❥ still mine, still yours ━━━━━ JOE BURROW
pairing: fiancée! reader x fiancé! joe burrow
summary: you think you’re losing him even while you’re sharing a bed and a last name-to-be, until one night cracks everything open and forces you both to finally say the quiet parts out loud. distance turns into desperation, and he spends the night (& morning after) proving that you were never losing him at all.
wc: 13.4k (this was supposed to be a blurb but oh well)
happy (late) thanksgiving everyone, so incredibly thankful for you all and the love you guys give to my fics <3 truly so motivating.
warnings: 18+, minors DNI, angsty-smut, insecurity, swearing, hurt/comfort, pet names, swearing, repetitions of certain phrases (didn't notice until i read over oops), porn w/little to no plot
a/n: wrote this over the last two weeks and last-minute made it thanksgiving-y, so excuse the random mentions LMAO. also i don’t think i’m good at angst so… be nice. can we clap i finally wrote a summary, kinda just yap the morning scenes werent needed but i hit a flow state writing but with that its also all pver the place.
you’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, curling iron trembling slightly in your grip as you twist another section of hair around the barrel. the ring on your left hand catches the vanity light with every tiny movement, three carats of princess-cut diamond that still steals your breath every time you really look at it. six months ago, on that quiet night in positano during the off-season, he’d dropped to one knee on the warm cobblestones of the little terrace overlooking the amalfi coast, the sea glittering behind him like it was holding its breath, and asked you to marry him, to be his wife, to be his forever. you’d said yes through tears and salt air and the scent of lemon trees, and he’d kissed you like the world was ending and beginning all at once. future mrs. burrow. you mouth the words silently to your reflection like a prayer, like if you say it enough times it will stitch the widening crack in your chest back together. it doesn’t.
because this morning he came in from the gym at dawn, hoodie soaked through, curls plastered to his temples, chest still heaving from the lift, and all you got was the ghost of a kiss brushed against your temple as he passed you in the kitchen, one distracted “morning, babe” tossed over his shoulder before he disappeared upstairs. no crooked grin, no low, teasing “c’mere, future mrs. burrow, let’s save water,” no big hands sliding under the shirt you’d had on, no backing you against the counter until you were laughing and breathless and he was hard against your hip, whispering exactly what he was going to do to you once the shower was running. just the hollow thud of his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the bathroom door, the rush of water behind it, and the silence that swallowed the house afterward. you stood there in the corner while the coffee was brewing, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling like an absolute idiot for hoping he’d notice.
because it’s not just this morning, it’s been the last month unraveling thread by thread. it’s waking up to an empty bed more often than not because he’s already at the facility by six-thirty. it’s the good-morning texts that stopped coming, the “i love you”s that turned into one-word replies, the nights he stumbles in long after you’re asleep and you pretend you don’t feel him slide under the covers with his back to you, phone glowing against his face while he watches film until he passes out. it’s the way sex has become so rare you honestly can’t remember the last time he touched you like he used to, can’t pinpoint the last night he kissed you slow and deep instead of brushing a quick, exhausted peck to your forehead, can’t recall the last time his hands mapped your body like it was something sacred. it’s the way he barely looks up when you walk into a room anymore, the way his hands don’t automatically reach for you, the way your name sounds like background noise in his mouth instead of the prayer it once was. it’s the slow, terrifying realization that the man who used to cancel plans just to stay in bed with you all day now treats coming home like another obligation he’s trying to check off before the next meeting. it’s watching the ring on your finger catch the light while you lie awake at 3 a.m. and wondering if forever still means the same thing to him that it does to you.
you shake it off the way you’ve been shaking everything off for weeks, like if you just keep moving, keep smiling, keep pretending the ache isn’t there, it’ll eventually stop clawing at your ribs. he’s stressed. short week. primetime game on thursday against the ravens. he’s been busy. busy rehabbing his toe. busy trying to get back to football. twenty-five people at his parents’ house today. you repeat it like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it’ll glue the cracks back together, like it’ll make the silence in the car feel normal instead of suffocating. you stand in front of the mirror doing your makeup on autopilot and every stroke of the brush feels like painting armor over a bruise. you tell yourself this is what being a football fiancée means, this is what loving someone in the middle of a packed work life feels like, this is temporary, this is fine, you are fine. you slip into the cream cashmere dress he picked out himself two months ago in that little boutique in new york, the one he couldn’t keep his hands off you in. you slide on the louboutins he surprised you with after the engagement, the ones he said were made for the woman who was going to own every room she ever walked into (starting with his heart). you look in the mirror and the reflection is flawless: hair curled just right, dress hugging every curve, legs for days, ring sparkling like a promise. you look perfect. you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, like the girl he fell in love with has been slowly erased and replaced by a quieter, smaller version who’s terrified to ask for too much, who’s scared that if she speaks the truth out loud the whole beautiful life will shatter. you look like the girl that he fell in love with. you feel like the girl he’s already starting to forget.
the drive to his parents’ house is excruciating. his right hand never leaves the wheel. your left thigh stays cold. you watch cincinnati roll by in bleeding golds and reds, the ohio river glinting like a wound under the weak november sun, and you keep waiting, keep waiting, for his fingers to slide across the console and lace through yours the way they always do. they never do. small talk about turkey, about his mom’s sweet potato casserole, about whether his cousin is bringing that girl again. surface-level. safe. nothing that touches the scream building in your throat.
at the house it’s worse than you imagined. the second the door opens he’s swallowed by his family in the best way with his mom pulling him into a tight hug, his dad clapping him on the back hard enough to echo, his brothers dragging him toward the living room tv before he’s even taken his coat off, nephews asking non-stop questions. you trail behind with the mac and cheese his mom asked you to make, smiling when someone takes it from your hands, letting yourself be folded into the women’s side of the chaos like you belong there (because you do, you tell yourself). you end up stationed in the kitchen and dining room with his mom, his aunts, the cousins, passing pies and refilling wine glasses and answering the same gentle questions about the wedding you’ve answered a hundred times. he’s on the completely opposite end of the house, voice carrying over the laughter as he argues with his dad about offensive line play calls, breaking down film on the tv for his uncles like it’s fourth-and-goal. you catch glimpses of him through doorways (head thrown back laughing, cheeks flushed, curls messy from little fingers tugging at them) and every time you hope he’ll look over, catch your eye, give you that secret little smile he used to save just for you across crowded rooms. he never does.
it happens once. his aunt corners both of you near the table, eyes sparkling, asking when the big day is, and he leans over absently, presses one distracted kiss into your hair, mutters “whenever she wants” with a shrug, and then he’s already turning back to his brother calling his name from the living room. no arm around your waist. no squeeze to your hip. no proud, possessive hand letting everyone in the room know you’re his favorite person on the planet. just that single, fleeting kiss, like you’re a reflex he’s already forgetting.
the rest of the night you orbit him like a moon he no longer notices. you smile for pictures, you laugh at the right times, you help plate desserts, you answer questions about centerpieces and venues with a voice that doesn’t shake, but inside you are coming apart thread by thread, stitch by stitch, until there’s almost nothing left.
by the time you’re buckled into the passenger seat for the drive home the sky has gone that deep, bruised purple that makes everything feel heavier, and you are so, so bone-tired of pretending that the smile you’ve been wearing all day doesn’t ache like a bruise. you rest your head against the cold window, watch the streetlights blur into watercolor streaks, and you don’t even try to stay awake. exhaustion drags you under like a riptide, fast and merciless, and you let it take you.
you come up slowly to the gentle press of his lips against your temple, the only real touch you’ve felt from him since this morning, and his voice soft in your ear, “we’re home, honey,” quiet, almost tender, like nothing’s wrong. by the time your eyes flutter open he’s already out of the car, shutting his door, heading toward the house without waiting. you sit there for a second in the sudden silence, the engine ticking as it cools, seatbelt still across your chest, staring at the empty driver’s seat and feeling the ache settle deeper than ever.
you follow him inside on autopilot, the door clicking shut behind you like a period at the end of a sentence you never wanted to finish. your heels come off in the mudroom with two dull thuds. normally he’d be right there, kneeling to slip them off your feet himself, kissing each ankle like it was a privilege, murmuring something filthy-sweet about how good you looked in them and how much better you’d look out of everything else. tonight the room is empty, the only sound the soft rustle of your dress and the sudden, crushing weight of the ring on your finger that feels heavier than the entire house pressing down on your chest.
you drift through the dark hallway, past the picture frames filled with so much love that it’s trying to comfort you, and watch him climb the stairs ahead of you, shirt loose, shoulders curved inward with exhaustion, curls messy from little-kid hands and too many hugs. he’s already pulling away again, already retreating into tomorrow’s film, tomorrow’s practice, tomorrow’s everything that isn’t you.
he’s halfway up when something inside you finally snaps.
“joe.”
he stops instantly, turns on the stairs, brow creasing with that focus that used to feel like it was only ever for you. “yeah, sweetie? you okay?”
you stand in the center of the living room, the christmas tree you put up last weekend twinkling mockingly behind you, all those little white lights reflecting in the diamond like it’s laughing at you. your arms wrap around yourself like that can hold the pieces together. you swallow hard, once, twice. the words feel ridiculous now that they’re clawing their way out, but they’ve been living under your skin for weeks, festering, turning poisonous, and you can’t carry them for one more second.
“no, i’m not okay,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words tumbling out raw and jagged, slicing the quiet in half. you start again, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around your ribs to hold yourself together. “i feel like…” you stop, the rest catching like shards of glass in your throat. your hands twist together in front of you, the diamond on your finger catching the soft glow of the christmas-tree lights and throwing it back like a warning, like it’s screaming look at me, look at what you promised, look at what we might be losing. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked open and bleeding, barely above the hush of the house.
“i feel like you don’t want me anymore.”
you swallow, but it doesn’t help; the next words still scrape on the way out.
“i feel like i’m… shrinking inside my own life. like every day i wake up in this house that’s supposed to be ours and i take up less space than i did the day before. like i’m becoming a ghost in the background of your season, your schedule, your stress. i spent all morning trying to look like the girl you asked to marry you, the girl you couldn’t keep your hands off, and you walked right past me like i was furniture. i put on the dress you said made you stupid and you didn’t even notice. i smiled for so many people today and answered questions about centerpieces and honeymoon plans and every time someone called me your fiancée i waited for you to touch me, to look at me like you used to—like i was the only real thing in the room—and it never happened. not once.”
your voice fractures completely now, tears slipping hot down your cheeks, and you can’t stop them.
“i know you’re finally cleared to play, i know that’s what you’ve been working toward. and i’m so, so proud of you— you’re ahead of your timeline…i know the team’s riding on your shoulders. i know you’re carrying more pressure than any person should ever have to carry. i’m proud of you, joe, i’m so proud it hurts, but god, i miss being your safe place. i miss being the thing that made the noise stop. i miss you looking at me like i’m home. because right now it feels like i’m just another obligation you’re trying to get through until the off-season. like if i disappeared tomorrow you’d be… relieved. one less thing to worry about. one less person waiting up. and that terrifies me, because i said yes to forever with you and i meant it with every piece of me, but lately i’m not sure forever still means the same thing to you that it does to me.”
you finally look up at him, tears blurring everything, and your voice drops to something broken and terrifyingly small.
“tell me i’m wrong. please, joe. tell me you still want this. tell me you still want me.”
the silence that follows is deafening, absolute, like the whole world just stopped breathing.
he stares at you for a long beat, and the expression on his face is pure, stunned disbelief. like you just told him the sky was green and the grass was blue. his mouth actually falls open a little, eyes wide and shocked. “what?” he breathes, the word cracking in half.
you can’t look at him, eyes fixed on the floor of the living room, the diamond on your finger catching the dim light every time your hand trembles. your voice comes out smaller than you’ve ever heard it, cracked and raw.
“i didn’t want to say anything,” you start, voice trembling so hard you have to wrap your arms around yourself just to keep from shaking apart. “i swore i wouldn’t bring it up, because i know what these months means, i know what the game means, i know you’re under stress right now and the last thing you need is me making it heavier. i’ve been swallowing it for weeks, joe. i’ve been choking it down every single day, telling myself it’s fine, it’s temporary, it’ll pass, but it’s eating me alive from the inside out and i can’t carry it anymore.”
you look down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the lights like it’s trying to blind you.
“this ring… it used to feel like the safest thing in the world. every time i looked at it i remembered that day, remembered you on one knee promising me forever, and it made everything feel steady. but this past month it’s started to feel like a question mark instead of a promise. because the love it’s supposed to remind me of… you haven’t reminded me of that. not with your hands, not with your eyes, not with the way you say my name. nothing. and that terrifies me.”
your voice cracks completely now, tears spilling faster than you can stop them.
“i’m scared i’m not what you want anymore. i’m scared the version of me you fell in love with—the one you couldn’t keep your hands off, the one you looked at like i hung the moon—i’m scared she’s gone for you and you just haven’t figured out how to tell me yet. i spent all day trying to look like her again, smiling for everyone like nothing was wrong… and you didn’t say anything to me, not once. not in the car. not at your parents’ house. not even when we walked through the door just now. i feel invisible, joe. like i’m in the way. like i’m background noise in your life right now, and the ring is the only thing keeping me in the frame.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, on the twinkling lights of the christmas tree, on the faint scuff mark by the coffee table, anywhere but him, because if you look up and see even a flicker of guilt in his face, if you see the truth you’ve been dreading written across those blue eyes, it will absolutely destroy you. you’re terrified that one glance will confirm every poisonous thought that’s been looping in your head for weeks: that he’s been distant because he’s already letting go, that the ring is just a beautiful placeholder until he figures out how to leave, that the man who once looked at you like you were his entire world has quietly decided you’re no longer enough.
“i miss you so much it hurts to breathe. i miss us. i miss being the person you came home to, not just the person who happens to live here. and i’m so terrified that one day you’re going to wake up and realize you don’t need me waiting at home anymore. that you’re better off without the weight of someone who still wants the version of you that used to choose me first.”
you finally risk a glance at him and it wrecks you.
his face is crumpled, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, the blue almost swallowed by the shine of tears he’s fighting so hard to hold back. his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin, the same way it does when he’s trying not to lose it on the sideline after a bad call. his shoulders are curved forward like the weight of your words just folded him in half. he looks like you reached into his chest and crushed something vital, like you just took a sledgehammer to the one thing he thought he was getting right.
he looks absolutely, utterly destroyed.
and that’s how you know, with a punch straight to your own heart, that you weren’t right at all.
he’s not letting go.
“sweetie…” his voice is wrecked, cracked open and raw, barely above a whisper. “no. no, no, no.” he comes back down the steps slower than you’ve ever seen him move, like the air itself has thickened around him. when he reaches you in the middle of the living room he doesn’t drop to his knees; he just stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne under the dinner still clinging to his shirt, and lifts both hands to cup your face so gently it makes your breath hitch. his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, trembling just enough that you feel it. his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, shining too bright under the christmas lights, and you can see the exact second the tears threaten to spill because he blinks hard, jaw locked tight like he’s physically holding them back.
“how could you even think that?” the words come out broken, hoarse, like they’re being ripped out of him. “i’m—” he has to stop, throat working, swallowing hard once, twice, three times like he’s choking on the guilt. “i’m so fucking sorry. i didn’t see it. i didn’t see you breaking right in front of me and i hate myself for it. i’ve been so lost in my own head, so terrified of letting the whole damn city down, of letting the team down, of letting my family down, that i let the one person who actually matters down. i let you down. god, sweetheart, i’m an idiot. i’m the biggest idiot on the planet and i don’t deserve you standing here right now. i don’t deserve you at all.”
his voice cracks completely on the last word and this time a tear slips free, sliding down his cheek before he can stop it. he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.
“i’ve been a selfish, blind asshole and you have every right to hate me for it. i see it now, i see every single day i made you feel small and i want to burn the film of the last month because none of it matters if you’re hurting because of me.”
he presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of your tears is physically painful.
“you think i stopped wanting you? you think i don’t want you? jesus christ, angel, i put a ring on this finger because you’re the only thing i’ve ever been sure of in my entire life.” he lifts your left hand with shaking fingers, presses his lips to the diamond like it’s the most fragile thing he’s ever touched, like he’s trying to pour every apology into that single kiss. “i put it here because i wake up every morning and the first thing i feel is gratitude that you’re still here, that you still let me love you, that you said yes to forever with someone who clearly forgot how to show you what forever means. there is no version of my life without you in it. none. i’m on that field trying not to drown and the only thing keeping my head above water is knowing you’re waiting for me. and i took that for granted. i took you for granted. i’m so fucking sorry. i’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees begging you to forgive me if that’s what it takes.”
his voice breaks again and this time he doesn’t fight the tears, lets them fall as he stares at you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“i love you so much it hurts. i love you so much i don’t know how to carry it sometimes. and i fucked up so bad that you think you’re forgettable. you’re not forgettable. you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. you’re my gravity, my center, my home, and i lost sight of that and i’ll never forgive myself for it.”
he kisses you before you can answer, desperate, messy, like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. his mouth crashes into yours with so much need it steals your breath, teeth clacking, noses bumping, a broken sound tearing out of his throat when you kiss him back. he kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin, like if he can just get close enough he can erase every second he made you doubt. his hands slide from your face to fist in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you deeper, harder, tongue sliding against yours in a way that feels like i’m sorry and please don’t leave and i love you all at once. he only pulls back when you’re both gasping, forehead still pressed to yours, lips brushing with every ragged breath, refusing to let even an inch of space exist between you.
“never again,” he whispers against your mouth, voice raw. “i swear on everything i am, not for one more second.”
he doesn’t let the inch of space last more than a heartbeat. he kisses you again, harder this time, a low, broken sound rumbling in his chest as he walks you backward until your spine meets the living-room wall with a soft thud that rattles the framed photo of the two of you from spring hanging beside your head. the glass trembles in its frame but he doesn’t stop, couldn’t stop even if the house caught fire; his mouth is hot and desperate on yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding deep like he’s trying to taste every apology he hasn’t said yet. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg around his hip so he can press himself flush against you, letting you feel exactly how badly he needs you, how hard he already is just from kissing you like his life depends on it. you gasp into his mouth at the pressure and the picture rattles again, louder this time, and you pull back just enough to glance at it, breath coming in shallow pants. he follows your gaze, sees the photo shaking, and lets out a wrecked little laugh against your swollen lips (half apology, half promise) before his eyes lock back on yours, dark and wild.
“bedroom,” he says, voice rough and urgent, already standing and tugging you up with him. “now. i need to show you. words aren’t enough. i need you to feel it.”
the second the door shuts behind you he’s on you again, backing you toward the wall while he tugs impatiently at your dress, cursing under his breath when it catches on your hair. “fuck, why do clothes hate me tonight,” he mutters, voice strained, finally yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere across the room. your panties are next; he practically rips them down your thighs, kneeling to drag them off your ankles, palms dragging up the backs of your legs slow and reverent, like he’s praying. “this dress,” he growls, mouth on your neck, teeth scraping. “been thinking about peeling it off you since you walked downstairs. you looked so fucking beautiful and i was too stupid to tell you.” he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct and he groans, grinding against you so you feel exactly how he is. “feel that? that’s what looking at my future wife does to me. every time. still.”
he turns to hold you up against the wall and just looks at you, chest heaving, eyes raking over you like he’s seeing you for the first time in months. “jesus christ,” he whispers, reverent, almost angry at himself. “how the hell did i go a single day without touching you? without tasting you? i’m the dumbest motherfucker alive. look at you. you’re fucking perfect and i left you thinking you weren’t everything to me.”
you start to answer but he kisses you again, harder this time, swallowing the sound. it’s the kind of kiss that shuts your brain off, that says mine without words, that says i’m sorry and i love you and never again all at once. his tongue slides against yours slow and deep, tasting you like he’s memorizing you all over again.
he walks with you, putting you down until your knees hit the mattress and then he’s pushing you down gently, climbing over you. his big hands gather your wrists and pin them above your head, careful but firm, and he stares down at you like you’re not just a person but his favorite story—one he’s been rereading since the day he met you and still keeps finding new parts to fall in love with.
“gonna show you exactly how much i want you,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and rough. “gonna take my time. you deserve to feel it. every second of it. gonna worship you until the only thing in your head is how much i fucking love you. gonna make you feel every single thing i should’ve shown you today,” he whispers against your lips, voice ragged, eyes locked on yours like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks. “every single thing i should’ve shown you yesterday, last week, every damn day i let you feel alone. swear to god, honey, if you let me, i’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. every morning, every night, every second in between, you’re gonna know exactly how wanted you are. how loved. how fucking necessary you are to me.”
he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing your collarbone before he moves lower. he mouths at the swell of your breast over your bra until you’re arching up, then tugs the cups down with his teeth so he can get to your skin. his tongue flicks over your nipple and you whimper, the sound high and needy. he spends forever there, switching sides, sucking dark marks into your skin like he’s trying to write his name across your chest in a language only he can read. he bites down gently and you cry out, hips bucking, and he soothes the sting with his tongue immediately. “should’ve had my hands on you in the car,” he murmurs, nipping some more. “should’ve pulled over and fucked you in the backseat just to hear you scream my name where anyone could hear. should’ve introduced you to every person today as my fiancée and then spent the whole dinner with my hand up your thigh reminding you who you belong to.”
“still with me, sweetie?” he asks, voice gravel-rough, eyes searching yours.
you nod, but he shakes his head, thumb brushing your bottom lip.
“words, honey. need to hear you.”
“yes,” you manage, voice shaky. “please, joe. need you.”
“such a good girl,” he praises, and the sound you make is embarrassing, a broken little whine that makes him smirk, dark and pleased. “my good girl. been neglecting you. not happening again.”
he slides down your body, hands spreading your thighs wide and just looks for a long moment, cursing low and filthy under his breath. “prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” he says, voice cracking a little. “and it’s mine. been mine for years and i still can’t believe you let me have it. still thank god every day you chose me. you're gonna be mine in every way. forever.”
he peppers soft kisses across your stomach, lips dragging slow, worshipful, lingering over the faint stretch marks on your hips, the little scar from when you were eight, every imperfection he’s kissed a thousand times and still finds new ways to love. he kisses lower, lower, until he’s nuzzling the crease of your thigh, breathing you in like he’s been deprived of oxygen.
“smell so fucking good,” he groans, voice muffled against your skin. “been dreaming about this. about you. about how wet you get for me.”
when he finally licks a slow stripe up your center you cry out, hips bucking off the bed. he pins your hips down with one forearm across your lower belly and does it again, slower, savoring every shudder. he circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, teasing until your thighs are shaking around his ears. when he finally wraps his lips around it and sucks gently you see stars, back bowing off the mattress.
“joe—fuck—”
“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “say my name. wanna hear it. wanna hear how good i make you feel.”
his hand slides up your stomach, finding yours and lacing your fingers together while he works you over with his mouth. every time you get close he backs off just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, until you’re begging, voice cracked and desperate, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “this hand,” he says, breaking away to kiss your knuckles, your ring. “this hand is gonna wear my wedding band one day. gonna hold our babies. gonna hold mine when we’re old and gray. you’re mine for eternity.”
“joe, please—need to come—please—”
he pulls back just long enough to speak against your slick skin, breath hot. “i know, sweetie. i got you. not letting you go without it again. but i need you to know—this is mine. this pussy, these sounds, the way you shake when you’re about to come—it’s all mine. and i’m yours. completely fucking yours.”
two fingers slide inside you easy—you’re so wet it’s obscene—and he groans like he’s the one getting tortured. he curls them slow, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and keeps that same lazy rhythm with his tongue on your clit.
“there we go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl. feel how much i want you? could do this for hours. love tasting you when you’re all worked up for me. love how sweet you get when you’ve been missing me. love how you clench around my fingers when i talk dirty to you.”
he picks up the pace just enough to have you gasping, then slows again, adding a third finger and stretching you open while he watches your face like it’s the only play that matters. he pulls his fingers almost all the way out, then slides them back in slow, rubbing your clit nice and slow with his thumb while he keeps going with the filthy praise like he’s not knuckle-deep inside you.
“look at you,” he whispers, voice cracked open with awe, eyes shining like he’s staring at something holy. his hand slides up your thighs slow, reverent, thumbs tracing the faint stretch marks he’s kissed a thousand times like they’re constellations he mapped himself. “taking me so pretty… god, honey, you’re the prettiest, most perfect girl in the world.” he leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your heart, lingers there like he’s listening to it beat his name. “there’s no galaxy or lifetime where i don’t want you like this, dripping for me, shaking for me, letting me love you exactly how you deserve.”
his forehead drops to yours, breath mingling, curls tickling your skin. “i’d lose my fucking mind if you weren’t here to keep me grounded. you’re the only thing that makes sense when everything else is falling apart. you’re my center, angel. my gravity. my home.” he cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek like you’re something infinitely fragile and infinitely his. “every time i look at this ring on your finger i remember, remember how the sea stopped moving the second you said yes. i remember thinking i’d never feel anything bigger than that moment… but then i remember every single night before that moment and every single morning after, every time i’ve fallen asleep with you curled against my chest, every sunrise i’ve watched with your head on my shoulder, every quiet 3 a.m. when the house is silent and i can hear your heartbeat next to mine. i remember every ordinary tuesday when you kissed me goodbye before practice and every random sunday when we never left the bed. all of it, every second we’ve ever stolen just for us, and i realize then wasn’t the peak. it was only the beginning. the real forever is every breath we’ve already shared and still get to share, every time you let me back in even when i’m too dumb to deserve it, every morning you choose me again. and i swear, baby, i’m choosing you right back, harder every single day.”
he kisses you soft and slow, like he’s sealing every word against your lips. “i’m never letting you forget this again. never letting you feel anything less than completely, stupidly, overwhelmingly loved.”
he crooks his fingers harder and your hips jerk, a broken sound tearing from your throat. he doesn’t stop talking, just keeps that perfect, relentless pressure inside you while his voice drops to that low, reverent rasp that always undoes you.
“i’m so fucking obsessed with you it scares me sometimes,” he murmurs his face leaving your and trailing close to your thigh, eyes locked on yours still like you’re the only thing keeping him sane. “i’m in meetings trying to focus on film and still end up replaying the way you laughed at breakfast, the way you say my name when you’re sleepy, every little thing. every time we’re out somewhere and i catch some guy looking at you too long i have to bite my tongue so hard it bleeds because all i want to do is pull you against me and kiss you stupid right there in front of the whole world so they know exactly who you belong to, who gets to take you home. every single play i call, every hit i take, every second on that field, i’m playing for the clock to run down so i can get back here to you. i’m playing for the life waiting at home, for the girl who wears my name and still chooses me even when i forget how to choose her back. i don’t deserve you waiting up, don’t deserve you loving me through every mistake, but god, baby, i’m never gonna stop trying to earn it. never gonna stop trying to be the man who deserves to come home to you.”
you tilt your head up, pretending to think, even as you’re clenching around his fingers just to watch him falter. “oh, so that’s why you’ve been so good at ignoring me lately?” you tease, voice breathy and sweet. “saving up all that obsession for the poor guys who dare look at me for two seconds? cute. real cute, burrow. maybe next time you’re too busy to touch me for weeks you can just rent a billboard downtown: ‘property of joe—look and you die.’ would’ve saved me a lot of wondering if you even remembered my name.” you roll your hips slow, deliberate, smirking when his jaw ticks. “or maybe—just a thought—you could try reminding me in person instead of growling at strangers like a possessive caveman who forgot how to use his words… or his hands… or his—”
he cuts you off with a low, dangerous sound and another deep curl of his fingers that has your bratty little speech dissolving into a whimper. “keep talking, baby,” he mutters, eyes dark and delighted. “i’ve got all night to turn that attitude into my name on repeat.”
you gasp, trying to hold onto the last thread of your attitude even as your thighs start trembling around his shoulders. “you’re real proud of yourself right now, huh?” you manage, voice wobbling but still sharp at the edges. “acting like you can just—oh fuck—just flip a switch and i’ll forget the last month of radio silence. newsflash, burrow, possession is ninety percent follow-through and you’ve been slacking on the—”
he cuts you off with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue that makes your hips jerk clean off the mattress. when he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips are shiny, eyes glittering with that cocky, adoring look that always ruins you.
“this pussy was made for me,” he growls, voice rough and reverent all at once, curling his fingers slow and perfect so you feel every word in your spine. “every single sound you make when you’re falling apart, every shiver, every time you clench around me like you can’t get close enough, mine. you’ve always been mine, baby, since the first night you let me touch you, since the first morning you woke up smiling in my bed, since the second you said yes and every second after. you’re mine when you’re laughing at my stupid jokes, mine when you’re mad at me, mine when you’re wearing my shirts and planning our forever. and i’m yours, every inch of me, every thought in my head, every beat of this heart that only knows how to beat for you. i was an idiot for ever letting you forget it, but i’m here now, and i’m never leaving again. say it, sweetie. tell me you’re mine, tell me you feel it, because i need to hear it while i’m buried inside the only home i’ve ever wanted.”
he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, eyes dark and glassy, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.
“tell me something, baby…” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word, fingers still buried deep and unmoving like he’s holding your entire world hostage. “when i was being a fucking idiot, too wrapped up in rehab and film to take care of my girl… did you ever touch yourself thinking about me?”
you swallow hard, cheeks burning even though he’s literally inside you right now. “and if i did?” you challenge, trying to keep your voice steady even while your hips twitch for more.
his eyes flare, possessive and wrecked all at once. “then i wanna hear every detail,” he rasps, slowly dragging his fingers out and pushing back in like a threat and a promise. “wanna know exactly how you fucked yourself on those pretty fingers pretending they were mine. wanna know if you said my name when you came, if you cried because it wasn’t enough, if you hated me a little for not being here to watch. tell me, sweetheart. because every single time you did? that was still mine. you were still mine. and i’m about to spend the rest of my life making up for every second i left you needy.”
you bite your lip so hard it stings, but the words spill out anyway, raw and breathless against his waiting mouth.
“yes—” you gasp, the word breaking on a moan as his fingers shift inside you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every syllable you give him. “almost every night you came home late—” another broken breath, hips jerking when he curls them just right, “—and fell asleep facing the wall… fuck, joe—” you swallow hard, thighs trembling around his hand. “i’d wait until your breathing evened out,” you whisper, voice hitching as he presses deeper, “then slip my hand under the covers and pretend—oh god—pretend it was you.” a soft, desperate whimper slips out when he circles that spot again. “sometimes i couldn’t even stay in our bed,” you manage, nails digging into his shoulders, “i’d sneak down the hall to the guest room like a guilty teenager—mmh—or lock myself in the shower so the water would drown me out—” your breath catches on a sob-moan as his thumb brushes your clit, “pressing my face against the tile while i got myself off thinking about you pinning me to that same wall months ago.” he crooks his fingers hard and you cry out, back arching. “i’d come biting the pillow—” another broken moan, “or my own fist, or nothing at all because it felt so good and so fucking empty at the same time—” your voice cracks completely, tears and pleasure tangling together. “and yeah, sometimes i hated you a little for making me hide in my own house just to feel something,” you pant, rocking helplessly against his hand, “but i still whispered your name every single time i fell apart—quiet, desperate, pissed off—because even when you forgot me, my body wouldn’t let me forget who it belongs to.”
his fingers are still buried deep inside you, unmoving now, like he’s too wrecked to even remember how to breathe, let alone pull out. it’s like the air just got sucked out of the room. his eyes darken to something feral and heartbroken at the same time, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. a low, wounded sound rips out of his throat, half growl, half sob, and his hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough that you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow.
“jesus fucking christ,” he rasps, voice shredded, forehead dropping to your stomach like he’s praying for forgiveness against your skin. his shoulders shake once, twice, and when he looks back up his lashes are wet. “you were hiding in our own house… sneaking off to the guest room, locking the shower door… touching this perfect pussy alone because i made you think you couldn’t have me?” his fingers curl suddenly, punishing and pleading, pressing right against that spot that makes your back arch and your breath hitch. “baby, i’m—” his voice splinters completely, “i’m so fucking sorry. i hate myself for every single time you had to do this without me.”
he drags you down so you’re chest to chest, fingers still buried to the hilt like he’s terrified if he lets go you’ll disappear, burying his face in your neck, breath hitching against your skin. “never again” he swears, hoarse and wrecked, hand rocking just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still yours.. “you hear me? never fucking again. from now on you want me at 3 a.m., you take me. you want me in the shower, the guest room, the goddamn driveway, you take me. i’m yours to love whenever you need, however you need. i owe you a thousand orgasms just for the ones i left you crying through alone.” his hips roll up slow, deliberate, letting you feel exactly how your confession made him. “and starting right now i’m paying that debt with interest, sweetheart. every single one.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and wrecked, thumb brushing the tears from your cheek like they’re burning him. “let me hear it, baby,” he whispers, voice raw and pleading, fingers curling slow and deep inside you like he’s coaxing the words out with every stroke. “tell me again. tell me while i’m right here, while i’m never leaving again. i need it like air.”
“yours,” you sob, the word ripping out of you like it’s been waiting weeks to be set free, tears slipping hot down your temples into your hair. “i’m yours, joe, always yours—only yours—please—” your voice cracks on the plea, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth, fingers twisted so tight in his curls it has to sting. “i never stopped being yours even when you forgot to look at me, even when i felt invis– i was still yours, still waiting, still so stupidly in love with you it hurts. please don’t make me wait anymore, please let me feel it, let me feel you, let me have you back—” another broken moan spills out as he sucks your clit just right and the last of your pride crumbles. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m yours—”
“good girl,” he growls, the praise rumbling dark and possessive against your skin, and then there’s no more teasing, no more mercy. he sucks your clit hard, relentless, fingers driving into you fast and deep, curling exactly where you need until the pleasure crashes over you like a wave you can’t outrun. you come with his name tearing out of your throat, raw, broken, desperate, clenching around his fingers so tight your whole body shakes with it. he moans right into you, the vibration dragging it out longer, filthier, until your legs are trembling around his shoulders and tears slip hot down your temples into your hair. he doesn’t stop until you’re boneless, gasping, chest heaving, every aftershock making you twitch against his tongue like he’s wringing the last of the loneliness out of you with every gentle lick. only then does he ease off, pressing one final soft kiss to your clit like a promise before crawling back up your body, eyes shining with awe and apology and so much love it steals whatever breath you had left.
he kisses you deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you taste exactly how much he missed you, and you’re already chasing his mouth, hands frantic as they slide down his body. you palm him through the thin fabric of his pants and the second you squeeze he hisses into the kiss, hips bucking helplessly into your hand, a broken “fuck, baby—” spilling against your lips like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
“off,” you whisper, voice wrecked and needy, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it’s personally offended you.
he stills for half a second, smirking down at you with that lazy, infuriating cockiness. “off? that’s the best you got right now, baby? thought you were mad at me. where’s all that pretty attitude gone?”
you glare up at him, or try to through the haze, and give the fabric another impatient yank. “joe, i swear to god, if you don’t get these off in the next three seconds—”
he laughs under his breath, low and fond, finally hooking his thumbs in and shoving them down. “yes ma’am,” he teases, kicking them off the bed with zero ceremony.
the second he’s bare you wrap your hand around him, hot and hard and perfect in your palm, and he drops his forehead to yours instantly, a broken groan rumbling out of his chest.
“honey—fuck—” he breathes, the name slipping out shaky and raw, like you just stole every ounce of air he had left.
“want you inside me,” you say, voice wrecked. “now. please. need to feel you.”
he lines up, nudging your entrance, and pauses, breathing ragged. “is this okay?” he asks, voice strained but deadly serious, eyes searching yours, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me you want this. tell me you know how much i love you.”
you cup his face, thumbs brushing the dampness at the corners of his eyes you pretend not to notice. “i know,” you breathe, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “i know, joe. i feel it. i love you too—so much it scares me sometimes. i want you. i’ve always wanted you. please.”
he pushes in slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. when he bottoms out you both groan, the sound punched out of him. he stays still for a second, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours, breathing each other in.
“feel how perfect we fit?” he whispers, voice raw and trembling against your ear, one big hand sliding down to lace his fingers through yours and press them into the pillow beside your head. “feel me all the way inside you, baby? that’s where i belong. that’s my home. right there, buried in you, as deep as i can get.” his hips give the tiniest roll, just enough to make you both shudder, and he breathes out like he’s confessing a secret he’s kept for years. “that’s how much i love you—so deep it’s carved into my fucking bones, etched into every breath i take, every second i’m alive. you’re my home, honey. you’re the only place i ever want to be.”
then he starts moving—long, deep strokes that have you wrapping your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his back. he pins your wrists again, lacing your fingers with his, and fucks you like he’s trying to make up for every missed second of the last month. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady rhythm and neither of you care.
you turn your head and bury your face in his neck, kissing the sweat-slick skin there, sucking a mark under his jaw while he hits that spot inside you over and over. your teeth graze his throat and he shudders, pace faltering for a second.
“love you,” you mumble against his throat, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “love you so much. don’t ever leave me out again. promise me.”
“never,” he growls, hips snapping harder. “never fucking again. you’re my priority. my everything. i swear on my life.”
he slows just enough to untangle one hand from yours, lifts his pinky in the dim light between you, eyes locked on yours, raw and open and desperate.
“pinky promise,” he whispers, voice cracking on the words like he’s five years old again and this is the most sacred oath he knows how to give.
you hook your pinky around his without hesitation, the tiny, childish gesture somehow heavier than any vow he’s ever made. he squeezes tight, presses his forehead to yours, and thrusts deep again like he’s sealing it inside you.
you can tell he’s right there, jaw locked, eyes blown black, breath ragged against your neck. he tries to speak, voice cracking on the single word “shit—”, but you beat him to it, tightening your legs around his waist and dragging him impossibly deeper.
you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let the words spill out filthy and breathless.
“did you like going all these nights without me, baby?” you whisper, clenching around him hard just to watch his eyes roll back. “you forgot about me for weeks… poor thing, your testosterone probably hit a record high, huh? bet you were aching, dying to come home and… i’m so mad i should be, but it’s okay… we all have our moments…” another deliberate squeeze, another broken sound ripping from his throat. “look at you now… my fiancé finally remembered who he was… remembered who he belongs to.”
that’s all it takes.
he buries himself deep and comes with your name on his lips, pulsing hot inside you, hips jerking as he empties himself. the feeling tips you over again and you follow him, clinging to him while you both shake apart, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents.
after, he doesn’t pull out right away. just collapses half on top of you, face tucked into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there while you both catch your breath. his weight is perfect, grounding, and you wrap your arms around him tight, like if you let go he’ll disappear.
you hold his face in your hands eventually and kiss him tender and slow, trying to pour everything you feel into it—relief, love, forgiveness, need. he kisses back like he’s drowning and you’re air, like he’s trying to say i’m sorry with every stroke of his tongue.
eventually he slips out and rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest. his fingers trace mindless patterns on your back, up and down your spine, over the marks he left.
he presses his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s scared the moment will vanish if he lets go. “not one more time,” he whispers, voice scraped raw, lips brushing your temple with every word. “i swear on every single day i get to wake up next to you, i'm not letting that happen.”
you laugh, soft and watery, the sound muffled against the warm skin of his neck. “i’m not going anywhere, joe. i just need you to come back to me when you’re here.”
he pulls back just enough to cradle your face in both hands, thumbs stroking slow across your cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of your tears. his eyes are red, shining, impossibly gentle. “i’m here. i’m so here. you’re my priority, honey. always were, even when i was too stupid to act like it. football’s just background noise. you’re the song i want stuck in my head for the rest of my life.”
he kisses you slow, tender, like he’s tasting the words he didn’t say soon enough, i’m sorry, i see you, i love you, stay. when he pulls away his forehead stays against yours, noses brushing, sharing the same shaky breath.
“you’re the thing i’m building everything else around,” he murmurs, voice thick. “every loss, every win, every waking moment, every single tomorrow. i lost my way for a minute, but i’m home now. you’re my home.”
he shifts, guiding you until you’re half-draped across his chest, one of his hands sliding down to lace your fingers together, the ring on your hand pressed right over his heart. he brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles, then the diamond, then the center of your palm like he’s sealing every promise against your skin.
“happy thanksgiving, future mrs. burrow,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last two words, eyes shining with everything he still can’t fit into sentences. “thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am.”
you curl closer, ear over his heartbeat, feeling it slow and steady beneath you like it’s finally calm because you’re back in his arms. he wraps you up tight, legs tangled, one hand stroking your back in slow, endless circles, the other still holding yours against his chest.
you fall asleep like that, his lips resting against your forehead, your name the last quiet prayer on his breath before the world fades out.
joe stays awake long after, counting the soft puffs of your breath against his only lullaby, holding you so close it’s like he’s trying to fuse the two of you together so nothing can ever slip between you again.
the room is dark except for the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table bleeding through the crack in the night, and in that dim gold light he lets himself fall apart.
he knew something was wrong the second the season swallowed him whole, but he lied to himself every single day, told himself you were fine, told himself the quiet in the house was just exhaustion, told himself the way you stopped reaching for him in the middle of the night was nothing. he felt it in his bones that weren’t breaking on the field but were cracking somewhere deeper: every practice that ran long and left him hollow, every film session where he stared at the screen and saw your face instead of routes, every night he came home and kissed your temple like it was enough when you were starving for more.
he felt empty and didn’t know why until you stood in the living room with tears on your cheeks and the ring catching the lights like it was screaming at him, and you said i feel like you don’t want me anymore and the words punched straight through his ribs and shattered something he didn’t even know could break.
he replays it on a hundred times, the crack in your voice, the way your hands shook, the way you looked at the floor like you were scared his face would confirm every fear you’d been carrying alone and every single replay feels like taking a blindside hit he never saw coming. the strongest guy in the stadium, and he didn’t notice his entire world was slipping out of his hands.
he presses his face into your hair and breathes you in until his lungs hurt, tears slipping silent and hot into your curls because he almost lost this, almost lost you, and the worst part is he did it to himself. he let the noise get louder than your heartbeat, let the game matter more than his girl. he was dying out there every day and too stupid to realize the cure was asleep in his bed waiting for him to remember how to come home.
he swears it against your skin, over and over, a vow quieter than a whisper and heavier than any contract he’s ever signed: never again. he’ll be late to meetings, he’ll skip film, he’ll throw his phone in the fucking river if that’s what it takes. he’ll wake you up with his mouth somewhere between your neck or your lips on random tuesdays, carry you to the kitchen at 2 a.m. because you mentioned craving cereal, wear your name where the whole world can see it if that’s what keeps you from ever doubting again. whatever it takes.
he tightens his arms until there’s no space left between your heart and his, feels the steady thump under your ribs sync with his own, and makes the promise one more time, this one out loud, even though you’re asleep, because he needs the universe to hear it.
“i choose you,” he breathes into the dark, voice cracking on every word. “every day. every second. forever starts right now, baby. and i’m never letting you forget it again.”
───
the next morning you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet—chocolate and butter and warm sugar. the bed’s empty but still warm where he was, sheets tangled around your legs. you hear clinking downstairs and the low hum of music—some old r&b playlist he knows you love, the one you played the very first night you ever stayed over. you pad downstairs in nothing but his t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh, and find him at the stove in low-slung gray sweats, flipping chocolate chip pancakes like it’s the most normal morning in the world.
there’s a tray on the counter already loaded—fresh coffee in your favorite mug, orange juice in the glass with the little chipped handle you refuse to throw away, crispy bacon, strawberries sliced into perfect little hearts because he’s a sap, warm syrup in a little pitcher. he turns when he hears your bare feet on the hardwood and smiles soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from the stove.
“morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still raspy with sleep. “go back to bed, i was gonna bring it up. wanted to wake you up properly.”
you ignore him completely and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your face between his shoulder blades. he smells like maple and warm skin and home. you breathe him in and feel something inside your chest unclench, finally.
“made your favorite,” he says, flipping another pancake. “extra chocolate chips because i’m trying to bribe my way out of the doghouse. and because i like the way you lick the extra chocolate off your fingers. and your lips. and my–.”
you slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish, and lean up to kiss the back of his neck to stop him, right over the little mark you left last night. “you’re already out. way out.”
he makes a muffled, offended sound against your palm, eyes going wide and innocent. you pull your hand away just enough for him to speak.
“why’d you cut me off?” he whines, spinning around with the spatula still in his hand, cheeks flushed. “i was about to say something so sweet.”
“sure you were,” you tease, nipping the same spot you just kissed. “that’s exactly what it sounded like.”
he turns the stove off, letting go of the spatula and lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. he steps between your legs and cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks, eyes searching yours.
“how’re you feeling?” he asks, voice low, serious. “sore? need anything? i wasn’t exactly gentle last night. or this morning in my head like fifty times already.”
“i’m perfect,” you say, leaning into his touch. “last night was… everything. this morning is everything.”
“yeah,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. “it was. you have no idea how much i needed to hear you say my name like that again. needed to feel you come apart on me, needed to remind you who you belong to. who i belong to.”
he kisses you slow, morning-sweet, tasting like coffee and chocolate and him. “i wrote you something,” he mumbles against your lips, suddenly shy. he reaches behind him and pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his sweats, cheeks pink.
you raise an eyebrow. “you wrote me a letter? joseph lee burrow, quarterback heartthrob, wrote me a love letter?”
“shut up, i’m being romantic,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. “i couldn’t sleep after you passed out. needed to get it out. needed you to have it in my handwriting so you can read it whenever you start to doubt again. which you never will, because i’m never giving you a reason.”
you unfold it. it’s three whole pages stapled in his messy quarterback handwriting—apologies that make your throat tight, promises that make your chest ache, little memories from the past four years that make you smile through tears. he wrote about the first time you fell asleep on his chest during a movie, how he knew right then he was done for. about the way you laugh at his stupid jokes even when they’re not funny. about how you made his house start to feel like a home when you moved in instead of just a place he crashes between games. about how he replays the sound of you saying his name when you come through the door after work, how it gets him through the worst days. about how he can’t wait to marry you, how much he loves the ring on your finger and the future babies in your belly and grow old with you on the porch of the house you’ll pick out together. over and over, in bigger and bigger letters like he ran out of room for how huge it feels, he keeps writing i’m so thankful for you—thank you for choosing me, thank you for staying when i didn’t deserve it, thank you for being my safe place, thank you for letting me love you, thank you for waiting for me to remember how lucky i am, thank you for every single day you give me, i don’t know what i did to deserve you but i’m thankful every breath that you’re mine—and at the very bottom there’s that very bad but heartbreakingly sweet stick-figure drawing of the two of you at the altar, him in a crooked bow tie, you in a scribbled veil and triangle dress, both of you with giant heart eyes and huge grins and little hearts exploding above your heads like he physically couldn’t fit all the love on the page, and underneath in the tiniest, neatest letters he could manage: happy (late) thanksgiving, baby—thank you for being the best thing i’ve ever been grateful for. i’ll never stop saying it.
you laugh, eyes stinging, and he watches your face like it’s the super bowl and fourth quarter all at once.
“i love you,” you say, pulling him in by his shirt. “so much. thank you.”
“love you more,” he whispers. “and i’m gonna spend every day making sure you never doubt it again. starting with feeding you in bed, then eating you for dessert.”
he carries the tray upstairs like you’re something precious, sets it on the bed, and climbs in after you. you eat breakfast tangled together, feeding each other strawberries and licking syrup off fingers, talking about everything and nothing. he tells you about the rookie who keeps asking if you’re single because he saw you on his ig once and joe almost fought him in the weight room. you tell him about the ridiculous thirst tweets you saw about him and he pretends to be mad but mostly looks smug, ears red.
“they don’t even know,” he mutters, sucking syrup off your thumb slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours. “don’t know how you sound when you’re begging. how you look when you’re riding me. how you taste when you come on my tongue. how tight you get when i’m fucking you and telling you you’re mine. all mine.”
you shiver and he notices, smirks, already thinking of some unholy things.
when the plates are empty he takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand, then pulls you back down into the sheets, kissing your shoulder. “round two for breakfast?” he asks, voice low and already rough again, hand sliding up your thigh and under the t-shirt. “or should i just skip to dessert and eat this pretty pussy again?”
you roll over and straddle him, grinning. “thought you’d never ask.”
he’s already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats, and you grind down slow, watching his eyes flutter. he groans and grips your hips, guiding you in a lazy roll that has you both breathing harder.
you start talking the second you’re settled on top of him, words spilling out between little laughs and gasps. “wait, did you hear your aunt linda last night? she cornered me about the venue thing for like twenty minutes and then your cousin megan told me she already booked her flights for june twenty-seventh even though we haven’t even picked a date yet, and—”
he makes a desperate little noise against your stomach, mouthing at the hem of the t-shirt. “honey,” he mumbles, voice muffled, trying to nudge your hips up.
“hmm?”
“angel,” he says again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your lower belly, “as much as i love you and your pretty voice and literally everything that comes out of your mouth… can we stop talking about wedding talk for just, like, five minutes? i’m trying to have a experience here and it’s got nothing to do with venues.”
you smirk down at him. “why? i thought you wanted to marry me.”
“i do,” he says instantly, eyes going soft for half a second before the mischief comes back. “but right now i’m trying to worship at a very different altar.”
you burst out laughing. “oh my god, you’re disgusting.”
“disgustingly in love with you,” he corrects, then hooks his arms under your thighs and drags you up his chest in one smooth move. “now c’mere and let me show you my vows, future mrs. burrow.”
he buries his mouth between your legs like the conversation never happened. the first slow, deliberate lick rips whatever smart comeback you had right out of you; your hands fly to his hair and whatever you were saying about centerpieces dissolves into a broken moan.
“take this off,” he growls a minute later, voice wrecked and impatient, tugging at the t-shirt still bunched around your waist. you yank it over your head and toss it somewhere across the room, and his hands are on your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re rocking against his tongue faster.
“want you,” you whisper, reaching down to shove his sweats off. he lifts his hips to help, and then he’s bare underneath you, thick and hot against your thigh.
you sink down on him slow, both of you moaning at the stretch. he fills you perfectly, like he was made for you, and you brace your hands on his chest as you start to move.
“fuck, baby,” he breathes, voice cracking like he’s praying, eyes fixed on where you’re joined like it’s the holiest thing he’s ever witnessed. his hands slide up your thighs, reverent, thumbs tracing the little dimples at the tops like he’s reading an alphabet that spells out forever. “look at you… taking me so well. always so good for me. my perfect girl. my future wife.”
he lifts one of your hands from his chest, moves it flat over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s hammering, then brings your ring finger to his lips and kisses it.
“gonna watch you walk down the aisle in whatever dress you pick and know this exact feeling is waiting for me at the end of it,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep so you feel every inch of the promise. “gonna stand there trying not to cry like an idiot while you become my wife, knowing this, this heart, this life, it’s all mine forever. and i’m yours, baby. every day, every night, every breath. i’m so fucking in love with you it doesn’t fit inside my chest anymore.”
his words settle warm in your ribs, and you answer them the only way you can right now—by moving, slow and deliberate, riding him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of his promises inside your body. you start gentle, savoring every drag, every time he slides home and your toes curl against the sheets. his hands never stop touching you, roaming like he’s scared to miss a single inch: up your thighs, tracing the curve of your hips, gliding over your stomach, cupping your breasts with reverent palms, thumbs brushing your nipples until your breath stutters and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning his name too loud.
he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back and pulling you chest to chest. the angle changes and you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. he kisses you deep, swallowing the sound, then trails his mouth down your neck, sucking another mark right over your pulse.
“love how you feel,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. “love how you look when you’re riding me. love the little sounds you make when i’m deep inside you. love that i get to wake up to this. to you. love that you’re gonna be the mother of my kids one day. love everything about you.”
you speed up, chasing the heat building low in your belly, and he meets you thrust for thrust, hips snapping up. the room fills with the slap of skin on skin, your breathy moans, his low groans.
“touch yourself,” he says, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you fall apart on my cock. wanna feel you milk me when you come.”
you slide a hand between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and he watches like he’s starving, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
“that’s it,” he praises, voice shaking. “make yourself come on my cock, baby. wanna feel it. wanna feel you squeeze me while you say my name. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“you,” you gasp, so close. “belongs to you, joe—only you—fuck—”
it doesn’t take long—you’re already close from the way he’s looking at you, from the way he’s filling you over and over, from the way he’s holding you like you’re the only thing that matters. you come with a broken cry, clenching around him hard, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he spills inside you again, arms locked tight around your waist, face buried in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.
you collapse together, sweaty and breathless, his face buried in your neck. he presses lazy kisses there, mumbling nonsense about how perfect you are, how he’s never letting you go, how he’s the luckiest bastard alive.
later, after you’ve dozed tangled together, he wakes you with soft kisses down your spine. you’re on your stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, and he’s tracing the marks he left last night with his tongue like he’s reading a newspaper.
“morning again,” he whispers against the small of your back, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, something that sounds like regret and wonder all at once. “think i owe you one more apology. maybe a hundred more. maybe a lifetime of them.”
you hum, still half-lost in dreams, and he presses a soft kiss to the base of your spine, then another higher, trailing slow, reverent kisses up the line of your back until he reaches your shoulder. he tugs you gently onto your side so you’re facing him, pulls the blanket higher around both of you, and tucks you against his chest like you’re something infinitely precious.
“gonna keep you right here all day,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and warm. “gonna order whatever you want, watch whatever dumb movie you pick, hold you until you forget what distance even feels like. until the only thing in your head is how much i love you. how stupid i was. how i’m never taking a single second of you for granted again.”
you laugh softly, breathless, curling closer. “promise?”
“promise,” he says, pressing the word into your forehead like a vow. “starting now. and tomorrow. and every single day after that. you’re my forever, baby. and i’m yours.”
and he does.
he keeps the world outside the bedroom door all day. he makes you laugh with terrible impressions of his uncles from yesterday, feeds you leftover pie straight from the fridge while you sit on the counter in his hoodie, lets you pick the cheesiest christmas movie on netflix and quotes every line just to watch your eyes light up. he traces the marks he left on your neck like they’re constellations he’s proud to have drawn, kisses every one of them soft and slow, whispering “mine” and “i’m sorry” and “i love you” in the same breath.
when the sun starts to set he pulls you into his lap on the couch, wraps a blanket around both of you, and just holds you while the sky turns pink and gold outside the windows. his fingers never stop moving—drawing circles on your back, threading through yours, brushing your hair from your face so he can kiss your temple again and again.
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he still hasn’t said tonight, fingers laced through yours and pressed over his heart so you can feel how hard it’s beating for you. “and i’ve already got plans for us, baby, real ones. booked a cabin in lake tahoe the second i woke up—cozy, middle of nowhere, big fireplace, maybe snowed in for a whole week with nothing but you and me and whatever we feel like doing to each other under a million blankets.” he gives you that look, slow, filthy, promising, the one that says he’s already pictured you naked on a bearskin rug at least fifty times. “then after that, i found time and i’m flying us straight to your parents’ house because i miss your mom’s pumpkin bars like crazy and i wanna sit at their kitchen counter and let your dad grill me about wedding stuff while i hold your hand for comfort.”
you snort, poking his chest. “you don’t like my pumpkin bars?”
he grins, nipping at your fingertip. “i love yours. love the way you dance around the kitchen in my t-shirt while you make them, love licking the batter off your fingers when you let me. but i also love my mother-in-law and the way she sneaks me extras when you aren’t looking, so i’m playing both sides here.” he kisses your wrist, soft and reverent. “point is, i’ve got a whole calendar planned of just-us days already locked in. no excuses, no schedule conflicts. just me proving every single day that you’re the only plan i give a damn about.”
“you know i’m never letting you forget this, right?” you murmur into the quiet, voice soft but edged with that familiar bratty spark. “you pulled that shit for a whole month, maybe longer burrow. i’m gonna be crazy about it for years. every time you’re late coming home i’m side-eyeing you. every time you look at your phone too long at dinner i’m kicking you under the table. i’m gonna be the most annoying, clingy, possessive wife ever and you’re just gonna take it because you owe me.”
he laughs, low and wrecked and so relieved it cracks in the middle, pulling you impossibly closer. “good,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing skin like he can’t stop. “be crazy. be annoying. be possessive as hell. mark me up, kick me, glare at me—do whatever you need, baby. just don’t ever stop being mine. i can take it. i want it. i just want you.”
you tilt your head up, catch his eyes in the dark, and smirk. “oh, i’m yours. but you’re about to find out exactly what that means when i’m the one who’s been waiting.”
he groans, half-laugh, half-prayer, and kisses you stupid all over again.
and this time you know without a doubt that tomorrow he’ll still be right here—probably with new bruises from your teeth and a grin that says he wouldn’t have it any other way.
you never could forget it. you never will.
taglist (comment or send an ask to be added!): @softburrow @joeyshiesty0 @savaneafricaine @babygirlburrow @joesheisty9 @irishmanwhore @nanouslibrary @desperate-and-broken @quinnintheabyss @lilfreakjez @nineverce @herbertswomen @averyoceanblvd @piastririots @mruizsworld @renegadebirch @harryweeniee @joeybisbootiful @britt217 @neyessibff
