summary after self sabotaging takes another good thing from you, you face your fears, going after the man you love.
word count roughly 4.5k
The Cincinnati lights slowly blurred out, as the smoke passed by the windowsill.
You didn’t smoke. Not really. But the burning sensation seemed to dull a bit of the pain that resided in your chest.
For the past two months, you had been the the happiest woman in town. But now, your ears rang every time you tuned into the TV or saw another headline.
It was clockwork. Wake up, work, come back, cook, stare out the window— to the one place you could see from your apartment that still had a piece of him: Paycor. The bright lights signaled it was game day. So did the turned on television, which now had an image of him warming up. “Great”, you thought.
The cigarette in your hand is thrown on the ashtray, as you exhale the rest of the smoke, feeling the awful aftertaste. Eyes glued on the TV, all that’s in your head are flashbacks.
Flashbacks from the way one of the most eligible bachelors in the country had gone out of his way to meet you. To see you. Talk to you. Have you.
But you’d never been good with relationships. It started with your parents. The kind of silent silencing, that you barely notice happening. Years later, you found yourself in between therapy sessions, fixing communication skills, high anxiety, imposter syndrome, fear of abandonment.
Joe was the first person to ever make you feel momentarily safe. Momentarily. Because at the end of the day, you always knew that nagging feeling would show up again, burning in your chest, making it hurt; urging you to clutch it in search of the smallest bit of solace.
So you pulled away. Slowly. Unconsciously. When you noticed, family talks turned into screaming, hugs turned into fighting. And now you were free.
Ironic, isn’t it? To think how much freedom and solitude are a thin line. You hadn’t talked to him since. Hadn’t looked him the eye, avoiding the places you knew he’d be. Except today. Being a life long Bengals fan, you knew what today’s game meant. It’s an AFC Championship Game. It’s the kind of game you’d be in his suite. Watching him. Praying to God for it to succeed.
But you’re not. You’re clutching your chest, watching as the tv plays the first throw of his in the game. 1&10 turns into a first down. One turns into five, which end up in a touchdown for the home team. And many more later. The commentators call him a “beast”, say he’s “laser focused”, “MVP”. But the words end up going unnoticed. For everyone else, he’s in game mode. Hungry, even. But you know he’s not. He’s disappointed. Hurt. Mad, even. So you stare at the TV, when the reporter interviews him post game. Clipped answers, tight face. Hands on his hips. He barely glances at her. Barely shows emotion.
Suddenly, your chest aches again. This time, your hand goes over your heart, trying to ease the pressure there. You swallow, watching as the transmission ends. You know he’s not partying today. You know he’s locking himself up at home.
Normally, by now, you’d received a text. Maybe a selfie. But you don’t. You stare at your phone, gaze flickering between the clips of him replaying and the lock screen on your phone. A mixed bouquet of red roses and lilies. Your favorites. He’d gotten them for you with no apparent reason, with a note that read “For being you”.
So your gaze moves. It flickers between the small screen and your front door. After a little while, you stand, walking straight to your bedroom. On the nearest wall, you pick off the small pictures that originated on a vintage booth in Paris. You weren’t dating. Never. But it felt like that. Always.
Closing your eyes, huffing a deep breath, you pull on a warm over coat, shoving the picture inside the pocket. The heels of your boots click on the wooden floor, as you strongly walk out of your apartment. You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s bullshit— he probably didn’t wanna see you. Or so you thought, since your mind tends to trick you.
Still, you only stop when you’re standing by his door, eyeing the doorbell. The porter on the entrance already knew who you were, so you came straight in. The air was crisp cold, which somehow, felt like self punishment. Your gaze lifts up though, when the door to his house slowly opens.
There, stands Joe. Taking breaths, post shower, in warm sweats and a flannel. You freeze a bit, swallowing, taking in his eyes. They’re not cold. They’re searching, hurt, disappointed. A bit shocked, but almost like yearning.
“It’s one in the morning.” He says.
“I know.”
“You walked here. There’s no car.”
“Yes.” You confirm, gaze flickering between his.
He stares at you for a while, when you can’t bring yourself to speak. You notice he cliches the door though, screwing his eyes shut. Your chest aches.
“I don’t know why you’re here. But if you came here to stare at me, please leave.” He says. Your chest aches again.
“No, I-“
“Do you even know, Y/N?” He starts, shutting the door behind him, stepping outside, almost stepping in your space. “Can you imagine what it’s like? I told you I was in love with you. You didn’t say it back. No- you said you had to think about it. That you didn’t know how our lives fitted together. My heart was fucking broken! But I stayed. I tried to understand! I talked to you! And what did you fucking do? You shoved me off. Can you imagine how that feels? Did you even wonder?”
“Joe.”
“No! I love you! I want you! I don’t care about the fucking media! Or whatever the fuck my ex says, or what the fans will think! I’d go MIA if it meant I had you! But you can’t let me have you, can you? No. You love the control. You hide from everyone because you know that once you’re seen you’ll run away! You think everyone is like the shitty friends you had growing up. You think I’ll turn my back on you. You think I’ll end up hating you— when I’ve told you so many fucking times I won’t. That I’m fucking incapable of that. Still, it’s never enough, is it?” He scoffs, as his voice breaks. “I would’ve given everything up. Everything. I tried so fucking hard to show you that you’re all I’ve ever wanted. You are. But still, that nagging voice in your head keeps pulling you away from me. That motherfucker keeps sabotaging you, throwing you in deep fucking water. Meanwhile I’m fucking here. Trying to pull you up and keep you at the shore. And you’re choosing to send the help away. You’re choosing to drown. I love you. I never stopped. I’m never getting over you. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever love someone that isn’t you. So if you walked here to stare at me, please leave. It only hurts makes me hurt more.”
By the time he’s done, your face is covered in your own tears. You look down, for God knows how long. Your hands are clutching the insides of your overcoat pockets, clutching the picture. He calls your name once. Then twice. He doesn’t call the third time. No. He chuckles, bitterly, hands messing up his own hair, as he walks back in.
“Joe.” You say, blinking the tears away.
He stops, sighing. “What, Y/N?”
“I love you.” You start. “You’re right. I am scared. I don’t know how to deal with this. Therapy is fucking great— in fucking theory. Yes, I’m terrified of being loved, because I’m terrified of being left behind again. You’re the most eligible person in this city. Everybody wants you. From everywhere. I can’t fight them. I’ve lost that fight before, and I promised myself I would never lose it again. I love you. And I hate that everyone wants to know everything about us. But I’ll do it. For you. Because, fuck, I can’t take my chest burning every time I see you. And I can’t take the pain of not having you. Not anymore.”
You know your face is streaked with tears. You know your cheeks are red— his are too, due to the cold. He walks closer to you, gaze flickering between yours. A silent conversation passes by. He senses then, that you’re giving up the control. That you’re, for the first time, allowing him to show you a new perspective. That you’re allowing him to love you, and care for you. His gaze softens, and you swear his eyes are glassy. You melt, though, when his hands cup your face. Straight after, his forehead joins yours.
The crisp cold turns into warmth, just for having him close. And you feel it, then— your chest doesn’t hurt anymore, and your breathing has evened. His hands move, from your cheeks to around your neck and back. He engulfs you, face buried in your hair, as your hands hold his torso. You don’t know how long you’ve been like this before he speaks again, in a murmur.
“Let’s get you inside. The house is empty without you. And it’s much more warm in there.”
summary HSS PT 01. between recovery and rehab, joe finds himself tangled in a mess alongside his new doctor.
pairing joe burrow x fem black!reader.
words 9k ish
author’s note to my fellow mariah girlie @pagesandpasses 💝. + enemies to not so lovers yet if u squint
inspired by hearts sold separately (mariah the scientist)
The antiseptic sting of the facility was worse than the pain in his knee.
It smelled like bleach and finality, the kind of place where careers came to die — where men like Joe Burrow were stripped of their helmets and swagger and left with nothing but the hum of fluorescent lights. He limped through the automatic glass doors alone, hoodie up, expression unreadable. The marble floor didn’t echo — it absorbed sound, swallowed the rhythm of his limp like a secret.
The receptionist didn’t need to ask who he was. The eyes said it all — awe, pity, curiosity.
“Dr. Amani will see you now.”
He followed the corridor, sterile and endless, lined with frosted glass that reflected fragments of himself: the limp, the clenched jaw, the weight of a future uncertain.
Dr. Maya Amani was not what he expected.
No white coat. No fake smile. No overcompensation. She stood by the lightbox, analyzing the scan of his shredded knee with one hand in her pocket, the other resting lightly on the edge of the film. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot, precise, clinical. The light caught on the thin scar along her jaw — old, faint, but sharp enough to betray a story she never told.
When she finally looked at him, it wasn’t admiration or sympathy in her eyes — it was assessment.
“You’re Joe Burrow to the world,” she said, without preamble, her tone smooth but unyielding. “But here, you’re just a body fighting a lost cause.”
His brow furrowed. He’d been through injuries before. He’d been talked to like a brand, an asset, a miracle waiting to happen. But never like this.
“Lost cause?”
“You have a complete ACL rupture, partial MCL tear, and cartilage damage. The kind that doesn’t care about your highlight reels.” She gestured toward the scan, her voice even. “You’re not invincible. Not here.”
He crossed his arms, weight shifting to his good leg. “You’re supposed to fix that.”
“I will—if you give me something worth fixing.”
It wasn’t arrogance. It was precision, sharpened by too many nights in operating rooms where egos bled out faster than patients.
Maya took a step closer. “You will make a sacrifice of your comfort, your privacy, and your ego. If you want a chance at coming back, you’ll live for this room. Fail to commit, and I fail you.”
Joe’s lips parted, a flicker of disbelief mingling with something deeper — the shock of being stripped bare. No cameras. No cheers. No control. “You talk to all your patients like that?”
“Only the ones who think they’re gods.” She answered.
For a moment, silence pressed between them — dense, electric.
Then, she turned back to the lightbox. “Take a seat. We’ll start your intake.”
He watched her work — the surgical efficiency, the steady hand that traced across his chart. She didn’t make small talk. She didn’t fill silence. She commanded it.
When she finally looked at him again, her eyes lingered not on his face, but his leg — the swollen, rigid knee beneath the brace. Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “You’re in more pain than you’re admitting.”
He smirked, bitter, an instinctive defense. “You a mind reader now?”
“Observation.” Her gaze met his, steady. “You’re clenching your fist every time you exhale.”
He released his hand without thinking.
It was the smallest surrender, but she saw it — and he knew she did.
The first week blurred into a haze of painkillers, swelling, and restless nights. The world outside still whispered his name — reporters, sponsors, fans — but inside this facility, there was only her.
Maya ran her schedule like a metronome. Sessions at 7 AM sharp. No entourage. No distractions. No phone.
“You need to understand,” she told him one morning as she adjusted his brace, “recovery isn’t punishment. It’s discipline.”
“You sound like my old coach.”
“Then he did something right.”
Her fingers brushed against his skin as she aligned his knee — not gently, but deliberately. The contact was brief, clinical, yet it burned longer than it should have.
He watched her when she wasn’t looking — the way she wrote in her notes, her focus absolute, her movements controlled. There was a quiet authority about her, the kind that came not from power, but precision.
And beneath it all, something in him began to shift.
One evening, the rain came down hard against the facility’s glass walls. Everyone else had gone home. He was still there, grimacing through his exercises, pushing further than he should.
Maya appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Rehab’s over. You should’ve stopped an hour ago.”
“I’ve got time.”
“No, you’ve got swelling,” she said flatly, walking toward him. “And if you tear the graft, we start from zero.”
He threw the resistance band aside, frustration boiling over. “You don’t get it. If I don’t push—”
“I do get it,” she cut in, eyes sharp. “You think pain is proof you still matter.”
The words hit too close.
For a moment, neither moved. The air felt charged, as if the storm outside had found its way in.
She stepped closer, taking the band from him. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of vanilla and rose from her perfume. “You are not your injury,” she said, quieter now. “But if you let it define you, you’ll never leave this room.”
He stared at her — at the composure, the certainty, the quiet challenge that lived in her eyes. And for the first time, he didn’t have an answer.
Later that night, after she’d gone, he found himself sitting in the darkened room, the hum of the MRI machine still faint in the background. His phone buzzed with messages — teammates, sponsors, reporters. He ignored them all.
He thought about her — not the surgeon, but the person who had looked at him like he was human first, myth second. He didn’t know her story, but he could tell she carried one — something buried beneath her precision, something that made her so unwilling to break her own rules.
And for reasons he couldn’t name, that made her all the more dangerous.
The following morning, he was back before sunrise. Not because he had to be, but because he couldn’t sleep.
The world outside was already dissecting his timeline—sports shows looping the same grainy clip of his collapse, headlines counting the days, the odds, the doubts. Inside, though, the only clock that mattered was the rhythmic click of Maya’s pen as she adjusted his plan.
“Early start,” she said without looking up.
“Couldn’t stay still.”
Her eyes flicked to him then, quick, unreadable. “You will have to. Recovery is patience disguised as punishment.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “You write that one down somewhere?”
“I lived it.”
That was the first personal thing she had ever said. It was out before she could stop it.
Joe caught the shift—the brief tightening of her mouth, as if she regretted letting the words slip.
He didn’t press. But something in him filed it away.
By the end of week two, their routine had become ritual. Same schedule. Same sterile playlist of instrumental focus tracks. Same tension that lived between their silences.
She worked with mechanical precision. Her touch was firm, never indulgent, always measured. But sometimes, when she adjusted his leg or aligned his knee brace, her fingers lingered a fraction too long—just long enough for both of them to feel it, neither acknowledging it.
“Flex,” she instructed.
He did.
“Hold.”
His breath trembled; pain shot through his thigh like wire tightening.
“Again.”
He met her eyes, sweat rolling down his temple. “You enjoy this?”
“If you’re asking whether I like seeing you in pain—no.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She leaned closer, her expression unwavering. “You mistake necessity for cruelty.”
He wanted to answer, but she pressed her palm to his knee to stabilize it, and the thought vanished into the static between them.
By the third week, he’d begun noticing details about her that had nothing to do with medicine. The faint streak of graphite on her wrist from jotting notes. The small gold watch she always wore, turned inward, as if she didn’t want to see time moving.
The way she stared at his scar not with disgust, but focus—like it was a code she was determined to crack.
Once, during a rest interval, he asked, “Why ortho?”
She hesitated. “Because bones are honest.”
“Honest?”
“They don’t lie to make you feel better.”
He smiled faintly. “You could say that about yourself.”
Her glance was sharp, almost defensive. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
And she looked away first.
He started leaving his phone in the locker during sessions. Not because she told him to—because he wanted to. The outside noise felt irrelevant in her space. The cameras, the speculation, the social media chaos—it all died in the antiseptic quiet of the facility. Here, it was only breath and pain and discipline.
And her.
Maya never asked about his life, never pried. But she listened. When he cursed under his breath, she didn’t flinch. When he failed a rep, she didn’t console. She only said, “Again.” And for reasons he couldn’t articulate, that simple word was steadier than any pep talk he’d ever heard.
He started craving that voice. That steadiness. That absolute control she carried. Even when he hated her for it.
One evening, as the sky bled orange over the glass walls, he lingered long after the session ended. She was still there, disinfecting tools, in a room close by, her hair messier than usual, a loose strand falling across her cheek.
“You don’t go home?” he asked.
“Eventually
“Don’t tell me you live here.”
“I’ve spent more nights here than in my apartment.”
He let out a low whistle. “Sounds healthy.”
Her lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m not the one who tried to run routes three weeks post-op.”
He smirked, caught. “Touché.”
Then silence again—heavy, but not empty. He watched her finish cleaning up, her movements methodical, calm. When she finally looked up, she found him still standing there.
“Something else?”
He hesitated. Then: “You’re not what I expected.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”
He thought for a moment. “Someone who’d treat me like I was made of glass. Or someone who wanted something from me.”
“And what do you think I want?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her gaze held his for a beat too long. “You shouldn’t try to find out.”
He almost smiled. “Why not?”
“Curiosity slows recovery.”
Then she turned off the lights, leaving him standing in the dim hallway, pulse pounding harder than it had during any drill.
That night, in his apartment, sleep refused to come. He laid awake, replaying her voice, her precision, that almost-smile. He’d faced linebackers, coaches, reporters—everyone who tried to break him. But nothing unnerved him quite like her calm.
She didn’t need to raise her voice to command him. She didn’t need to flatter him to make him obey. And in that quiet, exacting authority, he found something dangerous—something magnetic. Because beneath all the order and rules, he could sense it: she was fighting something too.
The next morning, the facility was silent when he arrived early again. He expected to find her in the therapy room, but she was in her office instead, standing by the window, phone to her ear. Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. Not gentle—just human.
“Yes,” she murmured, “I understand. No, I can’t come tonight. I have a late case.”
A pause.
“Please tell him I’m sorry.”
The tone carried a weight he didn’t recognize.
She hung up quickly when she noticed him in the doorway, her professional mask snapping back into place.
“You’re early again,” she said, brisk.
“Couldn’t stay still.”
He waited, curious if she’d explain. She didn’t. Instead, she picked up the clipboard, her tone cool. “Then let’s make use of the restlessness.”
Her hand trembled when she adjusted his brace that morning. Barely—but enough for him to notice. And for the first time, he wondered what it would take to make her lose control.
By the end of the session, the air between them felt stretched thin. Every instruction carried an echo. Every silence had an aftertaste.
When he left that day, she watched him go through the glass door, her reflection merging with his in the pane—a surgeon and an athlete, both stitched together by things that refused to heal clean.
She told herself she was just doing her job.
He told himself it was just recovery.
Both knew they were lying. Joe’s house felt emptier than it had ever been, though the streets outside hummed with noise, with life that seemed both impossibly close and impossibly distant. He lay on the sofa, brace removed, and stared at the ceiling. Pain had become a kind of companion, nagging, persistent, reminding him he was mortal. But that wasn’t the only weight pressing on him. Her presence lingered in the room as though she had left a piece of herself behind, a shadow that whispered discipline, quiet authority, and something dangerous, something fragile.
He found himself replaying every small interaction: the brief tremor in her hand adjusting his brace, the way her voice softened when she thought no one was listening, the look in her eyes when she stared at his scar—not pity, not fear, just a measuring, calculating attention that made him feel both exposed and alive. He realized he was trying to read her in a way that was reckless, something more than professional curiosity. The thought unsettled him because it was entirely uncharted. He had read teammates, coaches, journalists, even opponents. But not her.
And then, in a fragment of memory he hadn’t expected, he remembered the way she had stiffened once on the phone, the flicker of human fatigue behind her perfect composure. He had caught it the same morning as the rainstorm, when she spoke softly to someone on the other end, then returned to him without a hint that she’d been momentarily human. He didn’t know why it had struck him—why it had mattered—but a quiet, insistent feeling lodged itself in his chest, the feeling that she carried a story she would never tell, and that story somehow shadowed her with him, here, now.
He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on pain and recovery, on measured steps and repetitions, but it was difficult. Everything about her pulled his attention, from the faint scent she carried—the sterility of antiseptic tempered with something colder, more private—to the cadence of her movements when she walked down the hallway. His own mind betrayed him, mapping her routines, anticipating her adjustments, feeling satisfaction in small victories when he followed her instructions perfectly. And with that satisfaction came a gnawing awareness that he was responding to her beyond the demands of rehabilitation.
By week four, he had begun arriving even earlier, forcing himself into the therapy room before she even unlocked the main doors. Sometimes she would already be there, moving silently between equipment and charts, and when she noticed him, her gaze sharpened into a scalpel-like focus. He started timing his arrival to see the subtle ways she read his posture before speaking. He didn’t know why. He only knew that the way she assessed him, so methodically, so unerringly, made him aware of himself in ways no locker room pep talk ever had.
“You’re early,” she said one morning, her tone clipped but not unkind. Her eyes, normally so impenetrable, had a flicker in them he couldn’t name. “You should’ve slept.”
“I wanted to make use of the quiet. Don’t give me another one of that Yoda quotes,” he said, trying to sound casual.
Her mouth twitched briefly, almost like she was holding a smile back. “Quiet is wasted on impatience,” she replied.
It became a game neither acknowledged. He watched her every morning, waiting for the smallest human crack. He wanted to catch it, to see her vulnerability. But she gave nothing, or at least nothing overt. Every twitch of her wrist, every faint crease at the edge of her eye, every subtle hesitation became a secret language he attempted to decode. He knew better than to name it; he knew it was dangerous to try, but the magnetic pull of her controlled presence was nearly irresistible.
Pain was no longer just a physical thing. It was tied to her. When she adjusted his knee, when she pressed on a sore tendon or guided him through an excruciating step, the brush of her fingers became layered, ambiguous, and for the first time, he began to feel a strange warmth under the sting. That heat was fleeting, always restrained by her professionalism, but it lingered long after she left the room, twisting in his chest like a secret he couldn’t admit aloud.
One night, after an especially grueling session, Joe lingered in the empty facility, leaning against a wall while she wiped down equipment. He had been pushing himself further than usual, testing the limits she had set. His breath came in short bursts, sweat rolling down his temples, and his knee throbbed, screaming at him for hubris. She came to him without a word, bracing his leg, guiding him to a seated position. Her hands were steady, but her proximity made him painfully aware of the space between control and surrender.
“You pushed too far,” she said, but the low timbre carried weight.
“I needed to,” he admitted, grit in his teeth. “I needed to know I can.”
“You don’t need to prove anything here,” she said, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. There was no professional barrier, no clinical distance—just something heavier, unspoken. She looked at him then, and he felt the faintest trace of something in her eyes: a shadow of pain, or fear, or memory. It lasted a heartbeat, then vanished. But it had been there, undeniable.
He swallowed hard. He didn’t speak, didn’t dare. He had felt athletes falter under pressure, seen coaches crumble, but he had never seen a professional carry so much authority while simultaneously hiding something that raw and intimate. The awareness that she had endured something he couldn’t imagine made her presence both terrifying and compelling. He wanted to ask her, wanted to reach across that distance, but he knew better. And yet, he also wanted it more than he had wanted anything in a long time.
By the fifth week, routine became ritual. He began to notice little patterns: the way she tapped her pen before giving instructions, the faint flick of her eyelid when she detected fatigue, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw when she forced herself to remain composed. These were cracks, yes—but she was fastidious in masking them, so fastidious that the rare glimpses of vulnerability burned into his memory. Each one was a secret he hoarded, savoring the tension it created, the impossible intimacy it suggested without ever being spoken.
One afternoon, he lingered longer than usual after she left the room. The empty space smelled faintly of her presence, the antiseptic tempered by a subtle undertone that was hers alone. He pressed his hand to his knee, rubbing the soreness, imagining her there, imagining that small, almost imperceptible tremor of a wrist that suggested she had once cared, once hurt, once been caught in something she had never named. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to.
He began to notice that his thoughts about her were no longer strictly professional. He caught himself imagining her at home, alone, maybe reading charts, maybe replaying conversations from years ago with someone he would never know—someone who had left a scar she carried like a secret code. A story she would never tell him, never anyone. He could feel it in the way she moved, the way she spoke, the precise, controlled lines she drew between herself and the world. And though he had no right to, though he understood the professional boundaries, he wanted to cross them.
It was addictive. The tension between them thickened with each session, with each controlled interaction. He became aware of the subtle ways she influenced him without speaking: the pacing of his steps, the force he put into every movement, the restraint he exercised simply because she expected it. He began arriving earlier, staying later, not to rebel but to be near her, to exist in the space she had claimed so thoroughly, and to feel the pull she exerted without even trying.
By week six, Joe understood he was no longer the one in control. His body was hers to shape, his mind to push, his attention to command. And he liked it. He liked it more than he would ever admit, even to himself.
The facility was quiet after dark. The hum of fluorescent lights and the faint whir of machinery filled the air, a sterile lull that seemed almost intimate in its insistence. Joe had stayed late, insisting on one more set of exercises, his knee screaming against every movement, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. Maya moved beside him, guiding his leg with that same measured authority, her hands firm yet just shy of overstepping boundaries, brushing against him in ways that left echoes long after they pulled away.
“Hold,” she said, her voice low and steady, almost too calm.
He did. He felt the strain rip through him, felt the pull of every tendon and ligament, and yet what lingered most was the heat of her hand, the subtle pressure on his knee, the exacting angle she held his renewed bone, tendons and ligaments at. He wanted to tell himself it was just rehab, but he could not.
“You’re pushing too hard,” she said, adjusting the resistance band. Her fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary. He could feel it: the deliberate control, the silent warning not to take liberties, and yet the contact burned.
“I need to,” he admitted, exactly like he already had, voice tight, low. “I need to know I can.”
Her eyes flicked up briefly, sharp, assessing, and then she looked away. The faintest twitch in her jaw betrayed a flicker of something—memory, restraint, a ghost of a past she kept buried. He didn’t dare name it, but he felt it. It hummed in the spaces between her instructions, in the pause before she spoke, in the way her hand adjusted his brace with almost imperceptible care.
“Focus,” she said finally, her hand leaving his thigh, the cool air filling the space where it had been.
He nodded, swallowed hard, trying to chase away the heat that lingered under his skin. The room was silent for a moment, each of them breathing in tandem, aware of proximity, aware of tension, aware of the unsaid.
The minutes stretched. He moved, she guided, and a rhythm developed that had nothing to do with recovery and everything to do with this strange, magnetic hold she had over him. Every glance, every brush of skin against fabric, every precise instruction carried weight he hadn’t anticipated. The kind of weight that made his pulse stubbornly fast, made his body feel taut in ways unrelated to his knee.
She stepped back after the final set, removing her gloves and straightening her posture. He took a few tentative steps, his knee steady enough, but his mind caught on the way she watched him. Her gaze was clinical, yes, but it was also deliberate, lingering in ways that left him exposed, aware of himself beyond the physical. He caught a faint catch in her breath as he straightened fully, as though he had challenged her in ways he didn’t yet understand.
“I… think that’s enough for tonight,” she said, voice even but a touch rougher than usual.
“Yeah?” His words were soft, carrying an edge that belied curiosity and something deeper. “You sure you don’t want me to do one more?”
Her hand paused on the edge of the counter, tension coiled like a spring. Her eyes flicked to him, then to the floor, then back. There was a heartbeat where the air thickened, a single second of unspoken understanding.
“Go home,” she said finally. Her hand fell away, leaving him both relieved and wanting.
He lingered, catching the faint glow of a laptop on the desk. She hadn’t noticed him glance. On the screen, the pre-game show of the Chargers played quietly, almost hidden, the statistics and highlights flickering across the screen. He recognized the familiar number, the quarterback’s stance.
“You watch them often?” he asked, voice low, testing, barely audible.
Her eyes snapped to his. She froze for a heartbeat, lips pressed thin, then turned away sharply, returning to straightening the desk with exacting precision. “Not relevant,” she said, flat, clipped, a barrier rebuilt in milliseconds.
Joe felt the pull of her restraint, the heat of her denial, the weight of the things she would never tell him. The room was quiet again, machinery humming, the faint glow of the Chargers game in her laptop painting her silhouette, her body poised, controlled, untouchable yet burning with a tension he could almost taste.
He exhaled slowly, letting the unsaid sink into him. She had left the room now, sliding into the hall with measured steps, leaving behind the faint echo of movement and a trace of something he could not name. His pulse was racing, muscles still trembling—not just from exertion, but from the silent charge that lingered where her touch had been. He knew she had not invited it, and yet, it hung there, heavy in the air like a promise that neither of them could name.
He stayed a moment longer, eyes catching the flicker of the screen again. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The tension had not broken, and he had no idea when or if it ever would.
summary after realizing he lost the woman of his life, joe finally faces his fears.
pairing joe burrow x fem! reader
words 1.5k
author’s note guess she’s back LOL! so sorry for the wait guys- things been crazy over here. part 2 is finally among us lmao! (part 1’s here!!) xxx🤍 not proofread! requests are open!
He knew. He knew he had gone too far. He crossed the line, and he knew he had hurt you. He knew he did something he wasn’t supposed to. He knew he didn’t deserve you. But goddamn, why was his chest hurting so badly?
The look on your face killed him. The realization in your eyes. The way everything just dawned upon you. The way you realized he wasn’t worthy of your countless tries. He kept his cold demeanor in front of you, even though his insides were falling apart.
There is no going back, he thought. He repeated it over and over to himself, for months. Still, when you leaving his house played in his head, getting away from him, the only thing on his mind was how he had fucked it all up. Exponentially.
He let his job mix with his love, and he put the wrong thing first. Football would go away, and he, deep inside, knew you wouldn’t. And that scared the shit out of him.
It scared him so much he couldn’t let you in. He couldn’t open up. He couldn’t let you see the ugliest parts of him, although he wanted you close. It was bad. It was evil and awful. He knew. He couldn’t help it. He tried.
That night always found a way to haunt him, though. After a match, a bad one, which seemed to happen every weekend, you weren’t there. The smell of you cooking him dinner after you had a busy and tiring day wasn’t there. Your perfume as soon as he entered his house wasn’t there. Your cautious voice asking him how he was and endless patience with him weren’t there. The woman he wanted wasn’t there. And it killed him inside, because he knew it was his fault.
He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Hadn’t asked about you. He was too scared to. He was scared you had moved on, even though he gave you every reason to. He was scared you’d hate him so much you wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye.
He also knew that after losing you due to his fears, he couldn’t let them paralyze him anymore. He missed you. He realized he was wrong all the time. He was cold, angry with the world, himself, football, and he was so messed up he couldn’t put you first. He knew apologizing wouldn’t fix it, he knew you hate that. He also knew you left too big of a hole to just move on from you. So he confronted his insecurity, although it scared the living hell out of him.
Three days prior, you had touched back in Cincinnati, after spending the week in Buffalo with your best friend. And now, two months after watching you leave his house, he was the one visiting your apartment. No bouquet in hand. No chocolate. Because he knew you hated that. He knew you’d much prefer having a serious conversation. Without filters. So when he ringed the bell, that was the only thing in his mind. And when you finally opened the door, your eyes on his instantly made him drop all his defenses.
You were quiet. You watched him, in a tight black long sleeve shirt, matching black loose sweatpants, and your long hair loose. Your brown eyes on his — not icy anymore — blue ones. They were the tiniest bit red, and he had dark circles under them, like he had been having a hard time sleeping.
“What are you doing here-“ you began.
“I didn’t want to call you. Nor text you. Felt childish to do it. Can I come in?” He asked. Hand in his hoodie’s pockets, eyes expectantly watching you.
You were conflicted. He had been an asshole with you. For months. You had been there all the time. For him. Over and over. And he shut you out. Over and over. Like it meant nothing. “Joe-“
“I know. I know, and I am so deeply fucking sorry. I couldn’t deal with it, and I should’ve told you. But God, it scared the shit out of me. And everything was falling apart, and I let it fall upon you. I am so fucking sorry. You didn’t deserve it. I never meant to do it. If I had processed it, I wouldn’t have. But I did it, and goddamn, watching you leave that door- the look on your face? It ripped me. Please. Let me come in.”
Your eyes begin to sting. Why? Why, after two months, he was on your door, apologizing, why did it take him so long? Now, that you were living better, now, that you were finally coming to terms with it, now, that you were finally good on your own, he shows up?
He got a couple of steps closer to you, hands on your arms, as his voice got even softer. “I am so fucking sorry. If I could go back I swear I would’ve done it differently. I would. I swear. I can’t do that though. What I can do though, right now, is open up to you. Tell you how I’m feeling. Because is the least you deserve.” He started, his own voice faltering. “It scared the shit out of me, to feel how I felt for you. It scared me so much I had to shut you out. I couldn’t let myself care —love— nothing else besides football. I couldn’t. Things were so bad. I blamed myself for it. I still do. Except now I know it’s not only my fault. And you- God, you were always there to support me. Lift me from the ground. And I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t appreciate it at the time, baby. I am. It rips my heart out. Apologies can’t even begin to cover how I felt— how I feel. It’s human to make mistakes, but I can’t let this one end badly. You’re all I want— all I need. Football will go away, and—hopefully, God— you won’t. I can’t- I can’t be my best self without you. Because you have a light in you that no one else does. And I can’t live without that. I can’t- I can’t see brighter times without you. Because without you, they only get worse. If you do believe in second chances, I promise, baby, I won’t ever do it again. I won’t ever give you another reason to second guess, nothing to regret. I’ll do my best for you. Even more than that. Please.”
You were… Jesus, you couldn’t even describe how you were feeling. His hands were cupping his cheeks, his expression pained, as if the thought of having to live without you again physically hurt him. His hands were hot and softly, but firmly, placed on your cheeks. And tears stained your face. You loved him. You know you did. You knew he did wrong. But he was apologizing. And you could feel the truth in his words. His sincere phrases were the ones that healed your previously broken heart, and you couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt with his next words.
“I love you.” He whispered, finally, shakily, hands cupping your cheeks still. “I love you so much, it physically hurts to think about having to be without you again. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before. I’m sorry I couldn’t even show it. But damn it, I can’t not show it anymore.”
You couldn’t speak. You watched him, tears falling from your eyes as we carefully wiped each one of them. But you? You couldn’t not show it either.
“I love you too, goddamn it. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t and I hated myself for it. But I do. And I do believe in second chances, and I do believe in you. So you better keep that promise.” You whispered, as he joined his forehead with yours, both of your faces wet, stained from the tears from both your eyes.
“I will, baby, I promise.” He whispered. And you believed him. Because deep down, you knew he would. Because deep down, you felt his truth. And you felt his love. So you believed him.
And the kiss he gave you just proved every single one of his words, because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was him, beginning to keep his promise.
summary tee and y/n share an instant, electric attraction in an exclusive bar, which leads to an intense, tension-filled night… and him falling
pairing tee higgins x fem! reader
words 7k (ish)
author’s note fingering, dirty talk. i’m in love with him your honor.
inspired by walked in, mariah the scientist (ft. young thug)
The bar was dimly lit, expensive in that effortless way that didn’t need to scream money. Some rap song played under the hum of conversation, and the scent of aged whiskey and something faintly floral lingered in the air. It was the kind of place that catered to people who never checked price tags—exclusive, intimate, the perfect backdrop for something dangerous.
Tee Higgins had just walked in, dressed in all black, his presence drawing attention without him even trying. He wasn’t in the mood for crowds tonight, wasn’t looking for conversation. His friends had dragged him out of his house that night, and he couldn’t care less about the place he was in.
But then he saw her. And his interest perked up.
She was sitting at the bar, one leg crossed over the other, nursing a glass of red wine. The deep burgundy of her dress clung to her like a second skin, covering her front, long sleeved, but leaving her back almost entirely bare, the kind of thing that invited stares.
But it wasn’t just the dress. It was her. The way she carried herself—poised but untouchable. A woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
His eyes met hers.
And just like that, the air between them thickened.
She didn’t look away. He also didn’t.
Tee wasn’t sure how long they held each other’s gaze, but he felt it—something sharp, electric crawling up his spine. He should’ve looked away by now. Any other woman would’ve, just for a second, just to break the intensity.
But she didn’t.
She held his stare, faint smirk on her lips, almost amused, like she was daring him to look away first.
His fingers flexed against the side of his glass.
Seconds passed. More seconds passed.
A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips, as if she’d already won something he didn’t even know he was competing for. She lifted her glass to her lips without breaking eye contact, the movement smooth, effortless.
Tee exhaled, jaw tightening.
He didn’t lose staring contests. But damn if she wasn’t making him work for it.
Then, finally, she turned—just slightly, just enough to take a slow sip of her wine, dismissing him like he hadn’t just felt her pull him in without a single word. Testing him.
Tee huffed out a quiet laugh before making his way over, his friends and grumpiness long forgotten, his confidence peaking.
The bartender had just placed another glass of wine in front of her when Tee leaned against the bar, behind her, close but not touching, voice low in her ear.
“You always stare at strangers like that?” His voice was low, smooth.
She lifted her glass without looking at him. “Only when they stare first.”
Tee smirked, amused. “Fair enough.” He was taking in her strong scent, it fit her perfectly, forcing him to close his eyes briefly.
She finally turned toward him, and up close, she was even worse—no, better. Dark lashes, lips painted in a shade of dark nude gloss that matched her in every way. Everything about her was deliberate.
“What are you drinking?” he asked lowly.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You offering to buy my next one?”
Tee’s lips curved. His grumpiness was long gone, his focus solely on her. He didn’t care about anything else. How could he?
“Depends. You sticking around?”
Her smile was slow, teasing. “Depends.”
“Damn”, he thought. He liked this game.
She lifted her glass to her lips, and his eyes followed the movement, the way her fingers wrapped around the stem, the way her perfectly lined lips wrapped around the rim of it. He was sure she knew exactly what she was doing when she delicately swiped a drop of wine from the corner of her mouth with her manicured finger.
“You got a name?” he asked, eyes clouded.
She considered him for a beat, then leaned in slightly, just enough for him to catch another wave of her perfume—something warm, intoxicating, it felt like she would ruin his life in the best way possible.
“I do,” she murmured. “But what’s the fun in giving it up so soon?”
Tee chuckled, shaking his head. “You always this difficult?”
“When it’s worth it, yes.”
He looked down at her, entranced. Their eyes locked again, and the tension between them was palpable now, a slow burn that threatened to ignite.
She set her glass down, then turned her body fully toward him, one elbow resting on the bar. Her crossed legs too close to him, who was still standing, but now in front of her. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re Tee Higgins,” she said smoothly, as if she hadn’t just been toying with him minutes ago. “Wide receiver. Cincinnati’s golden boy.”
Tee lifted a brow, a smile on the corner of his lips. “You a fan?”
She shrugged one shoulder, her smile lazy. “I know the game.”
Something about the way she said it sent heat curling low in his stomach. He absolutely loved that she knew who he was. Even more that she didn’t let him get away with it.
“You here alone?” he asked.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, like she enjoyed making him wait, eyes staring hard into his. Then, finally—
“Yes.”
His grip on his drink tightened slightly.
She leaned in again, just a little. “You?”
Tee nodded. “Yeah.”
The air between them shifted again, darker this time. Even more dangerous.
She glanced down at his hand on his glass, then back up at him, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.
“You always pick up women in bars like this?” she asked.
Tee smirked. He was loving this more than he should. “You always make men work this hard?”
She laughed, low and sweet. “The ones who can handle it.”
His tongue grazed his bottom lip as he exhaled, shaking his head. He was lost in her, chest heaving.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, looking down, one hand skimming his goatee, the other tightly gripping his drink.
She grinned. “Something wrong?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I think I just met my problem for the night.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “You sure it’s just for the night?”
Tee’s jaw flexed. Hard. He wasn’t. Not at all.
And from the way she was looking at him, he had a feeling she knew that, too. He had lost the contest, lost in her.
She took another sip of her wine, standing, too close to him, watching him over the rim of her glass, slow and deliberate.
Then, without warning, she leaned in close. Not enough to touch, but enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath against his skin.
“You’ve been staring all night. You gonna keep at it.. or are you gonna do something about it?”
Tee inhaled sharply.
His fingers twitched.
She didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Her eyes kept boring into his.
The silence between them stretched so tight it could snap.
He set his drink down.
“I’m takin’ you outta here.”
A smile flickered across her lips, looking up at him. The words hung between them, thick with promise.
She didn’t hesitate. She simply slid off the small stairs of the bar, grabbed her clutch, and turned toward the exit. Tee followed right behind.
His hand found the small of her back as they stepped out into the cool Cincinnati night, the warmth of his touch searing through her dress. He didn’t dare moving his hand, consumed by her.
“Where to?” she murmured, turning to face him.
His eyes flicked all over her bare delicately tattooed back, slow and deliberate. “My place.”
Her brow lifted, teasing. “Confident, aren’t you?”
He smirked, eyes roaming her entire body. “Nah. Just don’t feel like sharing you with the city.”
A sleek black SUV pulled up. Tee opened the door, his gaze never leaving hers as she slid inside. The second the door shut, the air inside the car shifted. Thick. Heavy.
His thigh brushed against hers as he spread his legs wide, settling into the leather seat. The space felt smaller now, charged. He watched her, studied her, more like.
She let him.
Then, he leaned in, voice low, rough. "You knew what you were doing back there, didn't you?"
Her lips curled. "Back where?"
Tee chuckled, shaking his head, lips brushing her cheek, his hand pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "At the bar." His fingers skimmed across her bare back, down her body, finally ghosting along the hem of her dress. "Sitting there, staring me down like you wanted me to come claim you."
Her breath hitched, but she didn't look away, eyes clashing with his. "And what if I did?"
His grip on her thigh tightened, his desire growing by the second. "Then you got exactly what you wanted."
The ride to his place felt endless. The constant brush of his fingers on her thigh, every glance, every shift in his seat sent new waves of heat rolling through her.
By the time they stepped into his house, the air between them was electric.
She barely had time to take in the sleek, modern space before Tee was behind her, hands settling on her waist, breath warm against her ear.
“You been testing me all night,” he murmured, voice a deep rasp. “You like pushing me, don’t you?”
A slow smile spread its way in her lips. “Maybe. You seem to handle it well”.
He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening. “Yeah? Keep playing, see what happens.”
She turned in his grip, facing him fully. His stare was dark, full of restraint that wouldn’t last much longer.
And she loved it.
“Maybe I want to see what happens if I keep playing.” She stepped closer to him, her body fitting perfectly against his.
Tee’s gaze wandered up and down her body, his hands sliding up from her waist to her bare back, pulling her even closer. He couldn’t help but touch her, his fingers tracing a slow path up and down her skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“You don’t even know me,” he said, his voice low and rough, “and you’re this eager to test me?”
Her hands found their way to the back of his neck, fingers skimming his buzzed nape lightly. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, close enough to smell the strong, woody scent of his cologne.
She pressed her body against his, relishing the feel of his strong muscles against her soft curves, “Maybe I like taking risks,” she said, smirking, her voice a soft whisper, “especially when the prize is as attractive as you.”
His hands dipped lower, fingers tracing the curve of her hips, his grip firm and possessive. He pulled her flush against him, his breathing growing shallow as he took in every detail of her body.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a tease away from hers, his eyes full of a heady mix of desire and challenge.
“I like risks too, baby,” he murmured, one hand curling around her waist, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh, “but you’re playing with fire.”
She smirked, undeterred by the warning. “I don’t mind getting burned.” Her hands moved to his chest, fingers running along the fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath.
She leaned in, her lips grazing the underside of his jaw, tasting the slight stubble on his chin. “Besides, I can handle a little heat.”
A low growl rumbled in Tee's chest as her lips moved against his skin, his restraint straining to its limits. His hand tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her skin as he fought to keep control.
He turned his head, capturing her chin with his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, hungry, his voice rough as he spoke.
“Careful, baby,” he warned, his breath warm against her lips, “you keep pushing me, and I might just snap.”
She didn’t waver, her eyes locked on his, a challenge and a promise flickering within them.
“Snap?” she murmured, her voice low and sultry, “Or give me exactly what I want?”
She leaned a little closer, her breasts pressing against his chest, her fingers tracing a slow path up his shoulder to his neck.
Her lips were just a whisper away from his, her body arched against him, all but begging for him to cross that final line.
“Why not find out..?”
That was the last straw.
With a low growl, Tee grabbed her waist in a tight grip, pushing her backwards until she hit the wall behind her.
He pinned her against it, trapping her between the cold, hard surface and his hard, muscled body.
He was on her in an instant, his mouth hot and demanding as it claimed hers in a searing kiss. Her waist was still trapped in his grip, her body arching against him, chasing his mouth, completely at his mercy.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting, demanding. His body pressed fully against hers, his hips pinning her to the wall, his hands flying out to pin her wrists above her, his desire for her obvious and intense.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping and licking at her skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
His grip on her wrists was still tight, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her pulse point. He bit gently at a sensitive spot on her neck, earning a gasp from her. He smirked against her skin, then moved lower, his mouth finding a path down her collarbone.
His fingers released her wrists, his hands trailing down her arms, over the curve of her hips, tracing every inch of her body like he was trying to commit it to memory.
His lips continued their trail, down her stomach, pausing briefly at the edge of her dress before continuing lower, down her thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His hands were everywhere, touching, gripping, claiming as he knelt before her, his fingers slipping beneath her clothing.
He looked up at her, the intensity in his gaze making her shiver.
With a slow, deliberate move, he lifted her dress. His touch was a tease, a promise, as he pulled the material higher, revealing more of her bare thighs. He leaned forward, his lips pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inner side of it, tasting her skin. His hands moved up her legs, pushing the fabric higher, exposing more and more of her to his gaze. He continued his slow assault, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of heat as he moved further up, nipping and sucking at her skin. His hands were everywhere, gripping her legs, her hips, her waist, anchoring her in place as his mouth inched higher.
His breath was hot against her skin, his lips and tongue teasing and tantalizing, until he reached the edge of her panties, his mouth hovering just millimeters away.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark and feral, a wicked smirk on his lips. "You're shivering, baby. Are you cold?"
She was beyond words at this point, her body trembling with need, and he knew it. His hands slid up her legs, fingers hooking through the elastic of her panties, pulling the material down.
"You're trembling," he repeated, his voice a low rasp, "but I know you're not cold. I know what you want, don't I?"
With a deliberate move, he took hold of her hips, moving her over to the first counter he could find, shifting her even close to the him, standing in between her legs. He lowered himself and lifted them, draping them over his shoulders, exposing her completely to his gaze.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough. “Just like I imagined.”
He placed a gentle kiss to the inside of her thigh, nipping at the sensitive skin with his teeth. Slowly, he moved forward, his lips exploring, teasing, until he finally claimed his prize, as if he was a man starving. His mouth was just as demanding as it had been during their kiss, and she felt like all the breath had left her. His tongue flicked, teased, explored with a skill that left her trembling.
He held onto her thighs, his grip tight, keeping her in place as he licked and sucked, his mouth relentless, whispering sweet words to her. His hands were everywhere, tracing every inch of her, like he was mapping out his territory. “Taste so damn good, baby.” He’d whisper repeatedly.
She could feel her first high approaching, the coil in her stomach tightening with every flick of his tongue, chest heaving when he added two fingers with no previous warning, instantly making her whine out. “Tee…”
“Hm, baby? Feels good?” He whispered, kissing the inside of her thigh, fingers relentless. He was entranced, lost in her, watching her. “C’mon sweetheart, let me have it”
She groans, mixed with a moan. His words take her impossibly close to the edge, her body on fire, shivering, one hand interlocking with his free one, holding on to it tightly as that familiar feeling on her spine starts showing up.
“That’s it, baby girl. C’mon.” He says, adding one more finger inside her. “That’s three, baby. Such a good girl for me, huh?” He murmured, smirking, tongue going right back into assaulting her core.
“Jesus Christ.” She moans, hearing him, mind hazy.
“You knew exactly who I was leaving that club with tonight huh? You knew I’d take you outta there” He drags out, standing, hovering above her laid frame, fingers still expertly working her over. “But can you blame me, baby? When you’re such a good girl like this…” He murmurs, kissing her neck, whispering close to her ear. “How could I not make you mine?”
“God…” She huffs out, overwhelmed. His lips on her neck, him whispering, his words, they were too much for her. Her hand wraps around his nape, nails digging into it, her high just a push away from overtaking her.
“That’s mine, baby girl. I’ve earned it. Be a good girl for me and let me have my prize.” He whispers, all three fingers curling inside of her, feeling her core tighten around his fingers. “That’s it. Good girl.” He says lowly, smirking.
She lost. In that moment, she lost. She felt her high overflowing her, breathing ragged, huffing for air, his playboy smile against her neck, his chain dangling on it, his words, the way he was saying them. She was overwhelmed. “Fuck. God, Tee” She struggles to get the words out, legs shaking and weak, nails digging into his nape.
He smirks, taking her mouth again in a feverish kiss. “So fucking beautiful.” He says, removing his fingers from her core and sucking on them to the last drop, face centimeters away from hers, wet fingers holding her chin. “You wanna taste yourself? It’s like heaven baby.” He says, boyish smile on his face, taking her mouth again.
She kisses him through her weakness, tasting herself in the process and feeling another wave of pleasure soaring through her, her breath coming back slowly.
Tee lifts her body up the counter, so she’s directly eye to eye with him, his thumb tracing her lower lip, feeling like with every passing second, he was deeper into her spell.
“Better not let that weakness win, baby. I’m nowhere near done with you.” He said, more than happy to let her take over him completely.
Can you make a part 2 fic of 2 you!? it was sooo good and we definitely need. a 2nd part, maybe joe realizing he messed up and he wants yn back but please we need a 2nd ficcc
i’m glad u liked it🥹 i’ll work on it for sure! got a couple of other fics coming! thank u anon🩷
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