pairings: stoned joe burrow x reader 🍃
wc: 4.1k
an: this one shot was brought to you by that picture of sad papi with what appears to be a preroll in his hand and a lovely anon who peeped it too. stoned joe in his LA era, living his best life, poolside, nowhere to be. this is the softest, laziest, most sun-soaked thing i've ever written and i regret nothing.
warnings: smut (18+ mdni), drug use (marijuana), unprotected sex, stoned sex, outdoor sex, joe burrow being devastating while high
masterlist
Late afternoon. The heat hasn't broken yet. He's stretched out on the lounge chair, legs open, black Alo shorts riding up his thighs, no shirt. A joint between his fingers, already several hits in. His phone is face down on the concrete somewhere near his slides.
You come out with two glasses of pineapple juice—you’d made these little cocktails earlier, pineapple and coconut and whatever else you’d found in his fridge, more experimental than intentional. He takes his without looking, drinks half in one pull, and sets it on the ground beside him.
“That’s good, baby,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather.
Then his hand finds your hip.
“Come here.”
Not a question. Just a tug—fingers hooked into the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling you toward his chair instead of the empty one next to him. You go, because of course you do, settling between his legs with your back against his chest. He’s warm—not just from the sun. He runs hot anyway, and the weed makes it worse. You can feel the heat of him through your whole back, radiating through the thin fabric of your bikini top.
He passes you the joint. You take a small hit, hold it, and cough on the exhale—not as bad as you used to, but still enough that he huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder.
“Getting better,” he says, mouth still on your skin. He takes it back, hits it without effort, and the smoke curls up past both of you and disappears into the afternoon.
Neither of you says anything for a minute. Just the pool filter humming. Someone’s music a few houses over, muffled by the wall—something with a bass line, unidentifiable. A dog barking somewhere far enough away that it sounds more like atmosphere than noise. The high hasn’t hit you yet, but you can feel it at the edges—that first loosening, the way the light starts to look thicker, the way his heartbeat against your back starts to feel like something you could fall asleep to.
His fingers are moving. Your hip, your side, the tie of your bikini bottom. Not going anywhere. Just moving.
Then he starts talking.
———
“Did you know,” he says, and you’re already smiling because nothing good has ever started with Joe Burrow saying did you know while high, “that octopuses have three hearts?”
“I did know that, actually.”
“Three,” he repeats, like you didn’t hear him. His fingers are tracing your arm now, slow and aimless. “And when they swim, one of them stops beating. Just shuts off. So they don’t like swimming because it literally exhausts their heart.”
“That’s why they crawl.”
He goes quiet for a second, and you feel him nod against the top of your head. “That’s why they crawl,” he confirms, like you’ve both arrived at something important.
You take another hit. Smaller this time. Hold it longer. The exhale comes easier, and the high is starting to settle in now, warm and loose, like the sun got under your skin and decided to stay.
“I think about that sometimes,” he says.
“About octopuses.”
“About having three hearts.” His hand has moved to your stomach, palm flat, thumb dragging a slow line above your belly button. “Like, what would you even do with three. That seems like a design flaw. Too many things to break.”
“Or maybe it’s a backup system,” you say. “You lose one, you’ve still got two.”
He’s quiet long enough that you think he’s moved on. Then his arm tightens around you—just barely, just enough to feel.
“That’s a better way to look at it,” he says. Softer now. Not stoned-philosopher soft. Just soft.
The music from the neighbor’s yard has changed to a slower tempo. The ice in your glass is melting. His chest rises and falls behind you in a rhythm that feels like it’s pulling yours along with it.
———
The high is fully in you now. Everything is warm and slow and a little bit golden, like someone put a filter over the whole afternoon. You can feel your own pulse in your fingertips. Every place his skin touches yours buzzes.
He’s been quiet for a while. Not gone—you can tell by the way his fingers keep moving, still tracing those aimless patterns on your stomach. But he’s somewhere in his head, the way he gets when the weed pulls him down instead of out.
“I don’t think about football out here,” he says.
You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you know how rare that sentence is. Joe doesn’t talk about not thinking about football the way other people do. For him, it’s not a complaint. It’s a confession.
“Like, at all?” you ask.
“Not the way I do at home.” His voice is low, unhurried. “In Cincy, it’s always there. Even when I’m not watching film or at the facility. It’s just—running. This background thing that never turns off.”
His thumb has stopped moving on your stomach. He’s pressing his palm flat against you now, like he’s grounding himself through the contact.
“Out here it’s quiet,” he says. “I just wake up, and it’s Tuesday or whatever, and I don’t have anywhere to be, and I just...” He trails off. You feel him exhale against your hair. “I didn’t know I could feel like this.”
You turn your head enough to see his jaw. The clench that usually lives there is gone. Has been gone for weeks, actually, but right now—high and warm and holding you in the sun—it’s so absent it’s almost startling. Like looking at a different version of him. Not a new one. Just one he doesn’t get to be very often.
“Like what?” you ask, quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers start moving again—your hip this time, tracing the string of your bikini.
“Easy,” he says. “I feel easy.”
———
You don’t say anything back. You just settle heavier against him, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder, and his mouth finds your temple like it was already on its way there.
His hand is still on your hip. Still tracing the bikini string. But it’s different now—not aimless the way it was before. His thumb is following the line of it with something closer to intention, dipping just under the fabric, dragging along the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
He might not even know he’s doing it. That’s the thing about Joe when he’s high—his hands get ahead of him and starts doing things his brain hasn’t signed off on yet. And by the time he catches up, he doesn’t stop. Just commits.
You shift against him. Not a lot. Just enough that your hips press back into his, and you feel his breath change against your neck.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says. Low. Not a complaint.
“Doing what?”
His fingers tighten on your hip. “Moving like that.”
“I’m just getting comfortable.”
“Mhm.” His mouth drags from your temple down to the spot below your ear. Not a kiss. Just his lips, parted, resting there. Breathing you in the way he does when he’s high—like your skin is something he needs to memorize. “Real comfortable.”
The hand on your hip slides forward. Slow. Over your stomach, down, fingertips brushing the top edge of your bikini bottoms. He stops there. Not teasing—waiting. Letting the weight of his hand sit just above where you want it, his palm warm and heavy on your skin.
You exhale.
“Joe.”
“Hm?”
“We’re outside.”
He leans in closer, mouth at your ear. “It’s my backyard.”
His fingers slip under the fabric. Not fast—nothing about him is fast right now. Just a slow drag down, and your breath catches hard enough that he feels it against his chest.
“There it is,” he murmurs. Mouth still at your ear. Smug and lazy all at once.
Your hand finds his thigh, gripping, because you need something to hold onto, and he’s all there is. The sun is still on both of you—your skin hot and damp, his chest slick against your back. Everything feels magnified. The calluses on his fingers. The chlorine smell off the pool. The bass line still thumping from somewhere over the wall, low enough that it almost matches your pulse.
He’s not rushing. He’s not even trying to get you there—not yet. Just touching you like he wants to know how you feel right now, in this exact moment, with the sun and the high and his hand between your legs. Curious more than urgent. Like he’s cataloging what makes you shift, what makes you hold your breath, what makes your nails dig into his thigh.
“You’re so warm,” he says against your neck, almost to himself. “You feel different when you’re high. Softer. Like everything’s—” He stops. Presses his mouth to your shoulder. “I don’t know. More.”
You can’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your hips move instead, pressing into his hand, and he groans—quiet, low, more vibration than sound.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”
His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him hard against your lower back. He doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t shift or adjust. He just lets you feel it while his fingers keep moving—slow circles, no pressure, then more pressure, then less again. He’s paying attention the way he always does, reading you like something he wants to get exactly right, except the weed has stripped out all the urgency and left nothing but patience.
Your head drops back against his shoulder. Your eyes are closed. The sun is red through your eyelids, and his breath is hot on your throat, and his hand is moving so slow you could scream.
“Joe.” It comes out broken. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
You reach back, fingers sliding into his hair. “More. I need—”
“I know what you need.” His voice is thick. Honey-slow. “I’ve got you.”
His fingers push into you, and your spine arches off his chest. He catches you—arm tight around your waist, pulling you back against him, mouth open against the curve of your neck.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—”
He doesn’t finish. Just curls his fingers and lets the sound you make finish the sentence for him.
The lounge chair creaks under both of you, and neither of you cares. His fingers are moving with that same unhurried focus—in, curling, dragging out slow enough to make you dizzy. His thumb finds where you need it and presses, and your whole body jerks against him.
“Easy,” he says. The same word he used before, but it means something completely different now. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”
And you do. You feel everything. The high has turned your skin into something electric—every point of contact between his body and yours is buzzing. His chest against your back. His thighs bracketing yours. The arm locked around your waist, forearm pressed flat to your stomach, holding you against him like he thinks you might float away.
You’re making sounds you’d be embarrassed about if you could think. But you can’t think. His fingers won’t let you. Every time you get close to a coherent thought, he changes the angle or the pressure, and it falls apart.
“You’re shaking,” he says against your ear. Not concerned. Pleased.
“Whose fault is that?”
He laughs—low, quiet, stoned. “Guilty.”
Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough that it has to hurt, but he hasn’t said a word about it. His hips are moving in these slow, barely-there rolls against your back, like he can’t help it, like his body is chasing something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
“I want—” you start, but your voice dies when his thumb presses harder.
“Tell me.”
“I want you.”
“You have me.”
“Joe.” You tug his hair, pulling his face closer. “I want you.”
He goes still. Just for a second. His fingers stop, buried in you, and his breathing is ragged against your neck. You feel the moment he decides—the way his whole body tenses and then lets go, like something he was holding onto just snapped.
“Turn around,” he says. Rough. Not a request.
You pull away from his chest, and he lets you—barely. His hands stay on you the whole time, guiding your hips as you shift on the narrow chair, turning to face him, your knees on either side of his thighs.
And there he is.
Red-eyed. Flushed. Lips parted. His hair is a mess from your hands, and his shorts are doing nothing to hide how hard he is. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even touched him yet.
He looks up at you, and his hands settle on your thighs. Heavy. Warm. His thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside, just above your knees.
“There she is,” he says. Half-smile. Completely gone.
Something about the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for you to face him this whole time—cracks you both open. You laugh first, and then he’s laughing too, low and stoned and shaking under you.
His hands slide up. Slow. Over your thighs, your hips, your waist. He pulls you down onto his lap until there’s nothing between you but fabric and heat and the fact that neither of you has moved to fix that yet.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, squinting up at you against the sun behind your head. “It’s stupid. It’s stupid how pretty you are.”
“That’s the weed talking.”
“That’s me talking. The weed just let me say it out loud.”
His fingers find the tie at the back of your bikini top. He doesn’t pull it. Just holds the string between his fingers, rolling it, waiting.
“Can I?”
You nod.
One tug and it falls. He catches the fabric before it drops, pulls it away from you slowly, and tosses it somewhere behind the chair without looking. His eyes don’t leave your body. He stares—openly, unhurried, with none of the composure he usually wears like armor. The weed and the sun and the want have stripped all of it out, and what’s left is just him, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out how you’re real.
His hands come up to your waist. He pulls you closer and presses his mouth to your sternum. Just rests there. Breathing. His thumbs are tracing the underside of your breasts, barely touching, like he’s got all day and plans to use every second of it.
“Joe,” you whisper. Your hands are in his hair again.
“I know.” He kisses your chest. Then lower. Then the curve of your breast, open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly across your skin. “I know. I’m getting there.”
“You’re taking forever.”
“We’ve got forever.” He says it into your skin, simple and stoned and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You reach between you. His stomach tenses under your fingers—a sharp breath, his abs contracting when you trace the line of hair below his belly button and keep going. Your palm presses over him through his shorts, and his head drops back against the chair.
“Fuck,” he breathes. Eyes closed. Jaw slack. His hips push up into your hand without permission, just once, and then he catches himself. Tries to.
“Don’t do that,” you say.
He opens his eyes. “Do what?”
“Hold back.” You press harder. Watch his throat work. “You don’t have to out here.”
Something moves across his face. That same recognition from earlier—like you’ve named a thing he didn’t know he was doing. His hands flex on your hips. His jaw loosens.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”
You lift up enough for him to push his shorts down, and he does—just enough, shoving the waistband past his hips with one hand while the other stays on you. Like he can’t not touch you for even the two seconds it takes.
You push your bikini bottoms to the side. His eyes drop to watch, and the sound he makes—low, almost pained—hits you right in the chest.
“Come here,” he says. Both hands on your hips now, pulling you forward. “Come here, come here.”
You sink down onto him slowly. The high makes everything louder—the stretch, the heat, the way his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks neither of you will notice until tomorrow. His mouth falls open, a strangled groan caught in his throat, and his head drops forward against your collarbone.
“God,” he manages. “Oh, my god.”
You don’t move. Neither does he. Just both of you breathing, adjusting, feeling everything at twice the volume. The sun is hot on your back. His chest is hot against yours. The lounge chair groans under the shift of your weight, and somewhere a car door shuts, and a bird is going off in a tree, and the world is still happening out there, on the other side of the wall, while you sit in his lap and feel him pulse inside you.
His hands slide up your back. Slowly. Fingers spread wide, pulling you into him. He tilts his head up and kisses you—sloppy, stoned, all tongue and no coordination. You can taste the pineapple juice and the weed, and underneath it, just him.
“Move,” he whispers against your mouth. “Baby, please move.”
You do. Slow. A roll of your hips that barely counts as movement, but his whole body responds—hands tightening on your back, breath punching out of him, his hips lifting to meet yours like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
“Just like that,” he says. Barely words. More air than voice. “Fuck. Just like that.”
The pace stays slow because neither of you can make it anything else. The high has turned everything syrupy—your limbs, your thoughts, the rhythm between you. Every time you rise up and sink back down, it feels like it takes a full minute. Like time is moving through honey, and you’re both stuck in it, and neither of you wants out.
His mouth is everywhere. Your throat. Your collarbone. The swell of your breast. He’s not kissing so much as tasting—open-mouthed and wet and unfocused, dragging his lips across whatever skin he can reach. His hands are the same. Roaming. Restless. Up your spine, down your sides, gripping your ass, then back to your hips to pull you down harder.
“You feel—” He shakes his head against your chest. “I can’t. I can’t describe it. Everything is just—”
“I know,” you whisper. Because you do. Your skin feels like it’s humming. Every nerve is dialed up and spread out at the same time, like the weed took everything your body can feel and turned the volume all the way up.
You plant your hands on his chest and push yourself upright. His eyes open—heavy, glassy, red-rimmed—and he looks up at you with an expression so open it almost hurts. No filter. No composure. No, carefully constructed anything. Just Joe, high and sun-drunk and buried inside you, looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.
“Don’t stop,” he says. His voice cracks on it, and he doesn’t care. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
You roll your hips again. Deeper this time. His head falls back against the chair, and his hands clamp down on your thighs—hard, bruising, holding on like the chair might tip and take both of you with it.
The lounge chair is creaking in a rhythm now. Steady and obscene, and you’d laugh about it if you could think about anything other than the way he feels inside you—thick and deep and hitting the exact right place every time your hips meet his.
“Baby,” he grits out. His stomach is tensing under your palms. His breathing has gone short and ragged. “Baby, I’m—”
“I know.” You lean down, mouth against his ear. “Me too.”
His arm locks around your waist. Pulls you flush against him so there’s nothing between you—chest to chest, skin to skin, sweat and sunscreen and chlorine. His hips start moving faster, taking over, fucking up into you with a desperation that doesn’t match anything else about this lazy, hazy afternoon.
“Look at me,” you say, and he does. Immediately. No hesitation. His eyes find yours and stay there—blown wide, barely any blue left, and so completely unguarded that it feels like seeing something sacred.
He comes first. You feel it—the stutter in his rhythm, the way his whole body locks up, his arm crushing you against him as he groans into your neck. Not loud. Just wrecked. A sound that starts in his chest and gets caught somewhere in his throat, and his hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s pressing as deep as he can get and holding you there.
That’s what tips you over. The feel of him letting go—the sound, the grip, the way his face looks when he’s not holding anything back. It rolls through you slow and devastating, starting low and spreading outward until your thighs are shaking against his hips and you’re gasping into his hair and everything goes white and warm and infinite.
———
The pool filter hums. The bird is still going off in that tree. The bass line from the neighbor’s yard has changed to something you almost recognize but can’t name and don’t care enough to try.
Neither of you moves.
His arms are still around you—loose now, heavy, his fingers barely twitching against your lower back. His face is buried in your neck, and his breathing is slow and damp against your skin. You can feel his heartbeat through his chest, still coming down, still faster than normal.
Your forehead is on his shoulder. Your legs are jelly. The sun is on your back, and his hands are on your skin, and you’re pretty sure if someone asked you your name right now, you’d get it wrong.
He speaks first. Barely.
“I can’t feel my legs.”
You laugh—weak, shaky, muffled against his shoulder. “Good.”
“No, like—” He shifts under you and winces. “I think the chair ate my spine.”
“That’s what you get for not going inside.”
“I’m not apologizing for that. I’m never apologizing for that.” His arms tighten. A lazy squeeze. “That was—”
He doesn’t finish. Just exhales. Long and slow and satisfied, the kind of breath that carries the last of the tension out with it.
You lift your head enough to look at him. He’s a mess. Hair going in four directions. Eyes barely open, so red they’re almost pink. There’s a mark on his shoulder that you don’t remember making and a sunburn starting across his nose.
He looks like the happiest person on the planet.
“What?” he says, catching you staring.
“Nothing.” You brush his hair back from his forehead. It’s damp and warm and sticks to your fingers. “You just look really good right now.”
“I look destroyed.”
“Same thing.”
He grins. Slow and crooked and so completely stoned. His hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then stays there—palm against your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.
“Stay,” he says.
“I’m literally on top of you.”
“No, I mean—” He blinks. Slow. “Out here. Don’t go inside yet. Just stay.”
You settle back against his chest. His arms fold around you again, easy, automatic, like his body already knows the shape of this. The lounge chair groans under the rearranging but holds. His chin rests on top of your head, and his thumb draws slow circles on your shoulder.
The sun is lower now. Not setting yet, but getting there—that golden hour light that makes everything look like a photograph. The water in the pool is still. The music has stopped. Even the bird has finally shut up.
“Hey,” he says after a while. His voice is thick with sleep.
“Hm?”
“The octopus thing.”
You smile against his chest. “What about it?”
“Three hearts.” His words are starting to slur, going slow and heavy at the edges. “But they only need one to crawl.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His arms tighten one more time. His mouth presses to the top of your head.
“One’s enough,” he says.
He’s asleep before you can answer. You close your eyes. The sun keeps going. You stay.
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summary: He hadn’t planned on showing up. You never thought you’d see him again. But when fate — and a Halloween party — throws you together, everything you thought you’d moved past comes rushing back. Torn between loyalty, family, and the fire they’ve never been able to ignore, you and Joe must confront the past you tried to bury… and the desire that never really went away.
word count: 8.8k
warning: reader is lois lane! contains smut (unprotected p in v, slight choking, semi-public) & angst. kinda proofread.
authors note: i would have uploaded this sooner but joe had to be a prick and post those pictures at 4am before my first day of placement. him in the joker costume did irreversible damage to me so i needed to get this out on my off day. enjoy!
THE ANNUAL HALLOWEEN BENGALS PARTY was… subdued, if not outright awkward. Music pulsed through the room, drinks gleamed under dim lights, costumes flitted past in flashes of neon and sequins—but beneath it all, a tension hummed like a live wire. The defense and the offense were at odds after the last few games, tension simmering beneath every half-hearted joke and awkward interaction. The team was fractured, and tonight was no exception.
You were honestly surprised the organization had even gone through with it. The Bengals were in shambles. Their star quarterback had been sidelined for most of the season, injuries piling up, losses stacking like unread voicemails. Morale was low, and every mistake on the field had amplified into locker-room drama.
Still, tradition was tradition. One night of pretending everything was fine wasn’t going to hurt. Open bar, loud music, dimmed lights—a temporary escape from the reality that the team was teetering on the edge of collapse.
The media was a whole different beast. They’d found their scapegoat early in the season and weren’t letting go: the defence.
“If the defense had made that stop.”
“If the defense had done their job.”
Week after week, same story, same blame.
If. If. If.
Carter, your younger brother, was a rookie linebacker for the Bengals. It had been a dream come true for him—and for your family, rooted deep in Ohio. You’d stayed in Cincinnati partly for him, partly because it was home.
Carter was many things—annoying, stubborn, and just a little reckless—but he was still your brother. And you could tell it was starting to wear on him. That was the only reason you’d offered to tag along tonight—mostly to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. He was already on thin ice, and the last thing your family needed was for him to get traded halfway across the country.
He’d shown up dressed as Homelander from The Boys, which was both ridiculous and on-brand. Still, he looked like he was finally loosening up, which was all that mattered.
You, on the other hand, had thrown something together last minute — a simple Lois Lane costume, mostly because David Corenswet as Superman was criminally attractive. A white button-up left slightly undone to reveal a superhero tee underneath, a pencil skirt, a pair of glasses — the whole journalist look. Honestly, not bad for three hours’ notice.
And if you were being completely honest, the only reason you’d agreed to come tonight was because Carter had sworn up and down that Joe Burrow wouldn’t be there. That had sealed the deal. You could breathe without feeling like the air might catch fire. Because you hadn’t seen him — hadn’t spoken to him — since you’d disappeared from his life months ago, right around the time Carter signed with the Bengals.
You hadn’t planned on it ending like that. One text left unsent, one call ignored, then another, until silence became the only thing between you. You told yourself it was the right thing to do. Out of respect for your brother. Out of self-preservation.
But seeing him again — that wasn’t something you were ready for. Not tonight at least.
The limo ride over had been better than expected. Everyone was good fun, and by the time you all pulled up to the venue, you were already tipsy from pre-gaming.
You stepped out of the limo with your brother at your side, his voice booming over the music as he talked loudly with a few of the other defensive players. They were in their own little orbit, laughing, joking, elbowing each other like nothing could touch them. You slipped past them, weaving toward a booth near the side of the room where a few of the players’ wives and girlfriends were already seated, glasses in hand, chatting animatedly. You sank into the cushioned seat, letting the music pulse through you as you nursed a drink and leaned into the conversation, laughing at a story one of the girls was telling about the team’s ridiculous pregame rituals.
The club was decked out in typical Halloween fashion — fake cobwebs hanging from the corners, glowing jack-o’-lanterns tucked into every nook, a fog machine letting wisps of smoke curl over the dance floor. The open bar gleamed under the colored lights, bartenders working furiously to keep up with the stream of drinks.
Across the room, you noticed the offensive players clustered on their own side of the club, a little more contained than the defense, who were clearly running wild. Ja’Marr Chase caught your eye, chasing after his girlfriend, Deja, both laughing hysterically. Their costumes were cute — he was a milk carton, she was cookies — and you couldn’t help but grin at the sheer ridiculousness of it. A couple of the other offensive players were around too, but they were quieter, almost deliberately low-key compared to the chaos on the defense’s side, where everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives.
You rolled your eyes and nudged Amanda, the wife of one of the safeties, who was perched on the couch beside you, her costume a slightly over-the-top witch ensemble. “This whole separation thing,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the two sides of the room, “it’s so childish.”
She leaned back, smirking, and let out a small laugh. “Tell me about it. It’s like high school all over again.” That earned a few chuckles from the other girlfriends and wives nearby. Soon, the small group had formed a loose semicircle around you, cocktails in hand, the conversation shifting naturally toward the topic everyone was too polite to bring up outright — the offense.
“Seriously,” Amanda said, narrowing her eyes toward the other side of the room, “they think they run the show, but all they do is catch the damn ball. Defending is a whole different game.”
Tamara, a cornerback’s sister sitting across from you, rolled her eyes and leaned in. “Exactly! It’s like they live in a completely different world. They get all the glory when things go right, but when it doesn’t? Suddenly the defense is the problem.”
You laughed, the sound bubbling up more easily than you’d expected. For the first time that night, you felt a flicker of ease, a sense of solidarity among the women who’d all been dragged into the same mess. “Right? And don’t even get me started on the media. Every time the team loses, it’s automatically our fault. Like the defense is singlehandedly ruining the season.”
Amanda nodded, swirling her drink with lazy amusement. “Exactly. If the defense makes a stop, it’s expected. If they don’t? Boom, instant headline: ‘Bengals Defense Blunders Again.’ Meanwhile, the offense can fumble three times in a row, and it’s just ‘unlucky.’”
You settled deeper into the cushions, letting the soft chatter of the other women wash over you as you sipped your drink.
The conversation meandered, laughter bubbling here and there, and for a moment you could just exist in the comfort of the little circle you’d carved out on the couch — until it suddenly stopped.
At first, you didn’t notice the shift — just a pause, a lull in the chatter. But then you caught it. The way the laughter dimmed. The way everyone’s gaze subtly drifted toward the club’s entrance. You were about to ask what had caught their attention when you saw him.
The last person you were expecting.
Joe Burrow.
Someone beside you let out a low whistle. “Some entrance,” Amanda murmured, tone teasing. The air left your lungs before your brain caught up. You felt your pulse stutter, heat rise in your chest, and your hand tightened slightly around your glass.
He was dressed in a sharp suit — tailored, dark, understated — the kind that should’ve looked out of place at a Halloween party, but somehow didn’t. His hair was messy, wild, sprayed a vivid green that made him look both dangerous and magnetic under the shifting club lights. The Joker. Of course. You could almost laugh at the irony.
Chaos personified.
And he was staring now. At you.
Your stomach flipped as your heart thudded against your ribs. He wasn’t trying to hide it, wasn’t pretending to be polite or casual — he was just looking. Calm, collected, as if he had every right to. And maybe he did. You were the one who had disappeared on him. You were the one who had left without an explanation, who’d chosen silence over complication.
You’d spent months convincing yourself he was just a phase — a bad decision made in secrecy, in moments that never should’ve happened. And now, looking at him again, every single lie you’d told yourself unraveled.
You blinked hard, dragging your eyes away, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your brother joined you at some point — loud, drunk, arm thrown around your shoulders, laughing too hard at something Tamara said. You smiled, forcing your heartbeat to slow, grounding yourself in the noise, the chatter, anything that wasn’t him.
The last time you’d seen him had been in your apartment — low light, the sound of rain tapping against the windows, his hand still resting on your hip as you told him, softly, that you couldn’t keep doing this. He’d just stared at you then too — silent, unreadable, jaw tight — before nodding once, slow and resigned, like he already knew he’d lost you before you ever spoke.
Now, sitting here in a crowded club months later, it felt like that moment was happening all over again. Same silence. Same weight in your chest.
You exhaled slowly, reaching for your drink, telling yourself that it meant nothing. That Joe wasn’t looking at you anymore. That this — whatever this was — had been buried the night you walked away. But you could still feel it — the static under your skin, the ghost of something unfinished.
HE HADN'T EVEN PLANNED ON SHOWING UP tonight. Halloween wasn’t his thing — never had been. Too performative, too loud, too full of people trying too hard. But this year, things were different. The frustration of being benched with an injury, the constant whispers about the team’s dilemma, the way everyone tiptoed around him like he was fragile — it all sat heavy on his chest.
Still, somewhere between another sleepless night and the echo of the team’s group chat buzzing with plans, the thought had crossed his mind — you might be there. Carter was a rookie; it wasn’t far-fetched to think he’d bring his sister along. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but that off chance he’d see you again, was enough to make him say screw it.
The Joker suit had been a last-minute decision. It was dark, ironic, and a little on the nose — but that was kind of the point.
There was something cathartic about walking into a room full of tension and broken egos dressed as chaos itself. About watching people stare, not with pity this time, but curiosity.
He’d come alone. Easier that way. Less to explain. The offensive guys had already claimed a cluster of couches near the bar — Ja’Marr, Tee, a few of the O-line guys. The music was loud, the drinks stronger than they should’ve been, and everyone was pretending the locker room wasn’t split down the middle.
Joe was trying to pretend too. Trying to follow the conversation, to laugh when everyone else did, to care about whatever story Ja’Marr was telling — but he couldn’t. Not when you were sitting across the room.
You looked the same and somehow completely different. The dark hair. The soft curve of your mouth. The way you laughed, head tilted back, eyes shining under the low lights. Lois Lane. God, of course you’d pick that. Always the reporter, the observer. Always pretending you weren’t part of the story when you were right in the middle of it.
He watched you for a while, trying to be discreet about it, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. Ja’Marr noticed first.
“Yo,” he said, smirking as he leaned forward, following Joe’s gaze across the room. “You good, man? You’ve been staring at Carter for, like, five minutes. You want his girl or something?”
Joe didn’t answer. His jaw shifted slightly as his eyes flicked between you and your brother. Carter’s arm was around you, his laugh loud, protective — and yeah, Joe knew exactly what that looked like to everyone else.
“Carter’s girl?” Tee repeated, turning his head to look. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a low whistle. “Damn. She cute. Rookie's got taste. Didn’t think she was your type, though.”
Joe’s head snapped toward him, the muscles in his jaw tightening just a fraction. “Why wouldn’t she be my type?”
Tee grinned, unbothered, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I think she’s hot. And we all know you’ve got questionable taste in women, so I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
The guys around them laughed, Ja’Marr nearly choking on his drink, while Joe just shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation he tried to disguise as amusement. He reached over and shoved Tee’s shoulder lightly, enough to make his point.
He leaned back against the couch, eyes finding you again across the dim, crowded room. You weren’t Carter’s girl. You were Carter’s sister. And the last time Joe had seen you, you’d been tangled up in his sheets, whispering that you couldn’t keep doing this. You’d said it softly, like you didn’t want to hurt him — but you still did. You said you couldn’t keep sneaking around, couldn’t keep lying to your brother. You said it wasn’t fair.
And maybe it wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch you walk out.
He’d told himself he respected it, that you were right — that Carter didn’t deserve that kind of betrayal from either of you. But the truth was uglier. The truth was, Joe had spent the next few weeks trying to hate you, and failing miserably.
Now, seeing you again, he realized he’d never really stopped waiting for this — for the moment he’d get to look at you again and remind himself why you were worth the mess.
He could still remember the way you’d looked at him — calm, certain, even though your voice had trembled. The rain against the window. The way he’d felt you slip away before you even left the room. And now here you were, sitting just a few yards away, pretending he was a stranger.
He exhaled slowly, letting the laughter from his teammates fade into static.
Your eyes met his for less than a second — quick, almost accidental — but it was enough to hit him like a sucker punch. You froze, just barely, before looking away, the muscles in your jaw tightening the way they always did when you were trying to keep control.
Yeah. You felt it too.
Joe forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression unreadable, but the air felt thick all of a sudden — too warm, too heavy. His chest tightened with something that was part frustration, part want, part whatever-the-hell he’d been trying to bury for months.
You shouldn’t have been here. Or maybe he shouldn’t have. Either way, it was a train wreck waiting to happen.
He watched you stand — slow, graceful, unbothered — like you hadn’t just wrecked his focus for the last thirty minutes. You said something to Amanda, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and then you turned, weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. He didn’t even think about it. His body just… moved.
He set his drink down with a quiet thud as he pushed off the couch.
Ja’Marr arched a brow. “Where you goin’, bro?”
“Bathroom,” Joe said shortly, already half turned.
“Alright…” Ja’Marr drawled, drawing the word out like he didn’t believe it for a second. “Bathroom. Sure.”
Tee snorted. “He don’t even know where the bathrooms are in here.”
Joe flipped them both off over his shoulder without looking back, and that only made them laugh harder. But he didn’t care — not tonight.
He cut through the crowd, his stride easy but deliberate, keeping his head down as if that could disguise the fact that every nerve in his body was locked onto one target. You.
You were ahead of him, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor as you disappeared around the corner into a quieter hallway. He paused before following, dragging a hand over his face as if that could steady the storm building inside him. It didn’t.
What the hell was he doing? He’d told himself for months he was done with this — done with you. But then he'd seen you, looking like that, and every carefully built wall in his head had cracked down the middle.
He rounded the corner and stopped short, breath hitching before he could stop it. There you were — standing by the hallway mirror, head tilted slightly as you adjusted a loose strand of hair. It was the same nervous habit you’d always had, that tiny tell he could still read like a book. You looked calm to everyone else, but he knew better.
For a second, he just stood there — watching you in the reflection, the distance between you feeling like a live wire.
You looked up then, catching his gaze in the mirror, and for the briefest moment, everything stilled. Your eyes widened slightly. Surprise. Maybe guilt. Maybe something else entirely. But you didn’t move.
And neither did he.
FOR A SECOND, YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE imagining it — that familiar weight of a stare pressed against your back like static. But when your gaze met his in the mirror, all the air seemed to vanish from the hallway.
Joe Burrow.
He looked different and exactly the same. The green hair, the smudged makeup, the dark suit that fit him too well — it should’ve looked ridiculous, but it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Even under the fake madness, you could still see him — the steadiness, the sharp focus that always made you feel seen and cornered at the same time.
You hadn’t been prepared for this. You hadn’t been prepared for him.
You swallowed hard, pretending to adjust your glasses as if that would buy you a second to breathe. But your reflection betrayed you — the way your chest rose too quickly, the way your fingers trembled just slightly.
You’d told yourself that if you ever saw him again, you’d be fine. You’d nod, smile politely, pretend what you had was nothing more than a stupid, reckless mistake. The problem with that was that your body remembered before your brain could even begin to lie.
The rain on his window. The warmth of his breath against your neck. The way he’d looked at you that last night, quiet but certain, like he was memorizing you before letting you go.
And then you’d walked away. Because it was the right thing to do. Because your brother had joined the team, and you couldn’t be that person.
So why did seeing Joe now feel like stepping right back into the fire you swore you would never touch again?
You forced yourself to turn, to face him instead of his reflection. The noise from the party was muffled here, the bass fading into a low hum beneath the pounding of your heart.
“Joe,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended. He didn’t answer right away.
He just watched you with that unreadable expression — the one that always drove you insane because you never knew if he was angry or amused or both. He’d been that way the night you left too, quiet and composed even as you’d fallen apart trying to explain yourself.
Now, though, there was something different behind his eyes. Something sharp.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you said, trying for nonchalance. Your tone came out lighter, teasing even, but it felt hollow in your chest.
He huffed out a laugh — humorless, low. “Yeah, well. Guess I had a reason.”
Your stomach flipped at that. A reason. You wanted to ask what he meant, but you already knew. You were the reason. And you hated that part of you liked that answer.
You shifted your weight, crossing your arms to keep your hands from fidgeting. “You shouldn’t have come,” you said, softer this time. It wasn’t accusation — it was something close to pleading.
He tilted his head, that small, crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “Pretty sure you don’t get to say that. Not after ghosting me.”
You don’t respond — because what could you possibly say to that? He’s right. You did ghost him. You’d spent weeks crafting excuses in your head, but none of them sounded good enough to say out loud. Not to him.
So instead, you turn back toward the mirror, pretending to focus on something else — anything else. Your earring had caught in your hair, the fine chain looped around a few strands, and your fingers fumble uselessly with it. You curse under your breath, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“Hold still,” Joe says quietly.
Before you can tell him not to, he steps in close — too close. His reflection looms just behind yours, tall and solid and there. You feel the heat of him before you feel his hand, the brush of his fingers as he gently frees the chain from your hair.
Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. His fingers graze your neck, lingering for a second too long, like muscle memory took over before reason could stop it.
You can see the small crease form between his brows — the same one that used to appear when he was concentrating, when his hand was on your skin in a completely different way.
You almost thank him, but the sound dies in your throat. You meet his gaze in the mirror instead — that same steady, deliberate look that always made you feel like he was seeing something you didn’t want him to.
He studies you through the mirror for a long moment — eyes tracing over every inch of you like he’s trying to catch up on all the months he missed. Then, softly, his voice slips into the quiet.
“You look good.”
You laugh under your breath, sharp and defensive. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” he murmurs, his tone steady — not teasing, not joking. “It’s the truth.”
You shake your head, eyes dropping, but before you can take another step back, he moves. Slow, deliberate. His hand comes up, brushing the hair off your shoulder, fingers grazing the curve of your neck as he lets it fall down your back.
“My Lois Lane,” he says, voice low enough that it almost doesn’t reach your ears.
You frown, meeting his gaze in the mirror again. “Lois Lane belongs to Superman,” you manage, the words coming out quieter than you meant them to. You weren’t big on comic books, but you were certain that the Joker and Lois Lane had absolutely nothing in common.
Joe’s smile is small, dangerous — the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes but still pulls something deep in your chest. “Not in my world.” He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “In my world, she likes danger. Likes the way it feels when she forgets what’s right.”
Your pulse stutters. You open your mouth to tell him to stop, to remind him why this is a terrible idea — but then his hands are on you again.
One settles on your hip, the other at your waist, fingers spreading slow, sure, possessive. His body fits against yours like it used to — solid, certain — his chest brushing your back, his breath ghosting down the side of your neck.
“In my world,” he murmurs, his voice rough now, “she doesn’t walk away.”
Your eyes flutter shut, because God, you shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t still feel this. But the moment his thumb drags lightly against your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt, all the months of pretending start to crumble.
You can feel his heartbeat against your spine, steady and infuriatingly calm while yours races out of control. You draw in a slow breath, trying to find your voice — but all that comes out is a whisper, shaky and broken at the edges. “Joe…”
He hums in response, a low sound that vibrates through your bones.
You tell yourself to move, to pull away, to remember why you ended this. But then his hand slides higher, tracing the line of your ribs, and your resolve gives out completely.
Your eyes stay closed as your head tips back just slightly, brushing his shoulder. For a second, you let yourself remember what it felt like — that impossible mix of heat and safety that only he could make you feel.
And when he leans in, his lips barely touching your skin as he whispers, “Tell me to stop,” you can’t.
You don’t.
His fingers slide under the hem of your pencil skirt, pushing it up just enough to reach the lace edge of your panties. You grab his wrist, your voice a hushed plea. "Joe, no—we can't. Not here." But your body betrays you, hips shifting slightly as his touch grazes your thigh, the mirror reflecting every flicker of hesitation in your eyes.
He doesn't stop. With a low chuckle that vibrates against your neck, he hooks the fabric aside, exposing your pussy to the cool air of the hallway. His fingers part your folds, slick already from the tension building between you, and he circles your clit slowly, deliberately.
"Why'd you leave your friends and come out here alone then, hm?" he murmurs, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady.
You bite your lip, stifling a gasp as he presses one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right. The stretch burns in the best way, but the risk—the distant thump of music from the party, the chance of footsteps echoing down the hall—makes your heart race. "I... I needed air," you whisper, but it sounds weak even to you.
"Bullshit." His thumb rubs your clit in tight circles while his fingers thrust deeper, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet space. "You knew I'd follow. Knew I'd come find you and fuck this pussy like it belongs to me. Because you miss it. Miss me stretching you open, making you forget everything else." His words are a growl, laced with that Joker edge, his red-smeared lips curling into a smirk as he watches you in the mirror.
"Eyes on the mirror," he commands, his thrusts growing urgent, fingers driving deeper inside you. "Watch how you fall apart from nothing but my hand," he taunts softly, his tone dripping with false pity, the words slithering from his lips like a serpent's whisper.
The mirror forces you to confront your choices: your skirt hiked up, his hand buried between your thighs, your mouth parted in silent pleas. You note the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are swollen, the wild, glassy look in your eyes…
"Stop holding back," he urges, voice rough. "Let me hear you moan my name. Fuck everyone. Let them see how bad you need this— need me."
The pressure builds, your climax hovering so close, but then you blurt it out, "I can't do this. To Carter I mean. He's why I... I can't—"
Joe freezes, his fingers stilling deep inside you, right on the edge. The denial rips through you like a slap, your body whining in protest as you rock against his hand desperately.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and aching, your whine echoing softly. In one swift motion, he spins you around to face him, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. "Jesus Christ, stop thinking about your brother for five seconds and start thinking about what you want." His voice is low, a dangerous rumble as he searches your gaze.
For a few heart-pounding seconds, the world narrows to just this: heavy breaths mingling, chests heaving, the air thick with unspoken history. Your pulse thunders in your ears, and then you lean in first. Your lips crash against his, hungry and forgiving all at once. The kiss explodes, tongues tangling fiercely, his hands roaming everywhere—up your back, squeezing your ass, tugging at your shirt. Yours fist in his suit jacket, pulling him closer as he backs you against the mirror, the cold glass a shock against your spine. He devours your mouth, nipping your lower lip, swallowing your gasps like they're his.
"Jump," he says mid-kiss, the word muffled against your lips. You obey without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist, heels hooking behind him. He lifts you effortlessly, strong arms holding you as your mouths stay locked, the kiss turning frantic. Carrying you down the hall, he tests doors—one locked, another leading to a closet—until one swings open.
Still kissing you, he kicks it shut behind him, the click of the lock sealing you in privacy. Red lights bathe the small karaoke booth, casting eerie glows that make his Joker paint stark and wild, green hair vivid against the shadows.
He sets you on the edge of a low table, the surface cool under your thighs. Breaking the kiss just long enough, he starts unbuttoning your white shirt, fingers deft and urgent. You help, shrugging it off your shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. His hands yank at your pencil skirt next, zipper rasping as he peels it down your legs, leaving you in just the Superman tee clinging to your skin, panties damp and askew, heels still on your feet, glasses perched on your nose.
He shrugs one shoulder to slip out of his suit jacket, the dark fabric sliding down his arm like it's ready to hit the floor. But your hand shoots out before he can, fingers curling into the lapel, stopping him cold. Mid-kiss, your lips brushing his in a breathless gasp, you murmur against his mouth, "Leave it on. Please."
Joe pulls back just enough to look at you, his brows knitting in confusion, that sharp blue stare piercing through the painted chaos on his face. "What?" he asks, voice rough with arousal, a hint of bewilderment threading through it.
Your cheeks burn, heat flooding your face as you realize how it sounds. You bite your lip, eyes flicking down to where your hand clutches the fabric, then back up to him. "I just... I like how you look. It's... hot. Keep it on?"
For a beat, he stares, processing, his expression shifting from puzzled to something wickedly amused as it clicks. "Oh," he says, low and teasing, leaning in closer so his breath fans your ear. "You get off on the whole villain vibe, huh? My little reporter chasing the bad guy."
He straightens the jacket with deliberate slowness, rolling his shoulders to settle it back into place, the tailored lines hugging his broad frame just right. His hands slide down your sides possessively, thumbs hooking into your panties' waistband but not pulling yet. "Alright, Lois. If that's what you want... I'll play the part."
The heat in your belly coils tighter as he chuckles, that throaty sound vibrating against you. "So how am I supposed to fuck you like this?" he asks, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Just... pull your pants down a little," you whisper, your voice shy but insistent, cheeks still flaming as you meet his gaze. He rolls his eyes, smirking wider, but there's no real protest—only hunger as he complies. His fingers work the button of his pants open, zipper rasping down, and he shoves the fabric along with his boxers just low enough on his hips to free his cock. It's thick, hard, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.
He strokes himself once, base to tip, watching your reaction with that focused intensity, jacket still draped perfectly over his shoulders like he’s going to claim you in full costume. "Like this?" he murmurs, stepping between your legs, his free hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
The painted grin on his face looms as he rubs the head of his cock along your inner thigh, teasing higher, brushing the damp spot on your panties. Your breath hitches, glasses slipping a fraction down your nose, but you don't push them up—too lost in the sight of him.
He slides it back and forth without pushing in, the head nudging your clit each pass. You squirm, restless, hips bucking up for more. "Why aren't you—" you start, frustration lacing your voice.
"Was it hard?" he interrupts, eyes locking on yours, the question hanging heavy.
You furrow your brows, about to ask what he means, but he slams into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness rips a cry from your throat, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in as your pussy stretches around him.
He gives you no time to adjust, pounding into you relentlessly, the table creaking under the force. Your heels dig into his back, urging him deeper, moans spilling out as pleasure crashes over you.
"I asked you a question," he grits out, hips snapping hard, his jacket brushing your thighs with each drive.
You can barely think, lost in the rhythm. "Huh?"
"Walking away," he says, jaw tightening, thrusts never slowing. "Was it hard for you?"
You tense, his name a gasp on your lips. "Joe..."
He laughs softly, bitterly, shaking his head as he fucks you harder, the slap of skin echoing in the red-lit booth. "'Cause it didn't look hard. You disappeared like I was nothing. Like it didn't mean a damn thing."
The words hit harder than you expect, slicing through the haze of arousal, leaving you confused, defensive even as your body arches into him. Your pussy clenches around his cock, torn between the sting of truth and the building ecstasy.
"That's not it," you manage, voice breaking on a moan as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.
He leans in, lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss that feels more like a challenge, his cock buried deep inside your pussy, hips grinding slow and insistent against yours. The friction sends sparks up your spine, your walls clenching around his thickness as he holds still, waiting. "No? Then tell me I'm wrong."
You open your mouth, words caught in your throat, but before you can, he kisses you again—deeper this time, angrier, pouring all the pent-up hurt and hunger into it as he drives into you without mercy.
He doesn't stop—each drive of his cock into your pussy deliberate, punishing, like he's fucking the truth out of you. The red lights flicker over his painted face, making his eyes look feral as he holds your gaze. Sweat beads on his forehead, smudging the black paint around his eyes, but he doesn't care, pounding harder, like he's chasing the confession he needs.
“What's your problem?” you demand, your voice shaking with more than just frustration, breaking on a gasp as he angles his hips to hit that spot deep inside, making your toes curl in your heels.
“You are,” he says, and it comes out too fast, too real, his breath hot against your neck as he leans down, teeth grazing your collarbone before sucking a mark there. Something in your chest twists, even as your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.
“You think this was easy for me?” you shot back, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak. Your hands slide up to tangle in his green-tinted hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, his pace faltering for a second before he retaliates by pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip to hold you steady as he fucks into you relentlessly. “You think I wanted to end it? That I liked pretending I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” he bites out, eyes flashing open wide, his free hand releasing your wrists to cup your face, thumb pressing into your cheek as he forces you to meet his stare. “Didn’t want me? Didn’t love me?” He slows his thrusts just enough to tease, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in.
You stare at him, breath catching in a sharp inhale as he rolls his hips, circling deep inside you, the pressure building low in your belly. Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back through the suit fabric, urging him on despite the ache in your heart.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
“Do what?” he challenged, his jaw tight, eyes searching yours like he was trying to drag the truth out of you by force. He laughs, a short, sharp sound that vibrates through his chest as his painted lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss, swallowing your next breath. “You ghosted me," he growls against your mouth when he pulls back, nipping at your lower lip hard enough to sting, then soothing it with a swipe of his tongue.
“Because I had to,” you snapped, voice cracking as your body chasing the pleasure amid the pain. “Because you’re his quarterback, Joe! What was I supposed to do — keep sneaking around? Pretend it wouldn’t blow up everything?”
"You had to?" he echoes, voice low and disbelieving, like he doesn’t buy a single syllable. He slows to a torturous grind, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot, as he leans down to whisper in your ear, breath ragged. "So that’s what you're going with."
His fingers pinch your clit lightly, sending a shockwave through you, your back bowing off the couch as he starts thrusting again—slower, deeper, drawing out every inch of sensation while his eyes bore into yours, demanding more than just your body.
Your hands clutch his shoulders, nails scraping through the fabric. "It wasn't a choice," you gasp, the words tumbling out between moans that escape unbidden as he rolls his hips, grinding deep against your cervix. "It was damage control."
He growls, one hand sliding up to grip your throat—not hard, just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your neck. His lips crash against your pulse, teeth grazing as he sucks a mark there, his cock plunging deeper. "Damage control" he mocks, breath hot against your skin. "Is that what you call walking out without a word."
"Joe—fuck," you whimper, your pussy clenching around him as the anger fuels the heat coiling in your belly. Your heels press harder into his back, urging him on even as tears prick your eyes. "You think it was easy?"
“Do you want to know what I think? I think it was convenient,” he said, leaning in until his forehead nearly touched yours. “You get to feel noble while I get to feel disposable.” He punctuates the words with a sharp roll of his hips, his thumb finding your clit and circling it roughly, building the ache until your thighs quiver around him.
Your hands were on his chest before you even realised it, meaning to push him away, but instead you gripped his jacket, knuckles white. “That’s not fair,” you breathed.
“Then tell me what is,” he murmurs, voice rough and edged with desperation, his painted lips brushing yours as he spoke. He releases your throat to tangle his fingers in your hair, yanking your head back gently to expose more of your neck, where he latches on again, sucking and biting. “Because I’ve been trying to make sense of it, and all I’ve got is silence.”
You clench around him involuntarily, your heels scraping down his back, pulling him impossibly closer. "You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he said, and the words were a dare, a plea, and something darker all at once.
You shake your head, eyes glassy with unshed tears and the overwhelming sensation that only he could give you. “If I stayed, it would’ve destroyed everything. Him. You. Us.”
His jaw clenched. “News flash,” he muttered, voice breaking on the edges of restraint, “you leaving did that anyway.”
He kissed you then — hard, desperate, the kind of kiss that felt like punishment and forgiveness all tangled together. You gasped against his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt, the fight bleeding into want, into ache. When he finally tore back, both of you were breathing hard, eyes locked, the air between you trembling.
“It hurt me too,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I loved you. Still—oh god—still do. But I couldn’t keep choosing you when it meant losing my brother.”
Joe froze. Every muscle in his body went still, like the words had landed somewhere he didn’t expect. His hand, still resting against your neck, loosened its grip. For the first time all night, he didn’t look angry — just… stunned.
His mouth parted, but nothing came out. His eyes searched yours, fast, desperate, as if he was trying to figure out if you meant it or if it was just another wound you’d opened without realising. Then he lifts you off the table in one fluid motion, arms wrapping under your thighs, his cock never leaving your slick heat.
You yelp, legs tightening around his waist as he carries you the few steps to the booth's worn couch, dropping you onto it with a controlled thud. The cushions sink under your weight, but he follows immediately, pinning you down, his body covering yours as he starts thrusting again—harder now, the new angle letting him grind against your clit with every stroke.
"You loved me?" he demands, voice breaking on the words as he fucks you into the couch, the fabric rough against your back. Then why does it feel like you ripped my heart out and stomped on it? I waited for you damn it, I thought you'd come back to me."
You buck up to meet him, the Superman shirt riding up, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your glasses fog slightly from the heat, but you don't care—your hands roam his chest, feeling the muscles flex under the shirt. "God, I wanted to," you cry out, voice raw.
"Every time I saw you, it felt like I was holding my breath. But I couldn’t—if I’d reached for you again, I don’t think I would’ve been able to let go and I couldn't do that to Carter."
His pace falters, just for a heartbeat, emotion flashing across his face—hurt, anger, longing all mixed. But then he kisses you fiercely, tongue invading your mouth as his hips piston faster, the wet slap of his balls against your ass filling the booth. "Fuck Carter," he mutters against your lips, one hand shoving your panties further aside for better access. "This—us—this is what matters. You feel that? How your pussy milks my cock like it never wants to let go?"
"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs higher around him, heels scraping his thighs. The couch creaks under the force, your body jolting with each powerful thrust. "Joe, please... I never stopped wanting you. Every night, I told myself I’d moved on, but I still felt you—everywhere. It was hell pretending I didn’t still crave this… crave you."
He groans, burying his face in your neck, his breath ragged. "Then stop pretending. Be mine again. No more running." His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight, insistent circles that make your vision blur.
The fight dissolves into pure need, words turning to gasps and pleas. "I don't even know how to want anyone else," you whisper, the admission breaking something open inside you. "Please Joe… Make me forget everything else."
He does, pounding relentlessly, his cock swelling inside you as your walls flutter around him. The tension builds to a breaking point, your bodies slick with sweat, the red lights casting shadows that dance with every movement. "Come with me," he growls, eyes locked on yours, his thumb pressing harder. "Show me you feel it too."
You shatter first, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you, pussy spasming around his cock, pulling him deeper.
He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep, hot cum flooding you in thick spurts. His groan vibrates against your skin, bodies trembling together in the aftershocks, finally synced in release.
The haze of your shared climax lingers, your body still humming from the intensity, but as Joe eases his cock out of you with a soft, wet sound, a wave of overwhelm crashes over you. He shifts back slightly, reaching for a stray napkin from the booth's side table to wipe himself clean, his painted face softening in the red glow.
The rush of adrenaline is gone now, replaced by the heavy quiet that follows something you can’t take back. You turn away instinctively, curling into the couch cushions, your chest tightening as silent tears well up and spill down your cheeks.
The weight of what just happened crashes over you — the realization that by letting Joe in again, you’d undone every boundary, every promise you’d made to yourself.
Joe pauses mid-motion, his eyes snapping to you. He tosses the napkin aside and leans in, voice firm but laced with concern. "No, no, no—you don't get to regret this." His hand hovers near your shoulder, not touching yet, as if afraid you'll shatter.
You shake your head, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. "I don't regret it," you whisper, voice thick and broken. "That's the problem."
He studies you intently, eyebrows drawing together in that focused furrow he gets when he's reading a defense on the field—or you, piecing together every flicker of your expression, the subtle tremble in your shoulders, the way your fingers twist into the couch fabric. It's like he's scanning for the truth behind your words, gauging if the storm in your eyes is fear or something deeper. Gently, he reaches out, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
His gaze never leaves you as he scans the dim booth, spotting your discarded clothes amid the tangle of passion—your white button-up shirt crumpled near the table, the pencil skirt flung halfway across the floor. He stands, tucking himself back into his pants with quick efficiency, then retrieves them both.
“Hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of you. “Look at me.”
You do — reluctantly at first — and he offers a small, crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The paint on his face is smudged, his hair a mess, but somehow, in that light, he looks more human than you’ve ever seen him.
Knelt in front of you, he holds the skirt open, his hands steady on your calves as he guides your heels through the leg holes. You lift your hips without a word, letting him slide the fabric up your thighs, over your panties, and zip it snug around your waist. His touch is reverent, fingers lingering just a second on your skin before he straightens.
Shifting to sit beside you on the couch, he drapes the button-up over your shoulders, his body close but not crowding. One by one, he buttons it from the bottom up, his knuckles grazing your stomach, then higher, securing the fabric over the Superman logo peeking from beneath.
The tears have slowed now, leaving just occasional sniffles that you try to muffle. As he finishes, his hand moves to your hair, gently combing through the tousled strands with his fingers, tucking a loose piece behind your ear to make you look a little more presentable—though the flush on your cheeks and the smudged remnants of your makeup tell the real story.
"There," he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. With the hem of his jacket sleeve, he dabs carefully at the tear tracks on your cheeks, wiping away the salt and any lingering fog on the lenses of the glasses before settling them back on the bridge of your nose, straight and secure.
"Thank you," you mutter, meeting his eyes, the words small but sincere.
He nods, expression still etched with that concentrated concern, but softening now as he sees the storm in you calming. "Come closer," he says, opening his arms wide, an invitation wrapped in warmth.
You lean in without hesitation, nestling against his side, and he wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush to his chest. His heartbeat thuds steady under your ear, a grounding rhythm in the quiet booth, his free hand stroking your arm in slow, reassuring circles.
The silence stretches, comfortable in its own uneasy way. You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the muted thump of his heart against your ear. The world outside the booth feels far away — laughter muffled, bass fading into a slow, steady hum.
After a while, his voice breaks through the quiet, low and thoughtful. “You know,” he starts, his thumb tracing absent circles over your arm, “there’s this version of Superman — It’s from this story called Injustice.”
You hum softly in response, too tired to lift your head, but the sound encourages him to go on.
“In that universe,” he says, “the Joker goes after Superman instead of Batman. He… tricks him. Makes him think he’s fighting one of his enemies. But it’s really Lois. The woman he loves. And when he realizes what he’s done — it’s too late. She’s gone. And Metropolis goes with her.”
Your breath stills a little. His tone isn’t animated the way it used to be when he’d talk about football — it’s quieter, almost reverent. Like he’s not really telling a story about superheroes at all.
“He loses everything in one moment,” Joe continues. “And the worst part is… the Joker laughs. Because he didn’t just take Lois from him. He made Superman become the thing he hated most. The villain.”
You shift slightly, eyes still half-lidded against his chest. “That’s… dark,” you murmur.
A soft chuckle rumbles through him. “Yeah. It is. But I always thought there was something kind of—” he hesitates, searching for the word, “—tragically poetic about it. Two people who were never supposed to be connected… still end up bound together in some way."
Your throat tightens. “You think that’s us?”
His gaze finds yours, steady in the dim light. “I think if there’s a universe where we get it right, I don’t let you walk away.”
You lift your head just enough to glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards despite yourself. “You were always such a comic book geek,” you say quietly, brushing your thumb over the messy red paint still streaked along his jaw. “Some things never change.”
He smiles faintly at that. “Guess not.”
And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just sit there, the story hanging in the air between you — two people who shouldn’t have found their way back to each other, but somehow did anyway.
Right now, there’s only this. Only him.
There’s too much to say, and none of it belongs to this moment. The questions — what now, what are we, what happens when we go outside — can wait. Maybe they’ll destroy you later. Maybe they won’t. But here, now, it’s just quiet.
You know, deep down, that the moment you step back into that party, you won’t look back. You’ve trained yourself for months not to.
You’ve built walls around what you feel for him, convinced yourself it was for the best, for Carter, for your own sanity. And yet, here, with his hand finding yours again, the one person you swore you’d never let yourself have, you allow yourself to forget all of that.
For now, you let yourself exist in the space between what was and what will never be — a stolen moment where, just for a heartbeat, against all odds, the universe has finally given Lois Lane and the Joker their moment.
⁎⠀┉⠀summary: joe burrow was made to be a husband. your honeymoon is proof enough that loving you is his love language.
⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: inspired by a couple of anon requests! another addition to the joe can't shut up when he's in love agenda. no real plot, no real substance. took me a solid month to write this so i tried to incorporate as many reqs as i could <3
⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, sexual content, excessive usage of husband and wife/mr. and mrs., breeding kink, reader mentions ovulating, massage, cheesy dialogue, oral sex (fem receiving), mention of butt stuff but no actual butt stuff, backshots!!, mirror sex, praise kink if you squint.
⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: joe burrow x wife!reader.
⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 8k.
In the bustling backroom of the grand ballroom, you stood tall and radiant, your brown eyes sparkling with a blend of excitement and exhaustion. The scent of your bouquet of baby breaths filled the small space, mingling with the faint aroma of Joe's cologne. You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the wedding gown you had spent months choosing.
Joe, dressed sharply in his tuxedo, leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his blue eyes dancing with amusement as he watched you fidget with your dress. "You look like you're about to jump out of your skin," he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
You rolled your eyes, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. "You have no idea," you replied, your voice filled with energy. "I've been holding it together for hours, and now all I want to do is kick off these heels and dance like a lunatic."
Joe chuckled, his sarcasm giving way to affection as he stepped closer to you. He reached out and took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gentle caress. "Well, Mrs. Burrow," he began, his voice low and teasing, "once we make our grand entrance, the dance floor is all yours."
Your eyes lit up at the sound of your new title, a grin spreading across your face. "And what will Mr. Burrow be doing?" you asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.
Joe shrugged, his own smile growing. "Probably tripping over my own two feet. You know I'm more of a 'sway and hope nobody notices' kind of dancer."
"Not tonight, Joey." You said with a mischievous glint in your eye. "Tonight, you're dancing with me like you mean it."
Joe feigned a dramatic sigh, but the joy in his eyes was unmistakable. "Fine," he drew out the vowels, rolling his eyes playfully despite the unmistakable grin that was spreading across his face. "But only if you promise not to laugh when I get a few drinks in me."
Your laugh was music to Joe's ears, and he felt his own tension start to unwind. "Deal," you said, leaning in to kiss him lightly. The kiss was chaste, but it carried the promise of a million more to come, each one more passionate than the last.
The door to the room swung open and in barged a rush of laughter and chatter as your wedding party piled in. "Alright, Mr. & Mrs. Burrow," your wedding planner called out, her voice a mix of hurry and delight. "It's showtime!"
-
"You're up to something," Joe murmured, catching the mischievous glint in your eyes as you sauntered into the hotel room. The evening air clung to your skin, carrying the faint scent of your wedding flowers with you. He was lounging on the plush bed, scrolling through his phone, his muscular form stretched out in the white cotton pajamas that matched your own.
"Me? I'm not up to anything," you retorted, your laughter twinkling in the quiet space. The sight of you made Joe's heart stumble, the way you filled out those pajamas like they were tailored just for you—they were. He knew that look, though. The way you bit your lower lip and your hips swayed just so. You had something on your mind, and it sure as hell wasn't sleep.
Joe set his phone aside, settling deeper into the pillows. "You're smiling too hard for it to be nothing," he said, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
You prowled closer, your smile deepening with the grin that spread across your face. "Maybe I'm just happy to see my husband," you said, your voice a purr that sent a shiver down Joe's spine. "My shiny, new husband."
He knew better.
That glint in your eye was the same one you had before you tackled him into bed back home. Before he could say anything else, you straddled him, your thighs pressing into his hips, palms pressing him into the hotel bedsheets eagerly.
"Your wife is ovulating, Mr. Burrow," you whispered into his ear, your hot breath tickling his neck. Joe couldn't help but laugh, his hands instinctively reaching to grip your waist.
"And that means?" Joe replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body. Despite his amusement, there was a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"It means I want you to do something about it," you said, your voice dropping to a seductive whisper. You began to rock your hips against him, the friction making you wetter by the second. Joe's laughter died in his throat, and he stared up at you, his eyes darkening.
"I know how much you love it when I'm like this," you cooed, your hands sliding under his shirt to trace the contours of his solid upper body.
"Is that so?" Joe said, his voice thick with amusement. He couldn't deny that there was something about you at your most aroused that made his heart skip a beat. It had become a secret little card between the two of you, one that you loved to play when you knew he was at his most susceptible.
"Mmhmm," you murmured, your teeth grazing his earlobe. "Remember that time you said I smell like heaven when I'm ovulating?"
Joe couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "I might have said something like that," he admitted, his voice a low, playful rumble.
You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his skin. "Well, heaven's calling," you said, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate circle that made Joe's eyes roll back in his head.
"You're going to be the death of me, woman," he groaned, his hands tightening around your waist as you continued her delicate torture.
Your grin grew wider, your brown eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that a 'yes'? You’re not too tired?" you asked, your voice dripping with sweet seduction.
"It's definitely a 'yes', sweetheart. I could never be too tired for you," Joe managed, his breath hitching as your hips continued their mesmerizing dance. He pushed your pajama shorts aside, the gold wedding band glittering against his skin as his fingers moved to reveal your slick folds.
"But you better be quiet," he warned, glancing over at the walls that separated them from your parents' rooms on either side. "I don't think they need to know what we're up to over here."
“It’s our wedding night, baby. I think our parents would hope we'd be having dirty marital sex on our wedding night,” you giggled, the sound light and airy, as you leaned down to kiss him. "They want grandbabies and this is how it happens."
Your tongue slipped into his mouth, tasting like mint and a hint of the champagne you had picked out for the reception. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, until Joe couldn't take it anymore. He flipped you onto your back, his body covering yours, his cock pressing against your heat.
"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice filled with wonder and lust.
"Told you," you said, your voice a smug whisper. You reached down to stroke him through his pants, feeling him twitch against your palm. "You always get me like this."
Joe chuckled, his blue eyes sparkling with desire. "So it’s not just the multi-million dollar fortune now in your name?" he murmured, kissing you deeply.
"We can't have you waking up the whole floor." He pulled your pajama shorts down before throwing them over his shoulder to discard them. Your laughter was muffled against his neck as he positioned himself between your legs.
He slid into you with a groan, the feeling of your tight warmth around him making him forget about the walls that were a little too thin. Your nails dug into his back as he began to move, slow at first, savoring every inch of you.
"Fuck," you breathed, your eyes squeezed shut. "You feel so good."
Joe's teeth sank into your shoulder to keep his own moans quiet. "You're so wet, baby," he murmured, his voice strained. "So, so wet."
"I can't help it," you panted, your legs wrapping around him. "You looked so good out there, all husband-y and...fuck, Joe, right there."
Joe chuckled against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he hit your sweet spot with precision. He knew exactly how to make you squirm. He loved it when you lost control, when you forgot about the world around you and just focused on the pleasure he was giving you.
"I’m so thankful you’re mine," he whispered, his hips driving into you with increasing force. The headboard hit the wall with a muffled thump that made you both giggle, despite the intensity of the moment. You wrapped your arms around Joe's neck, your nails lightly raking his scalp as you pulled him closer, silently begging for more.
Joe's breath was hot against your neck as he murmured, "You're so fucking tight."
The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but moan a little louder. "Shh," Joe said, a hint of laughter in his voice as he pressed a finger to your lips. "These walls are so thin."
You rolled your eyes playfully, but your breath hitched when Joe reached over to grab a pillow. He slammed it over your face, muffling your laughter. "Not helping," you mumbled into the softness.
He threw the pillow aside with a laugh and slid his thumb into your mouth instead, your teeth grazing the pad as you tried to keep your noises down. It was a struggle, especially as he found his rhythm and your moans grew more insistent. The scent of your arousal filled the air, and Joe couldn't resist the urge to bury his nose in your neck, inhaling deeply. It was like a drug, making his cock throb even more.
"So good. My wife’s so tight, squeezing her husband’s cock so well, like she was fuckin' made for it," he groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair as he held you in place. Your eyes were squeezed shut, your body arching up to meet his every thrust. The quiet room was filled with the slick sounds of skin on skin, your harsh breathing, and the occasional muffled curse.
"You're so...so...oh, fuck, Joey," you managed, your words barely audible around his fingers. Your legs trembled, your body poised on the edge of release.
Joe couldn't hold back his own groans any longer. He knew he was pushing your buttons, and the way you squirmed beneath him was all the encouragement he needed. "I know, baby," he murmured, his voice a mix of affection and lust. "You're close, aren't you?"
You nodded, your eyes squeezed shut as Joe picked up the pace. You were close, so close, but he wasn't done with you yet. He pulled his thumb from your mouth and slammed into you harshly, his balls slapping against your ass. The sound was obscene, but Joe couldn't bring himself to care. All he could focus on was the feel of your tight pussy clamping down around him, your walls pulsing with each thrust.
Your eyes snapped open, and you looked up at Joe with a mix of love and pure desire. "Don't stop," you begged, your voice a breathy whisper. "Please, Joe, don't stop."
"Never," Joe promised, his voice a gruff growl. He thrust deeper, feeling your muscles tighten around him. He knew you were close, and the thought of you coming apart under him was all he needed to fall over the edge. He reached down to rub your clit in tight circles, his fingers slipping and sliding in your wetness. "I'm gonna fill this sweet pussy up. Make my wife happy like I vowed. Might even make you a mama." he murmured, his voice low and guttural.
Your eyes rolled back in your head, your breath coming in short gasps. The pressure was building, coiling in your stomach, threatening to break free. You nodded, your hips bucking up to meet his. "Please, Joe," you whimpered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need it."
With a powerful thrust, Joe gave you what you craved. Your eyes snapped open, and you bit down on your lip to keep from screaming. He didn't stop, though, his strokes growing faster and more erratic.
"That's it, baby. Keep squeezing me, just like that. Gonna make you feel real good, sweetheart. Get you all nice and warm with my cum, huh?" Joe's voice was a gruff whisper in your ear as you rode the waves of pleasure.
“Is that what you want?” His words were like gasoline on a fire, sending sparks of arousal through your body. You could feel him thicken inside you, his breaths growing harsher with each thrust. “You want me to give you a baby?”
Your eyes squeezed shut as you nodded, your hips moving in time with Joe's. The room was a whirlwind of sensations, the scent of your sex mingling with the faint ocean breeze that slipped through the open balcony doors. The sound of the waves outside seemed to echo the rhythm of your lovemaking, a steady movement building up to a crescendo.
"Oh, Joe," you breathed, your voice strained. "Fuck, yes. Yes."
Your eyes met, and Joe saw the desperation in them, the need for release that mirrored his own. He leaned down, his mouth claiming yours in a fierce kiss as he slammed into you, giving you everything he had. Your nails dug into his back, your body writhing beneath his. And then you were there, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your inner muscles clenching down around his cock in a spasm of pleasure. He spilled over the edge at the same time, filling you with his hot, thick spend. You both froze for a moment, the room silent except for the harsh sounds of your panting.
"Holy shit," Joe breathed, collapsing onto you with a satisfied groan. His chest heaved with each breath, his heart racing in his ears. The feel of you, warm and wet around him, was heavenly. He kissed your neck, your skin salty with a sheen of sweat.
You chuckled, the vibrations traveling through Joe's body. "You're such a romantic," you teased. "Now get off, you're 20 pounds heavier than normal."
"Nah, gotta make sure it all stays inside, you know?" Joe quipped, his voice muffled by your shoulder. He didn't move, enjoying the feeling of your body still quivering with the aftershocks of your climax. You giggled, your breath warm against his neck.
"You're ridiculous," you murmured, your voice still shaky with pleasure. Joe's laughter rumbled against your skin, his body a delicious weight that you didn't want to shift just yet. The two of you lay there, tangled in the sheets, your hearts racing in sync.
"There's no way they didn't hear something," you said, your voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. You could feel Joe's cock still twitching inside you, the evidence of his release seeping out to wet the bed between your legs.
"Your mom's been talking nonstop about a grandchild. I think she'll appreciate the knowledge that we're working on it right away," Joe replied with a lazy grin, not bothering to move. You playfully slapped his ass, making him yelp.
"Get off, you're crushing me," you giggled, pushing at Joe's shoulder. He chuckled, rolling off you and flopping onto his back. His cock slipped out with a wet sound, and you couldn't help but stare at the mess you had made. You felt a warm trickle of his cum slide out of you and trickle down your thigh.
Joe glanced over and grinned. "Looks like we've got a little cleanup on aisle five," he said, gesturing to the wet spot on the bed.
You threw a pillow at him, which he caught with ease. "You're so annoying," you said, your voice filled with affection. "If you're gonna be into this breeding kink thing, you're gonna have to help clean me up after."
Joe sat up, his chest heaving from the exertion. "Fair enough," he said, tossing the pillow back at you. "Can I lick you clean?" he offered with a waggle of his eyebrows, his voice filled with mischief.
You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your gaze betrayed your arousal. "Perv," you murmured, a smirk playing on your lips.
Joe shrugged, unabashed. "What? Is that a yes?" He leaned over to nip at your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. Despite the teasing, there was a genuine question in his voice, his breath hot against your skin.
"Not today, playboy," you said, swatting Joe's hand away as he reached for your still-sensitive folds. "But I'll keep it in mind for later."
You slithered out of bed, the dampness between your legs leaving a stain on the sheet. "For now, I'm going to take a shower before your mom starts knocking on the door wondering if we're okay."
Joe watched your retreating form with a lazy smile, his eyes lingering on your round, firm ass as you disappeared into the en suite bathroom. "Without me?" he called after you, pouting as he feigned disappointment in his voice.
When you looked at him over your shoulder, a smile pulling at your lips, he leaped out of bed. His cock was still half-hard as he chased after you, his playfulness evident in every step.
-
You stretched your limbs against the crisp, white villa sheets. You blinked your brown eyes open to the early morning sun peeking through the luxurious curtains, hinting at the promise of a new day. Next to you, Joe lay still, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. His dirty blonde hair was a mess, a heartwarming contrast to his usually meticulous grooming.
You couldn't help but smile at the sight of the man who was now your husband. Your first days as a married couple had been filled with passion and laughter, and you were eager to start this new chapter of your life together.
Your private plane ride had been nothing short of a dream. The thrilling rush of flying high above the clouds, sipping champagne, and even sneaking away to join the mile-high club in the spacious bathroom.
As you slipped out of bed, the soft carpet whispered a greeting beneath your bare feet. You padded over to the floor-to-ceiling window, taking in the breathtaking view of the tropical paradise that stretched out before you. The sea was a canvas of azure, blending into the horizon where the sun had just begun to paint streaks of gold and pink. It was the perfect setting for a honeymoon, and you couldn't have been more grateful for Joe's thoughtful surprise.
As you continued to gaze at the view, you felt Joe's arms snake around your waist from behind. He pulled you into his embrace, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. "Good morning, Mrs. Burrow," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and a hint of pride. You giggled, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.
"Good morning, Mr. Burrow," you replied, leaning into his touch. "I can't believe we're actually here." You twisted around in his arms, your smile widening as you met his gaze. Joe's blue eyes sparkled with love as he said, "I know what you mean. I had to pinch myself during the flight to make sure it wasn't just a dream."
"Was that before or after we christened the plane's bathroom?" You quipped, your eyes dancing with mischief. Joe chuckled, his arms tightening around you as you shared the intimate memory.
"Before," he said, his voice low and playful. "But I'm sure we can make some more memories today if you're up for it."
You decided to shower together, the warm water cascading over your bodies as you soaped each other up. The sensual act of washing each other had become a morning ritual for you, a gentle reminder of your love and devotion. As you stepped out, Joe couldn't resist smacking your ass playfully, making you yelp in surprise. You shot him a mock glare, which quickly melted into a grin as you grabbed a towel and dried off.
Dressing in your swimwear, you headed down to breakfast. The hotel had laid out a spread that could feed a small army, but you kept it simple: avocado eggs benedict for you and an omelet for him, a side of crispy bacon for you both. You sat by the pool, sipping on tropical smoothies, the gentle sound of the waves in the distance setting the mood for the day ahead. You felt your excitement build as you listened to Joe recount the plans he had made for your day.
Your midday snorkeling adventure was nothing short of magical. The crystal-clear waters revealed a vibrant underwater world of coral reefs and a rainbow of fish. You couldn't help but cling to Joe's arm in amazement as you floated above the aquatic wonderland. His constant, nerdy stream of ocean facts kept you laughing. You held hands underwater, your wedding rings glinting in the sunlight that pierced through the surface, a symbolic declaration of your commitment to each other.
-
"You're so sunburnt," you teased, your eyes sparkling with mirth as you traced your finger across Joe's pink shoulder. Your own skin, kissed by the sun, had a warm glow that contrasted with the vibrant, floral-printed sundress that clung deliciously to your curves like a second skin.
Joe groaned dramatically, his fair complexion suffering from the tropical heat more than your naturally darker skin. "You think that's funny?" he shot back, though his smile gave away his playful annoyance.
You had spent the entire day snorkeling in the crystal waters and lounging under the palm trees, and Joe in all his stubbornness had decided against sunscreen, claiming it would be nice to get a "tan" in. Needless to say, the Caribbean sun had been less than kind to his poor, Midwestern pale skin. You had been more fortunate, your skin a beautiful canvas of brown with the hint of a shimmer from your coconut-scented sunscreen.
"It's hilarious, actually," you said, leaning in to kiss his burnt nose. "Come on. We can grab some aloe from the gift shop for your poor, crispy skin."
Joe rolled his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Oh, the joys of being married to a smartass," he murmured, pulling you closer to his side. Your hand splayed across his chest, ring catching the golden sunlight as he pressed a fleeting kiss to your temple.
"You love this smart ass," you quipped back, gasping with surprise as Joe's left hand reached down to smooth over the fabric covering your ass.
"I do love this ass," Joe murmured lowly, delivering a full-handed squeeze to each of your cheeks. "No lie."
After retrieving the aloe from the gift shop, you retreated to your luxurious villa. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, casting a warm, romantic light over the plush California king-sized bed and the floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed the stunning view of the ocean. You carefully applied the cool aloe vera gel to Joe's sun-bitten skin, your gentle touch offering a sweet respite from the sting.
Joe's eyes fluttered shut as you worked your way down his back, your fingers tracing the contours of his muscles, which had been honed from countless hours in the gym and on the field. He could feel the tension of the day melting away under your touch.
"I'm sorry, baby," you hummed softly as Joe hissed when you reached a particularly tender spot. "I know it stings."
"It's okay," Joe managed through gritted teeth, his eyes still closed. "Guess I'll have to stay out of the sun tomorrow."
You chuckled, your hands continuing their soothing dance across his skin. "I can't imagine that happening. It's so beautiful out there," you said, glancing out at the horizon where the sun was dipping below the waves.
"Just means I get to stay in bed with you all day," Joe murmured, his voice thick with innuendo. He turned his head from his spot on his stomach, looking at you over his shoulder with a smoldering gaze.
Your laughter turned into a knowing smile, and you leaned in to kiss the back of his neck. "Is that a promise?" you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down his spine.
Joe's gaze met yours in the reflection of the large, ornate mirror on the opposite wall. "I'm a man who takes his vows seriously," he replied, his voice low and gruff with desire. Your eyes darkened with anticipation as you set the aloe aside, replacing it with a bottle of massage oil. You climbed back onto the bed, straddling his back with the bottle balanced delicately in your hand.
"Let's see if we can make this feel a little better," you said, your tone a mix of sweetness and conspiracy. You began to work the oil into his shoulders, your soft, skilled hands kneading out the knots that had formed from a full day of swimming and sun.
Joe groaned in pleasure, his eyes still locked on yours in the mirror. "You're a miracle worker," he murmured, feeling the heat of the oil and your touch seep into his sore muscles.
You grinned, your eyes glued to his baby blues. "Just doing my wifey duties," you said, your voice dripping with sweetness. You continued to massage him, your hands moving in slow, firm circles that grew increasingly sensual as you worked your way down his back.
Joe felt his body responding to your touch, his muscles relaxing and his skin prickling with goosebumps. "Is this part of the standard honeymoon package?" he managed to ask, his voice strained.
You giggled, your hands sliding lower, dangerously close to the waistband of his swim trunks. "Oh, this is a special upgrade," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear as you leaned forward to press your chest to his back. "Just for my favorite man."
Your thumbs dipped beneath the fabric, tracing the waistline of his trunks and sending a jolt of electricity through his body. He bit his lip, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "What else does this upgrade include?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"Well," you began, your hands moving to the back of his trunks, "It's a full-service deal. I'll take care of every inch of you." You tugged the material down, exposing his firm, sun-neglected ass. His skin was tight and pale, practically begging for the warmth of your palms.
With a devilish smirk, you started to massage the oil into his ass, your touch feather-light at first, teasing him with the promise of more. Joe's breath hitched, his body tensing under your touch. You leaned down, your chest brushing against his back as you kissed the top of his shoulder. "Do you like that?" you whispered, your breath hot on his skin.
Joe's only response was a nod, his eyes squeezed shut in focus. You chuckled, your hands growing bolder, kneading his cheeks with a firmness that made him moan. Your fingers danced closer to his crack, and you could feel his arousal growing against your thigh.
"Just keep that finger to yourself, missy," Joe warned playfully, his voice strained with pleasure. Your disappointed groan was like music to his ears, and he felt his cock twitch against the mattress at the sound.
Your response was to give his right cheek a gentle smack, the sound echoing through the room. "One of these days, I'll get what I want," you teased, your hands leaving their spot on his ass to work at his shoulders once more. The warmth from your touch seeped into Joe's bones, and he couldn't help but let out a low moan.
"One of these days," he echoed, his voice thick with desire, "but not today." You knew he was enjoying the anticipation, the buildup of pleasure that you so skillfully crafted. You leaned in closer, your breasts pressing into his back again as you whispered a command into his ear to flip over.
With a groan, Joe obeyed, his cock standing at full attention underneath his swim trunks as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling fan that lazily spun above you. You took in the sight of your husband, your eyes lingering on the trail of hair that led from his navel to his groin, the faintest dusting of sun freckles across his shoulders, and the way his chest stood proud and firm. You couldn't help but feel a surge of pride knowing that this man, this powerful, successful man, was all yours.
Straddling his hips, you leaned over to kiss him, your oiled hands sliding over his chest. Your kisses grew more heated, Joe's hands coming up to grip your ass firmly, now his turn to kneed your flesh. You felt his cock throb against your inner thigh and you broke away, breathless. "Someone's eager," you teased, your eyes sparkling with excitement.
"You have no idea," Joe murmured, his voice breaking with surprise as you playfully pinched his nipples. You straightened your back as you sat up, your crotch slotted perfectly over his erection. Your manicured nails trailed down his stomach, the cool metal of your wedding ring sending goosebumps skittering across his skin. Joe's hands moved to your waist, his thumbs playing with the soft material of your dress. His blue eyes blazed with need as he took in your beauty, the way your tits strained against the fabric, the curve of your hips, the shadow between your thighs that promised heaven.
"You should wear these dresses more often," Joe said, his voice strained as you ground your hips against his. The dresses in question had been a staple to your honeymoon wardrobe, all thin straps and flowing in every color under the rainbow. You leaned back, arching your spine, giving him a better view of your body.
"You like them? Maybe I'll start wearing them to your games," you quipped, your eyes dancing with mischief. Joe's grip tightened on your waist, his mind racing with the thought of you in this dress, teasing him in front of the cameras. He could picture your figure amplified on national television as the color commentators declared you as his wife, your new last name rolling off their tongues easily.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Joe chuckled, his thumbs stroking your hips as he fought to keep his cool. "No way are you distracting my focus like that."
You giggled, your hands sliding down to grip the bulge of his dick through the fabric of his trunks. "But you'd love it," you whispered, your teeth grazing his earlobe. "Imagine every time you looked over at the sidelines and saw me sitting there, you'd know exactly what's waiting for you after the game."
Joe's eyes rolled back in his head as you squeezed him lightly, his hips bucking involuntarily. "I don't think I'd be able to play," he managed to murmur, his voice tight with need. "I'd spend the whole game thinking about tearing that dress off you. And I don't think I'd be the only one thinking that."
You laughed, your grip tightening on Joe's cock. "We wouldn't want that," you said, your voice a sweet purr. You sat up straight, your oiled hands sliding down your thighs to rest on Joe's. "But you can take it off me now."
He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring with lust as he sat up and reached for the hem of the sundress. His eyes were trained on your exposed skin as he tugged the dress up over your head. He threw the thin fabric to the side, leaving you perched pretty on his lap. The ruched, bridal white string bikini you had been wearing underneath the dress contrasted beautifully against your shimmering skin.
"You're so beautiful," Joe murmured, his voice filled with awe. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in the fullness of your breasts, and the way your stomach dipped before flaring out into your hips. You leaned into him, your heart racing as his hands found the strings of your bikini top.
With a swift pull, the fabric gave way and your breasts spilled out, bouncing slightly with the movement. Joe's mouth watered as he reached out, cupping one in his hand, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. You gasped, arching into his touch. The coolness of the room washed over your bare skin, making you feel even more exposed and alive.
Joe's eyes never left yours as he leaned in to capture your nipple between his teeth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. Your breath hitched, your hands tangling in his hair as you held him to your skin. He kissed and nipped at one peak before moving on to the other, his mouth and teeth teasing you until you were squirming in his lap.
Your hips rocked against him, your pussy slick and hot through the fabric of your bikini bottoms. Joe's cock strained against the confines of his trunks, desperate for release. He reached up, his fingers undoing the strings of your bottoms, and with a firm tug, they too gave way. Your body was laid bare before him, your skin glistening with tanning oil and the light sheen of arousal.
"Your turn," you murmured, your voice thick with desire. You pushed at Joe's shoulders, urging him to lie back on the bed. He did so willingly, his cock bobbing free as you slid his trunks down his legs. Your eyes were glued to his cock, your mouth watering at the sight of his thick, veined shaft.
Without a word, Joe lay back on the bed, his cock standing proud and eager against his stomach. You took a moment to appreciate the view, your eyes drinking in every inch of him. He was perfection personified, and you felt a thrill knowing you were the one who got to claim him.
"Let me taste you, sweetheart," Joe whispered, his voice husky with need as he maneuvered your back to fall against the crisp, white sheets. Your eyes widened in surprise but you didn't resist, your legs falling open to give him access to your slick folds. He kissed and nibbled at your inner thighs, his tongue tracing the path to your core as you squirmed with anticipation. His hands ran up the sides of your thighs, gently caressing the skin before moving them to rest on his shoulders, giving him the perfect angle to dive in.
Your breath caught in your throat as his tongue parted you, tasting your sweetness. You could feel his breath hot against your pussy, sending shivers down your spine. Joe took his time, savoring your flavor, exploring every inch of you with a hunger that made your toes curl. Your grip on the sheets tightened as Joe's tongue swirled around your clit and flattened against your folds, the pressure building until you could hardly stand it.
He knew exactly how to drive you wild. With each flick of his tongue, you felt yourself inch closer to the precipice of ecstasy. "Joe," you breathed weakly, your voice trembling with desire. "I'm gonna come."
He chuckled against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through your core. "That's the plan, babe," he murmured, his voice muffled by the wetness of your pussy. He picked up the pace, his tongue dancing and flicking in a way that made your hips buck and your breath hitch. You threw your head back, short, strangled breaths leaving your mouth as your eyes squeezed shut, Joe's mouth worked you into a frenzy.
The room filled with the sound of your moans and the wet, sloppy noises of Joe's enthusiastic indulgence mixing in with your glistening arousal. He was relentless, his tongue probing and lapping until you were sure you couldn't take anymore. You felt your orgasm building, a coil of tension in your belly that grew tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.
"Oh god, Joe," you panted, your hips rising to meet his mouth. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding your pussy against his face. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted on your sweetness. You could feel the pressure building, the heat coiling in your core, ready to explode.
And then it did. With a moan that echoed through the villa, your body convulsed as waves of pleasure washed over you. Your muscles tightened around Joe's tongue, your juices flooding his mouth as you came harder than you ever had before. Joe groaned in satisfaction, his own arousal reaching new heights as he drank you in. He didn't stop until you were trembling and panting, your body a puddle of boneless bliss beneath him.
Your eyes slowly opened, and you looked down at Joe, your face warm and your chest heaving. "Damn, baby," you breathed, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "I knew you were a munch but that was… wow."
Joe looked up at you with a grin, his face shiny with her arousal. "I was face first in my wife's pussy, couldn't help it," he said, his voice filled with a cocky confidence that made your heart race even faster. He kissed his way back up your body, leaving a trail of heat and wetness in his wake. When he reached your mouth, you tasted yourself on his lips, a heady mix of salt and sweet that only heightened your desire.
Your kiss grew more intense, your tongues dancing together in a rhythm that mirrored the pulsing need between your legs. Joe reached up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his thumbs playing with your still-sensitive nipples. You moaned into his mouth, your hips lifting to meet his.
"Face the mirror, gonna take you from the back," Joe murmured against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. You eagerly complied, turning to face the mirror and scooting closer to the edge of the bed. Your heart thundered in your chest as you watched Joe's reflection, his muscles rippling as he moved behind you.
He slid his hand down your spine, sending shivers through your body, and gripped your waist, pulling you closer to his body. You felt the tip of his cock at your entrance, and you couldn't help but whimper with anticipation. The position was rare for you two, usually reserved for moments when Joe was feeling particularly possessive. Your eyes locked onto his in the mirror, and you watched as he lined himself up, his hand guiding his shaft to your awaiting heat.
With one smooth, powerful thrust, he filled you, making you moan out with a mix of pleasure and surprise. The angle was new, and it hit you in just the right way, making your pussy clench around him. Joe groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he took in the sight of his cock disappearing into your wetness. Your body was a work of art, and he couldn't get enough of watching you react to his touch.
He began to move, his hips sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that grew more intense with each stroke. Your breasts bounced with the motion, your hands straining to grip the sheets as you watched Joe's reflection in the mirror. His eyes were hooded with desire, his teeth bared in a feral grimace as he claimed your body.
Your walls stretched around him, your body adjusting to the new sensation of being taken from behind. Your breaths grew shorter, your moans growing louder with each thrust. Joe's grip on your waist tightened, his strokes deep and demanding as he watched you in the mirror. The sight of your face contorted in pleasure, your dark hair splayed across the pillows, and your body writhing under his, only spurred him on.
"You like that?" he growled, his voice low and possessive. You could only nod, your mouth forming silent words as you struggled to keep up with the overwhelming sensations. Joe's hand reached around to find your clit, his thumb pressing down in a steady, insistent rhythm that matched his thrusts.
"Yes, Joey, I fucking love it," you gasped, your eyes watching him move in the mirror. Your voice was a mix of desperation and pleasure, the words barely recognizable through your moans. His thumb circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to send sparks of sensation through your body.
"I'm so lucky to have you," Joe murmured, your eyes glazed with pleasure as Joe's cock filled you completely. His hand slid down to cup your ass, his fingers digging in as he pulled you back into each thrust. The angle was exquisite, hitting all the right spots, and you knew this was going to be one of those moments that would be forever etched into your mind.
"You're everything I've ever wanted," you managed to pant, your body jolting with each impact of his hips slamming into you. Your inner walls quivered around him, your pussy greedily sucking him in deeper.
"I promise I'll spend every day of the rest of our lives making you feel like this," Joe groaned, his words punctuated by his relentless pounding. You could feel the tension coiling tighter within you, the promise of another earth-shattering orgasm just out of reach.
Your eyes remained locked with his in the mirror, the connection between you two more intense than ever. Your breathing grew ragged, your moans echoing off the walls as Joe picked up his pace. Each thrust was deeper, harder, more demanding, and you could feel yourself climbing toward the peak.
Suddenly, Joe leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back as one arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him. The other arm fell forward, caging your body in as his hand settled over yours, fingers intertwined, rings nudging against each other. Your chest collapsed, your nipples tightening as you grazed the coolness of the mattress. He whispered sweet, dirty nothings into your ear, his breath hot and ragged, sending shivers down your spine.
"I want to see you come, baby," Joe panted, his thrusts growing more erratic. "Go ahead, baby. Let go for me."
You felt your orgasm building, the pressure in your core growing stronger with each word. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to hold back the inevitable. But Joe's touch was too much. He knew just what you needed, and as his thumb circled your clit faster and his cock pounded into you harder, you couldn't resist anymore.
Your body tightened around him, your muscles clenching as you came, your walls pulsing with pleasure. You whimpered his name weakly, your body bucking wildly under his. Joe's eyes watched as you lost control, feeling your pussy grip him as you spilled over the edge. His own orgasm followed close behind, his cum spurting into you with a force that made you both groan.
Your bodies remained connected for a moment, both panting heavily, the sound of your mingled breaths the only noise in the quiet room. You felt Joe's cock soften inside you, and you leaned back into his chest, your body still trembling from the intensity of your lovemaking.
"I don't know if I can move," you murmured, your voice shaky with the aftermath of pleasure. Joe chuckled, kissing your shoulder before gently withdrawing and rolling over to your side. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around your waist as you both stared at your reflections in the mirror.
"I love you so much, you know that?" Joe murmured into your ear, his breath still coming in pants as he held you close. Your head rested on his chest, your breathing finally starting to even out. You nodded, a content smile playing on your lips.
"I would hope so, you married me last week. You better love me," you replied, your voice teasing but filled with affection as you cuddled closer to Joe, your hand resting on his chest. You could feel the steady thump of his heart, a reminder of the passion you just shared.
The two of you lay there for a few moments, the sweat cooling on your bodies as the tropical breeze gently caressed your skin. You turned your head, your eyes meeting Joe's in the mirror. His gaze was warm, a soft smile playing on his lips as he stroked your hair.
"I think that's only the second time we've had sex in this bed," Joe said, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
You chuckled, your eyes fluttering shut as you nestled into his warmth. "It's not my fault you can't keep it in your pants long enough to make it to the bed, Burrow," you teased, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cheek.
"What's the point of a villa on a quiet island if we're not going to use every surface?" Joe replied with a smirk, his fingers tracing lazy circles into the skin of your lower back. You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as you rolled over to face him fully. His cock twitched helplessly as he watched you, the sight of your sated smile and glowing skin making him want you all over again.
But he knew you needed a break. And so, you lay together, your bodies entwined in a mess of limbs and damp sheets. Your hand found its way to his chest, playing with the light dusting of hair that trailed down to his stomach. You traced the path with your fingertip, watching his abs contract with each breath he took.
"What do you think your love language is?" you asked, your voice lazy and content. You traced the contours of Joe's chest with your finger, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch.
Joe smiled, his hand moving downward to squeeze your ass playfully. "I'd say my love language is definitely making you happy, especially when it involves me fucking you just the way you like it," he said, his voice filled with pride. You snorted, swatting his chest lightly. "Okay, in all seriousness, I think it's quality time. Nothing makes me happier than being close to you."
Your expression softened, your eyes shining with affection. "Mine's definitely words of affirmation," you murmured, your hand sliding up to caress his cheek. "I love it when you tell me how much you love me, how beautiful I am, how you chose me."
Joe leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'll never run out of ways to tell you that," he promised, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "I guess I like that too. Hearing that I'm doing right by you. That you're happy. That I'm enough."
You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his vulnerable admission. "You are," you said, your voice firm. "More than enough. And I'll never get tired of telling you that." You leaned in to kiss him softly, the sweetness of the moment lingering between the two of you as your bodies settled.
"You wanna know something cool?" Joe hummed, pulling away from the kiss with a playful grin. You hummed in question, your eyes beginning to hood from the sleepiness that was slowly creeping in. "I'm your husband," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder and a hint of disbelief.
"I'm aware," you said with a roll of your eyes, though the smile on your face gave away the joy you felt at the reminder. "But you know what's even cooler than that?"
"What's cooler than being your husband?" Joe asked, his grin widening as he propped himself up on an elbow. His eyes searched yours, eager to hear your response.
"Cooler than that?" you teased, your voice playful. "I'm your wife. That's pretty cool."
Joe chuckled, his hand sliding up to squeeze your hand. "I guess it's a tie then," he conceded. Your smile grew as you watched the love dance in Joe's eyes, feeling it deep in your soul. You were married, and it was still so surreal. The last week had been a whirlwind of emotions, but this moment right here, with Joe's arms around you and the sound of your mingled breaths, was pure bliss.
The room was quiet except for the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. Your eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion of the day catching up to you. You snuggled impossibly closer to Joe, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He was your home, your sanctuary, and you never wanted to leave this tropical paradise.
request: "I feel like Joe would always insist on calling you after every game even the late ones. Even if it’s just a sleepy, half-coherent conversation he refuses to go to bed without hearing your voice"
Joe's post-game ritual has always been the same: shake hands, hit the showers, face the press, and head home. But since the two of you started dating, he added a new step—one he never skips. No matter the hour, no matter how late the game runs or how exhausted he is from the rush of adrenaline and the strain of the field, he calls. Even if it’s the kind of late that makes your voice thick with sleep and your words slur together, he’ll still dial your number, waiting for the soft click of your sleepy “Hello?” on the other end.
You used to worry about his exhaustion, insisting he could wait until morning, but Joe’s stubbornness won out. It’s his way of winding down, he says, the easiest way to let the adrenaline taper off—to hear you, half-awake and warm under your blankets, murmuring about your day or teasing him for that one pass he wishes he’d thrown differently.
Tonight, the call comes later than usual, your phone buzzing on the nightstand as you squint at the clock—well past midnight. You know the routine by now, though. His name glows on the screen, and you don’t hesitate to answer, even if you’re barely awake yourself. Because somehow, even in those moments of barely-there conversation, there’s something grounding, something steady in the sound of his voice—low and sleepy and comfortable.
The phone buzzes again, and you let out a small sigh, rolling over in the sheets that are tangled around your legs. It’s late—way too late for anyone but him. You fumble for the phone, knocking your book off the nightstand in the process, and finally manage to answer on the last ring.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep, barely more than a mumble. Your eyes are still closed, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice before he even speaks.
“Hey,” he says, sounding tired but happy. There’s a warmth in his voice that makes you want to sink deeper into the blankets, your body relaxing even as you struggle to stay awake. You hear a faint rustling on his end of the line, the sound of him settling into whatever hotel bed or quiet corner he’s managed to find for this call.
“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you watched the whole game with half your attention, laptop open on your lap as you listened to the announcers shout his name. You already know he won. You can tell just by the way he’s breathing—steady and content, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing on his shoulders anymore.
“We got the win,” he says, and you can practically picture the satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Defense pulled through. Felt good. Tired, though.” There’s a pause, just long enough for you to hear the creak of the bed as he stretches out, and you imagine him there, hair still damp from the shower, pillow propped against the headboard, eyes half-lidded and heavy.
“You sound tired,” you say, letting your own eyes drift shut again, his voice washing over you like a lullaby. He always sounds different after a game—softer, looser, the careful edges he keeps in place during the day falling away in the quiet of the night.
“Yeah,” he admits, a low chuckle humming in his throat. “Long night. But I’m good. Needed to call you first.” He says it like a fact, like calling you is as essential as breathing, and it makes something warm settle in your chest, even as you struggle to fight off sleep.
You know what he looks like right now—can see him so clearly it’s almost like you’re there. His face is flushed from the game, the last traces of exertion still lingering in his expression, and he’s got that soft, worn-out smile you only see when he’s alone with you. He’s probably half-reclined on some too-firm hotel bed, still wearing sweats and the hoodie he threw on over his jersey. You can picture the way his hand would brush over his face, rubbing at tired eyes, his fingers trailing down to the scruff along his jaw. He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t need effort, like he forgets sometimes that anyone’s looking.
“What’d you eat?” you ask, knowing he probably hasn’t had a proper meal yet. There’s a muffled sound, and you can almost see him shrug.
“Grabbed a sandwich at the stadium,” he says. “You know, the usual. But I’m not really hungry.” His voice is softer now, like he’s already sinking into the comfort of the call, the post-game rush fading away. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything, just the quiet hum of the line connecting you, stretching across the miles.
His breathing evens out, and you know he’s lying back now, probably letting his eyes drift shut the way you are, letting the night pull him under. This is the quietest part of the day, the only time where everything seems to slow down, where it’s just you and him, your voices mingling in the spaces between words.
“Did you see the game?” he asks suddenly, and there’s a hint of teasing there, like he already knows the answer. He’s always known when you’re watching—can sense it in some unspoken way, even when you’re not at the stadium, cheering him on in person. You hum, the sound halfway between agreement and a sleepy sigh.
“Of course I did,” you say. “Saw that touchdown, too. You looked good out there.”
He chuckles, the sound low and deep, a bit self-conscious but pleased. “You think so?” he asks, his tone playful but with that slight, genuine curiosity you’ve come to love—like he still isn’t sure how you see him, even after all this time.
“Always,” you reply, and it’s true. Even when he’s a mess, jersey streaked with mud, hair wild from the helmet, he’s yours. There’s something honest about him on the field, something raw that you can’t help but admire. He doesn’t play with swagger—he plays with determination, with a kind of quiet, relentless grit that makes your chest tighten with pride.
“Wish you were here,” he murmurs, and there’s a softness to the words, a longing that cuts through the distance between you. You can hear the weight of it, the way he doesn’t mean for it to sound so heavy, but it does anyway.
“Me too,” you admit, turning onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. You know he’s in some hotel room halfway across the country, the curtains drawn against the city lights, the room probably too cold for comfort.
And you’re here, in your own bed, miles apart but tethered by this line, by his voice, by the quiet spaces between breaths that are filled with the things neither of you say out loud.
It’s moments like this that make the distance feel bearable, moments where the miles don’t matter because it’s just you and him, lingering in the quiet of the night, holding on to the sound of each other’s voice like a promise.
“Get some sleep, Joey,” you say softly, knowing he won’t listen, that he’ll keep talking until he’s sure you’re drifting off, that he won’t hang up until he’s heard you yawn, heard the way your voice gets softer and softer until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.
“Not yet,” he says, voice a bit firmer now, a smile tugging at the edges. “Just a few more minutes.”
You don’t argue, just let him fill the silence with the sound of his breath, the occasional murmur about a play or a moment you’d already forgotten, listening to the way his voice dips and slows, lulling you back to the edge of sleep. It’s the sound of home, you think, this quiet, late-night ritual that belongs only to the two of you—a secret shared in the dark, a comfort that’s become as essential as the game itself.
He keeps talking, his voice a low, steady hum, and you let yourself drift, knowing he’ll be there, knowing he won’t let you go until you’ve slipped back into the warmth of your dreams, his voice still echoing in the back of your mind long after you’ve hung up.
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
pairings: joe burrow x reader 🤍
wc: 3.1k
an: since canva is down i'm taking a much needed break and getting this up. this fic is based on this ask. just a little something soft for my fellow tall man with big hands enjoyers (i know they're not actually that big compared to other qbs but they're big to me okay). hope it's everything bb. as always thank you for trusting me with your requests, love you all 🤍
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He's at the stove when you let yourself in.
Black t-shirt, sweats, bare feet. Hair still damp from the shower. Head down over a pan, flipping something with the kind of absent focus he has when he's not really paying attention to the task, just doing it. The TV is on low in the living room, and the lights are dimmed the way he keeps them when he's been home a while. The whole place smells like garlic, his soap, and something warm.
"In here," he calls.
You drop your bag on the bench below the entry mirror. Kick off your shoes. The presentation bumped to Monday keeps circling in your mind. The slides you'll need to revise. The boss's email you haven't answered. The afternoon collapsed into a single, held breath. You haven't let it go all day.
You cross the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind.
He's so much bigger than you from this angle. Your face doesn't reach his shoulder blades. Just the middle of his back. The soft cotton of his shirt is warm against your cheek. Your arms barely make it around him. You link your fingers at the front of his ribs and stay there.
He hums low in his chest. You feel it more than hear it. One hand comes back, finds your hip, settles there — his palm covering the whole top of your thigh.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
He doesn't turn around. Just keeps the hand on your hip and goes back to what he's doing, like you being attached to him from behind is a neutral condition, a thing that doesn't require adjustment.
"Long day?"
You nod into his back. He can't see it, but he feels it — his thumb moves once against your hip, a small acknowledgment.
"Chicken okay?" he asks.
"Mhm."
"Real answer."
"Chicken is great." You turn your face so your cheek is flat against him, and the thud of his back under your ear does something to the coil you've been carrying around all day. "I missed you."
"Missed you too." He says it easily, no teasing in it. "Go sit. This is almost done."
You don't move.
He laughs — a quiet breath through his nose. His hand slides from your hip to cover one of yours, where it's locked against his stomach. His fingers wrap all the way around, thumb tucked over your knuckles. Your hand disappears under his completely.
"Or don't," he says. "Whatever you want."
You stay.
When he finally turns off the stove, he has to pry you off him gently, one finger at a time, like unlatching something. You let him. He turns around and looks down at you — and you tip your head back to look up, and there it is again, the way you always forget until you're right in front of him: how far up he is.
"Hi," he says again, softer this time.
You go up on your toes. He meets you halfway, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you there, and the kiss is short and easy and tastes a little like whatever he snuck off the pan.
"Plates," he says against your mouth.
"In a second."
"Now."
He hands you one. His hand swallows it — long fingers curled around the rim, the plate looking absurdly small in his palm before he passes it over. You take it. The weight shifts to your hand, and it's a normal plate again. Just a plate.
—
Dinner ends up on the couch.
You were supposed to eat on the island. He'd set out two places and everything. But somehow you drifted. You with your plate balanced on your knees. He, with his in one hand, a fork in the other, legs stretched out under the coffee table. The TV's still on low. Neither of you is really watching it.
You finish eating first. He clears most of his plate, sets it down, leans back, and does that thing—exhaling slowly through his nose, body finally registering he’s home.
"C'mere," he says.
You do. You fold into his side, tuck your legs up under you, and rest your head against his chest. His arm comes around your shoulders, heavy and warm. His other hand drops to his thigh.
You watch TV for a while.
Not really. The show's playing, your eyes on it, but your mind floats between Monday's slides, the email, and the way he smells after a shower. None of it is on the screen.
Your hand wanders.
You don't decide to do it. You never decide to do it. Your fingers just find his hand where it's resting palm-down on his thigh, and you start.
You start with his knuckles.
You trace the first one with your thumb. Then the ridge of the second. His hand twitches once under yours—barely—and then relaxes. You flatten your palm against his and push your fingers between his, slowly. Not threading all the way through. Just enough to feel the space between them. His fingers are so much longer than yours that yours don't clear the second knuckle.
You pull your hand back. Start over.
You press your palm flat against his again and leave it there. Your hand looks small. Your fingers don't come close to the tips of his.
Above you, he exhales. His thumb brushes the back of your hand, once, and stills.
He doesn't say anything.
He never says anything when you're doing this. Doesn't comment, doesn't ask what you're doing, doesn't look down at his hand. He just leaves it there. Let's you have it. His hand goes a little looser under yours so you can move it however you want, turn it over when you're ready, keep going.
You turn it over.
His palm is warm. The lines across it are deep and familiar. You trace the longest one with the pad of your thumb. Slow, following it from the heel of his hand to where it disappears between his fingers. You press into the meat of his palm. You fold his fingers down one by one, then let them go. They stay where you left them until he flexes once. He stretches them out again and lays his hand back flat so you can start over.
You can feel him breathing. Slow. Even. His thumb has moved again without you noticing — it's drawing a slow drag across your knuckles now, not quite keeping time with what you're doing but not ignoring it either.
You lift his hand up and hold it flat against yours, palm to palm. Your hand is lost behind his.
He looks down at it. Doesn't say anything for a second.
Then he laces his fingers through yours and curls his hand closed around it, and your whole hand disappears inside his fist.
You make a small sound against his chest — somewhere between a laugh and a noise of complaint — and he huffs once, quiet, the vibration of it moving through his ribs and into your cheek. His hand loosens. You take yours back. Start over again, knuckles first.
He shifts underneath you. Pulls you a little closer. Doesn't take his hand away.
The TV has moved on to something else. You couldn't tell anyone what's on. The coil in your chest, you came in with—the one that was still there through dinner. Still there an hour ago. Still there when you were pressed against his back at the stove—is gone. You can't point to when it left. Sometime between his knuckles and his palm. Sometimes, in the middle of his hand opening under yours.
You turn your face into his chest and bring his hand up with you. Press your lips to the back of it without thinking. A small, absent kiss, there and gone.
You don't mean anything by it. It's not a move. It's just the end of the fidget, a place to leave his hand when you're done.
Except —
He goes still.
Not much. Just a half-beat pause in his breathing, a stutter in the slow drag of his thumb. His hand, the one you just kissed, stays where you left it against your mouth for a second longer than it needs to.
Then it moves.
His fingers slide along your jaw. Slow. Deliberate. Find the line of it from your chin to your ear, and stay there — his palm cradling the side of your face, his thumb resting just under your lower lip.
You don't move.
He's not looking at the TV anymore.
—
You don't move.
His thumb is under your lower lip. His palm is warm against your cheek. His hand — the hand you've been holding and tracing and playing with for the last half hour — is doing something different now, and you feel the difference everywhere.
You tip your face up.
He's already looking at you.
Whatever was on the TV is gone. Not off — still playing, still lit up behind him — but gone from the room in any way that matters. His eyes move over your face slowly, the way they do when he's trying to figure something out. They stop at your mouth.
His thumb drags once across your bottom lip. Barely. Just enough.
You feel your breath catch.
You're still tucked against his side. Still folded into him. From this angle, you have to tilt your head all the way back to keep your eyes on his. His hand stays on your face—a hand that, twenty minutes ago, you were pressing your palm flat against to measure. The same hand. You can still feel the shape of his knuckles under your thumb. You can still feel the way your hand disappeared in his.
Now it's cradling your jaw.
Now his fingers are long enough to reach from the line of your jaw to the hair at your temple.
Now you are very aware of how big his hand is.
"C'mere," he says.
You don't know how you move. You don't remember deciding. Somehow you're shifting, pushing up onto your knees on the couch. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck as you come. His fingers span the width of it. Thumb pressed behind your ear. Palm cupping the base of your skull. He doesn't pull. He just holds. Let's you close the distance yourself.
You kiss him.
It's not like the kitchen kiss. That one was easy, quick, and tasted like dinner. This one is slower, and his mouth opens under yours, and his hand at the back of your neck tightens — just barely — just enough for you to feel that he's got you.
When you pull back, your face is still in his hand.
He looks at you.
"Bed," he says.
You nod.
He stands up, and he takes you with him — one hand sliding under your thighs, the other bracing your back, and he lifts you off the couch like you don't weigh anything. Your legs wrap around his waist without being asked. His hand stays spread across your lower back, fingers reaching up under the hem of your shirt to find skin.
"Get the light," he says against your jaw.
You reach back. Flip it off.
He carries you down the hall.
—
His bedroom is dark. He doesn't turn on the overhead — just the lamp on his side of the bed, the one that throws everything in low gold.
He sets you down on the edge of the mattress and stands between your knees.
You look up at him. From here, seated, you have to tilt your head all the way back to keep his eyes. He's looking down at you with his jaw set, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face again, and you turn your cheek into his palm without thinking.
"Arms up," he says.
You lift them. He pulls your shirt off in one motion, drops it somewhere behind him, and his hand comes right back to your jaw. Thumb at the corner of your mouth. The other hand sliding down the side of your throat, along your collarbone, down.
He kisses you with his hand still on your face.
You feel his weight before you feel anything else — him leaning into you, walking you back against the bed, until your shoulders hit the comforter and his arm is bracing next to your head. He's holding himself up. Not putting all of it on you. But he's there, caging you in, and you can feel how easy it would be for him not to be careful.
Your hands find the bottom of his shirt. You push it up. He pulls it off himself, impatient, tosses it, and his chest against yours is hot and bare and so much wider than you when he settles.
His mouth is on your neck. His hand — the other one, the one that isn't holding him up — is on your ribs. Flat. Fingers splayed. You glance down, and his palm is covering you from the bottom of your sternum to your hipbone, thumb against the soft skin just under your breast, fingers wrapping around your side.
His hand covers most of your stomach. You can see how big it is against you — fingertips almost at one hipbone, heel of his palm near the other.
He notices you looking.
"What," he says, low, into your throat.
"Nothing."
He lifts his head. Looks at you, then down at his hand, where it's spread across your middle. He presses it flat. Spreads his fingers wider. Watches.
"That's hot," he says, simply. Like a fact.
You make a noise you don't mean to make.
He smiles against your jaw.
—
He gets the rest of your clothes off without making a show of it. Sweats and underwear in one pull. Bra somewhere in between. You don't even track when his own clothes go — just at some point his skin is everywhere against yours, his weight between your thighs, one of his legs pinning yours down against the mattress.
His forearm plants next to your head.
His other hand — the one that was on your stomach — slides down. Finds you. He groans, quietly, against your temple.
"Baby."
"Please."
"Yeah."
He pushes into you slowly, and your breath punches out of you, and his hand comes back up to your stomach — splayed flat, just below your navel — as he bottoms out.
You look down.
His hand spans you hip to hip. His palm is pressed against the place he's just filled up. You can feel him through his own hand — the pressure of his palm pushing down from the outside while he's deep inside you at the same time — and something about the visual of it, of his hand that big on your body while he's inside you, makes your eyes fall shut.
"Look," he says.
You open them.
"Keep lookin'."
He pulls back. Pushes in again. His hand stays on your stomach, and you can feel every inch of him move under his own palm. You make a sound. His thumb drags across your hipbone.
"Told you," he says, voice low and rough and a little smug.
You would complain about the smug if you could form words.
He picks up his rhythm. Not fast. Just deep and relentless, the kind of pace that doesn't give you anywhere to go. His forearm is still planted beside your head, caging you in. Your hands go up to his shoulders, slide down his back, and grip.
You're not going to last long. You know that. He knows that.
His hand slides up from your stomach, across your ribs, up to the base of your throat. Doesn't squeeze. Just rests there — thumb under your jaw, fingers spread along the side of your neck. Holding.
"Look at me."
You do.
"There you go," he says.
You break under his hand.
He keeps going. Works you through it, his forehead dropping to yours, his hips still moving, his palm still warm at your throat. You're clenching around him, and he's cursing low against your mouth, and you can feel the exact moment his control slips — his rhythm stutters, goes a little harder, a little less measured — and then his hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers spanning the width of it, pulling you up into him as he comes.
He presses his face into your hair. Doesn't say anything. Just breathes.
—
He stays there for a long time.
Face in your hair, forearm still braced beside your head, his weight not quite on you but close. You feel his breathing slow, catch, slow again. Your hand comes up to the back of his neck. His hair is damp at the roots. You drag your fingers up through it, slow, and he makes a small sound against your temple that isn't quite a word.
Eventually, he shifts. Pulls back enough to look at you — his hair is a mess, his eyes soft in the lamp light — and kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your mouth, once, barely.
"Be right back."
You close your eyes.
You hear the water running in the bathroom. The faucet shuts off. He comes back with a washcloth, warm, and you let him clean you up without opening your eyes — just feel the careful drag of his hand, the way he's gentler now than he was ten minutes ago, the same hands in a third register tonight.
He drops the cloth somewhere, turns off the lamp, and climbs into bed behind you.
His arm comes around your waist. You shift back against him until there's no space left, and his hand settles flat against your stomach — the same place it was before, only now it's just holding you. No pressure. Just there.
You find his hand in the dark.
You don't even think about it. Your fingers find his and pick up right where you left off on the couch — tracing the ridge of his knuckles, the long line of his middle finger, the callus at the base of his thumb. His hand relaxes under yours, the way it did before. Goes soft. Let's you.
He breathes out against the back of your neck.
"You good?" he says, quietly.
"Mhm."
His thumb moves across your knuckles. Once. Stills.
You lace your fingers through his, slow, and he lets you. Your hand disappears inside his again. You stay there — your hand small and warm inside his, his arm heavy across your middle, his breathing evening out against your shoulder.
"Joe."
"Yeah."
You don't know what you were going to say. It leaves you before you can find it.
He huffs a small laugh into your hair. His hand tightens once around yours.
