Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of marijuana use, Joe is a part of the sassy man apocalypse, fluff, angst (unserious), mention of sex (no smut)
a/n: This one has been in the works for a while but we all know the vibes have been atrocious. BUT, I’m on this site to have fun and this was so fun to write! I hope you have fun reading it! Let me know what you think <3
Thank you @coasttocold for this idea & for hyping me up as always. I hope I did it justice! (and sorry for the wait hehe)
Joe’s default on a night out with you is to be the responsible one, to let you have a good time, to get you home unscathed. Sometimes he’ll nurse a single drink for the entire night, other times he’ll have one or two before he switches to Sprite. Either way, he’s in charge of the logistics. He’s driving, or calling a ride if necessary, he’s making sure you drink some water, have a snack, take a couple of Advil, and wash your face before you crash for the night.
All that to say, when you told Joe to let loose tonight, you’d meant it. He works hard, takes himself and his career seriously. He deserves to have some fun when, and if, his schedule allows. You’d expected him to have a few tequila sodas, maybe break out the edibles or smoke a cigar if he felt the urge, and kick back with his friends for a few hours. Lowkey. Chill. His idea of a good time.
Tonight, however, he decided to have a different kind of good time. You noticed the shift between drink three and four. His posture changed from relaxed to engaged, elbows braced against his knees as he leaned into the crowd, and he started chiming into the conversations around him instead of just listening.
Good, you thought. He’s smiling and laughing, free and loose in a way that you only get to see a few times a year, if you’re lucky.
That’s when the shots came out. One of the guys had ordered a round, and the waiter emerged with a tray full of tequila in tiny glasses with salted rims and a bowl full of perfectly sliced limes a few minutes later. He floated through your group with ease, hands reaching to grab a glass and a wedge as they passed. When the tray reached Joe, you expected him to decline with a shake of his head, a pursing of his lips, a quiet ‘no thanks’. Instead, you watched as he accepted the offering, throwing the shot back and sucking the lime like he’d done it a thousand times before. In reality, you think, this may be the first time you’ve ever seen him take one.
He must have felt you looking, his eyes flashed to yours, obviously noting your surprise. His head tilted slightly to one side, shoulders coming up in an almost imperceptible shrug. You just shot him a smile, mirroring his shrug before turning your attention back to the conversation around you.
But, the problem with shots is that once they start flowing, they can be hard to stop. Two more trays full made their rounds over the next couple of hours and, much to your surprise, Joe didn’t let those pass him up either. In fact, you watched as he called the waiter over, hand thrown casually in the air, and requested another round on him. By the time midnight rolled around, you were sure that he’d drank more tonight than he had in the entirety of your relationship. He was still smiling, still laughing, but his eyes were beginning to glaze over, voice slurring as it traveled across the bar. He was loud, animated, attracting attention that would make his sober self cringe.
So, you decided to do what he usually does when the night gets away from you. You flashed the car keys at him across room, nodding toward the door when his eyes met your own.
That’s how you ended up here, walking down the sidewalk with a very pouty Joe a few feet ahead of you.
“Joey, you’re being dramatic.”
“No ‘m not. You’re bein’ mean.”
“Mean? I’m being mean? What, are you five?”
“See!” he shoots back, head whipping around to glare at you. “Mean.”
“Alright, alright. How am I being mean?”
“You told me to have fun tonight and now you’re makin’ me leave,” he whines. As if he hadn’t told everyone goodbye and left the bar of his own volition.
“Okay, Joe. One, I’m not making you do anything. Nobody makes you do anything you don’t want to do. It’s impossible. And two, the guys were dangerously close to talking you into singing some Doja Cat song on karaoke. This is for your own good.”
You think you hear him grumble something along the lines of “whatever”, but between his clipped tone and still-present slurring, you can’t be sure.
The remainder of the walk to your car is mostly silent, apart from the clacking of your heels and scuffing of his shoes, that he’s not picking up quite enough with each step, against the pavement. You dig in your purse as you approach the shiny black sedan, fingers clutching the key fob as you reach the drivers side.
But, before your thumb can find the button to unlock it, Joe’s hand grabs the passenger door handle and yanks hard. When it doesn’t open, he lets out a deep sigh. You double tap the button, but he tries the handle again too soon, resulting in a high pitched beeping noise and the car remaining locked. The sigh is from your own mouth now.
Again, you press the button. He yanks the handle. Beeeeep! Button. Handle. Button. Handle. More beeping. More sighing.
“Joe! Can you just give me a second to unlock the car?”
He puts both of his hands up dramatically, stumbling slightly as he takes an exaggerated step back.
You breathe a sigh of relief when the next press of your thumb against the key fob has its indented result. You toss your purse behind the drivers seat before sitting and realizing you’ll need to make some adjustments. You’re sure the sight would be rather comical if the man next to you wasn’t doing everything in his power to test your patience. Your feet don’t even come close to reaching the pedals, and the steering wheel obstructs your view out of the windshield.
While you set to work messing with the levers on the side of the car seat, it becomes obvious that Joe has already made himself comfortable on the passenger side. He’s slouching, his signature manspread only limited by the confines of the vehicle you’re in. He has one elbow braced against the door, and the other taking up the whole center console. His focus is on his lap, where his phone screen illuminates his face. He scrolls through the nonsensical reels that make up his FYP, phone on full volume.
He’s broken out of his trance when you finally get your seat into position and throw the car in reverse. He locks his phone and tosses it into the cup holder before crossing his arms tight against his chest, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as he sinks further into the seat. It’s reminiscent of a sulking toddler who just remembered they’re supposed to be mad at you, but can’t quite recall what for.
You take the bait though, because of course you do.
“What, Joe? Don’t just sit there huffing and puffing. Spit it out.”
“Jus’ don’t understand why we’re rushin’ home all of a sudden.”
“If we don’t go home now, you’re going to regret it tomorrow. And I’ll have to spend the whole day listening to you whine about staying out past your self-imposed bedtime and how you’re never drinking again.”
He scoffs at that, but it comes out as more of a hiccup. “Ya’ wanna tell me why you think—”
“Know. I don’t think, I know.”
“Fine. How do you know that?” he questions, a mocking tone in his voice, hands gesturing haphazardly on either side of his head.
“Because I know you, Joe.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I don’t know you? Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Robin.”
He’s scandalized at that, a flash of genuine horror on his face before he gains control of his expression. “My mom? I’m twenty-nine whole years old, y/n. What’s she gonna do?”
“She’s going to remind you how you should be talking to the woman you love, Joseph. You know Robin Burrow runs a tight ship.”
You see his lips part out of the corner of your eye, with what you’re sure is a smart ass remark on the tip of his tongue, but he must think better of it. His mouth shuts, arms tightening across his chest once more as he turns to gaze out the window.
Neither of you speak for the rest of the ride home. The loud hum of the air conditioner is punctuated only by the click of your turn signal and a bad case of the hiccups for Joe. His whole body jolts with them, a loud sound escaping each time despite his efforts to remain silent and brooding.
When you pull into the garage of your shared home, you don’t wait for Joe to go inside. He’s drunk, but not too drunk to make it out of the car on his own. And, even if he was, you wouldn’t be much help to him in the first place. One misstep, and you’d both be on the ground due to his sheer size.
You’re finishing up in the kitchen when you hear him come in, the clunky sound of his shoes being kicked off echos down the hallway. You’ve sat a few Advil out on the counter, along with a glass of water and a bottle of Body Armor. He takes your offerings willingly and, as he does, the scowl on his face softens ever so slightly.
A few minutes later, you’ve brushed your teeth and changed into an oversized tee. As you wash your face and apply some skincare, you hear Joe enter the bedroom, followed by the rustling of fabric. Him getting undressed for bed, you assume.
Your suspicions are confirmed a moment later when he joins you in the bathroom, clad in just his black boxer briefs.
His demeanor has changed noticeably, a lazy grin spreads across his face when his eyes meet yours in the mirror, and you can’t help but give him a small smile in return. Joe joins you at the double vanity, but he doesn’t reach for his toothbrush. Instead, he turns away from the mirror and takes a seat on the counter between the two sinks, pulling you to stand between his legs.
Nose to nose now, his scent washes over you. It’s a heady mix of cologne, sweat, a hint of smoke, and lots of tequila. Resting a hand on each side of his face, you place a quick, firm kiss to his lips.
“C’mon, Joey. Let’s go to bed,” you suggest, turning on your heels. But before you’re out of his reach, he pulls you back to face him. His strong, albeit uncoordinated, arms snake around your waist, hands falling firmly on your ass. Much too intoxicated to be subtle, he leans down and drags a sloppy line of kisses along your shoulder as his hands struggle to find their way under your shirt.
“Joe, I am not about to have sex with you.”
“Why?” He pulls back, looking utterly confused as to why you’d be turning him down at a time like this.
“Because you’re drunk.”
“What, you don’t think it’ll work?” he questions, brows raised suggestively as a cocky grin spreads across his face. “‘Cause I promise it’s workin’.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes as you roll your eyes and untangle yourself from his grasp. “Joe, hands off. Brush your teeth and get in bed before I banish you to the couch.”
“You wouldn’t.” He challenges as he urges himself upright, arms flopping dramatically at his sides.
“You wanna test that theory?”
“I guess not,” he groans, and a fresh pout adorns his lips as you exit the room.
The dip of the mattress alerts you to Joe’s presence. His body acts like a furnace under the covers, warming you even without direct contact.
Some time passes, maybe 5 minutes, maybe 20. You know he’s still awake by the sounds of his breathing, by the way he readjusts his pillow every so often, the way you swear you can actually hear his mind racing.
“Baby, I’m drunk.”
An airy giggle falls from your lips at that. “Yeah, you are.”
“Like, really drunk.”
“Shots will do that to ya’, Joey.”
“I’m gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”
“Yeah, probably.”
He rolls to face you then, and you take the opportunity to pull him into you, prompting him to rest his head on your chest. As you rake your fingers through his hair, he lets out a quiet hum of contentment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his now minty breath fanning across your skin.
“What do you have to be sorry for?”
“Bein’ drunk. Bein’ annoying. ‘M supposed to be takin’ care of you. Not annoyin’ you.”
Another giggle. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Joey.”
“I know you are. Shouldn’t have to though,” he murmurs, hair tickling your chest as he shakes his head slightly. “Too pretty to be takin’ care of yourself.”
“Well, you’re pretty too. So I guess we’ll just have to take care of eachother.”
“I like that.”
“I like it too.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” you assure him, pressing your lips to his forehead in a soft kiss. “Now get some sleep, pretty boy.”
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pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🤍
wc: 2.6k
an: what do we think about the new banner?? i need to make one specifically for this verse since it's becoming a thing lol.
this is a simple math piece but softer than the last one — less of the math, more of the after. it's him asking her something she doesn't have an answer for, and then actually staying in it with her instead of letting it go. the smut is kind of just the door. the thing it's about is the conversation at the end.
no real warnings beyond it being explicit — this one's tender more than anything. 18+ only, mdni.
based on this ask 🤍 — i took it somewhere a little different than requested, but i hope it's close to what you wanted. thank you for trusting me with it.
reblogs and comments are everything, you know the drill.
masterlist
His mouth is on your neck.
You’re on your back in his bed. The sheet is somewhere around your knees. His hand is under your thigh, hitching it up against his hip, and his mouth is doing slow, deliberate work along the side of your throat, like he’s settling in. Like he’s got nowhere to be.
You have one hand in his hair. The other is flat on his shoulder. His shoulder is warm. His back, where you can reach it, is warmer.
He’s been like this for a while. Long enough that you’ve stopped being able to track time. Long enough that your body has caught up to itself, and you’re starting to feel the slow pull low in your stomach, the one that comes when he takes his time with you. He always takes his time with you. You’re still not used to it.
He shifts. His mouth finds your jaw. His weight settles between your legs the way it does when he’s going to start, and you can feel him hard against you, and you can feel him not moving, and you know he’s going to make you wait for it.
He kisses you. Wet. Open. His tongue slides into your mouth, and your hand in his hair tightens, and you feel him smile against you for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are dark. Pupils blown. His mouth is parted.
“Tell me what you want.”
—
You blink up at him.
“I — ”
His thumb drags along the underside of your thigh. He’s still not moving. He’s just waiting.
“I want — ”
You don’t have it.
You don’t know what the answer is. You know what your body is doing. You know you want him. You want him to move. You want — something. But the question is sitting there and your mouth is open and you can’t fish the words out of wherever they’re supposed to be. You don’t know if he’s asking what position. You don’t know if he’s asking what he should do with his hands. You don’t know if he’s asking something bigger than that.
“You,” you say finally. “Just — you. Keep going.”
He looks at you for half a second longer than he needs to.
Then he kisses you.
His hand slides off your thigh and up your side. He pushes into you slowly. Your eyes close. Your hand in his hair tightens again, and you make a sound against his mouth that isn’t a word, and he doesn’t ask you anything else.
But he’s watching you.
You don’t realize it at first. He’s kissing your neck again, and his hips are moving slow and deep, and your hands are everywhere on him because you can’t decide where to put them. It’s only when he pulls back to look at your face that you clock it. He’s looking. Closer than usual. Like he’s reading something.
You don’t think about it. You can’t. He kisses you again and your brain quiets, and his hand comes up under your knee to lift it higher against his hip, and the angle changes, and you make a sound that’s louder than the last one, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.
“There you go.”
—
He keeps going.
You don’t notice the pace changing at first. He’s still slow, still deep, his forehead at your shoulder and his hand under your knee. But something is different. He’s pulling back to look at your face more. He’s stopping when your breath catches and waiting until it evens out before he moves again. His hand at your knee shifts to your hip, his thumb pressing into the bone there, and he’s reading you with it — tracking the way you push up against him, the way you go still when something is too much, the way you make a sound and his hips move with it.
You’re not used to this.
You don’t have a word for what it is yet. You just know your body is doing things it doesn’t normally do — coming up to meet him without you telling it to, your hands finding his face because you want him closer, your mouth saying his name without you deciding to say it.
He kisses you again, slower. His tongue is in your mouth and his hand slides off your hip and down between you, and his thumb finds you, and you make a sound against his lips that’s almost embarrassed.
“Joe — ”
“Mm.”
“I’m — ”
“I know.”
He doesn’t speed up. He keeps his pace and works his thumb at the same rhythm, and you can feel it building low and slow, and your hand grabs his wrist where it’s braced beside your head because you need something to hold.
You come with his mouth on yours. Your back arches off the mattress and your knee tightens at his hip, and the sound you make is muffled against his lips, and he kisses you through it, slow, not letting up on his thumb until you’re trembling.
You expect him to move then.
You expect him to flip you, or push your knees up, or finish — that’s how this usually goes, you come and the focus moves on, the rest is about him. Your body is already braced for it. You don’t even realize you’re braced until he doesn’t do it.
He doesn’t move.
He stays exactly where he is. His hips are still. His thumb has eased off but his hand is still there. He’s looking at you.
“Hi.”
You laugh. You don’t mean to. It comes out shaky.
“Hi.”
He kisses you. Soft, this time. His hand moves from between you back up to your face, and his thumb drags along your cheekbone.
“Again.”
—
You stare at him.
“What?”
“Again.”
“Joe — ”
“Mm-mm.”
He kisses you before you can finish whatever you were going to say. His hand slides back down between you, and his hips start moving again, slowly, and you can hear yourself say his name into his mouth like a protest, but it isn’t a protest, and he knows it isn’t.
He works you up slowly. He’s still inside you, still moving in that deep, patient rhythm, and his thumb is back on you, and his other hand is under your shoulder blade, holding you against him. You don’t know where to put your hands. You try his back, his hair, his face. You end up with one hand fisted in the sheet beside your head and the other pressed flat against his chest.
“Joe — ”
“You can.”
“I can’t — ”
“You can.”
You can. Your body knows before you do. The second one comes faster than the first and harder. Your hips push up off the bed and his arm under your shoulder tightens, holding you, and the sound you make is louder this time because you don’t have the wherewithal to keep it quiet. His thumb keeps moving even after, gentling you down, and you have to grab his wrist again to stop him because you’re too sensitive, you can’t, and he laughs — low, against your jaw — and moves his hand.
He’s still hard inside you. He hasn’t moved.
“Okay?”
You nod.
“Words, baby.”
“Okay. I’m okay.”
He kisses you. Then his hand goes to your hip, and he pulls back, and pushes in, and you feel him let himself go for the first time all night. The pace changes. He’s not pacing for you anymore. He’s chasing it. His forehead drops back to your shoulder and his breathing gets ragged, and his hand at your hip is going to leave marks, and you don’t care. You hold onto him. You let him have it.
He comes hard. His whole body locks up against yours. His face is in your neck, and he makes a low, broken sound, and his hand at your hip flexes once and stays.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
You don’t either. Your hand is in his hair. His weight is on you, warm and heavy, and you’re catching your breath underneath him, and his breath is hot against your collarbone.
Eventually he shifts. He pulls out slow, and you wince, and his hand comes up to your jaw and he kisses you once, soft.
“Be right back.”
He gets up. You hear water in the bathroom. He comes back with a washcloth, warm, and cleans you up himself without making a thing of it, and then he drops the washcloth somewhere on the floor and pulls the sheet up over both of you and gets back in bed.
He pulls you against him. Your head on his chest. His arm under your shoulders. His hand at the small of your back, palm flat.
The room is dark. You can hear his heart under your ear. Your breathing is starting to even out.
He doesn’t say anything for a while.
You think he might be asleep. You start to drift yourself, your eyes heavy, his hand moving slow circles on your back.
Then he says it.
“Hey.”
“Mm.”
“Can I ask you something?”
—
“Mm.”
You don’t open your eyes. You’re heavy on his chest, and his hand is still moving on your back, and you don’t think anything of the question yet.
“When I asked you what you wanted.”
Your eyes open.
You don’t move. You keep your face exactly where it is, against his sternum, your hand flat on his ribs. You feel him breathing under you. You feel his hand on your back go still for a second, then start again, slower.
“You didn’t have an answer.”
You don’t say anything.
“Y/N.”
“I heard you.”
His hand keeps moving.
“I’m not — ” He stops. You feel his chest move under your cheek. “I’m not asking to make you feel weird. I just want to know.”
You’re quiet.
You think about lying. You think about saying you were too in it, you weren’t thinking, you couldn’t get the words out because you were too far gone. He’d probably let you have it. He wouldn’t push. You know him well enough by now to know that.
You don’t lie.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
His hand stops.
“What do you mean.”
“I — ” You close your eyes again. You don’t want to look at him for this, even though you can’t see his face anyway. “I didn’t know what you were asking. Like — I didn’t know if you meant — ”
You stop.
“Take your time.”
“I didn’t know what you wanted me to say. Nobody’s — ”
You feel your face get hot against his chest. You’re glad it’s dark. You’re glad you’re not looking at him.
“Nobody’s asked me that before.”
His hand on your back has gone very still.
You don’t lift your head. You keep going because if you stop, you’re not going to start again.
“In college it was — they didn’t really ask. Like, anything. They just — did stuff. And sometimes it was fine and sometimes it wasn’t, but I didn’t really — I didn’t know I was allowed to say. Like to tell them — not like that, like this. I didn’t have the words for it. I just figured that was how it was.”
You feel his chest rise under you. A long breath in. Held.
“And you do that thing where you — you check on me. Mid. You ask me stuff. And I — ” You laugh a little, embarrassed. “I never know what to say. Because nobody’s ever asked. And I’m not — I’m not used to it. I keep thinking I should be better at answering by now.”
You feel him breathe out.
His hand on your back starts moving again. Slow.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time.
—
You start to think he’s not going to.
You’re not mad about it. You half want him not to. You’ve said the thing, it’s out, and the not-saying back would be its own kind of answer. He could just keep his hand on your back and let you fall asleep and you’d take it.
He doesn’t let you.
“Y/N.”
“Mm.”
“I — ”
He stops.
You feel him try again. His chest moves under your cheek. You feel him start the sentence and abandon it before any of it comes out.
“I don’t — ”
He stops again.
You wait.
You don’t lift your head. You don’t help him. You’re not going to help him. He’s looking for it and you can feel him looking, and the looking is the answer almost as much as whatever he lands on.
“I’m not good at this part.”
His voice is lower than before.
“At — saying. The thing. I’m — ” He huffs. You feel it under your ear. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“No, I — ” He stops again. His hand on your back has gone still. “I want to say it right. The first thing I want to say is that I’m — I’m going to fucking kill them. Which I know isn’t — ”
You laugh. You can’t help it. It comes out small against his chest.
“Yeah.”
“I know that’s not what you need to hear.”
“It’s a little what I needed to hear.”
He’s quiet for a second. You feel his hand start moving again on your back.
“The thing I actually want to say is — ”
He stops. He starts over.
“When I ask. I’m not — I’m not testing you. I don’t have a right answer in my head that I’m waiting for. I’m asking because I want to know. And if you don’t have the answer, that’s — that’s an answer too. You can tell me you don’t know. You can tell me you want me to figure it out. You can tell me to stop asking. Any of that is — that’s fine. That’s good. I just want to hear you.”
You weren’t ready for that one.
You don’t say anything. You can’t yet.
His hand on your back keeps moving.
“And the — ” He stops. “The other thing. I’m not — I don’t want you to be better at it. I don’t want you to have the answers already. I want — ”
He stops one more time.
“I want to be the one you figure it out with.”
—
You don’t say anything.
You can’t. Your throat is doing something you don’t trust. You press your face a little harder into his chest, and his hand on your back stops moving, and then it starts again, slower.
“Y/N.”
“Mm.”
“You good?”
You nod against his chest.
“Words, baby.”
“I’m good.”
He huffs. You feel it under your ear. His hand slides up your back, finds your hair, and his fingers work through it slowly.
You stay like that.
You don’t know how long. His heart under your ear. His hand in your hair. The sheet pulled up to your shoulders, his arm under you, the room dark except for the streetlight coming in around the edges of the blinds.
You feel him press his mouth to the top of your head.
He doesn’t say anything else.
His hand keeps moving in your hair, slow, and your eyes get heavy, and the last thing you’re aware of before you go under is his thumb tracing the shell of your ear.
