Anon requested: Could you do a Joe X Reader fluff where he completely loses his temper (I know he's a lil babe but angry Joe is mm) and the reader cowers away and he feels like shit and tries to make it up to her?
BECAUSE HEY, I'M SICK OF JOE GATTO BEING IGNORED - AND NOW HE IS TOO.
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You and Joe seldom argue, but when you do it's disastrous. It starts with the general raising of voices, the furrow of eyebrows, the exaggerated hand gestures and frowns before you descend into shouting, triggering his temper and flinching as the heat turns up between you - and in no way that's good.
You've learned to steer clear of the Joker when he's in a bad mood. One wrong comment and your day is as good as ruined - and the worst part is, you know what'll set him off but sometimes resolve to do it anyway; maybe it's a more carnal piece of you that desires conflict with the usually sweet man. But hell, if you'd have known what fear you'd have been in for, you never would have made a sound in his direction.
The second he comes through the front door, roughed up from head to toe, you know he's been on the receiving end of a harsh punishment. Cheeks puff with humour as he stalks past you, a stormy look on his face as he moves through to the kitchen and begins to scrub his hands clean. Whatever the hell caked his body, it looked gross, like week-old paste left out in the sun for way too long.
"Wow... have a rough one, Joey?" you titter, leaning against the doorway. You're trying to be humourous, to do exactly what he does when things don't go his way: crack a joke and move on. Nine times out of ten, it works, and you're left with a laughing Joker-- but the one time it doesn't is the one time you question just how deeply the hatred within him runs. He's a very loving man, that Joe Gatto, but hell, he can make you forget that on the rare occasion that he loses his temper.
"Yep," he responds tightly, lips forming a thin line after the word has been squeezed past his pride. He's never really bitter about losing - it's the commentary he has to endure while he does so. He's not a sore loser, never has been, and he takes failure in his stride. However, the second his friends start picking apart insecurities (whether they know he's insecure or not) is the second it's no longer fun; the amount of times he's had to pretend a vague comment doesn't hurt him, destroy his mood entirely, is next to ridiculous. "I'd really appreciate some space right now, [Y/N]."
That should've been the end of it. You should've respected his wishes and left him alone to simmer down. No doubt he'd have come around later in the evening, bright and perky, holding a dog leash and inquiring whether you wanted to take the pups out with him for a walk. It could have been that simple. But you, being smart-mouthed, decide to make a comment.
"You sure? Losers tend to need a pick-me-up."
Innocent in nature, and a playful smile adorns your lips as you let it slip-- but Joe doesn't hear that. He hears mockery. He hears insensitivity. He hears blood flooding his head and heat rushing to his stomach as anger finally spills over, patience cracking at the seams and allowing bitterness to seep through. It is with aggression that he turns around, wet hands banging hard against the counter. The harsh sound wipes the smile off of your face instantly.
"God DAMN IT, [Y/N]! Ya just couldn't keep your damn mouth shut, could ya? What, is one favour too much to ask? Ya like pissin' me off, is that it?!"
You're stunned, completely paralysed-- and then your brow furrows, hands resting on your hips. You don't appreciate his tone, his fire. It'd been a mere joke - and a weak one at that. He has no right to be talking as if you never respect his wishes nor listen to him. The nerve.
"Excuse me?" you demand, voice icy. It's nothing compared to the glare those ocean-blue eyes give you as Gatto slowly turns and clenches his fists by his side. Good Lord, he's angry, and somewhere in the lost translation between you you know it's not even about you. Your comment may have tipped him over the edge, as tiny as it had been, but this has been a long time coming. Joe is not honest when it comes to his own discontentment; you resolve to make it spill over so that it can be over with, words continuing to jab at him and his thinning patience. "Don't talk to me like I'm shit, all right? I was clearly joking--"
"HA!" he interrupts, flame burning through the ice in his gaze and halting you in place. He strides over to you, looming in close. He's threatening like this, words dying in your throat as you stare his anger in the face and will it to be quelled by his enraged ranting. "That's all it ever is, huh? A joke? A quick jab? 'Cause hey, Joe can take it, he doesn't give a shit, it's not like he has FEELINGS or gets HURT by some'a the things that people say, NO WAY--"
"That's not fair, I never said that!"
"Ohhh-Oh! I'm sorry, ya didn't say that? Well darn, look at that, Joey's in the wrong again, what an asshole! The fat, ugly, useless fuck better take a step down and just skedaddle right back on down to his hole, huh? Would that make ya HAPPY--"
Joe is all but hysterical at this point, gestures grand and eyes overtaken by lividness that consumes him and leaves him blind to the way you're tearing up. And it's not all because of the nasty way he's speaking to you, the volume in his tone. No. It's because, deep in all of that hatred and rage that's spilling through, there's a self-loathing so raw and upsetting that it jars you, makes you feel as if you've been whipped in the face. How had you never noticed it before? Ignorance. For the exact reason he'd so icily pointed out earlier: nobody thought twice about insulting him.
"Well I'll tell ya somethin', I'll tell ALL'A YA somethin'! I don't--"
There is no way to describe the rate at which his face falls when he sees you cower away from him. He'd raised his hand to point at you, perhaps poke you forcefully at most... and you'd reared back as if he was about to strike you. For a moment, nothing registers on his face; the only thing you notice through raised hands and a turned face is that he's not sneering any more.
A tense silence follows, one in which his arms fall limp by his side and you slowly fidget under his gaze. Joe doesn't look angry any more - he looks grief-stricken.
"[Y/N]..."
Immediately, you try to justify your reaction. "J--Joey, I didn't... I didn't think you would... I just-- you were so angry, I--"
You don't get a chance to finish. The man lunges at you, pulls you close to him, one arm tightly around your back while the other splays over the back of your head and holds it against his shoulder. Immediately, you sink into his warmth. You're certainly still heated up, still annoyed with his temper being unleashed onto you for the sake of one blarse comment-- but hell, the bigger part of you is just relieved that he's not screaming any more, that that hurt in his eyes is no longer there.
It's unclear how long you stand there, simply engulfed by his arms as the seconds tick into minutes and the minutes into indiscernible chunks of time that you don't care to think about. No time is too long to be in your boyfriend's arms, where it's safe, where it's secure, where you can never be hurt-- you just wish you could have provided that same sense of safety rather than tipping him over the edge, whether you'd meant to or not.
Eventually, in the quiet: "...I'm so sorry, [Y/N]... I-I just-- I feel so terrible and I took it out on you and that was so wrong of me... I'm sorry..."
You nod silently. It's not okay, him yelling at you like that-- but you can forgive it. In the grand scheme of things, it's not important. "I know, Joey... I know..."
"Y'know I would never hit you... right?"
Your hands move to cup his face, your body pulling back enough to be able to look him in the eyes. That beautiful gaze is filled with such grief, such heartbreaking sorrow, such doubt, it breaks whatever firmness you had left in you down completely. To see him so upset about this, so genuinely moved by the notion of somebody believing he had the capacity to hurt them when all he tries to do is good-- you know instantly that he's telling the truth.
"Yeah. I do. I don't know why I did that. Probably for the same reason that you yelled at me: it was appropriate at the time, even though it was never okay."
Joe seems to mull over your statement for a moment... before nodding his head and smiling a tiny smile. It's a fraction of how happy you'd rather him be but it's something, and you have to know when to battle and when to let things be. For now, while he's not angry like he was? You're content to let it be.
"And hey... you never have to sit on those feelings alone. If you feel bad about yourself, ever, come to me: I can give you at least a hundred reasons as to why Murr's an asshole. A thousand reasons why Sal's an idiot. A million reasons why Brian's a dunce. And a bajillion reasons for everyone else. Fuck them."
His forehead comes to rest against yours, a tiny chuckle passing his lips as he releases a shaky sigh and nods remotely.
"...thanks, [Y/N]..."