#icallhimjoey

“Mhm.”

Your fingers trace slow circles over the cotton of his shirt, absentminded and content.

“Are you actually watching this at all?” he continues patiently. He chose a film he thought you’d actually like, but doesn’t think you’re aware he kept you in mind when he made the choice.

“Yea I am. It’s good.”

“You,” Joe says, glancing down finally, “are lying to me.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, blinking lazily.

“Yea I am.”

Joe studies you for a second, clearly taking in the full situation: the way you’ve draped yourself over him, the hand resting comfortably across his stomach, the faintly smug expression on your face that suggests you see absolutely no issue with any of this. His hand drops to your back, curling his fingers to give you a few loving scratches.

“You’re crushing me,” he says, jokingly straining his voice, overacting he can’t breathe.

You shift slightly.

Not to get off him, obviously, why the fuck would you. He can breathe fine. You just want to settle more firmly into place, and press your cheek deeper into the soft warmth of his stomach.

Joe can have his spot on his sofa. This is your spot.

“No I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

You let a hand slide beneath the hem of his shirt, your palm flattening against his stomach to feel the most of it. Joe’s warm, as he always is, and, Jesus fucking Christ, there’s just something so deeply satisfying about the feel of the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your hand.

You press your thumb lightly into his side just to see what happens.

Joe twitches. “Hey.”

You do it again.

“Hey!”

A grin spreads slowly across your face where it’s hidden against his shirt.

“You don’t have to watch this, but at least let me watch,” Joe mutters.

“Is it a good film?”

“You’d know if you paid attention.”

Your thumb presses into his side again, a little lower this time.

Joe shifts, the cushions creaking faintly under the movement.

“Okay,” he says slowly, suspicious now, “Hand. Give me your hand.”

You lift your head just enough to look up at him innocently as he fishes your hand from under his shirt and holds your wrist so your fingers can’t reach. You watch Joe perch his elbow on the armrest as the TV finds his attention again.

“Yea? You’re just… gonna hold it like that the whole time?”

Joe moves just his eyes to stare down at you for a moment like he’s evaluating whether this is worth the effort or not. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, and then, without any warning whatsoever, his other arm hooks firmly around the back of your neck and pulls you sideways.

“Joe–!”

The protest barely gets out before you’re tucked securely against his side, his arm settling around your neck in a way that feels both effortless and completely unavoidable. It’s not tight, or rough, but just heavy and firm enough that escaping would require a level of determination you’re not currently prepared to commit to.

Your boyfriend’s got you in headlock.

“I’m actually going to hold you like this the whole time, if you don’t mind.”

Joe leans back against the sofa like nothing unusual has happened, and you contemplate if you actually mind this or not. You’re not terribly comfortable like this, but there’s something nice about having your cheeks squished between his bicep and forearm like this.

“What if I do mind?” the words sound funny coming from your mouth.

“Shh. Behave.” he says calmly, making you squirm immediately.

Joe doesn’t move.

Which is good, because, yea, no, you actually don’t mind this at all. You could quite happily die here, you’ve decided.

His arm stays right where it is, thick and warm across the top of your back, the tops of your shoulders, holding you in place like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The movement only presses you closer into his side, and suddenly you become very aware of the fact that, if you just manage to turn your face a little… his bicep will be directly in front of your face.

You look up at him to see if he’s watching you.

He’s not.

You try to ignore how your mouth waters.

Maybe, if you turn your face really slowly, he won’t even notice…

Joe notices instantly.

“No.”

He’s got an idea of what you’re about to do as he feels you lean slightly closer into his arm.

“Do not.”

Unfortunately for Joe, the bicep in question is difficult to ignore. Especially when it’s this close to your mouth. His sleeve has ridden up slightly during the struggle, exposing the curve of his bicep where it tightens as he adjusts his grip. The muscle shifts under the skin, thick and solid without looking like he’s trying, this fucker, and the hand that Joe isn’t still holding moves almost automatically to squeeze it.

Joe sighs immediately.

“Stop, I’m trying to– this is meant to make you stop distracting me.”

You squeeze again, testing the firmness of him, feeling the way the muscle flexes instinctively under your hand.

You’ve always liked his arms. Joe’s arms are strong and comfortable at the same time, they belong to a man who could lift something heavy without warning but who could also happily spend an entire evening doing absolutely nothing on the sofa.

You like using both your arms to hug one of his to your front when you go to sleep, and like holding onto one when you’re walking side by side more than you like holding hands.

Just something about them.

About those broad shoulders and solid arms that lead down to strong hands with thick fingers.

Right now, one of those arms is holding you captive whilst the other ensures you can’t squeeze the soft flesh of his side. He doesn’t even have to work hard keeping you in place, he barely glances away from the TV.

You don’t need both hands to do what you’re about to do next.

You tuck your chin a little, hiding into the crevice Joe’s created for your face and line your mouth up so your lips touch the best part of his arm.

“I swear to God, if you–”

Too late.

Your teeth sink gently into his bicep.

Joe jerks, even though he knew this was coming, and lets go of your wrist instantly.

“Hey!”

You’re not biting hard at all, it’s just hard enough to press your teeth into the muscle and feel the warmth of him under your mouth. Joe’s reaction is immediate; his arm flexes automatically under the sudden contact and he lets out a startled laugh that shakes both of you.

“What is wrong with you?” Joe says, laughing still, trying unsuccessfully to pull his arm away.

“You put me in a headlock!”

“That does not justify biting!”

You bite him again for emphasis, little bit firmer this time, not breaking skin, but enough to leave wet teeth marks.

Joe groans dramatically.

“Unbelievable.”

Joe loosens his grip just enough to shove gently at your forehead with the heel of his palm, trying to push your face away from his arm like he’s dealing with a feral cat.

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Get,” Joe says through his teeth, “the fuck off me.” His voice is raised, but somehow quieter than before at the same time.

You grin up at him, entirely unrepentant, and Joe stares back down at you for a second too long. You’re not moving. You’re not even acting like you’re about to move. You were put in a headlock without being asked first and just tried to make yourself a little more comfortable… whose fault is that? You don’t particularly think it’s yours.

Nothing’s been said for a second, but you assume Joe agrees that he’s got no one to blame but himself, because suddenly, he tightens his arm again and pulls you back against his side with a quiet, resigned huff.

You laugh at his defeat, at the sudden switch up, as his arm locks more securely around your shoulders this time. It’s more comfortable like this for the both of you, and you feel how Joe settles back into the cushions like he intends to continue watching the film.

It’s not like you’re done yet, though.

The very second his arm settles around you, your hands are already there.

You grab his bicep with both hands.

Joe groans.

“Leave it alone, please.”

“But look at it.”

“It’s an arm.”

You let a dreamy sigh escape you. “Yea.” you agree as you rub your cheek against his skin. “A very nice one.”

Joe flexes instinctively when you give it a slight squeeze again, all ten of your fingers digging in.

“Oh wow.”

“Stop.”

“Do that again.”

Joe snorts quietly, shaking his head, but he doesn’t actually try to pull away again. Instead, he keeps one eye on the television while you drag your fingers up along his shoulder, squeezing lightly where the muscle thickens under the fabric of his shirt, feeling him.

When he feels your lips touch the skin of his arm again, he flinches before you’ve even borne your teeth again. You dissolve into laughter immediately, half hidden against his arm as he tries unsuccessfully to pull away from your teeth.

“What is it? Do you need a snack? There’s a whole bowl of popcorn right there!”

“Sorry!” you laugh, not feeling sorry at all. “You keep putting it in my face!”

“It is attached to me! What do you want me to do?”

“Let me bite it.”

“No. Do you want the popcorn or not?”

“No.”

Joe sighs as he realises he’s somehow lost control of the evening. He’s not going to get to watch the rest of this film in peace and quiet. However, the face he pulls makes you want to stop teasing him. Instead of another bite mark, Joe gets kiss pressed into the warm skin of his bicep and you settle your cheek comfortably against his arm.

Your eyes find the TV now too. Maybe you can actually try and watch this film if Joe’s so into it.

Joe doesn’t say anything for a moment.

You can feel his eyes on you though.

You keep your face very neutral, very serious, trying your best to follow the conversation on the screen that you have zero context for. One of your fingers drifts absentmindedly across his arm though, tracing slowly over the faint, pink half-moons your teeth left behind.

Joe notices with quiet suspicion, eyes narrowing, but his mouth is unable to hide the smile that’s pulling on both corners of his mouth. Pretending to be the picture of innocence all of the sudden whilst you gently map the bite marks you made into his bicep is low key hilarious, and so Joe can’t help the laugh he huffs through his nose.

Next, he leans forward just enough to press a quick kiss to the top of your head before you get a couple pats against your thigh. You get the hint, slinging both legs over Joe’s lap where he catches them easily with his other arm.

It’s too difficult not to snuggle deeper into all of this.

Everything about this is fantastic.

And, actually, this film isn’t too bad either.

Joe finds it too difficult not to keep staring at how content you look. Relaxed face, body right where it wants to be, fingers holding onto your favourite body part of him… This is your spot, and it’s impossible to miss how much you love this. It makes him feel funny somewhere deep inside his stomach. When Joe looks at himself in a mirror, he doesn’t really see anything special. Yet, the way your eyes change when you catch a bit of skin that should’ve been hidden by his sleeve proves you think the opposite is true.

And that’s all he cares about anyway. Not the way he looks, but the way that you look when you see him. He could watch you all night, actually.

Joe had insisted on watching a film with you.

You’d insisted on wanting to lie on him.

And now, both things are technically happening, though… only one of you is actually paying attention to the screen.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89

“All right, that’s not evasive at all.” You shift slightly so you’re angled more toward him, studying his face now instead of the screen. “You weren’t normal.”

“I was.” he says, like he genuinely believes it. “Normal and boring. Just, all right. I was fine. Went to school, did what I had to do, nothing interesting.”

“That still tells me nothing.”

He exhales, like you’re asking something unnecessarily complicated, and folds papers back into place before he leans forward to discard work onto the coffee table. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You glance back at the film for a moment, at the overly dramatic scene that’s still unfolding, and then back at him again, piecing together your own version instead.

“I bet all the girls really liked you.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he frowns deeply as he sits back and gets a bit more comfortable against your side. “Which is fine, actually. I didn’t like them either. Girls were icky.”

You stare at him for a second as he pulls you closer, trying to decide if he’s serious or not.

“I’m sorry, what? Girls were icky?”

He’s holding you suspiciously close for someone who thinks he can make comments about girls like that.

“Of course they were,” he continues, settling into it now. “Always coming up to me and being all weird.”

Joe makes a face like he’s recalling something genuinely horrific from his childhood before he wiggles a few fingers at his own face and says, “Going on about my eyelashes and things.”

You watch him for a moment, and it only takes a second for Joe to fill the silence.

“They’d be like, ‘oh my God, your eyelashes are so long,’ and then they’d just… stand there, batting their own sticky long fake eyelashes, expecting a response from me.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shifting so you’re fully facing him now.

“Joe, that’s flirting.”

He fully ignores you, even though you know full well that he’s heard you perfectly fine. His frown stays as he rambles on, “And then they’d do this stupid thing where they’d grab your wrist…” he’s already grabbed hold of yours to demonstrate. “And they’d compare hand sizes, like, ‘oh my God, look how big your hands are,’ yea, and? So what, I don’t know, that’s not my fault, is it?” Joe huffs.

You stare at him, genuinely baffled now. Is he being fucking serious? You can’t help the laugh that escapes you as you shake your head at him. “Oh come on, you cannot be that big of an idiot.”

“What?” he says, dropping your hand, though there’s something slightly off about the way he says it now, something that doesn’t quite add up.

You lean in just a fraction, watching him more closely. “You know that’s peak teenage girl flirting.”

He holds your gaze for a second too long, and that’s all it takes. There’s a flicker of something there, something amused, something aware, before he looks away again.

“Girls are icky anyway,” he says, shrugging it off as he leans back into the sofa. “You’re icky.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving sound, turning back toward the TV. “Okay, so you were a real loser in school. Got it.”

He doesn’t respond, but when you glance at him again, there’s still the hint of a smile he hasn’t quite managed to hide.

Yea, this dickhead wasn’t a loser. The fact that he’s trying to sell the idea to you that he was one is what might make him one, though. You don’t bring it up again though. You don’t want to fall into a trap where you end up arguing that Joe was cool when he was in school.

You’re back in your phone when the film finishes, and it’s a surprise to you both how quickly the time’s gone. It’s late by now, and you both have early alarms already set.

“I’m going to bed,” Joe says, like an afterthought, already moving.

You hum in response, scroll down to another social media post and watch him disappear down the hallway. You give it a minute before getting up yourself, more out of habit than anything else, trailing after him toward the bathroom.

Joe is stood at the sink when you walk in, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand braced against the counter as he brushes his teeth.

You lean your shoulder into the doorframe for a second just to look at him, taking him in through the mirror.

There’s not a chance this guy didn’t have girls fighting over him at lunch time, you think. There’s definitely the possibility that he didn’t know what to do with any of the attention, but, fuck off, he’s absolutely lying to you.

You suppose it’s nicer to be lied to this way ‘round, but calling you icky was… a choice.

Joe’s a choice too.

Your choice.

It’s annoying that looking at him now only affirms it, even though the bathroom’s a right mess and he’s got foamy toothpaste dripping down his chin.

“Y’know what,” you say after a second, pushing yourself off the frame and stepping inside, “I think I sort of get it…”

He glances at you in the mirror, briefly, toothbrush still in his mouth.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, watching his reflection as you go. “Why you were such a bad kisser when we first got together.”

He freezes, and then slowly turns his head just enough to look at you, eyes narrowing around the toothbrush. “–mmph?”

You smile, completely unbothered, stepping in behind him. “Yea, sorry, but it just makes sense a bit now… all those girls flirting with you and you’re just… completely clueless, missing all of it entirely.”

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, quick and light. Just a little baby peck.

He makes a noise of protest, garbled by foam, tries to lean away a little because he doesn’t trust this tone of yours, but you’re too quick and get him again. Bit wetter that time.

“And then, eventually, I come along,” you continue, already aiming for his jaw this time, “and have to teach you everything from scratch.”

He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth just long enough to try and respond. “Tha’s– noh–”

You kiss him mid-sentence, right at the edge of his mouth, quick and deliberate, kind of gross because you definitely got some toothpaste there too, but it’s fine. What’s cleaner than toothpaste?

Joe jerks back immediately, shoving at you with his free hand. “I’m b–ushing my teef–”

“Come here,” you’re fighting him now as you laugh, trying to pull him closer so you can kiss him some more, but Joe’s strong and he’s got a wet toothbrush for a weapon.

“Shtop! You’re being–…” he pauses to spit into the sink. “You’re being disgusting,” he finishes more clearly. He looks at you for a second, tries to get it across to you with just his eyes that he doesn’t appreciate being distracted from brushing his teeth whilst you make fun of him for being green when he was in school.

Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t work, but you stop trying to fight him for a moment which in turn makes Joe return to the job at hand.

You tilt your head a little as you watch him. “Didn’t you just say girls are icky?”

It’s his own fault really, all of this.

“Mmph–” he argues with his mouth full and his forehead in a deep frown.

You ignore him and lean in again, pressing another kiss just under his jaw, as wet as you can get it this time, mouth half open, tongue touching his unshaved face, pleased with the way his shoulders tense.

He plants his hand flat against your forehead and pushes you back, has to tilt his head back to not dribble toothpaste everywhere and manages a very foamy, “Shtay. Dere.”

“I’m just being nice!”

“I–ong cahr.”

You let him think he’s won, but only briefly, because the second he stops pushing you back so hard, you giggle, “You’re just mad I improved your technique,” and dip in towards his neck.

Joe nearly gives himself whiplash with the speed of which he jerks back, “Mm! Mno!” whatever he’s trying to say is completely ruined by toothpaste. “Nnyou’re– icky! Icky–”

You’ve got your hands around his neck to pull him towards you with all your strength. It works. You’re almost hanging from his neck, but it works, and you get close enough for another smooch.

It’s only at the very last millisecond that you change your mind.

Instead of going for a kiss, you’re quick to stick your tongue out and lick him from just under his jaw to just about his cheekbone in a quick swipe.

He freezes completely and lets his toothbrush hang from his mouth as he stares at you in the mirror.

You can’t help but be all smiles and all ego as you reach for your own toothbrush. “Yea, no, I see your point. Super icky, me.”

There’s a beat where he just stares at you. Foamy toothpaste threatening to drip from his chin as you casually uncap the toothpaste for yourself.

“Yea, okay,” Joe drops his toothbrush into the sink with vigour. “You’re not fucking getting away with that,” he says, already moving, grabbing your arm and pulling you back toward him with so much strength, your shoulder crashes into his chest. You think it must hurt him more than it hurts you, but before you can even say anything, the first cold and unmistakably foamy and wet kiss lands on your cheek.

Ew.

You make a muffled noise of protest as you try to regain some control, but this motherfucker keeps you close and presses his face to yours once more. It’s not even real kisses – he’s just trying to cover your whole face in his minty spit and it’s fucking working.

You’re screeching as you try to fight him off, but he just keeps going, completely unapologetic, pressing his lips to your other cheek, then your jaw. Your nose next before he gets your chin.

“This is your own doing,” he enunciates perfectly, completely careless about where all of the toothpaste inside of his mouth ends up.  

You twist away, half-laughing, but he doesn’t let you go until he’s also gotten you across your forehead, and when you catch your reflection in the mirror, there’s toothpaste smeared all across your face in uneven wet streaks.

It’s in your hair too.

And down your top.

You look at Joe and realise he doesn’t look much different; he’s covered in his own white foamy spit as well.

“Oh my God, what the fu– and I’m the icky one?!” you argue, and all Joe can do is laugh.

“Yea, look at you,” he muses, and earns himself an elbow in the side.

He jolts immediately, and you take the opportunity to lean in and press a quick, messy kiss to his cheek in retaliation. Joe easily lets you, since you’re both fucking covered in the worst of it already. When you lean back to see if you’ve done any more damage to his cheek, Joe takes hold of your face, cupping your whole head in both of his palms and kisses you square on the mouth.

“Mm,” you hum before you pull away and wipe at your mouth like it’s the most disgusting thing Joe could’ve done before turning back to the mirror. “Well done. I’ve got to wash my hair now.”

Joe exhales through a smile, and can’t help the schoolboy-naughty face as he says, “Nah, you’re in mint condition still.” which earns him a weak slap to the chest from the back of your hand. Laughing, he shakes his head at the look of you trying to brush the paste from your hair as he turns the tap on to give his face a wash. There’s a softness to the way he looks at you before he dips his head down to splash some water onto his skin, something wholesome and quieter hidden in his eyes that silences you in return.

Without any more funny business, Joe washes his own face first before he helps you wipe down yours. You fall back into routine after that, brushing your teeth without smearing any of it across anyone’s face. Every so often, your eyes meet in the mirror, and Joe will scrunch his nose up at you whilst letting his mouth pull into a small smile neither of you fully acknowledge.

When you finally set your toothbrush down, he glances at you, then steps closer and hesitates just briefly. You don’t shy away from him now that there’s nothing to gross you out, and when Joe leans in to kiss you properly, you’re fully there for it.

The kiss is clean this time, slower, and a lot more purposeful. Joe stretches it just long enough for you to lose yourself into it a little, both hands on your face at first before one finds the back of your neck to keep you in place. You find yourself gasping into it as your whole front presses against all of his. You don’t want this to end. Ever.

When he finally, eventually, pulls back, it takes you a second to properly come back into yourself. Your eyes take longer to open, and when they eventually do, they look right into his. With your lips still parted, your next breath catches strangely on the way in, like your body hasn’t quite caught up yet with what just happened.

Joe notices.

You see it happen in real time, the way something warm and pleased unfurls across his face, boyish and unbearably self-satisfied with what he’s just done to you. His chest lifts with the effect he’s had on you, pride settling into the slight curve of his mouth as he looks at you like he’s personally responsible for the state of you, which, annoyingly, he sort of is.

“Mm,” he says softly, clearly delighted with himself. “You taught me well.”

You blink at him, still a little dazed, then narrow your eyes as the meaning catches up to you. “What?”

Joe’s smile only deepens. “Got you so bad you forgot where you were for a second there, didn’t you?”

You let out a breath that is half laugh, half disbelief, and shove lightly at his chest even though it does absolutely nothing to fix the fact that he’s fucking right.

“Can’t help but ask now…” he says as his flat hand slaps the doorframe as he’s about to leave the room. “What were you like in school?”

You hum softly against your own smile as you make eye-contact with him through the mirror.

“Great question, actually.”

And Joe already knows what the answer is going to be just by the glint in your eyes and the way you have to bite into your lips to hold back your laughter.

“Icky.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89

You don’t scream, and don’t slam the door.

Instead, it shuts the way it always does, lock clicking into place, and you toe your shoes off quickly. One flies askew, bumps into the wall. The other stays stubbornly stuck on your heel, making your curse under your breath, low and bitten off.

You have to exhale through flared nostrils in a bid to remain calm.

“Hey,” Joe calls from the kitchen, voice soft, like he’s trying his best not to startle you. “That you?”

“Mhm,” you hope he hears your hum as enough of an answer, and hope even more that whatever bad mood you’ve carried into the building gets left here, by the door.

Joe’s place smells amazing. There’s a faint trace of garlic and butter, of something sizzling in a pan. Nothing too overpowering, but nice enough to know that Joe’s been at it for a while already. Usually, the smell would’ve probably calmed and comforted you, yet tonight, it makes your stomach twist.

Joe steps out, wiping his hands on a tea towel. His hair’s a little messy, his sleeves rolled up into messy bunches around his elbows, and he smiles when he sees you. It’s awful how easy it looks for joy to find him upon seeing you. You want to match it, but you know that a smile from you would look sarcastic and mocking right now, so you don’t.

“Hi,” you just about manage, short, tight.

“Hi,” he echoes, a little slower, reading the air. “Everything okay?”

You focus on the motion of hanging your coat and try to hang your bad mood right beside it.

“Yea. Long day.”

It doesn’t work.

Joe tilts his head, entirely unconvinced. “Long day or bad day?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. It comes out sharper than you mean it to and you’re immediately scared that Joe thinks it’s aimed at him.

“Same thing.”

You know you should elaborate, that you should give him something to work with. Some version of the truth to explain the sour look on your face, but you can’t begin to explain it. There’s too much. It’s not one thing. It never is, is it? It’s a whole chain-reaction of small humiliations and miscommunications that stretch back months. This is the kind of anger that has built out of sheer exhaustion at this point.

Giving Joe the backstory could easily take you over an hour, and you don’t want to talk about this absolute bullshit for over an hour. You don’t want to talk about it at all.

Joe steps closer, a little wary. “Want to talk about it?”

No.

Joe didn’t invite you over for you to dump a whole bunch of issues on the table.

You don’t want to be that person.

You imagine Joe doesn’t want you to be that person either.

“Not really...”

“Want to kiss about it?” Joe jokes, trying to save the mood a little. It’s a shame that it falls flat with the look you give him.

Joe takes the hint. He nods and goes back to the kitchen, back to his cooking, giving you the space that you’ve silently communicated you need. You follow eventually, because what other choice do you have?

There’s pasta on the stove. Joe stirs it gently, pretending he’s not watching you in the reflection of the lid that’s on the counter beside it.

“You hungry?”

You shrug. “Maybe later.”

“You should eat now. You’ll feel better.”

The way he says it, like it’s simple, easily solvable, makes something twist in your chest. “Yea, maybe.”

He turns to you. “Not how it works?”

That makes you feel bad. Joe’s been slaving away to make you something delicious, and here you are, being a whole bitch about it.

“Yea, no. Yes.” You shake your head in a bid to shake it off. “Sorry. Let’s eat.” You try your best at keeping your voice level, but it somehow still sounds a little sharp. You hate it. Also hate how small this kitchen feels, suddenly.

Joe blocks your path when you try to get some plates out, then sets the spoon he was holding down and crosses his arms.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“Joe…”

“It’s fine if you are. Just–”

“I said I’m not mad!”

The words snap out of you before you can catch them, all of them louder than anything you’ve ever said to him before. It startles you more than it does him.

You wish you’d just gone home after work today.

You feel extremely unlikable at the moment.

But, Joe’s face doesn’t shift into hurt or into surprise at all. Instead he blinks a couple of times before the corners of his mouth twitch up. It’s almost as if he’s amused by this teeny tiny outburst of yours.

“There it is.”

You stare at him. This isn’t funny. “I told you I didn’t want to talk.”

Joe takes a small step closer to you, one that prompts you to take a small step back.

“I know. And I heard you.”

Another step from him.

Another one from you.

Joe gets the hint and stops stepping closer.

“You can’t always be in a good mood, you know?”

“That’s not–”

“You can be grumpy, that’s all right. If you feel mad, be mad. Come on. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “You don’t get it.”

“Yea, I don’t. So tell me.”

“I can’t! It’s complicated, alright? It’s not even about you.”

Joe inhales in a quick little gasp, eyes twinkling at the mere possibility. “Is it about me?”

“No, I said it’s not about you.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why are you pushing me?”

“Because you’re holding back so hard you’re shaking.”

Somehow Joe’s managed to close the distance between the two of you which you had attempted to keep in place.

You open your mouth, but quickly close it again, eyes darting around to look anywhere but at him. You want to stay quiet, want to stay small and calm and pleasant, but he keeps looking at you all steady and unbothered, it makes your skin crawl.

“Can we drop it, please?”

You feel a little cornered with the way Joe’s letting his eyes rake over your body. He pushes his tongue into his cheek, then smiles a little mischievously when he asks, “What happens if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll get angry. It’ll ruin dinner.”

“Good.”

Oh.

That makes you blink a couple of times. “Good?”

“Yea. Good.” Joe tilts his head, a faint grin playing at his mouth. “Show me what that looks like.”

You huff a laugh to break the tension. “A ruined dinner?”

It doesn’t work.

“No. You, angry. You’re avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What does angry-you look like?”

You huff, finally stepping around him and opening the cabinet to get two plates out. “I’d like to stop this conversation now.”

“I don’t.”

You turn sharply. “Stop it. I don’t like this. You don’t like me like this. Can we forget about it and talk about something else? Tell me about– yea. How was your day? What did you get up to?”

Joe calmly steps closer and takes the two plates your holding from your hands. Places them down on the counter, just to get them out of the way. He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “Says who?”

You know exactly what little part of all of the things you just said he’s referring to.

“Says everyone.”

“Yea, well. I’m not everyone.”

And that shouldn’t land as hard as it does, but, here you are, feeling something crack within your chest, and it makes your frown deepen slowly.

“You’re so–…” you have to stop yourself from saying ugly words, hands curling into fists at your sides.

Joe watches the motion, curious. “So what?”

“So–…” You groan, rubbing both hands down your face, pulling at your cheeks so hard it makes your eyes go funny. “You’re so calm it makes me crazy.”

“Then take it out on me,” Joe says softly. “Come on. Show me what you’ve got.”

For a moment, you’re caught between laughter and disbelief. “Are you serious?”

He nods challengingly, only once. “Yea, come on.”

“Can you not just… take pity on me and distract until I forget about everything?” you pout in an attempt to make him realise he can also just hug you and stroke your back for a minute for this to be over. “I don’t want to yell at you.”

“You don’t have to yell at me... I just want you to stop pretending you don’t want to. You’re still holding it in.”

“Yea I’m trying to hold it in. Because, surprise, I actually like you, Joe.”

“Then trust me to handle it.”

You can’t look at him anymore. You cross your arms, stare at the floor, and feel the frustration in your face. There’s so many things you were angry about before you stepped into this flat, and somehow, Joe’s replacing every single one of them with every second that passes.

The air’s tense.

You feel like you’re a bomb that’s about to explode, and whilst you’re trying to best to step on the fuse to prevent an explosion, Joe’s lightly blowing on it, feeding it oxygen.

“Show me.”

He steps in again, close enough that you feel the heat of him. His fingers find your chin, gripping you gently, but firm enough to tip your face up until your eyes meet.

“Frown at me.”

“What?”

“Frown.” he repeats, eyes steady on yours.

You do, not because you want to follow his directions – you very much don’t – but because it’s an absurd thing to ask of you, you don’t feel taken seriously or listened to, and now this man who’ve you not been around for long enough to get into an actual fight with him is telling you to frown at him?

What the fuck?!

The sight of your brow furrowing makes Joe’s breath catch, the sound low and involuntary. You have to use force to get Joe’s hand off of your face, twisting free from his hold, which gets followed up by an actual groan from him.

“What the fuck is wr–”

He cuts you off by grabbing your face, both his palms warm against your cheeks, and before you can think, before you can even decide whether to protest, he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not slow.

It’s messy, and sudden, and hot with leftover adrenaline. Joe pushes you back until you hit a wall and presses up against you roughly. You’re arms are weirdly caught in between your chest and his, and you attempt to push him away, but Joe just strengthens his grip. Moves a hand down to your hip and presses there to keep you in place, squeezes so tightly, it’s almost painful.

Shit.

It’s hot.

Joe’s kissing you like he’s about to die, his heavy breath warm on your face, and, Jesus. Fuck.

You don’t want to admit it, but this is hot.

The very second you stop fighting it and start kissing back, you can feel his smile against your mouth, and it only makes you kiss back harder. Angrier. More desperate for him to feel and understand without having to raise your voice at him.

You don’t want to fucking ruin dinner.

When he pulls back, he’s grinning. Breathlessly, he manages to say, “Finish your sentence.” before his mouth finds your neck, and it takes a second to even remember what sentence you’d started. It doesn’t help that Joe’s tilting your chin up so he can get his lips in all the good spots, all the best ones.

You’re about to say something, about to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him, which you guess will only spur him on more.

It really might’ve gone somewhere from there… except, suddenly, you smell it.

The faint, acrid tang of something burning.

You look over his shoulder, “Oh my God, Joe–”

He hums against your throat, not moving.

“Joe,” you say again, firmer now, pushing at his shoulders. “The pan, the pan! The food!”

“Oh, shit.”

He spins on his heel so fast it nearly makes you laugh, stumbling toward the stove in a panic that feels so at odds with the smug version of him that had you pinned against the wall seconds ago. You’re still half pressed there, breathing hard, hair messy, lips wet, and Joe’s waving a tea towel whilst fiddling with the buttons of the exhaust fan.

You watch as he yanks the pan off the heat, smoke curling up into the air, filling the room with the smell of burnt regret.

“All right,” Joe says between laughs, “I ruined dinner.”

You stare at him, lips swollen, heart hammering. “You–…”

“Ruined dinner. Yea,” he says, grinning, chest rising and falling as he grabs the pan and places it into the sink. “So now you can’t!”

Joe eagerly steps back toward you, eyes dark and bright all at once. “Might as well,” he murmurs, hands finding your hips again, “I don’t know, frown at me again.”

You huff out a laugh, disbelieving, already leaning forward despite yourself.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, just before he kisses you again.

“Want to talk about it?” he grins into your mouth, knowing full well what the answer to that question is.

Joe’s right.

Dinner’s ruined.

But the night isn’t.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-les-bean, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr

The sound of movement behind you distracts you from inspecting your battle wounds before Joe appears in the doorway. He’s barefoot, wearing black joggers low on his hips, and his hair is still sleep-messy. He tosses something into the hamper you keep in there before your eyes meet in the mirror, and then you see how his drop to the marks you’ve been looking at.

And the fucking bastard smiles.

Slowly too, like he’s genuinely pleased with himself.

“No,” you scold immediately, turning to look at him properly. “Stop fucking smiling, you can’t sm– you’re not allowed to smile.” It’s a bit difficult to keep your own smile hidden, but you think you just about manage.

Joe leans one shoulder against the doorway, completely unashamed. “Don’t let me disturb you admiring my work.”

“Your work?” you repeat incredulously. “These are battle wounds.”

His grin gets worse when you stare at him harder and you can see his eyes wander down to your cheek. “You’ve got one on your face.”

“I know.” You turn back to the mirror to have another look. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Joe pushes himself off the doorway and steps into the bathroom, warm hands finding your waist automatically as he stands behind you. His chin hooks comfortably over your shoulder while he looks at your reflection again, eyes lingering briefly on the faint mark near your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to do–” one of his hands finds your chin to move it to the side a bit for a better look. “This one’s a mistake.”

“Yea? Just this one?” you raise your brows at him. “What about the rest?”

His mouth twitches against the side of your head. “I mean… what can I say?”

“Um, maybe a sorry would be appropriate?”

“No.” Joe says calmly as he moves a finger to pull at the neckline of your top, causing an immediate frown from you as he searches for more marks. Then he says, “I’m not sorry…” before adding, “you like being bitten.” and your expression betrays you instantly. Joe notices immediately too, and he laughs softly under his breath before pressing a kiss just beneath your ear.

“No, I like biting. I like being the biter, not the bitee.”

There’s something incredibly satisfying about leaving teeth marks on Joe’s arms, you can’t exactly explain it. Luckily, you don’t have to. Joe presses another kiss against the corner of your jaw, a bit more careful this time, warm mouth softly giving a bit of affection to the mark he left behind.

“Yea. Well… you’ve made a very convincing argument for biting,” he reasons, tapping your hips before stepping away from you to reach for his toothbrush.

You’re well aware that you can’t really complain, but you’re not looking forward to the amount of make-up you’ll have to apply to somewhat hide it. “I look like I lost a fight.”

Joe’s grin returns immediately.

“You did lose a fight.”

You glare at him in the mirror, though the effect is ruined slightly by the fact you’re trying not to laugh and he’s not even looking at you.

Honestly, the whole thing had escalated far quicker than either of you intended. It’d started on the sofa where you’d been half sprawled over Joe whilst he scrolled aimlessly through something on his phone. One of his hands rested absentmindedly against your thigh whilst your cheek pressed comfortably into his chest as rain tapped quietly against the windows outside.

Joe smelled warm.

Comfortable.

And, unfortunately for him, your mouth had ended up close to his shoulder.

So naturally, you bit him. Little nibble, because, why not. Just a little bite. Nothing worth noting, barely even enough to really count. You’d let your teeth push into his skin just enough to make his body tense slightly beneath you, and that’s all you’d wanted.

But then Joe sighed dramatically without looking up from his phone.

“Can you not?”

You grinned against his shirt. “Sorry. You’re comfy.”

“Comfy…” Joe spoke to the ceiling, eyes narrowed. “And then, biting? how… I don’t–”

“Shh, don’t question it. It’s a compliment and you should just take it as I mean it.”

Joe snorted quietly, and you bit him again right after. This time you could feel how Joe’s hand against your leg gripped at the feeling.

“You know,” he said slowly, sitting up a little, “most people just cuddle.” His movement made you slide away from him just enough for your mouth to be out of biting-vicinity. A tragedy. Particularly because now, you were forced to simply look at him instead. At the unfair shape of his arms beneath the sleeves of his shirt, thick through the bicep, solid without trying. Joe’s got the kind of arms that always make you want to hold onto him somehow.

You like wrapping yourself around one when you sleep beside him, big palm on your thigh.

Like clinging onto his forearm when you walk together, even more when it’s slung around you in order to keep you close.

Like the weight of his arm slung over your shoulders when you’re cuddling close like this almost an embarrassing amount.

And, unfortunately for Joe, you like to sink your teeth into them a little bit too.

“You’re being very judgemental for someone built like a chew toy.” You half-joked, which made him stare at you for a moment before slowly repeating, “A chew toy.”

“Mhm.”

“A fucking chew toy.”

“Yes.” You smiled sweetly, taking hold of his hand to pull the rest of his limb up towards your mouth.

“Careful,” he warned mildly, not fighting your guidance in the slightest.

You pressed a kiss against his forearm, and then just held it against your lips there. Waiting.

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You sure?”

You opened your mouth just a little, just enough for Joe to see the shine of your pearly whites, and that’s exactly when Joe moved.

One second you were sat on your sofa with your mouth pressed against his arm, and the next you were suddenly underneath him instead, flat on your back, sinking the sofa cushions as Joe rolled you effortlessly into position.

“Joe–”

“Oh, now it’s Joe? No longer your chew toy?”

You’d burst into startled laughter immediately, squirming beneath him while he trapped you easily between his arms. The sofa dipped beneath his weight, broad shoulders blocking out most of the light from the room as he hovered over you grinning.

“Get off me,” you tried to command between laughs.

“You started it.”

“You’re thirty times my size, this is hardly fair.”

Joe leaned down slightly then, close enough that you could feel his breath against your mouth.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you keep biting me anyway.”

Your stomach flipped annoyingly hard at the change in his tone of voice. Something that had felt playful before all felt a little rougher now, and Joe notices the shift in your facial expression.

“Not so tough now, are we?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed softly before leaning down to kiss you properly. What you thought might be a quick peck slowly changed into something deeper. His mouth moved against yours with an ease that immediately melted whatever sarcastic response you’d been preparing, whilst one hand sliding beneath the back of your shirt and the other braced beside your head. The warmth of his palm spread across your spine as he kissed you deeper, and the second you reacted to it, Joe made this low, pleased sound in the back of his throat that nearly ruined you completely right then and there.

God.

His mouth drifted from yours slowly, kissing along your jaw before pressing briefly against the sensitive spot beneath your ear just before dipping a bit lower.

Your breathing caught slightly as he kissed across your throat.

“Mm, you’re very responsive tonight,” he murmured against your skin.

“Shut up.”

Then his teeth grazed lightly against your collarbone and the sound that escaped you was immediate and deeply embarrassing.

Joe froze. Actually froze. You felt the pause travel through his entire body where he hovered over you, his mouth still pressed against your skin while silence stretched between you both for one dangerous second.

Slowly, he lifted his head. “Oh?” Joe said softly.

Your stomach dropped instantly. You were in danger.

“No,” you said immediately.

Joe looked unbearably calm. “No?”

“No.” nothing about your no sounded like you meant it.

“Did you like that?”

“No I didn’t.” You sounded unconvincing even to your own ears.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth as you tried and failed to look unaffected beneath him. The corner of his mouth twitched slowly upward before he leaned down again. A breathy, “I… I think you did.” got spoken into your neck.

“You think? Do it again to make sure.”

A breathy laugh exposed all the spots Joe’s mouth had touched already just before he let his teeth scrape along your skin again.

This bite landed a bit harder.

It was on the edge of genuinely hurting, inflicting a spark of panic that dragged another helpless reaction from you before you could stop it.

Joe felt all of it.

Your reaction changed something within him. It changed the tension through his shoulders. Changed his grip at your waist, tightening automatically. Changed his breathing, sudden sharp inhales against your skin like he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised you.

“Do it again to make sure?” Joe repeated quietly, sounding dangerously pleased with himself now. “Or was that enough proof, hm? You hear yourself?”

“Yea, no, try again,” you whispered. “Just in case.”

A throaty chuckle bubbled up, “Oh, sweetheart,” Joe laughed quietly, forehead pressing briefly against your shoulder. “You’re never seeing peace again now.”

And, see, the thing about Joe is that, once he gets intrigued by something, he tends to want to commit to it entirely. It’s why his place is full of half started hobbies and obsessions, why there’s the beginning of a collection of records and a lot of unused working-out equipment lying around.

And right now, Joe seemed deeply fascinated by the effect he was having on you.

He let his mouth drag slowly across your skin, down your neck, across your collarbone once more before his teeth caught you there again, rough enough to make your hips jerk instinctively beneath him. It had Joe quietly swearing under his breath before his arms suddenly hooked underneath you.

“Yea, okay. Lets go.”

You barely had time to laugh before he lifted you effortlessly off the sofa.

It should probably feel ridiculous being carried around like this, but Joe is unfairly comfortable to be held by. Strong without any harshness, one arm secure beneath your thighs whilst the other supported your back, broad chest warm against yours as he walked you down the hallway towards the bedroom.

The bedroom door got shoved open with his shoulder before he dropped you onto the mattress with far less care than usual. You bounced once against the bed, laughing breathlessly, and then Joe followed immediately after you, all heavy warmth and broad shoulders as he crowded over you again.

“You know that I respect you, right?” He was already trying to shove his jeans and boxers down, impatient fingers fumbling whilst he kissed along your jaw at the same time. “Remember that, okay?”

The whole thing should’ve made you laugh, the awkward movements of undressing and the cheesy whispered lines. Instead, it made your stomach tighten painfully. Mostly because Joe looked completely gone already, hair messy, cheeks flushed, big hands clumsy with urgency for once.

“Why?” you asked in a quick exhale against his mouth.

“Because it’s about to seem like I don’t.” Joe muttered back immediately before his mouth found your jaw again.

And then–…

“Ahh!”

Joe jerked back. “Sorry, too much? Sorry. I didn’t–” he spoke so quickly he tumbled over his words as he looked seconds away from laughing. Before he could continue his half-assed apology or burst into actual laughter, you grabbed his jaw and bit him straight back.

Joe made this startled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Retaliation.”

“Relati–… yea, all right. Okay. That’s how you want to play this?” He breathed, smiling despite himself, watching as you twisted your neck in an attempt to bite his forearm that was pressed into the mattress next to your head. “You’ve started a war.”

A war you’d win even when you’d lose, Joe was just as aware as you were.

“Bring it on.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89

“The kitchen?”

“No don’t.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, bending over just enough to see his eyes had fully closed, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

“I need tea.”

“You don’t need tea,” he mumbled, snuggling into place a little more. “You need to sit right here.”

“Mm… is that right…” you used your fingernails to scratch at his scalp. “You’re extra clingy tonight.”

The words had barely left your mouth before the thought popped into your head: he’s getting ill. Joe gets noticeably more soft and needy when he doesn’t feel well. He also will milk the absolutely shit out of it once it gets acknowledged, so you refrained from saying anything then.

You see, Joe likes proximity in the way cats do. It’s always entirely on his own terms. He can be deeply affectionate but will remain allergic to being perceived as such. He will tuck his cold feet beneath your thighs in bed or rest his chin on your shoulder while you brush your teeth, but only whilst acting like he’s doing you a favour. Even after sex he usually maintains at least the vague illusion of independence, like he can’t quite let himself openly need things, like soft human touch in the form of a good snuggle for example.

But, feeling a little poorly apparently burns that instinct straight out of him.

When you finally make your way into your bedroom, he’s fully feverish, sprawled diagonally across the bed, both his cheeks pink with heat. You move around quietly in the dark, grab a few things before you plan to slip into the bathroom. Before you’ve even left the room though, his voice rasps out, “Where’re you going?”

You thought he was asleep – apparently not.

“To get ready for bed and get you some water.”

“I’ve already got some.” Joe slurs into his pillow.

You spot an empty water bottle on his bedside table and say, “You drank it.”

You step into the bathroom and decide to turn the lights on after you’ve closed the door. From behind it, you hear a soft muffled and miserable, “Come back.” and you know Joe would rather actually perish than admit weakness properly, but you very much would like him to not actually die.

So, you bring him water.

And a paracetamol.

And in the morning, you bring him some buttered toast he barely touches. You get back into bed and make him take a couple of bites – you’ve never seen someone chew so slowly. Halfway through you have to remind him he’s still got bread in his mouth and he can’t fall back asleep, and he quickly swallows and mumbles, “S’gone.” before he curls back up underneath the covers again.

He doesn’t really sleep though. You can tell just because every single time you try to get up afterwards, Joe quickly reaches for you.

“I gotta get up.”

“Mm.” He hums as he sighs, but doesn’t really let his grip waver.

“Let me go, please.”

Sometimes it’s your wrist, other times your waist, and once it’s just the back of your shirt that he grips onto and holds in a strong fist, forcing you to slip out of it in order to escape.

When he starts following you around the flat just so he can hold you and, more importantly, be held, you decide to call a spade a spade and speak the truth into the room.  

“You cannot physically restrain me every time I stand up just because you’re ill, Joe.”

“Mm, watch me.”

You just about manage to place what you’re holding on the kitchen counter before you get pulled backwards and fall against him with an undignified noise. You get caged in by warm limbs that radiate fever heat and feel the scratchy drag of stubble against the back of your neck as he buries his face there. You’d complain some more, but then Joe sighs so deeply and relieved, it actually makes your chest ache a little for him.

It gets worse at night.

Or, better, depending on perspective.

Joe already sleeps close under normal circumstances, but sick Joe acts like separation might actually kill him, and sometime around two in the morning you wake up almost unable to move because he’s practically wrapped around you entirely. He’s got one arm across your waist, one leg tangled between yours, and his face pressed into the space between your shoulder blades. It feels a bit like he’s tried to get as physically close as possible in his sleep, yet still found it insufficient.

Your throat has never been drier, you’re fucking boiling.

You shift slightly to reach for your glass of water and immediately feel him tighten around you.

“Noo,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Sh I need a drink.”

Joe lets you go for a millisecond before you hear the soft complaint of it being cold come from behind you.

“Joe, you’re so hot you’re sweating. I’m sweating because of you.”

You have a sip of water, and tell him he could probably use one too. “Sit up a bit.”

Moving the covers exposes more cold air to Joe’s damp skin and, it’s already sort of difficult to make someone half asleep have a sip of water from a glass in the dark, but one with chattering teeth is a whole other challenge. He just about manages it without spilling, and you use your other hand to touch his forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, I think.”

“Mm. Still cold, c’mere please.” And he sounds so fucking wrecked saying it, voice rough and sleepy and entirely unguarded, you easily end up giving in and quickly find yourself chest to chest under the covers. You decide you can just be hot and sweaty for a bit if that makes him feel better.

You end up barely getting any more sleep that night.

When the morning light starts to filter into the room, there’s a moment where Joe’s eyes blink open slowly as your fingers move through his hair. They’re unfocused at first before they settle on you with a level of exhausted softness that catches you off guard a little. Joe always feels things so intensely, but also so very privately, that this takes some adjusting. You’re used to his emotions having to fight through three layers of sarcasm before reaching the surface, and now it’s all just… right there.

Right here.

“You okay?” you murmur.

“Mhm.” Joe nudges closer, finds he’s got no energy at all even though he’s just slept for hours. Everything’s heavy and sore.

“You look terrible.”

“Mm. Feel terrible.”

You’ve got one arm wrapped around him, and you can feel how wet his back is. This man needs a hot shower, at the very least. A good breakfast too. Vitamins. Some pain meds too, maybe.

It’s silent for a while, and then he suddenly whine-whispers, “Come closer.”

You laugh quietly into the dark and you do your best to move closer somehow, impossibly, until he makes this deeply content sound against your throat and falls properly asleep again.

After about another thirty minutes of cooking yourself alive next to Joe, you decide to attempt productivity.

Joe is still asleep when you carefully slip out of bed. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, he doesn’t immediately wake up when you leave. That’s good. That’s promising. He needs to sleep this fever off, sweat all of it out, and you’d prefer to not be stuck to his side for every single passing second of it, if possible.

You risk making coffee and open your laptop at the kitchen table, trying to work through some messages whilst the flat stays quiet around you.

You get nearly forty minutes in before you hear soft shuffling.

You glance up to find Joe standing in the hallway looking genuinely devastated and… wet.

He’s wet, and he’s hurt.

His hair is flattened on one side, he’s only half wearing his hoodie which hangs off one shoulder, and his expression reads exhaustion and betrayal.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” you can’t help the soft fond chuckle that escapes you just from the look of him.

“What am I waking up alone for?” he croaks with a deep frown as he shuffles closer, padding towards you with slow determination.

“Had some things to do,” you’re already holding out an arm for him to attach himself onto whilst the other brings your cup of coffee to your lips. Joe doesn’t go for your hand though, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he stops right next to you and looks down expectantly.

“What is it?” you coo like you’re talking to a child, using your arm to touch his damp lower back for some soft touches.

“Move.” He nudges your thigh with his knee.

You frown in confusion, “So you can sit down?” because there’s three other chairs at the table, all easily accessible.

“So I can sit on you.”

You laugh so suddenly coffee nearly goes down the wrong way.

“I feel awful.” Joe complains, disregarding your coughing entirely. “Why do I feel so bad?”

You just blankly stare up at him in silence for a moment, the answer is so obvious. He still just waits there patiently until you inevitably sigh and shift your chair back enough for him to collapse into your lap with all the dignity of a large dog that thinks it’s small. His face finds the crook of your neck to bury itself into before he mumbles, “There.” into your skin.

“There what?” you find it’s impossible to hide the humour in your voice. Big man snuggling into your lap that can barely hold all of him – it’s ridiculous, this. It doesn’t seem like Joe thinks so, though.

“Better.” Joe says on the back end of a sigh, sinking into you a bit more, making you just a tad more uncomfortable. The warmth of him settles heavily against your chest, all sleepy weight and fever heat.

“Wait, can you–” you try and shift in your seat a little, “Yea, that’s better.” You can reach your laptop from his new angle, and with Joe in your lap, you do your best getting back to what you were doing before.

There’s a moment where you think just from Joe’s slow breathing that he’s fallen back asleep, but after a while you stop trying to work altogether because every time your hand moves away from his back for too long, he sleepily tries to find it with his own. When, after a few times, he takes hold of it and threads your fingers together without even opening his eyes, you decide to stop trying to work. It’s of no use like this, anyway.

“All right. Come on, up.”

You manage to move onto the sofa with him for a while, and at one point, you extract yourself long enough to put laundry away.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

You make it from the kitchen to the bedroom with a basket balanced against your hip before you hear slow footsteps behind you. You don’t even turn around when you tell him he should go lay back down on the sofa.

“Mmm,” Joe hums, completely ignoring what you said. He hovers in the doorway, sort of dazed and out of it. When you glance a look over your shoulder, you make eye-contact and Joe immediately tries to defend himself.

“Was jus’ curious what you were doing.”

He wasn’t just curious what you were doing. He came to get you.

“You are carrying a blanket.”

Joe looks down at what he’s holding and it takes him a second to come up with a good explanation for it.

“I’m cold.” He lies. Well, he probably is cold, but that’s not why he’s here. Then he wanders over, drops his forehead onto your shoulder and simply remains there, participating to your household task by being an extremely inconvenient accessory.

You try folding one of his shirts, and Joe’s arms slide around your waist.

You try hanging a jumper in his wardrobe, and Joe’s chin settles on your shoulder.

You attempt to walk across the room, and Joe simply just… follows.

“You know what though?” you say eventually, “You’d probably feel better if you just went and laid back down… went back to sleep.”

You’d get all of this done so much faster if there wasn’t a whole other person attached to you is what you mean, but you don’t want to tell Joe to his face that he’s being annoyingly clingy. His ego wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Yea probably,” he hums against your shoulder, but makes no attempt to move away from you at all.

“So…” you try, and hope for a deep sigh from him that means he’s going to give in and listen to you.

Instead, a very soft and sad, “Jus’ want you.” gets mumbled into the room, and you’re instantly glad you didn’t actually tell him he’s being annoying clingy. You actually feel bad for even thinking it in the first place.

By the afternoon he’s back asleep on the sofa with his head in your lap, one hand still loosely hooked around your wrist, even unconsciously unwilling to let go. Your mind can’t help but wander back to the work you abandoned hours ago and still need to finish, but instead, you sit and watch rain gather against the windows whilst you listen to Joe’s breathing and feel the occasional sleepy twitch of his fingers around your hand.

At some point he very quietly murmurs, “Jus’ another minute… don’t go anywhere.” and you know it’s just his fever talking. He’s just tired and feeling a bit dramatic, dangerously fever-soft, he’ll deny having said it tomorrow. Still, you remind yourself to slot it away so you can let it pull your chest tight when you think of it again.

Joe spends so much time pretending not to need things, that his affection is a casual thing and his intimacy is effortless and unserious and entirely under his control… but when he’s sick like this, half-asleep against you with his cheek pressed to your thigh and his fingers still tangled with yours, he loves with his whole body, without any of the usual deflection.

You smooth your fingers through his hair slowly, no need to hide your smile.

“Not going anywhere.”

And you feel him relax immediately, boneless with relief, turning his face further into your lap before pressing one sleepy kiss against the inside of your wrist.

You suppose just another minute was never really about time.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89

A waiter gets flagged over, you get to order your drink, Joe asks for the same and finally breaks into a smile when he sits down in the chair next to you.

“Hi,” Joe leans in for a seated hug, “How we doing?”

“Oh, you smell nice,” you compliment over his shoulder, and with practiced ease, Joe sticks his neck out a little bit for your nose to touch his skin as you take another good whiff.

To anyone looking at you, sat side by side in the corner of the room together, you know you look like a couple, all familiar and comfortable.

You aren’t.

Familiar and comfortable, yes. Absolutely.

A couple, however? No.

You had been, though.

Before.

You’d gotten married on fast forward, which is what everyone remembers most.

People like speed when it looks romantic. They like the shorthand of it, the when you know sort of thing, the way urgency gets mistaken for certainty. You and Joe can tell the story with practiced ease, the meet-cute that smoothed into something charming, the decision framed as brave rather than slightly unhinged.

You got together just as quick as it all broke apart.

But, God, if you could relive those first four months, you would a million times over. The world had narrowed around the two of you, and everything else became background noise once the feeling took hold. You didn’t care about logistics, about geography, or timing: you cared about each other and nothing the fuck else.

Loving Joe was immediate and total. A thing that demanded to be acted on before it cooled or got questioned. And you were both good at decisive gestures, both bad at patience.

It just worked.

The wedding was small but intense. You remember feeling a strange electricity in the room, everyone there watching something unfold faster than they would personally dare, no one ballsy enough to touch it in fear of being shocked. You’d stood across from Joe, hands clasped, never thinking this is forever, but deeply feeling this is right. That distinction felt important at the time.

People said kind things like, you two make sense, and this suits you entirely.

You believed them at the time, even though they very likely were saying very different things behind your backs. Something you only realised until after it had all fallen apart. When people suddenly felt comfortable telling you, it all did go very fast, and this was never going to end well was it?

You thought it did though.

You thought it was going to end well. 

It’s why the actual marriage, the actual day-to-day shape of being married to Joe, arrived a lot more quietly. Distance asserted itself first, unapologetically. Jobs refused to bend, schedules held just enough empty space for sleep, and time zones turned conversations into negotiations.

Your love for each other didn’t shrink, but it stretched thin. It got pulled across calendars and departure gates, half finished texts and phone calls cut off.

You’d started fighting about random things that weren’t the problem, the arguments never cruel. Thinking back, you’re secretly proud of that. There was never any name calling, no deliberate wounds inflicted. Instead there was frustration disguised as irritation, and loneliness misfiled as anger. Joe’d snap at you over your tone, and you’d snap at him over timing. It was always a back and forth about who forgot to call and when.

Every fight always ended in the same way: tears that arrived too suddenly, apologies that came too fast, the pair of you desperate enough to smooth things over before the big wet bag of cement hardened into something negative.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Joe would say all the time, voice cracking as he’d rapidly blink back tears.

“I know,” you’d reply, because you hadn’t meant any of your words either.

You just missed him.

Missed each other.

So you became experts at repair. Repair, not resolution. You’d fix the surface whilst the fault lines widened underneath, slowly swallowing up everything your marriage really needed to survive.

By the end, neither of you were happy.

Not fully.

It’s the one thing you wouldn’t say out loud for ages, until  the moment you finally did which when divorce was already on the table. You’d waited until the very last moment, kept it together until it was one hundred per cent crystal clear that… this was it.

The end.

You loved each other fiercely still, but you just couldn’t work it out together in the way you wanted to.

The first time the word divorce fell in conversation, it wasn’t explosive. It felt careful, grief-stricken, and mutual. You sat across from each other and acknowledged the obvious: this wasn’t how you’d imagined it.

Wanting, as it turned out, wasn’t enough to be able to sustain.

You cried together.

Held hands.

Said things like, “We tried, didn’t we?” and really meant it.

Without any animosity the decision was a surgical clean cut. That’s how you both described it after, when others asked.

Papers got signed.

Rings came off.

Relief braided tightly with loss. No winners, just two deeply sad people who didn’t think they’d lose each other this quickly in life.

You hugged for ages in the doorway after it was done. A long, quiet embrace that felt too intimate for people who’d just gotten divorced, but neither of you wanted to be the first to let go.

“Take care of yourself, yea?” Joe whispered into your hair.

“You too.” You’d answered wetly, and had let Joe wipe the tears from your face with both his hands.

And then it was done.

You’d left and would probably never return.

The expectation was that the distance would do its job. You’d both expected clean lines that lead away from each other in complete opposite directions and that time would heal all wounds, eventually.

Instead, you end up orbiting.

Every time your lives brush close enough, through either chance or choice, you meet up.

It’s never framed as a nostalgic thing. It’s always just to talk. To catch up. You still care enough to want to know how he’s doing, and he still cares enough to want to ask it face to face instead of over text.

He becomes a quick coffee before you have a meeting.

You become a quick drink before he’s off to an event.

Sometimes the quick coffee stretches into a long walk, and sometimes the quick drink carries on ‘til last orders.

You keep each other updated on your lives with a familiarity that hasn’t dulled. It’s just… shifted a little. You still feel comfortable with his hand on your thigh and he still lets you play with the small curls in the nape of his neck.

Divorce had ended your marriage.

Divorce hadn’t ended, well, anything else, really.

The inside jokes remain the same. The bits. The way your stomach tightens when you make eye contact across a crowded room. You feel comfortable enough to joke about your empty finger, flashing it at him dramatically, throwing a giggly “too soon?” across the table when he fake cries at the sight of it. You easily tell him how you’re all interesting now, because, “Divorce gives you character, doesn’t it?” In turn, Joe feels comfortable enough to ask you about all your other boyfriends, cracking his knuckles and joking about how he hasn’t gotten in a fight in a while and he might be a bit rusty. He easily tells you that you were always interesting, and that he still thinks his finger looks empty, even though he wears rings often.

You laugh together, because if you didn’t, there’d be tears every single time.

“Why did we divorce again?” gets answered with, “Should we unsign the papers?”

You know you still share too much with each other. Deep feelings, fears, your worries – it’s always been on the table, all of it, and neither of you wants to swipe any off it of. When one of you asks the other how they are, the answers are raw and honest, a stream of consciousness that doesn’t feel out of place at all. You want to know. Want to keep knowing.

Each meeting ends with hugs that linger, the both of you reluctant to disengage. There’s always a soft murmured miss you, this still feels weird, will your shoulders ever feel less tense, say hi to your mum for me ok? which is carefully understood to be all sentiment, and not an actual invitation.

You’re incredibly on the same page.

Both incredibly respectful of the line.

Never crossing, even though you won’t really veer from standing near it.

It’s a chapter finished, absolutely.

But you can’t really close the book.

Sat next to each other now, going for pre-dinner drinks of two separate dinners in the same area that you won’t be having together, it’s so very evident that neither of you can close this book.

Or wants to, for that matter.

It’s why you ask him how he’s doing twice. He gets all the pleasantries, all the surface level stuff out of the way and then, when you ask again, he sighs deeply. Then shrugs.

“You know.”

Joe has a sip of his drink, fully expecting the non-explanation to explain exactly enough, and it’s stupid that it does.

“Yea… I’m sorry.”

He lets your apology sit for a moment, rolling the rim of his glass between his fingers, watching the ice shift and knock softly against itself. He’s staring into it, not really looking at anything, just buying time, debating whether or not he should say anything.

“It’s weird,” he sits up a little, deciding to just get into it, because who else can he talk to about this? “I keep thinking… maybe I just haven’t found it again yet, you know?”

You don’t interrupt. You know better than that. You used to be married to this man after all.

“When we first met,” Joe continues, glancing up at you briefly before looking away again, “It was… do you remember? It was so loud. Everything. Everything was loud. Colours were louder. Music sounded better. Food tasted like something... more? More. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

You nod slowly, and let one of your hands cover the one that’s holding your thigh under the table.

“I guess I thought that by now, things wouldn’t still be so…” He exhales through his nose.

“Grey.” You finish for him.

“Mm. Not grey, but… it’s definitely all a bit muted.”

You almost give in to the overwhelming urge to hug Joe. To awkwardly get up from your seat to go sit on his lap so you can hug his neck and press his face into yours so he can hide away for a moment. Instead, you just give his hand a squeeze.

“I go on dates, you know,” he says, almost apologetically, as if he owes you the information. “Nice people. Smart. Attractive. All objectively great, and I feel…” Joe gives a small, humourless smile when he looks at you, and says, “Nothing.”

“Joe…”

You know he’s not sharing this to make you feel shit, and that you’re not at fault here, but you’re part of the problem here, aren’t you? You at least partially to blame, which isn’t Joe’s point, but it does make you feel bad for him. Sad for him.

Joe frowns as he continues, “Or I feel… maybe not nothing, but there’s always the absence of something, which actually might be worse. It’s never that…” Joe snaps his fingers. “It’s never that.”

You shift slightly in your seat, your knee brushing his under the table. Neither of you acknowledge it, so you leave it there to rest against his.

“Maybe…” you start, a little careful. “Maybe you shouldn’t look for the same thing? But like, maybe you can find something else with someone else.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m actively looking but, it’s starting to feel,” he says, quieter now, “like, I imagine this is what it feels like to come off of drugs and nothing else is ever going to hit the same.”

There it is. The hollow. It’s kind of like how you felt during most of our married days. It’s painfully relatable, and you don’t like to think back to all the things you did to try and bring back that spark you once had. You understood how rare it had been, and you’d tried holding onto it, finger nails digging in until they all broke and bled.

It’s a heavy thing to talk about.

You could say something hopeful, something about time, or about healing, or about how first loves always feel like that because you didn’t know better yet.

But you did know better.

You weren’t each other’s first loves.

That’s just what it had felt like.

You had lived that with him.

“I get it,” you say instead, because you do, and there’s nothing else to really say about it.

Joe looks at you then, makes eye-contact and searches for the resistance he thought he was going to get from you. There is none.

“Would be great if you told me how you did that so I can tell others how to bewitch me,” Joe jokes lightly. “No, sorry. Sorry, I’m… I shouldn’t complain. I’m not complaining. I’m fine, really. Just… a bit empty.”

Joe scrunches his face at the word ‘empty’ but drops it immediately and smiles after.

“I know I don’t feel quite as… empty,” you add, trying for honest but kind. “But I do know what you mean.”

He nods once. Hard. Goes for a sip of his drink, but a thought interrupts him mid-swallow.

“Mm. It’s like,” he says, wiping at the side of his mouth with the back of his hand as he searches for the words, “Fine is fine. I know that. I’m not ungrateful.” He lifts his glass in a vague gesture. “I’ve got work I like. A flat that doesn’t leak. Friends who show up. I’m sleeping. Eating. Exercising like a twat.”

You snort despite yourself.

“I mean, Jesus,” he continues, leaning back. “By all metrics, I’m doing great. I just…” he sighs, then shrugs.

You hum in agreement, noncommittal but understanding.

“Mid-thirties realism,” you offer dryly. “Very sexy.”

He laughs properly at that, head tipping back slightly, his hand rubbing up and down your leg before patting it. You grab hold of it in your lap, fingers intertwining, which you know isn’t what a divorced couple is meant to do, holding hands, but no one can see, and it feels nice.

“How about you?” he asks, turning the question on you. “How are you doing? Shoulders still in constantly need of massaging?”

You don’t answer right away.

You nod slowly, eyes dropping to your glass, watching the condensation trail down the side.

“I’m good,” you say.

Joe’s head tilts almost immediately.

“Yea?” His voice is gentle, but there’s suspicion there too. He knows you too well. “Good good, or… good?”

You smile at him, small and noncommittal.

“I’m okay,” you say. “There’s a lot to be happy about.”

“Such as?” he prompts.

You list them, because they’re real, and you don’t have to lie.

You’ve got a job that feels steady. Friends who make you laugh, who make you feel supported. A routine that doesn’t feel like punishment. Sleep that comes easier now. A sense of yourself that feels more solid than it did when you were married and constantly reaching for something that turned out to be ungrabbable.

Yea.

You’re doing okay.

You don’t mention romance. It feels a bit awkward to after Joe allowed himself to tell you so openly about the lack of success he’s experiencing there.

He notices.

“And…?” he asks lightly. “Anyone?”

You meet his eyes then, just for a second.

His hand is still resting on your thigh, holding onto your hand with all five fingers.

You don’t know how to answer with words, so instead, you smile, soft and knowing, and then reach up to fix his hair where it’s fallen slightly out of place. Your fingers brush his temple, linger for half a second too long.

You pout at him, playful and fond and entirely noncommittal.

It’s a non-answer which says everything.

Joe’s breath stutters almost imperceptibly. He nods to himself, then brings your hand up to his mouth to kiss it before he lets go of it. Usually there’s a joke here, one about showing empty hands to other men like it’s the most scandalous promiscuous thing you could ever do.

But he remains silent.  

“Joe…”

He shakes his head as he frowns, grabs his glass to take a long sip, eyes on the ice cubes inside.

“You’re right though.” you try. “All the things you said, it’s not–”

“No, don’t, you don’t have to… ” he says quietly. “It’s good. I’m glad. That you’re doing so well, I mean.”

The moment passes without ceremony, but it leaves a dent.

He clears his throat loudly, asks you about the dinner you’re off to after this, and the conversation moves onto ‘the rest of the night’. Logistics. Who you’re meeting. Where he’s heading. The occasions, the locations, the people you’ll both be seeing. He tells you to make sure you don’t forget your phone in a toilet stall again. You scoff because, my God, that happened one time. You tell him to charm the pants off everyone so he gets more jobs, and he smiles because it’s hard not to when you cheer him on like that.

Eventually, time runs out the way it always does.

“I’ve got to run.”

“Yea, me too.”

You gather your things, you stand, you hug.

Off to two separate dinners. Two parallel lives.

As you step away, you glance back once, just to make sure he’s okay. You’ll worry about it later if you don’t.

Joe lifts his glass in a small salute before he drains it.

Still here, it says. Still us.  

You walk out with that thought, a quiet certainty settling deep within your chest.

You’re a chapter finished.

But a book unclosed.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803