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my favorite genre of horror boys are the loser coded ones who are lowk dumb but have a heart of gold and unjustly died 💔💔 pls come home my sweet dumb wives the kids miss u
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me, who has never seen nor read Naruto:
𐔌 、kakashi ﾉ you quietly play the role of a dutiful wife—until you uncover his secret stash of smut and realize your aloof husband might just be a filthy, pervert 𓈒 ◟
cw: arranged marriageノdubcon undertones ノ obsession ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ
୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧ pt 1.
It happens the next time it rains.
You're in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to your elbows, hair clipped up messily, humming something soft as the kettle whines behind you. The house is quiet except for the rain tapping against the windows and the low tick of the old clock in the hall.
Kakashi stands behind you.
You don’t hear him—not at first. He moves like smoke when he wants to. But you feel it, the shift in the air. That pulse of something waiting just behind your spine. And when you turn, slowly, his gaze is already on you.
Not lazy. Not distant.
Hollowed out.
Hungry.
Your breath catches.
He takes a step forward, and your back hits the counter. The room shrinks. The silence thickens.
“Kakashi…?”
His eye flicks down your body. Then back up. Still says nothing. Still doesn’t blink.
You try to smile, weak and wobbly. “Do you want some tea—?”
His hand slams the kettle off the stove.
You jump.
He crowds you suddenly, arms caging you against the counter, and he’s close now—too close—his breath warm through the mask, his body a heat you’ve never felt full-on before.
You whisper, “What are you doing?”
His head tilts. “Should’ve known it was you.”
You blink. “What?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His voice drops low. Rough.
“Messing with my books. Leaving your scent in the laundry. Pretending you didn’t want me when you dropped that towel last week.”
Your pulse kicks. “I—I wasn’t—”
“You wore that robe on purpose,” he murmurs. “I saw you watching me over the tea. Your thighs were clenching. You think I didn’t notice?”
His knee nudges between your legs, slow. Intentional. He doesn’t even look smug. Just… hungry. Tired. Worn down by everything he’s been bottling up since the day he was forced to marry you.
“You think I don’t know what you smell like when you touch yourself?”
Your face goes hot.
You shake your head. “I didn’t—”
He leans in close.
“‘Kakashi-sensei, please—’”
Your blood freezes.
He smirks, finally.
“Page 217,” he murmurs. “You dog-eared it.”
He pulls the mask down.
And kisses you.
Hard.
Teeth dragging your lip, hand on your hip, pulling you flush against him—and fuck, he’s already hard. Thick. Cock pressing into your stomach through those goddamn ANBU pants, heavy and hot and real.
You gasp into his mouth.
He grabs your face, angles your head. His tongue pushes in—filthy, controlled, desperate.
He breaks the kiss. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks.”
You pant. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Liar.”
His hand slides under your shirt, rough against your waist, dragging your hips tighter against him. “You want me to pretend I don’t see it. But I do. I see everything.”
He lifts you onto the counter.
The tea whistles in the background.
You barely notice.
He shoves your panties aside, fingers pressing through the slick, groaning when he feels just how wet you are.
“Goddamn,” he hisses. “You were soaking through your robe that night, weren’t you?”
You nod, breathless.
His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you moan. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”
You whimper, squirming under his hand.
“You could’ve said, ‘Kakashi, I want you to bend me over the counter and fuck me until I cry.’ Would’ve saved us both a lot of time.”
You start to speak—but he cuts you off by pushing two fingers inside you, thick and crooked just right, grinding into that spot that makes your toes curl. His other hand grabs your throat, firm but not choking—just holding.
Claiming.
You moan.
He leans in, breath hot against your lips.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t.
You grab his wrist, grind down harder, panting.
“Please.”
His fingers thrust faster. Deeper.
“You gonna cum like this?” he growls. “All over my fingers, just from being touched for real for once?”
You nod. Cry out. Clench.
He pulls back before you hit the edge.
You sob.
He unzips his pants. Pulls his cock out. Big. Veined. Angry-red at the tip, leaking already.
“You want the real thing?” he says, pushing the head through your soaked folds. “Then take it.”
He slams in.
You scream.
He fucks you hard. Deep. Every thrust brutal, desperate, tearing the air from your lungs. The counter rattles. Dishes fall. Tea goes cold.
He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes on him.
“You’re mine now.”
He fucks you like he’s been waiting for this—waiting for you—for too long.
The counter digs into your back with every thrust, but it’s nothing compared to the way he’s splitting you open, dragging his cock deep with a kind of sharp, deliberate rhythm that burns. His hips snap forward with control, like every inch of him is a machine of muscle and breath and restraint. But you can feel it—how close he is to unraveling.
His hands shake a little when they grip your waist tighter. His mouth hovers over yours like he wants to say something—wants—but can’t quite choke it out.
“Kakashi—fuck—you feel so good—”
His breath shudders against your cheek.
And then—soft. Cracked. Like a truth breaking through layers of armor:
“…I’ve never done this before.”
You blink.
Your breath stalls. “What?”
He doesn’t stop fucking you—doesn’t dare stop. But he lowers his forehead to yours, sweat dripping down his temple, eyes squeezed shut.
“This,” he breathes. “All of this. You. This.”
Your walls pulse around him, body trembling from the weight of it—not just the confession, but the way he says it. Like he hates that it’s true.
“I’ve never—” He thrusts deeper, groaning as your pussy clenches tight. “I’ve only ever read about it. About what people do. What they say.”
His mouth drags across your jaw. “I thought it would be simple. Just sex. Just a body.”
He pulls out halfway, slams back in, voice rough:
“But you—fuck, you’re not simple.”
You whimper, nails clawing at his shoulders, helpless against the pace he’s set. Deep. Sharp. Claiming.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he growls. “Didn’t want you to think I was weird. Or pathetic. A grown man who’s never—”
He bites your neck.
Hard.
You scream, grinding your hips up into him, soaking the base of his cock, your entire body screaming yes, more, please.
He pants against your throat, thrusts turning savage now. Uncontrolled. Like he’s trying to fuck every regret, every unsaid word, every night spent alone out of himself and into you.
“I kept pushing you away,” he whispers. “Tried to stay cold. Professional. You were supposed to be a name on a scroll, that’s all—fuck.”
Your cunt clenches. His voice breaks.
“But you smiled at me. You made tea. You folded my goddamn shirt and left little notes. And I—”
He chokes on it.
“—I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t know if I was allowed to want that. To want you.”
You kiss him. Hard. Messy. Tears clinging to your lashes.
“You’ve always been allowed.”
His groan is raw. Like something breaking wide open.
And then he’s gone—lost in the rhythm of your body, fucking into you with everything he has. His mask long gone. His control shredded. Your thighs wrapped around his waist as he drives you back against the counter hard enough to make the dishes rattle.
“You’re so warm,” he gasps. “So wet—feels like heaven—fuck. You’re gonna make me cum—”
You nod frantically. “Do it. Inside. I want it.”
His thrusts go ragged.
And then—he moans.
Not a grunt.
A moan.
Something ruined. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
He cums deep, cock twitching, flooding you with thick heat as he shakes against you, hands gripping your hips like lifelines.
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.
Just presses his forehead to your chest, catching his breath.
You stroke his hair, soft.
After a long, quiet minute, he mutters:
“…I think I just lost my virginity on a kitchen counter.”
You giggle. Wrecked. Breathless. “Yeah. You really did.”
He groans. “That’s so uncool.”
You kiss the top of his head. “It’s perfect.”
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Brian: See, Freddie did graphic desing at Ealing, didn’t he? And one of his projects was advertising. They were supposed to come up with slogans and i’m sure it was Freddie who was coming up with some sort of product… A ficticious product! And his motto was “Adds lacquer to your knackers”
Roger: Knacker lacquer!
Brian: That’s right!
Roger: “Adds luster to your cluster”
Brian: Exactly! That was the thing!
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Roger and Brian talking about their moments while playing “Scrabble” (From Queen: Days of Our Lives, 2011)
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wish gimli was real so i could hangout with him. need a chill guy like that in my life
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May all the stars be on our side. The day we meet in another life (X)
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meu deus a Maria do Bairro KKKKKKKKK amei os icons.
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i managed to finish it in time for kyle's birthday
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been getting back into south park so i did some sketching 🙂
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New York City ballet production of Midsummer Nights Dream
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