mel

[mattymartin]

↳ MAT BARZAL & ANTHONY BEAUVILLIER AT TITO’S WEDDING | 7.17.26

[federal-burrow-bureau]

Face card 🤧

Via tolud on IG

[mattymartin]

↳ MAT BARZAL HYPING UP TITO ON THE DANCEFLOOR | BEAUVILLIER'S WEDDING | 7.17.26

[mattymartin]

↳ MAT BARZAL AT FANATICS FEST | 7.19.25

[mrs-delaney]

Background Noise | Simple Math

pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🩷🧮 wc: 1,250 an: hi it's me clogging the tag with the same boring ole picture 🥲 this one's based on a mixture of two requests i think — if i can find them in my inbox i'll link them so you can see them. thank you for being here 🩷 joe burrow masterlist | simple math masterlist

It’s his week, which means you’re under a blanket on his couch watching something about the bottom of the ocean.

The rules are his. Phone face down on the coffee table — he set yours there himself when you sat down, screen to the wood, like a man confiscating something. You watch the whole thing. No scrolling. No, I’m listening while you answer a text. He doesn’t say all that out loud anymore. He just held out his palm when the title card came up, and you handed over the phone.

So now your feet are in his lap, and a narrator is talking about a part of the ocean where the light doesn’t reach, and Joe’s thumb is moving slow over your ankle bone, back and forth, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

He probably doesn’t.

On screen, something with teeth drifts up out of the black, a little light hanging off a stalk above its head. The narrator says its name.

“That’s the female,” Joe says.

You don’t ask. You know better. It doesn’t matter.

“The male’s like a tenth the size. He finds one, bites onto her, and then he just—” he folds his fingers in, slow. “Fuses. Her skin grows over him. He’s part of her body at that point. Just there to—”

“Please don’t finish that.”

“—reproduce. He loses his eyes. His organs. Everything but the part she needs.”

“Joe.”

“What.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

He looks over at you like he doesn’t know what thing. He genuinely doesn’t.

On the screen, the little light moves through the dark. You watch it longer than you mean to.

“Wait. So she just carries him around.”

“Rest of her life.”

“That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s efficient.” He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and looks back at the TV like he’s won something.

You hate that you want to know what’s further down. You ask anyway.

“So what’s deeper than this?”

He slides down the couch and takes you with him, gets comfortable, like it’s going to take a while.

“You’re gonna love this,” he says.

———

The ritual sticks. It turns into a thing you have — Sunday nights, mostly, a Tuesday if his week’s open, his place and yours trading off, a running fight about subtitles that neither of you ever wins.

Your weeks, you make him watch the movies that raised you. You put on How to Train Your Dragon, the one you’ve seen so many times you mouth the words, and you wait for him to make fun of you. He doesn’t. He goes quiet in the good way, and twenty minutes in he says “the dad’s wrong about him,” flat, like it’s bothering him, and you have to look at the floor so you don’t grin and ruin it.

His weeks are whatever he’s deep in that month — space, the bottom of the ocean, how mountains move — plus Heat and one cult thing after another, each one “important,” each one earning him a pillow to the face.

Then it’s a Sunday, and he puts on The Dark Knight, and you can tell it’s not like the others before it even starts — he sits up, phone all the way across the room, like the movie deserves his hands free.

“I watched this probably a hundred times the year I got my license,” he says.

You’ve seen it too. Your brother had it on in the basement so many weekends that it became the background noise of being a kid. Without thinking about it, you do the math. “God, so I was like nine.”

His thumb stops on your ankle.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the screen, the city, the title coming up over it. You watch the side of his face for a second, then let it go.

“The Joker scared the hell out of me,” you say. “I used to leave the room.”

“You can leave the room.”

“Shut up. Start it.”

His thumb starts moving again.

———

A few weeks in, you push your luck. It’s your night. You put on a show.

“This isn’t a movie.”

“The deal was favorites.”

“The deal was movies.”

“The deal was never movies. You just kept picking movies.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You can see him deciding whether this is worth dying over, and you watch him decide it isn’t.

“Fine.” He gets his phone. “I’m not watching it, though. Background noise.”

You start it from the beginning.

That first night he’s on his phone the whole time, thumb going, and at the end he says it was fine, he guesses, and you let him have that. The next week the phone goes down somewhere in the back half. The week after that, it doesn’t come out at all.

He keeps saying background noise. He says it while he’s leaning forward. He says it the week he asks, too casual, whether the dark-haired brother is coming back — and when you tell him the guy’s name is Conrad, he says he didn’t ask for a name; he asked if he’s coming back. He says it the week he calls the blond one “that kid” in a tone that has opinions. He doesn’t know the names. He refuses to know the names. He knows exactly who everyone is.

By the time you get him to the third season, you’ve stopped pretending it’s background noise.

He hasn’t.

———

Season three, you don’t even have to fight him for it. You put it on, and he’s already settled, arm out for you, eyes on the screen before the recap’s done, like he’s been waiting for this all week.

“Background noise,” he says, to nobody.

“Sure.”

The premiere doesn’t waste time. There’s a party. A girl you don’t recognize yet is talking to her friends, loud and careless, and across the room Belly goes still.

Joe sits forward.

“He did it,” he says.

“What?”

“The blond one.” He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Whatever she just heard — he did it.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“He’s gonna say ’I can explain.’ Watch. Guilty people explain. Innocent people just say no.”

Belly crosses the room and asks him straight out. The first thing out of his mouth is that he can explain.

Joe breathes out through his nose, slow, like he just watched a ref blow a call, and now he’s personally offended.

“Cabo,” he says, when it comes out where it happened. “He did it in Cabo and sat on it. Look at his face — he’s not sorry he did it. He’s sorry she found out.”

You’re not watching the show anymore. You’re watching him.

When Jeremiah gets to the part about how they were technically on a break, Joe’s jaw sets.

“That’s not an explanation,” he says. “That’s a loophole.”

On screen, Belly’s coming apart, and Joe watches her like he’d fix it if he could reach.

“She’s gonna take him back,” he says, low. “Don’t. Belly. Come on.”

You look at him.

“You know her name.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on the screen. Then he catches it — what he said, the way he said it — and his jaw works, and he keeps very busy not looking at you.

“…How many of these even are there?”

“Three seasons. We’re in the last one.”

“How many episodes left?”

“Like ten.”

He pulls you into his side, chin landing on the top of your head.

“Don’t watch them without me.”

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[burrowsgem]

[kingofmyheartco]

Face card is so lethal.

[fic-dumpster]

[przepanie]

In case anyone forgot.

[mattymartin]

↳ BARZY & THE ISLANDERS WAGS | BEAUVILLIER'S WEDDING | 7.17.26

[burrowsgem]

[squad-3]

More from yesterday!

[jb9stuff]

📸 QB Summit

[jb9stuff]

📹 shotbywoot

[mrs-delaney]

Head Start | 🍃

pairings: joe burrow x reader 🌿 wc: 980 masterlist | stoned joe masterlist an: okay i lied — i was SUPPOSED to be doing tax returns for class tonight but instead you're getting stoned joe 🫠 no regrets tbh. writing stoned joe is one of my favorite things in the world so a huge thank you to the anon who requested this 🩷 also — psa to anyone who's ever sent me an ask that hasn't been filled yet, i promise i haven't forgotten. sometimes the inspo just takes a minute to hit. every single one is on my list and i love you for sending them 💌 daisy 💋

The door goes and you don’t move fast enough to do anything about the tin.

You hear his keys hit the bowl in the entry, then nothing — and you know, you know, he’s standing back there doing the thing he does, taking the whole room in before he says a word to it. The TV’s on something you stopped following twenty minutes ago. There’s a glass of water sweating a ring into the coffee table and his tin sitting open right beside it, lid off, grinder out, the whole scene about as subtle as a crime.

Footsteps. He comes around the back of the couch and stops, and you tip your head back against the cushion to look at him upside down — and lose it. Caught, giggling before you can stop yourself, hand coming up too late to do anything about it.

“Hi,” you manage.

Joe looks at the tin. Looks at you. The laugh’s already in his voice when he drags a hand down over his jaw.

“So this is what I come home to.”

He toes his shoes off where he stands, nudges them toward the wall, and comes around the front of the couch. Picks up the tin. Tilts it toward the lamp to see how much you’ve gotten into without him, and the look he gives you over the top of it could not be drier.

“You didn’t even text me.”

“You were working,” you say, like that’s reason enough.

He doesn’t dignify it. Taps the lid back half-on, sets the tin down, and drops onto the cushion beside you — close, so you have to fold your knees up over his thigh to make room. His hand lands on your shin like it lives there.

“Scoot.”

“I am scooted.”

“You’re sprawled.”

You giggle again and he reaches for the grinder, slow about it, like the whole evening just got rearranged and he intends to take his time. You walk your fingers up his forearm while he works, smug as anything.

“That was good,” you tell him.

“Babe.” He doesn’t look up from the grinder. “I don’t buy mid.”

By the time he's caught up the room's gone soft at the edges and so has he. Sunk low into the couch, head tipped back, one arm slung along the cushion behind you, the other hand still wrapped loose around your ankle.

You're not doing anything with your hands. That's a lie. Your hands have ideas — the hem of his sleeve, the line of his collarbone through his shirt, the spot under his jaw where his pulse is. He lets you. Eyes half-lidded, watching you do it.

“You’re being weird,” he says, no heat in it.

“I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being weird and affectionate.”

You press your palm flat to his chest just to feel him breathe, and he goes quiet under it. When you look up, his eyes are already on you, and they’re not lazy anymore.

His hand leaves your ankle. Travels up. Stops at the back of your knee.

"C'mere," he says, lower now.

You come. Knees planted on either side of his thighs, you settle your weight and feel exactly how hard he is through his sweats. The sound he makes is low, almost a growl. Both hands slide under your shirt — one spreads wide at the small of your back, the other fists in your hair and tips your mouth down to his.

He kisses you slowly. Tongue, teeth, the faint taste of weed still on him. You rock against his lap, and his grip tightens, fingers digging into your hip like he's deciding whether to let you keep control.

"You started the night without me," he murmurs against your lips. "Figure you owe me."

"That how it works?"

His laugh is rough. "That's how it works."

His hands find the waistband of your shorts. You lift up just enough for him to drag them down your thighs along with your underwear. Cool air hits your skin for half a second before his palm is back between your legs, two fingers sliding through how wet you already are. He curses under his breath, presses them inside you once, slow and deep, then pulls them out and brings them to his mouth.

You're the one who gets his sweats down. He's heavy in your hand, hot, the head already slick. You line him up and sink down in one slow glide. The stretch pulls a broken sound out of you. His head drops back against the couch, jaw tight, one hand locked on your hip to keep you right there while he throbs inside you.

You move. Lazy rolls at first, grinding deep, letting the haze stretch every second. He watches you — eyes heavy, lips parted — thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight little circles that make your thighs shake. Every time you take him all the way, his fingers flex harder.

When you start to lose rhythm, he takes over. Arm banded around your waist, he fucks up into you with these slow, filthy thrusts that punch the breath out of your lungs. His mouth is at your neck, sucking a mark you'll feel tomorrow. "Right there, baby. Fuck."

You come hard, clenching around him, forehead pressed to his as his name fractures in your mouth. He follows right after — hips snapping up once, twice, burying himself deep, both arms locking around you. The groan he lets out vibrates against your skin, low and open-mouthed.

After, you stay exactly like that. Still joined, boneless and sticky, his heart hammering under your cheek before it starts to slow. He's still half-hard inside you, twitching every so often with the aftershocks. His hand runs up and down your spine, fingertips dragging lazy lines over your skin. The room smells like weed and sex and the blanket he eventually drags over your bare ass.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[nevergettinglaids]

JOE BURROW via Instagram (qbsummit)

[kniesonice]

love your writing & would love if you’d write the prompts from summer list no 3 - scenario no 25 sex in a sundress w dialogue no 15 and/or no 18, however you’d like to write it out! maybe w mat barzal, that man screams sucker for a sundress 💛💛

list no.3, smut prompt no.25: sex in a sundress + prompt no.15: “you look good in that.”

smut 18+

“you look good in that,” mat’s voice is laced with fondness and something inexplicably dirty, eyeing you from the archway that leads to the kitchen. the sundress he’s referring to meats mid thigh, slipping higher as you lean across the counter to grab another room temperature lemon from the wooden fruit bowl—one of those ridiculously expensive ones you begged for, and he couldn’t resist buying for you. because above all else, mat barzal is whipped and gets off on spoiling you.

you shoot him a sweet, faux innocent look as you slice the bottom of the lemon, the knife hitting the matching wood cutting board with a dull click.

“thank you baby,” you say, squeezing the citrus fruit into a glass pitcher, the acidic juice cracking over the ice. “wanted to look nice for everyone.”

mat hums, a non-committal sound that’s tells you he’s half distracted. suddenly, his hands find your hips over the floral material, squeezing and bunching up the fabric. not enough to expose anything, but just enough to tease.

“might need you to change,” he nips at the lobe of your ear, “can’t have you looking this fuckable with a bunch of my teammates running around.”

you feel his half heard member beneath his linen shorts, pressing against the crease of your ass like its searching for shelter. you laugh, breathily, and arch into it, dropping the disgraced lemon to the makeshift trash can beside the cutting board.

mat continues, “you know schaf has a hard on for you baby, I can’t deal with that today.”

you spin in his grasp and run your fingers over the nape of his neck, toying with the grown out hair there. he’s been itching to buzz it again for summer, and you had to beg him with a blowy to keep it. safe to say, it worked.

“leave him alone,” you murmur, “he’s a kid.”

he rolls his eyes at that, but he’s beginning to grin, all toothy and sexy in a way that makes you clenching you thighs together like a virgin.

“a kid who’s gunna be looking at my girls ass that’s almost hanging out her dress.”

you take your bottom lip between you teeth, while your other hand finds solace under his loose tee, finger tips grazing his v-line and the dark trial of hair that leads beneath his shorts.

“gunna spank me for it?”

mat laughs, low and amused, “can’t hurt that pretty thing baby.” then, he’s lifting you onto the counter, so quick that you don’t even get a blink in before you realize what’s happening. mat pushes the lemons to the side so they don’t get knocked, because you’ve spent all morning prepping that homemade lemonade and he’d be damned if it went to waste.

your sundress bunches around your hips as your legs spread naturally, the counter top cool and sticky against your skin. mat steps between them, and pushes them even further apart with his rough hands, exposing the small triangle of cotton you claim are underwear.

he almost looses it at the sight.

“but maybe i’ll fuck you, right here on the counter our friends will be gathered around soon,” you whimper, completely at his mercy already. mat grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding you steady. his eyes dart between your pouted mouth and your gaze, unable to tear his away for too long from one before jumping back to the other.

he continues, voice slow like frozen honey, “remind you exactly who you’re wearing this dress for.”

if you weren’t so deep right now, you’d tell mat that his younger teammate isn’t a problem—but in reality, you both already know that. the whole matthew having a crush on you is something sweet, totally lighthearted, and not at all worrisome. but there’s something unexpectedly erotic about the alternative that neither of you seem to care about clearing up.

leaning back on your palms, you watch through half lidded eyes as mat pulls himself out of those crisp linen shorts. he pumps his length from base to achy tip three times, spreading the collection of pre-cum that had beaded at his slit.

you take your bottom lips between your teeth again, pussy clenching in anticipation as he inches impossibly closer. with a free hand, mat pulls your painted to the side, grunting appropriately when a gooey string of arousal connects the material to your lips.

“fucking…jesus,” he nudges his head against your entrance, teasing but not entering. after a few seconds, he pumps himself up towards your clit, collecting your slick and spreading it all over both of your most intimate areas.

you whine, head dropping back between your shoulder as a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine before settling at the lowest point of your belly. he hasn’t even slide inside yet and you’re already close—it’s almost pathetic.

mat curses again. it won’t take either of you long, he can tell based on the way your nipples have turned to glass points beneath the cups of your dress, and the way his balls are already tightening at the base of his length.

without wanting to waste anymore time of half assed foreplay, he inches himself inside you. slow. inch by inch until the tip brushes your fluttering cervix. you gasp at the feeling, back arching until your covered tits are practically in his face.

now fully sheathed, mat grabs at your hips again, dragging you to the very edge of the lemon scented countertop. “shit, I gotta move. can’t help myself, you feel too good baby.”

your jaw hangs as you finally find the strength to lift your head back up, eyes falling down to the erotic scene between your legs. all you can manage in response is a pleading noise—a half whine, half yes.

and with that, he begins rolling his hips. slowly at first, building that toe curling momentum that has you both feeling fuzzy in the knees. then, the pace increases as you both barley begin to climb the metaphorical ladder. the sounds of your mingled heavy breathing, and the plap plap plap of mat pounding into you echos throughout your home, louder than the hum of the air conditioning and the music playing quietly through the radio.

you grab at his bicep, manicured nails digging into fleshy muscle as your inner walls begin to tighten and pulse around him. “matty—oh fuck—mat i’m gunna cum.”

he lets out a vibrating grunt, because the pure whimsical desperation in your voice is enough to have him twitching with incoming release.

“come on then,” mat huffs, hastily releasing your hip in favour of thumbing at your rosy clit. it’s slick from earlier, which makes it easy to stimulate you oh so perfectly. “shit, y/n, cum all over my dick.”

you can’t help but to let out another unrestrained noise, a mixture between a shout and a mewl as you do just as he said. one rough pump later you’re releasing all over him, a creamy mess that soaks his cock and dribbles down your ass.

“oh yeah,” he grunts, watching your body twitch with your climax. long lashes fluttering with bliss, mouth prettily hung open like an invitation. without thinking, he uses the thumb that had been toying with your clit to put in your mouth, using that leverage to drag your attention back to him.

you moan, lisp enclosing around the digit, lazily suckling like it’s a dummy.

“watch me cum,” he demands, abs clenching beneath his top as he finds peak, “watch me fucking fill up this pretty pussy. then later, when the guys are here and eye-fucking what’s mine, I want you to feel my seed sitting thick and hot in your slutty panties.”