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v6quewrlds · 6 months ago

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beautiful, incredible, never been done before. simply the best bae <333

Operation: Den Prep

Author’s note: I feel like Joe is very dramatic about things he can’t control and impending parenthood is definitely chaotic. Hope you enjoy this fluffy piece!

All you wanted to do was take a nap. You weren't asking for much. Just an hour, maybe an hour and a half of uninterrupted sleep.

But no. That would be too easy.

The cars that lined the driveway couldn't be a sign of anything good. Joe wasn't really one to throw parties, and with exactly four weeks before the baby's due date he wasn't exactly the most chill or relaxed man in America. If anything, the cars were a sign that you wouldn't be getting that nap in any time soon.

A gigantic sigh leaves your body when you walk in the door. There are people—strangers— in your home, scrubbing every square inch of the place.

"Joe?" You call out, attempting to scoot past the people dusting the vents.

"He's upstairs in his office," a woman responds kindly, in the midst of scrubbing baseboards. Your friend Nikki, who was with you all day, stares at everyone in shock before helping you up the stairs.

You caught your breath a little while running your hand over your baby bump, feeling like you climbed Everest. Nikki knocks on the door and waits for Joe's voice, telling you two to come in. Your husband was seated at his desk, highlighting sections of The Expectant Father: The Ultimate Guide for Dads-to-Be, surrounded by several other parenting books.

"Joseph..." Nikki begins since you still can't breathe. “What the hell is going on here?"

"Language," Joe says without looking up from his book, "he can hear you."

Nikki turns to look at you and you shake your head, not wanting to get in the middle of it right now. Your eyes were telling her to just focus on one problem at a time, the biggest issue at hand being the cleaning crew taking over the house. She seems to agree. "Okay, let me try that again," he nods, finally looking up, a disinterested look on his face. “Don't know if you know this but, there are people downstairs treating your home like it's a warzone on germs."

"I know. I hired them to do exactly that. Because it is." He says in a matter of fact tone. “I want everything to be perfect when the baby comes home. The house needs to be as clean as possible so he has a safe environment.”

“Joe, this isn’t prepping for the end of days. You realize babies don’t come out demanding hospital-grade cleanliness, right?” Nikki jokes, leaning against the doorframe.

Joe doesn't find it funny. “Do you even know how many germs are in the average house? I read it’s millions. Millions, Nicole. I’m not risking it.”

You sigh, walking over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He was adorable when he got like this—focused, determined, and completely over the top. It was endearing, but you could already tell you'd have to reel him in before he booked a hazmat team to inspect the nursery. “Joe, I appreciate what you’re doing. I really do. But we’re supposed to be relaxing these last few weeks, not running ourselves into the ground.”

“You’re the one who should be relaxing,” Joe said, standing and gently guiding you to sit in his chair. “You’re growing a human being. That’s a full-time job. I can handle everything else.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Joe, I don’t need you to handle everything. We’re a team, remember? And besides, I don’t want you burning yourself out before he even gets here.”

“I’m fine,” Joe insisted, his tone firm but caring. "I promise. I just...want everything to be right for him. He’s going to depend on us for everything, you know?”

Nikki sat down on the couch in the corner of the office, still grinning. “I’m not gonna lie, this is kind of impressive. Most dads just install the car seat and call it a day. But you? You’re basically turning this place into a baby-friendly, germ-free utopia."

Joe shot her a look but didn’t argue as you let out a yawn. "Are you tired?" He rushes out, "they should be done in our room, you can go take a nap if you need it. I was serious about you getting some rest."

"And so was I about you getting some rest. We won't be sleeping as much when he gets here so getting a head start on sleepless nights isn't the wisest business decision."

"Okay," Joe folds the corner of the page that he's on and stands up, kissing you on the side of the head. "What if...we kick Nikki and the cleaners out and we go take a nap?"

"Um hello?" Nikki waves her hand in the air, "still here, in the room, with both of you. I can hear everything you're saying."

Joe doesn’t bother acknowledging her, his eyes focused on you as you nod with a laugh. “I love you, Nik, but he’s right. I need to lie down before I collapse.”

Nikki smirks, standing and brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. “You’re so lucky you’re carrying my baby, Y/N. Go take your little nap, I’ll see myself out.” She pokes Joe in the chest as she passes. “Joe, co-parenting with you is going to suck, but I gotta admit—you’re going to be a killer dad. You just don’t need to stress yourself into a heart attack to prove it.”

Joe rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "For the last time, it's OUR baby. Not yours. There is no co-parenting."

"Sure," Nikki smiles, patting him on the back, "sure buddy. Whatever helps you sleep at night. By the way, good luck kicking out the cleaners. I'm pretty sure one of them is power-washing your oven.”

She’s gone before Joe can reply, leaving you shaking with laughter as he mutters, “I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”

When you woke up from your nap, Joe was gone. You found him downstairs, scrolling through the notes on his iPad, intense focus that you'd really only seen when he was going over film. It was heartwarming to see that he was taking impending fatherhood as seriously as he took his job. In a way, being a dad was like taking on another job. With endless hours, no days off and no pay. But the rewards? They were going to be worth everything.

Sinking into the spot next to him, you leaned your head against his shoulder. “What are you up to?”

"Going over the checklist," he replied, his hand automatically resting on your belly, absentmindedly tracing small circles with his thumb. "We've got a bunch of deliveries coming tomorrow to get the nursery done which will probably take a couple days. Then we need to start getting the fridge stocked and pack our hospital bags. I was also thinking we do a trial run to the birth center."

"A trial run? Why?"

“I need to time it,” he said, his fingers still drumming softly against your bump. “Traffic could be bad, you’ll be in pain, and I’d rather not have to deliver a baby in the car. I mean, I can learn how to, but I’d rather not.”

You couldn’t help but smile as his focus shifted momentarily, his hand now lightly tapping your belly like he was sending a secret code. “Joe, we’ll be fine. We’ll get there when we get there. Not everything is gonna go to plan so let’s not waste time but trying to plan out every detail.”

“I hear you and I get what you’re saying but I’d rather be overprepared than caught off guard,” he muttered, flipping to a new note with his free hand. His other stayed firmly planted on your stomach, as though he could steady the world by keeping a connection to the little life inside. “Oh, and dinner with our parents tomorrow…that’s going to be something.”

"Be nice. They mean well," you reminded him, nudging his arm.

“Sure, but last week my dad said something about bourbon on baby gums helping with teething. I had to pretend to choke so I wouldn’t laugh in his face,” Joe said with a soft laugh of his own. Then, without thinking, he leaned down and whispered against your belly, “Just ignore your grandpa, buddy. We’ll do teething the right way.”

Your heart swelled at the gesture, and you reached out to thread your fingers through his hair. “Joe, you’re already such a good dad, you know that?”

His eyes softened as he looked up at you, his hand still cradling your bump. “I just want to get it right, for him… and for you.”

"You will. And you know how I know?" He shakes his head, his eyes locked in on you, searching for your answer. "Because once you put your mind to something, you don't let anything or anyone stop you."

For a moment, he’s quiet, his gaze softening before he speaks. “You’re gonna be a great mom, you know that?” He reiterates your words, his voice is barely above a whisper as he leans in, sneaking a kiss.

Your laugh is light, but your heart swells as he places his lips on yours one more time. “Kid’s pretty lucky,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls back. “And he doesn’t even know it yet.”

The rest of the evening is spent ironing out some minor details of Joe's fool proof baby plans.

Your husband is not the handiest person in the world. He's more of a "I'll hire someone who's more qualified" kind of guy. Exhibit A? Full time chef so he doesn't have to cook. Exhibit B? Full time cleaning staff. To be honest, he probably doesn't know how to change a tire. But he also probably has access to triple A and one phone call from Joe Burrow might actually have everyone working that day rushing out to answer the call. With all that being said, you assumed that putting together furniture would not be something he'd be inclined to do. And then a few weeks ago he, Jimmy and your dad spent three hours building a custom Bellini crib. Now that he had a taste of satisfaction in knowing that he put it together with his own hands, he wanted to build everything in the baby's nursery.

Today's project consisted of your dad, Jimmy and Joe putting together a bunch of things that were delivered while you, your mom and Robin sorted through baby clothes and collected freshly washed laundry to place in his closet. Every tiny sock and little hat sent butterflies in your stomach at the thought of your own tiny person wearing these clothes in just a few short weeks. It was both daunting and exciting.

Throughout the day, more people were walking into the house, Ja'Marr came in first since he pretty much lived next door. Sam showed up 30 minutes later, a tool-kit in hand. A few high school friends even drove from Athens to help.

"Guess Joe called in the calvary." Robin says with a laugh, putting the onesies she just pulled out of the dryer in neat stacks to count and fold.

A few hours later, the three of you took a look at the inventory laid out before you. Your son probably had enough clothes to last him through four outfit changes a day for the next few months. You mentally reminded yourself to cut everyone off from buying any more articles of clothing until further notice.

The doorbell rang and Joe magically appeared downstairs to answer it, his Jeff Ruby's catering order had arrived. A few staff members carried in all the food and Joe thanked them on their way out. Before you could even ask, he said "you don't think they're all working for free do you? Had to give them a few incentives." You simply shook your head, a smile forming on your lips as he disappeared upstairs again.

When the guys were finally done, everyone gathered downstairs to eat dinner, casually chatting about life, Ja'Marr giving a recap of his offseason so far and what trips he had planned. Everything was actually normal until your mom spoke up.

"So, who are you guys gonna have in the delivery room with you?"

Joe nudged you under the table with his knee, giving you a look like "here we go."

"Um...we're still finalizing details of the birth plan. I was just thinking me and Joe for now, the less people seeing me at my worst, the better," you joke, trying to keep it light.

"Well what about visitors?" Robin chimes in. “How soon after are we going to be able to meet the little one?"

"We were thinking the next day. Gives us time to settle in, get some sleep and then have you guys meet him," Joe says casually. That seems to satisfy all parties, your parents nod in understanding and you breathe out a sigh of relief that the conversation doesn't go any further.

Pretty soon after dinner, most of the guests are gone and Joe asks if you want to see the nursery. You immediately hold out your arms and let him lift you to your feet, keeping a hand on the small of your back until you reach the room. Before he opens the door he covers your eyes with his other hand. "You ready?"

"Yes," you let out a small laugh, the anticipation eating away at you, "you've been hyping up these packages for weeks let's see what you’ve done."

"Alright," you hear him open the door and he guides you inside by the hand, still keeping your eyes covered. "3...2...1."

Some of the big things had already been put together. The walls had been painted, the closet space was set up, Joe had brought an LED starry-night ceiling projector (on top of the chandelier that was already in the room) and a sleek, modern changing table with a with several gadgets you weren’t ready to mess with. Yes it was too much. No, he wasn't going to return any of it.

Your eyes scanned the room: a plush, white rug that looked too soft to step on without socks, a glider that seemed to have more tech features than your car, and a Dyson purifier glowing faintly in the corner. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of all the hands that had come together to make it perfect. “He’s not even here yet, and he’s already so loved,” you said, your voice catching slightly.

"He definitely is," Joe says happily, knowing he and his team nailed it. "Come on, I'll give you a tour." He gestures toward the window, "blackout curtains. I read that they can help babies and toddlers sleep better. They can also help regulate the temperature and reduce noise. For temperature though, I got a Dyson obviously, it's supposed to be the best.” He walks you over to the next spot. “Over here we have the changing table."

"Does this...have a built in warming pad for wipes?"

"Yeah isn't it great?” He beams, “so his little butt is warm when we change him in the middle of the night."

You let out a soft laugh at how much of a softie he already is for someone he hasn’t met yet. "He's gonna be mad we're changing him either way, warm wipes or not. But I know you’ll be using it so it’s fine.”

He opens the top drawer of the changing table, "I put some miscellaneous stuff in here. All organic. Silk-blend crib sheets, swaddles, and burp cloths that I washed yesterday so they're ready to use. Over here is the feeding station and the mini fridge, which I'm really excited about."

"Why do we need a mini fridge in the nursery?"

"Think about this. I'm on overnight baby duty and you're catching up on sleep. Our baby is sobbing because he's hungry. Instead of making him wait while I go downstairs and grab a bottle, we just have the bottles in here. And then this little compartment on this side is a freezer so we can have milk storage bags in here too since the bottle warmer is right there. And watch this,” Joe said, pressing a button on the bottle warmer. “It’s like a Formula 1 pit stop but for babies. Two minutes tops, and he’s good to go.” You raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh at his comparison.

"You know what? I'm not mad at it. Keep going."

"Right next to the fridge is the actual feeding station so we've got a couple pillows here next to the chair, burp clothes and then a little table in case whoever is in here needs water or to set something down. White noise machine is over here. You gotta play with the setting there's like 100 sound options and custom settings. The baby monitor is cool too, it has HD video, two-way audio, sleep analytics, the whole nine.” Joe pick up the expensive contraption. “Here, let me show you some of the noise machine settings."

He was too excited for you to decline, so you motioned for him to go ahead. "This one is ocean waves," he said, hitting a button. A soft crash of waves echoed through the room. "And this is rainforest sounds. Oh, and this one—"

"OW!" you yelped, clutching your belly and bending forward slightly.

Joe froze mid-button press, the sound of chirping birds now filling the nursery. "What? What happened? Is it happening?" His voice rose an octave as he practically leapt across the room to you.

You couldn’t help but laugh through the sharp jolt of pain, waving him off with one hand. "Relax, Joe. It’s not labor. It’s uh...lightning crotch."

"Lightning what?" His panicked expression turned to utter confusion, and he blinked at you like you’d just spoken a foreign language.

"It’s this sharp, sudden pain down there," you explained, gesturing vaguely toward your lower half. "Totally normal. Just your kid punching my nerves like one of those UFC fighters you're obsessed with."

Joe stared at you, wide-eyed. "That’s a thing? That’s allowed? Why does no one tell dads about this stuff?"

You shrugged, still giggling as you slowly straightened up. "Welcome to pregnancy. Every day’s a surprise," you reassure him, patting him on the back.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely rattled. "Okay, so let me get this straight. So far, there’s morning sickness, swollen ankles, back pain, weird cravings, and now lightning crotch? What’s next? Spontaneous combustion?"

"Would you calm down?" you teased, reaching for his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. "It’s not that bad. Just part of the process."

Joe let out a dramatic sigh, muttering, "You’re making a whole person, and I can’t even keep up with the symptoms."

"You’re doing great, babe," you said with a smirk. "Now, are you gonna show me what’s in the next drawer, or should I add 'Joe having a meltdown' to my list of pregnancy side effects?"

That earned a laugh from him, and he shook his head, pulling himself together. "Fine. But I’m looking this lightning crotch thing up later," he said, giving you a playful glare before opening the next drawer.

Joe is going through the various assortment of baby blankets but what catches your eye is the bookcase. You step closer to it, running your fingers over the leather-bound spines. "Are these…first editions of Goodnight Moon and Oh the Places You’ll Go?"

"Collector's editions," Joe corrected with a sheepish shrug. "My mom used to read these to me,” Joe explained, his voice soft. “I figured…maybe I could do the same for him. Only with the fanciest versions, of course.”

"Of course,” you affirm. “You're adorable. This place is...a lot. But it's genuinely perfect Joe, you guys did an amazing job, thank you."

"You don't have to thank me, I should be thanking you. You're making us parents soon."

"I know. Being in here and seeing it finished makes it feel more real. There's gonna be an actual person using this stuff. That's insane."

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the room, "it is insane. And I can't wait. I wonder what he's gonna look like."

"I hope he looks like you, that would be so adorable. Having a tiny version of you would be a dream."

Joe chuckled, a soft, boyish sound that made your heart flutter. "You’re setting the bar pretty high for this kid," he teased, then paused, his expression turning serious for a moment. "But really, no matter what he looks like I know he'll be perfect."

The two of you stood there in the quiet of the hallway, the soft hum of the mini fridge in the nursery the only sound. For a moment, everything felt perfectly still—just the two of you, on the edge of an adventure that would change your lives forever.

You said goodbye to the last of your visitors and you turned around to Joe standing in the middle of the living room holding a notepad and a pen. "Where did you even get that, weren’t you just hugging your mom?"

"I had it on the coffee table. We’re supposed to watch the video for our prenatal class, remember?"

"Right now?" You ask, looking at your phone. It was only 9pm but it felt like at least one in the morning. You felt like Joe with his strict bedtime during the season.

He nods, already reaching for the remote. "I have big plans for us tomorrow so yeah, now is the perfect time."

"Alright, put it on." You relax into him, grabbing your blanket. "You're really gonna take notes?"

"Yeah. This is for educational purposes, I need any helpful tips I can get."

"You're sure you're gonna be able to watch and write things down? I don't want to scare you but, it might be intense."

"Babe, I get chased by grown men who want to take my head off for a living. Intense is my middle name," he places the notebook on the table and ditches the writing utensil, lazily placing his arm around you before starting the video. "You know what? I might not even take notes this time, I'll probably watch it again in my office in a few weeks when we get closer to the due date and take notes then."

You shrug, letting him do his thing. "Whatever you say, babe."

Joe's relaxed posture slowly turned a bit more tense as the video went on, the graphic image of the baby crowning was unfortunately going to be engrained in his memory for a long time. You had to stifle a laugh as his usual cool, calm, and collected demeanor cracked like a fine china plate dropped onto tile.

"Is...is that what we're gonna go through? What you're gonna go through?" His voice was shaky, as though he’d seen a ghost.

"Yup," you emphasized the ‘p’ sound. "That right there is the beauty of childbirth Joseph." You could practically feel his discomfort radiating off him.

"Oh my god." Joe muttered, his eyes wide in disbelief as he tried to mentally recover.

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder. "You know, it’s not all that bad. It's just...well, it’s a lot. And it’s very messy.”

He blinked at the screen, still not sure how to process what he’d just witnessed. "Right, sure, a lot. Just—" He exhaled dramatically, trying to find words. "I need a drink. I don't even like alcohol. Or we should maybe just call it a night and go to sleep. I need maybe a small...break from the miracle of life."

You chuckled, wrapping yourself up in the blanket and snuggling into his side. "Welcome to parenthood, Joe. Just wait until you're actually in the room. This was just the trailer."

Joe leaned back, a hand on his forehead as he processed the visual overload. "Little man needs to stay in there a little longer. I'm not ready to watch that horror film."

After declaring that the two of you needed a break from baby stuff, you and Joe took it easy the next day, diving into a true crime marathon after he came home from his morning workout. It was the perfect distraction from all the overwhelming baby prep. But today, he was back at it—better than ever.

"Did you know that newborns don’t have kneecaps? They have cartilage where they should be. They don’t get kneecaps until later."

"Wait what?" you ask, clearly confused.

"Yeah, I read it this morning, it's crazy. He isn't gonna have knees for weeks. I could've used that trick in 2020," Joe adds nonchalantly, his tone as casual as ever as he brushes off his knee injury from years ago. The way he brings it up so easily makes you laugh.

"What else did you learn?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

Joe glances over at you, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "I read that dads who are involved early on in caregiving—like diaper changes and feedings—bond with their babies faster and more strongly. So I’m all in on that."

"Baby?" you ask, tilting your head to the side as you look over at him.

Joe pipes up, looking away from his hospital bag, still gathering his things. "Yeah?"

"You didn't have a choice on that one. You were gonna feed him and change his diapers whether you liked it or not," you laugh and easily catch the t-shirt he tosses at you. It just happened to be your favorite one you liked to steal and it smelled just like him. That was definitely coming with you to the hospital.

You stand up from your spot on the floor, checking everything off your list. You had comfy clothes, fuzzy socks, four outfits (just in case), a phone charger, a portable charger, a water bottle and a robe which you'd never worn before but Joe insisted you bring it because what if this was the one time that you actually needed it. "What's in your bag?"

Joe opened the Nike duffel and let you take a look. "Why do you have your backup iPad in here?" you ask, a little puzzled.

"OTAs start two weeks after he's born. I need to glance through stuff and make sure I'm ready," he explains, glancing at you with a shrug.

You roll your eyes playfully. "Fine, but what are these doing in here?" You pull out his Bose noise-canceling headphones. "Are you gonna tune me out while I'm in labor?"

Joe looks at you with wide eyes, practically dropping the headphones in surprise. "What? No!" He quickly pulls out another pair, a sheepish smile on his face. "I brought some for you too, just in case you want to listen to music and, you know, maybe tune me out a little."

"You're really thinking ahead, huh?" you tease, a grin tugging at your lips.

Joe shrugs, his smile growing. "I try."

You nod, crossing your arms. "I mean, I guess we’ll see if those headphones get a workout during the labor part."

Joe gives you a playful look, his tone still light-hearted but his eyes full of genuine excitement. "I’m just saying, if you need a little escape from my endless rambling during contractions, at least you have options."

"Oh Joey, I love you."

“I love you,” he sighs, pulling you into a tight hug, feeling steady kicks against his stomach. "And I love you too, baby boy. Kid can't stand not having the attention on him," he smiles, his voice soft but filled with affection.

"Taking after his dad already?" you tease, the corners of your mouth lifting into a grin.

Joe pulls back slightly, raising an eyebrow with a mock-serious expression. "Now you know that’s just not true."

You chuckle softly, resting your head against his chest. "I guess we’ll see, huh?"

He lets you go and the two of you go through all three bags one more time before Joe announces the next task. "Are you ready for our hospital trial run?"

"I still think it's ridiculous but if it'll make you feel more comfortable then I'm in."

Joe carries all the bags down the stairs, tossing them by the door and has the stopwatch open on his phone. "Okay, here we go." He presses 'start' and grabs the keys and the bags while you stand in the kitchen, taking a sip of water as you waddle to the car.

"Babe, why are you going so slow? We're on a time crunch here."

"Well if you must know, your son is crushing all of her internal organs and grinding my hip bones together. If I walk too fast I’ll pee. And then you'll have to get me new clothes and I'll have to change. That'd be really bad for your time crunch."

He drops it immediately. "Okay you're right, take your time."

Once he helps you in the car he rushes around to the driver's side and buckles in, opening the garage door and pulling out of the driveway. You're holding the phone, watching his time as he drives carefully but efficiently, weaving through the streets like a man on a mission. "What if there's traffic that day?" You ask.

"Then I'll figure it out. I just need ballpark range how long it'll take us to get there." He checks the stopwatch again, the third time in the last five minutes.

"Joe, you don't have to treat this like you’re at the two-minute warning during the Super Bowl when you’re down one score."

His grip tightens on the steering wheel despite your words, his jaw clenching as he glances at you, "better to be safe than sorry."

You shrug, reclining in your seat to take some pressure off your back.

"You good?" He asks gently, his hand finding its way to your leg. "How’s the baby doing?" Joe asks, glancing at you between turns, a hint of concern in his voice. "Should we pull over so you can stretch?"

"No, I'm fine," you sigh, a smile tugging at your lips as you settle in more comfortably. "I could really go for some ice cream right now though."

"We'll get some on the way home," he laughs, a relieved chuckle escaping him. "Call it a reward for a successful trial run."

He pulls into the parking lot of the birth center with a sigh of relief, glancing at his phone in your hand. "13 minutes, not bad at all," he says with a sense of accomplishment.

"Yeah, that's great," you smile, a playful glint in your eyes. "I want a scoop of rocky road and a scoop of raspberry sorbet. In a bowl."

"Together?" he asks, his eyebrows raised in mock disbelief.

"Yes," you reply, grinning.

Joe pulls out of the parking lot, a proud smile on his face as if he just completed an Olympic event. "Mission accomplished. Ice cream in five minutes."

A week later, Joe was going over a food list with his chef Morgan. "For quick snacks, I was thinking Greek yogurt with granola and fruit, hard-boiled eggs—she'll need the protein. Maybe some string cheese or cheese cubes, nut butter with apples or bananas. We’ll definitely need to stock up on protein bars," he lists off items, looking through the fridge and cabinets.

"What‘a going on in here?" You walk into the kitchen and spot Morgan jotting down every word Joe is saying.

Joe looks up and smiles at you but then pauses for a moment, his eyes tracking your every movement as you waddle over to the counter. He raises an eyebrow. "You alright? You're walking like you just got off a horse."

You roll your eyes playfully but feel a grin spread across your face. "Nice to see you’re paying attention."

"Seriously," Joe says, now focused on you with concern. He steps closer, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders as he watches you shuffle around. "That’s a pretty pronounced waddle. You okay?"

"Yup, just one of the perks of carrying a tiny human in there." You shrug, trying to act casual about it, but it's hard to ignore how much effort it takes to move these days.

Morgan, glancing between the two of you, stifles a laugh. "It’s the baby," he explains with a knowing look. "The weight shifts, and her body’s getting ready for the big day."

Joe doesn’t look entirely convinced. "I don’t know, babe," he says, lightly tapping your belly. "Maybe we need to get you some support or something. You shouldn’t have to waddle all over the place. Like one of those belly belt things to help take the weight off your hips.”

You smirk. "Trust me, I’ve got it covered. But thanks for noticing."

Joe looks at you, giving you a soft smile that says he’s both amused and a little concerned. "Yeah, no problem. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable."

"Thanks, Joe," you tease, giving him a playful nudge before you turn to Morgan, who’s still scribbling on his notepad as Joe turns his away again. "So, what do you have so far?"

Morgan lists off everything he’s written, "Trail mix, chia pudding, pumpkin or sunflower seeds—"

"We never have those in the house," you note, crossing your arms. "Why now?"

"They're high in zinc and other nutrients that support lactation," Joe says simply, not looking up from the fridge.

"That's helpful but I really will probably need fruit, veggie sticks and hummus since you're interesting in me increasing my protein intake, maybe some avocado toast and smoothies too? Keep it simple, Morgan. I’ll also need the lactation cookies I sent you."

"Noted." Morgan says, catching Joe’s shake of his head as you laugh.

"Just get her whatever she wants," Joe sighs, exasperated, but with a fond smile. "I’m actually glad you brought up the cookies, Y/N, because I wanted to run something by you. Both of you, actually."

You sigh, already dreading the conversation, and the chef looks up from his list. "What’s up?"

Joe pulls out a folder from one of the kitchen drawers, showing Morgan the list of the “best” lactation cookie and energy bite recipes he could find.

"Babe," you groan, "I told you that you're overthinking the cookies. They’re just cookies."

“Lactation cookies,” he corrected, already flipping to another recipe. “These are important. They’re, like, your fuel.”

"My apologies your honor," you laugh again, "carry on."

Morgan laughs too and Joe playfully glares at him. "Yeah—yeah, laugh it up guys." He gestures toward the folder, "I highlighted the key ingredients on each recipe.”

The chef raised an eyebrow at the sheer number of recipes. “You want me to make all of these?”

You stand up and take a peak at the extensive list, "you don't have to do that Morgan, just make a few batches of chocolate chip and call it a day," you sense Joe tensing next to you and you rub his back a little, "you're doing that thing again. Where you're freaking out instead of relaxing. You need to relax," you say with a small smile, guiding him back to calm.

You take your eyes off of Joe and focus your attention back on Morgan. "Thank you for never flinching at his insane requests, but if these cookies don’t work out, you can just order some. As long as they have oats, flaxseed, and brewer’s yeast to support milk production, then I should be fine."

Morgan nods, jotting a few more things down before he leaves to head to the grocery store. Joe looks at you, his expression softening. You nod at him, offering a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s done their research,” you say, nodding your head as his lips twitch into a smile.

"I’m impressed.” He gives you tiny claps, the playful gesture breaking the moment of seriousness. “Speaking of research...I may have one more surprise for you."

"I don't think I can handle anymore surprises," you groan, "can you just tell me what it is?"

"I don't think you know what a surprise is," he laughs rubbing your back, "let me just show you and then I'll leave you alone for the rest of the day."

"That's a lie,” you reply flatly, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Okay, fine. It’s definitely a lie," he admits with a sheepish grin, shrugging like he’s caught red-handed.

Joe takes you to the most unlikely place to reveal a surprise. "Joe...why are we in the bathroom?"

"This is the surprise. Do you see anything different?"

You look around, not sensing anything extremely out of place. Until you see it and tears start pooling in your eyes. "How did you—when did you do this?"

"It's just a little something I put together to make things easier for you when we're home. There's another one in the closet downstairs. I'll move it out so you have easy access when it's time." He pauses, taking a second to collect his thoughts. "I just want to make sure you’re as comfortable as you can be. I know this is going to be tough on you, and I...I want to feel like I’m helping, even if it’s in a small way."

A postpartum station, not the most glamorous gift in the world, but it was one of the most meaningful things he'd ever done for you. Imagining him sitting in his office or sitting up in bed at night doing all this research to ensure you were comfortable made you want to cry. You never thought the sight of adult diapers, nipple cream, and a portable stool could bring you to tears, but here you were, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness behind it all.

Joe gently wipes at a tear that slips down your cheek, his expression softening as he says, ‘hey, don’t cry. I want you to have everything you need. You deserve it."

You blink back the new tears threatening to spill over, shaking your head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe you thought of all this. Thank you, Joe.

"Pretty much," he shrugs, giving you kiss on the side of the head. "Just one more thing to check off the list."

"And what's that?"

"Bringing him home and having him here, physically with us."

You laugh, resting a hand on your lower belly, on top of Joe's hand. "Oh yeah...that one minor detail."

“Minor detail?!” Joe grins, his eyes bright with amusement. “I think that’s the main event, babe. Let’s hope I don’t need a stopwatch for that one.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding you in the moment, “Thank you, Joe. For this…for thinking of everything. If you’re this amazing now, I can’t wait to see you as a dad.”

His expression softens, his gaze dropping to your belly as if imagining the tiny life inside. “I just want to make sure you both have everything you need,” he says quietly. He spoke with such quiet certainty that it left no room for doubt—this wasn’t just a job to him; it was everything.

The lump in your throat returns, but this time you let it linger, because this—his quiet devotion, his unwavering effort—is why you fell in love with him. “You’re already doing it,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “And you’re doing it perfectly.”

Joe smiles, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Good. Now let’s get through the rest of this list before he gets here and turns everything upside down.”

Your laugh echoes through the bathroom, the two of you standing there in the glow of anticipation, knowing your lives were about to change in the most beautiful way.

#&. cassie's fic recs.#soft joey is always a need #joe burrow x reader #&. black writer recs.

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honeyncherry · 3 months ago

Text

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.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x you

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