#Joe Quinn fanfic

[whatsupsonnyboy]

skipping plans | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Morning vibes, messy hair, and endless cuddles — this is what love looks like when it comes to Joe.

wc: 3.5k

warning: fluff, just lots of fluff, smutish (more like mentions of sex and that kind of things)

a/n: Just feeling like writing how it'd feel waking up with Joe in a lazy mood— just laughter, soft kisses, and dreaming about what’s next. 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

The sun had barely started its slow climb when you blinked awake, but the weight of Joe’s arm draped across your waist told you everything you needed to know—there was no reason to move yet.

His breath was soft against the back of your neck, steady, warm. You could feel his chest rising and falling behind you, his legs tangled with yours like he'd decided, even in his sleep, that the space between your bodies was unnecessary.

You smiled, eyes still closed, and stretched ever so slightly. His hold tightened instinctively.

“Mmm—don’t,” came his voice, hoarse and lazy. “You’ll make me wake up.”

“You’re already awake.”

“Nope. Dreaming. You’re a very specific dream about cinnamon toast and soft things.”

You laughed, low and quiet. “Are you calling me a soft thing?”

“I’m saying you smell like sleep and sunshine and I wanna keep you here forever, so take that however you want.”

You turned just enough to face him. His hair was a mess—fluffy and ridiculous—and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep, but the way he looked at you… it was unfiltered. Like you were the first good thing he’d ever seen in the morning. Like the world didn’t start spinning until you opened your eyes.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He smiled, slow and sleepy. “Hi.”

A hand found your hip, then wandered to your back, just resting there, grounding you. You pressed your forehead to his, brushing your nose lazily against his.

“What’s on your schedule for today?” you murmured.

He yawned. “Not a thing.”

“Oh?”

“Stay in bed. Kiss you occasionally. Maybe steal your pillow.”

“Ambitious.”

“Dangerous,” he added, grinning. “You’re the dangerous one, lying here like this, looking so cuddly and not expecting me to do something about it.”

“I don’t mind if you do.”

“Good,” he murmured, already nuzzling closer. “’Cause I wasn’t asking.”

But you both knew that wasn’t entirely true—this softness, this morning, technically wasn’t yours to keep. You both had things to do, places to be… and yet, it felt like the only place you were needed was right there, wrapped in each other’s arms, doing absolutely nothing.

He kissed you—barely there, just a brush of lips, soft and unhurried. His fingers tangled in your hair, tenderly, but his kiss deepened. The warmth of his body against yours stirred something slow and molten in your chest.

Then his phone buzzed, somewhere on the nightstand.

He groaned and buried his face in your neck.

“I hate the version of myself from three days ago for agreeing to that.”

You smiled, eyes still closed, running your fingers lightly down his back. “You could… cancel.”

He paused. Then shifted—one arm stretching across you to grab his phone. You peeked through one eye as he scrolled, blinked, and hit “Call.”

“Mate—hi. Yeah, I’m feeling rough this morning, think I picked up something on the flight. No, nothing bad, just… not at my best. Think I’m gonna have to reschedule. I know. I’m sorry.”

You bit your lip to stifle a smile, pressing your face into his bare shoulder.

“Thanks. Appreciate it. Yeah, I’ll rest up. Cheers.”

He hung up and tossed the phone somewhere it couldn’t interrupt again.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “That was very convincing.”

He rolled over, pulling you into him, nose brushing your cheek. “I’m an actor.”

“Academy Award–winning behavior.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d lie to the Pope if it meant staying like this for five more minutes.”

 You laughed and kissed him, soft and slow. It could have stopped there. Should have. But the kiss deepened without trying, and soon you were tangled again—hands in hair, fingers under shirts, breathless and smiling.

He didn’t pull away after that last kiss. Neither did you.

His forehead was still pressed to yours, his lips still wet from laughter, from the sweet, from the simple.

“I had the strangest dream tonight,” he said suddenly, voice still hoarse with sleep and you. “I was in high school again. I had to take a math test... and the teacher was Andrew Garfield.”

You blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “Andrew Garfield?”

“Yeah. He kept telling me I wasn’t showing my work properly. I cried.”

“Poor baby,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

“And then I realized I hadn’t studied because I was too busy trying to write a poem for a raccoon I had adopted. Named him Dennis.”

That made you laugh louder, your forehead tipping against his shoulder.

“Dennis the raccoon.”

“He wore a bowtie. A red one.”

You were laughing so hard now you could barely breathe. He grinned against your neck, clearly very proud of himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, pulling him closer.

“And you love it,” he murmured.

“I do.”

Joe looked at you like you were the moon and the sunrise and everything in between. “God, I love you.”

You smiled, eyes shining, heart full. “You have no idea how much I actually fucking love you.”

He hummed, kissing your cheek. “I have some idea. But I want more.”

Your hands traced invisible patterns over his chest, your leg tangled lazily between his.

 “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to explode from how much I love you. Like… my body’s too small for it. Does that make sense?”

He nodded, eyes soft. “Makes perfect sense. Sometimes I look at you and think, ‘I could literally do anything for her. Like, I would take a bullet for her.’”

You giggled. “That’s dramatic.”

“Well, that’s part of the job, babe.”

“Guess it is,” you said, before kissing him again—slow and a little clumsy from smiling too much, hands cupping his jaw. “God,” you breathed. “You make everything feel lighter.”

He kissed your cheek. Then your nose. Then your temple. “You make everything feel like home.”

And then there was silence. Not heavy, not empty—just full of everything neither of you needed to say aloud. His hand on your ribcage, counting the breaths. Yours in his hair. Your legs tangled. The world distant.

“I don’t ever want to leave this bed,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Then don’t. Let’s stay. Forever… But maybe we could have something to eat.”

Eventually, you made it out of bed—reluctantly, tangled together until the very last second. Joe had to peel himself away from your side like a sticker someone didn’t really want to remove. He followed you out of the room still half-draped around you, his arms loose at your waist, lips brushing the back of your neck as you walked.

In the kitchen, the morning light spilled soft and golden through the windows, painting everything with that impossible glow only slow, perfect mornings seem to have.

You moved to fill the kettle, and he leaned against the counter, watching you like you were something sacred. His shirt hung loose on you, sleeves too long, collar slipping off one shoulder. His eyes followed every movement you made, not in hunger, but in awe.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled, not looking at him.

“Can’t help it,” he replied. “You look like a dream I don’t wanna wake up from.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. He came up behind you, arms circling your waist again, cheek resting against your shoulder.

“Coffee or tea?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yes,” he mumbled into your skin.

You laughed, pulling away gently to reach for mugs, but he didn’t let go—his hands following the curve of your back like they belonged there. You made coffee like that, his arms loosely around you, his chin tucked in the crook of your neck.

When it was ready, he took one sip and hummed, eyes closing in appreciation. Then, he leaned in and kissed you like it was instinct, like breathing.

You barely managed to toast some bread and scramble a few eggs—his hands never straying far, always touching: your wrist, your waist, your hip, your back. You sat on the counter to eat, legs swinging gently, and he stood between them, one hand on your thigh, the other holding his plate.

Neither of you spoke much. It wasn’t silence. It was communion. A kiss shared with every bite. A stolen touch between sips. A low laugh when he smeared a bit of butter on your nose on purpose, just to have an excuse to kiss it off.

At one point, he pulled the plate out of your hands mid-bite and set it aside, just to wrap his arms around you properly again.

“You’re clingy,” you teased, even as your arms tightened around his neck.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair. “And I don’t care. It’s criminal how far apart we sleep from each other most nights. I’m just… catching up.”

You nodded against his chest, eyes fluttering closed.

There, in the middle of a quiet kitchen, in oversized shirts and sleepy limbs, surrounded by half-eaten toast and coffee gone cold, everything made perfect sense. No plan. No rush. Just his heartbeat against yours and the feeling that, if this was all you had for the rest of your lives, it would be enough.

You ended up back in bed.

The plates from breakfast were abandoned in the sink, forgotten. Neither of you had said it aloud, but your bodies spoke the same language—fingers lingering too long, eyes catching too often, steps unconsciously in sync until there was no other direction to go but back to the sheets. Back to where you could be tangled, unbothered by anything outside the cotton cocoon of your shared morning.

The sun was already high, light filtering through the curtains in strips that painted his skin gold. You lay beside him, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

"I love your face," you murmured as you looked up, your fingers tracing the shape of his cheeks.

It was barely above a whisper, like it was a secret too sacred to say any louder. 

He looked down at you, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You propped yourself up on your elbow, leaning down to press a kiss to the bridge of his nose. “Your nose. And this stupid little freckle right here.” Another kiss, just below his eye. “And your lips, obviously. And your jaw—so sharp, it’s offensive.”

He laughed, soft and breathless, eyes crinkling.

“And your eyelashes,” you added, kissing his cheek. “They’re prettier than mine and I’ve made peace with that. Barely.”

“You’re absurd,” he whispered.

“I know”

You shifted closer, your leg slung over his, fingers tracing the curve of his collarbone.

He looked at you like you were made of stardust. Like he'd never seen anything so heartbreakingly soft.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. You know that?” he said, voice low and full of something vast and tender. 

Your throat tightened. “Sometimes I forget. But you remind me.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, then more intent. You didn’t know who deepened first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him. Maybe it didn’t matter—because once you were tasting him, everything softened and sharpened at the same time. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair like they belonged there. 

You felt the shift in the air—the way the tenderness tilted into something warmer, heavier. Still soft, still careful. But laced with hunger.

“Hmm,” he murmured against your mouth, breath hitching as you tugged him closer, your leg tightening around his waist. “I thought we were resting.”

“This is resting,” you whispered, kissing him again. “Technically, I’m horizontal.”

He laughed, low and breathless, his mouth brushing yours like a secret. “You’re impossible.”

“Lucky you like that about me.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, letting his lips travel down your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “I really, really do.”

Your hands found the edge of his shirt—well, your shirt, technically—fingertips skimming under the fabric and up his back. His skin was warm, alive beneath your touch. He sighed when you touched him like that, like your palms lit something under his ribs.

His hips pressed into yours as his mouth moved down your neck, each kiss sending heat curling through you, pooling low. Still slow, still unhurried—but your body arched instinctively to meet him.

“God,” you gasped, threading your fingers in his hair. “You always do this to me.”

“Do what?” he asked, but he was smiling against your skin, smug and dizzy with you.

“Make me forget anything else exists.”

“Good,” he whispered, lifting your shirt just enough to press his lips to your stomach. “Because nothing else does right now.”

You helped him pull the fabric over your head, your breath catching as he paused to take you in—eyes wide, reverent, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You’re perfect,” he said simply, like it was a fact, not something to be argued.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. You felt him everywhere—his hands on your waist, your thighs, his mouth warm and demanding. You tugged at his shirt and he helped you pull it off, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking.

Your skin met his and it was like a spark—quiet, but electric. Your breaths tangled. The soft rhythm of the morning turned into something molten, something sacred.

Every movement after that was slow. Intentional. A dance you both knew by heart.

His mouth found yours again and again, between words, between gasps, between whispered “I love you”s that felt like prayers. There was nothing rushed in the way he touched you, nothing frantic in how you moved together. Just need, slow-burning and steady, and love—so much love it left your chest aching.

Your fingers dug into his back as your hips moved in perfect sync, your breath catching on a soft moan. He held your face as you came undone, watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, whispering your name like it was something holy.

And when it was his turn, when his rhythm stuttered and he pressed his forehead to yours with a ragged breath, it wasn’t just pleasure in his voice—it was devotion.

He stayed inside you long after, his body resting gently against yours. One hand tracing aimless patterns on your ribs, the other tangled with yours. Your legs still intertwined.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the quiet sound of your breathing slowing, syncing. The calm after the storm, still buzzing with afterglow.

You brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, your eyes meeting his.

“Guess we’re not very good at resting,” you whispered.

He smiled, that soft, crooked smile you loved. “We’re great at resting. Just... enthusiastically.”

You laughed, and he kissed you again. And again. And again.

There was no telling when exactly sleep took you—but it did, slow and heavy, like waves pulling you under. And he was there with you, chest rising against your back, one arm draped across your waist, hand still splayed like it was afraid of losing contact.

When you stirred again, the light through the curtains had shifted. It was softer now, golden and full, creeping in with the quiet confidence of almost-noon. You blinked slowly, still curled in the cocoon of sheets and warmth.

Behind you, he groaned softly, shifting just enough to pull you closer. His nose buried in your neck. You smiled, eyes still closed.

“Are we alive?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Barely,” he mumbled. “I think I’ve transcended.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Transcended where?”

He kissed your shoulder. “Somewhere holy. Definitely mattress-based.”

You turned slowly, and there he was—hair a complete mess, lips swollen, eyes still heavy with sleep. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. His hand found your waist again like a habit, thumb tracing lazy circles into your skin.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He grinned, eyes still half-lidded. “Yeah, me too. Kinda wanna stay here forever, though. Just like this. Maybe order food from bed and never wear pants again.”

“I’m in,” you whispered, brushing his cheek with the back of your hand. “Screw the real world.”

“Screw it sideways,” he agreed, pulling you into him again.

For a while, there were no words. Just kisses. Featherlight and infinite. His fingers played absentmindedly with yours, your legs tangled like ivy. He kissed your nose. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.

“I love you,” he said, for maybe the hundredth time that day, but each one still felt like the first.

You smiled against his lips. “I love you more.”

“Nope. Not possible.”

“Wanna bet?”

His hands found your hips again, playfully this time. “Dangerous game, babe.”

You giggled, hiding your face in his chest. “God, I could live in this bed.”

“Then let’s build a life here. Bed-based economy. Currency: kisses.”

“Brilliant,” you said, mock-serious. “We’re gonna be rich.”

He laughed and you both dissolved into giggles again, and he kissed you just to quiet the sound. Not out of urgency—just because he could. Because every second without touching you felt like too much.

It was him who spoke first, in a low voice, like he was afraid of breaking the spell.

“We have to get up… right?”

“Hmm.” You didn’t even open your eyes, still curled into his chest. “Define ‘have to’.”

“Well, technically we could live here forever. But one of us is gonna need a shower before we die buried in sweat and pheromones.”

“What if I like your pheromones?” you mumbled, kissing him just below the ribs. He laughed—his laugh, that deep, easy one that always seemed to start in his throat and settle somewhere in your stomach.

“Careful. That kind of talk might awaken my ego and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Eventually, he sat up, stretching one arm to the ceiling like he meant to touch it, the other still tangled in you. He shook his hair from his eyes and looked down at you—and your whole face lit up just seeing him there, tousled and golden, like the day belonged to him just for existing in it.

“Shower,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom like he was embarking on a grand expedition. “You’re coming, right?”

“Was that a question or an order?”

“A plea disguised as a threat.”

You laughed as you followed him, the sheets falling behind you like a trail, and he reached back to lace his fingers with yours. You walked naked down the short hallway, wrapped in the kind of silence that felt more like a dream than reality.

The shower was slow. Like everything else with him.

There was no rush. No urgency. Just his fingers soaping your back, his lips brushing your shoulder while warm water streamed over both of you. You kissed each other like the steam wrapped you in some secret ritual—where soap mattered less than skin, and words came in whispers or quiet laughter.

At one point, he leaned his forehead against yours, wet and close, breathing your air.

“You know what’s the worst thing about you?”

“Only one thing?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “You make me think about the future. About plans. Furniture. Grocery lists.”

“Furniture and groceries?” you smiled, stroking his jaw. “How romantic.”

“No, really,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at you like he’d just solved a mystery. “Before, the idea of a Sunday at IKEA sounded like the ninth circle of hell. But with you... I don’t know. I could buy a dresser. Maybe even a ridiculously ugly rug, just because you said it had personality.”

“Wow,” you said, mock-surprised. “Are you telling me you love me enough to tolerate the chaos of my taste?”

“I’m telling you I love you enough to get lost in the lamp section for four hours.”

You laughed, and in the middle of that steam and warmth and the weight of his hands on your hips, it felt dangerously close to perfect.

“I want that,” you whispered, this time without a trace of teasing. “All of it. With you.”

“You’ve got it,” he said, and kissed you like a promise.

You stepped out wrapped in big towels and little giggles, slipping over wet tiles like two kids in love with the moment. He started pulling ingredients from the fridge  while you perched on the kitchen counter, still dripping, still flushed with heat, wrapped in a towel like it was a ballgown. You watched him like he was sunlight made human.

And then, out of nowhere, he turned and asked, seriously:

“Do you think if we adopt a cat, it’ll get jealous if I kiss you more than them?”

“Absolutely,” you said without hesitation. “And I think you should start working on your affection balance now.”

“Are you telling me I’ll have to compete with a narcissistic furball for your attention?”

“Yes. And you’ll lose.”

“Damn. I love this relationship.”

You leaned in to kiss his forehead, the coffee bubbling behind him, the world shrinking down to a humid kitchen full of steam and laughter and soft affection.

Because life with him felt like that—serious, but light. Full of silent promises. And love. The kind you say a hundred times. And somehow—it still felt like the first.

[icallhimjoey]

https://www.tumblr.com/icallhimjoey/769345688851103744/i-asked-for-pyjama-vibe-joe-and-forgot-about-his

Ohhh can we get a soft pyjama and glasses Joey? Like him wearing the combo for the first time because it’s a new relationship and we looooove it. Or us stealing the shirt after freaky time. Or idek! The possibilities!

soft pyjama and glasses joey, at your service Wordcount: 2.1K

---

Not A Wink

“Wait, can you… wait here. Wait, no. Just. Yea… wait here and, also, um... yea, maybe... maybe close your eyes a second…” you pushed Joe away from your closed bedroom door, two hands to his chest.

Joe took hold of both of them as he laughed, easily letting you push him back, stepping backwards down the hall.

“What are you hiding in there that I can’t see?”

You were having a hard time hiding your own smile.

“No, nothing, I just… I’ve got to just check something, quickly. Just in case. Wait here.”

You were the cutest girl he’d ever met. Joe couldn’t quite believe he was allowed into the home of the cutest girl he’d ever met.

“Close your eyes.” You insisted, and Joe couldn’t help laugh more, his arms stretching as you walked back to your bedroom, touching until you were out of reach.

“I can’t see anything from here!”

“Close your eyes!”

Joe gave you a deadpan stare, shoulders dropping, but joy never leaving his face. When you waited by the door, hand on the handle, and looked at him in silence for a moment, he rolled his eyes and finally complied.

“It’ll just be a second,” you said, your smile evident in your voice.

Joe heard a door open, then soft footsteps, some light shuffling, and then silence. He wondered if he was going to be able to tell what needed a last minute wipe down. As if he was going to care about a crease in your bedsheets. You should see his bedroom…

“Okay, ready. You can open your eyes.”

Joe’d been a good boy and had really kept his eyes closed. When he opened them, it was to you stood in your doorway, both hands behind your back, biting down on your bottom lip as you smiled.

Cutest girl in the world.

“Yea? Am I allowed in?”

Joe got to see your bedroom exactly as you wanted it to look every day, but how you never managed to leave it. With everything in its place, no dirty laundry on the floor, no clothes on the clothes-chair, no half-empty mugs on the bedside table and, most importantly, the bed made.

You never made your bed. You’d do it once when you changed the sheets, and then left a rumpled mess behind when you rushed out of bed after sleeping through your alarm each morning.

“Wow,” Joe said, overdoing it a tad, just to fuck with you. “This looks like a hotel room.”

It didn’t. Not really.

“Thanks.” You smiled, ignoring his humorous tone and taking the compliment as if he’d really meant it. When you looked at him, you saw how his gaze had landed on where you slept in your bed. He pointed a finger as he raised his eyebrows.

“Is this from where you send me voice notes every night?” Joe took a step forward, his eyes on you as his index finger still pointed at your pillow.

You nodded, teeth digging into your lip. It was impossible to lose your smile.

“This is…” Joe started, looking at your bed for a moment, scanning the sheets and trying to picture you in that spot. No make-up, pyjamas on. Face in your pillow, phone in hand. In a short while, he wasn’t going to have to imagine that anymore. “This is sort of strange, isn’t it?” Joe mused, turning his face to see you stood in your doorway still.

“Why?” you asked, watching on as Joe sat down on top of the covers, acting like he just took a seat on a throne which made you giggle. “You’re making it strange.”

“It’s like I’m visiting a famous landmark.”

You grinned as you watched him sensibly bounce on your mattress a couple of times, getting a feel for it.

“It is like visiting a famous landmark.” You joked, and then quickly added. “Don’t leave a Google review though, I move around a lot in my sleep and I couldn’t bear the negative feedback.”

Joe laughed as he got back up, couldn’t help his arms reaching out to grab hold of you as your face beamed with pride at making Joe laugh like that. You bit your lips so hard, you nearly drew blood.

For a moment you just stood like that. Close. Holding each other, faces just inches removed, twin smiles about to burst. You weren’t going to get a wink of sleep this night.

“Did you um,” you cast your eyes down to his button-down shirt. To his jeans. “Did you bring a more comfortable outfit?”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I brought my pyjamas?”

“Were you planning on watching a film in jeans?”

Ha, he thought. A film. If he’d got the chance, he’d be watching you more than he’d be watching any film this evening. His eyes tended to stick to you with too much ease.

Like right now.

“Or is this a no-bottoms sort of evening?” you challenged light-heartedly.

Joe’s eyes scanned your face a moment as he grinned.

“I brought pyjamas.” He then said, leaning down a little in hopes of sneaking a kiss.

You let him sneak one without any fuss. Warm lips of a warm smile to warm lips of a warm smile.

“In your overnight bag?” you teased, having made a big deal of the backpack he’d walked in with earlier, before dinner.

“In my overnight bag.” Joe didn’t mind how the simple fact that he brought some things over was somehow entertainment he was providing you with. It was either that, or the bad puns he’d make, and a giggle at a pair of soft pyajama bottoms didn’t feel quite as embarrassing as an awkward joke would likely make him feel.

Joe was told to change whilst you made your way into the bathroom to take your make-up off.

You felt real butterflies about the prospect of having Joe over properly for the first time ever. This was the first time you had made plans that extended to the next morning. This was going to be more than just some raunchy touching in your living room before he’d leave just before or just after midnight to go sleep in his own bed.

You were going to be wearing pyjamas around each other.

Brush your teeth in your bathroom before you’d crawl into bed together.

Prepare and have breakfast in your kitchen the next morning.

You swiped a cotton round over your eyes and heard Joe move around in your flat. Just him existing on his own in your space made your stomach flip. Halfway through your facial cleanse, Joe suddenly appeared behind you, and for a moment, you smiled at each other in the mirror. He was still in his button down, but his jeans had been replaced with a pair of faded black joggers. For a moment you thought maybe he had a question about something, but before you could even ask, he stepped forward and casually placed a dark blue toiletry bag next to the sink.

So domestic.

You refrained from opening it and having a peek inside as you finished up in the bathroom, hair tied up, face clean and bare. You made your way back to your bedroom to change into your own pyjamas and found evidence of Joe left behind. His charger in the socket on the side of the bed where he’d be sleeping. His backpack to the side. His clothes semi folded in a messy pile on the dresser.

Looking at all of Joe’s things in your bedroom with the background noise of him pottering about in your kitchen made you smile so much, you wondered when your cheeks were going to grow sore.

So domestic.

“What do you want to drink?” he called across your flat, and earlier, when Joe had offered you a drink in your own home, it had solely been to make you laugh. This time, it didn’t feel so much like a joke as it felt like he genuinely wanted to do something nice for you. Get you a drink so you wouldn’t have to get it yourself. A simple sweet gesture that probably wasn’t meant to make you feel the way it did.

There were so many things about the beginnings of a new relationship that you didn’t like.

The risk of letting a new person into your life wasn’t lost on you. Letting someone in too quick, too soon. Revealing too much of yourself too quick, too soon. The vulnerability that opened you up to the possiblity to get hurt...

Scary stuff.

But the excitement of it all? The constant uncontrollable smile you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face. The butterflies wreaking havoc inside of your stomach. Giggly breathlessness that turned nerves into excitement. The way all of it could make you feel lightheaded in the good way?

Fucking gold.

With your body in a soft cosy outfit, you found Joe in your kitchen wearing an outfit not unlike your own. For a fraction of a second, the nervous thought of Joe getting to see you in your factory settings crossed your mind.

But then you saw his glasses.

Joe hadn’t yet worn his glasses in front of you, and stood here in your living area now, in a cream-coloured cotton long-sleeved shirt, you couldn’t help the way that made your eyebrows pinch together.

How could a man look sexy and adorable at the same time?

“Glass of–... uh oh,” Joe turned around holding up a freshly opened bottle of wine, but stopped mid-sentece when he saw your expression. “Sorry, was I not meant to–”

“No, no!” you cut him off, and tried your very best to keep the laugh that bubbled up inside. “No, that’s– yes. Yes. That’s fine, yea. I would love a glass, thanks.”

Joe frowned a little in confusion, eyes narrowing, but his smile unwavering.

“It’s just,” you hestitated telling him. Thought maybe he wouldn’t appreciate what you considered to be a genuine compliment.

“Just... a bottle of wine that you were saving for a special occassion that I wasn’t meant to open?” Joe made a face, and it was becoming a little bit embarrassing at how easily he had you in stitches. “Or what?”

“No,” you laughed, and Joe couldn’t help the slight muddled huff of laughter that escaped his nose. This really wasn’t helping the cute allegations. “No, it’s just that,” you tried again, grabbing two glasses from a cabinet and placing them down in front of Joe. “You look...”

Before you finished that sentence, you let your eyes dance over him. The flash of selfconsiousness across his face only endeared him more to you.

“A mess?”

“Cute.”

You weren’t sure what kind of reaction you were expecting, but you definitely didn’t think the comment was going to make Joe blush so fiercely. Hadn’t anticipated him turning slightly shy as he put the bottle down, dropped his head to his shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut whilst an arm reached to pull you in.

“Sorry,” you said through a giggle as you got trapped into a tight hug.

“Stealing my compliments now, are we?”

“I think it’s the glasses,” you gladly accepted the firmly pressed kisses to the top of your head.

“You think?” Joe pulled back a little and adjusted them on his nose as he looked at you through the lenses.

“Yea, I do.” You smiled, peering up at him, hoping that if you smiled and looked at his lips for long enough, he’d get the hint.

He did get the hint, but didn’t give you what you were asking for before he got both his hands on your face, both thumbs on your cheeks, both pinkies hooking your jaw.

“Guess I’ll keep them on then.” Joe managed to say through a kiss, and he said it like he’d be doing you a favour.

Which, he would be, actually. But he was joking, so you laughed against his mouth, and the giggle made Joe want to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. Squeeze your bodies together until they weren’t able to ever unstick again.

There was an open bottle of wine on the counter next to you, a TV waiting for someone to press play on its remote, and a bed eager for two bodies to occupy it all the way until the morning.

But Joe was kissing a cute girl in her kitchen, glasses bumping into her nose, and felt no rush to move out of the hold you had on him.

Cutest girl in the world.

Yea, he wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep this night.

---

The Taglist

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Add yourself

[stardancerluv]

So excited for Gladiator 2! That said, after the trailer dropped I had to write something! 18+ will have mature themes throughout it, while trying to incorporate what I know of ancient Rome while writing a story.

Movie is out, I love it! Will write now with some of its influence on me.

Here it is!

What the Emperor Wants

Emperor Geta has recently acquired “reader” she is to do with as he pleases. What does that really mean? We are gonna learn what it is to belong to Emperor Geta.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty

Part Twenty - One

Part Twenty - Two (coming soon)

[usetheeauthor]

Kinktober Day 5: Uniform

Ralph Penbury (Timewasters) x Time Traveler!Reader

Summary: Ralph’s going to join the French Foreign Legion but you just won’t let him go.

Warnings: 18+ smut, uniform kink, blowjob through pants, boot riding, cumming in pants, sub!ralph

“Love, please…I must leave at once.” Ralph whimpers. Yet despite his protests, he allows you access to his neck so you can properly pepper the soft skin with wet open-mouth kisses.

He’s leaving you today. For how long? Could be months or even years but you tried putting on a brave face about his impending departure. After all, it is for the best if you plan on going back home. Yet the time has finally arrived and you’re an absolute wreck.

It’s so strange to see how attached you grew to him considering how long it took for you to reciprocate your feelings for him. You had always found him to be quite the strange fellow. Very intense with his emotions, too. He instantly fell for you the moment he laid eyes on you but you were put off by his forwardness. Hell, he proposed to you the very next day you met!

All you cared for back then was to get back to your timeline so his pursuit of you seemed futile. His learning of your revulsion made him do all he could to prove himself as a worthy man for you. He wrote you songs of his love, tried sweeping you off your feet any chance he got (literally), and he’d been trying to save you in various situations so that you knew him as your protector…even if those situations were as small as throwing his jacket over a shallow puddle of water for you to walk over.

Slowly you warmed to him, simply because of the effort he’d gone through just to make you love him. But he could tell it wasn’t enough. So, his next bet was to join a greater cause wanting to build from those experiences and better himself. And that’s when you learned that he’d enlisted in the French Foreign Legion.

You thought you’d handle it just fine but now two weeks later and you’ve cracked under your cool facade the moment you see him in that dorky tan uniform. There’s a range of emotions that consume you: sadness, lust, yearning…it’s all so overwhelming. It feels too real.

You look up at him with doe eyes, cheeks stained with tears. “Don’t go,” You kiss him hotly, your tongue caressing his own. Once you part, a line of saliva connects your lips. Your hands roam down his body, desperately clawing him through his uniform. “Stay with me.”

He mewls when your hand cups him through rough material of his pants. “I cannot. It wounds me deeply to go but I must—“

You smash your lips against his hard enough for the hat on his head to land on the ground. You walk him backwards into his bed until you both fall against the mattress. You’re feral, hands and mouth all over him and he melts with bliss.

Ralph didn’t think the uniform would have this much of an effect on you. When he was advised by a confidant that women love a man in uniform, he took the concept and ran with it, immediately signing away his life for military service. The way you’re responding to it went far beyond his expectations. He isn’t even expected to be leaving until next week in actuality, only wearing the uniform to admire himself in the mirror when he caught you in the corner of the room with lust-filled yet wet eyes. But he’ll just save that tidbit of news for another time.

Because you finally understand. You’re just as pathetically needy as he’s always been for you. Although, you’re a lot more lewd in your approach.

You snake down his body until you’re on your knees at the edge of his bed, your face nudged between his legs. His eyes bug out of his head when you begin to suck on the tip of his cock through his pants. You were on the exact right spot. Ralph can feel the suction’s pressure around the crown with some of your saliva soaking through the thick material.

“Oh, my…” He gasps, eyes rolling in the back of his head.

Then to show off some more, you begin to knead his balls through the pants with precision, earning another surprise hitch in his breath. You lick a long stripe up his hardened base, enjoying the feeling of the mild abrasiveness of the fabric against your tongue. Even if you can’t get a proper taste him; the warm, heavy feeling of his cock against your tongue makes you moan out loud.

You soon find yourself grinding down on his combat boots as you latch your lips around the sensitive mushroom head again. His head falls back against the mattress but you sink your nails into his inner thigh, nails sharp enough to penetrate the tough cotton.

He recognizes correctly that it’s a warning to him that he mustn’t remove his eyes from you. So with fluttering eyes and those pink pouty lips, he watches you while he struggles to keep his eyes from rolling and his moans from pitching in tone. It shouldn’t feel this good but because it’s you, it’s heavenly.

“Going to cum, my love.” He rasps, large hand resting on top of your head for a moment as if he’s petting you.

This makes you ride his boot harder, making the steel-toed part of his shoe press directly against your clothed sensitive little nub. You cry out at the delicious feeling. You’re going to cum soon, too.

But he doesn’t get to cum until he tells you he’ll stay. Until you could somehow convince him to follow you back to your life instead.

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.” You demand while rubbing your cheek against him like a cat in heat.

“I’ll never leave you.” He sighs.

“Tell me you’ll follow me anywhere and everywhere I tell you.” You continue to rub your face over the crotch of his pants, looking at him with such tender and wide eyes that look so innocent despite the absolute filthiest thoughts they held in them.

“I’ll follow you. Anywhere, Everywhere you tell me. Please just let me cum,” He’s practically sobbing by this point. “I’ll be so good for you.”

“Cum for your love.” You say, giving him one heavy lick and, in the next second, he’s spurting inside his pants. The twitching within the confines of his pants is erratic. You sneak your hands beneath his shirt, soothing a hand over his belly as he whines and squirms beneath you.

Your high peaks at the sight of him, gushing your honeyed essence on the tip of his boot. You don’t stop rocking against him, wanting to feel his toes flexing within the shoe.

Aftershocks shoot through the both of you as you come down from your high. You continue to kiss and worship the leg you straddled until you rise up on shaky legs and go to lay beside him in bed.

He turns to look at you with a smile, still panting. “Does this mean you’ll marry me?”

[musedblues]

AMORE ~ FATI (part 2)

a/n: oh my oh my, thank you everyone for such wonderful feedback! if there is one thing im gonna be for the rest of the year it's a hoe for geta. so i could be coxed into making this a longer series if yall want 👀

warnings: READ PART 1 before this. minimal historical research. fantastical bs. graphic descriptions of murder. sexual situations. you get the gist! MINORS DNI

taglist: @nosamiam1 @screaming-blue-bagel @prestinalove @nxrdamp @alba8688 @mademoiselledreyfus @theawesomekungfupanda @peepeepoopoololswag

part 2 of ?

///

The day you wed was rushed. In the span of a handful of hours there were flowers and musicians flooding the halls. There were endless rows of fabric for you to pick from to dress in. There were a dozen hands shaping your garments to your figure. There were hundreds of spectators lingering outside the empire, waiting for you to reveal yourself as empress. There was Geta.

He looked to you as he often did, with undivided attention. He looked to you in a room full of people and his stare did not break or faulter. Geta's brown eyed gaze was all you could fixate on as the day unraveled around you, as ceremonies were followed through and as you were hurried along into becoming royalty. All you saw was Geta. All you saw was how he kept those brilliant dark eyes ever locked on yours. 

It would have overwhelmed you to otherwise look away, to think too vastly about the changes your life was catapulting through in such a short amount of time. That's why, when the ceremony had ended and the gathering to celebrate included your three dear friends, you did not know exactly how to answer their pleas for explanation. 

They were happy for you, they were shocked. You were giddy all the while, filling them in as you could, but unable to process the meaning and importance of your new status into words. Instead, you all laughed and spun about the room as musicians played. Julia was thrilled, beaming as the party raged on. She flitted from guest to guest, speaking highly of you loudly enough for you to hear every time.

And then there was Geta, with that illuminating stare ever fixated on you. As your party failed to cease and as the once set sun began to rise into a new day, Geta pulled you away from the gathering. Right in the middle of a conversation you were holding with the priest, Geta yanked you from the room and toward the staircase. He'd barely been able to pull you along toward his room without keeping his hands out from under your dress.

Geta had never displayed much patience when it came to bedding you, that morning being no exception. It seemed his door had barely shut before Geta had ripped your garments away and began to have his way with you. Not that you were complaining. You knew you were signing up for much more, marrying Geta. But you knew also, you were signing up for endless nights and days and weeks in his bed. On his floor. Against that beloved chaise lounge.

And that's where you stayed for a few turns of the sun, In that room, with Geta. He turned away every knock at the door with a booming demand they go away. He was quick to turn his undivided attention back to you, tracing his fingers across your torso, digging his teeth into your skin. He didn't let up. You never asked him to. But when the knocking became more and more persistent, you couldn't help but wonder when your never-ending  tryst may have to be halted.

"Shouldn't you be off working?" You wondered, raking back Geta's light toned locks. He leaned near the window, admiring a new sunrise with you. "Shouldn't I? Aren't I supposed to be adopting some kind of responsibility now?"

"I suppose." Geta seemed to understand. But a sly grin turned up the corners of his mouth as he turned his gaze from the sunrise to you. "But right now, you're only responsibility is to me. I command it." With a brow quirked and a gentle hand on your shoulder, Geta guided your descend till your knees met the floor in a bow before him. You knew exactly what he demanded, and you were glad to be of service.

///

When your time captive in Geta's room did eventually end, he proceeded to shower you with treasures. You were awarded cases full of paints and an entire room in the empire all to yourself- and a million canvas at your disposal. 

"Shouldn't I have more to do?" You worried to him, one evening. Wasn't the whole point of his mother's begging you to wed so you'd have some kind of influence in the royal goings on? Or was your shift in status all that you needed to represent for now?

"Would you care to do more?" Geta wondered, with a pout of a lip. "I promised you value and respect. I should like you to gain it however you please. But I should also like nothing more than for you to be free of responsibility. It adds up to madness. I'd like to keep you carefree." Geta reasoned with a smile, as his hands traced the curve of your chest. He'd been all to enthralled by your new title, by your belonging with him, to him. He'd be ever so captivated as you stayed as relentless as himself, eager as ever to find yourself between his knees. It was hard to want anything else, to long for more than his body tangling with yours. But the days did eventually move on.

Geta began to spend afternoons away from your side. But every day at his command, by others- you were presented with dozens of dresses in the finest colors you'd ever seen. You were fed the freshest foods. There was no time for you to wonder how to fill, Geta saw to your every waking moment of the day, with entertainment to squeal about and treasure to admire. Geta saw to your evenings in his room, under his touch. You saw to his pleasures all the while, ever more enthralled by how the well regarded and often harsh emperor melted in an instant under your lingering caresses.

///

Your days spun on in that same wonderous circle for a while, until Julia stepped in. One morning her highness surprised you by settling in for a meal with you; asking how you'd been adjusting to this new reality. You mentioned getting on nicely with the guards and the servants. You mentioned having made friends with the gardeners and feeling lucky to have be granted time to paint. You admitted to feeling a little too spoiled by Geta. 

"He wants you to be happy. We all do." Julia smiled, lifting a chalice to her lips as you smiled back her way. But she wasn't finished speaking, it seemed. "I'm glad you're fitting in as I suspected you would. But it's time for you to adjust to royal life beyond its pleasures. I'd like you to join me for a charity event this evening."

"I'll be glad to join you! I've only been wary of taking such steps since Geta insisted otherwise. He keeps saying I'll be better off with no responsibilities despite my offers to be of more service." 

Julia listened while you explained, rolling an eye at the mention of her son's guidance. With a swat of her hand, she leaned in closer to speak again. "We'll deal with him along the way, you and me. Come represent with me tonight, it'll be the perfect first job for you."

You trusted the royal's input and longed to make yourself more useful. It was easy to look forward to having a purpose for the evening, and it was a thrill to realize you'd be going out for the first time as a royal yourself. This was it. You were playing the game. You were apart of the bigger picture. 

///

The charity event was less excitable than you'd hoped, in some regards. There wasn't much to do or say there. Just hands to shake and bows to accept. But that was the rush of the evening. Just weeks ago people passed you on the street with no second glance. And you'd passed them by all the same. Funny how quickly life changed. The same class of people you were peers with weeks ago were humbling themselves before you now, beaming smiles your way, expressing pride to know someone from your side of things could dream of achieving such royal goals.

You rode home with Julia in a fog of glee, as she praised you for connecting to the public so effortlessly. For bringing a sense of humanity to the royals, for respecting her son, for the massive change you not only agreed to but seemed to enjoy. You let her fawn over you, relishing the compliments, yearning to feel as radiant as she believed you to be.

When you reached the purple carpeted entrance, and made your way up the stairs, you found Geta waiting up for you near his bed. Clothed only by his robe, he turned to find you dressed in finery, dressed like a royal. The man smiled, eyes raking up and down your figure. 

"You're a vision. You're home." Geta stated, reaching to hold your head in his hands. "It's so funny." He spoke low and gently, searching your eyes as he seemed to realize something while addressing you. "I can't imagine my plans before you were in them."

"How much have you had to drink?" You wondered with a small laugh, nervous by the softness in his lament. Geta was hardly cruel to you. But he was rarely as tender as he'd just become.

"I've just been going stir crazy waiting up for you. I hadn't even realized you'd left for the night until you didn't join me here at the usual hour. Did I hear something about charity with my mother?" Geta wondered, moving about the room now. Stretching his arms on his shuffle toward the edge of the massive carved bed.

"It was rather boring. Thought there be more action." You admitted. "I know you've wished me away from drafting battle plans and enforcing laws. But I do long to be a more active member of this family, Geta. Besides, your mother enforced our union for a reason, didn't she?"

Geta listened as you spoke, keeping a sly eye on your amble toward where he stalled against the bed. He reached a ringed hand out to rest at the curve of your hip, fingers pressing to pull you ever closer before him.

"She was right too, she saw you were made up of good will and the strength to stand by that. I'm glad she forced the idea. I'm more glad you chose this life all the while. It's admirable you wish to have more responsibilities. But that's a question to answer another day. All you need to worry about answering now, is this... tell me how can I make your evening free of all worries and wonders? How can I serve you, your highness?"

"I'd ask you to wake me from this dream, but I rather like the course it's taken." You grinned, reaching your arms around the royal's neck, struggling to hold back a burst of shocked laughter as Geta pulled you in and lifted you up all the while. In a flash he'd thrown you to his bed, moving like a jungle cat in your direction.

///

The next day you were scheduled to meet with a few senators and councilors alike. Your royal role was to be discussed, possible plans drafted. It had been a meeting you'd been looking forward to since your wedding day. 

Not even Caracalla's glare could cloud your excitement, as he passed you in the halls. his dull beady eyes rolled in your direction as he floated by in a stomp. The guard at his side, and the guard at yours, shared looks you couldn't read. And while you felt a certain fear in the wake of the more cruel emperor, a pity followed. How sad a life he lived, so shrouded in hate and rage. 

As you entered the meeting room, welcomed by a set of men smiling at your appearance, the reality of your situation seemed to settle deeper into the pit of your stomach. You recalled Caracalla's very recent glare your way. Geta's imploring you to take as little responsibility on as possible. Julia's plea for you to take on as much as you could bare. The decision was yours to make now, and you realized if you didn't achieve the perfect balance of wishes and demands, this entire empire may implode at your slightest misstep. 

Over the course of a couple of hours, you and the group of leaders discussed stances for you to take heart to. Causes to stand for and against. Talk of addressing the people of the empire and hosting parties and appearing at events took up a large portion of your time. Until finally you worked up a project to occupy your time and a planned meeting for a few days from now.

You were left feeling satisfied by the efforts the team had put into giving you purpose in your roll within this empire. But you wondered still what more you should be achieving?  

The senators left out of the back of the meeting room, while your guard lingered near the half opened main entrance. As you collected a couple of scrolls and began to head out, a muffled voice could be heard around the corner of the crack in the door. with a few steps closer and one shrug to hide better out of sight, you recognized one voice as your husbands. And the other as his brothers. You crept ever closer toward the crack in the ajar entrance to spy as the siblings squared off in the hall, four soldiers squared off between them and their sharp words.

"It's like you to hide behind the voice of a woman," Caracalla scowled, "you've always used our mother's useless input when your feckless lack of leadership reared its head. But to adopt a whorrish commoner as your wife, to give her a semblance of purpose is a laughable new low for you, Geta."

"Speak of the empress as you did just now once more and I will slaughter your guards first before you, so you can see how powerless you truly are." Geta seethed, stepping to sneer at his brother with his hand on his sword. 

You pulled back from the door, mind buzzing. Geta really did care for you, it seemed, even if you were here to benefit the emperor in some twisted way, he'd spoken quite protectively of you in your absence from his side. And that bloomed a certainty in your chest that you needed to be more sure of your place here. You should stop worrying about what action to take, and simply take it.

You spent the evening piddling around with the ideas the senators had given you. And feeling gratitude that the man you'd wed defended your honor. You really could be glad to benefit the emperor as his wife, as his supporter. But you were newly determined to act as the angel on his right shoulder; ready to battle the devil Caracalla on his left.

When Geta joined you for bed that night, you admitted to hearing the spat the siblings shared. You went on to press more, to demand your willingness to be more of an asset to the empire, to Geta. 

"Don't make me tell you no." Geta broke your on going plea with a frustrated groan. You hadn't seen that coming.

"What... what do you mean?"

"I want you here, yes. But I do not want to need you. Don't you see that? Don't you see this entire push and pull is between my brother and me? I will not have you mixed up in the middle. I know my mother thinks you and I working together against Caracalla is what needs to happen but even if it is, now isn't the time. She cannot see that because all of this is only between my brother and me." Geta was speaking as certainly as ever. His words so sharp, his voice so commanding. Yet his eyes stayed soft on yours, his hands never clenching, but reaching out to hold either side of your face.

"I want you here." He repeated again, enunciating every syllable. "But I cannot need to depend on you. Or uncertainty will seep from my leadership alone, and into the villages and this fight between Caracalla and myself will be lost. Thats all this is. Between him, and me. So please don't ask again. Not for a while. I will tell you, empress, when your time will come. Because it will. But not yet."

"I see." You mustered, not quite hurt, not quite sure of yourself, not quite without understanding. Simply shocked but his sudden outburst. Shocked by the rawness of it. Shocked by how he'd waited till now to make such a stance known, he usually spoke exactly how he felt in an instant. Why didn't he make that clear to you from the start, you wondered?

That night you sunk into bed without feeling Geta's skin against yours, without his touch. He kept on one side of the massive bed for the first time since you'd ever shared it with him. And you didn't know what to make of that.

///

A couple nights ended just as that one had, silence filling the space that was usually occupied by heavy sighs and the thud of your bodies against one another's. You did as he asked, you asked little to nothing of the man. So why was he still keeping such a distance from you? 

Sleep evaded you as answers did too. You took to wandering the halls to tire the spinning questions ever on your mind, a poor guard forced to linger close behind your restless quests.

Often nothing happened. Dark cornered dead ends spun your heels, and you ended up back in bed, you'd sleep, or you wouldn't. And then you'd end up wandering the next night, your habit threatening to wear a sorry familiar path along the rugs. 

But one night a light shone from a room you often found dark. You were curious enough to move ever closer toward it, but weary enough to go slow.

In the parlor you found Julia and her son. Caracalla was sipping from a cup of tea as a bevy of guards lined the outskirts of the room. His face grew long with a grimace at the sight of you. But Julia was alight, waving you to come and join them.

"What's this? Come to suck up royal blood like the common tick you are? Why would you allow this nobody such free reign of our home, mother?" The half reigning emperor really had a knack for dramatics. He'd never had a good word for you, but ever the creative and new verbal lashing. 

"Come now, Caracalla. She wed your brother. She was anointed. She's one of us now, official as they come." Julia stood to greet you, giving you a strong look that made you want to hold your breath. She was always planning something, it seemed. You could tell her mind spun now.  "Besides... She's already with child. Already carrying the future heir. Isn't that right? There is much to plan ahead for." 

Appalmenthaltedyour senses and all logic. You sure hadn't yet been given a reason to think you were with child, and knew she couldn't have a reason either. You couldn't decide if you wished she was right or wrong right now. Julia was looking at you as if to suggest you find a way to make it true in an instant. If you were, would that mean Caracalla would step away? Or would that ensure a plot for him to end your days? He wanted such full control. You'd been told by Geta not to dare threaten the stakes of the game between his brother and himself until further notice. But Julia, as before, had done so anyway.

"You really shouldn't have told me that, mother." Caracalla grinned wickedly, rising up from his chair. A shiver crept up your spine when you turned to find the way he was looking at you. 

"Now, son, you have an entire half of this empire to guide. Shouldn't you be off ruling like you say you wish too so badly?" Julia snapped. She was a bold and brave one to do so, in the frighteningly little leaders wake. Caracalla kept his bone chilling glare fixed on you as he saw himself out of the room, guards following. Yours had waited out in the hall. So, when the room went quiet and Julia was left lingering at your side, you couldn't help but let panic show.

"Why did you do that? What if I'm not-"

"These boys are entirely too focused on the dynamics of their fight, and not nearly worried enough about the outcome of the empire they're running." Julia explained in a sharp hush. Her usual kind eyes were wide under furrowed brows and pointing sharply at yours. 

"You and I have to take the reins of the little control we're allotted, weather we wish it or not. How much clearer do I need to make it to the lot of you that the time for games is up? Rome is tired of playing. And I will not stand by for the people to overthrow the hard work of many leaders past- because my imbecilic sons hate each other enough to divide the empire. You better get to work on the heir to this throne, because even what you and I can do together won't likely be enough."

Julia's cutting and hissed speech left you in a stupor. She huffed out of the room, your guard sauntering in confounded as you stood there processing everything that had only just happened. There was no way you were going to be able to sleep tonight.

///

The day of duties had nearly come to a close. You'd had another meeting with the senators. They let you talk until you were blue in the face about changes to policies and addresses to the public. But they only sent you off with another party to plan. You'd shared a quiet meal with Geta, glad when his eyes met yours over the course of the meal. Frustrated when little to no conversation sparked as you ate. Geta only mentioned something about following you up to the room as you finished, heading up the staircase.

In the hall before the second turn you were meant to take, a sharp whistle cut through the darkened home. There was a light on in the parlor, and an eerie silence stayed after the call. You looked to the guard at your side, and he looked to you, tilting his head to imply he'd go first to investigate. But you waved at the guy, hurrying to creep at the pace he set, something in your gut insisting you peer into the illuminated room.

Caracalla stood near the back of the parlor, a room covered in that ugly wallpaper you hated so much. In his grasp, he held Julias arms to her chest, and a knife to her throat. There were no soldiers in sight beyond yours. A horrible mistake. A terrible instance.

"Hey you, blood sucker, don't move." Caracalla taunted you, tightening his grip around his mother who shook with fright in his clutch. "Come in. If you turn around, she dies. If that guard follows you, she dies."

With a careful glance toward the man who usually followed you around, you stepped forward, holding a palm out to insist he stay back as demanded. In a slow creep you entered the room, watching the wild eyed emperor consider your every move. 

"What are you doing Caracalla?" You begged to know, voice steady and low. 

"Now you and I both know you're far too worthless to ever threaten my position, right commoner? You and I both know you're only playing a small role here but, I'm not so naive to the plans for bigger things you all have at my expense." Caracalla spat an explanation your way, wearing the most twisted version of a smile you'd ever seen.  "So, I was hoping we could all come to some sort of agreement tonight. Ah, brother just in time- no, no wait." 

Caracalla's speech ended when Geta must've loomed in the doorway behind you. You didn't dare turn to see. Geta must've waved a guard to follow or moved to draw his sword. Because Caracalla was screaming next "Do not come into this room except alone and with your palms facing me! I will kill her if you decide on any other move!" He yelled so loud spit flew from his lips, face scarlet with rage. Julia trembled in his grasp, biting back sobs you could tell. 

Geta eased beside you, his entrance into the room as calculated as yours had been. His hands up as his sibling demanded. 

"Brother, I'll give you some choices. I know you're a big fan of options, having rarely taken kindly to my demands." Caracalla went on, sickening grin ever growing. He tightened his hold on his mother, a knife so precariously nudging against her throat. Before going on, he glanced up to the guards outside the door, demanding they shut it. He had to shout once more and nod to the woman in his grasp before his wishes were granted. When you heard the thing shut with a hollow thud, your blood ran cold. 

"Now, your choices Geta. You see one of us in this room has to die. One of you." Caracalla was practically beaming, like a child thinking up a rule to a game to play. Julia screwed her eyes shut and muffled a cry. "It could be our dear mother. She's been too crafty, meddling around, making decisions no one but the likes of we emperors ought to be making."

Geta let his hands fall slowly, keeping a laser focus on his brother. 

"Or, It could be your lovely new wife and alleged unborn heir." You felt your fists tighten at your sides, your body frozen in place with a new wave of fear. You felt Geta look to you with a shock you prayed Caracalla couldn't read. You didn't know if you were with child. And you hadn't yet brought up Julia's pressing such matters to the front of your mind. Geta had other matters to deal with the past evening. And he'd been clear about you keeping your own plans to yourself. That must've meant his mothers, too, you were certain. "I'm sure your wife's a fine and easy shag. But her presence here is a threat, no matter how inane I can see she is. And if one commoner should shake up this empire, I'd hate to have to deal with your half bread ilk." 

And before Geta could rocket into rage, Caracalla reminded him that any wrong move and Julia's life would be the one taken, and then the rest of yours would follow suit. 

"Let me finish... you could obviously choose yourself, brother. With you out of my way, I won't have to worry about the fate of the women in the room. I can do with or without them whatever I please. Should you be so chivalrous as to take the fall?"

"You're worse than mad." Geta shook his head, keeping a study on his sibling. Your heart hammered as you waited for the plot of this meeting to unfurl.

"Trouble deciding, I see. Let me help." Caracalla kept his wicked grin as he decidedly and swiftly moved the knife away from Julia's throat before flinging the woman flying to the ground, against the wall at Getas feet, with a crushing thud. What a ruthless fucker. You barely had time to register that the boy had disregarded his mother in a heap, before he was lunging for you. 

Caracalla had you in a stinging grasp in the blink of an eye. His plated chest pressed against your back. His left hand held your wrists in one vice like hold, at your stomach. His right held his knife to the bend of your neck. 

"How's this view, Geta? Inspiring any choice? Time is ticking. I'd hate to make up my mind before you do."

Your brain was working overtime, spinning up a dozen ways out of this. You'd been squirming against his hold since Caracalla reached for you; and it had worked to loosen one of your wrists from his grasp juuust enough to think of breaking free. But you knew you only had one chance. And as he asked Geta to make a choice, and before anyone spoke again, you moved at the speed of light. In one swift action, you yanked your hand free and swung your elbow back hard as you could muster to crack against your captor's nose. 

Caracalla was caught off guard enough to reactively let go, and you were quick enough to spin and sweep his feet out from under him with a carefully kicked foot. This made Caracalla fall to the ground, his knife clattering at his side, his nose pouring blood, his elbows cracking against the marble floor because his hands were too busy reaching for his face to save his quick fall. Geta was fast as you, giving you a flash of a look before his hand extended to shove you away. As he reached for his brother's knife, Geta's foot stomped on Caracalla's chest to keep it down, with a crushing thud.

You clattered over to Julia's side, who was still slumped in tears on the floor. You knelt to her, reaching out an arm as you examined her finding no blood or bruising. Only tears stained her complexion as she watched her sons descend into the eye of the storm of their decades long war.

Geta had Caracalla by the throat, his fingers digging into his brother's neck as he knelt over him. "Didn't I warn you to watch your back, time and again?" Geta spat. "And didn't I tell you to never speak so lowly of my empress just the other day? I made my choice long ago, dear brother, it's always been you." With a cry that had built up over the years, with Caracalla's knife, Geta plunged the instrument into his brother's neck, twice over. Julia buried her head in your shoulder as it happened. You listened to Geta's yell, to the sound of tearing flesh, the sputter of blood. You watched as Caracalla fought his way to bleakness, legs twitching, mouth moving to speak and only spewing red. You watched Geta throw the knife to the ground and rise to stand, his hands finding the back of his head as he heaved to breathe and paced about the room. You saw, between your husband's spiral, that damn ugly wallpaper.

It wasn't long though before Geta knelt before where you did, gasping an apology. He looked to you for a moment, but he was speaking to Julia, you understood. She pulled away from you to look at him as he whispered another sorry, as she cried. He began to reach for her, but the mother shuddered away at the sight of his blood-stained hands. And then with a shake of his blonde head Geta's eyes were on yours again.

"Are you?" He wondered, still breathless, still in a daze. But despite the way the room had begun to spin for all of you, you understood what Geta was asking. 

"I-I don't know." You shook your head, quick to make it clear that it was up in the air. You could've easily been pregnant. But you hadn't had a reason to think you were. Unless Julia cast a spell on you that evening, you couldn't be certain.

Geta's expression shifted a few unreadable times, as you decidedly turned your focus back to consoling Julia. Geta apologized again, and looked about the room. He ultimately stood and opened the doors to the guards and demanded they take care of the body and the blood and wake the coroner. When they took his body Julia went with it. When Geta looked to you there were a million what if's turning into what now's between the two of you. The fight for power had ended, but was there a plan for such a time as this? Was it ever meant to end?

///

Caracalla was laid to rest by Julia's demands. She decidedly packed her things soon after, to spend a month mourning nearer the sea- and to wait out the public's inevitable celebration of her son's death. She'd always known the he was a tyrant and a bully and whatever could be worse than that. But he was also her son. So she went off. 

And all of a sudden Geta was in charge of everything. He freed Caracalla's less threatening prisoners, he addressed the people of Rome and wished to unite them. Geta was taken aback by the mix of praise and disapproval he was met with. Folks celebrated his keen and swift leadership. Folks celebrated his slaughtering his own sibling for the betterment of the empire. Folks denounced his eager leadership. Folks denounced the murder of his sibling, calling Geta as ruthless and power hungry as his brother. Suddenly there was no brother to carry the blame, no brother to take up the honor. There was only Geta.

For the next weeks, Geta was always awake. On the strolls you took past midnight; you found him drafting plans and laws and making sense of things once out of his control and understanding. 

For the next weeks, you hardly heard from the man you wed, decidedly trapping yourself in the room full of canvas and paint and quiet. You weren't even inspired to create, but your fingers moved still to make sense of this new reality in some way. You filled up many frames with rocky blue waves and darkened mountain ranges. 

For the next weeks, you'd rarely felt the emperor's touch. He'd crash into bed as you were scrambling to leave it. He'd appear in rooms you grew sick of staying in, missing your presence, you, passing by his.

Until one day, you were moved to linger about the meeting room as your husband and the senators were setting up a meeting. You sauntered about, restless as the men settled into a discussion about budgets and plagues and armies. A few of the men of the assembly began to bicker about opposing views, as Geta sat letting them. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as the pair argued on. You wondered when the last time he'd had a full night's rest was. 

As senators were arguing about Caracalla's former wishes for the empire, Geta began to insist they cease their chatter. One of them seemed to stall their argument, but another surprisingly turned to you.

"What do you make of this quandary, empress? You've always been wise to-"

From his slouched position, Geta interrupted. "My brother is dead. My wife isn't privy to all of the information needed to decide. I will decide the outcome of this debate. You must stop arguing just to oppose." His announcement was abrupt, his patience wearing thin, you could see. But maybe you could help ease the tension he held throughout himself. You'd been able to before. Maybe you could be made to understand more.

"Are you sure I can't-" You eased into wonder, locking your gaze with Geta's weary brown eye's. He listened for a moment. But then his patience had run out, eyes screwing shut, hands facing out keeping you back, keeping you away.

"No, please" He implored to you, eyes full of pleading. As his gaze grew more heavy, and began to turn toward someone else, you recognized an anger in his expression. Then you saw his focus on the guards near the door. "Take her to the hall!" 

Taken aback as you were by Geta's outburst, you knew better than to fight him, than to argue back. Not in the heat of the moment. You'd decided you'd get him to listen to you one way or another, eventually. But you knew the man well enough now to know this wasn't the time or the place. With a nod you hurried ahead of any guard and sliped out of the room, down the hall, to the gardens. 

You spent the afternoon there contemplating only simple things with the gardeners. Like what the bees thought when winter came or what flower the workers liked best. You found the dining hall alone and thanked the cooks for the meal. You savored your dinner wine and stalled your time up to the bedroom. You figured sleep would evade you yet again. You dreaded the practice of trying to rest when you just knew you wouldn't be able to.

But when you did go up, Geta was there, already sleeping. You were glad to see it, having missed the sight in a few days time. As you eased into bed at his side, you moved slow and held your breath. You'd hate to wake him. But then,

"What would you have said?" Geta's whispered wonder nearly caused you to jump, having assumed he wasn't awake. 

"What?" You gasped, nearly laughing as you settled into bed with less precision now. He didn't move at your side but he did speak up again. He asked how you would have handled the issue with the senate if he would have let you. You only thought for a moment before answering. And once you had, quiet took over the room again. You'd hoped it would be broken by Geta once more. But you watched his breathing slow and realized he'd eased into sleep at last and dared not move to change that. But you wanted to keep talking. You'd always had such meaningful banter. You wanted to ask if he was okay, because you knew he wasn't, you wanted to be so much more to Geta than he was letting you be. 

But instead, you let him sleep.

///

There was a party the next day, a game in the arena. You were pleased to walk by Geta's side, delighted to find a grin turning up the corners of his lips one of the first times you locked eyes with him that morning. But soon after a brooding took over his countenance that showed no signs of letting up.

As the pair of you left for the arena, you took on the task of sharing kind hellos and nods to the people who lined your path. You shook hands with the folks who hosted the games, and listened to their stories and shared some of your own. You shielded your eyes from the hot sun and felt glad to be out in the day, instead of roaming the halls of that dreary home. You watched the fighters in the circle duel, and turned with a frown to find Geta's unfocused gaze fixated elsewhere. Undecided on how to snap him out of such a haze in the midst of such a public event, you went on taking on the task of shaking hands and sharing smiles.

You were left alone to host the dinner that followed. Somewhere between the first pour of wine and the blessing over dinner, you realized Geta had left the room. But it was full of senators and socialites and friends you'd now come to know. And you were at the head of the table. So you lifted your glass in a toast to the rest of the year under the ever-shifting rule of the empire. And you ate. And you laughed and when the night ended you shook hands and shared smiles.

As you began to see everyone out, a pair of men lingered nearer the dining hall than the exit door. An elder with a wiry beard stalled with a furrowed brow, but a gentle grin. 

"As you know, Julia wrote to us, inviting us to tonight's events. But I see she isn't with us?" The man began to address you. He'd introduced himself over dinner, along with a handful of other faces you'd only just met that night. 

"The royal mother is still seaside. I'm sure she'll be sad to have missed your appearance here." 

"Well, your highness, that's the thing. Julia wrote to us... about you. You see, I'm a doctor. She insisted we make your acquaintance and check-" 

"Oh." You offered this poor old fellow a clenched smile as you realized where this was going, sparing the guy the further awkward explanation. Of course the woman sent them here without telling you first. She'd decided to curse pregnancy upon you without asking first. And now, because you were superstitious of the way this whole possibility had been continuously pushed, you told the doctor to stay. 

It wouldn't hurt to check, right?

///

Your stomp up the stairs was determined. You'd just been reminded that your fate, in your hands or not, was not just your own. Born to die, maybe. Living to lead some kind of life with Geta? Sure. But the second half of that 'some kind' was yours. And you were tired of waiting for your turn. You marched up the stairs, with an entire new plan in mind.

Maybe it had been enough, to be married, to host parties. Maybe that was okay. Maybe Geta was ever changed after the murder of his brother. And maybe you couldn't help the man out of his stupor from that. But you weren't going to sit around and wait for Geta to catch up with the changing paces of the empire. You were going to remind him that you were dictated to stay here because there was more to you than a kind smile and a commanding presence.  As you considered the entire life you'd led that ended up in your arrival here, and the life you'd spun into so far this season, you headed to your room. 

But in there, Geta wasn't sleeping. He was sat in that tiny chair at that tiny table in the middle of the room, with his elbows on his knees and his head hung low. In his loose clutch was a nearly empty bottle of wine. 

You eased into the room, shutting the door with care. The flicker of the lanterns in the corner guided your step into the middle of the room, where you stalled before Geta's miserable slouch. Before you could think of how to address the man, he was lifting his head to peer up to you. Geta seemed as if he could cry, the weight of his new reality evident all over his face.

"I was wrong." He whispered. You cast the man a puzzled glare as you settled into your posture before him. Decidedly, you spoke in return.

"I hope you're not regretting what happened to your brother. Unfortunate as it may be to lose family, he had it coming, don't forget-"

"No, I was wrong when I said I didn't want to need you." Geta implored, gazing up at you with big glossy, anger filled eyes that softened as your brow furrowed.

"I do need you. I want you here with me. And I need you here for me. I was wrong." Geta's admission seemed to hiss its way out of the very pits of himself. And as he finished speaking, the emperor slid from the chair to fall to your feet, head pressing against your knees, wine bottle clattering to the floor.

As this powerful man reduced himself to a puddle before you, you felt the rise of a certain power within yourself. You'd come up here with every intention of swinging for the fences. But Geta had submitted himself at your feet by his own will. 

"You need me after all, your highness?" You breathed, carding your fingers through the emperor's golden locks as he stayed in his slump before you. Geta muffled a yes, it sounded as if he were truly near tears now. It could've broken your heart, the cracks in his voice, if you weren't surging with adrenaline now.

"Good. I'm glad you've come to your senses. Now let me tell you what I need." You started, curling your fingers to latch withing Geta's hair, pulling his head back for his eye's to find yours. "I'm done parading around as a glorified party planner. I'm acting as more than a wanton body for your bed, now. You promised me value and respect. And I hope I shouldn't have to remind you of that promise ever again. I hope my demands to be heard shall no longer be put on pause. I refuse to raise your child from the side lines, Geta." You announced, voice soft but commanding as you could make it. 

His already drunken and dewy-eyed expression morphed into something wider and more stupefied. The emperor let his head turn to one side for a beat, and then the other, as if to shake his head. As if to ask if you meant it. 

You let your head move up then down, to assure it was true. Maybe Julia did curse you that night. But a child was never out of the question by how many nights you spent with your legs wrapped behind Geta's back. Things sure happened fast in this world, deaths and births and promises and problems were ever spun to life like passing storms in the royal court. But time always slowed in this room, for better or worse. Luckily tonight, Geta began to smile.

"I shall see to it all, I already promised. I promised you." Geta clawed his way up your figure. His body molding against yours with desperation and desire ever present. His lips pressed against yours, his fingers sunk into the skin of your cheeks. His skin was warm to the touch, as you peeled away the layers that had been covering it. You demanded that the man tell you what he needed then and there, desperate to hear such sultry pleas fall from his lips.

You saw to his wish to plow you against the mattress that's middle had been missing your union. You answered his call for your fingers to yank at his hair. He begged you for more. He swore there was nothing he wouldn't do at your demand. If you'd been dreaming, you never wanted to wake up. Especially if the next day meant you'd be finally allowed to make decisions that affected an entire empire. And now too, the heir to it's throne.

[honey-flustered]

Kinktober 8: Feeding/Stuffing + Cuckolding

Michael (Hoard) x Married!Milf!Older!Reader

Summary: Michael sure does love your cookies (derogatory).

Warnings: age gap (Michael 20s, Reader mid 30s), unhealthy food consumption, face stuffing kink, cheating/swinging/cuckolding, food sexual innuendos/puns

It’s odd. You specifically remember mothering two growing boys. But you’ve counted two growing boys and one fully grown man…

Michael lives next door at the Michelle residence, his foster mother’s home, along with his pregnant girlfriend. You’d think he’d stay clear of you, the ‘MILF with the Pink Flamingos’. Yet, he’s been in your kitchen several times anticipating your delicious baked goods.

He’s always responded well to your cooking. In fact, you remember the first time you and your husband had moved into the neighborhood, introducing yourselves to the neighbors when you’d approached Michael’s door with a platter of lemon cakes. He immediately gave you ‘the eye’ as he’d taken a bite of the confectionery, highly praising you and going for seconds—thirds. From the way he openly flirted with you, you assumed he knew exactly what you and your husband were into until you’d met his proper girlfriend who clearly isn’t one to fool around.

Still every evening, Michael would come over to your home, flirting and scarfing down whatever you gave him. A quiet sick part of you enjoyed seeing the way his belly would protrude after a satisfying home-cooked meal. You especially love it when he’d curl up against you on the couch —after hours when your husband and the kiddos are in bed—making you rub his tummy and soothe his hair.

Today is no different. There you are rubbing his belly on the couch and playing in his hair when he looks up at your lap.

“The meaning of those pink flamingos out there…do they have anything to do with why there are so many couples in the neighborhood competing for you and your partner’s attention?” Michael questions.

“Why yes,” You giggle, moving a strands of hair away from his forehead. “We’re swingers.”

“That explains why your husband doesn’t seem to mind my presence.” He says, snuggling more up against you.

“Oh, he does mind it,” You admit. “We only swing with open couples. You and your lover aren’t exactly open, are you? Anything happening between us would be considered cheating.”

“The wicked smile on your face tells me, you aren’t entirely against it.” Michael smirks, breath hitching when you dip your finger in his bellybutton before soothing over his happy trail.

“I’m a mother and a housewife, Michael. I don’t wreck homes, I remodel them,” You quip, tugging his hair as a gesture for him to rise up from your lap. He stares at you with both confusion and hurt as if feeling rejected. “My husband’s standing on a stair-step just out of view from our eyes but enough to where he can watch us. He doesn’t trust that you wouldn’t try anything with me despite the many nights you’ve rested in my lap.”

“Is he looking for a show?” Michael says, gripping the fat of your thighs.

“Maybe,” You answer. “Or maybe he’s just making sure you aren’t eating my cookies. He especially loves those and you didn’t leave not a crumble for him last time.”

You pick up a small cake from your tray, raising it up to his lips. “You can have as much cake as you want though.”

Michael smiles, widening his mouth to accept the sweet treat. You cram it in messily, your fingers coated with icing and cake fluff. He swirls his tongue around your fingers, sucking in earnest while maintaining eye contact with you.

When he’s done licking your fingers clean, he sighs happily. “Luckily for him, I’m big on cake-eating.”

[filthyjoetini]

Fizzy

a/n: Hello, I'm back (well, kinda). I bought too much Coke and thought, What would my version of Joe say? …and ideas started bubbling—get it? Okay, enjoy.

warnings: No one proofread this. I just needed to get it out.

word count: ~1k

The kitchen was warm, the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights casting a golden hue over the countertops. The scent of cured meat and cheese lingered in the air as you stood in your pyjamas, your hair piled atop your head in a messy bun, preparing what was arguably the laziest dinner known to mankind: two slices of bread, a big blob of mayonnaise, a bit of meat, and a couple of slices of cheese.. Simple. No frills. Just enough to fill the hunger gnawing at your stomach without requiring too much effort.

It was quiet, except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of plastic as you folded the pack of meat closed. That was, until the front door clicked open.

“Babe, I’m home,” Joe’s voice rang out, low and a little weary but unmistakably warm.

A smile tugged at your lips as you turned your head, just in time to see him step inside, shaking a few raindrops from his hair. His curls were slightly damp, a sure sign that he had gotten caught in the drizzle on his way home. Before you could say anything, he crossed the small space between you, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

His lips were cool from the weather outside, a contrast to the warmth of his touch. The kiss lingered just enough to make your stomach flip before he pulled back, his big brown eyes scanning your face with that quiet, amused fondness that always seemed to settle there when he looked at you.

“Missed you,” he murmured.

You hummed, brushing a curl away from his forehead. “You were gone for like…four hours.”

“Four very long hours.” His grin was teasing as he dropped his tote bag onto the counter and stretched, groaning dramatically before making his way to the fridge. “What are you having?”

“Gourmet dinner,” you said, holding up your plate. “Bread, mayo, meat, cheese.”

He snorted, pulling the fridge open. “Classy.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

Then---

“What the hell—?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Joe was standing in front of the open fridge, staring at the shelves with an expression of pure bewilderment. His head tilted slightly, his eyes scanning the contents before he turned to you, one brow raised.

“Why,” he began slowly, “is our fridge entirely stocked with Coke?”

You bit your lip. “It’s not entirely—”

He gestured at the shelves. “There are fifty-odd cans of Coke in here.”

Your eyes flicked toward the fridge, as if seeing it for the first time. The shelves were, indeed, a sea of red and black cans—regular Coke on the top, Coke Zero on the bottom.

“I mean… we drink it,” you offered weakly.

Joe turned fully toward you now, arms crossing over his chest. He was fighting a smile, you could tell by the way his lips twitched, but he did a very convincing job of looking stern.

You exhaled, setting your plate down. “Okay, look, I went to get a six-pack. For each of us. Because obviously, I drink Coke Zero and you drink regular Coke.”

“Obviously,” he echoed, nodding.

“But they didn’t have six-packs. They only had twenty-four packs. And I panicked.”

His brows lifted. “You… panicked?”

“Yes!” You threw your hands up, eyes going wide. “I don’t know! I just—I saw the giant packs, and I thought, ‘Well, we do drink a lot of Coke,’ and then suddenly I was at self-checkout scanning two massive cases and people were looking at me like I had a problem and—”

Joe’s laughter burst out before you could finish. It wasn’t just a chuckle, either, it was the full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind, the kind that shook his shoulders and made his nose scrunch up.

Your rambling died in your throat. “What?”

He shook his head, still grinning. “You do this. Every time.”

“I do what?”

“You buy weird amounts of things.” He gestured vaguely toward the fridge. “Remember when you accidentally ordered a year’s supply of rice because you thought you were buying a single bag?”

“…That was one time.”

“Or when you stocked up on pasta and we had to eat spaghetti for a month?”

“In my defence, it was a very good sale.”

He stepped closer, resting his hands on your hips, eyes still twinkling with amusement. “It’s adorable,” he murmured.

Your cheeks warmed. “It’s not adorable, it’s embarrassing.”

“It is adorable,” he insisted, dipping his head to kiss your temple. “You get flustered and overwhelmed, and then suddenly we’re the proud owners of enough Coke to survive the apocalypse.”

You huffed, but his lips were still brushing against your skin, and it was hard to argue when he was being this unbearably sweet.

“So,” he mused, pulling back slightly, “what’s the plan? Are we opening a drink shop? Selling cans on the black market?”

You rolled your eyes. “We drink it, obviously.”

“For the next two months?”

“For however long it takes.”

Joe chuckled, then stepped away, grabbing two cans from the fridge—one regular Coke, one Coke Zero. He popped them both open, handing yours to you before clinking his against it like a toast.

“To my darling, slightly chaotic, very adorable over-purchaser,” he said with a smirk.

You narrowed your eyes but couldn’t stop the small, reluctant smile that tugged at your lips. “To my insufferable but charming boyfriend.”

He grinned. “I’ll take it.”

-

Tag list (most of you guys aren't around anymore, am I right?): @ohmeg @daleyeahson @lma1986 @palomahasenteredthechat @mandyjo8719 @aysheashea @littledemon-lilith @readergf @sidthedollface2 @i-wont-run-this-time @miserybeans @kylakins88 @thehillzhaveeyez @punctualhowell @icallhimjoey @ghostinthebackofyourhead @siriuslysmoking @cancankiki @definitionwanderlust @1paire2vans @theonewiththecrackedmind @fromasgardandback @captainonaboat @josephquinnsfreckles @emilyslutface @alessxaa

[archivequinn]

hello everyone, I have an emperor geta (nsfw) story but I am afraid that if I share it no one will read it... is anyone interested?😬

[hopelesswrites]

Book Club 2

Part 1

Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

-Your book club bestie persistently tries to set you up with her son, at the expense of your new white top.

Again reiterating: Joes mum is a fictional character here, she's the essence of every suburban white woman I know.

-

Your headache never went away and followed you into the next day. Only, today’s matters were worse than a headache, you had dinner with Mary and Joe.

Now only down the street from Mary’s house your stomach was doing flips in anticipation for the night. You hoped Mary wouldn’t make it awkward, considering she had been trying to plan this for as long as you’ve known her.

At the door you felt as small as an ant, why was it so big and daunting? Who has such a large door?

In truth it was obviously a normal door, but your mind started skewing your perception of rationality.

The doorbell? Far, far too loud.

The footsteps on the other side? Definitely too fast, why was Mary running? 

The door opened but it wasn’t Mary. “You made it! Come in, Mums just finishing off the gravy” Joes cheery voice boomed through your ears. Joe was the definition of inviting. His soft brown hair was freshly washed, you could tell by the fluffiness of his curls. As you panned down the man you took in his clothes. He had on a cream cotton button up that looked like a crumpled up piece of blank paper, black jeans and the most god-awful loafers you think you had ever laid your eyes on. You wondered if you had composed your face well enough or if your look of disgust was showing. 

“I’m sorry, am I late?” You asked, toeing off your shoes at the door and following him through to the kitchen. As suspected it was just the three of you, and it was obviously starting to look like a big setup. You curiously considered Mary giving Joe a debrief before you got here. Trivial facts about you, talking points, how to act, how to speak. You figured Joe would probably be good at following directions like that, put on a persona Mary deemed fit for you. 

“My Love!” Mary smiled wide at you, “just in time, why don’t you follow Joe into the dining room and help set the table, I’m almost done”. 

And so, the schemes begin. 

The round table was on the smaller side, tucked into the space given for a dining setting. You ran through the pros and cons of this: the table was set that you weren’t sitting across from Joe, but you were close enough next to him where feet kept bumping into each other. 

You realised Mary had done this so she could look at you both, observe your interactions, and once you were all seated and conversation (interrogation) began flowing, her eagle eyes were on you. 

“Joe tells me you bumped into each other last night” Mary says nonchalantly.

“Yeah, we did” was all you could bring yourself to say.

“What a funny coincidence” The woman replied, a pleased smile on her face.

“I was just telling Joe the other night how I was starting to give up on the two of you meeting, always seem to be busy at the same time”.

Give up my ass, you thought.

The rest of dinner continued on much the same, Mary bringing up things about you to Joe and vice versa. By the end of the meal, you felt you were well acquainted with the man.

After clearing the table and fighting and losing for dish washing duty you were sat back at the table with Joe while you both waited for Mary to finish prepping dessert. To “talk amongst yourselves” she called it.

Awkwardly you drew shapes in the condensation of your water glass, avoiding making any sudden movement to prompt Joe into conversation.

“She thinks we’re stupid huh” Joe spoke quietly, trying not to alert the woman on the other side of the wall, who most probably was waiting to hear any kind of noise from the room.

“Shameless woman doesn’t care what we know” you responded, earning a chuckle from Joe.

“I wouldn’t have minded getting to know you without my mother’s interference”

“Bit late for that now” you scoffed back.

“I don’t think so”

That got your attention, finger halting at the rim of your class.

“Grab a drink on the way home?” Joes’ eyes bore into you, he was starting to look like his mother, eagerly waiting a response.

Did you even want to get to know Joe? Mary’s son! The woman had plotted a whole meet cute for you both, it all felt a bit silly now. Did you even like Joe? He was definitely attractive, smelled nice as well, but what did you know about him that would entice you in any other situation.

Tall – check

Gentleman – check

Stable job – check

Dressed well – half check, those shoes were criminal.

Good relationship with his mother – dependent really, you didn’t see any red flag with Joe and his mum, just a guy with an overly enthusiastic loving mother.

He honestly passed your first level of inspection, if he was any other guy on a dating app you’d go for the drink. But you couldn’t help feeling like it was so wrong. Every possible bad scenario ran through your head, what if he didn’t end up liking the real you once he got to know you, or what if he was only being polite and you ended up looking too eager. Your biggest worry though, what if you hurt him, what if your terrible luck with dating followed through with Joe, what if you strung him along and ended up breaking his heart, how would you face Mary then? It felt like keeping work life and personal life separate, you couldn’t bring your mess into Mary’s life.

“Another time? Ive got to be up early tomorrow” you offered with a kind smile that made you feel sick. This was considered stringing along wasn’t it.

Before you could think about it any more Mary came into the room, two hot bowls of apple crumble in hand and the night continued as it began.

-

Life continued after you left Mary’s house, new book in hand, and Joseph, basically forgotten. The book Mary chose was an interesting commentary on murder mystery novels. Much more enjoyable compared to last meetings book, you finished it in the first week.

Now a month later you found yourself back in front of Marys door, only this time without the feeling of dread, and you could hear the ladies inside laughing and chatting, it was safe to enter.

Mary had set up in her living room, tea and biscuits already laid out on the coffee table while Linda and Kylie gossiped to themselves about the rising price of bananas and the woman who lived down the road from them. Another woman sat quietly going over her notes on this month’s book, only looking up briefly to give you a kind smile. You could hear Mary laughing loudly in the kitchen, a delightful smell of tomato and basil wafting from the room. You followed the smell to catch Mary offering Teresa a spoonful of her spaghetti sauce.

“Oh, that’s naughty” you whispered, approaching the two ladies.

“Just a taste test before we serve it to everyone” Mary giggled, handing out a spoon for you to try.

You grabbed the spoon for yourself but before the sauce could make it to your mouth it had slipped off and down the front of your white shirt.

“Oh damn!” Mary cursed, grabbing a tea towel and gently dabbing it off. “Quick go to the bathroom, I have stain removing spray under the sink”

You didn’t waste any time and rushed down the hall towards the bathroom, not paying any attention when you reached for the handle and the door swung open before you could touch it, steam and heat hitting you in the face, as well as a solid body.

“Shit!” I’m so sorry!” That familiar deep voice swore in front of you.

Joe stood in the doorway, in only a pair of sweatpants, a towel around his shoulder and dripping wet curls in his face.

“What are you doing here” You grumbled, moving aside so you could swap places, Joe now staring at you stood in the doorway.

“This is my mums house- what happened here” Joes face turned from shock to a shit eating grin as he pointed to your chest, rather the large red stain on your chest.

“Spaghetti sauce”

Joe chuckled, “You’re supposed to eat it, not wear it”

“Ha-ha, you’re funny” You rolled your eyes, turning around to ignore Joe in search for the spray Mary sent you here for. Did she know Joe was in there? Was this another scheme?

Joe returned midway through you holding your shirt stretched out, stomach on display while you awkwardly sprayed the stained area.

“Here, put this on and give me that, ill get it out” He was fully dressed now in a matching sweat set, a black shirt outstretched.

You stared at him for a moment before shaking your head. “No, I can’t wear that”

“Why not?” Joe asked giving you a confused look.

“I have to go out there!” you cried, earning a deadpan look from Joe.

“So?”

“So? They’ll gossip! they’ll ask questions, it’ll become a whole situation.”

You realised you may have become slightly dramatic over this exchange but your interactions with Joe had surpassed your comfort level.

“Fine, wear the stained shirt” Joe gave you a tight smile before walking out. You looked back down at your shirt, it honestly looked worse, the stain had bled out into a larger patch.

You returned to the group, laughing with the ladies about your accident while Mary went around serving everyone a bowl of pasta before you began your meeting.

“Joe not give you any trouble?” Mary asked when she got to you, which you answered with a short no.

Because, of course she knew he was in there.

[harrywavycurly]

Texting Joseph Quinn Part 23: Fandom

Masterlist: Here

A/N: This was fun and I’m so sorry yall have had to wait so long for an update but I hope you enjoy and happy Valentine’s Day!💖

[sweetprfct]

**AN: my fics have constant repeated side characters like the reader's bff Sara.

Permanent December (Re-published) - (18+, enemies to lovers, comfort, hurt, fluff) Summary: You and Sara have been best friends for a while now and when Sara had started dating Wes, you realized he also had a best friend. Joe. But somehow, you and Joe tend not to get along all the time. Wordcount (so far): 14.8K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten

Written in the Stars - (18+, smut, hurt, comfort, angst) Summary: You are a believer in fate but after getting your heart broken, you had stopped believing it. Until you met Joe. Suddenly, it got you questioning if fate is real or not. Total Wordcount: 44.3K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

Is It Over Now? - (18+, smut, fake dating to lovers, hurt, comfort) Summary: Fake dating your flatmate, Joe, should be a simple thing. It meant you get to help get his ex back, and it meant you get to stop your parents' nagging about bringing someone home for once. But what happens when fake dating turns into something unexpected? Now, what? Total Wordcount: 39.4K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten

High Infidelity - (18+, hurt, angst, comfort) Summary: Did you really have to chart the constellations in his eyes? Did you really have to tell him how he brought you back to life? Disclaimer: elements of emotional abuse, mention of harming, infidelity Total Wordcount: 16.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - epilogue

Guilty as Sin? - (18+, smut, fluff) Summary: They said there's no such thing as bad thoughts, only your actions talk. Total Wordcount: 5.9K

part one - part two

Midnight Rain - (18+, angst, hurt, comfort) Summary: The glitz and glamour of Hollywood isn't always what it seems. When Joe had started working with you in a movie, he had started wondering as to why you, the famous Hollywood starlet, has been acting out lately. Was there some dark secret behind all the angry spoiled façade? And why was he so fascinated about it? Total Wordcount: 16.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

The Hate Formula - (18+, smut, enemies to lovers, fluff, comfort) Summary: Living in the same building, across from each other shouldn't be much of a problem, right? But how come you and Joe tend to always push each other's buttons every day? Is it because you both truly just hated each other or is it because there was something more to it? Total Wordcount: 34.7K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten

[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head (find the rest here). They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option. 

-

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound��sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

-

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need. 

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need. 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear. 

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

- 

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

-

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes���open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[icallhimjoey]

What if we accidentally found out what turns him on?

before you say ANTYHING ELSE i want to say that this is not me projecting and i need you to fully 100 per cent believe me when i say that, ok? thanks everyone, never bring this up in conversation ever again <3 Wordcount: 2.6K

---

Pulse

It happens completely by accident and takes you by surprise.

You never intended to find out something this intimate about him. Not in this way, anyway...

The first time, you’re lying on the sofa with Joe. Or, rather, you’re on the sofa and Joe is trying to dissolve his whole being into it. He’s lying on his front, one arm folded under one of the cushions, the other dangling off the edge like it’s given up on life.

Hard day, you gathered, not questioning it. You wouldn’t want him to question you if you had been in a similar mood.

You’re perched near his hip, scrolling through your phone while absently dragging your fingertips along the nape of his neck.

It’s absentminded.

Idle.

The kind of touch you barely register having even reached over for. Just a touch because you want to touch him, something completely self-indulgent before it’s anything else.

You’ve always been a bit of a fidgeter, tactile in a way others maybe aren’t, and… Joe’s skin is right there.

So… you know… you use it.

You trace lazy figure-eights just below his hairline, then trail your fingers down to where his spine dips in, light as a breeze, back ‘round to the front of his neck where your thumb sofly rubs over his pulse, and that’s when it happens.

He shifts.

Jolts.

Not like a normal I’m-just-getting-comfy sort of movement. Not even a I-have-an-itch kind of shift.

No… this one’s… sharp.

Sudden.

He draws in a quiet breath and exhales it through his nose like he’s just remembered what it’s like to feel something within his own body. His back arches ever so slightly – not dramatic, but definitely noticeable – and then he rolls halfway onto his side, arm curling protectively up to cover most of his face.

You pause.

Give him a look.

Get your fingers back on his pulse, that tender spot below his jaw, and you can hear how Joe’s breathing picks up.

Hm.

Interesting.

You know he’s probably getting hard.

Look at him.

He must be.

Joe, in a masterstroke of subtlety, says absolutely nothing.

You smirk, and have the fickle thought of learning something you maybe weren’t supposed to, but then file it away. You always thought you didn’t like surprises, but this feels like one you can appreciate in its own time. It’s something to bring up later, maybe. When he’s not trying to hide his whole self away from you, maybe.

The second time, it’s not quite as accidental.

Not on your end, anyway.

He’s brushing his teeth and you’re leaning in the doorframe, watching him, because it’s either that or go finish replying to your e-mails, and, quite frankly, you’d rather die than sit down behind your laptop once more.

Joe’s got bed hair, toothpaste foam at the corners of his mouth, and is currently trying to hum something that sounds vaguely like something you heard on the radio earlier, but with a mouthful of mint.

You’re smiling because you simply can’t help it.

This is nice.

Domestic.

You don’t fully realise you’re smiling until he catches your eye in the mirror and raises his brows like you’ve been caught stealing something sweet from a child.

You step closer, and he keeps brushing, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now. Not alarmed – just alert, like you might poke him in the side and he’s already bracing for it.

You don’t poke him in the side.

Instead, you touch your hand to the side of his neck, just under his ear, and he stills like you’ve pressed a reset button.

Your fingers skim over that soft patch of skin beneath his jaw, where his pulse thuds steady and strong, and his eyelids flutter in a way that would be comedic if it weren’t so fucking telling.

Joe lowers the toothbrush and spits.

The sink runs.

You remove your hand.

Nothing is said.

Not by him, anyway.

Then you quietly murmur, “You missed a spot.” because there’s toothpaste on his bottom lip still, yet Joe, ever the brave soldier, doesn’t ask where.

Can’t.

He’ll figure out later when he’s gotten his breathing under control again, he thinks when he steps out of the bathroom.

The third time is where things fall apart beyond repair, just like you hoped it would.

You’re not sadistic… but, you know. You kind of are.

It’s an early morning.

Bleary and cool, light just beginning to slant in through the windows like it’s sneaking in where it doesn’t belong. You’re half-awake and wearing one of his old hoodies because your flat is a temperature only legally allowed in restaurant freezers, and Joe’s sitting on the edge of the bed, socks in hand, hair damp from a rushed shower.

You come up behind him, sat up but still yawning, arms winding around his shoulders.

He leans back slightly, happy to be held for a moment, and you press a kiss to the side of his neck – to his pulse point, specifically – because that’s what people in love do sometimes.

You feel like that’s a good enough excuse, anyway.

And Joe – sleepy and unguarded, in nothing but old joggers and wet hair – makes a sound.

A sound.

Not a “good morning” sound.

Not a “this is nice” hum.

No.

Joe releases a low, involuntary, gut-wrenching noise, like his body just told the truth before his mouth could intervene.

You freeze.

Pause entirely.

Joe’s entire spine stiffens like he’s been caught in the act of a war crime, and he immediately starts putting his socks on at the speed of light.

You’re not even sure if his feet are properly dry yet and can’t help your small smirk.

“Okay,” you say slowly, half hoping Joe doesn’t feel embarrassed, and half hoping he absolutely does.

“So… that’s a thing, then.”

“What’s a thing?” Joe asks, the picture of innocence if innocence looked like a man who just ran into a brick wall called his own libido.

“You tell me,” you reply quickly, getting up and stepping around the bed to face him properly. “You’re the one who just moaned.”

“Um, excuse me. I did not moan.”

“Ah,” your smile grows bigger. “But, you did. You made a noise like we were ten seconds away from using up the rest of the lube.”

Joe groans – not the same kind – and flops backwards onto the mattress, arm flung over his face. You didn’t think he’d be this quick to admit defeat.

“Hm?” you press, unable to keep the giggles that bubble up within your throat inside.

“This has to be illegal.” Joe cries and just makes you laugh harder. “Yea. I’m pressing charges.”

“Your neck,” you say, approaching slowly, like he’s a wild animal that might bolt.

“I’m getting a lawyer.”

“Turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“Okay, first of all–” Joe starts, then stops. Lowers his arm just enough to peek at you. “That’s just an assumption, isn’t it?”

You crawl onto the bed beside him.

“Yea, no. You’re right. It is. However… it’s also an anecdotal truth. And I’m a big believer in lived experience. You know, you touch a thing, you see a reaction, and, I know this might sound crazy, but then you just accept the truth.”

You can’t help your grin as you can see his frown deepen, throwing an arm back to grab onto a pillow to cover his face with.

“I hate it here.”

You notice how Joe left his throat out for you whilst he hides his face away. It makes you reach out and rest your hand against the side of his neck, thumb sweeping gently over the place where his heartbeat kicks up.

Joe immediately whimpers.

You both freeze.

“Oh, fuck,” he swears, muffled into the fabric, and his hips shift like he’s trying not to move. To not to feel it.

You raise your brows, not without judgement.

“Joe.”

“I’m broken,” he says softly and wounded into the pillow. “Something inside me is broken.”

“No, don’t worry...” you lean down and brush your lips against the soft skin just under his jaw. It’s difficult to not show your delight at the way he visibly shudders.

“I think you just really like neck stuff.”

There’s a pause, and then, a low and muffled: “I need to revise my entire sexual identity, I think.” which makes you laugh loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

It becomes a quiet knowledge after that.

You don’t bring it up in public – you’re not a monster – but you learn that tracing a finger across the side of his throat when he’s leaning over you on the sofa will derail his entire train of thought.

You learn that nuzzling into that space between his shoulder and his neck when he’s spooning you turns his breathing shallow within seconds.

Learn that even casual little pecks near his pulse-point make him go tight-jawed and red-eared like someone’s pulled a fire alarm inside of his ribcage.

And you love learning. You’re nothing if not a good student.

What surprises you most, though, is how easily undone Joe is by it.

Not just sexually – though that’s absolutely a huge part of it – but emotionally, too.

Joe has always been the type to dodge vulnerability with a joke, or a deflection or, even occasionally by starting a new sentence halfway through yours.

But there’s something about his neck.

About him being touched there.

Softly, slowly, deliberately.

It genuinely doesn’t take much more than a lone finger tracing a slow trail from his collarbone up to his ear. It immediately makes him go quiet, like he can’t pretend around it. Can’t armour up fast enough.

One night, after a particularly stressful day that involves a broken boiler, a missed delivery, and a passive aggressive neighbour who plays the saxophone at all hours, Joe comes home looking like he’s been chewed up and spat out by capitalism itself.

You’re already in bed, phone on your chest and ready to scroll for at least half an hour, when he kicks off his shoes with a kind of weary desperation that makes you put your phone down before he crawls up beside you and tucks his head beneath your chin without a word.

You don’t speak, because Joe doesn’t need words.

He needs something else.

And you think you know exactly what that is…

You just shift your hand to the side of his neck, your thumb sweeping gently over that warm, thudding place beneath his ear.

Joe exhales like it’s the first time he has exhaled all day and moves his face down, forehead bumping into your jaw.

You rub your thumb up and down in slow, gentle motions, knowing it should get at least some sort of reaction.

And you’re right.

You can hear his throat stutter as he tries to keep all his little noises inside, and then feel how he kisses you collarbone in thanks like it’s the only thing he’s got to offer in return.

Good, you think, glad and somewhat proud to be able to reduce this man to nothing more than a puddle of quiet barely-contained pleasure.

“You ok?” you ask, knowing that he must be.

“Mhmm… feels safe here,” he murmurs, the words soft like they’re not meant for the whole room to hear. Just for you. “When you do that… the–… this, neck thing… it’s like everything shuts up for a second. Even my own fucking brain... sorry. Is that weird?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just comb your fingers through his hair and keep tracing the line of his pulse with your thumb.

“You’re not weird,” you say eventually, quiet and sure. “You’re just human. And you deserve a soft touch where you’d like one... like, right here.”

Joe turns his face into your shirt, digs deeper where he was already kind of digging to begin with, like he’s trying to hide from something, but you feel the way his breath catches. How his whole body stills like he’s afraid if he moves too much it’ll all vanish.

He knows he’s lucky that it doesn’t. That you keep slowly moving your thumb, a soft touch, exactly where he likes one.

It takes a while – a long while – but, eventually, he talks about it. Brings it up out of the blue, like it’s something he’s been thinking about.

You’re in his bed, sprawled across sheets that feel way more luxurious than the price he’s paid for them. Joe’s shirtless, chest still a little flushed from what you’ve just done to him. You lie next to him, one arm curled lazily around his torso, bent at the elbow so your fingers are resting right against his neck. You search for his heartbeat there until you find it. It’s calm now. Slow and steady.

Before he says anything, Joe makes sure to let his fingers curl around your wrist to keep your hand right where it is.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “I didn’t know this about myself.”

You hum in acknowledgment, knowing exactly what he means. “Was a surprise to me too.”

“Yea, but, it’s like you just… knew. Without asking.” Joe smiles. “So smart.”

You press your lips to the spot beneath his jaw in a soft peck. “Not smart. Just… I don’t know, I just noticed.”

Joe’s smile grows as his eyes close, relishing the movements your fingertips are making across his skin. He could stay here for hours. Days. Months. Decades.

There’s a long silence before he speaks again.

“I think maybe it’s because it’s where people always go to hurt others, isn’t it?” he says softly. “In films, or whatever. Or like… when people fight. Everyone always goes for the neck.”

You smirk at his reasoning.

Such a man.

Such a boy.

He turns his head to look at you, long lashes dark against his cheekbones. “So maybe when someone goes there to be kind, or gentle, or – fuck, I don’t know – fucking tender, or whatever, it’s just… it’s different.”

You don’t say anything. Just look at him for a long moment as your fingers keep playing. Then, you carefully move up to touch your lips to his pulse point again – reverent now. Much more careful.

The soft touch of your mouth to his neck makes Joe close his eyes as he leans in, ready to receive whatever you are willing to give to him.

He hopes it’s your mouth all over.

Hopes it’s your hands in his hair, your hips over his own, and your tongue swirling circles exactly where he wants to feel it swirl.

Just – he hopes he gets all of you, everywhere, all of the time.

And… listen. It’s easy to poke fun, at least a little. But there’s something better about being kind, and gentle, and – fuck, you don’t know – fucking tender, or whatever.

Whilst Joe has learnt about himself, you have too.

Turns out you kind of like surprises.

Not the dramatic kind. Not fireworks, or love confessions in the rain.

You kind of like the quiet ones. The ones you don’t see coming until they’ve already settled in your chest.

Like the way Joe will easily melt under your fingers.

Like how knowing can feel more intimate than touching.

Like how knowing, really knowing someone can feel a little bit like being let in on a miracle.

How intimacy can live in the smallest of touches.

How the body confesses what the heart’s still learning to say.

How you could fall in love by accident, and prove it on purpose, with something as soft as a thumbprint over a pulse.

And maybe that’s what love is, in the end.

Not the thunder. Not the grand declarations.

Just the quiet surprise of being understood, right there, in the place no one else had ever thought to look.

---

The Taglisted

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add yourself

[stardancerluv]

What the Emperor Wants

Part Ten

Summary: Out in the country, feelings are revealed.

Notes/Warnings: 18+ mentions of arousal, dated beliefs in god/s, dated beliefs between men & women. Art/photos of sculptures used in collage are to display & give an example of some possible moments that take place in the chapter.

❤️s, comments, feedback, reblogs are all welcome and appreciated. It’s a longer chapter, but didn’t want to interrupt some of its flow. Thank you for reading! ❤️

There were so many people at the Villa, you were taken aback. So you were grateful for Aelia, at least you knew her. She showed you around while Geta tended to some matters.

Feeling terribly flustered, you found yourself outside. You smiled, spotting a small pond. Gathering your clothes, you sat down beside it. The sun was warm and the grass was soft. Seeing little fish swimming made you smile.

Leaning closer to get a better look at them, you saw your own reflection. You gasped. You had not realized how much of a lady you had become. You wondered, if your mother would recognize you. Did being around the emperor truly do this to you?

“There is the sweetest blossom of Rome. She is near fresh water. Neptune, I pray does not see you and fall in love.”

You blushed and glancing back at the clear, water smiling as a fishes swished by.

“Geta, such honey like words. Be careful we should not upset the gods.”

“I merely hope he realizes my gratitude to have such a blossom such as you.”

Your cheeks remained aflame with his words

“You are in touch with them more than I. Surely, they are aware of your true emotions.”

“I certainly hope so.”

With a soft sound, pushed himself away from the tall tree that had given you shade and he drew close; his clothes brushed you as he knelt near you.

“I already feel the good humors for being here.”

“It is the same for me. Though, I fear I may lose my way in those hallways at least once while we are here.”

You shyly looked away. A chuckle from Geta made your cheeks feel warmer.

“I had to reorient myself as well.”

Your eyes grew as you looked back at him. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Yes, I have some new furniture, works of art that have acquired since I was last here. Accommodations were also made for you.”

“I hope I wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

********

He swallowed, the good humors filled him to brim when he was around you. It made him restless. Made him want to do a great many things.

He slipped his hand into the folds of his clothing. His fingers easily found the small pocket that had been sewn into several of his garments. Usually he carried with him a small leaf, that he would urge Caracalla to chew on when he had one of his fits or just fretted.

Now, it held something different. A little trinket. A bracelet. He had been looking at the jewelry that he had debated wearing at the villa. It was the least he could give you for saving his life.

“Geta, are you alright?”

He rose his eyebrows. “Yes? What? Why do you ask?”

As he glanced at you he could see concern splashed on it.

“You appeared to be elsewhere, you had grown silent.”

“I am good. Very good.” He nodded. He let his fingers brush against the small treasure a final time.

“I have a gift for you.” Geta said softly.

Glancing around, he did not know why, it was not as if he cared for the words or thoughts of others. Drawing closer to you, where you sat by the pond.

“It is not everyday when one takes an active hand in saving my life. I found this treasure.”

He took his closed hand from the folds of his clothes. He opened it. The sun rays happy danced on its accents. It was lovely, gentle like you were. Not has bold as some of the pieces him or Caracalla would wear.

“Oh, Geta. I…I don’t know what to say. Such finery for me.” Your voice shook.

It caused him to inwardly tremble.

“Do you like it?”

“I do. It’s just, by the gods I never even wished.”

“That is why your emperor has bestowed it upon you, not them.”

“Yes. You have.”

“Allow me then to slip it on you.”

You nodded. “Please. I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

Easily he moved the metals as they should. He grazed his thumb over the bracelet.

“I like it. I chose wisely.” He placed your hand back into your lap.

“Oh, it is wonderful.” You brought your hand to your shoulder.

“Very fitting for one who saved me.” He smiled.

He watched as your eyes twinkled, your face became as brilliant as the sun above. His heart raced he wanted to kiss you. He would.

You trembled at the suddenness of it. But then he felt as you melted against him. Your lips responded to his.

Easily, moving just the right way he hung over you as you easily laid back. Your hair became even richer in color as the loose strands from the ribbons laid in abandon against the soft green grass. His heart beat harder as he hung over you, he anchored one of his hands in the soft earth.

Breaking the kiss so he may take a breath and allow you one as well, he smiled as you reached up and your fingers nestled in his hair.

Drawing close to you once more, his nose, his lips grazed your cheek. “You are as lovely as any nymph lucky enough to have caught the eye of a god.” He whispered in your ear. “But tell me dear nymph you will give chase and make me chase you?”

He pulled back so he could look at you as you spoke.

“Only if he wishes it.”

He smiled. “Good. Right now, I do not. I do not wish to live the tale of the mighty Apollo and Daphne.”

As he spoke those words he saw your eyes become watery.

“You know of their story.”

You nodded.

He swallowed. The words came and knot that had been tightening unbeknownst to him loosen ceased to be.

“My dear blossom.” He whispered in your ear. “I have come to care. Perhaps, my elation, my tenderness is from all that transpired. But, I promise to take care of you and devote my affections solely to you. Please do not wither into a tree where all I can do is only admire from afar.”

A tear slipped from one of your eyes. “No, I promise, as long as we can share a tenderness I will not take root and become a mere tree.”

His lips met yours.

********

You felt wonderfully rejuvenated. He had ordered a bath for the two of you. Any of the knots that had held over from the carriage ride were now gone. Now, candles flickered making shadows dance as the two of you lounged and ate.

Occasionally, you couldn’t resist looking at your wrist where the bracelet twinkled. You would not worry about what may or may not happen when you would be seen wearing it.

“How long will we be here at the villa?”

Geta, shrugged. “A few days at the very least. I already feel much better and it’s only been a day.”

You nodded and happily nibbled on the fish that was on your plate. It was fresh, mich fresher than what was served at the Domus in the city. It reminded you of the fresh fish your mother would serve your family.

“It is very different than the city. I had forgotten one can hear bird calls floating on the breeze.”

“They sound different than in the city.”

You nodded once again. “There they only know of their cages.”

“Beautiful cages, I had an artist craft a lovely one.”

“They were lovely and safe in it.”

A rich chuckle came from Geta, you glanced at him.

“Dondas, is also not harassing any of them here.”

You giggled. “Dondas is cute.”

Geta rose an eyebrow. “He’s a menace.”

“At least he makes Caracalla happy.”

“That is true.” He took a sip from his wine. “Speaking of animals, have you ever ridden on a horse?”

You looked off as if you could see the moment. “Only once.”

You still could remember the feel of the animal, how your mother had controlled the straps of rope used to control the animal.

“Oh?”

“The day, I learned how to treat a wound. My mother had snatched me up when she went to retrieve what was needed. I was small enough to ride with her and hold the items.”

“You need to have a real ride.” A pleased look came over him.

You watched as he pressed his lips together, while glancing at his arm. “Should you look at it again?”

“Yes. We don’t want darkness to seep in.”

“I will have them fetch whatever you need.”

*******

“Aelia?” You glanced at the woman who stood by the door. “Do you wish to watch me check on our Sire’s arm?”

“Oh? Yes. This is very fascinating. Never seen anything like it.”

He slipped from the top of his robe. The soft fabric pooled around his waist. His chest, resembling some of the carved statues you had seen in the gardens.

“It may still sting.” You said softly as you met his eyes.

He nodded.

Gently, you peeled back the cloth. It looked good. Not dark. Soon you poured some of the vinegar and clear oil on it to clean it.

Geta hissed.

You glanced at him under your lashes. “It doesn’t hurt too much does it?”

“I do not like it. I will be fine.”

******

You reached up to the broach that was the cause for all of this. Your finger traced the edge of it.

Geta’s and Aelia’s voice were only murmurs to you has you stood by window that led to balcony. Should you undo the clasp that held the fabrics of your clothes together, you wondered.

He had not dismissed you. Did he need you? A flutter excitement filled you. How he had wanted to be you before the party had stolen your breath. Apart of you should be scandalized, you were no harlot despite being his but it had felt so good. you enjoyed being joined with him.

You gasped as a warm hand settled on your stomach and you were pulled close. You’d know his strong frame now anywhere.

“My sire.”

An admonishing sound came from him. He was so close, you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“Geta, my emperor you wish to be this close?”

You turned your head just enough to see the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips.

“I do.”

You felt as he held you tighter against him. A gasp came from you as his arousal pressed against you. Your heart squeezed. Not in fear but in anticipation.

A soft, low chuckle came from him. “You feel what you have done to me.”

You nodded.

“You have entranced my loins.”

“I have?” You managed. “You have quickened my heart.”

“Oh? Have I?” His voice grew deeper.

You felt as his hand drifted up your torso, which made it beat harder.

“My emperor?” You breathed.

“I want to feel.” His hand then laid where it beat. A soft sound came from him. “I enjoy causing this response in you.”

You trembled as his hand then slipped under the soft fabric that had been wrapped around and draped from you. It was even warmer and softer feeling as it laid against your skin. His rings were a cool contrast.

Lightning then streaked across the ebony sky, and thunder crashed as if drums from all over were struck. Without a thought, a cry of surprise came from within you and turning you nestled against Geta. You easily found his throat and hid your face there. He smelled of honey, fruits. It was very pleasing, it felt right.

You felt as his hand rubbed your back. “My little blossom. Jupiter is just sharing his pleasure with us. From his perch in the sky above, he saw and heard us. He gave us his blessing.”

You didn’t move you. “Even though, I am just a girl who was blessed that you made me yours.” You whispered.

Despite the twinges of worry that prickled you, deep inside the desire to press your lips to his throat grew.

He chuckled. “Jupiter is very pleased. I saw you and made you mine, just as he goes after what he wants.”

The sky once again brightened as lightning streaked across once again, thunder rumbled not long after.

Hearing his words, you felt reassured. Making Jupiter happy was above all. Geta followed close to the mighty Jupiter. You felt such a great honor in all of this.

Following your urges, you pressed your lips to his throat.

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @screaming-blue-bagel @kitkat80 @blondie324 @alyisdead @hellomadamebutterfly @laura-naruto-fan1998 @helsa3942

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

[redheadspark]

Joseph Quinn 11

A/N - I love this! Thanks for requesting this, friend!

On The Line

Summary - Being Joe's oldest friend also means you have to wonder if it's just a friendship.

Warnings - Just some fluff :)

“You look cute when you blush, you know that?”

Your friend and secret crush, actor Joe Quinn, looked up from his phone as you grinned next to him in your chair.  The flushness on his cheeks was evident, along with his big brown eyes that were locked with yours.  You giggled, noting how you almost caught him in an act when he was merely scrolling through his phone.  

“I wasn’t blushing!  It was…hot out,” he explained as you chuckled and pointed out the window behind the pair of you.

“It is literally snowing outside as we speak, are you joking?” You asked, Joe looking out the window to see the fat snowflake hitting the wall and cascading down to the ground.  He looked back at you with a raised brow.

“Well, it was warm in my car when I came here, so back off,” he replied lightly, you laughing at his antics.  You leaned over to brush your shoulder with his own, again getting his attention as you spoke, “So…anyone in your love life that I should know about?”

“Not at all,” He smoothly replied, but you could hear the undone of his voice that he was fully not telling the truth.  Of course, he wouldn’t tell you about his crush, much to your dismay since you were trying to figure out your feelings for your friend.  For how many years you two have known each other, long before Joseph became popular as an actor thanks to Stranger Things.  You and Jose grew up together in school, being good friends and hanging onto the friendship through thick and thin.  But of course, there were always times when you thought the line of friendship would blur into romance.  Joe was a great guy, not a bad bone in his body with a shocked sense of humor and a humbled nature about his career and where he wanted to go.  

He never pushed you away when his career was taking off, though some of his other friendships blew off in the wind.  Joe held onto yours tight, talking to you constantly on the phone and hanging out together when he had downtime.  You knew he was busy as hell, much more so when Stranger Things made him into a sensation.  He would call you to either chat up, vent or simply grow deeper in your friendship together.  And of course, being the great friend that you were, you would pick up the phone every time.  Grabbing dinner with him when he needed an escape, joining him on a quick weekend getaway when he needed to decompress from his stressful schedule.

You were simply being a friend, but the blogs and gossip columns were thinking otherwise. 

Most of what they were saying was in fact false and harsh, not to mention the pictures the paparazzi would take when you two were out and about together. It was hard to read at times and simply nearly impossible to swallow down, and no matter how many times Joe would reassure you that they never bothered him, it did to you.  Maybe because you were still in denial about your feelings for him, never seeing it as a possibility in the future of your two being an item together.  Plus you’ve only heard horror stories of people dating actors and stars, most of the relationships burning to the ground and not lasting longer than a few months.  The last thing you wanted to do was to jeopardize the friendship you two have had for over a decade.  

But how long were you going to be in denial?

“Alright, if you don’t feel like telling me then, and here I thought we were close…” You replied in a light tease as Joe chuckled and chucked his phone on the couch.  He eyed him, seeing you give him the mocked cold shoulder.

“We are, trust me.  You’re one of the closest friends I have,” he rescued you, pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, “I’d rather iron it out on my own before telling you since your opinion on who I date is important to me,”

You just smiled and nodded your head, “Fine, fine. Keep your crush to yourself then.  But whoever they are, they’re lucky.”

As you walked off to retrieve your book, Joe was watching you with a small smile on his lips.  You had no idea he was cooking up a plan to ask you on a date, to leave his own heart on the line for you.  

The End.

January Prompt Session

[filthyjoetini]

Stumblin' In

a/n: Hello loves! I'm back! And this time I've pre written 3/4 of a story...who is she?! I don't know her. Soooo...this little story will have four parts and is (very) loosely based on something that happened in Venice when I saw Joe...(still not over it tbh...heh). Thank you to my warrior editor and influence for this story @barfightzanddiscolightz. &lt;3

warnings: none

wordcount: 1.9k (she's short)

part 2 - part 3 - part 4

You blinked rapidly, trying to adjust your eyes to the brightness that suddenly overtook the previously dimly lit screening room of the cinema you were sitting in. Your brain just wasn't made for such quick changes, especially while it was still processing what had just happened on screen. The film you had chosen to watch was one of those arthouse indie productions that attracts all kinds of people from all walks of life.

Slowly you pushed yourself out of the plush seat and stretched your arms over your head. Your ever-weary limbs and joints popped, and you feared that one of the at least 50 other people in the room had heard it. 

Taking your time, you picked up your trusty leather jacket, which had once belonged to your father, and pulled it on. You shoved your hands into its pockets to retrieve your mobile phone. As you checked your unread messages, your eyes moved from the screen to your Dr. Martens-clad feet. You had undone the laces, wanting to be as comfortable as possible. Shrugging, you began to walk down the aisle, the laces whipping your jeans-covered calves, shins, and other seats along the way. You told yourself you would tie them once you had reached the atrium.

With your face almost buried in the screen of your phone, you stepped to the top of the stairs and began your descent. Not even three steps down, you stumbled over your now tangled shoelaces and instantly lost your footing. With a small yelp, you practically flew down the stairs, right into the back of someone's legs. The abrupt stop sent your phone flying down the hallway and past the curtain, as your head snapped back, slamming into the steps. The impact made your breath catch in your lungs and you let out a small whimper.

"Oh my God! Are you alright?"

With blurred vision and eyes refusing to cooperate, you tried to make out who was speaking to you. You knew it was a man from the voice, but his features were a mystery in the blur. Your eyes not working the way you wanted them to made you let out a frustrated sigh. You began slowly blinking your eyes, hoping for a clearer perspective, before giving up and closing them completely.

"Hey! No! Open your eyes!"

You sluggishly opened them again, your vision still as blurred as before. Lifting your arm, you tried to touch the man hovering above you. The movement sent a jolting pain through your arm, up your neck, and into the back of your head.

"Ouch.", you hissed.

"'Yeah, ouch.”, replied the still blurry man. "Please focus on me, can you do that for me?"

 "Yep.", you lied. You couldn't focus on shit, because in addition to your blurred vision, your head was throbbing like you'd been hit by a freight train.

"Okay. Cool. You hit your head pretty hard. Can you move your legs?"

You made slow, jerky movements with your legs, wiggling your toes in your boots, not realising he couldn't see them.

"Okay. They work. Good! That means, no spinal injury.”, the man said, obviously relieved. "I'm going to move you now, is that alright?"

You nodded and immediately regretted it. Your head hurt like hell. How could a carpeted step hurt so much?

Warm hands slowly pushed under your arms and knees and then suddenly, but slowly, strong arms lifted you up and close to an even warmer body. As gentle as he was, the movement of your body was still very uncomfortable and made you whimper again.

"I know. I'm sorry.”, the man who was now walking spoke softly. As you both passed through the curtain into the even brighter hallway, you turned your head towards the man's chest to avoid the glaring overhead lights. You pressed your face into the fabric of his top and inhaled deeply. He smelled damn good.

"...is there a room I can take her to? She hit her head on the stairs when she fell. Also, could you call the A&E, I think she has a concussion."

"Sure, follow me please.”, a new feminine voice said and then there was a static crackle. "Henry, can you please call A&E, we have an injured woman with a suspected concussion."

"Copy. A&E is being called.”, came back Henry's very staticky voice over what you assumed was a walkie-talkie.

A few moments later you heard a door open and were carried very carefully into a small, office-like room.

"You can put her on the sofa. The paramedics will be here any minute."

Gently you were lowered onto the sofa. Gone were the strong arms and the warmth, and you began to shiver. Your eyes slowly began to focus, and you could finally see, though still blurred, the man who had been helping you. He was tall and handsome. His dark blonde hair was curly, and his face had a very patchy five o'clock shadow. But the most striking thing about his face was his huge, baby cow eyes, which were currently wearing a worried expression. Your gaze moved slowly down his body. He was wearing brown trousers with black loafers and a beige cable-knit jumper, topped off with a very expensive looking black trench coat. Visually, he was the exact opposite of you. You had opted for your usual all-black autumn outfit.

With a small but noticeable smile, you closed your eyes for a second and another shiver ran through your body. Unexpectedly, you were suddenly covered by a blanket. Slowly you opened your eyes to see that it wasn't a blanket, but the man's trench coat.

"Thank you...", you whispered. You were surprised at how weak your voice sounded, but the drowsiness that was slowly creeping up on you made it difficult to speak. Your eyes closed again.

"You're welcome...hey! No! Don't fall asleep!"

"But I'm so sleepy."

"I know, but you can't."

The man's voice was very close now, and as you felt hands cupping your face, your eyes shot open again. You looked up at him with wide eyes, he was kneeling beside the sofa and his own eyes held yours in an equally steady gaze.

“You literally can’t fall asleep because you took quite the tumble there, Humpty Dumpty and I’m 99 percent sure you incurred a concussion.”, he explained with a grin. "Besides, you keep moving your head when you should be holding it still. If I have to hold your face to keep you awake and mostly still, I will gladly continue holding it."

You didn't respond to him. You just kept staring at him and he had the audacity to just stare back at you with his big, wet, brown puppy dog eyes. 

A few moments later there was a knock on the door and two paramedics with a stretcher made their way inside.

"Hello there! You must be our patient.”, one of the paramedics said as he made his way over to you. He then looked down at Mr. Baby-Cow-Puppy-Eyes and spoke again. "Sir, may I ask you to move so we can examine her?"

"Uh... sure.”, he replied, taking his hands off your face, slowly rising to his feet. You groaned weakly as his fingers lightly brushed your jaw and he let out a soft snort before turning to the medic. "I was just trying to keep her awake. She fell down the stairs and hit her head on one of the bottom steps."

"Thank you.”, the second paramedic said, moving in to examine your head and neck. Your rescuer stepped back and moved to the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest to wait. He was still in your line of sight, so you looked at him occasionally to make sure he was still there, and every time you did, he smiled sweetly at you.

"Ooookay.", the second paramedic said as soon as she concluded her examination. "You have a mild to moderate concussion and swelling on the back of your head. We need to take you to the hospital for a 24-hour observation."

You frowned at her, and she smiled sympathetically. "Do you want your boyfriend to come with us?"

"Who?" you asked, a confused expression on your face.

"Him.”, she said, pointing to the corner where your knight in a cable-knit jumper was standing.

"I'm not her boyfriend. I'm the one she collided with.”, he chuckled and shook his head.

"Alright, I'll take that as a no.”, the paramedic grinned at him and then down at you. "Are you ready to be hoisted onto the stretcher?" 

"Um...", you started, then suddenly panicked as you softly patted your jacket and jeans pockets. Your mobile phone - you didn't have it on you. "Wait! My phone! It must have slipped out of my hand or pockets when I went all humanoid egg earlier..."

Your reference to the handsome man's earlier statement made him burst out into laughter.

"She hasn't lost her sense of humour. Good.”, the first paramedic said with a chuckle, and began to lift you up by your feet, while the other paramedic assisted him by simultaneously lifting you up by your torso. The coat that still covered you was about to slip off your body if you hadn't grabbed it as if it were your lifeline. In a way it was your lifeline, for you were still cold, and the weight of the fabric did an excellent job of keeping you warm.

"I'll go look for it. Just give me a second.”, expensive trench coat guy announced, and quickly slipped out of the room.

Not even five minutes later he returned, waving your mobile phone in the air.

"Here you go.”, he smiled, handing you the phone but not letting go of it. "Please keep me informed about your condition." Just as he started to remove his hand from your phone, he added: "And you can keep my coat for now, but I want it back at some point."

"OK. I will, and you'll get it back... at some point.”, you promised, as the two paramedics wheeled you out of the small room. Halfway down the hallway you suddenly realised that you didn't have his contact details. How were you going to let him know how you were?

"Wait! Stop!", you shouted, making yourself jump more than the two people you were addressing. "Can you please turn around?"

"All right, but just for a second. We really need to get you to the hospital.”, the male paramedic explained impatiently, and they both turned the stretcher around and were about to push you back when you saw him standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

"I don't have your number!", you called, waving your mobile.

"Check your contacts.”, he urged with a wink, before pushing himself away from the wall and walking the other way. "Keep me updated!"

"I will!"

The two paramedics turned the stretcher around again and began to push it hastily towards the cinema's delivery entrance where the ambulance was parked. All the while, you unlocked your phone to see if he had really left you his number. He had to have. How else would he get his coat back?

Quickly, you opened your contacts app and there it was: a new entry.

Next to the emoji with the bandage on its head was his name:

Joe.

Grinning to yourself, you locked your phone and put it to your chest as the ambulance sped off to the hospital...

Taglist:

@ohmeg @daleyeahson @lma1986 @palomahasenteredthechat @mandyjo8719 @aysheashea @eddiebaemunson @littledemon-lilith @freakymunson @sidthedollface2 @i-wont-run-this-time @plk-18 @miserybeans @kylakins88 @deadspellz @thehillzhaveeyez @kayleeelena97 @foreverjosephquinn @punctualhowell @icallhimjoey @ghostinthebackofyourhead @siriuslysmoking @cancankiki @definitionwanderlust @eriancrow @1paire2vans @theonewiththecrackedmind @captainonaboat @josephquinnsfreckles @emilyslutface @alessxaa

crossed out = couldn't tag