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[thatgirltries]

just a visitor

Authors note: hiya loves! i know ive been mia, lot of shit happened. but yeah i hope nothing else like happens or ill unalive myself. and also bonus part, what ever I written past week? hate it to my bones.. so what am I doing? rewriting all I have in drafts🤌🏻

anywayyys…

this was requested!! inspired by the visitor by sienna spiro — thank you for trusting me with your idea 🖤

hope u enojoy love <3 as always let me know about anyting

Photo credits: Pinterest

Dividers credits: @strangergraphics and @saradika-graphics

Tag list: @mrs-delaney @xoxonobodyhome @willowpains

The city always felt quieter after midnight.

Not empty—just softened. Like everything was holding its breath. Quiet and empty streets.

She always came after that…

Not at the beginning of anything. Never the start of a story. Only the parts that didn’t matter, the in between.

The door clicked shut behind her, familiar now in a way it probably shouldn’t have been. It was wrong to do this. Both of them knew it.

He didn’t even turn right away—just leaned back against the kitchen counter like he’d been waiting without admitting it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied, like this was normal.

Almost sounding like this wasn’t rented time.

There was always a version of him that belonged to someone else in daylight.

Headlines, photos, a hand he was supposed to be holding in public.

The version of him his close people knew—the dutiful, loving boyfriend of someone else.

A life that wasn’t hers.

And then there was this version.

The one who looked at her like she was the only thing in the room that wasn’t performance.

She crossed the space between them slowly, like she was trying not to disturb reality.

“You’re late,” he said, but there was no real accusation in it.

“Traffic,” she lied softly.

He smiled anyway. Like he didn’t care what the reason was as long as she stayed.

And that was the problem.

Because he always acted like she wasn’t temporary when everything about them was. And she hated that so much.

They never talked about it directly.

Not the girlfriend. Not the public life.

Not the fact that she was something that only existed when the world wasn’t looking.

Instead, they talked in almost-meanings.

In touches that lingered too long.

In silence that said more than anything honest would.

She sat on the edge of his couch, watching him pour two drinks.

Like this was just a normal night.

Like she wasn’t a secret shaped into human form.

“You ever think about what this is?” she asked suddenly.

He paused for half a second too long.

“…Yeah,” he said carefully.

“And?”

He handed her the glass, fingers brushing hers on purpose or by accident—she couldn’t tell anymore.

“And I think you already know.”

That answer sat heavy between them.

Because she did.

The full spectrum of it — something they both craved, but shouldn’t.

Later, when the world outside went completely still, she ended up in his arms like gravity had decided for her.

His hand traced her shoulder like memory work.

Like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t allowed to keep.

“Say you won’t forget me,” she whispered, half-joke, half-plea.

He exhaled against her hair.

“I won’t,” he said. “I never could.”

But neither of them believed it fully.

Because people like him didn’t forget on purpose.

They just… moved on.

There were nights she wanted to be louder.

To demand permanence.

To turn herself into something impossible to ignore.

But she never did.

Because staying was easier than leaving first.

And because in his arms, for a few hours, she wasn’t the visitor.

She was wanted.

Even if only temporarily.

Even if only in the dark.

When she finally pulled away near morning, the light creeping in like guilt, she didn’t look at him right away.

“I should go,” she said.

He didn’t stop her.

That was the agreement neither of them said out loud.

She reached for her things, heart doing that stupid thing it always did at the threshold between here and not here.

Behind her, his voice came softer.

“Hey.”

She turned.

For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something real.

Something that could’ve changed the shape of everything.

Instead, he just said it anyway.

“Text me when you get home.”

Like that was all she was allowed to be.

Safe. Temporary. Not permanent.

A visitor who always leaves.

And as she stepped out into the morning that didn’t belong to her, she wondered if being remembered… was ever really the same as being kept.

And decided she can’t do this anymore.

Her phone lit up once on the drive back.

She didn’t look.

She never texted him when she got home.

[blackbarb1e]

pairing: joe burrow x it girl black!fem!reader. summary: When the biggest it girl—reader, finally gives a chance to our dear joey. cw: 18+, mdni, p in v , crampie , unprotected, dom!reader , oral (both receiving) ect…

a/n: geez i haven’t fed y’all in a while 😭

You've been dodging Joe Burrow for weeks now, ever since that first glance across the crowded club in Cincinnati. He's the Bengals' golden boy, all sharp jawline and easy confidence, but you weren't about to make it easy for him. You knew your worth. Guys like Joe chased; you decided when to let them catch up. Tonight, though, at this upscale rooftop party overlooking the Ohio River, he's not taking no for an answer.

You sip your drink, leaning against the railing, the city lights twinkling below like scattered diamonds. Your tight black dress hugs every curve, the kind that turns heads without trying. Joe's been watching you all night, his blue eyes locked on like a heat-seeking missile. Finally, he saunters over, that cocky half-smile playing on his lips. “Hey, you gonna keep pretending I don't exist?”!he says, voice low and teasing, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, masculine, with a hint of something spicy.

You arch an eyebrow, turning to face him fully, your full lips curving into a smirk. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm, Joe.” Your words hit him like a playful slap, and you see the spark in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders tense just a bit. He's tall, built like the athlete he is, but right now, you're the one holding the reins. “You've been playing hard to get,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his hand brushing your arm lightly. “But I like a challenge.”

You let the moment stretch, your gaze dropping to his mouth before flicking back up. “Good, because I'm not easy.” But there's heat in your voice now, the kind that says you've decided to let him in—just a little. The conversation flows from there, easy banter about the game last week, the party's vibe, but underneath it all, the tension simmers. His laughs come quicker, his touches linger—a hand on your lower back when he guides you to a quieter corner, fingers grazing your thigh as you sit.

By the time the party's winding down, you're both buzzed on champagne and unspoken promises. “Come back to my place?” he asks, voice rougher now, eyes dark with want. You tilt your head, considering, then nod. “Only if you promise to behave.” He chuckles, but you both know that's a lie.

His apartment is sleek, modern—floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the river, minimalist furniture that screams athlete's bachelor pad. The door barely clicks shut before you're on him, pushing him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest. “Whoa,” he breathes, surprised but grinning, his hands coming up to your hips. But you shake your head, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. “My rules tonight, quarterback. You talk too much on the field—let me call the plays.”

His eyes widen, but there's no protest, just a hungry nod. You lean in, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that's all fire and demand. Your tongue slides into his mouth, tasting the whiskey on him, and he groans softly, “Mmm,” his body arching toward you. You break away first, nipping at his jaw, your hands roaming down his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his abs under the fabric. “Strip,”!you command, stepping back, your voice like velvet over steel.

Joe doesn't hesitate, peeling off his button-down, then his jeans, until he's standing there in black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how hard he is already. His cock strains against the material, thick and promising, and you feel a rush of heat between your thighs. “Good boy,” you purr, circling him slowly, your fingers trailing over his shoulders, down his back. He shivers under your touch, turning to watch you, but you push him toward the couch. “Sit.”

He drops onto the cushions, legs spread, and you kneel between them, your hands on his thighs. “Been thinking about this?” you ask, hooking your fingers into his waistband and tugging down. His cock springs free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening. “Fuck, yeah,” he admits, voice husky. You wrap your hand around the base, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a low “Ahh”. Your thumb circles the head, smearing the pre-cum, and he bucks slightly, but you pin him with a look. “Stay still.”

Leaning in, you take him into your mouth, lips stretching around his girth. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum around him, the vibration making him gasp, “Shit, baby...” You bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass, your tongue swirling along the underside. Slurping sounds fill the room as you suck harder, hollowing your cheeks, one hand pumping what you can't fit. Joe's hands fist the cushions, his breaths coming in ragged bursts, “Oh god, yes, just like that.” You pull off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and grin up at him. “You like my mouth on you?”

“Love it,” he pants, eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide. But you're not done teasing. You lick a stripe from base to tip, then take him deep again, gagging slightly as he hits the back of your throat. “Mmmph,” you moan around him, the sound vibrating through him, and he swears, hips twitching. You let him fuck your mouth a little, guiding his rhythm with your hand, until he's close. “Gonna... fuck...—” but you stop, pulling away just as he teeters on the edge. “Not yet.”

He groans in frustration, but you stand, shimmying out of your dress, revealing lace panties and nothing else. Your brown skin glows under the dim lights, curves on full display, and Joe's gaze devours you. “Your turn,” you say, pushing him flat on the couch and straddling his chest. You grind against him lightly, your wetness soaking through the lace onto his skin. “Eat me like you mean it.”

He doesn't need telling twice. His hands grip your ass, pulling your panties aside as you lower yourself onto his face. His tongue dives in immediately, flat and broad, lapping at your folds. “Ohhh,”!you whimper, rocking against him, your clit bumping his nose. He sucks it into his mouth, flicking with the tip of his tongue, and you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him there. “Yes, right there—fuck, Joe.” Wet, smacking sounds echo as he devours you, tongue thrusting inside your pussy, then circling your entrance before sucking your clit again. You grind harder, chasing the build, your thighs trembling. “Mmm, good... don't stop.”

He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and you feel the coil tightening. “Gonna cum on your face,” you gasp, and he doubles down, one finger sliding into you, curling just right. “Ahh! Yes!” Your orgasm crashes over you, pussy clenching around his finger as you ride his mouth, juices flooding his tongue. He laps it all up, moaning like he's starving, until you're shaking, oversensitive.

You slide down his body, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his lips. “Now fuck me,” you said, positioning yourself over his cock. No condom—raw, risky, exactly how you want it. You sink down slowly, inch by inch, his thickness stretching you deliciously. “Fuuuck,” he groans, hands on your hips, but you set the pace, rolling your hips in a slow grind. Your walls flutter around him, already so wet from his mouth.

You ride him like that for a bit, hands on his chest for leverage, tits bouncing with each bounce. “You feel so good inside me,”!you murmur, leaning down to bite his lip. “So big, filling my pussy up.” He thrusts up to meet you, but you pin his shoulders. “My control, remember? Gonna make you cum so hard, but not until I say.” His eyes roll back, “Please, baby, you're killing me.”

You switch it up, turning around to reverse cowgirl, giving him a view of your ass as you sink back down. The angle hits deeper, his cock dragging against your g-spot, and you moan loud, “Oh shit, yes!” The loud sound of skin on skin as you bounce faster, reaching back to fondle his balls. He's babbling now—“Your pussy's so tight, gripping me... fuck, I'm close.” But you slow, edging him, then speed up again until you're both panting.

'On your knees,' you order, pulling off with a wet schlick. He scrambles to obey, and you position yourself on all fours on the couch, arching your back. “Take me from behind—but slow.” He lines up, sliding in with a groan, “God, you're perfect.” He thrusts deep, hands on your hips, but you reach back, controlling the depth. “Harder,” you demand, and he snaps his hips, pounding into you. The room fills with the lewd sounds—plap-plap-plap, your ass jiggling against him, the stretch marks against your dark skin, making it even more hot. “Yes, fuck my pussy like that—deeper!”

You push back, meeting every thrust, one hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit. “Cum inside me,” you gasp, the words pushing him over. “Shit, yeah?” He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he cums, hot spurts filling you up. “Ahhh, fuck!” The sensation tips you over too, your pussy milking him dry with rhythmic squeezes. “Mmm, yes, fill me...”

But you're not done. You pull away, his cum dripping down your thigh, and flip him onto his back again. “One more,” you say, straddling him reverse this time? No—face to face. You guide him back in, your mixed juices making it slick. You're on top, pinning his arms as you rock. “Look at me while I fuck you.” His eyes meet yours, hazy with lust, and you grind slow, deep circles, chasing another peak, as few braids strands grazed his cheek.

“You're so dominant... love it,” he murmurs, and you smirk, clenching around him. “Good, because I'm gonna own this cock.” Faster now, your clit grinding against his pelvis, building that friction. Whimpers escape you—“Nngh, almost...”—and he bucks up, hitting just right. Your second orgasm hits like a wave, “Ohhh god!” pussy spasming, and he follows quick, another creampie flooding you, warm and sticky. “Take it all,” he grunts, holding you close.

You collapse onto him, both breathing heavy, his arms wrapping around you finally. “Worth the chase,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. You smile against his chest, satisfied, already plotting round three.

all rights go to @𝐁𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗜𝗘 . i do not agree with my content to be stolen nor to be translated without my permission.

divs creds : kodaswrld

[mrsfromthecouch]

Borrowed Spotlight

Pairing: Joe Burrow x actress!fem!reader 

Warnings: Mild language, public setting anxiety, fluff, established relationship

Summary: He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, that’s enough to make him stay.

Taglist: @ashloveshockey

Read more: Masterlist / Series Masterlist

He hates the attention. Loves you. Somehow, that’s enough to make him stay.

Joe Burrow hates this.

You can tell before the car even stops.

He’s too still beside you, jaw set, fingers flexing once against his thigh like he’s trying to shake something off. Outside, the flashes are already going off, a frenzy of light bleeding through the tinted windows.

Your world.

Not his.

You turn toward him, softer now, reaching over to fix the edge of his sleeve even though it doesn’t need fixing.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You good?”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Love this. Big fan of being watched.”

You smile a little. “Only tonight. Then you can go back to being mysterious and hard to get.”

That earns you a glance.

“Hard to get?” he repeats.

“Please,” you say. “You barely answer texts.”

“I answer yours.”

“Eventually.”

His mouth twitches.

You study him for a second longer, then your voice softens. “You don’t have to walk it with me, you know. You can meet me inside. No one would care.”

He shakes his head immediately.

“No,” he says. Then quieter, more certain: “I’m here with you.”

That does something to your chest.

You nod once. “Okay. Then just stay with me, yeah? Don’t overthink it.”

“I don’t overthink,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at that door like it personally offended you for the last thirty seconds.”

“…I’m assessing.”

You laugh under your breath. “Right. Of course you are.”

The car door opens.

And suddenly it’s loud.

The flashes hit fast,voices calling your name, overlapping, urgent.

You step out like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t.

Not at first.

But then you feel it,the moment he chooses to.

Joe steps forward, shoulders straightening, and you slip your hand into his without thinking. It’s instinct. Grounding. Yours and his.

“Right here,” you murmur, guiding him forward.

He nods once.

And just like that,he adapts.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The shift. The way he settles into himself, not comfortable exactly, but controlled. Like he’s figured out how to exist in the chaos instead of fighting it.

Halfway down the carpet, you glance up at him.

“…You’re doing better than I expected.”

“Wow,” he says flatly. “That’s reassuring.”

“I meant that as a compliment.”

“Didn’t sound like one.”

You grin. “You’re posing, by the way.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re doing the jaw thing.”

“What jaw thing?”

“That one,” you say, laughing softly. “The ‘I don’t care but I actually care a lot’ thing.”

He exhales. “That’s just my face.”

“Sure it is.”

A photographer calls your name.

Then his.

Joe blinks slightly, leaning in just enough that only you hear him. “Why do they know me here?”

You tilt your head. “Joe… you’re not exactly invisible.”

“Feels different,” he mutters.

You hum. “Yeah. Because tonight, you’re with me.”

He glances down at you at that.

“Dangerous statement,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

His hand shifts at your waist, more natural now. More certain.

“Because I look better than you expected.”

You pause.

Just for a second.

Your eyes flick over him,slow, deliberate.

“…Okay,” you admit. “Yeah. You do.”

That smirk? Immediate.

“I knew it.”

“I didn’t say all that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you brought me anyway.”

Inside is quieter.

Not silent,but manageable.

You feel the moment it leaves him, the tension draining out as he exhales properly for the first time all night.

“Alright,” he says, grabbing a drink. “That part’s done.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “You didn’t hate it.”

“I didn’t love it,” he corrects.

“But you didn’t run.”

He glances at you. “You had a grip on me like I might.”

“I did think that.”

“Wow.”

You grin. “And yet,you stayed.”

There’s a pause.

Something softer slips into his expression now, something less guarded.

“I told you,” he says. “I wanted to be here with you.”

You hold his gaze for a second.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know.”

The noise of the room fades a little around you.

Then he looks you over,quick, but not subtle.

“…You look insane, by the way.”

You smirk. “Good insane or concerning insane?”

“Both.”

“I’ll take it.”

Another beat.

Then, lighter now, you lean in just slightly. “You did good tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your voice dips just a little. “Might even be worth something.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Oh, yeah?”

You shrug, teasing, not breaking eye contact. “Depends if you keep behaving.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still here,” you point out.

“Yeah,” he says.

Then, softer:

“Yeah, I am."

[cozygirljay]

Joe Burrow

The Plug 🔌 🍃💨🩷

Warnings: buckle tf up. Weed. Selling. Sex. Lots of it! Use of the n word by respectable parties.

Taglist: @heavyhitterheaux @honeydippedfiction @xoxonobodyhome @savannahcore27 @coffeebunnibee @babygirlburrow @mrs-delaney @bengals-barnesbabe

Joe had always been the secretive type, keeping his cards close to his chest both on and off the field. That all changed one random afternoon when he wandered into a weed dispensary in Monroe, Detroit, looking to unwind. That's where he first laid eyes on Stacks—real name Lyriq—a 27-year-old, 5'7" brown-skinned beauty covered in intricate tattoos that snaked up her arms and across her thighs. She was there re-upping on her supply, her presence commanding the room without even trying.

They locked eyes across the line. “You look like you know your way around some good green,” Joe said, flashing his easy smile as he nodded at the bags she was inspecting.

She glanced up, her lips curving into a smirk, lashes fluttering just enough to draw him in. “Better than most. What you tryna find? Something to mellow you out or hit you hard?”

“The hard stuff, but smooth,” he replied, leaning against the counter. They sparked up a convo about strains, life in the city, and before he knew it, he was asking about her ink. Turned out she was a dealer, slinging in Cincinnati, which was good for regular runs. She was real cool, no bullshit, so they exchanged numbers. A year later, and she was his go-to for weed and edibles—reliable, discreet, and always with that fire energy that kept him coming back.

Fast-forward to now, current day, and Joe's sprawling house was buzzing with his crew: Mike, Ja’Marr, Tee, Chase, Andrei, Charlie, and Orlando. They were sprawled out in the living room, half-watching a UFC fight on the big screen while a poker game dragged on between rounds. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table, and the air was thick with that post-game haze of bullshit talk and laughter.

“Who got smoke?” Tee suddenly piped up, rubbing his hands together like he was already tasting it.

The room erupted in groans. “Man, my plug's dry tonight,” Mike muttered, checking his phone for the umpteenth time.

Ja'Marr tossed his cards down. “Mine too. Everybody's ghosting.”

Tee, Andrei, Charlie, Orlando, and Chase all chimed in with similar complaints—no luck from their usual spots. Joe, lounging, sat up straighter. He'd been nursing a beer, his mind already drifting to Stacks.

Fuck, her curves in those shorts last time... that ass swaying as she walked away. Haven't seen her in a minute, but damn, I need that relief right now.

He shook the thought off, dialing her number.

“Yo, Stacks, it's me. You around? Got the whole crew here, need you to bring inventory. Yeah, the full setup.” He kept his voice low, not mentioning she was a woman. Why complicate it? The guys didn't need to know his plug was a straight-up baddie who made his dick twitch every time she showed up.

A little later, the quiet street outside hummed to life with the deep bass of Big Boogie's 'Pop Out' thumping from an approaching car. Heads turned.

“That must be them,” Tee said, peering out the window.

Joe hopped up, slipping on his slides. “There she go,” he muttered, heading for the door.

“SHE?!” the men yelled in unison, exchanging wide-eyed looks.

Joe paused, shrugging like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”

That was all it took. The whole crew piled out after him, curiosity pulling them onto the driveway as an all-black Toyota Camry XSE rolled up smooth and parked right in front of the mansion. Joe strode over, popping open the driver door, that stole the show.

Out stepped Stacks, a vision that hit like a blindside tackle. Grey short sweat shorts hugged her thick thighs and round ass, riding up to show the tattoos from the hem. Her navy blue cropped t-shirt clung to her full tits, the fabric stretched tight over her pierced nipples, which poked through faintly in the evening chill. Nike slides slapped softly against the pavement as she moved, her brown skin glowing under the lights.

She was tatted up—swirling designs on her arms and legs, a bold piece across her collarbone—and thick as hell, curves in all the right places. Pretty face framed by a middle-part sew-in with baby hairs laid perfect, minimal jewelry: stacked necklaces dangling into her cleavage, an ankle bracelet that jingled softly, a toe ring glinting on her manicured pedi, rings on her fingers, and an Apple Watch with a bedazzled band. Piercings caught the light—belly button, nose, and those nipples he knew were begging for attention. Glossed lips, long lashes, threaded brows, and nails done to perfection in a glossy nude.

Joe's pulse kicked up as she rose on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her hand dove straight into the hair at the back of his head, tugging just a bit as she pressed close.

Goddamn, her body's so warm against mine. Smell that vanilla lotion mixed with weed... wanna bury my face in her neck right now.

Fuck he smells too good right now. Mmmm, girl focus!

“Hey boo!” she said, planting a soft kiss on his cheek— close to his lips, her gloss leaving a faint shine.

Hands sliding to her waist, feeling the dip of her curves, then sliding lower to feel her ass just a little, he hugged back tight. “Hey mamas.”

Fuck, her ass feels even better than I remember. One squeeze and I'd be done for.

Just squeeze it! Come on don’t be scared. I wore no panties on purpose.

They pulled apart just enough for small talk. “Where you been at? Thought you ghosted Cincy,” he teased, his thumb brushing her hip absentmindedly.

She laughed, low and throaty. “Never ghost a good customer, boo. I drop whatever if you call—had a run in your neighborhood, but you called, so i'm here.” Her eyes sparkled, that bottom lip caught between her teeth for a second.

“You got the stuff?” he asked, voice dropping.

“Duh.” She tossed him her keys with a wink.

Joe caught them, popping the trunk and unlocking the spare tire compartment where she stashed her big duffel bag—smart as hell.

She's got that street smarts, but looks like she stepped out a fantasy. Bet she'd ride me just as smooth.

The only man I trust to not only know the location of the stash, but to be able to grab it, let alone hold it.

She grabbed her tote bag purse, killing the engine.

Turning, she clocked the guys staring from the driveway, jaws slack. “They staring hard as fuck. You ain't tell them I was a girl?”

Joe chuckled, hefting the duffel. “They ain't ask. Just wanted weed. Ignore 'em, come in.”

She sauntered inside like she owned the place, straight to the dining room. The table was clear, perfect for setup. She unzipped the duffel, laying out jars of fragrant bud, pre-packaged ounces sealed tight, weed-infused cereal bars in colorful wrappers, gummies that looked innocent but packed a punch, and sticks of infused butter for the bakers in the bunch.

“Hi y'all, I'm Joe’s homegirl, Stacks. Just give me a little bit to set up,” she said, her voice smooth and confident, flashing a smile that had half the room shifting uncomfortably.

"Hey," "What's up," "Yo," came the scattered replies, eyes glued to her every move—those shorts riding up as she bent to arrange things, the crop top lifting to show a sliver of pierced belly.

The guys didn't waste a second. They snatched Joe by the arm, dragging him into the hallway. "What?" he asked, playing dumb, though his mind was racing. Shit, they saw that hug.

Now they're gonna grill me, and all I can think about is how wet she might get if I cornered her later.

Not they finna question him.

"You ain't hit that yet?!" Ja'Marr blurted, eyes wide.

"No, why would I?" Joe shot back, crossing his arms.

"’Cause she fine as hell," Orlando added, shaking his head. "Thick in all the ways that matter."

"She's just my homegirl," Joe insisted, but even he heard the weak edge to it.

"Yea right, I don't hug or kiss on my homegirls like that," Andrei said, smirking. "You had your hands all over her ass, man. That's couple shit."

Mike nodded. "Facts. And that cheek kiss? Come on, Joe."

Chase leaned in. "If you ain't sliding in those DMs—or better yet, those shorts—we might have to step up."

Charlie laughed. "Nah, but for real, what's the holdup? She's bad."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Y'all trippin'. It's business."

Business my ass. I jerk off thinking about bending her over this table, watching that ass bounce while I pound her from behind. But nah, can't mix it up—not yet.

They filed back into the dining room, where Stacks was already in her element, explaining the lineup. “Alright, this here's the Snow Caps—fruity, uplifting, great for a chill vibe. Smell that?” She popped a jar, passing it around. The rich, piney scent filled the air.

Tee leaned in close, inhaling deep. “Damn, that's potent.”

She nodded, moving to the next. “Blue Runtz over here—sweet, relaxing, hits smooth. And these cereal bars? I make 'em myself—flavor with a low-dose edible, perfect for munching during the fight. Then I got prepackaged ounces and pre rolls.” Her long nails clicked as she demonstrated breaking one of the cereal bars in half and eating it.

From her purse, she pulled a gift bag, sliding it across to Joe. “Hey boo? I already got you weighed out and put to the side. You can add on if you want, but your usual is all right here: 3 ounces of Snow Caps, 1 ounce of Blue Runtz, 4 ounces of Tropicana Cookies, 2 cereal bars, and the variety gummies.”

“Thank you, lil mama,” he said, voice warm, pulling out his wallet for the cash—she only took green, no apps, no traces.

The guys shot him side-eyes, watching the easy exchange.

“Alright, for real, Joe, why you ain't hit yet? Respectfully, of course, Ms. Stacks,” Charlie asked, grinning.

Joe shot him a 'stfu' look, but Stacks beat him to it. She smirked, resetting the scale, her nails tapping rhythmically as she picked up fat nugs of weed to weigh.

“‘Cause he's scared of this pussy,” she said, not even looking up, her lip quirking.

The room exploded. 'Oooooooo!'

“Scared?” Joe echoed, brow furrowing, but his dick stirred at her tease.

Scared? Nah, more like obsessed. Wanna fuck her so bad it hurts—spread those thick thighs, lick her clit till she screams my name.

Ouuu he mad now. Good.

She smirked wider, eyes flicking to his. “Yeah, okay, boo...”

He opened his mouth to fire back, heat rising, but she cut him off smooth. “We can finish the convo later. I'm busy.” Her tone was playful, but that look—damn, it promised more.

He nodded, swallowing hard, handing over the cash. Later. Yeah, we'll finish it.

After getting all the men squared away—each one walking off with their bags of bud, edibles, and infused treats—Stacks sat back at the dining table, her long nails flipping through the stack of cash they'd handed over. The room smelled like a mix of fresh herb and victory, the UFC fight still droning in the background.

Tee hovered nearby, asking about the best strain for post-game recovery, while Ja'Marr grilled her on how she sourced such clean product without the paranoia. Mike chimed in about the gummies' potency, and Orlando wanted the recipe for those cereal bars, minus the weed.

She answered smooth as ever, counting bills with practiced ease—hundreds adding up quick from the crew's generous orders. “Snow Caps for energy without the crash, Blue Runtz if you wanna melt into the couch, Tropicana Cookies if you want your face to be numb,” she explained to Tee, sealing the last jar. “And yeah, I keep it to one spot, tested everything myself.”

Her voice stayed light, deflecting the flirty undertones without missing a beat as she packed the duffel, zipping it tight.

Joe lingered by the door, watching her work, his mind filthy. Those nails scraping down his back while he fucks her senseless... shit, focus. Once the guys dispersed to spark up in the living room, he caught her eye. “Come on, I'll walk you out.” He grabbed the duffel, leading her through the foyer to the driveway where her Camry waited.

“Aye, let me talk to you for a minute,” he said, his voice low as he set the bag down in the trunk closing it and pulled her toward the car-back against it-, away from any prying windows.

“Yes, boo?” she teased, that full lip quirking as she leaned against the door.

He stepped in close, hands gripping her waist, tugging her body flush against his. The heat of her skin seeped through the cropped tee, and he could feel the curve of her hips under his palms. “Scared?” he echoed her earlier jab, eyes locking on hers.

“Mhmm... scared,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers threading into his blonde curls, tugging just enough to send a jolt straight to his groin. “I've been wanting to fuck you for a good minute... but it's always business, transactions, weed with you.”

Fuck, hearing her say that out loud... his dick’s already throbbing. Been dreaming of her pussy clenching around him. “Cause I'm trying to be respectful... I didn't know you wanted me like that,” he admitted, his thumbs tracing circles on her sides.

“What other female you know that hugs you like this every time, kisses you real close to these pink lips, and calls you 'boo'?” She pressed closer, her tits brushing his chest. “Shit, I even be letting you touch on my waist and ass.”

“I thought you did that with everyone,” he said, voice roughening as her scent—vanilla and faint smoke—filled his lungs.

“Only with dudes I wanna fuck... and you been at the top of that list for a while.” Her hand slid bold down his torso, palming his dick through his sweats, squeezing the hardening length.

“Mmmmm,” she hummed in surprise, eyes widening a fraction as she felt him twitch and swell under her touch.

He smirked down at her, heat pooling low. Yeah, feel that? All for you, baby. “Why so surprised?”

She licked her glossed lips, grinning wicked.

Boy got dick for days and asking why I’m surprised… I was thinking like 6 inches at most. NOT this thick 9 inches growing in my hand.

“Cause it's big, white boy.”

“I know... when can I see you again?” He didn't let go, holding her gaze.

“Text me,” she said, finally releasing him, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine. She rolled the window down, bass faintly thumping back to life.

He leaned in the window, close enough to taste her breath. “You sure you want a hood girl, Joe?”

“Yeah,” he growled, no hesitation.

“Gimme a kiss, boo.”

He didn't waste a second, crashing his mouth to hers. The kiss turned sloppy fast—wet tongues sliding together, teeth nipping at her lip, sucking hard enough to draw a moan from her throat. Her hands fisted his shirt, pulling him deeper into the messy tangle, their breaths mingling hot and desperate. He broke it first, lips swollen. “I'll text you.”

“Okay,” she breathed, eyes dark with promise, before pulling off into the night.

Back inside, the brutal hours of teasing from the guys dragged on. Ja'Marr wouldn't let it die: “Man, you kissed her like you been starving. When's the wedding?” Tee piled on, mimicking the hug with exaggerated ass grabs, while Andrei and Orlando bet on how long till Joe 'sealed the deal.' Mike and Chase roasted him over the poker table, Charlie dropping one-liners about plugs turning into something more. By 1 a.m., after the UFC ended and the high kicked in full, they finally filtered out, slapping his back with winks and 'good lucks.'

Alone at last, Joe crashed on the couch, phone in hand. He opened their thread—last messages were order confirmations—and fired off the first one.

Joe: Yo mamas, that kiss got me fucked up. Can't stop thinking about your hands on me.

Stacks: 😏 Told you boo. What you tryna do about it?

Joe: Pull up on you soon. Eat, smoke, chill... and finish what we started. That ass in those shorts are haunting me.

Stacks: Mmm, my place then. Bring food—I'm craving wings or some takeout. When?

Joe: Two days? Tuesday night. I'll handle the food. Wings sound fire. What you wearing when I get there? 👀

Stacks: Surprise boo. But it'll be easy to take off. Send pics later? Show me what I'm working with.

Joe: Bet.

He sends a shirtless mirror pic, sweats low on hips, bulge obvious.

Stacks: Damn white boy... that's a problem. Come get this pussy then. 😈😘😩

She sends a selfie in bed, crop top riding up, areoles peeking.

Joe: Tuesday can't come fast enough. Gonna eat you out till you shake.

Stacks: Promise? I'll ride you till you tap out. Night boo. 💋

Joe: Night mamas. Dream of this dick stretching you.

Two days blurred by in a haze of practice and restless nights jerking off to memories of her touch. Tuesday evening, Joe pulled up to her condo in Oakley—crisp white T-shirt hugging his frame, gray sweats loose but fitted, clean white sneakers, gold chain glinting at his neck. He grabbed the bags from the passenger seat: spicy wings and fries from a spot nearby, plus an eighth of weed from his stash—Gotta match, show respect. His heart thumped as he knocked.

The door swung open, and fuck. Stacks stood there in a thin gray spaghetti strap nightgown, so short it barely skimmed her thick thighs, splits on each side flashing smooth brown skin up to her hips. The fabric clung sheer to her curves, nipples pierced and hard underneath, skin dewy from a fresh shower and body oil that made her glow like silk. Tattoos peeked from the straps, hair loose and wavy, that middle part framing her face.

“Fuck, mamas,” he groaned, eyes raking over her as he stepped in, kicking the door shut.

She smirked, pulling him inside by his chain. “Hey boo. Smells good—wings?”

They settled in her living room, condo cozy with dim lights, plush couch, and a coffee table scattered with ashtrays and remotes. Music played low—R&B and Rap vibes from her speaker—as they tore into the food, passing the joint he'd rolled from his weed.

Laughter flowed easy, flirting thick in the air. “You always this punctual for pussy?”she teased, licking sauce from her fingers.

“Only the best,” he shot back, eyes on her lips.

Wanna suck those fingers clean myself, then bury my face between her legs.

They talked shop—her latest runs, his season grind—smoke curling lazy, high settling warm.

He took a deep pull from the joint, leaning in. “Open up.” She parted her lips, and he exhaled slow into her mouth, shotgun style, their faces inches apart. The smoke mingled with her vanilla scent, and that was it—sparks ignited.

She inhaled deep, holding it as their mouths crashed together, slow and nasty. Tongues explored lazy at first, then hungry, her teeth grazing his lip, his hand cupping her jaw to angle deeper. Moans vibrated between them, clothes shedding fast—his shirt yanked off, sweats shoved down, her nightgown discarded. She was bare underneath, pussy shaved smooth, glistening already.

Naked now, she pushed him back onto the couch, eyes wicked. “You got the perfect dick for me to ride. Let me show you something.”

Joe sank back fully, legs man-spread wide, arms draped over the couch back, joint pinched between his fingers. His dick stood thick and hard, veined and curving up, pre-cum beading at the tip.

Bet she's gonna straddle and grind... fuck, can't wait to feel that wet heat.

But nope—she climbed up, planting her feet on each side of him, knees bent, towering over his lap. Her thick thighs flexed, ass cheeks spread as she gripped his shoulders for balance.

The playlist shifted—'Opposite Day' by Megan Thee Stallion bumped through the speakers, bass thumping like a heartbeat. With hands on his chest now, nails digging in, she lowered slow, her slick pussy lips parting around his dickhead. Inch by inch, she sank down, taking him deep till her ass met his thighs, a gasp escaping her.

“Holy shit, you got the tightest grip ever.” He moans out. Then she started bouncing, ass clapping loud against his skin, straight twerking on his dick. Up and down, circles thrown in, her pussy squeezing him like a vice with every drop. It felt unreal—wet, hot, rhythmic slaps echoing over the music.

He'd never been ridden like this, her control absolute, body moving like liquid fire. His head fell back against the couch, eyes rolling up as pleasure ripped through him. “Oh fuck... yes, baby. Ride this dick,” he moaned, voice wrecked, hitting the joint deep to steady himself. Curses spilled out—“Shit, got damn, just like that”—his hips bucking up instinctive to meet her slams.

She moaned wild, his thick length hitting spots deep inside she didn't know existed, stretching her walls, brushing that bundle of nerves till her vision blurred. “Fuck, boo... you’re so deep,” she gasped, taking her hands to her hair, pushing the waves up high to hold like handles, bouncing harder. Her tits jiggled free, heavy and bouncing hypnotic, nipples pierced and begging for his mouth.

She's a fucking goddess—ass rippling, pussy milking him dry. His head kept lolling back from the intensity, but he forced it up, eyes glued to the show: her curves flexing, skin shining with oil and sweat. He toked again, grabbing her jaw firm to pull her face close, exhaling the smoke into her open mouth. She inhaled sharp, moaning around it, then sealed her lips to his, tongue pushing the haze back as they kissed messy.

Her thighs burned after a bit, quads shaking from the squat. She eased off with a wet pop, dropping to her knees on the cushions to straddle him proper now. Facing him, she sank back down, pussy swallowing his dick whole, and rolled her hips slow at first.

Joe's hand clamped on her ass, kneading the thick flesh, spreading her cheeks as she rode. His other arm wrapped her waist tight, guiding her pace—up, down, grinding deep. “That's it, mamas... fuck me good,” he growled, thrusting up to match, balls slapping her skin. She leaned in, tits pressing his chest, nails raking his shoulders as she picked up speed, moans turning to whimpers.

She is twerking and throwing ass in a circle. He can’t even think straight,

Can't hold out much longer—her pussy's too perfect, gripping like it owns him. But he wanted more angles, more control. “Flip over,” he rasped, lifting her off mid-ride, dick slick and shining from her juices.

She sprawled back on the couch, legs spread wide, pussy puffy and dripping. He knelt between her thighs, hooking her ankles over his shoulders, and slid back in with one smooth thrust—deep, filling her to the hilt. Missionary like this let him pound relentless, hips snapping forward, dick dragging along her walls, hitting that spot over and over.

“Yes, fuck... harder, boo,” she cried, hands clutching his ass to pull him deeper, her pierced nipples scraping his chest with every plunge.

He obliged, pace brutal now, sweat slicking their bodies. One hand braced the couch, the other thumbed her clit in tight circles, feeling her clench around him.

Gonna make her cum first—watch her shatter on my dick.

Please make me cum. Be a gentleman and let me finish first please.

Her moans peaked, back arching as orgasm hit, pussy fluttering wild, juices soaking his shaft. “Joe... oh shit, I'm cumming!”

That pushed him over—thrusts erratic, he buried deep, groaning loud as he unloaded, hot spurts filling her up. “Take it all, baby... fuck.” They rode the waves together, breaths ragged, bodies locked till he collapsed gentle on her, kissing her neck soft. The music faded low, high lingering sweet, night far from over.

“Damn Boo.” She says stretching. Body already feeling sore— but good, real good.

She reached over to the side table in the living room, snagging a pack of wipes she'd stashed there earlier—always prepared, her spotless habits kicking in even post-fuck. Sitting up a bit, legs still spread on the couch cushions, she pulled one out and swiped gently between her thighs, cleaning the thick mix of his cum and her slick from her swollen pussy lips. The cool wipe contrasted the heat still pulsing in her core, making her hiss soft. “So messy boo,” she murmured, tossing the used one into a nearby trash bin, her eyes flicking to him with a lazy smile.

Joe propped on his elbow beside her, dick softening but his gaze hungry, tracing the way her thighs glistened. He takes a wipe and cleans himself.

Fuck, even wiping up, she looks edible. That pussy's mine tonight—gonna bury my tongue in it till she screams.

“I ain't done,” he said, voice gravelly from the moans. “I said I was eating that pussy till you shake.” He didn't wait for a nod, just shifted down, hooking her knees over his shoulders again, face diving between her legs.

His tongue flattened broad against her folds first, lapping slow from her entrance up to her clit, tasting the salty-sweet remnants of their release mixed with her fresh arousal. She gasped, fingers flying to his blonde curls, gripping tight as he sucked her clit between his lips, flicking the tip with quick, precise strokes. “Oh shit, Joe... right there,” she breathed, hips bucking up instinctive.

Oh he a EATER?? Okay then white boy.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks through her nerves, then delved deeper—tongue thrusting inside her channel, curling to scoop out more of that creamy mess, walls clenching around the intrusion.

Tastes like them—her sweet, him salty. His hands gripped her thick thighs, spreading her wider, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he alternated: long licks along her slit, then circling her clit with the flat of his tongue, building pressure relentless. The playlist had looped back to some SZA track, her sultry vocals underscoring the wet sounds of his mouth working her over.

Stacks arched, toes curling against his back, moans turning ragged. “Fuck... Boo, your tongue... don't stop. Eat this pussy baby… shit!” He didn't—sucked harder on her nub, one finger slipping in to crook against that front wall, rubbing the spot that made her jolt. Her breaths came in pants now, body tensing as the coil wound tight. He added a second finger, pumping slow while his lips sealed around her clit, humming low like he was savoring a joint.

It hit her like a wave—thighs quaking hard around his head, pussy spasming on his fingers as she shook, full-body tremors ripping through. “Joe! Oh my AH!. I’m cumming... fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Tears pricked her eyes from the intensity, spilling over as she cried out, back bowing off the couch, juices gushing against his chin. He lapped through it all, prolonging the high till she went limp, sobs mixing with whimpers.

That's my girl—shaking for me, crying my name. Perfect.

I have never in life been eaten of the bone like that before. He is definitely my favorite eater now.

He eased off gentle, kissing her inner thighs soft, then crawled up her body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. She pulled him down, arms wrapping his neck, face buried in his shoulder as aftershocks fluttered. He puts his fingers in his mouth cleaning them quick, then shifted them both—rolling so she nestled against his chest, his arm banding her waist, legs tangled.

The room smelled like sex and smoke, music a faint hum now. He stroked her back lazy, fingers tracing her tattoo lines, while she nuzzled his neck, breaths evening out. “You good, mamas?” he murmured, lips brushing her forehead.

“Mmm, better than good,” she sighed, propping her chin on his pec to meet his eyes. “That mouth... dangerous.” A beat passed, the high mellowing into something warmer, deeper. “So... what is this now? Us fucking around like this.”

Joe's hand paused on her hip, thumb circling the curve. “Just casual, right? Smoke, eat, fuck... no strings. Keep it fun while the season's on.”

Sure casual. Pussy so good she’s gonna have me ready to fight any dude that cop from her.

She nodded, biting her lip with a smirk, though her eyes held something softer. “Yeah, casual. For now. Don't need no boyfriend drama, boo. Just this—good vibes.”

Liar, feels like more already. But hell, let's ride it out.

“Exactly,” he agreed, pulling her closer, their laughs mixing soft. No more words needed—the pull was there, undeniable. He captured her mouth in a slow kiss, tongues lazy now, tasting each other lingering. She melted into it, hand splaying over his heart, and they drifted like that, bodies spent and synced, falling asleep entwined on the couch. Kisses turning to breaths, but both knew deep down—ain't no casual in this heat.

It was supposed to be casual—just smoke sessions turning into quick fucks, no strings attached. But damn if that didn't fly out the window fast. Every morning since that couch night two months back, Joe's phone buzzed first thing with her good morning texts: a selfie in bed, hair wild, lips glossed, or just a simple “You up, boo?” He'd fire back with his own, sharing his workout grind or a shot of his coffee, and before long, they were checking in all day—“Did you eat yet?” “Turn your location back on, where you at?” She pinned her spot on the map, he did the same, like they couldn't stand not knowing.

The sex shifted too; those initial rough pounds against the wall or bent over the kitchen counter melted into slow, deep strokes where he'd pin her gaze, tongue sliding against hers in lazy kisses that lasted minutes.

She's got me wrapped—can't stop thinking about sinking into her, feeling her clench around me like she owns my dick.

He got me feining for it. This man dangerous as hell.

He was obsessed, straight up, and she felt it too, the way her body lit up just from his voice on the phone.

Joe took care of her without a word—sliding cash for her hair appointments, booking nail techs for those fresh sets that wrap around his dick, lashes that be wet with tears because he be in it deep, brows done up perfect and arched.

Two months, not a dime out her pocket, and she never asked. He'd just Venmo it or hand her the cash, smirking like it was nothing. “Look good for me, mamas,” he'd say, eyes raking her fresh glow.

One lazy afternoon, they were chilling at her condo in Cincinnati, sprawled on the couch with a half-smoked blunt between them, her head on his lap while he scrolled highlights on his phone. July 4th fireworks cracked distant outside even though it was daylight, but her phone lit up like a damn casino—texts pinging nonstop.

“Everybody and they mama want weed today,” she grumbled, sitting up, scrolling through texts. She wasn't feeling the holiday vibe, throwing on simple black biker shorts that hugged her thick thighs, a cropped white tank top showing off her pierced belly button and tattoos snaking down her sides, feet slipped into fresh white Crocs.

Still cute as hell, curves popping, but zero red-white-and-blue bullshit. “Black folks weren't free back then. This ain't my Independence Day,” she said flat, tying her hair back. Joe nodded from the couch, remembering how they'd grilled out proper for Juneteenth last month—ribs, music blasting, her laughing in his lap.

“Can I go with you?” he asked, setting his phone down, already standing like it was decided.

“To hit licks?” She raised a brow, packing her little black bag with baggies, scales, and cash for change.

“Yeah, I'll drive.” His tone left no room, eyes steady on her.

“You don't gotta do that. I'ma be running around all day, boo.” She zipped the bag, glancing at him.

“Well, we supposed to hang out. And I ain't done.” He stood full now, towering a bit, gray sweats hanging low on his hips, black t-shirt stretched over his chest, chain glinting, white Air Force Ones planted firm, that LA cream-colored black brim hat tilted just right. “Grab yo little purse and yo stock. Get the Glock and let's go.”

She paused, lips curving soft. “Okay. You can drive me, boo.” Leaning in, she pecked his mouth quick, and he smacked her ass firm on the way out.

That jiggle, fuck, gonna eat her later.

This should be interesting. Cincinnatis franchise Quarterback driving around hitting licks.

They headed to her car parked out front.

They cruised Cincinnati streets, windows cracked, some Don Toliver track thumping low, her navigating drops while he gripped the wheel easy. First few spots were smooth—quick handoffs in parking lots, cash exchanged, her laughing at his bad jokes.

Then they pulled up to Eden Park, the overlook buzzing with holiday crowds, but she spotted her connect waving from a bench and walking over. She hopped out the passenger side.

A dude—D, tall and scruffy, eyes bloodshot—sauntered up before she could even take a step. “Damn, Ma, you look good as hell... who drivin' your whip?” He stepped too close, hand shooting out to graze her waist, fingers dipping toward her ass like he owned it.

“Aye, D, cut it out, bro. And my dude drivin' me around.” She sidestepped smooth, pointing at the car, voice firm but playful to keep it cool.

“You ain't got no damn man, girl, stop playin',” D laughed, leaning in again, oblivious.

Joe's jaw clenched from the driver's seat—

The fuck this lame doing? Touching what's mine?

Please don’t roll the window down boo… he rolling it down. Oh fuck.

Joe rolled the passenger window down, leaning over just enough, eyes hard under the brim of his hat. “Sup, man.” Possessive edge sharp, like a warning shot.

D froze, head snapping to the window, recognition hitting fast. “Oh shit! Burrow?! What you doin' with the plug?”

“Fucking.” Joe's voice flat, no smile, rolling the window back up slow, then blasting the music louder—some Future beat filling the car again.

She bit back a giggle, shaking her head as she handed D his quarter in a baggie. He fumbled the cash over, still staring starstruck at the tinted window, muttering 'no way' under his breath. She slid back into the passenger seat, door clicking shut, bag secure. “Now Boo, you ain’t have to say that. You wild.” she said, laughing full now, buckling up.

Joe's face was flushed red, knuckles white on the wheel as he peeled out, tires humming on the park road.

That shit pissed me off—nobody touches her but me. Time to remind her.

He mad. I ain’t even do nothing. Whatever. Shit is hilarious.

He didn't say a word at first, just drove a block down, spotting a secluded pull-off tucked behind some trees, away from the holiday traffic. Easing the Camry to the curb, he killed the engine, music fading to a hum.

“Turn that ass around this way.” he growled low, eyes locked on her, hat still firm on his head.

Her breath hitched, heat flooding between her legs at that tone—dominant, unyielding. “Right now? In the car?” But she was already shifting, kicking off her Crocs, scooting the seat back a notch for space.

“Yeah, now. Legs up.” He reached over, yanking her biker shorts and panties down in one rough pull, exposing her pussy, already glistening from the tension. She complied, feet planting on the center console, knees bent wide, pretty pedicured toes—fresh French tips from last week's set he paid for—flexing in the air.

Joe leaned over the console, hat shadowing his face, hands gripping her thighs to spread her further.

Gonna devour this pussy, make her know she's mine.

Works for me.

His mouth latched on without warning, tongue plunging straight into her entrance, thrusting deep like he was fucking her with it. She gasped loud, back arching against the door, one hand flying to his hat to keep it steady, the other snagging her phone from the cupholder.

“Fuck, Joe... yes,” she moaned, hips grinding up as he sucked her folds, lips sealing around her clit next, flicking hard and fast. His fingers dug into her ass cheeks, pulling her closer over the gear shift, nose buried in her trimmed bush while he lapped relentless—long strokes from hole to nub, then circling her entrance with the tip, tasting her drip.

Her toes curled tight, pinkies bending as the pleasure built sharp, painted nails gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the trees.

Shit, he's owning me—tongue so deep, I’m gonna cum quick.

She angled her phone quick, snapping a pic: her feet high in the air, legs splayed, his blonde head buried between her thighs, hat brim peeking. Sent it straight to him with a devil emoji, giggling through a whimper.

He glanced up at the click, eyes dark with hunger, then dove back in harder—two fingers sliding inside her, curling against that spot while his mouth worked her clit, sucking like he wanted to pull her soul out. “Mine,” he mumbled against her slick, voice vibrating through her core. She shook, thighs quaking around his ears, toes pointing straight then curling again as the orgasm ripped—pussy clenching on his fingers, juices coating his chin. “Joe! Oh god, I’m cumming... don't stop!”

He didn't, licking her through the waves till she slumped, breaths ragged, phone dropping to her lap. Only then did he pull back, wiping his mouth with his forearm, hat still on crooked now. “Nobody touches you but me. Say it.”

'”Yours, boo... all yours,” she panted, legs trembling as she lowered them slow, pulling him in for a messy kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. He smacked her thigh light, smirking under the brim, before starting the car back up. “Good. Now let's finish these drops—then I'm fucking you slow tonight.”

She laughed softly—his dominance sealed.

She tugged her biker shorts back up her thighs, snapping the waistband against her skin as Joe eased the Camry away from the pull-off, engine rumbling low. The taste of her still lingered on his lips, mixing with the faint weed smoke in the air, but that edge of jealousy hadn't dulled.

Fuck D and his hands—next time, I'll handle it myself.

“You know I wasn't gon' entertain him, right? D got like 12 kids,” she said, settling into the seat, voice light but testing, her legs still tingling from the way he'd just wrecked her with his mouth.

“Ion care about none of that shit.” Joe's response came sharp, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming his thigh, eyes fixed on the road ahead through the brim of his hat.

She smirked, unfazed, pulling out her phone to punch in the next location—some spot near the riverfront. “Aight, next one's Troy. Quick in-and-out, boo.”

Joe groaned low, jaw ticking.

Another thirsty-ass dude? This day's testing me.

Oop… he mad.

But he nodded, turning the wheel toward downtown, the city skyline peeking through the trees.

They rolled up to a shaded parking area by the Ohio River, boats bobbing in the distance under the July sun. She grabbed her bag and hopped out, spotting Troy leaning against a chain-link fence, locs tied back, wearing a Bengals jersey like he was repping hard. "Hey, Troy. You just wanted an eiffy, right?" she called, fishing out the pre-weighed baggie from her stash, green buds tight inside.

"Yeah, and you," Troy shot back, grin wide, stepping closer than needed, eyes dipping to her curves.

“Nah, I'm cool—my dude in the car.” She turned halfway, waving it off, but Joe was already out, driver's door swung open, standing tall with arms crossed over his chest, stare locked on them like a hawk.

Not this again. Back up, bitch.

Troy's eyes widened, cash flipping out from his pocket in a hurry. "Damn, how you bag the city's quarterback?"

"Cus I did." Her tone was smooth, confident, pocketing the bills without missing a beat.

"Alright, alright. Good looking, Joe. We gon’ get a Super Bowl this year?" Troy asked, trying to play it cool, glancing between them.

"Something like that." Joe's voice was clipped, no warmth, sliding back into the driver's seat and slamming the door just firm enough to echo.

"Damn, he mean," Troy muttered, shaking his head as she walked away.

"Cus you tried to flirt with me," she tossed over her shoulder, laughing easy, sliding back into the passenger seat with the door click.

Joe peeled out, tires gripping the pavement, irritation boiling under his skin. These fools acting like she single—time to switch it up. "Can we drop off to some girls or something?"

She burst out laughing, head tilting back against the seat. "They want me too."

"At least that's sexy." He cracked a half-smile finally, accelerating toward the next spot—a residential block she'd marked for a group order.

She eyed him sidelong, biting her lip. He looks good like this—mad, focused, that chain swinging with every turn. Bet that dick's hard under those sweats. The thought hit her hot, and without a word, she reached over, hand sliding straight to his crotch, gripping his dick through the gray fabric.

It twitched under her palm, already thickening from the day's tension, her fingers squeezing firm, thumb rubbing the outline of his head.

"Fuck, mamas," Joe hissed, hips shifting slight as he kept one hand on the wheel, the other dropping to cover hers, pressing it harder against him.

Her touch—shit, always knows how to flip my switch.

The road curved gentle, traffic light this time of afternoon, giving him just enough space to drive steady while she worked him up.

"Been thinking about this all day," she murmured, pulling his sweats low, fishing his dick out—thick, veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum from her tease. She leaned over the console, his hat brim brushing her forehead as she dipped low, lips parting to take him in.

Her tongue swirled the head first, lapping up the salt, then she sucked him down deep, cheeks hollowing as she bobbed, hand stroking the base she couldn't fit.

Joe's breath caught, free hand tangling in her hair—not pulling, just holding, guiding her rhythm while he navigated a left turn. "Yeah, just like that... suck that dick, baby." The words came rough, his dick throbbing in her mouth, her gloss smearing along his shaft as she slurped wet, throat relaxing to take more.

Gonna bust if she keeps humming like that—vibrations straight to my balls.

She popped off for a second, stroking him slick with spit, glancing up with those dark eyes. "Drive safe, boo—don't crash us." Then back down, sucking harder, tongue pressing the underside vein while her hand twisted gentle, toes curling in her Crocs from the thrill of it, the risk buzzing through her.

He groaned deep, foot easing off the gas as they hit a straightaway, the next drop still five minutes out. "Ain't crashing—fuck, your mouth's too good." Precum beaded again, and she swallowed around him, drawing a curse from his lips, his abs tightening under the t-shirt. The city blurred past, but all he felt was her—hot, wet suction pulling him closer to the edge, dominance shifting as she owned him right there on the road.

The straightaway blurred into a residential stretch, buildings lining the curb as Joe's foot hovered between gas and brake, her mouth working him relentless. She hollowed her cheeks deeper, tongue flicking the slit on every upstroke, spit dripping down his shaft to coat her knuckles as she pumped the base.

Shit, she's devouring me—gonna lose it right here.

He finna bust so hard. His balls real tight.

His balls drew tight, pressure building fast, the hum of the engine matching the throb in his veins.

"Fuck—baby, I'm—" The words cut off in a guttural groan as he came hard, hips bucking slight against her face, ropes of cum shooting straight down her throat. She swallowed greedy around him, milking every pulse, but a bit escaped, warm and thick on her tongue.

The car rolled to a stop at the curb just as the last spurt hit, tires crunching gravel outside a low-rise apartment block where she'd marked the group drop.

Joe's hand shot to her throat, fingers wrapping firm but not cruel, yanking her up from his lap. She rose slow, lips shiny with saliva and his release, a wicked smile curling as she held her tongue out—pearly drops glistening there, proof of what she hadn't gulped down yet. A soft moan escaped her, eyes rolling back in hazy bliss, body still buzzing from the power play.

"So fucking sexy," he growled low, thumb pressing her pulse point, squeezing just enough to make her breath hitch. He shook her head gentle, a playful rattle that drew a bubbly giggle from her, all blissed-out and flushed.

She tilted her chin up, swallowing the rest with a deliberate gulp, throat working under his grip. "All yours, boo." Her voice came husky, teasing, as he released her, tucking his softening dick back into his sweats with a quick zip, the fabric tenting slight from the aftershocks.

Right then, laughter echoed from the building's entrance—a group of four girls spilling out, all sundresses and hoop earrings, waving as they spotted the Camry. She straightened her crop top, wiping her mouth discreet with the back of her hand before grabbing her bag. "Showtime," she murmured, hopping out with that confident sway, ass flexing in the biker shorts.

"Yo, Stacks! You got that quarter for us?" The tallest one, with braids swinging, called out, eyes lighting up as Lyriq approached, pulling the pre-packed bag from her stash.

"Right here, girls—edibles too if y'all want the gummies." She handed it over smooth, counting the stack of bills they passed her, all twenties crisp from summer jobs or whatever. The group clustered close, chatting quick about the party's vibe, one girl—short with curls—eyeing the car curious.

"Who's the ride? He fine as hell," she whispered, not subtle, and the others snickered, glancing Joe's way through the rolled down tinted window.

“Nah for real. White boy real sexy.”

Lyriq smirked, pocketing the cash. "My man. Don't even think about it."

Why else would a man be in my car with me? Bitches got bird brains for real.

But there was pride in her tone, a subtle claim that had Joe shifting in his seat, watching protective.

These chicks got eyes, but she shuts 'em down quick. Mine.

The exchange wrapped fast—bags swapped, hugs exchanged, promises to hit her up for more—and she sauntered back, sliding into the passenger seat with a satisfied hum.

"Easy money. They threw in an extra twenty for the quick drop." She flashed the bills, then leaned over, planting a quick kiss on his jaw, tasting herself on his skin from earlier.

Joe pulled away from the curb, the engine purring as he merged back into traffic, hand dropping to her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh. "You handle that like a pro. But next time, maybe we skip the audience." His voice held that edge still, jealousy simmering low, but her touch earlier had mellowed it some.

She laughed soft, leg parting slight under his palm, inviting more. "Jealous of girls now? Thought you said that was sexy." Her fingers traced his arm, nails grazing the scratches there from last night, the air between them thickening again with that familiar heat.

"They can look. Just know who gets the real show." He shot her a sidelong glance, eyes dark, the city lights starting to flicker on as evening crept in. The next drop was across town—a bigger order from an old connect—but the tension in the car screamed they might detour first. Need her again, bent over this seat, screaming my name.

Lyriq bit her lip, reading his mind, hand sliding back to his thigh, inching higher. "Pull over then. Show me."

The city streets gave way to quieter roads, the Camry eating up miles until Joe spotted the turnoff for the old industrial spot by the river. He veered sharp into the abandoned parking lot, gravel popping under the tires as he killed the engine. Towering trees ringed the cracked asphalt, their branches thick and overhanging, blocking out the fading July sun and casting long shadows that swallowed the car whole. The river rushed faint in the distance, a low murmur against the sudden quiet—no cars, no people, just them and the wild edge of the water.

"Fuck, we should've took my car. Gonna have to make do," Joe muttered, voice rough with need, his hand already cranking the driver seat back with a mechanical whir. He reclined it flat, space opening up in the front, then shoved his sweats down his thighs, freeing his dick—thick and hard again, veins pulsing, tip slick from her earlier work.

"Get over here and ride," he commanded, eyes locked on her, dark and demanding.

Lyriq didn't hesitate, kicking off her crocs and hooking thumbs into her biker shorts, peeling them down her legs along with her panties in one smooth yank. The fabric hit the floorboard, leaving her bare from the waist down, pussy already glistening wet from the grind of the drive. She swung a leg over the console, thick thighs straddling him tight in the confined space, her crop top riding up to expose the tattoos curling over her ribs.

Their mouths crashed together—hard, nasty, slow—lips bruising as tongues tangled deep, her teeth nipping his bottom lip while he sucked on hers, tasting the salt of his own cum still faint on her breath.

Goddamn, she kisses like she fucks—greedy, owning every inch.

Fuck he is addictive. I love this shit.

His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her closer as she ground down, her wet pussy sliding back and forth along his dick, coating him in her slick heat, the friction making him throb harder.

She lifted her hips with a whimper into his mouth, and he angled his dick up, the head nudging her entrance. Lyriq sank down slow at first, pussy stretching around him, walls clenching tight as she took every inch until he bottomed out, her ass settling flush against his thighs. "Shit, Joe— so full," she gasped, breaking the kiss to arch back, hands bracing on his chest.

He didn't give her time to adjust. Hands clamping her hips, Joe thrust up fast—sharp, brutal snaps of his hips driving his dick deep into her pussy, pounding without mercy. The car rocked with each slam, her tits bouncing under the crop top, nipples hard peaks straining the fabric. She rode the rhythm, bouncing down to meet him, pussy squelching wet around his shaft, juices dripping down to soak his balls.

Fuck, she's gripping me like a vice—gonna make me bust too quick if she keeps squeezing like that.

He fucks me like animal. Can’t help but clench around him. Feels so fucking good.

"Harder—fuck me harder," she moaned, nails raking his shirt, head thrown back as he railed up into her, the console digging into her knee but she didn't care, lost in the burn. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air thick with the slap of skin and her cries echoing off the trees.

Joe growled low, flipping the script sudden—strong arms wrapping her waist, he twisted them around in the seat, her back hitting the seat with a thud. She yelped, legs splaying wide as he balled her up, knees hooked over his elbows, folding her in half until her ankles nearly touched her ears. Pinned like that, exposed and helpless, her pussy gaped open, slick and swollen from the ride.

He slammed back in missionary rough, dick spearing deep, balls slapping her ass with every vicious thrust. The angle hit her core hard, grinding against that spot inside that made her eyes water, tears spilling as she clawed at his back. "Yes—Joe, fuck—tear this pussy up!" Her voice broke on a sob, body shaking under the onslaught, pussy fluttering wild around him.

She's mine to wreck—look at her crying on my dick, begging for more.

He better not be fucking no other bitch like this.

He leaned in close, breath hot on her neck, teeth grazing her pierced nipple through the shirt before yanking the fabric up to suck the barbell hard, tongue lashing the bud. His hips pistoned faster, rougher, the seat creaking under them, her juices puddling on the leather as he fucked her nasty—deep, unrelenting strokes that had her toes curling in the air, thighs quivering against his hold.

Lyriq's hands fisted his hair, pulling him into a messy kiss, moaning into his mouth as another orgasm built, her walls clamping down tight. "Don't stop—gonna cum—" The words dissolved into a scream when it hit, pussy convulsing, squirting hot around his dick as he kept pounding through it, chasing his own release with grunts and slams that shook her whole body.

The abandoned lot felt like their own private world, the river's whisper the only witness as Joe's thrusts turned feral, hips snapping deep into Lyriq's folded body with punishing force. Her legs trembled in his grip, pussy clenching erratic around his dick, milking him as another orgasm ripped through her—hot gush soaking his shaft, dripping down to the seat. He grunted, sweat slicking his skin, the tight heat pushing him over the edge. "Fuck—Lyriq—" His balls drew up tight, and he buried deep one last time, dick pulsing as he came hard, ropes of cum flooding her pussy, spilling out around him with each twitch. She whimpered, walls fluttering to squeeze every drop, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

He collapsed forward, still inside her, breaths ragged against her neck. Slowly, he unfolded her legs, easing out with a wet pop, cum leaking from her swollen folds onto the leather. Lyriq shivered, pulling him down for a lazy kiss, tongues sliding soft now, tasting the aftermath. Joe grabbed a blanket from the back—always prepared—and draped it over them, bodies tangled in the reclined seat.

"Light one up," he murmured, nuzzling her collarbone, inhaling her scent mixed with sex and sweat.

She reached for her stash in the glovebox, rolling a quick joint with practiced fingers, sparking it up. The flame flickered orange in the dim light, smoke curling lazy as she took a pull, holding it before passing to him. Joe inhaled deep, the burn grounding him, exhaling slow while his free hand traced her thigh tattoos.

"That was insane," she said, voice husky, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You fucked me real good."

He chuckled low, passing the joint back, turning the car on for some air. "Couldn't hold back. You do that to me—make me lose it." They smoked in comfortable quiet, sharing drags, the weed mellowing the high of their fuck. "What's next on drops? Or we calling it?"

"Few more spots, but this detour was worth it." She grinned, blowing smoke rings toward the window. "You jealous earlier? With D and Troy?"

Joe tensed a beat, then shrugged. "Nah, just... don't like hands on what's mine." He stubbed the roach, pulling her closer. "Even if we ain't labeled it."

She hummed, eyes thoughtful. "Mine too, Joe. Don't forget that."

A week later, the buzz from social media hit like a gut punch. Pictures surfaced online—Joe at a club, some white girl perched in his lap, her arms around his neck, lips brushing his skin in what looked way too intimate. The captions flew: 'QB and his new vibe?' Lyriq scrolled through them in her apartment, heart twisting despite herself. They weren't official, sure, but this? It stung. She fired off a text—So this what we doing?—then blocked him, ignoring the flood of calls and messages for days. Hurt simmered into anger; she threw herself into drops, blasting music to drown it out, but his face haunted her.

Joe couldn't stand the silence. On the fourth day, he pulled up outside her building in his blacked-out SUV, engine idling as he spotted her stepping out for a smoke and checking her mailbox. She froze, eyes narrowing, but he hopped out, slamming the door.

"Lyriq, we gotta talk," he started, voice low but urgent, closing the distance.

She whipped around, joint halfway to her lips. "Talk? Now you wanna talk? After that club bullshit?"

"It ain't what it looks like—"

"Save it, Joe! Do you like black girls or white girls cus I'm fucking confused!? One minute you're all up in me, next you're posted with some snowbunny in your lap like I'm invisible!" Her voice cracked, chest heaving, tears pricking but she blinked them back fierce.

Joe groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Do it fucking matter? Last I checked the only person I’m fucking is you!"

"Yes it matters because why was that white bitch in your lap? If this is where you come home to, where you lay your head at night, where you eat, sleep, smoke my weed and take a shit! Why the fuck you in the club with another bitch in your lap? Cus from where I'm looking it's giving disrespect!" She yelled, stepping closer, fists clenched like she wanted to swing, hot tears spilling now despite her fight. Her voice broke on a sob, body shaking with the urge to choke him out, but she couldn't—loved him too much for that.

Joe sighed heavy, the fight draining from him seeing her like this. "C'mere."

"No!" She crossed her arms tight, turning away, but he reached out gentle, hands on her waist pulling her in.

"You dont never take me no where! Our 'relationship' or whatever you want to call it exists only in my apartment, your house, and THE CAR! But you can be posted up with some random in a club in your lap kissing your neck. But not the one keeping your bed warm. Yea alright Joseph." She wiped hot tears away fast, voice wobbling, glaring daggers even as hurt softened her edges.

"C'mere," he said again, more sternly this time, thumb brushing a stray tear.

"I should slap the taste of me out your damn mouth. I can't stand you." She shoved at his chest weak, but he held firm.

He chuckled soft, the tension breaking a fraction. "I'm not laughing." She says seriously. He nods letting her vent.

"You too fuckin friendly! Ion want no friendly ass nigga!" She yelled again, fresh tears rolling, pouting now with quivering lips.

Joe's face fell, guilt hitting hard—he knew she was right, his easy charm biting him in the ass. "I know mamas. Can I talk now?"

"Whatever." She rolled her eyes, wiping her face with her sleeve, arms still crossed but leaning into him a little.

He pulled her fully against his chest, one hand stroking her back. "Listen, that girl? She's Dalton’s cousin—visiting from out of town. We were at his birthday kickback, she got too drunk, plopped down in my lap actin' a fool. I pushed her off, but the pic caught ain’t catch that. Ain't no kissing,no fucking, no nothing. Swear on everything." He tilted her chin up, eyes locking serious. "You're the only one I see, Lyriq. That friendly shit? Yes it's a habit, but it stops now. No more blurred lines. I hate seeing you like this, especially because of me, I’m so sorry baby."

She pouted deeper, rolling her eyes again but sniffling. "Shoulda warned me or told me the situation last night. Felt like shit scrollin' and seeing that."

"I know, my baby. My bad." He kissed her forehead, then her nose. "Let me make it right. Get dressed—I'm takin' you out. Real date, official. No hidin' us."

Her eyes widened, tears drying as surprise flickered. "For real?"

"Yeah. Wear that black dress I like." He smirked, pulling back to look at her. “The one that makes these titties sit up how I like.” He says. She giggles.

-

Downtown Cincinnati glowed under string lights that night, the riverfront alive with summer crowds. Joe had reserved a spot at a rooftop spot—overlooking the Ohio, city skyline twinkling. Lyriq turned heads in her fitted black dress, tattoos peeking at the neckline, his hand firm on her lower back as they walked in. No hiding; he pulled her chair out, ordered her favorite—steak medium rare, wine she liked— and when fans spotted him, he introduced her straight: "This is Lyriq, my girl." Her chest swelled, the possessiveness flipping to pride.

Over dessert, he took her hand across the table. "No more casual. We're official—you and me. Boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever label. I want the world knowin’."

She bit her lip, eyes shining. "Took you long enough."

He leaned in, voice dropping. "I love you, Lyriq. For real. Been fallin' since that first kiss."

Tears—happy this time—welled up. "I love you too, Joe."

Back at his house, the door barely shut before he had her against it, mouths fusing hungry. He scooped her up, legs wrapping his waist as he carried her to the bedroom, dress hiked high. Laid her on the king bed, peeling the fabric off slow, worshipping every curve with lips and hands—kissing tattoos, sucking nipples till she arched, fingers plunging into her wet heat.

"Need you," she gasped, tugging his shirt off.

He stripped quick, dick hard and leaking, climbing over her. Pushed her thighs wide, sliding in deep with one thrust, her pussy gripping tight like home. "Fuck— so good," he groaned, hips rolling slow at first, building to hard snaps—pounding her into the mattress, bedframe thumping.

She clawed his back, moaning loud. "Harder—yes, Joe!"

He flipped her to her stomach, yanking her ass up, slamming back in from behind—rough, deep, balls slapping her clit with each drive. Sweat slicked them, her cries muffled in the pillows as he railed her, hand fisting her hair to arch her back. "This pussy's mine—only mine."

"Yours—fuck, cum in me!" She bucked back, chasing it.

He pulled out sudden, flipping her again, missionary now—legs over his shoulders, folding her as he thrust brutal, dick hitting deep. “Wanna see that pretty ass face when you cum.” He says licking her jawline slow. Her walls spasmed, orgasm crashing as she squirted around him, soaking the sheets. “Only you get this dick baby.”, Joe moans out burying to the hilt, cum erupting hot inside her, filling her full with grunts and shudders.

Panting, he stayed put, kissing her slow. "Don’t nobody deserve this dick but you mamas."

They lay there tangled in the sheets, Joe's weight a comforting press against her side, his fingers idly tracing the ink on her hip as their breaths evened out. Lyriq's body hummed with aftershocks, pussy still throbbing faintly from the thorough claiming, cum leaking slow between her thighs. She turned her head, lips brushing his jaw. "You love me forreal?"

He propped up on an elbow, blue eyes soft in the low lamp light, thumb stroking her cheek. "Yes I do, Lyriq. I’m tired of sneakin' around. You're it—my girl, my everything." He leaned down, sealing it with a deep kiss, tongue lazy now, tasting her moans like dessert.

She smiled against his mouth, hand sliding down his chest to rest over his heart. "Good. 'Cause I ain't sharin' this." Her fingers dipped lower, teasing his softening dick, already stirring under her touch. "Or this."

Joe groaned low, catching her wrist gentle. "Easy, mamas. Give me five minutes, then round two if you want." He rolled off, grabbing waters from the nightstand, passing her one before settling back, pulling her into his chest. The house was quiet, just the distant hum of the city outside his windows.

They talked soft into the night—plans for trips, her slowing down on selling and starting that hair business she been talking about, him promising to bring her to games, events, no more sidelines. "Love seein' you like this," he murmured, kissing her temple. "All mine." Sleep claimed them eventually, bodies spooned tight, her curves fitting perfect against him.

-

Months blurred into a rhythm that felt right—public dates at Reds games where he'd drape his arm over her shoulders, lazy Sundays in his kitchen cooking breakfast while she rolled joints, nights where he'd fuck her slow and deep in the shower or bent over the island, always ending with her cumming first, his release painting her inside or out depending on the mood. The crew knew it was official now, teasing dialed back to good-natured jabs about how whipped he was. Lyriq's new business thrived, selling hair— bundles, wigs, supplies— occasionally still selling weed.

One crisp fall evening, after a Bengals win, Joe surprised her at her condo with tickets to a private rooftop party downtown—live band, skyline views, the works. She stepped out in an orange mini dress that hugged her thick frame, tattoos swirling like secrets under the fabric, piercings glinting. His eyes darkened as he took her in, hand possessive on her ass in the elevator. "Fuck, you tryna kill me tonight?"

"Maybe," she teased, nipping his ear. "Behave till later."

The party buzzed—music thumping, drinks flowing—but Joe kept her close, arm around her waist, introducing her as his woman without hesitation. A few reporters snapped pics, but he didn't care; the world could know. They danced slow under the stars, her head on his shoulder, his lips at her neck near the tattooed butterfly’s that trail down her neck, over her shoulder and down her back. "This life's better with you," he whispered.

Back at the mansion, the door kicked shut, and he had her against the wall in seconds—dress shoved up, panties ripped aside, his dick plunging in with a wet slide. She gasped, legs locking around him, nails raking his back as he fucked her standing, hips pistoning hard, her tits bouncing free from the low neckline. "Joe—shit, right there!"

He growled, sucking a pierced nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch. "Take it all, baby—pussy so tight for me." Sweat beaded on his brow, the slap of skin echoing in the foyer as he drove deeper, her walls fluttering wild. She came with a cry, squirting down his thighs, and he followed, flooding her with hot spurts, holding her up as they both shook.

He carried her upstairs, easing her onto the bed for more—tongue between her legs lapping up the mess, fingers curling inside till she begged, then flipping her to ride him reverse, ass jiggling with each bounce till he gripped her hips and thrust up brutal, cumming again across her back in thick ropes. They collapsed laughing, sticky and spent, his arms wrapping her tight. "Forever, Lyriq. That's us."

She turned, kissing him deep. "Damn right."

📸 @ badgirl_lyrinow: got the cities Quarterback on LOCK 🔐😘☺️ @ joeyb_9

❤️ joeyb_9, lahjay10_, & 126k others

*comments are turned off*

—

📸 @ joeyb_9: Life update… I don’t know anything about hair but I’m investing in her always 🤎✨ @badgirl_lyrinow

❤️ badgirl_lyrinow, teehiggins, & 513k others

teehiggins baby girl turned her comments off… we not gon gloss over slide 4 on her post. 🙃

lahjay10_ teehiggins nah dead ass I went to comment and she cut them bitches FAST! 🤣🤣

joeyb_9 teehiggins lahjay10_ must’ve been the wind 🍃💨

bengals only here to ask Ms. Lyriq if she can convince you to let us get more fun content on you. @badgirl_lyrinow

badgirl_lyrinow bengals sure I got you admin 😍 joeyb_9 BE NICER TO ADMIN!!

joeyb_9 badgirl_lyrinow 🤨🤨 or what?

badgirl_lyrinow joeyb_9 you can get cut off. 🤭🤨

joeyb_9 bengals see yall bright and early! 🤗

bengals thank you badgirl_lyrinow 😘😘

badgirl_lyrinow bengals 😘😘

A/n: I had fun writing this!

[mrs-delaney]

I’ve BEEN waiting on this. Can’t wait to read it tonight!💕

[piastririots]

hi! not sure if you’re taking requests or not but if so i’d love any fluff joe one!! maybe some hurt comfort added. love your writing!

DANCE WITH ME JOE BURROW

pairing: joe burrow x reader

summary: the night before the nfl draft, joe’s nerves bring him to your window. turns out, the crush you’ve been harbouring for years isn’t as one-sided as you thought.

word count: 4.0k

authors note: thank you anon you’re so sweet! my requests are currently open!! i’ve become a little fixated on athens joey so this is a little tribute to pre-bengals joe! hope you enjoy <3

warning: cutesy little fluff, some hurt comfort.

You’re half-asleep when your phone buzzes against your cheek, the soft glow of the screen cutting through the darkness of your room.

You groan, squinting, dragging it closer just enough to make out the name lighting up your lock screen. It’s Joe.

Your heart does a strange, startled little jump — not because he’s never called before, but because he’s calling now, at almost one in the morning, the night before the biggest day of his life.

The NFL draft.

You swipe to answer, still thick with sleep. “Hello?”

There’s a breath on the other end. Not quite shaky, but not steady either. “Are you awake?” he asks, voice low, rough in that way it always is late at night, but this time… thinner somehow. Like someone had pulled a thread too tight.

You rub a hand over your face. “I am now.”

He huffs a small laugh, but it’s strained — the kind of sound that makes your chest tighten with an alarm you can’t quite name. You sit up a little, blankets pooling around your waist.

“What’s wrong?” you ask softly. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I mean… tomorrow’s kind of a big deal.”

Silence stretches. Not empty — heavy. You can hear him breathing, hear the way he’s thinking, can practically picture him sitting on the edge of his bed in that old house in Athens, thumb tapping nervously against the back of his phone.

Then he sighs, long and tired and too honest to hide. “Can I come over?”

Your mouth goes dry. Not because you don’t want him to — God, you always want him to — but because your parents definitely would not be thrilled about a boy sneaking into your room at 1 a.m. The image of your dad’s face alone is enough to make you wince.

But your parents are deep sleepers. And this is Joe — and he sounds nothing like the confident, unstoppable guy the whole country sees. He sounds like someone who needs you.

You bite your lip. “…Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, okay. My window’s open.”

There’s the faintest exhale of relief from him — barely there, but you catch it. “I’ll be there in a minute.” When the call ends, your room feels too quiet. Too dark. Too small for the way your pulse trips anxiously through your chest.

You slide out of bed, padding over to your window. The cool air rushes in, brushing against your bare arms, the familiar backyard stretching out under moonlight. It looks the same as it always does, but tonight it feels like you're standing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Your reflection ghosts faintly in the glass, and that’s when you notice yourself — messy hair, sleep-soft face, old pyjama top hanging a little crooked. You swipe a hand through your hair, smoothing it down even though it pops right back up. You try again, this time tucking the strands behind your ear. It doesn’t help. You tug at your shirt, straighten the hem, pinch your cheeks lightly like you’re trying to wake them up.

And then you pause.

It’s one in the morning. You’re in pyjamas. He’s seen you like this a hundred times — after sleepovers, movie nights, summers spent running barefoot between your houses. There’s no reason to care. No reason to feel that flutter in your chest over how you look.

But you do. Because you’ve known exactly why it matters since you were eleven years old and he smiled at you with grass in his hair and a torn jersey. Because no matter how hard you try to pretend otherwise, you’ve been soft for him for years — quietly, stubbornly, hopelessly.

You let out a breath, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed at yourself, but you don’t stop. You tie your hair back, then untie it because it looks too neat, then settle for pushing your fingers through it until it sits somewhere between “I just woke up” and “I didn’t try this hard.”

Your heart hammers as you wait, listening — every shifting leaf suddenly too loud, every creak of the house sharper than usual. You rest your hands on the windowsill, breath shallow, staring out into the dark backyard where he’ll appear any second.

You tell yourself you’re only nervous because it’s late and unexpected. But the truth sits warm and aching in your ribs:

You’re nervous because it’s him.

It doesn’t take long before you see him — a tall silhouette moving across the yard. Hoodie, messy hair from running his hands through it too much, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s carrying something huge. When he looks up and sees you, his face softens in a way that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You step back, giving him space to climb through — something he’s only done twice in your life, once when you were kids and once when he was too drunk to find his own house sophomore year. But this moment feels different. Charged. Brimming with something unspoken.

He swings his leg over the sill and lands in your room with surprising quietness. You’re close enough that your arms brush. His eyes lift to yours. And for a second, all you see is the boy you grew up with — not the LSU star, not the Heisman winner. Just Joe.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Hey.”

Up close, the nervousness is even more obvious — the tightness in his jaw, the restless tap of his thumb against his thigh, the way his gaze keeps flicking around your room like he can’t settle on anything for more than a second.

You gesture toward your bed. “Do you… wanna sit?”

He nods, slow, grateful, and sits on the edge, shoulders curving forward like the weight of tomorrow is literally pulling him down. You sit beside him, close but not touching, your knee almost grazing his. For a long moment, he just breathes, staring down at his hands. 

Then, quietly:

“I can’t sleep.” He laughs lightly at himself, shaking his head. “I thought I’d be fine but… Jesus. I feel like my chest is full of bees or something.”

Your lips soften into something like a smile. “That sounds uncomfortable.”

“It is.” He sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everyone keeps saying I should be excited. That this is what I’ve worked for. That it’s all finally happening. And I am excited, but — I’m also terrified.” His voice falters there, like the truth is too sharp in his mouth.

You shift closer. “Joe… that makes perfect sense.”

He looks at you then, really looks, like he’d been trying to hold himself together until that moment and your voice made the cracks give way. You don’t say anything else. You just wait, and slowly — piece by piece — he starts to unravel.

“…I know I’m supposed to be ready,” he murmurs, eyes flicking across your face. “I know everyone thinks I’m ready. But what if I’m not? What if I mess this up? What if I’m not who they think I am?”

Your heart twists painfully — because you’ve never heard him sound like this. Never heard the fear tucked under his ribcage, never seen him small, never seen him unsure. Even when he was riding the bench at OSU, wondering whether he’d ever get a real shot, he never let you hear the crack in his confidence.

He joked through it, shrugged it off, kept that steady, stubborn fire in his eyes like he’d already decided he’d prove them wrong. But tonight… tonight he sounds like someone bracing for impact, like someone afraid he might fall from a height everyone insists he’s destined to reach.

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand over his. He freezes for a second — like the warmth shocks him — and then he breathes out, shoulders sinking in a way that makes you ache.

“You are exactly who they think you are,” you whisper. “And more.”

His throat works. “You really think so?”

You nod. And this time, you let your thumb brush his knuckles. “I know so.”

He looks down at your joined hands, then slowly lifts his gaze, meeting yours again. There’s a weight in his eyes that makes your chest tighten, like he’s holding something he’s never dared to say aloud. His gaze flicks, almost imperceptibly, to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and back again, like he’s testing the air, measuring what he’s about to do.

Your breath catches, but before you can process it, he leans in.

His hand lifts, gentle, tentative, brushing against your cheek as his lips touch yours. The kiss is soft — featherlike — barely there, like a whisper of contact, almost delicate enough to make you question if it happened at all. And when you don’t pull away, when you stay suspended in that quiet surrender, he leans in again, deeper this time, more assured, letting the warmth and certainty of him brush against every nerve ending.

Something inside you clicks, and without thinking, you reach up, pressing your lips back to his, a little desperate, a little messy, trying to mirror the intensity you feel surging through him. His hand moves into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently, anchoring you closer. Your other hand slides under the hem of his shirt, grazing the warmth of his skin, and that’s when reality seems to hit him. His eyes widen, a flash of fear crossing his expression, and he pulls away abruptly, stepping back.

You stare at him, confused, brows furrowed, heart still hammering. “Joe—what’s wrong?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I—” He shakes his head, stepping further back, like he’s afraid the heat of the moment might scorch him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I don’t know why I—”

You rise to your feet, closing the distance slightly, voice soft but firm. “Joe.”

He swallows, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “I didn’t mean to… this… it was a mistake. I—” His voice breaks slightly, vulnerable, raw. “I just… I have to go.”

And just like that, he’s gone, slipping back out into the night, leaving you standing in your room, the lingering warmth of his lips pressed against yours, your fingers tingling where they’d touched him, and the quiet, heavy ache of what just happened hanging thick in the air.

You barely sleep.

It’s not for lack of trying — you lie down, you close your eyes, you bury your face into your pillow — but your body keeps replaying everything on an endless loop. The phone call, his voice, the weight in his eyes. The way he kissed you like it was something he’d been holding back for months, maybe even years. The way he left like he regretted every second of it.

By morning, the sun is too bright and your alarm might as well be a jackhammer. Your head throbs from the lack of sleep, your chest aches from everything you didn’t get to say.

You check your phone more times than you’ll ever admit. No missed calls. No texts.

A tight, complicated knot forms in your stomach — disappointment, embarrassment, worry. Maybe he thinks he crossed a line. Maybe he regrets it entirely. Maybe the weight of today is swallowing him whole and the last person he wants to deal with is you.

And it stings — obviously, painfully, because you’ve carried this crush, this quiet, constant pull toward him, for what feels like forever. The way he leaned in, the softness of his lips against yours, the warmth that seemed to settle around your chest — you can’t stop replaying it, over and over, like it’s burned into your memory. It hurts in that sharp, sweet way of longing, a little ache that twists through your ribs and won’t let go, and you hate how much it matters to you.

Your parents are buzzing around the house, excited and chatty. Everyone in Athens feels like they know Joe, like they helped raise him. They’re all proud. They’re all certain.

“He’s going number one,” your mom says as she slices fruit in the kitchen. “Your father invited the Burrows to dinner next week. Can you imagine? Cincinnati! Our boy made it!” You smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Your boy. He was yours for one breath — one terrified, beautiful moment — and then he wasn’t.

The day drags, long and jittery, stretching out in a haze of buzzing phones, notifications, and neighbors spilling into yards, waving and cheering like they’re already celebrating the future first overall pick. Everyone seems caught up in the excitement — everyone except you.

You try not to look for him on TV when the broadcast starts, but your eyes find him anyway — sitting beside his parents, calm in the way only Joe is calm, quiet smile, nervous fingers tapping against his knee. His mom squeezes his hand. His dad grins proudly.

He looks okay. You tell yourself that should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

But before you can sink too far into your own spiral, your dad knocks on your door. “We’re heading over to the Burrows’. You coming?”

Your chest tightens at the mention of his house, the house where so much of your past — and now, the weight of this night — seems to reside. You hesitate. Every fiber of you wants to linger in the safety of your room, to avoid the possibility of awkwardness, of seeing him and not knowing what to do. But if you don’t go, your parents will notice. And more than that… you want to go.

You want to see him, even if it hurts, even if the ache in your chest makes it hard to breathe.

You take a deep breath, brushing your fingers over your jeans as if it could steady your nerves, and finally answer, voice low but certain:

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll come.”

By the time you walk through the front door, the house is buzzing with life. 

You expected people, but not this many — neighbors leaning against doorframes with drinks in hand, old coaches swapping stories, family friends laughing as they pass appetizers, and half of your graduating class clustered around the living room, shoulder to shoulder.

The air is warm with celebration, the chatter and laughter spilling out through the open windows, mixing with the faint hum of a speaker playing music near the kitchen. The TV is still paused on the screen showing Round 1 results, a silent reminder of the magnitude of the day. Joe is nowhere in sight when you first enter the house, and the weight of that absence sits heavier on your chest than you expected. 

You force a smile, nodding along to half-remembered stories and laughing at jokes that feel thinner than they should, as high school friends pull you into conversations that twist around football games, and senior year memories.

The din of the crowd grows oppressive after a while, laughter and chatter pressing against your ears until it feels like you might actually drown in the noise. 

You excuse yourself, muttering something about needing air, and slip through the sliding door into the backyard, grateful for the cool night air that wraps around you like a soft, calming blanket. The contrast is immediate — the air is noticeably cooler, the grass still damp from the afternoon sprinklers, and the soft glow of string lights overhead flickers unevenly, throwing long, gentle shadows across the lawn. 

You take a deep, steadying breath, letting it fill your lungs like you’ve been holding it for hours, letting it quiet the chaos that’s been buzzing inside you.

And that’s when you see him.

He’s near the back fence, tall and still, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, head tilted back just enough to catch the pale light of the moon on the line of his jaw.

The porch light doesn’t reach him fully, leaving him half in shadow, but it’s enough to see the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the tension in the way he stands, the way the air seems to hang around him like he’s carrying something heavy that only you could understand. 

For a heartbeat, you consider retreating, slipping back inside, pretending you never came out at all, letting the moment pass into the night without facing him, without unraveling whatever fragile thread is holding your heart together. But before you can even take a step, he shifts, and his eyes find yours.

The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but the effect is devastating — his gaze locks on you, wide, startled, flicking with a vulnerability that makes your pulse skip and your stomach tighten, then softening in a way that steals your breath before you even realise it.

Then he begins to walk toward you, slowly, carefully, each step measured as if he’s afraid that even the slightest misstep will shatter the delicate thread between you two. There’s a hesitancy in the way he moves, a carefulness that makes your chest ache, like he’s testing the air, testing you.

“Hey,” he says when he finally reaches you, his voice low, almost swallowed by the soft hum of cicadas in the summer air.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight. “Hey,” you answer, voice quieter than you intended, the sound catching somewhere between nerves and relief.

Silence stretches between you, hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament ready to shatter. Every rustle of leaves, every distant laugh from the house feels magnified.

“You weren’t inside,” he finally murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck in that way that makes him seem smaller than usual, like he’s trying to make himself less noticeable, less imposing. “I thought you might’ve… not come.”

You shrug lightly, brushing the sleeve of your sweater over your hand, trying to appear casual even though your stomach is fluttering like a caged bird. “My parents wanted to. And I… wanted to congratulate your parents,” you murmur, voice soft.

He nods, but his eyes flick away, darting toward the darkened corners of the yard like he’s trying to shield himself from something. The tension in his shoulders makes your chest ache, a physical pull, because even here, even now, he is so achingly real and fragile in a way the world never sees.

“It was a big day,” you say softly, letting the words float between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the chaos, the excitement, the fear simmering beneath the surface. "Congrats."

“Thanks.” His throat bobbles with the movement of swallowing. “It was bigger than I ever thought it’d be.”

You wait, holding your breath, expecting him to trail off into something more, something unspoken, but he seems stuck, caught on the edge of a precipice, unable to fully step forward or retreat. His fingers tap against the seam of his jeans with the same restless rhythm he had last night, a silent confession of nerves, of anticipation, of everything he’s been holding back.

You take a careful breath. “Joe, about—”

“I meant it.”

The words tumble out before you can even finish, raw and urgent, scattering across the space between you. You blink, caught off guard, the air suddenly thick and electric.

He lifts his eyes to yours slowly, vulnerably, stripped bare of the calm, untouchable steadiness the world expects from him.

His gaze flickers, searching between your lips and your eyes, back and forth, as if measuring whether it’s truly safe to step closer, whether he’s allowed to want this, to have this.

“I meant it when I kissed you,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, quivering just enough to betray the weight behind the words. “I just… freaked out. And that’s not an excuse, I know, but I didn’t want you to think it didn’t mean anything. Or that you were just some… panic reaction.”

Your heart stutters painfully in response, a rapid, painful flutter that threatens to break through your ribs.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he continues, his voice quieter now, braver, trembling just a touch, like he’s finally letting the truth pour out after holding it in too long. “Longer than I should’ve. And last night, I just— I couldn’t hold it in anymore. And then I panicked, because today was happening and everything is changing and the thought of leaving to Cincinnati without telling you how I felt—” He swallows hard, eyes flicking down for a moment. “It made me sick.”

He shifts his weight, eyes dropping as if trying to shield himself from your reaction. “But if you don’t feel the same, I get it. I just… I had to say it. I couldn’t leave it like that.”

Your heart stops for a fraction of a second. Shock flares hot and sharp — first because he actually likes you, and second, because… because you’ve been hopelessly, endlessly in love with him for as long as you can remember, and somehow, he never realised.

He really thinks you didn’t feel the same way? All this time, all these small stolen glances, all the moments you tried not to look too eager… and he genuinely thought you didn’t like him back?

Your chest aches at the thought, a mix of disbelief, and something sweeter that makes your knees feel like jelly.

For a long, trembling moment, you just stare, absorbing every word, every confession, every tiny crack of vulnerability he’s exposing. And then, almost instinctively, you take a slow, steadying step toward him. Another step, and another, each one shrinking the distance that somehow seemed impossibly wide a second ago, until your hands find the soft fabric of his hoodie.

Your fingers curl around it, gentle but determined, and with a careful tug, you pull him down toward you. He leans in at the same time, almost as if he’s been waiting for this, meeting you halfway before either of you fully realises what’s happening. His hand lifts to your cheek, warm and steady, brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your heart lurch.

His lips find yours, soft and deep, the kind of kiss that’s just long enough to make the world fade, and it takes your breath away in the sweetest, quietest way. You barely pull back, resting your forehead against his, the space between you still humming with unspoken words.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper, voice barely above a sigh, and it makes him lift an eyebrow in surprise.

He lets out a stunned laugh, breath warm against your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A complete idiot.” You nudge your nose against his, teasing gently. “Because I like you too dummy. I have for… God, ages.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, eyes wide, bright, soft, and utterly disbelieving in the sweetest way, like he’s still trying to comprehend that you feel the same.

“Yeah?” he repeats, quieter this time, almost afraid to let it out.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So you don’t get to kiss me and then sprint into the night like Batman, okay? You talk to me.”

His own smile blooms slowly, shy and relieved, softening every sharp edge of tension in him, and it’s so achingly sincere that it makes your chest ache. “Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain. “I can do that.”

You lace your fingers through his, squeezing gently, feeling the steady warmth of his hand in yours, a grounding pulse amidst the chaos of the world outside. In the distance, the sounds of the party float through the open windows — laughter, clinking glasses, someone calling his name — a reminder that the town is celebrating him, that life is moving forward.

But right now, none of it matters.

Right now, he’s looking at you like this — like this tiny, suspended moment is the one he’s been holding his breath for all along.

“Come here,” he whispers, tugging you closer, and you do, leaning into his warmth without hesitation and, under the soft glow of backyard lights, surrounded by the quiet hum of Athens at night, Joe Burrow kisses you again — this time, slow, warm and certain.

thank you for reading! here's more: joe burrow masterlist

[thatgirltries]

I think I imagined u first…

Authors note: a little blurb for u..something i had sitting in drafts.. inspired by this request. if you felt nothing reading this… i envy you a little.

because i definitely didn’t write it that way.

enjoy and let me know ur thoughts loves❤️

Photo credits: Pinterest

Dividers credits: @strangergraphics and @saradika-graphics

Tag list: @mrs-delaney @xoxonobodyhome @willowpains

She doesn’t mean to look, but she does.

It’s quick at first—just a flick of her eyes across the room. The kind you can pretend didn’t happen.

Except it does happen again.

And again.

And every single time, it lands on the same thing.

On Joe. On the girl he’s holding close.

On them.

Her chest tightens in that quiet, awful way, like something is folding in on itself.

Because he’s smiling—smiling—and it’s easy, natural, like it’s always been meant for someone else now. For the girl he’s holding close now.

God.

She swears she felt it before.

All those almost-moments.

The way Joe’s gaze used to linger just a second too long.

The way he’d find excuses to be near her, brushing shoulders, tossing out those nothing-questions just to keep her there a little longer.

The late-night texts that didn’t mean anything… except they did.

Didn’t they? Didn’t he mean it?

Her fingers curl into her sleeves as she looks away, jaw tightening.

“Get fucking over it,” she mutters under her breath, like saying it might make it true.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe she built something out of scraps—out of glances and half-smiles and what-ifs.

Maybe she turned his attention into something more because she wanted it to be more.

Because she needed it to be.

Because she thought—just for a second—that he felt it too. Because maybe she’s that needy and desperate.

But now his hand is on her waist.

The girl everyone called perfect, like it explained everything.

Pulling her closer like it’s instinct, like it’s right. Like it’s always been her place to stand there.

And God, she hates how perfect they look together.

Pretty girl. Easy laugh. No hesitation.

No confusion.

No doubt.

Joe doesn’t look unsure. He doesn’t look like he’s missing anything.

He just looks… happy.

Her throat burns, and she forces out a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking her head like she’s finally seeing clearly.

“Yeah,” she whispers to herself, even as her eyes betray her and drift back one more time. “Guess that answers that.”

Still— It lingers.

That stupid, stubborn thought that won’t let go.

Because what if it wasn’t nothing?

What if those looks meant something?

What if he did feel it… and just chose the girl instead?

Her chest tightens again, sharper this time. Hurting in that awful way.

And she swallows it down, blinking hard, forcing her gaze forward.

Because she’s not going to ask.

She’s not going to give Joe the satisfaction of knowing he ever mattered like that. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

But the question sits there anyway, heavy and aching, refusing to fade—

Was it real…

or was it all just in my head?

He sees her.

That’s the worst part.

Out of everything in the room—the noise, the people, the flashes of cameras, the weight of eyes that never really leave him—he still sees her.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

He stares at her and he knows it.

It’s instinct. It’s always been her.

Just a glance at first.

Quick. Careful.

Like if he looks too long, it’ll give something away he’s spent months trying to bury.

But then she looks.

And it hits him harder than he expects.

Because there it is—that flicker. That same question in her eyes he’s been running from. The same one he never answered.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let it show. He can’t.

Not here. Not now.

Not with his hand resting on someone else’s waist, fingers pressing just enough to sell the picture everyone already believes.

He forces a smile—easy, practiced, the one they all expect from him.

The one that doesn’t crack under pressure, doesn’t falter under lights, doesn’t betray anything real.

Because that’s what this is.

What he became.

What was expected of him.

A picture.

A life that makes sense on paper.

Not… her. Never her.

His gaze flickers back to her before he can stop himself, and it feels like a punch to the chest seeing her look away this time—like she’s finally choosing not to look back.

Good. That’s good.

That’s what he wanted.

Isn’t it?

He swallows hard, something bitter settling in his throat.

She’s too good for this—too real for the way it ends when people like him are involved.

She doesn’t belong in headlines or comment sections or strangers picking her apart like she’s something to consume.

She doesn’t belong in a world where one wrong step turns into a story, where love gets twisted into speculation, where privacy doesn’t exist.

She deserved someone who could choose her out loud, not just in the quiet parts no one ever sees.

And him?

He can’t get her that.

He is that world. Every part of it.

The cameras. The pressure. The expectations. The noise that never, ever shuts off.

One headline. One photo taken at the wrong angle. That’s all it would take.

And that thought—

That’s what made the decision for him.

Even now, it claws at him, sharp and relentless, watching her stand there pretending she’s fine when he knows—knows—she’s not.

Because he’s not either. Not damn even close.

His fingers tighten slightly at the girl’s waist beside him, grounding himself, anchoring himself to the choice he already made.

To the line he refused to cross.

To the thing he let go before it could become something real.

Because if it had— He wouldn’t have walked away.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself.

And that’s exactly why he had to.

His eyes drift back to her one last time, softer now, quieter, something unspoken sitting heavy behind them.

He looks at her like he’s allowed to feel it for half a second.

I never stopped thinking about you.

But he doesn’t say it.

He won’t.

Because loving her would mean pulling her into his world— and he’d rather break his own heart than destroy hers.

His hand stays at the girls waist.

Not because he wants to—because he has to.

He thinks her name anyway.

Like that’s the closest he gets to keeping a part of her.

[bluephoenixgirl]

Joe Burrow

One Shots

Will You Marry Me - Joe Burrow x Reader

Sick Inside - LSU!Joe Burrow x Reader

Return To Death Valley - Joe Burrow x Reporter!Reader

Always On My Mind - Joe Burrow x Ex-Wife!Reader

Intense Moments - Joe Burrow x Nurse!Reader (COMING 4/24)

Series

Finding Yourself (LSU!Joe) ~ (1) (2) (3)

Finding Love (LSU!Joe) Sequel To Finding Yourself ~ (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Take Care ~ (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

(I DO NOT DO TAG LISTS!!!!!)

***PLEASE DO NOT POST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM WITHOUT PERMISSION OR CREDIT!!!!***

[bluephoenixgirl]

Something has come up so I haven’t had the time to type up the story! I promise I will have it posted by next Friday! Sorry for the inconvenience! My writing process is slow since I write it down in a note book and then type it up! Sorry again but I’ve had something come up last minute!

[joeyb1989]

beach day - j. burrow

warnings: pure fluff, petnames, no real plot

a/n: this actually has no plot at all but i am craving a trip to the beach so why not. not my best work either, so if it sucks pls don’t tell me🙂 real fic with actual plot is coming soon i promise

—

The sun was splintering in the only way it could be on the coast in April.

The sunbeams casted a glow onto her skin as she lay down on her pink and white floral beach towel. The waves crashed lightly on the shore every now and then, a subtle sign of how far from home she was. She could hear the innocent giggles that would erupt from children a good distance from her, laughing and playing while they built a sandcastle.

It was peaceful. Steady. She had no worries out here. No obligations. Just her and—

“Baby,” Joe said abruptly, taking her out of her serene trance, “you’re going to burn out here.”

She sat up, studying him as he sat down on his beach towel next to hers. Sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head, she murmured a “hm,” while squinting her eyes at him. She couldn’t stop the small twitch of her mouth even though she was trying desperately to be serious.

“What are you looking at, pervert?” Joe asked, nudging her with her elbow, eliciting a small giggle out of her.

“Seems awfully hypocritical,” she said, adjusting the top of her navy bikini, “don’t you think?”

“Hypocritical?” he inquired, “There is nothing hypocritical about wanting to protect you from skin cancer.”

“You know, your argument would be a lot stronger if you didn’t look like a distant relative of Larry the Lobster.”

Joe glanced down at himself, taking in the flush of his chest and arms. “What? Baby, this is how I get tan.”

She raised one hand to slide her sunglasses back down over her eyes while trying her best to suppress a smile. “Oh really?”

“Let me tell you a fact about life, okay?” Joe stated, taking this a little more seriously than he probably needed to. He turned to face her fully, his hands lifting in a way that signaled that he meant business. “The difference between me and you is simple: you get burnt, I get tan.”

His dramatic tone evoked a laugh out of her, her head tilts back as she plays it over and over in her head. “You’re not serious.” She lays back down, the sun shining down on her. “I get tan too, thank you very much.”

“Not how I get tan,” Joe responded, leaning over her body to take in the sweet pink of her lips, her baby hairs curling at her hairline from the salty ocean, the way she looked so ethereal.

The shade casted from his body blocking the rays of the sun was immediate. “Joseph,” she warned, “you’re blocking my light.”

“Says who?”

She rolled her eyes at him, but she was met in response by an open-mouth kiss to her jaw and neck, but he ended it with a sweet peck to her cheek. “If you’re going to be annoying, at least lay down.”

He automatically started adjusting to fit comfortably in her arms. “You love it when I kiss you.”

She smiles happily, “I do.”

He relaxed against her, and she could feel him let out a deep breath, as if he had been holding it all day. Her fingers tangled with the hair at his nape, twisting, tugging, and pulling at the soft blonde strands. “Comfy?” she asked.

He nodded from where his cheek rested against the skin of her chest. “Yeah.” Their eyes met and she took in the look on his face—the look he only gives her. “I am.”

She continued to play with his hair while her eyes closed in bliss. The ocean, the air, her man—it was all she needed.

“Hey,” Joe began, accenting his words with a kiss to her collarbone. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, “I love you too.”

His head fell back to her chest, his thumb rubbing against her side. There was this quiet presence in the air. It wasn’t loud, or left hanging, just something peaceful. An agreement between them that they wanted this to last forever; with each other.

—

[zegraz]

i've been thinking 'bout tomorrow, instead of drowning in the past

summary: it’s january 2022. you went out for a night of dancing and drinks, but seeing joe again turns your evening upside down. old memories, unspoken words, and the air between you make it clear; some connections don’t fade with time.

pairing: ex! joe burrow x fem! reader

warnings: alcohol, mild cursing

word count: 4,1k

author's note: hey everyone :) first fic, kinda nervous. i've had this in mind for a while so it feels good that i finally have it done. the title and feel of this fic comes from the song still - seinabo sey. listen to it, it's a great song. with that said, i hope you enjoy!

You lost your friends somewhere between the bar and the dance floor twenty minutes ago. The place is buzzing — loud, sweaty, electric. Both the Buckeyes and the Bengals won this weekend, and tomorrow’s a national holiday. That means everyone’s out. Raised voices fight the music, animated laughter mixing with the clink of bottles and glasses. You had put on your blue denim shorts, an old band t-shirt, and black knee high boots when you got the text from Alexa. Dancing with your friends, drinks in your hands, after all the stress of the week felt like the perfect way to end it, you decided. A good way to reset for the next.

You turn around from the bar, a new vodka cranberry in your hand. You’re already a little tipsy, leaning against the bartop as you fight to make out faces in the crowd in front of you. Your eyes weave through people, scanning faces, trying to spot someone familiar when your gaze catches – and sticks. 

Blue. Not just blue. That blue.

Your breath hitches as you take him in. He looks familiar, but somehow more settled, more like himself than you remember. He’s broader. Fuller. Older. His hair hides under a snapback and on his black t-shirt, a print impossible to make out from here. He leans against the table behind him, casually holding a glass of clear liquid in his left hand. Just the sight of him sobers you up. 

Of course you have heard of Joe Burrow after that day in May years ago. It took a while, but after a little more than a year, he was on everyone’s lips again. You never watched any of his games at LSU but you’d have to live under a rock to miss how he totally dominated college football and left his own mark on history. The Bengals drafting him flooded your timeline on twitter for days. You know he was back in state, it’s hard to miss when his face is on billboards all around town. What you never knew, what you never thought at least, was that you’d run into him again. 

You blink again, and there he still is. He’s laughing at something his friend said into his ear, swiping a hand over his mouth before his eyes start traveling around the room. You hold your breath as his gaze creeps closer to you… and there it is. The blue looking back at you. You see how his smile washes away off his face as something flashes in his eyes. Recognition.

You spin around, facing the bar again, your grip tightening around the glass as your breathing picks up. You pull out your phone to text Alexa, fingers slightly unsteady. Even though, or maybe because, the alcohol in your system, you’re hyperaware of him now. His presence replaces the vibrant energy that once filled the room.

Despite you not looking at him, you feel him nearing. You close your eyes like you’re bracing yourself. Relief almost escapes you when you hear your name, breaking the tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your name is said with his voice; his steady, grounding voice. The type of voice that doesn’t need to be raised to cut through the music. 

”Y/N.”

You take a deep breath before turning around. You put on a small smile as you take him in. He looked the same but sharper, more defined. The eyes and the small grin his lips sported? They were the exact same.

”Hi Joe,” you say. His name feels unfamiliar but easy to form, like when you take your first stroke of the year in the water. 

”I wasn’t sure it was you,” he continues. His eyes dart over your face before settling back on yours. 

You look away for a brief moment before returning to him, a sheepish look on your face now. You shrug. ”Well, it’s me. In the flesh.” 

His eyes drop down to your lips as you speak, and when you are done, the grin grows on his lips. ”Well, it’s nice to see you again.”

”Likewise.” Your eyes dart down to his t-shirt and reminding you why there’s so many orange jerseys out tonight. ”Oh, uhm, congrats on t-”

”I can’t hear shit in here,” Joe cuts in, leaning closer so he can hear you over the bass. ”Wanna talk outside?”

You blink as your brain processes his words before nodding shortly. It was loud in here. ”Yeah, sure,” you say to his ear.

He smiles before turning towards the door and weaving through bodies to get to his destination. You follow closely, slipping through the crowd on the path he clears for you. You catch Alexa’s gaze for the first time in 30 minutes and mouth ’one minute’ as you pass. She gives you a raised brow before her eyes slide over to Joe’s turned back, earning you a sly grin from your best friend. You look away, not trying to entertain anything that goes through her mind. 

As you step out into the night, your lungs welcome the crisp Ohio air, feeling the relief wash over you. The music and ambivalence from the club falls to the background as Joe walks down the street. You follow suit, your ears appreciating the rest.  

Your arms wrap around you tightly as Joe comes to a stop and turns around. It’s only you and Joe, the dimmed bass from the club and distant city noise. His eyes sweep over you, one eyebrow slightly lifted. “You were saying?”

You give him a lopsided smile. “Congratulations,” you say, your eyes flickering down to his shirt with a big 'AFC CHAMPIONS' on it.

He looks down at it, lets out a huff before he looks back up with a grin. “Thank you.” You hear the pride in his voice. Not bragging, just satisfaction. 

The breeze ruffles your hair, and you sacrifice a hand to brush it back into place before quickly rubbing it up and down your arm. He notices. You catch the way his gaze lingers on the way you hug yourself. “Cold?” 

You give him a short nod. “Yup. A little.” Your jacket is hanging somewhere in the coat check and Alexa’s taking care of the ticket, since you had an unfortunate habit of losing it. 

Joe gestures to a car parked across the street. “I’ll turn on the heat for you.” There’s no pressure in his voice as he says it. 

You glance in the direction he tilts his head and then back at him. There’s a pause before you finally answer. ”Okay.”  

He gets to the door first and opens it for you. You give him a smile in appreciation and slip past him onto the seat. The car’s cold and quiet. 

He closes your door and rounds the front of the car swiftly before getting in himself. He turns on the car and starts pressing buttons on a big touch screen that sits in the middle of the dashboard. Your phone vibrates in your hand and when you glance at it, it’s Alexa asking if you’re okay. You send her a quick text back, reassuring her you’re safe before putting it down. The seat is noticeably warmer now and there’s heat softly blowing at your feet. 

“Better?” 

“Much,” you reply contently, letting the warmth seep in as you let your hands rest on your lap. He leans back against his seat, his presence grounding somehow. You glance around the interior, the touch screen and sleek design, the yellow and red logo on the steering wheel. “In the big leagues now, huh?” You comment with an impressed expression as you take it in. 

His gaze swipes over the dashboard and let out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, they pay pretty good.”

You hum in acknowledgment and glance out through the windshield. People scramble out of the club – stumbling to catch an Uber, lighting a cigarette, chatting on the sidewalk. 

“So…” Joe breaks the silence, quietly tapping the wheel inattentively. “How’s life treating you?” His tone’s even, steady. You look to your left and are met with his side profile before he slowly turns to meet your gaze. 

You exhale, shrugging. “Good. Got a job and a place in OTR… No Porsche yet but I’m working on that.” You smile at the last part. So does he. “What about you?”

“Good. It’s my second year, so I’ve… somewhat adapted. It’s fun, you know, playing football and being back in Ohio. Nice being close to home.” You nod. “So, what do you do?”

You let your tongue slide over your mouth. “Uhm I’m a child caseworker. So I help kids, families, support foster parents and such mostly,” you explain. 

You see Joe acknowledge it with a small tilt of his head from the corner of your eye. “Do you like it?”

It’s your turn to nod. “Yeah, mostly. I love the feeling I get when I help people… I think that’s what life really is about, helping the people around you… It’s really rewarding.” You say, turning to look at him. He looks back at you, a small smile on his face as he hums along, urging you on. “But it also breaks your heart. The system’s broken and you can’t help everybody in the way… you’d want to. You have these kids that have no choice but to put their faith in the hands of us… and it’s not always we can pull through, no matter how much we fight for it.”

He’s quiet for a beat too long, his eyes locked on you. “How do you…cope with those cases?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you think, your fingers absently playing with the strap of your purse. “In the beginning it was hard. I went home crying a lot, just so fucking devastated… but at some point I realized that I did the best I could and that the blame isn’t on me,” you say with a heavy sigh. ”And I have a great boss and coworkers, and the agency I work for is probably the best in the state… It’s all great support to fall back on when things… don’t go as planned. So that helps a lot.”

His expression softens as you speak. He exhales as he searches for words. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I don’t think you’re failing anyone. Sounds like you’re fighting uphill most days, and the fact that you still show up to work… says enough.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. A small piece of leather from your bag falls on your bare legs. “Yeah… I guess showing up counts for something.”

”It does,” he says, determined, without missing a beat. 

The air between you and Joe shifts as silence drags on. It sits heavy over the two of you and you instantly regret ruining the easy-going energy that filled the car moments ago. 

You lean back against the car and take a deep breath. It’s been a while since you sat quietly beside Joe and just let your presence do the job. Several years ago, you never thought you would ever do this again. That you could ever do this again.

“Y/N…” he starts, and his voice is now heavy, still steady, but now filled with weight. And you know what is about to be brought up. His eyes are set on something outside of the car, staring straight ahead through the windshield as his fingers pick on the skin around his nails. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head once. 

He turns his face to the side slowly, meeting your eyes. “I’ve thought about this moment a lot,” he says quietly. “About what I’d say if I ever saw you again.”

The words hang between you, the AC’s soft hum filling the silence. Your chest tightens just a little but you don’t answer. You stay silent, giving him space. 

“And… I guess there’s two things I really wanna say,” he continues, his voice low. “That… I don’t want you to think I meant to hurt you and… I’m so sorry.”

You inhale slowly through your nose. After a beat of silence, you finally spoke. “I know.” You glance down at your hands for a moment before looking up again. “That you wouldn’t mean to hurt me.”

His eyes move over your face, analyzing, trying to see if you really mean what you say. “How? I was a dick in that car.”

Despite the tension and topic at hand, a small, innocent smile finds its way onto your lips. “You were,” you say honestly, not accusing. As if stating a fact. “That day.” You notice the way his jaw tightens at that. You glance out the windshield for a moment, watching a group of people laugh their way down the sidewalk.

You let air out through your mouth as you try to find the right words. “And even though it took some time to remember that… I know you.” You pause, looking back at him. “Or at least, I knew Joe back then… and you didn’t do anything halfway. And you wouldn’t walk away unless you thought it was the only option.”  

He remains silent. The eye contact is charged with emotions that have been brewing inside you for years. “It took a lot to get to that conclusion, trust me. You didn’t really give me a lot to work with… but I know you wouldn’t want me to get hurt. You wouldn't want that for anyone.” 

Joe’s eyes drop to his hands. His mouth opens but not a sound comes out of it. He closes it and lifts his head back up again. You stay looking at each other for an extended moment before he finally speaks. 

“That junior year at OSU…” He breathes, lets out a quiet humorless breath through his nose. “It messed me up more than I ever admitted. I broke my hand in practice. And when I came back, I wasn’t… anything. A fucking third string quarterback.”

You see how his jaw tightens, how his fingers curl against the wheel. “I had no path and no idea how to fix that. Just a lot of people looking at me like they’d already decided how my story ended… And I started believing them.” The silence stretch between you as he swallows. The air around you feels thick, heavy. “Every day I woke up feeling like I was… borrowing time, somehow. Like I was one bad practice away from being exposed. All the belief… and confidence I had in myself was gone. My sense of self was gone. Because I felt like I was football, and if I weren’t good at that… then who was I…”

Joe inhales sharply through his nose. “And you were… so good, so… steady. Your belief in me never wavered. Even when everybody else’s did, even when mine did.” He exhales. “That scared the hell out of me. I was scared you saw something in me that wasn’t even there. And… fuck, I didn’t want to bring you down with me, to disappoint you – punish you for being so…”

Joe doesn't find the word but you understand. You can’t handle the tension his gaze holds so you look away. 

Joe doesn't find the word but you understand. You can’t handle the tension his gaze holds so you look away. 

“When Coach O and LSU came into the picture… I knew it was a leap of faith. My last chance. But I couldn't– I didn’t want you to be dragged down with me, to have invested so much only for it to not work out. And long distance felt…  cruel and selfish. I thought about it for so long, I somehow-” He stops while his brain works to find the right words. “All of a sudden it was time to leave and you didn’t know.” He shakes his head once. “I told myself it was probably for the best anyway, to just cut things cleanly – leave with as little noise as possible…”

You watch how his thumb rubs over his other hand roughly, like he’s trying to soothe an aching spot. “But I realized… it wasn’t. And it became clearer and clearer by every day that passed. That I fucked up. And I wanted to reach out and tell you how much I had fucked up, but after what I did? What right did I have to disturb you?” he says, his voice filled with remorse. “I know you’ve moved on… and that you don’t need any of this but I needed to get this off my chest and tell you… like the selfish bastard I can be.”

He takes a moment before continuing. His eyes find yours again and Joe hasn’t looked at you like this all night. Not really. “I shut you out of your own relationship. I didn’t even give you a chance to understand what was going on and decided for you… and for that I stress how sorry I am, Y/N.”

It takes you a while to form an answer. Not because you don’t know how to feel about it or what to say, but because you don’t know what to do with them. Ultimately, you redirect his words to 22 year old Y/N, the one who actually needed to hear those syllables leave his mouth.“You’re right, I don’t need your apology,” you say gently. “But I hear you. And I appreciate your honesty.”

Joe’s head falls back against the headrest. His eyes close, a slow breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in for years. You watch him. How his shoulders relax, how the tension leaves his jaw and the way his fingers grip on the wheel loosens.

The car stays silent. None of you say a word for a long time. You watch as the outside world continues on. You see how people open their mouths, how they jump around the sidewalk, but none of their sounds make it inside the car. It feels like someone, or something, is shielding you from everything else — creating this moment for only you and Joe. So you embrace it for a few moments longer. 

You let out a soft chuckle, finally interrupting the quiet. “Your teammates must be wondering where you took off.”

Joe slowly opens his eyes, like he’s returning from wherever his mind went to. “Nah, they’re too caught up in celebrating to notice I’m not there.” 

You shake your head, turning in your seat so you can face him better. “No, you guys won the whole conference and you lead them there. They’ll notice that their QB is missing! Go out there and party! You’ve deserved it!” Your hand moves animatedly as you speak while the other keeps your purse secure against your lap. 

A smile spreads onto his lips. “The job’s not done yet, though,” he says. His smile turns into a cocky grin. “I’ll party for real when I win my ring.”

You can’t help but to laugh at his confidence, and with the way he speaks so surely. You can’t help but to believe that he will win it all. You can’t help but to wish he pulls through either. That he wins the one game he has talked about for as long as you can remember.

With your smile still lingering, you fish up your phone and open your and Jazmine’s text conversation. Your fingers quickly type out a text before looking up at Joe again. “I think I’m heading home,” you said. It’s been a long evening and then a long night, and the conversation that just happened made your head feel ever so slightly scrambled. 

He looks at the clock and then at you. “Already?” he asks. 

You shrug, glance at the clock displayed on the big screen on his dashboard. 1:22AM. “Well, nothing good happens after 2AM… so I’m just making sure I make it home before that. And I am pretty tired anyway.”

Joe lets out a chuckle at that, his eyes glimmering at the reference. “Alright,” he simply says, the small smile still on his lips. “I’ll drive you. Do you have everything with you?” He already moves his hands to turn on the car, a low hum from the engine filling the air. 

It takes a while for you to process his words. “Oh, no, I’ll just walk. Or get an Uber. You have to-”

“Walk? I can’t have you walking home at half two in the morning,” he says as he wheels out of the parking spot, the engine working underneath you as the car moves down the street. He puts on his seatbelt as he keeps his hand on the wheel. You exhale as you accept that you’re being driven home by Joe. ”Do you have everything? Where’s your jacket?”

“Alexa takes care of it.” You put on your seatbelt. 

Joe accepts it without question. ”OTR, you said?” You nod back. 

He comes to a stop at a red light and reaches over to the display again. A few seconds later, just as the light turns green and Joe hits the pedal, Up Up & Away starts seeping through the speakers in the car. Your lips stretches into a smile as you hear the familiar tones, absentmindedly mouthing the same words Kid Cudi says over the beat. You see how Joe glances at you through your peripheral and sees the smile before he turns back to the road. 

The nostalgia hits you immediately. Brings you back when Joe would drive around with you beside him in the passenger seat all those years ago. You would lightly bop your head to whatever song came on on your shared playlist and think about what life really is. It’s a different car he’s driving, and different Joe and you, but the feeling’s just the same. And you know he feels it too. 

You give him short directions over the music. The car ride’s short, you only get through two songs before Joe pulls up outside the entrance to your apartment complex. He pauses the music, pressing a button on his wheel. You unbuckle your seatbelt. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. Just like you had done so many times before. 

“Of course,” he gently says. Just like he had done so many times before. 

You open the door, the chilly Ohio air hits your right side first, goosebumps immediately prickling your skin. You turn back to him, a small smile on your lips. “Win that Super Bowl.”

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, just looks at you. Then, carefully. “Do you still have the same number?”

You blink, not expecting that question at all. It takes you a moment to nod. Joe then offers you a smile; a small, careful one. 

“Okay, good. I’ll text you. After I win the Super Bowl,” he says, a self-assured smile plastered on his face. 

You give him another nod, your smile smaller now but still there. “Bye, Joe.” You climb out of the seat and turn to shut the door close. 

“Bye.” The door disturbs the quiet night as it shuts close. There’s some distanced laughter, cars passing by as you walk up to the entrance. Your grip on your purse tightens as the cold surrounds you. 

You turn and push in the code to open the entrance. When you look back, Joe’s Porsche hasn’t moved an inch. It’s a habit you remember always appreciating, he always made sure you’d get in safely before even thinking of driving off. You pressed the button to the elevator and waited, tiredness creeping closer. When you arrive at the third floor, your phone buzzes against your hand and you look down to see why. 

It was a text from an unknown number.  

“This job... you try to save as many people as you can. Sometimes that doesn't mean everybody. But if we can't find a way to live with that... then maybe nobody gets saved.” - Captain America.

You smiled down at the screen as you stood outside of your door and read it. You remember how you and Joe went to watch it in the theaters after the two of you had done a month-long MCU binge together. Joe drove you there, ecstatic after the news of Spider-Man finally joining the cinematic universe. You thought it was so adorable, his excitement. He looked like a little kid. It was a break from another year of not playing football, constant competition and disappointment. 

You read the quote again and it lands differently. Not as a movie line – but as a reply.

Your smile widens as you write back.

Nerd. 

author's note: if you liked it, lemme know because this is nerve wrecking, lol. thanks to my irl Alex (@suprbrat) for being helpful and patient always, i <3 you.

[thatgirltries]

waking up with a secret

Authors note: okay but… this one??? 🥹 came from my wip list

this was supposed to be a soft lil post-surgery moment and instead it turned into anesthesia joe exposing their entire life like it’s a press conference 😭

like sir—ONE job. one. job.and yet he really said:

✔️ dinosaurs are important

✔️ my hand better not be a robot

✔️ btw my girl is having my baby

no thoughts. just vibes and zero filter.

but also… there’s something so painfully soft about it??

because even completely out of it, he’s worried about her, he’s proud, he’s careful in his own chaotic way 🥺

and the reveal not being perfect, not planned, just… messy and real?

lowkey makes it even more them.

anyway—

this is your reminder that anesthesia joe is a MENACE

but also the softest future dad ever 💔

(i’m not responsible for the emotional damage. thank you)

also I’m not gonna stop writing for Joe, as my inspiration. also this is my and yours safe place, don’t ruin it for ourselves❤️

Photo credits: Pinterest

Dividers credits: @cursed-carmine and @saradika-graphics

Tag list: @mrs-delaney @xoxonobodyhome @willowpains

The first thing Joe registers is motion.

Not fast—no, it’s slow. Floating, almost. Like he’s drifting on water, except there’s a faint rattling underneath him. Wheels. Yeah. Wheels.

His eyelids feel heavy. Like glued shut.

“…m’awake,” he mumbles anyway, voice rough and barely there.

A soft chuckle comes from somewhere to his left.

“Not quite yet,” a nurse says gently. “You’re on your way back to recovery.”

Joe frowns, or at least tries to. His face doesn’t fully cooperate.

Recovery.

Right.

Football. No—wait. Hand.

“My hand,” he blurts suddenly, a little louder this time, trying to lift it. It barely moves before he gives up halfway, blinking slowly. “I need that. I throw with that. That’s like—important.”

The nurse smiles, clearly used to this.

“I’m aware, Joe. It’s all taken care of. Surgery went well.”

Joe processes that for approximately two seconds.

Then— “Okay but like… not too taken care of, right?” he adds, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Like you didn’t… replace it with a robot hand?”

A pause.

“…No.” And a laugh.

“Okay good,” he nods weakly, deeply relieved. “’Cause I feel like that would mess with my spiral.”

He’s quiet for a whole three seconds.

Then— “Do you like dinosaurs?”

The nurse blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Dinosaurs,” Joe repeats, more insistent now despite the slur in his words. His head rolls slightly toward her. “Like—okay, listen. Important question. If a T-Rex had, like, longer arms… do you think it would’ve been better at football?”

The nurse lets out a small laugh she tries to hide.

“I’ve never really thought about that.”

Joe exhales, like this is deeply disappointing.

“You should. It matters.”

They turn a corner. The lights above him shift, bright, then dim, then bright again, making his eyes squint.

His thoughts don’t quite line up—but one thing suddenly clicks.

His girl.

“Oh—wait,” he says abruptly, trying to push himself up just a little before giving up again. “My—my girl. Is she here?”

“You mean your fianceé? She’s in the waiting area,” the nurse assures him. “You’ll see her soon.”

Joe relaxes instantly, head sinking back.

“Good,” he murmurs.

A beat.

Then, softer—but somehow louder at the same time— “Can’t stress her out.”

The nurse glances at him.

Joe doesn’t notice. He’s staring up at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“She’s—” he starts, then stops, blinking slowly like his brain is buffering. “She’s already got… stuff.”

A pause.

And then—like the thought just slips out before anything can stop it—

“She’s having my baby, important stuff, you know.”

Silence.

The wheels keep rolling.

The nurse’s hands tighten just slightly on the bed rail as she glances down at him. Oh he’s out of it.

Joe, completely unaware, nods to himself.

“Yeah,” he adds, softer now, almost proud. “We’re not supposed to tell people yet.”

Another pause. “…but I think you seem trustworthy.”

As they reach the end of the hallway, the elevator dings softly as they roll inside.

The nurse reaches over, pressing the button with practiced ease, then glances back at him.

Joe is still staring upward, eyes half-lidded, like he’s trying to solve something deeply philosophical.

“…y’know,” he mumbles after a second, voice slower now, words sticking together. “I think veloceraptors would be… better receivers.”

The nurse hums, playing along. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he nods faintly. “Fast. Smart. Little guys. Good routes.”

A pause.

“…bad attitude though.”

She bites back a laugh.

“Joe,” she says lightly after a moment, adjusting the blanket over him, “you’re quite the talker. I didn’t expect that.”

He turns his head just slightly toward her, like that took immense effort.

“Mm.”

Another pause.

His brows knit together faintly, like he’s trying to respond—and then he just… stops.

Mid-thought. Mid-breath.

Gone.

Out.

The nurse blinks, watching it happen in real time.

“…and there he goes,” she murmurs to herself, a small amused shake of her head.

The rest of the ride is quiet, just the soft hum of the elevator and the faint rattle of the bed.

When the doors open again, the hallway is calmer. Quieter.

And Joe’s fianceé is already there.

Pacing a little, arms wrapped around herself, eyes snapping up the second she hears the wheels.

“Oh—”

Her voice catches immediately as she steps forward, all the tension in her shoulders dropping and tightening at the same time.

He’s asleep. Fully out.

Hair a mess, lips slightly parted, and his hand—wrapped, secured, real. After surgery Joe.

“Oh, boo…” she breathes, stepping right up beside him, her fingers hovering for a second before gently brushing his arm, careful of everything.

Her eyes flick up to the nurse, searching.

“He’s been good?”

The nurse smiles reassuringly, slowing the bed to a stop.

“He’s okay. Surgery went very well.”

A small pause.

Then, a hint of amusement slips into her tone—

“Very alert, too.”

Joe’s girl blinks. “…he is?”

“Oh, yes,” the nurse nods. “Very talkative.”

That earns a look.

“…oh no.”

The nurse laughs softly.

“We discussed dinosaurs,” she continues, adjusting the bed slightly. “And he was briefly concerned we replaced his hand with a robot one. Said it might affect his spiral.”

There’s a beat— and then Joe’s girl breaks.

A breathy laugh slips out of her before she can stop it, hand coming up to cover her mouth as she looks down at him, fond and helpless all at once.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, shaking her head a little. “That’s… that’s him.”

Her nerd. Her idiot.

The nurse hesitates just slightly, then adds, almost casually—

“He also mentioned not wanting to stress you out.”

That softens her instantly.

Her fingers slide a little more securely around his arm now, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his gown.

“…he does all the time, though” she whispers.

A tiny pause.

The nurse watches her for a second… then—

“And,” she adds carefully, “that you’re having his baby.”

Silence.

Immediate.

Heavy.

Her hand freezes. The silence lingers just a second too long.

“…he what?”

The nurse doesn’t panic—doesn’t even really look surprised. She just gently starts moving the bed again, guiding it down the hallway like nothing monumental was just dropped between them.

“He was very sweet about it,” she says calmly, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Very proud.”

Joe’s girl just… stands there for half a second, completely frozen—then immediately falls into step beside them.

“Oh my god,” she mutters under her breath, hand dragging down her face. “Oh my god…”

Her eyes flick to Joe.

Still out. Peaceful. Completely unaware of the damage he’s done.

The nurse glances at her briefly, then adds, a little quieter—

“I’m not going to say anything. That’s not my place.”

That helps. A little.

But not enough.

“But…” the nurse continues, carefully steering the bed around a corner, “you might want to be prepared.”

Joe’s girl exhales sharply. “Prepared for what?”

A look. “…he may continue.”

Yeah.

Yeah, that tracks.

She lets out a soft, disbelieving huff of air, shaking her head as she walks beside him, one hand now resting lightly against his arm like she needs to ground herself.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, he will.”

Because she knows this. She’s seen this.

More than once.

Anesthesia Joe is—

She glances down at him again, softer now despite everything.

—honest.

Painfully. Endearingly. Disastrously honest.

When they reach his room, everything slows.

The nurse maneuvers the bed into place, locking the wheels with quiet clicks.

She moves efficiently—checking monitors, adjusting his IV, making sure everything is exactly where it needs to be.

Joe doesn’t stir. Still out cold.

“Vitals look good,” the nurse says, almost to herself, then looks up at her with a small, reassuring smile. “He should wake up soon.”

Joe’s girl nods, a little distracted. “Yeah… okay. Thank you.”

The nurse hesitates just a second—then gives her a softer look.

“He really was very cute about it.”

That earns a weak, pained smile.

“…that’s the problem,” she mutters.

The nurse lets out a quiet laugh, clearly understanding more than she says. “I’ll give you two some time.”

And with that, she steps back, one last quick check of the IV—and then she’s gone.

The room falls quiet.

Just the steady beep of the monitor.

The soft hum of hospital air.

And him.

She stands there for a moment, just looking at him.

Then slowly, she pulls a chair closer and sits down beside the bed.

Her hand finds his almost immediately—careful of the bandages, gentle as she threads her fingers around his wrist.

Warm. Still him.

She exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.

“…you’re unbelievable, Joey,” she murmurs, more fond than annoyed, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.

No response.

She leans back slightly in the chair, still holding his hand, her other arm crossing over her middle without even thinking about it.

Protective. Instinctive.

Her gaze flicks toward the door.

Then back to him.

Anxiety curls low in her chest.

Because this? This is exactly how it always goes.

Joe—her quiet, controlled, secret-keeping Joe—…stops being that guy the second anesthesia hits.

And she’s been here before.

The rambling. The oversharing. The zero filter.

She presses her lips together, squeezing his hand just a little.

“…you better not,” she whispers, half-warning, half-pleading.

Her eyes soften again, watching his face.

“…or at least let me get ahead of it first.”

Her thumb traces a slow line over his knuckles.

Because it’s not a question of if he wakes up talking.

It’s when. And what he says first.

It doesn’t take long. Just a few minutes.

A shift. A faint twitch of his fingers in her hand.

She feels it immediately.

Her head snaps up, body going still as she leans forward just slightly, eyes locked on his face.

“…Joey?” she says softly.

His brows knit.

A small, pained breath leaves him as he shifts, his head turning just a fraction against the pillow. “Mm—”

His eyelids flutter, slow, heavy— and then open.

Unfocused at first, also very confused.

Like he’s trying to piece together where he is, what’s happening, why everything feels… off.

“…hey,” she murmurs gently, leaning in a little more, her thumb brushing over his wrist again. “Hey, it’s okay.”

His gaze drifts. Finds her and settles.

The confusion eases almost instantly.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice rough, scratchy.

A beat.

Then—soft, a little dopey—

“…hi.”

She exhales, a small relieved smile slipping through despite everything.

“Hi, baby.”

His face shifts, just slightly, like he’s becoming more aware of his body— and then it hits.

His hand.

He winces, a quiet groan slipping out as his fingers twitch instinctively.

“Mm—shit,” he mumbles, blinking a little harder now. “That—fuck. Okay. That hurts.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, immediately soothing, her grip tightening just a little. “That’s normal. You just had surgery, remember?”

He breathes out slowly, trying to nod.

“Right. Right, yeah.”

A pause.

His eyes flick down—slow, delayed—toward where she’s holding his arm.

Then back up to her face. And something softens.

His lips tug into the smallest, most crooked smile.

“…you’re cute.”

She freezes for half a second.

“…what? Cute?”

“You are,” he insists, voice still slurred, eyes a little glassy but locked on her like she’s the only thing in the room. “Were you scared?”

That sends shiver straight through her.

Her expression falters just slightly, something real slipping in under the nerves.

“…a little,” she admits quietly.

Joe hums, like that makes sense.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Don’t be.”

A beat.

Then, without a single thought— “My baby mama’s tough.”

Her eyes widen. Immediate.

“Joey—”

Too late. He’s already nodding to himself, proud of that statement.

“Yeah,” he adds, softer, like it’s obvious. “You got my kid. Like—”

“Joe.” Her voice sharpens just a little—not harsh, but urgent.

His eyes blink back to her, again confused.

She leans in closer, lowering her voice, squeezing his hand gently.

“Hey,” she says, softer now. “What did we say, hmm?”

A pause.

His brows furrow, like he’s trying to grab the thought.

“…uhmm.”

She watches him, holding her breath.

“No telling, remember? It’s fragile.” she prompts quietly.

Another pause.

And then—

“Oh.” It clicks. A little. He nods.

“Yeah,” he says, all serious now. “Yeah, I’m not telling. We talked about that.”

Relief flickers across her face— small, fragile—

“Good,” she whispers.

He leans his head slightly toward her, like he’s sharing a secret.

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

She exhales through her nose.

“…I know you think that—”

Knock knock. Both of them freeze.

Her head snaps toward the door.

Joe, a second slower, follows with his eyes.

The handle moves.

And before she can say a single word— the door opens.

“Hey—” His mom steps in first, warm but concerned, his dad right behind her.

They both take in the scene quickly—Joe awake, her sitting close, holding his hand.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his mom breathes, immediately moving closer. “There you are. How are you feeling?”

Joe blinks at them.

Processes.

“…hi,” he says.

His girl tightens her grip on his hand. Just slightly. A please don’t.

Joe looks at her.

Then back at them.

Then— smiles, soft and dazed.

“I’m good, mums,” he says.

A beat.

“…my hand’s not a robot.”

Silence.

His dad blinks. Oh yeah he’s loopy.

“…that’s—good, son.”

She presses her lips together, trying so hard not to laugh.

Joe nods, satisfied.

“Yeah. I’m glad.”

A pause. Then—

“And I didn’t tell.”

Her heart drops. Immediately.

“…tell what, baby?” Robin asks gently.

Joe’s girl grip tightens.

“Nothing,” she cuts in quickly, just a little too fast. “He’s still coming off anesthesia, he’s just—”

“About my baby,” Joe adds softly.

She closes her eyes. Oh no.

Joe turns his head slightly, looking between them, completely sincere.

“…we’re having a baby.”

Silence doesn’t just fall—it drops.

Heavy. Full. Unavoidable.

Joe’s girl doesn’t even breathe.

Robin’s eyes flick immediately to her.

Wide and shiny.

Already filling with tears.

“…what?” Jim says, slower, like the word doesn’t fully land at first. His brows pull together, looking between them. “Is he lying? He’s joking right..”

Joe, still flat on his back, frowns slightly like that’s a weird reaction.

“I’m not lying,” he adds, a little more insistent now, voice still soft but serious. “I wouldn’t. That’s—”

“Joe,” his girl hisses under her breath, squeezing his hand.

Too late. Way too late.

Robin takes a step closer.

Then another. Her gaze never leaves her.

“…is he being serious?” she asks, voice already breaking.

There’s no judgment in it.

Just… hope.

And that makes it worse.

Joe’s girl lets out a shaky breath, one hand coming up to her forehead like she can physically hold this moment together.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

Jim is still staring at Joe like he’s trying to calculate reality.

“Son,” he says carefully, “you are out of—”

“I know what I said,” Joe cuts in, a little pout forming, offended now. “I’m not stupid.”

A beat.

Then, softer— “…I’m gonna be a dad.”

That does it. Robin fully sobs, it’s small—but it breaks right out of her.

Her hand flies to her mouth, tears spilling over instantly as she looks back at her.

And Joe’s girl— She can’t dodge it anymore.

There’s no saving this. No redirecting.

No undo.

She swallows hard, eyes flicking between them, overwhelmed, exposed—

“…he’s not supposed to—” she starts, voice tight, breath shaky. “We—we didn’t—we weren’t ready to tell yet, it’s just—”

Her voice cracks.

And that’s answer enough. Robin doesn’t even wait.

She closes the distance in two quick steps and just pulls her in.

Arms wrapping around her tight, immediate, emotional.

“Oh my god,” Robin cries into her shoulder, already fully gone, tears falling freely now. “Oh my god, sweetheart—”

Joe’s girl freezes for half a second—and then melts.

Her arms come up automatically, holding onto her just as tightly, eyes squeezing shut.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, half-laugh, half-panic. “This is not—this is not how we planned this—”

“I don’t care,” Robin chokes out, pulling back just enough to cup her face, looking at her like she’s something precious. “I don’t care, oh my god—”

She lets out a wet, broken laugh. “You’re having a baby.”

Jim exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, still processing—but there’s something softer there now, something settling.

“…Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “And he just announces it high as he can get..”

Then he looks at Joe again.

“Joseph…you’re serious.”

Joe nods, slow but firm.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I don’t lie.”

Robin pulls, tighter this time, fully crying now—no holding back. Ugly, emotional, overwhelmed tears.

“We’re gonna be grandparents,” she says through it, voice breaking completely.

Joe’s girl lets out a shaky laugh into her shoulder, still stunned, still reeling.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Not how you should found out. He’s crazy high.”

Behind them, Joe shifts slightly, watching them with heavy-lidded eyes.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

“…see,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Everybody’s happy.”

Her head snaps toward him.

“Oh my god, you—”

But there’s no heat in it. Just disbelief.

Because despite everything—the chaos, the timing, the absolute disaster of how it came out— he was just still her Joey.

Joe’s eyes start to drift again.

Like the energy it took to say all that just…used him up.

His head sinks deeper into the pillow, lashes lowering as his grip on her hand loosens just slightly.

“…mm,” he hums, barely there now.

And then— he’s out again. Just like that.

Robin sniffles, quickly wiping under her eyes, trying to pull herself together.

She keeps one hand on Joe’s girl’s arm, like she doesn’t quite want to let go yet.

“…how are you, honey?” she asks softly, voice gentler now. Careful. “Really.”

Joe’s girl exhales, a small, overwhelmed laugh slipping out.

“I’m good,” she nods. “I mean—yeah. Just… tired a lot. I nap like I’m competing in it.”

Robin nods immediately, like that makes perfect sense.

“Mornings?” she asks.

A small smile.

“Starting to be…the worst.”

Jim huffs quietly, something like a smile tugging at his mouth as he leans against the foot of the bed, arms crossing loosely.

“Sounds about right,” he mutters.

Robin squeezes her arm gently.

“Are you eating okay?” she asks, already in full mom mode now. “Keeping things down? Drinking enough water?”

She nods, a little sheepish now under the attention.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just… hit or miss sometimes.”

“That will settle,” Robin says immediately, like it’s already decided. “If you will need something, just call me.”

Joe’s girl lets out a soft laugh.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

A small pause. It settles.

Not calm—never fully calm—but… softer.

And then few minutes later— Joe jerks.

Enough to startle all three of them.

His eyes snap open again, unfocused, like he just got dropped back into his body mid-thought.

“I’m going.”

Robin jumps a little. “Oh—!”

Jim straightens. “Where are you going, buddy?”

Joe turns his head slowly toward him. Blinking.

Like that question is… deeply offensive.

“…practice,” he says, like it’s obvious. His voice is groggy, slurred, but there’s a hint of attitude there. “Where else would I go?”

Jim stares at him. “…son.”

Joe frowns “…what?”

“You just had surgery.”

Joe pauses.

Processes, very slowly. Then squints at him.

“…no I didn’t.”

Silence.

Joe’s girl presses her lips together, shoulders shaking just slightly as she tries so hard not to laugh.

Jim exhales through his nose, somewhere between amused and done.

“Boy, you did,” he says flatly.

Joe looks down at his hand.

Wrapped. Immobile. Very real.

A long pause.

“…oh.”

Robin lets out a soft, teary laugh, hand coming up to cover her mouth again.

Joe blinks a few times. Then settles back into the pillow like that solved everything.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “That happened..”

A beat.

His eyes drift again— then flick suddenly to her.

Sharp. Focused. For like two seconds.

“…hey boo.”

She looks at him, already suspicious.

“…yeah?”

He lifts his hand—well, tries to—barely moving it as his fingers twitch toward her middle.

“…be careful,” he murmurs.

Her breath catches as he kinda places his hand to her non existent belly.

Robin stills beside her.

Joe’s expression softens completely.

Gentle. Sleepy.

“…there’s a baby in there.”

Her hand instinctively moves to rest over where his fingers almost touched.

“…yeah, there is, Joey,” she whispers.

Joe nods, satisfied.

Like he did his job.

Then his eyes close again. Sleeping.

The room is quieter now, lights dimmer.

The late afternoon light slips through the blinds in soft lines, stretching across the floor, the bed, his arm.

The monitor still beeps steadily. Calm.

Like nothing happened.

Like everything didn’t just… shift.

Joe stirs again. This time slower.

Heavier—but clearer.

A low groan pulls from his chest as he shifts slightly, his face tightening from the ache in his hand.

“Oh…fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough but different now.

Grounded and very awake.

His eyes open, blinking against the light—no haze this time, just a wince and a slow adjustment to reality.

Hospital room.

Bandaged hand. IV.

Yeah. That tracks.

“…yeah,” he murmurs, turning his head.

And there she is. Sitting in the chair, next to him, close.

Still there, same way he remebers he before they taken him in.

Relief hits him instantly.

“…hey,” he repeats, softer now.

She looks up immediately.

She knows the difference.

This Joe? This is him.

And for a second, she just watches him.

“…hi,” she says quietly.

He frowns a little. Noticing it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, concerned despite the pain pulling at his expression. “You look—”

He pauses. “…like you’ve been through something.”

A breath almost escapes her as a laugh.

Almost.

“…yeah,” she mutters. “I guess you could say that.”

Joe blinks real confused.

His brows pull together slightly as he shifts, immediately regretting it with a sharp inhale.

“Shit—okay, yeah, that hurts,” he mumbles, glancing down at his hand again before looking back at her. “Surgery went okay?”

“It did,” she nods. “You’re done real good.”

“Perfect,” he exhales.

A small pause.

Then—

“…did I say anything weird?”

There it is. She freezes.

Just for a second.

Her eyes flick to him. Then away. Then back.

“…define weird.”

Joe squints. “…that’s not a good answer.”

He studies her face a little more carefully now, something clicking slowly into place.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“…what thing.”

“Where you pretend everything’s fine,” he replies, voice quieter now. “But it’s not.”

A beat.

“…what did I do?”

Silence stretches. Not long.

But long enough.

She leans back slightly in the chair, arms crossing loosely—protective again, but this time for a different reason.

“You talked,” she says finally.

Joe exhales. “…okay. That’s not new. I tend to do that.”

“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”

A pause. Then she looks at him again.

Really looks.

“…you told the nurse.”

His brows knit.

“Told her what, exactly?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Just watches his face.

Waiting for the realization to hit on its own.

It doesn’t.

“…baby,” she says softly.

That word alone— It lands.

He stills so completely.

“No…what…I didn’t…”

“You told her,” she repeats gently. “That we’re having a baby.”

Joe stares at her.

Blank. Processing.

Slowly.

“…okay,” he says after a second. “That’s not—great, but—she’s a nurse, right? That’s fine, that’s—”

“Joseph.”

His stomach drops. Because of her tone.

Joseph…

Joe’s eyes widen slightly.

“…uhm?”

She shakes her head. Small.

Almost apologetic.

“You told your parents too.”

Silence.

Total.

Complete.

His face goes completely still.

“…I did not. I better not.”

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You did, Joe.”

A beat.

He stares at her like he’s waiting for her to crack, to smile and say she’s joking.

She doesn’t.

“…you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

His breath catches slightly.

“No—no, I wouldn’t do that, we said we’d—”

“You were on anesthesia,” she cuts in gently. “You didn’t have a filter. At all.”

Joe runs his free hand over his face, wincing halfway through because even that pulls something. “Oh god…”

Silence.

“…what did I say,” he mutters.

She lets out a soft, disbelieving breath.

“You told them you’re gonna be a dad.”

His eyes squeeze shut.

“…fuck.”

“And that you don’t lie about being dad.”

“…fuck.”

“And that I’m your baby mama. To me but, well..”

His eyes snap open.

“Oh nah…I did not say that. Tell me I didn’t tell, that you are my baby mama?”

She just looks at him.

Joe groans, dragging his hand down his face again, slower this time.

“So…I said that.”

“You said that.”

“I don’t even like when somebody says that..”

A pause. Heavy.

Then—

“…how bad was it,” he asks quietly.

And that’s when something shifts in her expression.

Softens. Because yeah—it was chaos.

It was not how they planned it.

But—

“They cried, happy tears,” she says softly.

Joe stills.

“They were happy,” she continues, voice gentler now. “Like… really happy.”

A small pause.

“…your mom hugged me for like five minutes straight. Your dad thought you are joking.”

Joe exhales slowly.

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“…okay,” he murmurs.

Then— “…you okay?”

That’s what matters.

Always.

She looks at him for a second.

Then nods.

“…yeah,” she says quietly. “I think so.”

A beat.

Then, softer—

“…just wish it was in a different moment, you know?”

That hits him. Harder than anything else.

Joe swallows.

Guilt flickering across his face immediately.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, real. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” she cuts in gently. “You were out of it. Not your fault, Joey.”

Still.

He shakes his head slightly.

“…doesn’t change that I messed it up.”

She watches him.

Then slowly leans forward again, reaching for his hand being careful, gentle, familiar.

“You didn’t mess it up,” she says softly. “You were just excited to tell them, that’s not wrong, boo.”

A pause.

“…you just… did it very you.”

That earns the smallest huff of a laugh from him.

“…yeah,” he mutters. “Very like me. ”

A beat.

Then—

“…did I at least say something cool?”

She stares at him.

Then lets out a real laugh this time.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“You asked if they replaced your hand with a robot.”

Joe stares at her, trying not to burst from laughing.

“…okay but that’s valid.”

“And you had a full conversation about dinosaurs with nurse apparently.”

“…also valid.”

She shakes her head, smiling now despite everything.

“…you’re unbelievable.”

He looks at her.

Soft but still a little guilty.

“…you still love me though, right?”

She squeezes his hand gently.

“…I do, Joey. More than my life.”

A pause.

Then quieter—

“I meant it.”

Joe nods, settling back into the pillow, eyes softening again as he watches her.

“…we’re having a baby,” he murmurs.

This time— fully aware.

She smiles.

“…yeah, we are.”

[mrs-delaney]

✦ hide ✦

read → joe burrow x riley carter (oc) · complete ⚠️ private love. public distance. long nights across cities.

✦ seek ✦

read → joe burrow x riley carter (oc) · complete ⚠️ after the ending. before the closure. loving someone twice.

✦ found ✦

read → joe burrow x riley carter (oc). on-going ⚠️ they found each other. now they get to stay.

✦ behind the lens ✦

read → joe burrow x reader · complete ⚠️ years of longing. one quiet realization.

✦ letters you never sent ✦

part one → · part two → · mini-series · complete unsent letters. a breakup. the damage of reading them too late.

✦ binary stars ✦

part one → · part two → · part three → · part four → joe burrow x reader · complete ⚠️ seven years of almosts. one chance to get it right.

✦ as you are ✦

read → joe burrow x reader · ongoing ⚠️ privacy, publicity, and meeting in the middle.

✦ joe burrow & dcc!reader ✦

read → joe burrow x dcc!reader · ongoing ⚠️ meet cutes. sidelines. soft chaos in starched whites.

✦ joe burrow & sissy ✦

read → joe burrow x sissy · ongoing ⚠️ conference rooms. conflict of interest. his name on her client list and her name on everything else.

✦ joe burrow & older reader w/kids ✦

read → joe burrow x older reader w/kids · ongoing ⚠️ she's 34, divorced, and keeping her worlds separate. he's joe burrow, and he's not going anywhere.

[crispppykreme]

Okay girls. Let’s move on and leave this restaurant. It’s already claimed. But still forever be a fan of OG liv.

#JB#OP

[bcystar]

— WHO KNOWS

joe burrow x reader

angst but with happy ending

I'll probably be a waste of your time, but who knows?

Chances are I'll step out of line, but who knows?

Lately, you've set up in my mind

Yeah, girl, you, and I'd like that

It’s been close to a year since you left his life. Every last trace of you just gone. Not a hoodie, or a pair of earrings, not even a sock that got kidnapped by his dryer. The only way he’s kept you in his life is his routine from when you were still together.

He still woke up at 5:45 because that’s when you woke him up. He’d get out of bed and make the bed the exact way you did, ensuring to fluff the pillows exactly five times each. He drank his coffee the same way you did and prepared his oats over night like you used to do for him. Daniel Caesar on his way to the facility so he could ease into his day calmly and silence on the ride back so his mind wouldn’t be too busy when he came back home, your recommendation.

Now here he was. At your front door. For the first time in too long. Nothing had changed, it made him smile. There was still the same floor mat that had seen too much. There was a seasonal wreath on your door, the one his mom had given you your first time meeting them. It had pretty pink and white flowers with green leaves that had clearly faced Ohio’s moody weather.

He stood in front of your door with his fist ready to knock. It was barely a few inches above the oak wood door but it felt like the greatest distance to him. He went over what he was going to say to you in his mind for the umpteenth time.

“I know we haven’t spoken in over a year but I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am in person. I know I hurt you when we broke up and that was not how I wanted things to go that night. I still love you. I’ve never stopped. I’ll never stop.”

Fuck no that’s too pushy

Right?

Lately, I've been thinking that perhaps I am a coward

Hiding in a disguise of an ever-giving flower

Incompetent steward of all of that sweet, sweet power

He almost turned around and walked away. Almost. Like he did last month, and two months before that, and a month before that. The same way he kept on typing messages to you then deleting them only to retype it again. He stared at his phone hoping that you’d notice that he was typing and text first but you didn’t. You never did. Because Joe never texted. Just like how he never knocked.

His feet were turning away from your door when it opened suddenly. There you were. In your strawberry shortcake pajama pants and a white shirt he didn’t quite recognize. A taken back face adorned your features seeing Joe at your door.

He’d changed. Not in a way that would be noticeable to the average person but in a way that only you recognized. His eyebrows cinched slightly even when he was “resting his face”, his jaw tight and nose flaring, and the most apparent one, his eyes looking but not seeing—as if he was looking at something in his mind while just facing your direction.

Joe always knew how to keep his composure. Built from a life and career of being chased by incredibly fast and big guys who ran like they were out for blood. He knew how to hide his stress—that’s what he thought. You always saw through him, having memorized his face and the way it contorted depending on what he was feeling at the moment.

It took him a solid minute of just looking at your face before it finally relaxed in the slightest way. His eyebrows were now looser, his nose no longer flared and his jaw just the slightest bit relaxed, his eyes still stayed in that near yet far gaze. You could tell that he was in his head. You could always tell. Because you were the only one he allowed to see him like that.

“Hey…” it was weak and fragile and a different tone that no one had ever heard him speak in, not even you.

“Hi.”

Another wave of silence took over. Joe was analyzing your face the same way he did defense on another team. Looking for any emotion that reflected resentment or hatred yet he found none. It was hard for you to hate him.

Yesterday was feeling so good, now it's gone

I'd feel like that always if I could, is that wrong?

Tell me 'bout the city you're from

Is it hot? Does it snow there?

He’d gone over this same exact conversation a million times yesterday. He’d thought of what to say to you, how to say it, when to give you time to think when he thought he was laying too thick. Everything he thought to say to you he made up a response in your perspective. He’d gone back and forth himself for longer than he’d like to admit but he told himself that it would help him feel more confident to talk to you.

But now that he was actually here, in front of you in real time, and he didn’t retain any of what he’d rehearsed.

It was a familiar feeling for him at that point. He’d always chickened out at the last moment that it started to feel like routine to him. Drive over, stand in front of your door, stand and think for a moment, realize he’s not ready, leave. He was hoping it’d be another night like that but no.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…” his face was getting hot. He was nervous.

Joe never got nervous. His greatest strength was his lack of nervousness yet here he was, too afraid to talk to you.

“How are you?”

You took a moment before responding.

“Uh…I’m pretty well. You?”

“Ye…yeah me too. You like this area of Cinci?”

“Joe I’ve lived in “this area of Cinci” my entire life.” You deadpanned.

“Right. How’s work? Everything good?”

“Joe are you seriously at my door at 10:45 at night just to ask me how’s work going?” It came out a lot harsher that you intended.

You could tell by the bewildered look on Joes face. A hue of hurt starting to seep onto his face.

Lately, I've been thinking 'bout my precarious future

Will you be there with me by my side, my girl, my shooter?

Who's to say who calculates? Not me, I'm no computer

“Sorry. I’ve just been thinking lately.”

“About…?”

“Me.”

“Okay…”

“No- fuck- I’ve been thinking a lot about the future.”

You signaled him to go on with an arch of your eyebrow.

“It’s not predictable but for a really really long time I had one constant I knew would be in my life continuously, and, that was you. I thought, for the rest of my life, even if I didn’t have a Super Bowl or MVP or anything I’d still have you. Letting you walk away from me—from us has haunted me everyday and I never want to make that mistake ever again.”

“Joe…” you breathe out.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to say anything or decide anything tonight but just tell me if you still feel something. Even if it’s a tiny inkling that you still may have any form of love left for me, I need to know.”

“I…I don’t know.” Your response took even you by surprise.

All Joe could do was sigh.

“And you don’t have to. Not immediately. Just…maybe at some point in time?”

Another wave of silence, except this one was you taking a moment to think and just process.

“I never stopped feeling affection for you. It’s hard to stop loving someone you loved for the most memorable years of your life,” you chuckled dryly “I was just hurt.”

He dropped his head in shame.

“It hurt because you seemed to have made up your mind about our relationship before you even thought to talk to me about anything and that you made me feel like I was easy to remove from your life.”

“You weren’t—you aren’t. You’re still a part of me every day. From when I wake up to when I fall asleep it’s all you. I always wake up the same time you always woke me up, eat the same breakfast you prepared for me, hell I still keep your favorite chips in the pantry. I miss you. More than I’ll ever be able to describe and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you’ll let me.” Joe took a hold of your hand as he spoke.

It was hesitant, too afraid to push your boundaries. Much to his surprise, you let him.

Is it a crime to be unsure? (Let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

In time, we'll find (let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

If it's sustainable (let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

“You’ll have to give me time, Joe. How can I be sure that you’re not gonna shut down and push me away when you get too stressed again?” Guilt overtook your heart as you spoke to him.

The rawness of your words sprouting from the months of hurt and loneliness you spent questioning your worth.

“I’ll give you all the time you need. I’ll keep my distance. I’ll only reach out if you reach out first.”

You took a long breath. “It’ll take a lot more than that but I think—if you’re true to your word—I could possibly let you back in. I can’t guarantee that we’d be the same as we used to be but maybe that’s for the best.”

Finally, a small smirk crept up your face. Joe cracked a small smile at that too. The air between you finally feeling less tense.

You're pure, you're kind (let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

Mature, divine (let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

You might be too good for me, unattainable (let me know, let me know, let me know, let me)

“I never had the heart to tell you to fuck off.” A soft laugh escaping your mouth unintentionally.

“Is that so?” Joe laughing along with you.

“Yeah. My friends were telling me to curse you out and say a bunch more mean stuff but it just couldn’t.”

“Every time I typed up a mean text I’d just delete it and go to sleep feeling guilty that I even thought about saying that stuff to you.”

“If I were you I would’ve done a lot worse than a few angry texts.”

“Yeah…I just saw no point in it. We’re both adults, with fully developed frontal lobes, and have common sense. Why leave off a relationship filled with love and happiness with nasty words. You know?”

Joe was finally seeing you. No longer thinking about what next response he was going to perfectly execute, just there. Your sentence brining him back to Earth at your level-headed way of thinking.

“God you’re wise.”

Now a hearty laugh left you.

He could hold off his own laugh for so long before he broke too.

Maybe we get married one day, but who knows?

Think I'll take that thought to the grave, but who knows?

I know that I'll love you always

Yeah, girl, you, and I'd like that

Deep inside him he felt like he was 22 and laughing with you while he was walking you back to your dorm again. You still had the same face, same laugh, same glimmer in your eyes, same every thing. At 22 he thought that everything he’d been working on was going south. He was playing for a good team but what was it really worth? Going pro felt so far as a second string but you were always there to tell him that every thing would work out for him. He’d brush your remarks away with a pessimistic comment but deep within him he hoped that you were right.

When he graduated from Ohio State after four years as back up he only had you as a bright side. That’s when he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. When he promised you the glamorous life of an NFL wag and thought that he fell short of his promise, you stayed.

When he got an opportunity at LSU, you were more than thrilled. Truly, you were happy that he was getting a second chance at his dream more than the life that resulted from it. No Birkin could ever make you feel the way you felt when he won his first game at LSU. Even with all of the media criticism you stuck by him—spiritually of course. You moved back to Cincinnati after graduating but he always made it feel like he was right there with you. He’d do it in ways like calling you while he was studying, texting hourly to update what he was up to, and selfies while he was working out along with texts of how much he missed you.

After his rookie year with the Bengals he’d bought a ring. It wasn’t a “I should just propose because we’ve been dating for so long” kind of decision but a “I truly couldn’t imagine having went through the journey I went through to get here with anyone else but her” kind of decision. Then came the waiting. He wanted the moment to be perfect. Nothing ever felt perfect enough though. Either the vibe wasn’t right, too many people were around, or he just feeling it. Hesitating to propose would then become the biggest regret of his life.

He still had the ring. It looked exactly like the dream ring you described to him on call one night when he was still at LSU. He’d kept a mental note and assured himself that he’d never forget it, and he didn’t. The ring was still in the purple velvet box that he spent too long getting right. The box was in his safe, hidden away from the openness of his house. He originally hid it there so you wouldn’t discover it but now it basically just lived there.

“I don’t know doesn’t mean no, Joe.”

“I know, I just can’t imagine the rest of my life without you. I’ve said it all night but I don’t care. I know that I’ll love you always.”

You nodded at his remark before looking at his face.

“Good night, Joe. Text me when you get back home.”

[joeyshiesty0]

victory at midnight | joe burrow

summary: some surprises are quiet, some are grand, but this one was meant just for you.

warnings: none, all fluff

word count: 4k

Paris in late spring hums differently than anywhere else in the world. The city doesn’t just glow; it shimmers, as though light itself bends more warmly around the Seine. The streets seem suspended in a golden after-rain haze, like the whole place has been dipped in champagne. Lanterns line the boulevards, dripping light across the cobblestones, and the river catches each reflection with greedy precision, doubling it back like the city can’t help but admire itself.

The air smells faintly of rain, sharp and mineral, but underneath it lingers something softer, flour and sugar still hanging in the air from bakeries that shut their doors hours ago. Croissants cooling in glass cases, tarte shells stacked like careful promises. Joe doesn’t know much about Paris, but he knows the place smells like temptation.

You’ve been here for only two days, and already he can tell you belong to this city in a way he doesn’t. You walk ahead of him on narrow streets like you’ve been rehearsing it your whole life, shoes catching on uneven stones without breaking stride, braid swinging down your back, sunglasses hiding most of your face but not the calm tilt of your chin. You don’t cling to a map or slow at intersections like he does; you move with a kind of casual authority, as if Paris had been waiting all this time for your return.

Joe trails a step behind, as he always does when it comes to you, watching like you’re the only thing in focus and everything else, the people, the storefronts, the blur of mopeds, smudges into background noise. He notices the way you slow near a florist’s stall, bending slightly to breathe in the sharp sweetness of lilacs bundled in crinkling paper cones. The way your gaze flickers upward whenever you pass a balcony dripping with wrought iron, lips parting just slightly as if you’ve already imagining yourself leaning there, coffee in hand, morning fog lifting off the Seine. And the way you gravitate toward poster shops and tiny bookstores, fingertips grazing stacks of faded art prints you never buy but always touch, like a secret ritual.

Joe’s the type to obsess over history, to memorize the why and the when of places, but with you he doesn’t need to understand Paris at all. He just needs to watch you in it.

And the Louvre… he knows that’s where your heart really is, knows that's why you're really here.

You’ve talked about it a dozen times over the years, usually offhand but always with the same reverent tilt of your voice: If I could pick anywhere in the world, just once, to disappear into, it’d be the Louvre. Lock me in overnight and I’d never come out.

You don’t know he listened. You don’t know he filed that away in the same quiet cabinet where he keeps the rest of you; every stray comment, every look that flickered across your face and vanished before you realized he caught it. You don't know that that's the sole reason that he decided to book your flights less than a day in advance, said he was being spontaneous.

Right now, you think you’re  just tourists with a handful of free days before he flies back to Cincinnati. You don’t know what he’s lined up for tomorrow night. You don’t know this trip is more than café tables and Eiffel Tower selfies. You don’t know he’s been planning this since before the plane even left the ground.

The idea had started months ago, one of those nights when nothing was happening and somehow everything was. The kind of gray Cincinnati evening where the cold seeped into your bones and the windows rattled if the wind bothered to shift. Neither of you had wanted to move from the couch. You were curled up in leggings with your toes tucked under his thigh, an old art history book splayed across your lap. You flipped pages lazily, sometimes reading a caption aloud in that distracted way you did when you half-expected him not to listen.

Joe hadn’t been paying attention until your fingers stilled on a photograph. A statue. Headless, winged, gleaming white against the page.

“This,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “God, this is the most perfect thing ever made.”

Joe leaned over, squinting. “Looks… wing-y.”

You smacked his chest without looking away, laughing under your breath. But then your tone shifted, went quieter. “One day, I have to see it in person. Do you know it’s not just about the statue? It’s about what it meant. Victory. Motion. Survival. She looks like she could take flight even though she’s stone.”

Your voice had carried something that rooted itself under his skin. The fire in it. The reverence. The way your thumb skimmed the glossy outline like you were memorizing it by touch. Later, after you’d fallen asleep against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his hoodie, Joe had slipped his phone from the cushion, screen lighting up the dark, and typed Louvre private tours into the search bar.

That one search spiraled; late-night calls, hushed negotiations, the ridiculous are-you-serious conversations that ended with a yes. The impossible made possible.

A private night in the Louvre.

-

The morning of the surprise, you sit across from him at a little café table, distractedly stirring your café crème while flipping through the hotel’s guidebook. You have pen marks scattered across the pages already, circles and stars and underlines that Joe can’t quite decode.

You pause on the Musée d’Orsay, circling the photograph of its clock tower, then underlines the Impressionist collection. Your eyes light up as you looks across the table.

“So. Today. What’s our plan?”

Joe tears off a piece of croissant, smears it with butter, shrugs like he hasn’t been planning this trip for months. “Thought we’d walk around. Maybe see the tower thing everybody talks about.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “The tower thing. Joe, you can’t just casually shrug off the Eiffel Tower.”

He smirks over the rim of his coffee cup. “I’m not shrugging. I’m prioritizing pastries.”

You groan, leaning back in your chair. “You’re impossible.”

But you’re smiling, and you flip another page. “Fine. But tomorrow we’re going to the Louvre. No arguments. I’m not leaving Paris without seeing it.”

Joe hides his grin behind his cup. “Sure,” he says lightly. “Tomorrow sounds good.”

-

That night, while you sleep curled against him, Joe stares at the ceiling of the hotel room. The curtains billow faintly from an open window, carrying in the distant sounds of Paris nightlife, muffled laughter, the faint notes of a violin from a street corner, the steady hum of passing cars.

Your bare leg is draped over his thigh, hand loose and warm against his stomach. He can feel each of your breaths, the way your nose nuzzles instinctively into his shirt when he shifts.

He closes his eyes and rehearses tomorrow over and over in his mind: the car, the arrival, the doors swinging open, the echoing silence of the galleries. The look on your face when you realize.

He pictures you standing in front of the marble goddess. He imagines your eyes filling, lips trembling, hand flying to your ribs where that delicate tattoo sits, the one you got junior year of college, dragging Lex along for moral support.

Joe remembers teasing you back then, when you lifted your shirt to show him the fresh ink, still wrapped in thin plastic. He’d traced the sharp lines with a fingertip, earning a sharp intake of breath from you.

“You’re insane,” he’d said, though his voice had carried something more reverent than mocking. What he meant was: You’re alive in ways I’ll never be. You burn so bright, and I love you for it.

Tomorrow night, that tattoo will meet the real thing.

-

The next evening, the air feels heavier somehow, like even Paris itself knows what’s coming.

Joe insists you dress up, “just for fun,” he says, and you eye him skeptically as you slip into a black dress. The fabric clings in all the right places, the hem brushing your knees, your collarbone catching the soft lamplight as you fasten tiny gold earrings. You twist your hair into a loose knot, pins slipping free almost immediately.

When you turn and see him in a suit, your suspicion sharpens.

“Where are we going?” you asks, tugging at his lapel with narrowed eyes.

“You’ll see.”

The waiting car whisks you away, headlights cutting through the Paris night. You try guessing: dinner, a rooftop concert, some kind of secret event. Every time you turn to him with a new theory, Joe only squeezes your hand and shakes his head.

Then the car rounds a corner, and the Louvre’s glass pyramid comes into view, lit from within like a lantern against the night sky.

You freeze. Your  hand tightens on his like a vise.

“Joe,” you breathes. Your voice is paper-thin, cracking. “No. We can’t, it’s closed.”

The car slows to a stop at the entrance, where two suited staff members wait. Joe doesn’t flinch.

“We can,” he says simply.

The doors open for you.

Your mouth falls open.

“Joe…” You voice fractures completely this time. “What did you do?”

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You said you wanted to get locked in overnight. So… here we are.”

Your eyes fill so quickly it takes his breath away. You blink furiously, trying to focus on him, but the tears spill anyway.

“You rented me the Louvre?”

“No,” Joe whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I rented us the Louvre. But really, it’s for you.”

You step inside.

The echo of your footsteps is swallowed by vast marble halls. The usual crush of tourists is gone, no selfie sticks, no murmurs in a dozen languages, no guards shooing them along. Just silence, and space, and the glow of the art lit only for you both.

You turn in a slow circle, heels clicking, breath catching audibly in your throat.

Joe doesn’t watch the art. He watches you.

The marble beneath your feet is cool, polished smooth by centuries of visitors, and you keep looking down at the floor like you don’t trust it’s real. The soles of your heels click softly with each step, echoing into the cavernous space and dissolving into the stillness. Every time you glance up, your eyes widen, like the vaulted ceilings themselves are somehow breathing. You press your palm against one wall as you pass, sliding your fingers across the cool grooves between the massive blocks of stone, as though touch alone will convince you that you aren’t dreaming.

“Joe.” Your voice is hushed, reverent, the way you speak when you’re in old churches or when you’re deep in a memory. “Do you realize where we are right now?”

He chuckles, low and warm. “I think so.”

You wheel around to face him, eyes bright with disbelief, lips parting. Your breath hitches like you’re caught between laughter and tears. “This is insane. No one gets to do this.”

“You do,” he says simply. His hand finds yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles with a steady calm, grounding you in the middle of your awe.

You shake your head, half in denial, half in wonder, strands of hair loosening from the twist at the back of your head. He watches your shoulders rise and fall with uneven breaths, the way your chest trembles under the thin black fabric of your dress.

You move slowly through the Richelieu wing. The statues rise like pale giants in the dim light, marble torsos gleaming faintly, outstretched arms frozen mid-motion. Shadows pool at their bases, stretching long and soft across the floor as though the figures might move if he blinks too long. You pause in front of each one, your lips parted, studying details Joe barely notices: the curve of a calf muscle, the precise folds of drapery carved into stone, the chipped edge of a nose.

You lean in sometimes, squinting at the texture, tilting your head as though listening to a voice inside the marble. Joe trails a step behind you, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on you more than the art. He doesn’t bother pretending to see what you see. He doesn’t need to. He sees you, and that’s enough.

At one point, you stop so abruptly that Joe almost collides with your back.

“What?” he asks, steadying you with a hand on your hip.

You lift your hand toward a statue of a woman bent in grief, marble fingers covering her own stone face. “Look at this. They carved sorrow into stone, Joe. Sorrow. How do you carve sorrow?”

He studies your profile instead of the statue, the way your brow knits tight, the way your lips part around the word like you’re tasting it, the way your eyes shine with something tender and unreachable. He doesn’t answer you because you aren’t really asking him.

Instead, he leans closer, so near his breath stirs the wisps of hair at your temple, and murmurs, “You’re beautiful when you’re nerding out.”

You turn your head just enough to smirk at him, eyes narrowing. “Nerding out?”

He grins, lips brushing your cheek before he straightens.

You elbow him lightly, trying to scold, but the curve of your smile betrays you. You shake your head and look back at the grieving woman carved in stone. Your hand lingers on Joe’s wrist for a beat longer than necessary, as though you need both him and the marble at once.

-

You pass paintings next. Gilded frames stretch taller than Joe is high, colors glowing even in the low light. You walk more quickly here, darting from one to the next.

“Oh, my God, this is David.” You stop in front of The Coronation of Napoleon, pointing furiously like he might not notice the fifteen-foot canvas without you. “Joe, look at the scale of this thing.”

He tilts his head, smirks. “Looks like a team photo.”

“Blasphemy,” you say, smacking his chest, but you’re laughing.

“Relax, I’m just saying, Napoleon’s got the trophy pose down.”

You cover your face with your hand, groaning, but your shoulders shake with laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

You peek out from behind your fingers, smiling. “Unfortunately, yeah. I really do.”

-

You linger at the Mona Lisa. The room feels eerie without the usual crush of bodies pressed against the barrier. She’s just there, small and quiet behind her glass.

You stare for a long time. “You know… most people say it’s overrated. Too small. But I think that’s the point. She draws you in.”

Joe shrugs. “Looks like she knows something.”

You glance at him. “What do you think she knows?”

“That I’m in way over my head,” he says without hesitation. “That I’m standing in the Louvre with the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’ll never deserve her, but somehow I get to be here anyway.”

Your lips part. “Joe…”

He shrugs again, like it’s obvious, and you kiss him right there in front of the Mona Lisa.

-

But it’s when you turn a corner that you stop cold.

The Daru staircase rises before you, sweeping upward in marble grandeur. And at the top, glowing in its alcove, wings stretched wide, stands the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Your hand flies to your mouth. A sound escapes, half-sob, half-laugh. Your knees buckle, and you grips Joe’s arm for balance.

“Joe.” Your voice cracks. “Oh, my God. She’s here.”

He tightens his arm around your waist, steadying you. He can feel you trembling.

Slowly, you climb the stairs. You never take your eyes off the sculpture, your breath coming fast, a couple tears sliding down your cheeks unchecked.

At the top, you stop just short, staring up at the marble goddess who has stood for two thousand years, wings outstretched as though she’s about to take flight from the prow of her stone ship.

You press both hands to your chest. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

Joe looks at you instead of the statue. The light catches on the wet line of your cheek, the rise and fall of your chest. He’s never seen you undone like this. This is something raw, primal, the deepest part of you spilling out.

You turn to him, lips trembling. “Do you know how many times I’ve studied her? How many sketches I’ve done, how many times I traced the lines of her wings in my notebooks? I–” Your voice breaks. You look back up. “And she’s here. She’s right in front of me.”

Joe slips behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I know,” he murmurs.

You shudder in his arms, overcome.

For a long time, you just stand there.

Finally, he tilts his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Show me.”

You blink. “Show you what?”

He tugs gently at the side of your dress, exposing your side, high enough to bare the ink along your ribs, not caring you’re technically in public. When he pulls the dress high enough, fabric bunching at your chest, the delicate lines of Winged Victory, wings flared, body leaning forward are revealed. His thumb traces the tattoo slowly, reverently, then lifts to point at the towering marble above you.

“Her. And you. Side by side.”

You press your hand over his, where it rests on your ribs, both of you touching the ink at once.

Joe whispers, “You’ve been carrying her with you all this time. Now you’ve got her for real.”

You turn in his arms and bury your face in his chest. He holds you, his throat thick, blinking hard against his own tears. “Joe… I can’t believe you did this.”

He presses his mouth to your hair, closing his eyes against the burn behind his own. “I told you,” he murmurs, voice thick, “I’d give you the world if I could. This is the closest I could get right now.”

-

You sit on the steps beneath Winged Victory for nearly an hour. You lean into Joe’s side, still wiping at your cheeks, while you talk and talk, about the Hellenistic period, about the discovery on Samothrace, about how the missing head doesn’t matter because the wings say it all.

Joe doesn’t understand most of it. He doesn’t need to. He kisses your temple every so often, murmurs, “Mm-hm,” and, “Tell me more,” and watches you glow.

He thinks: This is why I did it. Not for the art. For her. Always for her.

-

You wander more, the Venus de Milo, Egyptian antiquities, quiet courtyards where moonlight spills through glass ceilings. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you just hold hands in silence, like two kids sneaking through a forbidden place.

At one point, you pull him into a shadowed alcove between columns and kiss him hard, your hands cupping his jaw. “You rented me the Louvre,” you whisper against his lips. “How do I ever top that?”

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs back. “You’re already my favorite thing in it.”

You groan, swatting at his chest. “Corny.”

“True,” he says simply, kissing you again.

-

By the time you finally leave, it’s nearly 3:30 in the morning. The streets around the Louvre are deserted, Paris in that strange lull between nightlife and dawn. The air has cooled, damp and metallic, the kind of chill that sneaks under your clothes and makes you walk closer to whoever’s beside you.

You slip your heels off, carrying them in one hand, and walk barefoot across the cool stone. You spin once in the open courtyard, hair falling from its knot, laughter spilling into the night.

You stop, looking at him across the expanse. Your voice carries. “Thank you.”

He starts toward you, slow, steady. “Always.”

When he reaches you, you throw your arms around his neck, kissing him. Joe can’t resist. He wraps his arms around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground. You squeal, legs dangling as he spins you in his arms, both of you dizzy and breathless with laughter as the world blurs around the glowing pyramid.

When he sets you down, your hair’s loose and wild, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. You run a hand across his jaw, "My Joey bought me the Louvre," you say quietly, still in disbelief. He doesn't say anything, just watches you like he can’t believe you’re real, hands still resting at your hips, heart so full it hurts. And Joe thinks, as he holds you under the glowing pyramid, that nothing in the museum could ever be worth more than this moment. 

You keep your heels dangling from your fingers, bare feet padding softly over the stone as you head toward the waiting car. But when Joe gestures to the driver, you tug his hand instead.

“Can we walk?” you ask. Your voice is hushed, as if speaking too loudly might wake the city. “Just… for a little.”

Joe glances at you, at the flushed glow still in your cheeks, the way your braid has half-fallen loose, the black dress clinging like it was made for this night. He nods. “Yeah. We can walk.”

So you do.

You cross the Pont du Carrousel, the Seine running dark and wide beneath them, catching fragments of starlight in its restless current. The lamps along the bridge hum faintly, casting long yellow pools across the pavement. You pause midway, leaning out over the stone balustrade. Your reflection ripples below, fractured by the water’s churn.

Joe comes up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist. You rest your hands over his, still staring at the water. “It feels like a dream,” you whisper. “Like I’ll wake up back in Ohio and none of this will be real.”

He kisses the back of your head. “It’s real. You’re here. We’re here.”

You turn in his arms, gazing up at him with damp eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You already did,” he says. “Watching you tonight? That’s all I wanted.”

For a long while, you just stand there, the only sounds the river below and the occasional hiss of a car on the far bank. When you finally turn to leave, Joe laces your fingers together, and you wander down the nearly empty Quai Voltaire, your shadows stretching long across the stones.

By the time you reach the hotel, the first faint silver of dawn is softening the sky. The city is stirring again: early bakers lifting shutters, delivery trucks rumbling over cobblestones, the sharp smell of yeast and coffee drifting into the air.

You stop outside the hotel doors, hair a mess, dress wrinkled from hours of leaning into him. You tilt your face up toward the paling stars. “I don’t ever want to forget this night.”

Joe studies you for a long moment, the tired glow of you, the smudge of mascara under your eyes, the way you look both utterly undone and more alive than he’s ever seen you. He reaches up, brushing his thumb gently across your cheekbone. “You won’t. Neither will I.”

Inside, the lobby is silent except for the ticking of a distant clock. You slip upstairs, hand in hand, moving quietly as though afraid the memory might vanish if you break the spell.

And when you finally collapse into bed, you curl against his chest, whispering into the hollow of his throat, “You gave me the Louvre.”

Joe tightens his arms around you, his lips brushing your hair. “No,” he murmurs. “I gave you a night. You gave it meaning.”

Within minutes, you’re asleep. Joe stays awake, staring at the faint gray light spilling across the curtains, his heart so full he thinks it might split. And in that quiet space, he realizes: this, you, Paris, the night you carved into history together, is the closest thing he’s ever known to forever.

[basicash]

PUT A RING ON IT

Joe Burrow x Reader

Word count: ~3000

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, MDNI, smut with a little bit of fluff for plot purposes, language, fem!reader

a/n: This one is inspired by my love for men that wear rings (thank you Harry Styles) & my love for Joe’s hands. Enjoy this & have a safe, happy new year & please let me know what you think <3

Naturally, after nearly four years together, you and Joe have had all sorts of conversations about your future. Sure, you both mention things in passing, thoughts that begin with ‘at our wedding’ or ’when we have kids’. But you’ve also discussed the same topics at length—sit down conversations about 5 and 10 year plans, the logistics of marriage and raising children together, how it would look financially, hypotheticals about each of your careers and how you’d navigate potential challenges or hardships. All of those deep discussions, fleeting comments, and late night confessions had led you both to one conclusion: you wanted to spend the rest of you’re lives together. So now, all you have to do is wait patiently—or not so patiently—for him to put a ring on it.

That’s why you’re here, on the couch in your shared home while Joe’s traveling for a game, browsing engagement rings. You’ve had the basics down for awhile—radiant or cushion cut, white gold, lab grown—but you’re unsure about the details. So now, whenever Joe is away, you peruse all of the designer jewelry sites. You pay specific attention to band details and settings, prongs and carat size, making sure to screenshot the ones that catch your eye and send them to the group chat with your closest girlfriends. After all, you want them to have plenty to work with when he approaches them for help designing your dream ring.

This evening is going much like the many others you’ve spent doing this same thing, in fact you’re about to call it quits for the night when you see it. There’s an ad off to the side for men’s wedding bands. It’s nothing special really, nothing flashy or in your face, just a wide brushed-titanium band. But it gets you thinking. You picture the simple ring on Joe’s left ring finger. You imagine yourself placing it there on your big day, gliding the cool metal down his long finger, catching just slightly on his thick knuckle before finding its home. You think of him wearing the ring as he goes about his day, catching your eye as he pours a cup of coffee or fiddles with the Lego set he’s been working on. And then you let your mind wander just a little bit further, to the moments where it’s just you and him in dim lighting, his hand gripping your thigh or your waist, or reaching up to palm at your breasts before resting at the base of your throat. You click the ad.

As you scroll through the men’s rings, you see mostly plain bands in varying widths and finishes—gold, white gold, platinum, palladium. You consider what Joe might like, wavering between him wanting something a little flashy, maybe even a pop of color, or something more simple for every day wear. But as you scroll past the pages and pages of monotonous options, you finally see some interesting ones. Rings with unique shapes, embellished with beautiful diamonds and gemstones, they don’t look like any wedding band you’ve ever seen on a man. And then it hits you, why do you have to wait until your wedding day to put a ring on Joe’s finger? You could just buy him one to wear whenever, as a random gift, which would also serve as a gift for yourself since the mere thought of a ring on one of his perfect fingers makes heat pool low in your stomach.

You settle on a brushed gold signet ring with a small sapphire that’s set off center. Something simple enough that Joe could wear it with his signature casual outfits, but with just enough bling that it could compliment some of his flashier ensembles as well. You add it to cart, giddy as you type in your payment info and address, then hit the ‘place order’ button with a sly smile on your face.

7-9 business days later, you come home to find a deep green box embossed with gold writing on the doorstep. After sneaking a peek at its contents, you place it in a drawer in the kitchen island for later. With just about an hour to kill before you expect Joe to arrive home, you decide to take a quick shower and slip into some baby blue lounge shorts with a matching top. Back downstairs, you whip up a simple pasta dish and a salad for yourself, simultaneously plating and reheating one of Joe’s meticulously prepped meals.

The microwave beeps just as Joe pulls into the garage and the table is set by the time he steps into the kitchen. You’re greeted with a peck on the lips, a murmured “Hmm, smells good. Missed you.”, before you both take a seat and dig in. Or he does, at least, you’re much too preoccupied to focus on dinner. Instead, you’re focused on his hands, watching as he uses the left one to lift the fork from the plate to his mouth repeatedly, his right hand alternating between the knife and his glass of water, nearly large enough to span the entire circumference of the vessel. When he drops his utensils to lick a smear of stray sauce from his thumb, you nearly faint, swallowing a gasp that threatens to escape. Joe notices, of course.

“All good, babe? You’re quiet tonight,” his eyes noticeably shift to your plate, “and you’ve barely eaten.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Just excited I guess, maybe a little nervous. I, um, I bought you a present and it came today, I’m just hoping you like it.”

“Since when do I make you nervous?”, he raises his eyebrows playfully, “and when have I ever not liked something you got me?”

“Fair point,” you concede, crossing the room to retrieve the elaborate box from the drawer you’d placed it in earlier.

Joe pushes his chair out from the table as you return, patting his left knee with a quiet “c’mere.” He grabs the small box in his right hand as you take a seat, wrapping his other arm around your middle to pull you close. You feel his breath brush the side of your face when he speaks again. “Let’s see what my girl got me, hm?”

You nod, wordless as you nearly tremble with anticipation. His fingers work to untie the gold bow, painfully slow and precise, before lifting the lid and placing it carefully to the side.

“You got me a ring?”, he remarks, tilting the box just slightly until the sapphire catches the light.

A nervous giggle passes your lips before you can help it. You’re about to start making excuses, to brush it off as a silly little purchase you made on a whim, to assure him that it’s okay if he hates it and it never leaves his jewelry tray—but then his eyes meet yours, a beaming smile across his face.

“This is sick, babe. I love it.” the hand resting on your hip squeezes lightly, “I just wasn’t expecting it, I’ve never really owned a ring besides the championship one from the Natty. Never even crossed my mind to honestly.”

You let out a sigh of relief you hadn’t noticed you’d been holding before he continues, holding the box out to you, “Go ahead, put it on me.”

Taking the ring between your thumb and forefinger, you motion for him to place the now empty box on the table. This is it, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Selecting his right ring finger, you hold his large hand steady in your own as you slide the ring down his finger and over his knuckle. You take a moment to admire his new accessory, noticing how it fits perfectly, not too snug, how the sapphire matches the deepest blue specks in his eyes. What you don’t notice is how your teeth bite at your bottom lip, how your heartbeat quickens, how your thighs squeeze together involuntarily to settle the aching between them. But, of course, Joe notices it all.

You collect yourself, reigning in your thoughts before commenting, “It looks good, babe. I’m glad I went with the sapphire. Almost chose emerald, but this one makes your eyes pop.”

“It does look good,” he nods, reaching up with his newly accessorized hand to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “but are y’gonna tell me why you really got it for me?”

And that’s how you know you’re caught. You think about deflecting, feeding him an innocent excuse, but there’s no point. Joe knows you all too well. Heat rushes to your cheeks and between your legs as you try to find the words to say. You try to look down, to avoid the eye contact that you know will just get you more flustered, but that’s no use either. Joe lifts your chin once more, this time using his thumb to pull your bottom lip down ever so slightly before letting it snap back into place.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Know you wanna tell me.” His ring adorned hand is no longer on your chin, but resting on the inside of your knee, fingers tracing small patterns on the skin there.

“I like your hands!”, you blurt, your thoughts too muddled to find better words. You take a deep breath as you feel his hand move an inch or two higher along the inside of your thigh, a knowing smirk on his lips. “I just, I like looking at your hands. They’re strong and sexy and soft and warm at the same time and I just wanna look at them all the time. And then I was thinking how hot it’s gonna be when we get married and you wear a wedding band. But then I was like, why can’t he wear a ring now, ya know?”, you’re rambling now, painfully aware of his hand inching further up your thigh with every word, “So I, uh, I got you this ring so I have an excuse to look at your hands more I guess? Plus it’s kinda hot that you’re wearing a ring I bought for you. Makes me feel like you’re all mine.”

He plants a firm kiss on your lips then, his polite way of shutting you up, you think. “All yours, huh?”, his fingers are under your shorts now, dancing over the lace of your panties. He’s so close to where you know you’re already soaking for him. “Thought I was yours already, sweet girl.”

And then his hand is gone and an indignant whine falls from your mouth, your impatience earning a breathy laugh from him. But before you can complain, you’re moving, swept up into his arms bridal style and exiting the kitchen swiftly. Joe carries you down the hall and up the stairs effortlessly, standing you upright at the foot of your shared bed.

He begins to undress you then, yanking your top over your head roughly before dropping to his knees in front of you, placing quick kisses down your chest and abdomen on his way. Your shorts are tied loosely at your waist, the haphazard bow barely hanging on really. But he makes a show of untying them, drawing as much attention to his skilled fingers as possible before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside. He pauses for a moment, admiring the simple lace set that accentuates your curves perfectly, and then his hands start moving in large circles from your ass to your hips to your thighs and back again.

“This is what you wanted, yeah? Wanted my hands all over you?” His hands continue their pattern, fingers kneading into your flesh, almost like a massage. Where his hands aren’t touching, his mouth is. Placing sloppy kisses, nips, and sucks along the hem of your panties, the insides of your thighs. Your hands are in his hair, gently tugging, wordlessly begging him to put his mouth where you need him most. “As much as I’d like a taste,” he nearly growls, “I think it’s only appropriate that my fingers do most of the work tonight.”

And then he’s shoving you gently, your legs colliding with the edge of the mattress before you fall backwards onto it. Joe follows, stripping down to his boxers before climbing in beside you. He’s on his side, left elbow braced against the mattress, leaving his right hand free to explore your body, which is exactly what it does. He starts from the top, fingers tracing your cheekbones, the outline of your lips, your jaw. Then it’s onto your collarbones and the shallow dip between them. He takes his time on the next part, fingertips grazing your nipples through the thin lace of your bra before he pulls the cups down, exposing you to him completely. His lips find your jaw as his fingers continue their work on your now-sensitive breasts, teasing, pinching, squeezing until you’re a whimpering mess.

“Please, Joey.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Please touch me,” you manage to get out, mind fuzzy as he continues his work.

You feel his teeth graze your jaw and know he’s wearing a mischievous smile, “I am touchin’ you.”

“You—ah fuck—Joey, you know what I mean.” Your hips buck up into nothing as you speak, begging for some kind relief, and he finally gives it to you.

His left hand moves to grasp yours, clasping them together above your head, while his right hand dips below the waist of your panties. He finds your entrance quickly, gathering some of the slick on his fingertips before dragging them up to circle your clit. You think he must be getting impatient too, because he’s moving with a purpose now.

A gasp punches from your chest as he slides two thick fingers inside of you suddenly. His movements start shallow, but build into slow, deep strokes. He’s curling his fingers ever so slightly, making sure that his palm grinds against your clit with every pass. And you’re like putty in his hands. You’re practically melting into his touch, chasing the high you’ve been craving since the moment you ordered that damn ring.

“You like these hands, sweetheart? Like what they do to you?”

That’s all it takes to set you off, his easy confidence, the way it oozes from him when he knows he’s making you feel good. “Yes. God, yes I love—,” but you can’t get the rest out, can’t focus on anything besides the feeling of his fingers inside you, the obscene sounds of his palm meeting your soaked cunt over and over and over again.

You cum fast and hard, thighs clamping down on Joe’s hand, shying away from the slight overstimulation. But he doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden every wave of pleasure he has to offer, until you’re boneless and panting and sighing his name.

When you come to your senses a few moments later, he’s on his knees between your legs, boxers discarded. You open your eyes just in time to see him popping his fingers out of his pretty pink lips, the sapphire on his finger glinting as he lets out a low groan, savoring the taste of you. His eyes meet yours with a small smirk, “Think you can take a little bit more for me? Need you to be good for just a little bit longer.”

The ‘yeah’ you attempt gets stuck in your throat, but the small nod you manage is answer enough for him to shimmy your panties down your legs, flinging them somewhere over his shoulder.

Joe gestures for you to bend your knees before placing one hand behind each of them and pressing your thighs up towards your chest just slightly. You feel the blunt head of his cock against you, nudging your clit a couple of times before he pushes into you in one slow thrust. He sets his pace quickly though—long, deep strokes that nearly steal your breath each time he bottoms out. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, punctuated by unrestrained whimpers, moans, and grunts.

When he removes his right hand from your thigh a few moments later, you’re expecting it to land on your hip, your tits, maybe even the base of your throat. Instead, he places it on your lower stomach, ring shimmering as he applies firm pressure.

“See that, pretty girl? You’re lookin’ at the ring on my finger, but I’m lookin’ at how fucking deep I am inside you. See that? That’s me giving you everything. All of me. All fucking yours.”

And you do see it. You see the way your stomach bulges just so under his hand with each thrust. You feel it too, feel him, inside and out. You feel the cool metal of his ring contrasting the warmth of his hand. It’s intense, all consuming, and it pushes you over the edge once more. Your orgasm takes over, body shaking as your pussy pulses around his cock like that’s what it was made for. And then he’s letting go too, hand leaving its place on your stomach to brace himself as he nearly collapses on top of you. His thrusts become sloppy, uneven breaths fanning across your face as he fills you up, giving you everything just like he said.

Joe waits, catches his breath for a minute or two before rolling off of you and breaking the comfortable silence. “I think I really like my new ring.”

“Mm, good.” you sigh, content. “I’m glad.”

“I think you really like my new ring too.”

You gasp, swatting at his chest playfully, but you can’t help breaking into laughter when you see the huge cocky smile on his face. “Yeah, Joey, I think you’re right.”

As both of your laughter fades, you shift slightly to rest your head on his chest, your fingers finding his hand and toying with his new ring. The mood in the room seems to shift too, to something softer, more serious. You feel a firm kiss to the top of your head, his lips still grazing your hair as he speaks. “You’ll have a new ring of your own soon, princess.”

[burrowswomen]

❥ still mine, still yours ━━━━━ JOE BURROW

pairing: fiancée! reader x fiancé! joe burrow

summary: you think you’re losing him even while you’re sharing a bed and a last name-to-be, until one night cracks everything open and forces you both to finally say the quiet parts out loud. distance turns into desperation, and he spends the night (& morning after) proving that you were never losing him at all.

wc: 13.4k (this was supposed to be a blurb but oh well)

happy (late) thanksgiving everyone, so incredibly thankful for you all and the love you guys give to my fics <3 truly so motivating.

warnings: 18+, minors DNI, angsty-smut, insecurity, swearing, hurt/comfort, pet names, swearing, repetitions of certain phrases (didn't notice until i read over oops), porn w/little to no plot

a/n: wrote this over the last two weeks and last-minute made it thanksgiving-y, so excuse the random mentions LMAO. also i don’t think i’m good at angst so… be nice. can we clap i finally wrote a summary, kinda just yap the morning scenes werent needed but i hit a flow state writing but with that its also all pver the place.

you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, curling iron trembling slightly in your grip as you twist another section of hair around the barrel. the ring on your left hand catches the vanity light with every tiny movement, three carats of princess-cut diamond that still steals your breath every time you really look at it. six months ago, on that quiet night in positano during the off-season, he’d dropped to one knee on the warm cobblestones of the little terrace overlooking the amalfi coast, the sea glittering behind him like it was holding its breath, and asked you to marry him, to be his wife, to be his forever. you’d said yes through tears and salt air and the scent of lemon trees, and he’d kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. future mrs. burrow. you mouth the words silently to your reflection like a prayer, like if you say it enough times it will stitch the widening crack in your chest back together. it doesn’t.

because this morning he came in from the gym at dawn, hoodie soaked through, curls plastered to his temples, chest still heaving from the lift, and all you got was the ghost of a kiss brushed against your temple as he passed you in the kitchen, one distracted “morning, babe” tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs. no crooked grin, no low, teasing “c’mere, future mrs. burrow, let’s save water,” no big hands sliding under the shirt you’d had on, no backing you against the counter until you were laughing and breathless and he was hard against your hip, whispering exactly what he was going to do to you once the shower was running. just the hollow thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the bathroom door, the rush of water behind it, and the silence that swallowed the house afterward. you stood there in the corner while the coffee was brewing, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like an absolute idiot for hoping he’d notice.

because it’s not just this morning, it’s been the last month unraveling thread by thread. it’s waking up to an empty bed more often than not because he’s already at the facility by six-thirty. it’s the good-morning texts that stopped coming, the “i love you”s that turned into one-word replies, the nights he stumbles in long after you’re asleep and you pretend you don’t feel him slide under the covers with his back to you, phone glowing against his face while he watches film until he passes out. it’s the way sex has become so rare you honestly can’t remember the last time he touched you like he used to, can’t pinpoint the last night he kissed you slow and deep instead of brushing a quick, exhausted peck to your forehead, can’t recall the last time his hands mapped your body like it was something sacred. it’s the way he barely looks up when you walk into a room anymore, the way his hands don’t automatically reach for you, the way your name sounds like background noise in his mouth instead of the prayer it once was. it’s the slow, terrifying realization that the man who used to cancel plans just to stay in bed with you all day now treats coming home like another obligation he’s trying to check off before the next meeting. it’s watching the ring on your finger catch the light while you lie awake at 3 a.m. and wondering if forever still means the same thing to him that it does to you.

you shake it off the way you’ve been shaking everything off for weeks, like if you just keep moving, keep smiling, keep pretending the ache isn’t there, it’ll eventually stop clawing at your ribs. he’s stressed. short week. primetime game on thursday against the ravens. he’s been busy. busy rehabbing his toe. busy trying to get back to football. twenty-five people at his parents’ house today. you repeat it like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it’ll glue the cracks back together, like it’ll make the silence in the car feel normal instead of suffocating. you stand in front of the mirror doing your makeup on autopilot and every stroke of the brush feels like painting armor over a bruise. you tell yourself this is what being a football fiancée means, this is what loving someone in the middle of a packed work life feels like, this is temporary, this is fine, you are fine. you slip into the cream cashmere dress he picked out himself two months ago in that little boutique in new york, the one he couldn’t keep his hands off you in. you slide on the louboutins he surprised you with after the engagement, the ones he said were made for the woman who was going to own every room she ever walked into (starting with his heart). you look in the mirror and the reflection is flawless: hair curled just right, dress hugging every curve, legs for days, ring sparkling like a promise. you look perfect. you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, like the girl he fell in love with has been slowly erased and replaced by a quieter, smaller version who’s terrified to ask for too much, who’s scared that if she speaks the truth out loud the whole beautiful life will shatter. you look like the girl that he fell in love with. you feel like the girl he’s already starting to forget.

the drive to his parents’ house is excruciating. his right hand never leaves the wheel. your left thigh stays cold. you watch cincinnati roll by in bleeding golds and reds, the ohio river glinting like a wound under the weak november sun, and you keep waiting, keep waiting, for his fingers to slide across the console and lace through yours the way they always do. they never do. small talk about turkey, about his mom’s sweet potato casserole, about whether his cousin is bringing that girl again. surface-level. safe. nothing that touches the scream building in your throat.

at the house it’s worse than you imagined. the second the door opens he’s swallowed by his family in the best way with his mom pulling him into a tight hug, his dad clapping him on the back hard enough to echo, his brothers dragging him toward the living room tv before he’s even taken his coat off, nephews asking non-stop questions. you trail behind with the mac and cheese his mom asked you to make, smiling when someone takes it from your hands, letting yourself be folded into the women’s side of the chaos like you belong there (because you do, you tell yourself). you end up stationed in the kitchen and dining room with his mom, his aunts, the cousins, passing pies and refilling wine glasses and answering the same gentle questions about the wedding you’ve answered a hundred times. he’s on the completely opposite end of the house, voice carrying over the laughter as he argues with his dad about offensive line play calls, breaking down film on the tv for his uncles like it’s fourth-and-goal. you catch glimpses of him through doorways (head thrown back laughing, cheeks flushed, curls messy from little fingers tugging at them) and every time you hope he’ll look over, catch your eye, give you that secret little smile he used to save just for you across crowded rooms. he never does.

it happens once. his aunt corners both of you near the table, eyes sparkling, asking when the big day is, and he leans over absently, presses one distracted kiss into your hair, mutters “whenever she wants” with a shrug, and then he’s already turning back to his brother calling his name from the living room. no arm around your waist. no squeeze to your hip. no proud, possessive hand letting everyone in the room know you’re his favorite person on the planet. just that single, fleeting kiss, like you’re a reflex he’s already forgetting.

the rest of the night you orbit him like a moon he no longer notices. you smile for pictures, you laugh at the right times, you help plate desserts, you answer questions about centerpieces and venues with a voice that doesn’t shake, but inside you are coming apart thread by thread, stitch by stitch, until there’s almost nothing left.

by the time you’re buckled into the passenger seat for the drive home the sky has gone that deep, bruised purple that makes everything feel heavier, and you are so, so bone-tired of pretending that the smile you’ve been wearing all day doesn’t ache like a bruise. you rest your head against the cold window, watch the streetlights blur into watercolor streaks, and you don’t even try to stay awake. exhaustion drags you under like a riptide, fast and merciless, and you let it take you.

you come up slowly to the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the only real touch you’ve felt from him since this morning, and his voice soft in your ear, “we’re home, honey,” quiet, almost tender, like nothing’s wrong. by the time your eyes flutter open he’s already out of the car, shutting his door, heading toward the house without waiting. you sit there for a second in the sudden silence, the engine ticking as it cools, seatbelt still across your chest, staring at the empty driver’s seat and feeling the ache settle deeper than ever.

you follow him inside on autopilot, the door clicking shut behind you like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to finish. your heels come off in the mudroom with two dull thuds. normally he’d be right there, kneeling to slip them off your feet himself, kissing each ankle like it was a privilege, murmuring something filthy-sweet about how good you looked in them and how much better you’d look out of everything else. tonight the room is empty, the only sound the soft rustle of your dress and the sudden, crushing weight of the ring on your finger that feels heavier than the entire house pressing down on your chest.

you drift through the dark hallway, past the picture frames filled with so much love that it’s trying to comfort you, and watch him climb the stairs ahead of you, shirt loose, shoulders curved inward with exhaustion, curls messy from little-kid hands and too many hugs. he’s already pulling away again, already retreating into tomorrow’s film, tomorrow’s practice, tomorrow’s everything that isn’t you.

he’s halfway up when something inside you finally snaps.

“joe.”

he stops instantly, turns on the stairs, brow creasing with that focus that used to feel like it was only ever for you. “yeah, sweetie? you okay?”

you stand in the center of the living room, the christmas tree you put up last weekend twinkling mockingly behind you, all those little white lights reflecting in the diamond like it’s laughing at you. your arms wrap around yourself like that can hold the pieces together. you swallow hard, once, twice. the words feel ridiculous now that they’re clawing their way out, but they’ve been living under your skin for weeks, festering, turning poisonous, and you can’t carry them for one more second.

“no, i’m not okay,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words tumbling out raw and jagged, slicing the quiet in half. you start again, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around your ribs to hold yourself together. “i feel like…” you stop, the rest catching like shards of glass in your throat. your hands twist together in front of you, the diamond on your finger catching the soft glow of the christmas-tree lights and throwing it back like a warning, like it’s screaming look at me, look at what you promised, look at what we might be losing. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked open and bleeding, barely above the hush of the house.

“i feel like you don’t want me anymore.”

you swallow, but it doesn’t help; the next words still scrape on the way out.

“i feel like i’m… shrinking inside my own life. like every day i wake up in this house that’s supposed to be ours and i take up less space than i did the day before. like i’m becoming a ghost in the background of your season, your schedule, your stress. i spent all morning trying to look like the girl you asked to marry you, the girl you couldn’t keep your hands off, and you walked right past me like i was furniture. i put on the dress you said made you stupid and you didn’t even notice. i smiled for so many people today and answered questions about centerpieces and honeymoon plans and every time someone called me your fiancée i waited for you to touch me, to look at me like you used to—like i was the only real thing in the room—and it never happened. not once.”

your voice fractures completely now, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, and you can’t stop them.

“i know you’re finally cleared to play, i know that’s what you’ve been working toward. and i’m so, so proud of you— you’re ahead of your timeline…i know the team’s riding on your shoulders. i know you’re carrying more pressure than any person should ever have to carry. i’m proud of you, joe, i’m so proud it hurts, but god, i miss being your safe place. i miss being the thing that made the noise stop. i miss you looking at me like i’m home. because right now it feels like i’m just another obligation you’re trying to get through until the off-season. like if i disappeared tomorrow you’d be… relieved. one less thing to worry about. one less person waiting up. and that terrifies me, because i said yes to forever with you and i meant it with every piece of me, but lately i’m not sure forever still means the same thing to you that it does to me.”

you finally look up at him, tears blurring everything, and your voice drops to something broken and terrifyingly small.

“tell me i’m wrong. please, joe. tell me you still want this. tell me you still want me.”

the silence that follows is deafening, absolute, like the whole world just stopped breathing.

he stares at you for a long beat, and the expression on his face is pure, stunned disbelief. like you just told him the sky was green and the grass was blue. his mouth actually falls open a little, eyes wide and shocked. “what?” he breathes, the word cracking in half.

you can’t look at him, eyes fixed on the floor of the living room, the diamond on your finger catching the dim light every time your hand trembles. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked and raw.

“i didn’t want to say anything,” you start, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around yourself just to keep from shaking apart. “i swore i wouldn’t bring it up, because i know what these months means, i know what the game means, i know you’re under stress right now and the last thing you need is me making it heavier. i’ve been swallowing it for weeks, joe. i’ve been choking it down every single day, telling myself it’s fine, it’s temporary, it’ll pass, but it’s eating me alive from the inside out and i can’t carry it anymore.”

you look down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the lights like it’s trying to blind you.

“this ring… it used to feel like the safest thing in the world. every time i looked at it i remembered that day, remembered you on one knee promising me forever, and it made everything feel steady. but this past month it’s started to feel like a question mark instead of a promise. because the love it’s supposed to remind me of… you haven’t reminded me of that. not with your hands, not with your eyes, not with the way you say my name. nothing. and that terrifies me.”

your voice cracks completely now, tears spilling faster than you can stop them.

“i’m scared i’m not what you want anymore. i’m scared the version of me you fell in love with—the one you couldn’t keep your hands off, the one you looked at like i hung the moon—i’m scared she’s gone for you and you just haven’t figured out how to tell me yet. i spent all day trying to look like her again, smiling for everyone like nothing was wrong… and you didn’t say anything to me, not once. not in the car. not at your parents’ house. not even when we walked through the door just now. i feel invisible, joe. like i’m in the way. like i’m background noise in your life right now, and the ring is the only thing keeping me in the frame.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, on the twinkling lights of the christmas tree, on the faint scuff mark by the coffee table, anywhere but him, because if you look up and see even a flicker of guilt in his face, if you see the truth you’ve been dreading written across those blue eyes, it will absolutely destroy you. you’re terrified that one glance will confirm every poisonous thought that’s been looping in your head for weeks: that he’s been distant because he’s already letting go, that the ring is just a beautiful placeholder until he figures out how to leave, that the man who once looked at you like you were his entire world has quietly decided you’re no longer enough. 

“i miss you so much it hurts to breathe. i miss us. i miss being the person you came home to, not just the person who happens to live here. and i’m so terrified that one day you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t need me waiting at home anymore. that you’re better off without the weight of someone who still wants the version of you that used to choose me first.”

you finally risk a glance at him and it wrecks you.

his face is crumpled, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, the blue almost swallowed by the shine of tears he’s fighting so hard to hold back. his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin, the same way it does when he’s trying not to lose it on the sideline after a bad call. his shoulders are curved forward like the weight of your words just folded him in half. he looks like you reached into his chest and crushed something vital, like you just took a sledgehammer to the one thing he thought he was getting right.

he looks absolutely, utterly destroyed.

and that’s how you know, with a punch straight to your own heart, that you weren’t right at all.

he’s not letting go.

“sweetie…” his voice is wrecked, cracked open and raw, barely above a whisper. “no. no, no, no.” he comes back down the steps slower than you’ve ever seen him move, like the air itself has thickened around him. when he reaches you in the middle of the living room he doesn’t drop to his knees; he just stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne under the dinner still clinging to his shirt, and lifts both hands to cup your face so gently it makes your breath hitch. his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, trembling just enough that you feel it. his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, shining too bright under the christmas lights, and you can see the exact second the tears threaten to spill because he blinks hard, jaw locked tight like he’s physically holding them back. 

“how could you even think that?” the words come out broken, hoarse, like they’re being ripped out of him. “i’m—” he has to stop, throat working, swallowing hard once, twice, three times like he’s choking on the guilt. “i’m so fucking sorry. i didn’t see it. i didn’t see you breaking right in front of me and i hate myself for it. i’ve been so lost in my own head, so terrified of letting the whole damn city down, of letting the team down, of letting my family down, that i let the one person who actually matters down. i let you down. god, sweetheart, i’m an idiot. i’m the biggest idiot on the planet and i don’t deserve you standing here right now. i don’t deserve you at all.”

his voice cracks completely on the last word and this time a tear slips free, sliding down his cheek before he can stop it. he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

“i’ve been a selfish, blind asshole and you have every right to hate me for it. i see it now, i see every single day i made you feel small and i want to burn the film of the last month because none of it matters if you’re hurting because of me.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of your tears is physically painful.

“you think i stopped wanting you? you think i don’t want you? jesus christ, angel, i put a ring on this finger because you’re the only thing i’ve ever been sure of in my entire life.” he lifts your left hand with shaking fingers, presses his lips to the diamond like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched, like he’s trying to pour every apology into that single kiss. “i put it here because i wake up every morning and the first thing i feel is gratitude that you’re still here, that you still let me love you, that you said yes to forever with someone who clearly forgot how to show you what forever means. there is no version of my life without you in it. none. i’m on that field trying not to drown and the only thing keeping my head above water is knowing you’re waiting for me. and i took that for granted. i took you for granted. i’m so fucking sorry. i’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees begging you to forgive me if that’s what it takes.”

his voice breaks again and this time he doesn’t fight the tears, lets them fall as he stares at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“i love you so much it hurts. i love you so much i don’t know how to carry it sometimes. and i fucked up so bad that you think you’re forgettable. you’re not forgettable. you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. you’re my gravity, my center, my home, and i lost sight of that and i’ll never forgive myself for it.”

he kisses you before you can answer, desperate, messy, like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. his mouth crashes into yours with so much need it steals your breath, teeth clacking, noses bumping, a broken sound tearing out of his throat when you kiss him back. he kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like if he can just get close enough he can erase every second he made you doubt. his hands slide from your face to fist in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper, harder, tongue sliding against yours in a way that feels like i’m sorry and please don’t leave and i love you all at once. he only pulls back when you’re both gasping, forehead still pressed to yours, lips brushing with every ragged breath, refusing to let even an inch of space exist between you.

“never again,” he whispers against your mouth, voice raw. “i swear on everything i am, not for one more second.”

he doesn’t let the inch of space last more than a heartbeat. he kisses you again, harder this time, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest as he walks you backward until your spine meets the living-room wall with a soft thud that rattles the framed photo of the two of you from spring hanging beside your head. the glass trembles in its frame but he doesn’t stop, couldn’t stop even if the house caught fire; his mouth is hot and desperate on yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding deep like he’s trying to taste every apology he hasn’t said yet. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg around his hip so he can press himself flush against you, letting you feel exactly how badly he needs you, how hard he already is just from kissing you like his life depends on it. you gasp into his mouth at the pressure and the picture rattles again, louder this time, and you pull back just enough to glance at it, breath coming in shallow pants. he follows your gaze, sees the photo shaking, and lets out a wrecked little laugh against your swollen lips (half apology, half promise) before his eyes lock back on yours, dark and wild.

“bedroom,” he says, voice rough and urgent, already standing and tugging you up with him. “now. i need to show you. words aren’t enough. i need you to feel it.”

the second the door shuts behind you he’s on you again, backing you toward the wall while he tugs impatiently at your dress, cursing under his breath when it catches on your hair. “fuck, why do clothes hate me tonight,” he mutters, voice strained, finally yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere across the room. your panties are next; he practically rips them down your thighs, kneeling to drag them off your ankles, palms dragging up the backs of your legs slow and reverent, like he’s praying. “this dress,” he growls, mouth on your neck, teeth scraping. “been thinking about peeling it off you since you walked downstairs. you looked so fucking beautiful and i was too stupid to tell you.” he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct and he groans, grinding against you so you feel exactly how he is. “feel that? that’s what looking at my future wife does to me. every time. still.”

he turns to hold you up against the wall and just looks at you, chest heaving, eyes raking over you like he’s seeing you for the first time in months. “jesus christ,” he whispers, reverent, almost angry at himself. “how the hell did i go a single day without touching you? without tasting you? i’m the dumbest motherfucker alive. look at you. you’re fucking perfect and i left you thinking you weren’t everything to me.”

you start to answer but he kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing the sound. it’s the kind of kiss that shuts your brain off, that says mine without words, that says i’m sorry and i love you and never again all at once. his tongue slides against yours slow and deep, tasting you like he’s memorizing you all over again.

he walks with you, putting you down until your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pushing you down gently, climbing over you. his big hands gather your wrists and pin them above your head, careful but firm, and he stares down at you like you’re not just a person but his favorite story—one he’s been rereading since the day he met you and still keeps finding new parts to fall in love with.

“gonna show you exactly how much i want you,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “gonna take my time. you deserve to feel it. every second of it. gonna worship you until the only thing in your head is how much i fucking love you. gonna make you feel every single thing i should’ve shown you today,” he whispers against your lips, voice ragged, eyes locked on yours like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks. “every single thing i should’ve shown you yesterday, last week, every damn day i let you feel alone. swear to god, honey, if you let me, i’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. every morning, every night, every second in between, you’re gonna know exactly how wanted you are. how loved. how fucking necessary you are to me.”

he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing your collarbone before he moves lower. he mouths at the swell of your breast over your bra until you’re arching up, then tugs the cups down with his teeth so he can get to your skin. his tongue flicks over your nipple and you whimper, the sound high and needy. he spends forever there, switching sides, sucking dark marks into your skin like he’s trying to write his name across your chest in a language only he can read. he bites down gently and you cry out, hips bucking, and he soothes the sting with his tongue immediately. “should’ve had my hands on you in the car,” he murmurs, nipping some more. “should’ve pulled over and fucked you in the backseat just to hear you scream my name where anyone could hear. should’ve introduced you to every person today as my fiancée and then spent the whole dinner with my hand up your thigh reminding you who you belong to.”

“still with me, sweetie?” he asks, voice gravel-rough, eyes searching yours.

you nod, but he shakes his head, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“words, honey. need to hear you.”

“yes,” you manage, voice shaky. “please, joe. need you.”

“such a good girl,” he praises, and the sound you make is embarrassing, a broken little whine that makes him smirk, dark and pleased. “my good girl. been neglecting you. not happening again.”

he slides down your body, hands spreading your thighs wide and just looks for a long moment, cursing low and filthy under his breath. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” he says, voice cracking a little. “and it’s mine. been mine for years and i still can’t believe you let me have it. still thank god every day you chose me. you're gonna be mine in every way. forever.”

he peppers soft kisses across your stomach, lips dragging slow, worshipful, lingering over the faint stretch marks on your hips, the little scar from when you were eight, every imperfection he’s kissed a thousand times and still finds new ways to love. he kisses lower, lower, until he’s nuzzling the crease of your thigh, breathing you in like he’s been deprived of oxygen.

“smell so fucking good,” he groans, voice muffled against your skin. “been dreaming about this. about you. about how wet you get for me.”

when he finally licks a slow stripe up your center you cry out, hips bucking off the bed. he pins your hips down with one forearm across your lower belly and does it again, slower, savoring every shudder. he circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, teasing until your thighs are shaking around his ears. when he finally wraps his lips around it and sucks gently you see stars, back bowing off the mattress.

“joe—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “say my name. wanna hear it. wanna hear how good i make you feel.”

his hand slides up your stomach, finding yours and lacing your fingers together while he works you over with his mouth. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, until you’re begging, voice cracked and desperate, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “this hand,” he says, breaking away to kiss your knuckles, your ring. “this hand is gonna wear my wedding band one day. gonna hold our babies. gonna hold mine when we’re old and gray. you’re mine for eternity.”

“joe, please—need to come—please—”

he pulls back just long enough to speak against your slick skin, breath hot. “i know, sweetie. i got you. not letting you go without it again. but i need you to know—this is mine. this pussy, these sounds, the way you shake when you’re about to come—it’s all mine. and i’m yours. completely fucking yours.”

two fingers slide inside you easy—you’re so wet it’s obscene—and he groans like he’s the one getting tortured. he curls them slow, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps that same lazy rhythm with his tongue on your clit.

“there we go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl. feel how much i want you? could do this for hours. love tasting you when you’re all worked up for me. love how sweet you get when you’ve been missing me. love how you clench around my fingers when i talk dirty to you.”

he picks up the pace just enough to have you gasping, then slows again, adding a third finger and stretching you open while he watches your face like it’s the only play that matters. he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, then slides them back in slow, rubbing your clit nice and slow with his thumb while he keeps going with the filthy praise like he’s not knuckle-deep inside you.

“look at you,” he whispers, voice cracked open with awe, eyes shining like he’s staring at something holy. his hand slides up your thighs slow, reverent, thumbs tracing the faint stretch marks he’s kissed a thousand times like they’re constellations he mapped himself. “taking me so pretty… god, honey, you’re the prettiest, most perfect girl in the world.” he leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your heart, lingers there like he’s listening to it beat his name. “there’s no galaxy or lifetime where i don’t want you like this, dripping for me, shaking for me, letting me love you exactly how you deserve.”

his forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, curls tickling your skin. “i’d lose my fucking mind if you weren’t here to keep me grounded. you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything else is falling apart. you’re my center, angel. my gravity. my home.” he cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek like you’re something infinitely fragile and infinitely his. “every time i look at this ring on your finger i remember, remember how the sea stopped moving the second you said yes. i remember thinking i’d never feel anything bigger than that moment… but then i remember every single night before that moment and every single morning after, every time i’ve fallen asleep with you curled against my chest, every sunrise i’ve watched with your head on my shoulder, every quiet 3 a.m. when the house is silent and i can hear your heartbeat next to mine. i remember every ordinary tuesday when you kissed me goodbye before practice and every random sunday when we never left the bed. all of it, every second we’ve ever stolen just for us, and i realize then wasn’t the peak. it was only the beginning. the real forever is every breath we’ve already shared and still get to share, every time you let me back in even when i’m too dumb to deserve it, every morning you choose me again. and i swear, baby, i’m choosing you right back, harder every single day.”

he kisses you soft and slow, like he’s sealing every word against your lips. “i’m never letting you forget this again. never letting you feel anything less than completely, stupidly, overwhelmingly loved.”

he crooks his fingers harder and your hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat. he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps that perfect, relentless pressure inside you while his voice drops to that low, reverent rasp that always undoes you.

“i’m so fucking obsessed with you it scares me sometimes,” he murmurs his face leaving your and trailing close to your thigh, eyes locked on yours still like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. “i’m in meetings trying to focus on film and still end up replaying the way you laughed at breakfast, the way you say my name when you’re sleepy, every little thing. every time we’re out somewhere and i catch some guy looking at you too long i have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds because all i want to do is pull you against me and kiss you stupid right there in front of the whole world so they know exactly who you belong to, who gets to take you home. every single play i call, every hit i take, every second on that field, i’m playing for the clock to run down so i can get back here to you. i’m playing for the life waiting at home, for the girl who wears my name and still chooses me even when i forget how to choose her back. i don’t deserve you waiting up, don’t deserve you loving me through every mistake, but god, baby, i’m never gonna stop trying to earn it. never gonna stop trying to be the man who deserves to come home to you.”

you tilt your head up, pretending to think, even as you’re clenching around his fingers just to watch him falter. “oh, so that’s why you’ve been so good at ignoring me lately?” you tease, voice breathy and sweet. “saving up all that obsession for the poor guys who dare look at me for two seconds? cute. real cute, burrow. maybe next time you’re too busy to touch me for weeks you can just rent a billboard downtown: ‘property of joe—look and you die.’ would’ve saved me a lot of wondering if you even remembered my name.” you roll your hips slow, deliberate, smirking when his jaw ticks. “or maybe—just a thought—you could try reminding me in person instead of growling at strangers like a possessive caveman who forgot how to use his words… or his hands… or his—”

he cuts you off with a low, dangerous sound and another deep curl of his fingers that has your bratty little speech dissolving into a whimper. “keep talking, baby,” he mutters, eyes dark and delighted. “i’ve got all night to turn that attitude into my name on repeat.”

you gasp, trying to hold onto the last thread of your attitude even as your thighs start trembling around his shoulders. “you’re real proud of yourself right now, huh?” you manage, voice wobbling but still sharp at the edges. “acting like you can just—oh fuck—just flip a switch and i’ll forget the last month of radio silence. newsflash, burrow, possession is ninety percent follow-through and you’ve been slacking on the—”

he cuts you off with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that makes your hips jerk clean off the mattress. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips are shiny, eyes glittering with that cocky, adoring look that always ruins you.

“this pussy was made for me,” he growls, voice rough and reverent all at once, curling his fingers slow and perfect so you feel every word in your spine. “every single sound you make when you’re falling apart, every shiver, every time you clench around me like you can’t get close enough, mine. you’ve always been mine, baby, since the first night you let me touch you, since the first morning you woke up smiling in my bed, since the second you said yes and every second after. you’re mine when you’re laughing at my stupid jokes, mine when you’re mad at me, mine when you’re wearing my shirts and planning our forever. and i’m yours, every inch of me, every thought in my head, every beat of this heart that only knows how to beat for you. i was an idiot for ever letting you forget it, but i’m here now, and i’m never leaving again. say it, sweetie. tell me you’re mine, tell me you feel it, because i need to hear it while i’m buried inside the only home i’ve ever wanted.”

he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, eyes dark and glassy, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

“tell me something, baby…” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word, fingers still buried deep and unmoving like he’s holding your entire world hostage. “when i was being a fucking idiot, too wrapped up in rehab and film to take care of my girl… did you ever touch yourself thinking about me?”

you swallow hard, cheeks burning even though he’s literally inside you right now. “and if i did?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice steady even while your hips twitch for more.

his eyes flare, possessive and wrecked all at once. “then i wanna hear every detail,” he rasps, slowly dragging his fingers out and pushing back in like a threat and a promise. “wanna know exactly how you fucked yourself on those pretty fingers pretending they were mine. wanna know if you said my name when you came, if you cried because it wasn’t enough, if you hated me a little for not being here to watch. tell me, sweetheart. because every single time you did? that was still mine. you were still mine. and i’m about to spend the rest of my life making up for every second i left you needy.”

you bite your lip so hard it stings, but the words spill out anyway, raw and breathless against his waiting mouth.

“yes—” you gasp, the word breaking on a moan as his fingers shift inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every syllable you give him. “almost every night you came home late—” another broken breath, hips jerking when he curls them just right, “—and fell asleep facing the wall… fuck, joe—” you swallow hard, thighs trembling around his hand. “i’d wait until your breathing evened out,” you whisper, voice hitching as he presses deeper, “then slip my hand under the covers and pretend—oh god—pretend it was you.” a soft, desperate whimper slips out when he circles that spot again. “sometimes i couldn’t even stay in our bed,” you manage, nails digging into his shoulders, “i’d sneak down the hall to the guest room like a guilty teenager—mmh—or lock myself in the shower so the water would drown me out—” your breath catches on a sob-moan as his thumb brushes your clit, “pressing my face against the tile while i got myself off thinking about you pinning me to that same wall months ago.” he crooks his fingers hard and you cry out, back arching. “i’d come biting the pillow—” another broken moan, “or my own fist, or nothing at all because it felt so good and so fucking empty at the same time—” your voice cracks completely, tears and pleasure tangling together. “and yeah, sometimes i hated you a little for making me hide in my own house just to feel something,” you pant, rocking helplessly against his hand, “but i still whispered your name every single time i fell apart—quiet, desperate, pissed off—because even when you forgot me, my body wouldn’t let me forget who it belongs to.”

his fingers are still buried deep inside you, unmoving now, like he’s too wrecked to even remember how to breathe, let alone pull out. it’s like the air just got sucked out of the room. his eyes darken to something feral and heartbroken at the same time, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. a low, wounded sound rips out of his throat, half growl, half sob, and his hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough that you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow.

“jesus fucking christ,” he rasps, voice shredded, forehead dropping to your stomach like he’s praying for forgiveness against your skin. his shoulders shake once, twice, and when he looks back up his lashes are wet. “you were hiding in our own house… sneaking off to the guest room, locking the shower door… touching this perfect pussy alone because i made you think you couldn’t have me?” his fingers curl suddenly, punishing and pleading, pressing right against that spot that makes your back arch and your breath hitch. “baby, i’m—” his voice splinters completely, “i’m so fucking sorry. i hate myself for every single time you had to do this without me.”

he drags you down so you’re chest to chest, fingers still buried to the hilt like he’s terrified if he lets go you’ll disappear, burying his face in your neck, breath hitching against your skin. “never again” he swears, hoarse and wrecked, hand rocking just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still yours.. “you hear me? never fucking again. from now on you want me at 3 a.m., you take me. you want me in the shower, the guest room, the goddamn driveway, you take me. i’m yours to love whenever you need, however you need. i owe you a thousand orgasms just for the ones i left you crying through alone.” his hips roll up slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how your confession made him. “and starting right now i’m paying that debt with interest, sweetheart. every single one.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and wrecked, thumb brushing the tears from your cheek like they’re burning him. “let me hear it, baby,” he whispers, voice raw and pleading, fingers curling slow and deep inside you like he’s coaxing the words out with every stroke. “tell me again. tell me while i’m right here, while i’m never leaving again. i need it like air.”

“yours,” you sob, the word ripping out of you like it’s been waiting weeks to be set free, tears slipping hot down your temples into your hair. “i’m yours, joe, always yours—only yours—please—” your voice cracks on the plea, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, fingers twisted so tight in his curls it has to sting. “i never stopped being yours even when you forgot to look at me, even when i felt invis– i was still yours, still waiting, still so stupidly in love with you it hurts. please don’t make me wait anymore, please let me feel it, let me feel you, let me have you back—” another broken moan spills out as he sucks your clit just right and the last of your pride crumbles. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m yours—”

“good girl,” he growls, the praise rumbling dark and possessive against your skin, and then there’s no more teasing, no more mercy. he sucks your clit hard, relentless, fingers driving into you fast and deep, curling exactly where you need until the pleasure crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun. you come with his name tearing out of your throat, raw, broken, desperate, clenching around his fingers so tight your whole body shakes with it. he moans right into you, the vibration dragging it out longer, filthier, until your legs are trembling around his shoulders and tears slip hot down your temples into your hair. he doesn’t stop until you’re boneless, gasping, chest heaving, every aftershock making you twitch against his tongue like he’s wringing the last of the loneliness out of you with every gentle lick. only then does he ease off, pressing one final soft kiss to your clit like a promise before crawling back up your body, eyes shining with awe and apology and so much love it steals whatever breath you had left.

he kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you taste exactly how much he missed you, and you’re already chasing his mouth, hands frantic as they slide down his body. you palm him through the thin fabric of his pants and the second you squeeze he hisses into the kiss, hips bucking helplessly into your hand, a broken “fuck, baby—” spilling against your lips like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

“off,” you whisper, voice wrecked and needy, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it’s personally offended you.

he stills for half a second, smirking down at you with that lazy, infuriating cockiness. “off? that’s the best you got right now, baby? thought you were mad at me. where’s all that pretty attitude gone?”

you glare up at him, or try to through the haze, and give the fabric another impatient yank. “joe, i swear to god, if you don’t get these off in the next three seconds—”

he laughs under his breath, low and fond, finally hooking his thumbs in and shoving them down. “yes ma’am,” he teases, kicking them off the bed with zero ceremony.

the second he’s bare you wrap your hand around him, hot and hard and perfect in your palm, and he drops his forehead to yours instantly, a broken groan rumbling out of his chest.

“honey—fuck—” he breathes, the name slipping out shaky and raw, like you just stole every ounce of air he had left.

“want you inside me,” you say, voice wrecked. “now. please. need to feel you.”

he lines up, nudging your entrance, and pauses, breathing ragged. “is this okay?” he asks, voice strained but deadly serious, eyes searching yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me you want this. tell me you know how much i love you.”

you cup his face, thumbs brushing the dampness at the corners of his eyes you pretend not to notice. “i know,” you breathe, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “i know, joe. i feel it. i love you too—so much it scares me sometimes. i want you. i’ve always wanted you. please.”

he pushes in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. when he bottoms out you both groan, the sound punched out of him. he stays still for a second, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours, breathing each other in.

“feel how perfect we fit?” he whispers, voice raw and trembling against your ear, one big hand sliding down to lace his fingers through yours and press them into the pillow beside your head. “feel me all the way inside you, baby? that’s where i belong. that’s my home. right there, buried in you, as deep as i can get.” his hips give the tiniest roll, just enough to make you both shudder, and he breathes out like he’s confessing a secret he’s kept for years. “that’s how much i love you—so deep it’s carved into my fucking bones, etched into every breath i take, every second i’m alive. you’re my home, honey. you’re the only place i ever want to be.”

then he starts moving—long, deep strokes that have you wrapping your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his back. he pins your wrists again, lacing your fingers with his, and fucks you like he’s trying to make up for every missed second of the last month. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady rhythm and neither of you care.

you turn your head and bury your face in his neck, kissing the sweat-slick skin there, sucking a mark under his jaw while he hits that spot inside you over and over. your teeth graze his throat and he shudders, pace faltering for a second.

“love you,” you mumble against his throat, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “love you so much. don’t ever leave me out again. promise me.”

“never,” he growls, hips snapping harder. “never fucking again. you’re my priority. my everything. i swear on my life.” 

he slows just enough to untangle one hand from yours, lifts his pinky in the dim light between you, eyes locked on yours, raw and open and desperate.

“pinky promise,” he whispers, voice cracking on the words like he’s five years old again and this is the most sacred oath he knows how to give.

you hook your pinky around his without hesitation, the tiny, childish gesture somehow heavier than any vow he’s ever made. he squeezes tight, presses his forehead to yours, and thrusts deep again like he’s sealing it inside you.

you can tell he’s right there, jaw locked, eyes blown black, breath ragged against your neck. he tries to speak, voice cracking on the single word “shit—”, but you beat him to it, tightening your legs around his waist and dragging him impossibly deeper.

you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let the words spill out filthy and breathless.

“did you like going all these nights without me, baby?” you whisper, clenching around him hard just to watch his eyes roll back. “you forgot about me for weeks… poor thing, your testosterone probably hit a record high, huh? bet you were aching, dying to come home and… i’m so mad i should be, but it’s okay… we all have our moments…” another deliberate squeeze, another broken sound ripping from his throat. “look at you now… my fiancé finally remembered who he was… remembered who he belongs to.”

that’s all it takes.

he buries himself deep and comes with your name on his lips, pulsing hot inside you, hips jerking as he empties himself. the feeling tips you over again and you follow him, clinging to him while you both shake apart, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents.

after, he doesn’t pull out right away. just collapses half on top of you, face tucked into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there while you both catch your breath. his weight is perfect, grounding, and you wrap your arms around him tight, like if you let go he’ll disappear.

you hold his face in your hands eventually and kiss him tender and slow, trying to pour everything you feel into it—relief, love, forgiveness, need. he kisses back like he’s drowning and you’re air, like he’s trying to say i’m sorry with every stroke of his tongue.

eventually he slips out and rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back, up and down your spine, over the marks he left.

he presses his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s scared the moment will vanish if he lets go. “not one more time,” he whispers, voice scraped raw, lips brushing your temple with every word. “i swear on every single day i get to wake up next to you, i'm not letting that happen.”

you laugh, soft and watery, the sound muffled against the warm skin of his neck. “i’m not going anywhere, joe. i just need you to come back to me when you’re here.”

he pulls back just enough to cradle your face in both hands, thumbs stroking slow across your cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of your tears. his eyes are red, shining, impossibly gentle. “i’m here. i’m so here. you’re my priority, honey. always were, even when i was too stupid to act like it. football’s just background noise. you’re the song i want stuck in my head for the rest of my life.”

he kisses you slow, tender, like he’s tasting the words he didn’t say soon enough, i’m sorry, i see you, i love you, stay. when he pulls away his forehead stays against yours, noses brushing, sharing the same shaky breath.

“you’re the thing i’m building everything else around,” he murmurs, voice thick. “every loss, every win, every waking moment, every single tomorrow. i lost my way for a minute, but i’m home now. you’re my home.”

he shifts, guiding you until you’re half-draped across his chest, one of his hands sliding down to lace your fingers together, the ring on your hand pressed right over his heart. he brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles, then the diamond, then the center of your palm like he’s sealing every promise against your skin.

“happy thanksgiving, future mrs. burrow,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last two words, eyes shining with everything he still can’t fit into sentences. “thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am.”

you curl closer, ear over his heartbeat, feeling it slow and steady beneath you like it’s finally calm because you’re back in his arms. he wraps you up tight, legs tangled, one hand stroking your back in slow, endless circles, the other still holding yours against his chest.

you fall asleep like that, his lips resting against your forehead, your name the last quiet prayer on his breath before the world fades out. 

joe stays awake long after, counting the soft puffs of your breath against his only lullaby, holding you so close it’s like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together so nothing can ever slip between you again.

the room is dark except for the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table bleeding through the crack in the night, and in that dim gold light he lets himself fall apart.

he knew something was wrong the second the season swallowed him whole, but he lied to himself every single day, told himself you were fine, told himself the quiet in the house was just exhaustion, told himself the way you stopped reaching for him in the middle of the night was nothing. he felt it in his bones that weren’t breaking on the field but were cracking somewhere deeper: every practice that ran long and left him hollow, every film session where he stared at the screen and saw your face instead of routes, every night he came home and kissed your temple like it was enough when you were starving for more.

he felt empty and didn’t know why until you stood in the living room with tears on your cheeks and the ring catching the lights like it was screaming at him, and you said i feel like you don’t want me anymore and the words punched straight through his ribs and shattered something he didn’t even know could break.

he replays it on a hundred times, the crack in your voice, the way your hands shook, the way you looked at the floor like you were scared his face would confirm every fear you’d been carrying alone and every single replay feels like taking a blindside hit he never saw coming. the strongest guy in the stadium, and he didn’t notice his entire world was slipping out of his hands.

he presses his face into your hair and breathes you in until his lungs hurt, tears slipping silent and hot into your curls because he almost lost this, almost lost you, and the worst part is he did it to himself. he let the noise get louder than your heartbeat, let the game matter more than his girl. he was dying out there every day and too stupid to realize the cure was asleep in his bed waiting for him to remember how to come home.

he swears it against your skin, over and over, a vow quieter than a whisper and heavier than any contract he’s ever signed: never again. he’ll be late to meetings, he’ll skip film, he’ll throw his phone in the fucking river if that’s what it takes. he’ll wake you up with his mouth somewhere between your neck or your lips on random tuesdays, carry you to the kitchen at 2 a.m. because you mentioned craving cereal, wear your name where the whole world can see it if that’s what keeps you from ever doubting again. whatever it takes.

he tightens his arms until there’s no space left between your heart and his, feels the steady thump under your ribs sync with his own, and makes the promise one more time, this one out loud, even though you’re asleep, because he needs the universe to hear it.

“i choose you,” he breathes into the dark, voice cracking on every word. “every day. every second. forever starts right now, baby. and i’m never letting you forget it again.”

───

the next morning you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet—chocolate and butter and warm sugar. the bed’s empty but still warm where he was, sheets tangled around your legs. you hear clinking downstairs and the low hum of music—some old r&b playlist he knows you love, the one you played the very first night you ever stayed over. you pad downstairs in nothing but his t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and find him at the stove in low-slung gray sweats, flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world.

there’s a tray on the counter already loaded—fresh coffee in your favorite mug, orange juice in the glass with the little chipped handle you refuse to throw away, crispy bacon, strawberries sliced into perfect little hearts because he’s a sap, warm syrup in a little pitcher. he turns when he hears your bare feet on the hardwood and smiles soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from the stove.

“morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “go back to bed, i was gonna bring it up. wanted to wake you up properly.”

you ignore him completely and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades. he smells like maple and warm skin and home. you breathe him in and feel something inside your chest unclench, finally.

“made your favorite,” he says, flipping another pancake. “extra chocolate chips because i’m trying to bribe my way out of the doghouse. and because i like the way you lick the extra chocolate off your fingers. and your lips. and my–.”

you slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish, and lean up to kiss the back of his neck to stop him, right over the little mark you left last night. “you’re already out. way out.” 

he makes a muffled, offended sound against your palm, eyes going wide and innocent. you pull your hand away just enough for him to speak.

“why’d you cut me off?” he whines, spinning around with the spatula still in his hand, cheeks flushed. “i was about to say something so sweet.”

“sure you were,” you tease, nipping the same spot you just kissed. “that’s exactly what it sounded like.”

he turns the stove off, letting go of the spatula and lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. he steps between your legs and cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes searching yours.

“how’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low, serious. “sore? need anything? i wasn’t exactly gentle last night. or this morning in my head like fifty times already.”

“i’m perfect,” you say, leaning into his touch. “last night was… everything. this morning is everything.”

“yeah,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “it was. you have no idea how much i needed to hear you say my name like that again. needed to feel you come apart on me, needed to remind you who you belong to. who i belong to.”

he kisses you slow, morning-sweet, tasting like coffee and chocolate and him. “i wrote you something,” he mumbles against your lips, suddenly shy. he reaches behind him and pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his sweats, cheeks pink.

you raise an eyebrow. “you wrote me a letter? joseph lee burrow, quarterback heartthrob, wrote me a love letter?”

“shut up, i’m being romantic,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. “i couldn’t sleep after you passed out. needed to get it out. needed you to have it in my handwriting so you can read it whenever you start to doubt again. which you never will, because i’m never giving you a reason.”

you unfold it. it’s three whole pages stapled in his messy quarterback handwriting—apologies that make your throat tight, promises that make your chest ache, little memories from the past four years that make you smile through tears. he wrote about the first time you fell asleep on his chest during a movie, how he knew right then he was done for. about the way you laugh at his stupid jokes even when they’re not funny. about how you made his house start to feel like a home when you moved in instead of just a place he crashes between games. about how he replays the sound of you saying his name when you come through the door after work, how it gets him through the worst days. about how he can’t wait to marry you, how much he loves the ring on your finger and the future babies in your belly and grow old with you on the porch of the house you’ll pick out together. over and over, in bigger and bigger letters like he ran out of room for how huge it feels, he keeps writing i’m so thankful for you—thank you for choosing me, thank you for staying when i didn’t deserve it, thank you for being my safe place, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am, thank you for every single day you give me, i don’t know what i did to deserve you but i’m thankful every breath that you’re mine—and at the very bottom there’s that very bad but heartbreakingly sweet stick-figure drawing of the two of you at the altar, him in a crooked bow tie, you in a scribbled veil and triangle dress, both of you with giant heart eyes and huge grins and little hearts exploding above your heads like he physically couldn’t fit all the love on the page, and underneath in the tiniest, neatest letters he could manage: happy (late) thanksgiving, baby—thank you for being the best thing i’ve ever been grateful for. i’ll never stop saying it.

you laugh, eyes stinging, and he watches your face like it’s the super bowl and fourth quarter all at once.

“i love you,” you say, pulling him in by his shirt. “so much. thank you.”

“love you more,” he whispers. “and i’m gonna spend every day making sure you never doubt it again. starting with feeding you in bed, then eating you for dessert.”

he carries the tray upstairs like you’re something precious, sets it on the bed, and climbs in after you. you eat breakfast tangled together, feeding each other strawberries and licking syrup off fingers, talking about everything and nothing. he tells you about the rookie who keeps asking if you’re single because he saw you on his ig once and joe almost fought him in the weight room. you tell him about the ridiculous thirst tweets you saw about him and he pretends to be mad but mostly looks smug, ears red.

“they don’t even know,” he mutters, sucking syrup off your thumb slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours. “don’t know how you sound when you’re begging. how you look when you’re riding me. how you taste when you come on my tongue. how tight you get when i’m fucking you and telling you you’re mine. all mine.”

you shiver and he notices, smirks, already thinking of some unholy things.

when the plates are empty he takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand, then pulls you back down into the sheets, kissing your shoulder. “round two for breakfast?” he asks, voice low and already rough again, hand sliding up your thigh and under the t-shirt. “or should i just skip to dessert and eat this pretty pussy again?”

you roll over and straddle him, grinning. “thought you’d never ask.”

he’s already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats, and you grind down slow, watching his eyes flutter. he groans and grips your hips, guiding you in a lazy roll that has you both breathing harder.

you start talking the second you’re settled on top of him, words spilling out between little laughs and gasps. “wait, did you hear your aunt linda last night? she cornered me about the venue thing for like twenty minutes and then your cousin megan told me she already booked her flights for june twenty-seventh even though we haven’t even picked a date yet, and—”

he makes a desperate little noise against your stomach, mouthing at the hem of the t-shirt. “honey,” he mumbles, voice muffled, trying to nudge your hips up.

“hmm?”

“angel,” he says again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your lower belly, “as much as i love you and your pretty voice and literally everything that comes out of your mouth… can we stop talking about wedding talk for just, like, five minutes? i’m trying to have a experience here and it’s got nothing to do with venues.”

you smirk down at him. “why? i thought you wanted to marry me.”

“i do,” he says instantly, eyes going soft for half a second before the mischief comes back. “but right now i’m trying to worship at a very different altar.”

you burst out laughing. “oh my god, you’re disgusting.”

“disgustingly in love with you,” he corrects, then hooks his arms under your thighs and drags you up his chest in one smooth move. “now c’mere and let me show you my vows, future mrs. burrow.”

he buries his mouth between your legs like the conversation never happened. the first slow, deliberate lick rips whatever smart comeback you had right out of you; your hands fly to his hair and whatever you were saying about centerpieces dissolves into a broken moan.

“take this off,” he growls a minute later, voice wrecked and impatient, tugging at the t-shirt still bunched around your waist. you yank it over your head and toss it somewhere across the room, and his hands are on your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re rocking against his tongue faster.

“want you,” you whisper, reaching down to shove his sweats off. he lifts his hips to help, and then he’s bare underneath you, thick and hot against your thigh.

you sink down on him slow, both of you moaning at the stretch. he fills you perfectly, like he was made for you, and you brace your hands on his chest as you start to move.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice cracking like he’s praying, eyes fixed on where you’re joined like it’s the holiest thing he’s ever witnessed. his hands slide up your thighs, reverent, thumbs tracing the little dimples at the tops like he’s reading an alphabet that spells out forever. “look at you… taking me so well. always so good for me. my perfect girl. my future wife.”

he lifts one of your hands from his chest, moves it flat over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s hammering, then brings your ring finger to his lips and kisses it.

“gonna watch you walk down the aisle in whatever dress you pick and know this exact feeling is waiting for me at the end of it,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep so you feel every inch of the promise. “gonna stand there trying not to cry like an idiot while you become my wife, knowing this, this heart, this life, it’s all mine forever. and i’m yours, baby. every day, every night, every breath. i’m so fucking in love with you it doesn’t fit inside my chest anymore.”

his words settle warm in your ribs, and you answer them the only way you can right now—by moving, slow and deliberate, riding him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of his promises inside your body. you start gentle, savoring every drag, every time he slides home and your toes curl against the sheets. his hands never stop touching you, roaming like he’s scared to miss a single inch: up your thighs, tracing the curve of your hips, gliding over your stomach, cupping your breasts with reverent palms, thumbs brushing your nipples until your breath stutters and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning his name too loud.

he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you chest to chest. the angle changes and you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. he kisses you deep, swallowing the sound, then trails his mouth down your neck, sucking another mark right over your pulse.

“love how you feel,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. “love how you look when you’re riding me. love the little sounds you make when i’m deep inside you. love that i get to wake up to this. to you. love that you’re gonna be the mother of my kids one day. love everything about you.”

you speed up, chasing the heat building low in your belly, and he meets you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up. the room fills with the slap of skin on skin, your breathy moans, his low groans.

“touch yourself,” he says, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you milk me when you come.”

you slide a hand between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and he watches like he’s starving, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“that’s it,” he praises, voice shaking. “make yourself come on my cock, baby. wanna feel it. wanna feel you squeeze me while you say my name. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“you,” you gasp, so close. “belongs to you, joe—only you—fuck—”

it doesn’t take long—you’re already close from the way he’s looking at you, from the way he’s filling you over and over, from the way he’s holding you like you’re the only thing that matters. you come with a broken cry, clenching around him hard, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he spills inside you again, arms locked tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.

you collapse together, sweaty and breathless, his face buried in your neck. he presses lazy kisses there, mumbling nonsense about how perfect you are, how he’s never letting you go, how he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

later, after you’ve dozed tangled together, he wakes you with soft kisses down your spine. you’re on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and he’s tracing the marks he left last night with his tongue like he’s reading a newspaper.

“morning again,” he whispers against the small of your back, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, something that sounds like regret and wonder all at once. “think i owe you one more apology. maybe a hundred more. maybe a lifetime of them.”

you hum, still half-lost in dreams, and he presses a soft kiss to the base of your spine, then another higher, trailing slow, reverent kisses up the line of your back until he reaches your shoulder. he tugs you gently onto your side so you’re facing him, pulls the blanket higher around both of you, and tucks you against his chest like you’re something infinitely precious.

“gonna keep you right here all day,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and warm. “gonna order whatever you want, watch whatever dumb movie you pick, hold you until you forget what distance even feels like. until the only thing in your head is how much i love you. how stupid i was. how i’m never taking a single second of you for granted again.”

you laugh softly, breathless, curling closer. “promise?”

“promise,” he says, pressing the word into your forehead like a vow. “starting now. and tomorrow. and every single day after that. you’re my forever, baby. and i’m yours.”

and he does.

he keeps the world outside the bedroom door all day. he makes you laugh with terrible impressions of his uncles from yesterday, feeds you leftover pie straight from the fridge while you sit on the counter in his hoodie, lets you pick the cheesiest christmas movie on netflix and quotes every line just to watch your eyes light up. he traces the marks he left on your neck like they’re constellations he’s proud to have drawn, kisses every one of them soft and slow, whispering “mine” and “i’m sorry” and “i love you” in the same breath.

when the sun starts to set he pulls you into his lap on the couch, wraps a blanket around both of you, and just holds you while the sky turns pink and gold outside the windows. his fingers never stop moving—drawing circles on your back, threading through yours, brushing your hair from your face so he can kiss your temple again and again.

“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he still hasn’t said tonight, fingers laced through yours and pressed over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s beating for you. “and i’ve already got plans for us, baby, real ones. booked a cabin in lake tahoe the second i woke up—cozy, middle of nowhere, big fireplace, maybe snowed in for a whole week with nothing but you and me and whatever we feel like doing to each other under a million blankets.” he gives you that look, slow, filthy, promising, the one that says he’s already pictured you naked on a bearskin rug at least fifty times. “then after that, i found time and i’m flying us straight to your parents’ house because i miss your mom’s pumpkin bars like crazy and i wanna sit at their kitchen counter and let your dad grill me about wedding stuff while i hold your hand for comfort.”

you snort, poking his chest. “you don’t like my pumpkin bars?”

he grins, nipping at your fingertip. “i love yours. love the way you dance around the kitchen in my t-shirt while you make them, love licking the batter off your fingers when you let me. but i also love my mother-in-law and the way she sneaks me extras when you aren’t looking, so i’m playing both sides here.” he kisses your wrist, soft and reverent. “point is, i’ve got a whole calendar planned of just-us days already locked in. no  excuses, no schedule conflicts. just me proving every single day that you’re the only plan i give a damn about.”

“you know i’m never letting you forget this, right?” you murmur into the quiet, voice soft but edged with that familiar bratty spark. “you pulled that shit for a whole month, maybe longer burrow. i’m gonna be crazy about it for years. every time you’re late coming home i’m side-eyeing you. every time you look at your phone too long at dinner i’m kicking you under the table. i’m gonna be the most annoying, clingy, possessive wife ever and you’re just gonna take it because you owe me.”

he laughs, low and wrecked and so relieved it cracks in the middle, pulling you impossibly closer. “good,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing skin like he can’t stop. “be crazy. be annoying. be possessive as hell. mark me up, kick me, glare at me—do whatever you need, baby. just don’t ever stop being mine. i can take it. i want it. i just want you.”

you tilt your head up, catch his eyes in the dark, and smirk. “oh, i’m yours. but you’re about to find out exactly what that means when i’m the one who’s been waiting.”

he groans, half-laugh, half-prayer, and kisses you stupid all over again.

and this time you know without a doubt that tomorrow he’ll still be right here—probably with new bruises from your teeth and a grin that says he wouldn’t have it any other way.

you never could forget it. you never will.

taglist (comment or send an ask to be added!): @softburrow @joeyshiesty0 @savaneafricaine @babygirlburrow @joesheisty9 @irishmanwhore @nanouslibrary @desperate-and-broken @quinnintheabyss @lilfreakjez @nineverce @herbertswomen @averyoceanblvd @piastririots @mruizsworld @renegadebirch @harryweeniee @joeybisbootiful @britt217 @neyessibff

[burrowbby]

under the stove light

summary: past midnight, quiet kitchen, and joe’s hands everywhere but the stove.

it was way past midnight.

you’d done nothing but stir in bed, trying not to wake joe—though he was already half awake himself. every time you shifted, he stirred too.

eventually, you sighed and got up, deciding maybe a snack would help.

of course, you didn’t get far without him. you didn’t even hear him follow you—joe moved like a ghost.

he leaned against the doorway, watching as you looked through cabinets and the fridge, mumbling to yourself. when you paused in front of the pasta, he raised a brow. pasta? at midnight? he almost laughed. he thought you meant a snack—something small, something simple.

but whatever his girl wanted, she got.

you reached for the pot, and before you could even grab it, joe’s voice came from behind you—low, steady. “sit down. i got it.”

“joe,” you sighed, “go back to bed. i’m fine.”

“not happening.”

he moved you aside like he owned the space, setting you on the counter like it was the easiest thing in the world. the marble was cold beneath your thighs, a sharp contrast to how warm you felt watching him take over.

this was joe in his element—quiet, confident, entirely in control.

you watched as he moved around the kitchen, filling the pot, tossing in salt, waiting for it to boil. you noticed the wooden spoons beside you and leaned to grab one, but joe caught the motion, cutting his eyes toward you.

“told you to let me handle it,” he murmured, his voice dropped even lower. “i got it.”

you sat back, whispering, "you're ridiculous. it's just pasta."

"then let me be ridiculous," he said, without missing a beat.

so you stayed there, legs swinging lightly off the counter, watching him move in the soft light of the stove. at some point, he turned off the overhead lights, leaving just that dim glow, painting everything in gold.

when he came over, he stood between your knees, hands settling on your waist like they belonged there. his touch was slow, tracing over your hips, down to your thighs.

“you couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly.

“no.”

“should’ve told me.”

“you were half asleep, joe.”

“so?”

you smiled, shaking your head. “you think i can’t handle boiling noodles?”

he smirked, leaning in closer until his breath hit your jaw. “no, i just like handling things for you.”

his voice was softer now, that low, teasing edge that always got to you. his fingers slipped from your waist to your thighs, tracing slow lines against your skin like he was memorizing it.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” he murmured, smirking as his eyes flicked down to your outfit—one of his old shirts, and not much else.

you laughed under your breath, and that sound alone made him smile. the two of you might’ve stayed like that if not for the faint hiss from the stove. joe groaned, stepping away reluctantly.

“almost burned dinner,” he muttered.

“it’s not dinner,” you teased.

“it is now.”

he reached for the sauces, holding up two jars. “red or white?”

“red.”

“figured,” he said, smirking again as he poured it into the pot.

when it was done, he tested the noodles himself, stirring them once before turning back to you. “taste it,” he said. you reached for the spoon, but he didn’t hand it over—just kept his hand over yours, steady and warm, guiding it to your lips. the spoon brushed against your mouth, his eyes on you the whole time.

“good?” he asked quietly.

you nodded, and he smiled, slow and knowing. “told you. worth waiting for.”

by the time you were finished eating, you realized he'd done it all without complaint. just quiet care—his hand resting on your knee as you sat on the counter, sharing a plate under the soft stove light.

"at least let me wash the dishes?" you asked, biting back a smile because you already knew the answer.

"no chance."