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joesburrows · 2 years ago

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Refunds || Joe x F!Reader (NSFW)

You were no stranger to Joe’s hijinks.

word count: 3,237

warnings/contents: blowjob, daddy name-calling (i'm sorry joe i'm just saying what we're all thinking), dom!joe/sub!reader dynamics, rough sex (i'm sorry joe), choking, full mind-break, degradation (but also, like, praise), bimbo behavior-fication, dirty talk

author’s note: crawling out of my hole to give you this filthy filth in celebration of the bengals going to the AFC championship! now excuse me i must go take a cold shower and get to my scheduled exorcism because i need church after writing this.

don’t be shy to like and reblog if you enjoyed. as creators say, likes are amazing but reblogs go a long way in sharing my work. thank y’all!!!!!

For more of my smut, read Sturdy. For fluff, check out Capturing You, because your girl can do both. <3

enjoy under the cut!

No matter what, Joe was a winner to you.

And you never really let it get to your head too much, especially when you were watching him from the stands, whatever the team’s score was. You were endlessly proud of him, win or lose, because you’d been there from the very beginning. Even when he was still at Ohio State and barely even saw the field, you gleamed with pride. But honestly, it had been pissing you off a little bit—and you’re typically mild-mannered, some might even go as far as saying meek—to hear everyone doubt Joe, and the whole team for that matter.

“It’s just trash talk, baby,” Joe would soothe you the moment you heard about all this bullshit about neutral sites, ticket sales. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and reached over to close your laptop, cutting out the noise in a way. “If that gets to ya, you should hear what some guys say on the field.” He cracked a grin and that made things better.

You tried out logic for a while. It wasn’t like pre-selling tickets to a matchup was unheard of; it was basically customary in any sport. Even protocol. And that satiated you for now. You didn’t notice, but Joe actually liked seeing a little bit of that fire in you—this newfound willingness to prove someone wrong. You were always someone who didn’t care too much about what others thought, which was why he wanted even more to win against the Bills on Sunday, just for you; because as much as you were proud of him no matter what, he also liked your praise just as much. He wanted to make you proud.

So come Sunday, when it was the fourth quarter and the Bills were too behind to catch up to the Bengals’ score and that timer was running out, you couldn’t hide how happy you were for him. You watched him from the stands with a big stupid smile on your face because this was who Joe Burrow was—your Joe. He was a winner, a champion, and the sooner people started to realize that, the better. And what a helluva way to prove them wrong with just four words:

“Better send those refunds.”

—

You sat there, mouth slightly falling open. The bright light of your phone’s screen illuminated your face in the otherwise dark parking lot, at a gas station somewhere in the outskirts of Cincinnati, about five minutes away from yours and Joe’s place. You were catching up on all the social media, retweeting things, reposting stories, acknowledging everything you could that was singing Joe’s praises because goddamn if he didn’t deserve it. And that was when you caught this clip of Joe’s postgame interview.

Better send those refunds.

You were no stranger to his hijinks. You loved how fired up he got after a great game and an even better win. You loved how he was slowly opening up to the media, showing a little more of the goofy person you know him to be (though you secretly wished he’d kept it all for you). But this… Something was different about this.

You were suddenly startled by Joe opening the door to his car, entering the driver’s seat and handing a plastic bag over to you. Without much thought, you grabbed it. “What’s this?” you asked.

He snickered at this. “Your snacks, sweetheart.” Oh, that’s right—you had run out of your celebratory post-game Oreos at the house and wanted him to grab a quick pack.

With a chuckle, you played it off. “Thanks.”

He started the car and began pulling out of the parking lot, but not without question. “You good, baby?”

“Yep,” you croaked out. You turned beet red and thanked God it was dark outside so he couldn’t see. You both laughed about how your voice broke just then.

A few seconds passed before you spoke again. You willed up some confidence. “It’s just… You know, I can’t let it go. About how they were selling those tickets before they even knew who was going to play in the Championship.”

“Ah, I know, babe.” He reached over and patted your knee. “But that doesn’t matter, ‘cause we’re gonna be there next week.”

“I know, I know, but… What was it you said at that interview after the game? ‘Give the tickets back,’ or something like that?” You purposely watered down his words, wanting him to correct you.

“Nah, nah, you’re butchering it,” he said, laughing. “I don’t remember what I said, really.”

“Oh, c’mon. You remember,” you insisted teasingly. “I bet you had it bubbling up. You thought of it last week, probably, and kept rehearsing it over and over again so you got it right by the time you had to say it.”

Joe scoffed, reaching over and ruffling your hair. “Where’s this comin’ from, bug?” His sweet little nickname for you. He always treated you like you were small, and you liked that. But you didn’t want to sink into it, not yet—you wanted this first.

“Just say it. You remember what you said.”

“Hmm.” At a red light, he stopped the car and looked over at you. His perplexed expression was smoldering even when dimly lit crimson.

Biting your lip, you waited.

“I know what I said,” he finally confessed.

“Yeah?” you squirmed a bit in your seat. The light was still red.

“I said, ‘Better send those refunds.’”

“Mmm.” You couldn’t hold back your whimper. It was involuntary. Sometimes it shocked you, still, the effect that Joe Burrow had on you. Even after all these years. But you caught yourself and added, “Mmmhmm. That’s what you said.”

He didn’t let you get away with it, though. He never did.

As the light turned green, Joe slowly accelerated forward; you were the only car on these quiet streets. He said nothing. You bit back your smile as you looked out of the window, pretending like nothing happened.

Then, you felt it. He brought his right hand down from the wheel to pat your knee again, but it wasn’t a silly pat this time. He started rubbing his huge hand on your knee, slowly lowering it to your inner thigh. You thought his touch was going to burn a hole in your leggings. But you weren’t done.

“Better send those refunds,” you repeated, somewhat more enunciated, voice a bit breathy. But you didn’t want to make it obvious that his touch had already gotten to you; that you’d already been soaked from the moment he got back in the car. You let out a soft chuckle. “I mean, it’s true. They knew better than to doubt you.”

“Hmph.” Joe seemed to be satisfied by your words.

“I mean, right? God, this should show them that they’re stupid for even thinking about selling those tickets in the first place, whether it’s protocol or not,” you continued. His hand on your thigh just kept moving higher and higher. Your next words came out with a slight gasp: “You’re the fucking best, Joe. And if they don’t know that by now…”

When his hand finally snuck between your thighs, thumb rubbing against your warm pussy over your leggings, you let out a slutty moan. “Daddy.” It was, like that whimper earlier, involuntary. Conditioned.

“Shh. Tell me.” It was the first time you’d heard his voice in a minute, and it was suddenly colored so deep, lustful.

You knew what to say. “I just think you’re—you’re the best, daddy.” Your confidence had waned off a bit, replaced by this slightly bimbofied persona only he knew how to dig out of you. “And you’re so right… they better send those refunds.” You nodded, biting down hard on your lip as he rubbed your clit in circles. You looked at him even if he wasn’t looking at you back; his focused expression as he drove was all you needed to keep getting wetter and wetter.

But you were suddenly disappointed as you felt the car slow down and pull into your house. Those were the fastest five minutes of your life. You wanted it to be like the last time you got frisky in the car, Joe so desperate that you pulled off to the side of the road and fucked you right there. You supposed this was better, though; you could both get out of your clothes easier and didn’t have to wrestle with a pile of winter coats. (It was summer the last time you had car sex; your tiny shorts were easy to pull off.)

“Let’s go,” Joe spoke, stepping out of the car. He was calm as you both headed inside the house.

You dropped off your coat and bag on the wall hook by the door and pathetically set the plastic bag on the kitchen island, feeling his presence somewhere behind you. You looked up at him, biting your lip, seeing him standing in the doorway. He’d taken his shoes and coat off already, just in his warm-ups. When you caught his gaze, his ocean blue eyes looked expectant of you.

“Yes, daddy?”

That was enough to set him off. He walked over to you, towering over you and backing you up against the kitchen island. You gulped, looking up at him. You loved when he made you feel small.

“Better send those refunds.”

You feigned confusion. “Huh?”

Abruptly, he grabbed you by your waist and turned you around, bending you over the counter. He had a fistful of your hair and his cock pressed hard against you, and you felt him breathing in your ear. “I said, you’d better send those refunds.”

“Y-yeah,” you nodded, looking at him through your peripherals, brows curled up. Your mouth hung agape, moaning as he reached his free hand down and grabbed your ass. Just from this, your head was already swirling with dumb pleasure. “Right away, daddy.”

He turned you around and pulled you onto your knees by your hair. You braced yourself by grabbing his thighs and didn’t dare break eye contact from him. Even if his bulge was right in your face. This was the first time in a long time, since the beginning of today, that he’d gotten a look at you. He smirked; you knew he thought you were gorgeous, he didn’t have to say it. This was about him.

“Suck my cock.”

You did as you were told, pulling down his sweatpants and not even allowing yourself a second to admire his length. You took the shaft in your hand and directed the tip of his cock into your mouth, closing your eyes as you expertly began sucking him off. There was no slow burn here; that already happened in the car.

Joe still had your hair in his hand, and it gripped tighter as you blew him. “Mmm. Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he growled. He broke eye contact from you for a moment to lean his head back and close his eyes, focusing on the sound of you gagging over his cock. You took him as far as you could then fucked the back of your throat with the tip of his cock, which was slick in your drool. Your hands held onto his thighs as you whimpered with your mouth full. Even though he wasn’t looking at you, you didn’t break eye contact from him; it made you so wet to watch him go all primal.

Then he grabbed two fistfuls of your hair to make pigtails. You knew that he wanted to control your mouth, so you held your hands behind your back like a good girl and you let him throw your head back and forth against his cock. Your eyes welled up with tears.

He looked down to watch you as he fucked your throat, and he looked so proud to own you. It made you want to be even better at being throatfucked, like you would go to college and get a degree in being a good throat to fuck if you could. You wanted to serve him in that way. You made filthy, wet gagging noises, and babbled when you could; your face was coated in your own drool.

“Alright, get up,” he said, pulling his cock out of your mouth and hoisting you to your feet by your pigtails. He let go of your hair and you sighed in slight relief from the new lack of tension.

“Y-yes daddy,” you gurgled out. Your makeup was ruined, but you still looked pretty to him. He kissed you messily, grabbing both of your cheeks with one hand of his squeezing your face together. Then he gave your face a nice, solid slap.

“You gonna be a good girl for daddy, huh? You gonna take this dick?” he asked, breathless.

You whimpered and nodded. “Yes,” you whimpered. “I want it. I want it so bad. Please.”

Satisfied with your pleading, he forced you on your stomach, bent over against the kitchen island. He pulled down your leggings and lifted your jersey up, and as you watched him over your shoulder, you caught his smirk. Of course you were wearing his number. You knew he liked seeing you wear it and loved fucking you in it even more.

With one hand on your back and the other on the base of his shaft, he slowly directed the tip of his cock inside of you, not shy to groan as he felt how wet you were. “Fuck. Look how wet you are,” he said, tone as if to humiliate you, but you loved it when it came along with praise. “You’re fucking soaked. Are you that much of a slut that seeing me win gets you this fucking soaked and slutty, sweetheart?”

You whimpered, finding yourself almost begging for him to slide in all the way. “Y-yes, daddy. I’m a slut,” you barely got out. Your words were somewhat nasally and high-pitched; you were almost full bimbo at this point. “Please. Please.”

He chuckled at this, pulling back out. He rubbed his tip along the wet, slick slit of your cunt. “Please what?”

“Daddy. Daddy, please fuck me. I can’t take it,” you begged. “I’ll—I’ll get on those refunds right away, daddy. I should’ve known better.”

Joe growled. Satisfied, he shoved deep into you, and held his cock there; you felt his balls graze up against your clit.

“Ah!” you moaned. You braced yourself against the kitchen island, staring at the Oreos.

Then, Joe started to fuck you.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and everything went black. You bathed in the pleasure that was his cock pummeling your tight little pussy. You loved how rough he was being. You were losing yourself. You were being owned by Joe Burrow. You were his piece of pussy, and only that.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” you moaned in conjunction with each thrust of his as he took you from behind.

His hands gripped tightly on your waist, letting out primal groans as he fucked you hard. He wasn’t holding back, and you loved it. “Oh, c’mon, baby. You better get to it,” he spoke, breathily, and yet confidently. “You were gonna do something for me, weren’t you? Before you went all brain-stupid and cock-slutty for your daddy?”

You hated how easily his words came out when all you could think about was his dick obliterating your pussy. The words were jumbled in your head: “Refunds, better send.” And they came out repeatedly in whines. “Refunds. Daddy. Send. Yes. Fuck. Me.”

One of his hands left your waist and you almost began sobbing at that lack of contact only if he didn’t reach up and grab your throat, pulling you up from the cold marble of the kitchen island so you could stand up a bit and watch him fuck you. He held your throat tightly, and you looked over your shoulder as best as you could to catch a blurry image of the most handsome fucking man you’ve ever seen hammer into you. He shoved his thumb in your mouth and you sucked happily. You repositioned your hands on the counter to hold yourself up and continue to be a good slut. His other hand spanked your ass.

“That’s right, baby. Better send those refunds like the stupid fuckin’ bimbo you are,” he growled out, words accented with that smirk you knew he wore while he fucked you. “Take this big fuckin’ daddy cock in your wet, tight little pussy, baby.” His hand left your throat only to dig under your shirt and grab your tits, tugging that bralette down and off your tits. He roughly pinched your nipple and you whined out. Your tits bounced freely in rhythm with his incessant, merciless fucking.

“D-daddy,” you whined, desperately.

“Aw, what’s that? You can’t say anything?” There he was again, pulling out coherent sentences while you babbled.

You’d gone full bimbo by this point. You were far gone, and your only compass was his dick inside of you. You knew nothing else about fuck-all until his cock was drained inside of you, and you would be a good slut-servant until he was done.

But goddamn, you were about to cum. “I—” you whimpered out. “If you keep fucking me like that, daddy, I’m gonna cum.”

He laughed at this. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm. Put your—daddy, please—”

You didn’t have to finish your sentence. Joe knew what you needed. His hand left your tit if only to grab your throat again, and his other hand held onto your waist, keeping you still. Otherwise, you’d squirm away from him. He knew you were uncontrollable when you came.

“What’s that, baby? Use your words for daddy, c’mon.” He smirked.

“I’m gonna—” you cried out.

He timed his thrusts with these next few words, feeling close to climaxing himself: “You’d. Better. Send. Those. Fucking. Refunds. You. Fucking. Slut.”

And with that, you came hard all over his cock, clenching your tight, wet walls around him. “God, daddy! I’m cumming! Yes! Don’t stop!” You closed your eyes and indeed, squirmed around a ton, and he had to hold your waist to keep you still.

“Fuck. I’m gonna cum, too, baby.” He grunted, wrangling and fucking you at the same time, and at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, shot his white hot load deep inside you. You felt him filling you up, the warmth of his load sinking deep into your stomach. You both slowed down, breathing hard.

With him still inside of you, you slumped forward, laying your top half down on the counter. You looked over your shoulder up at him, then cracked a grin.

And he broke into a smile, too, gleaming with pride. He’d never admit it, but you turned him into such an animal. It was even sweeter when the clouds had all cleared and all you both felt was bliss.

You lifted a heavy, lifeless arm to reach across the counter. You pulled the plastic bag closer and took out the package of Oreos. Barely functioning and breathing hard, you put all your effort into ripping that stupid, plastic seal off the package, revealing three rows of double-stuffed sandwich cookies. You pulled one out and offered it over your shoulder to him. “Want a celebratory Oreo, champ?” you asked.

He took it with a snicker. “Yeah, sweetheart. I sure do.”

#this one had me feeling some type of way #fic recs

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