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i did not mean to disappear for so long... everyone wants a part 2 for everything (ᵕ ´ᴗ`)

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𐔌 、gaara　ﾉ　one smile from you shatters gaara’s control and leads to a fevered, desperate claiming—trembling inside you, begging for warmth he was never meant to feel 𓈒　◟

cw: dubcon ノ angst ノ stalking ノ virginity loss ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You met him when the sun was high and the market was loud.

It was humid. The smell of fried dumplings and grilled meat soaked the air, and vendors shouted over each other trying to sell fruit and knives and lucky charms and jars of pickled plum. Children chased each other between stalls. Wind bells rang faint and shrill.

You handed him a skewer of dango like it meant nothing.

You didn’t know who he was.

Just a boy with strange hair and strange eyes, standing too still near the edge of the vendor’s stall, like he didn’t belong to the noise or the smell or the colors of the market. A boy with dark circles under his eyes and no coins in his hand.

You smiled at him.

And something inside him broke.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Just stood there long after you left, fingers tight around the skewer until the thin wooden stick cracked and splinters buried deep in his palm. He didn’t bleed. He never bled. But he stared at the empty space where you’d stood until his mouth went dry.

You were warm.

And that was the beginning.

He began following you.

At first it was incidental—passing you in hallways, catching your voice in crowds. Then it became pattern. You trained in the west field; he stood under a tree nearby. You left the mission hall; he was behind the scroll rack. You returned from a three-day patrol; he was standing across the street from your apartment, arms crossed, gourd on his back.

Silent. Constant. Watching.

He didn't speak.

Not even when you waved once. Not even when you smiled again.

Not even when another boy—some leaf shinobi with a pretty mouth and messy hair—touched your elbow during a joke, and you laughed.

He crushed a metal fence post with one hand that night.

Didn’t feel it.

Didn’t care.

But Kakashi noticed. Kakashi always noticed.

He pulled you aside after a briefing. His voice was low. Not teasing. Not warm.

“Be careful around Gaara.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“He’s… quiet. Too quiet. Like a blade left under a pillow. You forget it’s there until you’re bleeding.”

You laughed, soft. “He just has a crush.”

Kakashi didn’t laugh back.

It happened on a night heavy with heat.

The air was thick. Your tiny apartment window was cracked open, but the breeze had died hours ago. You lay in bed with your pajama shorts riding up your thighs, sweat sticking your shirt to your skin, one leg kicked out from under the blanket. You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t relax. Not after the patrol. Not after the way your body buzzed, exhausted but wound tight like something was about to happen.

And it was.

Because Gaara had been waiting.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t call your name.

You heard the soft slide of the window opening—the faint, deliberate whisper of wood on wood. You sat up too late. By the time you reached for a weapon, for a scream, for anything—

He was inside.

Crouched. Still. Watching.

Then moving.

You didn’t even hear the floor creak beneath him. Just the sudden heat of his body crawling over yours. You landed flat on your back, his hands braced on either side of your head, his hair hanging down, those sea-glass eyes locked on your face with something wild burning deep in them.

“Gaara?” you gasped. “What the fuck are you—”

His hand clamped over your mouth.

“I had to,” he whispered.

His voice was shaking. Not with rage. Not like when he fought.

With need.

“I tried staying away. I did. But every time I see you smile at someone else, I want to kill. I want to hurt them. I want to bury them. But I don’t. I don’t. I come here instead. I watch you sleep. I watch you breathe.”

You struggled under him. Your legs kicked, your fists hit—but he didn’t budge. His body was lean and dense, pure muscle coiled in silence. The gourd wasn’t on his back. He didn’t need it.

His hand slid down. Fingertips trembling against your bare stomach.

“I want to know what it feels like,” he whispered. “To be inside someone warm. To be wanted. To be held.”

Your stomach turned. But your chest ached.

Because his voice cracked.

You opened your mouth to scream. His fingers pushed into your waistband.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, tears already gathering in his lashes. “But I need this.”

You sobbed into his palm. But your hips tilted.

You didn’t mean to. Reflex. Shock. Pity. Curiosity. All of it.

His eyes widened. He felt it.

You were warm.

And wet.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. And then he pushed inside.

No warning. No rhythm. Just pressure, stretching pain, something blunt and needy driving into you with all the skill of someone who’d never done it before. You cried out, legs jerking, body clenching down around him.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re tight. So tight—I c-can’t—”

He tried to thrust. Failed. Hips stuttering, he began grinding instead, small desperate movements that made your cunt throb and burn, the intrusion thick and clumsy but deep. He whimpered.

You sobbed. But you didn’t push him off.

His hands fisted your sheets.

“I just wanted to feel love. Just once. Just once.”

He moaned, tears slipping down his cheeks as he humped against you, cock twitching inside you, your walls clenching as if trying to pull him deeper. His breath hitched.

“Why are you letting me?” he choked. “Why are you still warm?”

You didn’t answer.

You just wrapped your legs around his waist.

And he broke.

He sobbed into your neck as he came, hot and fast, hips jerking, his cock pulsing inside you, thick streams of cum flooding your cunt until it leaked out, sticky between your thighs. He collapsed onto you, face buried in your chest.

Shaking. Crying.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just stroked his hair.

Because he wasn’t a monster.

He was a boy who’d never been held.

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𐔌 、sasuke　ﾉ　you find yourself paired with sasuke, whose sharingan flares uncontrollably around you 𓈒　◟

cw: sexual tension ノ mutual pining ノ Sasuke being emotionally repressed but physically reactive ノexplicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

He noticed you before you noticed him.

The new girl—quiet, polite, always scribbling notes like the world would fall apart if you missed a single word. You sat near the back, tucked into a desk that creaked when you shifted, always careful not to take up space. You apologized when someone bumped into you. Bowed your head when spoken to.

But Sasuke had seen you.

Not just with his eyes. Not just as one more civilian girl stuck in a shinobi class. No—his body reacted first. Subtle. Wrong.

The first time you were paired together for a sparring demo, he didn’t think much of it. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his fingers, prepared to disarm and pin you like he would anyone else.

You, standing across the mat, looked like you didn’t belong. Your stance was careful but timid, knees bent, hands curled in soft fists like you weren’t sure if you should hit him even if ordered to.

And still—still—

The moment your eyes met his—

Click.

Sharingan.

He felt it burn behind his lashes. The heat curled up his spine, sharp and visceral, like his blood recognized you before his brain did. His muscles tensed, his breath hitched. He blinked once, hard, trying to suppress the activation, but the red glow remained. Spinning. Steady.

“Sasuke,” Kakashi said from the sidelines, arms crossed, voice firm. “Stand down. Eyes off.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sasuke muttered.

He hadn’t. That was the worst part.

You hadn’t even touched him yet.

And you—gods, your eyes were wide, full of worry, not fear. “Are you okay?” you whispered, stepping back instead of forward. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He blinked.

You were worried about him?

The match was called off early.

He didn’t say a word as you bowed and shuffled back to your seat, clutching your sleeves. He didn’t even look up when Naruto made some dumb comment about “getting turned on in a fight.” He just sat in stunned silence.

Because his Sharingan had never reacted like that before.

And the second time?

It was even worse.

You were assigned to sit next to him for a paired scroll analysis—nothing physical, nothing strenuous, just reading and translating seal logic from a captured scroll. You barely said a word. You just leaned in, close, your shoulder brushing his, your hair smelling faintly of chamomile.

And again—

Click.

That soft pulse of chakra behind his eyes. The pull of it.

He swore under his breath and pressed two fingers to his temple.

“You okay?” you asked again, voice smaller than last time. “You keep… looking at me like something’s wrong.”

He looked down at you—really looked—and his chest tightened.

Because no, nothing was wrong. Nothing had ever felt so vividly right.

Too right.

He was on edge the whole time, and you noticed. You chewed your lip as you worked. Tilted your head and asked if he needed a break. Every time you leaned in to whisper something, every time your hand brushed his arm, his Sharingan flared.

He lied and said it was fatigue.

But it wasn’t.

It was you.

Kakashi cornered him after class.

“Sasuke.”

“Hm.”

“You’re too reactive.”

“I know.”

“Your Sharingan’s not just reading danger. It’s reading something else.”

Sasuke said nothing.

Kakashi's gaze sharpened. “Be careful with her.”

Sasuke didn’t argue.

Because he had been. Every time. Every class, every spar, every moment he felt you getting closer. He kept his hands to himself. He didn't say the things he wanted to say—like how the way you curled your hands in your sleeves made him ache, or how he dreamed once of your voice in his ear and woke up panting, half-hard, eyes glowing red in the dark.

He didn’t understand it. Not fully.

But his body knew.

And when you looked up at him across the classroom the next morning, lip caught between your teeth, eyes hopeful and unsure, he had to look away before the glow gave him away again.

You started noticing things, too. How Sasuke always seemed too still around you. How his hands flexed when you got too close. How his eyes flashed that eerie, beautiful red even when there was no threat, no danger—just you handing him a brush, just you brushing his sleeve by accident in the hallway, just you whispering his name when you didn’t understand something.

It happened in the training field first. You’d been partnered for drills again. The kind where one person runs through a jutsu and the other disarms. Easy enough.

Except nothing was easy with him anymore.

Because the moment he caught your wrist—just your wrist—his eyes snapped red. And you felt it like a wave, like heat straight through your gut, like a pressure point between your legs that didn’t belong to any nerve textbook.

You gasped. His grip tightened. Then he let go like you’d burned him. He turned away, silent.

But you couldn’t stop looking.

“Why does it always happen around me?” you asked him, the words tumbling out, half breathless, half desperate. “Your Sharingan. It never turns off when we’re close.”

He looked at you then, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. Like he wanted to answer.

“You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like this,” he said.

And that’s how you ended up here.

In his apartment. On his bed. Stripped to your thighs, your skirt pushed up, your breath stuttering against his mouth while he laid you out beneath him like a secret he’d been aching to touch.

His eyes glowed red above you.

Spinning. Ravenous.

You moaned just looking at them.

“Does it scare you?” he murmured, his voice low, brushing against your lips.

You shook your head. “No.”

“I see everything with these,” he whispered. “Every twitch. Every tremble. Every time your body begs.”

You whimpered.

He kissed you hard.

Then he dragged his hands down your sides—calloused, reverent—until they slid under your thighs and pushed them apart. You trembled beneath him, naked from the waist down now, your panties discarded somewhere on the floor, your cunt slick and throbbing in the open air.

Sasuke looked down at you like he was starving.

The Sharingan spun faster.

“You’re so wet.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“No,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

You obeyed. Eyes wide. Cheeks burning. You were already breathing too fast.

“I want to see you when you cum,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder. “I need to.”

And then he thrust inside you.

You screamed—a raw, broken sound, pleasure burning hot and deep, your walls stretching around him with sweet, aching pressure. He filled you completely, his cock thick, hot, veined, dragging against every tender place inside you that you didn’t know existed.

He growled against your neck. “So tight. So perfect.”

You clung to him, shaking. “Sasuke—fuck—it’s too much—”

“No,” he rasped, dragging his hips back and slamming in again. “It’s not enough. I’ve waited too long.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and precise—his hips snapping forward, again and again, driving into you while you sobbed his name against his jaw. His hands gripped your thighs, pinning you open. You felt exposed. Owned. The Sharingan flared brighter, and he groaned like it was feeding off you, off your pleasure, off the way your body clenched around him.

“I can see every fucking twitch,” he groaned, pounding harder. “Every time you get close. You want to cum already?”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Then cum.”

You shattered.

Your body locked up, your cunt spasming around him so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. You screamed his name again—“Sasuke!”—while your orgasm ripped through you, pulsing hot and endless.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you, harder now, chasing his own release.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he snarled, voice raw. “Gonna cum so deep you feel it for days.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Please—please cum—”

His hips slammed forward one last time—and he groaned loud and low as he came, cock twitching deep in your soaked, spasming cunt, hot cum spilling inside you, leaking down your thighs. His Sharingan flickered, glowing blinding for a moment as he groaned your name like it was a prayer.

And then he collapsed over you, breathing ragged.

You were still shaking. Still full.

Still glowing from the inside out.

And when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark again.

But he was still watching you like he’d never seen anything more dangerous—or more precious—in his life.

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i love ur kakashi fics pls don’t let them get you :( -🐜

whos gonna get me 0-0

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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.”

[pupsec]

pls never stop writing, i can’t get enough of it

anything for u my glorious little anon ♡ (imagine the cute tiktok emoji)

[pupsec]

𐔌 、shikamaru　ﾉ　I FORGOT TO CHANGE THE DESCRIPTION FOR THIS UM HES JUST RLLY MEAN 𓈒　◟

cw: first time ノrough sex ノ overstim ノ explicit content ϑϱ

୨ৎ minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

Shikamaru is a fucking mystery.

Lazy. Grumpy. Always sighing when you talk too much, always telling you you’re “troublesome” with that dry, tired tone like he’s two seconds from walking out of the room. He never flirts, never compliments you, barely even looks at you sometimes—and it kills you. Because you like him. You want him. And every time he brushes you off with a muttered “what a drag,” it chips a little piece off your chest.

But then one night, everything shifts.

It’s late. You’re alone. He’s sitting on your bed, legs sprawled, shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded and unreadable. Same look as always—like he couldn’t be bothered.

But he’s still here.

You sit beside him, too nervous to touch. Too quiet. And he notices.

“Tch. What is it now?” he mutters.

Your lip trembles.

He turns to look at you—and freezes.

You’re crying.

“…Are you crying?” he asks, voice sharp now. Not lazy. Just surprised. Alert.

“I—I’m sorry,” you choke, wiping your eyes, shaking. “I just—thought you didn’t even like me.”

He stares at you.

Doesn’t say a word.

Then: “Why the hell would you think that?”

You sniff, avoiding his eyes. “You’re always annoyed. Always distant. You never touch me, or smile, or say anything nice and I—fuck, I—I didn’t know if I was just embarrassing myself all this time.”

Silence.

Then suddenly—you’re being pushed.

Flat onto the bed, body pinned beneath his, his hand gripping your wrist, his breath hot on your face.

“You think I don’t like you?” he hisses, voice low, almost trembling with tension.

You blink up at him.

His hips shift.

And fuck, you feel it.

The thick, rock-hard press of his cock straining through his pants—massive, twitching, rubbing against your thigh with nothing between it but cheap denim and the heat of your skin.

“Does this feel like someone who doesn’t want you?” he growls.

You gasp.

“Shika—”

He cuts you off with his mouth—finally. His kiss is rough, desperate, full of all the shit he hasn’t been saying. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he needs to taste you, like he’s been starving for it. His hands are rough, tugging at your clothes, yanking your shirt over your head without finesse.

“I didn’t touch you,” he pants between kisses, “because I didn’t trust myself to stop. I’ve wanted to fuck you since the second you started looking at me with those stupid, pretty eyes.”

You moan as he strips you bare, his voice getting harsher with every second, like every word he’s kept inside is boiling over now.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you dress when I’m around? How you lean in when you laugh, how your perfume clings to my shirt if you get too close?”

He yanks his pants down, cock springing free—huge, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

You whimper.

“I thought you hated—”

He grabs your chin.

“Stop fucking saying that.”

Then he’s inside you.

No warning.

Just a brutal, deep thrust that steals your breath, stretches you wide and full and aching. You cry out, legs shaking as he holds your hips still, driving his cock into you with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from his throat.

“Does that feel like hate?” he grits.

You’re sobbing now. Overwhelmed. Full.

“N-no—I—I—”

He slams in deeper.

You scream.

“Say it.”

“Y-you want me—”

“Damn right I do,” he hisses, voice breaking. “So much it pisses me off.”

He fucks you harder then—deep, punishing strokes, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, pushing you to your limit. His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, biting, kissing, tasting.

And even through the roughness—his hands are shaking.

Because it’s real.

And you finally fucking know it.

His fingers are brushing your cheek now, calloused pads strangely gentle for someone who just shoved your legs apart like it was a fucking mission directive. Shikamaru’s eyes are half-lidded, dark, a little heavy with guilt but not enough to stop the way his hips are still grinding against you, cock buried to the hilt.

He’s deeper than you’ve ever felt anyone.

His voice is low, and there’s no softness to it, no apology in his tone—just that dry edge of irritation that somehow feels good when it’s wrapped around pet names like that. Like he’s annoyed at himself more than you. Like the idea of hurting you makes his chest ache but he still can’t help being rough.

You whimper—half embarrassed, half moaning as his cock grinds against your spot again, the stretch still so much, the pressure making your head spin.

He shifts—one hand on your hip, holding you down, thumb rubbing a lazy, mocking circle.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Takin’ it so well. Gonna act like I didn’t just stuff you full on your first time?”

You whimper again, thighs trembling.

“Poor thing,” he breathes. “Didn’t even know how good you'd feel wrapped around me, did you?”

His pace picks up—not fast, not brutal, but purposeful. Every thrust lands deep, slow and heavy, like he's fucking you in slow motion just to make sure you feel every inch of him. His cock drags along your walls, thick and perfectly curved, and he watches your face for every twitch, every choked moan, every little flutter of your lashes when it gets too good to hide.

“Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he says casually, voice just a breath above a sigh. “No one’s gonna fuck you this deep. They wouldn’t know how.”

You cry out, and his hand moves, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“You like that? Like when I talk down to you while I’m this far inside?”

You nod, helpless.

He hums, amused.

“Thought so.”

His thrusts get sharper now, still not fast, but firm, knocking the air out of you, making you cry out with every roll of his hips.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. “Too good. It’s annoying. You make it too easy to lose my goddamn mind.”

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, panting.

“You better cum soon,” he mutters. “I’m not gonna last if you keep clenching like that.”

You whimper, already close, your body burning, stretched, full.

And then, soft but sharp, right into your ear—

“C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and cum on my cock.”

[pupsec]

𐔌 、rock lee　ﾉ　takes your first time as seriously as a high-stakes mission, turning into an obsessive challenge to make you cum over and over 𓈒　◟

cw: overstim ノ“just one more” sex logic ノ dubcon(?) ノ explicit content ϑϱ

୨ৎ minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

Lee doesn’t fuck. He trains.

It’s in the eyes from the start—wide, determined, burning with that same intensity he gets right before he challenges someone twice his size to a spar he knows he’ll lose. But this? This is a whole new battlefield, and your body is the terrain he’s about to run full-speed through with absolutely no self-preservation instinct.

He’s shirtless before you can blink, tan chest already slick with sweat from god knows what—push-ups? Mid-air flips? The burning shame of popping a boner the second you started undressing?

“Is this okay?” he blurts, face red but voice still deadly focused. “I want to make this experience fulfilling for you in every way possible...!”

You nod—barely.

And he pounces.

He’s strong. You knew he was strong but holy fuck, it’s like being tackled by the sun. His body presses you into the mattress, muscles rippling, arms trembling slightly with restraint. His breath is already heavy. You can feel the heat of him radiating from every inch.

“I read—” he gasps, adjusting his hips, thick cock dragging across your soaked folds, not even in yet and already leaking against your clit— “that the first time should be gentle...”

“Lee—just fuck me—”

He gasps.

“Right!”

And then he does.

He slams into you like he’s launching into a kata, thick and deep and fast. No ramp-up. No hesitation. Just hips pounding, body pistoning, sweat flinging from his forehead as he grunts through clenched teeth like every stroke is a fucking rep.

“Am I doing it right?” he pants—plap plap plap—his balls smacking against you with every thrust. “Is it working? Does it feel good?”

You try to respond. You do. But all that comes out is a strangled moan because he’s hitting so deep, dragging against places you didn’t know existed, his cock curved just right to make your brain short-circuit.

He gasps again. “Was that a scream of pain? A-are you okay?”

You’re crying now. Begging.

“L-Lee—f-fuck—I’m cumming—!”

His eyes go wide.

“Yes! Yes! That’s good,” And then—to himself, low, focused, practically growling— “If I can make her cum more than once… I’ll know she enjoys it…”

You should be terrified.

You’re soaked.

He grabs your legs, pushes them higher, deeper angle now—his thrusts get faster, somehow. Harder. The bed slams against the wall. Your body shakes. His tan skin is shining with sweat now, rivulets running down his abs, chest heaving. His face is red. His hair is wild.

You cum again—harder.

And he yelps.

“That’s two! That’s two—oh my god—just—wait—one more—just one more—”

You’re sobbing. Writhing. Legs jelly. Pussy raw. But he’s still going.

“Does it hurt? Your eyes are rolled back—should I stop—?”

“NO,” you scream. “Just—fuck—don’t stop!”

He moans. A full-bodied, adorable moan. Then mumbles under his breath, again, like a fucking motivational speech.

“Don't stop. Don't stop. Make her cum again—”

And you do.

Your third orgasm rips through you like a pulse bomb, and he yelps again, hips faltering—but still he doesn’t pull out. His face is wrecked, eyes blurry, mouth open.

“I—I think I’m going to—!”

You barely choke out a whimper before he slams deep and holds, cock twitching, unloading inside you with a desperate, breathless cry, like he’s dying and cumming at the same time.

Your legs were trembling, cunt fluttering around nothing the moment he pulled out for a breath—your body a mess of sweat and slick and overstimulated nerves.

But Lee had a goal.

A stupid, noble, dangerous goal.

“Three times,” he muttered to himself like a fucking mantra, eyes blazing, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

You whimpered, voice hoarse. “Lee—baby—I c-can’t—”

He was already positioning you again, big strong hands gripping your hips like training weights, adjusting you with the same care he’d give to strapping weights to his ankles. Focused. Determined. Insane.

“I will take the utmost care with your pleasure,” he said seriously—then slid back into you in one smooth thrust.

Your scream was immediate.

“Too much?” he gasped. “Not enough?! Oh no—adjusting!”

He slammed into you harder.

Your body convulsed.

He moaned like he’d just done a perfect somersault.

“Ah! That felt right!”

“Lee—oh my god—”

His hips snapped, plap plap plap, balls swinging heavy, slapping your ass as he fucked into you like you were some kind of sacred mission scroll he had to decode with his cock. Your back arched off the bed, nails dragging down the sheets, eyes unfocused.

“I read somewhere,” he panted—sweat dripping from his jaw, body gleaming, abs flexing with every thrust—“that verbal encouragement improves sexual performance!”

You moaned. Desperate.

So he tried.

“T-tight!” he gasped. “So—s-so wet! You're gripping me!”

You choked out a half-laugh, half-cry.

He grunted. Adjusted.

“Your… pussy!” he said, voice shaking. “Your beautiful pussy is… So good!”

You howled. Nearly blacked out from how hard you clenched around him.

“Is it working?” he panted. “Am I doing it right?”

“Lee—oh fuck—I’m gonna—!”

“Yes!” He cheered like he just won the Chunin Exams. “Another! That’s four!”

You screamed, body convulsing again, pussy gushing around his cock like a floodgate bursting. He groaned, hips stuttering—but didn’t stop.

Did. Not. Stop.

“I will give you five,” he hissed.

You were sobbing now, moaning, gasping—your whole body oversensitive, trembling, being fucked through wave after wave of blinding pleasure.

He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, panting like a dog mid-marathon.

“I am so proud of you,” he whispered. “You are taking me so well.”

You whimpered, legs limp, cunt fluttering again.

“I—I think you’re about to cum again!” he gasped. “Your insides are pulsing around me—!”

And you did.

Your fifth orgasm tore through you with such force your vision went white—your back arched, pussy convulsed, and you squealed, voice broken and high, completely wrecked.

Lee shouted like he’d just opened the Eighth Gate.

“Yes! Five! FIVE! I DID IT!”

And then he finally came—cock twitching deep inside you, cum spilling again, warmth flooding your cunt as he collapsed on top of you, both of you gasping, shaking, ruined.

For a while there was only panting.

Then, softly—

“…Do you think six would be pushing it?”

[pupsec]

i find ur acc just as im on a kakashi fest. ur like water in a dry desert

tehe i love u i was just thinking abt posting when u popped up. im watching naruto rn and ever since he was showed! ive been feral. its insane i shouldve watched this so much sooner he wouldv been my number 1 bae forevers

[pupsec]

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. 2

You married him under sakura blossoms and a sky the color of secrets.

Kakashi Hatake never looked at you during the ceremony. His Sharingan was covered, his visible eye lowered, posture slack like this whole thing bored him. A political bond, they called it. A strategic arrangement. You were nothing but a name on a scroll, a signature in ink. You half expected him not to show up. Maybe a crow with a note tied to its leg instead—Sorry, too busy training. Best wishes.

But he came. He said "I do" with a shrug.

You moved into his quiet house tucked into a hill on the edge of the village, where the wind always carried the scent of pine and earth, and the porch creaked with age. He gave you the larger bedroom, disappeared into the smaller one down the hall. Never touched you. Barely spoke.

"Don’t trouble yourself," he murmured the first day, not even glancing up from his book. "I won’t get in your way."

So you didn’t. You dusted. Swept. Folded. You ironed his uniforms and laid them out with care. Cooked meals and left them covered with a little note—If you're hungry. Most went untouched.

You tiptoed around him like you were afraid to wake a sleeping wolf. A wife in name only. You kept your head down, told yourself it was fine. Maybe even peaceful.

Until one day you were cleaning.

It was raining. The sound of it tapping against the window made the silence heavier somehow. Kakashi wasn’t home. An early mission. You hummed as you dusted the shelf in his spare room—a room you weren’t supposed to touch, really, but something about it called to you today. Maybe it was the crooked frame. Maybe it was boredom. Or maybe it was the little pull of curiosity that always got girls like you in trouble.

You tugged the drawer open.

And froze.

Stacked. Neatly. Organized alphabetically, even. Rows of smutty novels. The kind with aggressively suggestive titles and lurid covers—The Icha Icha Chronicles: Lust in the Mist, Kunoichi Heat 3: Forbidden Jutsu. One was dog-eared right in the middle. You flipped it open before your brain could stop your hands, and—

The scene inside made your face go hot.

Someone tied up. Begging. Calling the man sensei. Pages sticky from too much use. You dropped it like it bit you and stumbled back.

Kakashi—stoic, unreadable Kakashi—was reading this filth?

You snapped the drawer shut and ran.

You didn’t bring it up. How could you?

You just scrubbed harder. Smiled tighter. Tried to push it out of your head. But then your panties started to vanish.

Not the plain ones. Not the folded cotton briefs. No—it was the delicate lace, the soft silk, the ones you only wore when you were feeling fragile and feminine. You thought maybe you misplaced them. Laundry mistake. Until it kept happening. Until you knew.

Then it was the scent. On the laundry. Faint, but there—something musky and warm and male. You started doing your laundry in secret.

And then one night, you caught him.

You woke for no reason. A soft creak. A breath. The door cracked open.

You pretended to stay asleep.

You kept your breaths slow, steady, heartbeat hammering in your ears as you felt his presence at the edge of the bed. So close. So quiet. Something shifted on the sheets.

You waited until he was gone to peek.

Your underwear drawer. Still open.

The next morning, Kakashi sipped his tea like nothing happened. Same bored look. Same lazy posture. The man who used your panties as a midnight addiction was smiling politely and asking if you wanted more sugar in your tea.

Your head spun.

How could he look at you like you were glass, when he was sneaking into your room just to press his face into your scent? How could he act so unaffected, when the flush on his throat betrayed something molten just under the skin?

You started watching him. Closer. The twitch of his fingers when you bent over. The way his eye followed the line of your throat when your robe slipped just a little. You tested it—dropped a towel "accidentally," bent slowly. Kakashi didn’t move.

But he stared.

When you turned to look at him, his nose was buried in that damned book again. As if he didn’t just imagine bending you over the table and fucking you till your knees gave out.

He was a ghost in the day and a deviant in the dark.

And you were the good little wife who smiled and served tea.

But you felt it now. The tension curling around both of you like smoke. The sharp awareness. The way his voice dipped low when he said thank you for breakfast, like it had a thousand meanings under it. The way your thighs clenched when he stood too close.

One night, you found a pair of your panties—worn, damp, and warm—folded under your pillow.

Your hands shook. You didn’t throw them out.

You tucked them away.

You weren’t sure who you were becoming.

But it made you wet just to think about it.

[pupsec]

𐔌 、toji　ﾉ　desperate for money, he takes a job from the dark web: break into a girl’s house for a twisted roleplay she’s willing to pay thousands for 𓈒　◟

cw: dubconノCNC roleplay ノ home invasion ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧

You’re home alone.

That fact alone isn’t strange—it’s your night off, you’ve got leftovers in the fridge and no plans besides a bath, wine, and maybe one of those trashy novels you pretend you’re too good for. Your apartment is silent except for the quiet hum of the AC and the occasional creak of an old wall settling. Just the usual. Familiar.

And then you hear the front door open.

Not a knock.

Not a jingle of keys.

A click. A turn. A push.

You freeze on the couch, phone mid-scroll, your whole body tensing like a rabbit catching the shadow of wings overhead. There shouldn’t be anyone. You live alone. You don’t have roommates. You didn’t order food. No one should be here.

Your heart stutters.

You think about calling the cops—but something holds you back.

Something primal and wrong and crawling, like instinct knows before your brain does: it’s too late.

Heavy footfalls echo on the hardwood. Measured. Slow. Predatory.

You shoot up off the couch, but he’s already there.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black. Combat boots. Tactical pants. A long-sleeved shirt tight enough to stretch across brutal muscle. A ski mask over his face. And in one gloved hand, a gun.

Pointed right at your chest.

“Don’t move.”

You do. Of course you do. You stumble back like a fucking idiot, lips parting to scream—but he’s already on you. That gun presses right against your sternum, and his other hand is fisted in your hair, yanking your head back.

“Scream and I shoot.”

Your breath hitches.

You believe him. God help you, you believe every syllable.

“What do you want?” you gasp, your voice breaking under the pressure of a fear that smells like sweat and adrenaline and the faintest twinge of arousal. “I don’t have anything, please—”

“I’m not here for your things.” The voice is low. Rough. Feral. “I’m here for you.”

You shake your head, confused, terror-stricken—but he’s already shoving you, guiding you backward, pushing you toward the hallway that leads to your bedroom. The cold steel of the gun never leaves your chest.

“I have money—” you offer, voice high, trying to stay calm. “I—I can get you cash, or my phone, or—”

“I told you. I’m not here for money.”

Then you’re in your room.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a dull thud that feels like a coffin sealing. Then he steps closer—looming over you, eyes unreadable behind the mask—and shoves you down onto the bed.

You struggle. You can’t help it. You twist and thrash and claw, but his body dwarfs yours. He’s pure muscle and violence, kneeling between your thighs and grabbing your wrists in one massive hand. The gun is pressed to your neck now, cold and unyielding.

“Move again,” he growls, “and I’ll paint your fucking walls with your brains.”

You whimper. Nod.

Then he rips your shirt open.

The sound of fabric tearing is violent, obscene, louder than your ragged breath or the frantic thump of your pulse. Your bra is next—cut in half by a blade you didn’t even see him draw—and your tits bounce free, nipples already hard from fear or the rush of blood, you don’t know.

His hand is at his belt next. Pants dropped. His cock is thick, long, heavy, the kind of weapon your body has no business trying to take.

He doesn’t even undress you fully. Just yanks your shorts and panties down around your ankles, leaving you bare and vulnerable, your cunt wet and twitching in spite of your fear.

“You sick little thing,” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock along your slit, smearing your wetness. “You’re fucking soaked. Is this turning you on?”

“No,” you breathe, but your body says otherwise.

The next sound you make is a scream—muffled by the gloved hand he shoves into your mouth—when he thrusts into you hard and fast, splitting you open without warning.

It’s brutal. Deep. The air punched from your lungs.

You try to thrash but the weight of him pins you down. The gun’s pressed against your cheek now, kissing your skin like a lover, cold metal dragging through the tears on your face.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice close to your ear. “You feel that cock splitting your little cunt open? You fucking like this?”

You hate how it feels. You hate how it hurts.

You hate how your cunt grips him like it needs him.

His hips slam forward again, hard, each thrust forcing a whimper from your throat. The way he fucks you is punishing, relentless. He doesn’t care if you cum. He doesn’t care if you bleed. He’s using you like a thing.

And god, it’s disgusting how much of you wants it.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he grunts, slamming into you. “Just lying here in this pretty little house, hoping someone like me would come ruin you.”

He pulls out suddenly—makes you cry out with the emptiness—and flips you onto your stomach. Then he yanks your hips up, grabs your hair like reins, and fucks back into you even harder, the gun now nestled against the base of your skull.

Your pussy is raw, soaked, stretched around him so tightly you can barely breathe. And still you take it. Still your body sings for it.

“Please,” you sob, not even sure what you’re begging for.

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

A low, dangerous laugh.

Then his pace increases. Your ass is slapping against his hips now, the sound sick and wet and loud, echoing through the room like music from hell. You’re crying and gasping and clawing at the sheets as he ruins you from behind, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other presses the gun harder against your skull.

“I should blow your brains out,” he growls, fucking deeper. “But then I couldn’t keep this sweet little hole for myself.”

You feel the orgasm build before you even realize what it is. It sneaks up on you—hot and mean and wicked—curling your toes and making your legs shake. And when it hits, it wrecks you. Your pussy clamps down around his cock, milking him, screaming his name like you fucking own him.

But you don’t.

He finishes a heartbeat later, deep inside you, cock twitching as he fills you with hot, thick cum. He holds there—still buried in you, panting against your neck—before slowly pulling out.

Your cunt is wrecked, leaking, red and trembling, abused in the most obscene way.

He stands.

Tucks himself back into his pants.

Leaves you there on the bed, ruined and soaked and twitching.

Then, casually, he pulls out a phone. Checks a message. And blinks.

“Oh.”

You watch him from where you’re curled on the bed, barely able to breathe, still shaking.

He glances at you again.

Shrugs.

Wrong house.

[pupsec]

[:✚:]　 @pupsec　—　a kennel of craving & chaos. naruto smut + more sometimes sfw / nsfw mix. dead dove always labeled.

not spoiler-free. heavy on fluff, filth, and feelings. ageless blogs dni.

status: requests open (4/?)

please don’t repost, steal, or translate my work. likes and reblogs = puppy treats!!!

૮₍ ⸝⸝> ᴥ <⸝⸝ ₎ა this blog contains content such as:

✧ dubcon / cnc / obsession ✧ breeding / degradation / petplay ✧ incest / stepcest / nontraditional dynamics ✧ block if uncomfy and pls don't send any mean anons!