2nd request: Wing confessing his feelings to the reader
OKAY SOOO i hope you don’t mind i kinda bunched these all together! they’re gonna be like a series of one shots 🥰
where he confesses his feelings
You sat on a bench, watching the Beifong twins play Power Disc as they yelled back and forth between each other.
“And Wei goes down!” Wing exclaims, throwing his hands up and laughing at his brother, who looked at him with exasperation.
Wing walked towards where you sat with a pep in his step, taking a seat next to you.
“Having fun?” You laughed, watching Wei sulk away, but not before he winked at you. You quirked an eyebrow but didn’t pay it any mind; Wei was always a bit…. cockier than his twin.
“As always,” he responded quietly, side eyeing you while taking a deep breath, “You know, we should hang out sometime.” He gained confidence as the words left his mouth, putting a hand out to rest on the bench so that he could lean against it; but of course, he missed the bench.
He toppled over, hitting the ground with his shoulder. His face became an impossible shade of red.
“You mean like a… date?” You asked while trying to stifle a laugh.
“Yeah, I mean,” He picked himself up, dusting himself off for dramatic effect, and took his seat next to you again, “I like you… a lot?” He sounded nervous, anxious.
“Well you’re in luck because I like you too, and I’d be stupid to turn down that offer.” You told him matter-of-factly. He perked up a little, returning to his normal color.
where he takes you on a first date
The first date that you decided upon, much to his ‘apprehension’ (you secretly knew he loved the idea), was watching the stars.
The night was chilly, cold air nipping at your bare skin; you wore a sweater and long pants, but it was undeniably cool and damp out. The two of you walked to a small clearing together, and boy did Wing want to take your hand on more than one occasion as he watched you admire the night sky.
You finally arrived at your destination, taking a seat and letting some of the dampness on the grass soak your pants; neither of you really minded.
It was cliche, the way it all played out. The way all the movies portrayed it. You stared up at the sky, trying to pretend an extremely handsome boy wasn’t next to you, trying to calm your breathing; meanwhile, he took all of you in. The pattern of your breathing, the color of your eyes in the pale moonlight, your soft smile. He even memorized your side profile, not believing he had scored a date with the one and only (Y/N) (Y/L/N), who he had been pining after in secret for years.
It was a perfectly average textbook first date, but you were both very happy with the outcome.
And, as it turns out, he did end up taking your hand on the way home; you would be remembering the feeling of his soft calluses and warm hands for a long time.
where he tells you he loves you
“Do you know how lucky I am?” Wing utters the question with a certain softness, tenderness in his voice. His head was laid in your lap, and you ran your fingers through his hair, looking down at him curiously.
“Mmmm… I don’t think so?” You responded teasingly, stopping your movement and placing your hands on his cheeks. He looked up at you through his long eyelashes, cheeks blushed and looking more handsome than ever. His hair was all mussed up, sticking out in different directions.
“How lucky I am to have you?” He continued his query, to which you shook your head again. He sat up slowly and sat on the ground parallel to you, looking you in the eyes. You shook your head this time, slightly more confused than before. “Well, I am so lucky. Stupid lucky.” You giggled, leaning your body towards his and squinting your eyes.
“I think I’m luckier.” Before he even had a chance to interrupt you, you set it in stone, “Dibs.”
He gasped dramatically, and dramatically threw himself back on the ground, his head landing on your lap once again.
“Well, guess what?” He started, wrapping his arms around your waist, but not before using one of his hands to usher you down to his face.
“Hmm?”
“I love you, (Y/N).” He finished, and not letting you respond, he pulled you into a long, drawn out kiss. You pulled away, rubbing your nose against his.
“Oh, Wing,” you could’ve sworn you wanted to cry. You adored him, “I love you too.”
where he proposes
“Hey, (Y/N)?” Wing’s voice filtered through your ears, interrupting you as you peacefully looked out at Yue Bay. He had taken you on a vacation to Republic City, and as Wing often did, pulled out all the stops; this time it was taking you on a private ferry ride.
You turned around slowly, hesitating to take your eyes off of the beautiful sight, but you were oh so glad you did.
Wing was on one knee, looking up at you with a small smile on his face, holding up a magnificent ring. “I want to get straight to the point, and say, I… I love you so much, and I want you to be by my side for the rest of my days, and so, would you marry me?”
Your eyes watered as you took his hands in yours, forgetting about the ring; all you could give him was a silent nod as tears ran down your cheeks. He was like your life line, and the two of you complemented each other so well; you couldn't imagine a future without him in it.
“I like (Y/N) Beifong. It’s a pretty name.” You finally choked out, and he jumped to his feet, a few tears on his cheeks as well. He hugged you tightly, lifting you off of your feet and placing his head in the crook of your neck.
The lights of Republic City shone brightly on the water, and you silently thanked the spirits.
Head cannon of being dating Wing beifong . Like from his meeting his family to getting married to having twins?
ahhh last night was great! next time i do something like that there will be more of a warning, btw. a few things i wanted to note; 1, i’m currently looking for a good get to know the author ask post, if you stumble upon a good one feel free to send it! 2, requests are closed once again for now. 3, i will be posting something about the bolin+airbender!reader thing i mentioned earlier just so see if it gains any traction. more info to come. enjoy!!! btw, the reader is afab :)
•••••
he’s like, a closeted sweetheart
he’s so sensitive to his family’s teasing so it takes a while for him to tell the about you
but the second he does, a few months into the relationship, you’re a part of the family
su 100% approves of you, all she needs to know is that you make wing happy
wei teases the two of you all the damn time, you can’t get a second alone with wing without wei popping in
you like wei a lot, you really do, but you just wanna love wing in private sometimes
oh my god opal adores you, she calls you ‘little sis’ all the time. it makes you and wing blush a lot
the beifongs invite you over to dinner all the time, sometimes without telling wing
you’ll be sitting at the dinner table and wing and wei will walk in after doing some kind of sport, all sweaty and hair messed up and tired looking, and wing will see you and literally freeze
he is trying to impress you 24/7, especially to try and combat his family’s embarrassing stories and the fact that they all dote on you constantly
they do not care at all whether you’re a bender or not
if you’re an earth/metalbender, su will definitely try to get you to join one of her dance groups
but if you’re not, that’s totally fine, they don’t discriminate at all, in fact they would probably be very excited to have someone from a different bending, or non-bending, background join
when it comes to marriage i think su and opal think about it earlier than you two… they know their son/brother, and they definitely bring it up to him
when he finally proposes, of course his family is the first to know it; when you announce it, everyone loses it. even huan is looking excited.
the wedding is huge; not necessarily in people attending (unless you want a lot of people there), more in the sheer dramatics of it. there’s a live band, a giant ballroom, personal chefs buzzing around, a cake that might be taller than you
he tells himself he’s not gonna be a crier when you walk down the aisle but he certainly is
like you look stunning and his chest tightens and before he can stop he’s borderline sobbing
bolin is the best man i don’t make the rules, and he’s lowkey crying too
there are just a lot of tears, happy tears at this wedding
during the honeymoon (btw, he takes you anywhere you want) you guys get straight down to the baby-making biz
he definitely wants a big family because, although his siblings annoy the hell out of him, he loved growing up surrounded by such a loving family
and he’s determined to give any kids you have the same, amazing childhood that he did
of course, of course, it ends up being twins
when he finds out he nearly pisses his pants
like he KNOWS that he and his brother were hellish growing up
but nonetheless, he puts on his big boy pants and starts preparing for what he had been dreaming about for years, having a family with you
when you tell the beifongs that you’re having twins they all, almost simultaneously, say ‘good luck’ and leave it at that
pairing: bff!kiba x afab!reader
word count: 12.8k
warnings: nsfw! 18+! minors DNI! | aphrodisiac-adjacent (pheromone oils), dubcon, oral (f! receiving), pining galore (reader and kiba are down bad for each other), mentions of primal (instincts), miscommunication, edging and denial, semi-public sex, konoha 12 mentions + interactions (heavy ino, sakura, hinata, and shino interactions), everyone is in their mid-late 20's, no use of y/n, modern au (mostly canon)
author’s note: almost two years later and this thing is finally getting posted. it's self-indulgent, messy, and probably one of my favorite things i've written in a while. this was originally going to be longer, but i decided to split the original part 2 into parts 2 and 3. thank you to all who have waited patiently for this, i hope you enjoy 💕 (part 3 will be posted much, much sooner than this part was, i promise 😭) || banner by @/saradika-graphics
𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 1 • 𝘢𝘰3
“Oh, fuck you.” KIBA’s irritated voice drones through the speaker of your phone, accompanied by the clacking of a controller and the shifting of a desk chair.
It’s been almost two weeks since that night, the night that changed everything and nothing all the same. The night your apartment flooded, the dam broken open, the night a friend did you a favor. The chirping of cicadas, the clink of melting ice in a glass cup, skin glazed in a thin layer of humidity and sweat.
“Did I call at a bad time?” You ask, the sound of his voice fanning heat to your cheeks. The exasperated huff and mumbled swears coming through the receiver bring you back to that night, the night, where the sound of his pleasured breaths and ardent praise carried you to a place where Jun didn’t exist, where the fear didn’t exist, a world with just the two of you.
The moment Kiba closed his apartment door behind him the morning after, he knew his years of practice were now faced with the ultimate test. Another natural disaster started inside of him, a savage fight between desire and need.
Once home, Kiba tried to scrub his skin free of your scent. Not because he despised the smell—he wanted nothing more than to bask in the perfume of you, relish in what heaven felt like, smelled like—but the random whiffs, the incessant flashbacks sent him into a mental tizzy, even just mere hours later, tunnel vision blinding him. He scrubbed until his skin was red, raw, burning as much as he was on the inside, until his clenched jaw sent an ache to his temple and his hands shook with fervency, desperation.
Somehow, though, you permeated through his own pores, through the steaming water itself raining down on him. It became impossible to shake the image of your scrunched face contorted in pleasure, your skin in the darkness of your moonlit room, your arched back and the marks on your skin and thus, when his mind offered him no reprieve, and the shower resulted in his head braced against the shower wall, hunched over, panting and whining as he frantically fisted his twitching, swollen length, his eyes burning with frustration as his own fragranced soaps and shampoos couldn’t cut through your scent, the memory of you—he knew he had begun the delicate tight-rope walk he had feared this entire time.
He was hooked, line and sinker, the expanse of his need for you mutating into something he could no longer ignore. It took one night, one favor from a friend to concrete the feeling he had since the moment he met you, an innate knowing that you weren’t just a friend, you never could be. You were his, something he knew couldn’t be owned and yet, yet—
“No, I’m just—Naruto, what are you do—I’m over here, by the fuckin’—” Kiba scowls into the receiver, his hands gripping the controller in a hold he knows isn’t conducive to playing. But he can hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, his abdomen pulsing with heat. His muscles are tense, tight, ready to snap, to break, to crumble. He can’t ignore you, he can’t stay away, but he can’t tell you the truth. You like Jun; you like respectful, timid, gentle ninjas. At least, that’s what he tells himself, as his dark eyes narrow in on the screen, his jaw clenched so tight the dull headache in his temple was almost helping in distracting him from the sound of your voice.
“No, sorry, you’re fine, I’m just playing a with an idiot,” the brunette answers you with a sigh. “You are an idiot!” He continues, but you can tell it’s not pointed at you. “You didn’t—I mean, yeah, you got him that time, but—I’m gonna take minute, you guys go ahead. Yes, I’m fi—oh okay, all right, fuck you, man. I’ll be on later.” The banter finishes with a chuckle from Kiba, and he slips his gaming headset off after muting himself. A deep sigh, a cleared throat, the crackle of the phone being picked up and placed against his ear.
In the brief time you were awake after finishing, Kiba ensured you went to the bathroom before allowing you into bed. He laid on his back against the pillows next to you, you curled up at his side, cheek pressed to chest. He rubbed your back and mindlessly smoothed out and played with your hair as you both rested in comfortable silence. There was so much and yet nothing at all to say; your bodies had done the talking for both of you, and it was understood. Slowing breaths, heavy heartbeats, and the song of cicadas became the symphony of the night. It wasn’t long before you both drifted to sleep, carried by the feeling of contentment.
It was a sleep unlike any other. Warm summer rains, gentle winds, hot embers, still burning bright the morning after. It almost scared Kiba how well he slept with you at his side, waking up before the sun and to you fully enveloped against his chest. Your head was nestled in the crook of his neck, and your body cradled in his arms, legs tangled in a mess of bare skin and sheets. He relished in the feeling of you against him, and he watched you until the sunlight filtered in through your window.
Unbeknownst to Kiba, you, oh sore and dazed you, suffered a pang of tightness in your chest waking up, albeit the second time, to an empty bed that Monday morning. The first time, he woke you up, gentle and soft as the early morning light. He whispered he was leaving, he’d be locking the door on his way out, he’d talk to you later. Kiba froze in that moment, just for a moment, the urge to kiss you goodbye, to stay with you altogether threatening to ruin his ruse, to oust him, before he swallowed the barbed lump in his throat and doing just as he said he would.
It felt like a dream, like the many, many you had about Kiba, but once you pulled yourself into the bathroom, the stiffness in your muscles and the bruised teeth marks dotting your skin reminded you, with haste and intensity, that it wasn’t a dream at all.
You, too, found yourself trying to rid your mind of Kiba, sprawled out in your bed, three cramped fingers stuffed, muffling your cries as you pitifully tried to recreate his touch, fanning the red-hot embers he kept warm underneath your ribcage. Birdsong coming in through the window, melted ice in a glass cup, him him him.
You, too, knew the performance of a lifetime was ahead of you, the facade you both had built being put to the test. Kiba was your first, something you had always wanted to share with him, the concept of virginity aside. But not like this. Not with the anticipation of never having him again. For you, with the hollow pit settled in your chest at the thought of having all of Kiba and then suddenly— none at all, it no longer mattered to you what Jun could offer; your body had tasted what it longed for, violently craved, and you were hungry nothing else.
And because of this, unbeknownst to Kiba, you called things off with Jun just four days later. All it took was one dinner, one measly hour and a half and a salty, stale kiss goodbye to know Jun was the opposite of your desires. A kind, gentle ninja who your mother liked, your father respected, but made you feel as alive as a dead battery in motionless, rancid water.
It’s the one thing you wanted to tell Kiba for days, to give an opportunity, a chance for confirmation. Yet life had a funny way of making sure both of you were filled to the brim with family obligations and working adulthood, miscommunications in plans and phone tag, helping Ino move yet separately, dead phones and missions and the distraction of trying to rid your skin of the itch that could only be relieved by the other.
“Sounds like an average night playing games with Naruto,” you smile, a small and fragile thing. Your words hang in the air, caught between tact and unfiltered honesty.
“You’re telling me!” Kiba chuckles again, and then he’s seized, freeze-frame, standing in the middle of his room, the phone to his ear, the thrumming of his heart in his ears, in his fingertips. “Anyway, uh…” he inhales, pushing the boundaries of his ribs with the breath, before it leaves him, a forcibly controlled and grounding action. “Hi.”
Ba-dum.
His voice is low and focused on the last syllable, a single word carried by a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Heavy rain, an early Monday morn, hazy heads and hushed morning voices.
“Hi.” You fill your chest with your own deep, grounding breath, almost embarrassed by the immediate smile you don. Flutters of heat fill your stomach, and you shift with nerves as you tell yourself to stay focused, this is your best friend, you’re just calling to get confirmation about the party, that’s all. You’ve spoken to him since then, though not verbally, you can handle his voice, you just need to know about Ino’s party.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” is what he wants to say.
“What’s up?” Kiba asks instead, feigning ignorance to his fiery skin, prickling at the thoughts piling up in his mind; he desperately wanted to hear the squeak of your voice calling his name, to watch and feel you shiver and writhe under the heat of his mouth, on the length of his cock. Back in his arms, where it felt most right, nestled against his heart, your home since the beginning.
He knows it’s more than that, something deeper rooted, complicated and interconnected. He thought about you, in your totality. Your radiating smile, the fire in your eyes, the brilliance with which you shined, every fucking time he saw you. Tacky skin coated in a layer of humidity and sweat, sunflowers and songbirds, the dancing of trees in the wind. He thought about you in the sunlight, an alive and wild thing, and he thought about you in light of the moon, bare skinned and his underneath the soft glow.
“I ache for you,” is what you want to say.
“Oh, uh, nothing much.” You settle on small talk and the task at hand, keeping the conversation minimal while fighting tooth and nail to get your words out to begin with. “We’ve been busy and all, so uh, I was just, ya know, seeing how you were, how your mission was, and, um… oh, and get confirmation for Ino on if you’ll be there tomorrow.” You stumble over your words, pulling your knees to your chest and fidgeting with the hem of your shirt while you try to think about anything but how much you want to invite him over, to impulsively squash this whole thing, once and for all.
And you know it’s more than that, a sentient thing, ebbing and flowing with each breath the both of you take, every heartbeat, a siren’s call from somewhere deep within your chest. You thought about him, in his totality. A fact of life, natural and raw, viscerally authentic, brazen lightning and crackling thunder. You thought of his gaze, intense and direct, and you thought of the moments in which he was caught, line and sinker, before turning away, beet-red cheeks and silent prayers.
Ba-dum.
“Oh shit, her homecoming thing is tomorrow, isn’t it?” Kiba says as he looks around his room, bags still unpacked from his trip, a sweaty hand raking through his hair.
Akamaru huffs at Kiba from the bed, both as an insult and a sound of exasperation.
“It’s ‘housewarming’,” you correct him under the hushed sound of a laugh. “And yes, it’s tomorrow. You forgot, didn’t you?”
Ba-dum.
“I didn’t forget,” he says, plopping himself on the bed next to his furry companion and laying on the dog’s side. How could he forget? He had been restlessly counting down the days for the opportunity to see you, to smell you, to engulf himself in you all over again, even if from across a room and under the guise of a gathering.
“But?” You probe. Something is off, you can tell by the way he doesn’t seem excited about a party—one Ino’s funding, no less. There’s a flatness in his voice that isn’t Kiba, a restraint holding him back, the same forced evenness you’ve heard before.
Ba-dum.
“No ‘but’.” He sighs again, and his breathing hitches as he tries to fill his lungs with another centering breath. “You goin’?”
Ba-dum.
“Well yeah,” you chuckle, tucking your hair behind your ear and gathering the ends on your fingers, searching for split ends. Just tell him, just tell him, open your mouth and tell him and—
“Jun goin’?” There’s a heaviness in Kiba’s tone as the words fall from his mouth. He doesn’t want to know, he truthfully didn’t care, but he needed to show support, you’re his best friend, he just did you a favor—
Ba-dum… Ba-dum…
“Ah, no, actually.” Your breath is hard to bring in, cheeks prickling with raindrops of fire, a lump in your throat, dry and quieting. “He, uh—“
Ba-dum… Ba—
“KIBA!” You hear through the receiver, a loud and demanding voice distant on the other end. What the…?
“Jesus fuck, Hana!” Kiba jolts as the door swings open, his sister rushing through the house to find him. Akamaru, however, remains unbothered. “How did you—why are you breaking into my house?”
“I did not ‘break in’. I have a key.” As the voice get’s closer to the phone, you can hear that it is in fact Hana, Kiba’s older sister. “I told you I was coming over to look at Akamaru’s ‘pimple thing’ tonight, as you described. You’re just an idiot who forgot.”
“That’s two for two, bud,” you jest, the nickname dripping from your voice, more pointed than you anticipated, the title spilling out without hesitation. “You might just be an idiot.”
“Shit, I totally forgot—hey, now,” he clears his throat, addressing Hana first, then you. He pulls the phone away from his face, telling Hana he’d be in out in just a second, that he needed to talk to you about Ino’s party; what he doesn’t say is he desperately needs his sister not to be around him right now, the strain in his pants causing him to shift in his seat. You hear the faintness of their voices before there’s a moment of silence, and then he raises the phone to his ear once more.
“Do you not remember the last time you called me ‘bud’? I can easily and happily remind you.” He’s quiet, methodical about the words he uses, but there’s something more depraved, hungry in his voice, coated with the same sticky-sweet honey that it did the night when he praised you, called you heaven, but no, something darker, more raw than that. He smirks as the words land on you just as he intended; he can tell merely over the phone. He practically feels when you shift in your seat, when your breath catches in your chest like clothes on a branch.
Loose clothes, no clothes, heavy petting and violent storms and—
And he fucking loves it, eating it up, inhaling the delicate, all-encompassing smell of heaven filling his senses from memory, his head spinning, fuck, Hana’s right there, in the other room, keep it together—
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum!
“That’s what I thought. I’ll see you at Ino’s. Good night.” His grin radiates through his words, and before your mouth even opens to respond, he presses the small red circle on the screen of his phone, and the call ends.
And Kiba sits there, dumbfounded in himself for the words that tumbled out before he could catch them, a moment of low defenses and running as wild as his inhibitions took him, as he knew himself to do, to be. The pretending was wearing thin, thinner than the cotton t-shirt clinging to his burning chest, thinner than the silver lining he found in continuing the charade.
He stares at the black, scratched piece of technology in his hands, not registering his own reflection in the cracked screen, or the exaggerated sigh from his white companion, or the way his sister stood outside of the door, leaned against the wall, arms crossed and eyes rolling as she sees right through Kiba’s facade and has for years.
Branches breaking under the weight of wind and rain, sharp thunder cracking above, the flood waters breaking through the dam. A losing game, right from the start.
———
“Where is it?” You mutter as you dig through your closet, a once-organized-jumble-turned-total-chaos as you try to find your other shoe. You’re already late—well, late according to Ino, who requested you be there early, to hang out, have girl time, finish setting up Ino’s apartment with mixed drinks in hand—and you’re more frazzled than desired.
Your hair took longer than you anticipated, you missed two spots when shaving your legs (found at different times, sending you running into the bathroom twice), you couldn’t find your other earring for the longest time, and putting on the sundress you bought just for this occasion made you start to sweat.
“Yes!” You sigh in relief as you find the missing shoe, somehow buried beneath your winter clothes you had recently sorted through. But you find it, finally, and slip it on before returning to your room and standing in front of your full-length mirror.
You smooth out your hair, your earrings peeking out from behind it. The delicate pendant on the necklace Kiba got you for your birthday years ago sits in the hollow of your neck, a gift that’s become part of your identity more than an accessory. The cool metal brushes against your skin as you readjust it, moving the clasp to the back, before your hands even out the fabric of your sundress. It’s almost August, and in the peek of Konoha summer, a dress is your best bet at not overheating. The color is beautiful against your skin, the initial reason for eyeing the dress, but the way it accentuated your body shape—and the pockets—sealed the deal. The remainder of your jewelry is minimal, but the shoes complete the look in a way that allows you to finally exhale the breath that’s been caught in your chest.
When you look down at the bracelets, fidgeting with them, you notice your hands are shaking. What…? You’ve eaten, you’ve been drinking water like crazy—you know better than to not in this heat—and you’re going to Ino’s, one of your favorite people, to celebrate her new home with a bunch of other—
Oh.
You’re at a standstill in your bedroom, waves crashing against a rocky coastline as you remember he will be there, in the flesh. Warmth swells in your abdomen and excitement flutters in your chest at the thought of seeing him, his broad shoulders and bright, toothy grin, his toned arms and angled collarbones and—
A warm evening breeze filters in through your cracked window, your curtains dancing in the wind, and the sweet fragrance of summer is carried in with the light air, sending goosebumps along your arms and legs. The call of cicadas, trees rustling in the summer wind, kids running through the streets. You watch from your window, just for a moment, as a trio of children run alongside the road, chasing each other and bursting with excitement, the true example of joy—a child on a summer day.
It reminds you of a time, a time now quite long ago, of summers gone by with burnt shoulders and scraped knees, of missing baby teeth and growing pains and puberty-driven awkward moments. Summer, the time of skinny dipping and hushed conversations in a tent in your backyard, of sneaking into temples and abandoned houses in the middle of the night, of a first kiss during truth-or-dare—the start of a losing game.
“You’ve got this,” you murmur to yourself, half-affirmation and half-plea to whatever god is listening, if one is at all. After all, you brought this upon yourself, a fantasy now reality, a what-if now concreted as part of your history. Your mind stumbles between the present and the past as you leave the mirror, grab your bag as well as Ino’s gift. As you leave, you lock the door behind you, a flip of your stomach as you think about Kiba leaving that morning through the same door, sending a shiver up your spine.
“You’ve got this.”
———
“No… way…” Ino’s blue eyes widen as she looks down at the ornate, porcelain vase she had been eyeing for a month, now in her hands and lap, decorated in feathered paintbrush strokes depicting the flora of Konoha. You knew Ino had everything she needed for the apartment, from furniture to kitchen gadgets, being the woman she is, so you chose decor instead, a special gift for her and her home.
“It’s just as perfect as it was in the shop window… And I’m definitely putting it on the credenza—it gets such good light—this is—thank you!” The blonde wraps her arms around you in a tight, animated hug.
“Where did you find it?” Sakura leans forward, eyeing the vase and studying its detail. “It’s gorgeous!”
“It looks like the one that was in Ima’s shop, no?” Hinata turns her head to you for confirmation.
“Y-yeah, yes, down by the new bookstore.” You chuckle as Ino stops jostling you around, and you smooth out your dress and adjust the neckline, as if it didn’t emphasize your chest in its design.
Once Ino releases you, she stands and makes her way straight to the aforementioned credenza set in front of the massive window in her living room, trying different spots on the stained wood before she settles on one. The vase is even more homey nestled in the modern, chic apartment Ino chose, but it fits just right all the same. “There! And I think… well, if it’s a new home, welcoming, protection, and… hm, I’ll have to—”
“—worry about that later,” Sakura grins as she beckons Ino back to the living room. “We still have decorations to finish.”
Ino glances at Sakura, feigning offense as she meanders back to her spot on the couch. “Listen, Forehead Girl—”
“Are we doing this again, Ino Pig?” Sakura raises an eyebrow and a playful grin.
“—most everything is done,” Ino continues with a smile of her own as she sips her pink, bubbly drink. “I’m waiting on Sai to get here with drinks and ice with Naruto and Sasuke, Shika should be here with Cho soon, and then Rock, maybe Kiba and Shino. I can’t remember if Neji and Tenten will be here, but couple of other people, for sure.” Her eyes land on you once more. “Will Jun be here? I can’t remember if you told me or not.”
“Ah, about that…” A nervous laugh heaves itself out of your chest, and you’re already bracing yourself for the verbal beating you’re about to receive as you remember you hadn’t uttered a word to anyone about you and Kiba, the thing that did happen, the reason Jun is no longer in the picture and not attending.
“What do you mean, ‘about that’?” Ino turns her whole body toward you, and she folds her arms across her chest with a quirked eyebrow.
“Did something happen?” Hinata straightens in her seat, her pale eyes finding yours with an upturned brow.
“That’s the thing.” You sigh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Well—”
“No, no no, no. What do you mean, ‘about that’?” Ino is fully invested, her gaze commanding you to start speaking and not stop until you’re done.
Fuck.
“Did he hurt you?” Sakura’s green eyes darken, and you can practically see younger Sakura cracking her knuckles beside her.
“No no, nothing like that, don’t worry.” You shake your head, heat filtering into your cheeks as you let out a nervous laugh. There was a small part of you that begs for the guys to walk in, drinks in hand and oblivious to the conversation, stupid grins in tow, to interrupt the interrogation. You also know Ino would not let this go, even if Sai walked in naked and ready.
“Wait.” Ino holds her hand up, eyes intent on you. “Stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up.”
You reluctantly do as she instructs, knowing it’ll go much smoother if you do.
“Walk that way.” Ino directs, pointing at the credenza.
“Ohhh, I know what’s happening.” Sakura murmurs as you get up.
Confused, you meander to the other side of the living room. “What is this about?”
“Now back this way…” She waves her hand, beckoning you, her studious gaze unwavering.
“I see…” Hinata taps her chin with her finger as she watches you intently
“What are you guys—” You begin to question, but she tuts you quiet.
“Ah-ah. C’mon, you have to come back anyways.” Ino bargains. With a sigh of resignation, you walk back toward the couch. Ino eyes you as she had the vase, inspecting every inch and curve. You feel the urge to close in on yourself, but you don’t, and instead make your way to your spot between her and Sakura again.
“You’re not a virgin anymore.” Ino states, her voice carrying the fact through the entire apartment, and she crosses one leg over the other with a sip of her drink.
“That’s ridiculous,” You sputter, genuinely confused but also—you’re caught. “H-How can you tell just by my walking around?” Your face is hot, the sweltering summer heat now suddenly seeping into every inch of your face, your chest, your abdomen. You’ve never been a good liar, especially not to these three. You’re officially caught, a rock and a hard place, suspended in moment between a spark of lightning and the rumble of thunder.
“You do have a different gait…” Hinata murmurs in agreeance, nodding as she looks you over from her chair.
“Was it Jun? Was it it not Jun?” Sakura grins, somehow also seeing whatever it is the other two do. “Oh, it wasn’t Jun! Was it someone we know?”
Oh, fuck.
“It’s someone we know,” Hinata senses, her voice light but sure, and you know there’s a possibility she’s pieced the truth together. She knows how long both you and Kiba have been playing this game of charades, of make-believe. The years of pining, the sexual tension, a long, losing game from the beginning.
“Has to be! Oh, you sly dog, you just didn’t like Jun! So he’s out of the picture, right?” Ino turns her body fully toward you, her mouth agape, a mix of true offense and insatiable curiosity on her face. Your expression alone is satisfactory, because she playfully taps you on the knee and continues. “Why didn’t you just tell us? Who is it!?”
The lock on the front door clicks. Your heart leaps within your chest, lodging itself in your throat, blocking your words, the words you want to scream from the top of your lungs. You don’t look, you can’t, what if it’s him, it can’t be him, he doesn’t have a key to Ino’s—but he does to yours—begging your body to relax, you’ve got this—
“What are we being told?” You hear from behind you, and when you whip your head around, you see Sai, Naruto, and Sasuke piling in from the open front door, taking their shoes off at the front and carrying in an assortment of alcohol and soda, ice bags and curiosity.
“And who did what?” Naruto shouts from behind Sai, trying to stand on his toes to get as much of a visual as possible, not knowing anything other than there’s information he doesn’t know.
Sasuke scans the room, a silent, intuitive notion as closes the door, before his eyes rest on Sakura, who is wordlessly telling him she will absolutely be filling him in later.
Ino’s eyes then fall on you, a soundless conversation with the raise of her eyebrows and tilt of her head downward: “We’re not done—but how much can I say right now?”
And your own gaze answers her, brow upturned and a flat-lined smile, in return: “Later. And right now, nothing.”
Ino shrugs, a forced and subtle thing, the type of shrug Ino does when her mind is already whirring with the next step, the exact moment you can expect debauchery to soon follow. She says nothing further of it, though her eyes flick to Sakura in a way she hopes you don’t see, further concreting your suspicion of her meddling mind at work.
She stands and greets Sai with a loving kiss on the cheek. “Oh nothing, dear. We have a party to prepare for.”
———
“Fuck,” Kiba shudders, his eyes closed so tight he’s seeing spots, his jaw clenched, burning, aching as he seethes through his fanged teeth. He’s shaking, scorched alive under the now-chilled shower water. He huffs against the wet tile, forehead pressed to his arm on the wall, his free hand gritting its nails against the wet surface as he’s imagining your heavenly body instead of his calloused palm, pumping fervently at the pace he wanted to be fucking you to.
The last two weeks of showers and moments alone have been spent just the same. Two weeks of a voracious appetite for you, just you, nothing and no one else except you you you. He thought he was going insane, unable to shake you from permeating his every moment, finding it increasingly difficult to focus, the truth lodged in his chest like a bullet, a savage battle between desire and need.
But tonight, he’d be near you. He’d see you, smell you, touch you, and he wasn't sure his inhibitions wouldn’t take over. He’d danced this fragile dance before, being around you when the moon is full, or when you smell like skin and nectar, or when his mind is one-tracked and desperate for what he’s craving. The difference, now, is that he’s tasted you, a sampling of what the rest of his life could be like, and both his mind and body are steadfast in your direction.
But… are you steadfast in his?
He muffles an agitated, frustrated growl against his arm, his eyes burning as the tension builds and builds and the sudden thought of Jun sends the illusion of release running. Two hefty knocks at the bathroom door further distracts from any sort of release, and Kiba damn near punches through the shower wall.
“Kiba.” A deep voice calls from the other side, and Shino shoves his hand back in his pockets. “Naruto is asking when we will be on the way.”
“I’m fuckin’—ugh!” The brunette scowls, an exasperated exhale heaving from his chest. In discouraged resignation, he shoves off the wall and flicks the tap to cold. His head falls back as he hopes he can somehow wash away the blazing fire settled within his bones, embers now fully ignited, goosebumps forming along his tanned skin. After a few moments, he does one last rinse before stepping out. “I’ll be out in a minute.” He answers Shino, finally, as he yanks his towel from the rack and rubs his skin dry.
Shino, who had already put the pieces together a week and a half ago, who knew his friend had been playing a losing game for years, nodded once, as if Kiba could see him, before going back to the living room and returning to his spot on the couch with Akamaru.
Fifteen minutes later, Kiba leaves the bathroom with a clean-shaven face and brushed teeth, the scent of his cologne and shower following behind him as he walks to his room with long strides. He shrugs on a patterned short-sleeve button-up with warm vintage colors and buttons all but the top three, and then he slips on black pants ripped at the knees, already laid out on his bed. His skin is still boiling, and his mind is still raocing, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to hide in the bathroom anymore, and for now that will have to be enough. His brow pulls together as he rummages around for socks and his black boots. He clips on a thin chain and puts on a beaded bracelet, one you had bought him for Christmas a couple years back, a part of his personality rather an accessory.
With a swift collection of his personal affects—phone, keys, wallet—a quick styling of his hair in the bathroom—if anyone could call it ‘styling’, as it was more of a hasty run-through with his hands with a bit of product—and a check over himself, he waltzes into the living room, looking through his notifications to see if any where from you.
His heart sinks, only a little, and a little meaning to the bottom of his stomach, when the guys group chat and YouTube notifications are all he sees.
“Why are you nervous?” Shino asks as he stands, his eyes still on his phone as he finishes a message to Naruto letting him know Kiba is finally ready and they’d be there shortly.
“What the hell would I be nervous about?” Kiba links his fingers together and stretches his hands over his head, his elbow and lower back popping as a result. There’s a hushed laugh on his voice, paired with a bright grin, but Shino isn’t convinced.
“You had me review your outfit,” Shino answers as he tucks his phone and hands away, his eyes meeting Kiba’s from behind his glasses. “Your shower was almost forty minutes long, and you have been checking your phone consistently. You are nervous about something.”
“Listen, bug boy, if I needed you to time my showers—” The brunette falls out of his stretch, his body suddenly tense again, darkening eyes narrowed on his friend, a finger pointed in Shino’s direction.
“And you are settling on insults and deflection,” Shino raises an eyebrow from behind his glasses, “instead of answering me.”
“You’re really fuckin’ irritating.” Kiba grumbles, wrinkling his nose in something akin to a snarl without the sound. The inability to finish, paired with his nerves, his racing mind, and anticipation of more pretending made him beyond irritable, a ticking time bomb. That night, the act of service was for Jun, not for him; it wasn’t a favor for him at all, just a teaching moment, an old street dog teaching an angel how to do tricks. That was the agreement, to teach you to be good for Jun, not to have his mind clouded with you, his will and resolve slipping with every moment. Instead, a breath thick with uncertainty and further resignation heaves out of him. “But you’re right. I just… don’t want to ruin tonight.”
“How would you ‘ruin tonight’?” Shino inquires, leading Kiba towards the door with a step towards it.
Kiba opens his mouth, closes it. Mulls over his words. Clears his throat. How does he explain this?
“I-I—” Kiba inhales, his voice failing him. “I did something with a friend, a while back. Not really a while but…” Kiba starts, the vibrant flashbacks creeping into his mind once more, a reel of scenes and sensations causing him to stumble over his words. “It was… sexual, and it was perfect, but it—I don’t know what do to about it, I can’t stop thinking about it, and then this fucking party—”
The young Aburame has spent enough time with Kiba to read his broken code. Kiba, with Shino and the rest of the guys, isn’t typically cryptic and apprehensive when it came to talking about his sexual endeavors. Respectfully detailed, Shino affectionately termed Kiba’s approach to sharing his times with women. But this? The forced anonymity, the vagueness in his description, the information Shino already possessed? Shino’s suspicions are confirmed—something happened between you and him, something broke the dam, the cage opened for the beast to finally lay it’s claim, the true other side of Kiba—he just wants to hear Kiba admit it. However, from behind his glasses and his mask, his expression is inquisitive and unknowing. “Kiba, be straightforward. I do not understand.”
Words mangle in Kiba’s throat, a dryness he isn’t used to, the rock of uncertainty blocking his voice. He swallows, trying to alleviate the sensation, clear the blockage, tell his close friend, his right hand on missions, the damned, godforsaken truth. Clammy hands, deafening thunder, burning skin. For once, Kiba doesn’t have the words.
“We… did it…” Kiba confesses, his words lingering along the walls of his apartment, another understanding between the two men, unspoken and weighty. “I finally… with her. It… it happened, and I don’t know how to… not, ya’ know—”
“She is yours in the Inuzuka way, is she not?” Shino says after a few moments of contemplation, his voice quiet as he watches his friend struggle with his words. Both of the men know the meaning behind Shino’s words: the wild beast inside of Kiba has made it’s decision, has found the person it requires, the forever companion. ‘She’ is you, will always be you, has always been you, no matter how much time has passed, no matter the circumstance.
“Yeah,” Kiba chokes out, a scoffed chuckle following after. “And she has no idea.”
———
What started out as a selective group of invite-only attendees for a “lowkey, relaxed hangout and celebration”—Ino’s words, not yours—turned into Ino telling nearly everyone she knew about her housewarming party.
Nearly everyone she told showed up.
It wasn’t long after Sai and the guys walked in that others started to arrive; some you were acquainted with and others you didn’t know at all. You busied yourself with setting up food and drinks in the kitchen, ensuring paper plates and plastic cups were fully stocked and the ice cooler was full. You didn’t want to check your phone or even the time as your nerves continued to pick at themselves. Instead, you did everything to be out of the direct view of the front door, to not pay attention to who came in and out, to keep your mind off of the impending confrontation, albeit wanted and yearned for.
Music plays through the speakers in the living room, permeating through the sea of moving bodies, the bass echoing underneath your feet and drumming within your bones. Ino’s apartment is fairly sized, but it’s small with how many people are packed into it. Others stand along the wall and sit on the moved furniture, talking, sipping on unlabeled drinks and labeled bottles.
You’re taken back to the summer parties Ino used to throw in your late teens, sneaking booze through wildflower fields and trying to find the bonfire, a signal in the dark to lead you to the fun and freedom of summer nights. Burnt shoulders and burnt marshmallows, clammy hands and thrumming heartbeats, hopes of washing away blazing desire in a nearby lake.
Tonight feels just like those nights; there’s a wildness in the air, sweet and alluring on the tip of your tongue, the inkling of change and the element of chaos brought in on the breeze coming through Ino’s open windows and sliding back door.
As your eyes scan the dimly-lit apartment, faces blending into one vision, you see him. Time slows. A beacon on a stormy night, the storm and the guide, all in one. You’ve acquired your target, and you’re unable to relinquish the visual.
Ba-dum.
A prickle of heat burns your cheeks, as you watch him look around, eyes narrowed in search of something, before Shikamaru and Naruto burst through the crowd and erupt in welcoming cheers. Your chest flutters with bass-heavy heartbeats, heavier than the music resonating in the walls.
Ba-dum.
He looks so good, the colors of his shirt complimenting his tanned skin. The top buttons are undone, exposing his chest, displaying bare muscle and the glint of his chain under flowing fabric. You swear you catch the scent of his cologne from here, though you know you’re not him, your nose doesn’t work as his. As he grins in greeting to the group, your eyes land on the sharpened edges of his canines, more pronounced tonight than they normally are. Your eyes map the expanse of his shoulders and chest, the definition of his arms, the way his tendons move in his hands as he talks with them. Something about him seems bigger, larger than life, more than Kiba already is. Electricity in the air, thick clouds heavy with rain, the natural disaster that is Kiba, a violent storm.
Ba-dum.
You’re losing yourself in him, even from across the room. Your veins are liquid fire. Your abdomen pulses with an all-familiar heat. He’s the only person here, and you’re hooked, line and sinker, while you drink him in—in his totality. Melted ice in a glass, a cracked window, the hum of cicadas and favors from a friend who hasn’t been just a friend in a long, long time.
Ba-dum.
You hear your name called beneath the music, pulling you back to the present, a vacuum of time and space where it’s no longer just you and Kiba but the rest of Konoha, it seems. When you turn, Ino and Sakura are approaching you, arms linked, and you catch Hinata meandering her way back to Naruto out of the corner of your eye.
The moment your eyes are off of him, he finds you, a lit fire, a signal in the dark to lead him, guide him. He knew where you were before he saw you, his defined senses directing him to his true north. The drone of voices around him muffle into white noise as he soaks you in, a divine visage, just across the room. His face falls from boisterous laughter, his dark eyes tracing the outline of your nose and lips, silken legs underneath the shortened length of your dress skirt.
Right there, you’re right there, and the ever-permeating taste of you fills his senses. He catches the sparkle of the pendant on your neck, his eyes scanning for the marks he left on you he knows are now long gone. Saliva pools in his mouth as he drinks in every part of you, dinner and dessert on a silver plater, just for him. The bass of his heartbeat pierces his chest, the echo of it pulsing in his ears, in the palms of his hands.
An elbow jabs into Kiba’s side, courtesy of Shino, a reminder to remain present as Hinata joins the group at Naruto’s side and greets Kiba, pulling him back to those in front of him. Swaying tree branches, ripples in the water, a beacon through the storm.
“Well, this isn’t suspicious…” you joke as you busy yourself with your drink, hiding behind the red cup.
“What ever could you mean?” Sakura grins, the smell of alcohol and something else, something sweet and spiced, hitting you as she comes to your side.
“I don’t know,” you fold your arms over your torso and raise an eyebrow, “Ino and Sakura? Linked arms, attached at the hip? Something’s up.”
“Please.” Ino waves her hand, swatting away the accusation. “Just checking on you, y’know, Little Miss Mystery.”
You laugh, both the nerves and the meddling gaze of your friends bubbling inside of you. “I really did mean to tell you both. Hinata, too. I just—it’s complicated.”
“I understand complicated,” the young Haruno grins, and her arm slips away from Ino’s as the blonde digs in her pocket for something. “You’ll talk when you’re ready.”
“Was I right, though?” Ino asks, glancing down at her pocket as the alcohol makes her fumble with the fabric of her shorts.
“What do you mean?” You lower the cup in your hand, setting it on the counter, as Ino produces a vial of light amber liquid, two shades above honey.
It’s not unusual for Ino to craft her own perfume oils, blends of fragrances for any occasion. “About knowing how a man feels about you when you fuck ‘im.”
“I think…” you start, and your fingers tighten on your arms, the casual act of closing in on yourself. “I think that’s the problem. I think I know, but that makes it even more complicated.”
“Well,” Sakura leans in, a mischievous glint in her gaze mixing with the glossiness of mild intoxication. “What was it like?”
“Considering I don’t have much to compare it to?” You chew on the inside of your cheek, flashes of that night flooding your senses. The images dance in your brain, from the way he smelled to the way his mouth felt on your skin. Him moving against you, in you, breathy and restrained, coy and all-consuming. “It was… amazing.”
Kiba Inuzuka, in his totality.
Kiba, from across the room, is suffering. The tension ravaging his muscles, the dizzying scent of your skin, the fissures of lightning in his fingertips—all sending blood rushing through his veins, pumping, racing, flooding.
He can’t help but steal glances at you, unable to process the words Naruto and Choji are throwing at him as he watches you throw your head back and laugh, grab your arms, close in—a shift. The absence of his presence on your skin, on your scent furthers his desire to rectify it; his skin crawls as he itches to go over to you; why wouldn’t he? He’s your best friend, everyone in the room knows, it wouldn’t be weird, he could just go over—
“Look at her,” Ino nudges Sakura with a light giggle. “All red in the face. It must have been something.”
Sakura ignores Ino’s poking at you with a playful roll of her eyes and a smile. “If it was a good first time, then I’m happy for you, regardless of who it was.”
“But who was it?” Ino leans in, fire behind her eyes. “Are they here? At least tell us that.”
“Uh…” you feign, and you grasp at the opportunity to glance over your shoulder, scan the room, soak him in again. You know where he is, your beacon in the night, but you play the game, not oust him within one look.
His dark eyes are settled on you when you reach him in the ensemble of guests. A caught breath in your lungs stills the world. Heat blooms in your cheeks, blossoms of pink against your skin, hot embers waiting for the right breath of air to rekindle the flames.
His gaze is different. Depraved. Hunting you from across the room. There’s a sinfulness in his dark irises, the way in which a starved beast eyes its prey. You’ve seen this look, this savage gaze fixated on someone of Kiba’s desires—but never you. At least, not until now, in the middle of Ino’s new apartment, after that one fateful night.
Flustered, you move your eyes along, craning your neck until your line of sight is blocked by a wall, and you turn back to your friends, inhaling deeply. “Yes. They are.”
“Ooo! Okay, then how about we make this fun: either tell us, flat out, right here, every detail, or—” Ino grins, and then she holds up the perfume vial she had been fidgeting with “—or you put this on, and we play detective. I wanted to show you this earlier anyway, but… we got distracted.”
“A perfume?” You raise an eyebrow, taking the warm glass in your fingertips. Both options weigh about the same in your mind, knowing Ino well enough that either way, it would be nerve-wracking. You unscrew the cap and hold it in front of your nose. A long inhale fills your chest, dissecting the various notes within the blend. It’s not unusual for Ino to craft her own perfume oils, but this? This one seems different. It’s the same scent you caught earlier when the girls approached you: sweet and spiced, earthy, alluring. “What makes this one special? It smells fantastic, either way.”
“It’s a special blend,” Sakura explains, evidently in on the scheme.
“I want to know the entirety of this agreement.” You grin as you take another whiff of the perfume.
“There’s bergamot, tiny bit of cinnamon, interestingly enough rose, couple of other things,” the blonde explains as you smell yourself, throwing her mane of hair over her shoulder before screwing on the cap tucking the bottle away. “As well as pheromone oil.”
Ba-dum.
Your mind immediately goes to Kiba and his heightened senses, his sense of smell being the main one. The same devilish part of you that led you to ask him in the first place prickles at the back of your brain, sending a rush of heat through your veins. An insatiable curiosity as you wonder what would happen, if anything at all, the impish drive to indulge in the what if, to test if the natural disaster that rushed through your very core was imagined or really, truly there.
If anything, you’d smell delightful.
“I hope you’re good detectives,” you say as you lift the vial to your neck, the exposed roller ball of the perfume vial rubbing against the soft spot below one, both of your ears, two quick circles of the honey liquid on each side. It’s warm on your skin, having been in Ino’s pocket, and the scent radiates from below your jaw to your nose. It blends with your own scent in a way not many perfumes did. You roll another circle of the perfume on your wrist, and you dab them together to diffuse the oil along your skin before bringing one up to your nose to inhale how it smells on you. It mixes well with what you’re already wearing, and the oil itself melts into your skin. You twist the cap back on hand it back to Ino, a small smile on your face. “Or I’m good at ‘playing the game'.”
“I love when you decide to appease my mischief,” Ino smirks as she tucks the bottle in her pocket.
“I wish you would also just… tell us.” Sakura admits.
“That takes all the fun out of it! I mean at this point, might as well make it fun, y’know?” The blonde sighs with satisfaction before plopping her hands on her hips. “Then in that case, let the games begin. I, personally, want to go bother my man.”
“Oh, it looks like Kiba and Shino did make it. And Rock, too. Sasuke looks like he’s on the edge of brooding so… Yeah, I’m gonna go, too. You comin’?” The young Haruno’s eyes fall on you as Ino meanders her way through the kitchen, stopping to greet others as she passes, grabs a green bottle from the fridge, and saunters over to Sai and the others.
You desperately need a moment, just a moment, to collect yourself. A moment to look yourself over, to give your self the pep-talk you need to continue this charade, fighting on the losing side of this years-long game. You need a moment to remind yourself your place, right now, is not at his side, to just be his friend, to enjoy Ino’s party and figure the rest out later. Your eyes flick to the guest bathroom, and the light is on.
“I’m gonna use Ino’s bathroom, I think someone is in the guest one, but I’ll meet you over there when I’m done.”
“Okay, sounds good! And good luck.” Sakura grins, and with that, she, too, disappears across the room, finding her place at Sasuke’s side.
Kiba’s nose locked in on you from the moment you opened the perfume roller, and he fought the urge to visibly react when you put the transparent liquid on. It tickled his nostrils, pulling him in like a beggar to a bakery. The promise of heaven was teasing him yet again, salvation from the torment the past two weeks have been.
With the lightning in his flesh soon came the low grumble of distant thunder, the growl of something darker than the night. The metal of the cage containing the beast inside rattles with a distinct ring in his mind’s ear, the first of many warning signs that the gates were to be opened soon, where he typically made sure he was distanced, away from you, unable to tarnish something so valuable to him.
By the time you made your way through Ino’s bedroom to her bathroom, with the veil between fantasy and reality torn, shredded and discarded on your living room floor, with the saliva pooling in his mouth and the heat bubbling in his lower abdomen, Kiba knew whatever was in that bottle sealed the fate on how tonight would unfold—at least for him. There is no getting away from it, the point of no return: he needed you, somehow, someway, it didn’t matter. His hands itched to feel your warmth, learn every inch all over again. His lungs gasped to inhale and succumb to that tantalizing fragrance lingering on your skin, nuzzle himself in your neck and intoxicate himself on you. His mouth craved every part of you, to devour you while you melt in his mouth, dinner and dessert, just for him.
Kiba’s eyes don’t leave you until you disappear into Ino’s bedroom, something always in the fucking way. He hesitates, a distressed attempt at fighting what every cell in his body begged for. Time ticks, the sync between the thudding of his heart and the seconds passing by agonizing. Then, without a word or second thought, his defenses crumble, and his body leads him towards his true north, feet walking without conscious guidance. It’s innate to him, to be near you, to relish in your presence, to settle into the peace you bring him. And now, with the added layer of wanting to feed his insatiable appetite for you…
He can’t pretend any longer.
You flick on the light switch after closing the door behind you. The walls do a decent job of muting the volume of the common area, a reprieve away from the stimulation and bustle of the party. A dull ringing reverbs in your ear at the noise difference. Bracing yourself against the bathroom counter with your hands, you eyes fall closed as you focus on the cold countertop underneath your hot palms, the sound of a car driving by, the beat of your pulse in your ears and chest.
Mind spinning, the reels of the film showcasing the past whirring as they play in your head. Why? Why did Kiba’s presence settle inside your bones as if your ribcage is his home? What did you think would happen after you finally, finally learned the way his touch felt, the kind of touch that was no longer platonic but something otherworldly, entirely foreign to anything you had experienced? Why did you want his hands to find their place along your hips, leverage and intimate touches, fingers intertwined?
What you don’t hear are the silent, stalking movements of Kiba as he snakes his way into Ino’s bedroom, following the trail of scent you’ve left behind. Deliberate and mindless, his innate response to you is to follow; since the beginning, it has been. No matter how far, he’s never lost you, always able to pinpoint his north star regardless of clouded skies. He never imagined one night of defenses down, of giving in would tilt his world on its side, unable to discern up from left until here you are, in front of him, in the flesh.
His eyes take on a different look altogether as he opens the door to the bathroom and passes the threshold. Pupils inflamed, dark and darker still his gaze, with a golden hue bleeding into the irises, the same color of filtered afternoon sunlight, the eyes of his jutsu. The bathroom smelled like Ino and Sakura, like water from the shower and cleaning supplies, but above the concoction of stringent chemicals and floral lotions is you.
Ba-dum.
Dripping like honey he’s watched you lick off your fingers, your scent, up close, is potent, all-encompassing, dizzying. The strain in his jeans is nothing compared to the gnashing of the beast below his sternum, the other side of Kiba, the side of Kiba that wants to indulge in this game, make a point, show you how you’ve made him suffer. A slow, haunting saunter, covering one, two, three steps—he imagines this in the middle of the woods, he can’t help it, hunting you down, his to take.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
He locks the door behind him, another deliberate and mindless action, before his eyes fall on you, bright and focused on their target. His studious and bewitched gaze trails from your hair to your bare shoulder blades, down the arch of your back as you’re leaned over, slightly, ass perked up, the skirt of your dress too short, not short enough, easy access. He soaks you in, every detail, as you’re completely oblivious to his presence, caught up in your head as you often are.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Not a cell in his body tells him to wait, to consider the implications, to utter a word before he’s behind you, eyes downcast—starved and golden—as he towers over you, his hands, firm and sure, grasping your hips in fistfuls of fabric and desperation. He tugs you close, a fast movement that jerks you out of your racing mind, and he fills his lungs with the smell of your hair, clean and hinted with your natural scent, as your back collides with his front.
“What the—” you gasp, jolting at the sudden contact, your heart jolting with panic. Your mouth opens as your eyes do the same, but your voice is silenced by his large palm, a muffled “mmph” vibrating the skin. Your eyes are wide and on the both of you in the mirror, and he meets your gaze from under his brow.
You refrain from squirming under his fixed look. The wildness in his energy is something you’ve never experienced, nothing you could even conjure up in your wildest imagination. You can practically feel him bussing, see the flames in his pupils as if something is ignited inside of him. Even if you had the words, you aren’t sure you’d find your agency to speak.
After the moment of recognition, Kiba turns you around, chest to chest, and you look up at him through your eyelashes, lips parted, brow pulled together and upturned, pleading to end this torment—one way or the other. He leans down, inching his nose toward the curve of your neck as he moves his hand to the nape, wrapping his fingers in your hair to tilt your head more, to give him space, to let him in. He can’t think of anything else other than inhaling you, tasting your skin, devouring you. His other arm wraps around your waist, a large hand splayed on your side as the sticky sweet scent of you causes an involuntary jerk of his hips, his pelvis grinding against yours, desperate for the friction and heat of your body.
Flutters of warmth blossom in your abdomen, pulsing at a focal point between your legs. You try to pinch them together, but his legs find themselves between yours, thumbing you in place, right where he wants you. Your butt slides onto the lip of the counter as you lift yourself on your toes, opening yourself up to him, your body also starved of his touch, his warmth.
“Kiba, what are you—” you whisper, struggling to pick what to hold to ground yourself as he buries himself in the crook of your neck and inhales the perfume of heaven. There’s a battle within you: to succumb to his touch or fight it, tooth and nail, as you have been for years. Your hands find purchase on his upper arms as he bathes in your fragrance, clinging to handfuls of the smooth fabric of his top.
His body is fiery against yours, heat radiating off of him like the wildfire he lit inside of you. Every part of him is tense, pulled taut, guitar strings ready to break at the first pluck. The bubbling of thunder, the crack of lighting, the brewing of a relentless storm.
“For the past two weeks,” he rasps against your skin, the brushing of his lips along your sensitive neck sending goosebumps along your arms. His hands are shaking as he holds onto you, careful and yet too careful. The wrought iron containing the animal inside him are crumbling, and he’s fighting every urge carried in the lightning in his fingertips. “For two weeks I have been in fucking hell.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” You ask, your words falling quiet and meek.
His hips grind against yours, more intentionally this time, and you can feel what he’s referring to, right through the fabric of your soaked underwear.
Both of you know he doesn’t need to say anything. That’s what friends are for, after all.
Your hips buck as he laps his flattened tongue along your neck, from the curve to your earlobe. A small sound escapes you, something caught between a whine and a sigh, causing Kiba’s ears to burn and his grip on you to tighten. The more his senses are saturated in you, in your totality, the more his resolve slips.
“I’ve tasted you,” he answers finally, his voice husked, restrained. “And I need more.”
Flames course through your veins as he speaks to you. Memories of fantasies gone by flood your mind, flashes of desires you imagined Kiba fulfilling, and hearing his voice, this depraved and forcibly controlled, is more than you could imagine.
“We shouldn’t, not here.” “I fucking need you.” “Please kiss me.” The words bubble in your throat, wanting to come to the surface and pop, but they’re caught, like clothes on tree branches, as your feet carry you onward.
Another long lick on your neck, bars of a cage breaking as they’re clawed at, before he circles the tip of his tongue against it. The appendage is hot and long, flicks of fire laced within his sampling of your skin once more.
Your hips move against his, the transference of his mouth to your throbbing cunt making you do so. You can’t help it—you need him.
“Kiba—Kiba, we’re at Ino—” you sigh, your head falling back more, and your body starts to mold to him as he kisses your skin sloppily.
He changes sides, suckling at your neck and letting out small huffs as his movements are gradually becoming more desperate. He’s finally tasting you again; he can’t help it—he needs you.
“Then tell me no.” He pulls away from you, intense eyes finding yours, his hand in your hair guiding your head to look at him. His pupils dilate further, black holes pushing the boundaries of golden irises, and his nose brushes against yours as he taunts, nearly begging you to deny your nature to be right here with him. “Go on. Tell me no.”
You’re enraptured, clay in his hands. Your eyes fixate on his. You search them, a maybe we shouldn’t, any hint of uncertainty. When you don’t find what you’re looking for, and instead find steadfast, earnest desperation, you submit and lean into his touch, your body settling against his.
“I can’t.” You answer in a choked whisper, the bell of admission tolling in your ears.
A flicker dances in his eyes, the spark of tinder, the right gust of air reigniting the cooling embers. Within a breath’s inhale and the flash of a devilish smirk, his lips are on yours, the timid dance skipped altogether as the rains come pouring down, the floodgates opening. He releases your hair and grabs you by the waist, both hands grasping at your hips, and picks you up with ease and places you on the ledge of the counter. His body is close to follow, filling the space between your legs, still too many layers in the way.
The kiss is messy, fervent, raw. You’re spinning, free-falling as you soak in every aspect of the moment, fully enveloped. Pleasured sighs and breathy grunts fill the silence the kiss itself does not, and hearing him only drives you further into the madness unfolding. Your ears ring as his hot hands travel your body, tugging at the fabric of your dress as he wants it gone but basks in how it hugs your body, shows enough, not enough, just the right amount. His hands massage your thighs, hiking the skirt up until it’s bunched at your pelvis, and he pulls your near-exposed core against his.
Just one, two, three layers between you and him; you’re spiraling, and your hips move against him on their own, grinding, consistent. The sensation of his clothed length against you sends you reeling, and you crave the feeling of his bare skin, his cockhead rubbing against your clit, your entrance, nothing in the way. As more time passes, the more you succumb to the fact your desires are mutating into impatient and anguished needs.
Kiba’s hands continue to tremble, only slightly, but not from fear or nerves. You’re his in the Inuzuka way, and his first dip in your waters was enough to concrete it. But with that confirmation came the withdrawal, the sickness of not having you again, of not also being yours in your way. The level of control, of fighting his instincts manifested in shaky hands with firm holds, intentional yet impassioned. The mental images he created of you in a desperate attempt to replicate the initial experience almost scared him: chasing you through the thick foliage of the Konoha forests, a taboo game of hide and seek; marking you with his mouth all over your neck and shoulders, bite marks and blood and purple bruises, all his, using the contact as leverage as he bucks into you, mounted and rearing; your back in the shape of a crescent moon as his hands, clenched around your throat, pull you back to bury himself as deep as your body allows him—and then a little deeper, pushing your body’s boundaries. He fantasized about being rough with you, rough with you in ways that catered strictly to his carnal desires, about laying his claim and ensuring the whole village knows you’re his and his alone.
His hands continue to roam, feverishly, handfuls of thighs and breasts, his mouth leaving yours once more to lick and kiss at your neck, battling the urge to bite down, to suck at your skin until you’re covered in pulsing bruises. You melt in his mouth, soft as butter against his wet tongue and swollen lips. His head whirs as he hears you whimper his name, a pathetic little sound that causes his cock to twitch and throb beneath his jeans.
The friction, the kissing, the wandering hands, and the sounds of quieted pleasure add to the swelling of hot pressure in your clit, and you wonder, for a moment, if you could cum like this. Any morsel of sanity scatters and vanishes into thin air. How does he make you weightless, unbound by the laws of nature? How can he so easily unwind you, tug at the strings holding you together just to have you crumble apart and become your vessel all the same?
“I need you to know…” he husks into your ear, growled and demanding. “Exactly how my hell has been.”
You’re stumbling to center yourself when he peels away from you, his fingers hooked on your underwear. His warm tongue trails down your neck to your collarbone, nipping at your flesh while his hands make work of pulling your underwear off and tucking them in his pocket. You gasp at the sudden cold air against your hot cunt, the sudden disappearance of your pantiesn. I another moment, he’s kneeled before you, eyes hungry as he moves your legs over his shoulders. His fingers dig into your soft thighs as he scoots you closer, eager to pull you against his mouth once more, to taste the skin of your inner thighs.
As he does, your hands clamor on the counter, knocking over bottles and pushing make up out of the way as you secure places to brace yourself. Your eyes refuse to leave him, captured by the image of him between your legs. You are fire, embers bursting to life with the right breath of air.
“K-Kiba—haa—” You start, but cohesive words are cut short and replaced with a breathy exhale when his mouth suckles down on your thigh, more sloppy kisses along your tender and sensitive skin. Without a second thought, your legs open for him more, wanting nothing in the way, letting him in.
His nails press into you, small stings of security, his grasp on you unrelenting. He doesn’t want you going anywhere, and he’s prepared to hold you in place for when you squirm against him. Your scent soaks every inhale. His blood courses through is veins, ravaging rapids, a river after pouring rain. This close to his dessert, his inhibitions slip through his hourglass hands like sand, and he decorates your other thigh in laps and kisses before his heady mouth clamps down on your thigh, sucking with teeth barred against your flesh, carnivorous and frantic, bringing your blood to the surface, his his his. He moans against you, a muffled and gruff sound, his eyebrow pulled together as his reserves are slipping.
A squeak escapes your clenched jaw, and you bite down on your lip in a pitiful attempt to quiet your noises. You wiggle underneath him, the pain laced with a level of pleasure you don’t expect. It’s sharp, his bite, but combined with his own failing restraint in quieting himself, the vibration of his arousal at every point of contact makes your skin burn, and you stare down at him and lean into his mouth and touch.
When he hears you, his ears flare with heat, and he smirks against you, a subtle notion, before he runs his tongue along your new mark. He’s drunk on your fragrance alone, throwing caution to the wind as he traces his flattened tongue along his own teeth marks, up your thigh—his eyes find yours now, a shimmer of a glow to them as he watches you—over your mound, close so close. He’s torturing you, his hot breath radiating against your pulsing core, dragging this out as long as he can, before his tongue makes its way to your other thigh, further up but not where you want him, and replicates his work, another love bite to match your other.
You buck your hips, unable to do anything but. You fight the urge to cry out, to moan his name, to beg for him to fulfill your desires all over again, to push the boundaries while you fulfill his.
“Impatient,” he mutters, though his own hips jerk against the restraint of his pants, craving the friction he once had. Another round of teasing, insufferable teasing, tracing his tongue across the expanse of you.
“Need I remind you we’re in Ino’s ba-haa, shit!” Your measly words are cut short, again. This time, though, by the sizzle of lightning, by the dams opening, by Kiba’s tongue finally, finally making contact with your cunt.
His head spins as he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, savoring your sticky-sweet taste, ambrosia on his lips. The sound that comes out of him is something he can’t control, a growled sigh of reprieve. “Oh god…”
Ice clinking in a glass, fragrant flowers thick with bloom, dripping fruit on a summer’s day.
He juts his hips against his jeans, your flavor causing his cock to pound, the gnashing of the beast within. It takes everything in his power to not unravel here, right here, to take you, to feel the flutter of your walls and the completeness that comes with being united with you, to spill the contents of his mind like the downpour of rain.
Instead, he repeats himself, over and over, lapping his tongue up your slit, collecting your nectar on his tastebuds and drinking you in.
Your hand covers your mouth, the physical manifestation of your urgency to not get caught, and you moan against it. Your head falls back, and your eyes clench shut, reminding yourself you need to be quiet. Despite the loud music and hum of conversation, you don’t trust yourself—not in this moment. His mouth sends a shiver up your spine, and you’re unfolding on Ino’s counter.
“So good, fuck,” he groans, pushing himself against you, nose pressed to your mound as he runs his tongue along your swollen bud, flicking, methodical, circling.
When Kiba’s eyes find yours once more, his thick tongue teases your entrance, eyelids falling half-hooded. He travels back up, toying with and rolling your clit with his tongue, huffing as he does so, his head spinning as he relishes in your taste.
You shudder again, a shaky breath leaving your lips as you watch him consume you, his intoxicated demeanor telling you he’s enjoying this as much as you are.
The swelling of a violent storm.
“Kiba…” You whimper, needy and pleading, his name only driving him further into madness.
His mouth encompasses your core as he delves his long tongue into you, bringing himself as deep as he can. One of his hands falls, grasping at his cock and massaging the length through his jeans. He moans against you, his tongue fucking into your tightening core. Dribbles of his slick collect on his underwear as pleasure builds in his abdomen, palming himself, not a second thought to the fact he’s here with you other than he is here with you.
You pant in place of little noises as your hand falls, gathering his hair in your shaky grasp, and you offer a feeble attempt at grinding yourself against him.
“Haa-ah, huu-oh fuck…” you breathe out, the air catching in your throat, body buzzing, head light.
He smirks as you tighten around him, and another depraved huff escapes his chest. His attention falls on your swollen clit once more, sloppy and inebriating movements, a flattened, wet tongue slurping up your goodness, a violent and tactful assault on your thrumming cunt, heavy pulses in sync with your heartbeat.
Your hand tightens in his hair. The swelling of pressure in your core jerks your hips and tightens your legs around him. Needy tears threaten your eyes, you’re close, so close. You’re set to unravel at any moment, legs trembling.
“F-fuck, fuck… oh, god… L-like that—fuck…” Pleasured sighs tumble from your lips.
Kiba lets out a choked whine, and he forcefully removes his hand from himself as the fire under his skin is causing the water to boil, worsening the itch to cross the line more than he already has, to shove his cock into your tight pussy and fill you with his cum, repeatedly, right here—
“I-I’m gonna—” You gasp, your body stiffening as release is only so many laps, only so many circles away—
And then nothing.
No hands gripping your thighs, nails digging into the skin. No mouth on your sensitive, pink slit, now left cold and soaked in your juices and his saliva. One moment, you’re on the brink of bliss, warmed by the furnace that is Kiba’s body—the next, he’s looming over you, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of you, not an inch of skin in contact.
You let out a miserable and pathetic sound—a restraint cry, a desperate whine—as you lurch forward, fixing your center of gravity when he leaves you, your hand covering your mouth to not let your frustration pour out anymore than it has.
“That is what you do to me.” Kiba rasps as he leans down, his chest heaving, his eyes inflamed as they catch yours. Your wetness coats his lips and chin, and his eyes are fully golden, a glimmer of glow, afternoon sunlight.
Somewhere, deep within you, you can’t help but meet his gaze, an innate call to attention, a command.
“That is what the last two weeks have been like. On the edge, wanting you—” He starts, words sharp in the air, but he chokes the words down. He needs to put distance between you two; otherwise, all of Konoha will know you’re his. “Welcome to hell. And whatever was in that perfume was your ticket in.”
pairing: bff!kiba x afab!reader
word count: 7.9k
warnings: nsfw! 18+! minors DNI! | just two best friends helpin' each other out, virgin!reader wants experience and kiba has it, pussydrunk!kiba, praise kink, oral (f! and m!recieving), primal play (kinda? like a sprinkle?), unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), he's down for you and its bad, other characters mentioned, all characters in their early/mid 20s, not thoroughly proofread, no use of y/n
author's note: this is 100% based on some thirsting that @tired-biscuit and i did for this man and... well, here we are. i listened to "nayhoo" by chon while writing the first bit of this. i also didn't anticipate it to be this long... 😅 it's my first time in a long ass time writing second-person as well, so just be gentle. there will absolutely be (at least) a part two where shit devolves at ino's new apt. i hope yall enjoy!
you can also read this on AO3 here.
KIBA’s fingers twitch as he watches you place a piece of strawberry into your mouth, your lips encasing your delicate fingertips in a way he knows should be innocent, should be just friends having lunch together, but it’s not. It hasn’t been for a long time.
Dappled sunlight filters in through the full, vibrant trees towering above you, and the incessant hum of cicadas fills the air, mixing with the cadence of rustling leaves in the summer breeze. Loose, thin clothes, skin glazed in a thin layer of humidity and sweat, clammy hands from thrumming heartbeats.
Summer has always been a favorite time for the both of you, ever since the summer you moved to Konoha during your childhood. The summer that changed everything. Sticky sweetness, endless days, sunburnt cheeks. Ever since, you and Kiba have been attached at the hip, having lived in the house just down the street and your mothers working together. Hours of fetch with Akamaru, rock skipping competitions with Shino as referee, hushed conversations with Hinata about Naruto. He accepted you with open arms; they all did.
“Just another one of the pack.”
Kiba hated when you and Hinata would sneak off, however. He’d bribe Shino—or attempt to—just to spy and listen. When Shino would call him out on his reddened ears, his anticipation in finding out the girl talk, his picking at his nails until you would return, he’d tug his hoodie up and change the subject.
“You like her.” Shino would tell him, plainly, a fact of life.
“No!” the brunette would huff. “She’s just a friend.”
Kiba takes a swig from his canteen, a drip of water fumbling from his lip to his chin when he pulls it away. He blinks away the memories of summers, of lifetimes spent under the same blazing sun. Sunburnt chests, laying on Akamaru with bare arms pressed to each other while looking for aliens, small, small clothes.
“That’s what friends are for, Kiba!” You say through the small bite.
“It’s going to be so hot though,” he whines, throwing his head back with his forehead scrunched in irritation. “Who the fuck moves in the middle of July? You know who? Crazy people, that’s who.”
“Whether you like it or not, Ino is moving,” you shake your head at him, a hint of playful irritation on your drawl as you watch his head tilt back, the expanse of his neck exposed. A dare, a first kiss, a summer night. “And we both agreed to help her. Besides, it’ll go by quick with all of us helping. You’ll be okay. ”
“So annoying.” He croaks, but then he lets his head fall forward. His intense, dark eyes settle on yours once more, and he fights the urge to drink you in the way he does when you’re not looking. When you’re fidgeting while you’re trying to beat him at Mario Kart, when your face is scrunched in concentration when you’re aiming a kunai.
He sends a sideways glance at Akamaru—a lifeline, a phone-a-friend— and the white-haired dog lets out the equivalent of a mumble and a shrug.
Kiba throws his hands in the air, exhaling a “Fine! Fine.”
“You’re such a baby.” You laugh, a teasing yet light sound.
A sound that causes a flutter to rampage through his chest, and a restrained tug of a smile spreads across his features in response. But he’s practiced this, practiced suppressing the itch in his hands to reach out, to kiss you, to breathe in that laugh as if it was the air itself he needs.
He already does that with your scent alone.
“Whatever.” He grabs a clump of rice in his chopsticks and eats it.
You can tell there’s a hint of something underneath the surface with Kiba, something that’s hard to pinpoint. Of course, during your girl talks with Hinata, you’d open your heart to her. About how Kiba didn’t scare you, despite his animalistic side, how he just wanted attention, that’s why he acts that way, about how much you had to refrain from squirming when he looked at you as you both got older.
She’d gasp when you would talk that way, but she’d always add her own tidbit of girlish tension in a hushed voice.
“So, uh… w-while we’re talking about favors…” you start, your eyes falling to the bento box in your lap.
“If you’re moving, too, the whole ride-or-die thing goes out of the window.”
“No, fuck no!” Another light laugh, another shake of your head, but this time more at yourself than anything. If only it was just moving...
You’ve been mulling on asking him about this for weeks now. You’d recently met a boy, because you, too, have practiced the art of burying the want to grab him, to feel the ripple of muscles that dance underneath the fishnet material of his shirt, to tangle your fingers in his hair and find out if he likes his hair tugged the way you do, if he doesn’t, moving yourself against him until his desires tumble out of him on their own.
But you’ve met a boy, Jun, who is sweet. Kind. A responsible, gentle Ninja. You’re in no way committed, no title. Your mother adores him, your father respects him. He’s yet to make you uncomfortable, opens doors for you, brings you flowers every time he sees you. You’ve gone on a few dates with him, and you like him—enough to want more than the heavy petting and stale kisses. But then there is a small part of you, small yet persistent enough—
“The way a man feels about you is crystal clear when you bed ‘im,” Ino had told you once during a ‘girl’s night’ at Sakura’s.
“What do you mean?”
“If he truly wants you,” the blonde continued, jabbing her finger in your direction. “He can’t fake that while buried inside.”
“I’m convinced love has its own chakra,” Sakura had added. “It moves between you and the other person. Like a bolt of lightning.”
“Or a burning fire.”
The small part of you that craves to see if he’d do it, and if you’d be able to tell which natural disaster would rage between you—if one at all.
“What’s with the serious-ass face? You’re scaring me…” Kiba continues, his voice pulling you back to the here and now. He leans forward to catch your eyes again, then continues in a whisper. “Do we need to hide a body?”
“Kiba—”
“Oh, wait, it is serious.” He clears his throat and sits up, a different demeanor taking him over. His gaze fixates on you, his position stiffening as he studies you in a fraction of a moment. “‘Kay, sorry. What’s up?”
“It’s about Jun.”
His muscles tighten, and he places his bento box on the blanket you’re both sitting on. The guy who takes you on dates, the guy he can tell you’re not head over heel for. Jun, who fills the time, because Kiba can tell sweet Jun bores you. At least, that’s what Kiba tells himself. “Okay.”
“Uh… I don’t really know how to ask this, so I’m just going to.” You shift in your seat, mustering the gumption to speak clearly, forward, just ask your best friend for a favor. A dare, the childhood magic in special first kisses, adult magic in special first times. Not wanting to look like a dunce to the boy your mother adores, your father respects.
“I want to sleep with Jun, but I’ve never… ya know. And you have, so—”
Ba-dum. A heavy heartbeat, thick in his ears, piercing his palms.
His eyes widen, dark and yet darker, darker still. Heat floods his cheeks, bubbling under his skin and filling his abdomen. The swelling of a storm.
Ba-dum.
“I know it’s weird, a-and you can absolutely say no. You’re my best friend, though, and it’s not like I can just ask anyone. This isn’t like a new development either, I wanted to wait to ask you—n-not that I’ve just been, ya know, thinking about this and you. I just have zero experience, you know that, but I want to be a bit more confident in—”
Ba-dum.
“Do you like him?” Kiba’s voice falls flat, more flat than he anticipates, but the words hang there. Screaming cicadas, colliding tree branches. “Really, truly like him?”
Ba-dum.
“Yeah.” You nod. You’re convincing yourself and lying to him all at the same time. But maybe, just maybe trusting Kiba with this moment, with your first time, with breaking the barrier between fantasy and reality—maybe it won’t be so bad. “I do.”
“Then I’ll do it.” He swallows the solid lump in his throat, convincing himself and lying to you all at the same time. “Besides, that’s what friends are for.”
—
Kiba told you he’d come over later that evening, to do whatever it is that made you most comfortable. Shower, don’t shower. Shave, don’t shave. Wear whatever it is you wanted, to pretend like he was just coming over like he always did, to hang out like you always did.
You couldn’t sit still the moment you got home. You cleaned and showered. Tried to read, tried to scroll through your phone, tried to do any- and everything you could to not get caught up in the motions of it all, fought yourself for ten minutes on if you should even light a candle or not because it’s not like that but damn it—
Yes it is.
But this wouldn’t mean anything, right? Regardless of a candle lit, which made the whole space smell of honeysuckle and lemon, it’s just your best friend, doing you a favor: teaching you how to work a cock by using his.
Oh, god, his cock. What would it look like? Feel like? Would it curve, or would it be veiny? The thought alone causes you to fidget in your seat on the couch, your eyes darting between the clock on your phone and the front door to your apartment. You feel your heartbeat in your ears and in your core, pulsing. Arousal pools in your underwear at the mere thought of him—how did you expect to function?—and you pinch your thighs together.
You still couldn’t believe he had agreed. And Kiba couldn’t either, even as he meandered his way to your door, his eyes steadfast in the direction of your apartment building. What made either of you think this was a good idea? Was his practice paying off? Did he want it to? He had finally, finally been offered the invitation, the “come over” call that he dreamed of. He had hoped, however, that the circumstances would be different, that it would be for him.
Two heavy knocks on the door alert you to his presence, though somehow you’re sure you catch the scent of his body wash before his knuckles meet the wood. You pull the door open. Musk, earth, hazelnut, bergamot. Messy kitchens, ugly, delicious cookies, using his shower and wearing his clothes.
He’s bathed as well, his hair still slightly damp as it hangs above his shoulders. A wide grin flashes over his face, his eyes disappearing into the image, his teeth catching the overhead light. Your face fills with a weighty heat, and your abdomen flutters at the sight of his broad shoulders and his toned arms under the fabric of his shirt.
He’s opted for his usual lounge attire: a t-shirt, joggers, and sneakers. In his hands are takeout—he’s always eating—and drinks for you to share. You felt underdressed somehow in your own home, donning a thin-fabriced, comfortable yet cute t-shirt and shorts combination—something you’d worn around him countless times. Yet, he’d shown up like this countless times, food and a smile in tow, and he somehow seems more prepared than you’d ever seen him. The way he’s standing tall, his chest open to you… had he prepared?
Despite the vanilla-scented body-wash and the floral candle, the moment the door opens, revealing you in your post-shower, pre-coitus flush, he takes in the intoxicating scent of your arousal, of your skin, of you, and he presses his intent further into his smile. Not here, not now, not just past the threshold.
“Brought food. I doubt you ate.”
This motherfu—
“Thanks. I… actually haven’t eaten, now that I think about it.”
The tension is palpable. He’s trying a little too hard not to look at you, to not brush by you and linger. Though, he doesn’t understand why. You’d asked him to come over and help you, to quell the curiosity of experience, to be good for Jun.
The swelling of a violent storm.
You step aside and allow him in, and he does what he always does: makes himself at home, rummages through your cabinets for plates, a fork, two cups. You watch his hands maneuver whatever he’s holding, the muscles in his forearms. He keeps his nose buried in the food, trying to find something, anything to focus on other than you, in all of your totality.
Kiba jokes with you, carries on conversation while he divides out the food, move to the couch, sit just far enough to not touch, yet close enough to still feel each other’s body warmth. He’s talking and talking, rambling about the day you had already heard about, about a new bug Shino had shown him, about the hot springs he wants to go to in the town over. Maybe, just maybe, he’s nervous, too.
He jokes with you, as if he’s not already imagining your velvety throat wrapped around his aching girth, your face contorted in pleasure as he laps his tongue over your sensitive clit, his name tumbling out of your mouth, hitched and squeaked: “Kiba, Kiba—!”
“Ki-ba~!” You wave a hand over his glazed-over eyes as you call his name, sing-song and light, an attempt to bring him back from wherever he disappeared to as he’s stuck, freeze-frame, a cup halfway lifted to his mouth. You lean against the back of the couch toward him, only slightly, with an eyebrow cocked and a grin peeling back the corners of our mouth. “Where did you go, bud?”
There’s a split second, less than a blink of an eye where his hand is holding his drink; the next, it’s wrapped around your wrist, the cup on the table. How did he…?
His grip is tight, steadying, but then it eases by a fraction, and he finds himself studying the palm of your hand, imagining it wrapped around his throbbing, swollen girth, before his eyes flick up to yours, his jaw clenched, tight, teeth grinding as the wheels he’d frozen over long ago begin to turn, churning, yearning—
“Why did you ask me to do this?” His voice is low, hoarse, carried by a held breath, a tight chest.
There’s an underlying shift happening, and you can feel it in the soles of your feet, the palms of your hands. He somehow seems larger, taller, more devious. A full moon, an autumn night, finding out the ride the full moon sent him on before he disappears, unable to show you the animal that wanted to come out and ravage you, the side of Kiba he saves for the girls he will never see again because he can’t ruin you, you’re his best friend, his confidant.
Ba-dum.
He’s close, so close to you that you can see the pulse of his heartbeat in his neck. So close that the burning heat radiating off of him causes your own skin to surge, your heart to lurch, the damned fluttering in your abdomen. His eyes are zeroed in on you, black irises inflamed with dilated pupils. Hungry, restrained. Electricity ignites within your veins under his touch. He’s touched you, many times. A hug, a helping hand, a comforting shoulder. Why does this feel different?
“Because I trust you.”
Ba-dum.
His heart swells, clawing at his ribcage, screaming to be set free. You trust him. With your secrets, with your life, with your body. His gaze flicks on your lips, only for a moment, before his devilish eyes find yours once more.
Ba-dum.
“Have you ever even touched a cock before?” He murmurs, his tone taking on something silken and starved. He pivots his body to turn, his eyebrow cocked, a whisper of a coy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and he closes the space between you, the space that’s always between you.
You blink as a prickling heat travels up your spine, his question as well as his shift in energy catching you off-guard. Kiba’s never spoken to you, let alone around you this way, even when joking. Though he told you whenever he brought a girl home, or made out with another, you’re sure the gruesome details of his sexual escapades were dumped on Shino, or maybe even Naruto, if anyone. But you’re familiar with the wild look in Kiba’s eyes, the way he’s looking at you: a predator searching for his prey. The other side of Kiba.
“You’d know if I—” You start, but your words catch in your throat as you attempt to let them spill all over your kitchen counter. Even if it had happened, would you tell him? Would it have been in confidence, to share a story time, or would it have been to get even a chance to see a flicker of jealousy, of rage, of something? “No, I haven’t. N-not, ya know… skin to skin, anyway.”
The sting of embarrassment bubbles in our throat, your voice smaller than you wanted it, and whispers nothing good into your ears, but you maintain your eye contact. You made the first pitch, and now it’s game time.
“And you’re sure you want me to be the first?” He asks before he brings your palm to lips and presses a wet yet tender kiss to it. The notion surprises him, that he allowed himself more than anything, but he knows what it’s doing to you—he can smell it. “I do also have your first kiss, so I’d be two-for-two, bud.”
The feeling of his mouth on you sends coursing fire to your cunt, and you can almost, almost feel his lips against your now-soaked folds. And he’s patronizing you, a playful lilt clinging to the nickname, but you don’t hate it. It’s Kiba, in totality. Him making sure, despite his coy grin and thirsty eyes, only makes you want him more.
“I don’t know if that really counts…” You mutter. It does count, and it’s always counted, but he doesn’t need to know that. A stupid game of truth or dare one adolescent summer, the summer you knew you’d never rid your thoughts of Kiba. A summer initiating the biggest game of make-believe.
“How rude.” He smiles against your hand, and his hot breath and pointed canines brush against your palm. He shrugs, his grip falling from your arm, and then he exhales a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll have to make up for it, then. Can’t have meaningless kisses out there.”
Ba-dum.
Lighting cracks inside of you as his large hands splay across your hips and pull you into his lap. Your hands scramble, only for a moment, before one lands on the back of the couch, and the other finds purchase on his shoulder.
The battle within him is raging, a savage and destructive thing. He wants to take you, now, now, but he can’t, he won’t. You’re not the girls he’s given meaningless kisses to. You’re his best friend, and he’s waited this long.
He can wait just a little bit longer.
Ba-dum.
Draping your thighs around his hips, he looks up at you with earnest eyes, a moment of hesitation between you two as he waits for a no, a wait, a maybe we shouldn’t. The pulsing heat of his cock strains against his joggers, pressed firmly against your core as he holds you against him. Though muffled by the thick denim, you feel the aching throb beneath you, the pulsing twitch, the size.
Ba-dum.
When the blockade doesn’t come, and you meet his gaze with an equally intrigued look, his grip on your shirt tightens. He cranes his neck up, and he whispers against your lips, “I have a rule.”
Your heart stutters at the husk in his voice, the low demand for attention. “Okay…”
“If you have questions, ask. And—eh, I guess two rules.” Kiba murmurs against your lips, his face flushed in the dim lighting. “If you want something, tell me.”
Your ears burn, the flush causing your skin to prickle. Your hair hangs at the side of your face, closing you and Kiba into a world of your own, the world you both have always played in. Just the two of you.
“Okay.” You nod, your body ignited in a burning flame. “I will.”
Kiba’s lips collide with yours, rough and excited, then soften, pull back, relax, as his hands tangle the fabric of your shirt in their grasp, and his hips tilt up into yours. A slight movement, one he barely notices himself, but the weight of you on him alone sends a shiver through his body. Another subconscious jerk of his pelvis, reacting to the warmth, the weight, you you you.
The air in your lungs vanishes as his lips bring a reprieve, a cold drink on a hot summer day, lifting the lid before it all boils over, and your grip on his shoulder tightens. Head spinning, a drunken buzz just from his kiss. There’s a small moment that wonders if this is actually a fantasy, something you’ve conjured up in your head, a fever dream.
Your own hips move as you run your tongue along his bottom lip, adding intent as you roll against him, slow, methodical, feeling his entirety through the mere layers of fabric separating the two of you. Always something in the way.
A heavy breath against your lips, he opens his mouth and allows the dance to commence, a slow dance that soon turns into a tango, fervent, impassioned, both of your bodies submitting to what they’ve desired. He tastes of takeout and impulse decisions, sunburnt cheeks, swollen lips, a stupid crush that isn’t a crush but a fact of life. Your hold on the couch releases, and your fingers tangle in his head of dark, thick hair. A grounding grip, a slight tautness against the nape of his neck.
“Fuck…” He huffs before he nips at your bottom lip, his fingers dip underneath your shirt, grazing the flesh of your hips. He takes handfuls of your hips and brings you down against him further, closer, closing more of the space, more of that damned thing always in the fucking way. His lips trail from yours to your neck, the space below your ear, and he runs a flattened tongue along your skin, tasting it, breathing you in before sloppy kisses decorate your neck.
Your eyes fall hooded, and a light pant tumbles out of you at the contact. He sucks at a particular spot, bringing blood to the surface, his canines barred against your flesh.
“Kiba!” You gasp, the hint of a nervousness in your tone, and you detach yourself, only slightly, slightly. “You can’t leave any marks.”
“Sorry, sorry!” He chuckles, and then it hits him, crashes into him that you’re there, he’s here, and he’s supposed to be teaching you and yet, yet, he’s caught in the tidal wave of learning you. His cheeks and ears tinge with a beet red glaze, and he swallows thickly as he stares up at you. “I’ll try to remember.”
“But I want you to.” is what you want to say, but you don’t.
“It’s okay,” you reassure with another light laugh. “I’ll be sure to remind you.”
“I’m happy you did. Don’t ever feel like you can’t speak up with someone, especially if you’re, ya know… If a guy doesn’t listen to you, he—wait, what are you—”
He had started to ramble, stumbling in the moment of stillness. You, however, found the moment to be just when the courage hit to reach a delicate hand down and trace the edge of his joggers.
“I want to see it.” Your eyes flick to his lap, to the strained outline of his still throbbing, stiff cock before finding his gaze again.
Stunned, he stares up at you with wide eyes. Your words echo in his head, over and over, his ears ringing at the sound of your inquiry. When the blockade, the no, the maybe we shouldn't, doesn't come, you peel yourself away from him and lower yourself between his spread knees.
The swelling storm brews inside of him, the savage and violent force of nature. Wait, wait, relax.
“Thank you for telling me.” His eyes don’t leave you as you swallow another weighty lump in your throat, and you pull at the combined bands of his joggers and underwear. He lifts himself up, just enough to help slide the two layers of fabric off of him, watching your reaction.
When his erect member springs up at the sudden relief and twitches, your eyes widen. It’s nothing like the ones you had seen on a screen, but it's like the ones people write about. Thick is an understatement, and two prominent veins run along his length. A pink head, the color of his lips, donned with a dribble of clear slick and wrapped in taut skin. The image of his aching cock sends heat pooling at your core, and you shift in your spot—though it only makes things worse, and your heartbeat thrums in your clit.
He sucks in a breath at your innocent gape, the sight causing his mind to go to dark places where you’re screaming his name, head buried against the mattress, it’s too deep, I’m gonna break, his hand tangled in your mess of hair.
You glance up at him in his flustered state, before you turn your eyes downward and wrap a unsure but willing hand around the base. His hips jerk into your touch, and one of his hands finds purchase on the couch cushion, his knuckles whitening as he keeps himself grounded by his grip. His mind is reeling, a flipbook of the thousand positions he’d kill to see you in, put you in.
“Shit…” He spits through clenched teeth.
“Did I—” You freeze.
“N-no, you’re fine, you can—” He starts, but your slow, fisted movement up and then down his shaft cuts him off. “Yeah, like that…”
“That’s okay?” You ask as you slowly pump your hand around him, your eyes flicking between his length in your hand and his eyes on you.
“Y-Yeah.” Kiba nods, saliva pooling in his mouth as he watches you, dinner and dessert in front of him on a silver platter. He clears his throat, the anticipation making him fidgety. The longer he had to wait, the more the pulsing desperation in his length called to him, begging him for release.
He has to wait a little bit longer.
You nod, and then you sit up on your knees and tighten your grip, just slightly, and increase your pace. His eyebrows pull together as he continues to observe, a face of pleasure, and you feel another wave of heat rush under your skin. Your hand reaches the tip, and the precum allows the smallest bit of lubrication as you twist your hand, up and down.
“You’re doing a good job,” he groans, his voice deeper than before, hoarse, restrained. Hearing him like this, praising you, you’re sure you’ll go insane by the end of the night—if you weren’t already. “You can use your mouth, too.”
“I know!” You quip, embarrassment tingling your cheeks. “I was getting there. Though I don’t know if it’ll fit…” The last bit is more for yourself than anything, said under your breath, but he hears you, and he can’t help but imagine you choking on his fat cock, tears streaming down your face.
Ba-dum.
You lean forward, your eyes crossing as you near your target, and your hand settles at the base. You can do this, you tell yourself, before an unsure yet more than willing tongue licks at his cockhead. He tastes of salt and velvet, and your waiting eyes flick up at him.
“Like that,” he purrs, his deep eyes, dark and yet darkening, narrowed on you by the time you’re looking at him. So intent on watching you, committing the scene to memory.
The encouragement leads you to flatten your tongue and run it along the length of one of the veins. His girth twitches in reaction, accompanied by a breathy curse and a jerk upwards of his hips, though this time intentional.
“Around the tip,” he instructs, his voice trapped somewhere between a groan and a whine. It’s the best he can do to keep himself from fucking into your throat.
You do as he says, swirling your hot tongue around the pink head, collecting his slick in your mouth and finding yourself relishing in the taste.
“Good girl. You’re doing so good.” He pants as his hand, purposefully slow, pushes your hair out of your face and collects it into a loose bunch at the back of your head. His head feels light, like if he doesn’t hold onto you someway, somehow, he’s going to float away.
The two syllables bring your thighs together, a thrum of pressure building in your cunt. You’re soaked already, you can feel it gathering in your underwear, but something about his tone, his dilated eyes downcast, his heedless praise that urges you further, to slowly and messily run glaze his skin with your tongue, circling, up, down. You wanted to hear it more, hear his sounds of pleasure, hear his words of adoration. For him to touch you, everywhere.
And he knows. He senses the shift in your energy, the way you tense up when he encourages you, and he smells it, the collection of wetness just one, two layers away. His grip on your hair tightens, tension gathered at the nape of your neck.
You swirl your tongue once, twice, three times around the tip before you wrap your pretty lips around his cock, sucking at it.
A popsicle, a strawberry at lunchtime, brewing electricity.
“Oh, fuck—” Kiba growls, and his hips buck into the warmth of your mouth as you bob your head, taking small, increasing portions of him each time, little moans vibrating his skin. “Shit, yes, like that. So fucking good.”
A slippery tongue, fingers tangling in hair, flashing lightning.
“Such a good girl. Move your hand while you—yes.” He pants as he watches his cock disappear into your throat, your hand pumping whatever you don’t take in your mouth.
Two gazes met.
Ba-dum.
The crackling roll of thunder.
Within a moment, he scoops you up with a huff of impatience—so fucking fast, how does he do that—and you let out a yelp of surprise.
“Kiba!” You squirm as you’re placed over his shoulder and carried into your bedroom.
He doesn’t answer you verbally; instead, he shrugs you onto the bed, and you land on your back. His erect member is still out, fully exposed, but he doesn't pay any mind to it as he takes fistfuls of your shorts and tugs them off, unwrapping you, a little present, just for him.
“Kiba, what are you—” You start, but your words tangle in your throat when he rids you of your underwear, letting them fall to the floor. Unwrapped, a present, just for him.
“Oh!” You exclaim when he hooks his arms under your thighs and tugs you to the edge of the bed.
He falls to his knees, his intense eyes falling to your glistening folds. You smell even sweeter this way, and his head buzzes, dizzied, intoxicated as he drinks you in. His composure is slipping, and he wastes no time lapping his tongue along your slit, from entrance to clit.
“Oh…!” You purr, and then you muffle yourself with your hand as schlurp sound comes from him kissing your cunt, sloppy and hasty. His tongue is rough against your sensitive skin, and when it catches your swollen bud, your hips jerk under him, moaning against your palm.
“No,” he huffs against you in that hoarse, demanding voice. He laps his tongue along your entirety, and then he suckles at your throbbing clit, his eyes watching, always watching. “I wanna hear you.”
“But what if—ahh, fuck—!” You tremble under his touch, your voice hushed, and you grip the blanket. You, too, feel the weightlessness, the risk of drifting away if you don’t. Your face contorts into bliss as your back arches, pushing yourself against his mouth. It’s like you’re vibrating, hanging in a space between fantasy and reality. This isn’t real, it can’t be, his mouth can’t feel that good, not Kiba’s mouth, not—
His nails press into your skin as he holds on to you, pulling you closer, closer to him as he eats you, his fervent and messy movements building a tension in your abdomen more intense than anything you’ve accomplished by yourself. His tongue teases your entrance, your nectar driving him further. He delves it into you, holding you against him as he fucks his appendage into your sopping cunt.
“Kiba—” You moan into the air, your other hand finally finding purchase on his arm, clinging to him.
His name tumbles from your lips, and for a moment, he swears the world goes silent, a deafening ringing filling his ears as you call out. He feels you tightening around him, a bewildered aura taking him over. He’s now desperate for your release, to feel you squirm and writhe underneath him, to keep calling his name. He trails his tongue back to your clit, flicking, circling as a slender finger finds your entrance. It slips inside, your arousal coating his skin, and it pumps in and out of you, restrained, slow.
“Oh, god,” you exhale, your eyes widening as he adds another finger, his digits curling inside of you. “Oh, that feels so good, fuck.”
“Mmmhh.” He watches you arch off the bed, his nose pressed to your mound, his tongue making quick and heavy work of your pulsing clit, stretching you as he adds another finger, slow, waiting for the blockade, the maybe we shouldn’t.
His pulsing length twitches, a violent motion that calls his attention, but he forces it out of his mind. This is about you, about stretching you and pushing you over the edge, your sweet release. The tightness of your walls tells him it's soon, your body tense.
Instead, his pumping of his slender digits is met with another cry of his name. Three fingers stuffed, his fingertips massaging the sweet spot inside of you. The burn of the stretch pulls your eyebrows together, and yet you roll your hips against him, wanting the friction, craving the release, another explosion of deafening thunder, the swelling thunderstorm that is Kiba.
“Ki-Kiba, I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish your sentence. It hits you, almost out of nowhere. You’re unraveling, your legs shaking, your skin on fire and the swelling storm raging, ravaging your entire body as it caves in. Your juices pour out of you, trickling down his chin, and he drinks you up with another loud schlurp.
“Fuck.” He groans against you, and his lips envelop your clit as he pumps his fingers into back you, his tongue resuming its assault. His fingers move in you with a faster pace, a hardened pressure against the spongy flesh inside of you. “I need you to cum again. To be ready for my cock.”
“Oh, shit!” You sob. “Right there, right there, right there—”
You’re so sensitive, so intoxicated by the way he handles you, the way he looks at you, the way even he smells, tastes, feels.
“That’s it.” He eggs you on, the itch to palm himself, to rut into you, to lose it just out of reach.
You claw at his arm, at the sheets, at anything you can. You’re going to explode, his slippery tongue and fervent fingers bringing you again, closer to ecstasy.
“Cum for me,” he demands, and as if you’d been born to listen, you do on his gruff command, crying out curses as a mind-stopping orgasm bursts through you. You see stars, the entire night sky on your bedroom ceiling.
“Good girl.” He swipes his tongue along your clit before he removes his fingers from you, slow, gentle, and he sucks his fingers clean of your slick, his girth throbbing harder, harder at your taste. Honey glaze, a spark of lightning, crashing branches in the wind.
He steps out of his joggers and tugs off his shirt, his shoes having been left at the door long ago, his blood coursing through his veins, liquid metal, at the sight of your shivering, half naked body beneath him. With another fast motion, he’s hovering over you, his arm wrapped around your waist to bring you back further onto the bed, your head hitting pillows this time. His hands graze from your thighs and up your shirt, his palms brushing the hardened peaks of your nipples before he lifts your shirt off of you. And then he stares down at you, starved yet adoring eyes. Skinny dipping, a lakeside fire, burnt marshmallows.
You meet his gaze as your chest heaves, coming down slowly from your high, studying the angle of his collarbone, the curve of his chest, the dim light highlighting the flesh that you never dared to touch, to learn—until now. You place your hands on his arms, feeling the ripple of muscle as you feel his shoulders, his chest.
A moment, suspended in time between the both of you. Your heavy breathing fills the otherwise quiet room and the low, rhythmic hum of cicadas just outside your window. Your heart is a drum inside of your chest, beating, beating, bursting as he looks down at you, and your heart skips as you feel his cockhead tease your entrance, rubbing against your slick folds and causing a hitched gasp to fall when it grazes over your sensitive clit.
“Are you ready for me?” Kiba inquires in a husky voice, gravely and controlled.
Ba-dum.
“Yes,” you whisper in return, your hands settling on his biceps as you keep your eyes on his.
“Okay,” he nods, swallowing the lump in his throat, and he presses himself into you, slow, achingly slow.
Ba-dum.
Another gasp wracks your chest, and your eyes widen again as you watch his face scrunch in concentration. And then he whines, a short and quiet sound that makes your ears ring. He wants to jerk into you, bottom out, and the self-restraint is slipping out of his grasp like grains of sand.
Ba-dum.
“Relax for me,” he urges you through clenched teeth as your walls remain tight around him.
“S-Sorry. Oh, fuck, Kiba. I-it’s huge.” You stammer as you glance down at his girth disappearing into you, stretching you past anything your fingers, even his, could offer. You feel every inch of him as he spreads you, opening his present, celebrating his own holiday.
“I know, I’m sorry. You’re taking me so well.” He pants, working hard not to split you in two.
Ba-dum.
The pinch of his stretching you is different, much different than his fingers. He pulls himself back before pushing into you again, your slick aiding in his movements. It’s nothing like how you imagined, the awful and bloodied thing that’s rumored to be losing your virginity, but as he loads himself fully into you, pushing past the subtle barrier within, your body tenses up again, and a tinge of pain replaces the pleasure.
“S-sorry, sorry.” He stumbles over his words. For years, he’s wondered what his girth would look like with you donning it, and now it’s here, right here. And it’s beautiful, heavenly. He doesn’t have the words to describe the way you look wrapped around him—the way you look in general, let alone eyebrows upturned, sweat collecting along your hairline, a heaving chest—but worth every fucking minute of waiting.
“Just—gimme a sec, okay?”
Ba-dum.
“Yeah, yes, sure.”
You take in deep breaths, wetness pooling at your entrance, and you ease the tension in your muscles, allowing yourself to acclimate. Relax, relax, but fuck you’re at capacity, at your wits end, wanting to unravel all over again—and he’s barely even moved.
“Okay… we’re good.”
“You sure?”
Ba-dum.
“Yes.” You answer, a strong syllable on your tongue. You’ve never been so sure in your life.
Ba-dum.
And he hears the certainty, feels it reverberate through his bones. He pulls himself back, then into you again, another restrained roll of his hips. You can tell he’s holding back with the way his face is pulled together, with the vein in his neck jutted out.
“Shit.” Kiba mutters, one hand finding purchase on your hip while the other supports him on the bed.
“Fuck, Kiba…” You sigh, your body slowly making room for him.
“My name sounds nice when you moan it,” he purrs, leaning down, his skin desperate for contact with yours.
“Don’t say things like that,” you whisper, a near-plea, your nails digging into his skin as your eyes fall half-hooded. And then he hits that spot, the spot, deep within you, and your back lifts off the bed, pressing your chest to his, another moaned swear falling out of you.
“Why?” He grins, a coy look that almost makes his depraved gaze seem sweet. “It’s true.”
“Idiot…” You respond, your voice hitched.
“Hm?” He cocks his head to the side, a wild look filling his features. He jerks his hips, once, hard, bucking into you before returning to his agonizingly slow pace. “Couldn’t hear you.”
“Fuck!” You cry out, dragging your nails along his skin. It hurts, his abrasiveness, but it hurts in a way you don’t hate, that you almost want again. “Fucking asshole.”
“Asshole?” He chuckles, a guttural sound that isn’t impressed. He ruts into you again, wanting to hear that squeaky little voice, that pitched moan that he’s creating. “Baby girl, that’s not you really mean, is it?”
“Goddamn it, fuck, Kiba!” Your voice carries through the room, sending a prickling heat up his spine at the sound. You’re full, so full, and his resolve is slipping, slipping, gone altogether when you sob out his name again.
“Look at you, taking all of me,” he praises, and he glances down at his work before a growled moan leaves his own lips. “Fuck, you’re doing so good.”
Pleasured tears burn your eyes, and you look up at him before reaching up, without thinking, and tangle your hands in his hair, pulling him fully against you. Another sound of pleasure vibrates his chest, muffled as he presses his lips to yours, another messy, impassioned, needy dance.
Another whine escapes him as the restraint fades away into nothing. Your hips open for him, your legs wrapping around his waist as his movements become heavier, more momentum behind them. He envelops you with his arms, one hooked on your shoulder and the other holding your hip. You’re so close, so close; there is no longer anything in the fucking way.
“The way a man feels about you is crystal clear when you bed ‘im.” Ino’s words weigh on your mind, and you wonder if friends are supposed to cling to each other like this.
Of course they don’t, but you don’t allow the thought to cross your mind. Not here, not now.
“Kiba, Kiba—” You pant against his lips between struggling breaths and fervent kisses.
“You’re fucking heaven,” he huffs in return. He moves again, peeling away from you only to push your legs to your chest before leaning down again.
“Fuck, it’s so fucking deep.”
“That’s it,” he coos, his balls slapping against you as he fucks into you, his mercy and patience wearing thin. “Take it all. Good girl.”
The earth-splitting strike of lightning, the house-shaking rumble of thunder.
You’re spinning, free-falling as his length is buried inside of you, his cockhead brushing against your cervix. It’s deep, too deep, not deep enough. Your nails rake across his shoulder blades. His lips find the curve of your neck, and he sucks at the skin, biting down, keeping you in place.
“Shit, shit—” The bubbling of heat collects in your abdomen, and you grip his hair once more, tight, a grounding grip.
He growls against your flesh as he brings the blood to the surface, but this time he doesn’t stop. He’s marking you, his, his, his.
“Kiba!” You call out, your voice echoing, laced with a warning and pure nirvana.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, licking the skin, before landing on another spot on the other side and repeating himself. “I can’t fucking help it. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t mean it, and you can tell. The unfortunate part is: neither do you.
He mutters another half-apology as his thrusts become relentless, fucking into you as he did with the girls he gave meaningless kisses to. But you’re not them, you’re you, it’s not meaningless, it never will be.
You sob his name as you cling to him, the wet sounds accompanying the slap of skin. You’re floating away, gone, a fever dream within a fever dream, trembling legs hugging his waist.
“G-Gonna—”
“Fuck, yes, cum for me. Cum all over this fucking cock.”
And you do, hard. A violent, shattering burst of heat and your essence that sends you into orbit, lightheaded, tears of bliss rolling down your cheeks. Your walls clench around him, milking him for everything he has.
He thrusts into you, enough force behind them to rock the bed, to scoot you further into the pillows as his own climax swells. He bottoms out once, twice, each jerk making you cry out before he pulls away from you, a hasty and frantic movement, steadying his member in his hand as ropes of white hot cum land across your stomach in spurts.
You pant for air, chest heaving, your head still reeling by the time he’s wiped you clean of his essence, your body twitching as it works to come down from its nirvana. You hear him in the kitchen before he emerges at the bedside, a glass of water handed to you as he sits next to you.
“Here.” He says gently, his tone now opposite of what it was mere moments ago.
“Thanks.” You sigh, and you sit yourself up, slowly, before taking the glass. After a few sips, you hand it back to him, and he follows your lead, one, two gulps of ice-cold heaven in a glass. Water has never tasted so sweet before.
“You okay?” He asks, looking over your sprawled-out body, a whisper of a laugh in his voice.
“Yeah…” you nod, though you can already tell you’ll be sore, so fucking sore tomorrow. “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”
“Never better.” He grins, and then his eyes widen as he catches his practice, his art of suppressing his feelings for you also slipping from his grasp. He clears his throat and looks down at the drink in his hand. You can tell the wheels in his mind are turning, grinding, but you don’t ask.
Allergic rhinitis is the fancy science term for hayfever/spring allergies. Basically, your body has a mold allergic reaction to certain pollens. It's probably one of the most common allergies out there so I figured that even people who don't have food allergies could probably benefit from some info on it.
Allergic rhinitis is highly comorbid with atopic eczema and asthma. This means that if you have one, you're fairly likely to experience at least one of the other two. It's also fairly common to have these run in the family.
Benadryl is not a cure-all. Benadryl (diphenhydramine) is a first generation antihistamine and is probably the most well known brand of it's kind. However, it may not work well for everyone that takes it and it has been known to have some pretty annoying side-effects. As with many of the first generation antihistamines, Benadryl is known to cause drowsiness to the extent that it's used in insomnia medication. This is great if you're treating insomnia, but not if you're trying to stay awake during the day. That being said, benadryl does work well for some - just don't rely upon it being the one for you.
This leads on to my next thing: try different antihistamines. Every body is different and not every body will react the same way to the same medication. There are many different compounds used as antihistamines, some of which will work better for you than others. Seek out the second generation antihistamines if you can as they are less likely to cause drowsiness, and if one doesn't work, try a different one. We now buy two antihistamines because the one which works amazingly for me has been shown to give my mum and sister a rash.
If you have a mild to moderate food allergy which would be treated with an antihistamine, you may be instructed specifically not to take one which causes drowsiness - especially as the doses for food allergies tend to be higher, increasing side effects. In the words of my respiratory nurse, this is because "if paramedics are called and find you passed out, they won't know if it was the allergy or the medication.". A bit of a morbid thought, but definitely an important one.
And my final section: oral allergy syndrome. OAS is a type of food allergy (usually on the milder end) which is related to hayfever. In simple terms, the proteins in some fruits are very similar to the proteins in certain pollens. If you are allergic to a pollen, you may experience mild allergies to the corresponding fruits (a table can be found on Google). It is often found that only the raw version of the plant will trigger a reaction. This is because cooking is usually hot enough to denature the enzyme causing the allergy.
As always, if you have concerns about anything mentioned above, speak to your GP or another medical professional.