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Hello, I'm a long time Jonas Brother fan and a long time fan fiction writer. Lately I've been wanting to create stories with Joe in them and have decided to make this blog to do so! At the current moment, requests are open and I am willing to consider writing a request. Submitting a request does not mean it's going to get written. Please be patient if you submit something as I have a full time job and life outside of tumblr and this is just for fun.
*** I do not give permission for fics or anything creative to be posted on other social media sites, fan fiction sites, or to be used for AI. All fics posted here are mine and my creative intellectual property. I do not give permission for my fics to be translated, copied, or reposted.***
Hi!! Would you consider doing a Joe Jonas x gf!reader where he buys her a ton of lingerie and she models them for him and things get hot🔥🔥🔥 but also he loves her so much
Oh I love this idea! Absolutely! I'll add it to my list!
Summary: After weeks of texting, you finally say yes to a dinner date with Joe Jonas. Neither of you has been on a first date in awhile, but what begins with nerves, overthinking, and a little black dress quickly unravels into something easy, warm, and unexpectedly intimate. A night of good food, soft laughter, and quiet touches leaves you wondering if this could be the start of something real.
Pairing: Joe Jonas (RPF) x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of past relationship and divorce. Light alcohol use.
Word Count: 5,960
Author's Note: This is my first time posting Joe Jonas fanfiction, so it's a little bit of an experiment. I've wanted to write something with him for a while, and finally decided to just do it. I thought Kelsea Ballerini's "How Do I Do This" would be the perfect soundtrack for this fic.
As always, feedback is welcome, and reblogs help us writers find our footing!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It started with a number. Your friend had been casual about it, sliding their phone across the table with a grin. She was a friend of his and had met him years ago before their music career really took off.
“He’s really great, and he’s totally your type. Just text him. Worst case? You don’t feel the vibe, and you never have to hear from him again.”
And somehow, that’s how Joe Jonas’ name ended up in your contacts.
The first message had been the hardest to send. You kept it simple. You said your name. Said that your mutual friend had given you his number. You started at the message for twenty minutes before finally hitting send.
He answered fifteen minutes later.
Joe: Hey! Glad you texted. Was wondering if you’d reach out.
From there it had been easy. Easier than you thought it would be. It started with a little back and forth. Nothing heavy. He asked about your favorite takeout places in town, and you teased him about some of his TikTok content. He told you about his love of coffee and how he’s not above traveling for a good cup. That turned into snapchats and little pictures from both of you as you went about your days. From Joe it was pics in the studio or at rehearsals or getting lunch. From you it was work or you cooking in your small apartment.
But beneath it all was this steady hum of curiosity. It was like you were both circling the edges of something without quite stepping into the middle.
Tonight though, something shifted. Your phone buzzed in your hand while you were sprawled across the couch, doom scrolling. Joe’s name lit up the screen.
Joe: So…are you free Saturday?
Joe: I know a spot.
You froze. Two texts. Harmless really. And not completely unexpected. But your stomach flipped like you were sixteen again and some boy had just asked you to meet him behind the bleachers at the football game.
A dozen responses popped into your head. “Depends on what kind of spot we’re talking about.” “Smooth line, Joseph. Do you use that on everyone?” “I’ll check my calendar.” “Yes. Absolutely, I’ll cancel anything I have.”
You typed out one. Deleted it. Tried another. Deleted that too.
Your reflection stared back at you in the dark screen, brows furrowed, lip caught between your teeth. It was ridiculous, the way you suddenly cared so much about the tone of a text. Especially when you had been texting said person for weeks.
But this wasn’t just any text. And this wasn’t just anyone. It was Joe. Joe, who had been through his own heartbreak, who knew what it was like to pick yourself back up, dust yourself off, and try again. If anyone would understand what you were feeling when it came to getting back out on the dating scene, it was Joe.
Finally you exhaled, unlocking the screen and typing out a response.
You: Yeah I think I’m free. What’s the spot?
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it or second guess it. The dots appeared almost immediately, and a little rush of adrenaline shot through your chest.
Joe: Not telling. It’s a surprise. But I promise it’s good food. And no paparazzi.
You: That last one’s a pretty big selling point.
Joe: Figured. I’m not trying to make a headline. Just trying to have dinner with someone I like talking to.
You: You’re not bad company yourself.
The pause before his next reply stretched longer this time. You found yourself staring at the screen, willing the dots to reappear. When they finally did, your chest loosened.
Joe: Then it’s a date.
You dropped your phone onto the cushion beside you, burying your face in your hands. A laugh bubbled out, half disbelief, half excitement. You couldn’t remember the last time someone asking you to dinner made you feel this fluttery. This nervous. This alive.
* * * * * * * * * *
You hadn’t been on a first date since you were twenty-two. Back then “getting ready” had meant swiping on mascara and putting on your cowboy boots. You’d been younger, and if you were honest, a lot less aware of how breakable a heart could be.
Now, years later, you found yourself starting with the basics. A shower. Not just any shower, but an everything shower. You cranked the water as hot as you could stand it and scrubbed yourself from head to toe like you were polishing for inspection. Razor gliding over every inch of skin, shampoo lathering into a frothy crown, hair mask slathered in. You conditioned, body washed, sugar scrubbed, shaved a couple spots again just to be sure.
By the time you stepped out, steam curling around your ankles, you almost felt like a brand new person.
Wrapped in a towel, you padded to your closet, heart already picking up speed.
“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. “Clothes. This is easy, right?”
Except it wasn’t. Every hanger you touched seemed to scream no. Too casual. Too stiff. Too bright. Too boring. You flung tops and dresses onto your bed like a teenager, groaning under your breath. You really should have gone shopping yesterday like you had considered. For a minute you contemplated jeans and a sweater. It was safe. Unassuming. Joe had seen your morning selfies when you first woke up. So he’d definitely seen you look worse. Surely cashmere wouldn’t scare him off.
Then you caught sight of it. The little black dress hanging at the far end of the closet. It had been ages since you were it. A night out dress for sure. It was snug in all the right places. It was the kind of dress that whispered confidence, even when you didn’t necessarily feel it inside.
You held it against yourself in the mirror, tilting your head.
“Too much,” you told your reflection.
But the longer you stared, the more your towel clad self softened. Maybe it wasn’t too much. Maybe it was just enough.
Which meant, of course, you went digging for the matching lace set buried in your drawer. Black. Delicate. A little daring. The kind of thing no one might ever see…but just in case.
As you clasped the hooks behind your back, a thought lodged sharp and loud. I’m scared of looking stupid.
You leaned against your dresser, palms pressed to the wood, trying to shake it off. Was it dumb to go all out for a first date? What if he didn’t even kiss you goodnight? What if he gave you a polite hug, said thanks for the date, and drove away, leaving you standing there in your little black dress and overpriced perfume that you only afforded because it was on clearance like a fool?
You inhaled deeply, caught between laughter and nausea.
It’s not dumb. You’re allowed to care.
Still, the nerves clawed higher when you sat at your vanity to tackle hair and makeup. You curled, brushed, sprayed, then curled again, chasing perfection that didn’t exist. Foundation smoothed in, mascara swiped, liner steady but your hands trembling anyway. Lipstick, blotted twice.
Halfway through, you stopped, staring at yourself.
What if he mentioned Sophie? The question clanged in your head before you could shove it down. Everyone thought it. Everyone whispered it. You weren’t naïve. It was the elephant in any room Joe walked into now. Would he say her name? Would you flinch when he did?
And what if he didn’t? What if instead he asked about your ex? That decade long chapter you still hadnt’ decided whether to file under “mistake” or “lesson learned”?
Your stomach tightened.
And worst of all…what if he kissed you? Your eyes flicked down to your lips in the mirror, glossy and waiting. What if it felt right? What if it cracked something open in you you weren’t ready to touch? Were you ready for that spark again, the kind that lit fires you didn’t always know how to control?
You set the lipstick down harder than necessary, forcing yourself back into motion.
One step at a time.
Curl. Spray. Smooth. Breathe.
When you finally pushed back from the vanity, dress zipped, heels strapped, hair perfect, it was 6:52. Eight minutes until seven. Eight minutes until Joe Jonas would be standing on your doorstep.
You checked the clock again. 6:53.
Your pulse drummed in your ears.
“I got this,” you whispered to your reflection, even though you weren’t sure you believed it. “I got this, I got this.”
The woman staring back at you looked polished, confident. But beneath the surface, your heart thudded out a frantic beat, equal parts terror and possibility.
Maybe tonight would be nothing. Maybe it would be awkward small talk and a quick goodbye. Maybe he’d never text again.
Or maybe it would be the first spark of something you hadn’t felt in years.
The doorbell rang at 6:59 on the dot. You froze mid step in the hallway, your pulse feeling more like a drumline than an organ in your chest.
“Okay,” you whispered, forcing a breath into your lungs. “It’s just Joe. You’ve got this.”
Joe Jonas.
Black trousers, perfectly tailored, paired with a black button-up that hugged his shoulders just right. The top buttons were undone, revealing the glint of a chain against his chest. His curls were loose, slightly tousled, like he hadn’t tried too hard but still looked impossibly put together.
And in his hand flowers.
He smiled when his eyes landed on you. Slow. Warm. A little nervous around the edges.
“Wow,” he said softly, taking you in from head to toe. “You look…incredible.”
Your face heated instantly, and you managed a shaky laugh. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
It shouldn’t have been comforting to hug someone you’d never technically met before, but it was. The nerves that had been rattling around your ribcage all afternoon seemed to soften, like the contact grounded you both in the same moment.
When he finally pulled back, his smile had deepened, steadier now, like the hug had reassured him too. Only then did he reach for the bouquet in his hand, lifting it between you.
“These are for you. I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I went with a safe bet.”
You glanced down at the cluster of roses, all of them varying shades of pink with a few white ones mixed in and then some baby’s breath and greenery added as filler. Something about the simplicity of it made your chest tighten.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “Thank you.”
He shrugged lightly, thought you caught the faint blush that appeared on his cheeks.
You stepped aside, motioning him in. “Come in for a sec while I find a vase.”
He followed you into the apartment, scanning the space with quiet curiosity but not intruding. You busied yourself at the counter, pulling a glass vase from the cabinet, filling it with water. Your hands shook only slightly as you arranged the flowers.
“You nervous?” he asked, tone teasing but gentle.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Maybe a little.”
His grin widened. “Good. Makes two of us.”
The knot in your stomach loosened just a fraction. You set the vase on the table, wiped your palms against your dress, and turned back to him.
“Ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
The contact startled you, but only for a second. Then it settled, grounding and steady, the warmth of his palm easing some of your jitters.
He opened the passenger door for you, hand brushing your back as you ducked inside. The touch lingered just a second, hovering, almost protective.
“Comfortable?” he asked once you were seated, leaning down slightly to meet your eyes.
You smiled, nerves buzzing but softer now. “Yeah.”
He closed the door, rounding the hood with an ease that made your stomach flip all over again. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, you’d already caught yourself wondering how the night would end. And if the kiss at your door would be as inevitable as it suddenly felt.
Joe pulled to the curb in front of a little place tucked into a quiet street. It had a brick front with soft fold light coming from inside, and ivy curling up one side. It was elegant, but not trying to be seen. He killed the engine, and stepped out. You reached for the door handle and pushed it open before sliding one leg out.
He came around the front of the car, one hand already extended, the other twirling his keys by the valet fob. You slid your hand into his. It was steady and warm. He helped you up like it was habit. Like being careful with people was just the way he was built. He passed the keys to the valet, thanked him, and without missing a beat, he took your hand again to lead you inside.
No cameras. No shouts. Just a quiet street and the little hush of a neighborhood that minded its business. Which was perfect for tonight.
Inside, the place smelled like butter and rosemary. Muted jazz hummed from a speaker near the bar. A hostess with a neat bun and a knowing smile greeted Joe like she had seen him once or twice before.
“Table?” she asked.
As you made your way to his car, which was sleek and understated, definitely not flashy, he reached for your hand. His fingers slid between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“If the one in the back is open,” he said, voice low.
It was. She escorted you down a short corridor into a small dining room where the lights were a shade softer, conversations a little more private. Your table backed a wall, a flicker of candlelight pooling between you. The noise of the world dropped away by degrees.
“This okay?” he asked, pulling out your chair.
“It’s perfect,” you said, because it was. You could enjoy your dinner without worrying about fans or paparazzi taking a picture and evidence of your first date being tomorrow’s headlines.
A server appeared with menus and water. Joe thanked him and glanced up at you over the candle, eyes a warm kind of attentive. You realized he was watching for any flicker of discomfort. When he didn’t find one, his shoulders settled.
“You’ve been here before,” you said, opening the menu.
“A few times,” he admitted. “It’s one of those spots that lets me just be me. They also make a roast chicken that ruins you for all other roast chickens.”
“Bold claim,” you said.
“I know. I’m prepared to defend it in court.”
You hid a smile behind your water glass. The menu was one page, which you respected immediately. It read like a conversation between good ingredients and someone who knew what to do with them: oysters, a salad with shaved fennel, the infamous roast chicken, a pasta with wild mushrooms, a steak that the table beside you was currently experiencing.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m tempted by the steak,” you said, scanning the menu. “It smells amazing from the table beside us.”
Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Solid choice. The steak’s great. But—” he lifted a finger like a lawyer making his case, “the chicken here really is the crown jewel.”
You arched a brow. “You just don’t want to give up the chance to prove your point about this chicken.”
“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “So here’s the deal: you get your steak, I’ll order the chicken. That way you can have a bite and see if I’m exaggerating.”
“Strategic,” you said, amused.
“Fair,” he countered. “You deserve your steak, and I get to defend my honor.”
It was almost ridiculous how easy it was to laugh. You both ended up ordering a salad to start, the steak and the chicken, and the house dessert to share for the finale. When the waiter asked for your drink order Joe asked for a glass of something red he liked. You ordered the same.
The waiter brought two glasses back a few minutes later. He opened the bottle, poured both glasses and then left the bottle at the table, per Joe’s request.
He looked at you and raised his glass. “To…first dates.”
“And to not overthinking them,” you countered.
You took a sip. The wine warmed your chest. His smile lingered, softer now, and the room seemed to lean around you in approval.
Conversation started where it always did with near strangers who already felt a bit familiar. The friend who connected you, why you both said yes, the shared relief of realizing neither of you was a chaos person who picked loud places on purpose. He joked about being “semi retired from chaos,” then immediately corrected himself with a grin. “Okay. On sabbatical.”
“Is that like when professors go write a book and pretend they’re not still working all the time?”
“Exactly like that,” he said. “Only with fewer tweed jackets.”
“You said this place lets you show up as yourself,” you said, reaching for another. “So…who is that, these days?”
He leaned back, gave it a real consideration.
“Work in progress,” he said after a beat. “Someone who likes a quiet table, and long walks, and cooking badly on Sundays. However I’ll throw it out there now, I’m not opposed to getting help in the kitchen,” he added, deadpan. “By which I mean supervision.”
You laughed. “I feel like there’s a story there. What happened?”
“Do you want the short version or the fire alarm version?”
“Fire alarms are more fun.”
“Okay, so picture me trying to be domestic,” he said, hands bracketing an invisible disaster. “I got inspired by this recipe video. I thought it would be easy. Advertised as a thirty minute meal. Five ingredients. One pan. What could go wrong? Forty five minutes later I’m holding a smoking sheet pan outside on my patio while my neighbor looks at me like he’s contacting child services, and the fire alarm in my building serenades my neighbors.”
“Arson on a Sunday,” you said, delighted. “Bold choice.”
He lifted his glass in admission. “The chicken was…not like this chicken was about to be.”
You leaned on your elbow, warmed by the image of him on a patio with a sheepish smile and a ruined pan. The story was light, self deprecating, but gently offered. He wasn’t selling you an image so much as handing you a small, imperfect truth and seeing what you did with it.
“What about you?” he asked. “What was your version of Sunday sabotage?”
“Plants,” you said immediately. “I could not keep a houseplant alive. People said ‘just don’t overwater’ and then I forgot they existed for three weeks. It was like a crime scene in my apartment by February.”
He pressed a fist to his mouth, smothering a laugh. “So no ferns as a housewarming present. Got it.”
“Unless you want me to feel guilty in a month.”
“Noted.”
The salad arrived, crisp and clean, fennel shaved to translucence, citrus threaded through. You watched his face when he tried it, the way he closed his eyes for half a second, appreciative. It was weirdly intimate, seeing someone enjoy small pleasures without performative fanfare. You realized you were matching your bites to his without meaning to.
“So,” he said after a moment, voice pitched a little lower, curious but careful, “how were you feeling about…this? Dating. Again.”
There it was, like you knew it might be at some point tonight. Not heavy. Just honest.
You rolled your fork between your fingers, then set it down.
“Rusty,” you admitted. “A little out of practice. I kept expecting to say or do the wrong thing and watch the whole night slip sideways.”
“Same,” he said, immediate and easy. “I felt like I was trying to remember choreography from a dance Disne tried to teach me when I was twenty, except now I was older and smarter and less willing to pretend my feet didn’t hurt.”
You smiled into your glass. “That’s it. The pretending was exhausting.”
“Then let’s not,” he said simply.
The server cleared plates, and the chicken arrived in a cast iron pan, carved and stacked over bread that had been catching juices since it left the oven. The smell alone could have knocked down a skeptic. The steak followed. It sat on a simple white plate with a side of potatoes served in a tiny cast iron skillet with a sauce on the side that you could pour over the steak.
You shared like you said you would, easy as passing stories back and forth. He put a little of the chicken on your plate first, then took an end piece of the steak for himself. You didn’t fight it. When you took your first bite of the chicken you had to admit he was right. The chicken was ridiculous.
“I have a confession,” you said after a beat, licking a bit of sauce from your thumb before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked down, quick and appreciative, then back up. Warmth skated across your skin. You cleared your throat. “This was the easiest dinner I have had…maybe ever.”
He paused, fork hovering. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said. “With my ex, dinners like this felt like interviews. Or performance reviews.” You waved a hand, not wanting to invite ghosts to the table. “It was never relaxed. Not like this.”
Something gentled in his expression, a soft recognition that didn’t pry.
“I’m glad you felt that way.” He considered you for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to add the obvious thing, then decided to give you the courtesy of choice. “If anything comes up tonight that you don’t want to talk about…names, headlines, whatever, you can just say ‘hard pass’ and I’ll change the subject. No harm. No weirdness.”
The line landed like a small gift. You felt your chest loosen in a way you didn’t realize it was still tight.
“Same to you,” you said. “We can keep it simple.”
“Deal.”
You ate and talked and laughed. He told you about falling asleep on a plane before takeoff and waking up two hours later, still at the gate, completely disoriented. You countered with your worst first date in your early twenties: the guy who had brought his mother’s Tupperware to a restaurant “just in case there were leftovers,” then asked you to split the bill to the penny. He winced in sympathy. You confessed you hadn’t been on a true first date since you were twenty two. He was quiet for a second, then said, “For what it’s worth, you’re very good at it.”
“I was literally just eating chicken and telling you plant murder confessions.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Elite.”
Somewhere towards the end of your entree, your knees bumped under the table, and stayed close. He didn’t make a show of it. He just let the contact exist, warm and steady, the way a good song held a note. A strand of hair slipped forward over your face. He didn’t reach for it, but his eyes tracked the motion with a softness that made your pulse trip. When you tucked the strand behind your ear, his mouth tilted like he had been hoping you would.
The server came by with dessert. A single panna cotta with berries. One cup. Two spoons. He claimed he would only have “one polite bite,” then you caught him sneaking a second. You called him on it. He looked theatrically offended and told you it was your fault for making the berries look good. It was nothing, and somehow it was everything.
By the time the check arrived, you were a little floaty from wine, full of butter and conversation. Joe reached for the leather folder in a way that suggested this was not a negotiation. You reached too, because you were an adult and habits died hard.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“Let me–”
“Next time,” he said, gentle but firm, eyes bright with the way the words landed between you. He didn’t push the implication, just let it sit there like an option you could accept or decline. Your chest did that traitor flip again.
“Next time,” you echoed, and it sounded like a promise.
Outside, the night had cooled. The street was still quiet; a dog walker nodded as they passed. Joe’s hand found yours like it had earlier, fingers lacing easily. No rush. No agenda. Just the steady hum of two people who had been circling something and were finally stepping into the middle of it.
“There’s a little place around the corner,” he said, glancing down at you. “Very low key. Good music. If you were up for one drink before I took you home.”
You considered the door you would be standing at in an hour, the possibility of a kiss, the warmth already living in your bloodstream. You thought about the girl who put on a black dress and told herself she could do this, and realized she already had.
“One drink,” you said, smiling. “And you could tell me whether you had ever successfully cooked chicken without traumatizing your neighbor.”
He groaned softly, free hand to his chest. “Now you are just being cruel.”
“Motivational,” you corrected. “I believe in your redemption arc.”
He laughed, the sound easy and close in the quiet street. His thumb drew a slow, absentminded circle against your palm as you started walking. The neighborhood turned the corner with you, offering up another small, tucked away spot where no one looked twice, where everything felt simple.
The bar Joe led you to was the kind of place with low ceilings, amber lights under frosted glass shades, polished wood that gleamed. A row of bottles caught the light behind the counter, labels warm and golden. It wasn’t crowded. It wasn’t too loud either. Just a faint murmur of conversation coming from the few small groups of people inside.
“See?” Joe said, holding the door for you. “Low key. No one’s going to bother us here.”
He wasn’t wrong. The bartender gave him a nod of recognition but didn’t blink twice at you, just slid a pair of menus across the counter when you settled into two stools side by side.
“What’s good here?” you asked, scanning the dim chalkboard behind the bar.
“Old Fashioned’s solid,” Joe said, loosening his button up collar just slightly. “But depends what you like…” His eyes flicked to you. “What’s your poison?”
You considered, then grinned. “Surprise me.”
He ordered for both of you, taking a guess at a drink he thought you might enjoy. The bartender set about making the two drinks. Joe shifted closer. Not much. Just enough that his knee brushed yours. It startled you how natural it felt. How quickly your nerves softened just by the contact with him.
The drinks arrived a few minutes later. Glasses with big square cubes of ice, liquid curling around an orange peel that was used as garnish. Joe slid yours in front of you, his fingers brushing the back of your hand. A spark lit across your skin. Subtle but undeniable.
“To first dates,” he said, raising his glass.
“To surviving them,” you countered, clinking.
The drink burned lightly as you took your first sip. You set the glass down and found his hand resting casually on his thigh. It was close enough that if you shifted a couple inches, you’d be touching. Before you could think about it too hard, he leaned in.
“So, confession,” he said, voice pitched lower now. “I was nervous tonight.”
You blinked at him. “You were? I didn’t think Joe Jonas got nervous.”
“Of course I do,” he said, smiling like it was obvious. “I haven’t done this in a while either. The texting was easy. But I wasn’t sure if…” He gestured lightly between you. “If it would feel like this.”
Your throat tightened, though not from nerves this time. “Like what?”
“Like we’ve already done this before.” His mouth quirked. “Like we just picked up where we left off.”
The words hit you. Because he was right. Sitting here, your knees brushing, candlelight catching in his curls…it didn’t feel like a blind date or even a first date. It just felt like a date with someone you already knew. Like this was something the two of you had been doing for years.
You took another sip of your drink, partly for courage.
“I thought I’d be awkward,” you admitted. “But this is…”
“Easy?” he offered.
“Easier than I thought it’d be.”
His smile softened into something more genuine. His hand shifted, closing the space between you until his palm rested lightly on your thigh. Just a touch, not pressing, like he was testing the waters.
“I’m glad,” he said simply.
You should have felt self conscious. You didn’t. You should have been spiraling. Overthinking. Wondering what came next. What lines were being crossed. Instead, all you could think was how right it felt to have the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric of your dress.
“You’re bolder after bourbon,” you teased, trying to steady yourself.
“Maybe,” he said, eyes glinting. “Or maybe I’m just done pretending I don’t want to sit closer.”
The way he said it, quiet and steady, sent a shiver through you. You met his gaze, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” you managed.
“You’ve only seen the start.” His thumb brushed once against your thigh, a small, unthinking circle that unraveled you more than it should have.
You laughed softly, mostly to release the tension that coiled in your chest. “I don’t know if that’s a promise or a warning.”
He leaned in then, closer than before, his shoulder brushing yours. “Maybe a little of both.”
The bar faded around you. The bottles. The bartender. The murmur of conversation from other patrons. The dim music playing in the background. All you noticed was his nearness, the warmth of his hand, and the easy and steady rhythm you’d somehow fallen into with him.
And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t scared of what might happen next.
When the check came, Joe got there first, sliding his card onto the tray before you could even reach for your wallet.
“You already paid for dinner,” you reminded him, reaching for your bag. “Drinks were supposed to be mine.”
He shook his head, eyes glinting as he handed the folder back to the bartender with his card tucked inside.
“Next time,” he said, voice steady, that same phrase he’d used earlier. “You can fight me for it then.”
Your heart tripped over those two words. Next time. Next time meaning he was planning on there being a second date. Maybe a third.
Outside, the night air felt cooler, softer. He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as you walked the short block back to the restaurant where his car waited with the valet. Streetlamps pooled light onto the pavement, throwing shadows across the quiet sidewalk.
When you reached the car, he let go of your hand only long enough to circle around and open the passenger door.
“My lady,” he teased lightly, but the way he waited, watching to make sure you were comfortable before shutting it, made the gesture land a little differently.
The drive back was short but unhurried. The streets slipped by, pools of neon and storefronts giving way to quieter corners. The hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silences between your words, but there weren’t many. You talked easily, about nothing important. Bad karaoke songs, the time you tripped onstage during a college talent show, his worst haircut phase.
At the second a red light, Joe reached across the console and took your hand again. Just lifted it from your lap like it belonged in his. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles in small, absent circles that made your stomach flip.
You didn’t pull away.
By the time he pulled up in front of your building, your heart was drumming hard enough that you half wondered if he could hear it. He cut the engine and came around to your side again, holding the door open, offering his hand to steady you as you stepped out.
The walk to your front door felt like both the longest and shortest stretch of pavement in the world. He stayed close, shoulders brushing, his hand hovering lightly at the small of your back like he wanted to guide you but didn’t want to presume.
At your door, you fumbled for your keys just to have something to do with your hands. He waited, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
You turned, and there it was. The moment. The pause between goodbye and what came next.
Joe’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “I had a really great time tonight.”
You swallowed, throat tight. “Me too.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. Then back up. Then he leaned in. The first kiss was soft, tentative. The brush of lips more like a question than an answer. You leaned into it anyway, warmth flooding through you, nerves dissolving all at once.
When you parted, your breath caught on a laugh. Half disbelieving, half relieved. He smiled, but his hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, and then he kissed you again.
This one wasn’t tentative. It was longer, deeper, the kind of kiss that made time go blurry. His mouth moved against yours with quiet insistence, and you couldn’t help but answer, your free hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. By the time you pulled apart, you were both a little breathless, and your door was at your back.
You exhaled, dizzy in the best way. “Do you…want to come in?”
He hesitated just long enough for you to see the care in his eyes, the way he wasn’t assuming. “If you want me to,” he said.
“I do.”
The words hung there, simple but heavy. You pushed the door open, stepping aside. He followed, quiet, his hand brushing yours as he passed.
Inside, the night stretched wide with possibility. Maybe he would stay for just another drink, another laugh on the couch. Maybe more. The details didn’t matter in that moment.
What mattered was that, for the first time in a long time, you wanted to find out.
Note: I only tagged a couple of friends in this one since I'm not sure if any of my Glen Powell girlies are also Joe Jonas/Jonas Brothers fans. But if you'd like to be tagged or included in any future Joe Jonas content, just let me know!
You had never considered yourself to be dominant in the bedroom.
To be fair, you hadn’t been submissive either. Every past sexual encounter was pretty equal, a mutual give and take. No one really had any sort of power, or control.
And you always thought that’s the way you like it. Everyone on even ground.
But then you started dating Joe. At first it was just like your past encounters. Sex was about connecting, sharing pleasure.
After a while though, you noticed a shift. It was subtle at first. The first thing was how he’d encourage you to place your hand on his head when he was eating you out. It took some trial and error, but you realized he wanted you to control him.
Plus, the noises he made when you tightened your grip and pulled his hair were like nothing you’d ever heard before.
So you started researching. Experimenting. A bite to his collarbone was answered with a loud moan. Hair pulling made his cock twitch. A slap to his ass led to him coming instantaneously.
It was easy to conclude that your boyfriend had a pain kink.
Equally as easy to figure out was his praise kink. You noticed how happy he’d get when you would compliment him after sex. And how much he blushed when you called him a good boy.
It was fun figuring these things out. Like a game trying to learn little things that he enjoys.
But then he has a particularly bad couple of days. It starts with a travel nightmare trying to get back home. A mechanical malfunction that got fixed just in time for a storm to roll in delayed his flight for hours. By the time he finally made it back, he only had a few minutes to stop home, drop off his bags, and shower, before he was headed back out to the studio.
He was supposed to be back by dinner time, but then six o'clock came and went, then seven, then eight. He’d sent a text letting you know they were having some difficulties recording, that he was fine but wouldn’t be there until closer to ten. He told you not to wait up.
But of course you did. Which is how you noticed the way he came in the door. Exhausted, dragging his feet, not upbeat and happy like he normally is when he gets home.
You’re in the living room, and Joe doesn’t notice you watching him. He lets down his guard, and you see him rub his face roughly, clearly frustrated.
You stand and walk over to him, silently taking his hands into yours. He startles at first, then relaxes into your touch.
You don’t ask if he’s okay. You don’t ask what’s wrong.
Instead you ask, “What do you need?”
He sighs, his eyes darting around, looking anywhere but at you. It’s clear he’s going through an internal debate, like he knows what he wants but is afraid to say it. You take one of your hands and cup his cheek, drawing his eyes back to yours.
What he sees must settle him, and give him confidence, because he finally replies, “I need to let go. To just, shut my brain off. But not, like, sleep. Just quiet.”
You nod, then once more ask, “What do you need?”
“I need you to take control.”
“Go on. Tell me exactly what you want.”
“It’s weird though,” he says, trying to turn away again but you keep your hand firm, forcing him to remain looking at you. You don’t miss the way his eyes dilate at this small show of dominance.
“Tell me. I promise I won’t find it weird,” you reassure him.
“I want you to be in charge. Tie me up and use my body. Please.”
“Okay,” you reply quickly, wanting him to know you’re on board. “But we need to talk about a couple of things first. Just to make sure you’re safe. First off, do you have a safe word or do you want to use the traffic light system?”
“You know about the traffic light system?” He asks, his voice full of surprise.
“I do. I’ve been doing some reading.” His face softens as he realizes what this means. That you noticed his desires and instead of thinking he was weird or wrong, you accepted it and tried to learn more. He leans in to kiss you, hoping to express his gratitude without having to say it.
“Let’s do the colors. Green means I’m good, yellow means I need to pause, red means to stop,” he recites. “And they go for you too. You can color at any time.”
You smile, loving that even while he’s spiraling and stressed, he’s still focusing on you and making sure you’re okay.
“What exactly is it that will help you?” Is your next question. “Pain?” Your nails scratch at his scalp, giving just a hint of what he can expect.
“Yes,” he breathes out, his eyes slipping closed at the feeling.
“Pleasure?” You ask.
“Yes. Eventually.”
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go up to the bedroom and strip. Everything off. When that’s done you’ll kneel and wait for me. When I get up there I’ll go over the rest of the plan with you. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he confirms. You pull him in for one more sweet, reassuring kiss, then step away and gesture to the stairs. He moves and begins to walk to the bedroom, just as he had been told.
You go into the kitchen and grab some water and snacks for later, and soon follow Joe upstairs. The sight you’re greeted with when you walk into the bedroom is breathtaking.
Joe is on his knees, hands clasped behind his back, his dick impossibly hard and leaking. It takes a lot of self restraint to not immediately touch him, to not throw away your plan and just take him right then and there.
But he needs you.
After placing down what you’re holding, you step into the room. You lightly run your fingers along his shoulders and say, “What a good boy. Listened to directions perfectly. And you look so beautiful on your knees like this.”
As you praise him, Joe lets out a whimper. An honest to god whimper. The sound hits you at your core, and you can already tell that the underwear you have on will not be surviving the night.
“Here’s what is going to happen next. I’m going to sit on the bed and you’re going to lay across my lap so I can give you the spanking I know you’ve been craving. Then I’m going to tie you up, sit on your face, and use you for my pleasure. If you make me come, I’ll think about letting you come as well. Understand?”
“I understand. I’m green,” he says quickly. You have no doubt about that. You’d been watching him the whole time you spoke and there were no signs of nerves there. Just pure desire.
You move to sit on the bed, and give Joe a look that he quickly understands. He gets off the floor, and lays face down in your lap. You have to close your eyes and take a deep breath to center yourself. His pure submissiveness, the way he’s giving in to you, is just so perfect.
His ass right in front of you is perfect as well. You place your hand on him, rubbing the cheeks for a bit, warming him up. And then you pull back and land a smack on his right cheek.
Joe lets out a quiet moan and whispers “harder.” Trusting him to know his desires, and more importantly, his limits, you put more power behind the next smack. His ass bounces, and there’s a light pink tinge already forming. Joe shifts and groans, and you feel his hard length against your leg.
This goes on for a few minutes, Joe letting out the most delicious whines and whimpers, his ass a pretty shade of dark pink by the time you’re done.
“Doing so good for me,” you praise as you help him move to the next position.
“I am?” He asks, clearly in need of reassurance.
“You are, baby. Such a good boy.” He smiles, all soft, like he’s already fully relaxing into this. And then he lays on his back and stretches out his arms and legs, inviting you to tie him up. You grab some of his ties, and are grateful you’d done some research on how to safely restrain someone.
He’s completely outstretched, each limb carefully attached to the four bedposts. You confirm that he’s green, but then you pause.
The next step will leave him unable to verbally color if he needs to. And tied the way he is he can’t tap or even snap to color like you’d read about. You’re not sure what to do, but then you remember the clicking fidget toy he has.
“I will be right back, I promise. I just need to grab one thing. Are you okay if I step out for a moment?”
“I am,” he replies. You press a quick kiss to his mouth then rush back downstairs to his bag, hoping he still kept it in there. After a quick search you find the toy and quickly make your way to the bedroom.
When you walk in, Joe turns to you, a content smile on his face. It’s so different from the expression he wore just a short while ago, and you’re so grateful that he trusted you enough to open up and tell you what would help him, even if it is unconventional.
You place the object in his hand and explain that if he needs to color out at any point he just needs to start clicking and you’ll stop. He confirms this and you quickly remove your clothes before moving into position over him. But you don’t sit, not yet. Normally at this point he’d grab your hips and pull you to him. Except he’s restrained. Powerless. He can do nothing but wait and want.
After a little while you can’t hold off any longer, so you sink down. He immediately gets to work, eating you out with fervor, like a man starved. Even without the use of his hands, he knows exactly what to do to get you off.
When you start getting close, you slip your hands into his hair. You grip tight, and hold him close to your core as your orgasm washes over you. At this angle you know he’s not getting much air, and while breath play wasn’t explicitly talked about, you know Joe enough to know that he wants this, enjoys it.
Still, you pull off of him quickly, not wanting to push him too much. But one look at his cock, now slick with precum, tells you that he just got as much pleasure from that as you did.
After both catching your breath you take a moment to check in with Joe, asking him, “How are you feeling?”
“So good,” he says. “Was that okay?”
“You were perfect, baby. So good for me.” You stroke his cheek, giving him some gentle intimacy before continuing to the next part.
Still riding high on the praise you’re giving him, he relaxes, practically sinking into the mattress. You run your hands all over his body, taking your time to explore in ways you normally don’t.
Eventually, you start to focus on where he wants you the most. Your nails scratch at the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. You continue to tease, soaking in all the beautiful sounds he’s making like it’s music.
Finally, and without warning, you grasp his hard length, and his hips jolt up into the touch.
“Stay still,” you command, your hand pressing him back down. He frantically nods, showing that he’s listening, that he’ll do what he can to be good.
You reward him with firm, hard strokes, working him up to the edge. But right before he can crash over, you stop. You pull your hands away, and he lets out a noise of disappointment.
“I thought- I thought you said I could come if you did,” he whines.
“I did. But we’re not done. I think you could use some more time like this. So I’m going to play with you for a while. You’ll get to come, but only when I decide you’re ready. Color?”
He pauses for a deep breath, then settles once more and replies, “Green.”
With his clear consent, you spend nearly an hour giving him sweet torture. Working him up again and again, but never letting him finish. And he loves it.
Finally, you can tell he’s starting to reach his limit, so you lean in for a kiss, more tender and sweet than you’ve been for this entire time.
“You can come. Anytime you want. You’ve been such a good boy.”
It doesn’t take much longer, just a few more strokes to his length and he’s shooting ropes of cum so intensely that the first ones reach all the way to his chin.
When it’s over he lays boneless on the bed, and you begin giving him aftercare. First, you grab a towel to clean him up. Then you carefully untie his limbs, helping him slowly stretch them to work out any soreness from being tied up for so long. You get him to drink some water and have a snack while you start running a bath.
“But it’s so late,” he says when you tell him to get into the tub.
“We’re off tomorrow morning. We can sleep in. For now, I need to take care of you,” is your reply.
He does as he’s told and slides into the warm water. You leave him to relax for a minute and quickly change the sheets before getting in the tub behind him.
You take your time thoroughly washing and pampering him. You praise him throughout, telling him how good he was, how proud you are of him expressing his needs and being honest with you.
After the bath you rub some cream on his sore bottom, and he smiles as the combination of pain and comfort you’re giving him.
The Joe joining you in bed is completely different then the Joe that walked in the door just a couple hours before. He curls into your side, allowing himself to be held, and you know that this is just the beginning. Tonight marks a shift in your relationship. One that allows you to be more open, honest, and vulnerable with one another.
As Joe drifts off to sleep in your arms, you look forward to exploring this new side of your relationship in the future.
The fic I started writing is already 2000 words long and more angsty than I had intended it to be. I might have to make this a multi part fic and I hadn't planned for that at first. It feels good to write again, though. Might post a sneak peak tomorrow.
Summary: A quiet morning, a keyboard, and Joe Jonas looking far too good in sweatpants. You climb into his lap wearing nothing but his shirt and panties, and song writing quickly takes a backseat to grinding, gasps, and more.
Promp/Kink + Pairing: Lap Sitting + Joe Jonas (RPF)
Word Count: 1,088
Warnings: 18+. NSFW. Smut. Established relationship vibes. Lap sitting. Grinding. Unprotected sex (no condom mention). Dirty talk.
The house is dim except for the glow of sunrise sneaking through the curtains, painting the living room in soft gold. Somewhere down the hall, the coffee pot clicks on, the quiet drip of it mixing with the low hum of sound coming from the keyboard.
Joe sits on the bench, barefoot, sweatpants riding low on his hips, a plain white T-shirt stretched across his chest. His curls are a wild mess from sleep, falling into his eyes as he leans over the keys. He isn’t really playing anything, just idly pressing chords, humming under his breath. His voice is scratchy, deeper and rougher than normal, but still warm enough to make your stomach flip.
You pause in the doorway, wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties. The shirt swallows you whole, sleeves rolled to your wrists, hem brushing just the tops of your thighs. He hasn’t noticed you yet, lost in whatever tune is circling his head, but the sight makes something ache low in your belly.
You pad across the floor and stop just behind him. The wood is cool beneath your feet, a contrast to the warmth pooling in your body. He glances up when he feels you, grin tugging lazy and slow across his mouth.
“Cute,” he says, voice rough with sleep. The word is casual, but his gaze lingers longer than casual allows. His eyes drag from the collar slipping off your shoulder down to where the shirt barely covers your thighs.
You don’t answer. Instead, you straddle his lap, one knee on either side of him. The bench creaks beneath the new weight, but he doesn’t complain. His hands leave the keys without hesitation, sliding over your thighs to your hips.
“Mm,” he hums, thumbs stroking the bare skin where the shirt ends. “That’s better.”
You shift in his lap, deliberately brushing your core against the thick outline in his sweats. His sharp inhale is all the reward you need, so you do it again, slower this time.
“Jesus.” His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut for a second as his grip tightens on your hips. “You tryna kill me, baby?”
“You were ignoring me,” you tease, rolling your hips again, a little firmer.
“Not a chance,” he mutters, eyes opening, locking with yours. His grin is there, but there’s a seriousness beneath it. “Whole time I was sitting here, all I could think about was you in my shirt, sleeping in there.”
The confession makes heat lick down your spine. You rock against him again, the thin cotton of your panties already damp, the thick fabric of his sweats darkening where you press. His cock twitches under you, and he groans, forehead dropping against your collarbone.
“That’s it,” he breathes, voice broken. “Ride me just like that.”
Your hips obey, finding a rhythm. The friction is relentless, the rough drag of cotton making your thighs tremble. His hands can’t stop moving, palms sliding up your thighs, thumbs circling your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to graze the bare curve of your back.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, mouth trailing up your throat. “So fucking sexy, baby. Making me lose it.”
The words hit harder than you expect, and a desperate whimper slips free. His grin curves against your skin.
“You like that, huh?” he teases, biting gently at the base of your jaw. “Rubbing all over me while I’m losing my mind?”
You grind harder in answer, sharper, needier, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groans, low and guttural, and his hands fly to your ass, pulling you tighter against him, dragging your core higher against the bulge in his sweats.
“Fuck,” he groans, his lips hot against your throat. “You’re soaking through, baby. You feel that? That’s how bad you need me.”
You moan, and his patience snaps. One hand shoves his sweats down just far enough to free himself, the other sliding your panties aside. He curses under his breath at the heat of you, the slickness coating him before he even pushes in.
“Gonna let me in?” He asks, voice raw, his cock heavy and throbbing against your folds.
You nod quickly, rocking forward in answer. He grins, wicked and breathless, guiding himself until you’re sinking down, inch by inch.
The stretch makes you gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders. He groans, wrecked, burying his face against your chest.
“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, kissing hard against the thin cotton of his shirt hanging open on you. “So good for me. Always so good.”
The bench creaks under the rhythm you find, grinding and lifting, every move guided by his hands gripping your hips. He can’t stop talking, words spilling ragged against your skin.
“Beautiful girl, riding me so sweet. Feel so good around me. That’s it, baby, take all of me.”
Each word makes you clench harder, makes your hips move faster, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the quiet room. Sweat beads along his temple, curls sticking to his forehead, his mouth open as if he can’t breathe without praising you.
“Look at you,” he gasps, eyes catching the faint light as he stares at where your bodies meet. “Taking me so deep, baby. Fuck, you’re incredible.”
The sight of him undone beneath you, the sound of his voice, the friction…it all crashes together. Your climax builds fast, your thighs trembling as the pressure crests.
When it hits, it rips through you sharp and hot, Joe’s name spilling from your lips in a cry. He catches your mouth, swallowing the sound with a kiss that’s all tongue and desperation, his hands locking you down against him as he chases his own release.
“God baby,” he groans, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a shudder that makes his whole body shake.
For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, the keys silent beneath you. His chest heaves under your hands, sweat dampening the collar of his T-shirt.
Finally, he leans back, curls sticking to his damp forehead, grin lazy and wide. His hands stay on your hips, keeping you close as if he isn’t ready to let you go.
“Guess the next album can wait,” he says, voice still rough.
You laugh breathlessly, still trembling in his lap, his cock softening inside you. “Guess so.”
His grin softens into something fonder, quieter, and he leans up to kiss you again, slower this time, with none of the urgency from before. Just warmth. Just Joe.
Part Two of The Residency but can be read as a stand-alone.
Part One: She wears unofficial merch, and his attention outweighs the lost royalties. Alternatively, the one where Joe spends the show with her underwear in his back pocket.
Part Two: She has a pretty mouth, and Joe is sick of her using it. Alternatively, the one where she is gagged, bound, and kept on the edge.
3.6k - SMUT - 18+
---
"You did well tonight," she says.
The words are soft enough to belong to the kiss, but not innocent enough to stay there.
Joe's eyes open.
For a second, he looks only at her. Forehead still resting against hers, breath still warm against her mouth, one hand at her waist and the other on her cheek like he has not quite decided whether to keep her close or make her answer for herself.
Then his gaze shifts.
To the jacket lying on the carpet beside them.
The underwear had been transferred to the inside pocket before a sound engineer could mistake it for the audio pack in the bustle of the stage exit. Practical, at the time. Necessary.
Now, less so.
His mouth curves slightly, warning tucked beneath the humour.
"I don't think you wanted me to."
His thumb traces her bottom lip, and her breath catches beneath the touch.
The lie sits between them before she chooses whether to say it.
His hand leaves her face. His fingers loosen at her waist until only space remains between them.
The instinct to follow his touch is dangerous, so she chooses not to.
She stays where he left her, mouth still warm from his, the dress clinging to her skin the way it has since he instructed the underwear's removal.
She watches as he bends to pick up the jacket, denim hanging from one hand.
His other moves over the fabric, fingers smoothing imaginary creases.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her smile falters before she can stop it.
She sees the line hours after crossing it.
"You thought you were being clever."
"I was supporting the local economy."
They are the wrong words and the right ones all at once.
His head tilts, eyebrows lifting.
"Do you want to continue that line of thought?"
She hesitates over the response, choosing instead to take a step toward him. Her hands find the front of his shirt, fingers running over his chest as though tenderness might still save her.
"I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you."
His eyes move from the jacket to her face, watching the weight of the words as they land.
"I had to play an entire show carrying that pride in my back pocket."
Her mouth curves before she can stop it. His doesn't follow.
That should probably be enough to make her sensible.
It isn't.
"I had to watch you play an entire show knowing what I wasn't wearing."
He laughs, but there is no humour to it. His voice calm in a way that makes her chest flush.
"You are very close to making this worse for yourself."
The words sit like a threat in her body, heat telling her she should apologise.
Instead, she looks up at him through her lashes.
"So, I still have room to push."
His eyes darken by degrees.
"You are being a brat."
The words make her smile.
Her touch lifting higher as she takes her turn with his mouth, thumb tracing the curve of his bottom lip.
"A brat who knows who she belongs to."
That seals her fate.
The shift in him is subtle but unmistakable: the last of the public performance folding away, replaced by something only for her. Something private. Precise.
His hand catches her wrist before she can withdraw.
For a second, he only holds her there, thumb against lip, her pulse beating wildly beneath his fingers.
Then his mouth opens.
His tongue touches the pad of her thumb.
Draws it in.
His teeth close gently.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to give her an out.
Her eyes brighten, fixed only on him, and Joe watches the reaction with a patience that feels more dangerous than urgency ever could.
"You always do," he says softly.
The praise is not gentle enough to be safe.
He releases her thumb slowly, deliberately, the same way he had moved his hand over the jacket. As though every wasted second is part of the foreplay.
Then he lowers her hand, choosing to keep hold of her wrist.
"You know," Joe says, "I spent the entire encore thinking about what I was going to do when I finally got you alone."
Her lips part and for once no sound betrays her.
His curve.
"Now you're quiet?"
She recovers quickly. Too quickly to be sensible.
"I was giving you a chance to be impressive."
That almost gets a laugh.
Instead, Joe turns his head toward the jacket again, dropping her wrist as his fingers move to the inside pocket. He moves slowly, deliberately now.
The underwear emerges from the denim in a small fold of nylon and ink, ridiculous and obscene and suddenly not as funny as it had been at the start of the afternoon.
Her gaze drops to it.
Then back to his face.
Joe sees everything.
The catch in her breath. The way her chin lifts to hide it. The way her mouth, the problem, almost betrays her again.
He steps closer, moving them to the edge of the bed, his hand catching the small of her back before she can stumble.
The lamp throws their shadows across the hotel wall, merging them at the edges, hers swallowed by his.
"You were very proud of your mouth tonight."
She smiles softly, ignoring the warning beneath the words.
"Usually, you tell me it's one of my better features."
Joe smiles gently, his free hand rising to her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip with the same careful pressure they have exchanged all night.
"Keep running it," he says, voice low enough that she feels it more than hears it, "and I'll gag you with them."
The room holds its breath around them.
Her eyes flicker to the fabric in his hand.
Then back to him.
There is an answer waiting on her tongue. Reckless. Indecent. Exactly the sort of thing that has got her into this mess.
His expression shifts by a fraction.
"Still with me?"
Not quite an out.
A door, if she needs one.
She nods.
He does not move.
"You've been using your words all night," he says. "I don't want you to stop now."
"Yes."
His thumb taps her bottom lip twice.
The undercurrent of a system.
Once for yes.
Twice for slow.
Three for stop.
Care built into silence, even as he makes her speak.
"Big girl words."
Her breath hitches, eyes fixed on his.
"I'm with you."
The corner of his mouth lifts.
"There's a good girl."
The praise should make her behave.
It does not.
"What if I want you to gag me?"
The question makes him smile, his head tilting slightly.
"Are we still talking about the fabric?"
She hesitates, the implication passing over her as warmth spreads beneath her skin.
"Not just, no."
Joe twists the material between his fingers, dragging it gently across her lower lip where the heat of his skin still lingers.
"You haven't behaved enough for that."
Her eyes flick from the fabric to his face, indignation flashing through them.
"Mean."
He laughs then, stepping back from her.
Without his hand at her back, balance becomes a thing she has to remember, and she does not quick enough. She drops onto the mattress, breath catching as the mattress gives beneath her.
Joe looks down at her; affection balanced with the events of the day.
"Sweetheart," he says, "you haven't seen anything yet."
The words don't unsettle her as much as the lack of action.
She had expected urgency. The snap of his patience at last. His hands returning to her with the force of everything he had been forced to manage publicly for hours.
Instead, Joe only stands at the edge of the bed, the fabric still twisted between his fingers like it gives him somewhere to put the excess, looking down at her like she is a problem he has not decided how to solve.
She feels the miscalculation spread beneath her skin.
The show had not been a distraction from this.
It had been a tool.
It had given him time. If anything, it had given him too much time.
Every song. Every changeover. Every look from a woman in the crowd wanting what already belonged to her. Every stretch of applause long enough for him to feel the small folded weight of the fabric and remember exactly how it had got there.
She had thought about him carrying the idea of it during the show.
Accepted the reality of him carrying the item itself.
She had not thought enough about the repercussions.
"You really were incredible tonight," she says.
It comes out softer than she intends, the truth threaded beneath consolation and apology. Love and affection trying to step sideways into absolution.
His expression flickers. Not much, but enough that she sees the compliment land and reaches for it quickly, as though praise might still lead somewhere safe.
"The bridge before the encore," she says, sitting up a little, one hand braced against the mattress as the other stretches towards him, "you held the note longer than usual."
"I know."
"The crowd lost their minds."
"I know that too."
She smiles, trying for innocence. Trying for the version of herself that gets rewarded at the same speed as her tongue.
"I'm proud of you."
That one lands differently because it always does.
For half a second, something in his face loosens, not control, but the man beneath it. The one who hears her. The one who believes her. The one who had stood with his forehead against hers only minutes ago and told her, half-laughing, half-ruined, that she would be the end of him.
The man who means it as more than desire.
Then his thumb moves over the fabric in his hand.
The softness stays, but it does not save her.
"I know," he says. "That's never been tonight's question."
The question pauses before it comes.
His shoe knocks gently against the inside of her ankle, nudging her thighs apart. Not force. Not demand. A signal she accepts.
"What has been?" she asks.
He smiles; the same softness now threaded through discipline.
"Whether I make you quiet because you've earned it," he says, brushing the fabric once, gently, across her lip, "by saving the economy…"
Her earlier smart-mouthed comment sounds obscene falling from his mouth now.
"Or because I want to know what happens when clever stops working."
She says nothing to that because, for once, nothing comes quickly enough.
Instead, she arches off the bed and reaches for him, but he is just out of reach. All she catches are his knuckles, bunched around the fabric that started all of this.
Joe lets her touch him. Lets her try touch over words.
Then he unwinds his fingers slowly, watching her watch him, and draws the fabric between them until it rests against her mouth. Not inside. Not yet.
His eyes stay on hers.
"Last chance to make this worse for yourself," he says.
The offer sits there: a threat framed by a pause; a question of consent dressed in the same low voice as the warning.
She could stop. She could tap twice. She could say slow, or wait, or no, and he would listen. She knows that with the same certainty she knows he is watching for it.
Instead, she closes the distance herself.
Her mouth finds the fabric. The movement is small, but the surrender in it is not.
Joe's expression changes by a fraction, satisfaction threading through the discipline, softness refusing to leave even now.
"There," he says.
The word lands with more weight than it should.
Then, quieter, with her own earlier tenderness turned back on her and made dangerous:
"Proud of you."
The words should not undo her, but they do.
Praise has always been worse than warning with him. Warning gives her something to fight. Praise finds the part of her that wants to be good and presses there, careful and exact, until the brat in her goes quiet for reasons that have nothing to do with the fabric in her mouth.
Joe sees it happen.
The way her eyes lose some of their sharpness. The way her shoulders ease by a fraction. The way her breath changes around what he has given her, around what she has chosen to accept.
"Realised it's smarter not to talk back for once?"
She makes a sound that might have been argument once. It is certainly not argument now.
His smile deepens, but he does not touch her again immediately. Instead, his hands move to his own shirt.
Her attention drops before she can stop it, and he catches it with a smirk. The private audience carries more heat than the arena, and he takes his time with the buttons. Another form of punishment for her: the deliberate pace of a man who knows urgency is no longer necessary because he has already changed the rules of the room, one button at a time.
The shirt opens by degrees, revealing skin still carrying the warmth of the stage without the mess of it. He is not damp any more — the worst of the show wiped away in some backstage half-minute she had barely noticed — but the heat remains, caught beneath fabric and adrenaline, under the steady rise and fall of his chest.
She wants to touch him.
It moves through her hands first, fingers flexing against the mattress.
Joe looks down.
"No," he says.
The word is quiet. Absolute.
Her eyes lift to his as he slips the shirt from his shoulders and lets it hang from one hand the same way the jacket had earlier, white fabric loose between his fingers, ordinary until he starts folding it. Then it becomes something else without ever being announced.
Her breath catches once more.
He steps closer, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip as he leans down. Not over her entirely. Just close enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep his eyes.
"You keep reaching," he says.
She does not deny it. She cannot.
His thumb brushes once along her cheek, gentler than the words that follow.
"And I keep letting you."
He feels it land in the way her body stills beneath him. He takes her wrist first. Slowly. Clearly. Giving her every chance to resist, to tap, to pull back, to turn the scene aside.
She does none of those things.
She only watches him, breathing carefully through the fabric, as he brings one hand forward and then the other, crossing them loosely in her lap. The position makes her feel immediately more exposed. Not physically but emotionally, because he has taken away another language she knows how to use. First her mouth. Now her hands.
Joe winds the shirt around her wrists with a patience that feels almost unfair. Loose enough not to mark, but firm enough to remind her of the implications. When he knots it, he checks the give with two fingers beneath the cotton, then looks back at her.
"Can you still check in?"
Her leg wraps slowly around his waist, thigh squeezing once against his hip, and for a second, he pauses.
His mouth twitches. "Not what I asked for."
She rolls her eyes, but her fingers flex against the cotton until they touch his skin. Once. A deliberate answer.
Yes, she is still with him. Yes, she knows the rules. Yes, she understands that whatever follows — punishment or reward — belongs to them both and still needs her consent.
Joe laughs low against her forehead and presses a single kiss to her hairline.
"Still a brat."
She taps again. Once. Wordlessly answering: yours.
Something in his face shifts. Not softening. Acknowledging what she is saying even with her native language taken out of play. Affection.
Then he moves.
He stands and catches her by the bound wrists, careful of the knot, drawing her towards the edge of the bed until she has no choice but to follow. Her dress catches beneath her body and rides higher, the fabric pulling up her thighs, exposing the consequence of his earlier instruction.
For a moment, Joe's composure falters. Only a second, but she sees it. The slight break in his breathing. The way his eyes drop and stay there. The way his grip tightens around her wrists before he remembers to loosen it.
The dressing room returns between them with terrible clarity. The mirror. The hem of her dress. The fabric. His name printed where it has belonged since the very first night. Her grin in the glass like a dare. And now this.
No joke left between them. No audience. No door about to open. Nobody to save her from the consequences of her actions.
Joe exhales once, slow and controlled, like he is choosing not to give in to the first answer his body offers him. She watches him make the choice, watches him suffer through the options. It is somehow worse because the wanting is there. Plainly. Undeniably. He could give her exactly what her body is asking for, exactly what she had been reckless enough to start hours ago.
Instead, his gaze lifts back to her face.
He smiles. Small. Devastating.
"You thought today was going to make me impatient," he says.
Her fingers flex once against his skin. Maybe yes. Maybe please. Maybe both.
His thumb strokes once over the inside of her wrist, right above the knot.
"It did," he says. "Just not in the way you were hoping."
The answer lands low and late.
Before she can decide what to do with it, he lets go of her wrists. Not far. Not enough to free her. Just enough to lower himself slowly to his knees between hers.
Her breath changes around the fabric in her mouth. Joe hears it and sets one hand against her knee, then the other against her opposite thigh, thumbs moving in slow, absent lines that are not absent at all.
She shifts towards him. Barely. The only movement allowed.
His hands still and her eyes lift to his. Wordlessly begging for more.
"No," he says.
The word is quiet enough to be cruel.
Her fingers curl against the shirt binding her wrists.
He waits. She glares at him. He waits longer.
Finally, with visible irritation, she taps once against the cotton, accepting his terms.
Joe's mouth curves.
"Good girl."
Then he leans in.
Not where she wants him. Not yet, at least.
His mouth finds the inside of her thigh first, warm and deliberate, and the contact pulls a sound from her that the fabric catches and ruins. She hates how much he likes that. Hates more that he does not bother hiding it.
"There," he murmurs against her skin. "You can be quiet."
She makes another sound, sharper this time. His eyes flick up.
"But not patient."
The distinction matters to him.
He gives her more then, enough that her spine draws tight and her bound hands jerk uselessly in her lap. Enough that the room narrows to the lamp, the city beyond the glass, the careful pressure of his hands holding her exactly where he wants her. Enough that she starts to believe he might actually let her have it — the flat drag of his tongue against her for a second so brief.
Joe stops. Completely.
The sound she makes is almost a protest and almost his name, swallowed entirely by the fabric. It is filthy enough to make him smile against the inside of her thigh, touch as gentle as apology and nowhere near apologetic enough.
"No," he says again. "Not yet."
Her head falls back in a way that suggests an insult. He laughs softly, the sound low against her skin, and she hates him for the patience in it. Hates that he can hear every broken edge of her breathing and know exactly what he has done. Hates that he is enjoying the proof of it.
She tries to pull him closer with her leg.
That earns her his teeth.
The bite is quick, controlled, placed high on her thigh where the shock of it goes through her all at once. Not pain, exactly, but not just pleasure. Another form of correction.
Her hips pulse towards him, and Joe's hand tightens at her hip.
"My pace or I stop."
Her thighs stop, framing him between them without pressing on the curls this time.
"Better," he praises, kissing the place marked by his teeth.
The second kiss is higher, wetter, the closer he gets.
"You made me spend the whole show waiting," he says, an inch away from where she most wants him as he licks another flat strip. "Every lyric. Every move. Every second of applause."
His thumb strokes once against her.
"And you thought I'd come back here and be quick with you?"
Her fingers flex. Once. Yes.
The honesty of it makes his smile turn dangerous.
"Pathetic, really."
The mockery lands exactly where the praise had. Deep. Unfair. Disastrous.
He gives her what she wants after that. Enough to make her forget, briefly, that denial had ever been on the table. Enough to draw her back to the edge he had left her on, breath by breath, until the world begins to thin again and her body moves towards him despite every restraint.
He lets her get close to the edge, tongue and fingers allowing her to respond. Close enough that her eyes lose focus and her bound hands twist in the shirt and the sound behind the fabric becomes desperate enough to make him consider removing it just to hear better.
Then he stops. Fingers pressing into her thighs as he pushes them back apart.
"Oh," he says softly. "You really did think I was done teaching you."
---
Say nice things to me about this so I write more please xox
She wears unofficial merch, and his attention outweighs the lost royalties. Alternatively, the one where Joe spends the show with her underwear in his back pocket.
3k words - implied sexual themes.
---
The dressing room, on residency nights, is always the same.
That's the part nobody mentions about Vegas — that the same key card opens the same door at the same hour, that the same long mirror with its frame of small white bulbs throws back the same face working through the same ritual, night after night, for as long as the run lasts. Touring has the mercy of motion. This does not.
Joe likes it more than he expected to.
There's a steadiness in returning to a single room. The same draft from the same vent. The same scuff on the same chair leg. The same view, when he remembers to look — the Strip just beginning to flicker on, late afternoon tipping amber, the desert sky settling into that particular Nevada colour that lives somewhere between bruise and gold.
Kevin has already left the room once and come back. This is his pattern — the disappearance into whatever corridor conversation needs to happen, the management call, the label thing, the logistical infrastructure of the larger life that runs quietly alongside the musical one. Without ever discussing the arrangement, the three of them have let him carry it. He comes back eventually. He is back now, tucked into the far corner, voice low to his phone, handling something he will not bring across the threshold. It is a talent of its own.
Nick has been here since before the crew arrived. There's a guitar in his lap — unplugged, mute to everyone else — and his left hand moves over the neck pressing shapes that aren't being asked to make sound yet. He goes down early. Whatever the performance asks of him lives below the surface and he starts looking for it before anyone else has thought to.
There's a thing the three of them do before the call comes — a ritual assembled piecemeal from two decades of shared pre-show anxiety, never named, never formally agreed to, just continued. They'll get to it.
There's still time.
She doesn't knock when she enters.
Of course she doesn't.
Joe sees her in the glass first — sees, layered over her reflection, the memory of his hands against the mirror that housekeeping has long since made clean. Half a second before she fully steps into the room, something inside him slips a notch. It always does. Even after years. Even after this many nights of the same door opening on the same person.
"Hey," she says.
He doesn't turn.
He can't, not yet. The hair person is still doing something at the back of his head, and the wardrobe assistant is hovering with the jacket folded over one arm, and Nick is in the far corner half-soundchecking a melody on an unplugged guitar that nobody else in the room can hear. The space is full of people. The space is also, somehow, empty.
"Hey," he answers.
In the mirror, she crosses to him.
She is wearing something simple — a black dress cut low enough to show the outline of the lace beneath, the kind of low-key thing she defaults to when she's walking through back-of-house corridors and wants to be invisible to the cameras at the loading bay but visible to him. She steps in close behind his chair and rests her hand on his shoulder, light, casual, the gesture of a person who has every right to be here.
She does have every right to be here.
That is the thing about her in this room.
The hair person finishes. Steps back. Murmurs something. The wardrobe assistant waits.
She bends close — not theatrical, just close enough — and her mouth brushes the shell of his ear.
"I have something to show you," she says, low.
He almost laughs.
"Now?"
"Later."
She straightens.
But not before her hem lifts, briefly, to the line of her hips — and she catches his eye in the glass and he moves the hand curled around the back of her thigh up by an inch. No more, no less.
Just enough.
The fabric is a particular shade of pink that makes no apology for itself. Block lettering in white, slightly off-centre, stitched with the kind of careless economy that says it was made in volume on the Strip — that there is a stall somewhere between the Bellagio and Treasure Island where a man with a ring light and a folding table sells these by the dozen to tourists who think they're funny.
His name.
Beneath the letter I and a heart.
She lets the hem drop.
For a beat, he doesn't move.
He stays very still. The wardrobe assistant is waiting. Nick still in the corner, still humming, still inside whatever music he's building toward. The room has become, in the space of three seconds, a very particular kind of crowded. Joe is aware of every body in it and the distance of each from the door.
Nobody saw. Nobody could have. It was a second. Less.
He stands.
Slowly.
He takes the jacket without looking at it, slides his arms in, lets the wardrobe assistant settle it across his shoulders.
Turns.
Looks at her.
Really looks.
She is grinning now, just barely — that small, private grin she keeps for him alone, the one with the dare buried in it.
"Can we have the room," he says. Not quite a question. Not quite anything else.
Nobody moves.
"Five minutes."
Nick glances up. Reads his face. Doesn't ask. Sets the guitar down and goes. The wardrobe assistant follows with practiced disinterest. The hair person, already gone. The door closes.
The dressing room, finally, is two people.
He doesn't speak right away.
He takes her face between his hands instead — gentler than what he is feeling, because what he is feeling has too much weight for the first touch — and kisses her, once. Not long. Long enough.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces the corner of her mouth.
"Where did you get it," he says. Not quite a question.
"The Strip."
"Of course."
"There's a whole rack."
"I'm sure there is."
"Do you want to see the back?"
He laughs.
He actually laughs — surprised by it, by her, by the absurdity of standing in his stage clothes in a residency dressing room with forty-five minutes to curtain while she calmly produces a tourist-grade declaration of love from a vendor stall and informs him she is wearing it.
"No," he says. "Take it off."
She raises an eyebrow.
"Now?"
"Now."
She doesn't argue.
He doesn't watch, exactly. He turns toward the side table and pretends to be busy with something — a bottle of water, the pre-show ritual, anything to give her the small privacy of the gesture even as the gesture itself dissolves any privacy between them. He gives her that much. He feels the absence of the fabric before he sees it.
When she steps back into his line of sight, it is folded once in her palm.
She holds it out.
He takes it.
Doesn't put it down.
His mic pack is in his right back pocket — the bulk of it pressing against the small of his back the way it does every night, the wire trailing up beneath the jacket toward the clip on his collar. The left back pocket is empty. It's always empty. Wardrobe leaves it that way.
He folds the fabric smaller and slides it in.
She watches him do it.
Her eyes — when he looks up — are very dark.
"You're going on stage like that," she says.
It isn't a question.
"I am."
"For two hours."
"For two hours."
She steps in. Her hand finds the front of his jacket — the same place her fingers will find later in the corridor, against the wall, after the lift, after the lights, after everything. But here, now, she is only just beginning to understand what she has done.
"You're going to be insufferable after," she says.
"Probably."
She kisses him — briefly, once — and there is a knock at the door, the apologetic one, the we-need-you knock, and she steps back.
The room reassembles itself around them.
The wardrobe assistant reappears with a lint roller. Nick retrieves the guitar from where he left it and behaves as though he was never gone. None of them comment. None of them ever do.
She catches his eye one more time before she goes.
A promise that doesn't need sound.
Then she goes.
Joe stands in the middle of the dressing room with forty minutes to curtain and the weight of one small folded thing in his back pocket — a weight that has no business being so present, given how light it is — and understands, without quite admitting it to himself, that he is going to think about it for the entire show.
Every song.
Every changeover.
Every time he turns his back to the audience and leans toward his brother and the bass kicks under them and the lights swing white.
He is going to think about it.
And she knows.
That is the part that undoes him.
She knows.
---
It blurs, the way the night stretches — arena light dissolving into the muted gold of the lift, the air still humming with the residue of sound. They are folded into it with everyone else, bodies packed too close, talent and crew overlapping, voices blending in that particular post-show disarray that never quite settles.
Her skin is still tuned to the crowd.
It hasn't left her yet — the bassline caught somewhere behind her ribs, the echo of it syncing with the way his hands find her waist like muscle memory. Not tentative. Not searching. Just there.
To her left, Nick is talking — something about the fifth track, the bass not carrying the way it should. Technical, precise. The kind of detail that survives even when everything else is chaos.
Kevin answers without looking up. Something dismissive. Something about perfectionism having no place here, not tonight.
She has heard some version of this exchange before, in some lift in some other city. Different track, same argument. The youngest always finds the thing that didn't land the way he'd designed it; the eldest always tells him it doesn't matter; it always, eventually, matters. This is the ecology of three — a closed system, each of them fluent in a version of the others that the audience never gets to see.
She doesn't turn to listen.
She shifts instead — barely, but enough — and feels Joe respond instantly. The scrape of stubble at the curve of her neck, the press of his mouth just shy of her ear. His jacket is rough against her arm, denim catching against bare skin as his arms close around her, pulling her back into him like the absence of the stage has opened something only she can fill.
She doesn't need to see his face.
She knows the look — can feel it in the way his fingers move, tapping faintly against her waist, still keeping time with the last song. Still not quite done with it.
The lift is too slow.
Painfully so.
She becomes aware of it in fragments — the low hum of the machinery, the shift of weight as someone leans, the mirrored panels throwing back blurred reflections of bodies that, only minutes ago, had been moving freely. She should want it to hurry.
She doesn't.
She lets herself lean back into him instead, just enough to feel the length of him align with her spine, just enough to test the line of restraint.
He exhales against her skin. A warning disguised as breath.
She says his name beneath it, quieter than the rest of the noise.
His grip tightens in response.
And she feels it then — the press of something at her hip that isn't his belt, isn't his mic pack, isn't anything she would notice on any other night. The shape of it is small. Folded. Specific.
He hadn't set it down.
Not once. Not for the whole show.
The realisation moves through her in a slow, warm pulse, and she lets her weight settle a little more deliberately against him, lets her hip press just where her hip ought to press, and feels — more than hears — the catch of his breath behind her ear.
Hours on stage should have burned through him — should have left him hollowed out, spent — but he isn't. Not even close. It's there in the way he holds her, in the way the energy hasn't dissipated but changed shape. Narrowed. Found its target.
She moves again.
Deliberate this time.
He stills.
"Don't," he murmurs, low enough that it never leaves the space between them.
She tilts her head back anyway.
Offers the line of her throat like an answer.
There's a pause — a fraction of a second where he decides something — and then she feels it: the shift of his mouth, the curve of something like a smile against her skin before his lips find her neck.
He likes this.
Not the obedience.
The refusal of it.
The lift chimes.
No one reacts. Not immediately. The doors open, people spill out in a loose, distracted wave — still talking, still mid-thought — and suddenly there's space where there hadn't been.
They don't move.
Kevin says something somewhere in the periphery, already half gone, attention pulled into his phone. Nick is still somewhere else entirely, lost in whatever version of the fifth track he's trying to fix in his head.
She says his name again.
This time, it lands.
Joe lets her go — but only just — one hand catching the doors before they slide closed, the other still firm at her waist as if letting her out of reach is not something he is prepared to do.
They step into the corridor last.
The quiet hits differently here. Softer. Contained. The hum of the lift falls away behind them and the noise of the others fades quickly — voices turning corners, dissolving into distance — until it is just the two of them and the long stretch of carpet ahead, the wall sconces throwing pools of low amber light at intervals, like punctuation.
She doesn't hesitate.
Her hand finds his, fingers threaded together as she starts toward the room, pace quick enough to matter.
She doesn't get far.
He pulls her back — sharp, decisive — and the next second she's against the wall, the breath knocked out of her more from the suddenness than the force of it.
His mouth is on hers before she can think.
Not careless. Not rushed.
But without the restraint his hands have already abandoned.
They move like he has been holding back too long — up her waist, over the curve of her ribs, mapping her through fabric that suddenly feels too thin, too in the way.
She tastes the show on him still — salt, faint heat, the trace of whatever water he'd had between songs — and beneath it, the version of him she only ever gets in the spaces between, the one no audience ever sees.
"We need the room key," she manages, breath uneven, fingers still caught in the front of his jacket as he shifts his mouth to the edge of her jaw, lower, slower. "You can't —"
"Can't I?" he cuts in, quieter than before but edged with something sharper.
He leans back just enough to look at her.
Really look.
There's something in it — something bright and unguarded and just shy of reckless — that makes her pulse stutter.
His hand slides lower at her back, fingers pressing in once, deliberate, like punctuation reminding her of what little separates them.
She says his name again.
Different this time.
He notices.
Of course he does.
The key is in his jacket — inside pocket — and she finds it without breaking eye contact, her hand brushing over the line of his chest, the tension still coiled there from the stage, from her, from everything.
Her fingers, on the way back, drift past his hip.
Past the line of his pocket.
She doesn't say anything.
Neither does he.
But she feels the small shape of it through the denim — the folded weight he had carried out of the dressing room and through every song and the encore and the bow — and her breath catches, and his eyes close for a second, and something passes between them that has no language at all.
"You have about two seconds," he says, stepping back just enough to give her space to move — though not far enough to break the pull between them — "before I stop being patient."
It is not a threat.
Not really.
But she believes it anyway.
The card trembles a little in her hand.
Not from nerves. From the leftover adrenaline of him — the way his breath has gone uneven, the way he is watching her cross the few feet to the door like distance, even this small, is something he is barely tolerating.
The lock blinks green.
She does not get the handle all the way down before he is behind her again, one hand bracing flat against the door above her shoulder, the other already finding the small of her back, guiding her through.
The door swings open onto the kind of suite that exists everywhere and nowhere — pale walls, a wide bed, the low gold of a single lamp left on by housekeeping. Beyond the window, the Strip is a blurred constellation of late traffic and neon, the sound of it muffled to a hush by the glass.
The door closes behind them.
The latch catches.
And then it is only the room.
Only him.
Only the way the world, which had been so loud only an hour ago, contracts to the small radius of his hands.
He doesn't rush.
That is the thing she will remember later — not the urgency, but the moment after it. The way he stops, just inside the door, and lets his eyes move over her like he is seeing her for the first time and the hundredth time at once. Like the version of her standing in this room — hair a little wild from the press of bodies, mouth bruised from his, his jacket still rough where she has clutched it — is the version he wants to learn over again.
"Come here," he says.
She is already moving.
He catches her face between his hands when she reaches him — palms warm, slightly callused, the fingertips that have spent hours on strings still carrying their faint heat — and tilts her up to him with a tenderness that is almost out of place against everything else his body is doing.
He kisses her differently this time.
Slower.
Like he has remembered there is no clock anymore. No lift. No corridor. No brothers in the periphery, no muffled hotel voices, no one waiting for him to be anywhere except here.
Her hands find the lapels of his jacket and she pushes it back over his shoulders, and he lets her, shrugging out of it without breaking the kiss, the denim falling somewhere between them and the floor.
It hits the carpet with a sound she registers and he does not.
The small folded weight, finally, set down.
She can feel his heart now.
Where the bassline used to live, behind her ribs — that whole loud architecture of sound she had carried up from the arena — there is, instead, this. The steady, slightly quickened beat of him. The same rhythm she has known for years and is still, somehow, learning.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.
Eyes closed.
Breathing through it.
"You'll be the end of me," he says, and there is laughter in it, low and half-undone, and something else underneath the laughter that he doesn't try to hide.
She lifts a hand to the back of his neck.
Lets her thumb trace, very lightly, the line of him there.
"Good," she says.
The lamp throws their shadow long across the wall — two figures merged into one outline, tipped together at the head — and outside, somewhere far below, the Strip keeps on with its ordinary night, neon flickering against the desert dark.
Inside the room, the silence is not empty.
It is the kind that comes after music.
The kind a song leaves behind when it ends — when the last note has gone and the air still holds the shape of it, and you know, in the dark beneath your skin, that you have not stopped listening.
