Masterlist for Formula One Drivers (and Ex Drivers)
Masterlist for Members of the Bands 5 Seconds of Summer, One Direction * and The Vamps
*Excluding Liam
Masterlist for Everyone in the Harry Potter Universe
Masterlist for Bridgerton Characters and Actors
Masterlist for Marvel Characters and Actors
(INCLUDES Tom Holland and his brothers)
Warfare Cast Masterlist
Simon 'Ghost' Riley Masterlist
Top Gun Masterlist
Joseph Quinn Masterlist
Joe Keery Masterlist
Richard Madden Masterlist
Will Poulter Masterlist
Taron Egerton
💕 Blind Date (series)
you star alongside Taron in a movie.
Chapter 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.
💕 Fame (one shot)
a meet cute on the carpet for Kingsman
❤️🔥 What's mine (one shot)
“Try to leave me and you’ll see just how far I’ll go to keep what’s mine.”
Tom Hardy
💕 Whiskey Kisses (one shot)
a few too many drinks and karaoke and you're kissing your co-star.
💕 Game over (one shot)
A intense board game night
💕 Bookshelf (one shot)
When Tom comes home to you trying (and failing) to make a bookshelf.
💕 The Note I Shouldn’t Have Left (one shot)
“You left me without a chance to tell you how much I needed you,”
💕 Cheated (one shot)
Your husband and Tom's wife cheat together and you and Tom confide in eachother.
Tom Blyth
💕 Sick (one shot)
Tom comes home sick and needs his wife to take care of him.
💕 Award show (one shot)
You meet Tom at an award show and hit it off straight away.
💕 Sneaking Love (one shot)
Tom notices all the small things and slowly wins you over.
💕The Wrap dinner (one shot)
Jealous Tom at a dinner party turns you on.
Paul Mescal
💕 Blind date (one shot)
You and Paul are set up on a successful blind date.
Austin Butler
💕 Click (one shot requested)
You are a photographer and Austin won't stop flirting.
💕 Karaoke Confessions (one shot requested)
One night after Karaoke Austin your flatmate confesses his feelings towards you.
💕🌶️*Hands (one shot requested)
You express your obsession with Austin's hands and it turns you both on so much.
*smutty but not actual smut
Pedro Pascal
💕🌶️*Blurred Lines (long one shot)
You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.
*implied movie scene smut but not real sex
🌶️ Younger (one shot)
You and Pedro at a hollywood party - there is a 25 year age gap and you have sex seeing where things go.
💕Dad's best friend (one shot)
You fall for your dad's best friend Pedro.
💔 Echoes of Us (one shot)
Story is inspired by the song Our Song by Anne-Marie and Niall
Horan
💕Two pink lines (one shot)
You and Pedro find out you are pregnant.
YUNGBLUD/Dominic harrison
💕Photo albums (one shot requested)
You and Dom look through your old photo albums of you as a kid and it sparks a conversation about your future kids.
💕 Everything (one shot)
On tour with your 5 crazy kids.
Asa Butterfield
💕That's the job (one shot)
Asa helps guide you through the nerves of an intimate scene but there is something very real between you.
💕 I ache for you (one shot requested)
“If loving you is a crime, I am already guilty beyond redemption.”
“I’ve burnt every bridge, crossed every line… and yet, I still ache for you.”
Lewis Capaldi
💕 Half of me (one shot)
You and Lewis on the Graham Norton show for your new song.
Tyler Galpin
💕The One I Couldn’t Let Go (one shot)
Tyler begs you to be his new master and begs for you back.
💕 Treehouse (one shot)
"You’re the only one who ever saw me, not just the thing they made me into. Please… don’t turn me in. Not you.”
Carrion Swift
💕 Think quick (one shot)
While buying something illegal from Carrion he kisses you when a guardian walks past to hide the trade...
💕 Mine (one shot)
You work with Carrion and he flirts and get's on your nerves but he is your mate.
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The candle on my vanity had burned low by the time I made my decision.
Lord Ashworth had proposed that evening. Over supper, with Mother dabbing her eyes and Anthony looking insufferably pleased with himself, the man had gone down on one knee and offered me a future wrapped in silk and misery.
He was perfectly acceptable, everyone said so. Perfectly acceptable title, perfectly acceptable estate, perfectly acceptable face the sort of perfectly acceptable that made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
Two years. Two seasons on the marriage mart, and this was what it had come to. Anthony had grown tired of waiting, tired of my polite refusals and deliberate near-misses, and so he had arranged it. Like one arranges flowers, or furniture. Like I was something to be placed.
I had smiled. I had said I would consider it. And then I had gone upstairs, changed out of my evening gown, pulled on the most ordinary dress I owned a pale blue walking dress that Eloise would have approved of I wrapped my cloak about me, and climbed out of the first-floor window.
It was not my finest plan.
Mayfair at midnight has a particular quality to it the grand houses dark and dreaming, the gas lamps casting amber pools on the wet cobblestones. I had thought I might feel free, out here in the cool night air. Instead, I felt rather lost.
I had taken nothing but my purse, and even that felt foolish now. Where was I going? I'd had some vague notion of the coaching inn on Piccadilly. A coach north, perhaps. Scotland was suitably dramatic for a runaway. I had not, if I'm entirely honest with myself, thought much beyond away.
My heels clicked against the cobblestones with a precision that felt rather too loud for stealth, echoing off the terraces as I cut through towards Hanover Square. I was three streets from home, head down, moving with the purposeful stride of someone who absolutely knows where they are going, when I turned a corner and walked directly into a wall.
Except the wall caught me.
"Whoa careful!"
Warm, steady hands gripped my upper arms as I stumbled, and I looked up into the most startling face I had ever encountered. Dark eyes, amused even in the shock of the collision, and a jaw that could have been carved from marble if marble were capable of looking quite so pleased with itself. He was young a few years my senior at most and dressed plainly: no cravat, coat well-worn, the look of a man who worked with his hands rather than signing papers about other people who did.
"I... forgive me," I managed, stepping back. His hands released me with a promptness that was, I noted, entirely proper despite his obvious lack of noble breeding. "I wasn't attending to where I was going."
"No," he agreed pleasantly, "you were not." He tilted his head, looking at me with an expression I could only describe as entertained. "You all right?"
"Perfectly." I straightened my cloak. "Perfectly fine. Good evening."
I moved to step around him. He didn't step aside, precisely, but he turned in a way that made my passage feel somewhat pointed.
"It's midnight," he said.
"Is it." I didn't make it a question.
"And you're a lady." He said it with the same tone one might say and the sky is blue...observational, not unkind.
"How tremendously observant of you."
That made him smile, and it was, objectively speaking, a devastating smile. One ought not to be allowed to smile like that at strangers in the street.
"Joe Keery," he said, and offered his hand, which was entirely not how introductions worked, and I shook it anyway because something about him made the rules feel less fixed.
"Y/N Bridgerton," I said.
He raised his eyebrows. "Right. So. Lady in Mayfair. Midnight. Alone." He glanced down at my feet with an expression of mild concern. "In heels."
I looked down too. My evening slippers pearl-white, utterly impractical were gleaming in the lamplight. I had not, in my haste, changed my shoes.
"They're perfectly serviceable," I said, with rather more confidence than I felt.
"For a drawing room," he said. "Not for... where are you going, exactly?"
"I don't see how that's any concern of yours."
"You're running away," he said.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "That is a remarkably presumptuous conclusion."
"Is it wrong?"
I looked at him for a long moment. He looked back, and there was nothing unkind in his expression no judgement, no alarm, only a kind of steady, open curiosity that was somehow more disarming than either would have been.
"No," I said, at last. "It is not wrong."
He nodded slowly, as though this confirmed something he'd suspected. "Where were you planning on going?"
"North."
"North," he repeated. "On foot. In those." He pointed at my slippers again. "You won't get far."
"I am aware," I said, rather more sharply than I intended, because he was right and I hadn't wanted to admit it yet. "I shall hail a hackney."
"They don't often come through here at this hour."
"They might."
"They won't." He said it without cruelty, just fact. "Look... it's not safe. A woman alone in the city at this hour, it's not... you'll have trouble before you reach Piccadilly." He ran a hand through his hair, and I noticed it curled slightly at the ends, brown and untidy in the lamplight. "I've got a flat. Three streets from here, above the silversmith's. It's small, it's respectable, I'm not... I'm saying you could sleep there, and in the morning you could think a bit more clearly about wherever it is you're going."
I stared at him. "You are suggesting I spend the night in your flat."
"I will sleep on my sofa. Which is different." He held up both hands, the gesture frank rather than defensive. "You can take my bed and you can bolt the door from the inside. I just..." He glanced along the dark street. "I'd feel rotten letting you walk off into the dark in those shoes."
I should have refused. Every piece of my upbringing every lesson, every warning, every careful instruction about the reputation of a Bridgerton daughter told me to refuse and return home. To go back to the candle and the proposal and the perfectly acceptable future.
Instead, I said "Why?"
He looked momentarily confused. "Why what?"
"Why would you feel rotten? You don't know me."
He considered this with the seriousness it apparently deserved. "I don't know," he said, at last. "But you looked like someone who'd just made a decision that frightened them. And you've got the kind of face that..." He stopped.
"That what?"
"That makes it hard to just walk past."
The silence that followed was neither long nor comfortable. It was the kind of silence that has weight to it.
"Three streets?" I said.
"Three streets."
His flat was exactly as advertised small. The sort of small that felt full rather than cramped. Shelves of books stacked in no discernible order, a workbench against one wall scattered with tools I couldn't name, a sofa that had clearly been sat upon extensively and bore it well. It smelled of wood shavings and something warm, like bread or tea.
He made tea. I sat on the sofa with my impossible slippers tucked beside me, my cloak draped over my knees, and watched him move about the small kitchen with an ease that I found quietly remarkable. No one at Bridgerton House moved like that with their own space, their own comfortable authority over a kettle and two mismatched cups.
"What is it that you do?" I asked, because the silence felt too companionable and that frightened me slightly.
"I'm a carpenter," he said. "Mostly furniture. Some commissions for the big houses." He set a cup before me. "Probably some of your lot's furniture is mine, come to think of it."
"You make furniture for the ton?"
"The ton's money spends the same as anyone's." He sat in the armchair across from me, elbows on his knees, and regarded me with that same unhurried attention. "So. Who are you running from?"
"A proposal."
"Ah." He wrapped both hands around his cup. "Unwanted?"
"Arranged," I said. "By my brother. Lord Ashworth is... he's fine. He's perfectly...."
"Perfectly acceptable?" Joe offered.
I looked at him. "Yes. Exactly that."
"Awful," he said, with feeling.
"Everyone thinks I should be grateful." The words came more easily than I expected, loosened, perhaps, by the dark and the strangeness of the night. "Two seasons and no match, and now I'm practically ancient by their reckoning, and here is a perfectly good lord who wants to marry me, and I cannot explain to anyone why it feels like being slowly buried alive." I stopped, somewhat startled at myself. "I apologise. That was..."
"True?" he suggested.
"Rather more than I intended to say."
He smiled again, but softly this time. "Don't apologise for it." He leaned back in the chair. "What would you want? If no one else got a vote."
No one had ever asked me that. Not precisely. Eloise would rage about the institution and Mother would redirect towards suitable feelings, Benedict would listen and then shrug helplessly. But no one had sat across from me in a small warm room and asked it plainly, as though the answer mattered.
"Someone I can talk to," I said, after a moment. "Someone who makes me feel like this." I gestured vaguely at the room, at the tea, at the absurd situation. "Like the world is slightly larger than it was five minutes ago."
He was quiet for a moment. Then "That's not much to ask."
"It is apparently a great deal."
We talked until the candle on his table had burned down to a stub. About his work, and the grain of different woods. About my family the chaos of eight siblings, the way the house always smelled like flowers and argument. He made me laugh three times, properly, the kind of laugh I couldn't quite control, and each time he looked pleased about it in a way that wasn't smug, just glad.
At some point past two in the morning, I sat with my now cold tea and thought about Lord Ashworth's proposal. About the coach north. About Scotland.
And then I thought about this room, and this conversation, and the strange completeness of it the feeling that I had stumbled, quite literally, into something I hadn't known I was looking for.
"I'm not going to Scotland," I said.
Joe looked up from his cup. "No?"
"No." I set down the tea. "I think... I think I'm going to go home in the morning and tell Anthony I won't accept the proposal." I looked at the window, at the dark city beyond. "And then I think I'm going to have to work out what comes next."
He was quiet for a moment. "That sounds like a better plan than heels on cobblestones."
"Most things are."
He smiled. I smiled back.
I woke to grey morning light and the distant sound of a cart horse on cobblestones, and for approximately three seconds I had absolutely no idea where I was.
Then it came back to me: the square, the collision, the tea. Joe was gone. The flat held the particular quiet of a space recently vacated still warm, still smelling of woodsmoke and sawdust, but definitively empty.
On the small table beside the sofa, propped against the cold teacup, was a folded piece of paper.
I picked it up.
Miss Bridgerton,
Gone to work. Didn't want to wake you, you looked like someone who needed the sleep more than the conversation, which is saying something because the conversation was the best I've had in a good while.
There's bread on the counter and the door locks from the inside. Take your time.
I meant what I said last night you ought to tell your brother no. Politely, or otherwise. I have a feeling "otherwise" suits you better.
I hope you find what you're looking for. And I hope, whenever you do, it makes you laugh the way you did at half past two this morning. That was a good laugh.
If you ever find yourself wandering Mayfair at midnight again preferably not in those heels I wouldn't object to bumping into you. Quite literally, as it turns out, is the best way to meet someone.
-J.K.
P.S. The heels, though. Please. For the love of London's cobblestones.
I read it twice. Then I folded it very carefully and tucked it into my purse, because I was apparently the sort of person who kept notes from carpenters now, and I found I couldn't bring myself to mind.
Getting back into my House unseen required a level of concentration I was not entirely equipped for on three hours of sleep.
I came in through the garden gate, which I had always known to be faulty a fact I had stored away with the vague sense it might one day be useful, and here we were. The back of the house was quiet; the kitchen staff would be busy with breakfast preparations at the front. I crossed the garden, eased open the side door, and had made it precisely four steps down the corridor when a door swung open ahead of me.
I flattened myself into the alcove beside the umbrella stand with a speed that surprised even me, and held my breath.
Martha, the second housemaid, walked past with a pile of linens, eyes down, humming faintly. She passed within two feet of me and noticed nothing. I let out a breath so slowly it was barely a breath at all.
Then, from upstairs muffled but unmistakeable I heard Annie's voice. My lady's maid. Annie, who had been with me since I was fifteen and who took her responsibilities with the seriousness of someone guarding state secrets.
"I cannot find her I've looked in the library, I've looked in the garden, I knocked and there was no answer." A pause, the creak of footsteps. "Miss Y/n is simply not there and I don't know what to..."
I smoothed my dress, straightened my spine, and walked calmly into the drawing room from the other direction.
Benedict was already there, lounging against the mantelpiece with a cup of tea and the particular expression of a man who has nowhere to be and is enjoying it enormously. He looked up as I entered.
"Whatever is all the fuss?" I said pleasantly, settling myself onto the chaise as though I had been there for hours. "I am here."
There was a muffled shriek from the corridor, and then Annie appeared in the doorway, one hand pressed to her chest. "Miss Y/n I thought...I couldn't find..."
"I was in the garden," I said. "The morning air was agreeable."
Annie looked at me with the expression of someone who had many things to say and was choosing, professionally, to say none of them. "Yes, miss," she said, and withdrew.
I picked up the nearest book, which happened to be upside down, and turned it the right way before anyone could notice.
From across the room, Benedict said nothing. I could feel him looking at me with that particular quality of attention he had. Benedict, who painted, and therefore saw things rather too closely for comfort. I kept my eyes on the page.
"Agreeable morning, was it?" he said, at last.
"Very."
"Mmm." A pause. "Your shoe has something on it."
I looked down. There was a small streak of dried mud along the side of my left slipper the kind of mud that came from, say, a garden path at night, or the cobblestones of Mayfair at midnight. I looked back up at my page.
"The garden," I said, "was quite dewy."
Benedict smiled into his drink. He didn't say anything else. This was, I reflected, one of the things I liked best about him.
Anthony's study smelled of leather and self-assurance. He was behind his desk when I knocked, Mother seated in the chair opposite him which I took as either convenient or ominous, and chose to interpret as convenient.
I had rehearsed this on the walk upstairs. Calm. Reasonable. Clear.
"I wished to speak with you both," I said, settling into the second chair. "About Lord Ashworth."
Anthony's expression shifted into something careful. "The man is expecting to see you at lady Danbury's ball."
"Then he will be disappointed," I said. "I intend to decline."
Silence. Mother reached out and touched my hand.
"My darling..."
"Absolutely not," Anthony said.
I looked at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"I have already accepted this proposal on your behalf." His voice was measured but there was iron beneath it. "The matter is settled."
The rehearsed calm I had prepared dissolved rather rapidly. "The matter..."
"Y/N." He said my name the way he said Eloise's name when she'd done something particularly intractable, and that, more than anything, lit a clean white flame of fury somewhere behind my ribs. "You have had two seasons. Two. Ashworth is a good man, he is well-established, and he has expressed a genuine wish to marry you. I will not have you throw this away because..."
"Because I don't wish to marry him?"
"You don't wish to marry anyone!" His voice rose, just slightly, with the particular exasperation of a man who believes he is being entirely reasonable. "You have refused four perfectly suitable gentlemen..."
"Three."
"Four, if you count Lord Pembridge, which I do..."
"I hardly think..."
"Enough." He stood, and when Anthony stood behind his desk he was rather formidable, which was annoying. "My decision is final. You will accept Lord Ashworth. I have given my word."
Mother tried. To her credit, she always tried. "Anthony, darling, perhaps if we were to allow Y/N a little more time to..."
"My word has been given, Mama." His tone did not change. "The matter is not open for further discussion."
I looked at him for a long moment. He looked back, steady and certain, the way Anthony always was when he'd decided something like a wall that had decided to be a wall and would not be persuaded otherwise.
I stood. I smoothed my skirt.
"Very well," I said.
I left the study, closed the door quietly behind me, and stood in the corridor with my hands flat against the wall and thought if he is determined to arrange my future, then I am determined to make his arrangements unravel.
The Danbury ball was three days later, and I wore my most becoming gown Blue silk, because it made my eyes look interesting and smiled at Lord Ashworth when he came to claim a dance.
He was leading me through a dance when I said, conversationally "Tell me, my lord, do you snore?"
He blinked. "I... I beg your pardon?"
"Snoring. I ask only because I am a very light sleeper, and I have heard it can be rather disruptive to a household." I smiled pleasantly. "I imagine it would become tiresome."
Lord Ashworth looked at me with the expression of a man unsure whether he'd misheard. "I...I don't believe I..."
"Splendid. And your views on women reading? I read a great deal. Latin, mostly, and some Greek. My brother Anthony finds it odd but I can't imagine a household where a wife's scholarship would be actively discouraged." I tilted my head. "What are your thoughts?"
I caught a glimpse of Benedict's face. He was standing with a glass of champagne raised halfway to his mouth, utterly arrested, watching me with an expression of undisguised delight.
Anthony, three feet to his left, looked as though he'd swallowed something unfortunate.
At the Featherington ball the following week, I told Lord Ashworth about my opinions on estate management detailed, specific opinions, including a suggestion that the traditional method of crop rotation he apparently favoured was considered rather outdated. I had, in fact, read this somewhere. He was not a man who took agricultural criticism warmly.
At the Smythe-Osbourne musicale, I mentioned, during a quiet moment between pieces, that I intended to keep my own set of accounts after marriage. "My mother always said financial independence was the mark of a well-run household," I said serenely. This was not something my mother had ever said. Lord Ashworth's jaw worked silently.
Benedict found me by the punch bowl afterwards.
"You," he said, in a tone of profound admiration, "are absolutely diabolical."
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
"The accounts. The Latin. I believe you actually asked him last week whether he snored."
"I was making conversation."
Benedict pressed his lips together very firmly. "Anthony is going to combust."
Anthony, in fact, appeared at my elbow approximately four minutes later, took me firmly by the arm, and steered me into the corridor with the practised efficiency of a man who has been managing younger siblings for twenty years.
"What," he said, when we were sufficiently private, "has gotten into you?"
"I'm simply getting to know my intended," I said.
"You told him crop rotation was outdated."
"It is, apparently."
"Y/N." He lowered his voice, which somehow made it more alarming. "This behaviour I would expect it from Eloise..."
"How unkind to Eloise."
"But from you..." He stopped. Studied my face with the intent look he used when he suspected he was missing something. "What is this? What are you doing?"
I looked at him steadily. "I am simply being myself, Anthony. Perhaps you ought to have considered what that looks like before arranging my future without consulting me."
I left him in the corridor. It was, I thought, a rather good exit.
Between the balls, I found reasons to cross the city.
The first time, I told Annie I was visiting Penelope Featherington and that I could accompany myself walking across the street, which was almost believable. I walked the three streets from the square to the silversmith's, looked up at the window above it, and was standing on the pavement feeling rather foolish when the door opened and Joe appeared with a plank of wood over one shoulder and the immediate expression of someone who is very pleased and is trying not to show it.
"Miss Bridgerton," he said.
"Mr Keery," I said.
"You're not wearing the heels."
I looked down at my sensible boots. "I learned my lesson."
He smiled that slow, warm smile that started in his eyes and shifted the plank. "I'm just taking this round to the studio. You could walk with me, if you like. Or you could stand on the pavement looking like you're trying to appear casual. Either way."
"I was appearing perfectly casual."
"You were not."
I fell into step beside him.
His studio was on the other side of the square a big, light-filled room on the ground floor of an old building, smelling powerfully of sawdust and linseed oil and something indefinably alive. There were pieces of furniture in various stages of completion standing about the space the skeleton of a chair, a tabletop waiting to be sanded, a cabinet with inlay work so fine I stopped to look at it without meaning to.
"That's beautiful," I said.
He glanced over from where he was securing the plank. "Rosewood. The inlay's walnut." He said it the way he said most things straightforward, no particular vanity in it. "Take about another week."
"Who's it for?"
"Lord Somebody-or-Other in Grosvenor Square. They all blur together, honestly." He picked up a plane and ran it along the edge of the plank, and I watched the movement of it easy and sure, the wood curling away in pale ribbons and thought about how there was something tremendously satisfying about watching someone do something they were genuinely good at.
"You could sit, you know," he said, without looking up. "You don't have to stand there like you're about to be inspected."
"I'm observing."
"You're hovering."
I sat on the stool near the window. Outside, the city moved past in its ordinary morning business, and in here it was warm and quiet and smelled of things being made.
We talked about nothing particularly consequential, the way we always seemed to. He told me about the commission, about the particular awkwardness of working with rosewood. I told him about the Danbury ball, about the snoring enquiry, and he laughed so unexpectedly and so fully that he had to put the plane down.
"You didn't," he said.
"I absolutely did."
"And his face?"
"Profoundly confused. It was marvellous."
He was still grinning when he picked the plane back up. "You know this plan of yours is going to have consequences."
"Let it."
He glanced at me sideways. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm enjoying something," I said, and then realised what I'd implied and looked back out of the window before he could see my face.
There was a short pause. When I looked back, he was working again, but there was a quality to the set of his mouth careful, pleased, trying not to be that made something in my chest do something inconvenient.
I came back the following week, and the week after. Sometimes I watched him work. Sometimes we talked so much that he stopped working entirely and sat on the workbench with his arms folded and his eyes very bright, and we argued about things like books, the city, whether Latin was useful, the precise definition of a sensible plan with the gleeful ease of people who have discovered they disagree in exactly the right ways.
He never once asked what I was doing there. He never made it strange. He just made room for me, in the easy way he seemed to make room for most things, and I found myself building my weeks around the spaces where I might reasonably be standing outside a silversmith's on a Thursday morning in sensible boots.
It was not nothing. I knew that. I had spent two seasons learning what nothing felt like, and this was categorically, emphatically not it.
What it was, I hadn't quite let myself say yet. But one afternoon, when I was leaving and he walked me to the studio door and leaned against the frame to say goodbye, and the afternoon light caught the line of his jaw and he squinted slightly against it and smiled at something I'd said easy, unguarded, entirely for me
I thought oh.
Oh, this is rather a lot of trouble.
And I walked home through the busy London streets with my sensible boots and my full heart and the note still in my purse, and thought that whatever came next with Lord Ashworth, Anthony, the endless machinery of the season I would manage it.
Because somewhere on the other side of the city, in a studio that smelled of sawdust and linseed oil, someone had asked me what I wanted.
And I was beginning, quietly and with some alarm, to know the answer.
The fourteenth of October.
That was the date Anthony had written in his leather-bound diary in his neat, decisive hand, and I had watched him write it from across the desk like watching someone sign a warrant.
"The ceremony will be at St George's," he said, without looking up. "Hanover Square. Ashworth has already spoken to the vicar. The settlement papers will be drawn up by the end of the month, and you will remove fully to Ashworth Park in Wiltshire by Christmas."
Mother was beside me, her hands folded in her lap. She said nothing. I had noticed, recently, that she said less and less during these meetings, that her mediating had quietly softened into something closer to witnessing, and I wasn't sure whether that was exhaustion or acceptance or grief. Perhaps all three.
"Wiltshire," I said.
"It is a handsome estate. Three thousand acres."
"Wiltshire is very far from London."
Anthony set down his pen. "Most estates are."
I looked at him my brother, who I had grown up adoring, who had carried this family on his back since he was eighteen years old, who I knew loved me in the way he loved all of us: absolutely, and without ever quite asking what we needed. "Anthony. Please."
Something crossed his face. Something that was almost uncertainty, and then was not. "The fourteenth of October, Y/N. I suggest you begin thinking about what you would like to bring with you."
I stood. My chair scraped back and Mother flinched and I didn't apologise for it, which was unlike me. "I would like to bring myself," I said. "As I am. As I actually am. But it seems that is not a version of me that factors into your arrangements."
I left before he could respond. I made it to the top of the staircase before my legs stopped feeling entirely reliable, and I sat down on the top step the way I used to when I was seven and had been scolded, and stared at the pattern in the carpet runner and tried to breathe.
Wiltshire. By Christmas.
Six weeks.
My campaign of carefully deployed impropriety had, it turned out, made no difference whatsoever. Lord Ashworth, to his considerable credit or his considerable stubbornness, had not withdrawn. Perhaps he thought eccentricity in a wife was charming. Perhaps Anthony had spoken to him privately and smoothed things over. Perhaps the Bridgerton name and dowry were simply sufficient to weather any amount of agricultural criticism.
Six weeks.
I thought about the studio. About a Thursday morning with autumn light coming through the tall windows and wood shavings on the floor and someone leaning on a workbench looking at me like I was, specifically and particularly, the most interesting thing in the room.
I cannot do this.
I have no choice.
I need to see him.
It was past eleven when I slipped out through the garden gate. I had not planned what I was going to say. I had barely planned to go at all one moment I was in my room staring at the ceiling, the next I was in my cloak with my sensible boots already laced.
The night was cold, properly cold, the first real bite of autumn in it, and my breath made small clouds in the lamplight as I walked. I knew the route by heart now, I had memorised every turn of it over weeks of careful navigation and I walked it quickly, not from urgency exactly but because standing still with this feeling in my chest seemed inadvisable.
I knocked on Joe's door before I could think better of it.
A pause. The sound of movement. Then the door opened.
He was not dressed for company. That was the first thing I noticed. No shirt, just trousers, his hair disordered from sleep, blinking against the light of the candle he held. He took one look at my face and the sleepiness in his expression vanished completely.
"Hey," he said, quietly. "Hey, come here."
I had not been planning to cry. I was fairly certain I had finished crying on the stairs, and had moved somewhere past it into a sort of numb practicality. But something about the way he said 'come here' simple, immediate, no questions undid whatever I had been holding together, and when he put his arm around me and drew me inside I pressed my face against his shoulder and felt the sob come out of me before I could stop it.
He didn't say anything for a long moment. He just held me, one hand against the back of my head, steady and warm and solid, and let me be entirely undignified about it, which was, exactly what I needed.
When the worst of it had passed I became gradually aware that I was standing in his flat at eleven o'clock at night crying into the shoulder of a shirtless man, and pulled back slightly, which was when he looked at my face properly and said "Sit down. Tell me."
I sat. He pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa and settled it around my shoulders without being asked, and then sat beside me and waited.
"He set a date," I said. "The fourteenth of October. I will move to Wiltshire by Christmas."
Joe was quiet for a moment. "Six weeks."
"Yes."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at the floor with the particular expression he had when he was thinking through something he didn't want to get wrong. "Your plan didn't work," he said.
"Ashworth won't budge. Anthony won't budge." I pulled the blanket closer. "I'm beginning to think I am the only thing in this situation that has ever been expected to move."
"Y/N"
"I have no money of my own. not real money, not the kind you can actually do anything with. My dowry goes to Ashworth upon marriage. Before that it sits with Anthony." I said it flatly, not because I wasn't furious about it, but because I had been furious about it for long enough that the fury had worn into something more like exhaustion. "I have nowhere to go. Even if I left, I would have nothing. I'd be ruined and penniless and that would hardly be better."
"It wouldn't," he agreed, quietly.
"So I don't see..." My voice caught. I pressed my lips together and waited for it to pass. "I don't see what there is to be done."
Joe looked at me. His face in the low candlelight was very serious in the way it rarely was, because he was usually so easy, so quick to find the angle that made things lighter and I realised I was looking at him the way I had been trying not to for weeks. Looking at the line of his jaw and the dark eyes and the way he was sitting here at eleven at night with no shirt and no hesitation, entirely present, entirely mine in this moment.
The thought finished itself before I could stop it mine.
And all of it the weeks, the Thursdays, the notes and the laughter and the way the world felt larger when he was in it all of it arrived at once, like a sum finally completing itself.
I kissed him.
It was not graceful. It was not the sort of kiss one might plan it was rushed and a little desperate, my hand finding his jaw, and for one terrible second of suspension I thought I had made a catastrophic miscalculation
Then his hand was at my waist and he kissed me back, properly, and the suspension ended.
I pulled back. Looked at him. His expression was something I didn't have a word for. Open and certain and a little wrecked, all at once.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I wasn't sure..."
"No," he said. "You don't get to do that."
He drew me back in. His other hand came up to my face, tilting it, and he kissed me with a thoroughness that made my previous attempt seem like a rough draft, and I thought oh, we are in a great deal of trouble.
When we finally stopped, I was somehow considerably closer to him than I had been, and the blanket had slipped off entirely, and neither of us addressed this.
"Well," I said, after a moment.
"Yeah," he said.
"This is..."
"Complicated. Yes." But he didn't move, and his hand was still at my face, his thumb tracing, and his eyes were very serious and very warm and entirely sure. "How long?" he asked. "For you. How long has this been..."
"The afternoon with the cabinet," I said. "The rosewood. When you were working and the light came through the window."
Something moved across his face. "That was eight weeks ago."
"Yes."
He laughed, low and a little rueful. "I thought you came back for the woodwork."
"The woodwork is very good."
"Y/N."
"After I first came. I told myself it was just that it was nice to have somewhere to go. Somewhere that wasn't...." I gestured vaguely at the general concept of Bridgerton House and everything it contained.
"But it wasn't just that."
"No. It was very much not just that."
He was quiet for a moment, looking at me with that careful attention. Then he put his arm around me and drew me against him and I tucked myself against his side with the ease of something that had been waiting to happen, and we sat in the quiet of his small warm flat while the city breathed outside, and I thought this is the truest thing I have ever been part of.
That thought should have been a comfort. Instead it sat in my chest alongside the date in Anthony's diary, and I didn't know what to do with either of them.
I slept without meaning to. One moment I was warm and half-listening to the sound of his breathing, and the next the window was grey with early morning and his arm was still around me and I was aware, with a rush of something that was equal parts joy and grief, exactly where I was.
He was awake. I could tell by the quality of the stillness.
"I just want to run away with you," I said, to the grey window. "I know it's absurd. But that's all I want."
His arm tightened around me, just slightly. Then he exhaled. It was a careful sound.
"Y/N..."
"I know."
"I'm a carpenter." He said it quietly but directly, the way he said everything. "I don't have... I can't give you what a lord gives you. I don't have estates or settlements or... I have the studio and the flat and enough to live on and that's all. I can't just..." He stopped. I felt the tension in him that was almost never there the frustration, turned inward. "I can't take you away from your life and give you a worse one. I won't."
"It wouldn't be worse."
"It would be harder. That's not the same thing but it's close enough to matter." His jaw tightened. "You'd lose your family. Your position. Everything you know. And I'd be the reason for it, and I..." He stopped again, and the silence was full of something I recognised as a kind of pain he wasn't going to let himself express. "I can't be that reason. I'm not..." A short, frustrated exhale. "I'm not enough to ask you to give all that up for."
I sat up and looked at him. He looked back, and the frustration on his face was not directed at me I could see that but it was there, raw and real, the particular anguish of someone who wants to be more than they are and cannot make themselves so by wanting it.
"That is not your decision to make," I said.
"Yes it is." His voice was gentle but certain. "You deserve a life, Y/N. A real one. Not hiding. Not sneaking out of your family's house to sit in a carpenter's studio. You deserve better than that."
I thought of a great many things to say to this and said none of them, because the look on his face made argument feel unkind. He believed what he was saying. He was saying it because he meant it, not because he wanted to send me away his hand found mine as I stood, and he held it for a moment longer than was necessary, and that undid me more than anything else.
I left before either of us could say something that made it worse.
I did not go back to the studio.
Not the following Thursday, when I stood by the drawing room window and watched the clock for twenty minutes before making myself sit down. Not the week after, when Benedict asked, casually, if I fancied a walk, and I said no and he looked at me with the particular quiet of someone who knows better than to press.
I told myself it was practical. Practical and necessary and simply the way things were.
I told myself this with some frequency, and if I nearly believed it on the better days, then that would have to be sufficient.
I had no money of my own. Joe would not run. Anthony would not bend. Wiltshire was coming like a tide, steady and indifferent.
Lord Ashworth called on Tuesday. He brought flowers.
I thanked him for them with a smile that did not reach anything important, and Mother watched me from across the room, and I thought about a studio full of winter light and the smell of rosewood and someone saying 'you've got the kind of face that makes it hard to walk past'
And I put the thought away. Carefully, the way you put away something you can't afford to break.
The fourteenth of October waited at the end of everything like a locked door.
And I had, it seemed, no key.
The dress was ivory.
It was a beautiful dress. I knew it was a beautiful dress because every woman who had come into my room that morning had told me so, Mother, with her eyes already bright, the seamstress who had made it, pleased with her own work; Annie, who had pinned and smoothed and arranged until I was something between a bride and a monument. It had tiny pearl buttons down the back and lace at the cuffs and a train that pooled behind me like something out of a painting.
I stood before the mirror and thought I look like someone else's future.
The ceremony was in an hour. Everything was in order. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.
I had told myself, over the past three weeks, that I had made peace with this. I had told myself this so many times and with such deliberate regularity that it had almost begun to feel like something other than a lie.
Eloise was perched on the window seat behind me, not looking at me with a very pointed sort of energy that meant she had many opinions she was heroically restraining. Benedict was in the corridor somewhere. I could hear him talking quietly to colin, the low familiar rumble of it. The whole house felt held, braced, the way it did before something irreversible.
I looked at the window.
And then I looked again, because there was a face at it.
My room was on the first floor. The face, accordingly, belonged to a man who had climbed or was currently climbing the garden trellis with what I could only describe as committed recklessness. He was in his good coat, his hair disordered from exertion, and when he saw me looking he nearly lost his grip and then didn't, and mouthed something at me through the glass with considerable urgency.
I knew his face better than I knew my own.
"I need a moment," I said. My voice came out entirely steady, which was extraordinary. "I feel a little lightheaded. Would you all..."
"Of course, darling." Mother was at my arm immediately, concerned, ushering Eloise up from the window seat, already issuing quiet instructions to Annie. "Fresh air might help. We'll be just outside."
The room emptied with a considerateness I would have been grateful for under any other circumstances. The door clicked shut. I crossed the room, unlocked the window, and opened it.
Joe climbed through with the dignity of a man who was absolutely not going to acknowledge that he had just climbed a trellis in his good coat.
"What," I said, very quietly, "are you doing?"
He was breathing slightly harder than usual. He looked at me at the dress, at all of it and something crossed his face that he didn't try to hide.
"Don't marry him," he said.
The words landed in the room like something dropped from a height.
"Joe."
"I know. I know what I said. I know..." He stopped. Pressed his hands together, the way he did when he was working out how to say something. "I've spent three weeks being practical about this and I cannot do it anymore. Don't marry him."
"I can't." My voice was barely anything. "What will people think? What will Anthony..."
"I love you."
He said it the way he said everything important directly, without armour, looking straight at me.
The silence afterwards was very complete.
"I love you too," I said. It came out without permission, without consideration, because it was simply true and had been true for long enough that it didn't need deliberating. "More than I ever thought I could love another person. But I can't Joe, you know I can't. You said it yourself. I have nothing and you..." My throat tightened. "You said I deserved a real life."
"I was wrong about what that meant."
"We met in a moment that didn't belong to us." The words hurt to say. "A midnight that was stolen time, and it was the best time I have ever had, and you were everything I needed, but I can't..."
"Listen to me." He crossed the room until he was close, close enough that I had to look up at him, and his voice was low and very serious. "I have been thinking about this wrong. I have been thinking about what I can't give you the estate, the title, the carriage and the Wiltshire house and all the rest of it and measuring myself against it and finding myself short. But that's not the question."
"Then what is?"
"The question is what I can give you." His hand came up, gently, and tucked a piece of escaped hair back from my face with a care that made me want to come undone entirely. "I can give you a life that is actually yours. A small flat that is ours, where no one decides anything without you. I can give you every Thursday and every midnight and every conversation we've ever had. I can give you more of those, all of them, every day for the rest of our lives. I can give you someone who wants to know what you think and argues with you about Latin and knows that you read and is glad of it." His voice dropped. "I cannot give you three thousand acres. I know that. But Y/N I would rather live with you in two rooms above a silversmith's than live my entire life without you. I would rather have nothing material, nothing, than have everything without you in it."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"I love your laugh," he said. "I love the way you fight for things even badly, even when the plan is not quite all the way thought through. I love that you shook my hand the night we met because rules felt negotiable. I love that you came back to the studio and pretended it was about the woodwork for three weeks." Something shifted in his expression honest and unguarded and entirely sure. "I'm not a lord. I know what I am. I'm a man who is absolutely certain that you are the most extraordinary person I have ever met, and I am asking you please do not walk into that church today and spend the rest of your life being certain you made the wrong choice."
The silence stretched. Outside the window, London went about its morning.
I felt the exact moment the last piece of my resolve came apart.
"All right," I said.
He blinked. "All right?"
"All right. I'm not going." The decision arrived fully formed, the way decisions do when they've been waiting a long time to be made. "I am not getting married today. Not to Lord Ashworth." I looked at him steadily. "Now you had better hope that trellis holds on the way out"
He laughed startled, relieved, entirely himself and I had just reached for his hand when the door opened.
Anthony filled the doorway.
For a moment, no one spoke. Anthony looked at Joe. Joe looked at Anthony. I stood between them in my ivory dress.
Behind Anthony, in the corridor: Mother's face, and Eloise's, and Benedict's, who I was fairly certain was trying not to smile.
"What," Anthony said, with enormous control, "is this."
"This," I said, "is the man I love."
Another silence. Anthony's eyes moved between us in a way that was calculating and furious and, underneath both of those things, the expression of a man who is beginning to understand that he has been missing something important.
"You've been..." He stopped. "How long."
"Long enough." I stepped forward. "Anthony. I have tried to tell you. I have tried to tell you in every way I can think of that I could not marry Lord Ashworth, and you would not hear me." I held his gaze. "I understand that you want what is best for me. I understand that you have carried this family, and protected it, and that you do this out of love. I know that. I have always known that."
"Then..."
"But you married for love." My voice stayed steady even though my heart was beating against my ribs. "You, of all people, know what it is to fight for the person you cannot imagine your life without. You know what it costs to choose duty over what your heart is telling you" I let that land. "And you know what it looks like when someone is resigned to a marriage they have not chosen. You knew before Kate what that felt like. Didn't you?"
Anthony's jaw tightened. Something moved through his expression that was painful to watch.
From the doorway, quietly, Kate's hand found his. He looked down at it at her hand in his and something in the iron of his posture shifted.
He looked at Joe for a long moment. Joe met his gaze without flinching, which I suspected counted for something.
Then Anthony looked at me. The set of his mouth was complicated.
He gave one small, single nod.
I let out a breath I had been holding for approximately six weeks.
"Oh, marvellous," Eloise said, from behind him. "Though I do feel someone ought to consider the fact that there is a perfectly good church and a vicar who has been put to a great deal of trouble..."
The hall was still absorbing this when Lord Ashworth appeared at the top of the stairs.
He took in the scene the corridor full of Bridgertons, the state of the assembled faces, and through the open doorway, visible over Anthony's shoulder, Joe standing beside me in my wedding dress and his expression moved through confusion into something colder.
"What the devil is going on?"
Anthony straightened. Whatever he had just given me, he turned now to face Ashworth as entirely himself Viscount Bridgerton, standing in his own house.
"My sister will not be proceeding today," he said. "I offer you my sincere apologies for the disruption."
"Your apologies?" Ashworth's colour rose. "I have guests in that church. A vicar. I have..."
"My lord." Anthony's voice remained perfectly even. "The match is dissolved. The settlement will be returned to you in full. I would suggest that whatever guests are waiting at St George's be informed promptly."
Ashworth's eyes moved to Joe. "And who..."
"Someone," Benedict said pleasantly, from behind Anthony's shoulder, "who climbed a trellis this morning to stop your wedding. Which, if we're being honest, is a rather better story than yours."
"This is outrageous. This is... I will not stand here and be..."
"Then I would suggest," Joe said quiet, unhurried, entirely calm "that you leave."
It was the first thing he'd said to anyone other than me, and there was something in the steadiness of it not aggressive, not crowing, just absolutely immovable that stopped Ashworth mid-sentence.
Anthony looked at Joe. Some private calculation completed itself. "My thanks," he said, "for looking out for my sister."
Joe met his eyes and nodded once.
Ashworth left. The sound of his footsteps descending the stairs was deeply satisfying.
Eloise had been entirely right about the vicar.
The wedding that happened at St George's that afternoon was rather different from the one that had been planned, and the vicar had required some persuasion, but Anthony could be tremendously persuasive when he chose to be, and what was a Bridgerton wedding if not an event of some last-minute improvisation.
I married Joe Keery at half past two on the fourteenth of October in an ivory dress with pearl buttons, with my whole family watching, and when the vicar pronounced us I saw Benedict in the front pew pressing his knuckle to his mouth and his eyes very bright, which I would tease him about for years.
At the reception hastily relocated to Bridgerton House, which was large enough and had enough champagne Joe and I found a moment by the window of the drawing room, his hand in mine, the noise of the family behind us warm and familiar and not yet quite real.
"You climbed the trellis," I said.
"I did."
"In your good coat."
"I'd been planning this since Tuesday," he said. "I wanted to make an impression."
I laughed, the proper laugh, the one I couldn't control. He looked pleased about it in exactly the way he always had.
Benedict appeared at our elbow.
"I knew," he said, with the air of a man making an important announcement, "the morning you came down and said you'd been in the garden, and your shoe had mud on it, and you held the book upside down for six seconds I knew you'd been up to something." He looked at Joe, and then back at me. "I did not, if I'm being entirely honest, predict this. This is considerably better than anything I imagined."
"High praise," Joe said.
"From me, yes." Benedict raised his glass. "Welcome to the family. I hope you know what you're getting into."
"I have some idea."
"You really don't." Benedict smiled, genuinely, and withdrew.
A moment later, Anthony appeared.
He stood beside me without preamble, looking out at the room in the way he did when he was working up to something. Then he held out an envelope.
I looked at it. At him. "What is this?"
"Open it."
The envelope was unsealed. Inside: folded papers, and the edge of a banker's draft, and I unfolded it slowly and looked at the figure written there and stopped.
"Anthony."
"You will need a start," he said. "The flat above the silversmith's is, I'm told, on the small side."
I looked at the number again. It was considerably more than my dowry as it had been drawn up for Lord Ashworth. I looked at my brother.
"This is too much," I said.
"It is what you are worth," he said, simply. "And it is what I should have let you choose, rather than choosing for you." He cleared his throat. "Joe. I understand you are a man of considerable skill and industry, and I..." A very Anthony pause. "I am grateful you did let her run off to Scotland."
Joe's mouth curved. "It was the shoes. I had concerns about the shoes."
Something that was almost a smile crossed Anthony's face. Then he looked at me, and the almost-smile became something realer and quieter and harder to name, and I felt my eyes prick dangerously.
"You were right," he said. "About Kate. About what it costs to choose duty over your heart." A beat. "I had forgotten what it felt like. I should not have let you remind me this way."
I crossed the distance between us and put my arms around him, and he held me, stiffly at first and then not stiffly at all, his chin at my temple the way it had been since I was small, and I thought this is still him. This is still my brother. He just needed reminding of what he already knew.
"Don't tell Eloise the amount," I said, into his shoulder. "She'll want her own trellis."
Anthony made a sound that was absolutely, against all odds, a laugh. "God forbid."
Behind us, Joe was looking out at the room at the family that was now his, the noise and the champagne and Eloise already deep in argument with someone, Benedict sketching something on a napkin and when I disentangled from Anthony and went to stand beside him he took my hand without looking, the way you take the hand of someone whose hand you intend to keep.
Outside, London went on being London. The fourteenth of October had arrived, exactly as planned.
Just not quite as anyone had expected.
Which, I thought, was rather the best way for important things to happen.
I always thought big life decisions would feel louder.
Trumpets. Fireworks. A swelling soundtrack.
Instead, when Joe asked me to move in with him, it happened on an ordinary Tuesday night with a half-finished bowl of pasta between us and the hum of traffic drifting through his open window.
We were sitting on the floor of his two-bedroom flat in the West Village, backs against the sofa because he still hadn’t bought a proper dining table. The lamp in the corner cast everything in honeyed light. Outside, the city murmured never silent, never fully asleep.
He’d been fidgeting for ten minutes.
Joe doesn’t fidget.
But that night, he kept turning his fork in slow circles.
“What?” I finally asked.
“Nothing.”
“Joseph.”
He glanced at me, then away again, then back. “Move in with me.”
Just like that.
No speech. No rehearsed paragraph.
Three words.
I laughed at first because I thought he was joking.
He didn’t laugh back.
My breath caught.
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to do this long-distance anymore. I don’t want to split my life into flights and countdowns and goodbye hugs at security. I want you here. Properly. With me.”
The weight of it settled gently rather than heavily.
Moving in with him meant moving to New York. It meant leaving behind the comfortable rhythm of the life I’d built. It meant starting over in a city that never stopped moving.
It meant choosing him in a way that was tangible and terrifying.
“You’ve got a two-bedroom,” I said faintly, because it felt safer than addressing the enormity of it.
He huffed a soft laugh. “One of them is basically a wardrobe with delusions of grandeur.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I’m serious,” he added, quieter now. “I love you. And I want you here. Not visiting. Not living out of a suitcase. Here.”
The city noise seemed to fade.
There are moments when you realise your life is tilting onto a new axis. That if you say yes, everything shifts.
I looked around his flat the scuffed wooden floors, the slightly crooked gallery wall he’d hung himself, the tiny kitchen with mismatched mugs.
I’d already left pieces of myself here. A jumper draped over the chair. A book on his bedside table. A toothbrush in his bathroom.
Maybe this wasn’t a leap.
Maybe it was just the next step.
“Okay,” I said.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“I’ll move in with you.”
The relief that flooded his face was so unguarded it made my chest ache. He leaned forward, hands cupping my face, kissing me like he’d just been granted something sacred.
“You’re sure?” he murmured against my mouth.
“No,” I admitted honestly. “But I’m sure about you.”
And somehow, that was enough.
The next month passed in a blur of cardboard boxes and emotional goodbyes and logistics.
Then suddenly, I was standing in the middle of his West Village flat with my entire life stacked in brown boxes around me.
“Welcome home,” Joe said softly.
Home.
The word felt fragile.
He took the heaviest box from my hands before I could protest. “Bedroom first?”
I nodded.
Our bedroom was brighter than I remembered. Morning light poured through tall windows, catching the dust motes in the air. There was a small balcony just beyond the glass doors, wrought-iron railing curling in delicate patterns.
“You get half the wardrobe,” he said solemnly.
“Half?”
He grinned. “Fine. Sixty percent.”
I laughed, the tension loosening in my chest.
We spent the afternoon unpacking. Folding my clothes into drawers beside his. Sliding my books onto shelves already crowded with his scripts and vinyl records.
It was strange how intimate it felt arranging toothbrushes side by side. Lining up our shoes in the hallway. Seeing my perfume bottle on his dresser.
At one point, I paused in the doorway, watching him wrestle with the duvet cover.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I said.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Show me, then.”
I stepped in, laughing, grabbing one corner and flipping it inside out properly. He watched me with this soft, almost astonished expression.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
He shrugged slightly. “It just feels… real.”
I understood.
This wasn’t red carpets or premieres or dramatic airport reunions.
This was wrestling with bedding and arguing about shelf space.
This was real.
A week later, we decided the flat needed “us” in it.
Which is how we ended up wandering through small shops in the Village on a Saturday morning, fingers intertwined, debating throw cushions like it was a matter of national importance.
“This one,” I said, holding up a deep blue cushion.
Joe tilted his head. “It’s aggressive.”
“It’s navy.”
“It’s confrontational navy.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He leaned close, murmuring in my ear, “You love it.”
I did.
We bought the cushion.
And a soft cream blanket. And a ridiculous ceramic fruit bowl shaped like a fish that made us both laugh.
Grocery shopping became our ritual.
There’s something oddly intimate about choosing someone’s yoghurt.
“Do you actually eat this?” I asked, holding up a suspiciously healthy-looking tub.
“I’m trying to,” he said defensively.
“Be honest.”
He grinned. “No.”
We filled the trolley with fresh vegetables, pasta, bread still warm from the bakery.
At the checkout, he kissed my temple absentmindedly while unloading items onto the belt.
Small. Thoughtless. Tender.
The domesticity of it all settled into me like sunlight.
Our first proper home-cooked dinner in the flat as cohabitants was chaotic.
He insisted on cooking.
“I can do this,” he said confidently, sleeves rolled up.
I perched on the counter, watching him attempt to chop onions with questionable technique.
“You’re going to lose a finger.”
“I won’t.”
He nearly did.
We laughed through it. Through splattered sauce and over-salted pasta and the smoke alarm briefly going off.
We ate at the kitchen counter because we still hadn’t bought that table.
“Romantic,” I teased.
He clinked his glass against mine. “To burnt garlic and questionable life choices.”
“To New York,” I corrected softly.
He looked at me differently then.
Not flashy. Not charming for an audience.
Just soft.
Later, we washed up together. Him rinsing, me drying. Hips bumping in the narrow space.
He flicked water at me.
“Joe.”
“What?”
I retaliated.
Soon we were both damp and laughing and entirely ridiculous.
When we finally collapsed into bed, limbs tangled, I remembered this was real. This was my new life.
Mornings became my favourite.
Sunlight would spill across the wooden floors, creeping up the bed until it warmed our feet.
Joe is not a graceful waker.
He blinks like he’s been personally betrayed by consciousness.
One morning, I propped myself up on an elbow and watched him squint at the light.
“You’re staring again,” he muttered.
“Can’t help it.”
He reached for me without opening his eyes fully, pulling me into his chest.
The city beyond the windows was already alive sirens in the distance, buses sighing at stops.
But in our room, it felt suspended.
“Do you miss it?” he asked quietly once.
“Miss what?”
“Your old life before here?”
I considered.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But I don’t feel like I’ve lost something. I feel like I’ve… expanded.”
He hummed thoughtfully.
“I don’t want you to feel like you gave something up.”
“I didn’t,” I said firmly. “I chose this and I would choose this again in every lifetime.”
He kissed my hairline, lingering.
Nights on the balcony became sacred.
It wasn’t large just enough space for two chairs and a small table but it overlooked a sliver of the Hudson. At sunset, the river turned molten gold.
We’d sit wrapped in that cream blanket, glasses of wine balanced precariously on the railing.
The air carried the scent of the city warm pavement, distant food carts and something alive.
“Can you believe we live here?” I whispered one evening.
He shook his head. “No.”
The skyline shimmered in the distance, lights blinking awake one by one.
He reached for my hand.
“I’m really glad you said yes,” he said.
“So am I.”
There were small arguments too.
About laundry (he leaves it in the machine). About dishes (I stack them differently). About thermostat settings (he runs warm, I do not).
But even those felt… safe.
We learned each other in new ways.
The way he hums absentmindedly while brushing his teeth.
The way I steal the duvet.
The way he always, always checks the door twice before bed.
One rainy afternoon, I found him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, guitar resting against his knee, sunlight muted through grey clouds.
“Play something,” I said softly.
He glanced up, a shy smile flickering. “You’re going to judge me.”
“Always.”
He laughed, then began to play something gentle and unfinished.
The notes filled the flat, echoing off walls that now held both our lives.
I curled up on the sofa, watching him.
There it was again that soft light.
The version of him that isn’t performing. Isn’t polished.
Just Joe.
Mine.
When he finished, he looked almost embarrassed.
“That was beautiful,” I said honestly.
He set the guitar aside and crossed the room, kneeling in front of me.
“You make me braver,” he murmured.
I brushed my fingers through his hair. “You make me feel steady.”
One evening, months after I’d moved in, we finally bought a dining table.
We assembled it ourselves, badly.
At one point he was upside down under it, tightening screws.
“This is a metaphor,” he declared.
“For what?”
“Commitment.”
I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
But when we finally sat at it plates of takeaway in front of us, candle flickering between we both went quiet.
It wasn’t just furniture.
It was intention.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I used to think home was wherever my stuff was.”
“And now?”
He reached across the table, brushing his thumb over my knuckles.
“Now it’s wherever you are.”
The simplicity of it undid me.
Outside, the city buzzed on taxis honking, voices drifting up from the street.
Inside, the flat glowed.
Our flat.
Later, we stood on the balcony again, the river dark and endless below.
I leaned into him, his arms wrapping around me from behind.
“Thank you for asking,” I said quietly.
“Thank you for jumping.”
“It didn’t feel like a jump.”
“No?”
“It felt like walking forward.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder.
The lights reflected on the water, shimmering.
Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounded low and steady.
New York no longer felt overwhelming.
It felt like possibility.
Like mornings bathed in gold and evenings wrapped in soft conversation.
Like grocery lists and burnt garlic and cushions we argued over.
Snow in New York is never romantic once you have four children.
That’s the first thing I’ve learnt in our brownstone in New York City. When Joe and I first moved here back when it was just the two of us and a questionable sofa we found secondhand. I used to think blizzards were cinematic. Soft flakes against the windows. Jazz playing. Candles. Kissing in the kitchen.
Now it’s chaos. Absolute carnage. And it smells faintly of wet socks and cocoa powder.
The blizzard started sometime in the early hours, wind howling down the street like it had a personal vendetta against our shutters. By eight in the morning, school had been cancelled, the city was buried in white, and our four children had decided that confinement meant anarchy.
“NO, THAT’S MY CONTROLLER!”
“It is not, you thief!”
“Mum! He breathed on me!”
I stood in the kitchen, whisking chocolate powder into warm milk, trying to channel inner peace.
Our fourteen-year-old, Max, was in the middle of a snowball fight with our ten year old Henry that had somehow migrated indoors. I don’t know how one brings snow inside in that quantity without noticing, but apparently our children possess that skill.
And then there was Lily. Sixteen. Dramatic. Chronically unimpressed.
“Mum,” she called from the sitting room, horror in her voice, “they’ve put snow on the rug. The rug. The expensive rug.”
I inhaled slowly. “They are your brothers, darling. This is what they do.”
“They are feral.”
I couldn’t argue.
From the hallway, I heard Joe’s footsteps heavy, purposeful. The Dad Walk.
Now, when Joe is working, when he’s doing press or filming or in the studio recording, he has this relaxed, slightly amused air about him. Like nothing could truly rattle him.
But at home?
He has a dad voice.
And that voice could silence nations.
I peeked round the kitchen doorway just as he planted himself in the centre of the sitting room, hands on hips, dark hair slightly mussed from the static in the air. He was wearing grey joggers and a navy hoodie, sleeves pushed up, revealing those forearms I absolutely married him for.
“The next person,” he said, voice low and firm, “that makes a mess gets a spanking.”
The room froze.
Henry clutched a half-melted snowball mid-air.
Max blinked.
Our eight-year-old, Rosie, gasped dramatically as if Joe had just outlawed Christmas.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
And then I nudged the enormous bowl of marshmallows off the counter.
It tipped and cascaded.
White, fluffy chaos poured onto the kitchen tiles like sugary confetti.
Silence.
Utter, breathtaking silence.
Joe stared at me.
I widened my eyes innocently.
“Oh no,” I said softly. “What a mess.”
His jaw tightened, but not with anger.
With restraint.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he said evenly.
Lily gagged. “Oh my God. Mum. Dad. That’s so gross.”
Max groaned. “Please never do that again.”
Henry, confused, asked, “Why is it gross? She just dropped marshmallows.”
Rosie squinted suspiciously between us. “Are you two being weird again?”
Joe cleared his throat. “Hot chocolate. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied sweetly.
He shot me a look that promised things.
I turned back to my task before I combusted in front of our children.
Hot chocolates were distributed. Snow was (mostly) removed from the rug. Henry’s new tea-towel cape was confiscated after he attempted to leap from the staircase banister.
The wind howled harder outside, rattling the windows. We were properly snowed in now. The news had warned people to stay home. Roads were impassable.
Which meant one thing family day.
Joe flopped onto the sofa beside me, our knees touching. The children settled in various sprawled positions across the room.
“What are we watching?” Max asked.
“Something normal,” Lily said firmly. “No monsters.”
Joe raised a brow. “Hey. I’ve fought monsters professionally.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Dad, you played a babysitter with great hair.”
I choked on my drink.
Joe clutched his chest in mock offence. “That is wildly reductive.”
Rosie piped up, “Can we watch the one with Daddy and the demogorgon?”
Joe blinked. “The what?”
“The demogorgon,” she repeated confidently.
He looked at me. “We’ve got to stop letting her google things.”
I smiled serenely. “You’re the one who showed her the clips.”
He pointed accusingly. “You laughed.”
“I still laugh.”
He narrowed his eyes, then leaned closer to me, voice low enough that only I could hear. “Keep it up and I won’t wait until later.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks.
Lily’s head snapped towards us. “Why are you whispering? I don’t like it.”
“Drink your hot chocolate,” I told her.
By midday, the house looked like a snow globe had exploded.
Board games were scattered across the coffee table. There were abandoned mugs everywhere. The dog who at this point is the least chaotic member of this household was asleep under a blanket like he’d emotionally checked out.
Joe was on the floor helping Henry and Rosie build an elaborate pillow fort.
“No, no, structurally that makes no sense,” Joe muttered, adjusting a cushion. “You need load-bearing support.”
“It’s a fort, Dad,” Henry said. “Not a bridge.”
“All forts need integrity,” Joe replied solemnly.
I watched from the kitchen doorway, heart full in that quiet way that sneaks up on you. The snow outside blurred the world into white. The house felt warm. Loud. Alive.
Joe caught me staring.
He smiled.
That soft, private smile that’s just for me.
And then because he is incapable of behaving he raised one brow.
I folded my arms.
Don’t you dare.
He smirked.
Rosie popped her head out of the fort. “Mum! Come inside! It’s a no-Dad's-allowed zone.”
Joe gasped theatrically. “Excuse me?”
“You’re allowed Mum” she clarified. “Dad's on thin ice.”
“Oh?” I said, stepping closer. “Is he?”
Joe leaned back on his hands, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “ I did threaten a spanking.”
Lily groaned from the sofa. “Please stop flirting in front of us. It’s traumatising.”
Max nodded. “Honestly.”
I raised my hands defensively. “I did nothing.”
Joe coughed. “Marshmallows.”
Henry finally pieced it together. “WAIT”
Max clamped a hand over his mouth. “Do not finish that sentence.”
Rosie looked between her siblings, scandalised. “What is happening?”
Joe stood, brushing off his joggers. “Right. Snow gear. We’re going outside.”
Bless that man for redirecting chaos.
The back garden was buried under nearly a foot of snow.
The children shrieked the moment they stepped outside, boots crunching, breath visible in the freezing air.
Joe immediately got tackled by Henry and Max, who attempted to bury him alive.
“Mutiny!” he shouted, laughing as he fell backwards into the snow.
Rosie declared herself “Snow Queen” and demanded tribute.
Lily, despite pretending she was above it all, joined in within five minutes.
I stood on the patio wrapped in a coat and scarf, watching Joe wrestle our sons in the snow like an overgrown Labrador.
He caught my eye again.
And mouthed 'Later'
My stomach flipped like I was twenty-two again and we’d just started dating.
He eventually escaped the boys’ assault and jogged over to me, snow dusting his hair.
“You’re not playing,” he accused.
“I’m supervising.”
He leaned close, voice low. “That’s boring.”
“I like being warm.”
His hands slid around my waist through my coat. “You are warm.”
I laughed, swatting at him. “Joseph.”
He grinned. “Yes?”
Before I could respond, Henry hurled a snowball that smacked Joe square in the back of the head.
He froze.
Slowly turned.
“Oh, you are done,” he said calmly.
And the chaos resumed.
By evening, everyone was knackered.
Wet clothes hung everywhere. The house smelled of soup and chocolate and something faintly singed because Max had attempted to toast marshmallows over a candle.
Dinner was loud and overlapping and filled with stories about Snow Queen battles and near-death pillow-fort collapses.
Afterwards, Joe and I tag-teamed bedtime.
Rosie insisted on two stories. Henry tried to negotiate for three. Max pretended he didn’t need a goodnight hug but still leaned into it when Joe wrapped him up.
Lily lingered at her doorway.
“You two are really gross sometimes,” she said, arms folded.
Joe raised a brow. “Define gross.”
“The eye contact thing this morning? Disgusting.”
I covered my face. “We are so sorry for loving each other.”
She made a face. “Just… lock your door.”
Joe coughed. “Noted.”
She paused, softer now. “It’s nice, though.”
My heart squeezed. “What is?”
“That you’re still… you know. Into each other.”
Joe’s expression shifted, something warm and steady settling there. “Always,” he said simply.
She rolled her eyes to hide her smile. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Lil.”
When the house finally fell quiet, the blizzard still raging outside, I stood in the kitchen again, loading the dishwasher.
Joe appeared behind me.
Silent.
Dangerous.
I didn’t turn around. “Yes?”
He leaned close, voice brushing my ear. “You made a mess.”
I smiled faintly. “Did I?”
He reached past me, plucked a single stray marshmallow from the counter, and held it up between us.
“Evidence.”
I turned then.
The kitchen lights were low. Snow drifted past the windows. The house was peaceful for the first time all day.
“You said you’d deal with it later,” I reminded him.
His eyes darkened slightly. “It’s later.”
Footsteps creaked faintly upstairs.
We both froze.
Silence.
Nothing.
Joe exhaled. “We have teenagers.”
“Tragic.”
He stepped closer, hands finding my waist again.
“I love this,” he murmured.
“The mess?”
“The chaos. You. All of it.”
My chest tightened in that achy, grateful way.
“Even the marshmallows?” I teased.
He leaned down, brushing his lips near my ear. “Especially the marshmallows.”
Upstairs, a door thudded.
“GO TO SLEEP!” Lily shouted.
Joe laughed against my shoulder.
I pressed my forehead to his chest, smiling.
Blizzards might not be romantic anymore.
They’re louder. Stickier. Full of snow on expensive rugs and children who think we’re disgusting.
This is love that survived auditions and press tours and sleepless nights and teething and teenage eye-rolls.
This is snow piling against the windows while the world outside stops and inside, everything we built keeps going.
Joe pulled back slightly, studying me.
“What?” I asked.
He smirked.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t.”
He reached behind me and tipped the sugar jar just enough that a small avalanche dusted onto the counter.
I gasped. “Joseph!”
He held my gaze.
“Now I also made a mess...” he said softly.
From upstairs came Lily’s muffled voice:
“I CAN HEAR YOU BEING WEIRD!”
Joe burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help it I joined him.
joe keery meeting reader at his concert with tame impala and maybe she’s a friend of Kevin’s and he couldnt take his eyes off of her the entire night while performing thinking shes just a random fan, until after the concert shes backstage hugging kevin and kevin introduces them, joe has been her celeb crush for years and it’d be theyre first interaction ever. maybe fans catch everything the looks the way he was singing yo her and then leaving the concert all together
MasterList
Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist
Joe Keery Masterlist
If sixteen-year-old me could see me now, she’d combust on the spot.
Not because I was at a Tame Impala show that part she’d have manifested shamelessly but because I was standing in the VIP section, lanyard around my neck, here to support my childhood best friend who just happened to be Kevin Parker.
We’d grown up two streets apart. He’d taught me my first guitar chords in his mum’s garage. I’d been there when he decided he was going to make music that sounded like it came from space.
And now I was here, halfway across the world, watching him headline arenas.
Life’s strange like that.
The VIP area was raised slightly from the main floor close enough to feel the bass reverberate through my ribs, far enough to avoid being crushed. Crew, friends, industry people. I leaned against the barrier, nursing a drink, dressed in a simple black slip skirt, oversized band tee, boots that had seen too many festivals.
I was here for Kevin.
That was the plan.
What I hadn’t planned for was Joe Keery.
I knew he was opening. Obviously. I’m not that disconnected from the world. I’d followed his music for years his acting first, then discovering Djo and falling embarrassingly hard for the sound. I’d watched interviews at three in the morning. Sent clips to friends.
But that was distant admiration.
Safe.
The lights dimmed and the crowd roared as the opener was announced.
And then he walked out.
Joe.
He looked a little different from red carpet Joe. More relaxed. Looser. A graphic tee under stage lights, hair falling into his eyes, guitar slung low.
He stepped up to the mic, adjusted it slightly, and gave the crowd a soft, almost shy smile.
“Alright,” he said, voice warm and easy. “Let’s have some fun.”
The first song kicked in, synth-heavy and infectious.
I forgot to breathe for a second.
There’s something about seeing someone live the immediacy of it, the way their voice sounds less polished and more human. He moved with this unselfconscious rhythm, completely in his element.
I was dancing before I realised it. Not wildly. Just enough to feel it in my shoulders, my hips.
And then he looked up.
Not vaguely scanning.
Looking.
Straight at the VIP section.
My brain did the logical thing first.
He’s looking at someone else.
There were at least twenty people around me.
But his gaze lingered.
And lingered.
My stomach flipped unhelpfully.
I glanced over my shoulder just to be sure. A label executive stood behind me, looking bored. A photographer checked his camera settings.
When I looked back at the stage, Joe’s eyes were still on me.
And he smiled.
Subtle. Quick.
But deliberate.
I felt heat crawl up my neck.
Don’t be insane, I told myself. He doesn’t know you. You’re just some girl in a VIP area.
Except he kept looking.
During the next song, he drifted toward the edge of the stage closest to where I stood. His fingers moved effortlessly over the guitar strings, but every few lines, his gaze flicked back.
There’s a particular kind of eye contact performers make fleeting, shared with everyone.
This wasn’t that.
This was sustained.
Curious.
He sang a slower track, voice dipping softer, almost intimate.
And when he hit the chorus, he was looking directly at me again.
I froze.
It felt absurdly personal.
My heart was hammering. I wasn’t screaming or waving or trying to get attention. If anything, I’d gone still.
Which, ironically, seemed to intrigue him more.
He tilted his head slightly mid-lyric, like he was trying to figure me out.
I bit back a smile.
The audacity of him.
By the end of his set, I was hyper-aware of every glance. And it wasn’t just me noticing a few girls beside me exchanged looks, whispering.
“Who’s he looking at?”
“I swear it’s that girl in black.”
I stared very hard at the stage floor.
When he finished, the applause was loud and warm. He stepped up to the mic again.
“Thanks for having us,” he said. “Stick around for the legends.”
Before he turned to leave, he glanced toward the VIP section one last time.
At me.
And gave the smallest, knowing nod.
I exhaled shakily.
That was ridiculous.
It had to be coincidence.
Kevin’s set was euphoric as always lasers, swirling visuals, the kind of bass that rearranges your internal organs. I lost myself in it properly this time, shouting lyrics, feeling seventeen again.
After the encore, I made my way backstage, weaving through crew and congratulatory chaos.
Kevin spotted me instantly.
“There she is!” he laughed, pulling me into a crushing hug. “You flew all this way, you legend.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said into his shoulder.
He pulled back, eyes sparkling.
“So,” he said slowly.
“Oh no.”
“You enjoyed Djo?”
I tried to play it cool. “Yeah. He was great.”
Kevin smirked.
“He couldn’t stop asking who the girl in the VIP section was.”
My heart stopped.
“Stop.”
“I’m serious,” he laughed. “Kept saying, ‘Who’s the girl in black near the barrier?’”
I wanted the concrete floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Before I could respond, a familiar voice spoke behind me.
“Kevin, mate, killer set.”
I turned.
Joe stood there, towel draped around his neck, hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed.
Up close, he looked softer. A little breathless. Real.
Kevin grinned like a menace.
“Joe,” he said casually, “this is Y/N. My childhood best friend.”
Joe blinked.
“Wait,” he said, looking at me properly now. “You’re Y/N?”
I nodded, suddenly incapable of speech.
He laughed under his breath. “Of course you are.”
Kevin folded his arms. “You two were clearly trying to telepathically communicate out there.”
“I was not...” I started.
Joe cut in gently, eyes still on mine. “I thought you were just some very cool VIP who hated my guts.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“You barely reacted,” he said. “You just stood there watching. It was intimidating.”
“I was trying not to look like a complete fan.”
His mouth twitched. “Too late. I clocked you.”
Kevin looked delighted beyond measure.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” he announced. “You two… talk.”
He vanished before I could protest.
There was a moment of silence.
“So,” Joe said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not in the industry?”
“No. Just… here for him.”
“Childhood best friend,” he repeated, amused. “That’s kind of iconic.”
I huffed a laugh. “We used to play in his garage.”
He studied me for a second.
“I thought you were with someone,” he admitted.
“In the VIP?”
“Yeah. I kept thinking, don’t stare, she’s definitely someone’s girlfriend.”
“I’m not.”
His shoulders relaxed visibly.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh?”
“That’s… good.”
I smiled despite myself.
“You were staring quite a lot,” I said lightly.
He winced playfully. “Was I that obvious?”
“A bit.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He hesitated.
“I just,” he said slowly, “you had this energy. Like you weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just… were.”
My heart did something deeply inconvenient.
“You sounded incredible,” I admitted quietly.
His eyes warmed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He stepped slightly closer, lowering his voice so the backstage noise faded.
“I’m glad you were there,” he said.
“So am I.”
For a second, it felt suspended. The chaos around us blurred.
He smiled softer now.
“Guess I owe Kevin for the introduction.”
I laughed. “He’s going to be insufferable about this.”
“Worth it,” Joe said, still looking at me like he had on stage. Like he was trying to memorise something.
We were still standing a little too close.
Not touching.
But close enough that I could feel the warmth from his skin, the faint trace of stage sweat and cologne and adrenaline. Close enough that every time someone brushed past us, his hand hovered instinctively at my waist like he was steadying me without actually committing to it.
“I genuinely thought you were going to look away at some point,” he admitted, half-laughing. “Most people do.”
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Rude?” he repeated, amused. “You were staring straight into my soul.”
I smiled. “Occupational hazard of being a musician. People watch.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But not like that.”
Before I could respond, a very familiar voice cut through the moment.
“Oh, this is too good.”
Kevin reappeared between us, phone already in hand, grin so wide it bordered on villainous.
“What have you done?” I groaned.
“Not me,” he said innocently. “The internet.”
Joe leaned back slightly. “Oh no.”
Kevin turned the screen towards us.
On it was a blurry but unmistakable video from the crowd. The caption read
WHO IS THE GIRL IN VIP JOE KEERY WAS SINGING TO ALL NIGHT??
I choked.
“That’s not...”
Kevin swiped.
Another post.
A zoomed-in clip of Joe mid-song, angled toward the VIP section. You could very clearly see him looking in my direction.
The comments were unhinged.
He is DOWN BAD.
The eye contact???
Find her immediately.
Joe’s ears went visibly pink.
“This is so blown out of proportion,” he muttered.
Kevin swiped again.
A side-by-side comparison someone had made one screenshot of Joe looking at me, one of me looking back.
The caption The tension was CRAZY.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Kevin laughed. “You two were trending before the encore.”
“That’s not possible,” I said weakly.
Joe took the phone from Kevin, scrolling with widening eyes.
“They’ve slowed it down,” he said, half horrified, half amused. “Why have they slowed it down?”
“Because,” Kevin replied smugly, “you were making heart eyes at my best friend for forty-five minutes.”
“I was not making heart eyes.”
“You absolutely were,” Kevin and I said at the same time.
Joe looked between us, betrayed.
“This is bullying.”
I tried to suppress my grin and failed miserably.
Another video played this one from closer to the stage. Clear enough that there was no denying it now.
Joe, singing directly toward the VIP section.
Me, trying and failing to look unaffected.
The comments scrolled rapidly beneath it.
He kept going back to her side.
That’s not random.
Someone get the lore.
Joe ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe they noticed.”
Kevin clapped him on the shoulder. “Mate. You might as well have put a spotlight on her.”
“You were the one who put her in VIP,” Joe shot back.
“And I’d do it again.”
I buried my face in my hands for a moment, equal parts mortified and absurdly flattered.
“This is going to follow me forever, isn’t it?” I muttered.
Joe lowered the phone slowly and looked at me.
And there it was again.
That same look from the stage.
Only softer now.
More certain.
“Only if you want it to,” he said quietly.
Kevin made a dramatic gagging noise. “Right. I’m leaving before this becomes a rom-com montage.”
He stepped back but paused, pointing the phone at us.
“For the record,” he added, “I expect full credit when you tell people where you met.”
Joe laughed. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
As Kevin disappeared again, I glanced at Joe.
“So,” I said carefully, “apparently you weren’t subtle.”
He winced playfully. “I thought I was being smooth.”
“You were being observed by thousands of people.”
“Worth it,” he said without hesitation.
My stomach flipped.
He offered me a small, sheepish smile.
“Guess this counts as a memorable first meeting,” he said.
can you write something with joe and an alternative/romantic goth type reader?
MasterList
Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist
Joe Keery Masterlist
I wasn’t meant to go.
That’s the funny thing.
It was just a small gathering at Maya’s place too many fairy lights, mismatched cushions, indie music humming low enough to talk over. I’d nearly stayed home, half-buried in a book with eyeliner smudged from the day and a glass of red balanced on my bedside table.
But I went.
Black lace blouse. Silver rings on nearly every finger. Chunky boots that made a satisfying thud against wooden floors. My lipstick was deep plum, almost black. Mum would’ve called it “dramatic”. I preferred intentional.
I was leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a drink and listening to someone passionately debate vinyl versus streaming, when I felt it.
That particular sensation of being watched.
Not in a creepy way.
Curious.
I glanced up.
And there he was.
Joe Keery.
I recognised him instantly, of course but in person he looked softer somehow. Less polished than on-screen. His hair was still absurdly good, though. That much was unavoidable.
He was across the room, half-turned in conversation, but his eyes weren’t on whoever was speaking.
They were on me.
When our gazes locked, he didn’t look away.
He smiled.
Not cocky. Not overly rehearsed.
Just… intrigued.
I held his stare for a second longer than politeness required, then looked back down at my drink. I could feel the faint warmth creep up my neck, which annoyed me. I don’t blush easily.
A minute later, Maya appeared beside me with a grin that meant trouble.
“So,” she sang quietly, “Joe’s coming over.”
“Why?” I asked, feigning indifference.
“Because he’s been asking about ‘the girl dressed like a Victorian poet who might hex him’.”
I snorted. “That’s specific.”
“His words.”
Before I could respond, a shadow fell beside me.
“Hi,” he said.
His voice was gentler than I expected. Slightly hesitant, even.
I turned.
Up close, his eyes were warmer than they look on camera. Hazel, flecked with green.
“Hi,” I replied.
“I’m Joe,” he added unnecessarily.
“I know.”
He winced playfully. “Right. That was stupid.”
“Only a bit.”
That made him laugh properly laugh. It crinkled at the corners of his eyes.
“I like your… vibe,” he said, gesturing vaguely at me. “It’s very cool. Intimidating, but cool.”
“Intimidating?” I arched a brow.
“A little. In a good way.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I feel like you know things.”
“I do.”
He grinned at that. “See? Exactly that.”
There was no sleazy edge to him. No ego. Just genuine interest.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I told him.
He repeated it softly, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
“That suits you,” he said.
“And what does that mean?”
He considered. “It sounds like someone who writes poetry at three in the morning and listens to music that makes other people slightly concerned.”
“That’s oddly accurate.”
“I knew it,” he said, delighted.
We slipped into conversation easily after that. Books, music, films, the absurdity of Hollywood, the comfort of rainy days. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers. His attention didn’t wander.
At one point he glanced down at my rings, brushing one lightly with his finger.
“These are amazing,” he said. “You’ve got excellent taste.”
“I’m aware.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “You’re different.”
“From?”
“Most people I meet.”
There was something earnest in the way he said it. Not performative. Not flirtatious for the sake of it.
Just honest.
And the way he kept looking at me like I was something fascinating he hadn’t quite figured out yet made my stomach flutter in a way I hadn’t expected.
When someone called him from across the room, he hesitated before stepping back.
Request: The reader is a K9 officer and helps with her dog in a case. The dog decides Deacon is his new dad and gets them together.
I’ve always trusted dogs more than people.
People lie. They posture. They say one thing and mean another.
Dogs are loyal and don't want anything from you but love.
That’s how I found myself standing in the middle of a freezing warehouse at half three in the morning, my gloved hand resting on the broad, steady neck of my German Shepherd, Atlas, while the rest of the team argued about entry points and perimeter coverage.
Atlas leaned lightly into my leg, alert but calm, his ears pricked towards the far end of the building.
“I’ve got something,” I murmured.
Across the loading bay, Detective Deacon Kay glanced up.
He had that permanently serious look about him. The sort that made junior officers straighten their backs and criminals rethink their life choices. Salt and pepper hair, trimmed beard, eyes that seemed to catalogue everything. He wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be.
“What’s he telling you?” Deacon asked, stepping closer.
“Fresh scent. Male. Nervous. He’s been moving about.”
Deacon gave a short nod. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
My way.
It shouldn’t have made my stomach flip, but it did.
I unclipped Atlas’s lead. “Seek.”
He moved like a shadow silent, fluid, purposeful. I followed, my torch beam steady, every muscle in my body tuned to him.
We found the suspect crouched behind a stack of crates, trying and failing to make himself invisible. Atlas cornered him with a deep warning bark that echoed through the cavernous space.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned the man, hand resting lightly on Atlas’s harness.
Deacon arrived seconds later, weapon drawn but steady. The suspect surrendered quickly. Smart choice.
As the cuffs clicked into place, Deacon glanced between me and Atlas.
“Good work,” he said quietly.
Atlas wagged his tail once and then to my complete and utter betrayal trotted straight past me and planted himself at Deacon’s boots.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” I muttered.
Atlas sat. Then leaned. Hard.
Deacon looked down, faint amusement touching his features. “I think he likes me.”
“He doesn’t like anyone,” I grumbled. “He tolerates most people.”
Atlas rolled onto his back.
Traitor.
Deacon crouched, cautiously scratching behind Atlas’s ear. “You’re a big softie, aren’t you?”
Atlas made the most ridiculous contented sound I’d ever heard.
I folded my arms. “Brilliant. Three years of training and he falls in love in under thirty seconds.”
Deacon’s lips twitched. “Can’t blame him.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
Over the next few weeks, we worked the case together a string of warehouse burglaries tied to something much bigger than petty theft. Deacon led the investigation. I handled K9 support.
Atlas handled matchmaking, apparently.
Every briefing, he’d position himself as close to Deacon as physically possible. If Deacon shifted his chair, Atlas shifted with him. If Deacon stood, Atlas stood.
“He does realise I’m his handler?” I whispered one afternoon as Atlas abandoned me yet again to sit at Deacon’s side during a planning session.
Deacon didn’t look up from the file he was reading. “He’s just got good taste.”
“Arrogant, are we?”
He glanced at me then, eyes warm despite his straight face. “Confident.”
Atlas nudged Deacon’s hand with his nose.
I sighed dramatically. “I’m being replaced.”
Deacon’s voice softened. “I’m not trying to steal your partner.”
“It’s fine,” I replied lightly. “He’s clearly made his choice.”
Atlas huffed at me as if offended.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one cuddling him during debriefs.”
Deacon chuckled under his breath, and the sound did something strange to my ribs.
The next time Atlas picked up a trail from a discarded glove near one of the warehouses. The scent led us through back alleys and across a car park before stopping at an abandoned terrace house.
“It’s active,” I murmured, watching Atlas’s posture change rigid, focused.
Deacon signalled for backup but didn’t wait for it.
“We’re not going in alone,” I warned.
“We’re not,” he said, meeting my eyes. “We’re going in with him.”
He meant Atlas.
And, apparently, me.
Inside, it was dark and damp. Floorboards creaked under our boots.
Atlas’s low growl warned us seconds before a figure bolted from the kitchen.
“Stop!” Deacon shouted.
The suspect ran for the back door.
“Apprehend!”
Atlas launched forward controlled, precise. He took the man down cleanly, holding until Deacon reached them.
It should’ve ended there.
But the second suspect appeared from the hallway, swinging a metal bar.
I didn’t think. I moved.
“Deacon!”
He turned just in time to deflect the blow, but not enough. The bar clipped his shoulder. He staggered.
Atlas reacted instantly, releasing the first suspect and placing himself squarely between Deacon and the attacker, barking ferociously.
I stepped in, adrenaline surging, tackling the man hard enough to send us both crashing to the floor.
Backup arrived in a flurry of noise and flashing lights.
When it was over, my hands were shaking.
Deacon was sitting on the front steps, paramedics checking his shoulder. Atlas was glued to his side, whining softly.
I approached slowly. “You all right?”
“Bruised pride,” he said. “Nothing more.”
Atlas pressed his head into Deacon’s chest.
“You’d think he was the one who got hit,” I muttered.
Deacon’s gaze lifted to mine. “He stayed. Protected me.”
“He’s trained to.”
“Still,” Deacon said quietly, “I’m grateful.”
Something unspoken passed between us.
Atlas leaned across and nudged my hand then Deacon’s as if physically connecting us.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “He’s orchestrating this.”
Deacon laughed softly, then winced at the movement. “You might be right.”
After that night, things shifted.
Deacon started bringing coffee to K9 training sessions.
Atlas started sulking whenever Deacon left.
I started noticing the way Deacon looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
One evening, after a long day of paperwork and follow-ups, I found Deacon outside the station, crouched beside Atlas.
“You do realise,” I said, approaching them, “that he has me wrapped round his paw.”
Deacon glanced up. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Means he’s chosen well.”
My breath caught slightly. “Chosen what?”
Deacon stood slowly. He was close. Close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the tiny flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
“Family,” he said simply.
Atlas wagged so hard his entire back end wobbled.
I stared at my dog. “You absolute menace.”
Deacon’s expression turned serious. “Look… I don’t rush things. And I don’t blur lines at work. But...”
Atlas barked once, sharply.
We both jumped.
“He’s impatient,” I muttered.
Deacon’s mouth curved. “So am I, actually.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. “Deacon…”
He hesitated only a second. “Would you consider dinner? Somewhere that doesn’t involve suspects or warehouses?”
Atlas sat between us, looking impossibly pleased with himself.
I crossed my arms, pretending to deliberate. “I suppose. If only to stop him from sabotaging future operations.”
Deacon’s smile was devastating. “I’ll take it.”
Atlas shoved his head into Deacon’s hand triumphantly.
“Oh, don’t encourage him,” I said, but I was smiling too.
Dinner turned into another dinner.
Then walks with Atlas that were definitely not accidental.
Atlas insisted on sitting between us at first. Then gradually, he shifted closer to Deacon.
“Unbelievable,” I said one afternoon in the park as Atlas leaned fully against Deacon’s leg. “He used to do that with me.”
“He still does,” Deacon replied gently.
He reached for my hand.
Atlas glanced up, satisfied, and rested his head on both our knees.
It felt… right.
Steady.
Safe.
Months later, the case was wrapped, convictions secured. Life settled into something almost peaceful.
One Sunday morning, I woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of Atlas’s nails clicking excitedly on the kitchen tiles.
I padded downstairs to find Deacon at the stove, Atlas sitting proudly beside him like a supervisor.
“You’re in my kitchen,” I observed.
“Technically,” Deacon replied without turning around, “I stayed over. So it’s our kitchen this morning.”
Atlas wagged furiously.
I leaned against the doorway, watching them.
“You realise,” I said softly, “that he chose you.”
Deacon turned then, spatula in hand. “No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“He chose us,” he corrected.
Atlas trotted over and pressed against both our legs at once.
I crouched, wrapping my arms around my ridiculous, brilliant dog.
Request: The reader is Streets friend and visits. The Squad thinks they are together, but after it is clear it is not. Deacon talks to Street because he is not sure. Street and Chris set up a date for them.
I blame Jim Street entirely.
If he hadn’t rung me at half past midnight three weeks ago saying, “You need a holiday. Come to LA. Sunshine. Beaches. Me,” I would never have ended up standing in the middle of SWAT headquarters with four armed officers staring at me like I’d just announced I was eloping with their teammate.
“I’m telling you,” Street was saying as he slung an arm around my shoulders, “she’s harmless.”
“I heard that,” I muttered.
He grinned down at me. “You were meant to.”
Across the room, a tall man with calm eyes and a presence that seemed to steady the air itself watched us carefully.
That was my first look at Deacon Kay.
And apparently, my first mistake.
Street and I had met years ago and he’d been on some questionable “find myself” stint that mostly involved terrible hostel coffee and charming bartenders. We’d collided over a misunderstanding involving a stolen backpack and a very dramatic accusation in a train station.
We’d been inseparable for two weeks.
Completely platonic. Intensely chaotic. Like siblings who enjoyed annoying each other for sport.
So when I’d told him I had a break from work and fancied escaping my life he’d insisted I come stay.
“You’ll love the team,” he’d said. “Just don’t flirt with Luca. He’ll cry if you reject him.”
I hadn’t expected to be marched straight into headquarters on my second day.
“I just need to grab something,” Street had said, waving me through security like I was a misplaced intern.
Which led to now.
The entire squad looking between us.
“You didn’t tell us you were bringing someone,” said Luca, eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t know I needed permission,” Street shot back.
A woman with sharp eyes and an assessing expression stepped forward. Chris, as Street had mentioned.
She looked at me, then at his arm around my shoulders.
Then at Deacon.
Interesting.
“So,” Chris said slowly, “how long have you two been together?”
Street choked. I barked a laugh.
“Together?” we both said at once.
“That’s disgusting,” Street added.
“Oi!”
Luca blinked. “Wait you’re not dating?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I value my sanity.”
Street looked offended. “You begged to visit.”
“You offered free accommodation.”
“That’s romance.”
Across the room, I saw it the flicker of something in Deacon’s expression. Not relief exactly. But something that loosened his shoulders.
It didn’t help that Street refused to stop being tactile.
He’d always been like that arm slung around me, nudging me with his elbow, ruffling my hair just to irritate me.
By the third time he called me “babe” in front of the team, I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Clarify,” I hissed.
He grinned. “They’ll figure it out.”
But they didn’t.
Not immediately.
And the problem was… I noticed Deacon noticing.
He wasn’t jealous in any obvious way. He didn’t scowl or snap.
He simply went quieter when Street stood too close.
Which, for reasons I didn’t entirely understand, made my stomach flutter.
The first proper crack in the assumption came during training.
Street had dragged me along again “You’ll be bored alone,” he’d insisted.
I sat up in the viewing area, watching drills with mild fascination and growing respect.
They were good. Controlled. In sync.
Deacon especially.
There was something about him in motion decisive, grounded, completely certain of his space. Leadership without arrogance.
When they broke for water, Luca bounded up the stairs to me.
“So,” he said, leaning on the railing, “what’s Street like domestically?”
“Domestically?”
“You know. Dishes. Laundry. Steals the covers?”
I snorted. “He once set fire to toast.”
Luca blinked. “You’ve lived together.”
“In a hostel. With twelve other people. And one suspicious raccoon.”
Deacon had approached quietly behind him.
“Raccoon?” he asked.
I turned. Up close, he was… unfairly handsome. In a steady, grown-man sort of way. Not flashy. Not trying.
“Long story,” I said.
Street jogged over, towel around his neck. “She cried when it stole her chips.”
“I did not cry!”
“You absolutely did.”
“Because you laughed instead of helping!”
Deacon’s mouth curved slightly.
Chris appeared beside him, folding her arms. “So you’re really not together.”
“No,” I said firmly.
Street raised both hands. “Platonic soulmates. That’s it.”
Chris and Luca exchanged a look.
Deacon didn’t.
He was watching me.
That evening, Street had plans with Luca, leaving me alone in his flat.
There was a knock at the door just after eight.
I opened it to find Deacon standing there, hands in his jacket pockets.
“Oh.”
He looked faintly surprised too. “Street left his gear in my car.”
“Of course he did.”
He hesitated. “I can come back.”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. Come in.”
The flat suddenly felt smaller.
He stepped inside, gaze sweeping the space automatically habit, I supposed.
“He talks about you,” I said before I could stop myself.
Deacon glanced at me. “Yeah?”
“Not details. Just… fondly.”
A soft huff of breath. “He does that.”
I handed him the bag Street had abandoned by the sofa.
“He’s lucky,” I added lightly. “To have a team like this.”
Deacon’s expression shifted subtle pride. “We’re lucky to have him too.”
There was a shift after that evening.
Apparently, the next morning, Deacon cornered Street at headquarters.
“She’s not your girlfriend?” he’d asked, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly, according to Street.
Street had stared at him for a solid five seconds before grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“Oh,” he’d said slowly. “You like her.”
Deacon had not confirmed that.
Which, apparently, was confirmation enough.
Street dragged Chris into it immediately.
“We’re setting this up,” Chris had declared.
I found out because she turned up at the flat that afternoon without warning.
“You busy tonight?” she asked.
“I don’t think so?”
“Good. Wear something nice.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
That was a lie.
Street insisted on driving me somewhere “casual”.
We pulled up outside a restaurant that was decidedly not casual.
“Street.”
“What?”
“You’re grinning.”
Before he could answer, I spotted Deacon inside through the window.
He looked just as confused as I felt.
“They told me this was a team dinner,” he said when I approached.
“They told me tacos.”
We both glanced outside, where Street and Chris were very obviously pretending not to watch.
Realisation dawned at the same time.
“We’ve been set up,” I said.
“Yes,” Deacon agreed, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
There was a brief pause.
Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“For what it’s worth… I was going to ask you to dinner.”
My heart skipped.
“Oh?”
“I just wasn’t sure if I should.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want to step on Street’s toes.”
I laughed softly. “He’d push you over them himself if he thought you hesitated.”
That earned a proper smile.
“Well,” I said, trying for composure, “I suppose we’re already here.”
A beat.
“Would you like this to be a date?” he asked quietly.
Request: Deacon is divorced and the reader is a high profile sniper. The reader saves Deacons life and after that they slowly get to know each other and even his kids see their love for each other.
The first time I saw Deacon Kay properly, he was bleeding out on cracked concrete with a bullet lodged somewhere far too close to his heart.
Not exactly the meet-cute you’d imagine.
The operation had already gone sideways by the time I took the shot that saved him. I was positioned three buildings away, wind cutting across the rooftop and slicing through my gloves, the scope pressed firmly to my eye. I’d been contracted for overwatch high-profile, high-risk, high-deniability. The usual.
I knew who he was, of course.
Decorated. Tactical genius. Divorced. Father of three. The sort of man who wore exhaustion like armour and grief like a shadow.
I wasn’t meant to care about any of that.
I was just meant to keep him alive.
The ambush came fast almost too fast for the rest of his team to reposition. I watched through the scope as three hostiles flanked left. Deacon dropped one. The second went down after a brutal hand-to-hand exchange. The third aimed straight for him while he was distracted.
I exhaled.
Steady.
The world narrowed to breath and trigger pressure.
The rifle kicked back against my shoulder, and the hostile collapsed before he could fire.
Deacon staggered backwards regardless, blood blooming through his shirt from an earlier shot I hadn’t been able to prevent.
“Move, Kay,” I muttered under my breath, though he couldn’t hear me. “Don’t you dare die.”
He didn’t.
He crawled behind cover, jaw clenched, fury blazing in his eyes even as he pressed a hand to his side.
I eliminated the remaining threats in less than thirty seconds.
And just like that, the mission was technically a success.
I met him properly three days later.
Safehouse. Industrial outskirts. Rain hammering against grimy windows.
He was upright, which impressed me. Pale, stitched, but upright.
When I walked in, he was leaning against a steel table, arms folded, studying me like I was a new weapon he hadn’t decided whether to trust.
“You’re the sniper,” he said.
His voice was lower than I’d expected. Rougher.
“Yes.”
“That your whole personality?”
I arched a brow. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
A flicker of something amusement, perhaps crossed his face.
“Didn’t say I wasn’t grateful.”
“You didn’t say you were.”
Silence stretched between us, charged but not hostile. Measuring.
“I owe you my life,” he said eventually.
“No,” I replied calmly. “You owe me a clean mission report and better situational awareness next time.”
That made him huff a quiet laugh.
And that was the first crack in his armour.
I didn’t expect to see him again.
I was wrong.
Two weeks later, I was assigned to another operation. Different objective. Same ground team leader.
Deacon Kay.
When I arrived at briefing, he looked as unimpressed as I felt.
“You following me now?” he asked.
“You wish,” I said dryly. “Apparently command thinks you need supervision.”
He smirked.
The mission went smoother this time. No bullets near his heart. No dramatic rescues.
But something shifted.
He trusted my calls quicker. Moved when I told him to move. Paused when I told him to hold.
After extraction, instead of leaving immediately like I usually did, I stayed.
It was subtle at first conversations that weren’t strictly tactical.
“You always work alone?” he asked one evening while we cleaned weapons.
“Yes.”
“By choice?”
“Yes.”
He studied me, like he was trying to read what I wasn’t saying.
“Divorce makes you reassess things,” he said quietly. “What you thought was solid. What wasn’t.”
I didn’t respond.
I wasn’t good at personal. I was good at precise.
“I’ve got three kids,” he added after a moment.
There it was. The reason behind the exhaustion in his eyes.
“That’s… complicated,” I said carefully.
He gave me a sideways look. “That your way of saying I have baggage?”
“No,” I replied evenly. “That’s my way of saying children deserve stability.”
“And you don’t?”
His question caught me off guard.
No one ever asked that.
I shrugged it off. “I’m not built for stability.”
“You’re wrong.”
He said it so simply. No drama. No argument.
Just certainty.
It unsettled me more than any gunfight.
I met his children by accident.
I’d dropped by to deliver intel before deployment, expecting him to be alone.
Instead, I walked into chaos.
A half-assembled science project on the dining table. Cartoon playing loudly in the background. A little boy racing through the hallway with mismatched socks.
And Deacon barefoot, sleeves rolled up, laughing.
Laughing.
He froze when he saw me at the door.
“Y/n,” he said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Clearly.”
Three small pairs of eyes locked onto me.
“Who’s she?” Lila asked suspiciously.
Deacon hesitated.
I stepped forward first.
“I’m the person who stops your dad doing reckless things.”
Matthew gasped. “Is that even possible?”
I bit back a smile. “I’m very talented.”
Victoria studied me carefully. Intelligent. Observant.
“You’re the one who saved him,” she said.
My gaze flicked to Deacon.
He’d told them.
“Yes,” I admitted.
She walked closer, small but fearless.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Something in my chest shifted.
I wasn’t used to gratitude that wasn’t transactional.
Matthew tugged on my sleeve. “Are you like… super secret?”
“Very,” I whispered.
His eyes widened in awe.
Deacon watched the interaction like he was witnessing something fragile and unexpected.
He put the kids to bed and then he walked me to the door.
“You didn’t have to be so good with them,” he said quietly.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“That’s why it worked.”
The porch light cast warm shadows across his face.
“You told them,” I said.
“They deserve to know who keeps their dad alive.”
The air between us thickened.
“Don’t,” I murmured.
“Don’t what?”
“Make me something I’m not.”
“And what’s that?”
“Permanent.”
He stepped closer.
“I’m not asking for permanent,” he said softly. “I’m asking for honest.”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
The third time I saved his life wasn’t dramatic.
No rooftop. No cinematic shot.
Just a split-second decision inside a warehouse when a hidden assailant moved behind him.
I fired from ground level this time.
Too close.
The ringing in my ears lasted hours.
Afterwards, adrenaline fading, he grabbed my arm.
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Choosing me.”
It wasn’t accusation.
It was wonder.
I pulled my arm free gently. “You’re the mission lead.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I knew.
That was the problem.
We didn’t fall into love.
We edged into it.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
He’d invite me to stay for dinner after briefings. I’d refuse twice. Accept the third time.
I learned Victoria loved astronomy and wanted to build rockets. Matthew wanted to be “whatever Dad is but cooler”.
I helped with Lila's maths homework one evening and found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor, explaining trajectories using toy cars.
“You’d make a good mum,” Matthew said absentmindedly.
The room went silent.
Deacon stilled in the doorway.
I swallowed. “I’m not...”
“You don’t have to be,” Victoria interrupted gently. “You’re already… here.”
Children have a way of cutting through defences with terrifying precision.
Later that night, as I stood in the kitchen washing dishes I hadn’t meant to touch, Deacon came up behind me.
“You don’t scare easy,” he murmured.
“No.”
“But that did.”
“Yes.”
His hand brushed mine tentative, giving me space to pull away.
I didn’t.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted quietly. “I know how to calculate wind speed at eight hundred metres. I know how to dismantle a rifle in under thirty seconds. I don’t know how to be… this.”
“You don’t need to know,” he said. “You just need to stay.”
It sounded so simple.
It wasn’t.
My life had always been temporary. Contracts. Targets. Exit strategies.
But every time I considered walking away, I’d remember Victoria's quiet thank you. Matthew’s wide-eyed grin. The way Deacon looked at me like I wasn’t just a weapon.
I was something worth keeping.
The turning point came unexpectedly.
School presentation day.
Victoria had asked if I could attend.
“I’ll be in the back,” I’d warned.
She’d nodded seriously. “That’s fine.”
I stood near the wall of the crowded hall, uncomfortable in civilian clothes, scanning exits out of habit.
Victoria's project was on orbital mechanics.
When she finished, she gestured towards the audience.
“And I’d like to thank Y/n,” she said clearly, “for teaching me about angles and wind and how precision matters.”
Parents turned to look.
Heat crept up my neck.
Afterwards, she ran to me.
“You came,” she breathed.
“Of course I did.”
Behind her, Deacon watched us.
There was something in his eyes I’d never seen directed at me before.
Not gratitude.
Not admiration.
Love.
Unfiltered.
Certain.
That night, after the children were asleep, we stood on the porch again.
Full circle.
“You’re already part of this family,” he said.
“I’m dangerous.”
“So am I.”
“I leave.”
“Then don’t.”
The simplicity of it undid me.
“I don’t know how to stay,” I whispered.
He stepped closer, resting his forehead lightly against mine.
“Then learn.”
His hands framed my face like I was something precious rather than lethal.
“I don’t need perfect,” he murmured. “I don’t need safe. I need you.”
For once, I didn’t calculate risks.
I didn’t plan exits.
I just chose.
“I’m not promising forever,” I said.
He smiled faintly. “I’ll take today.”
So I kissed him.
Soft at first. Careful.
Then certain.
Not a spark of chaos.
Not a reckless collision.
A decision.
Months passed.
Fewer solo contracts. More coordinated missions.
Dinners became routine. Movie nights. Science fairs. Quiet mornings with coffee and sunlight spilling across the kitchen table.
Matthew started calling me when he couldn’t find his trainers.
Lila asked my opinion before cutting her hair.
Deacon would watch it all with that same quiet wonder, like he still couldn’t believe I was there.
One evening, after the children were in bed, he pulled me into the garden.
“You know they see it, don’t you?”
“See what?”
“How you look at me.”
I raised a brow. “How do I look at you?”
“Like you’re lining up a shot.”
I laughed softly. “Old habits.”
He sobered.
“They see that you’d choose me. Every time.”
He was right.
I would.
Not because he was the mission.
Not because I owed him.
But because somewhere along the way, saving his life had turned into sharing it.
I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath.
“I don’t feel temporary anymore,” I admitted.
His arms tightened around me.
“Good,” he whispered into my hair. “Because we’re not.”
Your last Jamie fic has me thiningggg… how about Jamie f*cking the reader whilst he’s dressed as Vecna xox
MasterList
Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist
The first thing I noticed when I stepped onto the set was the smell of artificial smoke and burnt coffee.
The second was that everyone seemed mildly traumatised by whatever they’d just filmed.
Season four of Stranger Things was apparently not for the faint-hearted.
I’d promised Jamie I’d visit weeks ago, but filming schedules and my own work had kept colliding. So when I finally walked past the production assistants and flashing equipment into the maze of trailers, I felt a little thrill of anticipation.
My boyfriend was currently playing the most terrifying villain on television.
Which, frankly, was still surreal.
A runner pointed me towards his trailer with a knowing grin. “He’s on lunch. Still in costume.”
Still in costume.
I paused outside the trailer door and knocked lightly.
“Enter, mortal,” came a muffled, theatrical voice from inside.
I bit back a smile and opened the door.
And there he was.
Jamie Campbell Bower.
Only not quite.
He was sitting cross-legged on the small sofa, long limbs folded awkwardly, a takeaway salad container balanced precariously in his lap.
Except he was entirely in Vecna prosthetics.
Greyed, veined skin. That intricate lattice of sinewy detailing climbing up his neck and over his scalp. Eyes pale and piercing beneath the heavy contact lenses.
He looked horrifying.
And yet.
“Hi,” I said, trying not to stare too obviously.
He slowly lifted his gaze to me, dragging it up from my shoes to my face with deliberate intensity.
“Ah,” he murmured in that deep, resonant Vecna voice. “You’ve found me.”
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it.
“You’re eating quinoa,” I observed.
“The dark lord requires fibre,” he replied solemnly.
I laughed.
Even under layers of prosthetic nightmare fuel, his mouth curved in that familiar, wicked smile.
“Come here,” he said, dropping the voice instantly and patting the space beside him. “You look far too normal for this environment.”
I crossed the small space, taking in the details up close. The makeup was even more impressive near enough to see the texture ridges and shadows that made him look less human, more otherworldly.
He caught me staring.
“What?” he asked lightly.
“It’s just… unsettling.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “In a bad way?”
“In a ‘you look like you crawled out of someone’s nightmares’ way.”
“Darling,” he said, switching back into the Vecna timbre so smoothly it sent a small shiver down my spine, “I am someone’s nightmare.”
God.
That voice.
Even layered through the prosthetics and distortion, it vibrated low and controlled.
I swallowed.
He noticed.
“Oh?” he said softly, leaning closer. “Did that do something for you?”
“No,” I said too quickly.
His ruined-looking eyebrow ridge arched.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I folded my arms, trying to recover composure. “It’s just odd seeing my boyfriend look like… that.”
He glanced down at himself. “Rude.”
“You know what I mean.”
He leaned back, stretching his long legs out so one boot nudged lightly against my calf.
“Be honest,” he said. “Scale of one to traumatised child how frightening am I?”
I hesitated.
His eyes gleamed.
“Be very careful,” he added.
I laughed despite myself. “Fine. Visually? Ten. Absolutely horrifying.”
“Excellent.”
“But,” I continued before I could second-guess myself, “the voice is… something else.”
His expression sharpened with interest.
“Something else?” he repeated slowly.
I shouldn’t have said it.
I absolutely shouldn’t have said it.
But the truth was sitting right there between us.
“It’s honestly a bit of a turn-on,” I admitted, heat creeping up my cheeks. “Especially when you do the whole slow, ominous speech thing.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then his smile turned predatory.
“Oh, is it now?”
I immediately regretted everything.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just confess that.”
“Absolutely not,” he said smoothly, setting his salad aside with exaggerated care. “You can’t just drop that information and expect me not to explore it.”
“Jamie...”
But he was already shifting.
He sat up straighter, shoulders rolling back. His head tilted just slightly downward so he could look at me through his lashes.
When he spoke again, it wasn’t Jamie.
It was Vecna.
Low. Measured. Darkly amused.
“You find this form… appealing?”
I felt my stomach flip.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered weakly.
He leaned closer, voice dipping further.
“I thought you feared me.”
“I do,” I breathed.
“Mm.” His fingers still fully prosthetic and veined reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was surprisingly soft. “Fear and desire are often so delightfully intertwined.”
I inhaled sharply.
He noticed everything.
He always did.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” I said, trying to regain some footing.
He smiled lazily. “You’re the one who admitted to being turned on by my murderous alter ego.”
“That was meant to stay inside my head.”
“And yet,” he murmured, leaning even closer, “here we are.”
His voice wrapped around me like smoke.
There’s something about confidence especially his particular brand of theatrical, playful confidence that makes it impossible to look away.
Even dressed as a literal nightmare creature.
He traced one prosthetic finger lightly down my arm.
“Tell me,” he continued in that rich, resonant tone, “what exactly about it tempts you?”
I laughed nervously. “This feels like a trap.”
“It absolutely is.”
I rolled my eyes, though my pulse was racing.
“It’s just… the control, I suppose,” I admitted quietly. “The way you speak like you already know everything. Like you’re five steps ahead.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“Control,” he echoed.
“You’re impossible,” I said.
“And you,” he replied smoothly, “are blushing.”
I hated that he was right.
“You realise you look like a sentient tree root,” I pointed out weakly.
He leaned back, pretending to consider that. “A very charismatic tree root.”
“I never said charismatic.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He shifted again, this time switching fully back to himself.
“You know what’s funny?” he said conversationally. “Under all this latex and glue, I’m still just me.”
“I know.”
“And yet you respond differently.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t psychoanalyse me in monster makeup.”
He laughed, the sound warm and unmistakably Jamie.
Then, without warning, he dropped back into the voice.
“But perhaps,” he said softly, “you like seeing the darker parts.”
My breath hitched again.
“That’s not fair.”
He grinned. “Oh, it’s entirely fair.”
He reached for my hand this time, lacing his prosthetic fingers through mine. The contrast was absurd monstrous exterior, familiar warmth beneath.
“You do realise,” he said gently now, his real voice threading through, “that I find it incredibly endearing you’re flustered by this.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You are positively incandescent.”
I swatted his shoulder lightly.
He caught my wrist easily.
“Careful,” he murmured, slipping back into the Vecna cadence. “You wouldn’t want to provoke me.”
“Oh my God,” I muttered, though I couldn’t stop smiling.
He leaned in until his forehead ridged and textured and entirely inhuman nearly touched mine.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“Say what?”
“That it turns you on.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Say it.”
I hesitated.
He waited.
Patient. Amused. Infuriatingly sure of himself.
“It’s a turn-on,” I mumbled.
His grin widened slowly.
“Good,” he said.
Then he shifted fully into Vecna once more, voice deepening into that velvety menace.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, “what I could do with that information.”
A genuine shiver ran down my spine.
He saw it.
His laugh was low and pleased.
“I should visit set more often,” I muttered.
“You absolutely should.”
He brushed his nose lightly against mine prosthetics and all.
“Just wait until you see the massive cock that Vecna is hiding,” he added teasingly.
I burst out laughing.
The laughter hung in the air like smoke, thick and intoxicating.
I was still processing the absurdity of Jamie’s last comment when he suddenly shifted, that predatory grin morphing into something more intense more commanding.
“Do you want to see?” he asked, voice smooth and deep.
I could feel my breath hitch, caught somewhere between thrill and disbelief.
Before I could respond, he reached for my waist, his hands surprisingly gentle despite the monstrous façade.
He pulled me closer, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist, grounding myself against him.
The contrast of his hard exterior melted away as I settled in, realising just how real this moment was.
I felt electric, the thrill of power coursing through me as I perched on the edge of his transformation.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, half-teasing, half-breathless.
His smile widened, dangerously charming under the guise of Vecna.
“Taking control,” he answered, his voice dropping an octave, rich with dark promise.
My pulse quickened at the implication.
With a swift motion, he leaned back against the sofa, bringing me along with him.
The world around us faded it was just me and him, the atmosphere charged with tension.
I held onto his shoulders, feeling the cool, textured surface of the prosthetics beneath my fingers.
It was both exhilarating and terrifying.
His gloved palm slid down the curve of my spine, slow enough for me to feel every ridge of latex, until he met the end of my skirt as he pulled it up to my stomach.
The same hand slipped inside, touching the soft cotton of my knickers, hooking two prosthetic fingers under the edge of the fabric and dragging it sideways.
Cool air kissed me first, then the deliberate brush of his thumb. My heartbeat felt like a drumroll.
He didn’t look away. “Still afraid?” he said as he unzipped himself and I felt how rock hard he already was.
“Yes,” I breathed out.
“Look at you,” he murmured, the dark timbre of his voice sending shivers down my spine as he inserted himself.
“Riding a creature of nightmares. How does it feel?”
“It feels…” I faltered, struggling to match his intensity. “It feels like I’m riding a real villain.”
He chuckled softly, rich with amusement. “And do you enjoy that?”
The question hung between us, laden with unspoken desires.
I swallowed hard, leaning closer, letting myself stretch to him. “Maybe I do,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Good. You should always embrace the darkness.”
In one swift movement, he shifted, and suddenly, I found myself pressed against the trailer wall, his body pinning me there.
The weight of him was both daunting and thrilling, and I gasped, feeling the rush of adrenaline surge through me.
“Your fear is almost palpable,” he said, voice husky, vibrating with the power he wielded effortlessly. “Tell me, do you want to let go?”
I could hardly breathe, anticipation mingling with exhilaration. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” he replied, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re mine now. And I shall show you everything.”
He captured my gaze, and in that moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
The light from the trailer door flickered like a heartbeat, but all I saw were those piercing eyes, swirling with dark intentions.
I shivered, the thrill of surrender tingling at the edges of my consciousness.
“Then show me,” I breathed, my own voice trembling with the weight of my words.
“Prepare yourself,” he whispered, and I couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or a warning.
But there was a push, firm and unhurried, and then he was inside me again with one long, deliberate slide until the breath left my lungs in a single, soundless gasp.
The wall bit cold against my shoulder blades while his body stove-hot pinned me there.
I felt every ridge of latex on his hips when they rolled forward, grinding me into the corrugated metal with slow, inexorable thrusts.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he ordered, voice still dripping that velvet Vecna menace.
I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried the contact lenses had turned his irises pale floodlights, and behind them Jamie burned just as bright. Each time he pushed deeper the trailer gave a faint metallic rattle, like it, too, was protesting the intrusion.
I hooked one heel over the small of his back, fingers clawing at the prosthetic shoulder seams for purchase, hardly noticing how the glue tugged.
“Feel that?” One sharp snap of his hips punctuated the question; pleasure flared, white-hot, behind my eyes. “That’s what fear tastes like when it flips you upside down.”
He set a rhythm low, rolling strokes first, then harder, each impact driving little huffs of sound out of me that sounded embarrassingly loud in the tiny space.
My nails scraped over the textured skin on his neck and he hissed through clenched teeth, the monster mask flexing as his jaw worked.
Somewhere under all that latex I heard him groan, Jamie-true breaking through: rough, appreciative, greedy.
My thighs trembled at the angle he’d found was perfect, merciless.
He dragged a gloved thumb across my mouth and I tasted silicone and sweat, I opened wider and sucked it in without thinking.
He laughed, darkly delighted, and used the leverage to press tighter against me, pelvis grinding in tight circles that made sparks crackle up my spine.
“Close?” The word slipped out as a growl.
I could only nod, forehead bumping the cool prosthetic crest of his collarbone.
He shifted again, angling higher, and the next thrust sent me there sudden, weightless, a silent explosion that shook through every nerve ending.
I clenched around him hard and he swore, something low and reverent, and then he let himself follow, hips jerking twice, three times, pressing me so flat to the wall I felt the vibration of his release all the way down to my toes.
For a moment we stayed locked like that, breathing hard enough to steam the narrow windows.
When he finally eased back, the prosthetics made a wet peeling sound where sweat had loosened the edges. He braced a palm against the wall beside my head, steadying us both.
“Pretty sure we just scandalised the entire props department,” I murmured, voice shaky.
Jamie voice softening back into himself pressed a kiss to my temple that felt jarringly gentle against the horror of his face. “Worth it,” he said, and I believed him.
Is it possible for you to perhaps do a Dustin Henderson x Reader?
In which the reader is Eddie's sister and is already dating Dustin from Season 4(sorry Suzie)
Takes place in Season 5, when Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, Dustin(and reader) are in the upside down at the lab.
And Dustin and Reader get into a verbal fight
Because they both changed after Eddie's death. Dustin was distant, kept being reckless at school, stubborn, sarcastic
But Reader? Reader went from being the coolest, the bright Reader 'The Weirdo' Munson to being quiet and dim 'loser'.
And it bothered Dustin with how much Reader changed, and it bothered Reader how much Dustin changed.
Dustin thinks the reader's pathetic
Reader thinks Dustin is embarrassing
And they both made sure they voiced it
Poor Steve didn't step in until Reader flung the Rubiks Cube on the floor in frustration.
.
I hope that's a good enough summary to go off of...and I also hope it isn't too much trouble
MasterList
Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist
The Upside Down smells like burnt air and grief.
It’s thicker this time. Heavier. Like it remembers us.
We’re standing in what used to be Hawkins Lab or the warped, rotting reflection of it. The tiles are cracked, tendrils crawling along the walls like veins. Spores drift lazily through the air, settling in my hair, on my lashes. Everything is quiet in the way a held breath is quiet.
Nancy and Jonathan are up ahead, whispering over a map they’ve sketched of the corridors. Steve’s doing a slow perimeter check, nail-bat resting over his shoulder.
And Dustin’s pacing.
He hasn’t stopped moving since we dropped through the gate.
He talks too much now. Fills silence like he’s afraid of what’ll grow in it.
“Okay,” he says, gesturing vaguely at a mouldering bank of computers, “if this is mirroring the old layout, then the east corridor should loop back around to the isolation wing. Which, statistically speaking, is a terrible place to hang out, but also strategically important.”
Nancy nods distractedly.
I sit on one of the overturned desks and twist the edge of my sleeve around my fingers.
He hasn’t looked at me properly since we got here.
He glances. Checks I’m still upright. Still breathing.
But he doesn’t look.
I used to be the loud one.
Eddie used to call me “The Weirder Munson sibling”. Said I was cooler than him because I didn’t try.
I used to talk over Dustin. Used to finish his sentences and argue about band rankings and beat him at Mario Kart and drag him into nonsense just to see him laugh.
Now I barely speak unless someone asks me something directly.
Grief rearranges you.
Sometimes it hollows you out.
“Y/N,” Dustin says sharply, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Are you even listening?”
I blink at him. “Yes.”
“Then what did I just say?”
I hesitate.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s what I thought.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You don’t have to be a prick about it.”
Jonathan glances back at us.
Dustin exhales sharply through his nose. “We’re in the Upside Down, Y/N. I need you present.”
“I am present.”
“Physically,” he mutters.
Something in my chest flinches.
Steve looks between us but stays quiet.
I hop off the desk. “Sorry I’m not performing to your standards.”
“God, that’s not what I meant.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied you’re zoning out in a hell dimension. That’s concerning.”
“And pacing like a maniac and barking at everyone isn’t?”
Nancy clears her throat softly. “Maybe we should...”
“I’m fine,” Dustin and I say at the same time.
We stare at each other.
There was a time when that would’ve ended in laughter.
Now it feels like a standoff.
He looks different.
Not physically still the same curls, the same earnest eyes.
But they’re sharper now. Guarded.
After Eddie my brother died in this place.
Dustin built armour out of sarcasm and stubbornness.
He picks fights at school now. Talks back to teachers. Got detention three times last month for mouthing off.
He acts reckless like he’s daring something to hit him.
Like he wants it to.
And I... I stopped being me too.
Stopped wearing the loud shirts. Stopped correcting people when they called me weird. Stopped raising my hand in class.
I shrank.
It’s easier to be small.
Safer.
And he hates it.
“I just need you to try,” he says, voice lower now.
I laugh humourlessly. “I am trying.”
“At what? Being invisible?”
That lands.
I stiffen. “At least I’m not trying to get myself killed.”
Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look.
Steve steps a little closer, sensing the shift.
Dustin’s eyes flash. “Oh, here we go.”
“You run into danger like you’ve got something to prove,” I snap. “Like you’re the only one who lost someone.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No? You skip class. You mouth off. You act like nothing matters.”
He scoffs. “Because apparently feeling things the wrong way makes me the villain.”
“You don’t get to be reckless,” I say, my voice rising despite the oppressive quiet around us. “Not after him.”
His face hardens.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then act like it.”
“Act like what?” he shoots back. “Like you?”
There it is.
The thing he’s been holding.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, cold.
“It means you disappeared,” he says. “You used to be the coolest person I knew. Now you barely talk. You let people walk all over you. You...” He gestures at me vaguely. “You just… gave up.”
The words hit like slaps.
“I didn’t give up.”
“You did.”
“I survived,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You folded.”
Something ugly and furious twists in my stomach.
“And you’re embarrassing,” I fire back before I can stop myself.
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You think acting out makes you deep? Picking fights with freshmen and getting detention is pathetic.”
His mouth falls open slightly.
“At least I’m doing something,” he snaps.
“Yeah. Making Eddie’s death about you.”
Silence.
Nancy inhales sharply.
Dustin goes very still.
“That’s low,” he says quietly.
My heart pounds. “You don’t get to decide how I grieve.”
“And you don’t get to decide that I’m grieving wrong!”
“You’re not grieving,” I say, voice shaking. “You’re self-destructing.”
He laughs bitterly. “And you’re what? A ghost?”
Better a ghost than a spectacle, I almost say.
Instead: “At least I’m not humiliating myself.”
“Humiliating?” he repeats.
“You’re reckless and sarcastic and you push everyone away,” I say. “You’re not the Dustin I fell in love with.”
His face crumples for half a second before the anger seals it back up.
“Well,” he says sharply, “you’re not the Y/N I fell in love with either.”
That does it.
My vision blurs.
Steve steps forward. “Okay, guys...”
“No,” I say, voice cracking. “He wants to talk? Let’s talk.”
Dustin throws his hands up. “Fine!”
“You think I wanted to change?” I demand. “You think I enjoy feeling like the volume’s been turned down on my entire personality?”
“Then turn it back up!”
“I can’t!”
The words rip out of me.
The confession hangs there, raw.
“I can’t,” I repeat, quieter. “Because the last time I was loud and brave and stupidly fearless, my brother died in this place.”
Dustin flinches.
“I was the cool Munson,” I continue, tears slipping down despite my efforts. “I was the one who really didn’t care what anyone thought. And where did that get us?”
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely.
“You think I don’t replay it? Him running back? Him deciding to be brave?” My voice fractures. “Bravery got him killed.”
“That’s not fair,” Dustin whispers.
“Nothing about this is fair!”
The Rubik’s Cube in his hand he’s been turning it absentmindedly the entire time clicks faster and faster under his fingers.
“You don’t get to shrink,” he says desperately. “You don’t get to let them win like that.”
“I’m not letting anyone win!”
“You’re letting fear run your life!”
“And you’re trying to outrun yours!”
He takes a step towards me.
“You think I don’t feel guilty?” he demands. “You think I don’t wake up hearing him?”
My breath stutters.
“Then stop acting like you’re invincible!”
“I’m not acting...”
“Yes, you are! You charge in first every time! You argue with everyone! You get into pointless fights. You don’t sleep!”
“At least I’m still me!”
The cruelty in that hits before he can soften it.
Something inside me snaps.
And suddenly I’m so tired.
So angry.
So hurt.
“God, you’re such an idiot,” I whisper.
“Right back at you.”
I see red.
Before I can think, I snatch the Rubik’s Cube from his hands and hurl it at the floor.
It hits the cracked tiles with a sharp, plastic crack and bursts apart, coloured squares scattering across the grime.
The sound echoes horribly in the stillness.
Everyone freezes.
Dustin stares at the pieces like I’ve just smashed something sacred.
Steve moves immediately.
“Okay!” he says firmly, stepping between us. “That’s enough.”
Nancy touches Dustin’s arm, but he shrugs her off.
I’m breathing hard, fists clenched at my sides.
Steve looks at me first. “Y/N.”
Then at Dustin. “Henderson.”
Neither of us respond.
“This is not the time,” Steve says, voice steady but edged. “We are in literal monster territory.”
“Tell that to him,” I mutter.
“Tell that to her,” Dustin shoots back.
Steve rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
Jonathan quietly begins picking up the shattered cube pieces.
The sight makes my throat tighten.
“I didn’t mean...” I start, then stop.
Dustin kneels and gathers a red square between his fingers.
“That was Eddie’s,” he says quietly.
The words land like a punch.
“I know,” I whisper.
He swallows hard.
For a moment, the anger drains, leaving something far worse.
Grief.
“I carry it so I don’t forget,” he says, voice trembling despite himself.
I sink down onto a nearby bench, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t want to forget,” I say softly. “I just don’t know how to remember without breaking.”
He looks at me then.
And I see it.
The boy I love.
Buried under layers of guilt and fury.
“You’re not pathetic,” he says after a long silence. “I just… miss you.”
My chest aches.
“I’m still here,” I whisper.
“Not like before.”
“Neither are you.”
He lets out a shaky breath.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to be,” Nancy says gently from behind him.
We both glance at her.
She gives us a sad, knowing look.
“Grief changes people,” she says. “It doesn’t mean you’ve lost each other.”
Dustin looks back at the cube pieces in his hands.
“I don’t think you’re embarrassing,” I say quietly. “I’m just scared.”
He nods faintly.
“I don’t think you’re pathetic either,” he admits. “I just… hate seeing you small.”
“I hate seeing you reckless.”
A fragile truce hangs between us.
Steve exhales dramatically. “Right. Emotional breakthroughs are great. Love them. Let’s have the rest of them after we survive.”
Despite everything, a tiny huff of laughter escapes me.
Dustin glances at me.
Tentative.
“Truce?” he asks.
I nod.
“Truce.”
He hesitates, then reaches for my hand.
His fingers are cold.
I squeeze them anyway.
We’re not fixed.
Not even close.
But Dustin squeezes my hand and I know we will work though this.
Request: The reader is involved in a case and a witness. They take turns to protect her and everyone thinks she is one of a kind and perfect for Deacon. So they stay in touch afterwards
The first time I met Deacon I was standing barefoot in the middle of my own kitchen, gripping a tea towel like it might stop my hands from shaking.
There were blue lights flashing against the windows. Voices firm and controlled filtered in through the smashed back door. I remember thinking, absurdly, that I hadn’t even finished the washing up. That the kettle was still warm.
“Miss Y/L/N?” a voice called from the hallway. Deep. Steady. The sort of voice that didn’t rise even when everything else did.
“In here,” I managed.
He appeared in my doorway in full tactical gear, broad shoulders filling the frame, weapon lowered but ready. His eyes were sharp, assessing everything at once the broken glass, the overturned chair, me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You’re safe now,” he said at last.
And somehow, I believed him.
It had been a normal Tuesday. I’d stayed late at the gallery where I worked cataloguing pieces for an upcoming exhibition. When I’d finally left, I’d noticed a car idling across the street. I hadn’t thought much of it.
I should have.
I’d seen something I wasn’t meant to see that afternoon. Two men arguing in the alley beside the gallery one of them a well-known property developer who’d been in the papers recently for “irregularities”. I hadn’t recognised the other man until later, when I saw his face on the news dead in what police were calling a “suspected gang-related shooting”.
But it hadn’t been gang-related. I’d seen the exchange. The envelope. The shove. The threat.
And apparently, someone had seen me see it.
So when my back door was forced open that evening, when footsteps crept through my house, I did the only sensible thing and locked myself in the kitchen and called the police.
Enter Deacon Kay and his team.
I gave my statement at the station the next morning.
Deacon sat across from me in the interview room, helmet off now, dark hair slightly flattened from it. He wasn’t officially assigned to take statements he was tactical, not investigative but he’d stayed.
“You don’t have to rush,” he told me gently when my voice wavered.
“I’m not rushing,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “I just don’t want to forget anything.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You’re doing fine.”
I described everything the alley, the envelope, the words I’d caught. The look on the developer’s face when he’d realised I was there.
Deacon didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
When I finished, the detective across from me exhaled low. “That’s… incredibly helpful, Miss Y/L/N.”
“I’d prefer helpful to dead,” I muttered.
That earned me a proper smile from Deacon.
By the afternoon, things had escalated.
The developer who had expensive lawyers and very public influence had learned there was a witness. Me.
And suddenly, my flat was no longer considered secure.
“We’re putting you under protective watch,” the detective explained. “Rotational coverage. You’ll have officers with you at all times until we can make an arrest.”
“At all times?” I echoed faintly.
Deacon stepped forward. “You won’t be alone.”
There was something in the way he said it. Not professional. Not detached.
A promise.
They moved me to a safe house on the outskirts of the city a nondescript bungalow with reinforced locks and too many cameras.
The first night, it was Deacon’s shift.
“You don’t have to hover,” I told him, watching as he checked the windows for the third time.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re absolutely hovering.”
He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t deny it.
I perched on the edge of the sofa, hugging a cushion to my chest. “Is it always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Dangerous.”
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Some days more than others.”
“And you just… go home after?”
“Yeah.”
“To a normal life?”
He hesitated. “I try to.”
There was something behind that answer. Something unspoken.
I studied him for a moment. “You don’t strike me as someone who does anything halfway.”
That made him glance at me properly. His gaze was intense but not uncomfortable.
“You don’t strike me as someone who backs down,” he countered.
I swallowed. “I was terrified last night.”
“But you still called it in. You still gave a statement.”
“I like to think I’ve got principles.”
He nodded once. “That’s rare.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just… charged.
“You know,” I said lightly, “this is the worst house share I’ve ever had. You haven’t even asked about my star sign.”
“I don’t need your star sign.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“I can already tell you’re stubborn.”
I gasped. “Rude.”
He smiled properly then. And it did something to my chest I wasn’t prepared for.
The team rotated in twelve-hour shifts.
Tan brought takeaway and asked polite questions about art.
Street teased me relentlessly and told me I was “cool under pressure”.
Luca insisted on fixing the squeaky gate outside.
But it was Deacon who felt different.
He never treated me like I was fragile.
One evening, when news broke that the developer had been formally charged but released on bail, I felt the panic crawl up my spine.
“He’s still out there,” I said quietly.
Deacon was at the kitchen counter, cleaning his sidearm with meticulous care. “Yes.”
“And if he wants to make an example of me...”
“He won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
He looked up then, eyes steady. “No. But I can promise that anyone who comes through that door will have to get through me first.”
The way he said it made my throat tighten.
“That’s a lot to put on yourself,” I whispered.
He shrugged slightly. “It’s the job.”
“It’s more than that.”
His jaw flexed, just slightly.
I realised then that protecting people wasn’t just what he did. It was who he was.
A week in, things took a turn.
We were driving back from a scheduled meeting with prosecutors when a car began tailing us. It wasn’t subtle.
“Deacon,” I said quietly from the passenger seat.
“I see it.”
His voice had shifted calm, focused. He took a sharp turn without signalling. The car followed.
My pulse pounded in my ears.
“Seatbelt tight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
What followed was a blur of controlled speed and precise manoeuvres. He didn’t panic. Didn’t shout. He simply drove.
When the trailing car tried to cut us off, he swerved cleanly, accelerating just enough to create distance before turning into a secured police facility lot.
Within seconds, uniformed officers were swarming.
The other car sped off.
Inside the vehicle, my hands were shaking.
Deacon reached over without thinking, his hand covering mine on the console.
“You’re alright,” he murmured.
I looked at our hands. At the warmth.
Slowly, he realised what he’d done and withdrew but not before I squeezed his fingers.
“I know,” I said softly.
After that, the team treated the situation even more seriously.
“You’re handling this better than half the rookies we get,” Street told me one afternoon.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is,” Luca insisted. “Trust me.”
Tan smiled. “You’ve got backbone.”
They said it casually, but there was sincerity behind it.
One evening, as they were switching shifts, I overheard Street mutter to Luca, “She’s perfect for him, man.”
“Shut up,” Luca replied, though he was grinning.
Perfect for him?
I pretended not to hear.
But later, when Deacon handed me a cup of tea exactly how I liked it, milk first I couldn’t help smiling.
“Your team talks,” I said lightly.
He groaned softly. “I’m going to regret asking, but about what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“Apparently I’m one of a kind.”
He studied me. “You are.”
The teasing tone was gone.
The air shifted.
“Deacon…”
“We don’t have to...” he started.
“I know.”
We both did.
I was a witness. He was my protection. There were lines.
But lines blur when you spend hours talking about everything and nothing. When you learn someone’s coffee order. When you see the way they rub the back of their neck when they’re tired.
Before I could change my mind, I kissed him, the kind of kiss that was needy and full of desire.
He let one hand drift up my spine and I shivered, I put my hands to the hem of my t-shirt and glanced at him for permission, when he nodded I pulled it over my head.
I wore nothing else underneath my T-shirt. His eyes raking over my skin which was dotted with freckles.
Heat radiated off his skin even though his uniform.
He ran my hand up my side, over my ribs, and traced my waist.
He slid down so we were level, face to face, nose to nose. His breath tickling my mouth.
“Please don't go gentle with me,” I said in a soft voice.
He responded by kissing me, open-mouthed and hungry as he lifted me onto the edge of the counter, he opened my knees with his own thighs the heat radiating off of him.
We were reckless for doing this if someone had breached the perimeter right then, we would be caught in such a compromising position but I couldn't find it in myself to care enough to stop..
I took his shirt off first dragging my nails down his chest making him shiver.
Slowly a pool of our clothes laid on the floor. His skin was hot, fever-bright under my palm.
He dropped to his knees. I just stared, lips parted, pupils blown wide as he pressed his mouth to my thigh, breathing in smelling me. He licked a stripe up the inside of my leg, stopping just shy of where I was wet and wanting.
He spread me with both hands, feasting on me while I started to shake, the muscles in my legs fluttering under his palms. He bit the inside of my thigh, just hard enough to leave a mark, and I whimpered.
My thighs were twitching under his palms but he took his time, slow at first, tracing me with the flat of his tongue, building me up.
My breath hitched, a stuttered gasp, both hands fisted in his hair so tight it must have hurt. But he didn’t seem to mind.
I was so wet and slick against his tongue. He was moving it in slow circles, then a fast flick, just when I had caught a rhythm. The he latched his mouth to my clit and sucked hard.
And I swear I let out a noise I’d never heard from myself.
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
The shudder that ran through me from scalp to toes was like a wave. The sound of my orgasm muffled by own hand.
The trial date was set faster than expected.
My testimony would be crucial.
On the morning I took the stand, Deacon wasn’t assigned to courtroom security.
He came anyway.
He stood at the back, hands clasped in front of him, eyes never leaving me.
When the defence attorney tried to trip me up, tried to suggest I’d “misinterpreted” what I saw, I felt the old fear flicker.
Then I caught Deacon’s gaze.
Steady. Certain.
I lifted my chin.
“No,” I said clearly. “I know what I saw.”
The courtroom fell silent.
It took two days.
Two exhausting, nerve-wracking days.
But in the end, the verdict came back guilty.
As the judge read the sentence, I felt something unclench in my chest for the first time in weeks.
Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions. Officers formed a barrier.
Deacon guided me carefully towards the car, one hand hovering at the small of my back.
“You did good,” he said quietly.
“So did you.”
“I just stood there.”
“You were there for me I needed you there.”
That mattered more than he realised.
Protective detail officially ended three days later.
I stood in my now-repaired kitchen, the house feeling strangely quiet.
“You’ll be alright?” Deacon asked.
“Yes,” I said. And this time, it was true.
An awkward pause settled between us.
“So,” I said, forcing a small smile. “I suppose this is goodbye.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Doesn’t have to be.”
My heart skipped. “No?”
He cleared his throat. “You mentioned that exhibition opening next month.”
I blinked. “You remembered that?”
“I remember things.”
“Like my star sign?”
He smirked faintly. “Still don’t need it.”
I stepped closer. Close enough to see the faint crease between his brows.
“You could come,” I said softly. “As a civilian.”
“And not hover?”
“Absolutely not hover.”
He considered that.
“I might check the exits.”
“Of course you will.”
A beat.
“Y/N,” he said, voice quieter now. “You were brave. Not just because you testified. But because you didn’t let this change who you are.”
I swallowed. “It helped having someone who believed I could handle it.”
Request: The reader is Chris friend and a teacher. In her holidays she visits the Squad and at their free day they decide to make a picnic. They get a call and the readers stays with the kids. They decide to play matchmaker and ship the reader with their dad. They make plans and even get the squad to help them with their plot.
If anyone ever asks how I, a perfectly rational secondary school English teacher with a colour-coded planner and a firm belief in professional boundaries, ended up being ambushed into a romantic picnic conspiracy, I shall blame the children.
It began, as most questionable decisions do, with a free day.
I had been friends with Chris for years long before I became “Miss Y/L/N” to thirty hormonal Year Nines and she became the formidable officer everyone respected and feared in equal measure. During half term, when the marking pile threatened to bury me alive, she insisted I visit.
“Come stay with us,” she’d said over FaceTime. “You need actual vitamin D. And the Squad adore you.”.
When I arrived at headquarters with a tin of homemade shortbread I was greeted warmly enough.
“Teacher’s here,” Tan announced as I walked in.
“I have a name,” I replied primly.
“Yeah,” Chris grinned. “But ‘teacher’ is funnier.”
Deacon had looked up from his paperwork then, offering me that steady, kind smile of his.
“Good to see you, Y/N.”
There was something about Deacon that always settled a room. Measured. Thoughtful. A quiet gravity.
Which is precisely why what happened next is so mortifying.
It was a rare free day. No immediate cases. No looming operations. Just sunshine and the luxury of time.
Luca, suggested a picnic.
Within half an hour, it had spiralled into a full operation. Blankets. Drinks. Far too many chips. Chris insisted on making sandwiches “properly,” which apparently meant with an unnecessary level of precision.
We chose a wide stretch of park, not far from where Deacon’s children could run safely. Lila and Victoria immediately claimed me as their own. Matthew pretended indifference but hovered nearby, asking clever questions.
I adored them.
That was my first mistake.
We’d just settled Tan and Luca arguing about music choices, Chris stretching out dramatically on the blanket when Hondo’s phone rang.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Even I felt it.
A call.
They stepped aside. Brief words. Short nods.
Chris returned first. “We’ve got to go.”
Of course they did.
Within minutes the easy laughter was replaced with clipped efficiency. Gear retrieved. Vehicles called.
Deacon crouched in front of his children, voice calm.
“I need to go to work, alright? You stay with Y/N. Listen to her.”
All three nodded solemnly.
“I always listen,” Victoria said sweetly.
I did not know then that this was a lie.
They were gone in a blur of sirens and urgency, leaving me on a sun-dappled blanket with three children, several drinks, and the distinct feeling I’d just been handed a mission of my own.
We ate. We laughed. We played an elaborate game involving imaginary dragons and suspiciously tactical hiding strategies (Matthew is absolutely his father’s son).
It was only after lunch, when Lila announced we needed a “meeting”, that things took a turn.
She stood on the edge of the picnic blanket like a tiny commander.
“Y/N,” she began, hands on hips, “do you like our dad?”
I choked on my lemonade.
“I...what?”
Victoria leaned in conspiratorially. “Because we think you should marry him.”
Matthew nodded, far too seriously. “Statistically, you are compatible.”
I stared at them.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re kind,” Lila continued, counting on her fingers. “You help people. You read a lot. Dad reads a lot.”
“That is not the only requirement for matrimony,” I said weakly.
Victoria clasped her hands. “You make him laugh.”
That silenced me.
I hadn’t realised that.
Matthew crouched beside me. “He’s sad sometimes,” he said quietly. “Not in a bad way. Just… lonely.”
My heart did an inconvenient thing in my chest.
“He’s not lonely,” I protested gently. “He has all of you.”
“Yes,” Lila agreed. “But he needs someone to argue with.”
I blinked. “Argue?”
Victoria nodded enthusiastically. “He smiles when you disagree with him.”
Once again begging for sex ed teacher Steve x virgin or no romantic attention reader like a year younger than him or something
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The first thing I learned about Hawkins High was that the photocopier jams at the worst possible moments.
The second thing I learned was that Steve Harrington exists.
It was my third week as the new history teacher, and I was still in that fragile, slightly panicked stage of pretending I absolutely knew what I was doing.
I did not.
I was twenty-four, freshly qualified, and still half-convinced someone was going to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mistake. We meant to hire an actual adult.”
Instead, I stood at the front of Room 204 trying to explain the causes of the French Revolution while two boys in the back debated whether Robespierre would win in a fight against Abraham Lincoln.
“Focus,” I said, attempting authority.
It came out sounding more hopeful than commanding.
By lunchtime, I needed caffeine like oxygen. I hurried into the staff room, arms full of textbooks, only to trip slightly on the worn carpet near the doorway.
And walk straight into a solid chest.
Warm. Broad. Unexpectedly firm.
“Oh!” I squeaked, papers flying dramatically everywhere.
Strong hands steadied my elbows before I could fully topple.
“Whoa there,” an unfairly charming voice said. “You alright?”
I looked up.
Big mistake.
Steve Harrington.
PE and Sex Ed teacher. Baseball coach. Rumoured heartbreaker. Object of approximately ninety per cent of whispered conversations among female staff under thirty.
Also, objectively, the most unfairly attractive man I had ever seen in real life.
His hair was perfect in that artfully messy way that suggested he’d rolled out of bed looking like that. Sleeves of his polo rolled just enough to show toned arms. Smile bright and effortless.
He crouched to gather my fallen worksheets before I could react.
“Revolution handouts?” he asked, glancing at the top sheet. “Intense lunch reading.”
“I…I was just going to make copies,” I stammered, mentally begging my face not to flush.
Too late.
He handed the stack back to me slowly, fingers brushing mine for a fraction longer than necessary.
“History, right?” he said. “You’re the new one.”
“That’s me. New. Very new.”
He grinned. “I could tell.”
My stomach dropped. “You could?”
“You still carry everything like you’re worried someone’s going to confiscate it.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not… I don’t…”
He laughed softly. Not mocking. Warm.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “Mostly.”
I clutched the papers tighter. “Right. Of course. Very funny.”
His eyes sparkled.
“You blush when you’re flustered, you know.”
I froze.
“I… what?”
He leaned casually against the table beside me, crossing his arms. “It’s kind of adorable.”
Adorable.
No man had ever used that word about me in a serious context.
I cleared my throat. “Well. I have marking to do.”
“Sure you do.”
I turned to leave and immediately bumped into a chair.
He caught my elbow again.
“I swear I’m usually coordinated,” I muttered.
“Hey,” he said lightly, “I’m not complaining.”
I walked out of the staff room with what I hoped was dignity.
It probably wasn’t.
The flirting did not stop.
If anything, it escalated.
The next morning, I found him leaning against my classroom doorframe before first period.
“You’re early,” he observed.
“So are you.”
“Baseball practice.”
He stepped into the room without invitation, glancing around at my carefully arranged historical timelines and laminated maps.
“Very academic,” he said approvingly.
“That’s generally the goal.”
He picked up a textbook from a student desk, flipping it open.
“French Revolution again?” he asked. “You’ve got a thing for uprisings?”
I crossed my arms, trying to appear unfazed by his proximity.
“I enjoy complex socio-political shifts.”
He tilted his head. “Is that your idea of pillow talk?”
I choked.
“I beg your pardon?”
He laughed outright at that.
“You’re fun,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
My heart thudded. “I’m not… I mean… I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
I hesitated. Because what was I supposed to say?
I don’t get flirted with by men who look like you.
I don’t know how to handle someone this confident.
I don’t understand why you’re paying attention to me.
Instead, I defaulted to safe.
“I don’t think you should be distracting colleagues,” I said primly.
“Distracting?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
He watched me for a long second, then smiled gently.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I’m just talking.”
Just talking.
Except it didn’t feel like just talking.
It felt like standing too close to a bonfire.
The staff meeting that week was torture.
Steve sat two chairs away from me, occasionally leaning over to make commentary about the new lunch policy.
When the principal droned on about budget allocations, he nudged my elbow.
“Bet you ten dollars he says ‘fiscal responsibility’ again.”
I tried not to smile.
He said it thirty seconds later.
Steve looked at me triumphantly.
“You owe me.”
“I’m not giving you money for correctly predicting administrative jargon.”
“Then coffee.”
“That’s extortion.”
“It’s a date.”
My breath caught.
He didn’t look at me when he said it. Just kept facing forward like he hadn’t detonated something under my ribcage.
“I didn’t agree to that,” I whispered.
“You didn’t say no.”
Because I couldn’t.
By the end of the month, I had accepted two “coffee bets” and one “accidental” lunch invitation when he’d shown up at my usual café claiming he just happened to be there.
He was relentless. But not pushy.
There was a difference.
He opened doors without making a show of it. Remembered that I liked oat milk. Teased me mercilessly when I over-explained historical trivia.
“You know,” he said one afternoon, stirring his drink, “you’re very intense.”
“I am not.”
“You just gave me a ten-minute monologue about Napoleon’s ego.”
“It was relevant.”
“To what?”
“To…” I paused. “Everything.”
He laughed softly, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at me.
And that was the thing.
He looked.
Like he genuinely wanted to be there.
“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly.
I stiffened. “Yes?”
“Why do you look surprised every time I flirt with you?”
Heat flooded my face.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
I focused very intently on my coffee.
“I’m not used to it,” I admitted quietly.
“To flirting?”
“To… attention. I’m actually a virgin” I blurted out internally cringing at how awkward I am.
He blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
He studied me for a moment like I’d just told him the sky was green.
“That’s insane,” he said finally.
“It’s not insane.”
“It is. You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re ridiculously passionate about history. You get this crease between your eyebrows when you’re thinking too hard.”
He reached out before I could react and brushed his thumb lightly between my brows. “Right there.”
I forgot how to breathe.
“And,” he continued softly, “you’re very pretty.”
I stared at him.
No teasing. No grin.
Just sincerity.
“I don’t know what to do when you say things like that,” I confessed.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“I feel awkward.”
“I like awkward.”
I huffed a small, disbelieving laugh.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re real. You don’t perform. That’s rare.”
The weight of that settled somewhere deep.
“Why me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because you don’t try to impress me.”
“That’s because I’m too busy trying not to trip over chairs.”
He grinned again. “Exactly.”
Silence stretched, softer now.
“You know I’m flirting with you on purpose, right?” he added.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Good.”
“And you’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
I searched his face.
God, he was handsome.
But it wasn’t just that.
It was the way he paid attention.
The way he made space for my awkwardness instead of laughing at it.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I said quietly.
His smile shifted.
“Then I won’t.”
He reached across the table and laced his fingers with mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
My heart stumbled.
“See?” he murmured. “You’re handling it just fine.”
I squeezed his hand tentatively.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed gently over my knuckles. “You’re doing great, Teach.”
I rolled my eyes at the nickname, but I didn’t pull away.
For once, I wasn’t wondering why someone like him was paying attention.
I was just enjoying that he was.
And when he leaned in slightly, voice low and playful again
“So about that third coffee bet…”
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant as I pulled my hand back slightly, suppressing the rush of adrenaline coursing through me.
“What’s the bet this time?”
Steve leaned back, his expression thoughtful and teasing all at once.
“How about we actually go out for dinner? A proper date.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Dinner? Like a real date-date?”
“Unless you’d rather keep it casual.” He shrugged, an infuriatingly charming grin on his face.
“But I promise I can be very entertaining.”
“I mean, I guess that would be…nice.” My heart raced at the idea, uncertainty pairing with exhilaration.
“When?”
“How about Saturday night?”
“Sure.” I was already getting ahead of myself, mentally picking out what I would wear and how I’d do my hair.
“But what if it turns awkward?”
“It won’t,” he assured confidently, leaning closer again, his eyes intent on mine.
“Especially if I’m there to distract you. Speaking of distractions…” He leaned in even more, lowering his voice.
“You know, I’m a sex ed teacher, right?”
My heart plummeted, and I couldn’t help but feel heat creeping up my neck.
“Um, yes?”
He smirked, clearly enjoying my reaction.
“ I could teach you everything you might want to know.”
I stared, mouth slightly agape. “Everything?”
“Sure. Well, not everything. There are some things you have to learn yourself." His tone was playful yet intense, and I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes.
“But I could give you a good start.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, even though part of me didn’t want to know.
“Just think about it,” he continued, unabashed.
“You deserve to be pleased. The way I see it, there’s an art to it. It’s all about taking your time, building anticipation...”
The rush of his words made my stomach flutter.
I could almost hear the restaurant around us dim the clattering of forks and knives faded as I zeroed in on him.
“Steve…”
“Imagine this,” he said quietly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I’d start by kissing you slowly, giving you a taste of how good it feels to be wanted. Then I’d move down, trailing kisses across your collarbone, making sure you’re completely engrossed…”
I could feel my cheeks burn hotter, and I bit my lip, unsure whether to laugh or squirm.
The way he painted the picture his confidence and the raw intensity behind his gaze made my heart race.
“I could show you how to let go,” he continued, his voice smooth and inviting.
“To just surrender to the moment, and let your body respond to everything I do. And trust me, I would take my time making sure every touch felt like it was designed just for you.”
“Oh my god,” I breathed, unable to stop the smile creeping onto my lips despite the embarrassment flooding through me.
“See?” He tilted his head, satisfied.
“That blush is a sign you’re intrigued.”
“Intrigued is one word for it,” I mumbled, my heart was pounding in my chest.
Steve leaned back slightly, a self-satisfied smile on his face. “So here’s the thing,” he said, his voice low and smooth like honey.
“The ball is in your court now. If you want this to be just a date, that’s totally up to you. But if you’re looking for a little educational lesson at the same time…” He paused, allowing the moment to hang in the air, his gaze unwavering. “I promise you I’ll be the best teacher you’ve ever had.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I could only blink in response, caught between shock and excitement.
The way he looked at me made me feel like I was standing at the edge of something thrilling and terrifying all at once.
“Think about it,” he said, his tone playful yet sincere.
“A dinner date filled with good food, conversation... and maybe a few lessons on what it feels like to be desired.” He winked, and I felt my breath hitch at how effortlessly he combined charm with confidence.
“I’ll leave the specifics up to you,” he added, rising from his chair. “But just know, Saturday night? I’m really looking forward to it.”
There was a warmth in his eyes that made me feel as if he was sharing a secret just between us.
Before I could respond, he turned and strolled away, leaving me there with my caffeinated drink and a whirlwind of thoughts.
Did he really mean it? Was I ready for whatever this adventure with Steve entailed?
Hi!! Can you write something with WillPoulter comforting his girl after she gets her period?? I need some fluff!!
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Will Poulter Masterlist
I knew it was coming.
There’s that particular sort of dread that settles low in your stomach the dull ache, the faint cramping, the irrational irritation at absolutely everything. I’d woken up already uncomfortable, already bloated, already on the verge of tears because my fitted jeans felt personally offensive.
By noon, the cramps had properly set in.
And of course, it was one of the few days I had nothing urgent to do. Which somehow made it worse.
I was curled on the sofa in one of Will’s oversized hoodies, clutching a hot water bottle like it was the only thing tethering me to civilisation, when he walked in.
He took one look at me and stopped mid-step.
“Oh,” he said gently. “It’s that week, isn’t it?”
I squinted at him. “I’m fragile. Choose your next words carefully.”
He immediately raised both hands in surrender. “Right. Noted. You are radiant and powerful and I am here to serve.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitched.
He came over slowly, as if approaching a startled animal, and sat on the edge of the sofa. “How bad?”
“Like my uterus is attempting to stage a coup.”
He winced sympathetically. “Rude of it, frankly.”
I huffed a laugh that quickly turned into a groan as another cramp rolled through me. My eyes pricked unexpectedly. I hated this part the physical ache tangled with emotions that felt two sizes too big.
Without a word, he shifted closer and carefully pulled my legs across his lap. His hands were warm against my calves, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle like he’d done this before.
“You don’t have to fix it,” I muttered.
“I know.” His voice was soft. “I just want you comfy.”
The sincerity in it nearly undid me.
He adjusted the hot water bottle, making sure it was properly tucked against my stomach, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to my temple.
“You’re doing very well,” he murmured.
I blinked up at him. “Doing what?”
“Existing. With a mutinous uterus. It’s very brave.”
I let out a weak laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, brushing his fingers through my hair, “I’m still your favourite person.”
Another cramp hit and I instinctively curled towards him. He didn’t hesitate just wrapped his arms around me properly this time, drawing me against his chest so my cheek rested over his heart.
He smelled like laundry detergent and whatever aftershave he’d been using lately. Clean. Familiar. Safe.
“It hurts,” I admitted quietly.
“I know.” His hand traced slow circles on my back. “I wish I could take it for you.”
The way he said it like he was just honest.
I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat. “I feel gross.”
“You’re not gross.”
“I’m bloated and hormonal and I cried at a dog food advert earlier.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me properly, eyebrows softening.
“You are warm and soft and very human,” he said gently. “And you’re allowed to feel rubbish sometimes. Doesn’t make you any less lovely.”
My chest tightened.
He brushed his thumb under my eye, catching a tear I hadn’t realised had escaped.
“I’ve got chocolate in the cupboard,” he added. “And I can order whatever takeaway you want. And I will absolutely sit here and let you complain about everything for as long as necessary.”
“You’d do that?” I whispered.
“I adore you,” he said simply. “Of course I would.”
I tucked myself closer into him, his arms firm around me, his chin resting lightly on top of my head.
The cramps didn’t vanish.
But they felt smaller somehow.
Manageable.
And as his fingers kept tracing gentle patterns along my back.
Hi!! Could you do a part 2 to the Will Poulter maze runner table read one shot you posted?? Maybe them in the future of them being together or whatever their dynamic looks like as time progressed?? Thank you!! ❤️
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Will Poulter Masterlist
Part 1
Filming began two weeks later.
If the table read had been electricity, set was a live wire.
The maze loomed over everything towering ivy-draped walls casting long shadows across the lot, the air permanently smelling faintly of damp stone and fake smoke. Even between takes, it felt claustrophobic. Charged.
My first proper scene with Will was a confrontation. We were meant to be surrounded by Gladers, voices raised, distrust thick in the air.
Instead, it was just us at first. Blocking. Finding our marks.
He stood a little too close.
“Is that your actual mark,” I asked lightly, glancing down at the tape on the floor, “or are you improvising again?”
He looked at the tape. Then at me.
“I think I’m right where I need to be.”
I arched a brow. “That’s not ominous at all.”
He grinned.
“Places!” the assistant director called.
We snapped into position.
The camera rolled.
My character stepped forward first, chin lifted, defensive and sharp. “You don’t get to make decisions for everyone.”
Will didn’t miss a beat. His shoulders squared, jaw tightening in a way that made the line land harder than it had at the table read.
“I’m trying to keep us alive.”
“And you think that makes you in charge?”
He took a step closer that wasn’t in the original blocking forcing me to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
The shift was small.
But it changed everything.
My pulse kicked up.
I let my voice drop half a register. “You don’t scare me.”
The words were scripted.
The way I said them wasn’t.
Something flickered in his expression surprise? Approval? Challenge?
The director didn’t cut.
Will’s next line was meant to be dismissive. Instead, he let a hint of admiration slip through.
“Maybe you should be.”
The air between us tightened. Just… aware.
“Cut!”
The crew exhaled collectively.
“That’s it,” the director said, pointing between us. “That look. Hold that beat before you speak. Let it sit.”
Will glanced at me as we reset.
“You held that pause longer than rehearsal,” he murmured.
“So did you.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did.”
He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I just like seeing what you’ll do.”
My stomach flipped in an entirely unprofessional way.
The days blurred into a rhythm of mud, fake blood, and near-constant proximity.
We were paired for most sequences. Running side by side. Arguing. Being forced to rely on one another.
Between takes, we didn’t drift apart.
We hovered.
He’d nudge my shoulder when someone made a bad joke. I’d flick his arm if he smirked during a serious note from the director. We developed a shorthand of looks and raised brows and subtle kicks under tables during production meetings.
The crew started noticing.
One afternoon, after a particularly intense scene in which my character had to shove him away from danger, we found ourselves sitting on the edge of the set, waiting for lighting adjustments.
My hand was still trembling slightly from adrenaline.
“You’re shaking,” Will observed quietly.
“I just ran full speed through fake smoke while being chased by something that doesn’t exist,” I said. “I think I’m allowed.”
He bumped his knee against mine. “You were brilliant.”
I rolled my eyes, but warmth spread through me anyway. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I want to.”
There was no teasing in it.
Just sincerity.
And that, somehow, was more disarming than all the playful banter.
The shift became impossible to ignore during a night shoot.
The maze looked entirely different under artificial moonlight colder, sharper, almost eerie in its realism.
We were filming a quiet scene. No shouting. No chaos. Just the two of us sitting against the stone, catching our breath after surviving something terrifying.
The script called for a reluctant truce.
Minimal dialogue.
Heavy silence.
We took our places.
The camera moved in.
I leaned my head back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
Will sat beside me, shoulder brushing mine.
Too close for comfort.
Too natural to pull away.
“You were reckless,” he said softly, reading the line.
“So were you.”
A beat.
“You didn’t have to come back for me.”
The words caught in my throat slightly.
Because they didn’t feel fictional anymore.
He turned his head just enough that I felt his gaze without seeing it.
“I wasn’t going to leave you.”
It was written plainly.
He delivered it like a promise.
The silence that followed wasn’t in the script.
But neither of us moved.
Neither of us looked away.
“Cut,” the director whispered.
Whispered.
As if speaking too loudly might break something delicate.
When the lights shifted and the crew began to move again, Will didn’t pull back immediately.
“Was that too much?” he asked under his breath.
I swallowed. “No.”
It wasn’t.
That was the problem.
By week three, the teasing had become something else.
Less performative. More private.
We’d started eating lunch together by default. Sitting side by side during playback. Sharing headphones to watch takes.
The first time his hand lingered on my waist after helping me down from a set piece, neither of us commented on it.
The second time, I did.
“You don’t have to steady me every time,” I said lightly.
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He met my eyes.
Because I want to, his expression said.
But what he actually replied was, “Health and safety.”
I snorted.
Coward.
The breaking point came during a rehearsal that went slightly off-script.
We were meant to argue voices raised, frustration boiling over.
Instead, the tension tipped in another direction.
“You don’t get to shut me out,” I snapped, stepping closer than usual.
Will’s jaw flexed. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
The line wasn’t his.
Not exactly.
He’d adjusted it.
Made it personal.
I froze for half a heartbeat.
Then leaned in.
“And what if I don’t want you to?”
The crew went quiet.
The words weren’t in the script.
But neither of us pulled back.
His hand lifted instinctively, hovering near my arm as if he might touch me or stop himself.
“Cut.”
The director’s voice broke whatever spell had formed.
Silence lingered.
“That’s it,” the director said, almost giddy. “That’s exactly it. Keep that undercurrent. Not romance. Not yet. Just… that inevitability.”
I didn’t look at Will.
I couldn’t.
Because I knew if I did, I’d see it mirrored there.
Later that evening, long after most of the crew had left, I found myself wandering back onto the darkened set.
The maze walls cast long, twisting shadows.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
“You’re terrible at sneaking off unnoticed,” Will said.
I didn’t turn. “You followed me.”
“Obviously.”
I faced him then.
Without cameras.
Without scripts.
The air felt different.
Real.
“You changed the line today,” I said quietly.
“So did you.”
“That wasn’t part of the plan.”
He stepped closer. Slowly. Giving me every opportunity to move away.
I didn’t.
“Do you want it to be?” he asked.
The question hovered between us.
Dangerous.
Because this wasn’t fictional tension anymore. There were no directors to shout cut if it went too far.
My pulse pounded in my ears.
“We’re supposed to be enemies,” I murmured.
“On screen.”
“And off?”
His hand brushed mine, tentative this time.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
“Off,” he said softly, “I think we’re something else entirely.”
The space between us vanished.
I could see the faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his breath hitched slightly as if he was just as aware of the risk.
“This could complicate things,” I whispered.
“It already has.”
A beat.
Then, gently he pressed his forehead against mine.
For a second, that was all it was.
Warmth. Breath mingling. The faint brush of his thumb against my knuckles where our hands were still loosely tangled.
My heart was pounding so loudly I was certain he could feel it.
“You can still walk away,” he murmured, voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
I didn’t.
Instead, I tilted my head just slightly.
It was barely a movement. An invitation more than a decision.
His breath caught.
And that was it the fragile restraint snapped.
His mouth found mine, not tentative this time, but not reckless either. It was firm, searching, like he’d been holding the impulse back for weeks and had finally decided he was done pretending.
I kissed him back immediately.
There was no polite hesitation. No awkward adjustment.
Just heat.
His hand slid from mine to my waist, fingers splaying against my hip, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. I felt the solid line of him, the warmth through layers of fabric, the sharp inhale he took when I stepped into him without thinking.
The maze walls loomed around us, dark and silent, but the world had narrowed to this.
To him.
His other hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheek with surprising gentleness compared to the intensity of his mouth on mine. It deepened naturally not rushed, but hungry in a way that made my knees feel slightly unsteady.
I made a small, involuntary sound against his lips.
He reacted instantly.
One step forward.
One step back for me until my shoulders met cool stone.
The contrast sent a shiver through me.
“Will,” I breathed, though I wasn’t entirely sure if it was a warning or encouragement.
He paused just long enough to search my face.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
God, that nearly undid me more than the kiss.
“Yes.”
That was all he needed.
His mouth crashed back to mine, more urgent now. Less careful. Weeks of glances and smirks and almost-touches finally condensing into something real and physical.
My hands slid up into his hair without conscious thought, fingers curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He groaned softly at the contact, the sound low and unguarded, and the vibration of it went straight through me.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured against my mouth, echoing his words from the first day we met.
“You like trouble,” I shot back, breathless.
He kissed me again in response slower this time, deliberate, like he was mapping the shape of it. The teasing edge was still there, but underneath it was something steadier. Something that felt less like impulse and more like inevitability.
His thumb traced along my jaw again, down to my neck, resting there for a second as if grounding himself.
Three hundred and twelve pages.
Forty-seven redactions.
Six internal reviews for “excessive force”.
Zero formal reprimands.
The name at the top: Lt. Simon Riley.
Call sign: Ghost.
The file didn’t paint a man. It painted a weapon.
Clinical phrases. Detached summaries.
Subject neutralised.
Enhanced interrogation.
Collateral minimised through decisive action.
The rumours were less polite.
Ruthless.
Unstable.
Unpredictable.
And now I was being ordered to work with him.
The briefing room in Hereford was too small for the tension it contained.
Captain John Price stood at the head of the table, cigar unlit between his fingers. Across from me sat the infamous Task Force 141: Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, broad-shouldered and watchful; Gaz leaning back with wary curiosity; and at the end him.
Mask on. Gloves on. Sleeves rolled to reveal inked forearms and scar tissue that caught the fluorescent light.
He didn’t look at me during the briefing.
Which was fine. I didn’t particularly want him to.
“MI6 wants this handled jointly,” Price said, glancing between us. “Intelligence originates from their end. Field execution’s ours.”
My end.
Their end.
A neat way of saying our agencies had been at odds for the better part of five years.
I closed my folder. “My government believes the target is using civilian infrastructure as cover. Schools. Hospitals.”
Ghost finally looked at me then.
Not curious. Not hostile.
Assessing.
“We don’t hit civilians,” he said flatly.
His voice was deeper than I expected. Gravel threaded through steel.
“Your file suggests otherwise,” I replied before I could stop myself.
Soap’s eyes flicked between us like he was watching a tennis match.
Price sighed. “We’re not doing this.”
But we were.
Because Ghost didn’t break eye contact.
“File,” he echoed.
“Yes.” I folded my hands on the table. “You’ve been flagged for excessive force six times.”
“And cleared six times.”
“Cleared internally.”
A faint tilt of his head.
“And you think that means something.”
I held his gaze. “I think it means I don’t know what kind of man I’m being asked to trust.”
Silence.
Then he leaned back in his chair, arms folding.
“Don’t.”
We deployed forty-eight hours later.
An industrial district in eastern Europe. Concrete blocks. Broken windows. Intelligence suggested the militia leader we were tracking was operating out of a converted manufacturing plant.
I ran comms and surveillance from a nearby rooftop while the 141 moved in.
Ghost took point.
Watching him through a scope was disconcerting. He moved like he already knew where every threat would appear. Efficient. Economical. No wasted motion.
Two armed guards at the rear entrance.
He neutralised them in under six seconds.
Clean shots. Non-lethal. Both men dropped with precision wounds to the shoulder and thigh.
Alive.
I adjusted my headset.
“They’re down but breathing,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.
Ghost’s voice crackled back. “Told you.”
Inside, things escalated.
Gunfire erupted in sharp bursts. Shouting. Smoke.
Through thermal imaging I saw heat signatures scatter civilians.
My stomach clenched.
“Riley,” I snapped, abandoning call signs. “There are non-combatants on the second floor.”
“I see them.”
“You need to...”
The feed jolted as he moved. A hostile stepped into view behind a cluster of huddled figures.
Ghost didn’t fire.
He advanced.
Closed the distance.
Took the man down with his hands to avoid a stray round.
It was brutal.
Fast.
Calculated.
But controlled.
He shoved the weapon away from the civilians before turning his back to them entirely shielding them as Soap secured the corridor.
Later, when the dust settled, every civilian walked out alive.
Three militia members were dead.
Four wounded.
Zero collateral.
I stared at the numbers on my tablet as if they might rearrange themselves into something that matched the stories I’d read.
They didn’t.
The argument between us came that night.
We were stationed in a temporary safehouse concrete walls, flickering strip lights, the air heavy with dust and gun oil.
I found him alone in the kitchen, rinsing blood from his gloves.
“You didn’t have to break his arm,” I said.
He didn’t turn. “Which one.”
“The man in the stairwell.”
“He was reaching for a detonator.”
“You’d already disarmed him.”
“He was reaching anyway.”
I stepped closer. “You could have restrained him.”
“I did.”
“You fractured his humerus.”
“And he’ll live.”
The calmness of it scraped at something raw in me.
“They call you ruthless for a reason,” I said quietly.
He shut off the tap.
Water dripped from black fabric to stainless steel.
“And they’re right.”
My jaw tightened. “You don’t deny it?”
“No.”
The ease of it infuriated me.
“You’ve built a reputation on fear. On brutality. You expect me to believe that’s all tactical?”
He finally faced me.
Mask on.
Unreadable.
“You think I enjoy it.”
“I think,” I said, pulse hammering, “that men who operate like you do stop seeing the line eventually.”
A beat.
“You’re a monster.”
The word hung between us.
Soap’s laughter echoed faintly from another room, oblivious.
Ghost didn’t move for a long moment.
Then his head tilted slightly to one side.
“Do not insult me,” he said.
His voice wasn’t raised.
It didn’t need to be.
“I am a villain, yes… but I am not a monster. Do not confuse the two.”
The air felt suddenly too thin.
“You call what you do villainous?” I challenged.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Why.”
“Because I break things.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I make choices other men won’t. I do damage.”
“That’s not a justification.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
He stepped closer not threatening, but deliberate.
“You want numbers?” he asked quietly. “I’ll give you numbers.”
I didn’t speak.
“Seventeen civilians pulled out of crossfire in Mosul while under artillery. Four children carried two kilometres because evac couldn’t land.”
I hadn’t seen that in the file.
“Three teammates shielded with my own body over the years. Ask MacTavish about the shrapnel still in my ribs.”
My throat tightened.
“Disobeyed a direct order in Kandahar because air support would’ve levelled a residential block. Got written up for insubordination. Civilians walked away.”
The redacted pages.
“They don’t put that in the headlines,” he continued. “Doesn’t serve the myth.”
“What myth.”
“The one that keeps my enemies hesitating.”
Silence pulsed.
“You let them think you’re worse than you are.”
“I let them think I’m exactly what they fear.”
“And your own people?”
“They know.”
I swallowed. “And I’m meant to just take your word for it?”
“No.” His eyes softened fractionally. “You’re meant to watch.”
So I did.
Over the next week, I watched.
I watched him take the most dangerous entry points without discussion.
I watched him hand his canteen to a terrified teenager who’d been caught transporting weapons under duress.
I watched him sit awake through the night while the rest of the team slept, back to the wall, rifle across his lap.
He never raised his voice.
Never struck in anger.
Every act of violence was measured. Purposeful.
He was terrifying.
But not uncontrolled.
Not cruel.
The second confrontation came during an extraction gone wrong.
Our transport was compromised. Gunfire pinned us behind a low concrete barrier in an alleyway.
A stray round clipped my vest and knocked the wind from me.
Before I could regain my bearings, Ghost was in front of me.
Not crouched beside.
In front.
Taking the brunt of it.
“Move!” he barked, dragging me towards cover as rounds sparked off brick.
Later, in the chaos of retreat, he doubled back for a civilian woman frozen in the street.
He could have left her.
He didn’t.
By the time we reached the safe zone, his sleeve was soaked through with blood.
His blood.
I found him in the makeshift medical bay, stubbornly attempting to stitch his own arm.
“You’re an idiot,” I muttered, taking the needle from him.
He allowed it.
Which felt like something.
“You went back,” I said quietly.
“Yes.”
“For someone who wasn’t part of the mission.”
“Yes.”
“You could have died.”
A faint shrug. “So could she.”
I focused on the wound to avoid the intensity of his gaze.
“Why let them believe you’re heartless?” I asked.
“Because fear keeps my team alive.”
I tied off the final stitch.
“And what does it cost you?”
A long pause.
“Doesn’t matter.”
It did, though.
I could see it in the way he never removed the mask. In the way he stood slightly apart from the others, as if he’d convinced himself distance was safer.
For them.
For him.
“I was wrong,” I said finally.
He went still.
“About you.”
He studied me for a moment.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
Despite myself, I huffed a quiet laugh.
It startled us both.
The shift between us wasn’t dramatic.
It was incremental.
A hand at the small of my back guiding me through a narrow corridor.
His voice lower in my earpiece when he addressed me directly.
The first time he removed his mask in my presence I noticed the scars along his jaw were very real.
The handsome man beneath them more so.
One evening, as rain battered the safehouse windows, I found him on the balcony.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said without turning.
“Is that so.”
“Yes.”
I joined him at the railing.
“I used to believe morality was binary,” I admitted. “You were either on the right side or you weren’t.”
“And now.”
“Now I think it’s… situational.”
He glanced at me. “Dangerous realisation.”
“Is it.”
“It changes how you see people.”
I met his eyes. “It changed how I see you.”
Silence settled between us.
Just heavy with things unspoken.
“You were never a monster,” I said softly.
His jaw flexed.
“Don’t make me into something else either.”
“Like what.”
“A hero.”
I smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Because he wasn’t.
He was sharper than that. Darker. Complicated.
A villain in the stories told by men who needed him to be.
But in the quiet spaces he was something else entirely.
Something fiercely, stubbornly human.
Rain traced the line of his mask.
“You still think I’m ruthless?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said honestly.
He nodded once.
“Good.”
“And controlled.”
A pause.
His hand brushed mine on the railing. Not accidental.
“Only because I choose to be.”
I intertwined our fingers before I could overthink it.
He stiffened for half a second.
Then held on.
For a man who let the world fear him, his grip was careful.
As if he understood exactly the difference between breaking something and protecting it.
