✧ holiday headcannons: thanksgiving with joe
✰ description: a collection of thanksgiving + black friday shopping related headcannons <3
✰ pairing: bengals!joeburrow x girlfriend!reader
✰ a/n: a cute little headcannon fic i came up with! pretty rushed and deliriously written in the middle of exam week so...be nice. some of these are essays more than real HC's but are we shocked. it's me. but anyway, happy thanksgiving! so thankful for all your love and support always <3
✰ warnings: 18+. language, one and a half instances of unprotected p in v smut, suggestive content, mostly all fluff. one mention of y/n. ✰ my masterlist ✰ wc: 11.2k
✰ taglist: @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @softburrow @burrowbarbie @nineverce @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv @jbnine99 @rossieburrow @renegadebirch @burreauxs @needtokeepfeelingsincheck
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loves hosting your first thanksgiving together
hosting your first real thanksgiving together just hits different. like one of those quiet, grown-up milestones neither of you names out loud, but both of you feel settling in your bones as the leaves shift from burnt copper to honey-gold to that deep, bruised red that always makes him pull you closer when you walk outside, as if the cold might steal you from him. it all starts weeks before the holiday, when joe admits in the most casual tone imaginable that he doesn’t actually like turkey…despite his entire family being devoted to it. and at first you laugh, assuming he’s messing with you, only to realize he’s completely serious when he stands in front of the meat section with his arms crossed, jaw set, insisting on a massive spiral-cut ham because “we’re hosting at our house, so we’re doing it right,”. it feels like a thanksgiving crime, but you fold anyway, mostly because he spends the whole grocery trip acting like he’s auditioning to be the world’s most attentive, overinvolved partner.
he pushes the cart, holds the list like it’s a playbook he's memorizing for a big divisional matchup next week, debates mashed potato texture like he’s scouting opponents, and slips your favorite chocolates into the cart when he thinks you’re not paying attention because he knows your period is coming up, and there’s nothing more you love than those fancy little lindor chocolates when you’re under the weather, bonus points if he feeds them to you. but beneath the teasing, the sneaky aisle kisses, and the soft touches on your lower back, there’s something heavier humming between you. something new. because halfway through the produce section, joe stops, leans his forearms on the cart, and looks around at the shelves like he’s absorbing it all—the grocery store, the ingredients, the future holidays he hopes you’ll spend together. when his eyes land back on you, they’re softer, warmer, almost boyish. “this is our first holiday together, isn't it? like actually ours,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, and it hits you so hard your fingers literally fumble the cranberries, because suddenly it’s real; this life you’re building together, step by step, meal by meal, holiday by holiday.
the morning of, he moves through the house with this nervous energy he thinks he’s hiding. checking the oven temperature twice, flipping through recipe cards to try to plan out when each dish is made so that you can maximize your time, smoothing a hand down your back whenever he walks by, like touching you calms him. there’s something so endearing about this large, confident commands-the-entire-stadium-with-one-flick-of-his-wrist, joe burrow being anxious about hosting a family holiday dinner with you. he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like seeing you in your shared kitchen, wearing his old hoodie, cooking your first holiday meal together is permanently altering his brain chemistry. halfway through basting the ham, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs, “this feels really serious, doesn’t it?” in that quiet, slightly shaky voice he only uses when he’s telling the most special truth he’s ever known.
and when family finally arrives—robin with a pie and green bean casserole, jimmy carrying a bottle of chateau margaux and a bottle of cider, siblings and sister-in-laws piling in behind with nieces and nephews—you catch joe staring at you from across the living room with this full, warm, almost overwhelmed expression, the kind that says he knows exactly what you both just stepped into. a real life. shared traditions. a future.
watching you move around the kitchen with his mom, laughing beside his sisters-in-law, trading stories with his cousins as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and reach for another bowl—it hits him in a place he didn’t know still hurt. it settles in his chest like something warm and cozy, something he’s been aching for longer than he ever admitted out loud. because seeing you there, so effortlessly woven into the fabric of his family, reminds him what all of this has always been for.
all the holidays he spent wondering if he’d ever have someone to bring home. all the years he sat at this same table, watching his brothers slip their arms around the women they loved, pretending he didn’t feel that sharp little pinch in his ribs. all the nights he lay awake thinking, when is it my turn? and now here you are. moving through this home like you were meant to be here all along, like the universe was just waiting for the timing to be right. and as he watches you laugh with robin over his poor, but adorable attempt at setting the table all by himself, or tease his cousin about burning the rolls, he realizes with absolute, bone-deep certainty that every lonely thanksgiving, every ache, every moment of wanting led him to this.
to you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...will only eat your pumpkin pie
joe insists, no, actually demands, that he only eats the pumpkin dishes you make on thanksgiving, and he does it with the kind of stubborn loyalty that makes everyone laugh except him, because he’s deadly serious about it. he’ll take a polite slice of robin’s pie just to be respectful and to not earn any death-glares from her or have her threaten to not bring him a snicker's salad during every visit anymore, but he doesn’t even finish it, doesn’t even bother pretending, because the second no one’s looking he’s leaning into you, voice low and warm against the shell of your ear, whispering, “it’s good, but yours is better,”. the way he says it—slow, honest, almost sinful—makes heat crawl up your neck. and the moment you bring out your pumpkin pie or spiced pumpkin loaf with a cinnamon crumb top, he’s there, sliding behind you with those big warm hands, finding your waist like he’s magnetized, chin dropping to your shoulder as he hums at the smell. he always reaches out to smear whipped cream on his fingertip, licking it off with a hum deep in his chest before he tastes your skin right after, lips brushing your jaw as he murmurs, “yours is also sweeter,”.
he tries every year to sneak an early bite, and every time you try to scold him, he cages you against the counter, grin smug and boyish, bending to whisper, “c’mon…just one taste. for quality control,” and the way his hands slide over your hips makes it impossible to say no.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...“helps” in the kitchen (he doesn’t help.)
joe wanders into the kitchen constantly under the guise of helping, but he doesn’t help at all. he just gravitates to you like he’s incapable of staying more than ten minutes without touching you. if you’re stirring the gravy on the stove, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, arms winding around your waist as he sways you gently, murmuring into your neck, “smells good…so good,” and you can’t tell if he’s talking about the food or about you. if you’re chopping potatoes, he stands behind you with his hands on your hips, rocking you just enough to make you threaten him with the knife, which only earns you one of those cocky half-smiles he doesn’t show anyone else.
every time you try to step away, he tugs you right back against him, whispering soft things he knows will make your knees wobble—“you look so pretty like this,” “you’re working so hard, baby,” “wanna kiss you all over,” sometimes you catch him giving you that look—the heavy-lidded, hungry one that says he’s been imagining bending you over the counter all afternoon. something about you being so domestic in his world turns him on, and he’s so shameless about it. he’ll never say anything out loud with family nearby, but you feel it in the way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, warm and claiming, or the way he kisses the back of your neck before pulling away like nothing happened.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...carves the ham like it’s a high-stakes operation
he stands over the ham like a surgeon, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed, mumbling to himself about “optimal slice width,”. he absolutely will flex his knife skills even though you’ve never once seen him cut anything more complicated than strawberries on a weekday. he pauses halfway through to look up at you and announce, very seriously, “this is why quarterbacks have good hand control. all about precision,”. then he hands you a piece like he’s offering a sacrament: “taste test. it’s science. and don't worry, it's not too thin, babe, i know you like a thick slice,” he says with a wink that has your face turning the color of a tomato.
if you smile too big, he gets smug. if you tease him, he squints at you and mutters, “you’re lucky i love you,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...eats off your plate
it always starts the same, too. your fork halfway to your mouth, your focus somewhere else for a split second, and suddenly his much bigger fork slides right in front of yours, scooping the exact bite you were about to take. he doesn’t even look guilty. he barely even looks at you. he just steals it, lifts it to his mouth, and eats it with this obnoxiously satisfied little hum, shoulders relaxing like he just had the best bite of his life. you glare at him every single time and he meets it with that tiny, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “what?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your plate, “you weren’t eating it fast enough,”.
sometimes he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, then steal another bite like the kiss was meant to distract you. sometimes he’ll hook his chin over your shoulder and eat directly from your plate with your fork, pretending he’s helping you. and when you protest? when you push him away and tell him to get his own food? joe just grins, nudging at your thigh with his knee under the table. “baby…everything i have is yours and everything you have is mine. that includes your cranberry sauce,” and you pretend to be annoyed, rolling your eyes, but you’re already sliding the plate closer to him—because he’s joe, and he looks so cute and happy stealing your food that you can’t help but let him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...pulls you into the pantry like he can’t go another second without you
the pantry becomes joe’s personal hideaway during the entire evening. every time you walk in for spices or extra ingredients, he follows a few seconds later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing, he spots you heading to the pantry? he follows. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his hands are already sliding up your sides, pushing you gently against the shelves, the motion causing the spices to rattle as you land with a dull thud.
he dips his head to kiss down your neck, soft, a little sloppy, just the way he knows you love. and the way he breathes, a little shakily, like he’s trying to hold himself back from doing something shameless that would earn him a stern talking to by his mother, makes your knees turn to liquid. “i needed a minute,” he murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “just with you,” he cages you in against the shelves with his arms, big body crowding yours, his forehead pressed to yours while his thumb strokes your waist in slow, deliberate circles.
sometimes he kisses you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs, and when he pulls back, his lips are so red and swollen, your lip combo all over him, and he looks so stupidly in love you swear you might melt. he always tries to sneak one more kiss, one more touch, one more breath against your mouth before you whisper that someone might come looking. god forbid one of his little nephews accidentally opens the door on you two, because you do not have an answer for why this adorably oblivious child is running around the house saying "uncle joe had his under in auntie y/n's shirt!".
and joe always grins at your valid concerns, that stupid, cocky little grin, whispering, “that’s why it’s fun. make's me feel like a teenager again,” before reluctantly letting you go…only to follow you out a minute later, still looking at your lips like he’s starving.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...keeps checking on you like it’s instinct
even in a house full of his people, full of relatives who haven't seen him in forever, joe’s attention is always on you. his eyes are drawn to you like you were the shiniest object in the room. you’ll be talking to his brothers or helping his grandma to the living room or laughing with the cousins in the backyard, and when you glance over, he’s already watching you with that soft, protective gaze that makes your whole chest glow. he’ll cross the room under the excuse of getting another drink, brushing his hand over your lower back as he passes—just a quick reassurance that you’re okay, that he’s here. sometimes he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before walking away, sometimes he presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder when no one’s looking, and sometimes he doesn’t leave at all—just stands behind you with his hand on your hip like he belongs there. he checks if you’ve eaten anything since this morning. he brings you water if he notices your lips look a little dry. he steals quiet moments to whisper, “you good?” against your cheek, even when you clearly are, because he just needs to hear you say it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...is beyond thankful for you
joe laces his fingers through yours with a quiet urgency, the kind that’s been simmering beneath his skin all evening. he’d spent half the night subtly trying to steal you away—brushing past you in the kitchen, touching the small of your back as he helped his mom with the dishes, giving you those long, loaded looks across the living room whenever his aunt pulled you into another story about his childhood. and when he finally manages to slip his hand into yours without anyone noticing, he doesn’t let go. instead, he tugs you gently but deliberately toward the back door, his eyes flicking to yours with that soft, determined look, like he’s decided that if he doesn’t get a moment alone with you right now, he might spontaneously combust.
the door clicks shut behind you, muting the warm hum of his family. cold air skims over your skin, crisp and clean, and joe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the porch is dim, washed in pale gold from the light above, and he turns you fully toward him, as if he’s finally carved out this quiet corner of the world just to say everything he hasn’t been able to say inside.
his hands settle on your waist, drawing you in with a reverence so bare it steals the breath from your lungs—his eyes soft and sleepy-warm, lashes brushing downward like he’s trying to memorize you one blink at a time. there’s something almost boyish in the way his expression opens for you, unguarded and achingly sincere. “c’mere,” he murmurs, tugging you closer like the words he’s carrying can only survive in the inch of air between your mouths. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, like he finally stopped running the second he got you alone.
“needed you alone for this,” he says, the confession rasping out of him. “just you. no noise. no eyes on us. nothing tugging at you but me,” his hand glides up your side, slow and sure, cradling your jaw.
“is everything alright, baby?” you question gently, your fingers finding home in his hair, twisting the soft strands as you listen to his breathing—the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard in your entire existence on this planet.
he inhales, the sound a little shaky. “yeah, yeah. everything’s good, fantastic actually. it’s just, you’re…” he tries again, swallowing hard, “you’re everything to me, sweetheart,” his voice cracks, just enough to make your heart throb. “i know i fuck around and act like i’m annoyed at the world half the time, but the truth is? i wouldn’t get through any of it without you. i wouldn’t be who i am right now if it wasn’t for you, for what you did to me when we first met, for what you continue to do to me,” his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, lingering this time. “you make every part of my life softer. easier. better. you walk into a room and it’s like everything i was worried about just—,” he exhales shakily, nose brushing yours, “evaporates. you have this kind of effect on me that i don't think i've ever seen or experienced before. it’s intense, so fuckin’ intense, but that’s just what love feels like. you taught me that,”.
your eyes soften, tears pooling in the corners, “joey,” you whisper.
he leans in closer, lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “i’m thankful for you every damn day, you know that? for the way you look at me like i’m someone worth loving. for how patient you are with me. for how you navigate through this crazy life that we live. for how you hold me without even touching me. for how you always show up for me even when shit gets tough. for how you make my life brighter and worth enjoying,” his voice softens, and his eyes, god, his eyes, gleam with a kind of wonder that feels otherworldly, like he’s carrying whole constellations behind his lashes, stardust pooling in the corners as he looks at you as if you hung the sky just for him. “for how you let me love you the way i’ve never loved anyone. for how you allow me to be soft around you. i love you so much for letting me be this version of myself. i thank the universe every fuckin’ day that you walked into that dingy diner that day in colombus. that you didn’t get scared when i made a move on you,” he grins, “even though it could’ve been better planned,” a chuckle leaves his lips.
you nod slowly, recalling that moment you walked into the old diner with your friends, and the very first thing you saw was joe sitting in the corner booth with his old college friends. all of them whispering to each other like teenage girls and egging him on as if there was some elephant in the room you weren’t aware of, “yeah,” you giggled. “could’ve given me a heads up that you were paying our bill. gianna thought we were being mass cat-called or something,”.
“had to make a good impression. had to show you i can support my woman if needed,” he murmurs, that smirk playing at the edges of his lips, but the fire in his eyes betrays him—wild, hungry, impossible to ignore. before you can respond, he’s on you, closing the space with a precision that makes your pulse stutter. the kiss he presses to your lips is everything, the kind that numbs your senses, bends time, and leaves the world falling away. it’s not gentle; it’s not soft. it’s intense, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries the weight of every unspoken word he’s ever held for you, every longing he’s barely contained, every heartbeat that thunders for you alone.
his mouth molds to yours with unyielding certainty, tilting your head just so, pressing lips to lips with a rhythm that’s both demanding and soft. when his tongue finds yours, it’s a slow, deliberate sweep, a teasing pull that makes your knees tremble and your hands claw instinctively into his shoulders. the heat of him presses into you, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, every exhale shared and shivering, every heartbeat synchronized in the tension between you. he holds your jaw in one firm hand, fingers warm and grounding, anchoring you in the moment, and you feel the subtle tremor of want that runs through him—the quiet, feral need to claim, to keep, to consume only you.
the world shrinks until there’s nothing left but him, the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the desperate pull of this slow, impossible kiss. your heart races against his chest, your breath hitching as he tilts you closer, tongue and teeth teasing, lips dragging in long strokes, and for a moment, neither of you exists outside of this suspended second. every brush, every press, every groan swallowed into the space between you is a promise, a confession, a collision of desire and devotion that leaves you dizzy, trembling, and entirely undone in the gravity of him. he pulls away for a second, and you find your lips chasing his before a soft, “i love you,” leaves his mouth, but it doesn’t sound small; it sounds like the center of his entire universe. “i love you in ways i didn’t even know were possible. in ways that scare the hell out of me because it’s so big, so real, so much more than anything i ever thought i’d get to feel,”.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he smiles against your chilled lips, pressing another kiss to them before saying, “and i don’t ever want a life that doesn’t end with you in it,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...steps into your childhood home for the first time and instantly softens
it hits him the second he steps over the threshold. this soft, nostalgic warmth that seems to breathe out of the walls and wrap around him. the smell of cinnamon and butter, the kind that settles into a home after years of holiday mornings and late-night baking; the old family photos lining the staircase, each one a tiny universe of memories he wasn’t there for but wishes he could’ve been; the worn-in couch where you once napped after school, blankets still folded the exact way your mom likes them; even that faint creak in the floorboard by the hallway, the one you warned him about, the one that used to betray every teenage attempt at sneaking out. every detail feels intimate, untouched by the world, like he’s stepping into a place that shaped the girl he loves long before he ever knew her. he takes it all in with this quiet awe, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something important.
and then there’s that look in his eyes as he turns to you and murmurs, “so this is where you grew up…” it comes out gentle, like a confession, like an exhale he’s been holding. you can feel something inside him shift, like he’s finally holding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing. and the moment your family gathers around him, any lingering tension melts away. they don’t treat him like “joe burrow, the star quarterback”; they treat him like your person. your dad gives him a handshake that’s half test, half welcome; your mom pulls him into a hug so sincere he just freezes for a beat, startled by the softness; your siblings eye him up until he fumbles out a nervous little joke that immediately breaks the ice and makes everyone laugh. and he blushes, actually blushes, because it’s the first time he’s been the outsider stepping into your world. but he handles it the way only joe does: with that shy smile, those polite manners, and that quiet charm that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him without even trying.
but the sweetest part is how effortlessly he fits into your family’s traditions. he helps your mom set the table with the same cutlery and dishes you’ve used since your first thanksgiving, listens intently to your little brother explain the rules of a card game he’s never played, and sneaks quiet glances at you from across the kitchen like he’s falling in love all over again, seeing you in your element as you pester your dad about what he wants for christmas. he teases you for the way you still know where everything is—even the charlie brown themed mixing bowls stacked on the very top shelf of the cabinet with the missing screw—and kisses your temple when he passes behind you, as if he can’t help himself. and because he doesn’t like turkey, your mom surprises him with a small glazed ham “just for joe,” and the way he lights up at that, a soft smile on his face, hand squeezing your waist, makes you warm all over. he whispers, “i like her. she gets me,” and you roll your eyes, but he can see the glow in your cheeks.
outside, he lets you pull him into your childhood backyard, the place where you used to build snowmen and climb trees for hours and hours. he listens to your stories about your neighbor’s scrappy dog whose bark sounds more like a bronchitis patient’s cough, about the time you scraped your knee trying to prove you had superpowers, about your first kiss behind the tool shed (which he grumbles about playfully)—as if every detail is sacred, like he can't miss it because it won't be the same. and he kisses you there, under the same branches you once hung fairy lights on when you were twelve, murmuring, low and rough around the edges, “i wish i’d known you back then…how soft you probably were, how damn…perfect. but now, jesus, now i do. and i’m so damn glad i get to. you’re everything i’ve wanted, everything i didn’t even know i needed, and i can’t believe you’re mine,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t wait until everyone leaves to have you all to himself
once the last dish hits the sink and the soft hum of family chatter finally dissolves, joe’s patience snaps like a frayed, over‑pulled thread. he’s been restless for hours, tension coiled tight beneath the table, eyes dark every time you so much as shifted in your chair. his hand kept finding your upper thigh, fingers squeezing once, twice, like little warnings. the back of his knuckles skimmed dangerously high under the napkin, brushing your inner thigh with slow passes that made your breath hitch. and every time you looked at him, he whispered “later” in that quiet murmur that always ruins you, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a promise he’s seconds from cashing in.
the moment the final goodbye leaves someone’s lips, he’s done pretending. he grabs your hand, hooks his fingers through yours and yanks, pulling you down the hallway with a pace so clipped and urgent you have jog a little to keep up. that hungry, crooked grin cuts across his face, the one that screams he’s hanging on by a thread. he’s practically vibrating with excitement, shoulders tight, jaw flexing, every stride carrying this sharp, impatient energy—like he’s two breaths away from throwing you over his shoulder and sprinting.
“you’re not letting me sleep without you…right?” he mutters, voice already rough, already dragging over your skin like heat. “i promised my mom i wouldn’t do anything…indecent under your family’s roof but i just…” he’s flushed and wired as he says it, pupils blown, radiating a wild, relentless need that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night. he doesn’t wait for your answer, he can’t. all you can do is watch him with your mouth slightly open in disbelief, and as the tension crawling under his skin finally breaks loose, and he’s dragging you into your childhood bedroom like he might fall apart if he has to wait another second. the door clicks shut. too loud, too sharp. and before the sound even settles, he’s on you. he pins you against the wood with his whole body, crowding you, caging you in that way that always steals your breath. his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, his kiss all heat and teeth and reckless need. he kisses you like he’s been starving, like every minute at dinner was torture, like he’s trying to make up for all the touches he couldn’t take in front of your family.
his palms frame your jaw, big hands warm and possessive, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a heartbreaking contrast of gentleness—like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or devour you whole. his breath shakes against your lips, his body trembling with everything he’s kept tucked behind polite smiles for hours. and when his forehead presses to yours for half a heartbeat, his voice breaks out in a shaky whisper, “i needed you all night,”.
the room feels impossibly small now. your old posters taped crookedly on the walls, your twin mattress buried under the floral comforter your mom insisted “was good enough until you left for college.” joe’s eyes flick to the bed for a fraction of a second, then back at you, teeth clenched, chest heaving, every inch of him shaking with the need to sink into you. you can see it—the raw, feral edge of him, famished and unhinged, and it drives a shiver through your core. “this is gonna be fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, voice deep, sinful, “but i do not care,”.
his hands rip under your shirt, fingers grazing your ribs, leaving flutters throughout your body in their wake, teasing higher and higher until his thumbs roll over your perky nipples, tugging just enough to make your chest arch, your gasp muffled into his mouth. your back presses against the door, every nerve alive, and he groans, a sound like gasoline on fire, hot and rough and filthy. “jesus, you’re perfect,” he rasps, lips dragging across your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, sucking and licking, claiming. he shoves you toward the bed, and the second your back hits the mattress, it screams, a loud, undeniable creak, and you both freeze, grinning like lunatics. “quiet, baby,” he hisses, breath hot against your ear, “or they’re gonna hear exactly how much you missed this cock,”.
one hand slams over your mouth, while the other slides down your stomach, palms cupping, gripping, teasing anything he can, before yanking your thigh open for him. the instant he pushes in, achingly slow, yet so so so perfectly, you arch, a broken, muffled moan pressing into his hand. every inch of him consumes you, stretching you, filling you to the brim with that perfect, sinful precision you’ve come to worship. joe’s pace is relentless, controlled but merciless, a rhythm built on pure, brutal want. the bed squeaks each time your pelvis meets his, every creak a sharp, wicked punctuation to the moans spilling out of you. the risk of being caught, of someone hearing, fuels him, makes him grip your thigh tighter, drives him over the edge faster. curls damp at the temples, jaw clenched, eyes pinned to where your bodies collide like he’s watching live art. “shh…fuck, shh, i know, i know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with lust. “i’ve got you. take it. take all of me,”.
you can barely breathe as he fucks you with that perfect, relentless rhythm he’s perfected with you—deep, exact, hitting every sweet spot over and over until your thighs shake, every nerve raw with sensation. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails claw into his shoulders, hips grinding involuntarily as he slams in, hard, merciless. he groans into your neck, low, filthy, “god…you’re so tight for me…i swear, baby, you get even tighter when you try to be quiet, fuck,”.
your whimpers burn hot against his palm, each thrust making the bed frame squeal, every creak a delicious promise. “yeah? that feel good?” he pants, voice fraying. “that good you can’t think about anything but this cock?”. you nod into his hand, another broken whine escaping, “oh, joey please,” and he bites your shoulder to swallow his own moan, hips snapping harder, pulling deeper, faster, harder. fingers digging into your hips like he can’t let go, can’t get enough, can’t stop claiming you.
“you’re mine,” he growls, deep, guttural, words vibrating over your skin. “all mine…in your squeaky fuckin’ bed…jesus christ, i can’t get enough,”. he drives into you deeper, so deep it feels like you see stars, your body trembling, quivering, locking around him, each muscle taut, toes curling, breath shattering in your chest. his pace turns ruthless, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that leaves no air in your lungs, no room for anything but him. and fuck—he loves it. loves how ruined you are beneath him, how you give and take and tighten with every stroke.
“look at this,” he pants, one hand sliding to your stomach, pressing there just enough to feel the outline of him inside you. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches the way your body swallows him. “you’re taking me so deep, baby. so fuckin’ deep,”.
your tits bounce with every thrust, full, perfect, irresistible, and he can’t stop staring, can’t stop the desperate sounds ripping out of him every time they move for him.
and the room? god, the room is obscene.
wet, slick sounds fill the space, each thrust a loud, messy clap of skin against skin. your bedframe hits the wall with every movement, loud enough that the two of you should care—should remember that anyone walking up the stairs right now would hear every filthy second. but neither of you even think about stopping. you’re both too far gone, too lost in the heat, in the rhythm, in the way his body claims yours and yours claims him right back. loud, messy, unapologetic, and utterly, beautifully unrestrained.
your orgasm tears through you in a way that feels almost merciless. a slow burn that turns your body to mush all at once, tightening around him so sharply he swears under his breath. it’s not the kind of climax that hits and fades; it blooms, unfurling in waves that keep cresting no matter how hard you gasp for air. your nails drag down his back, your thighs trembling around his hips as your whole body arches into him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper, hold him there, keep him there. joe feels every ounce of it, the way your walls flutter and clamp around his cock, the way your breath stutters into his mouth, the way your voice breaks when you try to say his name but can’t get past the sound of yourself falling apart. his rhythm falters because he’s obsessed with the way you come for him, how greedy your body gets, how wet you get, how you tighten like you’re made to finish on him.
and he loses it. his hips stutter. his breath turns into pants. he grips your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something soft, something you. a low, guttural curse grinds out of him just before he presses in all the way. a deep, helpless thrust that forces a shocked moan from both of you. he comes hard, the kind of helpless, bone-deep release that rips a groan straight from his chest. it hits him in a full-body shudder he can’t even pretend to control, his forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering against your lips like he’s trying to inhale you just to stay on this earth.
the heat of him floods you in thick, heavy spurts, each pulse sinking deeper than the last, and he doesn’t stop—he can’t. he keeps rolling his hips through every trembling wave, slow and desperate, chasing the feel of your body clenching around him. like he needs to feel every last contraction, every flutter of your pussy milking him through the end of his orgasm. like stopping would actually break him.
“fuck…baby…,” his voice is wrecked, raw with pleasure, the words barely forming as his lips drag over your cheek, your jaw, wherever he can reach. he can’t stay still. he can’t stop kissing you, touching you, losing himself in the warmth of your skin while his body keeps spilling the last of his release into you. “you’re…god, you’re unreal,”.
even when the high finally fades, when his breath slowly starts to find a rhythm again, he doesn’t pull away. he stays buried inside you like there’s nowhere else he could possibly exist. his hand slides down to your hip, thumb tracing lazy, loving circles against your skin. gentle now. almost tender. he’s still dizzy, still floating, trying to wrap his head around how completely you undo him every single time. how you make him fall apart, how you put him back together, how he never wants to stop feeling like this.
and the way he softens inside you, still warm, still deep, still holding on…it tells you everything his ruined breath can’t.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives spontaneous, ESPN-level commentary to your entire family while watching the game
your grandma asks an innocent, perfectly harmless question—“why did that man run backward?”—and joe’s world flips into full broadcast mode. he snaps upright from the couch like a quarterback calling an audible, grabs the remote as though it’s a telestrator pen, and rewinds the play with the kind of intensity that makes your aunt jump. suddenly, he’s talking with the cadence of a seasoned analyst, breaking down cover‑2 vs. cover‑3 like he’s giving a ted talk in a packed lecture hall. every hand gesture is precise, punctuated with little emphases: a finger pointing, a palm slicing through the air, even picking up a charcuterie knife to illustrate leverage like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
he paces a little, leaning into the screen, voice rising and falling with dramatic pauses that make your family nod along politely, trying to appear engaged while you’re internally dying of laughter. he points out angles, gaps, and player tendencies, sketching imaginary lines between defenders with absolute authority, and occasionally mutters things like, “see, that’s basic spacing, any rookie could understand this,” before flicking his gaze to your stunned relatives. your uncle chuckles nervously, clearly impressed but mostly terrified at joe's quarterback brain, while you can’t stop grinning at the utter, unfiltered joy he radiates.
finally, after eight straight minutes of running commentary, theatrical gestures, and unsolicited analysis, he leans back, grabs his cider, and takes a casual sip like he didn’t just hijack the entire dining room into a miniature studio broadcast. “so yeah,” he concludes, voice calm, almost smug, “that’s why the run game’s dead,” and the room collectively exhales, equally entertained and exhausted. you glance at him, shaking your head, because of course he’d turn your family dinner into prime‑time football, and of course it’s the most him thing ever.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets pissy when the quarterback throws an interception
he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the second the other QB tosses a pick, joe’s instantly crashing out, evaluating every movement like a coach grading a practice tape. shoulders tense, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his drink like he’s drawing up coverages in the air, muttering under his breath, “can’t throw late over the middle…what are we even doing?” his eyes narrow, flicking to the screen, scanning footwork, timing, every single subtle detail like he’s already seeing the replay in slow motion. you lean over, smirking, and tease, “you wanna go teach him?” and joe freezes just long enough to give you that dangerous, low-key smirk—one brow raised, lips curling, eyes dark and amused, that quiet, don’t-test-me energy that says he could, and he might, if you pushed him. “i could,” he mutters finally, voice low and steady, “that’s the problem,”. and the way he leans back in his chair, shoulders stiff but proud, like he’s daring anyone to challenge him, makes you laugh and shake your head—because of course he’s exactly this type of insane about football, even on a holiday, and somehow, somehow, it’s one of the things you love most about him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...wants nothing more than a lazy day on the couch with you the day after thanksgiving
he pulls you onto his lap the instant you sit down—no hesitation, no adjustment period, just a quiet, instinctive need to have you close. his hands settle on your hips first, guiding you into place, then slide down to drape over your thighs, palms wide and warm, thumbs tracing lazy, absent-minded circles that make your whole body soften against him. he tucks his chin into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, breathing you in like he’s been missing you all day even though you’ve been in the same house. his arms settle around your waist, loose but protective, the kind of hold that tells you he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.
the tv hums in the background, black friday football, the usual chaotic noise, but it barely registers to him. he isn’t leaning forward after big plays, isn’t muttering stats, isn’t yelling at referees. his eyes flick to the screen only out of habit, but every time he does he ends up drifting back to you, lips brushing your jaw or your cheek like he’s hypnotized by your beauty and your presence.
he’s warm against you, so warm it feels like he’s sinking into you, melting into this little cocoon you’ve accidentally built together on the couch. he murmurs quiet jokes into your shoulder, dry little observations about commercials or commentators that make you smile without even meaning to. and every few minutes, in the breaks between plays he’s not really watching, he tilts his head just enough to kiss your temple, your jawline, that soft spot beneath your ear. those kisses get slower as the game goes on, lingering, sweet, full of a kind of affection that makes your chest ache. one of them lands on your neck—soft, deliberate—and he stays there, lips resting against your skin like he’s gathering courage for the words that follow.
“i love thanksgiving now,” he whispers, voice low, almost shy in its sincerity. his breath warms your skin. “you know that, right?”.
you feel something ease in him as he says it, like he’s finally letting the truth out. “you just…you make it special,” he continues, another kiss pressed to the curve of your shoulder. “you make it something i actually care about,”,
his arms tighten around you, not possessive—just certain. content. full. and you can feel it all: the weight of his gratitude; the quiet, unshakable comfort he finds in you; the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s anchoring himself there; the way he breathes a little easier when you lean your head back onto his shoulder.
it’s soft. it’s intimate. it’s domestic in a way that feels sacred. he holds you like this is his favorite place in the world. and like thanksgiving finally means something because it’s a day he gets to spend wrapped around you and spend every single second being grateful to the universe that you came into his orbit.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets horny the second the world slows down
the shift always begins in the quiet. the moment the house exhales—leftovers tucked away, the echo of family chatter fading into memory—something in joe unwinds just enough for another instinct to take its place. he watches you move through the soft, dim glow of the living room, the tv humming low, shadows slipping over your skin, and his restraint simply…dissolves. he comes up behind you with that slow, certain step he gets when he’s already made up his mind, sliding an arm around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. his chest presses to your back, his breath a lazy brush against your neck before his lips find that place just beneath your ear. he kisses you there first, knowing how it always sends butterflies through your stomach, and when you soften against him, he releases a quiet, shaky sound he’d never admit to. his hands slip beneath your shirt with a hunger he’s been holding back since noon, fingers splaying wide over your stomach, your ribs, your hips, mapping you like he’s relearning you.
“we’ve got the whole night,” he murmurs against your skin, voice already deep, already ruined, already gone for you. and when you whisper his name, barely a breath, he shudders, tightening his hold like that single sound snapped the last thread of his control.
you don’t stay on the couch. you don’t stay pressed against the patio door. you don’t stay anywhere for long. he kisses you through the hallway like a man dragged under, pinning you to the wall with a groan when you tug at his hair, the kind of sound that vibrates through you and leaves your knees unsteady. he walks you backward toward the bedroom with the singular focus of someone starved, hands gripping, sliding, claiming every inch they touch.
by the time you reach the doorway, you’re already gasping, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands pushing beneath your clothes like he needs skin, needs heat, needs you. and when he finally gets you onto the bed, when he crawls over you with that slow, predatory confidence, it’s like the air thickens. the world narrowing to the drag of his lips down your chest, the way his fingers trace the waistband of your underwear like a promise he intends to ruin. his voice drops to something gravelly, sinful, as he whispers, “been thinking about this all day…about you all day,” before kissing down your stomach, your hips lifting helplessly into the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a sound from you that makes him curse under his breath.
and later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe lifetimes have passed—he’s above you again, chest pressed to yours, body fully, desperately aligned with yours as he pushes into you with slow, devastating purpose. his hands cradle your jaw as if he’s trying to watch every single reaction he pulls from you, pupils blown wide, hair falling in his face, breath shaking each time you clench around him. every thrust drags a new sound from your throat, and joe drinks them in like they’re oxygen, murmuring your name in a tone that borders on worship. he moves like a man who’s been deprived of touch for days, deep, deliberate, a little rough, a little sweet, utterly obsessed, his mouth finding your shoulder, your lips, your chest, leaving lazy, possessive marks he’ll admire in the morning. the quiet of the night only amplifies everything: the slap of skin, the low growls slipping from his throat, the gasps he pulls from yours. and when he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling as he mutters, “so fuckin' good for me, so thankful for this pussy, fuck,” you realize he isn’t teasing. he’s unraveling, falling apart, breaking open entirely for you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...absolutely refuses to set foot in a store on black friday
the moment you mention black friday, his whole body goes rigid. like every muscle locks at once. eyes going comically wide, pupils blown in sheer, primal alarm. it’s the same look he gives when a blitzing linebacker comes out of nowhere, except this time it’s the thought of fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers, and half-off appliances that has him silently begging the universe for mercy. “are you insane?” he mutters, taking a full step back as if you’ve just threatened him with bodily harm. his hands come up in self-defense, palms out, head shaking slowly like he’s processing a traumatic memory. “no. absolutely not. i’m not fighting an elderly woman in skechers for a half-priced toaster oven,”. his voice is a wild mix of disbelief and genuine fear, the kind that says he has seen things…horrors…unhinged bargain hunters…and he will not go back.
but then you pout. soft, subtle, the slightest tilt of your lips, the almost imperceptible lift of your gaze, and it’s the look he has never once been able to resist—those eyes, wide and innocent, that somehow hold both mischief and pleading all at once. joe’s whole face fractures in that instant; the dread he’d been carrying melts, edges softening like ice pressed under a heat lamp, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in a slow, audible surrender. he exhales, long and labored, a sound thick with preemptive defeat, like he already knows he’s lost before the words have even formed in his mouth.
without a word, he closes the distance, letting instinct guide him. his hands land on your waist, strong but careful, drawing you effortlessly into his chest. the familiar pull, the magnetic weight of him, wraps around you, and you feel it—the quiet inevitability of him, the way he claims the space around you without ever needing to announce it. he bows his head, forehead brushing yours for a heartbeat, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—the kind that steadies him more than it steadies you, calming him before the storm of his surrender. “fine,” he murmurs finally, the word heavy, drenched in melodrama, a small groan of protest hidden in the cadence. “we can go.” his voice cracks just slightly at the edges, like it’s painful to admit defeat, and yet there’s something tender in the way he says it, as though every ounce of his theatrical agony is only for you to witness.
then he straightens, meets your gaze with the seriousness of a man about to enter the hunger games. “but i am not running. not touching anyone. not making eye contact. i am a spectator only…you’re responsible for all human interaction,”. each word is spoken like a legally binding contract he’s unwilling to renegotiate. and yet, beneath all that theatrical reluctance, a glimmer sparks in his eyes, a tiny wicked shine he can’t hide. the faintest twitch of a smirk. because he loves this. loves hovering behind you with a hand on your hip, loves grumbling under his breath at the chaos, loves pretending he’s miserable just so you’ll laugh and tug him closer. he’ll complain the entire time, sure, but he’ll be glued to your side, muttering snarky commentary, acting like your grumpy, overprotective shadow…secretly having the time of his life just being there with you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...looks intimidating enough that no one bumps into you
he trails behind you through the chaos of the mall, hood pulled up over his beanie, glasses on, shoulders broad and stiff like he’s on his way to a game instead of shopping for discounted candles. his hands stay buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that naturally terrifying don’t even think about it way he gets when he’s in public and hyper-focused on you. people take one look at him—six‑foot‑four, built like a greek tragedy, radiating silent menace—and immediately part like the sea. you’re weaving through crowds like you’ve got a vip escort, not because you asked for one, but because your boyfriend looks like he could bench-press emotional damage and fight for sole custody of the mall. he leans down just enough for you to hear him over the noise, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “see that?” he murmurs, “i’m useful,”.
and the worst part is? he’s kind of proud of it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives brutally honest, judgmental commentary on every black friday shopper
he’s quiet at first, just observing. then the sighs start. loud, drawn out, dripping with disgust. “oh, great, she’s elbowing children for a vacuum she can get off amazon on sale on any other random weekday,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like the entire mall is personally offending him by their lack of intelligence.
he doesn’t hold back. every cart that crashes into another? commentary. every slow walker in the aisle? critique. the guy hoarding the electronics? “wow. selfish and bald. perfect combo,” he smirks at you, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring you to challenge him. “i mean, really. what’s his strategy here? just crush everyone in his path?”.
and the shoppers don’t even know it, but he’s scowling, muttering, judging like he has nothing better to do. he whispers running narrations to you, low and mischievous: “that one’s gonna regret that cart collision. watch…karma,” and then you see a fight break out in front of you.
every so often, he leans down, lips brushing your ear with that grin that’s half mischief, half deadly seriousness. “i could survive the end of the world,” he murmurs, “as long as i don’t have to deal with these people,” and you laugh, because yeah, he’s ridiculous, but somehow, watching joe watch the chaos is way more entertaining than the chaos itself. he’s judgemental, sarcastic, and just a little bit terrifying—but you secretly love it. black friday wouldn’t be the same without him narrating the apocalypse in real time.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...hates every second and is so dramatic about it
he is unbearable in the funniest, most joe way possible. like a man personally wronged by the concept of consumerism. he sighs with the full weight of every burden he has ever carried, loud and theatrical, the kind of exhausted exhale a dying victorian widow would give after discovering her husband perished at sea. every time you pause to look at throw pillows? another sigh. every time you compare prices? a groan that echoes down the aisle. he mutters to himself constantly, too “unbelievable…we’re really doing this…i thought we were above this,”.
“this” as in rummaging through the sale rack at the ugg store.
he gives lethal, passive-aggressive looks to anyone who even brushes the corner of his jacket, clutching the single shopping bag he’s agreed to hold like it’s gus boundary. “i’m not carrying more than three bags, babe,” he says in that rigid, no-nonsense tone, as if he’s laying down federal law. but you know him. you know the second you look the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’ll be shoving every bag up his arms like decorative bangles. hell, if your back twinged even once, he’d drop everything just to scoop you up bridal-style and march you through the mall like a knight protecting his queen.
and then halfway through the makeup aisle, surrounded by glittery palettes and overpriced skincare, he leans down with a grim, war-hardened seriousness. “if someone recognizes me and i end up on twitter again, i’m leaving you here,” the delivery is deadpan. cold. chilling. the threat of a man who has been photographed in a mall one too many times (the photo of him with the bath & body works bag gives him nightmares to this day).
he’s joking…mostly.
because even as he grumbles, even as he pretends this is the worst day of his life, his arm stays wrapped firmly, possessively around your waist; tugging you into him every time someone walks too close, keeping you sheltered, tucked against his side like you’re the only thing in the entire store keeping him sane.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...softens instantly when he sees you excited
the second your eyes light up, over a sale sign, a cute display, or even just a pair of fuzzy socks, he melts like someone hit pause on reality. the scowl, the sighs, the grumbling about crowds and chaos? evaporated. his jaw unclenches, shoulders drop, and those sharp, teasing eyes soften into something warm and full, like he’s seeing you in a spotlight made just for you. he steps closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against your waist, and presses a sweet, tender kiss to the top of your head right there in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the curious glances around him. “you’re cute when you’re in bargain mode,” he laughs, his lips grazing your hair as his thumb drifts absent‑mindedly over your hip. when you squeal softly at a matching set of pajamas, holding them up with that little spark in your eyes, he doesn’t even hesitate. he slides the pajamas into the cart, grinning down at you with that messy, boyish pride only you get to see, and leans in to press another quick kiss to your temple, murmuring, “i’d do anything to see you like this. all smiley and loopy,”. even amidst the chaos of the store, he’s fully present, fully yours, completely smitten
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loses it the second you walk into the lingerie store
the second you step inside, a quiet, almost feral grin spreads across his face, eyes darkening with a heat that makes your stomach twist. he’s supposed to be “helping,” or at least waiting outside casually, but the second he sees you browsing, all pretense falls away. his jaw tightens, hands balling into fists at his sides like he’s restraining the kind of hunger that could burn the whole mall down. every shift of his hips, every tightening of his shoulders is loaded with raw, needful energy.
he watches you reach for a delicate maroon lace set, swallowing hard, and his mind floods with you—naked in that fabric, soft and slick against him, hips arching into his hands, breasts pressed to him, toes curling. “holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough, dripping with want, half for himself and half as a warning he can’t resist. his hips twitch subtly, throat dry, pulse quickening as he imagines the way your body will move for him, the moans he’ll hear, the way he’ll taste every inch. every bra, every silk set, every little lace thong—it’s all for him, all for this private, heated fantasy that he can’t wait to make real. his gaze lingers on you, unbroken, almost predatory, and you notice the sharp inhale, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to sink his teeth into you. he swallows again, hips shifting, the need in his eyes unmistakable. you feel it, searing and undeniable—the way his desire practically radiates off him—and it hits you: he’s completely, utterly, unashamedly turned on in the middle of this mall, and it’s all because of you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t resist dragging you into a dressing room
the second you step toward a fitting room, he’s on you—fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar, impatient, i’m‑done‑waiting smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say a word, just guides you backward, steps long and purposeful, until the door shuts behind you with a sharp click that feels louder than it should. before you can even breathe, he’s crowding you back against the mirror, his body flushing against yours like he’s been starving for hours. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s claiming territory he already owns. his tongue slides against yours with hungry precision, tasting, teasing, coaxing an involuntary sound from your throat—just a faint, needy little moan that has his breath catching and his grip tightening. he bites your lower lip with perfect pressure, enough to make your knees tremble, and then he swallows your gasp like he’s craving it.
his hands don’t linger politely; they roam with intent. he drags them under your sweater, palms warm against your stomach before sliding higher, thumbs brushing the curve of your breast through your bra, tracing every shape he’s memorized a thousand times. his fingers trail down your waist and lock onto your hips, pulling you harder against him like he needs your body to keep him anchored. his mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, slow and molten, before finding your throat. every kiss there is filthier, open‑mouthed, messy, hungry, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers threats and promises in a voice frayed with desire. “quiet,” he murmurs, words brushing your pulse, “don’t want anyone hearing how good you feel for me,”.
his body presses into yours fully now, chest to your back as he shifts to kiss the curve of your neck from behind. he nips and sucks deliberately, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make you shiver and grab for him, your fingers curling into his shirt at his shoulders. he slips one hand under your bra, just enough to cup and tease your tit, the slow graze of his thumb sending heat spiraling low through your body. your legs wobble, breath catching, and he just smirks against your skin because he feels it—feels how easily you melt for him, how fast he can undo you. “my gorgeous girl,” he groans into your ear, “every inch of you…just for me,”. his hands slide down again, gripping your hips, pulling you back into him, making you feel the effect you’re having on him, the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding.
and the lingerie you came in to try? completely forgotten. the only thing you can think about is him—his mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off him in waves. every touch leaves you dazed, every kiss steals your balance, every low growl from him shoots straight through you. by the time he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, your lips are swollen, your breathing unsteady, and he’s wearing the slowest, filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. “now,” he whispers, fingertips dragging down the inside of your thigh with sinful softness, “go try something…if you can even think about shopping after that,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...spoils you rotten
he acts like he hates this, but the second you so much as pause in front of something? he’s already reaching for his wallet.
you say you don’t need anything? he buys it anyway, barely glancing at the price tag. “christmas is coming,” he shrugs, like that explains the way he’s filling the cart with everything you even breathe near.
you say something is cute? he doesn’t even let you put it back. “put it in the cart,” he insists, nudging you with his shoulder, that soft little half-smile he gets only with you tugging at his mouth.
you look at something twice? he’s already scanning your expression. the slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers brush the fabric, and he’s stepping closer, voice dropping so only you can hear, “babe. seriously. get it,” and he means it. because he loves giving you things. loves seeing your eyes light up. loves knowing he can make your life easier, softer, sweeter.
he pretends he hates shopping, but he loves treating you. loves it in a way he’d never admit out loud. to him, spoiling you isn’t spending money; it’s showing you in every way he can that you’re his girl, and taking care of you is his favorite thing in the world.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...geeks out over a deal on a lego set he's wanted for months
the moment he spots it on the shelf, he freezes, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure. it’s the lego set he’s been hunting for months, the one he swore he’d never find at a good price. his jaw tightens, a low, excited hum vibrating in his chest, and he crouches slightly to inspect the box like it’s a rare artifact. “no way…is this—,” he mutters, voice barely containing the thrill, “is this the edition with the moving gears?” his fingers hover over the package, trembling slightly as he turns it in his hands, checking every angle, reading the description like he’s deciphering ancient runes.
you watch, half-amused, half-melting, as his usual calm, cool demeanor evaporates. he starts pacing a small circle around the aisle, murmuring calculations to himself about budget, space on the shelf at home, where he’ll display it, how he’ll tackle it in stages. every now and then he glances at you, grin splitting his face like he’s sharing a private victory, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes from finding something you’ve been obsessing over. “babe…this is insane. they’re not supposed to have it,” he whispers, sounding like a younger version of himself with the way excitement is practically seeping out of him, “and it’s…on sale,”.
you can’t resist teasing him, voice playful and sharp. “so…mr. anti-black friday is suddenly all in for a lego set?” you draw out, arching a brow. joe freezes mid-step, box clutched to his chest, and then laughs, a little breathless and sheepish, cheeks warming. “hey…this...this is different,” he stammers, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him, betrays the thrill, the glee he can’t hide.
he catches your eye, his smile wide and uncontainable, and in that moment, you see him completely, unguarded, joy radiating from every gesture. “i mean…look at this,” he says, voice full of wonder and disbelief, shaking his head with laughter. “i can’t even…i have to build it now. i just…i can’t wait,” and as he carefully places it in the cart beside you, it’s impossible not to grin too, because watching him geek out over something he loves this much is like seeing a piece of his soul sparkle.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...collapses dramatically the second you get home
he collapses onto the bed the second you step inside, flopping with the exaggerated theatrics of a soldier finally returning from battle, limbs splayed haphazardly, hoodie half-bunched around his shoulders, hair tousled, chest heaving in dramatic, uneven gasps. the intensity is ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifts. before you can even react, his hand snakes across the bed with that familiar, fumbling determination, finding your wrist and tugging you down beside him, so you fall into a warm, tangled heap—your shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm draped lazily but possessively over you. his nose nudges yours, brushing against your cheek with an intimate gentleness, lips grazing the curve of your temple, and his voice drifts low, rough, and utterly breathless, “worth it…but never again,”.
your fingers thread through the messy strands of his hair, and you tease, “until next year?” the words barely leave your lips before he groans, muffled against your collarbone, the weight of the day melting from him like ice in sunlight. he burrows closer, pressing his body fully into yours, soft now beneath the dramatics, warm and grounding, the contrast between his chaos and tenderness almost too much to bear. “…fine,” he sighs, voice thick with reluctant surrender, the exaggerated theatrics finally giving way to the quiet, steady rhythm of relief.
and in that moment, as his limbs settle and his breathing evens, you feel it. the absolute trust, the raw intimacy of being the one he comes home to, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the undeniable, unspoken truth that in the messiness of his theatrics and the ridiculous collapse of the day, he is completely, irrevocably yours.
