✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it was another day in jackson. always something to do. you were wiping away sweat with the back of your hand and resting your hands on your hips. you huff out a breath, your hair sticky against your neck and cheeks. it was unbelievably hot during the day. the only time you’d ever feel fresh during the day was when you were in the shower. but today, you were stuck on reconstruction duty with a handful of other people. everyone looked as equally tired as you.

“gonna keep standing around lookin’ pretty or gonna help out,” someone barks from behind you. you immediately snap in the direction of whoever the fuck said that. your eyes land on a tall man, brooding and scowling in the most annoying way you have ever seen.

“‘xcuse me,” you say sternly, voice low and eyes piercing into the mans.

“told maria i didn’t want girls like you on my shift,” he mutters, looking you up and down.

“girls like me,” you spit. “i’m sorry, what’s that supposed to mean, asshole?” his mouth in a straight line, eyes not easing up at all as he steps closer to you. permanent scowl, noted.

he’s nearly toe to toe with you, you have to crane your neck up just to try to seem more intimidating. “girls that just stand around worrying about gettin’ their nails dirty.”

you had literally took a moment to breathe. and this fucking guy is acting like it’s the end of the world. you laugh, a breathy sarcastic laugh. “alright, old man.” you brush past him and pick up the first useless fucking tool you see. this man isn’t gonna get the best of you. he won’t. you don’t turn around to see the man glaring at you. you don’t turn around to ask who he was. you don’t turn around to try to get a better look at him. you don’t give him the satisfaction of another look. fuck him.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

over the next couple of days, you find out the man’s name is joel. and that he’s usually like that. everyone seems to love him. everyone also seems to be extremely intimidated by him. and you have no fucking clue as to why. he’s a dick. that’s all. everyone was just too nice and sweet to put the man in his place. but not you. definitely not you.

you were working in the greenhouse now. maria deemed you fit to be what she calls a ‘floater’. you float to where the hell she needs you. a jack of all trades. it wasn’t that you were good, you just worked. it’s not that you followed orders, you just got the job done. like today, for example. you wouldn’t tell anyone— but the greenhouse was your favorite. you were checking on the fruits, making sure you pick the most perfect strawberries when you hear a door open. you look up and see that familiar scowl.

“oh, great,” you say, “to what do i owe the pleasure.”

“not here for you,” his voice sharp. you ignore him and keep on doing what you’re doing. and honestly? you loved this job because you can take your time. you weren’t rushed or feeling pressured. everyone loved this job. it was easy. simple. “jesus. gonna fucking stare at the leaves all day or do your job?”

you stand up, quick to your feet and watch joel brush past you, bumping into your shoulder as he makes his way to the back room. you remembered the light didn’t turn on so he was more than likely here to fix that. “you are such a dick, joel.”

he mumbles, even in that low tone, it’s dipped in sarcasm, “haven’t heard that before.”

“oh i bet.,” you say, “asshole,” you mutter— barely above a whisper and he storms back. boots heavy and kicking up dirt as he walks up to you. you stand your ground and hold your chin up.

“you’re real fuckin’ mouthy,” he says through gritted teeth. his eyes piercing through your fucking skull.

“you’re real fuckin’ miserable,” you bite back.

his nostrils flare, he doesn’t look away. not when you step up closer to him. he looks down at you, his jaw clenches. your chest is heaving— slightly. up, down, up, down. this was the third time this week you stood toe to toe with the man. only difference is, you don’t have an audience to shoot you sorry looks and mutter pity words to you.

he’s like that with everyone.

oh no, she doesn’t know better.

the new ones’ got spunk.

he exhales a hard breath and you swear his eyes flicked towards your mouth, but you can’t be sure because he retreats to the back room just as fast as he stomped over here. fucking joel miller. you hated that guy.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

here you are again. in the damn greenhouse. well— locked out of the damn greenhouse. it was late, you were laying in bed when you realized that you forgot to shut off the light in the back room. wasting electricity here in jackson was nearly a crime. (the townspeople would be so annoyed with you that they’d have to move curfew an hour earlier just to make up for the electricity you used up.)

you muttered a few fucks, pushing your shoulder into the door, twisting the doorknob, peaking in the window. “fucking shit!” you’re fumbling with the doorknob again when you hear his voice, low and ragged, rumble behind you.

“stealing?”

“oh fuck off, joel. no,” you say, your voice slightly raised. “i fucking forgot to turn off the-“

“don’t care. move,” he interrupts you. he basically fucking yanks you out the way by your shirt and pulls out a carabiner rattled with keys. he doesn’t even filter through them, in one swift motion he’s picking out the right key. you scoff. arms folded over your chest, gaze anywhere but joel miller. you hate this. hate that he always seems to be around when you’re fucking up. hate that that’s what he associates you with. hate that joel fucking miller always gets the upper hand. he pushes the door open, his palm flat on the door. he looks at you, that scowl still there. “gonna just fucking stand there or-”

you push past him. stomping to the back room. “fuck off, joel,” you call over your shoulder. joel smirks and watches you stride past him. he loves this. loves that he’s always around when you fuck up. loves that feeling of ‘i told you so’ when he hasn’t even fucking said shit. loves that you need him to fix your messes.

you don’t even look to see if joels gone. you don’t care. he never sticks around to actually help— just call you out on whatever the fuck is bothering him. you’re muttering now. fuckin’ nerve of that guy. always so damn mad. never needed his help-

“gonna say that a little louder,” his voice grumbles. you straighten up, taking a small breath as you feel his near your ear. he’s so fucking close. if you as much as breathe wrong, your ass would be pressed against his jeans.

“i said… you’re always so damn mad. needa get laid or somethin’,” you say. voice even and drenched in annoyance, but he doesn’t miss the way it falters just a little bit. almost as if… this turned you on.

“and you?”

“me what,” you spit. titling your head just a tiny bit, his eyes scanning the side of your face. he’s tilts his head in an almost observing way. his eyes dragging down to your mouth. the light was still on. his tall frame casting the faintest shadows on your features. you were so damn small compared to him.

“you needa get laid?”

your breath catches, he notices. you start to feel that familiar ache between your thighs. you hated him though. it was just because you’re so sex deprived that a leaf can turn you on. “by you? no thanks.”

he chuckles, gruff and low. he steps closer, his hands ghosting your waist. his lips grazing your ear, “bend over.”

and you don’t fucking wait. you bend over right on that work bench. his hands greedily tugging your pants and panties down in one swift motion. you hear the clinking of his belt and brace yourself for him. his palm is warm and hot and big on your back, strong, holding you down. your cheek pressed against the rough wood as you feel the tip of his cock press right where you need it the most. your mouth betrays you and you fucking whimper at the contact his cock makes with your entrance.

“yeah,” he growls, breath hot on your neck, “you fuckin’ needed this, huh?” voice drenched in that fucking same annoying ‘i told you so’ tone.

but your body right now can’t register your hate for him. you just fucking need him. you whimper, gasping as he slams into you from behind, each thrust punching little helpless noises out of you.

“say it,” he grits.

“i—i needed it—”

“didn’t hear you.”

you sob out, “i needed it, joel—”

“that’s fuckin’ right,” he snaps, hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back, “goddamn. look at you. just a hole, huh?”

you moan at that—humiliating and hot—and he laughs, low and mean, chest pressed to your back as he ruts into you, filthy and rough. fuck him you think. fuck me you wanna say.

“you take cock so fuckin’ well,” he mutters, almost like he’s angry about it. “so desperate for it, ain’t you?”

and you don’t answer. you just moan at that. he pushes you back down hard, your face pressed against the bench again. “opening your legs for a man that don’t even like you,” he says in that low, gravelly tone of his.

“you’re still fucking me, ain’t you,” you voice broken with each thrust into your dripping cunt. he growls at this, hands between your shoulder blades pushing you down harder. you yelp at the pain on your collarbones from the hard surface. but the way his cock slides in and out of you with finesse makes it better.

“such a goddamn brat. gonna teach you.”

he fucks you harder, breathes harder too. his thrusts becoming more erratic. he’s fucking you for him. using you. and this gets your pussy pulsating around his thick, heavy cock. he moans at that, pressing his forehead to your back as he buries himself to the hilt and gives you short thrusts. he’s close. you can tell. and with a few more thrusts, he finishes inside you. not a word. not a kiss. he doesn’t stay inside you for long either. he pulls himself out quickly, doesn’t even help you— just zips up, watching his cum drip down your thighs and says in his usual gruff tone—

“you don’t tell anyone. understand?”

you nod, trembling, heart racing, still bent over and wrecked. he’s gone before the room even stops spinning but before he leaves, he flicks off the goddamn. fucking. light.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it doesn’t stop. as a matter of fact, it happens so often that you leave your front door unlocked. he shows up at random. slams the door behind him, grabs your throat, throws you up against the wall and grinds his hips into you. never a smile. never sweet. always desperate.

“fuckin’ knew this was what you wanted,” he grits, pulling your shorts down roughly, “walkin’ ‘round with that little look in your eye. that fucking attitude. like you need to be fucked dumb to learn your lesson. you wanted to be used, didn’t you?”

you moan, already slick, already soaked. he lifts you like nothing, tosses you on the bed.

“look at this filthy fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, parting your legs with his knees, staring down at your dripping cunt. “soaked for me already. jesus.”

sometimes he uses his fingers first.

“hold your fuckin’ legs open,” he growls, pressing two fingers deep into you, curling them. “there you go. that’s it. that’s my good girl.”

but he never says your name. never kisses you. never lets it feel like anything more than what it is. just fucking. just frustration. just punishment. but that’s okay. perfect even— because he’s just a cock you’ve desperately needed.

he uses your mouth like a toy some nights—grabbing your jaw, tapping his cock against your tongue.

“open,” he demands.

you do. you always fucking do. and he slides in slow, lets the head hit the back of your throat.

“look at you,” he mutters darkly. “mouth full of cock. so fucking nice when you’re not talking. when you’re being used.”

you moan around his cock, making him hiss. you pull back and try to speak, try to say screw you but he just grabs your head and pushes you back onto his cock, eyes watering and drool dripping down your chin. he fucks your mouth til your jaw aches. then shoves you back, flips you over and moves your panties to the side.

“don’t need you to talk,” he mutters. “just keep takin’ it.”

and you do. over and over.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

joel is an expert at keeping this shit under wraps. in public? cold. detached. polite enough. but no hint. no touch. no glance. it’s as if he can’t fuck the hate away. no one would guess that a few hours ago, he had you face-down in your bed, ass red with the shape of his hand, moaning like you’d break in half if he stopped. no one would guess he growled “gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” right into your ear while you came shaking around him, fingers clutching the sheets so hard they tore.

that just excited you more. especially when you’d give him extra sass that day. it was your favorite. because you knew that he’d fuck you senseless later that night. it was going real fucking good. you enjoyed being joel’s cum whore. you were fine with it. but then the sex began to get a little… different. more …personal. you knew he wasn’t coming over tonight.

said he had things to do. supplies to get. said you’d “worn him out enough” yesterday—grunted it against your throat while he pushed his cum into you so deep your legs shook for hours after. but then he’s there. door creaks open with a heavy groan, and his silhouette fills the threshold. you hadn’t even heard your front door open and shut. hadn’t heard his footsteps make their way down the hall. you’re brushing your hair in front of the old mirror when you see him behind you—his face dark, shoulders squared, eyes locked right on yours in the reflection. you don’t turn. you keep brushing.

he doesn’t speak. you feel him before you hear him. boots thud against the floor, slow and heavy. he comes up behind you, towering over you—hot breath brushing your ear. “you wearin’ that for me?”

you blink slowly. the old shirt you sleep in is short—barely grazing your thighs. no bra. nipples tight under the cotton. no panties. (okay, you might’ve hoped he would come over anyways)

“didn’t know you were comin’,” you whisper.

“didn’t either,” he says roughly, then grabs the brush from your hand and tosses it on the floor.

“hands on the dresser,” he mutters. his voice low and even. you obey.

he glances at you through the mirror—his rough palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, pushing the shirt up your waist, exposing the soft curves of your ass. his jaw clenches. you see it. see his nostrils flare.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath. “you always this wet for me?” he dips a finger between your legs, groaning at how slick you are. then he pauses. doesn’t slide it in. just barely circles your entrance with the tip of his finger. you whimper.

“want it?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“joel—”

“i said,” he cuts in, dragging his mouth up the side of your neck, “do you want it?”

“yes,” you breathe.

“then look at yourself,” he growls. “look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

you lift your gaze to the mirror, and oh god. joel’s looking right at you. his hand wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, stroking himself slow while he stares down at you like a goddamn meal. he pushes the tip between your folds and stays there.

“joel—please—”

“i don’t think you do wanna be fucked,” he growls softly. “you don’t even know what it means.”

“i do. i need it, joel—please.”

“you need it?”

he slides in just an inch and your breath stutters. your eyes flutter shut then– smack.

his hand cracks across your ass, not hard, but sharp enough to jolt you. “open your eyes,” he hisses.

you do. and when you do, he presses all the way in. you cry out, knuckles white against the dresser’s edge, your reflection unraveling right before your eyes.

“now watch,” he grits. “wanna see how fuckin’ filthy you look gettin’ used like this.”

you do. you watch. you watch the way his hand fists your hair, tugging your head back. you watch the way your mouth falls open, the way your tits bounce, the way your thighs quiver every time he slams into you. the way his hand reaches up and his fingers squeeze your nipples.

“you like watchin’ me fuck you, don’t you?”

you nod frantically, moaning out something senseless. something that sounds like words mushed all together. his hips slow suddenly—dragging his cock out almost all the way, then grinding back in slow. too slow. torturous.

“you take cock so fuckin’ good,” he growls, watching your expression in the glass. “tight little thing. just made for this. made f’me.”

“joel,” you whine, back arching, “don’t stop, please—”

“not gonna,” he mutters, pace still slow, deliberate, “but i should. should leave you here like this. beggin’. desperate.”

“don’t,” you cry.

“tell me who you belong to.” that was new. but fuck, did you love it.

“you—fuck—you.”

he grips your hips tighter, thrusts deeper, and groans against your neck, “that’s fuckin’ right.”

you come with your face pressed to the mirror, eyes blurry, mouth open. moaning his name. and then he flips you. picks you up like nothing and lays you across the dresser, leans over you and fucks you again while your legs shake and tremble and your pussy’s still twitching.

“gonna give me one more,” he growls, voice cracked and filthy.

“can’t,” you sob.

“you can, and you will. look at me.” he gives your face a gentle love tap with his hand. so you do. you look at him. your eyes meet his. just for a second. and for the first time—just once—he kisses you. fast. desperate. possessive. then he pulls back and whispers, “ain’t never lettin’ anyone else see you like this.”

and you break. this might’ve been a mistake. surely he didn’t mean that, you think. except.. he definitely fucking meant it.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

his favorite was when you took control. when you went running to him. telling him you need him. and when that happens, he sits. he leans back in your old wooden chair, legs spread, thighs wide open, hands resting on them like he’s some damn throne, watching you pull your shirt over your head in the flickering lantern light.

“thought you liked bein’ handled,” he mutters, voice low and amused.

“i do,” you say, straddling him, panties still on, dragging your heat over the bulge in his jeans. “but tonight I’m gonna handle you.”

joel raises one brow, that crooked little smirk tugging at his mouth. “is that right?”

you grind against him slowly. enough pressure to feel the size of him, not enough to give either of you relief.

“don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” you whisper into his ear. “me on top. you underneath. me using you.”

he groans—quiet, like he didn’t mean to let it out. you pull back. grip his chin. “keep your mouth shut tonight, miller. just let me fuck.”

that smirk widens. his eyes flash. but he nods. “go ahead, baby girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat. “show me what you think you can handle.”

you undo his jeans. drag them down, push your panties to the side, and lower yourself onto him—slow. his cock stretches you, fills you, and you keep your eyes on his the whole time. joel groans, fists clenched on his thighs, but doesn’t move. doesn’t buck. doesn’t thrust. just watches you slide down every fucking inch. and then he says, “look at that,” he mutters. “didn’t think you had it in you.”

you snap your hips down, sharp and fast. he hisses through his teeth. “oh, i do,” you breathe, riding him rough, palms planted on his chest. you find your pace—grinding, snapping, rolling—gripping his hair, tugging his head back, claiming him. “you’re gonna sit there,” you pant, “and let me take what i want. no more teasing. just shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

he laughs. low. dark. turned on as hell. but he obeys. keeps his hands to himself. doesn’t thrust. just grits his teeth and takes it. and somewhere along the way? he breaks a little. his eyes glaze. his jaw slackens. and his voice is barely a whisper when he mutters, “fuckin’ look at you. so fuckin’ pretty.”

you lean down. grab his throat—not tight, just enough to make him blink up at you. “don’t get all soft on me now, asshole,” you whisper. “but thanks,” you bite your lip, a small smile threatening to show itself. and that’s when he comes. hard. bites his own fist to keep quiet, and when you clench around him, moaning loud, trembling, he watches you like he’s never seen anything so filthy but beautiful in his life.

you slide off slowly. wipe his cum off your inner thigh with his discarded shirt. on purpose. he doesn’t move. Just breathes hard. and as you walk past him to get dressed, bare and smug and glowing, he grumbles from behind you,“next time, you ride like that again, i ain’t lettin’ you leave bed for a fuckin’ week.”

you just toss him a smirk over your shoulder. “next time? we’ll see if you earn it.”

little by little, the sex began to get more intimate. it began to mean something. starts to be like second nature, like you two heal each other through this. he knows your body needs it before you do. especially on your hard days.

your muscles ache. your back’s sore. you’d been out in the fields all fucking day, sun beating down on your shoulders, dirt caked under your nails, sweat dried on your neck. you don’t realize how quiet you’ve been. you don’t know he was watching. but joel miller sees everything. he always has.

it’s past dark when you hear the knock. two short raps. sharp. then silence. you open the door and there he is—leaning against the frame, arms crossed, face unreadable. “rough day?” he doesn’t actually care. you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. you don’t answer. you just step back and leave the door open. he walks in like he owns the fucking place. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask.

he turns you around by the hips, presses your chest into the table, tugs your pants down and growls, “don’t talk. just fuckin’ take it.”

and you do but tonight.. tonight is different. because instead of just using you until he grunts and spills inside, joel grips your hips, pulls you back onto him slow, and says with that rasp in his voice like he’s already gone, “gonna make you cum first.”

you freeze. he doesn’t repeat himself. he just says, “don’t argue.”

you swallow, trembling. “didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t have to. i can tell.”

he fucks you just the way you need. deep, slow, rhythm steady enough to drive you insane. one hand on your lower back, the other sliding between your legs. he touches you like he means it. finds your clit, starts rubbing tight circles, murmuring just under his breath, “fuckin’ soaked already. knew you needed this.”

you whimper, and his grip tightens.

“come on. let go. i got you.”

you never hear that from him.

you come hard, body shaking, eyes wet, hips grinding back into him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. and even after you’ve cummed, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it. chasing his own high now, grunting into your neck.

“goddamn,” he hisses, breath ragged. “this pussy—fuck—it’s mine when i want it.”

you nod, desperate. “mhm, yes, god yes, it’s yours,” through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

he groans, pulls you close, and finishes inside you with a brutal snap of his hips. he doesn’t leave right away. like he usually does. this time? he steps back, lets out a long breath, and watches the way your body trembles from release. his hands falling down your body back to his sides. he stares at your back, your spine, the sweat along your skin. he wants to reach out. wipe the dirt off your face. run a hand through your hair. lay you down in bed and hold you til your bones stop aching.

but instead, “clean up,” he mutters, already turning. “see you around.” and he’s gone.

you knew something was up with him. but what you don’t know? he saw you that morning. shirt soaked with sweat, bent over a wheelbarrow, jaw clenched. he saw you laughing with someone who wasn’t him. and something in his chest twisted. not jealousy, not exactly. just this awful, possessive ache. something like– she lets other people see her smile, but i’m the one who makes her fall apart.

he hates it. hates what he feels when he sees you. hates that he notices your moods. hates that he shows up for you without knowing why. but most of all? he hates that he’s starting to want more than just the fucking. and he doesn’t know how to stop.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

it starts like always. you let him in. you don’t speak. he’s already unbuckling his belt as you back toward the bedroom, shirt half off, nerves buzzing, mouth dry. he pushes you onto the bed, yanks your panties down, kneels between your legs, and fucks into you raw—bare, thick, deep. one hand clutches your thigh. the other grips your jaw.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this pussy all fuckin’ week,” he growls, hips snapping, breath ragged. “knew it’d still be mine.”

you moan, back arching. his pace gets brutal. he grits his teeth. “you missed me, didn’t you? missed gettin’ split open.”

you’re so close, burning, buzzing, boneless—and that’s when you say it. mid-moan. barely a whisper, “this is the last time.”

his whole body stops. just like that. motionless inside you. chest heaving. a beat of silence. the —

“…meaning?” his voice is gravel. dangerous.

you meet his eyes. swallow. the reason you hadn’t bothered to come looking for joel all week. “i’m seeing someone.”

his jaw tightens. he stares at you, nostrils flared. not angry. not sad. just… calculating. and then he thrusts. hard. once. deep. cruel. you gasp. then again. and again. slow. deliberate. vicious.

“they know you like to get fucked like this?” he growls.

you tremble.

“they know this little cunt gets stretched out, sloppy, takin’ cock like a fuckin’ whore?”

you whimper, try to pull back—he grabs your hips, yanks you flush to him.

“don’t you fuckin’ move now.”

his hand slides down—rough on your clit, circling, forcing. god you loved this so much. but dammit you knew what the hell joel was doing. no one can fuck you the way he can, the way he knows your body needs— loves.

“wanna stop? we can. after you fuckin’ come on my cock one last time.”

you try to fight it. try to stay still. try to show him he doesn’t have that much of an effect on you. but your body betrays you. he knows how to ruin you. knows the angle, the pressure, the filth to whisper in your ear.

“bet he don’t even know how to touch you right.”

“he kiss your pussy or just fumble around like a fuckin’ idiot?”

“you’ll think about me next time you fuck him. know how I know?”

“‘cause you’re squeezin’ ‘round me so tight right now.”

you come with a choked moan, body clenching, tears pricking your eyes. he watches you like you just broke something in him. he finishes inside you. stays buried. breathing hard. and then pulls out without a word. pants up. shirt down. you stay lying there. spent. ruined. he stands at the edge of the bed and says—quietly, “don’t call me when it falls apart.”

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

you’re out with him— miles. he’s nice. sweet smile. soft hands. a little younger than joel. harmless in the way joel never was. he makes you laugh.

youu don’t even realize joel’s there. standing across the street, half in shadow, pretending he’s looking for something—someone—else. but he’s watching you. he watches you lean into this guys shoulder, watches your smile, that sweet little laugh—the one joel’s never earned, the one you never made while he was fucking you into the mattress. he watches him tuck your hair behind your ear. so gentle. and something snaps in joel’s chest. jealousy? couldn’t be. he doesn’t even like you. right?

he just hates… hates that someone else gets your softness. hates that he never touched you without making you cry or beg or moan into the dark. hates that he wants to see that smile again—but only for him. that night, he doesn’t sleep. lays awake, jaw clenched, staring at the ceiling.

thinks of your laugh. your mouth. the way your face used to twist when you came so hard around his cock that your knees buckled. so finally—he gets up. doesn’t even know if you’ll be home. if you’ll be alone.

you’re still half-dressed when the knock hits. two short, sharp bangs. you freeze. you know that knock. you open the door slowly. a mistake, but oke you don’t mind making. and there he is.

joel miller.

grim. unshaven. eyes shadowed with something dangerous. you open your mouth, but he steps into your space, grabs your jaw. leans down. and says in that low, gravel voice of his. “get on your fuckin’ knees.”

you don’t think. you drop. hands to the floor. knees hitting the hardwood with a soft thump. door slamming shut. joel’s already undoing his belt, one hand still tangled in your hair.

“you missed this, didn’t you?”

you look up at him. wide-eyed. silent. starving.

“bet he don’t know what this mouth is capable of,” joel mutters, stroking himself, thick and hard, the tip already dripping. “bet he don’t know how you gag on it. how you moan with it down your throat.”

he slaps it against your cheek. you flinch. he groans. “open.”

you do. he shoves in. no warning. no softness. just rage and lust and something bitter at the back of his throat. he grips your hair. thrusts deep. watches your eyes water.

“yeah,” he hisses, hips snapping, “that’s right. take it. take what you fuckin’ need.”

you gag, but you don’t pull away. you do need this. crave it. you’ve been aching for it. he uses your mouth like it’s his to own. his to ruin.

“mm, fuck,” he growls, eyes fluttering, “missed this. missed that look.”

he’s breathing hard now, fingers twitching in your hair, hips bucking faster— then he rips you off with a wet gasp. you pant, drool slicking your chin, lips swollen, cunt throbbing. he looks down at you, cock still twitching, and says low–

“tell me he makes you come.”

you stare at him. chest heaving. you say nothing. joel’s jaw clenches. “does he?”

you shake your head no. he leans in. Just enough for you to feel his breath. “that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

he grabs you under the arms, drags you to your feet, flips you around, and bends you over the back of the sofa like he owns your body and the rights to your soul.

“gonna fuckin’ remind you,” he mutters, pushing into you raw, rough, deep, “who made you like this.”

all you can do is moan because he’s right. you’re ruined. you’re his. you always were. and he fucking knew it. he’s already backed you into your bedroom, already shoved your clothes off with nothing but gritted teeth and hands that shake too much to be just lust. you didn’t stop him. you didn’t say a damn word. he spreads you open and buries himself in you without a kiss, without a whisper, just a choked “fuckin’ missed this,”—you moaned like he owned you. he fucks you like he never plans on doing it again.

you’re on your back, one leg thrown over his shoulder, the other shaking against the sheets. joel’s braced over you, chest gleaming with sweat, eyes locked on your face like he’s watching something burn.

“look at you,” he snarls through clenched teeth, dragging his cock deep. “so fuckin’ pretty when you’re ruined.”

you sob—tight and breathless—and he growls, fucking into you harder. “you want it this bad, you let me back in this easy? you still need me that bad?”

you whimper, hand reaching up blindly—he grabs your wrist, slams it down above your head. asshole.

“don’t start now,” he pants. “this ain’t sweet. this ain’t a goddamn reunion. you opened the door. you let me in. you fuckin’ asked for this.”

joel grabs both your wrists now, pinning them down, chest pressed to yours, and grinds deep—his hips heavy, cock thick and pulsing, dragging against the spot that makes you break.

“yeah,” he mutters. “right fuckin’ there. that where you want it?”

you sob, nod, eyes wet. and then he lets go. let’s you grab at him. let’s your nails drag down his arms. let’s you sob his name when your cunt tightens and your orgasm hits like a freight train. joel curses. loud. filthy.

“fuck—fuck, there you go—made this pussy mine again, didn’t i?

and then he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills inside you. the silence deafening. just breath. sweat. the creak of the bed. he pulls out. doesn’t say a word. you roll to your side, legs trembling, trying to breathe again. and he—he sits there. still shirtless. still catching his breath. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t grab his pants. doesn’t leave like he usually does. he stares. watches you pull the blanket up over your chest. watches you wipe your mouth, your thighs. watches you sit up and press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“he treat you okay?”

the words drop like a stone in water. your eyes flutter open. you nod, slowly. joel stares at the floor. jaw tight. like saying it made something inside him crack. he says, “better than I ever could, huh?”

it’s not sarcastic. not smug. just low. honest. soft. and you look at him. straight on. eyes tired. voice flat. “probably.”

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t argue. just gets up and grabs his shirt. he walks to the door and as he opens it, steps into the dark, he says over his shoulder—

“see you tomorrow.”

like it’s not even a question. like he knows you’ll let him in. like he knows he still fucking owns you. lil always, you hate that he’s right.

✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙ ✮⋆˙

the patrol is hell. at least, it is for joel. who’s brilliant idea was it to put miles on his team? surely joel would give whoever was responsible for that hell. joel doesn’t even remember his name—just that he smiles too much and keeps fucking talking.

“i think i’m startin’ to really like her, man,” he says with a grin, reins loose in his hands, horse trotting beside joel’s like he doesn’t notice the tension rolling off him. miles thought everyone was his friend, always spilled too much of his business with little remorse. joel hates it. he doesn’t respond. just keeps riding. eyes narrowed. jaw clenched.

“she’s real funny,” the guy continues. “smart as hell. kind. don’t know what i did to deserve her.” the guy laughs, nudges him. “You know her, right? Said you two work together.”

joel finally turns. his voice flat, empty, “not that well.”

but that night? joel can’t sit still. all he can picture is your laugh, your soft touches, your lips on someone else’s skin. someone who doesn’t know the sounds you make when you’re writhing underneath him, begging for more. someone who doesn’t know how you look when you fall apart. someone who doesn’t fuckin’ deserve to touch you. so Joel shows up. no knocking this time. he just opens your door and steps inside. the door you purposely left unlocked. specifically for joel.

he doesn’t speak. just grabs you by the hips and pushes you back onto the bed, his hands already yanking your shorts down. you’re too stunned to fight it, to ask what the hells going on. he’s on his knees. spreads your legs wide. spits on your pussy and looks up at you with a darkness in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs.

“he don’t do this, does he?”

you stutter. shake your head. brows pulled together. whimper. joel groans—deep and guttural—like that’s all he needed to hear. he dives in. mouth hot and fucking desperate. his tongue drags up your slit, slow and thick and possessive. he sucks your clit between his lips and moans into you like he’s tasting salvation.

“fucking miss this pussy,” he growls into you, “miss the way you taste. sweet little thing. just made for my mouth.”

you’re already shaking. but he’s not done. he presses his fingers into your thighs, spreads you wider, tilts your hips just right, and starts tongue-fucking you like a man with something to prove.

“bet he doesn’t do this, huh?” he snarls, lips wet, voice wrecked. “doesn’t get on his knees. doesn’t tongue fuck you so deep your eyes roll back.”

you cry out, hips bucking, and he grabs your ass, drags you closer.

“fuckin’ knew it. he’s too soft. too sweet. don’t know what to do with a pussy like this. you need this. you need me.”

his tongue circles your clit again, fast and tight, and you arch—screaming, clutching the sheets underneath your palms so tight, it aches. he keeps going. overstimulating. torturing. lapping you up like he’s thirsty and you’re the only thing that’s ever quenched him.

“let me hear it,” he rasps. “let me fuckin’ hear how good i eat this pussy.”

you wail, fists still twisted in the sheets, legs locked around his head as he rips your orgasm out of you. and when you start to come down, he doesn’t stop. just growls, “again.”

you prop yourself up on your elbows and watch him. after he is satisfied with the mess he’s made of you, he sits back on his heels. his face is soaked. his lips swollen. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he looks like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. he steps to you—when his rough hands find your hips, slide under your shirt, push you slowly back onto the bed—there’s something aching in his eyes.

you don’t speak. he undresses you gently. properly getting you naked. kisses your trembling knee. joel never kisses your knee. he climbs over you like you’re the softest fucking place he’s ever laid his body. you feel his cock through his jeans. your hands fumble with his belt, shimming his jeans and boxers down, freeing his hard shaft. his cock drags through your slick folds and pushes in slow, both of you moan. but he doesn’t move. he just leans down. brushes your hair back. you’re staring at him, his eyes scanning your face. taking all of you in.

he whispers, “say my name.”

“joel.”

“again.”

“joel,” you breathe, furrowing your brows as your hands cup his face.

his lips part. “just like that. don’t stop.”

he starts moving—deep, steady strokes that melt your spine. he keeps his eyes locked on yours, breathing hard, tasting his name on your lips with soft, deep kisses. and then—he crumbles. he fucking breaks.

“jesus christ, baby girl,” he groans, fucking into you harder, faster. “look at you—look at how fuckin’ beautiful you are like this.”

you gasp. joel’s hand grabs your face. thumb brushes your bottom lip. he’s killing you!

“lemme hear it again.”

“joel,” you cry, moaning, legs around his waist, hips meeting every thrust.

he grunts, mouth at your jaw. “that’s my girl. that’s my pretty fuckin’ girl. say it when you come. wanna feel you say it.”

your head falls back, your whole body climbing, burning, breaking.

“c’mon, sweetheart. make a mess for me. show me who fuckin’ owns this pussy.”

“you, joel—fuck—it’s yours—”

he lets out the dirtiest groan you’ve ever heard. his hands are on your face again. both of them. he’s looking down at you like you’re fucking holy. it kills him. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, still pounding into you. “all fucked out and still takin’ it. you were made for this. made for me.”

you’re crying now. shaking. guilt? love? lust? an orgasm? overstimulation? don’t know but joel sees it—leans in, presses his forehead to yours and moans—

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. let me have it. come for me. come on my cock, baby girl. i got you. say my name when you do.”

you scream it. loud, “joel, fuck, joel!” you convulse around him, trembling, breaking, and he follows— catching all your broken moans into his mouth with a desperate kiss— a low, wrecked grunt, spilling inside you like he’s trying to leave something real behind.

he collapses on top of you. breathing hard. face buried in your neck. he lifts his head. looks at your face. wipes the tears from your cheeks with a rough thumb and says—

“so much for just fucking, huh?”

you blink. your heart hammers. “did grumpy, joel miller just make a joke?” your voice soft, sweet, that little smile on your face joel has been dying to see for him.

joel miller– gruff, cold, filthy joel—just smirks softly.

“don’t get used to it,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek.

“don’t go fallin’ in love with me now, asshole. still just your fuck buddy.”

“we’re buddies?”

you roll your eyes and he brings his face down to yours, his nose grazing the tip of yours. “if that’s okay with you,” you say.

he hums, lifting his eyes to meet yours, “‘slong as i get to keep you here underneath me, anything’s okay with me.”

you groan, playfully tugging on curls at the nape of his neck, “you love me, don’t you.” a statement. playful but true.

“would it be so bad if i did?” joel holds your gaze for a long time. his fingers lazily tangling into your hair, body still pressed up against yours. and for a moment, this feels nice. feels warm, domestic. your soft limbs wrapped into his rugged ones. too busy arguing with him all the time that you never stopped to think that maybe just maybe, you two were meant to balance each other out. but miles. sweet, innocent miles. never had a chance, did he?