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knotcest · 4 months ago

Text

Tear You Apart

Roman hatefucks you (2.1k words).

Tags - smut, rough/violent sex, mean!roman, and perhaps dark!roman too if you squint (I’m serious. Don’t underestimate him) lack of proper foreplay (intentional), unprotected piv, spanking, biting, choking, hitting, degradation, bruises, dacryphilia, hatefuck, masturbation, fingering, creampie, come play, fearplay, threats of violence, typical Roman sexism, Roman spits in your mouth, orgasm denial, Roman denies you of some basic physiological needs in maslow’s hierarchy, a singular atom of aftercare, one (1) Depeche Mode reference. Probably forgot some things but if you’re here then you know what you want, and I know what you want, and we both know you’re gonna read anyway.

A/N - received a message from god and i did what had to be done. @cum-a-calla said “k but imagine Roman talking about how much he hates you while being violently railed. swoon” so here’s this. Straight fucking, beginning to end. I love you @cum-a-calla I think you’re just the fucking best 😻🥰 and @beefrobeefcal do your eyes ever hurt from how much I abuse them? Thank you for lending them to me again and again 💜🥩🐛

Roman’s swaying left and right in his swivel chair, nursing a glass of whiskey when you open his bedroom door. “You’re late,” he says, slurring his words ever so slightly. His eyes are bloodshot, hair mussed, tie loosened and his white shirt unbuttoned. Roman takes his silver watch off and sets it down on the end table next to him.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I know.”

“You texted 10:30,” Roman reminds you. “And it’s midnight.”

“I know,” you repeat. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“Better fuckin’ not. C’mon, chop chop. You know what you’re here for.”

You do know; the same thing you’re always here for. Roman downs the rest of his drink, then pours another, and this time offers it to you. You decline politely, a quiet and demure no, thank you with a gentle shake of your head as you take off your shirt. Roman shrugs, drinks that one too. He feels lightheaded.

You shuck off your pants, and Roman takes care to help you with your bra, fingers tracing over the indents it’s left in your skin. “All of it,” he says, smacking your ass, right over that large, rashy bruise he left last time. It was a week ago, maybe. Is that correct? Is that the last time you did this? Roman can never keep track. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re just as hungry for Roman’s violence as he is to inflict it upon you.

You shimmy the cotton underwear down your hips and your legs, now fully bare before Roman. Exposed. Roman sidles up behind you, his veiny hands on your waist. He urges you closer to the mirror and turns you around slowly, admiring the marks he made on you last time. Bite marks, lots of bites, and god, how he loves sinking his teeth into your skin. There’s bruises darkening your skin, though not all are visible. Some you feel instead of see. There’s the odd scratch, maybe the fault of his unclipped nails or perhaps the blunt metal edge of his watch he doesn’t always remember to take off. Roman watches you in the mirror, the eye contact intimidating. He looks like he wants to eat you alive.

Roman presses his fingertips against a bruise on your hip, causing you to wince. It’s an odd shape, odd location too. “I like this one,” Roman says. “Pretty.” It’s a compliment, almost. Almost.

It begins here. Roman separates your hands that are held together, nervously fidgeting with yourself. He takes your forearm and twists it behind your back, pushes it up, up, even higher yet. You can see in the mirror how he smiles, his eyes darkening when you start to wince in pain. “You’re hurting me,” you whine. “You’re - ah, my arm–”

“I know it hurts you,” Roman taunts. “I could break it just like this. Fuckin’ snap it. I think about it sometimes.”

His words make you sick. Make you breathe funny, make you feel all icky inside. He fucking loves it, how your breath hitches in your throat, and how he can feel it happen under his palm. And when you’re afraid like that, you squeeze around him harder, walls pulsing, clenching…

Roman forces you down onto the bed, your face buried in his pillows. You lie on your stomach and he parts your thighs with his knee, still holding you in place, now with both of your arms bent into place. Roman holds them in one hand and kneels at your side, and with his free hand he rubs over the swell of your ass. He parts your cheeks, admires your tight asshole and your snatch. He traces those pretty folds of yours and rubs your clit, listening to those quiet gasps you swallow. He wonders when you’ll - and yup, there it is. You’re writhing on the bed, grinding your hips into his palm. Roman smiles at this. The rules, you’re breaking the rules. “I’m not gonna make you come,” he reminds you.

“I know,” you mumble.

“I’m only getting you wet.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you think you’re doing?”

Silence. Roman removes his fingers from your cunt and spanks you hard - once, twice, three times total. You wail in pain, humming rhythmically in an attempt to soothe yourself of the ache, that awful sting. Roman traces the outline of his puffy handprint on your ass. “You just don’t get it, do you? It doesn’t matter how many times we do this little dance. You never learn who calls the shots. Un-fucking-believable,” he huffs. “I don’t give a shit if it hurts - you can forget about getting wet now. Spread your legs.”

Roman situates himself behind you as you spread your legs, though it’s not enough. Roman holds the backs of your knees in his hands and spreads you wider, the cool air a jarring sensation against your hot, pulsing sex. He unbuckles his belt and tosses it on the floor where it lands with a loud thump. He undoes his pants next, the zzzzip noise slow and loud as the metallic teeth separate one by one. Roman pulls his already-hard cock out and before entering you, brings his palm to your mouth. “Don’t say I don’t do anything for you. Spit.”

You lift your head and spit into his palm, and he strokes his cock with it before pressing his blunt head against your entrance. You squeeze your eyes shut and suck in a breath, anticipating what’s to come.

Roman thrusts violently into you, the stretch and the burn causing you to squeal. You scramble for hold on the sheets, the pillows - anything to ground yourself as you take the pain he gives to you. Roman grabs a fistfull of your hair and yanks, “C’mon,” he goads. “You can do better than that.”

Roman pulls out of you all the way and plunges right back into you, harder than before. You bite into a comforter to muffle a sob, the first tears squeezing from your eyes. It hurts, it all really fucking hurts, and each time is worse than the last.

He wriggles his forearm under your tummy and hikes your hips up, Roman on his knees behind you. “Fuck yourself on it,” he says. “Go on and fuck my cock. Show me that you’re good at one thing, one simple thing.”

Following his command, you rock yourself forward, then back again. It’s slow, as that’s all you can stomach right now. The pain hasn’t yet dissipated and each movement, each twitch of Roman’s cock feels like a knife against your insides. The pain is fiery, too intense to focus on anything but.

“Are you even trying?”

“Yes,” you whimper, till rocking, inch by little inch. “I’m trying.”

Too slow. You’re too fucking slow, and too fucking tedious. Roman rolls his eyes, “You’re fucking pathetic,” he spits, words like poison. He takes your hips in his hands and pulls you hard against his cock, his hips slamming against your ass as he sets a brutal pace. “I have to do everything for you. What can you do, huh? Tell me, say ‘nothing, Roman’.”

“Nothing,” you repeat, voice thick with your tears. “Nothing, Roman.”

“That’s right. Don’t you ever forget it, you goddamn useless fucking cunt.” Roman’s nails are digging, cutting into your skin as he fucks you like an animal. “You’re good for nothing but getting fucked. Fucking whore, you’re fucking nothing without me. Nothing.”

You nod, sobbing as he pounds into you. You’re completely powerless, just how he wants you. Roman bares his teeth as he leans over you to wrap his hand around the column of your neck, pulling you up and against his chest as he fucks up into you. Roman squeezes your throat, bruising the soft flesh as he bites into your shoulder hard enough so that he draws blood. The coppery taste, the crimson dotting your skin. He licks it away.

He’s choking you. He’s choking you and you’re wheezing, coughing and sputtering as you try desperately to wriggle your fingers under his palm. You succeed in this, or perhaps Roman lets you have a small win - either way, you free yourself from him and crawl forward on the bed, reaching for Roman’s glass of water on the nightstand. With shaky hands, you bring the glass to your lips and take little sips, all you can handle and you’re still spilling onto yourself. Roman glares at you as he gets off and rounds the bed, then takes the glass away from you. “Did I say you could have that?”

“I was ch-”

Roman lays a brutal slap against your cheek, less of a smack and more of a beating. His palm is so sharp it makes you cry harder. Fuck, he loves when you do that.

“Shut the fuck up. You choke if I want you to choke,” he bites. “Don’t pull that shit again. God, I fucking hate you.”

Roman forces you onto your back and spreads your legs again. He enters you just as harshly as he did before, finding that same, punishing, unrelenting pace as he fucks you deep, the head of his cock kissing against your cervix with every one of his thrusts.

You choke on your sobs, hyperventilating as tears stream down your cheeks. You feel lightheaded, numb everywhere but where pleasure and pain flows between your hips. Breathe, you need to breathe.

“Stupid fucking slut. I fucking h- oh, fuck. Shit. I fucking hate you. Jesus Christ, I really fucking hate you, you know that?”

You cry and cry, burying your head into Roman’s pillows to hide your face. Roman pulls the pillows away from you and throws them onto the floor, then grabs your face, digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks as he squeezes your jaw. “Hey. You fucking look at me when I use you. Right here. You focus right here.”

Your face is puffy with tears, eyes red and tear-stained, lashes all wet. Roman wears a crooked smirk as he digs his fingers harder into your cheeks so that your mouth opens in a little O shape, then spits into your mouth. “Cunt. I fucking hate you, oh, I fucking hate you.”

Roman pounds into you, hovering over your body to cage you in. You’re gonna feel all of him, and nothing else. He pins your wrists together above your head, his face panting into the skin of your neck as he fucks you so brutally. “Oh my god. Oh, fuck. Fuck,” he moans.

If you focus hard, you can feel his pubic bone against your clit. You follow that sensation, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts, chasing that sweet friction. You could come. You could.

“Nuh-uh. Nice fucking try,” Roman half-laughs. “You’re not subtle.”

Standing before you, Roman grabs you by the ankles and tugs you closer to himself. He puts your legs on his shoulders and ruts into you relentlessly, now chasing his orgasm. He could’ve gone longer than this, but he’s not gonna let you come on his cock.

Roman feels that fiery pleasure build quickly in his belly, balls tightening, indicating that release is just moments away. “Ohhhh, fuck,” Roman moans gutturally, hanging his head back as he milks himself entirely, spurting rope after rope of his hot come.

You feel cheated. You feel used. You’re a crying mess when Roman pulls out of you, his spend spilling onto his bed. “R-Roman,” you whimper, violent sobs wracking through your body. Roman gathers his spend with his fingers and paints it over your cunt, lips all swollen and sore with the ferocity of his fucking. “I need you, Roman.”

Roman leans over you, “Go fuck yourself,” he whispers in your ear. “I mean it. Fuck yourself on your fingers.”

You’re completely exhausted. Fucked out. But still, you reach for your center and gather Roman’s come on your fingertips and circle your clit, willing your release along. Writhing on the bed, chasing a pleasure only Roman can give to you. And your poor pussy is so sore, beaten and bruised by Roman. He watches you intently and with dark, loveless eyes, that vein bulging in the center of his forehead. He covers your mouth with his hand and brings the other to your cunt, pushing two fingers inside, gentler than before. He curls those fingers repeatedly as you rub circles around your clit and oh, there it is. You’re pulsing around his fingers, muffled moans signaling your orgasm. Roman works you through it and far past its end, only stopping when you’re a twitching shuddering wreck, a bug flailing on its back. Pathetic.

Roman pulls his fingers from you and shoves them past your lips, “Suck,” he murmurs, then presses his forehead against yours. You lick his fingers, tasting your own release mixed with Roman’s. “God, you’re so fucked up,” he murmurs in a saccharine tone, and the sympathy in his voice sounds almost genuine. “So fucked up. Why do you let me do this to you, huh?”

Roman tags ❤️

@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson

@moth-maam56 @kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink

@romanarose @kappasbbgirl @magpiepills

@highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife

@thesummerpetrichor @lilipads @luiscarrutherss @pastelpinkflowerlife @baronessvonglitter

@myromeow @ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @/always-andromeda

#🐕 reblog #🐕others work

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knotcest · 4 months ago

Text

Moon Fever

Joel’s acting funny, but he is not a werewolf.

under the cut: sweat, being chased in the woods, fear (so much fucking fear), soft ABO dynamics, soft sex-pollen vibes, heavy dubcon/noncon, forced orgasm, Joel knots, implied breeding, fingerfucking, did i say sweat? lots of sweat

A lot of the time, being stuck on an endless stretch of road is… well. Not your favorite idea, to say the least. Even with the day having been nice, and Joel being in a decent mood, it’s still hours spent in his truck. Sitting. Staring. Throwing bits of conversation at him while he occasionally interjects with a grunt or a laugh. It’s not that he seems to mind; he just seems distracted.

One side of the road is a big, grassy expanse, open field that’s occasionally graced by a few trees or patches of dirt, of swamp and thin, rotting logs. On the other side (your side, luckily), there’s a seemingly never-ending wood. The trees are fairly dense, all those green canopies joining together to shade the forest floor and its inhabitants from the late-day break in the clouds. The sun is already on its lazy descent down before any of it can really be seen. It’s been super overcast the last several days. Seeing snatches of sky is more than welcome at this point, not to mention feeling the weak warmth of the dying light.

Joel swipes a big hand over his forehead. He keeps peeking low to look up through the windshield, keeps craning around to glance at the sky.

“Look, if you’re seeing, like… a UFO or something, you gotta have to point that out to me. It would be super selfish to keep that to yourself.”

“A UFO?” Joel looks distractedly at you, half irritated, half completely lost. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“You keep looking around like we’re gunna get abducted by aliens or something.” You half-laugh, waiting barely a beat before shrugging a shoulder. “I mean it was a joke, but my feelings on the subject aren’t a joke. I’d be pissed if you, like… did see one and didn’t point it out, is all I’m saying.”

“You should try sayin’ less,” he mumbles dryly.

“Fat chance of that, pal.”

“Not your pal.”

“Well, that just makes you a liar, Joel.” You side-eye him a moment, watching him take a little breath and nervously flex his fingers on the wheel, his thick knuckles going white when he grips it once more. “Hey, are you… are you okay?”

“M’not thinkin’ so, no,” he admits, avoiding your persistent, searching gaze. A drop of sweat skims down over the side of his face until it disappears into his facial hair. “My mama used to call it ‘moon fever’. Every month, just about, for maybe - usually only a night, sometimes two.”

“Moon fever.” You roll the words around on your tongue, trying to figure it out. “So, you got, like - a disease, or something? Not a disease, a — I dunno. A condition? Something like that? Why’d she call it ‘moon fever’?”

“Moon’s always full,” he says gruffly.

“The moon’s not always -”

“Yeah, no shit, kid. It’s always full during the fever. Fuckin’ gotta listen to me.” Joel sighs and the muscle in his forearms flex as he squeezes the driving wheel again. He spares a quick glance your way, and to his credit, he almost looks guilty. Almost. “Sorry. Jus’ feelin’ irritable.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Sorry.”

“No, y’don’t - don’t need to do all that. I’m the one that… yeah.” He trails off, and that nervous energy remains, filling the car like some invisible kind cloud, thick as cotton, muffling out anything that might make sense. For the first time, you feel a tiny pang of fear in your gut. Joel is being so unlike himself, and even if he’s sick, like… what exactly does that fucking mean? You need him to be solid, to be normal, and those aren’t things you can just ask him to do.

“Every full moon,” you parrot quietly. “So - so, kind of like a wer—”

“Do not,” he interrupts harshly. “Don’t fuckin’ say that.”

“Jesus, I was just -”

”Ain’t a fuckin’ joke. Listen, we’re gunna need to pull off soon. Ain’t staying in the truck. Not - not me, anyway, got it?” Joel turns and levels you with his gaze, and at this point the fear starts to build a little, a trickle of ice sliding up your spine.

“Joel, not to be, like… I know you don’t feel good, but you’re kind of freaking me out,” you say, and your forced laugh sounds more like a nervous scoff. “I’m sorry I said the thing about - um, I’m sorry I’ve been kind of annoying. Whatever you need, I wanna help…”

“I know you do, darlin’. I know you do,” he says, and the strain in his voice makes everything worse. He sounds awful. Sweat isn’t just beading on his forehead anymore - he’s got a sheen of it, and he rubs the back of his hands over his cheekbones, his forehead, running fingers through his hair to get the slicked strands out of his face. “And what you’re gunna have to do is - is you’re gunna have to keep the weapons in here. Givin’ you everything I have on me til daybreak, understand? Knife, gun - all of it stays in here. Locked. With you. M’sleepin’ in the woods tonight.”

“Um - what? Joel, no, that’s so fucking dangerous, and I can’t -”

“You will. I’m gunna be okay, honey, just fuckin’ listen to me. Lookit me. I mean it.”

Joel pulls the truck over by jerking the wheel, his breath heavy in his chest. The vehicle crunches on all that gravel, the dirt and rocks as he slams a foot on the break. The both of you rock with that motion and slam back against your seats, eyes silently meeting - yours, full of fear, confusion. His… what is that? Clouded? He looks like he’s being tortured alive. His sweat has started to slowly seep into the collar of his ratty t-shirt, turning it dark and damp. The cords of his throat are slick as well, cheeks pinked - he does look feverish. Feverish and upset in a way you don’t understand. Seeing Joel like this is throwing you off your axis, forcing you to reckon with a possibility that you’ve never considered before - Joel being out of control of something. He sighs, his chest shuddering with it.

“You promise me now,” he says, staring into your eyes. There’s something wrong with his, but before you can really figure it out. He reaches over to grasp your thigh and his grip is too tight, almost painfully so as he turns his whole body to face you. “You promise me that no matter what I say, you keep in this truck and don’t listen to a fuckin’ word I tell you. No matter - fuck, no matter what I say. No matter what I do. You gotta stay put.”

You stare at him, wanting to nod, wanting to be good for him, but it sounds crazy. You’re scared. Panic rises up inside your chest and you watch mutely as Joel pulls out his handgun, his knife, anything he might have on him. It’s then that it becomes a little too real - you realize this entire excruciating moment, you’ve been waiting for him to go back to normal. To stop being so scary. And now that he isn’t, it’s too much. Your heart thumps in your throat, skin vibrating with fear as he sets his things into your lap. His hands shake, too. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“C’mon, promise me. Need to hear it. I’m gunna leave the truck, okay? Say it. Don’t got a lot of time before -”

“Before what?” You ask weakly. God, you feel sick to your stomach as his eyes go too soft, sad, pleading with you. “Joel. Before what?”

“Before I can’t control myself anymore,” he manages, reaching for the door handle. He pushes the driver’s side door open and turns a last time toward you. “You fuckin’ lock these doors. Wanna see you do it, okay?”

Just as he asks, you lean over to push the lock, making sure each lock is set, each window rolled up. You slip his knife in your boot almost without thinking, putting the gun in the glove compartment as you watch Joel walk into the trees.

You sit like that for a long, long time, listening to the nothing-silence of nightfall as the truck settles, as the birds stop chittering. It’s just the occasional breeze and the sounds of your own breathing and shifting in the passenger seat, staring off into the woods where Joel walked off long after he’s disappeared. It’s hard to avoid the feeling of being completely alone and spooked. Afraid. Anxious. You crank the seat back so it’s nearly flat and stare at some of the stars dotting the darkening sky, all velvety dark blue now. No hint of sun. How much time has really passed? How long have you been gazing fearfully out that window?

Sleep takes you a lot easier than you think it might. One moment you’re forcing your eyes shut, thinking of Joel alone in the woods, how awful he’d looked. Then… nothing.

It’s a sound. There’s a sound; in your half-conscious haze, you think of that urban legend you knew from childhood - how did it go? Something about a scratching at the car door, a hook hand. Something.

The car door.

You slam solidly back into your body in a violent jolt as consciousness drags you back up from the depths. It’s still absolutely black out, stars and trees and nothingness. A wild-eyed glance gives you nothing - nobody at the windows, nobody scratching at the car door. No Joel. Just you, the cold truck, and the glaring, full moon keeping its luminous eye on the area. It takes very little time to adjust to it, to allow that light to seep into everything and allow you to really see.

And your bladder’s full.

Well, what the fuck are you supposed to do about that…? Joel never covered this in his frantic fucking panic, did he?

Waiting feels impossible. No position seems to help with the sharp, uncomfortable pressure, and there isn’t anything in the truck that could work as a good receptacle. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stare out the windows for a long moment, anxiety making everything worse. God, there must be hours left until morning. But if you just - if you slip out really quickly, relieve your bladder, and run back to the truck? I mean - he must be deep in there, doing whatever the fuck it is he needs to do. You imagine him somewhere among the ferns and trees and spiders, slumped over, wildlife sniffing at his sweat before leaving him there. It makes your heart ache… but not as badly as your bladder.

Fuck it.

You open the door as quietly as you possibly can, cringing when it creaks a little. It’s eerily quiet as you make your way just into the line of trees, as if anyone’s going to see you. Relief is sharp and instant - you have to hold your breath, holding in that desperate little moan of pleasure as the pain instantly disappears. The finer things in life, right?

Cleaned up and pants zipped, you take a moment to silently step out into the middle of the road. There are so many stars; it’s absolutely breathtaking. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but there’s a special sort of quiet when you stop and really, really look, not worrying about the next step or the next move. It brings you a moment of peace and tranquility. The moon watches you, lit so expressively up - you can make out the hollow eyes, the wide, gaping mouth. The man on the moon, stuck in his eternal howl.

You admire this for a long moment, stuck in the tranquil beauty of it. Soft breeze. Trees waving so gently in it, speaking their own secret language through the fluttering leaves and swaying branches. There’s an intoxicating feeling of knowing the universe, being one tiny thing surrounded by an endless expanse of other tiny things, thrumming on one of a billion vibrational wavelengths to create the larger fabric.

There’s a tiny rustle off to the side and, expecting to see a deer, or maybe some raccoons, you’re absolutely floored to see a man.

Not a man - Joel. He’s nude, his flushed, strong body glistening with sweat. He’s covered in it, shining like some horrible beacon in the middle of the grass, and even from this distance you can see his chest heaving. The shock that paralyzes you to the spot is followed by abject fear, eyes wide and mouth open. Of all the things you’ve seen, of all the horrible situations you’ve encountered together, this is the most fear you have ever felt in your life. It rushes up into your head like static, making a home there like so much white noise as your blood roars in your ears.

He takes a few steps forward and you tremble there, hearing his ragged breath as he gets closer. His - oh, god. His cock is hard, pulsing, heavy as it bounces with each forward step he takes. He takes a ragged breath and almost looks like he’s glaring at you, face contorted in some awful mix of agony and anger, something… something else too horrible to name.

“Tol’ ya,” he slurs, voice slow. He licks his lips, moaning, his cock twitching. “Tol’ ya t’stay in the fuckin’ truck, didn’t I?”

That’s enough. He comes within a couple yards and the fear overtakes you in a way that makes your limbs tremble with adrenaline, your breaths coming in hitched, desperate gasps as you pound pavement. Pavement gives way to dirt and brambles and rocks, running blindly into the woods.

Should have locked yourself back in the truck.

Reason leaves you in a hot rush, replaced only with the hot, throbbing fear of a prey creature, and to your growing horror you hear his footsteps behind you somewhere. Running after you. You don’t dare glance back, ignoring the urge to - you can’t afford to fall. You just have to keep going.

It hurts - there’s a stitch forming in your ribs, a sharp ache as your muscles scream at you to slow down, to stop, to take a proper breath. No time. There’s nothing in the banner of your mind except RUN RUN RUN KEEP FUCKING RUNNING, ESCAPE, HIDE HIDE HIDE.

Eventually, the manic rush of adrenaline wears down enough that your body can’t keep running. You tuck behind the thick length of a tree in all that dark, slumping down to sit as you cover your mouth with both hands. It’s hard to breathe softly - it’s fucking near impossible, so you do what you can, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Isn’t that the thing? Fuck, who cares. As long as you can draw the breath slowly, as quietly as you can. The birds are quiet. Sleeping. There’s only the natural sounds of the woods, the random shivers of wind and breaking branches, a rustle here and there. It’s so fucking quiet. You can’t hear Joel anymore - the paranoid thought that he’s near enters your mind with every random snap or break or crunch in the woods, but he’s so big, so powerful and… so rabid right now. So unlike himself. You’d know, right…? Your heart beats in your chest, the rhythm so quick, so uneven. You can hear it in this weird silence, along with the gasping little breaths you take. Trying to be so slow and quiet is hard when your chest aches like this, when every single fiber of your being is begging you to keep running, to rush, to protect yourself. You close your eyes and drop your head slowly back against the trunk of this tree, trying to trick your body into calming down.

Time is weird. It feels like minutes crawl by in the relative silence, and your body gets used to each little sound of the forest. You find yourself relaxing as much as you can given your situation - heart rate going down, finding it easier to breathe. That awful stitch in your ribs finally eases up, your eyes get used to the stark darkness. It almost feels like whatever happened was a fever dream of your own. Joel would never - he… he wouldn’t.

You think back quietly, the eyes in the back of your brain roving over the image of him in the field, walking toward you, shining with sweat. Utterly naked and hard. The sight of him throbbing like that, being so shocked you could see the twitch of his cock, even from that distance, just by the light of the moon. His expression - and in your mind’s eye, it doesn’t look as feral. It looks helpless, it looks… hungry, yes, but… desperate.

“You - mmmh, I -”

The sudden voice makes you scream into all that cloying darkness, heart stopping in your immediate, panicky fear, and that scream closes up into an awful sound from your choked throat. All those muscles tighten up and it’s almost like a terrible little whistle as he grabs you, shoving you back down into the dirt, the leaves and grass and ferns.

“Told you. Told you, darlin’, fuckin’…. oh, fuck, I told you, I told you to s-stay… stay ‘way from me,” he moans, and it’s almost like he’s begging as you make his face out in the dim, still so sweaty, his eyes practically glowing. He looks just the same as before, like he’s a slave to…. to the - what did he call it, again? The moon fever. Fuck. He groans and grinds his hips between your thighs, terrifyingly hard as he fits himself there by force, holding your wrists down in his bruising grip, gasping his breaths. A drop of his sweat slides down his forehead and patters over your face, on your cheek. “Shouldn’t’ve - why… why’d you run?”

He moans as he leans down and buries his nose into the nape of your neck, skimming it up your throat. It’s followed by his tongue - he smells you, tastes you, the sound he makes so tortured and erotic it makes you shudder underneath him.

“Joel - Joel,” you whimper. “You’re not - it’s just me, it’s me, it’s - why are you -”

“Mmm, I know, honey, I - oh, I know, I know, I’m ssooo s—so fuckin’ sorry,” he says. He bites into your shoulder and there it is, his hard cock rutting between your thighs. You scramble to back away, to escape it, but he puts his big, strong hands on your hips and yanks you violently back underneath him, working at forcing your bottoms off. “M’sorry. Sorry, baby, I - ohhh, I’m… ohh yeah, I’m… sorry…-”

Kicking does nothing. He’s so fucking strong, and before you know it, he’s moaning against your collarbone, shoving his rough, thick fingers into your cunt. He works them in, his tongue on your skin, rubbing and searching until he discovers the pillowy little spot that makes you clench. You’re near tears at this point, useless in your struggle, shaking underneath him while he sucks little marks into your skin.

“All fuckin’ wet for me,” he groans. “C’n smell ya - that’s how I found you, honey. Could smell ya anywhere, your wet little pussy. So pretty, so fuckin’… wet… tight… mine.” Each word punctuated by the brutal thrust of his fingers, stretching you just a little bit, just enough that it feels too rough, too painful.

His lips pull away from your skin with a wet pop, the scrape of his teeth making you whine. He grabs your hips and ducks down, his shoulders undulating like a creature’s as he settles his scratchy face between your thighs. He buries his mouth against your cunt, licking, moaning. He devours you there even though you’re whining for him to stop, to let you go.

Those words melt off - all your “Joel please fucking don’t Joel please Joel you can’t you can’t”s turn slowly into a mantra of his name, over and other til you’re breathy and moaning with him. When did that happen? When did you stop struggling and start threading your fingers into his graying hair, gripping it, hips twitching under his hands as he rubs the pads of his thumbs into your willing flesh?

Sooner than you might think, you’re starting to scream - it feels like he’s making you come apart cell by cell, atom by atom, that horrible heat winding down your guts and into your pelvis until it grows too big to hold inside of yourself. His desperate, mindless lapping, his hands making bruises into the meat of your thighs. It’s too much - you have tears in your eyes and then it’s like you’re (howling) shrieking into that black, dark night, pulsing down hard on his beckoning fingers.

“Hurts,” you sob. “Hurts, hurts…”

“I know. I know, honey, I fuckin’ know. Just gotta - mmmm, gotta be brave, j’st - lemme -”

Wait - be… brave? What - what does that fucking mean? Panic blooms into your chest as your climax starts to fizzle out, all that heavy breathing turning into the same panicked, high-pitched, whining kind of gasping you’ve been doing since you saw him in that fucking field. Joel pulls you toward him, grunting, naked from the waist down with your shirt rucking up as he drags you. God, he’s drooling, making the most terrible, longing sounds from deep in his chest as he grabs you and forces you around to your belly, hauling your hips up into the air for him.

“Joel - no, no,” you say, and to your horror, you just can’t be loud enough. Everything else is louder - the scrape of the forest floor under your hands as he forces you into the position he wants, his labored breaths, growling, like the effort of it is breaking him apart, too. Maybe it is. It makes everything worse, one of his big hands creeping up the front of your shirt to paw at your tits, rutting his cock between your thighs. God, it’s so hot against your slippery folds, his calloused fingers too rough on your nipples.

He seems to envelop you as he reaches back to notch the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your hole. He rocks his hips in this barely controlled rhythm, working himself deeper and deeper and god, he’s big. Thick, stretching you open in his manic sort of thrusting, and your stomach lurches as you realize that he’s trying to be gentle. He’s barely hanging on to himself. He moans and gasps as he fucks your pussy open, and once he’s fully seated, the pain really comes. He rears back and slams it home, again, again, heavy balls against your clit with each pass.

“Fuck - oh, fuck, darlin’, so… goddamn tight…” Joel nuzzles his nose down against your shoulder blade and inhales your scent, the sound he makes so nakedly erotic it makes you clench around him again. He grunts and pauses for a moment before resuming his pace, pounding into you, the hand up your shirt reaching further to hold you by the throat. “Y’mine, you know that? Only mine. M’gunna make sure you - fuck. Oh, fuck. Gunna give you all of me.”

Joel reaches his other hand between your thighs, and there he is, holding you against him like a hostage. Hand on your throat, his fingers pressed right up against your pulse there, and wouldn’t you fucking know it - his other hand snakes right over your mound, fingers delving between those plump, spread cuntlips to circle your clit. He’s frenzied, but not clumsy - he knows what you like. It’s jarring at first; too much too quickly, his cockhead nudging up against your cervix with each roll of his hips.

“Needja to cum, honey,” he manages to whisper, and it’s a wonder he can do that at all with all the sounds he makes. “Seen ya do it like this. Mmm? I - ah, f-fuck - I know you’re already gettin’ close. Don’t lie to me, now.”

You make a tortured sound, the pit of your stomach swirling with a special, sick kind of fear. His fingers trace fire into your flesh, willing or not; he’s absolutely fucking right. You’re going to cum on his cock, no matter how much it hurts, how afraid and helpless you are.

“The - the fuck does that mean, Joel?” you ask desperately. You sound just as angry as you feel. Betrayed. It comes out cracking and pathetic all the same, drawn high and useless as he splits you in half. God, holding your breath doesn’t even help. You’re going to cum - it’s only a matter of time.

“Don’t fuckin’ be like that, “ he growls, his breaths coming ragged. “M’not as stupid as ya think, not - not… ohh, not even close. All those times y’thought I was sleepin’, hmm? Yeah? Whimperin’. Hand down between these thighs… whispering my name, like I’m goddamn deaf. Heard you loud ‘n clear, honey. Y’let me take care of you.”

As if to drive his point home, Joel changes both the angle at which he fucks into you and the rhythm of his fingers, forcing an unexpected gasp from your throat that exhales into a loud, keening wail, so exquisitely erotic that he holds himself flush to your body for a moment, cock throbbing, and it’s those aching little throbs that shove you over the edge along with everything else. True to his word, Joel knows what you need, and he forces you to cum. The pleasure crashes down like a tidal wave, molten and overwhelming enough to white you out behind the eyelids for a moment. It’s incredible. Your body ripples and contracts and squeezes against him, all that hot pink velvet flesh wrapped around his thick cock, and he kisses along your back where he’s shoved your shirt nearly off your body. His lips trace patterns of fire over your exposed skin, wet, open-mouthed kisses between your shoulders.

“Good girl, good fuckin’ girl.” His voice is more of a rumble against you as opposed to a voice; so low, deep, rabid. Curses fall from those lips like a font, and there it is - he’s so engorged it hurts, and it must be the combination of your overlapping climaxes. It’s almost painful, and then it keeps going. The stretch, the feeling of him expanding impossibly inside of you as he pumps jet after jet of his seed inside, hips twitching, holding you close as he humps forward.

“Joel - fuck, it - it fucking hurts, please…”

“I know. I know, I know, I know, just… hold on, babydoll, let me…” he trails off, dragging his tongue up your spine as he moans. “Don’t move. Don’t you move. Be so still f’me.”

The pressure in your cunt reaches a point that is actually painful, too filled, and a new sort of fear fills you as you struggle with it. Joel keeps… expanding, his cock getting thicker, thicker, stretching you so that it burns.

“Joel, I can’t,” you gasp, trying to pull away. He keeps his hands firm on your hips, groaning and yanking you back so you remain flush against his body, his hips rocking so softly. ”Why does it - fuck, it fucking hurts, it hurts!”

“Few minutes,” he grinds out, holding his breath just as much as you are. “Just a few minutes. Stay still. I mean it. Gunna hurt us both if you keep fuckin’ squirmin’ like that. It’s gotta take.”

“It’s gotta —” Your mind races in that moment, with the pain of his enormous cock, the way it just seems to get bigger and the way you want to pull away from it even though it hurts so fucking badly to try. “Take? Joel, what - what does that mean?”

Joel shushes you, his scratchy facial hair, his lips on your hot, sweaty skin, and he licks you, he tastes the salt of your body and moans, one hand fixed firmly on your hip. There’s going to be bruises there, later, proof of his strength, his utter control of you in this moment. You shake underneath him and make the worst little noises, somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Like a kicked dog. You just want it to stop.

“Y’know what it means, darlin’. Almost done. Fuck… y’so tight, baby. How you been keepin’ this from me all along, huh?” Joel hums and you can feel it against your body, the low rumble of it like a living force as it finds a home in your ribcage, all the way down from where your back meets his chest to where his cock is still buried immovably tight in your cunt. All his cum caught inside, sealed… taking. He seems so calm now, so drained. Like he got all the poison out. “Mmmh - there we go. There we fuckin’ go.”

His cock seems to finally soften, finally releasing all that pent-up pressure, the pain, the aching stretch. Both of you make these little sounds of relief as you can ease the physical tension and he’s finally able to slip out of your body. Your first instinct is to keel over and roll to your back, sticks and stones and dirt be damned. You pant there, legs spread, and Joel looks… like Joel. He’s still sweaty and still very, very naked, but he doesn’t look scary anymore. He looks like him, his brow pinched in his way as he looks down at you. There’s a secret sort of sorrow in his expression, and despite it all, your only impulse is to reach up and take his scruffy face in your hands. You manage to coax him down and kiss him on the lips - surprisingly soft, yielding. He moans a little, but it’s less sensual and more longing. Like he’s wanted this part all along. Wanted your gentle warmth, your comfort. Your brush your thumbs over his cheekbones as you kiss him like that, chaste, no tongue. Just tenderness. You rub the pad of one thumb over those worry lines between his brows, down over the bridge of his nose as you kiss.

Joel reaches down to gently push his fingers inside of you. You’re sopping, dripping with his cum, your poor little cunt all sore and wet and aching from all of that.

“M’sorry, babygirl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Didn’t wanna hurt ya. Swear.”

There’s a little stretch of silence as you kiss and he slowly, lovingly fucks his cum deeper into your body with his fingers. He’s so gentle - there’s no real goal, no end point. Just Joel, just his rough, thick fingers being as kind as they can be inside your sensitive body. Just the two of you. The sweat starts making you cold and Joel pulls away, helping you brush off and work your clothes back into place as you awkwardly make your way back to the truck to sleep. He’s got a blanket in there, and on the way to the vehicle, you catch him glaring at the moon. He looks beautiful, even in all his exhausted anger. The lines in his face. The drawn, tired eyes. His chest, his body. Everything about him is beautiful - does he even know that? You don’t have the heart to tell him. Not now.

For now, all that exists is his big, warm body, the nook you settle in where he wraps his strong arm around you so you can lie on his chest in the bed of the truck, covered in a couple blankets, listening to the insects start up again. The big, fat moon now has a sliver of dark on its edge.

#🐕 reblog #like personally targeted at me /j

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