Boys don't cry

Everybody in Konoha knows his voice.

He’s up there with Naruto and Lee and Might Guy on the unofficial-but-everybody-knows-it ‘shut the fuck up’ poll. Coming in at a solid third place with that unmistakable Inuzuka growl, deep and rough, always paired with a cocky grin pulling at his lips, laughing too hard at his own jokes, the whole village can pick him out in a crowd blindfolded.

But Kiba’s quiet the most when you put that pussy on him.

Dead fucking silent.

The second your thighs clamp tight around his ears and you drop your weight with no sign of that polite “but what if I suffocate you?” or “are you sure?” crap—you couldn’t careless even if somebody slid a stack of ryō across the table.

You want him to suffocate.

You grind slow and mean against his mouth all of that yapping on hold. Like someone decided to hit mute on the loudest dog in the pound. His hands—rough and calloused from years of training and fighting, turning fingers into claws and wielding kunai—dig into your hips, not to push off (never to push off) but to pull you down harder. Deeper. Like he’s tryna fit her in his entire mouth.

“Shut all that shit up, huh?” You murmur, fingers twisting in his messy brown hair, yanking his head back just enough so he can breathe for half a second. His eyes, those sharp-feral red brown things are swallowed up by the black of his pupil— roll up to meet yours.. Cheeks flushed dark under those red face markings, he doesn’t talk back, doesn’t bark some smart ass comment. The most he gets out is a raspy, “More,” barely audible before you sink back on him, his lips parting wider, tongue flat and greedy, lapping like a man tasting an oasis.

You rock forward, smearing yourself across his face, clit dragging over the sharp bridge of his nose, then right back down so his tongue can spear inside. He groans, low and muffled, vibrating right against your folds, wet from his nonstop slobbering and your cum mixing together.

That’s the only sound he can afford to make. Hungry little nosies he can’t hold back when you really start riding.

He likes being suffocated.

Loves it actually.

The way your pussy lips spread over his mouth, cutting off his air until his lungs burn. The way your weight pins him to the bed, the way his chest heaves under you, ribs straining, but his grip never loosens.

He never taps out. That’s for weak bitches.

If he dies here, tongue buried deep, nose smashed against your clit, best believe he’ll go out the happiest motherfucker in Konoha.

“Thought you had so much to say earlier?” You tease voice filthy sweet, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle that makes his eyes flutter shut. “All that yakety-yak hmm, baby?”

He doesn’t answers with words. He answers by sucking your clit between his lips—hard—humming deep in his throat so the vibration hits you like lightning. A yelp leaves you chased by a breathy moan, “Uh-huh—“ as your eyes squeeze shut. His nails bite into the meat of your ass (no doubt will leave lil marks later), spreading you wider, tongue spearing you down in and out sloppily, frantic strokes while his nose nudges against against you everytime you grind down.

You curse under your breath, a blissful grin breaking out unto your face when you feel your walls clenching trying to catch his slippery tongue like you never want him to leave, “Kibaaa,” you say, saying his name in a sing-song manner, all sweet mockery, looking down at him—amused as hell by how his cheeks puff against your inner thighs, face buried so deep he looks like a damn chipmunk stuffed full of you. “M’gonna cum, you want that?”

At that his whole body jerks at your words, one quick look over your shoulder confirms your theory. He’s hard as a brick right now, cock throbbing untouched against his thigh, and a fat damp spot blooming through his boxers. He’s so gone, hips twitching, damn near humping the air in helpless thrusts, getting off purely on your taste, the pressure, the way you’re using his face.

You don’t lift your hips up to give him time to beg.

You grind—full weight, almost careless—against his face, thighs locking like steel around his head. His muffled groan vibrates right against your clit, tongue never stopping, wanting to drink every drop as you begin to shake.

Your walls flutter hard, and then you feel it—that hot-tight-coil burning low in your stomach—“Gonna cum—gonna cum baby, all in your big fuckin’ mouth—“ you cut yourself off as a high pitched “—ah!” jumbles your words. You feel yourself gush into his mouth, down his chin, probably some on the sheets as well as you ride out that high, thighs trembling around his head, curses spilling from your mouth in broken gasps.

He cums untouched right after, body bucking violently beneath you, thick ropes spilling into his boxers, hips jerking while he chokes on your orgasms.

When you finally lift just enough for him to drag in a desperate, wheezing breath his facial expression something you giggle at. His lips are swollen, chin dripping with your cum, his whole face flushed, eyes glassy like he just discovered his new religion. He pants like he ran ten laps around the entire village, tongue darting out to lick his lips clean, wanting to get every bit of you.

“You okay, Kiba? Did I do too much?” You tease lightly, already knowing the answer.