#tw predator

Threw decoys behind you—sweat-soaked cloth, low-grade scent bombs, false chakra bursts. You crossed rivers twice. Masked your prints. Doubled back. Hid your heat beneath a layer of mud so thick it made your skin crawl.

And still.

Still.

Every now and then—

—you felt him.

A breath. A flicker. A wrong sound too close.

Something too still, where there should have been wind.

The first time it happened, you stopped. Listened. Waited. Then turned.

Nothing.

So you kept going.

But the second time?

You felt the hairs on your neck prick.

Felt your thighs pulse without permission.

That was the first betrayal.

You pushed harder. Hit the old ravine path and flared chakra into your feet, running full speed, the undergrowth snapping against your legs like whips. Leaves blurred. Your chest ached. But your lungs worked fine. You were built for this. Raised for it.

You could outrun him.

You had to.

Because if he caught you—

if—

you knew he wouldn’t stop at pinning you down.

He’d take. He’d own. Not just your body but your defiance.

And worse?

You wanted him to.

So you ran harder. Ran until your calves screamed. Ran until your heart beat like a war drum inside your skull. Ran until the woods stopped looking familiar and started looking like his mouth—open and full of teeth.

You landed in a clearing, breath hitching.

Moonlight flickered silver across your skin, damp from sweat and mud, muscles twitching from the relentless speed. You crouched behind an outcropping of rock, pressed your cheek to the cool stone, and held your breath.

Silence.

Maybe you lost him. Maybe—

Snap.

Behind you. Intentional.

A warning.

Your heart jerked sideways. You spun, drew kunai—nothing. Still nothing.

But the scent in the air was unmistakable now: earth, pine, smoke, and Kakashi. A musk that made your throat tighten and your cunt pulse.

He was toying with you.

Letting you run.

Letting you think you had a chance.

You dropped your weight and rolled—shoulder to hip—spinning behind a log just as chakra flared to your right, and a blur passed through the space where your head had been.

Fuck.

You launched back into the trees—higher this time, faster. Every movement reckless, too much chakra, too much noise. But you didn’t care. Your hands trembled. You could feel the slick in your pants, making the fabric stick, shameful and raw.

You hated him.

You wanted him.

You wanted him to hurt you for making him chase.

From somewhere behind, a voice—low, amused, breathless:

“You’re getting tired.”

You choked on a growl. “Eat shit.”

No reply.

Just wind.

Leaves.

Your own heartbeat thudding too fast to comprehend.

Then, without warning—

Chakra surged in front of you.

You slammed your feet down, tried to veer left—but it was too late.

A blur of black and silver crashed from the treeline, and before your muscles could even react, you were flat on your back, pinned in a nest of wet leaves and root-snared soil, one arm twisted up above your head and a knee pressed between your thighs.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of noise.

You stared up into the dark of him. The way his mouth was barely open, panting behind his mask. The sheen of sweat on his neck. His forehead protector pushed back. Sharingan spinning lazy and useless, because he didn’t need it to catch you.

He just needed to want it.

Your breath came in shallow gasps. One of your thighs trembled against his. Traitor.

Kakashi didn’t sneer.

Didn’t even blink.

Just leaned down until his mouth was at your ear and said:

“That was pathetic.”

You writhed—just to feel the strength of him hold you down.

His free hand slid beneath your jaw. Tilted your head toward the canopy, baring your neck. His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“You’re soaking,” he said. “And you think you’re still in charge?”

You bared your teeth.

“I’ll bite.”

“I hope so,” he murmured. “I’d hate to break something that wasn’t trying.”

Then he let you go.

Just like that.

Lifted his body off yours. Gave you air.

You lay there, panting, humiliated. Confused. Wanting.

But deep down, something in you knew—he wasn’t finished.

He was starting the hunt over.

---

You stayed on the forest floor longer than you should’ve. It wasn’t weakness. It was strategy. That’s what you told yourself. Let your heart slow. Let your limbs remember what they were. Let your ego stitch itself back together with spit and spite.

He hadn’t won.

Not yet.

You sat up slow, rolled your jaw once, then spat onto the dirt. Mud and blood.

"That was pathetic," he’d said. Like he hadn’t just walked away hard and holding.

You pushed your hair out of your face and called into the trees, tone sharp and syrup-thick:

"If you’re gonna mark me, Hatake, you’d better have the balls to finish it."

The silence after was instant.

Not the silence of absence.

The silence of a man who’d stopped walking away.

You smiled. Cruel. Crooked. Tasting your own sweat on your upper lip.

“Or is that it?” you added. “Big bad alpha pulls out the moment someone moans?”

It was a gamble. Every word.

But he’d made you feel want. And you were going to punish him for it.

Even if it meant waking the fucking wolf.

You heard him then. Not movement. Not breath.

Just his presence—the shift in pressure. The way the air thickened like a storm cloud licked the edges of your skin.

You turned your head slowly, tongue wetting your teeth.

"What? Nothing to say now? Thought you were gonna make me beg—"

And that’s when he was there.

On top of you. So close your peripheral vision whited out.

Then teeth.

Hard. Fucking deep.

Right into the meat of your neck like a man claiming his meal.

Your cocky grin died on your tongue in a half-strangled gasp.

Because it hurt.

Not pain you could weaponize. Not pretty pain. It was thick and hot and owning—the kind of mark that said you ran, and I caught you, and you’re mine.

You gasped—a sound punched from your chest without permission.

He didn’t pin you.

Didn’t use force.

He didn’t have to.

Because the second those teeth found your skin, your body offered itself. Your spine arched, your throat bared, your knees tensed like you were waiting for something heavier.

But he didn’t mount.

He just marked.

The pressure was deep. Calculated. Long enough to make you sweat. Not enough to tear skin—Kakashi was too precise for that. He wanted you sore. Colorful. Ached for, not bled for.

You heard his breath in your ear—ragged, but quiet. Controlled.

“Still think you’re in control?”

His tongue followed the bite, slow and hot. Lapping. Like he liked the taste of your sweat. Like he was cleaning his mark.

You gritted your teeth, tried to twist away—his hand found your hip. An inevitable move. Effortless. And a gentle reminder that he was still faster, stronger, already halfway hard between you.

And you…?

You wanted to grind back.

You wanted to beg. Just to hear him say no.

But you didn’t.

You wouldn’t.

Not yet.

He pulled back. Just enough for air to hit the wet bruise.

His voice—barely above a whisper—curled down your spine like smoke.

“One mark. No knot. Not yet.”

And then, before your trembling body could decide what to do with itself—

He was gone again.

---

The wind was too still.

Again.

You’d felt this silence once before, on the border of Kusa, when a pack of wild ninken had circled you in the dark and waited for your pulse to spike.

Same quiet.

Same taste in your mouth.

Same thrill in your stomach—fuck, it made you sick how much you liked it.

The bruise on your neck throbbed with every beat of your heart, hot and wet beneath the thin line of sweat sliding down your spine. You pressed two fingers to it, hissed. The bite was shaped perfectly. Meant to be seen. Meant to last.

A mark.

Your mark.

No. His.

You stood abruptly. That thought had to go. Fast.

You wiped your palms on your thighs and pushed chakra into your legs until your muscles twitched. You had to move. Had to do something. Sitting still made it worse. Made the phantom of his voice permeate your mind like smoke:

“One mark. No knot. Not yet.”

Bastard.

Your lip curled. You tasted blood—your own. Good. Let it remind you: you still had your teeth.

And if he thought you were going to wait here like some broken little bitch in heat?

He didn’t know you at all.

You took off through the trees—low, fast, angry.

No more running. This was a hunt in reverse.

You weren’t prey. Not anymore.

---

You found him where you knew he’d be.

He wasn’t even hiding. Just crouched beside a stream, kneeling in the moss like this wasn’t a goddamn war between your bodies. He had one glove off, wrist deep in the water. Hair mussed. The old, lazy slouch of his shoulders doing nothing to hide the coil of power in his spine.

He looked calm. Peaceful. Resting.

It made something in your being snap.

"Nice nap?" you asked, stepping into the clearing without pretense.

He didn’t look up.

"Not quite," he murmured.

You hated the way his voice sounded—low, half-hoarse from exertion. Like he wasn’t even trying anymore. Like this was easy.

You stalked closer, slow and wide, like you were circling prey.

"Too tired to finish what you started?"

"I haven’t started anything," he said, still not rising. Still not looking. "You’re the one who ran."

“I’m here now.”

He smiled then. Just the corner of his mouth. Still calm.

“So you are.”

You launched.

A burst of chakra through your calves. Legs cutting through the space between you like blades. Your kunai out and swinging before you could even register the full shape of him in front of you. You aimed for his throat. It wasn’t real. You didn’t want to hurt him.

You wanted to provoke him.

And gods, did it work.

Because in the space between a blink and breath—

He moved.

Violently.

He stepped into your blow, caught your wrist, and used your momentum to flip you. Again. But not back onto the ground.

No.

This time, he threw you into a tree.

Your back hit bark. Moss. Rough wet wood. The air punched from your lungs. Your legs were still off the ground when his forearm pressed across your collarbone and pinned you there.

Hard.

Your toes touched down a second later—barely. Not enough to hold weight. You were suspended. Caged. Controlled.

But it wasn’t your throat he went for.

It was your hip.

His other hand gripped the meat of your thigh through your pants and yanked it up—high, tight—around his waist. His hips pressed forward, right into the space your leg made.

And just like that—you were open.

Not necessarily exposed. Not naked. But available. To him. To the pressure of his cock through his pants, thick and slow, unmoving against the soaked seam of your own.

He didn’t thrust.

Didn’t grind.

Just held you there.

"Still think you're a threat?" he asked, voice against your mouth. Right against your lips. Like you were lovers. Like this was intimate.

You breathed hard through your nose.

"Still think you're not gonna fuck me?"

Kakashi’s smile was all teeth.

"No."

Your fingers twitched. “Coward.”

He moved his hand to your jaw. Turned your face. His nose dragged against your cheek, breath hot and steady.

“You’re the one hiding behind that mouth,” he murmured.

Then he stepped back.

Dropped your leg. Let you fall.

You hit your knees in front of him, mud splashing your shins.

And before you could push back up—

His hand landed flat on the crown of your head and held you there.

Still no chakra. Still no threat.

Just weight.

Just his hand, resting.

Making one thing clear:

Stay.

Your whole body convulsed.

From how much your cunt ached against wet cloth and unmet tension.

“Don’t mistake mercy for weakness,” he said. “You don’t want me to prove how far I’ll go.”

You should’ve said something.

Should’ve spat, or snapped, or bit.

But you were still on your knees.

Still.

With his hand in your hair, and his heat flooding your lungs.

And for the first time—you didn’t have words.

He held you there for mere moments, and just like that—

He vanished. Presence extinguished. Again.

You nearly screamed. The pressure between your legs was unbearable. He left you humiliated and wanting again. Fucking again.

So you did the only thing you could.

You found cover.

Fast.

A thicket. Roots. Heavy bark and shadows. Just out of sight. Just far enough that if he was watching, you couldn’t tell.

But you felt it. That buzzing.

Relentless. Hot. High in your chest.

Like something had sunk its claws in and was pulling.

You pressed your back to the bark, sucked in air through your teeth. Your pants clung, wet from more than sweat, and every rub of fabric sent heat pulsing through your belly.

Fuck him.

Fuck. Him.

Your fingers were already at your waistband before the thought had finished forming. You yanked your pants down, fast and rough, shoved them low on your thighs. Cool air licked your swollen cunt.

You didn’t waste time. You weren’t here to fantasize. You were here to burn it out.

You shoved two fingers inside yourself and bit down on a gasp that almost escaped. You were soaked. Pussy literally weeping for any kind of contact.

Not for him.

This wasn’t for him.

You pumped fast. Deep. Gritted your teeth as your back arched off the tree. Your other hand clamped over your mouth to muffle every sound. But gods—gods, it wasn’t enough.

You weren’t slow. You weren’t teasing. You were fucking yourself, angry and high and twitching. Every breath was a fight. You chased the edge like it owed you something.

You hated how good it felt.

Hated the slick between your fingers. The way your hips fucked your own hand. The way your walls begged for more friction, more fullness—him.

You pressed your palm against your clit and your vision flared white.

You came like a trap snapping shut.

Hard. Sudden. Fucking brutal, but still not enough.

Your knees hit dirt.

You shook.

Your hand was soaked.

And through all of it—

you didn’t say his name.

You didn’t break.

You didn’t even cry out.

Victory?

It didn't seem like it.

You wiped your hand on the moss, stood, and redressed with stiff, shaking fingers.

Pride. Intact.

He hadn’t seen.

He wouldn’t know.

---

Except…

he did.

He saw the way your thighs clenched before you came.

Saw the way you shoved your fingers in like they could punish your own want.

Saw the heat in your face—the raw want and defiance.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t interrupt.

Kakashi just leaned back against the tree trunk, lazily stroking his cock through his pants, half-hard and grinning.

“Next time,” he whispered, to the forest.

“I’ll make her look me in the eye when she does it.”

---

You barely made it two steps from the tree hollow before you knew he was there. Sensed it.

Behind you.

And when you turned—already snarling, already reaching for a blade you wouldn’t draw—

he was close.

Closer than he should’ve been.

Close enough to smell the sweat at your throat.

Close enough to scent what you’d done.

But he didn’t touch you.

Just reached down, undid the waistband of his pants, and took his cock out right there in the clearing with you as his audience.

Hard.

Dark with need.

Your eyes dropped.

And that was when he grabbed your jaw.

Hard enough to bruise.

“I’m going to cum,” he said, low and steady, “and you’re going to watch. Since you’re too proud to ask for what you want.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t blink.

He started stroking himself—slowly, shamelessly, his hand slicking with the proof of how long he’d been holding back. The veins along his shaft flexed with every movement. The tip of him flushed deep red.

You wanted to look away.

You didn’t.

Because gods help you, it felt like if you turned away, that would be the moment he touched you. The moment he gave in. And you weren’t going to miss it.

Except he didn’t give in.

He kept stroking.

Kept breathing harder.

Kept using your eyes like the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You smell like you’re about to beg," he murmured.

Your nails curled into your palms.

He didn’t let go of your jaw.

He held it still, tilted slightly inward, so that even your peripheral couldn’t escape the sight of him pumping his cock—faster now, his breathing starting to stutter.

"You could be on your knees," he said. "Or on your back. Or riding me like you meant it."

You clenched your teeth.

"But instead," he whispered, "you’re watching."

His hips jerked once.

You swallowed hard. Heat surged through your belly again, slick blooming between your thighs, unbearable.

He came with a soft, hoarse grunt—his hand working tight, his release spilling across his knuckles, hot and thick and messy, so close to you that your skin prickled from the warmth of it.

And still—you got nothing.

No kiss. No command.

Just the weight of your own want crawling up your throat.

He let your jaw go, finally, and you took a single step back. Just to breathe.

But Kakashi didn’t walk away this time.

He tucked himself back in, wiped his hand on a cloth from his belt, and stood there. Watching you.

Watching how dazed you were.

How hard your nipples pressed through your shirt.

How your knees wanted to bend.

“I’m not going to disappear every time you come apart,” he said. “This isn’t a fucking game. It’s a lesson.”

You just stared at him, throat dry.

"And you haven’t learned it yet."

Then he stepped forward, slow and quiet, and leaned in.

His lips brushed your ear.

"I’ll know you’re ready when you stop pretending you hate it."

And this time, when he walked away—he didn’t vanish.

He left slow.

Deliberate.

Waiting for you to follow.

---

“You really gonna leave me with that performance?”

Your voice cut across the clearing, laced with sugar and venom. “Guess you really are getting old.”

Kakashi stopped.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

But you knew he heard you.

You pressed on—because you had to.

Because your pride couldn’t take one more step in silence.

“You want me to learn something?” you said. “Try making it worth watching.”

Then you did the one thing you shouldn’t have.

You smiled.

That half-mouthed smirk that had gotten you out of dozens of missions, into even more trouble, and under his skin for years.

The clearing was quiet for a beat.

Then he turned.

Not fast.

Measured.

And the look in his eyes—

That wasn’t playful.

That wasn’t amused.

That was decision.

In four long strides, he was in front of you again.

You didn’t back away—your mistake.

Because the hand that caught your shoulder wasn’t gentle this time.

He caged you, shoved you back against the same tree you’d just tried to recover beneath. The bark scraped your spine. His knee drove between your thighs, parting them. His hand grabbed your wrist—then the other—and with one motion he pulled a thin coil of chakra wire from his belt and bound you.

Wrists together. Over your head. High.

You gasped.

"Try again," Kakashi murmured, voice low and dangerous, “with a little less mouth.”

“You gonna fuck it shut?” you snapped, even as your wrists flexed under the hold.

But your voice was thinner now.

Breathier.

He leaned in. Lips brushing your ear.

“No. I’m not going to fuck anything.”

His hand slipped down between your thighs, cupped the soaked heat there through your pants. “You haven’t earned it.”

And then he pressed.

Not rough.

Not teasing.

Just enough for pressure. Enough to make your knees threaten to give.

Your hips jerked, but he didn’t relent.

“You want to cum again?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

His fingers pushed the fabric aside, dragged down your mound. Found you soaking.

“Still this wet?” he whispered. “You liked watching me more than you liked touching yourself.”

You bit back a moan.

“I don’t beg,” you hissed.

He smiled.

“Then you don’t cum.”

And he slipped two fingers inside you.

No warm-up. No warning.

Just in—deep, fast, curling up to find it.

That place inside you that pulsed so hard your vision shook.

Your head fell back. A choked noise escaped your throat.

Kakashi didn’t stop.

He fucked you with his fingers like he was marking territory, each thrust deeper and more sure than the last. His other hand braced on your waist, keeping your body still.

"Don’t close your eyes," he said.

"You're not going to hide from it."

You opened them. Saw him. Gaze piercing into you.

Your whole body trembled.

He pressed in deeper. Slower now.

The pads of his fingers found your sweet spot and rubbed.

Steady. Mean.

Your hips rocked forward before you could stop them.

“You’re close,” he whispered.

“I can feel it. How tight you’re getting.”

You were panting now.

Sweating.

Your arms pulled uselessly at the bindings.

“You can cum,” he said.

You looked at him—hope blooming sharp and fast.

He leaned in.

“But not until you say please.”

You bared your teeth.

“I’m not—”

He twisted his fingers just right.

Your knees buckled.

But the wire held you up.

“Say it.”

He slowed the motion inside you. Kept the rhythm just enough to keep you there. Hovering.

“Say it.”

You moaned, low and furious, hips grinding against his palm.

He didn’t flinch.

“Beg.”

"Say it," he murmured, again, voice steady, like your gasps weren’t shaking the air between you.

His fingers moved even deeper now—pressing slow and unrelenting against that soft spot inside you, your cunt gripping him with every teasing thrust. Your back arched. You couldn’t help it. Every muscle wanted more. Wanted release. You wanted to rut on his hand like it would save you.

But you didn’t say it.

You just clenched your teeth and moaned through your nose like that somehow kept you safe.

Kakashi didn’t react.

Didn’t mock you.

Didn’t gloat.

Just curled his fingers inside you again.

And you convulsed.

Your thighs trembled. The knot low in your belly twisted up sharp and white, tighter than you’d let yourself feel it earlier, tighter than it had ever been when you touched yourself alone, and gods—it was close. It was right fucking there.

He felt it.

Of course he did.

His thumb moved once, barely brushing your clit—

Your body seized up like a wire strung too tight—please nearly caught in your throat.

But still, you didn’t say it.

Kakashi slowed to a crawl.

You sobbed a breath out and hissed, “You want me to beg? That badly?”

He tilted his head, mouth just shy of a smirk.

“I want you to learn.”

His thumb made another lazy pass.

“You’re the one who wants to cum.”

You sucked in air like you’d been drowning.

“You’re not the only one who can play with control,” you bit out. “I could make you beg if you let me—”

His fingers stopped moving. Completely.

You almost cried.

But instead you spat a laugh. “Tch. Hit a nerve?”

Kakashi withdrew his fingers. Slow. Wet. Purposeful.

You whimpered. Hated it. Hated that your body followed him—hips rolling involuntarily forward to chase what he took away.

He brought his slick fingers to your face.

And without a word, smeared them across your lips.

You froze.

“You talk too much,” he murmured. “Let’s make that mouth useful.”

You expected him to shove his fingers in your mouth. You braced. But he didn't.

Just traced your bottom lip with your own arousal. Let the scent of it fill your lungs, the humiliation of it crawl under your skin.

“You want to keep your pride?” he asked, low. “Then hold onto it.”

And just like that, Hands grabbed your arms above you—ripped them down from their restraints—and pulled them behind your back. You started to twist away, but he was already wrapping the wire, binding your wrists again, tighter this time. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make resistance useless.

"Didn’t think you’d try the same thing twice," you muttered.

He leaned close, breath warm at your jaw.

"Didn’t think you’d still be this soaked without a single orgasm worth remembering."

You growled—but it came out as a whimper.

He turned you, backed you up against the tree.

And then—he sank to his knees.

Between your legs.

But again?

He didn’t go for your clit.

Didn’t spread you.

Didn’t even kiss the inside of your thighs.

He just looked up.

"You’re going to stay tied like this until you figure it out," he said. “What it means to give something without fighting.”

Then he opened your pants.

Just enough.

Peeled them down, the fabric catching on your thighs—soaked straight through with how long you’d been aching. He didn’t make a comment.

But you knew he noticed.

He always did.

"You’re going to cum," he said, "but you’re not gonna enjoy it."

And his fingers—two of them, slow and precise—slipped inside you again.

You gasped.

Your knees wobbled.

He didn’t support you.

He just curled his fingers upward like he was reaching for a prize.

“You’ll keep standing,” he said, stroking deep, slow. “Or I’ll stop.”

You stayed up.

Barely.

Your bound hands twitched behind your back. Your jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His fingers were fucking you slow, too slow, every thrust dragging slick and pressure through your already-overstimulated cunt.

And then—his thumb.

He didn’t touch your clit.

He hovered.

Just let the warmth of his skin buzz over it with every slow pump.

"You feel that?" he asked, low.

You moaned—without meaning to.

“Close?”

You nodded.

He smiled.

Wicked.

Then he pulled out.

And waited. Patiently.

You whimpered.

You couldn’t help it.

He looked up, eyes dark even under the moonlight.

“You didn’t say it.”

You snapped your head away, panting.

“Fuck. You.”

He didn’t react.

Just slid his fingers back in.

Deeper. Slower.

He built you back up again—precisely. Like he was drawing a shape inside you with every stroke. Not touching your clit. Not giving you that one last push.

Just circling you around the edge until your hips bucked and your chest hitched and your cunt tightened—

Then he stopped.

Again.

You nearly screamed.

But you didn’t say it.

You wouldn’t.

And he started again.

---

He edged you four times.

Each one worse.

Closer.

Crueler.

You were soaked down your thighs, down his wrist, legs shaking, hands numb from how tightly you’d pulled against the bindings.

And still—still—you wouldn’t beg.

Kakashi rose from his knees.

You flinched, expecting it to stop. Expecting him to walk again. You didn’t know if you could take another round of silence.

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped behind you.

Pressing in close.

One hand gripped your jaw. The other slid down your belly, low, just above your clit.

He didn't move it.

Just held it there.

“You’re going to say it,” he whispered, lips against your cheek.

“Eventually. But not yet.”

And he kissed the bruised spot under your ear again—soft.

“You’re going to need it, first.”

---

You were ruined. Prideful but wrecked.

And still he waited for that word.

Still you couldn’t say it.

“You’re going to need it,” he said again, his voice low, infuriatingly gentle.

And that’s when something snapped.

Your hands were bound, your legs were trembling, but your teeth—

Your teeth were free.

You turned your head, caught the exposed line of his shoulder where the vest had shifted, and bit.

Hard.

His body jerked.

A sharp breath ripped through him.

Not a gasp.

A growl.

He didn’t pull away.

He let you sink in.

And you did—sank your teeth into the muscle, bit down until you tasted sweat, until you felt him twitch against you, hips pressing hard into your ass like your defiance had lit a fuse.

You pulled back. Your breath ragged. Your mouth wet.

His blood on your tongue.

The silence after was vicious.

You braced for a hand in your hair. A shove. A slap.

What you got instead?

Laughter.

Low.

Dangerous.

Then his hand moved. Fast.

Down.

Pressed.

Fully.

His palm slid over your clit, soaked and neglected and twitching from denial—and he rubbed.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

And you screamed.

Your head hit his shoulder. Your knees buckled. But he caught you, one arm across your chest, the other hand still fucking your clit with tight, slow circles, no escape this time.

“You wanted to be feral?” he growled, voice hot against your ear. “Fine. Let’s see how long that bite lasts once you’re screaming for it.”

His fingers moved faster.

So fucking exact. So controlled.

You thrashed in his arms, bound, ruined, overstimulated past language.

"Come on, brat," he hissed. "Let’s hear it. That word. That one little fucking word."

You bit your lip now—trying to hold on, trying not to cry, not to give him the sound he wanted.

But your orgasm was clawing its way up your spine—the full, shattering collapse.

And he knew it.

“You cum without permission,” he said, “I’ll edge you ten more times.”

You sobbed.

You were right there. Right fucking there.

Your legs spasming, your breath a mess, your mouth open—

But you still didn’t say it.

Until—

“Please.”

It tore out of you.

Not whispered.

Not broken.

Shouted. Unconsciously.

Your eyes flew open.

Kakashi’s hand stopped.

Mid-circle.

And you howled.

“Fucking say it again,” he hissed, grinding his fingers just barely down again.

“Please, Kakashi—fuck, please—”

“Now you’re ready.”

His hand slammed back into motion and you came violently—convulsing in his arms, your thighs slick and shaking, breath gone. You sobbed through it, body clenching so tight your knees gave out.

He held you.

Didn’t mock you.

Didn’t speak.

He just kept your name in his mouth, low and possessive, while your whole body pulsed with the release he let you have.

---

The last tremor hadn’t even finished running through your legs when his hands started moving.

He didn't rush.

The bindings dropped from your wrists like silk soaked in sweat.

You barely felt them fall.

Kakashi didn’t look at your face when he untied you.

He looked at your hands.

Watched your fingers twitch.

Watched the way they hovered in the air for a moment, unsure what to do without rope to strain against.

As if your body had gotten used to struggling.

He ran his thumbs over the marks around your wrists.

Slow. Intimate.

But not tender.

Not anymore.

“This body doesn’t know what to do when it’s not being defiant,” he murmured, voice calm, nearly idle. “We’ll fix that.”

You didn’t speak.

Your mouth was still full of the word you’d sworn not to say until you screamed it.

The taste of it clung to your teeth like copper.

He let go of your wrists and stood. Pulled you by the hips, and lowered you onto your knees in front of him. You expected another command. Expected him to ask for your mouth.

But he didn't do any of that. He didn't even speak. Just slowly, predatorily circled behind you.

He kneeled and slowly pressed a hand to your spine, firm and unrelenting, until you bent. Until your chest met the earth and your ass arched up toward him without protest.

You didn’t even realize you were doing it.

He laughed softly.

“Look at that,” he said, low. “You finally learned how to obey.”

His fingers spread your folds—so slick, so swollen, so fucking messy for him—and he groaned under his breath.

Pure possession.

“This is the part where you ask me to be gentle,” he said.

You didn’t.

And he didn’t wait.

One hand on your hip, the other guiding himself in—a single deep thrust, thick and unforgiving, pushing all the way until you cried out, your arms scrambling in the dirt.

He stayed there a moment. Buried to the hilt. Letting you feel the stretch. Giving you just enough time to register the ovewhelm.

Then he started to move.

Unapologetically

Relentless.

Long, punishing strokes that dragged the whole of his cock along your walls, hitting the bruised places, the broken-open places, the places he’d touched earlier with nothing but his fingers and a command.

You tried to breathe.

Your face pressed into your elbow.

Your back arched higher.

Your pussy—soaked and used and still greedy—clenched around him like it needed more.

“You begged for this,” he said, voice close now, bent over your back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it like this. Bent. Fucked. Owned.”

You moaned—fucked-out and hot and aching.

He laughed again. Darker now.

“I should’ve made you crawl for it.”

He grabbed your hair. Fisted it. Pulled your head back so you weren’t hiding your face anymore.

“You’d have done it,” he growled into your ear. “By now? You’d have crawled through fire just to feel me stretch you open.”

You sobbed. Not from pain.

From the truth of it.

He let go. Pressed your head down again.

And his pace broke.

Not sloppy.

Not rushed.

But harder. Faster. Like the leash had finally slipped and the man who’d been controlling himself all night let go—

and let his cock do the talking.

Your breath broke apart in pieces. Your moans turned into keening little sounds. You weren’t even clenching anymore—you were gripping, your cunt begging to cum again, fluttering around him like your body had a will of its own.

“You close?”

You nodded.

You whimpered.

He pulled out.

You screamed.

“No. Not yet.”

Your hips chased him.

Instinct.

He pushed back in—slow, this time, just to torture you—and when he was buried as deep as he could go again, he didn’t move.

He just stayed.

“You’ll cum when I let you.”

But still… you didn’t beg again.

You shook beneath him, completely broken open.

So he grabbed your wrists. Pulled them behind your back. Held both with one hand like they were still tied.

And started to fuck you hard.

This was no longer about lessons.

No more training.

No more tests.

This was him claiming what he broke.

This was him finishing the job.

You were moaning something now. It wasn’t a word. It wasn’t a name. Just raw sounds. Wet and breathless as his cock bruised your cervix.

His voice cut through it:

“Say it again.”

You didn’t know what he meant. Couldn’t think.

He snapped his hips forward—brutal.

“Who does this cunt belong to?”

You gasped.

“Kakashi—fuck—you—i-it’s yours—”

“Damn right.”

And he let go of your wrists.

Slid his hand between your legs.

Touched your clit.

Once.

Twice.

You were gone.

The orgasm hit like collapse—like surrender made physical. Your body clenched around him, screaming through every muscle. You shook. You cried out. Your legs kicked uselessly as your walls spasmed, sucking him deeper.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it.

His rhythm faltered.

You felt him swell.

And then—

He pulled out again.

You sobbed. Your hips chased. Your thighs buckled.

And this time?

He dragged you back by the hips, pulled you up onto your knees again, and came on your back.

Hot.

Sharp.

Groaning your name like a curse, like a goddamn reward, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had.

And when he was done?

He reached down. Wiped his thumb through the mess across your ass, then down your thigh.

Marked you with it.

Smeared it on your skin like proof.

“Mine now,” he said.

Fucking absolute.

Then he pressed those same fingers to your lips.

“Suck.”

You did.

Without thinking. Without looking.

You moaned around the taste of him—and that sound must’ve pleased him, because his other hand was already curling around the back of your neck.

“You’re learning,” he murmured. “But don’t think for a second that means I’m done.”

Your stomach tightened.

You started to lift your head, to look back at him.

He pushed you down by the nape.

Firm. Effortless.

“No.”

The word snapped across your skin.

“You don’t look at me right now. You don’t speak unless I say. You just open your mouth and your legs when I want you to.”

You were already dripping again.

Your body didn’t care that you’d cum countless times. It didn’t care that your limbs were jelly, your lungs half-useless. Every cell in you recognized the tone he used now.

He was unchallenged.

Kakashi let you kneel there for a beat, bent forward, wrists still free, used and marked and somehow still aching.

Then—

He crouched behind you again.

And this time, he didn't fuck you.

He didn't touch your clit.

He didn't even press against your cunt.

He slid one gloved hand between your thighs and cupped your pussy like it belonged to him.

Because it did.

“You’ll stay right here,” he said, “until I decide you’re ready.”

You whimpered—tried to rock back onto him.

He didn’t let you.

“Still greedy,” he murmured, tone almost bored. “Still trying to take.”

He slapped your cunt.

Once. Not hard.

Just enough.

You gasped. Twitched.

“Open wider.”

You spread for him, knees dragging apart, spine curving lower.

Good girl.

He didn’t say it.

Didn’t need to.

He dragged his fingers through your folds—light, maddening.

Found your entrance.

Slid one finger in.

No buildup. No warm-up.

You were still soaked from the last orgasm, still loose, but your walls clenched around the intrusion like they thought it might be something more.

It wasn’t.

It was one finger.

Slow and cruel.

He twisted it. Pressed up.

And you moaned.

Then he stopped moving.

Left it inside you.

Still. Just resting. Just present.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low. “That’s not for you. That’s mine. You don’t cum on it. You don’t move on it. You take it, and you wait.”

Your hips trembled.

Your cunt clenched again, pulsing around him. Begging.

He added a second finger.

You gasped.

He held still again.

“You’re going to cum without permission, aren’t you?” he said, quiet. “You’re going to lose control. Just like last time.”

You whimpered, trying to shake your head. Bit your lip.

He curled both fingers slightly—just once.

Not enough.

But enough.

“Don’t,” he said.

You tried not to.

Tried to hold still while he did nothing.

Tried not to grind down onto the slow, unmoving stretch inside you.

Your thighs twitched. Your back arched.

And his voice came again—bare, steady, wicked:

“You don’t get to cum on your terms. Not tonight. Not until you’ve learned how to stay open without asking for anything.”

The words hang like heat over your skin.

You nod. You don’t mean to, but you do.

Your body betrays you in silence now—no more clever comebacks. No fire. Just tension in your thighs, clenching around not enough, trying to remember what it feels like to be filled.

Kakashi’s fingers slip out of you slow.

The absence aches.

You whimper without thinking.

And it earns you nothing.

He wipes the slick from his fingers on your inner thigh, a quiet smear of ownership, then pulls away entirely.

You’re still on your knees, cunt pulsing around open air, and he walks out of reach. Just like that.

No sound. No instruction.

Just gone.

You freeze.

The silence that follows isn't empty.

It’s haunting.

Then—

Fabric.

The sound of something folding. Unfolding.

The zipper of his vest.

The soft thunk of a pack opening.

Your breath catches.

He speaks again, quiet.

“You’re not going to cum until you’ve been empty long enough to know what full actually feels like.”

You twist to look—

But a hand snaps into your hair, fast and precise.

“No.”

He slips something over your face—cool, soft, buckled snug behind your head.

Blindfold.

Darkness swallows you whole.

And in that moment, you feel everything.

Every sound he makes becomes a shape.

The slow drag of leather over his hands.

The clink of something metal.

The soft coil of rope.

Panic isn’t what hits you.

It’s need.

Need to see.

Need to anticipate.

Need to know what’s coming—

He’s already stripping you of control.

And then he’s back at your side.

One hand finds your shoulder.

The other, your chin.

His thumb pushes against your lip.

“Suck.”

You do.

You suck his thumb like it’s his cock—slow, tongue curled, cheeks hollowing on instinct.

“Good girl.”

It’s the first praise you’ve earned in hours.

Your heart stutters.

He slips your wrists together behind your back again—cloth this time, something that won’t chafe, but holds tight.

He shifts your body—laying you out on your back this time, chest forced outward, arched around your wrists, knees bent, legs spread wide, obscene in the open air.

Nothing protecting you from what he’ll do next.

“You’re gonna cum so many times,” he says, calm. Measured. “You’ll forget what stillness feels like.”

A pause.

Then his hand at your thigh.

“You’re going to cry and think you’ve earned it.”

Another pause.

Then his breath, right at your ear.

“You haven’t.”

And the first press of vibration hits your clit.

Low. Buzzing. Exact and cruel.

You cry out instantly—your body snapping tight, hips lifting without permission.

And he pulls it away.

“No.”

You groan—frustrated, soaking wet.

“This is going to take hours,” Kakashi says. Not teasing. Not joking.

Just stating it.

“You’re gonna cum so many times you start apologizing between orgasms. And you still won’t get my knot.”

You can’t speak.

Your mouth is open. Your throat works. But no sound comes.

He presses the vibrator to your clit again—higher setting now. Sharp. Immediate.

You writhe.

You clench.

You beg.

It’s happening too fast—you’re not ready—you can’t hold it—

And again, he pulls away.

Every. Time.

Until you’re choking on air.

Tears starting to spill beneath the blindfold.

Your thighs sticky, your breath wrecked.

You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore.

Release?

Touch?

Mercy?

All you know is the absence of him hurts.

You start to cry in earnest when he slides a single finger back inside and leaves it there again.

No movement.

Just that thick, impossible pressure.

That unbearable not-enough.

“Now,” he murmurs. “We start over.”

His finger is still inside you, just resting there, like a silent command.

You tremble around it—pathetically.

Kakashi watches the way your body clutches.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just breathes. Studies nonchalantly.

Then he adds a second finger.

You choke on a sound—half sob, half relief—your cunt tight around him, so greedy, so slick it barely resists the stretch.

But your mind does.

Your pride still claws its way to the surface, even now. You grit your teeth. You refuse to ask.

You think if you can just hold out, just keep your mouth shut long enough, he’ll—

“Still holding out,” he says, almost bored. “Even after all that.”

He pulls his fingers out completely.

You scream. Wordless. Frustrated. Aching.

“You haven’t learned yet.”

You hear him move.

Then: the vibrator returns.

High.

Fast.

Direct.

You scream again—louder this time. Legs kicking. Arms straining against your bindings. The blindfold traps you in the dark with nothing but the burn building between your legs, the heat, the flicker, the climbing, the unbearable need—

You cum.

You crash into it—hard, sudden, all-consuming.

But he doesn't stop.

The toy stays on your clit.

Your voice breaks.

Your back arches off the floor.

You break again. Too soon. Too much.

And still he doesn’t speak.

No comfort. No teasing.

He just watches your body shake as the second orgasm rolls through you like punishment.

You start to sob.

You don’t even know why.

Your cunt is throbbing. Your nerves are fraying. There’s a sound clawing its way out of your throat you don’t recognize.

Then finally—

He pulls it away.

And the silence after the stimulation is worse than the noise.

You twitch.

You can’t stop twitching.

He leans down beside you.

His voice low. Almost tender.

“Your body begs so much louder than your mouth.”

You whimper. Shake your head.

He presses a single finger back into your cunt—slow, indulgent—and you moan like it’s salvation.

“Starting to understand now?”

You nod.

His tone darkens.

“Then say it.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

His finger curls.

Just once.

You cry out.

“Say it.”

“…yours.”

He slaps your thigh.

Louder now.

“Say it.”

“Yours—fuck—Kakashi, it’s yours—please—”

He hums. Pleased. But not convinced.

“You want to be knotted?”

You nod—furiously, broken.

“Tell me why.”

You’re crying now. Hot and messy.

“Want to feel you—want to be kept—want you inside—need it—need you to fill me, stay in me—please—”

“And?”

You blink under the blindfold.

A pause.

“And what?”

“You—fuck—Kakashi—own me—”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your voice cracks.

“You own me. I’m yours. Please—please knot me—I need it—”

You feel him exhale.

And then?

You hear the zipper.

Not slow. Not dramatic.

Just final.

And then his body is over you. Between your legs. Heavy. Controlled. The head of his cock pressed to your soaked entrance again.

Thicker now.

Wider.

Your breath stutters.

You feel it.

Not just the shaft, not just the push—but the weight behind it.

The knot.

Still down. Still compressed.

But there.

And he hasn’t said yes.

Not yet.

He lines himself up.

And pauses.

Waits.

And when you open your mouth again?

Not to beg.

But to thank him?

That’s when he thrusts in.

Hard.

Whole.

And you know—

This is still the beginning.

----------------to be continued---------------

I have no one, no I’m not talking about online, I’m talking about irl.

Moots, online friends or whatever you call, thanks for being there for me but my problem is just not that easy to solve.

1. I never felt accepted anywhere.

I am Turkish guy, living in a western country and around the age of 13 I started to discover and accept myself even more. I am queer. I have come out only to some people that I trust or trusted.

I have been victim of racism and indirect victim of homophobia coming from white people or any non Turkish ethnic.

——

I have been victim of indirect homophobia coming from turks. I will never be able to come out to anyone in my family, they will never accept the real me. I accepted this fact long time ago.

But hearing homophobic shit is tiring as fuck. Well I’m lucky no one in my family is as obsessed as american bigots so it’s more of a taboo thing to talk to but outside, it’s just worse and worse.

——

Racism isn’t something that only exists among white communities and I’m getting all of it. Racist/purist turks are so annoying to deal with. It’s quite the same experience for anyone who is in the ethnic group of the racist/purist person.

« Gotta keep the blood pure »

« Don’t marry non Turkish girls, you won’t be happy »

FUN FUCKING FACT : I was hanging out with a black girl who had enough pitty to hang out with me. Then an old Turkish lady asked me if the bus was coming, since it was obvious that she was turk the conversation continued in Turkish. Then out of nowhere she told me « Find yourself a turk, these girls are not muslim or turk, it won’t work out ». She kept on insisting on how the cultural and religious difference won’t make it work.

I SWEAR I CAN’T EVEN HANG OUT WITH SOMEONE WITHOUT BEING SHAMED.

——

OH DON’T GET ME STARTED ON THE PURISTS OF THE HOMELAND. THEY LEGIT HATE ME FOR BEING BORN AND LIVING IN AN OTHER COUTRY THAN TÜRKİYE.

Also, RACIST LGBTQAI+ people. How the fuck you hate minorities while being one that is supposed to accept everyone and spread love not hate.

——

So in the end I am not accepted by :

- Racist / Homophobic whites and non turks

- Racist / Purist / Homophobic turks

- Anyone who is Islamophobe or non humanitarian

- And if I’m not wrong on the term terfs, basically fearing that I won’t be accepted in the lgbtq/queer neither.

2. No one accepted me either way

It’s since primary school, no one wanted me, I was that kid who everyone hated.

In middle school, I was literally chasing groups. I approach them, they all move away, the more I try to get closer the more they go away. It was like that for 4 years until middle school ended.

The worst part was that the same people who didn’t wanted me made comments on how I don’t hang out with them. The only nice guy asked me at 8th grade why I was so depressed at 7th grade.

I told him « y’all never took me in. »

He answered « sorry, I didn’t want to be left out »

Before 9th grade, the summer vacation I got assaulted, it made my mental health get even worse ( due to also being assaulted in 8th grade ). So I had controversial takes and opinion. It didn’t last long cause I got bullied by everyone into oblivion and that bullying went going on even to this day.

——

High school, I’m scared as fuck to live again what happened in middle school. My strategie ? Be nice, humble and don’t get offended that easily.

Everyone is talking over me, in my back, looking weird at me, ignoring me, avoiding me. I made sure not to be an asshole but in the end it just made me their gossip subject. No one asked me to hang out, no one is my friend, I all alone.

Even tho racism is somewhat less felt between students the homophobia is still here.

——

NO ONE WANTS ME, NOT A SINGLE SOUL TALKS TO ME, ASKS ME IF I’M OK OR NOT AND EVEN WHEN THEY DO IT IT’S IRONIC AND HYPOCRITICAL.

This tiktok explains what I’m going through with some mother fuckers right now.

So in the end I never had any real friends, all of them are just using me or pretending to « tolerate »

AND MIND YOU THE FACT THAT NONE OF THEM KNOWS THAT I’M PANSEXUAL

3. I’m failing at finding people irl / it doesn’t work

I have school from 8 am to 7 pm, the school system doesn’t give me any free time to do an activity. I can’t go to clubs to find people who shares my interests.

I can’t install dating apps because I’m a minor and apps that are made for minors are mostly filled with predators.

I tried subreddits, tumblr communities, searched on tiktok, snapchat even discord servers.At this point the only app that I haven’t used to try to find irl is X/ Twitter ( not like I use it ).

Here is my experience with them :

Snapchat : most of my recommendations are from people from my high school.

Discord : servers filled with pedophiles, groomers, porn and scam bots, homophobes, racists etc…

Tiktok : I searched everything, not a single video or account that helped me.

Tumblr : Communities are somewhat ok, but the same issues said before and the next ones are making it worse

Reddit : same issues and the next one.

Especially on reddit and tumblr I can dm a 100 people only 1 person will reply, from 100 person who replies only 1 will be an actual and decent human being, out of 100 of those only 1 will keep a convo.

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY OUT OF 1 BILLION PEOPLE ONLY 1 WILL BE FROM MY CITY AND WE WOULD BE ABLE TO MEET IRL.

In the end society and the systems are blocking me from human connections and blaming me for not having one.

4. People who lies

Fuck you all, I hate everyone who tells me that everything will be alright. No it doesn’t, people in their 20s, 30s, 40s even 50s ( and +60 ) are struggling with loneliness. I saw so many posts with M30, M40 on reddit. These people are so desperate they try reddit. FUCKING REDDIT.

And from what I heard dating apps don’t work either. What is supposed to work then, let me just scream « PEDOS RAPE ME » maybe then someone will love me, at least my body.

I’m tired of people telling me lies and this part is destined to everyone who told me that everything will be ok. Fuck you, I hope you suffer true loneliness and be desperate.

5. Everything is getting worse

I can’t take it anymore, depression gets worse.

I can’t vent to anyone, my hormones just makes me want to have sex so bad, this craving just amplifies my depressions. I feel like I need anti depressives, anti hormonal anything that will make me stop wanting to have sex.

My parents are making things worse too, between my mom who yells at me for venting a fraction of my problems, my dad who tried something just to end up blaming me for wanting the perfect friend.

I can’t concentrate anymore, I can’t sleep, I keep doom scrolling hoping to find someone.

I just want to stop feeling, stop suffering just stop everything.

6. What I think I need

- Irl friends that accepts me as who I am

- Irl friends who I can vent to

- Irl friends that I can hang out with

- Irl friends or friend with benefits because I’m touch starved and sex craving teenager.

- A school schedule that isn’t torturing me

- Meds, anything that will boost me up, make me feel better. ( my therapist said no tho )

——————————————————————————

Well this is the end. I want irl friends so bad, it’s driving me crazy, but everything is just there to harm me. People irl, total jerks. Online, pedos, groomers, etc. I can’t even legally be on dating apps. So I try to win the lottery by searching on social media.

Please someone end my suffering I can’t take this anymore everything hurts.

Moots, I know y’all care, but my need of online friends is satisfied thank you all 💜