Summary: You are a future university graduate who works to pay off your student loans at a bookstore that stays open late at night. With barely any time for anything beyond work and college, one evening you are surprised by a customer who turns out to be a famous person. You share a pleasant conversation, and you find yourself utterly captivated.
Author's note: Everyone, if you enjoy this fanfic, interact with it! I particularly want to know if I should continue it or if I should end it.
TWO
THREE
Two weeks later, you have almost convinced yourself that you must have imagined the day Jacob Elordi walked into the bookstore where you work. It feels too improbable now, like something your mind fabricated to make a dull shift more interesting.
Business is slow tonight. There are still two hours left before your shift ends, and the shop is wrapped in that quiet, papery stillness that only bookstores seem to have. Outside, it has been raining for the past half hour. Not a soft drizzle, but a heavy, relentless downpour that blurs the streetlights and drums steadily against the windows.
Your phone rings. You glance at the screen and see your boss’s name.
“Y/N, go ahead and close up and head home. With this rain, it’s better you’re somewhere safe,” Mr. Williams says from the other end of the line.
You light up instantly. Being allowed to close early is almost unheard of.
“I’ll lock everything up and head home then, Mr. Williams,” you reply. He does not bother with a goodbye. The line goes dead.
You move quickly, switching off lights and straightening the front display before hurrying to the door. Just as you reach for the handle to lock it, you feel someone pull from the other side, trying to come in.
“Sorry, we’re closed for today, you can come back—” The rest of the sentence dies in your throat. It is him.
Jacob stands there in the rain, soaked through. Water runs down his hair and along the sharp lines of his jaw, trailing over fabric that looks distinctly out of another century. He is dressed in full period costume, as though he has stepped straight off the set of a Jane Austen adaptation. A dark tailored coat clings to his broad frame, the white shirt beneath slightly translucent from the rain.
“What is the gentleman doing here?” you ask, slipping into a deliberately formal tone, as if you too belong in some nineteenth-century drawing room.
“I wished to call upon an esteemed and beautiful lady I am acquainted with, and at last I have found the opportunity,” he replies, stepping inside without waiting for further invitation. His voice carries the same refined cadence. Whether he is playing along or simply still immersed in character, you cannot quite tell.
He closes the door behind him, rainwater pooling faintly at his boots as he approaches. The scent of wet fabric and something clean and expensive follows him.
“It is raining rather fiercely outside, Mr. Elordi,” you say, not stepping back even as droplets from his coat begin to dampen your sleeves.
He looks at you. And you look at him. For a moment, the rain is the only thing that moves.
“I missed you,” he says, careful not to step any closer, as if the distance between you is the only thing keeping you dry.
You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms. “I’m flattered. But you didn’t have to travel from another century just to see me. And you’ve completely soaked yourself in the process.”
Up close, the rain has darkened every layer of his costume. The tailored coat clings to his shoulders, the linen shirt beneath almost translucent. He looks like a brooding romantic lead who has ridden through a storm for love, which is absurdly unfair to your composure.
“Stay right there,” you say, suddenly practical. “I’ll get you a towel.”
You hurry toward the back of the bookstore, to the small staff area where you keep your emergency backpack. You dig through it and pull out a towel you always carry just in case of unexpected weather or long shifts. Then you rush back, only to collide lightly with his chest when you turn the corner too quickly.
You freeze.
He is solid, warm despite the rain, and far too close.
“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping back and holding out the towel.
“You didn’t have to trouble yourself,” Jacob says, accepting it. He starts drying his hair, pushing the wet strands back. For a moment, you cannot bring yourself to look at him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you reply, attempting composure. “You went through the trouble of coming here, which is already slightly unhinged behavior. The sky is practically collapsing out there, and you’re still dressed as a period character. That cannot possibly be allowed. Or is it?”
You trail off mid-thought, realizing you are rambling. He watches you with a small, amused smile, clearly entertained.
“Are you that worried about me?” he asks, continuing to dry his hair. Damp strands fall over his eyes again, softer now, less polished, more real. Your heartbeat stumbles out of rhythm.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, refusing to let him see how dangerously attractive he looks standing in your quiet bookstore, rainstorm raging outside, as if the entire evening has conspired to frame him exactly this way.
“Do you need anything? Tea? I could turn the heater on,” you say quickly, redirecting the conversation with almost surgical precision.
He studies you for a second, then asks, more softly than before, “Do you think you could hug me?”
You blink.
“A hug? As in… you and me. Arms around each other?” The clarification leaves your mouth before you can stop it, as if your brain is stalling for time.
A faint, almost shy smile touches his face. “If that feels like a boundary you do not want to cross, you can ignore the request.”
The gentleness in his tone unsettles you more than the question itself. This is not flirtation wrapped in irony. He is asking sincerely.
You stare at him, still damp from the rain, still dressed like a man who belongs in a candlelit ballroom instead of your half-lit bookstore. For someone who commands red carpets and film sets, there is something unexpectedly vulnerable about the way he is standing there, waiting. You do not answer. Instead, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.
For a split second, you do not understand what this is supposed to solve. A hug will not dry his clothes. It will not silence the storm outside. It will not make sense of why he is here. But when your bodies finally meet, everything shifts.
He exhales against your shoulder, a slow, unguarded breath, as if he has been holding it in for hours. His arms come around you carefully at first, then more firmly, one hand resting at the middle of your back, the other warm against your waist. Even through the damp fabric, you can feel the heat of him.
The bookstore feels smaller. Quieter. The rain becomes distant. And suddenly you understand. The hug is not about the cold. It is not about the storm. It is about grounding. And as he holds you just a little tighter, you realize your heart is no longer racing out of nerves. It is racing because you do not want him to let go.
“You smell good,” he murmurs against the curve of your neck, inhaling softly. Slowly, his hands slide more securely around your waist and he lifts you off the ground as if you weigh nothing.
A quiet gasp leaves you before you can stop it. Instinctively, you adjust in his arms, your hands settling on his shoulders, your face fitting into the warm space at his neck.
“You’re still completely soaked,” you say, your voice softer now. “You should take those clothes off before you catch a cold.”
Up close, he smells just as intoxicating, rain and clean skin and something distinctly him beneath it all.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Do you want me to take my clothes off?” he asks, clearly trying to fluster you, as if daring you to lose your composure.
You lift your face, meeting his gaze head-on. “What if I do?”
For a fraction of a second, something shifts in his expression. The playfulness deepens into something warmer.
“Then I would tell you,” he whispers, his voice low and deliberate, “that your request is an order.” A shiver runs through you before you can control it.
You are not sure who closes the distance first. It happens in a quiet, almost accidental way. Your faces move closer, breath mingling, the storm outside reduced to a faint rhythm against the glass.
Your lips touch his. Soft. Brief. A tentative press. A kiss that is more question than declaration. It is the boldest thing you have done all night, and yet it is barely anything at all. You do not deepen it. You do not move your hands. The moment your lips meet his, doubt rushes in.
What if you misread him?
What if this was only playful banter carried too far?
You pull back just slightly, heart pounding, eyes searching his face for any sign that you misunderstood.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the doubt arriving a second too late. You had not asked if he felt it too. You had simply assumed, acted, hoped.
“Do it again,” Jacob says softly, his face still close to yours, his voice steady in a way that makes your pulse spike.
“I shouldn’t,” you murmur, even as your gaze drops to his mouth.
“I want you to,” he replies, more firmly now. “Kiss me again.” The hesitation dissolves.
This time you do not move like someone asking permission. You lift your hands to his face with intention, fingers sliding along his jaw, thumbs resting just below his ears. His expression has shifted. No teasing. No irony. Only focus. You kiss him again. Deliberate. Slow.
Your lips press to his with quiet certainty, lingering long enough to feel the exact moment he responds. His hands tighten at your waist, drawing you closer, eliminating whatever distance remained. There is nothing accidental about it now.
The kiss deepens naturally, unforced. He tilts his head slightly, matching your rhythm, his mouth warm and steady against yours. One hand moves up your back, spreading between your shoulder blades, holding you there as if anchoring you. The other remains firm at your waist, thumb tracing a small, unconscious arc. There is no performance in it. No playful banter left to hide behind.
Only the undeniable awareness that this tension has existed since the first time you saw him standing between your shelves, pretending to browse while looking at you like he had already decided something.
When you finally pull back, it is only because breathing becomes necessary. Your foreheads remain touching. Neither of you steps away.
“You don’t get to apologize for this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, roughened just slightly. And in the quiet that follows, you understand something with absolute clarity. This did not start tonight. It started the first time your eyes met. And neither of you has been able to walk away since.
Your lips meet again, this time with an urgency that makes your knees weak. Jacob’s hands slide around your waist, and before you fully realize it, he’s pressing you gently against the counter. The solid wood supports you as his body leans in, close enough that every brush of his chest against yours sends shivers down your spine.
The kiss deepens, deliberate and heated, teetering on the edge of something you both know is dangerous. Your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping lightly as if to steady yourself, while his lips roam with a confidence that takes your breath away. He pulls back slightly, eyes dark, breathing heavier.
“If we don’t stop now,” he murmurs, voice low, “I’m not sure I will ever be able to let you go.” Your heart pounds at the admission.
“That’s exactly the problem,” you whisper, though your hands are still resting on his shoulders. He studies you for a second, then makes a decision.
“Come to my loft,” he says quietly. “I’m staying there while I’m filming in the city. No crew. No interruptions. Just us.” The directness of it sends a rush through you.
“That’s… risky,” you admit. “You’re you. I’m not exactly built for scandal.” His thumb brushes along your waist again, slow, grounding.
“We wait until your day off,” he says. “You come over because you choose to. Not because this got out of control in a bookstore.”
The image almost makes you laugh, but your body is still reacting to the way he’s standing between your knees, the counter keeping you in place.
“I don’t know if I could do something that reckless,” you say softly.
He leans down, brushing a slow kiss along your neck, just below your ear. Not crossing a line. Just reminding you how close you already are.
“But you’d like the privacy,” he asks against your skin. You swallow.
“On the other hand,” you admit, fingers tightening slightly in his coat, “I would love the privacy.” A slow smile curves his mouth.
“Then it’s settled,” he says. “Your next day off. You come to me.”
For a moment neither of you moves. The tension is still there, thick, charged, almost tipping again. Then he steps back reluctantly, putting just enough space between you to breathe.
“I have to get back to set,” he says, adjusting his coat, though his eyes never leave yours. “But now I have something to look forward to.”
He leans in one last time, kissing you slowly, deliberately, like a sealed promise. When he finally pulls away and heads toward the door, you remain against the counter, heart racing, fully aware that the next time you see him, there will be no wooden edge keeping either of you in place.
I’LL FOLLOW YOU LIKE A DOG TO THE END OF THE WORLD — heathcliff x fem!reader | wuthering heights (2026)
word count: 1,326
warmings: MDNI, SMUT 18+ lowkey naive reader, slight voyeur (not the main pairing), brief description of wet dreams, f!masturbation, finger sucking, oral sex (f! receiving), cum eating i guess… heathcliff should be a warning. english is not my first language so forgive me any misspellings <3
you’re thinking of him. again.
you’re starting to think he might have cursed you the moment he touched your skin the night before because it’s all you can think about since it happened. you came to the windmill where he lived to apologise to him for a stupid fight early that day, but found yourself witnessing something that wasn’t for your eyes.
two of the servants were there, having a moment of intimacy full of naughty smiles and words and actions you never knew people could share. you stayed there, watching from the holes on the floor and you tried to leave, really… but you couldn’t leave without being caught and staying there was exactly how you ended up beneath heathcliff — his huge body pressing yours to the creaky floor, hands to your mouth and eyes, his breath warm against your skin, protecting your eyes from such a nasty sight, one he witnessed many times before with very little shame.
“shhhh….” heathcliff whispered close to your ear while the sounds of the two lovers filled the silence of the night. he watched, but didn’t allow you to. he pinned you to the floor, breathing in you scent. you couldn’t do much but you could only hear them delighting themselves until pleasure took the best off both of them. panting, breathless… they were satisfied, you could tell by the laughs. soon it was over.
it was over for them, but it was just the beginning for you.
you rolled heathcliff over you and ran away before even looking at his face and thought that maybe sleeping would make you forget what you saw, make you forget the ache between your thighs but no. it only made it worse because it made you dream of you and heathcliff doing the very same things that couple did. you only heard half of it, but in your dreams you saw the full picture — the warmth of heathcliff’s naked body over yours, pushing his cock into your warmth while he moaned your name in your ear, his hands on your skin, his marks all over you. you felt claimed even if it was just a dream. you woke up the next day sweaty, wet and frustrated. you didn’t want to talk to anyone, not even him. much less to him. so you found yourself making your way as far as you could from your house, like you could run away from the thought of him.
but you didn’t make it that far. it only lead you to be leaning against a huge stone with your legs apart and your hand between your thighs, trying to ease that ache yourself. you did it before, you could do it again.
it felt good. oh, it did. much better now that you imagined it was heathcliff’s fingers instead of yours, running through the wetness of your folds and finding your swollen clit which’s been aching for so long that any brush against it made you moan softly into the air, head back against the hard stone. one word leaving your lips over and over again.
“heathcliff…” you called without expecting an answer.
but it came either way.
see, he didn’t mean to pry on you but he needed to know why you were acting so oddly. or maybe he meant it but he didn’t expect to find what he found. and he couldn’t say he hated it either.
“heathcliff…” you moaned again, louder now as you felt that warmth coiling within your lower belly, your movement hurried and a little more desperate.
he followed the sound. he followed your voice to find you there and he can’t even pretend the sight is not delightful. you, leaning against a wall with your hand under your skirts calling for his name like it was the only thing left in that silly mind of yours. too lost in yourself that you barely noticed when he approached you, only noticed when he reached for your wrist and pushed your hand off your skirts, bringing your wet fingers to his nose without a second thought.
“heathcliff!?”
you froze in place, obviously. you could’ve pushed him away and slap him for intruding in such an intimate moment but all you could do was stay there and watch, wide eyed as he inhaled the scent of your arousal like he needed it more than oxygen itself.
heathcliff opened his eyes and looked down at your horrified face and instead of stepping back ashamed, he shoved two of your wet fingers into his mouth and sucked them clean of your arousal and you can swear he growled low in his throat at the taste of you. you watched in bewilderment, gasping as he licked the remains of wetness from them and released your fingers with a wet pop sound, his free hand coming to your waist to pull you against him.
“heathcliff…” you start, but he interrupts you.
“did you finish?” he asked lowly, looking into your eyes like he’s trying to read your mind through them. “uhm? did you cum?”
you immediately shake your head no, not breaking the eye contact.
“it’s not what it looks like—”
“do you want me to finish for you?” he asked straightforwardly, his grip on your waist tightening. you whimper a little, swallowing hard.
you should’ve told him to leave. to stop this and forget what he just saw but no. you couldn’t even if you tried. not with the way he was looking at you.
“yes.” you whispered, barely above a whisper but he does not waste any second letting you overthink your decision, dropping to his knees in front of you and tossing one of your legs over his shoulder, one hand roughly tugging your underwear aside so harshly you hear the sound of ripping fabric but you can’t bring yourself to care when he buries his face nose deep to your cunt.
he does not waste time working you up, you’re more than ready for it so he sinks his tongue to your folds to collect more of your arousal and taste more of you, a groan muffled against your warmth that makes your legs buckle a little from how overstimulated you already are. you cling to the long strands of his hair and press his face impossibly close against your cunt, tugging on his hair like you want him to pay for being nosy on you. he didn’t seem to care as he closes his lips around your sensitive, neglected clit and sucks on it just right, just enough to steal your breath away.
“heathcliff!” you cry out, pressing your hips forward against his face, greedily seeking for more and willingly gives you more, rolling his warm, greedy tongue around the sensitive bud just to hear you scream for him again. he looks up at you with dark eyes, like a man possessed by something he could never exorcise himself from. you.
you lose yourself on the feeling of his beard burning against your most sensitive spot, in the feeling of his mouth suctioning on your clit and his tongue flicking out to part your folds, making a mess of fluids on his face that he cannot bring himself to care about. your body tenses above his mouth, that feeling tightening inside your core and then, spreading deliciously through your body as you reach your high on his tongue, trembling and uttering sounds you never brought yourself to make until now. cursing him for having such a delightful mouth and for knowing how to use it to crumble you into this trembling mess while he feasts on your juices and leaves a mess of saliva and your own cum in your skin, pulling away once the waves of your pleasure subsided.
he got up but kept his hands on you, holding you up against the stone, lips shiny and his beard indecently wet.
“you shouldn’t have done this.” you finally dared to whisper. his face remained stoic, but there was an undeniable fire in his eyes.
“no. but i did.” he said, lowering his head closer to yours like he was about to kiss you, but he didn’t. “now i know your taste. your scent.” he whispered against your lips, breathing against them. sharing the air with you. “and i’ll follow you like a dog to the end of the world to have it again. i’ll always find you.”
it wasn’t just a threat. it was a promise.
a/n: i watched “wuthering heights” a few days ago and i’m still thinking about it… i do not condone with a lot of things involving this movie but man i got a lil horny…. i had to write something so here i am back to writing tumblr fanfictions… idk if anyone will read this but uhm hii, if you did i hope you enjoyed it <3 like, reblog and comment if you did, lmk y’all’s thoughts :))
You mentioned that you also do celebrity fics, right? Could you maybe do one about Jacob Elordi?
Late Call Time
Summary: On the Frankenstein set, working as Jacob’s hairstylist brings you close and sparks a quiet, intense connection behind the makeup and masks.
Masterlist
The first time you see him in the full prosthetic, it almost steals your breath.
Not because it’s grotesque, though the stitching along his temple and the faint, artificial scarring down his throat are eerily realistic, but because he looks so still beneath it. Like he’s stepped out of something older than both of you.
The Frankenstein set is colder than it needs to be. Stone walls built to feel damp. Artificial fog curling low across the floor. Low lighting that turns everything silver-blue.
You’re standing behind him in the trailer, fingers carefully adjusting the dark waves at the back of his neck so they fall naturally around the prosthetic seams.
He’s quiet. He always is during makeup. Not scrolling. Not joking. Just watching himself in the mirror like he’s slowly stepping into someone else’s skin.
“You okay?” you ask gently, focusing on blending the edge near his ear. His eyes flick up to yours in the mirror. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “Just… heavy today.” You nod. You understand that. Some roles sit deeper than others.
Your fingers brush the back of his neck as you smooth product through his hair, careful not to disturb the glued pieces. His skin is warm despite the cool set. “You’re pulling,” he murmurs softly. You pause immediately. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say stop.” There’s the smallest hint of something in his voice now. Not teasing exactly. Just… aware. You swallow lightly and adjust your grip, gentler this time. Outside the trailer, you can hear crew members moving equipment. Someone laughs. A door slams. But inside, it feels smaller. Closer.
“You don’t talk much when you’re in this look,” you say quietly. He studies you in the mirror again. “Doesn’t feel right to,” he replies. “He wouldn’t.” You tilt your head slightly. “And you?” A beat. He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing your wrist where it hovers near his collar. Not pushing you away. Just grounding himself there. “I’m still here,” he says finally.
The contact is subtle, but it sends a warm current up your arm. You carefully step around him to fix the front strands framing his face. Up close, the detailing of the makeup is even more intricate, faint discoloration beneath his eyes, textured scarring across his cheekbone.
You lean in, adjusting a strand that’s fallen out of place. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “You look terrifying,” you whisper softly. His lips twitch faintly. “That the goal?”
“No,” you murmur, smoothing the hair away from the edge of the prosthetic. “The goal is tragic.” Something in his expression shifts at that. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That sounds about right.” Your fingers linger a second too long near his jaw.
You realize it the same time he does. The air changes. His hand drops from your wrist, but not far, settling instead lightly at your waist, like he’s checking whether you’ll step back.
You don’t. The mirror reflects both of you, him half-monster, you leaning close enough to feel his breath. “You ever get tired of fixing other people’s faces?” he asks softly. You smile faintly. “It’s not fixing. It’s finishing.”
“And me?” Your heart skips. “You’re already finished,” you say before you can stop yourself. He exhales slowly, eyes dark under the dim lights.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You say things like that in this getup and I might take it the wrong way.”
You laugh quietly, but your hand slides down to adjust the collar of his costume, smoothing it flat against his chest. “I’m not scared of you,” you say. His gaze drops to your mouth.
“You should be,” he whispers. But his grip at your waist tightens just slightly, protective rather than threatening. There’s a knock at the trailer door. “Five minutes, Jacob!” The spell breaks.
He lets go first, stepping back, rolling his shoulders like he’s putting the monster back on properly. You take one last look at him, adjusting a final strand into place. “Don’t lose yourself in there,” you say softly.
He pauses at the door, glancing back at you. “Stay close,” he replies. “In case I need reminding.” And when he walks out into the cold blue set lights, you realize something unsettlingly soft in your chest. The only time he looks fully human in that costume is when he’s looking at you.
Heyyy guyysss this is my first celeb fic (whoop whoop) so if you liked it , feel free to send your requests to me ;)
hii, I've never suggested anything on here, kinda nervous <: but I've wanted to ask if you could write something for Jacob himself with kind of more introverted user, established relationship, where he's sweet and tender with her and then, like, gentle dom..? :>
I HAVENT WRITTEN FOR JACOB AS HIMSELF BEFORE BUT HERE U GO :3 my fav tall australian boy!!!! warning: it’s long. idk why. it kinda just happened. um anyways… enjoy
every need//jacob elordi x reader
CW: size difference, established relationship, mention of fame/career, gentle!jacob, soft dom!jacob, reassurance, fem!reader, shy!reader, lots of soft touches, build up to smut, jacob tops, (kinda?) mentions of male anatomy, mentions of female anatomy, vaginal fingering, jacob really likes fingering you, lots of guidance from jacob, praise, kinda long idk, he talks you through it <333
“jacob, stop,” he heard you tell him, his brown eyes focused behind his phone as he secretly snapped photos of the way you were sitting. he couldn’t help it, finding you beautiful against the sun leaking through the curtains of his living room. his long legs were draped across your lap as you sat on the couch and he liked the furrow of your brow as you concentrated on whatever book you were reading. jacob was often taking photos of you—most of the time without your knowledge or at least until you’d catch him. you didn’t like being on camera or photos other people would take of you, but god, did he think you were always a vision. and a part of him didn’t want to waste the convenience of modern technology he could easily grab from the pocket of his trousers.
“m’sorry,” he huffed in amusement, wriggling his socked feet in your lap just so you’d look over at him—cutely annoyed or not, “all this time and you still won’t let me have my hobbies. bit harsh.”
he watched you have to bite back a smile despite his disruption to your reading, and he could see on your shy face that the thought of him, considering taking photos of you, a hobby, made you flush because he took photos of everything he wanted to remember. he’d noticed you were always quiet in your admiration of him, doing things for him without announcing it. it was the same for him, he thought, how naturally he fell into creating spaces for the two of you that he hoped brought you comfort. it was something he admired—the quiet calm you possessed against the chaos his life had become. and he made no mistake to tell you how much he craved your calm when he had to be away from you, his thumb on the call button beneath your contact any chance he’d get on press tours or in less crowded spaces of premieres. calling over texting something he preferred with just you.
when you shook your head and turned back to the book in your hands, jacob couldn’t help but distract you—clearly too busy in his admiration to accommodate the concentration you could barely have around him. he sighed, moving his feet from your lap abruptly and immediately moved his tall form closer, one hand reaching for your knee and the other tucked between you both on the soft couch. he somehow made his body seem smaller, long limbs curled up to be beside you. he inhaled your scent as he nuzzled his head against your shoulder and he knew he’d won—albeit against your will—when you dog-eared whatever page you were on and tossed the novel aside. his dark hair tickled the exposed skin of your shoulder and you could feel his lips press a kiss there, so soft you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t so acutely aware of every action jacob did.
“you can read when i’m gone,” he mumbled before raising his head to meet your gaze, a smirk on his lips, “right?”
you furrowed your brows at him, displeased at the reminder that you had to be apart soon and he grinned when he noticed.
“oh?” he mused, blinking at you through long lashes, when you didn’t speak, “y’know you could just come with. ya just have to ask, love.”
he watched your pretty eyes move from his gap-toothed grin to his own eyes, a frown on your lips as you groaned at him before suddenly reaching up with your hand and pulling some of the dark hair that had fallen on his forehead up, “don’t do that.”
“do what exactly?” he grinned, brown eyes knowing and fingers tracing a pattern against your knee now, shaking your gentle grip of his shaggy hair off, “i always have to ask. just in case.”
“no, you dont,” you protested, voice that whiny tone he liked even if another man would find it infuriating, “just trying to save your reputation as a serious actor.”
“first off,” he started, moving his body to cage you against the end of the couch, 6’5 frame and weight still somehow giving you the option to move if you wished, “don’t try to act like you’re doing me a favor, love.” he was still smiling as he moved his face closer, moving his hand from your knee to your cheek, like it was second nature to want to feel your flushed skin beneath his fingertips. “second off,” he spoke again, deep voice softening as the tip of his nose moved against your own when he lowered his head to your level, “i’d adore having you beside me every second an’ y’know it. you do belong, that’s just your head telling you otherwise.”
he said it like a simple fact and he knew you couldn’t deny it. you’d been shy and unsure of yourself from the moment he’d shown interest in you so long ago. jacob understood you though, not minding your homebody ways or how you preferred being alone, never the one for attention. he was sweet like that, not one to complain considering he found you utterly perfect. unfortunately, for you both, jacob’s whole life was under a microscope constantly.
he watched the way your lashes fluttered, pupils seeming to track his closeness. his mouth stayed hovered near yours, breathing you in again. his other hand slipped from where it was tucked between you both on the couch, fingers grazing up your side through your shirt—a soft touch that was comforting and coaxing all at the same time as he waited for your response and prayed it wouldn’t be self deprecating.
“i don’t know,” you finally answered in a sigh, closing your eyes for a beat. he pressed his forehead to your own in response, fingertips still on your cheek before he spoke.
“i know why y’nervous,” he whispered, deep voice lower just for you even if there was no one around, “all the people, being watched. it’s a lot, isn’t it?”
you listened intently, nodding slightly in agreement, your eyes were still closed and your forehead pressed to his own. your hand drifted from beneath you, your palm finding its way across the two of you and to his knee, the touch grounding in the close but safe proximity.
jacob titled his head slightly, breath against your own as his fingertips moved to gently trace your jaw, just enough for you to feel it. “you wouldn’t deal with anyone y’didn’t want to,” he murmured, a gentle insistence in his voice. your chest tightened suddenly. “i’d…i’d take care of it all.”
your fingers press into the skin of his knee a bit more, as if you were silently asking for him to continue. so he did.
“you’d be with me,” he whispered again, nose bumping your own again, his fingertips moving from your jaw to your chin, lifting it slightly as your eyes finally fluttered open to meet his.“never alone,” he continued, breath warm against your lips, so close but not enough to touch yet, “i’d make sure of it…i promise.”
you swallowed. “i don’t know if it—” your voice faltered, hand still on his knee as your eyes darted from his own, fingers moving against the denim of his jeans.
“you’d tell me if… if it was too much, yeah?” his fingers lingered beneath your chin, titling your face to his. he waited, nodding slightly, letting you decide before he spoke again, “then we’d leave. no matter where we were or…who was around.”
your breath hitched, fingers flexing against his knee once more. jacob’s brown eyes were earnest and gentle all at once, his touch on your chin tracing down to your jaw and then to the side of your neck, your pulse moving beneath his fingertips. “i’d take care of you,” he spoke again, voice low and a tad breathy as you seemed to melt from the feel of him against you, “every second. only what you want. what you need.”
every word felt like a promise from him. heavy with certainty and but never demanding. and then his head moved, face leaning forward to where his fingertips were against your neck, his breath tickling your throat as he continued. “you’d trust me to look after you, yeah?” he asked in a murmur, lips just barely against your skin as you swallowed.
your eyes were squeezed shut, a hurried breath leaving your mouth as jacob moved his lips along your throat—not fully there, not insistent, but like an option. patient. a decision solely for you to make. you nodded silently, knowing if you tried to verbalize your agreement, it would come out a whimper. his mouth moved just beneath your ear after your nod, his hand gently moving soft strands of your hair out of the way, sending a shiver through you when he rested his hand right at the base of your neck. sturdy but gentle. holding you but never forcing you still.
warmth spread across your limbs and he finally pressed a few slow kisses to your skin. you could still feel the weight of him pressed against you—tall, long, protective. jacob let out a low hum of satisfaction, gently guiding you closer against him. your body instinctively opened to the contact, your breath quick and uneven. when he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze, fingers tracing light circles on the back of your neck, you noticed a small smile on his lips. his eyes were hooded, corners of his lips upturned as he took you in—your reaction clear as day to what he’d said and how he moved.
“that’s it,” he whispered, his other hand moving lower on your side, fingertips just barely pressing into your hip, “i take care of you an’ you…you just let me, right? what y’need…s’my responsibility.”
his hand moved from the back of your neck, his eyes focused on the way your lips parted to make way for your fast breaths. anticipation thrummed through you. his touch was warm and steadying as he ran his palms down your arms, thumbs rubbing against your bicep then to where he held your forearm. finally, he reach your side, slowly coaxing you out of your sitting position to lay beneath him. you obliged, obviously, a jolt of pleasure running through you when he moved his hand lower to your upper thigh, deliberately pushing your legs further open so his tall form could be between them.
“yes,” you managed to whisper in response—to what exactly was left to be determined; his hope you’d come with him, his words about taking care of you, or maybe the way his fingertips just barely traced your inner thigh between your bodies.
jacob nodded, eyes darker as he flickered his gaze to where his fingertips were tickling the skin beneath one of the hems of your shorts and back up to your face, a look of desire on your features. “you’d stay with me,” he affirmed, eyes holding yours as his fingers went higher beneath the leg of your shorts, “wouldn’t ever leave you alone.”
he moved his head down to yours, holding his body up with one arm, his fingers dipping into the couch cushions between your body and the back of the soft surface. your knees pressed closer instinctively, a reaction to his warmth and the feeling of his body just barely against you from above—he made sure his weight didn’t crush you completely as his lips brushed your own. you could feel his lean body now between where your legs caged him and jacob couldn’t help but move his hand from your thigh to your arm, slowly pulling it to wrap around his shoulder and neck.
“mm. so perfect like this,” he mused against your lips, finally moving his other arm above your head as he softly pressed his weight onto you, successfully making you both sink further against the plush couch, “all mine, yeah? every bit of you.”
you could barely take it—the closeness, his reassurance, the way he felt against you. before you could stop it, you were moaning into his kiss, your fingers gripping his shoulder and trying to pull him even closer. even offering more as your mouth parted slightly. jacob hummed against your lips, lifting his head up then from your hurried movements as the hand beside your head moved to rub his thumb across your heated face.
“there it is,” he purred, his lips hovering as you panted beneath him. you tugged at his shoulder again, not wanting to slow down and wait for another kiss. jacob exhaled, his other hand holding your hip against the couch but not pushing, the action just enough to carefully still you as he whispered, “easy…i know. i know, love. y’want me that badly?”
you nodded, legs flexing slightly around his body as your heavy, quick breaths filled the space between you. you could feel the ache building between your thighs, the rush of heat pooling there too much for you to ignore. so you used your magic word, the one you knew jacob adored hearing fall from your lips in moments like this. “please,” you breathed out, the ending of the sound almost a groan as you squirmed beneath his lean body, “p-please.”
jacobs brown eyes searched your own after that, his thumb still rubbing against your temple with one hand and his fingertips on the other hand pressed a bit more into the skin of your hip, the muscles of his neck tensing. “y’want me to take care of you right now?” he asked, his words a bit more breathless than intended. he couldn’t help it though, jacob simply loved seeing you like this—body trembling beneath him, eyes looking up at him full of want, knowing it was just for him.
you nodded desperately against the arm rest of the couch beneath you, already feeling jacob’s fingers moving from your hip downward. jacob’s eyes held your own as your chest rose and fell with every fast breath, your fingers anxiously toying with the short, dark strands of hair that curled around his neck. as soon as you felt his fingers trail higher beneath your shorts, your breath broke, jacob taking the opportunity to press his lips to your own and taste your eager whine.
it was all the permission he needed, feeling all the wetness that coated your inner thigh as his touch went higher, able to feel the way your skin twitched for more beneath his slow movement. he lifted his head to look down at you, brown eyes narrowing on your own as they flickered from your parted lips to the glossiness of desire in your gaze. “shhh,” he whispered, the thumb of his other hand rubbing your forehead as his fingers stilled against your heat, “m’ right here, love. not…not leaving. i know. breathe with me, yeah? deep breaths. slow. slooow. good.”
your legs shook where they were around his body as you tried to mimic his breaths, a searing desire coursing through you from the sound of his voice and you had to hold yourself back from bucking against his hand, trying your best to stay still for him as he continued. “i’ve got you,” he assured, voice low and grounding while you burned for more of his touch. jacob could feel the heat coming from your skin, could imagine how swollen you were, they way you were aching, all the desire that was seeping from your depth. he nodded again, silently praising you for patience like he always did. suddenly, the pad of his thumb moved to press against your throbbing clit, not moving. “right there?” he asked, watching a shudder move through you as your brows knitted together with pleasure. a small whine left your lips again from the contact, muscles tensing as you anticipated more.
your eyes were glued to him as he started the maddening circles against your clit, the muscles in your legs twitching around his body. jacob licked his lip as he kept moving his thumb against you, watching every reaction cross your face before his head was dipping down. your cheek was hot against his own as his lips reach your ear, his deep voice a soft mumble against your skin and only making your grip on his hair tighter. “that what y’need? right there? christ—you’re so pretty f’me right now,” he breathed against your ear, a shiver through you contrasting from the heat building between your thighs as he ever so slightly sped up his movements, “that’s it…mhm. s’good, isn’t it? told you i’d take care of ya. always do, don’t i?”
your own response was a loud, guttural moan, your toes curling and other hand moving up to grab at his shoulder as every muscles tensed. jacob smiled against your cheek and he couldn’t help but stop for a moment just to run his slender forefinger through your wetness. it forced a gasp out of your lungs, hips bucking up for more as he gently spread your desire across you with entirely too much reverence for your liking, your body needy and impatient for his slow, careful actions. a sound escaped his own mouth then, right into your ear—a cross between a whine and groan and it nearly undid you completely. “feel that, love?” he breathlessly whispered, his forehead pressing a bit harder into the side of your head as his fingers seemed to dance across your very slick heat, “feel…feel how much you like the idea? mhm? how fuckin’ soaked y’are for me? how…how good it feels to be taken care of? so lovely. there y’go, just feel it.”
your turned your head slightly, chasing his mouth as his fingers moved against you, dragging your slick to the bundle of nerves that had you jolting with pleasure. jacob kissed you then, hot and wet as he let you devour his mouth. he groaned against your lips, finding your needy demeanor irresistible as your hips bucked. you chased his fingers, the sound of your desire between your bodies. you were dripping for him, his movements quicker before you felt him tease your entrance. jacob groaned again, the tip of his finger tracing your hole as you licked at the seam of his lips.
“need it, don’t ya, love?” he mused, deep voice cracking slightly as you whined for him, finding it hard to keep still when all you wanted was his fingers inside you. he twisted his hand, the tip of his middle finger just barely twitching at the entrance of your depth and a broken sound left you. “mmm,” he breathed, his dark eyes focused on your lips as pants left you, his hot skin against your own every time your head moved, “y’making such a mess. aren’t you?”
he twitched his finger again, moving barely inside you and retreating, your whines were more like pleading now as your nails dug into his shoulder through his shirt. “want this?” he asked, tone so gentle it made your back arch off the plush couch and further against him as he dipped the tip of his finger inside, “hm? that what y’need? tell me, lovely. come on…tell me and i’ll take care of you. shhh, jus’ breathe. yes. come on. tell me?”
“yes,” you pleaded, eyes glued to his own as your lashes fluttered and your legs flexed around him with every twitch of his finger, “yesyesyes. please. p-please!”
“so good,” he mumbled, finally pushing his finger inside, achingly slow, “that’s right. fu—fuck. you’re clenching, love. jus’ relax. there you go. take it. taaake it. relax f’me.”
and you did.
your moan was deep and guttural once his finger entered you completely. jacob’s lips were parted, heavy breaths against the skin of your flushed cheek and he groaned with you, voice breaking from the feeling of your wet, warm, spongy walls around his middle finger. he slid in and out slowly with zero friction, deliciously taking his time and silently reveling in your neediness. he knew you wanted more, always in a rush despite your typical patience in daily life; these were the kind of moments where he enjoyed taking the lead and grounding you. he never took advantage of his control—just insisted you turn off your mind and let him show you his care. internally, it made him proud of himself to know you trusted him so completely, his chest burning with his adoration for you.
jacob pressed soft kisses to the side of your face when he quickened the pace of his finger, your body writhing beneath his own. his own jeans were tight with his desire for you, but he ignored it easily—you were his main focus. of course he longed to be inside you himself, his toned stomach tightening at the thought. but he refrained, enthralled by the way you sucked his finger in and shivered with every brush of his lips as your muscles tightened.
your whines were becoming louder, heavy breaths and his name escaping you as his finger pumped in and out faster. it was a contrast to the gentle way he was brushing his mouth across your face, his free hand still by your head and fingers rubbing at the top of your hair soothingly. jacob surrounded you. his care, touch, smell, the weight of him on top of you—you seemed to drown in it all, and did so happily.
two fingers worked you now and you could feel the muscles in your stomach tensing, your toes curling as your legs threatened to squirm where they wrapped around his body. jacob’s voice only made it harder for you, every ounce of pleasure threatening to make your body thrash around out of pure stimulation. but he steadied you, relaxed you even when his voice broke and breathy groans of his own split sentences of admiration.
his fingers curled inside you suddenly, a very loud whine that could’ve been mistaken for a scream coming past your lips as he moved against the spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. “it’s there isn’t it?” he breathed against your ear, a press of his lips beneath it as he continued, your whines confirming his assessment. he knew anyways, always did. his long, slender fingers seemed to find every spot inside you that made you break easily. he gently twitched his fingertips against the spot, air leaving your lungs.
“i know…i know, sweetheart. shhhh. shh. feels so fuckin’ good, yeah? sooo good. gunna…gunna keep going. don’t worry. going to keep making ya feel good an’ take care of you. won’t—fuck—won’t stop.”
you were reaching a breaking point, the curl of his fingers inside you too much to bare as you cried his name. your whole body was shaking beneath him, every movement forcing your thighs tighter around his torso from above. “i-i can’t!” you cried, about to snap as your heat tightened around his fingers, both hands now gripping his shoulders as you fought to keep still.
“i know,” he murmured, raising his head to watch the way your eyes squeezed shut as you fought back screams, “you can take it. shhh, you can take it. just a bit more. hold on for a bit more, love. fuck—love you. it’s right…right there, i know. mmm. i’ve got you. got you. m’right here.”
your teeth clenched, the hold you had on his shoulders impossibly tight as you fought against your release—trying to listen to his softened, deep voice. jacob groaned again, getting off on the way you listened to him. the way you trusted him. he moved fingers faster, expertly rubbing against your spot between pumping out of your depth. it was a dizzying combination, making you curse and tense as you tried to keep it together.
jacob could feel how tense you’d become beneath him, even noticing how you seemed to hold your breath—so close to just falling apart. but you waited for his word. waited for his soft permission and he couldn’t deny you any longer. he groaned again, almost a whine, against your lips before he spoke:
“y’so good for me. sososo good. relax f’me and let go. let me see you let go. i’ve got you. let go. that’s—mmm—that’s it. that’s it. shhhh, let go f’me. fuckin’ gorgeous. so fuckin’ beautiful.”
your release was earth shattering, taking over you as he continued the movements of his fingers and drew it out. jacob groaned with you, unable to stop himself from swallowing a few of your pleasurable moans for himself as his mouth found yours. your whole body twitched and tensed. you saw stars and his voice was the only thing that kept you grounded.
when you came back to, his fingers were no longer inside you. he drew some of your release to your clit and gently rubbed, bringing you back as he kissed all over your face and jaw.
a small whine left you and he stopped his movements, your heavy breaths mingling with his own as he pulled his hand from your shorts and brought it up to caress your reddened face. the look on his handsome, sharp features was full of reverence and warmth. you caught your breath and blinked up at him with dilated pupils, one of your own hands moving from his shoulder to press against his cheek.
“still with me?” he asked in a whisper thumb brushing beneath your eye. you nodded and a small, gentle smile graced his lips, his gaze hooded as he leaned down to peck the tip of your nose. “need anything?” he asked, taking in your softening breaths as you traced his jaw with your fingertips.
you shook your head, body lax beneath his own as tiredness took over. “hold me?”
jacob nodded sweetly, adjusting his tall form behind you and trying his best to sink himself as far as he could against the cushions behind him, wanting to give you all the room you needed despite his height. you turned your body towards his own, face moving to nuzzle against the crook of his neck as he held you tightly to him, the sound of his breathing relaxing you more than anything else ever did. you pressed a kiss against his hot skin, holding onto him tighter before you whispered, “i’ll come with you…”
jacob answered immediately, a grin in his voice, “i know.”
you huffed, body shaking with laughter against him before he spoke again, a sigh leaving his lips as he tightened his hold around your waist:
“already got it properly arranged.”
hope you enjoyed <33 this was actually so fun despite my nervousness to write for him as himself lol it’s hard to capture his essence but i think it’s alright. aaaaa i love him ok bye!!
i keep getting stupid ideas i’m sorry. another dumb one is like reader just started seeing joe or something, maybe casually, a few dates/hookups, and they hear “basic being basic” and interpret it as “joe hates basic girls” but reader is super basic so they’re like “guess i have to change myself” and so they change themselves and joe is like “wtf no”
and that was probably really stupid i’m sorry
જ⁀➴ ♡ Basic Being Basic
જ⁀➴ ♡ Joe Keery x Reader
Summary: You heard "Basic Being Basic" at Urban Outfitters and realized with creeping horror that you are the target audience. Now you have one dinner date to become someone else entirely.
જ⁀➴ ♡ Fluffy comedy so what if your 'basic' least your you.
A/N: Don't be sorry! I've actually had so much fun writing these requests! Your ideas have been wonderful! I just hope I've done them justice.
Word Count: 2,381
The vinyl seat of the booth exhales a long, tired sigh as you sink into it, the cracked leather squeaking as you shuffle back into it, the coldness seeping through your denium jeans. Your phone is heavy in your palm, screen still glowing with the abandoned Google search: "how to not be basic???" Your other hand has gone numb from how tightly you're gripping the strap of your tote bag - cream-colored, quilted, currently containing a water bottle covered in stickers that now feel like evidence against you as you tried to hide it under the table.
Three weeks. That's how long you've been tiptoeing through this liminal space with Joe Keery - three weeks of coffee runs that bled into sunset kisses against his car door, of 2 AM texts that started with "you up?" and somehow morphed into your ringtone blaring after: "I just wanted to hear your voice before I sleep," of his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw and down to your shoulder while he told you about his dreams until dawn appeared from the window of his room. You’re in too deep. Submerged. Drowning in the kind of feelings that make your lungs feel too small for your chest.
Which explains why, for the last forty-five minutes, you've been performing surgery on yourself before going to see him.
You scrubbed your face red raw in your bathroom sink, watching your usual soft pink lipstick and winged eyeliner spiral down the drain until you looked like a stranger - bare-faced, vulnerable, somehow younger and older at once. You’d torn off your cream-colored cardigan - the one Joe had once said made you look like "a latte in human form" with a soft kiss to your collarbone - and stuffed it into the back of your closet, pulling on a distressed band tee you’d panic-bought at the thrift store three blocks away. The fabric smells like mothballs and someone else’s memories. You’d practiced saying “yeah, no, totally” in the mirror until the words felt foreign on your tongue, replacing your actual vocabulary of "oh my god, look at that cloud" and "this reminds me of that one episode of Gilmore Girls."
The meltdown had begun six hours ago, in the fluorescent glare of Urban Outfitters.
You were standing in the accessories section, holding a oat milk iced matcha that matched the aesthetic of the store perfectly - too perfectly - when you heard it. That synth beat, distorted and pulsing, pouring from the ceiling speakers like poisoned honey. Then that voice. Joe’s voice. Rich and smooth and merciless.
“Change your body, change your face, curl your hair then make it straight…”
Your thumb froze over the cable-knit sweater you’d been photographing for your Instagram story. The iced drink suddenly felt wrong in your hand, a prop from a movie about a girl who doesn’t realize she’s the joke. Slowly, as if moving in slow motion, you looked up at the industrial ceiling with immeded speakers, blood draining from your face in a cold rush as the chorus hit, bright and brutal.
“Basic being basic…”
The laugh track played in the back of your mind on loops, mocking - ha ha ha ha - artificial and scathing, echoing through the store as you stood there paralyzed in your matching workout set, matcha sweating in your grip, wanting to curl up into a ball and die. Wanting to dissolve into the cracked wood flooring and disappear.
It’s not funny, it’s so funny, the song mocked, the bass vibrating through your brain. Vera Bradley’s back in vogue…
Take a picture of your plate…
It was lime he was in your head. You had literally paused on the sidewalk five minutes ago, crouching down in your sneakers to capture the perfect golden-hour angle of your almond croissant, the flakes glistening perfectly.
The song kept playing, cataloguing your sins with cheerful brutality. Every lyric was a finger pointing directly at you. You could feel the eyes of other shoppers on you, could swear they knew - that they recognized you as the subject of Joe Keery’s viral hit single, the basic girl in the algorithm, the performative poser he was mocking in three-minute-forty-two-second synth-pop perfection.
You’d fled. Abandoned the sweater, abandoned your dignity, practically sprinting across the street to the thrift store where the smell of old denim and dust filled your lungs. You bought the band tee - The Clash, you think, though you’ve never listened to them - with shaking hands, and then sat on the bus home with your phone burning in your lap, cheeks burning with the mortification of realisation you'd already made plans with Joe tonight, while the city blurred past the window in a wash of gray.
Now, here, the diner’s neon sign buzzes outside the window - OPEN 24 HRS in sputtering pink - and you feel like an imposter in your own skin.
“Hey,” Joe says.
You look up, and your heart stutters.
He’s sliding in across from you, and it’s unfair how good he looks in the harsh diner light - the kind of lighting that makes everyone else look like they’re in a David Lynch movie, but on him, it just carves out his cheekbones and makes his eyes look like dark honey. He’s wearing a simple white tee that stretches across his shoulders, hair tucked under a beanie that you’ve seen him wear a hundred times, and when he sees you normally, his smile goes all crinkly at the corners, his whole face lighting up with that specific Joe-brand warmth that usually makes you want to crawl into his lap and stay there forever.
But this time, his smile falters, just slightly. His head tilts in confusion.
“You look… different,” he says.
Different. Not good. Not pretty. Just different.
The words burn. You adjust the band tee - the fabric stiff and stratchy against your skin - and try to mimick a posture of casual indifference. “Thanks,” you say, aiming for breezy but hitting something closer to breathless. “I’m just, like, evolving. As a person. Spiritually.”
Joe blinks, once, twice. Those hazel eyes scan your face, taking in the absence of your usual makeup, the way you’re holding yourself like you have a bad cramp. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Cool. You want your usual - ”
“I’ll take a black coffee,” you interrupt, tossing your hair with a practiced casualness that took twenty minutes of teasing and sea salt spray to achieve. “Bitter. Like my soul.”
There is a beat of silence.
The diner around you suddenly feels too loud - the clatter of plates, the hiss of the espresso machine, the tinny sound of an 80s station playing from the kitchen. Joe sets down the menu he hadn’t had the chance to open yet, his brow furrowing in that way that means he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Are you okay?” he asks slowly.
“Totally.” You drum your fingers on the laminate table, the rhythm erratic, resisting the overwhelming urge to comment on the food recommendations from online reviews. Your fingers itch for the comfort of routine, of normal, of the familiar. “Just realized I’ve been really… you know. Basic. Lately. And I’m not about that life anymore. I’m alternative now. I listen to… The Smiths.”
You’d listened to one Smiths song this morning. “How Soon Is Now.” You’d hated it. It had sounded like being sad in a raincoat.
Joe leans back, studying you with that intense, dark-eyed focus that usually makes you confess every secret you’ve ever kept. Right now, it just makes you want to crawl under the table and disappear into the sticky floor. “Did someone say something to you?” he asks, voice dropping into that gentle register that undoes something in your chest.
“No!” Too loud. The couple in the booth behind you turns. You clear your throat, dropping your voice to what you hope sounds mysterious and alluring but probably sounds like you need a throat lozenger. “I’m just tired of conforming to societal expectations. I’m, like, post-aesthetic.”
“You’re post-aesthetic,” he repeats slowly, as if confirming to himself that what you'd actually said.
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why you’re wearing a shirt that says The Clash but you’ve got the tag still on the back?”
Your hand flies to your neck. The stiff cardboard tag scratches against your fingers. Shit. “It’s… vintage. The tag is vintage.”
“Babe.” Joe reaches across the table, his hand covering your fidgeting ones. His skin is warm, calloused from guitar strings, grounding. “What’s going on? Last week you made me watch Emily in Paris with you and you cried when the croissant scene happened. You said - and I quote - ‘This is cinema.’ Now you’re acting like you’re about to write a manifesto about industrial society and its future?”
You stare at the salt shaker, your eyes burning with the pressure of holding back tears. The fluorescent light hums above you. “I heard your song,” you whisper the confession. “Today. At Urban Outfitters.”
Joe’s expression shifts, confusion softening into something else - realization, horror, dawning understanding. “‘Basic Being Basic,’” he says, like the name of a ghost.
“While I was holding an iced matcha and a Vera Bradley bag after taking a picture of my food,” you say, your voice wobbling dangerously, hands slightly shaking in his. The memory floods back - the embrassement, the shame. “I know I’m… I’m really into fall. And I coordinate my outfits. And I have strong opinions about the seasonal menu at Starbucks. But I didn’t know you hated that. I didn’t know you wrote a whole synth-pop anthem mocking it. So I’m changing. I’m evolving. I’m - ”
“Wait.” Joe’s thumb strokes over your knuckles, gentle with a hint of panic, anchoring you to the vinyl booth so he can explain. “Wait, wait, wait. You think the song is about you? Specifically?”
“You said ‘change your body, change your face,’” you mumble, staring at the table where your fingers are tangled with his. “And Joe... I literally did everything in that song this morning. I’m the basic girl.”
Joe makes a noise that is half-laugh, half-groan, dropping his forehead to rest against your joined hands. His hair brushes against your wrists, soft and familiar. “Oh my god,” he mutters into your skin. “Y/N. Baby. The song is about society. It’s about the algorithm. It’s about people performing authenticity to go viral. It’s meta - it’s about how trying too hard to be ‘not like other girls’ is the most basic thing you can do, hence…” He lifts his head, grinning sheepishly, his eyes bright with affection and amusement. “Basic being basic.”
You freeze. The words don’t compute. “What?”
“I’m making fun of the concept of ‘basic.’ The whole point is that caring that much about being unique is exhausting. I wrote it because I was tired of the discourse, not because I wanted you to stop wearing your little cardigans that I love.” He squeezes your hands, afraid of you letting go. “You really think I’d write a diss track about your tote bag?”
“I... suppose it rhymes with ‘vogue,’” you whisper weakly, the argument sounding ridiculous now, exposed in the harsh light of his gaze.
“I needed a syllable!” Joe laughs with a groan. tugging you forward until you’re half-leaning across the table, your noses nearly touching, his breath warm against your lips. “Can you please go back to being my little pumpkin spice gremlin? I miss her. She was going to make me go apple picking this weekend and I was actually looking forward to it.”
“You hate apple picking,” you say, sniffing tears finally escaping, the tight knot in your chest beginning to unravel.
“I hate apples. I love watching you get excited about honeycrisps.” He quickly gets up to slide in the booth next to you and presses a kiss to your nose, soft and sweet, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, each touch a reassurance, a promise. “Be basic. Be extra. Be whatever you want. Just be you. Okay?”
You feel your face crumple, relief and embarrassment and overwhelming affection flooding your chest like warm water. “I bought combat boots,” you admit, a tear finally escaping down your cheek. “They hurt my feet. They’re giving me blisters.”
“Return them,” he says immediately, swiping the tear away with his thumb. “Get those fuzzy ones you like. The ones with the memory foam.”
“The Ugg Ultra Minis?” you ask, your voice small and cracked.
“Those ones.” He kisses you properly then, soft and sweet, right there in the diner booth where anyone could see. When he pulls back, he’s smiling against your lips, his eyes crinkled and warm. “Basic being basic. That’s my girl.”
“I’m going to order the pumpkin spice latte,” you warn him, your voice gaining strength, your spine straightening out of its defensive hunch.
“Get the large. Live your truth.”
“I’m going to take a picture of it for Instagram.”
“I’ll be your photographer.” He pulls out his own phone, angling it to capture you - not the filtered, curated version you’d planned to present today, but you: tear-streaked, bare-faced, wearing a thrift store band tee, glowing with relief. “Perfect,” he murmurs, capturing the moment.
“I’m going to make you go to Bath & Body Works later,” you say, your grin widening, the weight lifting off your shoulders with every word. “We’re buying every fall candle. I’m talking Leaves. I’m talking Sweater Weather. I’m talking Pumpkin Pecan Waffles.”
Joe groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, but he’s laughing, the vibration rumbling through your chest as he pulls you into his side, his arm a heavy, welcome weight across your shoulders. “Yeah, yeah. Just… maybe wash that thrift store shirt first? You smell like my grandmother’s cedar chest.”
“It’s vintage,” you insist, but you’re already pulling out your phone with your free hand to delete the depressing playlist you’d made titled “Not Like Other Girls,” to text your best friend that you’re back, and crisis was overted
Some other girls were great. But being basic? Being exactly who you are - coordinated outfits and seasonal drinks full of enthusiasm for honeycrisps - all with Joe?
That was pretty much perfect.
Outside, the neon sign sputters and glows, painting the world in shades of pink, and inside, Joe’s hand finds yours under the table, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, steady and sure. You lean your head on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him - laundry detergent and shampoo and that indefinable Joe scent - and finally, finally, the vinyl seat doesn’t feel so cold anymore.
Summary: Joe seems to believe that making his coffee order longer will make his new PA stay, little does he know she'd just rather him be himself.
Joe's an absolutely flirt and the readers tired and needs her own coffee.
A/N: I'M DEAD SERIOUS MOBILE SUCKS I WAS EDITING THIS TO POST TONIGHT.. BUT FINE INTERNET HAVE IT EARLY 🥹
On another note I'm on my hands and knees begging for more Joe idea so send them to me
Word Count: 2,773
Day 1
The call sheet said 6 AM, but dawn was still just a rumor when you arrived - sky the color of bruised plums, streetlamps fighting a losing battle against the dark. You'd been on set since 5:30, clutching a clipboard like a weapon and a list of caffeine orders long enough to wallpaper your apartment twice over.
Forty-eight names. Forty-eight hopes and preferences and tiny windows into who these people were before the cameras rolled. You didn't care about windows. You cared about efficiency. You cared about doing this job so well they couldn't help but hire you back.
"Joe Keery," you read, finger tracing the printed letters. "Black coffee."
Simple. You liked simple. Simple didn't waste your time.
You found his trailer easily - third in the row, door cracked open with music drifting out like smoke from a chimney. Something jangly and guitar-heavy, all jagged edges and earnestness. It sounded like being twenty-two and convinced that everything mattered desperately. You knocked twice, sharp and businesslike.
"Come in."
The word hit you like warm water - unexpected, enveloping. You pushed the door open with your shoulder, balancing the cardboard carrier like the professional you were.
He was running lines, script in hand, hair still damp and curling at the ends like question marks. No hat. You'd never seen him without a hat in public. Seeing him bare-headed felt like accidentally glimpsing a secret - intimate in a stupid, meaningless way.
"Coffee," you said, holding out the cup. "Black. I'm Y/N, the new PA on set. I'll be handling your mornings."
"Handling my mornings." He took the cup, and his fingers brushed yours - deliberate, you thought, or maybe you were imagining things. He smiled with his whole face, the kind of smile that probably worked on most people. "I like the sound of that."
You didn't smile back. You had forty-seven other deliveries, and this wasn't a singles bar. "Let me know if you need anything else. I'm on channel four."
"Actually - " He stopped you with the word, leaning against the doorframe in a way that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. "Do you know if they have oat milk? For tomorrow?"
You blinked. The question seemed designed to extend this interaction, to keep you standing in his doorway like a supplicant. "I can check."
"Cool. Cool cool cool." He was nodding too fast, a tell you filed away automatically. Nervous, despite the performance. Interesting. "Thanks, Y/N. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Bright and early."
"6 AM," you confirmed, already turning. "Don't be late."
You felt his eyes on your back as you walked away, but you didn't turn around. You didn't turn around for anyone.
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Day 3
"Joe Keery," you announced to the coffee cart. "Oat milk latte. One pump vanilla."
Miguel wrote it down, but his pen moved slowly, judgmentally. "He figure out what he wants yet?"
"He's working on it." You kept your voice neutral, professional. You didn't mention that Joe had found you at lunch yesterday, "just happened to be" in the craft services line, asking if you'd had a chance to check about the oat milk. You didn't mention that he'd remembered your name without prompting, that he'd said it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
You delivered to his trailer with mechanical efficiency. Knocked. Waited.
"Y/N." He answered the door in sweatpants, glasses slipping down his nose. No contacts yet. Another secret for the collection you weren't keeping. "You remembered."
"You asked three times." You held out the cup. "One pump vanilla. Not two. Not sugar-free. One."
"Observant." He took the coffee, blew on it unnecessarily, his eyes never leaving your face. "So what's your story? How'd you end up fetching coffee for struggling actors?"
"I'm not fetching." You let the edge sharpen your voice, just slightly. "I'm coordinating. There's a difference."
"Feisty." He grinned, but you caught the flicker - uncertainty, quickly masked. "I like it."
"Do you?" You pulled out your phone, checked the time, made him wait. "Anything else? I have seventeen more trailers."
"Seventeen." He leaned harder against the frame, like he needed it for support. "Anyone special in those seventeen?"
"All of them are special, Mr. Keery. That's why they get coffee." You turned on your heel. "See you tomorrow."
You felt his laugh follow you down the gravel path, surprised and genuine. You didn't let yourself smile until you were around the corner.
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Day 6
"Joe Keery." You didn't look at Miguel when you said it. "Iced oat milk cold brew, light ice, one pump vanilla, cinnamon on top."
The silence was its own comment.
"He's experimenting," you said, before Miguel could ask.
"He's something."
You didn't defend him. You didn't need to. You just carried the increasingly complicated order to his trailer, your steps measured, your expression carefully blank.
He was waiting at the door. He'd started doing that - being visible, being ready, like he was auditioning for a role he hadn't been cast in yet.
"Y/N." He drew out the syllables, your name becoming a song he was still learning. "You look tired."
"I look like someone who's been up since four."
"Brutal." He took the cup, but his hand lingered on yours, warm and slightly damp. Nervous sweat, probably. You filed it away. "You know what helps with tired?"
"Caffeine. Which I just brought you."
"Conversation." He smiled, the parentheses deep and practiced. "With interesting people. Like, say, the person bringing me caffeine."
You stared at him. Let the silence stretch until his smile started to waver, until you could see him calculating whether he'd misread the room, whether he'd pushed too far, too fast.
"Mr. Keery," you said finally, and watched him flinch at the formality. "I'm not here to be interesting. I'm here to do a job. If you need someone to talk to, might I suggest your co-stars? Or a therapist?"
His laugh burst out, shocked and delighted. "Holy shit. You just - " He ran a hand through his hair, the curl you were definitely not noticing springing back immediately. "Okay. Fair. Message received."
"Good." You turned to leave.
"Wait." He caught your arm, gentle, immediately releasing when you froze. "Sorry. Sorry. I just - " He took a breath, the performance dropping away, something younger underneath. "I'm bad at this. The talking. The normal talking. I keep trying to be charming and I think I'm just being..."
"Exhausting?" you supplied.
"Yeah." He laughed, self-deprecating, real. "That. Exactly that."
You should have walked away. You had sixteen more trailers, and this was unprofessional, and you didn't have time for actors with pretty eyes and no boundaries.
But his hand had been warm. And his laugh, the real one, had settled somewhere in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.
"Try asking about my day," you said. "Instead of performing at me. Tomorrow. If you still want to talk."
"I will." He straightened, hopeful, trying not to show how hopeful. "I definitely will."
You walked back to the cart feeling his eyes on your back, and this time you almost - almost - turned around.
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Day 9
"Joe Keery." The order had become a poem you'd memorised against your will. "Iced oat milk cold brew, light ice, one pump vanilla, cinnamon powder, extra shot, grande cup filled to venti."
Miguel set down his pen. "You know what? No."
"What?"
"No. Large orders go to the back of the queue." He crossed his arms. "Tell your boy he can wait."
"He's not my - " You stopped. Considered. "Fine. I'll wait."
You waited twenty minutes, standing against the cart with your arms crossed, watching the sky lighten from bruised plum to pale gold. When you finally delivered, Joe was pacing his trailer, script in hand, hair uncombed.
"You're late." He said it like a joke, but you heard the worry underneath.
"Your order's complicated. Miguel's staging a revolution."
"Oh." He took the cup, deflating slightly. "You didn't have to - if it's too much, I can dial it back. I didn't mean to make your job harder."
The admission sat strangely between you. You'd expected performance, expected him to lean into the doorway and say something flirty about being worth the wait. Instead he looked... concerned. Genuine. Young.
"You didn't," you heard yourself say, softer than intended. "Make it harder. It's just coffee."
"It's never just coffee." He met your eyes, and something in his was scared, scared and hopeful in equal measure. "I know I'm being ridiculous. I know the orders are stupid. I just - " He stopped. Started again. "I like when you look at me like I'm a puzzle. Even when you're annoyed. Especially when you're annoyed. You get this line between your eyebrows - " He reached out, stopped just short of touching you. "Sorry. I'm doing it again. Performing."
"You are," you agreed. But you didn't step back. "Ask about my day."
"What?"
"You said you'd try. Ask about my day."
He blinked. The script in his hand crinkled as he tightened his grip. "How was your day?"
"Terrible. I was up at four, Miguel hates me, and one of the actors keeps ordering drinks that require a chemistry degree." You let the corner of your mouth twitch, just slightly. "But the sunrise was nice. Pink. You probably missed it, pacing in here."
"I was pacing?"
"You're always pacing when I arrive. Like you're waiting for something."
He laughed, surprised, the real one that did things to your chest. "I am waiting. For you. Obviously."
"Obviously," you repeated, and this time you let the smile come, small and sharp and yours. "See you tomorrow, Joe."
"Joe," he echoed, like you'd given him something precious. "Not Mr. Keery?"
"Don't get used to it."
You walked back to the cart with your heart beating too fast, and you didn't check your phone once. Miguel took one look at your face and sighed, already reaching for the next order.
"That bad, huh?"
"That complicated," you corrected. But you were still smiling.
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Day 14
"Regular coffee," you told Miguel. "Two. Black."
He didn't ask. He just made them, sliding them across the counter with the efficiency of someone who'd seen this story before.
Joe was outside his trailer, no script, no glasses, just the gray sweatpants with the hole in the knee and a nervousness he wasn't trying to hide.
"That's not my order," he said when you held out the cup.
"It's mine." You took a sip, let him watch you process the bitterness. "I thought we could walk. While we drink."
"Walk?"
"Unless you're busy. Pacing. Waiting."
He fell into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that you could smell his soap - cedar and something citrus, clean as a new notebook. The set was waking up around you, crew members calling to each other, equipment rattling to life, but in this pocket of morning it felt like just the two of you.
"You never answered," he said. "When I asked. About anyone special in those seventeen trailers."
"I didn't have anyone special in any trailer." You kicked a pebble, watched it skitter into the grass. "I had a spreadsheet. Forty-eight names. Forty-eight orders. One actor who kept adding ingredients like he was building a ladder to somewhere."
"Was he? Building a ladder?"
You stopped walking. Turned to face him. The sunrise was breaking proper now, painting everything in watercolor washes of pink and gold, and he was standing in the middle of it looking at you like you'd hung the moon and also invented morning.
"He was building something," you said. "I couldn't tell if it was a ladder or a wall."
"Neither could I." He took a step closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of darker brown in his hazel eyes, the slight tremor in his hand around his coffee cup. "I kept thinking, if I could just make the order complicated enough, you'd have to stay. You'd have to figure me out. And if you figured me out, maybe you'd..." He stopped. Swallowed. "This is the part where I act. Where I say something charming about your eyes or your smile and make it sound casual."
"Don't," you said softly.
"Don't?"
"Don't act." You reached out, touched the hand holding his coffee, felt the warmth and the tremor. "Ask what you actually want to ask."
His throat moved. The morning light caught the stubble on his jaw, the curl falling into his eyes, all the details you'd pretended not to catalog. "Do you want to get dinner? After wrap? Somewhere with normal coffee and no spreadsheets?"
"Yes," you said, and watched hope transform his face, watched the parentheses become something permanent. "But Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"If you ever order a seven-modification drink on our date, I'm leaving."
He laughed, loud and relieved, the sound bouncing off the trailers and settling somewhere in your ribcage. "No promises. But I'll let you pick the place. Fair trade?"
"Fair trade," you agreed, and the pun sat between you, terrible and perfect.
He reached for your hand, fingers threading together like they'd always known the way. His palm was warm and slightly damp and real, nothing like the performances, nothing like the practiced charm.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked.
"Only if it's not a line."
"It's not a line." He squeezed your hand, nervous and hopeful and finally, finally genuine. "I think I started falling for you when you called me exhausting. No one's ever called me exhausting before. Usually they just... let me... I don't know be flirty? Pretend I'm something else?"
You thought of your first days, the armour you'd worn, the sharp edges you'd kept polished. You thought of softening, slowly, like butter left out in sun.
"You're still exhausting," you said, and pulled him closer, close enough to feel his heartbeat, to smell the cedar and citrus, to know this was real. "But you're worth the wait."
He kissed you then, coffee cups crushed between you, morning light breaking over everything, and you didn't think about your spreadsheet once.
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Six Months Later
"Remember when you made me memorise your ridiculous coffee order?" you asked, curled against Joe's side on his couch, the one that smelled like him now, that held the shape of your body in its cushions.
The apartment was dark except for streetlamp glow filtering through blinds, painting everything in stripes of amber and shadow. His hand was in your hair, fingers tracing patterns that didn't mean anything, that meant everything.
"I remember being desperately in love with my PA and having no idea how to tell her." His voice rumbled through his chest, through your cheek, a frequency that had become home.
"You told me through dairy alternatives." You laughed, the sound muffled against his t-shirt. "It was like receiving a love letter in a language I didn't speak. I kept translating it as this man is annoying."
"Was I? Annoying?"
"Exhausting, remember?" You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, felt him shiver. "But I started looking forward to it. The performances. The nervousness underneath. You were like a book with a terrible cover, and I kept reading anyway."
"What's my cover now?"
You pulled back to look at him - no hat, no glasses, no script in hand, no performance. Just Joe, looking at you like you'd hung the moon and also invented coffee, like you'd personally arranged the stars.
"Home," you said, and watched his eyes soften, watched the parentheses deepen into something permanent. "You're home now."
He kissed you then, soft and slow and worth every complicated morning, every invented preference, every moment of wondering. Outside, the city hummed its endless song, but here, in the amber-striped dark, there was only this - the language you'd learned to speak together, fluent at last.
"For the record," he murmured against your lips, "I still think you were terrifying. That first day. All sharp edges and I'm on channel four."
"Good." You smiled into the kiss. "Someone had to be. You were trying so hard I thought you'd pull a muscle."
"I almost did." He pulled you closer, laughing, real and young and yours. "Worth it, though. Every exhausting, terrifying, complicated moment."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He kissed your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth - each one a period at the end of a sentence he'd been too afraid to write, now complete. "Good thing I got the girl who called me out."
"Good thing," you agreed, and let yourself soften completely, let yourself be home.
