cheek, thumb brushing over his lower lip again, feeling the soft give of it. “Such a good boy for me. Letting me use this pretty cock however I want. You’re so deep inside me I can feel you twitching.”

A broken little “please” slipped out of him. You didn’t need him to clarify. You already knew.

You rode him faster, still controlled, still deep. The lace of your panties rubbed against his shaft on every stroke, the wet fabric dragging along the sensitive underside. His cock throbbed inside you, thickening even more, the telltale pulse warning you he was getting close. You didn’t slow down. You only leaned closer, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked, your breath mingling hot and uneven.

“You can come when you’re ready,” you told him softly. “I want to feel it. I want you to fill me up while I’m still sitting on you like this. I want to feel every pulse.”

Kakashi’s breath shattered. His hands slid up your back, holding you tighter, almost clinging, the heat of his palms searing against your bare skin. “I’m— I can’t— it’s too much— you’re squeezing me so tight—”

“You can baby.” You kissed him again, deep and slow, even as your hips kept working him in long, wet strokes. You felt the way your own orgasm was cresting, the tight coil in your belly ready to snap. “You’re allowed. You’ve been so patient. So good. Come for me, Kakashi.”

He broke with a quiet, desperate cry against your mouth. His cock pulsed hard inside you—thick, rhythmic throbs that you felt deep in your cunt as he flooded you in hot, heavy spurts. The heat of his release spilled into you, overflowing around the base of his cock and dripping down onto his balls and your thighs in messy, warm trails. You kept moving through it—slow, deep rolls of your hips that milked every last tremor out of him—until he was trembling and oversensitive and still looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. The wet, filthy sound of your combined slick and his cum squelching around him with every small movement filled the quiet room.

Only then did you ease to a stop, staying seated on him, full and warm and thoroughly claimed. You could feel the thick pulse of his cock still twitching inside you, the slow leak of his cum dripping out around the place where you were joined. You stroked his hair, kissed the corner of his eye where a fresh tear had slipped free, and smiled, tasting the salt of him on your lips.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, fond and a little breathless yourself, the aftershocks of your own orgasm still fluttering around him. “You did so perfectly for me baby.”

Kakashi’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you in until your chests were pressed together. You felt the rapid, uneven thud of his heart against yours. His voice was hoarse, still shaky, but the softest smile curved his mouth as he nuzzled into the side of your neck, breathing you in.

“…Can we do it again?” he asked, almost shy, even as his cock gave another weak twitch inside the wet heat of you. “When I can feel my legs. I want to feel you like this again. I want to make you come on me next time.”

You laughed quietly against his temple, already shifting just enough to feel him twitch deeper, the wet slide of his cum and your slick making the movement filthy and perfect.

Synopsis: Itachi Uchiha has spent a lifetime mastering control. Discipline. Restraint. The iron doors in his mind that keep every dark impulse locked away.

Then you move into his apartment.

You're Sasuke’s best friend from college—and every filthy fantasy Itachi has spent a decade burying. You rinse your dishes, text when you’ll be late, and walk around in thin sleep shirts that barely cover anything. You never notice the way he watches. The “accidents” he stages just to see you bend. The bathroom door he leaves unlocked. The pairs of your worn panties that go missing from the hamper and return the next morning, carefully folded, still faintly warm from his hands.

Or so he believes.

Warnings: Itachi Uchiha/Reader, Modern AU, age gap (reader is 22, Itachi is 32), oral sex (f! receiving), p in v sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, multiple positions, cum play, creampie/unprotected sex, voyeurism, light non con/dub con elements (Itachi is a pervert but it's okay bc you're into it), dirty talk, panty theft, light degradation, slightly possessive behavior, scent kink, light ass play

Word Count: 10.6k

Author's Note: it's finally done; lowkey hate this but if I spend any longer on it I'm going to throw my laptop out of my window and then run it over with my car for good measure

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Itachi Uchiha had always prided himself on control. Discipline. Restraint. The kind of man who could sit through hours of silence without shifting once, who measured every decision against consequence, who had spent years perfecting the art of appearing untouchable to others.

That version of himself had died the day you moved into his apartment.

Sasuke had called it a favor. A temporary arrangement while his friend found an apartment of her own. She’s quiet, polite, and pays rent on time. You’ll barely notice she’s there. Itachi had agreed without hesitation; anything for Sasuke. He had even prepared the spare room himself—fresh sheets folded with military precision, a desk lamp with a brand new lightbulb, space cleared in the bathroom cabinet for whatever toiletries you might bring. He had told himself it was simply practical. Hospitable. The least he could do for someone who was so important to his little brother.

What Sasuke had neglected to mention was that his best friend from college was twenty-two, soft-voiced, and built like every filthy fantasy Itachi had spent the last decade locking away behind iron doors in his mind.

(Going back into this rant to say some warnings because I almost let all my thoughts leave my head) .

That isn't my drawing btw and I don't know who made it.

I apologize in advance for what ur about to read. It's not a fic just random thoughts from a mentally unwell individual.

Warning: Mentions of violence (gore?) Smutty smutttttt smuttt, thirsting over Kiba, bad grammar and no proofread, weird cut offs, spoilers for my college au? Just be careful with what you read. I hate and love this ass. no I just love him. BRO I NEED TO TALKING ABOUT SOMEONE OTHER THAN KIBA .

Like this fuckass dog bitch just somehow can get on your fucking nerves so bad and then just turn around and get you screaming and creaming. Shit makes no fucking sense.

Not to glaze myself or anything because I have even finished writing more college au stuff (more about that later) but college au Kiba is fucking me up rn.

Like the mf is getting in trouble all the time as the dog dude being apart of a fraternity does; He just gets on everyone's nerves and so fucking dumb and clingy it's stupid.

You become his FWB situation and the mf is SO good it's not even fucking funny. But whatever I need to stop talking abt college au stuff bc of spoilers.

Soft dom shikaku has ruled my brain recently, that dilf is too perfect smh

Your mind never stopped. Thoughts stacked and collided, a constant static of what-ifs, unfinished lists, half-remembered worries, the echo of every conversation you’d ever had that still felt unresolved. It was loud enough that sleep sometimes felt like drowning under it. The only time the volume dialed down was when he decided it should.

Shikaku didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. One look, one shift of his weight, and the noise started to thin at the edges.

Tonight he had you face-down on the bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, hips tilted up just enough that he could reach between your legs without effort. His forearm was a heavy bar across your lower back, pinning you in place with casual strength. The solid weight of him pressed your stomach into the mattress; you could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt where it brushed your bare side. Not cruel. Just absolute. You couldn’t rock back, couldn’t chase, couldn’t do anything except take what he gave.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and almost bored against the shell of your ear. Warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin, making the fine hairs there stand on end. “Just relax for me sugar.”

His fingers found your clit without searching. Two of them settled over it—calloused pads, slightly rough from years of training, already slick from how wet you’d gotten the moment he pinned you. He began tracing tight, precise little circles—slow, deliberate, the kind of pressure that made your thighs jump and your breath hitch. The wet sound of it was soft but unmistakable, a quiet slick-slick-slick with every pass. He didn’t speed up when you twitched. He just kept the same maddening rhythm, circles so small and concentrated that every pass felt like a spark dragged directly across the swollen, throbbing peak.

You whimpered into the pillow. The sound came out thin and desperate, muffled by the fabric that was already growing damp under your cheek from your open-mouthed breathing.

“Shh.” The word was soft, almost affectionate, but the tone underneath it was pure condescension. “You don’t get to decide when it stops. I do. Keep those hips still baby.”

You tried. God, you tried. Your body still shook, little tremors rolling through you as the circles continued. You could feel the way your clit pulsed under his fingers, hot and slick and so sensitive that the steady friction made your stomach flutter. He felt every one of those tremors. You knew he did, because the arm across your back pressed a fraction heavier, the muscle shifting, holding you down harder, making sure you stayed exactly where he put you. The sheets under your hips were already damp; every small, involuntary rock of your body smeared more of your wetness against the fabric.

Then the circles stopped.

His fingers lifted just enough to hover. Cool air kissed the overheated, exposed nub for a split second. You made a broken sound of protest. Before the sound could fully form he tapped—three quick, light taps right against the swollen peak of your clit. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one sent a sharp, electric jolt through the hypersensitive flesh. The wet smack of skin on slick skin was soft but filthy in the quiet room.

Your whole body jerked. A sob tore out of you, muffled by the pillow. Your clit throbbed hard in the aftermath, aching, oversensitive, already so close that the sudden loss of continuous contact felt like cruelty. You could feel it pulsing against nothing, the empty throb almost painful.

“Look at that baby,” he cooed, the words sliding into your ear like warm oil. His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke, the faint scrape of his stubble sending another shiver down your spine. “Throbbing already. So needy sugar. All that thinking and the only thing that shuts it up is this, isn’t it?”

He returned to the circles without warning. Tight. Relentless. The same small radius, the same unhurried pace. The slick friction was louder now—schlick, schlick, schlick—as he worked the sensitive bundle of nerves in those precise little loops. Your hips tried to push back against his arm and found nowhere to go. He just kept you pinned and worked you until your thighs started to shake in earnest, the muscles quivering hard enough that you could feel the tremor travel up into your core.

Another pause. Another series of taps—taptaptap—sharp and precise against the aching nub. Each tap made a soft, wet pat that seemed to echo in the space between your legs. You sobbed again, the sound wetter this time, tears starting to prick at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it. The throb that followed was deep and rhythmic, like your pulse had relocated entirely between your legs. You could feel the way your entrance clenched around nothing, empty and needy, more slick leaking out to coat the insides of your thighs.

“That’s it,” he murmured, almost praising. Almost mocking. His free hand stayed locked across your back, the heat of his palm searing through your skin, fingers splayed so you could feel every callus. “Let it out. Cry if you need to sugar. Your brain can scream all it wants. None of it matters right now. Only this.”

He settled back into the circles. You could feel how wet you were—slick coating his fingers, making every pass smoother, more devastating. The wet sounds grew filthier the longer he worked you. He didn’t comment on it. He just kept going, the pad of his finger tracing that tight path over and over while the pressure of his arm kept you from writhing the way your body begged to. Your clit felt swollen, almost puffy under the relentless attention, every circle dragging a fresh spark of heat through the overstimulated nerves.

The noise in your head was thinning. Thoughts still tried to surface—worries, fragments, old loops—but they slid off the edges of the pleasure he was forcing through you. Every circle, every sudden withdrawal into those sharp little taps, pulled the static farther away. Your world narrowed to the weight of his arm, the heat of his breath against your ear, the relentless attention on your clit, the wet schlick of his fingers, the way your own slick had started to cool on the insides of your thighs.

“Listen to you,” he said, voice still soft, still so calm it was almost cruel. You could feel the shape of the words against your ear. “Whimpering like that. Sobbing into the pillow because I won’t let you come yet. You’re shaking apart and I’m barely even trying baby.”

Taptaptap.

You cried out this time, the sound muffled and broken. Your clit pulsed hard under the taps, swollen and hypersensitive, and the throb that followed made your stomach clench. Fresh wetness spilled from you, warm and thick. He waited just long enough for the ache to crest before he returned to the circles—slow, tight, merciless. The friction was almost too much now; every pass made your toes curl and your breath stutter.

Your legs trembled. Your hands fisted in the sheets hard enough that the fabric bit into your palms. Tears slipped free and soaked into the pillowcase, hot against your skin. He didn’t stop. He didn’t speed up. He just kept you there, held down and open, cooing soft, condescending words into your ear while he played with the one place that could silence everything else. The wet sounds of his fingers working your clit filled the room—schlick-schlick-schlick, taptaptap, schlick-schlick—obscene and steady.

“Almost quiet now, aren’t you?” A low chuckle that vibrated against your ear. “Good girl. Just a little longer. Take what I give you. Let me empty that noisy little head until there’s nothing left but this.”

Circles. Pause. Taptaptap. Circles again.

You were shaking hard enough that the bed frame gave the softest creak. Your sobs had gone ragged, desperate, every sound punched out of you by the next careful circle or the next deliberate series of taps. Your clit felt like a single concentrated point of fire under his fingers, throbbing so hard you could almost hear it. He held you through all of it, heavy and steady, never once letting you move enough to take control. The scent of your arousal hung thick in the air between your bodies.

The orgasm, when he finally allowed it, hit like a wave that had been gathering for too long. He didn’t change the pace. He just kept those tight circles going while you broke, body convulsing under his arm, clit throbbing so hard it almost hurt as the pleasure tore through you in sharp, pulsing waves. Your walls clenched hard around nothing. Slick gushed over his fingers. You sobbed his name into the pillow, voice wrecked, mind finally, blessedly blank. The only things left were the wet sounds of his fingers still moving, the heavy weight of his arm, and the deep, rhythmic throb between your legs as you came apart.

He stayed with you through the aftershocks, easing the pressure only when the tremors started to slow, still tracing lazy, gentler circles that made you twitch and whimper. Every soft pass over your oversensitive clit sent a residual spark through you. His mouth stayed close to your ear.

“There,” he murmured, quieter now, the condescension softening into something almost fond. You could feel the faint brush of his lips. “Quiet. Just like that. I’ve got you sweetheart.”

He didn’t move his arm right away. He kept you pinned a little longer, letting the silence settle into the space where the noise used to live, until your breathing evened out and the only thing left in your head was the fading echo of his voice and the slow, satisfied pulse between your legs. The sheets under you were soaked. Your thighs were slick and sticky. His fingers rested lightly against your still-throbbing clit, a quiet reminder of who controlled the quiet.