Lovely

He looms above you, all broad shoulders and deep chest, kissing you hungrily like he’s trying to breathe in your oxygen. He'd pushed in slow and steady, letting you feel every inch of the stretch until he bottomed out.

Your legs are spread wide to allow him to rest himself between them, and he’s already got one of them hooked around his waist to get that perfect angle, the one that makes you yelp his name every time. You can taste yourself on his lips from when he went down on you. 

One of his hands is clenching the pillow next to your head, the other gripping your hip so hard that you have no doubt there will be marks tomorrow. His forearms are veiny and sweaty. The curls that fall over his face are damp, sticking to his forehead as beads of exertion trail down his temples.

The bed is shaking from the movement of his hips driving into you, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care about the sounds of the headboard hitting the wall behind the bed. Neither of you notice the way his name leaves your lips in pitiful little whimpers, the sound escaping like whispers into the night through the open windows. 

He brings himself back, far enough that his cock slides almost clean out of you, then he’s thrusting himself back deep inside you with a groan of pleasure rising deep from his throat. 

‘Look down, baby,’ he mutters gruffly into your lips, ‘look at us.’

You do.

The sight makes your stomach curl all over again. His cock is buried deep inside you again. His shaft is shiny with the mixture of your slick and his precum, his hips working like pistons as your hips buck up off the mattress, craving more friction. 

‘J-Joey…’ you mumble into the air. He smirks when you reach your arms up towards him. ‘Closer.’

He leans forward so his face is millimetres above yours. Your noses brush gently against each other with the momentum of each of his thrusts. His lips brush yours in the gentlest of kisses that seems almost out of place with the intensity of what’s happening between you. He’s so close that every breath fans hot across your face. 

‘Stay with me, honey.’ 

One of your arms loops around his neck to bring him even closer to you, folding him into you because right now, he is all your mind can focus on. Your other hand moves to his cheek and stays there, thumb gently brushing the stubble that’s starting to form across his jawline. 

‘I’m here, Joe. I’m right here.’

He turns his face into your hand and kisses the palm, eyes not leaving yours for a single second. 

The room is dark, apart from the low amber from the bedside lamp on his side of the bed. It bathes him in the softest, warmest glow, the kind that softens his features and makes his eyes look almost dark grey. His pupils are already blown, but there’s no harshness to them. There never is when he’s over you like this. 

Always careful. Always aware of his size compared to you. Always conscious of his strength. 

So many men his size often forget just how strong they are. Either they forget, or take advantage of it. 

Joe never does. He would never use his height or his strength to his advantage in a malicious way. Sometimes he’ll hold your phone above his head if you’ve posted a funny story of him, or he’ll pick you up and throw you over his shoulder when you’re being a menace. It’s all done with a smile, though. All done with a check in with you in the form of a little nod or tilt of his head. 

The same goes for moments like this. If anything, he’s even more aware of it. 

He knows you’re strong, there’s no questioning that. But he also knows that he’s a two-thirty, six-foot-four quarterback who can bench at least twice your bodyweight. When things get heated between you and you’re lying on the bed beneath him, when he’s hovering over you with one hand inches from your face and the other gently holding you close to him, there’s a vulnerability you’re giving to him that he never takes for granted. He checks in constantly, making sure that you’re okay and that he’s not overpowering you.

It’s what makes you trust him most, you think. The way that he’s just so careful with you in ways that seem basic to him, but to other guys, would make them pause for thought.

‘Still green, baby?’ The words come out gruff and hoarse through the effort of keeping as much of his bodyweight off of you so you can still breathe. 

You open your mouth to reply, but then he shifts your leg behind him so it’s higher against his back. The change in the angle he’s thrusting into you causes him to hit that sweet spot inside you. All you can manage through the moans at the sensation of his bulbous tip inside you is a little hum of approval, too overcome to form words.

Joe smiles and kisses you again.

‘Need — need words, baby,’ he growls into your cheek. His stubble scratches your skin just slightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you of how it felt between your legs a little while ago. 

‘Green… so green, Joey, please…’ 

You don’t quite know what you’re begging him for. More, maybe. More friction. More speed. More him. 

Yes.

That’s what you need.

More him. 

He buries his face into your neck, apparently too overcome with feeling and love and you that he can barely keep himself lying above you. He still doesn’t let himself collapse on top of you, though, even as his thrusts continue to draw stars to your vision. 

The groan he tries to swallow comes up anyway, heat and need threaded through every attempt at suppression, like he’s trying not to make too much noise. 

‘Joey,’ you whisper into his ear through feather light kisses you press to the skin beneath it. ‘Come here.’ 

His shoulders shake with affectionate laughter.

‘I physically cannot get any closer, sweetheart.’ 

‘You can.’ 

He leans back to look at you. His eyes are soft but confused, as if he’s not quite understanding you. 

The movement of his hips slows from a drive to a slow grind. Rolling lazily into you to keep that sensation building. 

‘You can let go, Joey,’ you whisper to him, words still breathless but your face shy with it. ‘You don’t have to worry about holding yourself back. Not here, not with me.’

His face crumples just slightly with emotion.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ 

You smile, but it’s a little wet through building tears.

‘You have never, not once, hurt me. You always take care of me. You always let me finish first. Let me take care of you this time, Blue Eyes.’ His eyes close at the nickname you’ve started using for him. Your hand moves from his cheek to his forehead, pushing his curls back so you can see those pretty blues that look like home no matter what colour they take. ‘You can make noise. You can be loud. Let yourself feel it. I like you feeling good just as much as I like feeling good.’ 

It’s his turn to let emotion well in his eyes. He’s still buried to the hilt inside you, deep enough that you can feel him bumping against your cervix with every rock of his hips into you. 

You’re right when you say that he’s never hurt you. You are also right when you say that he’s always taking care of you, always letting you finish first. 

‘You’ve already let me have one tonight, sweet boy,’ you whisper, voice lowering even further. ‘I’m close, but you need to allow yourself to feel good too, Joe. You carry so much already. Let this be a place you can put the pressure down and just… just enjoy us.’ 

His lower lip trembles properly now, like he’s been waiting for you to say those exact words for longer than he would like to admit. Your hand moves back to his cheek so you can brush away the tear that’s threatening at his waterline. 

‘Are you sure?’ The question breaks your heart just slightly, but you put your own emotion down because this is Joe’s moment. 

‘I’m sure, Joey Bear. You can let go here, sweetheart. I promise.’

He looks at you with the softest, most adoring expression in his eyes that your heart cracks open all over again, and when his thrusts start again in earnest, you can tell that your words have landed where you wanted them to. 

Joe comes closer to you again, close enough for you to kiss his temple. The sound that leaves him is low and throaty, like it’s been simmering in his chest and waiting for a reason to come out.

‘There he is,’ you smile into his neck. ‘That’s it, Joey. Let me hear you. Let me hear how good you feel.’ 

And he does. It catches in his throat for the first few moments, as if his body is still waiting for permission to lose that last little bit of control, but then his voice comes out, rough and gravelly.

To begin with, it’s mostly your name muttered into your ear. 

But then you feel him start to get more comfortable with talking to you and letting you hear him. 

‘God, baby, you feel so good,’ he mumbles through harsh kisses to your lips. 

‘I’ve got you, Joey, you’re okay. Keep talking to me.’

He whimpers against you and you squeeze him to reassure him that that’s okay. 

Slowly, you feel him losing the need to control how he manages his pleasure. Slowly, the low, guttural sounds he makes blend with yours in a perfect symphony of pleasure, care and love. 

Both of your arms wrap around his neck, such is your need to feel him close to you. One of your hands disappears into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck, while the other feels the hard planes of muscle across his shoulder blades. You can feel the strength of him with every drive into you and it’s nothing short of beautiful, this huge, strong, beautiful man above you letting himself be held by you lying beneath him with your legs around him, both of you barrelling towards that sweet high you crave.

With a cry of his name, you reach yours first. 

It hits you almost out of nowhere. Your body simultaneously locks up and spasms beneath Joe as wave after wave of pleasure rocks through you. He looks at you, silently checking in through the building tension in his body.

His high is following closely behind yours. You can feel it in the way his thrusts start to become sloppier but no less effective, still loving you through the aftershocks of your own orgasm. His eyes start to scrunch up in concentration, like he’s focusing purely on getting that high now that he’s helped you reach yours. He’s breathing hard already, body trembling even now, grunts and gasps falling from his lips like they’re the only thing keeping him attached to this world. 

You’re still breathless, still sweaty beneath him, but you hold on to him. One hand stays in his hair. The other moves down his back to hold him close to you. 

You kiss his cheek because that feels like the only thing that makes sense right now. 

‘Let go, Joey,’ you murmur into his ear. ‘Let me hear you. I’ve got you, you’re okay.’ 

He mumbles something incoherent, but you keep going.

‘Breathe. That’s it, just like that, sweetheart. Focus on my voice, you’re okay. Promise.’

Joe’s whole enormous frame shudders and he falls closer to you, burying his face into your neck as a broken sound that’s not quite a grunt, not quite a sob, bubbles up from his chest. 

‘Sweetheart — I’m — god, baby…’ 

You continue threading your fingers through his hair, feeding the soft blonde strands between each digit and allowing your nails to scratch lightly through his scalp. His high bears down on him. You can tell he’s fighting it, desperate to keep the moment alive for as long as possible.

‘Let go, honey. Got all the time in the world. Don’t fight it.’ 

He gasps in a breath above you. 

‘I’m — god…’

You feel his body tremble again, so you turn your head slightly to brush your lips against the shell of his ear. His whole upper body and neck is red, warm with exertion, naked body damp with sweat that sticks to you and mixes with your own sweat.

‘Cum for me, Joe,’ you whisper into his ear, barely louder than a breath.

It hits him like a freight train. It hits him so hard that a sound you’ve never heard from him before now punches through him and out of his chest, something raw, primal, almost animal in nature. 

This helpless man shaking in your arms is so beautifully unlike him, so contrary to the controlled, restrained quarterback you love with every fibre of your being that all you can do right now is just hold him through it, him still buried inside you. 

You hold him tightly as his own aftershocks course through his body, spasming every few moments as they pinball around him. He’s still trembling above you, breathing heavily into your neck. Every now and then, he moans helplessly into your skin as the comedown starts.

‘I’ve got you, Joey,’ you murmur into his ear. ‘Breathe it out, baby, I got you.’

The words he so often says to you take on a whole new meaning when they’re murmured into his ear in your sweet voice. 

Whenever he says them to you, they mean a safe place to land for when the world gets too much. They mean a safe person for you to go to for anything. They mean warmth, security, an escape in the healthiest possible way.

When you say them to him, they give him the ability to let go, just like you said. They give him the space to set aside the expectations he carries around on behalf of his team, his coaches, his city. They give him the chance to be exactly who he is when it matters most.

Not Joe Burrow.

Not Cincinnati Bengals quarterback.

Not Heisman winner, National Champion, Vogue model or something to be dissected and gossiped about and reduced to stats.

Just Joe.

Your Joey. 

Just the guy who makes room for you in ways that nobody else does. 

The two of you lie there for what might only be a few minutes but could also be every minute given to humankind. 

You let yourself breathe. Your fingers are still carding through his hair in time with every breath. 

With every inhale, they trace up his scalp. As he holds his breath, they gently scratch the crown of his head. Only when you feel his shoulders drop with the exhale do you allow them to slowly circle back down to the nape of his neck. 

Repeat. 

The other hand stays firm against his back, fingers moving but less pronounced than the fingers in his hair. It’s more your thumb brushing almost imperceptibly against the thin film of sweat across his skin. 

Only when you start to feel that telltale ache in your groin, hips and upper thighs that you nudge him gently.

‘Hmm?’ he hums, muffled, against your shoulder.

‘I hate to break the moment, but you are still inside me and my body is starting to complain.’

That is enough to break half the intensity in the room. 

Chuckling to himself, Joe shifts himself up and off your body so he can carefully pull out, almost entirely soft now. You wince at the tenderness and he’s instantly back to that perfectly attentive Joe you know so well.

‘Need a cloth, baby?’ 

You pause, thinking.

‘If it’s not too much.’

He leans down and kisses you. Not heated. Not leading anywhere. Just because you’re naked, boneless and in his bed. Just because he’s never felt so safe with anyone.

‘Never too much, sweetheart.’

You watch, almost half asleep, as he pulls on a pair of shorts and shuffles barefoot into the bathroom. There’s the sound of the faucet running, and then he’s back, washcloth in hand, along with a glass of water from the sink.

He perches on the bed next to you.

‘Can I?’ 

‘Yes.’

This time, when you open your legs, it’s not going anywhere. Joe reaches forward with the cloth and, with gentleness that always seems impossible with his size, wipes away the remnants of the two of you. 

It’s somehow the most intimate part of the whole evening. It shouldn’t be, it should be practical and just… part of the process. 

But, like all things with Joe, he makes it special. He makes you feel special. 

You see it in the way he dabs at your upper thighs with utmost care, like they’re made of glass. In the way he constantly looks back at your face, taking inventory of your reactions. In the way his movements become even more gentle when you wince and hiss at a particularly tender part. 

What gets you most is the moment he reaches forward to take your hand when he’s finished. He lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, then stands up to rinse the washcloth out in the sink. Your body instantly protests at the loss of sensation and proximity of him, but then he’s back. 

He flips off the light in the bathroom, then walks around the bed to climb in next to you.

‘Light on or off?’ he asks quietly before he gets comfortable. 

‘Off, please.’

Within seconds, the room is enveloped in darkness. Joe wastes no time, however, in folding you into his arms. You feel one of his hands land between your shoulder blades, and the other come to rest on your lower back. 

When you rest your cheek against his chest, it is bare, warm and still a little sweaty. You breathe him in, overwhelmed with the scent of salt and cedar and that unmistakable Joe scent that seems to follow him around no matter what he wears. 

The two of you lay there until the last of the adrenaline drains out of your body. In its place, you are both exhausted. Joe goes boneless next to you, but you still want him closer to you.

‘Joey?’ you ask quietly. 

It takes him so long to respond that you think he’s fallen asleep, but then his hand moves against your lower back.

‘Yeah, baby?’ 

You shuffle closer to him with a shy smile.

‘Can you lie on top of me? Please?’

His hand stops in its tracing of random patterns on your bare back, then he looks down at you, eyes blinking slowly.

You can’t help but giggle at the blank look on his face.

‘Did I hear you right?’ He asks, clearly bemused at your request.

‘Can you lie on top of me? Not like, not fully. Just… just like you did before. It wasn’t too much, I promise.’ 

His chest huffs with a laugh.

‘Any particular reason?’ 

You shrug a lazy shoulder.

‘I like the feeling of you. You’re heavy — ’

‘Rude.’

‘— like my own personal weighted blanket.’ You pause. Shyness takes over as you consider how to say the next part. ‘And I want you to feel cuddled for once.’

Joe’s face instantly softens with understanding. 

‘I always feel cuddled when we cuddle, baby. I don’t need to crush you to feel that.’ 

‘You won’t crush me, I promise. Please just try?’ 

And then you bring out the puppy dog eyes. If there’s anything that Joe is weak to, it’s your puppy dog eyes. Wide, pleading. Then you seal the deal by popping out your bottom lip just enough to look completely pitiful next to him. 

He sighs, but he’s smiling. 

‘Okay,’ he relents, arms releasing you so he can shift to move on top of you. ‘But if you feel like you can’t breathe or if I get too heavy, you tell me.’

‘I will, Joey,’ you smile happily.

His huge form hovers over you again, but you don’t feel at all vulnerable. 

Joe lowers himself on top of you slowly, giving you every chance to tell him if he’s too heavy. You don’t, because he’s not. 

Finally, he fully settles so that the top half of his body rests over the top of yours, legs bent slightly so you don’t have his entire bodyweight on you. 

‘Good?’ he asks.

You nod.

‘Perfect.’

He still feels like he’s holding back, not quite letting himself fully relax, so you kiss his cheek, the closest bit of him you can reach from where his face rests just above your collarbone. 

‘You can let go, Joey,’ you say again. ‘Put down the pressure. Let yourself go, sweetheart.’ 

The words land right in his chest, and this time he really does let himself go. His body relaxes entirely against you. Long limbs go languid around you. You let your hand come back up to his hair, fingers resuming their path through the strands. It only takes a few seconds for his shoulders to drop completely with a deep sigh of contentment. 

‘There you go,’ you whisper with a smile. ‘Let me hold you the way you hold me.’

And he does.

Joe Burrow, six-foot-four quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals, finally lets himself be held. Safe in the arms of the love of his life, the one person who sees him exactly for who he is. 

Not the quarterback.

Not the glue of the team.

Just a man who allowed himself to let go in the room he so often forgets that he doesn’t need to hold back. 

As he feels himself drift off, your fingers in his hair and your heartbeat steady beneath his cheek, he feels safe enough to admit that he just might let himself go more often. 

Because you let him feel safe enough to do so.

And for a man like Joe Burrow, that feeling is bigger than football, just like his love for you is bigger than the whole sky.