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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 7 days ago

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NSFW Alphabet--Joe Burrow

In honor of my fanfic writing retirement, I decided to take a crack at the SFW & NSFW Alpahbet for our dearly beloved, Joe, before the pen is officially capped.

Used second person 'you' for this alphabet. Fem!Reader described.

CW: 18+ Content (Smut). Some aspects of BDSM described. General warning, it's filthy.

SFW Alphabet | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Joe is slow, languid, soft kisses along shoulders and collarbones. He’s attentive, is already plotting getting water for you should you want it and getting you both cleaned up. But he wants just a few more seconds, loves the lazy drag of your fingertips over his spine.

“You okay?” he asks in a whisper against your throat. Wants to make sure he didn’t hurt you, that you feel cared for. A soft question that he’s hoping yields an even softer answer. He leaves the space open to you if you need it.

“Perfect.”

“Hm, I do love the sound of that,” he grins.

It takes him a minute, maybe three before he pushes up. Shuffles to the bathroom and when he returns, the washcloth is warm against your core. Joe presses a kiss to your stomach as he eases the cloth over you, stands, wipes himself off and then tosses the used item like a basketball, wrist flicked.

The washcloth flops without grace—a wet splat— an inch from the basket. He laughs at himself and you laugh too—a gentle chuckle before he climbs back into the bed, collects you into his arms. “The physics are different,” he defends.

“Hm, sure, we can say that.” Your head settles into the crook of his chest, body slotting into his ribs and armpit. “You okay?” You ask, palm pressed into his chest—the thumping of his heart slowing under his touch.

“Mmhm, perfect,” he whispers. “Thirsty? Hungry?”

You shake your head no, head stretching up, nose pressed into the hollow of his throat. “No. Not right now. Ask me again in like an hour?”

“We might be busy again in an hour.” The slow drag of your fingers keeps the pot of his desire in his stomach at a low simmer, not bubbling but warmed and steaming.

You grin against his throat before speaking, “I’m more than okay with that.”

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Joe loves ass and thighs. This is an irrefutable fact. He would worship your ass morning, noon, and night. He has benedictions well practiced for your thighs. Would make altars to your thighs—hell they are an altar to Joe when he’s between your legs. He loves the way the flesh gives into his grasp and the muscle pushes back against his fingertips—a delicious push and pull.

However comma—

The soft line of a tummy, rounded hip to hip, in a skirt, or a dress, or in jeans—yeah that short circuits his brain. Makes his fingertips buzz and his mouth salivate. It reminds him that you’re real—soft yet firm, human and alive.

“Could stay here all day,” he groans, fingers pressed into your thighs, teeth grazing the flesh. His gaze drags up your body, teases the line of your tummy with his tongue. A thick long broad stroke. “Would stay here all day. Shit men go to war for.”

Joe loves it when he’s reclining onto the sofa, his head on your chest, and he teases that line of your stomach, easing around your belly button. If you have scars he’s tracing them, kissing them without thought. Loves that he has a little something to grab onto. It’s soft enough that when he presses his face into it, your tummy gives into him. Got your belly button pierced and showing it off? He’s definitely getting hard. No hesitation.

Joe likes to take nips at your stomach when he’s eating you out, press down to see if he can feel how deep he is when he’s fucking you missionary. If he can’t, he never gets frustrated, just takes it as a challenge to go deeper, and deeper each time. Joe fucking loves your stomach, doesn’t know if it’s something primal to it. But goddamn he loves it.

As far as Joe’s favorite body part of himself, he takes great pride in his arms, works hard to bulk them out and fill out his chest. But he’s damn proud of those biceps. He’s confident about his abilities, not cocky. Well, Joe’s maybe a little cocky when it comes to his arms. When you take hold of his bicep, and wiggle your eyebrows at him, it does go straight to his head.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been working out,” you tease.

It’s all in jest, yet, he stands up a tiny bit taller. “Only a little.”

It’s no secret that you love Joe’s back. You’ve spent many nights, settled onto his hips—ass to thick ass—and traced it while he’s hugging the pillow. If he so much as breathes a huff and rubs at his shoulders, you’re offering to rub them.

“If I got body safe paint, could I paint your back?”

It’s a question, but Joe sees that twinkle in your eyes. This isn’t so much about needing the paints as it is about needing his permission. “Go get them.”

“Thank you, baby.” You run up stairs and he finishes the last of the dishes with a grin. He enjoys it too, the reverence of your touch, the nip of teeth, the tickle of the brush.

It’s those moments that feel like they’re carrying the most weight.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s thick, trailing down his palm and wrist. A waterfall he’d drink from over and over and over again. Joe’s greedy for it—licks you clean, over your ass and thighs too. Sucks his fingers clean, swipes at his mouth and chin.

“I want it all,” he heaves—chest aching from how little he’s been taking breaths. “Want every fucking drop.”

Aside from being between your thighs—his favorite place to be—Joe loves it when you let him come on you, tits pressed up and together, the cleavage is just the perfect place. He gets to watch it run down your skin. You’ll dive into the mess he’s made, dragging a trail of it up to your mouth, sucking your fingers clean.

The release of your fingers makes the most obscene sound. Joe loves it, kisses the mess you’ve left behind off your chin too. It’s messy, and thick, tacky on the tongue, but it is the closest thing to heaven, a little piece of the cosmos shared between panted breathes.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It’s only supposed to be something to help soothe the ache. When you’re on your feet all day, and nothing really helps, Joe will work the pads of his thumb into the arch of your feet—each pass is deep and firm. But if Joe can be honest, which he can and has done, he likes the sounds you make. The involuntary whimper that’s followed after a few seconds by a sigh. It lets him know he’s doing well, doing it right.

The soft encouragement helps too, “Hmm, yeah that’s it, my love.”

That goes straight to his cock.

So Joe works the meat of your feet nearly daily.

Wants the wave of warmth at your encouragement and praise. Wants the little stir in his cock, as selfish as it is. Joe knows you know about his not so secret secret because once he’s done you’ll press your heel into his crotch—never hard enough to hurt. Just enough for him to feel it, exhale at the delicious weight of your foot over his cock, and then it’s gone. Not in a flash, but it’s brief. Your foot slips up, presses and then slides on, draping your calf over his thighs.

“Thank you, my love,” you whisper into the shell of his ear, tongue teasing at his flesh.

He shudders at the action, his spine turning soft and he grips your knee—to stay grounded, afloat. You never tell Joe, but he whimpers like an animal wounded whenever you do this heel and ear combo. And you love it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Joe’s a student of his craft. He’s always got space to improve, techniques to get better and better at. This isn’t to say he’a clueless; this is to say Joe’s never—never—going to be happy with good enough. He wants perfection. Wants you to forget your name by the time he’s done with you.

He’s had his relationships, done his one night stands. He’s learned from it all and takes great pride in being able to satisfy and make the experience more of a journey too, ebbs and flows, peaks and valleys.

Joe is gifted with that tongue and nose and he’s going to use every tool at his disposal to make each encounter better than the last.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Joe likes to watch, wants to see you fall apart. Maybe it’s his pride and ego flaring and entangling in that moment. But he loves the way your face falls. Jaw slacked, brows furrowed, his name a chanted prayer on your lips. Sue Joe for being a missionary guy.

There’s nothing like being able to talk to you through it, watch your eyes roll back—kiss you just as you orgasm, swallow down his own name and every blasphemous cry deep into his belly. Let it stroke his ego, let you claw for him—hands grasping at his back like you can’t get close enough.

“Right here,” he breathes into your neck.

“Shit—Joe, love it when you’re close to me.”

It is fire in his soul—and god does he love it.

He is a fan of a mirror being involved too—if he’s taking you from behind, he gets a palm full of you—hair, neck, chin, whatever really—and eases your face up so he can see, so you can watch what he does to you too. It’s not vanity. It’s devotion.

“Look at you baby. Drooling all over yourself? Hm? Making a mess on both ends.” His chuckle is low—throaty and devilish as you pant. It’s incoherent words and phrases. Sound for the sake of it. But he loves you loud and needy. Your head is loose on your neck, utterly at the mercy of Joe as he holds onto your left hip, driving into you—perfectly punctuated thrusts. The mirror’s foggy in some spots from your breath ghosting over it.

His cock is soaked in your arousal. Your chin glistens a little. But you’re grinning, eyes glassy only in the way that go blank when he’s stroking that delicious spot inside, angled perfectly for you.

“I know,” he coos. “I know you love it, right?”

“Love it so much, Joey. Don’t ever stop. Fuck. Please don’t stop.”

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Joe’s not intentionally goofy during sex.

But sex is funny at times—a mistimed queef, someone slips, a whispered swear that doesn’t come out right. He doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, so he laughs or grins at the slight mishap. No one can live a life without these things happening. He’s smooth—let’s the levity linger for as long as it needs. And then like artists do to clay, he molds you back into the moment.

In all the ferocity, the sweet pull of you, Joe slips out. You both notice at the same time, the almost pop like sound echoing his mishap. He snorts, a grin lifting the corner of his mouth as your giggles shakes your shoulders. “Go ahead. Laugh it up,” Joe encourages. “You won’t be laughing long.”

“Why did it sound like that?” You're trying to stifle your laughter but it was a comical sound, like lips smacking apart.

“The ancient ones said it best—that’s what good pussy sounds like.” He says it low, kissing at your jaw—trailing it up and up until he’s at your ear. “And you serve up the best.”

“Joe.” It’s supposed to be a reprimand, supposed to tell him that he’s being annoyingly sauve about something so cringe. It comes out in a sigh, your body melting at the scratch of his scruff.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. Just need to be back inside you, now, okay? Can I have another taste?”

“Fuck, yes.”

He’s slow, inches himself back into you until he bottoms out—the delicious stretch of him lighting a fire in your body again. You're clawing for him again, desperate to have him close again.

And it doesn’t matter that mere minutes ago you both were laughing.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Joe’s groomed due to his profession—it gets hot and sweaty under those pads. So he does what he needs to keep his performance and productivity high and keep him comfortable.

How you keep it—really up to you. But he’s going to eat no matter what to be honest. A man starved is a man starved and he’s not choosy as long as it’s comfortable for you.

However, if you ask to help him shave/groom it does make his mind blank for a moment. “I-uh? What?”

“Do you want help?” you repeat.

“You are offering to help me shave?”

You nod. “Consider it like a final check. No annoying stragglers left behind.”

“You don’t have to create a ploy to see my dick, you know? You can see it if you just ask.”

You snort and shake your head, it's a crass conversation but it’s welcomed—freeing to have a directness that the two of you can speak with. “I literally saw it last night in the shower. I know that. But like, no pressure. Just offering.”

Joe doesn’t get why you asked. But, a couple weeks later, after a particularly rough practice, his back and shoulders protest him at every breath, he calls out for you, “Baby! Can you come here for a second?”

You snag an extra roll of toilet paper out of reflex. There’s two raps on the door before you ease it open and slip one arm through the door with the roll. His laughter is soft. “We’re good on toilet paper. Can you check that it’s even?”

Your brows pinch together and you finally take in the water still slipping down his shoulders. You knew he was showering but somehow the sensory input is lagging, like your brain’s seeing it, but not putting a name to the action until now. “Check what’s even?”

“This trim.”

He tries not to laugh at the light that brightens your face and you squeeze into the bathroom. “Yes, yes, I’ll check.” There’s no one else home, the door can be widened and yet the excitement makes you lose all sense of that.

“You’re a little odd ball.” But he wouldn’t have you any other way. Can’t imagine in the slightest how else this interaction would go.

Halfway into the squat, you look up, one brow arched. “You really shouldn’t insult the person this close to your balls, you know?”

“You know what, you’re right.”

“I always am. Now give me the trimmer. You missed a spot.”

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There’s multiple types of intimacy with Joe. When he’s reading over your shoulder, just trying to be noisy when you’re on your computer or lounging with a new book. When he’s resting on your chest, the two of you are watching reruns of a show that you’ve seen too many times to count, and it’s all subconscious touches.

But during sex, it’s soft and sweet, and brash and hot.

It’s him nudging his nose along your jaw. A brief two or three seconds, teeth and tongue just barely connecting to your flesh. You swear you can feel his lips moving but you can’t quite make out the words. There’s no breath behind the words—no way for you to hear. You think you catch something like: beautiful.

It’s you cupping his jaw, both your mouths slack and lips brushing but not kissing. There’s no real words, just the huffs, just the groans, and exchanged moans. You swallowing down every noise Joe gives you. Joe savoring every sound you exhale.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper into his cheek. “God, I love it when you let go, stop worrying.”

Joe can’t help it, can’t stop the roll of his eyes into the back of his head, the pathetic want to give you everything you want.

“Love it when you whine for me,” you continue on.

Did he whine? He’s not sure. He’s just lost in you—the heat, the taste, the feel. “Love you so much,” he whispers back. “Love this. So fucking much.” His hold on you is devout—tender and caressing, shaky like he can’t help but tremble in your presence and under your spell.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Two words: Mutual masturbation.

Masturbation is usually reserved for when one of you is away for an extended period of time, a few days or longer. He’ll do it when he’s away, his voice crackling over the phone—no video because somehow it’s more intense, more desperate without the visual aid. It’s all imagination and auditory. He’s listening to the way you sigh, waiting for your next command:

“Go slow for me, my love,” comes first. But you know without sight, just by the panting that he’s so close to that edge. He’s holding on by the tips of willpower and compulsion. So you follow up with, “Hold.”

“Baby, I can’t,” Joe hisses.

“No, I know you can. Hold it. Please. Doing so well for me, love. Stop touching yourself if you think you’re going to come. Not yet.”Joe is whipped when it comes to Jerk Off Instructions. It makes his spine tingle when you get hot and firm with him.

However, early on in the relationship, when your bodies are new to each other, Joe asks you while out on display for him, “Touch yourself for me. Show me how you like it, yeah? Gonna watch if that’s okay?”

“Oh, uh. Okay.” Your head is too fuzzy to really understand, body hot and craving the sweet relief of your orgasm. What even is Joe asking you? And why does he want to see you get yourself off when he’s right there to be of use himself?

Joe rubs at your thighs, sensing your hesitation, a soothing gesture up to your hips. “Hey, look at me, baby. Just want to know how to make you feel good. I mean, I am by no means done with you yet. We’re not done, okay? Not by a long shot. I’ll show you too—how I get myself off too. We can do it together. Just want to know just how you like it.”

The agreement is swift. Because who doesn’t want to see Joe, reclined back, fisting his own cock, stomach tensing? That has to be a glorious sight.

You watch him after you give your consent, his fingers dipping into you to collect some of your slick before Joe pumps it over himself. The sight makes your head dizzy. “Holy shit,” you stutter out, positive that you’ve actually died and gone to heaven.

Joe slows his own pleasure, nods for you to continue—so you do. This man is going to be the death of you. You hitch your hips, finding the right angle and circle your clit—nice and slow so he can see. His work over his cock, matches the pace of your fingers. The room is silent—heavy with the heat between the two of you.

“Do—shit,” Joe huffs, quickening the pace of his first, watching the way your pussy pulses around the speed of your fingers, clenching for more. “Do you normally use toys on yourself?” The question takes every bit of his concentration to get it out.

“Sometimes.”

“Use them. Please?” It falls all in a hiss. He looks so pathetic. So endearing. So fucking delectable.

You nod and reach for the drawer they’re hidden in and an arsenal of toys comes out. Joe picks up the string of beads with an arched brow—his ministrations stopped because you stopped and because he is intrigued by all the toys you pull out. “You failed to tell me you got down like this.”

“What? You want to try?”

“On you, maybe. I think I like watching you fall apart more.”

And watch he does, when you press the vibrator onto your clit and you jolt, body convulsing. His name falls sharply from your mouth, all bite and ache cracking the one syllable into two. “Joe, please.”

Joe’s not sure what you’re asking. He wonders if you know what is you’re asking for either. But right now, he’s watching the tip of the vibrator circling your clit, the way you press down harder on the left than the right, how your hips keep hitching off the bed, back arched leaving your tits to disappear just a hair out of his line of sight. And you’re dripping—rivers of your arousal leaking from your core to the sheets.

“Keep going, baby,” Joe pants, fist a mess now of his own precum, your arousal and the sting drawing up his balls at how hard he’s going to fucking burst watching you play with yourself.

Like you’ve forgotten he’s there, you slip two fingers into yourself—the insertion of your fingers a loud squelch. “God, Joe, need your cock so bad.”

“Yeah?” he questions, his stomach twisting again. A good hot iron grip of arousal. You need him.

“Yeah,” you whine in return. “Going to give it to me?”

“After you come for me, yeah, I will. Just keep doing whatever it is that feels good, okay?”

Joe’s cataloguing it all, the twist of your nipples, the squeeze of your breast, the sharp pants as you take yourself further and further into pleasure. He has to stop himself a couple times—take several deep inhales to keep himself from orgasming well before you. Joe’s never seen a hotter sight.

He stops you, though, when you pat at the mattress around you, like you’re desperate for something else. To you, it feels like torture. He’s just sitting there, not giving you what you need. So you’ll give it to yourself, if you could just reach, could just find—

Joe’s faster than you, brushing the dildo out of your reach. “Not when I’m here,” he all but spits. He pushes in close, drops his nose to yours. His cock presses in heavy against your pelvis, not inside, but right in the seam of your hip. “Pretty girl, come for me, okay? Just come for me and I swear I’ll give you what you want.”

This close, his body heat radiating into your skin, you swear it’s impossible to not come. You grind up against him, use his body to help you reach the end. Your fingers still full of the vibrator, pressed to your clit, the brush of his public hair teasing at your puffy entrance. His mouth working over your jaw--you see stars as you release. One arm wraps around his neck and you’re sure you could’ve blown out his eardrum with how loud you are.

But the second your body tenses, the second the wave descends and crashes, Joe’s sliding in, hissing out from between his teeth, “Fucking hell, so-” he’s at a lost for words. “So fucking perfect,” he finally huffs out. “Look at me.”

You can barely blink your eyes open, the vibration, the stretch, all of it overwhelms you. But Joe’s icy blue gaze holds you on earth, keeps you here in this moment with him. “Joe,” you cry.

“Right here.” Every snap of his hips keeps him in your arms. He pauses only long enough to turn off the vibrator and tosses it down on the bed, where he thinks the dildo has landed. Then it’s all relentless, his hips into yours. It’s all the heat of him, the delicious stretch, the perfect tug. Joe doesn’t last long inside of you, not that it matters.

But the two of you grapple for each other afterwards, needing to stay close, chests heaving. You’re inhaling at the hollow of his throat. Joe’s pressed his nose into your temple.

Masturbation may not be normal for you too, but it is a tool and God, if you two don’t use it well.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Even Joe knows how much he loves praise. In the relationship, that’s not a secret. At least not a quiet one. It’s rather loud, the way his face melts when you peer over his shoulder. Maybe he’s attempting to cook a recipe you’ve made before. The pot bubbles, smells just right. “Oh, sweet boy, that looks so good. Look at you.”

You see it, the way his eyes flutter close and his smile lifts higher. It lasts only for a second before he stirs again, doesn’t want the beans to stick to the bottom of the pan. What can Joe say? He craves those beautiful words, whether it’s: I’m so proud of you or You did so well, baby. He needs that praise. But only when it matters only when it actually counts. Only when he’s actually done well.

It makes his body tingle at the sound.

However, when he’s balls deep, hands slipped up your thighs, holding your knees to your chest and it slips, the words nearly unable to cross your throat, the long and slow thrusts making your head spin and your mouth loose, “God, you’re going to fill me up so well. I just know it. Leave me nice and round, fuck. Please, just like that. Makes me feel so fucking good when you fuck me like this.”

Joe’s mind goes like static snow on an old box TV screen.

“Not going to waste a drop,” you promise beneath him, fingers teasing at the lines of his stomach.

He’s a goner. Absolute fucking goner. Because yeah, he does want to leave you nice and full. And it sounds so sweet to hear how much you like it, how much he’s doing well to make you promise not to waste his seed. Though his orgasm blindsides him, chokes him with how hard and fast it hits, Joe settles, still sheathed inside of you, kissing at your jaw. “Going to make sure it sticks, okay?”

You hum, fingers teasing at the nape of his scalp. “It will. You did such a good job, like always.”

If Joe could come again, he would, right then and there. It doesn’t matter if there’s a condom or not he’s using—the sentiment has started a fire that no one can put out now.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Joe’s christening that house like a newborn baby. Each room will carry the faded faint scent of your ecstasy in his memory.

Kitchen, laundry room, guest room floor, bedroom, bathrooms, living room, his office, a quickie in the garage because he couldn’t help himself with how you looked in that skirt, the slight teasing him all damn night with peeks of your thighs, the stretchy elastic band holding the gold ‘J’ charm around the muscle. It peeked out constantly, every step you took, every time you sat.

“You teased me all fucking night, baby. This what you wanted?” he asks, fingers slipping up the skirt, teasing at your folds. Not on your clit, but right where he knows it is, tucked away but only for a moment.

Joe is quite proud of that particular evening. How he pressed you up against the door that leads into the house, the mechanical whir and clanks of the garage door only a second from finishing the descent and the unbridled need echoed in the slap of his thighs against the back of yours. How the brick steps darkened beneath you, in tiny little droplets from how quickly and how swiftly you soaked his cock.

“You think she missed me like I missed her?” he questions, hands full of your hips, already several thrusts deep.

Your hands are splayed on the door to keep you upright. “Jesus Christ-- yes, I do. I missed you too. Probably more.”

His laughter is breathy and short. “Was with you all night.”

“Ached for you,” you return, “Shit. Baby, like that. Oh, just like that.”

His favorite spot is, of course, the bedroom. He can take his time, savor every inch of you, melt into the seconds slowly and sweet. Likes watching your head fall back into the pillows. It’s always going to be a bit of a mess with you, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. So the bedroom is his top choice, but he’s not opposed to having some stuff elsewhere.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You can breathe and Joe would be turned on. He’s got self control for miles, knows when and where to lose control. But it doesn’t take much to get him turned on, not when it’s you.

You have a friends trip planned—the washing machine sloshing in the background, your toting the finished first load on your hip, dressed in an old tie dyed t-shirt of Joe’s with nothing on underneath except for an old stretched out pair of panties, ones that he’s nearly thrown out when he did the laundry last week but you insisted on keeping because they were comfortable.

Your face is bare, feet tucked away in your slippers, the hard bottoms clacking as you move towards the stairs. Joe loves you like this. Nothing but you for him to look at, not the glitz, not the glam. Just you.

“That basket looks a little heavy, let me help?”

“I’ve got it,” you grin. “Thanks though.”

He’s not taking no for an answer though. He pauses the show, pushes up off the couch cushions and meets you right at the start of the stairs. “Hand it over.”

“Joe, it’s a laundry basket.”

He eases it out from your grip, off your hip. “And I’m going to carry it. Lead the way.”

“You just want an excuse to stare at my ass.”

“And if I do?” Joe grins as he asks, presses a kiss to your forehead before he switches grip on the basket to free up a hand, only to then snake his free arm around your waist. His palm settles hot on the curve of your ass.

You don’t fight him, instead continuing on to kiss his lips. He returns the gesture with added interest as his fingers squeeze at the flesh of your backside as his lips press into yours. “All you have to do is ask,” you whisper as you pull out of the kiss.

“Well then, can I stare at your ass as you walk up these steps?”

“Certainly.” You lift the shirt just high enough so more of your butt peeks out and then start up, one slow step at a time.

Joe is salivating and hard before he reaches the fourth step.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Joe’s not going to do anything that will lead to significant harm.

Some light choking only comes out on occasion, playful taps to your ass. He’ll get rough, but he’s not going to slap you, not really spank you either. To him, sex is a holy and reverent venture. Sure, some may like rough and tough. But not him, not with you. Not when all he wants to do is worship your body.

He’s also not a fan of dubious consent/consensual nonconsent. Part of the charm, the allure to him, is how you say yes to him, how you agree, melt like ice cream in the hot summer sun with him. Sometimes just picking you apart, before he’s actually touching you is more fun than the actual sex. Sometimes just stoking the fire in you is all that Joe wants or needs.

The two of you are like matches meeting gasoline, and having the permission is the spark.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

The praise kink in Joe really loves giving oral. Adores the way you sound when he’s got his head nestled between your legs, loves how your thighs press into his ears involuntarily, how you apologize for the sounds, or the squeeze. Joe doesn’t need it though, doesn’t need the sorry because your pleasure is his pleasure.

As stated before, your thighs are the altar for Joe, a place for him to commit every sin he’s ever fathom and to repent for them all at once.

But Joe is a mortal man, made of flesh, sinew, blood, fascia, water, and cells. Watching you drop to your knees, nails tracing over the meat of his thighs, tongue dripping onto the head of his aching cock—oh is that man a goner before you even wrap your lips around him.

He watches though, every second, the way you lose yourself a little, your chin and his crotch glistening with spit, your hums that he can feel vibrating up his spine. Joe’s never sure if he’s even breathing when you have his cock in your mouth, too afraid to shatter the moment.

It’s sacrilegious but the two of you consider the other’s body a temple and neither one of you is missing your prayer time—devoted to reciting every line of stretch marks, and moles, and scars. The two of you are students of each other, never wanting to miss the smallest of details, looking for something new, trying to uncover and unearth. An excavation that’s never really about reaching the end, but about the journey along the way.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Joe loves it slow. Wants you to feel every inch of him, wants to feel every second of the experience.

His signature, “You like that, don’t you? I can tell,” comes out in those slow moments, when every inch of his cock drags against your walls, every vein setting your soul on fire, makes the pads of your fingers ache with want.

There’s a time and place for the fast and rough, after you’ve teased him all day, played at his couple old scruff, kissed his jaw, brushed against him, your ass into his crotch when it would’ve been so much more convenient to go around him.

All that teasing makes his pulse quicken. Joe takes you by the wrist, pins you against the wall. His hard cock heavy against your lower back and ass, his weight falling into you to keep you from squirming away from him. “This what you wanted? Me on the verge of cuming in my pants like this? That how you like it?”

“Like you better pounding into me,” you tease.

Joe delivers—like always, like you’ve asked him too. So hard and fast happens. But there’s nothing, nothing like Joe being able to take his time with you, account for every bump and curve of your body.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies aren’t Joe’s favorite. He really does like to take his time. But there are some moments where the heat from the day prior hasn’t fully faded, and he’s still near the edge. He really should be headed out for practice but he can’t stand to leave you, pouty for him, can’t imagine how his day would go if he left this bed, right now, without a little something to tide him over.

He’ll kiss over your cheek as you arch back into him, ass brushing against his cock. “If we do this, it'll have to be quick.”

He does have some self control, if you tell him no, he’ll wait. It’ll make him feel like he’s about to burst at the seams. It will leave him teetering on a jittery edge, but he’ll do it.

“I’ll take all the time you have.”

And God, it only takes seconds, pj’s not even fully disrobed, just pushed and pulled far enough down or to the side to give just enough room. Little words or teasing, just the pure hum of relief as the two of you share each other, even if it’s only fifteen minutes to spare.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Joe’s risky in terms of where and when he’ll have sex—like bathrooms of award shows (usually quick and fast because goddamn you look so fucking beautiful and only after double checking that the door is locked behind him; again, all risks come with the mental calculations with Joe. If he’s going to do it, he’s going to make sure to do it right and do what he can to minimize the threat of being caught as much as possible).

Even if people are over at the house, he’ll sneak away towards the back of the house after you disappeared there to get something and promise hotly in your ear that he can ‘rock your world in ten minutes if you let me’. A promise he’s always good for. That tongue is cursed by the devil himself, nose teasing at your clit too. A deadly and dangerous combination that makes it nearly impossible to say no to.

Dangling on his keychain is a tiny heart shaped locket, which is at times hard to spot amidst the other metal of the chain. A combined artist rendition of his and your thumb print in the shape of a heart is etched into the front of the locket, and on the back of it is the date he asked you to be his girlfriend. To the outside world it looks like a keepsake, the tiniest of slivers into his personal life that is subtle. It shows up one day when he’s photographed headed into Paycor during the start of the season—a shiny gold heart.

He gets asked about it once, a quick, “Is that a new addition on the keychain?”

Joe nods. “Yeah. It helps keep them close when I’m far away.”

What people don’t know is that when cracked open aside from the little picture of you that’s tucked into the heart is a nano flash drive--a tiny little thing. Something so unsuspecting hiding away the videos of him begging on his knees for you, videos of you crying out for him, pictures of his favorite set, a soft blue that matches his eyes and he’s a sucker for romantic irony.

You have a matching locket. With a tiny flash drive too. Pictures of Joe, pictures of yourself. The videos are only a couple minutes long, bits and pieces. But they’re just enough, certainly enough to help remember each other when you’re apart.

Both are password protected, long strings of letters and numbers that were meticulously entered. Joe made sure to keep any obvious combinations out—his jersey number, anniversary dates and birth dates were off the table. Easy enough to type in, but nothing terribly obvious.

There’s a fireproof safe with the laptop, cameras, and cables. All purchased with cash. The computer’s routinely checked and scrubbed. Only hooks up via the ethernet cord to the modem. All the bluetooth capabilities are kept off.

The stories those cameras could tell if cameras could talk.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

There’s no need to count rounds when there’s hours on the line. When orgasm isn’t the end goal, but connection is, rounds don’t matter. There absolutely been weekends that have passed by them both in a blur--leaving the bed long enough to eat, shower, use the bathroom, and such--but they always come back to the mattress, time passed in kissing that leads to grinding, grinding that leads to perfectly crescent shaped indents and bruises along shoulder, the digging of fingers into flesh, whispered ‘I love you’s’ shared like reciting sacred text.

It’s about going until everything in them both is gone and satisfied. Most times that means at least two orgasms. Others it means three. Sometimes it’s just one, which is rare, because Joe wants to make a mess of you. No matter how tired he is, he’s going to turn you into a puddle of yourself, reduce you to the incoherent babbles of pleasure, a body liquefied in the sheets.

On average, there’s two orgasms a piece. Joe’s always been an overachiever though, so there’s days where the third and sometimes even the fourth one happen faster than you can process.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Joe loves to hear you using toys on yourself during phone sex, how much they don’t compare to him. It’s a stroke of his ego to hear you whine, “It’s just not the same.”

It’s never a defeated tone, like you’re somehow determined not to give Joe something to make his head big. He entertains the fierceness in your tone, coos at you with a soft, “I know it’s not. Promise when I get back I’ll give you the real thing. But you’re doing so well for me.”

The line crackles, your sigh popping through the speakers. “Fuck, I need you, Joe. So bad.”

“And I need you.” A soft volley, a way for him to let you know that this is a two way street. “Just as bad, if not worse than you need me.”

Because Joe is a sucker, but only for you.

Toys are tools and again—he’s a student of the craft, a student of you and your body and your pleasure. He’s not not going to use them. Not every encounter has them—most don’t. He’ll tease you with your vibrator, a feather-like touch before he’s pulling it away from your body, your arms bound together at your wrist, the excess slack tied to the bottom slats of the bed, you can’t even fight back.

“Please, my love. I can’t take this,” you pant, tears slipping down the corner of your eyes.

“You can,” Joe promises, pressing the toy back to your clit. The touch is firmer than the others and though you jolt, you’re a mess of gratitude, thank you’s spilling over your lips and tongues.

It’s a teasing game that Joe likes to play and you like it too, even though you squirm, even though you beg. There’s always the teasing edge to your smile, the way you brush your teeth over your lips to hide away your smile.

The only thing Joe doesn’t do is use your dildo on you. Why would he when both of you know that it never compares to him? Why would he not use himself for your pleasure and his? Why would he ever be selfish as to withhold that?

Will Joe use a toy to finish you off? Probably not. Not even if he’s dead tired. That’s his job, that's the thing he wants the privilege of doing for you.

But will Joe tease you with a toy? Asbo-fucking-lutely he would. And he’ll grin the entire time he’s doing it too.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Teasing is an Olympic sport in this relationship with both you and Joe trying to take home the gold.

If it’s not you having dinner ready for Joe, in an apron with a lacy number underneath just to perch at the dinner table next to him like nothing is out of the ordinary, it’s him purposefully walking around shirtless for longer than he needs to be after getting out of the shower, making sure to reach for a cup on the highest shelf just to show up his back that he knows you love.

If it’s not that, it’s you texting him, When you get home, I’d look at your locket and check for something new in the middle of his day, between meetings and it does not help that he’s in sweatpants and his cock is twitching at the thought of something new waiting for him.

If it’s not you, it’s him texting you across the room of your childhood home, Do you think you can be quiet tonight? Because I’m looking to test something.

You watch him after you read the text and he’s already busy helping with something else. But you know he can feel the heat of your stare.

Teasing is half the fun.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Joe’s not loud, but is quite vocal, a fountain of whatever he can think to say:

Love you like this.

Going to ruin you.

Shit, baby, could make a man go crazy looking at him like that.

Oh, I know, honey. That’s it. That’s how you like it.

His sentences are interrupted at times by swears, a moan, a groan that he just can’t swallow back. Joe just sounds so heavenly when he’s losing control, when he can’t help but say everything he’s thinking in those moments.

You encourage him, love how his voice drops even lower, how the words sound like they’re fighting to be said first, each letter in competition with each other to be expressed first.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Sub!joe! Sub!joe! Sub!joe! This man will come his pants the second someone puts some authority into their voice with him, takes a responsibility off his plate without question, calls him a good boy with other praise. The jerk off instructions really hit home for him because he so utterly craves the pride in your voice over the phone, he loves it when you praise him. The validation strikes a cord so deep in him it always startles him that you do it so effortlessly.

There’s a delicate balance in that dynamic, but when you step up, when you take control, Joe’s only option is to obey. He can only succumb, submit to you because he knows you’re always going to treat him right.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Joe’s a grower not a shower. Besides, the purple hat from LSU speaks for itself. Are we really going to argue with that hat? Certainly won’t be me arguing.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Joe can be turned on at the drop of a dime—literally. You dropped a piece of change once, in denim cut off shorts that left a couple inches of your ass out and beat Joe down to the ground to pick it up. He stood behind you to keep you from exposing yourself to the whole gas station but he watched every minute muscle tensing, every jiggle and bounce. The moment you got back into the car, his fingers trailed up from your knee to your thighs.

“I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he laughed.

“What?”

“These shorts, if you can even call them that, baby.”

“It’s hot, Joe.” Even though you laughed, grinning at how pathetic he looked with his head dropped back into the headrest, you knew exactly what you were doing.

“We’re making a pit stop. If you’re okay with that.”

“We’ll be late.”

“Then we’re just fucking late. But that’s not a no I’m hearing.”

“It’s a yes.”

The two of you were only a couple minutes from the house. Joe opted to drive your car for you since you needed gas and it was less likely that anyone would’ve been able to spot the two of you in it. Joe’s never peeled out of a gas station faster.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Joe waits. He pulls you practically on top of him, your legs threaded through his. Bare chest to bare chest and he just waits. He’s listening to the hum of the house, the stillness, counting how long your breaths get.

Once your breaths are long and Joe can tell by how deep they get, he lets himself go. Though he’d been almost sucked under for the last ten minutes, he wanted to make sure you were okay first.

There’s just something about the way your weight settles him, how he’s more than positive he could stay here forever, listening to you breath, asleep on his chest for decades.

There’s a couple instances where you both fall asleep at the same time, or he passes out before you. Anytime Joe happens to fall asleep first, you’ll shuffle gently as you can to watch him. His lashes seemingly brushing at his cheeks, the way his face falls completely at ease. He’s so handsome, even in his sleep. There’s no tightness to his brows, no frown at his lips. He looks so young in his sleep. Makes you want to cradle him in the palm of your hands.

You press a kiss to his chest and then settle back into him to give yourself over to sleep.

#joe burrow #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow fic #joe burrow blurb #h writes #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x fem reader

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 7 days ago

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SFW Alphabet--Joe Burrow

In honor of my fanfic writing retirement, I decided to take a crack at the SFW & NSFW Alpahbet for our dearly beloved, Joe, before the pen is officially capped.

Used they/them/partner for this alphabet.

NSFW Alphabet | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

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A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Publicly, Joe’s not super affectionate. He will hold his partner’s hand, guide them by the small of their back. But even that takes a bit of time—Joe’s very aware of what public displays of affection can do in terms of the internet. So it takes him a hot minute to warm up to the idea. If he feels safe enough, tucked away enough into a dark corner, he’ll kiss their forehead/temple, wrap his arm around them, whispering something sweet into their ear, a “Happy you’re here with me,” with just enough breath behind it to make it verbal, but soft enough that it could get swept away.

In private, Joe cannot keep his hands to himself. He is wrapped around his partner like a koala. Wants to engrave himself into their skin. He’s kissing their shoulder, holding their hand, has an arm draped around their shoulder--something. Joe has to be touching some sort of way. Put a couple drinks in him, when he’s just loose enough, he’s pressing kiss after kiss after kiss to their cheek—not sloppy, just really affectionate.

Joe’s a physical touch and quality time guy—so he’s got a hand on their knee driving while running the boring errands together. Things can get hectic and fast, but carving out the small moments really makes the difference. It’s intentional.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Joe’s goal oriented. If someone presents a problem, he is looking for a solution. He can do the whole ‘I just need someone to listen’ but he needs a heads up that’s what they’re looking for. The friendship starts randomly—a bump in the grocery store, something on a shelf too high. Joe grabs it. Hands it over with a polite smile and then carries on. Then they run into each other again at the gas station. Eventually they sort of exchange numbers when they’re at the same coffee shop.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Joe is a 100% cuddler—he runs warm, but he loves having someone in his arms or someone’s arms around him. He’s not that picky about cuddles but he will pout if he’s not the small spoon at least 40% of the time. Loves the gentle scratch over his scalp. Sue him.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Joe does want to settle down. He wants to be a dad, yet he’s not looking to rush into that situation. He takes his time, knows that once he devotes himself to dad mode that he wants to have no regrets and doesn’t want feel like his life was cut off. So he waits longer than others would’ve thought.

Joe’s, well he’s Joe—cooking and cleaning are not his strongest suit. He can clean better than he can cook once he’s motivated. Cleaning is a bit more objective based so he can handle it a bit more. Deep cleaning is a level Joe’s never done but it’s a challenge he will take on. Cooking—well, let’s not burn down that house. He can cook a little. It’s just not his strongest suit.

However, the longer he is with his partner the more he picks up certain things. Even during the season, Joe will collect the trash and take it to the curb. But he’ll ask to help cook more, or starts laundry without prompting more often. Once he learns his partner’s rhythm, he starts doing more and more around the house. He’s not lazy in a partnership that way. He’s just always had someone else to do it. But seeing his partner do it more makes Joe go ‘they’re not going to do it alone, not when I’m perfectly capable of helping’

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

In person for sure. Joe would hate to do it over text or phone call. It’s way too impersonal of a means for him because that was the person he chose to be with and they deserve better, even if it has to end. He’s not pulling the it’s not you, it’s me unless it’s really a fault on his own.

His schedule is grueling. So if that’s the cause it’s amicable, and heart breaking. But they can part ways. It takes them a minute to get used to it—Joe still wants to text his partner in the morning for a few months. They’ll still hover his name in the evening. It takes a while to realize this person’s not a part of my life anymore.

It’s not easy, not in the slightest, but Joe is a believer in it’s better to get it done and over with than to drag it out. He’d be emotional, a little choked up--the conversation whispered and paused, heavy with shaky exhales.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Joe’s not afraid of commitment. He’s calculated about it. Joe would get the feeling of, I think I could spend the rest of my life with them, in the first year or so. He needs to have multiple conversations with them about marriage before he gets the ring. He wants that assurance from them. Joe would start looking at rings at about the year and a half mark. But he’s getting everything—cut, band metal type, gem type, etc—well before he purchases.

Joe’s not in a rush but once he sets his mind to it, he’s going to follow through. No matter what.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Joe’s not above the occasional wrestling session/rough housing session. The couple sock challenge sparks his competitive nature like nobody’s business. If he loses a round, oh he is fired up. But Joe does put a mattress down and other cushions so neither one of them gets hurt. He’s also not grappling with his full strength either, like 70% because he does want to win.

Emotionally, Joe can seem really guarded but I don’t think he’s the type to shy away from his emotions. He works hard to really settle into his emotions and identify them rather than swallowing them down. Even if they’re uncomfortable, Joe will dig into them because he knows it’s better for him to tackle them head on.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

If Joe does not get a hug from his partner at least twice a day, it’s going to be a problem. He’s going to throw a hissy fit. It’s a whole ordeal with him pouting on the couch and wailing, “I’m going to pass away from a critical lack of vitamin hugs. I need a long ass hug in the next 30 seconds or I will die.”

He likes the hugs that feel like his body melts into theirs and their body melts into his and there’s no start and stop to their bodies—there is just the warmth of the embrace. Hugs that feel like they’re do a lot more than just the warmth, there’s comfort and exchange. He gives into them, they give into him. It’s a melding, a coming together.

Joe is quite fond of hugs that sway a little side to side, fits of laughter bubbling just beneath the surface of their chest, inhales that press against exhales.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Joe says it first. It slips out as they’re getting ready for bed. It’s eight months or so into the relationship, and his partner’s spending the night. He’s slipping under the sheets behind them, kissing their temple and he just says it. Without thought, half asleep, warm, and content inhaling the scent of their body wash. It’s slurred and sleepy, “I love you. Sleep well.”

It almost feels like it didn’t happen. The morning after Joe wakes first. A quick peek, one singular crack of his eyes to the sun through the shades. Half the bed is empty and the toilet flushes. Joe pushes up, a yawn pressing open his lips and jaw.

“Did you mean it?”

There’s no greeting, but he hears the apprehension, the way the words feel so tiny coming from their chest. “You not sleep okay? What happened?”

“You said you love me last night right before you passed out, snoring I might add. Did you mean it?”

His heart thunders in his chest, slams at his ribs. Joe did mean it. He does mean it--actively, presently. That’s not how he wanted to say it. But it is true. And there’s no use in beating around the bush. “I do love you.”

“And if I love you too?” Not a question to test. It feels like an invitation. Like dipping a toe into a body of water to see if it’s cold or not.

“I know you do,” Joe returns. Not cocky. Not even sassy. Just honest, as only words can do at the moment. He wants it to be as plain and as honest as possible. He can see that there is love, that he’s cared for, desired, appreciated, adored.

“I do,” they agree. “I do love you.”

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Joe gets possessive and a little over protective. He’s not the jealous type if they go out, nor is he worried about his partner having friends of the same or opposite sex. None of that really matters to him. Because both of them know who his partner goes home to. Who they want to go home to.

What matters is that Joe’s partner is his. Someone’s not taking the hint that his partner’s not comfortable and Joe’s stalking over like predator to a kill. If someone at work is giving them the creeps, Joe’s sitting with them to draft that email to HR. This is the person he’s committed to, so committed he fucking is and no one will mess with them if Joe has two cents to do with it.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Oh there’s so many different kinds of kisses: missed you kisses, got back home and I’m so happy to see you kisses, sleepy kisses, drunk kisses, giggly kisses, laughing because god how did I get so lucky kisses, I’m not paying attention to my own stuff I just wanted to kiss you kisses. Passing you in the kitchen stealing some of your food kisses. Late night and I’ve missed your warmth and your body but I’m falling asleep as we speak kisses.

Joe likes to be kissed on the lips. Forehead kisses are second best. Do not kiss that man behind his ear unless there’s an hour window of time because kisses behind the ear are prime ways to get something started that Joe will see all the way through.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Joe’s good with kids.

He treats them like tiny humans in a way that almost looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but is clear that he’s trying—talking like normal yet he’s using age appropriate language. And he’s incredibly patient with them.

He’ll toss foam footballs or play the customer in the grocery store, pushing that tiny fake cart that looks like it could be crushed by Joe if he breathed on it too hard. Joe is extremely careful though, ensures no fake grocery carts, or fake blueberries, or fake cares are harmed in the process of his play.

Joe will draw with them. Or color and he gives each task the same kind of intense focus and dedication that he does studying the playbook.

If they’re not quite talking in full sentences, he listens to them intently and nods. “That’s quite the story. Let me hear more,” he returns in that deep grovel. The baby babbles more and he nods again. “Yeah, you gotta just tell it straight at times. I respect that kind of honesty.”

He might feel a little awkward at first. Like dear god I hope I did this right. But once it’s clear the kid is having the time of their lives, he relaxes a bit. It’s easier than originally anticipated.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Off season mornings are lazy in the way the summer mornings as a kid used to feel. Joe holds his partner a little closer, begs them not to get out of the bed just yet. Kisses at their shoulder. Whines if either one of them leaves the bed first, “You can’t leave me like this.”

“Baby, I have to go to work.”

“No, you don’t have to. You have to stay here with me.”

His pout is met with several kisses--a series of pecks before he snakes his arm around their waist, pulling them in for deeper kisses. Kisses that are broken apart only by inhales, not even the sighs, or the groans stop them. Every touch sends goosebumps over skin.

“This bed is so big and so warm. Why would you ever want to leave it? Leave me?” Joe whispers. His voice is still thick with sleep, heavier and deeper than usual.

“I don’t,” is the first reply. “But I have a job. That I am going to do. Even if it means that I must, out of obligation, not want, leave you and this big warm bed.”

“When you gonna let me take care of you, hmm? Ever going to let me do that?”

The tut of laughter whispers over his jaw. “When we’re both old and I have to spoon feed you applesauce and you have to put my teeth in for me.”

“And I will do so happily.”

During the season—he kisses their shoulder, inhales their sweet scent deeply, holds it in his lungs like a promise before whispering “can’t wait to get back to you” before he’s even left.

He’s as quiet as he can be. Easing open drawers, closing the bathroom door so that light doesn’t bleed through into the bedroom. Joe’s always hyper aware of his clanging around. If he loses his grip on something and it clatters to the ground, he freezes for just a minute listening for any signs of disturbed sleep. He hates the idea that he could wake his partner before it’s necessary.

If his partner has to wake up before Joe, he’s getting up with them. Even if it’s protested. He hates the idea of them leaving the house without him even getting just ten minutes with them. So yeah, while they’re washing their face, getting dressed, Joe’s fixing the coffee, or tea, or whatever the preferred morning drink is. He’ll pack little treats or slip notes into their lunch bag.

Joe ensures to send them off with a kiss to each cheek, followed by one to their lips. “Love you. Give ‘em hell today.”

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

There’s a few different kinds of nights. Yet, all of them have one thing they have in common—they’re slow intentionally, an unwinding of the day. Joe and his partner eat dinner slowly. Converse about anything and everything. They shower together, like actually shower together, or one of them will go first while the other is washing their face and brushing their teeth before they swap places. Under the covers, there’s quiet whispering, the TV’s off, phones are plugged in to charge and put on the nightstand, alarms set, and it’s just them.

If they want to watch something they do it in the living room after their shower, pecking at snacks sometimes, Joe having his scalp teased, Joe brushing his fingers along their back. The huffs and laughs and even the shouts at the show are soft, sacred, just for them.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

In a relationship I think once it’s more steady—a few months in—Joe does so the ‘Dad Lore’ drop method. He’s not hiding anything. He just unravels it slowly, dropping pieces when he feels the pull to share things.

The room is quiet, the shuffle between tasks, between the starting of the dishes and the stopping of dinner. A comfortable stretch of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled but can be. And his voice is soft, not a whisper, but low and slow. “Did I ever tell you about the time my brothers and I nearly got arrested?”

Which of course means Joe spends the next twenty minutes in a murmured exchange about ATV racing.

The bedroom’s dark, his partner is finishing up in the bathroom. It leaves light bleeding between rooms. Joe’s curled up under the sheets. The sink rushes with water for a moment, then cuts off. Something settles back into a drawer. And finally, just as his partner’s shadow creeps over the floor, the light turns out. The dark haze of them shuffles into the bedroom. Their weight settles onto the mattress—Joe’s body giving into the dip.

“I used to be afraid of the dark as a kid. Like had a night light kind of afraid,” Joe confesses against their shoulder. His lips are warmed by the press of them into his partner’s flesh. A confession etched in so gingerly it’s nearly missed.

“Did anything happen?”

“Not that I can remember. I just didn’t like not being able to see. I would have to pretend that my favorite superheroes were in the closet and ready to defend me in my sleep.”

“The dark gives me the heebie jeebies too at times, still. You’re not alone.”

Joe’s tuft of laughter is soft, all an exhale. “I can be your favorite superhero.”

“I think you should leave Chris Evans to Captain America, baby. I like you best as Joe. Still afraid?” The question is soft. No judgement laced the two words. Only genuine curiosity.

“Not like before, no. I know as a kid it was my overactive imagination. As an adult, I don’t fuck with it. Don’t have to worry about me going into some dark alleyway just for the hell of it. But it doesn’t scare me.”

Joe unveils himself in those quiet moments and is more than relieved to be met with grace. It’s not that he doesn’t want to bare himself to someone. It’s just that he’s cautious. Takes it slow.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He doesn’t have the patience of a saint outside of kids and old people. But Joe’s more patient than he might first appear. He’s passionate for sure, but he has grace.

If he and his partner are ever in a disagreement, but never an argument, and things are getting a little intense, he’s the first one to want to hit the brakes. “Do we think we need to pause and decompress a bit more? This back and forth doesn’t feel like it’s productive anymore.”

Or, if he’s annoyed at other things in life—traffic, the grocery store was out of his favorite snack, he woke up to his back aching—he’ll be quicker to be snappy but he’s good at communicating it most of the time. He’s human so he’s not perfect and does at times have thinner patience than normal.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Joe’s the king of remembering favorite childhood snacks. He keeps notes, remembers the big things easily—birthday, anniversary, what the relationships with parents are like, siblings, which side of the bed they prefer, allergies and dietary concerns, the annoying coworker his partner has.

At times though, some details take him a second longer to pull up—not forgotten but sometimes blurry. He’s ordering food for himself but he knows that his partner really likes a specific snack from the cafe so while in line he’s studying the menu—not the scone, or the muffin, or the bagel, and when his eyes land on the item—a specific cookie type—it clicks. When it’s doubly confirmed, he jots it down to remember faster next time. If his partner is telling him a story about something that they’ve already mentioned, it’ll take him a second to realize why it sounds so familiar but he’ll let them ramble on.

So it’s all there, stowed away.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Joe’s favorite moment was visiting their hometown. Tucked into the backseat of a car, parked away somewhere. Coordinated lounge fits, matching sneakers which have been slipped off at this point. The stars twinkle above them. A plastic bag filled with gas station goodies paid for by the cash that was rolled into their palms—his partner’s grandfather wouldn’t take no for an answer when they went out earlier in the day to grab something from the grocery store at his request. “Keep the change now,” their grandfather commanded.

Inside the car, windows cracked just a hair, their conversation is whispered around the radio ads. A low-fi date. Phones are resting in the cup holders—Do Not Disturb on save for their allowed contacts.

“Slide baby one, baby two, baby I love you. One, two, one two.” The two of you chorus. Joe’s getting it mostly but not fully. His laughter bubbling out of his chest with ease as he tries to keep up with the movements. He’s a little too loose, wrapped in the slight breeze from the window and the light long sleeve that’s pulled up on his forearms, the music playing softly, the sound of his partner’s laughter. He’s at ease. So it doesn’t matter to him if he’s getting it right or not. It’s just fun—relaxing and feels like home.

It is home—Joe realizes later. In the small moments, a little buzzed off the sugar and the feeling of being safe. So utterly safe.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Oh Joe, yeah Joe is pretty protective in public—laid back but always watching. Do not let someone encroach and not back off—he’s over before the person has time to blink.

But his partner—oh, his partner is fierce in a way that’s a lot quieter. Food’s wrong than what he ordered, they’re sending it back. Joe’s trying to just exist out in the world some more, it's a low energy day—a day that he’d normally do nothing but he felt cooped up so he asked if they wanted to just get out for like an hour. But he’s out and folks are starting to recognize him but his partner swoops in from further down the aisle, “I think I want a nap.”

Joe’s brows furrow but he nods, dropping the candle that’s actually needed back onto the glass shelf. “Everything okay?”

“Tired. That’s all.”

“Yeah okay. We can go home to take a nap.” He tucks them under his arm, head low to continue checking in and when they’re in the car, not out of the parking space, they tell Joe that they’re okay, just noticed what looked like was going to be crowd.

Joe exhales, knows he would not have had the energy for that. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime, my love.”

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Joe’s a big believer in if my partner is doing something routinely, then I’m learning it and doing it too. So Joe’s helping with grocery shopping, picking up the normal routine skincare and hair care products. He’s watchful in a way that’s careful without being overbearing.

Dates—Joe’s keeping a running list of things and places that have been mentioned. He knows he’s good at remembering but god does it help him to have that list.

Gifts—these are not his strong suit. Joe knows this. Everyone knows this. He’s paying attention. But sometimes he’s not sure how to translate it. It’s like vaguely knowing bits and pieces of a language studied years ago but he’s not able to get the full picture—just a gist of it. Him and his partner just keep a running google doc that he can choose from and they have to promise not to buy it for themselves first if it’s in the doc. It helps that it’s never known when these will come. But this man tried so hard the first few times. But the jewelry was in a metal type not worn often (though the vibe was right), or he had pieces like you like a specific brand of shoes but he wasn’t sure if the size so he sort of flailed for a moment before opting in a gift card (not a bad option but he wanted to do better). Joe has all the right context clues and he tried his absolute damndest before the google doc.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Joe has a bad habit of leaving dishes for days. They’ll be finished or scraped and sitting with water but he will leave them behind sometimes—not even in the dishwasher. It’s the absolute worst with any of his protein shakers. It’s not as bad as it used to be but he still does it especially if he’s rushing.

If Joe washes the dishes sometimes he’ll leave the dish water especially if he was in the middle of making a snack that requires another plate. He’s like “why waste perfectly good water?”

“Joe, there’s no bubbles left. This water has been sitting for hours.”

“Okay—yeah you’re right about that.” He drains the sink and wipes down the basin.

His socks are everywhere. Everywhere. Never in the bin. Near the bin. On the floor. In the bathroom. But not in the laundry basket.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Joe—not terribly so. He wants to look good. He takes care of himself but he really is a get in the shower, scrub real good, get out the shower type. He takes a few more minutes on his hair and face. Picking an outfit can take him the longest. The first time his partner picked out an outfit for date night for him, Joe swore he’d propose right then and there. He loves being dressed by them.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Not incomplete, just not as full—a low grade ache. Like when he rehabbed his wrist. Just a little less like himself but still Joe.

Joe never understood the concept of “my person” until he met his partner. Someone who gets him. Someone who’s more focused on him as a person and not him as the athlete. Likes him best when he’s belching from sucking down the can of Sprite too fast.

Joe feels more like himself when they’re around. When it’s the two of them and he doesn’t have a mask to put up in front of himself. When it’s the guy who recites Spongebob when it’s a low rumble in the background and you’re parroting the response back to him. He feels so at ease. Like when someone lies out in the sun and the warmth pulls them in the limbo between awake and asleep--utterly relaxed and stress free.

Joe feels like Joe around his partner. He misses them when he’s away. Longs for the second he can curl his arms around them again. But it’s not a sharp missing, not an inability to operate without them, but it’s always there, a throb at the base of his skull, the realization, God, I love them. Love being around them. When can I do that again?

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Joe loves a good tabletop RPG or board game. Settlers of Catan is nasty work with Joe—so much so, he is utterly ruthless even with his partner. Codenames with Joe and his partner or Joe and Ja’Marr is lethal—the mindmeld is unparalleled. No one wants to play with Joe at all.

“It’s like playing a fucking computer,” Tee huffs after getting shafted on the teams for Codenames with Joe paired with his partner. “You two on some E.T. shit.”

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I don’t see Joe being with a heavy smoker-- house, clothes, and car smell like nicotine kind of smoker. He smokes and it’s fine in doses but chain smoking is a bit of a hard line for him.

Joe’s also a texture guy. If something’s too slimy, it gets to him. He’ll eat it if it’s like the only thing available, but he’s pretty particular about the texture of foods.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Joe has to rub his feet on his partner’s like crickets. One because their feet are freezing and he’s not dealing with cold feet for half an hour each night and two because it means he can throw his leg over theirs and hug them to his chest. There’s no escaping a sleepy Joe. Don’t even think about it.

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