this is kinda specific I’m sorry 🥹💔
I really think the dynamic between a spoilt rich girl and shikamaru would be so cute together 😭 LIKE IMAGINE ONE DAY SHES KINDA RUDE AND HER AND SHIKAMARU GET INTO AN ARGUMENT?? AND IT TURNS INTO ANGRY SEX 😋 butttt even though he’s rough during it, there’s small things he does that gives reader butterflies and feels sort of flustered?? like I’d imagine maybe he pushes her into a wall but places his hand behind her head so she doesn’t hurt herself!! ITS SO CUTEEE it’s like fluff and smut ehhehehehe anyway the reader feels bad and apologies and is all soft and cute with him at the end 😇😇
Shikamaru had always known you were spoiled.
It was one of the first things that had drawn him in, weirdly enough. The way you expected the world to bend around you, the way your lower lip would push out just slightly when something didn’t go your way, the way you’d look at him like he was supposed to fix it. Most people found it exhausting. Shikamaru found it… interesting. Like a particularly complicated shogi problem he couldn’t stop poking at.
You lived together in a quiet house on the outskirts of Konoha, far enough from the noise that he could actually think. Most days were good. He’d sprawl on the porch with a cigarette while you draped yourself across his lap, complaining about whatever minor inconvenience had dared to exist in your presence. He’d hum noncommittally, stroke your hair, and somehow the problem would dissolve under the weight of his quiet attention.
It started over something stupid. A mission report he was supposed to have finished yesterday. You’d asked him—twice—to come with you to the market because you wanted the new silk fabric that had just arrived, and you’d decided you needed him there to carry things and also to look at you while you tried it on. He’d said he’d be done soon. “Soon” had stretched into the afternoon. When you finally stomped into his study, the scroll was still only half-filled and he was half-asleep in his chair, cigarette dangling from his fingers, one long leg stretched out carelessly. The air smelled faintly of tobacco and ink.
“You’re unbelievable,” you snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “I asked you one thing. One. And you’re still sitting here like the village is going to collapse if you don’t finish that stupid report.”
Shikamaru didn’t even open his eyes. The late sunlight painted lazy stripes across his face through the half-open window. “It’s not stupid. It’s classified.”
“Bullshit. You’re just lazy.”
That got him. One dark eye cracked open, lazy and unimpressed, the usual half-lidded calm flickering with something sharper. “I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”
You scoffed, arms crossing under your chest, chin tilting up in that spoiled little way that usually made him want to kiss the attitude right off your mouth. Your foot tapped once against the wooden floor. “Efficient at ignoring me, maybe. Do you even care that I’ve been waiting? Or am I just background noise to you?”
He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders with a quiet crack of joints. The cigarette was stubbed out in the ashtray with deliberate calm, the last curl of smoke rising between you, acrid and familiar. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being honest. You’re always like this. Everything is too much trouble. Even me.”
The air in the room shifted, thickening with something heavier than the lingering smoke.
Shikamaru stood. He wasn’t particularly tall, but the way he moved—unhurried, intentional, all lean muscle and quiet threat—made the space feel smaller. You held your ground, chin still high, even as something nervous fluttered low in your stomach. The scent of tobacco and warm skin reached you when he stepped closer, mixed with the faint clean soap smell that always clung to him.
“That’s not true,” he said quietly, voice low enough that it almost felt like a warning.
“It is. You’d rather stare at clouds than deal with me when I’m difficult.”
“You’re always difficult.”
“Then maybe you should find someone easier.”
The words landed harder than you’d meant them to. You saw it in the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw flexed once before he forced it loose again. He stepped closer still, until the toes of his sandals nearly touched yours. You didn’t step back. Your pulse was already climbing, a quick throb you could feel in your throat.
“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, dark eyes searching your face.
His hand came up, not gentle. Long fingers curled around your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to look at him. His thumb pressed against the soft hinge of your jaw, not quite painful, just firm enough to make your breath hitch. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, rough and warm. “Say it again.”
Your pulse jumped hard against his fingers. “I—”
“Say it,” he repeated, voice lower, rougher, the lazy drawl stripped away. “If you mean it.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out that wasn’t a shaky breath. The spoiled, sharp edge you’d been clinging to cracked under the weight of his stare. He was so close now you could smell the faint smoke on his clothes, the warm skin beneath, the clean scent of whatever soap he’d used that morning. His body heat bled into yours, making the space between you feel charged.
“I didn’t think so,” he said.
It wasn’t soft. It was a claim—mouth hard against yours, tongue pushing past your lips the second you gasped. You tasted the faint bitterness of tobacco and the warmer, cleaner taste of him as his tongue slid against yours, wet and demanding. You made a startled sound that melted into something needy almost immediately, the noise muffled against his mouth. His other hand fisted in the front of your shirt and walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud. The impact should have hurt. It didn’t. His palm was already there, cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair to cushion you even as he pinned you firmly in place. The careful protection sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, warm and dizzying.
That small, automatic care made something in your stomach twist sweetly even as heat flooded between your legs, a sudden slickness you could already feel.
He bit your lower lip, hard enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue, licking into your mouth like he was trying to taste the argument right out of you. The wet sound of the kiss filled the quiet room. “You want to pick a fight?” he muttered against your mouth, breath hot and slightly smoke-tinged. “Fine. But you’re not walking away from it.”
You shoved at his chest—more for show than anything, palms flat against the solid muscle beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric—and he caught both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall. The wood was cool against your knuckles. The other hand stayed behind your skull, thumb stroking once, almost apologetically, before he kissed you again, deeper, dirtier. You could feel him getting hard against your hip, the thick, insistent press of him through his pants making heat pulse low in your belly. Your spoiled defiance wavered; a soft, flustered sound escaped you when he ground against you deliberately, the friction sending a spark of pleasure straight between your legs.
“Quiet.” He released your wrists only long enough to yank your shirt up and over your head in one rough motion. The fabric scraped over your skin. Your bra followed a second later, roughly shoved down so he could get his mouth on your breast. He sucked hard, teeth scraping the sensitive peak, the wet heat of his mouth making you gasp. You arched with a broken sound, head tipping back, the pull of his lips sending a direct line of heat down to your core. His hand returned to the back of your head the moment he pushed you harder into the wall, fingers protective even while his mouth was anything but. The contrast made your knees weak—the roughness of his teeth, the careful cradle of his palm, the wet, rhythmic suction. You felt yourself growing wetter by the second, the spoiled anger dissolving into something hotter and more desperate, the slickness between your thighs becoming obvious.
It was the contradiction that undid you. The way he growled against your skin like a curse and then immediately gentled the pressure when you whimpered. The way his free hand squeezed your waist hard enough to leave faint marks while the one in your hair stayed so careful. You could smell your own arousal starting to mix with the scent of him, warm and intimate.
He spun you around suddenly, chest to the wall, and you felt the warm, solid press of his body along your entire back—the heat of his chest, the hardness of his cock trapped against the curve of your ass. One hand still shielded your forehead from the wood, palm warm and steady, the slight roughness of his calluses a constant reminder. The other yanked your skirt up roughly, the fabric bunching at your waist, then shoved your underwear down just far enough to bare you. Cool air kissed your exposed skin for a second before his fingers found you, sliding through the slickness with a wet sound. You heard the rustle of his own clothes, the soft, frustrated curse when he freed himself. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against your entrance, already slick for him, and you felt the heat of it, the slight wetness of his own precum mixing with yours.
“You drive me insane,” he said against the shell of your ear, voice rough and close, breath hot enough to make you shiver. “Every damn day.”
It was a single, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. The stretch was intense—thick, hot, filling you completely in one relentless slide. You cried out, fingers scrabbling against the wall, nails catching on the grain. The wet sound of him sinking into you was filthy and loud in the quiet room. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just set a hard, punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air with every thrust. His hand stayed between your forehead and the wall the entire time, a constant, careful barrier even as he fucked you like he was trying to prove a point. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you, sharp and overwhelming, the friction of his cock dragging along your walls sending sparks up your spine. Your spoiled, angry protests had long since dissolved into broken little moans and gasps, the sounds punched out of you with every snap of his hips.
“Still think I don’t care?” he ground out, teeth grazing your shoulder, then biting down just enough to make you shudder. The sharp sting mixed with the deep, relentless pleasure. “Still think I should find someone else?”
You couldn’t form words. The stretch of him, the heat, the way his body caged yours so completely—it was too much. You could feel every ridge, every thick inch as he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, the wet sound of it growing louder, filthier. Your inner walls fluttered around him, slick and greedy. He reached around, fingers finding your clit with practiced accuracy, rubbing tight, relentless circles that made your knees buckle. The wetness of your arousal coated his fingers. The only reason you didn’t slide down the wall was his arm banded around your waist and that stubborn, gentle hand protecting your head. You could smell the musk of sex now, heavy and intimate, mixed with the lingering tobacco on his skin.
“No.” He bit the side of your neck, not hard enough to mark permanently, just enough to send sparks racing down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the slight dampness of it. “You wanted my attention. You have it.”
He pulled out suddenly, the sudden emptiness making you whimper, the cool air against your soaked, open entrance a sharp contrast to the heat of him. Then he spun you again and lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your legs locked around his waist on instinct, arms looping around his neck. You could feel the slickness of your own arousal smearing against his stomach. He carried you the few steps to the low table in the corner, swept the mission scrolls aside with one arm in a careless cascade of paper, and laid you down. The second your back touched the wood his hand was under your head again, cradling, always cradling, even as he shoved back into you with a groan that sounded almost pained. The stretch was even deeper like this. You could see his face—flushed, eyes half-lidded and dark, the usual calm completely gone. A thin sheen of sweat already gleamed at his temple. He looked wrecked. Hungry. And still, every time he braced himself over you, one hand found its way beneath your skull, fingers gentle in your hair while the rest of him was anything but. The wet, rhythmic sound of him fucking into you filled the room, punctuated by the soft creak of the table.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice low and rough, slightly breathless.
You did. Your eyes were wet. You weren’t sure when that had happened. The intensity of his gaze made your stomach flip with that same flustered, butterfly feeling even as he drove into you hard enough to rock the table. You could feel every thick inch of him, the heat, the way your walls clung to him on every pull-out.
He slowed—just a fraction—watching your face as he rolled his hips in a deep, grinding thrust that made your toes curl and your breath stutter. The friction was exquisite, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside you until your vision blurred. “There you are,” he murmured, almost soft, the words a stark contrast to the way he filled you so completely. “There’s my girl.”
The tenderness in the middle of the roughness made your chest ache. You reached up, fingers trembling against his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble and the heat of his skin. He turned his head and kissed your palm without breaking rhythm, the soft press of his lips a sharp contrast to the hard, claiming thrusts, then caught your wrist and pinned it beside your head, interlocking your fingers with his. His other hand stayed protective under your head. The dual sensation—hard, claiming thrusts and those small, careful touches—had you trembling, the spoiled fire in you completely banked into something softer and more vulnerable. You could taste the salt of your own skin when he leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth, the wet heat of his breath mixing with yours.
He fucked you like that until you came with a sharp, startled cry, walls clenching around him so tightly he cursed under his breath. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, your free hand clutching at his shoulder hard enough to leave crescents, the wet sound of your orgasm audible as you pulsed around him. He followed a few thrusts later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, guttural sound against your throat, hips stuttering as he rode it out. You felt the hot pulse of him, the wet heat of his release filling you, the slight overflow already starting to trickle out around where you were still joined. Even then, his hand never left the back of your head.
For a long moment the only sound was the two of you breathing, heavy and uneven. Sunlight still striped the floor. Somewhere outside a bird called. The air smelled thick with sex—sweat, arousal, the faint lingering tobacco.
Shikamaru didn’t pull out right away. He stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, weight carefully braced on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush you. His thumb stroked slowly behind your ear, soothing. You could feel the residual tremors in both of your bodies, the sticky heat where you remained joined, the slow trickle of his release starting to seep out around his cock.
The anger had burned itself out, leaving something raw and quiet in its place.
You felt it first—the guilt, sticky and uncomfortable, rising in your throat. Your earlier words echoed in your head, sharp and unnecessary. You’d been bored and restless and spoiled, and you’d taken it out on him like he was the problem instead of the person who put up with you more patiently than anyone else ever had. The careful way he’d protected your head the entire time only made the regret sharper. You could still feel the phantom press of his palm against your skull.
Your voice came out small, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry.”
He made a soft questioning sound, not moving, breath still warm against your lips.
“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered, eyes lowering. Your free hand came up to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart and the slight dampness of sweat on his skin. “About you not caring. Or finding someone easier. I was just… being awful. I know you care. You always do. Even when I’m the worst. Even when I’m rude and demanding and—” Your voice caught. “I felt it. The way you… the hand behind my head. Even when you were being rough. It made me… it made me feel all fluttery and soft and I hated that I started it.”
Shikamaru lifted his head enough to look at you properly. The storm had left his eyes; what remained was the familiar, exhausted fondness he reserved only for you. He brushed a strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers, slow and deliberate, the light touch sending another small flutter through you.
“You’re a lot of trouble,” he said quietly, the words almost fond. “But you’re my trouble.”
Your lower lip wobbled. You hated how soft you felt all of a sudden—how the fight had stripped you down to something needy and apologetic. You turned your face into his palm when he cupped your cheek, pressing a small, shy kiss there, tasting the faint salt of his skin.
“I really am sorry,” you mumbled against his skin, voice small and cute in a way you rarely allowed. “I’ll be good. For the rest of the day, at least. I’ll bring you tea and I won’t complain about the report and I’ll sit quietly while you finish it. I promise.”
A tiny huff of laughter left him, warm and low. He pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, lingering, the soft press of his lips gentle now. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
You pouted weakly, the expression soft and almost playful now instead of spoiled. He kissed that too, gentle this time, tasting the residual heat of the argument that had burned itself out between you.
Eventually he eased out of you, both of you wincing at the sensitivity. The wet sound of it was soft and intimate. You felt the immediate gush of his release and your own arousal starting to trickle down your thigh, warm and sticky. He didn’t let you get up right away. Instead he tugged you carefully into his lap right there on the floor, wrapping a discarded blanket around your bare shoulders and tucking your head under his chin with practiced ease. One hand stroked lazily up and down your spine, soothing over the slight marks his fingers had left. The other stayed curled protectively around the back of your neck, thumb brushing the spot he’d bitten earlier in slow, absent circles. You could still feel the faint ache of the bite, pleasant now.
You melted into him completely, all the spoiled edges gone soft and pliant. Your fingers traced idle, apologetic patterns over his chest, following the lines of muscle under his open shirt, feeling the residual heat of his skin and the slight dampness of sweat. The butterflies were still there, quieter now, fluttering every time his thumb stroked that careful path against your skin.
“I like when you do that,” you admitted quietly after a while, voice muffled against his collarbone. “The hand thing. Behind my head. Even when you’re being mean. It makes me feel… safe. And a little flustered.”
He was quiet for a second. Then his arms tightened just a little around you, protective. “Habit,” he said, the word soft. “Can’t have you getting hurt. Even when you’re asking for it.”
You smiled against his collarbone, small and genuine, the last of the earlier tension dissolving. You could still smell the sex on both of you, warm and intimate. “Still sorry.”
“I know.” He pressed another kiss into your hair, lingering, breathing you in. “Next time you want attention, just say so. Less work for me that way.”
You giggled—soft, a little watery—and nuzzled closer, tucking yourself more securely against him like you were trying to make up for every sharp word. “Okay. I’ll try. I’ll be better.”
He hummed, the sound vibrating through both of you, warm and accepting. Outside, the afternoon light was starting to turn gold, painting the scattered scrolls in warm tones. Neither of you moved to pick them up. The sticky evidence of what you’d done together slowly cooled between your thighs, a private reminder of the fight that had turned into something far more intimate.
