a/n — this one’s been in the drafts for a while now 🥲 i was originally supposed to post this for joe’s birthday, but life sort of got in the way of things for me and i had to take a step back from posting for a bit. i’m glad to be back though, as i’ve missed interacting with all of you on here. thank you guys for being patient with me in the meantime! happy reading x
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yourusername teeny tiny 🤏🏼🥹
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A/N: YAY! Joe smut, Joe smut, Joe smut! I have been needing this man in a biblical sense recently, and then the other day I had this thought of couch sex, fingering and riding him (the working title of this fic was 'couch sex' until I decided on a proper title lol), so this was born from that. I hope you enjoy!
WC: 4.5k (I said this may be short... I lied)
Warnings: Sexual content, MDNI! 18+, this contains very little plot and a lot of smut. Fingering (f receiving), riding, cock warming if you squint, Joe is a pro at aftercare, she rides him... it's a fun time!
The thing about sexual tension with you and Joe is… it doesn’t often sky rocket out of nowhere.
Over the course of your relationship, it’s become a thing where sometimes, days can go by where lingering touches go unnoticed, you hold each other’s gaze for just a second too long to be just a glance and kisses become charged without going anywhere.
It’s not even anyone’s fault. He’s tired from the season, you’re busy at work — recently, the days just haven’t had enough hours for the two of you to go further than heated kisses before bed. Sex is an important part of your relationship and both of you very much enjoy it, but you also want to make sure that you have the energy to make it a special, rewarding experience for both of you.
Tonight, though, there’s been tension simmering since the second he came home from the facility. When you turned around from cooking dinner and saw him standing there, leaning against the counter wearing a black Bengals hoodie and grey sweats… you were done for.
And the worst thing is, he can see it in your face. It’s written in the way your eyes immediately darkened at the sight of him, the way your mouth went slack like you were about to literally salivate over him.
He smirked, almost imperceptibly to anyone else but plain as day for you to see, and approached you to rest two hands on your hips the second you were within arm’s reach.
‘Hi baby,’ he’d said.
You were too overcome with thoughts that had no business being released to the general public that you couldn’t speak.
All you could do was lean up to kiss him and hope that he could feel how badly you needed him through your lips melting against his.
Dinner has passed. The dishwasher hums softly in the background, around halfway through its cycle. It’ll probably finish before you go to bed but it’s become an unwritten rule that whoever gets up first in the morning is responsible for unloading it.
You’ve showered and changed into soft lounge shorts and one of Joe’s old LSU shirts. Once you’re downstairs, you find Joe sat in the corner of his sectional couch, film playing on his tablet with his notebook next to him. The closer you get to him, the more handsome he looks.
Blonde hair falls over his eyes as he tilts his head down to the tablet. His huge hands make the pen he’s holding look like a child’s crayon. A white shirt stretches over his enormous shoulders. The material is thin enough that as you approach, you can see the faint outline of his spine through the back. He’s relaxed in a way that only the off season can provide. Shoulders looser than they are during the peak stress of the season. Hands flowing more as they note down routes, covers and drives from various teams.
He senses you before you even come into his peripheral vision. His head turns just as you pass next to him, then a soft smile appears on his lips when he sees you.
‘There she is,’ he murmurs softly with a chuckle as you plop down next to him.
‘Hey Joey,’ you reply. He briefly holds his pen in his left hand to allow his right hand to squeeze your knee, then picks his pen back up to continue writing. His handwriting isn’t neat, but legible enough for you to make out some of his notes.
Watch for safety rotation.
Corner play bites on action.
Left tackle drifts wide.
There are circles. Arrows. Little diagrams that make no sense to you but are like Joe’s second language.
Your head tilts as you continue to try and make out more of the notes and reminders to himself. It’s moments like these where you forget that you’re not just dating Joe, the guy who watches nature documentaries, willingly participates in self-care Saturdays with you and listens to audiobooks on the drive to work. You’re also dating the quarterback who’s played in a Super Bowl, been compared to a ‘stone-cold killer’ and leads the offence of the Cincinnati Bengals.
Joe sees you looking, sees you reading, and smiles to himself.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks quietly as he looks down at you. The scratching of the pen pauses as he makes another note about audibles.
You smile up at him.
‘I’m thinking about how my boyfriend gets tackled by three-hundred pound men for a living.’ He laughs at that. Then you point to a diagram near the top right of the page. ‘What does this mean?’
He looks at it for a moment. It’s a small drawing, no bigger than a quarter, little X’s and O’s with arrows branching out in a few different directions. Then he explains how each letter correlates to a player, how each arrow refers to a different route and what that means for him.
You huff out a sigh that tells Joe that you’re more impressed than you’d like to let on. Football was a completely new thing to you when you and Joe first met, and you’re still getting used to the insanity of the sport.
‘This sport is a conspiracy theory.’
Joe chuckle again at your deadpan remark.
‘I’ve not heard that one before,’ he chuckles. His arm drapes across your shoulders and the two of you turn your heads to look at each other.
There it is again, you realise with a rush of blood to your cheeks. That unspoken spark of something unspoken that rushes between you.
‘A very cool conspiracy theory,’ you admit, almost breathlessly. You’re trying not to give yourself away, trying not to distract him…
But everything he does makes fireworks fizz in your stomach. Heat pools low in your stomach and you have to squeeze your thighs together as you slowly start to clock the dampness in your underwear.
The smirk on his face tells you that unfortunately, he’s clocked you. Just like always.
You shuffle away from him, far enough away that you’re still within touching distance but not close enough that your shoulder isn’t resting against his arm. Even the feeling of his skin on yours, warm and soft, is enough to make your brain go fuzzy.
Joe continues to look at his film, but he’s also watching you out of the corner of his eye. You scroll TikTok with the volume as low as it can go. Every so often, you exhale a little puff of air out of your nose at a particularly amusing video or comment.
You’re cool. You’re calm.
You are totally not thinking about your very warm, very handsome boyfriend sat less than three feet away from you. You are absolutely not thinking about his fingers, currently holding a pen, that you would much prefer sliding down the front of your shorts. And there’s absolutely no way you’re thinking about his grunts and the feeling of the delicious stretch you always feel as you slide yourself down onto him.
Five minutes of silence pass.
Ten minutes of agony.
Fifteen minutes of you losing your mind as he mutters to himself about coverage and yards and safeties.
He’s been muttering to himself for a while, but you’re so zoned out, trying to keep your thoughts to PG-13, that you don’t realise he’s asked you a question until you clock the fact that the same TikTok video has played multiple times with no reaction from you. No laugh, no scroll, no nothing.
‘Baby.’
The single word fires through your brain like a lightning bolt. You turn your head to look at him, too fast to play it off casually.
‘Yes, Joe.’
‘I asked if you’re okay.’ There’s the smallest suggestion of a smirk on his lips as he asks the question again.
‘All good,’ you reply quickly. Too quickly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
He shrugs, raising his eyebrows, smirk growing in size.
‘Because the same video played four times and you didn’t even react.’
Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, trying to think up a reasonable explanation for this.
Nothing comes to your mind. Your brain, usually overactive and supplies plenty of thoughts, is completely void of anything but how much you need him. Your thighs are already shaking. You know that if he were to feel your groin even through your shorts, he’d be able to feel the dampness of your folds through your shorts. It’s cold against your thighs, slick and a constant reminder of how badly you need him.
Joe decides that enough is enough. He reaches forward to turn the tablet off and throws the notebook and pen onto the coffee table, then reaches across to wrap his arms around you.
‘C’mere, you,’ he grins at your yelp as he picks you up with no effort at all. ‘Been ignoring my girl for too long.’
A moment later, you’re sat on his lap. Your knees dig into the couch on either side of his hips as you straddle him, with your arms moving instinctively to lock around his neck.
You look up at his face. His eyes, normally a piercing blue, are dark grey in the low light of the room. His pupils are blown. Jaw set, tight with concentration, but it’s not film he’s concentrating on anymore.
It’s you.
You’re taking up his entire focus. You’re all he can think of right now.
‘Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need.’
You blink up at him.
‘What — I don’t — Joe…’ You babble uselessly.
Joe chuckles darkly and leans in to kiss your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. His lips trail kisses along your jaw, up to your ear, brushing its shell as his voice lowers to that deep, throaty timbre he keeps at the back of his throat for these exact moments.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he murmurs. ‘Tell me what you need.’
His hands grip your waist, fingers kneading the soft skin of your ass. Your lips find his once more as you instinctively rock your hips into him, slow, gentle but deliberate enough that you quickly start to feel him hardening beneath his sweatpants.
The effect is immediate. Almost comical, really.
He groans and tips his head to the back of the couch with a filthy grin.
‘You asked me what I needed, Joe,’ you mumble against his lips. ‘I need you. Right now.’
You pull back from the kiss just enough to look at him. Both of your lips are red and swollen and your breaths punch out in desperate gasps. His eyes are dark, hooded with desire.
‘Please, Joey.’
Those two words are enough for him to finally move one of his hands from your ass, around your thigh to your knee. His fingers trail up the skin on the inside of your leg, painfully slow, enough to make you whine in anticipation. He looks up at you, smirking because he knows what you need.
‘Patience, baby,’ he murmurs up at you. From your position of being straddled across him, you’re just above his eye-line, meaning that for once in his life he has to look up at you.
‘Joey,’ you whimper. The last syllable is elongated, making him chuckle. ‘I said please.’
His huge shoulders shake with another soft laugh at your neediness.
‘Such a good girl, being so polite.’
Your body is already reacting to every slight touch, every trail of his fingertips against your skin. The higher they go on your thigh, the more you react, whimpering his name as anticipation curls in your stomach.
When his fingers slide under the waistband of your shorts and finally find you, he hisses at the feel of your slick coating his digits, swearing under his breath at the effect he has on you. His breath fans hot and heady against your face in between kisses.
His fingers expertly work your clit, thumbing, pressing and swirling to make you gasp out his name into his neck. Your body arches into his all over again, but this time the movement is frantic. Staccato from just how sensitive your body is. You make a sound that’s half yelp, half moan, as your head falls to rest against his shoulder.
Joe’s other hand tucks your hair behind your shoulder, as it’s fallen over your shoulder and he knows you hate when it gets in your face.
The room is quiet. The only sounds are your occasional breathless gasps and moans, and the obscene wet sounds from you as his fingers bring you closer and closer to the edge.
It’s cresting. Fast. The coil is tightening already, that addictive feeling of your high accelerating towards you. You’re so desperate for it that your hips rock back and forth, seemingly of their own accord, riding his fingers in search of your climax.
You’re close. He can feel it in the way your thighs start to tremble around him.
‘Close already, baby?’ He smirks at you. You shove his shoulder weakly, too blissed to put any proper weight behind it.
‘Shut up, Burrow,’ you whine, making him laugh. The kiss he gives you when his lips find yours once again is hungry and deep. Both of you tilt your heads for more access to each other.
Your face scrunches in pleasure and your head tilts back, far enough that he moves his hand to cradle the back of your neck to keep your balance on him.
‘Stay with me, baby, I’ve got you.’
You whimper again as the high comes crashing towards you.
‘Joe — I’m—’
‘Let go for me, honey,’ he murmurs into your ear. ‘Let me hear you.’
Then, finally, without another warning, it hits. You rock into him, almost collapsing on top of him with a muffled yelp of his name as the coil snaps, sending a wave of heat pulsing through you. Moans tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. The intensity of it is almost overwhelming.
He watches you with a smug grin. Both of his hands grip your waist and hold you close enough to him that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The aftershocks vibrate through your entire body and you feel the need to hold onto him, arms looped around his neck to brace yourself against his huge form.
For a few moments, there’s quiet. Proper quiet, the kind that envelops a room after something intense has happened. Your breathing slowly starts to even out as you breathe him in. He moves one hand to slide under your shirt. The feeling of his palm, warm and large, on your skin makes electricity crackle through you all over again.
You still need him, you realise. Your body craves more. You crave him in ways that you don’t feel confident enough to say, so you lift your head to look at him.
His eyes are dark grey in the low light of the room when they meet yours. Your fingers comb through his hair and tuck the strands that have fallen loose behind his ears. He kisses you, soft and gentle.
‘Need more, sweetheart?’ He asks quietly.
At first, you’re taken by surprise at just how well he knows you, at the way he knows when you need more without you even saying so, but then you smile and nod.
‘Yeah,’ you reply with a kiss to his cheek.
He beams, then taps your thigh.
‘Shorts off, baby.’
You obey without a second thought and move so you’re standing up in front of him. It only lasts a few seconds, during which you kick off your shorts and toss them to the side while Joe shimmies his sweatpants down his thighs, but your body screams in protest at the lack of contact with him. It only ceases when you sit back down on his lap.
Both of you groan at the feeling of your core, still soaking and slick, rubbing against his swollen cock. It slaps against his shirt, causing pre-cum to dribble onto the fabric. You shift slightly so your hips are raised off him, and he takes his cock in one hand and holds it steady to line it up with you. The other of his hands braces one of your hips to guide you down, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.
‘Ready?’ you ask quietly, face barely more than a few centimetres from his.
He just nods in response. He’s too overwhelmed with need for you that he can barely form a coherent sentence.
And then you’re sinking yourself down onto him. He groans, loud enough for the sound to echo around the dark room, and his head tips to the back of the couch at the sight of your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You mimic his groan with one of your own at the stretch, at the feeling of him inside you.
‘Fuck, sweetheart — tight.’ It’s barely more than a grunt from him. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving with exertion at the sensation of you fluttering around him.
The sensation takes your breath away every time, but especially from this angle. He’s completely bottomed out inside you, enough that you can feel his balls at your core. The stretch is delicious, big enough to make your walls quiver around him but not so big that it hurts.
‘Joey…’
‘I know, baby.’
Both hands are on you, now. One on your back, sneaking under your shirt again, the other on your hip. You tilt towards him and hiss as the change in angle causes his cock to hit that spot inside you.
He smiles knowingly.
‘There?’
It’s your turn to nod. Your arms are still looped around his neck and your fingers start to play with the soft hairs at the nape, absently grounding you without you even realising what you’re doing.
You turn to look at him properly, both of you stealing sweet, short kisses as you sit on him and keep him warm.
‘I love you,’ you say, because it seems important to say it now.
He beams up at you and kisses you again.
‘I love you too, sweetheart. So much.’
The two of you sit there for what might be a few seconds but what could easily be several minutes, your arms looped around his neck while his hands move up and down your back in circular motions. Time is doing that thing it always does during moments like this — stretching. Thickening just like the atmosphere is around you. Seconds bleeding into each other. It’s just the two of you.
You don’t even realise you’re staring at him until he grins teasingly up at you and kisses you.
‘Baby, you gonna just sit there or are you gonna ride me?’
The giggle punches out of your chest before you can even try and stop it, him joining you with chuckles of his own, and you rock your hips again, causing him to grunt your name under his breath.
There’s no space to speak of between you. Every atom of your body craves him, possessed by a carnal, almost primal desire to have him touching you.
His hands guide you as your hips pick up a steady rhythm against him. The hand under your shirt keeps you balanced against him, while his grip on your waist helps you maintain the ticking beat that you’ve picked up. It’s regular, not too fast that you can’t keep it but enough pace to make stars cloud your vision.
The feeling is addictive. His hands roaming your body, touching every spare millimetre of skin they can reach. His cock — huge, thick — rocking inside you, bulbous tip hitting the spot inside you that feels completely different when you ride him like this.
His hands clap down on your ass in a smack to both cheeks, making you yelp in surprise against his mouth. Joe grins as the sound reverberates through the whole room.
Both of you are groaning into each other. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your forehead, any inch of skin his lips can reach. He maps your face in kisses, then brushes his lips against your ear.
‘Love seein’ you like this, baby girl,’ he murmurs, voice throaty with need. ‘Takin’ me so well, such a good girl, lookin’ so perfect f’me.’ His Ohio drawl lengthens his vowels, makes his consonants thicken and run into each other.
It almost sounds like he’s drunk, slurring his words, and in a way he is. Drunk on you. Intoxicated with love for you. You’re the most dangerously addictive drug he’s ever known. He doesn’t want a world where he doesn’t get this high.
Minutes pass slowly. The room slowly falls away from around you. All you can focus on is him.
Your thighs start to get tired, but you keep going. Your lower back hurts. Cramp slowly creeps in around your feet. But you can’t stop.
You cradle his head with both hands as you kiss him, hot and hard, teeth clashing against each other. Your body is moving with every rock of your hips into him, causing your mouth to move back and forth against his. His lips capture yours every time, hungry and desperate for you.
The rhythm picks up in pace. Your high is building once more with the faster pace. Joe has to move both hands to your hips to keep you lowered onto him and direct your hips back and forth, back and forth.
‘Joey, I — I’m gonna…’ you mumble.
There it is again. That tightening sensation in your abdomen. It’s approaching even faster than the first orgasm earlier with every pulse of his cock inside you, every rock of your hips into him and every time his grip tightens on you.
Joe can feel you start to tire. He starts to buck his hips up in time with yours, almost lazily. He times it perfectly so the height of his hips are when you’re closest to him. It magnifies the magic feeling of him hitting that spot inside you.
Moments later, he kisses you hard and fiery. His own rhythm is becoming sloppy, just like yours
‘I’m there, baby,’ he grunts into you.
‘I — Joey, I’m — gonna…’
You can’t string a single sentence together.
‘I know, I know, sweetheart, trust me, I’ve got you.’
All it takes is one, two, three more thrusts into you, hard enough to hit that spot with enough force. Your walls flutter, then you’re coming undone around him.
This time, you actually scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, hard enough that you feel like you’re about to split open around him. It’s rare for your orgasm to hit you with just penetration - you often need his fingers alongside his dick to get your high, but when you cum with him inside you, it hits you hard. Intense.
Joe follows seconds later. His release coats your walls, warmth filling you up enough that some of it trickles out of you and down his own thigh.
He breathes heavily, then moves to fold his arms around you. Your entire body is trembling. The orgasm was so intense that tears start to leak out of your eyes.
‘I’m — I’m okay, god, I’m not… not sad, just…’ you exhale all in one, embarrassed. Gasps of exhaustion splutter out of you and you can only collapse against him, completely and utterly boneless.
‘Hey, it’s okay, I know. Just breathe, sweetheart.’
He holds you close to his chest. You’re acutely aware that he’s still inside you, softening but still pulsing every few seconds with the last of him. He rubs your back soothingly and hushes you whenever you shake with another sob. His hand threads through your hair and pulls it back away from your face.
His voice is quiet and gentle as he breathes you through the comedown.
‘I’ve got you. Breathe. You’re safe. You’re on the couch. Just got a little intense back there, huh.’
You don’t respond. He isn’t expecting you to.
The following few minutes are quiet as the room decompresses. Your breathing slowly starts to even out once more, as does his, and he reaches for the blanket that’s tossed over the back of the couch not far from you. He wraps it around you, still wrapped around him like an exhausted koala.
‘Wanna lie down, baby?’ He whispers as he kisses the skin beneath your ear.
You hum in agreement, already soft with sleep, and then his arms are tightening around you as he shifts both of your bodies down onto the couch. You wince at the sensation of him pulling out of you.
‘I’m okay,’ you mumble when he looks at you in concern, worried that he’s hurt you. ‘Tender. Achey.’
He kisses your forehead.
‘Might need to carry you up to bed, honey,’ he chuckles quietly. You giggle against him.
‘I love the girlfriend transport service.’
He presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your hairline and the top of your head.
‘Comes included, free of charge.’
You’re too exhausted to respond, so you kiss his chest and close your eyes. His hand disappears into your hair and gently combs out the wild tangles that have formed from his fingers tangling it during sex.
Joe’s ability to shift from intense to soft in a matter of minutes always takes you by surprise. He’s the king of aftercare, forever making sure that you’re hydrated and feel taken care of.
He talks to you quietly about practice earlier and the drills he was running. About how he’s feeling about the new season, training camp, the draft. About some documentary he watched the other day and how he wants to watch it again with you, as he thinks you’ll enjoy it.
Then his words drift into softer territory.
‘Always gonna come home to you, baby.’
‘Always gonna be the most important person in my life.’
‘Always gonna be my favourite person.’
‘I love you.’
It’s those three words that you hear, muffled and echoey like you’re in a dishwasher, as sleep starts to creep up on you.
You tilt your head to look up him. He chuckles affectionately.
‘You hear that?’ He asks as he kisses your forehead. ‘I love you. Always have, always will.’
The smile you give him cracks his chest open with how soft it is.
‘I love you too, Joey,’ you mumble, almost indecipherable through your exhaustion.
He rubs your back again as your head drops back down onto his shoulder. You breathe him in — skin still sticky and sweaty, with the distinct aroma of sex, but still that signature scent of cedar, vanilla and clean laundry that you’ve come to know as home.
‘Sleep now, baby. I’ll take you up to bed.’
You’re already sore. You’ll likely be walking a little awkwardly tomorrow, but you don’t care. All you care about is how warm Joe is beneath you.
His heartbeat is steady and regular beneath your ear. He continues talking, and soon, sleep is pulling you under, safe in the arms of your quarterback.
A/N: Hey guys! Sorry I disappeared on you all for a few days, I have so much uni work to do. HOWEVER, I've been chipping away at this one over the last few weeks and it's finally come together - so good to be back with my favourite emotional support quarterback! This is just a super cute, super fluffy fic of Joey and my amazingly special neurodivergent!reader going out to do grocery shopping and other mundane things, because I am a firm believer that doing mundane things with your love is the best thing ever. Enjoy! I also decided to do a mock news report so I hope you like that addition! Let me know if you want to see more of those or social media AUs too, I love doing them!
What’s playing? Mirrors - Justin Timberlake
WC: 5.6k
Warnings: Reader experiences decision paralysis. Other than that, just super sweet, tooth rotting fluff 🫶
Pairing: Joe x neurodivergent!reader
Off season.
That beautiful lull in the year where everything just seems to pause. Responsibilities hang in the air and wait patiently for everyone to pick them back up in July.
You would be lying if you said you weren’t excited for it. Being Joe’s girlfriend is incredible and you are so grateful for the opportunities that it offers you, but being neurodivergent means that there are aspects of it that exhaust you.
Large social events full of people that you don’t know and having to rehearse to yourself what you’re going to say. Constantly having to be ‘on’ all the time even when you’re just walking in town somewhere. Checking social media, when you know you shouldn’t be, for what people are saying about Joe, about you, about your relationship.
Now, you can have a break. An actual break, time away from it all.
A chance for Joe to rest and recuperate. Maybe the opportunity for an actual vacation. He’s been talking about taking you away somewhere warm, maybe Italy or France, once he’s rested, but those are still just plans.
Normally, you’d crave structure. But now? After the heavy season, Joe’s injury and everything that happened? You’re grateful for those days where you can just do nothing.
The day starts slow and steady.
When you wake up, Joe’s still half asleep next to you. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, he looks peaceful. He looks as though he isn’t holding up the hopes of the city on his shoulders.
You might be a night owl, but there’s something about mornings that just hit different.
There’s no expectations from anyone. There’s nobody you have to mask for. It’s quiet and peaceful. Just the sound of Joe’s gentle breathing next to you, steady and even.
As the sun slowly starts to come up and bathe the room in a weak light that slants through the shutters, you can’t resist lying on your side and watching him sleep.
He’s especially beautiful in the early morning light. His curls look impossibly blonde, and the skin on his shoulders, just about peeking out of the comforter, appears soft and perfect. He’s perfect. Your boy. Your Joey.
He sighs in his sleep and turns towards you. Your heart bleeds with love as your eyes rake across his sleeping form; eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, mouth open just slightly, not enough to snore, and forehead smooth as sleep bathes him in that peace you wish he could hold in himself all the time.
It’s these peaceful, quiet mornings that it hits you. How lucky you are to be loved by this man, this intelligent, nerdy, endlessly patient angel sleeping next to you. Right now, he’s not Cincinnati’s hero. He’s not the quarterback. He’s not the multibillionaire with a private jet and a collection of cars that would make any car collector fall to their knees.
He’s just Joe. Joe, who builds Lego sets with you and displays them with pride. Joe, who watches true crime documentaries with you because he knows how they’re your special interest. Joe, who quietly researches ADHD and autism and looks up ways to be a supportive partner.
You don’t realise you’re staring until he shuffles next to you and curls an arm around your waist.
‘You’re staring,’ he deadpans without opening his eyes, voice gruff with sleep. The bedsheets crinkle as he shifts next to you, wanting you as close as possible. You’re not entirely surprised when you’re tugged into his chest. You automatically turn around so your face is in that nook where his throat meets his shoulders, breathing him in so deeply that it makes him smile to himself.
‘Can’t help it, Joey Bear,’ you mumble back. ‘You’re very oogle-able.’ The words are muffled from where you say them into his skin. He sighs again when you start to trace kisses up his neck and along his jaw. The slight stubble that he’s developing scratches your cheek in just the right way.
A hoarse laugh chuffs out of him, and you feel him kiss the top of your head.
‘Oogle-able?’
‘Yes. Ten out of ten, highly recommended oogling. Would oogle again.’
Joe’s chest rumbles with more laughter. He loves mornings with you, especially when you’re in a playful mood like this.
He stretches, groaning as his body starts to wake up, then looks down at you. His baby blues are bleary with sleep, making him look younger than his twenty-nine years.
‘So,’ he begins with a kiss to your lips that neither of you can be bothered to deepen. ‘Agenda for today?’
You shove his chest playfully.
‘Only you, franchise quarterback, would ask me what the agenda for today is during off season.’
The two of you share another kiss, giggling into the kiss, and Joe winds both arms around your waist to pull you up onto his chest. Your head immediately finds its usual spot on his sternum, right between his pecs, and he holds you there.
‘I just know you like having structure, and that’s hard to keep up during off season. We can do whatever you want, honey, your call.’
You pause, thinking, then a delighted smile crosses your face when the idea occurs to you.
‘Errands!’ It’s announced with a smile that is simply far too large for what you’re referring to, but it just makes Joe’s heart swell with fondness.
‘Errands?’ He asks, checking he heard you right. ‘As in, like, the boring, mundane things that adults do?’
‘Yes!’ you reply, enthusiasm dripping from your words. ‘Except nothing is ever boring or mundane with you! You can drive, obviously, and I will be your faithful passenger princess. We can go to Kroger, do a grocery run, stop in the hardware store just because and pretend to be functioning adults who fix things in the home when we actually just call someone to come fix things every time…’
You pause again, breathless with excitement as you map out this errands run that expands in side quests with every gasp of exhilaration. You’ve sat up so you’re half straddling Joe, who’s looking at you as he always does; like you’ve hung the moon, the stars and the entire Solar System.
‘Oh, and to complete our mission, we can stop by Dunkin’ on the way back!’
Joe’s grinning up at you, hands roaming your legs and up to your waist to keep you balanced.
‘Okay, but if you’re taking your medication today, you can’t have coffee, okay?’
A beat.
‘Fine. Then I’m having a pastry.’
‘Deal.’
‘Yes!’ It’s an actual cheer. Joe grunts, grinning, when you all but hop off him. ‘I’m going to shower, do my skincare, take my meds and then we can go! I’m so excited, Joey!’
Joe’s so overwhelmed with love and affection that he lies there in wonder at how he managed to pull you, this quirky, hilarious woman who gets excited about going to Kroger and who managed to turn his entire world upside down just by existing. You see the world in your own special way, you think of things that other people can only dream of and you process things so differently that every day is an opportunity for Joe to learn how your brain works.
He lies in bed and listens to you showering, singing along to the eighties playlist that’s filtering through the splashing of the water. There’s not a single universe in which this doesn’t happen, in which he wakes up with you not in his life. You’re part of it, now. Forever etched into his world.
When you walk out of the bathroom, teeth fresh and skin glowing from your skincare, Joe’s stood at his dresser looking for something to wear. You’re dressed in leggings and one of his Bengals hoodies. They’re your favourite to wear, as the sleeves are loose and you can shove your hands in the pockets if you don’t know what to do with them. Best of all, they smell like him. Vanilla, cedar and clean laundry. Home.
There’s a wordless exchange as you stand at the floor-length mirror to apply some makeup. Joe walks past you after getting dressed and rests a gentle hand at your waist as he does so, presses a fleeting kiss to the top of your head and murmurs to you that he’ll bring you your medication. The thought makes your chest fill with warmth.
Sure enough, five minutes later, he comes back up to you as you finish off your makeup with a swipe of lipgloss, carrying your medication, a glass of orange juice and two slices of plain, buttered toast, your go to breakfast food right now.
‘Thank you, Joey,’ you murmur, downing your medication with a gulp of juice and taking a bite of toast.
‘You’re welcome. Just don’t get crumbs in the bed, please,’ he replies with another kiss to your temple and an affectionate rub of your back with his free hand. ‘You’re beautiful, by the way.’
Underneath your tinted moisturiser, you blush scarlet just like you always do when he compliments you. It happens multiple times a day, so often that you lose count, but it still has the same effect on you.
‘One day I will learn how to react to you giving me compliments.’
Without missing a beat, Joe turns back to you, fires a wink and says,
‘Good thing you’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice.’
The blush on your cheeks last far longer than you ever care to admit. So does the smirk on Joe’s face.
Soon after, you’re shouldering your tote bag and Joe’s putting on his sneakers.
‘Next stop, Kroger!’ you announce excitedly as he opens your door for you to his Cadillac. He closes it for you once you’re buckled in.
He signals through the window to wind it down. When you do, he bends down and folds his arms through the window to gaze in at you.
‘You are far too excited to be going out to run errands, babe,’ Joe smiles affectionately.
You lean in closer and brush your fingers against his jaw, tapping it gently.
’I’m excited because I get to go with you, Joey.’
There’s the faintest flush to his cheeks as he leans through the window to kiss you, unable to stop the soppy grin from cracking open his face.
‘Someone’s feeling very soft today.’
You kiss him again, soft and brief.
‘I’m always soft when it comes to you.’
The drive to Kroger is chaotic in the way only a fifteen minute drive with you in the passenger seat can be. Your phone connects automatically to the car’s Bluetooth system, so you’re queuing up songs like you’re going to a multi-state road trip and have thoughts about each and every one. How one reminds you of Joe, how another brings you straight back to a moment so small that anyone else would discard but to you it was the world, how ‘Birds of a Feather’ by Billie Eilish is the one song that you associate most with Joe…
‘I just think it’s us, in a nutshell,’ you explain shyly when Joe asks why. ‘You get me, I get you, we come as a package deal, it’s always going to be you and me…’
Joe has to keep looking at the road ahead. He knows if he dares to look across at you, he’s gone. His throat is suspiciously tight, the way it always is when you say things like that as if you have’t completely wrecked him emotionally.
‘That’s… that’s really sweet, baby,’ he manages to get out, smiling despite his eyes being glassy.
You just hum in response and reach across the centre console to take his hand. He immediately laces your fingers together. His thumb automatically brushes the top of your hand.
Kroger’s parking lot is mercifully quiet and empty when Joe arrives. He picks a space a short walk from the front door, and you hop out to grab a shopping cart.
‘Okay, what’s on the list today, Joey?’
Joe fishes out his phone and goes onto his notes where the shopping list is (because of course he has an actual list).
‘We need protein powder, pasta, breakfast things, ice cream because I know you like something sweet after dinner, milk, bread and the Goldfish you like.’
‘Extra cheesy Goldfish?’
‘I wouldn’t get you anything else, sweetheart.’
You glance behind you to where he’s walking behind you, grinning at him in victory.
‘You know me too well, Burrow.’
He lengthens his stride to wind a lazy arm around your waist, pulling you into him.
‘No such thing as knowing you too well, baby,’ he murmurs through a kiss to your temple.
Once again, your cheeks go an annoyingly strong shade of pink at not just his words but the way he says them, low and gravelly into your ear as if you’re the only person in the world who has the privilege of hearing them. In a way, you kind of are. There’s no way he’d let anyone else hear that. It’s for your ears only.
Grocery shopping with you and Joe, you have come to find, is a carefully orchestrated military operation mixed with side quests that would make even Link from The Legend of Zelda raise his eyebrows.
One minute you’re methodically dividing and conquering (you take care of the snacks while he finds the boring stuff like bread and milk), the next minute you’re engaging in a heated debate in the pasta aisle about which shape is better.
‘Baby, rigatoni holds the sauce better,’ Joe argues as he gestures with a box of said pasta in his hand.
‘Conchiglie is right there, Joseph.’ You point at the corresponding shape on the display shelf.
‘Which one even is that?’
‘The shells! They hold the sauce perfectly, or - oh Joey - the bows! The bows don’t hold sauce well… or at all, but they’re so whimsy they get a pass, let’s get them for when the vibe needs to be improved.’
Joe stares at you, half baffled, half amused, completely in love.
‘I didn’t realise the vibe could be improved by pasta shapes.’
You shuffle closer into his space, tilt up onto your toes and kiss him, right there in the pasta aisle at Kroger. He kisses you back, holding the back of your head with his hand. When you pull back, both of you are grinning like two school kids.
‘Do you even know me, Joey? Of course the vibe can be improved by pasta shapes. Pasta fixes everything.’
‘Is that why it’s your safe food?’
His heart shatters when you smile up at him; lopsided, loopy on love, the kind of smile that you reserve only for him.
‘Exactly. You’re learning.’
He kisses you again, aware that you are still in public and he has to behave. After he throws in three boxes of pasta (the shells, the bows and rigatoni, just to cover all bases), he reaches down for your hand.
‘Come on, honey. Let’s go find those Goldfish.’
He takes charge of the cart, now, leaving you to yap quietly to him about whatever’s on your mind - your new dosage and how it’s helping you, a funny cat video you saw that you wanted to send to him but got distracted so now it’s in the abyss of the algorithm, waiting for you to find it again, fun facts about planes that you found on a deep dive…
He listens, utterly enraptured, with a small smile on his face as he continues to add items to the cart. You notice that they’re items that he doesn’t necessarily need, but items that make your life easier, like extra earplugs for when the world gets a little too loud, candles in your favourite scent for when you just need an extra helping hand to relax and another throw blanket for when your body feels like it’s not yours and deep pressure helps.
You can’t help but giggle delightedly when you find the extra cheesy Goldfish you love so much.
After adding a few bags to the cart, Joe continues to wander up and down the aisles with you tagging along next to him, arm looped through his at his elbow. He slows his stride so that you can keep up with him without having to jog.
Your safe foods are quietly added to the cart without comment. Crackers for when your medication sets your stomach off. Instant noodles. Heat-up meals that require no thought. Low fat Greek yoghurt with your favourite granola. Your favourite pasta sauce. Plain white rice. TicTacs for when you feel the need to eat something just for something to do but don’t want to go through the motions of preparations and dishes.
You mentioned, weeks ago, that you’re wanting to be more intentional with your food, not necessarily eating for weight loss, just being more present with how you eat, and he’s taken it upon himself to support you with that. He throws in fruits like apples, oranges (the easy peeler ones, of course) and watermelon (your go-to fruit when you need additional hydration because you’re constantly forgetting to drink enough water).
You don’t say anything, because none of it is for show. It’s just how Joe loves you. The more he learns about you and your brain, the more he loves it. As the two of you make your way down towards the freezer section, you take his hand and squeeze it. He looks down at you as you wander through the aisles with that knowing smile on his face.
I’ve got you, it says. I see you.
That means more than anything he could say.
The freezer section looms ahead of you in an array of frozen vegetables, frozen pizzas and ice cream.
Joe pauses and turns to look at you.
‘If I grab some frozen vegetables, do you want to have a look at the ice cream selection or come with me?’
You tilt your head in thought.
‘I’ll have a look at the ice cream. Any preference?’
‘Nope, whatever you like is good. I’ll find you in five?’
He kisses you after you nod in agreement.
‘I’ll give you the cart so you can put the ice cream in it.’ Another example of him knowing you scarily well; handling frozen items like ice cream and pizza makes your sensory overload go crazy. It’s too cold, too much, so he wheels the cart handles round to you and gives you a mock salute, making you giggle.
‘Godspeed, soldier!’
He laughs over his shoulder as he wanders off to locate frozen vegetables.
You turn towards the ice cream section and…
Instantly regret your choice.
In front of you lies the biggest selection of ice cream you’ve ever seen in your life.
Shelves stocked as high as you can see with different flavours, different types and… has there always been that many types of Ben and Jerry’s?
A bubble of panic flares in your stomach. What flavour did Joe get last time? You try and wrack your brains of what you saw last time you opened the freezer, but your mind comes up blank. Does Joe even like Ben and Jerry’s? What brand does he like?
The cookie dough is always a classic, but then there’s chocolate fudge brownie… But you always go for those two, why not branch out?
Your eyes flicker up and down, left and right, trying to choose…
Decision paralysis sets in faster than you anticipate. Overwhelm over just how much choice there starts in your heart, making it beat faster and faster. Your breathing intensifies as you try to narrow it down to three flavours, but even that’s too much…
You’re suddenly aware of… everything. The hum of the freezers keeping everything frozen. Some kid screaming. The squeaking wheel of a cart being dragged by an employee several aisles away but because your brain can’t filter anything out, it seems like it’s right next to you.
Before you know it, you’re frozen to the spot. Frozen like that carton of Ben and Jerry’s in front of you.
Just grab it, your mind says. Stop being foolish and just take it. Joe won’t mind.
You can’t. You’re stuck. Your hand seems stuck in front of you as decision paralysis takes over.
Then…
‘Hey honey.’ A hand grasping your waist makes you jump. ‘Where are you right now?’ Joe’s voice sounds echoey and muffled in your ears.
‘Joe, I - I…’ you mumble. ‘I can’t… can’t pick…’
He takes your hands that have started to pick at each other without you even realising.
‘Okay, listen to my voice. You’re in Kroger. You’re by the frozen section. I’m right here, I know you feel like you’re floating right now.’
Joe instinctively brings you closer to him, hugging you and rubbing your back in smooth, patient motions.
‘Feel your feet on the floor. Nothing bad is happening. You’re safe, you’re with me and I’m not going anywhere.’
The paralysis slowly starts to ebb. Joe can feel it in the way your shoulders gradually start to relax, your jaw unclenches and your hands fist his hoodie as if he’s the only thing anchoring you to the world.
‘That’s it, you’re doing so good, sweetheart.’ He shuffles closer to you and rests his chin on your shoulder. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, you’re okay. I’m next to you, I won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.’
His hands continue rubbing your back as he rocks you to bring you back.
Finally, your shoulders heave with a sigh. The dark spots in your vision clear and you finally feel as though the world has shifted back on its axis.
‘There she is, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere,’ Joe repeats in that low, grounding timbre he’s come to use when your brain plays tricks on you like this.
‘I’m-I’m sorry, I saw… saw all the flavours… I’m sorry…’ you mumble into his hoodie as tears prick your eyes.
‘No, no,’ Joe squeezes you. ‘Don’t apologise. Your brain’s just doing something right now, but there’s nothing to apologise for, I promise. I’m so proud of you, honey.’
His heartbeat is strong through his hoodie. You listen to it and count to ten in your head. When you still feel shaky, you count another ten. Joe hears you mumbling the numbers to yourself. He doesn’t say anything, but he files that away for future reference.
It takes a few more minutes for the overwhelm to pass. He doesn’t leave your side. The two of you stand in the middle of the freezer section for as long as it takes. A few people walk past and Joe can see them clocking him, but nobody interrupts. They can see how sacred this moment is.
‘Thank you, Joe,’ you whisper when the feeling passes for good.
He kisses the top of your head.
‘You never have to thank me.’ He steps back just slightly so he can look at you while still being in your space. ‘Decision paralysis?’
You nod, weak and drained.
‘Yeah.’ The word slips out quietly, almost ashamed.
‘Okay. We can work with that.’
He steps towards the freezer and opens it. Grabs two cartons. Cookie dough and chocolate fudge brownie. Your favourites. Safe and familiar. They’re placed in the cart without another word.
There’s still more items on the shopping list, Joe knows that.
But he also knows that after a little hiccup like that, you can shut down and want to go home. He knows that your fear of being perceived hates when things like this happen in public.
‘You don’t have to answer with word,’ he says as he comes back up to you, careful not to tower or loom over you. ‘Take my hands.’ You do. His hands are warm, calloused in the best way. Your fingers instinctively move to run over his callouses. ‘One squeeze for yes, two for no. Do you feel like you can carry on?’ You think, then squeeze once. ‘Want to talk?’ Two squeezes, more immediate this time. Talking sounds like too much. ‘Okay, that’s good. You’re doing so good. We have another couple of things to get, and then we’ll go to the check out, pay and then head home. Sound good?’
You nod this time. It’s stronger and more determined, but you still avoid eye contact. Joe doesn’t take it personally, just wraps you into him and gently pulls you towards the snack section.
‘Let’s go back and get you some Goldfish for the road home. Extra cheesy for my girl.’
The rest of the grocery run is quiet and intentional.
When you get to the check out, Joe handles the talking with the cashier. She’s polite and friendly, clocks Joe but says nothing, and sends you a warm smile as you bag everything up. You smile back. Joe watches with a proud warmth in his eye.
Once everything is bagged up and ready to go, Joe taps his card without a thought, then thanks the cashier as he always does.
‘Y’all have a good day, and have a good off season, Joe!’
Joe throws her a thank you and wraps an arm around you as the two of you walk out towards the door.
Another fan smiles at Joe on the way out to the car. Someone wearing a Bengals beanie quietly chants a ‘who dey!’.
But that’s it. Cincinnati know, by now, that you’re off limits. Everyone knows that Joe does not play when it comes to you. The people of Cincinnati know that you’re not to be approached, not to be spoken to unless it’s initiated by you first. They adore you. They wouldn’t do it if they didn’t.
The ride home is quiet. Joe reaches across the centre console again, but this time he places a hand on your thigh.
At a red light, you sigh and rub your face.
‘I’m… I’m sorry. For ruining our errands trip.’
Joe looks at you again.
‘You don’t have to apologise, baby. You never do. Your brain just… goes a little funky sometimes,’ he replies with a squeeze to your knee.
As much as you want to believe him, your brain is still telling you that it’s your fault, it’s because of you, everyone was staring at you…
‘That’s a very polite way of putting it. I just… I feel bad. I suggested it and now we have to go home early because…’
‘Hey,’ Joe interrupts. ‘No, baby. You didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t make us end it early. You listened to your body and I’m proud of you for that.’ He reaches for your hand and interlocks your fingers. The light changes to green and Joe continues driving, but his hand never leaves yours.
There’s another few minutes of silence. You’re trying to settle on words to describe how you’re feeling. The paralysis has made your brain foggy and cottony, despite your medication still coursing through your system.
At last, you land on words that make sense.
‘I just…’ you sigh, ‘just feel silly. Like all I had to do was choose a tub of ice cream but my brain couldn’t handle it.’
Joe doesn’t respond right away. He nods as acknowledgment that he’s heard you.
He turns onto a road that you’ve driven on hundreds of times, indicates right and then pulls into a parking lot of a random store. He puts the car in park, then turns in his seat without unbuckling his seatbelt. His arm reaches out and rests on the back of your seat, soft leather meeting his hoodie sleeve.
‘Do you remember what you said to me when you told me about your diagnosis?’
The question takes you aback to start with, but then you cast your mind back to that conversation a few months into your relationship. You remember it well; it was when you realised that he truly was a safe person, a good person. He’d taken it in his stride. He immediately asked intelligent questions. He asked what you needed from him. After you finished explaining, he hugged you and explained that nothing was ever too much, not when it came to you. The memory stirs a warm feeling in your chest.
‘I said… that my brain sometimes does things. Things I can’t control. Things that… that aren’t my fault. It just happens sometimes.’
There’s a soft smile on Joe’s face as he leans towards you.
‘That’s right,’ he replies quietly. The hand that isn’t resting behind you comes across to hold yours again. ‘And I understand that. I have done since the moment you explained, but even more so since I did more research into how your brain works.’
He’s right. Annoyingly.
Joe continues.
‘I know it’s not your fault. I know it’s not you actively choosing to be overwhelmed or get decision paralysis or get overstimulated. I don’t hold it against you, and that’s not me saying, “look how great I am”. That’s me giving you where I’m coming from.’
You know where he’s going with this.
‘So, do you think you could extend the same grace to yourself?’
The smile that slowly starts to appear on your face as realisation dawns you is small but sure. Joe continues to look at you with that same dopey smile you gave him when you were debating pasta shapes in Kroger.
‘There she is. There’s my girl. My brilliant, intelligent girl who sees the world in ways nobody else can.’
You look over at him and he opens his arms.
‘C’mere, beautiful,’ he murmurs to you, and you immediately fold yourself into his arms, or at least, as best you can do through seatbelts and with the awkward centre console restricting you from having full access.
‘You’re really good at this,’ you say quietly into his hoodie. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, thumb gently brushing your cheek.
‘At what, loving you? It’s the easiest thing in the world, sweetheart.’
You bury your face into his chest and breathe him in.
‘Yes, but not just that. You’re really good at understanding me. Knowing how my brain works. Not making it a… thing. A lot of people do and it used to make me feel like I was too much work to be loved fully, wholly, for who I am. But I never feel like I have to mask with you, and I can’t tell you how refreshing that is after so many years of being told how I have to act or how to exist in a world that isn’t designed for people with… my kind of brain.’
Joe squeezes you so tightly that your lungs temporarily struggle to find enough oxygen. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head and rests his cheek there.
‘Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?’
You nod shyly.
‘I see a woman who sees the world with curiosity. I see a woman who processes things in a way not many other people do. I see a woman who challenges me to think outside the box. You take things literally, which encourages me to be clear in my communication. You need structure, which in turn helps me plan out my day. You notice things, people, actions, that so many people miss, and it adds colour to your world that in turn adds colour to mine. You know how many times you’ve noticed something that I would have missed if you hadn’t pointed it out?’
You pause to think, and realise that he’s right.
He continues, voice softer and slightly thick with emotion. ‘Through you, I’ve learned so much about not just your brain but also mine, and it helps me with my job, being a leader, being a quarterback, more than I think either of us realised. When I look at you, I’m not just looking at the woman I’m so deeply in love with it hurts sometimes, I’m looking at the other half of me.’
The last few words make the tears that are falling freely down your cheeks pause momentarily as you look up at him.
‘Joseph Lee, did you just quote a Justin Timberlake song to me?’
He tilts his head back and laughs that perfect, infectious laugh that only you seem to be able to dig out of him.
‘That’s what I mean about noticing things, nobody else would have got that.’
‘Well, that and it’s also one of my favourite songs, like, ever.’
He leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. Both of you close your eyes, breathing each other in, emotions regulated and synced up once more.
‘You make me feel seen in ways nobody else does, Joey. Thank you.’
He kisses you, soft and gentle.
‘There’s nobody else I want to see, baby. Seeing you for the amazing, intelligent human you are is the greatest gift life’s given me so far.’
You stay there, right there in his spaceship of a car, wrapped up in each other for a few more minutes, your head resting on his chest, before he kisses you again.
‘Let’s get home before the ice cream melts,’ he mutters against your lips.
Your eyes widen.
‘I’m glad you remembered that because I most definitely forgot.’
He laughs again with his forehead resting against yours, grinning down at you, fond and completely, hopelessly and irreversibly in love.
‘Have I ever told you that you’re my favourite person in the whole world and that I love you so much it’s concerning?’
You shrug with a playful smile.
‘A few times.’ You kiss him again, humming into the kiss. ‘I love you too, Joey Bear.’
And when you look at him as he drives you home, safe and seen in ways that so many people can only dream about, and when you look at him while enjoying bowls of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream…
You have absolutely zero doubt that you are looking at the other half of you.
THE END
Cincinnati Today
SPOTTED in Kroger today - Bengals quarterback, Joe Burrow, and his girlfriend doing a grocery run. 🧡
view 47 more comments...
user1: oh my god this is so wholesome
user2: the hug from behind??? when they're just standing in the freezer section deciding on ice cream??? i am UNWELL
↳ user3: RIGHT!! i've never seen him this comfortable with someone in public before 😭
user4: I walked past them! They are super sweet. I heard them debating about pasta shapes and it reminded me of me and my husband when we were young. Didn't say anything, as it's off season, but they are genuinely a very sweet couple ❤️
↳ user5: Thank you for leaving them in peace!
↳ user6: Yes, I heard she's neurodivergent - Joe gets very protective whenever someone approaches her so always best to keep your distance!
i know you have some like this but one regarding your anxiety. possibly not being able to fall asleep, fidgeting/picking at your hands (a hard to break anxious habit) and him telling you to fidget with his hands and touch.
Emotional Support Quarterback - Joe Burrow
A/N: Ohhhh anon this one broke my heart because I do this all the time, my cuticles are so bad from it. This one was a really special request to receive so thank you for trusting me with it <3 doing this with Joe x neurodivergent!reader as a blurb bc I miss them and I love them <3
Pairing: Joe Burrow x neurodivergent!reader
Neurodivergent!reader Masterlist
Joe Burrow Main Masterlist
Anxiety has once again reduced you to a shell of a human.
Joe cottoned onto it a few days ago, but didn't say anything. He just banked it away and made sure to keep a closer eye on you for any signs of a panic attack.
When your anxiety spikes, it's harder than ever for your body to regulate your emotions. You can get snappy, you can cry out of nowhere or you reach emotional shut down. It's not stonewalling, Joe knows that. It's just your brain just not being able to process the emotions that you're feeling.
In the days since, your shoulders have hunched, you've gone selectively mute and you're picking at your cuticles, often without you even realising you're doing it. It's one of your anxious tells, a sign that something is going on in your head. Your nail beds have become bloody and painful, but still, you continue to pick and tear and chew. The harsh winter in Cincinnati has caused the skin to become dry and pickable.
The two of you go out to Target to do a grocery store run. All through the aisles, Joe sees that you've been... off. Eyes glassy, not crying exactly, just a sign that emotion is brewing and you're on the edge of overstimulation.
In the pasta aisle, Joe steers the shopping cart closer to the wall of pasta shapes.
Normally, he would ask you what pasta shape you'd like. The two of you would go on to engage in a teasing battle of which pasta shape would be better...
But then when he looks over at you and sees the way you're practically fighting your own brain to stay regulated, he makes the decision for you. Quietly and without show.
'Penne and the shells for this week, baby,' he murmurs to you as he places them in the cart.
You nod absently. Before he starts moving the cart further down the aisle, he steps closer to you. He doesn't touch you, as he knows touch can make you feel trapped and add even more to your sensory plate. He just stands close enough to you for his warmth to wave onto you.
'If you need to step out, just tell me, okay?'
He glances down at your hands, taking in the way the middle finger of one hand is repeatedly worrying at the skin of your thumb on the other and the way your eyes aren't focused anywhere in particular, just darting around and not really processing anything.
A tear at a bit of hangnail causes a jolt of pain across your nervous system. He registers the wince on your face and the way you flinch straightaway.
'Can I touch you, honey?' he asks quietly and moves his body in front of you so that other shoppers can't hear him.
For the first time since you stepped foot in the store, you look up at him. Your chest tightens when you process the concern in his face. His brow is furrowed just slightly, but his eyes are soft.
Words are too hard for you right now, so you just nod again and step closer towards him.
Instead of hugging you like you anticipated, he reaches out and gently clasps your hands with his.
The first thing that Joe realises is how dry your hands are. He makes a mental note to add a proper, medicated hand cream to his next pharmacy order. Then, as he runs his fingers across your cuticles, he takes note of the dried blood on a few of your fingers.
'Does it hurt?'
It's not judgemental. It's not a demand.
It's quiet, soft concern.
'A... a little,' you admit softly. It actually hurts a lot, but you don't admit that.
Shame slowly starts to bleed into your body at the thought of him seeing your anxious habit. It's something you've done for years, but never quite been able to kick. 'Just can't stop it. Don't even realise I'm doing it most of the time.'
Joe takes another step closer to you, so that he's towering over you without being intimidating.
'Take my hands, sweetheart.' You do as he says, right there in the middle of Target. 'Fidget with my hands when you feel the need to fidget.'
Tears pool in your eyes at the honest sincerity of his words. Your shoulders immediately drop for the first time in days, and you feel the shame ebbing away.
'But Joey...' you whisper through the lump in your throat.
'I mean it,' he cuts in. 'Fidgeting is your way of regulating yourself, I know that, but I also hate seeing you hurt yourself. So fiddle with my hands, do what you need to do. You won't hurt me. Promise.'
You have to take a deep breath at this to regulate yourself, and he sees it.
'I just... I don't want to ruin your nice hands. I love your hands. And I don't want to hurt you.'
He chuckles and lets one of your hands go so he can pull you in for a cuddle. His cheek rests on top of your head and he rubs your back soothingly.
'I know you do, but I love you more. I get tackled by three hundred pound men for a living, sweetheart. I promise you won't hurt me.' He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, then kisses your forehead.
Someone behind you clears their throat. The bubble is popped, but the moment is still there. You realise you're still stood by the pasta, so you shuffle apart and continue walking. Joe still holds your hand in his and tilts his head, silently asking 'you good?'. You smile and squeeze his hand to silently confirm that you're okay.
For the first time in days, you feel lighter. Your brain feels clearer. And all because Joe sees you in ways that no other person can. He picks up your tells so easily it's scary, but you couldn't be more grateful.
The rest of the shop is spent with your hand never leaving Joe's, even when he might need two hands. He squeezes your hand every few minutes to remind you that he's still here and you're safe.
When the hum of the air conditioning in the store starts to get a little too much, you absent mindedly trace the veins in his wrists as you walk. A child starts screaming a few aisles down from you, so you take the hand that isn't holding his and brush your finger over his knuckles, counting each of them as if you're trying to commit the map of his hand to memory.
The two of you continue on your shop. Things that you don't really need, like scented candles and additional throw blankets, somehow find their way into the cart. When you stop by the books section, Joe even quietly adds in a couple of books that you've had your eye on.
'How did you know I wanted them?' You ask quietly.
He shrugs.
'They're on your Amazon Wishlist,' as if that explains everything.
Your heart lifts at the thought of him having your wishlist and keeping an eye on it; one of the books he added was only added to the list a couple of days ago.
He continues around the store, humming softly under his breath as he leads you around. Your hand is still in his. His thumb gently brushes against your skin, knowing that it helps keep you centred.
But then, a shop attendant suddenly drops a crate of products by accident and the crash makes you startle. Your chest heaving as your body tries to catch up with the shock of the loud sound that you weren't expecting.
Instinct draws you back into Joe, almost hiding behind his huge form.
He turns to face you and pulls you in.
'Hey, you're okay,' Joe murmurs. 'You're safe, sweetheart. Feel my hand in yours. Take a deep breath, that's it. I've got you.'
This time, you hold one of his hands in both of yours. They're large, warm and real in your grasp. Your fingers run around his finger tips, feeling his nails and running down to feel the callouses on his palms. He's wearing a couple of fashion rings today, perfect for fiddling with. Your hands twiddle the rings around his fingers, feeling the cool metal against your skin and trying to memorise the engravings on the rings.
His other arm comes around your shoulders as he folds you into him, kissing the top of your head.
'I-I'm sorry,' you whimper into his chest.
'No, don't apologise, sweetheart.' He says it gently but firmly, wanting you to listen to every word. 'Your ADHD doesn't filter out background noise, you get it all in one go. It's not your fault.'
It takes a few minutes for your heart rate to go back to normal, but when it does, he kisses your head again.
'Thank you,' you murmur to him. He strokes the back of your head with his hand.
'You never need to thank me, honey. It's what I'm here for.'
The two of you stand there for a few more minutes, Joe's hand still in yours to let you stroke the skin on his palm. His heartbeat thrums in your ear under his hoodie. It's steady, regular and comforting, just what you need in this moment.
When you step back, regulated once again, he just looks down at you and smiles.
'There's my girl.'
You smile and scrunch your nose.
'Feel okay to keep going or had enough?' He asks gently. He always give you the option, never makes you feel like you have to suggest it first.
You think for a second, before nodding.
'Let's keep going.' An idea pops into your head and your eyes widen. 'Can we get Goldfish? Please?' Goldfish are your safe food, one that you always reach for if you feel like you need a snack.
'The extra cheesy ones that I know you like?'
You grin and lean up to kiss him quickly.
'That is exactly why you are my emotional support quarterback.'
He chuckles into your lips as he kisses you back.
'Your emotional support quarterback? A bigger honour than winning the Heisman.'
You beam up at him, making his heart swell with love, and lead him towards the snack aisle to stock up on those extra cheesy Goldfish, as well as any other snack that appeals to you.
Anxiety is still an uphill battle for you, and it makes some days harder to get through than others, but with Joe Burrow by your side, your designated emotional support quarterback, you know that you can get through anything.
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added/removed!): @cixrosie @vroomvroommbtch @mrs-delaney @cozygirljay @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @wickedfun9 @neyessibff @honeydippedfiction @alertbooty @basicash @hallecarey1 @megsinnerthoughts @junovee @snoopyhughes
gonna be pushing the next instalment of my joe smau to next week instead of tonight, because today was INSANE and i’m honestly too tired to do a final review rn 😩
i’m still hoping to pump out a good amount of content for you guys in the coming weeks—the holidays have just been a little crazy so far, heh. thanks for being patient with me, y’all!
A/N: This is just a fun little Joe fic to keep me entertained while I work on my other projects! Hope you all enjoy, it's a fun one 😋
WC: 2.3k
Warnings: VERY suggestive, basically the closest you can get to smut without being smut, I will tag this as smut just as it's so suggestive lol, Joe being a tease, reader being clingy, reader also being a tease, they're just two horn dogs in love 🥰
It’s quiet in the Burrow house.
Not silent.
Just quiet in the way quiet falls the day after a game win.
You’ve been sat in the study working on your masters project. It’s going well, you’re making good progress, but it’s been far too long since you had a Joe hug, you’ve decided, so you shut your laptop and pad downstairs to the kitchen.
The sight that greets you makes you pause at the threshold of the room.
Lights are low, warm and soft. The scent of garlic and lemon wafts into your nose and your stomach rumbles.
Joe’s stood at the oven stirring pasta for dinner. The speaker is playing some soft indie music you vaguely recognise from the radio. His hoodie sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he’s clearly focused, in the zone, the way he is before he goes onto the field.
It’s somehow both the hottest and the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.
As if he senses you standing there, he turns his head and smiles when he sees you.
‘There she is,’ he greets you softly. ‘How’s your project going?’
You shrug.
‘Okay. I’ve made the executive decision to come and supervise dinner instead.’
Joe chuckles. His Bengals hoodie is stretched over his enormous shoulders, making him look larger than ever, and he looks so soft and huggable that you suddenly feel the need to be as close to him as possible.
‘C’mere and supervise then, babe.’
Without another word, you shuffle over to him and duck under his arm that’s bracing against the counter as he continues stirring. It moves to your waist and brings you in closer to his chest.
‘Hi sweetheart,’ he whispers in your ear. You drag your feet so you’re standing even closer to him. When he tries to move away from you to grab something, you move with him. Your head rests on his chest, just where his collar bone meets his sternum. His heartbeat is steady and strong, just like him, under your ear. You breathe in his scent as if it’s the oxygen you need to survive; vanilla and cedar, along with the remnants of whatever expensive aftershave he sprayed after his shower at practice this morning. It’s addictive, more because it’s him than anything else. You can’t help but keep breathing him in, inhaling deeply and letting the scent of him fog your mind.
‘You smell nice.’ Your remark is slightly muffled from being so close to him.
He chuckles softly when he realises that you’re feeling a little clingy tonight and you feel him press a warm kiss to your cheek.
‘Want me close tonight, honey?’ he asks.
The question is tender. Soft. Understanding. Not an ounce of teasing or amusement. Just your sweet boyfriend asking what you want.
You nod in agreement.
‘If that’s okay,’ you whisper.
‘’Course it’s okay, baby, it always is. You can…’
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Instead, a yelp punches out of his chest as you jump against him. You feel both of his hands immediately move to your thighs, keeping you steady as your legs lock around his waist.
‘Whoa, angel!’ He laughs against your cheek.
You smile smugly into his neck.
‘There, that’s better.’ Your words are muffled as you mumble them into his warm skin.
‘When I said “close”, this isn’t quite what I anticipated, honey,’ he chuckles.
‘You looked deliciously climbable.’
‘That might be the case but being your personal jungle gym is hard when I’m trying to cook dinner, baby.’
You lean back, face level with his, and he can’t help but laugh again at how pleased with yourself you look.
‘Hi,’ you murmur through a smile.
He tilts his head to look at you properly, smiling fondly at you. His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, both of you smiling into each other.
‘Hi yourself.’ One of his hands reaches up to stroke your cheek. A strand of hair falls down in front of your eyes, but he tucks it back behind your ear. ‘You have no idea what you do to me, huh?’ There’s an element of teasing in his voice now, but you know how much he loves you like this. Confident in needing him. Joe loves being needed. Especially by you.
‘You love it.’
He shakes his head in disbelief, because goddamn he does love it. He loves you. He loves when you’re like this, clingy and needy for him. His forehead rests against yours, before his attention turns back to the pasta.
‘Okay, guess I’m multitasking tonight.’
‘You got this, QB1.’
His whole body shakes with laughter as his head moves to rest on your shoulder, clearly resigned to the fact that this is his fate.
‘You are a menace.’
‘I am your menace,’ you reply simply, resting your chin on his shoulder as if you belong there.
The worst (or best?) part is, you do. You know it and Joe knows it.
He kisses your cheek affectionately by way of agreeing with you.
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, beautiful.’
He tries to stir with one hand, but without his other hand to steady it, the pot moves around whenever he nudges it with the spoon.
Joe sighs again. You feel it reverberating through his whole body, all six-four of him and your arms instinctively tighten around his neck. He chuckles again softly.
‘Baby, as much as I love you, cooking with my beautiful girlfriend attached to me like a koala is not really working.’
He moves both hands to your waist and you shift slightly against him, purely just trying to be helpful. The friction of you against him, though, right where he needs you most, makes him hiss against your shoulder. You shoot him a filthy smirk when you see the impact you’re having on him.
‘No - don’t… baby…’ he mutters. He’s breathing hard despite not running anywhere. ‘God, you make it so hard for me to behave sometimes.’ He’s rambling and blushing, and you can’t help but giggle.
‘Who said anything about you needing to behave tonight, Joey?’ you tease quietly into his ear. He groans and swears under his breath. You can feel how hard he is against your leggings.
‘’m just trying to cook dinner…’
You giggle at his useless pleas.
‘You lasted longer than I thought you would, I’ll give you that.’
He sighs through his smile, soft and fond, and lifts you carefully up and off him, as if he’s prying a stick insect off of a tree branch. You’re placed on the counter next to the oven and he rests a hand on your thigh.
‘Sit. Right there. No more sabotage.’ He tries to sound authoritative and use his quarterback cadence, but one look at you smirking at him and he’s gone. Completely gone. There’s that soft smile that he uses only when he’s with you, one that the cameras never see. He rubs his face with both hands and you collapse with giggles. You’ve never seen him so flustered but you’re loving it. You’re loving that this is the effect you have on him.
‘You make a very good tree, Joseph.’ You say it so matter of factly that he doubles over with silent laughter, at how much you’re clearly enjoying yourself and at the effect you have on him.
He gazes down at you, completely and utterly besotted with the woman sat on the counter in front of him.
‘Happy to fulfil all your tree requirements, sweetheart.’ There’s a beat, before: ‘So what kind of tree do you think I would be?’
You join him in his laughter, tilting your head in mock thought.
‘A strong oak. Sturdy. Thick.’
There’s a very long, weighted pause as what you’ve just said registers in your head. Your eyes are wide as saucers and you can just tell he’s trying not to lose composure right there and then.
Joe turns the heat down on the oven, then moves closer to gently pull your legs apart so he can stand in between them. He’s towering over you now, but you love it. His hair, still slightly damp from the shower, flops down over his eyebrows.
‘Thick, huh?’ He winks at you.
This time, it’s your turn to get flustered. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly as you try to think of a rebuttal, but his scent and the intense gaze he’s giving you just makes your brain stop working. It’s complete blue-screen.
‘Well, you know…’ you mumble. ‘You’re… tall and muscular. Huge. You’re also unflappable. Unmoving.’
He leans in even closer to you with the filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. It makes your cheeks flush even more.
‘Good to know I’d be a thick and sturdy oak tree, baby girl.’ He mutters it low and hoarse right in your ear. Shivers erupt up and down your spine at the way his breath fans against your neck, hot and intense.
He kisses you, steady and firm. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek while the other braces your back.
‘The thickest and sturdiest oak tree in the whole wood, Joey,’ you murmur against his mouth. You tilt your neck to kiss his jawline, something you know full well wrecks his composure completely. His whole body seems to expand as he inhales, then sighs it out in pleasure.
‘God, I love you,’ he mutters.
‘I love you too, Joey,’ you respond immediately. Each word is punctuated with a kiss to his jawline.
His head instinctively cocks to the side as your mouth moves to press wet, sloppy kisses down his neck. When he looks down at you again, he fires another wink at you, making you blush harder. He chuckles and closes the remaining distance between the two of you to capture your lips in a firm but steady kiss. Your hands move to his waist, under his shirt and feeling the defined muscles of his abs. His stomach reacts seemingly of its own accord at your fingernails gently tracing the washboard of his abdominal muscles, twitching and jumping at the sensation.
You want his hands on you, though. The way your hands are on him. The lack of contact makes you whine against his lips.
He leans back slightly to bump his nose against yours.
‘What’s the whine for?’ He asks. This time, it’s your turn to tilt your head back as his lips trace the faintest line of kisses from the corner of your mouth, along your jawline and down your neck. For a moment, your vision goes spotty with pure need and you have to stop yourself from moaning. ‘Use your words, beautiful. What do you need?’
A gasp lurches from your body as he sucks and nibbles on a particularly sensitive spot, one that’s still tender from activities from just a few nights ago.
‘H-hands on… my god Joe…’ You hate that it comes out as little more than a whimper. Your entire body is pulsing with need. He hums against your throat. The vibration is enough to send your eyes rolling back into your head. Focus, your brain screams at you. Tell him what you want. ‘Need your hands on me, pl-please…’
One of his hands moves to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. A filthy, full-bodied moan leaves your body when he pulls on the strands, not gently but not enough to cause you pain. The other loops around your back, moving under your hoodie. His fingers are warm and grounding on your skin. The physical contact makes your brain go hazy with need.
‘Good girl.’
Those two words are nearly enough to send you over the edge by themselves. He knows they make you go completely feral. Sure enough, he smiles wickedly when your whole body reacts to them. Breaths spurt from your chest in ragged gasps as his mouth continues its assault on your neck. There’s absolutely going to be marks left tomorrow. You don’t care.
He chuckles darkly against your skin.
When he looks at you again, his eyes are dark. He doesn’t need to tell you badly he wants you. The want is etched into every sinew of his face, every crease of his eyes and the furrow of his brow. Your mind is racing with thoughts that are certainly not appropriate for the dinner table.
‘Are you… um… what… is dinner…’
You’re so flustered that you can barely get the words out. Joe’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin on his face as he watches you try and string a coherent sentence together.
Then he reaches a hand behind you. You feel it settle on the small of your back, and seconds later, you feel him gently slide you closer to him.
‘Trust me, baby,’ he mutters into your ear. ‘Dinner is the last thing on my mind right now. I could go for some dessert, though.’
His words register in your brain. You look up at him again, taking in his handsome features; eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. His pupils are completely blown, making his eyes appear almost black.
Your hands move up to cup his face. The kiss you give him is fiery, mirroring the intense heat you feel in between your legs. As if he can sense it, one of Joe’s hands moves up the inside of your thighs and up to where you need him most.
‘Fuck, baby girl,’ he groans against your mouth when he feels how wet you are through your leggings.
You pull back, breathless from desire.
‘All those in favour of pausing dinner and addressing this,’ you gesture vaguely between the two of you for emphasis, ‘please say aye.’
He doesn’t respond. Not verbally anyway.
When Joe Burrow decides he’s doing something, he does it.
His arms, huge, warm and strong, encircle you once more and lift you from the counter.
‘Legs round me, baby,’ he growls against your lips. The minute you obey, you’re airborne and moving from the kitchen into the living room. ‘Yeah, we’re not making it to the bedroom, couch it is.’
You giggle once more.
Needless to say, dinner can wait.
Dinner can very much wait.
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added/removed!): @cixrosie @vroomvroombtch @nineverce @mrs-delaney @burrowswomen @cozygirljay @w1ldfiction @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @sacred-healing @irishmanwhore @wickedfun9 @neyessibff @starsinthesky5 @honeyncherry @honeydippedfiction @alertbooty @basicash @hallecarey1
would y’all still wanna see something bday-related for joe, or has that moment passed…? 👁️👄👁️
cause i was supposed to post the next insta!au instalment for his birthday but some life stuff got in the way of me finishing it on time…. i picked it back up yesterday though and now it’s pretty much just awaiting final edits, teehee
A/N: 'MORE HEADCANONS', yells the headcanon monster! This is a super cute, super fluffy, slightly smutty look into the kisses that you and Joe share! I had so much fun writing the boyfriend!Joe headcanons and was in a semi-feral mood at work the other day so I started this. I am really very proud of this one so I really hope you enjoy!
WC: 3.3k
Warnings: This work contains SMUT! 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI, please! P in V, lots of kisses and physical intimacy, stay to the end for a sweet surprise 😌
The types of kisses you and Joe share are…
Good luck kisses
Before a game, he has to give you a kiss. Whether you’re on the sidelines or in the suite, he kisses you before each and every game. There’s dozens of compilations on TikTok of it, fans devouring each and every one. They always comment on the way you blush scarlet every single time and the way he runs off after kissing you with that smug smirk on his face that clearly says, ‘yeah, that’s my girl I just kissed, what about it’. He might not be big on PDA, but a pre-game good luck kiss is his one and only exception. If you have to stay at home for a home game, he’ll make sure the last thing he does before leaving for the stadium is plant a big kiss onto your lips before he walks out of the door. For the at home good luck kisses, you’re sometimes so intoxicated with each other that it’s hard for him to leave; more than once, he’s had to wait in his car for his boner to soften. That’s the impact kissing you has on him. For away games, you’ll text him ‘😘😘😘😘’ and he’ll send you back ‘😘😘😘😘’ - of course, not quite the same as the real thing, but good enough for each of you. Kissing you before a game is his final step in his pre-game routine, one that he simply will not go without, no matter the weather.
Goodbye kisses
His least favourite kind, even if he’s just going away for a few days on the road to an away game. Sometimes you’re upset and he has to kiss your tears away from your cheeks to try and make you at least smile, muttering into your ear about how he’s ‘only going for a few days, baby, I’ll be back before you know it’. There’s often more hugging than kissing during these moments. You’ll sniffle into his hoodie at the door while he makes the driver wait for as long as it takes, mumbling to him about how much you’ll miss him and how ‘life won’t be the same without you’ (he will be gone for a maximum for two days, maybe three) and he’ll chuckle softly into your hair. Clingy girlfriends aren’t always every guy’s favourite, but for Joe, he loves when you’re clingy. You climb him like a koala when you’re saying goodbye, as if you’re memorising the feel of him against your skin. Goodbye kisses are mostly a mixture of kisses to your lips and kisses to the top of your head, as he knows how much it comforts you. He’ll mutter against your lips about how much he loves his beautiful girl and how he already can’t wait to come back home to you. You know he always will come home to you, of course, but that doesn’t stop you from missing the bones off of him when he’s away.
Welcome home kisses
These kinds of kisses are his favourite. Seeing you come sprinting towards him, wearing your Burrow 9 jersey, on the tarmac once he’s walked down the steps off the jet or down the hallway almost as he’s walking through the door after being away for a few days for an away game, face ablaze with a smile, careering into him with your legs around his waist, both of you chuckling delightedly… He’ll grunt at the force of you hitting him because of how much his body aches, but he doesn’t care. He spins you around as he laughs into your shoulder, delighted at being reunited with his girl. You’ll then pull your face back and seal the deal with a welcome home kiss, revelling in the feeling of your lips on his again. They’re often slightly chapped, especially if he’s had a long travel day or flight, and you’ll tease him about needing to use your lip balm. The rest of the day, you know, will be spent catching up and updating each other about what happened, he’ll give you a blow by blow of the game, as if you hadn’t watched every single second and cheered him on every step of the way.
Needy kisses [SMUT]
The kinds of kisses both of you look forward to the most. They often start out innocent - a quick peck during a movie night, for example. You’ll be sat on the couch next to him and he’ll ask you a question, your opinion about the film or something totally innocuous, and you’ll turn your head to answer him. He’ll look you in the eye as you answer, but all he can think of is your mouth on his. Sometimes you don’t even finish your sentence. He’ll grab your face with his hand, swoop in and let his mouth swallow the last few words of your sentence. The thing with needy kisses from Joe is that you always know where you’ll end up from how the kiss starts; if he leans over and gives you a quick peck, you know you’re going to be watching the rest of the movie curled up against him while he occasionally kisses the top of your head or your shoulder while his fingers lazily trace patterns into your skin. If, however, he kisses you deep and slow, his mouth moving against yours in that intoxicating way it makes your brain go hazy, you’d best prepare to be taken upstairs. He’ll pull you into his lap, one of your legs on either side of his huge body. The second you start rolling your hips into him in that telltale rhythm, it’s over. He’ll groan against your mouth, causing you to sigh into his mouth in response. He’ll take full advantage of your mouth being open and your tongues will meet, pushing against each other but still dancing together in that perfectly choreographed routine only the two of you know. It makes your body go weak every time. Most days, he’ll scoop you up into his arms and carefully transport you upstairs to the bedroom. For the occasions where he can’t wait to take you upstairs, though, or at the end of those days where he’s had a heavy practice or tough weights session and the thought of moving upstairs is simply too much, he’ll often pull down his shorts or sweatpants and sink you down onto him. There’s nothing in this world Joe loves more than watching you ride him until you’re both breathless and gasping into the empty space around you, the film long forgotten. Your tits bouncing in front of his face under whichever of his hoodies or shirts you’ve stolen drive him insane. After you both reach your highs, he’ll kiss you again, needy but gentle, while your body falls against his, limp and heavy with tiredness.
Goodnight kisses
He never goes to sleep without giving you a kiss. Sometimes it’s on your lips, others it’s on your shoulder or top of your head. Just whatever bit of you he can reach to tell you goodnight and that he loves you more than anything. If you’re already awake, sitting up in bed with your nose in a book, you’ll bookmark the page, put it to the side and turn your head for him to give you a proper goodnight kiss and he’ll murmur ‘night baby, I love you’ against your mouth. Some nights, at the peak of the season, it’ll be hours before he joins you in bed. Guilt courses through his body when he walks into your room to find you passed out within the blankets and comforter, hair splayed across the pillow like a halo and the room silent save for the soft snores that come from your mouth. You always leave the bathroom light and his bedside lamp on for him if you know he’s going to be a while. Sleeping without him is a chore for you, but you know the importance of his job and what he does, so it’s a challenge you’re willing to face. Joe tries to shower and get ready for bed as quietly as possible, but you always seem to somehow sense his presence. The bed dips as he climbs in and there’s a soft click as he turns off the lights to plunge the room into darkness. Still, though, your body moves to him almost instinctively. He always chuckles softly to himself at the way you always seem to find him under the cover of night, and then his heart will squeeze at the way you visibly relax when he pulls you close to him. It’s the perfect way to end his day - having you safe and warm in his arms.
Good morning kisses [SMUT]
Slow, steady and lazy. The perfect way to start the day. Joe always starts his day with a kiss, preferably to your lips but he’ll press a sweet kiss to your shoulder if you’re still asleep when he wakes up. If he’s feeling a little frisky, he’ll let you know by kissing your shoulder blade and move around to your collar bone, which is how you wake up to a face full of Joe’s hair as he kisses up your neck. He’ll reach that sensitive spot, just below your ear, and he’ll shoot you a questioning look - ‘up for some morning fun?’ is what that look always says. You don’t have to nod or say yes. A hand of yours will hook around the back of his head to bring him closer to you before you kiss his lips, morning breath be damned, to officially start your day - ‘yes’. The kiss will be slow but deep, passionate but gentle, just like how everything is with Joe. His bare chest is warm as he moves above you, never taking his eyes or lips off of you. The sheets crinkle softly as he moves. You’re both still half asleep as he looks to you for the nod before his dick, hard and thick, slides into you, the sensation of your walls adjusting to accommodate his length eliciting a filthy moan from you that he swallows in yet another kiss to your lips. He groans in response, hoarse and husky, right in your ear, praising you for taking him so well so early in the morning. The sensation makes your walls flutter against him. Morning kisses with Joe are sleepy and lazy. Morning sex is gentle and sweet, neither of you chasing a high, just savouring the first few moments of the day together. All he can focus on is how beautiful you are, sleepy but so fucking beautiful beneath him as he picks up a soft, gentle pace. As his body wakes up, he’ll start to snap his hips into a rhythm that’s strong enough to just about take your breath away but is still gentle enough to not be overly intense. Just that perfect balance to make you squirm underneath him without exerting too much energy before nine in the morning. He’ll help you reach your high by teasing your clit with his finger as he thrusts, slow but strong, into you. And then, you’re releasing around him, the feeling of your walls clenching around his dick only spurring him on into his own high. He spills into you, filling you up to the brim. His climax causes him to collapse almost straight onto you; you’re saved only by his arm reaching forward next to your head to brace the impact. The room is filled with your breathy gasps. He’ll pull his softening length out of you with a small but obscene pop. He kisses you again and whispers to you, soft and full of praise, full of love, and the two of you almost want to fall back asleep, exhausted by your post-morning sex high, but the day has begun. You can’t imagine a better way to start your day.
Tipsy kisses
They’re probably your favourite. There’s just something about going out to a party and getting a tiny bit tipsy with your love, and Joe is no exception. He rarely drinks to excess, but sometimes he’ll push the boundary just a little bit further than usual, especially during the off season. There’s something oddly sexy about tasting the alcohol on his tongue as the two of you exchange tipsy kisses over the course of a night out. He always relaxes when he’s had a few drinks, but this is especially true once he’s in the off season, particularly at the very start of the off season. He’s exhausted, sure, and he needs a week in bed, but first he has to celebrate the season with his boys and with you. Kisses with Joe when you’re both tipsy are always clumsy and always giggly. Your teeth with clash together through the giggles and he has to pull you close to him by your waist and lean his face down to your ear to murmur things in your ear that only you can hear. You kiss him just to kiss him. He consumes you when you’re both like this, he’s all your brain can think of. When you’re drunk, all inhibitions fly out of the window. He’ll end up with your lipstick and gloss smudged around his lips and smeared up his cheeks from the kisses you press to them throughout the night. Neither of you care one bit. Then comes the waiting for the Uber or for his driver to pick you up. You’ll be stood on the sidewalk, music thumping from the club in the distance but for the two of you, it’s peaceful, because you’re together. He tells you jokes and funny stories in that slurring drawl that only appears after a few drinks are in his system, but eventually he can barely talk because he’s laughing so hard. The two of you are just so cute, both inebriated to the same level and giggling just to giggle with each other that it melts the heart of anyone watching or taking photos.
“I’ve got you” kisses
The kind of kisses where both of you just need a reminder that you’re in this together. He’ll see that you’re stressed about something going on at work, typing away furiously on your laptop at the kitchen island with a frown before he goes up to study film or head out to practice. A strong arm will wind around your shoulders from the side to distract you from the stress before his lips meet your temple - soothing and grounding. ‘You stressed, baby?’ he’ll murmur into your ear. The question alone will make tears leak from your eyes. If there’s anything Joe hates seeing, it’s his girl upset. He knows how much your job and the independence it gives you means to you, but he also knows that no job is worth sacrificing your mental health for. You’ll twist your body around to face him and wind your arms around his shoulders, now, chin resting on his broad trap muscles as you cry out some of the stress. ‘Hey, hey, baby, I’ve got you,’ he mutters. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. He kisses your temple, your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, as he pulls you in for a proper hug, one that says everything he doesn’t need to. I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here and not going anywhere until you’re okay. I always have time for you. After a few minutes of quiet tears from you and gentle words of encouragement from Joe, the tears subside. He gently strokes hair out of your face with one of his huge hands. He trails kisses along your eyebrows, making you sigh out of contentment. ‘There we go.’ It’s murmured into your temple. You simply sigh shakily. You’ll tell him what happened later on. Right now, you’re just savouring being with him, letting the kisses he’s applying to your skin ground you back in the present. There’s no chance you can stress when Joe’s stood next to you. No chance you can worry about anything when he’s pressing gentle kisses into your skin.
The “I do” kiss
Finally, after months of planning and stress and preparation, the two of you are stood at the altar in front of your family, friends and his teammates. Tears have been shed from everyone - Joe couldn’t help but shake with rare public tears when the huge barn doors opened to reveal you standing there, a vision, a goddess in white bathed in the sunlight behind you. You sob like a baby at his vows as he promises to give you a life of unconditional love and support. Robin, Jimmy and your parents are sat right there in the front row, watching with inconsolable pride as their two babies exchange rings. Ja’Marr, Joe’s best man, claps him on the back, tears pooling in his eyes, as you vow to give your life to him as his wife. Your best friend is stood next to you as maid of honour, tears cascading down her cheeks while she holds your bouquet to allow Joe to hold your hand and slide that beautiful golden band that signifies forever onto your left ring finger. It’s engraved with both of your initials above your wedding day. His wedding band has a matching inscription. All Joe can think about, though, is your first kiss as husband and wife. He knows it’s coming up soon. It’s the most important kiss the two of you will ever exchange, so he has to get it right. Then, after somehow no time at all and after a lifetime all at once, you declare your love for each other. You say your ‘I do’s’ to each other through cracking voices and more tears. Then, the officiant declares, ‘I am delighted to pronounce you, husband and wife! Mr Burrow, you may kiss your bride!’ All planning simply evaporates from Joe’s mind as he stares at you for the briefest of milliseconds before he gently grabs your face and brings you closer to him. The entire venue erupts in cheers as your lips meet as husband and wife for the first time, as Mr and Mrs Burrow. Neither of you take any notice, though. Joe moves a hand to your waist as he dips your body behind you, low and deep like something out of a rom-com, both of you grinning into the kiss and muttering ‘I love you’ to each other. The first I love you as husband and wife. The first of many. Someone in the congregation, probably one of his teammates, whoops out a wolf whistle as your lips mould together in a way they never have before. He holds your body in his arms as if he never wants to let you go, and he doesn’t. He’s never letting you go, not if he can help it. His lips are perfectly soft. They slot together perfectly against yours in a way they never have before, as if they know something fundamental has just changed irreversibly forever. You kiss him back, lips moving together in the most intense but loving kiss you have ever shared. The “I do” kiss is firm, long enough to send your mind into a haze but not too long that it’s uncomfortable. It’s perfect, just as the whole day has been. And as Natalia Cole sings about how this will be an everlasting love to accompany the two of you down the aisle, as Mr and Mrs Burrow, Joe can’t help but bring you in for another kiss, swooping his mouth against yours to catch you in a kiss that both of you will remember forever. It carries the promises of a lifetime of kisses ahead of you, ones that you cannot wait to experience together - as husband and wife.
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added/removed!): @cixrosie @vroomvroombtch @nineverce @mrs-delaney @burrowswomen @cozygirljay @w1ldfiction @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @sacred-healing @irishmanwhore @wickedfun9 @neyessibff @starsinthesky5 @honeyncherry @honeydippedfiction @alertbooty @basicash
when you write a too-honest article about the bengals’ franchise quarterback — sharp, incisive, a little too accurate for comfort — you expect maybe some professional backlash, not for joe burrow himself to corner you in a hallway and offer the interview of a lifetime. what starts as a clash of egos turns into a slow, magnetic pull neither of you know how to name. behind closed doors, the lines blur; on camera, you bite at each other like it means nothing. but with joe fresh off an injury and your questions hitting a little too close to home, the tension between you both threaten to spill into the spotlight in ways neither of you are ready for.
a teaser of DELICATE! below the cut...
Joe Burrow doesn’t let the media get to him.
That’s been the rule—his anchor—since he was twenty years old and learned the hard way that if you let people who’ve never stepped on a field define you, you’ll drown in a version of yourself that isn’t even yours. He’s built an entire career on tuning them out, on keeping his head down, on refusing to give anyone—good or bad—the satisfaction of knowing they got under his skin.
But that was before your article.
Before you wrote it.
Before a stranger with a notepad and an annoyingly sharp understanding of human behavior managed to slice right through the version of him he reminds himself to be and pin him down with words that felt too close, too honest, too much like someone had reached into his chest and taken an inventory of things he doesn’t say out loud.
Restrained.
Difficult to read.
Obsessed with perfection.
He’d read worse. God knows the league had said worse after that Week 2 loss. But something about the phrasing stuck—not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. He didn’t like how it lingered in the back of his mind when he watched film, how he found himself sitting up later than usual, replaying throws and situations like he had something to prove.
To you. To a journalist he had never met.
It irritated him.
More than irritated—needled.
And that irritation simmered all week, quiet but relentless, until he found himself walking into the facility at an hour even the trainers didn’t bother showing up for. He told himself it was just to get extra work in, to reset his mind, to treat the season like a problem he could solve if he just tried harder.
But when he stepped into the hallway outside the media wing, rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes, he saw you.
Leaning against the wall like you owned the place, thumb scrolling lazily over your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware that the man you’d dissected on paper was standing twenty feet away. You didn’t look dangerous. You didn’t look smug or triumphant or like someone who’d crawled inside his head without permission.
You just looked… calm. Settled. Focused.
Professional.
Which somehow made it worse.
Joe slowed his pace because a part of him needed a second—just one—to decide what the hell he was supposed to do with the fact that the woman who’d gotten under his skin was right there, physically close enough to touch if he reached out.
He’d seen your press photo attached to the article—dark background, soft light, your expression steady in that way reporters use when they’re trying to prove they can’t be intimidated.
He recognized you instantly.
Same posture. Same set to your jaw. Same eyes that looked at the world like you were storing everything and judging half of it.
He exhaled through his nose, long and slow, trying to level the spike of something he refused to call nerves.
He didn’t get nervous. Not for media. Not for people. Not for someone who probably didn’t even think about him outside of a word count. But as he stepped closer—quiet sneakers on polished concrete, hands shoved into his pockets—you straightened.
Just a little.
Enough for him to know you recognised him. Enough for him to know you were too composed, too ready, too unaffected. And that—more than the article, more than the words you’d written—was what made his chest tighten.
Because he could feel it already.
The pull. The spark. The beginning of something neither of you had asked for but both were about to fall into anyway.
He stopped a few feet in front of you, blocking the soft glow of the overhead lights, and watched you pull your earbuds out with a smooth flick, your expression unreadable.
Joe didn’t let the media get to him. He didn’t.
But as he looked at you—the calm face of the woman who had cracked something open in him without even realising it—he knew this wasn’t going to be as simple as ignoring a headline.
This was going to be the start of something he couldn’t control.
mal speaks! i’ve entered a bit of a writing slump and everything feels out of sync with me coming back onto tumblr so bare with me while i find my rhythm again. i thought this little teaser might motivate me a little to get something out (i don’t know if this is going to be a fic or a mini series we will have to wait and see). also i see all of your requests and i’m working on them at my own pace (basically whenever inspiration strikes lmao) so thanks for your patience!
A/N: Today was so quiet at work that I managed to get this written up, so I hope you all enjoy! I need to stop falling in love with the Joe I write because it's becoming a problem 🤣 I am going to start working on Christmas fics!
WC: 4.1k
Pairing: Joe Burrow x reader
Warnings: This work contains SMUT! 18+, minors and ageless blogs DNI, please! Otherwise very fluffy and soft 😌
Joe is the kind of boyfriend who…
Needs to have your hand in his at all times.
He’s not big on PDA, but one thing he’ll do is hold your hand - no exceptions. It’s his way of making sure you’re safe with him. If you’re at an event during the off season, he’ll get out of the car first, scan the area for danger and then hold out his hand for you to hold as you get out of the car. From then on, you’re attached, and if you happen to drop his hand to hug someone or wave at fans, he’ll let you before holding out his hand again for you to grab. It’s almost comical, the way he automatically extends his hand out behind him, almost doing a ‘grabby hand’ gesture for you. His favourite thing is when you hold his hand with one of your hands and then hold his bicep with your other hand. When you go on vacation, it’s the same story; you’re wandering down the streets of Rome with a gelato in your hand? Your other hand is being held in his, keeping you close to him. You’re being tourists at The Science Museum in London? He’s tugging you by the hand round the exhibits, quietly yapping away at you (you don’t need a tour guide when you have your own personal science nerd with you).
Loves being able to lift you up and carry you… literally anywhere.
Joe’s strong and he knows it. You walk into the home gym, see him benching something ridiculous and say ‘cool it, Captain America’. He blushes with that stupid smirk, making you giggle. Next thing you know, you’re being benched above his head while he does lunges, both of you giggling like school kids. He knows you’re safe in his arms, so he will just carry you anywhere, even if it’s from the kitchen to the living room for a movie night. It warms his heart to hear your soft giggle. And he knows you can walk. He just prefers to personally make sure you get there safely. If that movie night ends up with the two of you having a make out session on the couch, he takes great pleasure in swooping his arms under your body and carrying you upstairs. Even better is when you kiss him while you’re stood up; if either of you deepen the kiss to where you need each other to be without clothes and in bed, he’ll simply growl ‘jump’, hoarse and needy, into your ear, while his arms grip you by the waist. Your legs will hook around his middle and he can’t get you to bed quickly enough. If you’ve come home from a night out, don’t even think about trying to walk up the stairs by you. You are now simply being carried upstairs to the safety of the bathroom. And, oh, if you fall asleep on the couch… Nothing warms his heart more than coming down after hours of film study to see you buried under the blankets, half asleep in front of whatever film you had playing or with your book half finished on your lap. He’ll pad over to you, chuckling softly, and take a photo of you so he can keep the memory forever. Then, he’ll scoop you up into his arms and carry you off up to bed. If you stir in his arms, he’ll soothe you, assuring you that ‘it’s just me, sweetheart, takin’ you up to bed, little miss sleepyhead’. You sometimes make a comment that makes him chuckle again, or you squish his cheek or play with his hair. He’ll look down at you with nothing but love in his eyes and kiss your cheek. It’s times like these that he just adores. Quiet time at home with you, his favourite person.
Does not play when it comes to you.
This man protects you with his fucking life. He sees it as his life mission to be your personal bodyguard. But it’s never loud. Never obnoxious or in anyone’s face. He’s never yelled at anyone, he’s never punched a guy who’s standing slightly too close to you at a club (as much as he wanted to, that one time…). It’s all subtle glares at anyone who steps an inch too close to you, intense gazes that follow you if you have to walk away from him, and protective body language (his body turned towards you, walking in front of you to shield you from the cameras and a hand on your waist, always). He has security guards with you for the rare instances you’re on the sidelines for a game. If a photographer dares to bother you while you’re out with him, he gives them an icy glare so sharp, it could cut glass. It’s something the fans have picked up, and they know to give you a wide berth if you’re not up for socialising. Journalists are given a hard boundary when it comes to you, but they still sometimes try; one time, a new journalist asked a sweet question about you, asking if you’re coming to the game that day, but Joe just shut it down - ‘alright, next question’, with a polite smile. It’s not because he isn’t completely and utterly head over heels in love with you. It’s because he lives to protect you and keep your life as quiet as possible. You’re busy with your own job, own commitments, own family, and he would be doing both you and himself a disservice if he threatened that by letting the media in on your life together. There’s compilations on TikTok of him being a literal guard dog over you, the fans particularly loving the time you accompanied him to the Fanatics panel. You’re both walking together, hands joined as always. But then the two of you became separated, leaving him stopping dead in the middle of the walkway, his neck craning around as he looks for you. The camera picks up him calling for you - ‘babe, where are you?’ - and then he fiercely asks his security ‘where the fuck is she?’ before you finally come hurrying up to him. The fans behind the camera pointing at the two of you squeal as the growing worry in his face is replaced with relief and he pulls you in, arms around your waist, for a rare kiss to your forehead. The camera doesn’t pick up the way he murmurs ‘sorry, honey, that won’t happen again’ into your ear, voice gravelly with remorse. You’re the most precious thing in his life. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to protect you and keep you safe.
Turns into the soppiest, sappiest lovestruck fool when he’s had a few drinks.
He can’t drink to excess during the season, but he has been known to knock a few shots back to celebrate the end of the season, especially if it’s been a successful season. Joe turns into a complete sap when he’s had a few drinks. You found this out on your first night out together, which ended in the two of you having a messy quickie in the bathroom. The degree of sappiness depends on the alcohol he’s been having, but it all results in him looking for you at whatever venue you’re at and pulling you into his lap (PDA leaves his mind when he’s intoxicated). He’ll be shouting into your ear over the music, just pure waffling about how much he loves you, how and how ‘you’re the most prettiest girl here, sweetheart’, midwestern accent thicker than ever and slurring the words together, making you giggle through your blush. Getting him home is always a challenge, as he wants his hands all over you, he can’t get enough, and then there’s the kisses he wants. Drunk Joe is an experience you both love and find frustrating, because he’s so touchy and affectionate, even with people watching and taking photos - there are photos online of him kissing you while you waited for an Uber, you’re grinning like a fool while he’s holding you close to him and trying to kiss not just your lips but literally your entire face - but he also doesn’t realise how big and tall he is. So while you’re left trying to help a six-foot-four toddler from the Uber into your home, he’s giggling silently to himself and whispering to you about ‘this beautiful girl who I get to come home to every single day’ and how ‘she loves me so much and I love her so much’. You can barely talk through laughs as you undress him, and he shrieks about how ‘only my girl can do that, who do you think you are?!’, prompting more silent laughter from you. When you say to him that you are his girl, he looks at you with stars in his eyes as if you hung the moon, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. You take great enjoyment the morning after in recounting the night’s antics, but always make sure he has an Advil and plenty of water. He goes bright red and makes you swear not to tell anyone (Ja’Marr and Tee have been given the full debrief).
Has a burner TikTok account purely so you can send him funny videos.
He made the account after you complained that texting them to him took too much effort. He only ever uses it to look at the videos you send him, he never ever scrolls, under your strict instruction. The account name is something like user345874827 so people can’t find him and it doesn’t have a profile picture - completely anonymous and untraceable. He reposts the ones you find particularly funny, so you can find them easily, and treats the posts you send him as his personal ‘for you’ page. It’s usually a mixture of videos, mostly funny cat compilations or memes that you howl with laughter at, or videos of dream destinations as inspiration for your next trip (Lake Como pops up most often, and he can’t wait to see your reaction when he takes you there next year for a surprise trip during the off-season). He’ll never admit it to the guys, but he loves doing his evening scroll if he feels his head getting away with him, especially when he’s on the road and you’re not there to take his mind off it. There are a few videos that have him shaking with laughter and he just has to send them to you via text so he can message you, ‘this one was hilarious, babe 😂’. He loves it. He loves knowing that he’s the person you thinks of when you see a funny meme or a sweet video about healthy relationships.
Clocks you the second something so much as shifts in your emotional state.
You start to get a little bit snippy with him? He’s gently asking if something’s stressing you out. You walk through the door with glassy eyes and are just trying to keep it together? He’s dropping everything and bundling you into his lap, not moving until you tell him what’s going on. You sound even the slightest bit off in your texts when he’s on the road? He takes himself off to the nearest restroom and is on FaceTime with you - ‘something’s up, talk to me, honey, what’s on that beautiful mind of yours?’. He sits there and listens to you as you vent to him about whatever it is that you’re stressed or down about. When you finish, little sobs gasping out of your body, he offers his thoughts and advice in that slow, comforting manner he always does when you come to him for advice. He never judges you for how you’re feeling, nor does he ever take it personally, even if it’s something that he’s done. He never makes you feel like you’re taking up unwanted space in his life. His life is busy, it’s loud, but he will always make time for you. Space is an adjustable thing when it comes to you.
Has a supply of your favourite snacks at his house.
You mention to him in an off hand comment that you love the extra cheesy goldfish and suddenly there are four bags of them in his pantry. He notices how much you love the specific chips that he has and quietly adds them to his regular order. He sees you choosing between two bags of snacks at the store, put one back and the other into the cart? He’s putting the other one in anyway, if for nothing else than to see the look on your face, the stupid big grin that you try to hide by turning away but he still sees and chuckles softly to himself. He strides ahead to catch up with you to slide an arm around your waist. You feel him kiss your temple as you try to choose between loaves of bread, and then he mutters ‘whatever my girl wants, she gets’ into your ear. That makes you look up at him, each of you grinning dumbly at each other, purely just drunk on love. You quite literally never go hungry when you’re with him. He always makes sure you’ve eaten - he’ll text you when he’s on the road, ‘have you eaten today, baby?’ or ‘make sure you have some food today, please!’ if you have an exam or important project coming up. He’ll even DoorDash you food if he knows you’re particularly stressed.
Was put on this earth to make your life as easy as it can be.
Joe hates seeing you stressed. He cannot stand it, so he does everything in his power to make your life as easy as possible. Your coffee is prepared every morning alongside a sweet note saying how much he loves you. In the summer, he makes you delicious smoothies or protein shakes to keep you cool. Your shoes, car keys and work bag are placed conveniently by the door so you don’t have to worry about finding them. If it’s cold and your car has iced over, he de-ices it when he leaves and puts the climate control on so you don’t have to wait for the condensation inside to clear up. The bathroom is kept stocked up on period products in case your cycle catches you by surprise. He’s memorised your orders for all your favourite restaurants. When he picks you up from work, he packs a snack for the journey home. Your phone is connected to the Bluetooth in his car so you can play your music. There’s a duplicate of all your skincare and makeup products in his house in case you forget it. Little things that keep your life simple and easy, but all counting towards the fact that he is so utterly and completely in love with you.
Flirts with you at every single opportunity.
This man is an enormous flirt once he’s in a relationship with someone. The worry about them not feeling the same goes away, giving him free rein to lay it on thick with you. He goes the full shebang - winking at you from across the table on date night or over the centre console in the car when you look over at him driving, kissing your shoulder and muttering ‘sexiest woman in the world’ into your ear while you’re getting ready, hands wandering south when he hugs you in public… This man might not be big on PDA but he never wants you to forget how much he loves you and how beautiful you are. He takes every opportunity to get you flustered and squirming, especially when you’re out in public, and grabs it by the horns. He loves complimenting you and is always hyping you up. It’s not just compliments about your appearance too, although he never goes a day without telling you how beautiful you are. It’s his favourite qualities about you - ‘I love that I can trust you with anything’, ‘I love laughing with you’ or ‘I love your jokes’. Little things he notices, ‘you’re such a good driver, babe’ or ‘your friends adore you and so do I’. And it’s always thoughtful. Genuine. Never, ever hollow. He compliments you all the time but it never gets old. You always get that warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest. He loves it, loves seeing you blush because of him. It will forever make him smile.
Hates when people swear in front of you.
Especially if one of the team does it. It’s bad enough when they do it in front of his mom, but in front of you? He’s giving them a nudge and says, ‘c’mon man, not in front of my girl’ in that quiet but dangerous dad voice that he seems to have perfected without even being a dad (not yet anyway). People have come to realise that he doesn’t like it, and they’ll even glance around nervously if they let a cuss word loose when you’re in the vicinity, because they know he’ll be glaring at them like they’ve affronted his bloodline.
Is a giver in the bedroom.
Joe will not go to sleep after sex until he’s helped you cum. Whether it’s from his tongue, his dick or his fingers, he’s not sleeping until you have that dazed, fucked-out expression on your face that hoods your eyes. This is especially true if the two of you have intense, passionate post-win sex where he never lasts very long, the raw emotion of the win often leaving him coming inside you within just a few minutes. It never matters, though, because he always takes his sweet time in getting you to reach your high. Your favourite is with his mouth, licking your folds and tasting your pussy as if it’s the sweetest dessert he’s ever had. He enjoys edging you - tongue intensely flicking your clit and bringing you closer, closer, closer… until he stops. It always makes you want to slap him, but then after a few times of bringing you close then taking you back, he lets you cum, orgasm bowling over you and making your entire body spasm. It’s always electric, it’s always intense and it always has you screaming his name while your fingers tug at at his hair. He’s a gentleman in every sense of the word, but especially in the bedroom, which is where, he says, it counts the most, because ‘what kinda boyfriend would I be if I wasn’t pleasurin’ my woman?’. He checks in with you constantly, he always looks for your nod of consent before sliding his dick inside you and he’s so vocal during sex it takes your breath away. He mutters right into your ear about how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, how sexy you are for taking all of him so well and how seeing you like this, writhing underneath him in the way that only he can make you do, is his favourite thing in the entire world.
Is a pro at aftercare.
Even if the sex hasn’t been intense, he will always take the time to check in with you after the two of you finish. He loves to wrap you in his arms, ignoring how you say you need to pee to avoid a UTI, saying that he’ll buy you all the cranberry juice in the world. You never mind, though. You love curling up next to him, both of you sweaty and satiated. You’ll exchange sweet, gentle kisses and soft words about how much you love each other. If it’s been an intense session, you might have a debrief about what you liked and didn’t like. Sometimes, if you don’t really feel like talking and just want to close your eyes and stay bundled up in his arms, he’ll yap your ear off about whatever took his interest over the last few days. The sound of his voice, slow and deep, will serve as the perfect lullaby as you start to doze off. His chest rumbling is your favourite sound on the planet, because you’re the only one who gets to hear it, your ear against his bare skin, right above his heart. You’ll be halfway asleep and he’ll stroke your hair out of your face, and you’ll just about hear him say, ‘heart beats only for you, baby girl’, and it just about breaks your heart with how soft and perfect he is.
Counts your opinion as final.
‘Let me check with my girl.’
‘I’ll ask my girlfriend.’
‘Only if she wants to.’
‘Whatever she wants.’
‘What do you think, baby?’
Whether it’s a decision about decor for the house or making social plans, he’s checking in with you. Even if he’s already made up his mind, he sees your opinion as important. He loves you being involved in decisions about his life, loves delving into your mind. If he’s making dinner and you’re sat on the island yapping away with him, he’ll bring you over a spoonful of the sauce he’s stirring and ask for your opinion. He’ll rest his hands on your thighs as you taste it, tilt your head and give your notes. When the two of you go furniture shopping or even just grocery shopping, he wants to know what it is that you want; penne pasta or tagliatelle? Blue or purple cushions? Fluffy throw blanket or velvet? He especially loves getting your opinion when he’s doing online shopping - he’ll add things to his basket, call you over and ask for your opinion on them. You’ve always had an eye for fashion, so having your input helps him. If one of the guys comes up to him after practice before they hop in the shower and says that they’re going out for drinks, Joe says he’ll check with you to see if you had anything planned. The guys will tease him for it, calling him whipped and down bad, but he doesn’t care. He’s so whipped for you it hurts, but he doesn’t care. You’re the one he’s going to be marrying one day. If you have plans, he’s not going. Period. What you say, goes. Period.
Sees you as his safe place.
He wants you and only you before a game. You bring him that peace, that quiet that he needs to calm his mind. At the stadium, you’re texting him from the suite, or on the sidelines with him to give him a good luck hug and kiss. If he’s on the road, he’ll text you (he doesn’t like calling from the sidelines or the locker room, as he doesn’t want you hearing the chaos) and you’ll be right there, giving him that encouragement he needs. After a loss, he can’t get home to you fast enough. He’ll take you in his arms and the two of you will stand there in each other’s arms, swaying and just processing everything. Being with you offers him the space he craves to process things and figure out how to move forward. After a win, he’ll have to stay at the stadium a little longer to do media and locker room celebrations, but still, his mind is only with you, counting down the seconds until he can go home and celebrate with you. There’s never expectations from you, never someone he has to be. If he starts to feel anxious, you know just as quickly as he does if you’re feeling it too.
Can only be fully himself around you.
Everyone else gets a watered down version of him. Joe Burrow, the franchise quarterback. The flavour of the month, the saviour of Cincinnati. He’s always under pressure to be what people want to see. When it comes to you, though, he can just be… Joey. Your Joey. He rests his head in your lap after tough training sessions and lets you play with his hair. He cries at sad movies (Marley and Me will always be his undoing) and lets you comfort him. He actually laughs, really throws his head back and belly laughs, with you, at your stupid jokes and silly puns, he never does that awkward fake laugh the media gets. He rambles on about the ocean and black holes in space while you look at him with that adoring smile like he’s the only thing that matters to you. He hums in the kitchen while he’s making dinner, bopping along to whatever song is playing. When it’s just the two of you, that’s when he feels safest. That’s when he can be ‘the real Joe’, not whichever persona he has to be in front of the camera.
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added/removed!): @cixrosie @vroomvroombtch @nineverce @mrs-delaney @burrowswomen @cozygirljay @w1ldfiction @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @sacred-healing @irishmanwhore @wickedfun9 @neyessibff @starsinthesky5 @honeyncherry @honeydippedfiction @alertbooty @basicash
A/N: Back with a full-length fic for my all-time favourite man! This fic is inspired and based on how anxious I have been feeling over the last few weeks. I've been working on it and chipping away at it, the writer's block has been real tho so I'm really happy to finally get it out. I get anxiety flare ups pretty regularly and I wanted to explore how Joe would deal with that, as well as indulging myself and pretending he was talking to me (bc are you even a fic writer if you don't do it for the self indulgence?). This fic is based on Hold My Girl by George Ezra, one of my favourite songs by a really underrated British artist!
WC: 8.1k
Pairing: Joe Burrow x fem!reader
Warnings: Reader suffers from anxiety, has a panic attack. Party atmosphere, possible miscommunication trope if you squint. Generally quite an emotionally intense one (as is the case for my fics it seems lmfao), so if that's not your thing, I'll see you in the next one!
Just like with almost everything about you, Joe sees it before you do.
The way your shoulders have hunched up higher and higher over the last few days. The way you had looked out of the window when he drove you to and from the stadium for the game on Sunday, not listening to anything he said, not even queuing up songs to listen to on his Bluetooth system. The way your fingernails have become short and uneven from how you have slowly chewed them down to the cuticle.
All were telltale signs that your anxiety was flaring.
You’ve had flare ups before, many times. Joe has witnessed one too many panic attacks to know what to do to help you (sit you down in a quiet room, hold your hand, talk to you and be your anchor while you ride it out), but this one has been the worst it’s been for quite some time.
Every day, you drift further and further into your own little bubble. Sometimes you’re too anxious to leave the house.
Joe sees it in the way you scan each and every room when you walk into it, taking stock and getting a feel for where everything is. It’s in the way you sit at the kitchen island in front of your laptop, trying to work but end up staring into space. It’s in the way you complete spaced out watching a movie the other night with Joe.
It’s in the way you think, and hope, he doesn’t notice, but the thing with Joe is… he always notices. Especially when it comes to you.
And you try to push it down. You try to march on. You try so hard to keep a smile plastered on your face.
But inside, you’re screaming. You’re drowning. Your nervous system is on fire. You’re not sleeping. Your entire body trembles when you’re doing nothing. You can’t switch off. You can’t rest. You feel like a swan on a lake - graceful and unbothered on the surface, while on the bottom, where nobody else can see, you’re working overtime to keep yourself afloat.
Fight or flight is in overdrive - it has been for days, maybe even weeks.
It’s only a matter of time until it brims over, like a saucepan of boiling water. Something’s going to move the lid just slightly, at just the wrong moment, and it’s all going to come boiling over, uncontrolled and devastating.
You’re stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter.
Joe’s at the oven making dinner. It smells garlicky and gingery, something Asian-based he must have seen at a restaurant he went to earlier in the week. He’s got into the habit of finding the recipe online for things he eats at restaurants he goes to, or straight up asks the chef for it.
The white shirt and grey sweatpants he’s wearing would normally make you want to jump his bones, but tonight, you’re somewhere else. A million miles away, despite being under the same roof, in the same room.
Your thoughts are scary, sometimes. Not in a ‘need to be admitted to a psychiatric facility’ kind of scary, just… Loud. Intrusive. They make it impossible to switch off and truly relax.
He says something that you don’t hear, too lost in your own thoughts.
‘Babe?’ He’s looking at you with expectant eyes, like he’s waiting for you to answer him.
You shake your head, crashing back to Earth with an ugly jolt to your heart when you realise that you spaced out again.
There’s a beat where he looks at you. You look at him.
‘S-sorry?’ You leave it a second too long to play it off.
It’s quiet.
You’re hoping he doesn’t notice.
He does. He won’t say anything, though. He needs to hear it from you. He’s got a feel for how your anxiety works now. He knows that the more he pushes you, the harder you’ll pull back and shut down.
So, he leaves it up to you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows you’ll come to him when you’re ready.
‘Just asked if you’re still coming to Deja’s birthday party tomorrow. I said we’ll both be there, but if you don’t feel up to it then please don’t feel like you have to come.’
You shake your head, determined.
Be normal. Nothing is wrong. Don’t add to his already-full plate. You need to go, need to show face. Show everyone that you are good. You can handle a simple night out, right?
‘No, no, I’ll be there. Where, um, where is it, again? Just so… Just so I can see.’
That’s a lie. Both of you know that.
You want to know where it is so you know what to wear. How much you need to psyche yourself up for it. So you can look at the menu and memorise your order before you even step foot in the building. So you know what the parking situation is even though Joe will never let you drive anywhere, he’ll have his driver take the two of you.
Of course, this isn’t addressed.
He stirs the pot on the oven.
‘Some nightclub downtown. Tulua, something like that?’
You nod. Another fake smile.
Then you disappear again. Into your mind, out of the room mentally despite being there physically.
The party completely slipped your mind. Over the last week, with your anxiety taking up every part of your life, you’ve had little chance to think about… well, anything. It’s been a case of getting through the next five minutes.
Now you have to prepare for being at a nightclub. For the noise, for the pushing, for the alcohol, for ‘having to be switched on because other people will be there and you need to look like you’re having fun’, your anxiety screams at you.
The feeling of Joe’s gaze being on you again snaps you back into the room once again. The kitchen lights shine bright above you, overly warm, like a spotlight on you, making you blink your eyes to get the dark spots out of your vision.
‘You with me, baby?’ Joe asks. The question itself is easy, but you know it’s loaded.
You know you’re not being yourself, but something in you just can’t bring yourself to tell him.
Because in truth, you don’t know why you feel like this. You don’t know what set it all off. And if you can’t explain it, it’s silly.
Sorry babe, I just feel like I’m being hunted for sport when we watch a movie in our own home. No reason, just my stupid brain. All good, though!
Even thinking it sounds ridiculous.
No. You’re okay. You’re good.
You nod.
You ignore the thump-thump-thump of your heart. It’s almost painful. The rhythm is so fast, you’re surprised your Apple Watch hasn’t pinged with a notification, telling you to sit down. Your doctor told you to turn that notification on after your heart rate spiked so high at work, you passed out.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ you reply. ‘I’m good.’ It’s tacked on like an afterthought, as though I’m fine, the universal way of saying I’m not fine will give you away.
His gaze lingers on you. He’s serving up, spooning noodles and vegetables into bowls.
‘Smells great, Joey, thank you for cooking.’
You’re not hungry. You haven’t been for days, your anxiety causing a horrible knotting sensation in your stomach that means you’re having to force food down until you feel sick.
Still, though, you potter around the kitchen, pouring yourself some water from the fridge, collecting silverware for the two of you and taking the salt and pepper shakers over to the kitchen table.
As you pass him, he winds a gentle arm around your waist to stop you in your tracks. It’s not to trap you. It’s to check in.
‘If something’s up, you can talk to me, you know that, right, sweetheart?’ His curls flop over his eyes when he says it, craning his neck to look down at you.
Another nod.
‘Yeah. Thanks, Joey.’
He’s so good. It makes you feel guilty for not telling him, but you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll be fine.
It’s currently Friday. The party is tomorrow. You’ll be right as rain by then.
Joe does most of the talking during dinner. He tells you funny stories from training, he talks about how he hit a new personal best in the weight room on the squat racks and how some black hole in space is nearing Earth.
It’s so hard to engage with him. That’s what scares you the most about this whole thing. When you’re not riddled with anxiety, talking with Joe is the easiest thing in the world. When you’re not feeling like you’re being hunted for sport, the two of you can sit and talk for hours about everything and nothing.
When you’re in survival mode, though, just getting through the next five minutes is a work out.
How long you sit there for, you don’t know. You drift in and out of the conversation, only processing tidbits. You hum along with him every now and then, but Joe knows you’re not listening. Not really.
‘Hey.’ A large, warm hand envelops yours. It gives your hand a squeeze. A silent reminder - come back to me, you’ve disappeared again. Realisation dawns on you that you’ve zoned out yet again, staring into space.
When your gaze focuses back on the man in front of you, worry is etched into his handsome features. His eyes are crinkled in the corners, his eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is tense, almost as though he’s carrying the tension you’re feeling.
You feel a pang of guilt, hating the thought that you’re bringing him extra stress.
‘You wanna talk about whatever’s playing on your mind? I can feel it. You don’t have to hide it away from me, honey. Don’t bottle it up. What can I do to help?’
Your gaze meets his. There’s a softness in his eyes that only appears when he looks at you. Everyone sees it. Every single person sees the way he looks at you like you hung the Solar System he loves so much.
But not quite as much as he loves you. Nothing will ever come close to how much that man loves you. He would fight an army on his own for you.
But still, you can’t say it.
I feel like I’m being hunted for sport. I feel like everyone looks at me when I walk into a room. I feel like they can’t understand what a guy like you sees in a girl like me. I feel like I’m dragging you down because of my anxiety. I feel like you deserve better than someone who panics at the mere thought of leaving the house sometimes.
The words are all there. You just can’t say it. Saying it makes it real. Saying it means it becomes his problem. You can’t do that to him, not now.
‘I’m okay. Just… just a lot going on.’
There it is again. That squeeze on your hand. It makes you look down at your hand in his, the way his huge hand makes yours look like it belongs to a child. It’s veiny and calloused, warm and comforting. He always says that your hands are freezing. It’s why he always has a pair of hand warmers in his bag for you, especially on game days in the winter, even when you’re up in the suite.
Joe holds your gaze.
‘You sure?’ The words linger in the air between the two of you, the silence filled with the questions he wanted to ask, but didn’t have a way to phrase them.
Have I done something? What can I do to fix it? Do I need to fight someone?
You know he’s giving you an opening to talk. You know you need to talk, to share the load.
But still, you can’t. You don’t want to be a burden. He already has a full plate. You can figure out by yourself.
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’ You pause again. ‘I love you.’ The words are enough to ease the tension between the two of you. His shoulders visibly relax, as if he needed to hear it.
He brings your hand to his lips. The little kisses he presses against your skin are warm. They convey everything all at once; I love you. I’ve got you. I’m yours. You’re my girl.
‘I love you too, baby.’
That night, Joe sleeps fitfully next to you. You know by now that he knows something is up. You also know you have to talk to him about it, but… you don’t want to be a burden. You don’t want to distract him from his career. So you decide to tough it out by yourself.
Eventually, sleep comes, but it’s punctuated by dreams that aren’t necessarily nightmares, but they’re also not entirely pleasant.
By the time morning comes and you’re jolted awake by your alarm, you can barely remember the dreams. You’re exhausted from both the shoddy night’s sleep and from being in survival mode for the last few weeks. You’re starting to feel numb. All you feel is that unshakable feeling of unease.
Joe has a session at the weight room, and you notice he gives you an extra tight hug before he leaves. He kisses the top of your head and asks you to message him if you need anything. You know he has nothing but good intentions, but your anxiety twists his words into something they’re not.
Text him if you have a panic attack. If you need him. If you can’t go an hour or two without him.
No, you say to yourself, almost out loud. You can survive without him.
You spend the day flitting from one room to the other.
Watching TV in the living room feels lonely without Joe, but you manage to watch a few episodes of Schitt’s Creek to get yourself into a better frame of mind.
You open your laptop in the study to try and do some work on the project that’s due in a few weeks. Settling into the work gives you tunnel vision, so you manage to make some good progress on it.
Anxiety about it still lingers, though, as you try and swallow a few mouthfuls of salad you DoorDash from a local deli.
Is it good enough? Am I good enough? Is this job enough?
Enough. Enough. Enough.
The word buzzes around your head like a wasp looking for something to sting.
All you want is to be enough. Good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. Just… enough.
Your phone buzzes, pulling you out of your spiral:
From: Joe ❤️
I’ll be home around 5. Car’s coming at around 7 to take us into town. Take a bath, have a nap, do what you need to do. I love you ❤️😘
You do as Joe suggests and run yourself a nice bath, complete with lavender essential oils and muscle relaxing Epsom salts. The water is hot and the bubbles envelop you in a bubbly blanket, soothing your muscles from weeks of tension that you forget you’re holding.
That’s the thing with anxiety, you’ve found after all these years. It’s not just mental. It’s a whole-body affliction, affecting your muscles, your joints, even down to your very bones. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to properly relax, properly switch off, but now, in the bath, you finally have that chance. You lean your head back against the wall and sigh contentedly.
You stay in the bath longer than you planned to, until your skin starts to prune. After you hop out, your hair washed and conditioned with your skin smelling fruity, the shoddy night’s sleep catches up with you, so after you apply your body lotion, you crawl into bed in your pyjamas for a quick nap.
The sleep that follows is the first decent rest you’ve had in weeks. It feels as though your body finally feels safe enough to switch off and catch up on the rest you’ve been missing out on.
When you wake up, you can hear the shower running, and you instantly know it’s Joe. The sound of the water running and him moving around is oddly comforting to you, and you’re half tempted to close your eyes and head back to sleep, but you know if that happens, you’ll never get out of bed, so you lean back on the pillows that smell of Joe’s shampoo, despite how many times you wash them, and scroll on your phone.
You hear the water shut off and Joe steps out into the bedroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair has grown out over the last few weeks, and it flops over his eyebrows in his hunt for underwear and socks. Instinctively, like they’re drawn to him by magnets, your eyes rake over his back. They watch the sinews of his muscles ripple as he shrugs on a dark navy button-up dress shirt. Then, he pulls on a pair of black slacks, the movement of his legs making his calf muscles and hamstrings flex.
As if he can feel your eyes on him, he turns around and catches you staring. Your entire body warms under the intensity of his gaze; you know your cheeks have flushed.
He just smiles softly at you.
‘Have a good sleep, baby?’ He asks as he pulls on his socks.
You hum in response, resting your head on your arm. The clock on the bedside table tells you that it’s five-forty-five, but you’re so comfy and warm in the bed… Moving sounds like your worst nightmare.
‘I took a bath, before. It was really nice. Thank you for suggesting it.’
He shrugs off your thank you.
His socks now on his feet, he moves to sit on the bed with you. A large, warm hand reaches out to stroke your left leg, on the calf muscle.
‘Are you sure you’re up for tonight, sweetheart? There’s really no pressure,’ he murmurs down to you. ‘I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can feel you’ve been… a little anxious lately.’
A little anxious. Probably the understatement of the century.
‘So if you don’t feel you can manage it, please don’t feel bad for saying no. I want you to feel comfortable.’
He’s so honest. Genuine. You know he means every word, his eyes tell you that. They’re soft in their gaze, and even in the dim lighting of the bedroom, you can see his pupils are dilated, a subtle but clear sign of his honesty.
He believes in you. You can see that. In his eyes, you can do anything.
You don’t want to let him down. You don’t want to let anyone down. You have to try.
‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll go. It sounds fun. I need to get out of the house more.’
You get up and move to your closet to find something to wear. His gaze follows you, you can feel it, and you wait for him to say or ask something.
Why are you anxious? Is it me? Has something happened with your job?
He waits for you to open up to him.
You don’t.
You don’t tell him about how that feeling comes back as you stare at your closet, trying to find something to wear. About how the hollow pit, that ugly twist, creeps back into your stomach. How it screams at you, telling you that you’re not enough for him. For your job. For your family.
It feels like an intruder in your body, unwelcome, yet it sits there. Then it’s sliding around in your stomach like an ugly great snake.
But you soldier on. The first thing that grabs your eye is what you pick for an outfit - a plain navy dress that, mercifully, matches Joe’s shirt. You’re relieved with your choice, knowing you’ll look like a cohesive unit together despite the fact that you feel like your entire world is crumbling around you.
There’s an odd ringing in your ears as you pull the dress on. It’s so loud that you just want to scream and cover your ears forever, but you can’t.
You need to tough it out. People are expecting you tonight. You need to shove a smile onto your face and act like everything is okay. Just for a couple of hours.
Something selfish inside you hopes that Joe doesn’t want to stay too long, but you’re too nervous to ask. You would rather stew in the uncertainty than show weakness by asking him.
You look in the mirror and smooth out the dress. It looks… okay.
Nothing special, sneers that ugly voice inside you. Maybe if you lost a bit of weight around your shoulders or in your hips, you would be pretty enough for the man outside the door.
The thought is so ugly, you almost want to slap your own face to get it out of your head.
Focus. Turn your focus somewhere else.
Makeup. That’s good. Let’s do some makeup.
It’s too much. You only manage to do the bare minimum; colour corrector under your eyes and on any blemishes, mascara on your lashes, and a swipe of nude lipstick.
Enough to say you made an effort, but not too much that it will be exhausting to take off at the end of the night. Whenever that may be.
Joe’s head turns to you when you walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. Your eyes meet his, and just for a second, the world is peaceful. It seems to stop turning on its axis as the two of you take each other in.
He’s stretched out on the bed, long legs seemingly endless in the black slacks, the navy dress shirt complimenting his skin tone perfectly, and his hair perfectly curled, in a way that’s so him, he just looks so effortless. Like everything comes easy to him.
Of course, you know that’s not the case. Joe has had his own fair share of struggles, many of which you have helped him through.
But the way he carries them, it’s like nobody would ever know.
You, however, you feel as though everyone knows you’re struggling. You feel as though they can see it in your eyes, the lack of control and the wild panic.
Then he says those words that always bring you back to him, even if you’re somewhere on a planet millions of miles away.
‘I love you, sweetheart.’
They chip away at the dam of anxiety. Just for a second, your heart rate slows and your worries are dulled, like they’ve been tackled by a fire extinguisher.
‘I love you, too, Joey. So much. I’m sorry I haven’t said it enough recently.’ You say it quietly, as if you’re worried that saying it too loudly will make it too real.
He doesn’t say anything. He simply opens his arms, an invitation for you to join him.
A small smile creeps onto your face, and you oblige, crawling in next to him. He immediately wraps his big, strong arms around you and pull you in close to him.
‘You never have to worry about that, babe, not with me.’ His voice is quiet. You can hear the sincerity dripping from every syllable. ‘I know it. You show it without saying it.’ The reassurance means more to you than you can ever express.
He looks at you in his arms, really drinks you in, as if he’s memorising every freckle, every crinkle and every blemish, committing all of it to memory like he does with plays. He is so completely and utterly obsessed with you, he barely knows how to function without you. Having you in his arms is the single greatest gift life has given him thus far, and he hasn’t even married you yet. You haven’t even given him children yet.
In the form of his arm squeezing you impossibly closer to him, the words pass through to you without him having to say anything.
I’m here. Whatever you need, whenever you’re ready. Please don’t think you’re alone.
You know they’re the words he’s saying because he’s said them to you countless times before, when you’ve had previous episodes of anxiety. He’s muttered them into your hair when you lean on him during a panic attack. He’s whispered them to you late at night when he thinks you’re asleep next to him. He’s texted them to you when he’s on the road but he can tell you’re anxious just through your texts.
I’m here.
You know you need to talk to him. You want to talk to him now, to make it all stop. He’ll know what to do, he always does.
But then, just as you open your mouth and say, ‘I just…’, there’s a car horn outside.
The driver’s arrived to take you to the party.
Without another word, you get up and brush your fingers through your hair, while he unfolds himself from the bed.
His presence is oppressive around you while you pull on your heels, the way it always is with Joe; you feel him before you see him. He’ll walk into a room and you just know without looking that he’s there. Same with you for him, he always knows where to look for you. You’ll never lose him in a crowd, not just because of his height, but because of that string tying you to each other. That string that ties you together, it transcends distances. No matter where you are in the world, no matter how far apart you are from each other, that string is unbreakable. It’s stronger than steel, iron and titanium put together. You are the centre of his Solar System - everything revolves around you. It used to revolve around football, but then came you, and now you are the centre of his world.
He wants to talk, it’s written all over his body in stolen glances across the room at you, and sure enough, when you stand up from tightening the buckle on your left heel, an arm coils around your waist. It makes you jump, not realising how fast he came over to you, and you’re once again pulled in to the warm chest you call home. Joe mutters an apology into the air above you for making you jump.
‘We’ll talk later?’
It’s murmured into your hair, accompanied by a kiss to your temple.
You nod.
‘We will.’
This can’t continue, you realise that now. You’re exhausted from having no sleep for the last few weeks, from fighting your brain at every turn, from the mental effort of being on and appearing normal and not wanting to scream in agony.
You just want it to stop. You want quiet. You crave peace.
The answer hits you then. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, terrifyingly fast and yet so blindingly obvious that you’re almost laughing at how you were so slow to pick up on it.
Joe is your peace. Joe is your quiet.
Just like how you are his peace. You are his quiet.
You need to tell him, about how you’ve been feeling and about your realisation, but the car horn sounds again, shattering the moment and breaking the spell.
He squeezes you to his chest.
‘C’mon, baby,’ he leans down to peck your lips. ‘Let’s go. We don’t have to stay long.’
The two of you pull yourselves off of each other and you grab a jacket from your closet, a black faux-leather one that you wore last Halloween, when the two of you dressed up as Danny and Sandy from Grease.
The Ohio air is thin and cool when you step out to get into the car, Joe opening your door for you as always. He holds out a hand to help you up into the back.
Inside the car, a big black Range Rover, the seats are black leather with red trim. They’re soft and plush when you sit down in them and buckle yourself in. The interior smells brand new, that unmistakable new car smell that you can’t help but breathe in.
Joe joins you a few moments later. You exchange small smiles before he reaches across for your hand. As the car purrs away, he mouths a ‘you okay?’ over at you, another check in.
You only manage a squeeze to his hand.
He knows what that means.
It means, I need you with me tonight.
He squeezes your hand back, not breaking eye contact.
Don’t worry, the squeeze says. I won’t leave your side for a second.
The rest of the car ride passes in silence. Cincinnati’s downtown district rises above you in the form of towering skyscrapers and swanky hotels. At some point, Joe takes his hand back to use his phone. You can see the screen glaring at him in the dark of the car as he texts Ja’Marr to let him know you were on your way.
Dread seeps into your body. It chills you to your bones. There it is again. Sliding around in your stomach like a poorly-digested meal.
The car glides to a stop outside the club. Bass thumping so hard, it makes your bones judder inside you. Girls are screaming, tottering about in dangerously-high heels. Guys are jeering at each other.
Your hands are clenching and unclenching again. Your chest starts to rise and fall in that heavy, borderline hysterical way it does when you feel yourself losing control.
Joe glances over at you.
‘Baby.’
You don’t look at him. You can’t.
His hand takes yours again. His thumb rubs your skin to try and bring you back.
‘You don’t have to go in, sweetheart.’
The gentle reminder makes tears prick your eyes, and for a millisecond, you nearly let the anxiety win. You almost tell him that you want to go home. You know if you do, he’ll waste no time in telling the driver to take you back home with a stop off at your favourite Italian to pick up dinner.
But you can’t let it win. You need to be strong. You need to show yourself that you can do this.
‘I’m going in. I’ve got this.’
Another look is exchanged between the two of you, in which he silently double checks with you that you’re sure.
You’re not sure. But you’re doing it. For him.
The two of you head out of the car, Joe guarding you from the waiting photographers with his huge form. Cameras flash and you close your eyes, but you can see them from behind your eyelids. Joe’s hand never once leaves yours.
Finally, you make it inside and make a beeline for the VIP area where the party is based.
‘Y/N, Joe!’ Deja squeals as she runs over to you. ‘It’s so great to see you both!’ She wraps you in a hug. She smells divine, as always, and her hug is warm and secure. A sign of how much she adores you.
When you break apart, she looks at you.
‘You’re gorgeous, girl. Thank you for coming.’
And with that, she swoops in to give Joe a hug. Ja’Marr runs up to the two of you and you hug him next. He daps up Joe. They exchange bro hugs.
Reunions complete, you follow Deja and Ja’Marr into the booth, Joe following you with his hand on your back, fingers splayed to maximise the surface area he’s touching. Normally he’d have it lightly dusting your back, but the way you squeezed his hand in the car… You need him to be with you tonight. He knows what to do.
The party starts and you try to have fun. You really do.
You blindly engage in conversation and exchange in small talk. The lemonade you order gives you something to focus on, gives your hands something to do that isn’t twirling your hair around your finger or rubbing your thighs out of nerves.
All through the night, that feeling bubbles inside you. It was easy to ignore it at first. But as the night intensifies and as more people become more intoxicated, while you’re still stone-cold sober, the less comfortable you’re feeling.
It happens somewhat out of the blue. You’re stood with Gracie, Evan’s wife, in the bathrooms having gone for a bathroom break.
She’s in a cubicle, talking about something cute her kid did the other day. You’re stood at the sink after washing your hands, desperately trying to make the feeling go away. Her kid is adorable and sees you as one of her aunts, and you normally love hearing about whatever she got up to.
But you just can’t get past the feeling of anxiety screaming in your chest.
The combination of the noise - the thumping base, the screaming on the dancefloor, the shaking walls around you - and the darkness that envelops you everywhere you turn, it’s all too much. Your senses are taking a beating that doesn’t seem to be ending.
It’s like a wave threatening to crest at the worst possible time.
Out. You need to get out of this room, this building. Exit. A way out.
Gracie walks out of the cubicle but stops short when she sees you. You’re starting to hyperventilate. Tears are falling thick and fast as the panic attack hits you.
‘Are you okay, Y/N?’ she asks.
You can’t speak. Instead of saying no, a wild sob escapes your mouth. Your chest heaves again, but this time it’s out of control.
Your breaths are ragged, shallow and short, as if you can’t get enough oxygen in and can’t breathe out enough carbon dioxide. The sensation makes you feel dizzy, adding to your panic.
Your chest hurts. Is this a heart attack? No, impossible. But why does it hurt so much?
Gracie says something, but you don’t hear it. You’re trembling from head to foot. You feel like you’re going to die. You feel like something is hunting you.
Her hands are on your shoulders, steering you out of the bathroom. She says something about finding Joe, but then your eyes fall on the bright green sign that says EMERGENCY EXIT in luminescent white lettering.
Door. Exit. Way out.
You pick up the pace and career towards it, not realising that you almost crash straight into Joe, who’s come to look for you.
‘Honey?’ he asks in surprise. His eyes are wide with concern. ‘What’s happened, did something happen?’
You don’t answer him. You don’t stop. You push past him. Your only goal is getting out.
Door. Exit. Way out.
Behind you, you can hear Joe shouting your name after your retreating back. You can feel him following you, feel him closing the gap.
You just want out. You need to escape. The walls are closing in. Everything feels too much, too close.
You’re stumbling towards the door, tunnel vision blocking anything else that doesn’t matter to you in that moment.
The door doesn’t seem to be getting closer. Time is moving in slow motion. Nothing makes sense. The air inside the club is humid and heavy. You can’t breathe fast enough, you can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
And then, finally, with a choking sob, you all but crash through the emergency exit.
The cool night air that washes over you is blissful. It’s quiet.
Your ears are ringing. There’s a cast-iron railing by the exit, so you reach out with shaking hands to hold onto it to keep your balance.
Gasps for air choke from you. The space around you fills with the sounds of your sobs, completely out of control.
You’re gulping for oxygen as if you’ve been drowning. Your chest aches from the exertion, causing you to bend over to try and release it. Your vision becomes spotty and the next concern you have is passing out. What would happen if you passed out? Would someone find you here? What if something…
Suddenly, two hands grab your shoulders from behind and you instinctively scream in terror, whirling around on your heels at your would-be assailant. Your vision is so spotty that you can’t see who it is, can’t make out the face through the ripples in your sight, but then a voice pierces through the panic and grabs hold of you…
‘Baby, baby, hey!’ The voice is echoey in your ears, but it’s familiar. Warm and honeyed, comforting and quiet. Then the ringing stops, and he speaks again. ‘Hey sweetheart, it’s me, it’s Joe.’
His hands rest on your shoulders, holding you steady. You grab hold of his arms, desperately wanting to confirm that he’s here, he’s real.
‘J-Joey?’ It comes out as a trembling whisper. Tears cascade down your cheeks and all you want to do is collapse, somewhere, anywhere…
Your eyes blink rapidly, trying to refocus your vision. His face swims into focus, but you’re still gasping for air, breaths tumbling into each other. He kneels down in front of you, hands moving to hold yours.
‘Yeah, baby, it’s me, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry for scaring you, honey, but I need you to breathe for me, okay?’ Right. Yes. Breathing. ‘Remember how we breathe together? In for four, hold for four, out for seven, see, watch me,’ and he demonstrates the technique you use for instances like this. His huge shoulders seem to double in size as he exaggerates breathing in, then they shrink with the exhale.
It takes some encouragement, but at last, your breathing starts to even out. Your heart rate slowly starts to go back to a normal rhythm. You finally feel able to stand normally, but you’re exhausted. Drained beyond comprehension. The hangover from this panic attack will probably last for several days.
Joe stands there with you, one arm around your waist to keep you upright while the other rubs circles on your back, soothing and grounding. He whispers into your ear, in his deep, slow timbre, of how proud he is of you and how he’s with you through it all.
You step forward to stand close to him. You want to hide yourself away for the rest of time. You don’t want anyone to see you.
Embarrassment and guilt floods you. You made a scene. You attracted all the wrong attention. Everyone’s going to be talking about this, about how you couldn’t get through a simple party…
‘’m… I’m sorry…’ you mumble into his chest, too embarrassed to even say it to his face.
His grip on you tightens again. You feel a hand come up to your head and it strokes your hair. Large, strong, yet still impossibly gentle.
‘Don’t apologise. Don’t ever apologise for something like this.’ He says it firmly, but not with a raised voice. It’s the kind of quiet tone of voice that doesn’t give you any room for argument, but still…
‘I made a scene, I attracted attention, I shouldn’t have come, I should have stayed home…’
‘No, no, no. Don’t say that, baby,’ he says, voice fiercer than before. He breaks apart but still has you in his hold so he can look at you. ‘Do you know how proud I am that you came tonight? You were feeling like this but you still managed to come. These things are hard for you, I know that, but you still came. And that means the world to me, it means the world to Deja and Ja’Marr.’
At the mention of their names, your face crumples all over again, worry coursing through you that you ruined the night.
‘But I, but I ruined her night,’ you sob into the space between you. ‘All because of this fucking anxiety, all because I feel…’ That’s when you pause, because you’re close to revealing why you feel like this.
Joe looks at you. He gently quirks an eyebrow, encouraging you to go on.
When you don’t, he pulls you in for another hug.
‘All because you feel what, baby? Please talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is that’s troubling you.’ You hesitate again, and that’s when he makes the choice. ‘How about I call the car, we go home and we talk about it there? This isn’t really the place to be having that conversation, anyway.’
That is a plan that you can agree with, so after you nod, he fishes out his phone and messages his driver to ask him to pick the two of you up. Joe tells you that the driver is about fifteen minutes away.
He keeps you safe and secure in his arms.
There’s a few moments of silence between the two of you. You’re still coming down from the attack, adrenalin still ebbing out of your system. He’s processing seeing you in that state. It was the worst of your panic attacks he had ever witnessed.
It terrified him. The look in your eyes when you turned around to him after he put his hands on your shoulders… Panic. Blind, sheer panic. He’ll never forget it.
‘You’re holding me like I’m going to disappear, honey,’ he murmurs into your ear.
‘Hmm?’ you whisper in response. He chuckles softly.
‘I promise I won’t disappear if you let me go.’
You lean up to kiss his cheek. It’s so sweet and delicate that his whole body swells with love, the intense, scary kind of love that momentarily takes his breath way.
‘Please don’t.’ He tilts his head to question the two words that just tumbled out of your mouth. ‘Disappear. Please don’t disappear. I-I don’t know, I don’t know how to do this life without you, Joey. And, and I know I’ve been…’ Your voice breaks. His heart, still swollen with love for you, breaks at the sight of your eyes becoming glassy, so he steps closer to you and holds your face with both hands. ‘I know I’ve been distant lately, and I’m so sorry for that. I felt like I wasn’t enough for you, for my job, for my friends… I love you so much, Joe, and I want to be that person you can be quiet with, but sometimes I feel like my stupid anxiety,’ you ignore the way his brow furrows when you call your anxiety “stupid”. ‘Makes me hard to love sometimes, and…’
That does it for him. That’s when he decides to say what he should have said when he first noticed you feeing anxious.
He shakes his head and holds your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him while he speaks.
‘You are not hard to love, Y/N. Listen to me. You are not hard to love.’ He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. ‘Honey, love isn’t about being perfect all the time, it’s not about being constantly being happy and upbeat. Love is about supporting each other through everything, the good bits and the bad bits. I love you completely, wholly and fully, and I’m sorry that I have ever made you feel like you’re hard to love because of your anxiety. If you ever feel like that again, you tell me, okay?’
You nod. He catches a tear with his thumb and gently wipes it away.
He continues:
‘Listen to me. Your anxiety doesn’t make you hard to love, sweetheart. It makes you human, it makes you a person, and you happen to be my person. I love you, weird habits, random facts, anxiety, I love it all, because it makes you, you.’ He brushes a stray strand of hair out of your face. The gesture is so soft and pure that it glues your heart back together, after shattering with the panic attack. ‘And I know your anxiety sucks, and I’m here with you through it all, for as much or as little as you’ll let me in for. But I don’t see you as something that needs to be fixed. I don’t see you as fragile, or vulnerable. Not even close. When I look at you, I see the strongest person I know. I see the woman I’m building my life with, the person who is the centre of my fucking universe. Nothing and nobody else will be as important to me as you are. I see a woman who has had to go through a lot of challenges to get to where she is today, and there will be challenges ahead, but I’m here, with you and by your side, and I’ll face every last one of them with you. You are not alone in this storm, babe. You never have been and you never will be. You are strong, you are beautiful and you are enough, just as you are. You always have been and you always will be. I want you to be exactly who you are for me, because exactly who you are is the love of my whole damn life, who you are is the kind of woman that I used to pray for as a kid, and I never want to go a single day, minute, second, without you. I love you so fucking much, sweetheart, please never forget that. I’m so in love with you that it scares me, sometimes, I’m so in love with you that it physically hurts when I’m not with you. I don’t want to know a world without you in it. You’re it for me, baby, you have been since the second we met.’
Both of you are crying after his little speech, but you don’t care. You’re so overwhelmed - with love, with relief, with happiness, that you just heard exactly what you needed to hear, what you’ve needed to hear for the past month - that you just kiss him, lips melting onto his as you move up onto your tiptoes.
He kisses you back immediately. You feel his arms pull you flush to his chest and you lift your head up towards him so he can kiss you deeper. He kisses you so passionately that you feel your feet leaving the ground, but he holds you, his grip firm. He doesn’t let you slip out of his grasp as his mouth attacks yours. If anything, he wants you closer, never wants to let you out of his sight again. His tongue that still tastes of the beer he was nursing before coming to find you licks at your bottom lip, and you immediately open your mouth. Teeth clash together while soft, breathy gasps for air escape each of you.
Your mind is cloudy as he pulls you by the waist closer, still, to him. He's hard under his slacks, you can feel the ridge already. His warmth radiates onto you, but goosebumps still rise up on your arms at the electricity running between the two of you. His lips are slightly chapped and dry, but you don't care.
It’s fiery. It’s raw. It’s passionate. It’s making up for weeks of time apart, of not enough kisses being shared. You make a mental note to kiss him more.
When you finally break apart, chests heaving, your heart is pounding again, but this time it’s out of pure love. He’s kissed you as if his life depended on it. Both your lips are swollen, his stained with the lipstick you swiped on hours ago.
There's silence for a few seconds as the two of you catch your breath. You don't move away, though. You can't. He's addictive in every possible way.
It feels as though the two of you have reconnected and relit the fire between you. You feel closer to him, emotionally and mentally, than you have in weeks, the result of being completely and truly honest with each other. It feels magical.
You gaze up at the man in front of you, and he stares right back at you, his forehead resting against yours. You look drunk on love, but then again, so does he. His eyes are dark and hooded with adoration, the pupils dilated so much that they look dark grey in the night. You have a feeling that he’ll show you just how much he loves you when you’re home and after you’ve had that conversation, but for now, you drink each other in.
‘I love you, Joey,' you whisper through hoarse tones. You have to lick your lips after the assault his mouth just gave them. 'Thank you for saving me, for holding me, for… everything. I promise to come to you, in full, if this happens again.’
He kisses your nose affectionately and smiles that impossibly perfect, adoring smile that he reserves for you and only you, his eyes gooey in the middle, like a chocolate fondant, and crinkled at the sides.
‘And I promise to make you feel worthy and loved every day, for the rest of our lives. Even if you fall, I’ll catch you. I’ll always hold my girl, no matter what.’
You kiss him again, brief but loving, and then take his hand. The car is around the corner, and you need to go home.
There’s work to be done, on both sides - communication, honesty and trust to be built back up.
But that’s the best thing about having forever.
You have time.
THE END
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message/ask to be added/removed!): @cixrosie @vroomvroommbtch @nineverce @mrs-delaney @burrowswomen @cozygirljay @w1ldfiction @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @sacred-healing @irishmanwhore @wickedfun9 @neyessibff @honeyncherry @alertbooty @basicash
summary joe is convinced that four days without sex will break his thanksgiving game day curse, but too bad for him—because you're convinced he's severely underestimated how persuasive you can be
content 18+, smut (& semi public sex), pining, language
word count 18.1k
this is more a 😵💫 fic than anything. pookie's ( @burreauxs ) birthday present, and also made with the help of her amazing brain <3
Joe has a theory.
It's not his first and won't be his last, either. The thing about Joe Burrow is that beneath all that ice-cold precision and surgeon's focus that makes defensive coordinators lose sleep; there's a mind that latches onto patterns like a gambling addict chasing signs from the universe. He'd never call it superstition, of course. Superstition is for people who knock on wood and avoid black cats. What Joe does is different, it's more about finding the exact formula that turns potential into points on the board.
You've catalogued them all by now, these little religions he builds for himself. There was the thing about not washing his lucky compression shorts during the '22 playoff run—you made him throw them out after the season ended for some sense of sanitary well-being, and he luckily complied. The no-red-meat-after-Tuesday phase that had him convinced it sharpened his peripheral vision. And the month he showered for exactly seventeen minutes before bed because that was how long it had been the night before he threw for five touchdowns against Kansas.
Each theory arrives with the same quiet certainty, delivered in that thoughtful drawl that makes even the absurd sound halfway reasonable. He'll tilt his head just so, those blue eyes going distant like he's reading something written in the air only he can see, and then he'll start with those four words that always mean your life is about to adjust itself around whatever cosmic truth he's uncovered.
His theory this time is simple: focus equals victory, and you're the one thing in his world capable of unraveling it.
The sheets are still damp with sweat, duvet twisted into knots at the foot of the bed from everything you've just finished doing to each other. Your body still hums with that particular frequency of satisfaction, muscles liquid and bones gone soft, that specific ache between your thighs that always follows when Joe's post-game adrenaline finds its outlet in you. The moonlight slants through the blinds in perfect parallel lines across his chest, turning his skin silver where it isn't already flushed pink. He's got one arm behind his head and the other draped across your waist, thumb making these absent little circles that usually mean his mind is already three plays ahead of the present moment.
"—would give me something to work toward," he's saying. You realize you've missed the beginning of this particular sermon, too distracted by the way his voice rumbles through his chest where your cheek is pressed against it. "Like a reward system, you know? Delayed gratification. I found there's actually studies about it, athletes who abstain before major competitions show improved performance."
"Baby." Propping yourself up on an elbow, the sheet slides to pool around your waist. His eyes track the movement automatically, then snap back to your face with visible effort. "Are you seriously lying here, where we’re both still naked, trying to tell me you want to cut yourself off?"
"No, not cut off," he corrects, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows that means this anything but a joke. "Just... postponing for just a little, until after the game."
The game. Ravens at home, Thanksgiving day, primetime slot. What everyone’ll be watching when they need a break from the kitchen where mom is boiling over pots of mashed potatoes, as dad is scalding turkeys in the fryer. And the thing that he hasn't said out loud but you can read in the tension around his eyes and the way his jaw sets when he thinks about it: Joe hasn't ever won on Thanksgiving.
Three years in the league with Thanksgiving games, three losses. The sort of thing that shouldn't truly matter but does, the kind that gets brought up every time his face appears on screen. Something that makes people use words like "cursed" and "jinxed" even though everyone knows there's no such thing. He needs this one.
Joe had spent one year's off-season obsessing over it, pulling apart every variable like a detective hunting for the single clue that would crack the case wide open. Sleep schedule, meal timing, practice intensity, recovery protocols—he'd charted it all, looking for the pattern. And there it was, staring him in the face; the one constant across all three losses was you. Or more specifically, what you'd done together the night before each game.
He'd tried to convince you last year to test his theory, and had almost made it too. Joe lasted until Tuesday night when you'd worn something new and special that had his restraint shattering like glass. This year, apparently, he's determined not to break.
You can already see the wheels turning in his head, calculating odds and advantages, turning sex into another variable he can control in his endless equation for perfection.
"You realize that's five days from now."
"Four, technically. Today doesn't count since we already," he gestures vaguely at the mess of the bed, the marks you've left across his milky skin that'll be hidden under his gear come tomorrow. "And you know I'm always better when I'm hungry for it. Remember that one game last year? After we had that fight and didn't talk for three days?"
"You threw for 400 yards because you were sexually frustrated?"
"I threw for 400 yards because I had something to prove." His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer even as he's proposing this ridiculous abstinence plan. "And because I knew exactly what I was coming home to after. That's what I'm talking about…the motivation. Edge. That little extra something that makes the difference between good and great."
You give him a look. "You tried this last year. It didn't work."
"Exactly," he says it like you've just proven his point instead of dismantled it. "Because I didn't actually stick to it. We made it to a couple days and then you—" his eyes go dark remembering, "I broke. That's the whole problem, I need to actually commit to it this time."
"So I'm what, your touchdown incentive? Put the ball in the endzone enough times and you get to put—"
"Jeez, don't make it sound so transactional, angel." Though there's color rising in his cheeks that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the way you've just deliberately rubbed against his leg, feeling the slick evidence that your body hasn't quite gotten the memo about this new theory yet. "It's more like, you know how much better everything tastes when you're actually hungry? How the wait makes it worth it?"
"I know you're terrible at waiting for anything." You trace a finger down the center of his chest, feeling the way his breathing catches. "You're the least patient person I know. You literally called an audible at the line last week because you couldn't wait two more seconds."
"That was different."
"How?"
"Because that was about reading the defense. This is about," he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your palm. A gesture so unexpectedly tender it makes something flutter in your chest. "This is about knowing you'll be watching, knowing you're waiting too. Knowing that every complete pass, every touchdown, every single yard I gain is getting me closer to you."
As much as you hate it, the thing is, you can see it working already. That focus sharpening in his eyes with the particular intensity that usually only shows up when he's dissecting game film or standing in the pocket, three hundred pounds of defensive end bearing down on him. He's already turned this into a competition with himself, another test of that legendary discipline that makes him who he is.
"What's in it for me?" You try to sound unaffected, but there's already heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of it; fiv— four days of this tension building, watching him watch you, all that desire with nowhere to place it. "Besides sexual frustration and the privilege of watching you torture yourself?"
"You get to be the one who makes sure I stick to it." His voice drops to that register that usually means trouble, the one that makes promises in the dark that his body always keeps. "You know how I get. Can't keep my hands off you, ‘specially when everything's so intense. You'll have to be the strong one. Stop me when I cave,” his bare thigh presses closer to your core, “because I will cave."
Weighing your two options, for now, you part your lower half away from him. Why is he the one making this hard? "So you're asking me to be your sex referee?"
"I'm asking you to be my advantage." His thumb traces the curve of your thigh, dangerously close to territories that would make this whole conversation moot. "Five days of knowing I can't have you and not being able to do anything about it; come Thursday, I'll be so fucking focused, so ready to earn it, they won't know what hit them."
"And if you lose?"
Something new flashes behind in his eyes. Not doubt, never doubt, but that bright edge of competition that makes him consider every angle and possibility. "Then at least I'll have something to make me feel better about it."
"But you won't lose."
"No," he agrees, already sounding certain and buying into his own mythology. "Not with this kind of motivation."
You study him for a long moment, this beautiful, impossible man with his strange rituals and unshakeable faith in the power of his own will. You've seen him do this countless times before; talk himself into believing something so completely that he actually manifests it into reality. It's part of what makes him magic on the field, this ability to write his own story and then live it into truth.
"Joe," you start. You’re not sure if you’re about to agree for his sake, or disagree for your own, but he's already pulling you in for a kiss. Deep and thorough, he melts into you like he’s storing up the taste of your lips.
"Be good," he murmurs against your mouth. To you, it sounds like a promise and a challenge all at once. "Be good and you'll see."
MONDAY
You wake to darkness and the weight of blankets you didn't pull over yourself.
The room holds that early evening quality you're still adjusting to, where winter steals the light so early it feels like midnight even though it's still far from. Your phone on the nightstand says 6:47. The numbers glow softly in the darkness, and you stare at them for a long moment before the math completes itself in your foggy brain. You've been asleep for hours, long enough for Joe to come home and find you sprawled across the bed, pulling the blankets up and over without waking you.
The thought of it makes this tender, aching warmth spread through your ribs and curl inside you. You picture him moving through the room with careful footsteps he uses when he even suspects you might be sleeping, and the way he would've tugged the fabric up to your shoulders with those large hands that know how to be gentle when they want to be.
Maybe he let his hand linger there for a second, thumb brushing against your body through the blanket. Maybe he stood there for a moment watching you in the same way you've sometimes caught him doing in the early morning when he thinks you're still asleep, his expression so unguarded it makes you want to pull him in and keep him there forever.
It's such a small thing, the kind of gesture that happens in the margins of a relationship, unremarked upon, easy to miss if you're not paying attention. But you're always paying attention to the way Joe takes care of you, even—especially—when he thinks you won't notice. The coffee started brewing before you wake up. Your favorite sweatshirt moved to the front of the closet where you can reach it easily. The thermostat adjusted because he knows you run cold. And now this.
But then…the warmth starts to grow colder and colder, because you remember this morning. All had gone about as usual until he was leaving to go to the facility. He rounded the kitchen island, placing his hand on your face and tilting your head to meet his lips for one of those goodbye kisses that made you miss him even more throughout the day. Though this time you knew it was coming before it happened, saw the hesitance in his eyes and the tension written throughout his body as he dodged your lips last minute, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead instead.
"See you tonight," he murmured against your skin before he was gone. You were left standing in the kitchen with your coffee going lukewarm in your hands, trying to understand what had just happened. You attempted to make sense of this familiar dynamic from last time, where the man who usually can't keep his hands off you was suddenly treating you like something he had to ration.
Multiple days of this. He'd laid it out and somewhere between all that talking and kissing, and he'd just assumed you'd agree.
Except…
You'd listened, sure. Let him explain all his thinking and kiss you like he was storing up the taste of your lips. He pulled you close while proposing to keep you at arm's length for the better part of a week, but nowhere in that conversation had you actually said yes. Nowhere had you signed on to this plan or accepted these terms, you never agreed to play by these rules you never helped to create.
He assumed and you let him, because that's what you do for him. Read what he needs and give it, adjust yourself around his routines and rituals and theories, making space for whatever new pattern he's decided will be the difference between good and great.
But this?
Shifting in bed, your thighs rub together and an ache forms between them. Your eyes screw shut, teeth biting the inside of your cheek. It's hardly anything, but when reading between the lines it's simply a reminder of what you can't have, because your first thought is him. It's always him. His hands, his mouth, his weight. The way he pins you down and makes you feel all bits of small and consumed underneath him.
And why shouldn't you have him?
This is his theory. His process. His discipline to maintain. Not yours.
The new idea settles over you like the blankets, cozy and heavy, full of possibility. You move again, deliberately this time, feeling that ache between your legs that's been building since you woke up. Maybe since this morning or last night when he told you to be good. Your body wants him the way it always does, that base-level need that doesn't care for whatever psychological game he's playing with himself.
What's he going to do, stay mad at you? Punish you for wanting your own boyfriend? The man who told you last night that he "can't keep his hands off you," and who said "I will cave" like it was inevitable? Joe already knew his self-control was always going to be temporary, so what’s the harm in speeding up the process a little bit.
Pushing the blankets back, you sit up, feet finding the floor. The hardwood is cold against your bare soles, sharp enough to cut through the haze of sleep and lust. Downstairs you can hear it now that you're listening, the low murmur of stray voices. They carry the particular cadence which means he’s watching one of those episodes of the show he loves on the History Channel.
Joe doesn’t hear you enter the living room at first, too tuned in in the midst of the dark room. Your mouth waters as you take in the sight of him: feet propped on the coffee table, thick thighs covered by grey cotton, and t-shirt fabric straining against his biceps. The TV light illuminates his focused face, catching along his cheek bones and the lines of his nose and jaw.
You move quietly across the room, and that's when he finally notices. His head turns, expression softening as soon as he sees you. "Hey," his voice is low and a little rough like maybe he hasn't talked in a while. "Didn't know you were awake."
Humming in response, you round the couch and he makes space for you. Joe's arm comes around your shoulders on instinct, but stops just short, you find yourself holding your breath. There’s a fraction of a second where his whole body tenses, and you feel him wondering if this is allowed under his own rules.
But then, as if at least one element is on your side today, he relaxes. His arm settles around you properly and you gladly curl into his side. Apparently this is allowed.
Letting the silence settle, you let yourself sink into the familiar comfort of the moment. His forearm pulls you closer into him until your head is tucked into his chest. Even when he's trying not to, his body still finds ways to reach for you.
“What’re you watching?” you ask softly, not willing to give away your intentions right away.
"Viking documentary. The one about the settlements in Greenland." His attention is still partially on the screen where a narrator is explaining something about longships. "It's pretty interesting actually. They found these—"
You shift slightly, adjusting so you're pressed more firmly against him. His sentence stumbles, breathing pattern changing just slightly, becoming more conscious and aware. But when he doesn't make a move to create any distance, you believe this may be your in. Joe goes on, explaining trade routes and archaeological finds.
Despite the fact that you’re barely processing his words, you ask a question here and there to keep him going. You’re too focused on the way his fingertips press into your arm, how he licks his lips every so often as he speaks, and weight of his body surrounding you. You feel him slowly begin to relax more and more the longer you sit next to him, making no further moves...yet.
See? This is fine. You're both fine.
After a while, he asks, "How was your day?"
"Good." You trace an idle pattern against his leg with your fingertip, watching his muscles tense beneath your touch. "Went shopping for Friday. Got everything on the list."
"My mom add anything else?"
"Two more side dishes and a talk about the different pie crusts." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Your dad still insisting on the turkey?"
"Oh yeah. Called me earlier to tell me about his brine recipe for like twenty minutes." Your head turns, fighting off the sigh that threatens to slip because sitting next to him is only making the ache worse, and he’s completely oblivious of it. "Pretty sure he's taking this more seriously than I'm taking Thursday's game."
Thursday. There it is. You let the comment hang there for a moment, testing to see if he’ll be the one to maybe push it further. His thumb keeps moving against your skin in a manner that tells you he's comfortable, far from thinking about any theories or discipline, definitely not the rules he set less than a day ago.
"About that," you start, making your voice light and reasonable. "Thursday."
His thumb stills. Just for a second, but you feel the way his whole body changes from relaxed to alert, that awareness he holds like a shield clicking into place. Even his breathing changes, falling shallower. You've spent enough time learning the language of his body to know what each shift means, and this one says he knows exactly where this is going.
"Yeah?"
You tilt your head back to look up at him and his eyes meet yours in the blue glow of the television. "This whole...thing. This theory of yours."
"What about it?" He's careful now, guarded in a way it wasn't thirty seconds ago.
"I've been thinking about it all day." Your expression stays open and earnest like you're just trying to understand. "And I'm just not sure it makes sense."
His eyebrows draw together, that little crease appearing as he enters problem solving mode. "How does it not make sense?"
"Well," you shift so you're facing him better, hand coming to rest against his chest. His heart is beating faster than it should be for someone who's merely sitting on a couch. "You're always telling me that routine is important, right? That consistency matters. That's why you eat the same breakfast, take the same routes, keep the same schedule."
"Right..."
"So doesn't it seem counterintuitive to suddenly change something as fundamental as—" you gesture vaguely between your bodies, "—this? Us? Wouldn't that throw you off more than help?" Joe’s brain starts processing, working through your logic and testing it against his own.
This is good. This is what you want; him to think and reconsider, realizing that maybe this theory isn't as sound as he thought it was while lying in bed all wrapped up in you.
"It's not changing us," he says slowly, thinking it through even as he speaks. "It's just postponing one aspect. Temporarily."
"But it is changing us. It already has." Fingers tracing the collar of his t-shirt, you remind him that you're here and this is real. Whatever he's trying to prove isn't worth this distance, and you're determined to make him see that. "This morning felt weird, didn't it? That's not normal for us."
His jaw tightens and his whole body responds to the truth of that statement. You've hit something, struck a nerve he wasn't expecting you to find. "That's just adjustment, it's the first day. It'll get easier."
"Will it?" You study his face, watching the micro-expressions that flicker across it. Doubt, determination, frustration. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you're making this harder on yourself than it needs to be. You're already stressed about the whole Thanksgiving curse thing. Why add another layer to it?"
A new emotion flashes in his eyes as you remind him of the stakes and what’s actually driving this theory. You see him reinforcing the logic in his own mind again. "It's not pressure, it's motivation."
"Joe." You say his name gently, making sure you're still reasoning and not arguing. "Baby, you don't need extra motivation. You never have. You're the most driven person I know. You think not having me is going to make you play better, but what if it just makes you tense? What if you spend the whole game thinking about what you can't have instead of focusing on what's in front of you?"
You watch him struggle with that, see the way his certainty wavers just slightly. His hand covers yours on his chest, and you're not sure if he's trying to remove it or keep it there. "I can handle it."
"Can you?" The question is soft, never trying to sound condescending. You shift closer, watching his pupils dilate in response. "Because I'm not sure I can. And honestly," you let a little bit of hurt creep into your voice—not too much, just enough to make it real, "it felt kind of...I don't know. Like I'm something you need to avoid. Like I'm bad for you or something?"
"That's not—" Joe moves, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing your cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicts everything he's been saying. The touch is once again instinctive, protective in the same way he always reaches for you when he thinks you're hurting. "That's not it at all. You know that's not what this is."
But you've got him now, you can feel it. He's touching you a way he said he wouldn't, already breaking his own rules without even realizing it. "Then what is it?" You lean in, letting him feel how much you want this conversation to go differently, making him see the confusion and hurt in your eyes that isn't entirely an act. "Because from my perspective, it feels like you're treating me like a distraction instead of—"
"You're not a distraction." His voice is firm, almost sharp, and his grip on your face tightens. "You're the opposite of a distraction. That's the whole point."
"Then why does it feel like you're trying to stay away from me?"
He doesn't have an answer for that one. You watch him searching for one, trying to find the words that will make his idea sound reasonable again, but they're not coming. His thumb is still moving against your skin in an absent caress that tells you his body still isn’t registering the fine line you both are teetering.
Pressing your advantage, you keep your voice soft and sweet, almost pleading. "Maybe we could just forget about it? Pretend you never mentioned it and to back to normal and you can still win on Thursday because you always play better when you're happy, and you're happiest when we're—"
"No." The word is quiet but absolute, and you see the moment his resolve crystallizes again, that iron will reasserting itself. "I need to do this."
Your heart sinks a little. You'd been so close you could feel it. He was wavering, considering it and almost ready to admit this was a bad idea again. "Joe."
"I need to prove I can," he's looking at you with this intensity that makes your breath catch, helping you understand that this goes deeper than football, or some country-wide superstition about Thanksgiving games and Joe Burrow. "Not just for the game, for me. I need to know I have that kind of control."
And there it is. The real reason, buried under all the talk about focus and motivation and winning. This isn't about football at all, not about breaking some curse or finding an edge over the Ravens. This is about him testing himself, proving something to himself. And in turn, turning your relationship into another metric he can master.
The affection you'd been carefully cultivating sharpens into something else, tasting like frustration. It begins feeling like you've been playing the wrong game entirely. "So this is about control," you say flatly, pulling back slightly.
"It's about discipline."
"It's about control." You pull back more, just enough to put real space between you and make his hand fall from your face. "You want to prove you can have me right here and not touch me. That's what this is really about." He opens his mouth and closes it. Doesn't deny it because he can't since you've already named the thing he wasn't willing to say out loud. You watch the admission flicker across his face, seeing the way he knows you're right and hates that you've figured it out.
Maybe you should stop here, probably should accept that he's made up his mind and your attempt at gentle reasoning has failed. You should just resign yourself to a few more days of this weird tension, this performance of distance while you both pretend it's about football and not about whatever fucked up test he's decided to put himself through.
But you don't want to stop. You want him and for things to go back to normal. Why are you walking on eggshells in your own relationship again? The first time around was hard enough, there’s no reason to subject yourselves to that self imposed torture again.
So instead of backing down, you move closer again, letting your hand slide from his chest down to his stomach. His muscles contract under your touch, a jolt of his body that he tries to hide. "What if I don't wanna wait?" looking up at him through your lashes, your fingers trace the waistband of his sweatpants, suggesting the possibility. "What if I'm asking you, really asking you, to just end this now? Tonight, before it even really starts."
His hand catches yours, stilling it as it edges further across the waistband. A grip of steel but you can feel a tremor underneath it, the way his body is betraying everything his mouth is about to say. "Baby..."
"Just a little," you whisper, using his own words from last night, the same pleading tone he used when he was the one asking for something. Your other hand comes up to his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. "Just enough to—"
"No." But his voice wavers this time, rough around the edges as his thumb traces the back of your hand where he's holding it. His body is rigid with tension, every muscle locked down like he's holding himself in place through sheer force of will. You see his pulse jumping in his throat. "We agreed."
"You agreed. I never said yes." The words land and you see him replay last night in his head, realizing you're right. Somewhere in there, he never actually got your consent to this plan.
"You didn't say no either," he counters with less certainty.
"I'm saying it now." You lean in closer, close enough that if you tilted your head just slightly, your lips would brush his. "I'm saying this is ridiculous and we should stop."
His hand catches your chin, stopping you before you can close that last inch of distance. You spot the war happening behind his eyes, the way he’s fighting himself and the way his body wants to pull you closer while his mind is screaming at him to maintain control. For a second, you think you've finally found the true crack in his resolve, and he's about to cave.
But then he's shaking his head, a low laugh rumbling through his chest. He’s not amused, more like frustrated, maybe even a hint impressed that you almost had him.
"Nice try." His voice is strained and his grip on your chin shifts to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "Told you, we're both going to be good."
The dismissal makes your jaw clench. You rear back, untangling yourself from him completely. The loss of his warmth feels like a punishment you never deserved.
"Right," you mutter bitterly, standing up from the couch. Your legs are unsteady, whether from sleep or frustration or the ache that's still there, you're unsure. "Good." You sense his eyes on you as you walk away, practically feel the regret radiating off him, but he doesn't call you back. And that, somehow, tells you everything you need to know about the next three days.
If he wants to play this game again, that’s fine, because you remember how to play it better.
TUESDAY
"Joe?"
Your voice carries over the sound of running water, casual enough where it could mean anything. Maybe a question, could be the start of a conversation, or nothing at all.
"Yeah?" His response comes from the bedroom, muffled by distance. The steam is already starting to fill the bathroom, meaning it's likely seeping through the doorway as well.
"Can you grab me my shampoo? The new one? I think it's still under the sink."
There's a pause, just long enough that you know he's considering whether this is an innocent request or something else. The silence stretches for three heartbeats, four, and then: "Sure."
Smiling to yourself, you tilt your head under the spray and let water cascade down your body in rivulets that follow the curves and valleys of your skin. Between your breasts, down your stomach, and along your thighs. The shower doors are crystal glass, expensive and modern. They're fogged just right where they obscure enough to be tasteful while still suggesting everything beneath. You've always loved this bathroom, the way it falls right off the bedroom and the openness of it, feeling more like one continuous space rather than separate rooms. Right now specifically, you're particularly grateful for whoever designed this house.
The bathroom door widens and you hear his footsteps on the tile, heavier than usual like he's already regretting his decision. When you turn your head, you can just make out his shape through the glass; tall, broad-shouldered, rubbing his hand over the bottom half of his face.
"Under the sink, right?"
"Mhm, the blue bottle," running your hands through your wet hair, you arch your back slightly. "Thanks."
The glass door slides open just enough for him to pass the bottle through. You make sure your hand brushes his as you take it, fingers dragging across his knuckles in a touch that's barely there but impossible to miss. Just enough to remind him of what skin feels like, what your skin feels like specifically. His skin is rougher than yours, calloused in places from gripping footballs and lifting weights, familiar in a way that makes your pulse quicken even from this minimal contact.
"No problem." Joe doesn't close the door or retreat back to the bedroom, much to your surprise. You wonder what he's looking at, maybe he's tracing the outline of you through the fog, or he could be thinking about how easy it would be to just step inside…
This morning you'd made sure he didn't get the chance to think about anything. You'd slipped out before he was even awake—a rarity in itself since Joe's internal clock runs on his own time, having him up before the sun most days—leaving him with some flimsy excuse about an early workout class. Watching the confusion flicker across his face and the way he opened his mouth, you wondered if he was about to ask if you were still upset about last night. Or, maybe, make another attempt at one of those so-called goodbye kisses that he seemed to think were substitutes for the real thing. But you were gone before he could do either, the front door closing with a finality that you hoped conveyed exactly how you felt about last night’s rejection.
Now, the shower door slides shut with a soft click and his footsteps retreat toward the bedroom. It leaves you alone again with the small victory of that first crack in the wall he's working on building between you.
You work the shampoo through your hair slowly while letting the scent fill the air until the whole bathroom smells like it. It's something you picked up over the weekend, sandalwood and vanilla mixed with something a little more distinct. The sort of scent that lingers and fills spaces, making people lean in closer to identify what exactly they’re smelling. Something he’ll catch in bed tonight when you’re lying next to him in the dark, that invisible wall of his own making between you.
The thought makes you smile again.
His texts had started around ten this morning, just as you'd known they would. Joe could be patient about a lot of things, could wait out a defense and take a sack rather than force a bad throw, but when it came to you and the actual security of your relationship, his patience had a much shorter leash.
Since you had the week off from work, there was no way of avoiding that form of communication with him—which you were okay with, as much as that sour part of you wanted to stay petty. You responded as normal, maybe waiting a little longer between each message to keep the doubt running on the surfaces of his brain, but either way it sufficed enough normalcy. The kind of mundane little text threads that kept you connected even when you weren't in the same room.
After lathering your hair with the shampoo, you rinse and condition, making sure not to rush as you comb it through your hair. Then, as you're running soap over your arms, you realize you've missed something else.
"Joe?"
"Yeah?" His response comes faster this time, like he was waiting for it.
"I'm sorry, I forgot…can you grab that body oil? The one on the dresser?" A longer pause follows, but then you hear the bed creak like he's finally gotten up. Knowing him, he's likely weighing the options of calling you out versus playing along.
"Glass bottle?"
"Mhm," you repeat, "forgot to bring it in." No, you hadn’t forgotten, but it seems like Joe isn’t about to call you out on it this time. You hear more footsteps shuffling around the room as if he's buying himself time, trying to pinpoint exactly what you're up to. When he enters the bathroom for a second time, you're rinsing off, head tilted back under the spray with your eyes closed. You don't bother to open them when you hear the shower door slide ajar, extending your hand out blindly.
"You're particular today," there's something new in his voice now, a suspicious lilt that wasn't there the first time.
"Sorry." Taking the bottle from his hand, your fingers wrap around the glass and around his hand which he hasn't pulled away yet. "I'm almost done, I promise."
His hand twitches under yours, though stays where it is, and you take advantage of the moment to open your eyes and look at him through the distortion. You can't make out details through the barrier, can't see the exact expression on his face or the color of his eyes in this light, but you can trace the tension in his posture. He's standing rigid, bracing himself against something. Like he's a house in a hurricane, all his shutters battened down, trying to withstand the storm through sheer structural integrity.
"You good?" he asks, and it's such a Joe question.
"Perfect." You let your thumb brush across his knuckles once before releasing him. "Thank you."
This time when he pulls away he doesn't linger at all. The door slides shut and his footsteps disappear quickly. You hear him sit on the bed with more force than necessary, a thump of his body meeting the mattress. His phone clicks on a moment later, volume slightly too loud, some sports analysis show filling the space with excited voices talking about Thursday's games.
He's upset. Good. You're upset too, have been since Monday morning, and if you have to suffer through it then so does he. Misery loves company and all that.
Taking your time with the final step of your shower, you work the oil in starting at your shoulders, making your way down. Its texture is thick and luxurious, leaving your skin glowing, and you make a point to cover every inch of you in it. The steam has turned the bathroom into a dreamlike heaven, and you're finding yourself flushed from more than just the hot water. Your heart is beating faster now, anticipation coiling low in your stomach, because this next move is the one that matters. It'll determine whether Tuesday night lives up to its history, or if Joe's willpower has actually strengthened in the past year.
You turn off the water and the sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of water dripping from the showerhead and you, the plink-plink-plink hitting the floor.
"Joe?" Your voice is sweeter now, softer with an apologetic tint that you don't entirely have to fake because part of you does feel bad about this. But the larger part of you, the part that's been aching for him, that part doesn't feel bad at all. "One more thing?"
The volume drops immediately, and you hear every sound from the bedroom with crystal clarity.
"I forgot a towel."
No reply comes, long enough for you to consider the fact that maybe he's going to refuse this time and tell you to get it yourself. Long enough that you're preparing your response, trying to decide if you'll laugh it off, push harder, or surrender and try again tomorrow. But then movement follows the quiet's path, footsteps echo and you hear him in the hallway, no doubt digging through the linen closet. You're having to bite back your grin because he's suddenly in the doorway as fast as he was last time.
"You forgot a towel," he repeats flatly, holding the fluffy white proof of your manipulation.
"I did." You slide the shower door open the rest of the way, catching the subtle jolt in his shoulders as he goes still. The faint light spills across your body, painting your skin while highlighting every curve and lingering sheen of water. Though, it's not like you need the gloss or allure to feel sure of yourself in his presence, because Joe has never been subtle about the way he worships you, even now when he's too tangled up in his own stubborn beliefs to show it completely. "Can you bring it here?"
His jaw clenches and you watch the muscle jump, noticing the way his throat works as he swallows hard. He's forgone a shirt for bedtime, simply dressed in a pair of shorts that definitely have nothing underneath, judging by the tent you spot forming. He looks good, unfairly good considering he just spent a whole day at what was no doubt a treacherous practice—and the way he's looking at you right now makes your thighs subtly press together, a new sort of wetness forming.
"You can come get it." His voice is strained, forced in a way that tells you everything you need to know about how much this is costing him. He's really having to work for that control now, standing near the doorway instead of crossing those five feet of tile that're separating him from you.
Eyebrows furrowing like that concept doesn't quite make sense to you, you tilt your head. "I'm all wet," you point out innocently, watching the innuendo click in his head. Joe's breath hitches, chest going rigid and breathing momentarily forgotten in exchange for gathering his thoughts. "I'll drip all over the floor."
"Then I guess you'll drip."
Oh. Your lips part, slightly shocked because of all the refusals you prepared for…this wasn't one of them. Joe makes no move of placing the towel onto the counter, or even floor for that matter, instead choosing to stay stationed right where he is. His knuckles have gone nearly as white as the fabric he's holding, eyes constantly flicking down and up again, because no matter how hard he tries not to, it's no use.
You can work with this.
Water drips from you with each step, leaving a trail across the tile as you walk toward him, bare feet padding soft against the floor. He tracks every movement, eyes following the paths of water droplets as they run down your body. You don't stop until you're in front of him, close enough that the steam rising off you mingles with the air he's breathing.
His eyes have gone dark in that tell-tale way that exposes everything he's thinking even if he's not acting on it. Those baby blues have fallen victim to that raging storm, you being the center of it. Your tits nearly brush against his front, nipples hardened from the chill of the rest of the house. Every time he takes a shuddering breath, it brings himself that much closer to touching you.
Looking up at him through your lashes, a stray water droplet falls from them and his eyes trail that path too, next. There's a flush rising from his chest to his neck, all the way to a vein that's jumping in his temple. He's looking at you exactly the way you hoped, showing you that maybe this wasn't all for nothing. Right now, you're exactly a manifestation of every temptation he's tried his best to resist.
Slowly, you reach and pluck the towel from between his hands. Suddenly he's standing with empty hands, still hovering like he's waiting until the last possible second to make his detrimental decision. You've made it so easy for him, in all aspects. You're bare of any clothing, within fingers reach, and willing to give him anything.
The towel is soft and freshly washed, and you hold onto it loosely as you rise onto your tiptoes. You're still not quite eye level with him, something you're ever grateful for right now because you know how much he loves it when you have to tilt your head to meet his gaze, letting him look down at you with that leisure kind of focus that always makes your skin prickle with anticipation. His entire body goes statue-still like he's trying to turn himself to stone, as if immobility is the only defense he has left against this.
"Thank you," you whisper, lips so close to his face you can feel the shape of the words in the microscopic space between you and him. When you press forward just barely, your lips brush against his in something that's not quite a kiss, but isn't quite not a kiss either. The barest touch, a ghost of contact, your bottom lip catching against his before you complete the motion and press a proper kiss there.
The push of your body against his as you stretch up is unavoidable. Your breasts brush against his chest, stomach grazing his abs, thighs touching his groin for just a second. Everywhere you make contact leaves a small amount of water from the shower along with the scent of you. You leave the impression of your body against his like a brand, something that'll be impossible for him to ignore or forget about.
For one perfect, suspended moment, you think you've won. You see it in the way his eyes flutter—feel it in the way his body sways toward yours like gravity has finally won out over restraint, and in the way his hands start to reach for you like they're being pulled by invisible strings. Joe's lips part under yours and you can taste the breath he exhales. He's right on the cusp of caving, saying fuck it to his theory and his control and all of it.
And then he catches himself.
Every muscle that was just loosening up, melting into your temptation, locks at once. Before you have a chance to even realize it, he's stumbling a couple steps backwards like the touch of your skin has scorched his, causing more pain than comprehensible. His hand comes between your two bodies, creating that same invisible barrier that you've grown to resent over the past couple of days. You watch as his eyes squeeze shut as if he can't trust himself to keep looking at you.
"Fuck," he mutters, hardly audible and spoken through clenched teeth to the ceiling or to himself or to whatever god governs self-control. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Reaching out, your nails brush against his forearm before he jerks back again. While one hand runs down the length of his face, resting tightly on his jaw like he's taking out all his anger there, the other falls to adjust himself through his shorts. It's a quick, almost angry movement that shows you exactly how much you've affected him—as if the visible evidence of his cock straining against the fabric wasn't enough. His face flushes a deeper shade of scarlet when he realizes you're seeing this; his restraint crumbling in real time despite all his hard efforts.
"You're—" stopping, he shakes his head. He still won't look at you or won't open his eyes. You know it's because he knows that if he does, if he catches another glimpse of you standing like the kind of thing people spend their whole lives chasing, the kind of thing a man could ruin himself over—he'll lose it. "Jesus Christ, you're…"
But he never finishes the sentence. Can't, apparently. He backs towards the door with unsteady legs, hand fumbling and tugging it wider to fit through. He practically falls through the doorway, turning and pulling it closed behind him with a sharp sound that feels like more than a door slamming shut on just the room, because it feels like the door slamming shut on the possibility itself.
You stand there for a long moment in the now quiet bathroom with water still dripping off your skin onto the tile floor just like he said it would, creating a puddle around your feet that you can't bring yourself to care about. Your reflection stares back at you from the fogged mirror—flustered and frustrated, lips still tingling from that kiss that wasn't quite, and whole body humming with unfulfilled need.
Because you almost had him. You were so fucking close. Another second, maybe two, and he would have caved, grabbing and kissing you properly, saying screw it to his theory for another year.
But almost doesn't count, almost doesn't get you what you want. Almost is just another word for failure.
It's Tuesday night, and this time around he's still holding on while you're left standing alone. Tonight's realization settles over you like a cold towel that maybe, just maybe, you've underestimated Joe this time around. Maybe his willpower has actually strengthened, and maybe last Tuesday was exactly the thing that's made him determined not to break this time.
You shake the towel out of its neat folds and wrap it around yourself with fingers that are shaking slightly. If it weren’t for the fact he was so obviously affected, you might actually begin to believe he’s changed completely. Still, giving up now would mean admitting your defeat, and you’re not quite ready for that. Especially not when you have a new motive to get you through Wednesday.
WEDNESDAY
10:47 PM come to bed
10:52 PM please?
Blue bubbles sitting unanswered, you stare at the messages on your screen. The read receipt appeared almost immediately after you sent each, but to everyone except Joe, reading and responding are two different things. He’s been in the office since he got home, grumbling something about a last minute film study.
Just as you’re about to desperately send a third message, the low rumble of the office's barn door echoes across the house. Footsteps follow next, stoping about halfway up before continuing on again, and you find yourself biting back a laugh at the picture of him pausing to remind himself of all the reasons he’s following these rules.
Adjusting your position on the bed, you make yourself more comfortable. The lamps on each nightstand cast the room in a muted amber light, intentionally softer than the overhead lighting fixture in order to make everything a little more tempting. The white long sleeve you have on is some old blouse that ties in the front and shows off just enough skin for moments like these. You’ve forgone any pants, simply opting for a pair of lace panties, also in the matching shade.
Nothing is coincidental, because one night a couple years ago, half-drunk on wind and completely drunk on you, Joe spilled that white was his favorite on you. Something about the way it hugs your skin and the contrast. That suggestion of innocence mixed with the promise of what’s underneath, the way it makes him feel like he’s unwrapping something precious every time.
The bedroom door finally opens, and he pauses there. His eyes sweep over your figure as it lies against the plush bedding, on display just for him. As you watch him take the sight in, a promising hope flutters. You sit up slightly, setting your phone off to the side as he greets you simply.
Casting a soft smile, you stretch, letting the shirt ride up your torso as much as it pleases. Joe’s eyes travel across the bare expanse, and you watch his hand tighten around the doorknob. "Thought maybe you'd fallen asleep down there."
"No, just..." he gestures vaguely behind him, still standing in the doorway like it's a threshold he's not sure he should cross. "Reviewing some coverage schemes. Baltimore runs some specific routes that have been giving us trouble."
"At eleven at night?" You let a small smile play at your lips again, resting your arms out behind you. "Joey, the game's tomorrow. I think you know everything by now."
Joe shifts his weight, hand finally leaving the doorknob but only to shove both in the pockets of his pants instead. Defensive is one way to describe how he looks right now. "Can't be too prepared."
"Mm." You set your phone on the nightstand next to you. "Or maybe you've just been avoiding me."
"I haven't been," he stops, and you watch as he works on deciding whether to lie or not, ultimately falling for a middle ground he must think is the safest option. "Just been giving us both space, like we talked about."
"We didn't talk about anything." The words come out snippier than you meant, and you see him flinch slightly. Maybe it’ll finally click for him. You're tired of him pretending this is mutual and that you’ve agreed to any of this. You're far from a willing participant in his experiment, and he should know that by now. "You decided, I'm just living with it."
There is no proper response this time, so the empty space that follows presses down on both of you until the air feels thin. His eyes soften like maybe he’s feeling the slightest bit guilty, and you can see him trying to figure out how to navigate this conversation without making things worse for either of you. It feeds that building hope inside you, and to spare him a third chance, you swallow, patting the bed next to you.
"Come here," the feathers inside the duvet expand against your touch, fluffing the fabric. "Don't have to stand there like a stranger." Joe hesitates, and in that hesitation you can see the entire script playing out behind his eyes. There’s that same part of him that wants to retreat back to safety, the part that knows he should probably sleep on the couch tonight. Putting actual, physical distance between you is one good way to guarantee he won't break tonight.
And then there’s the other part—the largest one, if his body language is anything to go by—that wants to close the space between you and forget about everything that isn't the feel of your body against his.
“You’re making this really hard,” he mumbles quietly although he’s making his way further into the room. He’s slow about it, almost like he’s wading through water, but at least he’s still afloat. Standing at the end of the bed now, he stares you down like a problem he’s trying to solve.
"I know." You straighten and his body twitches like he thought you were about to reach out. "That's kind of the point."
"That's not," shoulders sagging, all that underlying frustration makes the movement sharp. "We have one more day. Less than that. Like eighteen hours and then everything..."
"And then what?" You shift forward onto your knees and slide towards the edge of the bed until you're kneeling in front of where he's standing. He’s carrying as much exhaustion in his face as his body, or maybe that’s just the built up tension from this week. "Then you get your reward and everything goes back to normal and we pretend this week didn't happen?"
"It's not about a reward, it's about—"
"Control. I know, you've said." Rolling your eyes, you reach and tug at the hem of his shirt, toying with the fabric. Another attempt at reminding him that you're here, right here, that you're real and this doesn’t have to be theoretical anymore. "You want to prove you can have me and not touch me. Want to prove your discipline is stronger than your desire."
His hands fall from his pockets, and for a second you think he’s going to grab for you, though instead, they hang at his sides in a careless manner as if he’s not even struggling to keep his composure anymore. “It’s not like that.”
"Then what is it like, Joe?" Furrowing your eyebrows, you look up at him from where he stands over you. Your fingers tighten their hold against his shirt, still genuinely confused, and overall tired, of this game. “Make me understand why you're doing this to us."
"I'm not doing anything to us, I'm doing something for us. For the team. For..." He stops, shaking his head like he's trying to clear it. "After tomorrow, when we win, you'll see."
"And if you lose?"
The question makes his breathing pause and his eyes glaze over. He shakes his head immediately when the question finally absorbs fully. “I won't.”
"But if you do," you press because you need him to hear this and understand that his theory has a flaw he hasn't accounted for. "If you lose tomorrow after putting us both through this, what then? Was it worth it? Will you tell yourself you just didn't try hard enough, and you should have started this two weeks ago. That if only you'd had more discipline, more control, then maybe—"
"Stop." His voice is stern enough to cut through your bratty tone, and you do stop, mouth closing around whatever else you were going to say next. He's looking at you with an power that makes your breath catch, making you remember why you fell for him in the first place. That focus and absolute conviction, the ability to make you feel like you're the only thing in the world that matters even when he's in the middle of pushing you away. "I know what I'm doing. I know it seems crazy to you, but I need this. I need to know I can do it."
"You can do anything," you tell him, and you mean it, even through all your games you’ve been playing. "You're the most disciplined person I know. You don't have to prove it by punishing yourself, though."
"It's one more day."
"It's been three." Joe opens his mouth to probably give you the same reasoning you know by heart now, and something in you just snaps. Not with anger, exactly, but exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of arguing in circles when you both know how this ends.
Eyes rolling again before you can stop them, you flop backwards against the pillows with a small grunt, a physical embodiment of every frustrated breath you’ve been holding since Sunday night. Staring up at the ceiling you trace the little circles made by the lampshade against the drywall, letting your fingertips trail across your skin. You lay quiet, simply existing in your own irritation and letting it wash over you until it settles into something calmer.
"Do you even remember how I feel, Joey?" The question falls softly from your lips, sourced more from genuine curiosity rather than another accusation. You find the tie at the center of your chest almost absently, tracing the knot there like you're examining it for the first time. "How it felt last time when you did this? When you pulled away and made me feel like I was..." You trail off, fingers pulling gently at one tail end, loosening it slowly. The fabric parts and falls open across to reveal the valley between your breasts. While your shirt hangs loose, your hand continues its path downward, fingers trailing over each rib one at a time.
Silence is all that follows, that same hesitance with an electric edge you’ve slowly grown used to. The bedroom begins to feel like a giant bubble when all the air is getting sucked out of it, inevitably pushing the two of you closer and closer. Maybe, likely, you’re the initiator of it all. If that’s the case, you don’t mind.
When he doesn’t respond, you adjust your head against the pillow, rolling it to the side just enough to catch sight of him again. “Hm?” you hum, pushing for an answer to your former question.
"What are you doing?" His voice comes strangled, barely recognizable from the hard front he’s been wearing on and off. Got him.
Continuing their lazy exploration of your own skin, your fingers trail from your ribs to your stomach, tracing absent patterns that follow no particular logic beyond the simple pleasure of touch. "What does it look like I'm doing?" You roll your head back to center, gaze returning to the ceiling, dismissing him as thoroughly as he's been dismissing your needs all week. "You don't want to touch me, so I'll touch myself. Seems pretty straightforward."
A clicking noise echoes from him to you like he’s opened his mouth to say something but words have failed him. He struggles, grasping for some foothold in a conversation that's already slipped completely out of his control. "You're being ridiculous," is what he settles on.
Lips pursing together, your eyes squint as if truly trying to comprehend the statement. “Am I?” Your hand trails lower, grazing the delicate edge of your underwear. “Nobody said anything about me not being able to touch myself.” And suddenly, a new thought seems to occur to you. You pause, tilting your head against the pillow while a small smile plays at your lips.
"Do you remember how I feel, Joey?" you repeat while your hand presses flat against your heated core. A helpless whimper escapes as your knees curve inwards, delivering that friction you've craved so badly. "How it feels when you touch me?” Joe grumbles and you feel the mattress give under some weight, like he's moved right to the edge of the bed, as close as he can get. Your hips grind against the heel of your palm once, and then twice, before you finally pull your hand away with a shuddering breath.
"This isn't funny." His voice has taken on a new edge now, snippy in that way he gets when he's losing an argument and knows it. "You think this is going to work? You think I'm just going to—"
"I think," you interrupt, still not bothering to look at him, "that you should probably go back to the office if this is bothering you so much." Nails grazing along the expanse of your covered core, you spread your legs a little wider, just enough to let him see the damp spot forming. "Because I'm going to be here for a while."
"Fuckin’ hell," the low rasp of his voice sends a shiver running through your body, making your body jolt against your own teasing touch. Your eyes flutter shut, sighing before a light laugh escapes because you might truly have him this time, after all those maybes before. "You're really gonna do this right now?"
You never quite give yourself exactly what you want, because he himself would never this soon. It’s become a form of art between you two, this slow-building hunger, every act a new study in anticipation. He’s trained you in patience, shown you how exquisite it feels to teeter on that cliff’s edge, and now you offer him a silent performance he knows by heart.
“Mhm.” Your hand slips underneath the thin barrier, drawing the moment out just because you know he’s watching. The evidence of your arousal is unmistakable, a glistening sheen that makes your panties cling to your pussy, gathering sticky and sweet between your thighs. You work on making a mess of yourself just the way he likes, the way he always prefers, blurring those boundaries until the moment he finally steps in. “Unless you want to help…but I'm pretty sure that would violate your precious theory."
Again, Joe has little to say to that right away. And you’re feeling generous tonight, so you let him take the time to think about it. Your fingers tap against your folds, each gentle pat pulling a quiet sound from the creamy wetness—soft, but impossible to miss in the hush between you. With your eyes still closed, you keep your main focus on the slowly building pleasure that's more about the power you're wielding than any actual physical satisfaction.
“You need to stop,” the mattress presses in again, deeper this time like Joe’s trying to force it to shrink by that sheer willpower he mustn’t have much of anymore. "I’m serious. This is—you're being—fuck, you can't just—"
The bed jerks beneath you as Joe presses forward with more force this time, making your shoulders jump in surprise. The heel of your hand bumps your clit by accident, a breathy moan slipping out before you can stop it.
Whatever he was saying halts as you start to move your hand, chasing after all the things you’ve been denied. “I'm so warm, Joe," you murmur. "Burnin’ up, can feel my heart everywhere you used to touch me." The pads of your fingers slide through your damp heat, gliding over soft and swollen skin. There’s a gentle stickiness to every movement, the lace of your underwear clinging to your hand and your body, everything sensitive beneath your touch. You can feel how wet you’ve gotten, how your body melts and opens under any pleasure it’s able to receive, every brush making you more aware of just how much you need him.
You imagine the way he's likely struggling for any sort of response that will let him maintain the upper hand he's already lost. "You're trying to manipulate me."
"I'm trying to get off," you fire back, voice unsteady as you let your fingers finally slip past that last bit of resistance. You press in, savoring the stretch as your fingertips sink inside. The sensation nearly knocks the air from your lungs—slick warmth enveloping every movement while your walls flutter greedily around the intrusion.
Mouth opening around a light gasp, your other hand curls into the bedding beside you. Your hips rock against your own hand, searching for more of that delicious friction, lace of your underwear tangling against your wrist as you move. "You’re welcome to leave if it’s too much for you. I’ll be fine on my own." The words are a repeated, breathless taunt as you work your fingers deeper, wanting to work him to that very last nerve.
"I'm not—" he breaks off and you hear the way he exhales sharply, patience bleeding thin. The bed shifts again, lighter this time like he’s simply shifted or turned away, but you're too wrapped up in yourself to bother looking. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You're a distraction. You're…"
“Testing your control.” You finally open your eyes, rolling your head to look at him again. At the end of the bed, his hands have now clenched themselves into white-knuckled fists at his sides. His chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, the outline of his thick erection stark and impossible to miss against the front of his shorts. His eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide and fixed on you; a clear confession of just how hard he’s fighting to keep himself in check. "Isn't that what you wanted? To prove you have discipline?" You let your eyes meet his, holding his gaze. "Prove it."
The challenge dangles in front of him like the final straw that will either break him or prove him right. Your hand slows, still leisurely working, but ultimately waiting for his next move while you each stare each other down. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight, parts of him twitching with the effort of staying still.
Over and over again his hands begin to curl into themselves, simply another body part he’s convincing to keep where it is. Next, his eyes fall between your legs before snapping up to your face again, as if he's evaluating something.
"Quit," though this time it's hardly a whisper, no conviction in it anymore. Simply just desperation, that need stripped clean of everything else. Sliding your foot along the length of the bed and towards Joe, you watch his gaze go bright as if he’s been lit up from the inside when your fingers slip out of you. The back of your hand drags your underwear taut, pulling the lace snug and giving him a brazen, unfiltered view.
Glistening and flushed, still pulsing from your touch, Joe's eyes lock themselves on the teardrop of arousal that slips from your core, soaking itself into the bedsheets beneath you. His hands uncurl from their fists, and his body sways forward like he's being pulled by an invisible force. One leg moves, then the other, and then he's moving to you. He climbs onto the mattress with both knees, and crawling across the sheets like a man possessed.
"Fuck it," he grunts, licking his lips as he inches closer. "Fuck all of it. Can’t do this, need you s’bad." His hand reaches for you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his palm even though he hasn't outright touched you yet. You see the slight shake in his fingers and the desperation clear as day in his eyes. You can see that you’ve finally, finally broken him down and in another half-second he'll be touching you and it'll all be over, the theory will be shattered and it'll all come to an end.
Though, fast, faster than he's expecting, you're rolling off the side of the bed before he can make contact with your skin. The motion takes maybe three seconds but you see every moment of it register on his face. The confusion that bleeds into comprehension, which seeps into something that looks a lot like betrayal. He’s still knelt on the bed with an outstretched hand in empty air, floating in the empty space you’d just been lying in.
His expression continues to progress until it finally hits the dawning realization that he's been played at his own game. You've just done to him exactly what he's been doing to you, and that turnabout is indeed fair play.
“What…?” Reaching for your phone and water on the nightstand, you go for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed next. Joe blinks hard like he's trying to clear his vision in order to understand what just happened. You can’t blame him, because his surrender turned victory somehow flipped to defeat in the span of a heartbeat. "Where are you going?"
"Guest room,” holding everything a small distance from your body, you don’t bother with retying your shirt. Let him see what he's losing, exactly what he could have had if he'd just chosen differently days ago. If he valued you over his theory, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. "One of us has to be good."
It’s like a splash of cold water washes over him, and the sight makes you smile sweetly. "No." He scrambles toward the edge of the bed, still on his knees and hands reaching for you like he can pull you back. Like if he wants it badly enough, the universe will bend to his desire. "No wait, don't. Baby, I need you."
"Tomorrow," you remind him with a steady voice even though your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, pulsing everywhere your blood flows. Even though every humanly instinct is screaming at you to turn around and go back to him, you make your way to the door. "After your game, when you've proven whatever it is you need to prove, then you can have me."
"Baby, please." And oh, that's new. That's desperation in its purest form, that's Joe Burrow actually begging, pride completely abandoned in favor of you. He's moving closer to the edge of the bed like he's going to get up and come after you, and part of you wants him to. You’d like him to chase you down the hallway and pin you against the wall, letting this stupid standoff go. "Don't do this. Don't leave. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, the bet's off and I give in, just please don't walk away from me."
"Goodnight, Joe." You pause in the threshold to look back at him over your shoulder. His face is a mask of anguish with defeated desire and disbelief, and you let yourself take in the picture one last time. Your quarterback brought to his knees by want and need, by the same feelings he's been making you suppress for three days—and something fierce and victorious burns in your chest even as something else aches with the unfairness of it all. "Sleep well."
Joe’s mouth opens, probably to beg some more and promise anything if you'll just come back, offer whatever you want if you'll just stay, but you don't give him the chance. You step into the hallway and pull the door closed behind you with a soft click that somehow sounds exactly like the one he made last night when he walked away from you in the bathroom; the sound of an opportunity lost. Quickly, you rush into the guest room next door, locking it behind you just in case.
The room is cold, untouched since you last changed the sheets weeks ago, and when you climb into the unfamiliar bed it feels wrong in every way. But you made your point, didn't you? You showed him exactly what it feels like to want something and be denied it, to be brought right to the edge and then left there hanging. You gave him a taste of his own medicine and it was bitter going down, you could see it in his face
That victory should feel better than this, triumphant rather than hollow.
Pulling your blanket tighter around you, you try to let go of that lingering ache, left unfinished between your thighs. Your mind is swirling, silenced only by the vibration of your phone beside you. Quickly, you snatch the device, opening and reading the message.
11:19 PM Please come back
Another message comes through before you can decide whether to respond.
11:19 PM I'm sorry. You were right. Please just come back to bed
Something sharp and vindictive twists in your chest as you read his messages. Now you’re right, all of a sudden. Now that he's lying in bed alone with nothing but his oh-so-important theories to keep him company. You smirk to yourself, setting the phone facedown and settling back against the unfamiliar pillows. If anything, the ache between your thighs intensified, a persistent throb that reminds you of how badly you still want him despite everything.
Almost of its own accord, your hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the path they'd taken earlier when you were performing for him. Except, now you're alone, and there's no performance, just your own need that's been with nowhere to go.
When your fingers slip beneath the waistband again, you let out a quiet exhale of relief. But the walls in this house are somewhat thin despite the millions of dollars it's worth. You know they are because you've heard him on phone calls when you're in the hallway, the TV running from the bedroom, and every creak and shiver of the house settling at night. If you can hear all that, then surely…
You let yourself make another sound, louder this time. A soft, helpless sigh that catches at the back of your throat, the kind of sound that usually escapes when his hand is between your thighs, coaxing you apart with easy, practiced confidence. Your skin feels hot under your own touch, and for long, hazy minutes you let your thoughts drift, caught between the memory of the way he looked at you tonight and the aching anticipation of what tomorrow might bring.
Somewhere in that blur, your other hand follows absent patterns, pretending for a moment that it’s his hand. The sounds you make grow louder without meaning to, unguarded in the hush of the empty room, every breath proof of just how much you wan— how badly you wish it were him instead. And you let yourself chase that feeling for as long as you can stand it, lost in the dark and clinging to the echo of his touch, a promise of what’s to come.
THURSDAY
If there’s one thing you know for certain right now, it’s that Paycor Stadium belongs to Joe in ways that transcend basic ownership rights and contract terms.
The palace is his kingdom in the most fundamental sense—not just because his name sits on any deed or because the franchise built itself around him, but because he's claimed it through repetition and ritual, through every snap he's taken and play he’s run under these lights. Win or lose, the building knows him and the way the tunnel echoes with his footsteps.
Surrounded by the warmth of his closest family and friends, you’d watched the game from in his heated suite. Robin’s hand found yours during crucial moments, and Jimmy paced the way Joe sometimes does, both carrying the same restless anxiety that translated into his body. The room was full of everyone who understood what it means to tie your heart to someone who lives and dies by a scoreboard, and you settled into the comfort of that, momentarily forgetting what the end of this game was leading to.
And when it was all finally over, after some postgame interviews and such, Joe eventually made his way up to the suite, all showered and dressed. You watched from a distance as he mingled with friends and family as he worked the entire room with that particular brand of charm that's equal parts Midwest manners and genuine intentions.
When his eyes had eventually found yours, something passed between you that felt too layered to name. You hadn’t seen him since last night. When you woke up this morning he was already gone, and he only made a point to come say hi to you as people began gradually filtering out, alcohol wearing off and tiredness kicking in.
Pressing a curt kiss to your cheek, he wrapped an arm around you and said his goodbyes alongside you to his parents as they reminded you, for a third time, to not forget the pie like last year. You both laughed along, even as his blunt fingernails dug into your waist, and then it just became the stragglers. Joe excused himself soon after, mentioning that he needed to handle a couple things before leaving, but he’d text you when he was ready. You waited alongside one of your friends and her fiancé, some of his hometown friends, until you received your cue.
12:01 AM 3227
12:01 AM Come find me
The walk along the empty halls was more than disorienting, especially with your own theories of what was ahead looming around your mind. Overhead lights were dimmed along specific hallway sections, only buzzing with the red shine of exit signs. You’d passed fewer and fewer people the further you went, guided only by labeled plaques. Before tonight, you never strayed far from the main areas of the facility, and even in those times you were accompanied by Joe or at least one other person who knew the layout better than yourself.
Taking a final turn, every third light is still lit, creating pools of harsh light separated by shadows that seem darker than they truly are. Your heeled boots click with each step, echoing too loud against the polished floors, announcing your presence clearly to any listening ears. At the very end of the hall, a door waits with a small placard below the room number: FLIM ROOM 1.
If there’s one more thing you know for certain right now, it’s that you don’t know what this means.
Pushing the handle down after a moment of your hand hovering, the heavy door swings open, sound impossibly loud in the cavernous space beyond. Of all the things you’ve heard about this room from Joe, all the stray videos and pictures captured in here, you’ve never experienced it first hand. But, what you didn’t expect, was for it to swallow you whole.
It's massive, filled with tiered seating beneath you, rows and rows of empty chairs disappearing into darkness. The only light comes from the enormous screen at the front, frozen on a grey screen, and the smaller glow of a monitor in the front row where Joe sits with his back to you.
The door closes behind you with another obnoxious sound, and Joe turns just barely. He looks over you before swiveling in his chair, facing back to the screens in front of him. You stand there for a minute longer, feeling increasingly uncertain of why you came, what you expected to find, and most of all; of what happens next.
Making your way to him, about halfway down Joe turns in his chair until he’s facing you, tracking each movement. He watches you with an unwavering attention that makes each step you take feel even more deliberate in an attempt to appear graceful when you internally feel like Bambi on ice. His legs are spread wide, so wide you're genuinely unsure how the chair even accommodates his frame, knees angled out in that particular sprawl that screams of his ownership. Elbows resting on the padded arms, his forearms dangle with a casualness that contradicts the intensity in his gaze. He looks settled, comfortable in a way that suggests he's been here for awhile, thinking and waiting.
You stop when you reach the bottom, standing just in front of him at the end of the row. Shifting in his chair, Joe settles more comfortably. The adjustment only draws your attention to his lap where the fabric of his pants are pulled tight with the new position.
“Do a spin for me.”
His tone carries little to no room for argument, yet you still find yourself hesitating. The leather shorts that felt empowering this morning hit high on your thigh, making your legs look longer and better—especially when paired with your matching boots—but now they only make you second guess yourself when stuck in front of his watchful eyes. His number dangles around your throat, pronounced against the black fitted top you have on. The diamonds undoubtedly catch what little lighting there is, a statement piece you save to wear for special times because it sometimes can feel like too much of a claim.
But tonight, you'd wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know that you know exactly who you belong to, even after everything.
It's a complete 180 from last night where you'd been all soft edges, angelic temptation meant to test his restraint. Tonight you're dark and sharp, every inch of you designed to remind him what he'd been denying himself of. But standing here now, under the weight of his stare, you feel less like the one in control and more like the one being evaluated. Last night you'd held the power, watching him crumble before your eyes, but tonight the reins have shifted, and he's the one watching you squirm.
Still, you do what he asks. You turn slowly, letting him take in the full picture. The way the shorts hug your ass, the line of your legs in the boots that come up to your calves, the fall of your jacket over your shoulders. You complete the rotation at a pace that's almost lazy, giving him time to look his fill. When you face him again his eyes are down, fixed somewhere around your thighs or maybe lower, before they travel up with agonizing slowness.
Corner of his mouth lifting, you feel that power slowly disintegrating between your fingers, transferring to Joe. “Gonna stand there all night?” his fingers drum against his legs, feet tapping restlessly. “What happened to that desperate girl I’ve been watching sulk around the house since Monday?”
Nevermind the catty insult, it’s the assumption of it; that you’re here at his mercy, that you'll do whatever he wants after days of him doing whatever he wanted, that makes something hot and sharp flare in your chest. "What's wrong?" tilting your head, you match his energy with a sweetness that's barbed around the edges. You shrug your jacket off, setting it on the table the next row up. "Gonna take the loss out on me?"
Whatever flash that flickers across his face tells you that you’re done for.
"Sweetheart… I didn't lose anything."
Before you have time to dwell on what Joe could mean by his words, he’s already reaching for your hand. He pulls you forward with enough force that you stumble slightly, catching yourself with your free hand on his shoulder. His other hand finds your hip, gripping through the leather, turning you with an ease that reminds you exactly how strong he is, how much bigger. For a second you're sideways across his lap, off-balance and disoriented, but then his hands are adjusting and positioning you, turning both of you until you're seated fully with your back pressed against his chest.
Each of your legs lay over his, spreading you just as open as him. The chair creaks slightly with the added weight, but all you’re focused on is Joe. Every point of contact between your bodies feels accentuated, the solid wall of his chest against your spine, the way your ass fits against him, the heat of his thighs holding yours. One of his arms comes around your waist, hand splaying across your stomach and holding you in place like he thinks you might try to run.
Your body has been craving this since you were first denied it, simply the comfort of being held by him. Though, underneath that relief lies something else; a flutter of nerves in your stomach, butterflies with razor wings that slice through the momentary peace.
“Actin’ like you didn’t watch it first hand,” he sighs tiredly in your ear as if this is all a big inconvenience to him. With his right hand, Joe’s fingers navigate the monitor with practiced ease, moving so fastly between screens you have trouble comprehending what’s popping up. A few clicks, some soft taps of keys, and suddenly the massive screen at the front of the room flickers to life.
Game footage fills the display, the colors almost too bright after the darkness. Offensive plays. His plays. The timestamp in the corner shows tonight's date, though the quality is too crisp, too polished for something thrown together in the hour since the game ended.
That's when it clicks into place. The real reason he'd disappeared after the suite, why he'd told you to wait and summoned you here of all places. Probably around halftime, maybe earlier, he'd known that this game was his. He'd made the move, asking all the right people to rush the footage, have it ready and waiting for him. This was always where the night was going to end—not in some desperate postgame celebration or consolation, but here, in his kingdom, with you in his lap and proof of why this is all his playing out on the screen in front of you.
The footage rolls. On screen, the version of Joe from just hours ago stands in the pocket, feet set and eyes scanning the field with that preternatural calm he always has. You watch him go through his progressions, see the exact moment he identifies his target, the way his body coils and releases as he throws. The ball spirals through the air in a perfect arc, dropping into his receiver's hands like it was always meant to be there.
"See that?" His voice rumbles through his chest and into you. His breath is warm against your ear, closer than it needs to be. "Safety bit on the fake. Left Tee wide open on the post." The hand on your stomach shifts, thumb beginning to trace slow circles against the fabric of your top. "Fourty-two yards."
You give your best attempt at following the screen, try to make sense of the X’s and O’s he’s pointing out, but it's impossible to concentrate on anything except him beneath you.
The way his chest expands with each breath, pressing into your back.
The heat radiating off him that seems to seep through your clothes and into your skin.
You're on top but somehow you're still drowning, suffocating under the pressure of his presence and all those days of tension that's been tying tighter and tighter with nowhere to go except here.
His hand moves to brush your hair over one shoulder, gathering the strands with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. The movement exposes the entire length of your neck, and when he leans in closer to queue up the next play, his lips don't touch your skin but they're close enough where you can feel the heat of them. Each single word he speaks lands directly on your pulse point, soaking into your skin and rushing through your veins.
"This drive right here." Another click echoes and the footage jumps forward. "Went six for six. Sixty-three yards." The hand that had been casually resting on your stomach slides lower, just barely, enough that your breath catches audibly in the quiet room. His fingers splay wider, side of his palm pressing just above the waistband of your shorts. "Put us in perfect field goal range right before the half."
The play unfolds on screen and you see him take the snap and the pocket collapse around him, he then steps up and finds his target, but you're barely processing any of it. All your focus has narrowed down to that hand on your body. And most of all, to the fact that you can feel him hardening beneath you, an unmistakable pressure pressing against you that means he's just as affected.
"Joe," his name comes out breathy, nearly a whimper. There’s a slight hitch in his breathing when you speak and his fingertips ever so slightly press into you.
Another play seamlessly begins and his hand lowers.
"Check this one out," he murmurs, but his attention isn't on the screen anymore. You can tell by the way his voice has dropped, gone harsher with an unintentional rasp. "Third and long. They brought pressure off the edge but I saw it coming." On screen, you watch him slide in the pocket, avoid a defender, and deliver a strike downfield. Joe's hand has covered the waistband of your shorts now, fingers playing with the zipper that spans down the front. "Converted. First down."
Your hips shift involuntarily, seeking pressure or trying to escape it—you're not even sure which. The movement makes you grind back against him, and you feel another sharp intake of breath. His arm around your waist tightens to hold you steady.
"Stay still." He speaks although there's a strained quality to his words now, like the command is as much for himself as it is for you. You try, but you just can’t. Everything in you is wound too tight, four days of denial making every touch feel amplified. When his hand slides further down, slipping underneath the hem of your pants and teasing the soft skin there, you whimper his name again without meaning to.
In response, his own hips jerk next, a reflexive movement that presses the hard line of him firmer against you. The grunt that escapes him is uncontrolled, and then his lips are touching you just below your ear, mouthing words into your skin. "Say it again."
Your mind is spinning, trying desperately to focus on something other than the way his mouth is now dragging along the curve of your neck. On screen, another play is running but you couldn't describe it if your life depended on it. "Say what?"
He reaches for your hand then, fingers wrapping around your wrist. The touch grounds you for half a second before he's guiding your arm forward, bringing your joined hands to rest against your stomach. "My name." He wraps his hand more fully around yours, enveloping it completely, and starts to move it. Down over your stomach, his fingers controlling yours, directing them lower. "Said it a lot last night." Your hand—puppeteered by his grip—trails over the sliver of exposed skin at your waist, and you feel goosebumps rise in its wake.
Trailing right over your pelvis, he adjusts himself in the same manner as earlier, slouching both of you back in the chair. He hovers just above where you’re aching for even a scrap of pleasure from him. On screen, another play runs. The Joe in front of you scrambles, extending the play and finding someone downfield, but the Joe behind you isn't watching that show anymore.
"In that room last night," his voice is right in your ear now, lips brushing against the shell of it as he speaks, "playin' with that pretty pussy without me..." His hand presses yours down over the leather between your thighs, and even through the material you can feel how warm you are. "Could hear you sayin' my name through the walls.”
“Felt a little left out, honestly," he adds, and there's something almost petulant in the way he says it, like he's the one who was wronged. Like he wasn't the architect of his own torture.
The absurdity of it breaks through some of your haze, making that defiant spark flare in your chest again, even as his hand keeps yours pressed between your thighs. "Well, you could've had it if you just—" you don't get to finish the sentence.
Joe makes a disapproving sound low in his throat, a soft tsk that makes you hush. At the same time, he uses his grip on your hand to cup your cunt through the leather, pressing your own palm against where you're aching and swollen. The pressure makes you moan, sound escaping before you can stop it, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
His chest shakes with a chuckle that mocks the breathless pants falling from your lips. "You knew the rules." His thumb traces over your knuckles where your hand is still trapped under his, emphasizing each word with a small increase in pressure that makes your hips try and roll forward for more. "Broke them though, didn't you?"
Words become hard to form as your hand becomes an instrument of your own undoing, and Joe simply sits back, enjoying it all until he moves onto his next play. His hand disappears from yours, the loss of that pressure making you pout, even though he’s far from done. Trailing up the front of your shorts, it doesn’t take much effort before he’s reaching for the zipper that spans down the front of your shorts.
"Think I know how you can make it up to me though," the sound of the zipper sliding down tooth by tooth is obscenely loud in your ears, a promise of what's coming that makes your thighs try to press together. You’re blocked, by not only the obstacle of your own hand you forgot about, but his feet as they hook around your ankles, keeping you in place.
The sound of the zipper lingers in the air as if each metallic tooth is another second lost, another moment between you snapped and reattached, the barrier between want and have growing thinner with every incremental inch. Joe reaches for your wrist, guiding your fingers beneath the opened leather.
“Go on,” he urges, voice velvet but scorned with that unspoken power. “Show me.” The way he says it slices straight through every layer of resentment, every echo of the night before. It makes something fierce and shivery climb up your spine as if you’re being watched not just by him, but by every version of him—the man who starved himself of you all week, the one who refused and suffered and still wanted to win. The one who won. Caught between the heat of humiliation and the heady urge, you hesitate. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” Joe’s voice is right at your ear. “Wanted to drive me crazy. All that teasing, all that pouting… thought it would break me. Didn’t think I could do it.”
Swallowing as his grip loosens, you continue forward with the path he set you on. Your own fingers are tentative against the thin, damp fabric of your panties. For a second, you’re new to your body again; every pulse too loud, every breath too sharp, every touch too sensitive. But then you remember last night—how you did this alone, how you’d pretended it was his hand, his eyes, his voice coaxing you on. How empty it felt when all that desire had nothing to suffice it with.
Now you’re not alone. Now his hands and eyes are on you, possessive and unblinking, and it changes everything.
Fingertips pressing against your clit, the smallest circle is enough to make your body jerk. You feel as Joe straightens his body ever so slightly, craning to get a view of the show for himself. The shame, the need, the thrill—they all knot together until you’re not sure what you’re feeling except that it’s so much…too much…not enough. You circle again before dipping beneath the fabric, the wetness making it cling to you before finally giving way.
Your head tips back, lips parting on a shaky breath. You feel the shape of his smile against your temple as he watches, unmoved by your struggle and patient in a way that feels almost cruel. But then, a muted rumble, the grind of rubber wheels, rolls just beyond the doors. The sudden reminder of other presences still in the building shocks you awake.
Pulling your hand and trying to stand, moving on pure adrenaline, you don’t get far. With Joe’s feet still hooked around your ankles, they hold true to their intent of keeping you in place. His hold tightens, all of it happening so quick you barely process it before you’re being pulled backward into his chest again, breath knocked out of you in a startled gasp.
“Uh-uh,” he tuts in a maddeningly calm tone as if he’s speaking to a flighty animal he has no intention of letting bolt. His arm bands across your middle, pinning you with mindless strength. “Sit still.”
“I heard someone,” you argue quickly.
“No one’s coming in here.” The certainty in his voice is infuriating. “Even if they did…” His lips brush your jaw, a slow pass that sends another tremor through you. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” Against your skin, you feel as his lips curve into another smile. Grip returning to your hand, he seamlessly slides it back between the only barriers separating him from a clear view. Too caught up in the cloud of lust consuming you, your hand wordlessly returns to its previous motions. “That’s it,” he breathes, angling your hand just the way he wants it.
One of your fingers slips inside your hole, and you don’t bother stopping the shameless sound that slips from your lips. Your head falls back again, and Joe’s hand reaches up, holding it there. The wet sounds begin filling the space between you as your finger works in and out, soon slipping another between your cushioned walls.
Joe’s chin hovers over your shoulder from where you’re leaning against him, and you just barely see as his head lifts. “Last night you said it was all gonna be for nothing,” he mutters, eyes on the screen even as his attention is fixed wholly on your body. “All that waiting, all that control. But look at that,” his free hand points at the screen, almost absent-mindedly like he’s in a regular film session and not holding you while you touch yourself for him. “Watch that. Saw the blitz comin’ from a mile away 'nd didn’t even blink. Got the ball out to ’Marr who turned it to twenty-eight yards on the checkdown. That’s control, that’s focus. That’s why I win.”
His words roll over you, low and sure, as the heel of your hand bumps against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. You realize, dimly, that he’s not just talking to you, but to himself. To the part of him that needed proof and to believe that all this hunger would actually amount to something. “And you,” his tone drops, a little darker, “said I couldn’t handle it. But you were the one who ran, weren’t you?”
Crying out, your fingers work themselves deeper, desperate to chase the pleasure even as his voice needles through every exposed nerve. You’re burning, humiliated and aroused beyond sense, yet he tilts your head up to better view the screen ahead.
“Keep going.” He makes quick work of shimmying your shorts down as much as allowed, exposing yourself to him before his hand covers yours again. He traps it against your cunt, forcing your own rhythm to slow. Fingers curling over yours, he guides the motion; deeper and then slower, then up to circle your clit in time with your own ragged breaths.
On the screen, a new play starts, his own image flickering in perfect sync with the deep, driving cadence of his voice. “See there?” His hand still guides yours, the double touch almost dizzying in its complicity. “That’s how you take the hit and keep your eyes downfield. Don’t lose sight, don’t let go.” His voice shudders at the end, losing some of its confidence, and you know, feel it, in the way his cock twitches aggressively beneath you. He’s just as close to breaking as you are, and all this talk and control is hanging on by a mere thread.
Your thoughts begin to spiral even harder: the ache, the longing, the memory of four days spent craving this. The need to prove to him and yourself that he wants you—that all his theories and control and discipline mean nothing against this, against you. Always, every time, even after all the games and fights and tests. He releases your hand then, but not before pressing his palm flat between your legs, trapping the pleasure there. Drawing it out and dragging you back down from the edge, just to pull you apart again.
Joe’s lips press against your face, words scattering against your skin. “You win, baby. You win. But so do I.” Suddenly, his iron grip returns, snatching your hand away from where you’re seconds from shattering, wrenching a desperate, strangled noise from your throat.
The emptiness is so sudden and painful that your body withers, searching for relief. For a heartbeat you think you might beg, really beg, all pride scattered on the floor with your dignity. Though Joe untangles your bodies in one simple motion, standing and hauling you up with him so fast your knees nearly buckle. Just barely, you’re able to hear the chair roll from under him, harshly banging against the one next to it because of his eager momentum.
The world tilts, all being consumed by the disorienting vertigo from being manhandled. He doesn’t give you time to find your balance before his mouth finds yours in the first real kiss since Sunday night. It lands with the same force of that first slammed door; mouths colliding, breath stolen, and teeth scraping your lower lip as if he needs to taste all those sounds he’d forced from you moments ago.
It’s hard to keep up. Your hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at fabric and at skin, anything that will tether you to this new hurricane passing through. He works your shirt up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the table as your bottoms fall to the ground. His own pants drop just far enough to show off the springing length of his leaking cock. Your lips part, taking in the small details of him you could never forget but always missed, before he's using his hand to press your back flat over the table. The pendant of your necklace pools in the hollow crevice of your throat while your head just barely holds itself up.
Joe pushes into you fully with one unforgiving thrust. Crying out, your body opens for him, the stretch so abrupt after days of nothing that it almost hurts—almost, but not quite, because the ache is everything you wanted. Your head falls over the edge of the table, eyes catching the upside-down blur of the screen still rolling before they flutter shut.
His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging in and holding you steady as he drives into you again and again. This is simply the frantic culmination of every second you both spent denying this and each other, the sort of sex that feels like reclaiming something you lost, or maybe like conquering it for the first time. Ricocheting against the walls are the sounds of skin slapping against skin mixed with the slick essence pooling between his body and yours. And over it all comes the guttural noises he makes, booming over your weak blubbers.
“Greedy pussy,” he snarls, voice nearly unrecognizable, “couldn’t wait, could you? Had to break the rules. Needed me so bad, you lost your mind.” His hips press flush against yours with each thrust, the drag of his cock so deep it makes you see stars, every inch pushing you further into the table. He feels impossibly big after all that waiting, the ache blooming into something that knots your insides with both victory’s thrill and surrender’s pull. You can’t do anything but take it, legs falling wider and thighs bracketing his hips as if you could keep him there forever, locked in this moment.
Leaning over you, Joe’s breath is hot against your cheek, scrape of his teeth at your skin pulling you back. “Once we finish up here,” he begins, “we’re going home. Gonna pretend this whole week never happened, you understand?” His lips ghost across your ear, the words soaking straight to the pit of your stomach. “I’ll forgive you for breakin’ the rules. And you—” another deep, punishing thrust, his body pressing you firmly into the wood, “you’re done arguing with me about shit. Not havin’ that anymore. Yeah?”
The words should make you want to argue back, because part of you was right, and he knew it last night, but they don’t. They make you shiver, legs locking around him and lips parting for his name and the only word you can remember in this moment. “Yes. Yes, Joe.”
Satisfied, he pulls back, straightening and looming over you. You barely catch sight of him and his messy hair, dark eyes, but it's enough to make your walls flutter around him, pulling him impossibly further in. Hand dragging up your body, it traces a brutal path from your waist to your breast. Pinching your nipple, Joe rolls it between his fingers until you reach for him, arching up for more.
“Here’s my finale,” he speaks up pridefully. The same hand releases your breast, sliding to your throat. His palm spans the delicate column of your neck, thumb pressing down with exquisite certainty—right over the nine pendant, connecting you to him in another spot. You feel the cold press of the metal, his mark on your skin, and the slight pressure makes your pulse thrum wild beneath it.
“Look,” he commands, and you do. Your head tilts back so far the world is upside down again, forced to watch the film reel play on. The screen lights up with the drive, Joe’s own body moving across the field with impossible confidence. His hand tightens at your throat, never cruel, just enough to hold you there and make you watch him claiming the field. “See that?” he pants, each word slamming in time with his hips. “That’s control, baby. That’s what I needed.”
You splinter, climax crashing through you with the force so great it knocks the air from your lungs. It seizes you completely, searing down your back and radiating out from where his body fills you so completely. Your fingers claw for any part of him, pulling him into you for something stable to hold onto. He groans as you tighten around him, hips stuttering as if your pleasure has knocked him off-balance too.
The world comes rushing back in in fragments: first the rough sound of his breathing and the heat of his hand still firm at your throat, then the slippery bite of the pendant pressed into your skin. All followed by the flickering light of the screen above where he’s both myth and man, hero and lover.
Each thrust of his grows harder, almost brutal with how badly he needs it. He pounds into you, table shaking beneath your back as your overstimulated cries grow louder in the vast, empty room. Joe’s voice breaks on a ragged laugh, wild and breathless as the drive on screen comes to its crescendo—Joe’s body barging its own way straight into the touchdown zone, the whole stadium lighting up in a silent, imaginary explosion.
“Look at me go, baby,” he gasps, thrusts losing their momentum, faltering as he tips over the edge. “That’s how you fuckin’ finish.”
A/N: I am actually quite proud of this one! I've been chipping away at this for the last couple weeks, it took me a while to get into the groove of it but I finally got it finished during today's incredibly quiet shift at work (my shifts are almost always quiet which is how I can get so many fics written lmfao I literally just stand at the bar by myself writing fanfic, 10/10 job). Feedback is always welcome. This was requested so I hope you like it, anon! Part two is already in the works. For now, let's get into it...
Summary: Joe and Y/N, two introverts, meet at a party that neither of them particularly want to be at. Based on this song.
WC: 4,842
⚠️ PLEASE NOTE⚠️: This work contains references to domestic violence, domestic assault, controlling behaviour, manipulation and toxic relationships (if I have missed any that need to be added, please advise me immediately). Nothing happens on camera in this fic, but the reader's history is heavy. If that's not your thing, no worries, I'll see you in the next one! Look after yourselves, please ❤️
JOE BURROW TAGLIST (message or ask to be added!): @cixrosie @vroomvroommbtch @nineverce @mrs-delaney @burrowswomen @cozygirljay @w1ldthoughts @w1ldfiction @krugstrash @savaneafricaine @coasttocold @bedsyandco @jbnine99 @heavyhitterheaux @piastririots @sacred-healing @irishmanwhore @bunnisplayground @wickedfun9
FRIDAY - 11pm, Ja’Marr Chase’s house
The entire house was thumping. Bass from the music, some shitty remix of a popular TikTok song, was making the walls practically shake, so loud that the floor seemed to thud underfoot. The neighbours would definitely lodge noise complaints.
Corridors were jam-packed with sweaty bodies, dancing and sticking together. People had to all but scream at each other to make themselves heard. The pungent odour of alcohol, cigarette smoke and pizza from downstairs wafted everywhere it could, carrying with it the promise of many a sore head in the morning.
It reached the young woman outside, sat in the relative peace and quiet of the gardens away from the house, separate from the chaos of the party. Rose bushes curled up and around her, while flowerbeds containing geraniums, hyacinths, heather, lavender and other floral arrangements lined the paths. A single stone bench at the side of the garden, where she was sat, offered a respite from the real world. In the daytime, it would have been rather beautiful. Now, though, in the dead of the Ohioan night, they seemed… insignificant, almost. Like they only mattered when the sun came up. Y/N couldn’t help but identify with that as she thought of it. Sometimes, she felt as though she only mattered when people needed her.
Y/N was so out of her depth here, she thought to herself. She had agreed to these plans weeks ago, when she was in a sociable mood, but now… All she wanted was to go home, wipe off her makeup and curl up on the couch under a blanket with a peppermint tea and watch whatever her best friend and roommate, Mandy, was watching.
Instead, she was at this house, or rather, this mansion owned by an NFL player - Ja’Marr Chase. She had been invited by a friend slash acquaintance of hers, whose friend knew a friend who knew a guy.
She had flitted around, trying to mingle, but finding she had nothing in common with anyone (she hated sports in general, much less the NFL), she had pretty quickly retreated to the buffet and drinks table, helped herself to a plate of food, before wandering outside to explore the expansive gardens in which she now sat.
A quick check of her phone told her the time: 11:06pm. She cursed in her head as the realisation hit her that she had only been there for an hour. Once she got to the two hour mark, she could make her excuses and perform her usual ‘Irish goodbye’ that she was known for - leaving without saying goodbye.
Sixty minutes remained. They seemed to stretch out in front of her, an endless marathon.
The check of her phone had reminded her, with an ugly twist in her stomach, of the fact that there was no text waiting for her to respond to.
She sighed. Her relationship of two years with her ex had broken down about eight months ago. He was the latest in a long line of toxic relationships that had all but drowned her, leaving her gasping for air as she fought to rise to the surface. He had done it all; manipulation, controlling, screaming matches that lasted late into the night that had the neighbours knocking the morning after to ask if everything was okay, making her feel completely worthless… Even the odd black eye or bruised arm.
He was the reason she didn’t like sports or the NFL, specifically the Cleveland Browns, his team; whenever they lost, that’s when he was at his worst. She used to love watching NFL games, but now? They terrified her. Even with the therapy she had been in for the last few months, the sound of whistles still brought back memories of those nights spent in unbridled terror, fearing for her life.
But still, despite it all, she stayed as long as she could. Promises of change and moving forward convinced her to, but they had remained broken. Unfulfilled. It was Mandy, in fact, who had persuaded her to leave. When Y/N had turned up outside her door at 3am with a swollen eye and busted lip, Mandy had taken care of her. The morning after, Mandy had sat her down and, through tears and caring tones, told her that enough was enough. It was time for her to leave. Her best friend had gone with her to help empty her stuff while he was at work and offered her a place to crash. That was eight months ago. It wasn’t a time of her life she looked back on all that fondly.
Only now was she starting to properly process everything. Never again, she had said when she broke up with him for the last time. She would never let herself fall into the trap of love again.
A breath of wind ruffled the leaves in the rose bushes. Goosebumps slowly started to appear up her bare forearms. The dress she was wearing was cute enough - dark navy with an embellished bodice, but she had neglected to bring a jacket cute enough to match it.
Y/N suddenly had the feeling that she was no longer alone. Whether it was the feeling of someone’s eyes on her or sensing someone approaching, she turned around to find a tall, blonde man slowly walking through the rose garden.
He immediately struck her as a man who knew who he was. Confidence oozed from him and the way he walked, the way he looked around, even the way he carried his shoulders. Proud. Assured. Everything she was not.
‘Is this seat taken?’ The man asked, gesturing to the rest of the bench.
Y/N gestured to him to take it. ‘Go for it,’ she replied. He carried a beer bottle and took a swig after sitting down towards the edge away from her. She was sat facing towards the rest of the garden, while he had sat down facing the opposite direction, up towards the house.
Silence enveloped the two of them. It felt almost as oppressive as the darkness that cloaked then. Without the lights from the house, they could barely see a few feet in front of them. It wasn’t an awkward silence. Just… weighted. Expectant. Like one of them wanted to say something but didn’t quite know what.
‘Not really your kind of scene, either?’ came her question without looking at him. He shrugged, judging whether or not she knew who she was. The fact that she had asked the question at all suggested to him that she didn’t.
‘Nope, not particularly. I’m just here to support Ja’Marr,’ came the response.
‘Is he a friend?’
A pause.
‘Yeah, we work together, but he’s also one of my best friends.’ She nodded in response, contemplating his answer.
‘You work at the Bengals?’ A small smile formed on his mouth before he could stop it. It was true, she had no idea who he was. The feeling was oddly comforting to him. People who met him - fans, press, women - often had preconceptions about him. Opinions formed about him using information garnered from interviews or videos. With her, he could go in completely anonymous. No assumptions he had to break down.
It was a nice smile, Y/N thought to herself. Cute, nice teeth, a slight dimple. It reached his eyes - grey in the dark, but would no doubt be a clear ocean blue in the light of day. They crinkled at the corners with his smile. His whole face, in fact, was handsome. Both cute and hot. A square-ish chin, defined jawline, high cheekbones and floppy boyish hair that he pushed back out of his eyes.
Then she had to push the thought from her mind as quickly as it had occurred to her when she realised that she was kind of staring.
He nodded in response. ‘Yeah, I do. What about you, who are you here with?’
It was her turn to shrug this time.
‘Well, I was meant to be here with a friend who knows a guy but she disappeared pretty sharpish after we arrived. Introduced me to a couple people, then poof. Vanished.’
He frowned.
‘That’s not much of a friend then. Leaving a pretty girl like you at a party like this where you don’t know people, what happened to girl code?’ His words made a laugh escape her for the first time that night. It was a laugh that made a funny warm feeling erupt in his stomach. He couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
‘You know about girl code?’ She asked in disbelief, giggling softly. He looked at her properly, then. Took in her features as if he was trying to memorise it all.
The first thing he noticed was her eyes. Piercing, knowing, understanding. They sparkled under the canopy of stars under which they sat. He would forever look for stars that shone as bright as her eyes did. Her smile was shy, a reflection of her shy personality.
‘I know about many things. Girl code is one of them.’ The pair shared another quiet laugh, before he held his hand out towards her. ‘I’m Joe.’
She hesitated for a second longer than she should have, before reaching her own hand out and shaking his. ‘Y/N.’
Joe repeated her name, testing it out for himself.
‘Y/N. A nice name. What brings you here tonight?’
Something about her seemed to close up when he asked that question. Her body tensed just a touch, but he noticed it all the same. Was it discomfort? Unease? Joe immediately felt guilty.
‘I don’t actually know. I don’t like parties, I don’t like sport or the NFL, I don’t know anyone here. Guess I was just hoping that this time would be different and I would enjoy myself, but no luck. I was actually thinking of calling it a day and calling an Uber. Gave myself another hour before it was socially acceptable to leave.’
He considered her response. It explained why she didn’t know who he was, at least.
‘You know me.’ Those three words - it was like they single-handedly changed the dynamic between the two strangers. She chuckled again, her amusement finally reaching her eyes, and she looked over at him again. She had to give it to him; he was charming, in a dorky, awkward way.
‘I know your name is Joe. I know you’re friends with Ja’Marr. That’s about it.’
‘You also know I work at the Bengals, that’s three.’
‘Oh yes, in that case, go fish!’
More shy chuckles. Y/N had to admit it; for the first time since arriving at the gaudy mansion that evening, she was finally starting to enjoy herself.
‘So when you’re not sitting on benches in gardens at parties, what do you get up to?’
What did she get up to? She thought in a panic. All she did was work at the restaurant, saw her friends every now and then, went to the gym when she could be bothered, and when the day was said and done, she retreated home to her apartment, her safe place.
‘Oh, you know. Work, friends, gym, that sort of thing. My life is pretty basic, I don’t really get out much.’
Well done, Y/N, you’re really selling yourself here, her brain sneered at her. She involuntarily shook her head as if to shake the thought out of it.
You’re still healing, reminded her heart. You went through a lot not too long ago, it’s completely valid that you’re still repairing yourself. Your body is still recovering from being in constant fight or flight. However you choose to recover from that is completely valid. They were words her therapist had said to her in a session a few weeks back, after she admitted that she felt boring and plain.
‘What about you? Working for the Bengals, I bet your life is a bit more exciting than mine, I mean, what is that you do at the Bengals?’
There was a pause as Joe considered his options. He could tell her that he’s the franchise quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals but risk her shutting down on him, as she was clearly not a fan of the NFL for whatever reason, or he could lie but risk further fallout.
There was only one thing thing made sense, honesty being the best policy.
‘I’m, uh, I’m actually the quarterback for the team.’ Joe was grateful for the cover of dark, otherwise she would have seen the way his ears went bright pink.
Another pause, this one a lot more pregnant and charged than the previous ones. The cicadas chirped around them, and Joe was somewhat grateful to them for filling the silence.
‘Oh,’ was all she said. Something had squeezed in her stomach upon hearing his answer. Not only was he a player for an NFL team, he was the quarterback. From her limited knowledge of the sport, she knew the importance of the quarterback. They were the leaders, the play callers, the captains. She couldn’t help but internally laugh to herself at her luck; of all people she had to strike up a conversation with, it was a quarterback.
Joe was certain that his admission had broken the spell between the two of then.
But then, she shrugged, huffing out a shaky laugh. Fuck it. What do I have to lose? ‘I suppose it could be worse. You could play for the Browns.’
Joe chuckled, tension releasing in his body when he realised that he hadn’t fucked this, whatever this was, up.
‘You don’t like the Browns?’ He asked conversationally.
Her smile faltered. The mere mention of the name, the Browns, was enough to bring up a flashback of one particularly horrible night, in which the Browns had taken a heavy loss and her ex had been so angry, he had grabbed her and left marks on her arms for days.
‘No. Not particularly.’ Her response was curt. It shut down any further questions without saying so.
Joe had the feeling that there was a deeper story that explained why she disliked the team from Cleveland, but he didn’t press. The woman next to him struck him as the kind of person who had built walls up around her, perhaps for good reason, and he wasn’t about to try and break them down too quickly.
Y/N checked her phone again. 11:45pm. She could realistically leave at midnight. Two hours, that would suffice. That left her fifteen minutes to make her exit.
Without a word, she went onto Uber to see what sort of wait she would face for a car. Joe couldn’t help but notice.
‘You leaving?’ It was hard to miss the disappointment in his voice, and for a second, just a split second, she second-guessed her choice to leave. Joe was nice, he was easy to talk to, he was funny, and he was definitely cute.
But he’s an NFL player, her brain screamed in panic. You know your history of that sport, you know what he did to you. This sport, it’s toxic, everyone in it is toxic. It brings out the bad in people. Your ex was bad enough and he was just a fan. What will an actual player be like?
Then her heart chimed in…
He isn’t everyone, though, it said, the voice eerily similar to her therapist’s. His actions don’t account for everyone. There are good people out there. This might help you heal.
‘I’m ordering my car, it says it’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I can stay until it’s close by.’ That was a decent enough compromise, she thought, happy that she was able to make that compromise. Old her would have ordered the car and then gone away and hidden somewhere. The steps she was taking were there, progress was being made.
‘Kind of fitting that you’re leaving at midnight. You’re like a real life Cinderella,’ he remarked, half joking, half deadly serious.
She huffed out a laugh again. ‘I suppose I am. Hope I don’t leave behind one of my shoes, I kind of need those.’
‘Right. I don’t even want to imagine what the floors are like right now. Could have all manner of things on ‘em.’
The two shared another laugh.
Y/N realised, then, that she had a choice. She was really enjoying spending time with Joe. He was definitely funny, but he was also kind, thoughtful and he seemed intelligent. They hadn’t shared their deepest, darkest secrets, sure, but one thing that Y/N had developed over the last eight months was a good judgement of character. She had had to, to aid in her healing process. In their brief encounter that night, Joe had shown respect - he didn’t pry further, he didn’t demand to know why she didn’t like NFL. He just accepted it. Even though he was an actual NFL player. He didn’t take offence, just took it as it was.
He’s a good guy, her heart whispered to her. I know it. Take a chance on him. Give yourself a chance to be happy. You deserve to be happy.
The words pin-balled around in her mind - you deserve to be happy.
Before she could stop herself, too quickly for her brain to register what it was saying, her mouth started moving:
‘Do you want my-’
Just as Joe spoke:
‘Can I have your-’
The two of them smiled awkwardly as they spoke at the same time. Joe gestured for her to go first.
‘I was wondering if you wanted to take my number,’ she elaborated. The quarterback looked at her again. Her cheeks were flushed a bright red, visible even through the thin layer of makeup.
‘Good, because I was going to ask for it to make sure you got home safely.’ There it was again; a pause. Not awkward, not weighted. Just comfortable. Companionable. ‘And to ask if you wanted to go for dinner sometime. With me.’ He stuck the last two words on almost as an afterthought, to assure her of his intentions. ‘Totally okay if you don’t want to go out, I was being bold, I’ve just really enjoyed talking to you, I…’
She giggled softly. ‘I would love to, Joe. I’ve also really enjoyed talking to you. And I want to learn more about you.’
Joe’s heart soared into the night sky. Their eyes locked again, blue eyes meeting hers, and small smiles were exchanged. It was as if the two understood each other, without either even knowing the others’ last names. Joe and Y/N.
She reached over and held her hand out for his phone. He looked at her, blankly. ‘Joe, I need your phone to put my number in.’
‘O-oh, right, yeah.’ He snapped back to reality, making her chuckle again, and handed her his phone. As she typed in her number and added herself to his contacts, as Y/N, Ja’Marr’s party, her heart pounded in her chest, so hard that she was almost certain he could hear it.
Joe watched her shaking thumbs as she keyed in her number. Something about her had fascinated him from the second he had seen her by the buffet table. He would never admit it until much later, but he’d noticed her from the second he clapped eyes on her. It wasn’t her body or face, as gorgeous as she was, that had pulled him towards her.
He couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was, maybe it was her shyness or her clearly not belonging in this space, but he had wanted to speak to her the entire night. He’d taken his chance when he saw her walk off into the gardens, making sure to leave a few minutes before following her.
Y/N’s phone gave a buzz in her bag; her Uber had arrived.
‘My Uber’s here,’ she announced as she stood up, making sure to shimmy her dress back down so she was decent.
‘I’ll walk you out,’ Joe said immediately. When he got up and stood next to her, she was momentarily taken aback but just how tall he was. It was like he had unfolded from the bench, drawing himself up to his full height. She also finally got a look at his broad shoulders, muscular thighs hidden in cargos and veiny forearms peeking through his jacket. Her mouth went dry. She looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes. ‘What?’ He asked.
‘I just… never mind. Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’
As the two made their way up the lawn towards the house in a comfortable silence, another breath of wind ruffled her hair. Joe noticed goosebumps appear on her arms.
‘Here,’ he murmured. She suddenly felt his jacket being shrugged around her shoulders, immediately registering the expensive fabric. It was so big that it nearly swallowed her, coming nearly to her mid-thigh. Joe licked his lips when he looked at her. ‘You looked cold.’ He said it so simply, as if he gave his jacket to random women he barely knew all the time, as if it was as simple as tying his shoes, it rendered her temporarily speechless.
Not once had a guy ever walked her out of a party, not once had a guy ever given her his jacket.
In truth, Y/N had been trying not to shiver for the duration of their interaction in the garden. His jacket was warm from being on his body, granting her a long-awaited respite from the chill.
‘Thank you, Joe, that’s really kind. Again.’
The two people, who were no longer strangers but still not quite friends, reached the front of the house to the waiting queue of cars.
Y/N looked at her phone for a description of the car she had ordered; black Toyota Prius. She told Joe the licence plate and he immediately started looking for it in the pack of cars.
‘This one?’ She asked as she approached a car.
‘Nope, that’s a Corolla,’ came the semi-amused response.
‘How about this one?’
‘That’s a Chevy.’
‘How do you know so much about cars?’ She asked as she walked back to him.
He shrugged. ‘I collect them. I like learning about them.’
She tilted her head, as if trying to make sense of his answer.
‘So you’re a car guy?’ The way she said it, as if it was almost an insult, made him chuckle again.
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘Do you drive like a maniac or gun the exhaust at women walking on the sidewalk?’ She asked simply. He laughed, this time a real belly laugh that made him lean back and clutch his stomach. It was a nice feeling, she admitted to herself. Her ex had rarely laughed with her. More laughed at her. Joe laughing at her jokes was a feeling she wanted more and more as the night wore on.
‘No, and no, definitely not. I’m a very good driver. The Bengals would have my hide if I got even a speeding ticket.’
She stepped closer to him, trying to ignore the way that he’d mentioned his team and how his job was so wildly out of the ordinary.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Joe,’ she smirked. A thought then occurred to her. ‘Are you a Joe, or Joseph?’ He smiled at the question; nobody had ever asked him that. He supposed nobody had ever had to, because everyone he’d ever met had known him before they met him physically.
‘I’m a Joseph. Joseph Lee Burrow.’
She repeated it to herself. Paused to think.
‘It’s… very Ohio.’
He cackled again.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Just, I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘Its vibe is just very Ohio. I don’t know how to explain it.’
The two acquaintances looked at each other, both wearing similarly shy but amused smiles. Electricity crackled between them.
This connection, Joe realised, was real. Something was there. He barely knew this woman, but he wanted to know every little thing about her. What was her favourite scent? How did she take her coffee? Why did she not like NFL so much? And why was she even speaking to him, considering her dislike of the NFL? They were questions he craved the answers to.
Suddenly, before Joe could ask any of those questions, before he could even ask what her last name was, the relative peace was shattered by the impatient honk of a horn sounding a few feet away from them.
Her Uber. She had nearly forgotten about needing to find it in the banter between her and Joe.
‘Here it is,’ Joe said quietly when he saw a car pulling up between the other cars parked on either sides of the road.
Y/N slowly walked over to the car, suddenly wanting to spend every minute she could with Joe.
Stay, her heart muttered. Just let the Uber go. See where the night takes you.
No, her brain snapped resolutely. We are going home. He has our number. He can reach out.
The quarterback spoke to the driver to ensure the Uber was for her. Once he received confirmation, he opened the rear passenger door for her to slide in.
Joe registered the millisecond’s hesitation she had before she walked to the car.
She buckled herself in and turned to smile at him.
‘I’ll see you soon, Y/N,’ he said as he leant an arm against the open door.
‘I look forward to it, Joseph Lee Burrow.’
The driver asked her if she was ready to go. She looked back at Joe, his face bathed in moonlight and the faint glow from the house lights around them. For just a second, she considered saying she wasn’t ready, she wanted to spend the whole night with Joe, her hand almost moving to the buckle to release it and stumble out of the car…
But then she saw sense. She had only just met him. She needed a breather, she needed to sleep, she needed to debrief with Mandy about the events of the night…
‘Yeah, I’m ready, thank you.’
With that, the car slipped off into the night. She couldn’t resist twisting around in her seat and craning her neck for one last look at Joe, half-expecting him to have already disappeared back into the house. Her heart gave a leap when she saw him exactly where she’d left him, gazing after the retreating taillights of the car she was in.
Then, from a distance, she saw the unmistakable glare of a phone illuminating his face.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
From: Unknown Number
Hello, Y/N, Ja’Marr’s party.
Then again:
From: Unknown Number
I can see you looking out the back.
A sickeningly cheesy smile spread across her face. He had seen her.
To: Unknown Number
Hello Joe. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get abducted by aliens after I left.
She saved his contact - Joe Burrow
From: Joe Burrow
Glad to report I am still here. Both feet on the ground.
From: Joe Burrow
I’ll organize our dinner. How does Tuesday work?
To: Joe Burrow
Tuesday works. I get off work at 5pm. Let me know where we’re going and I can meet you there.
From: Joe Burrow
Send me your address. I’m picking you up. 7pm.
Her heart flip-flopped around her chest cavity while her phone screen glared up at her. He’ll pick me up, she thought. He’s planning the date.
See? whispered her heart. Told you he was a good guy. You deserve this.
Her brain finally had nothing to say. The realisation made her smile; this was a good idea.
Butterflies were swarming her stomach. As the car sped towards central Cincinnati, back towards her apartment, she looked out of the window at the city blurring past her.
There was something bubbling inside her. She could feel it coursing through her whole body, carried by her blood and reaching every nerve, every synapse, every inch of her. It was a feeling she was unfamiliar with, as if an old friend was tapping her on the shoulder and saying, ‘Hey, we’ve met before. It’s been a while. How are you?’
It took her the whole car ride home to put her finger on it, but when she opened the door and yelled out for Mandy to bring out the wine for the debrief, and as she caught up with her best friend through squeals and breathless reruns of the night, and as she lay in bed that night, she realised what it was.
Excitement. There was a little bit of fear, of course, but mainly excitement. Trepidation. Nerves.
It had taken her eight months, but she finally felt as though she was being reborn. It felt as if her life had taken on a new beginning. Maybe this was the fresh start she had been waiting for. Maybe she could believe in love again. Maybe it could begin again.
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