hey girl!! I was wondering if you could write something w/ Joe Jonas (lovee that man for some reason 😅) w/ a very nerdy, artsy, but still a bad bitch type of reader, something like Solange Knowles (my wife and I'm not even kidding)
Basically Joe is supposed to meet Y/N's family and he's kinda nervous because he knows his situation w/ his ex wife and all that isn't one that'll make most parents to accept him as their daughter's partner
The rest you can decide, because I know you'll ate n e wayyy
summary - read the request!
warnings: none too crazy, just sad joe :(
word count: 2,624 (dayum.)
a/n: i am so so sorry for my lagging recently. just transferred colleges so i'm all over the place. love you guys sm.
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Joe had met presidents of record labels and strangers with cameras and men who shook his hand like they were trying to prove something, and he’d smiled through all of it.
But sitting on the edge of your bed in a quiet hotel room, tying and untying his shoe like it was a knot in his chest, he looked genuinely, helplessly human.
“Okay,” he said, voice thin with effort. “So… your mom. What’s her vibe? Like...gentle? Intimidating? Silent assassin?”
You leaned against the dresser, watching him through the mirror as you fastened one earring. The jewelry was subtle but intentional, the kind that said, "I thought about this," without begging anyone to notice. Your hair was styled in a way that made you feel like yourself—artsy, precise, a little rebellious on purpose. Your outfit was clean lines and quiet confidence, nerdy in a way that read like a secret weapon: the girl who knew how to cite her sources and also knew exactly where to place a gaze, so it landed like a warning.
“My mom,” you said, “is the kind of woman who will hug you and then ask you a question that makes you see your whole life in a new light.”
“And my dad,” you continued, because you couldn’t help it, because teasing was how you loved when you were scared, “is the kind of man who won’t say much until he says something that counts.”
Joe nodded too quickly. His knee bounced. He stood up, then sat back down, then stood again, like gravity had changed its mind.
“I don’t want them to hate me,” he admitted.
You turned around fully, letting the mirror go. Sometimes you forgot, with him, that you were allowed to be soft. Not because you weren’t strong! Because you were. But because you’d spent so long being the girl who had it together, the girl people came to for answers, the girl who could make a room go quiet with one raised brow. Softness had always felt like a private language.
With Joe, you spoke it anyway.
“They won’t hate you,” you said.
He exhaled, but it didn’t settle him.
“You don’t know that,” he replied, and there it was—something raw beneath the humor, beneath the charm. "They’re going to Google me in their heads while they look at me. They’re going to see the headlines. They’re going to wonder if I’m… if I’m safe."
You walked over and placed your hands gently on his shoulders. He looked up at you, as if asking for permission to hope.
“I’ve Googled you in my head,” you said softly, “and you’re safe.”
His eyes went glossy, quick, like he hated that your words could do that to him.
You knew what he meant, though. His life had been public the way some storms were public—loud enough that everyone had an opinion about the sound of it. He wasn’t just walking into your family’s home as your boyfriend. He was walking in as a story they’d heard versions of.
And he was terrified they’d choose the version that didn’t include the way he rubbed your knuckles with his thumb when you were anxious. The way he listened when you talked about your art like it was scripture, like the world was only real if you could translate it through color and shape. The way he asked questions—real ones—about the books stacked on your nightstand and the documentaries you’d half-watched while sketching.
He was scared they’d look at him and see a man who’d been through a very visible ending, and assume it meant he was incapable of a careful beginning.
“You don’t have to perform,” you told him. “You don’t have to win them over like it’s a show.”
He gave a weak laugh. “That’s literally my entire skill set.”
“Then learn a new one,” you said, and leaned down until your forehead touched his. “Just be honest.”
Joe closed his eyes. “Honest is… hard.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I’ll be right there.”
Then he said, so quietly you almost missed it, “I want them to like me because I want this to last.”
Because you weren’t immune to fear, no matter how composed you looked. You’d been the smart girl, the creative girl, the girl who could hold a room with her brain and her presence. But love—love always found the softest part of you and put its hands there.
You swallowed, blinked once, and made your voice steady.
“It’s going to last,” you said.
Joe looked at you, and his gaze was so full it made you feel like you were standing too close to a candle. Warm. Dangerous. Honest.
“I know,” you replied. “I can tell.”
Your family’s house smelled like something that had been loved for a long time—warm spice, clean linen, the faint ghost of incense that had settled into the walls. The porch light threw a gentle gold over Joe’s face as he stood beside you on the front step, hands in his pockets like he was trying to keep them from shaking.
You reached for his fingers.
He laced them with yours immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission to hold on.
The door opened before you could knock.
Your mother stood there in a soft wrap dress, hair wrapped high, eyes sharp in the way that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. She took you in first, her baby, her brilliant girl—and her face softened on instinct.
Then her gaze slid to Joe.
And Joe did something you’d never seen him do in public.
Not freezing. Just… present. Like he’d decided to stop hiding behind jokes and let himself be seen.
“Hi, Ms. __” he began, and his voice wavered for half a second. “Thank you for having me. I’m Joe.”
Your mom looked at him for a long moment that felt like a test.
Not the smile she gave strangers. Not the polite one. A real one, small but sincere, like she recognized something in his fear and respected him for showing up anyway.
“Come in, Joe,” she said. “And no need to call me that, feels too proper.”
Joe let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for weeks.
You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back hard, like he needed the reminder that he wasn’t alone.
Inside, your father was in the living room with a glass of iced tea, watching a game with the volume low. He turned his head slowly when you walked in, eyes landing on Joe with a calmness that could make a confident man nervous.
Your dad stood and offered his hand.
“Sir,” Joe said respectfully.
Your dad’s grip was firm but not aggressive. His gaze flicked from Joe to you and back again, and you could feel the unspoken: This man better treat my daughter like her heart is not a toy.
“What you do,” your dad asked, voice even, “besides the obvious?”
Joe blinked, then laughed once—soft, careful. “I… I play music. But besides that, I’m trying to learn how to cook more than eggs, I’m learning to keep plants alive, and I’m currently being educated on the difference between museum lighting and gallery lighting.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Your father’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin.
Your mom waved you all toward the dining room. “We’re eating. That man can meet y’all after he meets this food.”
Dinner was loud the way your family always was—stories spilling over each other, laughter popping up like fireworks. Your aunties asked you questions in a rhythm that felt like music: how’s school, how’s work, are you sleeping enough, are you still drawing, are you still reading those big books that make your eyes tired?
Joe watched you answer, and you could tell he was seeing you as a daughter, a niece, a cousin—not just a girlfriend. A whole person held in a whole village.
At one point, your little cousin leaned toward Joe and whispered, far too loudly, “Are you famous?”
Joe’s eyes widened, and he glanced at you like, Help.
You tilted your head, giving him that look you’d mastered in rooms full of people: Be cool. Be real.
He smiled at your cousin. “A little,” he said. “But not here. Here I’m just the guy trying not to spill sweet tea on himself.”
Your cousin giggled, satisfied.
You watched your mom watch that exchange, the smallest softening in her eyes, and something in you loosened.
Maybe you didn’t have to brace for disappointment.
Then, after plates were cleared and the noise calmed, your dad asked Joe to step onto the back porch with him.
Joe looked at you immediately.
He swallowed, stood, and followed your father outside.
The porch door shut behind them, leaving you inside with your mother, who rinsed dishes that didn’t need rinsing because her hands always wanted something to do when her mind was working.
She didn’t speak for a minute.
Then she said, quietly, “You love him.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. A truth said out loud like a candle being lit.
You leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling seventeen and twenty-two and grown all at once.
“Yes,” you admitted. “I do.”
Your mom turned, water dripping from her hands, and looked at you with the kind of seriousness that made you swallow.
“He got history,” she said, not unkindly.
“And you got a heart that people like to underestimate,” she continued, and your chest tightened because she knew you. “You don’t act fragile, but you feel deep. You always have.”
You blinked quickly, trying not to cry like a child in your mother’s kitchen.
“I’m not trying to be—” you started.
“I know,” she interrupted gently. “You’re not trying. You’re just… in it.”
You nodded, jaw trembling once.
She walked closer, took your face between her hands like you were still small enough to be carried.
“Baby,” she said, “I’m not worried because he got history. Everybody got history. I’m worried because the world will think it has permission to talk about yours.”
Tears slipped out before you could stop them, hot and immediate.
Your mother wiped them like she’d done your whole life. “Don’t let nobody make you feel like loving is a mistake,” she whispered. “And don’t you ever shrink to fit around somebody else’s mess.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed your forehead. “Because you’re not built for shrinking.”
Outside, Joe stood with your father under the porch light, hands clasped together like a prayer.
Your dad didn’t start with accusations. He didn’t start with judgment.
He started with something worse.
“Tell me what you want with my daughter,” your father said.
Joe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He looked down, then up, eyes shining.
“I want… peace,” he said finally, voice rough. “I want real. I want mornings that aren’t chaos. I want to show up for her—quietly, consistently. I want to be somebody she can lean on without feeling like she has to carry me.”
Your father watched him, silent.
Joe swallowed. “I know what people think they know about me. I know the… the story that floats around. But I’m not asking you to trust a headline. I’m asking you to trust what you can see.”
“And what can I see?” your dad asked.
Joe’s eyes flicked toward the window, toward you inside.
“That when she walks into a room,” Joe said softly, “it’s like the room remembers it has meaning. She makes things… beautiful. Not just by looking—by being. And I don’t want to be another person who comes into her life and treats that like it’s optional.”
“Look at me son,” your father said.
Your father’s voice lowered. “If you hurt her, you won’t have to answer to the internet.”
Joe nodded once, eyes wet.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I wouldn’t blame you.”
Your father studied him for a long moment.
Then he said, “You nervous?”
Joe let out a watery laugh. “Yes, sir. Terrified.”
Your dad nodded like that made sense. Like fear meant Joe understood the weight of what he was holding.
“Good,” your dad said. “Means you know she’s worth being scared to lose.”
Joe’s eyes squeezed shut for a second. A tear slipped anyway.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “She is.”
When Joe came back inside, you knew immediately—something had shifted. Not that all fear was gone, not that love was suddenly easy, but that the night had opened a door.
He walked straight to you, right there in front of everybody, and took your hand.
Your family watched. Your mother pretended not to. Your cousins whispered. Your aunties smiled like they’d been waiting for the confirmation.
Joe leaned in close, voice barely there.
“Your dad,” he murmured, swallowing hard, “is a terrifying man.”
You let out a laugh that broke through your tears.
Joe’s thumb brushed the back of your hand. His eyes were glassy, soft.
“But,” he added, “he said something that… I can’t stop hearing.”
“What’d he say?” you whispered.
Joe looked at you like you were the only light in the room.
“He said you’re worth being scared to lose.”
Joe’s voice shook. “And I am. Scared. Because I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to be the man people assume I am. I want to be the man you deserve.”
You stared at him, heart roaring. You could feel the moment your life split into before and after—before the night he met your people, before he chose to cry in front of them, before he held your hand like it was a vow.
You lifted his hand and pressed your lips to his knuckles, slow.
Joe’s eyes closed. When he opened them again, there was something steady there, something decided.
He nodded once. “I will.”
And later—when you finally slipped away to the guest room, the house quieting down, the night thick with memories—Joe stood behind you in the hallway, arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he confessed.
“Like I’m stepping into something sacred,” he said, voice breaking. “Like I’m being trusted with something I should take care of with my whole life.”
You turned in his arms and looked up at him, really looked.
The famous face didn’t matter in this light.
This was just a man, trying.
This was just you, finally letting someone see the soft part and stay anyway.
You cupped his cheeks, thumbs wiping away the wetness he hadn’t realized was there.
“You are,” you whispered. “You’re being trusted.”
Joe’s mouth trembled. He kissed your forehead like an apology, like a promise, like a prayer.
“Stay with me,” he said, not as a demand, but as a plea.
You smiled through your tears.
“I’m right here,” you told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Joe held you tighter, as if he could stitch the moment into his skin.
And in the quiet, in the hallway of the house that made you, with your family’s love humming through the walls like a heartbeat, you realized something that made your throat ache:
He wasn’t just meeting your family.
He was meeting the part of you that had always been waiting for someone to choose you carefully.
i hope you enjoyed it, see you guys soon!
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