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starsinthesky5 · 5 days ago

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you are in love V pt 2 // JOE BURROW

✰ description: this upcoming week will be monumental for you and joe. both of you have a chance to get to the top of the mountain in your respective careers, and for the first time, you are by each other's side through it all, and the whole world is watching

✰ universe: you are in love masterlist

✰ previous parts ➜ you are in love V pt 1 ➜ you are in love: big reputations pt 1

✰ a/n: this took SO long but i really like how it turned out 🥹 i hope you enjoy it as much as i did :) as always ily all and thank you for being here

warnings: language, annoying paparazzi and people with big mouths, smut SMUT SMUT. god this belongs in horny jail, MDNI. m. reciving oral, fem. recviving oral, unprotected p in v, a smidge of dom joe and sub reader, the usual...kind of ;) wc: 39.9 k music in no particular order: songbird - fleetwood mac (wink wink wink), cornelia street - taylor swift, earned it - the weeknd, never let me go - florence + the machine, dress - taylor swift, slow hands - niall horan, till forever falls apart - ashe, finneas, to love - suki waterhouse (this one!!!!), PDA - backstreet boys or the unreleased frank ocean version, can't take my eyes off you - frank valli

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

The scent of freshly baked beignets drifted through the hotel suite, every corner holding space for the delectable aroma of the powdery southern delight you had been dreaming indulging in since you touched down in the big easy. The fragrance filled your nostrils, each inhale of the sugary treat allowing your body to ease up against the plush pillows you were sprawled out on, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, hoping that the clock would somehow magically skip to 6 p.m. To your left, the nightstand looked like a shrine to your night out. Perched on the edge were two empty daiquiri to-go vessels from Voodoo Chicken and Daiquiris—the place you and Joe had stumbled into late last night after the GQ fashion show. You opted for mardi gras mambo, a mix of fruity melons and tequila, whereas Joe’s droopy eyes were instantly caught by blue bayou—pineapple and coconut blended with vodka, gin, rum, and blue curacao.

God, you both got so unbelievably drunk last night. Which explained the silver and black masquerade mask tossed beside them, a last-minute buy from a corner souvenir shop you’d dragged him into with a pout and too much charm for him to resist. Purple and green beads you were handed by a laughing local on Bourbon Street sat tangled next to a half-eaten pack of Skittles—ones you told him not to get because he’d never finish them. A brand-new LSU hat (as if your closet wasn’t already flooded with them, not even counting Joe’s collection) lay half-crushed under the clutter. And, of course, his stash of fruity edible gummies, never too far from reach.

Then, somewhere on the plush floor of the suite lay your green dress from last night, Joe’s black jeans, and a lacy lilac lingerie set—carefully chosen, less carefully discarded.

Remnants of a night well spent.

You’d been counting down the minutes until the clock struck six, the golden hour when Joe would finally return to you, fresh from a whirlwind of press, interviews, and NFL Honors obligations. The whole week had been a blur of tailored outfits and flashing cameras, and while you loved seeing him in his element, today you’d opted for solitude. A self-care day, wrapped in soft robes and scented oils, letting the noise of the outside world melt away with each slow breath and every powdered beignet.

Earlier in the week, the two of you had managed to steal a few rare moments of one-on-one time from Joe’s packed schedule. Mornings were slow and quiet, starting with café au lait, and obviously, those powdered delights at Café du Monde, where you’d sit tucked into a corner table, the hum of jazz musicians drifting in from Jackson Square just a block away. The two of you people-watched as the French Quarter came alive, from street artists sketching portraits to local musicians playing old brass tunes that made you sway in your seat. You always teased him for how the powdered sugar clung to his nose and stubble like snow, and he’d pretend to pout until you leaned in and kissed it away. You snapped a picture of him once mid-bite, powdered sugar dusting his black hoodie and the sweetest, messiest grin on his face. It was one of your favorites.

The sidewalks shimmered just a little from the morning rain, horse-drawn carriages trotted past on Decatur Street, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang at the top of the hour, reminding you both that time was still passing even if it felt like the rest of the world had slowed just for you. You wandered through the Garden District in the afternoons, walking hand-in-hand beneath the canopy of moss-draped oaks and pointing out the pastel-painted houses you claimed you’d buy one day “just for the vibe,”. You dragged him into voodoo shops and vintage bookstores, lingering over handmade candles and old jazz records, buying a tiny ceramic gator just because it made you laugh. He pretended to complain but carried the bags without fussing, even as you insisted on posing next to every hand-painted mural or old street sign you passed.

Every time you walked past a shop or bar that had an old LSU poster plastered on the wall, a familiar one from his college glory days, you’d gasp like it was brand new. “Oh my god, wait…is that you?” you’d say, finger pointing toward a sun-faded photo of him mid-throw in his yellow & purple number nine jersey. Sometimes the shop owners would recognize him, give him a nod, or ask for a picture. But more often than not, you were the one making a scene, eyes wide with mock surprise.

“You’re not funny,” he’d mumble, cheeks pink with bashfulness as he tried to tug you along before he drew a crowd.

“You’re kind of a big deal around here, Joseph,” you’d tease, looping your arm through his. “I’m just proud of my Tiger,”.

You made a reservation at Commander’s Palace one night, where the two of you split turtle soup and sipped sazeracs under glowing chandeliers. Another evening, you sat along the banks of the Mississippi with your feet dangling off the edge of the Moonwalk, sharing bites of fried shrimp po’boys and feeding stray fries to the pigeons. He took a blurry disposable-camera photo of you there, wind in your hair, city behind you—one you swore you’d frame because of how it seemed to capture you in your most natural state, like you were just another girl in the crescent city.

And tonight? Tonight was another special night for you both. Just the two of you, slipping back into your bubble with a reservation at Lilette waiting—a quiet table, dim lights, your favorite black dress, and the man you’d been missing all afternoon. The thought alone made your stomach flutter. You could already see it, the way his hand was resting low on your back as you walked in, his body loosened by the end of dinner because of one too many glasses of wine, his eyes holding the kind of depth and glint that made you fall deeper in love with him.

You nearly dozed off waiting for him, the warmth of the suite and the break of the late afternoon casting a sleepy haze over your limbs. But instead of giving in, you fought to keep your blood moving, thumb lazily scrolling through Twitter for a little pick-me-up. You had made it a habit to not scroll on social media for too long, especially since you kept your distance from it for over 5 months for a reason, but you couldn’t help the nagging urge to check in with your fans, take a peek at what they were saying about you. Nobody was around to stop you either, and it didn’t take long before you were buried in it, knee deep in comment sections, since just a few days ago you’d dropped the kind of news that made the internet spiral like never before—no warning, no countdown clock, just a groundbreaking performance at the Grammys and a simple post announcing your most special project to date. And ever since that night, your mentions, your inboxes, your notifications…they had been a wild place. A collage of capital letters, snake emojis, and old lyrics quoted like scripture. Oh, and you couldn't forget the fan theories that made you laugh out loud because of their hilariously bad interpretations.

For example, ‘but daddy i love him’ is 1000% about her ex. you know, the one everyone warned her about? the one with the red flags she tried to bleach white? it’s giving ‘i can fix him’ energy…in minor key. she’s defending the indefensible, pleading her case like she’s on trial for loving him. it’s also a reference to the little mermaid, the scene where ariel says it to her father, after he forbids her from being with prince eric.

“They seriously think I’d write a song trying to justify the 4 years of hell I went through?” you questioned, brows furrowing at the mere thought of writing anything remotely pleasant about that loser. This theory couldn’t have been more far-fetched, and the only part that was surprisingly accurate, given how ridiculous it all sounded, was how it is a reference to that scene from The Little Mermaid, aka your favorite Disney movie. That was a well-known fact by your most devoted fans, especially since you went as Ariel for Billie Eilish’s Halloween party a few years ago when you lived in LA full-time.

They had it all wrong, this song wasn’t about your ex; it was about Joe.

It was about the quiet rebellion you were going through, an ode to your newfound confidence that allowed you to break free from the rusted shackles the industry—and some fans—had placed around your wrists. It was a candid response to the late-night phone calls from your management, the ones laced with caution and PR language.

“Think about your image. Think about the optics of dating a high-profile athlete. Don’t throw away your redemption arc for someone who won’t even slow down to make space for you privately, let alone publicly,”.

But they didn’t know Joe. No. Not like you did.

It was about the pin-drop silence from people you once trusted, friends who ghosted when you told them about Joe, who reappeared only to offer thinly veiled concern once it was clear this wasn’t just a fling. The kind of concern that sounded more like judgment. Like disappointment masked as care. It was about the eventual media frenzy that would follow when you went public, how you could already feel it coming, how it loomed like a storm cloud no matter how tightly you clung to the sunshine he gave you.

You couldn’t forget the eventual slut-shaming headlines either, misogyny dressed up as concern, written by men with fragile egos and louder keyboards than common sense. Men who had never known what it was like to have their every move dissected, who believed dragging your name through the mud somehow earned them credibility. The “she moved on too fast” narrative that would cling to you like smoke, impossible to shake, even though your ex had emotionally and physically checked out long before the relationship ended. But the truth never mattered as much as the spectacle. It was always easier, cleaner, simpler for the man.

You could hear the smug, pitying whispers—he’ll break her heart, just like the last one. Said with such certainty, like heartbreak was a script you were destined to repeat in every lifetime. And for a little bit, you feared they might be right. That maybe you were hard to love. Too complicated. Too visible.

But then…there was Joe.

Quiet, steady Joe, who never once made you question your worth or your place in his world. The only ones who made you question your worth were them; at this point, you’d had enough of it. You’d rather burn your whole life to the ground than sit through one more second of their relentless bitching and moaning. They always thought they knew better, like they owned you, like you owed it to them to live your life on their terms. But no. You never had, and you never would. Not for them. Not for all those vipers dressed in empath’s clothing.

It was about the dissection of your body language, your lyrics, and your tone of voice during interviews. About the persistent analysis of your facial expressions, as if joy, peace, and love couldn’t possibly be real on a woman like you, not after everything. It was about how they couldn’t stand to see you break free from the good girl image they’d boxed you into your entire career. The persona they’d built their expectations around. They didn’t like that you stepped out of the frame. That you’d found someone, really found someone, outside the fairytale nightmare they had written for you.

They didn’t like that you chose him.

Because choosing him meant choosing yourself. Your instincts. Your intuition. Your right to be happy in a way that made no sense to anyone else but you.

The song was a defense. Not of a mistake, but of a decision. A gut feeling. A man. It was about the sideways glances and complacent little warnings. “Are you sure? He has so much on his plate, he doesn’t give the vibe he’s looking for someone serious. These football players don’t have any part of themselves unoccupied to give to their partner. They always take from them, and when they’re bored, discard them like an old gum wrapper. They only care about themselves. Joe is probably no different,”.

But they couldn’t be more wrong about him. Joe, your Joe, didn’t deserve to be stereotyped like this. Not when his actions showed you he was more than the typical

He brought you soup when you were sick, still warm from the little spot all the way by the banks that you loved, because nothing else ever quite hit the same. He’d sit beside you with a spoon in one hand and a thermometer in the other, gently brushing your hair back like it was instinct, like he was made to take care of you. He watched Pride and Prejudice without a single eye-roll, eyes flicking over to you during your favorite parts just to watch you smile. He started quoting Darcy with that playful little smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing to your heart. He pressed kisses to your temple before meetings, before games, before you left for a trip, before you had to pull yourself out of the safe, sleepy cocoon of his arms. And whenever your anxiety started creeping in—when the noise in your head got a little too loud—he noticed. Always. Without you ever having to say a word. He’d pull you into his chest or lace your fingers with his, grounding you with the gentlest touch. He let you squeeze his hand tight, white-knuckle tight, when things got overwhelming. Never once flinched. Never told you to ease up. Never let go.

He carried your bags through airports when you were too tired to keep your head up. Left little notes in your luggage when you had to leave Cincinnati. He rubbed the knots from your shoulders after a long day, bought your favorite granola bars in bulk so you’d never run out, and stood in the bathroom holding your plush headband like a crown whenever it was face mask night. He learned your rhythms. He paid attention—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because loving you, in all your softness and strength, was the most natural thing in the world to him.

And that’s what the song was about.

Just love. The quiet kind. The kind that stays, because the right person always stays despite all the chaos and revelry. The kind of love you used to dream about as a little girl, when the world still felt wide and full of magic. Not the kind that roared or demanded attention, but the kind that unfolded slowly, like a favorite song or a sunrise. Reckless in its honesty, but in a way that made you feel safe. Weightless, like breathing fresh air after holding it for too long. Love that didn’t ask you to shrink or bend. Love that let you take up space. It was love that met you where you were. That knew the bruises you carried and didn’t flinch. The kind that held your hand in silence when the noise got too loud, that made the ordinary feel extraordinary—morning smoothie, a quiet drive, someone saving you the last bite. It was steady. warm. It didn’t chase validation, it just was.

And it was that kind of love that made you stand taller, steadier. That made you say, I know who I am, I know who he is. I’m not asking for your approval anymore. I just don’t care. Because with him, you didn’t need to care. And you, being you, felt it coming long before it ever arrived. The shift in public tone. The think pieces, the discourse, the warnings laced in mock concern. That’s why you wrote ‘but daddy i love him’. You weren’t naive, you were aware. You saw the curve in the road miles ahead and adjusted your grip on the wheel, swerving gently but intentionally, protecting the two of you from wrecking the car you’d spent so long building—bolt by bolt, mile by mile. You weren’t about to let anyone else take the wheel, let alone crash it for you.

As you continued scrolling, you saw screenshots of old headlines that made you flinch; some harsh, some haunting. There were grainy clips from your early tour days, footage of you spinning under stage lights with a fire in your eyes that had dimmed for a while but never fully gone out. Fans were posting slowed-down audio of songs you hadn’t touched in years, overlaying them with teary captions and edits stitched together like love letters. They were celebrating your comeback by reliving each moment from your past, showing you how far you’d come, how you had grown into yourself with each strum of your signature black guitar.

“Once, she was the girl who stood still, clutching the microphone with both hands because she was scared someone would take it from her. Now, she’s the woman who commands the stage with a fire in her eyes that only existed in myths, striding across the floor like she owns every inch…because she does.”

Everywhere you looked, people were piecing together the breadcrumbs, decoding every glance, every lyric snippet, every cryptic Instagram caption like it was part of some master map guiding them into your next era. They weren’t just listening; they were dissecting. Reading between the lines. Drawing red strings between song titles and moments you thought had gone unnoticed. Some were already applauding the direction you seemed to be taking with the new album, how it wasn’t just another breakup record or a tell-all, but something deeper. A reflection of how the past year had really felt. You were surprised by some of their theories, especially considering all they had to go on was a tracklist and a single poem. But that was the thing about your fans, they were frighteningly good at pulling truth from shadows, finding meaning in even the quietest gestures. Even when you didn’t mean to say much…they heard everything.

“She could’ve taken the full revenge route and made this album all about him, like her last one, but with more anger than poetry, make it about everything he did to her, about everything the world did to her. But she isn’t. Because she’s healing. She’s choosing to use this opportunity to show the world she’s not that girl anymore. She’s madly in love with someone who’s given her what she spent years chasing across so many different worlds, and now, she doesn’t even want to look back. Yeah, she’s calling them out. But more importantly…she’s letting go and appreciating what’s right in front of her.”

You lingered on that one; it sat with you in the deepest part of your heart. It felt true, truer than any of the dissertations or fan theories thrown around. This album hadn’t been forged in rage. It hadn’t clawed its way out of the ashes of revenge. Sure, there were shades of that, the bite in your lyrics, those edges sharpened by memory. The kind of lines that made people pause and wonder who exactly you were aiming at. But underneath it all, it wasn’t about settling scores.

It was silk after years of sandpaper, a little more velvet, a little less poison. And woven into every chorus, tucked inside each bridge, was something you’d spent so long believing you didn’t deserve—real, steady love, which Joe had inspired. Not just by showing up in the way you used to write about in your most hopeful verses, but by loving you without conditions, without expectations. Loving you when you were unsure, still falling apart at the seams. When your confidence was cracked and your spirit was still gluing itself back together. And somewhere along the way, you realized he wasn’t the exception.

He was the reward, and you were going to make sure everyone was aware of that.

You were still smiling, that fan comment replaying in your head like one of your melodies, when the lock to the hotel suite clicked open. Your eyes flicked to the time, “He’s early,” you murmured, surprise blooming into anticipation, your pulse jumping in your throat. The excitement spread through you like wildfire, hot, fast, and unstoppable.

Without thinking, you tossed your phone to the side, the tweet still glowing on the screen, and padded across the plush carpet. The door creaked just as you reached it, and then he was there. Slightly flushed from the New Orleans heat, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, giving that rushed kind of handsome he didn’t even try to be. His hair was a little damp at the temples, tousled in that way you loved, like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times thinking about you on the ride over.

“Hey, bab—,” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him in hard, kissing him like you’d been starving for it, and maybe you had. His breath hitched, arms coming around you in a flash, palms spreading across your back like he needed to feel every inch of you just to breathe right.

His hands moved lower, fingers curling beneath the hem of your shirt, then down until they were cupping your ass, squeezing gently, pushing you further into him. Your body molded to his like muscle memory, your kiss deepening with every passing second, all tongue and heat and unspoken sweet nothings. When you finally broke apart, it was only for air; your lips swollen, his chest rising fast beneath your hands. He chased your mouth instinctively, forehead dropping to yours once he realized he wasn’t getting any more, breath mingling in the tight space between you. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice having that adorable kind of softness that it always had when he spoke to you, the corners of his mouth tilted in a breathless smile.

You looked up at him, heart still hammering. “Can’t a girl smooch her boyfriend like it’s the last thing she’ll ever get to do? I missed my soon-to-be MVP,” you said, fingers brushing along his jawline, just beneath that familiar dimple. Joe let out a low laugh, forehead still pressed to yours, hands never leaving your body. “I missed you, too,” he murmured. “But damn…if that’s the welcome I get, I might start coming early every time,”.

You smirked, already leaning in again. “Yeah? Maybe you should,” you mumbled as you kissed him…slower this time. Deeper. Like you had time. Like the world could wait. Like he needed this, needed you, to quench something he hadn’t even realized had been building up in his chest all day. The kind of kiss that felt like the start of a storm and the calm that followed it. Your hands slid up, framing his face, your thumbs brushing the warm skin just beneath his cheekbones. You tilted his face up slightly and pulled back—not far, just enough to look at him, to breathe.

He didn’t let you go easily.

A soft groan escaped his throat, and he chased your mouth with his own again, eyes fluttering open in quiet protest, his hands still heavy on your hips. “Hey,” you whispered, your smile forming again, soft and teasing. “Dinner,” you reminded him, “You should shower,”.

Joe sighed like you’d just told him Christmas was canceled, but he pressed one last kiss to your lips before finally stepping back. “You’re lucky that I’m all sweaty because if I weren’t, I’d take you straight to bed and have you limping before dinner,” he muttered as he peeled off his emotional support satchel and slipped off his shoes.

You trailed him with your eyes, unable to help the way they wandered as your stomach fluttered at his words. The white shirt he was wearing was snug across his shoulders, his sleeves still rolled up just enough to show his forearms, the veins in his hands prominent as he worked the buttons of his jeans open. He looked good. A little sun-kissed from the NOLA sun, lips coated with your shimmery lip gloss, jaw sharp as ever, and brow still slightly furrowed from how much he hadn’t wanted to pull away from you. “How was everything today?” you asked, trying to sound casual even as your eyes undressed him in the most filthy way possible, piece by piece.

“Busy,” he said. “Back-to-back interviews. A lot of talk about the season. Offseason plans. Everyone wants to know how I’m feeling, what I’m doing, what I think about next year, some stuff about Ja’marr, Tee, Trey, and Mike’s contracts,”. You leaned against the arm of the couch, smiling at how he likely used these interviews as an opportunity to stick up for his guys and piss off the FO. “And? What’d you tell them? About your offseason plans?”.

“That I’m excited for the break. To train, reset. To spend time with you,” he smiled a little as he finally slipped his jeans off, his voice turning softer. “Told them I finally get a real off-season. Not just physically, free from injury rehab, but mentally too. It’s different when you’ve got something—someone—worth slowing down for. I won’t find myself thinking about ball, watching old tapes, or training more than I should this year because I have something else, something better to focus on,”.

Your chest tightened at that. You didn’t say anything, just gave him a look, one that said everything he already knew. “Someone worth slowing down for,” you repeated to yourself in your head.

They said he wouldn’t do it, that he was incapable of making space for you in his already large, chaotic life, which is why this relationship was a bad idea. They said that trying to make a home in his world would be like planting flowers in a storm—beautiful, but ultimately useless. They told you his life was already too big, too loud, too fast. A freight train with no brakes. A stadium always at full capacity. There wouldn’t be space for someone like you, someone who needed quiet corners and small moments. Someone who wanted more than highlight reels and halftime glances.

But they were wrong. Because he did. He slowed down.

Not all at once, not with a dramatic screech or fireworks, but gradually, intentionally. Like dusk creeping in over a city skyline. Like turning the volume down on the noise, just to hear your voice better. He carved out space for you in a life that wasn’t built for stillness, rearranged the furniture in his soul to make sure you had room to stay.

And that? That wasn’t a sacrifice. That was his love for you, elemental, bone-deep, and star-bound. The kind of devotion etched not in fleeting time but in the eternal, a sacred tether spun from quiet understanding and infinite heart.

He disappeared into the bathroom a second later, and the sound of the shower starting up echoed faintly through the suite. You weren’t planning to follow. Not at first. But you’d barely sat down before your mind started to wander, back to the way his hands had gripped your waist, the way his hot mouth had moved against yours, how easily he melted under your touch. You heard the glass door slide open, the sharp hiss of the water hitting the tile following suit.

That’s when your curiosity got the better of you.

You tiptoed toward the bathroom, the open door giving you a perfect view through the fogging glass. He stood under the spray, head tipped back beneath the water, steam curling off his shoulders. The muscles in his back flexed as he reached for the soap, every movement fluid and unhurried. He was relaxed in a way that made you ache—bare, beautiful, completely unaware of the way he was driving you insane. You bit your lip, watching his hands trail down his chest, over his abs, down….oh. Your breath hitched, and just like that, the heat in your core surged.

He’d been working so hard lately, the fruits of his labor visible in his protruding biceps and broad shoulders, a result of training sessions with barely a day off, even in the thick of your offseason ventures. He’d been in and out of planes, hopping time zones like they were practice drills, flying to the Grammys with you, and before that, you’d spent time in France, and still somehow he was managing to stay locked in with his routine without complaints or refusal. You watched him stretch himself thin trying to be everything, QB1, boyfriend, travel companion, your safe place. Always carrying the weight so effortlessly, even when you could see the strain tucked into the corners of his crinkling eyes, the tightness of his jaw, the quiet-tired way he moved when he thought you weren’t looking. And still, he made time for you. Made space. Leaned in when he could’ve leaned away. He never let the chaos swallow either of you whole.

“He does so much for me…for us. Maybe I should do a little something for him to show how much I appreciate it,” you murmured to yourself, a slow smile tugging at your lips, the thought blooming as naturally as the coffee he’d brought you that morning—just the way you liked it, still hot, with a sticky note on the lid that said don’t forget how loved you are.

You knew the smarter choice, the more logical one, was to wait until after dinner. To be patient. To let the night play out the way you’d planned: a slow meal, a glass of wine or two, laughter spilling between bites, both of you melting into that sweet, familiar rhythm you loved so much. No time constraints. No rush. Just you and him, lazy and tipsy and touching each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

But then he walked out of the shower like that, and suddenly, all your resolve crumbled.

He was fresh from the steam, skin warm and flushed from the hot water, a towel slung low on his hips like it was barely holding on. His chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, but each drop of water that slid down the hard planes of his body felt like a dare. Your eyes followed the trail as it dipped into the deep V at his hips, and your mouth actually watered. His hair was damp, pushed back with nothing but his fingers, a few rogue strands falling loose in the kind of way that should’ve been illegal. He looked undone and effortless all at once, so painfully beautiful and so unaware of what he was doing to you just by existing.

You didn’t stand a chance. There was no way you’d be able to sit through dinner making polite conversation and pretending like you weren’t burning for him. Not when your thighs were already pressing together, not when your mind was clouded with one single thought. Your head twisted to look back at the digital clock perched on the TV table, a slight damper on your excitement when you realized there really wasn’t enough time for you to go all the way with him.

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t treat him…did it? Give him something that was just for him? Pleasure wrapped in reverence. The kind of touch that asked for nothing in return, that simply said thank you. Going down on him, letting him feel everything through you—your hands, your mouth, the way you looked up at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Watching him come undone beneath your heat, to remind him that he didn’t always have to hold it all together. “It’s been a minute since I did that,” you murmured to yourself, your gaze dragged over him slowly, greedily, taking in every inch of him. Fresh from the shower, steam still clinging to his skin, dripping and golden like some Roman God sculpted in candlelight.

You pushed off the door and moved toward him like it was instinct, each step leaving behind a trail of fire as your eyes locked on him, like a hunter circling her prey. You watched as he reached for his fresh shirt, but you were already there. You stopped him with a hand on his chest, “Don’t,” you said softly, eyes dropping from his eyes to his lips, then back to his blues. “You’ve been working all week. Interviews, appearances, media, honors prep. You’ve been so…on. And don’t even get me started on how you handled everything with the Grammys and the aftermath. All the interview requests, slightly annoying questions, comments, messages, and how you’ve made sure that I’ve been okay through all the chaos,”.

He smiled like he always did, but you could see a hint of drowsiness in his eyes, heard the sluggish drag in his voice when he said, “...It’s my job, princess,”.

You shook your head, “It’s more than that, Joe. You’ve been carrying everything, going far beyond your usual threshold,” your eyes flicked up to his, full of heat and something deeper—gratitude. “Hustling. Smiling when you’re drained. Talking about the offseason break and training when you haven’t even had a second to rest…to slow down,” your hand slid down the broad plane of his chest, fingers grazing the faint ridges of muscle. You traced a slow, teasing path, past the flutter of his stomach as he breathed, until you reached the edge of the towel sitting dangerously low around his hips. “You’ve been showing up for me in ways I didn’t even know I needed,” you whispered. “Keeping snacks in your little satchel because I forget to eat in the middle of zoom meetings and fittings,” you giggled, the mention of his emotional support bag making him crack a grin. “...Making sure I drink enough water so I don’t pass out from the heat or from overworking myself, sending me videos of people praising my performance last weekend every hour so I never forget the feeling because you knew how much I missed it,”.

He blinked, Adam’s apple bobbing in tandem, and you could see the emotion threatening to well up behind the lust in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to because he always knew how much you appreciated the little things he did for you, even if you didn’t constantly voice it. “So now,” you continued, voice velvet-soft as you leaned in, lips brushing against his skin, “It’s my turn to show up for you,”. You let the towel fall, his eyes widening as you whispered, “Let me take care of you, baby. You’ve earned it,”.

Joe hissed in a breath as you dropped to your knees, hands moving the towel aside to the space beside you in one smooth motion. He let out a sharp breath as his cock sprang free, already heavy, the sight of you kneeling in front of him enough to coax a low groan from deep in his chest. He was gorgeous like this—cock thick, flushed at the tip, veins tracing up the sides, already twitching with anticipation. He was already gone before you even touched him, the hazy, dark look in his eyes making you spiral. “You’ve been so good,” you said, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower. “So patient. So damn focused. Let me make you feel good,”.

You looked up at him with doe eyes, flashing him that innocent little grin as if you weren’t about to ruin him in the best way, and you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes actually darken, his jaw clench just a little more. You wrapped one hand around his base, stroking him once, twice, just to hear the way his breath hitched—before licking a long, slow stripe up the underside, tongue flattening as you reached the head. You gave the tip a teasing kiss, then took him into your mouth, slow and steady, moaning around him at the weight and taste of him.

His hand instinctively threaded into your hair, but he didn’t guide…he just held, fingers flexing every time you did something that made his hips jerk. You took him in, inch by inch, lips stretching around his girth until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged slightly, spit already pooling around your lips, but you didn’t stop. You eased back, sucked him in again, slow and filthy. “Fuck Y/N,” he groaned, voice breaking as you continued to work him in every way you knew he loved. You bobbed your head gradually, your tongue swirling around the head each time you came up, lips wet and slick from pre-cum and saliva. The mess made you ache. You wanted him to see it—how much you wanted him, how much you loved making him fall apart. “God, baby…,” he grunted, hips twitching as you took him deeper, throat relaxing as he slid in further, lips stretching wide around him. “You’re…shit…you’re gonna make me lose it,”.

You pulled off just long enough to pant against the base of him, your hand still working him in firm, wet strokes. “Good. That’s the point,” you laughed. At first you worked him slowly—unhurried, sensual, letting every suck and slurp echo in the quiet of the suite bathroom. But soon, the pace quickened. You were drooling now, spit trickling from your chin faster than before each time you pulled away, coating his cock in a glossy sheen as you sucked and licked and twisted your hand in rhythm with every moan and gasp he let out. You made it filthy, just the way you knew he liked it. The sounds, your wet mouth, the soft pop every time you came up for air, his ragged breathing, the choked curse when you swallowed him whole again, filled the room. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, trembling with restraint, like he was holding himself back from fucking into your mouth. You could feel him getting close, twitching in your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening.

But then you moaned around him—loudly, with need—and he bucked without meaning to, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You took it like a pro, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, spit pooling on your tits and the sight nearly made him pull you up and fuck you right then and there.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, head thrown back against the wall, his chest heaving as the pleasure coursed through his system. “You’re so fucking good at this, Y/N. You like it don’t you? Mouth full of my cock, makin’ me feel so good,”.

You hummed in agreement, the low vibration of it pulling a strangled curse from his lips. His fingers tightened in your hair, desperate now, hips bucking once, twice, until his whole body locked up, every muscle twisted tight as the pleasure surged through him in a wave he couldn’t hold back. His voice broke on a moan, deep and unguarded, his head tipping back hard against the wall again as you felt ropes of his release coat your throat. “That's it,” he whimpered. “That's my girl. So good for me, angel,” His words came out in pieces, like he was unraveling with each syllable, the praise falling out of him without a second thought—like he couldn’t not say it, like his body needed you to hear it just as much as he needed to say it.

You swallowed every drop, savoring the taste of him like the last bite of your favorite dessert. You only pulled back when you felt his muscles relax under your fingertips, and he let out a breathless, choked sound—his body slack from the rush, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. You licked him clean with one final drag of your tongue, as if you were sealing a promise between you. When you finally lifted your eyes, your lips were swollen and glistening, cheeks flushed from the slight ego boost you were getting by making him fall apart like this. Joe was staring down at you with wide, glassy eyes—like he couldn't believe you were real, like you’d just shifted the planets or something. “Baby, I…fuck. That was..,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with pleasure. His hand reached down to brush your cheek, tender in the aftermath of his orgasm.

You let out a quiet laugh, pushing yourself up to your feet, smoothing your palms down your thighs in one fluid motion. “You deserved it, Joey,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “I meant it,”.

He didn’t wait even a second to touch you again. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet. His lips ghosted over yours, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. “You sure we have to go to dinner?” he asked, words dragging out with each breath.

You smiled against his mouth, smug and breathless. “Reservations are in thirty. We both gotta freshen up a bit. Better hustle, future MVP,”.

He groaned in response, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder, his grip on your hips tightening for a beat like he was weighing whether to cancel it all just to take you back to bed like he wanted to all along. You playfully rolled your eyes, your fingers moving from his chest up to his damp hair. You threaded them through the strands and tugged gently, guiding his head to the side so you could press your lips just beneath his ear, “Be good at dinner,” you whispered, the promise laced in every breath, “And we’ll pick up right where we left off. Sound fair?”.

The way he sighed—deep, quiet, and desperate—told you he’d behave…but only barely. You’d been with him long enough to know that this man could never behave around you. Seriously, it was like a lightbulb turned on inside of him after the first time you had sex.

“...Deal,” he said reluctantly, brushing one last lingering kiss to your cheek before finally moving the two of you away from the wall. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together like he couldn’t stand to not be touching you for even a second. “But first—,” he said, tugging you gently toward the vanity with a knowing smirk, “Clean up. Can’t have my girlfriend walkin’ out there with smudged lipstick and…other evidence all over her chest. Wouldn’t wanna give anyone the wrong impression, right?” he smirked.

You let out a breathy laugh, heart still pounding from what just happened, “Oh, that we’re perpetually horny, like to fuck, and lack basic human decency? Nooo, totally don’t wanna give anyone that…obivous…er, impression,”.

He barked out a short, sharp laugh, the sound echoing brightly off the marble countertop. His cheeks even pinked slightly, like he wasn’t immune to your teasing even now. With a roll of his eyes, he grabbed a fresh towel off the counter and handed it to you, followed immediately by your favorite moisturizer—the one he pretended to complain about every time you traveled together, calling it “highway robbery in a bottle,” but still, somehow, always remembered to toss in your bag if you forgot. You took them both, fingers brushing his as you did, your throat tightening a little at the familiar, unspoken tenderness of it.

“He makes it so easy to love him,” you thought to yourself.

His gaze then dropped to your chest, still marked by the sheen of his pearly release. “God, you’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark and worshipful as they swept over you. And you knew exactly what he meant when he said that. It wasn’t the marks, it wasn’t the smeared lipstick or the chaos of your clothes barely hanging on your frame.

It was the way you looked at him.

Bare. Soft. Entirely his.

Something about that realization, how much of yourself you gave him without even meaning to, nearly knocked him flat.

You dabbed at your skin, glancing up at him in the mirror, catching the way he was watching you like he wanted to take you right back to the wall again. “You’re not making this very easy for yourself, are you?” you teased, smoothing the moisturizer across your collarbones. He grinned, a low, dangerous thing, and stepped in close behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, molding his chest to your back like he couldn’t stand the distance a second longer. His lips brushed your shoulder, feather-light, sending another shiver down your spine. “You’re the one who said I had to be good,” he murmured against your skin

You tilted your head slightly, giving him just a little more access, savoring the way his nose nuzzled into the curve of your neck like he couldn't help himself. You smirked, “But, you didn’t say I had to make it easy,”.

An hour later — Lilette

After freshening up, fixing your hair, reapplying lipstick, and coaxing Joe into putting on what you had picked out for him versus the boring green shirt and jeans he had orginally set out, you both slipped into the backseat of a sleek black Uber, the tinted windows casting a soft glow over your still-warm cheeks. The car floated through the dimly lit streets of New Orleans, finding its way back toward the Garden District, where your dinner reservation waited. The restaurant, a French gem hidden behind a towering oak, in pictures, looked more like a secret than a business—its flickering lanterns and cream colored walls whispering promises of quiet romance and good wine.

Somewhere on the drive to the restaurant, you felt yourself succumb to the growing silence around you, which normally you’d find comfort in since you were with Joe. That silence would be filled with soft touches, chaste kisses, and listening to the sound of each other’s heartbeats; a peaceful time for you two to decompress and seek comfort in just existing in the same space for a little bit. But this time, the silence wasn’t between the two of you…it was just, around you for some reason. And it was far from peaceful, it felt…chilling. Unsettling, even. “I hope nobody notices us,” you murmured without realizing, staring out of the car window as you passed houses and buildings that looked like they were still trapped in the 18th century.

Although you were comfortable being seen with Joe, hand in hand, camera flashes and all, that didn’t mean you always wanted to be noticed. Not like this, and especially not tonight. The past week had been an endless stream of small talk and smiling through growing exhaustion, of posed photos and forced energy. And even though you’d handled it all with grace, you could feel your social battery draining out faster than you’d expected. What you craved now wasn’t the spotlight. It was something simpler. A quiet table for two. Hands brushing beneath candlelight. A meal without interruption. A night where you didn’t have to be anyone but his. Where he didn’t have to be anyone but yours.

It wasn’t just the press, the constant performance, the smiles you had to flash at the right place and time. It was everything. The returning noise ever since the Grammys happened. The eyes—they were once again on you. On both of you, now. The expectations were high since you were back, with a new attitude, and a promising piece of work you were so confident about. It all made you feel tired in that quiet, bone-deep way that didn’t always show itself. The kind of tired that came from being everything to everyone, everywhere, all the time. You thought you’d broken free from that habit during your time away from the limelight, but deep down, you felt as if it was still there. Still managing to take over even if you did everything in your power to wash it away, and it sucked.

Joe saw the apprehension in your body—the way your arms were crossed at your chest as if you were trying to shield yourself from a chill only you could feel, how your head was titled towards him against the headrest but your eyes were looking away, as if you couldn’t let him see the feeling that was swirling through your irises. He could hear the heaviness in your voice; he could tell something had shifted, like a song changing keys mid-melody. And it made his jaw tighten. Because he didn’t like it when something pulled you away from him like this—when the light dimmed behind your eyes and he wasn’t sure what shadow had caused it.

You didn’t mean to shrink away from him, really. This wasn’t about him. But when you’d finally had space to breathe in the back of a car, no screens, no comments to read over, it hit you just how loud everything had been lately; how much you already missed the version of your life where it was just the two of you in your own bubble.

“Hey,” he said softly as his hand found your thigh, reminding you that he was right there. He scooted closer, knees crashing gently together, his presence trying to pull you back into the moment. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, concern already written across his brows.

You paused. Your lips parted, but no words came right away. You didn’t want to lie, not to him. So you turned your face back toward the window, watching the lights blur past. “I…I don’t know,” you whispered. “I think I’m just…tired. Not like sleepy-tired. Just...tired in my heart. It’s like I can feel the weight of everyone watching us. Waiting for something to go wrong. It’s only been a few days since everything but I just feel…nervous. I don’t know,”.

You reached out and traced a faint path on the glass, your breath fogging it up. “I keep thinking about how safe it felt when we were still just ours. When we could kiss without wondering who saw, laugh without worrying who’d twist it into something ugly. It was quieter then. We were quieter. And now—,” you turned back to him, your voice trembling. “I’m scared it’s all gonna get too loud. That the noise will get in and chip away at what we built. That we’ll start folding under the pressure without even realizing it. That we’ll wake up one day and not recognize this...us,”. Your voice cracked on that last word, because that fear was so real you couldn’t even verbalize it properly. And don’t get it twisted, he never made you doubt your relationship, your love, this partnership between you both. But you couldn’t help but feel guilty, feel scared to drag him into your side of the world after building and nurturing your relationship in the safety of his world.

Joe didn’t speak immediately, and part of you braced for empty comfort out of habit—reassurances without roots, because that’s how it went in your last relationship, since you had the same fear back then, too. But when he finally did, his voice was quiet, steady, and so full of love it made your throat tighten. “Then we shut the windows, baby,” he said, thumb brushing slow circles over your knee. “We don’t let the noise in. They can shout and post and whisper all they want. But they don’t know what we have. They only think they do,”.

He reached for your hand, entwining your fingers like it was second nature, like he couldn’t imagine a world where your hands weren’t meant to fit. “We built this thing slowly, knowing all the risks and bullshit that came along with it. We built it together, with real intentions, emotions, and love. And I know how precious it is, because I watched you open your heart to me piece by piece. And I’ll fight to protect that every day, to protect you every day. I swear to you, I won’t let them take away our quiet. I won’t let them twist what we have into something it’s not,” he paused, eyes soft and steadily looking into yours.

“My knight in shining armor, always,” you thought, physically holding yourself back from stuffing your face into his chest and crying from happiness because you knew he hated it when you cried. Especially over him. No, not because he, as a man, didn’t know how to deal with a woman’s plethora of overflowing emotions, but because he hated to see you in pain. He didn’t like to see you cry over him specifically, because according to Joe, “A woman should rather kill a man before she cries over one, and yeah. Even when the man is me. Never give a guy the satisfaction of seeing you at your most vulnerable state because you never know when they’ll use it against you,”.

You literally jumped his bones right then and there, because it was one of the most emotionally intelligent things a man had ever said to you (and the hottest thing he’s ever said…but that’s a thought for another day)—and he was right. Completely. But still, you’d never hide your tears from Joe. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because he had never, and would never, be one of those men. He’d never weaponize your softness. He’d catch your tears with the same care he caught your heart, with steady hands and unwavering admiration.

“Hey,” he said softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze to bring you back to him. “You don’t have to carry all this by yourself, okay? I’m here now. And I’m not just here when it’s easy or convenient. I’m here when it’s hard. When it’s heavy,” he leaned in a little, like he needed you to really hear him. “That’s what we are. We hold each other up. No matter what. Doesn’t matter how bad it gets, we don’t break,”. His voice stayed steady, but his eyes were full of that quiet intensity only he could manage. “I know it’s a lot right now, especially after things have been calm for a while. And everything he put you through publicly and privately still eats away at you absentmindedly, but you’re doing good. Better than you think,” he brushed his thumb over your wrist, his touch light but heavy enough for his words to sink into your bones. “I’m proud of you, baby. So proud,”.

Your throat closed, almost as if a sob were about to come out, but you didn’t cry. Not quite. Instead, you breathed in deep, letting the warmth of his words fill the hollow places inside you. You leaned into him, pressing your forehead to his soft cheek, letting your hand rest over his heart. “I just want to keep us safe,” you murmured, barely audible. “I don’t want to lose this, I don’t want it to ever end. I’d never walk down this road again if something happened,”.

Without wasting a single second, you heard him say, “You won’t,” as he tilted your chin until your eyes met. “You won’t. This is ours, and no one gets to take it unless we hand it to them, and I’m not handing over a damn thing. I can handle this, no matter what they say. You…you, the strongest woman I know, the most talented and charismatic person that’s ever walked into my life, and the easiest person to love, can handle this,”. He then smirked softly, the kind of smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth and made you want to melt into him. “We’re that couple, babe. Don’t forget. The hot one. The talented one. Everyone either wants to be us or be in this relationship with us…The sexiest, most talented, most enviable couple in the past decade,” he nudged your knee playfully with his. “They can take pictures, write whatever headline they want. Let ‘em. We look good from every angle,”.

You shot him a look, half flattered and half amused. “Oh, I didn’t realize we’d reached elite status. I thought you just said that just to say it a couple of days ago,”.

He grinned, “Babe, we’ve been at that status. You just haven’t been reading the press. I quoted them just now with the ‘sexiest, most talented, and most enviable’ line,”.

You rolled your eyes, but your growing smile gave away how he was slowly shifting your focus onto something more positive. “I try not to go too hard on it, especially not when they call me a fame-hungry distraction,”.

Aaaanddd, there it is. You couldn’t get that label out of your head no matter how hard you tried. Even Joe’s boyish charisma was no match for the monsters lurking in the deepest shadows of your mind.

Joe’s gaze softened, his expression flickering with that quiet, wise empathy he had only for you—the kind that said I see you, even when you try to hide. He heard the way you tried to gloss over the pain in your voice, the way you wrapped a raw insecurity in casualness, hoping it would pass and be overlooked. But nothing about you ever escaped him. He’d spent months��patient months—gently pulling you away from the wreckage left by the people who’d made you question your worth. He’d seen what that label had done to you. How it twisted its way into your reflection, into the way you talked about yourself, how it made you flinch from your own ambition. Like you were too much, too loud, too big, too bright for anyone to hold on to. And Joe hated that. Hated the way it made you feel small. Because all he saw when he looked at you was someone who carried galaxies in her heart. Someone who’d been forced to learn how to hold herself together with shaking hands, and still managed to shine.

He wanted to be the place where you didn’t have to do that anymore.

He leaned in, brushing his thumb gently across your cheek, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin beneath his touch. His voice dropped to an intimate whisper in the stillness between you. “You’re not a distraction,” he said, firm and unwavering. “You’re the reason I can focus. The reason I still love all of this. Football, the pressure, the spotlight. You know I hated this more than anything, all of the prying eyes and unwanted attention. But when you came around, you helped me find comfort in it, helped me put up that boundary so I could protect the things I loved, but also be the guy everyone needed me to be. And now it all means something because I get to come home to you at the end of it,” his hand slid behind your neck, cradling it like he was holding something fragile. “We get to come home to each other,”.

“You keep me stable,” he said softly, his hand still warm against your neck. “When everything feels like it’s spinning too fast, you’re the one thing that brings me back to center. You calm the chaos. You remind me who I am when the noise gets too loud. And when I start forgetting how far I’ve come, how much I’ve grown…you’re the one who celebrates me like I’ve already accomplished everything I needed to,”.

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw like it was instinct, like it soothed him just as much. His eyes stayed locked on yours, clear and steady, holding your attention like it was the most important thing in the world. “You’ve got the biggest heart I’ve ever known, Y/N. And anyone lucky enough to really see you? They don’t forget you. They can’t. You leave a mark on people—in the way you love, in the way you show up for everyone even when it’s hard,” he said, and you swallowed, blinking back those tears again, but he kept going. “You taught me how to balance all of this, how to hold on to what’s ours while the world watches my every move. Remember, I taught you how to stop giving a damn about what strangers think. How to do whatever makes you happy and know when and how to tell everyone else to fuck off. You don’t owe them anything. Not your peace, not your softness, not a single part of you. Not unless you want to,”.

His hand drifted to your chest, fingers resting lightly over your heart before they slid down to your hand again. “They don’t own you. They don’t get to own you. And they sure as hell can’t touch you, not when I’m standing right here,” he said, bringing it up at the end of his sentence to press a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You could’ve sworn your heart physically squeezed in your chest. It always did when he spoke to you like that, so soft and sure of everything, like every word he said was already stitched into your soul. It had been months of this exact magic; his quiet reassurances, his sweet talk that never felt rehearsed. His words were always carefully thought out, no matter who he spoke to, the media, his parents, or even his teammates. But with you, he just talked freely and never once had he ever slipped up or said something he wasn’t supposed to. And maybe that was because this was the most natural thing for him…you were the most natural thing for him.

Every time he reminded you of who you were—who he saw when he looked at you—it pieced you back together in ways you didn’t even realize.

You felt your shoulders begin to drop, your breath deepen, comfort sweeping over your body as it always did when you were in his arms. Your eyes burned, too, but in the best kind of way. “And if the cameras show up tonight…,” he said, his tone shifting, soft affection giving way to a teasing tone as he gave you a slow once-over, “They’ll just be lucky to get a shot of my girl lookin’ like that,” his hand skimmed down your arm, fingers brushing your wrist as he grinned. “Honestly? We should charge them for content. Give ‘em a little smolder, maybe a kiss on the cheek, hell, I’ll dip you if that’s what they want,”.

You laughed, the sound bubbling up from your chest like sunshine. “You’re ridiculous,”.

“I’m ridiculously in love with you,” he said without missing a beat, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek. “And I don’t care who sees it. Or who doesn’t see it,”.

Even as your smile widened, it was impossible to fight that feeling in your chest. It blossomed against your will, like a stubborn little sunbeam cracking through a cloudy day. The tension that had once curled tightly around your lungs was now slipping away, melting into the peaceful fervency that always came when he looked at you like that, like you were his favorite thing he’d ever seen. Joe leaned in, grin crooked and smug, breath fanning against your lips in the way only he could pull off without being annoying. “I love you, Stargirl,” he said, and finished it with a wink so perfectly timed you had to laugh through the kiss you pressed to his lips.

It was soft at first—thank you stitched into the shape of your mouth. You leaned in closer, fingers brushing the back of his neck where his hair curled slightly against your touch. He always smelled so good…so Joe, his scent calming you in ways you never thought were possible. Your nails scraped lightly against his skin, and you felt the subtle shift in his breath, the way his whole body leaned instinctively into your affection.

“Thank you for doing this,” you whispered, and it wasn’t just for this moment; it was for all of them. For every time he found you lost in the middle of a storm, only you could feel. For every time he carved out space for you to be vulnerable, never rushing you, never judging you. For all the ways he held you, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like loving you was as easy and important as breathing.

“Always and forever,” he murmured, and that felt more like a vow than just words because of the way he said it. Like something he’d already promised a hundred times and would keep a thousand more without question. “I’m in this for the long haul, princess. Nothing out there, none of the noise, the cameras, the speculation, none of it touches what we are. Not now, when they’re just barely seeing the edges of us. Not later, when I put a ring on your finger and give you my name, like I’ve known I would from the start. And not when we’re years in, worn-in and settled, when life gets real and hard and messy. I’ll still choose you every damn time,”.

He looked at you like there was no version of the future where he didn’t. Like this love wasn’t some fleeting thing, but a home he’d built in his chest just for you. He was reminding you that his love wasn’t conditional, not like the “love” you’d received in the past was. That no matter how loud the chaos got, out there in the world or in your own mind, he’d be there, shielding you from the worst of it without hesitation. Just like he always had.

Your forehead pressed gently to his, your breath catching as your lips brushed against his. He so casually had just touched on the topic of engagement and marriage, and although it wasn’t the first time it had come up in these 9 months, it still made your heart stop just like it did the first time. You didn’t say anything right away. You couldn’t. The moment was too tender, too full. But inside, you felt electric—like you could run laps around the city barefoot, just to burn off the joy buzzing under your skin at the idea of being his, completely his, till forever falls apart. “I love you too,” you breathed, the words slipping out like a truth too big to hold back.

He grinned against your mouth, his hands cradling your face, “That’s fantastic because for a second there, I was worried you were gonna give into the bullshit,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever. I’m not going to lose you…not when I’ve finally got you. You’re never going to have to walk down this road alone again,”.

And there it was.

Reassurance that the right person always stays.

He would always stay. No matter what curveball was thrown at you, what headline was written about your relationship, through all the extra chaos you brought to his quiet bubble. He’d always stand by your side, because he chose this.

He chose you.

Before you even realized it, the car turned onto Magazine Street, and the familiar stretch of colorful storefronts rolled past your window. Just ahead, snuggled behind the sweeping branches of that old oak tree, you spotted the soft glow of Lilette. The warm amber light spilled out onto the sidewalk, flickering across the bistro tables where a few people lingered with wine glasses in hand and soft laughter on their lips. As the car slowed, Joe’s eyes were already on you. He leaned in, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, certain, soothing. The kind of kiss that steadied you, that said “We’re okay. We’re solid,”. Then, without saying a word, he pulled away and stepped out into the soft New Orleans night.

You watched as he straightened up under the streetlight’s golden glow, the sharp line of his shoulders and jawline catching the light just right. Then he turned to you, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and extended his hand back toward you. “C’mon, pretty girl,” he said, that teasing grin still playing on his lips. “Let me take you to dinner,”.

You looked at him for a beat longer, at the way his hair curled at the ends, falling over his forehead and giving him that look that would make your knees buckle, at the warmth in his eyes, at the hand that had steadied you more times than you could count. And then you took it, stepping into the night with him.

Joe laced your fingers together immediately, pulling you close as you walked toward the front steps of the restaurant. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine and the faint kick of something buttery drifting from the kitchen. A breeze blew through your hair, but you hardly noticed—not with him beside you, not with the soft press of his thumb tracing soothing circles into the back of your hand. As you climbed the short set of stairs, you heard it. Faint gasps and whispered voices cutting through the stillness of the evening.

“Oh my god. Is that them? Joe and Y/N?”.

“Shhh, shh—don’t be weird!”.

“How fast do you think Gridback is going to show up?”.

“...She looks a little pale, don’t you think?”.

“Wait until I tell Janet about this,”.

“I wonder if something happened, she looks uncomfortable,”.

“Girl, please. She’s probably on cloud 9. Like literally. She’s had number 9 wrapped around her finger for god knows how long. I’m sure she’s fine,”.

“I heard that she cheated on her ex with Joe, which is why she went M.I.A. Can’t handle the heat, then don’t get in the kitchen. What a slut. All for her to eventually get cheated on again because well…she’s with a pro athlete and we all know how that story goes,”.

The whispers curled around you like smoke, impossible to ignore, but before you could comprehend the sinking feeling in your stomach, feel the poison seeping into your skin, Joe’s grip on your hand tightened. As much as he’d like to step back down the stairs and rip them a new one, he knew you didn’t need defending right now. You just needed quiet, you needed him. So, without breaking his stride, he moved his other hand to the small of your back, fingers grazing just below the hem of your dress. His palm landed low, dangerously close to your ass, and the unexpected boldness of it made you giggle.

It wasn’t loud, but it was real. The kind of laugh that slipped past your lips without warning, breathy, soft, cracked open at the edges by surprise and affection. The kind that only surfaced when the world tried to shake you, and he, just by placing his hand exactly where he knew it would, pulled you back, reminded you that you were still tethered. Still his. Still safe. It wasn’t just the touch, it was the intention behind it. The way his fingers pressed warm and steady against your spine, possessive, almost defiant. As if to say, Let them talk. You’re mine and I’m yours. Not in the loud, reckless way. In the quiet, certain way that meant more.

Your heart, which only seconds ago had curled in on itself from the sting of strangers’ scrutiny, now flourished like it recognized the warmth of sunlight again. “That was on purpose,” you whispered, breath catching with the smile playing at your lips as he held the door open for both of you.

He smirked, guiding you inside with a subtle nudge of his hand. “Yeah, well. You looked like you needed a little distraction,”.

You playfully rolled your eyes as the door shut behind you, firmly cutting off the crowd's chatter, “He reads me like his favorite book. He knows me too well,”.

The host greeted you with a polite smile and a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but Joe leaned in, murmuring your name for the reservation like this was any other night, avoiding any and all opportunities for more attention to be drawn to you. He was acting like you were just any other couple. Like you weren’t being watched. Like there weren’t eyes trailing the sweep of your dress and the curve of his hand.

To anyone watching, he looked like a man out to dinner with his girl. Nothing more. No flash, no spectacle. Just the brush of his hand against the small of your back and the gentle way he stood slightly in front of you, shielding, without making it obvious. That was Joe’s gift. He had this way of taking things that should’ve felt overwhelming—the scrutiny, the whispers, the anxiety of being seen—and shrinking them down until they were something soft and manageable. He made the extraordinary feel ordinary. Not in a dull or dismissive way, but in a reassuring one. Like this—you and him—was the most natural thing in the world.

As you followed the host past clinking glasses and candlelit tables, Joe leaned toward your ear and whispered lowly, “You know they saw us, right?”.

You drew in a long, steady breath, then tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” you murmured, the corners of your mouth curling into a slow smile, crimson lips soft and sure. “But a wise man once told me to do what makes me happy…and to tell everyone else to fuck off,”. Your voice was calm, even a little amused, as you gave a subtle nod, eyes flicking toward a nearby table where a few diners had clearly put the pieces together. They weren’t being discreet about it either, all wide eyes and hushed tones as they whispered behind wine glasses. But you held their gaze for a moment, then turned back to him with an unbothered shrug.

“So that’s what I’m doing,” you added, quieter now, but firmer somehow. “I simply don’t care,”.

And for once, you meant it. Completely.

His chest swelled with pride, knowing that he was the wise man you were referring to. He pulled your joined hands up, quickly kissing your knuckles so lightly while locking eyes with you, “Hm, damn right you don’t,” he smiled.

Dinner started off easy, like it always did when it was just the two of you. Joe looked unfairly good in a short-sleeved navy button-up, wrists adorned with his signature rubber bracelets, the reputation one standing out proudly amongst the rest, hair still slightly damp from earlier. The tension from the car ride had settled, but he kept checking in on you in subtle, quiet ways—his thumb brushing your hand, the occasional gentle nudge beneath the table, his gaze flicking to your face between sips of wine to catch any hint of tension.

He had taken a seat beside you because that had always been the unspoken rule. No sitting across from each other, no unnecessary distance. Sitting shoulder to shoulder allowed him to keep a hand on your knee, steal kisses between courses, and lean in close when the noise around you got too loud because Joe would rather die than miss a single thing you said to him. So, as always, he slid his chair right next to yours without hesitation, knees bumping, arm draped comfortably along the back of your seat. His fingers found their familiar rhythm, weaving gently through your hair as you scrolled through the menu, eyes scanning appetizers you probably weren’t going to order.

It wasn’t until you looked up, ready to ask if he wanted to split something, that you caught the way his brows were slightly furrowed, his head tilted just so. There was a curious little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just discovered something he wasn’t quite sure he should say out loud. “Your hair…it’s curling,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he wrapped one of the loose waves around his finger. “I didn’t realize you curled it today,”.

You blinked, caught off guard by his observation. “I didn’t do anything to it,” you said, head leaning back from confusion.

His brows crinkled again as he kept toying with the strand, his touch lingering. “So you’re telling me this is just…happening? I know your hair and it’s never this wavy on its own unless you used some products. It didn’t even rain today,”.

You shrugged, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you, heating under the way he was looking at you and the featherlight touch still toying with your hair. “I guess it’s just doing its thing,”.

His grin spread slowly, the kind that always came with an ulterior motive. You could see it in the way his eyes sparkled and his lips curved, like he was about to say something he absolutely shouldn’t, and was going to enjoy every second of it. That smirk alone made your stomach somersault, made your thighs press together instinctively—even though you were seated. He leaned in, closing the already small space between you, his tone of voice carrying a whiff of flirtatious energy. His gaze flicked from your lips to your eyes, then back again, lingering there with a look that made your skin prickle. “You know what they say about hair curling on its own, right?”.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to fight the smile already twitching at your lips. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to say something incredibly stupid,”. He didn’t flinch after you said that, didn’t even back down. Just inched closer until his knee pressed into yours, his thumb brushing soft circles over your thigh under the table. “It means you’re in love,” he whispered, lips grazing your cheek. “Like…really, deeply, madly in love,”.

You looked at him like he had two heads, a skeptical laugh escaping before you could stop it. Heat bloomed across your cheeks and spread all the way to your chest, but you tried to play it cool. Joe had come up with some pretty wild theories before—he was as much a dreamer as he was a football player, with his head sometimes halfway in space documentaries and black holes—but this? “This isn’t one of your little science facts, is it?” you teased, eyes narrowing playfully. “Because that’s not a real thing, Joe. I’m sure it must just be from when you were in the shower earlier and the steam made it frizz,”.

He pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck, his lips lingering against your perfumed skin just long enough for your breath to hitch. “Babe,” he murmured, voice full of mock offense, “It’s the curly hair theory. Duh...”.

You blinked, confused but already smiling as you tilted your head to glance at him. “The what now?”

Joe pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a playful scoff escaping his mouth as he gave you that look—the one that made it impossible to think straight. “As a certified lover girl, you should really know this,” he teased, his fingers still casually toying with the ends of your hair. “It’s a thing. When a girl’s really in love, like, secure, soft, safe kind of love, she starts embracing her natural hair around her man. It gets curlier too,”.

You tried to roll your eyes, tried to act like it was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard, but something about the way he said it…like it was a known fact, like it made perfect sense…like you were supposed to know this because even he knew this, made your heart ache in the softest way. You looked down for a second, trying to hide the giddy look in your eyes. “That’s not real,” you mumbled, lips twitching despite yourself.

Joe grinned triumphantly, “Tell that to the curls, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know that isn’t from me being all up on you after you gave me that five-star, gold-medal worthy head earlier,”.

Your jaw dropped. For a second, all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed in disbelief, cheeks flushing as you darted a glance around to make sure no one had actually heard that. He looked entirely unbothered—relaxed, cocky even—like he hadn’t just said something absolutely reckless in public.

You narrowed your eyes at him, voice low but loaded. “You’re on thin ice, Burrow,”.

And he only smirked deeper, like he lived for this game.

His brows lifted in confusion, “Me?” he asked, all innocently and as if he wasn’t the sole reason for causing the goosebumps to rise across your bare thigh.

“Mhm,” you said as you leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You promised you’d behave tonight…and that doesn’t sound like behaving to me. Remember, if you don’t, you’re not getting anything when we get back to the hotel,”.

Joe let out an amused hum, his hand tightening on your thigh as he leaned back to look at you, his expression shameless. He had that signature bedroom eyes look: half-lidded eyes, that lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind of look that could melt steel if it lingered too long. Ugh. Bedroom eyes, full force too. God help any poor girl who ever accidentally locked eyes with him like this—because one glance, and her panties would be on the floor.

“That’s a bold threat to make when you’ve been the one flirting with me ever since I came back,” he mumbled.

You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile, the kind that always drove him a little crazy, batting your lashes like you weren’t doing exactly what he was accusing you of. Those slow, smoldering glances you’d been tossing his way since the moment you stepped inside, the subtle drag of your fingertips across his thigh under the table, the way your teeth had just barely caught your glossed bottom lip more than once? Oh, you knew what you were doing. “Just trying to keep you focused and locked in,” you purred, your voice all sugar and silk as you leaned in slightly, eyes glinting with mischief.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing gently against your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. Then, his voice dropped to a low, husky murmur, barely more than a breath against your skin. “Well, now all I’m thinking about is dessert. And I don’t mean the kind on the menu, princess,”.

Your eyes widened in surprise, and you playfully slapped his chest, half warning, half teasing. But instead of pulling away, he smiled wider, his hand sliding slowly up your thigh, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path that made every nerve in your body ignite with anticipation. “Better be good, 9,” you whispered, voice thick with both challenge and something more vulnerable beneath.

Joe leaned in closer, the subtle scrape of his jawline brushing your cheek as his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “I’ll be good, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with promise, low and slow like velvet sliding across skin. “Just…maybe not in the way you’re thinking,”.

His words settled in your stomach like heat, blooming out to every inch of your body as your thighs instinctively pressed together. Then he eased back, just far enough to meet your gaze with that infuriatingly calm, knowing expression, his eyes molten and heavy-lidded, the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for his wine glass, fingers wrapping around the stem with casual grace. He lifted it slowly, as if he knew you were watching every movement. The rich, golden liquid shimmered as it tilted toward his lips, and he took a slow, languid sip, lips parting just enough to let a droplet escape.

It caught the light, sliding from the corner of his mouth to his jaw before disappearing beneath the curve of his throat. Your breath caught, sharp and audible, and your eyes snapped back up to meet his—only to find him already watching you, that damn smirk deepening. Your pulse roared in your ears. You couldn’t even pretend to hide the way your body reacted to him; you didn’t want to.

“I’m so fucked when we get back to the room,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

Joe’s smile turned positively sinful. “Yeah,” he said, voice a promise wrapped in smoke. “You are,”.

The minutes passed faster than you could imagine as conversation flowed between the two of you like second nature, each topic slipping easily into the next. Joe was lounging comfortably in his chair, that relaxed, easy posture he only really wore around you. One of his arms was still stretched along the back of yours, fingers absentmindedly playing with the delicate strap of your dress, just enough to make your skin hum with awareness. The other cradled his glass of Chardonnay mixed with Sprite—his signature, slightly offbeat favorite—his thumb tapping lightly against the stem in rhythm with his thoughts.

Something about the hand around your chair, fingers playing with your straps, felt possessive, and you couldn’t tell if that was just in your head or his true intention behind it. Since this was a public restaurant, you had many other diners walk past your booth, some whispering to each other as they pretended not to stare at you, some men looking at you a little too…closely with wide eyes and crooked grins, and some sweet fans saying things like “We’re rooting for you both!” as they walked past to definitely use the bathroom and not just to get a peek at America’s newest obsession. Sometimes you felt like a zoo animal on display for everyone to ogle at, but Joe…Joe always made you feel normal in those moments where you’d become self-conscious and overly aware of what was happening around you. Whether it was his touch speaking volumes for him, or sometimes his words when he felt like they’d make more of an impact, he just knew how to handle you without making it worse, making you feel like you weren’t the monster lurching towards everyone’s favorite city or some shiny trophy caught under a spotlight.

Just a few minutes ago, while you were talking about your summer plans—a week-long Florida stay, the Hamptons during July 4th for your album release party & the anniversary of the day you met a year ago, and some trips across Europe, your ears had caught wind of conversation these two women were having in the diagonal from you

“Joe could do so much better than her. I mean, why would he go for someone like her when he could easily pull a supermodel with bigger boobs and a smaller ego,” the red-lipped brunette purred to her blonde friend, twirling her straw in her drink like she was stirring up something sweet.

“Your guess is just as good as mine,” the blonde giggled, her laugh high and hollow as she flipped her hair off her shoulder. “Y/N is so full of herself. She always thinks everything’s about her, like she’s the only girl in America to have been cheated on, the only girl with a difficult past and tough shit to work through,”.

“And her music?” the brunette sneered, her ruby lips pulling into a mocking grin. “Cringe. Joe probably blasts Gunna right after listening to the sad girl shit she calls art—just to make sure his ears don’t start bleeding,”.

“I can’t even blame her ex for cheating on her,” the blonde tittered, pressing her fingers to her lips like she was sharing something scandalous. “I mean…look at her. She’s so bland and forgettable. Who really gave a fuck when she went M.I.A. for those few months? The world kept spinning,”.

“Ha, exactly,” the brunette agreed with a sharp laugh. She reached for her drink, eyes glittering with petty delight. “It’s only a matter of time before she finds Joe nose deep in some Instagram bitch. And only a matter of time before she writes another trashy song about it and makes it her entire personality for a year. Someone please tell her that the only reason she’s still relevant is because she fucked, dated, and was cheated on by the son of the CEO of her former record label and is currently Joe Burrow’s flavor of the year,”.

You felt your skin crawl with a cold, prickling unease that started at the base of your neck and spilled all the way down your arms. It was the kind of feeling that made you want to tug your dress tighter around you, to sink back into the booth cushions until you disappeared completely. Their words slid over you like oil, slick and sour, clinging in places you wished they wouldn’t. Your stomach twisted, hot and embarrassed, even though you’d done nothing but exist—sit here, plan summer trips with the man you loved, dream out loud about anniversaries and albums. Now all of it felt tainted by the ugliness of their laughter, by the smug, conspiratorial way they leaned in close to share their cruelty, like it was a secret too delicious to keep.

Joe overheard every word; there was no missing it. His jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly, the muscle there ticking with the kind of silent fury that would’ve scared anyone else if they’d bothered to look his way. But he didn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting, didn’t so much as flick a glance toward their table. Instead, he focused all of it, his anger, his protectiveness, his stubborn, tender heart, on you.

“LSU feels like a lifetime ago,” he murmured, eyes lifted toward the ornate ceiling above you, unfocused, like he was reading memories written there only he could see. A small, almost boyish smile curved his lips, wistful and so achingly sweet it cut through the bitterness in your chest. “But sometimes…I swear I can still smell the turf when I’m back in Louisiana. That thick, sticky air, the sound of the crowd, that weird pregame mix of nerves and calm…it all comes rushing back,”.

You watched him quietly, his voice reaching you like a lifeline tossed across deep water, steady and warm, pulling you out of the cold swirl of thoughts that had been dragging you under since that overheard conversation. Your own drink sat forgotten in your hand as you focused on him, struck by the way he held onto those memories—not just the big, obvious ones, but the textures, the scents, the heartbeat of it all. He didn’t talk about the glory or the spotlight. He talked about how it felt. How it lived in him still. And maybe that’s why you loved him so much—because nothing was ever surface-level with Joe. Not the way he played, not the way he remembered, and definitely not the way he loved.

You knew exactly what he was doing, too. How his voice dipped into old stories, how his thumb kept circling that soft patch of skin on your wrist, he was pulling you out of your own head with gentle hands, leading you somewhere safer without ever pointing out you needed saving. It was seamless with him, instinctive, like breathing.

“He must’ve seen the LSU flag hanging outside the house across the street. Great way for him to pivot since he obviously picked up on what was bothering me,” you smiled to yourself before you looked up at him from behind your wine glass, eyes shining with quiet curiosity. “What was it really like?” you asked, pausing to tilt your head, searching his face for any reaction to your question. “Not the cameras, media attention, or hype video packages, just...the real stuff. What it felt like to be you back then,”. You’d heard the stories, read the headlines, seen the viral clips of him in purple and gold lighting up the field, but you hadn’t been there. You didn’t know what the weight of it all felt like on his shoulders, what the quiet in the locker room was like before a game, or how it felt to be twenty-something and carrying an entire city’s hopes on his back.

And he knew that’s what you were really asking. Not about stats or trophies, or the adrenaline that’d course through his veins when he stepped into Death Valley, but about what lived behind his eyes during those years. The wood creaked just faintly beneath him as he shifted in his chair, but his gaze had drifted past the flickering candle on the table, past the soft clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation in the restaurant, to the window behind you. His eyes weren’t really looking outside at the flag. They were somewhere else entirely, glossy and faraway, like he could see the past playing out in high definition on the darkened street. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite into a smile, and his fingers—those long, calloused ones that had thrown a thousand perfect spirals—absently traced small, slow circles against your wrist. Keeping himself in the present, not allowing his mind to wander back into the past too much.

“It was…,” he started, voice dipping into something low and rough, like gravel under tires. “A lot,”. Your eyes stayed on him, lips parting, your whole body leaning forward almost without realizing it, like you didn’t want to miss a single word.

“I mean, I loved it. I really did,” he let out a breath of a laugh, not quite amused. “I was living for it, the noise, the lights, the way Tiger Stadium felt like it was alive, had its own pulse and heartbeat every time I ran out of the tunnel. Like it breathed with us, win after win. There’s nothing like it. You can feel it in your chest. It made everything else disappear,” he paused for a moment, his jaw tightening as his eyes dropped to the table. He shook his head slightly, like trying to sift through memories that were heavier than he wanted to admit. “But the pressure…,” his voice thinned. “God, the pressure. It was like carrying the weight of a whole state, a whole legacy, and barely being old enough to rent a car. You start to feel like your whole existence is measured in completions and fourth-quarter comebacks. And no matter how good you are…there’s always the fear. That it’s not gonna be enough. That one bad game, one injury, one wrong step, and everything disappears. And then…who are you?”.

You blinked, the emotion in his words crashing into you like a wave, filling your chest with something tight and aching. He’d never opened up like this before about his past, not like this. And it hurt in the most beautiful way, to see the pieces he usually kept tucked behind calm smiles and stoic post-game interviews.

“I remember this one night,” he continued, quieter now. “We’d just won big against Auburn. Everyone was out drinking, partying, living it up. And I couldn’t sleep. It was like all that energy, all that adrenaline, it didn’t know where to go. So I grabbed my helmet and went back to the practice field. Sat on the turf by myself. No lights. Just me and the silence. That was the only silence that I thought I could get,”.

His hand stilled on your wrist as he looked at you again, really looked at you. ��I was sitting there with my shoes unlaced and my helmet in my lap, just…staring. Wondering how long it would last. If I could really keep it all together. If all of it would actually pay off, and I’d get to live out my dreams. If I’d ever feel peace again, like real peace. If I had something more than football to look forward to. Or if I was just gonna keep chasing wins until it all caught up to me,”.

Your throat tightened as you tried to swallow around the lump forming there, but you couldn’t look away. You could practically see him there—young, alone, scared, even if he didn’t look it. Just a boy with the hunger for greatness pressing down on him. You honestly could relate to him, because you’d felt the same way when you were first trying to gain your footing in the industry years ago. You had nobody to lean on, nobody to confide in about your fears and dreams; all that was there was the curious eyes of the fans and people waiting to see you fall flat on your face. The only thought in your mind at the time was whether this was all worth it in the end, would you get everything you wanted? Would you find something to hold on to? Would you find something that was completely yours? Would you find…love? Was there someone in this world who’d be able to love you and see past the baggage you carried?

Would you achieve…greatness?

“It didn’t really get quiet until I met you,” he said, snapping you out of your thoughts. His voice was soft. Matter-of-fact. Like it was the most obvious truth he could offer.

Your breath caught mid-inhale, frozen by the significance of those words. Your chest ached as the emotion crashed in strong waves you could barely keep at bay. “I mean it,” he said, his thumb resuming its gentle motion on your skin. “I spent years thinking I had to be that version of me all the time. The guy with answers. With presence. The one who could walk into any room and command it without blinking. I had to be ‘Joe Burrow’ every second of every single day because if I wasn’t, then everyone crumbled. But, what if I needed to crumble? Nobody thinks about what it’s like to be at the top, nobody ever thinks about how it feels to be the one under that constant spotlight, whether it’s your professional life or private life. But then you showed up, and then suddenly I didn’t have to be all that. I could just…be Joe. I could be soft. Messy. Tired. I could breathe again. I could dodge the spotlight just a little bit and run away with you,”

Wait.

“Nobody really heard from me those few months during the end of last off-season, and I was doing better than I ever was. Because of you,”.

Oh my god.

“Using my own lyrics…the ones I wrote about him…on me? Jesus take the wheel, he literally can’t get any more perfect,” you smiled as the back of your eyes burned with emotion. You reached for his hand in his lap, threading your fingers through his like muscle memory. The same way he’d always held you when you felt overwhelmed. Now you were doing it for him, comforting him just like he’d done a hundred times before. “And I think if I had you back then…,” he trailed off, voice turning quiet, almost boyish in its vulnerability. “Everything would’ve felt easier. Lighter. Like I could’ve enjoyed everything just a little more, and so when I came into the league, I wouldn’t feel the need to be on lockdown all the time with everything. So you wouldn’t have had to put in overtime the last 9 months to get me to loosen up like I used to,”.

You held his hand tighter, wanting to say something back to him, but your voice barely came out because you didn’t know if it would be a sob or a normal sentence, but when it did, it was wrapped in warmth and pride. “...I- I think you had to go through all of that to get here. To be the version of you I get now. If I had you back then, we both would be different. Sometimes you need to go through the tough shit, the things that make you want to give it all up, feel the feelings that keep you up till 3 a.m, just so that you can be who you are now. Besides, you know I am extremely down bad for your LSU era, but he’s not the man I fell for. You are. In all your hermit crab, anti-social, glory,”.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as you saw the gears behind his eyes turn like he was processing what you were saying. “Then I’m glad I made it through,” he confessed, and when he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand like a soft thank you, you didn’t stop the tears that pooled at the corners of your eyes. Because you were proud of him. And you were so, so in love with the man who had walked through fire and still had enough tenderness left to love you like this.

He glanced back out the window again, and a little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We should go back sometime, to Baton Rouge,”.

Your brows lifted in surprise, your heart fluttering at the idea of visiting his alma mater with him for the first time. You’d never been to LSU or Baton Rouge before, and the idea of your first time being with Joe? That sends flutters all throughout your body. “That would be so fun. I’d love that,” you glanced down for a second, lips quirking into an excited grin, but then falling once you felt a gust of reality wash over you. “But we don’t have time, Joe. Not this week. The Honors are tomorrow. We fly out the morning after so we can make it back in time for your Body Armor shoot. And, I don’t know if we can just…drop in like that,”.

He leaned in, still grinning like he was already ten steps ahead of you. “Baby, I’m Joe Burrow,” he winked, tongue poking out slightly between his teeth. “They love me down there and always have time for me. I’ve been meaning to go back anyway, I just never knew when the right time was. And don’t worry about Body Armor, I can get that moved too,”.

You laughed, shaking your head at how he’d thought of everything…like he’d been thinking about this the entire time you were here. “You are so full of it, Joe. You sound like such a Hollywood diva right now. Next thing you know, you’ll start carrying 3 different phones and having a butler travel everywhere with us,” you rolled your eyes, a soft chuckle coming from him in return.

“Let me take you, Y/N. After the Honors, we’ll sneak down there. Just you and me. We won’t tell any friends or family, won’t make a big deal out of it. We’ll just…slow down and be normal people like we were when it was just us in Cincy. I want to show you everything, baby. The fields, the locker rooms, where I used to eat after practice, all the shitty college bars, my old apartment, and obviously Mike…,”.

Your ears perked up at the mention of LSU’s beloved mascot, “Oh my god, do you think can we break him out for a day? Let him get some fresh air outside of the habitat. Poor baby probably needs some reconnecting with real nature time,” you cooed, imagining how awful it would be to be trapped in that space for the rest of your life.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek before continuing. “But also, I want you to see where I used to sit and think about what my life would be like if I chose Cincinnati instead of LSU or just stayed with Ohio State. I want you to see all the pieces that made me. Because you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I’m more than just all that,”.

Your eyes went wide with emotion, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. You knew you didn’t have the time. You knew it was last-minute. But suddenly… none of that mattered. What mattered was you and him, together in the Louisiana heat, driving slow with the windows down, the thick, humid air curling through your fingers as you reached for him. What mattered was you passing Tiger Stadium—Death Valley—its towering shadow stretching over the street like a monument to every Saturday night that had changed his life. What mattered was him pointing out where the student section used to roar his name, where he’d once sprinted out of the tunnel with everything to prove.

You could already feel it, what it would mean to walk those grounds beside him, to see where he trained, where he bled and grew and dreamed. You wanted to see it all, not just for him, but for you. For the boy he had been. For the man you loved now.

You blinked at him, your heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears, louder than the clatter of dishes or the low hum of conversations around you. The golden light from the candles on the table flickered across his face, catching in the edges of his smile, highlighting the soft crinkles that framed his sea glass blue eyes, and gentling the sharp line of his jaw. It made him look almost unreal, like something out of a sun-drenched memory you’d dreamed up just to keep yourself afloat. You could feel the emotion rising in your chest, warm and thick like honey, filling every hollow place inside you until it was nearly impossible to hold back. It pressed at your throat, curled around your ribs, made your breath catch in a way that was somehow both fragile and full.

“Okay,” you breathed, the word slipping out on a trembling exhale, delicate and yet heavy with everything you couldn’t quite say. “Let’s go,”.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, eyes locked on yours like he was still trying to absorb what you’d just said. Like the significance of it—what it meant, what it changed—was still sinking in. His brows lifted slightly, his lips parting just barely, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You were just about to ask if he was alright when he finally leaned in, hands reaching for your face with a kind of ease that made your breath catch.

His fingers curled gently around your jaw, his thumbs brushing the edge of your cheekbone. You could feel how warm his hands were, how stable, like they were made to hold you. When his mouth met yours, it wasn’t rushed or hungry. It was slow, so, so soft, full of emotion, too heavy for words. His lips moved with aching tenderness, molding to yours in a kiss that felt like both a question and a promise. His breath hitched softly when you kissed him back, your hands tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened gradually, not out of desperation but intimacy, each movement drawn from the months you'd spent building trust, connection, and home. There was something almost worshipful in the way he held you, like you were more valuable than every championship or achievement to his name, utterly irreplaceable.

His mouth slanted over yours again, slower this time, savoring, like he was kissing not just the version of you in front of him, but every version he’d loved over the last nine months. The one who made pancakes in his kitchen in nothing but his old t-shirt. The one who sang to him with a soft rasp in her voice when she thought he was asleep. The one who held his hand in crowded airports and quiet hotel rooms alike.

All of you.

Maybe that’s why it hit so deep, why it made your eyes sting behind closed lids—because just minutes ago, there were strangers in a booth nearby tearing you apart with careless laughter, reducing you to your scars, your heartbreak, your supposed shortcomings. Questioning how someone like him could ever want someone like you. But here he was, holding you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered, kissing you like he was trying to memorize your very soul. With every slow brush of his lips, he wordlessly answered them, proved them wrong without even knowing it. And deep down, in that molten space where your love for him lived, you knew that was all you’d ever need.

And as his kiss softened into something gentler, just a whisper of lips now, barely there, Joe rested his forehead against yours. His breath mingled with yours in the stillness between you, and you could feel it, as clear as if he’d shouted it from the rooftops; the intensity of everything he felt for you. The care. The devotion. The vow was stitched into every lingering touch of his hands on your skin. “I love you,” he whispered, so quietly it felt like a prayer. Like he was giving the words to you and only you, tucking them into your chest where no one else could touch them.

A soft smile lifted your lips as you leaned into him. “I know,” you whispered. “I love you, too,”.

His nose brushed against yours, and for a second, he just held you there, like he couldn’t stand to let the moment pass. Then, his voice found its way back to you. “Let’s keep doing this forever, yeah?”.

Your breath caught, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. Because he wasn’t just talking about this one moment. He was talking about the whole of it. Everything that made your love what it was.

This meant quiet dinners in your favorite hidden places, just the two of you curled into a booth in the corner, the candlelight flickering between you. It meant half-finished glasses of wine and soft laughter, the kind that made you ache with how safe it felt. It meant his hand resting on your knee beneath the table, your fingers trailing lazy shapes over his as you talked about nothing and everything. It meant brushing your lips over his between courses, trading kisses like secrets, like something holy.

It meant continuing to be exactly who you were, two people who had built something fragile and strong all at once, something no one else could understand because it didn’t belong to anyone else. It meant choosing each other every single day, even when the noise outside was too loud, even when the headlines turned cruel. It meant refusing to let the world twist what you had into anything less than what it was.

It meant protecting your love, not by hiding it, but by honoring it. Making time for it. Holding on to the quiet parts, the soft parts, the parts that only made sense when it was just you and him. The sleepy mornings, the hand squeezes from across the room, the way he always looked at you like you were still the only thing he could see—even after nine months, even after all the chaos.

“Forever,” you whispered, the word catching in your throat as you glanced down at your wrist.

The bracelet he gave you in Cannes a few months ago still shimmered there, warm against your skin, the gold infinity symbol nestled between your initials. A tiny thing. But it meant everything. A promise made, a promise kept. A future you’d build together, no matter what came next.

By the time dessert arrived, an impossibly rich chocolate ganache tart topped with a perfect swirl of Chantilly cream, you were already giggling like you’d never giggled before in your life, that bright, breathless kind of laughter that bubbled up from somewhere deep, chasing away every heavy thing that had tried to settle on your shoulders tonight. The blonde and brunette from earlier are not even a ghost in your mind. Your fork paused midair as you tried not to choke on laughter as the mood between you had shifted into something golden and glowy, the last of the candlelight flickering lazily across the white linen tablecloth. It felt like you were wrapped in a memory you’d revisit over and over again. It was soft and sweet, as unforgettable as the taste of the tart on your tongue.

You were retelling the oyster incident from earlier that week, your voice breathless with amusement. Joe had been so confident, absurdly so, convinced he could out-shuck the old man at the French Market oyster stall. “It’s all about grip and leverage,” he’d declared like he was lining up for fourth-and-goal, rolling his sleeves up with all the bravado of someone who’d clearly never held an oyster knife in his life. You’d stood beside him with your arms crossed, watching the trainwreck unfold with barely concealed glee.

Naturally, within seconds, he’d fumbled the knife, nearly sliced his thumb, and sent an uncracked oyster sailing straight into his lap. The vendor had howled with laughter, slapping Joe on the back like a grandson who’d just made his first pot of piping gumbo. “Stick to football, son,” he’d said between chuckles, “Or at least wear a glove next time. Those hands are money,”.

Now, seated beside him, you could barely get through the story without falling into more giggles, nearly choking on a bite of tart as you dabbed at your lips with a napkin. “You were so overconfident,” you teased, eyes shining, your skin warm from laughter—and maybe from the second…or third glass of wine, too.

Joe grinned, tipping his head back in surrender. “I had the technique,” he said, still attempting to defend himself. “The oysters just didn’t respect me,”.

You snorted, “They saw right through you. Just like the beignet guy did when he told you powdered sugar wasn’t a seasoning,”.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll never live that down, will I?”.

“Not a chance,” you said, your laughter tapering off slowly. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the quiet clink of glasses, the faint murmur of the remaining diners, and the heat spreading through his eyes. Outside, the buzz of the Garden District faded into the background, muffled by thick windows and the intimate hush of the restaurant’s corner booth. You glanced down at your joined hands, his thumb moving in a slow, reassuring arc over your knuckles. It was one of those moments that stretched out timelessly, suspended in quiet knowing. A kind of stillness you’d only ever found with him, where nothing needed to be said because everything already had been. His presence was its own kind of safety net, a reminder that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

You knew you couldn’t stay in the bubble forever. The real world was always going to find a way in, crack through the silence that even special memories and wine couldn’t prevent. But Joe…Joe was already two steps ahead of you. He always was. He knew how your mind worked, how the edges of your peace frayed in public spaces, how the anxiety of being seen pressed down on you like the Louisiana humidity. That was why he kept tracing those soft circles into your hand. That was why he held the silence instead of filling it. Because he knew. Because he was steadying you before you even realized you needed it.

But as you both stood to leave, smoothing your clothes and thanking the server with a practiced nod and smile, the moment shattered.

It started with one flash.

Then another.

Bright, sudden bursts of light through the restaurant’s front window, stark against the warm amber tones of the interior. Camera shutters clicking like distant thunder. Someone outside called his name, followed by the telltale scramble of feet and the metallic rustle of equipment.

Your hand tensed in his.

Joe didn’t flinch—he never did—but his jaw tightened almost unnoticeably. The familiar itch of being watched, recorded, and followed settled over you both like a wet coat. Heavy and cold. And just like that, the quiet magic of the evening dissolved into something else entirely.

By the time you stepped out of the gated patio, there were nearly a dozen paparazzi waiting along the sidewalk, some perched behind hedges, others lining the curb, cameras aimed and already clicking furiously. The bursts of light were disorienting, strobing in your viewpoint like fireworks. Someone yelled your name. Then Joe’s again. Then together. Another voice cut through the chaos,

“Are you two engaged?!”.

You flinched. Where did that come from? You don’t have any rings on.

“Joe, what about the trade rumors, are they real?”.

It was a bad season…Joe doesn’t give up like that. What are they talking about?

“Is it true she’s pregnant?”.

Your eyes widened. What the fuck?

“Look over here! Just one smile, come on!”.

You’d rather step in front of a moving train.

“How long have you two been together…really? Clear up the timeline”.

Not your business.

“Is it true you’ve been living together in secret? Pretty fast for a new couple? Unless there was overlap with your ex!”.

You barely caught the words because they were muffled beneath the racket, but they hit you harder than anything else. “W…what?” you mumbled, voice cracking under your breath. That question wasn’t just invasive, it was a knife twisting in a wound you thought had started to heal. Overlap? Seriously? After everything…the heartbreak you bled into every lyric of that album, the nights spent raw and sleepless replaying every betrayal, every lie told like it was second nature, the manipulation and gaslighting that left you questioning your own reality. Was that not enough to convince them you were the one who got blindsided? The doubt, the cruelty you thought they’d forgotten, it stung worse than the flashing cameras and shouting voices combined.

You could feel your skin crawling with heat…and not the good kind. The crowd was too close. The sidewalk felt narrow, the space tightening with every step. It almost felt like you couldn’t breathe for a second, like with each flash their grip on your throat became tighter…and tighter…and tighter, until…

“Eyes on me,” he murmured, ducking his head down so his lips were at your ear, like it was just the two of you inside the restaurant again.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering in your chest, blood rushing in your ears.

Joe moved without hesitation, every instinct sharp and protective. His hand came down firmly on the small of your back, guiding you forward with steady pressure, as if to remind you silently that he was there, a shield against the storm. He angled his body deliberately, creating a barrier between you and the flashing cameras, his presence like a wall you could lean into. His other hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with quiet assurance, keeping you tethered to him even as the world spun wildly out of control. You felt the heat of his palm against your skin, the subtle pulse of his heartbeat, the silent promise that no matter how loud the chaos, you weren’t facing it alone.

“They’re not getting you like this,” he shook his head, eyes flicking over the swarm ahead, calculating—the left side was more crowded, right had a clearer path to the car. “Just keep walking. I’ve got you,”.

When someone lunged forward to snap a closer photo, Joe stepped in front of you completely, moving with intuition and precision. His entire frame squared off like a wall, broad shoulders and calm fury cutting between you and the flashing chaos. “...Back…the hell…up,” he said, each word laced with unshakable intensity, carrying that unmistakable edge, the one you’d only heard on game days.

His football voice.

Your heart skipped a beat. That voice—his football voice—cut through the noise like a sharp blade. It was commanding and cold, the kind of voice that made people stop in their tracks and reevaluate every decision they’d ever made. You’d heard it on the field, in tense moments when the game was on the line, but rarely outside that world. And never directed at strangers. Joe wasn’t the type to lose his cool or be disrespectful, even under pressure. But this wasn’t just frustration. This was something deeper, protective, primal. He wasn’t lashing out. He was drawing a line in the sand.

And part of you, even in the middle of the chaos, felt a rush of something hot in your chest. He wasn’t just defending you, he was claiming you. Shielding you. Fulfilling that unspoken promise he’d made so many times before, no one touches what’s his. It wasn’t about the paparazzi. It was about you. And in that moment, even through the adrenaline and tension, you knew. He would always put himself between you and the world.

Without thinking, your fingers clutched his tighter, a quiet plea beneath the surface. But he didn’t flinch. He just gave your hand a firm squeeze in return, steady and a failed attempt to calm you, and kept his eyes locked on the man with the camera like he was daring him to breathe wrong. You weren’t sure why part of you thought the contact would soften him. You knew better. Joe didn’t play when it came to you.

And that look in his eyes? It was lethal. Cold steel wrapped in fire. His jaw was set, his expression carved from silent rage, but it was his eyes that did the talking, those usually soft, sea-glass irises now intense and unreadable, glittering with a kind of dangerous calm. It wasn’t rage, not exactly. It was control. Calculated. Unforgiving. The look of someone who would burn the whole world down without raising his voice if it meant keeping you safe.

There was no bluff in him. No room for doubt. The line had been crossed, and Joe was the wall they’d slammed into.

He wasn’t fucking around.

And God help anyone who forgot that.

A dozen cameras fired in continuous rapid bursts, shutters clicking like machine guns, hungry to capture the tension in Joe’s jaw, the way his body shifted ever so slightly in front of yours.. Someone in the crowd called out, loud and baiting for a reaction, “Come on, Joe! Thought you used to be cool with the media. What’s the big deal now? You hiding something?”.

You almost laughed at that. Cool with the media? In what universe had Joe Burrow ever been cool with the media? He didn’t even flinch at that comment. Didn’t look their way. Didn’t give them a single word. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said because, at that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was you, not whatever narrative they were going to spin from this stupid situation tonight.

Joe opened the car door with one arm, holding it firmly while the other stayed wrapped around your waist, guiding you in. His hand curled protectively at your hip, blocking every camera angle that might catch your face. He didn’t rush you, didn’t snap at you to move faster. Just made sure you were in safely and completely before closing the door behind you with quiet finality. The moment it shut, it was like the world went quiet again—like someone threw a thick wool blanket over the chaos outside. A thick wool blanket you so desperately needed. The shrieking voices, the flashes, the clatter of footsteps and shutters, it all dulled, distant now behind the tinted glass.

Through the window, you watched Joe move with that same stoic assertiveness he had on display earlier before the whole football voice debacle. He didn’t sprint, didn’t even look flustered. Just moved around the car in calm, calculated steps, all control and subtle force. A man on a mission. Joe Cool. His jaw was tight, clenched in a way that made your heart squeeze. You could see it then, beneath the calm, he was angry. Not just annoyed or bothered. Angry. Because they’d come too close. Because they’d made you flinch. Because protecting you wasn’t a choice—it was the most important thing to him and this was the first time he’d witnessed them physically cross the line with you.

It wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with paparazzi like this. The flashes, the shouting, the way they pressed in, hungry for a reaction, for something to catch that could be turned into a headline. You’d been through it before, way too many times to count on two hands. But back then, it was different. When you were with your ex, you learned to carry the weight, the fear of being pushed into the deep in with no flotation device, alone. He never stepped up to protect you when you were visibly uncomfortable with the attention. Never reached out to shield you from the storm, never even bothered to hold your hand, which was the bare minimum in these situations. You remembered the cold ache in your chest as you fended off their invasive lenses with nothing but your own strength, swallowing the panic that threatened to rise, pretending you were okay when inside you felt like you were breaking.

But tonight with Joe, everything felt different. His hand gripped yours with a newfound intensity, like he was the only steady thing in the whirlwind, and he was determined not to let you drift. His body was close, all around you, behind you as you stepped through the crush of flashing cameras, beside you in the car now, a quiet wall of warmth and strength that seemed to shield you without even trying. You could feel the protectiveness radiating off of him, not just in the way he touched you, but in every subtle shift of his body, every careful glance. And his voice—god, his voice—it wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. There was a weight behind every word, something grounded and unshakable. Each syllable landed with purpose, sinking deep into your chest like ballast, pressing back against the storm in your head. There was no uncertainty in him. No trace of hesitation. Just a fierce, unflinching conviction that calmed your nerves before they could spiral. It made the world feel quieter. Safer. Like maybe, for once, you didn’t have to face it all alone.

You didn’t have to face it alone, but it came at the cost of his comfort. And that was what killed you.

Because you knew how much Joe hated that kind of attention, too. You’d seen the way his shoulders tensed when lights burst too close, the way his breath shortened just slightly, like he was bracing for something. He never said a word about it, always tried to mask it with calm, practiced indifference—but you knew him. You knew the signs. You felt it in the way his hand gripped yours more tightly, in the way his body went still like he was drawing an invisible line around you both.

And yet, he’d stepped into the chaos without blinking. Put himself between you and the noise, the heat, the vultures. Not for show. Not for the cameras. Just for you. Because some part of him—some deep, unshakable part—couldn’t not.

That hit you hard. A direct blow to the chest. Because it wasn’t just protective, it was visceral. Like he was always meant to do this, born to do this, to be this man for you. He didn’t do it out of obligation. He did it because keeping you safe was his safe. Because shielding you made him feel at peace.

And that...that was something you weren’t used to.

Not with men. Not with the press. Not when the worst of it came barrelling toward you, all teeth and spotlight and twisting headlines. You’d gotten used to fending for yourself. Bracing alone. Smiling through the sting.

Lights, camera, bitch, smile, even when you wanna die. That was your motto.

And when it happened before—when the noise came and your ex stood beside you—you’d been left to weather it alone, shrinking behind dark sunglasses while he walked a step ahead, pretending it wasn’t happening.

But this was different.

The heat of Joe’s hands on your skin, the steady pressure of his thumb brushing over your knuckles, it all pulled you back from the edge. Back from that old fear you’d carried like armor. You let yourself lean into him, just a little, let the rigidity in your spine soften as his warmth settled into your skin.

Because this was new. This was safe. He made you feel so safe.

This man—this quiet, guarded, soft-spoken man—was stepping into the fire not only to shield you, but because in some strange, unexpected way, you made it feel survivable for him too. So you let your body ease up against the seat cushion a little more, heart slowing its beating, and in that stillness—the space between what the world thought they knew and what only the two of you did—you let yourself believe something you hadn’t dared to before.

Maybe you didn’t have to be strong alone anymore.

Maybe neither of you did.

The sound of the door slamming shut again snapped you out of your thoughts. You tilted your head towards the noise and watched as his large frame slid into the seat beside you. Before even glancing at the road ahead, he turned toward you. “You okay?” he asked, the heavy tone he used just mere seconds ago completely gone. Now, it was back to the way it always was with you, pillowy softness, true sincerity, like he was scanning for the smallest signs of hurt. It wasn’t just the words either, he was asking with his eyes, his touch, the way his hand reached for yours like he needed to feel if you were truly alright.

You took a slow, steadying breath before nodding, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’m okay…I think. Thanks for that. I know…,” your eyes flicked to his, “...I know dealing with cameras and strangers prying into your life like that goes against everything you try to avoid. Guess I’m still a magnet for them,” you tried to laugh, but it got caught in your throat, weighed down by something heavier than embarrassment. The guilt was a quiet, persistent thrum beneath your skin. It crept in like fog, blurring the edges of your gratitude with something colder. You hadn’t meant to drag him into this part of your world. The truth was, he wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if it weren’t for you. Joe Burrow going out to dinner alone in New Orleans? Maybe a few fans asking for a picture. Maybe a blurry phone photo from across the room.

That was it.

But with you on his arm, the narrative changed. Suddenly, there were headlines and flashes, questions shouted over one another, people reaching, grabbing, speculating.

“This is because of me,” you said, the words falling before you could stop them. “If I wasn’t- if we weren’t…together, you wouldn’t be dealing with any of this. I hate that I’m the reason they’re all in your face like that. Especially this week, when it’s all supposed to be about y- you,” your voice faltered at the end, quiet and uneven, thick with guilt. “Fuck, am I making this about me again? Were those girls right?” you thought as you stared down at your lap, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, twisting it mindlessly as the ache behind your ribs swelled. The dress still smelled faintly like the restaurant—like wine and candle wax and early summer air—but even that familiar comfort couldn’t anchor you now.

His soft voice cut through the sinking feeling in your chest, “You come first,”.

You looked up.

“Always,” he said, his tone unwavering. “I don’t give a damn what they say or how they twist it. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em turn it into whatever the hell they want. I can take it. No big deal,”. His jaw was still tight, locked with restraint, but his eyes—his sweet ocean blue eyes—held none of the same hardness. They stayed soft on you, melting some of that internal ice inch by inch. “I just needed them to know,” he went on. “They don’t get to come near you like that. Ever. Not when I’m here,”.

The car hummed beneath you as it pulled from the curb, the driver silent behind the wheel, giving you space like he understood the tension in the cabin. Outside, camera flashes still bloomed like artificial lightning, burning white in the dark, but each one faded more quickly than the last, swallowed by the city lights and distance. You let out another slow breath, this one a little shaky, voice brittle. “I- I didn’t expect it to hit me like that. I thought I was used to it,” you said, eyes unfocused as you stared down at your lap, where your fingers lay still. “I mean…I’ve lived with this kind of attention for years. I know the drill. Cameras. Speculation. People thinking they’re entitled to your whole life just because they recognize your face,” you shook your head slightly, as if trying to shake off the memory, the way their voices had risen in a messy chorus outside the restaurant, overlapping with flashes and footsteps and the loud thrum of your own heartbeat.

“But something about tonight…,” your voice cracked just slightly, but you kept going, your words soft but razor-sharp where they pressed into old wounds. “The way they shouted at us—like I was something to be exposed, not someone real to be known—it got under my skin again. Like I was doing something wrong just by being next to you,”.

You swallowed hard, the heat of embarrassment and anger curling in your belly like smoke from a fire you thought you’d already put out. “And the things they were saying? An engagement? A baby? Trade rumors? Overlap? Where the hell did that even come from?” you gave a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “It was like they weren’t even looking at us…just baiting us, throwing shit at the wall to see what would stick. They could’ve asked about my album, or the Grammys last week, or hell, even focused on you and the honors tomorrow night. But no. Let’s scream ‘Baby Burrow!’ outside a restaurant like that’s going to get them a Pulitzer,”.

There was a beat of quiet, and then Joe let out a breath through his nose, part disbelief, part amusement. His lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “Baby Burrow and trade rumors in the same sentence,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear that combo screamed at me over the sound of camera shutters. That’s a new one,”.

You snorted, “It’s giving ‘late-night conspiracy theory documentary,’ you know? Completely bizarre with no links whatsoever. Next thing they’ll be yelling is that we faked a breakup to boost album sales and secretly bought a castle in the Swiss Alps to raise a baby goat commune,”.

Joe bit back a grin, eyes twinkling as he fought the laugh building in his throat. “Goat commune?” he echoed.

You nodded solemnly. “Goat commune. With matching linen robes. You wear a flower crown. I churn butter,”.

He leaned closer, “You’re actually terrifying,”.

“I try,” you winked. “And just wait until they say that we’re alien royalty who got married on the moon,”.

His smile twitched for a second at the mention of his favorite subject, aliens and space, and he leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a warm tease. “If we ever do get married on the moon, I’m wearing one of those full Buzz Lightyear suits. I expect you to coordinate,”.

“Matching helmets, or it’s off,” you shot back, your voice lighter now, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, but that playful glint softened as his gaze settled back on you, serious now. His hand slid back into yours without hesitation, his thumb running slow circles over the back like he was trying to ease the ache out of your bones. “They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said, “They just shout what they think’ll get a reaction. It’s noise. It’s all just…noise. But you? You’re not noise. You’re not something to be exposed, Y/N. You’re someone to be loved. Millions and millions of people love you. They’ve loved you through it all, through all the shit you never thought you’d come back from. Through the moments you were sure would make people turn away. But they didn’t. They don’t. They see you. I see you,”.

Your breath caught, throat tightening as his eyes searched yours. “There’s always gonna be someone out there spewing bullshit,” he continued, jaw clenching faintly. “For clicks, for attention, for the hell of it. Some asshole behind a camera or a keyboard just waiting to twist whatever they can into a headline. But they don’t matter. Not when the people who actually see you have already made up their minds. Not when I know exactly who you are,”.

You blinked against the sudden sting behind your eyes, breath catching as his words threaded their way into those raw, weathered places inside you—the ones worn down by years of scrutiny and shouted questions and flashing lights. The ones that still tensed at the idea of being seen too clearly, too much, too wrong. You’d built armor over the years, learned how to smile without flinching, how to deflect, how to hold yourself together under the lens. But Joe’s words, his presence, peeled all of that back so gently it didn’t even hurt, just left you exposed in a way that felt safe instead of scary. Like you weren’t being studied, or judged, or cornered. Like you were simply being held.

And as he angled his body closer, everything outside the car seemed to blur and fade. The flashbulbs. The yelling. The noise. All of it dissolved into nothing more than a memory already retreating into the rearview mirror. Here, inside this quiet moment with him, you weren’t some story to be written. You weren’t a headline, a scandal, or a symbol. You were just…you.

In his arms, with his voice steady in your ear and his fingers anchored around yours, you didn’t feel like a spectacle.

You felt at home.

“Yeah,” you say, not quite a whisper, not quite a breath—just a quiet truth loosed from the cage of your ribs. It slips out as your head folds into the space between his shoulder and his neck, where it’s warm and dim and safe. Where you can hear his pulse like a metronome, steady and permanent, like it’s always known you.

His arm tightens around you just slightly, fingers find their way around your hip, like this is the only place they’ve ever belonged. You don’t look at him when you speak again, you don’t have to.

“You do. You always know who I am,”.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s not something that’ll go viral tomorrow.

The elevator ride up to your suite was quiet, not awkward, not tense, but dense with a comfortable kind of peace that blocked out anything bitter. It pressed in around you, filled with everything left unsaid, his unwavering protectiveness, the adrenaline still humming in your blood, the sheer disbelief that any of it had just happened. The doors slid shut with a soft mechanical sigh, cocooning you in low gold light and polished silence. You didn’t speak, nor did he. But his presence behind you was loud in its own way; solid, anchoring, a furnace of heat radiating off his body in steady waves that curled against your back and shoulders, holding you together when your mind started to drift too far. You could feel the fire beneath his skin, the fury he rarely let anyone see. It only ever surfaced during high-energy moments on the field or when something threatened someone he loved. And tonight, that someone was you. He didn’t have to say a word. You knew. You felt it.

You also knew your phone was probably buzzing relentlessly in your clutch by now, Jen’s name lighting up the screen over and over. Which was exactly why you’d flipped on Do Not Disturb the second the car door shut behind you. You couldn’t handle the frenzy just yet, the photos, the warped headlines, the speculation they’d spin from a single freeze-frame. Not when your skin still felt tight and overstimulated from the flashing lights. Not when your heart hadn’t quite settled in your chest.

His fingers never left yours. Every few seconds, he gave a subtle squeeze, like he needed the reassurance that you were there. That nothing had taken you from him or this beautiful night you were having before shit went sideways outside the resteraunt. When the elevator doors finally opened, Joe's head turned sharply, scanning the hallway with a predator's awareness. Jaw tense, eyes scanning hard as he made sure nobody was around to disrupt the peace. Then, he slid a hand to your lower back, not just guiding you but shielding you, keeping your body close to his as he walked you to the suite. You leaned into him automatically, drawing strength from the tension in his frame, from the way he stayed coiled around you like a barrier.

Once the door shut behind you, the silence felt deafening. No chaos. No shouts. No camera flashes. Just the distant echo of jazz from the streetcar tracks two blocks down, the low buzz of the HVAC, and your heartbeats.

“Sit,” he said lowly, breaking the silence and motioning to the chair next to the coffee table. The word threaded through the quiet like a steel cable, gentle but immovable. There was no opening for argument, not after everything that had just happened. Not when you were still shaking, even if you were trying to hide it. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there. He watched the slight quiver of your bottom lip, the one you thought you’d gotten under control. But of course, he noticed. Of course, he saw right through it, just like he always did. You’d made it through the car ride, made it through the storm of cameras and shouting, but under it all, you were still rattled. Still fragile in a way that made his whole body go cold again, even now.

“I’m okay, Joe…,” you tried to say, the words barely scraping their way past your lips. It was more reflex than honesty; you were so used to hiding your pain from everyone. Your hand moved on instinct, threading through tangled strands of your hair, snagging in knots you hadn't even registered until now. The motion was shaky, betraying the truth you hadn’t admitted yet. Your voice was too soft, too weak, like you were trying to convince both of you.

Joe didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. Two quiet strides and he was there, standing directly in front of you, a calm presence wrapped around something burning. “I know you want me to believe that,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “But I need to see it. For myself,”.

Before you could answer, his hands were already on your face, cool against the feverish warmth blooming across your skin. His touch was sure, familiar in a way that quickly calmed you, but tender enough to unravel every defense you still had left. His thumbs traced softly beneath your eyes—not because you were crying, but because he was checking for the tears that hadn’t yet spilled. The way he held your jaw, cupping it with such aching gentleness, made your breath hitch. It was like he thought you might break if he wasn’t careful. “You held it together out there, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice roughened by restraint, every syllable dragging with quiet urgency. “You did everything right. But your hands? They were shaking the whole time. I felt it. And I know that look you had, you go quiet when you’re on the verge of falling apart,”.

Your gaze dropped to the floor as shame crept into your mind despite the tenderness in his voice. Maybe because you felt exposed. Maybe because he saw the things you tried to hide. Your mouth parted, but your throat tightened around every word, leaving you silent. When you did finally speak, your voice barely existed. “I just…I know everything you said in the car was right, but…I froze, Joe. I didn’t know what to do. It felt like they were everywhere. Like they were on top of me. I thought things would be different, that I would be different…I wasn’t scared, not really, I just—,”.

“You didn’t know where to put it,” he said, gently finishing the thought for you. “That panic. That pressure. That helplessness. I know exactly what that feels like,”.

Of course, he knew.

Joe knew that feeling better than almost anyone. He’d lived it—played through it. That gnawing weight in your chest, the breath that caught before a snap, the way the world narrowed, and the noise around you swelled until it all felt like too much. He first felt it in 2020, when his rookie season came to a screeching halt against Washington. One moment he was standing tall in the pocket, the next he was on the turf; his ACL torn, the future he’d worked so hard for suddenly up in the air. That was his first taste of helplessness. Of being benched by something beyond his control.

Then came Super Bowl LVI, standing under those lights in front of millions, watching seconds tick off the clock in disbelief as the Rams sealed the game. The loss didn’t hit like a punch; it hit like a slow, sharp bleed. That ache didn’t go away when the confetti fell, not even when it wasn’t their colors.

And lately? He’d learned to live with that pressure. It came with the territory—prime-time games, fourth-quarter comebacks, showdowns with the Ravens, the Chiefs, whoever had their shot that week. He carried it all, the importance of their expectations, the city’s hope, the responsibility of leading an entire franchise. He carried it so well, you’d never know the panic still sometimes tried to claw its way in.

But he never let it take over. He never let it win.

There was no self-pity in his voice, not even a hint of dramatics. Just shared understanding. A recognition forged from experience, the way soldiers recognize each other after battle. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore,” he continued, his tone softening with every syllable. “Let me carry it with you. All of it. Please. Can you do that for me?”.

Then he kissed your forehead, and not a light, passing press of lips, but something more deliberate. Like he was pressing every ounce of his love for you into your skin. “You don’t always have to know what to do,” he said as he pulled away. “You just have to let me take care of it. That’s my job now, yours is to be safe, to let yourself be taken care of. To not have to deal with it all alone, like he made you, like they all made you. I promise you that I can handle it, and I know I’ve said that like a dozen times today, but I mean it. Just be mine,”.

The last three words landed like a benediction, whispered against the tender air between you. Like a promise he had no intention of ever breaking.

Your breath hitched, and for once, you had nothing to say back to him. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t trust your voice not to crack open. So you nodded and hoped he understood all the things you couldn’t say.

You saw it happen in real time, the tension in his brow eased, his jaw unclenched, and something unspoken passed over his face, like a wave pulling him under. He tilted his head, slowly and with practiced ease, and your spine lit up in quiet anticipation, heat blooming in your lower belly. It was a look you knew too well, the kind of look that came with no warning but always meant gravity.

Your breath caught as your lashes lowered. Not out of performance, not out of habit, but because somewhere deep in your chest, something softened too.

Then…he kissed you.

Not like a man trying to be seen. Not for the audience, or the cameras, or whatever headline was already being drafted in the chaos outside. He kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him to that moment. Like if he kissed you just right, he could erase the tremor in your hands, the fatigue behind your eyes, the way your smile hadn’t quite reached your soul lately. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t polished. It was raw, and open, and full of all the things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

It felt like shelter. Like a hand over your heart saying, I’ve got you. I’ve. Got. You. I’m not letting go.

His lips were soft, but purposeful. Coaxing and reassuring you like he wasn’t in a rush to prove anything except that he wasn’t going anywhere. His tongue traced along yours with calculated ease, as if reacquainting itself with something sacred. One hand moved to the back of your neck, softly holding you there. The other slid down the slope of your shoulder, brushed across your collarbone, and settled at your waist, twisting gently. The tension in your body melted, little by little. You felt it uncoil in your shoulders, your spine, your clenched hands. All the places you hadn’t realized were locked down with fear and fatigue. Before you met Joe, you had been holding yourself together for so long that you were beginning to forget what it felt like to let someone else hold you. But over these past few months, Joe, piece by piece, day by day, was teaching you it all over again. What it felt like to be seen, heard, and loved in even the most minuscule ways.

He didn’t stutter, didn’t jump even when he felt the walls cave in just a smidge. When your arms wound around him and your breath hitched, he pulled you in tighter, kissed you deeper. Like he was building something around you. A fortress of touch. A haven of presence. And in that moment, in the silence between your panic and his promise, there were no flashing lights. No distant shouting. No threats waiting beyond the hotel walls.

There was only the truth he kept trying to show you, in every kiss, every word, every steady touch. You weren’t alone. Not anymore. Not with him. And maybe, for the first time in a very long time, you believed it. Really believed it. The thought slipped in quietly and slowly, like warmth beneath your ribs. So gently, you didn’t even notice at first that your hands had stopped trembling. That your breathing had evened out. That, for a moment, everything outside of this room ceased to exist.

“How did I ever function without this?” the thought came unbidden, tender and awestruck. “How did I ever survive before him?”.

Something about the way he handled you just now made you ache in a different way. Not from fear, not from panic. From want. From the heat curling in your stomach again like earlier, soft yet insistent. From the way he looked at you, like you were a blessing. He hadn’t even touched you like that again yet, not since before you left for dinner. But still, your thighs shifted together, pressing tight. Because the way he showed up for you, not just during intimate moments, but in moments like this, turned you on more than anything else ever had.

When he finally pulled back, the world didn’t crash in. It just narrowed to him, and the way he was looking at you now. When he noticed your gaze, when his lips tugged into the ghost of a smile and he whispered, “What’re you thinking about, pretty girl?” you knew he could feel it too. His eyes roamed lower, dropping to the delicate straps of your dress where they kissed your shoulders, the fabric slightly askew from the rush of earlier. Something in his expression shifted—still soft, but edged with something darker. Hungrier. “You wore this for me?” he asked, voice gone hoarse, laced with something unspoken as he eyed the lace black straps underneath the dress straps.

You felt the air leave your lungs in a shaky breath, your chest rising against the sudden heat winding through you. You nodded slowly, eyes lowering as you remembered you’d slipped this on before you left earlier. “I told you if you behaved tonight…,”.

The corner of his mouth twitched first, then that soft, husky chuckle rolled out of him. The kind of laugh that made your stomach do a backflip. “Baby,” he said, his voice a rasp that set your skin ablaze, “I tried so fucking hard. You looked so goddamn stunning tonight, and I swear…every time I looked at you, I was five seconds away from losing it,”. He leaned in then, his breath warm against your cheek, lips brushing just beside your ear. “You…you have no idea what you do to me, princess,”.

“Yeah. I’m fucked,” you instantly thought to yourself, a cheeky smile rising on your face. Maybe it was the adrenaline still fading from your veins, or the way he’d stood so unflinching in front of the chaos, shielding you with everything he had. Or maybe it was just him, in this light, in this moment, looking at you like that. Like this was what he’d fought through it all for. Either way, the shift in the air was undeniable. He was still your safe place, but now the way he watched you made it clear. You were his weakness. And right now, you were the only thing he wanted.

“Was I good, Y/N?” he smirked, his heated gaze sweeping up and down your body. He knew what he was doing, saying it like that, looking at you like that. Like he’d already cracked you open from the moment you batted your eyelashes at him earlier at dinner, but was making you say it out loud for the world to hear.

You grabbed his wrist, fingers splaying across the back of his hand, pulling it to your lip so you could drop a soft kiss to his knuckles. “You were so good, Joey,” you mumbled, “So strong,” a kiss placed on his knuckles again before you let go and wrapped your arms around his neck, “So protective,” a kiss placed on the sweet spot, his hands sliding from your hips down to your ass, “So intimidating,” a kiss placed on his jawline. At the same time, he sucked in a breath, hands tightening their hold on your flesh, “So sexy,” and a final kiss placed on his ear after you whispered that.

“Baby, please,” he breathed, voice frayed and slowly becoming softer, his forehead dropping to your shoulder like the weight of all his restraint had finally collapsed. You felt him tremble, every muscle drawn tight, every breath a struggle not to lose control.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tender but purposeful, tugging at the ends to bring his face back up to yours. His eyes found yours—stormy, wrecked, needing—and you didn’t flinch. You held him there. You let him see you. Then you leaned in, your lips brushing his in a kiss that lingered like a promise. “Take it,” you whispered against his mouth. “Whatever you need, Joe. Have all of me. I’m yours…completely,”.

And that did it.

He didn’t respond with words, just a sharp breath through his nose, a muttered curse against your cheek, and then he pulled back enough to shrug his shirt over his head. The fabric dragged across his skin in one clean sweep, baring the lines of his shoulders and the ripple of his chest and abs beneath the warm glow of the room. His hands went to his belt next, and when the leather slid free with that low, biting snap, something inside you tightened and flipped. You bit your lip as the heat blooming in your stomach started to spread throughout every inch of your body. God, he looked unreal like this. Eyes dark with lust, cheeks flushed from the kiss, and panting, fully panting because he needed to feel you again; all lean muscle and want and yours. Every inch of skin he revealed made you forget how to breathe.

And he saw it…how your breath hitched, how your fingers shifted slightly to grip your hip to make sure you didn’t fall over from seeing him like this. His lips curved into something between a smirk and a growl, that deep, knowing sound he only made when he knew exactly how worked up you were. “You like watching me lose control, don’t you?” he murmured, voice thick with heat as he stepped closer, belt still hanging loose from one hand before he dropped it. “Gets you off knowing I’d rip the world apart for you,”.

He wasn’t wrong, and he could see it written all over your face.

He didn’t rush this, not even a little. His fingers easily found the zipper at the small of your back, reaching for the tiny metal tag like instinct, almost as instinctual as his fingers finding a football. He dragged it down at an agonizing pace, his knuckles grazing your spine. The anticipation tightened around you like a wire. The dress slipped from your shoulders, sliding to your waist, before you let it fall completely, pooling at your feet with a soft rustle. Cool air kissed your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his gaze. His breath hitched sharply when he took in the black lace hugging your curves—sheer, barely-there fabric clinging to your body like a lover’s hands.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the words barely audible, like they’d clawed their way out of his throat. “You’re fucking unreal,”.

His hands found your hips and gripped, hard enough to make your breath hitch, like he needed something to hold onto or he’d completely come undone right then and there. His fingers splayed over your skin, possessive and burning hot through the thin fabric of your black set. Each step he took toward the bed was unhurried, intentional, twisted with restraint that was quickly fading at the edges. Every inch of his body thrummed with tension, the kind that made your pulse race with anticipation.

Your knees hit the mattress, and you went willingly, letting him guide you back as the air crackled around you. His mouth crashed into yours again—urgent, greedy, dragging a moan from deep in your chest. His teeth caught your bottom lip just hard enough to sting before he soothed it with his tongue, then his kisses trailed lower. Down your jaw. Your neck. Across the delicate lines of your collarbone, each one wetter, hungrier than the last. He couldn’t seem to get close enough, “Lie back,” he rasped, his voice dense and commanding. You didn’t even think, just obeyed. Your head hit the pillow with a soft rustle, silk sheets cool against your flushed skin, and fuck, you were already soaked. A hot throb between your thighs pulsed with need, desperate for more of him—his mouth, his hands, him. All of him.

He knelt between your legs and just looked at you, that heavy-lidded gaze drinking you in like he’d never seen anything so decadent. His hands started at your ankles, rough palms trailing up the curve of your calves with excruciating slowness. His thumbs dragged along the inside of your knees, and when he reached your thighs, his grip tightened. Wide, steady, spreading you open like a gift he was about to unwrap. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered, voice tight, nearly guttural as his thumbs hooked into your panties and dragged them down your legs inch by inch. “Look at you. Already dripping for me,”.

The moment they were off, he tossed them carelessly aside, then leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. His tongue flicked, teased, sucked until your back arched and your breath broke in a gasp. “Joe…please…,”.

“Patience,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and dark and far too calm for the way you were trembling. “I want to taste every fucking second of this,”.

A second later, a thick, calculated lick from your entrance to your clit had your body jerking off the bed. You cried out, one hand flying to the sheets, the other to his hair, fingers sinking in as you tried to ground yourself. His groan rumbled against you like thunder—fuck, he was loud when he got needy—and the sound shot straight through you. He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, firm and rhythmic, tongue flicking just enough to drive you insane. “Oh, fuck…Joe,” you moaned, already a withering mess underneath his touch.

He didn’t let up as his grip on your hips tightened, burying his face between your thighs, tongue moving in filthy, endless strokes. He licked, sucked, devoured you like it was his life’s purpose. Like he’d crawl inside you if you let him. “Stay still,” he smirked, pulling back just far enough to speak, his lips slick and glistening. “Let me have you. Just like this. Let me feel how much you need me,”.

You tried, you tried, but your hips kept chasing him, seeking the friction, the fullness, the overwhelming pressure that only he could give. He rewarded your lack of control with a low, wrecked moan and shoved his tongue deep, fucking into you with long, steady strokes that had you clenching around him. Both hands grabbed for his hair, attaching themselves to the only solid thing in the world—him—as your climax began to build, rising fast and brutal and dizzying. The sounds in the room were obscene; the wet, greedy noises of him eating you out, the hitch in your breath, the raw sound of his name breaking on your lips.

“I can’t…I’m gonna– Joe!”.

He latched onto your clit again, sucking hard, tongue circling just right, and your orgasm shattered through you. It was white-hot and endless, your body spasming as your thighs clamped around his head and your voice broke on a scream. You came undone for him, shaking, twitching, unraveling under his addictive touch.

But he didn’t stop. He kept going, licking you through every aftershock, tongue slow and soft now, as if he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you. His stubble scraped softly against your oversensitive skin, and you whimpered, half-delirious, hips twitching. “Ah, Joe…you’re so– ,”.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Hair wild, face soaked with your sweet arousal, lips swollen and gleaming. His pupils were blown wide, his breath ragged, and his expression… fuck, it was pure possession. “You’re such a fucking mess for me,” he rasped, leaning forward to kiss the inside of your thigh again, slow and soft. “Look at you. Just from my mouth,”.

His thumb stroked your still-quivering leg, but his eyes stayed dark, hungry. Because this was only the beginning. You reached for him, desperate, every nerve ending strung tight and aching. “Need you,” you gasped, voice wrecked and pleading. “Please, Joe. I need you inside me. I need to feel you in me. I need it so bad,”.

He kissed his way up your body, belly trembling under his mouth, your breasts arching into his touch as he paused to suck one nipple deep into his mouth, then the other, tonguing and teasing until you were moaning, fingers threading through his messy hair. By the time he reached your lips, you were already shaking again. He kissed you with the same hunger he’d devoured you with—deep, messy, tongue thrusting into your mouth so you could taste yourself on him, sweet and sharp and unmistakably yours.

“Baby,” he rasped against your lips, voice thick and wrecked with want. “You taste so good, so fucking sweet. I could spend the rest of my life right here, tasting you, making you cum over and over,”.

Your head fell back against the pillow, a breathless, broken laugh spilling from your throat. “God, Joey…you drive me insane,” you whispered, hips rolling up into his, searching for anything to soothe the growing ache between your thighs. “Feels so good when you touch me like that,”.

He grinned as his cock was heavy and hard against your thigh, flushed a deep shade of red and glistening at the tip with pre-cum. It twitched sharply when you whimpered into his mouth, the sound alone enough to make him throb against your skin. You could feel the heat of it radiating into your thigh, an impossible promise you ached to take. Your breath caught at the sheer weight of him, the way the silky skin stretched over steel, the pulsing ridge of veins that made your stomach flutter in anticipation.

One of his hands slid between your bodies, calloused fingers dragging a line down your waist, your hip, until they wrapped possessively around the base of his cock. He stroked himself once, slow, purposeful, letting you feel the movement of it against your leg. You looked down and watched, transfixed, as his hand glided up the length, thumb swiping through the bead of pre-cum before dragging it down again, slicking himself with it.

Then he guided the thick head to your entrance, the blunt tip nudging through your folds, already drenched. He pressed forward just enough to catch, to part you slightly, then slid back, dragging up and down until he bumped your clit and made your hips jerk.

He teased you mercilessly, dragging the flushed head through your slickness, back and forth, coating himself in your arousal. Every now and then, he pressed in shallowly, no more than an inch, before pulling out again with a wet sound that made your breath hitch and your core clench hard. The head of his cock dragged over your entrance again, slipping lower, tapping against your pooling arousal, then up. The tension wound tighter and tighter inside you, your body aching with every pass, desperate for the stretch you knew was coming. The sound of it—the wet glide of cock on cunt, your shaky breathing, his heavy groans—made the moment unbearably erotic.

“Beg,” he rasped, voice thick with lust, breath hot at your ear. He held himself steady, barely moving, the tip of his cock resting right at your entrance like a threat. “You want it so bad, baby…fucking beg for it. Tell me how much you need my cock,”.

Oh?

So he was in that mood tonight?

“Please,” you breathed, hands fisting in the sheets, whole body arching with the desire for him to touch you. “Please, Joe. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me so deep I feel you in my stomach. Please, baby…I need it. I need you to ruin me. Make me yours. Make me feel good,”.

“I need to cleanse my mouth with bleach,” you thought to yourself in that moment.

With a smirk, he lined himself up and drove into you, inch by punishing inch, slow but unstoppable, “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. You felt every thick ridge of him drag along your walls, the stretch so intense it made you sob. Your body resisted at first, tight and trembling, but then gave way, yielding to him, wrapping around him like it was meant to. The burn was sharp, electric, searing you open in the most delicious way. “Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked, guttural and dark. “You’re so tight. Jesus, baby...you feel like fucking heaven. Like this pussy was made for me,”. He didn’t stop until he bottomed out, hips snug against yours, cock buried to the hilt. The sensation hit you all at once, full, stuffed so deep you could barely breathe. Your nails dug into his muscular shoulders, and he held himself still, letting you adjust, feeling every twitch of your cunt squeeze around him. Then he pulled back and slammed forward, hard.

The sound was obscene, sharp slaps of skin on skin, wet and feral, a rhythm that echoed off the walls like a filthy song only the two of you knew. Better than any song you could’ve ever written, to be honest. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back, and your head snapped back against the pillows as he started to pound into you. Not just hard, but deep—each measured thrust expertly angled, perfectly brutal, sending electric shocks of pleasure ricocheting up your spine.

The bed rocked faintly beneath you with every punishing thrust, the headboard banging a frantic rhythm against the wall that threatened to become its own heartbeat. Each slam of his hips jolted the mattress, sending ripples up through your spine, your body arching helplessly under the force of it. You could hear the sheets twisting, the springs protesting, the whole frame groaning in time with your desperate cries. His cock drove so deep, so unrelentingly thick inside you, it felt like he was splitting you open, every inch dragging against your slick, swollen walls, making your vision blur with stars.

“Joey,” you sobbed his name, voice breaking around the syllables, legs twitching where they clutched around his waist. The bed rocked harder, shoving you up toward the headboard with every powerful drive of his hips, the wood creaking beneath you like it might snap under the strain.

Still, he didn’t stop, didn’t even think of stopping. He just wrapped a hand around your thigh, holding you open, holding you there, like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. And you took it all, your body clenching and singing his name, trembling to pieces under the man who owned your heart and was determined to leave his mark on your body just as deeply.

He was utterly dazed, could barely even breathe, caught in the staggering sight of you spread out beneath him. The way your body twisted and shook for him, soft curves trembling with each desperate thrust, the perfect bounce of your tits every time he drove in deep, the slick heat of you gripping him like you never wanted to let go—it was enough to tear the air right from his lungs. His eyes roamed greedily over every inch of you, drinking in the flushed glow of your skin, the delicate lines of your throat when you threw your head back, the pretty little belly he loved to kiss and press his hand against when he fucked you slow. He’d never craved anyone like this. Never wanted anyone else, not when you existed like this, so stunning, so wholly his. Watching you come undone under him, knowing he was the only one who could pull those sounds from your throat, who could make you fall apart this way, it made his cock throb inside you, made his chest ache with a possessive, helpless love. There was no one else. There would never be anyone else. Just you, his beautiful girl, forever.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he groaned, fucking into you with possesive heat. “So beautiful… so fuckin’ perfect for me. This pussy’s fucking mine. You hear me?”.

“Yours,” you gasped, desperate, locking eyes with him, your mind fully clouded by lust but still present enough to be surprised at how he was going about this tonight. “I’m yours, Joe. No one else. Just you. Always…you,”.

He sat back on his knees and dragged your hips with him, the new angle devastating. Every thrust now slammed into the spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You looked down and cried out, “Oh fuck,”. There, in your lower belly, you could see him. The outline of his cock bulging beneath your skin, pressing up from inside with every deep thrust. “Look at that,” he hissed, palm flattening over your stomach, pressing down just enough to feel the shape of himself. “That’s me. Deep inside you. You feel that, baby? That’s how far I am, you like that?”.

Your body convulsed, your cunt clenching so tight around him he hissed through his teeth. “You’re perfect,” you choked out. “So fucking big. So perfect. You fill me up so good, Joe. No one’s ever…ever made me feel like this, baby,”.

He rushed forward and kissed you, soft and messy, tongue claiming your mouth as his thrusts grew wild, relentless. “Say it again,” he mumbled into your lips, needing to hear that praise over and over until he couldn’t fucking think anymore. There was nothing better than hearing you fall apart because of him, seeing his beautiful, strong, sexy girl lose her mind over his cock.

“Only you,” you sobbed. “Only you, Joe,”.

Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders as you fell back into the pillows, hips chasing every desperate push of his. The pressure was a white-hot coil inside you, wound so tight it felt like it might snap at any second. “Joe…fuck. I’m so close, please…I need to cum,” you whimpered, your voice breaking into a pleading gasp as his hand slid down to grip your thigh, hauling you impossibly closer.

“Yeah?” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek.. His hips ground into you, deeper now, slower for just a torturous moment as if he wanted to carve every inch of himself into your body, to memorize how you felt wrapped so tight around him. His hand slipped beneath your knee, pushing your leg up higher against your chest so he could sink even deeper, the new angle making your vision spark white at the edges. “Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he murmured, the words ragged as he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes locked on the way yours fluttered and threatened to roll back. “Gonna let go? Let me feel how much you fuckin’ need me?”.

His thumb traced down to your throat, applying the gentlest pressure that had you keening beneath him, your hips jerking up to meet every demanding thrust. The filthy squelch of your bodies filled the dim, heated room, punctuated by your whimpers and his rough groans. You could only nod, broken and breathless, every inch of you coiled tight, ready to snap for him—and only him.

A few seconds later, your head fell to the side, a soft whimper slipping out as your eyes fluttered shut, your body completely at his mercy now, “Yes, yes. Joe…please,”.

His thumb found your clit, circling fast and rough, the pressure calibrated to your edge, and your whole body seized up as the orgasm burst inside you. “Fuck, yeah…that’s it, Y/N. Cum for me, angel,” he groaned as it hit like a shockwave, raw, electric, earth-shattering. You screamed faintly, voice cracking with the force of it, eyes clenched tight as every muscle locked, then trembled violently. Your pussy clamped down around his cock like a vice, milking him with greedy, pulsing pressure that had him grunting deep, low in his chest like it was being ripped from his soul. “Oh my god…Joe- Joe!” you sobbed, your voice breaking on his name like it was the only word you still knew.

“Fuck…baby, fuck,” he moaned, barely holding on, hips jolting forward in one last brutal thrust before he came undone. He whimpered through gritted teeth, his whole body going taut above you as thick, hot ropes of cum surged into you. It poured from him in heavy pulses, coating your walls, spilling deep and hot until it couldn’t hold anymore—until it leaked out around the thick base of his cock, even as he kept fucking into you, grinding in tight circles like he could press it deeper. Bury it inside you. Brand you from the inside out. You could feel it, every throb, every sticky rush. The way your walls clung to him, refusing to let go. The heat of it, the waves of pleasure crashing over your limp body, the mess. It was so much, obscene and overwhelming and perfect. You whimpered, nails raking down his back as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, holding him there, holding him in. Because it still wasn’t enough. Not even close.

He stayed buried deep, chest pressed to yours, arms crushing you to him. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispered, breath ragged. “Fucking unbelievable, Y/N,”.

Your fingers slid between your thighs, gathering the slick mess starting to leak out of you. You brought it up and showed him, your voice trembling. “Clean up on aisle 9,” you chuckled. “Made a bit of a mess, don’t you think?”.

His gaze dropped to your fingers, and something in him twitched. Pride, lust, love, all tangled into one sweet thing in his chest. A slow grin spread across his face as he leaned down and kissed your jaw, then lower, letting his lips trail softly over the curve of your throat. “Good,” he rasped. “That’s exactly what I meant to do,”. Then his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs sweeping tenderly beneath your eyes, tracing over the delicate curve of your cheekbones like he needed to memorize the way your skin warmed under his touch.

His palms held you with a gentleness that made your chest ache, like you were something precious, fragile in the best way, worthy of being handled with infinite care. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead first, a touch so gentle it felt almost like a sigh against your skin. Then the tip of your nose, a playful graze that still somehow left your heart stumbling. Next came your temples, each side kissed with a reverence that made your lashes flutter, followed by your cheeks, where his lips lingered in tender pauses that seemed to pour all his quiet devotion straight into you.

They were feather-light kisses, but they landed heavy with meaning, more worship than routine, each one a vow unspoken. His mouth moved with such soft, deliberate care, it was clear this had nothing to do with the heat you’d shared moments before. This was about love, about intention, about showing you exactly where you belonged. And in that peace, with his breath mingling with yours and his hands holding you so sweetly, it felt beautifully, impossibly easy to believe that belonging was right here, nestled safely in the curve of his hands and the tender press of his lips. “You did so good for me,” he whispered, the words pressing against your skin with every kiss. “So sweet. So beautiful. You were perfect, angel,”.

You melted under him, overwhelmed by the affection of it all. “You always take care of me,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his damp hair, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Joey,”.

Whether it was shielding you from the blinding glare of paparazzi flashbulbs as you slipped out the back of a venue or cradling you in the aftermath of a night that left you trembling and thoroughly undone, marked in ways only the two of you would ever truly comprehend, he was always watching over you. Not out of obligation or habit, but out of something deeper, something respectful and instinctual that felt like devotion etched into his very bones.

It wasn’t a loud, boastful kind of protection but a quiet, special one, threaded through every small but significant gesture, the way he’d subtly place himself between you and a crowd without thinking, the way his body curled around yours in sleep as though even unconscious he couldn’t bear the thought of you unguarded, the way his voice softened when your mind began to drift toward chaos.

In every moment that left you feeling exposed, whether raw with emotion, bruised by the world, or blissed-out and boneless from the weight of his love, he showed you without fail, without pause, that you were safe in his presence, because protecting you wasn’t just something he did; it was who he became when he loved you, and he loved you so completely that choosing you never felt like a decision but a certainty he carried in every breath.

His mouth found the corner of yours in a soft press, “I love you, beautiful,” he said. “You’ve spent enough time cleaning up your wounds by yourself, stitching your scars back up in secret. But I’m here for you now. And I’m never letting anything near you that doesn’t treat you like the way I treat you,”.

The way he treats you.

Like you weren’t something shameful to be exposed, but someone to be loved.

“Joe! Joe! Over here!”.

The shouts cut through the thick New Orleans air like sirens, loud and relentless.

Flash.

“Here we go again,” you murmured under your breath, barely audible over the rising swell of voices. Your eyes scanned the crowd outside The Saenger Theater, every corner lit up by camera strobes, reporters jockeying for position like sharks scenting blood.

“Can I get an autograph, Joe?!”.

He didn’t flinch, just tightened his grip on your hand, steady and firm, the silent reassurance of a man who wasn’t letting go. With his other hand, he offered a polite wave to the fans crowding behind the barricade, but his body stayed angled toward yours like he was shielding you from the noise.

“Y/N! You look gorgeous!”.

The compliment made your cheeks flush, but it was drowned out almost instantly by more shouts, more lights, more chaos. Still, it lingered with you, warm and fizzy in your chest.

You knew exactly what you looked like tonight, precisely the effect you’d crafted when you slipped into this dress. The black sheer panels clung like a second skin, delicate but daring, kissed all over with red and silver sequins that caught the light in glittering cascades every time you moved. It was the kind of gown that seemed to breathe with you, sparkling with each subtle shift of your hips, every breath expanding the fine fabric across your ribs. Your strappy heels clicked smartly against the pavement, a crisp, confident music that trailed behind you, echoing off the stone walls and mingling with the hum of traffic. Even the night air seemed to pay attention, cool and fragrant, slipping beneath the slit of your dress to brush against your thighs, making your skin pebble and your heartbeat trip.

Joe hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you since the moment you came out of the car. His gaze had traveled over you in long, unhurried sweeps, dark lashes hooded, lips parted like he might say something but forgot the words. It was more than hunger—it was awe, thick and sweet, etched into the lines of his face. And you couldn’t keep your eyes off him either, not for a second.

He looked devastatingly handsome tonight. Midnight-black tailored suit, sharp lapels hugging his broad shoulders, and the best part? He was shirtless underneath. The only things adorning his body were his two diamond chains, both of which had dangled in your face quite a few times, which is why you were nearly frozen for a solid minute when you saw him come out of the closet.

So. Many. Flashbacks.

And then there was that chain. Not the one around his neck…but the one in his pocket.

The chain nestled in his left pocket wasn’t just jewelry. It was colorful and delicate, each charm a miniature planet in a perfect little orbit—Mercury, Venus, Earth...the whole solar system, and right in the middle, between Mars and Jupiter, was something unmistakable to the human eye. A tiny gold star etched with a singular letter. Your initial. A single, shimmering charm that didn’t belong in any solar system but his. It really was impossible to miss if you looked closely enough, and Joe wanted you to look. He didn’t bother tucking it away or muting the shine. No, he wore it boldly, letting the chain dangle with each stride, catching the light in rhythmic glints as if begging every camera lens to zoom in. This wasn’t just a detail in his outfit—it was a declaration. The whole world had its eyes on him tonight, and he made sure they knew exactly who resided at the heart of his solar system.

You remembered the exact moment you saw it, hours earlier, the two of you tucked into the quiet before the storm, the car idling at the curb while he adjusted the fall of his jacket. A shimmer caught your eye, delicate and deliberate, and then you saw it. Your breath hitched.

“Wait…is that–?” your voice faltered as your eyes landed on the small golden charm nestled between miniature planets.

Joe shrugged like it was nothing, but the way his ears turned pink told you otherwise. “Figured every universe should have a star named after you,” he said with a half-smile, that boyish smile that made you spiral. “Mine already does,”.

He said it so plainly, so offhanded, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing anyone had ever done. Like he wasn’t standing there on one of the most public nights of his career with a piece of you swinging against his thigh, daring the world to notice. Like he hadn’t quite literally turned his love for you into something cosmic.

And it mirrored your own devotion too perfectly to be a coincidence. Just last week, you’d stepped onto the Grammy carpet wearing a thigh chain so subtle, barley hidden, it had only flashed once though—a brief glint through the slit of your gown. That gold and black J engraved just for him, seen by most, was a whisper of a promise only Joe was meant to catch. And now here he was, answering you with his own, louder, prouder, publicly claimed.

You hadn’t even known he’d thought about it, much less had it made so quickly. But that was the magic of Joe. It wasn’t about grand reveals, it was about meaning, about sincerity, about appreciating the most intimate parts of your love in places only you two would understand.

Tonight, he wore you like a fixed star. Not a footnote in the story of his life. Not an accessory. But the axis. The chain swayed with a soft rhythm as he walked beside you, glinting under the street lights. And when he looked your way, eyes full of quiet devotion, the kind that calmed every nerve in your body, you felt it again. That tether. That undeniable pull. You were his center, just as surely as he’d always been yours. And in that moment, you weren’t just proud to orbit a man like him—you were honored to be the galaxy he chose to build around.

His knuckles brushed your bare back now as he helped you up the steps, fingers grazing the fabric of your dress, his touch sending shivers down your spine even in this moment where you both were just trying to thug it out and make it into the venue. His gaze dipped lower for a moment, drinking you in. And then it came back to your face with that look, the one that always made you weak. But this wasn’t about you. Not tonight.

You tried to keep your face composed, your posture graceful beneath the blinding onslaught of flashes and Joe’s poorly timed bedroom eyes, but you felt the shift before you even looked at him. Joe’s grip had tightened again, not in reassurance this time, but in tension. His jaw was locked, his eyes darting too quickly, glancing at the eager smiles of fans, the flashing lights of their cameras, and how they were slowly pushing up against the barricades. He even became hyperaware of how his suit was clinging to his skin, making him itchy in places where he shouldn’t be itchy, wanting nothing more than to claw it off his body in that moment.

He was spiraling.

And no one else would know. Not the fans screaming his name, not the cameras capturing his every movement, not the handlers waving him down the carpet like this was just another Sunday on the field. But you knew. You always knew. You stepped in closer, your shoulder brushing against his chest, calming him with your presence, the way he’d done for you just the night before. This wasn’t a stadium, this wasn’t a locker room, this most definitely wasn’t a football game. This was a pressure he couldn’t control, and it gnawed at him.

“Smile!” someone yelled.

He didn’t. Not fully. Not like he usually did.

So you leaned up, lips ghosting against the edge of his jaw, and whispered softly, “You’re okay, J. I’m right here,”.

He turned to you like he was a compass needle and you were true north, a magnetic force tugging on his body as soon as he heard your sweet voice, eyes briefly flicking down to your face. His fingers curled more firmly around yours as you reached your free hand to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket—half fix, half comfort. “This is your night,” you told him quietly. “You earned this, baby. Just take a deep breath and let them see you,”.

You weren’t letting go of him for anything, your grip shrinking around him as the sounds of the crowd around you only became louder. You couldn’t let go of him, not now. Not when you were the only one here for him. Robin and Jimmy were supposed to be right behind you, had planned to fly in from Athens early this morning. But a last-minute issue with his cousin’s baby had derailed the whole thing. One missed connection turned into two, and now they were stuck overnight in Atlanta. Joe had nodded stoically when he got the call, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable, shoulders set in that too-still way that meant he was trying not to let it get to him. Said it was fine. Said he’d see them back in Ohio.

But it wasn’t fine. Not really.

He tried everything. Within minutes of hanging up, he was already on the phone trying to charter them a jet. You’d overheard him pacing the suite, voice clipped and low, rattling off numbers and weather reports like he was running a two-minute drill. But even that didn’t work. A massive storm system had grounded everything in the region; private, commercial, it didn’t matter. No one was getting out.

When he came back into the room, he didn’t say a word. Just sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he could will it to change.

You’d crossed the room without a sound, slipping between his knees and cupping his face in your hands until he finally looked up at you. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fake a smile or play it off, and you could tell he was upset by the way his eyes were drooping. He just rested his forehead against your sternum, breathing you in like you were the only thing about this week that he felt comfortable with, the only thing that didn’t make him feel the overwhelming urge to stick his head in the dirt. Because tonight, they wouldn’t be there, and no matter how many reporters shouted his name, no matter how many lights flashed when he stepped into that theater, part of him would still be that little kid from Athens, wanting his Mom and Dad in the front row to see him win big.

He had a strong chance of winning MVP this year, despite the poor season the Bengals had. His personal accomplishments this past season, spirit as a locker room leader, and impact on and off the field had garnered enough attention for him to be a serious candidate, and if he really did win, he wanted them to be there. They had always been there. For every one of his biggest moments, from Little League Football awards to The Heisman Ceremony, all the way to Super Bowl LVI (regardless of the bitter outcome). They had never not been there, and that tugged at his heart a little, and you knew that. So you stayed. Close. Solid. Present. The one thing tonight he didn’t have to worry about losing, because in the back of his mind, Joe was certain that he was going home empty-handed tonight, he never ever expected to win in these situations. But he had made peace with that a long time ago, knew that he wouldn’t ever be taken seriously in these situations unless the Bengals had a phenomenal season as a whole, even if he had a season for the history books. However, since you walked into this life, he realized he didn’t need these trophies to remind him of his worth. Not when you already did without any conditions, every minute of every day you spent together. Somehow, that mattered more than he could admit.

You leaned in again, “You look amazing, tonight. Very put together and handsome,” you murmured just loud enough for him to hear, hoping to lighten the energy around him.

His mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t lift from the steps, making sure your heel didn’t get caught in a ridge, “You think so?”.

“I know so,” you said, threading your fingers through his where they hung between you. “And they’d be so proud if they were here. And I know it’s not the same, but I’m here. You’re not alone in this,”.

After that sentence, he looked at you, really looked. His pupils wide under the sharp gleam of the flashing lights, his gaze searching your face like he needed to memorize it. Then he nodded, subtle but sure, and squared his shoulders as the entrance to the Saenger came into view, “Thank you…for being here. For doing this with me,” he said, smiling faintly. You could feel the shift in him, and although the nerves didn’t disappear, they folded around the quiet certainty of your presence. Just like they had the night before, when it had been your heart unraveling, your voice breaking, your hands shaking. And Joe had held you through it. Wordlessly. Fiercely.

Now it was your turn to hold him through the noise. Which you would, every step of the way.

You turned to him, manicured fingertips brushing over the curve of his wrist, and said softly, “I’d do this with you in every lifetime,”. Your gaze dropped to the star charm resting against his thigh along with the other planets in the Solar System, and something in you shifted—a realization that felt both ancient, like you’d felt this for him before in another lifetime, and entirely new, like you were learning it all over again. Your eyes found his again, steady and shining as bright as that charm. “In every universe,” you whispered, and he smiled, the kind of smile he gave only to you, the one that said he believed it too.

The flashes of the cameras were relentless inside, exploding in rapid succession, strobing across the velvet carpet like a storm of artificial stars. It felt like stepping into a tidal wave of light and sound, voices crashing over each other as dozens of photographers yelled your names from every angle, their cameras capturing every flicker of a smile, every brush of contact.

“Fantastic!”

“Look this way!”

“Power couple of the year!”

But none of it seemed to register beyond the hum in your ears. Joe’s hand had found you the moment you stepped into the spotlight, and it hadn’t left since. It slid with deliberate ease from the curve of your hip, trailing the seam of your dress with the barest pressure, and settled firmly at the small of your back before dipping lower. His palm landed on the swell of your ass, a particuly risque move by the former Mr. No PDA, but it was possessive and warm, keeping him from panicking because of the chaos around you. It was a touch that said more than words ever could, even through the layers of sheer and beading, you could feel the heat of his skin seeping into yours. There was a solemnity in the way he held you, an unspoken promise wrapped in the press of his body and the quiet ferocity of his touch. The crowd could roar, the cameras could flash, but Joe’s hand never wavered, and you never once let each other feel alone.

You looked around as the carpet pulsed with a kind of cinematic energy—electric, anticipatory, shimmering with stars and polished shoes. It felt like stepping into a dreamscape made of velvet ropes and polished decor. Familiar faces flitted by in quick succession, Jayden Daniels, all charisma and ease, flashing a megawatt smile as he posed; Ja’marr in a sharp black suit, laughing easily with his girlfriend who looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion editorial; Josh Allen and Hailee Steinfeld, tucked into each other in the soft glow near the ropes, sharing quiet laughter and looking as adorable as ever. The camaraderie hummed around you like a soundtrack, easy, elevated, uniquely theirs and yet somehow yours too, despite this being Joe’s world.

He guided you forward with the same effortless poise he carried on the field, hand steady at your waist like he held a football, body angled like he was sculpted to fit and protect yours, just like he would when protecting the ball from gigantic defensive players driven by adrenaline. When the first camera flash burst, he pulled you in like a reflex, slotting you against him like a puzzle piece sliding into place. His scent—Cypryss, Grapevine, and Amber, a fragrant mix from the Cologne you’d gifted him, and something warm and clean that you could only describe as Joe—rose up between you, an intoxicating spell numbing your senses and making you more feral for him than usual.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear with a teasing murmur, something about the shouting being more intense than a fourth-quarter blitz. His voice was warm honey over gravel, and it curled through you. Despite the sizzling energy between you both, you didn’t miss a beat. Your smile stayed poised for the cameras, but your words were designed to make him squirm, because if he was going to make you like this with just his touch and scent, you could play that game too. “Touch me like that again and we’re finding the nearest storage closet. I don’t care who’s watching,”.

Joe’s laugh escaped before he could swallow it, quiet and ragged, like you’d punched the air out of him. That smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and dimpled his cheek, lit his whole face. He dipped his head, brushing his nose along your cheekbone, his lips grazing your skin with a touch so natural it made your knees soften.

“You’re gonna get us arrested,” he muttered, voice raspy with amusement and something else that simmered just below his skin. “Don’t think the league or Jen is too fond of public indecency charges, baby,”.

You turned your head just enough for your lips to barely graze the corner of his jaw, the movement so small and subtle that the cameras likely didn’t catch it, but the effect on him was instant. You felt the inhale he dragged in, sharp and shaky, as if he needed to cool himself down before he melted right there under the glare of red carpet lights and the hum of flashing bulbs.

“Then stop touching me like you want to get dragged into that kind of headline,” you murmured sweetly, your voice pure sugar with an edge of heat. Your smile never faltered, still picture-perfect for the cameras, and your hands stayed demurely placed, still and elegant. But your words? They made Joe shift beside you, made his grip on your waist tighten like a reflex he couldn’t fight off. His eyes flicked to yours, wild for just a second, like he was imagining it—what it would be like to slip away, get caught up in a moment, lipstick all over his face, to press you up against a backstage wall until you were whimpering out his name and falling apart under his touch, to forget for a moment that anyone else existed.

But then he blinked, and just like that, the smirk was back, laced with all the mischief and all the restraint you knew it cost him. “You’re evil,” he whispered, but the way his thumb brushed against your hip gave him away completely. He leaned in again, lips barely grazing your temple, “But if I so much as kiss your neck right now, we’re making headlines in five different outlets about how I can’t keep my hands off you,”.

“Good,” you whispered back. “Let them see how loved I am,”.

And he laughed again, the kind of laugh that made photographers stop mid-shout just to snap the moment. The kind that didn’t need posing. The kind that drove fangirls mad because he just looked so cute. The kind that made everyone watching fall a little in love with you both. You tilted your head, letting the motion pass for a casual pose, but your mouth found the shell of his ear again, softer this time. “That solar system chain you’re wearing tonight? Still thinking about it. You made me the center of your universe, Burrow. That’s not something I forget,”.

Joe exhaled sharply through his nose, the kind of breath that carried both tension and release, like he was forcing the world to fall away for just a second. The paparazzi loved it, of course, they always did. The way your bodies fit like a whispered secret, the curve of your smile caught mid-laugh against the solemn set of his jaw. You leaned into him like instinct, and he answered in style, dipping his head to ghost a kiss along the top of your shoulder, then the delicate line of your jaw. It was fleeting, so intimate and definitely caught on camera. And he didn’t give a damn.

Not tonight.

No reporters were hurling questions about injuries or rehab windows, no pundits dissecting completion percentages or looming contracts. Tonight, they were shouting his name for something softer, something simpler, because he looked incandescent. Because he looked at peace in the best way.

Because he looked in love.

Not guarded. Not composed for the cameras. But utterly, irrevocably gone, his whole face unspooling with affection every time he glanced your way. Joe Burrow looked so head over heels in a way that made even the most seasoned photographers fumble for focus. It was all anyone could buzz about, all anyone could feel humming through the ropes and polished floors, not the games, not the stats—but the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. And the woman on his arm? The one smiling up at him like she knew exactly what he was worth and cherished every piece of him? She wore the same glow. She moved like his mirror, reflecting all that love and light right back. Like they were tuned to the same frequency. And maybe they were. Because the two of you weren’t just walking the carpet. You were floating. Together.

The world didn’t know the private moments, the ones untouched by camera flashes or filtered captions. They didn’t see the way he carved out time—no matter how packed his schedule—to sit in your studio and just listen, really listen, while you sang like you were born for it. How he’d close his eyes and lean back, letting your voice wash over him like a balm. They didn’t hear the way you soothed him when his mind got loud, how your words found him in the dark and brought him home to himself, every time.

But maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe it was enough that they could see it now. That the love you built behind closed doors lived out loud anyway. Maybe it was enough that the truth slipped through in the smallest glance, in the softest smile, in the shine of his eyes when they landed on you. A love so rooted, so steady, it couldn’t help but be seen. Maybe it was enough for everyone to see that this was serious for both of you, and how different this was from both of your previous relationships.

“You’re doing great, you know?” he mumbled to you, snapping you free from the daze you’d been in for the last minute. “Last week was a trial run, for sure,” he added, his hand moving further up your side as he spoke, “But here? They love you,”.

He wasn’t wrong; the Grammy’s red carpet was the trial run. Your first major carpet after you’d come back into the spotlight, and though it didn’t all go to plan, it prepared you for this moment. For his night. “You’re doing great too, Joey,” you whispered, “Can’t even tell that you’re the same man who skipped the honors last year because you just didn’t want to do the carpet. Paris Fashion Week really turned you into a whole new person, didn’t it?” you laughed lightly.

“Mm, Fashion Week just made me realize that people really like to stare at my bare back. This…,” he said, motioning to the carpet and cameras with his free hand, “...This is all your doing. You made me into a whole new person. I’d still be hiding in the locker room if it weren’t for you,”.

Your head snapped over to look at him, and for a second there, you were at a loss for words. Your mouth opened only slightly before you were interrupted by the voices around you, calling out as their excitement swirled through the air.

“Y/N! Who are you wearing?”.

“You two look incredible!” another shouted, and the flash of cameras was relentless, strobe lights bursting like tiny fireworks, capturing every moment, every subtle movement between you two.

“Y/N, can we get a solo-shot of him, really quickly? It’s for the NFL style page!” another asked, kindly, and not to exclude you from his moment, but just to get a simple snap of the NFL’s newest fashionista—even though his fashion taste could use a bit more work.

You exhaled slowly, letting yourself ease into the moment and giving Joe a quiet nudge forward, a second to bask in the attention, to claim his place in the spotlight. He stepped ahead just enough for the cameras to catch him clearly, his posture straight and confident. But even then, his body remained angled toward you, drawn to you by something invisible but strong. Only a few heartbeats passed before he reached for you again, as if the distance was already too much. His hand slid naturally to your waist, fingers curling possessively around your hip with an instinctual ease. Then, in a fluid motion, he drew you back into him. Closer than before. His chest to your back, his chin nearly brushing your temple, as if to say, “This isn’t just my moment, it’s ours,”.

It wasn’t subtle, not at all. It was the kind of affection that made it impossible to ignore the way he adored you. The intimacy was palpable, not performative, woven into every brush of his hand, every tilt of his head. People on the outside could feel it. They murmured to one another, camera shutters firing wildly, drawn to the undeniable pull between you.

The flashes continued, and a few photographers kept shouting for him to turn slightly—just him, just a clean shot. But Joe wasn’t having it. “Put both of us on that page,” he called out, flashing that dimpled smile, still holding you against him, one hand placed on your hip and the other holding your hand at your side, “She looks better than me anyway,”. A few reporters laughed, others cheered, but none objected. The cameras doubled down, shutters clicking faster, wider angles being called for. You glanced up at him, heart warm and eyes soft.

“Joey,” you whispered, touched by his refusal to do any of it without you. He looked down at you like this was more your night than his.

“I just…I hate when you’re not next to me. Doesn’t feel right anymore,” he softly confessed. He really couldn’t stand the idea of you being left out of any part of it, not the photos, not the press, not the moment. You were his, and more than that, you were part of his story now. Just as he was part of yours. The crowd was loving every second of it, the way he looked at you like you were his home, the way he stood firm in the spotlight but kept his hand on you to make sure everyone took the hint. Because Joe Burrow didn’t just want to be seen tonight.

He wanted you to be seen right beside him.

After a few more minutes of posing for cameras and mingling with peers and legends alike, you both made your way inside the hall where the main show was taking place.

Before the MVP announcement, the most coveted award of the night, the Honors ceremony was buzzing with its signature blend of pageantry, celebration, and a splash of good-natured chaos, all steered by this year’s host, Snoop Dogg himself. You and Joe were seated right in front of the stage, dressed to the nines and catching the eye of every attendee in the room because of how your presence seemed to complement each other without even trying. The cameras couldn’t seem to get enough of you both, either, especially when Joe leaned over to whisper something in your ear that made your head tip back in laughter and a lively smile form that reached your eyes. On the other side of Joe sat Ja'marr and his girlfriend, full of mischief and domestic warmth, poking fun at Joe every time the screen landed on his face too long, calling him “Hollywood” under their breath. He was still the same shit-talker he’d always been on the field, still had that edge—but the woman beside him brought out something lighter in him, something steadier.

You’d said as much to him a few days ago over lunch at Antoine’s, the four of you packed into a corner booth with chipped plates and too many appetizers, warmth curling through the air like the scent of fresh beignets. Ja’marr and his girlfriend, Deja, had been bickering playfully over oysters—her threatening to flick hot sauce at him if he didn’t stop calling them “ocean eyeballs,” while he insisted he was the one showing culinary bravery, and he was doing a god-awful job of pretending not to be completely, hopelessly in love.

You’d leaned in, grinning as you sipped from your glass of champagne and caught his gaze over the chaos. “You both are so good together,” you said, sincere and a little soft. “She brings out something real in you. Like…peace. Like you sleep more than four hours now because she pulls the plug on Call of Duty before you can throw the controller at the screen,”.

Ja’marr had squinted at you, all mock offense and lemon juice glinting off his fingers as he flung a citrus wedge onto your plate with dramatic flair. “Don’t go soft on me now,” he huffed, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him—half flattered, half scheming. “You only sayin’ that ‘cause I ain’t the only one simpin’ in the group anymore,”.

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Joe and jabbed two fingers square into his chest, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “At least I didn’t turn into a red carpet trophy husband like sheisty over here,”.

Joe raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the silly comment but amused at his best friend’s audacity. “You’re one to talk. You let her pick out your shoes this morning. You never let anyone give you fashion advice,”.

“Aye, they were designer!” Ja’marr fired back, pointing between the two of you like he was building a case. “It don’t matter. I might be in love, but you? You are full-on domesticated. Homie got that Stanley Cup and a ten-step skincare routine. He’s got a robe now. A robe. With a fuckin’ monogram,”.

Joe didn’t even flinch, just glanced at you with an infuriatingly smug little grin, leaned a fraction closer like the two of you were co-conspirators in some luxury domestic cult, and said, “Yeah. And I’m glowing. Thanks for noticing, buddy,”.

You and Deja burst out laughing at the same time, and somewhere in the middle of all that teasing and toast clinking and side-eye over fried green tomatoes, you thought—this, right here, was the good stuff. The real stuff. Not the red carpets or the flashing cameras. Just this, laughter, love, and two men who were once all edge and armor, now softened by women who knew how to hold them.

They were good together, Ja’marr and Deja, and tonight, their presence helped ease the ache of the empty seats next to Joe, ones that would’ve been filled by his parents. Their absence hadn’t been discussed aloud since you made it inside, but you’d seen the change in his body language when he spotted the gap. Just a small stiffening in his shoulders, a breath caught too long in his chest. But when he sat down beside you, he took your hand in his and didn’t let go.

Snoop, true to form, came out swinging with the jokes once the show went on air. Within minutes of taking the stage, he locked onto Joe with a grin sharp enough to cut through steel. “Smokey Joe Burrow in the house!” he hollered, pointing his mic like a spotlight. “Ayy, Joe. For real, you gon’ keep frontin’ or you finally gon’ let me smoke a cigar with you? Been waitin’ on that LSU invite for years now, man,”.

Laughter cracked across the room like lightning at the joke as photos of Joe lighting up his signature cigars filled the screens on stage. Joe leaned in close to you, brushing your ear with his nose. “Guess I gotta start carrying extras,” he said under his breath, his smile tugging crooked at the corners.

But the next bit on the screen had the entire venue holding their stomachs from laughter. A massive photo of Joe’s Batmobile filled the monitors, sleek, matte-black, armored like it had rolled straight off a Nolan set. Snoop pointed at it, mock-serious. “Now somebody please explain why this man dropped damn near $3 million on a whole-ass Batmobile. Grappling hooks? Smoke bombs? Missile deterrents?” He turned back to the audience with perfect timing, “I guess…I guess he wanted one thing in life to have a good defense,”.

The room exploded with chuckles at the jab, and Joe laughed too, but it came out a little strained, a little too quick. His smile faltered at the edges as the punchline echoed, not quite able to shake the sting underneath the humor. He reached up, rubbed the back of his neck in a kind of way he always did when he was uncomfortable, trying to mask it as casual. But you felt it, the way his heart dropped, the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly. That laugh had died in his throat a beat too early, like something in the joke had hit closer than anyone realized.

Because the truth was, it hadn’t just been a jab about the car. It was a dig dressed up in humor, aimed right where it still stung. The Bengals’ defense had been a nightmare this season, porous and inconsistent, riddled with missed tackles and blown coverages. For every brilliant drive Joe orchestrated, it felt like the other side of the ball unraveled it seconds later. And it wasn’t new. The franchise had long carried the burden of a defense that cracked under pressure; this season just made it louder. Louder for the press, louder for the fans, louder because of the fact he was doing the Quarterback show this year and everyone would see it play out in 4k all over again, and louder in moments like this, where even a joke about a Batmobile landed with the weight of a stat sheet.

You were worried that the joke would leave a bitter taste in his mouth for the rest of the night, and as you were just about to open your mouth and ask him if he was okay, Snoop’s eyes flicked to you, and that wide, knowing grin deepened. “And don’t think I ain’t see his queen right there either. Miss Songbird herself. Y’all know she dropped a bomb at the Grammys last week?” the crowd whooped, the spotlight shifting slightly to include you. “New album comin’ out July 4th. Title? Reputation. Yeah, that’s right. Badass title. She out here settin’ off fireworks before the barbecues even start,”.

The applause grew louder, whistles echoing as a few excited gasps rose from the audience. “And lemme tell you somethin’, she took Mr. Ice-in-his-veins over here,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward Joe, “And turned him into a Grade-A, love-sick, hallmark-quote-knowin’ simp. Look at this man!”. The camera zoomed in just in time to catch Joe flashing a boyish grin, one hand tugging self-consciously at his collar as the other refused to leave yours. You were laughing now, head tipped back slightly, your eyes glowing under the lights. Snoop kept going, “This man used to be the internet’s boyfriend. Now he’s off the market and out here lookin’ like he writes her love letters during halftime. Y’all know if he got her lyrics tattooed on his ribs yet? Somebody check,”.

Joe playfully shook his head, a laugh slipping from his lips. He looked dazzling under the soft gold lights of the NFL Honors stage, all sharp lines and silk-clad calm, but there was a pink flush climbing his neck, betraying the quiet chaos inside, and everyone could see it. “I’m never living this shit down,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as the crowd’s laughter lingered like static in the air.

You leaned in, the sequins of your gown brushing against the soft fabric of his lapel, lips near his ear as Snoop shifted attention to Josh and Hailee. The room moved on, but for a beat, the spotlight drifted off of you both, letting you breathe in a quieter light. “You’re the one who said you liked being my muse,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of applause and orchestra swells.

Joe groaned softly, the sound half a chuckle, half surrender, as he turned his head to nuzzle the crown of yours. “Yeah, but I didn’t think it meant being the poster boy for domestic bliss on national TV,” he said, though there was no real protest in his voice. If anything, he sounded dazed by it—bemused and oddly proud.

You smiled, eyes flicking up to meet his, catching the flicker of starlight in his chain, the pink flush still warming his ears. “You’re glowing, baby. Just soak it in, bask in the glory,” you murmured, your thumb tracing soft circles over his thigh through his suit, each movement slow and soothing.

He bent close again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “Snoop’s exposing me,”.

“Let him,” you murmured back, a smile tugging at your lips as you turned and pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw, soft as moonlight. “You look good like this,”.

He paused, gaze dropping to where your fingers rested gently on his leg, as if your touch alone could make everything around him disappear in a flash. “Truth is…,” he murmured, voice a touch rough, a little hoarse, “I like it more than I probably should. Being your muse, I mean. If I’m gonna be the poster boy for anything, let it be for domestic bliss, hair-tie-on-my-wrist, coffee-in-bed, you-writing-me-into-songs kind of bliss,”. His lips tilted into the barest smile, vulnerable and honest in a way he rarely showed outside your orbit, “If the world’s gonna be watching, I’d rather them see this part. The real part. The part that’s yours,”.

You blinked slowly, warmth rising in your throat as your heart fluttered at the constant certainty in his voice. Not a flicker of performance, no, just truth. He didn’t care how it looked; he only cared that you understood.

And you did. Ugh, you really did.

The rest of the night came in bursts of color and sound, vivid snapshots you knew you’d carry with you like stills from a dream. The echo of applause rolled through the balconies like thunder, the murmur of voices rising and falling around you with each new award announcement. Somewhere, a trumpet from the house band let out a playful riff that made Joe’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. Between heartfelt speeches and roaring ovations, you leaned close, whispering jokes into Joe’s ear about someone’s tragically oversized velvet bow tie, or the way the camera had panned to a rookie half-asleep in the front row. Joe stifled a grin, his hand slipping down to squeeze your knee in silent appreciation, that private language of touch you two had long since perfected.

Every so often, the giant monitors would flash clips of season highlights, slow-motion spirals, brutal sacks, impossible toe-tap catches, and you’d catch the way Joe’s posture straightened, his gaze sharpening for a breath before he relaxed again, thumb tracing absent circles over your leg. You became more immersed in his world than ever before. Watching legendary names float past your seats, seeing the proud glint in a veteran’s eye as they accepted an award, hearing the muffled jokes players lobbed at each other between commercial breaks—it all drew you deeper into the fabric of the game that had shaped so much of Joe’s life.

Sometimes between awards, you noticed his leg bouncing subtly, a small, familiar jitter that betrayed the nerves humming under his carefully composed exterior. Without a word, you reached over and rested your hand on his knee, your thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes through the fine weave of his suit pants. His breath hitched ever so slightly, and after a beat, he slid his hand over yours, threading your fingers together with a quiet squeeze that said more than any thank you ever could. As the night wore on and the ceremony continued, you traced idle shapes over the fabric of his sleeve, following the strong line of his arm through his jacket with gentle, absent affection. When a loud laugh from a nearby table startled him just enough to make his shoulders flinch, you didn’t hesitate. You leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing warm against his skin until you felt the tight line of his body loosen again. This wasn’t something he was used to, no doubt about that, but your presence was making it easier for him with every kiss and silent touch.

The entire room glittered with a kind of luxury and feeling that would normally captivate you, but your entire world stayed wrapped around Joe. You made sure his glass was always topped off, making sure he had something else in his system to take some edge off, tugged him back when he shifted too far forward in his seat, giggled at his whispered commentary during everyone’s speeches. Each time you looked at him like he was the only one here, he seemed to sit up a little straighter, shoulders rolling back, chest lifting as if he could breathe just a little deeper.

But there were soft, sparkling moments tucked between the formality of it all—Deja slipping you a mini lip gloss with a conspiratorial grin, almost like she was saying make sure your lips look good for after the show because she knew Joe would be in that kind of mood regardless of if he won or not, Joe bending down to adjust the delicate strap on your heel when you winced because it dug into your ankle, his big hands steady and careful. Later, just before the final stretch of the show, the two of you swayed together in the private dining area at the back of the venue to a slow, honeyed R&B ballad, no cameras pointed your way, no stage lights seeking you out, just his cheek pressed to your temple, his breath threading tender promises into your hair.

Joe wasn’t just enduring the night. He was thriving in it—radiant in his own quiet, steadfast way. Not because the cameras demanded it, but because he was truly, deeply happy. Folding you into his world piece by piece made him happier than any shiny trophy could ever do, and getting to live this life with someone who truly understood it was worth more than anyone could possibly imagine. And even more importantly, he was loved. And every piece of him, every shy grin, every self-critical laugh, every luminous, almost boyish pride shining in his eyes, belonged to you. He truly came alive in those quiet, hidden moments, when it was just the two of you, far from the blinding lights and expectant eyes, when the weight of what he was here to be could finally slip from his shoulders. When he could just be Joey and not Joe Burrow. That’s when he thrived most, when the hush of your shared world outshone all the glitter and spectacle of the night.

So when the final award of the night began, your heart tripped over itself, your fingers tightening around his just enough to remind him that it was still just the two of you, to steady him. That he was still Joey, and could be like that in front of everyone. “I’m right here,” you whispered, your breath catching on the edges of the words, soft enough to be swallowed by the applause as the presenter took the stage.

He didn’t have to look to believe it. But he did, and when he met your eyes, everything else fell gloriously away.

“I know,” he murmured, his tone tender in the way it always was when he let the world slip away for you. Then he leaned in and caught your mouth in a kiss, gentle but so sure, tasting faintly of champagne and the sweetness of everything he felt for you.

You both floated in your quiet bubble, detached from the swirling energy around you as the presenter methodically introduced each nominated player by highlighting their accomplishments over the past season. There were about 5 people on stage introducing each nominee, and before you knew it, a voice boomed through the hall, bright and electric with showman polish, “In a season filled with adversity, one man kept fighting and led the league in passing yards and touchdowns. Louisiana, how do you feel about LSU’s own Joe Burrow!”.

The crowd erupted, applause swelling like a living thing, whistles and cheers echoing off the gilded walls. The presenter laughed into the mic, eyes crinkling, “As a football fan and lover of quarterbacks, I feel the same way,” but you barely registered any of it. The words seemed to spin around you, muffled and distant, as if you had earplugs in. Instead, your gaze was locked on Joe, his breath catching in his chest, his shoulders stiff beneath the fine cut of his suit, that hopeful yet terrified look in his eyes. And suddenly you thought, this must be exactly how he felt when it was your name waiting in the Grammy’s envelope last weekend.

When the world paused, the air turned thick, and your whole future hung on a single breath.

That night had been the culmination of years of tears and public scrutiny, of heartbreak and healing, of hours upon hours behind studio doors, chasing something that made your soul feel seen. This night? Joe’s night. It was the culmination of months, even years, spent grinding through setbacks, fighting through injuries, of locker room speeches and film nights stretched out too long, and his voice rough at 2 in the morning when he couldn’t sleep and needed to whisper his hopes into your shoulder.

“Please,” you pleaded in your thoughts, silent tears brimming in your eyes as you looked back up at the stage. “He deserves this more than anyone. He needs this win. Please,”.

Then, slicing through the haze, the presenter’s voice rang out—sharp, unwavering, impossible to ignore even in the thick of the haze you were in,

“And this year’s AP NFL MVP…Louisiana’s favorite son…Joe Burrow!”.

You gasped, “Oh fuck,”.

The thought thundered through you, knocking the air from your lungs as if you’d just been hit by a 290-pound defensive end. The room erupted, applause exploding in a tidal wave of sound, but somehow it all felt strangely slowed, drawn out, every cheer and whistle echoing as if underwater. Time seemed to distort around you, like the whole world had paused to marvel, suspended between heartbeats.

Because he wasn’t supposed to win this. Not this year. Not after everything.

And he knew that.

They all knew that.

Joe froze in his seat as the cameras panned over to the two of you, his broad shoulders tightening, rigid like a coiled spring. His eyes blinked rapidly, pupils dilating as if trying to make sense of the words tumbling through the hall like thunder. His breath caught somewhere deep in his chest, faltering, uneven. The stage lights spilled over him, painting his face in golden hues that flickered with every trace of emotion—shock, disbelief, something raw and unguarded.

His eyes darted nervously across the sea of faces, searching for something steady, a lifeline, a tether he could hold onto as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. You glanced toward where his parents should have been, expecting to magically find them there instead of Ja’marr and Deja for support, but the seats still weren’t filled by the two people who were the living embodiments of midwestern charm, and a hint of fear tightened in your chest. For a heartbeat, you worried he might crack, that the overwhelming pressure and attention would shatter the calm he’d fought so hard to maintain

Then, just as the doubt threatened to swallow him whole, his gaze found you beside him.

In that instant, the world stopped for Joe. It was like the very air held its breath, sound and motion folding in on themselves until there was nothing left but the two of you. You, glowing with tears in your eyes and love written all over your face. You, his anchor and his undoing all at once.

He’d never felt anything so absolute, so soul-deep, it bordered on terrifying. Like the universe had been conspiring from the very beginning to place you here beside him, so when moments like this threatened to pull him under, he could look at you—his soulmate—and simply exist. It was more than love; it was the kind of quiet, unstoppable truth that lived in the marrow of his bones, stitched into every thud of his heart. You were the love story he never saw coming, the lyric he’d been waiting a lifetime to write. The calm after the chaos, the soft golden hour that made everything before you look like dusk. You were the flash of color in his grayscale world, the forever he used to think belonged only in fairy tales he read as a kid, and songs that hurt too good.

Right here, with your eyes shining up at him like he hung the stars just for you, he realized again that no touchdown, no trophy, no roaring crowd could ever compare. Because this? This was the only win that ever truly mattered.

You saw the tension begin to bleed from his shoulders in a flash, watched the rigid, uncertain mask soften until it gave way to a slow, almost disbelieving smile. Then his hand found yours—warm, a little clammy, trembling with everything he couldn’t say—and squeezed tight, a desperate, silent question sparking in the blue of his eyes.

Did you hear it too?

Your tight squeeze was the only answer he needed.

As he rose from his seat, the applause crashing like waves around you, his hand immediately reached for yours again, tight, urgent, like he couldn’t take that next step without you. He didn’t just help you stand; he brought you flush against him, arms wrapping firmly around your waist as if to remind himself that this was real, that you were real, right here in this perfect, impossible moment. It was silly considering it had been over half a year with you, but he still couldn’t believe you were real, couldn’t believe you were his. Like some radiant being pulled from the pages of a storybook or the whispers of a melody, all light and grace and impossible wonder, and somehow, impossibly, you chose him.

The cameras closed in, hungry for every angle of the tender scene, but neither of you seemed to care. You tucked your head into the warm, familiar crook of his neck, breathing him in before he was swept away by the award that was calling his name. A soft sound broke free from your chest, something between a laugh and a sob, all tangled up with the sheer pride swelling inside you. “I’m so proud of you, Joey,” you whispered against his skin, your voice breaking around his name.

“Thank you for doing this with me. I love you,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, voice thick with emotion he almost never let slip. You felt the faint tremor run through him, saw the way his eyes shone under the glittering lights, wet with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes.

Before you could even answer, he leaned back just enough to capture your mouth in a soft, meaningful kiss, tasting like gratitude and awe and every quiet promise he’d ever made you. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your skin instead of his. “I love you so much,” you mumbled back, voice a little shaky from pride, disbelief, basically every emotion a human could possibly feel.

When he finally pulled away, he stayed close for just a second, his forehead resting against yours, breaths mingling. And you realized then, it wasn’t just that he was thanking you for tonight. It was for everything—for being there through the bruises and doubts and endless late nights these past 9 months, for taking every piece of him he gave you and chershing it as if it was all you were made to do, for loving him past the roar of the crowds and headlines, for submerging yourself in his chaotic, messy, fast-paced life, for making all of this mean so much more simply because you were by his side.

“Go get ‘em, Quarterback,” you smiled through your tears, letting go of his hand, painfully so.

You swore you’d get up on that stage with him if you could, but you had to let him go, just this once. Even though every cell in your body longed to follow, you knew this was his moment. So you watched with a trembling smile, hands pressed to your lips, as your Quarterback, your forever, walked up into the golden glow, ready to claim everything he’d worked for, knowing he carried you with him all the way.

He climbed the steps like the ground itself might give way, legs heavy with disbelief and adrenaline. The lights above were so bright they blurred into golden halos, turning the whole moment into something dreamlike. When they handed him the trophy, his hand closed around it with a death grip, knuckles pale, like he was terrified it would disappear if he didn’t anchor it to himself.

Beside you, Ja’marr bumped your shoulder, trying and failing to keep his grin contained. “That’s your man right there,” he rasped, voice thick, teasing but drenched in pride because his best friend was finally getting recognized for his accomplishments on the second biggest stage of them all in the NFL.

You let out a helpless giggle, tears already balancing on your lashes. You nodded, because he was right—Joe was yours. Entirely, irrevocably, beautifully yours. “That’s your best friend right there,” you quipped, quickly reaching behind you to grab your phone so you could record this beautiful moment and send it to his parents so that once they landed back in Ohio, they’d have a nice little surprise waiting on their phones.

At the mic, Joe stood silent for a heartbeat too long, staring down at the trophy like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. After the way this Bengals season had swung like a pendulum, he hadn’t let himself believe this could happen. Not tonight. Not for him. A thousand memories seemed to flicker behind his eyes—grueling rehab sessions, silent locker rooms after crushing defeats, the lonely echo of his cleats in empty hallways. All the bruises, physical and otherwise, that had built up over the season. It was all there, coiling tight in his throat, making it hard to speak.

But he knew he could do this; he knew he had it in him. He may have helped you piece yourself back together these past nine months, steadying your hands when they shook, reminding you of your worth when old wounds tried to convince you otherwise, but somewhere along the way, he realized he’d been healing, too. He could do this. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, then lifted his eyes, that familiar guarded composure cracking right open under the soft vulnerability he learned to reserve for moments like this. “Thank you,” Joe’s voice rumbled low, thick with emotion, slicing through the quiet hush of the room. He shifted the trophy in his hands, holding it up just a little. The lights hit it, throwing tiny sparks across his suit jacket like stars. “But look, football’s never been a one-man deal. This? This right here–,” he gave the trophy a small, almost playful shake, “This isn’t just mine. It’s all of ours,” he smiled, a round of applause filling the room.

Joe let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a quiet laugh, eyes glistening with the effort to keep it together. “I wanna start by thanking my coaches, my teammates, my parents and family, everyone in the Bengals building, the fans…God, the fans who’ve stuck with us through…well, through what was honestly a pretty damn tough year as you all know,”.

He paused, dragging in a breath, jaw working. “This season, man…it wasn’t easy. There were games where it felt like the whole world was sitting on my chest, losses that made me question everything, injuries that damn near broke our team inside and out. Some days, quitting might’ve seemed simpler. But that’s not who we are. That’s not what this city is. We fight. We claw. We get up, no matter how many times we get knocked down. And that’s why I love this team, this place. Because we keep going,”.

He huffed out a small, breathless laugh, one that didn’t quite hide how his eyes were turning glossy. “You know…,” he started, voice catching for a beat before he cleared it, trying to steady the rush of feeling the next few words were bringing. “I’ve been playing this game for a long time. From riding the bench at Ohio State, wondering if I’d ever get my shot to be who I’d always wanted to be…to LSU, where it all changed for me in ways I still can’t wrap my head around years later…to standing right here in front of you all tonight,”.

He drew in another breath, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a wry, tender smile. “It’s been a hell of a road. Full of moments that made me, moments that quite nearly broke me, too. And the truth is, this?” he said, looking down at the trophy in his hand. “This doesn’t decide my worth. It’s taken me a long time to understand that. Because for years, everything was about proving myself, proving I deserved a shot at Ohio State, proving I could do it at LSU and that taking that risk was worth it, proving I was worth a first-round pick, worth being trusted with a whole city’s dreams on my back,” he exhaled, almost laughing through the emotion that tightened his throat to prevent himself from getting caught up in emotions that he’d buried a long time ago. “But then there were those long months rehabbing my knee, watching everything slow down while the game kept moving on without me. Those nights after a brutal loss, when I felt like I was failing everyone. And you start to realize, your value can’t just come from moments like this. From applause or awards or headlines,”.

Joe paused, his voice dipping even softer. “I learned my worth in the quiet. In the way my teammates looked at me in the huddle when we were down by three scores and still believed. In the way people back home painted their porches stripes just because they had hope in us, even when everybody counted us out. In the way I’d walk through the door after a hard game, and she…,” his eyes flicked straight to you, shining with gratitude, “Would look at me like I was still her everything, win or lose,”.

The camera found you instantly, like it always did, catching the exact moment your hand flew to your mouth, eyes shimmering with tears that slipped freely down your cheeks. A few soft “awws” rose from the crowd, the entire room leaning into this headline-worthy moment that felt far too intimate to be shared with thousands. “…Joey,” you whispered to yourself, voice trembling with so much love it almost hurt, your blush creeping all the way to the tips of your ears. Your eyes never left his, silently telling him everything your heart was screaming, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I’m so proud of you. I’d choose you a thousand times over if it meant seeing you smile like that,”.

His throat bobbed with another swallow, “So no, this trophy doesn’t define me. It doesn’t decide my worth. It just…it’s another chapter. A beautiful one I get to share with every single person who’s been part of this messy, incredible, impossible journey. And for that, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life,”.

Then he let out a gentle, almost disbelieving laugh—his Joe laugh—eyes sweeping over the crowd, over his teammates and peers, the few members of Bengals staff in attendance, the families in the audience, and finally, inevitably, back to you. “I’m grateful as hell. For every person who believed in me when I didn’t always believe in myself. For every guy in that locker room who went to fight on that field right beside me, fought through the ugly, the bruises, the heartbreak, just to come back stronger. And for everyone back home in Cincy who kept the faith, who never stopped wearing that orange and black, even when it got real dark,”.

He paused again, blinking fast, jaw flexing like he was trying to keep it all inside. “It means more than I can ever say. And I promise, I’m gonna keep fighting. Keep growing. Keep earning this. For all of us,”.

Then, as if the whole room melted away, his eyes locked onto yours, with that quiet, steady kind of love that feels like coming home, like a secret only the two of you knew, clear, persistent, and full of a thousand unsaid promises. The noise softened into a distant murmur, the lights dimmed into a gentle glow, and suddenly it was just you two, wrapped in your own world. A soft smile curved his lips, warm and tender, like the first notes of your favorite love song. Beneath that calm, familiar look, you caught a hint of vulnerability, the kind of natural, soft passion that hits you deep in your bones, like you’re the only one who truly sees him, and he’s been waiting all along to be seen like that.

“But most of all…,” his breath hitched, “I want to thank the person who’s changed everything for me these past few months. More than any game, any yard, any trophy ever could,”.

He puffed a soft breath, eyes shining as more memories, softer memories, seemed to play out behind them. “This is probably really uncharacteristic for me to do and say, I usually don't talk too much about my personal life, but I mean it when I say this woman has completely changed me since the moment she caught my eye. These past nine months, man…they were supposed to be the hardest of my career. Fighting through a recovering injury, tough losses, all that noise on the outside. Long flights back to Cincy with my body aching, game tape looping in my head, wondering how I could come back from every minor setback, wondering if I could come back. And then I’d walk through the door, and there you were, barefoot in my kitchen…our kitchen, dancing to ‘Heavenly,’ humming like you were made for that little slant of moonlight coming through our window. Singing to me like there was no stadium, no cameras, like I wasn’t Joe the Quarterback, but was Joey the man who you opened your heart to.

His voice dropped to a raw, aching softness as he shifted his weight onto his other leg, “You held me together when I felt like falling apart. Loved me even when I hated myself for missing a throw or letting the city down. When I was scared, confused, lost in the noise…you loved me harder. In ways I didn’t even know I needed. You’re my calm in the chaos of the pocket, my fire when it’s fourth and long, my home no matter how far this game takes me. I thought the plane was going down, and I still don’t know how you turned it right around, but you did. You’re magic, Y/N. And if this game’s taught me anything, it’s that stats fade, trophies collect dust, but love like this? This is what I’ll remember long after the stadium lights go out. I’m forever grateful to have fallen in love with a girl like you, who makes this so much more worth it,” he grinned, lightly raising the trophy to solidify what he meant by that.

You sucked in a tiny, startled breath, eyes going wide, your heart flipping painfully in your chest.

“Labyrinth,” you mumbled under your breath.

That was your song. The one you wrote about how you’d fallen for him against every odd, how he saved you without even trying. And now, here he was, standing under some of the brightest lights of his career, quoting it back to you like a promise, like he knew exactly what those words meant to you because they meant the same to him.

“You’ve always been my greatest win, long before any scoreboard lit up or a trophy ended up in my hands. This is just proof to everyone else that I’m good at what I do. But you…you’re the real prize. You’re the one I get to go home to. That’s the only victory that’s ever truly mattered to me,”.

Your hand lifted softly to your cheek, brushing away another stray tear as your lips moved silently, mouthing, “I love you, Golden Boy,”. He caught the gesture, returning it with a playful wink that sent a warm spark straight through you.

The crowd shifted, some whispering, others dabbing at their eyes, but for Joe, the world collapsed into just you, bathed in the shimmer of a thousand yellow lights, every tiny sparkle catching in your hair, your eyes, the gentle part of your lips. The soft curve of your smile hit him harder than any stadium roar ever could, sending a rush of heat through his chest, making his hands flex around the trophy like he might drop it.

He drew in a final, long breath, the trophy rising in his hand, and when he spoke, his voice dipped into that husky, reverent tone that wrapped around your heart like warm velvet. “So…thank you. To every person who’s ever believed in me. But most of all, to you, babe, my compass, my calm, my spark when I didn’t even know I needed one,”.

He paused, and something unguarded, achingly gentle spread across his face, a smile meant only for you. His eyes found yours and held, tender and certain, “Because this? All of this…It’s always been yours. Just like I am. I love you,”.

In that heartbeat, you knew this was bigger than any record, any sold-out stadium, any glittering award. This was your love story—beautiful, battered, impossibly bright—and it would outshine every accolade the world could offer. He spent nearly half his speech wrapped up in you, thanking you, loving you out loud in a way that felt almost too tender for the glare of the stage lights. It was everything you’d ever dreamed of and more. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation or insecurity in him about sharing this spotlight with you, someone whose own star shone just as bright. If anything, he seemed proud…proud to stand there and show the entire world that his biggest triumph wasn’t the award in his hands, but the love you’d built together.

You felt the emotion bubble in your throat, wanting nothing more than to cry into his suit jacket while he soothed you in every way possible, but you had to hold yourself back. That moment didn’t need to be caught on camera; some things were still supposed to be yours.

So, you watched him stride down the steps with a newfound ease, a radiant joy in his every movement that hadn’t been there before. The way his shoulders relaxed, the subtle bounce in his step, it all hit you like a wave of pride and love crashing through your chest. He did that, he really did that with no reluctance or nerves inhibiting the passion behind every word or movement. That was growth.

That was all your doing.

In that perfect, unguarded moment while you watched him stroll over to you, the biggest grin on his face and confidence practically radiating off him, the only thought you could hold onto was,

“That’s my fucking man.”

A few hours later

“Y/N, you’re so…oh fuck,”.

The bed squeaked under you, a steady beat pounding through the room as you continued to slide down his thick length, every movement a fiery dance of reward and release. His hands gripped your hips with desperate possessiveness, thumbs pressing into your skin, surely leaving fingerprints you’d proudly show off tomorrow by wearing a crop-top, as you leaned forward, breath hitching with the wild, intoxicating heat between you. His cock stretched you perfectly, deep and relentless, and you could feel every pulse of him driving up into you, setting fire to your insides much like the alcohol you consumed during the after party did to your hormones.

You’d stumbled into the hotel suite about an hour ago, giggling like teenagers who’d just discovered how good the world could feel—buzzing off too-strong mocktails, adrenaline, and the electric high of the night. And to top it all of, you were both so unbelievably horny, hands all over each other the second the door clicked shut, tearing at fancy clothes like they were little more than wrapping paper keeping you from what you really wanted. His eyes were stuck on you the entire after-party as you mingled with other athletes, some of your industry friends, and anyone important who was dying to talk to the woman who rocked the music industry and the NFL in back-to-back weekends. That denim corset minidress was making him want to legitimately risk it all, he was even considering taking those public indecency charges you joked about on he carpet earlier in the night because he just had to get his hands on his girl. He didn’t care where or when, he just needed to feel you.

Which is why, after that long, playful game the two of you had been locked in all evening—eyes finding each other across the crowded room again and again, your secret moments—you finally cracked. It started when he caught your gaze from across the floor, his expression all quiet mischief and heat. His brows lifted in a slow, exaggerated question that made your stomach flip. You couldn’t help it; you bit your lip, letting your lashes lower as you gave him the tiniest nod, just enough for him to see.

Joe’s answering grin was downright sinful. He didn’t look away, didn’t let you breathe for even a second. Instead, he let his gaze drop—dragging it painstakingly down your body, from your glossy lips to the way your dress hugged your hips, down to your lefs before easing back up with a hungry gleam in his eye. It was the kind of look that promised he’d ruin you the second he got you alone.

Then, with maddening slowness, he raised his hand, scratched his jaw like he was thinking something over, before barely tipping his head toward the door. Just the smallest, cocky flick of his chin, his meaning clear as day, “Wanna get out of here?”.

You swore your entire body went hot. Still, you held his gaze, deliberately letting your eyes narrow in playful challenge, “Really? right now?”, just to tease him a little longer.

But then he did something that completely drew you in, he pointed at the door with just his eyes again, then let them travel back to your face with a knowing smirk that was somehow both boyish and filthy, and you felt yourself practically melt into the floor.

Yeah. That was it. That was all it took.

Moments later, you were both slipping out the back exit, trying to look casual, even as the thrill of your little escape burned like fire under your skin. And you’d been glued to this bed ever since, making every secret promise from across that room come true. Irish Goodbye’s were slowly becoming your staple.

Your nails dug into his chest, clutching the cool metal of his chains, dragging them taut against his throat as you bounced on his cock, wild and gasping. Your hips snapped in a frantic rhythm, the obscene wet sound of your bodies colliding filling the dim hotel room. Joe’s head fell back against the pillow, jaw tight, throat working around every broken groan as his heavy-lidded eyes devoured you—your tits bouncing beautifully with each thrust, your parted lips swollen from biting down on them, hair wild around your face like some gorgeous, reckless halo

“Fuck, look at you...riding me like you were made for it. My gorgeous girl,” his big hands gripped your ass, fingertips biting deep as he drove up into you, sharp, greedy thrusts that made the headboard slam against the wall. Hopefully, nobody was staying in the room next to you…or below. You’d never show your face at this hotel again if someone heard the noises coming from this room almost every night you’d been here.

The slide of him was devastating, stretching you until you cried out, every deep fill kissing your cervix. “Joe…fuck, please,” you choked, nails digging cruel lines into his chest. His eyes locked on yours, wild with need, every muscle taut beneath your hands.

“Gonna cum…baby…fuck,” he rasped, voice breaking on another desperate moan. His hands were everywhere now, gripping your hips so tightly, sliding up to squeeze your waist, then clutching at your tits, desperate to touch every part of you as he chased that edge. His hips snapped up into you again and again, brutal and relentless, and the chains you still fisted pulled tight against his throat, forcing another strangled moan from him that vibrated right through your chest. Then he spilled into you with a soft, wrecked groan, hips thrusting up into your slick core again and again, chasing every last wave of pleasure. Your name tumbled from his lips in a shattered loop, “Y/N, fuck, fuck…Y/N,”, half-whimper, half-praise, until it was nothing but breathless, helpless sounds. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks, and his chest heaved under your hands like he’d just run miles. Then, through the haze, a small, blissed-out smile broke across his face—sweet and dazed, the kind that made your heart squeeze painfully tight.

That was all it took, the searing heat of him flooding inside you, the raw, desperate worship in his ragged moans that echoed through your core. It shattered something deep in your belly, a wildfire igniting every nerve ending at once, “Fuck, Joe!” you gasped as you clenched around him with everything you had, nails digging fierce, desperate lines down his chest, painting it with red trails, as your own orgasm exploded in a sharp, ragged scream that ripped free from your throat. Every muscle clenched tight, then shuddered uncontrollably, your walls squeezing him greedily, pulsing and milking every last drop of him as your vision blurred into a blinding, white-hot storm of pleasure that consumed you utterly.

You finally melted into him after that, completely blissed out and boneless, your chest rising and falling against his steady, powerful heartbeat. His arms closed around you like a shield, one hand threading gently through your tangled hair, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles at your scalp. The other hand glided tenderly up and down your sweat-slicked back, never still, as if every inch of your skin was sacred, impossible to leave untouched. Your bodies clung together, trembling with the electric aftershocks of release—slick, flushed, and utterly spent—breathing each other in deeply, both completely wrecked and whole at the same time, wrapped in the sweetest, rawest, most intoxicating kind of victory.

“That was a better reward than the trophy,” he breathlessly chuckled, breaking the comforting silence with a soft, raspy laugh that vibrated against your skin. His fingers tightened just a little in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “And honestly? I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else in the world,”.

You tilted your head, eyes heavy with heat and lingering pleasure, searching his face for the words on your tongue. But before you could speak, he leaned down slowly, his breath warm against your skin, and pressed a gentle, tender kiss to your swollen, trembling lips, like he was memorizing every curve and taste, promising more to come. You smirked, voice teasing as you mumbled against his lips, “Even if the government finally dropped the news that aliens are real and living among us, would you still choose this moment over that?”. Your words hung between you, playful but heavy with meaning, daring him to say no.

“Yup,” he murmured against your cheek without hesitation, his lips warm and delicate as they lingered there, pressing a kiss that felt more like a promise than anything else. “Them confirming those suspicions would be insane, I’ve been waiting on that since high school, but it wouldn’t come close to this,” his thumb traced idle, loving patterns across your waist, his voice dipping lower, rough with something achingly raw. “Nothing could. I’m the MVP, I have the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me right here, the hottest woman to walk the earth, wrapped up in my arms, looking at me like I hung the moon…It’s like the rest of the world just stops existing. It’s only ever gonna be you for me, baby,”.

You sighed, completely undone, as you buried your face in the steady beat of his chest, your emotions doing somersaults in your brain currently. “Joe Burrow,” you whispered, voice trembling with so much adoration for this man beneath you, “What have you done to me?”. Every word soaked in the quiet, endless love that had you so utterly, hopelessly gone.

He brushed a slow, lingering kiss over the crown of your head, lips warm and tender, staying like he was trying to memorize every fragile, precious piece of you. “Made you believe in happy endings?” he murmured, voice soft and a little raspy from exhaustion, wrapped in a kind of wonder that gripped your heart in a breathless vise. It wasn’t truly a question—he already knew. It was there in the way your eyes softened every time they met his, the way your body melted closer without a single thought, as if you were always meant to find your place against him.

His breath ghosted over your temple, scattering goosebumps across your skin, and you felt the shape of his smile pressing into your hair, a smile so bright it could’ve lit the dim, golden room all on its own. When you finally shifted your face up again, the look in his eyes nearly knocked the air from your lungs. He gazed down at you like you were spun from pure starlight, a living, breathing miracle he somehow got to hold.

Happy Endings.

He was right. He truly made you believe in the impossible, that you could have it all. Fierce love that didn’t just stand with you, it stood for you, the dizzying glow of fame, but with less expectation to constantly be this version of yourself that only existed in others’ minds, and the reckless joy of youth that you were always meant to have. Everything that had been snatched from your hands a year ago, Joe brought back to you. But not the old, worn-out versions. He gave them back to you reborn, fresh and shimmering with new light, like a second chance wrapped in the promise of forever.

The past two weeks...they played out behind your eyelids in dazzling flashes. Your voice breaking as you held that Grammy on stage, a stage you never expected to be standing on again, the way Joe squeezed your hand so tight tonight at the Honors because he needed you—and not the thought of fame and fortune—to anchor him to the moment, his palm slick with nerves and hope. All of it building to this quiet hotel suite, where the gowns and suits lay in careless heaps on the floor, and the only spotlight was the gentle spill of lamplight catching on tangled limbs and sleepy smiles. As if every late night, every heartbreak, every high had led you here. You had never been this content with your life, from your career to your inner happiness, to your relationship. It was all…flawless.

This was your happy ending.

A soft, shaky laugh broke through your lips, fragile and cracked as you pressed your face to his chest, right over where his heart pounded so wildly for you. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice unsteady. “You did. More than I ever thought anyone could,”.

His arms tightened protectively, pulling you closer like he wished he could tuck you inside his ribs, keep you nestled there forever, keep you safe from absolutely anything that left even the slightest bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m proud of you, you know that? You’re so good at doing this…being what I need, being in my world, but also while staying true to yourself,” he nodded, looking up at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling above where you were laying, the sparkle of the crystals mirroring the sparkles he had seen in your eyes earlier in the night when he met you after his MVP speech.

You giggled softly, the sound light and teasing despite the weight of the moment, amused by how, even though this was his night, he couldn’t stop showering you with praise. With a slow smile tugging at your lips, you shifted your weight and lifted yourself up, straddling his hips, the warmth of his skin beneath you leveling every flutter of your heart. Your fingers reached up to brush the damp strands of hair away from his eyes, your touch gentle and purposeful, fingertips tracing the curve of his brow as you looked deep into the quiet awe shimmering in his gaze. “Well,” you breathed, voice low and sultry as you met his eyes, “I’m proud of you too…MVP. For being what I need, for fitting so well into my world, all while still being my Joey. We make a pretty good power couple, don’t we?”.

His breath caught at your words, chest rising beneath your palms as though your praise had pressed all the air from his lungs. You felt his heart thunder under your touch, a deep, rolling beat that seemed to echo the way your own pulsed wildly in your chest. He tilted his head into your hand as you swept his hair back again, his eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat like he was memorizing the delicate feel of your fingers on his skin. “She feels the same way,” he thought to himself, smiling at how this time you’d finally admitted it and not him.

When he opened them again, they were bright with something raw and wonderstruck. His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing little circles over your warm, goosebumped skin, savoring every inch. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice hoarse with affection, a crooked smile breaking across his face that sent a sharp pang straight through your heart. “We make a hell of a team. Unstoppable, actually. like…scary levels of perfect together,” his hands squeezed your hips gently, grounding himself in the lush give of your body. “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe it’s me who gets this. Who gets you. Not just the woman who lights up arenas and stadiums and takes home Grammys, or the girl who turned every eye in that theatre tonight…but you. Barefoot in our kitchen or backyard, giggling at your own jokes, singing off-key when you’re tipsy, curled up next to me like I’m the safest place you’ve ever been,”.

Your lips parted on a fragile, trembling breath as you cradled his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing over the slight dampness on his cheeks, whether from sweat, tears, or just the heat between you, you couldn’t tell. His scruff rasped deliciously against your skin, a small, grounding friction that made it all feel painfully, beautifully real. His eyes…oh god, those oceanic eyes, they gazed up at you with such open tenderness it nearly undid you right there. “Joey,” you whispered, your voice a shredded, delicate thing. How did you even begin to put words to this? To the way he saw you, really saw you—past the glitter, past the headlines, past even your carefully tended cracks. He’d loved every one of your hidden scars like they were little constellations, something to admire instead of conceal. It broke you and remade you all at once. “If you keep talking like that, I’m gonna have to drop to one knee and put a ring on your finger myself,” you tried to tease, but the words wobbled, soaked in too much truth, eyes glistening with tears you didn’t bother to fight.

A warm, shaky laugh rumbled in his chest. Then he leaned up, closing the last few inches between you to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. He lingered there, kissing your pulse like he was memorizing it, feeling it hammer just for him. “Mmm, no you won’t,” he whispered, voice low and brushed with a rough sweetness that made your heart lurch. “That’s my job. And it’ll happen…when all the pieces line up just right, when I can give you the moment you deserve. Don’t worry about that, baby. I’ve got you,”.

Something about how certain he sounded, how gently possessive, made your throat tighten with a rush of feeling so big it almost hurt. Your fingers threaded through his soft hair, tugging just enough to draw a sharp, delicious inhale from him. His eyes went dark and hungry, pupils blown wide, mouth parting like he was on the verge of saying something insatiable and respectful all at once. You leaned in, your noses brushing, breath mingling in a shared, trembling hush. The air felt thick with something golden and electric, as though the universe itself had paused to watch, holding its breath for the two of you. You could feel the slick heat of your bodies pressed together, his heart thrumming wildly under your palms, your own skipping in wild, giddy stutters that made you feel dizzy.

“Well then,” you whispered, your smile small and shaky and so full of wonder it hurt. Tears pricked your lashes again, but this time they were soft, sweet things. “Guess you’re stuck with me forever, Quarterback,”.

His hands slid up to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with an almost worshipful care. “Damn right I am,” he breathed. Then he pulled you down into a kiss—slow, melting, deep enough to make your toes curl. It tasted like salt and sugar, like victory and home, like every quiet miracle you’d ever dared to pray for finally blooming in your mouths.

Your bodies molded even closer, the silky sheets rustling beneath you, the lamplight catching on your tangled hair, and the slight sheen of sweat on your skin. The room was still faintly perfumed with champagne and roses from earlier in the night, from celebrations and bouquets that felt like another lifetime. And somewhere below it all was that soft, intimate scent that was just you and him, mingled and warm.

When you finally pulled back, breathing each other in, your forehead resting against his, you felt it again—that sure, bright spark that whispered this wasn’t the end. This was your beginning. A beginning built on late nights curled together whispering about dreams, on bright lights and blinding triumphs, on quiet moments just like this one where love felt so big it might swallow you whole.

Your happy ending wasn’t some perfect, polished thing. It was right here, in messy sheets and tear-streaked cheeks, in unsteady laughter and trembling kisses, in two hearts that had somehow found each other and decided, against every odd, to stay.

And god, wasn’t that the most beautiful story of all?

--The End--

the social media follow-up fic will be up as soon as possible <3

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow smut #joe burrow bengals #joey b #cincinnati bengals #nfl imagine #nfl fan fic #nfl fic #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #joeburrow #you are in love

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sukuna-ryo · 7 months ago

Text

Jjk Men in Fairytale Retellings

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𝕮𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 𝕮𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖔 <3

(10k words)

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Content Warnings: Cinderella Choso × Fem Prince Charming Reader. This is kinda genderbender. The women follow male gender norms and men follow female gender norms, but they're still women and men respectively. And yes, choso is wearing a dress and panties, that's intentional.

Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI. P in V. Unprotected Sex. Oral (f & m receiving). Face Sitting. Size Kink. Overstimulation. Exhibitionism. Slight Dub-Con. Idk what else to add, tell me if I missed something.

Thank you @daymarenightdream1 , @h0n3ysgh0st and pinkie for being my beta readers and helping with the cw.

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𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, in a world where gender norms are not quite what we're used to, there lived Cinderella Choso. He was a soft-spoken, kind-hearted boy who somehow managed to make even the simplest dresses look elegant—duh. His days were filled with chores, thanks to his stepmother, Kenjaku, and his two over-the-top stepsisters, Eso and Kechizu, who treated him more like a servant than family.

That morning, Cinderella Choso was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the already spotless floor, when Kenjaku sauntered into the room, holding a cup of tea like it was a trophy.

“You missed a spot,” Kenjaku said lazily, gesturing vaguely at the floor with the kind of smugness only a true villain could pull off.

Choso paused, tilting his head to inspect the gleaming tiles. “Where?”

Kenjaku raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of tea. “Emotionally. The floor doesn’t feel clean.”

Choso blinked at him, then decided not to respond. He wasn’t sure what that even meant, and honestly, he didn’t care to find out. Arguing with Kenjaku was like trying to reason with a storm—it was loud, exhausting, and always left him feeling worse.

In the other room, Eso and Kechizu were bickering loudly over their outfits for the royal ball that night.

“I’ll win over prince Y/N for sure,” Eso declared, holding up a sequined gown that sparkled so brightly it practically blinded Choso from where he was standing. He twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a vase in the process.

“You? Win over the prince? Don’t make me laugh,” Kechizu snapped, holding a pair of heeled slippers like they were some kind of weapon. “I’ll be the one to catch her eye. You don’t even know how to walk in heels.”

“Better than you!” Eso shot back, his voice rising in indignation.

Cinderella Choso just kept scrubbing, doing his best to tune them out. This was normal, after all. He’d grown up in this chaos, surrounded by people who seemed to thrive on drama. The royal ball wasn’t meant for someone like him, anyway. It was for people like Eso and Kechizu—people who fit into that glittering world. He wasn’t bitter about it. Just… resigned.

By the time the house had emptied and the carriage had rolled away, Cinderella Choso found himself sitting by the fireplace, the only sound the faint crackle of the flames. He stared at the mop leaning against the wall, considering whether he should name it. At least it wouldn’t talk back.

The room felt emptier than usual, and though he wasn’t one to dwell on things, a small part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like—to dress up, to dance, to be seen as more than just the boy in the shadows.

But that kind of life wasn’t meant for him. Or so he thought.

Then, with a loud poof that sent soot flying everywhere, a man appeared. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and shirtless, because apparently magical beings don’t believe in modesty. Tattoos coiled up his arms and across his chest, and he had this grin that could only be described as “murderous.” His pink hair was messy in an I-don’t-care way, and he had sharp, glowing eyes that made Choso immediately question if this guy was here to help or hurt.

“Ugh, look at you,” the man said, sneering as he glanced around the room. “Pathetic. Sitting in a pile of ash like some tragic little loser. No wonder your life sucks.”

Cinderella Choso blinked, taken aback. “Uh… who are you?”

“I’m your Fairy Godmother,” the man announced, planting his glowing staff on the ground with a thud. “But you can call me Sukuna. Let’s get this pity party over with so you can go embarrass yourself at the ball.”

Choso frowned. “Aren’t Fairy Godmothers supposed to be… you know, nice?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “I’m nice enough to show up and fix your dumpster-fire life, aren’t I? Be grateful.”

Choso just stared. Sukuna, clearly unbothered, started waving his staff around like he was conducting an orchestra. “Alright, enough whining. Let’s make you look less… tragic.”

He raised his staff without waiting for an answer, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an insult, and in an instant, Cinderella Choso’s plain, soot-stained dress shimmered and transformed. The fabric turned into a soft, flowing baby-pink gown, delicate as a rose petal, with subtle silver accents that sparkled under the flickering firelight. The sleeves were sheer and billowy, giving the outfit an ethereal touch, and the neckline was modest yet elegant, perfectly suited to someone as shy and unassuming as Choso.

His hair, which had been loosely tied back in a messy bun, now fell in smooth waves down his back, held in place by a small, glimmering clip shaped like a crescent moon. On his feet were glass slippers—simple and lovely but with heels that looked slightly impractical, as if designed by someone who didn’t care much about comfort.

Cinderella Choso blushed as he glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. “It’s… nice,” he murmured, smoothing the fabric nervously. “I like it.”

“Of course, you do. I made it,” Sukuna said, crossing his arms and grinning smugly. “Now, let’s get you out of here before I change my mind.”

He waved his staff again with dramatic flair, and a nearby pumpkin swelled and stretched until it became a sleek, elegant carriage. A group of rats squeaked in protest as they were magically transformed into well-groomed horses, their tiny tails vanishing with a poof.

“Rules are simple,” Sukuna said, grabbing a sparkly mask from thin air and tossing it to Choso. “Be back by 3 a.m., or everything goes back to normal. That includes your dress, your carriage, and probably your dignity. Got it?”

Choso nodded, clutching the mask tightly.

“And for the love of everything holy, don’t embarrass me out there,” Sukuna added, glaring at him. “You’re wearing a baby-pink dress to a ball. The bar for failure is low.”

Cinderella Choso felt his cheeks heat up but chose not to respond. Instead, he carefully climbed into the carriage, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the skirt of his gown.

Sukuna watched him go, leaning casually on his staff. “Good luck, kid,” he muttered, his voice softer but still teasing. “You’ll need it.”

As the carriage rolled away into the night, Cinderella Choso took a deep breath, his heart racing. He had no idea what to expect, but for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel a tiny spark of excitement.

And so, Cinderella Choso was off to the ball, and somewhere along the way meet you—Prince Charming, the most ridiculously charming woman in the kingdom.

The grand ballroom was in full swing. The soft glow of chandeliers cast a golden haze over the room, bouncing off delicate, crystal glasses and glinting across the polished floors. Guests drifted in and out of conversation, their laughter mingling with the soft strains of the orchestra.

Cinderella Choso stepped into the room, his eyes wide, taking in the scene around him. The extravagant gowns, the glint of jewelry, the laughter that echoed from the walls—it all felt so far removed from his reality. He stood just inside the doorway for a moment, trying to steady his breath. The pink dress he wore clung to him in a way that made him feel exposed and small. His heart raced in his chest, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd made a mistake even coming.

But then, you appeared.

You stood near the edge of the ballroom, casually talking to someone, but when you turned, your gaze locked onto him across the room, and everything seemed to stop. You were in a sharp, midnight-blue suit, tailored perfectly to fit your figure. It was sleek and elegant, with just the right amount of softness, your presence commanding attention without being overwhelming. Your face was soft, your hair neatly styled, and there was a quiet confidence about you that made it impossible for Cinderella Choso to look away.

You didn’t say anything at first, just let your eyes meet his, studying him, before a gentle smile curved your lips. You took a few steps towards him, weaving through the crowd like you owned the space. The sound of the music, the chatter, all faded away, leaving just the two of you in the center of it all.

“Hello,” you said, your voice smooth and warm as you gently took his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Y/N.”

His heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing. “I—I’m Cinderella Choso,” he stammered, not sure where to look.

You smiled, your gaze lingering on him. Cinderella Choso felt a rush of heat flood his face under the intensity of your gaze. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides, unsure of where to look.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” you said, your voice smooth and genuine, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. The compliment made his heart race in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words to respond.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible, as he mumbled, “T-Thank you... I—I’m not used to... being noticed.” His cheeks were burning now, and he wished he could shrink into the floor.

You chuckled lightly, your smile only growing warmer. “Would you care to dance?” you asked, your voice inviting.

Cinderella Choso hesitated, his mind racing as his heart hammered in his chest. It took him a moment to realize that he was actually standing there, face to face with you, and he still hadn’t said yes. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded, his hand trembling as he reached out to take yours.

As you led him to the center of the ballroom, the music swelled into a slow waltz, and he could feel the tension in his body, the unfamiliarity of the situation, the soft pressure of your hand in his. His heart drummed against his chest as you moved fluidly in rhythm with him. Your body was warm against his, your movements confident and graceful, but you never rushed him.

The dance wasn’t perfect, but with every step, you guided him, never letting him falter. You made him feel safe in the way you held him, steady and sure, your presence somehow grounding. When you looked at him, it wasn’t with judgment or expectation, but with genuine interest, like you were seeing him for who he truly was, beyond the awkwardness he felt.

“You’re doing just fine,” you whispered softly, your voice light, teasing him just a little. “I’m impressed.”

Cinderella Choso’s chest tightened, but not in discomfort. There was something about the way you made him feel—important, seen—that took away the nervous edge in his body. His smile was shy but genuine. “I’ve never danced like this before,” he admitted softly.

“Then I’m honored to be your first,” you said, your smile deepening. It wasn’t just kind—it was sincere. “We’ll make it memorable.”

You guided him with such care, as though it was second nature for you to put others at ease. The music slowed, but your hand stayed firmly on his back, the pressure warm and comforting. When the song ended, you didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, your fingers lingered on his hand, a soft touch that sent a strange warmth through him.

“Shall we get some air?” you asked, offering your arm.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his heart still racing. You led him through the grand hall, down a corridor that seemed to be untouched by the noise of the party. The castle was vast, but you knew it like the back of your hand, guiding him through secret passageways, showing him hidden corners.

The tension between you was thick, crackling with every glance, every touch. You weren’t making it obvious, but Cinderella Choso could feel it. It was in the way your fingers brushed his every now and then, in the soft smiles that lingered a little too long. He wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of the moment or something else, but he couldn’t look away from you.

You led him outside to a secluded garden, bathed in moonlight. The scent of flowers was intoxicating, filling the air with a sense of magic, of something otherworldly. You took his hand again, pulling him gently along a narrow path that led to a hidden entrance behind thick vines. There, behind the foliage, was a secret garden—a place no one else knew about.

A beautiful pavilion stood in the center, its walls draped with delicate flowers, the entire structure seemingly carved from nature itself. Inside the pavilion, the floor was cushioned; and soft, fluffy pillows of various sizes scattered across the cozy bed. The space felt intimate, a retreat far away from the watchful eyes of the ballroom.

“This is…” Cinderella Choso’s voice trailed off, his heart skipping a beat as he took in the scene. It was serene, quiet, and so completely different from everything else in the castle. “Beautiful.”

You smiled, removed your shoes, and sat down on one of the larger pillows, motioning for him to join you. “It’s my secret hideaway. Only a few people know about it.” You patted the cushion beside you. “I come here when I need to think, to be alone.”

Cinderella Choso hesitated, then took off his heels and sat down beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your body, but not quite close enough to touch. The silence between you two felt thick, comfortable, like you were both holding your breath.

“I’m glad you showed me this,” he said softly, finally breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, almost unsure, but sincere.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice lower now, almost intimate. “I don’t usually bring anyone here.”

Cinderella Choso turned to look at you, his heart beating faster at the intensity in your gaze. The world outside seemed distant, fading into nothing as you both stayed there, in this small, secret place. You leaned a little closer, and the tension in the air seemed to wrap around you both, like a fine thread drawing you closer.

The world outside could wait. Here, in this hidden garden, nothing mattered. Only the unspoken connection, the pull between you, the undeniable chemistry that was now crackling in the air.

“You know,” you said, voice low and teasing, “If you’re not careful, I might just keep you here forever.”

Cinderella Choso’s breath hitched, and for a moment, everything stopped. He was so close to you now, the distance between you two shrinking with every word, every breath. His pulse raced, and for the first time that night, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The moment your lips met his, Cinderella Choso froze, his breath hitching in his throat. For a second, it seemed like he might pull away, his hands hovering uncertainly at your sides. Then, as if something gave way inside him, he grabbed your waist and kissed you back, his movements sudden and unrestrained.

At first, it was clumsy and rushed, his lips pressing hard against yours as if he wasn’t sure how to keep up with the storm of emotions. His breathing was uneven, shallow gasps breaking through the sounds of your kisses. His hands moved hesitantly but firmly, clutching at your waist and back, desperate to pull you closer.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair and pulling him even closer. You could feel his nervous energy in the way he moved, but it only made you smile against his lips. You tried to slow his pace, letting him match your rhythm, trying to ground his frantic energy with the soft, deliberate way your lips moved against his.

When he broke away to breathe, his face was bright red, and he couldn’t meet your eyes, his gaze darting everywhere but at you. You cupped his face gently, guiding him to look at you. “Choso,” you murmured softly, and his eyes widened, his blush deepening.

Before you could say anything more, he surged forward again, more determined this time. His kisses were rough and messy, his inexperience showing in the way his teeth grazed your lips and his hands fumbled to hold you. But you didn’t mind—it was raw, unfiltered, and so very him.

You let out a soft gasp as his lips found your neck, his movements hurried and unpracticed. Your hand slid down to his back, soothing the tension in his shoulders, your touch steadying him as he pressed closer.

Still, whenever he glanced at you, his shyness crept back, softening his frantic movements for just a second before his hands and lips found you again. You tilted his chin up, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek, and his trembling grip on you tightened in response.

Suddenly, Choso pushed you down on the cushioned floor and climbed on top of you. His wayward tongue grew more unruly in your warm mouth, his actions sending heated shivers to your core. He mewled through his erratic kisses as his fumbling, frantic hands began pulling at your clothes and undressing you.

His movements were quick, almost frenzied, as if driven by a force he couldn’t control. Your royal attire almost tore as he threw it to the garden floor. He pulled back for just a moment, and you opened your eyes only to see the wild, frantic look in his eyes, wide and unblinking, filled with raw urgency and need, as if he couldn’t bear to wait another moment.

His eyes were locked onto the delicate curves of your frame, his gaze particularly lingering on the flushed swell of your breasts and the hardened nipples. His eyes followed his hands as they shamelessly traveled every which way on your body making you gasp out in pleasure. Choso was panting above you, his chest rising and falling as unrestrained desire flickered in his eyes, and it made you shiver with excitement.

His hands moved to his own clothes next. Choso fumbled with the fabric of his dress, his movements rushed and impatient, tugging at the delicate seams and buttons crafted by Sukuna’s magic. He huffed in frustration, tugging harder, and managed to peel off a few layers of the dress. The outer fabric loosened, revealing the smooth undershirt beneath, but the enchanted material still resisted fully giving way. Despite his best efforts, only parts of the intricate outfit now hung messily off his shoulders.

Noticing the frustration on his face, you gently called out through your heavy breaths, "He-hey, slow down. There's no need to rush."

But as if your voice had yanked the beast's attention back to you, Choso's head snapped in your direction. You don't know what happened next, or how, but Choso's mouth was back on your skin. His undershirt joined your clothes on the ground, and a manic, whimpering Choso was pressing kisses all over you. Biting and sucking on your skin, he was leaving large hickeys and bruises as his mouth travelled lower and lower until he found your leaking pussy.

Choso whined loudly, and the vibrations sent jolts of electricity to the steadily building coil in your core. Your entire body shuddered as though someone had pulled your soul out when he started sucking your folds with full force. It felt as if he was making out with your pussy in the same rough and messy way he was kissing you moments ago, his ceaseless actions stimulating your clit as well.

It felt like your mind was unraveling, every coherent thought dissolving into the overwhelming sensation that consumed you. Your flickering gaze drooped down to Choso. His ears and neck were flushed red, eyes tightly screwed shut, with moans and deep groans escaping his lips as if he was the one receiving pleasure, and maybe he was.

It was getting too much, the overwhelming feeling was unbearable. You forced words out of your half-open mouth, trying your best to sound lucid, "Ch-cho... Choso s-stop. Slow down b-baby, 's too much..."

Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. But it's as if your words are swallowed by the air between you, his movements remain relentless, driven by an intensity that seems to blind him to everything else. Your protests falter, mingling with your uneven breaths, as his focus stays singular, unwavering, like he’s caught in a trance that nothing can break.

His tongue thrusts into your quivering hole, as his nose keeps on nudging the sensitive nerves of your clit. He was so shy at first. You didn't think he had much experience in these affairs when you brought him to the hidden garden, but his performance was making you second guess. Still, he seemed inexperienced with how uncoordinated, aimless and chaotic his movements were. But the sheer force in his actions made stars flicker behind your eyes.

The pleasure surged through you, sharp and unrelenting, until it overtook every part of you. Your body tensed, trembling uncontrollably, as your thoughts fragment into nothingness. It’s too much—blinding, deafening, overwhelming—until your mind can no longer keep up. Your senses give way, and the world around you vanishes, leaving you in a black void of sensation.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, the warmth still buzzing under your skin. A fleeting moment of clarity starts to settle. Fuck, that was just from going down on you?—

But your thoughts are cut off as the sound of clothes rustling suddenly joins the deep, uneven breaths filling the garden.

You open your eyes to see Choso hastily yanking down his slacks and panties in one swift motion, the fabric bunching around his knees. Your eyes fixate on something else, unable to look away. It's beautiful, unlike anything you've seen before.

His cock that sprang out was a pretty cherry pink colour, with veins that trace along his shaft like rivers. Silky smooth skin covered the slight upward curve of his length. The head was a flushed, angry red, as though the heat had spread from within, coloring it with a deep, vivid hue. It pulsed with intensity, a clear sign of the tension building beneath the surface, with his precum dripping from the slit. And the size—wait. No, this can't be right. It's too much. He's massive.

Your eyes widen in realization, a wave of panic suddenly washing over you. Your hands grip the sheets as a small shred of fear claws at your chest, pulling you back to reality. No, no, no—this won't work. It won’t fit. You scramble away from Choso, twisting your body as you quickly turn on your knees to distance yourself. But you feel his hand grip your ankle and yank your body straight back to him.

Your back is pressed against his chest as you feel Choso's entire body weight press down on you, pinning you in place and leaving you unable to move. Then you feel two things sink into you, Choso's teeth in your shoulder and his massive cock in your pussy. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as his size overwhelms you, stretching you far beyond what you're accustomed to. It's almost too much, your body tensing as it struggles to accomodate the intensity of him. Each movement only deepens the sensation, both pain and pleasure pushing you to the edge of what you can handle.

A deep guttural groan echoes from Choso's throat straight into your ear. He completely stills for a moment as if he too seems to need some time to adjust to the feeling of being inside you. Then he's rambling, babbling in his pussydrunk state.

Choso's voice was shaky, breath coming in quick gasps as he muttered, "This—this feels so good... so tight... can't... can't get enough of you." His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white, his words slipping out in a desperate breathless rush. "You feel... incredible. I don't know how much longer I can... this is—this is everything... "

Choso starts plunging into you, his hips snapping against yours, each movement fast, hard and deep. The familiar tightness slowly takes hold in your core. With every thrust the pain melted away and only mind numbing pleasure remained.

Your words tumble out in a frantic, incoherent rush, your body trembling as you clung to the sheets. "I... can't... so good, Choso, feels too good... please, don't stop... don't stop, please..." Your voice was shaky, breathy, barely above a whisper, as if the sensation was overwhelming your every thought.

You're practically mewling as each wave of pleasure blurs the edges of reality, leaving you teetering on the brink of madness. Your body trembles uncontrollably, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as if you were drowning in ecstasy. The intensity was almost too much, a raw, primal force that left you clutching desperately at the remnants of your sanity.

Your body moves against him on it's own, joining in on his rhythm. Choso moans in your ears, and the voice sends more uncontrollable shivers to your core. You force your eyes open as much as you could through the haze of your blinding pleasure and turn your head to the side to look at him. Choso was completely feral, his expression raw and intense. You swore you could see hearts in his eyes, his gaze burning with something wild. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and he was moaning and whimpering, while mercilessly thrusting in and out of you. He was completely out of control.

His sheer size was making you feel everything as his cock slid against you, reaching every corner and hitting your sweet spot again and again. Your pleasure builds hard and fast, and snaps before you could comprehend it. Your mouth hangs slightly open, drool escaping and pooling on the sheets below your cheek as your head spins with overwhelming pleasure. Your thoughts are scattered, each sensation mixing together, leaving your brain in a muddled haze, unable to focus on anything but the dizzying rush of pleasure flooding your senses.

You orgasm sets off Choso's own as your pussy tightens around him, trembling and quivering, and he cums inside you with a loud moan while giving slow, messy thrusts. The warm liquid pools inside, filling you, and spills out around the base of his cock and on the sheets. Tears stain Choso's cheeks as he starts crying, sniffles and sobs mixing with his moans, and you feel the warm drops on your shoulder.

Both yours and Choso's breaths come in ragged, uneven bursts. Your haze is slowly about to lift, and the trembling in your limbs was just about to subside, but Choso flips you over to face him and starts moving again. He's still hard inside you despite his powerful orgasm and how much he came. His movements pick up their speed, and he whines while sliding in and out of you.

Overstimulation grips your body, and you squirm and thrash underneath him. Choso grips your hips to force your body still as he moves faster and deeper inside you. "Choso... i-it's... too much," you gasp.

He leans down and pecks your lips, and breathes into your mouth, "I know... me too..." before capturing your lips in a deep, bruising kiss. His desperate actions over you don't stop, whining through his own overstimulation, as he pulls multiple orgasms out of you till you lose count and your highs start bleeding into each other.

Every time your vision goes black because of pleasure, and you drift in and out of consciousness in exhaustion, Choso fills you up with his sticky seed till you overflow and he's shooting blanks, while pressing kisses all over your body. This goes on for what feels like an eternity, and your body felt completely drained, every muscle heavy and limp, yet there was a comforting warmth that enveloped you, a deep sense of contentment, your mind floating in a blissful haze.

Choso, now calmer and free from his earlier fluster, was covering you with gentle kisses, murmuring soft "I love you"s as you lay there, blissfully tired and unable to move. His touch was tender, each kiss filled with quiet affection, as if he was trying to memorize every moment.

Suddenly, the deep toll of the palace bell echoed through the night. Choso froze, his eyes widening in alarm as he remembered fairy godmother Sukuna's warning—3 a.m. was the deadline, and the magic would soon start unraveling.

Panic flickered across his face as he sat up abruptly. “I have to go,” he whispered, his voice thick with urgency and regret.

You reached out weakly, your fingers brushing his arm. “Wait... wait till morning,” you mumbled, your voice slurred with exhaustion. There was more you wanted to say—something about a curse, about needing him to stay—but the words came out as incoherent murmurs, fragments of a plea lost in the haze of your tiredness.

Choso hesitated, his expression torn, but the chime of the bell spurred him into action. He scrambled off the pavilion, hastily pulling on his dress. He paused for a moment, looking back at you with a mix of longing and sorrow.

“I love you,” he said one last time, his voice soft but firm, before slipping out of the garden and into the night.

The next morning arose with a bright yellow glow from the east. You stir in the sheets of the pavilion, before slowly opening your eyes to the beautifully painted glass ceiling. The birds were chirping in the hidden garden, and the scent of the numerous flowers swirled in the air.

The memories of the night before came rushing to your mind, every fragment crystal clear except one: his face. You had tried your best, through your exhaustion, to get Cinderella Choso to stay with you till you could see him again in the morning, but he left anyway.

You tried to tell him—to get but a word in—that you were cursed. A long time ago, a lady of magic, offended by the king, had cursed her only heir: you. According to the curse, every morning, you forgot each and every face you saw the day before, including your own.

It was a well-guarded royal secret that only a few were privy to. And you wanted the man who stole your heart (along with the strength in your legs) to know it too. He was gone now, and it would be difficult to find him with just a name without the face. But there's something else you remember, something that even a curse couldn't erase from your mind: his beautiful, glistening pink dick.

Scrambling out of the sheets and into your clothes, before smoothing your hair down the best you could to make yourself somewhat presentable, you stepped out of the garden and went to the palace in search of your aide.

The air in the aide’s office was heavy with the scent of parchment and ink, the flicker of candlelight illuminating his focused face as he worked through a stack of documents. He barely looked up as you entered, his pen scratching against the paper.

“Where did you disappear off to last night?” he asked, his tone curious but not pressing.

You waved a dismissive hand, brushing off the question. “It’s not important,” you replied, stepping closer. “I need you to summon the royal painter immediately.”

The aide blinked, finally setting down his pen to look at you fully. “The royal painter? What for?”

“Just do it,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. His brow furrowed, but he nodded, reaching for the small bell on his desk to summon a servant to deliver the orders.

Moments later, the royal painter, an older man with streaks of grey in his beard, shuffled into the room, looking a little confused.

The painter gave a short bow, his expression perplexed. “Your Highness, what service do you require?”

You stepped forward, clasping your hands together in determination. “I need you to paint something from my memory,” you said, your voice steady. “A man’s dick.”

The painter sputtered and blinked rapidly, visibly startled by the peculiar request. “A p-penis, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, your tone leaving no room for doubt. “It’s vital.”

Though clearly appalled and confused, the painter nodded, pulling out his tools and setting to work as you described every detail of Cinderella Choso’s cock. You spoke with precision, recalling the faint lines on his shaft, the slight upward curve of his length, the veins running along the length, the pinkish red flushed head that was a darker shade than the rest of this cock, and the soft sheen of his skin. The painter’s expression grew more incredulous with each stroke, but he remained silent, committed to the task.

When he finished, you scrutinized the painting, your heart leaping at how perfectly he had captured it. “Good,” you said with a nod. “Now make several copies of it. As many as you can manage within the next hour.”

The painter hesitated, glancing at the aide as if hoping for an explanation. When none came, he sighed and got to work, summoning his apprentices to assist.

As you waited, a royal guard entered the room, bowing deeply. “Your Highness, the King has summoned you to the throne room.”

You inhaled sharply, straightening your posture. “Very well,” you said, smoothing your attire once more. “I’ll return shortly,” you told the aide before following the guard out.

The throne room was as grand as ever, the King seated at its center. Her piercing gaze bore into you as you entered, the tension in the air palpable. “You’re late,” she said, her voice sharp.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” you said, offering a polite bow.

The King leaned forward, her expression severe. “I summoned you to discuss a matter of great importance. The princess I told you of last night, of the neighboring kingdom, the one you danced with at the start—he would make a fine royal spouse. The union would strengthen our ties and secure our future.”

You hesitated, the memory of Cinderella Choso flashing through your mind. “I met someone last night,” you said, your voice unwavering. “I fell in love with him, and I’ve decided I’m going to marry him.”

The King’s expression darkened, frustration evident. “You would throw away a carefully arranged alliance for some man you met at a ball? Do you even know who he is?”

“I do not,” you admitted, “but I will find him.”

The King’s hand clenched the arm of her throne, her face reddening. “You’re being reckless,” she snapped. “This marriage is crucial to the kingdom’s future!”

“Then perhaps you should have been clearer about that before inviting every eligible suitor to the ball,” you retorted calmly.

"Besides, with the amount of cum inside me right now, I doubt any kingdom would want to marry off their princess to me when my belly swells in a few months." You add with a faint smirk on your calm face.

"You!" The king's anger reached its peak, and before you could say another word, she clutched her chest, her face twisting in pain. “Your Majesty!” a servant cried, rushing to her side as she collapsed into the throne.

You didn’t linger. Turning on your heel, you left the chaos behind, your resolve unshaken.

By the time you reached the training grounds, the knights were gathered in neat rows, their polished armor clinking softly as they practiced their drills. You held up the paintings in your hands, ensuring they all saw the image clearly.

“This is the man I’m looking for,” you announced, your voice carrying across the courtyard. “Compare this painting to the dick of every man in the kingdom. Find him, no matter how long it takes.”

The knights saluted in unison, determination in their eyes as they accepted their copies.

Turning to the aide, who had followed you silently, you gave your next order. “Make an announcement,” you said. “Tell the kingdom I met a man at the ball last night, and he’s stolen my heart. We’ll find him with these paintings. Any man whose dick matches the image will be married to me.”

The aide hesitated, his brow furrowing in concern. “Your Highness, are you certain—” Although he was used to your antics by now, this one was far too ridiculous to not question.

“Do it,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for doubt.

As the knights dispersed and the aide hurried off to carry out your orders, you felt a strange mix of determination and trepidation. Somewhere out there, Cinderella Choso was waiting—and you wouldn’t rest until he was by your side once more.

The days turned into weeks, the search spanning every corner of the kingdom. The knights traveled tirelessly, comparing the painting of the glistening cock to every eligible man they encountered, but no match had been found. Each negative report brought a growing sense of worry, a restlessness that kept you pacing through the corridors of the palace late into the night. The weight of your promise pressed heavily on your shoulders. What if you had lost him forever?

Finally, the aide presented the list of remaining houses. “This is the last one,” he said, handing you the parchment with a weary expression.

Your eyes scanned the address. A modest home tucked into the farthest corner of the kingdom. The final hope.

“I’m going with them,” you declared. The aide opened his mouth to protest, but your determined gaze silenced him. The next morning, you rode out with the knights, the journey long and arduous as the distant town came into view.

Meanwhile, in that very house, Stepmother Kenjaku paced the floor, his long robes rustling with every turn. The news of the prince's search had reached even the farthest corners, and Kenjaku was determined to seize the opportunity. He had spent weeks preparing his two daughters, Eso and Kechizu, for the inevitable visit.

“You must be perfect,” he told them sternly, inspecting their dicks. Eso winced as Kenjaku pressed a scale to his cock, the length was far from satisfactory. Kechizu groaned in frustration as another mixture of oils and creams was slathered onto his dick in a desperate attempt to make it more appealing.

“Remember,” Kenjaku said with a wicked grin, “if one of you marries the prince, we’ll live in the palace, and our troubles will be over.”

“Yes, Mother,” they chimed in unison, their faces contorting into forced smiles.

When the knock finally came, Kenjaku hurried to the door, his heart racing. He opened it with a deep bow, his oily charm seeping through every word. “Your Highness, what an honor! Please, come in!”

You stepped inside, your knights following as Kenjaku led you to a modest sitting area in the hall. You settled into the soft couch, your posture regal despite the humble surroundings.

“These are my daughters, Eso and Kechizu,” Kenjaku announced with exaggerated pride as the two boys stepped forward, their hands clasped demurely before them.

You glanced at their faces and had to fight the urge to recoil. The sharp angles of their features and their overly powdered skin were anything but appealing. Their forced grins only made them look more unsettling.

“They’re definitely not the man I’m looking for,” you said flatly, not even bothering to compare the painting. “There’s no need.”

Kenjaku’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure, Your Highness? They’ve been preparing—”

Your sharp gaze cut him off. “According to the records, there are three daughters in this household.”

Kenjaku’s expression tightened, but he quickly masked his displeasure with a nervous laugh. “Ah, the third,” he said dismissively, waving a hand. “He's not truly my daughter, Your Highness. A stepchild of my late husband from her first marriage, nothing more than a servant. Hardly worthy of your attention.”

“Call him anyway,” you ordered, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Kenjaku hesitated for a moment before turning to a nearby servant and barking out the order. Moments later, the sound of footsteps descending a creaking staircase filled the air.

When Cinderella Choso appeared, your breath caught in your throat. His disheveled hair framed his face, strands sticking out wildly, and a smudge of ash darkened his cheek. He wore a simple maid’s outfit, the hem fraying slightly at the edges, but none of that mattered.

The moment you saw him, the memory of that night came flooding back in its entirety. His face—his beautiful, soft features, the gentle curve of his lips, and the warmth in his eyes—had been restored in your mind as if the curse had never taken hold. He was the man you’d fallen for, the man whose cock you had spent weeks searching for.

Cinderella Choso looked up slowly, his expression a mixture of caution and something softer—a quiet joy that flickered to life the moment his eyes met yours. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, his lips parting slightly in surprise as he instinctively ducked his head, his hand brushing nervously against the hem of his apron.

“Why... why is the prince here?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Though confusion lingered in his tone, there was an unmistakable warmth in his gaze, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were standing before him.

You maintained your composure, though your chest tightened at the sight of him. Giving no sign that you recognized him, you said firmly, “I will personally check him,” standing from the couch with an air of authority.

Kenjaku’s eyes widened in alarm, but he quickly plastered a thin smile on his face. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Cinderella Choso’s blush deepened, his dark eyes darting between you and the knights before returning to you, lingering just a moment longer than before. His fingers twitched nervously, and he bit his lip, a flicker of shy delight breaking through his confusion.

You stepped closer, your gaze steady and unwavering as it met his. “Where is your room?” you asked, your voice calm but commanding.

“The... attic,” he replied hesitantly, his words faltering under the weight of the moment. His hand rose as if to gesture toward the stairs, but he paused, seeming momentarily flustered by your nearness.

“Lead the way,” you instructed, your tone firm but not unkind.

Cinderella Choso nodded, his movements tentative but obedient. His face was still tinged with a soft pink hue as he turned toward the staircase. There was something in the way he carried himself—a nervous energy paired with a quiet joy, as though he were both overwhelmed and thrilled to have you in his home.

You followed him, your heart pounding in your chest with every step as the narrow staircase creaked beneath your feet.

As you ascended the creaking staircase, the air between you grew heavier, laden with unspoken emotions and tension. The narrow space seemed to close in, your footsteps echoing softly behind him.

Cinderella Choso’s shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the hem of his apron as if it were his lifeline. His head was slightly bowed, and his messy hair shifted with every step he took. You watched him closely, the faint blush still dusting his cheeks, the nervous sway in his movements unmistakable.

Breaking the silence, you spoke, your voice low but clear. “I hope you remember me.”

Cinderella Choso froze mid-step, his foot slipping slightly on the next stair. He let out a startled squeak, his hands flailing briefly before he caught himself against the bannister. “Y-yes!” he stammered, the word escaping his lips in a hurried rush. His voice cracked slightly, and his entire body seemed to jolt with embarrassment.

But he didn’t look back.

His ears were burning red now, the flush creeping down his neck as he straightened up and hurried the rest of the way. His steps were uneven, almost frantic, as though the very act of facing you might undo him completely.

You bit back a smile, watching him fumble, his shyness endearing in a way that only made your heart ache more for him.

The attic was dimly lit, with only a small window letting in a pale stream of light that softened the space. Despite its modest size, the room was neat and organized, every corner reflecting a quiet diligence. A small dressing table stood to the side, its surface polished clean, with a few simple trinkets placed meticulously. A wardrobe leaned against the wall, slightly worn but sturdy, and a collection of books was stacked neatly in one corner.

The bed, just barely large enough to accommodate Cinderella Choso's broad frame, was tucked under the window, a faded but clean rug beside it. The air was still, carrying the faint scent of the ash smudged on his cheek and the warmth of the space he'd made his own.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, it was as if the world fell away. All pretense dissolved in an instant. You stepped toward him, and he barely had time to process before your lips were on his, the kiss urgent and consuming.

Cinderella Choso froze for the briefest moment, his body stiffening. But then his hands found your waist, and he melted into you, a soft whimper escaping him. His touch held the same urgency as the night of the ball, trembling slightly, but the sheer need in him breaking through his shyness.

Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingertips. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but they moved against yours with increasing desperation. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, as though you feared he might disappear again.

Together, you tumbled onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress as he fell back. The window's light framed his flushed face, his hair falling messily around him as his wide eyes met yours. His breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling quickly, but his hands never left you, roaming across your back, your hips, your thighs, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Breaking from the kiss, you hovered above him, your breath mingling with his as you stared into his wide, vulnerable eyes. “Why did you leave that night?” you asked, your voice trembling, not with anger, but with a deep, aching hurt. “I told you to stay.”

Cinderella Choso looked away, his cheeks flushed as if the memory stung him even now. His hands rested on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, grounding him. “I... I didn’t want to,” he admitted softly, his voice raw with regret. “But I didn’t have a choice. It was magic.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering across your face. He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his words tumbling out nervously, as though he feared you wouldn’t believe him. “The fairy godmother gave me everything for one night—just until 3 a.m. After that, everything... everything would go back to the way it was. My clothes, my life, all of it. I had to leave before it all unraveled.”

His gaze flicked back to you, searching for your reaction, his face tinged with shame. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.”

You studied him for a long moment, your hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint smudge of ash still there. “Believe me, I know,” you said, your voice laced with understanding, a sad smile tugging at your lips.

His brows knit in confusion, but you shook your head gently, your fingers tracing the soft line of his jaw. “That’s a story for later,” you said softly, leaning in to press another kiss to his lips. Whatever questions he had about your words or your curse could wait. Right now, you were here, together, and that was all that mattered.

Just like that your roaming hands were back on each other again. Cinderella Choso kissed you with more fervour than before. His lips frantically moved against yours. His tongue slipped inside, the soft muscle gliding and tangling with your tongue.

Your breathing grew shallower, and your heart thundered in your chest as Choso's soft, desperate whimpers filled the air. His hands fumbled at the buttons of your coat, trembling as he worked to undo them, his touch clumsy with need.

But you caught his wrists, stopping him in his tracks. “Uh-uh,” you said, your voice firm, though a teasing smile tugged at your lips. “I’m not letting what happened that night occur again. You went wild, Cho—You'll let me call you that, won't you? I’d like to leave this house walking on my own two legs if I can help it.”

His eyes widened, his face flushing a deep crimson as he sputtered, “I-I didn’t mean—”

You silenced him with a quick peck on his lips before reaching for a piece of cloth from his wardrobe. His confusion deepened as you looped the fabric around his wrists, tying them securely to the headboard.

“Wha—what are you doing?” he stammered, his voice trembling with equal parts apprehension and excitement.

You smirked, leaning close so your breath ghosted over his ear. “Maintaining some control over the situation this time,” you said, your tone playful yet commanding. “I think we both know you lose all sense of restraint when you’re left to your own devices.”

Cinderella Choso whimpered, his hands tugging weakly at the bindings as you straddled him. His eyes darted down to his maid outfit, and he seemed suddenly hyper-aware of the fabric against his skin.

Taking a moment, you leaned back slightly, your gaze trailing over him appreciatively. “You know,” you said, tilting your head as your lips curved into a grin, “You look really cute like this.”

His blush deepened, and he turned his head away shyly. “D-Don’t tease me...”

“Oh, I’m not teasing,” you replied, your fingers tracing the ruffled hem of his skirt. “We could do this from time to time—have you wear something like this again.”

Cinderella Choso’s wide eyes snapped back to yours, his lips parting in a silent gasp. His embarrassed whimper made you chuckle softly, leaning down to kiss him again, savoring the way he melted beneath you, utterly at your mercy.

You pulled at the knot of his apron, undoing the fabric. Your hand slid to the back of his neck, slowly unzipping the dress, and he shivered at the touch. You give him a sweet, soft smile but the look in your eyes betrayed what you were about to do next. His eyes grew wide with panic and anticipation, his lips parting slightly as he took in small breaths.

You quickly slip his dress off next and settle between his legs. His pretty white panties had a not so innocent wet spot that only grew larger in size the longer you looked at it. Choso lets out a small whine and your devilish gaze met his excited, wide-eyed stare.

"Wha—what are you going to do?" He stammered, and his eyes dart between your lips and the bulge in his panties that was peeking through the translucent fabric.

You grin even wider and chirp, "Exactly what you're thinking right now."

Choso gasps when you pull down his panties, and his hardened cock springs out. It looks exactly like you remembered it—big and smooth with a gorgeous pink tint that's redder at the head. The paintings didn't do justice, the real thing was much better.

You bring your hand up to touch his tip and he shivers. Choso was trying his best to stay still, anticipating what's to come. But when you softly kiss the tip of his cock, his entire body shudders. A loud, high-pitched moan escapes his lips when you sink down your mouth on his length as much as you could.

You use all your strength to tightly grip his thighs with both of your hands, forcing him to stay still while you bring your head up and then glide it back down, taking him deeper this time.

The head of his cock touches the back of your throat and you slightly gag. Your eyes glisten with tears, but you don't stop. You start bobbing your head up and down on his length, which elicits a series of strangled moans and gasps from choso.

Your lips slide up his length, a mix of your spit and his precum covering the shaft. You suck at his head, then hollow your cheeks and go back down. Your actions pick up their pace, head rapidly bobbing, adding to his building pleasure.

With a loud cry, choso cums. The warm liquid that filled your mouth was salty with a slight sweet taste. Your hand replaces your mouth, moving up and down, helping him ride out his high.

You look up at him. His eyes are tightly shut, mouth parted as his chest heaves with the deep breaths. As he calms down, his half-open lidded eyes meet yours. You sweetly smile at him and tease, "Did you like that?"

Choso turned his head to the side and tried to hide his face in his bound arms, flushing this time with embarrassment.

"Yes," he muttered in a small, shy voice.

He then asks, "Are you going to untie me now?"

You shake your head, a playful smile on your lips. "Nope. We're not done yet."

You sit up and start unbuttoning your clothes. Choso's eyes follow your every action as you slip out of your coat, your shirt, and then your pants. You're sitting above him, straddling him, with nothing but your underwear on. Choso's eyes seem too bulge out of his head, and his ears burn redder at your half-naked form, as if he hadn't already seen it before.

You take off your bra next and your breasts spill out. Choso's gaze is fixed on the sight, then trails down to your panties and the noticable wet patch on it. You pull them down, there's a lewd string of your slick connecting to the fabric. Choso gulps at the sight, his Adam's apple bobs on his throat.

"Would you like a taste, my sweet Cho?" You tilt your head and drawl while looking at him. He nods frantically at your words, whining desperately.

"You're so big baby, and as much as I love it, you'll have to loosen me up a little before I take you inside, yeah?" Choso blushes at your words and whimpers, "Ye-yes, please."

You rise and move up to his shoulders, placing your legs on each side and settle your pussy down on his face, careful not to smother him.

Choso moans softly as he eagerly starts licking at the slick dripping down on his tongue. His knuckles turn white the moment his bound hands grip the headboard tightly. His eyes are closed, face flushed like a plum, and his soft whines and groans fill the air, mixing with your moans of pleasure. He looks so obscenely gorgeous between your legs.

Choso's tongue laps at your folds. You reach down and push your fingers in your pussy, and start pumping them in and out in an attempt to stretch yourself out. Choso sucks and lightly bites at your clit and it sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Your back arches as you push yourself deeper to his mouth, the coil in your core ready to snap. You're close, so close.

Choso lets out a low groan, sending vibrations to your sensitive flesh. He's hard again, precum dripping from the slit. He bucks his hips up when he gives a harsh suck to your clit that sends you spiralling, waves after waves of pleasure washing over you as you hit your high. You get off him and collapse to the side, both of you panting side by side.

You don't waste another moment; getting up and aligning your warm, sensitive pussy with his dripping cock and sink down on him, overstimulation be damned. A loud whiny moan echoes in the room, coming from you or him you don't know.

Once you started bouncing on him, Choso felt as though every inch of his skin was alive, buzzing with a heat so powerful it left him dizzy. His mind felt hazy, thoughts muddled, unable to cling to any single thread of rationality. The pleasure overwhelmed him entirely, a thick fog of sensation clouding every rational thought, as if his brain were melting beneath the weight of it, leaving only pure, unfiltered bliss.

Your warm, tight, wet cunt gripping him like a vice felt like it was milking him dry. You lean back, your palms resting on his thighs behind you as you use all your strength to ride him. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and the view is so lewd for our poor baby Choso that he feels like he's gonna cum right then and there.

You through your head back, mouth open as you drool and pant above him. All that sword training paid off, because you couldn't possibly have lasted without all the built up stamina. Choso's loud moans and groans, mixed with your own, ring in your ears, adding to your lust and fueling you to go faster and harder.

Choso throws his head back into the pillow, hands holding the headboard in an iron-grip, as his biceps flex and abs tightens, and he cums hard. His ropey liquid filling you up, and you follow right after, still riding him through both your orgasms.

You pant hard, body slacking to the side, and you look at him while you try to catch your breath. Choso is a mess, tears and drool is dripping from the sides of his face. His jaw is slack, and his face, neck and chest is flushed red. Little sobs escape his lips along with the gasps.

You quickly move to untie the cloth around his hands and collapse on top of him. You hold him close as you pepper his face with kisses. "You okay, baby?" You ask in a soft voice. But just then, before you could react, Choso flips you over. He's looking down at you with the same crazed look in his eyes that he had the night of the ball. Fuck! You made a mistake untying him.

Choso pins both your wrists above your head with one hand, and grips one of your legs up with the other, before thrusting himself back into you. "Cho-choso!?" You call out, startled. His eyes are blown wide with a wild look in them, no coherent thought behind the gaze.

"M-more... more pl-please. Not enough... This is not enough... need more..." He babbles. So you weren't walking out of this house on your own after all. The pleasure he gave you that night was soul-crushingly good, and you loved every moment of it. As much as you want it again right now, there's an entire knight squad waiting for you downstairs, dammit.

He holds you down while ramming his cock deep inside with full strength. His thrusts get meaner with each stroke, pumping pleasure out of you. He leans down, shoving his tongue in your slack mouth, swallowing all your moans. Oh fuck it! The knights can wait.

Each pulse of pleasure that rolled through you felt like a wave of heat, washing away any coherent thought. Your body trembled, each nerve alive, and your mind seemed to blur, its sharp edges softening into nothingness. Every sensation was amplified, the euphoria so intense that it felt like your very mind was being devoured by the pleasure, each wave more intoxicating than the last.

Choso didn’t stop, not until both of you were exhausted and sticky with sweat and cum that came from all the countless orgasms, the intensity of the moment lingering in the air between you. His movements were relentless, driven by an overwhelming need, and each time you thought he might slow down, he only pushed forward.

It was like that night all over again. You drifted in and out of the haze clouding you with each mind numbing high. The sun was setting when you both finally stopped, the golden light spilling through the window and casting a warm glow over everything. The room, once filled with the erratic energy, now felt quiet, the fading daylight creating a peaceful contrast to the intensity that had come before.

Choso was sleeping peacefully on top of you, his soft breaths rising and falling gently against your chest. His weight, comforting and familiar, made your heart swell with adoration. You watched him, his face serene in sleep, so different from his earlier untamed frenzy, and a wave of tenderness washed over you as you held him closer, not wanting to move, wanting to cherish the moment forever.

In the following days, the kingdom buzzed with excitement, preparations for the royal marriage taking center stage. The streets were filled with banners and flowers, and the air was thick with anticipation. Cinderella Choso, now at your side, was treated with the same reverence as any princess, though his gentle nature remained unchanged. You spent your days together, savoring the quiet moments, laughing, and talking about the future; and with his cock buried deep inside you when no one was around.

The royal wedding was a grand affair, a celebration of not just your union, but the love that had brought you both together. As the days passed, you realized that the magic and curse had only led you to something far greater than you could have imagined.

And so, with Choso by your side, you lived happily ever after, finding a peace that had once seemed impossible.

---

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artficlly · 1 year ago

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smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked.

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents.

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets.

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense.

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight.

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications.

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would.

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen.

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you.

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice.

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog.

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat.

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal.

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal.

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness.

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash.

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.”

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves.

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink.

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found.

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his.

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots.

“Sit.” He commands.

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you.

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth.

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone.

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery.

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men.

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes.

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers.

Rot.

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity.

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace.

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it.

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine.

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words.

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more.

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them.

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood.

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time.

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle.

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences.

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax.

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper.

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots.

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down.

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table.

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling.

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest.

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.”

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed.

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more.

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger.

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks.

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile.

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin.

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off.

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips.

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck.

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him.

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place.

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding.

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock.

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet.

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb.

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve.

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns.

“Chaos magic?” He questions.

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin.

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain.

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon.

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort.

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes.

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct.

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent.

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly.

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy.

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs.

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things.

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him.

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look.

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders.

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive.

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull.

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon.

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol.

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull.

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours.

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest.

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap.

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh.

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants.

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds.

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm.

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit.

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt.

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him.

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady.

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles.

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted.

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk.

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips.

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully.

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock.

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you.

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers.

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation.

“Please—” you gasp out.

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place.

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit.

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin.

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath.

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy.

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased.

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual.

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp.

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt.

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain.

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

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