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whatsupsonnyboy · 11 days ago

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skipping plans | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

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

wc: 3.5k

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

a/n: Just feeling like writing how it'd feel waking up with Joe in a lazy mood— just laughter, soft kisses, and dreaming about what’s next. Remember this is not a series, but if you wanna read more of this Joe, you can find it here.

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

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

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

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

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

“You’re already awake.”

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” you whispered.

He smiled, slow and sleepy. “Hi.”

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

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

He yawned. “Not a thing.”

“Oh?”

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

“Ambitious.”

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

“I don’t mind if you do.”

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

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

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

Then his phone buzzed, somewhere on the nightstand.

He groaned and buried his face in your neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Academy Award–winning behavior.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dennis the raccoon.”

“He wore a bowtie. A red one.”

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

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

“And you love it,” he murmured.

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You giggled. “That’s dramatic.”

“Well, that’s part of the job, babe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he mumbled into your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded against his chest, eyes fluttering closed.

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

You ended up back in bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed, soft and breathless, eyes crinkling.

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

“You’re absurd,” he whispered.

“I know”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lucky you like that about me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Make me forget anything else exists.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. Not possible.”

“Wanna bet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have to get up… right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that a question or an order?”

“A plea disguised as a threat.”

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

The shower was slow. Like everything else with him.

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

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

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

“Only one thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. And you’ll lose.”

“Damn. I love this relationship.”

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

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

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whatsupsonnyboy · 16 days ago

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dBtMf | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joe comes home to find you dancing in the kitchen, surrounded by music, warmth, and carefree joy. It's all about laughter, clumsy steps, and a track he doesn’t understand —but he understands one thing: he’s nuts about you.

wc: 1k

warning: fluff, this is just a bunch of fluff, Joe being a little clumsy and really into you ;)

a/n: I'm not really sure how many people are familiar with this kind of music, but let’s be honest—I love Bad Bunny, and his new album is incredible (seriously, give it a chance, I really recommend it). Anyway, I couldn’t stop imagining a scene like this, so… here it is. This one’s short—I hope you enjoy it. Remember this is not a series, but if you wanna read more of this Joe, you can find it here.

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

The door clicked open.

Joe stepped inside, his keys still in hand, shoulders sagging from the weight of the day. The apartment smelled faintly of cumin and something sweeter—maybe caramelized onions, maybe toasted rice. It was warm inside, the kind of warmth that didn’t just touch your skin but seemed to settle somewhere behind your ribs.

He expected quiet. Maybe the hum of the fridge, maybe his own footsteps echoing across the hardwood. But instead, he heard it.

Music. Faint, at first—just the low pulse of a beat slipping through the apartment like a heartbeat. As he stepped deeper into the hall, the sound bloomed into something fuller, rhythmic, alive. A reggaetón track—Spanish lyrics he didn’t fully understand, layered over drums that moved like waves. There was a kind of ache to the melody, though, like nostalgia built into the rhythm. He wouldn’t have known the name of the song, or the artist, but he recognized the feeling behind it.

He paused, listening. Then he smiled.

From the kitchen, there was movement—your voice, lifted in song, a little off-key but full of heart. He moved quietly, drawn by the sound, until he reached the threshold and stopped.

You were there, barefoot on the kitchen tiles, a wooden spoon in one hand, your hips moving to the beat like it was second nature. There was a pot on the stove, something simmering low, and a cutting board on the counter littered with slivers of red and yellow pepper. You had a speaker tucked beside the spice rack, and the music poured from it, unapologetic and bright.

You didn’t see him at first.

He watched. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that rare half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the one he didn’t know he was wearing. There was something in the way you moved, how free you were in your own little world, how the music seemed to flow through you rather than just play around you. You spun—too fast—and the spoon flew from your hand, clattering to the floor.

You let out a yelp, laughing at yourself, and finally noticed him.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, cheeks already coloring. “How long have you been standing there?”

Joe lifted his hands, as if caught mid-crime. “A while. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re such a creep.” But you were smiling.

“I call it observational appreciation.”

You shook your head, bent to pick up the spoon, then glanced at him again. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“I saw you dancing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And it was... impressive.” He grinned. “You’ve got moves.”

You pretended to consider this, then stepped toward the speaker and nudged the volume a notch higher. “Then come show me yours.”

His face shifted—instant panic. “No way. You know I can’t dance.”

You walked up to him, slow and deliberate, like it was part of the song. “I know. That’s why I’m inviting you.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s love,” you said, taking his hand.

He hesitated, still half-frozen with embarrassment, but he didn’t pull away. You placed his other hand on your waist and guided him gently, step by awkward step. It was clumsy at first. He bumped into your foot, swore under his breath, and muttered something about having two left feet.

But you were laughing. Not at him—never at him—but in that way you did when joy bubbled up without permission. And that’s what kept him trying.

You showed him the rhythm—not with words, but with the sway of your body. The music slowed, then picked up again, and you shifted into a different step, hips leading, hands light. He tried to follow. He failed. But he was watching you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

When he finally managed a decent turn, you whooped like he won the lottery. The rice was probably burning, the spoon was still on the floor, but none of it mattered.

Because right there, in the middle of the kitchen, with the music pouring around you like a spell, he kissed you.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t polished. It just happened—as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the beat itself.

And for the first time that day, he wasn’t thinking. He was just there. With you.

When you pulled apart, his forehead still resting against yours, he let out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe what just happened. Like you were some kind of small domestic miracle, smelling of sweet pepper and moving with rhythm in your feet.

“Okay,” he said then, with a crooked smile. “You have to tell me—what was this? What are we listening to?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. He never asked. Not about this. You had always shared a love for music—spent nights dissecting lyrics, arguing over which Arctic Monkeys album was the best, sending each other Pink Floyd deep cuts and trading favorite 1975 tracks like secrets. There was overlap, definitely. A shared language.

But this—this rhythm-heavy, sun-soaked, deeply yours kind of music—he had never really shown interest. Not out of dismissal, just... it never crossed his radar. The Latin and urban sounds you sometimes drifted into when you were cooking, cleaning, or just missing home—those had always been your world alone. Until now.

And there was something quietly disarming about the way he was looking at you, trying to understand a rhythm that was never written for him. Not because he suddenly loved the beat. But because you did.

“It’s Bad Bunny,” you said, almost shyly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s from his last album. The whole thing was kind of... nostalgic, I guess. Less party, more memory. Like, he is still doing reggaetón and trap and all that, but there is this undercurrent—like he is looking back at everything he had lived and trying to figure out what really mattered.”

Joe tilted his head, still watching you. Really watching. “Didn’t peg him for the reflective type.”

You laughed softly. “He surprises you, if you let him. It’s full of these little moments that felt almost private. Like he wasn’t just singing for a crowd—he was talking to someone he lost. Or maybe to a version of himself.”

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded slowly, processing. And you could tell—it wasn’t really about the album for him. It was about you, about hearing the things that moved you, the things that lived behind your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“Not really my usual vibe,” he said eventually.

“I know.” You smiled. “But you’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Because you are.”

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