Buffalo 66
Summary: Joel has specific taste. As his control over you grows, the tension escalates—especially when an unsettling event threatens your safety.
Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel x gf!reader
WC/Tags: 6,345 / blood, gun wound, piv smut, edging, morally grey Joel, drug alluding, smuggling alluding, slapping, deep biting
A/N: this one ended up being a doozy. I do feel like it’s a little all over the place but that’s what I wanted, because Joel is all over the place. Inspired by the Buffalo 66 music video from Nessa Barrettes new album. ML below!
‘Long day. Be ready.’
You blink at the text before glancing up at your driver from your seat in the back, and then returning your gaze to your phone. Your fingers hover over the buttons, unsure and you ignore the way they shake as you type out, ‘I have a new dress to show you’.
His text is immediate. ‘Perfect’
You feel eyes on you, and you tilt your gaze up, narrowing at the driver. He jumps, face moving back to the road and you adjust the scarf around your neck.
The skin still aches, still tender from Joel’s teeth even though it had been days ago since he’d marked you up. The scarf is itchy and uncomfortable but no one needs to see that, they wouldn’t understand. No one would, except you and him.
You don’t have to tell me please, i’ll sit pretty for you.
Between his business, a booming tattooing and inking company that had taken over the market in Texas, and his ex-wife badgering him about money and his daughter, Joel has particular tastes.
He is rough.
He is hard.
He is all you’ve ever wanted.
The car slows, and you slip your phone back into your purse. When the driver opens the door, you press your shades over your eyes, exiting smoothly as the sun winks down at you.
It’s early evening, you still have a few hours before he’s normally home. You’re nearly trembling with the anxiety inducing want of fulfilling him.
You shower long, washing yourself in the lemon-citrus soaps he had bought for you. The razor is delicate on your skin, removing all the unwanted hair from your body before you oil it, pummising your heels and exfoliating your fingers. You wash and comb your hair, careful of your neck, the pressure light before you step from the tile-clad shower.
The mirror is fogged over, and you wipe it with your hand, your reflection blinking back at you. Your eyes track the mark on your neck, a smile twisting on your face before you turn away. With the towel around your breasts, you blow dry your hair, curling it before tying it atop your head, and delicately applying your makeup.
When you finish, you tug on a pair of black panties before sliding into the black dress you had purchased that afternoon. It hugs your hips, lifting your breasts in a way that you know they won’t be ignored.
Stepping infront of the full length mirror in his bedroom, you take inventory of your reflection.
You’re hairless, polished and smooth. Your lips are full, brows sharp. You are perfect. You are exhausted.
If I could, I would actually leave.
The body guard stationed at the front of the large mansion you call home knocks at the bedroom door gently, alerting you of Joel’s arrival and your blood instantly thrums in your ears. You let down your hair, the curls falling in waves over your shoulder, applying one more coat of lipgloss before you traipse down the hallway.
You can hear the slight sound of music, his record player already on, and you swallow as you push open the door all the way.
Joel is sitting in the leather arm chair by the window, his favorite spot in the entire house. He’s fucked you in that chair, watched you on your knees as he held your hair, his back pressed into the brown leather as your tongue licked up and down his length. It’s the only piece of furniture that’s even the slightest bit worn in.
There’s a glass tumbler in his hand, amber liquid swirling and he balances it on his knee before his grey eyes flick to yours. He’s showered, his grey black hair slick and damp, and when he lifts the glass to his mouth, the tattoo on his hand flexes under the skin.
You stare at him, watching him swallow. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known him; Joel always mesmerizes you.
His eyes are cool, taking in your figure. He tracks your dress with the same intensity he always has, your body shivering at his gaze even as you take a few tentative steps closer to him, pausing when he lifts his hand.
He crooks his finger, beckoning you closer with a single motion.
His face is blank, emotionless, but you can see the way one corner of his lip quirks just a bit. The hand not holding the glass of booze runs through his damp hair as he sits up, and you step forward, feet bare in the plush carpet.
As if changing his mind, he holds up a hand and you stop. He leans back into the chair, and then he spins his index finger in the air, once, almost lazily.
You shiver, already unnerved, already aching.
His jaw tightens in a way that says he’s impatient. You step back, and in the flow of the music from his record player, you slowly begin to dance. Your lips set, you move your hips, hands on your thighs before slowly rising up your hips, under your breasts. You caress them, in the way he would, and let your neck fall back, exposing your throat and his mark.
Joel’s eyes darken.
He doesn’t blink.
The glass stays balanced on his knee, untouched now, the ice long melted. His jaw ticks again, once, as your fingers trace the curve of your breasts, as your throat arches bare and marked for him. That possessive fire flickers in his storm-gray eyes, slow-burning but inevitable.
Joel leans forward, grabbing a tightly wrapped cigarette and puts it between his lips. He lights it with one hand, but his eyes never leave your moving form. You raise your hands above you, fingers caressing your own wrists and knuckles as Joel blows at a puff of white smoke, settling back into the leather. He swallows, the money symbol tattoo’d on the side of his neck moving with the motion.
Twisting your face you feel your hair brush the exposed skin of your back, your hands falling back to your hips. You look at your own tattoos, the delicate ink that dots your arms and skin, each of them drawn and placed by him, because who else could have done them for you?
Before he had truly made his money, Joel had owned a small parlor a few miles from his daughter’s school. You had happened upon it by accident, getting an impromptu tattoo on a dare. He’d drawn it out with a cigarette between his lips, his hair curled and mused, and had whispered to you softly as he worked. He told you it was a good design, a pretty design, pretty like you, and you’d been drawn to him ever since.
But that was then. This is now.
The Joel before you now is a different man, a harder one. He runs a fast line of business and fucks even harder, and as you do a spin, you feel your stomach churn because you know what this does to him. The same thing it does to you.
He blows out a puff of smoke, and you tilt your head, eyes finding his.
“Turn around.”
His voice is low, sounding like gravel under tires. It doesn’t ask.
You turn, your lips parting as you hear the leather of the chair creek. His hand comes around your abdomen, large and inked, fingers spreading and then the other does the same, bracketing your hips lightly so that you can still move, still dance even as he holds you.
Joel’s breath is warm against the back of your neck, his chest pressed right up against your spine. You can feel his heartbeat even through the soft fabric of his shirt, beating hard and fast in his chest.
That cigarette is held to his lips, smoke filling the air as Joel drags one hand lower, his fingers tracing the curve of your ass as his lips find your jaw. He takes his time, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of hot kisses down your neck.
“Turn a little bit for me.”
You go to move but it isn’t fast enough, not for him. He yanks you to face him hard, and you stumble, hands on his chest but you don’t flinch, and let your fingers trace down the fabric of his shirt. He watches with a steely expression, smelling of sweet whisky and smoke, and your nail flicks one of the buttons. His hand comes up, cupping your face as his chin tilts down so he can look at you better.
You stare at him. He stares back, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you think he can read your mind. His gaze never wavers as your touch slides down his chest, and you see the muscle there flex beneath your fingertips. His expression remains almost unreadable, save for a tightening in his jaw as you flick the button open.
The hand on your face is firm, almost commanding, and you feel your breathing grow slightly ragged from the intensity of his stare. Joel's eyes are like steel, sharp and unyielding, and you get the feeling he's not just looking at you. He's assessing you.
“You look good in that dress.”
You don’t say anything, continuing to slowly move, to stay dancing until he’s ready to move on from it. He sighs, his thumb brushing your jaw, and then your spinning again as he turns you and tugs your back to his front. Fingers splay over your abdomen, rising so that they brush beneath your breasts and you lean your head back against his shoulder, letting your eyes close.
“Might be interrupted by some business.” Joel murmurs into your hair. “So don’t be worrying if I have to go off for a bit.”
“What kind of business?” You ask, even though you know.
Ink and art isn’t the only thing Joel sells. It isn’t the real way he made his fortune.
Cause I don’t mind, to you I’m bound.
“The kind of business I don't want you worrying about.” His words are gruff, final, and Joel's hand tightens around your hip in warning. He nuzzles the hair at the back of your neck, and you feel him breathe in deep, his chest pressing into your back. The song on Joel's old record player changes, the tempo changing to something a little more slow and sultry. Your head is still tilted back, and his fingers run lightly up the sides of your thighs.
His hand pulls back before wrapping around your shoulder, hand slowly moving over your collarbones.
The bite mark on your neck throbs.
“What happened today?” You breathe, and his thumb brushes over your pulse point.
Joel's thumb presses just a little harder over your pulse, feeling the beat jump under his touch. His voice is low, gravel and smoke.
“Got a shipment in late. Trouble at the docks. One of my men got nervous, started talking loose.” A pause. His jaw tightens against your shoulder. “He won't be talking anymore.” The words hang between you, cold and sharp, but then his lips brush your ear, soft now, softer than they have any right to be after what he’s done. “You don’t need to know the rest.”
You close your eyes, tilting your neck more, and you hear him groan.
When his teeth sink into the tender skin, you don’t wince. You don’t cry or move. You simply let him do what he wants.
Promise I won’t scream, don’t need to breathe at all.
His hand grips your jaw as he fluctuates between kissing and biting your throat, his teeth marking the skin more than it had been before.
It’s carnal and harsh and intoxicating.
He kisses and bites and sucks, marking up your neck until he's satisfied, his breath coming in warm against your skin. You'll have a hard time hiding the evidence tomorrow, and the thought makes him grip your jaw even harder.
His hand releases you, only to travel lower and grip your hip. He tugs you closer, and you feel all the hard lines of his body against your back.
“Turn for me again.”
You do, turning in his arms and finally, he kisses you. He tastes like the whiskey bottles on his shelf, his beard tickling the corner of your lips as you melt against him, into him.
The kiss is deep, demanding—like he’s claiming you all over again. His hands slide into your hair, gripping tight at the roots as his tongue moves with yours, slow and possessive. You can feel the tension in him, the day’s violence still coiled beneath his skin, and yet he holds you like this, like you’re something to come home to.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just an inch. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.
“Don’t forget who owns this,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Who owns you.”
You could never forget.
Your neck throbs.
Pulling your face close Joel makes a humming sound at the back of his throat, eyes scanning from your hair to your lips. He smiles, and your knees go a little weak.
The smile on his lips is dangerous. A flash of white against tanned skin. This smile is for no one but you.
His hand is still gripping your hair, the pressure on your strands just this side of painful, and Joel uses his grip to tip your head back, baring your throat again. Your pulse is hammering in your neck, and Joel leans forward, his nose running along a sensitive vein.
“Can't quite get enough of you, can I?” he whispers, the words hot against your skin. “My pretty girl. Mine.”
Your lashes flutter, and your fingers grip onto his suit jacket, moving inside to his shirt again, and your fingers brush against something cold. You move your hand away quickly, to the front of his shirt, because you don’t need to see the gun to know what it is.
His mouth presses to your jaw and then tilts your head so he can find your mouth. Joel kisses you until your breathless, chest heaving, nipples hardening under the fabric of your dress. He groans into your mouth, and you’re about to open your jaw from him when a shot rings out.
You freeze, and Joel swears, pulling away from you to peer out the window. He curses again, shoving past you and you stumble, sitting slowly in the leather chair as he walks from the room.
“Stay here.” He commands, and your brows knit.
“Joel-“
“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, his face barely visible from behind the doorway. “And stay put.”
Why am I in?
You want to stand, to follow him and see what's going on outside, but you know better. Stay put.
Your fingers twitch.
When he comes back, there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow. He glances at you as he moves around his desk, yanking open a drawer and then slamming it shut.
He's tense, his shoulders rigid. You can see the muscles in his jaw clenching, and the tattoo on his neck flexes with every movement. Joel runs a hand through his hair, his gaze still on the desk, and you feel your heart pound in your chest.
His eyes snap to you.
“C'mere.”
You rise, walking around the desk and lean on the dark wood. He stands to his full height, and shrugs off his jacket. The holster of the gun is the first thing you notice, and then the tightness of his arms pressing against the white fabric, a small sweat patch near the buttons.
As if he can hear you, Joel tilts his head, eyeing you before opening another drawer. He gingerly reaches inside, and your world because the smallest bit fuzzy as he thrusts a silver pistol into your lap.
Exhale. Inhale. Swallow.
You look up at him, demanding your hands to stop shaking. “What’s this?”
“What?” Joel questions, folding his arms. “You’ve held one before.”
You lick your lips because you know what this is. “Joel…”
He grabs your bicep, hauling you to your feet and from the room. You move quickly, trying to keep up with him, and he takes you down the stairs. Two guards stand by the back patio doors, and as Joel approaches, they move aside, opening the doors.
The night breeze is cool on your skin, and the scent of summer hangs heavy in the air. The grounds are dark, the moon high above the treeline, and you shiver a little as you feel the grass against your bare feet.
Joel's grip is firm on your arm as he leads you across the expanse of his backyard, towards the pool house. You've been in there hundreds of times, but the place has always given you an eerie feeling. He opens the door, pushing you inside.
You don’t recognize the store clerk, not at first. His eyes are so puffy you can’t see their colors. There’s a bullet hole in his thigh, leaking a stream of red that stains the flooring. You feel your own eyes grow wide, glancing at the guard standing behind him, and you turn to Joel.
“What is this?”
“This here, is Marvin,” Joel says and gestures to the man currently on his knees, his hands tied behind his back, and bleeding from his brow. “He sold you that…incredible number you’ve got on right now.” You glance at your dress, then at Marvin, and then at Joel. “But see, he also took some pictures.”
“He…what?” You feel overheated, confused and when Joel sends his fist into the man’s cheek, you look away.
He straightens, shaking out his fist. “You were busy. Preoccupied. Trying on the outfits you wear for me, and this piece of shit, thought he could have a little preview.”
The guard standing behind Martin hands Joel a phone, and he holds it up to your face. It’s a photo of you, from earlier. Naked, aside from your dark blue thong, a dress at your feet as you struggle to pull on a pencil skirt. It’s obvious you didn’t know you were being photographed, the image a little shaky and coming through the slate of the door. The intention is obvious. Your mouth goes dry.
Joel's eyes never leave yours as the phone burns in his hand, the image of your unknowing body frozen on screen.
“Eyes here.” he murmurs.
You look at him. Your breath hitches.
The fury in him is ice-cold now, not wild or reckless. Calculated.
“This,” Joel says, voice low and deadly calm as he gestures to Marvin with the gun still tucked at his side, “ain't about money. Ain't about respect.” He takes a step toward you, close enough that his thumb drags over your bottom lip. “It’s about you. What belongs to me.” He turns then, slow and deliberate, and levels a look at Marvin that makes even the guard shift on his feet. He slips the phone back in his pocket. “No one sees that aside from me, and gets to continue on.”
“J-Joel,” you choke, shaking your head and putting the phone down. “It..it’s harmless. And he’s sorry, right Marvin?”
You look past Joel, pleading with Marvin and the man nods, his swollen face red and splotchy.
Joel goes still.
Not the kind of still that’s safe. The kind that comes before a storm.
He turns his head slowly, eyes cutting to you like blades. “You defending him?” His voice is quiet.
Before you can answer, he steps past you, grabs Marvin by the hair, and slams his face into the floor with a wet crunch. Blood splatters across the tiles.
“Sorry don't fix fuckin' anything,” Joel snarls, standing tall again as Marvin whimpers beneath him. He faces you now, eyes hard as stone. “You're what's important. Not his damn tears.” A beat passes, then he pulls out his phone and taps one-handed at the screen before tossing it to one of his men.
“Send that photo to every burner in rotation,” Joel says flatly. “And let everyone know, peep my woman again,” He glances down at Marvin's trembling form with cold finality. “...they end up like him.”
Why am I in love?
He walks back to you, grips your jaw gently, so gentle it almost hurts more than anything else, and stares into your eyes.
“Cry if you want,” he murmurs. “But don't ever ask me to spare someone who hurt what's mine.”
You shake your head, press a quick kiss to his hand. “I’m not crying, I don’t ….i ain’t sorry for him.”
And you aren’t, because Joel is right. You are his, and his alone.
Joel's grip tightens for just a second, possessive, approving, before he pulls you against his chest, one hand sliding into your hair.
“Damn right,” he murmurs against your temple. “Every breath, every heartbeat…every goddamn drop of blood in that pretty little body.” He steps back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face like he's memorizing it all over again. Then he turns to the guards.
“Take him out back, and when the dogs are done, burn what's left.”
No hesitation.
No remorse.
Then it’s just you and him again, the silence thick between you, broken only by the faint sound of Marvin’s muffled sobs fading down the steps.
“Joel-“
“Come on.”
He grabs you again and you notice this time it’s not so hard, not so fast. He brings you back inside, back up the stairs to his office. You ignore the guards, ignore the gravel dust on your feet from walking barefoot across the backyard, and ignore the way your heart races in your chest.
The office door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing in the vast room. Joel still has a grip on your arm, his fingers biting into your skin. He stands behind you—so close you can feel the heat of his body against your back.
His other hand brushes your hair away from your neck, lips finding the sensitive skin below your ear. His breath is warm, and you shiver, despite the summer humidity.
“You need to understand something.”
You exhale, shivering and you blink hard. “What?”
“You don't protect them,” His hand slides from your arm, up your neck, fingers grazing the fresh bruises he left there earlier. He doesn’t squeeze, not yet. “You protect me. By being mine, no guilt, no second thoughts when someone touches what isn’t theirs.”
He turns you slowly, forcing your back against the heavy wood of his desk. The edge bites into your spine as he leans in, his beard scratching your jaw when he speaks again—so soft it almost sounds tender. He cups your face, thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. “And if that means blood on my hands, let it be.”
You gaze at him, this brutal man that has somehow claimed your heart. Nodding slowly, you will your pulse to slow. Exhaling, he caresses your face with his finger tips. It’s a slow movement, and you feel your expression crumble beneath his stare.
“Sorry,” you whisper, and you look away. “It’s not…fuck that guy. It’s not because it’s him. I just, feel like it’s my fault. That I made you do that.”
“You didn't make me do anything,” You nod, your eyes dropping and he lifts your chin, making you look at him. “My girl.”
When he kisses you he reaches down, lifting your legs so he can set you on the desk. You gasp, thighs instantly spreading for him to step between, and his fingers knot in your hair. He tugs you back, holding you still and with his free hand, he pulls his gun from its holster. Your eyes widen as he holds it between you, the light from the desk lamp bouncing off the metal.
“See this?” He murmurs, and your gaze flicks from him to the weapon. “This is for protection. To make ya feel safe.” He lowers it, and slowly places it beneath the hem of your dress. Heart in your throat, you watch him, push the fabric of the dress higher, riding up your thighs until it exposes the cotton of your black thong. “It can also make you feel other things.”
“Joel-“ you whisper, because you trust him, of course you do, but the blood is roaring loudly in your ears.
One hand moves from your hair to the back of your neck, gently massaging the muscles there as he studies your face. The other hand, the one holding his gun, is still pressed against your inner thigh.
“Shh,” he says, his thumb tracing tiny circles against your skin. “You trust me?”
Even if the words are calming, his voice is anything but, all low and steel, his expression still cold behind those steel gray eyes. Still dangerous.
“I trust you.” You whisper as your heart races. he nods, his teeth clenching before his eyes dropped to the gun. with slow movements, he runs the hilt over the cloth covering your core. You twitch, bracing your hands on the edge of the desk.
He smirks as he feels you twitch, his touch gentle and almost teasing as he runs the gun over your panties.
“Relax,” he mutters, and you shiver. “Take a deep breath for me, pretty girl.”
He doesn’t get it.
As Joel repeats the movement with slow deliberate drags of his wrist, you open your eyes, your lids heavy and he tilts his head in a way that makes your heart sing.
You don’t know why you’re in love; but you are.
Desperately.
Foolishly.
He pulls the gun away and your brows knit, your hips bucking slightly and a hum of want bubbles from your throat. With a twist of his fingers he pinches your thigh, hushing you before he picks you up, wrapping your legs around your waist and walking around the desk. Your arms slide around his neck like they belong there, and when he settles himself on the cream colored couch of his office, you lean back, looking at him through your lashes.
Joel’s eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with something possessive and primal as he watches you straddle him. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in—just enough to leave bruises.
“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel. “All worked up from just my hands on you.” His thumb presses into the sensitive skin at your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “And now you’re sittin’ pretty on my lap like you were made for it.”
His hand moves from your hip, sliding up your side before cupping your jaw. His touch is rough, calloused fingers tracing your cheekbone before tilting your chin up—forcing you to hold his gaze.
“You gonna let me remind you who you belong to?”
You fee like your melting as he leans up, brushing his mouth against the corner of your lips. You exhale, your eyes fluttering shut and you brace your hands on his shoulders.
“I love you.”
“I know, baby.”
He kisses you fully, and you feel so incredibly empty, needing him closer, needing him so deep within you you can’t recognize where he begins and you end.
You grind down on his lap, feeling his length already hard in his pressed pants and he grunts, nipping at your lip. He tugs at your panties and you rise on your knees to that he can tug them to the side as you unzip his trousers. Fingers brush at your slit, already dripping, and when you pull him from his boxers his member is flush and taut. You stroke him, lips parted as he presses his finger within you, testing you, feeling the warmth of your walls.
Joel exhales sharply through his nose when your fingers wrap around him, the rough pads of your fingertips dragging over his length—slow, teasing. His head falls back against the couch, his jaw tight as he watches you from beneath heavy lids. He pushes his finger into you, spreading to stretch you out; his touch is rougher, now, more insistent, but there’s something else there—something that makes him more careful than he usually is. It's like he wants to savor every moment with you, to make sure you feel nothing but the intense pleasure of what he's doing.
He crooks his finger.
Your lips part, breath hitching when he adds another finger inside you, curling them just so, and you swear you see stars behind your eyelids.
Joel groans at the sight of you beginning to fall apart, just from his fingers, and suddenly he’s gripping your hips, yanking you forward.
“No more teasing,” he growls. “Take it.”
He pulls his hands away, lining up your entrance with a hurried pace and when you sink down, he grips your face between his thumb and index finger.
“Slow,” he demands, a vein pulsing in his temple before pressing a kiss to your lips. “Slow.”
You stutter, then go again, choking on air until you’re fully seated. You pause, getting accustomed to the feel, your thighs trembling a little and when you rise, you shiver.
Joel watches you, eyes dark, his fingers tracing patterns over your hips. He keeps them there, his knuckles white as he holds back, waiting for you to adjust.
“That's it,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He's tense beneath you, every muscle in his body coiled tight as he watches you carefully. “Take what you need.”
Your brows knot. “But what about yo-“
The slap is light, but it jars you, and you blink hard, your skin tingling from where his hand had been.
“I said,” he mutters, and you watch the tattoos flex along his skin. “Take what you need.”
You slowly drag your hips back and forth, trying to catch a pace. Soon enough your slow grinding turns into a full on bounce of desperation for some relief and you moan out softly, hands on his shoulders.
Joel’s hands clamp down on your hips, harshly guiding your rhythm now, each movement sharp and deliberate. His breath comes in short bursts against your neck as you ride him, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
His eyes are wild, fierce with something raw and untamed. Not just lust, but need. The same kind that claws at you from deep inside.
“Say it again,” he demands, voice breaking like gravel under fire. “Say what you are.”
“Yours.” You gasp it out between bounces, fingers clutching his shoulders tighter. “I’m yours.”
One hand leaves your hip to grab your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a silent claim as he tilts his head back with a low groan.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your pulse before tightening slightly. “And no one…no one…gets to see this but me.”
Your walls flutter around him and you know you’re getting closer. You ride him slow, his thumb pressing into the bite mark and your eyes flick to his.
He’s all yours. All consuming.
You feel the molten warm in your abdomen, and just as you think you could let go, his hand drops from your throat and onto your hips, lifting you off him. A cry of anguish leaves you as he shoves you to the couch beside him before he stands up and whirls on you with a sneer.
“No. Nuh uh baby,” his tone is cold. “Not until we finish your lesson.”
“Joel,” you whimper, your walls fluttering around nothing and you could scream. “What the fuck?”
Joel opens one of the closets, rummaging a moment before pulling a long, silver shovel and glaring at you.
“Once I’m finished cleaning up your mess,” he says evenly. “then so can you.”
You feel hot, pent up, and beyond coiled.
You drop to the carpeted floor on your hands and knees, fisting the material in your fingers. “I’ll be more vigilant.”
“Yeah?”
You nod quickly, pathetically. You’d do anything, say anything so long as he touches you again. “Yes. I will. Please, Joel, pl-“
He makes a tsking sound, and then with the shovel dragging behind him, walks towards the door. You begin to scramble to your feet and he turns around, his eyes wicked.
“I think I like you on your knees.” He tosses the words over his shoulder as he begins walking again, and you drop to your knees immediately, crawling after him.
If the you that had walked into his tattoo shop, could see you now, she would shrink of embarrassment.
But this you, this new, inked and black haired Madonna, can’t find that she cares. She just wants him.
The carpet turns to hardwood, and still you crawl behind him, calling his name in a soft voice.
Joel pauses.
He’s standing with his back to you, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched. His head tilts just slightly, as if he's listening carefully to the sound of your voice—your desperate whining—but he doesn't move. He lets you crawl the rest of the way, until your hands are at his feet and you're looking up at him, eyes wide and face flushed.
Finally, Joel looks down, catching your gaze with his own.
“What do you want, pretty girl?”
“You,” you whisper, and you hate yourself. “Please.”
He leans down so that he’s eye level with you. His lips twitch, and he seems to consider himself. “I’m bein’ awfully mean, ain’t I?”
You nod, and if he doesn’t concede you aren’t sure what you’ll do with yourself.
Joel sighs, rubs a hand down his face. The metal shovel hits the floor with a loud clang and you jump. Then you’re being lifted, his strong arms around you, and you burrow your face into his inked neck.
He smells like whiskey and sex and it’s intoxicating.
He carries you to his bedroom, and when he sets you down this time, it’s gentle. He kisses your mouth, your jaw and his hands work around your back, dragging the zipper of the dress down. You shimmy out of it, and he pushes you down with his palms, sliding over the bare expanse of your stomach, fingers tracing the tattoos he’s designed across your skin. “Guess I can bury the body after I take care of you.”
“You could be the death of me,” you whisper, your tone quiet. His eyes find yours, and there’s no surprise there. Just a muted understanding, because he knows you’re right.
He stands, leaning over you and presses a kiss between your bare breasts. “You leaving me?”
“If I could,” you murmur, a hand coming up to cup the back of his head. His nose brushes along the swell of your breast, breathing out before licking tentatively. “I would actually leave. But…You don’t have to tell me any threats. I’m never leaving.”
Joel freezes.
Just for a second. His tongue stills against your skin, his breath hot in the quiet space between your breasts, then he slowly lifts his head, eyes dark and unreadable as they lock onto yours. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.
His hand comes up, rough fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he’s memorizing it all over again.
“You say that now,” he finally murmurs, voice low and raw. “But people leave.” A beat. His thumb brushes your bottom lip—one small gesture that feels heavier than anything else tonight. “You don't get to leave.”
He leans down until his forehead rests against yours, breathing you in like air after drowning.
“I know.” you whisper in a voice full of defeat, and his lips find yours.
Joel fucks you hard, the blunts of his nails digging into your hips, your ribs. You claw at his back, groaning as your spine arches. He bites at your neck, his teeth aligning with the mark and it aches. His thrusts are slow, deep, filling you in a way you know can never be replicated. It hurts and it’s the closest to heaven you’ve ever felt.
Joel's breath is ragged against your neck, each thrust deliberate, deep, like he's trying to crawl inside you, become part of your bones. The bed slams into the wall with a steady rhythm, muffled by the thick silence of the night.
You cry out when his hand snakes between you, fingers finding your clit and working in rough circles. Your body tenses instantly, but he slows down again. Teasing. Torturing.
“Look at me,” he hums.
You do.
His eyes are wild, storm-gray and burning with something darker than lust. Something desperate. Possessive.
“I own this,” he says, thrusting harder to emphasize every word. “Every goddamn sound…every shake…this heat around me—it’s mine.”
He pinches your nipple and lets you fall apart.
Your walls clench around him violently as pleasure rips through you, sharp and blinding, and only then does Joel let go himself: a low groan tearing from his chest as he empties into you deep and hot and final.
With shaking fingers you run a hand through his hair. He sits up after a moment, shifting to lay beside you, and you let out a soft whine, your skin slick. Twisting your face, you look at him.
Joel’s eyes are closed, the silver hoop in his ear glinting from the moonlight streaming through the curtain. You move to your side, pressing your mouth to his shoulder. he doesn’t open his eyes. His breathing is slow now, controlled, but you can still feel the tension humming beneath his skin. His arm moves first, sliding around your waist and pulling you hard against him, like he can’t stand even an inch of space between you. You press your face into the crook of his neck, fingers tracing the raised ink along his collarbone.
You’ll never get away from him, if you even wanted to.
Why is it, that you loved someone so dangerous, so dark?
You don’t know; you aren’t sure you want to.
x
Buffalo 66 Masterlist
Taglist @mothsinwyoming
divider @elryisia
