how deep is your love?

spidey!burrow who starts developing an absolutely ridiculous sense of balance, and you notice because he can suddenly stand on things that no normal human being should be able to stand on. you catch him balancing on the edge of a treatment table one day and just stare at him until he awkwardly climbs down and insists he was "just stretching."

spidey!burrow who heals from injuries in days instead of weeks, which initially makes you think he's either secretly taking something or deliberately hiding how badly he's hurt. you keep checking the same bruises because you cannot understand how they disappear so quickly.

spidey!burrow who develops spider-sense and absolutely hates how often you catch him reacting to things before they happen. you'll reach for something behind him and he'll suddenly turn around before you even touch him, making him have to invent increasingly terrible explanations for why he somehow knew.

spidey!burrow who accidentally scares the hell out of you one morning by appearing beside you without making a sound. you jump so badly that he instinctively catches you before you fall, and you're left staring at him because he somehow reacted before you'd even started tipping backwards.

spidey!burrow who has to relearn how to control his strength around you. early on, he grabs your wrist during a joke and immediately loosens his grip when he realises how easily his fingers could hurt you. after that, he's almost comically careful with you until you eventually tells him, "joe, i'm not made of glass."

spidey!burrow who becomes incredibly protective of you but refuses to admit it's because he's spider-man. he'll casually offer to walk you to your car, insist you text him when you get home, and somehow always appear when you're leaving the facility late.

spidey!burrow who knows exactly where you are in a crowded room because of his enhanced senses. he doesn't even have to look for you anymore. he can hear your laugh from across the building and immediately know where you are.

spidey!burrow who finds that incredibly comforting. no matter how chaotic everything becomes, hearing your voice somewhere nearby makes the constant noise in his head feel a little less overwhelming.

spidey!burrow who starts sneaking into the training room after particularly bad nights, usually under the excuse of needing something checked, when really he just wants somewhere quiet where you are still awake and don't ask too many questions.

spidey!burrow who has to come up with increasingly ridiculous explanations for his disappearances. "where were you?" becomes his least favourite question because you are exceptionally good at detecting bullshit.

spidey!burrow who gets annoyed when you treat his injuries like you treat any other athletes. he'll insist he's fine, you'll tell him to sit down, and suddenly the superhero who can swing between skyscrapers is obediently sitting on the treatment table while you wrap his ankle.

spidey!burrow who secretly loves that you don't treat him differently. everyone else sees spider-man as something extraordinary. they see joe burrow as someone extraordinary. you still see the guy who forgets to ice his shoulder, leaves his water bottle everywhere, and complains when you make him stretch.

spidey!burrow who becomes the world's worst liar around you because you know him too well. he can lie to reporters, teammates, coaches, and basically anyone else, but you only have to tilt your head and say, "joe," and suddenly he's reconsidering every decision he has ever made.

spidey!burrow who eventually realises you are the only person he actually wants to tell. not because you figured him out, but because you make him feel like he doesn't have to carry the secret alone.

spidey!burrow who tells you the truth after a particularly bad night, sitting on the edge of the treatment table with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor because he's more nervous telling you than he's ever been facing an armed criminal.

spidey!burrow who finally looks up after taking off the mask and finds you staring at him with the softest expression. he expects fear, confusion, maybe even disbelief. instead, you just ask, "how long have you been doing this?" 

spidey!burrow who laughs when you immediately starts asking medical questions. how does the healing work? does he still feel pain? does his heart rate change? what happens when he's exhausted? has he been eating enough? is he sleeping?

spidey!burrow who eventually realises you're not fascinated by spider-man. well at least not in the way others are. you're worried about joe.

spidey!burrow who absolutely hates when you patch him up after a fight because you can see every bruise and every cut, and he knows you can tell which injuries he's trying to downplay, but secretly loves the way your hands are always gentle with him, even when you're scolding him for being reckless.

spidey!burrow who eventually starts associating the smell of athletic tape and antiseptic with safety. because no matter how bad the night was, if he makes it back to you, he knows he's okay.

spidey!burrow who discovers that being spider-man is terrifying, but being loved by someone who knows exactly who he is underneath the mask is somehow even scarier.

🕸️ Bonus

spidey!burrow who comes back from patrol injured and climbs through your window instead of going to the facility. you wake up, see him sitting on the floor in his suit, and don't even ask how he got there. you just sigh, turns on the lamp, and says, "treatment table. now."

he smiles beneath the mask. "missed you too."

hello everyone! this is just a little something something think of it as an appetiser. if y'all like it i might have to go into the kitchen and whip up some entrées... we'll see. i got my wisdom teeth removed so i've got a lot of free time.

Joe has a theory.

It's not his first and won't be his last, either. The thing about Joe Burrow is that beneath all that ice-cold precision and surgeon's focus that makes defensive coordinators lose sleep; there's a mind that latches onto patterns like a gambling addict chasing signs from the universe. He'd never call it superstition, of course. Superstition is for people who knock on wood and avoid black cats. What Joe does is different, it's more about finding the exact formula that turns potential into points on the board.

You've catalogued them all by now, these little religions he builds for himself. There was the thing about not washing his lucky compression shorts during the '22 playoff run—you made him throw them out after the season ended for some sense of sanitary well-being, and he luckily complied. The no-red-meat-after-Tuesday phase that had him convinced it sharpened his peripheral vision. And the month he showered for exactly seventeen minutes before bed because that was how long it had been the night before he threw for five touchdowns against Kansas.

Each theory arrives with the same quiet certainty, delivered in that thoughtful drawl that makes even the absurd sound halfway reasonable. He'll tilt his head just so, those blue eyes going distant like he's reading something written in the air only he can see, and then he'll start with those four words that always mean your life is about to adjust itself around whatever cosmic truth he's uncovered.

His theory this time is simple: focus equals victory, and you're the one thing in his world capable of unraveling it.

The sheets are still damp with sweat, duvet twisted into knots at the foot of the bed from everything you've just finished doing to each other. Your body still hums with that particular frequency of satisfaction, muscles liquid and bones gone soft, that specific ache between your thighs that always follows when Joe's post-game adrenaline finds its outlet in you. The moonlight slants through the blinds in perfect parallel lines across his chest, turning his skin silver where it isn't already flushed pink. He's got one arm behind his head and the other draped across your waist, thumb making these absent little circles that usually mean his mind is already three plays ahead of the present moment.

"—would give me something to work toward," he's saying. You realize you've missed the beginning of this particular sermon, too distracted by the way his voice rumbles through his chest where your cheek is pressed against it. "Like a reward system, you know? Delayed gratification. I found there's actually studies about it, athletes who abstain before major competitions show improved performance."

"Baby." Propping yourself up on an elbow, the sheet slides to pool around your waist. His eyes track the movement automatically, then snap back to your face with visible effort. "Are you seriously lying here, where we’re both still naked, trying to tell me you want to cut yourself off?"

"No, not cut off," he corrects, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows that means this anything but a joke. "Just... postponing for just a little, until after the game."

The game. Ravens at home, Thanksgiving day, primetime slot. What everyone’ll be watching when they need a break from the kitchen where mom is boiling over pots of mashed potatoes, as dad is scalding turkeys in the fryer. And the thing that he hasn't said out loud but you can read in the tension around his eyes and the way his jaw sets when he thinks about it: Joe hasn't ever won on Thanksgiving.

Three years in the league with Thanksgiving games, three losses. The sort of thing that shouldn't truly matter but does, the kind that gets brought up every time his face appears on screen. Something that makes people use words like "cursed" and "jinxed" even though everyone knows there's no such thing. He needs this one.

Joe had spent one year's off-season obsessing over it, pulling apart every variable like a detective hunting for the single clue that would crack the case wide open. Sleep schedule, meal timing, practice intensity, recovery protocols—he'd charted it all, looking for the pattern. And there it was, staring him in the face; the one constant across all three losses was you. Or more specifically, what you'd done together the night before each game.

He'd tried to convince you last year to test his theory, and had almost made it too. Joe lasted until Tuesday night when you'd worn something new and special that had his restraint shattering like glass. This year, apparently, he's determined not to break.

You can already see the wheels turning in his head, calculating odds and advantages, turning sex into another variable he can control in his endless equation for perfection.

"You realize that's five days from now."

"Four, technically. Today doesn't count since we already," he gestures vaguely at the mess of the bed, the marks you've left across his milky skin that'll be hidden under his gear come tomorrow. "And you know I'm always better when I'm hungry for it. Remember that one game last year? After we had that fight and didn't talk for three days?"

"You threw for 400 yards because you were sexually frustrated?"

"I threw for 400 yards because I had something to prove." His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer even as he's proposing this ridiculous abstinence plan. "And because I knew exactly what I was coming home to after. That's what I'm talking about…the motivation. Edge. That little extra something that makes the difference between good and great."

You give him a look. "You tried this last year. It didn't work."

"Exactly," he says it like you've just proven his point instead of dismantled it. "Because I didn't actually stick to it. We made it to a couple days and then you—" his eyes go dark remembering, "I broke. That's the whole problem, I need to actually commit to it this time."

"So I'm what, your touchdown incentive? Put the ball in the endzone enough times and you get to put—"

"Jeez, don't make it sound so transactional, angel." Though there's color rising in his cheeks that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the way you've just deliberately rubbed against his leg, feeling the slick evidence that your body hasn't quite gotten the memo about this new theory yet. "It's more like, you know how much better everything tastes when you're actually hungry? How the wait makes it worth it?"

"I know you're terrible at waiting for anything." You trace a finger down the center of his chest, feeling the way his breathing catches. "You're the least patient person I know. You literally called an audible at the line last week because you couldn't wait two more seconds."

"That was different."

"How?"

"Because that was about reading the defense. This is about," he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your palm. A gesture so unexpectedly tender it makes something flutter in your chest. "This is about knowing you'll be watching, knowing you're waiting too. Knowing that every complete pass, every touchdown, every single yard I gain is getting me closer to you."

As much as you hate it, the thing is, you can see it working already. That focus sharpening in his eyes with the particular intensity that usually only shows up when he's dissecting game film or standing in the pocket, three hundred pounds of defensive end bearing down on him. He's already turned this into a competition with himself, another test of that legendary discipline that makes him who he is.

"What's in it for me?" You try to sound unaffected, but there's already heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of it; fiv— four days of this tension building, watching him watch you, all that desire with nowhere to place it. "Besides sexual frustration and the privilege of watching you torture yourself?"

"You get to be the one who makes sure I stick to it." His voice drops to that register that usually means trouble, the one that makes promises in the dark that his body always keeps. "You know how I get. Can't keep my hands off you, ‘specially when everything's so intense. You'll have to be the strong one. Stop me when I cave,” his bare thigh presses closer to your core, “because I will cave."

Weighing your two options, for now, you part your lower half away from him. Why is he the one making this hard? "So you're asking me to be your sex referee?"

"I'm asking you to be my advantage." His thumb traces the curve of your thigh, dangerously close to territories that would make this whole conversation moot. "Five days of knowing I can't have you and not being able to do anything about it; come Thursday, I'll be so fucking focused, so ready to earn it, they won't know what hit them."

"And if you lose?"

Something new flashes behind in his eyes. Not doubt, never doubt, but that bright edge of competition that makes him consider every angle and possibility. "Then at least I'll have something to make me feel better about it."

"But you won't lose."

"No," he agrees, already sounding certain and buying into his own mythology. "Not with this kind of motivation."

You study him for a long moment, this beautiful, impossible man with his strange rituals and unshakeable faith in the power of his own will. You've seen him do this countless times before; talk himself into believing something so completely that he actually manifests it into reality. It's part of what makes him magic on the field, this ability to write his own story and then live it into truth.

"Joe," you start. You’re not sure if you’re about to agree for his sake, or disagree for your own, but he's already pulling you in for a kiss. Deep and thorough, he melts into you like he’s storing up the taste of your lips.

"Be good," he murmurs against your mouth. To you, it sounds like a promise and a challenge all at once. "Be good and you'll see."

MONDAY

You wake to darkness and the weight of blankets you didn't pull over yourself.

The room holds that early evening quality you're still adjusting to, where winter steals the light so early it feels like midnight even though it's still far from. Your phone on the nightstand says 6:47. The numbers glow softly in the darkness, and you stare at them for a long moment before the math completes itself in your foggy brain. You've been asleep for hours, long enough for Joe to come home and find you sprawled across the bed, pulling the blankets up and over without waking you.

The thought of it makes this tender, aching warmth spread through your ribs and curl inside you. You picture him moving through the room with careful footsteps he uses when he even suspects you might be sleeping, and the way he would've tugged the fabric up to your shoulders with those large hands that know how to be gentle when they want to be.

Maybe he let his hand linger there for a second, thumb brushing against your body through the blanket. Maybe he stood there for a moment watching you in the same way you've sometimes caught him doing in the early morning when he thinks you're still asleep, his expression so unguarded it makes you want to pull him in and keep him there forever.

It's such a small thing, the kind of gesture that happens in the margins of a relationship, unremarked upon, easy to miss if you're not paying attention. But you're always paying attention to the way Joe takes care of you, even—especially—when he thinks you won't notice. The coffee started brewing before you wake up. Your favorite sweatshirt moved to the front of the closet where you can reach it easily. The thermostat adjusted because he knows you run cold. And now this.

But then…the warmth starts to grow colder and colder, because you remember this morning. All had gone about as usual until he was leaving to go to the facility. He rounded the kitchen island, placing his hand on your face and tilting your head to meet his lips for one of those goodbye kisses that made you miss him even more throughout the day. Though this time you knew it was coming before it happened, saw the hesitance in his eyes and the tension written throughout his body as he dodged your lips last minute, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead instead.

"See you tonight," he murmured against your skin before he was gone. You were left standing in the kitchen with your coffee going lukewarm in your hands, trying to understand what had just happened. You attempted to make sense of this familiar dynamic from last time, where the man who usually can't keep his hands off you was suddenly treating you like something he had to ration. 

Multiple days of this. He'd laid it out and somewhere between all that talking and kissing, and he'd just assumed you'd agree.

Except…

You'd listened, sure. Let him explain all his thinking and kiss you like he was storing up the taste of your lips. He pulled you close while proposing to keep you at arm's length for the better part of a week, but nowhere in that conversation had you actually said yes. Nowhere had you signed on to this plan or accepted these terms, you never agreed to play by these rules you never helped to create.

He assumed and you let him, because that's what you do for him. Read what he needs and give it, adjust yourself around his routines and rituals and theories, making space for whatever new pattern he's decided will be the difference between good and great.

But this?

Shifting in bed, your thighs rub together and an ache forms between them. Your eyes screw shut, teeth biting the inside of your cheek. It's hardly anything, but when reading between the lines it's simply a reminder of what you can't have, because your first thought is him. It's always him. His hands, his mouth, his weight. The way he pins you down and makes you feel all bits of small and consumed underneath him.

And why shouldn't you have him?

This is his theory. His process. His discipline to maintain. Not yours.

The new idea settles over you like the blankets, cozy and heavy, full of possibility. You move again, deliberately this time, feeling that ache between your legs that's been building since you woke up. Maybe since this morning or last night when he told you to be good. Your body wants him the way it always does, that base-level need that doesn't care for whatever psychological game he's playing with himself.

What's he going to do, stay mad at you? Punish you for wanting your own boyfriend? The man who told you last night that he "can't keep his hands off you," and who said "I will cave" like it was inevitable? Joe already knew his self-control was always going to be temporary, so what’s the harm in speeding up the process a little bit.

Pushing the blankets back, you sit up, feet finding the floor. The hardwood is cold against your bare soles, sharp enough to cut through the haze of sleep and lust. Downstairs you can hear it now that you're listening, the low murmur of stray voices. They carry the particular cadence which means he’s watching one of those episodes of the show he loves on the History Channel.

Joe doesn’t hear you enter the living room at first, too tuned in in the midst of the dark room. Your mouth waters as you take in the sight of him: feet propped on the coffee table, thick thighs covered by grey cotton, and t-shirt fabric straining against his biceps. The TV light illuminates his focused face, catching along his cheek bones and the lines of his nose and jaw. 

You move quietly across the room, and that's when he finally notices. His head turns, expression softening as soon as he sees you. "Hey," his voice is low and a little rough like maybe he hasn't talked in a while. "Didn't know you were awake."

Humming in response, you round the couch and he makes space for you. Joe's arm comes around your shoulders on instinct, but stops just short, you find yourself holding your breath. There’s a fraction of a second where his whole body tenses, and you feel him wondering if this is allowed under his own rules. 

But then, as if at least one element is on your side today, he relaxes. His arm settles around you properly and you gladly curl into his side. Apparently this is allowed. 

Letting the silence settle, you let yourself sink into the familiar comfort of the moment. His forearm pulls you closer into him until your head is tucked into his chest. Even when he's trying not to, his body still finds ways to reach for you.

“What’re you watching?” you ask softly, not willing to give away your intentions right away.

"Viking documentary. The one about the settlements in Greenland." His attention is still partially on the screen where a narrator is explaining something about longships. "It's pretty interesting actually. They found these—"

You shift slightly, adjusting so you're pressed more firmly against him. His sentence stumbles, breathing pattern changing just slightly, becoming more conscious and aware. But when he doesn't make a move to create any distance, you believe this may be your in. Joe goes on, explaining trade routes and archaeological finds.

Despite the fact that you’re barely processing his words, you ask a question here and there to keep him going. You’re too focused on the way his fingertips press into your arm, how he licks his lips every so often as he speaks, and weight of his body surrounding you. You feel him slowly begin to relax more and more the longer you sit next to him, making no further moves...yet.

See? This is fine. You're both fine.

After a while, he asks, "How was your day?"

"Good." You trace an idle pattern against his leg with your fingertip, watching his muscles tense beneath your touch. "Went shopping for Friday. Got everything on the list."

"My mom add anything else?"

"Two more side dishes and a talk about the different pie crusts." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Your dad still insisting on the turkey?"

"Oh yeah. Called me earlier to tell me about his brine recipe for like twenty minutes." Your head turns, fighting off the sigh that threatens to slip because sitting next to him is only making the ache worse, and he’s completely oblivious of it. "Pretty sure he's taking this more seriously than I'm taking Thursday's game."

Thursday. There it is. You let the comment hang there for a moment, testing to see if he’ll be the one to maybe push it further. His thumb keeps moving against your skin in a manner that tells you he's comfortable, far from thinking about any theories or discipline, definitely not the rules he set less than a day ago.

"About that," you start, making your voice light and reasonable. "Thursday."

His thumb stills. Just for a second, but you feel the way his whole body changes from relaxed to alert, that awareness he holds like a shield clicking into place. Even his breathing changes, falling shallower. You've spent enough time learning the language of his body to know what each shift means, and this one says he knows exactly where this is going.

"Yeah?" 

You tilt your head back to look up at him and his eyes meet yours in the blue glow of the television. "This whole...thing. This theory of yours."

"What about it?" He's careful now, guarded in a way it wasn't thirty seconds ago.

"I've been thinking about it all day." Your expression stays open and earnest like you're just trying to understand. "And I'm just not sure it makes sense."

His eyebrows draw together, that little crease appearing as he enters problem solving mode. "How does it not make sense?"

"Well," you shift so you're facing him better, hand coming to rest against his chest. His heart is beating faster than it should be for someone who's merely sitting on a couch. "You're always telling me that routine is important, right? That consistency matters. That's why you eat the same breakfast, take the same routes, keep the same schedule."

"Right..."

"So doesn't it seem counterintuitive to suddenly change something as fundamental as—" you gesture vaguely between your bodies, "—this? Us? Wouldn't that throw you off more than help?" Joe’s brain starts processing, working through your logic and testing it against his own.

This is good. This is what you want; him to think and reconsider, realizing that maybe this theory isn't as sound as he thought it was while lying in bed all wrapped up in you.

"It's not changing us," he says slowly, thinking it through even as he speaks. "It's just postponing one aspect. Temporarily."

"But it is changing us. It already has." Fingers tracing the collar of his t-shirt, you remind him that you're here and this is real. Whatever he's trying to prove isn't worth this distance, and you're determined to make him see that. "This morning felt weird, didn't it? That's not normal for us."

His jaw tightens and his whole body responds to the truth of that statement. You've hit something, struck a nerve he wasn't expecting you to find. "That's just adjustment, it's the first day. It'll get easier."

"Will it?" You study his face, watching the micro-expressions that flicker across it. Doubt, determination, frustration. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you're making this harder on yourself than it needs to be. You're already stressed about the whole Thanksgiving curse thing. Why add another layer to it?"

A new emotion flashes in his eyes as you remind him of the stakes and what’s actually driving this theory. You see him reinforcing the logic in his own mind again. "It's not pressure, it's motivation."

"Joe." You say his name gently, making sure you're still reasoning and not arguing. "Baby, you don't need extra motivation. You never have. You're the most driven person I know. You think not having me is going to make you play better, but what if it just makes you tense? What if you spend the whole game thinking about what you can't have instead of focusing on what's in front of you?"

You watch him struggle with that, see the way his certainty wavers just slightly. His hand covers yours on his chest, and you're not sure if he's trying to remove it or keep it there. "I can handle it."

"Can you?" The question is soft, never trying to sound condescending. You shift closer, watching his pupils dilate in response. "Because I'm not sure I can. And honestly," you let a little bit of hurt creep into your voice—not too much, just enough to make it real, "it felt kind of...I don't know. Like I'm something you need to avoid. Like I'm bad for you or something?"

"That's not—" Joe moves, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing your cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicts everything he's been saying. The touch is once again instinctive, protective in the same way he always reaches for you when he thinks you're hurting. "That's not it at all. You know that's not what this is."

But you've got him now, you can feel it. He's touching you a way he said he wouldn't, already breaking his own rules without even realizing it. "Then what is it?" You lean in, letting him feel how much you want this conversation to go differently, making him see the confusion and hurt in your eyes that isn't entirely an act. "Because from my perspective, it feels like you're treating me like a distraction instead of—"

"You're not a distraction." His voice is firm, almost sharp, and his grip on your face tightens. "You're the opposite of a distraction. That's the whole point."

"Then why does it feel like you're trying to stay away from me?" 

He doesn't have an answer for that one. You watch him searching for one, trying to find the words that will make his idea sound reasonable again, but they're not coming. His thumb is still moving against your skin in an absent caress that tells you his body still isn’t registering the fine line you both are teetering. 

Pressing your advantage, you keep your voice soft and sweet, almost pleading. "Maybe we could just forget about it? Pretend you never mentioned it and to back to normal and you can still win on Thursday because you always play better when you're happy, and you're happiest when we're—"

"No." The word is quiet but absolute, and you see the moment his resolve crystallizes again, that iron will reasserting itself. "I need to do this."

Your heart sinks a little. You'd been so close you could feel it. He was wavering, considering it and almost ready to admit this was a bad idea again. "Joe."

"I need to prove I can," he's looking at you with this intensity that makes your breath catch, helping you understand that this goes deeper than football, or some country-wide superstition about Thanksgiving games and Joe Burrow. "Not just for the game, for me. I need to know I have that kind of control."

And there it is. The real reason, buried under all the talk about focus and motivation and winning. This isn't about football at all, not about breaking some curse or finding an edge over the Ravens. This is about him testing himself, proving something to himself. And in turn, turning your relationship into another metric he can master. 

The affection you'd been carefully cultivating sharpens into something else, tasting like frustration. It begins feeling like you've been playing the wrong game entirely. "So this is about control," you say flatly, pulling back slightly.

​​"It's about discipline."

"It's about control." You pull back more, just enough to put real space between you and make his hand fall from your face. "You want to prove you can have me right here and not touch me. That's what this is really about." He opens his mouth and closes it. Doesn't deny it because he can't since you've already named the thing he wasn't willing to say out loud. You watch the admission flicker across his face, seeing the way he knows you're right and hates that you've figured it out.

Maybe you should stop here, probably should accept that he's made up his mind and your attempt at gentle reasoning has failed. You should just resign yourself to a few more days of this weird tension, this performance of distance while you both pretend it's about football and not about whatever fucked up test he's decided to put himself through.

But you don't want to stop. You want him and for things to go back to normal. Why are you walking on eggshells in your own relationship again? The first time around was hard enough, there’s no reason to subject yourselves to that self imposed torture again.

So instead of backing down, you move closer again, letting your hand slide from his chest down to his stomach. His muscles contract under your touch, a jolt of his body that he tries to hide. "What if I don't wanna wait?" looking up at him through your lashes, your fingers trace the waistband of his sweatpants, suggesting the possibility. "What if I'm asking you, really asking you, to just end this now? Tonight, before it even really starts."

His hand catches yours, stilling it as it edges further across the waistband. A grip of steel but you can feel a tremor underneath it, the way his body is betraying everything his mouth is about to say. "Baby..."

"Just a little," you whisper, using his own words from last night, the same pleading tone he used when he was the one asking for something. Your other hand comes up to his neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. "Just enough to—"

"No." But his voice wavers this time, rough around the edges as his thumb traces the back of your hand where he's holding it. His body is rigid with tension, every muscle locked down like he's holding himself in place through sheer force of will. You see his pulse jumping in his throat. "We agreed."

"You agreed. I never said yes." The words land and you see him replay last night in his head, realizing you're right. Somewhere in there, he never actually got your consent to this plan.

"You didn't say no either," he counters with less certainty. 

"I'm saying it now." You lean in closer, close enough that if you tilted your head just slightly, your lips would brush his. "I'm saying this is ridiculous and we should stop."

His hand catches your chin, stopping you before you can close that last inch of distance. You spot the war happening behind his eyes, the way he’s fighting himself and the way his body wants to pull you closer while his mind is screaming at him to maintain control. For a second, you think you've finally found the true crack in his resolve, and he's about to cave. 

But then he's shaking his head, a low laugh rumbling through his chest. He’s not amused, more like frustrated, maybe even a hint impressed that you almost had him.

"Nice try." His voice is strained and his grip on your chin shifts to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "Told you, we're both going to be good."

The dismissal makes your jaw clench. You rear back, untangling yourself from him completely. The loss of his warmth feels like a punishment you never deserved.

"Right," you mutter bitterly, standing up from the couch. Your legs are unsteady, whether from sleep or frustration or the ache that's still there, you're unsure. "Good." You sense his eyes on you as you walk away, practically feel the regret radiating off him, but he doesn't call you back. And that, somehow, tells you everything you need to know about the next three days.

If he wants to play this game again, that’s fine, because you remember how to play it better.

TUESDAY

"Joe?"

Your voice carries over the sound of running water, casual enough where it could mean anything. Maybe a question, could be the start of a conversation, or nothing at all.

"Yeah?" His response comes from the bedroom, muffled by distance. The steam is already starting to fill the bathroom, meaning it's likely seeping through the doorway as well.

"Can you grab me my shampoo? The new one? I think it's still under the sink."

There's a pause, just long enough that you know he's considering whether this is an innocent request or something else. The silence stretches for three heartbeats, four, and then: "Sure."

Smiling to yourself, you tilt your head under the spray and let water cascade down your body in rivulets that follow the curves and valleys of your skin. Between your breasts, down your stomach, and along your thighs. The shower doors are crystal glass, expensive and modern. They're fogged just right where they obscure enough to be tasteful while still suggesting everything beneath. You've always loved this bathroom, the way it falls right off the bedroom and the openness of it, feeling more like one continuous space rather than separate rooms. Right now specifically, you're particularly grateful for whoever designed this house.

The bathroom door widens and you hear his footsteps on the tile, heavier than usual like he's already regretting his decision. When you turn your head, you can just make out his shape through the glass; tall, broad-shouldered, rubbing his hand over the bottom half of his face.

"Under the sink, right?"

"Mhm, the blue bottle," running your hands through your wet hair, you arch your back slightly. "Thanks."

The glass door slides open just enough for him to pass the bottle through. You make sure your hand brushes his as you take it, fingers dragging across his knuckles in a touch that's barely there but impossible to miss. Just enough to remind him of what skin feels like, what your skin feels like specifically. His skin is rougher than yours, calloused in places from gripping footballs and lifting weights, familiar in a way that makes your pulse quicken even from this minimal contact.

"No problem." Joe doesn't close the door or retreat back to the bedroom, much to your surprise. You wonder what he's looking at, maybe he's tracing the outline of you through the fog, or he could be thinking about how easy it would be to just step inside…

This morning you'd made sure he didn't get the chance to think about anything. You'd slipped out before he was even awake—a rarity in itself since Joe's internal clock runs on his own time, having him up before the sun most days—leaving him with some flimsy excuse about an early workout class. Watching the confusion flicker across his face and the way he opened his mouth, you wondered if he was about to ask if you were still upset about last night. Or, maybe, make another attempt at one of those so-called goodbye kisses that he seemed to think were substitutes for the real thing. But you were gone before he could do either, the front door closing with a finality that you hoped conveyed exactly how you felt about last night’s rejection. 

Now, the shower door slides shut with a soft click and his footsteps retreat toward the bedroom. It leaves you alone again with the small victory of that first crack in the wall he's working on building between you.

You work the shampoo through your hair slowly while letting the scent fill the air until the whole bathroom smells like it. It's something you picked up over the weekend, sandalwood and vanilla mixed with something a little more distinct. The sort of scent that lingers and fills spaces, making people lean in closer to identify what exactly they’re smelling. Something he’ll catch in bed tonight when you’re lying next to him in the dark, that invisible wall of his own making between you.

The thought makes you smile again.

His texts had started around ten this morning, just as you'd known they would. Joe could be patient about a lot of things, could wait out a defense and take a sack rather than force a bad throw, but when it came to you and the actual security of your relationship, his patience had a much shorter leash.

Since you had the week off from work, there was no way of avoiding that form of communication with him—which you were okay with, as much as that sour part of you wanted to stay petty. You responded as normal, maybe waiting a little longer between each message to keep the doubt running on the surfaces of his brain, but either way it sufficed enough normalcy. The kind of mundane little text threads that kept you connected even when you weren't in the same room.

After lathering your hair with the shampoo, you rinse and condition, making sure not to rush as you comb it through your hair. Then, as you're running soap over your arms, you realize you've missed something else.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?" His response comes faster this time, like he was waiting for it.

"I'm sorry, I forgot…can you grab that body oil? The one on the dresser?" A longer pause follows, but then you hear the bed creak like he's finally gotten up. Knowing him, he's likely weighing the options of calling you out versus playing along.

"Glass bottle?"

"Mhm," you repeat, "forgot to bring it in." No, you hadn’t forgotten, but it seems like Joe isn’t about to call you out on it this time. You hear more footsteps shuffling around the room as if he's buying himself time, trying to pinpoint exactly what you're up to. When he enters the bathroom for a second time, you're rinsing off, head tilted back under the spray with your eyes closed. You don't bother to open them when you hear the shower door slide ajar, extending your hand out blindly.

"You're particular today," there's something new in his voice now, a suspicious lilt that wasn't there the first time.

"Sorry." Taking the bottle from his hand, your fingers wrap around the glass and around his hand which he hasn't pulled away yet. "I'm almost done, I promise."

His hand twitches under yours, though stays where it is, and you take advantage of the moment to open your eyes and look at him through the distortion. You can't make out details through the barrier, can't see the exact expression on his face or the color of his eyes in this light, but you can trace the tension in his posture. He's standing rigid, bracing himself against something. Like he's a house in a hurricane, all his shutters battened down, trying to withstand the storm through sheer structural integrity.

"You good?" he asks, and it's such a Joe question.

"Perfect." You let your thumb brush across his knuckles once before releasing him. "Thank you."

This time when he pulls away he doesn't linger at all. The door slides shut and his footsteps disappear quickly. You hear him sit on the bed with more force than necessary, a thump of his body meeting the mattress. His phone clicks on a moment later, volume slightly too loud, some sports analysis show filling the space with excited voices talking about Thursday's games.

He's upset. Good. You're upset too, have been since Monday morning, and if you have to suffer through it then so does he. Misery loves company and all that.

Taking your time with the final step of your shower, you work the oil in starting at your shoulders, making your way down. Its texture is thick and luxurious, leaving your skin glowing, and you make a point to cover every inch of you in it. The steam has turned the bathroom into a dreamlike heaven, and you're finding yourself flushed from more than just the hot water. Your heart is beating faster now, anticipation coiling low in your stomach, because this next move is the one that matters. It'll determine whether Tuesday night lives up to its history, or if Joe's willpower has actually strengthened in the past year.

You turn off the water and the sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the sound of water dripping from the showerhead and you, the plink-plink-plink hitting the floor.

"Joe?" Your voice is sweeter now, softer with an apologetic tint that you don't entirely have to fake because part of you does feel bad about this. But the larger part of you, the part that's been aching for him, that part doesn't feel bad at all. "One more thing?"

The volume drops immediately, and you hear every sound from the bedroom with crystal clarity.

"I forgot a towel."

No reply comes, long enough for you to consider the fact that maybe he's going to refuse this time and tell you to get it yourself. Long enough that you're preparing your response, trying to decide if you'll laugh it off, push harder, or surrender and try again tomorrow. But then movement follows the quiet's path, footsteps echo and you hear him in the hallway, no doubt digging through the linen closet. You're having to bite back your grin because he's suddenly in the doorway as fast as he was last time.

"You forgot a towel," he repeats flatly, holding the fluffy white proof of your manipulation.

"I did." You slide the shower door open the rest of the way, catching the subtle jolt in his shoulders as he goes still. The faint light spills across your body, painting your skin while highlighting every curve and lingering sheen of water. Though, it's not like you need the gloss or allure to feel sure of yourself in his presence, because Joe has never been subtle about the way he worships you, even now when he's too tangled up in his own stubborn beliefs to show it completely. "Can you bring it here?"

His jaw clenches and you watch the muscle jump, noticing the way his throat works as he swallows hard. He's forgone a shirt for bedtime, simply dressed in a pair of shorts that definitely have nothing underneath, judging by the tent you spot forming. He looks good, unfairly good considering he just spent a whole day at what was no doubt a treacherous practice—and the way he's looking at you right now makes your thighs subtly press together, a new sort of wetness forming.

"You can come get it." His voice is strained, forced in a way that tells you everything you need to know about how much this is costing him. He's really having to work for that control now, standing near the doorway instead of crossing those five feet of tile that're separating him from you.

Eyebrows furrowing like that concept doesn't quite make sense to you, you tilt your head. "I'm all wet," you point out innocently, watching the innuendo click in his head. Joe's breath hitches, chest going rigid and breathing momentarily forgotten in exchange for gathering his thoughts. "I'll drip all over the floor."

"Then I guess you'll drip."

Oh. Your lips part, slightly shocked because of all the refusals you prepared for…this wasn't one of them. Joe makes no move of placing the towel onto the counter, or even floor for that matter, instead choosing to stay stationed right where he is. His knuckles have gone nearly as white as the fabric he's holding, eyes constantly flicking down and up again, because no matter how hard he tries not to, it's no use.

You can work with this.

Water drips from you with each step, leaving a trail across the tile as you walk toward him, bare feet padding soft against the floor. He tracks every movement, eyes following the paths of water droplets as they run down your body. You don't stop until you're in front of him, close enough that the steam rising off you mingles with the air he's breathing.

His eyes have gone dark in that tell-tale way that exposes everything he's thinking even if he's not acting on it. Those baby blues have fallen victim to that raging storm, you being the center of it. Your tits nearly brush against his front, nipples hardened from the chill of the rest of the house. Every time he takes a shuddering breath, it brings himself that much closer to touching you.

Looking up at him through your lashes, a stray water droplet falls from them and his eyes trail that path too, next. There's a flush rising from his chest to his neck, all the way to a vein that's jumping in his temple. He's looking at you exactly the way you hoped, showing you that maybe this wasn't all for nothing. Right now, you're exactly a manifestation of every temptation he's tried his best to resist.

Slowly, you reach and pluck the towel from between his hands. Suddenly he's standing with empty hands, still hovering like he's waiting until the last possible second to make his detrimental decision. You've made it so easy for him, in all aspects. You're bare of any clothing, within fingers reach, and willing to give him anything.

The towel is soft and freshly washed, and you hold onto it loosely as you rise onto your tiptoes. You're still not quite eye level with him, something you're ever grateful for right now because you know how much he loves it when you have to tilt your head to meet his gaze, letting him look down at you with that leisure kind of focus that always makes your skin prickle with anticipation. His entire body goes statue-still like he's trying to turn himself to stone, as if immobility is the only defense he has left against this.

"Thank you," you whisper, lips so close to his face you can feel the shape of the words in the microscopic space between you and him. When you press forward just barely, your lips brush against his in something that's not quite a kiss, but isn't quite not a kiss either. The barest touch, a ghost of contact, your bottom lip catching against his before you complete the motion and press a proper kiss there.

The push of your body against his as you stretch up is unavoidable. Your breasts brush against his chest, stomach grazing his abs, thighs touching his groin for just a second. Everywhere you make contact leaves a small amount of water from the shower along with the scent of you. You leave the impression of your body against his like a brand, something that'll be impossible for him to ignore or forget about.

For one perfect, suspended moment, you think you've won. You see it in the way his eyes flutter—feel it in the way his body sways toward yours like gravity has finally won out over restraint, and in the way his hands start to reach for you like they're being pulled by invisible strings. Joe's lips part under yours and you can taste the breath he exhales. He's right on the cusp of caving, saying fuck it to his theory and his control and all of it.

And then he catches himself.

Every muscle that was just loosening up, melting into your temptation, locks at once. Before you have a chance to even realize it, he's stumbling a couple steps backwards like the touch of your skin has scorched his, causing more pain than comprehensible. His hand comes between your two bodies, creating that same invisible barrier that you've grown to resent over the past couple of days. You watch as his eyes squeeze shut as if he can't trust himself to keep looking at you.

"Fuck," he mutters, hardly audible and spoken through clenched teeth to the ceiling or to himself or to whatever god governs self-control. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Reaching out, your nails brush against his forearm before he jerks back again. While one hand runs down the length of his face, resting tightly on his jaw like he's taking out all his anger there, the other falls to adjust himself through his shorts. It's a quick, almost angry movement that shows you exactly how much you've affected him—as if the visible evidence of his cock straining against the fabric wasn't enough. His face flushes a deeper shade of scarlet when he realizes you're seeing this; his restraint crumbling in real time despite all his hard efforts.

"You're—" stopping, he shakes his head. He still won't look at you or won't open his eyes. You know it's because he knows that if he does, if he catches another glimpse of you standing like the kind of thing people spend their whole lives chasing, the kind of thing a man could ruin himself over—he'll lose it. "Jesus Christ, you're…"

But he never finishes the sentence. Can't, apparently. He backs towards the door with unsteady legs, hand fumbling and tugging it wider to fit through. He practically falls through the doorway, turning and pulling it closed behind him with a sharp sound that feels like more than a door slamming shut on just the room, because it feels like the door slamming shut on the possibility itself.

You stand there for a long moment in the now quiet bathroom with water still dripping off your skin onto the tile floor just like he said it would, creating a puddle around your feet that you can't bring yourself to care about. Your reflection stares back at you from the fogged mirror—flustered and frustrated, lips still tingling from that kiss that wasn't quite, and whole body humming with unfulfilled need.

Because you almost had him. You were so fucking close. Another second, maybe two, and he would have caved, grabbing and kissing you properly, saying screw it to his theory for another year.

But almost doesn't count, almost doesn't get you what you want. Almost is just another word for failure.

It's Tuesday night, and this time around he's still holding on while you're left standing alone. Tonight's realization settles over you like a cold towel that maybe, just maybe, you've underestimated Joe this time around. Maybe his willpower has actually strengthened, and maybe last Tuesday was exactly the thing that's made him determined not to break this time.

You shake the towel out of its neat folds and wrap it around yourself with fingers that are shaking slightly. If it weren’t for the fact he was so obviously affected, you might actually begin to believe he’s changed completely. Still, giving up now would mean admitting your defeat, and you’re not quite ready for that. Especially not when you have a new motive to get you through Wednesday.

WEDNESDAY

10:47 PM come to bed

10:52 PM please?

Blue bubbles sitting unanswered, you stare at the messages on your screen. The read receipt appeared almost immediately after you sent each, but to everyone except Joe, reading and responding are two different things. He’s been in the office since he got home, grumbling something about a last minute film study.

Just as you’re about to desperately send a third message, the low rumble of the office's barn door echoes across the house. Footsteps follow next, stoping about halfway up before continuing on again, and you find yourself biting back a laugh at the picture of him pausing to remind himself of all the reasons he’s following these rules.

Adjusting your position on the bed, you make yourself more comfortable. The lamps on each nightstand cast the room in a muted amber light, intentionally softer than the overhead lighting fixture in order to make everything a little more tempting. The white long sleeve you have on is some old blouse that ties in the front and shows off just enough skin for moments like these. You’ve forgone any pants, simply opting for a pair of lace panties, also in the matching shade.

Nothing is coincidental, because one night a couple years ago, half-drunk on wind and completely drunk on you, Joe spilled that white was his favorite on you. Something about the way it hugs your skin and the contrast. That suggestion of innocence mixed with the promise of what’s underneath, the way it makes him feel like he’s unwrapping something precious every time. 

The bedroom door finally opens, and he pauses there. His eyes sweep over your figure as it lies against the plush bedding, on display just for him. As you watch him take the sight in, a promising hope flutters. You sit up slightly, setting your phone off to the side as he greets you simply. 

Casting a soft smile, you stretch, letting the shirt ride up your torso as much as it pleases. Joe’s eyes travel across the bare expanse, and you watch his hand tighten around the doorknob. "Thought maybe you'd fallen asleep down there."

"No, just..." he gestures vaguely behind him, still standing in the doorway like it's a threshold he's not sure he should cross. "Reviewing some coverage schemes. Baltimore runs some specific routes that have been giving us trouble."

"At eleven at night?" You let a small smile play at your lips again, resting your arms out behind you. "Joey, the game's tomorrow. I think you know everything by now."

Joe shifts his weight, hand finally leaving the doorknob but only to shove both in the pockets of his pants instead. Defensive is one way to describe how he looks right now. "Can't be too prepared."

"Mm." You set your phone on the nightstand next to you. "Or maybe you've just been avoiding me."

"I haven't been," he stops, and you watch as he works on deciding whether to lie or not, ultimately falling for a middle ground he must think is the safest option. "Just been giving us both space, like we talked about."

"We didn't talk about anything." The words come out snippier than you meant, and you see him flinch slightly. Maybe it’ll finally click for him. You're tired of him pretending this is mutual and that you’ve agreed to any of this. You're far from a willing participant in his experiment, and he should know that by now. "You decided, I'm just living with it."

There is no proper response this time, so the empty space that follows presses down on both of you until the air feels thin. His eyes soften like maybe he’s feeling the slightest bit guilty, and you can see him trying to figure out how to navigate this conversation without making things worse for either of you. It feeds that building hope inside you, and to spare him a third chance, you swallow, patting the bed next to you.

"Come here," the feathers inside the duvet expand against your touch, fluffing the fabric. "Don't have to stand there like a stranger." Joe hesitates, and in that hesitation you can see the entire script playing out behind his eyes. There’s that same part of him that wants to retreat back to safety, the part that knows he should probably sleep on the couch tonight. Putting actual, physical distance between you is one good way to guarantee he won't break tonight.

And then there’s the other part—the largest one, if his body language is anything to go by—that wants to close the space between you and forget about everything that isn't the feel of your body against his.

“You’re making this really hard,” he mumbles quietly although he’s making his way further into the room. He’s slow about it, almost like he’s wading through water, but at least he’s still afloat. Standing at the end of the bed now, he stares you down like a problem he’s trying to solve.

"I know." You straighten and his body twitches like he thought you were about to reach out. "That's kind of the point."

"That's not," shoulders sagging, all that underlying frustration makes the movement sharp. "We have one more day. Less than that. Like eighteen hours and then everything..."

"And then what?" You shift forward onto your knees and slide towards the edge of the bed until you're kneeling in front of where he's standing. He’s carrying as much exhaustion in his face as his body, or maybe that’s just the built up tension from this week. "Then you get your reward and everything goes back to normal and we pretend this week didn't happen?"

"It's not about a reward, it's about—"

"Control. I know, you've said." Rolling your eyes, you reach and tug at the hem of his shirt, toying with the fabric. Another attempt at reminding him that you're here, right here, that you're real and this doesn’t have to be theoretical anymore. "You want to prove you can have me and not touch me. Want to prove your discipline is stronger than your desire."

His hands fall from his pockets, and for a second you think he’s going to grab for you, though instead, they hang at his sides in a careless manner as if he’s not even struggling to keep his composure anymore. “It’s not like that.”

"Then what is it like, Joe?" Furrowing your eyebrows, you look up at him from where he stands over you. Your fingers tighten their hold against his shirt, still genuinely confused, and overall tired, of this game. “Make me understand why you're doing this to us."

"I'm not doing anything to us, I'm doing something for us. For the team. For..." He stops, shaking his head like he's trying to clear it. "After tomorrow, when we win, you'll see."

"And if you lose?"

The question makes his breathing pause and his eyes glaze over. He shakes his head immediately when the question finally absorbs fully. “I won't.”

"But if you do," you press because you need him to hear this and understand that his theory has a flaw he hasn't accounted for. "If you lose tomorrow after putting us both through this, what then? Was it worth it? Will you tell yourself you just didn't try hard enough, and you should have started this two weeks ago. That if only you'd had more discipline, more control, then maybe—"

"Stop." His voice is stern enough to cut through your bratty tone, and you do stop, mouth closing around whatever else you were going to say next. He's looking at you with an power that makes your breath catch, making you remember why you fell for him in the first place. That focus and absolute conviction, the ability to make you feel like you're the only thing in the world that matters even when he's in the middle of pushing you away. "I know what I'm doing. I know it seems crazy to you, but I need this. I need to know I can do it."

"You can do anything," you tell him, and you mean it, even through all your games you’ve been playing. "You're the most disciplined person I know. You don't have to prove it by punishing yourself, though."

"It's one more day."

"It's been three." Joe opens his mouth to probably give you the same reasoning you know by heart now, and something in you just snaps. Not with anger, exactly, but exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of arguing in circles when you both know how this ends.

Eyes rolling again before you can stop them, you flop backwards against the pillows with a small grunt, a physical embodiment of every frustrated breath you’ve been holding since Sunday night. Staring up at the ceiling you trace the little circles made by the lampshade against the drywall, letting your fingertips trail across your skin. You lay quiet, simply existing in your own irritation and letting it wash over you until it settles into something calmer. 

"Do you even remember how I feel, Joey?" The question falls softly from your lips, sourced more from genuine curiosity rather than another accusation. You find the tie at the center of your chest almost absently, tracing the knot there like you're examining it for the first time. "How it felt last time when you did this? When you pulled away and made me feel like I was..." You trail off, fingers pulling gently at one tail end, loosening it slowly. The fabric parts and falls open across to reveal the valley between your breasts. While your shirt hangs loose, your hand continues its path downward, fingers trailing over each rib one at a time.

Silence is all that follows, that same hesitance with an electric edge you’ve slowly grown used to. The bedroom begins to feel like a giant bubble when all the air is getting sucked out of it, inevitably pushing the two of you closer and closer. Maybe, likely, you’re the initiator of it all. If that’s the case, you don’t mind.

When he doesn’t respond, you adjust your head against the pillow, rolling it to the side just enough to catch sight of him again. “Hm?” you hum, pushing for an answer to your former question. 

"What are you doing?" His voice comes strangled, barely recognizable from the hard front he’s been wearing on and off. Got him.

Continuing their lazy exploration of your own skin, your fingers trail from your ribs to your stomach, tracing absent patterns that follow no particular logic beyond the simple pleasure of touch. "What does it look like I'm doing?" You roll your head back to center, gaze returning to the ceiling, dismissing him as thoroughly as he's been dismissing your needs all week. "You don't want to touch me, so I'll touch myself. Seems pretty straightforward."

A clicking noise echoes from him to you like he’s opened his mouth to say something but words have failed him. He struggles, grasping for some foothold in a conversation that's already slipped completely out of his control. "You're being ridiculous," is what he settles on.

Lips pursing together, your eyes squint as if truly trying to comprehend the statement. “Am I?” Your hand trails lower, grazing the delicate edge of your underwear. “Nobody said anything about me not being able to touch myself.” And suddenly, a new thought seems to occur to you. You pause, tilting your head against the pillow while a small smile plays at your lips. 

"Do you remember how I feel, Joey?" you repeat while your hand presses flat against your heated core. A helpless whimper escapes as your knees curve inwards, delivering that friction you've craved so badly. "How it feels when you touch me?” Joe grumbles and you feel the mattress give under some weight, like he's moved right to the edge of the bed, as close as he can get. Your hips grind against the heel of your palm once, and then twice, before you finally pull your hand away with a shuddering breath.

"This isn't funny." His voice has taken on a new edge now, snippy in that way he gets when he's losing an argument and knows it. "You think this is going to work? You think I'm just going to—"

"I think," you interrupt, still not bothering to look at him, "that you should probably go back to the office if this is bothering you so much." Nails grazing along the expanse of your covered core, you spread your legs a little wider, just enough to let him see the damp spot forming. "Because I'm going to be here for a while."

"Fuckin’ hell," the low rasp of his voice sends a shiver running through your body, making your body jolt against your own teasing touch. Your eyes flutter shut, sighing before a light laugh escapes because you might truly have him this time, after all those maybes before. "You're really gonna do this right now?"

You never quite give yourself exactly what you want, because he himself would never this soon. It’s become a form of art between you two, this slow-building hunger, every act a new study in anticipation. He’s trained you in patience, shown you how exquisite it feels to teeter on that cliff’s edge, and now you offer him a silent performance he knows by heart.

“Mhm.” Your hand slips underneath the thin barrier, drawing the moment out just because you know he’s watching. The evidence of your arousal is unmistakable, a glistening sheen that makes your panties cling to your pussy, gathering sticky and sweet between your thighs. You work on making a mess of yourself just the way he likes, the way he always prefers, blurring those boundaries until the moment he finally steps in. “Unless you want to help…but I'm pretty sure that would violate your precious theory."

Again, Joe has little to say to that right away. And you’re feeling generous tonight, so you let him take the time to think about it. Your fingers tap against your folds, each gentle pat pulling a quiet sound from the creamy wetness—soft, but impossible to miss in the hush between you. With your eyes still closed, you keep your main focus on the slowly building pleasure that's more about the power you're wielding than any actual physical satisfaction. 

“You need to stop,” the mattress presses in again, deeper this time like Joe’s trying to force it to shrink by that sheer willpower he mustn’t have much of anymore. "I’m serious. This is—you're being—fuck, you can't just—"

The bed jerks beneath you as Joe presses forward with more force this time, making your shoulders jump in surprise. The heel of your hand bumps your clit by accident, a breathy moan slipping out before you can stop it.

Whatever he was saying halts as you start to move your hand, chasing after all the things you’ve been denied. “I'm so warm, Joe," you murmur. "Burnin’ up, can feel my heart everywhere you used to touch me." The pads of your fingers slide through your damp heat, gliding over soft and swollen skin. There’s a gentle stickiness to every movement, the lace of your underwear clinging to your hand and your body, everything sensitive beneath your touch. You can feel how wet you’ve gotten, how your body melts and opens under any pleasure it’s able to receive, every brush making you more aware of just how much you need him.

You imagine the way he's likely struggling for any sort of response that will let him maintain the upper hand he's already lost. "You're trying to manipulate me."

"I'm trying to get off," you fire back, voice unsteady as you let your fingers finally slip past that last bit of resistance. You press in, savoring the stretch as your fingertips sink inside. The sensation nearly knocks the air from your lungs—slick warmth enveloping every movement while your walls flutter greedily around the intrusion.

Mouth opening around a light gasp, your other hand curls into the bedding beside you. Your hips rock against your own hand, searching for more of that delicious friction, lace of your underwear tangling against your wrist as you move. "You’re welcome to leave if it’s too much for you. I’ll be fine on my own." The words are a repeated, breathless taunt as you work your fingers deeper, wanting to work him to that very last nerve.

"I'm not—" he breaks off and you hear the way he exhales sharply, patience bleeding thin. The bed shifts again, lighter this time like he’s simply shifted or turned away, but you're too wrapped up in yourself to bother looking. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You're a distraction. You're…"

“Testing your control.” You finally open your eyes, rolling your head to look at him again. At the end of the bed, his hands have now clenched themselves into white-knuckled fists at his sides. His chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, the outline of his thick erection stark and impossible to miss against the front of his shorts. His eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide and fixed on you; a clear confession of just how hard he’s fighting to keep himself in check. "Isn't that what you wanted? To prove you have discipline?" You let your eyes meet his, holding his gaze. "Prove it."

The challenge dangles in front of him like the final straw that will either break him or prove him right. Your hand slows, still leisurely working, but ultimately waiting for his next move while you each stare each other down. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight, parts of him twitching with the effort of staying still.

Over and over again his hands begin to curl into themselves, simply another body part he’s convincing to keep where it is. Next, his eyes fall between your legs before snapping up to your face again, as if he's evaluating something. 

"Quit," though this time it's hardly a whisper, no conviction in it anymore. Simply just desperation, that need stripped clean of everything else. Sliding your foot along the length of the bed and towards Joe, you watch his gaze go bright as if he’s been lit up from the inside when your fingers slip out of you. The back of your hand drags your underwear taut, pulling the lace snug and giving him a brazen, unfiltered view.

Glistening and flushed, still pulsing from your touch, Joe's eyes lock themselves on the teardrop of arousal that slips from your core, soaking itself into the bedsheets beneath you. His hands uncurl from their fists, and his body sways forward like he's being pulled by an invisible force. One leg moves, then the other, and then he's moving to you. He climbs onto the mattress with both knees, and crawling across the sheets like a man possessed.

"Fuck it," he grunts, licking his lips as he inches closer. "Fuck all of it. Can’t do this, need you s’bad." His hand reaches for you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his palm even though he hasn't outright touched you yet. You see the slight shake in his fingers and the desperation clear as day in his eyes. You can see that you’ve finally, finally broken him down and in another half-second he'll be touching you and it'll all be over, the theory will be shattered and it'll all come to an end.

Though, fast, faster than he's expecting, you're rolling off the side of the bed before he can make contact with your skin. The motion takes maybe three seconds but you see every moment of it register on his face. The confusion that bleeds into comprehension, which seeps into something that looks a lot like betrayal. He’s still knelt on the bed with an outstretched hand in empty air, floating in the empty space you’d just been lying in.

His expression continues to progress until it finally hits the dawning realization that he's been played at his own game. You've just done to him exactly what he's been doing to you, and that turnabout is indeed fair play.

“What…?” Reaching for your phone and water on the nightstand, you go for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed next. Joe blinks hard like he's trying to clear his vision in order to understand what just happened. You can’t blame him, because his surrender turned victory somehow flipped to defeat in the span of a heartbeat. "Where are you going?"

"Guest room,” holding everything a small distance from your body, you don’t bother with retying your shirt. Let him see what he's losing, exactly what he could have had if he'd just chosen differently days ago. If he valued you over his theory, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. "One of us has to be good."

It’s like a splash of cold water washes over him, and the sight makes you smile sweetly. "No." He scrambles toward the edge of the bed, still on his knees and hands reaching for you like he can pull you back. Like if he wants it badly enough, the universe will bend to his desire. "No wait, don't. Baby, I need you."

"Tomorrow," you remind him with a steady voice even though your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, pulsing everywhere your blood flows. Even though every humanly instinct is screaming at you to turn around and go back to him, you make your way to the door. "After your game, when you've proven whatever it is you need to prove, then you can have me."

"Baby, please." And oh, that's new. That's desperation in its purest form, that's Joe Burrow actually begging, pride completely abandoned in favor of you. He's moving closer to the edge of the bed like he's going to get up and come after you, and part of you wants him to. You’d like him to chase you down the hallway and pin you against the wall, letting this stupid standoff go. "Don't do this. Don't leave. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, the bet's off and I give in, just please don't walk away from me."

"Goodnight, Joe." You pause in the threshold to look back at him over your shoulder. His face is a mask of anguish with defeated desire and disbelief, and you let yourself take in the picture one last time. Your quarterback brought to his knees by want and need, by the same feelings he's been making you suppress for three days—and something fierce and victorious burns in your chest even as something else aches with the unfairness of it all. "Sleep well."

Joe’s mouth opens, probably to beg some more and promise anything if you'll just come back, offer whatever you want if you'll just stay, but you don't give him the chance. You step into the hallway and pull the door closed behind you with a soft click that somehow sounds exactly like the one he made last night when he walked away from you in the bathroom; the sound of an opportunity lost. Quickly, you rush into the guest room next door, locking it behind you just in case.

The room is cold, untouched since you last changed the sheets weeks ago, and when you climb into the unfamiliar bed it feels wrong in every way. But you made your point, didn't you? You showed him exactly what it feels like to want something and be denied it, to be brought right to the edge and then left there hanging. You gave him a taste of his own medicine and it was bitter going down, you could see it in his face

That victory should feel better than this, triumphant rather than hollow.

Pulling your blanket tighter around you, you try to let go of that lingering ache, left unfinished between your thighs. Your mind is swirling, silenced only by the vibration of your phone beside you. Quickly, you snatch the device, opening and reading the message.

11:19 PM Please come back

Another message comes through before you can decide whether to respond.

11:19 PM I'm sorry. You were right. Please just come back to bed

Something sharp and vindictive twists in your chest as you read his messages. Now you’re right, all of a sudden. Now that he's lying in bed alone with nothing but his oh-so-important theories to keep him company. You smirk to yourself, setting the phone facedown and settling back against the unfamiliar pillows. If anything, the ache between your thighs intensified, a persistent throb that reminds you of how badly you still want him despite everything.

Almost of its own accord, your hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the path they'd taken earlier when you were performing for him. Except, now you're alone, and there's no performance, just your own need that's been with nowhere to go.

When your fingers slip beneath the waistband again, you let out a quiet exhale of relief. But the walls in this house are somewhat thin despite the millions of dollars it's worth. You know they are because you've heard him on phone calls when you're in the hallway, the TV running from the bedroom, and every creak and shiver of the house settling at night. If you can hear all that, then surely…

You let yourself make another sound, louder this time. A soft, helpless sigh that catches at the back of your throat, the kind of sound that usually escapes when his hand is between your thighs, coaxing you apart with easy, practiced confidence. Your skin feels hot under your own touch, and for long, hazy minutes you let your thoughts drift, caught between the memory of the way he looked at you tonight and the aching anticipation of what tomorrow might bring.

Somewhere in that blur, your other hand follows absent patterns, pretending for a moment that it’s his hand. The sounds you make grow louder without meaning to, unguarded in the hush of the empty room, every breath proof of just how much you wan— how badly you wish it were him instead. And you let yourself chase that feeling for as long as you can stand it, lost in the dark and clinging to the echo of his touch, a promise of what’s to come.

THURSDAY

If there’s one thing you know for certain right now, it’s that Paycor Stadium belongs to Joe in ways that transcend basic ownership rights and contract terms. 

The palace is his kingdom in the most fundamental sense—not just because his name sits on any deed or because the franchise built itself around him, but because he's claimed it through repetition and ritual, through every snap he's taken and play he’s run under these lights. Win or lose, the building knows him and the way the tunnel echoes with his footsteps. 

Surrounded by the warmth of his closest family and friends, you’d watched the game from in his heated suite. Robin’s hand found yours during crucial moments, and Jimmy paced the way Joe sometimes does, both carrying the same restless anxiety that translated into his body. The room was full of everyone who understood what it means to tie your heart to someone who lives and dies by a scoreboard, and you settled into the comfort of that, momentarily forgetting what the end of this game was leading to. 

And when it was all finally over, after some postgame interviews and such, Joe eventually made his way up to the suite, all showered and dressed. You watched from a distance as he mingled with friends and family as he worked the entire room with that particular brand of charm that's equal parts Midwest manners and genuine intentions.

When his eyes had eventually found yours, something passed between you that felt too layered to name. You hadn’t seen him since last night. When you woke up this morning he was already gone, and he only made a point to come say hi to you as people began gradually filtering out, alcohol wearing off and tiredness kicking in. 

Pressing a curt kiss to your cheek, he wrapped an arm around you and said his goodbyes alongside you to his parents as they reminded you, for a third time, to not forget the pie like last year. You both laughed along, even as his blunt fingernails dug into your waist, and then it just became the stragglers. Joe excused himself soon after, mentioning that he needed to handle a couple things before leaving, but he’d text you when he was ready. You waited alongside one of your friends and her fiancé, some of his hometown friends, until you received your cue.

12:01 AM 3227

12:01 AM Come find me

The walk along the empty halls was more than disorienting, especially with your own theories of what was ahead looming around your mind. Overhead lights were dimmed along specific hallway sections, only buzzing with the red shine of exit signs. You’d passed fewer and fewer people the further you went, guided only by labeled plaques. Before tonight, you never strayed far from the main areas of the facility, and even in those times you were accompanied by Joe or at least one other person who knew the layout better than yourself. 

Taking a final turn, every third light is still lit, creating pools of harsh light separated by shadows that seem darker than they truly are. Your heeled boots click with each step, echoing too loud against the polished floors, announcing your presence clearly to any listening ears. At the very end of the hall, a door waits with a small placard below the room number: FLIM ROOM 1.

If there’s one more thing you know for certain right now, it’s that you don’t know what this means.

Pushing the handle down after a moment of your hand hovering, the heavy door swings open, sound impossibly loud in the cavernous space beyond. Of all the things you’ve heard about this room from Joe, all the stray videos and pictures captured in here, you’ve never experienced it first hand. But, what you didn’t expect, was for it to swallow you whole.

It's massive, filled with tiered seating beneath you, rows and rows of empty chairs disappearing into darkness. The only light comes from the enormous screen at the front, frozen on a grey screen, and the smaller glow of a monitor in the front row where Joe sits with his back to you.

The door closes behind you with another obnoxious sound, and Joe turns just barely. He looks over you before swiveling in his chair, facing back to the screens in front of him. You stand there for a minute longer, feeling increasingly uncertain of why you came, what you expected to find, and most of all; of what happens next.

Making your way to him, about halfway down Joe turns in his chair until he’s facing you, tracking each movement. He watches you with an unwavering attention that makes each step you take feel even more deliberate in an attempt to appear graceful when you internally feel like Bambi on ice. His legs are spread wide, so wide you're genuinely unsure how the chair even accommodates his frame, knees angled out in that particular sprawl that screams of his ownership. Elbows resting on the padded arms, his forearms dangle with a casualness that contradicts the intensity in his gaze. He looks settled, comfortable in a way that suggests he's been here for awhile, thinking and waiting.

You stop when you reach the bottom, standing just in front of him at the end of the row. Shifting in his chair, Joe settles more comfortably. The adjustment only draws your attention to his lap where the fabric of his pants are pulled tight with the new position. 

“Do a spin for me.” 

His tone carries little to no room for argument, yet you still find yourself hesitating. The leather shorts that felt empowering this morning hit high on your thigh, making your legs look longer and better—especially when paired with your matching boots—but now they only make you second guess yourself when stuck in front of his watchful eyes. His number dangles around your throat, pronounced against the black fitted top you have on. The diamonds undoubtedly catch what little lighting there is, a statement piece you save to wear for special times because it sometimes can feel like too much of a claim.

But tonight, you'd wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know that you know exactly who you belong to, even after everything.

It's a complete 180 from last night where you'd been all soft edges, angelic temptation meant to test his restraint. Tonight you're dark and sharp, every inch of you designed to remind him what he'd been denying himself of. But standing here now, under the weight of his stare, you feel less like the one in control and more like the one being evaluated. Last night you'd held the power, watching him crumble before your eyes, but tonight the reins have shifted, and he's the one watching you squirm.

Still, you do what he asks. You turn slowly, letting him take in the full picture. The way the shorts hug your ass, the line of your legs in the boots that come up to your calves, the fall of your jacket over your shoulders. You complete the rotation at a pace that's almost lazy, giving him time to look his fill. When you face him again his eyes are down, fixed somewhere around your thighs or maybe lower, before they travel up with agonizing slowness.

Corner of his mouth lifting, you feel that power slowly disintegrating between your fingers, transferring to Joe. “Gonna stand there all night?” his fingers drum against his legs, feet tapping restlessly. “What happened to that desperate girl I’ve been watching sulk around the house since Monday?”

Nevermind the catty insult, it’s the assumption of it; that you’re here at his mercy, that you'll do whatever he wants after days of him doing whatever he wanted, that makes something hot and sharp flare in your chest. "What's wrong?" tilting your head, you match his energy with a sweetness that's barbed around the edges. You shrug your jacket off, setting it on the table the next row up. "Gonna take the loss out on me?"

Whatever flash that flickers across his face tells you that you’re done for.

"Sweetheart… I didn't lose anything." 

Before you have time to dwell on what Joe could mean by his words, he’s already reaching for your hand. He pulls you forward with enough force that you stumble slightly, catching yourself with your free hand on his shoulder. His other hand finds your hip, gripping through the leather, turning you with an ease that reminds you exactly how strong he is, how much bigger. For a second you're sideways across his lap, off-balance and disoriented, but then his hands are adjusting and positioning you, turning both of you until you're seated fully with your back pressed against his chest.

Each of your legs lay over his, spreading you just as open as him. The chair creaks slightly with the added weight, but all you’re focused on is Joe. Every point of contact between your bodies feels accentuated, the solid wall of his chest against your spine, the way your ass fits against him, the heat of his thighs holding yours. One of his arms comes around your waist, hand splaying across your stomach and holding you in place like he thinks you might try to run.

Your body has been craving this since you were first denied it, simply the comfort of being held by him. Though, underneath that relief lies something else; a flutter of nerves in your stomach, butterflies with razor wings that slice through the momentary peace. 

“Actin’ like you didn’t watch it first hand,” he sighs tiredly in your ear as if this is all a big inconvenience to him. With his right hand, Joe’s fingers navigate the monitor with practiced ease, moving so fastly between screens you have trouble comprehending what’s popping up. A few clicks, some soft taps of keys, and suddenly the massive screen at the front of the room flickers to life.

Game footage fills the display, the colors almost too bright after the darkness. Offensive plays. His plays. The timestamp in the corner shows tonight's date, though the quality is too crisp, too polished for something thrown together in the hour since the game ended.

That's when it clicks into place. The real reason he'd disappeared after the suite, why he'd told you to wait and summoned you here of all places. Probably around halftime, maybe earlier, he'd known that this game was his. He'd made the move, asking all the right people to rush the footage, have it ready and waiting for him. This was always where the night was going to end—not in some desperate postgame celebration or consolation, but here, in his kingdom, with you in his lap and proof of why this is all his playing out on the screen in front of you.

The footage rolls. On screen, the version of Joe from just hours ago stands in the pocket, feet set and eyes scanning the field with that preternatural calm he always has. You watch him go through his progressions, see the exact moment he identifies his target, the way his body coils and releases as he throws. The ball spirals through the air in a perfect arc, dropping into his receiver's hands like it was always meant to be there.

"See that?" His voice rumbles through his chest and into you. His breath is warm against your ear, closer than it needs to be. "Safety bit on the fake. Left Tee wide open on the post." The hand on your stomach shifts, thumb beginning to trace slow circles against the fabric of your top. "Fourty-two yards."

You give your best attempt at following the screen, try to make sense of the X’s and O’s he’s pointing out, but it's impossible to concentrate on anything except him beneath you.

The way his chest expands with each breath, pressing into your back.

The heat radiating off him that seems to seep through your clothes and into your skin.

You're on top but somehow you're still drowning, suffocating under the pressure of his presence and all those days of tension that's been tying tighter and tighter with nowhere to go except here.

His hand moves to brush your hair over one shoulder, gathering the strands with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. The movement exposes the entire length of your neck, and when he leans in closer to queue up the next play, his lips don't touch your skin but they're close enough where you can feel the heat of them. Each single word he speaks lands directly on your pulse point, soaking into your skin and rushing through your veins.

"This drive right here." Another click echoes and the footage jumps forward. "Went six for six. Sixty-three yards." The hand that had been casually resting on your stomach slides lower, just barely, enough that your breath catches audibly in the quiet room. His fingers splay wider, side of his palm pressing just above the waistband of your shorts. "Put us in perfect field goal range right before the half."

The play unfolds on screen and you see him take the snap and the pocket collapse around him, he then steps up and finds his target, but you're barely processing any of it. All your focus has narrowed down to that hand on your body. And most of all, to the fact that you can feel him hardening beneath you, an unmistakable pressure pressing against you that means he's just as affected.

"Joe," his name comes out breathy, nearly a whimper. There’s a slight hitch in his breathing when you speak and his fingertips ever so slightly press into you.

Another play seamlessly begins and his hand lowers. 

"Check this one out," he murmurs, but his attention isn't on the screen anymore. You can tell by the way his voice has dropped, gone harsher with an unintentional rasp. "Third and long. They brought pressure off the edge but I saw it coming." On screen, you watch him slide in the pocket, avoid a defender, and deliver a strike downfield. Joe's hand has covered the waistband of your shorts now, fingers playing with the zipper that spans down the front. "Converted. First down."

Your hips shift involuntarily, seeking pressure or trying to escape it—you're not even sure which. The movement makes you grind back against him, and you feel another sharp intake of breath. His arm around your waist tightens to hold you steady. 

"Stay still." He speaks although there's a strained quality to his words now, like the command is as much for himself as it is for you. You try, but you just can’t. Everything in you is wound too tight, four days of denial making every touch feel amplified. When his hand slides further down, slipping underneath the hem of your pants and teasing the soft skin there, you whimper his name again without meaning to.

In response, his own hips jerk next, a reflexive movement that presses the hard line of him firmer against you. The grunt that escapes him is uncontrolled, and then his lips are touching you just below your ear, mouthing words into your skin. "Say it again."

Your mind is spinning, trying desperately to focus on something other than the way his mouth is now dragging along the curve of your neck. On screen, another play is running but you couldn't describe it if your life depended on it. "Say what?"

He reaches for your hand then, fingers wrapping around your wrist. The touch grounds you for half a second before he's guiding your arm forward, bringing your joined hands to rest against your stomach. "My name." He wraps his hand more fully around yours, enveloping it completely, and starts to move it. Down over your stomach, his fingers controlling yours, directing them lower. "Said it a lot last night." Your hand—puppeteered by his grip—trails over the sliver of exposed skin at your waist, and you feel goosebumps rise in its wake. 

Trailing right over your pelvis, he adjusts himself in the same manner as earlier, slouching both of you back in the chair. He hovers just above where you’re aching for even a scrap of pleasure from him. On screen, another play runs. The Joe in front of you scrambles, extending the play and finding someone downfield, but the Joe behind you isn't watching that show anymore.

"In that room last night," his voice is right in your ear now, lips brushing against the shell of it as he speaks, "playin' with that pretty pussy without me..." His hand presses yours down over the leather between your thighs, and even through the material you can feel how warm you are. "Could hear you sayin' my name through the walls.”

“Felt a little left out, honestly," he adds, and there's something almost petulant in the way he says it, like he's the one who was wronged. Like he wasn't the architect of his own torture.

The absurdity of it breaks through some of your haze, making that defiant spark flare in your chest again, even as his hand keeps yours pressed between your thighs. "Well, you could've had it if you just—" you don't get to finish the sentence.

Joe makes a disapproving sound low in his throat, a soft tsk that makes you hush. At the same time, he uses his grip on your hand to cup your cunt through the leather, pressing your own palm against where you're aching and swollen. The pressure makes you moan, sound escaping before you can stop it, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

His chest shakes with a chuckle that mocks the breathless pants falling from your lips. "You knew the rules." His thumb traces over your knuckles where your hand is still trapped under his, emphasizing each word with a small increase in pressure that makes your hips try and roll forward for more. "Broke them though, didn't you?" 

Words become hard to form as your hand becomes an instrument of your own undoing, and Joe simply sits back, enjoying it all until he moves onto his next play. His hand disappears from yours, the loss of that pressure making you pout, even though he’s far from done. Trailing up the front of your shorts, it doesn’t take much effort before he’s reaching for the zipper that spans down the front of your shorts. 

"Think I know how you can make it up to me though," the sound of the zipper sliding down tooth by tooth is obscenely loud in your ears, a promise of what's coming that makes your thighs try to press together. You’re blocked, by not only the obstacle of your own hand you forgot about, but his feet as they hook around your ankles, keeping you in place.

The sound of the zipper lingers in the air as if each metallic tooth is another second lost, another moment between you snapped and reattached, the barrier between want and have growing thinner with every incremental inch. Joe reaches for your wrist, guiding your fingers beneath the opened leather. 

“Go on,” he urges, voice velvet but scorned with that unspoken power. “Show me.” The way he says it slices straight through every layer of resentment, every echo of the night before. It makes something fierce and shivery climb up your spine as if you’re being watched not just by him, but by every version of him—the man who starved himself of you all week, the one who refused and suffered and still wanted to win. The one who won. Caught between the heat of humiliation and the heady urge, you hesitate. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” Joe’s voice is right at your ear. “Wanted to drive me crazy. All that teasing, all that pouting… thought it would break me. Didn’t think I could do it.”

Swallowing as his grip loosens, you continue forward with the path he set you on. Your own fingers are tentative against the thin, damp fabric of your panties. For a second, you’re new to your body again; every pulse too loud, every breath too sharp, every touch too sensitive. But then you remember last night—how you did this alone, how you’d pretended it was his hand, his eyes, his voice coaxing you on. How empty it felt when all that desire had nothing to suffice it with.

Now you’re not alone. Now his hands and eyes are on you, possessive and unblinking, and it changes everything.

Fingertips pressing against your clit, the smallest circle is enough to make your body jerk. You feel as Joe straightens his body ever so slightly, craning to get a view of the show for himself. The shame, the need, the thrill—they all knot together until you’re not sure what you’re feeling except that it’s so much…too much…not enough. You circle again before dipping beneath the fabric, the wetness making it cling to you before finally giving way. 

Your head tips back, lips parting on a shaky breath. You feel the shape of his smile against your temple as he watches, unmoved by your struggle and patient in a way that feels almost cruel. But then, a muted rumble, the grind of rubber wheels, rolls just beyond the doors. The sudden reminder of other presences still in the building shocks you awake. 

Pulling your hand and trying to stand, moving on pure adrenaline, you don’t get far. With Joe’s feet still hooked around your ankles, they hold true to their intent of keeping you in place. His hold tightens, all of it happening so quick you barely process it before you’re being pulled backward into his chest again, breath knocked out of you in a startled gasp.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts in a maddeningly calm tone as if he’s speaking to a flighty animal he has no intention of letting bolt. His arm bands across your middle, pinning you with mindless strength. “Sit still.” 

“I heard someone,” you argue quickly.

“No one’s coming in here.” The certainty in his voice is infuriating. “Even if they did…” His lips brush your jaw, a slow pass that sends another tremor through you. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” Against your skin, you feel as his lips curve into another smile. Grip returning to your hand, he seamlessly slides it back between the only barriers separating him from a clear view. Too caught up in the cloud of lust consuming you, your hand wordlessly returns to its previous motions. “That’s it,” he breathes, angling your hand just the way he wants it. 

One of your fingers slips inside your hole, and you don’t bother stopping the shameless sound that slips from your lips. Your head falls back again, and Joe’s hand reaches up, holding it there. The wet sounds begin filling the space between you as your finger works in and out, soon slipping another between your cushioned walls. 

Joe’s chin hovers over your shoulder from where you’re leaning against him, and you just barely see as his head lifts. “Last night you said it was all gonna be for nothing,” he mutters, eyes on the screen even as his attention is fixed wholly on your body. “All that waiting, all that control. But look at that,” his free hand points at the screen, almost absent-mindedly like he’s in a regular film session and not holding you while you touch yourself for him. “Watch that. Saw the blitz comin’ from a mile away 'nd didn’t even blink. Got the ball out to ’Marr who turned it to twenty-eight yards on the checkdown. That’s control, that’s focus. That’s why I win.”

His words roll over you, low and sure, as the heel of your hand bumps against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. You realize, dimly, that he’s not just talking to you, but to himself. To the part of him that needed proof and to believe that all this hunger would actually amount to something. “And you,” his tone drops, a little darker, “said I couldn’t handle it. But you were the one who ran, weren’t you?”

Crying out, your fingers work themselves deeper, desperate to chase the pleasure even as his voice needles through every exposed nerve. You’re burning, humiliated and aroused beyond sense, yet he tilts your head up to better view the screen ahead.

“Keep going.” He makes quick work of shimmying your shorts down as much as allowed, exposing yourself to him before his hand covers yours again. He traps it against your cunt, forcing your own rhythm to slow. Fingers curling over yours, he guides the motion; deeper and then slower, then up to circle your clit in time with your own ragged breaths.

On the screen, a new play starts, his own image flickering in perfect sync with the deep, driving cadence of his voice. “See there?” His hand still guides yours, the double touch almost dizzying in its complicity. “That’s how you take the hit and keep your eyes downfield. Don’t lose sight, don’t let go.” His voice shudders at the end, losing some of its confidence, and you know, feel it, in the way his cock twitches aggressively beneath you. He’s just as close to breaking as you are, and all this talk and control is hanging on by a mere thread.

Your thoughts begin to spiral even harder: the ache, the longing, the memory of four days spent craving this. The need to prove to him and yourself that he wants you—that all his theories and control and discipline mean nothing against this, against you. Always, every time, even after all the games and fights and tests. He releases your hand then, but not before pressing his palm flat between your legs, trapping the pleasure there. Drawing it out and dragging you back down from the edge, just to pull you apart again. 

Joe’s lips press against your face, words scattering against your skin. “You win, baby. You win. But so do I.” Suddenly, his iron grip returns, snatching your hand away from where you’re seconds from shattering, wrenching a desperate, strangled noise from your throat.

The emptiness is so sudden and painful that your body withers, searching for relief. For a heartbeat you think you might beg, really beg, all pride scattered on the floor with your dignity. Though Joe untangles your bodies in one simple motion, standing and hauling you up with him so fast your knees nearly buckle. Just barely, you’re able to hear the chair roll from under him, harshly banging against the one next to it because of his eager momentum.

The world tilts, all being consumed by the disorienting vertigo from being manhandled. He doesn’t give you time to find your balance before his mouth finds yours in the first real kiss since Sunday night. It lands with the same force of that first slammed door; mouths colliding, breath stolen, and teeth scraping your lower lip as if he needs to taste all those sounds he’d forced from you moments ago.

It’s hard to keep up. Your hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at fabric and at skin, anything that will tether you to this new hurricane passing through. He works your shirt up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the table as your bottoms fall to the ground. His own pants drop just far enough to show off the springing length of his leaking cock. Your lips part, taking in the small details of him you could never forget but always missed, before he's using his hand to press your back flat over the table. The pendant of your necklace pools in the hollow crevice of your throat while your head just barely holds itself up. 

Joe pushes into you fully with one unforgiving thrust. Crying out, your body opens for him, the stretch so abrupt after days of nothing that it almost hurts—almost, but not quite, because the ache is everything you wanted. Your head falls over the edge of the table, eyes catching the upside-down blur of the screen still rolling before they flutter shut.

His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging in and holding you steady as he drives into you again and again. This is simply the frantic culmination of every second you both spent denying this and each other, the sort of sex that feels like reclaiming something you lost, or maybe like conquering it for the first time. Ricocheting against the walls are the sounds of skin slapping against skin mixed with the slick essence pooling between his body and yours. And over it all comes the guttural noises he makes, booming over your weak blubbers.

“Greedy pussy,” he snarls, voice nearly unrecognizable, “couldn’t wait, could you? Had to break the rules. Needed me so bad, you lost your mind.” His hips press flush against yours with each thrust, the drag of his cock so deep it makes you see stars, every inch pushing you further into the table. He feels impossibly big after all that waiting, the ache blooming into something that knots your insides with both victory’s thrill and surrender’s pull. You can’t do anything but take it, legs falling wider and thighs bracketing his hips as if you could keep him there forever, locked in this moment.

Leaning over you, Joe’s breath is hot against your cheek, scrape of his teeth at your skin pulling you back. “Once we finish up here,” he begins, “we’re going home. Gonna pretend this whole week never happened, you understand?” His lips ghost across your ear, the words soaking straight to the pit of your stomach. “I’ll forgive you for breakin’ the rules. And you—” another deep, punishing thrust, his body pressing you firmly into the wood, “you’re done arguing with me about shit. Not havin’ that anymore. Yeah?”

The words should make you want to argue back, because part of you was right, and he knew it last night, but they don’t. They make you shiver, legs locking around him and lips parting for his name and the only word you can remember in this moment. “Yes. Yes, Joe.”

Satisfied, he pulls back, straightening and looming over you. You barely catch sight of him and his messy hair, dark eyes, but it's enough to make your walls flutter around him, pulling him impossibly further in. Hand dragging up your body, it traces a brutal path from your waist to your breast. Pinching your nipple, Joe rolls it between his fingers until you reach for him, arching up for more.

“Here’s my finale,” he speaks up pridefully. The same hand releases your breast, sliding to your throat. His palm spans the delicate column of your neck, thumb pressing down with exquisite certainty—right over the nine pendant, connecting you to him in another spot. You feel the cold press of the metal, his mark on your skin, and the slight pressure makes your pulse thrum wild beneath it. 

“Look,” he commands, and you do. Your head tilts back so far the world is upside down again, forced to watch the film reel play on. The screen lights up with the drive, Joe’s own body moving across the field with impossible confidence. His hand tightens at your throat, never cruel, just enough to hold you there and make you watch him claiming the field. “See that?” he pants, each word slamming in time with his hips. “That’s control, baby. That’s what I needed.”

You splinter, climax crashing through you with the force so great it knocks the air from your lungs. It seizes you completely, searing down your back and radiating out from where his body fills you so completely. Your fingers claw for any part of him, pulling him into you for something stable to hold onto. He groans as you tighten around him, hips stuttering as if your pleasure has knocked him off-balance too.

The world comes rushing back in in fragments: first the rough sound of his breathing and the heat of his hand still firm at your throat, then the slippery bite of the pendant pressed into your skin. All followed by the flickering light of the screen above where he’s both myth and man, hero and lover.

Each thrust of his grows harder, almost brutal with how badly he needs it. He pounds into you, table shaking beneath your back as your overstimulated cries grow louder in the vast, empty room. Joe’s voice breaks on a ragged laugh, wild and breathless as the drive on screen comes to its crescendo—Joe’s body barging its own way straight into the touchdown zone, the whole stadium lighting up in a silent, imaginary explosion.

Every day, you drift further and further into your own little bubble. Sometimes you’re too anxious to leave the house. 

Joe sees it in the way you scan each and every room when you walk into it, taking stock and getting a feel for where everything is. It’s in the way you sit at the kitchen island in front of your laptop, trying to work but end up staring into space. It’s in the way you complete spaced out watching a movie the other night with Joe.

It’s in the way you think, and hope, he doesn’t notice, but the thing with Joe is… he always notices. Especially when it comes to you. 

And you try to push it down. You try to march on. You try so hard to keep a smile plastered on your face. 

But inside, you’re screaming. You’re drowning. Your nervous system is on fire. You’re not sleeping. Your entire body trembles when you’re doing nothing. You can’t switch off. You can’t rest. You feel like a swan on a lake - graceful and unbothered on the surface, while on the bottom, where nobody else can see, you’re working overtime to keep yourself afloat. 

Fight or flight is in overdrive - it has been for days, maybe even weeks. 

It’s only a matter of time until it brims over, like a saucepan of boiling water. Something’s going to move the lid just slightly, at just the wrong moment, and it’s all going to come boiling over, uncontrolled and devastating. 

You’re stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. 

Joe’s at the oven making dinner. It smells garlicky and gingery, something Asian-based he must have seen at a restaurant he went to earlier in the week. He’s got into the habit of finding the recipe online for things he eats at restaurants he goes to, or straight up asks the chef for it. 

The white shirt and grey sweatpants he’s wearing would normally make you want to jump his bones, but tonight, you’re somewhere else. A million miles away, despite being under the same roof, in the same room.

Your thoughts are scary, sometimes. Not in a ‘need to be admitted to a psychiatric facility’ kind of scary, just… Loud. Intrusive. They make it impossible to switch off and truly relax.

He says something that you don’t hear, too lost in your own thoughts.

‘Babe?’ He’s looking at you with expectant eyes, like he’s waiting for you to answer him. 

You shake your head, crashing back to Earth with an ugly jolt to your heart when you realise that you spaced out again. 

There’s a beat where he looks at you. You look at him. 

‘S-sorry?’ You leave it a second too long to play it off. 

It’s quiet. 

You’re hoping he doesn’t notice.

He does. He won’t say anything, though. He needs to hear it from you. He’s got a feel for how your anxiety works now. He knows that the more he pushes you, the harder you’ll pull back and shut down. 

So, he leaves it up to you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows you’ll come to him when you’re ready. 

‘Just asked if you’re still coming to Deja’s birthday party tomorrow. I said we’ll both be there, but if you don’t feel up to it then please don’t feel like you have to come.’

You shake your head, determined. 

Be normal. Nothing is wrong. Don’t add to his already-full plate. You need to go, need to show face. Show everyone that you are good. You can handle a simple night out, right?

‘No, no, I’ll be there. Where, um, where is it, again? Just so… Just so I can see.’ 

That’s a lie. Both of you know that. 

You want to know where it is so you know what to wear. How much you need to psyche yourself up for it. So you can look at the menu and memorise your order before you even step foot in the building. So you know what the parking situation is even though Joe will never let you drive anywhere, he’ll have his driver take the two of you. 

Of course, this isn’t addressed.

He stirs the pot on the oven. 

‘Some nightclub downtown. Tulua, something like that?’ 

You nod. Another fake smile. 

Then you disappear again. Into your mind, out of the room mentally despite being there physically. 

The party completely slipped your mind. Over the last week, with your anxiety taking up every part of your life, you’ve had little chance to think about… well, anything. It’s been a case of getting through the next five minutes. 

Now you have to prepare for being at a nightclub. For the noise, for the pushing, for the alcohol, for ‘having to be switched on because other people will be there and you need to look like you’re having fun’, your anxiety screams at you. 

The feeling of Joe’s gaze being on you again snaps you back into the room once again. The kitchen lights shine bright above you, overly warm, like a spotlight on you, making you blink your eyes to get the dark spots out of your vision. 

‘You with me, baby?’ Joe asks. The question itself is easy, but you know it’s loaded. 

You know you’re not being yourself, but something in you just can’t bring yourself to tell him. 

Because in truth, you don’t know why you feel like this. You don’t know what set it all off. And if you can’t explain it, it’s silly. 

Sorry babe, I just feel like I’m being hunted for sport when we watch a movie in our own home. No reason, just my stupid brain. All good, though!

Even thinking it sounds ridiculous. 

No. You’re okay. You’re good. 

You nod. 

You ignore the thump-thump-thump of your heart. It’s almost painful. The rhythm is so fast, you’re surprised your Apple Watch hasn’t pinged with a notification, telling you to sit down. Your doctor told you to turn that notification on after your heart rate spiked so high at work, you passed out.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ you reply. ‘I’m good.’ It’s tacked on like an afterthought, as though I’m fine, the universal way of saying I’m not fine will give you away. 

His gaze lingers on you. He’s serving up, spooning noodles and vegetables into bowls. 

‘Smells great, Joey, thank you for cooking.’

You’re not hungry. You haven’t been for days, your anxiety causing a horrible knotting sensation in your stomach that means you’re having to force food down until you feel sick. 

Still, though, you potter around the kitchen, pouring yourself some water from the fridge, collecting silverware for the two of you and taking the salt and pepper shakers over to the kitchen table. 

As you pass him, he winds a gentle arm around your waist to stop you in your tracks. It’s not to trap you. It’s to check in. 

‘If something’s up, you can talk to me, you know that, right, sweetheart?’ His curls flop over his eyes when he says it, craning his neck to look down at you. 

Another nod. 

‘Yeah. Thanks, Joey.’ 

He’s so good. It makes you feel guilty for not telling him, but you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll be fine. 

It’s currently Friday. The party is tomorrow. You’ll be right as rain by then. 

Joe does most of the talking during dinner. He tells you funny stories from training, he talks about how he hit a new personal best in the weight room on the squat racks and how some black hole in space is nearing Earth. 

It’s so hard to engage with him. That’s what scares you the most about this whole thing. When you’re not riddled with anxiety, talking with Joe is the easiest thing in the world. When you’re not feeling like you’re being hunted for sport, the two of you can sit and talk for hours about everything and nothing. 

When you’re in survival mode, though, just getting through the next five minutes is a work out. 

How long you sit there for, you don’t know. You drift in and out of the conversation, only processing tidbits. You hum along with him every now and then, but Joe knows you’re not listening. Not really.

‘Hey.’ A large, warm hand envelops yours. It gives your hand a squeeze. A silent reminder - come back to me, you’ve disappeared again. Realisation dawns on you that you’ve zoned out yet again, staring into space. 

When your gaze focuses back on the man in front of you, worry is etched into his handsome features. His eyes are crinkled in the corners, his eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is tense, almost as though he’s carrying the tension you’re feeling. 

You feel a pang of guilt, hating the thought that you’re bringing him extra stress. 

‘You wanna talk about whatever’s playing on your mind? I can feel it. You don’t have to hide it away from me, honey. Don’t bottle it up. What can I do to help?’ 

Your gaze meets his. There’s a softness in his eyes that only appears when he looks at you. Everyone sees it. Every single person sees the way he looks at you like you hung the Solar System he loves so much. 

But not quite as much as he loves you. Nothing will ever come close to how much that man loves you. He would fight an army on his own for you. 

But still, you can’t say it.

I feel like I’m being hunted for sport. I feel like everyone looks at me when I walk into a room. I feel like they can’t understand what a guy like you sees in a girl like me. I feel like I’m dragging you down because of my anxiety. I feel like you deserve better than someone who panics at the mere thought of leaving the house sometimes. 

The words are all there. You just can’t say it. Saying it makes it real. Saying it means it becomes his problem. You can’t do that to him, not now. 

‘I’m okay. Just… just a lot going on.’ 

There it is again. That squeeze on your hand. It makes you look down at your hand in his, the way his huge hand makes yours look like it belongs to a child. It’s veiny and calloused, warm and comforting. He always says that your hands are freezing. It’s why he always has a pair of hand warmers in his bag for you, especially on game days in the winter, even when you’re up in the suite. 

Joe holds your gaze.

‘You sure?’ The words linger in the air between the two of you, the silence filled with the questions he wanted to ask, but didn’t have a way to phrase them. 

Have I done something? What can I do to fix it? Do I need to fight someone? 

You know he’s giving you an opening to talk. You know you need to talk, to share the load. 

But still, you can’t. You don’t want to be a burden. He already has a full plate. You can figure out by yourself.

‘Yeah, I’m sure.’ You pause again. ‘I love you.’ The words are enough to ease the tension between the two of you. His shoulders visibly relax, as if he needed to hear it. 

He brings your hand to his lips. The little kisses he presses against your skin are warm. They convey everything all at once; I love you. I’ve got you. I’m yours. You’re my girl.

‘I love you too, baby.’ 

That night, Joe sleeps fitfully next to you. You know by now that he knows something is up. You also know you have to talk to him about it, but… you don’t want to be a burden. You don’t want to distract him from his career. So you decide to tough it out by yourself.

Eventually, sleep comes, but it’s punctuated by dreams that aren’t necessarily nightmares, but they’re also not entirely pleasant. 

By the time morning comes and you’re jolted awake by your alarm, you can barely remember the dreams. You’re exhausted from both the shoddy night’s sleep and from being in survival mode for the last few weeks. You’re starting to feel numb. All you feel is that unshakable feeling of unease. 

Joe has a session at the weight room, and you notice he gives you an extra tight hug before he leaves. He kisses the top of your head and asks you to message him if you need anything. You know he has nothing but good intentions, but your anxiety twists his words into something they’re not. 

Text him if you have a panic attack. If you need him. If you can’t go an hour or two without him. 

No, you say to yourself, almost out loud. You can survive without him. 

You spend the day flitting from one room to the other. 

Watching TV in the living room feels lonely without Joe, but you manage to watch a few episodes of Schitt’s Creek to get yourself into a better frame of mind. 

You open your laptop in the study to try and do some work on the project that’s due in a few weeks. Settling into the work gives you tunnel vision, so you manage to make some good progress on it. 

Anxiety about it still lingers, though, as you try and swallow a few mouthfuls of salad you DoorDash from a local deli. 

Is it good enough? Am I good enough? Is this job enough? 

Enough. Enough. Enough. 

The word buzzes around your head like a wasp looking for something to sting. 

All you want is to be enough. Good enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. Just… enough. 

Your phone buzzes, pulling you out of your spiral:

From: Joe ❤️

I’ll be home around 5. Car’s coming at around 7 to take us into town. Take a bath, have a nap, do what you need to do. I love you ❤️😘

You do as Joe suggests and run yourself a nice bath, complete with lavender essential oils and muscle relaxing Epsom salts. The water is hot and the bubbles envelop you in a bubbly blanket, soothing your muscles from weeks of tension that you forget you’re holding. 

That’s the thing with anxiety, you’ve found after all these years. It’s not just mental. It’s a whole-body affliction, affecting your muscles, your joints, even down to your very bones. It’s been so long since you’ve been able to properly relax, properly switch off, but now, in the bath, you finally have that chance. You lean your head back against the wall and sigh contentedly. 

You stay in the bath longer than you planned to, until your skin starts to prune. After you hop out, your hair washed and conditioned with your skin smelling fruity, the shoddy night’s sleep catches up with you, so after you apply your body lotion, you crawl into bed in your pyjamas for a quick nap. 

The sleep that follows is the first decent rest you’ve had in weeks. It feels as though your body finally feels safe enough to switch off and catch up on the rest you’ve been missing out on. 

When you wake up, you can hear the shower running, and you instantly know it’s Joe. The sound of the water running and him moving around is oddly comforting to you, and you’re half tempted to close your eyes and head back to sleep, but you know if that happens, you’ll never get out of bed, so you lean back on the pillows that smell of Joe’s shampoo, despite how many times you wash them, and scroll on your phone.

You hear the water shut off and Joe steps out into the bedroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair has grown out over the last few weeks, and it flops over his eyebrows in his hunt for underwear and socks. Instinctively, like they’re drawn to him by magnets, your eyes rake over his back. They watch the sinews of his muscles ripple as he shrugs on a dark navy button-up dress shirt. Then, he pulls on a pair of black slacks, the movement of his legs making his calf muscles and hamstrings flex. 

As if he can feel your eyes on him, he turns around and catches you staring. Your entire body warms under the intensity of his gaze; you know your cheeks have flushed. 

He just smiles softly at you. 

‘Have a good sleep, baby?’ He asks as he pulls on his socks. 

You hum in response, resting your head on your arm. The clock on the bedside table tells you that it’s five-forty-five, but you’re so comfy and warm in the bed… Moving sounds like your worst nightmare. 

‘I took a bath, before. It was really nice. Thank you for suggesting it.’ 

He shrugs off your thank you. 

His socks now on his feet, he moves to sit on the bed with you. A large, warm hand reaches out to stroke your left leg, on the calf muscle. 

‘Are you sure you’re up for tonight, sweetheart? There’s really no pressure,’ he murmurs down to you. ‘I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can feel you’ve been… a little anxious lately.’ 

A little anxious. Probably the understatement of the century. 

‘So if you don’t feel you can manage it, please don’t feel bad for saying no. I want you to feel comfortable.’ 

He’s so honest. Genuine. You know he means every word, his eyes tell you that. They’re soft in their gaze, and even in the dim lighting of the bedroom, you can see his pupils are dilated, a subtle but clear sign of his honesty. 

He believes in you. You can see that. In his eyes, you can do anything. 

You don’t want to let him down. You don’t want to let anyone down. You have to try.

‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll go. It sounds fun. I need to get out of the house more.’ 

You get up and move to your closet to find something to wear. His gaze follows you, you can feel it, and you wait for him to say or ask something. 

Why are you anxious? Is it me? Has something happened with your job? 

He waits for you to open up to him. 

You don’t.

You don’t tell him about how that feeling comes back as you stare at your closet, trying to find something to wear. About how the hollow pit, that ugly twist, creeps back into your stomach. How it screams at you, telling you that you’re not enough for him. For your job. For your family. 

It feels like an intruder in your body, unwelcome, yet it sits there. Then it’s sliding around in your stomach like an ugly great snake. 

But you soldier on. The first thing that grabs your eye is what you pick for an outfit - a plain navy dress that, mercifully, matches Joe’s shirt. You’re relieved with your choice, knowing you’ll look like a cohesive unit together despite the fact that you feel like your entire world is crumbling around you. 

There’s an odd ringing in your ears as you pull the dress on. It’s so loud that you just want to scream and cover your ears forever, but you can’t. 

You need to tough it out. People are expecting you tonight. You need to shove a smile onto your face and act like everything is okay. Just for a couple of hours. 

Something selfish inside you hopes that Joe doesn’t want to stay too long, but you’re too nervous to ask. You would rather stew in the uncertainty than show weakness by asking him. 

You look in the mirror and smooth out the dress. It looks… okay.

Nothing special, sneers that ugly voice inside you. Maybe if you lost a bit of weight around your shoulders or in your hips, you would be pretty enough for the man outside the door. 

The thought is so ugly, you almost want to slap your own face to get it out of your head.

Focus. Turn your focus somewhere else. 

Makeup. That’s good. Let’s do some makeup. 

It’s too much. You only manage to do the bare minimum; colour corrector under your eyes and on any blemishes, mascara on your lashes, and a swipe of nude lipstick. 

Enough to say you made an effort, but not too much that it will be exhausting to take off at the end of the night. Whenever that may be. 

Joe’s head turns to you when you walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. Your eyes meet his, and just for a second, the world is peaceful. It seems to stop turning on its axis as the two of you take each other in. 

He’s stretched out on the bed, long legs seemingly endless in the black slacks, the navy dress shirt complimenting his skin tone perfectly, and his hair perfectly curled, in a way that’s so him, he just looks so effortless. Like everything comes easy to him.

Of course, you know that’s not the case. Joe has had his own fair share of struggles, many of which you have helped him through. 

But the way he carries them, it’s like nobody would ever know. 

You, however, you feel as though everyone knows you’re struggling. You feel as though they can see it in your eyes, the lack of control and the wild panic. 

Then he says those words that always bring you back to him, even if you’re somewhere on a planet millions of miles away. 

‘I love you, sweetheart.’

They chip away at the dam of anxiety. Just for a second, your heart rate slows and your worries are dulled, like they’ve been tackled by a fire extinguisher. 

‘I love you, too, Joey. So much. I’m sorry I haven’t said it enough recently.’ You say it quietly, as if you’re worried that saying it too loudly will make it too real. 

He doesn’t say anything. He simply opens his arms, an invitation for you to join him. 

A small smile creeps onto your face, and you oblige, crawling in next to him. He immediately wraps his big, strong arms around you and pull you in close to him. 

‘You never have to worry about that, babe, not with me.’ His voice is quiet. You can hear the sincerity dripping from every syllable. ‘I know it. You show it without saying it.’ The reassurance means more to you than you can ever express. 

He looks at you in his arms, really drinks you in, as if he’s memorising every freckle, every crinkle and every blemish, committing all of it to memory like he does with plays. He is so completely and utterly obsessed with you, he barely knows how to function without you. Having you in his arms is the single greatest gift life has given him thus far, and he hasn’t even married you yet. You haven’t even given him children yet. 

In the form of his arm squeezing you impossibly closer to him, the words pass through to you without him having to say anything.

I’m here. Whatever you need, whenever you’re ready. Please don’t think you’re alone.

You know they’re the words he’s saying because he’s said them to you countless times before, when you’ve had previous episodes of anxiety. He’s muttered them into your hair when you lean on him during a panic attack. He’s whispered them to you late at night when he thinks you’re asleep next to him. He’s texted them to you when he’s on the road but he can tell you’re anxious just through your texts. 

I’m here. 

You know you need to talk to him. You want to talk to him now, to make it all stop. He’ll know what to do, he always does. 

But then, just as you open your mouth and say, ‘I just…’, there’s a car horn outside. 

The driver’s arrived to take you to the party. 

Without another word, you get up and brush your fingers through your hair, while he unfolds himself from the bed. 

His presence is oppressive around you while you pull on your heels, the way it always is with Joe; you feel him before you see him. He’ll walk into a room and you just know without looking that he’s there. Same with you for him, he always knows where to look for you. You’ll never lose him in a crowd, not just because of his height, but because of that string tying you to each other. That string that ties you together, it transcends distances. No matter where you are in the world, no matter how far apart you are from each other, that string is unbreakable. It’s stronger than steel, iron and titanium put together. You are the centre of his Solar System - everything revolves around you. It used to revolve around football, but then came you, and now you are the centre of his world.

He wants to talk, it’s written all over his body in stolen glances across the room at you, and sure enough, when you stand up from tightening the buckle on your left heel, an arm coils around your waist. It makes you jump, not realising how fast he came over to you, and you’re once again pulled in to the warm chest you call home. Joe mutters an apology into the air above you for making you jump. 

‘We’ll talk later?’ 

It’s murmured into your hair, accompanied by a kiss to your temple.  

You nod.

‘We will.’

This can’t continue, you realise that now. You’re exhausted from having no sleep for the last few weeks, from fighting your brain at every turn, from the mental effort of being on and appearing normal and not wanting to scream in agony. 

You just want it to stop. You want quiet. You crave peace. 

The answer hits you then. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, terrifyingly fast and yet so blindingly obvious that you’re almost laughing at how you were so slow to pick up on it.

Joe is your peace. Joe is your quiet. 

Just like how you are his peace. You are his quiet. 

You need to tell him, about how you’ve been feeling and about your realisation, but the car horn sounds again, shattering the moment and breaking the spell. 

He squeezes you to his chest. 

‘C’mon, baby,’ he leans down to peck your lips. ‘Let’s go. We don’t have to stay long.’ 

The two of you pull yourselves off of each other and you grab a jacket from your closet, a black faux-leather one that you wore last Halloween, when the two of you dressed up as Danny and Sandy from Grease. 

The Ohio air is thin and cool when you step out to get into the car, Joe opening your door for you as always. He holds out a hand to help you up into the back. 

Inside the car, a big black Range Rover, the seats are black leather with red trim. They’re soft and plush when you sit down in them and buckle yourself in. The interior smells brand new, that unmistakable new car smell that you can’t help but breathe in. 

Joe joins you a few moments later. You exchange small smiles before he reaches across for your hand. As the car purrs away, he mouths a ‘you okay?’ over at you, another check in. 

You only manage a squeeze to his hand. 

He knows what that means. 

It means, I need you with me tonight. 

He squeezes your hand back, not breaking eye contact. 

Don’t worry, the squeeze says. I won’t leave your side for a second. 

The rest of the car ride passes in silence. Cincinnati’s downtown district rises above you in the form of towering skyscrapers and swanky hotels. At some point, Joe takes his hand back to use his phone. You can see the screen glaring at him in the dark of the car as he texts Ja’Marr to let him know you were on your way.

Dread seeps into your body. It chills you to your bones. There it is again. Sliding around in your stomach like a poorly-digested meal. 

The car glides to a stop outside the club. Bass thumping so hard, it makes your bones judder inside you. Girls are screaming, tottering about in dangerously-high heels. Guys are jeering at each other. 

Your hands are clenching and unclenching again. Your chest starts to rise and fall in that heavy, borderline hysterical way it does when you feel yourself losing control. 

Joe glances over at you. 

‘Baby.’

You don’t look at him. You can’t. 

His hand takes yours again. His thumb rubs your skin to try and bring you back. 

‘You don’t have to go in, sweetheart.’ 

The gentle reminder makes tears prick your eyes, and for a millisecond, you nearly let the anxiety win. You almost tell him that you want to go home. You know if you do, he’ll waste no time in telling the driver to take you back home with a stop off at your favourite Italian to pick up dinner. 

But you can’t let it win. You need to be strong. You need to show yourself that you can do this. 

‘I’m going in. I’ve got this.’ 

Another look is exchanged between the two of you, in which he silently double checks with you that you’re sure.

You’re not sure. But you’re doing it. For him. 

The two of you head out of the car, Joe guarding you from the waiting photographers with his huge form. Cameras flash and you close your eyes, but you can see them from behind your eyelids. Joe’s hand never once leaves yours. 

Finally, you make it inside and make a beeline for the VIP area where the party is based. 

‘Y/N, Joe!’ Deja squeals as she runs over to you. ‘It’s so great to see you both!’ She wraps you in a hug. She smells divine, as always, and her hug is warm and secure. A sign of how much she adores you. 

When you break apart, she looks at you.

‘You’re gorgeous, girl. Thank you for coming.’ 

And with that, she swoops in to give Joe a hug. Ja’Marr runs up to the two of you and you hug him next. He daps up Joe. They exchange bro hugs. 

Reunions complete, you follow Deja and Ja’Marr into the booth, Joe following you with his hand on your back, fingers splayed to maximise the surface area he’s touching. Normally he’d have it lightly dusting your back, but the way you squeezed his hand in the car… You need him to be with you tonight. He knows what to do. 

The party starts and you try to have fun. You really do. 

You blindly engage in conversation and exchange in small talk. The lemonade you order gives you something to focus on, gives your hands something to do that isn’t twirling your hair around your finger or rubbing your thighs out of nerves.

All through the night, that feeling bubbles inside you. It was easy to ignore it at first. But as the night intensifies and as more people become more intoxicated, while you’re still stone-cold sober, the less comfortable you’re feeling. 

It happens somewhat out of the blue. You’re stood with Gracie, Evan’s wife, in the bathrooms having gone for a bathroom break. 

She’s in a cubicle, talking about something cute her kid did the other day. You’re stood at the sink after washing your hands, desperately trying to make the feeling go away. Her kid is adorable and sees you as one of her aunts, and you normally love hearing about whatever she got up to. 

But you just can’t get past the feeling of anxiety screaming in your chest. 

The combination of the noise - the thumping base, the screaming on the dancefloor, the shaking walls around you - and the darkness that envelops you everywhere you turn, it’s all too much. Your senses are taking a beating that doesn’t seem to be ending. 

It’s like a wave threatening to crest at the worst possible time. 

Out. You need to get out of this room, this building. Exit. A way out. 

Gracie walks out of the cubicle but stops short when she sees you. You’re starting to hyperventilate. Tears are falling thick and fast as the panic attack hits you. 

‘Are you okay, Y/N?’ she asks. 

You can’t speak. Instead of saying no, a wild sob escapes your mouth. Your chest heaves again, but this time it’s out of control. 

Your breaths are ragged, shallow and short, as if you can’t get enough oxygen in and can’t breathe out enough carbon dioxide. The sensation makes you feel dizzy, adding to your panic.

Your chest hurts. Is this a heart attack? No, impossible. But why does it hurt so much?

Gracie says something, but you don’t hear it. You’re trembling from head to foot. You feel like you’re going to die. You feel like something is hunting you.

Her hands are on your shoulders, steering you out of the bathroom. She says something about finding Joe, but then your eyes fall on the bright green sign that says EMERGENCY EXIT in luminescent white lettering.

Door. Exit. Way out. 

You pick up the pace and career towards it, not realising that you almost crash straight into Joe, who’s come to look for you. 

‘Honey?’ he asks in surprise. His eyes are wide with concern. ‘What’s happened, did something happen?’ 

You don’t answer him. You don’t stop. You push past him. Your only goal is getting out.

Door. Exit. Way out. 

Behind you, you can hear Joe shouting your name after your retreating back. You can feel him following you, feel him closing the gap. 

You just want out. You need to escape. The walls are closing in. Everything feels too much, too close. 

You’re stumbling towards the door, tunnel vision blocking anything else that doesn’t matter to you in that moment. 

The door doesn’t seem to be getting closer. Time is moving in slow motion. Nothing makes sense. The air inside the club is humid and heavy. You can’t breathe fast enough, you can’t breathe, can’t breathe…

And then, finally, with a choking sob, you all but crash through the emergency exit. 

The cool night air that washes over you is blissful. It’s quiet. 

Your ears are ringing. There’s a cast-iron railing by the exit, so you reach out with shaking hands to hold onto it to keep your balance. 

Gasps for air choke from you. The space around you fills with the sounds of your sobs, completely out of control. 

You’re gulping for oxygen as if you’ve been drowning. Your chest aches from the exertion, causing you to bend over to try and release it. Your vision becomes spotty and the next concern you have is passing out. What would happen if you passed out? Would someone find you here? What if something…

Suddenly, two hands grab your shoulders from behind and you instinctively scream in terror, whirling around on your heels at your would-be assailant. Your vision is so spotty that you can’t see who it is, can’t make out the face through the ripples in your sight, but then a voice pierces through the panic and grabs hold of you…

‘Baby, baby, hey!’ The voice is echoey in your ears, but it’s familiar. Warm and honeyed, comforting and quiet. Then the ringing stops, and he speaks again. ‘Hey sweetheart, it’s me, it’s Joe.’

His hands rest on your shoulders, holding you steady. You grab hold of his arms, desperately wanting to confirm that he’s here, he’s real.

‘J-Joey?’ It comes out as a trembling whisper. Tears cascade down your cheeks and all you want to do is collapse, somewhere, anywhere…

Your eyes blink rapidly, trying to refocus your vision. His face swims into focus, but you’re still gasping for air, breaths tumbling into each other. He kneels down in front of you, hands moving to hold yours. 

‘Yeah, baby, it’s me, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry for scaring you, honey, but I need you to breathe for me, okay?’ Right. Yes. Breathing. ‘Remember how we breathe together? In for four, hold for four, out for seven, see, watch me,’ and he demonstrates the technique you use for instances like this. His huge shoulders seem to double in size as he exaggerates breathing in, then they shrink with the exhale. 

It takes some encouragement, but at last, your breathing starts to even out. Your heart rate slowly starts to go back to a normal rhythm. You finally feel able to stand normally, but you’re exhausted. Drained beyond comprehension. The hangover from this panic attack will probably last for several days. 

Joe stands there with you, one arm around your waist to keep you upright while the other rubs circles on your back, soothing and grounding. He whispers into your ear, in his deep, slow timbre, of how proud he is of you and how he’s with you through it all.

You step forward to stand close to him. You want to hide yourself away for the rest of time. You don’t want anyone to see you.

Embarrassment and guilt floods you. You made a scene. You attracted all the wrong attention. Everyone’s going to be talking about this, about how you couldn’t get through a simple party… 

‘’m… I’m sorry…’ you mumble into his chest, too embarrassed to even say it to his face. 

His grip on you tightens again. You feel a hand come up to your head and it strokes your hair. Large, strong, yet still impossibly gentle. 

‘Don’t apologise. Don’t ever apologise for something like this.’ He says it firmly, but not with a raised voice. It’s the kind of quiet tone of voice that doesn’t give you any room for argument, but still…

‘I made a scene, I attracted attention, I shouldn’t have come, I should have stayed home…’ 

‘No, no, no. Don’t say that, baby,’ he says, voice fiercer than before. He breaks apart but still has you in his hold so he can look at you. ‘Do you know how proud I am that you came tonight? You were feeling like this but you still managed to come. These things are hard for you, I know that, but you still came. And that means the world to me, it means the world to Deja and Ja’Marr.’

At the mention of their names, your face crumples all over again, worry coursing through you that you ruined the night.

‘But I, but I ruined her night,’ you sob into the space between you. ‘All because of this fucking anxiety, all because I feel…’ That’s when you pause, because you’re close to revealing why you feel like this. 

Joe looks at you. He gently quirks an eyebrow, encouraging you to go on. 

When you don’t, he pulls you in for another hug.

‘All because you feel what, baby? Please talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is that’s troubling you.’ You hesitate again, and that’s when he makes the choice. ‘How about I call the car, we go home and we talk about it there? This isn’t really the place to be having that conversation, anyway.’ 

That is a plan that you can agree with, so after you nod, he fishes out his phone and messages his driver to ask him to pick the two of you up. Joe tells you that the driver is about fifteen minutes away.

He keeps you safe and secure in his arms. 

There’s a few moments of silence between the two of you. You’re still coming down from the attack, adrenalin still ebbing out of your system. He’s processing seeing you in that state. It was the worst of your panic attacks he had ever witnessed.

It terrified him. The look in your eyes when you turned around to him after he put his hands on your shoulders… Panic. Blind, sheer panic. He’ll never forget it. 

‘You’re holding me like I’m going to disappear, honey,’ he murmurs into your ear. 

‘Hmm?’ you whisper in response. He chuckles softly.

‘I promise I won’t disappear if you let me go.’ 

You lean up to kiss his cheek. It’s so sweet and delicate that his whole body swells with love, the intense, scary kind of love that momentarily takes his breath way. 

‘Please don’t.’ He tilts his head to question the two words that just tumbled out of your mouth. ‘Disappear. Please don’t disappear. I-I don’t know, I don’t know how to do this life without you, Joey. And, and I know I’ve been…’ Your voice breaks. His heart, still swollen with love for you, breaks at the sight of your eyes becoming glassy, so he steps closer to you and holds your face with both hands. ‘I know I’ve been distant lately, and I’m so sorry for that. I felt like I wasn’t enough for you, for my job, for my friends… I love you so much, Joe, and I want to be that person you can be quiet with, but sometimes I feel like my stupid anxiety,’ you ignore the way his brow furrows when you call your anxiety “stupid”. ‘Makes me hard to love sometimes, and…’ 

That does it for him. That’s when he decides to say what he should have said when he first noticed you feeing anxious. 

He shakes his head and holds your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him while he speaks.

‘You are not hard to love, Y/N. Listen to me. You are not hard to love.’ He takes a deep breath, as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. ‘Honey, love isn’t about being perfect all the time, it’s not about being constantly being happy and upbeat. Love is about supporting each other through everything, the good bits and the bad bits. I love you completely, wholly and fully, and I’m sorry that I have ever made you feel like you’re hard to love because of your anxiety. If you ever feel like that again, you tell me, okay?’ 

You nod. He catches a tear with his thumb and gently wipes it away. 

He continues: 

‘Listen to me. Your anxiety doesn’t make you hard to love, sweetheart. It makes you human, it makes you a person, and you happen to be my person. I love you, weird habits, random facts, anxiety, I love it all, because it makes you, you.’ He brushes a stray strand of hair out of your face. The gesture is so soft and pure that it glues your heart back together, after shattering with the panic attack. ‘And I know your anxiety sucks, and I’m here with you through it all, for as much or as little as you’ll let me in for. But I don’t see you as something that needs to be fixed. I don’t see you as fragile, or vulnerable. Not even close. When I look at you, I see the strongest person I know. I see the woman I’m building my life with, the person who is the centre of my fucking universe. Nothing and nobody else will be as important to me as you are. I see a woman who has had to go through a lot of challenges to get to where she is today, and there will be challenges ahead, but I’m here, with you and by your side, and I’ll face every last one of them with you. You are not alone in this storm, babe. You never have been and you never will be. You are strong, you are beautiful and you are enough, just as you are. You always have been and you always will be. I want you to be exactly who you are for me, because exactly who you are is the love of my whole damn life, who you are is the kind of woman that I used to pray for as a kid, and I never want to go a single day, minute, second, without you. I love you so fucking much, sweetheart, please never forget that. I’m so in love with you that it scares me, sometimes, I’m so in love with you that it physically hurts when I’m not with you. I don’t want to know a world without you in it. You’re it for me, baby, you have been since the second we met.’

Both of you are crying after his little speech, but you don’t care. You’re so overwhelmed - with love, with relief, with happiness, that you just heard exactly what you needed to hear, what you’ve needed to hear for the past month - that you just kiss him, lips melting onto his as you move up onto your tiptoes. 

He kisses you back immediately. You feel his arms pull you flush to his chest and you lift your head up towards him so he can kiss you deeper. He kisses you so passionately that you feel your feet leaving the ground, but he holds you, his grip firm. He doesn’t let you slip out of his grasp as his mouth attacks yours. If anything, he wants you closer, never wants to let you out of his sight again. His tongue that still tastes of the beer he was nursing before coming to find you licks at your bottom lip, and you immediately open your mouth. Teeth clash together while soft, breathy gasps for air escape each of you.

Your mind is cloudy as he pulls you by the waist closer, still, to him. He's hard under his slacks, you can feel the ridge already. His warmth radiates onto you, but goosebumps still rise up on your arms at the electricity running between the two of you. His lips are slightly chapped and dry, but you don't care.

It’s fiery. It’s raw. It’s passionate. It’s making up for weeks of time apart, of not enough kisses being shared. You make a mental note to kiss him more. 

When you finally break apart, chests heaving, your heart is pounding again, but this time it’s out of pure love. He’s kissed you as if his life depended on it. Both your lips are swollen, his stained with the lipstick you swiped on hours ago. 

There's silence for a few seconds as the two of you catch your breath. You don't move away, though. You can't. He's addictive in every possible way.

It feels as though the two of you have reconnected and relit the fire between you. You feel closer to him, emotionally and mentally, than you have in weeks, the result of being completely and truly honest with each other. It feels magical. 

You gaze up at the man in front of you, and he stares right back at you, his forehead resting against yours. You look drunk on love, but then again, so does he. His eyes are dark and hooded with adoration, the pupils dilated so much that they look dark grey in the night. You have a feeling that he’ll show you just how much he loves you when you’re home and after you’ve had that conversation, but for now, you drink each other in. 

‘I love you, Joey,' you whisper through hoarse tones. You have to lick your lips after the assault his mouth just gave them. 'Thank you for saving me, for holding me, for… everything. I promise to come to you, in full, if this happens again.’ 

He kisses your nose affectionately and smiles that impossibly perfect, adoring smile that he reserves for you and only you, his eyes gooey in the middle, like a chocolate fondant, and crinkled at the sides. 

‘And I promise to make you feel worthy and loved every day, for the rest of our lives. Even if you fall, I’ll catch you. I’ll always hold my girl, no matter what.’ 

You kiss him again, brief but loving, and then take his hand. The car is around the corner, and you need to go home. 

There’s work to be done, on both sides - communication, honesty and trust to be built back up.

But that’s the best thing about having forever.

You have time.

THE END

he pushes the cart, holds the list like it’s a playbook he's memorizing for a big divisional matchup next week, debates mashed potato texture like he’s scouting opponents, and slips your favorite chocolates into the cart when he thinks you’re not paying attention because he knows your period is coming up, and there’s nothing more you love than those fancy little lindor chocolates when you’re under the weather, bonus points if he feeds them to you. but beneath the teasing, the sneaky aisle kisses, and the soft touches on your lower back, there’s something heavier humming between you. something new. because halfway through the produce section, joe stops, leans his forearms on the cart, and looks around at the shelves like he’s absorbing it all—the grocery store, the ingredients, the future holidays he hopes you’ll spend together. when his eyes land back on you, they’re softer, warmer, almost boyish. “this is our first holiday together, isn't it? like actually ours,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, and it hits you so hard your fingers literally fumble the cranberries, because suddenly it’s real; this life you’re building together, step by step, meal by meal, holiday by holiday.

the morning of, he moves through the house with this nervous energy he thinks he’s hiding. checking the oven temperature twice, flipping through recipe cards to try to plan out when each dish is made so that you can maximize your time, smoothing a hand down your back whenever he walks by, like touching you calms him. there’s something so endearing about this large, confident commands-the-entire-stadium-with-one-flick-of-his-wrist, joe burrow being anxious about hosting a family holiday dinner with you. he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like seeing you in your shared kitchen, wearing his old hoodie, cooking your first holiday meal together is permanently altering his brain chemistry. halfway through basting the ham, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs, “this feels really serious, doesn’t it?” in that quiet, slightly shaky voice he only uses when he’s telling the most special truth he’s ever known. 

and when family finally arrives—robin with a pie and green bean casserole, jimmy carrying a bottle of chateau margaux and a bottle of cider, siblings and sister-in-laws piling in behind with nieces and nephews—you catch joe staring at you from across the living room with this full, warm, almost overwhelmed expression, the kind that says he knows exactly what you both just stepped into. a real life. shared traditions. a future. 

watching you move around the kitchen with his mom, laughing beside his sisters-in-law, trading stories with his cousins as you wipe your hands on a dish towel and reach for another bowl—it hits him in a place he didn’t know still hurt. it settles in his chest like something warm and cozy, something he’s been aching for longer than he ever admitted out loud. because seeing you there, so effortlessly woven into the fabric of his family, reminds him what all of this has always been for.

all the holidays he spent wondering if he’d ever have someone to bring home. all the years he sat at this same table, watching his brothers slip their arms around the women they loved, pretending he didn’t feel that sharp little pinch in his ribs. all the nights he lay awake thinking, when is it my turn? and now here you are. moving through this home like you were meant to be here all along, like the universe was just waiting for the timing to be right. and as he watches you laugh with robin over his poor, but adorable attempt at setting the table all by himself, or tease his cousin about burning the rolls, he realizes with absolute, bone-deep certainty that every lonely thanksgiving, every ache, every moment of wanting led him to this. 

to you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...will only eat your pumpkin pie 

joe insists, no, actually demands, that he only eats the pumpkin dishes you make on thanksgiving, and he does it with the kind of stubborn loyalty that makes everyone laugh except him, because he’s deadly serious about it. he’ll take a polite slice of robin’s pie just to be respectful and to not earn any death-glares from her or have her threaten to not bring him a snicker's salad during every visit anymore, but he doesn’t even finish it, doesn’t even bother pretending, because the second no one’s looking he’s leaning into you, voice low and warm against the shell of your ear, whispering, “it’s good, but yours is better,”. the way he says it—slow, honest, almost sinful—makes heat crawl up your neck. and the moment you bring out your pumpkin pie or spiced pumpkin loaf with a cinnamon crumb top, he’s there, sliding behind you with those big warm hands, finding your waist like he’s magnetized, chin dropping to your shoulder as he hums at the smell. he always reaches out to smear whipped cream on his fingertip, licking it off with a hum deep in his chest before he tastes your skin right after, lips brushing your jaw as he murmurs, “yours is also sweeter,”. 

he tries every year to sneak an early bite, and every time you try to scold him, he cages you against the counter, grin smug and boyish, bending to whisper, “c’mon…just one taste. for quality control,” and the way his hands slide over your hips makes it impossible to say no.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...“helps” in the kitchen (he doesn’t help.)

joe wanders into the kitchen constantly under the guise of helping, but he doesn’t help at all. he just gravitates to you like he’s incapable of staying more than ten minutes without touching you. if you’re stirring the gravy on the stove, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, arms winding around your waist as he sways you gently, murmuring into your neck, “smells good…so good,” and you can’t tell if he’s talking about the food or about you. if you’re chopping potatoes, he stands behind you with his hands on your hips, rocking you just enough to make you threaten him with the knife, which only earns you one of those cocky half-smiles he doesn’t show anyone else.

every time you try to step away, he tugs you right back against him, whispering soft things he knows will make your knees wobble—“you look so pretty like this,” “you’re working so hard, baby,” “wanna kiss you all over,” sometimes you catch him giving you that look—the heavy-lidded, hungry one that says he’s been imagining bending you over the counter all afternoon. something about you being so domestic in his world turns him on, and he’s so shameless about it. he’ll never say anything out loud with family nearby, but you feel it in the way his fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, warm and claiming, or the way he kisses the back of your neck before pulling away like nothing happened.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...carves the ham like it’s a high-stakes operation

he stands over the ham like a surgeon, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed, mumbling to himself about “optimal slice width,”. he absolutely will flex his knife skills even though you’ve never once seen him cut anything more complicated than strawberries on a weekday. he pauses halfway through to look up at you and announce, very seriously, “this is why quarterbacks have good hand control. all about precision,”.  then he hands you a piece like he’s offering a sacrament: “taste test. it’s science. and don't worry, it's not too thin, babe, i know you like a thick slice,” he says with a wink that has your face turning the color of a tomato. 

if you smile too big, he gets smug. if you tease him, he squints at you and mutters, “you’re lucky i love you,”. 

⋆˙⟡ joe who...eats off your plate 

it always starts the same, too. your fork halfway to your mouth, your focus somewhere else for a split second, and suddenly his much bigger fork slides right in front of yours, scooping the exact bite you were about to take. he doesn’t even look guilty. he barely even looks at you. he just steals it, lifts it to his mouth, and eats it with this obnoxiously satisfied little hum, shoulders relaxing like he just had the best bite of his life. you glare at him every single time and he meets it with that tiny, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “what?” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your plate, “you weren’t eating it fast enough,”. 

sometimes he’ll lean in, kiss the corner of your mouth, then steal another bite like the kiss was meant to distract you. sometimes he’ll hook his chin over your shoulder and eat directly from your plate with your fork, pretending he’s helping you. and when you protest? when you push him away and tell him to get his own food? joe just grins, nudging at your thigh with his knee under the table. “baby…everything i have is yours and everything you have is mine. that includes your cranberry sauce,” and you pretend to be annoyed, rolling your eyes, but you’re already sliding the plate closer to him—because he’s joe, and he looks so cute and happy stealing your food that you can’t help but let him.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...pulls you into the pantry like he can’t go another second without you

the pantry becomes joe’s personal hideaway during the entire evening. every time you walk in for spices or extra ingredients, he follows a few seconds later, closing the door behind him with a soft click. doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing, he spots you heading to the pantry? he follows. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his hands are already sliding up your sides, pushing you gently against the shelves, the motion causing the spices to rattle as you land with a dull thud. 

he dips his head to kiss down your neck, soft, a little sloppy, just the way he knows you love. and the way he breathes, a little shakily, like he’s trying to hold himself back from doing something shameless that would earn him a stern talking to by his mother, makes your knees turn to liquid. “i needed a minute,” he murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “just with you,” he cages you in against the shelves with his arms, big body crowding yours, his forehead pressed to yours while his thumb strokes your waist in slow, deliberate circles. 

sometimes he kisses you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs, and when he pulls back, his lips are so red and swollen, your lip combo all over him, and he looks so stupidly in love you swear you might melt. he always tries to sneak one more kiss, one more touch, one more breath against your mouth before you whisper that someone might come looking. god forbid one of his little nephews accidentally opens the door on you two, because you do not have an answer for why this adorably oblivious child is running around the house saying "uncle joe had his under in auntie y/n's shirt!". 

and joe always grins at your valid concerns, that stupid, cocky little grin, whispering, “that’s why it’s fun. make's me feel like a teenager again,” before reluctantly letting you go…only to follow you out a minute later, still looking at your lips like he’s starving.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...keeps checking on you like it’s instinct

even in a house full of his people, full of relatives who haven't seen him in forever, joe’s attention is always on you. his eyes are drawn to you like you were the shiniest object in the room. you’ll be talking to his brothers or helping his grandma to the living room or laughing with the cousins in the backyard, and when you glance over, he’s already watching you with that soft, protective gaze that makes your whole chest glow. he’ll cross the room under the excuse of getting another drink, brushing his hand over your lower back as he passes—just a quick reassurance that you’re okay, that he’s here. sometimes he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before walking away, sometimes he presses a tiny kiss to your shoulder when no one’s looking, and sometimes he doesn’t leave at all—just stands behind you with his hand on your hip like he belongs there. he checks if you’ve eaten anything since this morning. he brings you water if he notices your lips look a little dry. he steals quiet moments to whisper, “you good?” against your cheek, even when you clearly are, because he just needs to hear you say it.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...is beyond thankful for you

joe laces his fingers through yours with a quiet urgency, the kind that’s been simmering beneath his skin all evening. he’d spent half the night subtly trying to steal you away—brushing past you in the kitchen, touching the small of your back as he helped his mom with the dishes, giving you those long, loaded looks across the living room whenever his aunt pulled you into another story about his childhood. and when he finally manages to slip his hand into yours without anyone noticing, he doesn’t let go. instead, he tugs you gently but deliberately toward the back door, his eyes flicking to yours with that soft, determined look, like he’s decided that if he doesn’t get a moment alone with you right now, he might spontaneously combust.

the door clicks shut behind you, muting the warm hum of his family. cold air skims over your skin, crisp and clean, and joe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the porch is dim, washed in pale gold from the light above, and he turns you fully toward him, as if he’s finally carved out this quiet corner of the world just to say everything he hasn’t been able to say inside.

his hands settle on your waist, drawing you in with a reverence so bare it steals the breath from your lungs—his eyes soft and sleepy-warm, lashes brushing downward like he’s trying to memorize you one blink at a time. there’s something almost boyish in the way his expression opens for you, unguarded and achingly sincere. “c’mere,” he murmurs, tugging you closer like the words he’s carrying can only survive in the inch of air between your mouths. his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven, like he finally stopped running the second he got you alone.

“needed you alone for this,” he says, the confession rasping out of him. “just you. no noise. no eyes on us. nothing tugging at you but me,” his hand glides up your side, slow and sure, cradling your jaw. 

“is everything alright, baby?” you question gently, your fingers finding home in his hair, twisting the soft strands as you listen to his breathing—the most soothing sound you’ve ever heard in your entire existence on this planet. 

he inhales, the sound a little shaky. “yeah, yeah. everything’s good, fantastic actually. it’s just, you’re…” he tries again, swallowing hard, “you’re everything to me, sweetheart,” his voice cracks, just enough to make your heart throb. “i know i fuck around and act like i’m annoyed at the world half the time, but the truth is? i wouldn’t get through any of it without you. i wouldn’t be who i am right now if it wasn’t for you, for what you did to me when we first met, for what you continue to do to me,” his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, lingering this time. “you make every part of my life softer. easier. better. you walk into a room and it’s like everything i was worried about just—,” he exhales shakily, nose brushing yours, “evaporates. you have this kind of effect on me that i don't think i've ever seen or experienced before. it’s intense, so fuckin’ intense, but that’s just what love feels like. you taught me that,”.

your eyes soften, tears pooling in the corners, “joey,” you whisper. 

he leans in closer, lips barely grazing yours as he whispers, “i’m thankful for you every damn day, you know that? for the way you look at me like i’m someone worth loving. for how patient you are with me. for how you navigate through this crazy life that we live. for how you hold me without even touching me. for how you always show up for me even when shit gets tough. for how you make my life brighter and worth enjoying,” his voice softens, and his eyes, god, his eyes, gleam with a kind of wonder that feels otherworldly, like he’s carrying whole constellations behind his lashes, stardust pooling in the corners as he looks at you as if you hung the sky just for him. “for how you let me love you the way i’ve never loved anyone. for how you allow me to be soft around you. i love you so much for letting me be this version of myself. i thank the universe every fuckin’ day that you walked into that dingy diner that day in colombus. that you didn’t get scared when i made a move on you,” he grins, “even though it could’ve been better planned,” a chuckle leaves his lips. 

you nod slowly, recalling that moment you walked into the old diner with your friends, and the very first thing you saw was joe sitting in the corner booth with his old college friends. all of them whispering to each other like teenage girls and egging him on as if there was some elephant in the room you weren’t aware of, “yeah,” you giggled. “could’ve given me a heads up that you were paying our bill. gianna thought we were being mass cat-called or something,”.

“had to make a good impression. had to show you i can support my woman if needed,” he murmurs, that smirk playing at the edges of his lips, but the fire in his eyes betrays him—wild, hungry, impossible to ignore. before you can respond, he’s on you, closing the space with a precision that makes your pulse stutter. the kiss he presses to your lips is everything, the kind that numbs your senses, bends time, and leaves the world falling away. it’s not gentle; it’s not soft. it’s intense, deliberate, the kind of kiss that carries the weight of every unspoken word he’s ever held for you, every longing he’s barely contained, every heartbeat that thunders for you alone.

his mouth molds to yours with unyielding certainty, tilting your head just so, pressing lips to lips with a rhythm that’s both demanding and soft. when his tongue finds yours, it’s a slow, deliberate sweep, a teasing pull that makes your knees tremble and your hands claw instinctively into his shoulders. the heat of him presses into you, chest to chest, breath mingling with yours, every exhale shared and shivering, every heartbeat synchronized in the tension between you. he holds your jaw in one firm hand, fingers warm and grounding, anchoring you in the moment, and you feel the subtle tremor of want that runs through him—the quiet, feral need to claim, to keep, to consume only you.

the world shrinks until there’s nothing left but him, the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the desperate pull of this slow, impossible kiss. your heart races against his chest, your breath hitching as he tilts you closer, tongue and teeth teasing, lips dragging in long strokes, and for a moment, neither of you exists outside of this suspended second. every brush, every press, every groan swallowed into the space between you is a promise, a confession, a collision of desire and devotion that leaves you dizzy, trembling, and entirely undone in the gravity of him. he pulls away for a second, and you find your lips chasing his before a soft, “i love you,” leaves his mouth, but it doesn’t sound small; it sounds like the center of his entire universe. “i love you in ways i didn’t even know were possible. in ways that scare the hell out of me because it’s so big, so real, so much more than anything i ever thought i’d get to feel,”. 

“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he smiles against your chilled lips, pressing another kiss to them before saying,  “and i don’t ever want a life that doesn’t end with you in it,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...steps into your childhood home for the first time and instantly softens

it hits him the second he steps over the threshold. this soft, nostalgic warmth that seems to breathe out of the walls and wrap around him. the smell of cinnamon and butter, the kind that settles into a home after years of holiday mornings and late-night baking; the old family photos lining the staircase, each one a tiny universe of memories he wasn’t there for but wishes he could’ve been; the worn-in couch where you once napped after school, blankets still folded the exact way your mom likes them; even that faint creak in the floorboard by the hallway, the one you warned him about, the one that used to betray every teenage attempt at sneaking out. every detail feels intimate, untouched by the world, like he’s stepping into a place that shaped the girl he loves long before he ever knew her. he takes it all in with this quiet awe, like he’s afraid to blink and miss something important.

and then there’s that look in his eyes as he turns to you and murmurs, “so this is where you grew up…” it comes out gentle, like a confession, like an exhale he’s been holding. you can feel something inside him shift, like he’s finally holding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know he’d been missing. and the moment your family gathers around him, any lingering tension melts away. they don’t treat him like “joe burrow, the star quarterback”; they treat him like your person. your dad gives him a handshake that’s half test, half welcome; your mom pulls him into a hug so sincere he just freezes for a beat, startled by the softness; your siblings eye him up until he fumbles out a nervous little joke that immediately breaks the ice and makes everyone laugh. and he blushes, actually blushes, because it’s the first time he’s been the outsider stepping into your world. but he handles it the way only joe does: with that shy smile, those polite manners, and that quiet charm that makes everyone fall a little bit in love with him without even trying.

but the sweetest part is how effortlessly he fits into your family’s traditions. he helps your mom set the table with the same cutlery and dishes you’ve used since your first thanksgiving, listens intently to your little brother explain the rules of a card game he’s never played, and sneaks quiet glances at you from across the kitchen like he’s falling in love all over again, seeing you in your element as you pester your dad about what he wants for christmas. he teases you for the way you still know where everything is—even the charlie brown themed mixing bowls stacked on the very top shelf of the cabinet with the missing screw—and kisses your temple when he passes behind you, as if he can’t help himself. and because he doesn’t like turkey, your mom surprises him with a small glazed ham “just for joe,” and the way he lights up at that, a soft smile on his face, hand squeezing your waist, makes you warm all over. he whispers, “i like her. she gets me,” and you roll your eyes, but he can see the glow in your cheeks.

outside, he lets you pull him into your childhood backyard, the place where you used to build snowmen and climb trees for hours and hours. he listens to your stories about your neighbor’s scrappy dog whose bark sounds more like a bronchitis patient’s cough, about the time you scraped your knee trying to prove you had superpowers, about your first kiss behind the tool shed (which he grumbles about playfully)—as if every detail is sacred, like he can't miss it because it won't be the same. and he kisses you there, under the same branches you once hung fairy lights on when you were twelve, murmuring, low and rough around the edges, “i wish i’d known you back then…how soft you probably were, how damn…perfect. but now, jesus, now i do. and i’m so damn glad i get to. you’re everything i’ve wanted, everything i didn’t even know i needed, and i can’t believe you’re mine,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t wait until everyone leaves to have you all to himself

once the last dish hits the sink and the soft hum of family chatter finally dissolves, joe’s patience snaps like a frayed, over‑pulled thread. he’s been restless for hours, tension coiled tight beneath the table, eyes dark every time you so much as shifted in your chair. his hand kept finding your upper thigh, fingers squeezing once, twice, like little warnings. the back of his knuckles skimmed dangerously high under the napkin, brushing your inner thigh with slow passes that made your breath hitch. and every time you looked at him, he whispered “later” in that quiet murmur that always ruins you, the sound rumbling low in his chest like a promise he’s seconds from cashing in. 

the moment the final goodbye leaves someone’s lips, he’s done pretending. he grabs your hand, hooks his fingers through yours and yanks, pulling you down the hallway with a pace so clipped and urgent you have jog a little to keep up. that hungry, crooked grin cuts across his face, the one that screams he’s hanging on by a thread. he’s practically vibrating with excitement, shoulders tight, jaw flexing, every stride carrying this sharp, impatient energy—like he’s two breaths away from throwing you over his shoulder and sprinting.

“you’re not letting me sleep without you…right?” he mutters, voice already rough, already dragging over your skin like heat. “i promised my mom i wouldn’t do anything…indecent under your family’s roof but i just…” he’s flushed and wired as he says it, pupils blown, radiating a wild, relentless need that’s been simmering beneath the surface all night. he doesn’t wait for your answer, he can’t. all you can do is watch him with your mouth slightly open in disbelief, and as the tension crawling under his skin finally breaks loose, and he’s dragging you into your childhood bedroom like he might fall apart if he has to wait another second. the door clicks shut. too loud, too sharp. and before the sound even settles, he’s on you. he pins you against the wood with his whole body, crowding you, caging you in that way that always steals your breath. his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, his kiss all heat and teeth and reckless need. he kisses you like he’s been starving, like every minute at dinner was torture, like he’s trying to make up for all the touches he couldn’t take in front of your family.

his palms frame your jaw, big hands warm and possessive, thumbs stroking your cheeks with a heartbreaking contrast of gentleness—like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or devour you whole. his breath shakes against your lips, his body trembling with everything he’s kept tucked behind polite smiles for hours. and when his forehead presses to yours for half a heartbeat, his voice breaks out in a shaky whisper, “i needed you all night,”.

the room feels impossibly small now. your old posters taped crookedly on the walls, your twin mattress buried under the floral comforter your mom insisted “was good enough until you left for college.” joe’s eyes flick to the bed for a fraction of a second, then back at you, teeth clenched, chest heaving, every inch of him shaking with the need to sink into you. you can see it—the raw, feral edge of him, famished and unhinged, and it drives a shiver through your core. “this is gonna be fuckin’ stupid,” he growls, voice deep, sinful, “but i do not care,”.

his hands rip under your shirt, fingers grazing your ribs, leaving flutters throughout your body in their wake, teasing higher and higher until his thumbs roll over your perky nipples, tugging just enough to make your chest arch, your gasp muffled into his mouth. your back presses against the door, every nerve alive, and he groans, a sound like gasoline on fire, hot and rough and filthy. “jesus, you’re perfect,” he rasps, lips dragging across your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, sucking and licking, claiming. he shoves you toward the bed, and the second your back hits the mattress, it screams, a loud, undeniable creak, and you both freeze, grinning like lunatics. “quiet, baby,” he hisses, breath hot against your ear, “or they’re gonna hear exactly how much you missed this cock,”.

one hand slams over your mouth, while the other slides down your stomach, palms cupping, gripping, teasing anything he can, before yanking your thigh open for him. the instant he pushes in, achingly slow, yet so so so perfectly, you arch, a broken, muffled moan pressing into his hand. every inch of him consumes you, stretching you, filling you to the brim with that perfect, sinful precision you’ve come to worship. joe’s pace is relentless, controlled but merciless, a rhythm built on pure, brutal want. the bed squeaks each time your pelvis meets his, every creak a sharp, wicked punctuation to the moans spilling out of you. the risk of being caught, of someone hearing, fuels him, makes him grip your thigh tighter, drives him over the edge faster. curls damp at the temples, jaw clenched, eyes pinned to where your bodies collide like he’s watching live art. “shh…fuck, shh, i know, i know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with lust. “i’ve got you. take it. take all of me,”.

you can barely breathe as he fucks you with that perfect, relentless rhythm he’s perfected with you—deep, exact, hitting every sweet spot over and over until your thighs shake, every nerve raw with sensation. your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails claw into his shoulders, hips grinding involuntarily as he slams in, hard, merciless. he groans into your neck, low, filthy, “god…you’re so tight for me…i swear, baby, you get even tighter when you try to be quiet, fuck,”.

your whimpers burn hot against his palm, each thrust making the bed frame squeal, every creak a delicious promise. “yeah? that feel good?” he pants, voice fraying. “that good you can’t think about anything but this cock?”. you nod into his hand, another broken whine escaping, “oh, joey please,” and he bites your shoulder to swallow his own moan, hips snapping harder, pulling deeper, faster, harder. fingers digging into your hips like he can’t let go, can’t get enough, can’t stop claiming you.

“you’re mine,” he growls, deep, guttural, words vibrating over your skin. “all mine…in your squeaky fuckin’ bed…jesus christ, i can’t get enough,”. he drives into you deeper, so deep it feels like you see stars, your body trembling, quivering, locking around him, each muscle taut, toes curling, breath shattering in your chest. his pace turns ruthless, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that leaves no air in your lungs, no room for anything but him. and fuck—he loves it. loves how ruined you are beneath him, how you give and take and tighten with every stroke.

“look at this,” he pants, one hand sliding to your stomach, pressing there just enough to feel the outline of him inside you. his eyes darken, pupils blown wide as he watches the way your body swallows him. “you’re taking me so deep, baby. so fuckin’ deep,”.

your tits bounce with every thrust, full, perfect, irresistible, and he can’t stop staring, can’t stop the desperate sounds ripping out of him every time they move for him.

and the room? god, the room is obscene.

wet, slick sounds fill the space, each thrust a loud, messy clap of skin against skin. your bedframe hits the wall with every movement, loud enough that the two of you should care—should remember that anyone walking up the stairs right now would hear every filthy second. but neither of you even think about stopping. you’re both too far gone, too lost in the heat, in the rhythm, in the way his body claims yours and yours claims him right back. loud, messy, unapologetic, and utterly, beautifully unrestrained.

your orgasm tears through you in a way that feels almost merciless. a slow burn that turns your body to mush all at once, tightening around him so sharply he swears under his breath. it’s not the kind of climax that hits and fades; it blooms, unfurling in waves that keep cresting no matter how hard you gasp for air. your nails drag down his back, your thighs trembling around his hips as your whole body arches into him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper, hold him there, keep him there. joe feels every ounce of it, the way your walls flutter and clamp around his cock, the way your breath stutters into his mouth, the way your voice breaks when you try to say his name but can’t get past the sound of yourself falling apart. his rhythm falters because he’s obsessed with the way you come for him, how greedy your body gets, how wet you get, how you tighten like you’re made to finish on him.

and he loses it. his hips stutter. his breath turns into pants. he grips your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real, something soft, something you. a low, guttural curse grinds out of him just before he presses in all the way. a deep, helpless thrust that forces a shocked moan from both of you. he comes hard, the kind of helpless, bone-deep release that rips a groan straight from his chest. it hits him in a full-body shudder he can’t even pretend to control, his forehead pressed to yours, breath stuttering against your lips like he’s trying to inhale you just to stay on this earth.

the heat of him floods you in thick, heavy spurts, each pulse sinking deeper than the last, and he doesn’t stop—he can’t. he keeps rolling his hips through every trembling wave, slow and desperate, chasing the feel of your body clenching around him. like he needs to feel every last contraction, every flutter of your pussy milking him through the end of his orgasm. like stopping would actually break him.

“fuck…baby…,” his voice is wrecked, raw with pleasure, the words barely forming as his lips drag over your cheek, your jaw, wherever he can reach. he can’t stay still. he can’t stop kissing you, touching you, losing himself in the warmth of your skin while his body keeps spilling the last of his release into you. “you’re…god, you’re unreal,”.

even when the high finally fades, when his breath slowly starts to find a rhythm again, he doesn’t pull away. he stays buried inside you like there’s nowhere else he could possibly exist. his hand slides down to your hip, thumb tracing lazy, loving circles against your skin. gentle now. almost tender. he’s still dizzy, still floating, trying to wrap his head around how completely you undo him every single time. how you make him fall apart, how you put him back together, how he never wants to stop feeling like this.

and the way he softens inside you, still warm, still deep, still holding on…it tells you everything his ruined breath can’t.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives spontaneous, ESPN-level commentary to your entire family while watching the game

your grandma asks an innocent, perfectly harmless question—“why did that man run backward?”—and joe’s world flips into full broadcast mode. he snaps upright from the couch like a quarterback calling an audible, grabs the remote as though it’s a telestrator pen, and rewinds the play with the kind of intensity that makes your aunt jump. suddenly, he’s talking with the cadence of a seasoned analyst, breaking down cover‑2 vs. cover‑3 like he’s giving a ted talk in a packed lecture hall. every hand gesture is precise, punctuated with little emphases: a finger pointing, a palm slicing through the air, even picking up a charcuterie knife to illustrate leverage like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he paces a little, leaning into the screen, voice rising and falling with dramatic pauses that make your family nod along politely, trying to appear engaged while you’re internally dying of laughter. he points out angles, gaps, and player tendencies, sketching imaginary lines between defenders with absolute authority, and occasionally mutters things like, “see, that’s basic spacing, any rookie could understand this,” before flicking his gaze to your stunned relatives. your uncle chuckles nervously, clearly impressed but mostly terrified at joe's quarterback brain, while you can’t stop grinning at the utter, unfiltered joy he radiates.

finally, after eight straight minutes of running commentary, theatrical gestures, and unsolicited analysis, he leans back, grabs his cider, and takes a casual sip like he didn’t just hijack the entire dining room into a miniature studio broadcast. “so yeah,” he concludes, voice calm, almost smug, “that’s why the run game’s dead,” and the room collectively exhales, equally entertained and exhausted. you glance at him, shaking your head, because of course he’d turn your family dinner into prime‑time football, and of course it’s the most him thing ever.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets pissy when the quarterback throws an interception

he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the second the other QB tosses a pick, joe’s instantly crashing out, evaluating every movement like a coach grading a practice tape. shoulders tense, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his drink like he’s drawing up coverages in the air, muttering under his breath, “can’t throw late over the middle…what are we even doing?” his eyes narrow, flicking to the screen, scanning footwork, timing, every single subtle detail like he’s already seeing the replay in slow motion. you lean over, smirking, and tease, “you wanna go teach him?” and joe freezes just long enough to give you that dangerous, low-key smirk—one brow raised, lips curling, eyes dark and amused, that quiet, don’t-test-me energy that says he could, and he might, if you pushed him. “i could,” he mutters finally, voice low and steady, “that’s the problem,”. and the way he leans back in his chair, shoulders stiff but proud, like he’s daring anyone to challenge him, makes you laugh and shake your head—because of course he’s exactly this type of insane about football, even on a holiday, and somehow, somehow, it’s one of the things you love most about him.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...wants nothing more than a lazy day on the couch with you the day after thanksgiving

he pulls you onto his lap the instant you sit down—no hesitation, no adjustment period, just a quiet, instinctive need to have you close. his hands settle on your hips first, guiding you into place, then slide down to drape over your thighs, palms wide and warm, thumbs tracing lazy, absent-minded circles that make your whole body soften against him. he tucks his chin into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, breathing you in like he’s been missing you all day even though you’ve been in the same house. his arms settle around your waist, loose but protective, the kind of hold that tells you he’s not planning on letting you go anytime soon.

the tv hums in the background, black friday football, the usual chaotic noise, but it barely registers to him. he isn’t leaning forward after big plays, isn’t muttering stats, isn’t yelling at referees. his eyes flick to the screen only out of habit, but every time he does he ends up drifting back to you, lips brushing your jaw or your cheek like he’s hypnotized by your beauty and your presence.

he’s warm against you, so warm it feels like he’s sinking into you, melting into this little cocoon you’ve accidentally built together on the couch. he murmurs quiet jokes into your shoulder, dry little observations about commercials or commentators that make you smile without even meaning to. and every few minutes, in the breaks between plays he’s not really watching, he tilts his head just enough to kiss your temple, your jawline, that soft spot beneath your ear. those kisses get slower as the game goes on, lingering, sweet, full of a kind of affection that makes your chest ache. one of them lands on your neck—soft, deliberate—and he stays there, lips resting against your skin like he’s gathering courage for the words that follow.

“i love thanksgiving now,” he whispers, voice low, almost shy in its sincerity. his breath warms your skin. “you know that, right?”.

you feel something ease in him as he says it, like he’s finally letting the truth out. “you just…you make it special,” he continues, another kiss pressed to the curve of your shoulder. “you make it something i actually care about,”,

his arms tighten around you, not possessive—just certain. content. full. and you can feel it all: the weight of his gratitude; the quiet, unshakable comfort he finds in you; the warmth of his body pressed against yours like he’s anchoring himself there; the way he breathes a little easier when you lean your head back onto his shoulder.

it’s soft. it’s intimate. it’s domestic in a way that feels sacred. he holds you like this is his favorite place in the world. and like thanksgiving finally means something because it’s a day he gets to spend wrapped around you and spend every single second being grateful to the universe that you came into his orbit. 

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gets horny the second the world slows down

the shift always begins in the quiet. the moment the house exhales—leftovers tucked away, the echo of family chatter fading into memory—something in joe unwinds just enough for another instinct to take its place. he watches you move through the soft, dim glow of the living room, the tv humming low, shadows slipping over your skin, and his restraint simply…dissolves. he comes up behind you with that slow, certain step he gets when he’s already made up his mind, sliding an arm around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. his chest presses to your back, his breath a lazy brush against your neck before his lips find that place just beneath your ear. he kisses you there first, knowing how it always sends butterflies through your stomach, and when you soften against him, he releases a quiet, shaky sound he’d never admit to. his hands slip beneath your shirt with a hunger he’s been holding back since noon, fingers splaying wide over your stomach, your ribs, your hips, mapping you like he’s relearning you.

“we’ve got the whole night,” he murmurs against your skin, voice already deep, already ruined, already gone for you. and when you whisper his name, barely a breath, he shudders, tightening his hold like that single sound snapped the last thread of his control.

you don’t stay on the couch. you don’t stay pressed against the patio door. you don’t stay anywhere for long. he kisses you through the hallway like a man dragged under, pinning you to the wall with a groan when you tug at his hair, the kind of sound that vibrates through you and leaves your knees unsteady. he walks you backward toward the bedroom with the singular focus of someone starved, hands gripping, sliding, claiming every inch they touch.

by the time you reach the doorway, you’re already gasping, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands pushing beneath your clothes like he needs skin, needs heat, needs you. and when he finally gets you onto the bed, when he crawls over you with that slow, predatory confidence, it’s like the air thickens. the world narrowing to the drag of his lips down your chest, the way his fingers trace the waistband of your underwear like a promise he intends to ruin. his voice drops to something gravelly, sinful, as he whispers, “been thinking about this all day…about you all day,” before kissing down your stomach, your hips lifting helplessly into the warmth of his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to pull a sound from you that makes him curse under his breath.

and later—maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe lifetimes have passed—he’s above you again, chest pressed to yours, body fully, desperately aligned with yours as he pushes into you with slow, devastating purpose. his hands cradle your jaw as if he’s trying to watch every single reaction he pulls from you, pupils blown wide, hair falling in his face, breath shaking each time you clench around him. every thrust drags a new sound from your throat, and joe drinks them in like they’re oxygen, murmuring your name in a tone that borders on worship. he moves like a man who’s been deprived of touch for days, deep, deliberate, a little rough, a little sweet, utterly obsessed, his mouth finding your shoulder, your lips, your chest, leaving lazy, possessive marks he’ll admire in the morning. the quiet of the night only amplifies everything: the slap of skin, the low growls slipping from his throat, the gasps he pulls from yours. and when he leans down, forehead pressed to yours, voice trembling as he mutters, “so fuckin' good for me, so thankful for this pussy, fuck,” you realize he isn’t teasing. he’s unraveling, falling apart, breaking open entirely for you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...absolutely refuses to set foot in a store on black friday

the moment you mention black friday, his whole body goes rigid. like every muscle locks at once. eyes going comically wide, pupils blown in sheer, primal alarm. it’s the same look he gives when a blitzing linebacker comes out of nowhere, except this time it’s the thought of fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers, and half-off appliances that has him silently begging the universe for mercy. “are you insane?” he mutters, taking a full step back as if you’ve just threatened him with bodily harm. his hands come up in self-defense, palms out, head shaking slowly like he’s processing a traumatic memory. “no. absolutely not. i’m not fighting an elderly woman in skechers for a half-priced toaster oven,”. his voice is a wild mix of disbelief and genuine fear, the kind that says he has seen things…horrors…unhinged bargain hunters…and he will not go back.

but then you pout. soft, subtle, the slightest tilt of your lips, the almost imperceptible lift of your gaze, and it’s the look he has never once been able to resist—those eyes, wide and innocent, that somehow hold both mischief and pleading all at once. joe’s whole face fractures in that instant; the dread he’d been carrying melts, edges softening like ice pressed under a heat lamp, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in a slow, audible surrender. he exhales, long and labored, a sound thick with preemptive defeat, like he already knows he’s lost before the words have even formed in his mouth.

without a word, he closes the distance, letting instinct guide him. his hands land on your waist, strong but careful, drawing you effortlessly into his chest. the familiar pull, the magnetic weight of him, wraps around you, and you feel it—the quiet inevitability of him, the way he claims the space around you without ever needing to announce it. he bows his head, forehead brushing yours for a heartbeat, and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—the kind that steadies him more than it steadies you, calming him before the storm of his surrender. “fine,” he murmurs finally, the word heavy, drenched in melodrama, a small groan of protest hidden in the cadence. “we can go.” his voice cracks just slightly at the edges, like it’s painful to admit defeat, and yet there’s something tender in the way he says it, as though every ounce of his theatrical agony is only for you to witness. 

then he straightens, meets your gaze with the seriousness of a man about to enter the hunger games. “but i am not running. not touching anyone. not making eye contact. i am a spectator only…you’re responsible for all human interaction,”. each word is spoken like a legally binding contract he’s unwilling to renegotiate. and yet,  beneath all that theatrical reluctance,  a glimmer sparks in his eyes, a tiny wicked shine he can’t hide. the faintest twitch of a smirk. because he loves this. loves hovering behind you with a hand on your hip, loves grumbling under his breath at the chaos, loves pretending he’s miserable just so you’ll laugh and tug him closer. he’ll complain the entire time, sure, but he’ll be glued to your side, muttering snarky commentary, acting like your grumpy, overprotective shadow…secretly having the time of his life just being there with you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...looks intimidating enough that no one bumps into you

he trails behind you through the chaos of the mall, hood pulled up over his beanie, glasses on, shoulders broad and stiff like he’s on his way to a game instead of shopping for discounted candles. his hands stay buried deep in his pockets, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in that naturally terrifying don’t even think about it way he gets when he’s in public and hyper-focused on you. people take one look at him—six‑foot‑four, built like a greek tragedy, radiating silent menace—and immediately part like the sea. you’re weaving through crowds like you’ve got a vip escort, not because you asked for one, but because your boyfriend looks like he could bench-press emotional damage and fight for sole custody of the mall. he leans down just enough for you to hear him over the noise, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “see that?” he murmurs, “i’m useful,”.

and the worst part is? he’s kind of proud of it.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...gives brutally honest, judgmental commentary on every black friday shopper

he’s quiet at first, just observing. then the sighs start. loud, drawn out, dripping with disgust. “oh, great, she’s elbowing children for a vacuum she can get off amazon on sale on any other random weekday,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like the entire mall is personally offending him by their lack of intelligence.

he doesn’t hold back. every cart that crashes into another? commentary. every slow walker in the aisle? critique. the guy hoarding the electronics? “wow. selfish and bald. perfect combo,” he smirks at you, eyebrows raised, like he’s daring you to challenge him. “i mean, really. what’s his strategy here? just crush everyone in his path?”.

and the shoppers don’t even know it, but he’s scowling, muttering, judging like he has nothing better to do. he whispers running narrations to you, low and mischievous: “that one’s gonna regret that cart collision. watch…karma,” and then you see a fight break out in front of you.

every so often, he leans down, lips brushing your ear with that grin that’s half mischief, half deadly seriousness. “i could survive the end of the world,” he murmurs, “as long as i don’t have to deal with these people,” and you laugh, because yeah, he’s ridiculous, but somehow, watching joe watch the chaos is way more entertaining than the chaos itself. he’s judgemental, sarcastic, and just a little bit terrifying—but you secretly love it. black friday wouldn’t be the same without him narrating the apocalypse in real time.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...hates every second and is so dramatic about it

he is unbearable in the funniest, most joe way possible. like a man personally wronged by the concept of consumerism. he sighs with the full weight of every burden he has ever carried, loud and theatrical, the kind of exhausted exhale a dying victorian widow would give after discovering her husband perished at sea. every time you pause to look at throw pillows? another sigh. every time you compare prices? a groan that echoes down the aisle. he mutters to himself constantly, too “unbelievable…we’re really doing this…i thought we were above this,”.

“this” as in rummaging through the sale rack at the ugg store.

he gives lethal, passive-aggressive looks to anyone who even brushes the corner of his jacket, clutching the single shopping bag he’s agreed to hold like it’s gus boundary. “i’m not carrying more than three bags, babe,” he says in that rigid, no-nonsense tone, as if he’s laying down federal law. but you know him. you know the second you look the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’ll be shoving every bag up his arms like decorative bangles. hell, if your back twinged even once, he’d drop everything just to scoop you up bridal-style and march you through the mall like a knight protecting his queen.

and then halfway through the makeup aisle, surrounded by glittery palettes and overpriced skincare, he leans down with a grim, war-hardened seriousness. “if someone recognizes me and i end up on twitter again, i’m leaving you here,” the delivery is deadpan. cold. chilling. the threat of a man who has been photographed in a mall one too many times (the photo of him with the bath & body works bag gives him nightmares to this day). 

he’s joking…mostly.

because even as he grumbles, even as he pretends this is the worst day of his life, his arm stays wrapped firmly, possessively around your waist; tugging you into him every time someone walks too close, keeping you sheltered, tucked against his side like you’re the only thing in the entire store keeping him sane.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...softens instantly when he sees you excited

the second your eyes light up, over a sale sign, a cute display, or even just a pair of fuzzy socks, he melts like someone hit pause on reality. the scowl, the sighs, the grumbling about crowds and chaos? evaporated. his jaw unclenches, shoulders drop, and those sharp, teasing eyes soften into something warm and full, like he’s seeing you in a spotlight made just for you. he steps closer without thinking, hands brushing lightly against your waist, and presses a sweet, tender kiss to the top of your head right there in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the curious glances around him. “you’re cute when you’re in bargain mode,” he laughs, his lips grazing your hair as his thumb drifts absent‑mindedly over your hip. when you squeal softly at a matching set of pajamas, holding them up with that little spark in your eyes, he doesn’t even hesitate. he slides the pajamas into the cart, grinning down at you with that messy, boyish pride only you get to see, and leans in to press another quick kiss to your temple, murmuring, “i’d do anything to see you like this. all smiley and loopy,”. even amidst the chaos of the store, he’s fully present, fully yours, completely smitten

⋆˙⟡ joe who...loses it the second you walk into the lingerie store

the second you step inside, a quiet, almost feral grin spreads across his face, eyes darkening with a heat that makes your stomach twist. he’s supposed to be “helping,” or at least waiting outside casually, but the second he sees you browsing, all pretense falls away. his jaw tightens, hands balling into fists at his sides like he’s restraining the kind of hunger that could burn the whole mall down. every shift of his hips, every tightening of his shoulders is loaded with raw, needful energy.

he watches you reach for a delicate maroon lace set, swallowing hard, and his mind floods with you—naked in that fabric, soft and slick against him, hips arching into his hands, breasts pressed to him, toes curling. “holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, rough, dripping with want, half for himself and half as a warning he can’t resist. his hips twitch subtly, throat dry, pulse quickening as he imagines the way your body will move for him, the moans he’ll hear, the way he’ll taste every inch. every bra, every silk set, every little lace thong—it’s all for him, all for this private, heated fantasy that he can’t wait to make real. his gaze lingers on you, unbroken, almost predatory, and you notice the sharp inhale, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his jaw flexes like he wants to sink his teeth into you. he swallows again, hips shifting, the need in his eyes unmistakable. you feel it, searing and undeniable—the way his desire practically radiates off him—and it hits you: he’s completely, utterly, unashamedly turned on in the middle of this mall, and it’s all because of you.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...can’t resist dragging you into a dressing room 

the second you step toward a fitting room, he’s on you—fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar, impatient, i’m‑done‑waiting smirk tugging at his lips. he doesn’t say a word, just guides you backward, steps long and purposeful, until the door shuts behind you with a sharp click that feels louder than it should. before you can even breathe, he’s crowding you back against the mirror, his body flushing against yours like he’s been starving for hours. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, kissing you like he’s claiming territory he already owns. his tongue slides against yours with hungry precision, tasting, teasing, coaxing an involuntary sound from your throat—just a faint, needy little moan that has his breath catching and his grip tightening. he bites your lower lip with perfect pressure, enough to make your knees tremble, and then he swallows your gasp like he’s craving it.

his hands don’t linger politely; they roam with intent. he drags them under your sweater, palms warm against your stomach before sliding higher, thumbs brushing the curve of your breast through your bra, tracing every shape he’s memorized a thousand times. his fingers trail down your waist and lock onto your hips, pulling you harder against him like he needs your body to keep him anchored. his mouth leaves yours only long enough to kiss along your jaw, slow and molten, before finding your throat. every kiss there is filthier, open‑mouthed, messy, hungry, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers threats and promises in a voice frayed with desire. “quiet,” he murmurs, words brushing your pulse, “don’t want anyone hearing how good you feel for me,”.

his body presses into yours fully now, chest to your back as he shifts to kiss the curve of your neck from behind. he nips and sucks deliberately, not enough to leave a mark but enough to make you shiver and grab for him, your fingers curling into his shirt at his shoulders. he slips one hand under your bra, just enough to cup and tease your tit, the slow graze of his thumb sending heat spiraling low through your body. your legs wobble, breath catching, and he just smirks against your skin because he feels it—feels how easily you melt for him, how fast he can undo you. “my gorgeous girl,” he groans into your ear, “every inch of you…just for me,”. his hands slide down again, gripping your hips, pulling you back into him, making you feel the effect you’re having on him, the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding.

and the lingerie you came in to try? completely forgotten. the only thing you can think about is him—his mouth, his hands, the heat rolling off him in waves. every touch leaves you dazed, every kiss steals your balance, every low growl from him shoots straight through you. by the time he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, your lips are swollen, your breathing unsteady, and he’s wearing the slowest, filthiest smirk you’ve ever seen on him. “now,” he whispers, fingertips dragging down the inside of your thigh with sinful softness, “go try something…if you can even think about shopping after that,”.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...spoils you rotten 

he acts like he hates this, but the second you so much as pause in front of something? he’s already reaching for his wallet.

you say you don’t need anything? he buys it anyway, barely glancing at the price tag. “christmas is coming,” he shrugs, like that explains the way he’s filling the cart with everything you even breathe near.

you say something is cute? he doesn’t even let you put it back. “put it in the cart,” he insists, nudging you with his shoulder, that soft little half-smile he gets only with you tugging at his mouth.

you look at something twice? he’s already scanning your expression. the slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers brush the fabric, and he’s stepping closer, voice dropping so only you can hear, “babe. seriously. get it,” and he means it. because he loves giving you things. loves seeing your eyes light up. loves knowing he can make your life easier, softer, sweeter.

he pretends he hates shopping, but he loves treating you. loves it in a way he’d never admit out loud. to him, spoiling you isn’t spending money; it’s showing you in every way he can that you’re his girl, and taking care of you is his favorite thing in the world.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...geeks out over a deal on a lego set he's wanted for months 

the moment he spots it on the shelf, he freezes, eyes widening like he’s just discovered a hidden treasure. it’s the lego set he’s been hunting for months, the one he swore he’d never find at a good price. his jaw tightens, a low, excited hum vibrating in his chest, and he crouches slightly to inspect the box like it’s a rare artifact. “no way…is this—,” he mutters, voice barely containing the thrill, “is this the edition with the moving gears?” his fingers hover over the package, trembling slightly as he turns it in his hands, checking every angle, reading the description like he’s deciphering ancient runes.

you watch, half-amused, half-melting, as his usual calm, cool demeanor evaporates. he starts pacing a small circle around the aisle, murmuring calculations to himself about budget, space on the shelf at home, where he’ll display it, how he’ll tackle it in stages. every now and then he glances at you, grin splitting his face like he’s sharing a private victory, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that only comes from finding something you’ve been obsessing over. “babe…this is insane. they’re not supposed to have it,” he whispers, sounding like a younger version of himself with the way excitement is practically seeping out of him, “and it’s…on sale,”.

you can’t resist teasing him, voice playful and sharp. “so…mr. anti-black friday is suddenly all in for a lego set?” you draw out, arching a brow. joe freezes mid-step, box clutched to his chest, and then laughs, a little breathless and sheepish, cheeks warming. “hey…this...this is different,” he stammers, but the sparkle in his eyes betrays him, betrays the thrill, the glee he can’t hide.

he catches your eye, his smile wide and uncontainable, and in that moment, you see him completely, unguarded, joy radiating from every gesture. “i mean…look at this,” he says, voice full of wonder and disbelief, shaking his head with laughter. “i can’t even…i have to build it now. i just…i can’t wait,” and as he carefully places it in the cart beside you, it’s impossible not to grin too, because watching him geek out over something he loves this much is like seeing a piece of his soul sparkle.

⋆˙⟡ joe who...collapses dramatically the second you get home 

he collapses onto the bed the second you step inside, flopping with the exaggerated theatrics of a soldier finally returning from battle, limbs splayed haphazardly, hoodie half-bunched around his shoulders, hair tousled, chest heaving in dramatic, uneven gasps. the intensity is ridiculous, almost cartoonish, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifts. before you can even react, his hand snakes across the bed with that familiar, fumbling determination, finding your wrist and tugging you down beside him, so you fall into a warm, tangled heap—your shoulder pressed into his chest, his arm draped lazily but possessively over you. his nose nudges yours, brushing against your cheek with an intimate gentleness, lips grazing the curve of your temple, and his voice drifts low, rough, and utterly breathless, “worth it…but never again,”.

your fingers thread through the messy strands of his hair, and you tease, “until next year?” the words barely leave your lips before he groans, muffled against your collarbone, the weight of the day melting from him like ice in sunlight. he burrows closer, pressing his body fully into yours, soft now beneath the dramatics, warm and grounding, the contrast between his chaos and tenderness almost too much to bear. “…fine,” he sighs, voice thick with reluctant surrender, the exaggerated theatrics finally giving way to the quiet, steady rhythm of relief.

and in that moment, as his limbs settle and his breathing evens, you feel it. the absolute trust, the raw intimacy of being the one he comes home to, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the undeniable, unspoken truth that in the messiness of his theatrics and the ridiculous collapse of the day, he is completely, irrevocably yours.

You lost it. Immediately, you jumped off the couch, ignoring the books that went everywhere, and cheered at the top of your lungs. Colston’s season had been pretty up and down until then, but he had been showing so much promise and potential to be a key part of the Bears’ set up, including that iconic game at the Bengals where he scored two touchdowns, one came with seventeen seconds left on the clock and secured the win. This touchdown was just another nail in the coffin that secured his place as a stalwart on the roster.

Since his Michigan days, the two of you had had a tradition; for every touchdown he scored, whether the game finished in a win or a loss, his dick got sucked. It started in his freshman year, and had taken on a life of its own since then. No matter how tired he was, no matter how far away the game was, he always loved coming home to you and being rewarded in your own special way. 

All you wanted was for him to come home to you and celebrate. You still had about forty-five minutes left of game time, plus he had to shower, change and speak to the media. 

Already, the sexual frustration was building in you, so you busied yourself as best you could. You tidied the kitchen, took the trash out, you put two loads of laundry on, you even vacuumed the living room and bedroom… All while ignoring the heat pooling between your legs and excitement bubbling in your stomach. 

Your phone buzzed with a message. When you checked it, you were delighted to see that the game had ended in a Bears win. 

Even more reason to celebrate tonight. 

From: Col🤍

On my way home, lovebug. Can’t wait to see you and claim my reward. Love you. 

Your cheeks flushed at his message.

To: Col🤍

Drive safe, please. Your reward is waiting for you 😉😘

He would be exhilarated and high on the win, the perfect combination for a round (or two, maybe even three, depending on how tired he was) of victory sex - arguably the best sex you could have. 

To make the time go faster, you hopped in the shower to scrub the day away. You had to physically shake your head to make the thought of him thrusting inside you go away, wanting to save it for when he arrived home, wanting to savour the moment for when you were actually living it… 

At last, when you finished applying your skincare, you heard the front door open and slam shut, a voice shouting through the house, ‘Baby-bug, where are you?’, prompting you to all but career downstairs, footsteps echoing on the hardwood staircase. You bowled into the kitchen, where Colston stood by the counter with a shit-eating grin on his face. Your legs took you the rest of the way, your brain temporarily blinded by a combination of need, delight and pure, raging love, as you sprinted straight into his waiting outstretched arms, jumping slightly on impact to allow your legs to secure themselves around his waist while your arms hooked around his neck. His body was still damp from the shower he’d had at the facility; he’d clearly not waited around, too eager to get home to you. 

He grunted at the impact of your body hitting his tired one, but he still caught you, just like he always did. Breathy laughs escaped both of you while he rebalanced with you in his arms. Then you leant back to kiss him fervently, charged with emotion and desire. 

‘Colly!’ You gasped in his neck. Your hair was still damp from your own shower, and it tickled his neck as he spun you around, both of you laughing delightedly. 

‘There she is,’ he muttered against your lips. Your teeth clashed together in the fervour, mouths fighting each other for contact. From the second your bodies made eye contact, your hands roamed around each other’s bodies, deep breaths heaving out of each of you. 

‘Colston, I am so proud of you, you played beautifully.’ He wasted no time in kissing you, long and deep, as a thank you for the support and for waiting for him. 

He was clearly ecstatic with the win and his touchdown; you could feel his huge body practically crackling with energy. 

‘Been thinking about that pretty mouth, that pretty pussy all the way home.’ The words were growled into your neck, interspersed with possessive kisses branded into your skin. 

You felt his teeth nipping at your skin, while his huge hands cupped your ass to support you as he hurried the two of you upstairs into your bedroom. ‘You watched the game, precious, thought you had studyin’ to do?’ He asked, voice thick, the words slurring with lust. 

‘’Course I did, studying’s boring anyway. I saw your touchdown, ‘m so proud of you, Col,’ you whispered back through more kisses. 

‘My fuckin’ woman, right there,’ he growled. ‘Need to see you fallin’ apart on me, darlin’.’ 

The atmosphere shifted once you reached your bedroom. It became intimate with the smaller space, protected by the closed curtains and lower, warm toned light. The need remained, though. 

You slid off of him, feet hitting the carpet beneath you. All the while, you kept your lips attached to his. He gently backed the two of you up until you felt the back of your knees hit the bed frame, his enormous form looming above you. His eyes met yours as he leaned down to kiss you again, this kiss gentler but still fervent with need. 

Colston’s lips traced down your neck and along your collar bone, then wandered back up to that special spot just below your ear. You felt the harshness of his teeth nibble on your skin, sucking on it and no doubt causing a bruise to blossom on the area. You didn’t care, though. Nothing a little makeup couldn’t cover. 

His mouth met yours in another searing kiss, loving and full of adoration, while his arms wound around your waist to bring you flush to his broad chest. His warmth radiated onto you, enveloping you in his energetic field that always made you feel safe and cherished. 

‘Was all for you, bug,’ he muttered against your mouth. ‘God, I love you. Love coming home to you after a dub, love celebrating with you.’ His breath was hot against your face, goosebumps appearing where it had fanned across your skin. 

‘I love you too, Col, so proud of you.’

You felt his hands fiddle with the Bears shirt you had thrown on after your shower, so you whipped it off, leaving your top half bare to the relative chill of the room thanks to the air conditioning that was set. Your nipples immediately hardened at the chill. Lust made his eyes appear almost black, and he started to lean in but you put a hand on his shoulder, pushing back against him.

‘Nuh-uh,’ you protested. ‘Tradition states that you get taken care of first.’ 

He chuckled.

‘Whatever you say, boss.’ 

Colston secretly loved it when you took charge in the bedroom like this, especially after a hard-fought win in which he had helped the team to victory. 

He joined you on the bed, now, lying out next to you. You took a moment to appreciate his size; enormous, mind-numbingly so, almost filling the entire Super King, then hopped up onto his chest to straddle his waist. 

‘Gonna treat you tonight, baby boy,’ you whispered against his lips. ‘Gonna give you that reward you deserve.’ A delirious grin washed over his face. 

Your kisses moved from his lips down his jawline and neck, following the sinews of his torso, over his pecs and defined abs. His body bucked up when your teeth gently nipped and sucked at the skin of his love handles. It would create bruises and marks that only you would know about, only you would see. 

The team had posted a video of him in the locker room after the game, his jersey off leaving him in just his pads and shorts. When you had seen the suggestion of skin peeking back at you through the screen, between his shorts and pads, your pussy had instantly weakened, wetness flooding your panties at the sight of it. 

‘Darlin’, please…’ He whined almost pathetically. You looked up at him from his waist, eyes flashing wickedly, knowing exactly what he wanted. You could see it in the tent in his practice shorts that he had changed into after the game, the vision of him stuffing himself, already hard at the mere thought of what the night’s activities would include, into the shorts with no boxers making your mind hazy. 

‘Tell me what you want, Loveland,’ you purred against the skin of his thick thigh. ‘Need to hear your words, baby.’ 

He rocked his head back into the pillows in frustration. You were baiting him, and he wanted to play along. He just needed your lips on his dick that little bit more. 

‘C’mon, Colly,’ you sang out to him. A finger reached across and traced up and down the fabric that covered his length that was so hard, it was threatening to break free of his shorts. 

’N-need you t-to… fuck, baby-doll…’ He hissed through his teeth when you full-on palmed him over his shorts. ‘Need to fuck that snarky little mouth of yours.’ 

‘Good boy,’ you whispered. Your lips pressed a congratulatory kiss to his happy trail, before whipping his shorts down his legs. 

His length sprung free, so hard that it slapped against his stomach. Your lips immediately pounced on it. Immediately, he closed his eyes in bliss. You felt one of his huge hands find its usual spot on the back of your head, fingers combing through your hair and gathering it into a ponytail to leave your hands free to hold him down while you worked your magic. 

The quiet room was filled with the filthiest, most obscene sounds, a mixture of Colston’s quiet groans and gasps, and of your lips slurping against him, your mouth guided by his hand behind you. His hips bucked up for you to take him deeper, the depth of his dick in your mouth making your eyes water. 

Saliva dribbled down your chin and when you looked up at him through your eyelashes, he saw stars at the sight of his girl taking him so well. Winning a football game was great, but the sight of you sucking him off, eyes watering at the size of him and his hands disappearing in your hair, made the experience all the more memorable. 

‘F-fuck, doll, takin’ me so well, what would I do without you,’ he gasped. You hummed in response, the vibrations of your voice against his length adding to the sensation on his sensitive tip. 

Despite how tired he was, he still craved more, hips moving lazily to fuck your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks and licked a stripe up and down his shaft, the leaking pre-cum from his tip making your lips glisten. 

Under your hands keeping him under you, you could feel his thighs start to tremble. His breath hitched in his throat. He was close, you could feel it. 

‘Darlin’, ‘m g’nna…’ 

Without another word, his hips bucked up again underneath you, a hoarse groan of your name falling from his mouth as his warmth shot down your throat. You were ready, though, and you swallowed every drop, salty and delicious. 

His chest heaved with exertion. As your mouth rose up and off his dick, you took a few seconds to admire the man lying in front of you. His bare chest was shiny with sweat, beads of exertion rolling down his abs, making them glisten in the low light of the lamp next to the bed. You crawled back up to him. His hand had released your hair but was moving down your back to guide you, ready to catch you if you lost your balance.  

Finally, you lay down next to him. When he leaned across to kiss you, he groaned again at the taste of himself on your lips, then snaked a strong arm around your waist to pull you into his chest, flush and close. Your legs tangled with his as the two of you shared a deeper kiss.

‘I love our tradition,’ he chuckled against your lips. He was still breathless, but deliriously happy and satiated. 

Your hands rested on his chest, craving contact and connection with his warm skin. 

‘Probably the best tradition we could have come up with, don’t you think?’ You giggled in response. He nodded fervently in agreement. 

‘Oh, definitely.’

No doubt, you would have a round two later that night - Colston would never let you go to bed without getting you off, it just wasn’t in his nature. But for now, the two of you lay there, just quietly talking and catching up about your days, sharing quiet giggles and tangling your fingers together. Sweet, gentle kisses were shared, making your heart sing with love.

Later on, under the stream of water in the shower with Colston’s dick bottomed out inside you, head behind yours with one of his arms wrapped around your neck in a headlock, he muttered in your ear about how much he loved you and how every touchdown, every catch and every win was for you.

And that was a tradition that he would definitely continue for the rest of his life. 

THE END

It’s a video posted by the official Bengals account and the caption is ‘NUMBER NINE IS ON THE FIELD!’. In the video, Joe can be seen running lengths up and down the practice turf, his dirty blonde curls flopping in front of his eyes and the compression vest top he’s wearing leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His abs ripple in plain sight. Your eyes rake over his arms; biceps bulging, thicker than you’ve ever seen them, his triceps toned and the long forearms… they’re veiny and powerful, prompting even more filthy thoughts to appear in your head.

Immediately, you have to put your phone down and take a lap (or two… or three) around the island. Your entire body is pulsing with need. It’s coursing through your veins, taking over every thought and making your mind hazy. You don’t need to look to know that your panties are wet, almost soaked through to your leggings. The thoughts that are going through your head are not appropriate for anyone to know. It takes you splashing cold water from the kitchen sink for the flush on your face to dissipate, but you’re still jumpy with desire. 

One look at the clock on the oven makes you feel even more frustrated. Joe isn’t going to be home for at least an hour, but then you have an idea. A wicked smile curls your lips as you download the video onto your phone (as Joe doesn’t have a TikTok, not even a burner, despite all your attempts at persuading him just so you can send him funny videos) and text it to him, captioned:

To: Joey B💋🏉

This is just fucking greed, Joseph. Just creamed my panties at this. 

You just hope he’s by himself when he opens the message.

Luckily, you don’t have long to wait; the message comes up as read within minutes. 

From: Joey B💋🏉

On my way home. If anyone asks, the boiler broke.

A laugh cackles out of you as you imagine him making up the stupid excuse to get out of film study early, but then you have another idea. 

There’s a set of lingerie that was delivered just the other day, waiting to be used. It’s custom-made from a seller on Etsy, black with orange cups and straps, nothing but lace, really… The fabric more a suggestion than anything else… Now seems as good a time as any to christen it. 

You’ve still got about forty-five minutes to prepare before Joe comes home, so you bound upstairs to your bedroom, taking them two at a time, and rustle around at the back of your closet where you know it’s hidden so he couldn’t find it before it was time and spoil the surprise. 

You decide to take an everything shower to pass the time, exfoliating, shaving and moisturising your skin, shampooing your hair and using your favourite Kerastase treatment and then conditioning it. Once you’ve finished in the shower, you massage Joe’s favourite body lotion of yours into your skin, the lotion that you only use when you know you’re going to go to town. Electrolytes and water go down the hatch to rehydrate you. 

Throughout the whole preparation process, your heart is pounding and your mouth is dry. The thought of him rushing home just to fuck you, just to see the effect he has on you drives you insane. 

It takes a bit of shimmying and jostling your limbs into the correct holes in the set, but once you’re in, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. The Cheshire Cat grin on your lips is shit-eating and excited, and you just know he’s going to lose his mind when he sees it. 

A check of his Life360 tells you he’s just minutes away, pulling up onto your street, so you look in the mirror for one final inspection, apply your favourite dark red lipstick for the full effect and spritz your hair with sea salt teasing spray to give it a slightly mussed up look. 

For extra wow factor, you pull on a black Burrow 9 jersey that you stole from him. The jersey comes down to your mid-thighs, making it the perfect way of hiding the lingerie to give you the opportunity for the full surprise. 

Not a moment too soon, you hear the door open and snap shut, followed by a shout of ‘I’m home, baby, where are you’ and even from upstairs, you can hear the devilish smirk in his voice.

You can’t wait a second longer. Your legs carry you downstairs and you all but sprint into the hallway where he’s standing with his bag on the floor at his feet, looking around for you. You collide with him with the force of a linebacker going in for the sack, a gasp of his name leaving your lips as your legs wrap around his waist. He grunts, chuckling, at the impact but is prepared, hands immediately grasping your ass to support you. He’s warm, he smells of turf and deodorant, he’s still slightly sweaty from practice, his hair is curly and long at the back, he’s Joe. Not Joe Burrow the quarterback, not Joe Burrow the leader, just… Joey. Your love. Your man. Your Joey. He’s perfect. 

‘Hello,’ he chuckles darkly into your neck.

You don’t respond. Instead, you lean back to press a fiery kiss to his lips, humming slightly as you do so. Your hands move to his head so that your fingers can card through the dirty blonde curls that are still damp and wild from the training session he had had at the facility. He groans in pleasure when you gently pull at a few strands.

‘So a video of me’s got my girl all heated, huh?’ He asks against your mouth with an almost arrogant quirk of his eyebrow. There it is, that cocky confidence that’s normally reserved for the field but, every once in a while, it makes its way into your home for exactly this kind of scenario. 

Although you blush, your entire body thrums with need. Just the smell of him is enough to turn you on, especially when he’s sweaty and breathless from training like he is now. 

‘Shut up, cocky son of a bitch. Guys like you, need to come with a warnin’.’ 

He gives your ass a hard squeeze as he laughs while kissing your cheek.

‘Why would that be, angel?’ 

‘It’s just not fair to be makin’ your woman wait to be pleasured, don’t you think?’ You ask in mock innocence. ‘Not very gentlemanly of you, Joseph. Especially when I have a surprise for you.’ 

His eyebrows raise again and his lip curls in a knowing smirk. For once in your life, with you in his arms and legs around his waist, you’re slightly above eye-level than him, so he has to tilt his head ever so slightly to look up at you. 

‘And what would that surprise be?’ There’s a ghost of a cheeky smile on his lips as he asks the question. 

‘It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you, now, would it, Joey?’ Your voice is a sensual purr in his ear. ‘Take me upstairs, Burrow, and you’ll find out.’ 

His head falls onto your shoulder and he groans in disbelief, then you feel him start to trail wet kisses up your neck. His grip on you tightens as he starts to hurry the two of you upstairs. A hiss falls from your mouth between gritted teeth when his teeth nibble and nip at the sensitive skin on your jaw. Instinctively, you move your head to allow him more access. 

‘Dear God, woman, what’s gotten into you,’ he murmurs into your skin.

‘You, I guess. At least, hopefully you will be soon.’ 

The two of you giggle softly at your innuendo.

‘Whatever my girl wants, she gets.’ His hot breath brands your neck as he mutters the words into your ear. 

At last, he reaches your bedroom. A hand moves from your ass to the door handle, deftly opening it and carrying the two of you inside. Your body moves, legs unhooking from his waist and shifting so you’re half stood in front of him with your feet dusting the carpet beneath you. Joe kisses you again, slow and deep now that you’re in the safety of the bedroom, mouths moulding together in that determined way they always do when you’re needy for each other. Tongues meet, sweeping and pushing against each other. The intensity of the kiss makes your stomach bubble. You can’t help but smile against his mouth, prompting him to grin back. 

‘What?’ He chuckles into your mouth. His breath wafts against your face; it’s a mixture of the chewing gum he’d popped into his mouth on the way home and the Gatorade he’d been drinking while at practice. It shouldn’t turn you on even more, but it does. Your brain is hazy, all you can think of is him. 

You’re both breathing hard, chests heaving and noses flaring. An arm snakes around your waist to bring you flush to his chest without breaking the kiss. 

‘You want your surprise or what?’ Your question makes him pause, breaking away from you with expectant eyes, pupils already blown. His fingers reach underneath your jersey and you feel them, warm and long, splaying against your skin. The heat from them almost feels like a brand. 

‘Show me.’ 

It’s like he already knows what it is. But still, when you peel off the jersey to reveal the black and orange lace lingerie set, his eyes widen. His mouth falls open in a small O-shape. 

You take a step back from him to give him the full picture, turning around and offering him a small little dance, wiggling your hips suggestively. Your eyes gaze down his body to his groin, where you can see his length, hard and thick, straining against his practice shorts. 

The black of the set contrasts perfectly with the orange, complimenting your skin and bringing out the colour of your eyes. You’ve always said that he looks the hottest in the black jersey, and it’s a sentiment that he thinks right now. You’ve never looked sexier. 

Joe suddenly has the urge to take a few polaroids of you in this set, for his eyes only. He has a polaroid of you in his wallet, but it’s one he took when you were on holiday in Barcelona, you in a white cami dress on a terrace eating tapas. The polaroids that are… less suitable for public viewing are kept away in your lockbox under the bed.

His hands reach out to clasp yours and pull you back into his chest, warm and so, so homey. 

‘My girl,’ he groans, gravelly and hoarse, into your neck. ‘My gorgeous, perfect girl.’ Kisses are pressed to your temple, forehead, nose and lips as he speaks. His curls tickle your skin, making you giggle. ‘Wait here.’ 

When he moves away, your body whines at the loss of contact. He’s addictive at the best of times, but when you’re horny and need him as badly as you do now? You feel like you’re short on oxygen that you need to breathe. Then he returns with a polaroid camera, the one that goes with you everywhere you go, on your travels, game days and everywhere in between. 

‘Wanna keep this moment forever, babe.’ 

‘Joseph,’ you grumble. ‘I’m horny.’ 

He laughs, almost a full belly laugh, at your deadpan remark. He leans in to kiss your forehead again. 

‘Promise it won’t take long, sweetheart. Good things come to those who wait.’ His voice is low and rumbling in your ear. ‘Pose for me, gorgeous.’ 

He aims the camera at you and for a second, you stand there, unmoving and arms folded. He chuckles at your obstinance, snapping the camera all the same. The image develops and falls out of the camera. 

‘C’mon, baby, gimme more.’ 

You finally decide to humour him. ‘Fine,’ you mutter. You put your hands on your hips and lean towards him, hips hinging to extend your ass out behind you. Your lips purse and one of your eyes shuts in a sassy wink as you stare down the camera lens. There’s a click, followed by the telltale whirring as the camera prints the picture. He takes it and waves it around to help it develop. 

‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs as the image takes shape. The photo is dark, you’re barely in focus, but it’s already his new favourite picture of you. 

He takes a few more, each image going onto the side-table to develop, before he places the camera back on the dresser. 

‘Thank you for humouring me, baby girl,’ he whispers against your temple. He inhales, breathing in the scent of your shampoo and body wash. ‘Time for me to treat you, you’ve been waitin’ long enough.’ 

Need pulses through your entire body as his huge hands balance on your shoulders to gently push you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed-frame. Joe’s huge form pins you against the frame, leaving you nowhere to go (not that you particularly wanted to go anywhere else), and his fingers start to trace the outline of your lingerie set. The skin on your breasts pebbles at the feather-light contact, making him smirk at the reaction your body has to him. 

‘You’re perfect,’ he murmurs to you. His eyes pierce yours, and you squirm at the intensity of it. ‘Wouldn’t change a single thing about you, beautiful. Maybe have fewer clothes on, though.’ He doesn’t wait for you to respond. His hands move to your ass and there’s the quiet telltale noise of fabric ripping, then you feel a breeze around your pussy as the panties of the lingerie set fall, pooling at your feet on the carpet. 

Your eyes meet his again in protest.

‘Joey! This was custom!’ 

He shrugs. 

‘I’ll buy you more.’ 

He pushes you onto the bed, less gently this time, and you crawl backwards up to the pillows with him following you. The lust in his eyes darkens them, his pupils completely blown and predatory. 

‘What do you want tonight, baby?’ He asks, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your jawline and moving down to your neck. 

For a moment, you don’t answer, too distracted by the feel of his mouth sucking and teeth nipping on the sensitive skin in the area. There’ll be marks tomorrow, bruised and obvious, but neither of you care. Your body arches into him, craving more. 

‘Use your words, sweetheart,’ he growls into your ear. 

‘M-mouth, pl-please, Joey,’ you whimper. You feel him smirk against your skin, then trace kisses down your collarbones. There’s another signature sound of fabric being torn apart, and you feel another cool breeze creeping over your tits. The top of your lingerie is tossed to the side, forgotten and unimportant.

Joe’s kisses are wet and sloppy, and your body bucks underneath him again when he takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling it around his tongue and sucking on it. ‘Fuck, Joseph,’ you mutter. He chuckles at your reaction, the noise reverberating against your body and creating even more friction that you so desperately need. ‘Joey, please… need… need you…’ It comes out as little more than a whimpering gasp. 

‘Alright, darlin’,’ he says against your tit. ‘Just love these tits so much, had to say a quick hello to ‘em.’ 

‘Say hello to my fuckin’ pussy, you teasing dick.’ These words are more determined, leaving your mouth through gritted teeth. 

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, your whole body spasms when you feel him lick a stripe up your pussy, his saliva mixing with your wetness. He doesn’t even bother giving you the usual pre-eating out kiss, he just dives straight in. 

‘Joey,’ you mumble. Your head tilts back into the pillow behind you. 

He hums in enjoyment, the vibration causing you to moan his name again in pleasure. Your thighs spasm against his head, threatening to close in on him, so his huge hands move to spread over them and grounding them on the mattress. It gives him all the more access to where you need him the most, tongue dragging over your folds and flicking at your clit. 

His hands continue to hold you open. His nose grinds against you, the contact driving you even crazier. 

Meanwhile, your hands are bunching in the comforter, aching for support, for something to hold onto. Eventually, one moves to his head and disappears into his curls. It holds him there, keeps him exactly where you want him - but then again, why would he want to be anywhere else? 

The room is filled with sounds so obscene they may as well be the soundtrack of a porn film - his tongue slurping your juices, your moans and groans of his name spilling from your mouth, the comforter crinkling under you as you writhed under him in pleasure. 

Over the years, he’s learned the little intricacies of your body. How your body arches into him when he hits that perfect spot, how much you love it when he hums into your pussy when he’s eating you out like this, how your thighs twitch when you’re close…

They do that now. There’s that unmistakable twitch, that movement they do when you’re nearing your high. You’re chasing it, it’s visible in your mind’s eye as he works on you, then, with a flick of his tongue on your clit, you hit it. Or rather, it hits you. With a cry of his name that makes your voice go hoarse, it crashes into you, washing over your body in wave after wave of pleasure. 

He rises from you. You look down at him, chest heaving with pleasure, and you almost cum again purely at the sight of his chin, shiny and glistening with a mixture of your juices and his saliva. When he finally reaches you, he kisses you, the taste of you salty and rich on his mouth. 

‘I love you,’ he murmurs against you. 

You say it back, breathless and slightly giggly on your high. Seeing you giggling makes him chuckle, just out of happiness that he does this to you, he gets you feeling like this. It’s his favourite thing in the entire world. 

He shimmies off his shorts, making his dick spring free. The sight of it, pre-cum already leaking from it, makes your mouth water and eyes widen, but then he flips you over and you feel him lean over you, mouth grazing your earlobe. 

‘Get on your hands and knees, princess.’ It’s less of a mutter and more of a growl. You love it when he’s commanding in the bedroom. It makes you turn into putty in his hands. 

You obediently move up onto all fours, and not a second later, he slides into you. The feeling of him bottoming out inside you never fails to make you hiss, and you nearly collapse on him. 

‘Nuh-uh, baby, you stay with me,’ he murmurs encouragingly. 

‘Yes, Joey,’ you whisper back. 

The rhythm he thrusts with, straight out of the door, is punishingly hard and fast. You can feel everything; his hands holding your hips so hard you’re sure it will bruise, his balls hitting your ass cheeks, his tip hitting that spot with every thrust… You cry out in both pain and pleasure, still sensitive from your first orgasm.

‘Love seein’ you like this, sweetheart,’ Joe grunts. He leans forward again and you feel him, hot and heavy against you. ‘Love this view, love being the only person t’see you like this.’ The words are slurred with the exertion, hips snapping forward and up at an impossibly fast speed. Not for the first time, you’re grateful to have a boyfriend who’s a professional athlete with a fitness regime so strict that he can pleasure you like this. 

The room is silent apart from filthy sounds of sweaty skin slapping on more sweaty skin. The angle has you seeing stars, but you're in such a state of bliss that you don't care. He hits the spot over and over again.

The tension between you is palpable, and it’s clear neither of you will last long. Normally, the two of you can last as long as you can make it, but with the sexual tension that’s been bubbling away over the last few days, and with it coming to a head today, you’re already feeling the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening. 

Joe’s hands move from your hips to your tits, massaging them and swirling the nipples around in his palms. His rhythm doesn’t change, though, even when he leans down to press gentle, sweet kisses to your back and shoulders. Then, his fingers tangle in your hair to pull your head back. Your eyes roll in the back of your head in sheer pleasure; it’s washing over you, crashing in waves like a tsunami. 

‘You’re all mine, aren’t ya, gorgeous? This pussy, these tits, this smart ass mouth, all mine.’ The words are growled into your ear.

‘All yours, Joey, all yours,’ you just about manage to whimper back.

You’re so overstimulated at this point, just his words are enough to push you closer to the edge. 

It hits you all over again. You shout his name, whole body juddering beneath him, as you climax. The sensation of your walls clenching around his dick makes Joe hit his high just seconds after you, and you feel him pull out to spread his load over your back. It’s warm and ticklish. 

His hands move back to your hips, this time caring and steadying as you catch your breath. A sudden wave of dizziness makes your vision go spotty, forcing you to groan, close your eyes and duck your head onto the pillows in front of you. 

‘J-Joe…’

‘You okay, sweetheart?’ he asks, immediately concerned. You’ve passed out in front of him once before, not because of sex, and it was terrifying for him. 

‘Y-yeah, just… just need a second…’ 

He moves quickly to lie down next to you, arms pulling you in for a cuddle. Even as you lay down with him, your whole body is still spasming from the intensity of the moment and the stimulation.

‘Easy, gorgeous, take deep breaths, I’ve got you,’ he whispers into your hair. You do as he says, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. His hands carefully stroke through the strands of hair that have stuck to your sweaty forehead in the exertion. He repeats his encouragement of taking deep breaths, lips caressing your forehead. 

After a few minutes, your breathing evens out, helped by his fingers tracing lazy patterns into your bare skin.

‘You were so good, baby girl, took me so well.’ They’re whispered into your ear, now, a stark contrast to the muttering and growl that he did just a few moments ago. ‘I love you.’ 

You turn around in his arms, nuzzling your face into the curve of his neck. He smells of sweat, sex and his scent - cedar and vanilla - and it almost makes you emotional, sniffling slightly as you inhale the scent of him. 

The room is silent. The atmosphere is thick with sex, it’s heavy with love, because that’s what sex is for you and Joe; it’s the physical outpouring of the love the two of you share. 

After a few moments, you lean up to speak to him, dizziness gone and body no longer trembling.

‘So, a broken boiler, huh?’ It’s deadpan, it’s monotone, it’s so fucking you that Joe laughs, a real, full, belly laugh. His shoulders shake against you. You feel his fingers comb through your hair, and you know you'll need another shower to brush it out.

‘Had to get away to my girl, didn’t I?’ You kiss his nose. He scrunches it in the most adorable way you’ve ever seen. It’s such a contrast to the stony exterior everyone else sees, but this is the Joe only you get to see; soft, expressive and loving. 

‘Well, I’m all yours, aren’t I?’ 

He nods, smiling like the lovestruck fool he is. 

‘And I’m yours. Forever.’ 

You kiss him, soft and pure, and in that moment, Joe’s heart has never been more full. He’s exactly where he needs to be. He’s got everything he’ll ever need. 

His girl.