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entitled-fangirl · 6 hours ago

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Spitfire.

Harry Castillo x reader

Summary: Harry decides he needs someone with more personality. When the band for his next gala quits unexpectedly, Lucy has a connection to a singer for him. A good one. One that's a little spitfire.

Warnings: cursing, sexual tension and remarks, SPOILERS to Materialists

Masterlist

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“How’d the date go with Brenda?”

Harry stared at Lucy, mouth opening and closing a few times. “Honestly, Lucy? I think this whole matchmaking thing isn’t working like I thought.”

Lucy frowned. “Why? Every thing about her was perfect for you. What did I miss?”

“She just… had no personality.”

“You didn’t specify that in your non-negotiables.”

“I know. It’s not anything you did. It’s just,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead, “I have too much going on at work. How about we pause the dates until I get everything settled?”

Lucy nods. “Of course.” She writes something down before pausing. “Even with our past and all, I hope you know you can tell me stuff. Confide in me. As a friend. Or an employee. Whatever is easiest.”

He considers it, then almost denies it. But there’s some pull that is forcing the words out. He leans back in his chair. “Alright.” He takes a long drink. "I love my brother. I do. But with him being a newlywed, I'm picking up the slack at the business. Tonight is this big gala we're hosting. The band quit at the last minute, I don't have a date-"

"-Oh. I can help with that."

"Lucy," he warns. "I don't need a date."

"No, no. I meant the other thing. The one before that. The band." At his confused expression, she tore the corner of a paper and began writing. "A friend of mine sings on the weekends at the lounge down the street."

He leans forward curiously. "Which one?"

"Mountainside lounge."

"Oh. She any good?"

"Well, Harry. I wouldn't suggest her if she made my ears bleed, now would I? I will warn you. She's got… a lot of personality.

He takes the torn paper like it's gold. "Thank you. I fear I owe you one."

"Maybe just one more date? I got this really beautiful woman-"

"-Alright. Bye, Lucy." He stands, exiting the restaurant with more pep in his step.

The paper between his fingers weighs on him. An email address. Interesting.

…

You reread the email with a puzzled brow. Lucy really suggested you to this guy? To the Castillos?

It's professional, but you can sense the desperation in his secretary's tone. Usually, you'd decline. But something about it has you replying back.

Within minutes, they gets back to you.

And you're set to sing on Saturday. You frantically call your accompanist. When they say they can't make it, you managed to get your roommate to do it. She's far too good at the piano anyway to not use that skill anywhere.

…

You set up without seeing a single Castillo. Only the wait staff and the planning committee. They help you as much as you need. It was kind, but you were hoping to at least see the guy that hired you before the party.

You had put way too much thought into your outfit, just like you always do. Singing at the lounge on the weekends paid for a few fancy dresses. Ones way out of your price range. You use that to your advantage a lot.

Like tonight.

You present yourself like you're one of the most esteemed singers in NYC. In reality, you and your roommate barely make ends meet.

But for tonight, you can live it up a little.

It was like every other joint you've sang at. Men ogle you a bit too much. The women give forced claps after a few songs. You're used to the steady routine.

Half way through the night, you take a small break. You giggle to the side with your roommate turned accompanist until a voice breaks the conversation. "Excuse me, I was hoping to get your ladies a drink."

You pause, lip tight at you stare at your roommate. Another one of those pervy guys hoping to take you home.

But when you turn to look at him, you don't get that vibe at all.

His eyes are far too kind.

"Oh. I can't drink," you nod, "bad for the voice."

"Oh, I'd definitely take a drink," your roommate interrupts.

The man grins and nods. "I can do that." His eyes set back on you. "Water then for you?"

"Yeah. Warm."

His eyes stay on you a little too long before he turns back to the crowd, disappearing to get those said drinks.

"He's fine as hell," your roommate teases. "If you don't fuck him, I will."

"Oh my god," you whisper-yell. "Keep it in your pants. We're working."

"You're working. I'm pitching in a favor from last Monday."

Last Monday. A sleazy bar fight started by someone getting a little too close to your roommate and you were the only one that did something about it. You're still sporting a wide bruise on your leg from getting knocked down.

"You don't owe me anything for that. C'mon."

"Well, no one else did anything until you fucking absorbed the first hit-"

"Okay. Stop. We'll talk about this later. Just… be professional for a few more hours?"

She sighs. "Fine."

In perfect timing, a tall glass on warm water is sat on the piano in front of you. You can feel him behind you, tie barely brushing your back before he's away from you once again.

"- and I got you a bit of champagne. Hope that wasn't a bad choice."

Your roommate takes it with greedy hands. "It's perfect. Thank you, Mr…"

"Harry. Harry Castillo."

You freeze, shoulders tightening. "Oh," you push out. "You're Lucy's… friend."

He seems to stiffen up too. "Yeah. Something like that."

"I only meant… you're the one that hired me?"

He relaxes at that, turning on the facade again. "Exactly so. She had good things to say about you."

"I think you were just desperate for a singer."

He laughs. "Maybe so. But you weren't a bad choice in any sense."

You lean against the piano. "I've been told I'm often a bad choice."

His brows raise. "Well, certainly not about your voice." He takes a moment to look at his shoes, recalling a thought. "Lucy did tell me you were a spitfire, though."

"She said that?"

He laughs and nods, content to get a little reaction out of you. "You disagree?"

You consider his words, fighting back and forth with yourself. Professionally, you were calm, cool and collected. Outside of work? A bull in a china closet. "'M not sure."

He keeps a subtle grin on his lips, puppy dog eyes trained on you. "You seem pretty tame."

You can feel the arousal work it's way down your spine to between your legs.

And with that, he taps the piano lightly like a send-off. "I'll enjoy hearing you the rest of the night, little songbird." And he steps away, businessman facade turned on high as he grins and shakes a man's hand like he hadn't turned your world on its side.

Your head slowly turns to your roommate, whose eyes are trained on the sheet music in front of her. 'Holy fuck,' she mouths, not having the courage to look at you after that.

You exhale, unsure of what to think. He's far too charming, alarmingly so. And yet here without a date. It's odd.

You take a little longer than you should've to collect yourself before beginning the second half of the night.

You know Harry's eyes are on you.

…

As the event comes to a close, you decide to pack up early. You have a busy day tomorrow and your voice needs to rest.

You help your roommate pack the sheet music carefully, preparing yourself to say forced goodbyes and shake a few hands.

You can feel Harry's presence before he even says a word.

"The songbird has a bedtime," you start first, not bothering to look up at him.

God, you know he's grinning. "Good. A songbird needs beauty rest. I can't see how looking so… radiant wouldn't require hours of sleep."

You hum, finishing up. But he catches your arm and places a piece of paper in your hand.

You pause, finally turning your head to see him watching you like you're an addiction he has a craving for.

And your eyes dart to the paper, seeing it as a folded check. "Mr. Castillo, you already paid-"

"I know. Think of it as a tip. Tonight was wonderful and you made it so."

Your head tilts, eyes flashing with something. "You trying to tame me, Mr. Castillo?"

"No," he whispers, inching a bit closer, "No, I wouldn't dare." He takes a moment, decided where his bravery lies. Then, he closes the distance, kissing your cheekbone and then kissing your hand. "Goodnight."

…

The poor taxi driver. Your roommate could not contain her excitement. "He was like ALL over you! GOD the gorgeous babies that man would make with you! Please tell me you got his number!"

"No," you scoff. "I was working. This was all work related."

"Nothing about that man's eyes screamed work related."

…

The next day, there's a bit of a headache you're nursing. You're not sure why. Maybe a lack of sleep. Maybe the stress of the day before. But you stumble into the kitchen and start making the same shitty breakfast you always have.

"Oh yeah, I said I'd split that job with you from last night," you remind your roommate.

She laid across the couch, seemingly in the same mental position as you. Hand over her forehead. "Don't worry about it. Just buy me a couple drinks next time we're out."

You hum. "Well, I even got a tip. How about I at least split that with you?"

She sits up a bit. "How much?"

You shrug. "Haven't looked."

She's already darting for your coat pocket where you left it last night. She scrambles, pulling it out and unfolding it. You see her eyes open wide. "Holy shit."

"What?"

Her eyes just stay on the page. "Like Holy shit."

"Oh my god, just-" you round the counter, peering over her shoulder at it. Then it's your turn to gawk. "Fuck."

You're dialing the number at the top left of the check quickly, spatula in one hand as you nurse your scrambled eggs, phone in the other.

"You've reached Castillo Enterprises. How may I help you today?"

"Uh, yeah. Hi. I need to talk to Harry Castillo."

"Oh. Well, is this a matter of canceling an appointment or meeting?"

"No. I need to speak to him about a matter-"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Castillo is a busy man. Shall I take a message?"

"No. No. I'll just… forget it. Thank you."

You drop your phone on the counter, eyes trained on the pan on the stove.

The odds of a busy man like him calling you back is far too slim. There was no point in leaving a message.

No. You learned years ago that most things can just be taken care of in person.

So you finish your breakfast, rushing to look decently professional before getting in your car.

…

Castillo Enterprises is a huge fucking building. One you can't see the top of when you're standing in front of it.

It's all glass, and you see your reflection staring back. You're far from what you looked like last night, but you'd at least managed to slap a little makeup on before you left.

Clutching your purse, you take a deep breath and step inside.

You go to the first desk you see, the one placed in the middle of the room for lost souls like yourself. "Hi, I'm here to see Harry Castillo?"

The secretary is a young girl, one who clearly hates confrontation. "34th story. Elevators are that way."

So off you are again, check weighing heavily in your purse.

You stumble your way around to another desk. A secretary you recognize the voice of. You know you're getting closer since she's the one you spoke on the phone to. "Hi-"

"-You're the woman on the phone," she acknowledges. "As I said before, Mr. Castillo is very busy. He can't see you today."

"I know that but I just need to return a check that was written to me."

Her eyes suddenly widen with realization. "You're the singer from the gala. Sorry, but we can't accept that check back."

"Why not? There's nothing wrong with it."

"Mr. Castillo told me not to accept a returning check from you if you were to come in today."

You gawk for a moment before you get angry. "You know what? Where the fuck is he?"

"As I said before-"

"No. Where is he right now?"

There's a silent standoff that's broken as quickly as it starts. "Cathy, get the Westons a meeting with me t-" Harry pauses, eyes set on you. "Hi," he breathes.

You scoff. "Ten thousand dollars? Are you fucking serious?"

His face falls, confusing written clearly over it. "What do you m-"

"Don't!" You growl. You dig the check out of her purse, holding it out between two fingers. "Take it back."

He recoils from it like it's poisonous, hands up. "I already gave it to you."

"Really? The fuck are you trying to do, be my sugar daddy? You don't even know my fucking name."

There's a moment where he looks around, a bit embarrassed to be making such a scene at his work. But another part of him doesn't care. His main focus is the woman in front of him. His voice is careful and calculated. "I was only trying to appreciate a songbird. Forgive me if I was too forward. But please, accept it this once."

"For what?"

"Hm?"

Your eyes take in his dark blue suit, tailored just perfectly for him. "What… what do you want me to do? What are you paying me for?"

He frowns. "What? No. It's just… spending money. For you. I… I was doing something nice."

"No one is that nice."

He pauses. "God, you really are friends with Lucy, aren't you?"

"The fuck does that mean, Castillo?"

"Means you're untrusting! Just take the check."

"No," you push, holding it out again. "I don't want it."

When he recoils again, you take it back, holding it with both hands now. "I'll fucking tear it up all over this office floor."

He shrugs. "Fine. I'll mail you another by the end of the day."

"Fuck you."

He laughs. Actually laughs at that. "Consider me charity and I'm asking a favor of you."

You pause.

"Just listen to my proposal. Accept the money-"

You scoff.

His head tilts. "- or go on a date with me."

The paper in your hands suddenly feel much heavier than it was before.

At your pause, he shrugs. "Or do both."

"No," you scoff. "No. That is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous about that?"

"I'm making a scene in the middle of the richest enterprise in New York in front of the richest man in New York, and you're asking me on a date?"

He nods.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You ask genuinely.

He shrugs. "I'm all business. I need a little more liveliness in my life."

"And you think I'd do that for you?"

"You already have."

You consider all of it. Your voice calms, "You can't tame me, you know."

He nods, "I would never try to."

And with that, you begin to tear the check into little pieces. The rug catches them, the dark gray contrasting with the little white papers. And he watches. Not the peices fall. But you.

You pull the strap of your purse higher on your shoulder and storm your way past him, content with your victory.

But you pause, huffing as you turn and kiss him on the cheek. "Pick me up at 8."

He listens to your shoes against the expensive tile until you're gone.

"Yes ma'am," he whispers to himself.

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#harry materialists #materialists #harry castillo x you #harry castillo #harry castillo materialists #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo x reader #the materialists #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom

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saturnyo · 1 day ago

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Hi I love your writing and was wondering if you can write Joel and reader just being touch starved and they always seek each other out and they just give each other the best comforting hug ever bc they honestly need hugs ss 😭😭

Wrapped in What We Never Had

Pairing: BostonQZJoel x Reader

A/N: Thank you to anon for the request. Hopefully, you like it, and I didn't stray too far from the prompt you gave me. QzJoel and Reader have lots of trauma, and have bonded over their shared pain quietly until now.

Summary: It's been five months since you started working with Joel, a smuggler in the Boston QZ. At first, he was always closed off, never offering more than a grunt whenever you tried to start a conversation. You’d complete the deals, and then he’d leave without another word. But that began to change after an ambush involving another smuggler. Since then, he’s been more open. One late night, everything comes out. The walls between you crumble, and you two grow closer than ever.

Warnings: Violence, Profanity, Emotional trauma, Alcohol use, Alcohol use, no smut(sorry..hopefully this is correct and want anon wanted.)

WC: 1.2 k

Song Choice: Work Song by Hozier

The Boston QZ was a shitty place to live in.

But also very lucrative. After you got here a few months ago, you started making a name for yourself in the only way you knew how.

Smuggling.

You were low-level, sure—but that didn't stop you from drawing the attention of Joel Miller. And from the way everyone tensed when he came around, he meant business. Especially towards you, someone new, someone unknown, and someone who's on his territory.

He never said much. He never had to. One look from him told you everything you needed to know. Joel was deciding whether you were an ally or an enemy.

It was a kill-or-be-killed world now, and the moment he walked in, you had to decide before he did it for you.

A tense and flimsy deal was struck—you work with him, helping Joel with your knowledge and connections he hadn't garnered yet, and he would help with being the brute force behind it. It was simple, straightforward, even, but you noticed the man, regardless of how much you tried to at least make a conversation on those days where you waited for hours for the contraband to arrive—at a spot specifically chosen by Joel, he never spoke a word.

Just always grunted in response.

Over the next five months, that's all it was. Late nights, no speaking, and hours of silence.

Until the ambush.

It happened so quickly.

You and Joel were checking a shipment of weapons when an unknown group ran in, firing shots. you didn't recognize them. Maybe it was someone you fucked over in the past. Or maybe it was someone who saw the deal going on and took the opportunity.

There was no time to take a breath. No time for a second to think. Joel grabbed your arm and yanked you out of the dilapidated building, starting to weave through the alleyways—avoiding any of the main streets away from the eyes of FEDRA.

You could hear them hot on your trail as you blazed through the different routes Joel took you, the people around you watching in confusion, blurred as you focused on a way out. Bullets whizzed past you, snapping through brick and air. Too close to your head. You didn't hesitate. You fired back, stopping them from hitting Joel.

You get a glimpse of his face as you turn down another winding back alley. His jaw is clenched, focused as his eyes dart back and forth, looking for a safe place to hunker down. There was blood on his forehead, you weren't sure if it was his or the unfortunate who tried to tackle him when you ran out of the warehouse.

After what seems like an eternity, Joel kicks open a door, ushering you inside as the sound of footsteps and yelling fades into the background.

You stumble inside, noting the dustiness of the abandoned store. Joel pushes you further into the back, away from the windows and away from anyone spotting you.

"Fuck. I thought we were gonna die," you said, your voice trembling.

Joel walks over from his spot, leaning against the doorway, and places a hand on your shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked softly, eyes scanning your face. "Any injuries?"

His voice caught you off guard. It was rough, gravel across dry pavement. Sharp, jarring but grounded.

You raise a brow, looking back to the blood on his forehead. “No…you?”

“No,” Joel said. “That blood isn’t mine.”

You continue to watch him as he moved a few steps away towards a corner placing his bag down and rolling his shoulders. Pained from the sheer weight of supplies within his pack. Joel sees the slight confused look on your face, raising a brow in return.

“What?”

“You just never really spoke to me..” you started to say, trailing off at the slight quirk of his lip.

“Well, times change, I guess,” he states simply, shrugging his shoulders before sitting down next to his bag.

You watch him for a beat longer. Joel just sits there, legs stretched out, fidgeting with his gun. Checking it, cleaning it, as if you hadn't just narrowly escaped death.

"You never were the talkative type," you teased, nudging him gently.

“Escaping near death will change a person,” he responded. Joel sits down the gun and crosses him arms looking to you like a completely different person.

There was a shift in the dynamic as you two sat there. Not loud. Not obvious. Just...something different. The weight between you had changed.

You weren't sure how to deal with that.

You chewed the inside of your cheek before speaking. "Back there, when we were running—i-i thought you got hit and..."

You stopped.

Joel didn't interrupt. He didn't push. He waited patiently until you were ready to finish.

"I thought you got shot. If you did, I don't know what I would have done if you had," you finally admitted.

He huffs not in annoyance but acceptance. One that he hadn't realized he's been slowly coming to terms with over the last few months. Joel rests a hand on yours, unfurling your hand from digging your fingernails in.

"You saved me," he muttered. "If you hadn't fired those shots, I could be dead, and that's normally hard for me to admit, you know that."

"You don't say shit at all."

He lets out a chuckle, which seems rusty and grating from years of disuse. You smiled at hearing it. In the middle of escaping being shot and an infected threatening to tear you apart, it's strange to you to find these small moments still with Joel of all people.

Weird to find peace in his laughter, no matter how broken it may seem.

The silence settled again, and this time it wasn't filled with urgency. But content.

Joel's hand is still on yours, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your knuckles. Something so small but tender and caring. Something you felt you hadn't deserved. And you could see he felt the same.

"I ain't used to this," he whispers. "Caring whether someone lives or dies."

Joel's eyes hold a faraway look in them, remembering a time that he's tried so hard to forget. But it chases him like a ghost, unrelenting and unforgiving.

"I'm not either," you admitted, like it even hurt to say it out loud.

A beat passes. You aren't sure why, but something else shifts within you, admitting something else you hadn't dared to utter since the outbreak first happened.

"I lost someone. On outbreak night—my little sister," you said, then paused, tears threatening to spill. You took a shaky breath before continuing.

"She was bitten by an infected. At the time, I had no clue what that meant. We stumbled into a medic tent, and they saw the bite. Said they were taking her for treatment."

You swallowed hard.

"I never saw her again. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened. Ever since, I've been so racked with guilt. I couldn't save her..."

Joel lifts your face gently, looking at you not in disgust but understanding.

"I lost someone too," he admits, his voice rough. He swallows hard, pushing down emotions he hadn’t let himself think about—let alone feel—in over twenty years.

"Sarah... my daughter. She was shot by a soldier while we were trying to escape."

His jaw tightens.

"We were healthy. I kept trying to tell him—we were healthy. But he just... raised his gun and fired."

Joel’s eyes lowered, haunted.

"I tried to turn us away. I tried to take the bullets, even if it meant dying right there. But it didn’t work."

A pause.

"She died in my arms. And there’s not a day I don’t remember what her face looked like in that moment."

Your heart squeezed in pain at hearing his confession. You both were people who lost others, family, because the world fell into ruin. Not one day has passed since either of you has forgotten. But maybe there could be someone to help ease the pain. Even just a little.

You moved first, your arms curling around his waist, laying your head on his chest. Joel tensed at the contact, and when you started to pull away, fearful that you had angered him or upset him, he pulled you back, holding you tighter.

No tears. No sobbing. Just two broken people that found themselves in an uneasy partnership that formed into something they couldn't name.

"I used to not like you, you know?" you said suddenly.

"Oh? And what about now?" he asked softly, eyes searching yours.

"Now...you can still be as stubborn as a mule and annoy me, but I can stand your presence for a bit longer."

He laughed again, resting his head on top of yours. He doesn't say anything for a while after that, just letting the silence settle over you like a warm blanket. He just breathes more slowly now. Like it's the first time he's been able to.

Your head stays on his chest, and he doesn't complain. You listen to his heart thump heavily in his chest beneath his armor, the flannel, and regret.

Something real in a world that strips everything that you are away.

Sitting there on the floor, in an abandoned and dilapidated store, with Joel sitting quietly beside you. It shouldn't feel safe.

But it does.

Surrounded by old dusty shelves, broken or filled with scavenged boxes of food and medical supplies. The door has a chair braced against it in case someone tries to force their way through. But you sit there grounded not by the shelter but by his presence.

Joel, the man who wouldn't utter a word to you. Who wouldn't speak to you, just grunting in response whenever you tried to make a joke or simply starting a conversation.

Now he lets you rest his head against your chest.

He keeps his hand on yours, his thumb still brushing over your knuckles like it belongs there. Like maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to let go.

And for the first time in a long time, neither do you.

#joel miller smut #joel the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedroispunk #pedro x reader #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedrito #zaddy pedro #pedro pascal fandom

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mrs-delaney · 2 days ago

Text

Hide | Chapter Fourteen | Angels Like You

✨ Catch up on Hide before reading this chapter ✨

✧ the masterlist, babes ✧ 💌 so you can read all my stuff 🧃📚

💌 my inbox is open — come yell at me about the fic or just say hi

pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 10.5k ish requested: no ⚠️ just a little warning: joe gets hurt in this one—not graphic, but it’s serious—and the emotional vibes are very much “something’s not right.” if that’s a tough headspace, skip or pause as needed.

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

Author’s Note: posting two days in a row?? wild. who is she??

work’s been a little slow this week so i’ve been writing in between meetings (sorry to my boss..even though he sees me fuckin' around). this one’s a bit shorter, but it felt right to give it its own space.

this chapter's got that underlying hurt—you know, where nothing's actually exploded but everything still feels wrong somehow. not broken exactly, just... uneasy. like everyone's walking on eggshells but trying to pretend they're not. that's kind of where we are right now.

this part of the story is loosely based on real events. creative liberties were taken. timelines were bent.

thanks for being here. i really mean it. 💛

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

August 26

Joe walks off the sideline still thinking about Riley's voice when she hung up on him days ago. The preseason game against the Commanders just ended—they won, 24-17—but he spent most of it watching from the bench, his mind three thousand miles away. He played one series in the first quarter, handed off twice, and that was it.

"Good game, Joe," someone calls out, maybe a coach, maybe a teammate. He nods without really seeing them, already pulling his phone from his locker.

Still no response to any of his texts. It feels like an eternity of silence.

Joe showers quickly, throws on sweats and a hoodie, and ignores the team bus idling outside the stadium. Instead, he calls Sarah.

"I need a jet," he says without preamble.

"Tonight? Joe, you just played—"

"Tonight. To LAX. How fast can you make it happen?"

There's a pause. Sarah's been his assistant for two years; she knows when not to ask questions. "Give me an hour. Where are you going from LAX?"

"I'll figure it out when I get there."

The drive to the private airfield outside Washington gives Joe time to think, which is both a blessing and a curse. He keeps replaying Riley's voice from that phone call—When push comes to shove, I'm the problem you need to manage—and realizing she wasn't wrong.

He tries calling her again as he waits for the jet to be prepped. Straight to voicemail, same as it's been for days.

"Riley, it's me again," he says after the beep. "I know you probably don't want to hear from me right now, but... just call me back. Please."

He hangs up and immediately wants to try again, but forces himself to put the phone away. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have by now.

The pilot doesn't ask questions about the last-minute flight or why Joe looks like shit.

He pulls out his phone and stares at his last text to Riley: Still hoping you'll be there Saturday.

She never responded. Which means she's probably not coming to Cincinnati. Which means this thing between them might actually be over, might have ended with that terrible phone call where he said all the wrong things and she hung up on him.

Joe opens a new message and starts typing: I'm coming to see you.

He deletes it. Tries again: We need to talk.

Deletes that too.

The truth is, he's terrified she'll tell him not to come. That she'll say she doesn't want to see him, that they're done, that he's too late. So instead of giving her the chance to reject him, he's just going to show up and hope she'll at least let him explain.

It's not his usual approach—Joe plans things, thinks them through, weighs the options. But planning hasn't been working when it comes to Riley. Every time he tries to be careful, to manage the situation, he makes it worse.

Maybe it's time to stop being careful.

The flight attendant offers him dinner, but Joe's stomach is too twisted to eat. He accepts water instead and uses the wifi to book a rental car, then immediately second-guesses the choice. Should he take an Uber? Less traceable, but also less reliable if Riley wants him to leave quickly.

God, he doesn't even know if she's home. For all he knows, she could be anywhere—New Orleans, Nashville, Colorado, literally anywhere. He hasn't heard from her team either, despite texting Pete directly yesterday.

Joe stares out the window at the dark expanse of America passing below and tries to figure out what he's going to say when he sees her. I'm sorryseems inadequate. I was scared sounds like an excuse. I love you feels true but not enough - not when love hasn't stopped him from hurting her.

His phone buzzes with a text from his dad: How'd the game go?

Joe types back: Fine. Flying to LA.

The response comes quickly: Good. Bring her home.

It's such a simple statement. Bring her home. Like she belongs there, like she belongs with him. Even though they haven't met her yet.

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom: "We'll be beginning our descent into Los Angeles in about twenty minutes."

Joe's hands start to sweat. Twenty minutes until he finds out if the person he loves still wants anything to do with him.

He tries her number one more time. It rings once, twice, three times, then goes to voicemail.

"It's me," he says. "I... I'm sorry about everything. About the phone call, about not being there when you needed me, about being an idiot. I'm going to try to fix this, okay? If you'll let me."

He hangs up and immediately regrets it. He should have said more, should have explained, should have told her he was coming. But it's too late now.

The rental car is waiting. Joe plugs Riley's address into the GPS and drives.

The drive from LAX to Laurel Canyon takes forty minutes. Joe's locked in now, the way he gets before big games. One objective: get to Riley. Everything else is noise.

But what if she's not alone?

It's been days since they talked. Days for her to decide she's done with his shit, done with being treated like a secret, done with dating someone who chooses his image over her every time it matters. Someone like maybe Dom.

Joe pushes the thought away and focuses on driving, on the narrow roads and expensive houses hidden behind gates and perfectly manicured hedges. Riley's neighborhood is quiet, peaceful, the kind of place where showing up unannounced at midnight might get the cops called.

He turns onto her street. Her house sits at the end of a curved driveway, lights on in the living room. Her car's the only one there.

Joe parks on the street and sits in the rental car for a full minute, staring at her front door. This is it. This is where he finds out if he still has her or if he's lost the best thing that's ever happened to him.

He gets out of the car and walks to her door.

Once he reaches her front door he just stands there, hand raised to knock, suddenly terrified of what comes next.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on her living room floor, acoustic guitar balanced across her lap, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper covered in crossed-out lines and half-formed verses. It's past 1 AM, but sleep feels impossible when her chest is this tight with words that need to come out.

She strums the same chord progression she's been working on for the past hour, humming a melody that feels too raw to sing at full voice yet. The notebook beside her is open to a page that reads:

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me I'm everything they said I would be

She stops playing and scratches out the second line, tries again:

I'm everything you didn't want me to be

That's not right either. Riley sets the guitar aside and pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the mess of papers around her. Days of not responding to Joe, days of writing songs that all sound like goodbye letters she'll never send.

Her phone sits face-down on the coffee table, silent since she finally set up the new one yesterday and saw all his unanswered messages flood in at once. She'd read them, all of them, but couldn't bring herself to respond. What was there to say? That she missed him? That she was tired of feeling like a problem he needed to solve?

Riley reaches for the guitar again, finds the melody, tries a different approach:

They say that misery loves company It's not your fault I ruin everything

The knock at her front door makes her freeze mid-strum.

She glances at the clock on her phone. 1:23 AM. Who the hell shows up at her house at 1:23 in the morning?

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

Riley sets the guitar aside and pads to the front door in her bare feet, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her mid-thigh and shorts that disappear under the hem. She expects to see Pete through the peephole, or maybe Andy having another late-night crisis about some girl.

Instead, she sees Joe Burrow standing on her doorstep in sweats and a hoodie, looking like he just traveled three thousand miles to be there.

Which, apparently, he did.

Riley stares through the peephole for a full ten seconds, convinced she's hallucinating. Joe doesn't make grand gestures. Joe doesn't show up unannounced. Joe definitely doesn't fly across the country in the middle of the night.

But there he is.

She unlocks the door and opens it slowly, not trusting her voice yet.

"Hi," he says simply.

Riley blinks at him, still processing. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to make sure you get on a plane to Cincinnati."

Riley stares at him. "You... what?"

"Your flight. Tomorrow. I need to know you're still coming."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Of all the things she might have expected Joe to say, this wasn't one of them. "You flew here to ask me that?"

"I flew here because I fucked up…again."

Riley stares at him for another long moment. "You got that right," she says finally.

She steps back from the door, and Joe takes it as an invitation to come inside. The living room is covered in evidence of sleepless nights: papers scattered across the coffee table and floor, her guitar propped against the couch, lyrics scrawled in her messy handwriting.

Riley closes the door behind him and crosses her arms, suddenly aware that she's barely dressed and he's standing in her living room in the middle of the night like this isn't completely insane.

"Shouldn't you be in Maryland?" she asks, trying to find her footing in this conversation.

"Game ended hours ago." Joe's looking at the papers around her guitar, probably reading the fragments of lyrics she's been working on. "You've been writing."

"I've been doing a lot of things." Riley moves to gather some of the papers, suddenly self-conscious about him seeing her raw thoughts scattered everywhere. "What do you want, Joe?"

"I want to know if you're coming to Cincinnati tomorrow."

Riley stops collecting papers and looks at him. "Why would I be coming to Cincinnati?"

"Your flight. You had a flight booked."

"Had being the key word." Riley sits down on the edge of her couch, putting some distance between them. "I canceled it."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. "When?"

"The other day. I'm exhausted with this, Joe."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

Riley looks at him for a long moment. "You think showing up fixes it?"

"I think not showing up definitely doesn't."

She's quiet, processing that. Joe stays where he is, not moving closer, not trying to crowd her space.

"My team lost their minds when they saw the headlines," he says finally. "Started talking about damage control and how this could affect my image. And I listened to them instead of calling you back first."

Riley doesn't respond right away.

"I panicked. When I saw those photos, when I heard what people were saying... I thought about protecting myself before I thought about protecting you."

Riley wraps her arms tighter around herself. "That's the problem, Joe. When things get hard, your first instinct is to pull away from me, not toward me."

"I know."

"Really? Do you Joe? Because this isn't the first time. Every time there's any kind of pressure or scrutiny, you treat me like I'm the complication."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "You're not a complication."

"Then why do I always feel like one?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to have you in my life and deal with everyone else's opinions about it. So when things get complicated, I default to what I know - protecting what I can control."

"At least you're honest about it. But Joe, I can't keep being the thing you sacrifice every time you get scared." Riley shifts on the couch, pulling her knees closer. "I know I'm not easy. I know my life is messy and unpredictable and nothing like what you're used to. But I can't keep wondering if you're going to choose me or choose everyone else's opinion of me."

"I'm trying to figure out how to do that. Choose you."

Joe moves closer, crouching down in front of the couch so he can see her face. "Don't give up on this. On us."

Riley looks at him, eyes tired. "This hurts, Joe."

"I know. I don't want to hurt you. Stay with me while I figure it out?"

She studies his face like she's looking for something she's not sure is there. "You keep asking me to wait while you figure it out. But what if you don't? What if this is just who we are?"

"I don't want it to be."

"Wanting isn't the same as changing." She's quiet for a moment. "But yeah. Okay. I'll stay."

"Even though you shouldn't."

"Probably because I shouldn't."

Joe takes what feels like the first deep breath he's had in days.

He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. Her fingers are cold, and he realizes she's been sitting here for hours writing, probably not taking care of herself the way she does when she's processing something hard.

"Come here," he says quietly, and gently pulls her up from the couch.

Riley stands on unsteady legs, and Joe wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. She melts into him immediately, her face pressed against his hoodie, and he can feel some of the tension leave her body.

They stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Joe rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling the relief wash over him that she's here, that she's his, that she said okay.

Riley's arms tighten around his waist, and Joe realizes she's crying - not sobs, just quiet tears that soak through his hoodie.

"I missed you," she whispers against his chest.

"I missed you too," he says, his voice rough. "So much."

* * *

They stay like that, wrapped around each other in her living room surrounded by scattered lyrics and the evidence of her sleepless nights. It's relief and comfort and the simple fact that they fit together, even when everything else feels broken.

Riley pulls back just enough to look at his face, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. "You hate grand gestures."

"I had to. I was going crazy."

She studies his expression, searching for something. When she finds it, Joe leans down and kisses her.

It's soft at first, tentative, like he's not sure if this is allowed. But Riley's hands fist in his hoodie, and she kisses him back with weeks of missing him, and Joe makes a small sound against her mouth that goes straight through her.

"Bird," he breathes against her lips.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

She takes his hand and leads him down the hall to her bedroom, and this time it's different from every other time they've been together. Slower, more careful. Like they're both afraid the other might disappear.

Joe pulls off his hoodie while Riley sits on the edge of her bed, just watching him. When he reaches for the hem of her oversized t-shirt, she lets him pull it over her head, and then they're skin to skin for the first time in too long.

"I thought I fucked this up forever," Joe says quietly, his forehead resting against hers.

"You didn't," Riley says, even though they both know how close he came.

When he touches her, it's with reverence, like he's memorizing every inch. When she moves against him, it's with a kind of desperate tenderness, like she's trying to pour all her forgiveness into the space between their bodies.

It's not gentle, not really. They cling to each other, pace quick and rough, both of them chasing relief and something like grace. Neither of them talks. Just the sound of skin and breath, desperate and seeking, like they're trying to say I'm sorry, I love you, don't leave again—all without words.

"Joe," Riley breathes against his mouth, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Me too," he says back, his voice rough.

She pulls him closer, desperate. "Don't—" she starts, then stops, but Joe knows what she means.

"I won't," he promises against her throat. "I'm not stopping. I'm not going anywhere."

When she's close, she whispers his name like a prayer, over and over, and Joe has to bite down on her shoulder to keep from falling apart completely.

"Please," she whispers, and he knows what she needs.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs back.

When Riley comes, it’s quiet, her body shaking with it, face pressed to his shoulder. Joe follows right after, everything tightening at once, her name muffled against her skin.

After, they don’t move. He just holds her, breathing her in, as if he could anchor himself to this moment and never let go.

"Come back with me," Joe says eventually.

"Joe."

"Please, Riley."

"You know I will." She sighs. "When do you want to leave?"

"In the morning? When we wake up?"

"Okay."

She settles back against his chest, and Joe feels something ease in his chest that's been tight for days. It's not fixed - he knows that. The conversation they had in the living room doesn't solve the fundamental problem between them. But she's here, and she's his, and tomorrow they'll figure out the rest.

* * *

Early September

Riley stares out the airplane window at the darkness below, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. The red-eye from Cincinnati to London is half empty, which means she has an entire row to herself to spread out and pretend she's not exhausted down to her bones.

Thirty-six hours. She could have stayed in London, slept off the jet lag, maybe seen a show in the West End. But no—she flew to Cincinnati instead, burning through her only real break because she thought things might be different after LA. Thirty-six hours of watching Joe slip right back into the same patterns that broke them apart in the first place.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Pete: Safe flight. Get some sleep. Love you.

She types back: Can't sleep. Too wired.

What she doesn't text is that nothing has changed. That Joe flying to LA, showing up at her door, asking her to stay with him—none of it actually fixed the thing that's wrong between them.

Yesterday afternoon, Joe's living room:

"The Steelers run a lot of zone coverage on third down," Joe muttered to himself, remote in hand, rewinding the same play for the fourth time.

Riley looked up from her book—she'd given up trying to have a conversation twenty minutes earlier. "Joe."

"Mmm?" He didn't look away from the screen.

"Remember when you said you were trying to figure out how to choose me?"

That got his attention. He paused the film and turned to her. "I am trying."

"Yeah? Because this feels exactly like it did before."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly. "It's Week 1, Riley. This is important."

"And I'm not?"

"That's not what I said."

But Riley could see it in his face—the same look he got whenever football took priority. The same wall going up.

Riley shifts in her seat now, curling sideways against the window. The flight attendant offers her a blanket, which she accepts with a tired smile.

Her phone lights up with a message from Joe: Miss you already.

She stares at the text for a long moment before responding: Miss you too.

But the truth is she doesn't just miss him—she misses who he used to be with her. The Joe who would actually turn off his phone. Who cared about her day, not just the parts that fit around football. This version feels like someone else entirely.

This morning, Joe's kitchen:

"I can drive you to the airport," Joe offered, grabbing his keys.

"It's fine. I called a car."

"You sure? I don't have meetings until noon."

Riley could see he was already mentally somewhere else—probably thinking about practice, about the game plan, about everything except the fact that she was leaving again. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He kissed her goodbye at the door, distracted and quick. "Text me when you land?"

"I will."

But they both knew he probably wouldn't see it until hours later, buried between messages from coaches and teammates and everyone else who took precedence during football season.

Riley closes her eyes and tries to find a comfortable position. Seven more hours until London, then a full day of interviews where she'll have to smile and talk about her music while running on no sleep and too much caffeine.

Her phone buzzes again. A text from Andy: How was Cincinnati?

She types and deletes three different responses before settling on: Fine.

It's not fine, though. Nothing about this feels fine. Joe said he was trying to figure out how to choose her, but the moment football season started, everything went right back to how it was before.

She's still the only one reaching. Loving him is starting to feel like chasing him.

Riley looks at her phone again. Joe's "miss you already" text, her automatic "Miss you too" response. A week ago, that exchange would have made her heart race. Now it just feels hollow.

When did she become the only one reaching? When did loving him start feeling like chasing him?

Seven hours to London. Seven hours to figure out how to smile and talk about her music while pretending everything's fine.

For the first time since that night in her living room when Joe asked her to stay with him, Riley wonders if she should have said no.

* * *

September-1st Game of the Season

Riley - 2:47 PM London time (9:47 AM Cincinnati): Good luck today baby. I know you're going to be amazing.

Riley - 3:15 PM: Thinking about you. Wish I could be there.

Riley - 4:30 PM: Still no response? Everything okay?

Riley - 5:45 PM: Joe?

Riley stares at her phone screen in her London hotel room, watching the delivered messages pile up with no response. She's been up since 6 AM doing BBC Radio interviews, but all she can think about is Joe's first game of the season starting in an hour.

Riley - 6:00 PM (1:00 PM Cincinnati - Kickoff): Game's starting. I'm watching on my laptop. You've got this.

She settles into bed with her laptop balanced on her knees, the NFL app streaming the Bengals vs. Steelers game. The hotel room is dark except for the glow of the screen, and Riley pulls a blanket around herself as she watches Joe take the field.

Riley - 6:23 PM: You look so focused out there. Doing amazing.

Riley - 6:45 PM: I have no idea what's happening but you look good doing it.

Riley - 7:30 PM (Halftime): They're winning but you've got this. Second half.

The Bengals are struggling. Pittsburgh's defense is relentless, and Joe's getting pressured on every play. Riley finds herself holding her breath every time he drops back to pass, texting encouragement she knows he won't see until after the game.

Riley - 8:15 PM: That hit looked bad. Are you okay?

Riley - 8:47 PM: Come on baby. One touchdown. You can do this.

Riley - 9:20 PM (Game ends, Bengals lose 21-10): I'm sorry. You played your heart out. You'll get them next time.

Riley - 9:45 PM: Joe? Just want to make sure you're okay.

Riley - 11:30 PM: I know you're probably in meetings or with the team. Call me when you can?

Riley - 1:15 AM: Are you ignoring me?

It's nearly 2 AM London time when Riley's phone finally buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. She answers immediately, and Joe's face appears on screen—hair still damp from the shower, jaw tight with frustration.

"Hey," she says softly. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. We lost." His voice is flat, exhausted.

"I watched the whole game. You looked good out there, even though they kept hitting you—"

"Riley, I don't want to talk about the game."

She blinks, taken aback by his tone. "Okay. I was just... I was trying to be supportive. I sent you texts all day."

"I don't check my phone on game days."

"What?"

Joe rubs his face with his hands. "I don't talk to anyone the day before or day of games. I go dark."

Riley stares at him through the screen. "You never told me that."

"I thought you knew."

"How would I know that? You've never mentioned it once." Her voice gets sharper. "I stayed up all night watching your game, Joe. I've been worried sick because you weren't responding to anything."

"I can't be thinking about texts when I'm trying to prepare."

"I wasn't asking you to respond during the game. But before? After? Some acknowledgment that your girlfriend exists?"

Joe's expression hardens. "This is exactly why I don't talk to people on game days. I can't deal with this right now."

"Deal with what? Me caring about you?"

"I lost, Riley. I threw two interceptions. The last thing I need is—"

"Is what? Support? Someone who care about you trying to be there for you?"

"I need space to process this."

Riley feels something cold settle in her chest. "Space from me."

"Space from everyone."

"But especially me."

Joe doesn't deny it, and that silence says everything.

"I can't do this," Riley says quietly. "I can't keep being shut out of the most important part of your life."

"Football has to come first during the season. You know that."

"I know that football is important. What I didn't know is that means I don't exist."

Joe's jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"Are you kidding me? When do I come first, Joe? When do I get to matter?"

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in her dark hotel room, staring at the black screen of her phone. It's 2:30 AM in London, and she has morning interviews in six hours. But all she can think about is the look on Joe's face when she asked when she gets to matter.

Like it was a question he'd never considered before.

Riley's phone buzzes less than five minutes after she ended the call. Joe's name appears on the screen.

She stares at it for two rings before answering.

"What?"

"Don't hang up." Joe's voice is quieter now, less sharp. "Please."

Riley doesn't say anything, but she doesn't hang up either.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have taken the loss out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"And I should have told you about game days. I assumed you knew, but you didn't. That's on me."

Riley shifts against her hotel pillows, exhausted. "Joe, I stayed up all night to watch you play. I was trying to support you."

"I know. And I appreciate that, I do. I just... I don't think clearly after losses."

"It's not just about tonight. It's about me not knowing basic things about your life. About feeling like I'm always on the outside of the most important part of who you are."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I'll try to be more upfront about what game day stuff looks like for me. What the season looks like. I don't want you feeling shut out."

"Okay."

"Are we okay?"

Riley closes her eyes. She's too tired to fight, too tired to explain again why this hurt. "Yeah. We're okay."

"Get some sleep. I know you have early interviews."

"Yeah. I do."

"Riley?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For watching. For caring. I know I didn't say that before."

"You're welcome."

After they hang up, Riley lies in the dark staring at the ceiling. Joe apologized, promised to be more communicative about his boundaries. It should feel like progress.

Instead, it just feels like another conversation where she has to adjust her expectations to fit his world.

Riley sets an alarm and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on the floor of the rehearsal studio, still catching her breath from running through "Lonely Is the Muse" for the tenth time today. The mock stage setup towers behind her—lights, risers, even a replica of the LED backdrop that will follow them around the world. Her phone is propped against her water bottle as she FaceTimes Joe, who's presumably at home in Cincinnati.

"You should see this setup," she says, angling the phone so he can see the stage. "It's insane. Andy designed this whole lighting sequence that syncs with the guitar solo in 'Lilith,' and Pete's been working on these harmonies that—"

"That's cool," Joe says, but his attention seems split. Riley can see him looking at something off-camera.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Just checking something real quick." He looks back at the phone. "Sorry. The stage looks good."

Riley tries not to let her irritation show. "We've been rehearsing for twelve hours a day. I'm exhausted but also kind of terrified and excited all at the same time. Tour starts in three weeks."

"You'll be great. You always are."

"I hope so." Riley shifts, tucking her legs under her. "Actually, I was thinking—you have your bye week coming up, right? End of October?"

"Yeah."

"You should come here. See the rehearsals, hang out while we're in prep mode. I could show you around the studio complex, introduce you to everyone properly." Riley's voice gets more animated as she talks. "You could watch us work through the setlist, see what this whole thing looks like from the inside."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Riley."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, bye weeks are usually when I catch up on rest. Recovery. I don't really go anywhere during the season."

Riley frowns. "But it's your week off. And I'm asking you to come see something that's really important to me."

"I know it's important—"

"I don't think you do. Because it feels like you think my work is just a fun little hobby compared to yours."

"That's not true."

"Then why won't you come?"

Joe runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You get on a plane, you come to LA, you spend time with your girlfriend. What's complicated about that?"

"Riley, we're still laying low, remember? After the whole Ethan thing? My team thinks it's better if I'm not seen—"

"Your team thinks it's better if you're not seen with me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant." Riley's voice gets sharper. "Joe, that was two months ago. How long are we supposed to hide because my drunk ex made a scene?"

"It's not hiding, it's being smart. The season just started, and things are going well, and I don't want to create any distractions—"

"I'm a distraction."

"No, the media attention is a distraction."

"Same thing." Riley stands up, pacing the small area in front of her phone. "God, we're right back where we started, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're still more worried about how things look than about being with me. Nothing's actually changed."

Joe's jaw tightens. "Come on, Riley. I've been trying to be better about communication—"

"Communication isn't the only problem, Joe. The problem is that you don't want to be seen with me. The problem is that I've flown to Cincinnati three times in the past month, but you won't come here once because you're worried about your precious image."

"Riley—"

"When's the last time you came to my world? When's the last time you made an effort to see what my life looks like instead of me always fitting into yours?"

"I came to your show in LA—"

"You came to my show in July with your friends, and that's it." Riley's voice cracks slightly. "I'm about to go on tour, Joe. This is the last chance we have to spend time together before I'm gone for months, and you're worried about people taking pictures of us."

Joe is quiet, and Riley can see him processing what she's saying. Finally, he speaks. "I just think it's better to be careful right now."

Riley stops pacing. "Better for who?"

"For both of us."

"No, Joe. Better for you. This is better for you." She picks up her phone, bringing it closer to her face. "I'm tired of being your secret. I'm tired of being the thing you have to manage and protect and hide from the world."

"You're not—"

"I am, though. That's exactly what I am." Riley's voice gets quieter, more defeated. "You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy your bye week. Rest up, recover, do whatever you need to do."

"Riley, don't hang up. Let's talk about this."

"What's there to talk about? You made your choice. You always make the same choice."

"That's not true."

Riley looks at him through the screen, this man she's been trying to love despite how hard he makes it. "Name one time you've chosen me over what's safe for your career. One time."

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. The silence stretches between them.

"That's what I thought," Riley says quietly.

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in the empty rehearsal studio, surrounded by the elaborate stage setup that represents months of planning and preparation for the biggest tour of her career. In three weeks, she'll be performing these songs for thousands of people who love her music, who've been waiting for this moment almost as much as she has.

And the person she wants to share it with most is too worried about his image to show up.

She picks up her guitar and starts playing the opening chords to "Lonely Is the Muse," letting the music fill the silence Joe left behind.

* * *

Late October

Riley sits on Joe's couch, watching him ice his shin for the third time since she arrived two hours ago. He's been rotating between the couch and the kitchen, restless and irritated, moving the ice pack every few minutes like he can't get comfortable.

"How long has it been bothering you?" she asks, setting down her coffee.

"Couple weeks." Joe adjusts the ice pack, wincing slightly. "It's fine. Just annoying."

"Have you had it looked at?"

"Yeah. They said it's minor. Just needs rest."

Riley watches him fidget with the ice pack, his jaw tight with frustration. She flew in this morning from LA, using her one day off between rehearsal blocks to see him, and he's been like this since she walked in the door—distracted, moody, barely acknowledging that she's here.

"You've seemed off," she says carefully. She's been watching his games when she can, trying to understand his world better after their last fight.

Joe's head snaps up. "What?"

"In the games I've watched. You just look... frustrated. More than usual."

"Since when do you analyze my games?"

"Since I'm trying to understand what's going on with you." Riley shifts on the couch to face him. "You look different out there."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're limping around your house icing your leg every twenty minutes."

Joe stands up abruptly, the ice pack falling to the floor. "It's just a minor thing. Shin splints or something. It'll heal."

"Joe—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Riley stares at him as he paces to the kitchen, his movements stilted and careful. She's seen him frustrated before, but this feels different. Angrier. Like he's mad at his own body for betraying him.

"I'm trying to help," she says when he comes back with a different ice pack.

"I don't need help. I need this thing to stop hurting so I can play."

"Maybe you need to take some time—"

"I can't take time. We're 4-3, Riley. Every game matters."

"Your health matters too."

Joe laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My health matters when we're winning. Right now, I need to play through whatever this is."

Riley watches him settle back on the couch, immediately shifting to find a comfortable position for his leg. "Is this why you've been so..."

"So what?"

"Distant. Moody. Harder to reach than usual."

"I haven't been moody."

"Joe, I texted you good morning three days ago and you responded with 'ok.'"

"I was busy."

"With what? Icing your shin?"

Joe's expression darkens. "Don't."

"Don't what? Point out that you're taking your frustration out on me?"

"I'm not taking anything out on you."

"Then why does it feel like you resent me being here?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at the ice pack on his shin. "I don't resent you being here."

"You haven't asked me about tour prep once since I got here. You haven't asked about my day, about the flight, about anything. I might as well be invisible."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"I know. Your shin, the games, the pressure. I get it. But I'm here, Joe. I'm trying to be supportive, and you're acting like I'm bothering you."

Joe looks at her then, and for a moment his expression softens. "You're not bothering me."

"Then what's going on? Because this feels like more than just a sore leg."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Riley recognizes as him trying to find words he doesn't want to say. "Everything's off right now. My timing, my accuracy, my decision-making. And this stupid shin thing is making it worse because I can't plant my foot right."

"So fix it. See a specialist, get treatment, whatever you need to do."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because if they think it's serious, they'll want me to sit. And I can't sit. Not with how we're playing."

Riley stares at him. "You'd rather play hurt than take care of yourself?"

"I'd rather not let my team down."

"What about letting yourself down? What about letting me down by shutting me out every time something goes wrong?"

Joe's jaw tightens again. "That's not what I'm doing."

"But that's what it feels like. From where I'm sitting, it feels exactly like what you're doing."

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension thick between them. Riley watches Joe adjust the ice pack again, his movements careful and frustrated.

"Maybe I should just give you some space," she says finally.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do. You clearly don't want company right now."

"Riley—"

But she's already standing, heading toward the stairs. "I'm going to go read or something. Let me know if you need anything."

Joe doesn't argue, doesn't get up from the couch, doesn't try to stop her.

Riley goes upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind her. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, wondering why she keeps coming back to someone who makes her feel more alone when she's with him than when she's actually alone.

Twenty minutes later, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Joe opens the bedroom door quietly, like he's not sure if she wants to see him.

"Hey," he says from the doorway.

Riley looks up from her phone. "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

She nods, and Joe walks over to the bed, sitting down beside her with a slight wince as he adjusts his leg.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I've been an ass."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "This thing with my shin, it's got me all fucked up. I can't plant my foot right, and it's throwing off everything. My throws, my reads, my timing. Everything feels off."

Riley turns to face him. "So why take it out on me?"

"I don't know. Because you're here, I guess. Because it's easier than dealing with the fact that I might be losing a step."

"You're not losing a step. You're hurt."

"Same thing in this business."

Riley studies his face, seeing the frustration and fear he's been hiding behind his moodiness. "Joe, you can talk to me about this stuff. I want you to talk to me about it."

"I know. I just... I don't like feeling weak."

"Being hurt isn't weak. Being an asshole to the people who care about you is."

Joe looks at her, and for the first time all day, he really sees her. "You flew here to see me."

"I did."

"And I've been treating you like shit since you walked in."

"Pretty much."

Joe reaches for her hand. "I'm sorry, Riley. Really. I don't want you to feel like you're not welcome here."

Riley squeezes his hand. "I just want to help. I want to be here for you when things are hard."

"You are. Even when I'm too stupid to appreciate it."

They sit in silence for a moment before Joe lies back on the bed, pulling Riley down with him. She curls up against his side, careful of his injured leg.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter."

Riley lifts her head to look at him. "Do I matter?"

"You matter the most Birdie."

* * *

November

The pocket collapses faster than Joe expects.

He's got Ja'Marr running a comeback route, sees the window opening, but Baltimore's pass rush is relentless tonight. Roquan Smith is coming hard from the left side, and Joe feels the familiar pressure that means he's got maybe half a second to get rid of the ball.

He steps up in the pocket, trying to buy time, but the protection breaks down completely. Bodies everywhere, purple jerseys converging. Joe scrambles right, looking for an escape route, the ball still tucked against his chest.

The hit comes from behind and to the side—a combination of defensive linemen collapsing the pocket. Joe goes down hard, his right hand hitting the turf first as he tries to brace his fall. The impact sends a shock wave up his arm, but it's not until he tries to push himself up that he feels it.

Sharp, electric pain shooting from his wrist straight up to his elbow.

Joe rolls over, sitting up on the field, and looks down at his right hand. It looks normal, but when he tries to flex his wrist, the pain is immediate and breathtaking. Not the dull ache of his shin, which has been manageable for weeks. This is different. This is wrong.

"You good, Joe?" Ja'Marr is standing over him, helmet off, concern written across his face.

Joe nods automatically, the way he always does, but when he tries to push himself to his feet using his right hand, the pain nearly makes him sick. He gets up using his left hand instead, cradling his right arm against his body.

The Ravens defense is celebrating—they got the sack, stopped the drive. The crowd at M&T Bank Stadium is deafening. Joe walks slowly toward the huddle, trying to shake off whatever's wrong with his wrist, but every step sends jarring pain up his arm.

"Let's go, offense!" he calls out, trying to sound normal, but his voice feels tight.

In the huddle, Joe holds the play sheet with his left hand. When he claps to break the huddle, he uses his left hand against his thigh instead of clapping normally. His teammates don't notice, but Joe notices everything. The way his right hand feels weak and unstable. The way gripping the football sends shooting pain through his wrist.

The next snap comes fast. Joe takes the ball, tries to set up for a quick slant to Tyler Boyd, but when he goes to release the ball, his wrist can't support the throwing motion. The ball wobbles out of his hand, falling incomplete five yards short of the target.

Joe stares down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. They move, but his wrist feels like it's full of broken glass.

"Joe!" Coach Taylor is calling for a timeout, jogging onto the field. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Joe says, but he's not good. He knows he's not good. He's played through pain before—the shin, countless bumps and bruises, the appendectomy his rookie year. This is different.

Dr. Sparks, the team physician, approaches with the medical staff. "What's going on?"

"Wrist," Joe says simply, holding up his right hand. "Landed on it weird."

Dr. Sparks takes Joe's hand, gently rotating the wrist. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that Joe has to bite back a curse.

"Can you grip?" Dr. Sparks asks, handing Joe a football.

Joe takes it with his right hand, tries to squeeze. His grip strength is maybe thirty percent of normal, and even that causes significant pain. When he tries to cock his arm back in a throwing motion, the pain is so intense his vision blurs for a second.

"I can't throw," Joe admits, the words feeling like giving up.

Coach Taylor's face falls. "Can you hand it off? Run some read-option?"

Joe tries to grip the ball again, tries to simulate a handoff motion. Even that simple movement sends pain shooting up his arm. "I don't think so."

The stadium noise fades into background static as Dr. Sparks examines Joe's wrist more thoroughly on the sideline. Teammates pat his shoulders as they pass, offering encouragement, but Joe barely hears them. All he can think about is the calendar in his head—nine games left in the season, playoffs within reach, everything they've worked for since August.

"We need to get this X-rayed," Dr. Sparks says quietly. "Tonight."

Joe looks out at the field, where Jake Browning is warming up, preparing to take over. The scoreboard shows 10-7 Ravens, second quarter, plenty of time to come back. Except Joe won't be the one leading the comeback.

"How bad?" Joe asks.

Dr. Sparks doesn't answer immediately, which tells Joe everything he needs to know.

As Joe walks toward the tunnel, his right arm held carefully against his body, he thinks about Riley. She's in New York doing press appearances, probably at some late night show, completely unaware that his season might have just ended on a routine play against a Baltimore pass rush that got home half a second too fast.

The crowd noise follows him into the tunnel—cheers for Baltimore, sympathy from the few Bengals fans who made the trip. Joe doesn't look back at the field. If this is as bad as it feels, he's already seen enough football for 2023.

In the locker room, alone except for medical staff, Joe sits on the training table and stares at his right hand. The hand that's supposed to hold footballs, sign autographs, win championships. The hand that's supposed to touch Riley's face when he tells her he loves her, whenever he finally works up the courage to say it.

Right now, it can barely hold a cup of water.

Dr. Sparks returns with preliminary results that confirm what Joe already knows: his season is over. The scapholunate ligament in his wrist is torn, requiring surgery and months of rehabilitation.

Joe nods when he hears the diagnosis, like he expected it. Because deep down, from the moment he hit the ground, he knew. You don't play quarterback in the NFL for five years without learning to distinguish between pain you can play through and pain that means something is fundamentally broken.

As the medical staff discusses surgery timelines and recovery protocols, Joe's phone buzzes with texts he can't respond to yet. Teammates, family, reporters. The outside world learning what happened.

But the person he most wants to talk to is in New York, probably charming some talk show host or doing interviews, completely unaware that everything just changed.

Joe closes his eyes and tries not to think about how long it's going to be before he can throw a football again. Tries not to think about Riley, and how she's going to drop everything to be here for him, just like she always does.

Tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve that kind of loyalty, but how desperately he needs it anyway.

* * *

Riley sits in the green room at The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, watching Thursday Night Football on her phone while Stephen's monologue plays on the monitor overhead. Pete, Andy, and Daniel are sprawled across the couches around her—they're all appearing together tonight, doing "Daylight" as a full band performance.

"Twenty minutes until we're on," Andy says, tuning his guitar. "You nervous?"

"Nah, this is easy compared to tour prep," Riley replies, though she's actually looking forward to it. Playing with the guys always feels more natural than solo appearances.

Daniel's practicing paradiddles on his thighs while Pete scrolls through his phone. Riley keeps her phone tilted toward herself, watching the Ravens at Bengals game. Joe mentioned this game in his last text—division rival, important for playoff positioning.

She sees him drop back to pass, the pocket collapsing, bodies in purple jerseys converging.

Then she sees him go down.

At first, it looks like any other sack. Joe gets hit, stays down for a moment, then starts to get up. But something about the way he's moving catches Riley's attention. He's cradling his right arm against his body, his throwing hand held carefully away from his body.

"Oh no," Riley whispers, sitting up straighter.

"What?" Pete looks over at her.

Riley doesn't answer, too focused on her phone screen. The next play makes it obvious. Joe takes the snap, tries to throw, and the ball comes out weak and wobbly, falling short of the receiver. Even Riley, who knows nothing about football technique, can see that throw was wrong.

"Shit," she breathes, turning her phone so the guys can see. "Something's wrong with Joe."

All three of them crowd around her phone now, watching as Joe walks toward the sideline, medical staff surrounding him. The camera zooms in on his face, and even through his helmet, Riley can see the frustration and pain written there.

"That's not good," Daniel says quietly.

"That looks really bad," Andy adds.

Riley's phone starts buzzing with notifications, but she keeps watching. Joe's on the sideline now, clearly not going back in. Jake Browning is warming up on the field.

A production assistant appears in the doorway. "Five minutes to places, everyone."

Riley looks up, torn between professional obligation and personal crisis. "I need to—"

"You need to perform," Pete says gently. "You can't do anything right now anyway. Do the song, then figure out what's next."

Riley nods, knowing he's right but hating it. She puts her phone in her jacket pocket, but her hands are shaking slightly.

"Hey," Andy says, catching her arm. "He's going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I know you. And I know you'll go crazy if you don't at least try to get through this performance first."

Riley takes a deep breath, trying to center herself. "If I get through this song and fly out tonight, can you guys handle the interview? And tomorrow's press?"

"Of course," Daniel says immediately.

"Whatever you need," Pete adds.

Riley nods, grateful for the millionth time that these three have her back no matter what.

"Alright, let's go play a song."

The performance is muscle memory. Riley's done "Daylight" hundreds of times now, and playing with Pete, Andy, and Daniel feels natural even when her mind is three hundred miles away in Baltimore. She smiles when she's supposed to, and to anyone watching, she probably looks like an artist having fun promoting her upcoming tour.

But the entire time, all she can think about is Joe walking off that field, holding his wrist like something inside it was broken.

The moment they finish the song and the cameras cut to commercial, Riley is already moving.

"That was great, guys," Stephen says, shaking hands with the band. "We'll do a quick interview segment when we come back."

"Actually," Pete jumps in smoothly, "Riley has to step out for a family emergency, but we'd love to chat with you about the tour."

Riley shoots him a grateful look as she heads toward the exit. Her phone is already in her hand, pulling up flight apps as she walks.

"Riley!" Andy calls after her. "Text us when you know something."

She nods without looking back, already focused on getting to Cincinnati as fast as possible.

In the hallway outside the studio, Riley calls Scout while simultaneously booking the next available flight.

"Riley? How was Colbert?"

"Joe's hurt. I need to get to Cincinnati tonight. Can you handle the Morning Show appearance tomorrow, the guys are gonna do it alone. Can you make sure they are prepped?"

"Of course. How hurt?"

Riley pauses, watching the replay of Joe's injury that's now cycling on sports news. "Bad, I think. Really bad."

"Go. I'll handle everything here."

An hour later, Riley is in an Uber Black to JFK, still in her black leather jacket from the show. Her phone buzzes constantly with updates from ESPN, texts from friends who saw the news, missed calls from people wanting to know if she's okay.

But the only call that matters—from Joe himself—never comes.

Riley stares out the window at the New York City lights rushing past and tries not to think about what it means that he hasn't reached out. Tries not to think about how she's dropping everything, again, for someone who might not even want her there.

But she knows she doesn't really have a choice. When someone you love is hurt, you go. Even if the relationship is complicated, even if you've been fighting, even if you're not sure where you stand.

You go anyway.

* * *

Riley manages to get on the last flight to Cincinnati, a red-eye that doesn't leave until 11:47 PM. She sits in her window seat, finally allowing herself to process what just happened. Four hours ago she was getting ready to perform on national television. Now she's flying to Cincinnati because the man she loves got hurt and she couldn't stay away.

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, Riley pulls out her phone and opens her text thread with Joe. Their last exchange was three days ago—him saying good luck with Colbert, her thanking him.

She starts typing.

I'm on a plane to Cincinnati. Landing at 3:20 AM. No use arguing about it, I'm already in the air. I'll call a car from the airport, don't worry about anything.

She hits send before she can second-guess herself.

The response comes faster than she expected.

Riley you didn't have to do that

I know. But I did.

I'm having someone pick you up. Don't argue.

Riley stares at his text, feeling something loosen in her chest. He's not telling her not to come. He's not angry that she dropped everything. He's making sure she gets to him safely.

Okay.

Thank you for coming.

Riley closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. Outside the window, the lights of the East Coast pass by below. In a few hours, she'll be in Cincinnati, and whatever happens next, at least she'll be there.

Always, she types back. I'll always come.

* * *

Joe sits in the back of a team car leaving Baltimore, his right wrist wrapped and elevated against his chest. It's past midnight, and the highway stretches ahead—about six hours back to Cincinnati so he can see the team doctors first thing in the morning. His wrist throbs with every bump in the road despite the pain medication.

Riley's coming. She's on a plane right now, flying here because he got hurt, even though they've barely been talking and he's been a complete ass to her for weeks.

He calls his parents in Athens.

"Joey?" Robin Burrow answers on the second ring, her voice tight with worry. "We saw what happened. How bad is it?"

"Bad, Mom. Season-ending. I'm flying back to Cincinnati now to see the team doctors tomorrow."

"Oh, honey. We're so sorry."

"Listen, I need a favor, and it's kind of a big one."

"Anything."

Joe takes a breath. "Riley's flying in from New York. Her plane lands at 3:20 AM in Cincinnati, but I won't get home until around six or seven. Could you and Dad drive up and pick her up, then stay with her until I get there? I don't want her sitting alone in my house for hours."

There's a pause, and Joe can practically hear his mom's understanding smile through the phone.

"Of course we can do that. Your father's already getting his keys."

"Mom, I knows it's the middle of the night—"

"Joey, if that girl is dropping everything to come here for you, the least we can do is make sure she's taken care of until you get home."

Relief floods through him. "Thank you. Seriously."

"I'll find her," Robin says. "She'll probably look exhausted."

"Yeah, she just finished a TV show in New York and got on the first plane she could find."

"I'm finally going to meet her," Robin says, and Joe can hear the mixture of excitement and concern in her voice.

"Yeah. I just... I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Honey, she's coming because she loves you. The circumstances don't matter."

After they hang up, Joe texts Riley: My parents are driving up from Athens to pick you up. Robin and Jimmy Burrow, they'll be at baggage claim. They're going to stay with you at my house until I get home around 7 AM.

Riley's response comes quickly: Joe, it's 3 AM and you're asking your parents to drive two hours to pick me up? I can't let them do that.

Too late. Already asked. Dad's already in the car.

I'm going to feel terrible about this.

Don't. They want to meet you anyway. And I don't want you sitting alone in my house for hours.

This isn't exactly how I imagined meeting your parents.

Joe stares at that text for a long moment. He hadn't really thought about Riley meeting his family before, but now that it's happening, it feels right. Inevitable, maybe.

They're going to love you, he types back.

I hope so.

Promise. See you in Cincinnati.

* * *

X (Twitter)

@NFLNewsNow BREAKING: Bengals QB Joe Burrow suffers season-ending wrist injury during Thursday Night Football loss to Ravens. Surgery expected within days. #Bengals #NFL

@SportsCenter Joe Burrow's 2023 season is over. The Bengals QB suffered a scapholunate ligament tear in his right wrist during tonight's game in Baltimore. 📺: ESPN

@PopCultureDaily Riley Carter just performed on @colbertlateshow but apparently left before the interview portion? The band did the interview without her. Wonder what was so urgent 👀

@bengalsfan2012 Replying to @PopCultureDaily Wait wasn't this the night Joe got hurt? Timeline seems suspicious...

@musicnews247 UPDATE: Sources say Riley Carter had a "family emergency" and had to leave Colbert taping early. The Rambles covered for her during interview segment.

@rileystanaccount Something's not right. Riley NEVER misses interviews. She's been promoting this tour for months. What kind of family emergency happens at 11 PM on a Thursday?

@footballwife23 Did anyone else notice the timing? Joe gets hurt around 9:30 PM, Riley leaves Colbert around 11 PM. Just saying 👀👀

@bengalsbabes Replying to @footballwife23 I've been saying they're together for MONTHS. This basically confirms it

Instagram Stories & Posts

@entertainmenttonight 🚨 JUST IN: @rileycarter unexpectedly left tonight's @colbertlateshow taping due to "urgent family matter." The singer performed but skipped the interview portion. Swipe for more ➡️

@deuxmoi Submitted Anon: "Was at Colbert taping tonight. Riley Carter seemed fine during performance but left immediately after. Heard someone say she was getting calls during commercial break and looked really upset. Band members covered for her with Stephen."

@popsugar Riley Carter makes rare early exit from late night TV 👀 The "Daylight" singer left @colbertlateshow before her scheduled interview, citing family emergency. This comes just hours after Bengals QB Joe Burrow's season-ending injury... 🤔 #RileyCarter #JoeBurrow

r/bengals

Title: Anyone else think Riley Carter is flying to Cincinnati right now? Posted 3 hours ago

The timing is too perfect. Joe gets hurt around 9:30, she leaves Colbert around 11. "Family emergency" my ass. She's definitely on a plane.

UPDATE: Just checked flight tracking apps. There was a red-eye from JFK to CVG that left at 11:47 PM. Landing at 3:20 AM. 👀

Top comment: No way they're actually together though right? Wouldn't we have seen them by now?

Reply: They've been SUPER private if they are. Remember all those rumors that started back in February? But nothing ever confirmed even after all these months.

Reply: If this is real, Joe's making a huge mistake. She's nothing but drama and bad headlines. Remember that bar fight with her ex? We don't need that circus around our franchise QB.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. She's been linked to like 3 different guys this year. Party girl with substance abuse rumors. Joe needs to focus on football, not babysitting some rock star.

Reply: Called it months ago - she's a clout chaser. Probably saw Joe get hurt and smelled an opportunity for sympathy headlines.

Reply: If Joe's really dating her, his performance this season makes SO much sense now. Dude's been off his game.

r/rileycarter

Title: What "family emergency" happens at 11 PM on a Thursday??? Posted 2 hours ago

Riley has never, and I mean NEVER, bailed on a major interview. She's done shows while sick, she's done press with bronchitis, she showed up to that radio interview the day after her grandma's funeral.

This is about a boy. Specifically a quarterback boy. Calling it now.

Top comment: The math is mathing. Joe injury -> Riley panic -> immediate flight to Cincinnati.

Reply: But why would she do that if they're not serious? You don't drop everything for a casual thing.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. This feels like real relationship territory.

TikTok

@nflteaa (457K followers) Video showing side-by-side timeline "POV: You're connecting the dots 👀"

Sound: "And all the pieces fall right into place"

Comments: "NO WAY this is a coincidence" "She really said family emergency and got on a plane to Cincinnati I can't 😭" "This is either the most romantic thing ever or I'm delusional" "Plot twist: they've been dating this whole time"

@popculture.detective (1.2M followers) Video compilation of clips

Comments: "The way she RAN to that airport"

"This is giving secret relationship energy"

"Imagine dropping everything and flying across the country for someone 🥺"

"OK but if this is real they're actually perfect together???"

@riley.carter.updates (89K followers) Screenshot of Colbert audience member's tweet "GUYS. I was at the taping. Riley did her performance but then just... left. Didn't do the interview. Band said 'family emergency' but she looked completely shaken. Security rushed her out during commercial break."

Text overlay: "Family emergency or boyfriend emergency? 👀"

#joe burrow #jiley #hide fanfic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fluff #nfl fanfic #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfiction #joe burrow smut #nfl smut #joe burrow series #joe burrow x oc #nfl x oc #nfl fluff #joeyb #Joe burrow series #nfl series #Spotify

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linxnnalyn · 1 day ago

Note

hi! I think (?) your requests are open (if they aren’t just delete this and pretend I never sent this in) and if they are I had an idea for a Circe x reader where the reader is kinda like pirate captain esque and accidentally crashes her ship into circes island but falls in love with Circe and ends up giving up her captain role to someone else to stay with Circe on her island and be happy with her

idk this just randomly came to me but if you don’t want to/don’t feel like writing this just delete this ask!

Circe with a fem! ex-pirate! S/O

࣪𖤐.ᐟ note -> NO ONE UNDERSTANDS HOW MUCH I LOVE PIRATE READERS!!!! ALSO I'M OFFICIALLY OFF BREAK!!!

࣪𖤐.ᐟ warnings -> none.

࣪𖤐.ᐟ content includes -> fluff, readers crew is mostly women, smitten, the nymphs, idk what else to add lol.

۫ ꣑ৎ Circe wasn’t surprised when a group of pirates crashed into her island, since it happened quite often. What she didn’t expect was that the crew was mostly women, and that the crew was led by a woman—you. It is safe to say Circe and her nymphs welcomed the women with open arms, distrusting towards the men but you kept them in line.

۫ ꣑ৎ She was the one to personally attend to your injuries. Circe never minded the way you would talk her ear off about your and your crew's adventures on sea while she tended to your wounds, she actually finds them quite intriguing and interesting. Circe could also see how the younger nymphs loved hearing about the stories, so she always let you continue.

۫ ꣑ৎ As time passed, Circe started to enjoy your company more and more. The two of you would often walk throughout the gardens of her palace or she would watch as you and your crew fixed up your damaged ship. It was fairly obvious that you were her favorite, especially noticed by the nymphs who hatched a plan to get the two of you together because of how obviously smitten their lady is.

۫ ꣑ৎ She knew that as the time passed and the two of you grew closer that you fell in love with her. It was obvious, really, from the way you look at her, from the way you would try and show off while sword fighting with one of your crew members, the way they would tease you whenever she was around. Circe found it cute, really.

۫ ꣑ৎ Even though she was obviously smitten for you, Circe never acted on her feelings, not wanting to take you away from your crew. Circe could see how much you cared about them, and as much as she wanted to she didn’t tell you about her feelings, simply because she would feel like she was forcing you to stay on her island, away from the sea and adventures you adore.

۫ ꣑ৎ So Circe was quite surprised when on the night before you and your crew were supposed to leave the island, you confessed your love for her, telling her how you wish to stay and be by her side. She was stunned to say the least, but Circe can’t deny that your words made her happy. The two of you talked about it for hours, making sure that it is really what you want.

۫ ꣑ৎ Circe watched as you said goodbye to your crew and friends, giving up your role as captain to your right-hand woman, promising that you will still see them again, that it is just a matter of time when they crash into the island again. Crice could see the pain in your eyes as the two of you watched the ship sail away, and she held your hand until you were ready to go back to the palace.

۫ ꣑ৎ She knows that it is hard for you to adjust to this new life, with her and her nymphs, so Circe makes sure to help you adjust. Circe likes to have you stay in her room with her as she makes potions, or go on walks together throughout the palace gardens during a nice, sunny day. Circe especially likes to play with your hair as you fall asleep in her lap.

۫ ꣑ৎ Circe adores the way you would play and spend time with her nymphs, even willing to teach them sword fighting to defend themselves if ever needed, though that often just ends up with you and the nymphs playing pirates for the fun of it. Circe just can’t help but watch from and distance, thankful for the fates for bringing you to her.

۫ ꣑ৎ You and Circe would sometimes at night sit at the beach, staring into the shining sea with your hands intertwined, happy that you have been able to meet each other and love each other. It doesn’t matter that you sometimes still long for the sea, you are happy and contempt with staying by Circe's side.

#circe #circe x reader #epic #epic x reader #epic the musical #epic the musical x reader #wlw #sapphic

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eeebeee1420 · 1 day ago

Text

The Best at what he does

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Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader // smut 🌶️ // 20k words

I've been writing stuff like this for a long while and I was always hesitant to post it, but honestly I've been pretty proud of what I've been making recently so I figured I'd finally share it lol.

I have a lot in the archives, so I'm posting a few right off the bat. I also have some headcanons and other stuff I'll be posting.

A lot of these are based on stuff I personally enjoy but if you happen to enjoy it too then I'm happy! :)

Summary: Wanting to get some training in hand-to-hand combat, you ask Logan to teach and train you to fight. Things get a little wild before you come to realize...maybe sparring with your boyfriend isn't the smartest idea. (If you want to get real training done)

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ wrestling. Teasing. Teacher Logan. Swearing. Manhandling. Pinning. dirty talk. fingering. Rough sex. unprotected p in v. (Wrap it before you tap it fr)

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You knew Logan could be rough, but nothing had prepared you for the reality of being fully pinned beneath him on the floor of the Danger Room, your back pressing into the padded mat, his weight straddling your hips.

This wasn’t how you thought your training session would go. Then again, it was your idea.

You’d wanted to amp up your combat skills. Your mutation had always carried you through fights, but raw power alone wouldn’t always cut it. You needed to practice your hand–to–hand combat. And who better to teach you than your boyfriend, Logan? He’s the best at what does and what he does is kick major ass.

“No powers,” you had said. “I want to earn it for real.”

Logan had given you a half-smirk. “You sure about that, darlin’? I play rough.”

“That’s the whole damn point,” you shot back, arms crossed. “If I wanted someone to hold my hand, I’d have asked Ororo.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “You asked for it.”

And now here you were, breathing hard under him, body slick with sweat, hair clinging to your face while he hovered above with a grin on his lips. From the first moment, he hadn’t gone easy. Each dodge, hit, and feint felt like a fight for your life. You could tell he was holding back, yet he was still overwhelming. He never stopped moving, never gave you an inch. And when you’d finally let your guard drop for a split second, he lunged, tackling you down so fast your head spun.

“C’mon,” he growled. “You’re not even tryin’.”

“I am!” you snapped, your voice strained as you squirmed under his grip. Your arms twisted beneath his grasp, legs kicking uselessly against the mat. “You’re just cheating!” He arched his brow. “Cheating, huh?” His voice was low and smug against your ear. “Yeah right, get real.”

With a guttural breath, you gathered every ounce of strength left in your body. Your muscles strained, trembling violently under the weight of his grip as you fought to push his arms back. He was pinning you down like it was nothing. But you weren’t gonna be fragile now, not with him watching you like that.

Your teeth clenched, a low growl leaving your throat as you somehow managed to shift your arms up off the mat. Sweat rolled down your temple, your biceps ached, and you moved him. Logan stilled for a second, His brows lifted in surprise. There was a flicker of something proud in his eyes. “I can do it,” you snarled, voice shaking with effort as you glared up at him. “Just watch me.”

But the moment didn’t last. That spark of pride in his eyes gave way to something darker. Without warning, his arms flexed, and all at once, the strength you’d barely gathered was swallowed in a blink. He forced your wrists back down over your head, pinning them to the mat with ease.

Logan leaned down until his chest pressed against yours, his lips brushing your ear. “Not bad,” he rasped. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to get outta this.”

“Khh…” You hissed as the pressure of his body pushed against you, your breath catching in your throat. His weight wasn’t crushing, but it certainly was a reminder of just how much stronger he was. You glared up at him, cheeks flushed. “Some teacher you are,” you snapped, defiant even as your wrists were still pinned above your head. “You're just gonna sit on me so I can’t even move? What kinda training is that, huh?”

His mouth curled into a sharp grin. “Ah, sounds like someones a sore loser,” he quipped. “You're acting like there's nothin’ you can do, but we both know that's wrong.”

“But fine. You want me to teach you?” His hips shifted against yours. “Then here’s the first lesson—”

Suddenly he released your wrists, only to grab your hips and flip you, your chest hitting the mat with a soft thud and his body was on top of yours again, his hands bracketing either side of your head.

“Never assume the fight’s over just ‘cause you’re on the bottom.” You gasped, trying to twist around, but he caught your wrists again, pulling them behind your back in a firm grip, pinning them in one hand. His other palm slid slowly down your side, fingers dragging over your ribs, your waist, lingering just above your ass.

“There’s a way out of this,” Logan murmured as he held you firmly against the mat. “A way to turn the tables and flip the whole damn fight if you’re quick enough.”

You scoffed, breathless and irritated. “Oh yeah? And what would that be, huh?

Logan chuckled against your neck. “C’mon, darlin’. Wouldn’t be much of a teacher if I just told you, now would I?” His hand slipped from your pinned wrists to your waist, palm spanning the curve of your hip before dragging down slowly. “Lessons stick better when you learn ‘em the hard way.”

You twisted underneath him, trying to throw him off balance, but he shifted easily with you, pressing his weight down more deliberately this time, grinding slow and purposeful as he pinned your wrists to your lower back again. “Feel that?” he asked. “That edge of frustration? That’s instinct tryin’ to break free. You want out, you just haven’t figured out how to take it.”

“Ugh! stop talking in riddles and give me a fucking clue already!” you growled.

“Don't need me to spell it out for ya,” he stated. “You’ll know when to strike if you stop thinkin' ‘bout it so hard.” He said as he shifted again.

And that's when you felt it. The pressure of his grip slackened just enough, his weight subtly shifted off-center. He was giving you a way in, so you took it. you gritted your teeth, gathered every ounce of focus you had left, and moved. You twisted your hips sharply, throwing your weight to one side while kicking your leg up and out, trying to shift your center of gravity beneath him. Logan rolled with you just enough to keep things fluid, but not enough to make it easy.

His voice was a low purr at your ear. “Not bad… but you’re leadin’ with brute strength. Use your hips as leverage, not force.”

You swallowed hard, your breath ragged as you took in what he said. You shifted again, grinding your hips low and twisting hard into him while planting one foot against the mat and pushed off the ground.

Suddenly, he flipped. You landed on top, straddling his hips, hands pressed into his chest, your eyes wide in disbelief. He grinned up at you. “There she is,” he said, voice low and rough. “Took ya long enough.” You glared down at him, chest heaving. “You let me do that.”

“I gave you the opening,” he corrected. “You’re the one who took it.” His hands came to rest lightly on your thighs. “Well?” he drawled. “What’re ya gonna do now, tough girl? You earned the top spot. Gonna just sit there and soak it in, or are you gonna do something about it?”

You swallowed, your eyes narrowing. “I’m thinking,” you said, a little breathless.

“Mm.” He tilted his head back slightly. “Take your time. I’m enjoyin’ the view.”

You grunted, taking a moment to catch your breath. Though in that moment, you could feel him under you.

“You—you’re—!” you stammered, the words catching in your throat.

He was hard, his shaft straining against the fabric beneath you. It sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. Your breath hitched as the realization hit that you were enjoying this just as much as he was.

You huffed, trying to regain your composure. “You’re supposed to be helping me,” you snapped as you shifted on top of him. “Not—khh…” That low sound escaped your throat again, half growl, half whimper, as the motion sent a rush of pleasure through your core. You bit down hard on your lip, refusing to let him see how flustered you were.

Logan’s eyes glinted with amusement. His hands gripped your thighs a little tighter, finger tips digging in just enough to remind you whose body you were sitting on. “I am helping you,” he said, his voice a gravelly drawl. “And I’m impressed, sweetheart. Didn’t think you had this kinda fire in you.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly, heat flashing in your chest. He underestimated you. You jabbed a finger into his chest, teeth gritted. “I may not know jack shit about fighting, but I sure as hell won’t sit around and be pushed arou—”

Before the sentence was even fully out of your mouth, Logan moved. You barely had time to register it before one of his hands shot up from your thigh, caught your wrist mid-poke, and yanked you down hard against him your chest colliding with his as he twisted, rolling you over in one smooth, practiced motion until you were on your back again, breath knocked from your lungs, his hands pinned beside your head.

His thigh was now wedged firmly between your legs, his face hovering just inches from yours. “Here’s another lesson for ya,” he growled. “You wanna square up with someone stronger than you, you better make damn sure you don’t give ’em an opening.”

Your breath came in shallow gasps. You tried to buck your hips up, but he held you fast, his hand sliding up your wrist to lace his fingers through yours, pinning them harder into the mat.

“And second?” he murmured, leaning in so close you could feel his breath against your lips. “Don’t make threats with a body that’s beggin’ to be taken.”He rocked his hips forward pressing his knee up against your heat enough to make you gasp.

“Shit…” you panted, your head tipping back against the mat as your chest heaved. “I’m—I’m supposed to be training, not…” Your words trailed off as he moved a hand to trail along your torso, and your body responded in kind. Back arching up, thighs twitching around his leg.

He smirked against your skin, nose brushing the side of your jaw, stubble scraping your skin roughly. “Not what?” he murmured, his voice low, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Not soakin’ through those training shorts? Well sweetheart, you’re doin’ a pretty shitty job of that so far.”

You swallowed a whimper, squirming beneath him. You hated how your body betrayed you, how easily you melted under his weight. “I—” you tried to protest, but his hand slid up your side, beneath your shirt, calloused palm dragging over your rib cage until it cupped one of your breasts through your bra.

“L-Logan–!” you squealed, voice cracking. Logan merely chuckled in response.

“God.” you gasped out, your voice a breathy snarl as you writhed beneath him, your core throbbing from the friction of his knee still pressed up against you. “Don’t tell me you get off on seeing me squirm like this.”

Logan’s grin was nothing short of feral. He leaned in until his lips barely brushed yours as his hand left your breast, sliding down to palm the heat between your legs through your shorts. “Oh, that’s definitely part of it,” he remarked, watching your eyes flutter as he rubbed slow circles over your clothed cunt, teasing just enough to make your hips chase his hand. “But mostly…”

He let his mouth trail down the line of your jaw, nipping at your throat. “…I like seein’ that fire in ya.” He punctuated the word with a firmer press against your clit, drawing a sharp, needy cry from your lips. “You’ve got fight in ya, Darlin’. I just like pushin’ it.”

You gasped, hands scratching his shoulders as he finally hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and dragged them down, letting his knuckles brush your soaked underwear as he went.

“Fuck...” he growled when he saw the wet spot soaking through the thin fabric. “All that mouthin’ off an’ you’re so damn needy for me already.” He leaned back just slightly, eyes raking over your body now half-bared beneath him. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your chest, the curve of your hips, the way your thighs instinctively parted as he continued to touch.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words turned to air as his fingers finally slid beneath your underwear and in.

“Logan—!” you gasped, hips jerking up into his touch as two thick fingers pushed through your folds. “Yeah, I feel that,” he rasped, voice hungry as he dragged his fingers slowly through your soaked heat, spreading it over your clit before dipping back down, teasing your entrance. “Hot, wet, desperate. you’ve been ready for me since the second I had ya on your back, eh?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, the stretch making you whimper, walls clenching around the rough, calloused digits curled deep inside you.

“Fuck, Logan!” your head tipped back, mouth falling open as he found your sweet spot almost immediately. His fingers stroked against it ruthlessly, each pump dragging a filthy, wet sound from between your thighs that made your face burn with embarrassment, But Logan loved it. You could see it in the way the corner of his mouth twitched up into that cocky, wicked grin as he watched you fall apart.

“That’s it,” he purred. “C’mon, sweetheart, let go. Let me see what that mouthy little attitude sounds like when it’s moanin’ my name.” Your thighs shook as he angled his hand just right, his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust of his fingers. Your hips rolled time with the rhythm he set like your muscles had a mind of their own.

“Shit—Logan, I’m gonna–!”

You came hard. Your back arched, legs shaking as your walls fluttered around his fingers, a cry breaking out from your throat. Logan kept his hand right where it was, fingers thrusting slow and deep through every wave, drawing it out. Only when your legs finally fell slack did he ease his fingers out, glistening with your release. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them slowly between his lips, eyes still locked on yours, before pulling them out of his mouth with a lewd pop

“Lesson three,” he stated. “Trainin’ works a hell of a lot better when your head’s in it… but I don’t mind helpin’ you lose it now and then.”

Your thighs still twitched from the aftershocks when Logan leaned over you again. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded with lust, as he rolled his hips forward just enough for you to feel the heavy weight of his cock pressing against your soaked folds through the fabric of his jeans. You whimpered as he shifted his hips again, teasing your sensitive clit with the head of his cock through your underwear. You could feel how hard he was, his cock pulsing.

“Logan,” you breathed, eyes wide. He met your gaze with a flash of heat, and in the next heartbeat, he was tugging your underwear down your legs. You barely had time to process the sound of his zipper lowering, and his belt unbuckling before you felt him grinding through your slick folds. Logan growled, dragging the head of his cock through your arousal. “So fuckin’ wet for me… practically beggin’ for it.” With a growl, Logan gripped your hips hard and pushed in slow, stretching you inch by inch until your back arched and your nails raked down his back.

“So fuckin’ tight…” he snarled through gritted teeth. You choked on a moan as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you. “Still got that fire?” he asked against your throat as he pulled back just enough to slam into you again, harder this time. “’Cause I’m not lettin’ you tap out now.”

You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as he began to move, each thrust powerfully deep, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the training room. You were already so sensitive, every stroke sending another wave of heat rolling through you, your moans climbing higher with every rough roll of his hips.

His hand slipped under your ass, lifting you slightly to change the angle, and when he slammed in again, he hit the spot that made you cry out in bliss. “There,” he growled, sweat dripping from his brow as he rutted into you. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? Gonna make you come again on my cock.”

Your body was already building toward another climax, and he could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him. “Cum for me,” he demanded, biting down and sucking on your neck just hard enough to leave a mark.

And you did, calling out his name in a cry as you came again, harder this time. Your walls clenched down around him and he swore loudly, fucking you through it until finally…

“Fuck!” he snarled, hips snapping one last time as he came deep inside you, growling through his teeth as he emptied every last drop with a groan. The only sound afterward was your combined panting, his weight heavy but comforting on top of you.

After a moment, he lifted his head, grinning lazily down at you.

“Final lesson,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Best you train with someone like Rogue instead of me. Unless you want this happening again."

#x men 97 #x men comics #x men #logan howlett #logan wolverine #logan howlet smut #logan howlet x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #smut #x reader #x men movies #wolverine xmen #logan howlett x you #logan howlett xmen #x reader smut #ns/fw content #ns/fw community

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yoomiwrites · 2 days ago

Text

Missing Ghost⁶

Summary: After losing her memory in a storm, a young Marine remembers only the name “Mihawk” and sets out to find him, convinced he holds the key to her past. As she sharpens her skills and follows his trail across countless ports, Mihawk is always just out of reach. Finally, she arrives at a port where his ship waits, knowing her answers are close.

Note: It's really not easy for me to write Mihawk, but we will continue to go with the flow.

The night stretched on, the waves calm beneath your ship as Mihawk remained longer than necessary. You kept waiting for the moment he would finally step onto his own vessel and disappear into the night, but he didn’t. Instead, he lingered, his presence a steady, unwavering force in the quiet darkness.

You sat on the wooden deck, arms wrapped around your knees, trying to understand why he was still here. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed your company, he had made that much clear. And you certainly weren’t foolish enough to think that this meant he cared. No, the most logical explanation was that he simply didn’t want your potential death on his conscience.

That had to be it.

Even though Mihawk had already dismissed the idea of any intimate relationship between you before your accident, you weren’t surprised. Just looking at him told you everything you needed to know. He wasn’t the type to entertain such things. And honestly? You couldn’t see yourself getting involved with someone like him either. He was cold, distant, and arrogant in a way that made your teeth clench.

And yet, he was still here.

You glanced over at him, watching the way he moved, still tending to small things on your ship with effortless efficiency. His coat was still off, his white shirt catching what little light the stars offered. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that had clearly known the weight of a blade for years. It was strange to see someone like him—so composed, so calculated—staying behind for a reason that he refused to voice.

Your fingers idly traced the grain of the ship’s deck. “You really don’t have to keep hovering,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

Mihawk didn’t even glance at you as he responded, “I’m not hovering.”

A dry chuckle slipped from your lips. “No, of course not. The great Dracule Mihawk would never do something so pointless, right?”

He shot you a glance, unimpressed. “Correct.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. The silence stretched between you again, comfortable in its own way. Mihawk seemed perfectly fine with it, while you were left alone with your thoughts, still trying to put the pieces of your past together.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he moved toward the edge of the ship. You straightened slightly, expecting him to leave at last. But as he stepped onto his own vessel, he didn’t disappear from sight entirely.

Instead, he kept his ship close, sailing just far enough to separate himself from you, but never far enough that he vanished into the horizon.

You frowned, watching him through the dim moonlight. Why? He could’ve left. He had no reason to keep himself within view.

A sigh left your lips as you leaned back against the wooden railing. Maybe he really was just making sure you wouldn’t drop dead in the middle of the ocean. Maybe that was all there was to it.

The night had passed in silence, broken only by the lapping of waves against the hull of your ship. Thanks to plenty of rest—if you could even call it that—you weren’t tired. Your hands were steady on the wheel as you kept pace with Mihawk, his dark sails a constant presence in the distance. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, and in the growing light of dawn, the world around you took on a quiet, golden glow.

Your stomach twisted.

Then, on the horizon, something shifted. A ship. Large. Unmistakable. The Marine emblem stood stark against the pale morning sky, its insignia crisp and clear on the wind-filled sails.

The ship was far off course from Mihawk’s path, heading in the opposite direction. They weren’t following him. They weren’t chasing him. They were simply there, sailing toward some unknown destination.

You had been struggling for days, weeks, chasing after someone who refused to give you the answers you wanted. Mihawk knew you—of that, you had no doubt. He had called you by name, had reacted to your presence, had turned his ship around to make sure you didn’t collapse and die in the middle of the ocean.

And yet, the sight of them sent a wave of uncertainty crashing through you. Your fingers tightened around the wheel.

And yet…

But he wouldn’t tell you anything. The Marines, though… If you had truly been one of them, they could tell you everything. Who you were. Where you had come from. Why no one had come looking for you when you’d washed up on that shore, lost and nameless.

If the Marines had been to that coastal town before...why hadn’t they recognized you? If you had really been one of them, how had you been left behind? Something bigger was hiding beneath the surface. Something you couldn’t yet see.

Safe.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back toward Mihawk’s ship. It was still there. Still moving forward, unwavering, its dark sails standing out against the soft morning light.

You had trusted that ship, trusted that man, even when you had no reason to. And even if Mihawk was cold and distant, he had not been cruel. He had not lied to you. He had not turned you away.

But the Marines…

You didn’t know.

And yet…

Your breath caught as you made your decision.

With one last glance at Mihawk’s ship, you adjusted the wheel. The ship groaned under the shift, the sails filling with new wind as you turned away from him. Away from the safety of what you knew, and toward the unknown.

Your path was set. If you truly wanted to know the truth, there was only one option.

The Marine ship towered above you, its crisp sails stark against the morning sky. As you neared, figures moved along the deck—young, fresh-faced recruits peering curiously over the railing. Their hands reached down as soon as your boat bumped against the hull.

"Need a hand?" one of them called.

You hesitated. There was no recognition in their faces, no flicker of surprise. No whispers of We know her or She was missing.

You swallowed hard and grabbed the offered hand. The moment your feet hit the deck, the recruits surrounded you, talking amongst themselves.

“Where’d she come from?”

“She doesn’t look like a pirate.”

“She’s alone?”

Then—

You barely heard them. This was the Navy. Your best chance at answers. And yet, the more you stood among them, the more the unease curled in your gut.

Your breath caught.

A shift in the air. Boots striking wood in a measured rhythm. A presence heavier than all the recruits combined. The voices around you silenced as a figure emerged from below deck. Tall. Broad. His white Marine coat swayed as he stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp, striking face was unreadable, eyes dark and scrutinizing.

Something inside you knew him.

“What’s this trouble about?” His deep voice cut through the silence.

Before you could speak, his gaze swept the deck, then landed on you. His brows pulled together.

One of the recruits straightened. “We found her drifting, sir. She came aboard willingly.”

His eyes flicked over you again.

“What is that stranger doing here?”

"You know me."

Stranger. Your lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t recognize you. Your mind rebelled against it. That couldn’t be right. You knew him. You had to. But he was staring at you like you were nothing more than a lost traveler. That fear, that frustration surged up before you could stop it.

His expression didn’t change. "I don’t."

"You do!" You stepped forward, ignoring the recruits shifting uneasily at your outburst. “I don’t know how, or from where, but I know you.”

His jaw tightened, just barely.

“I don’t know you,” he said again.

It was too calm. Too precise. He was lying. You knew it. But why?

“We’ll take her to the next island,” he finally said, his voice level, almost indifferent. “But only if she behaves herself.”

The tension on the deck was suffocating. The recruits around you stood still, caught between confusion and unease as the Admiral studied you with sharp, scrutinizing eyes. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something—something controlled, measured, as if he was deliberately choosing his words.

Your fists clenched at your sides.

Behave?

“That’s it?” you snapped, taking a step closer. “You don’t know me, but you’ll just drop me off like I’m some lost dog? No questions? No concern? Nothing?”

You had been stranded. With no memories. The first real clue you had—the first person you recognized—was standing right in front of you, pretending he didn’t know you. And he wanted you to sit still and behave?

A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes, quick as a blade.

“You’re a civilian,” he said coolly. “It’s not my business where you come from.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A civilian? Then why do I know you?”

“Are you just pretending? Or do you actually not remember?” You took another step. “Because I don’t. I don’t remember anything. But somehow, I know you. And you—”

Silence. His jaw tensed, his fingers twitching slightly where they were clasped behind his back. Something about your presence bothered him.

"Watch yourself."

His tone was low, but the warning in it sent a chill down your spine. The recruits stiffened. But you were too far gone now, too frustrated, too desperate.

That did it.

"Why are you lying?"

His hands finally moved, unclasping from behind his back, and the weight of his presence bore down on you like an oncoming storm.

“I suggest,” he said, slow and deliberate, “that you do behave yourself, woman.” His gaze darkened. “Because if you keep causing trouble, I might as well throw you off this ship right now.”

The recruits shifted uneasily. But you didn’t move. You met his gaze head-on, heartbeat pounding in your ears. The heat between you two was thick, crackling, a battle of unspoken things neither of you were willing to say. He was testing you. And you were testing him right back.

And yet, he had dismissed you like nothing.

The Admiral held your gaze for another long, tense second—then he exhaled sharply through his nose, turned on his heel, and walked away without another word. You stood there, heart hammering, your fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. He was hiding something. You knew it.

“Come on,” a voice said beside you, softer, hesitant.

You turned to find a young recruit standing there, no older than you, his expression caught between curiosity and concern. His uniform was a little too crisp, like he hadn't been here long. Light brown hair, green eyes, he didn't look threatening.

"I'm Renji," he introduced himself. "And, uh, I think it's best if you come with me. You’ll be staying in the communal cabin for now.”

“You’re angry,” he observed.

You barely registered his words, but followed when he gestured for you to move. Your blood was still boiling. The walk below deck was short, but Renji must have noticed the way your jaw clenched, because after a moment, he gave you a sideways glance.

“No shit,” you muttered.

A small chuckle. “Is it because of what you said back there? About knowing the Admiral?”

You sighed sharply. "Yeah. Because I do know him. Or at least—I recognize him. I don’t know how or why, but I do. And the bastard just looked at me like I was a stranger.”

He frowned, thoughtful. “You have amnesia?”

“Something like that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair. “I lost my memories a while ago. I don’t know who I am, or where I came from. But I know that Admiral from somewhere. And yet, he just—” You scoffed. “He just pretended I didn’t exist.”

Renji was quiet for a moment as you both stepped into the communal cabin. Bunk beds lined the walls, hammocks swayed slightly with the ship’s movement, and the scent of seawater and old wood filled the air.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

“You know,” he said slowly, “there’s a way to find out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The Navy keeps a register of all its members,” he explained. “Every soldier, every officer, every Marine—it’s all documented. If you were ever a part of the Navy, then your name should be in there.”

“You can find it?” you asked, voice quieter now, cautious.

You stared at him. For the first time real, solid hope sparked in your chest. A lead. A real, tangible lead.

He grinned. “Of course. We just have to be sneaky about it.”

And just like that, something inside you settled. Because for the first time, you weren’t just chasing ghosts.

Strange.

The sun rising over a calm horizon. Light filtered through the small portholes, casting faint golden lines across the floorboards of the communal cabin. You woke with a strange mix of anticipation and tension in your chest. Renji had promised to help you look through the Navy's registry that evening. It was something solid to hold onto, something real. You cleaned yourself up, tied your hair back, and stepped out onto the main deck. The scent of salt hit your nose immediately, along with the steady creaking of the ship beneath your feet. Seagulls called somewhere above. Around you, the crew moved through their routines, voices low, boots thudding across the wooden planks. But something felt different.

When you passed by a group of recruits near the mast and gave a small nod, no one returned it. One of them glanced at you, then quickly turned away. You frowned and kept walking. A few steps later, you tried again. “Morning,” you said softly to a pair of sailors coiling rope near the stairs.

No answer.

Searching.

You stood there for a second, confused, before moving on. The air felt heavier now. Not openly hostile, but distant. Cold. Like something had shifted while you slept. You leaned on the railing and stared out at the ocean, trying to understand. The waves lapped gently at the hull, sunlight dancing over the swells. For a moment, you lost yourself in the rhythm of it, eyes tracing the far line where sea met sky. You didn’t realize what you were doing at first.

You were scanning the horizon, your gaze flicking toward every shadow in the distance. It wasn’t until your fingers curled against the wood and your breath caught slightly that you realized who you were looking for.

Mihawk.

You had spent so long chasing him, clinging to the thread of recognition he represented. Now he was gone again. Lost somewhere behind the curtain of sky and sea. You didn’t know where he was heading or if he’d even noticed that you were no longer behind him.

Or maybe he had.

And just didn’t care.

Your stomach twisted. You hated how hollow that made you feel.

He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t warm. He had barely helped you. And yet, there had been something there. Familiarity. A tether. And now that it was gone, you felt more adrift than before.

You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes.

One more day. Just one more, and maybe you'd have a name. A rank. A past. Answers.

#one piece #one piece x reader #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader

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