hey!! what about joe w massive baby fever after seeing reader w his nieces
ˋ°•*⁀➷ Someday, Under the Oak
ˋ°•*⁀➷ Joe Keery x Reader
Summary: You fall asleep under an oak tree with Joe's niece in your arms - and wake to find him watching you like he's seen the rest of his life. He doesn't know you heard him say I want to build everything with you.
ˋ°•*⁀➷ Oh he's down BAD
A/N: thank you for the request!! I needed a change up tonight, we've gone ultra fluff mode 😘
Word Count: 1,923
The weather had turned crisp that October afternoon, the kind of day where the air smells like woodsmoke. You were at Joe's sister's place for a family barbecue, a significant step in your relationship - meeting his extended family, the small cousins, the people who had known him when he had braces and a terrible haircut.
You'd been nervous. You'd changed about three times. But now, three hours in, you were barefoot in the backyard, grass cool between your toes, and you'd forgotten that you were anxious entirely.
Because of her.
Cora was three, all chubby wrists and sticky fingers with a crown of dark curls that defied gravity. She had attached herself to you within minutes of arrival, somehow sensing your soft spot for kids, your weakness for small things with big feelings.
Now the two of you were conspiring in the far corner of the yard, engaged in some very serious business.
"More," Cora commanded, her hands on her hips, her pink overalls dusted with grass stains.
"More of what, my love?" you asked, crouching to her level.
"More pwetty." She gestured dramatically at the pile of autumn leaves you'd been slowly collecting, as if you were personally offending her with an insufficient quantity.
You laughed, the sound carrying across the yard, and Joe - who had been helping man the grill - felt it hit him right in the heart. That laugh. God, that laugh. He watched you rake together another pile, your hair falling loose from its clip, your sweater riding up to expose a stripe of skin at your waist that his eyes were trained on.
"Ready?" you asked Cora, and she nodded on time with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict.
"One… two…"
"Fwee!"
You fell backward into the leaves together, Cora's shrieks of delight mixing with your own breathless laughter. She immediately climbed onto your stomach, bouncing with that destructive toddler glee, sending red and gold leaves fluttering into the air like confetti.
"Again!" she demanded.
So you did it again. And again. You gave her piggyback rides across the lawn, your knees had become grass-stained, your voice hoarse from neighing like a horse at her request. You pushed her on the swing until your arms ached, higher and higher, catching her at the apex of each arc while she threw her head back and squealed at the sky.
Joe flipped burgers and tried not to stare. Tried not to memorize the way you looked with his niece's hand tucked trustingly in yours, the way you slowed your pace to match her stumbling steps, the way you listened to her endless, nonsensical stories with genuine interest, crouching down to meet her eyes like her words were precious.
"She's relentless," his sister said, appearing at his elbow with a platter of buns. "You don't have to let her monopolize your girlfriend, you know."
"She's fine," Joe said, too quickly. "They're fine."
His sister followed his gaze, saw the soft, stupid expression he wasn't bothering to hide, and smiled knowingly. "Oh, I see."
"You don't see anything."
"I see my little brother mentally picking out baby names, but go off I guess."
Joe threw a napkin at her. She laughed and walked away, victorious.
The afternoon wore on in that drowsy way autumn afternoons do. The sunlight slanted lower gradually, turning everything honey-colored and slow. You could feel the day settling into evening, the air growing cooler, the energy of the party softening into contentment.
You and Cora had migrated to the base of the old oak tree at the yard's edge, its trunk massive and gnarled, its leaves a canopy of rust and gold. She'd had found a "fairy house" in the roots - a small hollow between two thick tendrils of wood, carpeted with moss and last year's acorns.
"We nap," Cora announced suddenly, her eyes heavy, her earlier frenzy finally catching up with her small body.
"You want to nap here?" you asked, amused.
"Wif you." She climbed into your lap without waiting for permission, her familiar weight settling against your chest. She smelled like grass, sugar and that particular warm scent of clean. "You be da bed."
"Okay, bug." You adjusted your back against the tree trunk, finding the most comfortable angle you could. "Just a little rest."
She tucked her thumb in her mouth, her other hand finding your hair, winding a strand around her finger the way she had all afternoon on the piggybacks. Her eyelashes fluttered, fought, failed. Within minutes she was heavy and limp against you, her breath deepening into the rhythm of sleep.
You should move. You should find her mother, deposit her in a proper bed, rejoin the adults. But the tree was supporting your tired back, and Cora was radiating warmth like a small furnace. The afternoon had wrapped itself around you like a blanket. Your own eyes grew heavy without you really even noticing. The sounds of the party faded to a pleasant murmur. The last thing you felt was Cora's hand relaxing in your hair, her thumb slipping free of her mouth as she settled deeper against your heart.
You let yourself drift off for just for a moment.
Joe found you twenty minutes later.
He'd been looking, though he told himself he was just checking, just being responsible. The grill was cleaned, the burgers eaten, the sun sinking toward the horizon in a blaze of rose and amber. He'd grabbed a throw blanket from the couch - just in case, it's getting chilly - and followed the path you'd worn through the grass.
Then he stopped. And stared. And felt his heart physically clench in his chest.
You were asleep under that oak tree that held so many of his own memories, your head tilted back against the bark, your mouth slightly open, your chest rising and falling in the deep, even rhythm of exhausted contentment. And Cora - his niece, his sister's daughter, not yours, not yet at least - was curled into you like you were the safest harbor she'd ever known. Her face was smushed against your collarbone, one hand still tangled in your hair, her legs drawn up to her chest and held close by your arm.
The blanket fell from his hand.
He should take a picture. He knew he should take a picture. But he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stand there and let the future crash over him in waves.
He saw it all, suddenly, with devastating clarity. Not abstract imaginings but specific moments, textured, colored and real.
You, seven months along, too uncomfortable to sleep in the bed, reading on the couch at 2 AM while he rubbed your feet and promised this would all be worth it. The nursery you would obsess over, every detail perfect had to be perfect, while he teased you about nesting but secretly loved watching you prepare. The way you'd look at him across a hospital room, terrified, fierce and ready, right before everything changed forever.
He saw you like this - like you were now - but in their living room, their child asleep against your chest while you dozed in the glider they'd bought secondhand and refinished together. He saw himself covering you with a blanket, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to the soft forehead of their baby's head. He saw years of this. Soccer games, skinned knees and bedtime stories. He saw you teaching their daughter to braid hair, their son to be gentle. He saw the tantrums, the milestones and the million ordinary moments that made up a life built together.
And he saw himself, older, standing in a doorway much like he was now, watching you with grandchildren maybe, still looking at you like you were the miracle he didn't deserve but got anyway.
This, he thought, his throat tight with want. I want this. I want her. I want them. I want everything.
He didn't realize he'd made a sound until Cora stirred, murmuring something against your neck. You didn't wake - too far gone, too trusting in your surroundings - but your arm tightened around her instinctively, protective even in sleep.
Joe crossed the grass quietly, retrieved the fallen blanket, and approached with confidence of a man who finally understood what they wanted. He draped it over both of you, tucking it around Cora's small feet, around your shoulders. Then he sank to his knees in the grass beside you, close enough to feel your warmth, to hear the soft twinning of your breath.
He reached out, hesitantly, and brushed a leaf from your hair. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your ear, the line of your jaw. You sighed in your sleep, leaning into his touch, and something in his chest broke open and rebuilt itself, stronger, oriented entirely toward this - toward you, toward them.
"I love you," he whispered, even though you couldn't hear. "I love you, and I want to build everything with you. The mess, the noise, the sleepless nights, the tiny shoes by the door. I want to be scared with you. I want to be tired with you. I want to watch you be a mother and be the one who gets to support you, learn from you, grow with you."
He looked at Cora, at the peaceful slackness of her sleeping face, and imagined your features there. Your eyes, your smile. Or his. Some perfect combination that would make him weak every single day.
"She's not even ours," he murmured, half-laughing at himself, "and I can't - I can't breathe looking at you. How am I going to survive our own kid?"
You shifted, your eyes fluttering open, unfocused and drowsy. You found him immediately, like you always did, your lips curving in a sleepy smile.
"Hey," you mumbled. "How long was I out?"
"Not long." He stroked your cheek with his thumb. "You looked peaceful. Didn't want to wake you."
You looked down at Cora, still heavy against you, and the tenderness that softened your face made his heart physically ache. "She crashed hard. Poor bug wore herself out."
"She's not the only one." He stood, holding out his hands. "Come on. I'll carry her inside. You can have the chair by the fire, I'll bring you tea, and you can pretend to be social for twenty more minutes before I make excuses and take you home."
"Such a good boyfriend," you teased, but you took his hand, let him pull you up while carefully transferring Cora's weight to his chest.
She stirred, protested weakly - "Bee?" - but settled quickly against him, recognizing family even in sleep.
"I've got her, bug," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her curls. "Go back to sleep."
You walked beside him across the yard, your hand in his, the blanket draped over your shoulders. The fairy lights were flickering on as the sun said its finally goodbye, painting everything in soft, forgiving glow.
"You okay?" you asked, noticing his silence, the intensity of his grip on your hand.
He stopped at the patio door, Cora warm and real in his arms, you radiant and glowing beside him. He looked at you with everything he felt laid out bare in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, and his voice was rough, honest, open. "I'm just… I'm really happy. And I really want to keep this. All of it. With you."
You didn't ask what he meant. Maybe you knew. Maybe you felt it too, the weight of potential, the shape of a future pressing close enough to touch.
So you just squeezed his hand and said, "Me too, Joe. Me too."
And when he leaned down to kiss you, careful not to jostle his sleeping niece, it tasted like promise. Like autumn. Like the beginning of everything.
Summary: time for the birthday boy to unwrap his present - except the present spent all night unwrapping him first.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, orgasm denial/edging, power dynamics, unprotected p n v, creampie, brief degradation ("pretty boy," "good boy"), public teasing, alcohol, crying during sex, dom/sub switch, stilettos are weapons and should be used as such.
A/N: tell a friend to tell a friend.... she's backkkkk.... So late for his "birthday" or maybe I'm on time. Who knows.
Word Counter: 4,231 of pure smut baby
The Uber ride home was a complete blur between the amber streetlights that smeared across the window and Joe’s hand gripping your thigh too hard, his thumb was rubbing these restless, desperate circles against the inside of your knee. He’s still in the suit - that charcoal grey, perfectly tailored one you’d picked out for him in the morning as you watched him fasten piece by piece with the quiet authority of a woman who already knew exactly how the night would end. You’d had dinner at the little French place downtown with friends, clinking glasses of champagne and pretending you weren’t slowly sliding your stiletto heel off under the table so you could run your bare foot up the seam of his dress pants, your hand on his thigh pressing right where you could feel he was already getting thick for you.
You’d leaned into his ear while the waiter innocently poured more wine, your breath was hot against his jaw, you'd whispered something filthy about the tie he was wearing. Something about making use of it later to bind his wrists together. He’d gone perfectly still, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard, and you’d sat back with an cocky smile, buttering your bread like you hadn’t just unraveled him in front of twelve other people.
At the bar after, you’d danced with him pressed close, your back against his chest, grinding deliberately slow and to music that didn’t warrant it. Your hand had reached back, found him already half-hard through the expensive fabric, and you’d squeezed once - just once - before pulling away to the bar for another round. He’d chased you with his eyes all night, pupils blown wide, dark and drunk on you more than the whiskey he was favoring. And you’d let him look. Let him watch the way your hips moved in your dress, the way your legs looked endless in those fucking heels, the way you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
Now, in the hallway leading to your shared apartment, he’s fumbling with his keys. You're leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one leg crossed over the other so the black stiletto dangles precariously from your toes before you flex your foot and settle it back on the floor with a sharp click that echo's. You watch the way the suit jacket strains across his shoulders when he hunches forward. The tie is already loosened, hanging crooked and you're already thinking about 500 different ways to wreck him.
“Having trouble, birthday boy?” you ask, voice dripping with honey.
He looks over his shoulder at you, and the desire on his face is almost obscene. “You know what you did to me all night,” he says, and it comes out rough like gravel, a little slurred at the end, vulnerable in that way he only gets when he’s had just enough to drink to drop the last of his social charm. “Teasin’ me in front of everyone. You’re fucking evil.”
You push off the doorframe and take a step closer, which is close enough that your chest brushes against his back. Your hands slide around his waist, finding the buckle of his belt, toying with it. The heel of your stiletto drags lightly against the hardwood floor, a deliberate, scraping sound that makes him shiver against you. “Evil? I was just celebrating my favorite person.” You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Now open the door before I make you fuck me in the hallway.”
He groans, head dropping back, and finally manages to get the key in the lock.
The apartment is dark except for that same glow from the uber filtering through the windows. You don’t bother to turn on the lights. You push him through the door before pulling it closed behind you - the thud echoes - and turn to face him, walking backward toward the bedroom with deliberate, unhurried steps. The heels make you taller, your posture is perfect, your legs look like they go on forever. You know he’s staring at the way the lace of your dress hitches up with each step, at the flash of your inner thighs, at the sway of your hips.
“Stay there,” you say, holding up a finger. “Don’t move. Don’t touch yourself. I’ll be right back.”
Joe freezes in the middle of the living room like you’ve told him to stop breathing, his chest has stopped heaving, his hands hanging at his sides. You can see the strain in his pants from here. Good.
In the bedroom, you strip out of the black cocktail dress, taking your time. You don’t take off the heels. That was all part of the look. The black patent leather stilettos stay strapped to your feet, four inches of power, making your calves flex and your ass sit higher. You spritz a little perfume on your wrists, on your throat. Then you pull out the set you bought three days ago - the one you’ve been hiding in the back of your lingerie drawer, waiting, patientely for tonight.
They were made of champagne-colored lace. Delicate, barely-there. The bra pushes you up perfectly, the cups sheer are enough that he’ll be able to see how hard your nipples already are. The panties sit low on your hips, and at the center of the waistband - exactly where his eyes will go first - is a tiny, satin bow. You look at yourself in the mirror and smile. The heels make it lethal. You look like a gift he hasn’t earned yet.
You walk back out exactly like this.
Joe is still standing where you left him, but he’s undone his tie completely, holding it bunched in one fist like he’s been waiting for your permission to use it or desperate for something to do with his hands. His eyes find you in the dark doorway, and the sound he makes is inhuman - broken, a whine that starts in his chest and dies somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Oh my god. Baby.”
You lean against the doorframe again, mirroring your pose from earlier, but now you’re all soft skin, lace and power. You cock your hip to the side and let your fingers trail down your own stomach, toying with the little bow at your waistband. The shift of your weight makes one heel dig into the floor with a soft click.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you purr. “Come unwrap your present.”
Joe moves like he’s been electrocuted, crossing the space between you in one breath, but you stop him with a hand flat against his chest. He freezes instantly, breathing erratic, his heart hammering against your palm.
“Slow,” you murmur. “You’ve been rushing all night. Rushing to get home. Rushing to get your hands on me. It’s your birthday. Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you want.”
He nods, fast, his eyes darting all over you - your mouth, your breasts, the bow, the small space between your legs, the heels. “Please,” he says, and the word is so raw it makes your pussy clench around nothing. “Please, I’ve been hard for you since dessert. Since you teased me under the table. I’ve been - fuck - I need you.”
“I know you do,” you whisper, and you take his hand. You lead him to the bedroom, the heels clicking against the hardwood with every step, and he follows like you’re pulling his heart by a string, utterly compliant.
You push him down to sit on the edge of the bed. He goes easily, looking up at you with those dark, blown-pupil eyes, his hair falling out of place to rest against his forehead. The height difference with your heels on is perfect - he has to look right up at you, and you can see exactly how much he loves it, the way his mouth parts, the way he swallows hard.
“You look so good in that suit,” you say, tracing your thumb under his lower lip. “But I want you out of it. Piece by piece. And you’re not going to touch me until I say so. Understand?”
“Yes,” he breathes out labored, like he has to think about it. “Yes, whatever you want.”
You start with his jacket. You slide it off his shoulders, slow, letting your fingernails drag down his arms. You fold it carefully over the back of the chair - making him wait, making him watch you move around the room in nothing but lace and heels while he sits there fully clothed and aching. Then you come back and straddle his lap, settling your weight on his thighs. The lace of your panties rubs against the wool of his dress pants, you roll your hips once, just to hear him gasp, and you slowly pick at the top two buttons of his shirt, letting the fabric fall open.
“Arms up,” you command softly.
He lifts them, and you pull his dress shirt over his head, leaving him in just his undershirt. You shake your head in disapproval. “That too.”
He strips it off, and then he’s bare from the waist up, all soft muscle, hair and the frantic rise and fall of his ribs. You run your hands down his chest, feeling him shiver, watching his eyes flutter shut.
“Look at me,” you say.
He obeys.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s deep, filthy, slow - no urgency despite the screaming tension between you. You take his mouth like you have all the time in the world, licking into him, sucking on his tongue, nipping at his lower lip until he’s whimpers into your mouth, his hands hover at your waist, trembling with the effort not to grab you. You can feel him hard and straining beneath you, trapped in his pants, and you grind down against him just to feel him twitch.
You pull back and look down at him. “You’re being so good,” you praise, and his face lights up, preening even through the haze of arousal. “So good for me. My good boy.”
“Please,” he whines, and his hips buck up involuntarily up into you, seeking friction. “Please, touch me. I need your hands on me.”
“You’ll get them,” you say, and you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees between his spread out thighs.
The sound he makes is guttural. He stares down at you with something like awe and terror, his hands fisting in the bedsheets on either side of him to control himself. You run your palms up his thighs, feeling the tension in the muscles there, the way his legs are shaking. You press a kiss to the inside of his knee, then higher, then higher, your mouth trailing up the inseam of his dress pants while he watches you with wide, dark eyes. Your knees are spread on the floor, and the position makes you feel powerful, worshipful, divine.
“Baby,” he whimpers. “Oh god, what are you - ”
You reach his belt and undo it with deliberate slowness, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss. You pop the button. You ease the zipper down, and the sound is deafening in the quiet room. He’s wearing dark briefs underneath, and the outline of his dick is obscene, threatening to break free of the fabric, wet at the tip where he’s been leaking for god knows how long.
You look up at him through your lashes. “Lift.”
He lifts his hips, and you tug his pants and briefs down together, just enough to free him.
Fuck.
He’s gorgeous. He always is, but tonight, the tip is flushed dark and wet and so hard he’s throbbing against his own stomach, he’s breathtaking. You don’t dare touch him yet. You just observe, letting your gaze drag over every inch of him, and the praise comes naturally, rolling off your tongue.
“Look at you,” you murmur, and your voice is soft, worshipful. You reach out with just one finger and trace the vein along the underside, from tip to base, watching him twitch, watching more precum bead at the slit the further you go. “So pretty. You’re so pretty for me, Joe. Look how hard you are. Look how much you want me.”
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his head falling back, his neck exposed and vulnerable. “Don’t - don’t call me that, I’ll - fuck, I’ll lose it, I’ll - ”
“What?” you ask innocently, wrapping your hand around him at last. He’s hot, silky, pulsing in your grip. You stroke once, slow, from root to tip, spreading his precum over his head with your thumb. “Lose it because I think you’re pretty? Because your cock is so fucking beautiful I could look at it all night?”
You lean in and press a kiss to his inner thigh, high up, your lips brushing the base of his balls. He sobs, actually sobs, his hips jerking.
“Please,” he begs, and he’s unraveling already, all of that confidence from dinner gone, reduced to this - needy, submissive, desperate for you. “Please, suck me. Please, I need your mouth. I’ve been thinking about your mouth all night. Please, baby, I’m beggin’ - ”
“Shh,” you soothe, pumping him slowly, watching his face crumple with pleasure. “I’ve got you. I’m going to take such good care of you. But you don’t get to cum until I say so. Understand? You hold it for me. Be my good boy and hold it.”
“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, I’ll hold it. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good, just - please - ”
You finally take him into your mouth.
The sound he makes is animalistic, wrecked, his hand flying to your hair but stopping just short, hovering there, trembling. You pull off long enough to grab his wrist and place his hand on your head. “You can touch,” you whisper. “Hold my hair. Just don’t push.”
He grips your hair gently, his fingers threading through your strands, and you sink back down onto him, taking him as deep as you can, hollowing your cheeks out. You work him with your tongue, with your hand firm at the base, with the slow, wet suction that you know drives him crazy. You pull back to lap at his head, kitten licks that make him whine high in his throat, and then you dive back down, taking him deep, swallowing around him.
“Oh god,” he pants, his hips jerking, trying so hard not to thrust up into your throat. “Oh god, baby, your mouth - fuck, fuck, I’m gonna - ”
You pull off immediately, keeping your hand working him slowly, torturously slow. He cries out at the loss, his head snapping down to look at you with betrayal in his eyes, heaving.
“No,” he whines. “No, don’t stop, please, I was so close - ”
“I know,” you say sweetly, leaning up to kiss his slack mouth, letting him taste himself on your lips. “That’s the point. I told you. You don’t cum until I say so.”
You edge him like that for what feels like hours. Sinking down onto him until he’s babbling, pulling off the second he gets close, over and over, until he’s drenched in sweat, his hairs on his chest plastered against his skin, his thighs shaking so hard the bed creaks under him. He’s completely gone, reduced to only whimpers and please, please, please, his grip on your hair has gone loose, it's more like he’s clinging to you than holding you in place.
At one point you pull off and just look at him, stroking him with two fingers, barely even touching, and he actually tears up, his lower lip trembling. “Please,” he whispers, voice is cracked. “Please, I can’t - I need to cum. I need you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please let me - ”
You crawl up his body, straddling him again, your lace-covered pussy settling right against his throbbing length. He moans, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in hard. You let him. You roll your hips, grinding against him, the lace creating a delicious amount of friction for both of you. The heels dig into the mattress, giving you leverage to rock harder, deeper.
“You’ve been so good,” you breathe against his mouth, your own voice starting to shake now, your own need climbing high and tight in your belly. “So fucking good for me. Taking everything I give you. Letting me play with you. Letting me wreck you.”
“I love it,” he whimpers, his eyes glassy, drunk on you, on the denial. “I love when you wreck me. I love when you’re in charge. I’m yours. I’m all yours, baby, please - ”
You reach down between you and pull your panties aside. You’re soaked, dripping, and the lace is now in your way but you don’t care enough to take it off - you want him inside you now, you want to feel him break. You position him at your entrance and sink down, slow, inch by inch, your eyes locked on his, never leaving.
The can barely even make a proper noise now, just a ragged cry that tears out of his chest as you take him all the way, seating yourself fully on his lap. You’re both shaking. You feel impossibly full, stretched to the max around him, your walls burning so perfectly you have to stop for a second just to learn how to breathe. He’s gripping your hips so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow, his head is thrown back, his throat working overtime, a vein in his neck pulsing wild and fast.
“Fuck,” he sobs. “Oh fuck, you feel - baby, you’re so tight, you’re so - please move, please, I need you to move - ”
You set the pace. Slow. Torturous. You roll your hips in small circles, grinding down on him, taking him deep and then lifting up until just the tip of him is inside you, feeling the fat head of his dick catch at your rim, then sinking back down. Every time you bottom out, he cries out, his hands roaming everywhere - your waist, your breasts through the lace, your ass - like he can’t decide what he wants to touch the most. The heels dig into the mattress, giving you perfect leverage to roll your hips more, harder, deeper.
You lean down and capture his mouth, kissing him roughly, swallowing his moans. “You feel so good inside me,” you whisper against his lips. “So fucking good. My pretty boy. My perfect birthday boy. You’re doing so well.”
“Please let me cum,” he begs, and he’s crying now, tears tracking down his temples, his face flushed and beautiful. oh so beautiful. “Please, I can’t hold it anymore. I’ve been holding it all night. Please, baby, please - ”
You sit up and ride him harder, your hands braced on his shoulders, your nails digging in. The lace of your bra is scratchy against your nipples, the bow on your panties bouncing with every movement, and the sight of him beneath you - destroyed and utterly at your mercy - is pushing you rapidly toward the edge. You roll your hips forward, grinding your clit against the base of him with every downward stroke, and the dual friction makes you gasp.
“Touch me,” you gasp. “Joe, touch me - ”
But instead of just his thumb, he makes a new sound - a growl combined with a whine, something broken - and his hands grip your hips with shocking strength. Before you can react, he’s flipping you, his need overwhelming, his strength overpowering. Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud and your breath is knocked out of you, and suddenly he’s looming over you, his hair falling into his face, his eyes black and wild.
“Need to feel you,” he chokes out, voice wrecked. “Need to make you feel good, baby, please - ”
He reaches back to grab your ankle - the heel still on, black patent leather stark against his pale skin - and runs his hand up your leg with reverent desperation, his palm rough and hot, feeling the flex of your muscle. He pushes your leg up, up, until your knee is near your shoulder, and then he hoists your calf over his shoulder. The heel digs into his back, just below his shoulder blade, a sharp point anchoring him to you.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, looking down at where you’re connected, where he’s still buried deep inside you. “Look at you. Look at how good you take me.”
The new angle is devastating. He braces one hand beside your head and uses the other to grip your thigh, holding you open, holding you exactly where he needs you. The lace of your bra is twisted, your breasts spilling out over the material, the bow on your panties still somehow intact but pulled askew.
He starts moving again. Slow at first, experimental, watching your face twist with pleasure as he hits that sweet spot inside of you every time, and then faster when you cry out in pleasure. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room - wet, heavy, rhythmic - mixed with the creak of the bedframe and the broken, high-pitched whines falling from his lips. He sounds destroyed, like he’s falling apart, but he’s so focused on you, his eyes darting between your face and your body and where he’s sliding in and out of you.
“So pretty,” he babbles, and he’s crying again, tears tracking down his temples, but he’s fucking you with pure instinct now, his hips snapping hard, the heel on his back driving him deeper with every thrust. “You’re so pretty, baby, so fucking pretty, feel so good around me, so tight, so wet - ”
You arch your back, your free leg wrapping around his waist, the other heel digging into his spine. The dual pressure - him inside you, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach, his hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, his breath hot and ragged against your neck - is obliterating. The lace of the bra scratches your nipples raw with every jolt, the bow on your waistband rubs against his lower belly, and the wet, filthy sound of him moving inside you echoes obscenely around you.
“Joe,” you gasp, your hands flying to his hair, gripping hard. “Joe, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop - ”
“I won’t,” he promises, voice cracked. “I won’t stop, I’ll give you everything, just let me - please let me make you cum, I’ve been so good for you, please let me - ”
He’s begging even while he’s the one fucking you, that submissive need still there even as he takes control of your body. It’s overwhelming your brain - the contrast of his strength and his need, the way he handles you like you’re fragile but fucks you like he’s starving. The bed bangs against the wall, the heels click and scrape against his back with every snap of his hips, and the wet sounds of your bodies meeting are filthy, obscene, perfect.
“Touch me,” you beg again, but this time you mean your clit, and he understands instantly. His hand slides from your thigh down between your legs, his thumb finding you with clumsy pressure, rubbing tight circles that make your vision spark.
“Cum for me,” he pleads, his forehead dropping to yours, his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming erratic, wild. “Please cum for me, baby, I need to feel you, I need to feel you squeeze me, please - ”
You shatter.
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, starting deep where he’s pounding into you and radiating outward until you’re screaming, your back bowing off the bed, your nails raking down his shoulders. You clench around him violently, rhythmic and relentless, and he sobs at the feeling, his hips stuttering.
“Oh god, oh fuck, I’m gonna - ” he chokes, and you manage to gasp, “Come, Joe, cum inside me, give it to me now - ”
He screams your name - actually screams it, raw and broken - and buries himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as he spills into you, hot and endless, pulsing so hard you can feel every individual twitch. He keeps thrusting through it, shallow and messy, milking himself inside you, tears streaming down his face, his mouth open against your throat, making these high, wounded sounds that wreck you completely.
You collapse together, trembling, sweating, the room spinning. He stays inside you, softening slowly, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way possible. Your leg is still over his shoulder, the heel digging into his back, and he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Happy birthday,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his sweaty temple.
He laughs, losing every breath left in his lungs, and finally lets your leg slide down, but he catches the heel before it hits the bed, his fingers lingering on the strap. “Best birthday,” he mumbles. “Love you. Love you so much. The heels stay on next time too.”
You grin against his neck, spent and sated and complete.
Daydreaming about Joe x reader in the early newborn days, picturing Joe with the cutest tiny newborn, lots of fluff and appreciation for what reader has given him - ugh my heart physically cannot handle it 😭
ˋ°•*⁀➷ In the Blue Hour
°•*⁀➷ Joe Keery x Reader
Summary: At 3 AM, you find your husband in the nursery, shirtless and sleep-rumpled, whispering to your newborn daughter like she's a secret he's terrified to break. "I didn't think I could love you more," he tells you, eyes bright with wonder. "I was wrong."
A/N: Bestie, I will always love your Joe daydreams and bring them to reality. Your imagination is literally my favourite inspiration. <3
Word Count: 2,467
The nursery light is leaking out suspiciously from under the slightly ajar door at 3am that you remember vividly turning off. Somewhere in the house, a radiator ticks, warming the cool September air. The mobile above the crib turns slowly, star-shaped shadows drifting across the walls like a galaxy just born. You wake not to crying, but to an absence - the space beside you empty, the sheets still holding the warmth of the body recently departed.
You find him in the rocking chair by the window, your daughter cradled against his bare chest. The curtains are drawn back just enough to see the actual stars decorating the night sky, gilding the scene in something that looks, for a moment, like a painting. He's wearing the flannel pants you got him last Christmas, the ones with the worn-soft waistband, and nothing else.
She's impossibly small against him. Six pounds, two ounces at her last weigh-in, though she feels different every time you lift her - like she's already growing away from you, becoming her own person in tiny increments. The yellow blanket your mother sent from Ohio swallows her whole, pooling in his lap, making her look like a baby bird nestled in a nest way too large.
Joe hasn't noticed you yet. He's too busy amazed by her.
His thumb traces the curve of her ear - so tiny, so perfectly shaped, the cartilage still soft and pliable. He does this often, you've noticed. Maps her features with his fingertips as if memorizing her shape in braille. His head is bowed, his nose nearly brushing her forehead, and he's breathing her in. Deep, deliberate inhales, like he's trying to capture her scent in the back of his throat, to keep it there forever.
"Hey," you whisper from the doorway.
His head lifts slowly, reluctantly, as if pulling himself from a trance. And the look on his face steals your breath. It's wonder, pure and undiluted. The kind of wonder that makes his eyes sparkle in the darkness, that softens every angle of him into something almost holy. The smile that spreads across his face is slow and private, meant for you alone in this quiet space you two crafted by hand.
"She was fussing," he whispers back, like he's confessing a secret. His voice carries that particular roughness of someone who hasn't used it in hours. "I didn't want to wake you. You've barely slept in - " he counts on his free hand, fingers spreading against his knee, " - four days? Five?"
You creep across the carpet, careful not to wake her with the sound of a creaking floorboard, and sink onto the couch beside him. Up close, you can see the fatigue painted beneath his eyes, the faint creases that weren't there a month ago. The wild disarray of his hair where she's been gripping it in her tiny fist - several strands stand perpendicular to his scalp, a testament to her surprising strength. But he looks alive. Like he's never been happier - minus your wedding day. The skin of his chest reflects a light sheen of sweat in the lamplight, and you can see the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it attmepts to synchronize with hers, as if their bodies have already learned to communicate in rhythms you haven't quite deciphered.
"Can I?" you ask, reaching out.
He shifts, careful, so careful, supporting her head with one broad palm while he transfers her into your arms like the hospital nurse taught him. She's warm, and the weight of her in your arms again somehow anchors your entire world. You press your lips to her soft head gently - that newborn smell overwhelming your senses, possibility the baby powder but also something uniquely her, like rain on the warm pavement the night you brought her home and sweet milk with the vague vanilla of the lotion you use - and feel your heart expand in your chest until it aches.
"She has your hair," Joe says quietly. He's watching you both with an intensity that makes you look up. "See? That little swirl at the crown." He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your cheek, and traces the spot with one gentle finger. "I kept staring at it while you were sleeping. Couldn't stop. It's like… a fingerprint. Proof that she's really ours."
You look down following his finger. He's right. That tiny whirl of dark hair, so fine it's barely there, spirals in the same direction as yours. The rest of her hair is lighter, ambiguous in color, but something in your gut tells you it'll slowly darken to match his.
"She's going to end up with your color though" you counter, smiling. "Look at that single dark strand. Definitely Keery."
He laughs, delighted, and reaches out again to trace that hair focal. His nail is bitten short, ragged from nervous habit, but his touch is feather-light. She stirs slightly, her rosebud mouth working in her sleep, a bubble of milk forming and breaking on her lower lip. They both freeze - partners in crime, co-conspirators in almost disturbing the peace.
"Sorry," he breathes, grinning at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Still learning the volume settings."
You settle back against the back of the couch, arranging her against your shoulder, and Joe immediately shifts to make more room for you both. The couch is old, a vintage find from an antique store in Brooklyn, and it creaks in protest as he adjusts his weight. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his side, and you feel the steady thrum of his heart against your shoulder blade, the solid reality of his weight reminding you of the family you now had.
"You're incredible," he murmurs into your hair. His chin rests on top of your head, his stubble catching in the strands. "You know that?"
"Joe - "
"No, I mean it." He turns serious, that expressive face settling into lines of profound sincerity. He shifts to look at you directly, and you see the reflection of the window in his eyes, the dark outline of trees against navy sky. "I keep thinking about… that day. In the hospital. When they handed her to you, and you were so exhausted you couldn't even lift your head, but you smiled like you'd just won everything. Like she was worth every second." His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, looks down at his free hand where its settled on your thigh. "I didn't think I could love you more. I was wrong."
You feel tears prick your eyes - hormones, exhaustion, overwhelming love, some combination that makes everything feel raw and beautiful and it's too much. "You did pretty okay yourself. The way you cried when she grabbed your finger…"
"I was overwhelmed," he defends, but he's smiling, that self-deprecating twist that you fell in love with years ago. He demonstrates now, holding up his index finger, showing you the spot where she'd latched on with surprising strength. "She was so small. I was terrified I'd break her. I kept thinking, this is it, this is the moment everything changes. And it did. It has." He looks down at her, at the tiny hand that's escaped her swaddle and curled into a fist against your collarbone. "I didn't know it could be like this. That I could feel this… full."
The baby sighs in her sleep, a sound like contentment, a small ah that escapes her parted lips. You both go quiet, watching her. The cushions ruffle softly as Joe sets it in motion again, creating a gentle rock of your bodies that seems to soothe all three of you. The rhythm is hypnotic, and you feel your own breathing slow to match it.
"Remember when we used to talk about this?" he asks after a while. His thumb has found your hip, rubbing small circles through your t-shirt. "Back when we were just… driving around, no particular place to be, making up ideal futures?"
You do. Late nights in his old car, the one that smelled like vinyl and the vanilla air freshener he refused to replace, music playing low enough to talk over. Windows down, summer air rushing in, his hand alternating on your knee or the gear shift. Mapping out lives you weren't sure you'd ever have. Two kids, maybe, he'd said once, fingers linked with yours, eyes on the road but his attention entirely on you. A dog. A house with a porch. You, always you.
"We didn't know anything," you say, laughing softly.
"We knew enough." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your shoulder, then - stretching carefully, his ribs expanding with the effort - to the downy top of her head. His lips linger there, eyes closing, and you watch his face transform into something so tender it makes you melt. "We knew we wanted this. Whatever this turned out to be."
What it turned out to be is 3 AM feedings and diapers stacked on every surface and a love so vast that it takes your breath away. It's Joe singing Beatles songs off-key while he changes her, because he read somewhere that babies like familiar voices, and "Blackbird" is the only one he can remember all the words to in a sleep deprived state. It's the way he brings you water without asking, how he learned to swaddle faster than you did, how he texts you photos when you're in the shower because she smiled, I think it was real, come see. It's finding him asleep in the nursery chair at dawn, her on his chest, both of them with identical expressions of peaceful abandon.
It's this - right now - the three of you breathing together in the blue-dark quiet, no place you'd rather be.
"I used to daydream about this," he admits, his voice dropping to a rumble you feel more than hear. "Before. When we were trying, and it was hard, and I didn't know if…" He trails off, swallows. You feel the movement stop against your back, the hitch in his breathing. "I'd picture it. You, me, a baby. I'd imagine what it would feel like to hold her. To be a dad." He looks at you, and his eyes are bright again, that wonder undimmed. "It wasn't even close. The real you - the real her - it's so much better than anything I could've imagined."
You lean your head back against his shoulder, turning your face into his neck, and breathe him in - soap and skin and the faint sweetness of baby lotion from where he's been holding her. His hand finds yours holding her, fingers resting together, gentle. His palm is warm, slightly calloused, and you remember suddenly the first time he held your hand, in a movie theater years ago, how his thumb had traced the same pattern it's tracing now.
"Thank you," he whispers, fierce and soft all at once. "For her. For this. For giving me everything I didn't know I needed."
You want to tell him that you didn't do it alone, that she's half him, that the gratitude goes both ways and sideways and spirals out in every direction. But words feel insufficient, so you nudge his chest slightly with your shoulder and let the silence speak for you.
The baby stirs again, more insistently this time. Her eyes flutter open - dark and unfocused, searching, the blue-gray color all newborns share, the color that might change or might not, that holds all her potential futures. She blinks, slow and deliberate, her tiny eyebrows drawing together in an expression of profound confusion.
Joe makes a sound, that particular coo he's developed, the one that means I'm here, I've got you, you're safe. It's a soft hey, hey, hey, rhythmic and low, and he leans forward, his face filling her vision.
"Hey, little love," he murmurs, and his whole face transforms, becoming blinding sunlight, becoming home. His eyes crinkle again, his mouth softening into a smile so gentle it looks like it hurts. "We're right here. We're not going anywhere."
She stares at him, or in his general direction, her gaze drifting all round his face. Her mouth works again, that rosebud opening and closing, and he brings his finger to her palm, lets her grip it. Her fingers close around his, so small they don't even wrap halfway around, and he gasps softly, that same wonder fresh and new all over again.
"Look at that," he breathes, turning to you, sharing this miracle. "Look at how strong she is."
He brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a kiss to her knuckles, then turns her hand and kisses the palm, the wrist, each tiny finger. She watches him, or seems to, her dark eyes tracking movement even if she can't quite focus. When he hums, a low vibration in his chest, she lets out a small coo back at him.
"You're so good at this," you whisper, and your voice sounds thick, emotional.
He looks up, surprised, his eyebrows lifting. "At what?"
"At loving her. At being her dad." You shift her slightly, adjusting your hold, and she makes a small sound of protest that has you both scared. But she settles, her breathing evening out again. "You make it look easy."
"It's not," he says quietly, honestly. "I worry constantly. About everything. Is she eating enough, is she too warm, is that sound normal." He laughs, a soft huff of air. "But the loving part? That is easy. That is the easiest thing I've ever done."
He reaches out, then, and touches her cheek with the back of his finger, the way you'd test a fever or check silk for quality. Her skin is impossibly soft, so fragile and new. She turns toward his touch, that newborn reflex, rooting even in her sleep.
"Sometimes I just watch her breathe," he admits. "I know that's crazy. But I'll put my hand on her back and feel her ribs expand, and I'll count. Just to be sure. One, two, three. In and out. And I'll think, we made that. We made breathing."
You lean into him again, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin, and together you watch her. The mobile turns, casting slow shadows. The radiator ticks again. Somewhere, a car passes on the wet street outside, tires hissing through puddle-spray, and then it's quiet again.
"I love you," you say, because it's the only words big enough, and even they feel small.
"I love you too," he answers, immediate and certain. He turns his head, presses his face into your temple, inhales. "I love you both so much it scares me."
Outside, the world is sleeping. Inside, your daughter sighs, a sound like contentment, like agreement. Joe's hand continues to support yours on her back, his thumb resuming its slow circles, and you sit together in the hush of that early morning, surrounded by the fragile, ferocious miracle of your new life, your new world.
| Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
⤷ Join the tag list for the prequel here
Summary: The ring on Joe Keery’s index finger? That’s his wedding ring, just orbiting the wrong planet. The secret's out now brace for the media firestorm.
ˋ°•*⁀➷ Fluffy lil angst but Joe doesn't really care.
A/N: so... part 3... here we are... I feel like this pair has become engraved in my soul. I love them so much and I'm glad you all do as well.
Word Count: 3,667
You wake to a constant sound rattling through your shared apartment..
Your phone is vibrating itself off the coffee table, hitting the floor with a bang causing you to jump slightly. Not just one phone going off. Two. Yours and his, a chorus of electric worlds screaming in the dark. The screen of Joe’s blinks on, casting a blue strobe across the ceiling - Bright. Dark. Bright. Dark. - like a lighthouse signaling for a disaster.
The notifications arrive in avalanches. The screen fills with white banners, each one piling atop the last before they can fully fade:
@/CNNbrk: Joe Keery confirms marriage during concert. Identity of wife unknown.
@/TMZ: MYSTERY WOMAN! Joe Keery’s Secret Wife - Sources say six-month hidden marriage
@/PopCrave: “Already am” - Joe Keery confirms he’s married while pointing to ring on stage. Watch the full clip
@/etnow: EXCLUSIVE: Joe Keery’s reps “scrambling” after impromptu wedding confirmation
The words blur into a single scream.
Joe’s arm is heavy across your waist, his ring finger - his left ring finger, where you placed it last night - pressed to your hip bone, the metal cool a stark contrast to the heat of his body. He wakes not gradually but all at once, gasping like he’s surfaced from deep water. His eyes snap open - hazel, wide, filled with sleep - and find yours immediately.
Then he hears it. The symphony of phone screens lighting the dark. The mechanical heartbeat that has replaced the silence of your secret.
He reaches over, knuckles brushing the glass table where he left it last night, and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face in blinding blue. Seventy-three text messages. Four hundred and twelve Twitter mentions. A voicemail icon blinking red, angry, insistent: Jessica (Publicist) - 0:42, 1:15, 0:08.
“Oh,” he says. The word falls flat. “That's a lot.”
Your own phone buzzes against your foot where it fell. You reach down, and the screen burns your eyes with its brightness:
You open Twitter. The app lags, stuttering under the weight of the storm brewing. When it loads, and the first thing you see is a hashtag pinned at the top in trending red: #JoeKeeryMarried. Below it, #WhoIsShe. Below that, #IndexFingerMysterySolved.
The top tweet is a clip of the stage moment from last night - him raising his hand, the silver band catching the spotlight, his mouth forming the words I already am. It has 2.4 million views.
You scroll. You can’t stop scrolling.
‘he was wearing it on his INDEX FINGER for MONTHS we were literally looking at our faces’
‘the way he said “already am” with his whole chest I’m deceased’
‘CNN is reporting his publicist is “in crisis mode” this man really said fuck the contract’
‘WHO IS THE WIFE. GIVE US THE WIFE. WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE DESERVES HIM’
“Joe,” you say. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from under water.
He’s staring at his own screen, thumb hovering over the voicemail from Jessica. He presses play and holds it between you, speaker on, and her voice fills the living room - strained, professional, but panic setting in:
“Joe. It’s Jessica. It’s six-fourteen AM. I’ve had seventeen calls from major outlets in the last twenty minutes. CNN is running the concert clip on a loop. Your NDA with the label specifically prohibits revealing personal relationships that could impact marketing - this is a contract breach. I need you to sit tight. Do not post. Do not leave the apartment. I’m sending someone to draft a statement, but we need to discuss damage control immediately. Call me. Do not - I repeat - do not engage with paparazzi.”
The voicemail ends. The silence that follows is heavy, velvet, suffocating.
Joe looks at you. Searching for your reaction, his face is shadowed, unreadable. Then he drops the phone onto the couch. It bounces once, twice, and lies still between you like a grenade with the pin pulled.
“They know,” he says. His voice is steady, but his hand is shaking when he reaches for you. “They know I’m married. But they don’t know who you are still.”
He cups your face, his palms rough and warm, forcing you to look away from the screen, away from the million screaming voices. His thumb traces your cheekbone, wiping away tears you didn’t realize was there.
“Jessica’s scared,” he whispers. “She’s going to tell me to hide you. To deny it. To spin the truth.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mixing with yours. “But I won’t. I told the world I was married. I’m not taking it back. I’m not hiding this again.”
The hardwood is cold beneath your bare feet as Joe pulls you up off the couch and you migrate to the kitchen as one organism, the apartment still dim with dawn only starting to break. The couch's chaos follows you like a dead weight. Joe moves ahead slightly, his shoulders a wall you hide behind, his left hand reaching back to keep contact with your hip as you walk, maintaining the circuit of touch as if breaking it might sever something vital.
The kitchen floor tiles bite cold through your sleep pants as you slide against the cabinets to the floor, knees drawn up - the two of you needing to feel something to process the situation. Joe sits across from you, a laptop carefully balanced on his thighs. The screen throws blue light upward, carving his cheekbones into sharp geometry, turning him pale and slightly distant as he focuses.
You’ve left your phones piled on the counter - two black rectangles stacked, still vibrating intermittently, a low-level earthquake shivering through the marble. Outside, the city is beginning to wake, but inside, the air feels pressurized, like your struggling to breathe.
Joe opens the laptop to draft an email to Jessica. The cursor blinks after I won’t deny her. I won’t hide her again.
He looks up at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted, but the focus is absolute. He is looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in a spinning room, like you’re the coordinates he’s trying to navigate to.
“If they want a statement, let's give them a statement” he says. “Control the narrative ourselves.”
“What’s do we even say?” you ask.
He closes the laptop. The snap echoes in the quiet space. He sets it aside and crawls across the tiles to you, predatory, purposeful. He settles between your legs, his hands bracketing your face, his thumbs resting in the hollows beneath your ears. His weight is solid, grounding as he forces you to maintain eye contact.
“The truth,” he says. He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each touch is deliberate, a translation. “But we give them rules.”
He retrieves the device and opens a blank document. He types slowly, cautious of the word choice that could make this even worse, the wedding band catching the sickly fluorescent light with every stroke.
'We were married six months ago in a private ceremony.'
Delete.
'We were married six months ago.'
Delete.
'I am married.'
Delete.
He looks at you again, his expression softening, cracking. He reaches for your hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses your ring. His lips are chapped and warm.
“I want to say that I’m happy,” he whispers against your knuckles. “I want to say that I’ve never been happier, and that’s why I couldn’t hide it anymore. But they’ll twist that. They’ll make it consumption. They’ll want pictures.”
Your phone buzzes. Then his. A synchronized convulsion as his eyes spark with the answer.
He types:
'This morning, I confirmed that I am married. My wife and I have chosen to keep our relationship personal rather than secret. There is a difference. We are grateful for the support, but we will not be sharing details or photographs. Our marriage is not content. Please respect our privacy as we navigate this new reality.'
He turns the screen to you. The words are firm, polite, immovable - a barrier.
“It’s good,” you say.
He posts it to his Instagram story - white text on black background - and to Twitter. The immediate response is invisible as he shuts the device off. The apartment seems to compress further, as if reflecting the internets response, sharing, screenshotting, dissecting. The building itself seems to hold its breath for the two of you.
Joe sets it aside. He looks at you. Really looks. His gaze travels from your disheveled hair down to your bare shoulders, to your hands clasped in your lap - the left one gleaming with silver - to your ankles, and back up to your face. It is a gaze of possession, but not ownership - recognition. He memorizes you in the silence.
Outside, a car horn blares. Then another. The distant whup-whup chorus of car doors closing, and light chatter that's pools around the building.
His phone rings. Jessica flashes across the screen. He silences it. It rings again. He silences it again. Then he picks it up, holds down the power button, and shuts it off. The screen goes black.
“What are you doing?” you ask concerned.
“Setting boundaries” he says. He powers off your phone too, his thumb pressing the button with finality. The vibration stops. The noise stops. The digital screaming fades to nothing, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and your shared breathing. “No more managers. No more trending topics. Just us, and the walls, and the time it takes to get our footing.”
He stands, holds out his hand. His ring gleams on his left hand, steady and unafraid in the morning light that is finally starting to break through the blinds, warm and welcoming.
“Come with me, we're gonna suffocate in here” he says.
━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━
The hallway of your building absorbs sound through the velvet. The amber light fixtures cast pools of warmth against the eggshell walls that usually comfort, but now feel like the throat of something that might swallow you whole. It smells like lemon disinfectant and old carpet, the scent of neutrality, of buildings that exist to house rather than shelter.
You stand at the elevator, Joe beside you. He has dressed for war. The white t-shirt stretched across his shoulders like armor, the cotton worn thin enough to show the shift of muscle beneath. Dark jeans. Boots that click against the tile with authority. His hair is damp, combed back but already beginning to rebel, curling at the nape of his neck and falling into his eyes.
He has pulled the hood of his grey sweatshirt - his favorite, the one you’ve stolen multiple times, that smells like cedar and detergent - up over your head. His fingers linger on your face as he adjusts the fabric on your mask and sunglasses, tilting your chin up to check that you’re hidden, protected. His touch is methodical but his eyes are soft.
“They’re here,” he says, his voice resonant in the empty hallway. “Looked out the window on the way down. There are forty, maybe fifty. News vans.” He pauses. His eyes search yours, dark and serious, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. “We can take the service elevator. The garage. Hide.”
You look at him. You remember the index finger - the sideways promise. The secret. You feel the ring on your hand, heavy now with significance, no longer a hidden code but a symbol.
“Front door,” you say.
Something fierce and proud lights in his expression, a fire behind the hazel. He nods.
The elevator dings. The doors open. The walls are mirrors. You see yourselves reflected into your memory - him tall and broad, you small and hidden, your hand swallowed in his, the two of you becoming a pair finally like you had promised all those months ago. He pulls you against his side, his arm a steel band around your waist, and stares at the reflection with a kind of defiance, chin lifted, eyes hard.
When the doors open to the lobby, Marcus the receptionist is there. His uniform is strained across his shoulders, his face shiny with sweat, eyes wide and panicked. He looks at Joe, then at you, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, to the silver bands visible even in the dim light.
"Mr. Keery," Marcus says, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the second syllable. "It’s... it’s a lot out there."
"I know," Joe says. He squeezes your hand - three pulses. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. "Front door, Marcus. Can you open it?"
"Service elevator - there’s a car waiting - "
"No." Joe adjusts his grip on your hand, lifting it slightly, making sure the rings are visible, catching the lobby’s chandelier light. "We’re walking out the front. I'm not smuggling her out like contraband. She’s my wife."
The word lands like a weight in the lobby. My wife. Marcus blinks. Then he straightens his shoulders, adjusts his cap, and nods.
"Yes, sir."
He moves to the door. Through the glass, you can see them - a wall of bodies, a forest of lenses and microphones, a galaxy of intrusion. The light outside is white, blinding, merciless, reflecting off SUVs and satellite dishes.
Joe turns to you. He blocks your view of the door with his body, filling your vision completely. He cups your face, his palms cradling your jaw, his fingers warm and dry and certain, forcing you to look only at him.
"Eyes on me," he repeats. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, feather-light, tracing the bone. "I’m your horizon. You look at me, and you walk toward me. Nothing else exists."
You nod. Your throat turning dry.
He leans down, kisses your forehead, his lips burning a brand into your skin.
Marcus opens the door.
The sound is a physical assault to your ear drum - cold and shocking, breaking over you. Light - so much light, white and blue and explosive - detonates in your retinas even through the sunglasses.
"JOE! JOE, LOOK HERE!"
"MRS. KEERY! WHAT’S YOUR NAME!"
"HOW LONG WERE YOU HIDING!"
"ARE YOU PREGNANT!"
"DID YOU SIGN A PRENUP!"
The questions are bullets, shrapnel, tearing through the air. You flinch, shrinking into yourself involuntarily, but Joe’s arm is there to steady you, solid as an oak, pulling you forward into him, anchoring you to the earth. He has transformed into a monolith. His shoulders are squared, his spine a steel rod. He angles his body between you and the worst of it, a human shield. His jaw is set, his eyes narrowed, scanning the crowd with a look that is not quite hostile but is absolutely immovable.
You try to keep your eyes down at first, watching your feet - your sneakers, his boots, moving in tandem across the pavement. But you can't help yourself to look up. Not at them. At him.
He is scanning the crowd now with a look of absolute command. He raises his free hand in a stop sign - a command, not a request. The ring catches the sun, a flash of silver, a beacon just like it did last night.
"Good morning," he says, and his voice carries, rough and sure, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk as the crowd falls silent under his command. "This is my wife. We’re walking to the corner store. We’re going to buy coffee and orange juice. Then we’re coming home. You will not touch her. You will not shout at her. You can take your pictures from the sidewalk. If you step into the street, we’re going back inside, and you get nothing."
A murmur. A rustle of confusion. But they listen. They part like water, cameras still raised but quieter now, respectful of the boundary he’s drawn with his voice and his presence.
He turns back to you, just slightly, his eyes finding yours, checking in. The gaze is soft, reassuring, a lifeline. Stay with me.
He moves. You follow.
The crowd has formed a walkway, walls of bodies and lenses on either side. You see flashes in your peripheral vision - explosions of white, pop-pop-pop like a gunfire - but you look at the freckle on his neck, at the pulse beating in his throat, at his hand holding yours with a grip that could crush bone but instead cradles you. You stop hearing the shouting. It becomes a distant noise in the background, something outside while you are inside a bubble. There is only the warmth of his back against your shoulder, the solid reality of him, the smell of his soap and sweat and the cedar from his sweatshirt that you wear.
The corner store is three feet away. Two. The bell above it waits, brass and still. One foot.
Joe turns to you. For a split second, the fortress walls lower. He looks at you with such open tenderness, such unguarded love, that the cameras behind you erupt in a frenzy, sensing the shift in behavior, capturing a moment that was meant only for you. He guides you through the door. The bell jingles, bright and ordinary and absurd.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz like insects. The air is cold, refrigerated, smelling of deli meat and newspaper ink and floor cleaner. You stand in the aisle, shaking, your breath coming in short gasps. Your adrenaline crashes, leaving you hollow, buzzing.
He takes your face in his hands now, lowering the mask slightly, blocking out the store, the clerk, the world beyond the glass. He wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb - when did you start crying?
"You did it," he whispers smiling. "You walked through it."
The walk back is different. The sun has shifted, climbing higher, turning the white glare into gold. The reporters are gone and you walk beside him, shoulders brushing, hood fallen back. Your face is visible. Your hair. Your eyes. The sweatshirt hangs loose on your frame, but you wear it like armor now.
Joe holds your hand up, slightly, displaying the rings. He is not hiding anymore; he's showing anyone who will look. His thumb strokes your knuckles as you walk, a continuous caress, a reminder.
At the building door, Marcus holds it open waiting. His expression has changed - no longer fear, but something like respect. "Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Keery," he says.
Joe’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners. He looks at you, checking to see your reaction to hearing it out loud for the first time. You smile, and something fierce and exciting passes between you.
The elevator seals you in. The silence is immediate, holy, pressurized, like descending into deep water or ascending into heaven. You lean against the mirrored wall, and Joe presses against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, relishing the moment.
"I looking back at you the whole time," he mumbles, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. "Only you mattered."
"I know, I was watching you too."
He lifts his head. In the enclosed space, under the artificial lights, he looks exhausted, exhilarated, alive. He takes your left hand, brings it to his mouth, kisses your ring, then his own, then presses both your palms together, fingers interlacing.
The apartment door closes behind you like an airlock sealing. The silence is absolute. You lean against it, your spine flat against the wood, the grocery bag crinkling in your hand, forgotten. You realize you're shaking - adrenaline coming down, the aftermath, a chemical residue of courage, your nervous system trying to process the transition from war zone to sanctuary.
Joe takes the bag from you. Sets it down on the counter where both your phones still lay - discarded. Before you know it, he's already rushing back to you, his eyes locked into yours, crossing the space between you in two strides.
His hands find your hips, thumbs brushing your across your sides like he’s reading braille, like you’re a language he’s still learning, will always be learning. He's face is buried in your neck, trailing kisses from your jaw down your neck, forcing you to roll you head back and giving him access.
"You did it," he says, his voice rough, between kisses.
"We did it."
"They saw you. But they didn't get you."
You turn your head and kiss his check, tasting salt and home. "The rings worked," you say, nonsensically, but he understands.
"They're not hiding places anymore," he agrees. "They're..."
"Shields," you finish. "Small, silver shields. Around just us."
He smiles, that crooked beautiful smile, the left side lifting higher than the right, and lifts your hand, turning it so the ring faces the fading light. It gleams, steady and unafraid, throwing a small circle of reflection onto the wall behind you - a tiny sun, a private star. "Tomorrow, the world will still be there. The questions won't stop. But right now - "
"Right now," you interrupt, pulling him toward the bedroom, toward the sanctuary of sheets and skin and whispered promises, your fingers twisted in his, "It's just us and... I want to hear you say it again. Not for them. For me."
He follows, shedding his shirt in the hallway, his defenses falling as he crumbles into you, the weight of public performance lifting from his shoulders with each step until he’s just Joe, your husband, the man who once wore your secret on his index finger and now wears your truth on his left hand, following you into the dimming room where the outside world cannot reach.
"My wife," he says into the hollow of your throat, reverent and certain, his lips against your pulse, as outside the city screams your name but cannot touch you, as two silver bands combine as one - public knowledge, private possession, finally, finally safe.
can i please request a little drabble where reader is super shy and inexperienced and joe is very experienced and he talks her through it nice and slow all gentle and loving… thank youuuuu 🫠🫠🫠
⌯⌲ Joe Drabbles Masterlist
Combined a few different asks into this one!
You were in your late twenties.
Late twenties, with a modestly successful career, a rescue cat named you'd taken in a few years ago, and absolutely zero sexual experience. Not because there was a lack of opportunity - you had been on dates, there was always almost moments, hands that wandered in curiosity and mouths that pressed where you weren't quiet ready for them. But no one had ever made you feel safe enough to go all the way. No one until Joe arrived.
Now, sitting in his sun-littered bedroom, you felt like you wanted to disappear and seep into the floorboards.
"I just - " Your voice cracks. You pull the oversized sweater your wearing - his sweater - over your knees, trying to hide. "It's so embarrassing, Joe. I'm not twenty. I should know what I'm doing. I should - "
"Hey." He was sitting beside you, not touching you. Giving you space you needed. "Can you look at me, babygirl."
The pet name sent a wave of flutter through your chest. You peek up at him.
"There's nothing embarrassing about waiting for the right person," he says softly. "And there's nothing wrong with needing some help the first time as well." He reaches out, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you change your mind, he brushes your hair from your face. "I like that you're soft. I like that you need me to take care of you. Makes me feel like the luckiest bastard alive that you chose me."
Your eyes are burning. "You're just saying that."
"I'm saying it because it's true." He shifts closer now, voice dropping an octave - that tone that turns your insides to honey. "And because I have plans for you, sweetheart. Gonna teach you and learn exactly what you like. What makes you gasp. What makes you beg for more." His thumb is tracing your lower lip. "But only if you want me to. Only if you trust me."
"I trust you," you whisper. "I just don't want to disappoint you."
Joe laughs - not at you, but with you, warm and delighted. "Baby, you could never disappoint me even if you tried. Now c'mere. Let's start with kissing first. You like kissing me, don't you?"
You nod, already leaning in.
"Good girl," he mutters, and the praise lights you up from within. "Show me how you like to be kissed now. Soft? Deep? Little nips?" He taps his lips. "Teach it to me tonight."
So you do. You press your mouth to his, very tentative at first, and he just follows your lead - mirroring your pressure, the pace you set, humming small encouragements when you do something he likes. When you suck his lower lip between yours, he groans, hands settling against your waist.
"That's it," he breathes into your mouth. "Just like that. You're such a quick learner, baby. So good at this."
You melt into him further, confidence building up. He lets you explore - tongue tracing the seam of his lips, teeth grazing along his jaw, open-mouthed kisses pressing down his throat - until your both feeling breathless and you can feel him hard against your hip.
"Fuck," he laughs, slightly dazed. "Okay, you're a little too good at that. Gotta slow down before I lose my mind." He guides your hands to his shoulders, then lower, across his chest. "Touch me. Anywhere you want. I wanna hear what you like about me."
You explore tentatively - the soft planes of his stomach, the hair that trails below his waistband, the sharp breath he takes when your thumb brushes against his nipple. He watches you with heavy-lidded focus, murmuring small yes, just like that and you're perfect, babygirl until you grow bold enough to palm him through his jeans.
Joe hisses, hips bucking against your touch. "There you go. Feel what you do to me? All because you're being so brave. So fucking perfect." He covers your hand with his, showing you the pressure he likes. "Like this. Yeah. Just like that."
"Can I - " You swallow hard. "Can I see you? Touch you properly?"
"Fuck, yes. Please."
He helps you to undo his jeans, lift his hips, push everything down together. And then he was there - cock thick and flushed, so beautiful, and you felt another spike of nerves because you had no idea what to do with it.
"Come here," Joe soothes, sensing your hesitation. He settles back against the pillows, spreading his legs slightly, inviting you to come closer. "Climb up here, baby. Between my thighs. I'll talk you through it."
You crawl up, feeling small and exposed in just your underwear and his sweater, but his gaze was so full of just adoring you.
"First," he said, taking your hand and wrapping it around the base of his shaft, "just hold it. Get used to the weight. The feel." He guides you through a slow stroke, showing you the rhythm. "That's it. Perfect. You look so pretty holding my cock like that, sweetheart. So focused."
You duck your head, blush creeping across your face, but you don't stop. You learn the spots that made him groan - how sensitive underside is, the slick head beading precum already, the way he twitches when you twist your wrist the right way.
"Now," he continues, voice straining but patient, "if you want to use your mouth - and only if you want to - you start slow. Take just the tip first. Lots of tongue. Don't try to take too much, okay? I'll let you know what feels good."
You want to. You want to make him feel as good. Take care of him as much as he's taking care of you.
You lower your head and lick a tentative stripe up his shaft, and Joe's hand's immediately fist the sheets. "Fuck. Yeah. Just like that, baby. You're doing so good."
Feeling encouraged, you take the head between your lips, sucking gently, swirling your tongue. The taste was intimate - salt and skin mixing together - you find yourself moaning around him, vibrations making him gasp more.
"Jesus, babygirl. Where'd you learn to do that?" He threads his fingers through your hair, not pushing you further, just holding you. "So wet and warm. Taking me so well. Look at you - look at you - being such a good little cocksucker for me."
The filth of his sentence should have shocked you. Instead, it made your pussy ache, makes you hollow your mouth around him and take him deeper, until you feel him hit the back of your throat and had to pull back, gagging.
"Easy, easy," Joe soothes, tugging you off and up towards him, kissing your swollen lips. "You don't have to deepthroat me, baby. You're already perfect. Already got me so close." He flips you onto your back, hovering over you, eyes dark with restraint. "But I want to make you feel good now. Can I take my sweater off? Wanna see all of you."
You nod, arms lifting for his help, and he peels the fabric away with gentle care. His gaze traces your body - your stomach, your modestly sized breasts, the plain cotton underwear that suddenly felt absurdly vulnerable.
"Gorgeous," he breathes. "So soft and sweet, mine. Gonna take such good care of you, babygirl. Gonna make you feel so good you'll forget you were ever nervous to begin with."
He starts at your neck - kisses and sucks hard enough to leave marks - working his way down to your breasts. When he takes a nipple into his mouth, you cry out, arching off the bed.
"Sensitive here?" he askes, looking up with a wicked smile. "Good to know. I'll remember that." He switches to the other breast, lavishing it with attention until you were writhing, panting, needy.
"Joe, please - "
"I know, baby. I know." He kisses down your stomach, fingers hooking in your underwear. "Can I? Wanna taste you. Wanna show you how good I can make you feel."
"Yes, yes, please - "
He strips you bare and settles between your thighs, pushing your legs wider with gentle loving hands. You tried to close them automatically - feeling exposed, too exposed - but he shushes you, presses kisses along your inner knees.
"You're so beautiful here too," he promises. "Pink, wet and eager. Can't wait to eat this pretty little pussy until you're screaming." He looks up, meeting your eyes. "Watch me, babygirl. Watch me make you feel good."
The first touch of his tongue already makes you see stars. He was skilled - each stroke, patient, finding your clit with unerring accuracy and circling with just the right pressure. When he slides one finger inside, he curls to find that sensitive spot, you nearly jump off the bed.
"Oh! Oh, Joe - "
"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Let me hear you. Don't hold back. Wanna know exactly what you like so I can do it again and again." He adds a second finger, stretching you gently, preparing you for him, tongue never stopping its perfect pace. "Your so tight, baby. Gonna feel so good when I finally get inside. Gonna fill you up so perfectly."
The combination of his words - filthy, filthy words delivered in that soft, loving tone - and the relentless pleasure had you teetering on the edge embarrassingly fast.
"Joe, I'm gonna - I'm close - "
"Come for me, babygirl," he urges, sucking your clit between his teeth. "Come on my tongue. Let me taste you. Give it to me."
You shatter with a wail, back arching, fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashes through you. His tongue never stops through it, gentler now, easing you down until you were limp and trembling.
He crawls up your body, kissing you harsher now, letting you taste yourself on his lips. "There's my good girl," he whispers, stroking your hair. "Came so pretty for me."
"I want you inside me," you choke out, still dizzy. "Joe, I want - "
"I know, baby. I know." He reaches for the condom on the nightstand, pushing it on slowly. "But we're gonna go slow. Gonna make sure you're ready." He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt pressure making you whimper. "Tell me if it hurts. Tell me if you need to stop. Promise me now."
"I promise," you gasp, and he begins to push in.
The stretch was intense - burning and overwhelming, his cock is so much bigger than his fingers. You tense automatically, nails digging into his back, and he freezes, forehead pressing against yours, shaking with restraint.
"Breathe, babygirl," he coaches, voice strained. "Breathe for me. Let me in. You're doing so good. So brave for me."
Your focused on his eyes - dark and loving, fixed on you - and forces your body to relax. The burn softens, shifts entirely, became something else. Something that made you roll your hips experimentally, seeking more friction.
Joe groans, this fucked broken sound. "Fuck. Fuck. Okay? You okay?"
"Move," you beg
"Please, Joe. I need you to move."
He starts slow - deep, rolling thrusts that spark pleasure with every new stroke. His hands find yours, fingers interlacing, pinning your hand to the pillow above your head.
"Look at me," he commands softly. "Stay with me, baby. I want to see you when you cum."
"Don't know if I can do it again - "
"You can," he promises, shifting his angle with precision, and suddenly he was hitting that fucking spot he found earlier, and your back arches into him. "There. Right there. Just like that." His free hand slips between you, finding your clit, circling in perfect time with his thrusts. "Gonna cum for me again, babygirl? Gonna squeeze my cock so tight?"
"Joe - "
"Tell me what you want," he demands, voice dropping to that filthy growl now. "You like it deep? Slow? Want me to fuck you harder?"
"Mhmm! Harder," you gasp, shocked by your own words. "Please, Joe, harder - "
He gives you what you need - thrusts rocking the bed, driving you up the mattress, white sparking behind your eyes. The combination of his cock hitting that spot and his fingers on your clit was devastating, building you up impossibly fast for a second orgasm.
"That's it," he grunts. "Taking my cock so well. So perfect for me. Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna be a good girl and cum on my fat cock?"
"Yes, yes, I'm gonna - "
"Do it. Now. Now, babygirl - "
You cum with a scream, inner walls pulling around him, and Joe follows close with a groan, burying himself deep, your name breaking across his lips like a prayer.
He doesn't pull away immediately. Staying tangled with you, still inside, stroking your hair in praise, pressing kisses anywhere he could reach.
"Hey," he murmurs, when your breathing finally slows. "You okay?"
You turned your head towards him. Finding him watching you with something like similar to wonder.
"Yeah," you whisper, smiling, tired and happy. "I'm really okay."
Joe's grin was huge. "Good." He kisses your nose. "Because I love you, and I plan on doing that approximately a thousand more times. With breaks for snacks, obviously. And naps. You're gonna need your strength."
You laugh, burying your face in his neck, smelling his sweat and the sweet sent of sex on his skin.
"Love you too," you mumble.
His arms tighten around you, and you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
A/N: I gotta stop writing smut in the mornings FUCK it just kept going!
making out w/joe and dry humping till he cums in his pants (^-^)
⌯⌲ Joe Drabbles Masterlist
Hehehehehehehe 🥵
The movie's long been forgotten. You're on Joe's couch, tangled in each other, his mouth's hot and insistent against yours. His hands are under your shirt, tracing patterns on your waist, his whole body trembling with how much he wants you.
"Fuck," he mumbles against your jaw, hips rolling up, grinding against your thigh. He's hard - thick and straining through his jeans, the outline so obvious. "You feel so good."
You slightly shift, pressing your thigh harder against him, and the way he groans - it's low and wrecked, his head falling back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
"Fucking tease," he breathes, but his eyes are blown wide, so needy, his fingers digging into your waist.
You move to straddle him, settling onto his lap, your core pressing so perfectly against his cock. He let's a gasp slip - sharp and surprised - his hands flying to your hips, gripping tighter, his knuckles turning white.
"Oh my god - " he chokes out, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath coming in fast and hot against your neck. "Move - please, baby, move - "
You roll your hips again slow, grinding down, and he's a whinning mess - so fuckinghigh and desperate - his whole body jerking beneath you. He's panting, open-mouthed, his fingers flexing and trembling on your hips as his nails dig in.
"So good - so good - " he chants, voice cracking under pressure, his hips snapping up to meet you, clumsy and needy. "Don't stop - please don't stop - "
You kiss him, it's so messy, and his hips stutter, losing their rhythm, just blind rutting up against you now. He's whimpering into your mouth, continuous, broken sounds, his face flushed dark, sweat gathering at his temples.
"Close - " he warns, his voice shattered, his grip on your hips painful now almost drawing blood, his whole body is coiled tight. "Fuck, I'm so close - gonna - fuck - "
You grind down harder, cocky and confident circling your hips, and he shouts - loud and raw - his head thrown back, his throat exposed, his cock pulsing hot and wet against you as he spills into his jeans. He freezes while his muscles shudder - cock still convulsing - his hands falling from your hips to grip the couch cushions, and his chest is heaving like he can't breathe.
"Oh my god - " he groans, face buried in your neck in embrassessment his voice ruined, his muscles still twitching. "Fuck. Fuck. I'm sorry - "
You laugh, breathless, fingers in his sweaty hair in praise. "For what? That was hot."
He pulls back, eyes blown, face flushed dark, his mouth red and bitten. "Really?"
"Yeah," you whisper, and kiss him slowly.
He grins slightly against your lips - crooked, wicked - his hands already sliding down, eager to continue despite the mess in his jeans. "Lemme make it up to you," he murmurs.
