#Joe Burrow x Reader

[yelenasbraid]

JOE BURROW — the poison in my veins

summary — to everyone else, they hated each other. to them, they loved each other so much they couldn’t stand it.

warnings — fem!reader, angst, smut, fluff, not proofread

requested by — a combo of two asks! one by my bestie girly maja ( @joeyburrrow ) and another by anon!

note — again, not my best work but a lot’s been going on so this is what i could spin in the meantime. pls enjoy.

tags — @willowsnook @starsinthesky5 @joeyfranchise @sportyphile @hannahjessica113 @kazsbrckkers @ebsmind @iosivb9 @joeyb1989 @softburrow @wickedfun9 @irishmanwhore @burrowdarling @hotburreaux @joecoolburrow @blairsworld22

THE ROOM WAS WARMLY DECORATED. Round tables were set up, black table clothes draped over them, and small, tiny lamps accompanied each table. Name cards were placed at each table, and table numbers were slid into slots.

It was another Bengals sponsored charity event.

She fluttered around the venue, her manicured fingers adjusting each little card and table cloth. She’s done this before, but every time she felt her nerves act up. Did this look okay? Would people gossip about it later? Would it go smoothly?

Players were encouraged if not required to attend. It showed the sponsors that they were serious about their cause: food insecurity. Most players showed, but there was one she didn’t want to show up.

“Joe said he’d be here,” Lydia, one of her assistants, spoke up, “said he’d be late though. He has some shit to do for Alo,”

“Good,” she quipped, rolling her eyes, “maybe I should pay Alo to keep him there longer,”

“I don’t get it,” Lydia quipped, setting a ‘reserved’ place holder on a seat, “why do you hate him so much? He doesn’t seem to hold the same animosity towards you,”

“He hides it better,”

flashback, 2019, evening of the SEC championship

It was dark. The moon provided the only lighting in the bedroom. Soft moans filled the room, the whispers of the sheets humming through the air. Joe’s hands held her hips, his lips pressed tightly to her sopping cunt.

“Fuck,” she whispered, her hand digging into his hair. His tongue worked slowly, slicking through her folds with masterful ease. He took his time, wanting to untie every knot in her stomach.

Joe wasn’t her boyfriend. He was her best friend. The arrangement they had was…unique. It included cut strings and a quick fix. When he needed sex, he went to her. When he needed a laugh, he went to her.

She was everything except his girlfriend, and that’s all she wanted to be.

“Taste so good,” Joe murmured, his eyes half-lidded with lust as he licked at her pussy. Wet, squelching sounds filled his ears as his lips pursed around her clit, sucking at the sensitive bud.

“Joey,” she gripped his hair, feeling the soft knot of an orgasm kiss her muscles. The pressure built, making her squirm. Joe’s hold on her hips forced her to stay still, it forced her to let him taste her. The salt of her musk coated his throat, his nose brushing against her skin.

He was relentless. His tongue massaged her clit, pressing into the swollen and soft bulb. He heard her whimpers, felt her thighs clench around his head as she teetered on that sinful edge.

“Don’t hold back,” Joe ordered from her pussy. She didn’t, she let the rubber band snap, her orgasm pouring from her body. It soaked the sheets, it soaked his face. He lapped up the slick, moaning and shivering at the overwhelming sensation. Her orgasm was thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Jesus,” he murmured as he licked another stripe up her sensitive pussy, “can’t believe I’ve missed out on that for years,”

She laid on her back, her skin illuminated by the moon. The contours of her muscle shaded by the shadows of the bedroom. Joe admired her, just for a moment. She was beautiful, someone he could never have all to himself.

Their agreement was no strings attached. Technically he could go and see other girls. But he never wanted to. He wanted her, the beautiful girl that squirmed on his bed, the girl who always made him laugh.

He crawled up her body, his face inches from hers. They looked at each other, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy. Their lips were parted with desperate pants, but they never touched. Joe never kissed her, and she didn’t want him to unless he meant it.

And she wanted him to mean it.

present day

She stood off to the side, watching as players shuffled in. They were dressed nicer than they usually were, switching the usual sweats for some nice jeans and a button down. She’d swapped her usual jeans and t-shirt with a dress. It was sleek, hugging her curves in a delicious way, her hair was done beautifully, pinned behind her head.

As her eyes met Joe’s, her heart lurched in her chest. It was the same feeling she had when she first touched him, when she first realized she’d fallen for him.

flashback to the evening of the National College Football Championship game

“You’re being ridiculous, Y/N,” Joe snapped, shaking his head. They’d been arguing for the past 30 minutes. She stood in his bedroom, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were wide, bewildered at his statement.

“No, I’m not. Is it so crazy of me to want more?” she asked. She hadn’t confessed her feelings, but she expressed her desire for more. For months she felt like they could be more, they could cross that threshold from friends with benefits to lovers.

He seemingly didn’t agree.

“This was never meant to be a long-term deal,” he told her, shedding of his shirt, “you knew that,”

“Yes, I know that. But for months you gave me the impression that you felt the same,” she huffed. She was regretting her words, her confession. She wanted more, and he didn’t.

“That’s what a friends with benefits arrangement is, Y/N. I thought you understood that,” he groaned, flopping down on his bed. Despite the nonchalant exterior, Joe’s heart was slamming against his chest.

He couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t admit he’d loved her since the day he saw her.

“Don’t undermine me, Joe. Just because you just won the championship doesn’t mean your shit doesn’t stink,”

“I’m not undermining you, Y/N. Why are you being so damn dramatic?” He groaned, running his hands down his face. She opened his face to retaliate, but she caught something. Her eyes flicked to the floor beneath his bed, bright pink lace poking out. She didn’t own any pink panties.

Technically, it wasn’t cheating. They weren’t even together.

“You had someone else in here,” she hummed. Her words hung in the air, a death sentence. Joe sat up, his eyes wide as he flicked his eyes over her face. His heart skipped a beat, his hands shaking as they held him up.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a nonchalant shrug, “so what?”

“So what?”

“We’re not exclusive, Y/N. I can fuck whoever I want,”

“Oh, so I’m just a fuck buddy. I’m just someone to fill in the blanks,”

“No, you’re not just someone to fill in the blanks. But we’re not exclusive, plus, I like Paige,” Joe shrugged. He used this girl’s name like it was familiar, rolling off of his tongue as if he was moaning it.

“You like her,” she stated, keeping her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It shouldn’t hurt her that much, it shouldn’t sting as much as it did.

“Yeah, I do. She’s different,”

“Different? What the hell does that mean Joe?”

“I didn’t mean it-”

“No, you meant what you said. She’s not me, is that it? She’s gives you a thrill? Maybe she isn’t so academics focused so you can fuck her whenever you want to?”

“Y/N, stop-”

“No, no you like her. You should go for it, no strings attached right?”

“You know what?” The air was thick, anger and rage sitting deeply in their chests. He slid off of the bed, his chest rising and falling with his breaths.

“She’s not you. She’s better, she’s not high maintenance, she’s available. She’s not as defensive, she’s easier to talk to,”

The words sat in the air. It sucked the breath from her lungs, ripping her heart out of her chest. She felt her stomach lurch, the ache seeping down to her toes. She clenched her jaw, and she silently moved across the room.

“Fine,” she hummed, “then we’re done,”

“Wait, Y/N-”

“Fuck you, Joe,” she snapped, and with that, she slammed the door in his face, leaving his apartment.

present day

She took her seat with other members of the charity board. Her legs were crossed neatly, her hands folded in her lap. Speakers went up and said their pieces, thanking the organization and the sponsors who came out. They thanked the charity organizers for putting it together, and before anyone knew it, they were dismissed to the elegant food tables set out.

Joe stood with his table, joined by Ja’Marr and Tee. His body was adorned in a simple, long sleeve button down and black pants. His curly hair was unruly, not styled even in the slightest bit.

But he didn’t care how he looked. He cared how she looked. Her dress hugged her body, her usual t-shirt and jeans traded for elegance. Joe felt his body shrink at her presence, his ego flattening. He never compared to her, to the poise she always exhibited and the academic excellence she displayed.

Even after all of these years, she still managed to stir up those memories, the feelings of warmth and of need. It was deeper, though. Always had been. It took root in his soul, a dormant flower that only at her presence did it sprout.

She felt his eyes on her. She didn’t have to turn around to know that. He always had a certain intensity in his gaze, one that she came to know very well. She grabbed a plastic plate from the table, stacking it with fruit and small treats. She needed a boost, she needed something to do while she withstood the intense gaze of Joe.

She didn’t think he’d come right up next to her.

“Looks amazing,” he hummed. It was the nicest thing he’s said to her in a while, and it shocked her. She wanted to quip back with something snarky, but no words came to mind.

“Thanks,” she answered as she used tongs to grab some cheese slices, “but I didn’t set this up. The caterer did,”

“Oh. Right,”

The silence that followed was deafening. She filled her plate with small snacks and so did he, but there were unspoken words between them. Years of silence and emptiness caught up to them in that moment, begging to be filled.

“Can we talk?” Joe asked softly. He looked over at her, took note of how her shoulders tensed and how her eyes fluttered. The question hung in the air, silencing the room around them. They needed to talk, but about what?

“What’s there to talk about?” she asked. She could feel his eyes on her, the same intensity he always had. He wasn’t looking through her, he was looking at her. She could feel how his eyes were round, the emotions he had pouring from him in the simplicity of his question.

“Y/N-”

“How’s Paige?” she asked, her words cutting. Joe flinched, his chest tightening. His hands shook, the stutter of his breath giving him away.

“We’re not together anymore,” Joe admitted softly. She still didn’t look at him. She refused to meet his eyes, the very eyes she’d fallen for years ago. She couldn’t come to the reality that even after all this time, she still loved him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she hummed, plucking a cookie from the tray.

“Are you?”

“Excuse me?” She perked her eyes up, finally meeting his. She hated how her heart skipped a beat, how her body tensed and relaxed all at the same time. His eyes untangled every single bit of stress in her body, but was also the source of said stress.

“Are you really sorry?” He asked, stepping closer to her, “or are you just saying that?”

“Want me to be honest? No, I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that things with her didn’t work out. It feels like sweet karma to me,” she snapped, her eyes hardening with the walls around her heart. She hated him, but fuck she loved him.

“Karma? For what?”

“Are you seriously asking me that? You chose her over me, and don’t even come at me with that friends with benefits bullshit,” she snapped, setting her snack plate down before it became carnage on the floor.

Joe, for once, didn’t have an excuse. His mouth was glued shut, his eyes studying her every move. She was beautiful, even when her eyes cut deeply into his chest. She was strong, even when this argument was killing her.

“Nothing to say? For once? Fucking-”

He kissed her. He didn’t give her another chance to speak, not when he looked like that, not when she still sparked that flame of desire in his chest. She didn’t kiss him back, but the feeling of his lips against hers made her heart ache. It ignited the dormant volcano of desire in her belly, stirring the flames of need.

He’s never kissed her before.

He pulled away, her eyes fluttering open. Her heart raced in her chest, her stomach doing pathetic flips. She hated him, but the way he kissed her and the way his touch ignited her skin had her reeling.

“What the hell?”

“Y/N-”

“You can’t just kiss me and-and expect things to be okay!” she stuttered. Her stomach is aching, her legs are sore from tension and by God she wants him. But she won’t.

“Oh so now I can’t kiss you?”

“Not after calling me high maintenance! Not after saying that Paige was better than me!”

“You’re still holding onto that? I was a stupid college kid!”

“Yes! Your words stung, Joe. Seeing you with her killed me even more. It was always more than sex to me, Joe, and you knew that,”

“I did, and you still avoided me like I was the plague,”

“Because to me you were,”

Their words were venomous, hanging around their necks. Their veins ran cold with poison, but their desire for one another was so intense that they couldn’t step away from each other. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of betrayal and arousal. He looked at her, admiring her strength and her audacity.

He needed her. She needed him. Neither of them would do anything about it.

“Don’t kiss me again,” she snarled, “not unless you mean it,”

Joe wanted to reach for her as she walked off. His heart left with her, leaving him broken and empty all over again. He did this to them, he broke them in two. Joe’s always loved her, but in that moment, he watched as that piece of him walked away. She was the love of his life, the heart that kept him beating, and now she left him to die on a raft, the poison from their past slowly killing him.

[starsinthesky5]

his iris || joe burrow x reader

description: a concept fic of what it would feel like to be his iris. to be the one thing he'd give up everything for, because the closest to heaven he's ever been isn't the football field...it's you.

a/n: idk what this is (maybe just pure rambling) but i cannot get this song out of my head and i had to put pen to paper. if this makes 0 sense don’t tell me and move on i wrote this in 24 hours

warnings: a pinch of some suggestive references, fluff, and some angst

word count: 2.5k

> > main masterlist

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

To be Joe’s iris is to live in the most delicate parts of him—the hushed corners of his heart where no one else is allowed. It’s to exist in that infinite pause between a breath and a kiss, where the rest of the world fades and only you remain. He would give up forever—without hesitation, without condition—if it meant he could touch you one more time. Because he knows. He knows that you feel him, even when he can’t find the words. Even when the silence is heavier than his helmet. Even when the only thing holding him together is the thought of your arms around him again.

He doesn’t want to go back to a life without that. He doesn’t want to go home if you’re not there to open the door. Because home is no longer a place. It’s you. It’s always been you.

He used to believe heaven lived under stadium lights, the place where cheers rumbled like thunder and time slowed with every perfect throw. For years, he thought that was it. The wins, the records, the glory. The confetti falling like snow, the flash of cameras, the weight of a championship ring pressing into his skin—those were supposed to be the moments that defined him. And for a while, he dreamed that they did. But they never filled him the way he thought they would. There was always something missing, something hollow in the quiet after the high. The pressure never let up. The expectations only grew as time passed. He was always chasing, always giving more than he had, until even the victories started to take from him. And heaven? Heaven shouldn’t take.

But then you came along, cool where the world was burning hot, constant where everything else shifted. You didn’t ask for the leader of the franchise. You wanted him. Just him. And when he started to see himself through your eyes, everything changed. You didn’t make him prove himself, make him reach a certain standard. You just stayed. When the game was cruel, even to the point where it was taking a toll on you. And in your presence, in your laugh, your hands, your unwavering love, he found a kind of peace he’d never known. The kind that didn’t demand anything back. The kind that reminded him what it felt like to breathe. That’s when he realized football was never heaven. You were. Because you didn’t take anything from him, you gave everything back.

He tells you with the way he looks at you. Like you’re the closest to heaven he’ll ever be allowed to touch. And you are. Maybe heaven is the curve of your smile when he walks in the room after a brutal game, bruised and breathless but whole again in your arms. Maybe it’s the quiet sound you make when you stretch first thing in the morning, still half-dreaming, while he zips up his practice bag and steals a glance because he can’t quite believe you’re real. Maybe it’s the way your fingertips brush the nape of his neck when he’s watching film, trying to steady his mind before a big game, and your touch reminds him that winning isn’t everything, not when he already has you.

When he’s with you, time folds in on itself. It’s frozen in the sweet taste of your kiss, the sleepy rasp of your laugh, the way you reach for his hand without thinking. All he can taste is that moment. All he can breathe is you, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat syncing with his own, your presence so wrapped around him that it’s impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. It’s overwhelming. It’s consuming. And he knows, deep down, that it can’t last forever. Nothing ever does. The season always ends, and the lights always go out. But tonight, he’ll hold you tighter. Tonight, he’ll drink in every second like it’s the last drop of something holy. Because missing you—missing you—is the kind of ache he can’t survive again. It lingers in his bones, echoes in his mind, fills every inch of him with longing.

And that’s when it hits him, missing you is something he can’t bear, but missing football? Missing the game? That’s a pain he can learn to live with. He’d give it all up if it meant waking up to you each morning. If it meant your body curled into his, your voice in his ear, your love steady through every high and low.

Because you aren’t a season. You’re the reason.

He doesn’t want the world to see him. Not like this. Not when he’s stripped bare and brimming with too much feeling. Because they wouldn’t understand. They never do. The world wants the polished version. The perfect, untouchable icon. The quarterback. The golden boy. The calm in the pocket. The stone-faced leader who keeps his cool on fourth-and-goal. But you…you know better. You see the boy beneath the armor, the cracks he hides. The softness he’s never shown because he feels as if it's a burden. And he just wants you to know who he really is. The man who trembles when you say his name late at night, when it's just you two, under the stars, wrapped in a kind of comforting silence he only used to dream about. The one who’s terrified, downright haunted by the thought of losing you, even on your best days. The one who would set fire to everything he has if it meant he could keep your love.

Some nights, the grief inside him has no name, no real label. The tears never fall, but they live there anyway, tucked beneath his ribs like ghosts. Sometimes he laughs when he’s hurting, sometimes he lies just to stay standing. Sometimes he’s silent for hours because the words won’t come out right. But you always know. You always see the truth in his eyes, even when his mouth says everything’s fine. When life feels like a movie, too surreal, too distant, he keeps his soul tethered to his body, even when he feels like tuning it all out, with something as simple as your voice. With your touch. With the ache of being loved so deeply, it scares him. And when the pain cuts too close, when it feels like he’s unraveling under everyone's expectations, he lets himself bleed, just to remember he’s still alive. He remembers that he's allowed to feel, because he knows you will gather him up in your arms like he’s something worth saving. Like he’s not broken beyond repair.

He thinks of you during warmups, before the roar of the jungle, before the anthem, before the first snap. You're the stillness in his storm. He tucks a piece of you beneath every layer of padding, every lace of tape—your love stitched into the fabric of his game. Sometimes, under the burn of the stadium lights and the weight of the moment, when the play clock’s winding down and his pulse is louder than the crowd, he shuts his eyes and finds you in his mind—up in the stands, wrapped in his jersey, hand over your heart like he’s your favorite song. And somehow, that image settles him. Quiets the noise. Reminds him why he plays the way he does. But some nights, he doesn’t need the memory, because you’re really there. Slipping in before the anthem, staying long after the final whistle.

There when it counts. There when he needs you most.

One time, you met him after a loss. A miserable, gut-wrenching one. The kind that twisted in his chest long after the final whistle, the kind that left bruises no camera could catch. The media swarmed like vultures, headlines already sharpening their teeth, and he could feel it all closing in. The weight of expectations, the sting of failure, the noise.

But you were there.

You made it past the chaos, past the reporters and the static, and found him in the tunnel, tucked in a shadowed corner where no one else thought to look. He was hunched over, clutching his helmet with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart, jaw tight, eyes stormy with things he couldn’t say out loud. And you didn’t try to fix it. You didn’t offer words of encouragement or silver linings. You just said, quietly, gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “Hey, Joe,” and that’s when it hit him. That’s when everything stilled. Because in that moment, you didn’t see a loss. You didn’t see the missed throws or the scoreboard or the importance of a city’s hope crumbling on his shoulders. You saw him. Not the quarterback. Not the disappointment. Just Joe. Just the man you loved, and that quickly calmed the harrowing storm in his mind. Because being seen like that—without conditions, without judgment—was the most healing thing he’d ever known.

That night, after everything, the loss, the noise, the moment in the tunnel, you took him home. No words, just quiet understanding, the kind that lives in the spaces between heartbeats. In the dark, with the city still reeling outside, he clung to you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. His mouth found yours with a kind of desperation, like he needed to drink in something real, something warm, something that reminded him he was still human. All he could taste was that moment, the salt of your skin, the breathless ache between kisses, the way your hands steadied him. And all he could breathe was your life, your presence wrapped around him, your love poured into every touch, every whisper against his jaw. He didn’t need saving, just this. Just you. You let him fall apart in the safety of your arms, and then put him back together with nothing but your body and the way you loved him like he hadn’t just lost. Like he was still enough.

He repeats it like a vow in the dark, I don’t want the world to see me. Because they’ll never see this, what you two have built in the quiet. They’ll never understand how you make the shattered pieces of him feel soft again. They’d never understand how you make the broken feel beautiful, because that’s a skill only you could have mastered. How your love isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere. In the way you fold his shirts. In the way you tuck your cold feet under his thighs on the couch. In the way you kiss his shoulder instead of his mouth sometimes, just to let him know that you see him.

He doesn’t need them to. He just needs you.

He wants you to know who he is. Not the former champion, not the star quarterback, not the headline. Just Joe. The man who wears one sock inside out for good luck and spends hours reading a book about superluminal time travel. The one who listens to your voicemail on repeat when you’re away. The one who buries his face in your shoulder after a loss and whispers, don’t leave me. The one who memorizes your coffee order like it’s scripture and leaves sticky notes in your coat pocket just to say he loves you. The one who touches your back in passing just to make sure you’re real. The one who gets nervous before every game, no matter how many he’s played, and collects himself with the thought of your voice in his ear, saying, “You’ve got this,”.

To be Joe’s iris is to be his truth. His sanctuary. His reason. To be the only one who sees the chaos and chooses him anyway. Not despite it, but because of it. To be the one thing he never has to earn. To be the safest place he’s ever known. Absolutely.

To be Joe’s iris is to be the center of everything, the pulse beneath his skin, the calm in his chaos, the one thing his eyes always find in a room full of noise. It’s more than love; it’s gravity. It’s being the focus of every look, every breath, every whispered thought he’s too afraid to say aloud. You are the light he sees through, the clarity in a world that never stops spinning. When he looks at you, it’s not just with affection, it’s with reverence. Like you are the miracle that steadies him, the only truth he’s ever been sure of. And in that gaze, in that soft, unwavering focus, you know. You are cherished. You are chosen. You are his everything.

He doesn’t want the world to know. He just wants you to know who he is.

He just wants you to stay.

And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of it all. That you do stay. Even when he flinches at kindness, because he feels that he doesn't deserve it, hasn't earned it. Even when the weight of the world bends his shoulders and he forgets how to speak without clenching his jaw. You stay when he’s not the man they cheer for, when he’s just a boy with trembling hands and too much silence. You don’t ask him to be strong when he can’t be. You just hold him until the shaking stops. You press your forehead to his and whisper, you’re safe, they won't hurt you here. And he believes you. Because you’ve never given him a reason not to.

You never needed the spotlight to love him. Never needed the jersey or the wins. You loved the quiet in him, the part that gets overwhelmed in crowded rooms, the part that feels everything too deeply but still shows up anyway. The part that swallows his emotions in the heaviest moments, pretending he’s fine because that’s what leaders are supposed to do. And he would give you everything for that kind of love. He has, in his own way, even if the words never quite make it past his lips.

Because your love is the only thing that has ever made sense to him. Even when the plays don’t work. Even when the lights are too bright and the cameras are too close, and the pressure claws at his chest. Even when he loses faith in himself, when the silence of failure echoes louder than the cheers ever did—you never do. You believe in him with a kind of quiet certainty that grounds him. Because you don’t just see the quarterback. You don’t just love the man with the perfect spiral and the postgame interview smile. You love the version of him who overthinks every word he says to you, worried it won’t land right. The one who triple-checks the locks before bed because you once mentioned a bad dream in passing. The one who sits with you on the bathroom floor when you’re crying and says nothing at all—just holds your hand like it’s the most important job he’ll ever have.

And maybe it is.

Because that’s what it means to be his iris. To be the one who sees him, truly sees him, past all the noise and pressure and polish. The one who sees through the armor and into the fragile, tender places he hides even from himself. The one who knows his silences as deeply as his triumphs. Who recognizes the weight he carries on his shoulders, the responsibility he never complains about, but always feels. To love him not because of the world he moves through, but in spite of it. Because of the boy underneath all the expectations, the one who just wants to be good. For you.

That kind of love unbinds him. Softly. Steadily. Without condition.

Because you are the place his soul breathes. The stillness in the chaos. The arms he runs to, not because he’s tired, but because they feel like home. He could win every game, set every record, hold the entire stadium in the palm of his hand, and still—still—it wouldn’t come close to the feeling of coming home to you. To the quiet hum of your voice in the kitchen. To the way you wait for him at the door when it’s late. To the way you don’t ask him to be anything but his full, flawed, beautiful self.

Because the closest he’s ever been to heaven isn’t the football field. It’s you.

You, with your quiet heart and your relentless faith in him. You, who stays. You, who sees him. You, who loves him so wholly, so simply, so thoroughly, that he’d give it all up without hesitation, because he already knows what it feels like to have everything and still be missing the one thing that matters most.

That’s what it means to be his iris.

To be the one thing he’d give up everything for, no matter how much it means to him.

You always mean more.

[burreauxsss]

only on camera

background: joe burrow, america's quarterback attends the met gala with the one and only y/n y/ln, his girlfriend but fiance on the low.

(all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved.)

notes: i dont need to explain myself here. enjoy!

word count: 753

warning: none? just horrible paparazzi.

The city hummed with electric anticipation. It was Met Gala night, fashion’s most sacred evening, and as the elite lined the ruby carpeted stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, whispers chased every movement like shadows.

But all of that ceased when the black SUV rolled to a slow, theatrical stop at the curb.

The door swung open.

And out stepped Joe Burrow, the golden boy, everyones celebrity crush. Dressed in a sleek baby blue tuxedo with a satin collar. But what came next was what stole the night.

Y/N Y/L/N emerged behind him.

Silence, then audible gasps.

She wore white. The gown clung to her like moonlight on skin, its fabric a whisper of silk and illusion mesh. Cut dangerously low in the back and artfully high at the slit, it danced between couture and scandal, purity and seduction. Tiny crystal details caught the light like stardust. Yet it was the hand she placed delicately on Joe’s arm that sent cameras into a frenzy.

A ring.

Not just any ring.

A solitaire diamond, halo set on a platinum band, unmistakably an engagement ring.

Joe leaned in, murmuring, “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled like she knew something no one else did. “I’ve been ready."

They ascended the stairs, and the crowd parted like the sea. Reporters scrambled. Stylists froze mid sentence. Twitter was already ablaze.

“Who is she?”

“Is that Joe Burrow’s girlfriend?”

“Thats a ring, did he propose?!”

And there it was. The secret the world had no idea it had been starved for, the NFL golden boy was engaged, and not to some influencer or Hollywood gold digger. Y/N, a very popular college gymnast who retired due to her concussions her senior year. She had been in Joe’s orbit for years, always at the edge of the frame. Until tonight.

Inside, the two floated beneath the great glass dome, the city sparkling beyond them.

“You know this is going to be everywhere by morning,” he said, hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

She turned, tilting her head. “Good. Maybe now they’ll finally stop asking about your ‘mysterious girl in the background.’”

He chuckled, then reached for her hand, his thumb brushing the ring. “Still feels crazy. That you said yes.”

“I knew I would the second you fumbled the proposal speech,” she teased.

“I did not fumble.”

“You forgot your own name, Joe.”

A few months ago 📍Athens, OH

It had been late autumn in Ohio. They were at his family’s place just outside Athens, wrapped in wood, history, and too many Bengals throw blankets to even count.

He’d been jittery all day, which was already suspicious. Joe never fidgeted that much.

They’d gone on a walk by the water after dinner, wrapped in scarves and nostalgia. The sun had just kissed the horizon goodnight, setting the lake ablaze in orange and lavender.

Y/N had been talking about something... work, a opening to be the gymnastics head at Ohio State when he stopped walking.

“I—uh, wait,” he said, voice suddenly tight.

She turned to face him. “What?”

He blinked. “Hang on.”

Her brows lifted. “Are you okay?”

Joe took a deep breath and then… knelt. Right there on the pine needle scattered path.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

“Okay,” he said, pulling a tiny box from his coat pocket with shaking hands. “Okay. So. I… wow.”

She bit her lip, heart already thundering.

“I’ve had this speech in my head for weeks,” Joe said, eyes locked on hers. “But it all sounds dumb now. Because the only thing I know for sure is that I love you. Like, I’m gonna love you through every season love you. Like, I want you on the sidelines and at the breakfast table and in the middle of everything love you.”

Tears pricked her eyes.

“And okay, here it goes.” He cleared his throat, opened the ring box. “Y/N Y/L/N… will you marry—”

He paused.

She blinked. “Joe?”

He looked slightly panicked. “I forgot the next part.”

She laughed. “You were literally about to ask me to marry you.”

“I know, I know,” he said, laughing nervously. “It’s just....I wanted to say ‘It’s me, Joe Burrow’...you know, make it official sounding and I just totally blanked.”

Y/N burst into full laughter. “You forgot your own name?”

“I did!” He looked both mortified and amused. “I was gonna say, ‘It’s me, Joe Burrow, and I want to spend forever with you.’ But then I just blanked. Like full on quarterback under pressure mind melt.”

Still giggling, she knelt down in front of him, hands cradling his cheeks. “Well… Joe Burrow, whoever you are, the answer’s yes.”

He stared at her. “Wait. Really?”

“Really really.”

The kiss that followed was a little messy, slightly damp from tears, and absolutely perfect.

Present day 📍New York, NY

And now, months later, under the vaulted ceiling of the Met, the memory danced like a secret flame behind Y/N’s smile. She reached for Joe’s hand, their fingers interlocking easily, like they'd always belonged that way.

“You remembered your name eventually,” she teased under her breath.

He grinned, squeezing her hand. “Barely.”

They laughed together, and even in the grand chaos of fashion royalty, nothing glittered quite as bright as they did. A couple not born from publicists or media campaigns, but from quiet loyalty and fire beneath the surface.

And as the cameras kept flashing, as the world spun faster in its obsession, Y/N raised her left hand to adjust her hair, casually, effortlessly.

The diamond caught the light.

And the world caught on.

yn posted a story

caption: yeah he did that @/joeyb_9

note: literally proofread this 20 times half asleep.. anyways

[darling-flora]

irreplaceable

joe burrow x yn!singer x ex!robert pattinson

fc: tyla

─── masterlist !

note — (all manips are made by me!!)(sorry robert pattinson for all the shade i loved you in batman ❤) short fic... i've had this concept in the drafts since last year but finally did it !! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated ❤

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TMZ

Liked by user1, user2 and 969,944 others

TMZ Robert Pattinson is seen with far along pregnant girlfriend Suki Waterhouse only two months after split with Y/n L/n.

view all comments

user1 wtffff ????

user2 cheating on y/n and getting another girl pregnant is.... im speechless

user3 HUH

user4 i have no words omg... poor y/n

user5 no way he cheated on Y/N???😧

user6 a baby on the way is actually insane

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lakers

Liked by user1, user2 and 2,469,944 others

lakers The stars are out tonight for Lakers vs Warriors.

view all comments

user1 i kinda need all three...

user2 everyone is so hottt

user3 dream blunt rotation but im the blunt

user4 omg why is everyone so horny in the comments???

user5 y/n and joe!! love them

user6 lets so lakers 💜💛

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yourinstagram

Liked by joeyb_9, badbunnypr and 4,869,944 others

yourinstagram lakers in 5

view all comments

user1 lakers fan??? this diva

user2 she released a new song like a week ago and the first time she seen is at an nba game... not a serious bone in her body 😭

user3 joe burrow and bad bunny in the likes 👀

->user4 can you blame them?

user5 YOU are irreplaceable

user6 face tea, body tea damn damn damnnnn

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yourinstagram

Liked by joeyb_9, badbunnypr and 7,044,144 others

yourinstagram naughty girl release partyyyy

view all comments

user1 so naughty girl is about JOE BURROW???

lahjay10_ !!! liked by yourinstagram !

user2 the hair, the beat, the fit ATE DOWNNNN 10s

joeyb_9 😎✌ liked by yourinstagram !

user3 WAIT POSTING YOUR MAN ON MAIN?!!?!

user4 she's so cunty it's insane omgggg

user5 popstaring in ways that will be studied

user6 HOTTTT

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[elizabeth-holland24]

Racing Hearts - Chapter 2

< previous chapter -- next chapter >

She’d meant to run a quick errand—just in and out for some last-minute ingredients for Daisy’s dinner. Instead, she stood in the middle of a small London grocery, mentally replaying every second of the red carpet from the night before. The noise of cameras. The heat of the lights. The flash of Brisket’s tail as he ran toward her.

And then—him.

Glen. His smile had been sharper than any lens, his voice warmer than any spotlight. She still couldn’t believe how the world had quieted the moment he said, “I think you’ve stolen my dog.” That was Monday night. Now, it was Tuesday. Her last day in London before flying out to Hungary for the next Grand Prix. Her suitcase was half-packed, her mind even less so.

She picked out fresh cilantro, chiles, and mezcal—her signature addition for a special dessert. Daisy had invited friends over for a laid-back dinner, a goodbye before she left. And since Daisy’s idea of “cooking” included vegan microwave meals and wine that came in a box, she had offered to handle the food.

As she loaded her basket, her phone buzzed.

🔥 — Glen Powell

She blinked. Her heart skipped.

He had reacted to her Instagram story—her dancing in Daisy’s kitchen, flour on her cheek, mouthing along to End Game while baking. She had posted it an hour ago, thinking nothing of it. A moment of silliness before the evening rush.

But he’d seen it. And responded. Not with words—but with fire.

She tucked her phone away before she could spiral. It was probably nothing. Just a friendly little emoji.

Still, she smiled the entire walk home.

Back at Daisy’s flat, she got to work. Music blasted through the speakers as she cooked—enchiladas verdes, arroz con elote, and her mezcal chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. Daisy leaned in from the hallway, still applying mascara.

“You look suspiciously domestic,” she teased.

“Don’t worry. It’s all for Brisket.”

“Sure,” Daisy smirked. “You’re telling me Glen Powell’s dog just happened to find you on the carpet, and now you’re baking?”

“He’s not coming,” she said quickly. “He probably doesn’t even remember.”

But she kind of hoped he would. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. The knock on the door came just as she was plating the last of the enchiladas. Daisy opened it, and there he was—holding Brisket’s leash in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“I brought the most important guest,” he said, stepping inside. “And also this wine, which I’m told doesn’t go with enchiladas. But I’m here for dessert.”

She stared, heart hammering. “You came.”

“Well, Brisket demanded it,” he said, unhooking the leash. The dog sprinted toward her like she was his favorite person in the world. She crouched down, laughing, letting him jump up.

“You again,” she said, scratching behind his ears.

Glen was watching her with a half-smile, like he was still a little surprised she was real. He looked different now—casual in a navy sweater and jeans, no cameras, no crowd. Just a guy. And yet somehow, even more disarming. As the rest of the guests trickled in—Daisy’s musician friends, a couple of actors, Anthony Ramos—Glen stayed near her, helping plate food, refilling water, handing out napkins. The dinner was chaotic and warm, everyone squeezed on cushions and mismatched chairs around a low table. Between bites of spicy rice and second helpings of cookies, the room buzzed with stories, laughter, the occasional off-key harmony.

At one point, Anthony leaned in, eyes glinting. “Entonces, cuando es la boda? Ya firmaste los papeles de adopción?” (So, when's the wedding? Have you signed the adoption papers?)

She coughed, mid-sip. “Que? No. esta loco, apenas y nos conocemos.” (What? No. Are you crazy we barley know each other)

“Sure,” Daisy added, winking. “But I’m pretty sure there was eye contact that could cause a blackout.”

She shook her head, cheeks burning. “We were just...talking.”

Across the room, Glen caught her glance and raised his glass. She raised hers back.

Just talking.

After dinner, most guests lounged around with drinks, trading playlists and half-tipsy confessions. Glen helped her stack plates in the kitchen. They moved in sync—passing dishes, wiping counters, brushing elbows.

“You sure this isn’t too much before your travel day?” he asked.

“I needed a distraction,” she said honestly. “Racing is constant motion. This...” She looked around the dim kitchen, candle flickering near the sink. “This feels like breathing.”

He nodded. “So where are you off to first?”

“Straight to Germany for a sim session. Then back to the US for college, before the real chaos starts. I won’t really be back in London until they need me or something comes up.”

He looked impressed. “That’s intense.”

“It’s everything,” she admitted, leaning against the counter. “Fast. Loud. Adrenaline on tap. But also—it’s the only time my brain shuts off. When I’m driving, I don’t think. I just feel.”

Glen rested his hands on the counter beside her, close enough to touch. “That’s how I feel when I write.”

“You write?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Not scripts. Not yet. But stories. Scenes I never show anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe I’m scared they won’t live up to the version in my head.”

She studied him. The quiet vulnerability beneath the charm. “You’d be surprised how much of yourself shows up anyway. Whether you mean to or not.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked. “Is that what happened yesterday?”

She froze, caught off guard.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said softly.

The kitchen fell silent. Neither of them moved.

“I can’t either,” she admitted.

His smile deepened. “That makes me feel slightly less insane.”

She laughed, quietly. “Only slightly?”

“I mean, I barely know you,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel that way.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

He glanced at her lips, then back to her eyes. His hand inched closer on the counter. She didn’t move away.

But the door creaked open as Daisy popped in, wine glass in hand. “Cookies are disappearing. If you want one, this is your last shot.”

They stepped apart, flustered.

“On my way,” she said quickly.

The night wore down in soft tones. Friends hugged their goodbyes, laughter trailed out into the hallway, and finally, it was just her, Daisy, and Glen. She stood by the window with a glass of water, watching lights blur in the distance. Her packed suitcase leaned by the door. Media calls. Branding. Sim time. College classes. It all began again tomorrow.

But tonight—tonight had been still.

Glen approached quietly, standing beside her at the window. Brisket curled up by the couch.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” he said. “Brisket thinks you’re his soulmate.”

She laughed softly. “I might be.”

Glen looked at her again, serious now.

“I know you’re leaving,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not asking for anything. But I just—”

She turned to face him.

“I just want you to know,” he said, “this wasn’t, nothing. Not to me.”

She swallowed. “Not to me either.”

There was a long pause. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pen.

“Here,” he said, gently taking her hand. He scribbled something on the inside of her wrist. A phone number.

“If I text you,” he said, “will you answer?”

She looked down at the number. Memorized it instantly. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’ll send me Brisket pics.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

They stood there a moment longer, hands still lightly brushing. Not quite holding on. But not letting go, either. And later, long after he left, she curled into the couch, cookies wrapped for the plane, and the number still inked faintly on her wrist.

Her heart still racing. Not from driving this time. But from something just as dangerous.

A/N: So what do you guys think? are they going too fast? Or is everything just part of my masterplan?

[honeydippedfiction]

Please I need Joe and Angel with 'i need you. please. i'll be quick.' and 'go on. fuck yourself on my cock'. Maybe while they're still at LSU and Joe has to go to practice and Angel just misses her man, she's ovulating and can't keep her hands off of him

Nastyyyy and god I love it

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

i need you. please. i'll be quick.' and 'go on. fuck yourself on my cock'

LSU!Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The sun dipped lazily behind the oak trees outside Joe Burrow’s apartment, casting long streaks of gold across the hardwood floor. The late afternoon light filtered through half-open blinds, giving the small living room a drowsy warmth. The air was still, thick with that comfortable quiet that only comes after long, busy days.

Joe sat sunk into the middle cushion of the couch, socked feet propped on the coffee table, his arm draped over the shoulder of the woman curled into his side. Angel fit there like she’d been made for it—legs tucked beneath her, head resting against his chest, one hand splayed across his stomach. She wore his purple LSU hoodie, far too big for her, the sleeves covering her fingers. Her tight curls were still damp from a quick shower, her skin glowing in the natural light, fresh-faced and calm in a way that felt rare these days.

On the muted television, a rerun of ESPN’s College Gameday droned on, talking heads analyzing SEC stats and playoff predictions. Neither of them was listening.

Joe’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced at it and sighed quietly. 6:12 p.m. He had just under thirty minutes to be on the practice field.

He shifted slightly, his muscles still sore from the morning session. “I gotta head out soon.”

Angel didn’t move. If anything, she melted deeper into his side, her voice muffled against his chest. “No. You just sat down.”

Joe smirked, rubbing her shoulder with slow circles of his thumb. “I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour.”

“Not long enough,” she murmured. “Not for me.”

He hesitated. He hated leaving like this. She knew how full his days were—early film sessions, team lifts, practice, meetings—but she never guilt-tripped him. Never whined. That wasn’t her. But sometimes, like now, the fatigue and the distance caught up with them both.

Angel shifted, turning her face up toward him. Her brown eyes were soft, searching his. “You know I haven’t seen you for more than ten minutes straight since Tuesday?”

Joe tilted his head. “We had lunch yesterday.”

“That was fifteen minutes,” she corrected. “And you spent half of it texting your quarterback coach.”

Joe opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. She wasn’t wrong.

“I miss you, Joe,” she said simply.

He sighed again, but this time it was heavier, touched with something like guilt. “I miss you, too. Every day.”

Angel pulled back slightly, sitting up just enough to look at him fully. “I know we both got dreams,” she said. “And I’m proud of you. You know that. Watching you out there on the field? That’s my favorite thing in the world. But sometimes I just…” She trailed off, shrugging a little. “I just want you to skip a practice and hold me instead.”

Joe reached out, brushing a curl away from her cheek. “You know I would if I could.”

She gave a weak laugh. “You’d never miss practice.”

“Not if I want to keep playing,” he said, half-smiling.

Angel leaned back into him, her voice barely a whisper. “Can’t Coach O give you, like, a love-sick pass or something?”

Joe laughed out loud. “That man barely believes in water breaks. You think he’s handing out romance time?”

“Okay, fair,” she mumbled against his sweatshirt.

The room went quiet again, save for the faint hum of the A/C unit kicking on. Angel sighed and clung to him a little tighter.

Joe looked at the clock again. 6:17 now. He should’ve been up already. But her arms were around him, and the weight of her head on his chest made it hard to move.

“What did you do today?” he asked, softly, trying to make it feel like they had more time than they did.

Angel tilted her head up without letting go. “Had my Sports Broadcasting seminar. We broke down interview techniques, did a mock press conference. I was the reporter. Crushed it, obviously.”

“I bet you did,” Joe said, genuinely proud.

“Then I worked in the control room for the women’s volleyball game. Helped produce the halftime feature. Next week, they want me on-camera.”

Joe grinned. “Told you. You’re a natural.”

“Mhmm,” she said, nuzzling closer. “But I’d still trade all that for five more minutes with you right now.”

Joe kissed the top of her head, then her temple. “You’re gonna be incredible, Angel. You already are.”

Her voice turned playful. “That’s what I keep telling you. I’m a catch. You’re lucky I waited this long for you to realize it.”

Joe smirked. “I knew it the first day I met you in that Sports Comm building.”

Angel raised a brow. “You mean when you bumped into me and made me spill my coffee all over my interview notes?”

“I bought you a new one,” he said defensively.

“And flirted your way out of an apology.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he said with a grin.

Angel rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “Barely.”

The laughter faded into quiet again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just calm. Full. Comfortable.

Joe finally sat up a little straighter, his body protesting. “Alright, for real now—I’ve gotta go.”

Angel let out a dramatic groan and threw her arms around his waist like a kid refusing to go to school. “Noooo.”

Joe stood—or, at least, he tried to.

He shifted beneath Angel, bracing his hands on either side of her waist, trying to gently lift her as he sat up straighter on the couch. But before he could even swing one leg off the cushion, her arms clamped tighter around his torso.

“Angel,” he said, his voice half-scolding, half-laughing.

“Nope,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Babe…”

She slid fully into his lap, legs straddling him now, arms around his neck like vines. Joe froze. She wasn’t playing fair.

“I got twenty minutes to be on the field.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes to be with me,” she corrected, lifting her head to look him dead in the eye. Her expression was soft but stubborn, a quiet fire behind her gaze. “Let the team have you for the rest of the night. I get these twenty.”

Joe sighed. “You know if I’m late, Coach—”

“—will give you hell, I know,” she said quickly, already mimicking Coach O’s raspy bark. “‘You wanna run plays or run laps, Bawrow?’”

Joe laughed, shaking his head. “That’s exactly what he sounds like.”

“I’ve been traumatized,” she said, mock serious. “I hear his voice in my sleep.”

But she wasn’t moving. If anything, she shifted closer, letting her forehead rest against his, their breath mingling between them.

He looked at her, really looked—at the gold flecks in her brown eyes, the smooth glow of her skin in the fading sunlight, the quiet ache sitting just behind her smile. And he felt it, too—that tug in his chest that no two-a-days or quarterback film sessions could distract him from. She was his peace. His person. And no matter how focused he was on the NFL dream, she was always somewhere in the background of it—holding a camera, scribbling in a notepad, waiting in the stands.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured.

Angel tilted her head. “In a good way?”

He nodded slowly, his hands sliding around her waist. “In the best way.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow and warm, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but gave everything. When she pulled back, her lips hovered just over his.

“Tell me something true,” she whispered.

Joe blinked. “Like what?”

“Anything. I just want to hear you.”

He paused, his fingers tracing lazy lines along the hem of her hoodie. “Okay,” he said. “Truth: I don’t feel like the guy everyone thinks I am—not all the time.”

Angel’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Joe swallowed. “They all see this calm, cool QB with swagger, but sometimes, I feel like I’m still that quiet kid from Athens, just trying not to screw everything up.”

Angel’s voice was soft. “You don’t screw things up, Joe.”

He met her eyes. “I feel like I could. Especially with you.”

A silence settled over them. But it wasn’t awkward—it was honest.

Angel leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, then rested her head against his shoulder again. “Well,” she murmured, “here’s my truth: I knew you were it for me before you ever threw a pass at Tiger Stadium.”

Joe looked down at her, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “First day we met, when you helped me pick up my notes and asked me if I wanted to go over sports media law together—which I’m still convinced was just a line.”

“It was,” Joe admitted.

Angel snorted. “Thought so.”

He held her tighter, the weight of her in his lap anchoring him more than anything ever had.

Outside, the sky was slipping into lavender, the early evening shadows stretching across the buildings of the athlete complex. His phone buzzed again—probably a text from a teammate or trainer—but he ignored it this time.

Angel’s arms were still locked around him. No part of her budged. She wasn’t letting go, and truth be told, he didn’t want her to.

He kissed the top of her head. “Okay,” he whispered. “You win. Five more minutes.”

Angel smiled against his neck. “Five, huh?”

Joe laughed. “Ten. But that’s my final offer.”

She settled deeper into him with a satisfied hum. “We’ll see.”

It was always like this when she was ovulating—restless, clingy, like she couldn’t get enough of his skin against hers. She needed to feel him in her hands and her arms and her mouth, like she was taking pieces of him she could keep.

Angel had been trying not to think about it, honestly, but it was hard when all she wanted to do was climb into his lap and never leave. And she knew he could feel it, too. She’d seen it in the way he’d looked at her the second she walked into the apartment earlier—hungry, like she was something to be devoured.

So yeah, she knew it was her hormones talking. But that didn’t make it any less true.

She lifted her head to kiss him, but he pulled back, brows furrowed.

“Angel—” he started.

“What?” she said, already knowing.

“Practice—”

“I know,” she interrupted. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his again. Her voice turned into a quiet whine. “Please don’t leave yet.”

Joe sighed and shifted beneath her. She could feel his resolve wavering.

“You’re not playing fair,” he said.

Angel leaned back enough to look at him. “Since when do I play fair?”

“You’re supposed to be the good one,” he said, smiling. “You always tell me to go to practice and don’t stay too long in the facility.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because I know if you get too ahead of yourself, they’ll just keep piling on more. I’m not letting them take your nights from you.”

Joe’s hands slid further under her sweatshirt, around her bare waist. “What if I want them to?”

“Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “You need a break.”

“You’re my break.”

Angel blinked at him. “Joe—”

He sat up, his nose brushing hers. “You are,” he said quietly, seriously. “Even if I only get ten minutes of you after a long day, it’s the best part of it.”

Angel stared at him, suddenly short of breath. He’d said things like that before, but tonight it felt different—more honest, more desperate.

She shifted in his lap again, his words settling on her skin like a second layer. “Okay, but what if I want more?” she whispered.

His eyes dropped to her lips. “More what?”

Angel leaned in, her mouth hovering just over his. Her voice was barely audible. “More of you.”

Joe groaned. “Baby—”

Angel cut him off, shifting again, her hips pressing down against his.

“—I have to leave in—” He picked his phone up from the couch cushion. Angel watched him blink, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Fifteen minutes.”

Angel whined, rolling her hips against him again. His hands tightened on her waist, his fingers pressing into her skin, holding her there for a second before letting her move again. She felt him hardening beneath her.

“Joe…” she whispered, letting her eyes flutter closed. “I need you.”

“Angel…” he said, his voice a quiet warning.

“Please.” She opened her eyes, her gaze locked on his. “Please. I’ll be quick. Please, Joey.”

He let out a breath that was almost a growl. Angel could feel his hands shaking slightly, and she knew she had him.

His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him, his mouth pressing against her neck as he spoke. “Fine,” he breathed. “Fine. But we’ve gotta be fast.”

Angel nodded quickly. “Fast. Yeah. I can do fast.”

She slid her hands under his sweatshirt, pulling at his shirt, her palms raking over his chest.  Her hips were still moving, rolling, grinding down against him like she’d never be close enough. She wanted all of him in all of her.

“Fuck, Angel,” he breathed against her skin. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“You,” she answered honestly. “It’s you.”

His hands slipped around her back, sliding under her hoodie and tank top to grip her bare skin. Angel arched into him, her hips working against him harder now. She felt desperate—her body aching, burning, like she didn’t have a second to lose.

Joe leaned back against the couch, pulling her with him. He shifted her in his lap until she was almost on her knees, her weight pressing down, his length hard against the seam of his shorts.

Angel reached between them, her hand slipping into the band of his shorts, into his boxers. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and stroked—once, twice, three times—watching his head tip back as a low moan slipped out of him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his hips thrusting up into her hand.

Angel leaned down, her mouth brushing his ear. “I don’t have time for you to be slow,” she said, pumping him faster. “And we don’t have condoms, so…”

She let her voice trail off, letting him catch her meaning.

Joe’s eyes snapped open. “You…” His voice caught. He cleared his throat, his hands gripping her waist again. “You want me to—”

“Yes,” Angel said, breathless, her fingers tightening around him. “Now.”

Joe didn’t hesitate. His hand fumbled between them, tugging at the waistband of his boxers and shorts, pulling them just far enough to let him spring free. Angel shifted higher on her knees, one hand braced against his chest, the other still wrapped around his cock, stroking him. His hands slid down to her sweatpants, yanking them down just past her hips before fumbling to pull her underwear to the side. Angel held her breath, her heart pounding against her ribs, her skin hot and flushed as she watched his expression shift from determined to desperate.

“Fuck—” Joe breathed, his gaze shifting up to her face. “Come here.”

Angel was already moving, shifting back down in his lap, her free hand braced behind her. Joe’s hands gripped her hips as she lowered herself onto him, gasping as she took him in.

“Shit, Angel,” Joe whispered, his voice catching, his head tipping forward. His eyes squeezed closed as he let out a long, shaky breath.

Angel pressed her forehead to his, her breath uneven already, her hips moving against him as she started to grind down.

But suddenly, his hands were gone.

Angel’s eyes snapped open.

Joe was looking at her now, his eyes half-lidded, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Joe?” she breathed. Her voice cracked.

He reached up, running a hand along the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her lips. Angel’s hips were still rocking against him, the friction just enough to drive her a little crazy. She tried to lean in to kiss him, to take his bottom lip between hers and suck, to get him to grip her waist again, to thrust up into her—but he leaned back, just out of reach.

Angel whined again. “Joe…” Her voice sounded needy, almost pained.

His expression didn’t change. If anything, he smiled wider.

“Come on, Angel,” he said quietly. “If you wanted it fast, you gotta take it.”

Angel blinked, her brows furrowing as she processed his words. “Joe—” she started.

“Uh uh, you couldn’t wait so come on, baby.” he said, cutting her off with a soft tsk. He reached up again, running his hand along her jawline, down her neck, before dropping back to the couch cushion. He was leaning back now, propped up on his elbows, watching her—smirking, waiting, like he had all the time in the world.

Angel’s mouth dropped open. She stopped moving.

“Joe, I don’t want to—” She let out a breath, her cheeks flushing. “I just wanted you to…”

But she didn’t have to finish. He knew.

He knew exactly what she wanted.

He knew how much she loved it when he fucked her, like he was taking something from her, owning it. How she loved being on top of him when he finally gave in, when he grabbed her and held her down and thrust up into her so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel him in her, around her, everywhere. She loved watching him get lost in her—his eyes wild, his mouth open, his hair messed by her hands. She loved seeing him unravel because of her. Because she let him. Because he let her.

But this? Her moving, her working, her taking? That wasn’t what she wanted. Not right now.

“Joe…” she whined.

He let out a low groan and lifted his hips beneath her, his cock twitching inside her. Angel bit her lip to keep from crying out, her hands gripping his chest as she tried to steady herself.

“I need you to—” she whispered, her voice catching.

“Need me to what?” Joe’s voice was low, teasing. “Tell me.”

Angel’s breath caught. She shook her head.

Joe raised a brow. He lifted a hand and ran it over her shoulder, down her arm, and back up again. “Come on, baby,” he murmured, his tone soft, coaxing. “Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you.”

Angel let out a shaky breath, her eyes fixed on his. “I want you to fuck me.”

Joe’s expression shifted. His eyes darkened, his brows furrowing, his lips parting. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hips thrusting under her again, a groan slipping out of him. Angel gasped, her back arching, her body shuddering at the sensation.

But then he was still again, his gaze locked on her, his voice low. “Go on then,” he said. He lifted his hands and placed them behind his head, leaning back against the couch again. His gaze never left hers. “I’m not stopping you.”

Angel stared, her mouth open. “You—” she tried.

“I’m not gonna move, Angel,” he interrupted, his tone serious. “So if you wanna get off, you’re gonna have to do the work.”

“Joe, I don’t—” she started again. But she couldn’t get the words out.

He sat up slowly, leaning forward until his mouth was at her ear. His fingers tapped the curve of her ass and he whispered, “Go on, then. Fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Take what you need.”

Angel groaned, a sound caught somewhere between a whine and a whimper and something else she couldn’t name.

His words settled over her like something she could feel, his tone warm and teasing and so fucking sure of himself. She hated that he was right—that this was exactly what she needed.

She started moving again, her hips rolling against him, her breath catching as she leaned into him. Joe’s hands were still propped behind his head, his expression smug, his eyes watching her, following her, taking her in. Angel felt herself burning under his gaze, her skin flushing, her heart racing.

She couldn’t stop now, not when he was looking at her like that—not when he was inside her like this.

She straightened up, her hands braced on his shoulders as she started bouncing on his cock—fast, frantic. She heard his breath catch, felt him twitch inside her again. It spurred her on, her hips slamming down against his, again, again, again.

Angel rolls her hips up, taking more of his cock in her. Joe wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to stretch her out, and she’s damn near ready to cream herself as he fills her.

“You’re going to make me late for practice,” Joe whines, bringing her back down on his cock. She cries out softly, and he chuckles at her response. “Come on, Angel, you’re going to get me in trouble,” he teases. “Fuck yourself on me before I make you.”

Angel moans, nodding her head, and starts a slow grind on his cock. “This what you wanted, baby girl? You wanted to be stuffed and filled up, huh? Just can’t get enough can you?” Angel nods, grinding faster, and Joe’s head lolls back. “God I’ve spoiled you too much, pretty girl.” he mutters to himself.

Joe reaches down to stroke her clit, and Angel’s pace falters. She can’t help it, though. He’s so fucking deep inside of her, and every time she moves down, her clit rubs against his pelvis. Angel loves it and can’t get enough.

“Don’t stop, baby,” Joe murmurs, rubbing her clit faster. “Don’t stop. I wanna feel you cum around my cock.”

Angel moans loudly, fucking herself faster on his cock while he plays with her clit. She’s going to cum soon, and it’s going to be hard. She knows it, and so does Joe.

“Fuck, yes,” Joe breathed, his head tipping back. “Just like that.”

Angel kept moving, kept riding him, even as she watched his hands slip from behind his head to her hips. She bit her lip, her muscles burning as she worked, as she took her pleasure from him, as she let herself go.

She was close. So close. She could feel the heat building in her core, her toes already curling as she gasped, moaned, whined. She was almost there. Almost.

Joe slammed his hips up into her, causing Angel to falter in her pace and throw her head back in a silent scream, her mouth forming an ‘O’ as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her hands scrambled to grab onto something.

“Gotta hurry up, baby,” he said, smirking up at his girlfriend of the past year. Angel was doing her best to get off in the next five minutes, but Joe’s deep strokes weren’t helping her at all. Her pace was beginning to slow down, and her moans were becoming louder. She felt her climax nearing but also felt that she wasn’t going to get to it in the way that she wanted to.

“Fuck Joe!” she moaned out, finally collapsing on top of his chest. He thrust up into her from under her, still giving her those deep strokes that she loved, making her feel every inch of his thick cock. Angel swore that Joe could fuck her dumb like this, making her forget about everything she needed to do and just focus on how he was making her feel. Her moans just spurred him on, and he took over the pace, fucking up into her hard and deep.

“Ride me,” he told her, slapping her thigh lightly as he spoke. Angel bit her lip and sat up a little straighter on his cock. She started bouncing slowly, but she didn’t have the energy to do what they both wanted right now. Joe could tell, so he slapped her thigh again and thrust up into her a couple of times. “Fuck, baby, I’m serious,” he said breathlessly. Angel smirked a little and then started moving faster on him.

“Like that?” she asked, throwing her hips back and forth on him. Joe smacked her thigh in response, and she picked up her pace again, leaning forward and placing her hands on his chest for support. Her ass clapped against his thighs as she rode him, and her moans filled the room. Joe’s eyes were glued to the sight of Angel riding him. Her hair fell in her face, and her lips were parted as she threw her head back and moaned loudly. Joe sat up quickly, causing Angel to let out a small squeal in surprise, but he didn’t care. He sat up and pulled her close so that he could kiss her and suck on her nipples as she continued to bounce on his dick.

Suddenly, Joe’s hands gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her skin as he thrust up to meet her. Angel cried out, the sound ripped out of her as she felt him hit somewhere deep.

“Yes, baby, come on,” Joe said, his voice encouraging, desperate. “That’s it. Just like that. You feel so good, Angel. So good.” He let out a choked groan. “Fuck, I love it when you ride me. I love watching you take what you need. Come on, baby. Let me see you come.”

Angel felt herself tightening around him, her body shuddering as she moved. She was so close. So, so close.

“Joe—” she cried, her voice barely audible. Her hands were fisted in his shirt, her body bouncing hard on his, her head thrown back. “Joe, Joe, Joe—”

“Yeah, baby,” Joe grunted, his thrusts fast and hard. “Let me hear you.”  His hands tightened on her hips, his grip almost bruising. “Come for me.”

And just like that, Angel was falling—her body shaking, her mind spinning, her back arching. “Joe, fuck, I’m cumming,” she moaned into his neck, and within a few seconds, she was shaking on top of him, riding out her orgasm on his dick as he continued to thrust up into her. When her shaking stopped, he pulled her back up into his lap and positioned her so that she was now kneeling over him with her feet on the sides of his hips and her hands on his chest.

He was getting close, so he picked up the pace again by thrusting up into her from underneath her. He could tell that she was getting close too, so he reached down between their bodies to rub her clit.

“Fuck, Angel, I’m about to cum,” Joe moaned into her neck, her scent invading his nose. He could feel his orgasm building up in his lower stomach, but Angel wasn’t there yet, so he quickly pulled out of her and rubbed her clit until she came all over his fingers. He kissed her once she was done cumming, and then he pulled her back onto his cock.

“I love you, baby,” Angel moaned as she rode out the last of her high on Joe’s cock. She bit into his shoulder to try and stifle her moans, and Joe moaned loudly from the sensation of her teeth piercing into his skin. He held onto her waist tightly as he came deep inside of her, and she stilled her pace so he could ride out his high. When he was finished, he fell back against the couch. 

When she finally opened her eyes, Joe was watching her.

He lifted a hand, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, his expression soft, almost reverent. Angel leaned into his touch, her heart still pounding.

Suddenly, she heard a faint buzzing sound. She looked down, confused. “Is that your phone?”

“Fuck,” Joe groaned. “Practice. I gotta go.”

Angel sat back, pulling herself off him. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks flushing.

Joe shook his head. “No,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into him for a kiss. “Don’t be. I wanted you to have it. I told you, I’ll give you whatever you need, baby.”

Angel smiled as she kissed him back, her arms wrapping around him. She knew he meant it, and it made her want him all over again.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

methodology

when it comes to studying you, being exactly what you need, joe is a fucking expert. he is a man of the facts, of the results tried and true.

a finale.

sleepyhead--passion pit

pulldrone--ethel cain

fem!reader insert. CW: 18+ content (smut heavily described, fingering [fem receiving], back shots, unprotected sex in an established relationship), BDSM dynamics described.

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

________________________

Joe considers himself a man of science. 

A man that’s calculating and aware—always aware even when it’s painful to be aware, when it’s easy to be aware, when Joe doesn’t even realize he’s being aware. A job he’s doing 24/7. He likes the tangible. Though the intangible fascinates him, makes him feel the wonder of a child again, Joe is a man of the facts, of the calculus and precision in execution on the field and off it too. He knows how you like to dress, knows that you hate turtlenecks because they make you too hot. He knows that you like your canned drinks high up in the fridge door and he likes down low—so there are corners that are never filled with condiments even when there’s no aluminum or plastic left to fill the empty pockets. 

He is a man of the precise outcome thanks to observation, hypothesis, testing, and results. A man of science. 

So when he returns to the house and it is still, though the washing machine whirs, and the scent of a candle permeates—light and warm as it reminds him of freshly laundered sheets and hot chocolate over the distinct smell of disinfectant—he takes his shoes off at the door with no questions. No hesitations. 

Because that’s what he should do, what he’s supposed to do. The floors don’t look wet. However, Joe’s been here before, knows you’ve probably spent the mid morning sweeping, and mopping, scrubbing at corners Joe wouldn’t have thought to clean. He knows when he settles the grocery bags into the kitchen, he’ll need to wipe down any crumbs that may fall. 

You started the morning easy—breakfast before some light dusting. Joe took the trash out to the bins. He double checked the list he started the night before about what was needed around the house. He collected your dry cleaning that you’d been meaning to drop off for three weeks but seemingly never got around to. A task Joe thinks you forget so often because you’re never in the closet longer than it takes to grab the outfit he picked should he have done so or longer than you need to assemble your own fit for the day. 

He took your car, had the mats cleaned, took it through the car wash, gassed it up. Meandered to the cleaners, stopped by the florist for an order that he’d pick up on his way back home, went to the grocery store, collected the flowers and returned home to the smell of the candle burning and freshly cleaned floors. The only thing missing Joe muses is the sound of music. But the stairs groan just as he sets the vase onto the kitchen island, a soft clack of the glass meeting the marble. 

Your hum trails over to Joe first. Hears you as you grow closer and closer, even over the rustling and rummaging of the brown paper bags. You would and have thrown a fit if Joe forgets a reusable tote bag and uses plastic bags. He doesn’t want a repeat of that—the cutting side glances, the harsh huffed exhales. It’s an attitude that never lasts long, but the annoyance pulls at your lips, brings your whole face down. The look is stern, worse than a look he’s ever gotten because of a dropped pass, or a wobbly spiral. A look that makes Joe want to hide and he’s never wanted to do that—not even with his own parents. 

Joe could call it an obsession-his desire to do things just right for you, perfect for you. But he won’t. It is a sacred trigonometry, a practice and ritual that he studied over and over again until he could recite it. Eyes closed, in the dark, Joe is not obsessed. He is only studying. He is only calculating. He is only testing and observing, stowing away, a quiet stewardship. You are his and he’s going to do everything, every little thing in his power to keep it that way, do you right by you. For all that you do for him. 

It is only fair. The scales can never, and should never be, out of balance. 

Your palm presses into the back of his neck, thumb falling to one side, your pointer and middle finger trailing up into his hair, the rest falling to the opposite side of his neck. Your touch engulfs him. Not just his neck, but everywhere. He feels the tender touch radiating down every inch of him. 

“How’s your neck?”

Joe woke to a burning in his neck and shoulder, not helped by the way he slid off your chest in his sleep. Or maybe you slid away from him. You both run hot and though Joe loves to press his face into your sternum, nose brushing against the soft edges of your breasts to sleep, inhaling the scent of you, it’s rarer now for that position to last through the entire night. Someone, usually you, gets too hot. But Joe can survive it, and would live right there in the valley of your breasts between the hard bone of your ribs and the soft tissue. He wants to live there. Though there is beauty in the fact that even in your sleep, even if you two slip apart, the other is not too far behind. Joe finds you, even in his sleep. You find him, even in yours. Always touching, even if it’s just the drape of an arm over a waist.

However, the awkward angle caught up to Joe and his neck and shoulder ached when he woke. He was up first, even when he didn’t have a reason to be. He tried to work it out himself under the steady stream of hot water. It worked enough for Joe to continue on, get dressed, let you rouse awake on your own while he did some morning stretches. But the ache didn’t go away totally. It held on in protest, and probably out of spite too. All throughout breakfast, as he got ready to go out, the ache pulsated. 

The muscle of his shoulder jumps a little when the flat of your fingers turns into the bony press of your knuckle. It doesn’t hurt like a hot fire. It aches, a low grade sting.  The pressure is nice but it reminds earnestly that he hadn’t worked whatever it was—a knot, a strain?— fully out. 

“Still stiff,” Joe murmurs.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you comment, still behind him. Your second hand joins in, pressing at the opposite side. It gives with relative ease thankfully due to the muscle not being constricted totally. “Want me to try and work it out for you?”

Your fingers press firmly but not maliciously over his shoulder, down towards his chest before you do the three finger press back down towards his shoulder blades and back. Each press is a test, watching, waiting, assessing. When you press at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, Joe lets out a soft huff at the tension, at the sting. 

“If you don’t mind after we get the last of this put away,” Joe whispers around your soft apology.  

“Sorry, baby. I don’t mind.” 

It’s quiet work as you pick up the other bag—avocados and onions that you asked for resting inside of it amidst the bag of jasmine rice, green chilis, jarred salsa. The pantry door is silent as it opens and clicks softly close after all the items are tucked away. The last pieces that remain all go upstairs—toilet paper, more travel sized toothpaste tubes for travel Joe knows you have coming up next week, a lightbulb to replace the one that finally went out in his office. 

“Meet in the bathroom,” you command softly after the two of you reach the second floor. You slip the package of toilet paper from between his ribs and arm, hand stretched out for the small toothpaste. 

There’s no fight in Joe. So he hands it all over before he nods. Joe turns into his office, the shuffle of the plastic alerting him that you’re walking further down the hallway. It takes no more than two minutes to unscrew the burnt out bulb from the base and screw in the replacement. He anticipated that the upstairs hall closet would still be cracked open. That you’d be still rummaging to get the package onto the shelf. 

But the hallway is empty. 

He carries on though, to the bedroom through the closet into the bathroom. Like he was told and you’re leaned up against the sink. Your vanity stool pulled out and situated in front of you. Joe settles into the seat, his back to you. “Other way.” It’s a soft ask. “Face me.”

A hum crawls out of his chest and he turns bit by bit until you fill his vision. The baggy t-shirt cropped, the athleisure shorts high waisted, and yet, the gap between both garments reveals a strip of your belly. Enough skin to show and tempt, but not enough to give away the whole game--a couple inches at best. 

“Spread,” you state, your bare foot tapping at Joe’s ankles. He takes notes that the deep red polish is just starting to chip. The weather’s breaking again—spring giving way to summer. 

“I’m going to make a pedicure appointment for you. Get those toes back in tip top shape,” Joe comments as he eases his legs open wider, gaze raising to watch your movements. 

You started doing pedicures at home in the winter with Joe picking the color—a nice ritual on his days off during the season for you to both take things slow, have intentional time together in the midst of hectic schedules and responsibilities. But Joe knows it’s not the same as going to the salon and does want you to have a little treat too. 

You slip your ring--the ring--off your left ring finger, hanging it on the small metal heart shaped hook Joe installed. There’s one here in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, one in the laundry room, and one in the home gym. A safe place for sapphire decorated ring rest--a pear shaped cut sapphire in the middle, two crescent moon blue gems on the side with diamond accents at the top and bottom of the pear cut gem. Joe had it custom made as a set, the band still tucked away in a separate box hidden away between the rolls of his socks. Not that he needs to hide it anymore. Not now. But Joe likes the secret. Likes having just one more thing up his sleeve.

“The toes thank you,” you hum. “Still need you to pick the color though.” 

“I’ll tell Veronica when I book the appointment,” Joe agrees, referencing your nail tech by name. 

“I wait with baited breath to see what selection you will make.” 

The oil has a sweet floral smell. Over the echoing as you rub your hands together, Joe catches the soft lavender scent. He doesn’t waste another second and eases his t-shirt up and over his head. The cotton drops to the tiled bathroom floor without sound. Your thumbs and fingers pull damn near expertly at his flesh, a steady thumb over and tug, thumb over and tug.

“How’d you know?” Joe asks in a whisper. He means about this neck, but can’t get the words out over his lips. You’ll understand though, here what he’s not saying.

As you slip in closer to his body, he takes hold of your thighs, easing his thumb over the skin and muscle. Joe didn’t say one word about his neck to you at all. The two of you laughed instead in the kitchen while cooking. Joe drizzled blueberries into the pancake mix. You whisked at eggs. There were kisses, sweet little pecks stolen between rounds of laughter and the click of glasses frames meeting because there’s few times that you both wear them. And there’d been not a single word about how his neck and shoulder ached. 

“Saw you rubbing at it all morning.”

Now that—that Joe did do. He did try to quietly work at the ache between pancake flips. Your fingers ease over his skin, skirting around something. The tips of your nails—almond like he likes— are gentle. “Didn’t want to worry you,” Joe answers though no question has been asked verbally. He can feel it though in the slight pause of your work. 

“I’ll always see it though.”

It’s the only warning you give before your work resumes. The flat of your knuckles dragging over the muscle now. Not digging, but smoothing out. A deep steady pressure from just below his ear down and out over his shoulder. It hurts in the same way foam rolling out his thighs from practice hurts in a way that lets Joe know it’s working. And fuck, if it’s not working. 

Joe drops his head into your shoulder, a low long groan pulled out from his chest. His nose scrunches up, fingers aching to curl into your thighs to ease the sting but not giving into the desire. He focuses on his breathing, counts his inhales and matches that to his exhales. Willing his muscles to ease at your work rather than tense like they so desperately want to.

“I swear you were an athletic trainer in a past life,” Joe huffs when the passes stop. 

His exhaled relief echoes in your exhaled laughter. “I watch videos.” Your arm settles into his left shoulder, meets around his back at the right side of his neck. 

Joe peels his head out from the comfort of you. His brows meet in the middle of his forehead. But part of him is sure he hallucinated the sentence. “You watch videos?” Joe asks. You nod, two bobs of your head for the affirmative. “Why are you watching videos?”

“Just in case. Now, rest into me. Not done yet.” You pat at your chest, the coax for Joe to settle in. 

There’s a sincerity on your face, the pull of determination over your features. It was his job to love in those quiet ways. It was your job to love in those loud ways. And maybe Joe’s been quantifying this all wrong from the start. Or maybe, just maybe, as he watches over your face, the truth is somewhere between--that the two of you have been learning to love each other in quiet and loud ways the entire time. That rather than just one way or another, there’s been the slow seep of your preferred love languages melting together in a single sentence: I watch videos.

“So you watch videos,” Joe concludes. He likes the way it sounds, likes what it means—that you’re watching, and calculating, and collecting just like he was. 

There’s another coax—a soft pat, pat of your fingers into your bones. It’s hardly an inch-half at best-but Joe eases into you more. His head resting now into the crook of your neck. The thumping of your heart reverberating through your bone and tissue and against his eardrum. The tip of his fingers dance along the bottom hem of the shorts over your soft skin. You hold Joe’s head close to your body. Your breath wisps down over the tips of his ear. “Did you sleep on it wonky?”

“You left me hanging,” Joe laughs. 

“I probably got hot.”

“I’ll make the room a freezer next time.”

“No, you just need to leave my boobs alone.”

When you release his shoulder from between your fingers, Joe eases down, taking a gentle graze at the meat of your breast over the shirt. “Never,” he whispers and then straightens back up. 

“I want a bite of your ass next.”

“I think that can be arranged.” The end of his retort is squeezed out around his hiss. The aching again, the sign that whatever you’re doing is working. 

“I know, baby.” The softest coo in your voice washes over him, from the top of his head down to the bottom of his feet. You know that it hurts. You know that it’s working. You know that if Joe could’ve worked this kink out himself he would have. You know if even if he did, you’d still notice his discomfort. 

The hold is the worst part. The deep-and now digging-hold is absolutely the worst part. But your voice soothes from above, the countdown slow but not agonizing, “Five, four, keep breathing, two, one.”

You release the point, heel of your palm easing up and down over his shoulder and neck. No pressure or weight, just the slide--an attempt to ease the ache. Joe inhales again. Just under the lavender of the oil he catches the hints of your lotion. The earthy edge of something sweet, like shea butter or coconut. Joe knows the bottle by sight, but can’t recall the scent right now. All he can do is just inhale, take in the scent of you and singe his nostrils with it, tattoo it onto the interior of his lungs. 

“Don’t want to overwork it. So we’ll stop there.”

Joe gives a test roll as he eases away from your body, works his neck side to side and then around. It pulls less. Still thrums low, a weak and thready pulse of pain, but nothing like this morning. “It’s a bit better. Thanks, doc.”

“I’ve been promoted. Does it come with a raise?”

Joe snorts as he laughs, hands splayed around your waist. “Your raise is hanging on that wall.” He nods over to the ring. 

Your gaze doesn’t follow, doesn’t need to. Joe thinks he’s caught you more in the last three weeks staring down at your left hand more than he’s ever seen. Granted, no engagement ring was there prior. At least Joe knows he made a good choice. You and him studied rings—fleetingly, in passing, in giggles under the bed sheets as something to pass the time but always knowing it was on the horizon eventually. When out in new cities, Joe would stop by jewellers there, send you pictures of rings he thought you might like, FaceTimed you a few times just to get your thoughts. But he was cataloguing. No solitaire settings, no silver, no rose gold. Sets were better since the wedding band would need to match with the engagement ring. No square cuts. Nothing too bulky. He was storing it all away. You liked the idea of a colorful stone, but nothing clashy. Had to be classy and elegant. 

Joe wanted something sentimental and a little bit bold. He wanted a stone and a metal that would be durable. Wanted something that rang so thoroughly of you there would be no mistaking it. Joe stumbled into sapphire while in LA. Bored, he found a small local jeweller while searching for something to do. And there in the case a sapphire ring sat, not the one Joe had made, but a gold ring with a sapphire circular starburst in the middle and he knew right then and there what you needed, what would be right for you. 

The press of your lips is soft, no longer the pecks from the morning. These are deeper as you wind your arms around his neck. A kiss that’s filled with comfort and warmth, a kiss that makes you hum just a little as you pull away. “I like that raise. A lot.”

Your nails trace down over his chest, a reverent touch—methodical as you go. Joe grins at the slight tickle. “You also like that I’m shirtless right now too.”

“Sue me,” you laugh, “for thinking you’re hot.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I think it’s in my job description actually.”

Joe traces his nose along the line of your jaw, grinning into your skin. “I don’t think that’s in the hippocratic oath.” He seals the sentence with a kiss along the muscle up to your cheek. “Thank you. For helping.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’d always help.” Because you always see him. Always. And he always sees you. 

His hands fill with your ass, a tight and bruising grip, before he kisses you again. Because Joe is always going to say thank you. It’s the way it’s supposed to go. Neither one of you has to do any of this—there are a thousand fates. But you are here in his hands. He is embraced by your arms. Joe simply would never choose anything else but this. Not when he can taste the peppermint you snuck at some point after he left on your tongue. Not when you hum into him, a sound full of content—at ease with everything. 

The chime is faint—a series of three beeps that denote the washer is done. Joe knows that the clothes should be changed promptly. That undoubtedly, there’s a second load waiting to be washed while the first one is dried. But he lingers on the press of your lips for just a moment longer, swipes into your parted mouth, to savor. To swallow you down if he could. To be swallowed down if he could be. Only to be rewarded with such sweet revelry when you moan into his mouth, fingers tangling up into the threads of his hair. 

It’s only a stool he’s on. Just big enough for him to sit and not feel like he's falling off the sides of it, and definitely not big enough for the two of you. He briefly wonders about the weight limit as you hitch one knee up over his hip. You break the kiss though, forehead pressed into his. “We’re not breaking furniture. I’m not going to break furniture, even if I really want to.”

Joe laughs. “Fair. I’ll go switch the laundry over so we don’t break furniture. Well, not today at least.”

“The forecast is cloudy for the rest of today actually, so who knows.”

“Chances I’m willing to take.” 

Joe follows your movements, bent over his seated frame. But gets distracted, follows the line of your spine down to the meat of your ass—a glorious sight if he’s ever had to say so himself. It’s a playful tap, should hardly sting, and your laughter confirms it. You straighten back up, his shirt tossed over your shoulder, your arms folded over chest. He can tell you’re not wearing a bra but Joe doesn’t mind that fact. Your arched brow dares him. A silent threat. Joe’s a man of tried and true results. He doesn’t reach for the shirt. Just waits, his hand out, palm up, for his shirt to be returned. 

“Laundry won’t change itself.”

There’s no need to ask. Joe won’t be getting his shirt back. He scoots back the stool to stand, and when he does, he can only grin. “Enjoying the show?”

“Just keeping an eye on your neck.” 

Keeping an eye, he’s sure. But Joe slides past and starts towards the laundry room. Sure enough, a second basket is waiting—towels, pillowcases, at the top of the full basket. The first load is a mixture of his clothes and yours, but he’s careful as he pulls the items out, keeping an eye out for anything delicate that can’t go into the dryer. 

The door to the dryer clicks close. Joe stares ahead, setting the temperature and cycle time. He’s not sure when you slipped into the laundry room, rather silently, he must admit. But Joe can feel your heated stare on his back. Eyes that stalk his every move, as he loads in the bath towels and the sheets, as he adds in the detergent, reaching for the plastic cap on the jug before squeezing at the knob at the bottom to dispense the liquid.

He can feel you everywhere. Has always been able to do so. 

Rather than being anxious about it, rather than worrying about why you’re staring, Joe continues on, setting the cycle on the washer, pressing for fast spin and a heavy soil level. The machine dings and chimes with every press. You hate the washer. Wanted something that had the agitator in the middle. But this washer hasn’t crapped out on the two of you yet, so it remains. Joe knows when you’re doing laundry because you curse at the machine every single time. Any chance you get. 

The machine starts after Joe’s long press to the start, the lock falling into place to seal the door shut. Like deer on roads with headlights flashing, Joe freezes at the slide of your palm over his lower back. Feels every point of your ten digits as you climb up his spine. Unlike prey that knows when it’s going to be eaten, that danger is present and wants to fight to survive, Joe gives in. He can’t move. Even if he wanted to, your palm is such a comfort over his shoulder blade he simply could not and cannot resist it.

He hums, skin and sinew melting into your touch. “Should I ask the occasion?” The question stumbles off Joe’s lips when your hands skirt over his shoulders, tracing teasing lines over his abdomen. 

“Just love you, that's all.” 

The ring is warm—your body heat shared with the metal. But Joe feels it, the thin press of the band around his skin. He likes the added bite and scrap of the band over his skin, a way to say his without any words. A way to show devotion even when he’s thousands of miles away. Your lips are soft over the lines of his middle back, a series of pecks into his spine. 

“Telling me I need an occasion to love on you?” you quip. It’s a little biting, like you want him to challenge him. 

Joe’s a man of the facts. This is not a need. You don’t sound like you need it. A jest all the way through. “No, I’m not saying that.”

Because Joe’s not a fool. He’s not a fool in the slightest. But he is a sucker for you. Wouldn’t dream of saying no to you as you tease the tips of your nails along the band of his shorts. If Joe ever wondered if his default was fight or flight, he’s learning with you, like this, the graze of your teeth over his skin, he can only melt. He can only let his eyes flutter close as your hand slips down further not into his underwear, just over him, a heavy press that makes his lower stomach swirl with anticipation. 

“Missed you. When you left.”

The confession is nearly drowned out by the guzzle of the washing machine, finally adding in the water into the drum. Joe blinks the laundry room back into his vision. But he hears it, the almost crack in your voice. His spin is smooth, one arm lacing around your ribs and waist. “Just went to the store, baby.” 

And sure, there were other stops and things too, but he’d only been gone two hours top. Joe watches, tracing over the lines of your face, the perfect pout of your lips. You promised not to go looking on social media anymore. He trusted you; doesn’t think there’s anything so far that proves to the contrary. 

The question though is primed on his lips, ready for him to ask it. Joe doesn’t get the chance to ask it as you’re stretching up, holding his face like it might break if you press too hard, like he might shatter. You hold him like the moment might fall into dust. “Just missed you. Left before I could plead my case to tag along.”

The pout is tiny and amusement dazzles behind your eyes. Joe laughs, slipping his hold lower around you before hoisting you up and placing you on the washer. It rumbles and shakes beneath you, tickles at Joe’s bones while he traces the apple of your cheek. “You’re telling me you wanted to run errands with me?”

“I love running errands with you, Joe. You know this.”

He does know that. Because he loves it too. Joe found himself reaching for the passenger seat, to rest his hand on your knee, but you weren’t there. Joe Burrow is a fucking sucker for you and he doesn’t care what soul on earth knows that fact either. 

“You were the one that suggested divide and conquer as the strategy,” he grins, knows he’s poking the bear. 

“I know. It was before I realized I’d miss you.”

His fingers thread the loop of your ear, cupping your face before he eases the inches closed. Your sigh is content into his mouth, a purr that crawls down his chest. It pools at the bottom of his feet, fills him from the bottom back up again. “Well, I’m right here,” he whispers against your lips. “And we have time.”

Because the responsibilities won’t be neglected, they’ll just be regulated to the backburner temporarily. Whatever else that should happen will have to wait. You lay claim to Joe’s mouth—a greedy kiss as you pull him in further and further into you. He teases at the skin of your thighs, tracing the lines of you up and underneath the shirt. He doesn’t even need to ask, doesn’t need to tell you to show him just how much you missed him because it’s in every kiss, in the trail of your fingers over his skin. 

Your palm presses into the front of his throat, not hard enough to do anything, just a cupping and Joe grins in the kiss, hums at the the feeling of your kisses down his jaw. He trails his fingers over your forearms, defenseless and bare as you kiss down his skin, over the tender muscles you just worked over. Your nose works into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The inhale is deep, echoes around the growl of the dryer. 

“God.” 

It’s one word, but falls heavy with ache from your lips. You moan into his neck, fingers squeezing just a hair as you slip closer to the edge of the washer, legs winding around his waist as you do so. The press is not enough to cut off his air. Joe can still get a deep inhale. It’s just enough pressure to remind Joe that you could. If you really wanted to, if he asked, if he begged you could restrict the airflow, make the top of his head go fuzzy. 

His fingers are digging into the squish of your waist, to keep himself at bay, grounded. Because he’s here in your shared home—in the laundry room, on the first floor. But your mouth is hot. Your touch is searing, going to leave blisters in the wake, and Joe can’t think of anything else he could want. Except maybe the whine of you cumming, the huffed and strangled moans that you push out from your chest when he’s sucking at your nipples, teasing the sensitive bud of yours with the tips of his fingers. He wants that too and he’ll get to it. He will. Just for the moment, for the sliver of time, he wants to be here, pinned to the floor with your hand around his throat, your mouth working sloppy kisses across his chest. 

“Off, please,” he hums, letting his eyes flutter open, curling the hem of your t-shirt into his fists. He’s not going to take, not going to rush, or lead. That’s not his style, not here, doesn’t need to be his style here. Joe’s going to be clear, going to ask for the thing he—you. 

He’s mortal, human, devoted to you. And God, is he ready to show you his devotion as you peel the cotton off your torso. 

The shirt slips to the floor with thought or care and Joe never hesitates, is never unsure. Not with you in his hands, not with your nipple suckled between his lips, not with the delicate tease of your nails, or the shaky exhaled moans that echoes between your bodies. There’s never a need for insecurity here. It serves no purpose here. There is only you and him. The heat of your bodies. The taste of your skin. Your fingers in his hair, tugging, pulling, taking. 

Claimed without selfishness. Offered up with enthusiasm. Understood without judgement. Compassion with dedication. 

A benediction. 

There’s no salvation needed here because nothing is lost, not to Joe, not with you. He could never be lost. Could never need saving from another being or creature. Not with the flesh of you in his mouth. Not with the pads of your fingers easing over his nipples, stirring at the hot delicious stew of arousal in his lower gut. 

There is the hum. The satisfaction of bruised lips from kisses, wet chins, and slicked over fingers. Joe’s teasing between your slit, collecting the juice of you from that holy center. Knows that when he swallows, when he drags his fingers over his tongue he’s going to get his fix. If such a thing as God exists, and if such a thing as sin is fathomable, Joe wants every sin he’s ever committed to involve you. 

Because when, or should he say if, he ever goes to Hell, he does not ever want to forget the way you taste, the way you smell, the way you say his name in a command, slip the roots of his hair between your fingers and ease his head back. He wants to remember the way your skin looks with the slight sheen of sweat and his saliva. Joe is going to commit to memory, engrave into the grooves of corneas, the way you smile at him, clean his lips with the pad of your thumb before pulling on his bottom lip. 

This, here, in his hands in gospel. You are text. You are prayers. You, and only you, could damn him, could save him. Could crucify him. Could starve him of every thought. Make him bleed and beg.

Your grin is slow and menacing. “Open.”

His jaw falls before Joe can think twice about it. You ease his fingers, still delved under the cotton of your panties up and towards his lips. His tongue rolls out of his mouth with ease, knows you want him to taste you like this. But just before his fingers touch by the work of your ministrations, you tilt his head back, easing your head forward. “My mouth is salivating watching how badly you want this.”

Because fuck if Joe doesn’t want to taste you. His groan echoes up his chest. “Need it,” is all he can get out over his lips. God, does Joe need it. 

“Want an appetizer first?”

It crosses his mind that this is the appetizer, but he sees the gleam, the edge and itch of your hips on the washer, like you need him to say, 

“Yes.”

Both your hands cradle his head. Joe keeps still, tongue out, mouth open. Your tongue crawls out of your mouth, a wad of spit teasing the pink tip. Joe watches every second that he can, as the glob of spit eases down, gravity taking over. The trail of spit falls slowly, creeping down to his tongue. When it lands, when your tongue curls back up and you beam at him, he pulls his tongue back in, drinks down the spit with a hum. Feels the dopey grin as it slinks over his face—a taste of you. Not the taste. Yet, it dances over his buds, sinks into him that it’s still you. 

“And the chaser,” you purr, bringing his fingers back to his lips. 

This taste of you is heaven in the most sinful way possible. All Joe can do is give in, close his eyes at the taste of you. Fuck, does he love the taste of you. 

Joe loses himself somewhere between the suckling he does at his own fingers and the dig of your nails into his shoulders. The shorts you wear have been eased away--his doing or yours doesn’t really matter. All that does is the way you whine in his ear, the way your body shakes at the work of his fingers in you, thumb teasing over your clit, and the rumble and spin of the washer. There’s a perfect synchronization of the echoing of your arousal pushed between the webbing of his fingers and the hitch of your breathing. A sound Joe pleads with himself to never forget, to remember, remember, remember, remember. 

Remember the way you choke on his name. How you coax him. 

“So fucking good to me,” meeting with the “Only you can do this to me. Make me ravenous.”

All circling in his brain, all swirling, making his cock ache that he’s the one doing this to you, for you. That only he makes you feel this way. Assured at every step, every juncture, that it is Joe. Always him. 

Your pussy pulsates around his fingers. The telltale sign that your orgasm isn’t too far behind. And Joe does not let up. Only keeps going. Only keeps trying to commit to memory the way your brows pinch together. The way you smile even around the slight grimace. The way you watch him--a mixture of pride and delight painting over your face. 

Like you wouldn’t have this any other way. Like this couldn’t happen any other way. 

And if Joe’s honest, it couldn’t. Should any one thing move, or be different, this dynamic would shift and it wouldn’t work. If you hadn’t bumped into him in that cafe, if you hadn’t handed over your business card with, if you hadn’t scribbled down your phone number to pay for the spot you left on his shoes after jostling his chest, if Joe hadn’t been bold enough to call you thirty seconds  later, you two wouldn’t be here. Joe wouldn’t be working you to the brink of your orgasm on top of the washer, begging into your neck, “Going to make you cum. Make you feel so good. Don’t you worry. Need just as much as you do. Going to give it to me?” 

Even in a thousand universes, with a thousand and one fates, there is only one fate that places you both here and Joe would pick this fate, the dance of you and him like this—hungry and committed, insatiable and honored—a thousand and two times over. 

He would change nothing. He’d ask for nothing else. Why would anyone mess with a fate as good as this one? 

Joe is a man of science, knows just how much pressure is too much, know just how rough you like it. He knows when and how you’re going to kiss him. He knows how you’re going to take him—and at times how he’s going to take you at your request— just by the glint in your eyes. By the way your smile curls more to the left than to the right. Knows that one orgasm won’t be enough. Knows he’s not satisfied with just one either when it comes to your pleasure. 

Knows that he set the washer’s ‘Fan Fresh’ setting on for a fucking purpose. 

Your orgasm is guttural, all expletives before his name and it is deep. Your stomach quakes, arms shaking around him as you come. You’re not down long, even with Joe’s fingers inside of you. He can feel you dripping down his palm still. You only take a beat, maybe two, head pressed into his shoulder. 

Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three, four. Joe counts the seconds and then your head rises, kisses scattered over his freshly shaven face. “Do you think that table’s strong enough to handle us?”

Joe thought having the folding table in the laundry room was silly at first. But it proved useful so it never felt like he was stopping a task to move rooms between the clothes drying and them getting folded. The table’s probably not wide enough to lay you across, or meant to support your combined weight. But it is, hopefully, sturdy enough. 

“I think we’re going to find out,” Joe whispers back, hoisting you yet again. “From behind?” 

Part of Joe wants to hear you say it. He knows it’s going to sound heavenly from your lips. But the other part of him, of this dynamic is about the explicit permission. He doesn’t want to do anything that you don’t want. Just wants to make sure that his calculations are indeed correct, like checking homework to the answer key. It’s important to Joe; it’s important to how the two of you operate. 

“Please, from behind.”

This time when Joe sets you down, it’s feet to the floor, your back to him before you ease yourself over the table top. Leaves Joe with a perfect fucking view of your ass and spine, god such a perfect fucking spine. It only takes a few seconds to slip his shorts down. Only a few more seconds for him to ease himself out of his shorts and boxers. 

“Sure?” Joe asks, eases over you, bent to press three kisses along your spine. 

“I want you to take me.”

The growl pushes up Joe’s throat. Just what he needed to hear. It’s easy to slide in, the slick of you sucking him in. The quick contraction of your cunt makes Joe almost stutter. The table taps, taps, taps, with the rhythm of Joe’s hips. You are everywhere. Wrapped around him, beneath his palm, echoing off the solid wood table top back into his ears. And Joe wants to drown it. 

“Fuck, Joe, you’re holding back. Don’t hold back. Want it rough.”

I missed you. Joe will make sure you can’t miss him. Not now. Never again. 

His thrusts are relentless, the harsh echoing of thighs meeting, of your ass smacking into his pelvis. It drowns out the rather loud gurgle, and spin, and whir of the machines behind the two of you. All Joe catches is the clap, clap, clap, around your muffled exhales with your cheek almost resting against the wood. 

But you want it rough and Joe’s going to deliver, holds you by the back of the neck, so you stay perfectly arched for him. Not a hold strong enough to hurt, one Joe thinks a gentle breeze could break, but you stay there, let him hold you there, with the perfect echoing of your bodies meeting over and over and over again. 

The metal legs scrap against the floor with the heavy blows. Your voice a chanted chorus, “Yes, yes, fuck, just like that.”

“Shit,” Joe hisses, feeling your cunt convulse around him. Your orgasm blinding him, but clearly not you. It’s tight, makes him almost stop. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you commands, cheek now pressed against the wood. You still clench, making him work for each stroke. “C’mon, baby. Need you to let go. Come for me. Earn it.”

With teeth gritted, Joe can only work slowly through the pulses. Earn it. God, does Joe want it, want to coat the inside of you with his seed, make another move to call you his like that. Joe moves slow and deliberate, changes the angle that he’s working at, holding his hand full of your hips and drives into you, one slow punctuated thrust at a time. 

Earn it. 

Earn it. 

“C’mon. Right there, right fucking there,” you hum. 

“Fucking hell,” Joe cries, feelings how tense his thighs are, are close he is to the edge. He’s teetering on it. Toes slipping off the ledge. 

“Make a mess of me.”

God, is he. God, he will. Over and over again, he would. As many times as you’d let him, as many times as you’d want it. Joe knows he’s going to unravel, feels the thick tension, the twist of his stomach go around, and around. So close, he’s so fucking close. One more thrust. Then another. All shaky, and stuttered, his body hot, begging for the release. 

“Please,” he whimpers. To whom and for what he’s begging, Joe doesn’t know. He can only tell that he’s at his end, at the very very end. 

“Let go. Give in to me, baby.”

Permission.

As he comes, Joe’s sure he’s lost his head for good. He’s not sure he’s actually breathing. He’s not sure his lungs know their job or if his brain does either. There’s only the heat of release, a feeling that eases down his spine. Joe melts into the feeling, careful not to fall into you, and holds himself over you, his palms pressed into the table on either side of your head--your bodies still joined. His last few waves of his orgasm make his stomach jump. 

The room is a ringing of labored breathing. The drag over his arm is light and Joe’s slow to blink himself back to reality. As he does, there’s you, resting on your elbows, teasing shapes over his forearm. Easy loops and letters, I <3 U etched into his skin with invisible ink. 

“Love you too,” he heaves. 

Joe’s lost time. He always loses time with you. It could be ten minutes, could be an hour that it takes for the two of you to duck into the first floor bathroom. The aftermath always feels a bit hazy, far away and Joe knows it’s the drop, every piece of him used up and now he’s trying to get through with depleted reserves. 

Time starts to feel a bit more real after you ease him onto the couch. The glass of water is cold and keeps him aware. The shuffle of your bare feet over the floors gives Joe something to anchor onto, to listen out for. The dryer clinks open. There’s a few minutes of relative quiet and then something clicks close again. He’s not paying that much attention--just enough to know things are opening and closing. 

The basket of the clean clothes makes a thwack against the floors. “Don’t touch it, mister.”

The warning is not needed twice. Joe stays on the couch, dropping his head into the cushion. “Do you need help?” He’d dreg up whatever he could muster to assist. 

“Basically done now!” you call back to his question. 

A couple minutes later the cushions to his right sink and Joe turns, spying you next to him again. “We have a table for folding laundry, you know?” he asks with a teasing grin on his lips, watching you tilt the basket towards you for the clothes inside. 

“It’s currently closed for disinfecting. Need anything else? Your neck okay?”

Joe doesn’t give a fuck about his neck anymore. But he rolls it side to side. No pulling. For now. “Ask me again in an hour. You still didn’t get a bite of my ass.”

You push at his hips with a bubble of laughter. “Turn over.”

Joe’s laughter escapes him in tufts as he gives into the shove some but not totally. You’re not totally able to move him out of the way. His size and weight help him stay put. At best you’d get his hip should you try for a bit now. “Too late. My ass is firmly on this couch.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.” Your nails ease over his scalp, pushing back some of his hair. “I’ll be here folding laundry in the meantime if you need a quick nap.”

The sapphires catch the afternoon sun through the blinds, a deep twinkle casted in his vision as he watches the ring shake and dance with your movements. There’s plenty of time. His body does feel heavy. Like it always does. The drop doesn’t feel as steep as it could be, or has been at times, so he doesn’t think he’ll be down for long. 

The wet bottom of the glass against his thigh is helping too. Gives him something to latch onto but he does want to go under. Wants a protein shake and a nap. But maybe not in that order. First he wants you. Joe sets the nearly empty glass to the coffee table before burrowing into your side, head falling into your lap. Tucks his hands under your thighs. 

“Twenty minutes?” It’s a low ball but just enough. 

Your arm settles around his ribs—the weight easing his breath deeper into his lungs. The basket shuffles and in his fuzzy vision, Joe watches you set your feet up on the very edge of the coffee table. “How does an hour sound?”

Every second with you sounds, “Perfect.”

[mrs-delaney]

Hi my love!! Hope you are doing well I was hoping to get a Joe burrow imagine where he is planning a surprise dinner for his gf whose birthday is coming up on Tuesday (May 20th) but has another surprise up his sleeve where he invited all her friends and family ❤️

Author’s Note: I know I need to be working on Hide, Behind the Lens, and the other requests in my inbox, but this one felt a little too perfect to pass up. Someone sent in a request for a Joe Imagine where he plans a surprise birthday dinner on May 20th… which just so happens to be my partner’s birthday, too. So yeah, I had to do it.

It’s short but sweet. Hope you like it 💛

Warnings: Some light emotional damage, Joe acting weird on purpose, and Y/N spiraling just a little. It works out, trust me.

The Planning

Saturday, May 17th

"So her parents' flight gets in at 2:15 on Tuesday, and her sister arrives at noon," Joe said, scrolling through the detailed itinerary on his laptop. "They're both confirmed at the Kinley downtown."

Across from him at his home office desk, Melissa nodded, making notes in her planner. After three months of coordinating this surprise, the event planner had become something of a co-conspirator.

"And her college roommate?" Melissa asked, not looking up from her notes.

"Lands tomorrow. Staying with her cousin so Y/N won't accidentally run into her." Joe leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he mentally checked another item off his list. "I still can't believe we're pulling this off."

"I appreciate the detailed notes," Melissa said, acknowledging his thoughtfulness.

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pay attention."

The laptop screen illuminated his face in the afternoon light filtering through the office blinds. The room was minimal but warm, his style was balanced with touches of Y/N throughout. There were photos of them together over their three years, a small plant she'd given him that he'd somehow managed to keep alive, and her notebook still open on the corner of his desk from when she'd been working there the evening before.

"Pepp & Dolores confirmed the chef is preparing that custom menu we discussed," Joe continued, clicking through the email confirmations. "And they'll have those Aperol spritzes she loves ready when everyone arrives."

Melissa nodded approvingly. "The florist will deliver the arrangements directly to the restaurant at 3:00. Lilies and roses, just as you requested."

"Great, those are her favorites," Joe said quietly, almost to himself. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Y/N wouldn't be back from her Saturday yoga class for at least another hour. Plenty of time to finalize the remaining details.

"Let's go through the seating chart one more time," he said, pulling up another document. "I want her parents and sister at the table with us, then—"

The sound of the front door opening made Joe freeze mid-sentence. His eyes darted to the hallway, then back to Melissa and the papers spread across his desk, pages clearly labeled "Y/N's Surprise Birthday" and diagrams of the restaurant layout.

"Joe?" Y/N's voice called from the entryway. "You home?"

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, quickly closing his laptop. "Office!" he called back, his voice impressively casual despite the panic flashing in his eyes.

He hurriedly gathered the papers, shoving them into a folder while motioning for Melissa to follow his lead.

"So anyway, as I was saying about the charity golf tournament," Joe said loudly as footsteps approached the office door. "The team really appreciates your help coordinating."

Melissa caught on immediately, smoothly tucking her planner with "Y/N BIRTHDAY SURPRISE" written in bold letters on the tab into her bag.

"Of course, I'm happy to help organize the auction items," she replied with practiced ease. "The food bank will be grateful for the support."

Y/N appeared in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, still in her workout clothes. Joe's heart did that familiar flip it always did when he saw her, even after three years. Even in the middle of a covert operation.

"Hey," she said, a little breathless, glancing curiously between Joe and the woman sitting across from him. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Yoga got canceled instructor has a stomach bug."

Joe stood up, crossing the room to greet her with a kiss on the temple. His thumb brushed a strand of hair from her face with an ease that belied the adrenaline coursing through him.

"Not interrupting at all," he said, his voice warm and steady despite his racing thoughts. "Y/N, this is Melissa. She's helping with that charity thing for the foundation."

Melissa stood and extended her hand with a smile. "Joe's been telling me about the work you do. It's nice to finally meet you."

Y/N smiled, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you too. What charity thing?" she asked, turning to Joe with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't mention anything."

For a split second, Joe's mind went blank. His eyes darted to the desk where, thankfully, all evidence of birthday planning was now hidden from view.

"Just that, uh, foundation thing," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "For the food bank. Sorry, meant to mention it earlier. It's still in early planning stages."

"In December," Melissa added smoothly. "We're securing venues now since they book up fast for the holiday season."

"Right," Joe nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "December. Gotta plan ahead."

Y/N's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, and Joe felt a twinge of guilt at the lie. In their three years together, he'd never been anything but honest with her. The past few weeks of pretending to forget her birthday went against every instinct he had.

"Well, don't let me interrupt," Y/N said, stepping back toward the door. "I'm going to grab some water. Nice to meet you, Melissa."

"You too," Melissa replied with a warm smile that revealed nothing.

Once Y/N was out of earshot, Joe exhaled heavily and dropped back into his chair.

"That was close," he whispered, running a hand over his face.

Melissa suppressed a laugh. "You're really not used to lying to her, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?" Joe asked, grimacing slightly.

"A little," she admitted. "But it's sweet. Not many people would go to these lengths and be this uncomfortable just to give someone a perfect surprise."

Joe's expression softened as he glanced toward the doorway where Y/N had been standing. "She deserves it. She loves her birthday, always goes all out for everyone else's celebrations." He paused, a flicker of worry crossing his face. "She already thinks I've forgotten. I saw her checking her phone yesterday, probably looking for early birthday messages or hints I might leave."

"Two more days," Melissa reassured him, gathering her things. "And judging by all this planning, it'll be worth every moment of her thinking you're the worst boyfriend ever."

Joe winced. "Is that what she's going to think?"

Melissa smiled knowingly. "Probably. But imagine her face when she walks into that restaurant on Tuesday and sees everyone there."

Joe could picture it: Y/N's surprised expression, the moment of realization, the joy that would light up her eyes. All the planning, the secrecy, the uncomfortable deception would be worth it just to see that look on her face.

"Oh, before I forget," Melissa said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a small velvet box. "The jeweler dropped this off at my office this morning, as requested."

Joe took the box, opening it carefully to reveal the ring inside, elegant, unique, and perfectly Y/N. He'd spent months working with the designer to create something that captured her essence.

"It's perfect," he said quietly, a mixture of nervousness and certainty washing over him. "You're sure everything's set for that part of the evening?"

"Just like we discussed," Melissa assured him. "No big production, just like you wanted."

Joe nodded, closing the box and slipping it into his desk drawer. "Thank you. For everything."

As Melissa gathered the last of her materials, the sound of Y/N moving around in the kitchen filtered down the hallway. Joe could picture her there, probably wondering why he hadn't mentioned this charity event before, maybe already suspecting something was off.

"Just two more days of pretending," Melissa said, reading his thoughts. "Then you never have to lie to her again."

Joe nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Can't wait for this to be over."

"Something tells me you might be off the hook for surprise planning for a while after this," Melissa laughed softly. "I'll text you when her parents' flight lands on Tuesday."

As Joe walked Melissa to the door, he could feel Y/N watching them from the kitchen. He caught her eye and smiled, the genuine, soft smile he reserved just for her. She returned it, though he noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the subtle hint of confusion.

Two more days, he reminded himself. Two more days of keeping the biggest secret he'd ever kept from her. Two more days until he could finally ask the question he'd been wanting to ask for months.

Two more days until he never had to pretend to forget anything important to her ever again.

The Hints

Monday, May 19th

The kitchen smelled of garlic and herbs as Y/N stirred the pasta sauce, occasionally glancing at Joe who sat at the island scrolling through his phone. She'd spent the day waiting for some acknowledgment, some hint that he remembered tomorrow was her birthday. So far, nothing.

"I was thinking," she said casually, tapping the wooden spoon against the pot, "we haven't gone out in a while. Might be nice to do something this week."

Joe looked up, his expression perfectly neutral. "Actually, I was thinking maybe tomorrow night we could try that place you mentioned a while back. Pepp & Dolores. Unless you've got plans?"

Y/N's heart sank a little. So he really had forgotten. Tomorrow was her birthday, and he was suggesting dinner as if it was just any other Tuesday. "Tomorrow?" she repeated, giving him one last chance to catch on.

He hadn't mentioned any meeting. She'd checked their shared calendar twice, finding Tuesday conspicuously empty. Three years together, and suddenly he had plans on her birthday that he'd never bothered to tell her about?

Her phone lit up on the counter, another birthday eve text from her college roommate. Joe's eyes flicked to it before Y/N could reach it, and for a split second, she thought she saw something like guilt cross his face. But when she looked more closely, his expression was impassive again, focused on whatever was on his screen.

"My mom called earlier," she tried again, stirring the sauce with more vigor than it required. "She was just checking in, seeing what we were up to this week."

"Yeah?" Joe responded, the perfect picture of casual interest. "What'd you tell her?"

Y/N's spoon stilled. He really didn't remember. Three birthdays together, and this year, it had simply slipped his mind. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

"Nothing special, apparently," she said quietly.

Joe's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then quickly turned it face-down on the counter. That was the third time he'd done that tonight. Usually, he had no issue checking messages in front of her.

"Everything okay?" she asked, nodding toward his phone.

"Just work stuff," he said with a shrug, turning his phone face down.

Y/N nodded, stirring the sauce even though it didn’t really need it. She didn’t look at him when she spoke again, trying to keep her tone casual.

“Have you been looking at new restaurants or something?” she asked, eyes still on the pot. “Pepp & Dolores isn’t really something you’d normally be into.”

He shrugged. "No specific reason. You mentioned wanting to go not to long ago and I’ve been meaning to take you, and my schedule's clear tomorrow night. Thought it might be nice."

She turned back to the sauce, adding a pinch more oregano with more force than necessary. "Sure," she said, keeping her voice even. "Tomorrow works."

"The sauce is almost ready," she said, her voice carefully steady. "Can you grab the plates?"

Joe stood, moving around the island to the cabinet. As he passed behind her, his hand brushed her waist—a casual touch, the kind she normally leaned into. Tonight, she remained stiff, and his hand fell away.

"You okay?" he asked, reaching for the plates.

Y/N considered confronting him directly. Do you know what tomorrow is? But the thought of having to remind him, of seeing the realization and hasty apology on his face, was too humiliating.

"Fine," she said instead. "Just tired."

Joe set the plates on the counter beside her, lingering a moment longer than necessary. She could feel him watching her face, and she kept her expression carefully neutral as she served the pasta.

"This looks great," he said as they sat at the table. "Thanks for cooking."

"No problem." She twirled pasta around her fork without enthusiasm. "So how was your day?"

"Good. Productive." Joe took a bite, then reached for his water. "Yours?"

Well, I spent most of it wondering if my boyfriend of three years has forgotten my birthday. "Fine," she said instead. 

They ate in a silence that grew increasingly uncomfortable, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery against plates. Y/N found herself unable to enjoy the meal she'd prepared, each bite tasteless as her mind churned with confusion and hurt.

Joe studied her face a moment longer, then nodded. "I'm going to grab a shower, then. Been a long day."

"Of course," she said, turning back to the dishes. "Goodnight."

She listened to his footsteps retreat down the hallway, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door closing before she let out a deep sigh. Part of her still couldn't believe he'd forgotten. Joe remembered the exact date they'd met, knew her coffee order down to the extra half-pump of vanilla, and had never missed an important moment until now.

Y/N finished the dishes with a heaviness in her chest, trying to remind herself that it was just a birthday. Just one day. It shouldn't matter this much.

But it did.

Once he was out of sight, Y/N let her fork drop to her plate with a clatter. She pulled out her own phone, checking again to see if there was anything from Joe—a scheduled delivery for tomorrow, a hidden calendar item, any evidence that he hadn't completely forgotten.

Nothing.

A text from her best friend lit up the screen: Has he said anything about tomorrow yet?

Y/N hesitated, then typed back: We're going to dinner at Pepp & Dolores. But he hasn't mentioned my birthday at all. I think he genuinely forgot.

Three dots appeared immediately: No way. Joe wouldn't forget.

Y/N wished she could believe that. But Joe was many things: thoughtful, loyal, steady—but he wasn't deceptive. If he'd remembered her birthday, he would have said something by now. He wouldn't let her spend the entire day feeling forgotten.

She began clearing the dishes, the cheerful clinking of plates a stark contrast to the heaviness in her chest. From down the hall, she could hear Joe's voice, too muffled to make out words. He was speaking quietly, which was unusual for his work calls.

She tried not to let it bother her. Joe was entitled to his privacy, and just because they'd been together for three years didn't mean he had to remember every important date. Still, the disappointment sat like a stone in her stomach.

The Joe who had orchestrated her perfect birthday last year, the one who had remembered her offhand comment about wanting to see that band and surprised her with tickets, seemed far away tonight. She rinsed the plates more aggressively than necessary, trying to drown out her thoughts with the sound of running water.

Once she finished up in the kitchen, she headed to the bedroom. She noticed his side of the closet looked the same as always: no special outfit laid out, no gift hidden away. Whatever was happening at Pepp & Dolores, it certainly wasn't any kind of birthday celebration.

She crawled into bed, telling herself it didn't matter. It was just a birthday, after all. There would be others.

But as she reached to set her alarm, her gaze fell on the framed photo of their trip to Italy last year, the one where Joe had surprised her with a gondola ride, she'd mentioned wanting months before. The Joe who remembered every little detail, who planned thoughtful surprises, who made her feel like the most important person in his world.

The Surprise

Tuesday, May 20th - Y/N's birthday

Y/N woke to the soft chime of her phone. She blinked sleepily, reaching for it on the nightstand. The screen illuminated with a string of notification texts from her college roommate, her sister, and her coworkers. All wishing her a happy birthday.

She glanced over at Joe's side of the bed. Empty. The sound of the shower running down the hall told her where he was.

For a moment, she let herself hope. Maybe he'd been playing an elaborate game. Maybe there was breakfast waiting in the kitchen, or flowers, or some small gift wrapped in her favorite paper.

When she padded into the kitchen in her slippers, she found none of those things. Just a clean counter, the coffee maker running its cycle, and Joe's protein shake in the blender.

Her phone chimed again. Her mom this time: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Hope Joe has something special planned.

Y/N typed back a quick "Thanks!" and left it at that.

By the time Joe emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, hoodie on, joggers that fit just right, she’d already resigned herself to the reality. He’d forgotten. The man who remembered every snap count from his rookie season, who once brought her the exact lip balm she’d mentioned in passing, had somehow forgotten her birthday.

"Morning," he said, dropping a casual kiss on the top of her head as he passed. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine," she managed, watching as he poured his coffee and checked something on his phone.

"So, dinner tonight," he said, not looking up from his screen. "Seven work for you? I made the reservation."

"Seven's fine," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Looking forward to it."

Joe glanced up then, his expression unreadable. "You sure you're okay?"

She nodded, wrapping her hands around her mug. "Yeah, just..." She hesitated, giving him one last chance. "Just tired."

"Well, get some rest today," he said, finishing his coffee. "I've got a few things to take care of, but I'll be back to get ready for dinner."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Just errands," he said, already heading for the door. "Stuff for the foundation, gonna get a workout in. I’ll be back in time for dinner."

Before she could respond, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Y/N sat alone at the kitchen island, scrolling through the birthday messages on her phone. Friends asking about her plans. Family hoping she'd have a wonderful day. Only Joe, the person she loved most, seemed to have no idea what today was.

She spent the day in a haze of halfhearted productivity. Her sister called, and Y/N found herself making excuses for Joe. "He's probably just waiting for tonight," she said, not believing it herself. "We're going to Pepp & Dolores."

"That's nice," her sister said, though her tone suggested it wasn't nearly enough. "Well, happy birthday anyway. Love you."

"Love you too," Y/N replied, ending the call with a sigh.

By six, she was getting ready, though her enthusiasm had dimmed considerably. Still, she pulled out the new dress she'd bought last month, deep burgundy, fitted, with a subtle shimmer when she moved. She'd been saving it for a special occasion. And birthday or not, dinner at Pepp & Dolores was still a night out.

She was applying her lipstick when Joe returned, calling her name from the hallway.

"In here," she called back.

He appeared in the doorway of their bathroom, and something in his expression shifted when he saw her, a warmth in his eyes as he took in the dress, her carefully styled hair, the extra effort she'd made.

"You look beautiful," he said quietly.

Despite everything, her heart fluttered a little. "Thanks."

"I should get changed," he said, checking his watch. "Reservations in forty minutes."

Y/N nodded, turning back to the mirror to finish her makeup. Even if he'd forgotten, even if this was just another Tuesday to him, she was determined to make the best of it. Twenty-nine was going to be a good year, birthday celebration or not.

The drive to Pepp & Dolores was quiet, though almost uncomfortably so. Joe seemed preoccupied, checking his mirrors more often than usual and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel at red lights.

"Parking might be tough downtown," he said as they neared the restaurant. "Tuesday night and all."

Y/N just nodded, watching the city lights blur past the window. Tuesday night. Not her birthday. Not any special occasion. Just Tuesday.

When they finally pulled up to the restaurant, Joe handed his keys to the valet with a quiet word that Y/N couldn't quite catch. He seemed almost nervous as he took her hand, leading her toward the entrance.

"Go ahead," he said, his voice oddly tight.

"Mmm," she replied, distracted by the darkened windows of the restaurant. It looked almost empty inside. Was it closed? Had he gotten the reservation wrong?

But Joe pushed open the door confidently, gesturing for her to go in first.

Y/N stepped into the dimly lit entryway, confused by the silence. And then—

"SURPRISE!"

The lights blazed on, revealing a restaurant packed with people, her people. Her parents, her sister, her college roommates, her cousins from home, coworkers, friends—all grinning at her with delight.

Y/N froze, her mouth falling open. The restaurant was transformed, flowers cascading from every surface, candles flickering on the tables, and a banner hanging above the bar said, "Happy Birthday Y/N!"

She turned to Joe, who was watching her with a soft smile, his eyes bright with barely contained joy.

"You didn't..." she breathed, unable to form a complete thought.

"I did," he replied simply.

Her eyes filled with tears as the realization washed over her. He hadn't forgotten. He'd been planning this, all of this, for who knew how long. The fake obliviousness, the casual dinner suggestion, all of it had been leading to this moment.

"Joe," she whispered, her voice catching.

Before she could say more, her parents were there, enveloping her in a hug. Then her sister, her friends, a whirlwind of familiar faces and birthday wishes and exclamations over how surprised she looked.

"We flew in yesterday," her mom explained, squeezing her hand. "Joe arranged everything."

"He's been planning this for months," her college roommate added. "Made us all swear to secrecy."

Y/N looked around in wonder. The entire restaurant had been transformed, decorated with her favorite flowers, strings of lights casting a warm glow over everything. And at the center of it all was Joe, hanging back slightly, watching her reaction with quiet satisfaction.

She made her way back to him through the crowd, her heart so full she thought it might burst.

"I thought you forgot," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion.

Joe shook his head, reaching out to brush a tear from her cheek. "Baby, I'd never forget your birthday," he said softly.

The simple words, delivered in his steady, matter-of-fact way, broke something open inside her. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck as tears flowed freely now.

"Thank you," she murmured against his skin. "For all of this. For everyone being here."

Joe's arms tightened around her, solid and warm and real. "Happy birthday," he said simply. "I love you so much."

When she pulled back to look at him, his eyes were suspiciously bright too, though he'd never admit it. He brushed her hair back from her face with gentle fingers.

"Now come on," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm steadiness. "Everyone's waiting to celebrate with you."

Y/N let him lead her into the crowd, to a table where her parents and sister sat. The night stretched ahead, full of food and laughter and love. She couldn't stop glancing at Joe throughout the evening—this man who had orchestrated all of this, who had maintained the most elaborate ruse, just to see the look of surprise on her face.

As the night went on, she found herself overwhelmed again and again by the friends who had traveled across the country to be there, by the custom menu featuring all her favorites, by the thoughtfulness behind every detail, but most of all by Joe, the one person who never made a big show of anything, and still managed to make her feel like the center of the world.

For a man of few words, it was the most beautiful expression of love she could imagine. As Y/N looked around at the faces of everyone she loved most in the world, gathered in one place because of him, she knew with absolute certainty that twenty-nine was going to be her best year yet.

The celebration was in full swing. The restaurant hummed with conversation and laughter, plates of food being passed around family-style as everyone shared stories and caught up. Y/N sat between her sister and Joe, her cheeks flushed with happiness as she took it all in.

Her favorite pasta arrived, the special one the chef had prepared just for tonight. As she took her first bite, she closed her eyes in appreciation. "This is amazing," she said to no one in particular.

Joe watched her quietly, a small smile playing at his lips. While she was distracted by her food and the conversation her sister was having with her cousin across the table, he reached into his pocket.

The small velvet box had been burning a hole there all night. He'd originally planned to wait until after dessert, maybe find a quieter moment, but sitting here watching her, surrounded by everyone who loved her, glowing with happiness, he suddenly couldn't wait another minute.

He pulled the ring out, keeping it hidden in his palm. Then, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached for her left hand where it rested on the table.

Y/N glanced at him with a smile, assuming he was just holding her hand as he often did. But instead of interlacing their fingers, he slipped something cool and metal onto her ring finger.

She looked down, confused for a split second before her brain registered what was happening. There, catching the soft light of the restaurant, was a ring, elegant, brilliant, and unmistakably an engagement ring.

Her eyes widened, her fork clattering against her plate as she turned to Joe in shock.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "I had this whole thing planned for after dinner," he said, his eyes never leaving hers, "but I've been keeping so much from you these past few months planning all this. And I've known even longer that I wanted to do this. I can't wait anymore to ask."

Y/N's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

"What? What's happening?" her sister asked, suddenly noticing Y/N's expression.

But Y/N couldn't form words, just stared at Joe with her heart in her eyes.

Joe's smile grew a little, that confident half-smirk she'd fallen in love with. "So?" he prompted quietly.

That broke the spell. Y/N let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal, loud enough that the conversations around them faltered.

"Everything okay over there?" her father called from across the table.

"Joe just asked me to marry him!" Y/N blurted out, holding up her hand where the ring now glittered.

A chorus of gasps and exclamations erupted around the table. "What?" "Just now?" "What did you say?"

Joe, normally so composed, looked almost nervous as he glanced around at her family before turning back to Y/N. "Yeah," he said, louder now so everyone could hear. "What do you say?"

Y/N laughed through her tears, throwing her arms around his neck. "Yes! Are you serious? Yes!"

The restaurant erupted in cheers and applause. Her mother was crying, her father beaming. Friends were on their feet, raising glasses in toasts.

But Y/N was only dimly aware of all that. Her world had narrowed to Joe, to his face so close to hers, to the warmth in his eyes that spoke volumes more than words ever could, to the smile that was no longer controlled but wide and genuine.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips, before kissing him deeply, not caring that they had an audience.

When they finally broke apart, she couldn't stop staring at the ring on her finger. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice filled with wonder.

“Glad you like it,” Joe said, his eyes not leaving hers. “Your sister helped me pick it out. I was overthinking it like crazy.”

As their friends and family surged around them with congratulations and demands to see the ring, Y/N found herself overwhelmed all over again. First the surprise party with everyone she loved, and now this a proposal so perfectly Joe in its quiet simplicity and genuine emotion.

She looked up at him, at this man who continued to surprise her in the best possible ways, and knew with absolute certainty that she'd just received the best birthday gift of all, a future with him.

[v6quewrlds]

ik its wayyy too late on east coast rn so what position were joe and wifey in a couple of hours ago😏😏😏

author's note⠀⁎⠀realizing it's been over a month since i last posted a blurb for them??? love how we’ve collectively established that this version of joe is tucked in, snoring at 8:30pm est sharp. very short, apologies lol

Her thighs ached, his own thighs spreading her wide to allow her the full access necessary to sink down on his length. She was so full, buried to the hilt with him, that the deep breath made her muscles quiver around his cock.

Golden brown twisted and curled over the back cushions of the sofa, Joe's head thrown back, eyes squeezed tight, and his throat working as he gritted his teeth. His arms were draped over the top of the couch, his larger hands gripping the cushions like he was afraid to let go. His lips were swollen, pretty pink, bruised a darker shade from the way her lips pressed to his, the way he pulled the bottom one between his teeth. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in just hard enough to keep him rooted in reality. "Feel good?" he murmured, his voice strained.

"So good," she breathed out, her voice a sweet, throaty whisper that fluttered through the room. She cursed under her breath, the syllables dragging out as she adjusted her grip, her fingers flexing on his shoulders to hold onto him tight. The room was a haze of heat and need, the scent of their shared arousal thick in the air. She rocked her hips slowly, savoring the way he stretched her, the way he filled her so completely.

Her waist was hot to the touch as he finally reached underneath her navy blue scrub top to feel her skin beneath his palm. He squeezed the flesh there gently, pulling her flush against him, his thumb tracing small circles into the skin near her belly button. She moaned at the sensation, the sound a soft symphony that made him throb within her. His own hips began to rise in a silent plea for more. They both gasped, simultaneously tensing as her pussy fluttered around him, tightening greedily.

"Fuck," he laughed out, the word strangled and deep, his eyes popping open to meet hers. "Just trying to get this off of you," Joe said, his voice a rough purr as he worked the cotton material up and over her head, dropping it on the floor, leaving her torso bare save for the black Calvin Klein sports bra she had worn to work.

"Happy?" she questioned, the words curling around her amused smile. Joe's hands squeezed firmly at her hips, his teeth grazing the tender skin of her neck.

"More than," he responded. He watched her eyes flutter closed as he began to thrust up into her with a gentle rhythm. His arms wrapped around her torso, fully pressing her against him, allowing him a better angle to kiss and nip at the soft skin of her neck, his thrusts growing more fervent, measured as if in perfect time to a distant metronome.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Thinking if I should post a fic this week or wait until the season starts? 🤔

[starsinthesky5]

you wrote in the lingerie fic that joe had a polaroid of her, but would joe and songbird ever 🎥themselves or no bc of how famous they are? bc i fear that would send joe into cardiac arrest if he gets to see her everyday like that

a/n: ovulation once again has a strong hold on me im so sorry LMAO

warnings: nsfw, smut

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

they don’t do it often, record themselves. not because they don’t want to. in fact, joe thinks about it more than he’d ever admit. the idea of watching her, of seeing her soft and needy and wrecked for him, playing it back when he’s away on the road or holed up in a hotel room aching for her, has haunted him more than once. he’s fantasized about it in the quiet of his own mind, her voice cracking on his name, the shimmer of sweat on her skin, the little “oh” she gasps out when he hits that spot just right—all of it captured. preserved. his. but they’re both famous. and fame makes everything a little less private, a little more terrifying.

joe’s cautious by nature. guarded. careful in the way he carries himself, the way he loves, the way he protects what’s his. even the idea of recording something intimate sends a million alarms through his head—he thinks of phone hacks, leaks, prying eyes, even teammates getting too curious in the wrong moment. he doesn’t even like leaving voicemails too often. so when the idea first comes up—half-jokingly, lazily tossed out while they’re tangled up under the covers on a bye week morning—his gut reaction is no. absolutely not. “baby,” he groans into her shoulder, “i’d have a heart attack. i’d spiral. i’d never sleep again,” and she laughs, sweet and sleepy, pressing kisses to his hair because of course he’s panicking already. of course he’s thinking ten steps ahead about the what-ifs and the leaks and the worst-case scenarios.

but eventually—maybe not that day, maybe not even that month—he changes his mind.

it happens one night when he’s home during the offseason, and she’s just glowing. soft light from the bedside lamp, skin dewy from the bath she took, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts (because what else would she be wearing). she climbs onto his lap with sleepy eyes and hips that roll like she knows she’s already got him undone. and something about the way she whispers, “can i ride you, baby?” with her lips brushing his ear—so confident, so fucking pretty, so herself—makes his brain short-circuit.

he asks her quietly, breathlessly, “can i film this?” and she pauses. blinks. “you sure?” and he is. because they’ve talked about it. because it’s them. he knows she trusts him completely, and he trusts her just the same.

joe props the camera on the edge of the dresser, angled just so. she’s already straddling him when he presses record—bare except for her thighs draped over his, that soft flush high on her cheeks, and the 'j' necklace she never takes off catching the light. her hips roll slow, teasing, and joe’s hands are on her waist, eyes never leaving her face. “fuck,” he mutters, already breathless. “you’re so pretty like this, baby,”. she smiles and leans in to kiss him, her fingers threading through the back of his hair. the lens captures the way her spine arches when he thrusts up into her, how her head tips back as a moan slips from her lips, the way his hand slides up her back like he can’t stand not touching every inch of her. it’s not just sex—it’s them, laid bare in the most honest way. his low, ruined whisper of her name. the way she gasps “just like that, don’t stop,” and his hand tightens on her hip because he can’t. not when she sounds like that. not when he knows he’ll be replaying this exact moment every time he’s desperate and missing her. and the camera captures all of it—the worship in his touch, the wrecked look in her eyes, and the raw, unfiltered kind of love that’s meant to be hidden from the world.

they’re so careful. it’s never shot on his actual phone—he buys a tiny, password-locked digital camera they ordered off some online tech shop together, something without bluetooth or cloud syncing or any risk of accident. it never touches wi-fi.

joe treats it like a damn national secret. after they record, he immediately transfers it to a flash drive. deletes the footage from the camcorder. then deletes the trash bin too. the flash drive never leaves his possession. he keeps it tucked in a little zipper pouch in his suitcase when he travels—never in a carry-on, never in a shared space, always locked. password protected. sometimes even double-encrypted. because yes, it turns him on like nothing else in the world, but it’s also sacred. it’s her. and he would rather die than let the world see her like that—not because he’s ashamed, but because that version of her is only meant for him.

and oh god, that version of her. hips rolling, thighs tight around him, hair messy and clinging to her damp neck, soft little gasp slipping out when he grabs her ass and thrusts up just right. there’s one video—his favorite—that starts with her whispering, “you’re gonna watch this when you miss me, huh?” and joe groans, “don’t tease me like that,” and then it’s so much worse when he’s lying in a hotel bed at 2 a.m., his fist wrapped tight around himself, watching her rock into him with that voice echoing in his ears.

they only watch them together occasionally—usually when they’re missing each other a little too much, or when she’s being a brat and he wants to remind her how sweet she sounds when she’s begging. but he watches alone more than she knows. when the nights get long. when practice has him on edge. when he needs to remember what’s waiting for him at home.

and she loves knowing it. loves that she’s the only one who gets to undo him like that. sometimes she’ll whisper in his ear, wicked and soft, “think about the video, baby,” and it wrecks him.

they don’t film often. maybe once every few months, only when the timing feels right. only when they both agree. but it’s never just sex on a screen—it’s them. captured in a way the world will never get to see. private. filthy. reverent.

and yeah. joe’s still so paranoid he checks that flash drive’s location like he’s protecting state secrets.

but it’s worth it. every single second of it.

[burreauxsss]

nsfw alphabet x joe burrow

background: its in the title...

(all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved.)

notes: might delete this if this flops... and continue on with my life like nothing happened.

warning: dni if under 18. smut heavily influenced. not proofread

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He doesnt care how tired he is, he'll always take care of you first before himself. Even inbetween rounds he checks up on you to make sure you aren't uncomfortable

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He's a definite person who loves thighs, especially when hes munching and he also believes that you love his hands and will never be convinced otherwise.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Definitely inside but wrap it before you tap it!!

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Hes never been so turned on to have a motive until he met you, usually he would do it once or twice then ghost them. But he LOVES when you two get a moment postgame.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Hes pretty experienced, not a definite manwhore but he's been in it before and knows what to do.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

One word. Backshots.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Hes pretty serious most of the time but when something goes awefully sideways it makes him crack a smile for a tiny moment.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Hes very well groomed, he always has since LSU. He never wants you to have a issue with it, so when hes not busy he makes sure before he gets too caught up.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He LOVES being intimate, in the offseason he always takes it up to the top notch. His attention is 1000% all on you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Away games are a definite yes, he misses you so badly, but he'll never do it if hes home just out of pure respect for you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

That size kink goes insane in his head and instantly goes feral when he thinks about it. He also has a spit one but has not been discovered (yet)

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Definitely besides the bed, on the counter or in the backseat. If in public he'll find a closet somewhere.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He could definitely get turned by looking at all the photos you sent him (but he'll never open them in public) or he'll remember certain moments. But the best thought is when you put your hair up into a ponytail.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything that hurts you mentally or physically. Its a no-brainer for him, and he wants you to feel comfortable but still assert a little dominance.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Hes a munch on the giving end, and somehow is a pro at it, everytime you swear hes a starving man on his last meal, he claims he'll take you to a different dimension but he favors recieving more.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depending on the mood, hes usually a medium pace but if its after a game loss, better get ready to be limping for a few days.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Joe loves them, especially in the morning or right before a major event such as right before his press conferences post game. He doesnt like to do them often due to him not wanting you to feel neglected but when it does happen, he takes advantage of the time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Hes extremely cautious. Especially after having that college pregnancy scare, he always makes sure to have protection on him even with you being on a IUD.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go for 2 on a normal day but at LSU after the national championship you reached 5 before you tapped out, but every round does last for a long time due to him wanting to give the maximum effort.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He hates that you do own one, but its only for when hes away from the city. But he always thinks (and does) do the job perfectly so no need when hes here.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves teasing, especially if you're being bratty/moody, it just makes him extremely happy to be the reason why your being teased.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Hes moderately loud, he groans and hes not ashamed of it at all, because whos listening and who cares?

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He loves when you wear his jersey to his games, especially when you keep it on postgame in the janitors closet... Even if you think hes running late to his press conferences he'll always give you the "Just give me five minutes!"

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

The LSU cap tells no lies and he embraces it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I mean.... you chose a quarterback 😶‍🌫️

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He falls asleep after you, so when he hears your breathing regulate, thats when he closes your eyes.

notes: i hate this thing alot.. sfw coming soon

[willowsnook]

breaking rules

Can we get heavy PDA Joe and everyone’s reaction

joe burrow x gf!reader 

—-------------------—----

Your friends made fun of you relentlessly because, to a lot of the outside world, it looked like you and Joe were just friends, distant cousins even. PDA made you very uncomfortable, and that paired well with Joe, who hated anyone prying into his private life. Of course, his teammates and your circle knew that the two of you were together, but the media had yet to catch on, even though you guys lived together. 

So imagine your surprise when it was now an hour into the team’s post-season dinner party, and Joe had not left your side. Usually,  at these events, you arrive together but then break off, him going to find his boyfriend Ja’Marr, and you going to hang with some of the other WAGs. Then you meet up at the end to leave, and the cycle repeats. 

But tonight, Joe’s hand had been snugly placed around your waist, even when you were talking to other people.  Missing the playoffs had hit him hard, and you had watched him retreat into his shell these past few weeks; you were there for him when he needed it. So you weren’t shocked at his lack of conversation tonight but surprised by the touch. 

The people you were talking to left to grab a drink at the bar, so you took the opportunity to turn to Joe. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, concerned. 

“Mmhmm,” he mumbled. You looked down at his arm wrapped around you and back up at him, arching an eyebrow. “Just want to be close to you.” 

Nodding, you decided you’d let him have a pass tonight to be clingy, even though you were cringing on the inside. Ja’Marr called over to Joe from the other side of the room and you were dragged along to join them. He was sitting on a couch next to Tee, and Joe sat down in an armchair, pulling you down on top of him. Both of his friends’ eyes widened at the sight. 

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Ja’Marr said once he came out of shock. 

“I thought you guys would never beat the siblings allegations,” Tee chimed in and Joe flipped them off before settling his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you against his chest. 

You felt your cheeks flush as you settled into Joe's lap, acutely aware of the eyes on you. Joe seemed unfazed, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip as he chatted with Ja'Marr and Tee. You tried to relax, reminding yourself that these were your friends, but you couldn't shake the feeling of exposure.

"You good?" Joe murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. Joe pressed a soft kiss to your temple, and you heard Tee let out a low whistle.

"Damn, Joe. Who are you and what have you done with our QB1?" Tee teased.

As the night wore on, Joe's affection only intensified. He peppered kisses along your shoulder, nuzzled into your neck, and whispered sweet nothings in your ear. Your discomfort battled with a growing warmth in your chest at his open displays of love.

"Get a room, you two!" Sam Hubbard called out as he passed by, earning a chorus of laughter and wolf whistles from nearby teammates.

Joe just grinned, pulling you impossibly closer. "Maybe we will," he shot back and you slapped him in the chest. 

Deciding you needed some air, you walked off towards the balcony, naturally with Joe right behind you. 

“I’m giving you a one-night pass for this kind of behavior only because you’ve been so depressing,” you told him and he smirked at your honesty. He stepped closer to you, sliding his arms around your waist while you rested yours on his shoulders. 

“Then I better take advantage hmm,” he said, eyes flickering down to your lips. Before you could protest, his lips were on yours, moving steadily as he found comfort in you. His hands started to dip lower, and you swatted them, causing him to smile against you. 

When you pulled back, you gave him an irritated look, and he pouted. 

“Come on princess, I just need you,” he admitted and your heart clenched at his words. You knew he was holding on to you like a lifeline and he knew you’d do anything to be there for him. 

“Fine, then let’s get a room hot shot,” you said, dragging him off the balcony and towards the front of the venue. Ja’Marr gave you a teasing wave goodbye and you flipped him off. 

Joe chuckled at your gesture, his hand laced tightly with yours as you maneuvered through the crowded room. The whispers and knowing smirks from his teammates didn’t faze him in the slightest, but you could feel your cheeks heating up again.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” you muttered as you both stepped outside, the cool night air hitting your face.

“Immensely,” Joe replied, his grin only widening. “Can’t let them think I’m a robot all the time.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. Once you reached the car, Joe opened the door for you with a flourish, earning an eye roll that turned into a laugh. He climbed in after you, wasting no time pulling you back into his lap.

“Joe,” you started to protest, but he silenced you with another kiss, this one softer, less teasing, and more vulnerable.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips when he finally pulled back, his voice low and sincere. “For putting up with me tonight. For everything.”

Your heart softened as you reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “Always, Joe. I’ve got you.”

His smile this time wasn’t the playful smirk you were used to. It was small, genuine, and filled with gratitude. You let yourself lean into him, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the chain around his neck as the driver started the car.

For all the teasing and awkwardness of the night, you knew one thing for certain: Joe Burrow might not be big on PDA most of the time, but when he let his guard down like this, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

[honeyncherry]

you still want this - joe burrow

summary you’re given permission to sit outside while joe works on his newest alo campaign. good problems? right? wrong.

content 18+, smut, language, barely edited or proofread i had a thought and acted on it

Hot sweat had already started to bead at the nape of your neck, slipping down and collecting in the soft curve between your breasts, but you didn’t bother wiping it away.

The heat didn’t bother you—not really. It wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, heavy and sweet. The kind of warmth that slowed your limbs, your thoughts, your whole body. You could still smell the sunscreen you'd slathered on earlier, warm and coconutty, smooth at the edges where it mingled with the scent of hot grass and faint chlorine wafting from the pool in front of you.

Your towel stuck slightly to the backs of your thighs every time you shifted, but you didn’t care. You had no intention of moving.

Not when the view was this good.

You were reclined on a lounger in the corner of the yard, sunglasses on, book open on your lap—though you hadn’t read a single sentence in at least fifteen minutes. Not since the film crew had shown up with their sleek little cameras and their quiet instructions and Joe had stepped out onto the sun-drenched patio stretched and ready to work.

You were meant to stay out of the way, to give him space while they filmed him doing what he did best. The oversized lounger was just far enough from the setup to not be intrusive, and the thought of staying inside while this was happening outside felt borderline criminal.

The house you were staying at was tucked away up in the hills, the kind of modern-meets-organic space where everything felt curated and soft and breezy, all neutral tones and concrete lines. The backyard was a dream—stone and green and golden light, but none of that was what held your attention.

Joe was.

It still took your breath sometimes—how different he was like this.

You loved him year-round, obviously, but there was something about the offseason that felt… sacred. Like this little pocket of time was yours and his alone. No playbooks. No daily practices. No constant weight of expectations pulling him under.

The NFL season was brutal—not just on him or his body, but on both of you. He carried pressure like a second skin and wore stress like armor. Game days were thrilling, sure, but the adrenaline came with consequences. Sleepless nights. Sore limbs. A kind of hyperfocus that made him unreachable sometimes, even when he was right next to you in bed.

This was different.

This was him. Or maybe, this was him again. Moving at half-speed in the best way. Smiling more easily. Touching you without thinking twice about where he had to be in the morning. It wasn’t just that he had more time—it was that he gave it freely. Like he wanted to.

You’d always known how much football meant to him—that was never in question. It was something you walked into this relationship understanding, something you accepted without resentment. You respected the grind. You loved the way he loved the game.

But in moments like this, tucked away from the world, it hit you how much you meant to him, too.

Not in a performative way. Not in grand declarations or showy gestures. But in the quiet. In the way he reached for your hand when no one was watching. In the way his body softened around you, like it only ever truly rested when it was touching yours. In the way he listened—without distraction, without his mind drifting toward the next game or meeting or flight.

It was in the way he gave you his time—not because he finally had it, but because he wanted to spend it here. With you. Without a clock ticking behind his ribs.

And that was the part that undid you.

Because you’d seen the weight he carried. You’d watched it settle on him week after week—in the tight set of his jaw after a loss, in the stiffness of his shoulders after pushing himself too hard, in the exhaustion he tried to mask after travel days and press conferences and back-to-back meetings. You knew what it cost to be with him. And what it cost him to give you this version of himself.

So watching him now—shirtless, tan, glistening under the California sun—you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

There was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Joe was mid-set, one of the Alo guys crouched nearby, coaching him through each rep as a camera followed his movements in slow, sweeping arcs. You couldn’t hear them, not really, but you could make out the quiet rhythm of instructions, the occasional low grunt from Joe as he powered through his workout.

He was locked in. Focused. The kind of focus you’d seen a hundred times before—intimidating to most, but familiar to you. Intoxicating, even, especially when his body moved like that. He wasn’t putting on a show for the camera. This was just him. 

Your legs shifted slightly against the towel beneath you, a heat curling low in your stomach that happened to be completely unrelated to the sun.

Joe wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, then tossed it aside, revealing the taut lines of his abdomen and the deep tan he’d built over the past few weeks. The kind of tan that made his chain you got him for Christmas glint against his skin. The kind of tan that begged to be touched.

You watched him through the dark tint of your sunglasses, pretending not to notice how his eyes flicked toward you in between reps. Just once. Long enough for you to catch the barest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

It sent a pulse through you, blooming heat across your chest and sinking between your thighs. A quiet thrum that made your skin feel tighter, your breath just a little too shallow.

​​You swallowed around nothing, the air thick in your throat. The sunglasses stayed on—your shield, your excuse—but you forced your gaze back down to the page in your lap. Right. Your book. You blinked once, twice, and tried to remember where you’d left off. A sentence midway down caught your attention, and with some effort, you focused.

Eventually, the words began to stick.

The sun pressed hot against your oiled body as you read, and this time you let yourself get pulled in, turning a page, then another. You were on your side now, stretched out with your knees slightly bent and your head propped up on your forearm, letting the heat work its way into your back.

Your sunglasses had slipped a little down your nose, but you didn’t bother fixing them. You barely even blinked. The pages turned slowly, the words sinking into your head like honey—thick and slow and sweet. The world was quiet, muffled words across the lawn barely registering in your ears.

So when you felt the slow drag of fingers up your exposed side, it took a second for your brain to catch up.

The touch was featherlight. Calloused fingertips skimming from the dip of your waist to just under the edge of your bikini top, his knuckles grazing the swell of your ribcage in a way that made your breath catch.

“Getting a little too into that book, huh?” Joe’s voice was raspy, the words brushing just behind your ear, the grin hidden beneath them unmistakable.

You didn’t move right away. Just turned the page like nothing had happened. “Wasn’t expecting to be interrupted.”

His fingers ghosted back down the same path, and this time you felt the smirk more than you heard it. “You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been laid out like that for the last thirty minutes and I’m pretty sure half the crew tripped over themselves trying not to look.”

You arched a brow behind your sunglasses. “But you looked.”

“Baby,” he scoffed softly, fingers curling tighter around your waist, thumb pressing in. “I live here.” And just to make sure you got the message, he squeezed your side, fingers digging into you for half a second longer than necessary before sliding away.

You let out a soft laugh, rolling onto your back and squinting up at him. “How’s the shoot?”

He looked disheveled in the best way—sweaty, flushed, still breathing a little too heavy from whatever set he’d just finished. Everyone else had retreated beneath a patio umbrella nearby, drinking water, checking footage on a monitor. A few more minutes, probably.

“We’ve got a break.” Joe offered you his hand, and when you took it, he pulled you up in one smooth tug. “Come inside.”

You followed him barefoot across the patio, brushing your hands over your hips to shake off some of the towel lint. His eyes dropped as you walked, and you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched.

“That what you’re calling a swimsuit?” he asked, cracking the door open and holding it for you.

You looked over your shoulder, trying to seem unbothered. “What would you call it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his eyes sweep over the thin, barely-there straps tied at your hips, the narrow curve of fabric that made up the top.

“A suggestion,” he said finally. “Not a swimsuit.”

You rolled your eyes, but the burn beneath your skin had nothing to do with the sun.

Inside, the kitchen wrapped around you like a different world, the hum of the air conditioner a low buzz beneath the silence. The tile was cold beneath your feet, a shock after the sun-baked patio, and when you leaned back against the fridge, the stainless steel sparked a chill through your body.

You didn’t mind it. The contrast made everything sharper. Your skin, still heavy with leftover sunscreen and heat, puckered with goosebumps, the sudden shift in temperature making you ache with awareness. Like the bikini you’d thrown on hours ago had somehow shrunk under the weight of Joe’s eyes.

He moved around the kitchen like he owned it. He popped open the fridge, the suctioned seal breaking louder than expected in the quiet, and pulled out the bowl of fruit you’d cut earlier that morning.

Light from inside cast a soft glow across his chest—its golden tone gone slightly pink at the collarbones, sweat still glistening along the curve of his neck. His arms flexed as he reached to close the door, veins jumping beneath tan skin, the movement so familiar and mindless it made you dizzy.

You caught yourself staring. Hard. But you didn’t look away.

He peeled back the cling wrap from the bowl with lazy precision—like there was no rush, no need to acknowledge how still everything had gotten. Or how your breath caught the second he stepped close enough for you to smell the citrus tang of his sweat mixed with the body wash he’d used that morning.

Joe didn't say anything as he held your gaze when reaching for a slice of peach—soft, ripe, always a little too juicy to be eaten clean, grabbing it and handing it out to you.

Leaning forward slightly, you bit into it, lips brushing against the tips of his fingers. The fruit was cold on your tongue, shockingly sweet, the skin splitting open against your teeth with a wet pop.

Blinking at the taste, you swallowed quick at the sudden stickiness. It was just then when you felt a slick trail of syrupy juice slip from the corner of your mouth.

Your hand lifted on instinct, embarrassed—but Joe was faster. His thumb caught the drop in one smooth, unbothered motion. His eyes never left yours as he brought it to his mouth and sucked the juice clean.

You forgot how to stand. Or speak. Or do anything except feel.

It didn’t matter that he was your boyfriend, that he’d touched you a hundred different ways in a hundred different places—he could still gut you with something like this. Something so effortless, so wrapped in possession and ease and knowing, that it made your whole body hum with the kind of heat that couldn’t be blamed on the weather.

“Messy,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then he reached for another piece.

This time he didn’t offer it, just popped it into his own mouth and chewed, without a care.

You were still pressed to the fridge, trying to ignore the sharp thrum between your legs, when he stepped in again—close enough that the bowl met your stomach and his bare chest hovered inches from yours.

Joe’s gaze casually dropped. His free hand reached out, fingers slipping beneath the tie of your bikini bottom, grazing across your skin and tugging just enough to expose the lighter strip hidden beneath.

You watched him watching you. Watched the way his brow twitched slightly, as if even the contrast of your tan amused him.

“You’re getting burnt,” he said, thumb sweeping once across your hip. His touch was light, but it was enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“Probably should’ve reapplied,” you murmured, your voice matching the hush in the room.

“I’ve got you,” he said simply.

His hand slipped away from your hip and you expected him to step back. But instead, he glanced around the kitchen like he was searching for something.

You blinked, still catching up. “What are you doing?”

“Sunscreen,” he said, scanning the counter like it might appear by will alone. “Before your cute little ass turns red.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I left it—uh. Outside. In my tote.”

He didn’t hesitate before setting the bowl on the island and turning. Joe cracked the sliding door and stepped out, you watched him bend over the tote, back flexing and hair falling across his forehead. The shift of his bicep made itself visible when he straightened up with the bottle in hand.

It should’ve been nothing.

Just Joe grabbing your sunscreen. Just a normal moment. But when he paused, thumb flicking open the cap, squeezing lotion into his palm, your mouth went dry.

Because you knew what was coming.

And it was worse—better—than you expected.

He set the bottle back down with quiet care and rubbed the lotion between his hands like he wasn’t being watched. Like your eyes weren’t glued to every movement. He started dragging his palms across his shoulders, over his collarbones, across the slope of his chest. His fingers spread wide as he moved up the column of his throat.

The shine caught in the light. That slippery, glowing sheen of skin. And when his hand dipped to smear the rest across his abdomen, your thighs pressed together without permission.

By the time he stepped back in, bottle loose in his hand, you were already overheating from the inside out.

“Gotta keep us both protected,” he teased, flashing a light grin. Then he paused in front of you, holding up the bottle. “Turn.”

You turned like your body wasn’t yours, like every cell had already decided to give in before your brain caught up.

Your head was angled to the side, catching a glimpse of him behind you. Joe squeezed an equally generous amount of sunscreen into his palm and set the bottle onto the counter, hands already moving to your hips. They slipped across your body with practiced ease, the lotion was cold and his palms were warm, the friction making your whole body twitch. He dragged his hands around, fingers pressing into you with every pass.

And then, he got bolder.

His hands flattened across your lower back, gliding in wide and unhurried strokes that left your skin pebbling in their wake. You felt the first slide of his fingers dip low across your stomach, just barely brushing the top of your bikini bottoms before sweeping back up—over your ribs, beneath your top. This wasn’t just Joe “applying sunscreen.”

It was possessive.

Intimate in a way only Joe could be. Like he wasn’t just touching you, rather he was rediscovering you. Like he’d give every spare second he had to learning you again, and again, and again.

You felt him press in before you even noticed him move. The warm slide of his chest along your back sent a pulse straight through your spine. You let yourself lean into him, weight settling into the space he created for you—solid and sun-warmed, slick from the lotion he’d just rubbed across himself.

Your head dropped back instinctively, temple grazing the sharp line of his jaw as he paused. His hands rested lightly on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy half-circles, just enough to remind you they were there. Just enough to make you ache.

“You’re gonna take too long,” you said, but your voice didn’t sound like yours.

Behind you, Joe exhaled. Not annoyed, just amused. Unbothered, moreso. Like he had no intention of going anywhere.

His hands slid higher with more intent, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your top. You could feel everything—right down to the muted tension in his arms as they braced around your torso, the slow drag of his fingers under the elastic band, teasing.

You held still, your body wired tight with anticipation. Your breath caught when his hands finally moved—slipping beneath the fabric, tentative at first, like he was testing the way you responded.

He cupped you fully, palms broad, fingers spreading across the curve of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, lazy sweeps that made your knees dip, just slightly, under the weight of sensation. His grip tightened—not rough, but certain—his fingers kneading in small, careful circles.

Spare the moments of his hands, he was still. Tuned into every stutter in your breath, every flicker beneath your skin, every sound you hadn’t meant to make.

A soft gasp left your lips before you could catch it, and he responded immediately—hips pressing tighter against your ass, hands shifting higher, his mouth dipping low to the shell of your ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice low and full of heat. “That’s what happens when you let me take my time.”

You nodded, or tried to, but your body was humming static. White noise and heat. His thumbs rolled over your nipples again—slower this time—and your back arched without permission, your head falling further onto his shoulder, lips parting on a sound you barely heard.

You could’ve stayed like that for hours. Let him touch you until your legs gave out. Let the tension pull tighter and tighter until something inside you snapped.

But the knock came first.

A sharp, muted rap against the glass—two quick taps that sliced through the heat easily. You didn’t even process it at first. It felt like something from another life. Another version of you—one who wasn’t standing half-undressed against a fridge with her boyfriend’s hands still wrapped around her chest.

Joe stilled.

You felt it in the way his fingers flexed once before they froze. His breath stayed close to your neck, mouth pressed against your skin, his exhale rough through his nose like it hurt him to stop.

He slid his hands out from under your top with agonizing care, smoothing the fabric back into place as if it hadn’t just been wrapped around his knuckles. His touch lingered a second longer. One last pass of his hands across your ribs.

Then he stepped back.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your knees were barely holding you up. You stared at the tile, hands still braced, body still locked in place like the moment might continue if you didn’t let it go.

But it didn’t.

Behind you, the sliding door opened. You heard the shuffle of sneakers, the voice asking if he was ready for the second half of the shoot. And Joe’s response, that calm drawl that gave nothing away. You wondered if the guy could see it. The flush on his skin. The way his breath hadn’t fully settled.

Then the door shut again, and he was gone.

You stood there for another moment, trying to breathe. You adjusted your top—even though he already had. Smoothed your hair—even though it wouldn’t help. You didn’t want to look at your reflection in the microwave door, but you did.

And immediately wished you hadn’t.

Lips parted. Eyes glassy. Cheeks pinker than they’d been outside.

You padded to the sink and filled a glass with cold water, taking slow sips like it might help. It didn’t. How could it when the kitchen still smelled like him? When your body still felt like his hands were on you?

You paused for another breath, the cool of the glass pressed to your lips, pulse echoing in your ears.

Then, finally, you set the glass down and turned toward the back door.

Outside, the sun had shifted, stretching longer shadows across the space. The lounger you’d claimed earlier now sat drenched in light, the towel you’d left behind still rumpled from where Joe had lifted you off of it. You grabbed your book from where it lay, passing by the chair without a second glance.

You opted for one of the chairs tucked beneath the overhang—its seat shaded, arms wide, and angled just far enough from the crew to feel separated.

You sank into the cushions, skin tingling faintly as you laid your head back. The heat of the sun stuck, but it had softened now, muted by the breeze threading through the shade, dulled by the chill from the house that still clung to your skin.

You flipped your book open in your lap with fingers that didn’t feel entirely steady. The words blurred together at first, your eyes slow to catch up.

Joe was across the yard and you could see him if you tilted your head just enough. Someone behind the camera said something, and he grinned—quick and easy—almost enough to knock the air from your lungs all over again.

You looked back down at your book.

Don’t do this again, you warned yourself.

So you read. Or tried to. Let the words carry you. Let the air soothe what was still sparking under your skin. You turned a page. Then another. You shifted your legs, letting one knee hang lazily over the other. The breeze raised goosebumps across your thighs, stirred the ends of your hair from where they clung to your shoulders.

The words slowly began to lose their shape, your gaze tracing lines without comprehension, but you didn’t fight it. The heat still lingered low in your belly, quieter now. Hazy. Your limbs were heavy with the same sensation, thoughts beginning to melt into each other.

Your head tilted to the side. Eyes slipped shut.

Just for a second, just until it was quiet.

Until the chair dipped beside you.

A soft shift, the weight of someone settling down. Then, the subtle scrape of fingers gliding up the outside of your thigh, then in—circling around gently, brushing the tender skin, just enough to lure you awake.

“Hey,” Joe’s voice came. “C’mon, baby. You’ve been out a while.”

You stirred, slow and heavy-limbed, a soft scrunch pulling between your brows as light filtered in behind your lashes. The post-nap haze clung thick around your thoughts, foggy and warm, and the first thing you noticed was the heat—how it had layered over itself like blankets, clinging to your skin, thick and still and everywhere. You were too warm. Flushed and faintly damp under your bikini, heat tucked into every crease of your body.

“Didn’t mean to let you knock out this long,” he murmured, thumb tracing soft strokes just above your knee. “It’s too hot to sleep out here like that.”

Something cool pressed into your hand. You blinked, vision still blurry, and saw him crouched beside your chair, holding a half-empty water bottle slick with condensation.

“Here,” Joe said, offering it to you. “Drink.”

You curled your fingers around it with slow, sleepy coordination, flinching slightly at the contrast—ice-cold plastic against overheated skin. The chill cut clean through the heat, grounding in a way nothing else had yet. You brought it to your lips and drank—slow, careful sips. The water tasted like it had been sitting in a cooler all day. But it helped. Your mouth wasn’t dry anymore. Your head began to clear.

“What time is it?” you asked, voice still scratchy with sleep.

Joe shifted, one arm draped lazily over the chair’s armrest, the other still gliding slow and steady up and down your leg. “Late enough,” he said. “Everyone’s gone. Just us now.”

You sat up a little straighter, still moving like every muscle had to reintroduce itself to gravity. The bottle rolled in your grip as you glanced around. The backyard was empty, steeped in the warm gold of early evening. The cameras were gone. The buzz of voices and movement had faded into silence.

But Joe was still there.

Close enough to see the sweat drying at his collarbones, glinting along the sharp edge of his throat. He was still in those black Alo shorts—the ones that had been riding high on his thighs all day. They clung even closer now, heavy with heat.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower. His knuckle traced up the inside of your thigh, just a soft pass. Barely there.

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He gave you a look. “You sure?”

You reached for his jaw, brushing your thumb across the edge of his mouth, the curve of that smirk you knew too well. “I was trying to cool off.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you murmured, quieter now. “Didn’t work.”

He leaned in just enough for the air to shift between you, that familiar heat rolling off his skin. His eyes dropped—your mouth, your thighs, then back again. Slower this time. Heavier.

“No?” he asked, voice deeper now.

“Nope.” Your fingers drifted down the slope of his throat, ghosting over the tense line of muscle that always gave him away. “Still hot.”

Joe hummed, low in his throat, like he was thinking about being a gentleman and then very consciously choosing not to be.

“Lucky me,” he muttered, his palm tightening slightly over your thigh. “Guess we’ll have to take care of that.”

He rose to his feet in one slow stretch, casting you in shadow. The outline of his body cut sharp against the fading sun, and when he reached down to take your hand, his fingers curled around your wrist with quiet intent.

You let him pull you up without question, the tug of your bikini stretching across your skin where it clung—still faintly damp with sweat.

Neither of you said a word as you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

He kicked off his shoes, dropped his socks without a thought. His knuckles brushed your hip as he leaned down, the heat of him ever-present, steady.

Joe gave your hand a gentle tug toward the bedroom. You followed—quiet, at the mercy of the way your pulse had started drumming harder with every step.

The space was cool. Calm. The faint scent of eucalyptus from his morning shower still clung to the air. Stone floors stretched out beneath soft lighting. Everything here was light and smooth and quiet.

But it was the shower that always managed to steal your breath.

Framed in matte black trim, encased in glass, it took up nearly the entire far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, frosted just enough for privacy but still drenched in late sunlight. Inside was absurdly spacious. A bench. Multiple showerheads. Built-in shelves. More spa than shower.

Joe let go of your hand just long enough to reach for the glass door. He pushed it open, steam rising faintly from the tiles inside. He must’ve turned it on before you even got in the house, you’d realized. Warm mist already kisses the glass, fogging the corners, drifting into the room like it was luring you forward.

His fingers found you again, the same way they always did. You moved easily under his hands. An instinct that didn’t need to be spoken or asked for.

He slid the strings at your hips loose first, then reached for the knot at your back, the thin fabric fluttering down like it didn’t matter at all.

And in this light, in this heat, in this quiet… it didn’t.

He stepped out of his shorts, kicked them to the side without thought, then reached for the shower door again, pushing it open further. You stepped in first, and the steam hit your chest in a rolling wave—soft and scorching all at once. It stole your breath for a second, made your fingers twitch at your sides. The mist curled up your arms, soaked into you, slid along your collarbones and spine in a way that felt almost sentient. The warmth folded around you so completely, it was hard to tell where the air ended and your body began.

You tilted your face into it. Let it rinse away the dried sweat on your skin, the drowsy fog of your nap, the weight of everything you hadn’t said all day. The world outside the glass felt far away now—just sunlight diffused into gold across the tiles, the muted hum of water hitting stone, the soft scuff of feet behind you.

Joe stepped in a second later.

You didn’t turn, but you felt him immediately. The heat from his body added to the steam, made the air heavier. Denser. His hand brushed your lower back, a pass of fingers over damp skin.

He moved past you slightly, reaching for the knob. His bicep flexed, wet hair sticking to his neck, jaw tight as he leaned into the motion. The spray arced higher with a metallic groan, more forceful now. More direct. Then his hand dropped again, finding your hip like it belonged there.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand came up, skimming your side, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast like he was deciding something. His chest just barely brushed your back, then his mouth was at your neck.

Not kissing. Not quite. Just breathing you in.

You closed your eyes. Because it was too much.

Because it wasn’t enough.

The slide of his lips down to your shoulder made you shiver. Not from cold—but because he still hadn’t said anything. And when Joe was quiet like this, it meant he was thinking. About you. About this. About everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he wanted to say—to do.

His hand moved again. Lower this time. Across your stomach, then between your thighs.

Your body went numb under his touch, thighs parting slightly without thought, your back pressing just a bit harder into his chest. Your breath caught as his fingers brushed over the softest part of you, sliding through slick that had nothing to do with the water.

You felt him stiffen behind you—just barely. The way his hips shifted. The way his fingers paused like he needed a second. Like he needed to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, more exhale than word. “You’re already—”

“I know,” you whispered, barely audible above the water.

And it was true. You’d been like this. Since the kitchen. Since that goddamn bottle of sunscreen. Since the lazy scrape of his teeth against your neck and the way he’d handled you like he was daring you to say stop—knowing you wouldn’t.

He groaned again—low and tight—like he was trying to get a handle on himself. But his fingers were already sliding back between your legs. Slower now. Deeper. Not teasing. Just exploring. Mapping. And when he finally pushed two thick fingers into you, your knees nearly buckled. You caught yourself against the tile with a wet slap, breath knocking out of you in one shocked exhale.

“Yeah,” Joe said behind you, voice gone hoarse. “That’s it.”

His other hand came up to brace your stomach, holding you steady as he moved. Every thrust of his fingers was slow, dragging—edging more than taking.

But it felt like taking.

Like he was pulling sounds from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. Like he was sinking deeper than he should’ve been able to. Like your body couldn’t decide whether to press forward or pull him in even further.

You gasped when his thumb found your clit, when he circled it once with just enough pressure to short-circuit your legs. Joe grunted at the reaction—cock pressed hot and heavy against your lower back now, no longer subtle. No longer hiding anything.

“Keep your hands on the wall,” he said, clicking his tongue softly. “Wanna watch you take it.”

You swallowed hard, jaw slack, too far gone to care how desperate you sounded when you whimpered in response. And he knew it. You could feel the grin in his voice when he said, “That’s my girl.”

Then he started moving faster.

His fingers fucked into you harder now, deeper. His palm dragged tight over your clit with every thrust, a wet, obscene rhythm building beneath the roar of the water. You couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t think. Could barely hold yourself upright as your forehead dropped to your forearm, your thighs shaking under the pressure of everything he was giving you—without letting you fall.

“You’ve been like this all fucking day,” he muttered, panting now. “Could see it.”

“Joe—”

“You think I don’t know the difference between you reading and pretending to read?” he rasped. “You were squirming in that chair like you wanted me to come over and wreck you.”

“I did,” you gasped.

He groaned, twisting his fingers just right and pulling another moan from you. “I wanted you to wreck me.” His hand stilled. Just for a second. Then he pulled back.

You gasped at the loss, instinctively pushing into the space where he’d been. But Joe just bent slightly, lips at your shoulder, voice rough and wrecked.

“Then turn around,” he said. “And let me.”

You turned.

Not because he told you to. Because you needed to.

Because you wanted to see him. See how badly he needed it. See what it did to him—holding back, just barely, for you.

And when you did—when you faced him—your breath caught like it slammed into a wall.

It wasn’t that he was flushed or panting. He wasn’t wild.

But he was barely holding it together.

Joe’s jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight. The muscles in his arms flexed like he was fighting instinct—every inch of him coiled and tense, caught between control and surrender. His eyes dropped the second you turned—dragging down the lines of your throat, your chest, your stomach, to the place between your thighs where his hand had just been.

And then they snapped back to yours.

Dark. Burning.

Full of want.

Full of you.

He didn’t say anything as he took a step closer.

You backed up without meaning to—your back catching the cool tile, water hitting your side now as Joe crowded into your space. His hands landed on either side of your face, caging you in like He stared at you like you were something he never wanted to forget.

“You’re so pretty like this.”

Your chest caved with the way your heart slammed into your ribs. The sound of his voice made your thighs clench, just trying to survive the weight of it. Joe leaned in slowly, brushing his mouth along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips—like he couldn’t decide where to start.

“Skin all hot and wet… mouth already open for me,” he murmured. “You’re barely breathing.”

“I’m trying,” you whispered, dizzy.

He smiled. Just barely. Like it pleased him. Like he liked knowing he’d pulled you this far under.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Deep and wet and full, like he needed to taste every part of you he hadn’t already touched. His tongue slid into your mouth with purpose, his hands dropping to your waist and dragging you forward so fast you gasped against his lips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself—but he gave you nothing. No space. Just pressed you back into the tile, his body flush to yours now, cock heavy against your stomach, the drag of him so real it made you whimper.

“You feel that?” he asked, breaking the kiss just long enough to grind his hips against yours. “That’s what you did.”

You nodded, dazed.

But he shook his head. One hand came up to wrap around the base of your throat—not squeezing, just holding, enough to grab your attention.

“No,” he said, breath hot against your mouth. “Say it.”

“I did that,” you whispered.

“Damn right, you did.” Without warning, without effort—he lifted you. Strong hands under your thighs, fingers digging in. Your back hit the tile again with a soft thud, your legs wrapping around his hips like instinct. Like this was where you were meant to be.

Your breath punched out of you in one shocked moan as his cock slid against your center—thick and hot and right there.

“Fuck—Joey—”

“I’ve got you,” he gritted out, adjusting his grip, voice low and strained. “You want me to stop, you tell me now.”

Your answer was immediate. “Don’t you dare stop.”

His eyes flashed, a primal hunger flickering behind them as he huffed out a breathless laugh.

With one deep, punishing thrust—he pushed into you all the way.

You gasped. It was too much. It was perfect.

Your head fell back against the tile, jaw going slack, your legs tightening around him as he filled you to the hilt—thick and hot and alive inside you, like he belonged there.

Like he always had.

Joe swore under his breath, forehead falling to your shoulder, both arms locking around you like he couldn’t stand to let you go.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he rasped. “Jesus, baby…”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just clenched around him as your nails dug into his back, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart from just the feel of him inside you.

And then he started to move. Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Like he was trying to feel every part of you. Like he wanted to make sure you felt every part of him.

You moaned—loud, open, shameless—and that was all it took for him to snap.

His pace picked up, rougher now, rhythm locking into yours like it had always lived there. Your back slid against the slick tile with every thrust, water pounding overhead, your breath turning high and frantic as he fucked you harder, each crack of his hips knocking sound out of you.

“You take it so fucking well,” Joe growled, lips dragging hot along your throat, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. “Layin’ out there all day like it was nothing.”

You whimpered, spine bowing beneath the sound of his voice, beneath the way he pushed deeper now, rougher and relentless.

“Lookin’ so pretty, all quiet and smug in your little bikini,” he panted. “You knew I was watching.”

Your head dropped back, a whine breaking loose as his thrusts went harder, steadier.

“You love this,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Actin’ like you’ve got control ‘til I get my hands on you. Then you just—fall apart.”

He laughed then—quiet, sharp, almost cruel. A sound that would’ve made you flinch if it had come from anyone else.

But from Joe, it wrecked you.

Your fingers clawed into his hair, dragging him down as your mouth found his again—messy and wild and aching.

“Joe—I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he gritted, arm locking tighter around your waist. “Then give it to me, baby. Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you did, when your body seized around him, trembling, nails scoring his back as your orgasm surged through you—it nearly knocked you out. Vision blurred. Chest locked. The air ripped from your lungs like it belonged to him.

He held you together as you shattered, kept thrusting, kept whispering something low and dirty into your ear. Words you couldn’t even catch because your brain was gone and your body wasn’t yours anymore.

“God, that’s it… fuck, you feel so good like this,” he groaned, pace faltering. “So good for me.”

“God, that’s it… fuck, you feel so good like this,” he groaned, his pace faltering. “So good for me.”

He came seconds later, thick and deep, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as his hips jerked one last time and he stilled, arms tight around you, his breath hitting your shoulder in heavy waves.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The water kept falling, louder than your breath—but not by much. Steam clung to every surface, fogging the glass, curling around Joe’s shoulders, catching in the wet strands of his hair where they hung over his forehead.

His arms were still wrapped around you. His body still pressed close, like he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up unless yours were locked around his hips. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering across your skin in warm, open bursts.

You could feel the pulse of him still buried deep. The twitch of muscle. The echo of aftershock against your thigh.

Your fingers were in his hair, but they’d softened now—no more clawing, no more clutching. Just a lazy drag along the nape of his neck as your heart slowed enough for you to feel it again.

He didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

Just stayed there, holding you as if he liked how you felt all quiet and pliant in his arms. One hand slid up your spine slowly while the other stayed locked around your waist, thumb pressing idly into the curve of your ribs.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Barely a breath:

“You okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder. Your voice didn’t work yet. Not in a real way. But your body did—you curled your fingers a little tighter at the base of his skull, pressed your nose into the spot behind his ear.

“Yeah,” you managed. “I’m good.”

Joe pulled back just enough to look at you.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, drops of water catching on his lashes, his mouth red and parted and a little too smug for someone who had just devastated you. But behind all that was the softness he couldn’t hide—even when he tried. Even when he wore it under all that cocky, quiet dominance.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “You sure?” he asked again, gentler this time.

You nodded, a breathless smile tugging at your lips. “I mean… I can’t feel my legs. So take that as you will.”

That made him grin—broad and gorgeous and a little too pleased with himself.

“Guess I’ll take that as a win,” he said, then leaned in to kiss you again. Softer this time. Less about desire and more about grounding. 

He eased out of you slowly, and you winced—half from the ache, half from the cold as he stepped back just far enough to let the water hit your chest again. Your feet hit the floor a beat later, but your legs wobbled, and Joe was there instantly—one hand steady at your waist like he’d expected it.

“Okay,” he murmured, chuckling under his breath. “Yeah, you’re not walking anywhere.”

“You’re proud of yourself, huh?” you muttered, eyelids heavy.

Joe dipped his head to kiss your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Lips lingering there with a smile. “Little bit.”

You huffed out a soft laugh, letting your forehead fall to his. Letting the heat between you settle into something quieter. The water kept running, but neither of you moved. Not for a while.

Hands holding each other.

Skin flushed.

Hearts still skipping.

The kind of aftermath that didn’t ask for words.

[goldfades]

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[honeydippedfiction]

I need possesive Joe like instantly pleaseeee (“Tell me you’re mine.” “I don’t share.” “Your body is for my eyes only.”) maybe him and reader are in a situationship that's a bit toxic, but she also doesn't take his shit either (“Do you want me to see me try to make you jealous? Because I can do a lot better than this.” “It’s not my fault I’m so hot.” “Aw, baby, what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?” “I’ll wear whatever I want.” “Get off me.”). Or maybe i need to see a therapist...

Bestie we all love a bit of toxicity, especially here on this blog. I made this with LSU!Joe, I hope that's okay🩷

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“Tell me you’re mine.” “I don’t share.” “Your body is for my eyes only.” “Do you want me to see me try to make you jealous? Because I can do a lot better than this.” “It’s not my fault I’m so hot.” “Aw, baby, what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?” “I’ll wear whatever I want.” “Get off me.”

LSU!Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

There was never a version of LSU where Joe Burrow and Y/N weren’t going to collide.

He was him—the golden boy of Baton Rouge. Star quarterback. Game-changer. The kind of athlete who turned heads just by stepping onto the field. His jersey was sold out in the bookstore before the season even started. Professors knew his name. So did security guards. So did the line cooks at the campus dining hall. Joe had a swagger that could quiet a room and an arm that could command a stadium. Girls wanted him. Guys wanted to be him. Coaches treated him like prophecy in cleats.

And then there was Y/N.

A cheerleader, yes—but not the kind people expected to fade into the background behind pompoms and school spirit. She was all angles and attitude, sharp where others bent. Her presence was felt before it was seen. When she walked into a room, the air shifted—like even gravity paused to pay attention. Every flip she landed on the field was flawless. Every halftime performance was electric. And unlike some of the other girls, she didn’t care about the roster or the locker room whispers.

She didn’t chase players. She didn’t fall for the uniform. Which, naturally, made her the one Joe couldn’t ignore.

Their paths crossed often—too often for either of them to pretend it was accidental. Practices overlapped. Team functions blurred. Pep rallies turned into house parties, and house parties turned into whispered arguments behind closed doors. It started with banter, with the occasional stolen glance or smug compliment.

“Nice game, quarterback,” she’d toss at him after a win, her voice dripping with a challenge.

“Could say the same about your little stunt in the third quarter,” he’d fire back with a grin. “Almost made me miss the snap.”

The tension built fast—too fast. What was supposed to be casual turned complicated. What started as heat turned into something heavier, something murkier. Something they never dared to label.

They weren’t official. Not even close.

He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t offered.

But the way he’d show up at her apartment at 2 a.m. after practice, freshly showered, eyes tired but wanting—that said something. And the way she let him in every time, despite the games, despite the silences, despite the fact that he never stayed for breakfast—that said even more.

It was a situationship. Messy. Addictive. The kind of connection that burned hotter the more they denied it.

Sometimes, it was magnetic. Other times, it was volatile. It always danced the line between passion and chaos.

He liked to control things. She hated being controlled.

He liked her best when she was soft, when her defenses were down, when she let herself be vulnerable for five whole minutes. She liked him best when he was real—when the swagger dropped, when the mask cracked and she could see the boy underneath the legend.

But those moments were rare. Fleeting. Easily overshadowed by arguments that started too easily and ended too late. Still, they kept gravitating back toward each other. Like gravity. Like fate. Like fools.

And now—on this particular Thursday night—the tension that had been simmering all week was just about to boil over.

Y/N stood in her bedroom, surrounded by half-empty makeup palettes and the sweet scent of vanilla and cocoa butter. 

The golden hour sunlight poured through the narrow blinds of Y/N’s campus apartment, casting warm stripes across the floor and glinting off the edge of her vanity mirror. The apartment was modest—two bedrooms, wood floors, furniture they didn’t care enough to match—but it smelled like vanilla, cocoa butter, and the faint echo of coconut-scented body oil. Homey in a way most college apartments never managed to be.

A playlist thrummed lazily in the background, something upbeat and defiant—SZA, probably—bouncing off the white walls as Y/N danced around her bedroom in nothing but a cropped top and her favorite black mini skirt. It was a pregame ritual by now: music loud, gloss glossier, confidence sky-high. She wasn’t dressing for anyone in particular—definitely not for Joe—but damn if she didn’t look good.

She leaned closer to the mirror, lining her lips carefully. Her eyes flicked to the side as her phone vibrated on the dresser. A text from her best friend, Nia: Nia: “Pre-gaming at Lexi’s in 20. Bring that fine ass.”

Y/N smirked, typing back a quick “Bet”, then turned back to her reflection to assess the full effect.

The skirt hugged her hips perfectly. The top—cut just low enough to tease—clung to her curves like it had been made for her. She looked every inch the woman she was: confident, radiant, and absolutely untouchable.

And then the front door opened.

She barely heard the click before it slammed shut hard enough to rattle the keys on the hook by the entryway.

“Seriously?” Joe’s voice echoed through the apartment. “Why the hell is the door unlocked?”

Y/N didn’t turn around. She just rolled her eyes, uncapping her setting spray and giving her face a quick mist.

“Didn’t know you lived here now,” she called out, voice smooth, bored, sharp enough to cut glass.

She could hear the scowl in his footsteps before he even appeared in her doorway—heavy, fast, like he was already pissed off before he saw her. But once he did see her—really saw her—his entire demeanor changed.

Joe Burrow leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His LSU hoodie was slightly wrinkled, and his hair was messy like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. 

His eyes raked over every inch of her—starting at her thighs and lingering far too long on the way her top clung to her chest before snapping back to her lips. His brows pulled together, and she could already see it—the shift. The jealousy. The possessiveness.

And here we go, she thought.

“You wearing that out?” he asked.

It wasn’t really a question. More like a challenge. A warning.

She popped one hip, deliberately ignoring the fire behind his stare. “Yep.”

His gaze darkened. “You got other options.”

“And I chose this one,” she said coolly, turning to grab her earrings from the dresser.

Y/N didn’t even turn around. She kept her eyes locked on her reflection as she slid a hoop through one ear. “Didn’t realize I needed your approval.”

His voice dropped, lower now. More dangerous. “Your body is for my eyes only.”

That made her pause.

She blinked once, slow and deliberate, before finally turning to face him.

“You want to run that by me again?”

Joe’s jaw flexed. He wasn’t the yelling type—he didn’t need to be. His words were measured. Cold. Each one carefully loaded.

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did,” she shot back, arms crossing under her chest. “And you’ve officially lost your mind.”

He took a step closer. “You don’t see the way guys look at you? They’re gonna be staring all night.”

“And?” she challenged, chin tilted. “Let them look.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think that’s cute?”

She rolled hers. “Get off me, Joe. I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.”

That set him off.

In two quick strides, he was in front of her—close enough that she had to back up, her spine bumping into the edge of her vanity. He planted one hand on either side of her, caging her in. His body hovered over hers, all tension and heat and frustration barely held together under cotton and muscle.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn’t.

“Y/N.” His voice was a warning now. Not loud. Just sharp.

So she looked up, locking eyes with him—and damn if she didn’t hate how it made her heart trip.

His gaze burned into her, jaw tight, voice low. “I don’t share.”

She stared up at him, unbothered. Or at least, she looked it.

“And I don’t do leash-wearing,” she shot back. “You want to mark your territory, Burrow? Put a ring on it.”

He didn’t blink. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Her laugh was quick and mocking. “Oh, that’s what this is about?”

Joe’s expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw twitched. He hated when she laughed at him. Hated when she didn’t take him seriously.

Y/N just rolled her eyes again, her attitude growing stronger in response to his.

“Do you want to see me try to make you jealous?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Because I can do a lot better than this.”

With that, she turned away from him like he wasn’t even there, grabbing her brush and running it through her curls with slow, practiced strokes.

Joe didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, with a frustrated exhale, he pushed off the vanity and walked to the bed, dropping down onto the edge with a heavy thump. He sat there, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes tracking her every move like he was watching game tape.

She didn’t have to look to know his jaw was clenched, his brows drawn in, his ego bruising.

She smirked into the mirror, lips curling with satisfaction.

“It’s not my fault I’m so hot,” she said sweetly, still brushing her hair.

Joe let out a dry, humorless laugh and shook his head. “Yeah? Real humble.”

Y/N pouted at him through the mirror, exaggerated and mock-sincere. “Aw, baby,” she cooed, eyes locking with his in the glass, “what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?”

His gaze darkened, but he didn’t speak.

She turned back around, her lip gloss catching the light, and lifted a single brow.

“Well?”

Joe didn’t flinch. Just leaned back on his hands, eyes dragging slowly over her one more time, like he was both pissed and desperate to drag her back into his lap.

But for now, he just sat there, stewing in his silence.

And Y/N?

She was already picking out her shoes.

Joe hadn’t said a word since she turned her back on him.

He just sat there on the edge of her bed, jaw tight, arms crossed, like he was trying to hold something in—or keep something from breaking. The silence buzzed between them, loud in a way the music on her speaker couldn’t drown out. She could feel his stare burning into her back like a weight, heavy and territorial.

And still, she kept her cool.

She slipped on her heels slowly, dragging the moment out just to make him stew. Just to prove a point. She didn’t even bother hiding her smirk.

Joe’s patience finally snapped.

“You think this is funny?”

She straightened up slowly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “I think you’re funny. Acting like this when I’ve been yours all this time and you haven’t even asked for it.”

He stood. Just like that. No warning. Just rose from the bed and crossed the room in a few long, deliberate steps, tension crackling with every inch he closed between them.

Before she could react, his hand caught her waist and pulled her back against his chest. His other hand slid up, palm splayed across her stomach, keeping her pinned in place.

Her breath caught.

“Don’t walk away from me looking like that,” he muttered, lips brushing her ear.

Her pulse stuttered. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

“I don’t like when other people look at what’s mine.”

“You don’t own me, Joe.”

“Don’t play like you don’t love it when I get like this.”

She turned in his grip then, facing him fully, their bodies brushing—her eyes narrow, his blazing.

“You think getting possessive and jealous is sexy?” she asked, voice thick with heat and sarcasm.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“I think you do.”

Before she could fire off another quip, his mouth was on hers—rough, claiming, desperate in the way he always got when he knew she was two seconds from walking out. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him as he backed her toward the vanity again, her hips bumping the edge with a soft thud.

She kissed him back with equal heat, lips parting just enough to let him deepen it, but she wasn’t about to give in completely.

Not yet.

Her hands pressed to his chest, giving just enough resistance to keep him from forgetting who was really in control.

“You don’t get to act like you care when it’s convenient,” she breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

Joe’s eyes searched hers. “This isn’t convenience. This is me losing my mind thinking about you out there, looking like this, with people trying to touch what I already feel in my bones belongs to me.”

She let that linger for a second, her body still pressed against his, heat radiating between them.

Then her lips quirked, slow and wicked.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You like it.”

“And if I do?” she whispered, her fingers hooking into the hem of his hoodie. “What then?”

Joe dropped his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

“Then I’m not letting you leave this apartment tonight.”

She tilted her chin up, lips brushing his again, but just barely.

“Then stop talking and prove it.”

He kissed her again—hungrier, wilder, his hands tightening on her hips like he wanted to mold her into his body, into his will. She matched him, fingers tangling in his hair, her teeth nipping at his lower lip as he lifted her onto the vanity, his body pressed between her legs, her heels locked around his waist.

His hands roamed over her, possessive, claiming. Hers did the same. He broke the kiss long enough to pull his hoodie over his head, tossing it aside before his mouth found hers again, more frantic this time, like he couldn’t get enough. She felt the same, her body alive in a way it hadn’t been in too long, the heat between them building, building, the need for more coiling tight and electric in her veins.

“Stay with me tonight,” he breathed, his lips trailing down her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse.

She arched into him, her voice a breathy whisper. “No.”

His hands gripped her tighter, his breath hot on her skin. “I won’t ask again.”

She laughed, low and husky. “You won’t have to.”

He drew back suddenly, his eyes wild, his hair a mess. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.”

“Maybe?” he echoed, voice rough.

She nodded, her lips curving up, eyes never leaving his. “Maybe.”

He stared at her for a second, his chest heaving with every breath, the air around them charged with need and tension.

Then he was kissing her again, lifting her from the vanity with ease, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed, laying her down gently, his body settling over hers. She could feel him hard and ready against her, and she rocked up into him, earning a groan against her lips. His hand slipped under her skirt, fingers finding her clit through her thong, making her gasp.

“Joe,” she breathed. “We don’t have time.”

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers, his fingers still working her over, her breath coming faster. “If you think I’m letting you walk out of here without a reminder of what’s waiting for you when you come home, you’re crazy.”

She shook her head, a laugh bubbling up. “Home. As if.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Mmm. I do.” She reached for his sweatpants, dipping her hand inside, wrapping her fingers around his cock. He groaned, hips thrusting into her touch. “But I’m not that easy.”

He stilled. “What?”

“I’m not coming home to you tonight.”

Joe's eyes darkened further, but this time in anger. He reached up and wrapped his hand around her throat, resting it there. "Y/N." His tone was a warning.

"Joe."

"You're mine. You know that. Don't make me have to remind you." He tightened his grip. She felt a thrill race through her at his words, at the possessive tone in his voice, at the way his body was reacting to her.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing hers. "If you don't come home tonight," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "you know what happens."

She arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh yeah? What happens?"

His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up again. "I'll come find you." He kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his fingers continued to work her clit. She moaned against his lips, her hips rocking up into his touch.

When he broke the kiss, she was breathless, her eyes heavy-lidded. "You wouldn't dare," she whispered.

He smirked, his eyes blazing with heat. "Try me." His grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her pulse spike with need. 

She swallowed, her throat working against his palm.  "Is that a threat?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "It's a promise."

He bit her lobe softly, then pulled back, his eyes locked on hers. "Don't make me follow through."

She searched his eyes, seeing the intensity there, the determination. She knew he wasn't bluffing.

And she loved it.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

Y/N was having a blast at the club. Her friends surrounded her, the music thumping in her chest, lights flashing overhead. She’d been trying to shake off the argument with Joe, the way his possessiveness had twisted in her chest, but as the night wore on, she found herself enjoying the freedom. The laughter, the drinks, the music—everything was an escape from the heat and the tension building between them.

She hadn’t even noticed the guy at first. Just a casual glance in her direction, a shy smile, and before she knew it, they were dancing. Nothing serious. Just a flirtatious back-and-forth that never meant anything. Or at least, it shouldn’t have.

But as she moved with the beat, her mind couldn’t shake the memory of Joe’s possessive tone, the way his grip had felt on her throat, how he’d marked her with every kiss. Part of her felt rebellious, like she was daring him to come after her.

Her phone buzzed in her bag, the vibrations pulling her from the moment. She glanced down at it, seeing a notification from one of her friends—an Instagram story.

She clicked it open.

Her heart skipped a beat as the image loaded: a video of her dancing with the guy from earlier, laughing and swaying with him in the crowded club. It was playful—no boundaries crossed—but the sight of her in the arms of another guy, especially after everything that had just happened, made her pulse spike.

She wasn’t the only one who’d seen it.

Joe had. And within seconds, he was already on his feet, moving with purpose. His jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. The jealousy that had been simmering under the surface since he saw the way that guy had looked at Y/N was now boiling over, uncontainable.

His mind raced, replaying the scene over and over—the guy’s hands on her waist, the way she was laughing, too carefree, too unbothered.

Joe’s grip on his phone tightened as he typed out a message to her, but before he could hit send, his mind snapped into focus. He knew exactly what he had to do.

Miles away, Joe sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling. Shirt off, chain still around his neck, his dark eyes locked on the glowing screen. The video looped. Her smile. That guy’s hand on her waist.

The muscle in Joe’s jaw ticked. Once. Twice.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t even curse. Just stared at the clip like it was telling him something he already knew.

That she was slipping.

That someone else thought they could touch what was his.

He opened his messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Typed, deleted. Typed again.

Having fun?

He erased it.

Too soft.

You think I won’t pull up?

Deleted again.

He didn’t need to ask questions.

He already knew what he was going to do.

His face smoothed into something colder, more certain. He slid on a hoodie, grabbed his keys from the desk, and sent just one text.

No punctuation. No fluff.

I warned you

Back at the club, Y/N felt the buzz in her hand before she even looked.

The words blinked up at her, simple and sharp.

Her heart stuttered.

It wasn’t the kind of message that made you roll your eyes and keep dancing. It was the kind that made your pulse quicken, your brain start running through everything you’d done in the last ten minutes.

And she knew.

He was coming.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

The club pulsed with a life of its own, the thundering bass reverberating through the air, shaking the walls and vibrating every inch of her body. Y/N had been swept up in it all, lost in the rhythm, in the laughter, in the heat. Her friends had drifted off to the bar, leaving her floating alone in the crowd, surrounded by strangers and shadows. Her phone buzzed in her hand, the sudden vibration slicing through the haze of the night. For a second, she didn’t react. The music demanded her attention, pulling her deeper into its intoxicating embrace.

Another buzz. Her fingers swiped the screen, distracted. She glanced down and saw the message. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Don’t make me come find you.

Her pulse kicked up immediately, not just out of surprise but from something else. Something darker, more familiar. The kind of thrill she couldn’t shake—that rush. The one she always felt when Joe decided to make his presence known.

Her lips curled into a smile, though she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t fear she felt, not really, but that familiar, twisted excitement—the kind that came with pushing boundaries, with feeling the weight of his gaze even when she couldn’t see him. Joe didn’t do subtle. He didn’t do safe. He did intensity. He did possession.

And she liked it. More than she cared to admit.

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she fought the instinct to text back, to tease him the way she always did. But something inside her twisted at the thought. Not tonight. Not this time.

That push and pull. The way his words could make her stomach flip even when they should’ve chilled her to the core. Joe didn’t do subtle. He didn’t do boundaries. He did heat. Intensity. And she had been burning in it since the first time he’d grabbed her hand under the bleachers and whispered something reckless into her ear after practice. He was the star quarterback—untouchable, magnetic. She was the head cheerleader—visible, envied. Of course they were always near each other, always orbiting. But this wasn’t the fairy-tale version of that story. This was messier. Darker. Addictive.

A second buzz jolted her out of her thoughts. She glanced at her phone. This time, it was a call.

Joe.

His name was bold on the screen. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the green button, her heart hammering. She knew what would happen if she answered. He would drag her back into his world—the one where everything was a game, and he always won.

With a flick of her finger, she hit ignore. She didn’t need his control tonight. Not this time.

Her smile deepened as she tucked the phone back into her bag, turning her attention back to the guy she’d been dancing with. He was still grinning, oblivious to the storm gathering around her. His hand brushed lightly against hers, his arm wrapping loosely around her waist. The heat of his body felt like nothing compared to the storm inside her. Joe was still there—his presence, thick and suffocating, clouding her thoughts.

“You good?” the guy asked, his voice cutting through the music.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “Just… someone who doesn’t know when to let go.”

He laughed, leaning in closer, too close, his breath hot on her neck. But Y/N barely noticed. Her thoughts were with someone else—someone who could take the heat of this night and turn it into something dangerous. Joe.

Every sway of her hips, every dip and twist of her body, was a defiance, a reminder. She wasn’t his to command. Not tonight. Not like this. Tonight, she was in control. Tonight, she would play the game her way.

But that was the thing with Joe—he always came when she pushed too far.

And that’s when she felt it.

A shift in the air. A heavy, electric charge that sent a shiver down her spine. Her body froze mid-move, a tingle crawling across her skin as a deep instinct screamed—he was here.

Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the crowded entrance. And there he was.

Joe.

Standing just inside the door, his silhouette outlined against the flashing lights. His face was hard, unreadable, but his eyes? Those eyes—dark, narrowed, locked onto her with a predatory intensity. She could feel his gaze as if it were a tangible thing, pressing on her skin, demanding her attention. His body was still, poised like a lion preparing to pounce.

His gaze didn’t move. Not once. Not when people brushed past him. Not even when the guy beside her leaned in again, oblivious. Joe’s jaw was clenched tight, his entire posture carved from tension. He wasn’t storming in. Not yet. He didn’t need to. The look said enough: I see you. 

Her heart thudded in her chest. Every ounce of confidence she had crumbled under that gaze. She hadn’t heard a single word from the guy beside her, hadn’t felt his hand on her hip, hadn’t registered the music around her. All she could do was watch Joe.

He wasn’t moving yet. Not yet. But she knew, deep in her gut, that he would.

The guy beside her seemed to notice the shift, his words trailing off as he sensed something had changed. He leaned in, oblivious, too drunk on the night to realize who he was up against. His hand brushed against her waist again. She stepped back, her eyes still on Joe.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion.

“No,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips. “I just…”

But she didn’t finish the sentence. Because Joe was moving now. His eyes never left hers, and neither did his steps. Slow. Deliberate. Cutting through the crowd like a predator. People parted for him without thinking, but he didn’t notice them. Didn’t need to. His gaze was locked, singular, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

Y/N’s heart picked up pace again, the thundering beat in her chest a contrast to the hollow emptiness inside her as she realized just how far she’d let this go. The guy beside her stepped back as Joe drew closer, no words spoken. None were needed.

Her phone buzzed again.

You’re mine. And if you’re not coming home to me tonight… I’ll come find you.

The words hit her like a cold wave. She didn’t smile this time. Didn’t feel the thrill. Something was different now. Something had changed. Her defiance was still there, but now, there was a cold weight pressing down on her—something that felt real.

She wanted to run. Wanted to tell Joe to go to hell and keep dancing with the guy beside her, who was still watching her with wide eyes, clueless. But she couldn’t.

Joe’s eyes flicked once toward the guy, sizing him up in an instant. And then, his gaze locked onto hers again. No words. Just that look. Possessive, unyielding.

This wasn’t jealousy anymore. It was a claim.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

Joe was close now.

She could feel it before she saw him. The air around her shifted—thickened—as if the room itself recognized the danger. The crowd seemed to part for him like instinct, people stepping aside without even realizing why. Y/N felt her body tense, but not with fear. It was anticipation. A spark of something twisted and electric. Her breath caught in her throat, but her chin stayed high, jaw clenched in something that resembled defiance—because if Joe was going to bring the storm, she wasn’t going to run from it.

She never ran.

The guy beside her faltered, eyes flicking toward the sudden tension charging the air like static. “Yo, is that—?”

Before he could finish, Joe stepped into her space like he belonged there, like he had every right to erase the distance between them. And maybe, in his head, he did.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Those dark, burning eyes of his locked onto hers with that look—the one that always told her exactly where she stood. You’re mine. That was the message. Raw, unspoken, and completely unwavering.

Y/N’s heart thudded hard in her chest, but she didn’t look away. Her lips curled upward into a mocking half-smile. “Didn’t think you had the balls to show up.”

Joe’s jaw twitched.

The guy beside her straightened a little, starting to piece together the very obvious tension between them. He opened his mouth again—probably to ask her if she was okay—but he didn’t get the chance.

Joe’s hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist, firm and unflinching. The movement wasn’t violent, but it was decisive. Possessive. He tugged her forward with enough force that she stumbled a step, the heel of her boot scuffing the sticky floor.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, flat, and loaded with warning. “You’re done here.”

Y/N’s head snapped toward him, her tone instantly sharp. “Excuse me?”

Joe didn’t even blink. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it got tighter.

“You heard me.”

“Let go of me.” She yanked at her wrist, but he held fast. Her voice dropped into a deadly whisper. “You don’t get to just show up and act like I’m yours.”

Joe leaned in, voice cool and steady, but the fire behind his words burned hot. “You are mine, and you know it. So quit playing.”

The guy—clearly out of his depth—backed up, holding his hands in a half-surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know she was with someone, man—”

“She’s not,” Y/N snapped, yanking again at her wrist. “We’re not a thing.”

Joe's laugh was low and humorless. “You really wanna play that game right now? After everything?”

Y/N’s mouth opened to throw something back, something biting—but the words never came. Because despite herself, despite the ache in her pride and the stubborn fire in her chest, there was another part of her—quieter but undeniable—that liked this. That liked him like this.

The side of Joe that didn’t ask. That just took. That made it clear she didn’t get to erase him with a few shots of tequila and a stranger’s hands on her waist.

So when he turned, still holding her wrist, and started walking, she didn’t resist.

Not really.

Her friends stared from across the room, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. One of them—Kayla—mouthed something at her, a silent Are you okay? but Y/N didn’t respond.

She didn’t know if she was okay.

Didn’t know if she was pissed or turned on or just drunk on the energy that came with being near Joe when he was like this—dark and wild and unapologetically territorial.

The crowd closed behind them as they moved, Joe cutting through the club like he owned it, like dragging her out of there wasn’t up for debate. And maybe it wasn’t.

When they hit the cooler air outside, the buzz of the club muffled behind the thick doors, Y/N finally yanked her hand back hard enough to break his grip. She spun on him.

“What the hell, Joe?”

He turned slowly, jaw flexing as he stared at her, unreadable. “What?”

“You can’t just show up and drag me out like I’m some toy you left behind.”

“You looked like you were enjoying being someone else’s toy just fine.”

“God, you’re such a—” She stopped herself, fuming. Her hands shook, half from adrenaline, half from the emotional whiplash. “You don’t own me.”

Joe stepped closer, crowding her space, his voice quiet now—but all the more dangerous for it. “You sure act like I do when you’re underneath me.”

Her breath hitched.

The silence that followed was heavy, electric.

He didn’t touch her—but he didn’t need to. His words pressed against her like a hand to the throat. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. That was Joe’s real power. The way he got inside her head. The way he knew her—all her buttons, all her triggers.

She hated it.

And loved it.

“You done playing?” he asked, voice low. “Because if you wanna keep pretending you don’t want me, I’ll leave right now. But don’t expect me to watch you give my show to someone else.”

Y/N swallowed, her pulse pounding like the music still echoing in her chest. She lifted her chin again, trying to summon the same sharp edge she always wore with him.

But her voice was softer this time. Not weak—just honest.

“What if I’m tired of this game?”

Joe’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, his breath warm against her skin.

“Then let me remind you how it ends.”

And before she could come up with a comeback—or an excuse—his lips were on hers.

Not gentle.

Not asking.

Just taking.

And Y/N? She let him.

Because whatever this was—dangerous, toxic, consuming—it was theirs.

And she wasn’t ready to let it go.

Not yet.