Dortmund was your youth, the place you blossomed and the place you first found love with him.
You were eighteen, barely out of girlhood. Your room was still painted baby pink, and your lingerie was still stitched with delicate bows of innocence.
And Jude, well Jude was golden.
A golden boy, with golden skin and a golden future. One which he made you believe you were in.
You met on a rain filled afternoon in the middle of April, the clouds were grey and gloomy, the rain on the pavement made the city smell of damp and earth. You were working at the front desk of a small cafe, one which was tucked behind a bookstore that most of thr tourists missed. He ordered a hot chocolate, with extra whipped cream and his brother laughed at him. Then, they tucked themselves into the booth away from the public eye, not that there were many people in the cafe that day.
All that shift, you felt his eyes on you. When you were collecting empty cups and wiping down tables. When you were refilling the baked goods and pouring coffee.
When he left, he left his number and a note on a napkin.
-y/n, call me
Jude
And since that day, it had seemed your world had never stopped being dizzying.
The early days were sweet. Secret. Sacred. A special sort of magic that only exists between two teenagers falling in love for the first time. Walks through the cobbled streets under the warm glow of street lamps, sitting in the empty stands of the stadium after training just to talk about nothing. He'd hold your hand so carefully, so delicately and he'd kiss you with so much raw love.
It was easy back then, light. You fell in love with him before the world did.
But the golden days were just gilded.
Rot lay beneath.
The fame came quickly, and with it came the late nights and the turned off location. The texts slowed, as did the affection and the effort.
You started to see glimpses of a boy that didn't belong to you, a boy so different than the one you were in love with. The Jude in the club surrounded by the bottle girls in scandalous clothing, the Jude in tabloid headlines with body lingering close to someone that wasn't you as he partied in Ibiza.
The boy who had once kissed your forehead and caressed the freckles on your face became the man that called you clingy for asking why he had come home at four am. He became mean in moments and then unbelievably loving in the next.
He would go two days without saying anything to you, just to show up at your door with a beautiful bouquet of flowers and telling you everything you wanted to hear. You believed it because you were eighteen and so madly in love, blinded by the sweet days before he was consumed by the money and the fame.
You failed to realised he had changed so much because it changed overtime.
The jealousy grew like mold under his skin. Infecting him slowly before it began to grow on you like rot.
He would hate when you posted photos without him in them, he hated when you couldn't text back right away and he especially hated when other men would look at you.
His jealousy would wrap around your ankles and pulled you under every time he would whisper, "you know it's you and me forever, right?", then he would be gone to the night for a few days.
And you would wait.
You would stay for way to long because you were blinded by how good it once was. You told yourself it could get back there, that you could fix this.
But eventually, loving him blurred into losing yourself. Everyone around you saw that, they saw the way you got thinner and the way your smile vanished. You paled. You lost the sparkle in your eye. And you couldn't go on.
So, you broke up. You left him.
But it never really ended.
Every time you were moving on, he would come back with false promises and declarations of love. He would sleep with you, make you feel things no one else could and then once he was satisfied that you were still attached to him, he would leave.
You used to think love was supposed to hurt a little, that ache in your chest and the longing. That was meant to happen, right?
But eventually, after the constant back and forth, it was no longer hurt. It was hollowing.
He’d show up at midnight, a hoodie pulled over his head, the smell of cologne and cold night air clinging to his skin. He’d kiss you like he missed you, like you were the only home he ever knew. And for a few fleeting hours, you'd let yourself believe he was yours again -- the boy from Dortmund, the boy who left his number on a napkin like it meant something.
But it never lasted.
In the morning, he’d be gone and he left behind crumpled sheets, lipstick stains, and a quiet that screamed.
You knew it wasn’t love anymore -- at least not the kind you deserved.
It was dependency, it was history, it was heartbreak dressed up in nostalgia. Each time he left, he took a piece of you with him and slowly but surely, there was no more of you left to give him.
And the sickest part was -- Jude knew. He knew how much you loved him, and that you would always come back to him. That made him careless about you. Reckless, unloving but possessive in a way that didn't feel romantic but suffocating. You were just he safety net, his comfort.
So you left. You didn't tell him where you were going. You didn't want him to chase you.
Paris.
Paris was refreshing.
A new city where Jude didn't exist, a city where his face wasn't plastered everywhere.
And a few months later, you got the text from a friend.
Jude had left Dortmund, and had gone to Madrid.
And those streets in Germany you used to walk down hand in hand, now only existed in your memories. Your eighteen year old ghosts were all that haunted them.
You were sat on your windowsill in Paris when you got the message, the city lights twinkled below in a way that reminded you of the lights in Dortmund. You arms wrapped around your knees in the big oversized jumper as winter began to settle into the city. You didn't cry, but it did feel like the whole world had shifted -- he was gone, Jude was really gone.
Both of you now in different cities in different countries, and Dortmund lay in the past.
Dormant and untouchable.
Over a year later.....
It was early spring in Paris, the city moved in a quiet hum as the sun made it's first real appearance as the winter wore off. The trees along the Seine were beginning to bloom with lush green leaves and sway in the light breeze.
You were sat at a small table near the edge of the river, one leg crossed over the other and a leather bomber jacket draped over your shoulders. Your lipstick stained the coffee cup a deep red, and a lit cigarette was held firm between your fingers as you enjoyed your lunch break.
You were twenty one now, and you had lived in the French capital for long enough to look like a local. You knew the cobbled streets like the back of your hand, you spoke the language fluently.
Your boyfriend sits across from you, wearing rayban sunglasses and his dark hair pushed back. His olive skin glowing under the sun, his hand rubbing across the stubble on his chin as he laughed at something you said. He wasn't a footballer, but a business advisor -- a very good one, with top clients all over the city and its suburbs. He didn't chase fame, only wealth and that wealth he wanted to spend on you. He was the kind of man that was chivalrous, he opened the doors for you, and he remembered how you took your coffee always. You never walked on the road side and got forbid you ever had to pull out your own chair.
You didn't love him yet. Not quite. But you can feel it budding inside you like a flower about to bloom, it's slow and familiar in the best way. The calmness and the steadiness of the fall, the love that didn't ache but tingled.
You took a drag of your cigarette, exhaling to the sky before meeting his eyes again across the table.
Charles is his name. So simple and classic, like everything about him.
He reaches for your hand, just to touch you because he likes the feeling of your hand in his. You let him take it because he touch feels like the warm of fire on your skin. He begins to ask you about work, and you answer with eagerness. You loved your job, it was in a publishing house and it paid better than the cafe job back home in Germany.
Although, Germany didn't really feel like home anymore. Paris had become yours, no longer just a city you fled too but the city that became you. This city didn't hold the ache of painful memories but the light of an unwritten future. Right now, that future tasted like a handsome man, a dark coffee and a cigarette.
You smile contently, leaning back into the chair and watching the river flow. The Eiffel tower in the distance, only the top being visible over the beige brick buildings.
"J'ai une question pour toi," (I have a question for you) Charles says, pulling you out of your gazing.
"Oui," You nod your head with a smile, signalling him to continue.
'Il y a un gala de charité dans quelques semaines à Cannes. Je vous invite à me rejoindre," (There is a charity gala in a few weeks, in Cannes. I want you to join me), He said, his finger drawing rings about the rim of his coffee cup.
You cock your eyebrow and tilt your head at him, "Charity or business?"
Charles laughs, low and hoarse, smooth like caramel. Then he holds his hands up like he had been caught, "You got me, mais je te veux là" (you got me, but I want you there)
"Qui sera là ?," (who will be there?), You ask.
"Des hommes d'affaires, des hommes d'affaires très riches. Des célébrités, des mannequins, vous savez, les coupables habituels." (businessmen, very rich businessmen. Some celebrities, models, you know the usual culprits.)
"alors j'aurai besoin d'une robe," (then i'll need a dress), You grin, giving him your answer.
"You can have whatever you want, ma cherie"
You blush under his words, and his thick french accent. He's so perfect and you struggle to understand how you got so lucky. He takes care of you in a way no one else has, and he made you realise that you were capable of loving after him -- after Jude.
-
The riviera air smelt of salt and jasmine, the dusk sky above bled in shades of rose and gold over the lapping waves of the blue sea. Cannes was like a dream, the warm sun setting but still lingering in the air.
You followed Charles around the venue, your arm linked into his. Camera's flashed in all directions, capturing actors and actresses alongside billionaires and their heirs. You felt out of place, being surrounded by such luxury and beauty. You felt like you stood out, but Charles had assured you that your were merely paranoid and that you looked the part.
The dress he had bought you was the nicest thing to ever touch your body. White and satin. Sleek and elegant. It was sculpted to your frame like it had been stitched on it. The neckline dipped low, and the back was open. A delicate white stole lay over your forearms and around your back. Your hair was pulled up into a styled up do, one which left the nape of your neck bare and able to show of the expensive diamond necklace Charles had gifted you.
Charles took your hand as you ascended up the stairs and into the grand ballroom where the big crowd waited. He looked every bit a Parisian socialite. The perfectly tailored black tuxedo with the matching prada bow tie. He greeted the staff by name, charmed a sommelier on the way inside and whispered how beautiful you looked into your ear as he guided you to the bar.
Inside, the gala was magnificent. Chandeliers rained golden light over everything, catching the glass of champagne flutes and the expensive fabric of designer ballgowns. A string quartet played elegantly in the background. Waiters moved through the crowd like shadow.
After getting a drink, Charles guided you to the table you were seated at. Some of his work colleagues already there and waiting. His hand was placed protectively on the small of your back in a way that made you feel a mix of desired and adored. Charles pulled out the chair, and you sat down ready to enjoy the night ahead.
And you didn't know, you didn't sense it because you had moved on. You weren't nineteen and obsessed anymore. You couldn't feel his eyes on you, you didn't notice him across the room watching your every move like he was seeing a ghost of him.
Jude.
He hadn't wanted to come, it was a club obligation. Something about good press and even better exposure. So, here he was, in a black suit and a heavy rolex on his wrist while he drank a glass of champagne. Kylian was talking nonsense about the models on the dance floor in his ear but he wasn't focussed on that.
He was focussed on you, and whoever the smugly dressed, gel haired man on your arm was.
so i heard you found somebody else.
and at first, i thought it was lie
His girl -- or at least the girl who had been his. The only girl that had ever been his. His first love, the one that left and never came back. The one that never responded or answered his messages. The girl whose siblings refused to talk to him.
His girl who is here, working the room so effortlessly like it was where you belonged. Chin tilted up slightly, shoulders back. A soft smile on your plump lips, a smile he hadn't seen in so long. You're confident and calm, and your hand in looped around his arm. Some man with olive skin and a stupidly well fitting suit which let Jude know he was a man of business because only businessmen care about suits like that. He was the kind of man that looked like he could give you everything Jude never could, older and more mature. He hated that.
and you.
You looked ethereal.
Mature and shaped. The white satin clinging to your skin in a way that shouldn't be turning him on as much as it is. Your bare back exposed under the golden light, and he can tell from the definition that you have been in the gym. Your skin was glowing across your collarbones, like oil was brushed upon it. The expensive Cartier necklace was glinting in the light. Jude knew it was Cartier because he had seen it in the shop recently, and he also knew that it cost double your yearly salary at the cafe. He doubted you had had such a big promotion since moving away that you now had spare ten of thousands just lying around to be spent. He didn't doubt that the businessman on your arm did.
Something like jealousy simmers under his skin, heating the collar around his neck. But how can he still feel jealousy over a girl he hadn't seen in over a year.
Jude looked at you again, Kylian still chatting nonsense in his ear as he picked up two glasses of champagne from the waitress and downed them both. He would need to be drunk if he was going to be in a room with you and be able to cope.
There was no trace of the girl in Dortmund, the one who would cry into the sleeves of his hoodies when he got back drunk at four in the morning. No evidence of that softness he was guilty of exploiting. You'd hardened but not in bitterness, but rather confidence. Like you knew you were better without him, like you to never let anyone treat you like he did ever again.
i don't want your body
but i hate to think about you with somebody else.
Jude watched as you sat down at a table beside the man. He watched as he leaned in close and said something into your ear. You giggled and then blushed. Rose flush tinting your cheeks. Then he kissed your bare shoulder.
And suddenly, Jude wasn't breathing because he's hearing your laugh in his head, the laugh you only gave when you were happy. The laugh you used to give to him, in tangled bed sheets or in the passenger seat of his car.
our love has gone cold
your intertwining your soul somebody else
You laughed again, this time leaning into the shoulder of the man next to you. Jude watched as that same man smiled from ear to ear, like he had earned it. Like he’d worked for that laugh and that blush, and maybe he had. Maybe he bought you flowers after long days at work, or made coffee just right, or didn’t disappear for three days without a word and come back smelling like perfume that wasn’t yours.
Jude swallowed hard, adjusting his collar once again because he was remembering the way he treated you at the end. Like you were his personal play toy, one that he would toss to the side when he got bored or a new model would enter his dm's. It wasn't because he didn't love you, as hard as it is to believe, but he did love you. He was just too young, too rich, too famous and surrounded by other young footballers who partied hard and fucked harder. He wanted that, but he also wanted you to come back to. He wanted the best of both worlds and for a short while you let him get away with it, so he kept going and going until one day you vanished.
And now you're here.
And he feels like the boy in Dortmund again.
And he doesn't want to see anyone else with you, because he can't bare the thought that you're not his.
You'll always be his -- the most special girl in his life. His first love.
He grabbed another two flutes of champagne and drank them quickly trying to dull the feeling in his chest.
"Jesus, that's your fifth one in about ten minutes," Trent said, coming to stand beside him and Kylian.
Jude grimaced as he felt the burn down his throat.
He was still only watching you, letting trent's words float off him like water off a ducks back.
You adjusted the hairs on the man beside you's head, gently running your hands through the onyx strands. That got him wondering.
He wondered if you’d run your fingers through Charles’ hair the way you used to with his -- slowly, absently, while you talked about your day. He wondered if you still wore oversized jumpers to bed, if you still pressed cold feet against warm legs in the middle of the night, if you still danced barefoot in the kitchen light after coming home drunk from a night with your girls.
He wondered if that man knew you the way he did.
i don't want your body
but i'm picturing your body with somebody else
He wondered if that man knew the parts of you that at one time only he had ever touched. Did he make you feel as good as he once had? Did you bite just under his ear the same way you used to for him?
However, the worst part was Jude starting to realise he didn't really know you at all anymore.
You weren't that shy German girl anymore.
And yet he still wanted you all the same. He felt that pull in his chest to reclaim you, make you come back to him because he still loved you. He always would, but he couldn't give you the relationship you wanted. He still wanted to party, to fuck other woman in the bathroom stalls of exclusive nightclubs, to slide into model's dm's after a long day of training but he wanted you to be waiting for him when he wished to settle down.
You were his wife. All the others were just fun.
I don't want your body
I don't want your body
"Whose caught your eye, ey?," Trent said, jokingly because he didn't understand just who Jude was looking at.
"See her in the black dress," Jude nodded in your direction, and both Trent and Kylian followed his glare.
"Fit, but seems like she's got a fella lad," Trent laughed. Kylian with him.
"She's my ex girlfriend," Jude said with a crisp bluntness. The words almost painful to get off his tongue.
"What," Trent's head snapped to his friend in shock, "That's not y/n is it?" He asked because he had heard Jude mention you more than a few times in his life. The girl that he let get away, the one that he would eventually go back to as if you would just be sat waiting for him.
Jude just nodded.
"Fuck lad, that's heavy," Trent breathed out, slapping his best friend on the back.
Jude didn't have to speak again, the clench of his jaw said enough. He grabbed another champagne flute, finishing it off quickly. The alcohol swirled in his system making his skin hot and his feet sway. Tipsy but not drunk.
Trent gave him a once over, noticing his friends cold stare and clenched fists. "What're you gonna do, bro?,"
"She's my girl, always my girl," Jude's words were almost ominous, they even made Trent feel uncomfortable. How could the girl in black be his when she was being kissed and loved by another man?
"I don't know man. She looks happy," Trent offered.
"I've seen her happier," Jude nonchalantly replies.
Trent just rolls his eyes, he can't believe his friend. Out of all the women in this room, he wants the one who has moved on. He wants the only girl who he shouldn't have, but that was Jude. Selfish. The Golden Boy who always got what he wanted.
The night went on and still Jude's eyes were always on you.
His table was a couple away, he had a direct view of you but you still hadn't noticed him. You had been to entranced by Charles to even make note of what colour the carpet was, let alone look around the room.
But when you did, when you took a brief moment to glance around at the venue while Charles went to the bathroom, your whole world was rocked at the very foundations.
Your eyes caught his like a slap across the ballroom.
You blinked, your face instantly paled like you had seen a ghost because in a way you had. He had been dead to you since you left Dortmund, but now he was here and breathing and looking at you with that same cheeky glint that you once fell in love with.
The air between you shifted. The music faded out into the background. Your hands began to tremble. You heart stuttered and your lungs seemed to forget how to fill.
Jude.
Sat across from you in a dark suit, with dark eyes and a dangerous smile. He didn't seem shocked to see you, in fact he looked like he had been waiting for you to notice him all night.
Your mouth hung slightly parted as you took him in.
He looked older, harder but it was still him.
The boy who once made you feel invincible.
The boy who then made you feel rotted to hollowness.
Your throat went dry.
You weren’t ready for this. You thought you were. You thought enough time had passed, enough therapy, enough Paris nights wrapped in the arms of someone who wasn’t him. But now, in one glance, it all came flooding back.
The napkin.
The cobbled streets of Dortmund.
Rain-soaked April.
His hands around your waist at three am.
Him saying you’re mine, always.
Him leaving. Then apologising just to leave again.
Suddenly, your white dress feels suffocating, and your skin is beginning to burn.
You want to look away. You want to pretend that this is just a strange coincidence, and that the man looking at you now is just a stranger that holds a familiar face. But you can't. You can't tear your eyes away from him. You can't breathe. Not properly. There isn't enough air.
Charles returns, his voice low, asking something you don’t hear. Your hand is still clenched around the edge of the table, nails digging into the smooth surface as you fight the sudden surge of emotions crashing into your chest. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening, almost drowning out the murmur of the party around you.
Charles notices the shift in your mood, his brow furrowing in concern. "What is it, mon amour?" he asks, following your gaze. He’s seen how you stiffened, how you were caught off guard.
You tear your eyes away from Jude, shaking your head. "Nothing," you murmur, but the lie feels thick in your throat. The sharp edge of truth digs into you as you glance back at Jude. He hasn’t moved. He’s still watching, still waiting. "I just need to get some air" You tell Charles as you cup he cheeks in the palm of your hands and place a delicate kiss on his lips.
Get someone you love?
Get someone you need?
With that, you stand from the table and quickly make your exit to the venues grand garden. You don't need to check if he's following. You know his ego well enough to know he will.
You walk briskly through the garden, the crunch of gravel beneath your heels the only sound that cuts through the pounding of your heart. The manicured hedges, the dim glow of lanterns strung in the trees, all seem to blur, fading into the background as you move further into the quiet solitude of the garden. You feel like running.
"This is the last place I ever expected to see you"
When you hear his voice, you wished you had.
You freeze. You don't turn to face him. Instead he comes and stands beside you. Close but not touching. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him. You move your hands behind your back, awkward and unsure of what to do with yourself. You never imagined you'd ever be this close to Jude again.
"Your boyfriend seems like a good guy" He says hoarsely but you know that possessiveness and that entitlement he still holds onto is behind every word.
"He buy you that necklace" He looks at you, but you keep facing forward. He chuckles at your stubbornness. "You used to hate diamonds"
That makes you snap.
"I hated them when they were bought as an apology for shitty behaviour. I hated them when they were a pity present" You finally look at him, and you see the smirk that lets you know you have given him what he wanted; a reaction. Anger was better than nothing. You wished he would just leave. Just walk away and let you breathe.
But that isn't Jude. He never gives up on you, not when he knows there is a chance you might actually have moved on.
“Is that what you think they were?” he asks, his voice almost too calm, too steady. “A pity present?”
You don't answer immediately. There's something in his posture, in the way he's watching you, that makes your chest tighten again. A betrayal of your body as it remembers who is standing in front of it. The man you once knew so well seems to be fading into someone else, someone more distant, harder to read. But that possessiveness? It’s still there. The thing that makes your skin crawl.
"I'm not that stupid anymore" You pause, "So don't treat me like I am"
His eyes flash with something. Whatever it was, it’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared. He shrugs, his gaze dropping to your neck for just a second, focusing on the necklace that is reflecting the golden light of the garden's lanterns.
That light is also reflecting from your glowing skin, Jude notices. He also notices the way the wind is catching in your hair and the fact that you look more etherial than you ever have before. And that you look like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And you're not his.
You feel the weight of his gaze, and it presses down on you so deeply. He doesn’t say anything, but you can almost hear the thoughts racing through his head. He’s always had a way of making you feel like you were the centre of his world, like everything you did mattered, like the very air you breathed was the most important thing to him.
You face away from him again, looking out to the Seaview ahead.
"I love you" He says. "Always will"
You keep facing forward, although your heart drops when you hear those three words.
"And I know you love me too" Jude faces forward as well.
You stay silent. Swallowing hard as your eyes begin to gloss.
"And in a few years I'll be ready to be a good man for you, a husband and a father and whatever you need me to be"
He says it so matter of factly, like it's already written and fated. Like it's easy.
And that's when you feel it - a shift in your abdomen.
"I love him" You release and a weight lifts from your shoulders. A weight you hadn't known existed until this moment. "And I'm happy. Truly happy."
I can't give you my soul
'Cause we're never alone
"It will pass" Jude says, "You and I are meant for each other, in every universe, in every life. It will always be us in the end"
"No."
I don't want your body
You're firm with him now, because he needs to actually hear you know. He needs to know that this time there is no coming back. In the middle of this garden in the middle of the French Riviera, that this will end. For good.
"You're my past, and he's my future" You croak out trying to remain strong.
Jude looks at you.
I hate to think about you with somebody else
And in his mind he can't fathom the fact that that he is about to watch you leave in the arms of a man that isn't him. But as you turn, and walk back into the gala he doesn't reach out to stop you because he cannot imagine a world where you don't come back to him.
You don't look back as you walk inside the gala once more, leaving to boy from Dortmund stood alone.
heyy! love all your writing sm, please never stop x
could you do a joe and reader filming season 5 stranger things, but she’s in very early stages of pregnancy and still trying to do all her stunts, just small ones, while joe gets insanely protective that like everyone notices? maybe they’ve been together publicly for a while now, with being newlyweds or something? thanks!
ahhhh thank you so much!!
and thank you for sending this in because protective husband joe + secretly pregnant reader on the stranger things set is SUCH a cute combination 😭 i fear joe learns he's going to be a dad and immediately forgets that his wife is a fully grown woman who has been doing her own stunts for YEARS pahaha. don't worry, reader absolutely calls him out on it, and the entire cast has a wonderful time watching him lose his mind over increasingly harmless things 🤭
hope you enjoy!! <3
handle with care
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: Nobody on the Stranger Things set knows that you're pregnant yet, but Joe's sudden determination to protect you from every stunt, staircase and mildly inconvenient object makes keeping it secret considerably harder than anticipated.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, early pregnancy, mentions of nausea/morning sickness, overprotective joe keery, teasing (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 3.5k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Nobody knows you're pregnant.
Well, technically that's not entirely true.
You know. Joe knows. Your doctor knows. Somewhere in the depths of your handbag there is a photograph from an ultrasound appointment that currently resembles very little beyond a grey smudge, but which Joe has nevertheless spent an unreasonable amount of time staring at as though prolonged observation might reveal a recognisable nose.
Beyond that, though, nobody knows.
Not your families, because you're waiting until you're a little further along. Not your friends, because neither of you quite knows how to say it yet without immediately bursting into terrified laughter. Certainly not the several hundred people currently working on the fifth and final season of Stranger Things, where maintaining secrets has practically become an occupational requirement anyway.
You're barely eight weeks.
There is no bump. Nothing visible. Nothing about you has changed dramatically enough for anybody to look twice, save for the fact that coffee suddenly smells like something dredged from the bowels of hell and you've developed an inexplicable emotional attachment to salt-and-vinegar crisps.
For the most part, keeping it secret should be easy.
There is only one problem.
Your husband has completely lost his mind.
You first notice it on a Tuesday afternoon on set.
It isn't anything dramatic.
The scene you're filming is relatively simple by Stranger Things standards, which means nobody is being suspended from the ceiling, dragged through a wall or chased through the woods by something with too many limbs. Your character is supposed to run down a corridor, stumble when something explodes behind her, hit the floor and scramble through a doorway.
You've done considerably worse.
There is a crash mat.
There is a stunt coordinator.
You've rehearsed the fall six times.
Everything has been adjusted since you quietly informed the relevant members of production about the pregnancy, meaning the actual stunt now consists of little more than lowering yourself onto a carefully concealed padded surface while the camera shakes enthusiastically enough to suggest impending death.
Joe apparently considers this unacceptable.
"No."
You look at him. The stunt coordinator looks at him. The assistant director looks at him.
Joe, already dressed as Steve and standing several feet away with his hands planted firmly on his hips, appears not to notice that anybody is staring.
You blink. "No?"
"No."
A silence develops.
You glance towards the stunt coordinator, who very wisely decides this has nothing whatsoever to do with him.
"Joe."
"What?"
"It's a fall."
"I know."
"Onto a crash mat."
"I can see that."
"Which is approximately six inches beneath me."
"Yeah."
"And we've rehearsed it."
"I was there."
"So what's the problem?"
Joe's mouth opens. Then closes.
His eyes flick briefly towards your stomach.
You stare at him.
His gaze shoots immediately back to your face.
You narrow your eyes. "Joseph."
His expression changes instantly. "Don't Joseph me."
"I will Joseph you whenever I please."
The stunt coordinator coughs suspiciously into his fist.
Joe lowers his voice as he walks towards you, evidently remembering at the last possible second that the reason for his objection is currently confidential.
"I'm just saying, do you really need to do it?"
"It's my scene."
"Yeah, but they could shoot around it."
"They are shooting around it. That's why there's enough foam underneath me to survive being dropped from a building."
"That's not funny."
"It was a little funny."
Joe doesn't smile.
You soften despite yourself.
This is new.
Not Joe worrying about you. He's been doing that for years. Joe worries when you drive somewhere late at night and asks you to text when you arrive. He automatically moves to the outside of the pavement when you're walking together. If you're ill, he becomes convinced that soup possesses medicinal qualities bordering on the supernatural.
But this?
This has existed for precisely three weeks.
Three weeks since you'd sat together on the bathroom floor at five in the morning, staring at two pink lines while Joe held the pregnancy test so carefully you'd almost laughed.
Three weeks since he'd looked at you with enormous, frightened eyes and whispered, We're having a baby?
Apparently, somewhere during those three weeks, his brain has quietly reclassified you from wife whom I love very much to wife whom I love very much and who must now be protected from gravity.
You reach for his hand, disguising the gesture beneath the natural intimacy everybody on set has long since grown accustomed to. Your wedding ring taps lightly against his.
"I'm okay."
"I know."
"You know they've changed everything."
"I know."
"My doctor said I can keep working."
"I know."
"The stunt coordinator knows."
"I know."
"So we're good?"
Joe looks towards the crash mat.
You squeeze his fingers. "Joe."
His shoulders finally drop. "Yeah."
"Yeah?"
He exhales through his nose. "Yeah."
You smile and rise onto your toes to press a quick kiss against his cheek. "Thank you."
"Still don't like it."
"I know."
"If anything feels weird-"
"I stop."
"If you get dizzy-"
"I stop."
"If you-"
"Joe."
He sighs.
"I stop."
"Right."
You pat his chest. "Good talk."
As you turn back towards your mark, Joe catches your wrist gently enough to stop you without pulling. You look back.
"Be careful?" There is something so painfully earnest in his expression that teasing him suddenly feels impossible.
You smile. "Always."
You perform the stunt perfectly.
Joe still looks faintly ill.
By Thursday, other people have started noticing.
Not the pregnancy.
Joe.
It begins with Natalia.
You're standing near video village between takes, listening to one of the directors explain an upcoming sequence, when Joe appears silently beside you and offers you a bottle of water.
You accept it without thinking. "Thanks."
He disappears. Natalia watches him go.
Five minutes later, Joe reappears carrying your coat. "You cold?"
"No."
"Okay." He drapes it over the back of your chair anyway. Then he disappears again.
Natalia looks at the coat. Then at you. You pretend not to notice.
Ten minutes pass.
Joe returns. "Did you eat?"
You stare at him. "Yes."
"What'd you eat?"
"Are you testing me?"
"No."
"Then why do I need to provide evidence?"
"I'm just asking."
"I had breakfast."
"That was four hours ago."
You glance towards Natalia. She is very deliberately looking elsewhere.
"I had a banana."
Joe frowns. "That's not lunch."
"It's also eleven thirty."
"Oh." He checks his watch. You bite the inside of your cheek. "Okay," he concedes. "Fine."
"Thank you."
"But there's food if you want it."
"I know."
"Okay." He kisses your temple absent-mindedly and wanders away again.
You wait. Natalia waits.
Approximately three seconds pass.
"What the hell is wrong with him?"
You choke on your water. "Nothing."
Natalia turns slowly towards you.
You've known each other too long for that answer to stand even the slightest chance.
"He's being weird."
"Joe is always weird."
"Different weird."
You shrug with what you hope is convincing nonchalance. "We're newly married. Maybe he's embracing his husbandly duties."
"His husbandly duties include monitoring your banana intake?"
"Traditional marriage is beautiful."
Natalia stares at you. You stare back.
Eventually she shakes her head. "You two are hiding something."
Your stomach drops. "We're not."
"That was incredibly convincing."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
Before she can interrogate you further, somebody calls you back to set.
You have never been more grateful for your job.
A week later, you're filming outside.
It's cold enough that everybody's breath hangs visibly in the air between takes, Georgia winter pretending rather enthusiastically to be Indiana, and you've been standing on the same patch of artificial mud for the better part of an hour while lighting is adjusted.
You're tired.
Not catastrophically tired. Just the strange, bone-deep exhaustion that has become your body's favourite new hobby, as though growing something approximately the size of a raspberry requires the same amount of energy as running a marathon.
You don't complain. You don't need to.
Joe notices anyway. He always does.
You're midway through a conversation with Maya when he materialises beside you carrying a folding chair.
Neither of you acknowledges him at first. He unfolds it. Directly behind you. You look over your shoulder.
Joe points at it. "Sit."
Maya's eyebrows rise.
You stare at your husband. "I'm fine."
"I know."
"Then why have you brought me a chair?"
"Because chairs are for sitting."
Maya makes a small choking noise. You refuse to look at her.
"Joe."
"What?"
"Everybody else is standing."
"So?"
"So I'm also capable of standing."
"I know."
"You keep saying that while behaving as though you fundamentally don't."
Joe lowers his voice. "You've been on your feet for an hour."
"So have you."
"Yeah, but-" He stops.
You raise your eyebrows. "But?"
Joe glances towards Maya.
Maya smiles pleasantly. "I'm fascinated by where this is going."
He looks back at you. "Nothing."
"Excellent."
You remain standing. Joe remains beside the chair.
It becomes a battle of wills so profoundly stupid that neither of you notices Maya quietly leaving until she's halfway across set.
Eventually, you sigh and sit.
Joe's entire body visibly relaxes.
You point at him. "This is not because you told me to."
"Of course not."
"My feet hurt."
"Totally."
"And if you look smug, I'm getting back up."
Joe immediately rearranges his face into an expression of solemn neutrality.
You narrow your eyes. "You're enjoying this."
"Not even a little."
"You're a terrible actor."
"That's pretty damaging to my career."
You smile despite yourself.
Joe bends down, ostensibly to adjust one of the chair legs, though his hand briefly settles against your knee on the way back up.
It's such a small touch. Barely anything. But his thumb moves once against the fabric of your costume before he stands, and you know exactly what he's doing.
Checking. Reassuring himself. You're here. You're okay. Both of you.
You reach up and catch his hand before he can move away. "I'm fine."
Joe looks down at you. "I know."
This time, you believe him.
His worry isn't really about thinking you're incapable.
It's about knowing that, for the first time in your lives together, there are things he cannot personally control.
He can't see what's happening inside your body. He can't know from one moment to the next that everything is okay. He can't stand between you and every possible danger because most of them are invisible, hypothetical things buried inside books and doctor's appointments and statistics neither of you should have googled at two in the morning.
So he brings you water. He finds you chairs. He asks whether you've eaten. He worries about crash mats.
You lace your fingers through his. Joe smiles.
Then Maya's voice carries from somewhere behind you. "This is nauseating."
You both turn. She is standing beside Finn, who looks between you and Joe with mild confusion.
"What is?"
"Marriage."
Joe grins. "Jealous?"
"Deeply."
You throw your glove at him.
The secret survives another four days. Frankly, that's impressive.
You're filming one of the larger action sequences when everything finally unravels.
There are no major stunts involved. Production has been careful about that. Anything remotely dangerous has already been reassigned to your double, and everybody who actually needs to know why has been discreet enough not to ask questions.
Your contribution is painfully simple.
Run approximately twenty feet. Duck beneath a piece of collapsing scenery. Stop on your mark. Deliver the line.
That's it.
Joe watches the rehearsal with the expression of somebody observing an impending execution. You notice from across the set.
You point two fingers towards your eyes. Then towards him. Behave.
Joe gives you a tiny, innocent shrug. You know better.
The first take goes perfectly. So does the second.
On the third, your foot catches. Barely.
You don't fall. You don't even stumble properly; your trainer clips a raised edge of the set, your balance shifts for half a second, and you recover before anybody has time to react.
Anybody except Joe.
Your name rings across the soundstage.
Every head turns.
You freeze.
Joe is already moving.
"Oh my God," you mutter.
He reaches you in seconds. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You tripped."
"I noticed."
"Did you hurt anything?"
"No."
"Are you dizzy?"
"No."
"Cramping?"
Your eyes widen.
Joe's face changes.
Too late.
Silence. A terrible, enormous silence.
You become abruptly aware of approximately fifteen people standing within earshot. Joe becomes aware of them too.
You stare at each other.
From behind one of the cameras, Charlie says slowly, "...Cramping?"
Joe closes his eyes.
You could kill him. You genuinely could.
Maya's mouth falls open.
Natalia, standing beside her, goes completely still. Then her eyes drop towards your stomach. Back to Joe. Back to you.
"No."
You say nothing.
Her hand flies to her mouth. "No fucking way."
"Nat-"
"Oh my God."
Maya looks between you. "What?"
Natalia grabs her arm. "Oh, my God."
"What?"
"She's pregnant."
The sound that follows is extraordinary.
You aren't entirely sure who screams first.
Within seconds, whatever remained of your carefully protected secret has disintegrated beneath a barrage of questions, congratulations and several people attempting to hug you simultaneously. Maya is crying almost immediately. Finn looks genuinely stunned. Charlie thumps Joe on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward, which you find particularly satisfying.
Joe, meanwhile, is staring at you with the expression of a man who knows he has made an enormous tactical error.
You fold your arms. "Cramping?"
"I'm sorry."
"Eight weeks."
"I know."
"We managed eight weeks."
"I panicked."
"You asked me about uterine cramping in front of half the cast."
"I know."
Gaten appears over Joe's shoulder. "Wait, you're having a baby?"
You point at your husband. "Apparently we're telling people now."
Joe winces. "Sorry."
Gaten's face splits into an enormous grin. "Holy shit."
He throws both arms around Joe.
Whatever annoyance you're attempting to maintain lasts approximately another thirty seconds.
Because then Natalia hugs you again, gentler this time, whispering congratulations against your hair, and suddenly the thing that has existed only between you and Joe begins expanding into the world.
People know. People are happy.
Someone is already joking about baby names. Maya insists she's going to be the favourite aunt before anybody can inform her that this isn't how aunts work. Gaten is interrogating Joe about whether he knows what he's doing, to which Joe responds, quite reasonably, "Obviously fucking not."
You stand amongst all of it with one hand unconsciously resting against your stomach.
Joe finds you eventually. Of course he does. His arm slides carefully around your waist. "You mad?"
You lean into him. "Little bit."
"Fair."
"You owe me."
"Anything."
"And you're going to stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
Joe hesitates.
You look at him. "Joe."
"I'm gonna try really hard."
You laugh. "That's the best I'm getting, isn't it?"
"Probably."
His hand settles over yours. Neither of you says anything about the gesture.
Around you, production slowly begins dragging everybody back towards their jobs, congratulations dissolving reluctantly into shouted instructions and reset marks. The moment is absorbed into the machinery of filmmaking almost as quickly as it appeared.
Joe kisses your temple. "Seriously, though."
You sigh. "What?"
"You sure you're okay?"
You look at him. He looks genuinely concerned. Infuriating man.
"I'm completely fine."
"Okay."
"And so is the baby."
His expression softens. "Okay."
You squeeze his hand. "Now go away. I have a stunt to do."
His smile disappears. "Absolutely not."
"Joseph."
"I'm kidding."
You stare.
"I'm mostly kidding."
You shove him away.
He leaves laughing.
That evening, you find him in your trailer.
Filming has wrapped for the day, your costume abandoned in favour of leggings and one of Joe's jumpers, your wedding ring returned to your finger after spending twelve hours safely tucked away with wardrobe. You're exhausted enough that removing your shoes has become an undertaking requiring serious psychological preparation.
Joe is sitting on the little sofa when you walk in.
He looks guilty.
You shut the door. "No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You've got the apologising face."
Joe considers that. "Didn't know I had one."
"You do." You sit beside him with a sigh, immediately swinging your legs across his lap.
His hands settle automatically around your ankles. "Sorry I told everyone."
You smile. "You didn't tell everyone."
"I basically announced it over a megaphone."
"You panicked."
"Yeah, I know." His thumb moves slowly over the exposed skin above your sock.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
Then Joe looks towards your stomach. Still nothing to see. Your body looks almost exactly the way it did two months ago. Nevertheless, his hand hovers.
You notice. "You can."
His eyes lift to yours. "Yeah?"
"Joe, it's also your baby."
Something almost shy moves across his face.
You love that.
For all the conversations you've had, all the appointments and whispered plans and middle-of-the-night bouts of panic, there are still moments when the reality seems to catch him completely unprepared.
He places his palm gently against your stomach.
Nothing happens. Obviously. The baby is approximately the size of a raspberry and presumably has very little interest in providing its father with reassurance.
Joe smiles anyway. "Hi."
You laugh softly. "They can't hear you yet."
"I know."
"You googled it?"
"Maybe."
"Of course you did."
His thumb moves once against the fabric of your jumper.
You watch him.
The man you've known for years. The person you married only months ago. Your husband, which still occasionally sounds absurd inside your own head.
And now, Dad.
That one is going to take some getting used to.
"I'm scared," Joe admits eventually.
The honesty of it catches you.
You reach for his hand. "Me too."
"I know you're okay. I know you're not gonna break because you run twenty feet or trip over something." He gives you a sheepish look. "I know I've been annoying."
"Extremely."
"Thanks."
"Anytime."
He smiles, but it fades quickly. "I just keep thinking there's two of you now."
Your chest tightens. Joe looks back towards where his hand rests against you.
"And I love you so much already that sometimes I don't know what to do with it. Then there's this whole other person in there who I haven't even met yet, and somehow I already..." He shakes his head, laughing quietly at himself. "I don't know. It's weird."
You understand. You understand completely.
You cover his hand with yours. "You're allowed to worry."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You're just not allowed to tell me what I can and can't do because you're worried."
"Okay."
"And you have to trust me when I tell you I'm fine."
"I do trust you."
"I know."
"And the doctor."
"Good."
"And the stunt coordinator."
"Excellent."
Joe pauses. "The crash mat looked thin."
You stare at him. He breaks almost immediately, laughing as you smack him with the nearest cushion. "I'm kidding! Jesus."
"You're impossible."
"I know."
He catches the cushion before you can hit him again and tosses it aside, then leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. "Love you."
"Love you too."
"And, for the record, I think you're gonna be an incredible mom."
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. "You can't just slip that in there."
"What?"
"I'm hormonal."
"Oh, shit. Sorry."
"You should be."
Joe kisses you before you can complain further, soft and familiar and smiling around the edges, one hand still resting instinctively over your stomach.
When you eventually pull away, his nose brushes yours. "Can I ask one thing?"
You narrow your eyes. "Depends."
"Tomorrow's scene."
"What about it?"
"The stairs."
You close your eyes. "Joe."
"I'm just saying-"
"They're stairs."
"There's a lot of them."
You start laughing.
Joe protests immediately that this is a completely reasonable concern, which only makes it worse, until you're folded against him and he's laughing too, his arms wrapped around you as though he can somehow keep both you and the tiny, invisible beginning of your family safe simply by holding on tightly enough.
He can't, of course. Neither of you can.
There will be months of things you cannot control, followed by years of them. Worry has quietly become part of the bargain now, woven into all the excitement so thoroughly that neither can really exist without the other.
Joe will have to learn that loving the two of you doesn't mean protecting you from every possible fall.
You'll probably have to learn to let him carry your bag occasionally without accusing him of undermining feminism.
But when you leave the trailer later that night, his fingers laced through yours and his thumb moving absently across your wedding ring, Joe pauses at the top of the steps.
You look at him. He looks at the stairs. Then back at you.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was not."
"You absolutely were."
Joe raises both hands in surrender.
You take the first step. Then the second. He follows approximately six inches behind you.
You glance over your shoulder. "Seriously?"
"What?"
"You're hovering."
"I'm walking."
"You're practically spotting me."
"I'm going to the same place!"
You laugh and keep walking. Joe follows.
And, because marriage occasionally means knowing which battles aren't worth fighting, you let him.
can you pls make a Jude Bellingham x reader fanfic where the reader is pregnant with his baby and he’s taking care of her and include some smut too please make it a mix of fluff and smut thank youuu
req^^
taking care of two
jude bellingham x reader
in which jude takes care of you(wink wink) and the baby inside of you!
taglist (tw) : smut + fluff, pregnant reader, reassuring, unprotected, p in v, jude’s a caring man,
you wake slowly, a dull ache in your lower back the first thing to register. the second is the soft weight of jude's arm draped over your waist, his palm s possessively over the slight swell of your belly. even in sleep, he's protective. the pale november light filters through the gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor. it's quiet, just the sound of your own breathing and jude's soft snores against the back of your neck.
you shift, trying to ease the ache, and a quiet groan escapes your lips. it's enough to stir him.
"you alright, love?" his voice is thick with sleep, a low rumble that vibrates through your back. he tightens his arm slightly, pulling you flush against him.
"sore," you mumble, pressing your backside into the warmth of his crotch. "my back's killing me again."
he hums in sympathy, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. "let me help," he murmurs, already moving, gently encouraging you onto your side. his hands are warm, a little calloused from years of football, but they move with a practiced softness that never fails to make you melt. he kneads the tense muscles of your lower back, his thumbs working in deep, slow circles that have you sighing in relief. it feels so good it almost hurts.
"better?" he asks after a few minutes, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade.
"so much," you breathe, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. his hair is a mess, a fluffy halo against the pillow, and his eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but they're full of a softness that's just for you. he's looking at you, but one of his hands drifts back down to rest on your stomach, his thumb stroking gently over the thin cotton of your nightgown.
"he keeping you up?" he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
"or she," you correct, though you have no real preference. you just like the way it makes him smile. "no, she was good last night. just making her presence known in other ways."
he shifts closer, pressing himself along the length of your back again. you can feel him, half-hard and pressing insistently against you. it's a familiar comfort, a reminder of how this whole beautiful, overwhelming situation started. "m'sorry you're hurting," he whispers, his lips tracing the line of your neck.
"'s okay," you sigh, leaning into his touch. "worth it."
"yeah?" he asks, his breath hot against your skin. he's kissing you properly now, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck. "tell me what else hurts."
you laugh softly, a breathy sound. "jude, i'm pregnant, not an invalid. i'm fine."
"i know," he says, but he doesn't stop. his hands are roaming now, one still on your belly, the other sliding up your side, tracing the curve of your breast. "just want to take care of you. both of you."
and god, does he. he's been like this since you found out, doting, attentive, treating you like you're made of glass most of the time. it's sweet, it's everything you ever wanted, but sometimes you miss… this. the raw, hungry way he used to look at you, the way he'd pin you down and just take. you'd be lying if you said you didn't miss the rough edge to his gentleness.
as if he can read your mind, his kisses become a little more demanding, a little less gentle. he nips at your earlobe, just hard enough to make you gasp. "i miss you," he murmurs, and you know exactly what he means. he misses the freedom of having you all to himself, misses being able to toss you around, miss the feel of your legs wrapped around his waist without a careful buffer between you.
"i'm right here," you whisper, twisting in his arms so you're facing him. you run a hand through his messy hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp. he closes his eyes and leans into the touch like a cat.
"i know," he says, opening his eyes again. they're dark now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by a familiar heat that makes your stomach clench. "but i want all of you. right now."
you don't answer with words. you just lean in and kiss him, a deep, slow kiss that's all tongues and teeth. he groans into your mouth, rolling you onto your back with surprising gentleness, careful of your stomach. he hovers over you, one hand braced by your head, the other still resting possessively on your belly.
"tell me if i'm hurting you," he says, his voice serious.
"you won't," you promise, pulling him down for another kiss. he settles between your legs, and it's perfect. the weight of him, the familiar feel of him pressed against your core. it's been a while, the first trimester exhaustion and nausea a brutal combination that hadn't left much room for anything else. but you feel… good this morning. alive.
his hand slides from your stomach, down under the hem of your nightgown. his fingers trace patterns on your inner thigh, teasingly close to where you want him most. you arch your hips, a silent plea, and he chuckles against your lips.
"patience, my love," he murmurs, but he obliges, his fingers finally brushing against the damp fabric of your underwear. you whimper, a desperate, needy sound that you can't hold back. he takes pity on you, slipping his fingers past the fabric to find you slick and ready for him. he circles your clit slowly, maddeningly, his lips still on yours, swallowing your moans.
"jude, please," you gasp, breaking the kiss to look up at him. his face is above yours, a study in concentration, his brow furrowed slightly. he looks beautiful like this, raw and undone.
"please what, baby?" he asks, sliding one finger inside you, then two. he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. "tell me what you want."
"you," you breathe, the word ragged. "i want you."
"you have me," he says, but he knows what you mean. he pulls his fingers away, and you whine at the loss, but he's already shucking his boxers, kicking them off the end of the bed. he pushes your nightgown up, rucking it up under your arms, and then he's back, settled between your thighs. he looks down at you, at the way your body has changed, and the look on his face is so full of love and awe that it almost hurts.
"you're so beautiful," he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to your belly, right over your navel. "both of you."
it's the intimacy of it that gets you, the way he sees you, all of you, and loves every inch. he lines himself up, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, and then he pushes in, so slowly, so carefully. it's a delicious stretch, a welcome fullness that you've missed. he fills you completely, pausing when he's fully seated, giving you a moment to adjust.
"okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"okay," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "move, jude. please."
he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that's almost torturous in its intensity. every thrust is deliberate, a claiming. he's watching you, his eyes locked on yours, and it's too much, it's not enough. you need more. you need him to lose control, to let go.
"faster," you plead, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "harder."
he hesitates for a second, worry flashing in his eyes. "i don't want to hurt-"
"you won't," you insist, tightening your legs around him, using your leverage to push your hips up to meet his. "i promise. please, jude. i need it."
that's all it takes. something in him snaps, and the careful, gentle lover is gone, replaced by the man you know, the one who plays with a ferocity that takes your breath away. he leans down, bracing his arms on either side of your head, and he really starts to move. the bed creaks in protest, the headboard knocking against the wall, but you don't care. all you can feel is him, the slap of his skin against yours, the way he's hitting that deep, aching spot inside you over and over again.
"fuck," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "you feel so good. so tight."
his words are a jolt, spurring you on. you meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. it's messy, it's primal, it's perfect. you can feel the tension building in your belly, a coil that's winding tighter and tighter, and you know you're close.
"jude," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. "i'm… i'm gonna…"
"come for me, baby," he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "let go. i've got you."
and you do. the orgasm crashes over you, a blinding wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his thrusts becoming erratic, a hoarse cry torn from his throat as he empties himself inside you. he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, but you don't mind. you like the feeling of him covering you, grounding you.
for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing, both of you trying to come back down. he's still inside you, a warm, heavy presence, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest.
"i love you," he whispers, his lips brushing against your sweat-dampened hair.
"i love you too," you murmur, your hands tracing lazy patterns on his back. you're sore, but it's a good kind of sore, a satisfying ache that reminds you of what you just shared.
he pushes himself up, his arms trembling slightly, and looks down at you. his face is flushed, his lips swollen, and he's never looked more handsome. "you okay?" he asks, his thumb stroking your cheek.
"more than okay," you say, a sleepy smile spreading across your face. "that was…"
"yeah," he agrees, a matching grin on his face. "it was." he carefully pulls out, the loss of him leaving you feeling suddenly empty. he disappears into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. he gently cleans you up, his touch so tender it brings tears to your eyes. he's always taken care of you, but this is different. this is a new kind of intimacy, a new depth to your love.
he tosses the cloth aside and settles back in bed, pulling you into his arms. you curl into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. his hand rests on your belly again, a constant, comforting presence.
"i'm going to make you some tea," he says after a while, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "and then i'm going to run you a bath. and then i'm going to make you breakfast. and then… we can just stay in bed all day if you want."
you laugh, a happy, contented sound. "you don't have to do all that."
"i want to," he says, his voice firm. "let me take care of you, love. please."
you look up at him, at the earnest expression on his face, and you can't say no. "okay," you whisper. "okay."
he grins, that bright, beautiful grin that still makes your heart skip a beat. "be right back," he says, slipping out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. he pauses at the door, turning to look at you, a soft smile on his face. "you know," he says, "i think i'm the luckiest man in the world."
and as you watch him walk out of the room, you can't help but agree. you're the lucky one.
***
the scent of chamomile and honey drifts into the bedroom before he does. he returns with a steaming mug, the ceramic warm against your palms as you take it from him. you're propped up against a mountain of pillows, the duvet pulled up to your chin, feeling boneless and utterly content. he sits on the edge of the bed, watching you as you take a careful sip. it's perfect, just the way you like it.
"good?" he asks, a hopeful look on his face.
"perfect," you confirm, setting the mug on the nightstand. "you're spoiling me."
"that's the idea," he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "now, for that bath."
he's true to his word. the bathroom is soon filled with steam, the air fragrant with the lavender-scented oil he adds to the water. he helps you into the tub, the hot water a blissful balm for your aching muscles. you sink down with a sigh, the water lapping at your shoulders. he kneels by the side of the tub, his sleeves rolled up, and takes the scrub from you.
"let me," he says, his voice soft. he washes your back, the soap gliding over your skin, his touch gentle and reverent. it's not sexual, not really, but it's deeply intimate, a quiet act of service that speaks volumes about how he feels about you, about the life you're creating together.
when you're both wrinkled and warm, he helps you out of the tub, wrapping you in a fluffy towel that feels like a cloud. he leads you back to the bed, where a fresh set of pajamas, one of his t-shirts and a pair of your comfiest leggings, is laid out. he dresses you as if you're a doll, his movements careful and deliberate.
"breakfast," he announces once you're settled, and he's off again. you can hear him in the kitchen, the clatter of pans, the familiar sounds of him making a mess. it makes you smile. you close your eyes, letting the sounds wash over you, feeling safe, and loved, and completely, utterly cared for.
***
he comes back with a tray laden with food. scrambled eggs, toast, a small bowl of berries, and a glass of orange juice. it's simple, but it's your favorite, and your heart swells with love for him. he sets the tray across your lap and climbs into bed beside you, propping himself up against the headboard.
"eat," he says, watching you with a fond expression. you take a bite of the eggs, which are perfectly fluffy, and moan in appreciation.
"so good," you say, your mouth full. he laughs, a warm, rich sound that fills the room.
"glad you approve," he says, stealing a strawberry from your bowl. he eats it, his eyes on yours, a flicker of the heat from this morning returning. it's a softer version of it now, a low-burning ember instead of a raging fire, but it's there nonetheless.
"what?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.
"just thinking," he says, his gaze dropping to your stomach, which is just visible under the t-shirt. "about how different you look. how beautiful you are."
you feel a blush creep up your neck. "i'm huge," you protest, but there's no real conviction in your voice.
"you're not huge," he says, his tone serious. "you're growing our baby. it's the sexiest thing i've ever seen."
his words send a jolt straight to your core, a surprising pang of desire. you thought you were sated, that this morning had tired you out, but apparently not. you put your fork down, the half-eaten breakfast forgotten.
"jude," you say, your voice a little breathless.
"yeah, love?" he asks, but he knows. he can see it in your eyes. he puts the tray on the floor, the food abandoned, and turns to you, cupping your face in his hands. he kisses you, a slow, deep kiss that's full of unspoken promises. when he pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.
he helps you finish your breakfast, feeding you bites of toast and berries between soft, lingering kisses. there's no rush now, no desperation, just a quiet, easy intimacy that settles deep in your bones. he tells you about training yesterday, about a stupid trick trent tried that failed spectacularly, about the new boots he's been breaking in. you listen, your head on his chest, your hand on your belly, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear.
"he was kicking this morning," you say, interrupting his story about a particularly grueling fitness drill. "or she was. a proper little flutter."
he stops talking, his full attention on you. "yeah?" he asks, his voice soft. "can i…?"
you nod, taking his hand and placing it on your stomach, under the t-shirt. his palm is warm against your skin. you wait, holding your breath, hoping for another flutter. there. a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
"did you feel that?" you ask, your eyes wide.
"i think so," he says, his own eyes filled with wonder. "it was like… a little fish swimming." he keeps his hand there, as if trying to memorize the feeling, a look of pure awe on his face. it's in these moments, the quiet, ordinary ones, that you feel the full weight of your love for him, of the life you're building together.
the rest of the day passes in a blissful, lazy haze. you do exactly as he suggested, staying in bed, watching old films, napping, and just existing together. he orders your favorite takeaway for dinner, and you eat it on the sofa, your feet in his lap, his thumb stroking lazy circles on your ankles. he tells you more stories, and you tell him about the weird dreams you've been having, the ones where you can fly, or where you show up to a match wearing no shoes. he laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that makes you feel warm all over.
later that night, after you've both showered and changed into clean pajamas, you're back in bed. the light from the bedside lamp casts a warm, golden glow over the room. you're reading, your head on his shoulder, while he scrolls through his phone, replying to messages from his family. it's quiet, comfortable, domestic.
"my mum was asking if we'd found out the gender yet," he says, putting his phone down. "i told her we were waiting."
"good," you say, turning a page in your book. "i want it to be a surprise."
"me too," he agrees, kissing the top of your head. "but she's already bought a little blue jumpsuit. just in case."
you laugh, closing your book and setting it aside. "of course she has."
"she also sent a link to a baby monitor that has a star projector," he says, his voice laced with amusement. "and a video of a golden retriever playing with a baby. i think she's trying to tell us something."
"that we need a dog?" you ask, feigning seriousness.
"that we need to get a move on," he says, his smile fading slightly. "i know it's still early, but… i can't wait. to meet him. or her."
the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache. you roll over, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "i can't wait either," you say, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "but let's enjoy this for a little while longer, yeah? just us."
he nods, his eyes soft. "yeah," he agrees, leaning in to kiss you. it's a sweet, gentle kiss, full of all the things he can't quite put into words. when he pulls away, he looks at you for a long moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"what?" you ask, a little self-conscious under his intense gaze.
"i was just thinking," he says, his hand coming to rest on your stomach. "about how much i love you. and how much i'm going to love this baby."
"i love you too," you whisper, your throat tight with emotion.
he stayed there for a while, his palm spread carefully over your stomach like he could somehow already feel the tiny life growing beneath it. the room settled into another comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the heater and the occasional sound of cars passing outside.
“you’re thinking really hard,” you murmured.
his lips curled into the smallest smile. “is it that obvious?”
“a little.”
he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “i was just imagining all the little things.”
“like what?”
“everything.” he shrugged sheepishly. “what they’ll look like. whether they’ll get your eyes or mine. if they’ll like football…” he paused. “or absolutely hate it.”
you giggled. “if they hate football, i think your family might stage an intervention.”
“they’ll survive,” he said with a grin. “i’ll still love them.”
you smiled so warmly your cheeks hurt.
“i’ve also been wondering…” he continued. “what they’ll call me first.”
“you really think it’s going to be ‘dad’?”
he frowned dramatically “…no?”
“not a chance,” you teased. “it’s going to be something completely random. probably ‘dada’ for six months before they figure it out.”
he gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “you’re crushing my dreams.”
“i’m managing your expectations.”
he laughed again, the sound filling the bedroom in the nicest way. after a moment, he reached over to the bedside table, opening the drawer.
“what are you looking for?”
“this.” he pulled out a small notebook you’d bought together a couple of weeks ago. the cover was plain cream with tiny gold stars scattered across it.
“Our Little Adventures.”
“you remembered,” you whispered.
“course i did.” he climbed back into bed, sitting beside you before opening it to the first blank page.
“i know they won’t remember any of this,” he said quietly, “but i thought… maybe one day they’ll like reading about it.”
you felt your eyes sting. he uncapped a pen and hesitated. “what do i write?”
you thought for a second before smiling. “write today’s date.”
in neat handwriting, he wrote:
today your mum laughed because your grandma had already bought you a tiny blue jumpsuit before she’d even met you. we don’t know if you’re a little boy or a little girl yet, and we don’t mind one bit. all we know is that you’re already so loved.
he stopped writing, reading the words back to himself. “too cheesy?”
you shook your head immediately. “not cheesy enough.”
he chuckled, handing you the notebook. “your turn.”
you took the pen, thinking for a long moment before writing underneath.
your dad already talks to you when he thinks i’m asleep. he tells you about football, what music he wants to play for you, and how excited he is to meet you. i don’t think he realises i can hear him. i hope one day you know just how loved you’ve been from the very beginning.
when you handed the notebook back, jude’s eyes skimmed over your words. “you’ve made me emotional.”
“already?”
“don’t start.”
you laughed as he carefully closed the notebook and tucked it safely back into the drawer.
“we’re going to fill that thing up,” he said. “every scan, every kick, every ridiculous story.”
“every first.”
he nodded. “every first.” he reached for your hand beneath the duvet, intertwining your fingers with his before switching off the bedside lamp. darkness settled over the room, but neither of you minded. you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“goodnight,” you whispered.
he kissed your forehead, holding you just a little tighter. “goodnight, sweetheart.”
ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ (part 1.5) ₊ ˚ ex!jude bellingham x popstar!reader˚₊
read part one:
⭑in which, you and jude get cozy by the fireplace...maybe a little too cozy....
⭑contains, suggestive content, smut (MDNI), fluff, early relationship cuteness, p in v, mutual masturbation, soft dom!jude, light dirty talk, fireplace smut, basically (?) secret relationship, teasing
⭑a/n, can be read as a standalone!!! a little flashback one shot while we wait for the full part two!! had so much fun writing this <33
it was early january of 2025.
you and jude had just gotten back to madrid from his childhood home in stourbridge, after spending the holidays with his family. you had been nervous going into it, given your relationship was relatively knew, but the warmth the bellinghams offered you easily quelled all nerves pretty quick.
jude was technically still of on break, not expected at practice until sometime next week, and your next tour stop wasn't scheduled until mid january, so you were existing inside a moment of bliss for the time being.
tonight was a specifically special one. after you flight landed late last night, you and jude had instantly passed out, tangled around each other in his increasingly familiar bed. you had then slept in until 11 - something that you can't remember doing since high school - and had the kind of morning thats slow, and easy. no particular rush or intention to be anywhere but in each others arms.
when you finally got up, you made some coffee and ordered in breakfast, eating at the dining table, gaze every now and then glancing outside at the clouded sky - it was supposed to snow tonight. you chatted easily about random things, your feet in his lap as he smoothed his hand along your lower leg and ankle, looking at you with that foggy, smoldering expression he carried when he was still hazy with sleep.
you were still getting used to it - and to not melting every time he spoke in that raspy, deep morning voice.
you then had a brief joint shower. jude gently washed your hair, taking care to not rush around the knots, making sure each spot was covered and detangled. you pressed small kisses against his slippery skin, in a way that was so casually affectionate that it made your heart stutter in that funny way its begun to do around him. the kind that had you biting your lip, words with too deep of a meaning itching to be uttered too fast.
you laid in his bed the whole afternoon, binge-watching star wars after his blasphemous confession over breakfast that he had never seen the saga. you started at the prequels, going in timeline order, only making it to revenge of the sith by dinner time.
music hummed from the speaker placed in the corner of his kitchen as you danced around it, concocting a meal for the two of you. jude sat at the counter, asking every other moment if you needed help. no, you had assured. you wanted to take care of him, to let him relax before going back to the season - and this, you supposed, was one of the only ways you knew how.
it started to snow as you finished eating, and your eyes lit up - snow, you were familiar with. after surviving a lifetime of new york winters, snow was common - but in the city, it was often dreaded. snow meant inconvenience, ice you had to parkour around every time you left your house, piles of slush turning gross with trash and waste after just a few days.
but here, the snow was beautiful.
you were sure out in the more urban areas it would be similar to the snow you're used to, but in the villas slightly isolated location, the snow simply coated the grass and surrounding trees, turning judes yard to a temporary winter wonderland.
in a classic winter fashion, the two of you converted his living room into a cozy snow escape - worked together to push the coffee table back, placed layers of blankets and pillows on the carpet, turned off the lights and lit the fireplace as the sun dimmed further beyond the snow clouds, casting the sky into total darkness, apart from the falling snow lit by the faint outdoor lights. it was something out of a dream.
you had been sitting, eyes trained on the fire place jude had lit just moments ago before going off to make some hot chocolate. your fingers lightly played with the soft blanket covering your lap, watching as the fire danced and cracked before you.
your boyfriend returned with two mugs, squatting down beside you, placing his on the table behind you and yours gently in your held out hands. "careful," he instructed. "it's pipin' hot."
you nod softly, taking a small sip before placing it behind you like he had. you softly shift to make room for him under the blankets, the two of you adjusting to get comfortable. you inch closer, his arm easily falling around your shoulders as you make yourself at home on his chest. "its good," you murmur.
he hums, his fingers scratching light at your upper arm and shoulder. you feel his head tilt down to yours, his other hand coming over to brush some hair off your chest. "m'glad."
you had moved the speaker over into the living room, the playlist from before still sounding quietly in a corner. the atmosphere was just perfect.
a slight chill runs through you at his gentle touch, his warm hands contrasting with your cold skin. you think he must notice, because he shifts a bit closer, bending down to place a kiss on the top of your head.
your head tilt up in reply, your nose brushing against his neck before leaning further to press a few, slow kisses into his skin. a warm noise comes from his chest, and his hand on your shoulder comes down to wrap around you hip, squeezing lightly.
after a few moments of your lips on his neck, you lean up, nudging his jaw with your nose teasingly, a faint smile playing your lips. he takes this as his cue to look down at you, the corners of his lips tilting up, brows furrowed in faux annoyance. you look back, beginning to beam up at him, eyes flicking down to his plump lips before looking back up.
his head jerks up and down subtly, a barely-there-nod, before leaning down to connect your lips. you breath into him, a hand coming up to cup his sharp jaw to deepen the kiss.
your lips move lazily against each other, softly continuing their exploration. throughout the past four months of knowing jude, this had been one of the funnest parts - learning each other.
you thought back to your first kiss - one out on the street in front of a nightclub in madrid after they had won a match. it was risky, reckless, even - anyone could've noticed you. but it was just so magical of a moment, the thought hardly crossed your mind.
at first, he had barely touched you. it went from a simple moment, laughing as you stumbled out of the strobe lights, escaping from the crowd, leaning up against the side of the building as the streets moved around you. his hands had found your waist, in that casually affectionate way that shone through, especially when he's intoxicated.
it moved on to a whisper of lips, a brush during conversation, easily blamed on close proximity, but couldn't be passed off by the intensity in both of your eyes.
when you leaned up to match your lips to his, you kissed him like you had something to prove. you supposed you both did.
he met yours with an aching need - one that told both of you that you held out to long. that the weeks of flirting, of getting to know each other, of trying not to rush into it proved futile.
you remember your lipstick was still fresh, but he hadn't seemed to care. he kissed you like he wanted to wear your mark in front of the world. it was enough to make your knees buckle.
even since then, you've learned more and more about the ways to kiss jude - the lazy kisses that were un-rushed, that held a different kind of affection and care. the hot and heavy kisses, filled with passion and clashing lips, the air thickening with the intensity. the slow ones, that were intimate and needy, the kind where he would stop and look up at you with that boyish grin, the distraction never quite being able to ruin the moment, instead, making your heart ache in need for him just a bit more.
kissing jude was your new favorite thing. it was a topic you could happily write songs about for the rest of your life.
when jude shifts you over to straddle his lap, you let out a surprised, pleased sigh into his mouth, and he swallowed it with his tongue pressing against yours. your senses began to overwhelm you - his hands traveling around your body, trailing goosebumps, his intoxicating scent filling your nostrils, the sounds of his heavy breaths and occasional content hums, the smooth music furthering the ambience in the background. he was overtaking you in every way, and you would happily lay and let him forever, if he would have you.
his hands slid under your top, splaying against the small of your back. you shiver slightly, pressing your chest further against his in response. you feel the ghost of a smile tilting his lips up against your, and you match it, causing your teeth to briefly clash and small laughs to leave your lips.
he kisses your smile away, another small gasp leaving you when his hands travel south, gripping the globes of your ass and squeezing, pulling your further into his hips. the noise that leaves his lips closely resembles the one that left yours.
his eyes meet yours as your lips part, his hungry blown out pupils and kiss-bitten lips telling you exactly what was on his mind. your expression must've been similar, because he experimentally tugged on the hem of your top, and you nodded, biting down on your lip as you lift your arms for him to slide it off.
since it was still early days in your relationship, you always wanted to look pretty for him - so naturally, of course you were wearing a matching black lace set. you watched as his gaze fell to your chest, and his tongue subconsciously coming out to wet his lips. feeling his attention causes you to squirm just a bit, whining softly as you reach down to begin to lift his own shirt.
he lets out a surprised laugh, leaning up from the pillows placed against the table or a moment to help you remove his shirt, his eyes finding yours again. "eager, are we?"
the playful tilt in his accent has you almost dripping. you huff beneath your breath. "just didn't want to be the only person undressed," you narrow your eyes at him, filled with fake judgement. "cocky, are we?"
he blows out a breath, leaning back again, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders to his chiseled chest. his hands are steady on your hips, his eyes rake down you unashamedly, unapologetically. "can you hardly blame me, when i've got you on my lap?"
a shiver uncontrollably runs down your spine, and you bite the inside of your cheek, lips tilting up almost shyly. god, he looked good like this - the fire lighting up his features just right, showing off his chisled structure, eyes hungry and filled with raw want, lips tilted up appreciatively - he oozed natural confidence, this easy sex appeal that most people had to learn.
you lightly shove his chest, before leaning down to meet him. "shut up," you murmur, connecting your lips again.
you feel the rumble in his chest before you hear the soft chuckle let into your mouth, and you're sure your cheeks are hot. you blame it on the fire.
you hum appreciatively when you feel it - the growing hardness concealed in his sweatpants, the way he wants you to feel it, bucking up his hips every time you gently pass over it.
your purposefully grind a bit harder down into him, enjoying the audible hitch in his breath and tightening of his hands around you. his hands come back down to your ass, sliding under your thin sleep shorts to guide you against him.
your breaths both pick up to pants at the blissful sensation of your clothed parts moving against each other, tingles traveling up to your stomachs. jude pulls away, shifting to lay you down against the layers upon layers of blankets, cushioning your back as he climbs over you, forearms bracketed on both sides of your head as he leans back down, connecting your lips.
his hands come down to wrap around the waist band of your shorts. "lift up," he murmurs, and you do as he says, hips momentarily leaving the ground as he slides the cotton fabric down your legs, pulling them off your feet and tossing them to the side, removing another layer between you and where you want him the most. he eagerly leans back down, taking your mouth against his once more.
one of your hands rest on the nape of his neck, while the other slowly travels down his stomach, nails leaving an invisible trail as you reach his sweatpants. you hear his breath hitch as you halfheartedly slip your hands beneath the fleece, scratching against the neat hair there, before coming back out, instead inching over his bulge. one of you favorite things you had learned about jude so far - he hardly wore underwear with sweatpants.
"fuck," he hisses, pressing himself further against your hand. "s'that what y'want?"
you nod, eyes hooded as you looked up at him through your lashes. "mhm," you hum, biting your lip as you palm him, eliciting a small groan from him.
he hardly hesitates, reaching down to slide your panties down the way he had done to your shorts moments before. he doesn't even have to ask this time, your hips are already lifted.
when he sits up to remove his sweatpants, you follow, reaching around your back to unclip your bra, letting it fall down your arms and off to the side. you lean back on your elbows, biting your lip as you watch him remove the final barrier between you, your eyes almost comically lighting up when his dick is revealed - you somehow forget how large he is every time.
jude grabs a condom from the front pocket of his pants before pushing them to the side, and watches as you raise your brows at him. he shakes his head, lips turning up as he places a hand beside your head, his other lightly tossing the condom somewhere not far. "oi, don't look at me like that. gotta be prepared for moments like this."
you snicker softly, your hand coming up to your lips as you spit, then reaching down between the two of you to wrap around him. your marvel at the way his features tighten just a fraction, his brows narrowing at the sensation of your warm fingers on his dick. "what, like this?"
he lets out a breathy laugh, forehead falling against yours, his other hand coming down on the other side of your head. "exactly like this."
his leans forward further, pressing sloppy kisses into your neck, even allowing himself to suck on the skin slightly. the two of you had both confessed how hot you found hickeys, but given your careers - and the fact that your relationship was not yet public knowledge - you had both avoided giving or recieving them, except for unseens places.
you loved it when you were away from jude, and you spotted a love bite on your thigh in the shower, or against your ribs in bed. he had expressed the same.
lucky for the two of you, you both had nowhere to be for a while.
your strokes on his cock were slow - a gentle up and down, a simple twist of your wrist, a teasing passover of your thumb across his tip. your core twists each time his breaths come out shakily against your skin, each time little moans and groans leave his lips.
your movements speed up a little, and one of his hands leaves the blankets below you, shifting over a bit to reach down gather your wetness against his middle and pointer finger. you let out a gasp of your own, movements stuttering, and jude smirks subtly, eyes flicking up to yours before his two fingers enter you, slowly curling up.
you bite down on your lip, mostly undeterred - though a part of you would like to just sit back and let him have his way with you - and continue to stroke him, grip hardening just a bit.
it was almost like a competition of who could give in first. of who could admit the other was causing them so much pleasure that they couldn't take it anymore.
when your thumb ran over his tip the next time, his started circling your clit, his thick, long fingers still sliding in and out of you. you bite down on your lip to conceal your whimpers, and you can tell jude is doing the same, the focussed arch of his brows portraying his concentration on your pleasure rather than his own.
your gazes both flickered from the movement going on between you to each others eyes, sharing the awe of the pleasure passing between you. you felt the heat of the fire on the side of your body, but it was nothing compared to heat cultivated between you.
you can feel the coil tightening in your lower stomach, so you let out a pleased breath, your hand leaving his dick to brace against his chest. his fingers still inside you, eyes coming up to yours. your breaths were both labored, eyes glazed over with want.
you buck up against him, gasping when the lower side of his dick brushes against your core. "jude, please," you whine softly. "wanna feel you."
his eyes darken even further. "yeah?" he asks, his coaxing, almost mocking voice furthering your need. "this isn't enough for you?"
you whine against, fingers dragging down his hands. "no. need you inside."
his fingers leaves your hole, causing you to clamp down a whine at the emptiness, as he reaches past your head for the condom, ripping the wrapper open before handing the rubber to you.
you flush a bit at the action - jude had quickly caught on to your strange affinity for putting on the condom for him. something about it felt like affection, like doing that small thing for him showed your thanks. he didn't mind it - in fact, he thought it was the hottest thing in the world, the sight of your concentrated features as your small hands slide the rubber along his dick, pinching the tip to allow space for his cum.
once you've done so, judes hand replaces yours on his cock, lining up with your entrance. once he is, his gaze remains locked on your features, watching each dip of your expression, each widening part of your lips as he slides himself further and further into your gaping, desperate hole.
every step of the way you are squeezing his biceps, gasping at how warm he feels, how full he makes you. your wetness allows him to enter without much fight, those his largeness still made it a bit of a struggle - you were still getting used to his size.
when he bottomed out, you squirmed a bit against him, letting out small sounds of pleasure at his fullness. his pubes lightly scratched at your clit, causing you to squirm a bit and arch up into him.
"shit," he cursed under his breath, marvelling at the way your pussy wraps so tightly around him. "so fuckin' perfect, babe. can't believe how tight y'still are"
a small whimper leaves your lips, and you hips lift a bit, meeting his. "so good, jude, holy shit."
he lets out a low hum, slowly lifting up, before coming back down. the noises that left his lips were so intoxicating, always spurring you on further. somehow, everything he did manage to be hot.
the warmth in your stomach continued to build as he pushed himself in and out of you, your arousal undeniable by the lewd squelch at every lift and needy noises leaving your lips.
he left you with gentle praises and comments that made your toes curl. "good girl." "this all f'me?" "shittt, keep squeezin' me, baby, so good."
you were convinced, so sure of it - that jude had officially ruined sex for you with any other person. you had become a moaning mess as soon as he entered you, completely rendered dumb by his dick. you swore it was magic.
"jude," you gasp, hands coming to his chest, the pleasure beginning to climb to its peak.
he groaned in response. "i know, baby. y'can take it, atta girl."
your head tosses back, eyes closing in pure pleasure. jude leans forward, placing hot, open mouth kisses against your chest, moaning softly into the skin. "thats it," he muttered. "there we go, keep takin' it."
his words of encouragement only took your further, the corners of your vision going white as you get closer to your peak. your lips part, opening your eyes to meet his, features scrunched in pleasure. "jude, please," you beg, though your not sure for what - to take you there, to not dare stop.
you're not sure when, but his fingers had been circling your clit, the pleasure all mixing and mumbling up into one. you watch as he nods. "go ahead, babe, right behind you."
at his encouragement you lay back, letting the euphoria wash over you - the tightening and loosening of that coil in your stomach, the sensation of the pressure building then releasing, his dick filling up your walls so perfectly like the missing piece of a puzzle.
his fingers don't deter as you release, but his pace slows just a bit when he cums, groaning so prettily, looking down at the two of you with parted lips and furrowed brows.
you lift up to your forearms for a moment, and you almost moan when you see the white rings around his condom-covered dick, causing your pussy to tighten around him one last time, pulling another ragged moan out of his, and another rope of cum into the rubber.
you lay back against the blankets, your eyes shutting as your chests rises and falls, slowly catching your breath. you feel as jude full exists you, your pussy contracting and pulsing around the sudden emptiness.
you feel the faint brush of his lips against your cheek and hear the sound of him slowly getting up, footsteps padding towards the kitchen.
you flutter your eyes open when he returns, to see him back in his sweatpants, the condom now clearly discarded. you sit up, watching as he reaches down to grab his shirt, tossing it over to you. you throw it over your shoulders, pulling your hair out from under the back.
he lets out a pleasant groan as he lays down on his side, rearranging some pillows to rest more comfortably. you lay back, your heartbeat beginning to steady. jude leans on his forearm as he looks down at you with that gentle look in his eyes, that causes your chest to stutter.
he brushes some hair out of your face with his free hand. "good?" he asks in a soft mumble.
you nod, smiling easily up at him. for no reason at all, your hand comes up to his chest, above his heart, feeling the steady rise and fall. "i'm good."
a glint passes over his eyes, and he leans down, placing a chaste kiss against your lips. as he pulls away, a hint of mischief passes over his gaze. "sure are, aren't ya?"
you roll your eyes, half-heartedly pushing his chest. "shut up," you mumble through a smile, but lean forward to pepper a few kisses to his lower sternum. you feel him hum, a hand coming to cup the back of your head, tilting you up as you pull away to press a few short pecks against your lips, after whispering, "gladly."
when you pull away, the two of you share a look - a heavy yet light look, that said many things you weren't quite ready to verbalize yet. an acknowledgment that whatever is passing between you is special, once in a lifetime, special. that you enjoy each others company more than you ever planned.
it holds the knowledge of those funny three words that hold the weight of the world, yet don't seem so scary, the more they pop into your thoughts - the understanding that they exist, that they are there when you need them. that they aren't so far out of reach.
you fall asleep to the rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, the faint beat of his heart sounding in one ear, and the music still lowly humming from the speaker in the other.
the next morning you sit up, looking out the sliding doors just 10 feet past the couch, showing judes yard covered in snow. you feel his hand sliding around your waist, and him sitting up as well behind you, pulling you onto his lap.
"looks like we have to say inside again today, huh?" he murmurs into your shoulder, voice hoarse, playfully nipping at the skin revealed by his oversized shirt covering your toros.
your smile is cheezily wide as you turn around in his arms. your eyes are light, the kind of lightness that comes with the knowledge that you don't have anywhere to be, you have anyone to appease, theres no expectations to live up to, nobody to impress. you nudge your nose against his, a glint passing over your eyes. "what are we gonna do with ourselves?"
warnings/tags: established relationship, mentions of contraception (condoms, birth control), mentions of vomit (not explicit), fluff sickening fluff, some angstish, probably inaccurate prenatal care descriptions not proofread (sorry)
wc: 2.6k
🍀 series masterlist 🍀
author’s note: bello. I’ve returned(ish). Kinda been down in the dumps and lost any and all motivation to write anything. Take a guess what this one is about 😚 (sorry I skipped the wedding if you want something about it feel free to yell at me).
There was never an official moment where you and Joe had officially begun trying. More so an unspoken agreement that you weren’t actively tracking and trying, but also not necessarily preventing it.
Around three months before your wedding, you decided to take yourself off of birth control and let your body and cycle readjust and regulate over the course of the next few months. Condoms were exiled from your apartment long before then, therefore the two of you settled on the pull out method for the time being (again not necessarily preventing)
Three months pass, and your wedding goes by without a hitch. Same goes for your honeymoon, aimlessly traveling throughout Europe, where every night and almost every morning was spent tangled up with one another, basking in newlywed bliss.
When the two of you return back home to the real world, life continues on as normal. You go back to work, Joe busies himself in the studio, and the two of you always find time for each other in the moments of peace hidden amongst the chaos and calamity of your busy lives and schedules.
The first time you take a test comes two months after the wedding. For the first time in months you were late. Could it still be your body regulating? Yes. Could it also be your body succumbing to the stress of the quickly approaching deadline of one of your largest work projects? Also yes. Despite both being possible reasons, you still find yourself moseying your way into the drug store on your way home from work to pick up a box of tests, not expecting much result-wise. But you would be lying if you said there wasn’t a little glimmer of hope lingering in the back of your mind.
Joe’s already home and situated on the couch by the time your key slots into the lock of your front door, head rising at the sound of your arrival, eyes immediately finding the Duane Reed bag that sat tucked against your abdomen.
“Watcha got there?” He asks, nodding towards the possibly life altering package that lies in your grasp. “You could’ve just asked me to pick it up for you, save you the trip.”
“I’m a couple days late.” You say, straight to the point, no beating around the bush, as you make your way over to Joe, settling down next to him. “Just figured, might as well.” You continue, as you pull out the small box from the crinkled paper bag.
His eyes switch between you and the box, quickly trying to process what you’ve just told him, and the casualness of it all. “Ok.” He says quietly, with fragileness as if saying the word too loud would make reality shatter. “You gonna take it now?”
“I don’t know.” You mumble under your breath, matching Joe’s quietness.
Joe nods beside you. “How about,” he starts, lifting your chin so that you were now looking right at him, “we order some food. Then you take it. Or we can even wait a couple more days, just to be sure.”
You decide on the former and place the box down on the coffee table. Joe understands what you’re conveying to him by your actions, and reaches for his phone to order delivery from your favorite restaurant. When the food arrives and the two of you begin eating, you both make measly attempts to converse as if it’s just another night, but every attempt to begin a conversation ultimately ends in an unsettled silence, both of your minds burdened by the box the rests just a few feet away in the other room.
The two of you don’t bother with the dishes, instead opting to make your way to the ensuite bathroom of your bedroom, collecting the box of tests in the process. Joe linger back in the bedroom as you take the tests, two just as a precaution, and you set them on the counter before washing your hands and joining him on the edge of the bed.
“How long?” he asks.
“4 minutes, I set a timer already.”
He hums in response, reaching over to intertwine his fingers with yours, and bringing your hands to rest in his lap, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe both of you.
The four minutes drag, you both stay silent, zoning out to the sound of the other’s breathing. Until the shrill of the timer brings you both back to reality, meeting each other's gaze before standing and moving back to the bathroom, where you’re met with the two white sticks sitting there, menacingly staring back at you.
You meet Joe’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror, silently prompting him to choose a test to flip over. Once the two of you both have a test in your hands, you look at him before nodding, agreeing to flip them over.
The test in your hand is first, Negative.
Then Joe’s, Negative.
Your period comes the next morning.
For the rest of the day or maybe even week, your mind is fogged. You weren’t expecting to be pregnant so soon after your wedding, but can’t help but feel a sense of heartbreak lingering within you.
Joe notices, he always notices, and doesn’t push for you to talk about it. Sitting with you in silence at night, or in the morning before the world catches up to you as you nurse your coffee.
“I don’t know why I’m so upset.” You mumble one evening, Joe’s hand that was tracing random patterns along your arm coming to a halt.
“You can be upset.” He says, turning his head to press his lips against your hairline, “We have time.” He adds, not in a way to stop the way you're feeling, but as a shield of comfort in the storm of your thoughts.
The next test comes 2 months later.
For the past week, you’ve felt off, like you’ve been tilted off of your axis. You again, didn’t think much of it, your project deadline was next week and it was around the time of year again where you’re faced with the worst allergy flare up.
But one morning, as you and Joe are getting ready alongside one another, and he sprays the cologne that he’s been wearing longer than the two of you have been together, you suddenly can’t stand the smell that you’ve loved all these years. The same thing happens the next morning, and the morning after that until you can no longer hold back the newfound distaste that you have for the smell of your husband.
Then comes the nausea. It’s subtle at first, again just a feeling that lingers, slightly inconveniencing you in waves as your day goes by.
By lunch it’s worse. You try to work through it, pushing down the fluttering feeling in your stomach, but the feeling ultimately wins the battle as your fork inches closer to your mouth, sending the majority of the food you just managed to swallow down right back up into the nearest trash can.
You take the rest of that day off after that, an action encouraged to you by your boss as you ease your way back into your office.
The ultimate test of endurance was the 10 minute subway ride back home, the slight but persistent shift of the train car sloshing around whatever was left in your stomach. You barely make it to the kitchen trashcan as you hurl up any remnants left over from lunch before settling yourself down on the cool kitchen tiles.
As if on cue, your phone vibrates through the pocket of your jacket, you pull it out reading the notification that you’ve just received.
Your period is 9 days late, time for a pregnancy test!
Your eyes widen at the sight before you, and you finally string together the sensitivity to Joe’s cologne, the nausea, and now the purge into the trash can.
You’re late, very late, for the second month in a row, and there’s not much deniability for what could be the reason.
You’re quick on your feet to dash over to your ensuite bedroom getting hit with a wave of deja vu as you reach for the spare test you left in the box just a month ago. You take it and again just like last month, the minutes drag until the timer pierces through the silence of your apartment. This time Joe isn’t with you as you flip over the test in your shaky hands.
Two lines. As clear as day.
“Oh my god.” You choke out under your breath despite being alone in the apartment, your eyes beginning to water.
Just like that, your life is changed, four minutes was all it took.
You stand there for what feels like hours staring down at the little test before you, unable to tear your gaze away from it as if it’ll disappear if you look away.
It doesn’t disappear when you look at yourself in the mirror, taking in your glazed over eyes and tears that you hadn’t felt fall streak your cheeks..
It stays, the second line possibly gets even darker when you bring it closer to your face.
Somewhere in the distance, the front door to your apartment unlocks.
Joe.
Of course he comes home at the first sound of you not feeling well.
The door shuts and his voice follows suit, “Baby? You home yet? I picked up some soup.”
You take a look at yourself in the mirror once again, your mind racing. But before you could say anything, Joe finds you in the bathroom like a moth to a flame, or attracted magnetic forces.
You turn, test still in your hand, tears once again free falling, “Hi.” you say to him as a smile creeps up on your face.
He does a double take between your face and the test in your hands before meeting you with two long strides, take your face between his hands, eyes also beginning to gloss, “If you open you open your hand right now,” he starts before taking in a deep breath trying to compose himself, “am I going to see what I think I’m going to see.”
You let out a wet laugh under your breath in response, turning your palm up so that he could see the two lines for his own two eyes.
“You ruined my plan.” You say quietly, as he examines the two lines through his clouded vision. “I was gonna tell you any other way than this.”
He says nothing in response, instead deciding on placing the test back on the counter to take your face in his grasp once again, planting his lips on yours, tears mixing on your cheeks as you return the gesture.
His eyes are red and somehow even more doe-like in this state. He looks at you with such love and adoration that you can’t help but try to avoid it but he doesn’t let you. “You’re pregnant?” he says, voice wavering with emotion.
“Yeah.” You say matching the instability of his voice with your own.
For a few weeks, you and Joe keep the news of your pregnancy to yourselves, relishing in your own little world, that’s just been made technicolor.
You attend doctors appointments, learn that you were around 4 weeks pregnant when you found out.
2 weeks later you hear their heartbeat for the first time. The world goes silent around you, Joe’s hand tightening around yours and for a moment it’s just the two of you and the rhythmic galloping of your baby’s heart.
2 weeks after that, you get the first scan and spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch together, Joe’s hand resting on the ghost of a bump as the two of you stare in awe at the black and white image in your hand.
You decide to start telling people two weeks after that. Both sets of parents come first obviously, both times ending in the two of you smothered in hugs and tears from the soon to be grandparents and you and Joe.
Joe’s sisters follow suit in a frenzy of squeals and even more hugs.
Your closest friends are next.
Sophie and Ben are told in a totally elaborate plan that consisted of your ultrasound hanging on the fridge, right at eye level with Sophie as she fetched herself a drink an “OH MY GOD.” cutting through the music that flowed through the apartment. You can’t help but smile as Sophie runs into the living room, ultrasound in hand, drink abandoned, already crying as she spews out complete gibberish and throws herself into your arms. Ben is quick to register what’s happening and matches Sophie’s excitement wrapping his arm around Joe’s shoulder to pat his back in congratulations.
All of Joe’s bandmates are told in their own special ways, each ending in you being scooped up in their arms in a fit of excitement.
Even June, despite being only a year old and unable to understand, gets told in her own special way via a babydoll from you and Joe, that had her attention for about 5 minutes before she toddled away to something new that caught her eye.
Although you could burst with joy from all the love you received telling your village about the newest member, your favorite moment in your pregnancy so far was always at night.
Because at night, when all the excitement dwindles down, it always ends up with you and Joe in bed, his hand resting on your bump that slowly grows day by day, like that’s where it’s always belonged.
Most nights your eyes are too heavy with sleep to stay up as late as you used to. But sometimes before you drift off for the night, you catch Joe speaking to your stomach. His voice is soft and soothing, thinking you’re asleep, and careful not to disturb you.
“Hey kiddo,” he rasps, “it’s me, your Dad. I’m pretty sure you can hear me, I read something that you can so yeah.” he pauses collecting his thoughts, “your mom’s app says that you’re the size of a strawberry today, you’re already growing too fast for my liking.” You smile at the sentiment, keeping your breath steady as Joe continues on, “We told everyone about you, you’ve got a lot of people waiting for you out here, but take your time, get strong for your mom and dad ok? I’ll make sure I grow for you so that I’m ready when you get here, or as ready as I can be.” He huffs out a shaky laugh.
You try your best to fight the slumber taking over you, but ultimately lose as your eyelids become heavier and heavier, Joe’s voice becoming more muffled with every blink, not without missing one last affirmation from Joe.
“Don’t know what you are, yet. But I know that you’re going to be the best kid. You’re already the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, other than your mom, and that really scares me if I’m being completely honest. But I’m gonna be the best I can be for you, cause you deserve everything. Your dad loves you, goodnight.”
You can’t help but smile as Joe tugs you closer to his side, careful not to interfere with your sleep as you drift off for the night.
For now, your world is still just the two of you, but it’s about to get so much bigger as you eagerly await for the arrival of your newest member.
leila yaps (does anyone even read this): MY DARLINGSSS 🥹, I promise I’m still obsessed with these two I just was going through it for the past like week and a half (diva down) but diva is on the up again (hopefully 🙃), so excited for these two to grow their little family.
Maybe or 2 of cowboy!Steve… reader gets invited to his farm/ranch he works on and they get a lil freaky in the stables or out in the open (maybe it’s a secluded area)
God the first one was just pure bliss
Take A Ride Outback
Cowboy!Steve Harrington x fem!reader 3k words
warnings: fluff, tension, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v, size kink, dumbification, breeding kink, unprotected,
When your papa sends you to the Harrington ranch in his place, you should’ve known nothing is ever quick when the cowboy has other plans…
The afternoon sun hung low in the prairie, pouring honey-colored light through the saloon windows. Steve had become a regular, every few days like clockwork, the familiar boots against the floorboards announced his arrival before anyone had the chance to look up. It was another chance to see you, linger by him while you served him a glass of whiskey, reminding you of when he had brought you to the back and changed your whole view on cowboys.
Today was no different, except your papa had beaten you to him. Steve rested one of his veiny forearms against the polished bar, his weathered hat sat beside him while your papa dried a glass with an old rag.
“So…” your pa grunted. “Where’s home for a fella like you?” He didn’t exactly like cowboys, warning you of them the first time Steve had come, but he was more than polite to regulars.
Steve took an easy sip of the dark liquid, before answering. “‘Bout twenty miles west.”
“That so?” He paused his movements.
“Yes, sir.” Steve answered. He still hadn’t spotted you yet, and you had to admit you were nervous wondering if your pa would take a liking to him, Steve was unlike any other man you’ve met before. He captivated your attention, it was addicting.
“Got family out there?” Your pa asked once again.
Steve nodded. “Had.” A brief silence settled between them, your pa looked like he wasn’t going to meddle into a grown man’s business, but the cowboy continued talking. “The folks left me the ranch a few years back.”
Your brow glanced at him with a quirked brow. “Run by yourself?” He questioned.
“For the most part.” Steve shrugged.
“You must keep it busy.”
Steve chuckled. “Keeps me outta trouble,” he swirled the whiskey in the glass.
Your pa snorted, straightening up. “I’ll be the judge of that.” The older man narrowed his eyes through the hoods of his lids. “You always this agreeable?”
“Only when somebody’s daddy’s questionin’ me.” The earned him the first hint of a smile from your pa, making your shoulders loosen up a little.
“Smart mouth.” He pointed out.
“I’ve been told.”
“You know…” your pa began, setting the glass aside. “Most cowboys that wander in here spend more time boastin’ than workin’.”
Steve shrugged. “Figure if a man’s gotta tell folks how capable he is,” the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. “He probably ain’t.”
Your pa let out a quiet huff that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. Steve hid the smug satisfaction threatening to creep into his face behind another sip of alcohol. He wasn’t trying to impress him, well, maybe a little.
“I expected a pretty boy in a fancy hat.” Your pa muttered, shaking his head
“Disappointed?” Steve asked.
“Haven’t decided yet.” He answered.
“Guess I’ll have to keep comin’ back till you do.”
Your pa whistled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t push your luck son.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” The words were respectful, though the faint, victorious grin curling at the corner of Steve’s mouth…wasn’t.
The early morning began like any other. Your pa was already outside before the sun had climbed over the hills, loading sacks of flour into the back of the wagon while muttering to himself about deliveries, and folks who never seem to return burrowed materials.
You stepped onto the porch, smoothing your skirt as you tied your apron behind your back. “Mornin’ pa.” You chirped.
He grunted in reply, not turning towards you as he spoke. “Got somethin’ for ya.”
You raised a brow. “That sounds threatenin’.”
“It ain’t.” He disappeared into the storeroom and returned carrying a wicker basket covered with a clean cloth. The smell of fresh bread and peach pie drifted through the air.
You smiled at the scent. “Who’s that for?”
“Harrington.”
Your heart caught in your throat, smile faltering. “Steve?” Your pa nodded as though there were any other Harrington worth mentioning.
“He invited me out to see the ranch this afternoon. Said he’s lookin’ to strike up business with the saloon, wants to talk cattle prices.”
“So, you’re goin’?” You shuffled where you were standing, already daydreaming about the cowboy.
He sighed heavily. “I was.” He jerked a thumb toward the broken wagon wheel leaning against the fence. “Wheel cracked clean through, ain’t makin’ it twenty miles on that.”
“Oh.” You tried to mask your disappointment, you thought if your pa got closer with Steve, perhaps it meant you’d be around him more often.
He suddenly lifted the basket into your hands. “You’ll go instead.”
Your eyes widened, heart thundering in your chest now. “I will?” You asked excitedly.
“Just drop this off.” He stated.
“All by myself?” Your mouth parted, still in shock. Your pa rarely ever let you go anywhere alone, let alone past the saloon.
“Ain’t no harm in it.” You blinked. Your thighs squeezed together from just the thought of being with Steve alone again, he had introduced you to a type of pleasure you hadn’t stopped thinking about.
Perhaps noticing your surprise, he cleared his throat. “Boy’s earned enough of my trust.” A pause. “Besides,” he pointed a finger at you now. “You’re representin’ the family, don’t go wandering off, come back before the sun sets.”
“I won’t.” You nodded, a little too eagerly.
“No flirtin’.” At that you pressed your lips together to keep from smiling, oh if only your pa knew the things you did with that man.
“I won’t.” You muttered.
He studied you for another long moment. “…Why’re you smilin’?”
“I ain’t,” you quickly brushed off. “Was just thinkin’.”
“Dangerous habit.” You laughed, hugging the basket closer to your chest.
“I’ll be back before supper, pa.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“You’d better, young lady.” He only said, before leaving you standing on the porch.
The ride out to the Harrington ranch was prettier than you’d imagined. Wildflowers danced in the breeze alongside the trail, and endless fields rolled beneath the sky until, at last, a wooden sign came into view, alerting you that you’ve arrived.
Just beyond it stood a modest farmhouse, a red barn sitting father back, you hadn’t even reached the gate before someone looked up from the corral.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a few more buttons undone than usual, revealing his bronze dusted skin from a hard days work. His hair was tousled, the strands appearing amber from underneath the sun. One gloved hand rested on the neck of a chestnut horse while the other tightened a saddle strap.
The moment he spotted you, he immediately stopped, lowering his neck into a nod as a toothy grin spread across his face. “Well I’ll be damned.”
You guided your horse through the gate, trying your hardest to ignore the way you felt hot all over, feeling his gaze lingering on the way your skirt flowed in the breeze.
“I was expectin’ your pa.” Steve met you halfway, resting a hand on your mare’s reins before you even had the chance to climb down.
“He was supposed to come, but the wagon split.”
“Mmm.” Steve understood.
“So, he sent me instead.” You held up the basket, showing him.
Steve looked from the basket, to you, he already knew you were much much more delicious. “I reckon I got the better end of that bargain.”
You bit your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes that pierced into you. “You always got something clever to say?” You huffed.
“Only when you show up outta the blue, making my day better than it had been.” He steadied the horse with one hand, while offering the other to you. “You gonna let me help you?”
“I can get down myself.” You said, despite your hands already twitching to reach out for him, needing to feel his touch again.
“I know.” His grin widened. “But I’d sure like to.” You finally slipped your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused and rough from years of ranch work. With hardly any effort at all, he guided you to the ground, you landed closer to his chest than either of you intended.
For a heartbeat, you didn’t even breathe, Steve looked down at your joined hands as though he’d forgotten he was still holding yours. Then, almost reluctantly, he let go.
“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you.” The words slipped out so softly they seemed to even surprise him.
Your breath hitched, gazing up. “You have?”
“‘Bout every day.” You think your heart almost stopped. “I kept wonderin’ if we’d get another moment alone, with your pa watching my every movement.”
“And now?” You asked, tilting your head.
“Now your standin’ right before my eyes.” He shook his head with a quiet laugh. “I think I like this better.”
You extended the basket, but it remained untouched. Instead, his eyes never left yours. “I always figured angels had wings.” He stepped just a little closer.
You laughed. “I’m startin’ to think maybe they ride horses.”
You couldn’t help smiling, he was already breaking the first rule your pa had told you. “I thought cowboys were supposed to be good liars.” You pointed out.
“We are.” Steve agreed.
“So is that a lie?” You raised a brow.
He pretended to consider it, his words coming out as low as a whisper. “Might be the first honest thing I’ve said all week.”
You laughed again, the sound carrying across the wide ranch. Steve smiled to himself, looking all too pleased that he’d been the one to coax it from you. How much he’s missed you.
You nudged your arm with his. “I knew you were trouble, shouldn’t have served you when you first came in.”
He leaned in just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “If I was trouble…” his voice dipped into a syrupy tone. “I’d be tellin’ you how pretty you look standin’ in my yard.”
“And are you?” He looked over you with an easy smile, the thin sheet of sweat that coated your skin, your legs that would look too nice hanging around his shoulders.
“No.” A teasing pause. “I’m tellin’ you you make my whole ranch look prettier.”
You ducked your head, unable to hide the smile stretching across your face. “I don’t know whether to believe a word you say.”
“You don’t go to.” He reached for the basket at last. “I’ll just spend the rest of my life provin’ it.” Steve winked.
Before you could think of a reply, he turned towards the red barn. “C’mon,” he glanced over his shoulder, sunlight catching the edge of his hat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Someone?” You frowned, hadn’t he said the ranch was all to himself?
“The real boss of this place.” Steve said.
“I thought that was you.” You answered.
Steve husked out a laugh. “Oh, shortcake,” he nodded towards the stable. “Wait till you meet my horse.”
The scent of fresh hay and worn leather lingered in the air, mingling with the soft nickers of horses in their stalls. Sunlight spilled through the wooden slats in long golden beams, catching drifting flecks of dust that fell around you with every step.
Steve pushed open one of the stall doors. “There she is.” A chestnut mare lifted her hair from the hay, ears perking at the sound of his voice.
“Ain’t she pretty?” He asked, rubbing a hand down her nose.
You stepped closer, offering your hand for the mare to sniff before gently stroking the white blaze running down her face. “She’s beautiful.”
The mare leaned into your touch with almost no hesitation, Steve laughed. “Well, now,”
“What?” You glanced up at him.
“She don’t usually warm up to folks this quick.” He explained.
“Maybe she’s got good taste.” You answered playfully. Steve rested his forearm across the stall door, watching you instead of the horse.
The mare nudged your shoulder, making you giggle. Steve’s smile softened at the sound, filling his chest with something warm. “I’ve imagined you here more times than I’d care to admit.”
“Do I get to know what happened in those imaginin’s?” You asked.
There was a knowing look in his eye for a second, making the hairs on your arm stand up, but Steve decided he’d show you all about that soon enough. “You looked at this place like it could’ve been home.”
The word lingered between you, you’d always wanted to live somewhere more freeing, away from the bustle of the saloon. You stepped away from the mare until only the stall door separated you two.
“You really love this place, don’t you?” You asked after a moment.
Steve nodded. “More than anything.” He confessed. “But I think I’d love it a little more if I had someone to share it with.”
Your heart fluttered, making the space seem more cramped than when you had first entered. Steve reached out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His knuckles brushed lightly against your hand, when you didn’t move, his fingers slipped between yours.
Your hand fit there as if it had always belonged there. “You still outta stay away from fellas like me.” He murmured.
“You seem awfully convinced you’re trouble.” You whispered.
“I took your innocence away, didn’t I?” The reminder sent shivers down your spine.
“I never planned on staying innocent.” You said.
His hungry eyes drifted from yours to your lips for only a heartbeat before returning. “So you’re happy I fucked you?”
You didn’t answer immediately, making him suffer with every beat that passed. “With all my heart.”
At your answer, Steve didn’t hesitate a moment further, making the hay crunch underneath his boots as he stalked towards you in two strides, finally closing the distance between you passionately.
Your fingers curled around the front of his vest as you let out a sound of surprise, deepening the kiss as he turned his head to the side, gripping your jaw tightly. The rest of the world disappeared beyond the stable walls, pulling Steve closer to inhale his musky scent.
He pushed his tongue past your bottom lip, swirly hotly into your mouth and tasting the sweetness of you he’s missed for weeks. He only pulled away when you were gasping for air, tangling your fingers into his long locks.
“God—Steve…” you sighed.
He groaned, moving his hands up and down your waist to feel every curve you’ve been teasing him with. “Fuck, sugar, don’t know how I’ve been able to stay away from you all this time.”
You were suddenly pushed back against the wall, watching as Steve buried his head into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses in his trail. “Please don’t stay away, please.” You pleaded. “Need you more than anything, Steve.”
Your words made him growl, sinking to his knees while he hooked one of your legs around his shoulder, hitching your skirt up. “Wouldn’t stay away if your pa came chasing me with a pistol.” Steve gave you one last glance, at this angle you could see the darkness that surrounded his pupils, making your cunt clench in preparation.
You gasped when his face went out of view, licking a heavy stripe up your lips. “Oh—ahh!” Your body jerked, back arching.
Your little sounds were music to Steve’s ears, egging him on to wrap his mouth around the bud of your clit, sucking it roughly. You mewled, holding him in place with a hand that gripped his hair for dear life.
“Mmm, you taste like fuckin’ heaven.” Steve groaned against your pussy, the vibrations going right through your core. He moved his tongue to your entrance, thursting it inside as he began fucking you with the wet muscle.
You cried out, in disbelief, how he could make you feel that good with only his mouth. “D-don’t sto—ohh—op, Steve.” You grinded down against his face, making him increase his efforts.
“Yeah, just like that, baby. Cum all over my mouth like a good girl.” He replaced his tongue with two fingers, curling them against your sopping walls and reattaching his lips to your clit, catching it between his teeth.
You squeezed your eyes shut, overcome with pleasure, and it wasn’t long before you felt yourself on the brink of an orgasm, chasing it as you clenched your walls desperately around his fingers. “I’m gonna—fuck—urg,” you could barely get any words out, throwing your head back once your knee buckled, your high overtaking you.
Steve refused to stop, eating you like you were his final meal until you were pushing at him weakly. His jaw shined with your release, tongue poking out to lick whatever left he could. “Think you have one more in ya, shortcake?” Steve asked, though he was already tapping your thighs, making you jump as he wrapped your legs around his waist.
“So good.” You were still panting, stuck on the orgasm he gave you.
Steve chuckled, watching the dazed look in your eye. “Look at ya, so gone f’me and I haven’t even fucked ya yet.” He shook his head. “Wanna get all drunk on my cock, hm?”
You could only nod rapidly, you wanted every part of him. Steve gave you a rewarding kiss, before pulling out his cock that had been hard since you arrived, and lining it up with your hole. “Big stretch,” he said as he pushed into you, it didn’t burn this time from how wet you were from his mouth.
Steve used that to his advantage, immediately setting a quick rhythm that had you holding his bicep tightly, bouncing you up and down with each thrust. “Mhm, missed this tight pussy so fuckin’ much.”
The air in the stables became hot and heavy with the scent of your sex, the sounds of your sweaty skin slapping together echoed off the walls, turning into a secret melody only the two of you knew.
He pulled you into a searing kiss, messy and fast as your lips molded together into one. You could feel his cock all the way in your stomach, stretching you beyond your limits. “Mmf—oh, fuck—s’too big!” You moaned, trying to get Steve to slow down.
Steve only went impossibly deeper, dragging his heavy length against that one spongy spot over and over. “Ya can take it, sweetheart, ya were made for my cock.” He shushed you.
It wasn’t hard for your orgasm to build up after the last, your pussy pulled him back in every time he pulled out to thrust back into you, it felt like home. Steve was mesmerized with the sight of him spearing you open, the way you clutched onto him, how small you seemed against him and the creamy ring that formed around the base of his cock.
“Fuuuuuck,” Steve fought to keep his eyes on you, feeling dangerously close to his own high, though it was always his mission to make you cum first. “There ya go, can feel how close ya are for me, sugar. Just let go, show me how much ya need me.”
His words sent you over the edge, giving a final cry of his name before you wilted against him, leaning your head into the crook of his neck. Steve’s thrusts grew more erratic after your high, turning shallow as he grunted into your ear.
“‘M gonna fill this pussy up, make it mine. That's all you’re good for—breedin’ this pussy until it’s leakin’ outta ya.”
You nodded, needing to feel his warm cum stuff you deeply. “Y-yes, Steve! Just—just cum in me.” Steve stilled, filling you up with his release while your thighs shook.
“That’s it—just take it.” Steve pulled out when he was sure there was no more left, bringing you back down gently on your legs.
You leaned back against the wall, a lazy smile drawn across your face. He kept a hand on your waist, rubbing your side slowly with his thumb.
After a few minutes, Steve pushed himself back up, a scary look shining in his eyes. “What do you think ‘bout coming inside for a drink before you leave?”
You bit your lip, knowing all too well you were about to christen every corner of his ranch. Hopefully your pa wouldn’t notice if you were a little late.
Warnings: Wild West, tension, flirting, smut, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected, fluff, big dick Steve, praise, degradation, slight public sex,
Working at your papa’s saloon was easy enough, until the cowboy of your dreams rides through town, and steals your heart while matching the description of the men you had been told to steer clear of
The old saloon creaked awake with the early sunrise. Dust drifted through the open doorway lazily while your papa swept yesterday’s footprints from the floorboards, his weathered boots thudding against the wood. “You got the glasses polished?” He called without glancing at you.
“Done.” You responded, already setting out all the bottles you’d need for the day.
“The tables?” He asked.
“Wiped.” You had been up before sunrise, tending to the saloon while your papa had still been snoring.
“The pie?”
“Cooling by the window.” He finally looked over his shoulder, satisfied enough to set the broom aside.
“Good job.” He nodded. You reached beneath the counter for your apron, tying it around the short cotton skirt you’d sewn yourself. It was practical enough for the cruel Texan heat, though your papa liked to grumble that it wasn’t much longer than a handkerchief.
His thick brows that matched the rest of his facial hair pinched the moment he noticed. “You ain’t wearin’ that skirt to catch some fellas' eye, are ya?” He asked skeptically.
“No, sir.” You rolled your eyes, adjusting the ribbon that sat neatly in the back of your head.
“Hmph.” He leaned both hands against the polished bar, fixing you with the same look he’d worn nearly every morning since you were old enough to join him in the business. “Now listen here, sweet cakes.”
You smiled despite yourself, having listened to the same lecture enough to memorize it by now. “I know, pa.”
“No, I don’t think y’do.” He pointed a finger through the swinging saloon doors. “Men who wander through that door ain’t lookin’ to settle down. They’re lookin’ for whiskey, money, trouble,” he paused. “Sometimes all three.”
“They’ll smile real pretty, tip their hats, they’ll sweet talk every girl from here ‘till Amarillo.”
You shook your head, though a laugh escaped you. “I said I understand, pa.”
He sighed dramatically, sticking his palms together. “Lord help me, raisin’ a hardheaded daughter.” He muttered beneath his breath.
You reached over to squeeze his arm reassuringly. “I ain't gonna run off with the first cowboy that orders a drink.”
He snorted. “You’d better not, young lady.”
The morning passed quietly, a ranch hand stopped in for lemonade, an older couple shared a slice of your homemade peach pie, by noon there had been enough travelers passing by to fill the place up.
You leaned against the counter, absentmindedly wiping down the surface for the fourth time that day. Outside, hoofbeats echoed down the empty trail, steady, unhurriedly.
Your eyes drifted towards the window, a mighty chestnut horse came into view first, strong enough to carry a man halfway across the country. Then its rider dismounted, you’d seen plenty of cowboys better, ones that swaggered louder than their boats. But this one…was unlike anyone you’d ever seen before.
He rested a sturdy hand against the horse's neck before tying the reigns, checking the knot twice, only then did he make his way toward the saloon. You tried looking away to make yourself seem busy, but as the swinging doors groaned opened, all conversation seemed to disappear with the breeze.
Your breath caught—he looked like he’d been carved straight outta’ the prairie itself.
His skin wore the kind of golden tan only years of hard labor beneath the unforgiving sun could leave behind. Dark brown hair skimmed the nape of his neck, the worn cowboy hat didn’t stop a few stands from falling over into his eyes. The top few buttons of his red shirt hung open under a fitted brown vest, revealing the rest of his sun kissed skin that was littered with freckles.
A leather gun belt hugged his waist, its silver buckle catching the natural light at an angle, though it was the way he carried himself which was so captivating. There was no arrogance with his heavy steps, only quiet confidence as his eyes swept the room first, taking in every face, every exit, before making a single move inside.
Then the man chose a stool at the bar, you swallowed only a few feet away. Your papa nudged your shoulder, “well?” He muttered. “You gonna stare at the poor fella all day or serve him?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, you were certainly gonna serve him all right. “I wasn’t starin’.” You whispered.
“Mhm, quit talkin’ back and go do your job, I got some business to take care of.” You knew he meant going outside to visit his buddies for a few drinks, you smoothed down your apron and wandered over anyway.
The dreamy cowboy rested one forearm against the polished wood, only then did those fiery brown eyes lift. They connected straight to yours, not to the bottles of whiskey behind you, not to the bustling crowd, just you.
Your heartbeat stumbled, for a second, neither of you spoke. Then the corners of his mouth tugged upward ever so slightly, with practiced ease, he reached up to pinch the tip of his hat between two fingers, and tipped it towards you.
“Mornin’ ma’am.” He drawled low and smooth like honey poured all over warm biscuits. You suddenly forgot how to speak, gaze unwavering as your mind lagged momentarily.
You blinked, forcing yourself back to reality. “Mornin’, sir.” The cowboy smiled just wide enough to flash his canines at you. Your knees slightly trembled, feeling suddenly grateful for the hidden barrier between your bodies.
“I reckon this here’s the finest establishment in town.” He spoke again, lifting a brow.
You huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s also the only one.”
His eyes never strayed from yours. “Well,” you saw the same smile appear on his face again. “They don’t all got a pretty lady like you.”
You felt a blush swallow you whole, praying it wasn’t as nearly as obvious as it felt. Nobody had ever looked at you quite like that. Not the ranch boys who stumbled in covered in mud, not the merchants who ignored your existence, and definitely not the gamblers who stayed ‘till sun down.
This was different, his compliment hadn’t been loud enough for the rest of the saloon to hear, it was only meant for your ears.
“You always charm the young ladies servin’ your drinks?” You asked, hoping your voice sounded steadier than your heartbeat.
His grin only pulled wider. “Only when they’re worth charming.” You fought another blush, shaking your head as your pa’s words snuck up on you.
“I never asked for your name?” You tilted your head, watching him was addicting.
He leaned a little closer, like he was about to tell you a secret he didn’t give out to just anyone. “Harrington.” A beat passed. “Steve Harrington.”
You rolled the name around in your mind, wondering if they felt just as buttery off your tongue. “Well, Steve Harrington.” The name strangely suited him. “You certainly got a way with words.”
“My mama always used to say a man outta know when to use ‘em.” You straightened up a bit, curiosity running through you.
“And how do you know they work?” You responded, completely abandoning your work now.
Steve tiled his head. “Depends.”
“On?” You finished.
“Whether the lady smiles.” You realized far too late, that you were already smiling.
His eyes lingered on you with heat that made warmth pool in your lower stomach, warmth that you weren’t sure from where. “You know,” he started quietly. “I usually steer clear of girls who still got that kind of light in their eyes.”
You frowned, not understanding what he meant. “What kinda’ light?”
“The kind that says the world's still been good to ‘em.” His thumb traced slow circles over the rim of his glass cup. “Little girls who ain’t had some smooth talkin’ cowboy convince ‘em every promise worths believin’.”
He looked back up at you through the slits of his eyes. “But you’re makin’ it mighty difficult to keep ridin’ on.” His voice was huskier now, tight with restraint.
Instead of listening, you smiled softly. “Maybe…” you inched your fingertips just a featherlight touch from his roughed ones. “I don’t want you to.”
For the first time since meeting you, Steve looked almost surprised. A low laugh rumbled straight from his chest. “I don’t reckon your daddy’d be too pleased hearin’ that.”
You glanced towards the door where he had disappeared outside through, too oblivious to know what his daughter was getting herself into. “He don’t have to know.”
Steve’s brows lifted. “What he don’t know,” you murmured, now trailing the skin up his forearm slow enough to tease. “Won’t hurt him.”
You bit your lip, trying to hide the smile threatening to take over. Steve’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, zeroing in on your pretty lips as though he’d forgotten what the two of you had been talking about.
Almost reluctantly, he dragged his eyes back up to yours, his smile transforming into a smirk. “Darlin’…” his hands flexed. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“And who’s to say I’m losin’?” You replied with growing confidence.
His eyes sparkled darker than the color of his hat. “You better get your ass in the back before I bend it over the counter.” He spoke, and electricity buzzed through you.
You slipped into the back first, careful not to draw as much as a curious glance. A minute later, once the conversation inside grew loud enough to have no attention on him, Steve followed.
The walls were lined with crates of whiskey, the room someone only walked into when you were running low on a beverage. Luckily, the saloon had been put into your hands tonight, meaning there would be no interruptions.
As soon as Steve found you, his hands instantly attached to your waist, pinning you against the wall as his mouth roughly kissed yours, the force knocking your head back.
You couldn’t help but kiss him back with matching passion, finally digging your fingers into the locks of his hair you’d been longing to feel. Steve suddenly bit lightly into your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from you. He immediately licked sloppily into your mouth, groaning at the sweet taste of your tongue.
“Mmm, Steve.” You sighed, the warmth in your stomach only grew heavier, his nose brushed against yours as he deepened the kiss for a moment before pulling away.
You couldn’t help but chase his lips, having never felt something as exhilarating as kissing the handsome cowboy in your life. “Bet that was your first kiss, huh sugar?” He laughed darkly, pinching your jaw between his hands.
“Better put that mouth to some damn use, get on your knees for me, darlin.” Steve wasn’t asking, he pushed your shoulder and you felt your body moving without further instruction, kneeling on the hard wood floor like he asked.
He whistled lowly while staring down at you, taking a moment to appreciate the sight. “Well, fuck me. You look like a fucking prayer.” Steve muttered, you gave him a small smile, the indiscreet praise was intoxicating.
While keeping his eyes glued on you, he began to unbuckle his belt as quickly as he could, shuffling his pants down enough to release his cock from the confines of his boxers. You stared as it bobbed in front of your face, you’d never seen a man’s parts before, and your mouth hung open unconsciously.
Steve’s cock matched him, it was thick with veins running up the bottom, you wondered if the size made it possible to wrap a single hand around his length. It stood proudly against his bellybutton, the red pulsating tip was leaking a pearly liquid, Steve used it to cover the base, tugging himself a few times.
His head leaned back, eyes shutting for a second, the rim of his hat created a shadow over the top half of his face from this angle, causing you to strain your neck watching him. He brushed his tip against your bottom lip, smearing the precum all over your mouth, you instinctively stuck out your tongue to taste, accidentally flicking his cock at the same time.
Steve hissed in pleasure. “There you go, show me what that pretty mouth was made for.” He all but pushed his cock into your mouth, patience running thin as he grew hornier by the minute.
You gave the head kitten licks, getting used to the feeling of the heaviness of his cock before fully wrapping your lips around him, sucking him. You brought your hand to the rest of the part you couldn’t fit, stroking him firmly to the base.
Steve’s eyes rolled back, moaning at the wet fit. “You’re doing so well, f’me—sucking my cock like the slut you are. Keep your eyes on me, sugar, wanna look at you while you choke on my dick.” He weaved a hand into your hair, and before you knew it, Steve was forcing you to take more of him, eyes kept on his as tears formed.
“F-Fuck, gonna cum down your throat, gonna make you swallow it all.” Steve panted, you hallowed your cheeks as your tongue swept faster around him, his head brushed that spongy spot near the back that had you suddenly gagging, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth.
The sounds only brought Steve closer, he loved knowing that everyone else saw you as the good hearted server, while you were actually a whore for him. You didn’t have a chance to breathe, your nose was pushed against the tuffs of his pubes when he thrusted into your throat, balls smacking against your face, only able to moan desperately around him.
“Oh, fuck!” Steve was finishing down your throat, making you taste how sweet his cum was, not being able to contain all of it as some dribbled down your chin.
You were fighting for gulps of air when he finally let you go, tears streaming down your face and hair messy where his hand had been. “S-Steve.” You weakly muttered, but your underwear felt wetter than it had before.
“Aw, sugar, c’mere.” Steve dragged you back up to your feet, brushing some of your hair. “Don’t think I’m done with ya yet, still gotta feel how tight your pussy is.”
You couldn’t respond, only watching his movements as he undid your apron, throwing it to the ground. His hand disappeared around your skirt, you sucked in a deep breath when Steve found your clothed cunt, palming it tightly.
“Ohh, Steve.” You whimpered, gripping his beefy bicep, and he smirked at how responsive you were.
“You got this wet just from stuffin’ my cock in your mouth?” He laughed. “Want me to make it feel all better? Make ya feel all nice and full?”
You only nodded rapidly, knees threatening to drop back down when his thumb found your clit, circling over it slowly. “Yes, Steve! Lord, yes, need you to so bad!” You mewled.
“Then be a good girl and bend over f’me.” He turned you around against one of the crates, pushing your back down until you were perfectly situated.
Steve peeled away the sticky fabric from your hole, admiring your glistening folds. You gasped loudly when not even a moment later, his cock entered you without warning, both of you letting out matching moans.
It burned, but the lubrication of your already wet pussy dulled the ache, instead of Steve giving you time to stretch around him, he was still high off his last release, and pulled out just to plunge back into your pussy even deeper.
“Urg—Steve—mmm,” your words were cut off with moans, he was only focused on fucking you as hard as he could, watching as his your tight walls enveloped his cock over and over again.
“Knew you’d have a perfect pussy.” Steve’s pleasure was evident in his voice as your back arched painfully, allowing him to reach the spots inside of you that made the coil in your stomach tighten. “Ya better be quiet so no one knows how much of a slut you’re bein’ f’me, givin’ me that ass without as much as a word.” He covered your mouth with a hand, keeping your moans at bay.
His other hand locked around both of your wrists, using his hold to tug you back against his hips for each thrust, you cried out every time. “Fuckin’ soak me, sugar.” Steve grunted, abusing your pelvis repeatedly.
Your eyes squeezed shut, body shuddering when the coil finally burst, sending a shockwave up you, all your limbs gave out, body slumping forward onto the crate. Steve’s thrusts grew erratic, his words coming together in a string of nonsense when he finally stopped, shooting ropes of his hot cum into your pussy, his own chest caging you in.
You both stayed like that for a moment, his cock still in you as you caught your breaths, when the sensitivity took over he pulled out reluctantly, and you almost shivered at the feeling of emptiness.
Steve silently pressed a kiss onto your forehead, gentle but firm. “I ain’t done with you yet. Y’hear me?” He looked into your ears, a bashful smile coming onto your face.
“And I ain’t either.” You replied, but you had been gone for too long now, it was only a matter of time before your pa came back.
When you straightened to return back to the counter, Steve’s voice rang out behind you. “You outta clean my cum between your legs before going back.” You didn’t miss the smirk in his voice.
SUMMARY: Where Joe can’t keep his hands or mouth off of you after your debut performance.
WHAT TO EXPECT: 18+, mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), praise, fluff, suggestive content, established relationship
A/N: sorry i’m feeling freaky. also i feel like joe would 100% walk u through it. that’s all thanks!
WORD COUNT: 2.1k
Joe was a busy man, constantly working on new music, sitting down for interviews, or planning out his tour dates. Despite this, he always made time to pick you up from your ballet classes or rehearsals at Lincoln Center. Part of the reason he was dedicated to this duty was due to the fact that Joe was utterly obsessed about you and your ballet outfits.
Joe noticed that you opted for a classic silhouette most of the time, just like the pictures you showed him of the uniforms you wore in your younger years. He loved the way your pink tights clung to your legs like a second skin and the way your black leotard dipped low on your back to expose the valley of your spine. He often liked to trace the delicate line of your vertebrae with his fingertips; many paparazzi pictures could attest to his habit. The leg line sat high on your hips, a trick you learned to elongate your legs, which also made Joe lose his train of thought mid-conversation when you tried to run out the door to practice.
And that sheer, flimsy, decorative black skirt served absolutely no functional purpose other than to float around your hips and give the allusion of modesty while concealing absolutely nothing.
It drove Joe absolutely feral.
You had been scolded by one of New York City Ballet’s stricter company teachers a handful of times for arriving to class late, not warmed up and looking disheveled. Your tights were swapped for a fresh pair from your bag because the ones you attempted to leave the apartment in were currently shredded on the kitchen floor. The first time it happened, your instructor had stopped the entire company barre class, her voice harsh as she told the pianist to stop and asked you to explain yourself.
The whole company had stared. You hadn’t wanted to reveal that your boyfriend ravenously tore your tights down your legs not twenty minutes prior, that he’d bent you over the kitchen counter and fucked you until you couldn’t think straight, and that the messy appearance was from when he moved you to the couch and did it all over again. So instead, you mumbled something about missing the subway, which was somewhat true.
When opening night of Romeo and Juliet came around, Joe stood in the velvety wings, watching you bow in your debut role of Juliet. Applause thundered through the theater leaving him in awe and a little jealous that he wasn’t the one playing Romeo.
“Joe,” you breathed, crossing the distance between you quickly after the curtains closed. Your pointe shoes pattered on the Marley flooring. He wore the most delicious navy suit over a white button-up that framed his broad shoulders beautifully, and tucked under his arm was a large bouquet of your favorite flowers.
You crashed into his arms, which wrapped tightly around you. Joe pressed his lips to your forehead and you felt him smile against your sweat and makeup-caked skin.
“Amazing, sweetheart, just incredible.” He pulled back slightly to present the flowers to you with a grin on his face, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Joe, baby, you didn’t have to!” You dipped your nose into the fresh flowers. He always brought you flowers after performances, and even practices just because he could.
“What, are you kidding me?” He shook your shoulders, eliciting a laugh from your lips. “This is like the bare minimum.” He slid his hands down to unashamedly grip the curve of your ass and pull you closer through the pale chiffon of your Juliet dress. His voice was now thick with emotion. “I couldn’t see anyone else up there. The whole time, I mean, I know there were other people on the stage, but I only saw you. Just you.”
“Thank you, Joe,” you blushed shyly, rolling up onto the box of your pointe shoes to press a kiss to his lips.
His lips followed yours for a second longer after you pulled away, exhaling with half-lidded eyes. “Why’d you stop?” he whined.
“So needy,” you bopped his nose, giggling into your hand. “My grumpy ballet instructor is watching, that’s why I stopped,” you whispered quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see her taking a drag from her cigarette holder, which you and the other dancers labeled the ‘bitch stick’. “C’mon, follow me.”
You guided Joe past the stagehands and dancers that were used to his presence by now. Your dressing room was small and warmly lit by the light bulbs around the vanity mirror. The air was thick with the smell of hairspray and roses upon roses filled every corner, but only the bouquet from Joe mattered to you right now.
Your muscles still hummed with adrenaline as you walked in ahead of him and made your way to the vanity. You leaned over it and began to work the bobby pins out of your hair.
Joe was quiet behind you, watching as your hair tumbled down your back in messy waves past your shoulders. Appreciative yet pained, Joe groaned, crowding you from behind, his chest pressing against your back. His hands found your waist, hinged over the vanity. You felt the unmistakingly hard outline of him through his suit pants and your thin costume, pressing insistently against the small of your back.
Joe buried his face in your hair, not even trying to hide it. “God,” he whispered. “You smell so good. How do you smell so good after dancing for three hours straight?”
His hands found the hooks of the corset where they fastened along your spine. He worked them open with trembling fingers like he was opening the most precious of presents. Joe’s eyes were completely focused on the task. One, two, three, four, five and so on until the brocade bodice gaped around your chest, held up by only the straps on your shoulders.
Joe’s hands slipped beneath the open back of your corset, his warm palms gliding over your ribs until he reached your front. He cupped your breasts in his hands, his fingers gentle as his thumb brushed over your sensitive and hard nipples.
A moan tore itself from your throat as your head fell back onto his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shit as he gingerly kneaded and squeezed. “Joe,” you breathed, your hands reaching up into his mop of hair.
“Shh,” he murmured, his lips finding your neck immediately, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin there. “Wouldn’t want your ballet instructor to hear you.” You shivered at his words, at the way he so easily short-circuited your brain. “You were so good tonight. So perfect up there. You were incredible. My talented girl.”
Your hips pressed back against him instinctively, arching into his touch. He hummed at the contact, his mouth never leaving your neck. “You have no idea,” he continued, his lips now at your ear, “how badly I wanted to run up on that stage and kiss you. How badly I wanted to throw Romeo off of you so I could touch you. Three hours, baby. Three hours of watching you and not being able to do this.”
“I could say the same to you when you tour.”
Joe spun you around so that you were facing him and kissed you desperately and deeply, his lips moving over yours with a hunger that made your knees buckle until his arms were holding you up. Joe angled your head with his palm as a sound of pure, unrestrained want rumbled from his chest. “Mm, Joe, I-” You tried to speak but Joe’s kiss swallowed any words you had left. He tasted like those Fisherman’s Friends mints he had also gotten you hooked on lately.
“Just making it up for when Romeo kissed my girl in front of thousands of people.” Joe carefully peeled the costume down your figure, the fabric pooling around your ankles. He helped you step out of it, leaving you in just your pink tights. You felt his fingers hook into the waistband of the tights before he yanked them down, tearing the delicate mesh with a soft rip.
“Joe!” you gasped. “That’s the fourth pair this week!”
He didn’t stop, the fabric giving way beneath his eager hands until they were nothing but scraps on the floor. “I’ll buy you new ones,” he promised with a devastating smile before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “A hundred pairs, whatever you want. I just—” he groaned softly, his forehead dropping to your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer. “I just missed you. Three hours is too long to not be able to touch you, especially when I’m watching another man do it.”
Joe walked you backward, his hands guiding your hips until the small of you back met the cool plaster of the dressing room wall. Without a word, he sank to his knees. He kept his eyes locked on yours the entire time, his gaze intense and full of adoration. His hand found your thigh, lifting it gently so it rested on his shoulder to open you to him completely. You gripped the thick locks of his hair as his big hands framed your hips.
He trailed small kisses up your inner thigh and the first touch of his tongue made you gasp, your head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. He started slowly, licking through your folds with long, teasing strokes that made your legs tremble. Joe was in no rush, exploring every inch of you thoroughly.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your core, his voice vibrating through you. “Relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.” He found your clit with the flat of his tongue, circling it with a maddening pressure, causing the grip you had in his hair to tighten. A whimper escaped your lips and he moaned at the sound.
“You’re doing so good,” he praised, his words muffled as his mouth continued his heavenly torture on your throbbing core. “So pretty. Taste so good. Can’t get enough—”
He slid one hand from your hip, slowly easing two fingers inside of you. Your body clenched around him immediately as he stretched you gently, his fingers beginning to move in slow, curling strokes while his tongue continued its relentless circling.
“Joe,” you keened, your hips bucking slightly to seek more friction.
“I know,” he whispered, his eyes finally fluttering open to look at you. His gaze was hazy and his eyes were completely blown out. “I know, baby. Just let go for me, I’ve got you. You’re doing so good.”
His mouth closed over your clit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. The combination of his fingers curling, his tongue lapping, his eyes on your face to catalogue your every reaction, and adjusting his pace to chase your pleasure had you teetering over the edge.
“You're so close,” he encouraged you. “Come on my tongue. Come for me, sweetheart."
His words, his mouth, and his finger built you up so you were trembling. Your thigh trembled on his shoulder as you came with a cry he swallowed immediately, his mouth still working you through it and prolonging every wave of pleasure until you were gasping, wrung out, and sagging against the wall.
Joe placed a soft, reverent kiss on your inner thigh before gently lowering your leg and standing up. He towered over you know, his chest heaving. He leaned in, cupping your face in his hands, and kissed you deeply, his lips still glistening with the taste of you on his tongue.
You were too satiated to speak, but Joe had a habit of being able to tell what you’re going to say without you having to say it. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. You are incredible. You’re—”
Three loud bands pounded at the door of your dressing room, making you both jump. You were completely bare and behind your boyfriend, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t open the door.
“Hello?” A stagehand’s voice filtered through. “You in there? They need you on stage in five for a quick recap meeting before tomorrow’s matinee. Don’t be late!”
Joe sighed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his hands tightening at your waist. “Seriously?” he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. “Now?”
You laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “I have to go,” you whispered, tracing his jawline with your fingertips. “I’m sorry. Meet you at home?”
“No, I’ll wait for you,” a boyish smile breaking across his face despite obvious disappointment from the interruption. “Go be amazing.”
summary: stranger things ending and attending the premiere makes you reflect on how much it’s been a part of your life
cw: smut, oral (f receiving), piv, kissing, emotional sex, they’re so inlove it hurts
a/n: i need to do more actor!reader i think, i really fucking liked this
wc: 2.2k
filming of season 5 came and went in a flash. and now, stood in your london hotel room 40 minutes before the premiere, you were realising it was over.
you'd focused the last 10 years of your life on that show, some the most memorable and influential years of your life.
within that ten years you'd made lifelong connections in a group of friends, some like siblings.
but one person stuck and embedded themselves deep in your veins.
joe keery.
you met on the first day of filming, not ever really crossing paths until the third season where you were together every. single. scene.
he was easy to get on with, even from the first year, but after only a couple weeks of filming season 3 together, you were inseparable.
even if your characters didn't get on all that well.
by july 2019 you'd been dating for almost a year, finally coming clean to everyone (who’s guessed it anyway) at the season 3 premiere, 6 years ago.
it was inevitable it would happen, from the first day. you were convinced the duffers even changed the script to put you two together in more scenes.
and you two weren't the only ones obsessed with one another, the fans were too. as much as they were rooting for your characters to be together, they were rooting for you in real life.
strangely, they actually made it all easier, maybe it was something about the chemistry that your two beloved characters had that people almost expected or had already gotten used to the idea of both of you being together.
but now, that part of your life was over, and only the memories and relationships you made remained.
"baby you ready to go?"
joe crept up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, feeling the fabric of your silk dress under his fingertips.
"i think so" you catch his eye in the floor length mirror you stood in front of us.
"you look divine" his lips found your neck, peppering soft kisses to the skin.
"mm so do you"
your arms snake behind you, feeling around joes body until they reach his ass, giving it a light squeeze.
"behave" he chuckled into your neck.
"me behave? you're just as bad"
"hmm am i?"
his lips latched onto the soft spot on the side of your neck, suckling so lightly you didn't notice until it was too late.
"oh uh joe!"
moving your head, his lips detach from the skin, revealing a blooming purple spot contrasting to the shade of your skin.
"joe!"
"oops sorry baby"
"uh well i've gotta cover that up"
you try to wiggle out of his hold but he doubles down with his grip, keeping you close against him.
"oh dear, look we don't have time"
"no joe!"
"say its a burn from your hair thingys or something"
reaching down, his hands hook under your knees, picking you up and taking you to the door, picking up your bag in the process.
"i can't believe you"
"you love me"
"yeah.. unfortunately"
cameras flashed around you, fans shouted in every direction, interviewers poked microphones in your face, but joes hand stayed resting on your lower back.
it felt like an anchor, keeping you grounded in this overwhelming moment.
"[Y/N], Joe! over here please"
bypassing some non official photographers you went towards the sound, being met with a very smiley interviewer.
"it's lovey to see you both, together. how did it feel falling in love on set, seems to us like one big fairytale”
you blushed, looking to joe who was already starting at you with heart eyes.
“it felt, probably as perfect as it looked” you began.
“with a lot of meddling from the duffers and half the cast”
the interview laughed and nodded along, looking for her next question.
“and your characters, now they’ve not always gotten along but their chemistry is off the charts- can you tell us, do they get their fairytale ending like you guys did”
“well you’ll have to wait and see”
you and joe politely smiled, both giving half rehearsed answers to the rest of the questions, finishing one another's sentences.
"so big question for the last one, can you sum up how you feel about stranger things ending?"
joe answered first, saying he's excited for the future, more opportunities, focus on his music, optimism in a media trained answer.
then they looked at you, you hesitated, and joe noticed. his fingers twitched at your back, sliding them around your waist and squeezing slightly.
a little reminder you were okay, bringing you back down to the question you'd been asked.
"well.. it's.. scary"
you took a deep breath before continuing, finding joes hand with your own and placing your fingers together.
"it's been not only something to rely on but just a part of my normal for ten years and over night that's gone.. but"
turning your head you found joes eyes, him giving you a small, almost unnoticeable nod.
"i've got a lot of support, people to remind me about the positives" you finished.
"well, that's a really nice answer, thank you both"
waving goodbye you turned, no time to even think about the questions or the answers you gave before more demands were being shouted at you both.
"OVER HERE- FOR PHOTOS"
"last thing, then we could bounce if you wanna" joe whispered into your ear.
"we'll see if we get heckled by any more photographers first"
settling on the red carpet in front of the poster display, joe wrapped his arm back around your waist as you fixed the bottom of your skirt.
"LOOK UP"
"CAN WE GET A KISS"
"YOU LOOK GREAT"
"OVER HERE"
you posed and played into the crowd of photographers, giving them what they wanted with a kiss, causing a wave of screams and jeers from the surrounding fans.
that's when, leaning up to kiss joe, your hair fell away from your shoulder, revealing the hickey that joe had kindly given you moments before you left, causing a surge in camera flashes.
as you pulled back, he noticed. eyes widening and blushing slightly, he took his hand to your head, moving your hair back around your neck.
"oh"
"yeah oh" he nodded, keeping his hand lingering by your neck.
you ducked your head in embarrassment, just knowing that everyone had seen it. joe followed your head, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"think they saw?" you whispered
"i hope they did" he replied, a dark edge to his voice.
"you're insane"
his hand lifted to your jaw, bringing your face up to look at him.
"you make me"
"everyone gonna go mental"
"let them"
"GIVE US ANOTHER KISS"
the sudden noise tears through the tension between you, making you both jump.
"way to ruin the moment" you joke, looking around at an opportunity to escape the main photographers
"we'll get a better moment later I'm sure"
joe kissed you again, quicker this time but if possible, more passionate. the cameras roared to life, flashing rapidly to try and capture your moment.
except no photo could ever capture a moment with joe the way it feels in person.
"let's get out of here"
you managed to slip away from the photographers after a huge cast photo, briefly chatting with them once the cameras were all put away.
with this being the third screening of the episode, most of the cast dipped after the carpet so you and joe were able to leave pretty much unnoticed.
sitting in the taxi on the way to the hotel, you and joe were basically in the same seat, your legs over his, arms around his neck and your tongue down his throat.
"can't wait to get you back, gonna add to that mark on your neck"
"we've got another premier in two days joe"
"so what?"
"my makeup artist will hate me"
falling through the door, joes mouth still on yours, you stumbled to the bed. his hands worked on the zip of your dress as yours undid his belt and threw off his jacket.
clothes fell to the floor in a hurry, being thrown in random directions. you fell to the bed first, joe following and climbing over your almost naked frame.
"you're so beautiful- how'd i get so lucky"
"i ask myself the same thing, every day"
he trailed kissed down your jaw, to your neck, fulfilling his promise and sucking more and more hickeys.
"oh fuck" you breathed out.
your hands threaded into joes hair as he continued down your body, marking up your chest, biting hickeys into the swell of your tits.
"joe- please i need you"
joes kisses trailed down your stomach to the top of your panties which he removed in time with his lips.
the first feel of his tongue through your folds sent shock waves through your whole body.
"taste so fucking good princess"
"joe- baby please don't tease i just need you"
as your fingers found his hair again he buried his face between your thighs, licking and suckling at every part of your core, focusing heavily on your clit.
"oh fuck"
you threw your head back against the pillow, your body writhing and squirming on the mattress as heat simmered in your abdomen.
his hands trailed up your sides, brushing over your stomach towards your chest. cupping your boobs, his fingers toyed with your hardened nipples.
your cunt clenched around nothing, greedy for more, for more of joe.
his tongue lapped up your wetness like he was starving for it, like he needed this more than you did.
as you were heading to your climax, your legs began to tremble, whines came out between broken words and your fingers curled painfully into joes hair.
“fuuuck- gonna-“
“cum for me princess” joe moaned into your pussy.
the vibration of his words sent you over as you came, gushing over his tongue which stayed constantly licking your slit until your body stopped shaking.
“could stay there my whole life”
“as much as i’d love that i need you so bad”
you made grabby hands at joe as he sat up on his heels, in which he crawled forward, settling between your legs as your arms wrapped around his neck.
you pulled him down into a kiss as he freed himself from his underwear, his cock falling out to rest hot and heavy against your thigh.
“baby please-“
“shh princess i’m all yours i’m here”
his hands grabbed your thighs, pushing them against your chest as you hooked your calf’s over joes shoulders.
pulling back from the kiss, he pushed into your welcoming heat, watching your eyes as he did so.
your mouths fell open as joe continued to push into slowly. you felt an overwhelming rush of emotion as he stretched you open, your eyes glossing over.
“it’s okay doll, you okay?”
he didn’t break eye contact at all, stilling when he filled you fully, just feeling you for a moment.
“i’m okay- i just- love you”
“oh baby, i love you”
he attacked your face with his lips, kissing anywhere he could possibly kiss. your cheeks, your nose, jaw, eyelids, forehead.
your eyes stung when he pressed an extra long, gentle kiss to your forehead, his thumbs rubbing circles into your temples as he rested on his forearms.
“joe please move”
“sure?” he looked back at you.
“please”
as he rolled his hips back, you tilted your head up, nudging joes nose with yours, your lips just touching.
“ah fuck”
finding that spot immediately, he thrusted steadily, not too fast, perfectly deep.
you could feel him everywhere all at once, each nerve ending on fire with pleasure and emotion.
arching your back off the bed, your lips bumped his, causing him to take your lower lip between his own.
he kissed you in time with his thrusts, slowly and passionately, groaning into your mouth as you let whine after whine crawl out your throat.
the pleasure shooting through you collected in your lower stomach, bubbling hotter than before.
“joe” you breathed out, close to another high.
“yeah baby i’m right there- you close?”
“so fucking close”
out of instinct, your hands squeezed between your two bodies to find your needy clit.
the second you make contact you cry out, jerking your whole body and shifting the angle that joes reaching.
the effect is immediate, joe groaning from deep in his chest and dropping his head to your shoulder.
“i’m gonna-“
“cum for me, wanna feel you cum around me”
your free hand pulled joes hair, lifting his head to give you an opportunity to stick your tongue in his mouth as you come undone under him.
after making a couple erratic thrusts, he stilled unloading inside you with a deep moan.
with the aftershocks of your orgasm and joes lips against yours, the stinging behind your eyes returned, stronger then before.
finally joe pulled back, helping your legs to fall back onto the bed, when he noticed your glassy eyes.
before you could stop it, a hot tear fell out the corner of your eye, rolling down your temple which joe caught straight away, fear washing over his face.
“princess what’s wrong”
“i’m gonna be okay?” you asked quietly.
joe exhaled sympathetically, his eyes softening at your words.
“you are, i’ve got you. you’re gonna be so good”
looking into joes eyes as his hands cradled your face, your fears for the future dissolved and you realised that maybe, it would actually be all okay.
PLEASSSSEEE having sex in a hot tub with joe when staying in an airbnb on tour!!!
AHHHH WHAT A GOOD REQUEST 🤭
i fear this one completely ran away with me in the best way 😭 it ended up being much softer and more intimate than i originally expected - lots of tour exhaustion, wine, and joe being impossibly gentle and atrociously hot
i really hope it lives up to what you had in mind!! thank you so much for sending it in 🫶
until noon
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After six relentless weeks on tour, one quiet night in an Airbnb outside Vienna reminds you both what it feels like to finally have nowhere else to be.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, alcohol consumption, praise, mutual pining, body worship, they're so in love it hurts (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 5.1k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The hot tub jets rumble against your lower back, a low vibration that works into muscles you forgot you had. You let your head fall back, the stone edge cool against your neck, and watch steam curl off the dark water into the night sky. The Airbnb sits somewhere outside Vienna - you've lost track of which country you're in, let alone which city - and the silence is the kind you haven't heard in weeks. No tour bus engine. No hotel hallway footsteps. No distant bass from a venue's walls vibrating.
Just water. Steam. And the faint smell of chlorine and wet cedar from the patio deck.
You sink deeper, the heat pulling a sigh from somewhere low in your chest. Six weeks. Forty-two days since you last sat in silence and let your body remember what stillness felt like. The tour had been good - great, even - but good in the way a long run feels good when you're still moving. You haven't stopped long enough to feel the ache until now.
The water ripples as you shift, adjusting to the heat. Your hair floats around your shoulders, darkened with moisture, and you tuck a strand behind your ear. The silver ring on your thumb catches the faint light from the patio lanterns - warm amber glow strung along the railing - and you turn it absently, the motion automatic.
Somewhere beyond the patio wall, a church bell tolls. Distant. Low. You count the rings without meaning to. Ten. Eleven. You stop counting.
The glass door slides open behind you.
You don't turn. You know the sound of his bare feet on the stone tiles - the particular heel-toe rhythm that means he's carrying something in both hands and walking carefully. The clink of glass confirms it.
"You took your time," you say, voice carrying easily through the steam.
"Had to find the good bottle." His voice, low and warm, wraps around the words. "You think I'm bringing you cheap Austrian red after Berlin?"
A smile touches your mouth. "I think you'd drink gasoline if it came in a wine bottle."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't make you drink it."
You turn now, just your head, enough to see him. Joe stands at the edge of the tub, two glasses in one hand, the other already reaching for the stone edge to steady himself. The lantern light catches the veins on his forearms - lines you know by heart, know the feel of under your fingers at 3 AM in a tour bus bunk. Water sluices over his shoulders as he sinks in, a controlled descent, and the sight of him - chest bare, hair already darkening at the hem, hazel eyes finding yours through the steam - sends something warm through you that isn't the water.
He sets the glasses on the stone edge beside him. Red wine. Two of them. Condensation beads the rims.
"One of these is yours," he says, settling in. The water rises around his chest, lapping at his collarbones. "The other one's mine. But I'll share if you ask nice."
"I don't ask nice."
"No." He grins, and it's the same grin that made you laugh in the dive bar where you met two years ago - easy, crooked, like he knows something you don't. "You ask mean. That's the part I like."
You roll your eyes, but the warmth stays. It's been there since you crossed the German border, actually. This particular quiet between you, the kind that settles when you're alone and the tour falls away and it's just you in a room, or a tub, or a bed that isn't moving.
The water shifts as Joe adjusts, settling deeper. Steam curls between you. You watch the way it catches in his hair, beading on his lashes, and something in your chest loosens another notch.
"We should rob more Airbnbs," you say. "This is better than the last one."
"The one in Munich with the shared bathroom?"
"The one in Munich where we had to share the bathroom with Wes."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I still haven't forgiven him for the toothpaste incident."
"He said it was an accident."
"He squeezed from the middle, honey. That's not an accident. That's a lifestyle choice."
You laugh, and it comes out easy, surprised - the way it does when you're comfortable. The sound hangs in the steam between you. Joe's watching you. He does that. Watches you laugh like it's something he wants to remember.
"What?" you say.
"Nothing." Joe picks up one of the glasses and takes a sip. "Just glad we're here. That's all."
You know what he means. The tour has been a blur of cities and soundchecks and borrowed beds. Two nights max in any one place. Never enough time to breathe, let alone be together the way you're used to. The way you are when there's no bus idling outside, no call time in the morning, no gear to load.
You pick up the other glass. The wine is good - deep, earthy, a little sharp on the tongue. You let it sit in your mouth a moment before swallowing.
"I forgot what quiet sounded like," you say, more to yourself than him.
"Yeah." He's quiet a moment, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "I forgot what you sounded like. Just you. Not the crowd, not the monitors. Just your voice in a room."
You look at him. The steam has softened the edges of his face, made him look younger somehow. Or maybe that's just the absence of the stage lights, the hours of travel, the weight of the road. Maybe this is who he is when no one's watching.
"We have the whole place until noon tomorrow," you say. "No checkout. No soundcheck. No anything."
"I know." Joe's voice drops, that raw edge slipping in. "I've been thinking about that since Prague."
"You've been thinking about the checkout time since Prague?"
"I've been thinking about what we could do with it."
The words settle between you, heavier than the steam. You take another sip of wine, let the warmth spread through your chest, and don't look away.
Joe sets his glass down on the stone edge. The clink echoes off the patio tiles. Then he shifts, the water rippling, and you feel it - his hand finding your ankle under the surface.
You don't flinch. You're waiting for it, maybe. The touch is warm, deliberate, his fingers curling around your ankle with an ease that speaks of practice. Of knowing your body's geography.
"Come here," he says. Not a question.
You let him pull your leg across his thigh, the water sliding warm against your skin. His thumb finds the arch of your foot and presses - slow, deep, the kind of pressure that knows exactly where to dig in. You exhale, a sound you don't mean to make, and your eyes flutter half-closed.
"That hurt?"
"That's the opposite of hurt."
His thumb works a slow circle into the arch, and you feel tension you didn't know you were holding release through your toes. Thirty-six shows into the tour, your feet are having the last laugh.
"You've been standing the whole set," Joe says, his voice quiet, his thumb pressing deeper. "Every night. Heels. Wooden floors."
"My boyfriend's in the band. Of course I'm gonna be on my feet the whole show. That's the deal."
"Doesn't mean you have to do it on your toes."
"It's the shoes. They make my calves look good."
He looks up at you, his hand stilling on your foot. "Your calves look good in everything. Including nothing."
The air between you thickens. Steam rises. The water laps at your thigh where your leg rests across his, and you can feel the solid warmth of him under the surface. His hand resumes its work, thumb finding a knot just below your heel, and you let your head fall back again, watching him through your lashes.
The lantern light catches the water beading on his chest. His shoulders are bare above the surface, and you watch the way his arm moves as he works your foot - muscle shifting under ink, tendons standing out. He's all lean lines and easy strength, and you know exactly what that body feels like over yours, under yours, beside you in the dark.
You finish the wine in one long swallow and set the glass on the edge. The stone is cool against your forearm as you lean forward, the water sloshing gently against your chest.
"You're allowed to do more than my foot," you say.
Joe's eyes meet yours. That same hunger you saw in that bar two years ago, the one that told you he wasn't just a charming musician. The one that told you he knew exactly what he wanted, and it wasn't just a night.
"I'm pacing myself," he says.
"Since when?"
"Since I realised we had until noon tomorrow." His thumb drags a slow line from your heel to the ball of your foot. "I'm not in a hurry."
The words land low in your belly. You hold his gaze, let the silence stretch, let the steam do its work. The jets rumble against your back, and the water laps at your ribs, and you feel every inch of the distance between you.
You could close it. You could slide across the tub, straddle his thighs, feel the stone at your knees and his hands on your hips. You could kiss the taste of Austrian wine from his mouth and let the night take whatever shape it wanted.
But Joe's waiting. His hand on your foot, his eyes on yours, the water dark between you. His other hand rests on the surface, palm open, fingers slightly spread.
Waiting for you to close the distance.
You watch his open palm. The water laps at his fingers, and a bead of condensation slides down the wine glass he set aside, catching the lantern light before it lands on the stone edge with a sound you barely hear.
The church bell again. Farther now, or maybe just softer through the steam. You stop counting after three.
Your foot is still in his hand. His thumb has stopped moving, just resting against the arch, and you can feel his pulse through the contact - or maybe that's yours, hard and slow in your throat. The heat of the water has settled into your bones, and the wine hums warm in your chest, and the space between you feels like a note held too long, trembling on the edge of release.
You don't move toward him.
You don't move away.
The steam curls between you, and you watch the way it catches in his hair, the way his chest rises and falls with breaths he's keeping slow. Deliberate. Like he's reading you the same way you're reading him.
Your thumb finds your silver ring again, turns it once. Twice. The motion is older than the tour, older than him - a habit from long before you knew each other.
"Joe," you say. His name in the steam. Not a question. Not an answer. Just his name, the way it sounds when the rest of the sentence hasn't caught up yet.
"I'm here."
His voice is quiet. No edge. No hunger in it, not the way he said it before. Just presence. A statement of fact. He's here. He's not going anywhere.
The water shifts as you adjust your weight, and your leg slides an inch along his thigh. His hand tightens on your foot, just barely - a reflex, not a demand.
"I know," you say.
The silence settles around you again, but it's different now. Fuller. Like the space between you has weight, and you're both holding it.
You look past him, past the steam, past the patio railing. The city lights beyond are scattered and distant - a glow against the dark, not quite stars. Vienna. Or wherever this is. Somewhere with old stone and church bells and a bed that doesn't vibrate when the tour bus engine idles.
The night jasmine you noticed when you first arrived, climbing the trellis by the patio door, sends a faint sweetness through the chlorine and cedar. You breathe it in. Let it settle.
Then you look back at Joe.
His eyes haven't left your face.
You reach out. Not to take his hand - not yet. Your fingers find the waterline, trace a slow line through the steam, and rest on the stone edge beside his open palm. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Not touching.
His fingers don't move towards you. He's waiting. The same patience he had when he learned your body's rhythms - the way you like to be touched, the way you need to be held, the way you pull away before you get too close and come back when you're ready.
You remember that. The first time you slept together, in a hotel room with thin walls and a view of the parking lot. He'd waited then, too. Not rushed. Not pushed. Just waited, with that same open palm, that same steady gaze, until you closed the distance yourself.
The water laps at your fingers. His are still, just beside them.
You let your hand drift the last inch. Your fingertips brush his. Light. Barely there.
His breath catches. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to hear.
You don't pull away.
Your fingertip against his. The barest contact, skin to skin, and the water lapping at your hands like it's part of the conversation. You feel his pulse through that single point - or maybe that's wishful thinking, wanting to feel him the way you feel yourself, hard and slow and hungry in your chest.
He doesn't move. Doesn't curl his fingers around yours, doesn't pull you closer. Just waits, that open palm beside your hand, letting you decide how much of this distance you want to close.
You trace a line down his palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your fingertip follows the lifeline, then the heart line, and you feel the slight catch of callus at the base of his fingers - guitar callus, worn into his skin from years of strings and frets. You know the feel of those hands on your body. Know what they can do.
"Baby." Joe's voice is low, barely above the rumble of the jets. "Look at me."
You do. His eyes are dark in the lantern light, the hazel swallowed by the pupil, and there's nothing easy in his face now. The charm is gone. What's left is raw, open, the same hunger you saw in that bar, but stripped of the grin that usually carries it.
"I've been wanting this," he says. "Since Berlin. Since Prague. Since the night we crossed the border and you fell asleep on my shoulder in the back of the van."
"You didn't say anything."
"You needed to sleep."
Something cracks open in your chest. Not painfully - the opposite. Like a door you didn't know was locked, swinging inward.
You slide your hand fully into his. His fingers close around yours, warm and sure, and he squeezes once - a question, not an answer.
You answer by pulling his hand towards you. Under the water, past your thigh, until his palm rests flat against your stomach, just below the surface.
Joe's breath catches.
Your skin is slick and hot from the water, and you watch his face as he feels you - the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the way your breath hitches when his thumb traces a slow circle just above the waistband of nothing. Because you're not wearing anything. Haven't been since you stepped into this water.
"You're sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure."
His hand slides lower.
You spread your legs under the water, a small shift that opens you to him, and his fingers find you wet - not from the tub. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh as his palm cups you, and you exhale, long and slow, your head falling back.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're already-"
"I know."
His middle finger traces your slit, featherlight, barely there, and you jerk like you've been shocked. The water ripples around you, sloshing against the stone edge.
"Look at me," he says again. "I want to see your face when I touch you."
You force your eyes open. His are dark, fixed on yours, and his finger slides into you without resistance. One knuckle. Two. You're so slick he glides in like you were made for it, and the pressure - the fullness, the stretch, the way his finger curls inside you - draws a sound from your throat you didn't know you could make.
"Yeah," he says, low. "That's it. That's what I wanted to hear."
He works you slowly, his thumb finding your clit in a steady circle, his finger curling and pressing, and you grip the edge of the tub with your free hand, knuckles white against the stone. The water slaps against your chest as you breathe - short, shallow, your hips starting to roll against his hand.
"I've been thinking about this," he says, his voice rough, almost a whisper. "Every night in those shitty hotel rooms, you in the bunk across the aisle. Hearing you breathe. Wanting to touch you and not being able to."
"Joe-"
"I'd lie awake and imagine your hand on my cock. The way you look when you're on top of me. The sound you make when you come."
You whimper - actually whimper - and his thumb presses harder, his finger driving deeper, and you feel the edge approaching, that familiar coiling heat in your belly.
"Not yet," he says.
He pulls his hand away.
You make a sound of protest, raw and desperate, and he grins - that same crooked grin, but darker now, edged with something possessive.
"I said I'm pacing myself." He lifts his hand out of the water, brings his fingers to his mouth, and sucks you off them slowly. His eyes never leave yours. "And I want to taste you for real."
He shifts, turning in the water, and before you can process the movement, he's between your thighs, lifting you out of the water onto the stone, his hands on your knees, pushing them apart. The water sloshes against the stone, and you feel the rough edge of the wall at your back, the sky open above you, the steam curling around Joe's shoulders as he settles in front of you.
"Hold onto the edge," he says.
You do. Your fingers find the stone, wet and cool, and you grip it as he lowers his mouth to you.
His first lick is slow, flat-tongued, from your entrance to your clit, and you jerk so hard you almost lose your grip. He hums against you, a sound of approval, and does it again - slower this time, like he's savouring you, like the taste of you is something he's been craving.
"You taste," he says against you, "like everything I've been missing."
His tongue circles your clit, wet and precise, and you let your head fall back, your fingers slipping on the stone. The steam rises around you, the night air cool on your wet shoulders, and all you can feel is his mouth, his hands gripping your thighs, his tongue working you closer to the edge.
"Joe, I'm-"
"I know." He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue presses harder, faster, and you feel your hips buck against his face, and you're gone - falling apart in the hot water, a sound tearing out of your throat that carries across the patio, into the night, into the dark Austrian sky.
He rides you through it, his mouth gentling as you come down, his tongue soft and soothing against your oversensitive clit. You're trembling, your thighs shaking, your grip on the stone so tight your fingers ache.
He surfaces slowly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach as he rises out of the water. His face is wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are dark and hungry.
"Scoot back," he says. "I want room."
You shift backwards in the tub, the stone seat pressing against your spine, and Joe follows, his body crowding yours. His chest presses against yours, the water warm between you, and his hand slides down your stomach, between your legs again.
"You're still so wet," he murmurs. "That's for me, isn't it?"
You nod, not trusting your voice.
His fingers find you again, sliding inside, and you're so sensitive from the orgasm that you gasp, your hips twitching.
"One more," he says, his lips against your ear. "I want you to come on my fingers before I fuck you."
You feel his cock against your thigh, hard and thick, and the thought of what's coming - of him inside you, of the stretch and the heat and the way he feels when he comes - sends a fresh wave of wetness through you.
Joe feels it. His fingers curl, his thumb pressing your clit, and he whispers in your ear - filthy, low, things he's been thinking about since Prague, since Berlin, since the night you fell asleep on his shoulder in the van. You can't make out all the words, just the shape of them, the way his voice drops on the dirty ones, and it's enough - his fingers, his voice, the water lapping at your legs - to push you over again.
You come with your face pressed into his shoulder, your teeth sinking into his skin to muffle the sound, your whole body clenching around his fingers.
He holds you through it, his other hand cradling the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple.
"That's it," he says, soft now. "That's my girl."
You lift your head, your eyes finding his. The steam has thickened around you, and the lanterns cast long shadows across the water. You reach down, your hand finding his cock under the surface - hard, hot, slick from the water and from you.
He hisses through his teeth.
You stroke him once, slow, your thumb tracing the head, and he shudders.
"I want you inside me," you say. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He wraps his arms around you, lifts you, and you feel the stone edge of the tub against your hips as he settles you on his thighs. The water laps at the small of your back as you straddle him, his cock pressing against your stomach, and you reach down to guide him.
The head catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.
His eyes meet yours. Dark. Waiting.
You sink down.
The stretch is everything - the slow burn of him filling you, inch by inch, the water warm around you, his hands gripping your hips as you take him deeper. You feel every ridge, every pulse, the way your body opens to accommodate him, and when he's fully inside you, seated to the hilt, you both exhale at the same time.
"Fuck," Joe breathes. "Honey."
You start to move. Slow at first, a gentle roll of your hips, the water sloshing around you. His hands find your waist, guiding you, and you set a rhythm that drags him out of you almost completely before you sink back down.
"Like that," he says, his voice strained. "Just like that."
You pick up speed, your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging in as you ride him. The water slaps against the stone edge, splashing onto the patio tiles, and the steam rises around you like a veil. You can feel the pressure building again, a third orgasm coiling tight in your belly, and the sound of your bodies meeting - wet, rhythmic, obscene - fills the night.
His hand moves between you, his thumb finding your clit, and you cry out, your rhythm faltering.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. "Let me feel you."
You do. Your body clenches around him, your back arching, a scream tearing out of your throat that echoes off the patio walls. He follows a second later, his hands gripping your hips so hard it will bruise, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a groan that sounds like your name, like a prayer, like something he's been holding in his chest since the day you met.
You stay like that, tangled together, the water slowly settling around you. Your forehead rests against his, and your breath mingles in the steam, ragged and warm.
After a long moment, Joe kisses you. Soft. Tender. A different kind of hunger.
"Noon tomorrow," he says against your lips.
"What about it?"
"We have to make it count." His hand slides up your spine, settling at the nape of your neck. "But first, I'm taking you inside. There's a bed in there, and I'm nowhere near done with you."
You laugh, breathless, still trembling in his arms. "That so?"
"That's so." He shifts beneath you, and you feel him still hard inside you, softening but not gone. The water has cooled around you, the steam thinning, and you're suddenly aware of the night air on your wet shoulders, the goosebumps rising on your arms.
"Inside sounds good," you say. "But I'm not sure my legs work."
He grins, that crooked grin, and wraps his arms around you. "Good thing I've got two."
Joe stands, lifting you with him, and you gasp as the water sluices off you both, the cold air hitting your skin where the water had been warm. His cock slips out of you, and you feel the loss - a hollow ache between your thighs, the slick evidence of him running down your leg. He carries you up the stone steps, water streaming off both of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck.
The patio tiles are cold under his bare feet, and you feel him shiver as you cross the stone. The glass door is still open, and the warm air from inside hits you as he carries you through, steam rising off your bodies in the room's sudden stillness.
The bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a sliver of streetlamp filtering through a gap. He lays you on the bed, the sheets cool against your wet back, and you watch him as he stands over you, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, his cock half-hard and glistening.
"You're beautiful," he says. "You know that?"
You reach for him, your hand finding his, pulling him down to you. He comes willingly, his body covering yours, his skin cool and damp against your warmth. You kiss him, deep and slow, tasting yourself on his lips, tasting the wine and the chlorine and the night.
His hand finds your thigh, slides up, settles at your hip. "Roll over," he says against your mouth.
You do, turning onto your stomach, and Joe moves behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his cock pressing against the cleft of your ass. He kisses your shoulder, your spine, the nape of your neck, and you shiver - not from cold.
"I want you like this," he says, his voice low, his hand sliding between your legs. You're still slick, still open, and his fingers find you easily. "I want to watch your back arch when I fuck you."
You push up onto your elbows, your knees spreading, and he positions himself behind you. The head of his cock presses at your entrance, and you feel the stretch again - different from before, deeper, the angle changing everything.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes."
He pushes in, slow, so slow you feel every inch of him filling you. You drop your forehead to the sheets, a sound escaping you that's half moan, half sob. He's so deep like this, hitting places he couldn't reach before, and you feel yourself clench around him, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel-" He stops, his hips pressing flush against you, and you feel him everywhere. "You feel like home."
He starts to move. Slow strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, each thrust a deliberate claim. You grip the sheets, your knuckles white, and let him set the rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you, a steady counterpoint to the wet sound of your bodies meeting, and you feel the heat building again, low and insistent.
His hand finds your hair, gathers the wet curls, pulls gently until your back arches and your head lifts. "I want to hear you," he says, his voice rough. "I want the whole neighbourhood to hear you."
You bite your lip, and Joe pulls harder - not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp.
"No," he says. "Let me hear you."
His next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out - a raw, broken sound that fills the room. He does it again and again, building a rhythm that drives the sound out of you with every stroke. Your thighs are shaking, your arms trembling, and you feel yourself climbing toward another peak, faster than you thought possible.
"That's it," he says, his voice strained. "I can feel you. You're so close."
His hand slides under you, finds your clit, and you break - shatter - your body convulsing around him, a scream tearing out of your throat that you can't control, can't contain. He keeps thrusting, riding you through it, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel him come with a groan that vibrates through his chest into your back.
You collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and cooling water. Joe pulls out slowly, and you feel the warmth of him leaking out of you, pooling on the sheets beneath you. You don't care. You can't bring yourself to care about anything except the weight of him beside you, the sound of his breathing, the way his hand finds yours under the covers.
"Noon," you say, your voice hoarse. "That's still hours away."
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "I know."
"What are we going to do until then?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then his hand slides down your stomach, dips between your legs again, and you feel his fingers trace the evidence of what you've just done.
warnings/tags: established relationship, FLUFF, baby fever Joe AND reader, some angst (sorry), not proofread
wc: 1.2k
🍀 series masterlist 🍀
author’s note: little something while I figure out the next couple parts of this little series (thank you for all the love again)
“Ok so she took a nap right before we left, so she should be ok for the next couple of hours-”
“Soph-” you say in an attempt to cut off your friend’s ramble.
“-and her snacks are in here and she’s usually not picky, but you never know with babies-”
“Soph-”
“Also don’t forget-”
“Sophie.” You and now Joe say in unison, causing her head to snap up to you two and away from the diaper bag that she felt the need to give the two of you an entire tour despite the fact that you have both seen it and dug around it to lend a hand to Sophie and Ben.
“I’m sorry guys, this is just the first time we’re leaving her, and it’s not that I don’t trust you two, I mean we wouldn’t have made you guys her godparents if we didn’t but-”
“We got this Soph.” You say as you reach to pry June out of her arms, Joe instead opting to grab the diaper bag from Sophie’s shoulder. “Please go be a person for a couple hours, you deserve it.”
“Ok yeah, normal person ok.” She says to herself.
“Go!” You and Joe say to her again.
“Ok ok! Bye Junie, I love you, be good.” She says pressing a quick kiss to her daughter's cherub cheek. “Call me for anything ok?”
“Always.” You say, closing the door as Sophie walks away. “We got this, right miss June?” You ask the now six month old that rests on your hip who’s looking up at you with the eyes that she’d inherited from her mother.
June was a fairly easy baby, hardly ever fussed or cried, slept through the night, even started sitting up for more than a minute by herself recently.
Today however, in some cruel joke by the universe, was apparently Opposite Day because the second the door to yours and Joe’s apartment shut June’s little face was quick to sour, tears following suit.
For 30 minutes after Sophie had left, June was in complete hysterics. You and Joe tried everything. Milk? Swatting the bottle away at every attempt you made to feed the distraught baby in your arms. Snack puffs? The bowl was kicked away, scattering the tiny pieces across your living room floor like confetti. You thought you’d found a solution when you sat on the couch with June settled in your lap and Joe making ridiculous faces at her until the third face made the situation worse somehow sending her even more over the edge.
“We got this huh?” Joe said, provoking a glare from you shot in his direction. “Here give her to me.” He continued extending his arms out to take June from your reach.
“We tried everything Joe.” You say, exhausted to say the least.
“Let me try this ok?” He murmurs, voice also showing weariness June wails slightly faltering but still persistent. “If it doesn’t work, then we’ll call Sophie, or Ben, or honestly an exorcist. You just stay here, take a breather.”
You don’t try to argue with him, instead opting to sink yourself into the couch cushions as Joe turns and makes his way down the hall, June’s cries becoming more distant with each step he takes. Unconsciously, you let out a shaky breath that you didn’t know you were holding in and feelings of doubt began to creep their way into your subconscious. However, before your thoughts could even begin to swallow you whole, a faint playing of the piano from the hallway caught your attention.
“Of course.” You whisper under your breath before rising from the cushions and slowly padding your way to Joe’s mini studio that he’d put together over the years. Slowly, the sound of the piano playing began to gain strength as June cries weakened to the occasional huff and whimper and when you find yourself situated in the doorway, the sight you’re met with is well worth a thousand words.
In front of you sat Joe, with his back to you, playing and humming along to the tune of ‘Forever’ by The Beach Boys, June only visible by the tiny tuft of hair that sat clipped on the top of her head peeking over Joe’s shoulder.
Slowly, careful not to disturb the newly established peace in your apartment, you tiptoe your way to the chair in the corner of the room sat opposite of the piano, something that Joe had put in there for you when he put the place together. You sit and watch as June’s eyes scan over Joe’s fingers moving in front of her, nose still slightly flushed from the occasional sniffle.
When the song concludes Joe looks up from the keys to you and adjusts him and June on the bench, sending a silent invite for you to join them.
You accept, situating yourself on the bench close enough that your thigh was grazing Joe’s and rest your head upon his shoulder. “How are you so good at this?” You ask.
“What do you mean?”
“The first thing you tried worked to get her to stop crying, and I tried literally everything and none of it worked.”
“It usually works for my nieces, just figured it would probably help for her.” he says earnestly, motioning to a significantly more calm June sitting in his lap with her chubby hands reaching out to the keys in front of her. Joe, knowing you like the back of his hand, is quick to notice you going quiet next to him, “Hey, what’s going on?”
You, not one to hide how you feel, are quick with an honest response, “What if I’m not good at it.”
“Good at what?”
“This.” You say, voice just slightly above a whisper.
“Baby, you think one fussy baby shows how you’re gonna be as a mom?” He asks.
“I don’t know.” You say, now looking up at him, “I mean I couldn’t even get her to stop crying, Joe that’s not saying much about my skillset and its ability to transfer.”
“Baby.” Joe starts, but quickly stops before moving to cover June’s ears with his hands, “she was kind of a pain in the ass for no reason today. I know you, and I’ve seen you with her, when she’s not an ass, and with my nieces, and I know you’re going to be a great mom when the time comes.”
You let out a huff of a laugh, “You mean it?”
“I know it babe.” He answers, releasing June’s head from his light grasp and pressing a soft peck to your lips.
You look down to June, who’s still sitting in Joe’s lap, “So much for you being an easy baby miss.” You say brushing the stray hairs that weren’t quite long enough for her little ponytail away from her forehead, “This better have been a one time occurrence Junie.”
June looks up at you with wide eyes, before turning back to the piano in front of her smashing her little hands down on the keys letting out a loud, “BA!”, a skill she just recently acquired, causing you and Joe to send shocked looks to the other.
“Looks like we might have a musician on our hands.” You can see the grin on Joe’s face grow as he continues, “We’re getting her a drumset for her birthday right?”
“Joe, they'll kill us. Of course we’re getting her a drumset.” Matching his the childish grin on his face.
leila yaps: so much for a Drabble. Wedding next hopefully (I kind of lost motivation for a couple days and just gained enough to finish this up) which will be a for real short and sweet drabble (sneak peak: flowgirl June). And then as the saying goes, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage 😙
hiii congrats on 1k!! for the fic prompt I’d like to request joe keery fluff/smut with prompt 11 from both fics like friends to lovers vibes!
ahhh thank you so much, you're so lovely!!
and YES this prompt combination is ridiculously joe-coded. everybody else noticing long before they do, years of mutual pining, and then all that tension finally snapping? absolutely. i had so much fun imagining this one.
i hope you enjoy it, and thank you so much for celebrating 1k with me <3
it was always you
Joe Keery x reader
Prompts: #11. Everybody else notices before they do & #11. Tension that's been building for far too long finally snaps.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, friends to lovers, smut, oral (f! and m! receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, yearning , so much fluff, idiots in love, joe's bandmates being menaces and rightfully so (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 7k
A/N: this is accidentally the longest single fic ive ever written, i got kinda carried away with the smut... enjoy!!
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Joe has been your best friend for so long that neither of you can quite remember where the friendship began and everything else quietly crept in around it. Somewhere over the years, your lives had folded themselves together in a hundred tiny, ordinary ways that never seemed remarkable until somebody else pointed them out. Coffee before rehearsals had become tradition. Late-night supermarket trips happened whenever one of you realised you had nothing in for dinner, usually ending with the two of you wandering every aisle for reasons neither of you could explain. You turned up at as many of his shows as your own schedule allowed, and Joe spent so many evenings at your flat that one of your mugs had somehow become his.
You knew each other with the sort of familiarity that only came from years of quietly paying attention. You could order for one another in any café without asking. Joe knew exactly how much milk you liked in your tea, and you knew he always claimed he wasn't hungry before inevitably stealing half your dinner. He could tell from the way you said hello whether work had been exhausting, and you could tell from the sound of his laugh over the phone whether rehearsal had gone well before he ever mentioned it. None of it felt extraordinary. It was simply the shape your friendship had settled into.
Everybody else, however, had reached a rather different conclusion.
Joe's bandmates had long since stopped asking whether you were coming to shows and instead asked what time you two were getting there. Your friends referred to him as though he were already part of every plan by default. His mum greeted you with hugs that lasted just a little longer than they probably should have, always sending you home with leftovers because, as she put it, "Joe forgets to eat properly when he's busy, so somebody has to look after him."
Even complete strangers seemed to arrive at the same conclusion within minutes. Waiters automatically placed one bill in the middle of the table instead of two. Baristas smiled knowingly whenever Joe ordered your drink before you'd even reached the counter. More than once, a cashier had wished the two of you a lovely evening together with the unmistakable warmth reserved for couples.
Every single time, one of you would laugh. "We're just friends."
The other would nod in complete agreement. "Yeah. Just friends."
And everyone else would exchange the sort of look that suggested they didn't believe a word of it.
The funny thing was, neither of you understood what everyone found so convincing. Joe reaching for your hand whenever you crossed a busy road wasn't romantic; he'd always done that, almost absent-mindedly, steering you safely between crowds without ever seeming to realise he was doing it. You stole fries from his plate because he never minded, and he always ordered too many anyway. He automatically saved you the passenger seat whenever he picked you up because you liked choosing the music, and whenever the evenings grew colder, you inevitably ended up leaving in one of his hoodies because he'd drape it around your shoulders before you'd even admitted you were freezing.
None of those things meant anything.
At least, not to the two of you.
To everyone else, they seemed to mean absolutely everything.
By the time Joe finishes the set, the venue has already begun emptying into the streets outside, people spilling through the doors in clusters still talking about the show as amps buzz faintly somewhere behind the stage. He disappears backstage with the rest of the band, towelling the sweat from the back of his neck while somebody passes him a bottle of water, but even as everyone else is talking over one another about the crowd and joking about the one song they'd nearly derailed halfway through, his phone is already in his hand.
you coming?
Your reply arrives almost immediately.
ten minutes away :)
Joe smiles before he even realises he's doing it.
Matt notices first. "Oh, there it is."
Joe looks up. "What?"
"That face you make whenever she texts you."
Joe frowns. "I don't make a face."
Dalton snorts from the other side of the room. "You literally grinned at your phone."
"I grin at lots of things."
Jake folds his arms. "Name three."
Joe opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Wes bursts out laughing. "We rest our case."
Joe rolls his eyes. "You guys are unbelievable."
"No," Matt replies, grabbing his jacket. "We're just observant."
Ten minutes later, the band have claimed the corner of a small bar a few streets from the venue, the sort of place with sticky wooden tables, faded concert posters covering every available wall, and music just loud enough that conversations blur pleasantly into the background. Drinks have barely arrived before the door opens again.
Joe looks up automatically.
And then you walk in.
The change is immediate.
The tiredness that had settled over him after the show disappears completely, replaced by something so bright and instinctive that nobody at the table even bothers pretending not to notice anymore. Before you've had chance to take more than a few steps inside, Joe is already on his feet, weaving effortlessly between tables until he reaches you.
"There you are."
He wraps you in a hug before you've even managed to shrug your coat from your shoulders, lifting you briefly off the floor.
You laugh. "Hi to you too."
"You made it."
"I said I would."
"I know."
He still doesn't let go straight away.
When he finally does, it's only because you gently laugh and nudge his shoulder.
"I need to actually take my coat off."
"Oh."
Joe immediately takes it from you before folding your coat over one arm, grabbing your hand, leading you back to the table, and pulling the empty chair beside him away from the table with his foot.
"There."
"Thank you."
"No problem."
By the time you sit down, the two of you have already disappeared into your own conversation. You ask how the show went. Joe immediately launches into the story about the audience member who somehow ended up onstage during the encore. You laugh. He laughs because you're laughing. You steal a sip of his drink without asking. He doesn't even look up, simply reaches across to pull your own glass a little closer when the waitress sets it down out of your reach.
At one point, your hand lands absent-mindedly on his forearm while you're telling him something, and neither of you seems remotely aware you've done it.
Around the rest of the table, however, everyone is watching. Again.
Dalton slowly lowers his pint onto the table. "This is getting ridiculous."
"They're literally flirting," Matt says.
Jake shakes his head. "They've been flirting for two years."
"Closer to three," Wes mutters.
Joe finally notices the suspicious silence.
"What's up?"
"Nope," Dalton says.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"It isn't nothing." Teddy, who has been quietly watching the entire interaction unfold with the exhausted patience of someone who has seen this exact scene dozens of times before, finally speaks. "You know you crossed the entire bar the second she walked in, right?"
Joe blinks. "I was saying hi."
Matt nods solemnly. "By picking her up."
"I hugged her."
"You lifted her."
"She hadn't even taken her coat off yet," Dalton adds.
Joe looks down. Realises he's still holding your coat over one arm. "...Oh."
"You carried it for her," Jake says.
"There wasn't anywhere else to put it."
"You pulled her chair out."
"I was being polite."
"You've looked at her," Wes says, pretending to count on his fingers, "roughly fifty times since she sat down."
Joe laughs awkwardly. "I have not."
"You absolutely have," Matt replies.
"I don't think we were flirting," you say carefully.
Every single member of the band groans in unison.
"They're doing it together," Dalton sighs.
"They're validating each other's delusions," Wes adds.
"It's honestly fascinating," Jake says. "Like watching two people insist water isn't wet."
Joe looks completely bewildered. "You guys are reading way too much into this."
Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. "Joe."
"What?"
"You drove four hours on your only day off because she said she missed you."
"It wasn't just because-"
"You learnt to make her favourite pasta."
"She was sick."
"You cancelled plans because she had a bad day."
"She needed somebody."
"She is the first person you call after every show."
Joe pauses. "...I call my mom."
"After her," Dalton says.
Another pause. "...Yeah."
Matt looks around the table. "I'm done."
"So am I," Wes agrees.
Then Adam, who has spent the entire conversation quietly sipping his drink with the expression of a man who has reached the absolute end of his patience, sets his glass down with a decisive clink.
"Oh, for God's sake."
The table falls silent. He looks directly at the pair of you. Then, loud enough that several nearby tables glance over, "Will one of you PLEASE just kiss the other one so the rest of us can all move on with our lives?"
Silence crashes over the table. The music keeps playing. Someone laughs somewhere near the bar.
Joe stares. You stare.
Then, almost perfectly in sync, the two of you slowly turn to look at each other before facing everyone else again with matching expressions of complete and utter confusion.
"...What?"
Nobody says anything for a few long seconds.
Joe is still staring at Adam as though he's waiting for someone to laugh and reveal the whole thing has been an elaborate joke. You aren't faring much better, your gaze drifting slowly around the table, only to discover that every single person is looking back at the pair of you with exactly the same expression.
Not smug. Not even particularly surprised. Just relieved.
Matt is the first to break the silence.
"Thank God."
Joe blinks. "For what?"
"Somebody finally said it."
"You all... agree with him?"
There is a chorus of incredulous laughter.
Dalton actually looks offended. "Joe."
"What?"
"You seriously think Adam just invented this?"
"I mean..."
Jake lets out a long sigh and leans back in his chair. "I don't think either of you realise how exhausting you've been."
"What does that even mean?" you ask.
"It means," Wes says, pointing between the two of you, "that we've spent the last two years watching the slowest burn in human history."
Joe opens his mouth to protest. Nothing comes out.
Matt beats him to it.
"No, actually," he says, holding up a hand. "Don't argue. I want to try something."
Joe immediately looks suspicious. "...Matt."
"No. Just listen."
He points at Joe first. "Last November. Chicago."
Joe frowns. "What about Chicago?"
"It started raining after soundcheck."
"So?"
"You gave her your jacket."
Joe shrugs. "She was cold."
"You spent the rest of the evening freezing."
"I had another hoodie."
"You absolutely did not."
Joe hesitates. "...Okay."
Matt turns towards you. "And you."
You immediately point at yourself. "Me?"
"You spent the entire night trying to secretly warm his hands every time nobody was looking."
Your eyebrows pull together. "I was not."
Dalton laughs. "You literally tucked them inside your coat."
"Oh." You blink. "...I did do that."
"Exactly."
Jake joins in next. "Remember Nashville?"
Joe groans immediately. "Oh, come on."
"What happened in Nashville?" you ask.
Jake looks delighted. "Joe lost his voice after the show."
You nod. "I remember."
"You cancelled your own weekend plans, drove six hours with homemade soup, then stayed until he felt better."
You look genuinely confused. "He was ill."
"Yeah," Jake says. "Exactly."
Before either of you can respond, Wes jumps in.
"What about Christmas?"
Joe rubs a hand across his face. "...Please don't."
"Oh, we're absolutely doing Christmas." Wes grins. "You spent three days trying to find the out-of-print vinyl she'd mentioned wanting once in passing."
Joe shrugs. "It made her happy."
"You drove to three different record shops."
"...Yeah."
"You called my mom asking where she'd seen it."
Joe looks down into his drink. "...Maybe."
Matt points triumphantly across the table.
"And she." He looks at you. "Baked Joe's favourite cookies and posted them overnight because he said rehearsals had been stressful."
You feel your cheeks warming. "I just..."
"You decorated the box."
You say nothing.
"You drew little guitars on it."
That is admittedly true.
"You wrote 'don't forget to eat' on a Post-it, which Joe still keeps, by the way."
Joe slowly turns to look at you.
"You still have that?" you ask quietly.
He laughs once. "It's on my fridge."
Silence surrounds the table. It's not awkward, per se. Just... different. The room suddenly feels much smaller than it had ten minutes earlier.
Javi, who has hardly spoken all evening, finally sets his glass down.
"You know what the weird part is?"
Nobody answers.
He looks between the two of you.
"None of those stories are about grand gestures."
Joe frowns. "What do you mean?"
"They're all tiny." He smiles. "That's why everybody noticed before you did."
The table falls quiet again.
Because he's right. None of it had ever felt extraordinary.
Not the late-night phone calls. Not driving across states because one of you was having a bad week. Not remembering birthdays, favourite meals or coffee orders. Not automatically reaching for each other's hands in crowds. Not the hoodies. Not the hugs. Not the way Joe looked for you in every audience before he looked anywhere else.
They had simply become... normal.
Slowly, almost cautiously, Joe turns towards you. You're already looking at him.
"...Have we really been that oblivious?"
You hold his gaze for a long moment before a small, helpless laugh escapes you.
"I think..." You shake your head, still smiling in complete disbelief. "...maybe we have."
For the first time all evening, nobody around the table says another word. They don't need to.
The teasing is over now. They've already made their point.
All that's left is for the two of you to decide what to do with it.
Soon after, the others very conveniently disappear.
There is no grand intervention, no theatrical announcement that you've both clearly got something to discuss. Instead, the evening simply seems to rearrange itself around you with suspicious efficiency. Matt announces he's going to order another round despite the fact that everyone's glasses are still half full. Dalton remembers somebody recommended the pizza place next door and insists on investigating immediately. Wes suddenly decides fresh air sounds like an excellent idea, Jake volunteers to go with him, and within the space of barely a minute, the table that had been so loud only moments earlier has dissolved into organised chaos.
Joe watches them disappear with narrowed eyes.
"...They're doing this on purpose."
"They're absolutely doing this on purpose."
He looks back towards the bar, where Matt catches his eye from across the room. Matt raises his glass. Then, with absolutely no shame whatsoever, points meaningfully towards the front door.
Joe laughs under his breath. "They're unbelievable."
"They've earned the right, I think."
"I hate that you're right."
"You don't hate it."
"...No."
A few minutes later, the two of you step out into the cool night air together, leaving the noise of the bar behind. The streets are quieter now, washed in the amber glow of streetlights and still carrying the lingering warmth of the day, and for the first time since Adam's spectacular outburst, there's nobody else filling the silence for you.
You start walking without really deciding which direction you're going, and Joe falls into step beside you.
For several minutes, neither of you says a word. Not because it's awkward; it never has been. If anything, it feels unusually comfortable, both of you quietly turning over the same conversation in your minds, trying to fit years of ordinary memories into an entirely new shape.
Eventually, Joe lets out a quiet breath. "I keep thinking about what they said."
You glance across at him. "Me too."
"I've been trying really hard to prove them wrong."
"And?"
He laughs softly, shaking his head. "I don't think I can."
You smile to yourself, eyes dropping briefly to the pavement beneath your feet. "No."
"I keep replaying all those stories."
"So do I."
Another silence settles between you. This one feels different. Less uncertain. More thoughtful.
Joe rubs absent-mindedly at the back of his neck, a habit you'd watched him do a hundred times before whenever he was trying to untangle something in his own head.
"I always thought..." He trails off, searching for the words. "I don't know. I thought I was just lucky."
You look over. "Lucky?"
"To have you."
His answer comes so naturally that he doesn't seem to realise what he's said until it's already hanging between you.
He stops walking. "So that's what it was."
Your heart stumbles. "What?"
Joe laughs once, quietly, more at himself than anything else.
"I think..." He looks down at the pavement before lifting his eyes back to yours. "I think I've been in love with you for a really long time."
There is no flourish to it. No carefully rehearsed speech. No dramatic declaration. Just the truth, spoken with the kind of quiet certainty that only arrives once somebody has finally stopped arguing with themselves.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then you find yourself smiling. Not because it's funny. Because it's such an unbelievably Joe thing to say.
"So have I."
His eyebrows lift. "You serious?"
You nod slowly. "I just... I don't think I ever knew that's what it was."
A laugh escapes both of you at almost exactly the same moment. Not because anything about this is particularly amusing. Because the relief is so enormous that laughter seems to be the only place it has left to go.
"God," Joe mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
"What?"
"We're such idiots."
You grin. "The biggest."
"I've spent years convincing myself I just really liked hanging out with you."
"I drove to Toronto because you texted me saying you were having a bad week."
"I know."
"I learnt how to cook your favourite dinner."
"I know."
"You've got one of my hoodies."
"I've got three."
Joe closes his eyes. "Jesus Christ."
"You've only just realised?"
"I think everyone else realised somewhere around 2023."
The two of you dissolve into laughter again, the sound echoing softly along the otherwise empty street.
When it fades, Joe looks at you differently. Not because his expression has changed. Because now he isn't pretending not to. His eyes drift slowly across your face, lingering in a way they never have before, and something inside him seems to settle.
"So..."
"So?"
"Can I kiss you?"
The question is so earnest, so quietly hopeful, that your heart aches.
You smile. "I was wondering how much longer it'd take."
His own smile arrives slowly, almost disbelievingly, before he steps closer.
The first kiss is impossibly gentle.
Not tentative because either of you is unsure. Tentative because you've both imagined this moment so many times, whether consciously or subconsciously, that neither of you quite trusts it's actually happening.
His hand rises carefully to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin as though he's memorising the feeling. You smile into the kiss before you even realise you're doing it, and Joe immediately laughs against your mouth.
"What?" you murmur.
"I can't believe this is real."
"I was just thinking the same thing."
He kisses you again. A little longer this time.
When you finally pull apart, it's only far enough to look at one another.
Then one of you smiles. The other starts laughing.
And somehow you're kissing again almost immediately.
The years between you don't disappear in one dramatic moment. They unravel slowly, kiss by kiss, smile by smile, every quiet laugh dissolving another layer of restraint until it feels impossible to remember why you'd ever pretended this was just friendship in the first place.
By the time Joe reaches for your hand again, the gesture feels exactly the same as it always has.
Except now you both understand why he'd never really let it go.
Neither of you could have said afterwards whose idea it had been to go back to Joe's.
One minute you're wandering aimlessly through quiet streets, still laughing every few steps because apparently the entire world had known before you did.
The next, you're standing in the doorway of his flat, neither of you making any real attempt to go inside, before he's kissing you again, and then again, every kiss somehow carrying years of unsaid things that words had never quite managed to reach.
The front door barely clicks shut behind you before the rest of the world quietly ceases to matter.
For a moment, you simply stand there in the quiet of Joe's flat, the silence almost startling after the noise of the bar. Your coats are abandoned somewhere near the door, neither of you bothering to hang them up, your foreheads resting together as though you both need a second to catch up with what just happened.
Joe laughs softly. "I still think I'm dreaming."
"You've said that three times."
"I know. I keep hoping it'll start sounding less ridiculous."
"It won't."
His smile widened, though there was something wonderfully vulnerable about it now. The confidence he wore so easily on stage had vanished somewhere between your first kiss and the journey home, replaced by a kind of quiet awe that made your chest ache.
"You really meant it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "When you said you've been in love with me too?"
You answer with another kiss. Slow, patient, certain.
His hands settle carefully at your waist, almost hesitant now, as though everything that happened outside suddenly feels infinitely more real within the privacy of his own home. Every touch carries a question. Every kiss seems to ask if this is still okay, if you're still here, if either of you is about to wake up and discover the evening had been imagined.
When you finally pull back, you smile.
"I don't think I could've made it any clearer."
Joe laughs, the sound warm and breathless.
"You'd be surprised how oblivious I've apparently been."
"You and me both."
The laughter fades naturally into another kiss, and this one lingers a little longer. Your fingers disappear into the curls at the nape of his neck almost automatically, and Joe lets out a quiet, involuntary sound that makes you smile against his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You made a noise."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
He rolls his eyes, though they soften almost immediately when you look at him like that, your smile somehow making his heart race even faster than it already was.
He kisses you again before either of you can say anything else, his hands slipping a little lower against your back as yours trace absent-minded circles beneath the hem of his T-shirt. The room seems to grow smaller around you, until all that exists is the warmth of his body, the quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, and the overwhelming relief of finally being allowed to touch each other without pretending it doesn't mean anything.
"I don't think I'm ever gonna get used to this," he murmurs.
"To what?"
"Being able to kiss you."
You smile. "Better start practising."
He laughs softly before kissing you once more, slower this time, the smile lingering between your mouths until it naturally deepens. His hands settle more confidently at your hips now, drawing you a little closer, and when he instinctively begins to guide the two of you towards the bedroom, neither of you questions it.
It feels less like a decision than the inevitable continuation of a conversation that has been waiting years to happen.
The bedroom is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting everything in warm amber light as Joe closes the door quietly behind him. For a second, you simply look at each other again.
Neither of you seem in any hurry. There is no urgency now. Only years of wondering what this might feel like, finally giving way to the reality of it.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt first. Joe watches your hands for a moment before looking back up at your face, and whatever he sees there makes his expression soften all over again.
"You sure?" he asks gently.
You nod. "So sure."
He smiles, relief and affection blending so completely that they become impossible to separate. You push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, and Joe reaches up almost tentatively to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
"We don't have to rush," he says quietly.
You laugh, though it comes out softer than intended. "I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
You cup his jaw. "I've been waiting years, Joe. Another thirty seconds isn't gonna kill me."
The kiss that follows carries all of it with it.
Years of almosts. Years of lingering hugs that lasted a second too long. Years of reaching for each other's hands without understanding why. Years of convincing yourselves that friendship was explanation enough.
Your hands drift over his bare chest slowly, every touch unhurried now. The conversation outside the bar changed something - not between the two of you, because nothing fundamental has changed there at all - but within the moment itself. Whatever pressure there might once have been to impress one another has quietly disappeared. The only thing left is the remarkable ease that has always existed between you, now stripped of the final layer of restraint.
Joe smiles into the kiss.
"I love you."
The words slip out so naturally that he doesn't seem to realise he's spoken until after they hang between you.
His eyes widen slightly. "...Too soon?"
Your heart swells, and you laugh softly, cupping his face in both hands.
"No." You kiss him once. "I love you too." You kiss him again.
Joe leans down until his forehead rests lightly against yours, then exhales softly through his nose, beginning to peel the hem of your shirt upwards.
He pauses, smiles, looks at you, and asks quietly, "Can I?"
You lift your arms in a silent yes, and he pulls your shirt over your head, your fingers sliding automatically into his curls. His eyes visibly widen as he looks down at you. You suddenly feel very thankful you decided to wear your favourite lace bra this morning. Joe seems pretty thankful, too.
“You’re staring,” you tease.
“Can you blame me?”
You grin slightly.
Joe kisses you slowly. Once. Twice. Then deeper when your hands tighten in his hair.
The room seems to grow warmer as his hands settle instinctively at your hips, his thumbs brushing slow circles there as though he's trying to commit the feeling to memory.
For a moment, he begins to sink towards his knees, his fingers catching lightly at the waistband of your jeans before you stop him with the gentlest pressure against his chest.
He looks up immediately. "What?"
You only smile. "Sit down."
His eyebrows lift. "You sure?"
"So sure."
He searches your face for another second, looking for even the smallest flicker of uncertainty, and whatever he finds there finally convinces him. A smile tugs slowly across his mouth as he lets you guide him backwards until the backs of his knees meet the mattress, sinking obediently onto the edge of the bed without taking his eyes off you for even a moment.
His hands hover uncertainly for a second before settling carefully against the backs of your thighs, as though he's still asking permission despite everything that's already happened.
You step between his knees, looping your arms loosely around his neck before leaning down to steal another kiss. It's slower than the last one, unhurried, and you feel him smile almost immediately.
When you pull back, he's still looking at you. Not at your body - at you.
He blinks once. "...Hi."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. "What?"
"I just..." He shakes his head, smiling to himself. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do right now."
"You seemed to be doing alright a minute ago."
"I was kissing you."
"And?"
"I've had years to think about kissing you."
You grin. "This bit's new?"
"This bit's very new."
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before looking at you again with an expression that is somehow equal parts nervous and completely, hopelessly in love.
You kiss him again, smiling into it halfway through, and for a few seconds neither of you seems particularly interested in doing anything except proving to yourselves that this is real.
That is, until you sink down to your knees in front of him.
Your palms slide slowly up his thighs, and you hear him draw in a sharp breath. His eyes never leave your face for long, even as your hands continue exploring, repeatedly lifting back to meet your gaze as though reassuring himself you're still smiling.
He swears he blacks out for a second when you gently run your hand over him through his jeans, the other hand scratching lightly through the hairs of his happy trail.
His hips buck upwards instinctively into your touch, and you glance up at him with a smirk.
Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans, and he gives you a nod before he lifts his hips to help you pull his jeans and underwear down in one go.
You can't disguise the way your eyes widen, pupils dilated as you take him in for the first time. You aren't sure if you're more flustered by the size of him or the adoring, blissed-out look on his face.
When you finally look up again, your own confidence falters for a second beneath the weight of his expression. Definitely the look on his face.
"What?"
Joe smiles. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
You feel your cheeks redden immediately. "You really know how to make a girl self-conscious."
"No." His smile softens. "The opposite."
He reaches out instinctively, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before letting his hand linger against your cheek for the briefest moment.
“You sure this is okay?” he manages, though any further words die in his throat immediately when you wrap your hand around the base of him.
He hisses, his head falling back back, and you watch his throat move as he swallows, watch his hands find the edge of the bed to brace himself. You stroke him once, twice, learning the feel of him in your hand - the heat, the velvet skin over the hard length, the way his breath hitches when you tighten your grip at the tip.
Then you lean forward and take him in your mouth.
Joe makes a sound - a broken groan that's almost your name - and his hand finds your hair again, not pulling, just holding. You move slowly at first, tasting him, feeling his pulse against your tongue. The salt of his skin, the musk of him, the way he fills your mouth - you want to memorise this too.
"Honey-" the word falls from his lips, strained and desperate, and you take him deeper. You feel him hit the back of your throat, and you breathe through your nose, steady, letting yourself adjust. His hips make a small, involuntary thrust, and you feel the thrill of it - that you could make him lose control like this.
You set a rhythm. Your hand at the base of him, your mouth working the head, your tongue finding the spot under the ridge that makes his legs tremble. You learn his body as you go - the way he breaths faster when you hum, the way his hips rock forward when you suck harder, the broken syllables of your name that fall from his lips like prayers.
"I'm close," he said, and his voice was wrecked. “Baby, I’m- I’m not gonna last if you keep that up,” he groans, weakly pulling you off him by gathering your hair into a makeshift ponytail.
For a few seconds, he just stares at you, panting heavily, completely overwhelmed by the sight of you beneath him.
Then suddenly Joe's helping you back up from the floor, one hand cupping your cheek almost instinctively before guiding you gently onto the bed. There isn't any urgency to the movement anymore. If anything, the pace seems to slow with every passing minute, as though both of you are becoming increasingly aware that you've got nowhere else to be.
You unhook your bra while he crawls back over you, his thumb brushes lightly beneath your eye, and you reach up to kiss him, instinctively now.
His hands find the waistband of your jeans, though this time he hesitates just enough to look back at you, a silent question in his eyes.
You answer by nodding, smiling so warmly that he has to laugh under his breath before carefully helping you out of them, his attention returning to you immediately.
For a second, he simply looks at you. Not in the way he had before, not with obvious hunger. With quiet amazement. The way he's looking at you as though he's trying to memorise every detail of your face, and despite yourself, warmth rushes into your cheeks.
You kiss him again, and he melts into it almost instantly.
He slowly lowers himself down your body, pressing a trail of kisses as he goes.
One of his big hands palms at one of your breasts, teasing the nipple with his thumb, while his lips latch onto the other, and the dual sensation has you keening.
Joe groans deeply into your skin before continuing on further down your stomach, until he reaches your inner thighs.
"This okay, baby?" he asks for what feels like the hundredth time this evening, and every time you just can't wrap your head around the fact that this is really happening.
You can't help the grin that pulls at your lips as you nod at him, and then his hands are on your bare thighs, pushing them apart, and you let him. You want him so bad you can barely breathe. Want his mouth on you, want to feel the thing you've been dreaming about for years become real.
"Yes," you whisper, and the word comes out like a prayer.
His fingers hook the edge of your underwear - a simple cotton pair, nothing special, and you almost apologise before he pulls them down your legs, slow and deliberate, kissing the inside of your knee as he goes. The fabric slides away, and you're left bare on his bed, the air between you thick with anticipation.
Joe looks at you. You see him looking, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light, and you feel yourself flush - not from shame, from wanting. From the weight of his gaze on the most intimate part of you.
"You have no idea," he says, his voice rough, "how long I've wanted this."
Then his mouth is on you.
The first touch of his tongue makes you gasp - a hot, wet stroke that parts you and finds the place you've been aching for him to find. He groans against you, the vibration sending a shock through your body, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer, opening you wider for him.
Joe takes his time. He tastes you like you're something to savour, his tongue circling, dipping, pressing. You hear yourself make a sound - a low moan that seems to come from somewhere deep in your chest - and you don't care. Your fingers find his hair, tangle in the dark mess of it, and you hold him there as he works you closer to the edge.
"Joe-" His name is a plea, and you feel him smile against you.
"I've got you." Three words, murmured into your skin, and then his tongue finds your clit, pressing, circling, and your hips buck against his mouth. He holds you steady, his grip on your thighs firm, and you feel the orgasm building - a hot, tight coil in your belly that you let yourself fall into.
He doesn't stop. He keeps going, pushing you higher, and you're gasping, your nails digging into his scalp, your thighs trembling against his ears. When you come, it's with a cry that breaks out of you, a sound you've never made before, raw and honest and his.
He doesn't pull away. He works you through it, gentle now, his tongue soft against your sensitive skin, and you feel aftershocks ripple through you as you collapse back against the mattress. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body loose and trembling, and you feel him press a kiss to the inside of your thigh before he crawls back over you.
Joe's mouth is wet with you, and in the dim light, you see the satisfaction in his eyes. He doesn't look smug, just... complete. Like he's wanted something for so long and finally has it.
"You ready for me, sweetheart?"
"Yeah, Joe," you whisper, and he leans in to kiss you again.
Softer this time. Slower. Like both your nerves have finally caught up with you. Like it’s suddenly dawned on both of you what the next step actually is.
Joe presses gentle kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, grounding your nerves as he grabs his cock to line himself up with your entrance.
The groan he lets out against your neck sounds almost carnal as he pushes inside in one slow, steady thrust. You're so dripping wet he's met with no resistance, but the stretch burns regardless. He stills inside you for a moment, attentive, waiting for you to let him know he's okay to carry on.
"Move, Joe. Move," you plead.
His thrusts are steady, deep, his eyes locked onto yours, lips brushing gently over each other as hushed gasps make their way from one mouth to the other.
He grabs your thighs to lift them over his shoulders, the position so intimate, pressing your knees almost to your chest as he fills you over and over, and the angle makes him hit a spot so deep inside you nobody else has ever touched before. You're seeing stars as he kisses you breathless, swallowing the loud moans and whines you're sure would embarrass you in any other situation, but right now you couldn't care less.
Not when he lifts his thumb up to his lips, sucking on it for a moment to get it wet, before bringing it down between your bodies to start rubbing steady circles on your clit.
You're coming apart on his cock, what feels like mere seconds later, your legs quivering over his shoulders, tears of ecstasy streaming down your face.
"Where, baby? Where do you want me?"
"Inside, Joe. Please, need to feel you," you plead. His hips stutter with a loud moan, the loudest you think you've ever heard him, as you feel him finish deep inside you.
He collapses on top of you seconds later, letting go of your legs to fall to the bed, his head resting on your breasts, rising and falling with your unsteady breathing.
Your fingers find his hair, as Joe presses one last lazy kiss against your sternum, then shifts just enough to look up at you properly, curls a mess, lips swollen from kissing you, eyes soft in that way that gets you every single time he looks at you.
"You know I'm never getting over the fact you love me, right?" he murmurs.
Your chest aches warmly as you smile down at him, fingertips brushing slowly through his hair.
"Good," you whisper. "Wouldn't want you to."
For a long while afterwards, neither of you says anything.
The room has settled into that peculiar quiet that only ever follows something life-changing, the bedside lamp still casting everything in warm amber light while the city carries on somewhere beyond the window, blissfully unaware that the entire shape of your world has shifted in the space of a single evening. Joe lies sprawled beside you with his head still resting comfortably against your chest, one arm draped lazily across your waist as though he's worried you might somehow disappear if he lets go for too long. Your fingers drift absent-mindedly through his curls, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, and every now and then he lets out the smallest contented hum without seeming to realise he's doing it.
Eventually, he tips his head back just enough to look at you properly.
His hair is a complete mess, his lips still pink from kissing you, and there is something so wonderfully open about his expression that it almost catches you off guard. He looks happy in the uncomplicated, almost disbelieving way people do when something they've wanted for so long has finally happened and they haven't quite caught up with it yet.
"You know what's funny?" he asks quietly.
"What?"
"I genuinely thought I was doing a great job hiding it."
You can't help laughing. "So did I."
"No, seriously." He shakes his head against you with a groan. "I thought I was being subtle."
"You thought driving four hours because I texted you saying I'd had a bad week was subtle?"
"I was being supportive."
"You learnt to make my favourite dinner."
"You were stressed."
"You remembered the name of my primary school teacher because I mentioned her once."
"...That one might've been a little weird."
"A little?"
He laughs, covering his face briefly with one hand. "Oh, God."
"What?"
"We're never living this down."
You already know exactly what he means. "Matt's going to be unbearable."
"Dalton's gonna make a spreadsheet."
"Wes will somehow claim he predicted it first."
"He absolutely will."
"And Jake's going to spend the next six months reminding us we argued with them."
Joe groans dramatically before burying his face back against your shoulder. "I hate that they're right."
Your fingers find his hair again, gently combing through the curls that have become increasingly impossible to tame over the course of the evening. "I don't."
He looks up again, eyebrows lifting. "No?"
You smile, brushing your thumb lightly across his cheek. "If this is what they were trying to get us to..." You shrug softly. "I think they did us a favour."
He studies your face for a long moment, the smile returning so gradually it almost seems to unfold rather than appear. "I've wasted so much time."
You shake your head almost immediately. "We both did."
"Yeah." He looks into your eyes with so much devotion, you feel yourself blushing. "Let's make up for lost time."
For a while, neither of you speaks again. There doesn't seem to be much point. Every silence between you feels different now - not emptier, but fuller somehow, no longer crowded with all the things you'd both spent years carefully refusing to say.
Eventually, Joe reaches for your hand beneath the duvet, threading his fingers through yours with the same effortless familiarity he always has. The gesture is identical to every other time he's held your hand over the years.
The only difference is that now you both understand why he's always reached for it.
Congratulations on 1000 follower 🥳🥳🥳 you deserve everysingle one of them and many many more! May I request Joe + intimacy + 18 from your prompt list?
ahh thank you so much, you're so sweet 🥹
and thank you for sending in a request! i absolutely loved this prompt the second i read it because it feels so quietly emotional. i hope i managed to capture that feeling of missing somebody so much that every kiss afterwards says everything you couldn't over the phone.
thank you again for celebrating 1k with me, i really hope you enjoy this one <3
like coming home
Joe Keery x reader
Prompt: #18. Being kissed like they've been missed.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, fluff, yearning, long-distance, post-tour reunion, hurt/comfort if you squint (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 4.6k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
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Being apart has never been something the two of you are particularly good at.
Joe has been away on tour for almost three weeks now, winding his way across Europe one city at a time, and although the distance isn't permanent - although you both know he'll be home soon - it has quietly worked its way into every part of your routine.
You speak every day.
Sometimes properly, stealing an hour before bed despite whichever one of you is fighting a different time zone. Sometimes only for five hurried minutes between soundcheck and a radio interview, Joe wandering distractedly through the corridors of another unfamiliar venue while you tell him about your day. Other times it's nothing more than a voice note sent at some ungodly hour because one of you was asleep when the other was awake.
The messages never really stop.
Your phone has become a strange little scrapbook of each other's lives.
Photos of hotel breakfasts that Joe insists are either "surprisingly decent" or "a crime against eggs". Videos of the band crammed into the back of a van somewhere between shows, Matt attempting to convince everyone that a motorway service station coffee is genuinely drinkable while Jake argues the exact opposite from somewhere off camera. Grainy pictures of picturesque streets in Copenhagen, rainy canals in Amsterdam, impossibly colourful buildings in Reykjavik that Joe swears you'd love, accompanied by messages that always end the same way.
Wish you were here.
In return, you send him the ordinary things he'd never ask for but always seems happiest to receive.
The neighbour's cat asleep in your garden. The ridiculous cloud that somehow looked exactly like a dinosaur. The sourdough loaf that finally turned out properly after three failed attempts. The tiny independent bookshop you'd wandered into on your lunch break because you'd seen something in the window that reminded you of him.
None of it is particularly exciting.
That's rather the point.
Neither of you is trying to impress the other. You're simply trying to make sure the person you love doesn't miss the small pieces of your everyday life while they're hundreds of miles away.
It's enough. Except it isn't.
The flat has become strangely quiet without Joe in it. You still catch yourself laughing at something on television before automatically turning towards the empty space beside you, already halfway through saying, "Joe, look at-" before remembering he's somewhere in Germany, probably loading guitars onto a stage or trying to find decent coffee before soundcheck.
Meanwhile, Joe has developed the equally unhelpful habit of reaching across hotel beds in the middle of the night, half-asleep and searching instinctively for someone who isn't there. Every morning, for a brief, sleepy second before he properly wakes up, he expects to find you curled against his side. Every morning, his hand finds nothing but cool sheets instead.
Neither of you complains about it. Not aloud.
You both know this is part of his job. You both know you'll survive a few weeks apart. Whenever either of you catches yourselves sounding a little too wistful over the phone, the other is always quick to interrupt with the same reassurance.
"It's only another few days."
And every single time one of you says it, the other smiles.
Because you're both counting them down.
Joe gets home two hours earlier than either of you had expected.
You don't know that.
As far as you're concerned, he's somewhere between the airport and a motorway service station, probably sending you a voice note complaining about traffic before arriving sometime after dinner.
The kettle has just boiled. Rain taps lazily against the kitchen window while you stand with your back to the room, spooning loose tea into the pot and humming absent-mindedly to yourself. The radio murmurs quietly from the windowsill, more background noise than anything else, and the whole flat feels wrapped in that familiar sort of peaceful stillness that has settled over it these past few weeks.
You're halfway through wondering whether Joe would laugh at the ridiculous novelty mug you've just found hidden at the back of the cupboard when you hear a door open.
You don't really think anything of it.
The neighbours in the building have always been slightly hopeless about making sure the communal entrance catches properly, and somebody is forever wandering in and out of the hallway. You assume it's one of them returning from work, balancing shopping bags and muttering about the weather.
Then you hear a suitcase wheel catch against the lip of the doorway.
A muffled curse.
And finally, "Baby?"
Everything inside you stops.
The spoon slips from your fingers, clattering noisily against the worktop as you freeze where you stand, your heart suddenly thundering against your ribs for reasons your brain hasn't quite caught up with yet.
No. It can't be.
He's not meant to be home yet.
For one impossible second you genuinely wonder if you've imagined it. You've become so used to hearing his voice through your phone that your mind almost convinces you it's another memory playing tricks on you.
Then it comes again, a little louder this time.
"Baby? You here?"
You don't remember leaving the kitchen.
One moment you're standing beside the kettle, and the next you're hurrying down the hallway, rounding the corner so quickly you nearly collide with the wall.
Joe is standing just inside the front door.
He looks exactly like someone who's spent the better part of a month living out of a suitcase. His hair is longer than it had been when he left, curling untidily beneath the cap he's forgotten to take off, and there's the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that tells you he'd chosen catching an earlier flight over shaving that morning. One backpack hangs from his shoulder, another bag rests awkwardly at his feet, and the battered suitcase beside him is plastered with fresh airline tags from airports you'd only ever seen written in the little updates he'd been sending you.
He looks exhausted. Travel-worn, a little jet-lagged, like he'd traded several hours of sleep for the chance to get home sooner.
Then he sees you.
Whatever tiredness had been clinging to him seems to disappear all at once, replaced by a smile so immediate and so completely unguarded that it steals what little breath you still had left.
"There you are."
Neither of you says anything else. There doesn't seem to be much point.
Your feet are moving before your brain catches up, and a heartbeat later you're throwing yourself across the last few steps separating you. Joe barely has time to catch you before your arms are around his neck, his own wrapping tightly around your waist with a quiet, relieved laugh that you feel more than hear.
The impact almost knocks him backwards. He doesn't seem to mind.
Instead, he buries his face against your shoulder and simply holds you. Instinctively, like breathing. Like this is the first full breath either of you has managed to take in weeks.
You feel him exhale slowly against your neck, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly as though some part of him still isn't entirely convinced you're real.
"Hi," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, softened by relief.
You smile into his shoulder, blinking rapidly against the unexpected sting gathering behind your eyes.
"Hi."
For a long moment, neither of you makes any attempt to move.
The bags remain abandoned by the front door. The tea continues steeping forgotten in the kitchen.
The whole journey home, the airports, the flights, the countless miles between you, quietly dissolve beneath the simple comfort of finally being back where you belong.
In each other's arms.
The first hug somehow melts into the first kiss so naturally that, afterwards, neither of you can quite remember who moved first.
One moment you're still standing in the hallway, your arms wrapped tightly around one another while the front door remains half open behind Joe, his suitcase abandoned exactly where he'd dropped it. The next, he's pulling back just enough to look at you properly, his hands cradling either side of your face as though he's checking you haven't disappeared while he wasn't looking.
For a long moment, he simply smiles. Not the easy, lopsided grin you know so well. Something softer, quieter, almost disbelieving.
"You've got longer hair," he murmurs eventually.
"So have you."
"I know."
"You look tired."
"I am." A beat passes. "But I'm home."
The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest.
You don't think before leaning up to kiss him.
It's gentle. Almost tentative at first, as though both of you are still adjusting to the strange reality that there isn't a screen between you anymore. No patchy phone signal. No countdown until the next video call. Just Joe, standing right in front of you, warm beneath your hands and smiling into the kiss before he's even realised he's doing it.
When you pull back, it lasts barely a second before he kisses you again.
This one is no different. Still slow, still impossibly gentle. His thumb strokes absent-mindedly across your cheek as though reassuring himself you're really here, and when he finally lets you breathe again, he rests his forehead lightly against yours, smiling to himself.
You laugh quietly. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're pretending you don't have a thought to share with me."
He lets out a soft laugh, glancing down at the floor for a moment before looking back at you.
"I just..." He pauses, searching for words. "I missed you."
"I know."
"I know you know." Another pause. "I just needed to say it."
Your heart aches. "So did I."
He kisses you again.
Then your forehead. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth. You barely have time to smile before his lips find yours once more.
After the fifth - or maybe the sixth - you can't help laughing.
"Joe."
"Hm?"
"You've kissed me about twelve times."
"I know."
"You've literally just kissed me."
"I know."
He proves your point by doing it again, his lips brushing yours in another quick, absent-minded kiss.
You raise an eyebrow. "There."
"What?"
"You did it again."
"I did?" he smirks, acting clueless.
"Mhm."
A sheepish smile spreads across his face. "...Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm not."
You laugh, reaching up to smooth your fingers through the slightly overgrown curls at the back of his neck. "You can keep doing it."
He looks at you for a long moment, his smile softening into something that almost makes your chest hurt.
"I missed you."
Three simple words. No dramatic declaration. No elaborate explanation. Just the truth.
And suddenly everything makes sense.
The way his hands never seem to settle anywhere for long, drifting from your waist, to your shoulders, to your hair, to your jaw, before starting all over again. The way he keeps pulling back just far enough to look at you, almost as though he's quietly confirming you haven't vanished. The way every time a conversation begins, it seems to end with another kiss before either of you has finished your sentence.
He's not trying to be romantic.
He's making up for the goodbye kiss that had ended too quickly at airport security. Every evening he'd had to settle for seeing your face through a phone screen instead of across the sofa. Every morning he'd woken instinctively reaching for you, only to find another unfamiliar hotel room instead.
You realise, with a quiet swell of affection, that Joe isn't kissing you because he wants more.
He's kissing you because, after weeks of missing you, he still can't quite believe you're finally here.
So you kiss him back. Again.
And when he smiles into it, that familiar little crease appearing beside his eyes, you think you understand something you'd never been able to put into words before.
Sometimes the most intimate thing someone can do isn't kiss you with urgency.
It's kiss you like they're still making up for every day they couldn't.
The suitcases are still sitting abandoned in the hallway.
Joe's backpack remains exactly where it had slipped from his shoulder when you'd all but launched yourself into his arms, one trainer half sticking out of the unzipped pocket, and neither of you seems particularly interested in doing anything about it. Somewhere in the kitchen, the tea you'd been making before he unexpectedly walked through the front door has long since gone cold, forgotten completely in favour of something infinitely more important.
Neither of you has actually managed to make it much further into the flat.
You do eventually manage to close the front door and migrate from the hallway to the sofa, but only because standing wrapped around one another indefinitely starts to become mildly impractical. Even then, it's less of a deliberate decision and more a gradual drift, Joe's hand never quite leaving yours as he follows you through the living room before promptly pulling you back against his side the moment you both sit down.
The afternoon slips quietly onwards around you.
You talk.
About everything.
About absolutely nothing.
Joe tells you stories from the tour that never quite made it into his voice notes, laughing as he recounts Teddy somehow managing to leave an entire suitcase in a hotel lobby in Belgium before not noticing for nearly an hour, or Adam spending twenty minutes insisting he'd learnt enough German to order dinner before accidentally asking a waitress where he could adopt her grandmother instead. He talks about tiny cafés tucked away down side streets in Paris, the best coffee he'd had somewhere in Vienna, and a record shop in Prague that he'd spent far longer in than anyone else had been remotely willing to tolerate.
You listen with your head resting comfortably against his shoulder, smiling every time he wanders off on another tangent halfway through a story, because that's always been one of your favourite things about him.
At some point, the conversation fades away altogether.
Neither of you notices exactly when it happens. One moment you're still talking quietly, Joe absent-mindedly tracing patterns across the back of your hand while you tell him another story from the weeks he'd been away, and the next you're simply looking at one another again. Really looking. The kind of look that only ever arrives after missing somebody for long enough that seeing them in front of you still feels faintly unreal.
Joe smiles first.
Then he reaches up and brushes his thumb lightly across your cheek.
"I've missed this," he says, almost to himself.
"This?"
"You."
The word hangs quietly between you.
You lean in to kiss him before you can think of anything clever to say in return, and the kiss lingers far longer than either of you intends. It starts with the same quiet tenderness that's followed you since he walked through the front door, but somewhere along the way it becomes something deeper, something weighted by three weeks of distance and every goodbye that had ended too quickly at airport security.
When you finally pull back, neither of you has moved very far. Joe rests his forehead against yours, laughing softly under his breath.
"I don't think I'm capable of letting you out of my sight today."
"I wasn't planning on going anywhere."
"Good."
He draws you effortlessly onto his lap until you're straddling him, your knees settling either side of his hips. The moment your weight comes down over him, a low, involuntary groan catches in the back of his throat, swallowed almost immediately as your mouths meet again. Weeks of airports, hotel rooms and late-night phone calls seem to collapse into that single point of contact, all of the distance between you disappearing at once. When you shift experimentally against him, his eyes flutter closed and his grip tightens instinctively around your waist.
"Fuck, baby," he breathes against your lips, his voice rougher than you've heard it in weeks. "Missed you so much."
Your fingers slip into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, tugging gently as his hands wander over your body with quiet urgency, never quite settling anywhere for long. Your waist. Your back. The curve of your hips. It feels almost as though he's trying to reassure himself you're really here, making up for every touch he'd been forced to imagine instead.
A quiet sound escapes you into the kiss, and Joe responds immediately, kissing you more deeply as though the noise alone has undone what little composure he'd managed to hold onto.
"Need you," he murmurs, his forehead falling briefly against yours. "Please."
There's no impatience in it. No demand. Just an honesty that makes something in your chest tighten painfully.
You answer with a small nod before lifting yourself just enough to push your jeans and underwear down, Joe hurriedly doing the same beneath you. By the time you're pressed skin against skin for the first time in what feels like forever, the moment has become unexpectedly emotional. For all the longing that has lived between you these past few weeks, nothing compares to the simple relief of finally being close again.
Joe looks at you the way he always does - openly, without reservation - and it steals your breath every single time. Even now, after everything you've shared together, you still aren't entirely convinced you'll ever grow used to being looked at with that much tenderness.
You wrap your hand around him, earning a sharp intake of breath, and his fingers slide between your folds. When he's satisfied you're ready for him, he lets you guide him carefully towards you. The first slow press inside you draws the same shaky exhale from both of you, your foreheads finding one another's as you gradually sink down until there's no space left between your bodies.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Joe's eyes remain fixed on where you're joined, his expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief, while every muscle in his body seems to strain with the effort of giving you the time you need.
"Fuck..." you whisper, your lips brushing his neck. "Please, Joe."
He answers by lifting his gaze back to yours.
The pace he sets is slow to begin with, almost reverent, guiding your hips with his steady hands, neither of you interested in rushing something you'd both spent weeks imagining. As you take control, his hands continue their restless journey over your body as though he simply can't decide where he wants to hold you most, while you cling to his shoulders, your fingertips pressing into warm skin every time another quiet sound slips free.
He buries his face briefly against the space between your breasts before looking back up at you again, and it's the expression on his face that almost undoes you. Not desire alone - adoration, like he still can't quite believe he gets to have this.
As the rhythm gradually deepens, he begins meeting each of your movements, his hips thrusting up into you with their own steady cadence until Joe's head tips back against the sofa, another helpless groan leaving him at the feeling.
"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, never taking his eyes off you. "Just like that."
You lose yourself in the rhythm together, every movement drawing you closer until coherent thought becomes almost impossible. The only things that seem to exist are Joe's hands, his cock deep inside you, his voice, and the overwhelming relief of finally having him close enough to touch.
Then, almost suddenly, he catches your waist and stills you.
You barely have time to look at him before he's guiding you gently onto your back across the length of the sofa, following you down as though he can't bear to lose contact for even a second.
Somewhere along the way your shirts disappear, discarded carelessly onto the floor without either of you paying them much attention.
Joe leans over you for a moment before pushing into you again, and the first slow movement has your hands immediately gripping onto his back.
He's imagined this so many times while lying awake in random hotel rooms that, now it's finally real, he almost doesn't trust it. The sight of you beneath him, your fingers clutching desperately at him, your face soft with pleasure, feels almost impossibly familiar despite the weeks apart.
It doesn't take long before he recognises the tiny changes in your breathing, the way your body begins responding to him differently. He knows you too well to miss them.
"You close, baby?" he asks softly, his forehead brushing yours again. "That's it... don't hold back."
The words, more than anything else, are what finally tip you over the edge.
You come apart with his name caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, your whole body tightening beneath him as he holds you through it, never once looking away from your face.
The feeling of you around him nearly undoes him in the same instant.
He buries his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing hard as he fights for what little control he has left.
"Where d'you want me?" he manages, the words broken by another uneven breath.
You barely have enough air left to answer.
"Inside... please."
It's all he needs.
His composure finally gives way as he pulls you impossibly close, the last of the distance between your bodies disappearing completely while he whispers your name like something precious, filling you so deeply. His movements gradually slow, never quite stopping until the trembling leaves both of you.
For several long seconds afterwards, neither of you moves at all.
Then Joe lets out a quiet, exhausted laugh and more or less melts on top of you, all loose limbs and comforting weight, burying his face against the side of your neck as though he's finally allowed himself to stop holding everything together.
You smile into his hair, one hand drifting lazily through the curls at the back of his head.
For the first time in nearly a month, there is nowhere else either of you needs to be.
Afterwards, neither of you moves for a long while.
Joe is still half draped over you, all warm limbs and sleepy smiles, his breathing gradually evening out where his face is tucked comfortably against your shoulder. Every now and then his fingers trace absent-minded patterns against your side, as though he still isn't quite finished reassuring himself that you're really here beneath his hands.
Eventually he lifts his head just enough to look at you.
"What?" you murmur, smiling despite yourself.
"I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
He laughs quietly. "I know."
For a second he simply studies your face, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your forehead with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
"I can't believe you're here."
You blink at him. "I live here."
"I know."
"You've known where I live for quite a while, actually."
"I know."
"So...?"
He lets out another soft laugh, shaking his head at himself.
"I mean..." His thumb drifts absent-mindedly across your cheek. "For the last three weeks, every time I thought about coming home, this is what I pictured."
You feel your smile soften. "This?"
"You. Us." His shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. "Just... being able to touch you again."
Your heart gives that familiar little squeeze, and you lean up to press one slow kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"I pictured it too."
He smiles, the expression small but impossibly fond.
After another minute or two, you both reluctantly disentangle yourselves just enough to pull the throw from the back of the sofa over your legs. Joe disappears briefly into the kitchen before returning with two fresh mugs of tea - made properly this time, replacing the forgotten cup that had gone cold an hour ago - and somehow the simple domesticity of it all feels every bit as intimate as everything that had come before.
You settle back against him, one of his arms looping automatically around your shoulders while you cradle your mug between both hands.
For a while, neither of you feels any particular need to speak.
Then, quietly, Joe breaks the silence.
"What was it like here?"
You think about the question for a moment before answering.
"Quiet."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
Your thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles over the back of his hand where it rests across your lap.
"I kept turning round to tell you things."
Joe glances down at you. "Like what?"
"Oh... anything, really." You smile to yourself. "Something funny someone said at work. A weird dog I saw on the walk home. There was a pigeon that somehow got into the supermarket one afternoon."
He laughs. "I would've liked to hear about supermarket pigeon."
"I know." You duck your head with a sheepish smile. "I think that's what I missed most."
"What?"
"Having someone to immediately tell all the boring bits to."
Something in his expression softens completely.
"That's what you missed the most? Not me?"
You look up at him in mock disbelief. "You are the someone, idiot."
He grins. "Good recovery."
A comfortable silence settles between you again, the kind that only exists between people who've long since realised they don't have to fill every pause with conversation.
After a while, Joe speaks again.
"I hate hotel rooms."
You tilt your head to look at him. "Hate's a strong word."
"They're just..." He searches for the right description, rubbing thoughtfully across your knuckles. "They never feel right. Doesn't matter how nice they are. Every single one just feels like somewhere I'm waiting to leave."
You nod. "I know what you mean."
"I'd get back after a show and I'd automatically start talking before remembering..." He laughs quietly to himself. "...there wasn't anybody there."
Your chest tightens.
Before you can stop yourself, the next admission slips out.
"I slept on your side of the bed."
Joe blinks. "What?"
"The first week." You suddenly find the steam rising from your tea remarkably interesting. "It still smelled like your aftershave." The words come out smaller than you intend. "I knew it'd wear off eventually, so..." You trail off with an awkward shrug. "...I just wanted a little bit longer."
When you finally look back up, Joe is already watching you. The smile on his face is so gentle it almost hurts to meet.
"You really did miss me."
A quiet laugh escapes you, though your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.
"So much."
Joe doesn't tease you. Doesn't make a joke. Instead, he smiles, leaning over to press one last kiss against your forehead before settling back into the sofa beside you, your shoulders fitting together with the sort of unconscious familiarity that only comes from years of choosing the same place to come home to.
The rain taps gently against the windows, two mugs of tea steam quietly on the coffee table, and somewhere beneath the blanket, your fingers remain absent-mindedly intertwined.
Three weeks apart had taught you a hundred different ways to miss each other.
It only takes one evening to remember how easy it is not to.
Hi! Can I request a fic where Joe and reader played bf&gf on stranger things, but fell in love in real life while filming through the seasons. Now they are in an established relationship and it’s time for the cast and crew to watch the final episode of stranger things s5 at a Netflix watch party. And everyone is just really emotional and comforting each other?? I’m just really craving some fluffy Joe content rn
Love your writing btw 🫶
“the last cut”
☆ joe keery x actress!reader ☆
hi !! thank you so much for the request 🫶 sorry this took a little bit, i’ve been really stressed with school and life lately 😭 stranger things ending always make me emotional so i loved writing this one <3 hope you enjoy the joe fluff because we all need it rn !!
summary: after almost a decade of filming stranger things, the cast gathers to watch finn film the very last scene of season five. saying goodbye to the show that changed everyone’s lives isn’t easy — especially for joe and reader, who started as an on-screen couple and somehow ended up falling in love for real along the way.
word count: 1.2k
warnings: fluff, emotional moments, stranger things s5 wrap day, established relationship, crying, cast friendship, nostalgia, speeches, joe trying to hide his feelings with jokes, no use of y/n
Everyone always told you that the last day would hurt. You believed them, obviously. How could you not?
Stranger Things wasn’t just another job. It wasn’t a movie where you spent three months with people, cried at the goodbye dinner, promised to keep in touch and slowly went back to your normal life. This had been years.
Years of growing up, changing, becoming completely different people while somehow always coming back to the same place. The same sets. The same faces.
The same inside jokes. It was the place where you met your closest friends. And somehow, without planning it at all, it was the place where you met him. Joe Keery.
Which was still funny to everyone because your characters were written to fall in love before either of you admitted there was anything happening in real life.
The cast never let you forget it.
You spent months telling everyone you were “just friends” while showing up to set together every morning, stealing each other’s food during breaks, sitting beside each other when there were twenty other empty chairs. Nobody believed you. Not Millie. Not Natalia. Not even the crew.
Apparently it was difficult to convince people you weren’t in love with someone when you looked happier every single time they walked into a room.
And now, years later, Joe was standing behind you with his arms wrapped around you while you watched the final moments of Stranger Things being filmed. No more pretending. No more “just friends”.
Everyone knew. But right now nobody was teasing either of you. Because nobody was thinking about that.
Everyone was watching Finn. The basement was almost exactly how everyone remembered it.
The little details, the memories, everything that made it feel like you had gone back in time. Except you hadn’t.
Everyone was older now. The kids who started this whole thing weren’t kids anymore.
Finn wasn’t the tiny twelve-year-old boy everyone met all those years ago. He was standing there as an adult, filming the final scene of a story that changed all of your lives. And somehow that made it worse.
You could feel Joe’s chin resting lightly against your shoulder, quieter than usual.
That’s how you knew.
Joe joked about everything.
Awkward moment?
Joke.
Sad moment?
Joke.
Anything remotely emotional?
Immediately make someone laugh.
But right now he had nothing to say. Because he knew too. This was it.
You watched silently as Finn finished the scene.
Mike Wheeler, in the basement one last time. A place where everything started.
The cameras followed him as he looked back, watching Holly playing D&D.
A new beginning. A new group of kids. A story continuing without them. And then he closed the door. Silence. Nobody moved.
For a few seconds, nobody wanted to say anything because saying something made it real. Then you heard it.
“Cut.”
The word everyone had heard thousands of times before.
Except this time it was different. Because there wasn’t another take. There wasn’t another episode. There wasn’t another season. That was the last one.
“That’s a wrap on Stranger Things.” And that was when everyone broke.
The entire room exploded into applause, but it wasn’t happy applause. Not really. It was the kind where everyone was crying at the same time.
Millie covered her face immediately as Noah hugged her. Gaten was smiling, but his eyes were completely red. Caleb was trying to hold it together. Sadie was wiping her tears before someone pulled her into a hug.
And Finn just stood there for a second. Like he was trying to understand that it was actually done.
Then the Duffer brothers walked over to him and that was enough.
Everyone joined. A giant, messy group hug of people who had spent almost a decade making something together.
You didn’t even notice you were crying until Joe turned you around. “Aw,” he said softly.
You looked up at him. “What?”
“You’re crying.”
“So are you.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Joe.”
“I’m sweating from my eyes.”
You laughed even while crying. “That was terrible.”
“I’m emotionally vulnerable right now, don’t judge my jokes.” You smiled, shaking your head.
There he was. Your Joe. Still trying. But then his smile dropped a little. Because with you, he never had to pretend.
“This is weird,” he admitted quietly.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“I keep thinking we’re gonna come back.”
You understood exactly what he meant.
That after a few months everyone would get another script. Another call. Another season. Another reason to come home.
“I know.” Joe looked around the set. “I met you here.”
Your face softened. “I know.”
“That’s kind of insane.”
“You met everyone here.”
“No,” he said, looking back at you. “I mean I met you here.” And you knew what he meant.
Because Stranger Things gave him friends. A career. A million memories.
But it also gave him you.
⸻
Later that night, the sadness changed. Not disappeared. Just changed. The crying turned into laughing, music, old stories and everyone sharing memories from years ago.
The wrap party didn’t even feel like a party. It felt like a family sitting around refusing to leave. Then came the speeches. Which everyone knew would ruin them again.
The Duffers went first. They talked about creating this little show that nobody knew would become what it became. About watching everyone grow up. About how proud they were.
And then Finn got up. Everyone immediately started getting emotional again.
“Oh god,” Joe whispered beside you.
“What?”
“Finn talking is gonna destroy everyone.”
And he was right. Because it did. Finn talked about being a kid when this started. About meeting people who became family. About not really knowing who he would’ve become without all of this.
And by the end, half the room was crying again. Including Joe.
You looked at him. He noticed.
“Stop.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
You laughed softly and leaned into him.
A few more people talked after that. Memories. Thank yous. Stories.
Then Gaten grabbed the microphone. And that was when you got nervous. Because he looked directly at you and Joe.
“Oh no,” Joe whispered.
“What?”
“I know that face.”
You looked confused. “What face?”
“The ‘I’m about to embarrass Joe’ face.”
And he was right.
“Also,” Gaten said, smiling, “I feel like we need to mention that we didn’t just watch characters fall in love on this show.”
Everyone immediately reacted.
You covered your face. “No.”
Joe laughed. “No way.”
“We also had to painfully watch these two pretend they weren’t in love for way too long.”
And somehow, sitting there with everyone, it didn’t feel like the end anymore. Not completely. Because the show was ending.
But everything it gave you wasn’t. The friendships. The memories. The person sitting beside you.
Those stayed. And years ago, when you walked onto set for the first time, nervous and having no idea what was coming, you never could’ve imagined that one little show would change your entire life.
You definitely never imagined you’d leave with Joe’s hand holding yours. But you did.
And that was the best part of the story.
The part that didn’t end when someone yelled cut.
and that’s it 😭😭 honestly writing this made me so emotional because saying goodbye to stranger things feels unreal. thank you so much for the request 🫶 i’m sorry if this was shorter than what you expected, but i really wanted to focus on the little moments between them and the cast because they deserve their happy ending <3 thank you for reading and for all the support, it means a lot 💗 requests are still open btw 🤍
taglist: @mr-joel-keeny
if you’d like to be added to my taglist just send me an ask, comment or dm me and i’ll add you !! 🫶💗
Summary: After finally convincing Joe to stop fixating on the eleven years between you, you discover that some things are much easier to prove than explain.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, strangers to lovers, age gap, smut, oral sex (m receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, flirting, humour, implied alcohol consumption (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 2.5k
A/N: @downbad4bil, @joekeerysbicep, @jajabsvsjsja, @mariafer3007 @matildakissesxo, @songkangslvr - you guys asked for a pt.2 and you shall receive hehe, hope you enjoy!!
Read part 1 of twenty-three here: [twenty-three]
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Joe's key scrapes the lock twice before it catches, the metal click loud in the quiet hallway. Behind him, your breath warms the back of his neck - close enough that he can smell your perfume, something floral and clean that cuts through the stale corridor air. He pushes the door open, and you step past him into the dark flat, your fingers trailing along his arm like you're leaving a mark he'll feel later.
He drops his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door - misses, hears them clatter against the floor, bends to retrieve them with a muttered curse. By the time he straightens, you're already halfway down the hall, a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the living room curtains. He kicks off his shoes, leaves them where they fall, and follows.
The apartment smells like him. Coffee grounds and worn denim and the faint musk of a space that has seen a lot of late nights. A half-empty mug sits on top of his guitar amp, rings of dried coffee staining the wood. A leather jacket hangs over the back of a chair. Records are stacked on the floor in uneven towers, sleeves dog-eared from use, and his acoustic guitar leans against the couch like it lives there. Which it does.
You stand in the middle of it all, your silk dress catching the streetlight from the window, and you look around with an expression he can't quite read. Not judging. Not impressed. Something in between - like you're taking notes. Filing away details for later.
"It's messier than I pictured," you say, and pick up a record sleeve from the top of the nearest stack. Turn it over. Study the tracklist like it holds answers.
He rubs the back of his neck. "I was going to clean. I meant to clean."
"Don't." You look at him over your shoulder, sharp eyes catching the light, and tap the sleeve. "This one's good. Side two, third track - the bridge goes somewhere unexpected."
Joe blinks. "You know that record?"
"I know a lot of things." You set it down, turn fully to face him, and lean against the arm of his couch with a casual grace that makes his chest tighten. "Eleven years," you whisper, and your mouth curves. "The number made you panic."
The heat crawls up his neck before he can stop it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a reflex, and tries to find a response that doesn't sound defensive. "I didn't panic."
"You looked like you'd swallowed your tongue."
"I was-" He stops. Rakes a hand through his hair. "Okay. I was surprised. That's not the same thing."
You tilt your head, watching him with that unblinking attention that makes him feel seen in a way he isn't used to. "Surprised," you repeat, and the word hangs in the air between you, weighted with something softer than mockery. "That I'm twenty-three."
"That you're twenty-three." He says it flat, testing the shape of it in his mouth. It still sounds strange. Not wrong - just strange. Like a word he's mispronounced his whole life and is only just learning the right way.
You push off from the couch and walk toward him, slow, your bare feet silent on the worn floorboards. You'd kicked her heels off somewhere between the door and the living room - he hadn't even noticed. The sight of your toes against the wood, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs, does something to his brain that short-circuits language.
"Why does it matter?" you ask, stopping a foot away. Close enough that he can see the flecks of colour in your irises. Close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off your skin.
Joe lets out a breath. "It doesn't. I know it doesn't. I just-" He stops again, searching for the truer thing beneath the easy answer. "I spent the whole night thinking you were... I don't know. My age. Close to it. And then you said twenty-three, and I had to rewrite everything I'd assumed about you in about three seconds, and my brain just-" He gestures vaguely. "Stuttered."
"Rewrite everything," you repeat, and there's something careful in your voice now. "What did you have to rewrite?"
He looks at you. Really looks. At the way you hold his gaze without flinching. At the quiet confidence in your shoulders, the slight smile that suggests you already know the answer and want to hear him say it anyway.
"Nothing," he says, and the word comes out honest. "Nothing changed. That's the thing. I looked at you, and you were the same person you'd been five minutes before - funny and sharp and so cool it made my teeth hurt. The only thing that changed was a number. And I was embarrassed that it had ever mattered in the first place."
Your smile softens. Loses its edge. "That's a good answer."
"It's the truth."
"I know." You step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to touch his jaw. Your thumb traces the line of his stubble, light, barely there. "That's why it's a good answer."
He stands very still. Lets you touch him. Lets himself feel the weight of your hand, the way your fingers curl slightly against his skin, the warmth of your palm. His hands come up from his pockets, find your waist, settle there like they belong.
"I don't want you to be careful with me," you say, and your voice has gone quieter. Not nervous - intimate. Like you're letting him in on a secret. "I'm not fragile. I'm not a mistake you're making. I know what I want."
"What do you want?" The question comes out rougher than he'd intended, his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip.
You don't look away. "You. Tonight. However long you can last." A pause. "And I want you to stop thinking about the number."
He huffs a laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Easier said than done."
"Then let me help." You tilt your chin up, your lips brushing his as you speak. "Every time you think about it, I'm going to kiss you until you forget."
"That's a lot of kissing."
"Good."
And then you do.
The kiss is softer than the one on the balcony - slower, more deliberate. You take your time, your mouth moving against his with a patience that makes his pulse thud low in his gut. Your fingers slide into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, and you pull him closer like you're claiming something.
Joe lets you. His hands tighten on your waist, dragging up your back, finding the bare skin above the zipper of your dress. You shiver under his touch, a small, involuntary thing that he feels through his fingertips, and the sound you make - a soft, broken hum - undoes something in his chest.
You pull back just far enough to breathe. "Better?"
"Getting there."
You laugh, low and warm, and kiss him again. This time there are teeth. This time your tongue finds his, and his hands find the zipper, and the dress slips down your shoulders like it'd been waiting for permission.
Joe breaks the kiss to look at you. The streetlight paints you in silver and shadow, your hair falling loose, your lips red and swollen, your body bare to the waist except for the dress pooled at your hips. You watch him watch you, and there's no shyness in your face. Only patience. Only want.
"You're beautiful," he says, and the words feel inadequate. Flat. Like trying to describe the ocean with a single word.
You reach for the hem of his shirt. "Come here."
He lets you pull it over his head, lets you press your palms flat against his chest, lets you trace the lines of his collarbones like you're memorising them. Your hands are cool against his skin, and when they slide lower, over his stomach, he sucks in a breath.
"You're tense," you murmur.
"I'm trying to be chill."
"Stop trying." You drop to your knees.
The world narrows to that - you on the floor in front of him, your hands finding his belt, your eyes never leaving his. You work the buckle with practised ease, pulling it free, and the sound of the metal sliding through the loops is the loudest thing in the room.
Joe watches you. Can't look away. Your fingers find his button, his zipper, and when you free him from his jeans and boxers, the air hits his skin, and he hisses through his teeth.
You don't rush. You wrap your hand around him, slow, feeling the weight of him, and your thumb traces the length of him once, twice, before you lean in.
The first touch of your tongue is electric. A hot, wet stroke from base to tip that makes his hips jerk forward before he can stop them. You smile against his skin, a small, secret thing, and then your mouth closes around him, and he forgets how to breathe.
You know what you're doing. That's evident in the first thirty seconds - the way you take him deep, hold him there, let him feel the back of your throat before you pull back. The way your tongue curls, the way your hand works the part your mouth can't reach, the steady, unhurried rhythm that says you have all the time in the world and you're going to use every second.
Joe's hand finds your hair, not guiding, just holding. Just needing something to anchor himself to. You hum around him, the vibration travelling through his cock and up his spine, and his knees go weak.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Where did you-"
You pull off, just enough to speak, your lips still brushing the tip. "Told you. I know a lot of things." And then you take him again, deeper, and the words die in his throat.
The room is warm. The radiator ticks. A car passes somewhere outside, headlights sweeping across the ceiling, and none of it matters. There is only your mouth, your hands, the wet sound of you working him, the growing pressure coiling in his gut like a spring wound too tight.
He feels the edge approaching, feels the telltale clench in his thighs, and he tightens his grip in your hair. "I'm close."
You don't stop. If anything, you speed up, your hand moving faster, your tongue finding the spot that makes him see stars.
"Hey-" Joe pulls back, the loss of your mouth a shock, and you look up at him with those bright eyes, your lips slick and swollen, your breathing ragged. "Not yet," he manages. "I want to be inside you."
You rise to your feet, slow, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and the look you give him is pure challenge. "Then take me to bed."
He doesn't make it to the bedroom. The couch is closer, and the wall is closer than that, and when he presses you against the nearest flat surface - the wall beside the window, the cold plaster shocking your skin - you gasp and wrap your legs around his waist.
The dress is gone completely now, a puddle of silk on the floor, and you're bare beneath him, your skin hot where he touches you, your hips rocking against his with a desperate, wordless rhythm. He finds you wet with his fingers, slick and ready, and the sound you make when he pushes inside you - a sharp, broken cry - is the best thing he's heard all night.
"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against the wall, your eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck, Joe."
He buries himself deep, feels you clench around him, feels the heat of you pulling him in, and for a long moment he just stays there, letting himself feel it. The weight of you. The truth about you. The fact that you're here, in his arms, in his apartment, choosing him.
Then you tighten your legs around him and say, "Move," and he does.
The rhythm starts slow - deep, grinding thrusts that make you gasp with every push, your nails digging into his shoulders, your breath hot and uneven against his neck. He watches your face, the way her lips part, the way your brow furrows, the way you bite your lower lip when he hits a particular angle.
"There," you whisper. "Right there."
Joe shifts his hips, angling himself differently, and your whole body jerks. Your cry is loud enough that he is suddenly, acutely aware of the thin walls, the neighbours, the whole building probably hearing exactly what you're both doing. He doesn't care. Couldn't care less. Not with you like this, molten and trembling in his arms.
He drives into you harder, faster, his hand finding your throat - not squeezing, just resting there, a point of contact, a claim. Your eyes fly open, meet his, and the trust in them undoes him.
"Come for me," he breathes, his voice rough, his thumb pressing lightly against your clit. "I want to feel it."
You do. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, your body arching off the wall, your cunt clenching around him so tight he sees white. You gasp his name, once, twice, and the sound of it - broken and raw and real - pushes him over the edge after you.
He cums inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged, his whole body shaking with the force of it. You hold him through it, your fingers threading through his hair, your legs still wrapped around his waist, your mouth pressing soft, lazy kisses to his jaw.
Minutes pass. Or hours. He loses track.
Eventually, he pulls out slowly, and you wince slightly at the loss. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth, and you laugh against his lips - a quiet, breathless sound that makes his chest ache.
"Well," you say, your voice hoarse. "That was worth the hesitation."
He laughs, too, and carries you to the bedroom.
You both land on his unmade bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets, the moonlight falling across your skin in pale stripes, and you curl into his side like you've been doing it for years. Your head finds the hollow of his shoulder. Your hand finds his chest. Your breath evens out, slow and warm, against his skin.
He stares at the ceiling. Feels the weight of you. Feels the silence settle around you both, comfortable and full.
"Joe." Your voice is soft, almost asleep.
"Yeah?"
"You stopped thinking about it."
He smiles, his hand tracing lazy circles on your back. "Yeah. I guess I did."
You hum, satisfied, and press a kiss to his chest. "Good. Now shut up and hold me."
childhood enemy!gator tillman x reader - w.c. 16.6k
summary: when your dad takes off for a weekend fishing trip with his friend roy, he enlists the help of his son gator to keep you in line while they're away. unfortunately for you, gator might be the one person you hate enough to get grounded for.
tags/warnings: childhood enemy!gator x reader, no use of y/n, childhood/family friends (but you hate each other), enemies to lovers, reader and gator are 19, mentions of domestic violence, mean!possessive!douchebag!gator, hate sex, manhandling, play fighting but kind of not play (scratching, wrestling, etc), slut-shaming, degradation, praise, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, maybe elements of cnc if you squint?, cannot stress enough gator is mean in this
author's note: based on this request from a while back! i'm so proud of this and if no one reads it i will cry. please check the tags!
---
You stand in your driveway watching your dad pack up his gear, your arms crossed and your face set in a scowl.
“Don’t give me that look,” he calls to you, loading his tacklebox into the bed of his behemoth truck. “You made your damn bed.”
You don’t argue back, already sensing how futile it would be. Your father is many things, but unpredictable is not one of them. And now that he’s made up his mind about how you’re going to be spending the weekend while he’s out fishing with Roy Tillman, you know there’s no changing it.
“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”
Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son.
As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter.
The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.
Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him.
Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you.
You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch.
Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”
Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.
Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”
“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.
Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”
The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.
Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.
You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.
The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.
He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks.
He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating.
In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.
Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.
And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him.
That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.
As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you.
Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.
You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug.
“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”
You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”
“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”
You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”
Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.
“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you.
You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”
“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”
“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.
“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”
Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”
He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage.
“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”
Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”
You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”
“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up.
“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand.
Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”
Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.
Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him.
Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window.
Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer.
“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again.
Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!”
His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him.
The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”
“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.
“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”
Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.
“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”
You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms.
“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”
He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying.
Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions.
“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him.
Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you.
Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him.
“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming.
Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?”
The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs.
Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”
“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”
He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”
You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.
A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly.
Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.
You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch.
Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”
“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”
“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”
You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”
Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”
You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”
“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”
You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”
You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him.
A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.
You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed.
You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.
Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward.
Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter.
“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”
Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”
Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”
“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”
“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”
He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”
You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks.
“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.
“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”
“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”
Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”
You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”
Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.
“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.
Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”
“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.
You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."
“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”
“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”
Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”
Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it.
“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.
“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”
“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”
Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”
His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”
The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always.
His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”
His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.
Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone.
You don’t care. You’re already gone.
It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears.
“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling.
Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”
“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly.
He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it.
You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.
“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”
“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him.
He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”
“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”
His chuckle echoes down the hall.
The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready.
Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.
“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.
“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.
You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.
You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.
The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.
“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.
You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”
“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”
You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”
He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”
When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh.
You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”
“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.
“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him.
Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”
“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”
“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”
“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.
“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”
“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”
Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”
“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”
“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”
“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.
“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”
“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”
“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.
Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”
“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”
“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”
“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.
“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”
“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.
“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”
You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.
“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”
For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”
“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”
“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”
“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.
“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”
The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.
Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life.
And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.
The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.
And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered.
Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.
With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath.
His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen.
Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh.
Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door.
You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes.
It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid.
After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape.
Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor.
You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened.
Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of.
Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”
Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately.
A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.
Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.
He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.
Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.
She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”
You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family.
But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.
“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”
Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator.
He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again.
When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”
“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.
You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.
The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up.
“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”
“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly.
“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”
“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”
He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”
“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”
“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”
You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”
“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.
“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”
You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”
“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”
“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”
He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”
“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”
“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”
You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”
Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.
“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”
Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.
“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”
He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”
“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”
“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”
“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”
Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”
“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.
Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”
You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision.
You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand.
So, that night, you don’t go back to your room.
You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.
You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.
Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.
“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.
“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”
You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.”
Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.
Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”
“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”
Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”
You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.
When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”
“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”
“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”
“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.
“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.
“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”
“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.
“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”
With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.
Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat.
It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.
Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore.
You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you.
You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won.
It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you.
You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.
You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory.
The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces.
And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off.
The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you.
Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it.
You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips.
You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.
Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth.
His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it.
Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs.
Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”
“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”
“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”
You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”
His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands.
“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there.
“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature.
“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”
You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.
When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”
“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”
With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”
“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch.
Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”
“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway.
“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest.
You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”
“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?”
Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”
You give him a look. “Excuse me?”
“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.”
“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”
“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you.
“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.
Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.
Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”
“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”
Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?”
You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”
He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”
“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.
Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”
“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.
“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp.
Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.
“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak.
“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.”
That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting.
Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.
Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”
Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it.
His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”
His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.
His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”
The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.
And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt.
He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks.
“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”
“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”
“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”
“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”
Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low.
Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”
You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”
At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips.
It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing.
As in most things, Gator feels different.
It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face.
Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”
“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed.
“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.
You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered.
“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”
“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows.
“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”
You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”
He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”
Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts.
“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”
The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.
“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”
You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”
You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”
“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.
“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”
Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.
“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”
“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”
Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again.
“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.
“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself.
Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”
Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”
“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”
“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.
“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”
“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”
“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.
“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.
“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up.
“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”
“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.
“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.
Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.
In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.
“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.
You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.
“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.
“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”
“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”
“Gator—“
“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”
He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.
Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together.
“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.
You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”
You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”
“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”
“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.
Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”
You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”
Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”
“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”
“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”
“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly.
He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”
“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.
“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly.
You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”
“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly.
“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”
“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”
“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”
“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.”
“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.
“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”
Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”
He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”
“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”
“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.
Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”
His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.
Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him.
“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you.
“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”
You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation.
Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”
“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut.
He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”
With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch.
“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”
You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain.
“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”
You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again.
A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring.
“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”
“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants.
He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”
“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.
“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”
Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”
Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again.
When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”
“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”
You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.
“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”
You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.
The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago.
“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”
“Shut up,” you breathe.
“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”
“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”
“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”
“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”
He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.”
You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”
He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”
“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”
“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”
“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.
“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”
Gator groans.
“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”
“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.
You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”
“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”
“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.
“Yeah, baby?”
You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.
“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.
You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours.
“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back.
He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”
Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”
His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.”
You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”
“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”
“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.
Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”
“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”
Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–
You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you.
He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion.
Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp.
For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too.
Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight.
Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum.
Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.
He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.
“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.
He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.”
You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”
Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”
You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”
“I am,” he insists, voice low.
The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off.
“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe.
“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”
“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”
You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”
“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”
You huff. “No.”
“Lunch.”
“Gator—“
“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”
“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.
Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”
“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”
“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.
“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.
He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."
You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”
“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”
“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”
He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”
You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.
Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”
“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”
“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”
You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”
“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.
“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”
Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”
“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”
“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.
The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”
You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.
You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.
When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”
“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.
“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”
You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”
“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”
“I’m not–”
“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”
You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”
Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“How do you know?” you press him.
“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”
You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.
She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?
Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”
Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you.
“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”
“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming.
He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”
You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.
“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”
You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat.
Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation.
So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”
hey there! Thank you for opening requests up. Absolutely no pressure to do it at all if you’re busy. And also if it’s not for you. Was just an idea that popped into my head.
I was thinking about a fic from Joe’s pov where he’s on a night out with his bandmates while on tour and loses them. He’s left his phone in the hotel room because we all know he hates phones, so has no way to contact them. Bumps into a lady in a similar situation and they try to help each other out but somewhere along the way just end up having lots of fun, both feel a connection and wind up back at his hotel room. He forgets to ask for her number and the next morning she’s gone. He needs to find her and questions if it was all just a dream etc.
oh this is SUCH a lovely idea
this request is giving me MAJOR 'before sunrise' vibes, a movie i'm beyond obsessed with. i'm an absolute sucker for stories where two people are only supposed to be passing through each other's lives and then accidentally become important, and joe getting separated from his bandmates and finding somebody who's just as lost as he is feels very him somehow
i also love the idea of writing from joe's perspective for this one, especially the absolute spiral he'd have after waking up and realising he forgot to get her number like an idiot 😭
thank you so much for sending this in lovely!! i had a lot of fun with this one <3
city of strangers
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: Joe loses his bandmates on a night out while on tour, accidentally falls for a woman in a similar predicament, and then wakes up with no way of ever seeing her again.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, strangers to lovers, meet-cute, implied sexual content, one night stand that isn't really a one night stand, mutual pining, soft intimacy, kissing, tour life, idiot joe keery, hopeless romantic joe keery (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C:5.7k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Joe loses the band somewhere around midnight.
To this day, he couldn't tell you exactly how it happens.
One moment he's following the others through a crowded bar, somebody's hand briefly landing on his shoulder as they weave through a sea of strangers, somebody else shouting something about finding another place before last orders. The music is loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards, the kind of loud where conversations become half lip-reading and half blind optimism. Joe remembers laughing at something. Remembers turning around to answer somebody. Remembers getting distracted for approximately ten seconds.
And then they're gone.
Not vanished dramatically. Not kidnapped. Not swallowed by the earth.
Just... gone.
The sort of disappearance that's probably very easy to explain if you're sober and paying attention.
Unfortunately, Joe is neither of those things.
He finds himself standing on a busy pavement staring at a group of strangers walking away and waiting for one of them to suddenly turn into a familiar face. None of them do.
For a few seconds he simply stands there.
Then he turns around.
Nothing.
Checks behind him.
Still nothing.
A couple walk past holding hands. Somebody nearly crashes into him while looking at a map. A taxi crawls through the street with music blasting from its open windows.
No band, no friends, no familiar faces.
Just Joe. Alone.
"Well," he says aloud, mostly because nobody is around to stop him. "That's not ideal."
His first instinct is to call somebody.
His second instinct is remembering that he cannot.
The realisation arrives slowly enough to hurt.
His phone is sitting on the bedside table in his hotel room, exactly where he'd left it several hours earlier after deciding he didn't want to spend the evening carrying it around.
At the time, it had felt liberating. Refreshing. Like he was embracing spontaneity.
Now it feels like one of the stupidest decisions he's made in recent memory.
Joe immediately checks his pockets anyway.
Left pocket.
Empty.
Right pocket.
Also empty.
For a brief, hopeful moment he checks again, as though a phone might have spontaneously materialised there out of pity.
It hasn't.
"Great."
The city continues around him completely indifferent to his suffering.
Music spills from open doorways. Laughter echoes from somewhere further down the street. Taxi lights drift through the darkness like fireflies. People move with purpose, heading somewhere, meeting somebody, existing within plans that apparently make sense.
Joe, meanwhile, has absolutely none.
He starts walking. Mostly because standing still feels unproductive. Also because there's a small possibility the band is somewhere nearby and he'll stumble across them if he wanders around long enough.
Twenty minutes later, he's forced to admit that this strategy has achieved remarkably little.
If anything, he's managed to become more lost. The streets all look vaguely familiar without actually being familiar. Every turn seems to lead to another bar, another restaurant, another cluster of people enjoying their evening considerably more than he is.
Joe is halfway through contemplating whether he can reasonably spend the rest of the night living outside a kebab shop when he hears somebody swear. A quiet, exhausted mutter carrying the unmistakable energy of somebody having a very specific and deeply annoying problem.
He glances up automatically.
You're standing outside a closed convenience store a few metres ahead, staring into your handbag with the expression of somebody actively considering setting fire to it.
Joe keeps walking at first.
Then you sighs heavily, the sort of sigh that sounds completely defeated.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The words leave your mouth just as you pull something from the depths of your bag. Or attempt to. Whatever you're looking for clearly isn't there.
Joe laughs unintentionally, the sound escaping before he can stop it.
Your head snaps up immediately, and for a moment you simply stare at one another. Joe raises both hands in surrender.
"Sorry," he says quickly. "That sounded way meaner than I meant it."
Your eyes narrow, suspicious.
"You laughing at my misery?"
"A little."
The suspicion deepens. "Rude."
"A little rude."
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and Joe feels something inside him immediately relax. Because your smile is small and reluctant, and trying very hard not to exist.
And somehow, despite the fact that you've known each other for approximately fifteen seconds, he already wants to see it again.
Joe smiles back.
And just like that, something shifts.
Not all at once. Just enough that a strange city suddenly feels a little less lonely than it had thirty seconds earlier.
As it turns out, you're lost too.
Not in exactly the same way as Joe.
Arguably in a worse way.
At least Joe knows where he's sleeping tonight. You, meanwhile, appear to be operating entirely on bad luck and increasingly questionable decision-making.
The explanation arrives in pieces.
Your phone died sometime earlier in the evening. The charger is back at your friend's flat. Unfortunately, you don't actually know the address of said flat because you'd let your maps app do all the thinking for her. Even more unfortunately, your friend's phone number exists exclusively inside the now-deceased phone. Which means you currently have no charger, no address, no phone number, no way of contacting anybody, and apparently no plan whatsoever.
Joe laughs so hard he has to lean against the nearest wall.
Not because it's funny.
Okay, a little because it's funny.
Mostly because it's comforting to discover somebody else is having just as terrible a night as he is.
"You too?"
Your narrow your eyes. "What do you mean me too?"
Joe straightens slightly. "I lost my band."
For a moment you simply stare at him, blinking, trying to process the sentence.
Then, "You lost multiple people."
Joe points at you.
"Hey, I don't know how it happened."
Your expression remains deeply unconvinced.
"How do you lose an entire band?"
"I genuinely don't know."
"How many people?"
Joe names a number.
Your jaw drops. "You lost all of them?"
"Apparently."
"At the same time?"
"That part was unintentional."
For a second, you just look at him.
Then you start laughing - proper laughing - the kind that takes over completely. One hand pressed against your stomach, shoulders shaking, head tipping forward slightly as you try and fail to regain control.
Joe immediately starts laughing, too. Partly because your laugh is infectious. Partly because hearing the story back through somebody else's ears makes him realise how ridiculous it sounds.
Standing outside a closed convenience store in the middle of the night, both stranded for completely avoidable reasons, you look less like two competent adults and more like a cautionary tale.
Eventually, you wipe at the corner of one eye. "Oh, my God."
"I know."
"No, because that's actually insane."
"I know."
"You lost an entire band."
Joe groans, and somehow that only makes you laugh harder.
Twenty minutes later, you're sitting opposite one another in a twenty-four-hour diner sharing chips and attempting to solve each other's problems.
Neither of you succeeds.
The chips are excellent, though.
The diner itself is exactly the sort of place that only exists after midnight. Bright lights, slightly sticky tables, coffee that probably qualifies as industrial strength, and a handful of exhausted staff members who have long since stopped questioning why strange people keep wandering in at ridiculous hours.
Outside, the city continues moving.
Inside, time seems to slow down.
Joe has no idea how you end up staying that long.
One moment you're discussing practical solutions, the next you're ordering more chips. Then another round of drinks. Then somehow an hour has disappeared.
The conversation starts sensibly enough. Names. Where you're both from. Why you're both in the city. What you're both supposed to be doing tomorrow morning.
Joe learns you're visiting friends. You learn he's on tour. You somehow manage not to make that weird. Which is refreshing.
The further into the night you get, however, the less practical the conversation becomes.
Favourite films. Worst jobs. The most embarrassing things you've each ever done in public. Childhood ambitions. The strange disappointment of becoming an adult and discovering nobody knows what they're doing. At one point, you spend twenty minutes discussing the weirdest thing you've ever witnessed in an airport. At another, Joe finds himself explaining an irrational childhood fear he'd completely forgotten existed until that exact moment.
The strangest part is how easy it feels.
Because it should feel strange. You're strangers. You met less than two hours ago. By all reasonable standards, this conversation should contain at least some awkwardness.
Instead it unfolds with the effortless intimacy that sometimes appears between people who have absolutely nothing to lose. Nobody is trying to impress anybody, nobody is pretending, nobody is performing some polished version of themselves. There's a freedom in that. An honesty. The kind that becomes possible when there are no expectations attached to the outcome.
Joe finds himself saying things he hasn't told people in years. Nothing dramatic, nothing life-changing, just small truths. The sort that usually stay buried beneath everyday conversation.
And you do the same.
The night stretches on around you. The diner grows quieter, staff change shifts, and the city outside becomes darker, then softer.
At some point, Joe notices that he's stopped thinking about the band entirely. Stopped worrying about his missing phone. Stopped caring about any of the problems that had felt so important a few hours earlier.
Because somewhere between the chips and the coffee and the conversation, something unexpected has happened.
He's having fun. Actual fun.
The kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that makes you glance at the clock and realise three hours have disappeared without permission.
And every time you laugh, every time you look up at him across the table with that growing familiarity in your eyes, Joe finds himself hoping the night isn't quite finished with them yet.
At some point, you stop trying to solve the problem.
Joe couldn't tell you exactly when it happens.
One moment you're still discussing practical solutions, debating the merits of borrowing chargers from strangers and trying to remember whether either of you has memorised a single phone number since 2008. The next, neither of you seems particularly interested anymore.
The phones become irrelevant, the missing band becomes irrelevant. The dead battery, the forgotten address, the increasingly questionable life choices that brought you here in the first place. All of it slowly drifts into the background.
Not because the problems disappear, but because neither of you particularly wants the night to end.
Joe realises this somewhere in the middle of a story about Rome. You're halfway through explaining how you'd somehow managed to get separated from an entire tour group and accidentally spend three hours walking in the wrong direction when he catches himself smiling.
Not at the story - at you. The way your hands move when you talk, the way you keep laughing before reaching the punchline, the tiny crease that appears beside your eyes whenever you're genuinely amused by something.
And suddenly Joe has a deeply unpleasant realisation.
He's in trouble. Real trouble. Not dramatic trouble. Not life-ruining trouble. The quieter kind that arrives disguised as laughter and slowly makes itself at home before you realise what's happening. The kind where somebody you've known for only a few hours somehow already feels important.
By the time you eventually leave the diner, the city feels different, feels softer. The streets are quieter now, most of the evening crowds having disappeared hours earlier. Traffic has thinned, and the noise has faded. Everything seems to exist beneath a strange layer of calm that only appears in cities during the early hours of the morning.
Neither of you are ready to say goodnight. Neither of you acknowledge this.
Instead you buy takeaway coffees from a place that's somehow still open and continue walking. The coffee is terrible, and Joe isn't entirely convinced either of you actually wanted one, but holding a warm cup gives you an excuse to keep moving, an excuse to keep talking, an excuse not to acknowledge that neither of you has any real reason to still be here.
By two in the morning, you're wandering aimlessly through streets neither of you knows particularly well, following whichever route looks interesting. By three, you're sitting on a stone wall overlooking the river, watching reflections shimmer across the dark water while passing boats drift slowly beneath the bridges.
The city seems smaller somehow from here. More intimate, like the rest of the world has temporarily gone to sleep and left them behind.
The conversation changes again. Joe doesn't notice it happening immediately, only that somewhere along the way, you stop discussing favourite films and embarrassing childhood stories. The topics become quieter, more personal. Family, fear the strange loneliness that sometimes exists even when your life is objectively going well, the uncomfortable feeling of getting older and realising your parents were making everything up as they went along, too.
The conversation isn't heavy - not exactly - but it matters.
It's the sort of conversation people usually save for much later. Weeks later, months later. Not four hours after meeting.
And yet somehow it feels natural, easy.
Joe finds himself telling you things he normally avoids talking about. Not because they're secrets, but because most conversations never reach the point where they become relevant.
You do the same.
The honesty between you feels almost accidental, like neither of you intended to reveal this much of yourselves and then somehow forgot to stop.
At one point, you ask him a question, and he realises he's answering before he's even decided whether he should. At another, he catches you watching him with a softness in your expression that makes his chest ache slightly.
The worst part is that he's starting to understand exactly what's happening.
He's starting to like you.
Not in the abstract way people talk about attraction. Not in the fleeting, holiday-romance way that exists purely because circumstances are unusual.
He likes you.
Likes talking to you, likes making you laugh, likes the way you tilt your head when you're listening, likes the way you remember tiny details from stories he'd told hours earlier, likes the fact that you somehow manage to make silence feel comfortable instead of awkward.
And every time he thinks about it, the same thought keeps appearing immediately afterwards.
This is temporary. The knowledge lingers at the edge of everything. Neither of you says it aloud, and neither of you needs to. The night has an ending. Morning will arrive eventually, friends will be found, phones will be charged, and lives will resume. Whatever strange little bubble they've accidentally created for themselves will disappear.
Joe stops checking the time entirely. In fact, he deliberately avoids looking. Because every minute feels valuable now.
Every laugh. Every story. Every time you smile at him across the darkness.
And somewhere between the river and the next cup of coffee, Joe realises that for the first time all night, he's no longer worried about finding the band.
He's worried about saying goodbye.
When you finally end up back at his hotel, it feels less like a decision and more like the inevitable destination of a conversation neither of you has been able to bring to an end.
Neither of you suggests it outright. Neither of you plans it.
At some point, you're simply standing in the lobby together, exchanging a glance that lasts a second too long, both of you visibly aware that dawn is approaching and that neither of you has figured out how to say goodnight yet.
The lift ride is strangely quiet.
The easy rhythm that's carried them through the entire night hasn't disappeared, but something has shifted beneath it. A new awareness, a nervousness that hadn't existed before. For the first time since you met, Joe finds himself overthinking.
The hotel room feels unexpectedly small when he opens the door.
He flicks on a lamp.
The city glows beyond the windows in soft golds and distant reds, headlights moving far below like slow rivers of light. Everything feels muted up here, removed from the noise and movement of the streets you'd spent hours wandering.
For a moment, neither of you moves very far inside.
You stand near the window, and Joe drops his room key onto the desk.
The silence stretches, comfortable, fragile, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.
Then you laugh softly, and the sound catches him off guard. Not because it's loud, but because it sounds nervous.
"I should probably go."
Joe looks up. The words are obviously true, which is probably why neither of you believes them.
"Probably."
Your smile grows. "So helpful."
"I try."
Neither of you moves. Neither of you reaches for the door.
The city continues glowing outside the windows, the room remains stubbornly quiet around you, and somewhere in that silence, the distance between you starts to disappear.
Joe would spend an embarrassing amount of time afterwards trying to remember who kissed who first.
The truth is that he never figures it out.
One second, you're standing on the opposite side of the room, smiling at him like he's said something ridiculous. The next, you're close enough that he can see the tiny details he'd spent all night noticing from across tables, streets and river walls.
The space between you simply vanishes, like neither of them ever intended to keep it. Your hand finds the back of his neck, and Joe immediately forgets every coherent thought he'd ever had.
"Hi," you murmur against his mouth.
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"Hi."
The reply feels spectacularly inadequate.
Then again, so does every thought currently passing through his brain.
The room seems smaller now. Not physically - something else. Something to do with the way you're looking at him. The way neither of you can quite stop smiling. The way every time you pull apart, you immediately drift together again.
Conversation becomes increasingly difficult after that.
Not impossible, just interrupted frequently. A sentence here, a kiss there, another laugh, another moment where you look at each other as though you're both trying to figure out how this happened.
Hours earlier, you'd been strangers. Now Joe can't remember what the night felt like before you were part of it.
Somewhere along the way, you end up sitting together on the edge of the bed.
Then lying down.
Then talking again.
The conversation never really stops. It simply changes shape. Threads of stories winding between touches and smiles and half-finished thoughts. Nothing about it feels rushed, and nothing feels reckless. If anything, the overwhelming feeling is tenderness. Like both of you understand how temporary this should be and are quietly trying to stretch every moment a little further anyway.
Joe can't remember ever feeling so aware of another person. Every smile, every glance, every time you laugh into a kiss, every time she says his name.
The hours slip past unnoticed. The city outside grows quieter, the spaces between conversations become softer, and eventually the talking gives way to kissing again.
Accompanied by the sort of silence that only exists when two people have stopped pretending they aren't drawn to each other.
Neither of you rushes it. There is no urgency to any of it, no sense of trying to get somewhere.
Just Joe's hand finding yours beneath the sheets. Your fingers brushing through his hair. The steady, growing certainty that neither of you wants the night to end with a goodbye at the hotel door.
Everything unfolds naturally after that. Slowly, tenderly, like both of you are trying to memorise every second.
The hours you've spent talking seem to linger between every touch, every glance, every kiss pressed against warm skin, every quiet smile exchanged in the darkness.
By the time you finally sleep together, it feels less like a spontaneous decision and more like the continuation of a conversation you've been having all night. A conversation that started outside a closed convenience store and somehow led them here.
Later, afterwards, you're tangled together beneath the sheets, limbs intertwined, neither of you entirely willing to admit how much you already like the other. You trace absent patterns across his chest while he listens to you talk about something he can no longer properly remember, too distracted by the simple fact that you're still here.
For a while, neither of you seems interested in sleeping.
Neither of you seems interested in saying goodbye, either.
Eventually, though, exhaustion wins. The city continues glowing beyond the curtains, your conversation dissolves into comfortable silence, and sometime before dawn, you finally drift off beside one another.
Later, much later, when the room has fallen silent and the only light comes from the city beyond the curtains, Joe lies awake for a while listening to you breathing beside him.
He should sleep - he knows that - morning is coming whether he likes it or not.
But every time he closes his eyes, a single thought keeps returning.
He doesn't want this to be the only time.
For the first time all night, the approaching morning feels less like a certainty and more like a deadline.
And lying there beside you, staring up at the ceiling while the city sleeps outside, Joe finds himself wishing for something he hadn't even considered a few hours ago.
More time.
When Joe wakes up, his first thought is that the room is too quiet.
His second is that you're probably in the bathroom.
The assumption arrives easily enough, naturally enough, the sort of thing his half-asleep brain accepts without question as he blinks up at the unfamiliar ceiling and tries to remember what city he's currently in.
For a few seconds, he simply lies there, listening, waiting.
The events of the previous night drift back gradually. The diner, the river, the endless conversations, the way you'd laughed at him, the way you'd looked at him.
A smile tugs briefly at the corner of his mouth.
Then he notices something.
The room isn't just quiet. It's empty.
The realisation arrives slowly. Slowly enough that he initially ignores it.
The bathroom light isn't on. The shower isn't running. There are no footsteps. No movement. No sounds at all.
Joe pushes himself upright.
"Hey?"
Nothing, his voice sounds strangely loud in the silence.
A faint knot begins forming somewhere beneath his ribs. Still half convinced he's worrying about nothing, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and checks the bathroom.
Empty.
The knot tightens.
He checks again anyway. Because maybe he missed something. Maybe she's-
No.
Empty.
Completely.
Joe stands there for a moment staring at the room as though another person might suddenly materialise through sheer force of optimism.
Then he walks back into the bedroom.
The bed is exactly as he'd left it - almost - except for one thing.
Your side is empty, and the sheets have already cooled. Whatever time you'd left, it wasn't recently.
Something cold settles heavily in his stomach.
"No."
The word leaves him quietly, almost involuntarily, as though saying it softly might somehow make it less true.
But the room remains stubbornly unchanged.
You're gone.
And suddenly Joe finds himself replaying the previous night at an alarming speed.
Every conversation, every laugh, every story.
Searching for details he'd somehow missed, searching for information he should've asked for. Information any remotely sensible person would've asked for. Your number, your surname, literally anything useful.
Instead he'd spent an entire night talking to the most interesting woman he'd met in years and somehow failed to collect a single practical detail about your existence.
No phone number, no social media, no surname, no way of finding you. Nothing.
Joe closes his eyes. Then immediately opens them again because unfortunately reality hasn't improved.
"You're an idiot."
The verdict arrives quickly. Decisively and entirely deserved.
He falls backwards onto the mattress and stares up at the ceiling, one arm thrown across his face as the full magnitude of his stupidity settles over him.
Because losing the band? Fine. Annoying and embarrassing, but ultimately survivable.
Losing you? That feels considerably worse.
The truly frustrating part is that he'd known.
Sometime around three in the morning, sitting beside the river while you told him a story he'd already forgotten the details of because he'd been too busy watching you smile, he'd known this wasn't just some random night.
He'd known you mattered.
And somehow, despite that, he'd still managed to wake up with absolutely no way of ever seeing you again.
For several long seconds he simply lies there staring at the ceiling.
Then he groans loudly into his hands.
Because there are mistakes.
And then there is accidentally falling for someone and forgetting to ask for their bloody number.
Even by Joe Keery standards, that's impressive.
The band is deeply unhelpful when Joe finally reunites with them the following morning.
Not immediately. At first they're simply relieved he's alive.
There is a brief period - roughly thirty seconds long - during which everyone is focused on practical matters. Where he'd gone, whether he'd made it back safely, why he'd apparently vanished into the night without warning.
Then Joe makes the mistake of explaining what actually happened. And everything rapidly deteriorates.
"You met a girl."
Joe closes his eyes. "Yes."
The entire group immediately exchanges the sort of look that makes him regret every decision he's made over the past twelve hours.
"And spent the whole night with her."
"Yes."
Another pause. Longer this time. Dangerously longer.
"And forgot to get her number."
Joe drops his head onto the hotel lobby table. "Yes."
The silence that follows feels almost theatrical, like everyone is taking a moment to fully appreciate the scale of the disaster before responding.
Finally somebody speaks.
"That is genuinely the dumbest thing you've ever done."
The worst part is that Joe can't even defend himself. Not a little bit, not even for the sake of pride.
Because they're right. It is spectacularly, catastrophically, undeniably stupid.
Joe groans into his folded arms.
"Thank you. That's very helpful."
"It's not supposed to be helpful."
"It's supposed to be accurate."
"It is accurate."
Another voice joins in.
"You spent an entire night talking to her."
"Yes."
"You went back to your hotel with her."
"Yes."
"You slept with her."
Joe immediately regrets giving these people information. "Yes."
"And somehow failed to learn anything useful."
The truth hurts. Mostly because it's true.
"Look," Joe says, sitting upright again. "In my defence-"
"There is absolutely no defence."
"None."
"Zero."
Joe hates all of them. Deeply. Passionately.
Unfortunately, they're also completely correct. Because the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. Not just because he forgot your number, but because he forgot everything. No surname, no social media, no details that might actually help him find you.
The previous night had felt so easy, so natural, like there would automatically be another conversation afterwards. Like another morning together was guaranteed.
Neither of you had acted like people counting down to a goodbye. And maybe that's why it never occurred to him. Maybe some part of him had simply assumed he'd see you again.
Now, sitting in a hotel lobby surrounded by people openly mocking him, that assumption feels increasingly ridiculous.
The conversation eventually moves on. The band starts discussing schedules and flights and whatever else they're supposed to be doing that day.
Joe nods along where appropriate. Pretends to listen. Contributes the occasional comment. But his mind keeps drifting elsewhere.
Back to the diner, the river, the way you'd laughed, the way you'd looked at him across the table like you'd known him longer than a few hours. The memory feels strangely fragile now. Like something he imagined rather than something that actually happened.
As the day stretches on, that feeling only gets worse. Every hour seems to push the previous night further away. The details begin softening around the edges. The city changes, the daylight arrives, reality resumes.
And slowly, what had felt vivid and immediate starts taking on the quality of a dream. A really good dream. The sort that feels perfectly real while it's happening and then impossible to explain afterwards.
By lunchtime he catches himself wondering whether he'd exaggerated the connection in his head.
By mid-afternoon he's replaying entire conversations just to reassure himself they actually happened.
By evening, sitting alone in another hotel room in another city, he finds himself staring at the ceiling and trying to remember the exact sound of your laugh.
That's when the possibility finally settles in. Heavy, unwelcome, entirely plausible.
He might never see you again.
The thought shouldn't bother him this much. Objectively speaking, it shouldn't bother him at all. People meet strangers every day, people have brief connections. Good nights, funny stories.
Then they move on. That's normal. That's life.
Except every time Joe tries telling himself that, something inside him immediately rejects it.
Because this hadn't felt normal, and you hadn't felt temporary.
The problem is that none of that changes reality.
Reality is a dead phone, a forgotten surname, and a woman who seems to have vanished somewhere between midnight and morning.
And for the first time since he'd woken up, Joe finds himself wondering whether the universe has just handed him the world's most elaborate lesson in why you should always ask for somebody's bloody number.
The following morning, Joe's walking through the airport terminal with a coffee in one hand and absolutely no expectations whatsoever when he spots a familiar figure several gates ahead.
Entirely by accident. Which feels appropriate, considering that's apparently how every important thing in his life has happened over the past twenty-four hours.
At first he doesn't process it. His brain registers you the same way it registers every other stranger passing through the airport. A glance, and nothing more.
Then he looks again and nearly walks directly into a luggage trolley. The man pushing it swears, Joe apologises automatically, but never takes his eyes off you.
For a second he genuinely thinks he's imagining things. Because he has spent the better part of a day thinking about you, missing you, replaying conversations he'd only had once, wondering whether you'd already forgotten him entirely.
It would make perfect sense for his brain to start hallucinating at this point, except hallucinations generally don't stand up and start gathering their luggage.
Joe stops walking. Just stares, because there you are. Real, actual, standing beside gate nineteen as though you haven't spent the last twenty-four hours quietly ruining his ability to think about anything else. As though you hadn't accidentally become the most statistically unlikely person he could possibly have encountered again.
Then you look up, your eyes meet, and he immediately freezes.
The recognition is instant. So is the smile - the exact same smile - the one from the diner, the one from the river, the one that had somehow followed him through an entire day despite being attached to a woman he'd been convinced he'd never see again.
"Joe?"
He laughs. Not because anything is funny, but because relief has apparently short-circuited every other available response.
"There you are."
The words leave his mouth before he can think about them, and your expression immediately shifts into delighted disbelief.
"What do you mean there you are?"
Joe shrugs helplessly. "I've been looking for you."
That earns him a blink. Then another.
"You have?"
"Yes."
A pause. "Why?"
Joe stares at you. Because genuinely, what kind of question is that? The answer feels painfully obvious.
"I forgot your number."
For half a second you simply look at him. Then your jaw drops. Then you start laughing. Not politely, not quietly, the kind of laughter that takes over completely.
Joe immediately joins in. Partly because your reaction is fair, and partly because hearing it out loud makes him sound even more ridiculous than he had in his own head.
"You forgot my number?"
"Yes."
"You absolute idiot."
"I know."
"You had an entire night."
"I know."
"Hours, Joe."
"I know."
"And somehow didn't think to ask."
Joe drops his head briefly. "In my defence-"
"There is no defence."
"There really isn't."
By this point, you're both laughing too hard to continue the conversation properly. Several nearby travellers are openly watching. Neither of you cares.
Because you're here. Somehow, against all reasonable odds, you're actually here.
And for the first time since waking up, Joe can feel the knot that's been sitting in his chest finally beginning to loosen.
Eventually you shake her head, still smiling, still looking at him like you can't quite decide whether he's charming or completely hopeless. Possibly both.
"You are unbelievable."
Joe nods. "I've heard that a lot today."
The smile softens, only slightly, but it's enough. Enough to make his heart do something deeply inconvenient. Enough to remind him that the problem with liking someone this quickly is that every small gesture suddenly feels significant.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The noise of the airport drifts around you. Boarding announcements, rolling suitcases, conversations from nearby gates. The ordinary sounds of ordinary people living ordinary days.
Meanwhile Joe feels like he's somehow stumbled into the ending of a film.
Then you reach into your bag, pull out a pen, and hold out your hand.
"Boarding pass."
Joe hands it over immediately, no questions asked.
You write carefully across the corner of it. A name, a phone number. Something tangible. Proof that you exist beyond a single perfect night.
When you finish, you hand it back.
"This time," you say, raising an eyebrow, "try not to lose me."
Joe looks down at the numbers, then back at you, and the smile spreading across his face feels physically impossible to stop.
Not because he'd found you, but because you sound like you're planning on seeing him again. And suddenly the future opens up in front of him in a way it hadn't twenty minutes earlier. A second date, a phone call, another conversation, another chance. Something more.
"Yeah," he says quietly, folding the boarding pass with absurd care before slipping it safely into his pocket.
His actual pocket. Not a bedside table, not a hotel room. His pocket.
"I think I can manage that."
And for the first time since getting separated from the band somewhere around midnight the night before, Joe feels like getting lost might actually have been the best thing that ever happened to him.
