hubby!joe who . . . still wears his wedding ring during practice even though the trainers tell him not to. he keeps it on a chain under his shirt because he “likes having it close.” he fidgets with it when he’s thinking - little subconscious reminder that he’s yours.
hubby!joe who . . . always ends up standing too close when you’re getting ready. like, you’re doing your hair and he’s behind you, pretending to look for something on the counter but really just watching you in the mirror. he’ll kiss your shoulder and mumble, “you smell good.”
hubby!joe who . . . has a weirdly precise morning routine. like, the same playlist (you’ve heard that one drake song every morning since 2022), same mug, same order of getting ready and if you’re standing in the kitchen, sleepy and messy, he’ll break the routine just to kiss your forehead.
hubby!joe who . . . talks in his sleep sometimes. not full sentences, but like he murmurs your name, or little fragments like “where’s my girl” or “don’t forget the keys.” it’s endearing and a little embarrassing, but you never tell him because it’s too sweet.
hubby!joe who . . . will brush past you on purpose. like, every single time he walks by, there’s that light touch at your hip or back. sometimes it’s just muscle memory. sometimes it’s not.
hubby!joe who . . . insists he’s a “grill master” but burned the burgers the first time you had people over. now it’s an inside joke - every cookout starts with you handing him the tongs and saying, “try not to incinerate them this time.”
hubby!joe who . . . always has a random bruise or tiny cut and gives you a full dramatic explanation every time you ask about it.
hubby!joe who . . . insists on doing the grocery run together because “it’s a date if we get snacks after.”
hubby!joe who . . . loves grocery shopping with you. he’ll push the cart, grab random things you don’t need (like fancy cheeses and five different flavors of sparkling water) and somehow still forgets the one thing you actually went for.
hubby!joe who . . . drives like a grandma when you’re in the car but somehow gets a speeding ticket the one time you’re not with him.
hubby!joe who . . . comes home after away games and immediately goes into “house husband” mode - doing laundry, unpacking, cleaning up the kitchen. he’ll say, “just trying to help out,” but you know it’s his way of grounding himself after the chaos.
hubby!joe who . . . randomly sends you pictures of things that remind him of you. like, a sunset that’s the same color as your favorite hoodie, or a dog wearing sunglasses. his texts are chaotic - zero context, all heart.
hubby!joe who . . . never remembers where he left his keys, but always remembers to plug in your phone before bed.
hubby!joe who . . . can’t fall asleep without touching you somehow - a hand on your waist, fingers linked, his arm under your pillow. even when he’s half-asleep, he’ll pull you closer like it’s muscle memory.
hubby!joe who . . . is secretly competitive about board games. like, ridiculously. you tried to play monopoly once and it ended with him negotiating fake trades like it was a contract deal. you banned him from “game night” privileges for a week.
hubby!joe who . . . gets irrationally proud when a meal he makes actually turns out good. you have to hear about it for days.
hubby!joe who . . . saves every anniversary card, ticket stub, and random note you’ve ever given him in a small box in his nightstand. you found it once by accident - he got all flustered and just said, “don’t make fun of me.”
hubby!joe who . . . is weirdly good with kids. that one guy who ends up holding a toddler’s hand at a barbecue like it’s the most natural thing ever.
hubby!joe who . . . insists that the cat loves him more, but every morning the cat sits by your side of the bed.
hubby!joe who . . . takes candid photos of you constantly. like, you’ll be doing something completely ordinary - folding laundry, reading, drinking coffee and later you find it in his camera roll labeled “home.”
in which you do the “pretend i’m a random girl” tiktok trend on joe. [ 1K ]
﹙ ⓘ ﹚ warnings: tiktok trends. a slightly dramatic reader. hints of sassy bf joe. mostly fluff.
꒰ ₊ author’s note ♡ ֹ this man would awkwardly and enthusiastically wanna do a fit check with you so bad and you can’t convince me otherwise! <3
Joe didn’t even blink an eye as you set up your phone on the kitchen counter and started recording, smoothing your dress down as you take a step back right into his chest. His hands automatically fall to your hips, gripping you firmly as he presses a kiss to the crease of your neck, knowing better than to ruin the fresh glam you just finished for date night.
“Are we doing ‘fit checks?” he asks enthusiastically, and you have to stiffle a giggle as he steps next to you and pulls at his jacket to show the camera a better angle.
“Yeah, wait I’ll do yours.” you intterupt with an ulterior motive and you almost feel bad for robbing him of the opportunity to show off his outfit with a silly prank but, you could always do it afterwards, you console yourself as you turn to Joe and step right into his personal space. Your boyfriend doesn’t think much of it, a strong arm immeditely curling around your lower back.
“Pretend I’m a random girl!” you suddenly blurt, flinging your arms around his neck and craning your neck to kiss him. You can see the confusion swirling in Joe’s eyes and before he can contemplate what you just said, you managed to sneak a quick kiss on his lips.
“Joe!” you gasp dramatically, pushing off his chest and taking a couple steps back to glare at him from a distance.
“Baby—” he starts, arm outstrected to pull you back to him but you evade his grasp, still fake glaring at him.
“I said I’m a random girl and you kissed me!” you say, an adorable little frown forms between your brows and Joe’s head slants to the side, too enraptured by how cute you look when you’re mad to defend himself right away.
“Joe!” you demand, and he releases a quick sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before taking two big steps towrads you before stopping.
“Are you still a random chick or can I hold you while I talk?” he asks, brow lifted and you bite your cheek to stop a smile forming over your sassy man, his hands hovering just above your skin.
“Not like it would stop you if I was a random girl obviously.” you mutter petulantly and Joe pulls you into his chest, hands falling to your waist.
“Cut me some slack here baby. Why would a random girl be in my kitchen, wearing my favorite dress on my date night?” he fires back, momentarily removing his hands from your hips to throw them up in the air in dramatic fashion.
“Not to mention that your face was like one inch away from mine. I can’t think with you that close to me on a good day, nevermind when you’re all dressed up like this and you smell so freaking good. I don’t stand a chance. You literally set me up to fail from the start.” Joe finishes, gesturing vaguely at your outfit before dropping his hands back to your waist. He always lost all train of thought when you were in his arms like this.
You try to keep your glare, but your lips twitch, betraying you. Joe notices immediately, that little smug grin tugging at his mouth.
“See? You’re already cracking.” he teases, leaning down so his forehead almost brushes yours. “You can’t even keep a straight face, baby.”
“Because you’re ridiculous.” you shoot back, but your voice is softer now, almost fond.
“Ridiculously in love with you, yeah.” Joe says without missing a beat, his grin widening when you finally let out a laugh.
You swat at his chest, pulling away to reach for your phone, but he catches your wrist easily, pulling you back in until you’re flush against him. “I think you fail the test, Joe.”
“I think I passed it actually,” he argues, kissing your temple before pulling back to give you a boyish shrug. “If any man can go from thinking that ‘this is the woman I love’ to ‘this is a random girl coming onto me’, in the span of three seconds while their girl is standing this close to them, then he’s not in love enough with them.”
“You tell ‘em baby.” you say, kissing his jaw and he smiles victoriously, winking towards the camera as he presses another kiss to your head.
“Can we do a real fit check tho?” Joe asks abruptly, tugging at his jack again, and you laugh softly as you hurry to end this video and start a new one.
tiktok comments:
user97: you both look so good. what’s the occasion?🤭 also where is your bag from? it’s sooo cute
-> yourusername: thank you! it’s date night. and the bag is ysl <3
@joeyburrrr: he was so excited to do a fit check with her😭
→ @user82: we’re so blessed that the word ‘alo’ wasn’t mentioned once in this
→ @usuer91: PLEASE💀 im convinced she’s banned alo on date nights
@useerjb: girl I need to know the EXACT prayer. word for word.
@usrr21: “I can’t think with you that close to me” — HELP😭 I need one
@bengals21: this man passed the vibe check, the loyalty check, AND the fit check
@user88: “are you still a random chick or can I hold you while I talk” … sir??? 😩
→ @usr62: no I audibly gasped when he said that in that TONE. that’s illegal. I would’ve folded right there
@joebrow: I’ve never seen a man look more in love. she won. thank you for the off season crumbs queen
@uuser47: nah because if my man doesn’t defend himself like THAT he’s not my man. he stood on business👏
summary: you think you’re losing him even while you’re sharing a bed and a last name-to-be, until one night cracks everything open and forces you both to finally say the quiet parts out loud. distance turns into desperation, and he spends the night (& morning after) proving that you were never losing him at all.
wc: 13.4k (this was supposed to be a blurb but oh well)
happy (late) thanksgiving everyone, so incredibly thankful for you all and the love you guys give to my fics <3 truly so motivating.
warnings: 18+, minors DNI, angsty-smut, insecurity, swearing, hurt/comfort, pet names, swearing, repetitions of certain phrases (didn't notice until i read over oops), porn w/little to no plot
a/n: wrote this over the last two weeks and last-minute made it thanksgiving-y, so excuse the random mentions LMAO. also i don’t think i’m good at angst so… be nice. can we clap i finally wrote a summary, kinda just yap the morning scenes werent needed but i hit a flow state writing but with that its also all pver the place.
you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, curling iron trembling slightly in your grip as you twist another section of hair around the barrel. the ring on your left hand catches the vanity light with every tiny movement, three carats of princess-cut diamond that still steals your breath every time you really look at it. six months ago, on that quiet night in positano during the off-season, he’d dropped to one knee on the warm cobblestones of the little terrace overlooking the amalfi coast, the sea glittering behind him like it was holding its breath, and asked you to marry him, to be his wife, to be his forever. you’d said yes through tears and salt air and the scent of lemon trees, and he’d kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. future mrs. burrow. you mouth the words silently to your reflection like a prayer, like if you say it enough times it will stitch the widening crack in your chest back together. it doesn’t.
because this morning he came in from the gym at dawn, hoodie soaked through, curls plastered to his temples, chest still heaving from the lift, and all you got was the ghost of a kiss brushed against your temple as he passed you in the kitchen, one distracted “morning, babe” tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs. no crooked grin, no low, teasing “c’mere, future mrs. burrow, let’s save water,” no big hands sliding under the shirt you’d had on, no backing you against the counter until you were laughing and breathless and he was hard against your hip, whispering exactly what he was going to do to you once the shower was running. just the hollow thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the bathroom door, the rush of water behind it, and the silence that swallowed the house afterward. you stood there in the corner while the coffee was brewing, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like an absolute idiot for hoping he’d notice.
because it’s not just this morning, it’s been the last month unraveling thread by thread. it’s waking up to an empty bed more often than not because he’s already at the facility by six-thirty. it’s the good-morning texts that stopped coming, the “i love you”s that turned into one-word replies, the nights he stumbles in long after you’re asleep and you pretend you don’t feel him slide under the covers with his back to you, phone glowing against his face while he watches film until he passes out. it’s the way sex has become so rare you honestly can’t remember the last time he touched you like he used to, can’t pinpoint the last night he kissed you slow and deep instead of brushing a quick, exhausted peck to your forehead, can’t recall the last time his hands mapped your body like it was something sacred. it’s the way he barely looks up when you walk into a room anymore, the way his hands don’t automatically reach for you, the way your name sounds like background noise in his mouth instead of the prayer it once was. it’s the slow, terrifying realization that the man who used to cancel plans just to stay in bed with you all day now treats coming home like another obligation he’s trying to check off before the next meeting. it’s watching the ring on your finger catch the light while you lie awake at 3 a.m. and wondering if forever still means the same thing to him that it does to you.
you shake it off the way you’ve been shaking everything off for weeks, like if you just keep moving, keep smiling, keep pretending the ache isn’t there, it’ll eventually stop clawing at your ribs. he’s stressed. short week. primetime game on thursday against the ravens. he’s been busy. busy rehabbing his toe. busy trying to get back to football. twenty-five people at his parents’ house today. you repeat it like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it’ll glue the cracks back together, like it’ll make the silence in the car feel normal instead of suffocating. you stand in front of the mirror doing your makeup on autopilot and every stroke of the brush feels like painting armor over a bruise. you tell yourself this is what being a football fiancée means, this is what loving someone in the middle of a packed work life feels like, this is temporary, this is fine, you are fine. you slip into the cream cashmere dress he picked out himself two months ago in that little boutique in new york, the one he couldn’t keep his hands off you in. you slide on the louboutins he surprised you with after the engagement, the ones he said were made for the woman who was going to own every room she ever walked into (starting with his heart). you look in the mirror and the reflection is flawless: hair curled just right, dress hugging every curve, legs for days, ring sparkling like a promise. you look perfect. you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, like the girl he fell in love with has been slowly erased and replaced by a quieter, smaller version who’s terrified to ask for too much, who’s scared that if she speaks the truth out loud the whole beautiful life will shatter. you look like the girl that he fell in love with. you feel like the girl he’s already starting to forget.
the drive to his parents’ house is excruciating. his right hand never leaves the wheel. your left thigh stays cold. you watch cincinnati roll by in bleeding golds and reds, the ohio river glinting like a wound under the weak november sun, and you keep waiting, keep waiting, for his fingers to slide across the console and lace through yours the way they always do. they never do. small talk about turkey, about his mom’s sweet potato casserole, about whether his cousin is bringing that girl again. surface-level. safe. nothing that touches the scream building in your throat.
at the house it’s worse than you imagined. the second the door opens he’s swallowed by his family in the best way with his mom pulling him into a tight hug, his dad clapping him on the back hard enough to echo, his brothers dragging him toward the living room tv before he’s even taken his coat off, nephews asking non-stop questions. you trail behind with the mac and cheese his mom asked you to make, smiling when someone takes it from your hands, letting yourself be folded into the women’s side of the chaos like you belong there (because you do, you tell yourself). you end up stationed in the kitchen and dining room with his mom, his aunts, the cousins, passing pies and refilling wine glasses and answering the same gentle questions about the wedding you’ve answered a hundred times. he’s on the completely opposite end of the house, voice carrying over the laughter as he argues with his dad about offensive line play calls, breaking down film on the tv for his uncles like it’s fourth-and-goal. you catch glimpses of him through doorways (head thrown back laughing, cheeks flushed, curls messy from little fingers tugging at them) and every time you hope he’ll look over, catch your eye, give you that secret little smile he used to save just for you across crowded rooms. he never does.
it happens once. his aunt corners both of you near the table, eyes sparkling, asking when the big day is, and he leans over absently, presses one distracted kiss into your hair, mutters “whenever she wants” with a shrug, and then he’s already turning back to his brother calling his name from the living room. no arm around your waist. no squeeze to your hip. no proud, possessive hand letting everyone in the room know you’re his favorite person on the planet. just that single, fleeting kiss, like you’re a reflex he’s already forgetting.
the rest of the night you orbit him like a moon he no longer notices. you smile for pictures, you laugh at the right times, you help plate desserts, you answer questions about centerpieces and venues with a voice that doesn’t shake, but inside you are coming apart thread by thread, stitch by stitch, until there’s almost nothing left.
by the time you’re buckled into the passenger seat for the drive home the sky has gone that deep, bruised purple that makes everything feel heavier, and you are so, so bone-tired of pretending that the smile you’ve been wearing all day doesn’t ache like a bruise. you rest your head against the cold window, watch the streetlights blur into watercolor streaks, and you don’t even try to stay awake. exhaustion drags you under like a riptide, fast and merciless, and you let it take you.
you come up slowly to the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the only real touch you’ve felt from him since this morning, and his voice soft in your ear, “we’re home, honey,” quiet, almost tender, like nothing’s wrong. by the time your eyes flutter open he’s already out of the car, shutting his door, heading toward the house without waiting. you sit there for a second in the sudden silence, the engine ticking as it cools, seatbelt still across your chest, staring at the empty driver’s seat and feeling the ache settle deeper than ever.
you follow him inside on autopilot, the door clicking shut behind you like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to finish. your heels come off in the mudroom with two dull thuds. normally he’d be right there, kneeling to slip them off your feet himself, kissing each ankle like it was a privilege, murmuring something filthy-sweet about how good you looked in them and how much better you’d look out of everything else. tonight the room is empty, the only sound the soft rustle of your dress and the sudden, crushing weight of the ring on your finger that feels heavier than the entire house pressing down on your chest.
you drift through the dark hallway, past the picture frames filled with so much love that it’s trying to comfort you, and watch him climb the stairs ahead of you, shirt loose, shoulders curved inward with exhaustion, curls messy from little-kid hands and too many hugs. he’s already pulling away again, already retreating into tomorrow’s film, tomorrow’s practice, tomorrow’s everything that isn’t you.
he’s halfway up when something inside you finally snaps.
“joe.”
he stops instantly, turns on the stairs, brow creasing with that focus that used to feel like it was only ever for you. “yeah, sweetie? you okay?”
you stand in the center of the living room, the christmas tree you put up last weekend twinkling mockingly behind you, all those little white lights reflecting in the diamond like it’s laughing at you. your arms wrap around yourself like that can hold the pieces together. you swallow hard, once, twice. the words feel ridiculous now that they’re clawing their way out, but they’ve been living under your skin for weeks, festering, turning poisonous, and you can’t carry them for one more second.
“no, i’m not okay,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words tumbling out raw and jagged, slicing the quiet in half. you start again, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around your ribs to hold yourself together. “i feel like…” you stop, the rest catching like shards of glass in your throat. your hands twist together in front of you, the diamond on your finger catching the soft glow of the christmas-tree lights and throwing it back like a warning, like it’s screaming look at me, look at what you promised, look at what we might be losing. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked open and bleeding, barely above the hush of the house.
“i feel like you don’t want me anymore.”
you swallow, but it doesn’t help; the next words still scrape on the way out.
“i feel like i’m… shrinking inside my own life. like every day i wake up in this house that’s supposed to be ours and i take up less space than i did the day before. like i’m becoming a ghost in the background of your season, your schedule, your stress. i spent all morning trying to look like the girl you asked to marry you, the girl you couldn’t keep your hands off, and you walked right past me like i was furniture. i put on the dress you said made you stupid and you didn’t even notice. i smiled for so many people today and answered questions about centerpieces and honeymoon plans and every time someone called me your fiancée i waited for you to touch me, to look at me like you used to—like i was the only real thing in the room—and it never happened. not once.”
your voice fractures completely now, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, and you can’t stop them.
“i know you’re finally cleared to play, i know that’s what you’ve been working toward. and i’m so, so proud of you— you’re ahead of your timeline…i know the team’s riding on your shoulders. i know you’re carrying more pressure than any person should ever have to carry. i’m proud of you, joe, i’m so proud it hurts, but god, i miss being your safe place. i miss being the thing that made the noise stop. i miss you looking at me like i’m home. because right now it feels like i’m just another obligation you’re trying to get through until the off-season. like if i disappeared tomorrow you’d be… relieved. one less thing to worry about. one less person waiting up. and that terrifies me, because i said yes to forever with you and i meant it with every piece of me, but lately i’m not sure forever still means the same thing to you that it does to me.”
you finally look up at him, tears blurring everything, and your voice drops to something broken and terrifyingly small.
“tell me i’m wrong. please, joe. tell me you still want this. tell me you still want me.”
the silence that follows is deafening, absolute, like the whole world just stopped breathing.
he stares at you for a long beat, and the expression on his face is pure, stunned disbelief. like you just told him the sky was green and the grass was blue. his mouth actually falls open a little, eyes wide and shocked. “what?” he breathes, the word cracking in half.
you can’t look at him, eyes fixed on the floor of the living room, the diamond on your finger catching the dim light every time your hand trembles. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked and raw.
“i didn’t want to say anything,” you start, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around yourself just to keep from shaking apart. “i swore i wouldn’t bring it up, because i know what these months means, i know what the game means, i know you’re under stress right now and the last thing you need is me making it heavier. i’ve been swallowing it for weeks, joe. i’ve been choking it down every single day, telling myself it’s fine, it’s temporary, it’ll pass, but it’s eating me alive from the inside out and i can’t carry it anymore.”
you look down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the lights like it’s trying to blind you.
“this ring… it used to feel like the safest thing in the world. every time i looked at it i remembered that day, remembered you on one knee promising me forever, and it made everything feel steady. but this past month it’s started to feel like a question mark instead of a promise. because the love it’s supposed to remind me of… you haven’t reminded me of that. not with your hands, not with your eyes, not with the way you say my name. nothing. and that terrifies me.”
your voice cracks completely now, tears spilling faster than you can stop them.
“i’m scared i’m not what you want anymore. i’m scared the version of me you fell in love with—the one you couldn’t keep your hands off, the one you looked at like i hung the moon—i’m scared she’s gone for you and you just haven’t figured out how to tell me yet. i spent all day trying to look like her again, smiling for everyone like nothing was wrong… and you didn’t say anything to me, not once. not in the car. not at your parents’ house. not even when we walked through the door just now. i feel invisible, joe. like i’m in the way. like i’m background noise in your life right now, and the ring is the only thing keeping me in the frame.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, on the twinkling lights of the christmas tree, on the faint scuff mark by the coffee table, anywhere but him, because if you look up and see even a flicker of guilt in his face, if you see the truth you’ve been dreading written across those blue eyes, it will absolutely destroy you. you’re terrified that one glance will confirm every poisonous thought that’s been looping in your head for weeks: that he’s been distant because he’s already letting go, that the ring is just a beautiful placeholder until he figures out how to leave, that the man who once looked at you like you were his entire world has quietly decided you’re no longer enough.
“i miss you so much it hurts to breathe. i miss us. i miss being the person you came home to, not just the person who happens to live here. and i’m so terrified that one day you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t need me waiting at home anymore. that you’re better off without the weight of someone who still wants the version of you that used to choose me first.”
you finally risk a glance at him and it wrecks you.
his face is crumpled, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, the blue almost swallowed by the shine of tears he’s fighting so hard to hold back. his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin, the same way it does when he’s trying not to lose it on the sideline after a bad call. his shoulders are curved forward like the weight of your words just folded him in half. he looks like you reached into his chest and crushed something vital, like you just took a sledgehammer to the one thing he thought he was getting right.
he looks absolutely, utterly destroyed.
and that’s how you know, with a punch straight to your own heart, that you weren’t right at all.
he’s not letting go.
“sweetie…” his voice is wrecked, cracked open and raw, barely above a whisper. “no. no, no, no.” he comes back down the steps slower than you’ve ever seen him move, like the air itself has thickened around him. when he reaches you in the middle of the living room he doesn’t drop to his knees; he just stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne under the dinner still clinging to his shirt, and lifts both hands to cup your face so gently it makes your breath hitch. his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, trembling just enough that you feel it. his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, shining too bright under the christmas lights, and you can see the exact second the tears threaten to spill because he blinks hard, jaw locked tight like he’s physically holding them back.
“how could you even think that?” the words come out broken, hoarse, like they’re being ripped out of him. “i’m—” he has to stop, throat working, swallowing hard once, twice, three times like he’s choking on the guilt. “i’m so fucking sorry. i didn’t see it. i didn’t see you breaking right in front of me and i hate myself for it. i’ve been so lost in my own head, so terrified of letting the whole damn city down, of letting the team down, of letting my family down, that i let the one person who actually matters down. i let you down. god, sweetheart, i’m an idiot. i’m the biggest idiot on the planet and i don’t deserve you standing here right now. i don’t deserve you at all.”
his voice cracks completely on the last word and this time a tear slips free, sliding down his cheek before he can stop it. he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.
“i’ve been a selfish, blind asshole and you have every right to hate me for it. i see it now, i see every single day i made you feel small and i want to burn the film of the last month because none of it matters if you’re hurting because of me.”
he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of your tears is physically painful.
“you think i stopped wanting you? you think i don’t want you? jesus christ, angel, i put a ring on this finger because you’re the only thing i’ve ever been sure of in my entire life.” he lifts your left hand with shaking fingers, presses his lips to the diamond like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched, like he’s trying to pour every apology into that single kiss. “i put it here because i wake up every morning and the first thing i feel is gratitude that you’re still here, that you still let me love you, that you said yes to forever with someone who clearly forgot how to show you what forever means. there is no version of my life without you in it. none. i’m on that field trying not to drown and the only thing keeping my head above water is knowing you’re waiting for me. and i took that for granted. i took you for granted. i’m so fucking sorry. i’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees begging you to forgive me if that’s what it takes.”
his voice breaks again and this time he doesn’t fight the tears, lets them fall as he stares at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“i love you so much it hurts. i love you so much i don’t know how to carry it sometimes. and i fucked up so bad that you think you’re forgettable. you’re not forgettable. you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. you’re my gravity, my center, my home, and i lost sight of that and i’ll never forgive myself for it.”
he kisses you before you can answer, desperate, messy, like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. his mouth crashes into yours with so much need it steals your breath, teeth clacking, noses bumping, a broken sound tearing out of his throat when you kiss him back. he kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like if he can just get close enough he can erase every second he made you doubt. his hands slide from your face to fist in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper, harder, tongue sliding against yours in a way that feels like i’m sorry and please don’t leave and i love you all at once. he only pulls back when you’re both gasping, forehead still pressed to yours, lips brushing with every ragged breath, refusing to let even an inch of space exist between you.
“never again,” he whispers against your mouth, voice raw. “i swear on everything i am, not for one more second.”
he doesn’t let the inch of space last more than a heartbeat. he kisses you again, harder this time, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest as he walks you backward until your spine meets the living-room wall with a soft thud that rattles the framed photo of the two of you from spring hanging beside your head. the glass trembles in its frame but he doesn’t stop, couldn’t stop even if the house caught fire; his mouth is hot and desperate on yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding deep like he’s trying to taste every apology he hasn’t said yet. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg around his hip so he can press himself flush against you, letting you feel exactly how badly he needs you, how hard he already is just from kissing you like his life depends on it. you gasp into his mouth at the pressure and the picture rattles again, louder this time, and you pull back just enough to glance at it, breath coming in shallow pants. he follows your gaze, sees the photo shaking, and lets out a wrecked little laugh against your swollen lips (half apology, half promise) before his eyes lock back on yours, dark and wild.
“bedroom,” he says, voice rough and urgent, already standing and tugging you up with him. “now. i need to show you. words aren’t enough. i need you to feel it.”
the second the door shuts behind you he’s on you again, backing you toward the wall while he tugs impatiently at your dress, cursing under his breath when it catches on your hair. “fuck, why do clothes hate me tonight,” he mutters, voice strained, finally yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere across the room. your panties are next; he practically rips them down your thighs, kneeling to drag them off your ankles, palms dragging up the backs of your legs slow and reverent, like he’s praying. “this dress,” he growls, mouth on your neck, teeth scraping. “been thinking about peeling it off you since you walked downstairs. you looked so fucking beautiful and i was too stupid to tell you.” he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct and he groans, grinding against you so you feel exactly how he is. “feel that? that’s what looking at my future wife does to me. every time. still.”
he turns to hold you up against the wall and just looks at you, chest heaving, eyes raking over you like he’s seeing you for the first time in months. “jesus christ,” he whispers, reverent, almost angry at himself. “how the hell did i go a single day without touching you? without tasting you? i’m the dumbest motherfucker alive. look at you. you’re fucking perfect and i left you thinking you weren’t everything to me.”
you start to answer but he kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing the sound. it’s the kind of kiss that shuts your brain off, that says mine without words, that says i’m sorry and i love you and never again all at once. his tongue slides against yours slow and deep, tasting you like he’s memorizing you all over again.
he walks with you, putting you down until your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pushing you down gently, climbing over you. his big hands gather your wrists and pin them above your head, careful but firm, and he stares down at you like you’re not just a person but his favorite story—one he’s been rereading since the day he met you and still keeps finding new parts to fall in love with.
“gonna show you exactly how much i want you,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “gonna take my time. you deserve to feel it. every second of it. gonna worship you until the only thing in your head is how much i fucking love you. gonna make you feel every single thing i should’ve shown you today,” he whispers against your lips, voice ragged, eyes locked on yours like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks. “every single thing i should’ve shown you yesterday, last week, every damn day i let you feel alone. swear to god, honey, if you let me, i’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. every morning, every night, every second in between, you’re gonna know exactly how wanted you are. how loved. how fucking necessary you are to me.”
he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing your collarbone before he moves lower. he mouths at the swell of your breast over your bra until you’re arching up, then tugs the cups down with his teeth so he can get to your skin. his tongue flicks over your nipple and you whimper, the sound high and needy. he spends forever there, switching sides, sucking dark marks into your skin like he’s trying to write his name across your chest in a language only he can read. he bites down gently and you cry out, hips bucking, and he soothes the sting with his tongue immediately. “should’ve had my hands on you in the car,” he murmurs, nipping some more. “should’ve pulled over and fucked you in the backseat just to hear you scream my name where anyone could hear. should’ve introduced you to every person today as my fiancée and then spent the whole dinner with my hand up your thigh reminding you who you belong to.”
“still with me, sweetie?” he asks, voice gravel-rough, eyes searching yours.
you nod, but he shakes his head, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“words, honey. need to hear you.”
“yes,” you manage, voice shaky. “please, joe. need you.”
“such a good girl,” he praises, and the sound you make is embarrassing, a broken little whine that makes him smirk, dark and pleased. “my good girl. been neglecting you. not happening again.”
he slides down your body, hands spreading your thighs wide and just looks for a long moment, cursing low and filthy under his breath. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” he says, voice cracking a little. “and it’s mine. been mine for years and i still can’t believe you let me have it. still thank god every day you chose me. you're gonna be mine in every way. forever.”
he peppers soft kisses across your stomach, lips dragging slow, worshipful, lingering over the faint stretch marks on your hips, the little scar from when you were eight, every imperfection he’s kissed a thousand times and still finds new ways to love. he kisses lower, lower, until he’s nuzzling the crease of your thigh, breathing you in like he’s been deprived of oxygen.
“smell so fucking good,” he groans, voice muffled against your skin. “been dreaming about this. about you. about how wet you get for me.”
when he finally licks a slow stripe up your center you cry out, hips bucking off the bed. he pins your hips down with one forearm across your lower belly and does it again, slower, savoring every shudder. he circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, teasing until your thighs are shaking around his ears. when he finally wraps his lips around it and sucks gently you see stars, back bowing off the mattress.
“joe—fuck—”
“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “say my name. wanna hear it. wanna hear how good i make you feel.”
his hand slides up your stomach, finding yours and lacing your fingers together while he works you over with his mouth. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, until you’re begging, voice cracked and desperate, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “this hand,” he says, breaking away to kiss your knuckles, your ring. “this hand is gonna wear my wedding band one day. gonna hold our babies. gonna hold mine when we’re old and gray. you’re mine for eternity.”
“joe, please—need to come—please—”
he pulls back just long enough to speak against your slick skin, breath hot. “i know, sweetie. i got you. not letting you go without it again. but i need you to know—this is mine. this pussy, these sounds, the way you shake when you’re about to come—it’s all mine. and i’m yours. completely fucking yours.”
two fingers slide inside you easy—you’re so wet it’s obscene—and he groans like he’s the one getting tortured. he curls them slow, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps that same lazy rhythm with his tongue on your clit.
“there we go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl. feel how much i want you? could do this for hours. love tasting you when you’re all worked up for me. love how sweet you get when you’ve been missing me. love how you clench around my fingers when i talk dirty to you.”
he picks up the pace just enough to have you gasping, then slows again, adding a third finger and stretching you open while he watches your face like it’s the only play that matters. he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, then slides them back in slow, rubbing your clit nice and slow with his thumb while he keeps going with the filthy praise like he’s not knuckle-deep inside you.
“look at you,” he whispers, voice cracked open with awe, eyes shining like he’s staring at something holy. his hand slides up your thighs slow, reverent, thumbs tracing the faint stretch marks he’s kissed a thousand times like they’re constellations he mapped himself. “taking me so pretty… god, honey, you’re the prettiest, most perfect girl in the world.” he leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your heart, lingers there like he’s listening to it beat his name. “there’s no galaxy or lifetime where i don’t want you like this, dripping for me, shaking for me, letting me love you exactly how you deserve.”
his forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, curls tickling your skin. “i’d lose my fucking mind if you weren’t here to keep me grounded. you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything else is falling apart. you’re my center, angel. my gravity. my home.” he cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek like you’re something infinitely fragile and infinitely his. “every time i look at this ring on your finger i remember, remember how the sea stopped moving the second you said yes. i remember thinking i’d never feel anything bigger than that moment… but then i remember every single night before that moment and every single morning after, every time i’ve fallen asleep with you curled against my chest, every sunrise i’ve watched with your head on my shoulder, every quiet 3 a.m. when the house is silent and i can hear your heartbeat next to mine. i remember every ordinary tuesday when you kissed me goodbye before practice and every random sunday when we never left the bed. all of it, every second we’ve ever stolen just for us, and i realize then wasn’t the peak. it was only the beginning. the real forever is every breath we’ve already shared and still get to share, every time you let me back in even when i’m too dumb to deserve it, every morning you choose me again. and i swear, baby, i’m choosing you right back, harder every single day.”
he kisses you soft and slow, like he’s sealing every word against your lips. “i’m never letting you forget this again. never letting you feel anything less than completely, stupidly, overwhelmingly loved.”
he crooks his fingers harder and your hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat. he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps that perfect, relentless pressure inside you while his voice drops to that low, reverent rasp that always undoes you.
“i’m so fucking obsessed with you it scares me sometimes,” he murmurs his face leaving your and trailing close to your thigh, eyes locked on yours still like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. “i’m in meetings trying to focus on film and still end up replaying the way you laughed at breakfast, the way you say my name when you’re sleepy, every little thing. every time we’re out somewhere and i catch some guy looking at you too long i have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds because all i want to do is pull you against me and kiss you stupid right there in front of the whole world so they know exactly who you belong to, who gets to take you home. every single play i call, every hit i take, every second on that field, i’m playing for the clock to run down so i can get back here to you. i’m playing for the life waiting at home, for the girl who wears my name and still chooses me even when i forget how to choose her back. i don’t deserve you waiting up, don’t deserve you loving me through every mistake, but god, baby, i’m never gonna stop trying to earn it. never gonna stop trying to be the man who deserves to come home to you.”
you tilt your head up, pretending to think, even as you’re clenching around his fingers just to watch him falter. “oh, so that’s why you’ve been so good at ignoring me lately?” you tease, voice breathy and sweet. “saving up all that obsession for the poor guys who dare look at me for two seconds? cute. real cute, burrow. maybe next time you’re too busy to touch me for weeks you can just rent a billboard downtown: ‘property of joe—look and you die.’ would’ve saved me a lot of wondering if you even remembered my name.” you roll your hips slow, deliberate, smirking when his jaw ticks. “or maybe—just a thought—you could try reminding me in person instead of growling at strangers like a possessive caveman who forgot how to use his words… or his hands… or his—”
he cuts you off with a low, dangerous sound and another deep curl of his fingers that has your bratty little speech dissolving into a whimper. “keep talking, baby,” he mutters, eyes dark and delighted. “i’ve got all night to turn that attitude into my name on repeat.”
you gasp, trying to hold onto the last thread of your attitude even as your thighs start trembling around his shoulders. “you’re real proud of yourself right now, huh?” you manage, voice wobbling but still sharp at the edges. “acting like you can just—oh fuck—just flip a switch and i’ll forget the last month of radio silence. newsflash, burrow, possession is ninety percent follow-through and you’ve been slacking on the—”
he cuts you off with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that makes your hips jerk clean off the mattress. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips are shiny, eyes glittering with that cocky, adoring look that always ruins you.
“this pussy was made for me,” he growls, voice rough and reverent all at once, curling his fingers slow and perfect so you feel every word in your spine. “every single sound you make when you’re falling apart, every shiver, every time you clench around me like you can’t get close enough, mine. you’ve always been mine, baby, since the first night you let me touch you, since the first morning you woke up smiling in my bed, since the second you said yes and every second after. you’re mine when you’re laughing at my stupid jokes, mine when you’re mad at me, mine when you’re wearing my shirts and planning our forever. and i’m yours, every inch of me, every thought in my head, every beat of this heart that only knows how to beat for you. i was an idiot for ever letting you forget it, but i’m here now, and i’m never leaving again. say it, sweetie. tell me you’re mine, tell me you feel it, because i need to hear it while i’m buried inside the only home i’ve ever wanted.”
he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, eyes dark and glassy, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.
“tell me something, baby…” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word, fingers still buried deep and unmoving like he’s holding your entire world hostage. “when i was being a fucking idiot, too wrapped up in rehab and film to take care of my girl… did you ever touch yourself thinking about me?”
you swallow hard, cheeks burning even though he’s literally inside you right now. “and if i did?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice steady even while your hips twitch for more.
his eyes flare, possessive and wrecked all at once. “then i wanna hear every detail,” he rasps, slowly dragging his fingers out and pushing back in like a threat and a promise. “wanna know exactly how you fucked yourself on those pretty fingers pretending they were mine. wanna know if you said my name when you came, if you cried because it wasn’t enough, if you hated me a little for not being here to watch. tell me, sweetheart. because every single time you did? that was still mine. you were still mine. and i’m about to spend the rest of my life making up for every second i left you needy.”
you bite your lip so hard it stings, but the words spill out anyway, raw and breathless against his waiting mouth.
“yes—” you gasp, the word breaking on a moan as his fingers shift inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every syllable you give him. “almost every night you came home late—” another broken breath, hips jerking when he curls them just right, “—and fell asleep facing the wall… fuck, joe—” you swallow hard, thighs trembling around his hand. “i’d wait until your breathing evened out,” you whisper, voice hitching as he presses deeper, “then slip my hand under the covers and pretend—oh god—pretend it was you.” a soft, desperate whimper slips out when he circles that spot again. “sometimes i couldn’t even stay in our bed,” you manage, nails digging into his shoulders, “i’d sneak down the hall to the guest room like a guilty teenager—mmh—or lock myself in the shower so the water would drown me out—” your breath catches on a sob-moan as his thumb brushes your clit, “pressing my face against the tile while i got myself off thinking about you pinning me to that same wall months ago.” he crooks his fingers hard and you cry out, back arching. “i’d come biting the pillow—” another broken moan, “or my own fist, or nothing at all because it felt so good and so fucking empty at the same time—” your voice cracks completely, tears and pleasure tangling together. “and yeah, sometimes i hated you a little for making me hide in my own house just to feel something,” you pant, rocking helplessly against his hand, “but i still whispered your name every single time i fell apart—quiet, desperate, pissed off—because even when you forgot me, my body wouldn’t let me forget who it belongs to.”
his fingers are still buried deep inside you, unmoving now, like he’s too wrecked to even remember how to breathe, let alone pull out. it’s like the air just got sucked out of the room. his eyes darken to something feral and heartbroken at the same time, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. a low, wounded sound rips out of his throat, half growl, half sob, and his hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough that you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow.
“jesus fucking christ,” he rasps, voice shredded, forehead dropping to your stomach like he’s praying for forgiveness against your skin. his shoulders shake once, twice, and when he looks back up his lashes are wet. “you were hiding in our own house… sneaking off to the guest room, locking the shower door… touching this perfect pussy alone because i made you think you couldn’t have me?” his fingers curl suddenly, punishing and pleading, pressing right against that spot that makes your back arch and your breath hitch. “baby, i’m—” his voice splinters completely, “i’m so fucking sorry. i hate myself for every single time you had to do this without me.”
he drags you down so you’re chest to chest, fingers still buried to the hilt like he’s terrified if he lets go you’ll disappear, burying his face in your neck, breath hitching against your skin. “never again” he swears, hoarse and wrecked, hand rocking just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still yours.. “you hear me? never fucking again. from now on you want me at 3 a.m., you take me. you want me in the shower, the guest room, the goddamn driveway, you take me. i’m yours to love whenever you need, however you need. i owe you a thousand orgasms just for the ones i left you crying through alone.” his hips roll up slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how your confession made him. “and starting right now i’m paying that debt with interest, sweetheart. every single one.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and wrecked, thumb brushing the tears from your cheek like they’re burning him. “let me hear it, baby,” he whispers, voice raw and pleading, fingers curling slow and deep inside you like he’s coaxing the words out with every stroke. “tell me again. tell me while i’m right here, while i’m never leaving again. i need it like air.”
“yours,” you sob, the word ripping out of you like it’s been waiting weeks to be set free, tears slipping hot down your temples into your hair. “i’m yours, joe, always yours—only yours—please—” your voice cracks on the plea, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, fingers twisted so tight in his curls it has to sting. “i never stopped being yours even when you forgot to look at me, even when i felt invis– i was still yours, still waiting, still so stupidly in love with you it hurts. please don’t make me wait anymore, please let me feel it, let me feel you, let me have you back—” another broken moan spills out as he sucks your clit just right and the last of your pride crumbles. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m yours—”
“good girl,” he growls, the praise rumbling dark and possessive against your skin, and then there’s no more teasing, no more mercy. he sucks your clit hard, relentless, fingers driving into you fast and deep, curling exactly where you need until the pleasure crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun. you come with his name tearing out of your throat, raw, broken, desperate, clenching around his fingers so tight your whole body shakes with it. he moans right into you, the vibration dragging it out longer, filthier, until your legs are trembling around his shoulders and tears slip hot down your temples into your hair. he doesn’t stop until you’re boneless, gasping, chest heaving, every aftershock making you twitch against his tongue like he’s wringing the last of the loneliness out of you with every gentle lick. only then does he ease off, pressing one final soft kiss to your clit like a promise before crawling back up your body, eyes shining with awe and apology and so much love it steals whatever breath you had left.
he kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you taste exactly how much he missed you, and you’re already chasing his mouth, hands frantic as they slide down his body. you palm him through the thin fabric of his pants and the second you squeeze he hisses into the kiss, hips bucking helplessly into your hand, a broken “fuck, baby—” spilling against your lips like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
“off,” you whisper, voice wrecked and needy, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it’s personally offended you.
he stills for half a second, smirking down at you with that lazy, infuriating cockiness. “off? that’s the best you got right now, baby? thought you were mad at me. where’s all that pretty attitude gone?”
you glare up at him, or try to through the haze, and give the fabric another impatient yank. “joe, i swear to god, if you don’t get these off in the next three seconds—”
he laughs under his breath, low and fond, finally hooking his thumbs in and shoving them down. “yes ma’am,” he teases, kicking them off the bed with zero ceremony.
the second he’s bare you wrap your hand around him, hot and hard and perfect in your palm, and he drops his forehead to yours instantly, a broken groan rumbling out of his chest.
“honey—fuck—” he breathes, the name slipping out shaky and raw, like you just stole every ounce of air he had left.
“want you inside me,” you say, voice wrecked. “now. please. need to feel you.”
he lines up, nudging your entrance, and pauses, breathing ragged. “is this okay?” he asks, voice strained but deadly serious, eyes searching yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me you want this. tell me you know how much i love you.”
you cup his face, thumbs brushing the dampness at the corners of his eyes you pretend not to notice. “i know,” you breathe, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “i know, joe. i feel it. i love you too—so much it scares me sometimes. i want you. i’ve always wanted you. please.”
he pushes in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. when he bottoms out you both groan, the sound punched out of him. he stays still for a second, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours, breathing each other in.
“feel how perfect we fit?” he whispers, voice raw and trembling against your ear, one big hand sliding down to lace his fingers through yours and press them into the pillow beside your head. “feel me all the way inside you, baby? that’s where i belong. that’s my home. right there, buried in you, as deep as i can get.” his hips give the tiniest roll, just enough to make you both shudder, and he breathes out like he’s confessing a secret he’s kept for years. “that’s how much i love you—so deep it’s carved into my fucking bones, etched into every breath i take, every second i’m alive. you’re my home, honey. you’re the only place i ever want to be.”
then he starts moving—long, deep strokes that have you wrapping your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his back. he pins your wrists again, lacing your fingers with his, and fucks you like he’s trying to make up for every missed second of the last month. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady rhythm and neither of you care.
you turn your head and bury your face in his neck, kissing the sweat-slick skin there, sucking a mark under his jaw while he hits that spot inside you over and over. your teeth graze his throat and he shudders, pace faltering for a second.
“love you,” you mumble against his throat, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “love you so much. don’t ever leave me out again. promise me.”
“never,” he growls, hips snapping harder. “never fucking again. you’re my priority. my everything. i swear on my life.”
he slows just enough to untangle one hand from yours, lifts his pinky in the dim light between you, eyes locked on yours, raw and open and desperate.
“pinky promise,” he whispers, voice cracking on the words like he’s five years old again and this is the most sacred oath he knows how to give.
you hook your pinky around his without hesitation, the tiny, childish gesture somehow heavier than any vow he’s ever made. he squeezes tight, presses his forehead to yours, and thrusts deep again like he’s sealing it inside you.
you can tell he’s right there, jaw locked, eyes blown black, breath ragged against your neck. he tries to speak, voice cracking on the single word “shit—”, but you beat him to it, tightening your legs around his waist and dragging him impossibly deeper.
you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let the words spill out filthy and breathless.
“did you like going all these nights without me, baby?” you whisper, clenching around him hard just to watch his eyes roll back. “you forgot about me for weeks… poor thing, your testosterone probably hit a record high, huh? bet you were aching, dying to come home and… i’m so mad i should be, but it’s okay… we all have our moments…” another deliberate squeeze, another broken sound ripping from his throat. “look at you now… my fiancé finally remembered who he was… remembered who he belongs to.”
that’s all it takes.
he buries himself deep and comes with your name on his lips, pulsing hot inside you, hips jerking as he empties himself. the feeling tips you over again and you follow him, clinging to him while you both shake apart, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents.
after, he doesn’t pull out right away. just collapses half on top of you, face tucked into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there while you both catch your breath. his weight is perfect, grounding, and you wrap your arms around him tight, like if you let go he’ll disappear.
you hold his face in your hands eventually and kiss him tender and slow, trying to pour everything you feel into it—relief, love, forgiveness, need. he kisses back like he’s drowning and you’re air, like he’s trying to say i’m sorry with every stroke of his tongue.
eventually he slips out and rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back, up and down your spine, over the marks he left.
he presses his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s scared the moment will vanish if he lets go. “not one more time,” he whispers, voice scraped raw, lips brushing your temple with every word. “i swear on every single day i get to wake up next to you, i'm not letting that happen.”
you laugh, soft and watery, the sound muffled against the warm skin of his neck. “i’m not going anywhere, joe. i just need you to come back to me when you’re here.”
he pulls back just enough to cradle your face in both hands, thumbs stroking slow across your cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of your tears. his eyes are red, shining, impossibly gentle. “i’m here. i’m so here. you’re my priority, honey. always were, even when i was too stupid to act like it. football’s just background noise. you’re the song i want stuck in my head for the rest of my life.”
he kisses you slow, tender, like he’s tasting the words he didn’t say soon enough, i’m sorry, i see you, i love you, stay. when he pulls away his forehead stays against yours, noses brushing, sharing the same shaky breath.
“you’re the thing i’m building everything else around,” he murmurs, voice thick. “every loss, every win, every waking moment, every single tomorrow. i lost my way for a minute, but i’m home now. you’re my home.”
he shifts, guiding you until you’re half-draped across his chest, one of his hands sliding down to lace your fingers together, the ring on your hand pressed right over his heart. he brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles, then the diamond, then the center of your palm like he’s sealing every promise against your skin.
“happy thanksgiving, future mrs. burrow,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last two words, eyes shining with everything he still can’t fit into sentences. “thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am.”
you curl closer, ear over his heartbeat, feeling it slow and steady beneath you like it’s finally calm because you’re back in his arms. he wraps you up tight, legs tangled, one hand stroking your back in slow, endless circles, the other still holding yours against his chest.
you fall asleep like that, his lips resting against your forehead, your name the last quiet prayer on his breath before the world fades out.
joe stays awake long after, counting the soft puffs of your breath against his only lullaby, holding you so close it’s like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together so nothing can ever slip between you again.
the room is dark except for the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table bleeding through the crack in the night, and in that dim gold light he lets himself fall apart.
he knew something was wrong the second the season swallowed him whole, but he lied to himself every single day, told himself you were fine, told himself the quiet in the house was just exhaustion, told himself the way you stopped reaching for him in the middle of the night was nothing. he felt it in his bones that weren’t breaking on the field but were cracking somewhere deeper: every practice that ran long and left him hollow, every film session where he stared at the screen and saw your face instead of routes, every night he came home and kissed your temple like it was enough when you were starving for more.
he felt empty and didn’t know why until you stood in the living room with tears on your cheeks and the ring catching the lights like it was screaming at him, and you said i feel like you don’t want me anymore and the words punched straight through his ribs and shattered something he didn’t even know could break.
he replays it on a hundred times, the crack in your voice, the way your hands shook, the way you looked at the floor like you were scared his face would confirm every fear you’d been carrying alone and every single replay feels like taking a blindside hit he never saw coming. the strongest guy in the stadium, and he didn’t notice his entire world was slipping out of his hands.
he presses his face into your hair and breathes you in until his lungs hurt, tears slipping silent and hot into your curls because he almost lost this, almost lost you, and the worst part is he did it to himself. he let the noise get louder than your heartbeat, let the game matter more than his girl. he was dying out there every day and too stupid to realize the cure was asleep in his bed waiting for him to remember how to come home.
he swears it against your skin, over and over, a vow quieter than a whisper and heavier than any contract he’s ever signed: never again. he’ll be late to meetings, he’ll skip film, he’ll throw his phone in the fucking river if that’s what it takes. he’ll wake you up with his mouth somewhere between your neck or your lips on random tuesdays, carry you to the kitchen at 2 a.m. because you mentioned craving cereal, wear your name where the whole world can see it if that’s what keeps you from ever doubting again. whatever it takes.
he tightens his arms until there’s no space left between your heart and his, feels the steady thump under your ribs sync with his own, and makes the promise one more time, this one out loud, even though you’re asleep, because he needs the universe to hear it.
“i choose you,” he breathes into the dark, voice cracking on every word. “every day. every second. forever starts right now, baby. and i’m never letting you forget it again.”
───
the next morning you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet—chocolate and butter and warm sugar. the bed’s empty but still warm where he was, sheets tangled around your legs. you hear clinking downstairs and the low hum of music—some old r&b playlist he knows you love, the one you played the very first night you ever stayed over. you pad downstairs in nothing but his t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and find him at the stove in low-slung gray sweats, flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world.
there’s a tray on the counter already loaded—fresh coffee in your favorite mug, orange juice in the glass with the little chipped handle you refuse to throw away, crispy bacon, strawberries sliced into perfect little hearts because he’s a sap, warm syrup in a little pitcher. he turns when he hears your bare feet on the hardwood and smiles soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from the stove.
“morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “go back to bed, i was gonna bring it up. wanted to wake you up properly.”
you ignore him completely and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades. he smells like maple and warm skin and home. you breathe him in and feel something inside your chest unclench, finally.
“made your favorite,” he says, flipping another pancake. “extra chocolate chips because i’m trying to bribe my way out of the doghouse. and because i like the way you lick the extra chocolate off your fingers. and your lips. and my–.”
you slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish, and lean up to kiss the back of his neck to stop him, right over the little mark you left last night. “you’re already out. way out.”
he makes a muffled, offended sound against your palm, eyes going wide and innocent. you pull your hand away just enough for him to speak.
“why’d you cut me off?” he whines, spinning around with the spatula still in his hand, cheeks flushed. “i was about to say something so sweet.”
“sure you were,” you tease, nipping the same spot you just kissed. “that’s exactly what it sounded like.”
he turns the stove off, letting go of the spatula and lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. he steps between your legs and cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes searching yours.
“how’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low, serious. “sore? need anything? i wasn’t exactly gentle last night. or this morning in my head like fifty times already.”
“i’m perfect,” you say, leaning into his touch. “last night was… everything. this morning is everything.”
“yeah,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “it was. you have no idea how much i needed to hear you say my name like that again. needed to feel you come apart on me, needed to remind you who you belong to. who i belong to.”
he kisses you slow, morning-sweet, tasting like coffee and chocolate and him. “i wrote you something,” he mumbles against your lips, suddenly shy. he reaches behind him and pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his sweats, cheeks pink.
you raise an eyebrow. “you wrote me a letter? joseph lee burrow, quarterback heartthrob, wrote me a love letter?”
“shut up, i’m being romantic,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. “i couldn’t sleep after you passed out. needed to get it out. needed you to have it in my handwriting so you can read it whenever you start to doubt again. which you never will, because i’m never giving you a reason.”
you unfold it. it’s three whole pages stapled in his messy quarterback handwriting—apologies that make your throat tight, promises that make your chest ache, little memories from the past four years that make you smile through tears. he wrote about the first time you fell asleep on his chest during a movie, how he knew right then he was done for. about the way you laugh at his stupid jokes even when they’re not funny. about how you made his house start to feel like a home when you moved in instead of just a place he crashes between games. about how he replays the sound of you saying his name when you come through the door after work, how it gets him through the worst days. about how he can’t wait to marry you, how much he loves the ring on your finger and the future babies in your belly and grow old with you on the porch of the house you’ll pick out together. over and over, in bigger and bigger letters like he ran out of room for how huge it feels, he keeps writing i’m so thankful for you—thank you for choosing me, thank you for staying when i didn’t deserve it, thank you for being my safe place, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am, thank you for every single day you give me, i don’t know what i did to deserve you but i’m thankful every breath that you’re mine—and at the very bottom there’s that very bad but heartbreakingly sweet stick-figure drawing of the two of you at the altar, him in a crooked bow tie, you in a scribbled veil and triangle dress, both of you with giant heart eyes and huge grins and little hearts exploding above your heads like he physically couldn’t fit all the love on the page, and underneath in the tiniest, neatest letters he could manage: happy (late) thanksgiving, baby—thank you for being the best thing i’ve ever been grateful for. i’ll never stop saying it.
you laugh, eyes stinging, and he watches your face like it’s the super bowl and fourth quarter all at once.
“i love you,” you say, pulling him in by his shirt. “so much. thank you.”
“love you more,” he whispers. “and i’m gonna spend every day making sure you never doubt it again. starting with feeding you in bed, then eating you for dessert.”
he carries the tray upstairs like you’re something precious, sets it on the bed, and climbs in after you. you eat breakfast tangled together, feeding each other strawberries and licking syrup off fingers, talking about everything and nothing. he tells you about the rookie who keeps asking if you’re single because he saw you on his ig once and joe almost fought him in the weight room. you tell him about the ridiculous thirst tweets you saw about him and he pretends to be mad but mostly looks smug, ears red.
“they don’t even know,” he mutters, sucking syrup off your thumb slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours. “don’t know how you sound when you’re begging. how you look when you’re riding me. how you taste when you come on my tongue. how tight you get when i’m fucking you and telling you you’re mine. all mine.”
you shiver and he notices, smirks, already thinking of some unholy things.
when the plates are empty he takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand, then pulls you back down into the sheets, kissing your shoulder. “round two for breakfast?” he asks, voice low and already rough again, hand sliding up your thigh and under the t-shirt. “or should i just skip to dessert and eat this pretty pussy again?”
you roll over and straddle him, grinning. “thought you’d never ask.”
he’s already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats, and you grind down slow, watching his eyes flutter. he groans and grips your hips, guiding you in a lazy roll that has you both breathing harder.
you start talking the second you’re settled on top of him, words spilling out between little laughs and gasps. “wait, did you hear your aunt linda last night? she cornered me about the venue thing for like twenty minutes and then your cousin megan told me she already booked her flights for june twenty-seventh even though we haven’t even picked a date yet, and—”
he makes a desperate little noise against your stomach, mouthing at the hem of the t-shirt. “honey,” he mumbles, voice muffled, trying to nudge your hips up.
“hmm?”
“angel,” he says again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your lower belly, “as much as i love you and your pretty voice and literally everything that comes out of your mouth… can we stop talking about wedding talk for just, like, five minutes? i’m trying to have a experience here and it’s got nothing to do with venues.”
you smirk down at him. “why? i thought you wanted to marry me.”
“i do,” he says instantly, eyes going soft for half a second before the mischief comes back. “but right now i’m trying to worship at a very different altar.”
you burst out laughing. “oh my god, you’re disgusting.”
“disgustingly in love with you,” he corrects, then hooks his arms under your thighs and drags you up his chest in one smooth move. “now c’mere and let me show you my vows, future mrs. burrow.”
he buries his mouth between your legs like the conversation never happened. the first slow, deliberate lick rips whatever smart comeback you had right out of you; your hands fly to his hair and whatever you were saying about centerpieces dissolves into a broken moan.
“take this off,” he growls a minute later, voice wrecked and impatient, tugging at the t-shirt still bunched around your waist. you yank it over your head and toss it somewhere across the room, and his hands are on your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re rocking against his tongue faster.
“want you,” you whisper, reaching down to shove his sweats off. he lifts his hips to help, and then he’s bare underneath you, thick and hot against your thigh.
you sink down on him slow, both of you moaning at the stretch. he fills you perfectly, like he was made for you, and you brace your hands on his chest as you start to move.
“fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice cracking like he’s praying, eyes fixed on where you’re joined like it’s the holiest thing he’s ever witnessed. his hands slide up your thighs, reverent, thumbs tracing the little dimples at the tops like he’s reading an alphabet that spells out forever. “look at you… taking me so well. always so good for me. my perfect girl. my future wife.”
he lifts one of your hands from his chest, moves it flat over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s hammering, then brings your ring finger to his lips and kisses it.
“gonna watch you walk down the aisle in whatever dress you pick and know this exact feeling is waiting for me at the end of it,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep so you feel every inch of the promise. “gonna stand there trying not to cry like an idiot while you become my wife, knowing this, this heart, this life, it’s all mine forever. and i’m yours, baby. every day, every night, every breath. i’m so fucking in love with you it doesn’t fit inside my chest anymore.”
his words settle warm in your ribs, and you answer them the only way you can right now—by moving, slow and deliberate, riding him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of his promises inside your body. you start gentle, savoring every drag, every time he slides home and your toes curl against the sheets. his hands never stop touching you, roaming like he’s scared to miss a single inch: up your thighs, tracing the curve of your hips, gliding over your stomach, cupping your breasts with reverent palms, thumbs brushing your nipples until your breath stutters and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning his name too loud.
he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you chest to chest. the angle changes and you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. he kisses you deep, swallowing the sound, then trails his mouth down your neck, sucking another mark right over your pulse.
“love how you feel,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. “love how you look when you’re riding me. love the little sounds you make when i’m deep inside you. love that i get to wake up to this. to you. love that you’re gonna be the mother of my kids one day. love everything about you.”
you speed up, chasing the heat building low in your belly, and he meets you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up. the room fills with the slap of skin on skin, your breathy moans, his low groans.
“touch yourself,” he says, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you milk me when you come.”
you slide a hand between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and he watches like he’s starving, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
“that’s it,” he praises, voice shaking. “make yourself come on my cock, baby. wanna feel it. wanna feel you squeeze me while you say my name. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“you,” you gasp, so close. “belongs to you, joe—only you—fuck—”
it doesn’t take long—you’re already close from the way he’s looking at you, from the way he’s filling you over and over, from the way he’s holding you like you’re the only thing that matters. you come with a broken cry, clenching around him hard, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he spills inside you again, arms locked tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.
you collapse together, sweaty and breathless, his face buried in your neck. he presses lazy kisses there, mumbling nonsense about how perfect you are, how he’s never letting you go, how he’s the luckiest bastard alive.
later, after you’ve dozed tangled together, he wakes you with soft kisses down your spine. you’re on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and he’s tracing the marks he left last night with his tongue like he’s reading a newspaper.
“morning again,” he whispers against the small of your back, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, something that sounds like regret and wonder all at once. “think i owe you one more apology. maybe a hundred more. maybe a lifetime of them.”
you hum, still half-lost in dreams, and he presses a soft kiss to the base of your spine, then another higher, trailing slow, reverent kisses up the line of your back until he reaches your shoulder. he tugs you gently onto your side so you’re facing him, pulls the blanket higher around both of you, and tucks you against his chest like you’re something infinitely precious.
“gonna keep you right here all day,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and warm. “gonna order whatever you want, watch whatever dumb movie you pick, hold you until you forget what distance even feels like. until the only thing in your head is how much i love you. how stupid i was. how i’m never taking a single second of you for granted again.”
you laugh softly, breathless, curling closer. “promise?”
“promise,” he says, pressing the word into your forehead like a vow. “starting now. and tomorrow. and every single day after that. you’re my forever, baby. and i’m yours.”
and he does.
he keeps the world outside the bedroom door all day. he makes you laugh with terrible impressions of his uncles from yesterday, feeds you leftover pie straight from the fridge while you sit on the counter in his hoodie, lets you pick the cheesiest christmas movie on netflix and quotes every line just to watch your eyes light up. he traces the marks he left on your neck like they’re constellations he’s proud to have drawn, kisses every one of them soft and slow, whispering “mine” and “i’m sorry” and “i love you” in the same breath.
when the sun starts to set he pulls you into his lap on the couch, wraps a blanket around both of you, and just holds you while the sky turns pink and gold outside the windows. his fingers never stop moving—drawing circles on your back, threading through yours, brushing your hair from your face so he can kiss your temple again and again.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he still hasn’t said tonight, fingers laced through yours and pressed over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s beating for you. “and i’ve already got plans for us, baby, real ones. booked a cabin in lake tahoe the second i woke up—cozy, middle of nowhere, big fireplace, maybe snowed in for a whole week with nothing but you and me and whatever we feel like doing to each other under a million blankets.” he gives you that look, slow, filthy, promising, the one that says he’s already pictured you naked on a bearskin rug at least fifty times. “then after that, i found time and i’m flying us straight to your parents’ house because i miss your mom’s pumpkin bars like crazy and i wanna sit at their kitchen counter and let your dad grill me about wedding stuff while i hold your hand for comfort.”
you snort, poking his chest. “you don’t like my pumpkin bars?”
he grins, nipping at your fingertip. “i love yours. love the way you dance around the kitchen in my t-shirt while you make them, love licking the batter off your fingers when you let me. but i also love my mother-in-law and the way she sneaks me extras when you aren’t looking, so i’m playing both sides here.” he kisses your wrist, soft and reverent. “point is, i’ve got a whole calendar planned of just-us days already locked in. no excuses, no schedule conflicts. just me proving every single day that you’re the only plan i give a damn about.”
“you know i’m never letting you forget this, right?” you murmur into the quiet, voice soft but edged with that familiar bratty spark. “you pulled that shit for a whole month, maybe longer burrow. i’m gonna be crazy about it for years. every time you’re late coming home i’m side-eyeing you. every time you look at your phone too long at dinner i’m kicking you under the table. i’m gonna be the most annoying, clingy, possessive wife ever and you’re just gonna take it because you owe me.”
he laughs, low and wrecked and so relieved it cracks in the middle, pulling you impossibly closer. “good,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing skin like he can’t stop. “be crazy. be annoying. be possessive as hell. mark me up, kick me, glare at me—do whatever you need, baby. just don’t ever stop being mine. i can take it. i want it. i just want you.”
you tilt your head up, catch his eyes in the dark, and smirk. “oh, i’m yours. but you’re about to find out exactly what that means when i’m the one who’s been waiting.”
he groans, half-laugh, half-prayer, and kisses you stupid all over again.
and this time you know without a doubt that tomorrow he’ll still be right here—probably with new bruises from your teeth and a grin that says he wouldn’t have it any other way.
you never could forget it. you never will.
taglist (comment or send an ask to be added!): @softburrow @joeyshiesty0 @savaneafricaine @babygirlburrow @joesheisty9 @irishmanwhore @nanouslibrary @desperate-and-broken @quinnintheabyss @lilfreakjez @nineverce @herbertswomen @averyoceanblvd @piastririots @mruizsworld @renegadebirch @harryweeniee @joeybisbootiful @britt217 @neyessibff
✰ description: a collection of thanksgiving + black friday shopping related headcannons <3
✰ pairing: bengals!joeburrow x girlfriend!reader
✰ a/n: a cute little headcannon fic i came up with! pretty rushed and deliriously written in the middle of exam week so...be nice. some of these are essays more than real HC's but are we shocked. it's me. but anyway, happy thanksgiving! so thankful for all your love and support always <3
✰ warnings: 18+. language, one and a half instances of unprotected p in v smut, suggestive content, mostly all fluff. one mention of y/n.
✰ my masterlist
✰ wc: 11.2k
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loves hosting your first thanksgiving together
hosting your first real thanksgiving together just hits different. like one of those quiet, grown-up milestones neither of you names out loud, but both of you feel settling in your bones as the leaves shift from burnt copper to honey-gold to that deep, bruised red that always makes him pull you closer when you walk outside, as if the cold might steal you from him. it all starts weeks before the holiday, when joe admits in the most casual tone imaginable that he doesn’t actually like turkey…despite his entire family being devoted to it. and at first you laugh, assuming he’s messing with you, only to realize he’s completely serious when he stands in front of the meat section with his arms crossed, jaw set, insisting on a massive spiral-cut ham because “we’re hosting at our house, so we’re doing it right,”. it feels like a thanksgiving crime, but you fold anyway, mostly because he spends the whole grocery trip acting like he’s auditioning to be the world’s most attentive, overinvolved partner.
he pushes the cart, holds the list like it’s a playbook he's memorizing for a big divisional matchup next week, debates mashed potato texture like he’s scouting opponents, and slips your favorite chocolates into the cart when he thinks you’re not paying attention because he knows your period is coming up, and there’s nothing more you love than those fancy little lindor chocolates when you’re under the weather, bonus points if he feeds them to you. but beneath the teasing, the sneaky aisle kisses, and the soft touches on your lower back, there’s something heavier humming between you. something new. because halfway through the produce section, joe stops, leans his forearms on the cart, and looks around at the shelves like he’s absorbing it all—the grocery store, the ingredients, the future holidays he hopes you’ll spend together. when his eyes land back on you, they’re softer, warmer, almost boyish. “this is our first holiday together, isn't it? like actually ours,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, and it hits you so hard your fingers literally fumble the cranberries, because suddenly it’s real; this life you’re building together, step by step, meal by meal, holiday by holiday.
the morning of, he moves through the house with this nervous energy he thinks he’s hiding. checking the oven temperature twice, flipping through recipe cards to try to plan out when each dish is made so that you can maximize your time, smoothing a hand down your back whenever he walks by, like touching you calms him. there’s something so endearing about this large, confident commands-the-entire-stadium-with-one-flick-of-his-wrist, joe burrow being anxious about hosting a family holiday dinner with you. he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like seeing you in your shared kitchen, wearing his old hoodie, cooking your first holiday meal together is permanently altering his brain chemistry. halfway through basting the ham, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs, “this feels really serious, doesn’t it?” in that quiet, slightly shaky voice he only uses when he’s telling the most special truth he’s ever known.
and when family finally arrives—robin with a pie and green bean casserole, jimmy carrying a bottle of chateau margaux and a bottle of cider, siblings and sister-in-laws piling in behind with nieces and nephews—you catch joe staring at you from across the living room with this full, warm, almost overwhelmed expression, the kind that says he knows exactly what you both just stepped into. a real life. shared traditions. a future.
watching you move around the kitchen with his mom, laughing beside his sisters-in-law, trading stories with his cousins as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and reach for another bowl—it hits him in a place he didn’t know still hurt. it settles in his chest like something warm and cozy, something he’s been aching for longer than he ever admitted out loud. because seeing you there, so effortlessly woven into the fabric of his family, reminds him what all of this has always been for.
all the holidays he spent wondering if he’d ever have someone to bring home. all the years he sat at this same table, watching his brothers slip their arms around the women they loved, pretending he didn’t feel that sharp little pinch in his ribs. all the nights he lay awake thinking, when is it my turn? and now here you are. moving through this home like you were meant to be here all along, like the universe was just waiting for the timing to be right. and as he watches you laugh with robin over his poor, but adorable attempt at setting the table all by himself, or tease his cousin about burning the rolls, he realizes with absolute, bone-deep certainty that every lonely thanksgiving, every ache, every moment of wanting led him to this.
to you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...will only eat your pumpkin pie
joe insists, no, actually demands, that he only eats the pumpkin dishes you make on thanksgiving, and he does it with the kind of stubborn loyalty that makes everyone laugh except him, because he’s deadly serious about it. he’ll take a polite slice of robin’s pie just to be respectful and to not earn any death-glares from her or have her threaten to not bring him a snicker's salad during every visit anymore, but he doesn’t even finish it, doesn’t even bother pretending, because the second no one’s looking he’s leaning into you, voice low and warm against the shell of your ear, whispering, “it’s good, but yours is better,”. the way he says it—slow, honest, almost sinful—makes heat crawl up your neck. and the moment you bring out your pumpkin pie or spiced pumpkin loaf with a cinnamon crumb top, he’s there, sliding behind you with those big warm hands, finding your waist like he’s magnetized, chin dropping to your shoulder as he hums at the smell. he always reaches out to smear whipped cream on his fingertip, licking it off with a hum deep in his chest before he tastes your skin right after, lips brushing your jaw as he murmurs, “yours is also sweeter,”.
he tries every year to sneak an early bite, and every time you try to scold him, he cages you against the counter, grin smug and boyish, bending to whisper, “c’mon…just one taste. for quality control,” and the way his hands slide over your hips makes it impossible to say no.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...“helps” in the kitchen (he doesn’t help.)
joe wanders into the kitchen constantly under the guise of helping, but he doesn’t help at all. he just gravitates to you like he’s incapable of staying more than ten minutes without touching you. if you’re stirring the gravy on the stove, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, arms winding around your waist as he sways you gently, murmuring into your neck, “smells good…so good,” and you can’t tell if he’s talking about the food or about you. if you’re chopping potatoes, he stands behind you with his hands on your hips, rocking you just enough to make you threaten him with the knife, which only earns you one of those cocky half-smiles he doesn’t show anyone else.
every time you try to step away, he tugs you right back against him, whispering soft things he knows will make your knees wobble—“you look so pretty like this,” “you’re working so hard, baby,” “wanna kiss you all over,” sometimes you catch him giving you that look—the heavy-lidded, hungry one that says he’s been imagining bending you over the counter all afternoon. something about you being so domestic in his world turns him on, and he’s so shameless about it. he’ll never say anything out loud with family nearby, but you feel it in the way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, warm and claiming, or the way he kisses the back of your neck before pulling away like nothing happened.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...carves the ham like it’s a high-stakes operation
he stands over the ham like a surgeon, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed, mumbling to himself about “optimal slice width,”. he absolutely will flex his knife skills even though you’ve never once seen him cut anything more complicated than strawberries on a weekday. he pauses halfway through to look up at you and announce, very seriously, “this is why quarterbacks have good hand control. all about precision,”. then he hands you a piece like he’s offering a sacrament: “taste test. it’s science. and don't worry, it's not too thin, babe, i know you like a thick slice,” he says with a wink that has your face turning the color of a tomato.
if you smile too big, he gets smug. if you tease him, he squints at you and mutters, “you’re lucky i love you,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...eats off your plate
it always starts the same, too. your fork halfway to your mouth, your focus somewhere else for a split second, and suddenly his much bigger fork slides right in front of yours, scooping the exact bite you were about to take. he doesn’t even look guilty. he barely even looks at you. he just steals it, lifts it to his mouth, and eats it with this obnoxiously satisfied little hum, shoulders relaxing like he just had the best bite of his life. you glare at him every single time and he meets it with that tiny, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “what?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your plate, “you weren’t eating it fast enough,”.
sometimes he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, then steal another bite like the kiss was meant to distract you. sometimes he’ll hook his chin over your shoulder and eat directly from your plate with your fork, pretending he’s helping you. and when you protest? when you push him away and tell him to get his own food? joe just grins, nudging at your thigh with his knee under the table. “baby…everything i have is yours and everything you have is mine. that includes your cranberry sauce,” and you pretend to be annoyed, rolling your eyes, but you’re already sliding the plate closer to him—because he’s joe, and he looks so cute and happy stealing your food that you can’t help but let him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...pulls you into the pantry like he can’t go another second without you
the pantry becomes joe’s personal hideaway during the entire evening. every time you walk in for spices or extra ingredients, he follows a few seconds later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing, he spots you heading to the pantry? he follows. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his hands are already sliding up your sides, pushing you gently against the shelves, the motion causing the spices to rattle as you land with a dull thud.
he dips his head to kiss down your neck, soft, a little sloppy, just the way he knows you love. and the way he breathes, a little shakily, like he’s trying to hold himself back from doing something shameless that would earn him a stern talking to by his mother, makes your knees turn to liquid. “i needed a minute,” he murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “just with you,” he cages you in against the shelves with his arms, big body crowding yours, his forehead pressed to yours while his thumb strokes your waist in slow, deliberate circles.
sometimes he kisses you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs, and when he pulls back, his lips are so red and swollen, your lip combo all over him, and he looks so stupidly in love you swear you might melt. he always tries to sneak one more kiss, one more touch, one more breath against your mouth before you whisper that someone might come looking. god forbid one of his little nephews accidentally opens the door on you two, because you do not have an answer for why this adorably oblivious child is running around the house saying "uncle joe had his under in auntie y/n's shirt!".
and joe always grins at your valid concerns, that stupid, cocky little grin, whispering, “that’s why it’s fun. make's me feel like a teenager again,” before reluctantly letting you go…only to follow you out a minute later, still looking at your lips like he’s starving.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...keeps checking on you like it’s instinct
even in a house full of his people, full of relatives who haven't seen him in forever, joe’s attention is always on you. his eyes are drawn to you like you were the shiniest object in the room. you’ll be talking to his brothers or helping his grandma to the living room or laughing with the cousins in the backyard, and when you glance over, he’s already watching you with that soft, protective gaze that makes your whole chest glow. he’ll cross the room under the excuse of getting another drink, brushing his hand over your lower back as he passes—just a quick reassurance that you’re okay, that he’s here. sometimes he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before walking away, sometimes he presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder when no one’s looking, and sometimes he doesn’t leave at all—just stands behind you with his hand on your hip like he belongs there. he checks if you’ve eaten anything since this morning. he brings you water if he notices your lips look a little dry. he steals quiet moments to whisper, “you good?” against your cheek, even when you clearly are, because he just needs to hear you say it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...is beyond thankful for you
joe laces his fingers through yours with a quiet urgency, the kind that’s been simmering beneath his skin all evening. he’d spent half the night subtly trying to steal you away—brushing past you in the kitchen, touching the small of your back as he helped his mom with the dishes, giving you those long, loaded looks across the living room whenever his aunt pulled you into another story about his childhood. and when he finally manages to slip his hand into yours without anyone noticing, he doesn’t let go. instead, he tugs you gently but deliberately toward the back door, his eyes flicking to yours with that soft, determined look, like he’s decided that if he doesn’t get a moment alone with you right now, he might spontaneously combust.
the door clicks shut behind you, muting the warm hum of his family. cold air skims over your skin, crisp and clean, and joe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the porch is dim, washed in pale gold from the light above, and he turns you fully toward him, as if he’s finally carved out this quiet corner of the world just to say everything he hasn’t been able to say inside.
his hands settle on your waist, drawing you in with a reverence so bare it steals the breath from your lungs—his eyes soft and sleepy-warm, lashes brushing downward like he’s trying to memorize you one blink at a time. there’s something almost boyish in the way his expression opens for you, unguarded and achingly sincere. “c’mere,” he murmurs, tugging you closer like the words he’s carrying can only survive in the inch of air between your mouths. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, like he finally stopped running the second he got you alone.
“needed you alone for this,” he says, the confession rasping out of him. “just you. no noise. no eyes on us. nothing tugging at you but me,” his hand glides up your side, slow and sure, cradling your jaw.
“is everything alright, baby?” you question gently, your fingers finding home in his hair, twisting the soft strands as you listen to his breathing—the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard in your entire existence on this planet.
he inhales, the sound a little shaky. “yeah, yeah. everything’s good, fantastic actually. it’s just, you’re…” he tries again, swallowing hard, “you’re everything to me, sweetheart,” his voice cracks, just enough to make your heart throb. “i know i fuck around and act like i’m annoyed at the world half the time, but the truth is? i wouldn’t get through any of it without you. i wouldn’t be who i am right now if it wasn’t for you, for what you did to me when we first met, for what you continue to do to me,” his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, lingering this time. “you make every part of my life softer. easier. better. you walk into a room and it’s like everything i was worried about just—,” he exhales shakily, nose brushing yours, “evaporates. you have this kind of effect on me that i don't think i've ever seen or experienced before. it’s intense, so fuckin’ intense, but that’s just what love feels like. you taught me that,”.
your eyes soften, tears pooling in the corners, “joey,” you whisper.
he leans in closer, lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “i’m thankful for you every damn day, you know that? for the way you look at me like i’m someone worth loving. for how patient you are with me. for how you navigate through this crazy life that we live. for how you hold me without even touching me. for how you always show up for me even when shit gets tough. for how you make my life brighter and worth enjoying,” his voice softens, and his eyes, god, his eyes, gleam with a kind of wonder that feels otherworldly, like he’s carrying whole constellations behind his lashes, stardust pooling in the corners as he looks at you as if you hung the sky just for him. “for how you let me love you the way i’ve never loved anyone. for how you allow me to be soft around you. i love you so much for letting me be this version of myself. i thank the universe every fuckin’ day that you walked into that dingy diner that day in colombus. that you didn’t get scared when i made a move on you,” he grins, “even though it could’ve been better planned,” a chuckle leaves his lips.
you nod slowly, recalling that moment you walked into the old diner with your friends, and the very first thing you saw was joe sitting in the corner booth with his old college friends. all of them whispering to each other like teenage girls and egging him on as if there was some elephant in the room you weren’t aware of, “yeah,” you giggled. “could’ve given me a heads up that you were paying our bill. gianna thought we were being mass cat-called or something,”.
“had to make a good impression. had to show you i can support my woman if needed,” he murmurs, that smirk playing at the edges of his lips, but the fire in his eyes betrays him—wild, hungry, impossible to ignore. before you can respond, he’s on you, closing the space with a precision that makes your pulse stutter. the kiss he presses to your lips is everything, the kind that numbs your senses, bends time, and leaves the world falling away. it’s not gentle; it’s not soft. it’s intense, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries the weight of every unspoken word he’s ever held for you, every longing he’s barely contained, every heartbeat that thunders for you alone.
his mouth molds to yours with unyielding certainty, tilting your head just so, pressing lips to lips with a rhythm that’s both demanding and soft. when his tongue finds yours, it’s a slow, deliberate sweep, a teasing pull that makes your knees tremble and your hands claw instinctively into his shoulders. the heat of him presses into you, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, every exhale shared and shivering, every heartbeat synchronized in the tension between you. he holds your jaw in one firm hand, fingers warm and grounding, anchoring you in the moment, and you feel the subtle tremor of want that runs through him—the quiet, feral need to claim, to keep, to consume only you.
the world shrinks until there’s nothing left but him, the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the desperate pull of this slow, impossible kiss. your heart races against his chest, your breath hitching as he tilts you closer, tongue and teeth teasing, lips dragging in long strokes, and for a moment, neither of you exists outside of this suspended second. every brush, every press, every groan swallowed into the space between you is a promise, a confession, a collision of desire and devotion that leaves you dizzy, trembling, and entirely undone in the gravity of him. he pulls away for a second, and you find your lips chasing his before a soft, “i love you,” leaves his mouth, but it doesn’t sound small; it sounds like the center of his entire universe. “i love you in ways i didn’t even know were possible. in ways that scare the hell out of me because it’s so big, so real, so much more than anything i ever thought i’d get to feel,”.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he smiles against your chilled lips, pressing another kiss to them before saying, “and i don’t ever want a life that doesn’t end with you in it,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...steps into your childhood home for the first time and instantly softens
it hits him the second he steps over the threshold. this soft, nostalgic warmth that seems to breathe out of the walls and wrap around him. the smell of cinnamon and butter, the kind that settles into a home after years of holiday mornings and late-night baking; the old family photos lining the staircase, each one a tiny universe of memories he wasn’t there for but wishes he could’ve been; the worn-in couch where you once napped after school, blankets still folded the exact way your mom likes them; even that faint creak in the floorboard by the hallway, the one you warned him about, the one that used to betray every teenage attempt at sneaking out. every detail feels intimate, untouched by the world, like he’s stepping into a place that shaped the girl he loves long before he ever knew her. he takes it all in with this quiet awe, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something important.
and then there’s that look in his eyes as he turns to you and murmurs, “so this is where you grew up…” it comes out gentle, like a confession, like an exhale he’s been holding. you can feel something inside him shift, like he’s finally holding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing. and the moment your family gathers around him, any lingering tension melts away. they don’t treat him like “joe burrow, the star quarterback”; they treat him like your person. your dad gives him a handshake that’s half test, half welcome; your mom pulls him into a hug so sincere he just freezes for a beat, startled by the softness; your siblings eye him up until he fumbles out a nervous little joke that immediately breaks the ice and makes everyone laugh. and he blushes, actually blushes, because it’s the first time he’s been the outsider stepping into your world. but he handles it the way only joe does: with that shy smile, those polite manners, and that quiet charm that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him without even trying.
but the sweetest part is how effortlessly he fits into your family’s traditions. he helps your mom set the table with the same cutlery and dishes you’ve used since your first thanksgiving, listens intently to your little brother explain the rules of a card game he’s never played, and sneaks quiet glances at you from across the kitchen like he’s falling in love all over again, seeing you in your element as you pester your dad about what he wants for christmas. he teases you for the way you still know where everything is—even the charlie brown themed mixing bowls stacked on the very top shelf of the cabinet with the missing screw—and kisses your temple when he passes behind you, as if he can’t help himself. and because he doesn’t like turkey, your mom surprises him with a small glazed ham “just for joe,” and the way he lights up at that, a soft smile on his face, hand squeezing your waist, makes you warm all over. he whispers, “i like her. she gets me,” and you roll your eyes, but he can see the glow in your cheeks.
outside, he lets you pull him into your childhood backyard, the place where you used to build snowmen and climb trees for hours and hours. he listens to your stories about your neighbor’s scrappy dog whose bark sounds more like a bronchitis patient’s cough, about the time you scraped your knee trying to prove you had superpowers, about your first kiss behind the tool shed (which he grumbles about playfully)—as if every detail is sacred, like he can't miss it because it won't be the same. and he kisses you there, under the same branches you once hung fairy lights on when you were twelve, murmuring, low and rough around the edges, “i wish i’d known you back then…how soft you probably were, how damn…perfect. but now, jesus, now i do. and i’m so damn glad i get to. you’re everything i’ve wanted, everything i didn’t even know i needed, and i can’t believe you’re mine,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t wait until everyone leaves to have you all to himself
once the last dish hits the sink and the soft hum of family chatter finally dissolves, joe’s patience snaps like a frayed, over‑pulled thread. he’s been restless for hours, tension coiled tight beneath the table, eyes dark every time you so much as shifted in your chair. his hand kept finding your upper thigh, fingers squeezing once, twice, like little warnings. the back of his knuckles skimmed dangerously high under the napkin, brushing your inner thigh with slow passes that made your breath hitch. and every time you looked at him, he whispered “later” in that quiet murmur that always ruins you, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a promise he’s seconds from cashing in.
the moment the final goodbye leaves someone’s lips, he’s done pretending. he grabs your hand, hooks his fingers through yours and yanks, pulling you down the hallway with a pace so clipped and urgent you have jog a little to keep up. that hungry, crooked grin cuts across his face, the one that screams he’s hanging on by a thread. he’s practically vibrating with excitement, shoulders tight, jaw flexing, every stride carrying this sharp, impatient energy—like he’s two breaths away from throwing you over his shoulder and sprinting.
“you’re not letting me sleep without you…right?” he mutters, voice already rough, already dragging over your skin like heat. “i promised my mom i wouldn’t do anything…indecent under your family’s roof but i just…” he’s flushed and wired as he says it, pupils blown, radiating a wild, relentless need that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night. he doesn’t wait for your answer, he can’t. all you can do is watch him with your mouth slightly open in disbelief, and as the tension crawling under his skin finally breaks loose, and he’s dragging you into your childhood bedroom like he might fall apart if he has to wait another second. the door clicks shut. too loud, too sharp. and before the sound even settles, he’s on you. he pins you against the wood with his whole body, crowding you, caging you in that way that always steals your breath. his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, his kiss all heat and teeth and reckless need. he kisses you like he’s been starving, like every minute at dinner was torture, like he’s trying to make up for all the touches he couldn’t take in front of your family.
his palms frame your jaw, big hands warm and possessive, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a heartbreaking contrast of gentleness—like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or devour you whole. his breath shakes against your lips, his body trembling with everything he’s kept tucked behind polite smiles for hours. and when his forehead presses to yours for half a heartbeat, his voice breaks out in a shaky whisper, “i needed you all night,”.
the room feels impossibly small now. your old posters taped crookedly on the walls, your twin mattress buried under the floral comforter your mom insisted “was good enough until you left for college.” joe’s eyes flick to the bed for a fraction of a second, then back at you, teeth clenched, chest heaving, every inch of him shaking with the need to sink into you. you can see it—the raw, feral edge of him, famished and unhinged, and it drives a shiver through your core. “this is gonna be fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, voice deep, sinful, “but i do not care,”.
his hands rip under your shirt, fingers grazing your ribs, leaving flutters throughout your body in their wake, teasing higher and higher until his thumbs roll over your perky nipples, tugging just enough to make your chest arch, your gasp muffled into his mouth. your back presses against the door, every nerve alive, and he groans, a sound like gasoline on fire, hot and rough and filthy. “jesus, you’re perfect,” he rasps, lips dragging across your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, sucking and licking, claiming. he shoves you toward the bed, and the second your back hits the mattress, it screams, a loud, undeniable creak, and you both freeze, grinning like lunatics. “quiet, baby,” he hisses, breath hot against your ear, “or they’re gonna hear exactly how much you missed this cock,”.
one hand slams over your mouth, while the other slides down your stomach, palms cupping, gripping, teasing anything he can, before yanking your thigh open for him. the instant he pushes in, achingly slow, yet so so so perfectly, you arch, a broken, muffled moan pressing into his hand. every inch of him consumes you, stretching you, filling you to the brim with that perfect, sinful precision you’ve come to worship. joe’s pace is relentless, controlled but merciless, a rhythm built on pure, brutal want. the bed squeaks each time your pelvis meets his, every creak a sharp, wicked punctuation to the moans spilling out of you. the risk of being caught, of someone hearing, fuels him, makes him grip your thigh tighter, drives him over the edge faster. curls damp at the temples, jaw clenched, eyes pinned to where your bodies collide like he’s watching live art. “shh…fuck, shh, i know, i know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with lust. “i’ve got you. take it. take all of me,”.
you can barely breathe as he fucks you with that perfect, relentless rhythm he’s perfected with you—deep, exact, hitting every sweet spot over and over until your thighs shake, every nerve raw with sensation. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails claw into his shoulders, hips grinding involuntarily as he slams in, hard, merciless. he groans into your neck, low, filthy, “god…you’re so tight for me…i swear, baby, you get even tighter when you try to be quiet, fuck,”.
your whimpers burn hot against his palm, each thrust making the bed frame squeal, every creak a delicious promise. “yeah? that feel good?” he pants, voice fraying. “that good you can’t think about anything but this cock?”. you nod into his hand, another broken whine escaping, “oh, joey please,” and he bites your shoulder to swallow his own moan, hips snapping harder, pulling deeper, faster, harder. fingers digging into your hips like he can’t let go, can’t get enough, can’t stop claiming you.
“you’re mine,” he growls, deep, guttural, words vibrating over your skin. “all mine…in your squeaky fuckin’ bed…jesus christ, i can’t get enough,”. he drives into you deeper, so deep it feels like you see stars, your body trembling, quivering, locking around him, each muscle taut, toes curling, breath shattering in your chest. his pace turns ruthless, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that leaves no air in your lungs, no room for anything but him. and fuck—he loves it. loves how ruined you are beneath him, how you give and take and tighten with every stroke.
“look at this,” he pants, one hand sliding to your stomach, pressing there just enough to feel the outline of him inside you. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches the way your body swallows him. “you’re taking me so deep, baby. so fuckin’ deep,”.
your tits bounce with every thrust, full, perfect, irresistible, and he can’t stop staring, can’t stop the desperate sounds ripping out of him every time they move for him.
and the room? god, the room is obscene.
wet, slick sounds fill the space, each thrust a loud, messy clap of skin against skin. your bedframe hits the wall with every movement, loud enough that the two of you should care—should remember that anyone walking up the stairs right now would hear every filthy second. but neither of you even think about stopping. you’re both too far gone, too lost in the heat, in the rhythm, in the way his body claims yours and yours claims him right back. loud, messy, unapologetic, and utterly, beautifully unrestrained.
your orgasm tears through you in a way that feels almost merciless. a slow burn that turns your body to mush all at once, tightening around him so sharply he swears under his breath. it’s not the kind of climax that hits and fades; it blooms, unfurling in waves that keep cresting no matter how hard you gasp for air. your nails drag down his back, your thighs trembling around his hips as your whole body arches into him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper, hold him there, keep him there. joe feels every ounce of it, the way your walls flutter and clamp around his cock, the way your breath stutters into his mouth, the way your voice breaks when you try to say his name but can’t get past the sound of yourself falling apart. his rhythm falters because he’s obsessed with the way you come for him, how greedy your body gets, how wet you get, how you tighten like you’re made to finish on him.
and he loses it. his hips stutter. his breath turns into pants. he grips your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something soft, something you. a low, guttural curse grinds out of him just before he presses in all the way. a deep, helpless thrust that forces a shocked moan from both of you. he comes hard, the kind of helpless, bone-deep release that rips a groan straight from his chest. it hits him in a full-body shudder he can’t even pretend to control, his forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering against your lips like he’s trying to inhale you just to stay on this earth.
the heat of him floods you in thick, heavy spurts, each pulse sinking deeper than the last, and he doesn’t stop—he can’t. he keeps rolling his hips through every trembling wave, slow and desperate, chasing the feel of your body clenching around him. like he needs to feel every last contraction, every flutter of your pussy milking him through the end of his orgasm. like stopping would actually break him.
“fuck…baby…,” his voice is wrecked, raw with pleasure, the words barely forming as his lips drag over your cheek, your jaw, wherever he can reach. he can’t stay still. he can’t stop kissing you, touching you, losing himself in the warmth of your skin while his body keeps spilling the last of his release into you. “you’re…god, you’re unreal,”.
even when the high finally fades, when his breath slowly starts to find a rhythm again, he doesn’t pull away. he stays buried inside you like there’s nowhere else he could possibly exist. his hand slides down to your hip, thumb tracing lazy, loving circles against your skin. gentle now. almost tender. he’s still dizzy, still floating, trying to wrap his head around how completely you undo him every single time. how you make him fall apart, how you put him back together, how he never wants to stop feeling like this.
and the way he softens inside you, still warm, still deep, still holding on…it tells you everything his ruined breath can’t.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives spontaneous, ESPN-level commentary to your entire family while watching the game
your grandma asks an innocent, perfectly harmless question—“why did that man run backward?”—and joe’s world flips into full broadcast mode. he snaps upright from the couch like a quarterback calling an audible, grabs the remote as though it’s a telestrator pen, and rewinds the play with the kind of intensity that makes your aunt jump. suddenly, he’s talking with the cadence of a seasoned analyst, breaking down cover‑2 vs. cover‑3 like he’s giving a ted talk in a packed lecture hall. every hand gesture is precise, punctuated with little emphases: a finger pointing, a palm slicing through the air, even picking up a charcuterie knife to illustrate leverage like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
he paces a little, leaning into the screen, voice rising and falling with dramatic pauses that make your family nod along politely, trying to appear engaged while you’re internally dying of laughter. he points out angles, gaps, and player tendencies, sketching imaginary lines between defenders with absolute authority, and occasionally mutters things like, “see, that’s basic spacing, any rookie could understand this,” before flicking his gaze to your stunned relatives. your uncle chuckles nervously, clearly impressed but mostly terrified at joe's quarterback brain, while you can’t stop grinning at the utter, unfiltered joy he radiates.
finally, after eight straight minutes of running commentary, theatrical gestures, and unsolicited analysis, he leans back, grabs his cider, and takes a casual sip like he didn’t just hijack the entire dining room into a miniature studio broadcast. “so yeah,” he concludes, voice calm, almost smug, “that’s why the run game’s dead,” and the room collectively exhales, equally entertained and exhausted. you glance at him, shaking your head, because of course he’d turn your family dinner into prime‑time football, and of course it’s the most him thing ever.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets pissy when the quarterback throws an interception
he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the second the other QB tosses a pick, joe’s instantly crashing out, evaluating every movement like a coach grading a practice tape. shoulders tense, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his drink like he’s drawing up coverages in the air, muttering under his breath, “can’t throw late over the middle…what are we even doing?” his eyes narrow, flicking to the screen, scanning footwork, timing, every single subtle detail like he’s already seeing the replay in slow motion. you lean over, smirking, and tease, “you wanna go teach him?” and joe freezes just long enough to give you that dangerous, low-key smirk—one brow raised, lips curling, eyes dark and amused, that quiet, don’t-test-me energy that says he could, and he might, if you pushed him. “i could,” he mutters finally, voice low and steady, “that’s the problem,”. and the way he leans back in his chair, shoulders stiff but proud, like he’s daring anyone to challenge him, makes you laugh and shake your head—because of course he’s exactly this type of insane about football, even on a holiday, and somehow, somehow, it’s one of the things you love most about him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...wants nothing more than a lazy day on the couch with you the day after thanksgiving
he pulls you onto his lap the instant you sit down—no hesitation, no adjustment period, just a quiet, instinctive need to have you close. his hands settle on your hips first, guiding you into place, then slide down to drape over your thighs, palms wide and warm, thumbs tracing lazy, absent-minded circles that make your whole body soften against him. he tucks his chin into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, breathing you in like he’s been missing you all day even though you’ve been in the same house. his arms settle around your waist, loose but protective, the kind of hold that tells you he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.
the tv hums in the background, black friday football, the usual chaotic noise, but it barely registers to him. he isn’t leaning forward after big plays, isn’t muttering stats, isn’t yelling at referees. his eyes flick to the screen only out of habit, but every time he does he ends up drifting back to you, lips brushing your jaw or your cheek like he’s hypnotized by your beauty and your presence.
he’s warm against you, so warm it feels like he’s sinking into you, melting into this little cocoon you’ve accidentally built together on the couch. he murmurs quiet jokes into your shoulder, dry little observations about commercials or commentators that make you smile without even meaning to. and every few minutes, in the breaks between plays he’s not really watching, he tilts his head just enough to kiss your temple, your jawline, that soft spot beneath your ear. those kisses get slower as the game goes on, lingering, sweet, full of a kind of affection that makes your chest ache. one of them lands on your neck—soft, deliberate—and he stays there, lips resting against your skin like he’s gathering courage for the words that follow.
“i love thanksgiving now,” he whispers, voice low, almost shy in its sincerity. his breath warms your skin. “you know that, right?”.
you feel something ease in him as he says it, like he’s finally letting the truth out. “you just…you make it special,” he continues, another kiss pressed to the curve of your shoulder. “you make it something i actually care about,”,
his arms tighten around you, not possessive—just certain. content. full. and you can feel it all: the weight of his gratitude; the quiet, unshakable comfort he finds in you; the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s anchoring himself there; the way he breathes a little easier when you lean your head back onto his shoulder.
it’s soft. it’s intimate. it’s domestic in a way that feels sacred. he holds you like this is his favorite place in the world. and like thanksgiving finally means something because it’s a day he gets to spend wrapped around you and spend every single second being grateful to the universe that you came into his orbit.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets horny the second the world slows down
the shift always begins in the quiet. the moment the house exhales—leftovers tucked away, the echo of family chatter fading into memory—something in joe unwinds just enough for another instinct to take its place. he watches you move through the soft, dim glow of the living room, the tv humming low, shadows slipping over your skin, and his restraint simply…dissolves. he comes up behind you with that slow, certain step he gets when he’s already made up his mind, sliding an arm around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. his chest presses to your back, his breath a lazy brush against your neck before his lips find that place just beneath your ear. he kisses you there first, knowing how it always sends butterflies through your stomach, and when you soften against him, he releases a quiet, shaky sound he’d never admit to. his hands slip beneath your shirt with a hunger he’s been holding back since noon, fingers splaying wide over your stomach, your ribs, your hips, mapping you like he’s relearning you.
“we’ve got the whole night,” he murmurs against your skin, voice already deep, already ruined, already gone for you. and when you whisper his name, barely a breath, he shudders, tightening his hold like that single sound snapped the last thread of his control.
you don’t stay on the couch. you don’t stay pressed against the patio door. you don’t stay anywhere for long. he kisses you through the hallway like a man dragged under, pinning you to the wall with a groan when you tug at his hair, the kind of sound that vibrates through you and leaves your knees unsteady. he walks you backward toward the bedroom with the singular focus of someone starved, hands gripping, sliding, claiming every inch they touch.
by the time you reach the doorway, you’re already gasping, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands pushing beneath your clothes like he needs skin, needs heat, needs you. and when he finally gets you onto the bed, when he crawls over you with that slow, predatory confidence, it’s like the air thickens. the world narrowing to the drag of his lips down your chest, the way his fingers trace the waistband of your underwear like a promise he intends to ruin. his voice drops to something gravelly, sinful, as he whispers, “been thinking about this all day…about you all day,” before kissing down your stomach, your hips lifting helplessly into the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a sound from you that makes him curse under his breath.
and later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe lifetimes have passed—he’s above you again, chest pressed to yours, body fully, desperately aligned with yours as he pushes into you with slow, devastating purpose. his hands cradle your jaw as if he’s trying to watch every single reaction he pulls from you, pupils blown wide, hair falling in his face, breath shaking each time you clench around him. every thrust drags a new sound from your throat, and joe drinks them in like they’re oxygen, murmuring your name in a tone that borders on worship. he moves like a man who’s been deprived of touch for days, deep, deliberate, a little rough, a little sweet, utterly obsessed, his mouth finding your shoulder, your lips, your chest, leaving lazy, possessive marks he’ll admire in the morning. the quiet of the night only amplifies everything: the slap of skin, the low growls slipping from his throat, the gasps he pulls from yours. and when he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling as he mutters, “so fuckin' good for me, so thankful for this pussy, fuck,” you realize he isn’t teasing. he’s unraveling, falling apart, breaking open entirely for you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...absolutely refuses to set foot in a store on black friday
the moment you mention black friday, his whole body goes rigid. like every muscle locks at once. eyes going comically wide, pupils blown in sheer, primal alarm. it’s the same look he gives when a blitzing linebacker comes out of nowhere, except this time it’s the thought of fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers, and half-off appliances that has him silently begging the universe for mercy. “are you insane?” he mutters, taking a full step back as if you’ve just threatened him with bodily harm. his hands come up in self-defense, palms out, head shaking slowly like he’s processing a traumatic memory. “no. absolutely not. i’m not fighting an elderly woman in skechers for a half-priced toaster oven,”. his voice is a wild mix of disbelief and genuine fear, the kind that says he has seen things…horrors…unhinged bargain hunters…and he will not go back.
but then you pout. soft, subtle, the slightest tilt of your lips, the almost imperceptible lift of your gaze, and it’s the look he has never once been able to resist—those eyes, wide and innocent, that somehow hold both mischief and pleading all at once. joe’s whole face fractures in that instant; the dread he’d been carrying melts, edges softening like ice pressed under a heat lamp, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in a slow, audible surrender. he exhales, long and labored, a sound thick with preemptive defeat, like he already knows he’s lost before the words have even formed in his mouth.
without a word, he closes the distance, letting instinct guide him. his hands land on your waist, strong but careful, drawing you effortlessly into his chest. the familiar pull, the magnetic weight of him, wraps around you, and you feel it—the quiet inevitability of him, the way he claims the space around you without ever needing to announce it. he bows his head, forehead brushing yours for a heartbeat, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—the kind that steadies him more than it steadies you, calming him before the storm of his surrender. “fine,” he murmurs finally, the word heavy, drenched in melodrama, a small groan of protest hidden in the cadence. “we can go.” his voice cracks just slightly at the edges, like it’s painful to admit defeat, and yet there’s something tender in the way he says it, as though every ounce of his theatrical agony is only for you to witness.
then he straightens, meets your gaze with the seriousness of a man about to enter the hunger games. “but i am not running. not touching anyone. not making eye contact. i am a spectator only…you’re responsible for all human interaction,”. each word is spoken like a legally binding contract he’s unwilling to renegotiate. and yet, beneath all that theatrical reluctance, a glimmer sparks in his eyes, a tiny wicked shine he can’t hide. the faintest twitch of a smirk. because he loves this. loves hovering behind you with a hand on your hip, loves grumbling under his breath at the chaos, loves pretending he’s miserable just so you’ll laugh and tug him closer. he’ll complain the entire time, sure, but he’ll be glued to your side, muttering snarky commentary, acting like your grumpy, overprotective shadow…secretly having the time of his life just being there with you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...looks intimidating enough that no one bumps into you
he trails behind you through the chaos of the mall, hood pulled up over his beanie, glasses on, shoulders broad and stiff like he’s on his way to a game instead of shopping for discounted candles. his hands stay buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that naturally terrifying don’t even think about it way he gets when he’s in public and hyper-focused on you. people take one look at him—six‑foot‑four, built like a greek tragedy, radiating silent menace—and immediately part like the sea. you’re weaving through crowds like you’ve got a vip escort, not because you asked for one, but because your boyfriend looks like he could bench-press emotional damage and fight for sole custody of the mall. he leans down just enough for you to hear him over the noise, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “see that?” he murmurs, “i’m useful,”.
and the worst part is? he’s kind of proud of it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives brutally honest, judgmental commentary on every black friday shopper
he’s quiet at first, just observing. then the sighs start. loud, drawn out, dripping with disgust. “oh, great, she’s elbowing children for a vacuum she can get off amazon on sale on any other random weekday,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like the entire mall is personally offending him by their lack of intelligence.
he doesn’t hold back. every cart that crashes into another? commentary. every slow walker in the aisle? critique. the guy hoarding the electronics? “wow. selfish and bald. perfect combo,” he smirks at you, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring you to challenge him. “i mean, really. what’s his strategy here? just crush everyone in his path?”.
and the shoppers don’t even know it, but he’s scowling, muttering, judging like he has nothing better to do. he whispers running narrations to you, low and mischievous: “that one’s gonna regret that cart collision. watch…karma,” and then you see a fight break out in front of you.
every so often, he leans down, lips brushing your ear with that grin that’s half mischief, half deadly seriousness. “i could survive the end of the world,” he murmurs, “as long as i don’t have to deal with these people,” and you laugh, because yeah, he’s ridiculous, but somehow, watching joe watch the chaos is way more entertaining than the chaos itself. he’s judgemental, sarcastic, and just a little bit terrifying—but you secretly love it. black friday wouldn’t be the same without him narrating the apocalypse in real time.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...hates every second and is so dramatic about it
he is unbearable in the funniest, most joe way possible. like a man personally wronged by the concept of consumerism. he sighs with the full weight of every burden he has ever carried, loud and theatrical, the kind of exhausted exhale a dying victorian widow would give after discovering her husband perished at sea. every time you pause to look at throw pillows? another sigh. every time you compare prices? a groan that echoes down the aisle. he mutters to himself constantly, too “unbelievable…we’re really doing this…i thought we were above this,”.
“this” as in rummaging through the sale rack at the ugg store.
he gives lethal, passive-aggressive looks to anyone who even brushes the corner of his jacket, clutching the single shopping bag he’s agreed to hold like it’s gus boundary. “i’m not carrying more than three bags, babe,” he says in that rigid, no-nonsense tone, as if he’s laying down federal law. but you know him. you know the second you look the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’ll be shoving every bag up his arms like decorative bangles. hell, if your back twinged even once, he’d drop everything just to scoop you up bridal-style and march you through the mall like a knight protecting his queen.
and then halfway through the makeup aisle, surrounded by glittery palettes and overpriced skincare, he leans down with a grim, war-hardened seriousness. “if someone recognizes me and i end up on twitter again, i’m leaving you here,” the delivery is deadpan. cold. chilling. the threat of a man who has been photographed in a mall one too many times (the photo of him with the bath & body works bag gives him nightmares to this day).
he’s joking…mostly.
because even as he grumbles, even as he pretends this is the worst day of his life, his arm stays wrapped firmly, possessively around your waist; tugging you into him every time someone walks too close, keeping you sheltered, tucked against his side like you’re the only thing in the entire store keeping him sane.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...softens instantly when he sees you excited
the second your eyes light up, over a sale sign, a cute display, or even just a pair of fuzzy socks, he melts like someone hit pause on reality. the scowl, the sighs, the grumbling about crowds and chaos? evaporated. his jaw unclenches, shoulders drop, and those sharp, teasing eyes soften into something warm and full, like he’s seeing you in a spotlight made just for you. he steps closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against your waist, and presses a sweet, tender kiss to the top of your head right there in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the curious glances around him. “you’re cute when you’re in bargain mode,” he laughs, his lips grazing your hair as his thumb drifts absent‑mindedly over your hip. when you squeal softly at a matching set of pajamas, holding them up with that little spark in your eyes, he doesn’t even hesitate. he slides the pajamas into the cart, grinning down at you with that messy, boyish pride only you get to see, and leans in to press another quick kiss to your temple, murmuring, “i’d do anything to see you like this. all smiley and loopy,”. even amidst the chaos of the store, he’s fully present, fully yours, completely smitten
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loses it the second you walk into the lingerie store
the second you step inside, a quiet, almost feral grin spreads across his face, eyes darkening with a heat that makes your stomach twist. he’s supposed to be “helping,” or at least waiting outside casually, but the second he sees you browsing, all pretense falls away. his jaw tightens, hands balling into fists at his sides like he’s restraining the kind of hunger that could burn the whole mall down. every shift of his hips, every tightening of his shoulders is loaded with raw, needful energy.
he watches you reach for a delicate maroon lace set, swallowing hard, and his mind floods with you—naked in that fabric, soft and slick against him, hips arching into his hands, breasts pressed to him, toes curling. “holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough, dripping with want, half for himself and half as a warning he can’t resist. his hips twitch subtly, throat dry, pulse quickening as he imagines the way your body will move for him, the moans he’ll hear, the way he’ll taste every inch. every bra, every silk set, every little lace thong—it’s all for him, all for this private, heated fantasy that he can’t wait to make real. his gaze lingers on you, unbroken, almost predatory, and you notice the sharp inhale, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to sink his teeth into you. he swallows again, hips shifting, the need in his eyes unmistakable. you feel it, searing and undeniable—the way his desire practically radiates off him—and it hits you: he’s completely, utterly, unashamedly turned on in the middle of this mall, and it’s all because of you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t resist dragging you into a dressing room
the second you step toward a fitting room, he’s on you—fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar, impatient, i’m‑done‑waiting smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say a word, just guides you backward, steps long and purposeful, until the door shuts behind you with a sharp click that feels louder than it should. before you can even breathe, he’s crowding you back against the mirror, his body flushing against yours like he’s been starving for hours. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s claiming territory he already owns. his tongue slides against yours with hungry precision, tasting, teasing, coaxing an involuntary sound from your throat—just a faint, needy little moan that has his breath catching and his grip tightening. he bites your lower lip with perfect pressure, enough to make your knees tremble, and then he swallows your gasp like he’s craving it.
his hands don’t linger politely; they roam with intent. he drags them under your sweater, palms warm against your stomach before sliding higher, thumbs brushing the curve of your breast through your bra, tracing every shape he’s memorized a thousand times. his fingers trail down your waist and lock onto your hips, pulling you harder against him like he needs your body to keep him anchored. his mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, slow and molten, before finding your throat. every kiss there is filthier, open‑mouthed, messy, hungry, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers threats and promises in a voice frayed with desire. “quiet,” he murmurs, words brushing your pulse, “don’t want anyone hearing how good you feel for me,”.
his body presses into yours fully now, chest to your back as he shifts to kiss the curve of your neck from behind. he nips and sucks deliberately, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make you shiver and grab for him, your fingers curling into his shirt at his shoulders. he slips one hand under your bra, just enough to cup and tease your tit, the slow graze of his thumb sending heat spiraling low through your body. your legs wobble, breath catching, and he just smirks against your skin because he feels it—feels how easily you melt for him, how fast he can undo you. “my gorgeous girl,” he groans into your ear, “every inch of you…just for me,”. his hands slide down again, gripping your hips, pulling you back into him, making you feel the effect you’re having on him, the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding.
and the lingerie you came in to try? completely forgotten. the only thing you can think about is him—his mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off him in waves. every touch leaves you dazed, every kiss steals your balance, every low growl from him shoots straight through you. by the time he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, your lips are swollen, your breathing unsteady, and he’s wearing the slowest, filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. “now,” he whispers, fingertips dragging down the inside of your thigh with sinful softness, “go try something…if you can even think about shopping after that,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...spoils you rotten
he acts like he hates this, but the second you so much as pause in front of something? he’s already reaching for his wallet.
you say you don’t need anything? he buys it anyway, barely glancing at the price tag. “christmas is coming,” he shrugs, like that explains the way he’s filling the cart with everything you even breathe near.
you say something is cute? he doesn’t even let you put it back. “put it in the cart,” he insists, nudging you with his shoulder, that soft little half-smile he gets only with you tugging at his mouth.
you look at something twice? he’s already scanning your expression. the slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers brush the fabric, and he’s stepping closer, voice dropping so only you can hear, “babe. seriously. get it,” and he means it. because he loves giving you things. loves seeing your eyes light up. loves knowing he can make your life easier, softer, sweeter.
he pretends he hates shopping, but he loves treating you. loves it in a way he’d never admit out loud. to him, spoiling you isn’t spending money; it’s showing you in every way he can that you’re his girl, and taking care of you is his favorite thing in the world.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...geeks out over a deal on a lego set he's wanted for months
the moment he spots it on the shelf, he freezes, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure. it’s the lego set he’s been hunting for months, the one he swore he’d never find at a good price. his jaw tightens, a low, excited hum vibrating in his chest, and he crouches slightly to inspect the box like it’s a rare artifact. “no way…is this—,” he mutters, voice barely containing the thrill, “is this the edition with the moving gears?” his fingers hover over the package, trembling slightly as he turns it in his hands, checking every angle, reading the description like he’s deciphering ancient runes.
you watch, half-amused, half-melting, as his usual calm, cool demeanor evaporates. he starts pacing a small circle around the aisle, murmuring calculations to himself about budget, space on the shelf at home, where he’ll display it, how he’ll tackle it in stages. every now and then he glances at you, grin splitting his face like he’s sharing a private victory, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes from finding something you’ve been obsessing over. “babe…this is insane. they’re not supposed to have it,” he whispers, sounding like a younger version of himself with the way excitement is practically seeping out of him, “and it’s…on sale,”.
you can’t resist teasing him, voice playful and sharp. “so…mr. anti-black friday is suddenly all in for a lego set?” you draw out, arching a brow. joe freezes mid-step, box clutched to his chest, and then laughs, a little breathless and sheepish, cheeks warming. “hey…this...this is different,” he stammers, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him, betrays the thrill, the glee he can’t hide.
he catches your eye, his smile wide and uncontainable, and in that moment, you see him completely, unguarded, joy radiating from every gesture. “i mean…look at this,” he says, voice full of wonder and disbelief, shaking his head with laughter. “i can’t even…i have to build it now. i just…i can’t wait,” and as he carefully places it in the cart beside you, it’s impossible not to grin too, because watching him geek out over something he loves this much is like seeing a piece of his soul sparkle.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...collapses dramatically the second you get home
he collapses onto the bed the second you step inside, flopping with the exaggerated theatrics of a soldier finally returning from battle, limbs splayed haphazardly, hoodie half-bunched around his shoulders, hair tousled, chest heaving in dramatic, uneven gasps. the intensity is ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifts. before you can even react, his hand snakes across the bed with that familiar, fumbling determination, finding your wrist and tugging you down beside him, so you fall into a warm, tangled heap—your shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm draped lazily but possessively over you. his nose nudges yours, brushing against your cheek with an intimate gentleness, lips grazing the curve of your temple, and his voice drifts low, rough, and utterly breathless, “worth it…but never again,”.
your fingers thread through the messy strands of his hair, and you tease, “until next year?” the words barely leave your lips before he groans, muffled against your collarbone, the weight of the day melting from him like ice in sunlight. he burrows closer, pressing his body fully into yours, soft now beneath the dramatics, warm and grounding, the contrast between his chaos and tenderness almost too much to bear. “…fine,” he sighs, voice thick with reluctant surrender, the exaggerated theatrics finally giving way to the quiet, steady rhythm of relief.
and in that moment, as his limbs settle and his breathing evens, you feel it. the absolute trust, the raw intimacy of being the one he comes home to, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the undeniable, unspoken truth that in the messiness of his theatrics and the ridiculous collapse of the day, he is completely, irrevocably yours.
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.
pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🤍
wc: 6.2k
an: OKAY! 🤍 I'm so excited to bring you this troupe! A lot of you wanted this so I need you to blow this up please don't let it flop lol 😭 This is for those of you that have been requesting smut with some angst. It's got both, but with a happy ending 🫶
masterlist
You leave him in the kitchen.
You don't think anything of it. Dinner was good. The drive home was good. He had his hand on your thigh the whole way back, thumb moving in that slow, absent rhythm he does when he's content and not thinking about it. You walked in the front door and kicked your heels off, and he caught you around the waist on your way to the stairs, kissed the back of your neck, and told you he'd be up in a minute.
You're upstairs now. In his bathroom. Dress unzipped halfway down your back, makeup wipe in your hand. You can hear him moving around in the kitchen — the cabinet, the fridge, the soft click of a glass on the counter. Familiar sounds. The sounds of his house when you're in it.
You take your time. You like his bathroom. The mirror is bigger than yours. The lighting is better. You hum something under your breath, swipe at your eyeliner, peel your lashes off, and set them on the counter. You're not in a hurry. He's coming up. You'll get in bed. You'll wait for him.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet.
His phone is face down on the counter where he left it when you got home. He hasn't touched it since you sat down at the restaurant. That's not unusual. He doesn't half-live with you. When you're there, he doesn't check scores at the table, doesn't scroll between courses, doesn't pull it out in the car. You get all of him. You always do.
He picks it up now.
It lights up in his hand before his thumb hits the screen — notifications stacking on top of each other, a missed call, three texts in the same thread.
Sam: dude.
sam: [screenshot]
And underneath, in another thread:
Trey: LMAOOOO bro 😭 soft launching???
He opens Sam's first.
The screenshot fills the screen, and he stands in his kitchen, a water glass in his other hand, looking at it.
Your story. Still up. The pasta you ordered, the candle on the table, the wine glass half-empty. And in the corner of the frame — his hand. His wrist. The bracelets he's been wearing since forever.
He doesn't move.
He sets the water glass down. Opens the app. Scrolls to your account. It's still there. Twelve thousand views already. He scrolls down to the comments, and they're already there—is that Joe Burrow's hand? NO WAY, girl, post him fr. I know those fucking bracelets anywhere. Y/N spill.
He locks the phone.
He doesn't call up to you.
He just stands there in the kitchen, jaw tight, one hand flat on the counter, and waits.
—
You hear him on the stairs.
You're in bed already. His t-shirt. Hair up. Phone in your hand because you'd posted your dinner and the story is doing numbers — way more views than you usually get, comments lighting up your last post, your friends sending the fire emoji and asking where you ate. The other comments you've been ignoring. Wait, is that—.Y/N. No way. You saw them. You're not stupid. You scrolled past them on purpose. You're not going to make a thing of it. You're going to let it sit. Let people wonder. That's the move.
You'd been scrolling through it lazily, half-paying attention, half-listening for him.
His footsteps are slower than usual. You clock it, but you don't think about it. You assume he's tired. Dinner ran long. The wine.
He comes through the doorway and stops.
Doesn't get in. Doesn't kick his shoes off the way he does. Doesn't start unbuttoning his shirt on his way to the closet. He just stands there in the frame of the door with his phone in his hand and looks at you.
"Y/N."
Flat. Not the way he says it when he comes to bed. Not the way he said it in the car twenty minutes ago, hand on your thigh.
You look up.
He doesn't say anything else for a second. He crosses the room. Stops at the side of the bed. Holds his phone out.
"Take this down."
You blink at him.
"What?"
"The story," he says. "Take it down."
You sit up a little. The sheet pools at your waist. You take his phone from him, and you look at the screen.
It's your story. Screenshotted. Sent to him by Sam.
You see the pasta. The candle. The wine glass. You see his hand in the corner of the frame, the bracelets, the watch, and your stomach does something small and quick that you don't fully register yet because you're still catching up.
You look back up at him.
—
"Joe."
He doesn't say anything.
"I—" You look down at the phone again. At the screen. At your own story still glowing back at you. "I didn't think it was a big deal."
His jaw works.
"I post my dinner all the time," you say, and you hear it come out a little too fast, a little too defensive, and you don't stop. "Especially when it's good. That's like — that's just what I do, that's a normal thing I do, I wasn't trying to—"
"Y/N."
"—I wasn't posting you, I was posting the pasta, I didn't even—"
"Take it down."
You stop.
You look up at him. He hasn't moved. He's still standing next to the bed, looking down at you, and his face is doing the thing it does in press conferences when someone asks him a question he doesn't want to answer. Closed. Smooth. Nothing is leaking through.
You hand his phone back. Pick up your own. Open the app.
Your thumb hovers.
"Joe, it's literally just your hand."
"Take it down."
"You can't even see your face."
"Y/N."
"It's a hand."
He exhales through his nose. Sits down on the edge of the bed. Doesn't look at you.
"I can't just take it down."
He looks at you then.
"What?"
"I can't just take it down, Joe, that's so embarrassing, people already saw it, it's been up for a while now, if I delete it now everyone's gonna know I deleted it and that's a whole other thing, that's like — that confirms it more than just leaving it—"
"Y/N."
"—if I just leave it up it's a hand, it's nothing, but if I take it down now everyone's gonna be like oh she got told to take it down, and then it's a thing, and—"
"I don't care. Take it down."
—
You go quiet.
You're still holding your phone. Your thumb is still hovering. You haven't deleted anything.
"You don't have to talk to me like that."
He looks at the ceiling.
"Y/N."
"You don't. I'm not — I'm not a child, Joe, you can't just—"
"Then stop acting like one."
It comes out before he can stop it. You can see it on his face the second it lands — the flicker of don't, the half-second where he could've pulled it back and didn't. He doesn't take it back. He just holds your eye.
"Wow."
"Y/N—"
"No, that's — wow. That's what you think?"
"That's not—"
"That's what you think. That I'm — what, that I'm immature? That I'm a kid? You think I'm a kid, Joe?"
"I think you posted me on the internet, and now you're arguing with me about why you can't take the picture down because it would be embarrassing for you."
"It would be embarrassing—"
"You don't get it."
"I get it—"
"You don't."
You're sitting all the way up now. The sheet is twisted around your hips. Your phone is face down on the comforter. Your chest is doing something tight and quick that you're choosing not to name.
"So explain it to me."
He drags a hand over his jaw.
"Y/N."
"Explain it to me, then. If I don't get it. Tell me."
"You know what it is."
"No, I don't, Joe, because to me it's a hand, it's literally a hand, and you're acting like I — like I sold a story to TMZ, like I—"
"You didn't think."
"I did think—"
"You didn't. You sat there at dinner, took a picture, and didn't think about me being in the frame, because if you had, you would've cropped it. That's what I'm saying. You didn't think."
"I—"
"And now Sam knows. And Trey knows. And by tomorrow morning, everyone with a fan account knows where we were, what we were doing, that you were there, that I was there. And you want to leave it up because taking it down would be embarrassing."
You don't say anything.
He looks at you. Then he looks at the wall.
"That's what I mean," he says, quieter. "When I say you didn't think."
You stare at him.
"Why does it matter?"
"Y/N."
"No. Why does it matter, Joe? Like — what is the actual problem? For people know we had dinner? That people can see your hand? What is the — what are you actually mad about?"
"You know what I'm mad about."
"I don't. I really don't. Because if it's just that people saw us, then — I don't get it. We're allowed to have dinner. You're allowed to be seen with me. So what — what is it. Are you embarrassed?"
He looks at you.
"What?"
"Are you embarrassed. Of me. Is that what this is?"
"Y/N."
"Because that's what it sounds like. It sounds like — it sounds like you don't want anyone to know, and you're mad that I — that I gave them a hand, like — is that what this is? You don't want people to know it's me?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what it sounds like."
"That's not what I said, Y/N."
"Then what are you saying. Because I'm sitting here trying to figure out why a hand is a — is the end of the world, and the only thing I can come up with is that you don't want people knowing it was me on the other side of that table?"
He's looking at you. Quiet. Jaw working.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair."
"You know that's not what it is."
"I don't, actually. I don't know that. Because you won't tell me what it is. You're just — you're standing here telling me I didn't think, and that I'm acting like a child, and I'm asking you a real question, Joe, and you're not answering it."
He doesn't say anything for a second.
He sits with it. You can see him sitting with it. The hand that was at his jaw drops to his thigh, fingers spread, and he looks at the floor between his feet.
"That's not what it is."
"Then what is it?"
"I told you."
"You haven't."
"Y/N."
"You haven't, Joe. You've told me I didn't think. You've told me I'm acting like a child. You haven't told me what it is."
"It's that you're twenty-two."
It comes out quieter than the rest. Not cold this time. Just true. He's looking at you.
You feel it land somewhere under your ribs.
"Cool."
"That's not—"
"No, that's cool. That's — okay. Got it."
"Y/N."
You're already pushing the sheet off. You're already swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The t-shirt rides up your thighs, and you don't do anything about it. You stand up. You don't look at him.
"Y/N. Stop."
"I'm not doing this."
"Where are you going?"
"Fuck if I know."
You walk past him. You don't slam the door because you're not — you're not going to be that. You're not going to give him the proof. You walk out of the bedroom and down the hall and into the guest room at the end of it, and you close that door quietly behind you.
—
He doesn't follow.
You grabbed your phone on the way out. You don't remember doing it. It was on the comforter, and your hand closed around it without your permission, and now you're sitting on the edge of the guest bed in the dark with it in your lap.
You don't turn the lamp on. The house is quiet around you. The bedroom door is closed at the other end of the hall, and you can't hear anything through it.
You don't cry. You're too mad to cry. You sit there with your hands flat on your thighs, and you breathe through your nose, and you wait for whatever is going to happen next.
Then you pick up the phone.
You unlock it. The screen is too bright. You squint against it and tap into the app, and there it is — your story. Twelve thousand views. Fifteen now. The pasta, the candle, and his hand in the corner.
You hold your thumb on it.
The little menu comes up. Delete story. You tap it.
Are you sure?
You're sure.
You tap it again. The screen does its little animation, the story disappearing, and then it's gone. Just your other posts. Your dinner from two nights ago. A picture of your friend's dog. A sunset.
You sit there in the dark holding the phone.
You didn't do it for him.
You did it because if he doesn't want to be seen with you, then fine. He won't be. You'll take care of that yourself. You'll be the one who decides who knows what. You'll be the one who erases it. Not him.
You put the phone face down on the bed next to you.
You wait.
You don't know how long. Two minutes. Five. Long enough that you start to wonder if he's going to leave you in here. If he's going to make you come back to him. You don't know which one would be worse.
Then you hear the bedroom door open down the hall.
Footsteps. Slow. The hardwood creaks the way it does in the spot outside the linen closet.
He stops outside the guest room door.
—
The door opens.
You don't look up.
You hear it more than see it — the soft click of the handle, the give of the hinge, the strip of hallway light widening across the floor of the guest room until it touches the bed frame. You sit very still on the edge of the mattress, and you keep your eyes on your hands in your lap.
He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't come in all the way. You can feel him standing in the doorway, weight in the frame. You can hear him breathing. Slow. Long. Like he's been holding it.
"Y/N."
You don't answer.
"Look at me."
You don't.
You hear him take a step into the room. Then another. The door eases closed behind him, and the strip of light goes with it, and you're in the half-dark again, just the spill from the hallway under the door and whatever's coming through the window from the streetlight outside.
He stops in front of you.
You can see his feet. Bare. He took his shoes off at some point. The hem of his pants. You don't look up.
"Y/N."
His voice is different. Lower. Not cold anymore. Not soft yet either. Just quiet. The way he talks to you when he's trying to be careful.
"What?"
"Look at me."
"I don't want to."
"I know."
You stare at his feet.
You can hear him breathing. You can feel the heat of him a foot away from your knees. You can feel the want to lean forward and put your face against his stomach, and the want to push him away with both hands, and you don't know which one is going to win.
"I shouldn't have said it like that."
You don't say anything.
"Y/N."
"You said what you meant."
"I said it cold. I shouldn't have said it cold."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
You finally look up.
He's looking down at you. His face is doing the thing it does when his guard isn't all the way up — that small softening around his mouth, the way his eyes are tired. He hasn't put a hand on you yet. He's keeping them at his side. You can tell that's a choice.
"It's not the same thing," he says again. "Saying it cold and meaning it. They're not the same."
"Then say it warm."
"Y/N."
"Say it warm, Joe. If they're different. Say it warm and let's see."
—
He doesn't say anything for a second.
You can see him looking for it. The way his jaw moves. The way his mouth opens and closes. He's never been good at finding the words when it counts. He's looking for them anyway.
You don't let him find them.
"I deleted it."
He stops looking. He looks at you.
"When."
"Before you came in."
His face does something small. You see it happen. The half-second where he thinks you did it for him. The half-second where his shoulders start to come down.
You don't let him have that either.
"I didn't do it for you."
He goes still.
"I did it because if you don't want to be seen with me, I'll be the one who decides."
He doesn't move.
You can see him taking it in. The way his eyes go a little flat. The way his hand at his side closes around nothing. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Long enough that you start to wonder if you've actually done it now. If this is the part where he leaves the room.
He doesn't leave the room.
He closes the space between you.
His hand comes up, and his palm is on your jaw, his thumb under your chin, and he tilts your face up so you have to look at him. His grip is firmer than it was going to be a minute ago. He's not asking.
You let him.
You haven't kissed him yet. He hasn't kissed you yet. He just stands there with his hand on your face and looks at you like he's trying to find the part of you that did it. The part that sat in here in the dark with your phone in your lap and pressed delete on him before he ever apologized. He's looking for her.
"Y/N."
"What?"
"Look at me."
You're already looking at him.
"Look at me."
You don't know what he means. You hold his eye anyway. His thumb drags along your jaw. Slow. Not soft. Just slow.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't erase me."
You don't answer.
He kisses you.
It's not soft. It's not asking. It's the kiss of someone who just got told something he can't take and is putting it somewhere in his body because he doesn't yet have the words for it. His mouth is hard against yours, and his hand is still on your jaw, and the other one comes up and grabs the back of your neck, and you don't kiss him back at first.
You make him work for it again.
He doesn't pull back this time. He just kisses you harder. Until your mouth opens under his. Until your hand comes up off the comforter and grabs the front of his shirt because you have to hold onto something. Until you kiss him back because the alternative — not kissing him back — has stopped being available.
He pulls you up off the edge of the bed by the back of your neck. You're standing. You're chest to chest. His other hand is on your hip, fingers spread, and he's pulling you in against him, and you can feel him through his pants, and you can feel his breath hot and fast against your mouth, and his control isn't where it was an hour ago. It's not anywhere. He's not pretending anymore.
"Joe."
"Don't talk."
"Joe—"
"Please, Y/N."
You don't.
He pushes you back. Your knees hit the mattress, and you sit. He stays standing. His hand goes from your neck to your hair, and he's holding it at the root, not tight, but enough that you have to keep looking up at him.
He looks down at you for a second.
Then he kneels.
—
He puts his hands on your knees. Pushes them apart. The t-shirt — his — rides up your thighs, and he doesn't help it. He looks at you sitting there in nothing but his shirt with your legs open in front of him, and his jaw works once.
"Joe."
"Shhhh."
He puts his mouth on the inside of your knee.
You don't make a sound. You're not going to give him sound yet. You're still mad. You hold onto the comforter on either side of you, and you watch him because watching is the only thing you have left, and you're not going to close your eyes for him.
He works up the inside of your thigh. Slow. He's not rushing. He kisses the soft skin above your knee and then higher and then higher, and when his mouth gets to the crease of your thigh, you can't help it — your hips shift. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.
He stops.
Looks up at you.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"Y/N."
"I'm fine, Joe."
He looks at you for another second. You don't soften. He goes back to your thigh, and this time he doesn't stop at the crease. He pushes your knees wider with both hands and pulls you forward by the hips until you're right at the edge of the mattress, and his mouth is on you.
You make a sound then. You can't help it. It's short and bitten off, and you hate that you made it.
He doesn't acknowledge it.
He doesn't tease. He doesn't draw it out. He goes at you like he's been thinking about it the entire fight, like the whole time he was standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight, he was also thinking about this. His tongue is hot, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough that you're going to have marks tomorrow, and you can hear yourself breathing now, fast, uneven, and you don't try to be quiet anymore.
Your hand comes up to his hair. You don't mean to. You grab it.
He groans against you, and you feel it in your whole body.
"Joe—"
He doesn't stop. He hooks one of your knees over his shoulder and pulls you closer, and his arm comes across your hips to hold you in place because you're not staying still anymore. You can't. Your back is starting to arch, and your head is going back, and your hand in his hair is gripping harder than you mean to be gripping, but he doesn't seem to mind; he's not slowing down, he's not letting up.
"Joe — Joe—"
"Mm."
"I'm—"
"Mm."
"Joe—"
He pulls back half an inch. Just enough to look up at you. His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark.
"Tell me you're mine."
You stare at him.
"What?"
"Tell me you're mine."
"Joe—"
"Say it, Y/N."
His arm tightens across your hips. His other hand is still gripping your thigh. He's looking up at you from between your legs, and his mouth is right there, and his breath is hot, and he's not going to give it back to you until you say it.
"I'm yours."
He waits.
"I'm yours, Joe."
He puts his mouth back on you.
—
He doesn't pace it now. He goes hard and steady, and his arm is still locked across your hips, and his hand is still gripping your thigh, and you're not breathing anymore, you're just making sounds, you're just holding onto his hair, and the comforter and your back is arching and your eyes are closing whether you want them to or not.
It happens fast.
You don't get a warning. One second you're chasing it, and the next it's already happening, the wave breaking, your whole body going tight under his mouth and his hands, and your knee tightening on his shoulder, and the sound that comes out of you isn't a word, isn't anything, it's just sound.
He doesn't stop until you stop.
He works you through it slowly. His grip on your thigh loosens. His arm at your hips eases. When you finally let go of his hair, he kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, and then again, and then he sits back on his heels and looks up at you.
You're trying to catch your breath.
He's watching you do it.
His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark. His t-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders from where he's been braced. He looks like a man who hasn't gotten what he came for yet.
He stands up.
You can hear him breathing, too, now. His hands go to his belt. He doesn't look away from you while he does it. He gets the belt loose, and the button and the zipper, and he pushes everything down at once and steps out of it, and his shirt comes off over his head in one motion, and then he's standing in front of you, and you're sitting in his t-shirt on the edge of the guest bed, and your legs are still open.
"Up."
You don't move.
"Y/N. Up."
You stand. Your legs are still shaking from coming. You wobble, and his hand is on your hip before you can fall, holding you. He reaches down, grabs the hem of his t-shirt, and lifts it. You raise your arms. He pulls it off over your head and drops it on the floor.
You're naked.
He looks at you.
For a second, he doesn't move. He just looks at you in the half-dark in the guest room, and his face is doing something you can't fully read. Not soft. Not cold. Just — looking. Like he's making sure.
Then his hand comes back to your jaw.
"Get on the bed."
You get into bed.
You back up onto it on your hands, and you go until your shoulders hit the headboard, and you sit there with your knees up and your eyes on him, and he's standing at the foot of the bed watching you do it. He puts one knee on the mattress. Then the other. He crawls up between your legs slowly, deliberately, his hands on either side of your hips, his eyes on yours the whole time.
He stops when his face is above yours.
He hasn't kissed you yet.
"You okay?"
You nod.
"Say it."
"I'm okay."
"Y/N."
"I'm okay, Joe."
He kisses you then. Hard. You can taste yourself on him, and you don't care. His hand slides down between you and lines up, and he's looking at you the whole time, his other forearm braced by your head, his face an inch from yours.
He pushes in.
—
You take him in one long exhale.
He goes slowly. Slower than you expect after everything. His forearm is still braced beside your head, and his other hand is on your hip, holding you steady, and he sinks in inch by inch and watches your face the whole time. Your eyes close. He says your name.
You open them.
"There you go."
He's all the way in. He doesn't move for a second. He just stays there with his forehead against yours and his breath coming hot and uneven and his hand on your hip flexing once, twice, like he's holding onto something he's afraid of losing.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. The kind of pace that's not about chasing anything — it's about reminding you. His hips pull back and push in, and your hands come up to his shoulders and his back and his hair, and you can't keep them in one place. He's heavy on top of you. He's warm. He smells like the cologne he wore to dinner, fainter now, and like him underneath it.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
You're already looking at him. He knows that. He says it anyway. His face is close enough that you can see his lashes. The flecks in his eyes. The way his mouth is parted.
"You're twenty-two."
You don't say anything.
He doesn't break his rhythm. He's still moving in you slowly, and his eyes are still on yours, and he says it again, quieter.
"You're twenty-two."
"Joe—"
"I'm saying it differently."
You feel it land. You feel it in your chest before you feel it anywhere else. He's not weaponizing it now. He's looking at you and saying the same word he said in the bedroom, and meaning a different thing with it. You don't know what the different thing is yet. You don't have to know yet. He's not asking you to know yet.
He kisses you. Slow. Wet. His tongue in your mouth and his hand sliding up your side and his hips still working into you, and you feel the first crack of it then — the thing in your chest that's been held tight since the kitchen. The thing that made you delete the post. The thing that's been bracing for tonight for months.
You make a sound against his mouth that isn't pleasure.
He hears it.
He pulls back half an inch. Looks at you. You don't know what your face is doing. You can feel water on it. Not crying. Just water.
His hand comes up. His thumb brushes under your eye.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"Y/N."
"I'm fine."
"Look at me."
You look at him.
"I've got you."
That's what does it.
You don't sob. You're not going to sob. But something in you lets go — the held thing finally easing, your shoulders dropping into the mattress, your hand on the back of his neck pulling him down because you need him closer, you need him heavier, you need his weight on you because if he's on you, he can't leave the room.
He goes. He drops his weight onto you. His forehead is at your temple, and his arm comes under your shoulders, and he's holding you down against the bed and moving in you slower now, deeper, and you can feel the change in him too. He's not making a point anymore. He's not claiming you. He's just here.
"Joe—"
"I know."
"Joe—"
"I'm so sorry, baby."
He says it like that. Baby. Low. He says it when his control is gone, and his control is gone now. His hips are getting heavier. His breath is getting shorter. You can feel him losing it in slow pieces — the rhythm getting less clean, his hand at your hip gripping harder, the sound he makes against your neck low and ragged.
"Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Stay with me, Y/N."
"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
You don't know if you say it three times or thirty.
He comes hard. His whole body locks up against yours. His face is in your neck, and his hand on your hip is bruising, and he's saying something you can't quite catch, something low, and his hips push into you one last time and stay there.
He doesn't move.
You don't either.
His weight is on you, and his breath is hot against your collarbone, and your hand is in his hair, and the room is dark, and the t-shirt of his is on the floor somewhere, and the comforter is half off the bed, and outside the window, a car goes by on the street, and neither of you moves.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
—
He's the one who moves first.
He doesn't go far. He shifts his weight off you, slow, careful, and rolls onto his side. His arm stays under your shoulders. He pulls you with him. You end up on his chest with your leg thrown over his and your hand flat against his sternum and his hand on the small of your back.
The room is so quiet.
You can hear him breathing. You can feel his heart under your palm. He's still catching his breath, and so are you, and neither of you has said anything yet.
You don't want to be the one who says it first.
You wait.
His hand moves up your back. Slow. Spread. He's not stroking it. He's just keeping it there, palm flat, like he wants to know you're solid.
"Y/N."
"Mm."
"That wasn't — " He stops. You feel his chest move. "What I said in the bedroom. That wasn't about you."
You don't move.
"Y/N."
"I'm listening."
He doesn't go again for a second. You can hear him thinking. You can feel his chest moving under your cheek, the way he's working something out, and you wait for it because you can tell he's not done.
"It's been in my head," he says. "Your age. It's been in my head the whole time we've been together, and I haven't told you that."
You don't say anything.
"Not because there's anything wrong with you. There's nothing wrong with you. You're not — you're not a kid. You're twenty-two, you're an adult, you know what you're doing. That's not — that's not what I'm saying."
He stops. His hand at your back has gone still.
"I'm saying it's in my head. It's mine. I'm twenty-nine, and you're twenty-two, and I keep doing the math in my head about it. Like I'm trying to find the thing that makes it okay. And tonight I — when Sam texted me, and I came up the stairs, I was already — I was already thinking about it. About the math. And then you said I can't just take it down, and it would be embarrassing, and I — I used it. At you. Because it was already in my head."
He stops again.
"I shouldn't have done that."
You don't say anything.
"It's not your thing to carry," he says. "It's mine. And I made you carry it tonight."
You're quiet.
His hand starts moving again. Slow. Spread. His thumb finds the dip at the base of your spine and stays there.
"I'm working on it."
"Okay."
"Y/N."
"Okay, Joe."
You don't say it warm. You can't yet. You give him the word and you mean it, and that's the most you can do right now. He takes it.
You lie there.
You don't know how long. His hand on your back. Your hand on his chest. The window across the room, the streetlight outside, the car that goes by every few minutes, the quiet of the house, and the quiet between you.
You're the one who says it.
"I knew you were going to look at me like that one day."
His hand stops.
"What?"
"Like — " You don't finish. You don't have to. He gets it. You can feel him get it. His hand starts moving again, slower than before. His other hand comes up, and his fingers find your hair.
"I'm sorry, baby."
You don't say anything.
"I don't look at you that way."
You let it sit.
You think for a second he's done. That he's not going to say anything else. You're okay with that. You've gotten more from him tonight than you usually get, and the silence is its own kind of answer.
Then he says it.
"You make the room bigger."
You don't move.
"Y/N."
"I heard you."
"Okay."
You're quiet.
You feel him breathing. You feel his hand on your back. You feel his fingers in your hair and his thumb against your scalp and his heart steady under your cheek, and you're trying to hold onto it because you know he's not going to say things like that twice.
Except he does.
His voice is so low you almost don't catch it.
"You make me feel alive."
You close your eyes.
You don't say anything back. You don't have words for what to say back. You press your face into his chest a little harder, and his arm tightens around you, and his hand stays in your hair, and that's the answer you have.
You don't know when you fall asleep.
It's not a decision. One second you're listening to him breathe, and the next your eyes are heavy, and the next you're somewhere underneath all of it, drifting, his hand on your hip now, his thumb moving slowly.
He's still awake.
You don't know that. You'll never know that. He'll lie there for another hour with his hand on your hip and his thumb moving slowly over the bone and his eyes on the dark ceiling, and he'll go back through every line of it — the kitchen, the take it down, the twenty-two, the way you sat on the edge of the guest bed and told him you'd erased him.
And then he'll start working it.
Coffee in the morning. You like the oat milk. He's out. He'll send for it before you wake up.
Your friend's birthday next month — you'd mentioned it on the drive home, the trip to Austin, you weren't sure you could swing because of money. He'll book the flight tomorrow. He won't make a thing of it. He'll just tell you the trip is handled.
The math. He has to do something about the math. He doesn't know what yet. He knows he can't keep doing it. He knows he has to figure out where it actually comes from before he can put it down. He'll think about that. He'll keep thinking about it.
He won't sleep.
His thumb keeps moving.
Outside, another car goes by.
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summary founded in 1968, the cincinnati ben-gals are one of the nfl's most prestigious cheerleading squads, known for their rigorous training, impeccable standards, and unwavering professionalism. the organization operates under strict guidelines: punctuality is mandatory, uniforms must be pristine, and most importantly; absolutely no fraternization with players, coaches, or team personnel.
you've built your reputation on following every rule to the letter. two seasons of flawless attendance, spotless uniforms, and zero drama. the organization loves having you, their poster girl for what a ben-gal should be.
but now there's a rumor sweeping through your picture perfect world, and the name they're linking to yours just so happens to be the one you can't afford…
joe burrow.
⟢ timeline
prologue ; a secret language
ch 1 ; tight laces
ch 2 ; don't look at me
ch 3 ; the halo effect
ch 4 ; keep it cute
ch 5 ; off the record / pt 2
ch 6 ; illicit
ch 7 ; control freak
ch 8 ; all eyes on you
epilogue ; pretty when you lie
⟢ all additional related works can be found under the tags: illicit affairs; asks & illicit affairs; blurbs
⋆⠀author's note & warnings: tiny little blurb i wrote a couple weeks ago. fluff, potential language warning.
read more for #9⠀⋆⠀series masterlist.
She let the door leading from the garage into the mudroom drift shut behind her as she placed her keys on her hook next to Joe’s. She slipped out of her shoes—today was an Asics day—and tucked them into the shoe cabinet where they were supposed to go. The last few weeks had begun to feel more like normal. Their time in LA came to an end, capped off with a trip to Baton Rouge for a foundation event at Top Golf and the opening of Joe’s new gym. Now that they were back home in Cincinnati, she could anticipate her fiancé’s whereabouts with confidence.
She could hear his voice floating through the house, on a phone call with someone. It seemed to be a professional call given the way he made sure he sounded moderately cheerful but still evenly mellowed in his tone. She padded down the hallway in her socks, pausing when Colby intercepted her path. She scooped him up with a grin, airkissing his nose.
“I missed you, my baby,” she murmured, continuing toward the bedroom while the kitten purred against her chest. The moment she crossed the threshold, she set Colby free and treaded over to her closet to slip out of her scrubs and into one of Joe’s more modest graphic t-shirts.
Joe’s voice grew louder as he wandered into their room, still mid-conversation. “Yeah, I’ll look at those tonight—”
He stopped when he saw her sprawled across the bed. She didn’t lift her head, but she felt the mattress dip as he sat beside her, his free hand running down her back. After several moments she flipped onto her back, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips when Joe mouthed ‘Hi’ before turning his attention back to whoever was on the phone. She stretched her arms overhead, sinking deeper into the sheets with a silent yawn as Joe continued his call.
Between conversation Joe managed to find chances to mute his side of the call long enough to bend and press a kiss to her forehead or her cheek or eventually her lips while she lay beneath him. She smiled up at him, watching fondly, feeling warmth on her skin underneath the palm he rubbed over her exposed thigh, down to her knee, and back up again.
Joe ended the call with a soft tap of his thumb against the screen, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. The mattress shifted again as he stretched out beside her, his body curling toward hers. She turned her head just enough to catch the wear of the day in the slope of his rigid shoulders.
His head found its way to her chest her fingers already carding through his hair before he’d fully settled. “How was your press conference today?” she murmured, thumb tracing the outside curve of his ear.
Joe made a noise halfway between a sigh and a tired groan, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her stolen shirt. “It was fine mostly. Normal stuff. Got a few questions about you.”
Her fingers stilled in his hair for a second before resuming their slow path from crown to nape. “About me?”
Joe’s nose scrunched against her collarbone, his exhale ruffling the fabric. “Yeah. All horribly phrased, obviously fishing.” He tilted his head just enough to catch her eye, the dry amusement in his voice softening the visible tension in his jaw. “Someone asked if getting engaged changed up my perspective on preseason prep.”
“Horrible question,” she empathized with him through a giggle.
“Terrible,” he agreed, shifting slightly to press his forehead against her sternum. “Flacco hadn’t seen your ring so I showed him a picture.”
She brushed the golden brown hair flopping over his forehead back enough to press a kiss there. “Flacco’s a sweetheart,” she said, kissing his temple next. “I’m glad he’s back.”
Joe released a laugh through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as she scratched gently along his scalp. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting them both in gold.
They lay in mirrored silence for a while: her fingers in his hair, his palm over her ribs rising with each breath. His eyes slowly shut as his breathing deepened. “I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” he murmured.
“Then fall asleep. I’ll be here,” she whispered, kissing the crown of his head. His body molded to hers like they’d been designed to fit this way. She could feel the slow release of tension in his shoulders, before he completely stilled.
