guwappbby

[guwappbby]

Domme would be so pissed off at Joe for playing unnecessarily in pre season games. Taking hits and sacks. Being hardheaded!! but she would do it while also tucking him in bed and making sure he isn’t feeling sore.

Yeah, no, she is very angry. Looks like one of those stuffed octopi that you can turn inside out that goes from happy to angry with the brows tilted inward. She's the literal embodiment of that angry octopus side. In this essay, I will--

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Domme tries to stay up and greet Joe after his away games. Sometimes, it's more like Joe greets her, a kiss to her temple and the gentle shake of her shoulders to wake her before they exchange sleepy kisses and drag themselves to the bedroom.

But if Joe starts playing the preseason game like it's an actual game, taking hits and sacks that he doesn't need to risk, her blood boils and her frustration keeps her awake. She meets that man at the door, hand out for his bag with a deep scowl on her face. The second Joe steps over the threshold into the house he knows he's in trouble. Actually, he knew it the second he settled onto the sidelines during the game. Even though Coach Taylor chewed him out a little too, Joe's ten times more worried about what's waiting at home for him. Coach Taylor has nothing on Domme.

Joe doesn't even try to defend himself, just hands over the bag. Domme slips onto her shoulder with a huff. "I remember having a conversation about how in the preseason games the goal was to play it smart and safe," she starts. "Do you recall that conversation?"

"Yes, I recall that conversation." Her words are exact, but not accusatory, specifically not accusatory. The focus, instead, is on the action, not him as a person, but Joe knows. Oh, Joe knows exactly what she wants to say: What the fuck were you thinking? Why the fuck would you play like that? Joe doesn't do well with confrontation like that--even if he understands what's really being said: I'm worried about you. That looked really unsafe. So, Domme does this, uses the unnerving exactitude of rhetoric. It's not about him so much as it is about what he did. How his actions went back on that very conversation that they had.

"Are you sore?" Domme asks, her nod signalling that she did in fact hear Joe's response.

That question hurts more than the previous one. That question oozes with all the worry she's holding onto it, that's clinging to her still. It's her remembering the hits. It's her sitting at home, on the edge of the couch, a pillow tight to her chest, the breaths she probably didn't take, the huffs she held, the winces. It's her stalking back and forth, muttering to herself and to him through the screen. The question clatters to the floor beneath them with the leaden and unmistakable agony all rooted in the loves Domme has for him, not about the outcome of a game. But him--solely, and utterly, and only about him.

Joe wants to say sorry, but that's not the question. Domme hates it when he diverts from her questions. So Joe nods. "A little. I had plans to soak before bed."

"And while you soak, I'd like an explanation for the way you played tonight. Because it did not look safe or smart to me."

"Yes, baby, I'll explain. Can I get a kiss? I know what I did looks reckless and maybe was a little reckless, but I could really use a hug and a kiss."

Domme's happy to oblige, and she is glad that he's not hurt severely. That particular horse collar looked rough. He's warm, and solid beneath her arms. Domme inhales Joe's scent and exhales her buzzing concern. But she is very gently thwacking him on the back of the head once he gets settled into the bath for the soak. His back and chest are pressed into her chest. Her feet, ankles, and calves are nestled into the warm water, the legs of her pants rolled up above her knees. Joe's leaning just a little, cheek pressed into her left peck/shoulder and she's massaging out his neck and shoulder.

"I'm frustrated at myself," Joe hums. "But I want to get the junk out now, I guess. And I don't always practice with the second string. So I'm trying to find the timing and rhythm with those guys too, make everyone on that field a potential weapon, you know. Defenses won't know how to play us if everyone on that field is a target for me. Want to utilize everyone. And I got tunnel vision, like I always do on the field. So I wasn't really focusing on playing safely just about making the play. I know it's all preseason, but still, we need all the help we can get now before the season starts."

"Guess what you need to be in order to play in the actual season?"

"What's that?" Joe whispers, pressing a kiss into her bicep.

"Alive," Domme huffs.

"Hey, watch it!" Joe hollers when Domme's fingers tap at the back of his head. There's no force behind it at all, all mostly the soft flick of her wrist. It's a good sign that she's joking around. Joe finds her ankle in the water, giving it a quick two squeezes.

"That's for giving me a heart attack tonight watching." She gives another soft tap before it dissolves into a stroke. "And that's for when you inevitably do it again. I can handle you doing stuff like that during the season because I know every advantages and every play matters. I know you're bullheaded when you want to be. And I love you for it, despite it, because of it. But no bullheadedness before the season."

Joe huffs his laughs, gives into the gentle nudge of her arm and turns to the other side. Her knuckles sharpen the ache before they ease it away. His confirmation is swallowed up by a hiss.

When her knuckles turn into the pads of her fingers, Joe exhales again, "Okay, I'll do my best."

[guwappbby]

"blow job and domme topping“ -> auntie please elaborate

elaboration form this post earlier.

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i mean, there's not much to elaborate on really, i guess. unless you count the way joe's perched on the living room couch. he won't dare call it waiting, though that's what it is. he woke up around 5:30 just enough time for him to rinse out his mouth. he slept harder than he intended to. he doesn't bother changing the sheets but does set things onto their chargers, before moving back downstairs. there's left overs for dinner and those won't take much time to reheat in the grand scheme of things.

by the time, that's mostly settled, there's nothing to do but to wait. but it's less about anticipation as is about listening. because joe's waiting for the rumble and creak of the garage door. he's listening to the beep of the house's alarm. he listens for the click of domme's heels. she starts out in the kitchen, the door rattles with the glass bottles and jars. and then she'll come into the living room, where it looks like joe's watching tv. but he's really not.

"have a good day?" domme whispers, lips pressing into his cheek. her fingers are cold from whatever she grabbed, but the chill is inviting over his skin.

joe nods. "yeah," the word cracks in his throat so he clears it and tries again. "yeah, i did. you?"

"really good day." she continues on pressing kissing along his jaw. and joe knows the rules just as well as domme does. he behaved last night, accepted his punishment with minimal complaints, and didn't touch himself or her.

and now's the time for the reward, the sweet, sweet relief of reward. her kisses are slow over his skin. the frigid digits now creeping down under the collar of his t-shirt. easy to get off, should that be where things go. "did you nap?" her teeth graze the lobe of his ear and joe shudders at the wet tip of her tongue that soothes the gentle scrape.

"i did."

"can you be upstairs for me by the time i get up there? on the bed. i have something for you." the imperative is paired another nibble at his jaw.

"i can be, yes."

"good. i'll be there soon."

and the heat of domme's proximity, the sweet scent of her faded perfume, dissipates in a single moment. one second she's there, bending over the back of the couch, next to him, and the subsequent moment, she's gone.

but joe wastes no time. he turns the tv off, puts the couch cushion back against the couch and then heads upstairs, doesn't look to see what domme is doing or where she went. he keeps his focus on the stairs, on getting to the bedroom. his stomach lurches at the thought, wondering what she has for him.

joe perches on the bed, relaxes so his palms rest into the mattress and support his weight. it's supposed to look natural, but joe is sure he looks like a man on high alert, assessing the open door for any signs of life. for the faintest of creaks or shuffles. nothing comes for a minute, then two. and joe counts them, sixty seconds at a time. a third minute passes. then a fourth. five minutes seep past them, then six.

seven minutes later, domme surfaces without sound at bedroom door. "caught wind you're not starting saturday."

joe shakes his head. "had a conversation with my wife about playing it safe this preseason."

"huh, last i heard were you engaged? big wedding?"

"we're planning for something smaller, actually. family, close friends."

"so," domme grins. "still engaged."

"getting practice. on the whole saying my wife thing."

"do you think your wife would mind?" the question leaves a grin behind on domme's face. she eases in closer, like predator to prey when it knows there's no other running left, all attempts to escape are desperate attempts to delay the inevitable.

joe inhales, feeling the spike of his heart before it settles. "depends on what you plan to do? she really not the one that minds sharing."

"so you don't like sharing, then i take it."

"are you avoiding my question on purpose?" joe counters. he wants it to sound like he's bored, like he's over the conversation. but domme's sliding onto his lap and his hands are filling with her hips, and he's holding her, dragging the tips of his fingers around the button of her work pants.

"do you mind sharing yourself with me?" the words ghost of her lips, breath teasing over joe's mouth. her nails scrape at the nape of his neck, teasing up into his hairline and it sends a shiver down his spine. joe closes his eyes at the touch. "seems like you wouldn't mind."

"i-i think i can make an exception," joe whispers, through the words are croaky and horse at the way domme's moved now, mouth hovering over the column of his throat, her fingers now thread into his hair, holding his head back. like she's waiting for the permission, for the words.

"and is this an exception? am i an exception?"

domme's the woman of his fucking dreams. the person who he wants to live with forever, grow old with her. "you're the rule," joe whines, fingers digging into her.

and domme sinks, lowers her hips onto his lap, sucks at the flesh of neck and it feels like being engulfed, like being swallowed up, like the elastic in a band snapping, his body flooded with the tingle. her hips rock and joe's getting ahead of himself, but he just needs her, so he pulls at her tucked in blouse, takes her waist between his palms, traces the lines of her around her ribs and up her spine. joe clings to her. like a buoy in an open ocean.

the kisses are all hot, opened mouth, and tongue. desperation barely controlled. but it is heaven to hold her, to feel the moans he can't keep back rattle out of his own chest, to feel her whisper, "i love you" into his skin like she could permanent etch it in.

domme is a raft--well, most of the times.

but in times like this, when she's slipping off his lap, when her fingers are wrapped into the band of shorts, when she's grinning up at him with that glassy look in her eyes, she is a death sentence. but joe wouldn't want to be anywhere else. he wouldn't want anyone else to damn him.

his shorts and boxers go at the same time, a well praticed move of domme's that joe has to laugh at, because he gives into it so easy, when she tugs, he lifts his hips without question. "god, i'm easy, aren't i?" he chuckles.

"you're obedient," domme corrects, reaching up to cup his jaw. "and don't you love being obedient for me?"

he nods, dumbly so at that. god, he loves the sound of her voice, how it falls unhurried from her lips, how it dips and deepens when they're like this. "a lot."

"and i like it too. a lot. can i show you how much i like it?"

joe bucks into nothing, into cold empty air but he's nodding frantically. "please."

it's all it takes. domme's mouth is hot and warm, her nails scratch over his thighs and it's so fucking good, how deeply she takes him in one motion, doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "fuck," he sighs, head falling into the mattress.

it's lewd work, the pull of her tongue, the squeeze of her fist. it's messy, her spit dripping down her chin into the thicket of his pubic hair, but god, it's feels so good. the flat of her tongue, the drag of heat. joe knows how he gets when he's between her legs, when he's got the taste of domme slipping down the back of his throat, when he's pulling her apart, fingers curling inside, tongue lapping at her clit, it's hypnotic, a mediatative state he falls into.

and she does the same, the bob of her hand, the work of her fist, the way she moans around him the vibration crawling up his spine. joe's fisting the sheets, trying to keep his hips still, but he can't. not when it, "feels so fucking good. god," he whine. "shit."

he's not going to last long, has been thinking about this moment all day, building it up and his imagination though it's been years, never conjures up this feeling exactly right. nothing compares to the work of her mouth when she's like this, hot with need, a simmering bot threatening to boil over with the broken inhales, the haggard exhales. and the room echoes with her work, a melody of,

"god, i love the way you sound," from domme and

"fuck, holy shit," from joe.

a perfection syncopation with the buck of joe into her mouth and the cough from domme's on eagerness until joe cums hot, and hard down the back of her throat. one of his hands has migrated from the sheets to the back of her head, as if domme would ever actively run from them.

but he's holding her there, the last sputters of his orgasm quaking and tensing at his stomach. he looks down, though it takes every bit of what he has left and sees how her eyelids are fluttered close, her nose nearly brushing against his pelvis and the almost smile that is softening cock splits.

fucking divine, an unholy sight that joe swears he'd paint if he could. but he's not good at such things and she only deserves the best.

"swear to fucking christ you're going to kill me," joe laughs, dropping his hand from the back of her head.

domme pulls off him, wiping her chin onto the sleeve of her blouse. "what a wicked way to go."

they're not done. joe knows it by the way she teases at his stomach, careful to give him time to recover, but hungry still, with the pressing of her palm into his skin, a smoothing over action that makes him tense. it leaves domme so close to where he's still sensitive, like almost touching the fire and feeling the heat lick first before the true burn.

he beckon her closer, easing his fingers to the button of her pants. joe knows what he'll find, a river from domme, and he wants a taste. she lets him slip his hand into her pants, fingers teasing the slit before delving into the thick arousal. "god," joe exhales, eyes fluttering closed just at this touch alone.

"o-oh, please," domme whines, a rest rock of her lips against his fingers.

"no, no, save it, only need another minute, want to feel that, how desperately you take me in."

she drops her head into his shoulder but nods. "okay." her lips find his neck again and joe teases, traces around her clit just enough to keep her at the edge, but never enough to satisfy her. like the spoonfuls of a pot but never the finished bowl.

joe finds her jaw, and kisses it, nose brushing against the apple of her cheek. they're in the liminal--a between, not the start, not the end. all the heavy ragged breathing, the watching, the waiting, the cataloguing, the soft 'i love you's' that fall like feathers. the transition right before the heat breaks the dam again.

neither one of them cares that they're only half naked. this space, where breathes mingle and intertwine, this is more intoxicating than the sex is. it's a tenderness, her hands smoothing over his forehead. his free hand rubbing at her side.

and then it breaks, domme moves in first and joe meets her into the kiss, soft pecks before they turn longer more desperate, before the words become, "need you."

domme sheds her pants in one fluid motion, her blouse billowing open. joe snorts at the matching light blue set, the words "bride to be" dotted in silver rhinestones. "cute," he laughs.

"thank you," she grins and then the soft tenderness melts in one fluid motion, the sink of domme over him, her hands pressed into his chest.

now they can give into every sinful desire, strip themselves back to something before evolution--all basic instincts as she rocks over his length. a warmth that joe can't describe but loves, and craves. and like this, watching domme above him, how drops her head back, how her tits bounce, how she's carving herself onto him, using every inch, it leaves him satisfied and aching and raw.

there's only the hissed out curses, the heat that joe can't ignore, the tug and pull of desire in his lower gut, how he well he fits inside her, how snug she fits around him. a river rushing over him, but he'd drown. there's the biting words, the humid hopelessness to get more, and more, and more, to never let go, fingers circling, hips bucking.

"fuck, joe," domme groans, "shit, shit, shit."

her tell and then she's cumming, pussy convulsing around him and he can't hold out any longer either, pulling at her hips so she can't get away from him, his hips raising so she has nowhere else to go.

the ac is cool, thankfully so, rushes around them in a bitter cold as their heaving echoes. domme and joe lay chest to chest. he coaxes her out of his shoulder, stroking a soft line over her cheek. "hmm, i'm here," she laughs.

joe kisses her cheek, nose buried into her flesh. "i love you."

"i love you more."

"quantify that and graph it, and then i'll believe you."

[guwappbby]

ja'marr trading his autograph for sour skittles

[guwappbby]

➥ 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦.ᐟ𝐸𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑥 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘.ᐟ𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑝𝑙𝑢𝑔.ᐟ𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒

It was one of those nights, Eren was still at work trying to impress his CEO daddy by working overtime and Connie couldn’t be asked to do any runs, so he stayed in the condo with you, watching as you strolled around the place in your pink mumu that had your ass moving like water. And per usual, leaving him and you alone was always a recipe for disaster.

“Con-hmm…fuck!” You gasped, watching Connie’s thick cock disappearing into your wetness, squelching sounds filling up your ears as he sank in deeper “W-wait..” you reached your hand out, acrylics barely grazing his abs before he slammed his hips forward, making you suck in air.

“Bear with me,baby” He licked his lips at how tight your pussy was hugging him, greedily sucking him in. He grabbed onto your waist, fingers rubbing up on your back dermarls as he pulled you in closer “gettin’ this wet just from sucking me off?” He grinned ,while he kept fucking you relentlessly, thumb rubbing on your clit, his other hand traveled up your stomach and groped your tit, fingers teasing your nipples. You felt overstimulated with him so deep inside you and touching all your sensitive parts. It had you drooling all over, blabbering about how good it felt “mm-hmm…right there!” You moaned in pure pleasure.

“Oh right here?” Connie smirked, speeding up his thrusts, hitting just right that gummy spot that had your eyes rolling back into your head. Connie loved this view of you so stupid and cock drunk, moaning like no tomorrow with your slutty body responding to his every touch “Hmm my lil pornstar” Connie laughed and right then, you heard the front door open. Your boyfriend didn’t slow down and although you turned your head, your vision was too blurred out with your tears to see properly but you knew who it was.

“Oh my-not on the fucking couch” Eren sighed in pure exasperation, setting his keys and bag on the counter, eyes scanning the brand new sofa he had flew in from Italy soaked in cum and your oh so sweet pussy juices.

“Rennie..ah!” you yelped, Connie suddenly thrusting himself in so deep you felt like he’d hit an organ.

“You two are hell” he scuffed, walking over to where you were laid out getting fucked silly, he crouched down and grabbed your neck just gently enough so he could kiss you, a mess of saliva exchange while you moaned into his mouth with Connie still beating your shit. Eren pulled back after a minute, licking his lips and looking up at Connie “You came in her mouth?” He questioned, as could he taste his cum on your tongue.

“Mm-hmm, she begged me” he grinned only earning an eye roll from him “Let me taste it though” Connie finally unglued his eyes from your pussy to look at Eren who could only smirk and grab Connie by the back of his head, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. You watched your boyfriends make out, hand reaching down to rub on your clit at the sound of their lips smacking and Connie getting all whiny from you still moving his hips “Shit..you squeezing cuz we kissed?” Connie mocked when Eren finally let go, leaving him with swollen lips and a twitching dick.

[guwappbby]

Joe and Jayden🥰

[guwappbby]

Well I’m just glad we won 🙃🙃🙃🙃

[guwappbby]

This was impressively stupid. Joe don't do it again, please 😭😭😭

[guwappbby]

OK MR. TINSLEY!!?!&&!?!!&!!!!&&!!!!!!!!

[guwappbby]

Ja’marr you have one job!

[guwappbby]

Meltdown aside……… Jayden looks really good out there

[guwappbby]

THANK GOD

[guwappbby]

And they would be correct

joe on the sideline:

[guwappbby]

Nigga out there just doing shit

so like. it's gotta be that joe is wanting to test random shit out. taking his two top guys out on third and long!!! trying to fucking....outrun the entire d-line!!!!

[guwappbby]

YES MR.ANNOUNCER JOE NEEDS TO GET ON THE GROUND

[guwappbby]

………… every time the Bengals defense get on the field, I just got to close my eyes and pray

[guwappbby]

'Til Death Do Us Part—Sub!Joe & Domme Wedding + Married Life Brain Dump

Have you wondered what married life would look like between Domme and Joe? Wondered how much more freaked out a married Joe is? Well, look no further. We're going to dive right in.

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

_______________________________________ Domme’s not looking for a big wedding. She’d be okay with a courthouse date and a backyard reception, much like how the proposal went. But Joe did some sleuthing in the midsts of considering a proposal, and came across one of Domme’s Pinterest boards. He’s not certain how recent it is, but it was buried in the depths of her profile, so he’d hazard a pretty safe bet that it was a much older collection. Scattered throughout the board are pictures of big cathedrals—ornate glass, high ceilings. She’s never been overly religious in their time together. The conversation always left an impression in Joe that her stance was clear, but not aggressive, not something she necessarily needed to see eye-to-eye on.

So a church wedding never seemed like it was the thing for her. They’d floated a wedding on a beach, a destination wedding, if they’d forgo the wedding all together and just elope but then plan a big reception. Any thought other than a wedding, even if it’s small, and intimate, and private, is thrown at the window the second Joe discovers that old board. Wedding gown ideas are pinned, color palette ideas, floral arrangements and Joe can imagine Domme, younger than she is now daydreaming of the day. Now he can’t not give her that. Not when he imagines how’d it feel for the church doors opening and she starts down the aisle. Just the thought alone makes his throat seize up, swollen with the rush of emotion.

But it’s Joe who brings it up. He asks her how she envisioned her wedding when she was younger. Which Domme answers, in a church, traditional in that sense, but not necessarily firm on the idea now as an adult.

“So, like a cathedral sort of deal?”

Her last two bites of her sandwich paused as her gaze flicks up towards Joe. “What do you know?”

“I might’ve come across an old board of yours.” Joe slides his phone over across the coffee table to her. He watches her eyes fall and then light up, her teeth tucking her bottom lip behind them in a smile that she keeps trying and failing to hide. “It’s across the river, in Kentucky. What do you think?”

“The Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption,” Domme breathes as she reads it. “I like it. But you don’t—what do you want?”

“It looks pretty cool on the inside from the pictures. I like it.”

“That’s not answering my question, Joe.”

“I never really thought about where I’d get married. Religion was in my family, but like, sort of in the background. A church would be interesting, but it would need to be a cool one you know?”

Domme nods, eyes lifting back up to Joe. “Church weddings typically mean a lot of rules and regulations. If we go directly with the Catholic route.”

Joe’s hum is a sound of agreement, his head bobbing as he works back his last bite. “Yeah, I looked into the rules and there’s a lot. I don’t think I’d meet even a quarter. I asked my parents about my baptism certificate and they thought I was insane. But, do you want that? A church wedding in general?”

Her laughter bubbles as it bounces her shoulders. “I can see Mama Burrow now fussing with herself to find it. But I think I do want a church wedding. Even if it’s not at this one.”

“We can look into it. See what jumps out at us.”

And what jumps out is Felicity Church down in New Orleans. A little too perfect, but such a concept has to exist when it comes to this. When it’s Joe and Domme putting together their perfect day, a day to celebrate the two of them and their love. It leaps out at Domme one night, Joe sound asleep next to her, the brightness of her phone pulled all the way down as she browses wedding venue list after venue list. And there, staring back at her in the most perfect church, the wood worn with time. Brick. Stained glass windows.

The excitement squeezes at her chest and she knows she shouldn’t. But she can’t help it, so she pushes at Joe’s shoulder—gingerly at first and he doesn’t wake. Then she shakes again. “Joe, baby.”

He hums, the one arm draped over her stomach tightening for a split second. “Is everything okay?”

“Look, please. I know it’s late. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll like this venue.”

“What time is it?” The question crosses his lips with laughter wrapped around the words, but Joe pushes himself up and off his stomach to his side.

“One, I think?” 1:13 to be exact but Domme doesn’t need to tell Joe that.

Joe’s head falls back into the pillow but he holds out his hand. “Okay, let…me see. Let me…see.” His words are soft and slurred, still trying to pull himself out of the clutches of sleep.

She places the phone into his palm and Joe cracks open one eye first. Taps at the screen and it lights up a bit more than before. Domme watches him, the furrowed brows before he pushes up. “Wait a second. Is this down in Louisiana?”

“New Orleans,” Domme answers. “I know your time down there was important to you. And look at the windows and the brick. It’s perfect, baby.”

Joe rests against the headboard, thumbs still scrolling through the pictures of the venue. “The purple we selected in kind of perfect too,” he offers and it’s more to himself than her she thinks. But Domme nods all the same. “Always got the tiger spirit,” he hokes.

They selected more of a mauve than it was the deep royal purple of the LSU’s colors. But the deeper and more dusty purple pairs well with a dusty blue as well. They have accent colors too, dashes of navy blue and cream to create a bit more balance.

“I’ll call them at a more appropriate hour in the morning,” Joe agrees. “To see what they have for dates in April, okay? But I like it. A lot.”

Domme tuts her laughter, tapping at his thigh in the dark. “Admit it. I picked a good one.”

“It’s…I don’t want to get my hopes up about it. I need to be married to you as soon as possible and I could do that in a shoebox. But, yeah, I agree. It’s the most ideal place.”

“We’ll find out in the morning.” It would be quite a disappointment not to get the weekends that they wanted, but Domme would get married in the asscrack of summer just to ensure she could get married at that church. She’d do whatever possible, including deals with the devil.

“Now, please sleep, baby.” Joe stretches across Domme and sets her phone onto the charger. He knows if he hands it back to her, she’ll continue to scroll, continue to let her brain run on loop. She fits perfectly against him, scooped up and squeezed in close to his chest. He kisses her forehead as she settles back down. “Sleep.”

_________________

“I’d be offended if I didn’t love you,” Ja’Marr huffs.

Joe rolls his eyes at the statement but nods all the same as he stands in front of the mirror. His white dress shirt carries a dusting of purple kiss marks—light lavender all the way to deep dusty mauve and royal purple—embroidered into the collar, similar to the custom Dior jacket for the NFL Honors Awards. It’s the one of the last fittings to ensure that all the pieces still work, still meet their needs. The big day looms now in just weeks rather than months—three to be exact.

The rest of the groomsman are also getting their suits finalized too. It was an additional expense that he doesn’t have to incur, but Joe did want them to be able to use the suits again in the future. The groomsmen will stand next to him in the dusty blue. Joe’s best man will be in navy blue. Joe’s suit a pop of brighter blue—a royal blue that won’t fade into the background but still lets him stand out. Ja’Marr’s suit is indeed not navy, but the soft blue like the rest of the groomsmen. The best man honor going to one of Joe’s closest hometown friends.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re actually offended,” Joe retorts.

“I mean y’all are getting married in my hometown. I feel like I should a little offended. But I get it. I do. I’m just proud of you, man.” The sentiment is paired with a a soft pat to Joe’s shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“You gon’ explain what’s up with this lipstick print trend though? Because I definitely remember the Honors too.”

Joe shrugs, taking a look back at himself in the mirror, eyes falling to the collar yet again. “It’s a little piece of her,” Joe answers. It steels his nerves. To know that he’ll have something of Domme the entire day, even before he gets to see her walk down the aisle. When he feels like his world could fall upside down, Domme keeps it right side up.

“God, I can tell I’m going to blubber,” Tee teases. “Like a big ol’ baby.”

“They do make me sick,” Ja’Marr notes. “But she’s good for you. You’re good for her. She moves you. You move she’s moving.”

“Magnets,” Tee comments. “Laws of attraction or whatever it is.”

“Polarities,” Joe corrects, gently as it leaves his throat. “You put a north and north together and they reject. But you put a north end close to a south end and they stick.”

“And you ‘bout to be stuck,” Tee laughs. “You feel okay, bro? Knowing what’s around the corner?”

It’s a soft question and Joe thinks he hears what’s beneath it. If Joe’s okay with how life is going to change. But the thing is that life was always changing. It was changing before he could even notice it. He was changing before he could see it. Marriage just solidifies everything they’ve been doing. Joe wouldn’t be coming home—from good days and bad days—to his girlfriend. He’d be coming home to his wife. Their lives would be intrinsically tied together. Everything they did would be about being a team, about them both of them and not just one of them. About two humans who have chosen the other and would make that choice even when it’s tough, even when they might not feel like making it.

But Joe can’t imagine choosing anyone else. It would always be Domme. On her bad days. On the days she comes home and she crumbles, Joe would pick her up. Even if he had nothing in his own tank for her, he’d still want her to know he loved her and that she’d never be alone. They’ve had days like that. Joe with a tough day at practice. Domme with a long day at work. They weren’t perfect, but they still cared. They showed up at the dining room table together. They still sat side by side, still showed up with what they had of themselves to make the evening better. There weren’t many words. I’m got a whole 20 in the tank from Domme meeting Joe’s I’ve got 25. And they figured it out—Domme did the dishes, Joe packed her lunch. She showered, Joe slipped under the covers. She kissed his forehead, offered a soft, Shout if you need me. I’m going to take some floor time. And Joe didn’t fight it. Even though he usually recharges around her, he knows she needs the alone time to put herself back together, let herself feel whatever it is she needs and then let it melt there and not pick it back up.

And to think about doing that with anyone else? To think that it won’t be Domme that he lives life with—that’s not an idea Joe wants to entertain. It’s a thought that would haunt him. So he finds Tee’s eyes in the the reflection of the mirror. Joe nods, one singular bob his head. “I’ve never been more ready for it.”

“Oh, that’s what we wanted to hear.” Ja’Marr and Tee jostle at him, pushing at his shoulders gingerly before it dissolves into pants. “Good deal. That’s how you know you’ve found the one.”

______________________

Domme knew what she was getting into well before she and Joe even called venues and selected dates.

Joe’d been clear that he didn’t want this to seem like a failsafe, like he was looking for an exit strategy. He just wanted to be taken care of, to be in a position better than she was when they first met should anything happen. It’s why they went back and forth in those office meetings, red ink crossing out and adding in corrections. But now, with their wedding ten days away, they’re back here—no more corrections, no more addendums, no more time to fret really. Do or die. And she can’t back away from Joe, can’t turn away from him. She wouldn’t do that.

It just feels a little too real now, with the gold pen staring back up at her. Joe’s signature is already dried. The ‘J’ and the ‘B’ standing out before her. Her lines are empty, waiting, taunting. Sure you’re going to do it? Aren’t you scared? Too scared to sign I bet? What if he doesn’t love you?

But he does love me, she fires back. Domme never thought she’d sign a prenup. It seemed silly to her to have this kind of document when there was no goal of divorce. Domme told herself she’d marry for love and she’d stick it out, just as her vows would dictate and then some. She’s fight, for the person she loved, for the things she wanted.

But Joe was so clear when he brought it up. “Everything I have is yours. But your life shouldn’t be ruined in case of the worst case scenario.”

Joe was always thinking ahead, like him and chess. He wasn’t just thinking about the move he had to make now, he was thinking about the move he’d have to make two, three, four turns from now.

And this document laid it all out.

Domme would be the person to make health decisions for him if he ever got injured to the point that he could not make, in good judgment, decisions for himself. Joe would do the same for her. They talked about end of life care, how long they’d stay on life support. What to do if either one of them got sick—bad off sick, the kind of sick no one wants to think about until it’s happening. It’s in their directives about if they'd be resuscitated or not. They made addendums in the case of children and no children. There’s a hefty stack of pages that they’ve spent weeks pouring over.

There’s pages on what do do in terms of divorce—detailed down to the reason and the outcome. What to do in the case of infidelity, what would they do in case of accidents leaving either one of them widowed, what to do because of irreconcilable differences. It’s Joe thinking two, three, four turns ahead.

He wouldn’t leave me out to dry. And this is the proof in black and white. No ifs, no ands, no butts.

Domme exhales, her engagement ring catching in the afternoon light as she reaches for the stack. It’s not nerves in her stomach. It’s more like pressure, a thing that they’d been working on for a while that she’s still got strapped to her back. Domme picks up the pen with her right. The tip presses into the white page and she looks to her left.

Joe stretches out, fingers pressing into her left forearm. “Take your time, baby. We can always come back to this.”

Domme nods, but looks back down at the page. This was all the worst case scenarios, preparation that put Joe at ease. It was useful, Domme admits. She liked knowing that if anything happened, she could always come back to this that they both had the same thing to be held accountable to, not just word of mouth.

The pen scratches against the page and continues on with the flick of her wrist until she gets to the end of her name. The tip drops down in a period at the end of the her signature. She continues on to the date and dots the end of it with a period too. He loves me. I love him. This isn’t the goal. Just preparation, she remind herself.

Domme sets the pen down, a soft click against the wooden table and with a hope, a prayer, a plan to never have to use it. She and Joe would live a happy and long life together, the kind of marriage that people would see and know how full of love it is, and then they’d go—side by side, in their sleep, curled up into each other—and have the same love even in the afterlife.

Joe takes her hand now, scooting to the edge of his seat. His lips are soft against her temple. His words low and unhurried. “And you’re sure about all of it?”

“As much as I’m sure the lawyers would love to get deeper into your pockets, I’m okay with all, Joe. It’s our worst case scenario, not our goal.”

“Never our goal,” Joe reaffirms with another kiss to her temple.

–––––––––––––––––

Joe shouldn’t; he knows that. But he has almost one too many drinks in his system. Now out in the warm Louisiana April air, he can feel it down in the tips of his fingers—an ache, or maybe some kind of longing. The breeze cuts through nicely, in just enough of a way to keep the skin cooler than normally. Enough of a coolness that brings a small blip of clarity—he’s utterly pathetic right now, and he could blame the alcohol but it’s not just that. It’s the way that Joe’s buzzing with excitement too, a giddiness he hasn’t felt this big and deep since the proposal. But by God, he wants to see Domme.

She’s out, not too far from him—a few blocks up from him. Joe could be there and back before anyone noticed, he figures. So, Joe slips out into the streets that are busy and noisy—filled with life in a way that he’s missed. He’s glad to be back down here. The home away from home that always holds him well. Much like Domme. And okay, it’s sappy, Joe knows, but he’d rather celebrate with her than without her.

So he dials, glancing over his shoulder. No one’s noticed his departure just yet. Which is a good thing and the phone rings, and rings. “Baby?” Domme answers on the third ring.

“Hey,” Joe smiles as he answers. The music is loud on her end much like it is on his. “Where are y’all?”

She rattles off the name the bar, and thankfully, they haven’t moved locations. He wanted to make sure that the her and her party hadn’t shuffled further away. Though it hadn’t been anyone’s plan to leave their respective bars to go bar hoping, there was no telling how the night would go. And thanks to the lucky stars, Domme’s still where Joe though she would be. They could start out now and meet halfway, two blocks each.

“I miss you,” Joe whispers, which isn’t really a whisper anymore because he does want her to hear it.

“Are you suggesting we ditch our respective bachelor and bachelorette parties just to meet up and make out? Or should I suggest it and then see how you feel about it?”

Joe laughs, the blush warming his cheeks. She always gets it, always gets him. Even in the words that he can’t bring himself to utter at times. “I think you should suggest and I should agree to the terms and conditions.”

Domme’s guttural laughter echoes and Joe swears he can almost hear it. She’s too far to actually catch the sound. But it’s probably the want to hear it her laugh that makes Joe conjure the sound of it form his memory. She rattles off the name of a bar midway between them both. “Want to meet there?”

“Absolutely.”

Joe has to be fast if he wants no one to interfere. So the second she agrees that she’ll be there, Joe hangs up, and takes one last look over his shoulder. As luck would have it, Justin spots him. “Shit,” Joe huffs. But he’s not about to back out now, so he grins—feels like a teenager sneaking out on his parents as he turns back, feet taking him a few steps away from the bar already towards the rendezvous. Joe picks up his brisk walk into a light jog and gets to the end of the block before he hears his name.

“Burrow! Where are you going?”

“I’ll—I’ll be back,” Joe hollers in return. “Don’t worry.”

And there’s little Joe could probably do in a footrace against Justin in terms of ensuring Joe would be declared the winner, short of tripping the other man or miraculously getting faster. But Joe continues on, hoping his head start is enough. He’s careful of the thickening street, the bodies pouring out from clubs and bars.

It’s a short distance and by the time he skids to a stop at the bar, his phone is shaking in his pants pocket. Again, for the third time. Joe elects to ignore the call—for the third time—and focuses instead on scanning the faces in front of him. None of them are Domme and he turns to the right to face the street—she’s not there either.

“Hi, handsome.”

Joe spins to his left, and Domme stands, in sneakers rather than the heels she packed and he grins. Her grin is looser than normal, more at ease than she’s been in months. Domme looks perfect here—like she’s made for the city or the city’s made for her, the beads wrapped around her neck, her Bride To Be sash draped perfectly over her chest. The lights bounce off her skin that make her look like a star in the crowed streets.

“C’mere,” he exhales.

It’s public—they both know that. But that doesn’t stop Joe. He takes her face between his hands, seals her lips in a kiss, shaky and reverent. He gets to marry her in just two days. The entire wedding party flew in yesterday considering the wedding is on Sunday. With the season, trying to have the bachelor and bachelorette parties earlier was tedious and hard. So it’s a long weekend for everyone—a whirlwind of the the parties, into the rehearsal dinner, into the wedding and then it’ll be done for them all in one final swoop. But it’s not Sunday. Right now it’s Friday and Joe’s supposed to be with his friends, and he loves them, and all that he really wants on top of that is Domme. So if it means kissing Domme in the middle of Bourbon street, Joe will do that too.

They won’t have much time. Joe has his location shared with a few friends and with Justin spotting him before he took off, his entire party will be on the hunt for Joe. But for the sweet moments before they all descend, Joe savors the sweet bite of Domme’s drink on her lips and the way she feels like coming home each time she’s around him. She’s like the breeze he felt earlier, cool over his skin, refreshing, something to always fill his cup up with rather than to drain it.

The rumbled laughter shakes of Domme shakes his chest and Joe wants to carve the sound into the marrow of his bones, make himself so deeply intertwined with her that no one know where Domme stops and where Joe starts. A thing he know he won’t ever be able to get to do exactly. Yet, this—here with the blaring of the trumpets, the rat-tat-tat of drums, a chorus of voices and laughter—tasting Domme’s lips is the next best thing. It’s the thing that Joe will carve into the grooves his memory, though that too will become tainted with time.

“Burrow! What the hell, dude?”

It’s Justin’s voice that reaches through the noise first to them and Domme’s laughter echoes into the night as she parts from his embrace. “Baby, did you run out on your own party?”

“And you didn’t?”

“No, I told my people exactly where I was headed.”

Joe sighs, burying his nose into her neck, arms now looped around her waist. “Just needed this, sue me.”

“Oh, shit, my bad.” Justin’s apology is laced with amusement. “I’ll just be, like, yeah, anyway. I was making sure he wasn’t possessed by something.”

Neither one of them track where Justin winds up, too enwrapped in each other. Domme rubs over Joe’s back, her palms sliding easily over the soft threads of cotton. “I know,” she starts in response to Joe, “me too.”

The embrace in a few minutes long, a soft inhale and exhale against each other. It eases Joe’s shoulders, drops them from near his ears down back level. It doesn’t even matter if phones are capturing this moment, doesn’t matter because right now all Joe’s focused on is her. The way she feels against him. A feeling Joe wants to have forever.

They pull away at the same time, faces wearing soft and easy smiles. Joe wants her to have her fun without him. He knows it’s important to have the time apart, but god he loves her—deeply and utterly. “I love you,” Joe grins, tracing the line of her jaw.

“I love you.”

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I’m ready too.” Domme stretches up again, lips capturing his in another kiss. And Joe laughs, pulling her into closer. “Two days and then it’s real.”

“Two days,” Joe whispers. That feels too long, like it will take forever. But he knows by the time they get back to the hotel tonight, by the time they get to rehearsal dinner, time will be blowing past him, will make his impatience seem silly. “Let me walk you back?”

She nods, taking his hand with ease. “I’d like that.”

And it’s only then before they set out that Joe notices Justin lingering in against the bricked building, a grin on his face. “I didn’t get possessed, just so you know,” Joe returns.

“I mean you were possessed but by love.”

“Not the same thing.”

“Might as well be.”

––––––––––––––––––––

Domme drops her shoulders, holds her head high as the doors eek open. A slow reveal that in actually is probably only seconds long, but to her, it feels like minutes. To see Joe, in his blue suit, standing there at the altar for her.

Nothing else in the room matters. No one else matters. The officiant, her family, her friends, Joe’s family, his friends, all disappear. It’s just Joe. His face drops. Awe dipping at his mouth. And in an instant, the second she crosses the threshold of the couch, the usually calm and composed man crumples. She watches it—can’t see the tears, but notices the way Joe pinches at his skin under his eyes, trying to discretely wipe at the tears. His head shakes, and Domme can’t hear what’s said, but she’d hazard a guess it was something like, ‘No shot,’ or ‘No fucking way’.

Joe lowers into a crouch, his strangely normal routine of balancing on the balls of his feet. His attention is on her, head still shaking. His hands cover his mouth for a moment, or two. Then Joe stands up again, just as she gets to the bottom of the altar and he’s laughing through the tears too. She gives a hug to her parents, thanking them both for walking her down the aisle.

“My hands are shaking, holy shit,” Joe whispers as he hazards a step down to help her up. “You look—God, someone pinch me. I swear I’m dreaming.”

Domme laughs, her own eyes stinging with tears. Joe’s face has gone a little splotchy from the emotion, but he looks so handsome, in the warm sunlight through the stained windows. “Look at you,” she laughs.

“No, baby, look at you. You look so beautiful. I’m going to marry the shit out of you.”

There’s another tut of laughter, this time from all those in the church. She squeezes at his hands. They opted not to do first looks, wanted to savor every second of the moment. And it feels surreal, to be here, at the altar next to Joe, knowing in just a few short minutes, she will be saying her vows, committing herself to him.

“Going to marry the shit out of you too,” Domme agrees, her laughter filled with her tears.

Joe’s tut of laughter is wet like her too. “Yeah? You like that?”

“I do, so much. I like you. A lot. But that’s a secret.”

“Hate to break it to you, baby, I think the secret might be out now.”

“Better luck next time, I suppose.”

If anyone asked Domme what was said, what happened between her stepping onto the altar and before she said her vows, she’d have no clue. All she can focus on is Joe, and the way he looks at her, at the way they’re hands are wrapped around each other. It’s grounding, tethers her to these worn wooden steps, into the bricks, into the moment. It’s just Joe—the man she’s always wanted, the man she’ll always want too.

“The bride and groom have prepared their own vows, which they will read now.” And it’s that, that particular sentence followed by her name that gives Domme the cue to come back to her body again. She reaches behind to her maid of honor and takes the tiny folded piece of paper tucked away.

The yellow paper stands out harshly, but Domme’s just glad to have gotten it all down. “Joe,” she starts, glancing up to him. His eyes are still trained in on her like they have been since she walked the aisle. An intense and hot gaze, but melted in the middle, oozing with adoration and love. It makes her spine tingle and her heart flutter. “Okay, first, stop looking at me like that. Oh my god,” Domme jokes fanning herself with the piece of paper.

It leads to more rumbles of laughs. “You’re ridiculous,” Joe murmurs, but it’s warm and drips as he speaks.

“I know I am. But you knew this before today, so shush.” She inhales deeply, before releasing it slowly. “Take two. Joe,” she starts again. “I love you. And I didn’t know it in that coffee shop after I bumped into you and offered to pay for new shoes. And I didn’t know it when you called me thirty seconds after I left the coffee shop and you told me ‘I hope you like space’ after I asked you to tell me something interesting on the fifteen minute drive back to my office. But I think, if I was ever asked, what was the moment I knew I wanted to love you, I’d say is when you said that you hoped the light at the start of my drive back to the office was red. You never explained to me what you meant and I didn’t ask. But I like to think, now, when I reflect that you wanted every second you could get with me.

“And I stand here, today, to say: I hope every light we hit is red. Because I want every second of forever with you too. I want to be a teammate forever to you. I can’t promise to be a perfect person. But I will be there for every up, for every down. For highs and for lows. I will take charge of every home repair because you suck at them. I will be your biggest cheerleader in the stands every Sunday, unless it’s a Monday night game, or Thursday night game, and then I will your biggest cheerleader those night too and every other night too. I promise to always strive for better with you, to choose you. It is today, in front of our family and friends, that promise to be there in sickness, and to be there in health. To be there for rich or for poor. To be faithful, to cherish, to roll up my sleeves and dig into the muck when needed. Always and forever.”

Joe’s exhale is deep and long. His cheeks are wet and Domme reaches out, taking the back of her fingers to gingerly wipe at his tears. “How am I supposed to follow that up, huh? You ever consider that?”

“I believe in you, baby.”

Joe pauses, partially leaned in like he’d thought about kissing her, and then thought better of it. Knows it’s not time yet. Domme squeezes at his hands again before he pulls out his vows from his pocket. His vows are folded up, like hers, and as he works it open, she catches the quiver. But she brushes her fingers over his wrist, rubbing over the scars she’s traced a thousand times over. And in an instant, the tremors stop. He smiles up at her, chest expanding with his inhale. Joe starts with her name, the syllables hanging off his lips for a moment. The sound is so sweet.

Then Joe continues on, is voice still a little uneven and tight, “I wasn’t sure what to say at first, how to convey how I feel about you in words other than I love you over and over and over again. But I hope this suffices. Like the planets orbit the sun, and like black holes pull in everything with a small weaker gravity around it, and like a compass will only point in the direction of the strongest magnetic force, everything for me, everything about me, comes back to you. You’re the person I want to wake up next to in the morning. You’re the person I want to cook dinner for and hope you like it when I try something new. You’re the person I want to laugh with. You’re the person I want to tell all my news to—good and not so good. You’re the person I want at the end of every day. I will be your biggest supporter. I will continue to hover over your shoulder as you work on home projects and I will continue to supervise you on a ladder. I will be there, for you, with you, when you’re sick, when you’re healthy, when times are tough because together we’re tougher, forever, as long as you’ll have me. The choice is always you.”

The rings are exchanged as Joe slips the bands back on, Domme notices something that catches, like a scratch over her knuckle. Could Joe have done the same thing she did? There’s no time to ask, to think about it as the officiant declares them, “husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Then it’s all Joe and the cool wash of relief, his lips on hers, his jaw in her hands. All Joe with the bite of his cologne singeing at the hairs of her nostrils.

“I present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Burrow.”

Joe swaps the blue suit coat for a jersey, which if he’s honest, feels a little too ironic. But it’s cream colored to fit the wedding colors with Burreaux stretched across his back. Sewn into the front is an 04 and 19 is etched into the back of it—their wedding date. And Domme’s across the room, a cream colored jersey over her frame too, Burreaux across her back with a 04 on the front and 19 on the back too. Her makeup artist and hair stylist are doing last minute touch ups, swipes with brushes, and combs. It’s an entire whirlwind now and Joe plays at the cufflinks, which also hold the shape of the date too. Tiny details so that they can carry that forever. But it’s her, the woman of his dreams, made into flesh standing across from him in a wedding gown, her left ring finger brighter than ever before.

She’s his, more than just his partner. More than just his fiancé. Domme’s his wife and she carries their shared name now too. He knows he shouldn’t, that he should wait, but when all the fussing over her is done, Joe calls out to the room, “Can we get a second alone? Please?”

It’s an easy agreement and they keep the feet between them until the room is empty. All except for the photographer and videographer, which terrifies Joe, but when they point to themselves for clarification, he shakes his head. “No, you two can stay. That’s…that’s okay.”

Domme rests, her dazzling white heels traded in for sneakers, against the table. Her grin stretches across her entire face, ear to ear. “Can you believe it?”

“No. And yes, but mostly no,” Joe laughs, spinning his wedding band around and around. Something catches against his skin. Not that it hurts, but that it feels not completely filled in.

“Take your band off for me, love. And look inside.”

And Joe does. Without hesitation, he slips it off, which feels odd—more odd to not have the ring on anymore than it was to have it put on. For my moon—always is etched into the band, a fun combination of gold and sapphire to match her engagement ring and band. He can only laugh. “Check the inside of yours,” he comments, slipping his ring back on, already knowing that on the inside of Domme’s is: For my sun—forever.

She crosses the room in just a few strides, confident, and sure and like they’re the only ones around after placing her rings back on. Like Domme has always done, like Joe hopes she always will do, she kisses him easy and assured, a bubbling of her laughter feeding into Joe’s mouth, before the kisses turn into something shakier, warmer, and just a hair desperate. She’s his wife. And Joe nearly chokes on the thought, eyes watering again.

“Baby,” Domme coos, lips brushing against his.

“Happy tears, I promise.” His hands are full of her hips, fingers digging into the material like he can actually get to her flesh. Joe doesn’t want to let her go. Doesn’t want this moment to leave them because, “I swear I’m so glad I married you.”

“I’m glad I married you too. Look at you, handsomest husband I have ever had. And well, my only husband, but still.”

And if either camera happens to capture the desperation, the way Joe buckles for Domme when she calls him her husband, and if they just so happen to catch the sheer ease in which Joe picks her up, her back pressed up against a wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, laughter spilling from them both in the shared easy kisses, and if she asked him to beg for it, for her to say the words again, and how swiftly, how broken Joe whimpers into her throat, “Please. Please say it again for me. Need it. Need to hear you say it, love, please” only to be met with the softest press of her lips before she utters, “You’re my husband now,” then so be it.

They both know that come tomorrow, there will much more begging, much more sharp and biting desperation, the mere rejoicing of their union—and that part, will be just for them. It’s just for Joe to hear Domme sighing beneath him, utterly lost in the work of his fingers and tongue. It’s just for Domme to watch Joe’s head fall back against the pillows at the bounce of her hips, the drag of her walls over his aching cock. And in the soft Greek morning sun, bleeding in through the thin curtains, both their left hands, intertwined, is the shine and dazzle of their bands.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

The first day back for Joe, after the first week of mini camp that he misses because the week and a half in Greece with Domme at his side was too magical not to carry a few extra days of it back home, starts a fire in the world of sports and social media at large.

Joe supposes, but will never confirm if directly asked, that he might’ve been asking for trouble that first day, begging for a little bit of a spark to catch. But it’s not entirely his fault that he spots the social team, phones and cameras at the ready, pointed at him as alway and decides to have a little fun. Now that him and Domme are married, he’s less worried about keeping all of her private. She still doesn’t want her face out there too much and Joe can respect that. So, he holds up his left hand. Joe’s gold band replaced by a silicone black one for him to wear on his hand during games and practice. Tucked beneath the practice jersey though is a chain with his band.

And okay, maybe Joe knew trouble would come the second he held up his left hand towards the camera, the second he winked after giving the band just a small lick. Yet, Joe will defend, his actions are meant to be nothing more than just a tease. It’s just for a little laugh. But he’s a married man, a happily married man, and he will flaunt that fact. The thing Joe should’ve accounted more for is just how quickly the video makes the rounds on social media.

To make matters worse, the social team made, perhaps the unwise, decision to slow down that moment. His walk is normal up until his hand raises and then it slows, the wink and lick immortalized forever in the slower seconds. There’s a little of texts from Domme on his phone when he finishes, I had no clue you’d get married and turn into a freak like this, followed by, I know we’re perverted, which I adore, but goddamn Joe. Which is just the beginning of the wave. Is it hot in here or just me? You telling me you got a whole wife at home—damn, I guess I’m late the party. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? Besides, I think the world should know just a little bit about how much of slut you are.

I’m always your slut second, and your husband first, Joe replies.

Under the video is a flood of comments:

I ALWAYS knew that man was a freak. —> his LSU days were a warning sign tbh ——> for real ———> i came here to say the exact same thing

Did he just? There’s no way he just did…that?

We are gathered here today to eulogize his wife, who is probably dead but deeply satisfied somewhere watching this like the rest of us.

Um, do y’all need a third? I cook and clean. Asking…for me.

He really said menace mode activated the SECOND that band was put on his finger.

There’s a scattering of gifs—fainting, fanning themselves in the replies. Which Domme reads that night to Joe, a giggle laced through each comment. She spends only a few minutes scrolling. “Okay, but they’re not necessarily wrong. It’s times like this that I wish I used social media more because I would be hearting so many of these.”

“Now, the day you start liking comments, I think the internet will break for real,” Joe hums into her neck, teasing the skin of her ankle as her feet rest in his lap.

The news of them married felt seismic, like it could shift tectonic plates. Pictures of them out on Bourbon Street surfaced, blurry, but still obvious it was him in the midsts of the kiss with Domme. Joe hadn’t seen that storm as it happened, just the aftermath of how his assistant and manager told him they were bombarded with emails and inquiries. None of which were returned directly. Yet, in the only way Joe knows how, he decided to add a little more fuel to the fire—a couple weeks later after the video of him returning to camp. There’s no quotes to magazines, no attempts to create social capital, just the art of privacy and stolen peeks behind the veil.

A photo dump. That rests on Joe’s Instagram—a video of Joe seeing Domme for the first time as she walks down the aisle, his tears immediate before he falls into that crouch, his whispered, I can’t believe it. No fucking way. She looks like an angel caught forever on film. Joe makes sure to include the shot of them leaving the church in an ’57 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, as well as a black and white photo of them right before they entered the reception from behind, Burreaux 19 stretched crossed their backs, a few candids of them dancing. His carousal concludes with another video, Domme curled into his lap at the hotel that same night, her sneakers kicked off, both of them still in their jerseys. Joe’s got a hold of her cheek as he pulls her in for a kiss, slow and sleepy, as the night’s caught up to both them. It’s a soft rumble, barely audible of Joe’s question but Domme’s nod is clear before she tucks her head into his neck. He’d asked her if she was tired, and her confirmation came easy, what’s not captured in the video though is Domme’s whispered reply, ‘But I’ll never tire of you’. And Joe swore his chest might burst at her slurred confession. A thought that still makes him teary-eyed, that he cherishes so much he included it in the caption: 4-19. I’ll never tire of you.

But of course that private world creeps into football, which again, isn’t helped by Joe’s entrance back into camp. Because he’s asked in his first interview of camp, “You, uh, made quite the entrance earlier this week. But congratulations to you and your wife. Is-is the silicone wedding band here to stay? You’ve worn it all week. How is throwing with that on?

“Thank you,” Joe nods. “Appreciate that. And, it’s not so bad actually. I wore it for a little bit at home, got some practice in the backyard. It’s pretty soft so I don’t even realize it’s on until it’s off. But I definitely think I intend to wear it as much as possible as the regulations allow.”

“Do you care to explain a little bit more about that? Who are you throwing around to in your backyard? A teammate?”

“Yeah, my wife, I’ll give it to her— she’s got an arm on her too, quick hands, manages a good scramble if I accidentally throw it too high. But I try and not do that. Don’t want her to hurt herself or anything.”

“Wait, so to a teammate or to your wife?”

The confusion pulls at Joe’s brow, knits them together in the middle of his forehead for a second. His sway hasn’t stopped until the clarifying question. “My wife is my teammate. Well, like life teammate, not like a teammate teammate. But to her.”

The headlines write themselves really: Joe Burrow Calls Wife ‘Life Teammate’

In the Most Adorable Turn of Events, Burrow Admits to Throwing a Football Around with His ‘Life Teammate’ in the Backyard

New Term of Endearment Just Dropped, Joe Burrow Calls Spouse ‘Life Teammate’

Comment sections are littered, a wall of text and usernames in response to damn near every headlines:

Not only did Joe just assume that it was clear that when he said his wife was who he threw to in the backyard was also his teammate, he then went on to clarify that he tries not to throw too hard to too high so she’s not at risk of hurting herself. Yeah, which factory is making husbands like that because I need one.

Hi God, it’s me again…

I’m tired of coming onto the internet every day and crying over the love that others are experiencing. When will it be my turn?

Brb, gotta find a bridge to jump off of

I did not have Joe Burrow calling his wife his life teammate on my bingo card for this year, but I’ll take it. Cutest shit I’ve heard all day.

😭😭😭😭 I’m too late.

Joe complimenting his wife and in the same breathe being concerned about her safety—I’m SOBBING.

Post your wife throwing better than you, Burrow. I dare you.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Domme continues to say in the background, stays off social media. Doesn’t have anything publicly facing. But she has little bits and moments captured on camera. Things Joe never realized she was recording, until in the flurry of the news about his comment, he gets a text. Right as he’s getting ready for meetings—If you want, you should post this. Prove to everyone I’m the better QB. And attached his a video of them on the sandy beaches of Greece, her phone propped up, low on the ground and them high above.

Domme’s screeching laughter breaks through the crisp wind. Her feet hauled off the ground, a bit of sand falling back to the ground below at the action, her grip tight around the smaller foam football. Joe peeks out from behind her, his own image clearer now. “Sir, please unhand me,” she laughs. The sunshades cover most of her face, the scarf tied around her hips hides little away.

“I’ll think about that request, my liege. Only after my payment of kisses.”

“And what would be the pretense for such payment? What deeds have you done?”

Joe places her back onto the ground. “I have taken your hand in marriage. That is the deed.”

“A noble deed, I must agree.”

The grin is easy, watching them back, how they take a few steps apart after the kiss, her first toss to him with a perfect spiral that makes them both pause—her time time getting it too. “Did you see that?!”

Joe can’t see the grin in the video, but he remembers it how big she smile. Her excited dance—a shuffle of her feet and a shimmy of her shoulders—makes him laugh again, as if seeing it for the first time still.

“You’ll be pro in no time,” Joe offers softly in the recording. He tosses the football back and she hops to catch it, but only a few inches or so. He takes a step back. “Let’s see you get a little bit more distance on it. You’ve got the mechanics down.”

“I know this one isn’t as tough of a material as normal. But it feels okay, right? The ring?”

“Yeah, yeah, this one’s good. But you’re not getting out of this longer throw. Remember you’re using both feet too, power’s coming from that back leg just as much as it from your shoulder and your elbow.”

“Alright, Coach, let’s see if that QB1 spot is mine.”

“You got it.”

And to anyone listening it might seem solely like Joe’s offering an easy reassurance. Because he is. But under the words, tucked in between the letters and the pauses is something deeper, something softer. Domme doesn’t need to see if any spot is her, because they already are hers. And it’s not the jest she’s making related to his job, it’s about the fact that when he told her that he hoped the light was red, it’s because he did want every second he could get with her. Because he knew then in mere moments that he wanted everything with her. And she would always, always have a safe space in him—a place to go when she didn’t feel like being strong, a place to rest her head when shew grew tired, a place to laugh until her stomach hurt.

The video never sees the light of social media until her birthday, a day they spend together with just themselves and some family, a soft candle lit dinner and a lot of laughter. But Joe’s held onto the video, watched it at night when he can’t sleep because he’s hundreds of miles away for football and the hotel room feels too big and too empty without her voice and it’s after they’ve talked already and the void seems endless.

He plays the video scrubs it back over and over to hear himself, “I have taken your hand in marriage. That is the deed.”

“A noble deed, I must agree.”

He keeps that part just for himself, but the video plays, after their kiss, with a few steps between then, Domme’s perfect pass. “Did you see that?”

“You’ll be pro in no time.”

#1 in my heart, reads the caption.

––––––––––––––––––––

The first home game of the season Joe takes the tunnel in the custom made jersey with his wedding date etched into it. There’s a constant flash of the camera’s shutter, all freezing the moments, Joe’s strut into the stadium, gold and sapphire wedding band on full display. The creamed colored jersey is paired with a pair of brighter blue cargo pants, not quite the same as his suit, but only off by a shade or two, a perfect accent to the gems in his ring. Another cheeky photo—his tongue out, the smirk dancing over his lips, his wedding band the focal point of the shot—snapped that will certainly make waves on the internet now.

Domme’s up in the suite, in her jersey too, pacing—naturally now, half her mind away as she twists the rings around. Joe’s parents are there too, but they know better now to let her be. So let her pace. Because it feels a lot different now. Before she was just the girlfriend, the partner who’d been there for years, but not anything more. And now it’s her husband on the field, it’s his name she carries on her back that’s their name now, and it’s not really different. But it is.

Now’s the test to the vows—for better or for worse, in sickness and in health—all of that will be tested.

“He’s going to be okay,” Robin offers, her hand stretched out to catch hers.

Domme nods, squeezing back. Their rings clicking softly against each other. “He will,” she agrees.

And it’s cockiness, it’s not necessarily even fragile hope, it’s routine now to go in with expectations for the best, for them to come out with the win. But Domme will always be planning, making moves two, three, four turns ahead, watching each play unfurl—cataloguing the winces and the hits, watching how he walks on and off the field.

Joe plays his heart out, like he always done, putting every ounce of himself out on the line. And as the final seconds tick downwards and the Bengals secure their victory, pride swelling in her chest, Domme watches the huddle of the black jerseys with a camera focused in on the center. Joe, pulling at something from around his neck that swings as it hangs above his open mouth.

His wedding band.

And Domme can only laugh watching him, knows it’s a little crude, but she can’t say she doesn’t like it, watching him the way she knows him—the man who’s confident, but also just a little bit of a freak, never too much in the public eye, but just enough. The man she married, who’s gentle in his own way—packs her lunch still, texts her at random points throughout the day with whatever thought won’t leave his head— who laughs louder now than he’s done before, who’s watchful and still covers the corners of tables that she’s prone to hit. Who’s still intense, dedicated to his craft and spends that Saturday before a home game tucked away into his office, who Domme still gives him a wide berth—grace because she knows the game just as much of a mental match as it is a physical one. Who’s always had a little bit of filthy mind, but not that Domme’s mind it one bit.

Joe and Domme find each other, after the game, right before press. His cheeks rosy still from the game and the shower, hair still not even close to dry as the one curl falls down into the middle of his forehead. And Domme’s always know he’s handsome, but it’s hitting her all over again, back in the custom jersey, his lips peeled back into a big joyous smile.

“Now who told you to tongue fuck your ring like that?”

Joe laughs, kissing her cheek, arm snaking around her waist. “Someone might’ve mentioned that I should show the world just a little bit of how much a slut I am,” he offers it in a whisper, mindful of who’s still around.

“Whoever that was, they’re quite intelligent.”

“I’ll be sure to pass the compliment along to my wife.”

Domme doesn’t slip into the room, just listens from the outside. It’s a quiet murmur, the specifics hard to piece out, but the timing and volley is easy to catch. The pause between question and its answer, a back and forth that Domme imagines in her minds eye until Joe’s done, head poking out first like he’d been trying to see where she’s landed, as if she had anywhere else to go.

When they leave the stadium, they do it together. Domme reaches for the keys she knows will be in Joe’s right pocket. Robin and Jimmy gave her a ride to the stadium as per requested by Joe, who wanted to start a new tradition—the quiet drive of them together back home. And though Joe would usually drive, would normally insist on it, he doesn’t. Just lets her dig into his pockets for the keys. But he does open the driver side door for her, closes it after she’s settled. Domme presses for the secondary seat position that’s programmed into the car for her. To make it easier for both of them in the shuffle back and forth.

“Can we take the long way?” Joe asks, dropping into the passenger seat his backpack between his feet.

Domme nods in tandem with the soft click of the door’s locking. “We can. I won’t even rush the yellow lights.”

“Well, you can’t rush red lights,” Joe offers.

Domme listens to his laughter, but she watches for the way his head settles into the rest, how his body seemingly exhales into the seat now. The rush of the game leaving him and now it’s just them, the soft hum of the car’s engine beneath them as it cuts on.

“You’re right—can’t do that.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Watching Joe tongue his ring makes me wonder what other things he does with it 👀👀👀👀

He’s so obsessed with her. A lucky gal.

This man got married and decided to turn the freak dial all the way to a 10. I just know his wife is satisfied.

Joe: wins a football game Nobody: Joe: 👅💍👅

Married!Joe is the new LSU!Joe

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Domme’s return the office comes is marked with a huge bouquet on her desk, white balloons towering over her cubicle as her office friends surprise her. There’s a solid hour as she indulges in the cupcakes, catches up on the office drama, shares some unseen photos of the wedding. The picture on her desk of her and Joe after Joe proposing is replaced with a photo of them sneaking out of the reception—for just a couple minutes, taking in the lights of the city from the balcony of the building, Joe’s arm wrapped around shoulders, her arms wound around his waist.

A switch Joe notes a few weeks later, when he drops by with her favorite drink and treat combination. “I like the new decor.”

Domme laughs. “Thanks. Felt like an appropriate time to update a few pictures.”

“I have a still from that video of us at the end of the night, with you in my lap in my locker. The entire O-line refuses to let me live it down.”

“Well, wait until one of them gets married and when they get sappy, we can return the favor.”

“Devious,” Joe laughs. “I like it.”

––––––––––––––––––––––

Joe’s Instagram stories become a guessing game of whether he’s going to post something innocent, like reposting of the Bengals page of something, or if he’s going to post Domme—her face obscured by the blur of camera or pressed into his chest, the hand taking the photo resting at the top of her ass wrapped around the phone, his other hand full of one of her ass cheeks.

Those photos don’t come often—hardly frequent enough to really establish a true pattern. But they come. And given how infrequently Joe does post to social media the gamble always feels like high stakes game whenever his icon shows up in the lineup of latest stories. Joe gets permission to post them, which is partially explains why they show up so infrequently, but Domme always seems to know when he’s going to ask about a photo and she stretches her hand up to ask for the phone before the words crest over his lips.

“I’m not sure about this one,” Domme offers to one of her half way bent over.

“I figured as much. It’s good to know that my radar’s still sharp.”

“You’ve perfected the blurry aesthetic though. My face is hard to pick out but I think it’s because you were much to focused on my ass.”

“Sue me—you’re hot.”

“That’s not in the prenup, but don’t go giving me any ideas.”

Time doesn’t lessen this frequency either. As the months past and turn into years, there’s still a 50/50 shot on totally normal football related content or some kind of slightly compromising photograph.

Until things seemingly fall too quiet on his end. Joe’s posting, but hardly at that. A repost once in a blue moon on his stories, but nothing new of him and Domme. There’s no photo dumps aside from those that are captured during the season. It’s almost like the old Joe is back. The guy reserved, who doesn’t want his business out and about.

Rumors are brimming, ready to threaten the worst case scenario: has the internet’s favorite couple split? Had their several year run burned bright and fast? But that can’t be true, right? Not if Joe’s still wearing his wedding band. He can still be seen after wins, slipping it back on, the chain dancing from his finger in the midsts of the celebrations, waving his left hand in front of his face with a cockiness and swagger that wouldn’t be there if all this was a front.

There’s a quietness in Joe’s blue eyes. He’s less fidgety in some pressers and more restless in others. His gaze is present but it’s easy to catch when Joe’s attention drifts as he apologizes for checking his phone—laughs about phantom vibrations and then continues on, focusing back at the task at hand. No one dares asks what is going on because Joe’s refused to answer a few too many times to even think about asking any longer. “My goal for right now is to focus on football, you know, considering it’s my job. What’s your question regarding that matter?”

One rather quiet Wednesday morning, in the midsts of the playoffs chatter, as commentators are looking at the divisional rankings, as the word spins on its axis like it’s supposed to do, no one really pays attention to the notification of a new story. Nothing exciting has happened on Joe’s stories in months, closing in on just over a year at that. It’s probably just another repost—something the world’s seen a thousand times with a quick one liner.

An 18 Month Long Silence Broken—Burrow Family Has a Plus One

The Burrow Family Grows by One New Tiny Addition

A New Addition Expands Burrow Family

How One Tiny Foot Broke the Internet

Joe Burrow, 33, the star quarterback for the Cincinnati Bengals, is no stranger to keeping his life private.

Burrow married back in 2026 rather quietly after an unknown length of dating. His relationship with his wife had long been speculated, but never confirmed until the couple went public with Burrow’s inclusion in season 2 of Quarterback. At the time of the the TV’s show’s premiere, his wife remained in the background—her face never seen throughout the entire 7 episode season. Her main contribution was not included until the end as she sat down for an interview, faceless, to recount the 2024 season.

Burrow’s wife being known, but never seen, is a pattern that the couple has maintained—minus the photo dump on Joe’s Instagram that reveals only pieces of his wife’s face from their wedding date—even inside of Joe’s series of photos on his Instagram stories. Those photos always kept her face obscured, even if a little risqué at times. It was through those stories that the world came to understand the rather intensely private quarterback a little bit better post the premiere of Quarterback.

However, for the last year and a half, Joe has been rather radio silent on the glimpses into his home life. A sudden departure from where he started just two and half years ago. The reason for such a silence is now abundantly clear. Burrow posted to his Instagram Story in the wee hours of Wednesday morning. A picture of one singular foot—a baby’s foot—tenderly pressed into his palm. His caption, nearly as tear jerking of the black and white photograph, reads: 32 hours later, but you’re with us now, son. 🩵 Loved you before and will love you forever.

Joe did follow up on the next slide that: Wife and baby are healthy and safe. Time to get even less sleep now.

It’s unclear what this means in terms of Burrow starting in the playoff games at this time. But we are glad to hear that everyone is healthy and safe post delivery.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

And if Joe goes radio silent on social media a second time, a year and a half later for just as long, there’s a bit less worry and a ton more speculation. Every eye intensely watching for the orange and pink circle to highlight around his profile picture.

It’s 7PM on a Friday when it finally comes. Unsuspecting at first, just the reshuffling of icons as the app loads. Until it’s opened and a tiny fist, splayed out over Joe’s bare chest fills the phone screen. 18.5 hours later—that’s the Burrow spirit, never let them know your next move. 💜 Daddy loves you, baby girl.

[guwappbby]

Sorry we really went from free the nipple, take back the night, slut walks, and ending gender/sex segregation in sports being fucking milquetoast feminism 101 concepts to fucking girl dinner and "I just worry about fairness if we let trans girls play against cis ones" and "it was right of that woman to call the cops on a black man for existing near here in public during the day time because men are all violent monsters" and "radical feminism isn't transphobic we just need to kill all men including trans ones those oppressive traitors" and I will legit never be able to be normal about it. What the FUCK happened. I'd say I wonder what the feminists of my youth would say about this but I'm one and lemme tell ya I want to throw up. Go fucking read bell hooks or do something else useful please because all of this learned helplessness, gender essentialism, and transphobia dressed up as feminism is actively holding us back.