We Never Tell - Joe Burrow

we never tell - joe burrow

summary turns out moving on takes exactly eleven months. the twelfth is for remembering why you tried to leave in the first place

content 18+, smut, angst, language, alcohol

part four

We Never Tell - Joe Burrow
We Never Tell - Joe Burrow
We Never Tell - Joe Burrow

JANUARY

Regret doesn’t announce itself.

It seeps in, slow and stupid. Not the knife to the chest you now brace for, but something sneakier. The kind of pain that sits in your bones like cold air and doesn’t leave when the heat kicks on. It’s there when you wake up in a bed that doesn’t smell like pine and aftershave and him. It’s there when your thumb hovers over his contact, then backs away. It’s there when you realize you haven’t told anyone, not really, what happened. 

Maybe because you still don’t know.

The cabin felt too quiet that night, like the walls knew something they weren’t saying. Every creak in the floorboards, every shift of snow off the roof, felt like accusation. You thought maybe they’d all found out—that someone had heard something, maybe Connor said something, passed it along. That the shame inside you had somehow stained the air.

But the next morning, Dom and Caleb wandered in, half-asleep and hungry, asking for pancakes like nothing had cracked. Like the world hadn’t changed while you were busy pretending it hadn’t.

So no, maybe you weren’t dealing with the fallout of them knowing.

You were just dealing with the weight of you knowing.

The final day passed gently, almost too gently, like the house was trying to apologize. The Burrows had left early—flight times and long drives. Connor and Nate didn’t stop by; maybe they’d already said their goodbyes to Dom the night before. Bridget was a ghost, vanishing with the same quiet pride she always carried, as if she’d never been there at all.

But it wasn’t that day that wrecked you.

It was the day after. And the one after that. And the next one, too.

Because the silence doesn’t hit all at once. It builds. It builds in the pauses between texts you don’t send, in the ache of rerunning the last thing he said to you. It builds when you walk past someone wearing his cologne and your body stiffens like a warning. When your Spotify shuffle dares to play a song that played in his truck that second night together.

Can it be heartbreak if it was never real? If there was no claim, no label, no promise?

You don’t know.

But it feels real enough. And so does the way his face won’t leave you alone—flickering behind your eyelids every time you close them, wearing that same expression he had when he walked out.

Not guilty. Not sorry. Just gone.

And that’s when it hits you, really hits you—what regret actually is.

It isn’t the moment you messed up. It’s every minute after. Every morning you wake up and wish you’d said something different, stayed a little longer, walked away a little sooner. It’s the echo of a choice you can’t undo, stretching itself across your days like shadow.

It doesn’t announce itself.

But it never leaves, either.

FEBRUARY

Loneliness wears red this month.

Not the pretty kind. Not the red of candy hearts and roses and lingerie and wine lips and declarations. A different red. The kind that pulses behind your eyes after too many nights of pretending everything meant nothing. The kind of red that coats the back of your throat when you say “I’m fine,” and it tastes like copper. You scroll past his name like it’s nothing. You put on mascara like it’s armor. You laugh when you need to. You bleed in private.

Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday this year. You wake up late. The sky is gray and spitting snow. The girl across the hall is wearing heart-print pajama pants when you pass her in the bathroom, and someone’s taped a glittery construction paper heart to the inside of the elevator.

You go to class. You wear red. Not because you’re in the spirit of it—just because you like how it looks with your jacket. Someone hands out Hershey’s Kisses in your afternoon lecture. 

You say yes when Maggie invites you out that night. It’s a casual thing for all the lonely singles; beer pitchers, half-priced mozzarella sticks, a handful of people from your program talking about anything but love. Someone passes around a bag of candy hearts, you get one that says “CALL ME” and pretend to laugh.

It’s not a bad night.

When you’re walking home with Maggie, able to do so without feeling sorry for yourself. You unlock the apartment door and kick your shoes off, saying goodnight to Maggie as she rushes off to her room. You brush your teeth. You wash off the mascara. You almost feel normal.

Laying in bed, basking in the comfort of your plush pillows and blankets, you open your phone to do one last scroll for the day. Clicking through stories on Instagram, your mind goes blank as the face in front of you finally registers.

Bridget sits in front of her vanity mirror, dressed in red with a vase of red roses hidden off in the corner. The Steve Lacy song that plays over her picture is almost mocking: 

I haven’t seen you in a while, you know I miss you, babe

When you hear this song, feel flattered, it’s about your face

And how I miss it, and I wish that I could see it more

But you’re in college now, and—

You swipe out fast, mind spiraling before you can stop it. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That it’s just a song, it doesn’t mean anything.

But she looks like she’s loved. Like she’s celebrating. Like the red she’s wearing means something different entirely. And for one second, you wonder if the song was meant for someone. If it was meant for him.

You set your phone down, rolling to your side. You stare at the wall until your eyes adjust to the dark.

Loneliness wears red this month—for you.

But maybe for Bridget, it wears roses. Maybe it wears a pretty dress. Maybe it wears a smile.

You wonder what color red wears for Joe.

MARCH

Memory is not kind.

You don’t get to choose which parts come back. It’s never the softness. Never the way he held you in bed, palm warm against your back, or the way his laugh dipped low when you said something stupid just to make him smile. That’s not what lingers.

What lingers is the door swinging open. Her face—smudged, startled, trying not to cry. Lipstick blurred at the corners, mascara pooling like guilt. His expression, pale and unmoved. Like he didn’t expect to get caught. Like he didn’t care that he had.

That’s the part that loops. Over and over. Not the sound. Not the context. Just the image. That stillness. That nothingness. The moment before you turned around and left, and he didn’t call after you.

And the worst part is, sometimes you wonder what you would’ve done if he had.

Would you have stopped? Would you have listened? Would you have forgiven him?

You hate that you don’t know the answer. You hate that it even matters. You hate how long it’s taken to pull yourself out of the wreckage of someone who never actually said the words you built your world around.

Maybe Connor was right. Did Joe dictate your life?

No.

You won’t let him have all your memories.

So you start reaching for different ones. You think about the morning sunlight in your kitchen, the way it hits the counter just right when you’re making coffee. You think about Maggie, about how she once showed up with flowers and Red Vines after a shitty week, no questions asked. You think about how it felt to walk home from class with your headphones in, coat zipped to your chin, breathing in cold air and not feeling like you were suffocating.

You let yourself remember things that have nothing to do with him. You let yourself feel good in them.

You cook more. Dance around your apartment with a wooden spoon in one hand, music too loud. You call your brother and laugh until your face hurts. You read a book in one sitting, curled into the corner of your couch with coffee gone cold on the table beside you. You forget to check your phone sometimes. You remember to moisturize daily. You take a picture of the sky on your walk to class—not for anyone else. Just because it was pretty. Just because you wanted to remember.

You make space. Not always successfully. Not always gracefully. But you try.

And slowly, slower than you’d like, but steadier than you expect, something shifts.

The memory of the door still comes back. Her face, his silence. But now it’s just one memory.

Not the only one.

And maybe that’s what healing actually is. Not erasing him, just letting more exist.

APRIL

Healing is boring.

It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud. It’s slow and silent and filled with more questions than answers. You drink tea instead of texting him. You go to class. You wear headphones. You almost kiss someone at a party and spend the whole Uber home wondering if not doing so makes you a coward or just human. And when his name lights up your phone for the first time in months, your hands shake like he never left.

joe b: Do you ever miss me

You stare at it until the screen goes dim and you don’t respond. Not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do.

Later that week, Maggie and some other friends drag you out. Somewhere crowded and too warm, where the music pulses like a second heartbeat and everyone smells like sugar and sweat and spilled vodka cran.

You don’t want to be there. You’re wearing a dress you used to love but now feel strangely detached from, like it belongs to someone else. You sip something pink through a straw and nod when you’re supposed to, half-listening to Brynn explain how she’s finally cut things off with that guy from her 8AM.

You feel like you’re not standing in your own body.

And that’s when Jalen shows up.

You don’t notice him at first. He slides into the space beside you like it’s always been his, leaning against the bar, glancing sideways like he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth interrupting.

“You look like someone who hates it here,” he says finally, and it makes you laugh, just a little, more out of shock than amusement.

“I’m just...tired.”

“You and me both,” he says, taking a sip of something brown and overpriced. “This place feels like if Grown Ups was a club instead of a movie. Everyone’s thirty and sad and pretending it’s still funny.”

That makes you laugh for real. The first time all night.

You turn to look at him. Really look.

He’s tall, warm-eyed, loose-limbed. His mouth is a little too pretty, like it’s used to getting what it wants. He doesn’t look like someone trying to impress you. He looks like someone waiting for you to notice him.

And now you have.

You talk longer than you mean to. About nothing. About everything. His childhood dog. Your favorite cereal. The weirdness of getting older and not feeling like it. You don’t flirt. Not intentionally. But something starts sparking underneath the words. A closeness that wasn’t there before. The way his knee brushes yours and doesn’t move. The way he watches your mouth when you speak.

Eventually, Maggie reappears and tugs at your arm, mouthing we’re leaving over the bassline.

You nod and reach for your phone to check the time, but Jalen’s hand is already out.

“Here,” he says, taking it gently. His fingers graze your palm like they’ve been there before. He types something, saves it, and hands it back.

“Let me know if you ever need anything.” He says the words like he means more than a favor. Like he knows something about you you haven’t said out loud yet.

Jalen gives you a once over, really making sure you understand his message before finding his group of friends again. 

Maybe healing doesn’t need to be boring.

MAY

Some silences feel like punishment.

Not from him—though maybe partly. From the universe, maybe. From yourself. Because you were supposed to be over it by now, supposed to be fine, supposed to be laughing at brunch and flirting at bars and deleting the playlists you made in your mourning time without hesitation. But all it takes is someone saying the wrong thing in passing—Joe, Joey, Jalen, whatever, the quarterback—and you forget how to breathe for half a second. You twist up and can’t decide whether to curl into a ball or text him back.

You settle on going through your old messages instead. It starts as a reflex. Just something to check. Something to prove to yourself that you’re over it. That you can scroll through without feeling anything.

You pass by the one you never answered, the words that still haunt you some nights more than others: Do you miss me.

You scroll further, thumb moving slower the deeper you go.

Old messages. Fragments of flirtation. A photo of him on a hotel bed, shirtless and half-asleep, room service untouched in the background. One of you in your kitchen, grinning with a spoon in your mouth. Another—you’re in bed, cropped tight to your lips and collarbone. He’d sent a text that made your heart race after seeing it that first time. You’d pretended not to care.

But you remember exactly how it felt.

Your body does, too.

That slow, molten feeling creeps back in—uninvited but familiar. You shift onto your side. One hand under the pillow, the other slipping low. The screen glows beside you. You’re breathing heavier. You know where this is going and you don’t stop.

Not at first.

But then your eyes catch on a different text—something stupid. Something casual. A joke he made about one of his classes. And just like that, the heat flickers out.

You freeze, pulling your hand away like it betrayed you.

You stare up at the ceiling, chest tight, jaw clenched. You’re not turned on. You’re angry.

Because you wanted to forget and instead you let yourself want.

Again.

You lock your phone and roll to your back. You try to stop imagining what his hands would feel like now, whether he’s thinking of you too. Whether he knew you wouldn’t answer, and sent his message anyway.

You don’t cry. But you don’t sleep either.

JUNE

Desire makes fools of everyone.

It doesn’t matter that you know better. That you’ve played this game before, and lost. That the heat of June makes skin easier to forgive, and voices harder to trust. He walks in and the whole room tilts. 

Like when you were a kid, sitting in the backyard with Dom, each of you placing an ice cube at the top of the picnic table. Watching them melt in the sun, water pooling beneath them until they began to slide. Your parents would yell that you were ruining the wood, that the moisture would warp it, rot it—but you never listened. You watched, and you waited, held your breath as gravity took over.

That’s what this feels like now.

You sit still. You don’t move. You let the heat creep into your skin, let the weight shift in your chest, let the air change around you.

Because for one second, just one, you want to see if gravity still works the way you remember.

And when his eyes land on you, something inside you starts to slide.

It shouldn’t. Not after Tahoe. Not after everything. But your skin remembers. Your body remembers. And even though you break the gaze before it lasts too long, something in you still wants to see how far it’ll fall.

The kitchen’s quieter than the backyard—where someone’s yelling about the grill and Dom’s playlist keeps skipping. You offered to grab drinks mostly because it meant coming inside, away from all that sun. You open the fridge and start stacking bottles against your chest, balancing two sodas in your fingers, one water bottle pinched between your forearm and ribs. Not your best system.

The bathroom door opens just as you’re trying to nudge the fridge closed with your hip. You don’t turn, but you hear him step into the doorway.

“…Figures.”

“You say that like I planned it,” you murmur.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

That makes you pause. The weight of his words is heavier than the drinks you’re trying not to drop.

“Charming,” you say, shifting your grip. One of the sodas starts to slip.

One of the bottles wobbles, threatens to slip. You move to catch it, but his hand gets there first. He catches it without effort. 

Joe glances at the bottles, then at you. “You’re gonna drop all of these,” he says flatly.

“You think I don’t know that?”

He huffs, taking them from you one by one like he’s punishing you with helpfulness. You let him. Mostly because you don’t trust your voice if you keep holding eye contact.

When your arms are empty, you finally look at him. “You didn’t have to help.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to watch you make a mess.”

Your mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

He always did say things that made you want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

“You’re still such an asshole.”

That gets him. Just a flicker of something across his face. Annoyance. Memory. Something else entirely.

He nods toward the counter. “You gotta get the last one though.” You reach for the stray bottle, already lukewarm from the heat. When you look up, Joe is already walking away.

Feeling embarrassed, you follow behind him and listen as everyone praises him for carrying all the drinks. You sit through the rest of the evening in a fog, tuning in and out of conversations. He never looks at you again, not that you catch. 

The worst part is that you keep hoping he will. Not for any reason that makes sense. Just to feel chosen in the smallest way. A glance, a flicker of attention. Something that tells you that moment in the kitchen meant more than what it looked like.

It’s not that you want him back. It’s just that wanting hasn’t stopped. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe that’s what keeps catching you off guard—how easily your body confuses recognition with permission. How familiar he still feels, even when he’s indifferent. Especially when he’s indifferent.

The next morning, when Maggie texts about a last-minute trip, you say yes before she even finishes asking. You don’t ask who else is going. You don’t care. Somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere that feels different. Somewhere he won’t be.

You pack like you’re in trouble—shoving things into your bag with no order, no plan. The kind of trip you say yes to just to escape the aftermath of something that doesn’t look like a mistake but still feels like one. You don’t want to be near him if all you’re going to do is hope he looks at you. If all you’re going to do is wait to feel that sick, slow heat under your skin again.

Because desire makes fools of everyone, and you’re not ready to be looked at like one. Not again.

JULY

Some people are best seen from a distance.

Like fireworks. Like wild animals. Like him. Too close and you get burned, or bitten, or worse—disappointed.

You don’t plan to talk to him. You don’t even plan to look at him. But the Fourth of July always blurs lines. It’s the sweat of bare shoulders and bug spray, the sound of glass bottles clinking and flip flops scraping across concrete. Too many people crammed into one backyard, the sun already sinking, turning every surface gold.

You’re leaning against the side of the house, halfway behind a hedge, pretending to scroll through something important. The popsicle in your hand is already dripping, syrupy red pooling along the curve of your thumb. You lick it before it can reach your wrist, tongue dragging slow along the stick. 

Your swimsuit is still damp beneath your jean shorts, clinging in places you’d rather not think about, and your hair is half-dry, curling wild in the humidity. You threw your Birks back on without adjusting the straps, and the soles are gritty from walking across the driveway barefoot.

You don’t know why you’re hiding. You’re not twelve. You’re not the kind of girl who corners herself at parties.

“Hey!” Dom calls out for you, voice carrying from the back porch. “Tell me you didn’t take the last cherry one.”

You glance up slowly, popsicle still resting against your mouth, and spot him through the hedge. He’s standing near the cooler, squinting against the light, shirt wrinkled, backwards cap tugged low. Joe is beside him, one shoulder propped against the rail, beer bottle in hand, half-listening until Dom points at you.

“There she is,” Dom says, mock betrayal thick in his voice. “Took the last one and disappeared.”

You raise your eyes in silent acknowledgment, about to offer something sarcastic back, but your mouth stalls when your eyes catch on Joe. 

He’s watching you.

Not glancing. Not bored or aimless or letting his eyes wander the way people do when they’re just passing time. He’s watching.

Chin slightly lowered, mouth slack, one hand wrapped around the neck of his bottle like he’s forgotten it’s there. The sun catches in the pale strands of his hair near his temple, and the shadow from his cap cuts clean across the top half of his face—but you still feel the weight of his stare. Your skin starts to burn from it. He’s looking at you like you’re interrupting something. Like you are something.

Your legs shift instinctively, adjusting your weight. Not because he’s staring. Because of how he is.

Slow. Unbothered. Bordering on emotionless except for the way his eyes drag down the column of your throat, over the scoop of your chest, to where you still have beading water drying down. 

You feel the sweat start to build behind your knees again. The popsicle in your hand drips noiselessly onto the dirt.

Dominic stops across the yard, jerking your attention away. “You really did take the last one?” he asks as he comes up beside you, mock scolding in his voice.

“Yup.”

He leans against the siding, forehead shiny from the July humidity. “You’re the worst.”

You shrug. “Should’ve gotten here earlier.”

Dom keeps talking—something about sparklers and the battery pack he left in your car. You nod along, but it’s like your hearing’s gone soft. Muffled like your brain’s still catching up.

You can feel Joe’s gaze like it left indents on you.

“Whatever,” Dom says finally, pushing away. “Just be ready to go by eight.” You hum in reply, eyes flicking once toward the porch. Joe hasn’t moved. Not until Dom disappears again, only then does he step down, one slow, measured step at a time.

The popsicle drips again. Sticky, cherry red tracing a slow line down the inside of your wrist. You feel it curl along the groove of bone, catch on the crease of your knuckle. Your fingers twitch slightly in response, and then you lift the stick to your mouth and lick it once, just to keep it from slipping further down.

His gaze moves like it’s walking a tightrope—starting at your mouth, tracing the popsicle, your fingers, the trail of juice that’s already dried sticky in a half-moon across your hand. It drops lower. Over the slope of your collarbone, the red bikini top that hugs our tits just right. Your damp shorts, open at the button. The space between your thighs.

You hold still, but not from confidence. It’s something more precarious than that—curiosity, maybe. Your mouth is too sweet. You can still taste the syrup, the artificial dye clinging to the roof of your mouth. It makes you suddenly aware of your tongue, the shape of your lips, the heat of the sun still trapped behind your knees. You think about your posture, your breath, how long your hand’s been hanging at your side. Too long.

You shift, just slightly, more weight to one leg, a quiet reset. His eyes come back to yours.

“You’re dripping.”

Your breath catches before you can stop it, a stutter in your chest, but you feel it everywhere. In your throat, in your spine, between your legs. Your eyes flick away and then back again, sharp with instinct, like you’ve just been accused of something.

He sees it. He sees everything.

And you know it because of the way he tilts his head, how the expression on his face changes. A half-beat of silence follows, stretched thin and unbearable. Not because of what he said. But because you both know what you thought he meant. 

He cocks his head again, almost amused.

Like: That’s where your mind went?

Like: You still want me that bad?

You feel heat bloom under your skin in an instant, slow and shameful, curling into your cheeks and collarbones. You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s nothing safe to say when your body has already spoken for you.

Joe wordlessly turns and walks away from you, leaving you hanging, yet again. Embarrassed, you turn and throw your half finished popsicle away, using a little more force than necessary when slamming the trash can shut. 

You swipe your wrist against your shorts, smearing the cherry into denim. It leaves a pink shadow above the seam. You stare at it for a beat longer than necessary, just to avoid looking up. Avoiding the realization that he’s gone. Just like that.

You don’t go near him again.

While everyone else filters toward the front yard, claiming coolers and towels and extra sweatshirts for later, you stick inside. And when you’re ushered out of the house by your parents, you stick close to the adults.

At eight, when Dominic yells your name from the driveway, you ask if there’s room anywhere other than the backseat of Joe’s truck.

“No?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Just get in.”

You hesitate, and maybe it's long enough for him to notice this time. Then you nod once, like it’s fine. Like it doesn’t matter. Like your legs haven’t gone hot and restless at the thought of climbing into that seat again.

Dom’s already sliding into the passenger side, fumbling with something in the glove compartment. You open the back door and duck in, keeping your knees close together, hand bracing against the doorframe. You sit carefully, knees angled toward the window, shoulder pressing into the cool glass. The seat is sun-warmed, sticky at the back of your thighs, and you remember too much. 

So you keep your distance.

For the rest of the night, you say only what you have to. You keep more space than necessary between your body and his, and between your thoughts and the temptation to fall back into whatever you used to be. 

You don’t look at him during the fireworks. You don’t sit near him at the bonfire. You don’t stay in the same room longer than necessary. It’s the safest route, probably the only route, before you get pulled even further into a person who’s made it clear he has little care for what happens after he gets his fix.

You stick to that choice through the rest of July.

Even when he shows up unannounced at your house two days later, standing in the kitchen with you while waiting for Dom. Even when you pass him in the hallway and pretend not to notice the way he smells, or how close his hand comes to brushing yours. Even when he stays late on nights you weren’t expecting him, lounging on the couch like he belongs.

There are moments, small ones, where you almost forget. Where you let your guard slip, just for a breath. But each time, you catch yourself and you remember why you won’t let him get close again.

Because Joe is the kind of person who looks better from across the room—where you can still pretend he’s everything you wanted him to be. Where the edges stay clean and the coldness doesn’t sting. Where you can admire the shape of him without feeling the sharpness.

Some people are safest when they’re just out of reach.

And he’s always been most beautiful just before he ruins you.

AUGUST

Discipline frays faster when the body remembers what the heart is trying to forget.

You held the line in July. You were careful, measured, distant. It worked… until now.

It’s not the heat that gets to you. It’s him in it.

Tan like he lives in the sun, hair longer than you’ve seen it, curls damp from the lake or the shower or the sweat at the nape of his neck. Shoulders loose, posture lazy, that half-lidded gaze he tosses around like he doesn’t know what it does to people. To you.

He looks like summer the way movies pretend summer looks—golden and a little wild, like rules don’t apply to him, nothing bad ever sticks. His shirt is off, like always. Swim trunks sit low on his nose, his wrist lay limp over the back of a lawn chair, laughing at something someone said.

You tell yourself not to look. You do anyway. You always do.

It doesn’t matter how careful you were in July. That kind of effort doesn’t hold when he’s tan and sweat-slicked and sprawled out, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose like gravity wants to give you a better view.

And maybe you were strong once. But strength doesn’t last where lust settles.

And lust, this month, is everywhere he is. Which is always too close, and never close enough.

You can only muster enough courage to watch his chest ripple with a boisterous laugh once more, feeling it bloom in your throat before it settles lower, and by the time your thighs draw tight you’re already standing.

Around you, no one notices. They’re sunk into that golden-hour haze, drunk on cheap beer and warm seltzer. It’s the last night before everyone scatters again—to separate towns, separate campuses, separate versions of themselves.

Your dress catches the breeze as you cross the yard, rising just enough to make you glance down, hands smoothing the fabric back into place.

The coolers are half-sunken in melting ice at the edge of the deck of someone’s house, you’re not even sure whose. You crouch and sift through the cans, fingertips brushing condensation, vaguely searching for a flavor that’s probably long gone. Strawberry. Lime. Tangerine. Your hand lingers near the bottom, searching.

Then the fabric tightens against your thighs, the hem of your dress is jerked back into place.

You shoot upright, ice clinking behind you, heart spiking. Turning, you can feel the warmth of him before your eyes really focus. His cheeks are flushed, whether from sun or alcohol or something else you don’t want to name. He looks down at you, head tilted, lips twitching.

“Do you need something?” you ask, more bite in it than you intended.

“Just being helpful,” he says. “You bend over like that, someone’s bound to see what color you got on under there.”

“No one—” you start, but he cuts in, smooth.

“Pink. Not bright. Kind of pale. Little lace at the top, maybe?” His eyes flick downward, hinting. “Real cute.”

Your face burns. The kind of heat that crawls up your neck and settles beneath your skin like a warning. You scoff, because you don’t know what else to do. Because it feels safer than admitting he’s right.

You push him, hand firm against his chest—not hard, but enough. Enough to clear a path and get away. The kitchen is a mess of red cups and empty bottles, someone's abandoned pizza boxes stacked on the counter. You open through the sliding door harder than necessary, the glass rattling in its frame.

The Kirkland vodka bottle sits half-empty next to a tower of solo cups, and you grab both with shaking hands. The pour is too generous, clear liquid sloshing near the half-way point, but you don't care. You tip it back and drink like it's water, like it might wash him away.

It burns. Good. You need something that burns worse than the humiliation crawling up your spine.

"Classy."

You freeze, cup still pressed to your lips. Of course he followed you. Of course he couldn't just let it go, couldn't let you have even this small moment of peace.

"Go away."

"Cute tantrum." His footsteps echo behind you. "Very mature."

You slam the cup down. "I'm not having a tantrum."

"No? What do you call storming off like that?"

"Smart." You turn around and immediately regret it. He's closer than you expected, and the sight of him makes your pulse spike. "Staying away from you."

"Funny. You never were good at that."

Heat flashes through you—anger and something worse. "Fuck you."

"Been there." His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second. "Done that."

Your face burns. "You're disgusting."

"And you're being a brat."

"A brat?" The word comes out strangled. "For what, not wanting you to announce my underwear to everyone?"

"I was helping." He takes another step closer. "But I guess you prefer the attention."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Bending over like that. Real innocent."

"I was getting a drink."

"Sure you were." That infuriating smirk tugs at his mouth. "Just happened to give everyone a perfect view."

"You're unbelievable."

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You turn away from him, hands fumbling with the empty cups on the counter, stacking them with shaking fingers just to have something to do. Anything to avoid looking at him, to pretend your pulse isn't racing.

Maybe if you ignore him, he'll leave. Maybe if you just focus on cleaning up this mess, he'll get bored and walk away. But then you feel him move closer. The heat of him at your back, the way the air shifts when he steps into your space.

His hand touches your calf first, barely there, fingertips trailing up the back of your leg with agonizing slowness. Your breath catches in your throat as his palm slides higher, pushing the fabric of your dress up with it, and every rational thought in your head evaporates.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is low, rough, spoken against the shell of your ear. 

But you can't. Your whole body is trembling, caught between the urge to run and the terrible, traitorous pull that's been eating at you all summer. It all brings you back to that night before Thanksgiving all those months ago, in the parking lot of some dingy bar but stuck completely in his orbit.

Your body remembers. It remembers the weight of his hands, the way he used to touch you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once. It remembers how he tasted, how he sounded when you made him lose control, how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

"Don't," you whisper, but even you can hear how broken it sounds.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying against your thigh, and you can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his breath on your neck, the familiar scent of him making your knees weak.

"Don't what?" His thumb traces a slow circle on your skin. "Don't touch you? Don't remind you?"

You can't answer, can barely breathe, because eight months of pretending you don't want him is finally catching up to you, and you're drowning in it.

His hand moves to grip your thigh fully, fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and then he's turning you around. You let him, helpless to resist, until you're facing him with your back pressed against the counter and nowhere left to run.

He's so close you can see the flecks in his eyes, you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that when he breathes, you feel it. "I hate you," you whisper, but your voice cracks on the words.

"I know." His forehead drops to rest against yours. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

You should push him away. Should remind him about Bridget, about Tahoe, about all the reasons this can never work. Instead, you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

One second you’re clinging to him like the floor might give out, and the next you’re backing into the hallway, his mouth finding your sweet skin with the kind of reckless urgency that makes everything else fall away.

He follows you blindly, hands on your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your back hits the wall outside the bathroom as he opens the door and nudges you inside.

The bathroom is small, dim, sterile in the way guest bathrooms always are, like no one’s supposed to see too much of themselves in the mirror. But you do. You catch a flash of your reflection as the door clicks shut, and it's dizzying. Kiss-bitten lips, wide eyes, dress askew. Him behind you, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror like this could be the last time and he’s trying to burn it into himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, even as he crowds you from behind, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist before sliding up your arm.

“I know.” His breath is hot against the side of your neck. “Neither should you.”

You close your eyes when his hands settle on your hips. There’s a second of hesitation. One more second where either of you could stop this. Could walk away. Could pretend it was just a lapse, a mistake, another almost.

But then you feel his lips at your shoulder, the drag of his teeth, the low sound in his throat when you tilt your head to give him more, and that second is gone. Forgotten.

Your hands are at the hem of your dress before you can think, dragging the fabric up with shaking fingers. He helps, wordlessly, his hands replacing yours, pushing it higher until it bunches at your waist and your thighs are bare against the cold counter edge.

With maddening care, knuckles brushing the insides of your thighs. You watch his eyes light up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he drags your baby pink, lacy panties down like he wants to feel every inch of you on the way. The fabric peels away from your skin, damp and delicate, and he lets it fall to the tile without looking.

He lifts you onto the counter in one fluid motion, fingers digging into your thighs as he spreads them apart like your body still belongs to him. The marble is cold against your skin, but his mouth is hot, the contrast making you shudder as he sinks to his knees and pulls you to the edge.

His breath ghosts over you once before he presses in, as if he’s been starving for this. His tongue drags through your slick with unbearable slowness, savoring every inch like he wants to memorize the way you taste before the world takes this away again.

You gasp, head falling back against the mirror with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers knot in his hair. He groans when you tug, the sound vibrating through you, hips instinctively canting forward, chasing more.

He licks into you again, deeper this time, and when he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is hoarse. “I missed this.” His fingers flex on your thighs, pulling you open wider. “Fuck, I missed—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, sharp and breathless, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

His eyes flick up to yours, unreadable in a way that makes you second guess your words. Your chest heaves.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper, softer now. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Something flickers across his face—hurt, anger, understanding. You don’t know. Maybe it’s all three, but he doesn’t argue back. Instead, he shoves your legs over his shoulders and buries his face between them like he’s punishing you for the lie.

It’s not slow anymore. Not gentle. His tongue moves with a rough insistence that makes your thighs shake, your breath come in ragged little gasps. His hands are locked tight around your thighs, holding you open and in place, the pads of his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your skin, dragging you against his mouth each time your hips try to lift.

Your fingers claw at the edge of the counter for something—anything—to hold onto that isn’t him.

All you can do is feel. The pressure building, winding tighter and tighter, his mouth relentless. He must be able to tell you’re close between the way your thighs are trembling around his head, your breath breaking apart in tiny whimpers, body so tight you feel like you might snap. One more flick of his tongue, one more second, and you’d fall.

But he pulls back.

Just like that—gone.

Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his mouth, but he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes unreadable and burning. It’s not satisfaction you see there. Not pride. It’s something sharper. Something that carves straight through you.

"Why—" you start, voice hoarse, but you stop yourself. Because you already know why.

Because you told him not to talk. Because you said it didn’t mean anything. Because even if your body begged otherwise, your words cut deeper than you meant them to.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, your chest still rising and falling like you’ve just been yanked from underwater. For a second, you think he’s going to leave. That this was about control, about proving something.

But then his hand drops to his waistband, pulling down in one firm motion. His cock is already pink and swollen, glistening at the tip from the precum that leaks down his length. He steps between your legs, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And it’s unbearable.

Your dress is still bunched high around your hips, panties discarded somewhere on the tile, your thighs wet from what he started and refused to finish.

His eyes drop to where you’re aching for more, and when he reaches between you and drags the tip of his cock through your folds, your whole body jolts. You feel the slick of it catch against his skin, hear the sharp inhale he can’t quite swallow.

"Still doesn’t mean anything?" he asks, voice rough, almost mean. But his hand trembles slightly where he grips himself, and that’s how you know, he’s not as composed as he pretends to be. Not even close.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he pushes in, splitting you open with a stretch that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, teeth biting down on the inside of your cheek just to keep from making the sound that wants to rip out of you. He fills you too perfectly, too easily because your body remembers him even when you tried to forget.

He hasn’t kissed you.

He leans in, forehead pressing to yours, and stays there—buried deep inside you, unmoving. The air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the way it catches and staggers and syncs. It feels like a countdown. Like the silence before the storm.

Then he pulls back, pushing in again with a choked breath.

And it’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s all the things you never said. It’s the ache of wanting him every day since Tahoe and hating yourself for it. It’s the sting of seeing him with Bridget. It’s the guilt, the jealousy, the desperation, the need. His hips slam into yours, dragging you forward on each thrust like he’s trying to drive the memory of everyone else out of your skin. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, his mouth skimming your cheek, your jaw, but never your lips.

He still won’t kiss you.

You whisper his name once and his rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t stop.

He just fucks you harder.

And you let him. Because even if it’s not love—especially because it’s not love—it’s still the closest either of you have felt to something real in months.

SEPTEMBER

Shame has a rhythm.

It follows you through crosswalks and crowded hallways. It settles in the bottoms of coffee cups and the breath between text vibrations. It shows up when your roommate says, “You seem lighter lately,” and you smile like it's true.

You should not have let him touch you.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. That your body doesn’t miss him. That your heart is healed enough to not pick at that scab.

But then you find yourself lying in bed at night, replaying it in your head. Just once. But then maybe it’s twice. But is it really only twice if it's all that clouds your mind day by day?

“You sure you’re not feeling it?” Maggie’s voice filters in through the mirror, distorted by the haze of your own reflection. You nod anyway. 

Truth is, you were feeling it. For a second. It felt good to be somewhere loud and alive, to forget for a little while. But like clockwork, he crept in—soft-footed and cruel—until his name was curled around your ribs again, pressing from the inside. You hate how easily he gets in.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rifling through your purse until your fingers close around your phone. “I’m just gonna call an Uber. Head back.” She sighs, one of those deep, knowing ones, and nods without pushing. She always knows there’s more. You just never say it.

You push through the crowd together, the bar thick with sweat and too-sweet perfume and limbs that don’t know their boundaries. Maggie squeezes your arm in goodbye, yelling something about texting her when you get home. You nod again, already pulling away.

Outside, the air hits your skin like a slap. You lean against the brick wall of the building, opening the app. The screen loads slowly, painfully so, and then:

No drivers available.

You tilt your head back, eyes stinging. Of course. Of course.

Could you not catch a single goddamn break?

Other options flash through your mind. Bus, walk, call your parents—but they all shut themselves down. You're a broke college girl with parents who agreed to fund your safety, not your night life. We don’t care if you go out, just get home in one piece.

Sweet, in theory. Tonight it makes you want to scream.

You start walking.

Your boots slap the sidewalk with more anger than rhythm, muttering under your breath about Ubers, the price of gas, the way every man’s eyes seem to follow you just a beat too long. You throw in a curse for good measure—for the cold, for the ache in your feet, for the stupid, stupid boy eight-hundred miles away who still manages to ruin your night.

Tears sting again. You don’t wipe them away. You try to think of a movie. Something warm, something distracting.

What a Girl Wants? No, too wistful.

10 Things I Hate About You? Close. Too on the nose.

Grown Ups?

The title sits in your brain, stubborn. Familiar.

Oh.

Jalen.

The memory hits: lustful honey eyes, crooked smile, the echo of his voice—“Let me know if you ever need anything.”

You shouldn’t, but maybe you will. Blame the tears. Blame the night. Blame everything.

Your thumb finds his name before your brain catches up. You press call. It rings. Once. Twice. The voice that answers isn’t Jalen’s. It says your name—soft, surprised, a little hoarse.

You freeze.

This is not Jalen.

This is not Jalen.

This is not—

“Hey,” he says again, quieter. “You okay?”

Your throat closes. “Yeah. Wrong person.” You go to hang up. You almost do. 

“Wait.” Urgent, a little breathless like he knows. Like he felt you about to disappear. “Where are you?”

You roll your eyes, the burn of tears sharpening again. You bring the phone back to your ear, voice flat. “About eight hundred miles away from you.”

Joe lets out a short laugh and you can feel his eye roll through the phone. “No shit,” he mutters. There’s a shift in the background, the faint rustle of sheets. Was he in bed? On a Friday night? 

“You downtown?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You alone?”

The word sticks, but you let it out. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough for it to mean something. You hear the pull of breath through his teeth, like your answer displeases him. 

“You can hang up,” you offer quietly.

“I know I can.” Another shuffle. That sound again—cotton on cotton, something heavy creaking beneath him. Yeah. He was in bed. Probably still warm under the covers, one arm slung over his face, already regretting picking up.

Your eyes close for a second, the weight of everything creeping up your throat. That old shame curls tight around your chest. The kind that sinks into your skin and clings to your bones. Is this what the rest of your life is going to feel like? That sinking pit of regret you carry just for sleeping with Joe Burrow?

You don’t even remember how the conversation turned. He’s asking something again, why you’re alone, maybe, and it drags you back from the tide of your own thoughts.

“I wanted to leave, so I left,” you say, and your voice is steadier than it should be.

He hums, a noncommittal sound that makes your stomach twist. “You almost home?”

It hits you wrong. You don’t know why, but it does. Something in the way he asks it, like he’s just checking a box. Like he’s waiting for the right moment to hang up.

You swallow hard. “Goodnight, Joe. Sorry for bothering you.”

You move to end the call but his voice cuts through, harsher than before. “Can you fucking stop?”

It startles you, makes your hand jerk back from the screen. You stare at the phone like it’s betrayed you.

“What?”

He exhales—aggravated and heavy. “How far are you from your place?”

You glance down the road. Your building is in sight, a little washed-out box beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Not far.”

Silence drags again. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know what you’re thinking. 

“Who were you trying to call?” he asks eventually.

You hesitate. The answer’s right there, ready to spit out like venom. But instead, you say it plainly. “Someone I met last year. Said to call if I ever needed anything.”

You step through the front door, the musty lobby swallowing the noise of the street behind you. The elevator groans when you press the button, that familiar mechanical cough echoing like it’s about to give out.

He doesn’t say anything at first. You glance at your screen just to make sure the call’s still connected.

It is.

Then his voice rumbles back through the speaker, lower now, like he’s sitting up straighter. Like the question costs him something.

“What’d you need?”

The words catch you off guard. Your breath hitches before you can stop it, and your body betrays you completely—knees softening, warmth pooling low. You hate that he still does this to you, with nothing but his voice.

You lick your lips, lean back against the elevator wall, and let the bitterness curl around your next sentence.

“Nothing that concerns you,” you snap, fingers tightening around your phone as you step into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

There’s a pause, and then his voice comes through, quieter now, but edged with something sharper, cool amusement that wraps around your spine.

“That right?” he murmurs. “Didn’t sound like nothing a second ago.”

You can hear it in his tone, the way it slants downward—dangerous, suggestive, just shy of mocking. Like he’s picturing you. Like he’s already figured out the angle of your hips and the heat in your voice.

You toss your keys on the counter, letting the silence stretch, then ask like you’re bored, like this is nothing: “What did it sound like, then?”

“Sounded like a girl who was two seconds from begging.”

Your jaw tightens. You sink down onto the edge of your bed, the phone still pressed to your ear. “You think everything’s about you.”

“Only when you make it that way.”

He sounds tired. And a little smug. And a lot like someone who’s spent the last few weeks trying to forget how your skin feels under his hands and failing. You shift, thighs tightening together. There’s no point lying anymore. Not when your body’s already moved ahead of your mind.

He exhales, the sound grating, like he’s rubbing a hand over his jaw. You can picture him pacing, shirtless in whatever shitty Baton Rouge apartment he calls home now, hair mussed, boxer waistband rolled down from where he dragged a hand under it but didn’t follow through.

“You touching yourself?”

The question hits hard. Not crude—just honest. Familiar in a way that’s worse than filthy.

You don’t answer right away. You slide your hand down your stomach, the cotton of your panties is already damp, sticking to you.

“I could be,” you murmur. You can hear him suck in a breath. Then nothing. You imagine him gripping the phone harder, refusing to speak. Refusing to give you that. “I didn’t mean to call you,” you add, softer now. “But then I heard your voice and…”

You trail off. Let him fill in the rest. “You drunk?” he asks finally.

“A little.”

“Figures.”

“Does it matter?” You drag your fingers lower, past the waistband. “If I’m the one doing it?”

The silence that follows is long enough to sting—and maybe that’s the point. When his voice returns, it’s quieter, but sharp.

"It does if I have to hear it."

You press your thighs together like that will help. "No one asked you to stay on the phone."

"You called me. Remember?"

"And you picked up."

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Stupid decision.”

But he doesn’t hang up.

You shift against the sheets, one hand still resting low, just barely applying pressure. The room feels warmer now. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the voice in your ear. You don’t know why he hasn’t hung up. Maybe he wants to hear you fall apart. Maybe he wants to punish himself for still wanting to.

You let your fingers slide lower, tracing over yourself lightly, just enough to tease. Just enough to make your stomach pull tight.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” you ask.

Another pause. Then—

“You gonna tell me what you’re doing?”

His voice is lower now, not softer, but heavier. Like it’s dragging something with it.

You don’t answer, not right away. You breathe, slow and deliberate, pressing down harder with your fingers until your hips lift slightly into the touch. The friction isn’t enough. Not yet. But it’s starting to pull something out of you. Something slow and burning.

“I’m thinking about your hand,” you say eventually, almost to yourself. “How it felt the last time. How deep you got. How easy it was.”

He groans, sharp and quiet, and you can picture him now—flat on his back, knuckles white around the phone, trying not to touch himself but failing.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it.

“No,” you whisper. “You just make it really hard to forget.”

You hear him shift—fabric scraping, a breath sucked through his teeth.

You press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, lifting your hips quick, one hand slipping beneath the waistband. The fabric drags over your thighs, past your knees, and hits the floor softly.

The air against your skin is just sharp enough to make you flinch. “Joe,” you say, just loud enough. “That sound you just heard? That was me being helpful.”

He breathes hard, like that alone costs him.

“You can touch yourself,” he says, “but you don’t finish until I say.”

His words echo through your head. You obey, fingers slipping back down, sliding between wetness and pressure and the memory of what he used to do better than anyone else ever tried to.

You keep your eyes closed. Pretend it’s his hand. Let it feel like that.

“I bet you’re soaked,” he murmurs.

You hum, a sound low in your throat, your back arching into the motion. “Wish you could see.”

“I do too.”

He sounds almost disappointed, like this wasn’t the plan, like none of this was, and he’s just riding it out the same way you are.

“Joe?”

“Mm.”

“Do you still look at those pictures I sent you?”

The question slips out quieter than you meant it to. Almost an afterthought. But not really.

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows is taut, intimate in the way only silence like this can be. You know him. Know that delay means he’s considering whether to lie.

You circle your clit slower, lighter, letting the stillness thicken in your bedroom while you wait.

“Sometimes.”

It hits harder than yes.

“Late at night,” he adds, voice rougher now, like the words drag up something in him he didn’t want to offer. “When it’s too quiet. When I’ve had a shit day. Or a good one, doesn’t matter. I see your name in my head and I—I look.”

Your breath hitches. The rhythm of your fingers falters for a second before picking up again.

“I think about how you looked that last night,” he murmurs. “In the bathroom. When you had your legs all spread for me, you were dripping for me. But then you told me not to talk. Said it didn’t mean anything.”

Your whole body flinches like he touched you.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whisper, but it sounds more like breath than admission.

“I know,” he says. “But you said it anyway.”

You press your palm harder, try to drown it out with sensation, with pressure, with the way your thighs are already trembling. But the memory won’t let go. Him on his back, your hands on his chest. His mouth silent beneath you. His eyes not.

You’re wetter now. Messier. The slick sounds echo faintly in your bedroom and you wonder if he can hear them, if he’s picturing it—your fingers sliding over skin in the same way his once did.

“Are you touching yourself?” you ask, trying to redirect, to shift the weight of whatever just cracked open between you.

He breathes out, short and low. “Yeah.”

The sound you make in response isn’t quite a moan. It’s something needier than that. “Tell me how,” you whisper. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

You can hear the faint shift of fabric, the subtle friction of skin. He’s quiet for a moment, maybe working through how much he wants to give you, maybe too far gone to hold anything back.

“Got my hand on my cock,” he mutters finally. You can tell he’s holding back, maybe he’s scolding himself for already reaching this point. “Been hard since you started talking.”

Your stomach pulls tight. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. You picture him clearly—sprawled somewhere dark, one hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched. Hair mussed. Eyes closed like he’s trying not to see your face but can’t help it.

You bite your lip and press your fingers down again, sliding through the slick at your center. It’s almost too much now, every nerve raw and waiting.

“You trying to come?” you ask, not quite steady.

“I’m trying not to,” he says. “But you make it impossible.”

You breathe in through your nose, shaky. “You did this too,” you say. “You didn’t hang up.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You arch your hips, just a little, and your fingers catch that perfect spot—pleasure meeting need in a way that makes your breath stutter out. You shift your weight on the bed, angling deeper. The sound you make is half-moan, half-exhale.

It feels good, yes, but it also doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way it should. Because it's not his hand. It’s not the way he touches you—slow at first, then greedy, like he’s owed every inch of you and plans to take his time collecting. Your fingers are just fingers. His were something else. You burn with it. That sharp, aching, hollow feeling of want that only ever follows the wrong version of closeness.

“Joe—”

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, voice strained.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts to say it. Your fingers don’t stop. They can’t. You’re too far gone now, teetering at the edge—but this slips out anyway, softer than you meant it to.

“It doesn’t feel the same,” you whisper.

He exhales hard. You can hear him falter, hear the grip he has on himself weaken. You sink your fingers deeper, try to chase what’s building, even as the words tumble out, cracked and breathless.

“It should feel good, it—does, I guess. But it still hurts.”

Your voice shakes. You hate that it does.

“Because it’s not you.”

There’s silence on the other end, thick and loaded. You can picture him frozen, his hand maybe still, his jaw locked. You imagine his chest rising too fast, his eyes closing like they always did when things got too real.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I know.”

And that ruins you more than anything else.

The confirmation. The knowing. That he feels it too. That he’s still buried in all the same places you are, and neither of you can do a thing about it except this—except moan into a phone line and pretend it matters.

Your fingers don’t stop. They move faster now, chasing something you don’t want to name. It builds low in your stomach, deeper than before, more painful somehow. Like it’s not just your body tightening—it’s everything else. Every breath you ever took with him in it.

“I hate you for this,” you whisper, not expecting him to answer.

But he does.

“I hate me too.” He swallows. “You can come now, baby.” 

Your orgasm comes sharp, deep, curling in on itself. It doesn’t explode; it implodes, drawing every sound and breath and thought into that one unbearable second where nothing is real except the pain of needing him and the fact that he’s not there. Your back arches. A broken moan claws out of your throat. You choke on his name. It tastes like blood and memory.

You go still. Just for a second, and then you realize he’s still breathing, heavy. Shaky. You hear the slick sound of his hand moving faster now, more frantic, like the sound of you finishing distorted him the way he knew it would.

And you hate yourself for waiting to hear it, you should hang up.

You lie there, eyes shut, hand still caught between your legs, sticky with proof of something that shouldn’t have happened. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is hammering.

Then, through the speaker—so faint you barely catch it:

“Fuck. Fuck—fuck.”

You’ve heard it before. Felt it in your skin, your jaw, your hips. You know that sound like the back of your hand. It crashes through the line like thunder and you feel it everywhere.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The air hums with breath and static and tension.

“I think about the pictures,” he says then, slower now. “But not the ones you sent.”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“I think about the ones I never took,” he says. “You under me. That shirt of mine you always slept in at Tahoe. No makeup, hair a mess. You used to look at me like I was it. That’s what I see.”

Something about that unravels you, makes your chest cave in and your throat burn.

And then, like you always do when the high fades and the shame creeps in, you run.

Only then do you hang up.

OCTOBER

Jealousy wears a crown in October.

It drips down Joe's back, lazy and regal, settles to him like it belongs there. He watches your Halloweekend stories through a cracked screen, thumb hovering, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You're dressed as something slutty and ironic—he doesn't even know what, exactly. All he knows is that your skirt barely covers the curve of your ass, your smile is sharp and wine-drunk, your eyes glassy under purple club lights. And some guy's hand is resting on your waist in the mirror picture you reposted, fingers splayed like he owns that piece of you.

His face is half out of frame, but that smug tilt of his jaw is enough to make Joe want to hurl his phone across his shitty apartment.

You look happy. You look free. You look like you've forgotten all about him.

And maybe you have. Maybe you should.

But he still taps through every frame like a man starved, rewatching the same five-second clip of you dancing until his screen burns the image behind his eyelids.

You always were good at pretending.

There's glitter dusted across your collarbones and fake blood streaked down your thigh, and Joe doesn't know if he wants to text you or block you. Doesn't know if he wants to book a flight to Cincinnati just to prove you still go breathless when you see him.

But there it is, out there for anyone. For whoever that guy is, grinning at you like he doesn't know he's standing in Joe's grave.

He shouldn't care. But he does. He cares so much it makes him physically sick, bile rising in his throat as he watches some stranger's hand rest where his could.

Because it's not just jealousy—it's grief. Grief dressed up like ego. Wrapped in what-ifs and laced with things he won't admit, even to himself.

He's tried to convince himself you didn't mean anything. That Tahoe was just lust and bad timing. That Thanksgiving was a fluke born from loneliness and too much alcohol. That none of it ever had a real chance. But every lie tastes worse than the last, because he remembers exactly what it felt like the first time you kissed him in that dark parking lot.

How it felt less like a surprise and more like finally.

The wanting had been there for years, buried under friendship and circumstance. Best friend's sister. Too awkward at first, then too off-limits after. So he forgot it and told himself it was just proximity, just familiarity. When things finally turned physical, he convinced himself that was enough. That having you in any way was better than not having you at all.

But then Tahoe happened. You laughed at his terrible jokes. Fell asleep curled against his chest. Looked at him in those quiet moments like maybe he was worth keeping, worth more than just stolen kisses and a quick fix. And he let himself hope for something he'd never dared to want: not just your body, but you.

You were in his lap in the back of his truck, breathless and desperate. You were sprawled beneath him in bed, saying his name like a prayer. You were whispering dirty things over the phone that made his blood run hot and his chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to love.

But then Connor appeared in that hallway at Tahoe, looking at you with those knowing eyes, and Joe saw the panic flash across your face. Saw how quickly you pulled away, how desperately you wanted to hide what was happening between you. How easily you made him feel like a dirty secret you couldn't afford to keep.

And Joe, jealous and spiteful and suddenly seventeen again in the worst way, did the one thing guaranteed to make it all worse.

Walking into that guest room with Bridget was like a dare he was making with himself. Let her kiss him though it felt like betrayal from the first brush of her lips. Let her hands roam over him though every touch felt wrong, foreign, like his skin belonged to someone else.

It wasn't about wanting her. It was about punishment—for him, for you, for the hope he'd been stupid enough to feel.

Sleeping with her was supposed to prove he didn't care. That he could move on. That whatever the hell had happened between you two didn't matter as much as it felt like it did.

All it did was light the match to everything he actually wanted.

Walking out of that room, seeing your face—the way it crumpled before you turned away—he knew he'd put the final nail in his own coffin. There was no fixing it by explaining how empty it felt, how he'd barely been present for any of it. Couldn't tell you he'd been picturing your face the whole time, your hands, your voice saying his name. That every sound Bridget made felt like a lie his body was telling. That he'd wanted to crawl out of his skin the second it was over.

You were gone in seconds, and part of him stayed frozen in that moment forever.

He could have followed you. Could have called, texted, shown up at your door with the explanation burning in his throat. But that would mean admitting he'd been trying to forget you and failed spectacularly. Would mean confessing that every touch with Bridget was just him trying to prove he didn't need you, only to discover he needed you more than breathing.

So he swallowed his pride and told himself time would fix it. That eventually this ache would fade into something manageable, that wanting someone who didn't want him back was just another phase he'd outgrow.

The semester was hell.

He told himself the distance was good. Better not to see your face, better not to be reminded of how badly he'd fucked it all up. But silence has a way of growing teeth when you're already bleeding, and the absence of you wasn't quiet—it was deafening. It filled every corner of his apartment in Baton Rouge. Followed him to practice, to class, to bed. Made him dream about apologies he didn't know how to make.

By April, drunk and stupid and tired of carrying the weight of it alone, he finally cracked. Typed the words he'd written and deleted a hundred times:

Do you ever miss me?

You didn't answer, but it felt good to finally let the words go.

Summer brought him back to Ohio, and with it, hope he didn't want to feel. He started looking for your car in driveways. Felt lighter when your laugh carried across a crowded backyard. Died a little every time you looked through him like he wasn't there.

But then he started noticing other things. How your eyes would linger on him just a beat too long to be casual. How your breath would stutter when he walked into a room. How you'd disappear the moment it was just the two of you, like you didn't trust yourself alone with him.

You were still in it. Just like him.

August proved it.

All that tension finally snapped. Mouths on skin, desperate and angry and everything he'd been dreaming about. Hands fumbling with the urgency of people who don't know how to say I miss you any other way. The way you felt around him was like coming home and falling apart all at once.

For those stolen moments, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe you'd finally opened the door to let him back in.

But then you looked at him like he was a mistake you didn't want to make again. Snapped at him with words that cut deep, made it clear you were still trapped in Tahoe. He wanted to scream, to tell you it didn't mean anything, that you were the only thing that ever did.

But he didn't. He just watched you walk away. Again.

In September, when you called him—accidentally, you said, trying to reach someone else—he let himself believe it anyway. Maybe you'd changed your mind.

It was stupid. But he stayed on the line, letting the sound of your breathing lull him into old rhythms. He let the silence between your words feel like forgiveness because it felt right again.

Now it's October, and you're posting pictures with fake blood on your thighs and someone else's hand on your waist, and Joe realizes he still hasn't learned how to let you go.

He tells himself you were always meant to be temporary. A moment. A mistake. A lesson in wanting things he couldn't have.

He tells himself you were just lonely, and maybe he was too. That it wasn't about him specifically. That it was never real.

But then he sees you, even through a phone screen, even with glitter in your hair and someone else's fingers on your skin, and his heart beats so loud he forgets how to lie to himself.

You are real.

And he's still completely fucked.

NOVEMBER

Longing is quieter when the leaves start to fall.

It doesn’t thrash. It doesn’t scream. It curls into you instead—slow and soft like the corner of a blanket tucked too tight, pressing into your skin just enough to leave a mark. It moves through the day like breath, like static. You don’t notice it until your fingers still halfway through folding laundry, or your eyes blur at the end of a text you’ve read four times over.

And the worst part is how welcome it feels.

How easy it is to fall back into the thoughts you swore you were done having. The versions of things that never happened. The moments you could’ve changed, if you had just paid better attention. If you’d known what to listen for.

You pull away from them like you would from a hot stove—fast, instinctive, ashamed of the reflex.

But they always find a way back.

Because there’s a particular cruelty to this time of year, when everything is winding down and you’re still wound too tight. When the air smells like memory and the sky keeps offering the illusion of softness. When even your body betrays you by remembering what it once wanted. What it once had.

Thanksgiving without him feels like trying to breathe through gauze.

Dominic mentioned it over dinner—casual, like it wasn’t supposed to sting. Joe’s staying at LSU this year, something about keeping focus, getting ahead on training. Dom said it like it made sense. Like Joe had always been the type to choose football over family.

But you know better.

You know it’s because of you.

The realization hits you low in the stomach, leaving behind guilt, but also something dangerously close to relief. Because if he’s avoiding you, it means he’s still thinking about you. 

It doesn't help that Dan and Jamie couldn’t make it either. Dan’s in Chicago with Carrie’s family. Jamie’s stuck at the office, buried under some end-of-year deadline. The Burrow side of the table feels decimated, just Jimmy and Robin, smiling too much, trying to fill the space where their boys should be.

You catch Robin’s eyes going soft when she glances at the empty chairs. See how Jimmy’s laugh comes out too fast, too thin, when your dad tells the same joke he’s been telling since 2002. Everyone’s pretending not to notice that something’s missing.

And you’re pretending not to notice that it’s your fault.

If you hadn’t played your part in wrecking everything, Joe would be here. Robin would be laughing, dabbing her eyes at some stupid story. Jimmy would be yelling about the Lions. Dom wouldn’t be so eerily quiet beside you, stabbing his green beans like they wronged him personally.

Later, when the dishes are done and your family is passed out in front of a game no one’s actually watching, you slip outside. Wine in hand. Coat forgotten. Just the cold and your silence for company.

The wind is chilling, November at its meanest, but you don’t go back inside.

Your phone buzzes—some guy from class asking about drinks tomorrow—and you delete the message without opening it. No one else’s voice makes your pulse skip. No one else knows how to touch you in the ways you pretend you don’t miss. No one else ever looked at you like you were worth the risk of ruining everything.

The wine makes you bold. Or stupid. Or honest.

You scroll to the thread that hasn’t lit up since April. His last message is still there, waiting like it knew you’d come back eventually.

Do you ever miss me?

You hadn’t answered. Not because you didn’t want to, but because the wanting hurt too much. Because the question felt like a trap, like a door creaking open you weren’t sure you were allowed to walk through.

Your thumb hovers. There are a thousand things you could say. You’ve drafted them all in your head; lines about timing, about mistakes, about how badly you wanted to say yes but couldn’t.

But in the end, the truth is smaller than all of that. 

you: sometimes.

You hit send and you hate how immediately your chest tightens with hope. How quickly your eyes flick back to the screen.

Because deep down, you know: No matter how far you try to push it down, you’re still that girl who would’ve chosen him. Every time.

DECEMBER

Ambiguity sits easier than it should.

You don't feel good, exactly. But you don't feel ruined either. There's something strange in your chest now—not quite the crushing weight of before, but not emptiness either. You imagine it's like soot after a fire that didn't take the whole house. It's in your breath, your bloodstream, the backs of your knees. A hum that doesn't hurt the way it used to, just reminds you of everything that was, like smoke clinging to fabric long after the cigarette is stubbed out.

For two weeks, for the first time in close to a year, you aren't stuck in emotional turmoil.

Well. That's a lie, and your body knows it even when your mind tries to pretend otherwise.

You are. The restless anxiety still pulses beneath your skin some nights, different now but familiar in its relentlessness. Your fingers still search for something to hold when conversation lulls—a pen, the edge of your sleeve, anything to fill the space where certainty used to live.

Just, maybe not the same sort of turmoil. The kind that used to send you spiraling into frantic, desperate acts of self-destruction has mellowed into something you can almost manage, like learning to walk with a limp instead of crawling.

The first text came the morning after Thanksgiving.

Good morning.

You'd stared at it for twenty minutes, your heart doing that complicated dance between hope and self-preservation, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you were defusing a bomb. The simple act of typing back felt monumental, each letter a small act of faith.

morning

From there, it's been careful. Tentative. Like two people learning to walk on ice that might crack at any moment, every step deliberate and measured. He sends you funny videos sometimes. Memes that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound startling in your quiet apartment. You send him pictures of your coffee when it's particularly terrible, complaints about your professor who assigns last minute papers. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of conversation that feels like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now hang slightly wrong.

joe b: This smoothie place spelled my name jow

you: honestly an improvement

joe b: 😕

you: could’ve been worse

you: joey

joe b: Stop while you’re ahead

It's become some unspoken rule between you and Joe; no one mentions Tahoe, no one mentions where it all fell sour. The silence around it has weight, sits heavy in your throat like words you've swallowed too many times.

joe b: You ever finish that paper?

you: barely. used the same paragraph twice

joe b: That’s called resourcefulness 

joe b: Proud of you

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

joe b: Someone walked past me wearing that perfume you used to wear

you: which one?

joe b: The vanilla one

you: lol that doesn’t narrow it down

you: i’ve got like five versions of vanilla

joe b: Nahhhhh it was yours tho

joe b: Knew it straight away

You don't know how to name what's left. There's no label for this, whatever it may be. The rhythm of almost-healing feels fragile as moth wings. The dull throb of things not being broken enough to hurt in that sharp, immediate way, but not whole enough to forget the ache. You sleep better. But not well—still wake sometimes in that liminal space between dreams and memory, your chest tight with the ghost of things unsaid. You feel more like yourself. But not quite. More like who you're trying to become, which is terrifying in its own way.

There are still landmines everywhere, buried just beneath the surface of every exchange. He mentions practice, and suddenly your skin remembers his hands on your waist, the phantom touch sending heat crawling up your neck. You tell him about work, and he asks if you're still at that apartment downtown, and you both know he's remembering that call in September, the weight of everything that went wrong hanging in the digital space between you. The subtext lives in every conversation, humming underneath it all like tinnitus—constant, inescapable, a reminder of damage done.

But it's manageable. This thing you're doing. This careful friendship built on the bones of everything you're not talking about. Some days the effort of it exhausts you in the same way quitting smoking did—that constant vigilance against your own instincts, the deliberate choice to be different than you want to be.

Some days you almost forget why you were so afraid to text him back in the first place. Those are the dangerous days, when the scar tissue feels strong enough to bear weight.

In the library, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like trapped insects, you're scrolling through Instagram, trying to catch more stories people post for Joe's birthday. The screen's blue glow makes your eyes water, or maybe that's something else entirely. You'd already texted him this morning, a simple happy birthday with a cake emoji that felt safe enough. He'd sent back a smiley face and a thank you, and that was that. Clean. Uncomplicated. The kind of interaction that doesn't leave you bleeding.

The notification slides down from the top of your screen, interrupting your scrolling.

joe b: so I know this is random but we play Oklahoma in a couple weeks. The 28th. Big game and all that. Was wondering if you'd maybe want to come? Could be like a birthday present or something lol

Your heart does something complicated—not quite the violent thrashing it used to do, but a stuttering rhythm that reminds you why you learned to be careful in the first place. This would be crossing a line. Moving from safe texts into something that looks suspiciously like real life, with all its messy, uncontrollable variables.

But maybe you're ready for that. Maybe two weeks of easy conversation has healed something you didn't know was broken, the way a bone mends stronger in the place it breaks.

You're about to swipe up to respond when the story timer runs out and automatically flips to the next one.

Two kids bundled up in snow gear, arms thrown around each other like they own the world. Joe's gap-toothed grin. Bridget's pigtails poking out from under a knit hat. Years old, but posted today. The image hits you like a physical blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a way that's becoming familiar again.

The caption makes your stomach drop, that sickening lurch of free fall: happy birthday burrrrow 🎂 can't wait to c u

You stare at the screen until your eyes water, the letters blurring together like looking through tears or smoke.

Can't wait to see you.

Present tense. Future plans. 

The careful balance you've built these past two weeks suddenly feels impossibly fragile. You've been trying so hard to convince yourself you didn't need an explanation. That you could heal around the wound instead of cleaning it out.

Maybe some things are meant to stay broken. Maybe pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie you tell yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, the vibration sharp against the table.

joe b: Is that a yes??

The eagerness in his message makes you want to do something impulsive. Destructive. Watch something shatter against the library wall just to hear it break like everything suddenly did.

Because this is the thing about almost-healing: it only works if you don't look too closely at what's still broken underneath.

You delete the text thread without responding, hands shaking as you hold down his name. All of it disappears—the late night texts, the careful small talk, the invitation that made your chest flutter with a stupid pipe dream.

It vanishes in seconds, all of it, like it was never there to begin with.

More Posts from Joeyshiesty0 and Others

joeyshiesty0
2 weeks ago

YUPPP i love me some lsu!joe

TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 1

TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 1
TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 1
TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 1

summary / she’s studying. he’s being annoying. in his defense, he hasn’t seen her all day.

warnings / fem!reader, fluff, smut (MDNI), down bad!joey

note / this is kind of an introductory part to their relationship and the vibes they give. this series will follow his second year with LSU and his time in the NFL. it won’t go game to game, but just be aware of that timeline :)

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

TONIGHT, YOU ARE MINE / JB9, TRACK 1

THE SUN WAS SETTING. Purple and orange hues cast into the apartment, illuminating the scene. A cream colored couch sits in the living room, blankets strewn across it. The coffee table is somewhat clean; used cups from a couple hours ago sit on coasters. The kitchen lights are off; she said that she was picking up dinner with a friend.

“You will not believe the day I had,” she barged in, words barely held as she stepped over the threshold. Her hair was messy; strands falling pitifully out of the bun she wrapped her hair into. The wafts of her perfume filled the apartment, the sight of her a breath of fresh air.

He hadn’t seen his girlfriend all day. Nor had he texted her. She said it made her smile too much.

“Tell me about it,” he offered, patting the place next to him, “but first, I want a kiss,”

She laughed, an airy sound that made her cheeks red. She locked the door, tossing her keys onto the coffee table. She set her bookbag down on the floor, climbing onto the spot next to him.

“How could I forget?” she smiled. She rested a soft hand on his shoulder, leaning over a planting a soft kiss to his lips. It was electrifying, as it always was. There weren't enough kisses in a day. There weren't enough touches in a day. Joe cupped her cheek, sighing into her lips. He pulled away, keeping his lips inches from hers.

“I missed you today,” He confessed, “it was hard not to kiss you when I saw you in the student union earlier,”

“You probably didn’t want to anyways,” she giggled, reaching down to her bag, “I just finished an entire caramel latte; my breath wouldn’t have been nice,”

No one knew that they were dating. To the outside world, they were strangers. They interacted some when it came to the same classes or sitting at the same table at the student union, but no one could know. The media would lose their minds, invading every crevice of privacy. His mother would find out, and she was as protective over him as anyone.

To his mom, dating someone like her would be a slap in the face. Y/N wasn’t the athletic type. Sure, she played softball in high school, but college was all about academics. She strived to make a name for herself, to keep that precious 4.2 GPA that she’s had since she was a sophomore. Joe was proud of her, immensely so. He wished he could go to her paper presentations or the dinners that were held by the history department. But he couldn’t. They loved each other behind closed doors while the outside world waited with pitchforks.

“I still would have liked to at least sit with you,” he hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist. His weight pushed her back against the arm of the couch, his body laying on top of hers. She knew that it was hard for him, and it was hard for her too. She wanted to be there for milestones, to celebrate wins, but she had to wait for him back at his apartment or hers. She had to love in private, even when that was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I know,” she hummed, running her hand up and down his back, “I would have loved to have you sit next to me,”

For a moment, they just enjoyed each other’s presence. The day brought its own challenges, its own fountain of problems, but together, the worries washed away. Joe felt at home with her, he felt at ease. He didn’t have to put up a front around her, he didn’t have to be the quarterback that everyone relied on. He was just Joe. Her Joey.

“I have to study, bubs,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. A groan rose from the back of his throat, his arms tightening around her waist. She was always studying, his little genius, but he wanted her attention all to himself. He’d missed her, he was tired of having to avoid talking about her. That’s all he wanted to do.

“For how long?” He groaned into her neck. She chuckled, the sound soft and rumbling. Joe didn’t budge; he kept his weight pressed on her, his limbs tangled with hers.

“I don’t know,” she answered softly, “however long it takes me. I haven’t memorized the different ciphers yet,”

“But you know all the names. You recited them to me last night,” Joe argued. He knew that it was deeper than that. Her classes didn’t just ask for her to know the names of each type of cipher, it required that she could provide an example. It required that she knew how to interpret the cipher. It just took her a lot of time, and he wanted all of her time and attention.

“I did,” she agreed, running her fingers through his scalp. Her fingers dug into his scalp, pulling a soft moan from Joe’s throat. He pressed a kiss to her neck, his hands tightening around her body.

“I’ll study for an hour,” she compromised. Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, curling the longer strands around her fingers. He doesn’t move, his nose brushing against the soft skin of her neck. The warmth that spreads through her body is overwhelming. It’s soft, casting gentle rays across her muscles. She missed him, even when she had him all to herself.

“Okay,” he murmured. He slowly pulled himself out of her neck, eyes bleary. He leaned down and kissed her one more time, letting his lips linger on hers.

“It’ll go by faster than you realize,” she promised, a sparkle in her eyes. She sat up, sitting cross-legged on the couch. Joe grabbed a book, What if?: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions. A gift from her. He’d started it, and he was halfway through it.

Minutes passed. Silence spread between them. The tap of her fingers against the keyboard and the whisper of pages turning broke the silence. Joe kept himself close to her, his shoulder leaning on hers.

Joe was a physical touch guy. He found comfort in it, but that was also how he expressed his affection for her. Many people wouldn’t guess he was a physical touch person because of his reserved personality, but he was, at least around her. So, it didn’t surprise her when he started aimlessly dragging his fingers across her thigh, sending warm shivers down her body.

His fingers danced on her thigh for a few moments, his other hand holding his book. He wasn’t focused on it though, the words on the page blurring together. He was too caught up in how her body felt under his touch. She was a drug to him, something that once he got a taste of he’d never be able to let go of. He didn’t want to let go of her, to ever forget her taste.

“Joe,” she hummed, flicking her eyes over to him. He looked back up at her, blue eyes sparkling.

“Hm?” he hummed back, feigning innocence. She smiled, that bright and award-winning smile. Her fingers intertwined with his, pressing them to her lips.

“Just wait a little longer, okay?” she murmured, placing his hand back on his lap. He wanted the contact, the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her leggings. He found pride, though, in that he was distracting her. He nodded, giving a dramatic sigh as he returned to his book.

But he didn't read the pages.

Time slumped by. He read a couple more pages, but his mind was too occupied with her. Her hair was still messily pulled back, t-shirt clinging to her body, and her leggings sticking to her skin. She looked effortless, like a goddess. She expected him to sit by and not do something?

He set down his book, reaching his hand out. He untangled her legs from being crossed under her and pulled her closer. She nearly yelped at the surprise, but managed to compose herself as he dragged her closer to him. Now, she was sitting right next to him, facing him. Her eyes told him all he needed to know. I need to study. He was treading dangerous waters, he knew that, but at the same time, he’d been neglected of time with her. Of course, if she seriously told him to cut it out, he would, no questions asked, but something told him she didn’t want him to stop.

“Joseph,” she warned. Her laptop was still in her lap, open and glowing against her face.

“Baby,” he answered, a smug look on his face. He gently shut her laptop, his hand grabbing it and setting it on the coffee table. Tension blossomed, and the sounds that filled the room now were just the sounds of their breathing. Though she swore he could hear her heart slamming against her ribcage.

“I’m not done yet,” she reminded him. His hand wandered up her thigh, caressing the inseam of her leggings. She inhaled, holding her breath. Joe knew what he was doing.

“Please,” he whispered, “just wanna spend time with you.

His pout always worked. His blue eyes sparkled, bottom lip jutted out. He was ridiculous, but she loved him.

“You’re ridiculous,” she shifted, her eyes sparkling. Studying could wait, she supposed. She didn’t get to see Joe that often, and when she did, time flew by.

“You love me,” he grinned. Excitement filled his chest as she shifted towards him, the movement of her body slowly leaning him to rest his back against the couch. Her hands slid up his torso, a soft hum rumbling through her chest.

“I do,” her voice was smooth, shifting with her attitude. She studied all the time, always focused on the next document or the next cipher. She wasn’t able to let her mind go, to indulge in the pleasure her boyfriend could offer her.

So every time they had sex it felt like it was the first time all over again.

She kissed him. Slowly. Their lips danced together, joined in an intimate tango. His hands found their way to her waist, his thumbs pushing up the material of her t-shirt. His body shivered, the overwhelming sense of her body and her being filling him to the brim. He was the cup she poured herself into, and he’d let her overflow.

Her lips parted from his, trailing down the warmth of his neck. He tilted his head, soft breaths leaving his lungs. Her kisses were tiny fires, igniting the embers of his desire deep within him. He kept his hands on her waist, swallowing the moans that threatened to spill over.

She sat up, the coolness of her lack of touch making him groan. His eyes took her in, watching her. She removed her shirt, revealing her tits cupped by a beautiful yet simple bra. His hands roamed over her stomach, up to cup her breasts.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he murmured, his eyes taking in every piece of her. The outline of her cleavage, her collarbone shadowing her neck, and the soft skin of her stomach. His hands drank her in, committing every line and every curve to memory.

She slid her hands up his torso, easily peeling the shirt from his body. She leaned back down, her lips meeting the meat of his pec. He inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering. Her touch was a drug, it powdered his skin and fueled his desire. Her lips kissed his body, taking in every hard-earned muscle.

“This what you wanted?” she murmured, her lips hovering over the bulge of his sweats. His mind was on fire, any rational thought burned down by the image of her staring down his bulge.

“God yes,” he exhaled. Her fingers pried away his sweats, taking the material of his boxers with them. He was left bare and aching, his cock twitching against the skin of his stomach. Her mouth watered, her arousal building with every passing moment.

But she didn’t take him into her mouth. Not like he wanted.

She slid her leggings down her hips, pulling her panties with her. Her panties peeled from her pussy, her arousal sticking to the material. She tossed them aside. Crawling up his body, she let her lips hover over his. Joe was in a daze, his chest heaving with his breaths. He was under her spell, wrapped around her little finger.

“Baby, please,” he whispered, blue eyes blown with nothing but desire. He wanted her, needed her, to fill his system. She was his constant, his girl. Not having her how he wanted killed him, and that meant more than sex.

“I’ve got you, sweet boy,” she promised. Sliding a hand between them, she grabbed the base of his cock, lining him up with her entrance. He was hot, the velvet of his tip easily pushing into her soft walls. It was as if her body was welcoming him home.

She sunk down onto his cock, her hands settling down on his stomach. He filled her up perfectly, stretched her walls, causing her head to tilt back. She shifted on his cock, rocking side to side before she lifted her hips again. Joe released a breath, the feeling of your pussy clenching around him making him dizzy. His hands explored her body, all while feeling himself come closer and closer to his budding orgasm.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned, chest heaving with every breath. Her movements started slow, memorizing every inch, every curve of his cock. She shuddered, her body godly above his. His hands held her hips, grounding himself against her electric pleasure.

“I’ve needed this,” she admitted, her hips flexing against his. She leaned down, her heart hammering in her chest. Her arms rested over his shoulders, nose brushing against his.

Her classes had been torture. Day in and day out she studied books, old documents. She translated secret messages and wrote back in the same code. She analyzed patterns to recognize new ones. As much satisfaction as she got from her grades, nothing compared to Joe.

“I’m right here,” he promised her with a groan. He thrusted up into her, meeting her pace. His eyes never left hers, drinking her in like he was parched. With every thrust, a whine bubbled out of her mouth. Joe buried his face into her neck as he snapped his hips to meet hers, creating more passion and roughness between the two of them. She could barely focus, ecstasy blinding her as his cock slammed into the sweet spot deep within her. Moans rode on her exhales, and she could feel the beginnings of a climax building. Her hips met Joe’s with every thrust, the aching feeling in her pussy building. She needed more.

“Fuck, baby,” she exhaled, her hands digging into his taut shoulders. His teeth scraped her neck, quiet whimpers leaving his parted lips. He kept his pace, snapping his hips and helping her ride him. Joe pants in her ears, his whines and moans were enough to teeter her on the edge of the knife. Her walls clenched around him, aching as they were continuously thrusted against.

Her whole body exploded, a grinding moan leaving her lips as he thrusted into her one, two more times. She shuddered, her hips loosening and coming undone. Her orgasm ripped over her, a tidal wave of pleasure and heat. This wasn’t something her grades or honors college status could give her.

It wasn’t much longer before Joe let go, his arms wrapping around her. Thick, hot ropes of cum coated her walls, painting the grooves of her pussy. He stayed buried inside of her, his whines muffled by her neck. His cock twitched, jumping at every movement. Their bodies stayed connected, riding on the wave of pure ecstasy and wild passion. Their breaths hung in the air, thick and heavy. It’s what they needed.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of her. She hissed, but rested her body against his. Their eyes met, hazy with pleasure and exhaustion. She kissed him, tenderly, resting her forehead against his.

“Now you can study,” he teased with a hoarse tone. She laughed, kissing his cheek. There’d be no studying after that.

“How about a shower?” she suggested, slowly sitting up, “think we could use one, hm?”

“What, you saying I smell?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. She gave him a look, scoffing. Was he serious?

“Round two, goofball,” she ruffled his hair, “unless you aren’t up for it,”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he grinned. He scooped her up, and with shared giggles, he carried her off to his bathroom, where they’d continue in their bliss.

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joeyshiesty0
2 months ago

what are joe and songbird doing rn

a/n: im ovulating so here’s a smutty little blurb for everyone this fine evening

warnings: smut, hint of munch joe

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his shoulders were pressed firm between her thighs, broad and warm and unwavering as he buried himself between them like a man starved. the room was dim—just the soft amber glow of the hallway light spilling in, casting a glow across the sheets—but everything about the way he touched her felt lit from within. like reverence. like worship.

she was already breathless, one hand gripping the comforter, the other buried in his curls, fingers curling instinctively every time his tongue flattened against her clit. slow, calculated licks that made her toes curl and her hips rise, only to be pressed back down again by those damn hands of his—one on her stomach, the other hooked under her thigh to keep her right where he wanted her.

“joe—,” her voice caught, high and airy, already dissolving into a moan.

he hummed in response—low, satisfied, the sound vibrating through her—then did it again, lips sealing around her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted. and maybe she was. because in the quiet of the off-season, with no film to study, no meetings to rush to, no weight of the world on his back—he could just have her. take his time with her. and god, did he ever.

he pulled back just enough to look at her—his mouth shiny with her arousal, jaw flexing as he dragged two fingers through her slick and pushed them in slow, curling just right. “this okay, baby?”.

she nodded, too breathless to speak, the answer written all over her face. pupils blown, lips parted, chest heaving like she couldn’t quite remember how to breathe unless he told her to. “good,” he murmured, kissing her thigh. “been thinking about this all damn day,”.

then he was back on her, tongue flicking over her clit while his fingers fucked into her slow and steady, coaxing her right to the edge. her thighs shook. her back arched. and he just kept going—murmuring sweet nothings against her, telling her how good she tasted, how pretty she looked like this, how much he loved making her fall apart for him.

his pace was patient, but purposeful. like he had nowhere to be but here. like every slick, shivery sound she made was carved into his ribs. his fingers curled just right inside her, slow and rhythmic, dragging pleasure from her in long, aching pulls. and his mouth—god, his mouth. open and warm and relentless, lapping at her like it grounded him.

when she finally came, it was with his name on her lips—long and trembling and sacred—and he didn’t stop. just held her through it, kissed her through it, licked her through every last wave until she was gasping, tugging at his hair, whispering, “too much, too much,” even as her hips chased after him.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. his voice was thick with heat, with love. “you’re so good for me, sweetheart,”.

he didn’t pull away right away. no—he pressed slow kisses along her inner thighs, soft and worshipful, fingers still grazing her skin in lazy, grounding strokes. her body was still trembling beneath him, soft and undone, but when she finally opened her eyes, he was already looking up at her. flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with affection and something much deeper.

and when he finally came up for air, chest rising with every breath, mouth still warm from her, he grinned. lazy and smug and in love. his hands smoothed up her sides, easing her into his chest as he kissed the sweat-damp skin at her temple. he nudged her leg open again with his thigh, voice rough as he muttered, “still thinking about the way you sounded when you came for me,”. his fingers trailed along the inside of her knee, then higher, “can i have you now?”.

she gave him a look—already dazed and cushy against his body, but still managing a soft, teasing smirk. “you already had me. but okay,”.

he just grinned, leaned down, and kissed her slow. a kiss that was tongue and heat and the kind of need that burned steady in the chest, sinking deep and winding tight. she melted under him, legs parting wider, fingers sliding back into his hair like it was instinct. his body pressed flush to hers, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

he reached between them, teasing her first—his fingertips slipping through the slick mess he’d made of her, gathering it on his fingers and bringing it up to circle her clit. slow. soft. just enough to make her whimper and arch, to make her eyes flutter open and lock on his like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. “that’s it,” he murmured, watching every shift in her face, every breath she stole. “just like that,”.

when he finally guided himself to her entrance, he didn’t rush. he rocked forward gently, dragging the thick head of his cock through her folds, back and forth, until she was gasping—hips twitching, hands clawing at his back like she couldn’t take another second of teasing. and he loved it. he loved the way she came undone beneath him, the way her body responded to his every move like it was made for him.

he pressed in slow. deep. inch by inch until he was fully settled, both of them gasping at the stretch, the closeness, the overwhelming rightness of it “fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers, one hand braced beside her head, the other holding her hip tight. “you feel so good. always so good for me,”.

he held still for a beat, savoring the way she clenched around him, how warm and wet and perfect she felt. her nails scraped down his back, not to hurt—but to feel. to ground herself in him “please move,” she whispered, voice cracked and pleading.

he did, slowly at first, dragging his cock out until just the tip remained before pushing back in, groaning low as she fluttered around him. she moaned, head tipping back, exposing her throat—and he kissed it, again and again, as he built a rhythm. unhurried. deliberate. aching with intimacy.

he watched her like she was the only thing in the world, every flicker of pleasure, every shiver, every moan feeding something greedy and tender inside him. his hips moved with purpose, grinding deep, rolling into her like he wanted her to feel him for days.

his hands slid down to cup her ass, pulling her into him, making each thrust hit just right. she clung to him, body taut and trembling, mouth parted on soft cries he swallowed with his own. he murmured filth into her skin, love into her mouth, worship into her bones.

“mine,” he growled against her throat, fucking her through the steady build of her next climax. “you’re mine. all of you,”.

her body tightened around him as she came, mouth open in a silent cry, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as the pleasure rippled through her. he held her through it, cursed softly into her skin as he thrust through her release—and then he came too, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside her as he moaned her name like a prayer.

they stayed like that—locked together, slick and shaking and breathless—until the world stopped spinning. his fingers traced patterns along her side, soothing and slow, grounding her again.

“you okay?” he murmured, voice gone rough from their activities.

she nodded, lips curling, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something sweeter. “more than okay,”.

he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower—and whispered against her mouth, “good. because i’m not done with you yet,”.

274 notes View Post
joeyshiesty0
2 months ago

i need more 😫

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates and Ice Packs

Eighth instalment of the forbidden au - lsu!joe x oc

Full AU masterlist here -> ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden

Summary: Daisy is finally forced into Bella's blind date, and Daisy and Joe's arrangement changes even further following the highly anticipated game against Ole Miss.

⋆｡˚ word count: 5.4k

A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out, I've been crazy busy but hoping to get some more parts up in the next few weeks:) Next part may be a big one!

18+ Content. MDNI :). Mentions of drinking, drug use, smoking and sex. ⋆｡˚

The conversation the morning after halloween was a simple one. The rules of the arrangements had been mutually agreed to change, only slightly.

Rule One - It remained the same, no strings and no attachments.

Rule Two - This had been abandoned, they weren't exactly doing a great job of hiding the thing between them anymore. The news of what had happened in the bathroom of the halloween party was the juiciest piece of campus gossip all year and by the following evening it had spread everywhere. Daisy was getting dirty looks from practically every girl on campus, some out of conservative disgust but most out of jealousy. The boy's had also changed the way they looked at her, she didn't like that. They would gawk, and she would shrink into her own skin once again. It made her hide away from the world, spending more time in Joe's room than on campus.

Rule Three - Daisy was still not allowed to wear the 'i'm horny' longhorns t-shirt.

Rule Four - A new one, and the most important. No physical intimacy with other people. The arrangement had become an exclusive one, it felt simpler that way. Joe wasn't bothered about having sex with other women, not when Daisy was available for him whenever he needed her. Daisy wasn't exactly wanting to pursue any other boys either. The whole agreement just felt easier if they kept it between them, and it wasn't because they were developing a forbidden attachment to each other. No. Absolutely not. This was just the best thing for them at this current moment. If they wanted to stop, they could at any time and nothing--no feelings or swelling of the heart would occur.

They lazily shook hands on it as Joe had his heavy hungover arm draped across her bare shoulder as she lay wrapped in his navy duvet. Afterwards, an awkward silence filled the room. Neither of them knowing what to say as the relationship between them went a step beyond what they ever imagined on the first night they met.

Daisy's hushed, raspy voice broke it.

'What now?' She said with her sage eyes looking so deeply in Joe's blue stare. His lips curled only minutely, a sign that he was fighting a bigger grin beneath it.

'We fuck'

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

daisyymoore

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs
౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Blind Dates And Ice Packs

autumn into winter

Liked by jjettas2, lahjay_10 and 739 others

@.cassdaviess: sweet angel girl

-> @.daisyymoore: oh i love you so

@.lahjay_10: loved that pussy!

-> @.daisyymoore: WHAT?!

-> @.lahjay_10: the pumpkin daisy jeez.

5th November 2019

It's a typical midday at the start of a Louisiana, the sun still burns in the sky but a breeze bites at Joe's skin. He sat slouched on the greyish brown wood of the campus quad picnic benches, Justin next to him and Ja'marr opposite. His foot tapped aimlessly against the concrete beneath him, his phone tilted just low enough that he was the only one who could see it. His thumb hovers over the black mirror. He's stuck on her instagram, he always is.

It was a new one, a collection of images from the past few weeks. They felt personal. Handcrafted slides that made his mind run with the idea she might have posted them just for him. The first image he had taken of her when they were in the backyard of his fraternity, a picture he snapped because the wind was dancing through her pretty hair and making her look ethereal. The second image was the pumpkin she had carved across the table from him, a post sex activity which he hadn't been able to stop thinking about. Maybe she couldn't stop thinking about it either? Joe shook away the thoughts, he didn't want to find himself getting carried away in teenage daydreams. The fourth was his fraternity on the night of Halloween, the night the agreement swapped between them. The night the air around him shifted to something heavier, something denser--a tangible emotion that he could feel pulsing against his skin.

It was the fifth image that captured his attention the most.

Her in the LSU campus gym. Flesh bare, stomach tensed, hips cocked. She knew what she was doing, and it pissed him off. He couldn't help but scroll through the list of likers and there was a lot of them. A lot of boys, a lot of college athletes. None of them would be winning the Heisman in just over a months time though, Joe still had that little confidence boost to stop his ego from denting too much. He also had the knowledge that as of almost a week ago, she was his. Just his woman to bed.

He sent her a DM--half joking, half not.

Take this down.

She replied almost instantly.

daisyymoore

Why? a lot of people liked it ;)

Joe closed his eyes and breathed in a slow breathe. She was enjoying this new exclusive thing, she liked the power it gave her to get under his skin. Daisy was aware Joe didn't like her like that, but she knew he didn't like to lose or be second place either. It was fun to toy with him.

Joe locked his phone and placed it face down on the wooden bench and tuned back into the conversation between Justin and Ja'marr. They were talking about the upcoming game against Ole Miss, a big one on the season calendar and a challenge to their undefeated streak. Wind brushed through their hair as orange leaves began to prance across the grey concrete as a symbol of November's quiet arrival and the quickness of time flying by. He heard the clicking and clacking of some heeled shoes and he braced for who it could be. Three college football players sitting at a bench, one woman approaching--it could be a shit show for any of them. Ex lover? One night hook up? No. Thank God.

Cassie slid into the seat beside Ja'marr with a bright grin.

'Hey guys' Her voice was high pitched, full of bubbly energy which the boys failed to match after an intense morning practise. A grumbled mesh of greetings tumbled from their mouths but Cassie didn't let it discourage her.

'How's everyones day going?' Her brights eyes flickered between the three players that slouched on the bench.

'Good, Cass' Ja'marr smiled.

'You never speak to us alone, what do you want?' Justin cuts in straight after, reading his friend like an open book. Cassie's face falters at his bold words but once again she doesn't let it faze her. She was here for a reason and she had spent the past few days building up the confidence to ask them.

'Okay--Okay' She picked at her baby pink acrylic nails, nerves clearly danced, itching at her gentle skin.

'It's Daisy's birthday in two weeks and we're going to Miami--just for a weekend--and I was wondering, if--if maybe you guys wanted to come?' Her words are shy, like halfway through she realised it may not have been the smartest idea. But once the words were out it was too late, and she enjoyed spending time with Justin and Ja'marr, plus Daisy was now exclusive with Joe and she needed to get birthday sex somehow.

'It's her birthday' Joe let's his shocked words slip from his lips. She had never mentioned. That seemed like something she would have mentioned if she wanted him to be there.

'I'm in' Justin says.

'Yeah, fuck it, I'll go to Miami' Ja'marr also agreed.

Cassie beamed a smile, showing off her perfect white teeth. Then waited for Joe to say something, but he was still processing the fact that Daisy hadn't told him about her birthday.

'It's a surprise. She doesn't know. She doesn't like celebrating her birthday really' She tried to reassure him, tried to manipulate him into saying yes.

'Yeah, I guess if i'm free' Joe says cooly. Cassie excitedly claps her hands together at the fact her idea was coming together.

'Can you tell her to come over tonight' Joe cut her celebrations short. His words not a request but a command, his voice stern like Cassie didn't have the option to say no. Daisy hadn't been to Joe's in the past two nights, and his bed was beginning to feel the sweet pain of withdrawal symptoms. She was too busy studying and writing politics essays too come over for even a quickie, even when Joe was borderline begging over the phone last night.

'Ermmm--ha, she can't tonight' Cassie sounded almost scared and that made Joe nervous. The blonde lifted up her hand and scratched the back of her neck as a feeling of awkwardness hung thickly over the picnic table.

'Why?' Joe's voice was low and rough.

Cassie knew she shouldn't break, she knew she was under strict instructions to not let any of the three boys at the table know but under the intense heat of their pointed stares she founder her self crumbling like a poorly baked chocolate chip cookie.

'I ca-can't' She choked out, her throat all of a sudden drying up.

'What is it, Cass?' Ja'marr joined in, his own voice low and intimidating but a playful look on his sculpted face.

'Bella set her up on a blind date. She's meeting him tonight'

Her voice was small. Her lips pushing out a secret she shouldn't have spilled. Once again, she couldn't bring them back into her mind and they had to sit lingering like a storm cloud in the space around Joe's head.

'Whose him?' His words almost come out like a growl, but it's clear he has made some effort to refrain himself. His blonde brows furrow across his strong brow bone. His blue eyes dark and icy. It makes a chill crawl up Cassie's back and her cheeks flush red. She never liked feeling in trouble, and that's how she felt right now. She shrunk back in the bench, her shoulder folding in as she made herself look as small as she felt under the quarterbacks spat question.

'Just a guy Bella knows--I'm really not sure Joe. It's a blind date'

Joe stretched out his neck with a clenched jaw. This wasn't explicitly against the rules, as long as there was no physical intimacy Daisy wouldn't be doing anything wrong. Did he trust that she wouldn't? He wasn't sure. He hadn't had to put his trust in a girl for a very long time, so long he forgot how intense the feeling was. Trust was a fickle thing in the hands of the wrong person.

'She doesn't want to go, if-, if that makes it sting less' Cassie said with a tight lipped smile, a look of sympathy on her face.

'It doesn't sting' His words come out too quick, too sharp. Completely unbelievable to those around him, but Joe believed them. He believed the subtle numbness that clawed at his beating heart was because of his desire to always be number one, his hatred for feeling second best. He still thought he was in control, but slowly he was beginning to realise that when it came to Daisy Moore control didn't exist.

She doesn't want to go. Joe repeated it over and over in his head but if that was the truth why was she going. He didn't believe it. Daisy was too strong of a woman to go somewhere she didn't truly want too. five days. five days since the agreement between them changed and she was going on a date. Was five days all it took for her too realise she made a mistake with him?

Joe got up from the table, not saying another word. Leaving his friends behind as he made hast for the bed sheets that still smelt of her. Sweet peonies and jasmine. Always the same perfume and it lingered in room like gentle pecks of his plump lips.

Tonight, she would wear that scent for another man.

and Joe couldn't do anything to stop her. Or could he?

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Daisy wasn't the type to do blind dates. She had avoided them at all costs, but Bella had given her no choice--springing the date on her on the same day it was happening. The boy, Matthew, had already planned the whole thing and had been telling her how excited he was to go on the date. Daisy couldn't stand him up, she thought about it, but every time the image of a lonely boy sat eating alone in an overpriced restaurant would cloud her mind. A pang of sadness would rattle through her ribs and she knew she couldn't do it.

So here she sat across from a nice boy with sweeping brunette curls and kind hazel eyes, eating her main course in a restaurant just outside of Baton Rouge that tried to hard to look like it wasn't trying at all. The lighting around them was dim in a deliberately warming way -- cream candles with an amber flame flickered in the centre, filling the space between them. The walls were a deep red colour filled with black and white framed portraits of people who had visited, or perhaps they were just stock images taken from the internet. Daisy didn't pay enough attention to them to know the definite answer. The bar behind them was stretched long and brass-trimmed, almost industrial looking. A low humble jazz beat played out quietly around them and the other filled tables.

The blind date was going quite pleasantly. Daisy even found herself laughing a couple of times. Matthew's company wasn't something she hated and as much as it pained her to admit, Bella had picked someone who matched her pretty well. She could see them being friends. Nothing more. She was already in a complicated enough situation with Joe and she didn't need to bring a guy like Matthew into something like that. Matthew knew it too, the date was going well but they lacked the initial spark all future lovers have. But, they could still have a good time.

Daisy listened to Matthew's stories as she tapped her fingers against the drink in her hand when she felt a buzz vibrate on the table. Her phone. Not Matthew's. She let out a hushed sorry before quickly glancing at it.

Joe

how's that date going

Daisy rolled her eyes, she knew he knew because Cassie came back to the dorm in a frantic state and acting as if she had just committed the greatest betrayal in the history of the universe. Daisy was expecting these messages, she just assumed they would start halfway through the first course rather than the second. He outlasted her expectations.

She gave a quick reply before putting her phone face down on the table.

Daisy

it's fine

It was five minutes later when her phone buzzed again and this time she was thankful Matthew had just gotten up to go to the bathroom so she could respond without feeling guilty.

Joe

that bad?

Daisy

it isn't bad, he's sweet.

Joe

if you wanted sweet you wouldn't be fucking me.

speaking of,

you coming straight over to me after it's over?

Daisy scoffed. Joe's arrogance was hiding his insecurity and she knew that, but she was in no mood to argue. She also wanted to be back in his bed sheets. It had been a few days now and her body missed him. It missed the way he made her body feel. All that pleasure. She breathed away the heat that pricked over skin, she shouldn't be thinking about Joe and the thing he could do while waiting for another man to come back to the table.

Daisy

yes joey.

Joe

then end it. quickly.

Daisy couldn't reply as Matthew entered her peripheral vision. A cheery grin on his almost golden skin. She hated that he was so nice. It was going to make what she had to do next so much more painful. Once he sat, she got right to it. then end it quickly, Joe's message was all she could think about.

'I'm so sorry, I'm feeling quite faint. I think it's something I ate' She began, then gave the acting performance of her life. Within ten minutes she was out the restaurant and in an uber to Joe's place. She didn't tell him that, she didn't send Joe a text that she was on her way over. Did she want to surprise him? No. Did she want to see the light in his eyes as he locked his eyes on her, the way his cheeks bunched up and the corners of his eyes crinkled? No, of course not. Did she want the feel the rush of warmth that pooled in her stomach and rushed over every muscle in her body? Maybe she did.

She rushed out the Uber, slamming the door and borderline running to the heavy set doors of the fraternity. It was Wednesday night and that meant there was a chance all the fraternity brothers would be lingering around, they would see her as she dashed up the stairs and too his room. She didn't care. She didn't even think about that.

She pushed her way through, ignoring everyone she past. She was being quick, just like he had instructed.

She didn't bother to knock.

She spent so much time there, the room almost felt like her own these days.

She walked in, casually. Not wanting him to know how much effort she had put into getting here. The light panting of her ragged breath let him know though. And he loved that.

Joe was laying on his bed shirtless, his blonde hair messy and a muscular arm behind his bed as he scrolled on his phone, but he dropped it when the door of his bedroom opened and closed.

and there she was.

His Daisy.

He couldn't help but like the way that sounded in his head, even though he knew he shouldn't.

His eyes watched her. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the cold night, or maybe the wine she had drank. He could tell it was red because her lips were stained like cherries. Her long hair was wavy and windswept, small strands lay around her face messily like they always did when she stopped caring about what it looked like. Her heels were held in her hand beside her. Her dress was short but not too tight, a simple sleek navy colour and made of a silk material. Silver jewellery decorated her bare arms and a strange pang his Joe's chest. She had made an effort for the guy. He could see that. Daisy always makes an effort. Joe's own voice of reason reassured him.

'You wore that for another guy' Joe can't help but make a childish jab, but it makes Daisy smile. It makes her feel comfortable. She placed her shoes down in the corner of the room, next to his training back like she usually did. Joe didn't even realise he started leaving a space there for her. Then she crawled into his bed, taking her place under the arm he had behind his head. Her bare shoulders touching his bare chest. The connection is stinging them both, but neither of them realise it.

Joe looked over her face. Her eyeliner was smudged ever so slightly at the corners, her lip liner was worn off and there were crease lines under her eyes. The guy had made her laugh--many times. Joe could tell. He knew the worn lip liner was from the food and not the guys lips. It was unspoken, and he didn't have to ask. Trust. Not such a fickle thing this evening. He relaxed and let his arm drop around her shoulders, not too tightly, just lazily. His thumb lightly brushed her skin in little circles. She moved closer.

Then she told him all about it, and Joe didn't even mind. In fact, he quite enjoyed hearing about her night and how she had actually had a pretty good time. The guy, Matthew, had treated her well but there was nothing more. Joe felt relieved at that.

Then as the night went on, she stripped down and so did he. Gentle, lazy and tired sex consumed them before them found themselves asleep next to each other like usual.

Daisy didn't leave Joe's place much for the next nine days, only ever to go to class or grab some clothes from her dorm. She liked it there, and Joe liked having her around. They weren't friends, but they were something.

She still never mentioned her birthday to him. and that, for some unexplainable reason, made him feel like shit.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Ole Miss.

It was a big game.

and since finding out that Justin was leaving college after this year, Daisy realised she needed to start watching him play. So here she was, alongside Cassie and Bella in the packed stands of Death Valley. A white jersey with Jefferson across the back sat across her torso. Joe might flip. At least Bella had said he would. Cassie said he might. Daisy wasn't really even thinking about it. Justin is Joe's friend, surely his jealousy wasn't so shallow.

But when he spotted her in the crowd, sitting where she had told him she was going to sit and he saw that the number on the jersey was not his, all he could do was shake his head. His featured freezing over with a coldness she wasn't used to seeing from him. She almost ripped the cloth from her skin and threw it in the bin. Guilt clawing at her throat. If they lose tonight it's my fault, she told herself over and over. She didn't pray often, but she did in that moment. Her hand clasped together in front of her.

'Please God, let him win' She whispered so that Bella and Cassie couldn't hear her. Not that they would be able to over the noise of the student crowd.

The air was electric, thick with a humid southern heat and the kind of noise that made your bones hum deep beneath your flesh. Purple and white lights lit up the stadium, pockets of red clashing against them as the Ole Miss supporters filled in some seats. Daisy liked it, inside stadiums. She had many years of practice.

When the game began, her eyes could only focus on Joe. She tried to keep glancing at Justin but it was like they were magnetised on number nine. He looked unreal from where she stood, not just talented--but almost mythical. The white of his jersey clung to him in sharp creases and sweat. His long fingers flexed around the laces of the ball like it was part of him, a simple extension of his arm. A biological piece of his body. Every moment was like he was firing a dart at a board and hitting bullseye every time. Such poise even under the pressure.

She couldn't help herself. Somewhere in the middle of the noise around them, she joined in on the constant screaming of his name with the strangers who didn't know him the way she did. This all felt familiar, she had done this with Lucas but them thoughts didn't control her mind the way she thought they would have. He was merely a passing thought like came and went within seconds. Then Joe would replace them. Was that good or bad? She couldn't tell, but she didn't let herself dwell on it.

He scored his own touchdown at one point. He didn't look for her though. Of course he didn't. He was so beyond pissed, but at least they weren't losing. At least that wouldn't be her fault.

After halftime, something happened.

The play only took seconds, but to Daisy, it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Joe was going down, but the Ole Miss linebacker didn't care. A cheap shot. A wrecking ball with a grudge, helmet low, and his padded shoulders square with a raging tension.

The hit was bone deep, the noise of it seemed to silence the stadium or maybe that was just in Daisy's head. People around her gasped, and outrage began to pour in from the LSU fans. Joe met the hard ground with a terrifying force, his body bouncing almost limply. His helmet bouncing against the floor.

Was he moving?

Daisy's blood ran cold. She clutched at her chest with an open jaw. Shock overtook every fibre of her being. She stood on her tiptoes trying to get the best view of what was happening. They weren't showing him on the screen. That was a bad sign.

Tiptoes wasn't enough.

She pushed through the crowd and made her way the front of the stands. Her usually delicate fingers gripped onto the cold white railing with a terror filled force. She could see him, he was writhing around on the floor in pain, but at least he was moving. Medics rushed over to him. Ole Miss and LSU players clashed against each other, she saw Ja'marr getting in one of the red jersey's faces but she couldn't pay that much attention. She, in this moment, only cared about Joe.

She watched as a medic helped him sit up. His movements more careful and slow than she was used to seeing, like every inch of his body hurt. Like air was stripped away from his lungs and his ribs filled with a excruciating pain as he tried to pull himself together. She watched his slow breaths in and out. She wished she could gift him more oxygen.

Joe pulled his helmet off. His red flushed face and messy hair exposed for the crowd to see. No blood. That was a good sign. Daisy let out the faintest breath, like it was too soon for her to fully relax. Joe looked around, taking sips of water as he gained some of the strength that had been knocked out of him back.

and then--somehow--he found her.

Daisy didn't know if he was trying too. She wasn't in the original spot he knew she was sitting at, and yet somehow, even a hundred yards away, he still found her. The stands around her were a blur of purple and gold, thousands of people clapping and chanting his name. When they met each others eyes, it felt like that all faded away.

Joe saw her there, gripping onto the railing like it was her only lifeline. The concern on her face rattled him more than the tackle had. It was enough to make him forgive her for the stupid fucking jersey she was wearing. stupid. fucking. jersey. He shook away that jealousy, and instead he clenched his jaw but softened his gaze. He gave Daisy a nod, the reassurance she needed that he was okay.

a silent don't worry about me across a green football field.

Daisy let her breathes free, and the grip on the railing loosen. She watched from that spot for a few more minutes, then she went back to her seat. Joe went back to the huddle like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Something between them.

After they won the game, Daisy had still been expecting Joe to ice her out so it was surprising when he swaggered over to where she had been standing by the railing during the match. It surprised her even more when he waved her to come down and speak to him.

'You scared me' She told him. She had to get it off her chest. Joe held his hands hooked on the front of his padding making his biceps look oh so deliciously big. His hair was a mess but Daisy liked that, it made him look manly. He cocked his head back with an air of arrogance and looked into her big green eyes, ones which seemed to glow even brighter under the stadium lights. His skin was glowy and sticky with sweat and effort.

'Payback for that stupid fuckin' jersey' He chirped, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. For the first time, it really seemed like Joe didn't care who was watching. Media was here, fans were listening in but he wasn't paying them any attention. All his focus was on Daisy.

'Justin's just a friend you know' Daisy's response wasn't joking, it was serious. Like she needed to make sure Joe understood that, to put an end to this weird tension that seemed to be brewing between the teammates.

'I know, doesn't mean I like it though' Joe shrugged with an unapologetic truth slipping through his cracked lips. Daisy could only nod, stumped as to how she could reply to his honesty. Joe didn't give her the chance too.

'You coming back with me, I need someone to ice my ribs' That smug smirk drew back across his face. Daisy laughed, like an actual laugh before nodding her head with her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. A subtle blush rising onto her cheeks.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The bathroom light buzzed overhead, casting a dull yellow glow that made everything around them seem so warm and comforting--even the chipped tile and toothbrush stains on the mirror. Joe's boxers and dirty clothes laid out on the floor from when he hasn't put them in the laundry basket.

Joe stood shirtless in front of the skin, his sweatpants dangerously low on his hips and his arms stretched up as he assessed the damage of the forming bruises that scattered all across his back and torso. It was the hardest hit he had ever taken. Some light swelling surrounded his ribs, the medic said he needed rest but he should be okay for the next game in two weeks.

Daisy quietly came in the door behind him, carrying a ziploc bag filled with ice and a weary look on her face as she took in his bruising. Joe met her weary eyes in the stained mirror. She was in his LSU hoodie that was three sized too big, her face bare and her hair pulled back from her face in a low bun. She was unfairly beautiful, and very tired.

'I can do it' Joe told her.

She shook him off. 'I want too.'

She took a step closer, moving to be in front of him. The air between them was so quiet. She gently grazed her fingers over the bruising, Joe jolted -- not in pain, just at the feeling of her caress. When she carefully pushed the ice pack to his skin, he winced.

'Stay still.' She told him.

This was the most intimate thing they had done. Joe knew it. Daisy knew it. The air around them knew it too. Both of their hearts pounding in their chests as they did something so close. Both their guards fully lowered to the ground, they never did that. They never let each other in this much.

Joe looked down to her -- at the way she was chewing on her plump baby pink lips in a deep concentration, like she was scared she was going to break him. Her hands were steady, but he could feel just how tense she was. She was trying to tell herself this didn't mean anything, but they both knew it did.

'I'll be okay' Joe's words come out quieter than he wants, so soft and endearing unintentionally.

'I didn't like watching that happen to you.' Her own words came out in a stark rawness.

He reached out and brushed a stray hair behind her ear before he could realised the intimacy of the action, Daisy froze moving the ice pack back from his torso in shock. Joe committed to his action, letting his hand cup the soft cheeks of her face.

'I imagine you felt the way I felt when I got that call from you in the bathroom stall'

'I don't know, you'd have to tell me how that made you feel Joe' Her response startled him, she was asking him to tell her how he felt. What are we? but in a different font and that scared him. He dropped his hand from her cheek and looked away back into the mirror. Daisy placed the ice back on his bare skin. She knew he wouldn't answer her. She wouldn't have answered him either.

Some things were best left lingering in blissful ignorance.

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joeyshiesty0
2 months ago

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden - Championship Tears.

Tenth instalment of the forbidden au - lsu!joe x oc

Full AU masterlist here -> ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Forbidden

Summary: Joe plays in the SEC Championship game while Daisy watches on from the stands in his jersey, and Joe plucks up the courage to ask her a question that has been dancing on his mind.

⋆｡˚ word count: 7.0k

18+ Content. MDNI :). Mentions of drinking, drug use, smoking and sex. ⋆｡˚

Since getting back from Miami everything seemed to be falling into place. Daisy and Joe were closer than ever before, starting to do things outside the realm of their beds and going out into the baton rouge streets. They were going out for dinner, going to the movie theatre, she would sit in the stands during his training sessions while doing some studying simply because the thought of not being close to him was unbearable. And the sex...the sex had become something so much more. Something gentle and hungry, passionate and loving, fiery and timid. It became something meaningful.

Never did she think they would become like this. Not when she met him in that fraternity kitchen drunk and moody, when he couldn't stand her and she couldn't stand him, that they would turn out this way. Their lives so intertwined and so deeply connected thinking of the time he wasn't in her life was difficult--and painful.

Two weeks.

That's how long they had lived in this blissful paradise where only the two of them seemed to exist.

But right now, that paradise was a state away.

Today was the SEC championship game between LSU and Georgia, and for the first time this season Daisy had made the commute to an away game. She couldn't not be here, and Joe wanted her in the stands more than he wanted to win. In his birthday present, Burrow written in bold across her back like she belonged to him because she did.

The dome was alive.

Mercedes-Benz Stadium pulsed with light and noise, a pressure cooker of anxious fans and family waiting for the coin toss to begin. The noise bounced off the walls like a thunder that never quite faded. Purple and gold flags rippled through the LSU fan section where Daisy sat beside Cassie and Bella. All three of them in the famous baton rouge colours. The night was biting in the early December temperature, but under the stadium lights the air felt hot and humid. Daisy sat a few rows back from the front in the oversized white jersey she had been gifted. The front of it tucked lightly into her distressed denim miniskirt and a thick oversized leather bomber jacket across her shoulders to shield her from any frost in the air. Her hair was half up, half down and slicked back into a purple bow at the back of his head, like she had done when she was cheerleader.

She had been thinking about returning to it in junior year, auditioning in the spring. Jada wouldn't be on the team anymore next year but she would be picking her replacement and team leaders so Daisy knew there was a good chance she could be taken back, especially since she owed her a favour from homecoming.

A coors light can was lodged between her fingers and she took light sips from it to try and calm her anxiety. The journey here she had been a ball of nerves, constantly picking away at the skin around her freshly done purple acrylic nails. Her pinky nail had a small number nine drawn on the tip in white, Joe had told her to do it. He thought it was going to bring him luck for the game but Daisy knew he didn't need it, nevertheless it was on there.

Georgia was a good team, a valiant threat but the tigers hadn't lost all season and they couldn't start tonight--not when it meant to so much. The sea of red in the opposite stands was like a breathing fire, loud and relentless, inextinguishable. Heavy marching bands and drums pounded out like war songs.

There was not an empty seat within the stadium by the time the coin toss took place. Everyone was on their feet, Daisy stood both proudly and nervously in her deep brown cowboy boots as she watched.

Please God, I know i'm not your greatest servant, but let him win.

She prayed. Her sage eyes glancing briefly at the sky above. Please.

The white jersey stuck to him, number 9 on his chest like it was his armour. His white helmet reflected the lights as he called out his his offensive line, his voice sharp and steady as he prepared for the opening snap of the game.

Daisy's heart rose.

Joe hunched over waiting.

The air in the stadium paused. Every thing hanging in a frozen limbo for three seconds. Sucked in breaths held in the chests of thousands.

Then he had the ball in his hands.

The game began.

The field surged around him--Georgia's line breaking through like wolves, closing in on him and fast. Joe didn't flinch. He stepped up into the pockets of free space he had been gifted, his shoulder dipping as he avoided being hit by the opposing players. Pressure snapped at his ankles but he kept his focus downfield, on what he had spent the whole season practicing. He saw his man and he let the cannon fire. A spiral so clean it, cutting through the air like a knife through butter. It was the kind of pass that hung in the sky for a heartbeat too long, too perfect as it dropped straight into the hands of Justin with a precision that caused the LSU stand to erupt in ecstasy. The sideline too. The coaches threw there arms in the air and teammates swarmed. An opening touchdown from an incredible throw but it was Joe Burrow, could anyone expect anything less.

But to Daisy, it wasn't Joe Burrow. It was the boy she knew. The one who slouched lazily in her dorm room playing uno with her roommate while she studied, the one who had let her ice his bruises in a small bathroom. The one who had taken her to Mcdonald's at one am after the worst performance of his life just because she hadn't eaten that day. It was her Joe, who had just done that.

Pride swelled him her chest as she cheered up and down, arm and arm with Cassie and Bella.

Joe tugged his helmet off as the play reset, his jaw tight and ticking, tanned face flushing under the lights. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, neck gleaming but he lifted up his chin. He was looking for her. Through the thousands in the sea of purple and gold, he looked for her. Camera's flashed off to the side, capturing him from all angles. Coaches shouted for him, but he couldn't pay any attention to that--not until he saw her in his jersey, saw that she was actually here and safe, watching him.

As the seconds trailed on he began to feel his heartbeat quicken, still his blue eyes hadn't landed on her face.

But then they did and of course she was already looking at him.

They met. Just for a moment no longer than a breath.

A smile curled at his lips. He held up his hand and tapped at this nail of his pinky finger. A quick symbol. A quick thank you from him to her. She had caused that throw. She was bringing him all the luck in the world and Joe knew, with her in the stands that there was no way he would lose this game.

Daisy smiled back at him. Rubbing the pinky nail he was referring too in between the thumb and index finger of her other hand as if it was a genies lamp capable of granting three wishes. If it was she knew what she would wish for.

Joe's victory.

Joe's lips.

Joe's heart.

Although, she knew she wouldn't need a wish for the first two. The third one, she was still undecided on. He seemed to like her, but he was a frat boy--you never truly know with them.

The game kept going. Noise surged back flooding into her ears. It never quietened to anyone else but Daisy.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The final minutes of the game ticked down like they were being dragged against gravity. So painfully slow. The whole stadium holding there breathe as if the history hadn't already been made.

LSU was winning.

Winning big.

The scoreboard showed it off in bold red lines. 37 - 10.

When the final whistle blew. The stadium erupted. Grown men in golden body paint screamed and cried, beer was tossed in the skies above them like rice at a wedding. Such untouchable happiness that would never die.

Daisy felt numb. Her legs paralysed as she watched Joe collapse the his knees on the field. Sure, she had watched him win before but this was different, this was heavier. Tears of joy welled in her eyes, she hadn't been expecting herself to find it so emotional. Everyone else around her was cheering but she couldn't cheer, she could only watch.

Joe was walking the field, helmet held firmly under his tense bicep. He was surrounded by a sea of plays and coaches and tv camera, microphones being shoved into his face. He spoke to them with sweat laced blonde curls and a strong voice, he was being played on the big screens. And she watched. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

Purple, cold and white confetti poured from the skies. It stuck in his hair and to the sheen on his skin, his mouth curled as he tried to pull it off. He was so happy. Daisy was so happy watching him be so happy. Warmth swan in the centre of her chest. Flutters radiated through her stomach.

Joe pulled away from the reporters around, cameras still following him and he looked for her. He nodded his way through the slaps on his back and handed off his helmet to a member of the training staff. He couldn't see her in the seats where she had been.

No. She wasn't there.

He moved fast across the green grass.

She was moving too.

She slipped out of Justin's hug on the field and moved past him. Her heartbeat was louder in her chest than the music blaring around the stadium.

They met in the end zone--breathless, flushed, her hands shaking from the cold or was it from him.

Joe looked at her with wide eyes, his jersey grass stained, his face covered in a glow of hard work. The real trophy of tonight was in front of him.

'Congratulations, Joe' Her voice was so sweet it almost hurt him to hear because the ache it caused was so intense. He couldn't handle it, so he did the only thing that would ease the ache. He did the only thing he needed to do.

He cupped her cheeks and brought her lips to his. He didn't even think it through, but when he felt the white flash of a camera through his closed eyes he pulled back.

He shouldn't have done it. Not here. But he hadn't been thinking about anything but her.

'Fuck--I'm sorr-' He began.

'It's okay, really' She soothed.

For the first time that evening, Joe let the grin break fully across his face. A grin which was boyish, tired and full of every emotion he had carried with him to Atlanta, Georgia.

He threw his arm over her shoulder and guided her through the sea of people and towards the tunnel.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

'Wait, no Daisy you look so good' Bella teased as she held up the photo's the journalists had taken two days ago in Georgia on her phone screen. Specifically the one of her and Joe walking through the sea of people.

She groaned as she covered her face with her hoodie covered palms as she lay sprawled across the soft white couch of Bella's off campus apartment. Cassie giggled from beside her and Aalia, Bella's roommate laughed as well. They never really spent time here, and Aalia had a completely separate group of friends so nights like this were a rare, but special, occasion. A complete girls night in the comfort of a plush modern apartment rather than a tight and humid dorm room.

'Can you not, this isn't a good thing. I've had to private my fucking instagram' Daisy huffed. It was true, since the photo's got published she had gained a few hundred new followers and received a few DMs from Joe's fans. It was strange, and felt invasive. She had to shut it down before anything more could happen.

'Your instagram. How ever will you cope?' Aalia jibed sarcastically from the fluffy pink bean bag in the centre of the living room floor. Daisy just rolled her eyes.

'Are you guys dating now or what?'

'What?' Daisy looked at Bella like she had grown two heads and a tail. 'No. Of course not'

'I'm sorry. Is it not reasonable to ask if you're dating a boy who just publicly kissed you on national television?'

Daisy covered her face again, hiding the redness and embarrassment that swept beneath it.

'She had a point, Dais' Cassie spoke softly.

'It's not that its unreasonable, it's just--uhh' Daisy struggled to put it into words what she was feeling.

'Do you have feelings for him?' Aalia asked.

'Yes' Daisy quietly responded, just loud enough so everyone could hear but not loud enough that it felt like a real admission.

'Does he have feeling for you?' Bella asked.

'I don't know' Daisy shrugged honestly. She though he did, he acted like he did but how could she know for certain.

'He does, Ja'marr told me Joe always talks about you. Ja'marr thinks he could be in love with you' Cassie said as she picked at her nails from beside Daisy on the couch.

The air was sucked from Daisy's lungs.

'When are you speaking with Ja'marr?' Bella looked at Cassie with a scowled brow and a squinted look.

'We text' Cassie shrugged.

'Since when' Bella tossed her head to the side in shock.

'Since we were thrown into a dysfunctional friend group of six where you fucked Justin then developed some weird awkward sibling relationship, where Daisy and Joe are so clearly fucking in love but won't ever do anything about it because he's leaving to god knows where in four months and Justin is realising that he might actually be in love with Daisy as well but--' Cassie slapped her hand over her mouth and paled. Her ferocious rambling coming to an abrupt stop as everyone in the rooms mouths dropped.

Daisy's head snapped to her. So much information to take in.

In love. Leaving.

Daisy never spent much time thinking about was was going to happen in a few months when Joe up and left college for the NFL draft and then embarked on a brutal pre-season training regime. She'd never let her mind wander to that far in the future but now it was here on her doorstep, banging on the wood trying to get into her mind.

Her heart thrummed against her caged chest with a rapid pace.

Justin.

'What' Daisy croaked out through her now dry lips. Her throat clogged with a lump.

'I wasn't--shit--I was told not to say anything' Cassie winced at herself. 'Justin told Ja'marr that, that he thinks he cares about you more than a friend should'

Joe could never find out. Never. That would destroy everything. This had to be kept quiet just until they were no longer teammates, until the season was done and the national title had been won. Everything was temporary now. The whole friendship between the six of them, it was all destined to crumble to the ground and turn to an ash they would simply mourn.

'Welp. Sucks to be you guys' Aalia said with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the palms of her hands on her knees and then standing up, walking in the direction of the kitchen to grab a bottle of dark cherry red liquid.

Daisy bit at her nails. Her mind still running wild with...well, with everything.

'You can't tell Joe' Cassie grumbled. 'Not now, not yet'

'I know, Cass' and Daisy did, more than Cassie even knew.

'This is so beyond fucked' Bella huffed, sinking back into her seat.

Daisy couldn't stop thinking about all the small moments between her and Justin, that she hadn't even bothered to dwell on before. It was like a third eye was opening in the centre of her forehead and she was seeing everything in a clear light.

Them moments, like when he helped her on the field after the SEC championship and pulled her into a warm embrace, or when he dropped by her dormitory with game tickets and a Jefferson jersey. When he jumped up off the couch first in Miami when she asked if they were coming to the beach. Maybe the most obvious sign she missed was when he would text her late at night asking what she was doing, or if they could hang out. Most of the time she said no, but there were times when she said yes. And he would come over, freshly showered near drowning in sandalwood scented cologne and sitting on her bed with her talking and talking and talking about anything.

All them times Joe had been jealous of Justin, and she had so valiantly defended him. How had she missed it? All them signs seemed clear as day now in the hindsight that was 20/20.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Daisy was spread out under the soft covers of Joe's bed. Her head pounding and her throat dry. Yesterday had been his birthday party, and a combined championship celebration at the fraternity which meant thing had gotten pretty out of control. So much alcohol. So much spilt beer. So much grinding against each other. Half of the night was a blur, a black void of forgotten moments that both her and Joe were paying the price for this morning.

'Happy birthday' Daisy turned over and placed a delicate kiss on his cheek. Joe groaned and stirred, his own head pulsing with a harsh and painful beating. His lazy eyes looked over her messy hair and clean skin, a breath of fresh air in the musk of his fraternity bedroom. He would never get used to the sight of her in the morning, when she woke up all disheveled from being roughly fucked only hours earlier. Her smile so sweet and sickly, her eyes so bright yet tired. He ran his hand through her hair, playing with the lightly curled ends as he looked at her with adoration.

'thank you, cub'

She beamed at the nickname that seemed to stick.

'I got you a present' Daisy bit her bottom lip to hide her smile. 'Give me one second and it will be ready' then she ran off into the bathroom leaving the underneath of Joe's arm cold from her quick departure.

After a couple minutes, Daisy called out from the bathroom through a slit in the door.

'Close your eyes'

'No. Dais- what are yo-'

'Close your eyes' She said more sternly, and then he shut them.

He heard her bare feet walk out onto the bedroom floor, he heard the creak and then the click of the bathroom door. Then, she cleared her throat giving a signal that he could open his eyes. and he did. and then he closed them again. Multiple times at a quick pace. He tried to blink away the vision in front of him because there was no way it could be real. Heaven could not be stood in his room.

but it was.

She was.

Daisy was stood in black lace lingerie, the bralette see through. The thong connected to guarders wrapped around her soft thighs. Lace stockings landing just beneath them. Her puffy lips bitten between her white teeth. Her sage eyes glossed over in a hungry nervousness and suddenly his hangover was cured. He had been touched by a miracle in the form of the pretty flower in front of him.

'holy shit'

'You like it' Daisy twirled, lingering a second longer on the behind view so Joe could see her ass in the thong.

'Come'ere' Joe egged her over with a flick of his head. He was already hard beneath his boxers and he yearned to feel her skin pressed against him.

It hadn't even been six hours since they last had sex, but that amount of time still felt too long.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The sound of slapping skin and passionate moans hung in the dense air around them. Joe took Daisy from behind, pulling on her hair as she arched for him. One hand guiding her every movement down his stiff length. He left the stocking and guarders on, but he ripped off the bra and thong only moments after she had put them on. He liked the stockings. He liked the stockings a lot.

'Mmm, Joey' She moaned, her eyes fluttering closed.

'That's it, baby. You like getting fucked like this?'

'Mmhmm' She moaned again as Joe upped the pace of his thrusts. Sweat beading on his forehead and a warm glow shining across Daisy's back.

'That's my girl. No one else will ever make you feel like this y'know. Just me, cub, just me'

Joe brought his hand to her dripping core, touching her sensitive area. The stimulation made Daisy's legs shake and lock in unfathomable pleasure. She knew he was right. Know one else could make her feel like this because Joe was one of one in every capacity.

It was only moments later she felt the intensity of her climax while she screamed out into the pillow beneath her face. Joe came around two minutes later. He moaned her name. He always did when he came, and Daisy still couldn't get used to such a sweet sound.

When they came down from the highs of their orgasms, they lay beside each other, their legs intertwined and tangled. Naked flesh against naked flesh. The room was dim, washed in the golden light of winter sun which made everything around them look like a dream. The soft sheets were messy at their waists, the air still warm with the smell of sex and the faint hint of salt on their warm skin. Joe had one arm beside his head while the other wrapped around her petite frame and traced absent-minded love hearts on her shoulder. Daisy's hair fell softly against his arm, her lashes low but her eyes not quite closed as she embraced his soothing touch. Joe stared at her like he was trying to memorise ever small detail on her perfect skin, and maybe he was or maybe he had done that already.

He swallowed once, his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth and a lump of nerves forming in his throat. He had been thinking about asking her something the past few days and now, in this light, on this morning he had decided it was time to be a man and do it.

'Cub' He said softly, a voice in the back of his clouded head yelling at him to stop before he couldn't take what he was about to say back.

Daisy turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. Her expression was open, sleepy and a small bit curious.

'I want you to come with me' He murmured, like it was hard for him to say and it was. 'To the Heisman'

Daisy's brows lifted in both surprise and awe. She had never expected this, never in a million years did she think these words would fall out of his mouth.

'You want me there?' She whispered, her voice so low and breathy like she his invite was so fragile she was scared she may break it.

Joe looked at her--he really looked at her.

'I want you with me, not just there'

The words came out more vulnerable than he had planned. Daisy stared at him and something moved behind her eyes -- an echo of every moment they'd held back from saying what this really was between them. This was as close as Joe would ever come to telling her that this was something more than what it had started out as. His family would be there, and she would sit beside them. He would win the trophy and she would watch from the audience. Then he would give a speech, and maybe he would mention her. Finally, he would make his way back to her and place a kiss on her cheek, invite her beside him to take a photo with the most prized possession of his career so far. This meant something. This meant more than anything.

'Are you sure?' Daisy gave him another chance to take this all back, maybe it was the post sex euphoria that was making him feel this way and as soon as he came down from it, he would change his mind.

'I'm sure' Joe stuck by his word.

'People will talk' Daisy spoke the plain truth, one which Joe was already aware of. Media would be there and they would print it in the press that she was his girlfriend. She would be publicly claimed for all of America to see, and he would be seen as off the market.

'Let em'

Joe didn't care about what anyone else had to say, he just cared to make sure that Daisy would be there by his side on the greatest night of his life. Both of their pulses drummed against their necks. The gravity of Joe's words pulling at Daisy, the world around her seemed to tilt.

This was Joe telling her--i'm happy to be known as yours.

This was Joe asking her--are you happy to be known as mine?

Daisy let out a trembled breath, just a little one.

'Okay, I'll come'

Joe didn't smile, not fully but the corners of his lips curled. His eyes softened in a way that felt so much deeper. Grateful. A little bit relieved that she had said yes. He didn't know what he would have done if she had said no. He leaned forwards and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Then they stayed in that moment for a short while, in the warmth of his words and the cover of his duvet. Their bodied curved into each other like a perfect puzzle.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

The rest of the week Daisy's excitement built and built. She went dress shopping with Bella and Cassie in New Orleans, and she managed to find the perfect skin tight deep silver dress that was equal parts sexy and classy, elegant and sultry. Joe had begged to see it while she straddled him in his bedroom when she got back but she refused to let him, she wanted it to be a surprise for the ceremony in just over a few days time.

Them few days seemed to be lingering on for too long.

The classroom buzzed softly -- the bright fluorescent white lights overhead, the occasional rustle of snuck in snacks and the turning of notebook pages. The professors voice faded into the background, monotone against Daisy's thoughts as she sat beside a bored and uncomfortable Bella who still had her sunglasses on due to the rager she went to last night.

Daisy sat beside her, her back straight against the uncomfortable blue plastic chairs. One hand curled around her pen as she tapped lightly against the table. Her eyes focusses on the clock in the centre of the blank white wall. It ticked in a slow cruelty. Every second stretching so longingly. She bounced her leg under the desk. Only five minutes of class left before she can race across campus back into Joe's bed.

When class ended, she scrambled to pack away her belongings as rows of students exited from the back of the hall. But then--she was interrupted.

'Hey, you're Daisy Moore right?' The words came out the thin red lips of a stunning red headed girl. Freckles spreading all across her cheeks and piercing blue eyes. She was petite and pale. Her striking hair wafted over her shoulder in waves that were too perfect to be accidental. She smiled, but behind it there was a secret. Daisy could see it, but she didn't know what it was and her stomach churned with a fear she may be about to find out.

Daisy's brows pulled together with caution while Bella too turned her head to the red head in curiosity. 'Yeah' Daisy breathed.

The girl nodded like she had known the answer already, her gaze shifted to one of guilt and sympathy. She shifted, looking at Daisy's notebook, then back to her.

'You're dating Joe Burrow?'

Daisy for a beat froze, then she shook her head.

'No.' She croaked out as the cold, villainous hands of anxiety wrapped around her throat. 'We're--we're um friends'

For a moment, it seemed like relief washed across the red head's face and she debated her next decision through her mind. Daisy watched, she could see the cogs in her head turning.

Don't tell me. Please. Don't tell me. Daisy thought because she knew there was only one thing that could be coming in a conversation like this. Bella grabbed her friends hand reassuringly because she too knew what bomb was about to land in the middle of the lecture hall.

'Right. Well. Just in case' The red head readied up the weapon in her mouth.

'It's just, I saw him kiss you after the Georgia game and I just thought you should know that a few--' She hesitated like it was painful to say. 'A few weeks back, he had been messaging me--you know, late at night, um sexting me and I replied because I had no idea about you. I'm sorry, I really am, I just--even if you're not together I though you should know'

'How long ago?' Bella asked because Daisy could not speak. The world around her came tumbling and crashing, burning it's way to the ground.

'When he was out of state--for the game against Arkansas'

That made the world simply explode into grey ash that could never be put back together. He had done this after Miami. A few days after. Was it the second he left the state, was that when he was on the phone to another girl begging her for nude images and then tugging himself away to her. Bile rose up in Daisy's throat. She was going to throw up at the thought of him.

'Cunt' Bella spat from beside Daisy.

'Thank you, for telling me' Daisy could only whisper her words to the red head who had just destroyed her. It wasn't her fault but she still couldn't bring herself to look at her. The pain was too fresh and too raw for her to stare at.

When the girl had left, and so had pretty much all of the other students -- Daisy opened up the flood gates. The tears spilled over her waterline and cascaded down her cheeks. Bella pulled her into a warm hug, one which she so desperately needed and she sobbed against the cotton fabric of her friends t-shirt. Bella held her like she was paper, fragile and crushable all at once. She held her like she was scared to let her go. How could Joe have done this? She thought but she knew how, because he was a frat boy with only half a cold dead heart. Lucas was the same, they were all the fucking same. Joe had Daisy fooled, he had everyone fooled because even Bella had believed that there was something special between them. But this. This act of down right nastiness had shown otherwise. And from this, Joe could never come back--not for Bella.

'I'm so stupid' Daisy sobbed heart wrenchingly into the crook on Bella's neck. Her words breaking apart just like the heart that pounded in her chest. 'How could I be so stupid--again?' Daisy cursed herself, and this blow, this heartbreak was twice as painful as the last because it brought everything back. All the times girls had told her stories of Lucas' cheating, all the messages and photographs of hard proof flickered through her mind. And now Joe. He hadn't cheated. How could it be cheating when they weren't together? He hadn't even gone against their arrangement. Sexting and exchanging nudes wasn't physical intimacy so he could be spared of this betrayal on a thin technicality but it still hurt. God, did it hurt. It hurt more than anything. The pain in Daisy's chest made her feel like she was going to die. She couldn't catch her breathe and everything seemed to be fading to black.

Her tears came harder -- hot, aching and bitter -- the kind of cry you can only let out when your in a deep state of mourning.

'You're not stupid, Daisy' Bella wrapped a caring hand around her friends head as she held her in the crook of her neck, lightly stroking her hair. 'He invited you to meet his family, he gave you birthday presents, he showered you in kisses and affection. You fell for him, like every woman would fall for a man that did that'

Daisy shook her head into Bella's shoulder like she couldn't believe what she was saying.

The classroom around them stayed quiet, the professor had gone as soon as the class went so it was just the two of them in the wreckage of the bomb site. Overhead lights blinked and hummed in a way that felt almost taunting because they reminded Daisy of the lights in Joe's bathroom. She didn't know why she was crying anymore. She couldn't tell if it was because of Joe or her own stupidity. Bella let her friend fall apart never once asking her to speak or tell her how she was feeling, she just let the emotions flood through her and out into her arms.

Then, the phone on the desk buzzed.

Daisy pulled back and looked at it with mascara smudged all around her eyes and a sniffling red nose.

Joe

His name flashed up on the screen because she was late to meet him. She hadn't even realised she had been sat crying into Bella for close to forty five minutes.

She winced as she watched it ring away. She winced as she watched his name fade from the screen. She couldn't speak to him, not now -- probably not for a while. Not until she figured out what was happening in her head and her heart.

'We should get back to your dorm, Dais. A class is gonna be in here next period'

All Daisy could muster was a nod in agreement, then she turned off her phone as he rang it again. She couldn't even handle the pain of seeing his name.

-౨ৎ ⋆｡˚-

Joe paced in his room. Daisy was over an hour and a half late. Her phone was going straight to voicemail and he could feel it deep in his bones that something was wrong. A feeling of dread clawed at his stomach. The air felt different in a way it had never felt before.

He sent her another text. Then he sent Cassie one. He just wanted to know where she was, he just wanted to know that she was safe.

He didn't even hear the heavy footsteps of someone running up the stairs to his bedroom, but he did hear his door slam open.

'Tell me you fucking didn't'

Justin was seething with anger. His eyes so pointed and full of hatred. His chest puffing and panting from the intensity of his emotions rather than the run to Joe's room.

Joe looked at him startled.

'TELL ME YOU FUCKIN DIDN'T' Justin commanded with a harsh shout Joe had never heard before. It sounded like it came from the depths of his teammates stomach. It sounded like a beast had been unleashed from it's cage.

'Didn't what' Joe could only shoot back a cocky response, he didn't want Justin to see that he was rattled by him. But Joe made the wrong choice, he made a fatal error.

Justin ran at him, grabbing him by the colour of his black training shirt and shoved him hard against the bedroom walls. Joe was taller than him, and usually stronger but Justin's adrenaline gave him an uncharacteristic advantage against his quarterback.

Ja'marr stood in the doorway, he heard the noise and came rushing to see what was happening.

'Did you fucking sext some bitch in Arkansas? Huh?'

Justin knew the answer the second the blood drained from Joe's face. Bella had texted him about what had occurred in the classroom, instructing him to figure out if it was true but he already knew it was because he knew exactly what Joe was capable of doing. Joe wasn't a good guy, not for Daisy. He knew it from the moment they started hooking up that something like this would happen.

'You're a fucking dick, Joe' Justin looked at his teammate dead in the eyes, wanting him to really take in the words he was saying. He wanted him to feel it, every bit of shame he could for what he had done to Daisy.

'Does she know?' It was all Joe cared to ask. He could deal with Justin later.

'Does she know?' Justin scoffed. 'Yeah, Joe, she fucking knows'

With that, Joe shoved Justin off him and ran out of his bedroom refusing to acknowledge the winced and shy look of shame his best friend Ja'marr gave him as he darted past. He could feel all that later, but right now he needed to get to her, get to Daisy. He needed to explain it. Not that he could.

He had sexted that red haired girl. Macy. Late at night, after drinking at a club in Arkansas, when he was bored and alone in his hotel room and Daisy wasn't picking up the phone because she must have been asleep. It wasn't even extensive, just two nudes of a Macy's breasts and some half assed flirting before he got bored and snapped out of it. He never even saved the photos, in fact he deleted them and blocked the girl on everything. He, even drunkenly, realised the monumental fuck up he had made. It was like for a brief moment he slipped back into his old self, like Daisy didn't exist. He never thought anyone would find out. He never though this would happen.

Joe sprinted across campus. Across the quad. Across the green grass. Ignoring everyone who looked at him as he passed. He had blinkers on, his mind only focussed on getting to her. His breath was so ragged, his own heart beginning to crack at the fact that he knew deep down that after this, he and Daisy would never be the same. His lungs burned. Or maybe it was his heart. He couldn't stop to find out.

He thought about how Daisy would be hurting. How she would be thinking that he had fooled her. How she would be thinking that she didn't matter to him at all. That spurred him on. He ran even faster. The wind hitting against his skin like icy daggers. His hair blown back. Never had he ran like this on the field because despite his love of football Daisy meant more, he realised that now, in the moment when he knew he was losing her -- he realised that she meant more to him than it all, than everything. The Heisman wouldn't mean anything if she wasn't their to watch him win it. The national championship wouldn't mean anything if she wasn't their in the stands.

He hit the steps up to the entrance of her dorm building, he took them two at a time. The halls inside were busy, and warm, lit by the soft sleepy light of sunset through the vast windows. His hand clung to the walls as he rounded the sharp corners. He knocked into people and didn't stop as they shouted curse words behind him.

When he finally saw her dorm room door at the end of the hallway. He hesitated for a second. Only a second. He had no clue what he was going to say, but he had to try. His chest clenched in regret. He didn't even understand why he responded to Macy's message in the pale moonlight. Why couldn't he have just gone to sleep?.

He knocked on the door with a shaking fist.

No answer.

He knocked on it harder, with purpose and pain.

'Please' He begged.

When he heard the handle twist he braced himself to see her. To see her red eyes and hear her pain stricken sobs.

but as the door opened they never came.

Cassie stood there with a look of pure, truthful hate. He didn't even know a girl like Cassie was capable of hatred. But she was, because she hated him and he could feel it.

'I need to see her'

'You can't.' Cassie held her chin high, and her voice strong.

'Please. Cassie. Let me explain to her'

'You can't' She spat at him, venom dripping off each word.

'Cass--'

'She's gone, Joe' She told him coldly. She wasn't happy that he had dragged her best friend away from her.

The coldness of her words looped through his mind like static, unravelling the world he had build around him. Gone.

'Where?' Maybe he could go to her, maybe he could find her. If she was in Austin he would travel there with no question. If it was New York or California, he would get on a plane and follow her there.

'London'

Too far. She was going somewhere too far away from him. A place he wouldn't be able to touch her. He had the Heisman ceremony, the end of season games, Christmas with his family. London was too far from him.

Daisy knew that.

That's why she went. She took the earliest flight to her father.

She always spent winter break there.

What difference did going a few weeks earlier make?

Especially when it meant she would be away from every reminder of him.

The boy who had just shattered her barely mended heart.

౨ৎ

a/n: i'm sorry. (many years of angst coming)

Also, I listened to the bridge of I know the End by Pheobe Bridgers when writing Joe running across campus. Highly recommend.

136 notes View Post
joeyshiesty0
1 week ago

Rich Uncle

Operations series Father’s Day special!

Rich Uncle
Rich Uncle
Rich Uncle

Admittedly, he loved the title at first. Uncle Joe. All the perks, none of the responsibility. He could rile the kids up with sugar and loud toys, earn a few giggles and “you’re the coolest” points, and then hand them back over without a second thought. To this day, he could proudly say he’d never changed a diaper. And if he was being honest, he wasn’t even sure where to start if he had to.

Kids made sense when Jamie had them. He was barely a senior in high school when he became an uncle for the first time. That was different. His brothers are way older, they were fully settled—the kind of adults who knew what “sleep training” meant. That phase of life belonged to them.

But then all his guys started having kids. Ja’Marr, somehow even more grounded now that Little Uno was around. Ted was always bringing his kids to team events, wearing soggy Cheerios like a badge of honor. Cam and Mike, chasing toddlers around the family room at the stadium, pausing mid-conversation to dish out high fives and open juice boxes like pros. Joe would play along, drop a few Christmas presents when it mattered, and then head home. To peace. To quiet. To clean furniture and uninterrupted sleep.

Your lives were yours. No diaper bags or nap schedules. You could book a flight on a whim, sleep in whenever you wanted to, eat late dinners without cutting someone’s food into tiny pieces first. And during the season, especially, Joe needed that. Sleep, structure, his routine—non-negotiables. Kids were cute, but they weren’t in the equation.

Until maybe they were.

That afternoon, drained and sore, he came home to an empty house. You were still at work, so he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, cold enough to make his hand ache, and padded upstairs. The AC hummed low through the vents, and the tiles were cool under his bare feet as he stepped into the bathroom. Steam curled up around him as the hot water hit his back in the shower, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

He barely remembered lying down afterward. Just a flash of pulling the comforter up, his body sinking into the mattress.

The nap wasn’t supposed to be long.

Joe had only meant to close his eyes for a minute or two. Just enough to recharge after practice, maybe before you got home. But somewhere between the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of the comforter pressing him deeper into the mattress, sleep hit hard.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard it: a soft, high-pitched wail, muffled at first, like it was coming from behind a closed door.

A baby.

Still half-asleep, Joe barely cracked one eye open. His brain sluggishly pieced together possibilities, someone visiting you, probably. He sighed and rolled over, pulling the blanket higher. It wasn’t his problem. Not his kid.

But the crying didn’t stop. If anything, it got sharper. Closer.

Joe groaned, face smushed against the pillow. “Babe?” he called out, voice hoarse and half-hearted. “You home?”

No answer. Just that cry again—piercing, rhythmic, insistent. Like it was meant for just him to hear.

He blinked a few times, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and dragged himself out of bed. The floor was cold under his feet. The house felt quiet otherwise, still and golden in the late afternoon light. That kind of eerie calm that didn’t make sense with the sound of a crying baby echoing through the hallway.

The sound led him to the room closest to the master,the one that had always been a catch-all guest room. Only… it wasn’t anymore.

He stepped inside, slow and confused.

The walls were a soft sage green now. There was a rocking chair in the corner, one of those cream-colored ones you’d pointed out at that baby store once. A mobile dangled above a white crib, casting gentle shadows as it turned. And inside—angry-faced, squirming, and real—was a baby.

Joe froze. His mouth went dry. His heart slammed into his ribs.

What the hell is going on?

He took a step forward. Then another.

The baby blinked up at him, tears clinging to their lashes. Their tiny fists opened and closed like they were reaching for something or…someone.

And then he saw it.

Your eyes.

Wide and glassy and unmistakably you.

Every thought emptied from his head in an instant. He didn’t know how or why this baby was here, didn’t know what he was supposed to do, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. He leaned down, arms trembling slightly, and scooped the baby into his chest.

They fit there like they belonged.

The crying stopped on contact. Instantly. Like someone had cut the sound from the room.

A soft exhale puffed against his collarbone. The baby’s cheek pressed into his chest, warm and damp. Their tiny fingers tangled into the front of his shirt like they’d done it a hundred times.

Joe didn’t breathe.

His arms closed instinctively around the small body. His heart felt like it might tear open from the inside. Something about the weight, the heat, the smell, faintly powdery and sweet, cracked him wide open.

He started to rock, not even thinking about it. Back and forth. Back and forth. The motion was awkward at first, but then…natural. Soothing.

Like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do.

His throat tightened. There was a burn behind his eyes as the baby’s tiny fingers clutched his shirt like they knew they were safe. Somehow, in that impossible moment, Joe felt like he knew them too.

Not just in a dream. But in his bones.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” he whispered, voice cracking as he looked down at the baby in his arms.

But they didn’t care. They were safe. Warm.

Joe jolted awake.

His eyes snapped open, chest heaving. The bedroom was back, soft gray walls, the ceiling fan still turning lazily overhead. He ran his fingers through his hair with the sheets twisted at his waist and his heart pounding in his ears.

The house was still.

No crying. No crib. No baby.

Just him.

He sat up slowly, pressing his hands to his face, trying to piece himself back together. His arms still tingled. His chest still ached. The feeling, that strange, aching warmth, lingered.

It didn’t scare him. It didn’t make him want to run.

It made him want.

Not just a baby in theory, not just a distant someday, but a real, warm, squirmy little person with your eyes and his lopsided grin. A world that wasn’t just the two of you anymore.

Joe exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle.

Maybe this wasn’t just some weird dream.

Maybe it was the universe, finally telling him out loud what he’d been quietly thinking for weeks now.

He wanted to be a dad.

And he wanted it to be with you.

Joe knew he couldn’t deliver earth-shattering news like he was calling out a play. Not this time.

Two days had passed since the dream, and he was still reeling, not from fear or doubt, but from how right it had all felt. He’d been trying to make sense of it, tracing the way it had his heart pounding out of his chest. He definitely wasn’t the signs-and-symbols type, but since that afternoon, it was like the universe had grabbed him by the collar.

Everywhere he looked there were baby reminders.

A diaper commercial as soon as he turned on the tv. A buybuy Baby billboard he’d probably passed for weeks without noticing, now felt like it was practically winking at him. Even his Instagram algorithm had turned against him. Every third ad was for strollers, pacifiers, or sleep sacks.

And every time, his chest would tug just a little bit.

It wasn’t a coincidence. He didn’t believe in those anymore.

When you got home from work that night, he was on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, legs stretched out, iPad balanced on his knee, scrolling through camp film with laser focus. At least, pretending to be.

You dropped your bag and toed off your shoes, already grinning. “Hey sunshine. Still locked in? Even on your day off?”

Joe barely looked up. “Can’t go to sleep with everyone acting like Dax is the second coming of corner Jesus.”

You snorted and plopped down next to him, thigh brushing his. “God forbid you throw a couple offseason picks, Mr. Perfectionist.”

“Perfection in June could mean orange confetti in February. I’m willing to sacrifice my sanity for that.”

“Okay well, between your football-induced psychosis,” you teased, kicking your feet up onto the coffee table, “we should go somewhere. Maybe…Greece?”

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “Greece? Babe, you say that like it’s down the street.”

You shrugged. “It’d be so fun. I feel like we need something big. Jess called this morning, and she was covered in baby puke. It was horrifying.”

Joe swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. There it was, the opening.

“How’s she doing? With, y’know…”

“The baby?” You chuckled, twisting to face him. “She’s actually really happy. Tired, yeah, but she said it’s the best thing she’s ever done.”

He nodded, quietly. “Sam’s over the moon. He always wanted to be a girl dad, and now he’s basically in baby heaven.”

There was a pause. He looked back down at his screen, then slowly locked it and set it aside.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, voice lower now.

You looked up. “About what?”

He hesitated. “Having a baby.”

You blinked. “Sorry. I don’t think I heard that right,” you squint at him, “the last time your mom mentioned kids, you practically gagged into your mashed potatoes.”

Joe laughed under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I know. I know, okay? But something…shifted.”

You leaned in a little, curious. “Shifted how? What happened?”

“I had a dream,” he said quietly.

“Alright MLK…what was this dream?” You laugh.

He gives you a deadpan look and shakes his head. “It was a weird one. A good one. We had a baby, like, a real baby. And it was just me and them in this room, and I was holding them and…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands like he could still feel the weight there.

“It—I don’t know—it felt natural. It felt like they were already mine. And they looked just like you, and I didn’t want to put them down.”

He paused, breathing through it.

“I know it was just a dream. But I woke up, and I swear, I missed them. Like I was grieving someone who hadn’t even been born yet.”

You sat quietly, your amusement fading into a puddle of emotion.

“I’m not saying we need to have a baby tomorrow,” he added, his voice gentle. “Or ever, if you don’t want to. But I think…I think I’m ready. Not just to be a dad. But to do it with you.”

His hand found your knee, thumb brushing lightly back and forth. “You’re my person. I love you more than anything in the world. And the idea of creating someone who’s half you, half me, that’s been in my head nonstop. But like I said, no pressure. Just…honesty.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, a little overwhelmed. “That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said. In your entire life.”

Joe smiled sheepishly, but you weren’t done.

“And since we’re being honest,” you said, eyes sparkling now, “I have always wanted to make you a DILF.”

He burst out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension in his shoulders easing like a thread had finally been cut. “Guess we have to go to Greece now.”

You nodded, curling into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. The room was quiet except for the soft tick of the clock and the low hum of the fridge down the hall. And the constant wheels turning in your head as you tried to come to a decision.

The night before your trip, Joe padded upstairs expecting to find you half-packed, maybe wrestling with a suitcase or tearing apart your closet looking for that one sundress he loved. Instead, the bedroom was lit softly by the bedside lamp, and you were kneeling on the floor, surrounded by papers, planners, and a very intense-looking ovulation tracker open on your phone.

Sticky notes, highlighters, and three different pens scattered around like you were preparing for finals all over again. A calendar had dates circled in red, little hearts scribbled in some corners, and numbers counted out in weeks.

Joe leaned on the doorframe, blinking. “Um… hey,” he said slowly. “As much as I want to understand what all this is…you’re making me nervous.”

You looked up at him, a little sheepish but mostly proud. “Don’t be. Come here.”

He stepped in, and you stood to meet him, taking his hand and guiding him to the floor like you were unveiling some master plan.

“This,” you said, gesturing to the colorful chaos, “is the baby board. Target due dates, best time to start trying, timelines, everything.”

He looked down, eyes wide, and then back up at you. “You’ve got, like…phases and windows and strategies.”

“Exactly. Because the last thing I need,” you said, poking his chest lightly, “is to be taking care of a newborn by myself while you’re in your office breaking down coverages and watching Ja’Marr run a go route for the millionth time.”

Joe winced like he’d been caught. “I can’t help myself. It never gets old.”

“When we do this,” you continue, folding your arms with mock authority, “it’s gonna be during the offseason. When you’re home. And you…” you raised a brow, “…will be changing every single diaper.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “Every one?”

“Yes. Until I feel like lifting a finger. I’m not birthing an entire baby just so you can swoop in for the fun cuddly stuff and peace out when it smells weird.”

He laughed, stepping closer, slipping his hands around your waist. “So—does this mean…”

You smiled up at him, soft and sure. “Yes, Joe. I want to have a baby with you.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything, just stared at you like he’s still wrapping his mind around the fact that this is real. Then he leans in, presses his forehead to yours, his hands warm on your back.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s do this. Uncle Joe is getting promoted.”

439 notes View Post
joeyshiesty0
2 months ago

Lines We Cross - Joe Burrow

Summary: A small lie in the heat of the moment leads to unforeseen consequences. Sometimes, pretending feels a little too real.

Warnings: fem!reader, fluff, mentions of injury

Author’s note: This fic was inspired by the events of Bengals vs Steelers game. This is only a work of fiction. Also not proofread.

Lines We Cross - Joe Burrow

The stadium buzzed with electric energy as you settled into your seat at the paycor stadium. The air was crisp, the perfect night for football, and the roar of Bengals fans clad in orange and black, on their feet, waving banners, faces painted with tiger stripes, echoed through the stands. The smell of beer, popcorn, and adrenaline hung heavy in the air. It was chaos, but it was also magic—the kind of energy that could make you believe anything was possible.

You couldn’t help but feel the excitement coursing through your veins as you watched Joe step onto the field, his usual confident swagger on full display. The crowd erupted, chanting his name, and you couldn’t help but feel proud of him. It was a big game, and the stakes were high.

It had been a wild ride for him since his LSU days, and you’d been there every step of the way. Watching him thrive in the NFL felt surreal.

To the rest of the world, Joe Burrow was the golden boy quarterback, the face of the Bengals. To you, though, he was just Joe—your best friend since elementary school, the guy who put glue in your hair as a prank, then spent the whole afternoon trying to fix it with water and paper towels.

You sat in the stands with your Bengals jersey pulled tight and your heart beating harder than it probably should. This wasn’t your first time at one of Joe’s games, but something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was because every time he threw a pass or took a hit, you felt it like it was happening to you.

Being Joe’s best friend was hard enough—being secretly in love with him was a whole other level of torture.

Not that you’d ever admit it to him.

The game was intense. Joe was in the zone, moving the ball downfield with precision, but the opposing team wasn’t letting up. You cheered with the rest of the crowd, your voice hoarse from shouting. The Bengals were up by three points in the third quarter when it happened.

The pocket collapsed in a split second, and before Joe could release the ball, he was hit. Hard. One defender wrapped him up around the waist while another came barreling in from the side, slamming him to the turf.

The stadium fell silent as he stayed on the ground longer than he should have.

Your stomach dropped.

The medical staff rushed onto the field, and your world narrowed. Without a second thought, you stood, your legs moving before your brain could catch up.

You wove through the stands, brushing past strangers who barely seemed to notice you, all their attention fixed on the field. You didn’t care about the looks you got, didn’t care about the rules. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic rhythm driving you forward.

By the time you reached the tunnel, your breath was coming in short gasps, your pulse roaring in your ears. But just as you tried to push forward, two security guards stepped in front of you, hands raised to stop you.

“Sorry, miss, you can’t go through,” one of them said.

“I need to see him,” you said, voice trembling. “I need to know he’s okay.”

“I'm sorry but only medical personnel and team staff are allowed- ”

“I have to see him. I’m his girlfriend!” you blurted, the lie tumbling out faster than your brain could stop it.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and your palms grew clammy as you felt the weight of what you’d just said. The words felt foreign, wrong even, but they were out there now, hanging in the air like a challenge.

The staff exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of skepticism and uncertainty.

“Wait here,” one of them said curtly, before disappearing down the dimly lit tunnel.

You let out a shaky breath as he walked away, but the relief was short-lived. What were you going to say to Joe? That you’d panicked and lied to get back here? That you couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him? The lie had spilled out before you could stop it, but there was no taking it back now.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, wringing your hands, every nerve in your body wound tight. And then, at last, you heard footsteps echoing down the tunnel.

Joe emerged, limping slightly, his gait uneven but otherwise he looked fine. Relief crashed over you like a wave, and a shaky breath escaped your lips before you even realized you’d been holding it.

His gaze found yours instantly, locking onto you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken all over again. Even from a distance, you could see it—the faintest curve of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, equal parts mischief and reassurance.

“They told me my girlfriend was demanding to see me,” he said, his grin widening as he approached.

Your arms folded across your chest, more out of reflex than defiance. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your cheeks, but you ignored it.

“I had to say something,” you replied quickly, your tone defensive. “They weren’t going to let me through otherwise.”

He stopped a few feet in front of you, his head tilted to the side in mock curiosity, those blue eyes of his sparkling with mischief.

“So, you’re my girlfriend now?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the upper hand despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“Don’t get used to it, Burrow,” you shot back, your voice sharp, though the edge was dulled by the waver you couldn’t quite hide.

His laugh—soft, low, and undeniably boyish—filled the space between you, and your resolve nearly cracked. That grin, the one that had been the undoing of countless defenses, was aimed squarely at you. It made your heart ache in a way you’d never admit, not even to yourself.

“Well, girlfriend,” he teased, leaning slightly closer, “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

You frowned, refusing to let him charm his way out of this.

“You didn’t look fine when those guys landed on you,” you muttered, your eyes darting to the trainers hovering just a few feet away. “You should’ve been more careful.”

His amusement softened into something gentler, and he took a step closer, closing the already small distance between you. His voice was quieter now, meant just for you.

“You were worried about me.”

“Of course I was worried.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you cursed yourself for how raw they sounded. Desperate to cover the slip, you stumbled over your next sentence.

“You’re my—” You hesitated, your heart thudding in your chest. “You’re my best friend.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. He didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Your frustration flared, partly at him but mostly at yourself. “Don’t read into it, Joe. It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he said smoothly, though his tone told you he already had. “But for the record, you’re a pretty convincing girlfriend. Might have to keep you around for emergencies.”

You scoffed, but the way his eyes softened when he looked at you made it hard to stay mad.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning slightly to hide your face and the heat you knew was there.

“And you care more than you want to admit,” he countered, his voice following you.

Before you could muster a response, one of the trainers called Joe’s name from the sidelines, motioning for him to return. His head turned in their direction, but he didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, eyes still on you like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment go.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low enough that it felt like it was meant for you and you alone. “Since you’re my girlfriend now, I think it’s only fair you give me a good luck kiss before I go back out there.”

Your heart lurched, a sudden fluttering that stole your breath and left you momentarily stunned. You narrowed your eyes, hoping to mask the way his words sent a thrill through you.

“Don’t push your luck, Burrow,” you shot back, your voice steadier than you expected.

“Come on,” he teased, his tone as smooth as silk. “Just a little one. For good luck. You don’t want me going out there unlucky, do you?”

For a second, you hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment hung between you and then, without thinking any further, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The second your lips made contact, Joe froze, his body stiffening slightly as if your touch had short-circuited his usual easy confidence. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he didn’t move, the surprise in his expression almost comical.

You pulled back quickly, your pulse racing in the quiet that followed.

“There. Happy now?” you said, your voice slightly breathless, hoping to deflect the sudden wave of uncertainty washing over you.

Joe blinked a few times, as if trying to recalibrate, before his lips curved into a slow, dazed smile.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m more than happy.”

Before you could let yourself process the way his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you—the trainer called his name again, more insistent this time.

Joe sighed dramatically, throwing one last glance your way. “Duty calls,” he said.

“Try not to get sacked again, Joe.”

“I’ll do my best, girlfriend,” laughter in his voice.

As he jogged back leaving you standing there, you caught the way he glanced over his shoulder, that grin still firmly in place.

As you made your way back to your seat, you couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything—that it was just Joe being Joe. But deep down, you knew better.

And from the way he’d looked at you, you couldn’t help but wonder if he knew it too.

642 notes View Post
joeyshiesty0
1 month ago

I just know y'all are itching for some MNF... Monday Night Fanfic that is 😛

I Just Know Y'all Are Itching For Some MNF... Monday Night Fanfic That Is 😛

splitting this shit into two parts sooo burreaux pt I (16k words) is scheduled for 8:15pm est

35 notes View Post
joeyshiesty0
1 month ago

JOE BURROW — the met

JOE BURROW — The Met
JOE BURROW — The Met
JOE BURROW — The Met

summary — he didn’t think she got invited. she tricked him and shows up anyway.

warnings — fem!olympian!reader, fluff, language, smut, barely proofread

note — not entirely happy with this but if i keep looking at it i’m gonna scrap it. so pls be nice :)

tags — @willowsnook @starsinthesky5 @joeyburrrow @joeyfranchise @hannahjessica113 @hotburreaux @iosivb9 @softburrow @irishmanwhore @kazsbrckkers @sportyphile @ebsmind @joecoolburrow @wickedfun9 (comment/send an ask to be added!)

JOE BURROW — The Met

“WHAT?” HE WAS FURIOUS. His hands gripped the invitation, but he stared at her empty hands. His eyes were blown with disbelief, his heart pumping wildly in his chest; she didn’t get invited. His girlfriend, a gold medalist in the Olympics, didn’t get invited.

“Joe, it’s not the end of the world,” she tried to assure him, “it’s high fashion. It’s not really my thing,”

“Babe, I wanted you there with me. I don’t want to walk that carpet by myself,” he answered her, raking his free hand through his curls. The Met Gala, a prestigious gathering of the rich to show off different themes each year. People ate it up, and she always looked forward to seeing what her favorite celebrities wore.

But Joe was invited this time. The same Joe who didn’t do social gatherings.

“I saw Justin was going to be there,” she tried again, “and Jalen. You know them, especially JJ,”

“They’re not you, Y/N. I wanted you there,” he argued. Every social event he brought her. She grounded him and kept him sane. When the flashes of the cameras blinded him, when the shouts of reporters deafened him, all he wanted was her. He wanted her soft touch and her graceful reminders. He didn’t know if he could do it alone.

“I know, baby,” she sighed, cupping his face in her hands. She had her own little secret, one she cradled in her chest. She’d been invited, and she was definitely going, but she wanted to surprise Joe. This was the Met, his first ever, and she wanted it to be extra memorable.

“You’ll be watching, right?”

“Of course,” she chuckled, flicking her eyes over his face. His blue eyes were deep with his affection, his expression tranquil under the softness of her touch. She soothed his nerves, the anxiety of the attention he’d receive.

In that moment, she wanted to spill her guts. To let him in on the little secret she had. She could see the lines of his face, feel the indents of his anxiety on his skin. He was nervous, but at the same time, she knew he was excited.

“Good,” he sighed, “if my best girl can’t be there, I want her watching,”

“Why? You gonna blow me away?” she teased, earning a smirk from Joe.

“I think you’ll blow me away,” he winked, and she smacked his arm. He laughed, the sweetness of his laughter filling the room around them. He always found a way to insert a flirty innuendo into their conversations.

“Pervert,” she smirked, turning to walk from him. He stepped after her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back to him. He pressed his chest to her back, laughing as she giggled. His arms were strong, holding her in place as he rocked them.

“Only for you,” he hummed into her neck. Joe placed soft, gentle kisses to her skin, the softness of his touch making her shiver. She hummed, letting his hands roam up her chest, fondling with her breasts.

“Clearly,” she chuckled. His hand gently squeezed her breast, walking her back towards their bedroom. His curls tickled her skin, soft chuckles leaving her lips as he kept his hold on her.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” Joe murmured into her neck. His hand rested on her breast, his kisses persisting on her neck. Being invited to the Met was an honor, one that Joe was excited to be given. But being without his girl? It scared him even more.

He relied on her. She kept him grounded through the small things, like tracing his knuckles with her thumb or holding onto his bicep. The small, subtle gestures that helped him remain planted. The football field was one thing, the red carpet was another.

“I’ll be right there,” she hummed as she leaned her head back against his shoulder. He leaned his bodyweight against her, sighing deeply into her skin. She rested her arms on his, softly closing her eyes.

She would be right there. He just didn’t know it yet.

— The Met —

Cameras. Shouting. Flashes of light. It was overstimulating. Joe’s been in front of fans before, he’s done interviews, but this seemed like a whole different level. He held his confidence, even if he felt empty handed.

She wasn’t by his side.

“Joe! Take the glasses off!”

“Joe! Adjust your collar!”

“Joe! Over here!”

He felt his heart racing in his chest. He flexed his hand at his side, imagining her hand in his. He really needed her there.

Joe moved through the carpet, adjusting the sleeves of his suit coat. He felt every eye on him, the weight of their expectations and their assumptions. Joe swallowed, his eyes flicking across the row of reporters as he chose which ones to talk to.

He silently hoped one of them was her. But it never was.

“Joe Burrow,” Joe turned to see Justin, and for a moment his world brightened. Joe dapped him up, going in for a warm and comforting embrace with his friend.

“No Y/N?”

“Nah, she didn’t get invited,” Joe answered, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

“What?” JJ was shocked, “a gold medalist, world record holder, and the girlfriend of Joe Burrow didn’t get invited,”

“I dunno, man,” Joe shrugged, raking a hand through his hair, “these kinda things are picky,”

“Yeah, but still,” JJ huffed, leading them both further down the carpet, “she’s a badass. I’d hope to see her here,”

“What, so you can ogle at her?” Joe teased, even if there was a flare of possessiveness.

“No, so I can watch you go all doe-eyed on her,” JJ teased back. The two friends laughed, and Joe’s anxiety for a moment subsided. He still wished she was there, holding his shaking hand, but she was watching. He knew that.

Just as he breached the stairs, the buzz of the reporters kicked up again. He didn’t turn until he heard her name. He whipped his head around, his eyes falling on the woman who stepped onto the carpet. His jaw slacked, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. He felt his cheeks warm, warmth pooling into his belly.

She was here and she looked stunning.

“Well well well,” Justin chuckled, clapping Joe on the shoulder, “looks like someone did get invited,”

Joe was speechless. He let his eyes take her in, the tailoring of her dress hugged her body perfectly, the unique design of her outfit accentuated her flare and her strength. She commanded the room, her presence shutting out those who ever doubted her.

She was a world record setter. An Olympian. She was to be respected.

She tried not to adjust her dress for the upteenth time. She hoped that her breasts wouldn’t pop out of the dress or her ankles would give out in her heels. The last thing she needed was to embarrass herself in front of millions.

She answered questions, polite smiles and attitudes thrown towards any reporters that ate it up. She had one goal; to see Joe.

She carefully stepped her way up the carpet, trying not to trip over the train of her dress. She wasn’t used to wearing such extravagance, but it was the Met Gala. It was expected.

Her eyes flicked up to meet Joe’s. His slack jaw and his fidgety hands made her heart swell. He looked good too, though she had some criticism. She wanted to see some more muscle out of that suit.

“Careful, Burrow,” she hummed as she walked up to him, “gonna catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that,”

He was absolutely mesmerized. She didn’t wear dresses like this. Seeing her there, the scent of her perfume wafting over his senses, it turned him into putty. He swallowed, offering her his arm.

“You’re gorgeous,” Joe hummed as she slipped her arm through his. Her hand curled to rest on his bicep, giving him that reassuring squeeze that he’d wanted from her, that he’d needed.

“Thank you,” she smiled, “you don’t look too bad yourself,”

“The suit could be fitted better,” he hummed, tugging at the edge with his free hand, “but I like the color. It’s comfortable too,”

“It is,” she agreed. They walked into the gala, the hum of people swarming them. She stuck to Joe as people came and spoke to them, as they met new people and saw old friends. Joe couldn’t stop staring at her. She had to have on body glitter on with how she sparkled under the dim lighting. Her presence was all-consuming, bringing him to his knees.

Fuck.

He swallowed, controlling his thoughts as they rambled around in his mind. His hand flexed, his heart racing. Her on the bathroom counter. Moans filling his ears. Nails scratching down his back.

“I’m starving,” her words broke his concentration. He looked down at her, watching as she flicked her eyes over the gala for food. She found one of the few snack tables, pulling Joe along.

“I think it’s just rich people food,” Joe hummed as he walked with her. She shot him a look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. Those damn eyes.

“Baby,” she chuckled, “we’re part of those rich people ya know,”

“True,” he chuckled, “doesn’t mean I like it though,”

She laughed, clicking her tongue as she looked over the foods. She found a piece of baklava, something that her family used to make, and she plucked it from the plate.

“Ever had this before?” she asked, biting into the sweet, flaky treat. She extended the other half of the treat to Joe.

“No, what is it?” he asked, taking the treat from her hands. He watched as her eyes sparkled, as she raised her thumb to her lips to suck off the sugar coating.

Fucking hell.

“Baklava. I think this is made with walnuts, though. My personal fav,” she shrugged. She wasn’t oblivious to how Joe looked at her, how his eyes widened and his pupils dilated. He was turned on, and she fought the urge to look and see just how turned on he was.

Joe took a bite, the sweet and sugary treat melting in his mouth. It was overly sweet, nearly making his eyes water. He’s never had it before, and he wasn’t sure he’d have it again.

“It’s not that bad,” she joked, giggling at him.

“It’s straight sugar, babe,” he coughed rather dramatically, “I can taste each individual particle of sugar,”

She just shook her head, rolling her eyes at him. She was glad she came; she watched him relax under her gaze and her touch was refreshing. She could tell he needed it, that he needed her.

“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. She let her eyes drag down his body, taking him in. His hair was in perfect, thick curls, his eyes sparkled in the dim light, matching the color of his suit. The necklace that he wore, the gold against the tan of his skin, it made her heart skip a beat.

“Now this,” she purred, looping a finger around his necklace, “this is a nice little accessory,”

Joe’s breath hitched. Her finger brushed against the triangle of exposed skin on his chest, twirling around the gold piece around his neck. He felt heat swell in his belly, his thighs aching with tension.

“Yeah?” he asked, his eyes fluttering, “you like it?”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with clouds of desire. Her lips tugged into a smirk, her expression seductive.

“Oh do I,” she purred, running her hand down his chest.

“Babe,” He warned, his voice low and raspy with his growing desire. His pants grew tighter, the erection in his boxers straining against his outfit.

“Yeah?”

“Keep doing that and we’re gonna have to find a bathroom,” Joe leaned closer, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The ache down in his cock was nearly unbearable, especially as the images continued to flood his brain.

Her taste on his tongue. Her pussy wrapped around his cock. Her sweet, sweet moans.

He didn’t give her a chance to decide. His hand grabbed hers and he led her through the crowd. His heart pumped, his blood running hot as he walked with her. His mind was hazy, filled with only one thing.

Her touch. Her taste. Her smell. Her.

He pushed opened the bathroom door, the elegance of the room taking them in. Granite countertops illuminated by warm lights, gold inlaid doors and handles. It was beautiful.

He locked the door, his hands flipping to grip her hips. He pushed her against the counter, his lips hungrily slotting against hers.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease,” he growled against her lips. Hunger intertwined them, passion glued them together. It was an ancient language, one that needed to be translated and understood. One they were fluent in.

“I wanted this,” she panted as Joe interrupted her with kisses to her lips. Her fingers dug through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He moaned, feeling his cock twitch in his boxers.

“You wanted this?” he repeated, his lips trailing down to her neck, “you wanted me all riled up?”

Joe’s hands hoisted her up onto the counter, her legs parting for him to stand between. His hands ran up her thighs, pushing under her dress. She could feel the beginnings of arousal slick her panties, the ache pulsing deep within her.

“Did you like your surprise?” she asked him, feeling his fingers hook under the fabric of her panties. His fingers were calloused over, years of football built into his skin. He tugged her panties off of her hips, letting them fall to the floor.

“Oh baby,” he murmured against her skin, “I’m gonna show you just how much I liked it,”

His desperation drove him, it strung together his limbs and held his head on straight. She was his drug, the constant high he needed. His fingers parted her folds, the skin slick with her arousal. Her pussy was hot, slippery with her musk. His fingers moved in and through them, his eyes darkening with lust. A gasp fell from her lips, her hands gripping the granite countertops.

“Fuck,”

“So wet for me,” he breathed against her neck. He didn’t take his time. He pressed into her clit, the sensitive bud throbbing under his touch. He pulsed his fingers, her body responding to the electricity with a shiver. She whimpered, her jaw slack with the sheer intensity of his touch.

“Joe,”

Joe pulled his fingers away, lifting them to his lips. He licked his fingers clean, the bitter musk of her arousal making him shiver. He wasn’t going to take his time. This bathroom counter would be the place where he’d make her scream.

The entire Met Gala would know whose she was.

He guided her off of the counter, his hands guiding her hips so she turned around. He looked at her through the mirror, his hands gliding up her thighs again. His anticipation grew, his desperate need to have her climbing.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good, princess,” he mumbled in her ear, kissing her neck. Her eyes met his in the mirror, his blue eyes dark with lust. His hands hiked the skirt of her dress around her waist, revealing her bare ass to him.

His hands roamed her skin, squeezing the muscle of her ass. He moved his hands down, parting her legs for him. He looked at her in the mirror, her cleavage in perfect view. If he had the time, he’d make sure to taste every single crevice of her body.

But he didn’t have the time.

Joe undid his slacks, yanking them down along with his boxers. His veiny, thick cock sprung free, red and sensitive with his arousal. His body ached, his heart slammed wildly against his chest. He was so driven by his animalistic need that he didn’t care they were in a public bathroom. He didn’t care if they were caught.

With one hand, Joe held her chin up, making her look at him. With the other, he guided his cock against her velvety folds. His eyes fluttered, her slick coating the hardness of his cock, his lips hovering above her ear. His soft grunts filled her head, the burn of his cock filtering through her folds making her body jerk.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Joe growled in her ear, “so desperate, so mine,”

Without warning, he pushed himself into her. She gasped, arching her back against his chest. Her velvety walls molded around him, taking him in full. The burn was sweet, it electrified every nerve that wired her body together. His hand slid from her chin, cupping around her throat. His hand was warm, firm with his grasp. He didn’t restrict her breathing, but the way he held her made her eyes roll.

Joe’s hips slammed against hers, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the bathroom. His brow was creased with his pleasure, with how her walls clenched around his cock. He held himself up as he thrusted himself in and out of her, the sweetness of the friction making him whimper.

“Needed you all day,” he murmured in her ear, his hand still around her throat. Joe slammed into her, the burn from his thrusts making her moan. Her body jerked with each thrust, her eyes watering from the intensity. She could feel the heat of his cock kiss her cervix, every thrust making her whimper.

“Joe,” she whimpered, her hands holding his hips. It felt so good, so painfully good, she thought she was seeing stars.

“That’s right baby,” he kissed below her ear, “say my name,”

“God,” she moaned, his hips snapping against hers relentlessly, “Joe, fuck,”

She consumed him. Her sounds, how her pussy wrapped so beautifully around his cock, the way her eyes looked in the mirror. His eyes were dark, nearly black with lust as he watched her in the mirror. Her head thrown back, her breasts threatening to tear free from her dress with every thrust. The muscles in her arms bulged, her shoulders tensed as she held onto him.

She was a greek goddess worthy of his worship.

“Look at yourself,” Joe growled. He watched as her eyes peeled open, her lips parted with her whimpers and moans.

“So beautiful,” he growled, feeling the rubber band coil in his gut. She clenched around him, her whimpers becoming erotic as she neared the edge herself. She felt her muscles give, her face contorting with the orgasm that stung the edges of her nerves.

“Joe-”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his hips snapping against hers. His lips hovered over her neck, his hands both holding her hips as he pounded into her. She tensed, her orgasm rolling over her in a wave. She felt her orgasm slide down her legs, hot and sticky. She moaned, her muscles shaking as she came, the heat and sweetness of her release making her head spin.

“Fuck,” Joe whimpered as he came inside of her, keeping his body pressed against hers. Hot spurts of cum shot from his cock, coating her walls. His hands held on to her hips, digging into her muscular and soft skin. He panted, sweat clinging to his skin as he slowly pulled himself out of her.

The mirror was fogged, their silhouettes the only things noticeable in the mirror. Joe’s hands caressed her sides, his lips pressing soft kisses against her neck. He could feel her heartbeat in every kiss, could hear the unevenness of her breaths.

“That felt amazing,” she breathed. Her body was warm, the edges of her nerves thoroughly frayed. Joe’s hands guided her back around to face him, resting his forehead against hers. His thighs shook, his heart slamming against his chest.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” he hummed. His mind was consumed with her, his craving for her satisfied. Joe recognized the risk they both took, but it was worth it. Seeing her blissed out was worth it.

“Thank you,” she hummed, looping her shuddering arms around his neck. They let the silence sit, the calm after the passion. The bathroom was hot, humid with their sex and their love.

Joe cupped her face, slotting his lips warmly against hers. She hummed into the kiss, her body slowly recovering from the burn of her pleasure. His lips slowly smoothed over her nerves, letting her come down from the blinding lights of her orgasm.

“I love you,” he whispered as he pulled away. She smiled at him, her eyes finding his. His cheeks were flushed, his curls askew, and his pupils were blown with affection. She was the object of his desire, his idol, the one he worshiped.

“I love you, too,” she hummed. She took a deep breath, letting her hands fall to his hips. She didn’t know how they’d go back out to that party after that. She kissed him again, quicker and softer, a smile painting her lips.

“Think we can look like nothing happened?” she asked, pulling away from him. She didn’t know if his curls would be able to recover, or if her legs would cooperate.

“I think so,” he exhaled, tugging on his trousers again, “we can always blame it on nerves or something,”

“That’s not gonna work for my wobbly legs, babe,” she admitted, sliding her panties back onto her hips.

“I can make ‘em a lot more wobbly for you,” he winked. He intended to make do on that promise, but not in the gala. He’d risked enough by having her in the bathroom.

“Later, cowboy,” she smirked, readjusting her breasts in her dress, “we do have to make our appearances, ya know. Plus there’s an after party to get through,”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned, opening the door for you, “it means I gotta wait longer to have you,”

“I think that time can hold you over,” she kissed his cheek. They walked back in, hand in hand. They entered back into the gala, pretending like they didn’t just ravish each other. She forgot about the mess she made on the bathroom floor; hopefully someone would blame it on a broken water faucet.

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joeyshiesty0
2 weeks ago
joeyshiesty0
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joeyshiesty0
2 months ago
Missing Him😔
Missing Him😔
Missing Him😔
Missing Him😔
Missing Him😔
Missing Him😔
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