yoga pants | Joseph Quinn
PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader
SUMMARY: you’ve just walked in from the gym, dreaming of coffee and breakfast… but Joe’s got other plans—especially when you’re rocking those ridiculously tight leggings.
wc: 3.5k
warning: smut, (mdni!!), teasing, dirty talking, fingering, oral (male recieving), fluff…
a/n: So this is pretty much p0rn without plot. Gotta admit I have a pretty dirty mind but i just feel like our golden boy would too. Remember this is not a series, but if you wanna read more of this Joe, you can find it here.
Feedback is welcomed <3
request are open | masterlist
It was still early.
The kind of quiet morning that tasted like routine—sunlight in sleepy streaks through the blinds, kettle whistling low, and the comforting voice of your mother spilling from the speaker as you stood barefoot in the kitchen.
You were wearing nothing but tight black yoga pants and a lilac sports bra, still a little dewy from the gym, hair pulled up messily, skin warm.
You weren’t trying to look hot. Which is exactly why you did.
Joe padded into the kitchen half-awake, hair a mess, nothing but boxers. And he stopped. Just—stared. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy chopping strawberries and murmuring polite mmhm’s into the phone. But the view was… criminal.
The leggings clung to your body like second skin, hips hugged, ass perfection, every curve carved like temptation itself. The sports bra lifted your chest in a way that made him feel downright feral. And you? Acting like it was nothing. Like he was just there, a piece of furniture in the morning.
He didn’t say anything. Not at first.
He came up behind you slowly, hands ghosting your waist—light enough to be innocent. Just a greeting. Just “I’m here.” You let out a soft hum but didn’t turn, still balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear.
Then he pressed closer. One hand sliding lower. Over your hip. Around the front. And then—right there. The heel of his palm flush between your thighs, pressing just enough. Still over the leggings, still perfectly “PG,” but it sent a shock up your spine.
Your breath hitched, barely audible. You stammered something into the phone—some lie about needing to check the stove.
But Joe didn’t stop. His mouth dipped to your neck, his breath hot as his hand began to move, slow, dragging over the fabric like he had all the time in the world.
“Didn’t even say good morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and mischief. “And you’re standing here dressed like this? What—trying to kill me before breakfast?”
You hissed, trying to nudge him off with your elbow, but he only chuckled. His fingers circled down again, more pressure now. Still clothed, still barely anything—and yet you were already clenching, already melting against him.
“You feel that?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Soaked already. And I haven’t even done anything yet.”
You shivered.
On the phone, your mom was still talking, completely unaware, while Joe pressed into you like a man starved. No removal of clothes. No need. The leggings were too thin, too tight, the friction perfect. He wanted you just like this—drenched and twitching and trying so hard to keep your voice steady for the woman who gave you life while he planned to fuck you like he might take it.
“Hang up the phone,” he whispered, biting back a grin. “Or I’ll make you say goodbye while you come on my hand.”
You hung up the call. Or at least… you tried to.
Your thumb fumbled over the screen, cheeks flushed, words clipped and polite as you told your mom you’d call her back later. Something about eggs. Or laundry. You couldn’t even remember.
The second the line clicked off, Joe hummed behind you, low and smug.
“Didn’t think you’d actually manage to hang up,” he murmured, lips brushing the spot just behind your ear. “You were doing so well. All those sweet little nods and mhms. Wondered if she could hear how your voice changed when I started rubbing you.”
His palm was still there—firm and slow—cupping you through the leggings like he owned the space between your legs. And God, it felt like he did.
You were soaked.
Warm and throbbing and pressed so tight against him it was criminal.
His dick—already hard—fit against the curve of your ass like it was molded to be there. And he rocked, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how completely gone he already was.
But he didn’t rush.
No, Joe was nothing if not intentional when he was in that mood.
His fingers stroked slow circles over the fabric, dragging slick with each pass. He was mapping you—memorizing how the leggings pressed against every shiver, every twitch, how the heat of you seeped through and stuck to his skin.
“You’re so fucking wet already, babe,” he whispered, voice all velvet and sin. “Didn’t even get your clothes off. Just these stupid little leggings and I’ve got you dripping.”
You tried to breathe—failed.
Your hands braced against the counter now, head bowed, heart pounding in your throat.
Joe smirked behind you.
He saw it. The way your thighs shifted, desperate for friction. The way your back arched, unthinking. The way your breath caught with each lazy grind of his palm.
He bit your shoulder, soft and possessive. Then dragged his tongue over the mark.
“You know I’m not taking them off, right?” he muttered, dragging the words like a slow finger down your spine. “They’re too good. They stay on. Gonna ruin them. Ruin you. Right through them.”
His hand dipped, two fingers finding the pulse point at your core—still outside, still maddeningly not inside, just pressure and rhythm and slow, torturous play. And oh, he knew what he was doing.
He slipped his other hand under your sports bra, palm splaying over your chest, squeezing just enough to make you moan under your breath.
“Christ, look at you,” he groaned. “How am I supposed to behave when you walk around dressed like this? You are lucky I don’t bend you over the damn stove.”
You whimpered something—might have been his name, might have been nonsense—and that was all it took for him to grind forward again, his cock sliding perfectly against the soft seam of your leggings, your body pulsing in time with the movement of his fingers.
Still outside. Still lazy.
But every second a deeper undoing.
“I want you like this,” he growled. “Want you trembling and soaked and begging me to fuck you through them. Want you to feel every inch through the fabric. No skin. Just heat and friction and me.”
You nodded, helplessly, hips pushing back into him.
And Joe, smiling like a devil in love, kissed your shoulder, let his teeth scrape your skin.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “Now hold onto that counter, sweetheart. I am not done playing.”
You clutched the counter.
Not to steady yourself—but to stop yourself from turning around and begging. Because he hadn’t earned that yet. Not after the way he kept touching you like you were a thing to worship and ruin in equal measure.
His hands were everywhere.
One still pressed against your center, stroking slow, sticky circles over the soaked fabric.
The other groping beneath your bra—kneading, teasing, pinching, owning your body like it was something he had earned.
Your back arched again, involuntary, hips pushing back into him, and Joe groaned—really groaned—low in his throat, the sound wrecked and full of teeth.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice fraying. “I can feel you, babe. Through the fabric. You are dripping. Gonna stain these leggings before I am done with you.”
He thrust forward, slow and heavy, grinding his cock into your ass through his boxers. There was a layer of fabric between everything, and still—still—he felt too close. Like he could tear you in half without even trying.
“You feel that?” he growled, rocking his hips again. “Feel how hard I am for you?”
You whimpered. Nodded.
He chuckled, dark and soft.
“Then say it,” he murmured into your ear. “Tell me you want me like this. Fully clothed. Fucked through the fabric. You want to be ruined without even peeling a single layer off, don't you?”
You did. God, you did.
And he didn’t wait for words this time.
His hand slipped between your thighs, palm angled just right, and he started to grind against you in time with his strokes. His cock pressed up behind you, his hand circling your cunt in a maddening rhythm, your leggings soaked and clinging to your heat like a second skin. It was so much, and yet not enough. He wasn’t inside you. Not even skin to skin.
That was what was driving you both mad.
And Joe? Joe was getting sloppy with it now.
His rhythm faltered, his hips jerked harder, breath catching against your neck.
“Fuck—fuck, babe, I am gonna—”
He cut himself off, jaw clenched, hips slamming forward again.
“Jesus, I am gonna come in my pants if I keep grinding against you like this,” he groaned. “You want that? Want me to lose it like a fucking teenager? Just from this—just from rubbing up on your perfect little ass through your leggings?”
You pushed back into him with a soft moan and he lost it. One hand wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, while the other ground deeper between your legs, circling harder now, faster, chasing that high.
He was whispering now—filthy, desperate things.
“So fucking tight, babe… you are twitching, fuck, I can feel it. You are gonna come for me, aren't you? Right here. Right now. Don’t even need to get you naked. Just this. Just me, you, and these goddamn leggings.”
You were trembling now.
Your legs weak, your body boneless against the counter, and Joe was relentless—his hand moving in tight, ruthless circles, palm grinding down against that soaked, pulsing spot until you were gasping, moaning so broken and desperate it echoed off the kitchen tiles.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled behind you. “Come for me, baby. Just like that—fuck, listen to you.”
Your hips twitched forward, seeking more—chasing that release that had been building and building in cruel, unbearable waves.
And when it hit? It wasn’t sweet.
You cried out—loud, filthy, wordless—head dropping forward, ass jerking back into his hips as your cunt clenched so hard around nothing that you felt the pulse of it all the way to your teeth. Your thighs shook. Your knees gave a little. You soaked your leggings, the mess undeniable, audible even in the slick sounds between his hand and your heat.
“Jesus fuck,” Joe breathed.
He watched it happen—watched the way your body seized, the way your voice split the silence, the way you rutted helplessly into his hand like you couldn’t get enough.
He froze for a second.
Then groaned—deep, guttural, like something possessed.
“Look at you,” he hissed, still rocking against your ass. “Fucking dripping. You just came that hard from my hand? Through your clothes? Fuck me—fuck—”
You were still twitching.
Still throbbing under his hand—legs weak, body boneless, brain scattered.
Your breath rasped from your chest in shivers, your soaked leggings stuck to your skin, and Joe… Joe was losing it.
He was still behind you, grinding forward in stuttered little thrusts, his cock a steel heat trapped in his underwear, rutting against your ass like it was instinct.
“Babo, baby—fuck, I’m right there—” he groaned, voice shaking, mouth at your shoulder, hips jerking helplessly. “Need—God, I need—please, just—”
You turned.
Slow, unhurried. Your eyes half-lidded, your lips slick and swollen from breathless moans, your body humming from the high he had dragged out of you.
And you dropped to your knees.
Joe’s breath punched out of him.
“Wait—fuck, are you—”
You tugged the waistband of his boxers down just enough, cock springing free, flushed and leaking, the head red and glistening like he was already halfway there. And he was. God, he was.
“Shit, babe—please. You don’t have to—”
But your mouth was already on him.
No teasing. No preamble.
You took him deep in one smooth stroke, lips wet and eager, tongue working the underside as your hands wrapped around the base and squeezed.
And Joe shattered.
His hips snapped forward, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back against the fridge door.
“Oh my God, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me come—babe, I am gonna come, I am gonna—”
You hummed around him. Muffled a yes.
Your hands moved faster, mouth slick and warm and perfect, and he gripped your hair like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His moans were loud, filthy, unfiltered—all deep-chested and broken, every single one a full-body confession.
And then he lost it.
“Fuck—yesyesyes—babe, I’m coming—”
He spilled into your mouth with a wrecked, guttural moan, hips twitching, cock pulsing hard against your tongue. You took it all. Swallowed around him, soft and slow, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
When you finally pulled off, he was gasping.
Staring down at you like he had just seen a goddamn miracle.
“Holy… fuck.”
You smirked. Wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb and stood back up slowly, letting your body brush against his on the way.
“Next time,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “don’t act so surprised when I decide to be nice.”
He was still breathless, hands sliding to your waist, eyes glazed and reverent.
“That wasn’t nice,” he muttered. “That was life-altering.”
You barely made it three steps before Joe’s hands found your waist again, tugging you back into his chest, his breath warm and soft against your ear.
“That noise you made when you came…” he murmured, voice still gravel-sweet and wrecked, “Jesus, babe—do you have any idea what that did to me?”
You huffed a laugh, wiping your mouth on the corner of a dishtowel like some housewife from a very inappropriate 1950s fantasy.
“You literally came in my mouth, Joseph. I think I have a vague idea.”
He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and you felt his smile stretch slow and wicked against your skin.
“Yeah, well, I saw you go—felt you—” his hand brushed over the swell of your ass, thumb ghosting low, almost like a memory, “shaking against me, babe. Moaning like you forgot your own name. You thought I’d ever get that sound out of my head?”
You swatted at him, halfhearted and grinning, but he caught your wrist, kissed your fingers like he was worshipping the hand that fed him divine retribution.
“I am serious,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a softness in them then, but still heat underneath—lingering, low-burning. “You were so fucking sexy. So loud. So messy. You don’t even know what you looked like.”
You rolled your eyes with a small, flustered noise—because he wasn’t letting it go.
And of course, he noticed.
“Aww, what is that?” he teased, following you as you pretended to tidy up the counter. “Don’t get all shy then, sweetheart. Not after moaning so loud I think our neighbors left a Yelp review.”
“Joe—”
“No, no, no,” he grinned, grabbing the towel from your hands and tossing it over his shoulder. “You don’t get to be all innocent now. Not after I had to brace myself against the fridge so I wouldn’t collapse while you sucked the soul out of me.”
You laughed, and he grinned like a menace, already pulling you close again, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder as you finally gave in and leaned into him.
“I wasn’t apologizing,” you murmured, lips brushing his cheek.
He hummed.
“Good,” he whispered, mouth trailing kisses just beneath your ear. “’Cause I am gonna be thinking about that all day.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then:
“…Maybe we should just cancel breakfast.”
You turned, deadpan. “We already did.”
“Okay. Brunch, then.”
You were still laughing when he leaned in again, but that time there was no teasing—just the press of his mouth to your temple, tender and slow. One of his hands stroked gently over the curve of your back, and the other found your cheek, guiding your gaze to his.
“C’mon,” he murmured, voice a low hum against your skin. “Let me clean you up, yeah?”
There was something quieter then in the space between you—not a drop in the heat, just a shift in its shape. The hunger was sated, for now. What was left was him, and the way he looked at you like you were more than the aftermath of pleasure. Like you were his favorite mess to hold onto.
He took your hand and walked you through the apartment like he was guiding a secret across a tightrope.
The shower hissed to life, steam curling through the small space like it was trying to blur the lines between you—between what you had just done and everything you were about to feel.
Joe was still flushed, still catching his breath even as he helped you step out of your leggings, fingers careful then, reverent almost. He peeled them down slowly, his hands warm on your thighs, lips pressing lazy kisses along your hipbone.
You sighed—soft, content, body heavy in that delicious post-high haze. And he was right there with you, guiding you into the shower like you were something precious, something he wanted to keep safe.
The water hit, hot and comforting, and you both just… breathed for a moment. No words, just skin and steam, the weight of the morning falling away drop by drop.
Then Joe stepped in behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him. His nose nuzzled into the curve of your neck, and you felt him smile there.
“Hi,” he mumbled.
You laughed. “Hi?”
“Just… felt like saying it. You looked like an angel right then.”
You rolled your eyes, but it was useless—your grin gave you away.
“You were just calling me a menace twenty minutes ago.”
“Mmm,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Menacing angel, then. Dangerous. Divine.”
You leaned into him, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder, the water washing over both of you. His hands moved slowly then—not with hunger, but with care—running shampoo through your hair, thumbs grazing behind your ears, fingertips massaging your scalp like he wanted to erase every ache, every leftover tremble.
You hummed, nearly melting into him.
Joe chuckled, low and warm. “There she was,” he whispered. “My pretty, perfect girl.”
You turned in his arms, blinking through droplets. He looked down at you with that soft, undone gaze he saved just for moments like that—like you were the only thing in the whole damn universe that mattered.
“Hey,” you murmured. “You okay?”
He nodded. Then leaned in to kiss your forehead.
“Better than okay,” he said. “You made me feel… quiet. You knew? Like everything is right there, where it should be.”
And you knew exactly what he meant. Because there was something sacred about that, about the way you could fall apart and rebuild each other in the span of an hour—how he ruined you just to hold you tighter after, how you loved him through every version of himself.
The water kept falling. And so did you—slowly, tenderly—deeper into that thing that might just have been everything.
