Joe Burrow… a name that would send shivers down your spine, you know the good kind? You see, the man was one of the biggest OF pornstars. He was everything you could ever desire in a man-muscular, standing tall at 6’4”, and a dick so big and girthy, it leaves you sore for days. He went by icedveinsafterdark across all platforms. The videos he made weren’t basic porn, it was art and the content was a wide variety of different styles. Sometimes he would be going solo or collaborating with other OF creators, but there was a rare chance that he would make a video with a lucky fan and just so happens, that day would be our main character’s lucky day.
Alex and her friends Yvonne and Jay were in downtown Cincinnati for brunch when she received the DM from the pornstar on Twitter. They were in mid conversation when her phone went off with a new notification.
“Alex, I thought we agreed to a no phone brunch,” pointed out Yvonne.
“I’m sorry but look at who just sent me a DM?” She replied, eyes filled with excitement.
“Alright, show us who and then it’s back to no phones.” Jay said.
Alex handed her phone to her friends and their eyes went wide.
“I know we said a no phones brunch,” said Yvonne. “But bitch you need to answer that DM right fucking now!”
“Yeah,” Jay agreed. “Girl, you got a pornstar dming you and not just any ordinary pornstar. You got Joe Fucking Burrow.”
“Oh but I’m a little nervous,” Alex hesitated. “I mean he’s like the most well known pornstar, especially from Cincinnati.”
“Alex, Jay and I are in happy relationships. This is the biggest opportunity and besides, he blurs the fans faces out so you don’t have worry about that.”
“Yvonne’s right, this is an opportunity you shouldn’t avoid. Look just DM him after brunch, I’m sure he had a reason.”
“Ok, I’ll listen to you both and DM him, now can we get back to brunch? My food is getting cold.”
Her two friends nodded and went back to eating.
-
When Alex arrived home, she immediately opened Twitter and went to her DMs and the first thing that greeted her was Joe’s message.
“What a flirt this man is,” said Alex. She was speechless. A pornstar was in her DM, calling her gorgeous. Her fingers hesitated as she tried to figure out how to respond to the flirty comment Joe made. After much though, she figured out what to say.
Did Alex read that right? Was her favorite pornstar asking her to be in a video with him? She was nervous but then she only lived once right? So she went back to typing.
Alex was available this weekend to make the video. Once she told him, Joe sent her the address of where they were filming and what time they will be doing the video. They were set for Saturday at 8pm where they would film at his condo in Downtown Cincinnati.
-
It was Saturday, and Alex was heading to his place a little early to have time to do any touchups. Joe had asked to wear something that was easily to slip on and off for the video along with clothes to put on after, preferably comfy clothes. Joe had sent an uber to come pick her up so she wouldn’t have to worry about gas at the moment. Not gonna lie, she was nervous about being in this video but she kept calm. Well what do you expect from someone who is about to get the best fuck of their life. The uber shortly arrived at the condo and standing there waiting for her was Joe. He was wearing a loose tshirt with grey sweat pants and Alex was already catching print from a distance. Once the driver made a complete stop, Joe opened the door and helped her out the car.
“Goddamn you even more gorgeous in person,” he blushed, already feeling himself get hard. “Let’s inside so we can get started.” They walked into the building and heading up the stairs to his room and the camera was already set up for filming and the NDA on the bed ready to sign.
“You nervous at all?”
“A little,” she said to the pornstar. “I mean I always fantasize about being in a video but now it’s happening.”
"That's understandable Alex, so before we get started, take a deep breath in and out a couple times to calm your nerves. Just let me know when you're ready."
Listening to Joe, she took a couple of deep breaths in and out while Joe began setting. When she was done, she let Joe know so they began filming. He set up the camera while she signed the NDA. Once every thing was set up, they started to film.
*camera begins recording*
The scenario was simple, Alex was going to pretend to Joe's friend and would help her get over a bad breakup.
"Sorry I had to vent all that shit to you," she said. "He was just a really fucked up guy."
"It's all good," he replied. "I had a few bad exes here and there."
"And what's even worse is that I'm having such a hard time getting over him because of how good he fucked me."
That's when Joe smirked and had an idea for her. "What if I help you get over your ex?"
"And how will you do that?"
"What if I can fuck you better than he ever could?"
"Fuck me better than you could?"
"Yeah, I mean what are friends for after all."
"That doesn't seam like a bad idea." She slowly reached her hand over to his pants and began rubbing his semi hard-on making Joe a little breathy. "I bet your bigger than him too."
"See for yourself." Alex slowly pulled sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out and boy was he huge in person.
"You could kill somebody with this thing," she playfully smirked before sliding his cock into her mouth.
"That's it baby," he beathed. "Take me in your mouth nice and slowly." As Alex began sucking Joe's cock, his hand reached over to slowly lifted her dress up and she wasn't wearing anything underneath. He slowly traced his fingers up her thighs until he reached her pussy slightly lubed with slick. "May I have your permission to touch?"
"Mhm," Alex mumbled, mouth full with Joe's cock. With her permission, Joe rubbed his fingers on her clit nice and slow.
"Damn, you're so big," she slightly moaned. "Way bigger than my ex." Alex swirled her tongue around the tip, licking his shaft, making Joe moan.
"Fuck, just like that," He exclaimed. "You suck this cock so good. Fuck I need to taste you."
Alex removed Joe's cock from her mouth and got up from the bed. She slipped out of her sun dress and that laid on her back. Joe followed suit and got his pants all the way off. “Spread your legs for me nice and slowly,” he demanded.
Doing as she was told, Alex spread her legs nice and slowly and Joe was mesmerized how wet she was. He slowly got in between her legs, kissing her thighs until he reached her pussy. “Gotta question for you baby, you a creamer or squirter?” He asked, his breath bringing shivers throughout her body.
“I’m more of a creamer,” she smirked. “But it takes a real man to make me squirt.”
“I guess we will find out today.” Joe’s tongue traced the lips of Alex’s pussy, making her shudder from his touch.
“Oh baby that’s nothing,” he smirked. “Let me show you how a real man does it.” Alex couldn’t hold her upper body up as Joe’s soft tongue swept circles around her wet cunt.
“Oh fuck yes daddy,” she moaned. “Your tongue feels so good on my pussy.”
“You like that?” He murmured. “Is daddy making your pussy feel good?”
Alex couldn’t get the words out due to the amount of pleasure Joe was bringing to her pussy, but Joe could tell that she was feeling good. He then brought two of his fingers up to her pussy and slid them in and out curling them, keeping his tongue nipping and kissing at her clit.
“Oh fuck,” she cried out. Her cunt was slowly gripping his fingers as she approached hitting her high. It didn’t take much for her to squirter all over his face. Alex’s body shuddered from the intense pleasure. “I guess you a better man than my ex.”
“I guess so,” he smirked. “And that was just the beginning. I need you to be face down, ass up for me.”
Following his order, Alex turned over, arching her back nicely for Joe. The pornstar then switched his camera to a first person view camera before moving further.
“Damn, just look at this ass,” he growled, giving Alex’s ass a smack. Oh that was gonna leave a handprint. “It’s so phat and juicy, smack, and this pussy, so pretty for me. How dumb was your ex to fumble you.”
He slowly rubbed the tip of his cock nice and slow before sliding himself inside Alex, making her moan out. “It’s not too big for you, is it?”
“No, it’s just about right for, ahhh.”
Before Alex could get another word out, Joe pistoned his cock in and out of her pussy making her moan into the pillow.
“Nah baby,” he pulled her hair. “Let daddy hear how good he making you feel.”
“Fuck, daddy,” she cried. “You fuck this pussy so fucking good.” Joe watched as his dick stretch her pussy wide because of how big he is.
“Fuck I could stay in the pussy forever,” he rubbed her clit. “Look at you, taking my dick so fucking well for daddy.” Cum began trickling down Alex’s thighs as Joe fucked her, the camera capturing all her lew expressions, which was going to be blurred out later on for when he posts on Onlyfans. She felt her body tingle once again as she felt the wave of her second orgasm coming.
“Oh fuck, daddy, I’m gonna,” she moaned.
“Shhh, I know baby,” he replied. “We’ll come together ok?”
The second wave of her orgasm was much stronger, he slowly came inside her pussy right after. It was a good thing Alex was on birth control. Joe dick slid out making a pop sound as his seed oozed out onto his sheets.
“So did that help with getting over your ex?” He deeply laughed.
“Yeah it did,” she replied. “And I would love to do it again.”
-
After finishing filming Joe helped Alex clean up, putting on her spare clothes and letting her relax before sending an uber to pick her back up
“Here’s some water and some snacks to help replenish your energy.” He said, holding out the stuff for her. “I always like to give people I working with snacks and stuff right after.”
“Thanks Joe,” she accepted the stuff. “So when should I expect the video to be out?”
“In a few weeks, I have to edit the stuff first before it’s published.”
“Will my privacy be protected Joe?”
“100 percent. I’ll also text you as well when it’s ready.”
“Sounds good Joe, thanks for this opportunity.”
-
Like promised, the video was posted a few weeks later and boy was it the hottest video Alex ever watched in her life.
Author’s Note: Apologies for the delay on this fic and many others that were in my draft. A lot has been going on in my life so I’m glad I was able to get this one out, anyways love y’all 😘💜
nedra hi!! i don't know you but you used my friend alex's name and i had to come slide in here 😭 the pornstar au concept is GIVING and icedveinsafterdark as a handle?? immaculate.
the brunch scene with the girls hyping her up to slide in those dms had me CACKLING — 'you got joe fucking burrow' is exactly the energy required. and him pulling up to the uber in grey sweats already catching print?? respectfully unhinged behavior from you.
also him giving her snacks and water after and walking her through the nda?? aftercare king. obsessed with this for alex.
A/N: Hi my sweethearts! So this idea has been buzzing around in my brain for the longest time, now, probably ever since I started playing JWE3 last autumn. Especially since I found out that Joe is a fossil guy, I just thought he would find this game so much fun! I wanted to really explore his fascination with it, he definitely seems like the kind of guy to see his girl playing something like this, sit down next to her and just be like 'okay baby tell me everything'. It turned out much longer than I anticipated, so I really hope I did this justice. I'd love to explore more of Joe and gamer!gf so if you have any suggestions or ideas, drop 'em in my inbox! Also, fun fact, the dinosaur picture up top is an actual screenshot of one of my Lokiceratops that I took in my game 😌 one last note, I have included links to the JWE information page for each dinosaur, so you can click through and have a look at the dinosaur profile for a visual reference on what the dinos look like. Okay, let's get into it!
WC: 4.8k
Pairing: Joe Burrow x gamer!gf (but can be read as a standalone x reader!)
Summary: Joe joins gamer!gf and she shows him around her Jurassic World Evolution 3 park.
Warnings: None! Just a whole load of fluffy domestic sweetness ❤️
The first thing Joe notices when he closes the door behind him is the absence of you in the immediate vicinity.
He can feel you in the house. Your car was in its usual spot in the shade next to his. You’re definitely home.
You’re just not in the living room watching whatever show has caught your eye recently, nor in the kitchen on your laptop doing some work. You’re not in the laundry room, either, and Joe even pokes his head into the garage where he set up a mini home gym for when the two of you can’t be bothered to go to the gym.
Joe smiles when he realises that there’s only really one other place you’ll be at four in the afternoon.
Sure enough, as he walks down the hallway from the kitchen down to your study, there’s the telltale pink light under the door and the odd little murmur as you talk to yourself. Normally, the study is a place of focused work for your work from home days, but even as he approaches, he can hear the lo-fi beats that you love gaming to.
He opens the door as softly as possible, and when he sees you at your PC monitor, so engrossed in whatever you’re playing that you’re leaning over your keyboard, that he just leans against the doorframe with a smile so deeply affectionate that it would make Tee and Ja’Marr chip him if they were here.
You’re wearing leggings and one of his Bengals hoodies. Big fluffy socks are pulled over your feet because you get cold. There’s a big water bottle on the coaster to the side of the monitor, and in the low light of the room, your face is bathed in the sharp greenish-blueish glare from the computer.
For a few moments, he just watches you. On the screen, a vast expanse of green open space stretches, dotted with a few trees and rocks. Towards the middle, a small body of water sparkles in the sunlight, while to the north of the map, the ocean crashes against the shore.
You’ve got your headset on, even though you’re not streaming, but every now and then, you let out a little mutter to yourself as you place some new paths, making sure they’re connected.
‘So now I need to research a couple new dig sites, let’s see… herbivores, carnivores… let’s do carnivores, they’re a big draw for people…’
The screen lights up with a blue map of the world, with dots in certain places. Your cursor hovers over one, then another, and then finally clicks on an icon somewhere over North America.
‘Let’s get some Dilophosaurus fossils, they’re cool.’ You assign what appears to be scientists to the expedition, then click confirm. ‘Excellent,’ you smile happily to yourself.
It’s when you’re leaning forward to take a drink from your water bottle that you finally sense Joe’s presence. You turn your head to look at him and your whole face lights up with a beaming smile the second you see him.
‘Joey! There you are!’
His heart feels like it’s going to melt into his chest cavity at the little nickname you use for him — Joey, always Joey when you’re all soft and domestic like this.
You go to stand up, but he’s already walking towards you. He reaches you in a few steps, leans down to kiss the top of your head, avoiding your headset, and crouches down next to you.
‘Hi baby,’ he smiles up at you and reaches up a hand to take yours. Your heart explodes when he lifts your hand to gently kiss your knuckles. It’s so absent-minded, done as he looks up at the monitor with the expanse of green unfolding in front of you, as if his body didn’t even have to think about it. ‘What’re you playing?’
‘Jurassic World Evolution 3! Joey, it’s so cool, look,’ you pan the camera over the enclosures you’ve already built, ‘I’m building a dinosaur park.’
That makes him look back at you. You smile to yourself again when you realise that you’ve captured his attention. If there’s one thing, apart from you and football, that will get his attention, it’s dinosaurs.
‘A dinosaur park?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like a zoo?’
‘But for dinosaurs.’
There’s a pause as he thinks it over.
‘Isn’t that a safety risk?’
Your eyes crinkle with amusement as you giggle into his shoulder. His skin is warm and smells of the shower gel he used during his shower at the facility, something faintly woodsy from his cologne and just Joe, so you breathe him in with a satisfied little humming sound.
‘Don’t worry, Joey, my children are all safely kept behind the highest security fences I can have right now.’
His eyebrows raise.
‘Right now?’
You nod into him.
‘Yes. I need to research higher security enclosure fencing, especially for bigger dinos like the Giganotosaurus or the T-rex.’
The mention of the huge apex predator that everyone knows is the final piece in the puzzle that makes Joe completely lock in.
‘You can have T-rex’s?’ he asks, and it’s hard for him to disguise the sheer wonder in his face.
‘Well first I need to research their dig site, which costs money I don’t have right now, but yes, eventually I’ll be able to synthesise, hatch and release a T-rex. Right now, I’m more focused on herbivores and smaller carnivores.’
Joe nods solemnly.
‘Important to work up.’
You beam over at him and kiss his cheek.
‘You get it! My scientists are just coming back from an expedition to get Dilophosaurus fossils, we can extract the DNA from them together, come on, I’ll show you how. Wanna sit?’
‘Yeah, honey.’
He wheels over the spare chair that he sat in when he watched you play Red Dead Redemption 2, and you peel off your headset so you can talk him through the steps of acquiring a dinosaur.
‘Okay, they’ve just come back from their expedition so we need to go to the control centre and then the fossils tab to see how many fossils they’ve brought back.’
Joe watches, fascinated, as you expertly click through the pages to get to where you need to go.
The next screen shows a collection of fossils that need to have the dinosaur DNA extracted from them.
‘Sometimes they find minerals, too, they’re the ones in gold here,’ you explain to Joe, hovering your cursor over the relevant icons on the screen. ‘They don’t have any DNA so we can sell them for some cash.’ You left-click on each mineral and watch with satisfaction as your park’s funds bump up with each sale.
In total, there are six fossils to extract from.
‘Okay, extraction time.’ Joe smiles to himself when he sees you lean forward in your chair, chin resting in one hand, elbow balanced carefully on the desk. ‘These three add up to a total of seventy percent of the genome, but if we’re clever about it, we can bump it up to maybe seventy-three or seventy-four.’
With a few clicks of the mouse, scientists on the screen start extracting the DNA from the fossils.
‘If the genome isn’t complete, we can start another expedition to get more fossils for the Dilos. While we wait, I’m gonna show you the Edmontosaurus family I have!’
The camera pans over the park to the north-west side, where you have clearly been focusing your efforts over the last however many hours you have been sat here. There are more enclosures here, more guest amenities, a few statues near enclosures — ‘so guests know what’s coming up’, you explain happily — and, to Joe’s great amusement, a few emergency shelters.
‘What’re those for?’ He points so you know what he’s referring to.
‘Most commonly storm shelters. But, in the event of an unlikely but nonetheless unfortunate incident of Eduardo the Edmontosaurus making a bid for freedom, we open up the shelters and everyone dives for cover.’
Joe looks at you, mildly horrified.
‘The dinosaurs can escape?’
You glance over at him with a glint of mischief in your eye.
‘Oh, yes,’ you grin, ‘OSHA would have a field day with parks like this. But that’s why we have secure fencing and capture teams ready. Look!’
On the way to the Edmontosaurus enclosure, you zoom in on the nearby capture team that’s assigned to the herbivores in the area. There’s a helicopter on the helipad, with a small building next to it, next to a maintenance facility and a paleo-medical facility.
‘The capture team go and tranquillise dinosaurs if they’re sick or get out. Then we transport them back to their pen. And this is the paleo-medical facility. They’re like the dinosaur vets. The rangers assigned to the enclosures do patrols with their little Jeeps, and if there’s a sick dinosaur, they’ll report it to the PMF team assigned to the enclosure. If we need to treat a sick dinosaur, we have to research it and then do whatever task it tells us to do to unlock the cure.’
You look over at Joe, who’s already looking at you with an expression so fond, so affectionate that you can’t resist leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.
‘Focus, Joseph, we have Edmontosauruses to see and Dilophosauruses to synthesise. Here’s Eduardo,’ you announce proudly with a flourish of the camera. ‘He is the male alpha, but the true alpha is Edwina, she is here.’
The Edmontosauruses are, admittedly, not the cutest or most impressive of dinosaur. They’re large, bulky and have a weird bill-shaped mouth. Their tails are disproportionately long compared to their bodies and, Joe sees when you zoom in further on Edwina, their feet are slightly webbed.
‘They’re not the most visually appealing,’ you admit with a fond little smile. ‘But they’re very gentle and unproblematic. They were the first dinosaurs I released, so I feel maternal over them. And, look, Edwina’s just had a baby!’ You look at the monitor showing the dinosaurs, watching with an adoring smile as Edwina plays with her new baby. When you look back at Joe, he’s smiling just as affectionately at the little dinosaur family on the screen. ’Do you want to give this new little one a name?’
Joe looks back at you.
‘Me?’
You snort.
‘Yeah! Come on, give him a name.’
‘Does it have to start with E?’
You nod seriously.
‘Absolutely.’
He thinks for a few seconds, then smiles.
‘Evan.’
Your smile drops.
‘I am not naming my juvenile dinosaur after your kicker.’
His mouth opens in protest.
‘Evan’s great! He’d love it, he’d tell his daughter he’s got a dinosaur named after him.’
You hate to admit that that gets you.
After a few seconds of intense eye contact between you and Joe, your narrowed eyes relax and your shoulders drop.
‘Fine. Evan, welcome to the family.’ Joe grins delightedly and laughs outright as you type the name into the dinosaur’s name box.
‘I’ll tell Ev tomorrow at practice.’
Before you can protest further, the notification pops up on the screen telling you that the Dilophosaurus extraction is complete.
‘Ooh, we’ve got seventy-four percent of the genome! We just need a few more fossils and then we can synthesise, ready for hatching.’
You run through the same process — expedition and extraction — and before long, the Dilophosaurus genome is complete.
‘Now it’s time to create their enclosure so we can synthesise and hatch them.’ You scroll over to an empty part of the park, north-east and closer to the water, and go into the enclosure menu.
Joe watches you place the enclosure fences in a medium-sized shape that follows the natural curve of the land. Then you place a gate, so rangers can get in and out, and a ranger post.
‘There’s already a capture team and PMF facility close by, so we don’t need to add another one. Just more money out than we need at this early point in the park’s life.’
Joe nods, not even trying to hide his delight at how seriously you’re taking this.
Next comes the hatchery.
This makes Joe sit up in his chair a little straighter, knowing that this means releasing some dinosaurs is just a few moments away. The hatchery is positioned towards the south edge of the enclosure.
‘Okay, now that our hatchery is set up, we can go in and synthesise to get eggs.’
‘Then release?’ Joe asks. You smile at how excited he sounds.
‘Not quite yet. Synthesise first, then incubate the eggs, then we release.’ You catch sight of the look in his eyes. They’re sparkling with boyish excitement. The secret fossil nerd out is in full force. There’s no point in hiding your affection for him, especially when he feels relaxed and comfortable enough to be his true self around you. ‘Don’t worry, Joey, you’ll get your dinosaur children.’
Children.
He glances over at you, eyes softening.
The word hangs in the air between you, a quiet promise of what might come in your future.
It takes a monumental effort for you to turn your attention back to the screen, where Joe gets his first real preview of the Dilophosaurus.
They are… mildly terrifying.
The preview dinosaur on the screen is large, not quite as enormous as a T-Rex but large enough to make Joe’s eyebrows raise. It walks across the screen like it’s stalking prey, small eyes fixed upon something and huge feet slapping down on the invisible ground.
Then, it roars.
‘What the —!’ Joe jumps back, making you howl with laughter.
You don’t blame him, though, because when it roars, the Dilophosaurus has two crests on either side of its face that fan out when it roars. It’s so gloriously over the top that your little dinosaur-loving maternal heart thuds with affection for them, even if they’re terrifying huge carnivores that would eat you alive given half a chance.
‘Baby, what the hell?!’
You collapse into his arm, giggling.
‘And there, Joe Burrow, is the Dilophosaurus.’
‘It has crests!’
‘Yes.’
‘On its face!’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why?’
Your face softens, because of course through the surprise, through the fear, of course he wants to know why. Everything about Joe when it comes to things like this is why, it’s how, it’s undisguised curiosity and almost childlike wonder.
‘It’s to attract mates for reproduction.’
Joe nods, because it suddenly makes sense.
He looks back at the monitor, and as the surprise wears off, he can see the beauty in them now.
‘They’re sick.’
You beam.
‘They’re cool, right? Let’s get them synthesised so we can hatch some.’
You click through the screens to assign scientists for synthesising, explaining as you go.
‘This scientist has a perk that speeds up synthesising,’ you say as you click on a female scientist that you hired right at the beginning of the sandbox. ‘And this one has a perk to make it cheaper, and then this one has higher skill points.’
Once you have selected your scientists, they start synthesising.
‘It’ll take a minute and a half, so we can go and check in on another enclosure.’
‘How many do you have?’ Joe asks, leaning closer to you. You rest your head on his shoulder and smile to yourself at his warmth.
‘Three so far. Edmontosaurus, Gallimimus and Lokiceratops. They’re all herbivores, so the Dilophosaurus will be the first carnivore. Hopefully that will help boost our appeal and bring in more guests.’
‘That means more money.’
‘Exactly.’
Joe nods like this makes the most sense out of anything.
‘Show me the Lokiceratops?’
You grin over at him.
‘Because it reminds you of Loki from Marvel?’
He laughs but his ears go pink, making you instantly collapse into giggles and lean across to kiss his cheek.
‘Do they have Marvel names?’
You laugh harder, unable to handle how endearing this broad-shouldered, six-four professional athlete is. One of your hands reaches up to cup his cheek.
‘We can name them all together, how about that?’
This time, his entire face goes red with delight. You have to physically stop yourself from launching yourself into his lap, so you turn back to the monitor and zoom in to the Lokiceratops enclosure.
The enclosure currently contains four of the beasts, all proudly displaying the distinctive horns on their faces and the enormous crests on their faces. It’s these horns and crests that inspired their name, indeed after Loki, the Norse god. Their mouths look almost like a bird’s beak, and with the crests on their faces, anyone would be forgiven for mistaking them for a Triceratops. They are, objectively, adorable, or as adorable as a prehistoric herbivore could be.
There are three females and a male roaming around the large enclosure, all in various shades of burnt orange, faded yellow and red. The alpha female is that faded yellow colour, with dark brown patches that look similar to a giraffe’s pattern. As you zoom in on each dinosaur and check on their comfort levels, Joe tilts his head, sussing out the appearance of them.
‘They look similar to the Triceratops,’ he muses.
‘They do. They’re a little smaller, though, and more docile. I have fewer problems with the Lokiceratops escaping or causing trouble with the rangers than the Triceratops.’
Joe raises his eyebrows again.
‘The Triceratops cause problems?’
You nod gravely.
‘Sometimes. It depends on what trait they have.’
‘They have traits?’
‘Yep, you can modify the genome to influence both negative and positive traits! You can also modify dinosaurs to live longer or shorter, you can make them pretty much any colour you want, if they’re more likely to reproduce.’ The smile on your face is shyer, now, like you’re revealing something you’ve kept largely to yourself until now. ‘It’s a really fascinating game, you feel so attached to them. Like these are my kids, these are my little prehistoric babies.’
Joe huffs a laugh, because it’s just so you to feel maternal over dinosaurs on a video game.
He has to admit it though. He watches you talk softly to yourself as you cycle through each Lokiceratops — ‘how you doing, my girl?’, ‘there’s my big boy’, ‘does my diva need more ground fibre?’ — and he thinks to himself, yeah. It is a really cool game, and he can see exactly why you love it so much. You’ve always been an animal lover. It absolutely makes sense that you fall head over heels even for large, dangerous reptiles.
The two of you lean closer to the monitor when it comes to naming the Lokiceratops.
‘Right, we need three female Marvel names, and one male Marvel name. Opening the ballots with my first suggestion for the male. I think he should be called Bucky.’
Joe stares at you.
There’s a very weighted silence.
Then he deadpans:
‘Are you just suggesting that because last time we watched Winter Soldier, you confessed you would leave me in a heartbeat for Bucky Barnes?’
This time, it’s your turn for your cheeks to heat.
‘I — no! — hold on, wait…’
Joe splutters with laughter.
‘Baby.’
‘No, wait, let me just defend myself for two seconds!’
‘It’s fine, it’s cool, if you want to leave me for a hardened assassin responsible for God knows how many murders and terrorist attacks, that’s okay, I’ll step aside.’
You slide down the leather gamer chair with your head in your hands.
‘Joseph, I had one moment of weakness and you’re using it against me all because I suggested the name for my pixelated Lokiceratops.’
‘I’m just saying, baby.’
‘Are you actually jealous of a dinosaur I want to name Bucky?’
‘Not Steve? Not Sam or Wilson?’
You gesture with your hand toward the screen.
‘Look at him! He looks like a Bucky!’
Joe does look at him. The longer he looks at the enormous herbivore serenely munching on some trees, the more he has to admit that the name does suit the animal.
He sighs, but it has no heat to it. Just pure adoration for you.
‘Name him Bucky. Against my better judgement.’
You pump your fist in jubilation and type in Bucky to the name box.
‘What about his wives?’
Joe’s head falls into his hands, making you giggle even harder.
‘Wives? Really, sweetheart?’
‘They are in a very happy polygamous relationship!’
He shakes his head like he cannot quite believe this is his life but he also wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
‘Wanda, Okoye and Yelena. Lock it in.’
You narrow your eyes.
‘Of course you chose the most objectively beautiful women in the Marvel universe.’
‘Oh, that’s how you wanna play?’
‘I got time, Joseph.’
The two of you are laughing too hard to have any proper argument about this, so you scroll through to each female Lokiceratops and key in each name for the three dinosaurs.
In the time it’s taken for you and Joe to argue and name the Lokiceratops, the hatchery has synthesised the eggs for the Dilophosauruses.
‘Now we can incubate the eggs for release!’ you announce excitedly.
Joe’s eyes follow your cursor, and before long, the hatchery is humming with activity. You sit back again, too tired from laughing to do anything while you wait for the eggs to incubate. He looks over at you and smiles fondly when he sees you already gazing at him with soft eyes and a happy smile.
‘What?’ he asks, leaning closer to you.
You shrug.
‘Just like doing this with you.’
‘Arguing about dinosaur names?’
‘Well, partly that,’ you giggle, ‘but also just… showing you my interests. I love that we share a love for dinosaurs. I love that you don’t think this is weird or… I don’t know. I just love that you’re interested in it and we can do things like this together.’ You pause, thinking, then continue in a slightly smaller voice. ’I feel like it gives our relationship a really cool layer that nobody else can touch. Like it’s just us two in here and we can nerd out about dinosaurs together without worrying about cameras or fans or people having an opinion about us.’
His heart cracks open at the painful but honest truth in your words. It’s true that people have a lot of opinions about your relationship. It’s also true, as much as Joe hates it, that his life can sometimes feel like it’s swallowing yours, even though he tries his hardest not to. You have your own life, your own job, your own circle of friends away from him.
This, though, this time you get together? Where you’re just sat together playing your game and having fun, laughing together about Marvel names and you showing him the pixelated park and your dinosaur children? That’s special. That’s just yours. That’s the kind of private, intimate moment that he keeps close to his heart for when football feels a little too big for his liking.
He reaches out and takes your hand. Your other arm opens, inviting him in for a kiss, and he goes immediately. One of his hand cradles your cheek through the kiss he gives you. His mouth is warm against yours. It still holds the faintest taste of the Gatorade he had at practice. You hum happily into the kiss.
Joe pulls back first, but presses another gentle kiss to your lips, then another just because he can and you’re right there, wearing his hoodie and looking so beautiful that gratitude punches him in the stomach all over again.
‘I love you,’ you murmur to him.
His forehead comes to rest against yours, noses rubbing together.
‘I love you too, baby,’ he replies just as softly. Then a wicked grin cracks his face open. ‘My dinosaur mommy.’
‘Oh, Joseph!’
The two of you collapse into giggles all over again.
‘Come on,’ you wheeze, hand going back to the mouse to return to the game. ‘Let’s get these Dilophosauruses released.’
The air in the room changes just slightly when you click back onto the hatchery. It doesn’t become charged, it doesn’t become tense. Just… anticipatory. As if the Arthur Morgan bobblehead, Olaf figurine and the Indominus Rex model can all tell that something new is about to be released.
‘Ready?’ you ask, cursor ready on the button that says release on the screen.
‘Let ‘em loose, baby,’ Joe grins. He’s hardly able to contain his excitement.
You click release, and then…
There they are.
One, two, three, then four of them, rushing out of the trees and looking around their surroundings. All menacing, all fast, all too intelligent for their own good.
Two run straight into the enclosure, while two stay waiting in front of the camera. You and Joe watch, transfixed, watching them roar at each other. Joe’s hand reaches for yours when their frills come up with each roar.
‘Oh, look at them…’ you breathe. ‘They’re gorgeous.’
Joe has to agree. They’re terrifying, sure, but even through that, he can see the beauty. The respect they demand. The intelligence they have.
‘Joey, look, they’re exploring their area!’
You zoom out and watch the Dilophosauruses take in their enclosure.
‘They’re finding their territory?’ he asks.
‘Yep. We’ll probably need to modify the terrain, give them what they need for their comfort.’
‘What do they need?’
You select one of the Dilophosauruses and go through the list.
‘They have enough area but they need more cover, water and wetland. We can also put down enough live prey that they don’t end up fighting over it. Food deprivation is a big cause for fights amongst them, especially carnivores.’
On the bottom left of the screen, boxes appear with different options of terrain cover. Trees, rocks and water, as well as options for different prey types.
Joe watches, still fascinated, as you paint over the terrain with laser focus. First cover, for the dinosaurs to hide in if they want to have privacy from guests. Then you add in some wetland, making a dry little comment about how it reminds you of the swamps of the Bayou in Red Dead Redemption 2, then you pan to the south corner of the enclosure and add in a small pond using the water tool.
The red exclamation marks above each Dilophosaurus disappears once the animals are happy with their enclosure.
‘Excellent work, sweetheart,’ Joe smiles. ‘You’re such a good dinosaur mom.’
You swat his shoulder gently, but you’re smiling.
‘I take my responsibility very seriously.’
He turns to you.
‘You do.’
He says it with such deep sincerity that you have to look back at the screen, where the Dilophosauruses are still wandering around with that menacing, beady look in their eye.
‘So, what do you think?’ you ask Joe with an air of pride in your voice.
He laughs and leans back in his chair.
‘I think I need to get this game so we can judge each other’s parks.’
You sit bolt upright.
‘That is a genius idea.’
‘Seems like a good thing to spend some time on during the off season,’ he shrugs with a smile, because he knows how excited you’ll be about this. ‘Can’t promise I’ll be as good as you, but I can learn from the best.’
‘Oh, come on, you’ll go down a YouTube rabbit hole and end up with all carnivores.’
He turns and points at you.
‘Carnivores attract more guests, you said it yourself.’
Your jaw drops.
‘I can’t believe you’re using my own knowledge against me.’
He kisses you again, smirking into your lips.
‘May the best dinosaur parent win, baby.’
The groan you let out is punctuated with giggles.
Then, your stomach growls. Without a second thought, Joe whips his phone out.
‘What are you doing, I thought we were cooking tonight?’
He looks at you, astounded by the mere suggestion.
‘Baby, you’ve just shown me around your dinosaur park. I’m invested now. We can have takeout here and you can continue growing your empire.’
Your eyes widen.
‘Can we have Thai?’
‘If you promise we can get Velociraptors soon?’
‘What did we say about working up, Joseph?’
‘I just think it’s the best business plan.’
‘Your idea of a business plan is to release tiny ferocious lizards with enormous teeth, razor-sharp claws and more intelligence than some men out there?’
‘Absolutely.’
You sigh.
‘Fine, but if they take over the park, you’re flying the helicopter.’
‘It would be an honour.’
You settle back into your chair. Next to you, Joe taps through his phone and orders your usual feast, adding a few more dishes than usual under the pretence that ‘being a dinosaur parent is hard work’.
Then, he puts his phone down and looks across at you with that same fond smile he’s had all evening since he came home.
You’re too engrossed in caring for your dinosaurs to really register the kiss he presses to your temple, but you do hear him murmur, ‘best part of my day’.
cat this was SO CUTE. first of all thank you for linking the actual dinos because i needed to see them with my own eyes to fully appreciate what was going on 😭 the lokiceratops?? eduardo and edwina?? naming the baby evan after the kicker??
'isn't that a safety risk?' KILLED ME. so dry. so him. that's the exact joe brain at work — you're showing him your pixelated dinosaur empire and his first instinct is risk assessment. and then him IMMEDIATELY locking in the second you mention t-rex like sir.
the bucky barnes argument had me CACKLING — him fake-offended that you'd leave him for a hardened assassin while you're trying to defend yourself from your gamer chair?? and then him picking wanda okoye and yelena and you calling him out for choosing the objectively hottest women in marvel?? PEAK domestic. obsessed with these two.
description -> a shared moment between you and your husband before your son theo meet isla...
follow this story line and fics ; family of three + family of four
angie's notes; i completely forgot this was in my drafts???????? this is small but i had to post since i haven't posted anything for my colston girlies recently!! <33 ;((
“she’s an angel. the most beautiful baby,” colston whispered, his index finger tracing over isla’s brows, the small pout on her lips crinkled up, smiling—“look at her, she’s smiling! she has your smile, darlin’.”
“it’s too early to tell,” you reminded him with a soft, tired giggle, slightly shifting up, wincing, feeling the plugged cables tug—colston noticed immediately, coming to your side, prepared to attend your aid, propping a pillow behind your back.
“i’m sorry, darlin’. i know you’re still in pain,” he muttered, watching as you lay back, watching him and your daughter in his tattooed arm—“i’m okay, i promise. i’m still sore, that’s all,” you reassured, pecking your lips asking for a kiss to which he didn’t hesitate to give.
“hungry?”
“mhm mhm…”
“thirsty?”
“that yes. i feel like i climbed through mount everest,” you joked, colston reaching over to the newly filled-up stanley with water and ice he made, handing it carefully—labor had done its worst the second time around—having body shakes for hours leading up to when it was time to push—a high fever, and your blood pressure for some strange reason elevating.
“you did it the second time, and without an epidural,” he praised, moving the rocking chair close to your bed, not wanting to be far away, clinging onto you, cherishing the moment—you were mortified at how the epidural shot process was, getting the chills thinking about how big the needle was, how you would’ve probably felt it.
you refused it in your first and second labors, you would have your babies naturally unless an unfortunate situation struck—thankfully, after long and painful childbirth, you were able to deliver both theo and isla safe and sound, you and colston crying when you met them each for the first time.
you and colston remained silent, looking at your daughter sound asleep, tucked into her pink sheet, her bow beanie shifted to the side, to which colston fixed immediately—she passed all of her newborn screening and tests, your husband hating the sounds of her cries when they pricked the bottom of her tiny foot.
“we have a daughter… can you believe it?” colston said with a huge grin, the feeling of having two kids still not hitting him—theo was anticipating meeting his new baby sister, his eyes tearing up when you had called your family to give them the news, isla was healthy, blabbering how he wanted to be with his mom and dad, specifically his baby sister.
he was also a part of the whole pregnancy, copying colston when he rubbed your belly with oil, or handing you snacks, his tiny hand soothing and kissing your belly, talking to her about his day—especially his recent obsession with dinosaurs or how he knew his colors and abcs, which is why it was no surprise when he was on the way now.
“she’s so tiny… i forgot how small and light they are,” you said, fixing your posture once again—“did i tell you how much she weighed?” colston asked, looking back down at isla, who had stirred, eyes still shut, a small pout still on her lips—you shook your head, not prepared for his answer, “8 pounds, 7 ounces.”
“well, no wonder i pushed for so long!” you said loudly, an astonished look on your face.
“my chunky baby,” colston cooed, isla hearing him because she let out another gummy grin—“she can hear us,” you said, laughing, leaning over, brushing your hand over his toned shoulders, careful not to tug on your iv—“just wait until you meet theo, he’s so excited to meet you babygirl,” colston explained to her.
“and you’re sure about this? if it's still too early, we can postpone it, darlin’. there’s no rush, i want to make sure you’re okay about this since it can be a lot,” colston said, his brows pulled in, needing to hear your reassurance—he knew you, and sometimes loud comotions, a bunch of people reunited, tended to overstimulate you.
“i’m perfectly okay. if i weren’t, we would’ve waited until we went home. i want to do this,” you said, kissing his clothed shoulder—you could already picture how happy theo was on the way here, how he probably talked nonstop about meeting isla.
and it wasn’t long before he walked in, wearing a long-sleeve shirt with shorts and his worn-out spiderman-themed crocs—your families marched behind him, where theo turned back to them, his tiny finger coming to his mouth, telling them to be quiet, that ‘isla was asleep’.
“hi, baby! come here, bubs,” you said excitedly, theo marching towards you, setting between your legs—“we missed you, so so so much,” you stated, kissing his head and cheeks, theo sinking into it, giggling at your affection—he leaned over, greeting his dad with a kiss on his cheek, right where colston’s dimple appeared.
“can i carry sister? grandma helped me wash my hands,” theo asked, his eyes twinging with eagerness, showing his tiny, chubby hands—“of course, bubs, we just have to be super gentle and quiet, okay? she’s very delicate,” you explained, prospering yourself with enough space.
colston explained to him how his arms would go, how he needed to be still so he wouldn’t wake her up—your eyes immediately filled with tears, he wasn’t holding her yet, but it was enough already to make a tight feeling spread through your chest—you blamed your pregnancy hormones.
your husband gently laid isla into theo’s arms, where your son let out a soft giggle, looking at you and colston to ensure he was doing it right—“isla? her name?” theo asked with a whisper, looking down at her with adoration.
“yes, bubs, her name is isla,” colston answered, shifting the bed rail down so he could sit next to you—it didn’t matter how small or big a bed was, he made it work, feeling like he was able to protect and carry all of his family.
his eyes welled up with tears, matching yours—it was a surreal feeling that started to settle within him, the realization of being a dad of two and a husband—“our babies,” you told him, your chin letting a small wobble—colston looked down at you, wiping your tears before they could fall.
“you did it. you brought them here. the biggest and strongest woman i’ve ever met. i’m so proud of you,” colston explained quietly, not wanting his words of appreciation reaching other ears—this moment belonged to each of you, not to his family or yours.
“we did this. it’s a two-person job, and we’ve done amazing with it,” you encouraged back—he was the perfect husband, always there along you no matter what—he was your biggest admirer, your best friend, the person you’ll forever stand next to—he was your person, and you were his.
theo asked colston to help fix isla’s beanie, which had slipped to the side again during the process of holding her—your son kissed her on the cheek, whispering how cute she was, something about wanting to show her the dinosaurs he recently got.
colston pressed a soft kiss, a delicate one that fluttered through him in a wave of cloudiness—the second one lingered longer, your lips tracing up into a smile, feeling shy at the amount of people watching, he placed one on the bridge of your nose, and then lingered once again on your forehead.
“dada, stop kissing mommy, she’s mine!”
“oh my! not this again!” colston said with an exhausted laugh, prepared to argue with his three-year-old.
angie SHOUT OUT to @velvetlikeburrow for bringing this to my attention because school has been kicking my ass and i would've been DEVASTATED to miss this 😭
the whole thing is SO tender. colston tracing her brows, fixing her bow beanie EVERY time it slips, propping the pillow behind the reader before she even asks?? girl. and her delivering an 8lb 7oz baby with no epidural?? warrior behavior. and listen — i delivered a baby a tiny bit bigger than that and lemme tell you it is NO joke. the body shakes, the fever, mount everest comparison?? felt that in my BONES.
but THEO. theo shushing the whole family on the way in. theo wanting to show isla his dinosaurs. 'dada, stop kissing mommy, she's MINE' — I SCREAMED. that little jealous toddler arc is everything. obsessed with this whole little family.
using racist remarks towards people in 2026 and some of y’all wonder why joe burrow tumblr isn’t the way it used to be and why people consider leaving. some of y’all truly need to get a grip and grow up.
aside from the drama and racism, the rest of y’all are lovely!
Could you maybe do something for Joe along the lines of you buy something and him making a comment that hurts your feelings so you return it. And he feels really bad when he realizes you returned it bc of him?
anon i thought about this one for a while and i think it turned into something really special 🥺🖼️ she takes it back. he shows up. that's all i'll say — it's up now, go read!! 💛
pairings: joe burrow x reader 🖼️
wc: 2.9k
an: an anon sent me this request a while back and i haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. she takes it back. he shows up. that's all i'll say — i hope it's everything you wanted bb 🖼️🥺
masterlist here 💛
you’ve got a couple hours before he’s home. the house does what it always does when he isn’t in it — goes quiet in that showroom way. gray light flat off the windows, the long hall running back toward the bedrooms, every surface wiped down by someone who isn’t you. nothing on the walls.
you’ve been thinking about the wall at the end of the hall for weeks. the one where the light pools in the afternoon and there’s nothing there to catch it.
the painting’s in your tote, still wrapped in the brown paper the woman at the flea market folded around it. an abstract in a chipped gold frame — big careless slabs of red and rust and hot pink shoved up against each other, not trying to be anything in particular. eleven dollars. you’d stood in front of the booth for a full minute before you understood why you couldn’t put it back down. it was warm. in a house full of right angles and the color of wet concrete, it was just — warm.
you measure with your eye, then with the level on your phone, then with your eye again. tap the nail in. it goes cleaner than you expect, and when you hang the frame it sits a little crooked, so you nudge the bottom corner with one finger until it doesn’t.
then you back up to the other end of the hall to look.
it’s loud. that’s the whole thing about it. against all that gray it’s almost rude — all that red practically buzzing, the gold of the frame catching the window light — and you stand there in the middle of his hallway with your arms crossed, grinning at it like you got away with something.
you take a picture. thumb hovering over his name. but you don’t send it.
you want to see his face.
———
he’s home a little after six, gym bag over one shoulder. you’re up off the couch before the door’s all the way shut.
“don’t take your shoes off yet. i got you a surprise.”
“yeah?” he gets one shoe half off, then leaves it. “what’d you do.” but he lets you take his hand, lets you walk him backward down the hall toward it.
he sees it.
you’re watching his face, because that’s the part you’ve waited for all afternoon — and it does open, it does, just not the way you’d been picturing. he laughs. surprised, easy, the sound he only makes when his guard’s all the way down and something’s caught him sideways.
“baby.” he’s grinning at it. “that’s the ugliest thing i’ve ever seen.”
he’s still in it, delighted — “where’d you even find that?” — looking from the painting to you and waiting for you to be in on it with him.
“flea market, over on vine.” you say it too fast. “eleven bucks.”
and the afternoon just goes out of you. quiet. all at once. you feel the grin you walked in with come off your face before you can keep it there.
he catches it. half a second late, but he catches it — he watches everything — and the laugh settles.
“it’s just not my thing,” he says. gentler now, looking at you instead of the wall. trying to walk it back to somewhere okay. “good find, though. eleven bucks, you can’t lose.”
“right?” you hear yourself say it. “it’s hideous.”
you reach up and straighten the corner that doesn’t need straightening, and you let him think you’re both laughing at it. it’s the easiest thing in the room to do. he rolls the shoulder the bag strap sat on and tips his head toward the kitchen, says something about what you’re doing for dinner, and goes.
behind him all that red goes on buzzing against all that gray.
———
you leave it up three more days. he doesn’t bring it up again — but then, to him there’s nothing to bring up. it was a bit. he walks past it on the way to bed, on the way to the kitchen, the way you walk past a thermostat.
so you take it down.
it’s a tuesday, he’s at the facility, and it comes off the wall easier than it went up. you wrap it back in the brown paper. the nail you leave — pulling it would mean spackle, and there’s no point making a project of it. just the bare nail at the end of his hall, where the light still pools and there’s nothing now to catch it.
it rides in your passenger seat to your place.
your hallway’s narrow and already crowded — photos, a mirror you painted, a row of cheap postcards. you find a spot between the window and the closet and tap the nail in yourself, and it goes up against your wall like it was cut for it. here it doesn’t fight anything. it just looks like the rest of you.
you step back and look at it a while.
it’s a good little painting.
———
you’re back at his place that weekend like nothing happened, because nothing did, technically. you made dinner. he did the dishes, sleeves shoved up, while you sat on the counter and told him about your week.
it’s later, when he’s coming back from the bedroom pulling a clean shirt on, that you catch him stop.
just for a second. at the end of the hall.
he’s looking at the bare stretch of it — the nail still in the wall with nothing on it. you watch it not quite land; he figured the ugly thing had run its course, and a nail with nothing on it doesn’t say anything to him yet. he tugs the shirt down and keeps walking.
you figure that’s the end of it.
it isn’t. he’s easy through the rest of the night, loose, but when you’re loading up your bag by the door he leans on the edge of the hall and tips his head back toward it.
“hey — what happened to your painting?”
“oh —” you zip the bag and pull the strap up onto your shoulder. “took it home. it wasn’t really a this-house kind of thing.”
you say it light. like it’s nothing, because you’ve decided it’s nothing.
he doesn’t answer right away.
you look up and he’s standing there with one hand on the edge of the wall, and you watch him run it back. all of it. the way he laughed. ugliest thing i’ve ever seen. the eleven bucks out of you too fast, your face going before you could stop it, the hideous, right? — the out you handed him so he’d take it. three days of walking past it like a thermostat. the bare nail. the painting forty minutes across town in a hallway he’s never seen, where you’d decided it should live instead.
he gets to the end. you can tell the second he does.
“…oh,” he says.
his hand comes off the wall. he looks at the empty stretch of it like it’s saying something to him it wasn’t an hour ago.
he doesn’t say anything else. he’s looking at you the way he watches film of a game that’s already over — like he can see the whole thing unfolding and there’s no reaching in to change the play.
———
he shows up thursday. no text, just the knock, and when you open the door he’s already got the look — the one he gets when he’s decided something on the drive over and is bracing to go through with it.
he doesn’t say hi. he comes in, walks down your narrow hall like he’s been here a hundred times, and stops in front of it, between the window and the closet.
then he lifts it off the nail.
“hey —” you’re behind him. “what are you doing?”
“taking it.” it’s already under his arm, no paper, just the bare frame against his side. “it’s mine.”
“you didn’t even like it.”
he turns around. whatever he usually does in a corner — the joke, the warm pivot, the easy version of the sentence — he’s not reaching for it.
“you put something of yours on my wall,” he says, “and i laughed at it.”
his jaw works. he looks at the painting instead of you.
“i gave you my opinion on it. like you’d brought it over for a grade.” he stops. “you let me think it was a joke because that was easier than telling me it landed wrong. you handed me the out, and i took it.”
he drags a hand back through his hair. the frame stays tucked against him the whole time, like setting it down isn’t on the table.
“you’ve been in it the whole time,” he says. quieter. “you’re the only thing in that house i’d notice if it was gone.”
a breath.
“so it’s going back up. tonight.”
———
you follow him back across town. he doesn’t put the painting in the trunk — sets it in the back seat, upright, like it’s a person.
at the house he goes straight to the end of the hall. the nail’s still there, right where you left it, nothing hanging off it. he hangs it back up without measuring, without the level on his phone, and of course it sits crooked.
he steps back. looks at it.
reaches out and nudges the bottom corner with one finger until it isn’t.
the same fix you made the first time. he doesn’t know he’s making it.
“better,” he says.
you stand at the far end of the hall, where you stood that first afternoon — except now he’s next to you, shoulder against yours, the two of you looking at eleven dollars of red and rust and hot pink glowing against all that gray. it still doesn’t match a single thing in the house.
he doesn’t tell you it’ll grow on him. he looks at the other walls instead — the empty ones — and you can feel him seeing them for the first time.
“bring the rest of your stuff next time,” he says.
like it’s nothing.
“i’m not moving in with you.” you say it from where you’re leaning, shoulder still against his. “it’s been five months.”
“five good months.”
“joe.”
“you’re here four nights a week. your shampoo’s in my shower, there’s a drawer.” he counts it off easy, like he’s had the argument loaded for a while. “you did one wall better than the decorator i paid for the whole house. that’s a tryout. you passed.”
“that’s a sample size of one wall.”
“so move in and do the rest of them.”
you laugh. “we’ve known each other five months. people don’t —”
“people do it in less.”
“people who aren't the only one giving something up do it in less.”
he doesn’t have a fast one for that. tips his head — fine, that one’s real, and he’s not going to be the guy who throws money at it to make it not real. but he’s still got the look, the one that decided something on the drive over and hasn’t undecided.
“the sentiment, i love,” you say, gentler. “you want me here. you want the house to have me in it — i got that the second you hung the ugly thing back up crooked. the u-haul, give me a year.”
“we’ll see.” he’s not agreeing to the year. there’s the grin now — the one you walked in with all those days ago, except it’s his, and aimed at you instead of the wall. “i think i can wear you down before then.”
———
he's the one looking at you now, not the painting.
you don't decide to do it so much as stop deciding not to — you turn into him, hand flat on his chest, and he goes still under it. not guarding himself. holding his breath, like moving wrong might end it.
"hey," you say.
he lets the breath go.
you kiss him. and there's none of the ease he does everything else with — he kisses you back a half-step behind, the smoothness that runs every room he walks into no good to him here — in his own hallway, the painting glowing red beside you, the one thing in the house with anything to say. just a guy with his hands coming up to your face, catching up.
you kiss him until he stops being behind it. you feel the moment he quits keeping up and lets you have the pace — his hands going slack on your jaw, then sliding back into your hair to hold on instead of steer.
"come here," you say against his mouth, even though he's already there.
you walk him backward down the hall. the same way you walked him to the painting that first night, except he goes easy now, no surprise to brace for, letting you steer him by the front of his shirt past the bare walls he's going to let you fill. the bedroom's dark. you leave it that way.
you take his shirt off first. he lifts his arms, ducks his head, and then he's just standing there letting you look at him — and you watch the joke arrive. the easy line, the thing he'd hand anyone else to take the edge off being looked at this long.
he doesn't say it.
"stay here," you tell him.
"i'm here." he means it the way he meant the hard sentence in your hallway. present. no exit cued.
you get the rest of it off between you. you take your time — no show in it, but no hurry either, because you want to watch what waiting does to him. and something it does. the guy who walked in cocky thirty seconds ago, who said i can wear you down, is gone. his hands come up like they want to help and then don't know where they're allowed, and he lets them drop, and he just lets you.
you put a hand flat on his chest and walk him back until his knees hit the bed. he sits. you climb into his lap, and he makes a sound low in his throat when you settle against him, both hands finding your hips like it's the only place they're sure of.
you kiss him slow, and you can feel how hard he's holding still underneath you — like if he moves he'll stop being able to let you run this. so you run it. you take one of his hands off your hip and put it where you want it, and his breath stutters against your mouth, and he follows you there. he's good with his hands the way he's good at everything — except there's no plan in it now, just him learning you in real time, reading you off every sound you make.
"there," you tell him, when he gets it right.
"yeah?" low, rough. he does it again, watching your face like the answer lives there.
you don't make him wait long. you lift up, reach between you, take him in your hand — and he goes still all over, jaw tight, bracing. then you sink down onto him slow, and the sound that comes out of him is nothing like the man who's smooth in every room he walks into. his forehead drops to your shoulder. his hands clamp down and stay.
"god," he breathes into your skin. "okay. okay."
you set the pace. slow at first, rolling down against him, and he lets you have every bit of it — whatever instinct a man built like him has to take it back, to flip you, to run it, he doesn't use it. he just holds on and feels it and says your name when you grind down, says it again, like it's the only word he trusts himself with.
then you slow. almost to nothing. he makes a sound, hips lifting to chase you, and you put a hand flat on his chest and hold him down.
"say you're sorry."
his eyes come open. "— what?"
"for my painting." you roll down once, slow, and feel his whole body try to follow it. "you laughed at my painting."
"i'm sorry —" it comes out fast, on a breath, like he'll say anything to get you moving again.
"mm. too easy." you go still. "sorry for what."
"for laughing."
"at."
his jaw works. you can see him clock that you're going to make him say all of it. "at your painting."
"and?"
"and —" his hands flex on your hips, and whatever's left of the smooth guy is gone, and he says the real one. "it was the best thing in that house. and i laughed at it."
"better." you give him an inch back — a slow grind, just enough to pull a groan out of him — then take it away again.
"now tell me how bad you want me to move in."
"you're killing me."
"how bad." you don't move.
"bad." it breaks out of him. "i want you in it. i want to come home and have it not be empty. move in."
"mmm." you tilt your head like you're thinking it over, rolling down slow while you do, and you watch him try to hold the thought and lose it. "i'll think about it."
"you said — god — you said a year."
"i said i'd think about it." you lean down, mouth at his ear. "you wanted to wear me down. so wear me down."
"baby —" it slips out of him. the same word he laughed the painting off with. nothing easy in it now.
you tip his face up. make him look at you — and that's his line, the one he'd run a whole room with, except you're saying it and he's the one who does it, eyes coming up to yours, glassy and open and not hiding a thing. he doesn't reach for the joke that would put the wall back between you. there's no wall left to reach for.
"i've got you," you tell him. you, to him. the line he'd usually be the one saying.
something goes out of him at that — the last of the holding-on. his hands start to shake where they grip you, his breath goes ragged, and you can feel him fighting it, the instinct to hold the line even here, even now.
"let go."
and he does. he comes with your name in his mouth and his face pressed to your throat and both arms locking around you like he's the one who needs holding through it. you don't stop. you take him all the way to the end of it, slow, until he's shaking and spent and still won't let go.
you follow him a breath later — his hand finding its way between you, clumsy and sure at once, working you until you come apart with your forehead dropped against his.
after, he doesn't let go. keeps you in his lap, both arms around you, his face in your neck, his heart going under your palm.
"a year, huh," he says into your skin. low. half gone.
"a year."
"...we'll see." no argument left in it. his arms don't loosen — he holds onto you the way he wouldn't put the frame down, like setting you anywhere else isn't on the table — and you stay where you are, in his lap, in his house, and let him.
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i keep trying to write something normal here and failing so we're just gonna be honest: this little corner of tumblr has become one of my favorite places to exist. genuinely.
for the new loves who wandered in recently — hi, i'm daisy 🤍 i write joe burrow primarily because apparently this is my life now, but colston loveland also lives in my brain rent free, and aj barner is on my list the second joe gives me five minutes of peace (he won't). mostly reader-insert, second person, a little soft a little feral depending on the day. i've got a few verses living rent free in my head and i talk to you all in my asks more than i talk to people in real life. that's not a joke.
100 one shots. i think about the version of me who posted the first chapter of Hide last may, terrified no one would read it. she'd lose it.
to the family — the ones who reblog, who send the unhinged asks, who scream in my tags, who've been here since Hide — i don't have words big enough. you made this what it is. mean it. 🤍
joe burrow x reader
wc: ~4.8k
a/n: first — i'm so sorry this took so long. i've gone back to the drawing board with this story more times than i can count, mostly because i really want to get the mental illness and chronic illness on the page honestly: depicted with care, not over-dramatized for the sake of a plot. she deserves that, and so do you. okay. that said — he shows up with no warning and no plan, which is the most un-joe thing he has ever done, and the weekend that follows might be the best one of his life. i loved writing this one. soft note that we spend most of the chapter inside one of her highs; i wrote it as carefully as i could, and if that's close to home for you, please be gentle with yourself. trust me on the rest. 🤍 also — i'm tentatively opening my requests back up, so if there's something you've been wanting, my inbox is open. reblogs + comments + tags genuinely keep this fic alive — come yell at me.
read from the beginning ✦
warnings: 18+ / mdni, sexual content, depiction of a hypomanic episode (bipolar), discussion of mental illness
Thursday @ 4:47 AM.
Every cabinet in the kitchen is open and most of what was in them is on the floor around you. You’re sitting in the middle of it with the label maker, because at some point around one you went looking for the good honey and decided the entire system was wrong.
It was wrong. You can see that now. Spices by cuisine instead of alphabetical, which makes no sense the way you actually cook. The glassware moved down to where you reach for it. Two shelves are done and they look so much better that stopping isn’t really on the table.
Weenie watches from the one clear stretch of counter, tail over his feet, unimpressed with the displaced cans.
“It’s an improvement,” you tell her.
She does not agree.
The sourdough you started is proofing under a towel by the window. The whiteboard across the room is full — content mapped through July, captions batched, the launch calendar redone into a shape so much cleaner than the old one that you photographed it to send Mica before deciding she’d like it better at a reasonable hour. Five emails to Harper sit in your drafts, written between two and four, all set to send at nine. You know how a 3 AM email reads.
Somewhere in there you’d also found the poppy post — hills outside Lancaster gone orange, a ranger account saying the bloom was fading, a week left, maybe less. You saved it. Filed it under soon.
At 6:30 the alarm goes off for the morning you actually planned. You step over the cans to shut it off. Patio, brass tray, candle, citrine. You take your pills from Thursday’s compartment with a glass of water, same time, no exceptions, the way you have every morning through every kind of weather your head has ever made. That’s the part nobody warns you about — you can do all of it right and the weather still comes.
You open the app while the kettle heats.
Sleep: 4 hrs. Third night.
Mood: elevated.
Energy: 9.
In the notes field you type, productive. feels good. watching it. And you are watching it. You made that deal with yourself at twenty-two, the one your mother never got to make — track it, take the pills, tell the truth in the gray box. The box doesn’t ask how the truth feels.
You pull a card with the candle lit. The Wheel of Fortune. Movement, momentum, things turning. You decide to take it as a green light.
The fog is lifting out of the canyon by the time you blow the candle out. Joe will call tonight after the facility — he’s in the offseason program now, voluntary workouts he treats as mandatory because he’s never once understood the word voluntary. The text you wrote him at 5:15 is still in drafts, set to send at seven, reading like it came from a person who slept.
You stand, knees stiff, and look at the kitchen. Everything out, every counter covered, half a system rebuilt.
Every light in the house is on. You don’t remember turning them all on.
* * *
Friday @ 10 pm
You hear the car before you see it — tires on the gravel, slow, the careful crunch of someone who doesn’t know the drive well enough to take it fast.
It’s almost ten. Nobody comes up your drive at almost ten.
You get to the front window in time to watch the headlights swing across the house and cut out. A black SUV you don’t recognize. The driver’s door opens, and a man steps out, and before the porch light even finds his face you know him — the shape of him, the way he shuts a car door like there’s no version of the night that requires hurrying.
Joe.
You don't decide to move. He’s barely cleared the front of the car when you hit him, and he catches you the way he catches everything, like he saw it coming a second before it happened, one arm banding across your back and the other already in your hair.
“Hi,” he says into the side of your head.
“You’re here.” You pull back far enough to look at him, both hands on his face like you need to check he’s real. He’s in a hoodie and a flight’s worth of travel and he looks unreasonably good. “You’re here. It’s Friday. You have lifting in the morning, you have—”
“I moved some things.”
“You don’t move things.”
“I moved some things.” He’s almost smiling. His thumb finds the corner of your mouth.
“Why? What happened, is everything—”
“Nothing happened.” He shrugs, the smallest version of it. “I had a window.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s not a reason. People don’t fly across the country because they had a window.”
“It was enough of one.”
And there’s nothing to say to that, because it’s the most Joe sentence in the world and it cracks something open in your chest, so you kiss him instead, standing in the dark of your own driveway with the car still ticking as it cools, and he makes a low sound against your mouth and pulls you in by the back of the neck.
It’s Weenie who breaks it up. She’s come out the open door and is winding figure-eights around Joe’s ankles with the urgency of a cat who has been personally wronged by the duration of Joe’s absence, and when Joe crouches to her, she climbs straight up into his arms and starts the loud, ridiculous purr she saves for exactly one person on earth.
“Hi, buddy.” Joe stands with him, and Weenie tucks under his chin like he’s done it a hundred times. “She get bigger?”
“She’s emotional. Don’t encourage her.”
Joe looks at you over the cat’s head, and the porch light catches all the lit windows of the house behind you, ten o’clock and every room glowing.
“You’re up,” he says. Not a question. Just a thing he noticed.
“I’m up,” you agree, and take his free hand, and pull him toward the door.
* * *
You don’t make it far inside. The door’s barely shut before he has you against it, the cat exiled to the floor in loud protest, and whatever you meant to say about the flight, the workout he skipped, the bag still out in the car — all of it waits.
It’s past midnight when the house finally goes quiet. He’s on his back with one arm under you, the other lying heavy across his own chest, and you’re awake — of course you’re awake — tracing slow lines on his sternum while his breathing lengthens toward sleep.
“I’m running a little high right now,” you say, mostly to the ceiling. “I want you to know. Before tomorrow.”
He turns his head toward you. “High.”
“Up. The good direction.” You taught him these words on a patio in March; you can hear yourself handing them back. “You remember. Can’t sleep, too many ideas. This is that. The mild version of that.”
His hand comes up and finds yours on his chest and holds it there. “How long.”
“A few days. I caught it early.” You want him to have the whole picture, because the whole picture is reassuring. “Meds are on schedule, I’m logging it every morning, Ruby knows. I’m not white-knuckling anything. It’s just a lot of voltage at once, and I didn’t want you to land in the middle of it and wonder what you walked into.”
He’s quiet, working it over the way he works everything. Then: “That why the kitchen?”
A laugh gets out of you. “That’s why the kitchen.”
“The lights.”
“The lights.”
He nods, slow, filing it where it goes. “What do you need from me?”
And there it is — the question nobody thought to ask you for the first twenty-six years of your life, the one he asked the night you told him all of it and asks again now like it’s just the thing a person says. You turn it over honestly, because he’d hear a polite answer for what it was.
“Nothing,” you tell him. “This part feels good. I just want you here for it.”
You feel the breath go out of him, some watchfulness you hadn’t clocked leaving his shoulders with it. He presses his mouth to the top of your head.
“Okay,” he says. “Then I’m here for it.”
His hand stays over yours. His breathing goes deep and even under your palm, and he’s gone, just like that, a man who can fall asleep anywhere because he’s never once in his life lain awake doing math.
You stay exactly where you are. Wide awake. Lit up to the back teeth and happier than you’ve been in longer than you’ll admit to the gray box in the morning.
* * *
You wake him at five.
You haven’t slept, but that isn’t why. The light will be right for maybe two hours and then it’s gone, and so are the flowers, and you cannot lie in this bed one more minute knowing what the hills are doing ninety minutes north of here.
“Joe.” Your hand flat on his chest. “Joe. We have to go.”
He surfaces slowly, one eye, the side of his face creased from the pillow. “What time is it.”
“Time to go see something.”
A lesser man would ask where. A more reasonable man would ask why, or roll over, or say it’s five in the morning and mean it as an argument. Joe looks at you for a long moment in the dark, takes in whatever your face is doing, and then he scrubs a hand down his jaw and sits up.
“Okay,” he says. “Coffee in the car?”
You could cry. You don’t. You throw him his jeans.
You drive, because you can’t imagine sitting still in the passenger seat with this much current running through you, and he lets you, which is its own kind of thing — Joe folded into the seat of your car with a travel mug and no idea where he’s going, watching the canyon unspool in the headlights. You put the windows down. You put on the playlist. The dark goes blue and then gray and then the first real color comes up over the ridgeline behind you and lays itself across the road ahead.
And he talks.
This is the thing nobody knows about him, the thing that took you months to earn — that when Joe is somewhere he feels safe, the careful version of him goes quiet and the other one comes out, the one who reads everything and remembers all of it and will follow a thought to the end just to see where it goes. He’s been reading about the Voyager probes. The golden record, the one they bolted to the outside, sounds of Earth fired into the dark on the off chance that in forty thousand years somebody finds it and figures out how to listen. He thinks it’s the most insane and hopeful thing humans have ever done. You tell him it’s a love letter with no address. He thinks about that for a mile and says, “Yeah. It kind of is,” and the way he says it does something to you.
You take his tangent and run it somewhere stranger. He follows. You lose an hour and it feels like ten minutes, and somewhere in there you realize you’re both laughing and you couldn’t say at what.
Then you come up over the last rise and he stops mid-sentence.
The hills are on fire. Not red — orange, a living orange, miles of it, poppies packed so thick the ground looks lit from underneath, rolling out to the edge of everything under a sky going pink at the seams. You pull onto the shoulder and cut the engine and for a second neither of you says anything at all.
Joe gets out. He stands in the open door with the mug forgotten in his hand and just looks, and you watch him do it, this man who has a plan for every hour of his life standing perfectly still in front of something no plan could have produced.
“I can’t believe this just happens,” he says.
“It doesn’t.” You come around the car to stand next to him. “Most years it doesn’t. You need the rain at the exact right time, and the heat after, and even then it might not. Some years the seeds just sit there. Then everything lines up and you get this, and it’s gone in a week.”
He’s quiet a while. He reaches out without looking and finds your hand.
“How’d you even know about this?”
“Ranger account I follow — they’ve been posting the bloom for two weeks. I kept meaning to drive out and kept not doing it.” You look out at the orange. “Then you showed up at ten o’clock last night, and it felt like a sign.”
“A sign.” Not quite a question.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.” But he’s almost smiling, and his thumb moves over your knuckles.
* * *
You get back to the house sun-drunk and road-dusty, the day still loud in both of you, and you barely make it through the door before the laughing turns into something else.
It’s different tonight and you feel it in your own skin. The other times had their own weather — the desperate reunion kind, the slow reverent kind after you’d told him something true and terrifying. This is neither. Nothing’s running out, nothing’s being proven. You have too much of everything and you want to spend all of it on him.
You tell him so, mouth at his jaw, hands already dragging his shirt up his back, and he huffs a laugh against your temple and lets you take it off him. Then he stops laughing. He walks you backward through the house, unhurried even now, that patient deliberate attention you’ve learned is just how he’s built, his hands skimming up under your shirt like he has all night and intends to use it.
You don’t have all night in you. You have now, immediate and insistent, and you tell him that too — pull his mouth down to yours, get your hands at the button of his jeans, say I don’t want slow, not tonight — and he reads it the way he reads everything about you and gives you what you asked for. Your back hits the bed. He follows you down.
For a long time there’s nothing but the two of you and the dark and the windows open to the canyon, his weight settling over you, the rough catch of his breath when you arch up into him. He says your name like it costs him something. You take him in and lose the thread of every thought you’ve ever had, and when you start to move he matches you, one broad hand spread at the small of your back, holding you to the rhythm you set.
You don’t let it be only once. The current under your skin won’t let you, and he keeps up far longer than seems fair and then keeps going past that, until you’re both wrung out and laughing again — the giddy bottomless kind you’ve never once had in a bed before him, foreheads dropped together, him braced over you sweat-damp and grinning, saying give me a minute, and you don’t give him one, and he groans your name and you feel him smile against your collarbone before he gives in and pulls you back under with him.
It’s very late when he finally goes down for good.
You’re tucked against his side, his arm heavy across you, his breathing gone slow and deep and gone — the dead sleep of a man who flew across the country, got dragged to a flower field at dawn, and then this. His face is loose with it. There’s a sunburn coming up across the bridge of his nose from the fields. You watch him a while in the dark.
You are not tired.
That’s what you notice, lying there warm and used and happier than you can remember being — that your body has done everything it’s supposed to do to be tired and isn’t, that the current’s still running clean and bright like the day never ended. You could sleep. You should. He’s right here, solid and warm and yours.
You lie still for a long time, listening to him breathe, and the not-tired hums on.
* * *
The hallway color has bothered you for two years. You’ve known it since the day it dried — too gray, too cold, wrong for the light that comes down it in the afternoons — and tonight, lying awake and humming next to a dead-asleep man, the wrongness of it became the only thing in the world you could think about. So now it’s almost two and you’re three feet up a stepladder with a roller and a tray of the warm white you should have used the first time, drop cloth bunched under you, and the first wall already looks so much better that you can’t understand why you waited.
You don’t hear him until he’s in the doorway.
He’s in boxers and nothing else, hair shoved sideways from the pillow, squinting into the lamplight with one hand braced on the frame. He takes in the ladder, the paint, you, the half-done wall. A lesser-rested man might ask what time it is. He doesn’t.
“This the color you wanted?” he says, voice wrecked with sleep.
“It’s so much better, right? Look at it next to the old—” you gesture with the roller, flick a line of white onto the drop cloth “—it was practically blue. Who picked blue. I picked blue. Anyway, it’s also going to change how the art reads, which means I have to redo the whole gallery wall, which I’ve been meaning to do since I moved the—”
He crosses the hall, picks the second roller out of the tray, and starts on the bottom of the wall you can’t reach from the ladder.
You watch him for a second. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
So you paint. You keep talking because the talking won’t stop — the gallery wall, a thing you want to try with the next product launch, a dream you had two nights ago that you’ve decided means something — and he works the low part of the wall in long even passes and lets you go, throwing in a word here and there, mostly just there. The lamp throws both your shadows up the fresh white. He’s got a streak of paint on his forearm already and doesn’t seem to have noticed.
You’re mid-sentence about the dream when he says it.
“I love you.”
You stop. Roller against the wall, paint going nowhere. He hasn’t stopped — another pass, low and even — and he says it the way he says the score of a game or what time he needs to leave for the airport, like a thing that’s just true and that he figured you should have.
He looks over at you then. Paint on his arm, sleep still in his face. “Wanted you to know that,” he says. “Seemed like a good time.”
You come down off the ladder. You take his face in your hands, paint and all, and you tell him you love him too — and it comes out fast and total and unguarded, every word of it true, all of it surfacing easy the way everything is surfacing easy tonight.
He kisses you. Soft, unhurried, his thumb at your jaw. Then he picks his roller back up.
“Hold the ladder,” he says. “You’re going to fall off it telling me about a dream.”
* * *
Back in bed he’s under again before you’ve even pulled the sheet up, one arm finding you out of habit, the paint dried tight on his forearm where neither of you washed it off. You lie on your back and watch the ceiling go from black to the gray-that-isn’t-quite-gray that means four.
He loves you. He said it holding a roller at two in the morning and meant it the way he means everything, and it’s still there now, warm and enormous, no smaller than when he said it.
You should be asleep. You know that the way you know your own name. Three nights now: four hours, then two, then this. You know what your body is supposed to do with a number like that, and you know what usually waits at the far end of a stretch that runs this bright for this long. You know you should be a little afraid of it.
You’re not. Not tonight.
There’s a man asleep beside you with your love in his mouth and paint on his arm, and the canyon will go gold in two hours, and you already know where you’re taking him.
* * *
You have him at the Rose Bowl by seven, which is when the real ones go — before the sun turns the asphalt to a griddle and the good things walk off in somebody else’s arms. Joe came along on four hours of sleep and a gas-station coffee and no questions asked, and now he’s trailing you down the first aisle with his hood up and his hands in his pockets, unbothered, anonymous, just a big quiet guy carrying nothing yet.
That last part doesn’t last.
By the third vendor he’s got a brass candlestick in one hand and a folded kilim under his arm, because you found a rug and the rug found you and there was no real discussion about it. You’re good at this and you know you’re good at this — you can read a booth in four seconds, clock the one thing worth having, talk a price down while making the seller feel like they won. This morning you’re better than good. Everything’s bright and obvious and slightly slowed, like the whole field laid itself out for you to skim the best off the top.
You find him at the end of aisle nine. The painting.
He’s enormous and Victorian and gilt-framed and faintly disapproving, an oil portrait of some bewhiskered stranger nobody’s loved in a hundred years, and you have to have him. The dealer wants ninety. You don’t even haggle, which you’d notice if you were noticing things, and then the painting is yours and far too big for any sane person’s car.
Joe looks at it. Looks at you. Looks at the stack already in his arms.
“What’s his name,” he says.
“He doesn’t have one. He’s a mystery.”
He studies the painted face a moment, unimpressed. “He looks like a Gerald.”
“He’s not a Gerald.”
“He’s a Gerald.” Settled, apparently. He shifts the rug higher under his arm and wedges Gerald against his hip. “Where’s he going?”
“Hallway. Above the new white.” Which means rethinking the gallery wall again, which you’re already designing as you say it, out loud, fast, while you scan aisle ten for what’s next.
And Joe — arms full, a stranger’s portrait on his hip, a man who got out of bed in the dark for this — watches you go up on your toes to see over a crowd, and says it grinning, easy, no idea what he’s handing you:
“You’re moving a little fast.”
You laugh. “Keep up.”
He does. He always does. You don’t think about it again — there’s a booth of apothecary bottles two rows over and you’ve already decided you need them — and the morning rolls on bright and bottomless, Gerald looking out over all of it like he’s seen this before and knows how it ends.
* * *
Gerald goes in the hallway, leaned against the fresh white for now, presiding over the kilim and the brass and the bag of apothecary bottles you haven’t decided about. Joe packs the way he does everything, without fuss — the same small bag he came with, zipped in two minutes, set by the door.
Then there’s an hour to kill before he has to leave, and you find that you’ve sat down.
You don’t sit down, usually. Not lately. But you’re on the couch with your feet in his lap and the afternoon coming gold through the windows, and the bright obvious edge that’s run under everything for days has gone a little soft at the borders — the talking slower in your mouth, the next thing you meant to do not arriving the way the next thing has arrived all weekend. Weenie loafs on his chest. Joe works his thumb into the arch of your foot, and you let your eyes close and don’t narrate anything for whole minutes at a time.
“You’re quiet,” he says. Not worried. Just noticing, the way he noticed the lights on Friday.
“Tired, maybe.” It surprises you a little, the word tired — a stranger you haven’t seen in days. “Don’t get used to it.”
He smiles. He doesn’t push.
When it’s time it’s time. He shoulders the bag. Weenie protests from the back of the couch. At the door he turns and takes your face in both hands and kisses you slow, unhurried even with a flight to make, and when he pulls back he keeps his forehead against yours a moment.
“This was the best weekend of my life,” he says.
He says it the way he says true things — plainly, like a fact he’s reporting. No production. He means it down to the floor and you can hear that he means it.
“Yeah,” you say.
And you do mean it too — it was, for you, some of it. But underneath the warmth a small old thing turns over, the part of you that’s watched men fall for the lit-up version and go missing when the lights came down. He isn’t them. You know he isn’t. He saw the low day and he stayed. But the open joy on his face right now lands on the old bruise anyway, because the woman he can’t stop smiling about is the one with a clock on her.
You kiss him again so you don’t have to say any of that.
“Go,” you tell him. “You’ll miss your flight.”
“I’ll call when I land.”
“I know you will.”
He goes.
* * *
The taillights swing down the gravel and out, and the canyon swallows the sound of the car, and then it’s just you and the house and Gerald watching from the hall.
You stand at the window a while after he’s gone.
You don’t feel the floor drop. It’s never the way people picture it — no cliff, no curtain. It’s smaller than that. It’s the talking that’s gone quiet in your head for the first time in days. It’s that you’re standing at a window not doing anything, which you have not done since Thursday, and the not-doing feels less like rest than like a tide pulling out from a shore you can’t see yet.
You take out your phone. You open the app.
Sleep: 0.
Mood: high.
Energy: 7.
In the notes field the cursor blinks. Thursday you typed feels good, watching it. You think about Joe somewhere over the desert with the best weekend of his life folded up in his chest, and you think about who he spent it with, and you type the truth, because you always type the truth.
here it comes.
Then you go through the house turning the lights off, one by one, the way you never turned them on — kitchen, the half-rebuilt hallway, the bedroom last. You leave the hall light burning for Gerald.
You’ll call Ruby in the morning. You’ll tell Joe when there’s something worth telling. For now you get into a bed that still smells like him, and you lie down in the dark, and you wait to find out which way the wheel came up.
