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eddies-puppet · 18 days ago

Note

what was older!eddies reaction to the first time reader came home from going out with friends? just drunk and clingy

this is my favorite genre and activity is getting drunk and then being clingy and silly. need to do it with my fave of all faves!!! contains silly drunk reader and sweet older!eddie. no smut. just fluff. and tw- gina.

The doorbell sounded once, twice, three times before it was going off in short, annoying successions. Eddie groaned in annoyance, standing from his recliner.

"Easy! Alright? The fuck-" He looked out the peephole, half expecting to see Gina, furious about something. He was pleased to find you there instead.

"Open the dooooorrrrrr!" You whined, half swaying, leaning against the brick. "I need to pee, Ed, hurry."

Eddie fought back a smirk, twisting the lock and opening the front door. "Hey, bunny,"

"Hi," Your face melted, oozing with a drunk smile, eyes glassy from the countess beers you'd had. "Can I come pee?"

"Of course you can." Eddie said around a laugh, holding the door open with his foot, offering his hand to you. "Watch your step, baby." He muttered, nodding towards the step under the doorframe. You crossed it dramatically, taking a big, wide legged step in.

"I didn't know you were coming over." Eddie shut the door, watching you stumble down the hall towards the guest bathroom. "I thought you were out with your friends."

"I was," You muttered, behind the cracked door of the bathroom, the room already beginning to spin as you sat. "But I wanted to come see you. I knew Brielle was gone."

"Yeah? What'd you want to come see me for?" Eddie grinned teasingly, walking down the hall towards you.

"I wanted to sleep over." You admitted, staggering against the doorway, holding the frame for balance. "I wanted you to rub my back."

Eddie barked out a laugh, your bottom lip jutting in a pout. "Rub your back?"

"Yes, Ed." You whined. "You always do it good an-and it- hic!- it always puts me right to sleep." Your words were beginning to jumble, the effects of too much alcohol starting to take over.

"Alright. I can do that for ya, I suppose." Eddie sighed dramatically, holding his arm out for you, placing an anchoring hand on your back as he guided you to his bedroom.

"Lemme get you a shirt to sleep in. I've got-" He turned around, finding you already naked. That had to be a record, he was convinced. Drunk and that coordinated?

You were already crawling into the bed, shoes and clothes kicked off, climbing under the cool sheets that smelled just like Eddie.

"Hold on, bunny, you want a shirt?" Eddie grabbed the sheet before you pulled it up, earning a huffy whine from you.

"No," You whined. "Want you to rub my back, Ed, already told you."

Eddie fought back a grin. "Demanding little thing, aren't ya?" He shook his head playfully. You didn't reply, your cheek smushed to the pillow, already beginning to drift off.

Eddie slipped beside you anyways, snorting lightly when you rolled over on him, leg hiked up over his waist, arm slapped over his chest, face in his shoulder. Still, he rubbed your back, calloused hands gliding over the bare skin, up and down your spine in small circles, the way you liked until you were snoring lightly.

He knew you'd be sick tomorrow, hungover and hurting with a headache, with the spins you always got. And he'd do the same thing then, coddling you, rubbing your head to soothe the ache away. Content in his care.

#older!dilf!eddie #older!eddie munson x reader #older!eddie munson #older!eddie #dilf!eddie munson x reader #dilf!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #soft eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff

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eddies-puppet · 19 days ago

Text

FERAL.

Patron Saint of hellfire | Eddie Munson x reader

stranger things masterlist / inbox

summary: Eddie treats you like you're the only virtue worth holding, but it's his vices you're trying to bring to light

word count: 3.1k

tags / content warnings: basically porn with minimal plot, I swear I tried to synonymise more but then i gave up, again, i cannot reiterate how little plot this has, it's just me being self indulgent

a/n: the grammer checker keeps saying my writing lacks clarity but i'm done trying to fix it

The air between you is thick, charged—every molecule laced with the scent of him, of you, sweat and salt and something darker, something desperate. A hunger that doesn’t just gnaw at the bones but devours them, relentless, the kind that lingers long after the body is sated, etched into the skin like an emblem. You move with deliberate slowness, savouring the way his fingers dig into your thighs—not hard enough to bruise, never hard enough to bruise — not when he treats your body like something holy, but enough to make your nerves hum with the promise of more. His grip is worship and restraint in equal measure, caught between devotion and destruction, the scales trembling as you teeter on the edge of it.

Every drag of him inside you is a revelation, slick and filthy, the sound obscene in the best way—a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to his ragged inhales. His breath hitches, sharp and punched-out every time you clench around him, his voice breaking around your name like it’s the only word he remembers. The gasps coil low in your stomach, molten and sweet, a live wire sparking under your complexion, setting every nerve alight. You can feel him everywhere—the heat of his body beneath yours, the way his muscles tense and tremble, the desperate roll of his pelvis as he chases friction, chases you, like he’d follow you straight into damnation if you asked.

His lips part, his gaze locked on yours, dark and fevered, like you’re the only thing left sacred in his world—like he’d carve your name into his ribs a thousand times over just to keep you looking at him like this. Like he’s already damned, and you’re the only altar he knows how to kneel at. The reverence in his touch is almost unbearable, tracing your figure like he’s memorising the shape of you, the feel of you, as if this moment might be the last one either of you gets.

And you can feel how close he is—every tendon drawn taut, his voice raw and wrecked, his hips stuttering against yours. His control unravels with every thrust, every whispered plea against your lips, his body trembling on the edge of freefall. Right as you know you’ve got him there—right as his breath fractures, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—you stop.

His body jerks beneath you, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as you pull away—as you let his throbbing cock slip free, leaving him twitching, flushed and straining against nothing. His hands fly to your waist, digging into it like a lifeline, as if clinging hard enough might keep him from shattering.

You see his restraint unravelling—the muscle leaping in his jaw, the sharp hiss of breath between clenched teeth, and the tremor in his thighs where he fights to stay still. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take.

He just shakes, wrecked by his own want.

And it kills you.

Because you know why he hesitates. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his thumbs flex against you—like he’s afraid his touch alone could break you. Like if he lets go, if he gives in, he’ll ruin everything.

But that’s exactly what you want.

You want ruin. You want his control to snap, want him to forget every reason he ever had for holding back. You want his palms on you like a brand, his mouth like a confession, and his body moving with yours like there’s no tomorrow.

But he doesn’t give it to you.

He won’t.

And that’s the whole damn problem.

Dating Eddie had been… unexpectedly sweet.

Which, given his reputation, you never saw coming. The man was a walking provocation—all sharp grins and dirtier promises, the kind of bastard who’d murmur exactly what he wanted to do to you in the middle of a crowded bar just to watch your breath hitch and your thighs press together. Maybe it was wrong to admit, but you loved those wild flashes of him—the way his fists clenched when you danced just out of reach, the growl in his voice when someone looked at you a second too long.

But he always leashed it. Always.

Now? Now he was soft. Thoughtful. Devoted. And yeah, it was great—obviously. The way he traces every curve, freckle, and dip of you like you were scripture and he was learning you by heart. The way he kissed you like he could imprint his love into your bones with every swipe of his tongue. The way he’d linger, his breath ragged against your lips, his body trembling with restraint as if you’d dissolve if he pushed too hard.

Eddie treated you like something holy.

Which left you in this predicament.

Because he worshipped you—reverently—with his mouth between your thighs, savouring you like communion. With his hands cradling your face as he fucked into you, slow and deep, murmuring, "Fuck, look at you, so perfect, so good for me," like you were the answer to every prayer he’d never dared to speak. He ruined you in the gentlest ways, drawing out every gasp and shiver until you were shaking apart beneath him, until you sobbed his name like a plea.

And God, you hated how much you loved it.

Because fuck, you didn’t just want gentle. You wanted the real Eddie—the one who’d wreck you and make you thank him for it. The one who snarled curses at hecklers, who pinned you against the bathroom door at the Hideout, teeth at your throat, inhibitions drowned in cheap whisky and filth spilling from his lips. You wanted the Eddie who’d flip you onto your stomach with a growl, who’d mark your thighs with his fingerprints and your skin with his teeth, and who’d remind you—between panting, filthy kisses—that even saints fall to their knees.

And Christ, you were tired of waiting for him to figure it out.

You hadn’t planned it—not consciously, anyway. But the moment you caught that wild, desperate glint in his eyes when you pulled away—just before he could cum, leaving him gasping, his fingers knotting in your hair like he was a breath from snapping—something in you ignited.

You had to see it again.

Had to drag that spark into open air and watch it burn.

So you pushed.

Teased.

Denied.

Again and again and again—

Your hands on his belt, undoing it slowly, savouring the hitch in his breath as you never quite touched where he wanted.

Your tongue tracing the vein of his cock while precum beaded at the tip, tormenting him with the crusade.

Your body sinking onto him, just shy of where he needed you—close enough to torture, never enough to satisfy.

Eddie, ever the goddamn martyr, took it.

Every.

Fucking.

Time.

—growling, resisting, defiant, even as his body sold him out with every ragged breath, every frantic jerk of his hips. And Christ, the noises he made—guttural, wounded, your name a blasphemy on his lips, the only blessing his sinful mouth had ever known.

“C’mon, sweetheart—just this once—let me—fuck��!”

The words fracture into a gasp as you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw, just to feel him unravel—like even the phantom of your touch was enough to wreck him, like he was one frayed thread from coming apart.

And there it was: that tension, wire-tight, humming between you. His pupils drown the warm brown of his eyes, nothing left but plain hunger. His hands twitch against you—gripping, releasing, gripping again—torn between yanking you down and flipping you beneath him, between pleading and claiming.

He was breaking.

You could see it—the way his throat locked, the way his teeth sank into his lip, biting back a sob or a swear. The way his voice, usually honey-smooth when he was trying to be good for you, turned raw, ruined.

“Fuck—please.”

Close.

So close.

But not yet.

You grind down against him—just once—a slow, deliberate roll of your frame, the friction agonisingly brief. Just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth, to wrench his head back into the pillows as his tongue catches between them, biting down hard to stifle the groan clawing up his throat. And then you still.

The pause is persecution. His body arches beneath you, every ligament locked, trembling with the effort of holding back—like the need inside him is a living thing, ravenous, threatening to swallow him whole. His hands flex at your waist, fingertips finally digging in hard enough to leave a mark, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up. Just lets out a shattered exhale, ragged and uneven.

"Eddie." Your voice is a whisper, edged with challenge and something darker— something malecious — as you drag your nails down his chest, leaving faint, pink trails in their wake. His breath hitches, chest expanding under your touch like he’s starving for air. "You wanna cum, baby?"

His answer is a broken noise, half groan, half surrender. "Y-yeah—fuck, yeah, please—" There’s something raw in his voice, something beyond desperation.

Fear.

The kind that lives in the hollow of his ribs, in the silence between heartbeats—the terror that if he lets go, if he snaps, he’ll ruin you. That the hunger inside him, the one gnawing at his restraint like a wild thing, will be too much. Too scorching. Too rough.

Too eager.

You can see it—the heave of his chest, the tendons in his neck pulled tight, his jaw clenched until it twitches. His hips jerk once, involuntary, before he forces them still again, a broken gasp tearing from his lips. He’s the eye of the hurricane, a storm barely contained in every frazzled breath, another battle in his endless war. It’s a brutal stalemate of muscle and bone and sheer fucking willpower, all straining against the need threatening to split him open.

And yet.

He holds.

Some stubborn, adamant part of him clings to discipline, to the dread that this is just amusement—that you’re being sardonic, that if he really lets go, if he surrenders to the itch clawing at his membrane, he’ll ruin you too.

As if you wouldn’t let him.

As if you wouldn’t beg for it.

As if you wouldn’t fucking thank him for it.

You lean down, your mouth a slow, searing brand against the shell of his ear—close enough that the slightest shift would catch flesh between your teeth. Your voice is tempered with honey and sin, each word a deliberate provocation:

"You could make me."

A shudder wrecks him—violent, full-bodied, as if lightning has scorched the words into his soul. His fingers spasm against you, and for one suspended, hungry second—you’re certain he’ll break. That the last fibre of his control will snap, and he’ll finally, finally give in.

But he doesn’t.

His restraint is maddening. Beautiful. Agonising. Every inch of him is coiled steel, a spring wound to the point of bursting, his body locked in brutal defiance. You feel the tremors wracking through him, the raw, shuddering effort of denial—of refusing to take what he craves so desperately.

And you—

You want to annihilate him.

You want to crack him open, peel back every stifled groan, and every choked plea. You want to watch him come undone, to be the flood that drags him under, the reckoning he can’t escape. You want to be divine wrath and unholy absolution, the force that burns through his resolve until nothing remains—

His heartbeat is a ferocious thing, thrashing against your palm like a caged beast—each frantic pulse a hammer strike in the fraught silence between you. The heat of him burns into your skin, his blood a fevered drum beneath your touch while the war inside him rages behind those darkened eyes. You stare at it—the fraying edges of his control, the way his breath saws through his teeth, ragged and sharp, as if he’s one whispered plea away from snapping.

Then—

Eddie breaks.

His voice is smoke and gravel, stripped raw, a growl ripped from the depths of his chest as his fist twists in your hair. The grip is brutal, sending lightning-shocks of thrilling pain searing across your scalp as he drags your gaze to his.

“Tell me you want it.”

The words are ground between his teeth, his voice trembling—not with worry, but with the sheer, splintering effort of holding back. He’s dangling over the edge, one breath away from freefall. “I need to hear you fucking say it.”

And you—

You don’t hesitate. Not a heartbeat. Not a flicker of doubt. Your answer is an abdication — an inauguration.

“Take me.”

His restraint doesn’t just crash—it fucking implodes.

A low, guttural sound tears from him, the last vestiges of his control collapsing inward like a star giving way to gravity. Eddie doesn’t just fall—he erupts, demolishing every boundary, every hesitation, with a groan that vibrates through your core. And, God, you want to drown in it—in the raw, unfiltered flood of him, in the way his need devours you like a riptide, dragging you under, deeper, deeper—

The version of him you’ve grown accustomed to—the one who would stoop at your altar for eternity, who would worship you with reverent hands and whispered prayers—vanishes. In its place stands something feral, something devout in a way that puts iconoclasm itself to shame.

This isn’t devotion.

This is desecration.

And then there’s nothing but him. The world tilts, the room spinning in a dizzying whirl as he flips you over, his body a furnace against yours. One hand pins both of your wrists above your head, his fingers lacing through yours in a grip that’s as possessive as it is familiar—like he’s reclaiming what was always his. His weight sears into you, tainting you with every ragged inhale, every tremor that wracks his frame. But he’s not shaking with hesitation anymore. No, this is the aftershock of holding back for too goddamn long, the seismic release of a man who’s finally stopped denying himself.

His mouth crashes against yours like he’s starved for it—like he’s been dying of thirst and you’re the first taste of water in decades. There’s no finesse, no patience, just the brutal, consuming need to take. His other hand grips your thigh, yanking it higher, wider, his palm a brand as it slides up, leaving fire in its wake. There’s no room for gentleness here. No room for hesitation. Only this: the sharp sting of his teeth, the bruising press of his hips, the way he claims every inch of you like he’s carving his name into your bones.

The first thrust is a revelation—blinding, brutal, a declaration so fierce it steals the breath from your lungs. You have to fight to keep your eyes open, to watch the ruin you’ve orchestrated unfold—because God, it’s beautiful. The way his control fractures, the way his body bows over yours like a man in sacrament, like a sinner finally surrendering to damnation. His touch is everywhere, rough and reverent, dragging you against him with a desperation that borders on violence. As if he could fuse your bones together if he just held tight enough. As if he could carve this feeling into them, rewriting every moment he denied himself with the searing mark of his touch.

Every snap hits deeper than the last—a dire rearrangement, a reckoning for all the time he’s wasted curbing the desire.

"This what you wanted?"

His voice is a wildfire let loose, a growl scraped raw against your throat as his teeth find your skin—kissing, scraping, and biting. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Doesn’t need one. Not when your body is singing its reply with every shudder, every gasp, every broken noise he wrings from you.

"Wanted me to lose control?"

You can’t answer. Can’t fucking think—not when every drag of him inside you is pure incandescence, not when his rhythm is relentless, perfect, each withdrawal a taunt, each thrust a demand. His breath scorches your neck, his chuckle a hot gust that prickles down your spine. It’s carnage, every movement a chord struck in the symphony of your undoing, and he conducts it with a goddamn smirk on his lips. This isn’t just fucking.

It’s punishment.

It’s fealty.

It’s everything.

It’s punishment and worship fused together—his hands rough with greed, his touch reverent with something dangerously close to dread. Every movement is contradiction and deference, the bite of his fingers against you a stark contrast to the way his lips brush your pulse point like a whispered benediction. He’s unravelling you, thread by goddamn thread, even as he wills himself resilient — as if the outright force of craving you is enough to rip him apart at the seams.

“Tell me you’re mine.” It's not an inquiry, it's a fucking dictation.

It tears from him like he’s mitigating the clash between desperation and demand. It’s not just words— it’s a need, carved from the very marrow of his bones, and you can see the overture in it, the consolation he’s reaching for and the tenacity that’s written into his genetics.

Your reply comes without thought, without hesitation—pure instinct, molten and immediate, giving him exactly what he’s so wretched for:

"Yours. Always yours."

The words ignite something primal in him. A growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your ribs as he claims your mouth, his kiss equal parts possession and surrender. This is more than ownership—it’s covenant, it’s consecration, and it’s the last frayed cord of his control snapping.

And then—

The realisation creeps into your veins like poison—too late to stop the spread. He’s a quick fucking study.

Before you can flutter your lashes, his hips roll with devastating precision. The tables turn so violently your guts plummet to the floor. Your arch is instinctive, a silent plea, but his palm presses down on your abdomen, pinning you under his newfound dominion. His tongue clicks in mocking agreement, the sound travelling straight through your sternum to pool liquid-hot between your thighs.

A predator's grin slashes across his features as he leans closer—but not close enough—his breath scalding against your parted lips.

“Oh no, love.”

His voice is refined malice, syllables dripping with a cataclysmic edge that makes your pulse stutter. The hand not holding you down drifts up, tracing counterfeit awe down your throat, a farce of tenderness.

“You wanted to with fire?”

Each word is candied malevolence, a lullaby wrapped in a threat.

“Gonna show you exactly how it burns.”

#eddie munson #eddie #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #eddie x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie smut #eddie munson fic

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eddies-puppet · 23 days ago

Note

Soft man, soft body

👀

@joejoequinnquinn xox

soft man soft body soft hands soft hearts SOFT JOEY <3 Wordcount: 2.1K

---

Soft Hands, Softer Hearts

“Am I needed?”

It’s a weird text to get. Makes you smile through confusion a little as you text back a couple of question marks.

“??”

As a reply you receive a photograph of Joe’s clothed shoulder that he’s clearly taken on selfie mode whilst he’s out walking. You can recognise where he is from what’s visible of the street.

If what he means is, ‘do you need a shoulder to cry on’, the answer is no, you don’t. Your interview went shit, but you are very capable of shrugging off what isn’t meant for you. Something else will come along that will fit you better, you believe.

But…

If he’s offering…

“Not sure” you text back, which is technically true. Who knows, maybe they will call you back and offer you a job, even though you stuttered through some non-answers that made one of the men on the other side of the table take a deep breath as he took notes.

It’s not really looking the best... but, the universe could still surprise you.

Joe reads the message right as you send it, ticks immediately blue.

You receive a photograph not unlike the previous one, his shoulder, covered by a jacket, but this time, in the corner of the frame his index finger is visible, pointing at that same shoulder. For emphasis, you’re sure.

There’s something inside of you that doesn’t want to lie or take advantage of a situation.

“Nw I’m fine, just unsure! Could’ve gone better, but we’ll see, I guess.”

When another photograph of his shoulder follows, this time with half the jacket held open for you to see inside, you know it’s not as much a question as it’s just a weak excuse to see you.

It looks like he’s already on his way, too.

“my fridge is empty” you text, giving in, knowing exactly what the rest of the day is going to look like. Joe’s going to come over and take over for a minute. He’s not above folding a bit of laundry as you tidy up your bedroom, or throwing a quick meal together as you empty out the dishwasher. He knows what it’ll get him in return.

“empty empty or just nothing you fancy”

“if you want to eat pickles with mayo or soy sauce be my guest”

Joe reads it, goes offline, and you know he’s already putting together a mental shopping list for when he stops at sainbury’s ‘round the corner from where you live.

You’re not entirely sure which steps had lead to where you were now with Joe.

What had changed, exactly.

The starting point was very different and feels like it’s miles removed from this current way of being. Not that that’s a problem. But you worried for a little while that this pattern that you’d developed was purely transactional.

It wasn’t.

You were friends.

Friends do things for each other, don’t they? Help each other out. Are kind and friendly and do favours and give compliments, and if that results in scratching along Joe’s back whilst he sinks into your side on the sofa, than that’s fine, isn’t it?

It still felt a little weird, though.

This hadn’t ever been what you’d planned for, but maybe that’s exactly where the beauty of all of it was kept.

It takes about another thirty minutes for Joe to show up, orange plastic shopping back in hand.

“All right. Talk to me.” he says as he whizzes past you, into your kitchen. “What happened? How did it go?”

You close the door behind him, shrugging as you follow him in. He’s already got the fridge door open, bag on the counter, and is putting away an assortment of meats and cheeses.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Yea?” he asks, giving you a glance over his shoulder. “Fine is good!”

“Hmm,” you don’t agree or disagree, but the hum that leaves you makes Joe turn around fully to give you a proper look.

“Not good?”

“I just don’t know, I never know what people want, what they’re after. ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’ I don’t fucking know, do I? So I lie and answer what google tells me is a clever way of answering that question because I want to impress them, but then they can obviously tell I’m lying, that I’ve googled that question before and…” you sigh, shoulders dropping. “I don’t know.”

Joe closes the fridge, all picky bits inside for later.

“Not even sure I want the job.”

“Yea, that’s a good way to–”

“No it’s not.” you interrupt, frustration leaking from your features. “Because then if I don’t get it, then what? I’m such a fucking loser, can’t even get a job I don’t want, I’m just–…”

You get shut up by two hands that grab you by the face and force eye-contact.

“Hi.” Joe smiles. “Do you want some French cheese?” he tightens his grip when you try to pull away. “No. No, no. Do you–”

“Yes.”

“All right. We’ll have some French cheese then.”

A kiss gets pressed to your forehead that could mean nothing or could mean everything. You’re too scared to make that choice for yourself, so you just let it exist as what it is: a kiss to your forehead by a friend.

A friend that will come over just so you can exist in each other’s space for a while.

A friend who will put on a film and ask you to put your feet in his lap so he can squeeze and knead and rub until you’ve fallen asleep.

A friend that will put together a whole charcuterie board whilst you tidy away whatever mess you left from breakfast that morning, reassuring you that it'll all be fine in the end, no worries.

A tightness inside of your chest that you didn’t even realise was there slowly eases up. It releases a weird threat of tears that doesn’t manage to push through entirely because Joe is there, and there’s cheese, and bread, and he’s already looking through your collection of supermarket wine as he tells you to get two glasses out.

There’s no real issues and everything’s okay. The job you still have fucking sucks but you still have a job, and you have time to find something else, something new.

You don’t need comforting.

But still.

Still, Joe being there and taking over for a second is nice enough for you to not even care if he’s just doing it in return for some slow tickling fingers in his hair.

“Come sit.” Joe places the last things down on your coffee table.

When you don’t immediately drop whatever you’re doing, Joe comes over and grabs hold of you by your shoulders.

“All of this will be there to tidy up later, come on.”

You get turned around, and then a warm palm on your lower back guides you over to your sofa.

Joe pours you a glass, hands it to you, then cuts some cheese and offers you a cracker. Sat on the edge of your sofa, cheese knife still in hand, he turns to watch you until you’ve taken a bite, eyebrows raised and waiting until you audibly let him know through hums that whatever cheese you’ve just been fed tastes good.

You see the slightest of little smiles before he turns back and makes himself a little bite.

Is it a crime to let your eyes wander across his back and focus on the bit of cotton between his shoulder blades that pulls taut? You don’t think so. Moving your hand to touch him there and swipe your finger across might be, though.

Through chews Joe smiles at your touch as he slides back onto the sofa, wine glass in hand.

“You’ll get the job.” He says, mouth full of soft cheese, glass held out for you to cheers him.

You retreat yours though, smiling, raising a hand up to cover your mouth when you say, “I won’t get the job.”

Joe shrugs, smiles wider, and goes to clink your glass as he almost celebratorily says, “You won’t get the job! Cheers!”

And it’s not like this is exactly what you need, but everything about all of this is comforting as fuck. You cheers to you not getting the job which eases your worries and slight frustration at life and then you wash all of it down with French cheese and nice wine.

With nice ham and a couple of stuffed olives.

With a friend who likes to fidget with the arm of your sofa as he slowly loses himself in the foreign film that he put on.

With a friend who every couple of minutes will sit up to grab himself a little bite to eat, and before he sits back, will put a little bite together to give to you before he settles into the sofa again.

Who are you to deny any of this, you know? Even though, actually… the wine isn’t really your fave, and French cheese doesn’t exactly sit the nicest in your stomach, and also, you’re watching a foreign film that you need to read subtitles for but you can’t keep up, which is slightly annoying, but Joe is really into it, so you try your best, and, yea sure, if you actually just watch what’s going on it’s easy to kind of context-clue yourself into the plot just enough to not ask Joe “what’s happening” every two minutes.

After a little while, you slump far enough for your head to find his shoulder, you can feel how Joe turns his head to look down at you.

A silent laugh escapes him.

“Yea, that’s right. I told you.” Joe says, referencing his shoulder that he sent you three photos of. Three.

“Shut up.”

“Shut up.” Joe mimics in a whiny voice, but then shoots into action to keep you in place when you pretend to want to move away from him.

The rest of the film you spend in Joe’s embrace.

In big arms that feel heavy where they rest across your frame.

Warm, comfortable.

It doesn’t take long for Joe’s head to find a nice place to rest on top of yours, his cheek pressing into your hair, and naturally, your arm moves over his front as you slowly slump into each other more and more.

The soft cheese on your coffee table, whatever’s left of it, slowly flattens out, and by the end of the film, you’re struggling to keep your eyes open.

Credits eventually roll and you expect movement from Joe. Expect him to reach for the remote, to sit up and stretch his spine. However, when you move, Joe falls forward a little as a frustrated whine leaves his throat.

“Did you fall asleep?” you whisper, moving to lay down on the sofa, to get more comfortable in a horizonal position.

“Am still asleep.” Joe murmurs softly and chases the warmth of your body, easily accepts the legs that swing over his lap and then lets himself slump over your hip.

In a weird tangle of bodies, you smile at Joe’s face that presses and rubs into your stomach. You ignore whatever else his nuzzling makes you feel.

You let your head fall back and softly pat his head as you sigh, feeling the most comfortable you think you might have ever felt.

Joe sighs too, deep slow breath in, deep slow breath out, but then you still your hand and he let’s a little frustrated huff leave him.

It’s clear what he wants. What he’s after.

You’re surprised he hadn't moved your hand into his hair sooner, if you’re honest.

Your fingers slide into his hair and scratch over his scalp. You can see how Joe’s lips part slightly as his face relaxes and you silently wonder if you would do this with any of your other friends. If Joe would.

It takes literal seconds for Joe to fall back asleep, and the last thing you see is your TV, asking if you’re still watching.

You told Joe earlier that you never know what people want, that you’re never sure about what they’re after.

It’s all lies.

You know what you want, and you think you have a fairly good idea about what Joe’s after as well.

Right now that’s soft warm wonderful sleep whilst slow fingers lovingly stroke gently across his scalp. It’s having comfort food and a nice drink that warms you from the inside out. It’s watching a film on a snug sofa that holds just enough space for two bodies to fall asleep on. It’s to forget about anything else for a moment.

And you’re lucky.

Because that’s exactly what you’re after too.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddie-munsons-balls, @eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelybluenesss, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@notverywise, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

#joe quinn #joseph quinn #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x reader #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joe quinn fanfiction #joe quinn fanfic #icallhimjoey #soft hands softer hearts

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