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whatsupsonnyboy · 9 days ago

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cry me a river | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Not everything goes smoothly—especially when Joe gets so lost in his own head, he forgets how to come home. Worst part? You’re not even sure if he wants to.

wc: 6.8k

warning: angst, pretty much is angst... fluff of course, mentions of alcohol, smoking, arguing, swearing

a/n: messy Joe it is. I already told you that I can't help it, i love a nice reconciliation, which usually means some ugly shit before is required. 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 apartment smelled faintly of basil and tomato—your attempt at cooking something warm, something comforting. You’d eaten alone, again, but you didn’t mind tonight. Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Joe came home a little before ten. Not late enough to be rude. Not early enough to feel normal.

He set his keys down on the counter and gave you that rushed half-smile.

"Hey, babe. Sorry—meeting ran long. Then Jack suggested a quick one at The York and, well…” He gestured vaguely, like the rest explained itself.

You nodded, folding the dish towel over the oven handle.

“It’s okay. I figured.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair, then kissed the top of your head. You could smell the beer and that faint curl of smoke that clung to him lately, even though he promise he would quit smoking. But somehow, he always failed.

You leaned back against the counter and watched him toe off his shoes.

“You’ve seemed a little off lately,” you said, keeping your voice light—like you weren’t afraid of the answer.

“Off?” He looked up at you, startled.

“Just… distracted. Not really here, even when you are.” You shrugged.

He let out a short laugh—not mocking, just tired.

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry. It’s not about you. It’s—Christ, it’s everything. The rehearsals, the rewrites, the press crap they’re already pushing. I can’t even think straight most days.”

You nodded slowly. You believed him. That wasn’t the issue.

“I get it. I know it’s a lot. It’s just… I don’t know. You don’t talk much about it anymore. You used to.”

He scratched the back of his neck, leaning against the fridge now, mirror-posted across from you.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… when I finally stop for the day, I don’t want to go back there. I want to come home and not think about it for five minutes. You know?”

And you did. Of course you did.

But there it was again: the distance. He was exhausted from being elsewhere. You were exhausted from waiting for him to return.

“Right,” you said. “That makes sense.”

And that was it.

He walked past you to the bedroom, peeling off his jacket, already talking about maybe ordering pizza tomorrow night. You followed a few steps behind, not really answering. You both got ready for bed like nothing had happened.

But as he fell asleep with his back turned and your fingers curled into the sheets instead of his hand, you realized: Nothing had happened. And somehow, that hurt worse.

You’d told him weeks ago.

Nothing big—just dinner. Your sister would be there, a couple of friends. Your mom had been looking forward to it for days. She liked Joe. Too much, honestly. Kept calling him her "favorite unofficial son-in-law."

At six, you were dressed and ready. At six-thirty, you were still checking your phone every three minutes.

At 6:42, your screen lit up.

I’m so sorry. Got pulled into a last-minute thing with Marcus. Producer’s in town. I can’t skip it. I swear I’ll make it up to you. To your mum too. I hate this.

You stared at the message for a long time before replying:

Okay.

And you meant it. Or tried to.

The door clicked open like it was trying not to be heard.

Joe stepped in, fumbling with the lock, laughing under his breath at something that clearly hadn’t made the trip home with him. He paused when he saw you—still awake on the couch, wrapped in a blanket you didn’t remember pulling over yourself.

He winced.

“Shit. I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

His shirt was half-untucked, hair disheveled, the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke hanging off him like a second jacket. He looked happy, in the way that only people who forgot what they were missing back home looked happy.

“Was it at least important?” you asked. Calm. Ice-level calm.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.” He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. “I mean, Marcus introduced me to this guy—he’s doing something on the West End, and we just got talking and suddenly it’s midnight and…”

He trailed off under your gaze.

“I said I’d make it up to you. And I will.”

You nodded. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to hold onto the Joe who bought this apartment with you, who danced barefoot with you in the living room before the curtains were even up. But that Joe hadn’t been home much lately. And when he had, he hadn’t really been here.

“She asked about you, you know,” you said softly. “My mom.”

He rubbed his face with both hands, letting out a breath.

“I’ll call her. Tomorrow. I’ll bring her flowers, I’ll… I’ll fix it.”

You nodded again, but something in you shifted. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even sadness. It was that cold, hollow sense that you were slowly being out-prioritized by someone’s dreams.

Joe crossed the room and knelt in front of you. He took your hand.

“I am trying,” he whispered.

You looked down at your joined fingers, warm but unfamiliar.

“I know”.

But you weren’t really sure how hard he was still trying.

The apartment had started to feel warmer again.

Not warmer in the temperature sense—you still hated how the heating clicked off randomly at night—but in the way it felt to exist within those walls again. Joe had made an effort lately, and not the kind you had to ask for.

He’d been home more often. No after-drinks. No “quick pints” that turned into missed dinners. Just the two of you, falling back into old rhythms. He’d brought you coffee on Thursday morning—still hot, your favorite oat milk foam on top. On Friday night, he cooked for you. Badly. The lasagna was more charcoal than pasta, but the two of you ended up laughing so hard you nearly cried. You’d kissed in the kitchen light like nothing had ever gone wrong.

It was easy to fall into the illusion that things had clicked back into place.

Because the truth was, he did love you. You could feel it in his quieter moments—when he looked up from his script just to watch you fold laundry, when he murmured your name in his sleep like it still meant home. He wasn’t faking any of this.

But love wasn’t always the question. Presence was.

And presence, lately, had started feeling like a borrowed luxury.

It was your favorite plan for Saturdays: the bookstore, weaving between aisles of paperbacks and the gentle buzz of lo-fi jazz. It was one of your favorite places in the city—dim lights, wood-paneled walls, the air thick with dust and memory. You held a book in your hands, thumbing through the blurb, when your phone buzzed in your coat pocket.

Marcus called. They need me to pop by the venue real quick. Just logistics. I’ll be home for lunch.

You stared at the screen a second longer than necessary.

Nothing in the message felt wrong. Not exactly.

You typed a simple heart emoji and hit send, tucking your phone away again. You bought the book. You even picked up pastries for the two of you on your way home. Warm, flakey, sugared at the edges. A little gesture. A little hope.

By 1:30 p.m., you had them plated. The kettle was on. You kept the TV off, waiting for the door to open.

At 2:15, you reheated the pastries.

At 3:07, you ate one. Alone.

It was in the late afternoon when your phone buzzed again, face down on the counter.

You didn’t check it right away. Something in your chest already knew.

When you finally did, it was exactly what you expected:

Sorry. Got pulled into a thing. Drinks after. I’ll bring dinner home?

There it was. A gentle undoing.

You typed “Sure” and hovered. Then deleted it. Typed “No problem.” Deleted that, too.

Eventually you settled on a simple thumbs up emoji.

And then you set the phone down and went back to folding the laundry—mechanical, methodical. It was easier to focus on creases than the slow ache in your ribs.

At almost 9 pm the door opened like it was sneaking in.

You didn’t look up right away. You were curled on the couch with the book you bought that morning, but your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for twenty minutes.

“Hey,” Joe said brightly. “I brought that basque cheesecake you like from La Maritxu. And flowers. They were closing, but I managed to grab some.”

He said it like it was a magic trick—proof that he hadn’t forgotten, that he still remembered how to care. He set the pizza box down, then the flowers. Carnations, slightly wilted. You used to hate carnations, but lately you hated being disappointed even more.

You nodded. “Nice.”

He smiled like that was enough.

You ate dinner together. The pizza was lukewarm, but he talked through it—about some guy he met, about the producer who mentioned a possible London press invite. He was animated, excited. You tried to match it, laughed when you were supposed to, asked the right questions.

But there was a dullness under it all. Like watching a fire through thick glass—you could see it burn, but it didn’t warm you anymore.

Later, when he leaned over to kiss your cheek, you let him. And when he slipped into bed beside you, already half-asleep before his head hit the pillow, you stared at the ceiling and tried to remember when his promises had started to feel like broken clockwork.

You knew he had something that night. A team dinner. A "we-just-wrapped-phase-three" sort of thing. You hadn’t made a fuss—just nodded when he told you, lips in a tired line, heart folded like a paper crane in your chest.

You had your own plans too. A quiet night with Lena, wine and too many cigarettes on her tiny balcony, talking circles around the things you didn’t know how to name.

“I just feel like I’m holding my breath all the time,” you’d told her. “And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for anymore.”

You didn’t cry. Not because it didn’t hurt—God, it did—but because you were so tired of hurting, the grief had calcified into something quieter. Something heavier. And drinking it down with cheap wine felt like the closest thing to relief.

When you got home around midnight, the apartment was quiet. You showered. Brushed your teeth. Took off your makeup. Folded a few things. Sat in the living room for a while just… waiting.

And then—at 2:37 a.m.—you heard his key in the door.

The lock clicked like a bad omen.

Joe stumbled in, not dramatically, not cartoonishly—but it was clear he was drunk. Not tipsy. Not “a few drinks with the guys.” The messy kind. Shirt rumpled. Hair disheveled. Eyes hazy with that distant shine that told you he wasn’t really here.

“Hey, babe,” he said with a lopsided smile, dropping his jacket on the floor. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

You said nothing at first. Just looked at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, slower now, noticing the stillness in the room.

You stood from the couch, arms crossed, voice low.

“You said you’d be back around eleven.”

He blinked, confusion flickering behind his eyes like a bad connection.

“I know, I know. But things went longer. People were buying rounds—Marcus brought that Japanese whiskey you like. You should’ve seen—”

“I don’t care about Marcus,” you cut in. “Or the whiskey. Or how many rounds they bought. I care that you promised—again—and didn’t follow through. Again.”

He rolled his eyes and made a noise—half sigh, half scoff.

“Things ran long. I can’t control every minute.”

You laughed then. Dry. Small.

“Of course you can’t. But a text wouldn’t kill you.”

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing.

“What, so now I need your permission to be out with people from work?”

“No, Joe, you need to stop acting like I don’t exist when you’re out there,” you snapped, the words coming fast now. “I’m not your roommate. I’m not your occasional weekend fuck. I’m your partner.”

“Don’t do this,” he muttered, turning away. “Not tonight.”

“Why not tonight? Because you're too damn drunk to care about how I feel?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“Do you think I like this?” you cried, stepping closer. “That I want to feel like a footnote in your life? Like I’m the one waiting in the shadows while you go play ‘brilliant star of the year’ out there?”

He turned sharply, pointing at you with a shaky hand.

“You think I like this? That I want to be away from you? That I enjoy watching this thing I’ve built eat me alive? I’m doing this for us!”

“Well, I don’t really know at this point,” you said, voice cracking. “Because all I see is you choosing everything else over me. Over this.”

He ran a hand through his hair, stumbling slightly as he moved toward the table and leaned against it like the weight of this night was finally sinking in.

“You knew what my life was like when we met.”

“Yeah,” you said, lower now, shaking your head. “But I didn’t think you’d forget I was part of it.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“I’m the same. I’ve always been this. So if you don’t like it, maybe you should’ve thought better before getting a fucking mortgage with me.”

The silence after that was sharp. Ugly. You stared at him, stunned, breath caught halfway to your throat.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “You’re really going to throw that in my face right now?”

“I’m just saying—”

“No, you’re not just saying. You’re being cruel. For no reason.”

“Well maybe I’m just tired too!” he shouted, voice finally rising. “Maybe I’m tired of coming home to silence and feeling like nothing I do is ever enough!”

“Don’t twist this around!” Your voice broke with the force of it. “I’m tired of everything being more important than me. It feels like you’re better out there, being someone I don’t even recognize anymore!”

“Well maybe that version of me is the only one who’s worth a damn!” The words exploded from him like a bullet. And the moment they were out, he froze.

You stood there. Stunned. Staring. Shaking.

“Is that what you think?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “That I only loved the version of you that people clap for?”

“No. I—” He reached for you. Regret flooding in too late. “That’s not— I didn’t mean it like that—”

“But you said it.”

You stepped back. One step. Then another.

He blinked hard, eyes wide now. Panicked.

“Wait. Don’t—don’t walk away. Please. We can fix this. I’ll fix it. Just don’t go, okay?”

But you were already moving. Toward the hallway. Toward your coat. Toward air that didn’t choke you.

“I’m not doing this anymore, Joe.”

“Please.” He followed you. Desperate. Unsteady. “You don’t mean this. You’re just mad. Don’t let this be the end of it.”

“I’m not leaving to end it,” you said, hand on the door. “I’m leaving because I can’t fucking breathe anymore.”

You turned back to him one last time. And he looked like he was drowning.

But you had already been drowning for weeks. And tonight, for the first time… you chose yourself.

So you walked out. Not because you wanted to hurt him. But because staying would mean betraying you.

And this time— you weren’t taking any more of his mess as your burden to carry.

The sunlight was cruel. Sharp and uninvited, it cut across the room like judgment—too white, too loud, too real.

Joe stirred on the couch with a groan so guttural it startled even him. His back screamed. His neck was twisted at an impossible angle. And his tongue… his tongue felt like it had been dipped in ash and shame.

For a long second, he didn’t remember. Not where he was. Not why his shoes were still on. Not why his phone was buzzing somewhere far, far away.

And then— you. Your voice. The door. The echo of your steps leaving.

Your eyes, wide and wet and tired. The sound of your heart snapping in half.

“I’m not leaving to end it… I’m leaving because I can’t breathe anymore.”

His stomach turned.

He sat up too fast and the room spun sideways. He clutched his head, breath catching in his throat.

The taste of last night coated his mouth: liquor, bile, regret. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and smoke and a trace of your perfume—faint and cruel.

He reached for his phone.

Two texts sent after you left, before the whiskey knocked him out:

Don’t do this.

Do you really think running away is gonna solve anything?

He stared at them now, nauseated. They looked like they’d been written by someone else. Someone defensive, prideful, still drunk on his own righteousness.

He opened your chat again. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then finally:

I’m sorry. For all of it. I didn’t mean those things. Please just… talk to me.

The message hung there, blue and cold and unanswered.

He dropped the phone on the coffee table and staggered to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and he recoiled.

His eyes were bloodshot. His face pale. Jaw clenched so tight it ached. He leaned over the sink, trying to breathe.

But breathing didn’t help. Because then the memory hit.

Not just what he said. But how he said it. The volume. The venom. The flash of panic in your eyes. The way you looked at him like you didn’t recognize him anymore.

He gagged. Then he vomited. And it felt… appropriate.

Afterward, he sat on the cold tile, back against the bathtub, arms limp at his sides.

All those times he had pushed. All those nights he told himself tomorrow, I’ll be better. I’ll show up more. I’ll say yes to her instead of everyone else. And he had run out of tomorrows.

Now you were gone. And he didn’t even know where you’d gone. Or if you’d answer if he called. Which he did. Three times. Straight to voicemail.

“Hey… It’s me. I know you don’t want to hear from me right now, but please… I need to tell you how sorry I am. I was drunk and angry and scared and I said things I can’t unsay, I know. But none of it was true. None of it. Please, can you just… tell me where you are? Just let me know you’re safe.”

The second voicemail, hours later, was quieter. Almost whispering.

“I don’t know what to do with myself. The apartment feels wrong without you in it. I know I fucked up. But I need you to believe that I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never meant to be this. Please.”

By the time night fell, he had stopped calling. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he didn’t know what else to say that wouldn't make it worse.

The silence you left behind was no longer empty. It was full of every word he shouldn’t have said. Every moment he should’ve shown up. Every version of himself that you never signed up for.

And still, your voice echoed in his chest:

I’m leaving because I can’t breathe anymore.

He lay back down on the couch, eyes wide open, phone pressed to his chest like a prayer. For the first time in forever, he didn’t fall asleep.

He just… waited.

The message came in mid-afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table, though he hadn’t eaten a single thing. A half-full mug of cold coffee stared back at him like an accusation.

His phone vibrated, and something inside him leapt— Hope, maybe. Or fear dressed as hope.

He opened the text with a pulse like a drumbeat in his throat.

i’m staying at my parents for a few… just need some time.

No punctuation. No heart emoji. No softness. Just… logistics.

He read it four times. Then five. And then, slowly, he set the phone down as if it were made of glass and fire all at once.

His jaw clenched. He forced his hands to stay on the table. He would not beg. Not now. Not again. She’s safe, he told himself. That’s what matters. That’s what you said you wanted.

But God, it hurt.

He got up and paced the apartment like a caged animal. Your coat still hung by the door. Your shoes still by the shoe rack. A pair of socks you always forgot to put away crumpled on the armrest of the couch. The toothbrush in the cup. Your hair tie on the sink.

The place was still you. But it was missing you. And that distinction was unbearable.

He walked to the window, cracked it open, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t even like smoking anymore, but the smell masked the air that no longer smelled like home.

The smoke curled around him, and he exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t replied to your text. Not because he didn’t want to—but because what could he say?

“Please come home”? “I’ll change”? “I already have”? “I miss you”?

All of the above? He wanted to scream. Instead, he flicked ash out the window and whispered, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Because how did it get this far? How did he become this person—this shadow of himself that pushed you away, even while needing you more than air?

He hadn’t gone to the thing he was supposed to go to that night. Some afterparty. Some rooftop deal with industry people and fake laughs and warm beer.

He said no.

For the first time in months, he said no.

But it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like locking the barn after the horses had fled into the night.

He walked back to the table. Opened his notebook. The one you gave him when you bought the apartment. With your little note on the inside cover:

“For every version of you I haven’t met yet. I hope they all love me.”

He read it now, and something cracked in his chest. Because you did meet another version of him. And that one—the messy, lost, brittle one—had failed you.

He scribbled something on the next page. Not because he knew what to say, but because silence was swallowing him whole.

You said you needed air. But I swear, the second you left, I forgot how to breathe.

He closed the notebook, rested his forehead on it, and sat there. For minutes. Hours. He didn’t know. Time was meaningless now.

He didn’t text again. Didn’t beg. Didn’t write a monologue of apologies or explanations.

Just one word, that night, before going to bed alone in a bed that still smelled like you:

okay.

And then he turned the lights off, lay on his side of the bed—rigid, stiff, barely breathing—and waited for sleep to come.

It didn’t.

Only silence. And the ghost of what he used to have.

He hadn’t planned on going out. He didn’t even remember agreeing to it, really. Just a text from Mark that said, “Get dressed. You need to get out of your fucking cave.”

And maybe he did.

The cave—your apartment—had begun to feel like a haunted house. Everything reminded him of you. The coffee mug you always used that still had your lipstick stain on it. The worn sweater you slept in. A list on the fridge that read:

“Wednesdays: bin out. Thursdays: love each other a little extra.”

He read it every morning like it was scripture. And he was a failed believer.

So he went. Put on some halfway-decent clothes. Washed his face. Tried to tame the wild curl in his hair that you used to smooth down with your fingers when he wasn’t looking. Failed.

The bar was loud, sticky, and full of people pretending not to feel lonely. He ordered a beer, then another. Laughed at someone’s joke. Pretended to listen to some story about Cannes or a show someone had landed. Smiled when he was supposed to.

He even flirted. Or tried to. A girl asked if he wanted to grab a smoke. He said no. Because your voice was still in his head, teasing: "Don’t flirt with girls who vape, Joe. That’s just low-level sinning."

God, he missed your voice.

He finished his drink. And left early. No one really noticed.

The streets were cold, even for late spring. The kind of chill that settled in your bones and made your hands feel too empty. He shoved them into his jacket pockets and walked the long way home.

He didn’t want to go back to the apartment. Not because it was painful. But because it felt wrong without you.

He walked in. Flicked the light on.

Silence.

No music playing softly from your side of the bed. No half-finished glass of water on your nightstand. No bra hung over the bathroom doorknob like it lived there permanently. No laughter coming from the kitchen because you always managed to laugh at your own clumsy way of chopping vegetables.

Nothing.

He dropped his keys on the table and stood in the middle of the room. Just stood there. Like he didn’t know where to go.

Then, slowly, it hit him. All of it.

Not like a punch. Like a slow, drowning weight.

He had fucked it.

Not with one action. Not with one night. But with dozens of nights. With every quiet dismissal. Every "just a quick drink after this." Every "be home soon" that turned into hours. Every time he walked in smelling like a stranger. Every time he looked through you instead of at you.

He hadn't betrayed you with some huge, unforgivable thing. He had just… stopped paying attention.

And you? You had still been there. Quietly loving him. Patiently waiting. Softening the edges of his life with every damn small thing that now felt like a wound.

He sat on the couch.

No. He collapsed.

Ran both hands through his hair and let out a breath that felt like it had been waiting for days to come out.

He had taken you for granted.

Like your love was a law of nature. Like the sun would always rise. Like you would always be there, because you always had.

Even through worse. Even through hell and high water. But this? This was different.

Because this time, he hadn’t shown up. This time, he had let the weight fall on you while he kept chasing whatever the fuck it was that seemed so important at the time.

This time… He wasn’t the man you’d fallen in love with.

Not because he’d changed. But because he’d forgotten to see you.

He wiped at his face, not realizing there were tears.

And for the first time since you left, Joe didn’t just feel sad. He felt ashamed.

You were sitting at the kitchen table in your parents’ house, wrapped in your old hoodie, legs curled under you like a kid who never quite grew up. Your coffee had gone cold. The mug still steamed only in memory. The rain tapped lightly on the windows, like it was trying to say something but couldn’t quite find the words either.

Your sister leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a knowing frown playing on her face. She didn’t say anything for a long while.

Then, she asked quietly “So… that’s it? You’re over?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared into the mug like the bottom might reveal a fortune. Eventually, you let out a breath that had been living in your chest for too long.

“No. I— I don’t know.”

She tilted her head. “Do you want it to be over?”

You swallowed hard.

"I just want the old version of what we had back," you said. "The one where I didn’t feel like I was begging for his time. The one where I didn’t have to guess if I still mattered."

"And you think that version doesn’t exist anymore?"

You rubbed at your temple, already exhausted by the answer you hadn’t even said yet.

“He said this is who he’s always been. Like... all of this? The nights out, the stress, the detachment? He said that’s just who he is. And maybe he’s right. Maybe there is no other version of him. Maybe I just fooled myself into believing he was someone else. Someone I could build a life with.”

She walked over, sat across from you, her brow furrowed in the way that meant she was choosing her words carefully.

“Do you really think that?”

You looked down at your hands. At the ghost of a ring that hadn’t even existed, but you had dreamed of anyway. You blinked.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” A pause. “At this point I don’t even know what to think. I just know I miss him. I miss us. But I also feel… better, somehow. Lighter. Like I’m not constantly bracing myself for another disappointment. And that’s terrifying, isn’t it? Missing someone and being relieved at the same time?”

Your sister didn’t answer that. Just reached out and touched your hand.

“Maybe talking to him would help.”

You sighed. You had thought about it. A thousand times. Every time you looked at your phone, every time you opened and closed the drafts of unsent messages that only said things like:

Do you remember how much we loved each other before all the noise?

Are you still there? Somewhere under the mess?

But you never sent them. Because you didn’t know what his silence meant yet. If it was space or surrender.

So instead, you nodded.

“Maybe.”

But your voice was quiet. Like maybe meant never. Or not yet.

You stood up. Took the coffee cup to the sink. Stared out the window at the rain for a long time, wondering if he was watching it fall too, somewhere far away in the same city. Maybe wondering if you were thinking of him. Maybe wondering if he’d already lost you.

It had taken you three tries to unlock the door. Not because the key stuck, but because your hand shook. The apartment felt colder than you remembered. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful, but hollow.

It still smelled like the two of you. Faint traces of that sandalwood candle he always pretended to hate. Your shampoo lingering in the bathroom, even though you hadn't used it in days. His jacket thrown over the back of the chair like nothing had happened. Like he’d be back in a minute with a coffee or some stupid story from the pub.

But he wasn’t.

The lights were off. No shoes at the door. The bed untouched, still as you’d left it that night when you left with your heart dragging behind you.

You dropped your bag by the couch and exhaled. Disappointed but not surprised. Because really, why would he be here? He hadn’t been here—not truly—for weeks. Not when it mattered. Not when you were cracking like porcelain behind closed doors and he was out talking shop and pouring drinks with strangers who didn’t know how you laughed when you were sleepy or how you cried watching commercials.

Of course he wasn’t here.

You sat on the edge of the bed, not ready to lie down. Not ready to admit you had come here half-hoping to find him curled up in that spot on the couch, unshaven, wrecked, with regret in his eyes.

But Joe wasn’t that man. Joe didn't collapse. He kept moving until he broke something. Usually himself. Sometimes you.

Still, you reached for your phone.

Simple. Easy. Barely a whisper.

i’m home. want to talk?

You stared at the screen for a while, waiting for the typing bubbles that didn’t come.

You told yourself you’d give him an hour. Then maybe 30 minutes. Then 20.

But he didn’t need that.

Because exactly twelve minutes and forty-something seconds later, the lock clicked.

The door flew open. And there he was.

Breathless. Disheveled. Eyes wide and glassy like he’d run through every streetlight in the city to get there.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, chest heaving, keys still in hand. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come in.

You were still sitting on the bed, phone in your lap, legs drawn up like a shield.

He took one step in. Then another. Like the air between you was thick enough to drown in.

“You came back,” he finally said. Like it hurt to say it out loud.

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

He looked around like the apartment might vanish. Like you might.

And then, quietly, almost broken:

“Are you staying?”

You didn’t answer that yet. Because you weren’t sure. Because you weren’t there yet. But you were there now. And maybe that was the first step.

“Sit,” you said, patting the edge of the bed beside you. Your voice didn’t shake. Not this time.

He sat down next to you. Not too close. Close enough to make your chest ache.

His hands were clenched, his jaw tense, but his eyes—they were soft. Tired. Scared, maybe. Or maybe that was just you, projecting.

You stared at the floor for a while. Then said it.

"I don’t think I’m made for this."

His head snapped toward you. "Don’t." Just one word, sharp and ragged.

You sighed. Closed your eyes.

"I mean it. I think I’ve just been really good at pretending I was. At making it work, holding things together, swallowing shit that made me sick, just because… I loved you."

He flinched. Visibly. Like you’d slapped him.

"Please don’t talk like that. Don’t say that, don’t—" His voice cracked and he ran a hand through his hair, pulling a little at the roots like he could tear the words out of his own skull. "You’re not pretending. You never were. I was the one who—Jesus, I fucked this up."

You didn’t say anything. Just let him talk, because he needed to. Because you needed to hear it, even if you didn’t know if you believed it anymore.

"I didn’t mean what I said that night," he continued, quieter now. "About you regretting the mortgage. About me being like this all along. I was drunk. Angry. Cornered. But I didn’t mean it."

You turned your head, finally looking at him. Your voice was low, flat.

"But it sounded real."

He froze. You repeated it, softer, more honest.

"It sounded so real, Joe. And that’s what’s killing me. Not the words. Not even that you said them… but that I believed them. That I believed you meant it."

His shoulders dropped like someone had taken all the bones out of him.

"I know. I know. And I hate that. I hate that I made you feel that way. That I became the kind of man who could make you question everything we’ve built."

You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand, frustrated you were even crying. You didn’t want this to be another sad scene in a long string of sad scenes.

"I need to know that you didn’t mean it. I need to hear you say it again, not just the apology, but the truth. Because you made me doubt things I never doubted before. And if you could do that… then maybe you can make me believe again."

He blinked at you, like he wasn’t sure he deserved the chance. And then—

"I didn’t mean any of it." No hesitation.

He shifted closer, almost afraid to touch you, like you might vanish into the silence between you.

"I was angry. And scared. And drunk. But none of that excuses it. I said things I didn’t mean because I wanted to win the argument. Because I felt like I was failing at everything and I panicked. I lashed out. And I hate that my instinct in that moment was to hurt the person I love the most."

You stared at the floor again. Because it was easier than looking at him while he said everything you both already knew. But he kept going.

"I don’t think you're pretending. I never have. You’re the only real thing I’ve had through all of this—the only thing that actually made sense. I was so caught up in my own bullshit, in the pressure, the deadlines, the noise… that I stopped paying attention to you. And I took it for granted that you’d be there. Because you always were."

His voice broke, like he hated himself a little more with each word.

"And I swear to you, if I could go back and rewrite every stupid choice I made this past month, I would. But I can’t. All I can do now is… stay. Fight. Learn. Be better."

You turned to look at him, your throat tight, your eyes burning again with all the tears you were miserably trying to hold.

"Why didn’t you say all of that before?"

He gave a sad, broken smile.

"Because I thought you already knew. And because I was a coward."

The air between you hung heavy with that.

And then—

"But I know now that just loving you isn’t enough if I can’t show it. If I can’t protect it. And I want to. I want to be the man you believed in when you chose to build a life with me. Even if I have to rebuild myself to get there."

And somehow, you felt it. You heard the crack in his voice, the bruises in his breath, the sincerity that hadn’t been there before—not like this.

"I love you Joe," you said softly.

He closed his eyes and exhaled like someone who had been underwater for too long.

And I know you love me too, that’s why it hurts so much"

His eyes didn’t flinch. He nodded. He understood.

The silence between you didn’t feel hostile anymore, just full. Of all the things you hadn’t said. Of the space between the versions of you that once had it all figured out, and the ones sitting there now, learning to walk again after the fall.

“I think…” you began slowly, searching for the right crack to slip the truth through, “I think I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to be another pressure on your shoulders.”

Joe shifted beside you, turning his body fully toward yours. You didn’t dare meet his eyes just yet.

“I kept telling myself you were just stressed, that it was temporary, that things would calm down eventually. And that if I pressed too much, if I asked too much, I’d just make it worse.”

He shook his head, a sharp breath caught in his chest. “No, love—don’t do that. Don’t carry this like it’s your fault.”

“I’m not blaming myself,” you said, eyes still on your hands. “But I’m not innocent in this either. You’re not a mind reader, Joe. I should’ve spoken up. I should’ve said how much it hurt instead of pretending it didn’t.”

Finally, you looked at him. His eyes—God, those eyes—were soft with regret, but not drowning in it. He was listening. He was here.

He reached for your hand, careful, tentative, as if asking for permission to hold it. You let him.

“I never wanted to make you feel like you couldn’t talk to me,” he said. “That’s what guts me the most. I thought I was protecting you from my mess… but I was shutting you out. And then when everything exploded—I can’t forgive myself for the things I said. I can’t believe I made you doubt us.”

“You didn’t mean them,” you said quietly, and he nodded, grateful. “But they still cut deep.”

“I know.” His voice cracked again. “I know, and I’ll carry that until I’ve earned your trust back.”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat. “I think we just… forgot for a second that we’re supposed to be on the same side. That whatever comes, we’re meant to face it together, not as two people trying to prove who’s hurting more.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Not enemies.”

“Never enemies,” you echoed.

You both sat there for a long moment, fingers entwined, forehead to forehead, like two soldiers returning from war, holding each other in the middle of a wreckage they weren’t ready to walk away from—because maybe the wreckage was home, too. Not because it was perfect, but because it was yours.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he murmured.

And somehow—for the first time in weeks—you believed it.

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whatsupsonnyboy · 24 days ago

Text

𝜗𝜚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝜗𝜚

when you're on your period and all else fails, at least your boyfriend is a human furnace.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fem!reader, established relationship, reader's on her period, cramps, mentions of blood, wanting to vomit (no one throws up) and pregnancy, fluff, johnny being perfect and silly as per usual.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

it hurts.

it’s three seventeen in the morning.

the bathroom floor underneath your aching body is growing colder by the second.

you can feel the blood clots coming out of you slowly, it makes you feel sick in the throat.

the cramps are everywhere. throbbing, gawning, stinging, pounding. you'd think the painkillers you took would've worked by now.

your knees and hips hurt, you wish the soreness in them would lessen just a little bit so you can get up and get to bed. you’d still be in pain but at least you’d be in pain somewhere comfortable and warm. the thought of stretching your legs makes you want to cry though, you’ve been in the fetal position for so long.

just five more minutes, you think to yourself. in five minutes you’ll force yourself to get up. it’s final, you think as you try to ignore the fact that you’ve been saying that for the past hour. laying on the bathroom floor seemed like a good idea at first - you’d be near the toilet in case you need to use it for various things, the sink is close by for when you need to freshen up, you were a little dizzy so by being horizontal, you’d avoid falling and getting hurt - but now you’ve been here for longer than you’d ever choose to and the cold tiles are making the ache worse.

fuck me.

in the room connected to the bathroom, your boyfriend stirs in bed alone. he goes to pull you closer but his arm falls onto your pillow instead making him open his eyes sleepily. “baby?” he whispers, touching the spot where you’re supposed to be laying but it’s just empty and cold. you must’ve gotten up long ago if your side has completely lost your warmth like this..

“baby..?” he repeats after getting up, his voice tired and raspy as he notices the light beneath the bathroom’s door.

he makes his way to it, ruffling his hair with one hand and knocking with the other, “you’re in here?”

the sound of his voice takes you out of your misery but it’s short lived as a cramp hits just less than a second later, “door’s unlocked, come in but don’t freak out”

he frowns, what could possibly be on the other side of the door that would freak him out? you’re not.. you can’t be.. at this hour… you wouldn’t… right?

he opens the door and upon seeing you, his heart sinks. “baby what happened? why are you on the floor?” he kneels on the ground next to you, his hands already reaching for your face.

“i told you not to freak out” looking up at him through tired eyes, “i just.. i’m okay it’s just my period.” you say simply as if you haven’t been holding onto life by a thread for an hour.

“oh thank god” johnny lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and suddenly you have enough energy to run a marathon.

“thank god?” raising an eyebrow at him, “johnny i’m fighting death over here. death!” you attempt to smack his hand but a cramp hits and your hand flies back to press onto your stomach where the pain is.

“i thought you were pregnant!” johnny says, dead serious.

“pregnant? why would i be pregnant?”

“when you said not to freak out i thought i’d come in here and see you with a positive pregnancy test in your hand” he explains as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“why would i take a pregnancy test at three in the morning to begin with?”

“i don’t know when you’re supposed to take a pregnancy test, maybe you’re supposed to take it at three in the morning” he shrugs and you’re unsure of whether he’s joking or genuinely believes the nonsense he’s saying, you can rarely tell with johnny.

you really do not have the energy for this right now. “you’re absolutely not supposed to take it at three in the morning.”

he nods, “and i’ll keep that in mind for future reference”

“take me to bed idiot.” you smile at him and twist your body to the side, opening your arms.

“yes ma’am” he leans in to wrap his arms around you but you stop it immediately.

“wait! try to keep me folded like this” you motion to the way you’re laying down in the fetal position.

he looks at your body and nods, “keep you folded. i can do that.” he smirks as he carefully carries you exactly how you asked, one arm behind your back and the other over your knees to keep you folded.

“oh my god”

“what? did i hurt you?” he asks worriedly, stopping in his tracks.

“no no it’s just..” your body melts into his chest, “the floor was so cold and firm and you.. you’re so warm and soft.” you sigh in relief.

he frowns. “i’m firm.” he walks over to the bed, “i’m very firm. seriously babe i’ve been working out i’m getting firmer i..”

“shh can you go warmer please?” you look up at him through your lashes and blink slowly, innocently, needily. he’d never say no to you but it’s fun to tease him.

he looks at you and tries to hide his smile as he gets in bed, keeping you folded in his lap then pulls the covers onto the both of you. “you have to press the button if you want to change the settings.”

giggling, you put your hands on his shoulders and raise up enough to plant a soft kiss on his even softer lips, he warms up more immediately and your aching body melts into his. your own personal furnace. “god this is so nice.”

he remembers when he was a kid and sue would ask him to heat up her heating pad, he used to get so scared whenever sue was in pain, she's his big sister and she's the only one who ever took care of him, it was scary when he couldn't do the same for her, he felt helpless despite her telling him there's nothing he can do, so he sat by her side and rubbed her back as he watched her hold the heating pad tightly. the memory sparks an idea in his mind, “yeah? and how about this?” he says, putting his hot hand on your lower stomach and pressing, right where the pain is worst. the heat and pressure alleviates it until it doesn’t feel like you’re being repeatedly stabbed anymore, it just feels like a slight discomfort which will soon fade into a distant memory of hurt.

“i’ve never loved you more than i do right now.” just as you say that, he moves his hand to your knees and begins to delicately and slowly stretch your legs, massaging them from your ankles to your hips with his warm hand until they feel okay again before his hand returns to its spot on your stomach.

he kisses your temple, “go to sleep baby.” he says quietly, warming up just a little bit more, he knows extra warmth is the final push you need to fall asleep and it’s reconfirmed when he looks at you to see your eyes closed and lips a little parted, you look so peaceful, so beautiful, he makes a silent vow that he’ll keep you at ease like this for as long as he lives. “you’ll love me even more tomorrow when i’ll have herbert make you a chocolate cake.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @hazzaismyreligion @fantastic-fox @sugarheart-riot @phyllosilicate-s @becca-alexa @quinnsfae14 @munson-enthusiast @lovinvane @ficsbypix @josephfakingquinn @munsonluvrr @eddies-puppet @mattyhealyssideburn @flawiette @joeydoeeyes @ho-for-joequinn-fics @etherealxwitch @dianaaxoxo @nay1234ttyy @lindamujer444 @that-one-gay-aew-enthusiast @cherrydoll-xo @ashprince-of-bel-air @pleasantlycrazyworld @screaming-blue-bagel @avobabe87 @honey-eyed-munson @multi-culti-girl @prestinalove @that-one-star-girl @nicholaschavezslut69 @yesshewrites1 @strawbbzombwie @eddieschains

#this is so so incredibly cute #i have no proof but 0 doubts johnny would totally behave like this #johnny storm

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