Summary: In the midst of wedding planning, Joe finds out his mom has crossed a boundary that never existed before.
Word count: 5.6K (Complete rewrite)
Jimmy had affectionately started calling it “the Tap Dance.” Not that Robin minded her husband cracking a few jokes at her expense, she needed his calming presence during these times.
The first time he noticed her tap dancing was in their hotel room in Los Angeles after Joe had torn his ACL. Due to Covid rules, they weren’t allowed in the waiting room so they could only wait for the call that surgery went well, then she’d be allowed in to see him. This impatient coping mechanism had carried her through some of the longest waits in her life. Now, in a restricted access waiting room in Birmingham, her right foot developed a mind of its own. And the tap dancing wasn’t from nerves exactly, more counting down the minutes until her son came out of surgery so she could lay eyes on him herself to ensure he’s actually okay. Joe is tough, known league wide for his physical toughness and his downright refusal to let anything phase him. Which means he downplays a lot of stuff. He omits pertinent information. About pain, pressure, things he deems to be little but are actually so much more important in the grand scheme of life.
But still, every time he went down, that gut wrenching feeling preceded any impatience. She and Jimmy got used to another kind of dance. The one where their stomachs turn and their hearts are in their throats. It happened when he broke his hand at Ohio State, then again with the ACL. And the appendectomy. Then the wrist injury. Now, the toe.
And he can lie about a lot, but Robin knows her son, and she knows when he’s lying. So she’d rather just see him for herself after surgery rather than some stranger who’s looked at X-rays and MRIs of his bones and ligaments tell her he’s fine while Jimmy rubbed her knee. Those are fine and dandy but she wants to make sure her icy blue eyed boy who was her little buddy while her husband dedicated much of his time to coaching, the one who hated itchy clothes and still loves funky patterns, knows that she’s always going to be in his corner. Every step of the way.
“Did he tell you when he’s getting a haircut?” Robin asked, months after the surgery, as you and your mom sat with her at the table for your weekly wedding meeting.
You laughed at her question, pulling out the binder you’d been working out of. “He said he wanted to keep it for a couple more months, which I told him was fine. I mean it’s his hair and I know he doesn’t want it too long for the wedding.”
Four months before you got a new last name and celebrated that new name with a somewhat grand event, in a room full of people you love. In the years that you’ve been with Joe, Robin’s been nothing but kind and gracious, treating you like her own. You’d heard from the man himself that he and his mom were really close, which is scary in a sense, the whole “boy mom” thing, but she is really just loving and trying to maintain some sense of normalcy in probably the most abnormal situation a family could be thrust into. The only reason you could understand what she was going through is because you felt exactly the same, going from a normal life, normal work hours, to strangers on the internet knowing your name, wanting to know where you are, what you’re wearing, who your friends are just to get access to this guy you’re with because he throws a pretty spiral.
“Let’s get to the business side of things,” your mom laughs, looking through her stuff. “Joe sent these flower options to me the other day, he liked the lighter pink ones.”
“Joe sent these to you?” You asked and she nodded like she was surprised he hadn’t mentioned it.
“He said he got the florist information from Sam. They were gonna go with this person for their wedding but she was booked for the next few years. Joe gave her a call and they talked about the date and she said she’d love to make something work.”
You and Robin gave each other a look and laughed. “Of course she said that. We can add her to the list and maybe do a little speed interview round? See which ones we like the most? I have two photographers/videographers I wanna meet with so we can meet with your florist, Robin’s florist, and this girl Joe reached out to.”
“The two of you also need to get the guest list finalized for seating arrangements,” Robin unfortunately reminded you. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun sorting through RSVPs.” The rest of your time was spent coordinating this speed round of qualified professionals, discussing days that worked for everyone and another dress fitting next week. These two had been so essential in making this wedding planning experience a lot less stressful than it could be. That, along with the wedding planner who handled the bigger stuff like venue tours, food and cake tastings and all of that other fun stuff. By one o’clock, your mom headed out and left you and Robin in the booth. She pulled out a manila envelope and set it on the table, her face warm and her voice calm. “This is just a formality, you can read through the entire thing, whenever you have some time. If you have questions or anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
You looked at the envelope and shook the contents inside, hearing the thick stack of papers neatly tucked away. “This is the prenup?”
“Prenup is a harsh word but yes, essentially.” She placed a hand on yours, “we’re just gonna get this squared away way ahead of time so it doesn’t become a thing. I want you and Joe to have the most beautiful, magical day without worrying about paperwork. And like I said, Peter’s office is reachable if you have concerns.”
Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, you smiled at her. “I’ll read through it and get back to you guys when I can. Thank you for not making this some huge money thing.”
“Oh please, you’re family to me already. I hate that we even have to do this.”
“I know,” you agreed, “but it’s important and I will seriously take a look at it and go from there. And I’ll see you at your house in a few days?”
She pulled you in for a hug. “See you then, love you.”
“Love you too.”
Paolo Salamone is a name you were vaguely familiar with before seriously getting into the wedding details. He’d done custom jewelry pieces that popped up on your FYP on every social media platform, usually from celebrities, other Bengals had mentioned him to get pieces done and now he was sitting in your shared home, showing you and Joe wedding bands that would be customized and transformed into the rings you’d be wearing for the rest of your life. No pressure. Joe wanted the options split down the middle, silver on the left, gold bands on the right, all different styles, cuts and thicknesses of the rings. “I want a gold band for sure,” he started, staring intently at one of the rings, “we can pick ‘em up, can’t we?”
“Yes, please. Go for it. Try it on, we brought them all in your size but it is different when you try it on, so we can adjust,” Paolo explained. Then he turned to you. “Did you have a preference in style?”
“I like the diamond eternity band, and the gold is perfect.”
Joe glanced over, “what’s the diamond eternity band look like?” You held one up, oval cut crystals lining the gold. The one you’d been eyeing since Paolo started setting up this little jewelry shop on the table. Joe was focused on the band between your thumb and index finger, at the little gems catching the light. “May I?”
“Of course you may,” you smiled at him, holding out your hand. “It’s good practice for the real thing.”
He scoffs but it’s mostly a soft laugh as he slides the ring onto your finger and examines his own design, the engagement ring, partnered now with Paolo’s eternity band. “That’s not half bad.”
“Really? Is that the best you could come up with? ‘Not half bad?’ I think you can you do better, dig deep. I believe in you,” you joked.
The quarterback was visibly trying not to laugh, rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Think I’ll save all my lines for later, keep you on your toes. Better get used to it, this is the rest of our life.” He nudged you with his shoulder playfully, still looking at your finger.
Paolo shakes his head, a bright smile on his face. “That was smooth.”
“Very,” you said slowly, trying really hard not to give away too much. Joe’s version of neutral was a lot more consistent and believable which you guessed kind of played into the hand of him being an ideal partner and not just some guy you liked hanging out with. He had qualities you admired, things that surprised you still, and you had so much more time with him to learn. “Let’s figure out what ring you want?”
“Gold.” He repeats, leaving your hand in his. “Yellow gold, I like the thicker band. And I think I want something simple, but different. No idea if that makes any sense.”
You leaned forward, looking at the array of rings at your disposal until one of them caught your eye. “What about this one? What is this style called?”
“Ah,” Paolo states, adjusting his glasses, “It’s a Honeycore band. It’s newer, classic, sleek look on the outside, intricate detailing inside.”
“I think it’s fun,” you added. “Very...you.”
He looks puzzled. “Explain?”
“Clean, put together, not too flashy. But then on the inside, there’s so many layers that you’d never get from one glance.”
Joe picks up the ring, examining the whole thing from top to bottom. “It does look pretty cool,” he shrugs. “I like it.” Paolo looked to you and you gave him a thumbs up, that was probably the closest Joe was going to get to excitement. The jeweler seemed satisfied and let the two of you know that if there were any changes he could come back anytime and you walked him out after he said goodbye to Joe. The two men shook hands and Joe got up and headed to the kitchen to refill his water. He set the cup down on the counter after taking a few sips, a strange document pouch that he hadn’t seen before. Shoving aside the sheets haphazardly stacked on top, his eyebrows scrunched tight seeing his lawyer’s firm logo on the front and your name in the top right corner. “What the...fuck?” The envelope had been opened before but the pages were crisp, mostly untouched. When you came back, he was reading intently.
“That was so nice,” you sighed, still smiling about the rings. “I think the Honeycore was great—”
“What is this?” Joe interrupts, holding up the papers.
“What do you mean?
His eyes narrow, face unreadable. “What do you mean what do I mean? Where’d this prenup even come from?”
Your face drops. “Are you being serious? Your mom gave it to me a few days ago,” you tried to explain. “Joe, did you not—you didn’t know about this?”
The papers are gently placed on the counter and he runs his fingers through his hair. “No,” his voice sounds strained. “My mom gave you this?”
“Yes.”
“And she, what? Told you to reach out to Peter?”
“If I had any questions. Said he was always available if I needed clarification on something.”
A dry sound, chillingly resembling a laugh escapes him. “If you need clarification. Jesus Christ.” His palms rest flat on the counter but he doesn’t say anything else for a minute.
Your hand moves carefully to the middle of his back but the stiffness in his posture doesn’t ease, even a touch. “I wouldn’t have my mom hand you a legally binding document regarding our marriage without talking to you about it first. She fucking ambushed you.”
“Okay, relax.” You tried, rubbing his back. “She didn’t hold me at gunpoint. She just said it was an uncomfortable formality that we needed to get out of the way.”
“Yeah we do,” he said pointedly. “By we, I mean you and I, not you, me and my mom. She had no right to go around me, none.” Joe takes a long breath, still confused, mostly pissed and stands to his full height. “I mean, why would she that?”
Leaning against the counter you met his eyes, your touch unwavering. “She probably thought it would help? One less thing for you to worry about? I mean there is a lot to factor in as far as your assets go and your mom’s probably thinking ahead so you can do other things.”
“I really don’t get how you can you defend this.”
“Because I see those wheels turning in your head and the anger radiating off of your body right now. I’m just trying to let you know I don’t think she meant any harm. Not with how she presented it to me.”
He shakes his head, mostly in disbelief. Taking a sip of his water, he taps his index finger against the outside of the cup a few times. Joe closes his eyes for a few seconds and you realize he’s silently counting. You don’t think you’ve seen him like this…ever. He runs his tongue across the top row of his teeth, eyes now open. “I know she didn’t mean any harm, that’s not the point. The point is, she shouldn’t have presented it to you at all. And I’m glad you’re taking the high road but I—I don’t even fucking know right now.” He grabs his water and the stack of papers, heading up to his home office without another word.
You could tell he was still unsettled a few days later which was a little inconvenient for him to hide when his brother’s family drove to Cincy as a pitstop to their spring break roadtrip to Nashville. Not even a Smash Bros tournament with his nephews cheered him up, his smile didn’t reach his eyes when his niece told him about her new sparkly pink #9 jersey she was gonna wear to preschool.
The kids luckily didn’t notice his turmoil, happily moving onto the next activity in the car with Joe’s sister-in-law set to drive.
“I rented out two theaters so take your pick,” Joe announced before they left. Each kid had brought a friend along with them, adding to the fun. And the chaos. “B said she wanted to watch Hopper so that’s an option, or you guys can watch Project Hail Mary. We saw it last week, it was pretty good.”
His niece stands next to him, eyes bright with curiosity. “Did you watch Hopper too?”
“Haven’t had time yet,” he tells her, moving down to eye level. “How about this, you watch it today, tell me if you like it. And if you do, I’ll see it with you.”
“Can both of you come next time?” She directs the question to you.
“If you want us both there, it’s a date.” The three year old hands out hugs like she’s being deployed rather than sitting down to watch 104 minutes of talking animals. “Make sure you get snacks, okay? Get candy and soda and all the things. That’s what the movies are for.” You poked her belly, watching her erupt into a fit of giggles before she hugged you one more time and headed towards the front door to get in the car.
Jamie’s wife Codie shot you playful glare, keys dangling around her pinky. “Are you encouraging a sugar rush?”
“I’m doing what any fun aunt should be doing,” you defended yourself. “What’s the point of uncle Joe renting the place out if they’re not gonna stuff your faces in sour patch kids and Dr. Pepper?”
“She has a point,” Jamie notes, coming in from the backyard. “Grill’s on, we’ll have food ready for you guys by the time you get back. Cancel out some of that candy.”
He gives her a hug and a quick kiss before she’s out the door. You headed upstairs to take a call. Jamie moves into the kitchen to grab things to start cooking. The chicken he marinated overnight, the burgers he plans to season before tossing them on the grill and an endless amount of corn on the cob. Joe doesn’t offer to help, he just stands off to the side, phone in hand but he’s not looking at the screen. “Alright, what crawled up your ass and died?”
“What?”
“You’ve had a weird look on your face all day. Care to share why?”
Joe exhales, eyes on Jamie who’s opening cabinets freely like he lives here. Not that he minds, he’s got too much going on in his mind to tell him where the seasoning salt is. “I found a prenup on the table the other day.”
“Okay,” Jamie doesn’t look over.
“Peter drafted it. And my mom handed it out like it was no big deal. I never saw the thing. Didn’t even know they’d been discussing it until I read the whole document myself.”
“Hold on, you didn’t know about any of it?”
“Nope.”
His brother raises his eyebrows, suddenly very uninterested in parsley flakes and locating the black pepper. “Okay yeah, not a great look for Robin. But I’m sure she didn’t—”
“I know she didn’t. Heard that speech already.”
Jaime grins, putting his hands up. “I’m just saying, your mom doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, especially not when it comes to your fiancée, I mean. Did she seem mad at Robin about the prenup when you talked?”
“No,” he murmurs, “but that doesn’t make it any less inappropriate. She wouldn’t do that to you. Or Dan.”
“Well yeah,” his brother scoffs, washing his hands. “We didn’t come out of her.” The burgers are laid out on a tray and Jamie gets to work on one side. “Look, I love Robin, you know that. But I was making my own decisions when she met dad. She didn’t want to overstep and we could tell her no without things getting weird. Robin literally gave birth to you, changed your diapers, booked your doctor’s appointments and has never missed any of your events, even the stupid ones.”
“Right, but I’m gonna be 30 years old. She can’t just step in and ask my fiancée to refer to my legal team for questions regarding our marriage. Not exactly the recipe for success.”
Jamie laughs, handing his brother a tray as Joe follows him to the grill. “You need to tell her that.” He gets a blank stare back. “I’m being serious. Tell her this is a different. Because I guarantee you she thinks she was taking something off your plate.”
Joe knows Jamie has a point but his annoyance is still there. “Malicious or not, she crossed a line. Couldn’t even text me or give me a phone call so I had a heads-up? Felt like a fucking idiot being the last person to find out there was an entire prenup about my money floating around.”
“I know,” the older man admits, patting his left shoulder. “Can you grab the corn? You can be pissed and helpful, multitasking is part of your job description.” That earned him a real laugh, the first one he’d heard from his little brother all day.
The words Jamie said replayed in Joe’s mind a lot, how similar they were to your point of view and while he understood where you both were coming from, he knew the conversation with his mom needed to happen. “The Athens trip isn’t happening.” He tells you casually after coming home from a workout. The only thing on his mind was a protein shake, not conflict resolution techniques.
“You avoiding your mom?”
“I don’t know how I want to say what I need to say without being mean.” He explains, his headband doing next to nothing at this point in keeping his hair under control. Maybe it really was time to get it cut. “I need some time to figure it out and I can’t do that if we’re at their house. Can you just call her and tell her we aren’t coming anymore?”
You gave him a pointed look. “I know how it sounds,” he murmurs, avoiding eye contact. He tossed the headband onto the counter after he found what he was looking for. It wasn’t a protein shake, but peanut butter balls would hold him over until dinner. “Please?”
“Fine babe, I’ll call her.”
“Thanks.”
The phone call itself was straight to the point. Because you two were supposed to be there in the morning, you apologized to Robin for the short notice and told her you wouldn’t be spending the weekend with them. “Joe’s not feeling up to making the drive.”
“Oh, is he okay?” You recognized the immediate concern and felt bad for playing it up a little, but you remembered Joe practically begging and made it work.
“He will be,” you promised, “just tired. He’s been running around a lot the last few weeks, I think it’s catching up to him a little.”
“Well, tell him to get some rest and we’ll see you guys another time. Love you both.”
“Love you too Robin, take care.” You fell back against the couch, blowing out air after playing the middle man.
You got roughly…fifteen hours of peace after the phone call. In the morning, instead of getting on the road, you woke up to shoulder kisses that you tried really hard to ignore. “Nope, not in the mood.”
“Why?” His voice sounds rough from lack of use. “What did I do?”
“Besides being a huge hypocrite? You made me lie to your mom.”
Joe sits up, a sleepy grin on his face. “Okay fine yes, maybe a little. But I’m gonna call her eventually.” He laughs when you give him a look. “I will. I just need time.”
You tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and he uses that as an opportunity to tug you closer to him. “You can’t seriously be this mad at your mom over a prenup. We need one.”
“I know that. I’m not mad about the prenup, I’m upset with how she handled it,” his hand moves across your forearm and he leans in for a kiss. It’s quick but grounding, like he needed it to reset his nervous system. “Can we talk about something else? Tell me something cool.”
“Something cool,” you think for a second, his hand moving to rest beside you, down at your hip. “Okay. I was thinking for happy hour, we come up with our own drink menu. Meet with a mixologist and create signature cocktails?”
“That’s be fun,” he notes, pressing his lips on the skin below your ear. “We also have to narrow down this guest list. I don’t want everyone and their mom at this thing.”
“This thing? You mean our wedding?”
“It’s our wedding but it’s mostly just an excuse for people to pretend they know us. I’d rather do this, lay in bed with you and hang out like normal people. We shouldn’t be paying for a party for other people to have fun. My idea of fun involves, you, me and preferably no clothes. Oh and the rings, we need those.”
The doorbell rings before you can respond and Joe checks the cameras on his phone to see who it is. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” his head drops into your shoulder and you take the phone out of his hand to see.
Robin and Jimmy are standing at the front door. Your fiancé doesn’t move an inch, firmly planted in his spot, leaning about 40% of his weight on you. “Looks like this phone call just became an in-person thing?” He groans at first instead of answering.
“Can you get rid of them? Tell them it’s a stomach thing and it’s not pretty. Whatever you want, I don’t care.”
“No. You’re gonna get dressed, come downstairs and face your mother.” You tapped his chest so he’d get off of you and headed to the bathroom to brush your teeth and change.
The smell of French toast casserole wafted through the home as soon as you let them in, with Robin’s smiling face front and center. If only she knew. “Good morning,” she sang, walking over to the kitchen counter. “After we talked last night, I figured since you guys couldn’t make the drive, we’d come to you.”
“You guys drove here last night?”
Jimmy’s halfhearted grin is much louder than he probably intended. “As soon as she ended that phone call with you, she told me we were gettin’ on the road. He still sleepin’?”
“He’s awake, should be down soon.” You watched Robin unpack what she brought while Jimmy placed the food on the dining room table. Along with the casserole there was bacon, three different kinds of juice, vitamin c tablets, ibuprofen and chamomile tea, honey and lemons.
“How’s he feeling?” She asked, her tone still coated in worry.
You didn’t know how to answer that one. “Um…he’s up and down, for sure.” Before she could ask any more questions, everyone’s heads turned toward the stairs as footsteps came down, extra slow. You threw up a small prayer to any higher power listening that Joe would keep it together, letting out a sigh of relief when his face didn’t give anything abnormal away.
“Hey dad,” he said, hugging him. “Hi mom.” The interaction was brief, a one armed side hug, but he didn’t make a scene so you took your win and sat down at the table. Joe sat in the chair closest to you, glanced at the makeshift pharmacy on the counter and gave you a look. You shook your head, silently pleading with him to not start anything and he cleared his throat instead. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said quietly.
Most of the meal was uncomfortably wordless and you felt like you had to do something to break the ice since clearly Joe didn’t want to participate. “You guys didn’t have to make the drive. I’m sure you had to get up super early to cook, too. We really appreciate it.”
“It was nothing,” Robin says, smiling again. “I used to drive to Columbus just to do his laundry and make sure he was okay even though he wasn’t playing. Funny how far we’ve come since then.”
Joe’s jaw is tight, you can see a vein in his neck that’s now cartoonishly visible and you place your hand on his thigh. He takes a breath and covers your hand with his, putting his head down.
His mom notices the entire exchange. “Oh honey, are you not feeling well?”
“I’d be feeling a lot better if there was real communication in this family.” The tone isn’t vicious by any means but there is a hint of hostility in his words.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you and Peter want to talk with Brian behind my back and negotiate my next contract too or is that where you draw the line?”
“Joe,” you look at him but he doesn’t stop.
His mom beats him to the punch. “Your contract? What in the world has gotten into you? What are you talking about?”
He stands up and rushes up the stairs, coming back with the envelope. Robin’s expression changes from caught off guard to something you can’t quite place. Not guilt exactly, but likely something close. “This look familiar at all?”
“Is this why you ‘weren’t feeling well?’ You’re upset about the document?”
“It’s not ‘the document,’” Joe puts it in air quotes, “let’s call the prenup what it is. And I’m not naive, I know there needs to be one and conversations need to be had. But there’s no way in the world that it makes sense for you and Peter to go behind my back and draft this thing and hand it to her without me having a say. And then you blindside her with this on a random day like she has to go through a channel of people to talk to me.”
Robin sighs, glancing between you and Joe. “Okay yes, I can see where I maybe had a lapse in judgement not giving you a heads up. But Joe, I have been protecting you and supporting you your entire life. I don’t want you sweating the little stuff.”
“This isn’t little, it’s probably one of the most important conversations she and I have to have. And you bulldozed through that so you wouldn’t inconvenience me. I’m not 20 anymore and this isn’t dirty laundry.”
“Bulldoze? I didn’t bulldoze through anything Joe. I was trying to help not come up with some master plan behind your back.”
“Well that’s kind of how it happened.”
Jimmy gives you a pleading look and you try to defuse the situation. “Okay, I think it’s getting a little off track here.”
Robin agrees. “Maybe I didn’t handle it appropriately but I wanted to make sure that we got this whole thing squared away. Clearly my actions had the opposite effect and I’m sorry I overstepped.”
“Thank you. Another thing I need to talk to you about. The ‘we’ thing.” Joe cuts in. “I love you, you know that. But I don’t want her feeling like she has to go through you to get to me.”
You see Robin physically recoil at Joe’s sentence and it hurts to watch. “I would never. I have never treated her that way.” She looks toward you.“Right?”
“No, you’ve been amazing.” You reassure her and immediately look to Joe so he can clarify.
“What are you saying then? Because I love you both. You know that.”
This is why I needed time to think, he tells himself. But out loud, all he says is “we do.”
“I didn’t do this because I think you’re some evil mastermind after his money,” Robin explains, her eyes starting to glisten but she doesn’t cry, she knows now isn’t the time. Jimmy sighs, some part of you thinks he may have tried to tell her the whole prenup draft was a bad idea and now it’s too late.
“We know that too,” Joe says. “What I’m saying is that loving us both doesn’t mean you get to make these decisions for us. For me specifically. And it’s a hard switch but you don’t have to parent me like—” He stops, frustrated with himself. “That’s not what I mean.”
Robin is quiet.
“I still need you. Obviously I need you. But I don’t need you taking over.” Joe stands up and takes the seat next to her. “I know you didn’t do it intentionally but your version of helping made me the last person in this entire situation to know there was a prenup with my name on it. That can’t happen.”
“You’re right.” Is all she says at first.
Then she continues after a few seconds trying to figure out how to articulate her thoughts. “I guess I can do a better job reminding myself that you’re a capable adult rather than come in and try to play superhero when you don’t need it. Kind of like today, when you cancelled. I should’ve taken that instead of driving here.”
“She’s a fast learner, this one,” his dad jokes.
Joe smiles and hugs her, telling her he loves her and appreciates everything she’s done for him. “Next time you feel like playing superhero, just ask me first?”
Robin agrees to those terms, placing a hand on his cheek. “You’ll always be my baby boy, even if you’re married to an angel. And don’t say she’s not because she just sat through this entire conversation and hasn’t run away screaming.”
You laugh, deciding to stand up too. “I think there’s worse places in the world to be than with the person I love the most and the people who made him.” Robin pulls you in for a warm hug and apologizes again, promising to try her hardest to respect your boundaries. They pack up and leave an hour later and Joe walks them to the door. He finds you loading the dishwasher and takes the plates out of your hands, leaving them in the sink. You turn to face him as he steps forward and hands you a few paper towels. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” You cackle and he joins instantly, the only sound for a few minutes is uncontrollable laughter.
“Are you sure you wanna commit to that forever?”
“I wanna be where you are so yeah, I think I’m in this for the long haul.”
“Hm,” he utters, lips curved in a thin line. “Be careful what you wish for.” Joe lets your hands roam his broad chest and leans down to kiss you again, taking in the moment free of tension, replaced only with the blissful anticipation of officially getting to call himself your husband. As he’s kissing you his mind wanders to the countdown app he has on his phone, down to the minute he’s supposed to meet you for your private vows. The prenup conversation still needs to happen and it will.
Not that Joe plans on ever needing the damn thing.
✰ description: a collection of thanksgiving + black friday shopping related headcannons <3
✰ pairing: bengals!joeburrow x girlfriend!reader
✰ a/n: a cute little headcannon fic i came up with! pretty rushed and deliriously written in the middle of exam week so...be nice. some of these are essays more than real HC's but are we shocked. it's me. but anyway, happy thanksgiving! so thankful for all your love and support always <3
✰ warnings: 18+. language, one and a half instances of unprotected p in v smut, suggestive content, mostly all fluff. one mention of y/n.
✰ my masterlist
✰ wc: 11.2k
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loves hosting your first thanksgiving together
hosting your first real thanksgiving together just hits different. like one of those quiet, grown-up milestones neither of you names out loud, but both of you feel settling in your bones as the leaves shift from burnt copper to honey-gold to that deep, bruised red that always makes him pull you closer when you walk outside, as if the cold might steal you from him. it all starts weeks before the holiday, when joe admits in the most casual tone imaginable that he doesn’t actually like turkey…despite his entire family being devoted to it. and at first you laugh, assuming he’s messing with you, only to realize he’s completely serious when he stands in front of the meat section with his arms crossed, jaw set, insisting on a massive spiral-cut ham because “we’re hosting at our house, so we’re doing it right,”. it feels like a thanksgiving crime, but you fold anyway, mostly because he spends the whole grocery trip acting like he’s auditioning to be the world’s most attentive, overinvolved partner.
he pushes the cart, holds the list like it’s a playbook he's memorizing for a big divisional matchup next week, debates mashed potato texture like he’s scouting opponents, and slips your favorite chocolates into the cart when he thinks you’re not paying attention because he knows your period is coming up, and there’s nothing more you love than those fancy little lindor chocolates when you’re under the weather, bonus points if he feeds them to you. but beneath the teasing, the sneaky aisle kisses, and the soft touches on your lower back, there’s something heavier humming between you. something new. because halfway through the produce section, joe stops, leans his forearms on the cart, and looks around at the shelves like he’s absorbing it all—the grocery store, the ingredients, the future holidays he hopes you’ll spend together. when his eyes land back on you, they’re softer, warmer, almost boyish. “this is our first holiday together, isn't it? like actually ours,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, and it hits you so hard your fingers literally fumble the cranberries, because suddenly it’s real; this life you’re building together, step by step, meal by meal, holiday by holiday.
the morning of, he moves through the house with this nervous energy he thinks he’s hiding. checking the oven temperature twice, flipping through recipe cards to try to plan out when each dish is made so that you can maximize your time, smoothing a hand down your back whenever he walks by, like touching you calms him. there’s something so endearing about this large, confident commands-the-entire-stadium-with-one-flick-of-his-wrist, joe burrow being anxious about hosting a family holiday dinner with you. he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like seeing you in your shared kitchen, wearing his old hoodie, cooking your first holiday meal together is permanently altering his brain chemistry. halfway through basting the ham, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs, “this feels really serious, doesn’t it?” in that quiet, slightly shaky voice he only uses when he’s telling the most special truth he’s ever known.
and when family finally arrives—robin with a pie and green bean casserole, jimmy carrying a bottle of chateau margaux and a bottle of cider, siblings and sister-in-laws piling in behind with nieces and nephews—you catch joe staring at you from across the living room with this full, warm, almost overwhelmed expression, the kind that says he knows exactly what you both just stepped into. a real life. shared traditions. a future.
watching you move around the kitchen with his mom, laughing beside his sisters-in-law, trading stories with his cousins as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and reach for another bowl—it hits him in a place he didn’t know still hurt. it settles in his chest like something warm and cozy, something he’s been aching for longer than he ever admitted out loud. because seeing you there, so effortlessly woven into the fabric of his family, reminds him what all of this has always been for.
all the holidays he spent wondering if he’d ever have someone to bring home. all the years he sat at this same table, watching his brothers slip their arms around the women they loved, pretending he didn’t feel that sharp little pinch in his ribs. all the nights he lay awake thinking, when is it my turn? and now here you are. moving through this home like you were meant to be here all along, like the universe was just waiting for the timing to be right. and as he watches you laugh with robin over his poor, but adorable attempt at setting the table all by himself, or tease his cousin about burning the rolls, he realizes with absolute, bone-deep certainty that every lonely thanksgiving, every ache, every moment of wanting led him to this.
to you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...will only eat your pumpkin pie
joe insists, no, actually demands, that he only eats the pumpkin dishes you make on thanksgiving, and he does it with the kind of stubborn loyalty that makes everyone laugh except him, because he’s deadly serious about it. he’ll take a polite slice of robin’s pie just to be respectful and to not earn any death-glares from her or have her threaten to not bring him a snicker's salad during every visit anymore, but he doesn’t even finish it, doesn’t even bother pretending, because the second no one’s looking he’s leaning into you, voice low and warm against the shell of your ear, whispering, “it’s good, but yours is better,”. the way he says it—slow, honest, almost sinful—makes heat crawl up your neck. and the moment you bring out your pumpkin pie or spiced pumpkin loaf with a cinnamon crumb top, he’s there, sliding behind you with those big warm hands, finding your waist like he’s magnetized, chin dropping to your shoulder as he hums at the smell. he always reaches out to smear whipped cream on his fingertip, licking it off with a hum deep in his chest before he tastes your skin right after, lips brushing your jaw as he murmurs, “yours is also sweeter,”.
he tries every year to sneak an early bite, and every time you try to scold him, he cages you against the counter, grin smug and boyish, bending to whisper, “c’mon…just one taste. for quality control,” and the way his hands slide over your hips makes it impossible to say no.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...“helps” in the kitchen (he doesn’t help.)
joe wanders into the kitchen constantly under the guise of helping, but he doesn’t help at all. he just gravitates to you like he’s incapable of staying more than ten minutes without touching you. if you’re stirring the gravy on the stove, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, arms winding around your waist as he sways you gently, murmuring into your neck, “smells good…so good,” and you can’t tell if he’s talking about the food or about you. if you’re chopping potatoes, he stands behind you with his hands on your hips, rocking you just enough to make you threaten him with the knife, which only earns you one of those cocky half-smiles he doesn’t show anyone else.
every time you try to step away, he tugs you right back against him, whispering soft things he knows will make your knees wobble—“you look so pretty like this,” “you’re working so hard, baby,” “wanna kiss you all over,” sometimes you catch him giving you that look—the heavy-lidded, hungry one that says he’s been imagining bending you over the counter all afternoon. something about you being so domestic in his world turns him on, and he’s so shameless about it. he’ll never say anything out loud with family nearby, but you feel it in the way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, warm and claiming, or the way he kisses the back of your neck before pulling away like nothing happened.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...carves the ham like it’s a high-stakes operation
he stands over the ham like a surgeon, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed, mumbling to himself about “optimal slice width,”. he absolutely will flex his knife skills even though you’ve never once seen him cut anything more complicated than strawberries on a weekday. he pauses halfway through to look up at you and announce, very seriously, “this is why quarterbacks have good hand control. all about precision,”. then he hands you a piece like he’s offering a sacrament: “taste test. it’s science. and don't worry, it's not too thin, babe, i know you like a thick slice,” he says with a wink that has your face turning the color of a tomato.
if you smile too big, he gets smug. if you tease him, he squints at you and mutters, “you’re lucky i love you,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...eats off your plate
it always starts the same, too. your fork halfway to your mouth, your focus somewhere else for a split second, and suddenly his much bigger fork slides right in front of yours, scooping the exact bite you were about to take. he doesn’t even look guilty. he barely even looks at you. he just steals it, lifts it to his mouth, and eats it with this obnoxiously satisfied little hum, shoulders relaxing like he just had the best bite of his life. you glare at him every single time and he meets it with that tiny, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “what?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your plate, “you weren’t eating it fast enough,”.
sometimes he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, then steal another bite like the kiss was meant to distract you. sometimes he’ll hook his chin over your shoulder and eat directly from your plate with your fork, pretending he’s helping you. and when you protest? when you push him away and tell him to get his own food? joe just grins, nudging at your thigh with his knee under the table. “baby…everything i have is yours and everything you have is mine. that includes your cranberry sauce,” and you pretend to be annoyed, rolling your eyes, but you’re already sliding the plate closer to him—because he’s joe, and he looks so cute and happy stealing your food that you can’t help but let him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...pulls you into the pantry like he can’t go another second without you
the pantry becomes joe’s personal hideaway during the entire evening. every time you walk in for spices or extra ingredients, he follows a few seconds later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing, he spots you heading to the pantry? he follows. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his hands are already sliding up your sides, pushing you gently against the shelves, the motion causing the spices to rattle as you land with a dull thud.
he dips his head to kiss down your neck, soft, a little sloppy, just the way he knows you love. and the way he breathes, a little shakily, like he’s trying to hold himself back from doing something shameless that would earn him a stern talking to by his mother, makes your knees turn to liquid. “i needed a minute,” he murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “just with you,” he cages you in against the shelves with his arms, big body crowding yours, his forehead pressed to yours while his thumb strokes your waist in slow, deliberate circles.
sometimes he kisses you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs, and when he pulls back, his lips are so red and swollen, your lip combo all over him, and he looks so stupidly in love you swear you might melt. he always tries to sneak one more kiss, one more touch, one more breath against your mouth before you whisper that someone might come looking. god forbid one of his little nephews accidentally opens the door on you two, because you do not have an answer for why this adorably oblivious child is running around the house saying "uncle joe had his under in auntie y/n's shirt!".
and joe always grins at your valid concerns, that stupid, cocky little grin, whispering, “that’s why it’s fun. make's me feel like a teenager again,” before reluctantly letting you go…only to follow you out a minute later, still looking at your lips like he’s starving.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...keeps checking on you like it’s instinct
even in a house full of his people, full of relatives who haven't seen him in forever, joe’s attention is always on you. his eyes are drawn to you like you were the shiniest object in the room. you’ll be talking to his brothers or helping his grandma to the living room or laughing with the cousins in the backyard, and when you glance over, he’s already watching you with that soft, protective gaze that makes your whole chest glow. he’ll cross the room under the excuse of getting another drink, brushing his hand over your lower back as he passes—just a quick reassurance that you’re okay, that he’s here. sometimes he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before walking away, sometimes he presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder when no one’s looking, and sometimes he doesn’t leave at all—just stands behind you with his hand on your hip like he belongs there. he checks if you’ve eaten anything since this morning. he brings you water if he notices your lips look a little dry. he steals quiet moments to whisper, “you good?” against your cheek, even when you clearly are, because he just needs to hear you say it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...is beyond thankful for you
joe laces his fingers through yours with a quiet urgency, the kind that’s been simmering beneath his skin all evening. he’d spent half the night subtly trying to steal you away—brushing past you in the kitchen, touching the small of your back as he helped his mom with the dishes, giving you those long, loaded looks across the living room whenever his aunt pulled you into another story about his childhood. and when he finally manages to slip his hand into yours without anyone noticing, he doesn’t let go. instead, he tugs you gently but deliberately toward the back door, his eyes flicking to yours with that soft, determined look, like he’s decided that if he doesn’t get a moment alone with you right now, he might spontaneously combust.
the door clicks shut behind you, muting the warm hum of his family. cold air skims over your skin, crisp and clean, and joe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the porch is dim, washed in pale gold from the light above, and he turns you fully toward him, as if he’s finally carved out this quiet corner of the world just to say everything he hasn’t been able to say inside.
his hands settle on your waist, drawing you in with a reverence so bare it steals the breath from your lungs—his eyes soft and sleepy-warm, lashes brushing downward like he’s trying to memorize you one blink at a time. there’s something almost boyish in the way his expression opens for you, unguarded and achingly sincere. “c’mere,” he murmurs, tugging you closer like the words he’s carrying can only survive in the inch of air between your mouths. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, like he finally stopped running the second he got you alone.
“needed you alone for this,” he says, the confession rasping out of him. “just you. no noise. no eyes on us. nothing tugging at you but me,” his hand glides up your side, slow and sure, cradling your jaw.
“is everything alright, baby?” you question gently, your fingers finding home in his hair, twisting the soft strands as you listen to his breathing—the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard in your entire existence on this planet.
he inhales, the sound a little shaky. “yeah, yeah. everything’s good, fantastic actually. it’s just, you’re…” he tries again, swallowing hard, “you’re everything to me, sweetheart,” his voice cracks, just enough to make your heart throb. “i know i fuck around and act like i’m annoyed at the world half the time, but the truth is? i wouldn’t get through any of it without you. i wouldn’t be who i am right now if it wasn’t for you, for what you did to me when we first met, for what you continue to do to me,” his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, lingering this time. “you make every part of my life softer. easier. better. you walk into a room and it’s like everything i was worried about just—,” he exhales shakily, nose brushing yours, “evaporates. you have this kind of effect on me that i don't think i've ever seen or experienced before. it’s intense, so fuckin’ intense, but that’s just what love feels like. you taught me that,”.
your eyes soften, tears pooling in the corners, “joey,” you whisper.
he leans in closer, lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “i’m thankful for you every damn day, you know that? for the way you look at me like i’m someone worth loving. for how patient you are with me. for how you navigate through this crazy life that we live. for how you hold me without even touching me. for how you always show up for me even when shit gets tough. for how you make my life brighter and worth enjoying,” his voice softens, and his eyes, god, his eyes, gleam with a kind of wonder that feels otherworldly, like he’s carrying whole constellations behind his lashes, stardust pooling in the corners as he looks at you as if you hung the sky just for him. “for how you let me love you the way i’ve never loved anyone. for how you allow me to be soft around you. i love you so much for letting me be this version of myself. i thank the universe every fuckin’ day that you walked into that dingy diner that day in colombus. that you didn’t get scared when i made a move on you,” he grins, “even though it could’ve been better planned,” a chuckle leaves his lips.
you nod slowly, recalling that moment you walked into the old diner with your friends, and the very first thing you saw was joe sitting in the corner booth with his old college friends. all of them whispering to each other like teenage girls and egging him on as if there was some elephant in the room you weren’t aware of, “yeah,” you giggled. “could’ve given me a heads up that you were paying our bill. gianna thought we were being mass cat-called or something,”.
“had to make a good impression. had to show you i can support my woman if needed,” he murmurs, that smirk playing at the edges of his lips, but the fire in his eyes betrays him—wild, hungry, impossible to ignore. before you can respond, he’s on you, closing the space with a precision that makes your pulse stutter. the kiss he presses to your lips is everything, the kind that numbs your senses, bends time, and leaves the world falling away. it’s not gentle; it’s not soft. it’s intense, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries the weight of every unspoken word he’s ever held for you, every longing he’s barely contained, every heartbeat that thunders for you alone.
his mouth molds to yours with unyielding certainty, tilting your head just so, pressing lips to lips with a rhythm that’s both demanding and soft. when his tongue finds yours, it’s a slow, deliberate sweep, a teasing pull that makes your knees tremble and your hands claw instinctively into his shoulders. the heat of him presses into you, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, every exhale shared and shivering, every heartbeat synchronized in the tension between you. he holds your jaw in one firm hand, fingers warm and grounding, anchoring you in the moment, and you feel the subtle tremor of want that runs through him—the quiet, feral need to claim, to keep, to consume only you.
the world shrinks until there’s nothing left but him, the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the desperate pull of this slow, impossible kiss. your heart races against his chest, your breath hitching as he tilts you closer, tongue and teeth teasing, lips dragging in long strokes, and for a moment, neither of you exists outside of this suspended second. every brush, every press, every groan swallowed into the space between you is a promise, a confession, a collision of desire and devotion that leaves you dizzy, trembling, and entirely undone in the gravity of him. he pulls away for a second, and you find your lips chasing his before a soft, “i love you,” leaves his mouth, but it doesn’t sound small; it sounds like the center of his entire universe. “i love you in ways i didn’t even know were possible. in ways that scare the hell out of me because it’s so big, so real, so much more than anything i ever thought i’d get to feel,”.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he smiles against your chilled lips, pressing another kiss to them before saying, “and i don’t ever want a life that doesn’t end with you in it,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...steps into your childhood home for the first time and instantly softens
it hits him the second he steps over the threshold. this soft, nostalgic warmth that seems to breathe out of the walls and wrap around him. the smell of cinnamon and butter, the kind that settles into a home after years of holiday mornings and late-night baking; the old family photos lining the staircase, each one a tiny universe of memories he wasn’t there for but wishes he could’ve been; the worn-in couch where you once napped after school, blankets still folded the exact way your mom likes them; even that faint creak in the floorboard by the hallway, the one you warned him about, the one that used to betray every teenage attempt at sneaking out. every detail feels intimate, untouched by the world, like he’s stepping into a place that shaped the girl he loves long before he ever knew her. he takes it all in with this quiet awe, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something important.
and then there’s that look in his eyes as he turns to you and murmurs, “so this is where you grew up…” it comes out gentle, like a confession, like an exhale he’s been holding. you can feel something inside him shift, like he’s finally holding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing. and the moment your family gathers around him, any lingering tension melts away. they don’t treat him like “joe burrow, the star quarterback”; they treat him like your person. your dad gives him a handshake that’s half test, half welcome; your mom pulls him into a hug so sincere he just freezes for a beat, startled by the softness; your siblings eye him up until he fumbles out a nervous little joke that immediately breaks the ice and makes everyone laugh. and he blushes, actually blushes, because it’s the first time he’s been the outsider stepping into your world. but he handles it the way only joe does: with that shy smile, those polite manners, and that quiet charm that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him without even trying.
but the sweetest part is how effortlessly he fits into your family’s traditions. he helps your mom set the table with the same cutlery and dishes you’ve used since your first thanksgiving, listens intently to your little brother explain the rules of a card game he’s never played, and sneaks quiet glances at you from across the kitchen like he’s falling in love all over again, seeing you in your element as you pester your dad about what he wants for christmas. he teases you for the way you still know where everything is—even the charlie brown themed mixing bowls stacked on the very top shelf of the cabinet with the missing screw—and kisses your temple when he passes behind you, as if he can’t help himself. and because he doesn’t like turkey, your mom surprises him with a small glazed ham “just for joe,” and the way he lights up at that, a soft smile on his face, hand squeezing your waist, makes you warm all over. he whispers, “i like her. she gets me,” and you roll your eyes, but he can see the glow in your cheeks.
outside, he lets you pull him into your childhood backyard, the place where you used to build snowmen and climb trees for hours and hours. he listens to your stories about your neighbor’s scrappy dog whose bark sounds more like a bronchitis patient’s cough, about the time you scraped your knee trying to prove you had superpowers, about your first kiss behind the tool shed (which he grumbles about playfully)—as if every detail is sacred, like he can't miss it because it won't be the same. and he kisses you there, under the same branches you once hung fairy lights on when you were twelve, murmuring, low and rough around the edges, “i wish i’d known you back then…how soft you probably were, how damn…perfect. but now, jesus, now i do. and i’m so damn glad i get to. you’re everything i’ve wanted, everything i didn’t even know i needed, and i can’t believe you’re mine,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t wait until everyone leaves to have you all to himself
once the last dish hits the sink and the soft hum of family chatter finally dissolves, joe’s patience snaps like a frayed, over‑pulled thread. he’s been restless for hours, tension coiled tight beneath the table, eyes dark every time you so much as shifted in your chair. his hand kept finding your upper thigh, fingers squeezing once, twice, like little warnings. the back of his knuckles skimmed dangerously high under the napkin, brushing your inner thigh with slow passes that made your breath hitch. and every time you looked at him, he whispered “later” in that quiet murmur that always ruins you, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a promise he’s seconds from cashing in.
the moment the final goodbye leaves someone’s lips, he’s done pretending. he grabs your hand, hooks his fingers through yours and yanks, pulling you down the hallway with a pace so clipped and urgent you have jog a little to keep up. that hungry, crooked grin cuts across his face, the one that screams he’s hanging on by a thread. he’s practically vibrating with excitement, shoulders tight, jaw flexing, every stride carrying this sharp, impatient energy—like he’s two breaths away from throwing you over his shoulder and sprinting.
“you’re not letting me sleep without you…right?” he mutters, voice already rough, already dragging over your skin like heat. “i promised my mom i wouldn’t do anything…indecent under your family’s roof but i just…” he’s flushed and wired as he says it, pupils blown, radiating a wild, relentless need that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night. he doesn’t wait for your answer, he can’t. all you can do is watch him with your mouth slightly open in disbelief, and as the tension crawling under his skin finally breaks loose, and he’s dragging you into your childhood bedroom like he might fall apart if he has to wait another second. the door clicks shut. too loud, too sharp. and before the sound even settles, he’s on you. he pins you against the wood with his whole body, crowding you, caging you in that way that always steals your breath. his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, his kiss all heat and teeth and reckless need. he kisses you like he’s been starving, like every minute at dinner was torture, like he’s trying to make up for all the touches he couldn’t take in front of your family.
his palms frame your jaw, big hands warm and possessive, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a heartbreaking contrast of gentleness—like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or devour you whole. his breath shakes against your lips, his body trembling with everything he’s kept tucked behind polite smiles for hours. and when his forehead presses to yours for half a heartbeat, his voice breaks out in a shaky whisper, “i needed you all night,”.
the room feels impossibly small now. your old posters taped crookedly on the walls, your twin mattress buried under the floral comforter your mom insisted “was good enough until you left for college.” joe’s eyes flick to the bed for a fraction of a second, then back at you, teeth clenched, chest heaving, every inch of him shaking with the need to sink into you. you can see it—the raw, feral edge of him, famished and unhinged, and it drives a shiver through your core. “this is gonna be fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, voice deep, sinful, “but i do not care,”.
his hands rip under your shirt, fingers grazing your ribs, leaving flutters throughout your body in their wake, teasing higher and higher until his thumbs roll over your perky nipples, tugging just enough to make your chest arch, your gasp muffled into his mouth. your back presses against the door, every nerve alive, and he groans, a sound like gasoline on fire, hot and rough and filthy. “jesus, you’re perfect,” he rasps, lips dragging across your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, sucking and licking, claiming. he shoves you toward the bed, and the second your back hits the mattress, it screams, a loud, undeniable creak, and you both freeze, grinning like lunatics. “quiet, baby,” he hisses, breath hot against your ear, “or they’re gonna hear exactly how much you missed this cock,”.
one hand slams over your mouth, while the other slides down your stomach, palms cupping, gripping, teasing anything he can, before yanking your thigh open for him. the instant he pushes in, achingly slow, yet so so so perfectly, you arch, a broken, muffled moan pressing into his hand. every inch of him consumes you, stretching you, filling you to the brim with that perfect, sinful precision you’ve come to worship. joe’s pace is relentless, controlled but merciless, a rhythm built on pure, brutal want. the bed squeaks each time your pelvis meets his, every creak a sharp, wicked punctuation to the moans spilling out of you. the risk of being caught, of someone hearing, fuels him, makes him grip your thigh tighter, drives him over the edge faster. curls damp at the temples, jaw clenched, eyes pinned to where your bodies collide like he’s watching live art. “shh…fuck, shh, i know, i know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with lust. “i’ve got you. take it. take all of me,”.
you can barely breathe as he fucks you with that perfect, relentless rhythm he’s perfected with you—deep, exact, hitting every sweet spot over and over until your thighs shake, every nerve raw with sensation. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails claw into his shoulders, hips grinding involuntarily as he slams in, hard, merciless. he groans into your neck, low, filthy, “god…you’re so tight for me…i swear, baby, you get even tighter when you try to be quiet, fuck,”.
your whimpers burn hot against his palm, each thrust making the bed frame squeal, every creak a delicious promise. “yeah? that feel good?” he pants, voice fraying. “that good you can’t think about anything but this cock?”. you nod into his hand, another broken whine escaping, “oh, joey please,” and he bites your shoulder to swallow his own moan, hips snapping harder, pulling deeper, faster, harder. fingers digging into your hips like he can’t let go, can’t get enough, can’t stop claiming you.
“you’re mine,” he growls, deep, guttural, words vibrating over your skin. “all mine…in your squeaky fuckin’ bed…jesus christ, i can’t get enough,”. he drives into you deeper, so deep it feels like you see stars, your body trembling, quivering, locking around him, each muscle taut, toes curling, breath shattering in your chest. his pace turns ruthless, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that leaves no air in your lungs, no room for anything but him. and fuck—he loves it. loves how ruined you are beneath him, how you give and take and tighten with every stroke.
“look at this,” he pants, one hand sliding to your stomach, pressing there just enough to feel the outline of him inside you. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches the way your body swallows him. “you’re taking me so deep, baby. so fuckin’ deep,”.
your tits bounce with every thrust, full, perfect, irresistible, and he can’t stop staring, can’t stop the desperate sounds ripping out of him every time they move for him.
and the room? god, the room is obscene.
wet, slick sounds fill the space, each thrust a loud, messy clap of skin against skin. your bedframe hits the wall with every movement, loud enough that the two of you should care—should remember that anyone walking up the stairs right now would hear every filthy second. but neither of you even think about stopping. you’re both too far gone, too lost in the heat, in the rhythm, in the way his body claims yours and yours claims him right back. loud, messy, unapologetic, and utterly, beautifully unrestrained.
your orgasm tears through you in a way that feels almost merciless. a slow burn that turns your body to mush all at once, tightening around him so sharply he swears under his breath. it’s not the kind of climax that hits and fades; it blooms, unfurling in waves that keep cresting no matter how hard you gasp for air. your nails drag down his back, your thighs trembling around his hips as your whole body arches into him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper, hold him there, keep him there. joe feels every ounce of it, the way your walls flutter and clamp around his cock, the way your breath stutters into his mouth, the way your voice breaks when you try to say his name but can’t get past the sound of yourself falling apart. his rhythm falters because he’s obsessed with the way you come for him, how greedy your body gets, how wet you get, how you tighten like you’re made to finish on him.
and he loses it. his hips stutter. his breath turns into pants. he grips your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something soft, something you. a low, guttural curse grinds out of him just before he presses in all the way. a deep, helpless thrust that forces a shocked moan from both of you. he comes hard, the kind of helpless, bone-deep release that rips a groan straight from his chest. it hits him in a full-body shudder he can’t even pretend to control, his forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering against your lips like he’s trying to inhale you just to stay on this earth.
the heat of him floods you in thick, heavy spurts, each pulse sinking deeper than the last, and he doesn’t stop—he can’t. he keeps rolling his hips through every trembling wave, slow and desperate, chasing the feel of your body clenching around him. like he needs to feel every last contraction, every flutter of your pussy milking him through the end of his orgasm. like stopping would actually break him.
“fuck…baby…,” his voice is wrecked, raw with pleasure, the words barely forming as his lips drag over your cheek, your jaw, wherever he can reach. he can’t stay still. he can’t stop kissing you, touching you, losing himself in the warmth of your skin while his body keeps spilling the last of his release into you. “you’re…god, you’re unreal,”.
even when the high finally fades, when his breath slowly starts to find a rhythm again, he doesn’t pull away. he stays buried inside you like there’s nowhere else he could possibly exist. his hand slides down to your hip, thumb tracing lazy, loving circles against your skin. gentle now. almost tender. he’s still dizzy, still floating, trying to wrap his head around how completely you undo him every single time. how you make him fall apart, how you put him back together, how he never wants to stop feeling like this.
and the way he softens inside you, still warm, still deep, still holding on…it tells you everything his ruined breath can’t.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives spontaneous, ESPN-level commentary to your entire family while watching the game
your grandma asks an innocent, perfectly harmless question—“why did that man run backward?”—and joe’s world flips into full broadcast mode. he snaps upright from the couch like a quarterback calling an audible, grabs the remote as though it’s a telestrator pen, and rewinds the play with the kind of intensity that makes your aunt jump. suddenly, he’s talking with the cadence of a seasoned analyst, breaking down cover‑2 vs. cover‑3 like he’s giving a ted talk in a packed lecture hall. every hand gesture is precise, punctuated with little emphases: a finger pointing, a palm slicing through the air, even picking up a charcuterie knife to illustrate leverage like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
he paces a little, leaning into the screen, voice rising and falling with dramatic pauses that make your family nod along politely, trying to appear engaged while you’re internally dying of laughter. he points out angles, gaps, and player tendencies, sketching imaginary lines between defenders with absolute authority, and occasionally mutters things like, “see, that’s basic spacing, any rookie could understand this,” before flicking his gaze to your stunned relatives. your uncle chuckles nervously, clearly impressed but mostly terrified at joe's quarterback brain, while you can’t stop grinning at the utter, unfiltered joy he radiates.
finally, after eight straight minutes of running commentary, theatrical gestures, and unsolicited analysis, he leans back, grabs his cider, and takes a casual sip like he didn’t just hijack the entire dining room into a miniature studio broadcast. “so yeah,” he concludes, voice calm, almost smug, “that’s why the run game’s dead,” and the room collectively exhales, equally entertained and exhausted. you glance at him, shaking your head, because of course he’d turn your family dinner into prime‑time football, and of course it’s the most him thing ever.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets pissy when the quarterback throws an interception
he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the second the other QB tosses a pick, joe’s instantly crashing out, evaluating every movement like a coach grading a practice tape. shoulders tense, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his drink like he’s drawing up coverages in the air, muttering under his breath, “can’t throw late over the middle…what are we even doing?” his eyes narrow, flicking to the screen, scanning footwork, timing, every single subtle detail like he’s already seeing the replay in slow motion. you lean over, smirking, and tease, “you wanna go teach him?” and joe freezes just long enough to give you that dangerous, low-key smirk—one brow raised, lips curling, eyes dark and amused, that quiet, don’t-test-me energy that says he could, and he might, if you pushed him. “i could,” he mutters finally, voice low and steady, “that’s the problem,”. and the way he leans back in his chair, shoulders stiff but proud, like he’s daring anyone to challenge him, makes you laugh and shake your head—because of course he’s exactly this type of insane about football, even on a holiday, and somehow, somehow, it’s one of the things you love most about him.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...wants nothing more than a lazy day on the couch with you the day after thanksgiving
he pulls you onto his lap the instant you sit down—no hesitation, no adjustment period, just a quiet, instinctive need to have you close. his hands settle on your hips first, guiding you into place, then slide down to drape over your thighs, palms wide and warm, thumbs tracing lazy, absent-minded circles that make your whole body soften against him. he tucks his chin into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, breathing you in like he’s been missing you all day even though you’ve been in the same house. his arms settle around your waist, loose but protective, the kind of hold that tells you he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.
the tv hums in the background, black friday football, the usual chaotic noise, but it barely registers to him. he isn’t leaning forward after big plays, isn’t muttering stats, isn’t yelling at referees. his eyes flick to the screen only out of habit, but every time he does he ends up drifting back to you, lips brushing your jaw or your cheek like he’s hypnotized by your beauty and your presence.
he’s warm against you, so warm it feels like he’s sinking into you, melting into this little cocoon you’ve accidentally built together on the couch. he murmurs quiet jokes into your shoulder, dry little observations about commercials or commentators that make you smile without even meaning to. and every few minutes, in the breaks between plays he’s not really watching, he tilts his head just enough to kiss your temple, your jawline, that soft spot beneath your ear. those kisses get slower as the game goes on, lingering, sweet, full of a kind of affection that makes your chest ache. one of them lands on your neck—soft, deliberate—and he stays there, lips resting against your skin like he’s gathering courage for the words that follow.
“i love thanksgiving now,” he whispers, voice low, almost shy in its sincerity. his breath warms your skin. “you know that, right?”.
you feel something ease in him as he says it, like he’s finally letting the truth out. “you just…you make it special,” he continues, another kiss pressed to the curve of your shoulder. “you make it something i actually care about,”,
his arms tighten around you, not possessive—just certain. content. full. and you can feel it all: the weight of his gratitude; the quiet, unshakable comfort he finds in you; the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s anchoring himself there; the way he breathes a little easier when you lean your head back onto his shoulder.
it’s soft. it’s intimate. it’s domestic in a way that feels sacred. he holds you like this is his favorite place in the world. and like thanksgiving finally means something because it’s a day he gets to spend wrapped around you and spend every single second being grateful to the universe that you came into his orbit.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets horny the second the world slows down
the shift always begins in the quiet. the moment the house exhales—leftovers tucked away, the echo of family chatter fading into memory—something in joe unwinds just enough for another instinct to take its place. he watches you move through the soft, dim glow of the living room, the tv humming low, shadows slipping over your skin, and his restraint simply…dissolves. he comes up behind you with that slow, certain step he gets when he’s already made up his mind, sliding an arm around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. his chest presses to your back, his breath a lazy brush against your neck before his lips find that place just beneath your ear. he kisses you there first, knowing how it always sends butterflies through your stomach, and when you soften against him, he releases a quiet, shaky sound he’d never admit to. his hands slip beneath your shirt with a hunger he’s been holding back since noon, fingers splaying wide over your stomach, your ribs, your hips, mapping you like he’s relearning you.
“we’ve got the whole night,” he murmurs against your skin, voice already deep, already ruined, already gone for you. and when you whisper his name, barely a breath, he shudders, tightening his hold like that single sound snapped the last thread of his control.
you don’t stay on the couch. you don’t stay pressed against the patio door. you don’t stay anywhere for long. he kisses you through the hallway like a man dragged under, pinning you to the wall with a groan when you tug at his hair, the kind of sound that vibrates through you and leaves your knees unsteady. he walks you backward toward the bedroom with the singular focus of someone starved, hands gripping, sliding, claiming every inch they touch.
by the time you reach the doorway, you’re already gasping, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands pushing beneath your clothes like he needs skin, needs heat, needs you. and when he finally gets you onto the bed, when he crawls over you with that slow, predatory confidence, it’s like the air thickens. the world narrowing to the drag of his lips down your chest, the way his fingers trace the waistband of your underwear like a promise he intends to ruin. his voice drops to something gravelly, sinful, as he whispers, “been thinking about this all day…about you all day,” before kissing down your stomach, your hips lifting helplessly into the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a sound from you that makes him curse under his breath.
and later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe lifetimes have passed—he’s above you again, chest pressed to yours, body fully, desperately aligned with yours as he pushes into you with slow, devastating purpose. his hands cradle your jaw as if he’s trying to watch every single reaction he pulls from you, pupils blown wide, hair falling in his face, breath shaking each time you clench around him. every thrust drags a new sound from your throat, and joe drinks them in like they’re oxygen, murmuring your name in a tone that borders on worship. he moves like a man who’s been deprived of touch for days, deep, deliberate, a little rough, a little sweet, utterly obsessed, his mouth finding your shoulder, your lips, your chest, leaving lazy, possessive marks he’ll admire in the morning. the quiet of the night only amplifies everything: the slap of skin, the low growls slipping from his throat, the gasps he pulls from yours. and when he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling as he mutters, “so fuckin' good for me, so thankful for this pussy, fuck,” you realize he isn’t teasing. he’s unraveling, falling apart, breaking open entirely for you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...absolutely refuses to set foot in a store on black friday
the moment you mention black friday, his whole body goes rigid. like every muscle locks at once. eyes going comically wide, pupils blown in sheer, primal alarm. it’s the same look he gives when a blitzing linebacker comes out of nowhere, except this time it’s the thought of fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers, and half-off appliances that has him silently begging the universe for mercy. “are you insane?” he mutters, taking a full step back as if you’ve just threatened him with bodily harm. his hands come up in self-defense, palms out, head shaking slowly like he’s processing a traumatic memory. “no. absolutely not. i’m not fighting an elderly woman in skechers for a half-priced toaster oven,”. his voice is a wild mix of disbelief and genuine fear, the kind that says he has seen things…horrors…unhinged bargain hunters…and he will not go back.
but then you pout. soft, subtle, the slightest tilt of your lips, the almost imperceptible lift of your gaze, and it’s the look he has never once been able to resist—those eyes, wide and innocent, that somehow hold both mischief and pleading all at once. joe’s whole face fractures in that instant; the dread he’d been carrying melts, edges softening like ice pressed under a heat lamp, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in a slow, audible surrender. he exhales, long and labored, a sound thick with preemptive defeat, like he already knows he’s lost before the words have even formed in his mouth.
without a word, he closes the distance, letting instinct guide him. his hands land on your waist, strong but careful, drawing you effortlessly into his chest. the familiar pull, the magnetic weight of him, wraps around you, and you feel it—the quiet inevitability of him, the way he claims the space around you without ever needing to announce it. he bows his head, forehead brushing yours for a heartbeat, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—the kind that steadies him more than it steadies you, calming him before the storm of his surrender. “fine,” he murmurs finally, the word heavy, drenched in melodrama, a small groan of protest hidden in the cadence. “we can go.” his voice cracks just slightly at the edges, like it’s painful to admit defeat, and yet there’s something tender in the way he says it, as though every ounce of his theatrical agony is only for you to witness.
then he straightens, meets your gaze with the seriousness of a man about to enter the hunger games. “but i am not running. not touching anyone. not making eye contact. i am a spectator only…you’re responsible for all human interaction,”. each word is spoken like a legally binding contract he’s unwilling to renegotiate. and yet, beneath all that theatrical reluctance, a glimmer sparks in his eyes, a tiny wicked shine he can’t hide. the faintest twitch of a smirk. because he loves this. loves hovering behind you with a hand on your hip, loves grumbling under his breath at the chaos, loves pretending he’s miserable just so you’ll laugh and tug him closer. he’ll complain the entire time, sure, but he’ll be glued to your side, muttering snarky commentary, acting like your grumpy, overprotective shadow…secretly having the time of his life just being there with you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...looks intimidating enough that no one bumps into you
he trails behind you through the chaos of the mall, hood pulled up over his beanie, glasses on, shoulders broad and stiff like he’s on his way to a game instead of shopping for discounted candles. his hands stay buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that naturally terrifying don’t even think about it way he gets when he’s in public and hyper-focused on you. people take one look at him—six‑foot‑four, built like a greek tragedy, radiating silent menace—and immediately part like the sea. you’re weaving through crowds like you’ve got a vip escort, not because you asked for one, but because your boyfriend looks like he could bench-press emotional damage and fight for sole custody of the mall. he leans down just enough for you to hear him over the noise, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “see that?” he murmurs, “i’m useful,”.
and the worst part is? he’s kind of proud of it.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives brutally honest, judgmental commentary on every black friday shopper
he’s quiet at first, just observing. then the sighs start. loud, drawn out, dripping with disgust. “oh, great, she’s elbowing children for a vacuum she can get off amazon on sale on any other random weekday,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like the entire mall is personally offending him by their lack of intelligence.
he doesn’t hold back. every cart that crashes into another? commentary. every slow walker in the aisle? critique. the guy hoarding the electronics? “wow. selfish and bald. perfect combo,” he smirks at you, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring you to challenge him. “i mean, really. what’s his strategy here? just crush everyone in his path?”.
and the shoppers don’t even know it, but he’s scowling, muttering, judging like he has nothing better to do. he whispers running narrations to you, low and mischievous: “that one’s gonna regret that cart collision. watch…karma,” and then you see a fight break out in front of you.
every so often, he leans down, lips brushing your ear with that grin that’s half mischief, half deadly seriousness. “i could survive the end of the world,” he murmurs, “as long as i don’t have to deal with these people,” and you laugh, because yeah, he’s ridiculous, but somehow, watching joe watch the chaos is way more entertaining than the chaos itself. he’s judgemental, sarcastic, and just a little bit terrifying—but you secretly love it. black friday wouldn’t be the same without him narrating the apocalypse in real time.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...hates every second and is so dramatic about it
he is unbearable in the funniest, most joe way possible. like a man personally wronged by the concept of consumerism. he sighs with the full weight of every burden he has ever carried, loud and theatrical, the kind of exhausted exhale a dying victorian widow would give after discovering her husband perished at sea. every time you pause to look at throw pillows? another sigh. every time you compare prices? a groan that echoes down the aisle. he mutters to himself constantly, too “unbelievable…we’re really doing this…i thought we were above this,”.
“this” as in rummaging through the sale rack at the ugg store.
he gives lethal, passive-aggressive looks to anyone who even brushes the corner of his jacket, clutching the single shopping bag he’s agreed to hold like it’s gus boundary. “i’m not carrying more than three bags, babe,” he says in that rigid, no-nonsense tone, as if he’s laying down federal law. but you know him. you know the second you look the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’ll be shoving every bag up his arms like decorative bangles. hell, if your back twinged even once, he’d drop everything just to scoop you up bridal-style and march you through the mall like a knight protecting his queen.
and then halfway through the makeup aisle, surrounded by glittery palettes and overpriced skincare, he leans down with a grim, war-hardened seriousness. “if someone recognizes me and i end up on twitter again, i’m leaving you here,” the delivery is deadpan. cold. chilling. the threat of a man who has been photographed in a mall one too many times (the photo of him with the bath & body works bag gives him nightmares to this day).
he’s joking…mostly.
because even as he grumbles, even as he pretends this is the worst day of his life, his arm stays wrapped firmly, possessively around your waist; tugging you into him every time someone walks too close, keeping you sheltered, tucked against his side like you’re the only thing in the entire store keeping him sane.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...softens instantly when he sees you excited
the second your eyes light up, over a sale sign, a cute display, or even just a pair of fuzzy socks, he melts like someone hit pause on reality. the scowl, the sighs, the grumbling about crowds and chaos? evaporated. his jaw unclenches, shoulders drop, and those sharp, teasing eyes soften into something warm and full, like he’s seeing you in a spotlight made just for you. he steps closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against your waist, and presses a sweet, tender kiss to the top of your head right there in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the curious glances around him. “you’re cute when you’re in bargain mode,” he laughs, his lips grazing your hair as his thumb drifts absent‑mindedly over your hip. when you squeal softly at a matching set of pajamas, holding them up with that little spark in your eyes, he doesn’t even hesitate. he slides the pajamas into the cart, grinning down at you with that messy, boyish pride only you get to see, and leans in to press another quick kiss to your temple, murmuring, “i’d do anything to see you like this. all smiley and loopy,”. even amidst the chaos of the store, he’s fully present, fully yours, completely smitten
⋆˙⟡ joe who...loses it the second you walk into the lingerie store
the second you step inside, a quiet, almost feral grin spreads across his face, eyes darkening with a heat that makes your stomach twist. he’s supposed to be “helping,” or at least waiting outside casually, but the second he sees you browsing, all pretense falls away. his jaw tightens, hands balling into fists at his sides like he’s restraining the kind of hunger that could burn the whole mall down. every shift of his hips, every tightening of his shoulders is loaded with raw, needful energy.
he watches you reach for a delicate maroon lace set, swallowing hard, and his mind floods with you—naked in that fabric, soft and slick against him, hips arching into his hands, breasts pressed to him, toes curling. “holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough, dripping with want, half for himself and half as a warning he can’t resist. his hips twitch subtly, throat dry, pulse quickening as he imagines the way your body will move for him, the moans he’ll hear, the way he’ll taste every inch. every bra, every silk set, every little lace thong—it’s all for him, all for this private, heated fantasy that he can’t wait to make real. his gaze lingers on you, unbroken, almost predatory, and you notice the sharp inhale, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to sink his teeth into you. he swallows again, hips shifting, the need in his eyes unmistakable. you feel it, searing and undeniable—the way his desire practically radiates off him—and it hits you: he’s completely, utterly, unashamedly turned on in the middle of this mall, and it’s all because of you.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t resist dragging you into a dressing room
the second you step toward a fitting room, he’s on you—fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar, impatient, i’m‑done‑waiting smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say a word, just guides you backward, steps long and purposeful, until the door shuts behind you with a sharp click that feels louder than it should. before you can even breathe, he’s crowding you back against the mirror, his body flushing against yours like he’s been starving for hours. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s claiming territory he already owns. his tongue slides against yours with hungry precision, tasting, teasing, coaxing an involuntary sound from your throat—just a faint, needy little moan that has his breath catching and his grip tightening. he bites your lower lip with perfect pressure, enough to make your knees tremble, and then he swallows your gasp like he’s craving it.
his hands don’t linger politely; they roam with intent. he drags them under your sweater, palms warm against your stomach before sliding higher, thumbs brushing the curve of your breast through your bra, tracing every shape he’s memorized a thousand times. his fingers trail down your waist and lock onto your hips, pulling you harder against him like he needs your body to keep him anchored. his mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, slow and molten, before finding your throat. every kiss there is filthier, open‑mouthed, messy, hungry, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers threats and promises in a voice frayed with desire. “quiet,” he murmurs, words brushing your pulse, “don’t want anyone hearing how good you feel for me,”.
his body presses into yours fully now, chest to your back as he shifts to kiss the curve of your neck from behind. he nips and sucks deliberately, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make you shiver and grab for him, your fingers curling into his shirt at his shoulders. he slips one hand under your bra, just enough to cup and tease your tit, the slow graze of his thumb sending heat spiraling low through your body. your legs wobble, breath catching, and he just smirks against your skin because he feels it—feels how easily you melt for him, how fast he can undo you. “my gorgeous girl,” he groans into your ear, “every inch of you…just for me,”. his hands slide down again, gripping your hips, pulling you back into him, making you feel the effect you’re having on him, the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding.
and the lingerie you came in to try? completely forgotten. the only thing you can think about is him—his mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off him in waves. every touch leaves you dazed, every kiss steals your balance, every low growl from him shoots straight through you. by the time he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, your lips are swollen, your breathing unsteady, and he’s wearing the slowest, filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. “now,” he whispers, fingertips dragging down the inside of your thigh with sinful softness, “go try something…if you can even think about shopping after that,”.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...spoils you rotten
he acts like he hates this, but the second you so much as pause in front of something? he’s already reaching for his wallet.
you say you don’t need anything? he buys it anyway, barely glancing at the price tag. “christmas is coming,” he shrugs, like that explains the way he’s filling the cart with everything you even breathe near.
you say something is cute? he doesn’t even let you put it back. “put it in the cart,” he insists, nudging you with his shoulder, that soft little half-smile he gets only with you tugging at his mouth.
you look at something twice? he’s already scanning your expression. the slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers brush the fabric, and he’s stepping closer, voice dropping so only you can hear, “babe. seriously. get it,” and he means it. because he loves giving you things. loves seeing your eyes light up. loves knowing he can make your life easier, softer, sweeter.
he pretends he hates shopping, but he loves treating you. loves it in a way he’d never admit out loud. to him, spoiling you isn’t spending money; it’s showing you in every way he can that you’re his girl, and taking care of you is his favorite thing in the world.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...geeks out over a deal on a lego set he's wanted for months
the moment he spots it on the shelf, he freezes, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure. it’s the lego set he’s been hunting for months, the one he swore he’d never find at a good price. his jaw tightens, a low, excited hum vibrating in his chest, and he crouches slightly to inspect the box like it’s a rare artifact. “no way…is this—,” he mutters, voice barely containing the thrill, “is this the edition with the moving gears?” his fingers hover over the package, trembling slightly as he turns it in his hands, checking every angle, reading the description like he’s deciphering ancient runes.
you watch, half-amused, half-melting, as his usual calm, cool demeanor evaporates. he starts pacing a small circle around the aisle, murmuring calculations to himself about budget, space on the shelf at home, where he’ll display it, how he’ll tackle it in stages. every now and then he glances at you, grin splitting his face like he’s sharing a private victory, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes from finding something you’ve been obsessing over. “babe…this is insane. they’re not supposed to have it,” he whispers, sounding like a younger version of himself with the way excitement is practically seeping out of him, “and it’s…on sale,”.
you can’t resist teasing him, voice playful and sharp. “so…mr. anti-black friday is suddenly all in for a lego set?” you draw out, arching a brow. joe freezes mid-step, box clutched to his chest, and then laughs, a little breathless and sheepish, cheeks warming. “hey…this...this is different,” he stammers, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him, betrays the thrill, the glee he can’t hide.
he catches your eye, his smile wide and uncontainable, and in that moment, you see him completely, unguarded, joy radiating from every gesture. “i mean…look at this,” he says, voice full of wonder and disbelief, shaking his head with laughter. “i can’t even…i have to build it now. i just…i can’t wait,” and as he carefully places it in the cart beside you, it’s impossible not to grin too, because watching him geek out over something he loves this much is like seeing a piece of his soul sparkle.
⋆˙⟡ joe who...collapses dramatically the second you get home
he collapses onto the bed the second you step inside, flopping with the exaggerated theatrics of a soldier finally returning from battle, limbs splayed haphazardly, hoodie half-bunched around his shoulders, hair tousled, chest heaving in dramatic, uneven gasps. the intensity is ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifts. before you can even react, his hand snakes across the bed with that familiar, fumbling determination, finding your wrist and tugging you down beside him, so you fall into a warm, tangled heap—your shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm draped lazily but possessively over you. his nose nudges yours, brushing against your cheek with an intimate gentleness, lips grazing the curve of your temple, and his voice drifts low, rough, and utterly breathless, “worth it…but never again,”.
your fingers thread through the messy strands of his hair, and you tease, “until next year?” the words barely leave your lips before he groans, muffled against your collarbone, the weight of the day melting from him like ice in sunlight. he burrows closer, pressing his body fully into yours, soft now beneath the dramatics, warm and grounding, the contrast between his chaos and tenderness almost too much to bear. “…fine,” he sighs, voice thick with reluctant surrender, the exaggerated theatrics finally giving way to the quiet, steady rhythm of relief.
and in that moment, as his limbs settle and his breathing evens, you feel it. the absolute trust, the raw intimacy of being the one he comes home to, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the undeniable, unspoken truth that in the messiness of his theatrics and the ridiculous collapse of the day, he is completely, irrevocably yours.
Summary: The slip of their sister's sweater over Winter Break reveals the fact that she has a boyfriend, and sends the brothers into a tizzy trying to figure out who it is.
Warnings: mentions of hickies, sibling arguing ☹️ this isn't as Fernando focused as my last fic was, but he's featured!
A/N: a continuation of my last fic since i got so much positive feedback on it!
If looks could kill, Fernando Mendoza would surely be dead. His assailant? His own girlfriend.
He was still laying in her bed, his back propped up against the headboard and the comforter pooled around his waist. He was only wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, his abs exposed to the chill of the apartment air, and the occasional wandering eyes of his girlfriend.
Y/N was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, one of Fernando's t-shirts covering her body and a pair of fuzzy socks clad on her feet. She wasn't looking directly at him, her gaze on her own reflection in the mirror, but even then, Fernando could tell she was still upset with him.
"Baby, I'm sorry," he apologized, though the slight smirk on his face told her otherwise. She turned around with a furious look on her face, and if she wasn't leaving for the airport in the following 2 hours, Fernando would've tugged her back into bed with him, and not just to sleep. Instead, he stayed put and went against his urges that made him feel like a horny teenager again. "C'mon, it's not that bad."
She narrowed her eyes at him. ""Not that bad'?" Y/N repeated. "Fernando, I look like I just got mauled by a bear." He laughed. "It's not funny!"
He stood up and approached her slowly, careful to avoid getting yelled at by his girlfriend again. "I'm sorry," he repeated. He grabbed at her hip with his hand and rubbed his thumb against the supple skin. "Really, I-" He laughed despite the situation. "- I honestly didn't think it would look this bad."
"Oh, right, you didn't know that giving me hickies would end up with me having hickies on my neck?" asked Y/N. She rubbed at the skin on her collarbone, which was irritated and red.
"I got caught up in the heat of the moment," Fernando explained. "How can you blame me when I was with my beautiful girlfriend for the last time before she leaves for break?" He pouted dramatically, and Y/N sighed. "I'm sorry, baby." He pressed his lips over the marks on her skin in an attempt to apologize.
Y/N huffed. "I'll just have to be super careful," she muttered. "The last thing I need is for anyone to see this."
"You're still the most beautiful girl in the world," Fernando whispered, his kisses now moving up the column of her neck. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you here these next few weeks. I'm going to miss you, sweetheart."
"I'm going to miss you too, Nando, but I'm coming to New York for the ceremony, remember?" She told him as she carded her hands through the curls on his head. "I thought you'd be happy to be on your own for a little while."
"How can I be happy when my girlfriend is abandoning me?" Fernando moved away from Y/N and flopped onto the bed with an over-exaggerated sigh.
Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "Alright, drama queen," she muttered, walking over and patting him on the stomach. "Are you sure you don't mind driving me to the airport? I don't want to put you out of your way..."
"Of course I don't mind," Fernando immediately responded. "You all packed?"
With a nod, Y/N responded, "Mhm. Don't forget to come back here and get the gifts I got for your parents and Max."
Fernando grinned. "You didn't have to get them anything," he protested, though there was no real conviction in his voice. He loved how much Y/N loved his family.
"It's no big deal." She shrugged. She reached over and grabbed the outfit that she had laid out on her dresser the night before. "I feel bad I'm not going to get to see them, though."
"They ask about you all the time," Fernando added. "I'm starting to think they like you more than they like me."
Y/N bit her lip. "I'm sure that's not true," she stated. She began walking towards the bathroom. "I'll be out of the shower in a few, and then I'm ready to go when you are."
Fernando sat up at the mention of Y/N taking a shower. "Can I join you?" He asked hopefully.
"Well, since you asked nicely-" Y/N didn't get to finish her sentence as a sudden squeal left her mouth when she was thrown over her boyfriend's shoulder.
When her mom said that one of her brothers was coming to pick her up, Y/N assumed that it would only be one of them. Her best guess is that it would be Quinn, seeing as he was the oldest and arguably the best at airport pickups.
With her rolling suitcase in one hand and her carry on in the other, Y/N strolled through the airport, her Adidas sneakers squeaking against the floor. Her headphones were resting around her neck, and every few minutes, she checked her phone, waiting for one of her brothers to text her.
Once she got her main suitcase from the baggage carousel, Y/N sighed. She now had two suitcases to deal with, and still no confirmation of if she even had a ride home.
"Jeez, did you pack for a few weeks or for the rest of your life?" A voice from behind her teased. Y/N practically jumped out of her own skin, but she knew that voice from anywhere.
Y/N turned to face the man that had spoken to her with a giddy smile. "Hey, old man, I'm surprised you're able to walk without a cane," she joked back.
Quinn looked ridiculous. His disguise, which consisted of a plain, black baseball cap and dark sunglasses, made him look like he was attending a baseball game in the dead of winter. Still, his cheeks were red from how hard he was smiling as he wrapped his arms around his youngest sibling's neck and pulled her into his chest.
"That's a weird way of saying 'thank you' for picking you up," Quinn responded, only wrapping his arms tighter around Y/N when she tried to pull away. "I missed you, munchkin. You gotta stop leaving me alone with those idiots."
"Hey!" Another voice yelled. Y/N craned her neck and finally realized that her oldest brother hadn't come alone. "If anyone's the idiot, it should be the one who tried to drive the emergency brake still on."
"Or the one who put plastic in the oven," A third voice added.
Y/N untangled herself from Quinn's arms and childishly stuck her tongue out at her two, other older brothers. "At least I'm going to graduate college," she exclaimed. "When Mom texted, I thought she said only one of you was coming to pick me up. I didn't think she meant the whole gang."
"We missed you!" Jack cried, placing an overly-dramatic kiss on his sister's cheek, causing Y/N to grimace and wipe the excess saliva off of her cheek. "My baby finally came home."
"I saw you, like, two months ago, dork," Y/N muttered.
"Don't even leave me alone with him again," Luke whispered in a low voice as he hugged his sister gently. "He never stops talking." Y/N giggled.
Nothing would ever compare to being with all three of her brothers, and it was unfortunate that they only got to be together around the holidays and for the summer. Since the moments Y/N had with her brothers were few and fleeting, she cherished them greatly.
"I missed you guys," Y/N said.
"We missed you, too, munchkin," Quinn replied, ruffling his sister's hair and laughing when she swatted his hand away. "C'mon, Mom has dinner ready at home."
"Surprised you guys didn't eat the whole house yet," teased Y/N. Her bags were soon taken out of the hands, and she was left with just her phone in her grasp, and the carry on that she had now slung over her shoulder. She had to stifle a laugh at the sight of Jack rolling her rose-gold suitcase through the airport.
Luke hummed. "Well, Jack already ate half of the package of sugar cookies that Mom was gonna surprise you with," he told his younger sister. Y/N glared at Jack while he smiled sweetly at her.
"Seriously?" Y/N whined. "I can't have anything."
"I was hungry." Jack defended himself. The siblings had now exited the airport and were walking into the chill of the afternoon air. "Where's your jacket?"
Y/N shrugged. "I packed it in my suitcase so I didn't have to carry it on the plane with me," she stated. "Where'd you guys park?"
"The parking garage," Quinn told her. "By the way, I need to borrow $5 for the parking pass."
She stared up at him with a blank look on her face. "Right. You're on a multi-million dollar contract, but you need to borrow money from the broke college kid."
"Oh, like Mom and Dad don't send you money every week." Jack snorted.
"It's food money!" Y/N argued. "It's not like I'm living some extravagant lifestyle in Indiana, of all places."
The four finally made it to the family car, and Y/N sat in the backseat with Luke while Quinn was in the driver's seat and Jack was next to him in the passenger's seat.
In the beginning, the ride was quiet. Except for the music that softly played in the car, there was a comfortable silence that settled in the car. Quinn was focused on the road, and Y/N was focused on her phone.
She was too enraptured in her phone to notice the collar of her sweater had fallen down her shoulder just slightly, which exposed her collarbone.
She laughed at something on her phone, causing Luke's gaze to shift over to her for a split second. His eyes were first on her face, but the redness of the skin near her neck caught his eye.
Luke's expression morphed into one of horror. There, on his baby sister's collarbone, was a constellation of red hickies. They stood out on her skin like red flowers in the wintertime.
He did the only logical thing he could as an older brother.
He screamed.
Well, more like shrieked. Very girlishly.
The car swerved as Quinn, clearly startled, regained his place on the road. Jack turned around to stare at his brother in shock. Y/N made a weird face, but when she saw Luke's glaze on her skin, she panicked and quickly moved her sweater so that it covered the hickies, but it was too late.
Luke saw.
She was screwed.
"Dude!" Quinn yelled from the front seat. "What is your problem?"
Luke's finger was pointed at Y/N. Her eyes were wide, and she desperately shook her head, as if trying to telepathically communicate to him. His mouth was agape. He couldn't't speak.
"Are you dying?" questioned Jack, now turned in his seat so he could see his other two siblings. His gaze darted between the two with narrowed eyes.
Y/N reached out and pushed Luke's hand away. "Luke, don't-"
"Y/N has hickies!"
Ellen and Jim Hughes were used to dealing with rowdy children. They had made it through raising three sons, who were also hockey players and seemingly had no regard for their own physical wellbeing while on the rink, as well as a daughter who took after her older brothers in a lot of aspects.
They thought they had seen or experienced it all. They made it through the awkward teen years, the birds and the bees talk, the rebellious stages, and the back-talk that all parents dealt with when they had teenagers.
When their three sons and their daughter came in the door, bickering like young kids again, the parents knew they were in for a long, long night.
Y/N was the first to enter the house, an irritated look on her face and flushed skin. However, when her eyes landed on her parents sitting at the table, her expression softened.
"Hi, Mom, Dad," Y/N murmured. She walked over to her parents and sat down at the table. She sighed heavily before letting her head fall onto the table.
Jim frowned. "Sweetpea, what's wrong?" His eyebrows creased in confusion as Ellen moved to rub Y/N's back.
"They know," she muttered.
The parents shared a look. "What do you mean, Y/N?" asked Ellen in confusion.
Y/N lifted her head off the table. "They know I have a boyfriend."
"How-"
"Y/N Hughes, if you don't tell me the name of the asshole that mauled you, I swear to God..." Jack threatened as he stomped into the dining room. His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared at his sister, who threw her hands up in the air.
It was only seconds later that Luke and Quinn entered the house in the same manner Jack had just seconds before. All three brothers stared down at their sister like she was harboring the world's biggest secret.
"Mom, Dad," Quinn addressed his parents. "Y/N has a boyfriend." Jim and Ellen shared a look, a look that definitely wasn't one of surprise. "Wait- Did you guys already know?" Their silence was enough of an answer for Quinn. "You told Mom and Dad but not us? Why?"
"Because Mom and Dad aren't psychopaths like you guys are!" Y/N argued.
"We're not psychopaths," Luke stated firmly. "Is it so wrong that we want to beat up the guy that did that to you?"
Y/N's head fell into her hands. "You guys are exhausting," she complained. "It's not a big deal!"
"You have a boyfriend, Y/N!" Quinn pointed out. "And he- He did that to you."
"Mom..." Y/N whined, a pout on her lips. "Can you tell them to just leave me alone?"
"Oh, we'll leave you alone," Jack cut in. "Once you tell us this guy's name and where we can find him so that we can deal with him properly."
Ellen pinched the bridge of her nose. "Boys, leave your sister alone. She's not obligated to tell you everything," she told them pointedly. "She'll tell you when she's ready."
Luke made a pained noise. "She's covered in hickies, Mom!"
Y/N's cheeks turned bright red with embarrassment. She stood up and clenched her fists. She was beyond embarrassed, and wished more than anything that the floor would swallow her whole. "Why can't you guys just stay out of my love life for once, huh? God, it's none of your business!"
Without sparing her parents or her brothers another glance, Y/N raced upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut.
Y/N wasn't sure when she had stopped crying. She could still feel the tear tracks running down her pink cheeks, and her bottom lip wobbled every time she recalled how she shouted and her brothers and the looks on their faces when she did.
She knew they weren't trying to be cruel or trying to embarrass her. It was completely unintentional. They were just trying to shield her from any potential harm, like they had done their entire life. But, in the process of doing so, they had hurt her feelings.
When Y/N had gotten into her room, she had flopped onto her bed and curled into a ball, her own arms wrapped around her abdomen in an attempt to comfort herself.
Fernando had told her to call him if she ever needed anyone to talk to, but Y/N felt silly calling him while crying. She knew he was busy with football, and the last thing he probably needed was his hysterical girlfriend crying on the phone to him.
A soft knock came from her bedroom door. Y/N's back was turned to the door, so even though she heard it creak open, she had no clue who it was that had knocked. She sniffled and rubbed her nose with her sleeve.
She felt her bed dip, and a hand was placed on her shoulder. "Munchkin..." It was Quinn. She still didn't turn around.
"Y/N, we're really sorry," Jack's voice chimed in.
"We didn't mean to hurt your feelings," added Luke.
Her voice broke as she spoke, "It's fine." She always forgave them too easily, something her mom always told her she didn't have to do.
"No, it's not okay," Jack protested. "We weren't fair, and we shouldn't have come at you like that."
Y/N sat up and finally faced her brothers. Quinn was sitting on her bed next to her, while Jack and Luke were sat on her window seat.
Their hearts simultaneously broke when the brothers finally got a look at their younger sister's face. Her eyes were puffy, and her cheeks were red from how much she had been crying.
She was crying because of them.
"I know I should've told you guys sooner," Y/N admitted quietly. "I just- I didn't want to be a bother. I know how busy you guys are between Olympics stuff and with the season starting, I just- I didn't want to distract you."
"Y/N, you aren't a distraction," Luke insisted. "You're the only constant in our ever-changing life. In a world full of chaos, you're the only thing that keeps us sane. We're so, so sorry, Y/N, we were being unfair."
"We didn't mean to invade your privacy, munchkin," Quinn continued. "We just always want to make sure you're okay, but it's so hard when you're so far away from us."
"Even though you're grown up, you're still our baby sister, Y/N," Jack said. "Nothing is ever going to change that."
Y/N smiled and leaned into Quinn. "I love you, guys," she told them. "Even when you tell Mom and Dad that I have hickies." The four shared a laugh. A beat passed. "His name is Fernando. We met when I came to watch the Canucks play the Sharks last November, and we've been dating since then."
Jack laughed. "Isn't Fernando the name of your school's QB? The dude that's nominated for the Heisman? What a coincidence." Y/N blinked. She didn't laugh. "It's a just a coincidence, right?"
"Well..." Y/N trailed off. She awkwardly smiled as her brothers groaned. "Aw, come on, at least I'm not dating a hockey player!"
"I feel like I just aged 20 years," Quinn muttered, rubbing his face with his hands. "Now I know how Dad feels everytime one of us gets in a fight during a game."
Luke said, "So, that's why you're into football all the sudden?"
Y/N shrugged. "Yeah." He hummed in response.
"We're happy for you, munchkin," Quinn stated as he pulled Y/N into a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "But, just because he's a famous quarterback doesn't change the fact that we're going to kick his ass-"
A/N: YAY! Joe smut, Joe smut, Joe smut! I have been needing this man in a biblical sense recently, and then the other day I had this thought of couch sex, fingering and riding him (the working title of this fic was 'couch sex' until I decided on a proper title lol), so this was born from that. I hope you enjoy!
WC: 4.5k (I said this may be short... I lied)
Warnings: Sexual content, MDNI! 18+, this contains very little plot and a lot of smut. Fingering (f receiving), riding, cock warming if you squint, Joe is a pro at aftercare, she rides him... it's a fun time!
The thing about sexual tension with you and Joe is… it doesn’t often sky rocket out of nowhere.
Over the course of your relationship, it’s become a thing where sometimes, days can go by where lingering touches go unnoticed, you hold each other’s gaze for just a second too long to be just a glance and kisses become charged without going anywhere.
It’s not even anyone’s fault. He’s tired from the season, you’re busy at work — recently, the days just haven’t had enough hours for the two of you to go further than heated kisses before bed. Sex is an important part of your relationship and both of you very much enjoy it, but you also want to make sure that you have the energy to make it a special, rewarding experience for both of you.
Tonight, though, there’s been tension simmering since the second he came home from the facility. When you turned around from cooking dinner and saw him standing there, leaning against the counter wearing a black Bengals hoodie and grey sweats… you were done for.
And the worst thing is, he can see it in your face. It’s written in the way your eyes immediately darkened at the sight of him, the way your mouth went slack like you were about to literally salivate over him.
He smirked, almost imperceptibly to anyone else but plain as day for you to see, and approached you to rest two hands on your hips the second you were within arm’s reach.
‘Hi baby,’ he’d said.
You were too overcome with thoughts that had no business being released to the general public that you couldn’t speak.
All you could do was lean up to kiss him and hope that he could feel how badly you needed him through your lips melting against his.
Dinner has passed. The dishwasher hums softly in the background, around halfway through its cycle. It’ll probably finish before you go to bed but it’s become an unwritten rule that whoever gets up first in the morning is responsible for unloading it.
You’ve showered and changed into soft lounge shorts and one of Joe’s old LSU shirts. Once you’re downstairs, you find Joe sat in the corner of his sectional couch, film playing on his tablet with his notebook next to him. The closer you get to him, the more handsome he looks.
Blonde hair falls over his eyes as he tilts his head down to the tablet. His huge hands make the pen he’s holding look like a child’s crayon. A white shirt stretches over his enormous shoulders. The material is thin enough that as you approach, you can see the faint outline of his spine through the back. He’s relaxed in a way that only the off season can provide. Shoulders looser than they are during the peak stress of the season. Hands flowing more as they note down routes, covers and drives from various teams.
He senses you before you even come into his peripheral vision. His head turns just as you pass next to him, then a soft smile appears on his lips when he sees you.
‘There she is,’ he murmurs softly with a chuckle as you plop down next to him.
‘Hey Joey,’ you reply. He briefly holds his pen in his left hand to allow his right hand to squeeze your knee, then picks his pen back up to continue writing. His handwriting isn’t neat, but legible enough for you to make out some of his notes.
Watch for safety rotation.
Corner play bites on action.
Left tackle drifts wide.
There are circles. Arrows. Little diagrams that make no sense to you but are like Joe’s second language.
Your head tilts as you continue to try and make out more of the notes and reminders to himself. It’s moments like these where you forget that you’re not just dating Joe, the guy who watches nature documentaries, willingly participates in self-care Saturdays with you and listens to audiobooks on the drive to work. You’re also dating the quarterback who’s played in a Super Bowl, been compared to a ‘stone-cold killer’ and leads the offence of the Cincinnati Bengals.
Joe sees you looking, sees you reading, and smiles to himself.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks quietly as he looks down at you. The scratching of the pen pauses as he makes another note about audibles.
You smile up at him.
‘I’m thinking about how my boyfriend gets tackled by three-hundred pound men for a living.’ He laughs at that. Then you point to a diagram near the top right of the page. ‘What does this mean?’
He looks at it for a moment. It’s a small drawing, no bigger than a quarter, little X’s and O’s with arrows branching out in a few different directions. Then he explains how each letter correlates to a player, how each arrow refers to a different route and what that means for him.
You huff out a sigh that tells Joe that you’re more impressed than you’d like to let on. Football was a completely new thing to you when you and Joe first met, and you’re still getting used to the insanity of the sport.
‘This sport is a conspiracy theory.’
Joe chuckle again at your deadpan remark.
‘I’ve not heard that one before,’ he chuckles. His arm drapes across your shoulders and the two of you turn your heads to look at each other.
There it is again, you realise with a rush of blood to your cheeks. That unspoken spark of something unspoken that rushes between you.
‘A very cool conspiracy theory,’ you admit, almost breathlessly. You’re trying not to give yourself away, trying not to distract him…
But everything he does makes fireworks fizz in your stomach. Heat pools low in your stomach and you have to squeeze your thighs together as you slowly start to clock the dampness in your underwear.
The smirk on his face tells you that unfortunately, he’s clocked you. Just like always.
You shuffle away from him, far enough away that you’re still within touching distance but not close enough that your shoulder isn’t resting against his arm. Even the feeling of his skin on yours, warm and soft, is enough to make your brain go fuzzy.
Joe continues to look at his film, but he’s also watching you out of the corner of his eye. You scroll TikTok with the volume as low as it can go. Every so often, you exhale a little puff of air out of your nose at a particularly amusing video or comment.
You’re cool. You’re calm.
You are totally not thinking about your very warm, very handsome boyfriend sat less than three feet away from you. You are absolutely not thinking about his fingers, currently holding a pen, that you would much prefer sliding down the front of your shorts. And there’s absolutely no way you’re thinking about his grunts and the feeling of the delicious stretch you always feel as you slide yourself down onto him.
Five minutes of silence pass.
Ten minutes of agony.
Fifteen minutes of you losing your mind as he mutters to himself about coverage and yards and safeties.
He’s been muttering to himself for a while, but you’re so zoned out, trying to keep your thoughts to PG-13, that you don’t realise he’s asked you a question until you clock the fact that the same TikTok video has played multiple times with no reaction from you. No laugh, no scroll, no nothing.
‘Baby.’
The single word fires through your brain like a lightning bolt. You turn your head to look at him, too fast to play it off casually.
‘Yes, Joe.’
‘I asked if you’re okay.’ There’s the smallest suggestion of a smirk on his lips as he asks the question again.
‘All good,’ you reply quickly. Too quickly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
He shrugs, raising his eyebrows, smirk growing in size.
‘Because the same video played four times and you didn’t even react.’
Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, trying to think up a reasonable explanation for this.
Nothing comes to your mind. Your brain, usually overactive and supplies plenty of thoughts, is completely void of anything but how much you need him. Your thighs are already shaking. You know that if he were to feel your groin even through your shorts, he’d be able to feel the dampness of your folds through your shorts. It’s cold against your thighs, slick and a constant reminder of how badly you need him.
Joe decides that enough is enough. He reaches forward to turn the tablet off and throws the notebook and pen onto the coffee table, then reaches across to wrap his arms around you.
‘C’mere, you,’ he grins at your yelp as he picks you up with no effort at all. ‘Been ignoring my girl for too long.’
A moment later, you’re sat on his lap. Your knees dig into the couch on either side of his hips as you straddle him, with your arms moving instinctively to lock around his neck.
You look up at his face. His eyes, normally a piercing blue, are dark grey in the low light of the room. His pupils are blown. Jaw set, tight with concentration, but it’s not film he’s concentrating on anymore.
It’s you.
You’re taking up his entire focus. You’re all he can think of right now.
‘Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need.’
You blink up at him.
‘What — I don’t — Joe…’ You babble uselessly.
Joe chuckles darkly and leans in to kiss your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. His lips trail kisses along your jaw, up to your ear, brushing its shell as his voice lowers to that deep, throaty timbre he keeps at the back of his throat for these exact moments.
‘Don’t lie to me,’ he murmurs. ‘Tell me what you need.’
His hands grip your waist, fingers kneading the soft skin of your ass. Your lips find his once more as you instinctively rock your hips into him, slow, gentle but deliberate enough that you quickly start to feel him hardening beneath his sweatpants.
The effect is immediate. Almost comical, really.
He groans and tips his head to the back of the couch with a filthy grin.
‘You asked me what I needed, Joe,’ you mumble against his lips. ‘I need you. Right now.’
You pull back from the kiss just enough to look at him. Both of your lips are red and swollen and your breaths punch out in desperate gasps. His eyes are dark, hooded with desire.
‘Please, Joey.’
Those two words are enough for him to finally move one of his hands from your ass, around your thigh to your knee. His fingers trail up the skin on the inside of your leg, painfully slow, enough to make you whine in anticipation. He looks up at you, smirking because he knows what you need.
‘Patience, baby,’ he murmurs up at you. From your position of being straddled across him, you’re just above his eye-line, meaning that for once in his life he has to look up at you.
‘Joey,’ you whimper. The last syllable is elongated, making him chuckle. ‘I said please.’
His huge shoulders shake with another soft laugh at your neediness.
‘Such a good girl, being so polite.’
Your body is already reacting to every slight touch, every trail of his fingertips against your skin. The higher they go on your thigh, the more you react, whimpering his name as anticipation curls in your stomach.
When his fingers slide under the waistband of your shorts and finally find you, he hisses at the feel of your slick coating his digits, swearing under his breath at the effect he has on you. His breath fans hot and heady against your face in between kisses.
His fingers expertly work your clit, thumbing, pressing and swirling to make you gasp out his name into his neck. Your body arches into his all over again, but this time the movement is frantic. Staccato from just how sensitive your body is. You make a sound that’s half yelp, half moan, as your head falls to rest against his shoulder.
Joe’s other hand tucks your hair behind your shoulder, as it’s fallen over your shoulder and he knows you hate when it gets in your face.
The room is quiet. The only sounds are your occasional breathless gasps and moans, and the obscene wet sounds from you as his fingers bring you closer and closer to the edge.
It’s cresting. Fast. The coil is tightening already, that addictive feeling of your high accelerating towards you. You’re so desperate for it that your hips rock back and forth, seemingly of their own accord, riding his fingers in search of your climax.
You’re close. He can feel it in the way your thighs start to tremble around him.
‘Close already, baby?’ He smirks at you. You shove his shoulder weakly, too blissed to put any proper weight behind it.
‘Shut up, Burrow,’ you whine, making him laugh. The kiss he gives you when his lips find yours once again is hungry and deep. Both of you tilt your heads for more access to each other.
Your face scrunches in pleasure and your head tilts back, far enough that he moves his hand to cradle the back of your neck to keep your balance on him.
‘Stay with me, baby, I’ve got you.’
You whimper again as the high comes crashing towards you.
‘Joe — I’m—’
‘Let go for me, honey,’ he murmurs into your ear. ‘Let me hear you.’
Then, finally, without another warning, it hits. You rock into him, almost collapsing on top of him with a muffled yelp of his name as the coil snaps, sending a wave of heat pulsing through you. Moans tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. The intensity of it is almost overwhelming.
He watches you with a smug grin. Both of his hands grip your waist and hold you close enough to him that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The aftershocks vibrate through your entire body and you feel the need to hold onto him, arms looped around his neck to brace yourself against his huge form.
For a few moments, there’s quiet. Proper quiet, the kind that envelops a room after something intense has happened. Your breathing slowly starts to even out as you breathe him in. He moves one hand to slide under your shirt. The feeling of his palm, warm and large, on your skin makes electricity crackle through you all over again.
You still need him, you realise. Your body craves more. You crave him in ways that you don’t feel confident enough to say, so you lift your head to look at him.
His eyes are dark grey in the low light of the room when they meet yours. Your fingers comb through his hair and tuck the strands that have fallen loose behind his ears. He kisses you, soft and gentle.
‘Need more, sweetheart?’ He asks quietly.
At first, you’re taken by surprise at just how well he knows you, at the way he knows when you need more without you even saying so, but then you smile and nod.
‘Yeah,’ you reply with a kiss to his cheek.
He beams, then taps your thigh.
‘Shorts off, baby.’
You obey without a second thought and move so you’re standing up in front of him. It only lasts a few seconds, during which you kick off your shorts and toss them to the side while Joe shimmies his sweatpants down his thighs, but your body screams in protest at the lack of contact with him. It only ceases when you sit back down on his lap.
Both of you groan at the feeling of your core, still soaking and slick, rubbing against his swollen cock. It slaps against his shirt, causing pre-cum to dribble onto the fabric. You shift slightly so your hips are raised off him, and he takes his cock in one hand and holds it steady to line it up with you. The other of his hands braces one of your hips to guide you down, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.
‘Ready?’ you ask quietly, face barely more than a few centimetres from his.
He just nods in response. He’s too overwhelmed with need for you that he can barely form a coherent sentence.
And then you’re sinking yourself down onto him. He groans, loud enough for the sound to echo around the dark room, and his head tips to the back of the couch at the sight of your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You mimic his groan with one of your own at the stretch, at the feeling of him inside you.
‘Fuck, sweetheart — tight.’ It’s barely more than a grunt from him. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving with exertion at the sensation of you fluttering around him.
The sensation takes your breath away every time, but especially from this angle. He’s completely bottomed out inside you, enough that you can feel his balls at your core. The stretch is delicious, big enough to make your walls quiver around him but not so big that it hurts.
‘Joey…’
‘I know, baby.’
Both hands are on you, now. One on your back, sneaking under your shirt again, the other on your hip. You tilt towards him and hiss as the change in angle causes his cock to hit that spot inside you.
He smiles knowingly.
‘There?’
It’s your turn to nod. Your arms are still looped around his neck and your fingers start to play with the soft hairs at the nape, absently grounding you without you even realising what you’re doing.
You turn to look at him properly, both of you stealing sweet, short kisses as you sit on him and keep him warm.
‘I love you,’ you say, because it seems important to say it now.
He beams up at you and kisses you again.
‘I love you too, sweetheart. So much.’
The two of you sit there for what might be a few seconds but what could easily be several minutes, your arms looped around his neck while his hands move up and down your back in circular motions. Time is doing that thing it always does during moments like this — stretching. Thickening just like the atmosphere is around you. Seconds bleeding into each other. It’s just the two of you.
You don’t even realise you’re staring at him until he grins teasingly up at you and kisses you.
‘Baby, you gonna just sit there or are you gonna ride me?’
The giggle punches out of your chest before you can even try and stop it, him joining you with chuckles of his own, and you rock your hips again, causing him to grunt your name under his breath.
There’s no space to speak of between you. Every atom of your body craves him, possessed by a carnal, almost primal desire to have him touching you.
His hands guide you as your hips pick up a steady rhythm against him. The hand under your shirt keeps you balanced against him, while his grip on your waist helps you maintain the ticking beat that you’ve picked up. It’s regular, not too fast that you can’t keep it but enough pace to make stars cloud your vision.
The feeling is addictive. His hands roaming your body, touching every spare millimetre of skin they can reach. His cock — huge, thick — rocking inside you, bulbous tip hitting the spot inside you that feels completely different when you ride him like this.
His hands clap down on your ass in a smack to both cheeks, making you yelp in surprise against his mouth. Joe grins as the sound reverberates through the whole room.
Both of you are groaning into each other. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your forehead, any inch of skin his lips can reach. He maps your face in kisses, then brushes his lips against your ear.
‘Love seein’ you like this, baby girl,’ he murmurs, voice throaty with need. ‘Takin’ me so well, such a good girl, lookin’ so perfect f’me.’ His Ohio drawl lengthens his vowels, makes his consonants thicken and run into each other.
It almost sounds like he’s drunk, slurring his words, and in a way he is. Drunk on you. Intoxicated with love for you. You’re the most dangerously addictive drug he’s ever known. He doesn’t want a world where he doesn’t get this high.
Minutes pass slowly. The room slowly falls away from around you. All you can focus on is him.
Your thighs start to get tired, but you keep going. Your lower back hurts. Cramp slowly creeps in around your feet. But you can’t stop.
You cradle his head with both hands as you kiss him, hot and hard, teeth clashing against each other. Your body is moving with every rock of your hips into him, causing your mouth to move back and forth against his. His lips capture yours every time, hungry and desperate for you.
The rhythm picks up in pace. Your high is building once more with the faster pace. Joe has to move both hands to your hips to keep you lowered onto him and direct your hips back and forth, back and forth.
‘Joey, I — I’m gonna…’ you mumble.
There it is again. That tightening sensation in your abdomen. It’s approaching even faster than the first orgasm earlier with every pulse of his cock inside you, every rock of your hips into him and every time his grip tightens on you.
Joe can feel you start to tire. He starts to buck his hips up in time with yours, almost lazily. He times it perfectly so the height of his hips are when you’re closest to him. It magnifies the magic feeling of him hitting that spot inside you.
Moments later, he kisses you hard and fiery. His own rhythm is becoming sloppy, just like yours
‘I’m there, baby,’ he grunts into you.
‘I — Joey, I’m — gonna…’
You can’t string a single sentence together.
‘I know, I know, sweetheart, trust me, I’ve got you.’
All it takes is one, two, three more thrusts into you, hard enough to hit that spot with enough force. Your walls flutter, then you’re coming undone around him.
This time, you actually scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, hard enough that you feel like you’re about to split open around him. It’s rare for your orgasm to hit you with just penetration - you often need his fingers alongside his dick to get your high, but when you cum with him inside you, it hits you hard. Intense.
Joe follows seconds later. His release coats your walls, warmth filling you up enough that some of it trickles out of you and down his own thigh.
He breathes heavily, then moves to fold his arms around you. Your entire body is trembling. The orgasm was so intense that tears start to leak out of your eyes.
‘I’m — I’m okay, god, I’m not… not sad, just…’ you exhale all in one, embarrassed. Gasps of exhaustion splutter out of you and you can only collapse against him, completely and utterly boneless.
‘Hey, it’s okay, I know. Just breathe, sweetheart.’
He holds you close to his chest. You’re acutely aware that he’s still inside you, softening but still pulsing every few seconds with the last of him. He rubs your back soothingly and hushes you whenever you shake with another sob. His hand threads through your hair and pulls it back away from your face.
His voice is quiet and gentle as he breathes you through the comedown.
‘I’ve got you. Breathe. You’re safe. You’re on the couch. Just got a little intense back there, huh.’
You don’t respond. He isn’t expecting you to.
The following few minutes are quiet as the room decompresses. Your breathing slowly starts to even out once more, as does his, and he reaches for the blanket that’s tossed over the back of the couch not far from you. He wraps it around you, still wrapped around him like an exhausted koala.
‘Wanna lie down, baby?’ He whispers as he kisses the skin beneath your ear.
You hum in agreement, already soft with sleep, and then his arms are tightening around you as he shifts both of your bodies down onto the couch. You wince at the sensation of him pulling out of you.
‘I’m okay,’ you mumble when he looks at you in concern, worried that he’s hurt you. ‘Tender. Achey.’
He kisses your forehead.
‘Might need to carry you up to bed, honey,’ he chuckles quietly. You giggle against him.
‘I love the girlfriend transport service.’
He presses gentle kisses to your forehead, your hairline and the top of your head.
‘Comes included, free of charge.’
You’re too exhausted to respond, so you kiss his chest and close your eyes. His hand disappears into your hair and gently combs out the wild tangles that have formed from his fingers tangling it during sex.
Joe’s ability to shift from intense to soft in a matter of minutes always takes you by surprise. He’s the king of aftercare, forever making sure that you’re hydrated and feel taken care of.
He talks to you quietly about practice earlier and the drills he was running. About how he’s feeling about the new season, training camp, the draft. About some documentary he watched the other day and how he wants to watch it again with you, as he thinks you’ll enjoy it.
Then his words drift into softer territory.
‘Always gonna come home to you, baby.’
‘Always gonna be the most important person in my life.’
‘Always gonna be my favourite person.’
‘I love you.’
It’s those three words that you hear, muffled and echoey like you’re in a dishwasher, as sleep starts to creep up on you.
You tilt your head to look up him. He chuckles affectionately.
‘You hear that?’ He asks as he kisses your forehead. ‘I love you. Always have, always will.’
The smile you give him cracks his chest open with how soft it is.
‘I love you too, Joey,’ you mumble, almost indecipherable through your exhaustion.
He rubs your back again as your head drops back down onto his shoulder. You breathe him in — skin still sticky and sweaty, with the distinct aroma of sex, but still that signature scent of cedar, vanilla and clean laundry that you’ve come to know as home.
‘Sleep now, baby. I’ll take you up to bed.’
You’re already sore. You’ll likely be walking a little awkwardly tomorrow, but you don’t care. All you care about is how warm Joe is beneath you.
His heartbeat is steady and regular beneath your ear. He continues talking, and soon, sleep is pulling you under, safe in the arms of your quarterback.
pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🤍
wc: 6.2k
an: OKAY! 🤍 I'm so excited to bring you this troupe! A lot of you wanted this so I need you to blow this up please don't let it flop lol 😭 This is for those of you that have been requesting smut with some angst. It's got both, but with a happy ending 🫶
masterlist
You leave him in the kitchen.
You don't think anything of it. Dinner was good. The drive home was good. He had his hand on your thigh the whole way back, thumb moving in that slow, absent rhythm he does when he's content and not thinking about it. You walked in the front door and kicked your heels off, and he caught you around the waist on your way to the stairs, kissed the back of your neck, and told you he'd be up in a minute.
You're upstairs now. In his bathroom. Dress unzipped halfway down your back, makeup wipe in your hand. You can hear him moving around in the kitchen — the cabinet, the fridge, the soft click of a glass on the counter. Familiar sounds. The sounds of his house when you're in it.
You take your time. You like his bathroom. The mirror is bigger than yours. The lighting is better. You hum something under your breath, swipe at your eyeliner, peel your lashes off, and set them on the counter. You're not in a hurry. He's coming up. You'll get in bed. You'll wait for him.
Downstairs, the kitchen is quiet.
His phone is face down on the counter where he left it when you got home. He hasn't touched it since you sat down at the restaurant. That's not unusual. He doesn't half-live with you. When you're there, he doesn't check scores at the table, doesn't scroll between courses, doesn't pull it out in the car. You get all of him. You always do.
He picks it up now.
It lights up in his hand before his thumb hits the screen — notifications stacking on top of each other, a missed call, three texts in the same thread.
Sam: dude.
sam: [screenshot]
And underneath, in another thread:
Trey: LMAOOOO bro 😭 soft launching???
He opens Sam's first.
The screenshot fills the screen, and he stands in his kitchen, a water glass in his other hand, looking at it.
Your story. Still up. The pasta you ordered, the candle on the table, the wine glass half-empty. And in the corner of the frame — his hand. His wrist. The bracelets he's been wearing since forever.
He doesn't move.
He sets the water glass down. Opens the app. Scrolls to your account. It's still there. Twelve thousand views already. He scrolls down to the comments, and they're already there—is that Joe Burrow's hand? NO WAY, girl, post him fr. I know those fucking bracelets anywhere. Y/N spill.
He locks the phone.
He doesn't call up to you.
He just stands there in the kitchen, jaw tight, one hand flat on the counter, and waits.
—
You hear him on the stairs.
You're in bed already. His t-shirt. Hair up. Phone in your hand because you'd posted your dinner and the story is doing numbers — way more views than you usually get, comments lighting up your last post, your friends sending the fire emoji and asking where you ate. The other comments you've been ignoring. Wait, is that—.Y/N. No way. You saw them. You're not stupid. You scrolled past them on purpose. You're not going to make a thing of it. You're going to let it sit. Let people wonder. That's the move.
You'd been scrolling through it lazily, half-paying attention, half-listening for him.
His footsteps are slower than usual. You clock it, but you don't think about it. You assume he's tired. Dinner ran long. The wine.
He comes through the doorway and stops.
Doesn't get in. Doesn't kick his shoes off the way he does. Doesn't start unbuttoning his shirt on his way to the closet. He just stands there in the frame of the door with his phone in his hand and looks at you.
"Y/N."
Flat. Not the way he says it when he comes to bed. Not the way he said it in the car twenty minutes ago, hand on your thigh.
You look up.
He doesn't say anything else for a second. He crosses the room. Stops at the side of the bed. Holds his phone out.
"Take this down."
You blink at him.
"What?"
"The story," he says. "Take it down."
You sit up a little. The sheet pools at your waist. You take his phone from him, and you look at the screen.
It's your story. Screenshotted. Sent to him by Sam.
You see the pasta. The candle. The wine glass. You see his hand in the corner of the frame, the bracelets, the watch, and your stomach does something small and quick that you don't fully register yet because you're still catching up.
You look back up at him.
—
"Joe."
He doesn't say anything.
"I—" You look down at the phone again. At the screen. At your own story still glowing back at you. "I didn't think it was a big deal."
His jaw works.
"I post my dinner all the time," you say, and you hear it come out a little too fast, a little too defensive, and you don't stop. "Especially when it's good. That's like — that's just what I do, that's a normal thing I do, I wasn't trying to—"
"Y/N."
"—I wasn't posting you, I was posting the pasta, I didn't even—"
"Take it down."
You stop.
You look up at him. He hasn't moved. He's still standing next to the bed, looking down at you, and his face is doing the thing it does in press conferences when someone asks him a question he doesn't want to answer. Closed. Smooth. Nothing is leaking through.
You hand his phone back. Pick up your own. Open the app.
Your thumb hovers.
"Joe, it's literally just your hand."
"Take it down."
"You can't even see your face."
"Y/N."
"It's a hand."
He exhales through his nose. Sits down on the edge of the bed. Doesn't look at you.
"I can't just take it down."
He looks at you then.
"What?"
"I can't just take it down, Joe, that's so embarrassing, people already saw it, it's been up for a while now, if I delete it now everyone's gonna know I deleted it and that's a whole other thing, that's like — that confirms it more than just leaving it—"
"Y/N."
"—if I just leave it up it's a hand, it's nothing, but if I take it down now everyone's gonna be like oh she got told to take it down, and then it's a thing, and—"
"I don't care. Take it down."
—
You go quiet.
You're still holding your phone. Your thumb is still hovering. You haven't deleted anything.
"You don't have to talk to me like that."
He looks at the ceiling.
"Y/N."
"You don't. I'm not — I'm not a child, Joe, you can't just—"
"Then stop acting like one."
It comes out before he can stop it. You can see it on his face the second it lands — the flicker of don't, the half-second where he could've pulled it back and didn't. He doesn't take it back. He just holds your eye.
"Wow."
"Y/N—"
"No, that's — wow. That's what you think?"
"That's not—"
"That's what you think. That I'm — what, that I'm immature? That I'm a kid? You think I'm a kid, Joe?"
"I think you posted me on the internet, and now you're arguing with me about why you can't take the picture down because it would be embarrassing for you."
"It would be embarrassing—"
"You don't get it."
"I get it—"
"You don't."
You're sitting all the way up now. The sheet is twisted around your hips. Your phone is face down on the comforter. Your chest is doing something tight and quick that you're choosing not to name.
"So explain it to me."
He drags a hand over his jaw.
"Y/N."
"Explain it to me, then. If I don't get it. Tell me."
"You know what it is."
"No, I don't, Joe, because to me it's a hand, it's literally a hand, and you're acting like I — like I sold a story to TMZ, like I—"
"You didn't think."
"I did think—"
"You didn't. You sat there at dinner, took a picture, and didn't think about me being in the frame, because if you had, you would've cropped it. That's what I'm saying. You didn't think."
"I—"
"And now Sam knows. And Trey knows. And by tomorrow morning, everyone with a fan account knows where we were, what we were doing, that you were there, that I was there. And you want to leave it up because taking it down would be embarrassing."
You don't say anything.
He looks at you. Then he looks at the wall.
"That's what I mean," he says, quieter. "When I say you didn't think."
You stare at him.
"Why does it matter?"
"Y/N."
"No. Why does it matter, Joe? Like — what is the actual problem? For people know we had dinner? That people can see your hand? What is the — what are you actually mad about?"
"You know what I'm mad about."
"I don't. I really don't. Because if it's just that people saw us, then — I don't get it. We're allowed to have dinner. You're allowed to be seen with me. So what — what is it. Are you embarrassed?"
He looks at you.
"What?"
"Are you embarrassed. Of me. Is that what this is?"
"Y/N."
"Because that's what it sounds like. It sounds like — it sounds like you don't want anyone to know, and you're mad that I — that I gave them a hand, like — is that what this is? You don't want people to know it's me?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what it sounds like."
"That's not what I said, Y/N."
"Then what are you saying. Because I'm sitting here trying to figure out why a hand is a — is the end of the world, and the only thing I can come up with is that you don't want people knowing it was me on the other side of that table?"
He's looking at you. Quiet. Jaw working.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair."
"You know that's not what it is."
"I don't, actually. I don't know that. Because you won't tell me what it is. You're just — you're standing here telling me I didn't think, and that I'm acting like a child, and I'm asking you a real question, Joe, and you're not answering it."
He doesn't say anything for a second.
He sits with it. You can see him sitting with it. The hand that was at his jaw drops to his thigh, fingers spread, and he looks at the floor between his feet.
"That's not what it is."
"Then what is it?"
"I told you."
"You haven't."
"Y/N."
"You haven't, Joe. You've told me I didn't think. You've told me I'm acting like a child. You haven't told me what it is."
"It's that you're twenty-two."
It comes out quieter than the rest. Not cold this time. Just true. He's looking at you.
You feel it land somewhere under your ribs.
"Cool."
"That's not—"
"No, that's cool. That's — okay. Got it."
"Y/N."
You're already pushing the sheet off. You're already swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The t-shirt rides up your thighs, and you don't do anything about it. You stand up. You don't look at him.
"Y/N. Stop."
"I'm not doing this."
"Where are you going?"
"Fuck if I know."
You walk past him. You don't slam the door because you're not — you're not going to be that. You're not going to give him the proof. You walk out of the bedroom and down the hall and into the guest room at the end of it, and you close that door quietly behind you.
—
He doesn't follow.
You grabbed your phone on the way out. You don't remember doing it. It was on the comforter, and your hand closed around it without your permission, and now you're sitting on the edge of the guest bed in the dark with it in your lap.
You don't turn the lamp on. The house is quiet around you. The bedroom door is closed at the other end of the hall, and you can't hear anything through it.
You don't cry. You're too mad to cry. You sit there with your hands flat on your thighs, and you breathe through your nose, and you wait for whatever is going to happen next.
Then you pick up the phone.
You unlock it. The screen is too bright. You squint against it and tap into the app, and there it is — your story. Twelve thousand views. Fifteen now. The pasta, the candle, and his hand in the corner.
You hold your thumb on it.
The little menu comes up. Delete story. You tap it.
Are you sure?
You're sure.
You tap it again. The screen does its little animation, the story disappearing, and then it's gone. Just your other posts. Your dinner from two nights ago. A picture of your friend's dog. A sunset.
You sit there in the dark holding the phone.
You didn't do it for him.
You did it because if he doesn't want to be seen with you, then fine. He won't be. You'll take care of that yourself. You'll be the one who decides who knows what. You'll be the one who erases it. Not him.
You put the phone face down on the bed next to you.
You wait.
You don't know how long. Two minutes. Five. Long enough that you start to wonder if he's going to leave you in here. If he's going to make you come back to him. You don't know which one would be worse.
Then you hear the bedroom door open down the hall.
Footsteps. Slow. The hardwood creaks the way it does in the spot outside the linen closet.
He stops outside the guest room door.
—
The door opens.
You don't look up.
You hear it more than see it — the soft click of the handle, the give of the hinge, the strip of hallway light widening across the floor of the guest room until it touches the bed frame. You sit very still on the edge of the mattress, and you keep your eyes on your hands in your lap.
He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't come in all the way. You can feel him standing in the doorway, weight in the frame. You can hear him breathing. Slow. Long. Like he's been holding it.
"Y/N."
You don't answer.
"Look at me."
You don't.
You hear him take a step into the room. Then another. The door eases closed behind him, and the strip of light goes with it, and you're in the half-dark again, just the spill from the hallway under the door and whatever's coming through the window from the streetlight outside.
He stops in front of you.
You can see his feet. Bare. He took his shoes off at some point. The hem of his pants. You don't look up.
"Y/N."
His voice is different. Lower. Not cold anymore. Not soft yet either. Just quiet. The way he talks to you when he's trying to be careful.
"What?"
"Look at me."
"I don't want to."
"I know."
You stare at his feet.
You can hear him breathing. You can feel the heat of him a foot away from your knees. You can feel the want to lean forward and put your face against his stomach, and the want to push him away with both hands, and you don't know which one is going to win.
"I shouldn't have said it like that."
You don't say anything.
"Y/N."
"You said what you meant."
"I said it cold. I shouldn't have said it cold."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
You finally look up.
He's looking down at you. His face is doing the thing it does when his guard isn't all the way up — that small softening around his mouth, the way his eyes are tired. He hasn't put a hand on you yet. He's keeping them at his side. You can tell that's a choice.
"It's not the same thing," he says again. "Saying it cold and meaning it. They're not the same."
"Then say it warm."
"Y/N."
"Say it warm, Joe. If they're different. Say it warm and let's see."
—
He doesn't say anything for a second.
You can see him looking for it. The way his jaw moves. The way his mouth opens and closes. He's never been good at finding the words when it counts. He's looking for them anyway.
You don't let him find them.
"I deleted it."
He stops looking. He looks at you.
"When."
"Before you came in."
His face does something small. You see it happen. The half-second where he thinks you did it for him. The half-second where his shoulders start to come down.
You don't let him have that either.
"I didn't do it for you."
He goes still.
"I did it because if you don't want to be seen with me, I'll be the one who decides."
He doesn't move.
You can see him taking it in. The way his eyes go a little flat. The way his hand at his side closes around nothing. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Long enough that you start to wonder if you've actually done it now. If this is the part where he leaves the room.
He doesn't leave the room.
He closes the space between you.
His hand comes up, and his palm is on your jaw, his thumb under your chin, and he tilts your face up so you have to look at him. His grip is firmer than it was going to be a minute ago. He's not asking.
You let him.
You haven't kissed him yet. He hasn't kissed you yet. He just stands there with his hand on your face and looks at you like he's trying to find the part of you that did it. The part that sat in here in the dark with your phone in your lap and pressed delete on him before he ever apologized. He's looking for her.
"Y/N."
"What?"
"Look at me."
You're already looking at him.
"Look at me."
You don't know what he means. You hold his eye anyway. His thumb drags along your jaw. Slow. Not soft. Just slow.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't erase me."
You don't answer.
He kisses you.
It's not soft. It's not asking. It's the kiss of someone who just got told something he can't take and is putting it somewhere in his body because he doesn't yet have the words for it. His mouth is hard against yours, and his hand is still on your jaw, and the other one comes up and grabs the back of your neck, and you don't kiss him back at first.
You make him work for it again.
He doesn't pull back this time. He just kisses you harder. Until your mouth opens under his. Until your hand comes up off the comforter and grabs the front of his shirt because you have to hold onto something. Until you kiss him back because the alternative — not kissing him back — has stopped being available.
He pulls you up off the edge of the bed by the back of your neck. You're standing. You're chest to chest. His other hand is on your hip, fingers spread, and he's pulling you in against him, and you can feel him through his pants, and you can feel his breath hot and fast against your mouth, and his control isn't where it was an hour ago. It's not anywhere. He's not pretending anymore.
"Joe."
"Don't talk."
"Joe—"
"Please, Y/N."
You don't.
He pushes you back. Your knees hit the mattress, and you sit. He stays standing. His hand goes from your neck to your hair, and he's holding it at the root, not tight, but enough that you have to keep looking up at him.
He looks down at you for a second.
Then he kneels.
—
He puts his hands on your knees. Pushes them apart. The t-shirt — his — rides up your thighs, and he doesn't help it. He looks at you sitting there in nothing but his shirt with your legs open in front of him, and his jaw works once.
"Joe."
"Shhhh."
He puts his mouth on the inside of your knee.
You don't make a sound. You're not going to give him sound yet. You're still mad. You hold onto the comforter on either side of you, and you watch him because watching is the only thing you have left, and you're not going to close your eyes for him.
He works up the inside of your thigh. Slow. He's not rushing. He kisses the soft skin above your knee and then higher and then higher, and when his mouth gets to the crease of your thigh, you can't help it — your hips shift. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.
He stops.
Looks up at you.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"Y/N."
"I'm fine, Joe."
He looks at you for another second. You don't soften. He goes back to your thigh, and this time he doesn't stop at the crease. He pushes your knees wider with both hands and pulls you forward by the hips until you're right at the edge of the mattress, and his mouth is on you.
You make a sound then. You can't help it. It's short and bitten off, and you hate that you made it.
He doesn't acknowledge it.
He doesn't tease. He doesn't draw it out. He goes at you like he's been thinking about it the entire fight, like the whole time he was standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and his jaw tight, he was also thinking about this. His tongue is hot, and his hands are gripping your thighs hard enough that you're going to have marks tomorrow, and you can hear yourself breathing now, fast, uneven, and you don't try to be quiet anymore.
Your hand comes up to his hair. You don't mean to. You grab it.
He groans against you, and you feel it in your whole body.
"Joe—"
He doesn't stop. He hooks one of your knees over his shoulder and pulls you closer, and his arm comes across your hips to hold you in place because you're not staying still anymore. You can't. Your back is starting to arch, and your head is going back, and your hand in his hair is gripping harder than you mean to be gripping, but he doesn't seem to mind; he's not slowing down, he's not letting up.
"Joe — Joe—"
"Mm."
"I'm—"
"Mm."
"Joe—"
He pulls back half an inch. Just enough to look up at you. His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark.
"Tell me you're mine."
You stare at him.
"What?"
"Tell me you're mine."
"Joe—"
"Say it, Y/N."
His arm tightens across your hips. His other hand is still gripping your thigh. He's looking up at you from between your legs, and his mouth is right there, and his breath is hot, and he's not going to give it back to you until you say it.
"I'm yours."
He waits.
"I'm yours, Joe."
He puts his mouth back on you.
—
He doesn't pace it now. He goes hard and steady, and his arm is still locked across your hips, and his hand is still gripping your thigh, and you're not breathing anymore, you're just making sounds, you're just holding onto his hair, and the comforter and your back is arching and your eyes are closing whether you want them to or not.
It happens fast.
You don't get a warning. One second you're chasing it, and the next it's already happening, the wave breaking, your whole body going tight under his mouth and his hands, and your knee tightening on his shoulder, and the sound that comes out of you isn't a word, isn't anything, it's just sound.
He doesn't stop until you stop.
He works you through it slowly. His grip on your thigh loosens. His arm at your hips eases. When you finally let go of his hair, he kisses the inside of your thigh once, soft, and then again, and then he sits back on his heels and looks up at you.
You're trying to catch your breath.
He's watching you do it.
His mouth is wet. His eyes are dark. His t-shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders from where he's been braced. He looks like a man who hasn't gotten what he came for yet.
He stands up.
You can hear him breathing, too, now. His hands go to his belt. He doesn't look away from you while he does it. He gets the belt loose, and the button and the zipper, and he pushes everything down at once and steps out of it, and his shirt comes off over his head in one motion, and then he's standing in front of you, and you're sitting in his t-shirt on the edge of the guest bed, and your legs are still open.
"Up."
You don't move.
"Y/N. Up."
You stand. Your legs are still shaking from coming. You wobble, and his hand is on your hip before you can fall, holding you. He reaches down, grabs the hem of his t-shirt, and lifts it. You raise your arms. He pulls it off over your head and drops it on the floor.
You're naked.
He looks at you.
For a second, he doesn't move. He just looks at you in the half-dark in the guest room, and his face is doing something you can't fully read. Not soft. Not cold. Just — looking. Like he's making sure.
Then his hand comes back to your jaw.
"Get on the bed."
You get into bed.
You back up onto it on your hands, and you go until your shoulders hit the headboard, and you sit there with your knees up and your eyes on him, and he's standing at the foot of the bed watching you do it. He puts one knee on the mattress. Then the other. He crawls up between your legs slowly, deliberately, his hands on either side of your hips, his eyes on yours the whole time.
He stops when his face is above yours.
He hasn't kissed you yet.
"You okay?"
You nod.
"Say it."
"I'm okay."
"Y/N."
"I'm okay, Joe."
He kisses you then. Hard. You can taste yourself on him, and you don't care. His hand slides down between you and lines up, and he's looking at you the whole time, his other forearm braced by your head, his face an inch from yours.
He pushes in.
—
You take him in one long exhale.
He goes slowly. Slower than you expect after everything. His forearm is still braced beside your head, and his other hand is on your hip, holding you steady, and he sinks in inch by inch and watches your face the whole time. Your eyes close. He says your name.
You open them.
"There you go."
He's all the way in. He doesn't move for a second. He just stays there with his forehead against yours and his breath coming hot and uneven and his hand on your hip flexing once, twice, like he's holding onto something he's afraid of losing.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. The kind of pace that's not about chasing anything — it's about reminding you. His hips pull back and push in, and your hands come up to his shoulders and his back and his hair, and you can't keep them in one place. He's heavy on top of you. He's warm. He smells like the cologne he wore to dinner, fainter now, and like him underneath it.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
You're already looking at him. He knows that. He says it anyway. His face is close enough that you can see his lashes. The flecks in his eyes. The way his mouth is parted.
"You're twenty-two."
You don't say anything.
He doesn't break his rhythm. He's still moving in you slowly, and his eyes are still on yours, and he says it again, quieter.
"You're twenty-two."
"Joe—"
"I'm saying it differently."
You feel it land. You feel it in your chest before you feel it anywhere else. He's not weaponizing it now. He's looking at you and saying the same word he said in the bedroom, and meaning a different thing with it. You don't know what the different thing is yet. You don't have to know yet. He's not asking you to know yet.
He kisses you. Slow. Wet. His tongue in your mouth and his hand sliding up your side and his hips still working into you, and you feel the first crack of it then — the thing in your chest that's been held tight since the kitchen. The thing that made you delete the post. The thing that's been bracing for tonight for months.
You make a sound against his mouth that isn't pleasure.
He hears it.
He pulls back half an inch. Looks at you. You don't know what your face is doing. You can feel water on it. Not crying. Just water.
His hand comes up. His thumb brushes under your eye.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"Y/N."
"I'm fine."
"Look at me."
You look at him.
"I've got you."
That's what does it.
You don't sob. You're not going to sob. But something in you lets go — the held thing finally easing, your shoulders dropping into the mattress, your hand on the back of his neck pulling him down because you need him closer, you need him heavier, you need his weight on you because if he's on you, he can't leave the room.
He goes. He drops his weight onto you. His forehead is at your temple, and his arm comes under your shoulders, and he's holding you down against the bed and moving in you slower now, deeper, and you can feel the change in him too. He's not making a point anymore. He's not claiming you. He's just here.
"Joe—"
"I know."
"Joe—"
"I'm so sorry, baby."
He says it like that. Baby. Low. He says it when his control is gone, and his control is gone now. His hips are getting heavier. His breath is getting shorter. You can feel him losing it in slow pieces — the rhythm getting less clean, his hand at your hip gripping harder, the sound he makes against your neck low and ragged.
"Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Stay with me, Y/N."
"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
You don't know if you say it three times or thirty.
He comes hard. His whole body locks up against yours. His face is in your neck, and his hand on your hip is bruising, and he's saying something you can't quite catch, something low, and his hips push into you one last time and stay there.
He doesn't move.
You don't either.
His weight is on you, and his breath is hot against your collarbone, and your hand is in his hair, and the room is dark, and the t-shirt of his is on the floor somewhere, and the comforter is half off the bed, and outside the window, a car goes by on the street, and neither of you moves.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
—
He's the one who moves first.
He doesn't go far. He shifts his weight off you, slow, careful, and rolls onto his side. His arm stays under your shoulders. He pulls you with him. You end up on his chest with your leg thrown over his and your hand flat against his sternum and his hand on the small of your back.
The room is so quiet.
You can hear him breathing. You can feel his heart under your palm. He's still catching his breath, and so are you, and neither of you has said anything yet.
You don't want to be the one who says it first.
You wait.
His hand moves up your back. Slow. Spread. He's not stroking it. He's just keeping it there, palm flat, like he wants to know you're solid.
"Y/N."
"Mm."
"That wasn't — " He stops. You feel his chest move. "What I said in the bedroom. That wasn't about you."
You don't move.
"Y/N."
"I'm listening."
He doesn't go again for a second. You can hear him thinking. You can feel his chest moving under your cheek, the way he's working something out, and you wait for it because you can tell he's not done.
"It's been in my head," he says. "Your age. It's been in my head the whole time we've been together, and I haven't told you that."
You don't say anything.
"Not because there's anything wrong with you. There's nothing wrong with you. You're not — you're not a kid. You're twenty-two, you're an adult, you know what you're doing. That's not — that's not what I'm saying."
He stops. His hand at your back has gone still.
"I'm saying it's in my head. It's mine. I'm twenty-nine, and you're twenty-two, and I keep doing the math in my head about it. Like I'm trying to find the thing that makes it okay. And tonight I — when Sam texted me, and I came up the stairs, I was already — I was already thinking about it. About the math. And then you said I can't just take it down, and it would be embarrassing, and I — I used it. At you. Because it was already in my head."
He stops again.
"I shouldn't have done that."
You don't say anything.
"It's not your thing to carry," he says. "It's mine. And I made you carry it tonight."
You're quiet.
His hand starts moving again. Slow. Spread. His thumb finds the dip at the base of your spine and stays there.
"I'm working on it."
"Okay."
"Y/N."
"Okay, Joe."
You don't say it warm. You can't yet. You give him the word and you mean it, and that's the most you can do right now. He takes it.
You lie there.
You don't know how long. His hand on your back. Your hand on his chest. The window across the room, the streetlight outside, the car that goes by every few minutes, the quiet of the house, and the quiet between you.
You're the one who says it.
"I knew you were going to look at me like that one day."
His hand stops.
"What?"
"Like — " You don't finish. You don't have to. He gets it. You can feel him get it. His hand starts moving again, slower than before. His other hand comes up, and his fingers find your hair.
"I'm sorry, baby."
You don't say anything.
"I don't look at you that way."
You let it sit.
You think for a second he's done. That he's not going to say anything else. You're okay with that. You've gotten more from him tonight than you usually get, and the silence is its own kind of answer.
Then he says it.
"You make the room bigger."
You don't move.
"Y/N."
"I heard you."
"Okay."
You're quiet.
You feel him breathing. You feel his hand on your back. You feel his fingers in your hair and his thumb against your scalp and his heart steady under your cheek, and you're trying to hold onto it because you know he's not going to say things like that twice.
Except he does.
His voice is so low you almost don't catch it.
"You make me feel alive."
You close your eyes.
You don't say anything back. You don't have words for what to say back. You press your face into his chest a little harder, and his arm tightens around you, and his hand stays in your hair, and that's the answer you have.
You don't know when you fall asleep.
It's not a decision. One second you're listening to him breathe, and the next your eyes are heavy, and the next you're somewhere underneath all of it, drifting, his hand on your hip now, his thumb moving slowly.
He's still awake.
You don't know that. You'll never know that. He'll lie there for another hour with his hand on your hip and his thumb moving slowly over the bone and his eyes on the dark ceiling, and he'll go back through every line of it — the kitchen, the take it down, the twenty-two, the way you sat on the edge of the guest bed and told him you'd erased him.
And then he'll start working it.
Coffee in the morning. You like the oat milk. He's out. He'll send for it before you wake up.
Your friend's birthday next month — you'd mentioned it on the drive home, the trip to Austin, you weren't sure you could swing because of money. He'll book the flight tomorrow. He won't make a thing of it. He'll just tell you the trip is handled.
The math. He has to do something about the math. He doesn't know what yet. He knows he can't keep doing it. He knows he has to figure out where it actually comes from before he can put it down. He'll think about that. He'll keep thinking about it.
He won't sleep.
His thumb keeps moving.
Outside, another car goes by.
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you’re drowning in anatomy notes and desperate to pass your exam when colston offers his body as a “study aid.” your stressful study session turns into a dangerously flirtatious, hands-on lesson.
you’re going to fail this exam.
you’ve accepted it. you’ve made peace with it as the clock ticks past midnight.
you’ve already imagined yourself dramatically telling colston you’re dropping out to become a barista with a mysterious past. with your eyes wide and hair wild, you have become the tragic hero of your own life story.
which is ironic, considering you’ve spent the last three years fighting your way through an athletic training major, surviving taping labs at 7am and clinical rotations that left you smelling like icy hot and turf. you didn’t come this far to quit over one anatomy exam. but right now? dramatics feel justified.
your anatomy textbook is sprawled across your coffee table. the pages are full of labeled muscle diagrams that now look like abstract art. highlighters bleed neon across the pages. your notes are color-coded. flashcards are stacked in precarious towers, and your brain is completely fried.
it’s not just anatomy. it’s the foundation for everything you want. injury prevention. rehabilitation. return-to-play protocols. the science that keeps athletes on the field and out of operating rooms. the science that, someday, you hope to practice on the sidelines instead of just reading about in textbooks.
the faint hum of the heater blends with the soft tick of the living room clock, while the television mumbles quietly in the background. distant cars pass outside. tires crunching over the gravel driveway, and somewhere faintly, a dog barks. your highlighter squeaks against paper. the scent of your coffee, which is most definitely now lukewarm, mingles with the lingering smell of your vanilla body wash. it blends subtly with the freshly baked cookies scent that still hangs in the air from earlier. you try to blink the exhaustion away. it doesn’t work.
“if one more tutor says ‘it’s not that hard,’” you mutter, pressing your highlighter into the page a little too aggressively, “i’m going to start swinging.” your fingers clench the pen like it’s a lifeline, knuckles whitening, and the stress makes your chest tighten with every labored breath.
because it is that hard. memorizing origins, insertions, innervations. not just to pass a test, but because one day you’ll be responsible for recognizing when something isn’t right. when a hamstring strain is more than a strain. when swelling means stop, not push through. dating an nfl player has only made that weight heavier in the best and worst ways.
from the couch, colston chuckles. his long legs stretched out with one arm propping up his head. black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. he looks impossibly relaxed for someone who had just crushed a football game and then still had the energy to lounge around your living room like he owns the place. today’s game ended in a 32–28 bears victory over the rams. somehow, he’s barely winded. he’s just calm, loose, and entirely too comfortable in your space.
you had watched that game differently than most girlfriends probably would. not just the touchdowns. not just the catches. but the way he planted his foot after a cut. the angle of his knee on a tackle. whether he favored one shoulder after contact. you always watch like an athletic training student first, girlfriend second.
he occupies the space like he owns it, being effortless and unhurried. you’re the complete opposite as you've found yourself caught in the storm that comes before an exam. your brain is buzzing with medical terminologies you barely memorize, and the plate of freshly baked cookies near you have remained untouched.
each small motion, including the stretch of his legs and the flick of his fingers, tugs at the edges of your attention refusing to be ignored. the faint scent of his cologne clings to the fabric of his hoodie smelling warm, musky, and familiar. your stomach clenches despite yourself.
“you’re doing great,” he says, voice smooth. cocky, teasing, casual. the warmth in his tone makes your pulse jump.
“i’m not,” you groan. “there are too many muscles. who decided we needed this many?”
“biology?” he offers casually, a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.
you throw a crumpled-up notecard at him. it bounces harmlessly off his chest. he grins, that infuriating grin. you try so hard not to notice how good he looks in that hoodie. the way the fabric stretches just over his shoulders when he shifts. the faint curve of muscle you can see even through the fabric. the subtle warmth radiating from him that makes your palms itch. the soft swish of fabric draws your attention despite yourself.
you also can’t help automatically identifying structures under the fabric. acromion. deltoid. the clean slope where muscle meets bone. your brain categorizes him clinically even as your heart refuses to cooperate.
he sits up and stretches. his arms reaching high above his head with his fingers interlacing. his back arches slightly. the hoodie rides up just a little, teasing, hinting at the sharp lines of his abs. a strip of warm tan skin appears. all you could see is his lower stomach with hip bones that disappear into the waistband of his sweatpants. the rise and fall of his chest makes your pulse stutter.
rectus abdominis. external oblique. you know these. you do know these.
your eyes flick over. brief. involuntary. you snap them back to your textbook like you’ve just committed a crime. the paper suddenly feels heavy in your hands. your notes blur. highlighter ink smeared from your slightly shaking fingers.
“see something interesting?” he asks, voice low, amused, leaning back on his elbows like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“no,” you reply, too quickly, not even trying to sound convincing. your throat feels tight.
“mhm,” he hums, clearly enjoying this, the smirk tugging wider.
he rises from the couch, rolling his shoulders with effortless ease. each step toward the coffee table makes your heart thump faster, like you’ve been caught in slow motion. the soft swish of his hoodie, the faint scuff of his slippers against the floor, the way his gaze flicks to you like he’s teasing without saying a word. it’s all so dizzying. the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, and more intimate.
“what’re you stuck on?” he asks, coming up behind you. his chest brushes your back lightly. this sends a ripple of warmth down your spine, and your breath hitches.
“everything,” you sigh. “biceps, triceps… they all blur together.”
especially when you think about how quickly a biceps tendon can rupture. how often triceps strains are mismanaged. your brain won’t stop attaching clinical consequences to every word.
his hand hovers near your shoulder for a second, teasing, the faint warmth of his skin brushing yours. then, he leans over your notes and scans the diagrams. your brain short-circuits. the smell of him, once again, fills your senses. your fingers clench at the edge of the table.
“feel this one contract?” he murmurs, pressing lightly on his bicep.
“i know that,” you reply, sharp.
“and this relax when you stretch?”
“i know.”
he chuckles. “okay… so what’s the problem?”
you turn your head slightly. huge mistake. he’s so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw. there's a tiny crease between his brows, and the cold from earlier has left his nose and cheeks a faint pink shade. your pulse hammers in your ears, and a soft heat creeps up your body.
“the problem,” you whisper, “is that it’s hard to visualize.”
hard to separate textbook diagrams from real, living tissue. hard to believe that one day you’ll evaluate athletes built exactly like him and be expected to know what to do without hesitation.
he hums thoughtfully. “okay.” he steps back a little. “then use me.”
you stare. blink. “what.”
“you’re studying muscles, right? i have muscles. you can point them out. hands-on learning.” his grin spreads, cocky, teasing, challenging, and your stomach flips at the thought.
“you’re offering to be my anatomy model?”
“i’m offering to help,” he corrects, voice low, teasing, aware. “unless you think you’ll get distracted.”
“i will not get distracted.” you say it too firmly, though your chest tightens.
you’ve taped ankles in chaotic locker rooms. assessed sprains with parents yelling in the background. you can handle this. probably.
he raises an eyebrow, smirk never faltering. “sure.”
you stand, trying to act professional. “fine. stand still.”
he obeys, stepping into the living room space, spreading his arms slightly. you flip your textbook to the upper-body page. with his 6'6" frame and full attention on you, it makes it impossibly hard to concentrate. the soft hum of the fridge suddenly seems louder along with the beating of your heart.
“deltoid,” you murmur, stepping forward and placing your hand on his shoulder. even through the hoodie, you can feel the curve of solid muscle, warm under your fingers. the pulse of his heartbeat vibrates against your palm, and your stomach twists.
you imagine palpating like you would in lab. identify landmarks. assess tone. isolate movement.
he inhales softly. “good start.”
“don’t talk,” you snap, though your voice betrays you.
“yes ma’am,” he teases.
you trace down his arm. “biceps brachii.”
“flex?” he asks, cocky.
“yes.”
he flexes, and you immediately realize how much your brain has short-circuited. your fingers press lightly against the contracting muscle, memorizing the feel. the subtle warmth of his skin, the way the muscle moves beneath your touch, is overwhelming.
you think about muscle fiber recruitment. concentric contraction. how this exact motion wins him games.
“that helps,” you whisper.
“happy to assist,” he murmurs, smirk growing, eyes glinting with playful challenge.
you step closer. “pectoralis major,” your palm brushing his chest through the fabric. his heartbeat quickens under your touch.. so does yours.
“originates from the clavicle and sternum,” you recite softly, following the line with your fingers. they brush against the collar of his hoodie, the fabric soft yet firm, and your pulse jumps.
and inserts along the lateral lip of the bicipital groove. you add it silently in your head, proud that you remember.
a pause.
you look at him. “can i?”
he tilts his head, his brown eyes darkening just slightly. “yeah.”
you hook your fingers into the hem of the hoodie and pull it slowly. he raises his arms to help. the fabric slides over his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. it catches slightly when he stretches his arms higher again, teasing you even more, exposing him fully before the hoodie clears his head.
your breath catches. the warmth of his skin, the faint sheen from earlier practice, and the strong line of his abs make your chest tighten. goosebumps rise along your arms.
this is the body you analyze every sunday with quiet professional instinct. now it is inches from you.
he drops his arms. bare chest. broad shoulders. defined lines under the warm kitchen light. your fingers are still tangled in the hoodie before letting it fall onto the couch. the quiet between you is heavy, almost electric, charged enough that even the faint hum of the refrigerator feels amplified.
he doesn’t say anything. just watches, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, eyes dark and aware.
“latissimus dorsi,” you whisper, stepping closer, brushing your hands along his sides. skin warm. alive. each breath he takes sends subtle vibrations through you.
“external oblique,” you continue, fingertips sliding over his waist. the light friction makes him shift slightly under your touch.
he exhales slowly. “is this helping?”
“yes,” you say honestly, breath hitching slightly.
it’s helping more than you expected. the structures feel real. connected. purposeful. this isn’t just memorization — it’s understanding how a body like his stays resilient through a seventeen-game season.
you crouch slightly. “quadriceps.” hands smoothing over his thighs through sweatpants. muscles tense instinctively, solid and warm.
you think about force production. explosive starts off the line. the way rehab timelines hinge on fibers like these.
“hamstrings,” you murmur, stepping behind briefly, pressing lightly. he lets out a small sound, and you freeze. “sorry.”
“don’t be,” he says, voice low, teasing gone, replaced by something heavier. the heat radiating from him makes your pulse spike.
you step in front, closer now, almost too close. his hands hover at his sides, near enough to brush if he wanted, and the anticipation makes your stomach knot.
“rectus abdominis,” you murmur, palm flat against his stomach. skin shifts under your touch as he breathes. your fingers trail downward before stopping above the waistband. professional. you are being professional.
you also know exactly how crucial core stability is for injury prevention. how everything connects back to this center.
“i think this is actually working,” you whisper.
“yeah?” he murmurs.
“yeah.”
his hands settle on your hips. steadying. not pushing. just… there.
“prove it,” he says, voice low, challenging.
“sternocleidomastoid,” you murmur, brushing fingers along his neck. he tilts into your touch.
“masseter,” you continue, thumb along his jaw.
“orbicularis oris.”
your thumb grazes his bottom lip. he kisses you. slow, testing. your hands slide up his chest, exploring warm skin, pulling him closer by the hips. soft, familiar, but charged.
“still studying?” he murmurs against your mouth.
“hands-on learning,” you whisper.
and maybe, someday, sideline learning. nfl stadium lights. headset on. evaluating athletes with the same calm confidence you’re trying to fake right now.
he huffs, laughs low, and kisses you deeper. hands slide from hips to waist, up under your shirt, warm palms pressing. you gasp softly.
“cutaneous receptors,” you murmur, breath hitching.
“you’re unbelievable,” he murmurs against your jaw.
his lips trail down your neck, deliberate, teasing. your fingers dig into his shoulders. the faint pulse of his skin against your fingertips makes your head spin.
“feel this one?” he murmurs at your pulse point.
you shiver.
“and this?” his hand slides down your spine, resting just above your waistband.
you suck in a sharp breath. his thumb hooks lightly into the elastic — not pulling, just there. asking.
“colston,” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“i have an exam at 9am.”
an exam that gets you one step closer to being the kind of athletic trainer who keeps players like him safe.
“i know.”
his lips brush yours again, slower, deeper. heat radiates between you, body pressed, hands exploring, careful, teasing.
“after your exam,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
“after my exam,” you agree, neither moving. thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband, making your pulse skip.
one last soft, lingering kiss. then he pulls back, bare chest rising and falling, hoodie forgotten on the couch.
“go study,” he says gently, brushing hair from your face. “you’re going to crush it.”
you sit, breathless, warm, memorized in a completely new way.
“best study session i’ve ever had,” you murmur.
“anytime,” he grins.
legs shaky, textbook open, diagrams finally clicking. every muscle, every line, every curve has been etched into your mind.
and maybe that’s the irony of it all. you’re studying how to protect bodies like his, while falling in love with one.
back on the couch, colston pulls his hoodie back on, but not before you steal one last glance just to be certain you have actually learned something.
the fabric slides slowly over his shoulders, over the defined lines you had traced only minutes ago with careful academic focus that had not felt entirely academic. for a brief second you catch the flex of his stomach as he tugs the hem down into place, and warmth blooms low in your chest again. When the hoodie settles against his torso, it feels strangely final, like something private being tucked away.
he catches you looking.. just like earlier.
of course he does.
his mouth curves into that lazy, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip every time. there is no embarrassment in his expression, only quiet amusement and something softer underneath. you turn back to your textbook too quickly, shuffling your notes as though you have not just committed every inch of him to memory.
the room feels warmer than it did before. charged in a subtle way that lingers beneath your skin. The television continues its low recap of the bears’ win, analysts dissecting plays with clinical detachment, but the sound fades into background noise. all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your own pulse and the faint echo of his hands at your waist.
you press your palm flat against the anatomy textbook, grounding yourself. the diagrams no longer look abstract. they look familiar now. tangible.
like future patients. like future athletes. like him.
“you’re blushing,” he says casually from the couch.
“i am not.”
“you are.”
you risk a glance over your shoulder. he is sprawled across the cushions again. his eyes are focused on you in a way that feels deliberate. observant. like he is studying you the same way you were studying him.
“you are such a distraction,” you mutter, turning back to your notes.
“you invited me to help,” he replies, completely unapologetic.
despite yourself, your lips twitch.
the truth is, the information is clicking in a way it was not before. when you read pectoralis major, you remember the warmth under your palm and the steady beat beneath muscle and bone. when you review rectus abdominis, you picture the controlled rise and fall of his breathing. the knowledge feels embodied now instead of theoretical.
and when you think about your future, about standing on a sideline with a credential around your neck. it doesn’t feel impossible. it feels earned.
the couch creaks softly as he stands. you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. instead of standing behind you this time, he pulls out the chair beside yours and sits close enough that your knees brush lightly. the contact is small, almost accidental, but it steadies you more than you expect.
“you’re going to pass,” he says quietly.
the teasing edge is gone. what remains is calm certainty.
you hesitate before answering. “what if i don’t?”
the question slips out more vulnerable than you intend. beneath the flirting and heat, the anxiety is still there. the pressure. the fear of disappointing yourself. the fear of not being good enough for the career you want so badly.
he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “then you take it again.”
“it’s not that simple.”
“it kind of is,” he replies gently. “one exam doesn’t decide who you are.”
he’s right. one exam doesn’t determine whether you’ll be a great athletic trainer. it doesn’t decide your competency, your compassion, your ability to keep someone safe.
you stare at your notes, then at him. “do you ever get scared before games?”
he laughs softly. “every time.”
“you don’t look scared.”
“that’s because i don’t let it run the show,” he says. “preparation does.”
preparation. hours in the training room. film study. reps.
hours in labs. taping drills. flashcards at midnight.
the simplicity of it settles somewhere in your chest. he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple before falling away. the touch is light but grounding.
“you’re allowed to be tired,” he adds.
something about that makes your throat tighten.
the heater hums steadily. the clock ticks past twelve thirty. outside, a car passes slowly, tires crunching over gravel. the world feels small and contained inside your living room.
you close the textbook halfway and look at him fully. “quiz me.”
his eyebrows lift in surprise. “we are serious now?”
“very.”
he picks up a flashcard and deliberately mispronounces the first muscle name. you roll your eyes and correct him automatically. one card becomes five. five become ten. the answers start coming without hesitation. your voice steadies. the information feels solid instead of fragile.
he listens carefully to every response, nodding as if he actually understands more than he lets on.
eventually, a yawn escapes you.
he notices immediately. “bed.”
“one more section.”
“bed,” he repeats, softer but firm.
you close the textbook this time without arguing. he stands and holds out his hand. you take it without thinking. his grip is warm and steady as he pulls you up from the chair. for a moment you are standing close again, close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric of his hoodie.
the earlier tension flickers between you, but this time he only leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
“go sleep,” he murmurs.
you change into an oversized shirt and slip under the covers. he joins you a minute later, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. when he pulls you back against his chest, your body relaxes instantly. his arm wraps around your waist, palm resting flat against your stomach. protective. steady. familiar.
your breathing gradually syncs.
the exam is still at nine in the morning. the stakes are still real. but the panic has softened into something manageable.
one test closer to clinical rotations. one test closer to earning the right to stand in a training room and matter.
you trace slow patterns along his forearm with sleepy fingers. “thank you,” you whisper.
“for what?”
“for being my anatomy model.”
a quiet laugh vibrates against your shoulder before he presses a kiss into your hair. “anytime.”
and maybe someday, when you’re the one evaluating his ankle after a bad landing or reminding him to actually rest something that hurts, you’ll think back to tonight.. to the first time everything clicked.
the clock ticks past one.
for the first time all night, your mind does not spiral. the muscle groups blur into something coherent. the fear quiets.
you might still be exhausted.
you might still be nervous.
but you are building a future that fits perfectly beside his.
and you are not alone in it.
and that makes all the difference.
well, that's the end of this plot. if you want to read another one of my works, then you can check out my other writing for colston here: click me.
Authors note: you asked for him to yearn. you asked for him to sweat. you asked for him to understand.
this is what growth looks like when it’s not dramatic — when it’s uncomfortable and humbling and slow.
part one was about being hurt. part two is about being understood.
and for the record — she didn’t forgive him because he begged.
she softened because he finally stopped trying to control the narrative and just showed up.
thank you for screaming in my inbox. if you wanted to be on my tag list, holler in inbox or comments :)
Part I. right here
i love you. don’t bully me. 🤍
Photo credits: Pinterest
Dividers credits: @cursed-carmine and @saradika-graphics
Tag list: @mrs-delaney @xoxonobodyhome
He doesn’t drive home.
Not right away.
He sits there until the street goes quiet.
Until the restaurant across the road flips its sign to CLOSED.
Until the last dog walker disappears.
He watches her building like he used to watch defenses.
Looking for movement.
A sign. Anything.
Nothing.
At 1:12 a.m., he finally drives away.
—
He doesn’t sleep. He can’t fall asleep.
He lays on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying her face in the hallway.
You wanted to make me feel it.
He did.
That’s the part that won’t let him rest.
Not the headlines. Not the photos. Not the team group chat blowing up.
Her voice.
He reaches for his phone again.
Still nothing.
Morning makes everything worse.
Because the photos are clearer now.
And someone got video.
The corridor.
The flashes.
Her blinking hard against the light.
And the captions.
Joe Burrow finally goes public.
Mystery girlfriend looks overwhelmed.
Body language experts weigh in.
He throws his phone across the couch.
It hits the cushion and slides to the floor.
He runs a hand down his face.
Then he does something he hasn’t done in years when it comes to personal stuff.
He calls his mom.
It rings only once.
“Hi, honey.”
He almost hangs up.
Almost pretends this was accidental.
Instead:
“Mom.”
Something in his voice must give him away.
“What happened?”
He sits down on the edge of his kitchen island.
“I messed up.”
Robin is quiet.
Not panicked.
Just listening.
“With your girl?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I saw the photos Joe.”
Of course she did.
“Is she okay?” Robin asks.
Joe swallows.
“No. She’s not.”
Another pause.
“Did you do it to protect her,” Robin asks carefully, “or did you prove something?”
That one stings.
“I proved something,” he admits.
Silence.
“Joseph.”
He closes his eyes.
“I know.”
“No, Joe,” she says gently. “You don’t. Not yet.”
He exhales, frustrated. “She said I was hiding her. Said I don’t let her exist. I just— I snapped.”
“And what did that get you?”
“She walked through cameras crying.”
Robin doesn’t raise her voice.
But there’s disappointment there.
“You are always so careful with the ball,” she says softly. “So disciplined. So controlled. And you couldn’t pause for ten seconds with the girl you love? That’s not you, Joseph.”
Joe presses his palm to his forehead.
“She thinks I’m ashamed of her.”
“And are you?”
“No.”
“Then why did you treat her like something to unveil instead of someone to stand beside? We told you so many times with dad.”
He doesn’t have an answer.
“She’s a good girl,” Robin continues. “She is thoughtful. She is gentle. She looks at you like you’re more than a quarterback. She loves you fully. Do you understand how rare that is?”
His throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“Now do you?”
“I do.”
“Then stop trying to manage her like she’s a press conference.”
The line goes quiet.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says again, quieter this time.
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Robin replies. “But intent doesn’t undo impact.”
He sits there long after the call ends.
Feeling twelve years old and reprimanded.
And knowing she’s right.
By noon, he’s texted twice more.
I’m sorry. I acted out.
I was so wrong.
No response.
He doesn’t call.
He thinks about it.
Stops himself.
She asked for space.
So he gives it.
Even though it feels like peeling skin.
Around three, his phone buzzes again
Not her.
Ja’Marr.
Just a link.
He almost ignores it.
Then opens it.
Photos.
Not from the stadium.
From outside a café downtown.
She’s sitting at a small table with two friends.
Sunglasses on. Hair up. Hands wrapped around a coffee cup.
But even through dark lenses—She looks wrecked.
Headline:
Burrow’s Girlfriend Seen Looking Emotional After Public Reveal.
Comments are worse for him.
Some cruel. Some curious. Some protective.
Wait she’s actually cute.
She looks sweet. Like really pretty girl.
Why does she look so sad?
If he hurt her I swear—
Joe scrolls further.
Someone dug up her old university article.
Literature major. Graduated with honors. Reads more than she posts.
Another thread:
She once talked openly about OCD in a campus interview. Said she likes order because the world feels loud.
Joe’s stomach drops.
They’re already dissecting her.
Exactly what he feared.
Except—
The tone isn’t vicious.
It’s… curious.
Soft, even.
“She seems normal.”
“She’s not influencer-y.”
“She looks shy.”
He stares at the photo of her laughing with her friends.
It’s older.
Probably from her Instagram before she locked it.
She looks different there.
Free.
Unaware.
He realizes something slow and uncomfortable.
He wasn’t protecting her from this. He was protecting himself from losing control of it.
And there’s a difference.
At five, he drives past her building again.
He doesn’t park.
Just slows.
Her car is gone.
His chest tightens. She’s not home.
That evening, he tries one more time.
Not dramatic. Not defensive. Just honest.
I was scared.
He stares at the screen.
Adds:
Not of the media. Of losing you. And I projected my fears onto you.
He doesn’t delete it this time.
He sends it.
This time, the bubble appears almost immediately.
Three dots.
His heart jumps into his throat.
Then disappears.
Then comes back.
She’s typing.
He actually stands up from the couch without realizing. Starts pacing.
Her message comes through.
You didn’t almost lose me because of cameras.
A pause.
Another bubble.
You can’t just do as you please when you feel like it. You don’t listen.
Joe sinks back down slowly.
Because that’s worse. And she’s right.
He types carefully.
I’m listening now. I will do better.
This time the typing bubble doesn’t come back right away.
Minutes pass.
Five.
Ten.
Finally:
I don’t think this works if you need to control everything. If you act like this. I can’t do it.
His chest caves in.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t argue.
Then I need to learn how not to.
He sends it before he can overthink it.
And for the first time since the hallway—
He isn’t trying to win.
He’s just trying not to lose her for good.
Friday night comes slow.
He almost doesn’t go. He sits in his car two streets away from the field for a full five minutes, engine off, staring at the glow of stadium lights in the distance.
This isn’t his world.
No tunnels.
No security.
No curated entrances.
Just a high school field. Chain-link fence. Parents lining up with thermoses and blankets.
He could still leave.
He doesn’t.
He gets out.
No hoodie up. No cap pulled low.
He doesn’t sneak in.
He walks through the front gate and pays five dollars like everyone else.
The woman at the table blinks twice.
“…You look familiar.”
He gives a small, polite smile.
“Probably not.”
He drops the cash in the box.
No security. No tinted glass. No private corridor.
He steps closer to the fence. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t wave.
He just watches.
Like he should have been doing all along.
The whistle blows for water break.
Devin jogs toward the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm—
And then he freezes. He squints.
Looks again.
Joe gives him a small nod.
Devin’s eyes go huge.
“NO WAY—”
He drops his helmet.
Actually drops it.
“JOE?!”
Heads turn instantly.
Joe barely has time to brace before Devin barrels into him, wrapping both arms around his waist like he’s not in pads.
“You came! You actually came!”
Joe laughs— really laughs for the first time all week.
“Yeah, man. I did.”
“I told her you would one day!” Devin blurts. “She said you’re busy and stuff but I knew—”
He stops mid-sentence. Because that’s when he realizes. She hasn’t seen him yet. That means Joe came to surprise them all.
Devin grabs his wrist.
“Come on.”
Joe hesitates.
“Dev—”
“No, come on, they’re over there.”
And just like that—
He’s being dragged.
Across uneven grass. Past folding chairs.
Past parents who are now whispering very loudly.
“Oh my God—”
“Is that—”
“It is—”
Joe doesn’t pull away. He lets himself be led.
No controlling the angle.
No controlling the lighting.
No controlling the moment.
They reach the cluster of people near the fifty-yard line.
Her friends he doesn’t even know.
Her mom.
Blankets laid out. Hot chocolate in travel mugs.
Her mom sees him first.
And actually gasps.
Not dramatic. Just stunned.
Her hand flies to her chest.
“Joseph?”
He swallows.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Devin is still holding his wrist like proof.
“He came!” Devin announces proudly. “I told you he would!”
That’s when her mom’s eyes soften. But there’s something protective there too.
“You came,” she repeats, quieter. “I’m glad to see you.”
“I should’ve been coming,” he answers honestly. “Good to see you too.”
And then—
She turns.
Because she heard Devin call her name.
And she sees him.
Everything in her face changes.
Shock. Hurt. Confusion. Guarded.
Joe feels it physically.
The space between them.
He doesn’t step closer.
He doesn’t reach for her.
He just stands there.
On her ground. In front of her people. Where she has the power.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says.
“I didn’t tell you,” he replies.
A beat.
“I wanted to show up. Not announce it.”
Her eyes flick briefly to the field. Then back to him.
“You don’t have to do this because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m here because I should’ve been.Thats on me.”
Her friends are pretending not to stare.
They’re failing.
Parents are definitely staring.
Phones are already subtly out.
He notices.
And does nothing about it.
No pulling her away.
No whispering.
He stays. Right there.
“If you want me to leave,” he adds softly, “I will. ”
Devin looks between them, confused.
“You’re not leaving,” he says firmly. “I want you to stay.”
Her mom gives her a small look. This part is yours.
She studies Joe for a long second.
He doesn’t look polished tonight.
No post-game glow.
No controlled expression.
He looks nervous.
Actually nervous.
“You can stay,” she says finally. “But you don’t get to control anything.”
His throat tightens.
“I won’t.”
And he means it.
Game starts.
He doesn’t sit next to her at first. He stands at the edge of the group.
Claps when Devin makes a tackle. Cheers like a normal guy.
People definitely know it’s him now.
Whispers spreading down the bleachers.
But he doesn’t move.
Midway through second quarter, she steps closer.
Not touching.
Just… closer.
He keeps his eyes on the field.
“I didn’t come to make a scene,” he says quietly.
“You’re kinda failing,” she murmurs.
A ghost of humor.
Tiny.
But there.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, softer:
“I was afraid,” he admits. “Of throwing you to something I can’t control.”
Her head turns slowly.
“And what that makes me now?” she asks.
“Mine,” he says immediately. Then corrects himself.
“But not mine to control.”
That lands.
She looks at him carefully.
“I don’t fit your world,” she says. “Now I understand why you tried to keep me outside of it.”
His stomach drops.
“No,” he says quickly. “I tried to keep your world untouched by mine. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” His voice is steady but low. “You don’t need to fit my world. I need to show up in yours. That’s how it should work.”
She looks back at the field.
At her little brother.
At the lights.
“And if this doesn’t work?” she asks quietly.
His heart actually stutters.
“Then I sit in those bleachers and watch him anyway,” he says. “Because he deserves someone showing up. Both of you do.”
Her throat moves when she swallows.
“And what about you?” she asks.
“I’ll deal with it.”
That’s the first time he’s not bargaining.
Not trying to secure her.
Just accepting the possibility.
The fourth quarter whistle blows.
Devin scores on a short run.
The whole sideline erupts.
He sprints toward the fence after the game—
And straight into Joe again.
“Did you see that?!” he shouts.
“I saw it!” Joe laughs.
Devin beams.
Then looks between them.
“Can we take a picture, a family one?”
Her eyes flick to Joe.
He doesn’t answer.
He waits.
She hesitates.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
Joe kneels down beside Devin.
She stands on his other side. Mom next to Devin.
A friend holds up a phone.
Flash.
Simple. Normal.
No press line.
No hallway spectacle.
When it’s done, Joe stands.
He looks at her.
Careful.
“Can I—” he starts.
Stops.
“Can I hug you?”
Not grabbing. Not assuming.
Asking.
She looks him.
Long enough to make him sweat.
Then—
“Yes. But that doesn’t fix anything.”
”I know.”
It’s not dramatic. Not possessive. He puts his face to her hair, breathes in her scent.
Careful.
Real.
And he breathes again.
Because for the first time since the hallway—
He felt good being able to hold her.
After the hug, parents start drifting. Phones are definitely out now. Someone whispers his name too loudly.
He feels it.
The exposure. The thing he used to manage.
Instinct kicks in — he almost moves her behind him.
He stops himself.
Instead, he reaches for her hand.
Slow.
Open palm.
Not grabbing.
She looks down at it.
Then at him.
He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t rush her.
She lets him take it.
The grip is light.
Not interlocked.
Not intimate.
But visible.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when a dad raises his phone.
Not when someone says, “That’s Burrow no?”
Not when a some mom smiles at them knowingly.
He stays.
Hand firm at her lower back when they walk off the field — protective, not possessive. Not controlling the angle. Just… there.
Soft.
This is the first time he isn’t managing optics.
He’s choosing her.
As they reach the parking lot, the lights harsher here, she stops walking.
“Don’t do this just because people are watching,” she says quietly.
He turns to face her fully.
“I’m doing this because you were right.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You were scared,” she says.
“Of losing control.”
“Yes.”
“And I paid for it.”
His throat closes.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“I don’t know if I fit this,” she admits again. “I don’t fit headlines. I don’t fit speculation. I don’t fit whatever your life is. I know it.”
He steps closer — not trapping, just closing distance.
“You don’t need to fit,” he says. “I need to stop trying to shrink you into something I can manage. You are the one for me. Not for them. For me.”
She looks like she might leave again.
He sees it.
Panics quietly. He steps into her space — not touching yet — but enough that she has to look at him.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you. And I almost ruined it because I was afraid.”
No performance.
No football metaphors.
No deflection.
Just that.
She inhales sharply. He can see the wall wobble.
“Joe—”
“Let me finish,” he says softly. “I was afraid of loving something I can’t control. You’re the only part of my life I can’t script. And instead of being grateful, I tried to cage it. That wasn’t fair. What I did was wrong on so many levels.”
That hits.
Parents still nearby. People pretending not to watch.
He doesn’t lower his voice.
“I was wrong.”
A long beat.
She whispers:
“You made me feel small.”
“I know,” he says immediately. ““And I hated myself the second I saw it. I will spend as long as it takes making sure you never feel that way again. I almost lost the best thing in my life because of my pride.”
Tears wells up in her eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
He needs it.
She can feel it.
He wants reassurance. Relief. Proof she’s still his.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
That one word shatters him.
“Not because I don’t want to,” she adds quickly. “But because I need to know this isn’t just panic. I need to know you won’t pull away again when it gets loud.”
He nods.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that yet,” she says gently.
He exhales.
“Then I’ll prove it.”
And for the first time —
He isn’t asking her to trust him.
He’s accepting he has to earn it.
There’s noise around them.
Car doors slamming. Parents laughing. Her mom calling Devin’s name across the lot.
Life moving on.
She studies him like she’s measuring something invisible. Not his words. His stillness.
He doesn’t reach for her again.
Doesn’t try to pull her back in.
Doesn’t try to fix the silence.
He just stands there.
Open.
“I can’t promise anything,” she says finally. “Not yet.”
He nods. “I know.”
A beat.
“But you can walk me to my car,” she adds quietly.
⋆⠀pairing: colston loveland x graduate!reader.
⋆⠀word count: 6k.
summary: something, something, being in a healthy committed relationship just brings out the freak (fluff & smut, 18+ mdni).
⋆⠀author's note & warnings: really just a thought i had about what most of colston and graduate's offseason summer days look like before she starts her program. graduate being down bad about her man, colston calls reader 'mama', includes dirty talk, fingering, floor sex (?).
read more for #84⠀⋆⠀series masterlist.
Colston still couldn’t wrap his head around just how many people were willing to drive out to downtown Chicago on a Saturday to get a picture and an autograph from him. The line had wrapped around the block, and even though the event was supposed to end at five, it was nearing seven by the time he’d signed the last jersey and posed for the last picture.
You tagged along for the event, having helped with its coordination by keeping track of his emails and serving as an unofficial assistant. For most of the day you sat behind a portable partition where fans couldn’t see, scrolling through more of his emails, taking care of some household administrative tasks, and occasionally popping out to get Colston, his agent, and some of the convention center staff working the event, waters and snacks when their supply was running low.
Occasionally, Colston’s voice would float through the partition, his warm, deep drawl unmistakable. Sometimes, you could hear him laughing. Sometimes he was responding to a fan’s questions. Every time, he was perfectly polite, even when you knew he was exhausted. By the time you were finally walking out to the parking lot, hand in hand, with Colston making small talk with his agent, the sun had set and you could feel the ache of your feet radiating up your calves.
Colston’s truck was parked at the far end of the lot, and as you crossed the pavement, his thumb traced absent circles against the back of your hand. “You good, mama?” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that his agent wouldn’t overhear. You squeezed his fingers in response, pressing your shoulder into his arm and wrapping one of your hands around his bicep in silent answer.
“Well, I will follow-up with Principal Howell tomorrow to make sure everything is all set for your clinic next month,” Colston’s agent said, shifting your weight as the three of you reached the truck. The gravel crunched beneath your sneakers, your eyes flicking between your phone and you. “And you, my love, it was so good to see you again,” you reached forward, squeezing your forearm before glancing back at Colston. “You know to call me if anything.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your help, as always. Get to your hotel safe,” Colston said, nodding as his agent waved one last time before heading to your rental car.
Colston kept a steadying hand on your hip as you climbed into the truck, then shut the door behind you once you were seated. The leather seats settled under his weight as he slid in after rounding the hood, glancing over to ensure you were buckled in before shifting gears. He sighed as he leaned back against the headrest, rolling his shoulders against the seat to relieve the tension that had built up throughout the day.
“Oh, baby,” you murmured, reaching over to stroke the back of his neck, your fingers pressing lightly against the taut muscles there. “You’re all knotted up.” He hummed in agreement, tilting his head slightly to give you better access.
The truck’s engine rumbled when he pressed the clutch and the push-to-start to turn over the transmission. Slowly, he took his foot off the clutch and pulled out of the parking lot, merging into the sluggish evening Chicago traffic. “Thinkin’ about orderin’ something,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the wheel again. “Too tired to cook. Unless you wanna wait for delivery.”
You hummed in thought, stretching your legs out in front of you and playing with Colston’s fingers where they rested on your knee between the shifting of gears. He glanced over at you when the truck rolled to a stop at a red light, letting his fingers twine with yours before lifting your hand to his lips and pressing soft kisses to your knuckles then lowering your hands back to your thigh.
“Wendy’s?” he suggested, nodding toward the red sign what seemed to be about a mile ahead on the right hand side of the road.
You wrinkled your nose slightly, but squeezed his fingers in agreement. Colston frowned at your expression, switching lanes with one hand while the other stayed locked around yours. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to, mama,” he murmured, his palm drifting up and down the length of your thigh. “We can find somethin’ else. There’s a ton out here.”
You shook your head, shifting in your seat to face him more fully. “No, baby, it’s fine,” you assured him, your voice softening. “I’m just tired. Wendy’s is fine.”
Colston’s hand left your thigh for a brief moment, shifting gears, then returning to thread his fingers through yours before he lifted your joined hands to press another kiss to your knuckles. “I know you’re tired, mama. You worked hard today too. Thank you for helpin’ out, you know I appreciate you.”
“Mmm, I love being there to see you do your thing,” you murmured, your hands sliding over the bicep closer to you as you kissed along the tattoos along his right arm. You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, breathing in the scent of his skin. “But next time, remind me to wear sneakers. My feet are killing me in these sandals.”
Colston chuckled, his deep voice rumbling through the cab as he flicked on the turn signal and eased the truck into the Wendy’s lot. The line was much longer than expected, snaking around the building with brake lights glowing red in the dusk.
“Damn…” he muttered under his breath. “I should’ve figured it’d be like this. Looks like everybody else had the same idea.” He glanced over at you with raised eyebrows as the truck rolled forward inch by inch, joining the end of the drive-thru line, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “No way we’re gettin’ through this anytime soon,” he observed with a resigned shake of his head.
You groaned, stretching your long legs out before you. You rolled your right ankle into a circle, tensing until the joint finally cracked, pushing an exhale out from your chest.
“They hurt bad?” Colston asked, his voice low and rough with concern. You nodded, your lips pressing together in a thin line as you slipped you sandals off.
“C’mere, lemme help,” he murmured, reaching over to pull your thigh toward him with one broad hand. You obliged, lifting your feet into his lap with a grateful sigh. “Hand me that lotion you keep in your purse,” he instructed, nodding toward the bag at your feet.
You dug through it blindly, fingers closing around the small bottle of vanilla and coconut-scented moisturizer you always kept in your bag for moments like this. You handed it off to your boyfriend then turned your body to face him, your back pushed against the door. Colston squeezed a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it before wrapping his fingers around your left foot.
The first press of his thumbs into your arch pulled a soft breath from your lips, your head tipping back against the window. The sound was an involuntarily audible signal of your relief, your toes curling slightly against his calloused palms. Colston’s hands were large enough to cradle your entire foot. His fingers worked in slow, firm circles that kneaded away the tension knotting your muscles.
“Good?” he prompted when he saw your body melt under his touch. You hummed in agreement, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
Outside, the line barely inched forward, the red glow of taillights casting intermittent shadows across the cab. You let your eyes drift shut, your focus narrowing to the warmth of Colston’s hands and the scent of vanilla and coconut mingling with the musk of his cologne. You lapsed into comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional hum of contentment from you as he worked his thumbs along the ridge of your instep.
After working out the stiffness in your left foot, Colston moved to your right, kneading the lotion into your skin with slow, practiced motions. You exhaled through your nose, your body sinking deeper into the seat as tension bled out of you under his touch. “So good, baby. Thank you,” you murmured, your voice syrupy with contentment.
Colston smiled slightly, looking up at you as he switched over to your other foot. “Just tryna take care of my baby,” he rumbled lowly. “You’ve been runnin’ around all day handlin’ shit for me. This is the least I could do.” His thumbs pressed particularly deep into the ball of your foot, drawing another soft sigh from your lips.
“You know what you wanna eat yet?” Colston asked, his fingers still working slow circles into your arch.
“Something with nuggets probably,” you shrugged. He leaned over the console, puckering his lips for a kiss which you met with a soft laugh against his mouth. “I know you know my order,” you stated as you pulled away, letting your fingers cup his chin lightly.
Colston nodded as he rattled off your exact meal.
You let your fingers keep a firm grip on his chin, your thumb brushing the faint stubble there as you watched him recite your order. His eyes flicked to yours mid-sentence, catching the way your lips curled into a slow smile. “You’re so fucking good to me,” you purred, dragging each word out like honey.
Colston’s hands stilled on your foot for a fraction of a second before resuming their work, though his fingers pressed just a little harder now. His gaze darkened as it flicked from your lips back to your eyes, pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. “I know what I need to do to keep you happy, mama,” he said, testing the waters. His voice was completely neutral, but you caught the implication beneath it.
Colston pulled the truck forward, suddenly aware that you were one car removed from being able to order at the speakerbox. “I was never gonna take you for granted,” he said, his deep voice carrying an edge that had you biting your bottom lip. “You know I’ll do anything for my baby.”
You voice dropped further, the same cadence you used when you were winding him up. “I know, baby,” you murmured. “You take such good care of me.”
[ . . . ]
You spent the forty-minute ride home feeding him fries, his burger, and sips of your iced drink; diligently wiping at the corners of his mouth with the white paper napkin poised between your fingers. Your eyes tracked the way his jaw remained clenched, his grip on the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. He didn’t say much but his hand returned to your knee between the shifting of gears and he thanked you for the bites and sips he offered him with a deep, twanged, “Thank you,” and an accompanying squeeze of your thigh.
The two of you entered through the front door, Colston carrying your belongings and the bags of food ready to be discarded while you followed behind him with just your lemonade in hand. You watched him dispose of your trash, your eyes tracing the heavy ripple of muscle in his back, and how his shoulders seemed to expand with every breath.
He reached out for your hand, his fingers loosely grasping yours. You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of you as you bounced behind him, following him all the way to the living room, setting your lemonade down on the nearest surface.
The moment the lemonade hit the mahogany side table, the space between you vanished. Colston didn’t lead you toward the bedroom; he didn’t even give you a chance to blink before his arm wrapped around your waist and hoisted you off your feet. You let out a startled, delighted shriek, your legs wrapping around his torso as he carried you to the plush leather couch.
He settled first, bringing you down to straddle his hips where he sat propped against the arm of the sofa. The moment your weight landed, Colston’s large hands found the hem of your cream dress, bunching the fabric upward with a singular, impatient motion until the air hit your thighs. He leaned forward first, grasping your waist between his palms, and kissed you greedily.
You let out a muffled moan, your fingers tangling in the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. You felt the hard, insistent press of him against you, a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten his promise. His hands roamed over your backside, fingertips dipping into the waistband of your underwear from time to time as you kissed each other dizzy on the couch. A soft groan escaped him when you finally ground down against him, your hips finding the rhythm you knew he craved.
“Mmm, fuck,” he said appreciatively, pulling back from your lips to deliver a smack to your ass followed by the full-handed grasp of your behind. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on the way your chest heaved against his. “Shit. Got right to work, huh, baby?”
You hummed emphatically in agreement, your hands falling to either side of his neck to pull him back into a deep, nasty kiss. It was tongue-to-tongue and desperate, with wandering hands and the slow exchange of saliva. You pulled his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging slightly, and giggling as you watched his eyes roll back.
Hovering over his lips and deepening your grind, you finally managed a honeyed, “Anything to earn what you promised.”
He smiled, his hands controlling the drag of your center against his. “Yeah?” he quipped.
“Mmhmm,” you nodded, your head falling back with a breathy moan, your black underwear beginning to soak through with your own arousal.
“What did I promise, mama?” he asked, growing smug when you tensed atop him, stopping yourself from getting too carried away. “C’mon now, use your words. Remind me.”
You leaned in, your nose brushing against his, your lips just ghosting over his, your voice a playful, breathy whisper. “You said you were gonna fuck me on the floor.”
You gasped against his mouth as his right hand reached around to the back of your neck, to tilt your head back by fisting your hair at the scalp. His left hand shifted lower on your ass, reaching around to press the pad of his middle finger to the entrance of your pussy, feeling the damp fabric of your underwear.
“Uh huh,” he nodded with approval, pressing harder against your entrance. “Remindin’ me of my word. I like that.”
His right hand grasped the edge of your underwear, shifting it aside to grant him easy access to your pussy. You gasped lightly as he breached your entrance, then hummed pleasantly as you sank onto his fingers. The full body tremor that coursed through you was evident from the way your thighs quivered against his hips, and Colston let out a low, appreciative noise. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder with a whimper as your hips rolled against his hand.
“Too long,” he rumbled, keeping his other hand on your waist to steady you. “Been waitin’ too long for this. She’s so damn wet.”
You moaned softly, pulling back from his shoulders to roll your hips again. You could feel just how long his fingers were, stretching you out and perfectly nestling in the sweet spot that made you unbearably wet. Your hands roamed over his chest, neck, and hair, needing to feel his solid mass beneath you as you rode his fingers. Your breathless gasps and sighs and moans filled his ears, and if you were able to bring yourself to focus on anything other than the pleasure, you would have noticed the way Colston’s jaw was clamped tight, his eyes fixed on your with a predatory intensity.
“You wanna talk to me, mama?” he asked, dipping his hesd and kissing along your neck and collarbones, his free hand now squeezing the soft plumpness of your hip. “Or you just wanna feel it?”
You couldn’t even form a word, your response coming in a high-pitched, needy whimper as you arched your back, grinding your center into the friction of his hand. “F-feel it,” you managed to gasp out, your voice breaking. “Just… baby, please.”
Colston didn’t need further invitation. He let his fingers slowly, carefully begin pumping in and out of you. He watched your face, savoring the way your features tightened in a mask of pure, unashamed pleasure. Every time you tried to find your breath, he’d shift the angle of his hand, hitting a spot that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through your toned frame. He mouthed along the tops of your breasts, allowing himself to suck a small bruise into the slope of your chest, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. “I got you, angel. Just lean into it, baby. No struggle.”
Your head lolled back with a prolonged, guttural moan. You were lost in the friction, the heat of him radiating through the leather and into your skin. The world was shrinking to the size of this room and the overwhelming presence of the man holding you through what was surely your first orgasm of the night. You felt the pressure building as if a tightening coil in your lower belly. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into the muscle, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches and whines.
Vaguely, you felt the hand on your hip shift to grip the soft curve of your ass. Abruptly, his hand came down, dragging a sharp, breathless, “Fuck, do it again,” from your lungs.
Colston laughed at that, his warm palm soothing your skin in a slow, heavy circle. He complied twice more with a proud hum, kissing your jawline as your body shuddered through the contact. “She’s singin’ to me, now,” he said through his kisses, quickening the pace of his fingers until you were nothing more than a series of broken whimpers and desperate clings. “You got it. Just let it go, mama.”
Your hands fell away from his body, one hand falling down to your clit, swollen and desperate for attention, as the other pulled on one of his forearms. Taking the hint, he lifted his free hand to hold the side of your face, dipping his thumb into your mouth to hush your whimpers while his fingers continued to work your magic inside you. You let out a high, keening sound, then gasped with a stuttered, “I’m cumming, I’m—fuck, Colston.”
“I know, baby. I know…” he cooed, pulling you against his chest, but letting his fingers continue to drive you over the edge. Your entire body locked, your eyes rolling as you shuddered through your orgasm. Your walls pulsed tight around his fingers.
You felt completely undone, your muscles like jelly, but the feeling of being enveloped by his broad frame provided a grounding comfort. Colston’s hand transitioned from the heat of your center to a slow stroke down your spine, his lips peppering affection into your hairline with your cheek pressed to his chest. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the scent of your arousal and the vanilla lotion filling his senses.
You drew out of your slumped posture, your arms lifting to fall over his shoulders as your back straightened. You felt the heavy thrum of his heart against your ribs. You pressed a lingering, slow kiss to the hollow of his throat, making your way up the thick muscle, practically purring against him.
“That wasn’t enough?” Colston murmured, his own hands continuing to stroke up and down your body.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, trying to hide the smile he didn’t have to see to know was there. “Don’t play with me right now.”
He chuckled, simultaneously giving you a soft love tap and a firm squeeze. “You let me play in that pretty little pussy, though.”
“You could play some more…” you purred, resuming your work on his neck. “Fuck me on the floor…” you guided his head back, exposing his Adam’s apple, and nipped at the skin there. “Have me on my back, pretty little pussy just for you…” your nose nudged his, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Remember what you promised?”
His eyes lifted to meet yours, his breathing shallow through his nose. “You talk so reckless in my ear.”
You nodded, “Mmhmm,” your breath ghosting over his lips, a silent challenge that snapped the last thread of his restraint.
Colston didn’t let you slide off him gently. He shifted his weight, gripping your waist with an intensity that left no room for hesitation, and stood up with you still locked around his hips. You let out a startled, breathless giggle, your arms tightening around his neck as he carried you a few steps away from the couch. Without a word, he lowered you to the hardwood floor. He didn't bother with the bedroom, like he swore, he wanted you right here, exposed and vulnerable on the cold floor of your living room.
He settled between your thighs, pulling back to sit on his heels, his gaze traveling over you with a proprietary hunger. Your dress was still bunched around your waist. He reached for its hem, dragging it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the garment, and your bra, aside without a second thought. He wanted every inch of your brown skin exposed to the dim light of the living room, your silhouette on display for his eyes alone.
With an awe-filled tone, Colston sighed, “Shit. You look good like this.”
You didn’t have time to respond before Colston’s hands were on you, his palms rough and warm as they slid from your shoulders down to your hips, pinning you against the hardwood. The contrast of the cool floor against your back and the searing heat of his body above you made your breath hitch. He didn’t rush, he took a moment to just look at you, his chocolate brown eyes roaming over every curve with a possessive intensity.
He cursed under his breath as his eyes trailed down to your parted legs, catching sight of your pussy having soaked through your underwear, the damp fabric clinging to you. Without a word, he reached down and hooked two fingers into the lace, dragging them down your legs with a sudden, forceful yank. He tossed the fabric aside, leaving you on display. Your pussy practically glittered from the mess you made earlier.
He placed his palm flat against your lower stomach, his thumb perfectly placed to pull back the hood of your clit, making your back arch off the hardwood. Colston let out a low rumble, muttering something to himself under his breath.
You cupped your breasts in your hands, sighing softly as they squeezed together. You eased your fingertips over your nipples, your gaze locked onto Colston’s face.
“I might have to keep you right here all night,” Colston murmured, his voice dropping an octave into that raw, gravelly territory. “Got the prettiest pussy just for me, huh?”
He didn’t wait for you to answer. He stood up just long enough to rid himself of his own clothes, his movements efficient and focused. When he returned to you, the sheer scale of him seemed to block out the living room lights. He descended upon you with a heavy, purposeful weight, his muscular frame pinning you into the hardwood. He grabbed at your thighs, hoisting them high and hauling your hips toward him until there was no space left between you.
Neither of you could resist the magnetic pull of the hot, messy kiss that followed. Colston’s hands didn’t stay still either. They migrated from your thighs to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hips, guiding your left knee back toward your shoulder to open you up completely. You let out a fragmented moan, your head tossing back against the floor as you felt the blunt, insistent head of him press against your entrance.
“Damn, girl,” he groaned once he was nestled in between your walls, immediately beginning a relentless, heavy pace that hammered you into the hardwood. The lack of a mattress beneath you only made the experience more visceral. Every thrust came with an echoing thud that reverberated through your bones. Colston was uncompromising, his muscular frame straining with effort, his sweat beginning to drip onto your brown skin, mixing with the friction of your bodies.
Colston didn’t give you a second to adjust to the depth of him. He gripped your waist with a strength that bordered on bruising, his large palms anchoring your hips so he could drive himself deeper with every single stroke. You moaned through every thrust, your hands frantically searching for purchase on his muscular arms, your nails digging into the tattoo sleeve on his right arm. The rhythm was punishing and perfect, a heavy, rhythmic thumping that filled the quiet living room.
He shifted his grip, pulling your legs higher and pulling them over his broad shoulders. The position left your center exposed and absorbing the full force of his weight. Colston’s eyes were fixed on the point of impact, watching the way your brown skin glistened with the thin sheen of sweat and your thighs quivered under the onslaught. He let out a low, guttural sound, his voice a raw vibration as he leaned down to press his weight into you.
Your hands reached into his hair, tugging the dark strands and moaning into his ears. His face tucked into the crook of your neck, ensuring his body was positioned correctly for a deep grind that made your eyes roll back. His pelvis ground against your clit with every relentless slam. Colston was out of breath, his chest heaving against your breasts, his muscles rippling under the exertion of holding your legs aloft.
You babbled beneath him, eyes half-lidded and swimming in a sea of utter overstimulation. Colston didn’t let up, he was driving into you with a singular, focused intensity, his breath coming in ragged huffs.
“Don’t tap out now,” Colston rasped. “You wanted this. You asked for it.”
You couldn’t even find the breath to agree, your voice lost to a series of high-pitched, needy whimpers that only seemed to fuel his fire. “I can’t…” you gasped, walls already beginning to flutter around his dick.
Colston didn’t let you drift away. He shifted his weight, his chest pressing firmly against yours, creating a vacuum of heat. The friction was absolute, a scorching heat that blurred the edges of your consciousness. He didn't give you a moment to breathe, his pace becoming a relentless, punishing cadence that rattled you against the hardwood. Every slam of his hips was a claim, a physical manifestation of the promise he’d made in the truck. Your legs were locked over his shoulders, your ankles crossing behind his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single centimeter of air between you two.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered against your mouth. He shifted his grip to the back of your head to hold you steady as he delivered a series of deep, soul-shaking thrusts.
You held on to his biceps for dear life, your breath coming in jagged, shallow bursts. Your senses narrowed down to the scent of his cologne and the rhythmic, heavy thud of his body meeting yours. You felt the agonizingly sweet tension in your muscles. Your hips began to roll instinctively, seeking that perfect, devastating angle that would push you over the edge.
“Yeah… right there, baby. Fuck, right there,” you whimpered.
“I got you, baby. Just let me know… tell me what you need.”
“Cole… keep doing that,” you whispered. “Don’t stop, please, just don’t stop.”
Colston didn’t need to be told twice. He could feel your internal walls clamping down on him, milking him with a desperation that nearly broke his rhythm. He let out a low growl, his eyes darkening as he watched your eyes unfocus and your lips part in a silent, breathless plea. “You can take it. I promise you can take it,” Colston encouraged you lightly.
“Ooh, you’re so pretty taking this dick, baby. Just look at you,” Colston groaned, his voice thick with pride as you finally keened with a high pitched cry, signaling you were falling over the edge. “There you go. There you go, mama. Gimme that shit.”
He kept fucking you through the orgasm, ensuring you were breathing until he, too, reached his breaking point. Colston’s muscles locked and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering with a series of deep pulses.
Your breathing was equally labored. Colston guided your bodies in a tired change of position, bringing his back to the floor and pulling you on top of him. You collapsed against his broad chest, your skin glistening and tacky with sweat, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Colston’s large hands traced the curves of your hips before sliding up to cradle your head. He pulled you closer, his chin resting on the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, finding a mix of your floral perfume and the raw, muskier scent of your intimacy. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of contentment, his muscles finally beginning to unclench.
You lifted your head, your left hand cupping his cheek as you delivered soft kisses to his jawline. Your eyes were still hazy, the afterglow leaving your feeling heavy and warm, as if you were floating just an inch above the hardwood. You let out a tiny, contented giggle, the sound echoing in the living room.
He accepted the warm, buzzy kiss with a lazy smile, his chest still heaving beneath your head. You were content to let the silence of the house settle around you, allowing for his heartbeat to sync with yours. Colston’s grip on your hips remained firm, though the energy had shifted from possessive to protective, his fingertips drawing slow, soothing circles into your skin.
“You make me so proud,” you whispered. You rested your chin on his chest, your mind still drifting in a fog of endorphins. “Seeing you interact with everyone there today… the way people look at you. I’m so lucky you’re mine.”
Colston’s hum vibrated through his ribs and into your own. He tightened his hold on you, his large palms splaying across your lower back. “I’m so blessed to get to love you the right way, baby,” he murmured. “Thankful to you everyday for allowing me to earn you.”
He shifted slightly, lifting you just enough to press a tender kiss to your forehead. You sighed, your body finally beginning to cool as the air from the hallway vent brushed over your damp skin.
“I need a bath,” you huffed, sitting up to straddle his hips. “And we have to disinfect this floor before we go to bed. I don’t need people standing in my coochie sweat tomorrow.”
Colston let out a deep, rumbling laugh that shook your entire frame. “Oh, hold on, now. I love that choochie sweat,” he teased, sitting up and kissing you between his words. He felt you laugh against his mouth, your right hand reaching up to cup his cheek to give you the space to speak.
“I know you do, baby, but this hardwood does not,” you retorted, though you didn’t move from his lap just yet. You lingered in the sanctuary of his arms for a moment longer, wrapping your own arms around his neck. You squeezed him tight, your cheek pressed against his with a forceful itch for proximity behind it. “And you paid a lot for this house. I wanna keep it nice for as long as possible.”
“We paid,” he corrected you, just like he always did. You rolled your eyes outside of the field of his view but smiled regardless, keeping your face pressed against his. “And you know we bought it cash, mama. A little bit of sweat on the floor never hurt anybody.”
“I love you, but you’re nasty,” you giggled, finally peeling yourself away from his heat. “Can we shower now?” Colston grumbled but gave you one last squeeze before he sighed, reluctantly letting you slide off his lap.
The sudden rush of cool air against your skin made you shiver, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb and leave a satisfying exhaustion in its wake. You stood up on shaky legs, your long limbs feeling like lead. Colston remained on the floor for a moment, staring up at you with an expression of pure adoration. His dark brown eyes were soft now, blinking slowly as he watched you collect your strewn clothes on the floor.
He pushed himself up from the floor with a slow, athletic grace. You turned over your shoulder toward your bedroom. Colston caught up with your stride in less than four steps, pulling you back into the crook of his arm and kissing your temple.
