The alarm clock screamed at exactly 5:47 AM — thirteen minutes before it was supposed to go off — because Naruto Uzumaki had set it wrong the night before in his excitement. Not that it mattered. He'd barely slept. His blue eyes snapped open to the cracked ceiling of his tiny apartment, and a grin split across his whiskered face so wide it almost hurt.
"Today's the day!" he shouted to absolutely no one, throwing his frog-patterned blanket across the room where it landed on an empty cup of instant ramen. "Today's the day, today's the day, TODAY'S THE DAY!"
He launched himself out of bed with all the grace of a startled cat, his feet tangling in the sheets and sending him crashing face-first into the wooden floor. The impact rattled the floorboards and probably woke up whoever lived below him.
He didn't care.
Today was team placement day.
Today, Uzumaki Naruto — dead-last, prankster, demon brat, whatever they wanted to call him — was officially a genin of Konohagakure. The hitai-ate sitting on his nightstand proved it. He scrambled to his feet and snatched it up, running his thumb across the engraved leaf symbol. The metal was cool against his skin. Real. Solid. Not a dream.
He tied it around his forehead with practiced care — he'd spent two hours practicing in the mirror last night — and examined himself in the cracked bathroom mirror. Orange jumpsuit, check. Hitai-ate, check. Ridiculous grin, absolutely check.
"Looking good, future Hokage," he told his reflection, giving it a thumbs-up.
His reflection did not respond, because it was a reflection, but Naruto took its silence as enthusiastic agreement.
He went through his morning routine at approximately three times normal speed. Brushed his teeth so fast he nearly swallowed the toothbrush. Splashed water on his face. Checked the expiration date on the milk in his fridge — two weeks past, impressive even by his standards — and poured it down the sink with a shrug. Breakfast would be ramen. Breakfast was always ramen. He put the kettle on and cracked open a cup of Ichiraku-brand instant miso while bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Three minutes. Three minutes for the water to boil. Three minutes was an eternity. Three minutes was cruel and unusual punishment.
"Come ON," he groaned at the kettle.
The kettle, much like his reflection, offered no response.
He drummed his fingers on the counter. He looked at the clock. He looked at the kettle. He looked at the clock again. Thirty seconds had passed.
"COME ON!"
He spent the remaining two and a half minutes running laps around his apartment, which took approximately four seconds per lap given the size of the place. By the time the kettle whistled, he'd completed roughly thirty-seven laps and was vibrating with energy that had absolutely nowhere productive to go.
He poured the water, waited the prescribed three minutes (the hardest three minutes of his entire life, harder than the first three minutes, which he had already forgotten about), and then inhaled the ramen so fast he burned his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and approximately sixty percent of his esophagus. He didn't care. Pain was temporary. Team placements were forever.
Well, not forever. But for a long time. Long enough.
He slammed the empty cup down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and checked the clock.
6:04 AM.
Team placements weren't until 9:00 AM.
"...Crap."
He stood in the middle of his apartment, bouncing on his heels, trying to figure out what to do with three hours of unstructured time when his brain was running at full speed and his body wanted to sprint to the Academy immediately and sit in his seat and wait.
Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea.
No. No, that was pathetic. Even he knew that was pathetic. He wasn't going to show up three hours early and sit in an empty classroom like some kind of desperate loser.
He lasted four minutes.
"Okay, I'll just walk really, REALLY slowly!" he announced to his empty apartment, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. "Super slow. The slowest walk anyone has ever walked. By the time I get there, it'll practically be nine o'clock."
He locked his door — a habit born more from the occasional vandal than any possessions worth protecting — and stepped out into the morning air of Konoha.
It was beautiful. The kind of morning that existed specifically to make you feel like everything was going to be okay. The sun was just climbing above the Hokage Monument, painting the stone faces in shades of gold and amber. The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue — almost the same shade as his eyes, he thought with completely unearned pride. Birds were singing. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from a bakery somewhere down the street.
Naruto took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the morning air, and set off down the street.
He did not walk slowly.
He walked at his normal pace, which was approximately twice the speed of a civilian's brisk walk, because Naruto Uzumaki did not have a slow gear. He had "fast," "very fast," and "oh god he's running on the walls again." Today he was operating at a solid "fast," his sandals clapping against the packed earth of Konoha's streets with a steady, rhythmic energy.
The village was already waking up around him. Shopkeepers were opening their doors, sweeping their storefronts, setting out displays. Civilians were heading to work, clutching steaming cups of tea, still blinking sleep from their eyes. The first few food stalls were firing up their grills, and the smell of grilled fish and rice mixed with the bakery scent into something that made Naruto's stomach growl despite the ramen he'd just inhaled.
And the shinobi were out.
This was one of the things Naruto noticed every morning — the shinobi of Konoha moving through the village with a quiet, purposeful energy that was completely different from the civilians. They leapt across rooftops, flickered between shadows, walked with the kind of coiled readiness that said "I could kill you seventeen different ways but I choose not to because I haven't had my coffee yet."
Naruto wanted to be like them. Wanted to be better than them. Wanted to be the best. The Hokage. The strongest. The one everyone looked up to, everyone acknowledged, everyone—
He was so caught up in his daydream that he almost walked straight into a utility pole.
"Whoa!" He sidestepped at the last second, stumbling slightly, and laughed at himself. "Pay attention, moron."
He adjusted his hitai-ate — it had shifted slightly during his near-collision with municipal infrastructure — and kept walking, his grin firmly in place.
The streets were getting busier now. More people, more noise, more life. Naruto wove through the growing crowds with the ease of someone who'd spent his entire life navigating these streets, usually at high speed, usually with someone chasing him after a prank.
He turned a corner onto one of the main thoroughfares and nearly tripped over his own feet.
There were kunoichi everywhere.
This wasn't unusual in itself — Konoha was a shinobi village, and roughly half the shinobi population was female, so seeing kunoichi walking around was about as noteworthy as seeing trees in a forest. What was unusual — or what would have been unusual to literally any other human being with functioning eyes — was that every single one of them appeared to have undergone a rather dramatic overnight transformation.
The first kunoichi he passed was a chūnin he vaguely recognized from the mission desk. She was walking in the opposite direction, and her hips swayed with each step in a way that could only be described as hypnotic. Her standard-issue uniform, which had presumably fit her yesterday, was now stretched to its absolute limit across curves that defied not just regulation but basic physics. Her thighs, each one thicker than Naruto's torso, strained against the fabric of her pants with every step, creating a soft sound that was somewhere between a whisper and a prayer. Her chest, previously unremarkable in a professional-kunoichi sort of way, was now so absurdly, catastrophically voluptuous that her flak jacket had given up any pretense of zipping shut and hung open in surrender, her mesh undershirt doing absolutely heroic work to contain what could only be described as a natural disaster.
Naruto walked right past her without a second glance.
"Morning!" he chirped.
The chūnin turned to look at him, her eyes going wide, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. "Good morning, Naruto-kun," she breathed, her voice dropping into a register that was practically a purr. She clutched her mission folder to her chest — or tried to, the folder was comically small against the sheer acreage of her bosom — and watched him walk away with an expression that could only be described as smitten.
Naruto didn't notice. He was thinking about what kind of team he'd be on.
"I hope I'm not with Sasuke," he muttered to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. "That bastard would ruin everything. Actually, wait — I hope I AM with Sasuke, so I can show him up every single day. Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. Every mission, I'll be like, 'Hey Sasuke, watch THIS,' and then I'll do something awesome, and he'll be like, 'Wow, Naruto, you're so much better than me, I can't believe I ever doubted you,' and then—"
He turned another corner and walked directly into a wall.
Except it wasn't a wall.
It was soft. Very soft. Impossibly, unreasonably, life-alteringly soft. Warm, too. And it smelled like dango and something sweet and slightly dangerous, like sugar mixed with snake venom.
Naruto's face was buried in the largest, most magnificent pair of breasts the universe had ever produced.
They belonged to Mitarashi Anko.
Now, Anko had always been a woman who commanded attention. Loud, brash, violent, and utterly unapologetic about all three, she was one of Konoha's most recognizable — and feared — special jōnin. Her standard outfit of a mesh bodysuit and tan trench coat had always been provocative by design, because Anko lived to make people uncomfortable.
But today — today, Anko was something else entirely.
Her body had transformed overnight into something that made the word "voluptuous" feel like a criminal understatement. Her mesh bodysuit, which had always been revealing, was now less "bodysuit" and more "suggestion of fabric." It clung to curves so extreme, so outrageously, preposterously thick, that the mesh was stretched to near-transparency across her chest, which had expanded to proportions that would have made a goddess weep with envy. Each breast was larger than Naruto's head — significantly larger — and so impossibly round and full that they defied gravity with the casual contempt of someone who had never heard of the concept. They were pressed together by the straining mesh, creating a canyon of cleavage so deep and inviting that it seemed to have its own gravitational field.
And it was into this canyon that Naruto's face was currently buried.
Her waist, somehow, remained relatively slim — a dramatic, swooping curve that served primarily to accentuate the absolutely ridiculous flare of her hips. And those hips. Dear god, those hips. They were wide enough to require their own postal code. Each hip was a sweeping, generous arc of flesh that transitioned into thighs so thick, so overwhelmingly, almost obscenely voluptuous, that the very concept of a "thigh gap" would have had a nervous breakdown and fled the country. Her thighs pressed together with every micro-movement, soft flesh meeting soft flesh in a way that created sounds that should have been illegal. Her ass — and there was simply no polite way to discuss it, because politeness had surrendered unconditionally — was so enormous, so perfectly round, so bountifully, lavishly, extravagantly fat that it stretched her tan skirt into a garment that was more conceptual than functional. It jutted out behind her like a shelf, like a monument, like a declaration of war against modesty.
Any normal person would have noticed this.
Any normal person would have, at the very minimum, had some kind of reaction to having their face buried in the chest of an impossibly thick, devastatingly gorgeous kunoichi whose body looked like it had been designed by a committee of perverts who had been given unlimited funding and no oversight.
Naruto's reaction was: "Mmfph!"
He pulled his face back approximately two inches — which was as far as the sheer mass of her chest would allow — and blinked up at her with the pure, uncomplicated confusion of a puppy that had just walked into a glass door.
"Oh! Sorry, sorry!" he said, his voice muffled. "I wasn't looking where I was going! I was thinking about team placements and—"
He fully expected what came next: a punch, a kick, a kunai, some combination of all three, possibly involving snakes. Anko was famous for her temper and her creative violence. He'd once seen her throw a dango stick through a training post from fifty meters because someone had eaten the last stick of mitarashi.
What came next was not that.
What came next was Anko's arms wrapping around him.
She pulled him closer. Not away. Closer. Pulled his face right back into the warm, yielding, impossibly soft valley of her cleavage, her arms encircling his head with a gentle but firm possessiveness that left no room for escape. Not that Naruto was trying to escape. He was mostly just confused.
"Mmm," Anko hummed, and it was a sound that no one who had ever met Anko would have believed she was capable of making. It was soft. It was warm. It was the sound of a cat curled up in a sunbeam, if the cat was a psychotically powerful special jōnin with a body that could stop traffic in three countries simultaneously. "Naru-chan~"
She hummed again, her fingers threading through his spiky blonde hair with a tenderness that was genuinely terrifying in its unfamiliarity. She rocked slightly, side to side, like she was soothing a baby, except the baby was a twelve-year-old genin and the rocking motion was causing her astronomical breasts to undulate around his head in ways that would have given Jiraiya of the Sannin a fatal nosebleed.
"It's okay, sweetie," she cooed, pressing her lips to the top of his head. "You can run into Anko-nee anytime you want. Any. Time."
"Uh," said Naruto, which was about the most articulate response anyone could have managed with their face pressed into approximately forty pounds of warm, soft, sweet-smelling bosom. "Thanks? I, uh — I really gotta get to the Academy, though—"
"The Academy!" Anko pulled back just enough to look down at him, and her expression was — there was no other word for it — adoring. Her eyes, usually sharp and predatory, were soft and shining. Her lips, usually curved in a dangerous smirk, were pulled into a smile so genuine and warm that it looked borrowed from a completely different person. "That's right, today's team placements, isn't it? Oh, Naru-chan, I'm so proud of you!"
She squeezed him again, and his face disappeared into her cleavage once more. His arms were pinned to his sides by the sheer circumference of her embrace, and he wiggled ineffectually, like a fox trapped in a very comfortable, very warm, very soft pit.
"Fwanks, Anko-san," he managed, his voice muffled beyond recognition.
"I just know you're going to be the best genin," she continued, rocking him gently, her enormous breasts squishing around his head with each sway. "The very best. And if anyone gives you trouble — anyone at all — you come find Anko-nee, okay? I'll make them disappear. Permanently." Her voice didn't change tone at all during this threat. It remained sweet and warm and utterly terrifying.
"I'll — mmfph — I'll be fine!" Naruto insisted, finally managing to extract himself from her gravitational pull through sheer squirming determination. He stumbled back a step, his face flushed — from lack of oxygen, he assumed — and straightened his hitai-ate, which had gone askew.
Anko stood before him, one hand on her cocked hip — her absurdly wide, flesh-laden hip that pushed out to the side like a geographical feature — and watched him with that adoring expression, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her eyes roamed over him with unmistakable warmth.
"You're so cute," she said, with the tone of someone commenting on the weather.
"I'm not cute!" Naruto protested automatically. "I'm tough! I'm a genin now! I'm gonna be Hokage!"
"The cutest Hokage," Anko agreed, and before Naruto could argue further, she bent down — which caused her chest to hang forward in a display that would have been classified as an A-rank visual hazard — and pressed a long, lingering kiss to his forehead. Her lips were soft. Unreasonably soft. Soft in a way that didn't match anything else about Mitarashi Anko's known personality profile.
"Go get 'em, Naru-chan," she whispered against his forehead. "I'll be watching~"
And then she straightened up, adjusted her trench coat (which accomplished absolutely nothing in terms of coverage), and sauntered off down the street, her hips swaying with each step in a motion so pronounced, so exaggerated, so overwhelmingly, pants-splittingly thick that the very air seemed to part around her rear end out of sheer respect.
Naruto stared after her for approximately 1.3 seconds, shrugged, and continued walking.
"Weird," he muttered. "Anko-san was in a good mood today."
That was his entire analysis of the situation. That was the sum total of his takeaway from having his face buried in the chest of a supernaturally thick kunoichi who had cuddled him in the middle of the street and called him cute. "She was in a good mood."
He continued his walk to the Academy.
The streets were fully alive now, the morning rush in full swing, and Naruto navigated through the crowds with unconscious ease. He hopped over a delivery cart, ducked under a merchant's awning, and sidestepped a civilian woman carrying a stack of boxes — all without breaking his mental stride, which was currently occupied with increasingly elaborate fantasies about his team placement.
"Maybe I'll be with Sakura-chan!" he said to himself, his grin returning at full power. "Yeah! Me and Sakura-chan on a team! That'd be perfect! We could go on missions together, and she'd see how awesome I am, and then she'd be like, 'Oh Naruto, I was so wrong about you, you're amazing,' and then we'd—"
He passed two more kunoichi — both absurdly, impossibly thick from head to toe, their uniforms struggling valiantly against bodies that had apparently decided overnight that moderation was a concept for lesser beings. One of them, a brunette jōnin he didn't recognize, had an ass so monumentally, preposterously large that it was visible from the front. It protruded behind her like a second entity, a companion, a satellite orbiting the planet of her body. The other, a purple-haired chūnin, had thighs so thick that she walked with a slight waddle, each step a negotiation between her legs and the sheer volume of flesh they were required to transport.
Both of them turned to watch Naruto pass.
"Is that Naruto-kun?" the brunette whispered, her voice breathy.
"He's even cuter than I remembered," the purple-haired one replied, pressing her thighs together. The sound it made was like two pillows being squeezed.
"Do you think he'd let me make him lunch?"
"I'd make him lunch AND dinner."
"I'd make him breakfast."
"You absolute slut."
Naruto heard none of this. He was rounding another corner, less than ten minutes from the Academy now, and his excitement was reaching critical mass. He could feel it in his chest, a buzzing, electric sensation that made him want to run, to jump, to scream, to climb the Hokage Monument and shout his name until the entire village heard him.
He settled for pumping his fist in the air and yelling "YEAH!" at a volume that startled several pigeons and one elderly civilian.
The Academy came into view, and Naruto's heart rate spiked. The building was as familiar to him as his own apartment — more familiar, really, given how much time he'd spent here over the years. How many times he'd sat in that classroom, ignored, mocked, dismissed. How many times he'd failed. How many times he'd gotten back up.
But today was different. Today he walked through those doors as a genin. Today, the hitai-ate on his forehead meant something. Today, everything changed.
He took the front steps two at a time, burst through the doors, and speed-walked down the hallway toward classroom 301, his sandals squeaking on the polished floor. The hallway was empty — he was early, despite his best efforts at dawdling — but he could hear voices from behind the classroom door. Other students, already there, already waiting.
He took a breath. Straightened his hitai-ate one more time. Grinned.
And opened the door.
"GOOD MORNING!" he announced, at a volume that was completely unnecessary for the size of the room.
The classroom was about half full. Students — his fellow graduates, his fellow genin — were scattered across the tiered seating, talking in small groups or sitting alone, all wearing their hitai-ate with varying degrees of pride and nonchalance.
And every single girl in the room was absolutely, catastrophically, reality-bendingly thick.
Hyūga Hinata was sitting in her usual spot near the back, her signature lavender jacket zipped up — or rather, attempting to be zipped up. It had managed perhaps thirty percent of its intended journey before surrendering to the sheer, overwhelming volume of her chest. Her breasts — and calling them "breasts" felt like calling the ocean "some water" — were so enormous, so magnificently, impossibly massive, that they rested on the desk in front of her like two pale, cloth-covered moons. Each one was larger than her head. Significantly larger. They were pressed together by the straining fabric of her jacket, creating a cleavage line that started at her collarbone and descended into depths that light itself feared to explore. Her hips, always somewhat noticeable, had expanded to dimensions that made the classroom seat seem like a cruel joke. She was quite literally overflowing the seat on both sides, her thighs — each one thicker than a tree trunk, pale and soft and quilted with the faintest traces of creamy flesh pressing against lavender fabric — spread wide to accommodate the sheer acreage of her lower body. Her ass was so unfathomably, staggeringly massive that it had actually begun to engulf the seat itself, the wooden chair disappearing beneath an avalanche of soft, generous flesh.
When Naruto burst through the door, Hinata's entire face went the color of a ripe tomato, and she pressed her index fingers together — a gesture that was partially hidden behind the mountain range of her own chest.
"N-N-Naruto-kun," she whispered, barely audible, her pale eyes wide and swimming with an emotion so intense it could have powered a small village.
Naruto didn't hear her. He was scanning the room.
Ino Yamanaka was sitting near the middle of the room, her legs crossed — an act of engineering so impressive it deserved its own scroll. Her thighs, each one a thick, toned, obscenely generous pillar of flesh, were stacked one atop the other in a configuration that defied both anatomy and physics. Her purple outfit, always form-fitting, was now engaged in a battle it could not win. The skirt, which had presumably been knee-length at some point in its existence, had ridden up to mid-thigh, unable to contain the sheer circumference of her lower body. Her hips flared out from her waist in a ratio that made hourglasses feel inadequate — wide, sweeping, luscious curves that transitioned into an ass so round, so full, so magnificently, jaw-droppingly fat that it was clearly visible even from the front as it bulged out on either side of her crossed legs. Her chest was straining against her crop top with a desperation that bordered on structural failure, each breast a heavy, perfectly shaped monument to excess that bounced gently with every breath she took.
"Naruto!" Ino called out, and her voice — usually sharp, usually dismissive — was warm. Sweet, even. She flipped her platinum blonde ponytail over her shoulder (it fell across her chest and disappeared into her cleavage like a rope thrown into a canyon) and gave him a smile that would have stopped traffic. "Over here! I saved you a seat!"
She patted the seat next to her, her enormous thighs jiggling with the motion.
"Thanks, Ino!" Naruto called back cheerfully, completely missing the way her eyes traced over him like he was the last piece of chocolate in a box. "But I wanna sit near the front!"
Ino's lower lip pushed out in a pout so adorable it could have been classified as a genjutsu.
Near the window, Tenten was sitting with her chin propped on her hand, her brown hair done up in her signature twin buns. She was wearing her usual Chinese-style top, except it was now approximately four sizes too small. The pink fabric clung to her torso like a second skin, stretched to near-transparency across a chest that had bloomed overnight into something extraordinary — full, round, and heavy, each breast straining against the fabric with every breath, the outline of her nipples visible through the thinned cloth. Her pants, similarly overwhelmed, were painted onto thighs that were thick and muscular, the toned flesh bulging against the white fabric. She sat with her legs slightly apart, and even from across the room, the sheer thickness of her thighs was staggering — each one a masterwork of soft flesh over hard muscle, pressing together at the top and creating a shadow between them that drew the eye like a gravitational anomaly. Her ass, lifted slightly by the angle of the bench seat, was spreading out behind her in a wide, round, generous display that the seat could barely contain.
She watched Naruto enter the room with sharp brown eyes that had gone unusually soft, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
Naruto didn't notice her at all. He was making his way down the steps toward the front of the classroom, his eyes fixed on his target: his favorite seat, front row, slightly left of center.
He passed Sakura Haruno on the way.
Sakura had always been pretty — Naruto would have been the first to say so, loudly and repeatedly, to anyone who would listen and many who wouldn't. But this morning, Sakura Haruno was something beyond pretty. She was devastating.
Her signature red dress, which had always been relatively modest, was now performing a miracle of textile engineering. Her chest — previously on the smaller side, a fact she had been sensitive about — had expanded overnight into a pair of breasts so large, so full, so perfectly shaped, that they stretched the front of her dress into a taut canvas of red fabric, the zipper strained to its absolute limit. Each breast was round and heavy, sitting high on her chest with a perky defiance of their own weight, creating a line of cleavage that the dress's collar could no longer hope to hide. Her waist remained slim — making the contrast even more dramatic — before flaring out into hips that were genuinely, absurdly wide. Her hips. Dear god, her hips. They were broad and generous and impossibly inviting, sweeping out from her waist in curves that made the letter S look like an amateur. And her thighs — her thighs were thick. Not just thick. They were thick. Pillowy, plush, creamy-skinned pillars of flesh that pressed together as she sat, her dress riding up just enough to reveal an expanse of bare skin that seemed to go on forever. Her ass, round and full and unbelievably large, was the reason her bench seat was creaking slightly.
She looked up as Naruto passed.
"Naruto!" she said, and her voice — normally sharp, normally exasperated, normally accompanied by a fist aimed at his head — was sweet. Musical, almost. She smiled at him, and it was a real smile, a warm smile, the kind of smile she usually reserved for—
"Hey, Sakura-chan!" Naruto beamed at her, completely oblivious to every single thing about this interaction that was different from usual. "Great morning, huh? I'm so excited for team placements! Who do you think we'll be with?"
Sakura tucked a strand of pink hair behind her ear and leaned forward — an action that caused her breasts to press together and swell upward against the straining fabric of her dress in a display that would have made a monk question his vows. "I hope I'm on your team, Naruto," she said softly, her green eyes sparkling.
"Ha! Yeah, that'd be great!" Naruto agreed, completely misinterpreting the situation on every conceivable level. "Anyway, I'm gonna grab my seat before someone takes it! Catch you later, Sakura-chan!"
He bounced away.
Sakura watched him go with her chin in her hand, her expression dreamy, her enormous thighs pressing together under her desk.
Naruto dropped into his front-row seat with a satisfied sigh and propped his feet up on the desk. Perfect. Perfect spot, perfect day, perfect everything. He leaned back, hands behind his head, grinning at the ceiling.
A shadow fell over him.
He looked up. And up. And up.
Standing directly beside his desk was Uchiha Sasuke.
Except — and this was the kind of "except" that deserved its own paragraph, its own page, its own novel — Uchiha Sasuke was no longer the brooding, pretty-boy rival Naruto had spent years competing with, envying, and wanting to punch.
Uchiha Sasuke was a girl.
A ridiculously, overwhelmingly, apocalyptically thick girl.
She stood beside Naruto's desk in what had once been Sasuke's standard outfit — the high-collared blue shirt, the white arm warmers, the white shorts — except the outfit had been subjected to the same reality-warping transformation as everything else.
The high-collared blue shirt, once loose and comfortable, was now stretched across a chest so massive, so outrageously voluptuous, that it looked like the fabric was about to disintegrate from sheer strain. Her breasts — Sasuke's breasts, those were words that existed now — were enormous. Not just large. Not just big. They were enormous. Each one was a heavy, perfectly round monument to femininity that jutted forward from her chest with an almost aggressive confidence, the blue fabric pulled so tight that every curve, every contour, every gentle shift of weight was visible in high definition. They were pressed together by the shirt's unyielding collar, creating a cleavage window visible even through the high neckline where the fabric had begun to separate, unable to contain the sheer volume of flesh beneath it. They moved when she moved — a slight, hypnotic bounce with every breath, every shift, every heartbeat.
Her waist was narrow — shockingly narrow compared to what surrounded it. It carved inward in a dramatic, sweeping curve that served as the intermission between two acts of absolute excess: the chest above and the hips below.
And those hips.
Sasuke's hips were wide. So wide. Absurdly, preposterously, mathematically impossibly wide. They flared out from her waist like the wings of a plane, each hip a generous, sweeping arc of flesh that strained against the white shorts she wore. And those shorts — those poor, unfortunate shorts — had ridden up to a length that could generously be described as "criminal." They clung to her lower body like a prayer, the fabric stretched to transparency across thighs that were so thick, so overwhelmingly, catastrophically meaty, that each one was wider than her torso. They were smooth and pale, the porcelain Uchiha skin stretched over layer upon layer of soft, giving flesh that pressed together when she stood, creating a valley of shadow between them that seemed to whisper dark promises. The shorts, in their desperate struggle to contain her lower body, had ridden up into the crack of her ass — and what an ass it was. Sasuke's ass was a masterpiece. A catastrophe. A natural wonder that deserved its own entry in the Bingo Book. It was so round, so impossibly full, so staggeringly, mind-breakingly, devastatingly fat and thick that it seemed to exist slightly outside the normal rules of space and time. Each cheek was a massive, perfectly shaped sphere of pale flesh that jutted out behind her with an almost defiant confidence, bouncing and jiggling with the slightest movement, the shorts long since having given up any attempt at coverage. It was the kind of ass that stopped wars. Started wars. Made you forget what wars were.
Her face — and yes, she still had Sasuke's face, that aristocratic, sharp-featured face that had haunted Naruto's competitive dreams for years — was softened. Slightly rounder cheeks, slightly fuller lips, dark eyes framed by long lashes that hadn't been there before. Her dark hair still swept down in its signature style, two bangs framing her face, the back spiked up — but it was longer now, silkier, framing a face that was undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful.
And that face was looking at Naruto with an expression of such pure, unfiltered, radiant adoration that it could have cured diseases.
"Naruto," she said, and even her voice was different — softer, melodic, with just a hint of that familiar Uchiha huskiness that made it something utterly unique. She said his name the way most people said "oxygen" after nearly drowning. Essential. Life-giving. Irreplaceable.
"Huh?" Naruto blinked up at her, his feet still on the desk, his hands still behind his head. "Oh, hey, Sasuke."
He noticed nothing. Not the breasts the size of watermelons straining against blue fabric, not the hips that could barely fit between the desks, not the thighs that were thicker than his entire body, not the ass that was currently defying several known laws of physics, and certainly not the expression of adoration that was radiating from her beautiful face with enough intensity to trigger a Byakugan.
"Hey, Sasuke" was his entire response.
Sasuke — female, impossibly thick, radiantly gorgeous, madly adoring Sasuke — didn't seem bothered by this. If anything, her expression softened further, her dark eyes taking on a quality that could only be described as "heart-shaped."
"Can I sit next to you?" she asked, her voice gentle.
"Huh? Uh, sure, I guess." Naruto shrugged, still staring at the ceiling. "Just don't be annoying about it."
Sasuke sat down next to him, and the act of sitting was — for the other students in the room who happened to be watching — a religious experience. Her massive ass made contact with the bench seat first, the twin globes of flesh compressing and spreading outward with a soft, audible sound. Her thighs spread to accommodate her sitting position, each one spilling over the edge of the seat, pressing against the desk from below with enough soft, warm mass to make the wooden desk creak in protest. Her breasts settled onto her chest — or rather, they bounced once, twice, three times before settling, each bounce a seismic event in blue fabric. She folded her hands on the desk — or tried to, her breasts taking up so much desk space that she had to rest her hands on top of them, her fingers barely visible over the curve of the closest breast.
She turned to look at Naruto. Her expression was so soft, so warm, so purely affectionate that it looked like it had been copy-pasted from a completely different person onto Sasuke's face.
"I'm glad we're sitting together," she murmured.
"Yeah, sure," Naruto said absently. "Hey, do you think Iruka-sensei will let us pick our own teams? Because I have OPINIONS."
"I hope we're on the same team," Sasuke said, her voice barely above a whisper, her dark eyes locked onto the side of Naruto's face with the intensity of a targeting seal.
"Ha! You'd be lucky to be on my team!" Naruto declared, completely missing the point. "I'm gonna be the best genin in our year! In ALL the years! In the history of YEARS!"
Sasuke rested her chin on her hand — or rather, on the breast that was currently occupying the space where her hand wanted to be — and gazed at Naruto with an expression that said "I would follow this boy into the sun."
"I know you will be," she said softly.
Naruto pumped his fist. "BELIEVE IT!"
More students were filing in now, and the classroom was getting louder. Conversations bounced off the walls — excited chatter about team placements, about jōnin-sensei, about missions and adventures and futures that suddenly seemed real and imminent.
Shikamaru Nara shuffled in with his hands in his pockets and a yawn that seemed to take about thirty seconds longer than any yawn had a right to. He looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else — asleep on a cloud, perhaps, or watching said cloud from a grassy hill, or simply not existing for a while. He dropped into a seat near the back, propped his chin on his hand, and immediately appeared to fall asleep.
Chōji came in after him, a bag of chips already open, crunching contentedly.
Kiba Inuzuka burst through the door with Akamaru on his head, announcing his arrival with a volume that nearly matched Naruto's. Shino Aburame followed him silently, collar up, sunglasses on, radiating an aura of quiet competence.
And all the while, the girls continued to file in, each one thicker than the last, each one radiating an aura of warmth and adoration that seemed to focus, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, on one specific blonde boy in the front row.
A girl Naruto vaguely recognized — a brunette whose name he'd never learned, which was par for the course — paused at his desk on the way to her seat. She was carrying a bento box. Her thighs, each one straining against her black pants like two friendly anacondas trying to escape a burlap sack, pressed together as she stopped.
"Naruto-kun?" she said, her voice shy. "I made you a bento. I hope you like it."
She placed the box on his desk with trembling hands.
"Oh, awesome! Thanks!" Naruto grabbed the bento without hesitation, cracked it open, and his eyes went wide. "Whoa, this looks amazing! Is that egg? And is that — no way — IS THAT EXTRA NARUTO FISHCAKE?"
He was referring to the narutomaki, the spiral fishcake that shared his name. The bento was packed with them.
"I put extra in because... because they remind me of you," the girl said, her face now roughly the color of a fire engine.
"That's so cool! Thanks, uh—" Naruto squinted at her. "Sorry, what's your name again?"
The girl looked like she might actually ascend to a higher plane of existence from sheer embarrassment. "M-Mika."
"Thanks, Mika! You're awesome!" Naruto was already shoveling fishcake into his mouth.
Mika walked back to her seat in a daze, her enormous ass swaying with each step, her equally enormous thighs brushing together with soft sounds. She sat down next to another girl, and they both collapsed into whispered, frantic conversation punctuated by glances back at Naruto.
Sasuke, sitting next to Naruto, watched the exchange with an expression that had shifted from "adoring" to "adoring with a side of territorial." Her dark eyes tracked Mika's retreating form with the quiet intensity of a predator watching a rival approach its territory. Her hand, seemingly of its own accord, moved slightly closer to Naruto's arm on the desk. Not touching. Not quite. But close.
"The fishcake is good," Naruto informed her through a full mouth.
"I'll make you better ones tomorrow," Sasuke said quietly, and it was a promise, a vow, a declaration of culinary war.
Naruto didn't hear her because he was chewing too loudly.
At precisely 9:00 AM, the classroom door opened and Iruka Umino walked in, carrying a clipboard and wearing the expression of a man who loved his job but was extremely tired.
"All right, settle down, everyone!" Iruka called, and the classroom noise dropped to a manageable murmur. He stood at the front of the room, placed his clipboard on the desk, and looked out at his students — his graduates — with an expression of genuine pride. "First of all, I want to congratulate all of you. You've worked hard, and you've earned the right to wear those hitai-ate."
Naruto sat up straighter, his chest swelling with pride.
"Today, you'll be assigned to three-man cells under the guidance of a jōnin instructor," Iruka continued. "These teams have been carefully selected to balance your skills and personalities—"
"YO, IRUKA-SENSEI!" Naruto's hand shot up. "CAN I PICK MY TEAM?"
"No, Naruto."
"BUT—"
"No."
"WHAT IF—"
"No."
"JUST ONE—"
"Naruto, sit down."
Naruto sat down, grumbling. Sasuke, beside him, covered a small smile with her hand — or rather, with the breast her hand was resting on.
Iruka began reading the team assignments. Team One. Team Two. Teams that Naruto didn't care about because they didn't contain him. He bounced in his seat with mounting impatience, each team name that wasn't his ratcheting his anticipation up another notch.
"Team Seven," Iruka said, and Naruto leaned forward so far he nearly fell off his bench. "Uzumaki Naruto—"
"YEAH! THAT'S ME!"
"—Haruno Sakura—"
"YEAH! SAKURA-CHAN!" Naruto whipped around to grin at Sakura, who was clutching her massive chest with both hands and looking like she'd just won the lottery. "WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM! ISN'T THAT GREAT?"
"It's wonderful," Sakura breathed, her green eyes shining.
"—and Uchiha Sasuke."
Naruto's excitement faltered for exactly half a second before roaring back to life. "Okay, fine, I can work with that! I'll just have to be SO awesome that even Sasuke can't bring the team down!"
Sasuke, sitting right next to him, turned to face him with an expression of such radiant, incandescent joy that it was briefly brighter than the sun coming through the window. Her dark eyes were practically sparkling, her full lips parted in a genuine, unreserved smile that transformed her entire face from "beautiful" to "otherworldly."
"We're on the same team," she said, and her voice trembled slightly.
"Yeah, I heard," Naruto said, already turning back to listen to the remaining assignments. "Don't slow me down, Sasuke!"
Sasuke pressed her thighs together under the desk — a motion that produced a soft sound given the sheer volume of flesh involved — and clasped her hands over her heart. Or over the breast closest to her heart, anyway.
"I won't," she whispered, and it sounded like a wedding vow.
Iruka finished the team assignments and explained that the jōnin instructors would be arriving to collect their teams over the course of the day. Some would come right away. Some would take longer. Each team was to wait in the classroom until their sensei arrived.
Teams began leaving with their jōnin. Team Eight — Hinata, Kiba, and Shino — was collected by Yūhi Kurenai, who walked into the classroom with the kind of entrance that would have caused accidents on a civilian street. Her usual outfit — the bandage dress and red sleeves — was now engaged in a desperate struggle against a body that made Anko look modest. Her breasts, enormous and perfectly shaped, bounced with each confident step, her bandage dress wrapped so tightly around them that every curve, every contour, every gentle movement was visible in excruciating detail. Her hips swayed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, each one so wide that she had to turn slightly sideways to fit through the classroom door. Her thighs, thick and muscular beneath soft flesh, pressed together with each step, the bandage dress riding up as it failed to contain their circumference. Her ass — a masterwork of genetics and presumably an active fitness routine — jutted out behind her in two massive, round, perfectly shaped globes that swayed with each step like a metronome of destruction.
She glanced at Naruto as she passed his desk, and for just a moment, her red eyes softened to something warm and liquid.
"Good luck, Naruto-kun," she murmured, smiling, before collecting her team and gliding out of the room.
Naruto waved. "Thanks, Kurenai-sensei!"
Team Ten left with Sarutobi Asuma, who was the same as always — beard, cigarette, lazy confidence. Naruto didn't pay much attention.
And then it was just Team Seven. Waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two hours.
Sakura, who had migrated to the front row to sit on Naruto's other side, was resting her chin on her folded arms — or rather, on the massive shelf of her breasts, which served as a convenient and apparently comfortable rest surface. Her green eyes kept drifting to Naruto's profile with an expression of soft, patient adoration.
Sasuke, on Naruto's left, had not moved an inch. She sat with perfect posture — as much as perfect posture was possible when your chest jutted forward like the prow of a ship — and watched Naruto with the quiet, focused intensity of someone who had found the thing they were looking for and intended never to let it out of their sight.
Naruto, between them, was going insane.
"WHERE IS OUR SENSEI?!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "It's been TWO HOURS! Everyone else's team is already gone! We're the only ones left! This is STUPID!"
"I'm sure they'll be here soon," Sakura soothed, her voice honey-warm.
"Patience," Sasuke murmured, her dark eyes following Naruto's pacing form.
"I DON'T HAVE PATIENCE! PATIENCE IS FOR PEOPLE WHO AREN'T ME!"
He grabbed the blackboard eraser, marched to the door, and wedged it between the door and the frame — an old prank, juvenile and obvious, but satisfying in its simplicity.
"Naruto, a jōnin isn't going to fall for that," Sakura said, but her tone wasn't scolding. It was fond. Amused. She was smiling.
"We'll see about that!" Naruto declared, crossing his arms.
They waited.
Five more minutes crawled by.
Then footsteps in the hallway. Soft, measured, unhurried.
The door slid open.
The eraser fell.
And landed directly on top of a head of silver hair.
A cloud of chalk dust erupted, and there was a moment of perfect silence.
Then a voice — low, smooth, feminine, and threaded with amusement: "Hmm. My first impression of you guys..."
The chalk dust settled, and standing in the doorway of classroom 301 was Hatake Kakashi.
And Hatake Kakashi was, like every other female shinobi Naruto had encountered today, absolutely, certifiably, ridiculously thick.
Kakashi stood in the doorway with a hip cocked to one side — and what a hip it was. Kakashi's outfit was still recognizably Kakashi — the jōnin flak jacket, the dark blue undershirt, the mask covering the lower half of her face, the hitai-ate tilted to cover her left eye. But the body underneath those familiar garments had been replaced with something that belonged in a fever dream.
The flak jacket, never designed to accommodate what was now straining against it, was unzipped about halfway down, because zipping it further was a physical impossibility. Kakashi's breasts — and yes, this was Hatake Kakashi, the Copy Ninja, Kakashi of the Sharingan, the woman of a thousand jutsu — were colossal. They strained against the blue undershirt and the partially open flak jacket with the quiet confidence of someone who knows they're the most impressive thing in the room. Each breast was round and full and heavy, sitting high on her chest, the undershirt pulled so tight across them that the fabric had become almost translucent, and the dark outline of a sports bra underneath was doing absolutely heroic work. They bounced gently as she stepped into the room — one bounce, two bounces — and then settled with a weight that seemed to shift the room's center of gravity.
Her waist, visible where the flak jacket hung open, was narrow — a dramatic pinch that served as the bridge between the extraordinary landscape of her upper and lower body. Because Kakashi's lower body was, if anything, even more excessive than her upper body.
Her hips flared out from her waist in a curve so dramatic it looked drawn by an artist who had been specifically instructed to "make it ridiculous and then double it." Each hip was wide, sweeping, generous — the kind of hips that made doorframes nervous. Her dark blue pants, standard jōnin issue, clung to her thighs like a lover who refused to let go. And those thighs. Kakashi's thighs were thick. Not just thick — they were encyclopedically thick. Each one was a monument to excess, to abundance, to the fundamental concept of "more." They were so thick that they pressed together from hip to knee, the fabric straining and shifting with every step, the soft sound of thigh meeting thigh audible in the quiet classroom like a heartbeat. They were thick in the way that mountains were tall — it was simply their nature, their defining characteristic, the thing they did better than anything else.
And her ass.
Kakashi's ass was the kind of thing wars were fought over. It jutted out behind her with a prominence that bordered on architectural, two massive, perfectly round globes of flesh that stretched the seat of her jōnin pants to their absolute limit. The fabric was pulled so tight that every curve, every contour, every micro-movement was visible. It was so large that it was visible from the front — the twin curves of her cheeks protruding on either side of her hips, creating a silhouette that was wider than it was tall. It swayed with each step — a slow, hypnotic, side-to-side motion that made time seem to slow down around it. It bounced when she stopped moving, the residual motion taking several seconds to dampen down. It was, in every measurable and unmeasurable sense, an absolute masterpiece.
Kakashi reached up and brushed the chalk dust from her silver hair, her single visible eye curving into what was clearly a smile behind her mask.
"My first impression of you guys," she repeated, her voice warm and amused. Then her eye landed on Naruto, and something shifted. The amusement didn't disappear — it deepened. Softened. Became something warmer, something more. Her visible eye crinkled, and her entire body seemed to relax, as if the sight of this blonde boy in an orange jumpsuit had answered a question she'd been carrying for a very long time.
"...is that I think I'm going to enjoy this very much," she finished softly.
"YOU'RE LATE!" Naruto shouted, pointing at her. "YOU'RE, LIKE, TWO HOURS LATE! WHAT KIND OF SENSEI SHOWS UP TWO HOURS LATE?!"
Kakashi stepped fully into the room, and the act of walking — of placing one foot in front of the other, of shifting her weight from one impossibly thick thigh to the other, of causing her monumental ass to sway and her colossal breasts to bounce — was a performance that would have sold out any theater in the Elemental Nations.
She stopped in front of Team Seven and looked down at them — at Sakura, who was blushing and staring with wide green eyes; at Sasuke, whose adoring gaze had briefly flickered to Kakashi with an evaluating intensity before snapping back to Naruto; and at Naruto, who was still pointing at her with an expression of righteous indignation.
"Maa, I got lost on the road of life," Kakashi said, her eye crinkling again.
"THAT'S NOT A REAL THING!"
"It's a very real thing," Kakashi assured him, and then she did something that no version of Kakashi in any timeline would have been expected to do.
She reached out and ruffled his hair.
Her fingers were gentle, precise — the hands of a seasoned shinobi touching the head of a boy they already, inexplicably, adored. She mussed his blonde spikes with a tenderness that was so at odds with her legendary reputation that reality itself seemed to stutter.
"You're cute when you're angry," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
"I'm NOT cute!" Naruto protested, swatting at her hand. "And stop messing up my hair!"
Kakashi withdrew her hand reluctantly, her visible eye soft with affection.
"All right," she said, clapping her hands together — which caused her breasts to bounce dramatically, the flak jacket shifting with the motion. "Let's head to the roof for introductions. I want to get to know my cute little genin."
"We're not cute!" Naruto insisted, already heading for the door.
Sakura rose from her seat, her massive thighs pressing together as she stood, her enormous breasts bouncing with the motion, her wide hips swaying as she followed Naruto with her eyes locked onto his back.
Sasuke stood with fluid grace — or as much grace as was possible when your thighs were thicker than most people's torsos and your ass could be seen from space. She adjusted her shorts — which accomplished nothing — and followed Naruto out the door, her hips barely clearing the doorframe.
Kakashi watched them go, her single visible eye following Naruto specifically, the crinkle of her eye-smile deepening.
She brought a hand to her masked cheek and sighed — a genuine, heartfelt, utterly smitten sigh.
"This is going to be fun," she murmured to herself, and then she followed her team out the door, her hips swaying, her thighs whispering, her ass conducting a symphony of motion that left the empty classroom feeling somehow diminished by her absence.
On the roof of the Academy, the four members of Team Seven sat in a loose semicircle. The afternoon sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, and Konoha spread out below them in a panorama of red roofs and green trees.
Kakashi leaned against the railing, her arms crossed beneath her breasts — which pushed them up and out with a prominence that made the railing look flimsy by comparison. Her single eye moved across her three genin, lingering on Naruto.
"All right," she said. "Let's start with introductions. Your name, things you like, things you hate, hobbies, dreams for the future. I'll go first."
She shifted her weight, and her thighs pressed together with a soft sound.
"My name is Hatake Kakashi. Things I like..." Her eye drifted to Naruto. "...are becoming clearer by the minute. Things I hate — people who abandon their comrades. Hobbies — reading, mostly. Dreams for the future..." Again, her eye settled on Naruto with a warmth that would have been unmistakable to anyone paying attention. "...I have a few new ones."
Naruto wasn't paying attention. He was looking out at the village, at the Hokage Monument, at the stone faces gazing down at the streets below.
"Okay, blondie," Kakashi said fondly. "Your turn."
"Right!" Naruto sat up straight, grinning. "My name is Uzumaki Naruto! I like ramen — especially Ichiraku ramen! I hate the three minutes you have to wait for instant ramen to cook! My hobby is eating ramen and comparing different types of ramen! And my dream—" He stood up, his fists clenched, his blue eyes blazing with a fire that had nothing to do with chakra and everything to do with a lifetime of loneliness channeled into pure, unbreakable determination. "—my dream is to become the greatest Hokage ever, so that everyone in the village will acknowledge me!"
The wind caught his words and carried them out over the rooftops of Konoha.
There was a moment of silence.
Then three things happened simultaneously:
Sakura clasped her hands together over her heart (over the nearest breast, technically), her green eyes glistening with unshed tears, her expression one of pure, overwhelming affection.
Sasuke's dark eyes shone with something fierce and tender and utterly devoted, her full lips curving into a small, private smile that she directed at Naruto like a love letter written in a single expression.
And Kakashi — legendary jōnin, veteran of a thousand battles, the Copy Ninja feared across the Elemental Nations — felt her heart do something it hadn't done in years.
It felt warm.
She pressed a hand to her chest, over the breast closest to her heart, and her visible eye curved into the softest, most genuine smile she'd worn in over a decade.
"What a wonderful dream," she murmured.
"Hell yeah it is!" Naruto agreed, sitting back down. "Okay, who's next?"
Naruto looked between his teammates and his sensei, his grin firmly in place, his blue eyes bright with excitement and possibility and the unshakeable belief that everything, starting today, was going to be amazing.
He noticed nothing.
Not the way Sakura leaned toward him when she introduced herself, her voice soft, her green eyes never leaving his face, her enormous breasts pressing against her knees as she leaned forward.
Not the way Sasuke introduced herself — quietly, earnestly, with none of the cold arrogance he would have expected — and ended by saying, "My dream is to stay by the side of someone precious to me," while looking directly at him.
Not the way Kakashi watched him throughout the entire exchange with an expression of such profound, aching tenderness that it would have broken the heart of anyone perceptive enough to see it.
Not the way the sun caught his blonde hair and made it glow, and all three of them — pink-haired, dark-haired, silver-haired — watched him like he was the center of the universe.
Because to them, he was.
Naruto noticed absolutely, completely, categorically nothing.
He was too busy being happy.
"This is gonna be AWESOME!" he declared, throwing both fists in the air. "Team Seven is the BEST TEAM! We're gonna do the coolest missions and beat the hardest bad guys and I'm gonna become Hokage and it's gonna be GREAT!"
And somewhere in the village below, Mitarashi Anko paused mid-dango, looked up at the sky in the general direction of the Academy roof, and smiled.
"That's my Naru-chan," she murmured, and took a bite.
End of Chapter One
Author's Note: Naruto continues to notice absolutely nothing. This is a skill that transcends all jutsu.