pankowcrumbs

[pankowcrumbs]

Pride X Dad! Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: Kai is sneaking off late at night and Will and Y/n are concerned until they find out exactly what's up then they couldn't be more proud.

It was quiet in the house, a rare occurrence, honestly. Since Theo moved out and Kai started going out more than staying in, the usual chaos had dulled to a low hum. Will and I found ourselves with more alone time than we were used to watching telly on the couch, cooking unnecessarily elaborate dinners for two when Millie was in her room studying and Tom and Daisy were in their room doing god knows what.

Still, something felt… off.

Kai was out a lot. Not just a little. Practically every night. No explanation, no names, no details. Just “I’m going out” and the slam of the door. He’d grown more distant, quieter in those brief moments he was home his usual banter subdued, like he was holding something back.

And Will, despite all his jokes and attempts to play it cool, was worried.

We decided to pop by Theo’s flat for a cuppa the next afternoon. It wasn’t unusual; Theo had barely been gone six months, but Will insisted on checking in as if he’d moved across the world. I didn’t mind it gave us a reason to get out of the house.

Theo’s flat was neat in that way that tells you someone’s trying a bit too hard to prove they’re fine living alone. The kettle was already boiling when we got there, and he’d laid out the good biscuits, which meant he’d had a heads-up.

“So,” Will said casually as he stirred his tea, “any idea what your little brother’s been up to?”

Theo didn’t look up. Just dunked his teabag in silence for a moment too long.

“Theo?” I asked gently.

He finally looked at us, and the guilt was practically painted across his face. “He’s alright,” he said quickly. “He’s not in trouble or anything like that. It’s just… something he’s working through.”

Will frowned. “That sounds suspiciously vague.”

Theo ran a hand through his curls. “Look, I know he’s been acting different, but he’s not doing anything bad. He’s just… figuring some stuff out. And when he’s ready, he’ll tell you. But don’t force him, yeah? He’s not trying to shut you out, he’s just… scared, I think.”

My heart clenched. “Scared?”

Theo nodded. “Not of you. Just... of what it means. You’ve always been good to him, both of you. But he’s twenty. It’s a lot.”

Will stayed quiet after that, his jaw working as he stared into his mug like it might give him answers.

We thanked Theo for the tea and gave him a hug goodbye, the tension hanging heavy between us on the drive home.

That night, around 2 a.m., Will and I were still awake. We’d got sucked into some documentary on a murder neither of us could look away, even though we were both nodding off. We were curled up on the couch, me with my legs thrown over Will’s lap, his hand resting comfortably on my thigh, when the front door creaked open.

Kai tiptoed in. Not alone.

A boy, around his age, trailed behind him shorter, dark hair, carrying a denim jacket in his arms like he didn’t know what to do with it. They both jumped when they saw us on the couch.

“Shit,” Kai muttered under his breath.

“Language,” Will said instinctively, before adding, “Evening, boys.”

Kai blinked. “You’re still up?”

“It’s only two,” I said with a smile. “Bit of light murder before bed.”

Kai shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between me, Will, and the boy next to him, who looked equally unsure.

“This is… um…” Kai started.

The boy stepped forward awkwardly. “Hi. I’m Harvey. I’m… uh… Kai’s boyfriend.”

The silence was brief but only because Will burst into a wide grin.

“Well, finally!” he said, standing up. “Nice to meet you, Harvey. I’m Will, this is Y/N. You can call me Will, unless I need to scare you, in which case I’m Mr Poulter.”

Harvey looked stunned, but he shook Will’s hand, and then mine, as I got up to greet him properly.

Kai, on the other hand, was frozen.

Harvey must’ve noticed because his face dropped. “Wait… you haven’t told them?”

Kai was still staring at the floor.

“It’s okay,” I said gently, brushing his arm as I passed. “You don’t have to say anything, love. You’re alright.”

Will threw an arm over Kai’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “You do realise we already knew, right? We just didn’t want to push.”

Kai looked up at him, startled. “You… you did?”

“Course we did,” Will said. “We’re your parents, not idiots.”

With a sheepish smile, Kai finally exhaled, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

“I’m gonna head up,” he mumbled. “Night.”

“Night, boys,” I said softly, giving them both a smile.

As they headed up the stairs, Will sighed dramatically. “I didn’t cry. That was a major success, I think.”

I laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll save the tears for tomorrow.”

The next morning, I found Kai hovering outside our bedroom door after Harvey had left. He knocked quietly before peeking in.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Always,” I said, patting the bed beside me. Will looked up from his Ipad, without a word.

Kai sat on the edge, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to hide it forever, I just… I didn’t know how to say it. And I didn’t want things to change.”

Will tilted his head. “Change how?”

“I dunno. I thought maybe you’d see me differently. Or feel different about me.”

My heart broke a little at that. “Kai, love. We’ve known who you are since you were born. Nothing changes that.”

Will reached over, squeezing his knee. “You think we’d stop loving you because of who you love? Not a chance.”

Kai looked up at both of us, his eyes a little glossy. “You’re not disappointed?”

Will scoffed. “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell us sooner so we could throw you a ‘coming out and making your parents look cool for not freaking out’ party.”

Kai let out a wet laugh, wiping his eyes quickly.

“I love you,” I said simply. “No conditions. No changes. Just you.”

Will leaned in, ruffling his hair. “And now that the mystery of the late nights is solved, maybe we can stop worrying you were joining a cult or starting a secret underground fight club.”

Kai groaned. “You two are so dramatic.”

“Takes one to know one,” I teased.

We pulled him into a hug then no big declarations, just arms around each other, the warmth of home and unconditional love wrapping around him like a blanket.

Later that afternoon, the house was full again. Theo had come round for the barbecue, and of course, Will had gone overboard with burgers, sausages, corn, and enough potato salad to feed the neighbourhood.

Kai hovered a little at first, nervous, but Theo made it easy no awkward questions, just a wink and a “you alright?” that said everything.

Will was flipping burgers like it was a Michelin-starred grill, yelling for someone to bring out more buns, Kai was yelling at Theo for stealing his playlist, and I was dodging both of them with a tray of drinks, laughing the whole way.

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was home.

And as I caught Will’s eye across the garden, with Theo throwing a football at Kai and the sun starting to dip low, I saw it that quiet pride in his gaze.

The kids were growing up.

And while that hurt a little, it was beautiful too.

[pankowcrumbs]

Fifteen minutes X Dad!Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: Theo moves out and Will is being dramatic about it.

There’s a certain kind of chaos that only exists in our house. The kind that starts with someone looking for their trainers and ends with Will slamming a cupboard door, muttering about how “no one respects the shoe rack system.” It’s a mess . A loveable, lived-in mess and today, it felt especially loud.

Theo was moving out.

Well, not out-out. Just fifteen minutes up the road into a flat he’d been saving for since he got his first job. Nothing dramatic. No flights overseas. No one-way tickets to Barcelona. But you’d think he was emigrating from the way Will was carrying on.

“Just leave me here,” Will sighed, standing in the kitchen with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like some tragic soap character. “Alone. With no son. No heir. Just the ghost of your childhood echoing through the halls…”

“You’re such a knob,” Theo muttered, lifting another cardboard box off the counter.

Will clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “He calls me names now. Look what freedom does.”

From the doorway, Kai scoffed, arms crossed. “What am I then? Not your fucking son too?”

Will turned sharply, affronted. “Shut up, Kai, I’m delivering an Oscar-worthy performance here.”

Kai just rolled his eyes and took a dramatic bow. “Bravo, truly. BAFTA’s calling.”

I tried to stifle a laugh behind my mug. “Will, you saw him this morning. He’s going to be living fifteen minutes away.”

“Fifteen minutes of heartache,” Will whispered. “By car.”

Tom entered the kitchen just then, brushing toast crumbs off his shirt and entirely unbothered. “We doing this again?” he asked, nodding at Will. “He wrote Theo a goodbye letter last night. Left it on his pillow. Signed it, ‘Yours in eternal fatherly agony’.”

Theo didn’t even look up. “I binned it.”

Will gasped. “You heartless little...”

“Will” I stepped in gently, placing a hand on his arm before the dramatics escalated further. “Let’s not turn this into some Greek tragedy, yeah?”

“But he’s my eldest,” Will whined, eyes wide, as though that explained it all. “He made me a dad. He used to fit in my forearm! Remember that photo where his whole foot was the size of my thumb?”

“He’s twenty-two and six foot four now,” I reminded him.

“Still my baby.”

Tom scoffed. “You said the same about Kai yesterday when he forgot to buy bin bags.”

“Yes, because he apologised,” Will shot back.

It was endearing, really watching Will unravel at the idea of losing one of the kids to adulthood. He was so used to the noise, the shoes by the door, the cereal being eaten in bulk. For all his jokes about finally having his own space or being able to walk around in boxers without getting screamed at, the truth was, he didn’t want any of them to leave.

“Alright, give me that,” I said, taking the last box from Theo and following him out to the boot of his car. Kai was wandering down the drive with a lamp, somehow wearing one slipper and one trainer. Classic.

Theo packed the last box in with precision, slamming the boot shut and wiping his hands on his jeans.

“You ready?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

“Yeah,” he said, then paused. “No. Yes. I mean… it’s weird.”

“I know. But you’ve earned it. And we’re still here, you know. Just around the corner. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

He smiled at that, leaning down to hug me properly. Taller than Will now. Broader too. But I still saw the little boy who once cried when his ice cream fell on the pavement.

Will stepped out onto the porch then, looking like someone had just asked him to give away a kidney.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Theo muttered affectionately. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Will sniffed, arms crossed tightly. “Just thought maybe you’d like a final farewell from your dear old dad, but no, don’t mind me”

Theo rolled his eyes and walked past him toward the car. “See you tomorrow for Sunday lunch.”

“You’d better come,” Will called after him. “Or I’m changing the Netflix password!”

The car started, and with one last wave, he was off.

I found Will still standing on the porch, arms folded, his brow furrowed like he was calculating the gravitational loss of Theo’s presence from the household.

“You alright?” I asked, nudging him gently with my elbow.

He sighed heavily. “I’m fine. I just… he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone. He’s gone up the bloody road.”

Will looked at me, and I saw it then under all the theatrical nonsense, he was genuinely gutted. His shoulders slumped, the weight of twenty-two years of parenthood pressing down on him all at once.

“I don’t want them to leave,” he said quietly. “None of them. I know they have to. I want them to. But I hate it.”

I slipped my arm around his waist and leaned into him. “You gave them roots, Will. Now you’ve got to give them wings.”

He groaned. “That’s the kind of thing you read on a fridge magnet.”

“And it’s true.”

We stood like that for a while just us, for once, with no shouting or banging or questions about Wi-Fi speed. Then, of course, chaos found us again.

Inside, we heard the distinct sound of glass smashing, followed by Tom shouting, “DAISY, THAT WAS YOUR NAN’S VASE!”

Will winced. “They’re going to burn this place down without Theo here.”

“Good thing Tom’s not a guest anymore,” I said, patting his chest. “He lives here now. That means we’ve got another grown-up on hand.”

Will groaned again. “He didn’t sign a lease.”

“No, but you got outvoted. That’s what happens when you have five people in a household and only one of them cares if someone eats all the nice cheese.”

We went back inside to find Kai and Daisy bickering in the hallway about who left the bathroom window open “It was you!” “No, it was the ghost again, apparently!”, and Tom sweeping up the shattered remains of the vase with all the grace of a man who’d just realised it might’ve been valuable.

“Is this antique?” he asked me nervously.

“It was.”

“Ah. Right.”

Will muttered something about moving into a shed and shuffled past them all toward the kettle. I followed him, letting him sulk a bit. He needed it.

When I walked into the kitchen, he was staring out the window, clutching a mug of tea like it held all the answers to life.

“You know,” I said, leaning on the counter next to him, “you’ve still got three more to terrorise with your dad speeches.”

“It’s not the same,” he said. “Theo was the first. He taught me everything. About nappies, and colic, and how to install car seats, and how to survive on two hours’ sleep…”

“And you taught him everything else.”

“I was rubbish at it.”

“No, you weren’t.”

He looked at me then, eyes soft. “I just don’t want to blink and suddenly they’re all gone. I still feel like I’m twenty-four and trying to figure out how to warm a baby bottle.”

I smiled. “You’re allowed to be sentimental. Just maybe tone it down a little next time so he doesn’t think you’re actually dying.”

Will chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Alright.”

We stood together for a moment more, watching the wind rattle the trees in the garden. I reached for his hand. He gave it to me without hesitation.

Then the sound of a cupboard slamming, followed by Kai shouting something about Tom stealing his hoodie, broke the calm.

Will squeezed my hand. “God, I love them.”

“I know.”

“I miss him already.”

“You’ll see him tomorrow.”

“And if he’s not here by noon, I am changing that Netflix password.”

The next day, just after midday, the familiar rumble of a car pulling up made me glance out the window. Theo was back. Returning for Sunday lunch.

Will, of course, was already waiting by the front door like some lovesick puppy.

“Ah, my favourite son has come back to me!” Will boomed, flinging the door open with unnecessary enthusiasm.

Kai, who was lounging on the sofa, shot Will a look that clearly said, here we go again.

“Oi! What am I, chopped liver?” Kai called out, mock-offended.

Will didn’t miss a beat. “You’re my middle child, Kai. You get the special kind of love.”

Theo stepped inside, smirking at the ongoing banter. Before he could even drop his bag, Will was already lunging at him with open arms.

“Dad! Mum! Help!” Theo shouted, caught in a tackle hug that would’ve looked aggressive if it weren’t so full of affection.

I leaned against the doorway, grinning. “Nope. That’s your dad. You get yourself out of that one.”

Theo groaned, then sighed with mock defeat and gave in to Will’s crushing grip.

“Alright, alright. I’m here. I’m here,” he said, finally easing the hug.

Will’s dramatic act melted away into a genuine smile. “That’s my boy.”

Kai jumped up. “You’re embarrassing Dad.”

Will threw him a wink. “You’re my embarrassment, Kai. Full package deal.”

I laughed as the boys exchanged playful glares, and we all made our way outside where the BBQ was already fired up smoke curling lazily into the sunny afternoon.

The usual chaos followed: Millie arguing over who’d forgotten the tomato sauce, Daisy complaining about the sunburn she’d somehow acquired before noon, and Tom trying to rescue the sausages from Kai’s competitive grilling techniques.

Will handed me a drink, squeezing my hand. “Family. Madness. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I smiled, watching them all a perfect, loud, loving mess.

“Here’s to not moving out too far, Theo,” I said.

He grinned. “I’m just fifteen minutes away, Mum. You can’t get rid of me yet.”

And we all knew that was exactly how we liked it.

[pankowcrumbs]

Could you please do a father Will Poulter scenario where he takes his bbygirl and wife to the set of Warfare or like a cast i terview of tbr movie and all thr others are like ong we are now uncles and are very serious about their uncle role 🥰

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

It was just past noon when I pulled into the studio lot, parking up outside the warehouse that had been transformed into a makeshift military base for Warfare. The baby was fast asleep in her car seat in the back, her cheeks flushed with warmth and her tiny fists curled up by her face. I smiled, pulling the blanket a little higher over her chest before slipping out of the car quietly.

The last time we’d visited Will on set, she’d still been in my belly. Now, she was six months old, with the brightest blue eyes, the softest tufts of strawberry-blonde hair, and a very specific scream when she was hungry. We hadn’t planned on coming by today, but Will had sounded tired on the phone this morning emotionally drained, physically knackered and I could tell he needed a pick-me-up.

What better than his daughter and a hot coffee?

I gently unbuckled her from the car seat, lifting her into my arms. She stirred a little but didn’t wake, her head lolling against my shoulder.

“Come on, baby girl,” I whispered. “Time to surprise Daddy.”

The production assistant at the gate recognised me immediately and waved me through with a grin.

“Will’s inside the hangar just finished a scene,” she said, peeking over my shoulder. “Is that the little one?”

I nodded. “Sleeping beauty herself.”

She beamed. “Everyone’s been waiting to meet her. You’re about to cause a meltdown in there.”

I laughed, adjusting the nappy bag on my shoulder. “Let’s hope it’s the good kind.”

Inside the hangar, the lights were dimmed between takes, and the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and cheap coffee filled the air. It was all very boys and their toys camo uniforms, fake dirt, prop weapons strewn about, and a group of very tall men in various stages of costume all crowding around a monitor.

And then there was Will.

I spotted him instantly standing in the centre, still in uniform, sleeves rolled up, dirt smeared across his face. He was laughing with one of the stunt guys, posture relaxed but tired. You could always tell when a day had taken it out of him his smile would stay but his eyes would soften, just slightly dulled at the edges.

I cleared my throat gently from the doorway.

His head snapped round. And then… the softest expression bloomed across his face.

“Y/N?” he said, already walking toward us. “What are you...”

He stopped short as his eyes landed on our daughter.

“You brought her,” he breathed, voice breaking into a smile.

“Surprise,” I said, lifting her slightly in my arms. “Thought you could use a little family reunion.”

Will’s face lit up like Christmas. “Come here,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around both of us.

He kissed the baby’s forehead, then mine. “You have no idea how much I needed this.”

“She’s been good,” I said softly. “Had her nap in the car. Figured I’d bring her in while she’s still in a good mood.”

“Best surprise ever,” he murmured, eyes locked on her.

Then behind him a very loud, very dramatic gasp.

“IS THAT HER?”

I turned just in time to see three of his castmates Joe, Charles and Kit practically vault over sandbags to reach us.

“No, no, don’t crowd her!” Will said, putting a hand up protectively.

“She’s literally a baby, Poulter, not a museum exhibit,” Kit said, wide-eyed.

Joe peered over his shoulder. “Oh my God, she has your eyes. And Y/N’s nose. She’s perfect.”

Charles clasped his hands together. “I’ve waited months for this moment.”

“Alright, lads, one at a time. She’s still waking up.”

“Right, right,” Kit said, suddenly all gentle and serious. “We respect the baby.”

Will chuckled. “You lot are embarrassing yourselves.”

“We’re uncles, mate,” Joe said proudly. “We’re allowed.”

“Uncles?” I repeated, raising a brow.

Kit puffed out his chest. “Honorary uncles. Uncle Kit, Uncle Joe, Uncle Charles.”

Charles pointed at himself. “I’ve already bought her a tiny pair of combat boots.”

“She’s six months old,” I said, grinning.

“Doesn’t matter,” Joe added. “We’re building her character early.”

Will shook his head, bemused. “You’re all mad.”

“She’s part of the crew now,” Kit said firmly. “We’ll get her a call sheet and everything.”

We spent the next hour in the green room a makeshift lounge full of old sofas, coffee cups, and scripts with doodles in the margins. The baby had fully woken by then, blinking up at all the new faces with sleepy confusion.

Will sat with her in his lap, bouncing her gently on his knee while she gripped his fingers with her tiny hands. He was absolutely glowing every time she made a noise, his whole face crinkled into adoration.

“Did you miss Daddy?” he asked her softly. “Yeah? I missed you too.”

My heart clenched. Even in his mud-streaked costume, even with the loud set around us, he looked entirely at peace with her in his arms.

Joe brought over a muslin cloth. “Here, I saw her dribble earlier.”

“Cheers,” Will said, accepting it like it was made of gold.

Charles handed her a plush teddy from the props department. “Present from your favourite uncle.”

“Oi!” Kit shouted. “I clearly called favourite uncle first.”

Will looked up at me, eyes shining. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But also… kind of lovely.”

Later, they had to set up for another shot, and Will kissed us both goodbye with promises to come find us between takes. I took the baby outside to get some fresh air, sitting on a bench in the sun as she gnawed on a teething ring.

I barely had a moment to myself before Kit wandered over, cradling a takeaway coffee.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Go for it.”

He glanced down at the baby. “She’s class, Y/N. You and Will really did good.”

“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “We think she’s pretty great.”

He sipped his drink. “You should’ve seen Will the days after she was born. He didn’t stop talking about it for weeks. Proper proud dad vibes.”

I looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Had us all watching baby name TikToks and everything. He’s been buzzing for this day getting to show her off.”

My heart swelled.

“He’s brilliant with her,” I said quietly. “Even when he’s tired. He never phones it in.”

Kit grinned. “He’s the best of us. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” I said. “Your secret’s safe.”

When we left that afternoon, every one of the guys came over to say goodbye.

Joe held her hand like she was royalty. Charles tried to teach her a handshake. Kit gave her a sticker from the prop locker and whispered, “Call me when you need backup, yeah?”

Will stood beside me, hand resting on my back, watching the chaos with amusement.

“I think they’re more obsessed with her than we are,” I whispered.

“They’re invested,” he chuckled. “She’s officially got a fan club.”

As we strapped her into her car seat, Will bent down, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, my girl,” he whispered. “Be good for Mummy, alright?”

She gurgled happily.

He turned to me then, eyes soft. “Thanks for bringing her. And me. I really needed this.”

I smiled, leaning up to kiss him. “Anytime, Will. You’re not the only one who misses their favourite person.”

He beamed, brushing a bit of her hair back. “She’s gonna have a lot of weird uncles, isn’t she?”

“She’s going to be spoilt rotten.”

“Good,” he said, slipping his hand into mine. “She deserves it.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Can I request a fluffy Joe Keery x fem! reader long oneshot where reader is fixing dinner and hasn’t heard anything from Joe or their daughter in a while and reader walks to their daughter’s room and hears laughter and finds Joe in there with her playing dolls with her?

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

I stirred the pasta sauce for the third time, frowning slightly at the silence that had crept into the flat. The telly was off. The music had stopped. The only sound now was the gentle bubbling of the stovetop and the occasional hiss from the garlic bread in the oven.

I glanced at the clock. Joe had taken Margot to her room nearly twenty minutes ago, supposedly to “help her pick a dress for her teddy,” whatever that meant. I’d expected to hear chaos giggling, footsteps, maybe Joe making up voices again like he did when he read her bedtime stories. But there was nothing.

Total silence in a house with a four-year-old usually meant one of two things: something had gone terribly wrong… or something was going very right.

I turned the heat down on the stove and wiped my hands on a tea towel, pausing for a moment to listen again.

Still nothing.

Curiosity got the better of me. I padded down the hallway, the floorboards creaking slightly under my feet. As I reached Margot’s door, I heard something soft giggles, the high-pitched kind that only ever came from our daughter. Followed by Joe’s muffled voice, playful and animated.

I stopped outside the door, heart melting already.

“…but Your Majesty, we simply must have tea before the dragon arrives!” Joe’s voice was high and posh, unmistakably meant to be his ‘Royal Advisor’ character. He only ever pulled that one out for serious doll missions.

Margot squealed with laughter. “Nooo, the dragon is nice now, remember? He just wants biscuits!”

“Well, in that case,” Joe said, “we shall serve him chocolate ones.”

I eased the door open just a crack.

There, on the pink rug in the middle of Margot’s room, sat Joe cross-legged in jeans and a stretched-out t-shirt, hair slightly tousled, a tiara perched sideways on his head. In front of him was a sea of dolls, stuffed animals, and mismatched tea cups. Margot was dressed in her sparkly fairy wings and had glitter on her cheeks, eyes wide as she poured imaginary tea into a plastic cup and handed it to Joe with utmost seriousness.

“Thank you, Princess Margot,” he said, taking it delicately between two fingers. “Might I say, this is the finest tea I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s raspberry cake tea,” she replied proudly.

He sipped. “Mmm. Divine.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle my laugh, leaning quietly against the doorframe.

He set the cup down, picked up a doll, and gave it a shaky, gravelly voice. “But what if the dragon comes back angry?”

Margot gasped and picked up her stuffed unicorn. “Then I’ll protect everyone!”

“Of course you will,” Joe said, dropping the dragon voice and grinning at her. “You always do, don’t you?”

She nodded with all the confidence of someone who truly believed she could tame dragons with glitter and hugs.

I stepped in then, unable to stay quiet any longer. “Well, if we’re all safe from dragons, can I tempt you two to come eat actual food?”

Joe looked up, startled, and then relaxed into a warm, sheepish smile. “We were just about to invite you to the royal banquet.”

Margot clapped. “Mummy! Sit down, you can have sparkly juice!”

I walked over and crouched beside them, brushing her curls off her forehead. “You lot look like you’re having the best time.”

“We are,” Joe said, tilting his head towards Margot. “She’s a pretty demanding hostess, though.”

“I heard that,” she said sternly, poking him with a wand.

He winced dramatically. “Ow! Right in my royal ribs.”

I laughed, watching the two of them. Joe handed me a teacup and gave me the same posh accent.

“For you, my Queen. Raspberry cake tea.”

I sipped the empty cup solemnly. “Delicious. Slightly glittery.”

Margot nodded. “That’s the magic.”

Joe looked at me then, his expression softening.

“She’s good at this,” he murmured, voice lower now, more real.

“She takes after you,” I said, reaching for his hand for a quick squeeze. “I walked down the hallway thinking she’d drawn all over the walls or tied you up in a blanket fort. But this is better.”

“She wanted a tea party,” he said simply, gazing at Margot as she started lining up her dolls by height. “And honestly, I’d cancel all my plans for this.”

“You’re still wearing a tiara,” I pointed out.

He shrugged. “It was the only way I was allowed in.”

Margot looked up, suddenly very serious. “Dinner now?”

“Yes, darling,” I said, standing up. “Time to eat real food.”

“Can Daddy wear his crown to dinner?” she asked.

Joe met my eyes with a raised brow.

I grinned. “I think it’s only fair.”

That night, after Margot had been bathed and tucked in, her sparkly wings discarded at the end of her bed, I found Joe in the kitchen, stacking dishes and humming softly.

I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind. “You’re good with her.”

He turned, drying his hands. “She makes it easy.”

“She’s going to remember this stuff forever, you know. Her dad sitting cross-legged on her floor, drinking pretend tea and talking to dragons.”

He smiled, brushing my hair back. “I hope so.”

“You’re magic,” I whispered.

He looked at me for a long second and then leaned in, kissing me gently.

“Only because you two are my favourite girls.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Hey again I was wondering if you could do another Joe Keery x reader where they're on their way somewhere and their baby girl is trying to get his attention by saying "daddy" and after a few attempts she does like a dramatic sigh and says his actual name which makes reader laugh and joes like "no it's daddy" and she does it again with their family and friends around and they think its funny/cute 🤍

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

It was one of those rare sunny days where everything just clicked the weather, the mood, even the baby’s nap schedule. Joe and I were on our way to his sister’s place for a little get-together. Nothing big, just family, a few close friends, some drinks, and apparently a barbeque that Joe had somehow been roped into helping with, despite his questionable skills at the Barbeque.

I sat in the passenger seat, sipping an iced coffee while Joe drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm to whatever indie track was playing through the speakers. Our daughter, Margot, was snug in her car seat behind us, legs kicking gently as she hummed a tune to herself, cheeks still a little flushed from her nap.

Joe glanced at her in the mirror, smiling. “She’s in a good mood, huh?”

“She had a full nap and you gave her that weird banana rice thing she likes. You’re her hero right now.”

“Yeah,” he said proudly. “I’m basically a culinary genius.”

I snorted. “You opened a jar.”

“Still counts.”

Margot let out a soft babble, testing her voice the way she did when she wanted something. I turned slightly in my seat to peek at her.

“What’s up, baby?” I asked gently.

She wriggled and leaned forward a little in her seat, craning her head toward Joe.

“Dada…” she said.

He didn’t hear it or if he did, he didn’t realise she was actually trying to talk to him. He was too focused on the road and singing quietly along to the music.

Margot’s eyes narrowed slightly. That determined little crease between her brows made me bite back a grin.

“Daaaddy,” she tried again, louder this time.

Joe still didn’t notice. He reached down to adjust the volume.

Margot let out a dramatic sigh. And then, clear as day:

“Joe.”

My mouth fell open. And then I burst out laughing.

Joe blinked and turned sharply towards me, then looked in the rear-view mirror. “Wait did she just?”

“She just called you Joe,” I choked, covering my mouth to stop from spilling my coffee. “She tried Daddy twice, got nothing, and went straight to the source.”

Margot beamed proudly, like she’d solved the world’s greatest mystery.

Joe twisted slightly to look at her. “Hey now,” he said, grinning. “It’s Daddy, not Joe.”

“Joe,” she said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I couldn’t stop giggling. “You’ve been downgraded, babe.”

“She’s one and already roasting me.”

He reached back to gently tickle her foot. “Noooo. Say Daddy. Daddy.”

Margot gave him a cheeky grin… and said nothing.

By the time we got to his sister’s house, the whole car was still echoing with our laughter. I barely managed to hold it together walking up the drive, but once Joe told the story to his sister and her husband, they lost it too.

“No way,” his sister said wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “She just full-named him like a teenager who’s not getting what she wants.”

“I feel like I’ve been mugged by a toddler,” Joe said dramatically, bouncing Margot on his hip while she played with the strings on his hoodie. “This is betrayal.”

Margot reached for his face with her chubby hands and patted his cheek.

“Joe,” she said sweetly.

The entire garden exploded with laughter.

“Oh, mate,” one of Joe’s friends called from the BBQ. “You’re not getting Daddy back after that.”

Joe turned to Margot with mock seriousness. “Alright. I see how it is. I give you a roof over your head, a weird banana rice thing, and this is how you repay me?”

Margot just giggled and shoved her teething ring in her mouth.

“She’s got a point though,” I said, coming up behind him and wrapping my arm around his waist. “You did ignore her. She tried twice. Then she just… went rogue.”

He looked down at me, lips twitching. “So now she’s team Y/N?”

“Oh absolutely,” I teased. “I’m gonna teach her to say please in a very pointed way next.”

Later in the afternoon, after plates were filled and drinks were poured and Margot had tried (and failed) to sneak a marshmallow off someone’s plate, we were all sat around on picnic blankets in the shade. Joe had taken out his video recorder of course and was panning around the group while Margot sat in his lap, babbling away to anyone who’d listen.

“Alright, little miss,” Joe said softly, pointing the camera at her. “Let’s settle this once and for all.”

He leaned in dramatically. “What’s my name?”

Margot looked at him, smiled, and gave the most theatrical pause ever.

“Joe.”

The garden broke out into cheers and clapping.

“She’s a menace,” Joe said, shaking his head, laughing even as he pressed kisses to the top of her curls. “A literal menace.”

“I dunno,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. “I think it’s adorable. She knows who you are. She just… knows all her options.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “She’s too smart for me already.”

Margot looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“Joe,” she whispered one more time.

He groaned playfully and dropped his head back. “Unbelievable.”

That night, on the way home, she finally nodded off in her car seat, fingers still curled around the strap of her toy bunny. Joe drove with one hand resting lightly on my knee, his voice quiet.

“You think she’ll ever say Daddy again?” he asked.

I turned to him with a smile. “Oh, absolutely. But I think she likes watching you squirm.”

He grinned. “She’s definitely yours, then.”

We both laughed softly.

“She’s ours,” I said, watching her through the rear-view mirror. “Even if she thinks you’re just Joe.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Hey I was wondering if you could do a Joe Keery x reader where they're on tour and he's filming all the places they've been to on that video recorder he has and one night he or reader decides to record themselves and then later on reader gets pregnant as a result of that night and she decides to film telling joe shes pregnant in a cute way and then throughout the pregnancy joes recording every moment of it and special moments like the baby kicking and stuff like that and then the birth of the baby too 💖

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

We’d been on the road for three weeks city after city, long drives, tiny hotel rooms, and late-night takeaways. And through all of it, Joe never stopped filming.

It started the day we landed in Paris. He pulled that battered old video recorder from his bag like it was a precious relic. “We’re documenting this tour,” he’d said with a grin, already turning it on and panning across our Airbnb.

At first, I’d rolled my eyes. “You’re going full dad mode early, Keery.”

“Just practising,” he’d said with a wink, and I’d blushed like an idiot.

Now, I was used to the quiet whirr of the camera switching on in the morning. He filmed everything. Croissants in bed. Me brushing my teeth. Him doing stupid dances in front of Gothic churches. When I started filming him back secret shots of him curled up asleep on trains, singing in the shower he didn’t even flinch.

“This is gonna be our time capsule,” he said one night in Florence, flicking through the old tapes. “So we can look back and remember everything. You and me.”

God, I loved him.

That night was different. The tour was slowing down, and we had a rare night alone no shows, no schedule. We were staying in a tiny countryside villa somewhere in the hills of Tuscany, just the two of us. The windows were open, and warm air drifted through the room, the scent of lavender and wine lingering from dinner.

He set the camera up on the dresser across from the bed.

“You’re filming us?” I asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

“Only if you want,” he said, gently. “I just… I want to remember this. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The red light blinked on.

I didn’t stop him.

That night was magic. I remember the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that existed. The way he whispered “I love you” into my skin like a secret. The way our laughter tangled with the crickets outside.

It felt like time stopped for us.

I didn’t know then that time was quietly beginning something else.

Three weeks later, I stared at the little plastic stick on the bathroom sink in a cramped hotel in Dublin.

Pregnant.

I sat down hard on the closed toilet lid, the air knocked out of me. My hands shook. I read it three more times.

Positive.

Somehow, despite the chaotic mess of touring and Joe’s camera being permanently glued to his hand, I hadn’t even noticed the signs. But now everything made sense the tiredness, the weird food aversions, the way I cried last Tuesday.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, my heart racing.

I wasn’t scared.

I was… thrilled.

And I knew exactly how I wanted to tell him.

The next day, I asked to borrow his camera.

“No peeking,” I warned, clutching it to my chest as he eyed me suspiciously.

“What are you up to?”

“Something important.”

He grinned but let it go.

I set it up in the window of our room with the view of the Irish coast behind me. I pressed record and sat down on the bed, the pregnancy test hidden in my lap.

“Hi,” I said, already smiling. “So… I know this is your camera, and I know you said we’re making a time capsule, but I think this moment deserves its own tape.”

I held up the test and bit my lip as the tears started forming.

“You’re going to be a dad, Joe.”

I waited, letting the camera run for a few seconds as I imagined his reaction. Then I turned it off.

That night, I made him tea, tucked the tape into a new case with a sticky note that said Play me now, and handed it to him as casually as I could.

He popped it into the recorder, sat back on the bed, and pressed play.

I watched his face. Confusion, then surprise, and then something close to awe. His hand flew to his mouth, and his eyes shimmered as he rewound it, just to hear the words again.

“You’re going to be a dad, Joe.”

He looked at me then, like the world had shifted under his feet.

“You’re serious?” he whispered.

I nodded, heart thudding.

He crossed the room in two strides and wrapped me up in his arms so tightly I could barely breathe.

“I love you so much,” he murmured into my hair. “You’re everything. This baby… it’s everything.”

From that moment, the camera barely left his side.

He filmed me showing him the first scan photo in a booth at some roadside café in Germany, his voice cracking as he said, “That’s our baby. Look at them.”

He filmed us at 2AM in Barcelona when I woke up craving strawberries and chocolate, and he ran down the street in slippers to find some.

He filmed my growing bump, month after month, asking the baby silly questions like, “Are you more into synth-pop or jazz?”

The baby kicked for the first time during a film night in our flat back home. We were on the sofa, and I gasped, grabbing his hand and placing it over my belly.

“Did you feel that?” I asked, eyes wide.

And then we felt it again.

Joe’s laugh was breathless, overwhelmed. “You’re in there, huh?” he said, leaning down to speak to the bump. “We can’t wait to meet you.”

He filmed it all. The little socks he bought that made him cry in the shop. Me waddling into baby yoga. Him singing lullabies to my stomach every night. The way we both talked to the baby like they were already here.

The due date came faster than we expected.

It was raining the night my contractions started just lightly, the kind of drizzle that softens everything. I didn’t even tell him at first, just paced the hallway, breathing through the pain, watching the city lights from our window.

When I finally told him, he tried to be calm but the man fumbled every button, tripped over his own shoes, and somehow managed to pack a hospital bag without remembering trousers.

He brought the camera, of course.

There’s a moment in the tape just before we left for the hospital where I’m standing by the door, hair messy, eyes tired, belly huge.

Joe turns the camera on himself and says softly, “She’s about to bring our baby into the world. She’s the bravest person I know.”

Then he pans to me, and I smile through a contraction and say, “Are you seriously filming right now?”

We laughed. It helped with the pain.

The birth was long. Hard. There were moments I wasn’t sure I could do it. But Joe never let go of my hand. Never stopped telling me I was doing great. Never stopped loving me through it all.

And then…

Our baby cried.

And suddenly the world was full of sound and light and love.

Joe captured it our first moments as three. The tiny fingers gripping his thumb. The way I wept as they placed our baby on my chest. His face, stunned and beaming, whispering, “Hi. I’m your dad.”

We named her Margot.

She had a full head of dark hair, sleepy blue eyes, and the loudest lungs I’d ever heard. From the first moment, she was ours.

Back home, the camera lived on. Joe filmed her first smile. Her first bath. The day she grabbed his nose and wouldn’t let go.

And me tired, milk-stained, emotional I watched him and our daughter together and thought, This is it. This is what life’s meant to feel like.

He made a compilation tape for her first month a little home movie. Music, soft clips, cuddles, little moments.

At the end, it cut to him holding her, whispering to the camera:

“Margot, if you ever watch this your mum is the strongest, kindest person I’ve ever met. She made our world magic. And we’ll love you forever. Always.”

Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and Margot’s asleep on my chest, Joe and I rewatch the old tapes.

The tour. The pregnancy. The birth. Us.

And every time, he kisses my forehead and says the same thing.

“I’m so glad I recorded everything.”

So am I.

Because now, we can always rewind to the moment everything began.

[pankowcrumbs]

18 with Joseph quinn. I’m new to your blog and I’m obsessed with your writing. I’m thinking something like his gf has a traumatic past and he does smt that triggers her and she gets scared of him. Maybe he moves his hand too close to her face and she flinches or he comes home drunk or something like that. Thank you so much

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

Trigger warning: Implying of past abuse.

I never meant to flinch.

It wasn’t even something he did wrong, not really. We were sat on the floor in his living room, legs crossed, takeout containers strewn across the coffee table. A film I wasn’t paying attention to played in the background, all muffled explosions and dramatic strings. His flat was warm, golden with low lighting, and it should’ve felt safe.

But then he laughed something about a bit of sauce on my cheek and reached up to brush it away.

His hand moved too quickly. Too close to my face.

And before I could stop myself, my body reacted. I jerked back, sharp as a jolt of electricity, knocking my elbow into the table and nearly toppling the curry container.

His hand froze mid-air. His eyes, usually so soft and teasing, widened. “Hey. Hey, love… it’s just me.”

I swallowed, hard. My heart was racing, fists clenched in my lap like a child caught out.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, breath shallow. “That wasn’t you. I know that wasn’t you.”

Joseph didn’t speak straightaway. He just slowly pulled his hand back, resting it gently on his own knee. Giving me space.

“I scared you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

I didn’t trust myself to look him in the eye, so I stared down at the floorboards between us, counting the faint scuff marks.

“It’s just… sometimes when someone moves too fast, too close… I...I forget I’m safe. Just for a second.”

He was quiet again. Not out of discomfort, but consideration. Joseph never filled silence just to cover it.

Finally, he asked softly, “Has this happened before? With… someone else?”

I nodded, not wanting to say the words out loud. They were ugly and raw and belonged to a version of me I’d spent years trying to forget.

He didn’t ask more. He didn’t need the details.

Instead, he reached for the remote and paused the film, then folded his hands in his lap, mirroring me. “You never have to explain anything you’re not ready to, alright?”

That made my eyes sting. I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding my breath.

“I want to,” I said, surprising even myself. “Just… not all at once.”

He nodded. “We can go at your pace. Always.”

The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It felt like a shared blanket something warm and mutual. I shifted slightly, tugging my legs closer to my chest.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Joe,” I said quietly. “It’s like muscle memory, you know? Years ago, I learned to flinch. And sometimes… my body forgets it doesn’t need to anymore.”

He leaned forward then slowly, this time, telegraphing every movement. “Can I sit closer?”

I nodded, and he scooted until his knees were nearly touching mine. His presence was steadying. Grounding.

“I wish I could go back and protect you,” he murmured.

I met his gaze. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know, I joke a lot. I try to keep things light, and sometimes I probably come off a bit ridiculous”

“You do,” I said, smiling despite myself.

He chuckled. “Right. But what I mean is underneath all that, I see you. I’m not afraid of the heavy stuff. Or the messy. Or the things that hurt.”

My throat tightened. “That’s not something I’m used to hearing.”

“Well, get used to it,” he said gently. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears came then, quick and quiet. I wasn’t sobbing. Just leaking, like my body had decided to let go without asking permission.

He didn’t reach for me, not until I gave the faintest nod.

Then he wrapped his arms around me, slow and steady, pulling me into his chest. His warmth felt like coming home.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into my hair. “You’re safe.”

We stayed like that for a long time. No rush. No pressure.

Just quiet understanding.

Just love real, patient love that asked nothing but honesty in return.

And for the first time in years, I believed it.

[pankowcrumbs]

Payback X Dad! Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: Will finally gets payback by walking in on Millie with her new boyfriend.

If someone had told me twenty years ago that all four of our children would still be living under our roof at once well into adulthood I’d have laughed and then cried. But here we were: the chaotic, loving, ever-bustling Poulter household, still bursting at the seams.

Theo, now twenty-two, was working full-time in the city and perpetually on edge. Kai, twenty, was trying to “find himself” through a rotating door of creative ventures and sports phases. Daisy was nineteen and madly in love — still — with Tom, who had been her boyfriend since she was fourteen. And now, after years of sleepovers, dinner invites, and slowly wearing Will down, Tom was finally moving in. Much to Will’s continued and very vocal disapproval. Millie, also nineteen and apparently thriving, had suddenly become extremely secretive which was never a good sign.

And of course, there was Will. My husband, partner in crime, the voice of reason, and also the biggest child of the lot when it came to certain things. Especially when it came to Tom.

Now that Tom was moving in Will was acting like I’d invited the devil to sleep on our home.

It was Saturday morning, and our house was the usual controlled madness. Theo and Kai were in the kitchen bickering about something ridiculous Kai had borrowed Theo’s trainers without asking, or maybe it was the car this time.

I was attempting to mediate from the doorway while Daisy tried to sneak Tom’s suitcase in unnoticed. Millie was nowhere to be seen, which should’ve been my first clue.

“I said I was gonna bring it back!” Kai yelled, as if that solved everything.

“And I said ask first, not announce after!” Theo shouted back.

“Okay,” I clapped my hands once. “That’s enough. You’re both adults. If you’re going to act like toddlers I’ll hand you both juice boxes and send you to your rooms.”

Will appeared then, pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips, hair sticking out in all directions, a half-drunk mug of coffee in hand.

“I can’t hear myself think,” he muttered, brushing past me into the kitchen. “Why are we letting Tom move in again?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because Daisy asked nicely.”

“He plays the bongos.”

“No, he plays guitar.”

“Even worse.”

“Will,” I warned.

But he didn’t argue further, just took a long sip of his coffee and muttered something under his breath about jam bands and being outnumbered.

We all eventually dispersed the argument between Theo and Kai fizzled once breakfast was made, and Daisy took Tom upstairs to settle into their room. Will and I tried to regain some sort of peace by collapsing onto the living room sofa.

That lasted exactly eleven minutes before Will shot up, eyes narrowing.

“Where’s Millie?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “She was in her room last I checked.”

Will didn’t answer, just moved towards the stairs like a man on a mission.

“Will…” I followed him, knowing that tone. “Don’t go barging in”

“I always knock,” he said, indignant. “I’m not one of the kids.”

But when we got to the top of the stairs, we both paused. Her door was cracked open just slightly. Voices inside. A male voice.

My eyes widened.

“No way,” Will whispered. “She’s got someone in there?”

I didn’t even have time to stop him. He was already pushing the door open with the same look he wore when he caught Kai sneaking beer into his room at fifteen.

Inside, Millie was on her bed. With a boy. Tall, floppy-haired, hands definitely not in appropriate locations.

They both froze.

Will didn’t.

“Alright,” he said, voice high and shrill, eyes wild. “This is… brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Dad!” Millie screeched, jumping off the bed and pushing her boyfriend back. “What the hell?!”

“I could ask you that!” he said, laughing now, like a man who’d officially gone round the bend. “Oh, this is rich. This is what I get. This is karma for every time you lot barged in on your mum and me.”

Millie turned beet red. “Please don’t say things like that!”

“Hello!” Will said brightly, turning to the boy. “I’m Will. Her dad. Nice to meet you. What’s your name, son?”

The poor boy looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “Uh… Jake.”

“Jake! Lovely. Jake, do you always enter homes through teenage girls’ windows or was this a door occasion?”

“Dad!” Millie shoved him backwards. “Leave. Now!”

I finally stepped in, grabbing Will by the arm. “Right, that’s enough. Out. Come on.”

“But I’m bonding,” he argued, still grinning maniacally.

“You’re traumatising. Out.”

As I pulled him out of the room, Millie followed us into the hallway, mortified. “You’re insane! I told you to knock!”

“You told me?” he laughed. “Millie, you lot never knocked a day in your lives! This is poetic justice!”

Jake shut the door behind him and disappeared, probably planning his escape route. I marched Will to our bedroom and shut the door behind us.

“You cannot do that,” I said, arms folded.

“I was perfectly civil!”

“You were terrifying!”

He sat on the bed, still laughing. “Did you see her face? I’ve never seen her look so guilty.”

“Because she was! That doesn’t mean you get to act like a lunatic.”

He sighed, finally sobering a little. “I just… I remember when she used to draw unicorns on the wall in crayon. Now she’s got boys in her room.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“I know.”

“And she’s smart. And respectful.”

He nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just hard. Letting go of the little versions of them.”

I softened. Sat beside him. “I know. But they’re still our babies, even if they’re big and loud and steal each other’s stuff and date people with guitars.”

He chuckled. “Especially that last bit.”

A knock sounded at the door, and then Daisy peeked in.

“Um. Jake’s gone,” she said. “He looked terrified.”

I groaned.

“Anyway,” Daisy grinned. “Millie’s not speaking to you, obviously.”

“Expected,” Will muttered.

“She also said she’ll be charging you emotional damages and suing for parental embarrassment.”

“Reasonable.”

As Daisy disappeared down the hallway, Will slumped backwards onto the bed and groaned.

“She’s really never going to let me live this down, is she?”

“No,” I said, patting his chest. “But think of it this way: we’ve finally reached the age where we get to embarrass them. We’ve earned this.”

He grinned. “Do you think if I bring out baby photos of Theo in the bath, he’ll move out?”

“Maybe,” I said, laughing. “But I’d prefer if we didn’t drive them all away just yet.”

We lay in silence for a while, the usual distant sounds of Kai and Theo picking up a fresh argument floating through the house.

“Do you think Tom would mind if I hid his guitar for a week?” Will asked suddenly.

“Yes,” I replied. “But that won’t stop you trying, will it?”

“Nope.”

[pankowcrumbs]

was just wondering if maybe you’d ever write about how all of the kids in your dad!will universe would react to catching their parents in compromising situations, as we have seen they don’t exactly know how to knock on doors!!

love your writing so much 🤍

Enjoy sorry for the long wait I appreciate your patience 🩵

Do Not Disturb (Apparently Means Nothing Here)

[pankowcrumbs]

Do Not Disturb (Apparently Means Nothing Here) X Dad! Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: You and Will can't get 5 minutes of peace anymore with your kids who don’t exactly know how to knock on doors.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about teenagers, it’s that they’re biologically incapable of knocking. Doesn’t matter how many doors they open without warning, how many mortifying moments they witness it just doesn’t register.

And in this family? That’s becoming a genuine health hazard.

It started innocently enough. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Theo and Kai had gone for a morning run or rather, a jog to the nearest corner shop for Lucozade and a bacon roll. Millie had claimed she was “journalling” by the pool but was clearly just sunbathing with one AirPod in and Taylor Swift on repeat. Daisy and Tom were watching something animated in the lounge and giggling every few seconds in that suspicious, whispered way.

And me? I was finally horizontal. Upstairs. In bed. With Will.

After a week of suncream-sticky chaos and sand in places I’m still not emotionally ready to discuss, we’d managed to sneak away for a nap.

Or… something nap-adjacent.

Will had pulled the curtains halfway shut and put his phone on silent like we were trying to avoid a SWAT team.

“I locked the door,” he murmured, lips trailing along my shoulder.

I smiled lazily. “Not your first rodeo.”

He kissed me again. “Ten whole minutes. Maybe even fifteen if we’re lucky.”

That was, of course, the moment the door burst open like a police raid.

“Oh my BLOODY HELL!” came Kai’s voice, followed by a crashing sound that might have been his water bottle hitting the wall.

I shrieked and dived under the sheet.

Will, mortified, sat bolt upright, grabbing a pillow and shouting, “WHAT HAPPENED TO KNOCKING?!”

Theo appeared behind Kai in the doorway, his face an alarming shade of pale.

“NOPE,” he barked, turning around. “I’m uninstalling my eyeballs.”

Kai gagged. “This is child abuse.”

Will pointed at the door like a furious Roman emperor. “OUT. GET OUT. NEVER COME BACK.”

The door slammed shut.

I flopped back into the bed with a groan. “Oh my God.”

Will dropped his face into the pillow. “I’ve never wanted to fake my own death more.”

I peeked out from the sheet, eyes wide. “Did they see anything?”

“Hopefully just my disappointed dad face.”

I snorted, burying my face in the pillow. “Well. That’s one way to traumatically remind them we’re still in love.”

Will groaned. “We can never sleep again.”

By lunchtime, the incident had already become the story of the day.

Millie walked past the kitchen and offered a single comment: “So glad I always knock.”

Daisy, never one to waste an opportunity, chimed in over sandwiches: “Next time maybe leave a sock on the door or something.”

Kai simply shook his head. “I need therapy.”

Theo, looking dramatically exhausted, refused to make eye contact with either of us for the rest of the afternoon.

Will muttered under his breath, “Bunch of hypocrites. If I walked in on them, they’d call child services.”

That night, after everyone had gone to bed (including a suspiciously hasty goodnight from Tom), Will and I crept upstairs like burglars.

“Door locked?” I whispered.

“Double checked.”

I turned to him. “Lights off?”

He flicked them. “Done.”

We stared at each other.

“Curtains drawn?”

“Yup.”

“No sudden noises.”

He held up a hand. “Promise.”

We slid into bed like two teenagers breaking curfew.

And this time, it was peaceful. For approximately six minutes.

Until.

BANG.

The unmistakable crash of something falling outside the door. Then

“Oh, for crying out loud DAISY!” Millie’s voice.

“I wasn’t doing anything! I tripped!”

“You’re lurking like a creep outside Mum and Dad’s room!”

Will sat up again. “What now?”

I sighed. “She’s on door patrol. They’ve taken shifts, haven’t they?”

Outside, Kai’s voice echoed up the hallway. “I vote we install a parental tracker. Like a dog collar but for snogging.”

“I’M RIGHT HERE,” Will bellowed.

Silence.

Then Millie muttered, “Well, at least he’s not doing it anymore.”

I pulled the duvet over my face. “I’m not surviving this holiday.”

Will patted my leg. “Same.”

The next morning, the trauma still fresh, we tried to reclaim some normalcy.

Over breakfast, I laid out toast, juice, and the unspoken rule that no one mention last night.

It lasted eight minutes.

Daisy sat beside me, buttering toast with the innocence of a saint.

Then, “Sooo… did you two have a nice rest?”

Will gave her a side-eye so sharp it could’ve sliced through cheddar. “Daisy…”

Theo, still scarred, held up a hand. “If anyone so much as says the word ‘bedsprings,’ I’m walking into the sea.”

Kai bit into a croissant and mumbled, “You were making weird noises, Dad.”

Millie gagged into her tea.

“That’s it,” I snapped. “New rule. We never talk about our bedroom again. If you hear a sound you don’t like, assume we’re watching MasterChef. If a door’s shut, assume we’re napping. You do not speak, speculate, or knock.”

Daisy raised a brow. “What if it’s an emergency?”

Will deadpanned, “You better be on fire.”

Theo clapped. “Amen.”

Later that week, after what I like to call the incident became family lore, things calmed down.

Sort of.

Except on Friday, when Millie knocked (hallelujah!) and peeked her head into our room while I was doing laundry.

“Mum? Can I ask something?”

I smiled, folding a towel. “Course you can.”

She hesitated. “Is it weird… that I think it’s sweet you and Dad are still like that?”

I paused. “Like what?”

She shrugged. “In love. Like… in it. Properly. It’s kind of gross sometimes. But also kind of… nice.”

I softened. “It’s not weird, babe. It just means we still like each other. And yeah, we get interrupted a lot. And we argue about bins and whether Theo should be allowed Red Bull. But underneath it? We’ve still got each other.”

Millie nodded slowly. “I hope I get that one day. Someone who still wants to kiss me even after seeing me in an acne mask.”

I laughed. “You will.”

Then she rolled her eyes. “But please. Do it behind closed doors. For my sanity.”

The trip ended with us watching a sunset on the beach.

Theo and Kai tackled each other into the waves. Daisy and Tom walked barefoot along the edge of the water, fingers barely brushing. Millie sat with a sketchpad in her lap, eyes on the sky.

Will slipped an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side.

“They’re growing up,” he said softly. “Even if they walk into everything like bulls in a china shop.”

I laughed. “They’re ours.”

“And we’ve got a door lock now. That’s progress.”

I kissed his cheek, and he smiled.

A moment of peace.

Until Theo shouted from the surf, “IF YOU TWO KISS AGAIN I’M FILING FOR EMANCIPATION!”

Will sighed. “Never again.”

I chuckled. “Still worth it.”

He looked at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Always.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Sneaking love X Tom Blyth

MasterList

I never used to believe that kindness could sneak up on you. That it could wrap itself around your day like a warm jumper, slowly until you’re not quite sure when you started smiling more often. But then again, I’d never met Tom Blyth before this show.

We were cast in a new period drama something gritty, moody, with long coats and meaningful stares across candlelit rooms. My character was Lady Charlotte, a woman too clever for her time, and Tom played Lord Christopher, the Duke with a hidden heart. Very Pride & Prejudice if Elizabeth and Darcy got locked in a haunted mansion together for eight episodes.

From the first table read, Tom was... different.

Not in that actorly way, where they lean too close and say your name too often. No, Tom was quiet. Warm. A gentleman in the sort of way you’d think had died out after 1963.

That first morning on set, he made two cups of coffee from the grim little pod machine in the makeup trailer. When he handed one to me milk, no sugar I blinked at him, confused.

"How did you know how I take it?" I asked.

Tom smiled. One of those soft, lopsided things that made his eyes crinkle. "You asked for one yesterday at the table read and made a face when someone offered sugar."

I stared at him. “You remembered that?”

He just shrugged, took a sip of his own, and said, “Seemed important.”

It started from there.

Every morning, my coffee would be waiting sometimes with my name written on the side in sharpie, a silly little heart next to it. Once, it had a doodle of my character's ridiculous bonnet. He always smiled, always asked how I slept, never once let me feel like I was just another actress in the sea of faces.

And then there was the walk to set.

You see, the production had rented out this sprawling estate for filming. Gorgeous, sure. But the trailers were parked at the far end of the grounds and the main set was a good five-minute walk across dewy grass and gravel paths. On the second day, as I tugged on my coat and prepared for the trudge, there was a knock on my trailer door.

It was Tom, already in costume, umbrella in hand.

"Heading over?" he asked. "Thought I'd walk with you. Bit dull to do it alone, no?"

From that moment on, he came by every time we had scenes together. No text. No call sheet cues. Just him, outside my door, warm smile and soft words.

Once, I was late getting out because of a wardrobe malfunction with my corset, and when I finally stepped out flustered and apologising he simply offered his arm and said, “Good thing I waited then.”

It wasn’t just me he was kind to. Tom said good morning to the crew, asked the sound guys about their kids, helped carry props when the interns were struggling. But there was something extra something intentional about the way he looked after me.

When lunch rolled around, I often got held back by hair and makeup or last-minute reshoots. I wasn’t too fussed, but craft services tended to empty out quickly. A few weeks in, I stepped into the food tent late, only to find a little note taped to a takeaway box.

Y/N - thought you might fancy the pasta. Got your favourite. See you back on set. - T x

Inside was creamy pesto penne, still warm, with a slice of garlic bread and one of those chocolate chip cookies I’d once called my “emotional support dessert.”

I stared at it, stunned. Somehow he always knew. What I needed. What I’d like. What might make the day easier.

Rainy days became his moment to shine.

I never remembered my umbrella. Ever. I had about six, all bought in panic at different petrol stations and then forgotten on trains or shoved into storage somewhere. Tom noticed, of course. On one grey Tuesday, clouds spilling over the hills like something out of Wuthering Heights, I was standing outside the studio door, coat clutched over my head like an idiot.

And then, there he was.

Tom appeared beside me, tall and dry under a proper black umbrella, holding it above us both like it was second nature.

“Thought you might’ve forgotten again,” he said casually.

I blinked at him. “Do you just... carry that for me now?”

He grinned. “Well, yes. Seems like someone’s got to.”

It was hard to respond when your heart is doing gymnastics in your chest. I just laughed awkwardly and tried to ignore the warmth spreading through my cheeks.

But the worst (or best) was the umbrella he left at my trailer the next day. With a tag.

One for emergencies. And people who forget umbrellas. -T x

It had tiny foxes on it. My favourite animal.

I wish I could say I didn’t fall for him. That I kept it strictly professional, or that I rolled my eyes at the whole nice guy routine.

But I didn’t.

Because it wasn’t a routine. It wasn’t performative or overly charming or dipped in ulterior motives. It was just... Tom. Quietly thoughtful. Ridiculously observant. Always looking for a way to make my day better.

And I noticed everything too.

How he didn’t flinch when I fluffed a line. How he whispered little jokes during long reset delays to make me laugh. How he always held doors open, but never made a thing of it. How he stood between me and the wind when we were filming outdoors.

It was the little things that chipped away at the guard I didn’t know I had.

One evening, near the end of a long week of night shoots, I was curled up in a director’s chair, half-asleep, makeup still smudged from the scene. It had rained again, and we’d been soaked for hours. My whole body ached. The kind of bone-deep tired that made you want to cry for no reason.

Tom found me like that.

He didn’t say anything just pulled his coat off, draped it over my shoulders, and crouched in front of me.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, trying not to cry just from the way he said it.

“You were amazing tonight,” he added. “You carried that scene.”

I sniffed. “You’re just saying that because I look like a drowned rat.”

He chuckled, and then his voice softened. “No. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

The coat smelled like cedar and laundry powder and something warm I couldn’t name. I clutched it tighter.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Tom didn’t say anything else. He just sat beside me, shoulder pressed to mine, until we were called back to set.

By the final week of filming, the cast had caught on. Whispered jokes. Teasing glances. At one point, the wardrobe girl cornered me and said, “If he brings you one more bloody coffee, I’m going to combust from second-hand romantic tension.”

I tried to play dumb. "He’s just nice to everyone."

“Not that nice,” she shot back. “You should see the way he looks at you when you’re not watching.”

I pretended not to think about it for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t until the wrap party that it all finally came to a head.

We were standing outside on the balcony, away from the noise, cups in hand. I was in a dress I borrowed from a friend and Tom had ditched his tie, curls a little messier than usual.

“You know,” I said, half-laughing, half-nervous, “I’m really going to miss the coffee service.”

Tom looked at me, head tilted. “Oh?”

I nodded. “And the food. And the umbrella service. And the... well, all of it.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned in slightly.

“You don’t have to miss it.”

I blinked. “What?”

He set his cup down, eyes on mine. “I didn’t do all that because we were castmates, Y/N.”

My heart started hammering.

“I did it because I really like you. Because I wanted to make your days easier. Because watching you smile over a cup of coffee made my day better.”

I stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “I know we’ve finished filming and things get complicated after wrap, but I’d really like to see you. Properly. Outside of work.”

For a second, I just stood there, processing it. Then I stepped forward and hugged him. Wrapped my arms around him like I’d been waiting to do it for weeks.

His breath caught as he held me back.

“I like you too,” I mumbled into his shoulder. “A stupid amount, actually.”

He laughed, hand smoothing over my back. “Good. Because I already have a coffee order in my notes app titled ‘Y/N – Always, not sometimes’.”

I pulled back to look at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiled. “And you’re perfect.”

And under the soft glow of fairy lights, with laughter spilling from the open doors behind us and the sound of summer just beginning, Tom Blyth kissed me.

Not in a grand, sweeping way.

But in a way that was soft and sure and full of all the little things.

There’s something electric about the early stages of falling in love. The kind that crackles beneath your skin. Where every moment feels borrowed, delicate like the universe is holding its breath just for the two of you.

But falling for Tom in secret? That was a different kind of magic.

After wrap, we promised we’d take things slow. Keep it quiet. Our show wasn’t out yet and neither of us fancied fuelling early rumours. And we were both jumping straight into other roles different sets, different cities, different time zones.

But somehow, in the stillness between call sheets and 6 a.m. pickups, we found each other.

Tom Landed in Budapest. My driver plays Bon Jovi and only Bon Jovi. It’s like riding through Transylvania on a karaoke machine.

Y/N You say that like it's a bad thing.

Tom It’s a spiritual experience. Miss your face.

Y/N Miss yours more.

Tom

Have a wonderful day pretending like the coffee you make is as good as the ones I make you.

Later that night we facetime. He answers lying on his hotel bed, shirt off, curls a mess, the screen dim.

“You look sleepy,” I whisper.

“I am sleepy,” he replies, voice raspy. “But I missed your voice more than I needed sleep.”

I laugh quietly, tucking my knees to my chest. “You're ridiculous.”

“I’d be more ridiculous if I wasn’t falling for you so hard.”

I bite my lip, cheeks flushed.

“You already have,” I murmur.

He smiles, sleepy and soft. “Good.”

When I flew to Montreal for my next project, he sent flowers to my trailer on the first day. Cream roses and a card.

Go easy on them. You’re the best actor in the room -T x

I stared at the card for ten whole minutes before pinning it above the little mirror on set.

It stayed there the entire shoot.

A few weeks after we both had 48 hours off. Somehow, miraculously, at the same time.

Tom met me in Soho, his baseball cap low, a scarf wrapped round his neck like it was winter not the tail end of spring.

“Incognito Blyth,” I teased, eyes dancing.

“Pap-proof fashion,” he muttered, opening the door to a little Italian restaurant tucked between a charity bookshop and a flower stall. The kind of place with wine-stained menus and candles stuck in old wine bottles.

We ate slowly. Talked about everything and nothing. His new script. My director’s obsession with fog machines. He held my hand under the table the whole time.

After, we walked along the river, his umbrella shielding us from the drizzle. I kept brushing against his arm on purpose.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded.

And under Waterloo Bridge, where no one could see, Tom kissed me again like the world had ended and we were the only two who made it out.

Y/N Just cried on set. Like actual tears. Scene where my character loses her dad. Felt weirdly personal today.

Tom Wish I was there to hug you. You’re brilliant, Y/N. So bloody proud of you.

Y/N I keep checking my trailer hoping you’ll be there with a coffee.

Tom I updated my notes app. “Y/N’s Order – Milk, no sugar. But add chocolate if she’s sad.”

Y/N Stop it. You’re making me emotional again.

Tom Then you’ll really hate the cookie delivery that’s on the way to you right now.

Y/N You didn’t.

Tom I did. With a note.

The note read:

For when your heart feels heavy. Hope this helps carry it a little. - T x

A few days later I’m lying in bed, lamp dim, wrapped in one of his jumpers he left behind during the 48 we were back in London. It still smells like him.

I decide to call him. He answers immediately. He always does.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just... couldn’t sleep.”

Tom shifts, and I hear the rustle of hotel sheets. “Talk to me, then. Tell me about your day.”

So I do. The stupid things. The extras who kept laughing during a funeral scene. The coffee that exploded on my handbag. The director who said I looked “genuinely Victorian.”

He laughs softly. “You are very convincingly 19th century.”

“And what about you?”

“I missed you,” he says simply.

Silence.

Then, quietly, he adds, “You know, I never really cared about home before. Always been a bit of a wanderer. But now... I think home is wherever you are.”

My chest aches.

“I think so too.”

We’re together in Manchester for a weekend. One full weekend. No schedules. No call times. Just us.

I wake up tangled with him. His arm over my waist. Our legs in some sort of gentle war for duvet space.

Sunlight is crawling through the curtains and casting gold across his bare shoulder.

I press a kiss to his collarbone.

“Mm,” he hums, pulling me closer.

“I’ve got to leave in an hour,” I whisper.

He groans, burying his face in my neck. “Let’s run away instead.”

“I have a scene with horses.”

“You’re allergic to horses.”

“Exactly. Sounds like a perfect excuse to disappear.”

He finally lifts his head, eyes still half-shut, voice thick with sleep.

“If we had more time... what would you want to do today?”

I smile. “Coffee, bookstore, lay in bed and read to each other. Maybe go to the park. Share an ice cream.”

He grins. “Done. All of it. Next weekend we both get off, it’s yours.”

We’re both in separate cities again when the network announces the premiere date. It’s going to stream worldwide. Big campaign. Big press tour. Suddenly it’s real.

We’re on Facetime. I’m grinning. He looks proud. Nervous. A little shy.

“You ready for the world to see us play enemies-turned-lovers?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think they’ll notice the part where I was clearly in love with you by episode three?”

“I think they’ll notice by episode one.”

He laughs. Then quiets.

“We’ll be seen together soon,” he says gently. “Properly. Are you okay with that?”

I nod. “I think I want that.”

“Me too.”

A beat.

Then he says, softly, “I’m not very good at playing pretend. At least not with this.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I want real.”

Tom Tomorrow’s big. Red carpets. Flashing lights. Press questions. But none of that matters as long as I get to stand beside you.

Y/N I love you, you know.

Tom I know. I love you more.

Y/N No chance.

Tom Bet.

We walk the red carpet separately. Smile for the cameras. Say the right things.

But later, backstage, when no one’s looking, he finds me in the hallway. His hands brush mine. Our fingers link.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmurs.

I squeeze his hand. “You never really left.”

He looks at me like I hung the stars. “Next time... let’s walk it together.”

I smile.

And for once, there’s no need to hide.

Our publicists never asked us to keep it secret.

Not really.

But there’s a difference between not saying something and actively hiding and Tom and I never quite mastered the hiding part.

We just didn’t see the point.

By the time the press tour began, the speculation was already louder than the trailers. Fan edits. Freeze-framed red carpet glances. One blurry photo of Tom touching my lower back as we left a café in Notting Hill. People noticed. People knew.

But it wasn’t until we were finally sat side by side, mic’d up, lights blazing, and asked to play games for a dozen YouTube channels in a row, that things really started to... show.

Unintentionally. But not accidentally.

Buzzfeed UK – “Costar Compatibility”

“What’s Y/N’s go-to coffee order?” the producer asks, holding up a card.

Tom doesn’t hesitate. “Milk, no sugar. But she’ll accept a chocolate syrup swirl if she’s sad.”

I Look over at him.

“All in my notes app, darling.”

I try not to smile too hard.

He gets the next one too: my most-used emoji.

Tom draws a little fox on the whiteboard.

My eyes narrow. “That’s not an emoji, it’s a drawing.”

He shrugs. “But it’s your favourite.”

He’s right. Damn him.

WIRED Autocomplete Interview

Tom is reading a Google search aloud. “Is Tom Blyth... dating?”

He smirks and glances sideways at me.

I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.

“Well?” the interviewer prompts.

Tom leans closer to me close enough I can feel his shoulder against mine. “I am dating,” he says smoothly, “and I’m very lucky.”

The interviewer turns to me. “Care to comment?”

I just smile and pat his leg. “Next question.”

“Who’s Most Likely To...”

“Most likely to break character by laughing during a serious scene?” someone reads.

Everyone points to Tom. Even me.

He groans. “It’s not my fault! Y/N makes weird faces right before the director says action.”

“You’re imagining that.”

“No,” he grins, “you do this thing with your eyes. Like you’re about to sneeze but also plotting a murder.”

I snort. “That’s my serious drama face, you jerk.”

Tom leans over and plants a kiss to the side of my head. “Well, it’s adorable.”

Madelyn, who’s hosting, fake-gags.

TikTok Games

There’s a trend going round: “How well do you know your co-star?”

They ask our star signs. We get each other’s birthdays right to the day.

Then: “Favourite comfort food.”

Tom doesn’t even let me answer. “Her mum’s roasted potatoes. With rosemary.”

I gape at him. “How did you...?”

“You FaceTimed me from the kitchen,” he says, smug. “And moaned for five full minutes about how I was missing the best roast on Earth.”

It’s late afternoon. We’re in a London hotel room. Cameras rolling. Last interview of the day. We’re tired, loopy, full of biscuits someone left in the green room.

The interviewer is charming and bold and clearly over the whole game of “will-they-won’t-they.”

She leans forward, smiling.

“I’ve got to ask,” she says. “It’s the last stop on this tour. The fans already think they know. So... is it true?”

Tom arches a brow. “Is what true?”

She grins. “That you two are together. Dating. In love. The full fairytale.”

I turn to look at Tom at the exact moment he turns to look at me.

And that’s it, really.

We both smile.

He slides his hand into mine, resting between us, right on camera.

And he says it. Clear. Honest. Soft as a promise.

“We are.”

The interviewer beams. “Finally!”

I laugh, cheeks warm, but it’s not nerves. It’s joy.

Tom squeezes my hand. “It wasn’t a secret,” he adds. “Just something we wanted to grow quietly. But yeah. She’s mine.”

My voice is a bit breathless when I add, “And he’s absolutely mine.”

On the car ride home we’re in the backseat together stuck in traffic, still in our outfits from the shoot.

Tom reaches over and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, leaning into his shoulder. “Feels good. Not having to dodge it anymore.”

He smiles. “They were right, though.”

“Who?”

“The fans. The way I look at you.”

I raise a brow. “How do you look at me?”

Tom leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I close my eyes, heart full.

“Funny,” I murmur, “that’s how I look at you.”

And the internet?

They went feral.

Fan edits. Reaction compilations. “Best of Y/N and Tom Press Tour” videos with lo-fi music and grainy heart overlays.

#TomAndY/N was trending for three days.

Someone tweeted:

When you see love like that -soft, funny, honest you stop settling for anything less.

And I think that’s it, really.

We never needed to prove it. Or justify a thing.

Because when it’s real, it shows.

In the coffee orders.

The umbrella waiting by the door.

The laughter between takes.

And the way he always, finds my hand.

[pankowcrumbs]

Award show X Tom Blyth

MasterList

The first thing I noticed about Tom Blyth was how effortlessly composed he looked.

I’d just arrived at the table. Table 7, apparently reserved for some terrifyingly talented group of people when I saw him across the white linen and scattered crystal glasses. He stood as I approached, polite, a little old-school maybe, offering a half-smile that made something under my skin spark.

"Hi, I think this is me," I said, gesturing at the card with my name in gold print.

He glanced at it, then back at me. "Then this is fate," he joked, pulling out the chair for me. “Tom.”

“I know,” I grinned, sitting down. “Y/N.”

He chuckled as he settled beside me. "I know."

The BAFTAs were always this strange mix of nerves and glamour. I’d been before, but it never felt normal maybe because it never was. The cameras, the expectation, the steady weight of knowing that somewhere your reaction might become a meme. But sitting next to Tom, things felt different.

“Have you ever actually eaten at one of these things?” I asked, nodding at the pristine starter in front of us.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Once. Regretted it deeply. Nearly choked on an amuse-bouche while Olivia Colman was talking.”

I burst out laughing, too loud for the occasion maybe, but he joined in, and soon enough we were in our own little bubble like the glittering room had melted away and it was just us and the candlelight flickering between us.

Over the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing. Our worst auditions, the bizarre things fans had shouted across airports, the joys of Pret’s mislabelled toasties. Every time I glanced up, he was already looking at me with that curious glint in his eye, like he wanted to learn every part of me in a single evening.

At some point, they started filming.

“Do we look stiff?” I whispered.

Tom shrugged, leaning closer. “I think we look like we’re plotting something.”

“Oh good. I’d love to trend on Twitter for ‘Sinister BAFTA Duo.’”

“Actually,” he said, flicking his eyes to the camera crew that was slowly circling tables, “I’d bet money we’ll be trending for something.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Because somewhere in the mix of leaning too close, the light catching on his smile, and my hand brushing his wrist as I reached for my drink people noticed.

The internet noticed.

I found out the next morning.

My phone buzzed non-stop. At first I assumed I’d forgotten to silence a group chat, but no it was Twitter. And TikTok. And Instagram. My mentions were full of screenshots, slowed-down videos, heart-eyed emojis, and phrases like:

THE EYE CONTACT. I REPEAT, THE EYE CONTACT.

Y/N and Tom Blyth were flirting so hard I blushed through my screen.

BAFTA’s hottest couple, don’t @ me.

The most viral video was a clip of us laughing about something I’d thrown my head back, and Tom had leaned in, eyes fixed on me like I was made of gold.

I stared at my phone in disbelief. Then, it buzzed again.

Tom Blyth: Got your number from Alice (hope that’s alright!) I think the internet might’ve fallen in love with us last night… Want to meet up and give them something real to talk about?

It took me three whole minutes to respond, because I was frozen. Not out of nerves, but… excitement. He got it. He saw the humour, the charm, and still he asked.

Y/N: I’m free Thursday. Pick a place that doesn’t serve amuse-bouches.

Tom: Done. 7pm. No amuse-bouches. Just you and me.

Thursday came, and with it, the kind of butterflies I hadn’t felt in ages.

I wore something understated but soft, a dusty blue dress that felt like me, paired with my favourite boots. Tom met me outside a quiet little place tucked away in Soho, wearing a navy coat and that same half-smile I was quickly becoming obsessed with.

“You look…” he paused, giving me a once-over, “like you walked off a French film set.”

“And you look like you stole someone’s heart and didn’t apologise for it.”

He smirked. “Guilty.”

Inside, it was dim and warm, the kind of place where nobody would bother us. Over wine and a shared plate of pasta because he insisted everything tasted better shared we talked. And I don’t mean small talk. I mean real talk.

He asked about my childhood. I asked about his. He confessed he nearly quit acting once. I told him I’d secretly auditioned for a role in The Hunger Games spinoff just to see what the hype was about.

He laughed so hard he nearly choked on a breadstick.

Halfway through dessert, he touched my hand.

“Can I be honest?” he asked.

I nodded.

“That night at the BAFTAs I’ve never clicked with someone so fast. I thought maybe it was just the setting, but now? Sitting here? I’m sort of terrified how much I want to see where this goes.”

I squeezed his hand back. “You and me both.”

The paparazzi caught us leaving, but for once, I didn’t mind.

Because the edits were already being made. The headlines were already being drafted. But this time, we got to write the next part.

Together.

[pankowcrumbs]

Sick X Tom Blyth

MasterList

It was nearing midnight when I heard the front door click shut, the familiar rustle of keys in the bowl by the entrance echoing through our quiet house. I padded out of the kitchen, wiping my damp hands on a tea towel, just as Tom stumbled into the hallway, his shoulders slumped and eyes bleary. He looked wrecked.

“Love,” I murmured, rushing over, “you look like you’ve done ten rounds with a freight train.”

He dropped his bag with a groan and wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my shoulder. “Feel like it too.”

“Long day on set?” I asked gently, guiding him out of his coat.

“Mm. Non-stop.” His voice was hoarse, deeper than usual, and tinged with exhaustion. “And I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Oh no,” I frowned, brushing my hand against his forehead. He was burning up. “You’re definitely feverish.”

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, but his knees buckled a little as I tugged him towards the bedroom.

“No arguments. Straight to bed. I’ll get you some paracetamol and a hot water bottle.”

He didn’t even try to protest, which told me everything I needed to know. Tom was stubborn when it came to being ill. If he was letting me fuss, it was serious.

I tucked him into bed, the sheets rustling around his lanky frame. He curled up with a sigh, looking much younger than thirty as he blinked slowly up at me. “You're too good to me, Mrs Blyth.”

I smiled, brushing damp curls off his forehead. “I vowed ‘in sickness and in health’, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” he croaked, smiling weakly.

I gave him two pills, a glass of water, and a forehead kiss before slipping back out. Ten minutes later I returned with a steaming mug of peppermint tea and a hot water bottle tucked under my arm.

He was already half-asleep when I came back in, blinking lazily at the ceiling. But the second he saw me, he held out his arms. “Come here.”

I set everything down and climbed in beside him, letting him pull me against his chest even as he coughed into the crook of his elbow.

“You’re going to get sick,” he warned.

I shrugged. “Worth it.”

He chuckled softly, then went quiet. “I’m sorry I’m not much fun right now.”

“Tom, you work yourself into the ground. You don’t have to be fun. You just have to rest.”

His arms tightened around me, and I felt him exhale shakily. “Love you.”

“I love you too. Now drink your tea before it goes cold.”

I checked on him around three in the morning. I hadn’t been able to sleep something about the way he’d sounded, too rattly in his chest.

The bedroom was dark, moonlight slanting through the curtains. Tom was lying on his back now, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing heavier than before. I crept closer and gently touched his face.

Boiling.

I flicked on the bedside lamp, wincing at the light. He stirred with a whimper, trying to turn away.

“Tom,” I whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, “hey, wake up.”

He blinked, disoriented. “What’s happening?”

“You’ve got a fever,” I said gently. “I need you to sit up and take some more painkillers.”

He groaned and tried to roll back over, but I coaxed him upright, sliding pillows behind his back and pressing a cool flannel to his forehead.

“I feel awful,” he rasped.

“You are awful,” I teased, kissing his temple. “But I’ve got you.”

He took the pills obediently, sipping from the water I brought. I watched him closely, checking his pulse, counting his breaths, doing my best impression of calm while panic tugged at the edges of my mind.

Eventually, the fever began to go down. He slumped against me, his body cooling slightly, and murmured, “You’re a bloody angel.”

“I know.”

The next morning, the bedroom was warm with sunlight and heavy with the scent of eucalyptus oil I’d diffused during the night. I was half-asleep, wrapped around a hot, sleepy husband who had turned into a human-sized koala.

“Y’aren’t going anywhere,” Tom mumbled, his voice nasal and thick.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

He whined and buried his face in my neck. “You smell nice.”

“I smell like Vicks and tea bags.”

“Still nice.”

I giggled softly, stroking his back as he coughed again. “Right. I’m calling your showrunner. You are not going in like this.”

“They’ll be behind…”

“They can survive a day without you, darling. Or two. Or ten.”

He sighed dramatically. “You’re bossy when you’re being lovely.”

“And you’re whiny when you’re sick.”

I kissed his cheek and climbed out of bed, ignoring his puppy eyes. “I’ll be back with more tea. And toast.”

I made the call from the kitchen while the kettle boiled, explaining to the showrunner that Tom was out for the day—or two, depending on how he was feeling. They were understanding, even told me to tell him to rest up.

Back in the bedroom, I returned to find him half-sitting up, scrolling through his phone.

“Put it down,” I said immediately. “Rest.”

“But the fans”

“The fans will survive without an Instagram Story today. You need fluids, not filters.”

He chuckled weakly. “You’re so sassy.”

“Only when I’m worried.”

I placed a tray on the bedside table: tea, toast with honey, another damp flannel, and some orange slices. He looked at it like I’d brought him a three-course meal.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered, tugging me back into bed. “Seriously. I don’t deserve you.”

“You absolutely do,” I whispered back. “But flattery won’t get you out of drinking your tea.”

The rest of the day passed in soft murmurs and sniffly cuddles. Tom was clingy, alternating between napping and mumbling sleepy confessions of love. I read to him for a bit, his head in my lap, until he dozed off again.

Around midday, he stirred and looked up at me with glassy eyes. “Do you remember when I got food poisoning in Prague?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“I thought I loved you then,” he said, voice cracking. “But this… this is next-level.”

I laughed. “Nothing says romance like tissues and thermometers.”

He snuggled closer, arms wrapped around my waist. “We should write our own vows one day.”

“We’re already married, Tom.”

“I know. But still. I’d write them all about tea and toast and how fit you look with a messy bun while saving my life.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You married an actor.”

By evening, the fever had stayed down, and Tom was less foggy. Still sick, still snotty, still bundled in blankets like a human burrito but definitely brighter.

He sat up with help, sipping his soup like a child, making contented noises.

“Best soup I’ve ever had,” he declared.

“It’s from a tin.”

“Gourmet tin.”

Later, we curled up on the sofa with a blanket, his head on my chest, my fingers in his curls. He looked up at me, eyes sleepy but adoring.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“When you inevitably catch this and feel rubbish, let me return the favour.”

“Deal.”

He grinned. “Though you’re a much better nurse than I’d be. I’d just cry and make you soup and call your mum.”

I laughed. “That sounds perfect.”

We fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the TV humming softly in the background.

The next morning, I woke up coughing.

Tom blinked awake, eyes wide with guilt. “Oh no.”

I gave him a flat look. “You’ve infected me, you plague-ridden bastard.”

He looked absolutely delighted. “My turn to be the nurse, then.”

“You better bring me two teas.”

He kissed my forehead. “Anything for my favourite patient.”

And that’s the thing about marriage. It’s not just the red carpets and date nights and pretty photos. It’s hot water bottles and tissues, 3am wakeups and forehead kisses. It’s caring for each other when the cameras are off, when you’re tired and sweaty and sick.

It’s loving someone even when they sneeze on you. And knowing they’ll still make you toast anyway.

[pankowcrumbs]

Hi! I saw that your requests are still open and I've been thinking about this for a while... I noticed that there aren't many fics about joseph quinn with a partner who has a different aesthetic than him, in particular a more alternative style. I listen to metal, especially nu metal like Korn or System of a down but also gothic music and new wave both from older bands like Depeche Mode, the Cure and Siouxie and the banshees and more modern bands like Molchat Doma and Ultra Sunn. I wear almost exclusively black clothes, sometimes my style is more minimalistic and other times it's 1800s inspired or a bit whimsigoth; I don't wear trad goth makeup, I sometimes go with a dark red lipstick, otherwise I'm pretty bare because I'm a bit lazy and I'm not used to see makeup on my skin. For jewelry, I wear rings and I always wear a necklace with a bat charm since it's my favourite animal.

Sorry if I was too specific, feel free to incorporate what you want ♥️

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

AN: I hope this was okay and none of this was offensive or too stereotypical

I never would’ve guessed Joseph Quinn would fancy someone like me.

That’s not a self-deprecating statement honestly, it’s just the truth. Everyone knew him, or at least they thought they did. He was that charming actor with the ever-disarming smile, the good manners, the quietly confident energy. Always in well-cut jackets and soft jumpers, a pint of lager in one hand and a good book recommendation in the other. He was warm beige, golden brown. I was deep black, crimson, heavy boots and silver rings that looked like they could hex you.

We met at a mutual friend’s party. I only went because Cass practically begged me. I’d spent ages debating what to wear, eventually settling on a black slip dress with a sheer mesh top layered underneath. My usual stack of silver rings, a few subtle braids in my hair, and dark red lipstick I wore when I wanted to feel invincible.

The party was louder than I liked, the kind with people yelling over each other, half-drunk and fully sweaty. I was in the kitchen, tucked into a corner with a cider in hand, chatting to Cass when Joseph wandered in, laughing at something someone had said in the hall. He wore a charcoal overcoat and soft-looking trousers, hair a little mussed and eyes bright.

When Cass introduced us, I expected the usual half-smile and polite nod most people gave me then the quick glance down at my boots, the silent judgement of my all-black ensemble. Instead, he smiled properly, hand warm as it wrapped around mine in greeting.

“You’re Y/N?” he said, like he already knew the answer. “Cass has told me loads. You’re the one with the Cure tattoo, right?”

I blinked. “I...yeah. Didn’t know that was a notable fact.”

He grinned. “It’s a strong first impression.”

From that moment on, he didn’t leave my side. Not in a clingy way, just… attentive. Asking questions, laughing at my sarcasm, genuinely interested when I explained why Molchat Doma made the perfect soundtrack for walking through the city at night. When I mentioned I was a massive Siouxsie and the Banshees fan, he smirked.

“Of course you are. You’ve got that mysterious air about you.”

I’d scoffed, cheeks warming. “You know your compliments are a bit mad, yeah?”

He leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling. “Then I must be doing it right.”

I didn’t expect him to text me the next day.

Or the day after that.

Or to ask if I wanted to go to a museum together “Something moody and romantic,” he’d said, “like your playlists.”

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely he’d get bored, surely one of the model-types he used to date would call and he’d drift back into that familiar world. But he didn’t. Instead, he asked to hear System of a Down because he wanted to understand what made my eyes light up when I talked about music. He listened. He remembered things. He learned the difference between whimsigoth and minimal goth and even started pointing out antique lace pieces in vintage shops just in case I liked them.

Now, six months later, we sat curled up on my sofa, my legs draped over his lap while an old Bauhaus record crackled softly in the background.

He kept looking at me like he was holding in a secret.

“What?” I asked, stretching my arms above my head.

He grinned. “I got you something.”

“Oh?”

“For six months. I know we didn’t say we were doing anything, but I saw this and thought of you.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box. My heart stuttered. He handed it to me, no grand flourish, just a soft, “Hope you like it.”

Inside was a necklace a fine silver chain with a tiny, intricately detailed bat pendant. Wings spread, just in flight. Elegant. Not cartoonish. Beautiful.

“You remembered,” I whispered, fingers brushing over the delicate shape.

“You said they were your favourite animal,” he said, voice a bit shy now. “Something about how they’re misunderstood and a bit gothic, but still soft.”

I laughed. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

“I just… saw it and thought, that’s Y/N. It’s weird, I never used to notice stuff like that, but now I’m always scanning for little things that remind me of you.”

I swallowed. The necklace gleamed under the warm light. It was so me. And yet the fact that he had picked it that someone like Joseph, who used to date women with sun-kissed hair and soft linen dresses had thought of me when he saw a bat-shaped necklace?

“I love it,” I said, throat a little tight. “It’s perfect.”

He reached over and gently clipped it around my neck, his fingers brushing the back of my skin. The weight of it settled against my collarbone like it belonged there.

“Fits like it was made for you,” he murmured.

I tilted my head at him, smile slow and teasing. “So, you really like me, then?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Have I not made that abundantly clear? I like you in black lace or combat boots, with bare lips or dark red. I like you when you’re quiet and when you won’t shut up about Depeche Mode's lyrical genius.”

I snorted.

“I like you,” he said again, gentler this time. “Exactly as you are.”

My fingers curled around the bat pendant. For the first time in ages, I didn’t feel like the odd one out. I didn’t feel like someone to tolerate or work around. I felt seen.

I leaned over and kissed him softly at first, then with the kind of fierceness only a six-month slow burn could ignite. He smiled against my lips, pulling me closer.

The record ended in the background, but neither of us moved to flip it.

[pankowcrumbs]

Jamie is recovered addict. If you're not ok with writing such topics - feel free to ignore.

Can I ask for Jamie Campbell Bower x reader where she knows he struggled with addiction and helps him during therapy sessions but they made a deal if he'll get back to his addiction she's free to leave. One day she comes back home and smells this characteristic weed smell but is quiet and gives him space to open up. He isn't talking. Situation goes on until one day she catches him red-handed on balcony. He tries to brush it off but as y/n insists he finally breaks down in tears and admits he starts to smoke again and begs y/n to not leave. She reassures him she won't leave but he needs to react quickly and go to rehab centre. He agrees and is sorry for breaking her trust. She admits she's hurt but it takes much more to break her trust.

MasterList

Trigger warning: Mention of drug use

A/N: I don’t usually write about drug use, but since this story only involves weed, I felt comfortable exploring it in a responsible way. However, I want to be clear that I will not write about more serious drug use for a few important reasons:

Jamie is a real person who has genuinely struggled with addiction, and I would never want to glorify or disrespect his journey especially when I don’t know him personally.

We should never romanticise drug use or the harm it can cause.

As an adult writer, I feel a responsibility to the young women who read my work. It’s important not to promote or glamorise things that can be truly damaging in real life. Thank you for understanding. 🖤

I always knew loving Jamie meant loving all of him the light and the dark. He was honest from the start, told me about his past struggles with addiction, the relapses, the pain, the shame. And I promised I’d stand by him… as long as he stayed on the path he fought so hard to stay on.

We had a deal.

If he ever slipped, if he ever fell back into it and didn’t want help, I was free to walk away. It was something we both agreed on not to punish each other, but to protect what we had. Honesty was our anchor.

The thing about Jamie is, when he loves, he does it with every inch of his soul. It’s overwhelming sometimes. Like gravity. And for months, everything felt steady. We went to therapy together. He let me sit in on the hard sessions, the ones where he talked about the weight he carried in his chest. I watched him cry in front of strangers. I watched him claw his way through cravings. He held my hand through the whole thing. Told me I was his calm in the storm.

So when I came home one evening and smelled it that faint, unmistakable musk of weed it stopped me dead in my tracks.

I didn’t say anything that night.

I wanted to believe I was wrong. Maybe it was from someone walking past the flat. Maybe it was the neighbour. Anything but that. I made dinner. He was quiet. Told me he was tired, head hurting. Kissed my temple like he always did and went to bed early.

But the smell lingered the next day. And the day after that.

He grew more distant. Less affectionate. Always claiming to be “just tired.” No eye contact. No interest in the book we were reading together. I watched the light in him dim, flicker, and retreat into shadows.

I gave him space. I didn’t push. I wanted him to come to me.

He didn’t.

Then one night, I got up to get a glass of water and saw the balcony door open. The cold night air drifted into the hallway. And there he was shoulders hunched, head low, the red ember of a joint burning between his fingers.

He didn’t hear me until I stepped out.

He tried to hide it behind his back, but it was too late.

“Jamie…”

His whole body tensed. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It��s not...It’s nothing, alright?”

I folded my arms. “Don’t lie to me.”

Silence.

The smoke curled into the air between us, thick and suffocating. My heart pounded, not from anger, but from hurt. Deep, low ache. Not because he smoked. Because he didn’t tell me.

“You promised,” I whispered. “You said if it ever got too hard, you’d come to me first.”

He threw the joint onto the concrete, crushed it underfoot. “I know, I know, I just” His voice cracked. “I thought I had it under control.”

My eyes stung. “Do you?”

“No.”

And then he broke.

Jamie sank to the floor, back against the glass, hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I didn’t mean to lie. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I’ve been trying, I swear. But everything got too loud in my head, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

I knelt beside him, reaching out, but not touching just yet.

“I thought I could handle one or two nights. Just to take the edge off. But then it became three. Four. And I just I didn’t know how to stop again. And I was terrified you’d leave.”

I placed my hand gently on his arm. He flinched at first, then leaned into it like a child needing comfort.

“I should let you leave,” he whispered. “I broke the deal. I broke your trust.”

I swallowed hard, my own tears slipping free now. “You did. But… it takes more than this to break us, Jamie.”

He blinked up at me, red-eyed, hopeful and afraid all at once.

“I’m hurt. I won’t lie about that,” I continued, “but I know this isn’t who you want to be. And I know how hard you’ve worked. You’re slipping, not falling. But you need to react now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.”

He nodded, slowly. “Rehab?”

“Rehab.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I’ll go. I’ll do it. For real this time. I’ll tell my therapist. I’ll tell my manager. Whatever it takes. Just please don’t stop loving me.”

I leaned in then, wrapping my arms around him. He clung to me like a man lost at sea, trembling with guilt, with relief.

“Jamie,” I whispered against his hair, “I'd never stop.”

That night, we didn’t sleep. We lay curled up together on the sofa, him crying in waves and me holding his hand through every one of them. I didn’t tell him it would be easy. I didn’t give him promises he couldn’t keep.

But I did remind him who he was.

Not his relapse.

Not his mistakes.

But the man who fought. Every day. The man who brought me flowers from the corner shop even when he had a migraine. The man who still wrote songs in the notes app of his phone and sent me the lyrics to read over breakfast. The man who kept every therapy appointment, even when it left him raw.

The man I chose. And would continue to choose as long as he kept choosing to get back up.

Jamie checked into a quiet rehab centre near the coast. It was small, private. No cameras. No noise. Just healing.

He called me every day. Some calls were short. Some were just him crying and me listening. Some were full of hope, and others filled with doubt.

But every single time, he ended with: “Thank you for not leaving.”

And every single time, I answered: “Thank you for staying.”

[pankowcrumbs]

Can I ask for Joseph Quinn x reader Historical AU where they got married before WWI and tried to conceive for a baby but war came and they got separated. When he came back and adjusted to new calm life they tried again. This time successfully. He helps her as much as he can until one day he came back home from work feeling weak. Which turned into fatal Spanish flu.

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

I don't usually write about death, so here's a trigger warning: mentions of death.

The first time I saw Joseph after the war, I didn’t recognise him at first. Not because of injury or disfigurement like so many other poor souls returning home, but because something in his eyes had shifted. The easy laughter that once lingered there had dulled to a haunted stillness.

He stepped off the train in uniform, thinner than I remembered, his hair a touch longer beneath his cap. But when his gaze found mine through the crowd my heart thudded so loudly I thought it would tear straight from my chest.

I ran. I ran like the world would end if I didn’t reach him fast enough. And when his arms wrapped around me, grounding me in the most familiar place I’d ever known, I knew that no war, no grief, no distance would ever pull us apart again.

We had married in spring 1914, when the world still felt wide with promise. A simple ceremony at my family’s church, a borrowed veil, wildflowers in my hand. That summer we tried to start our family. We were young and hopeful and in love, believing children would follow swiftly. But the war came before the baby did.

Four years passed with only letters and aching hope. Some letters never arrived. Some nights I wept into his shirts just to feel him near. But he returned. Whole, if not unchanged.

The early months after he came back were gentle. We moved into the little cottage outside Norwich that his father had built decades ago, and we made it our own. It had a sloping roof and creaky floors and a small garden we tended together in silence.

We did not speak often of the war. At night, when he twitched in his sleep or woke drenched in sweat, I only held him tighter. He never had to explain. I just waited for his breath to settle again.

When winter turned into spring again, we began to try once more for a baby. This time, the quiet between storms held something steadier. I was older, and Joseph gentler. He would kiss my growing belly before heading to work at the foundry, murmuring something to the baby we couldn’t yet see.

"I hope it’s a girl," he’d said one evening as we watched the fire. “She’ll have your kindness and drive me mad like you do.”

“And I hope it’s a boy,” I teased, resting my head on his shoulder. “So I can see the both of you trip over yourselves every morning.”

He chuckled, one of those rare, true laughs that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

We were happy. Perhaps not in the loud, triumphant way of our youth but in the quiet, steady rhythm of two people who had survived too much and still chosen one another again and again.

Then, in late October, he came home early.

“I feel strange,” he’d said, loosening his collar, his skin pale and damp with sweat. “Thought it might just be the heat in the forge, but…”

I took his temperature. He burned like the oven.

We thought, at first, it was a cold. He insisted he just needed rest. But the next day, he couldn’t keep down broth, and his breathing had begun to rattle. He coughed into his handkerchief red against white.

Panic took root in my chest.

“Stay in bed,” I whispered, wiping his forehead. “I’ll send for Dr Hensley.”

“Don’t fuss,” he rasped. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. The doctor came and confirmed what I already feared.

Spanish influenza.

The very words made my blood run cold. We'd read about it in the papers whole towns ravaged, young men dropping dead in days. Pregnant women especially vulnerable. I was just past five months along.

“You must sleep in another room,” the doctor warned. “Keep the doors open, but stay away if you can. The baby…”

I nodded even though the thought of not lying beside Joseph at night gutted me. I tucked him into our bed and moved into the little guest room.

But I didn’t stay away.

I wore a scarf over my mouth and nose and boiled every cloth and spoon. I brought him cool compresses, held his hand when the fever raged, and sang to him softly when he couldn’t sleep.

“I’m scared,” he admitted one night, his voice hoarse and barely there. “I don’t want to leave you. Or our baby.”

“You won’t,” I told him firmly, tears welling in my eyes. “You promised me forever. You said you’d hold our child.”

“I meant it.”

“Then hold on.”

Days passed like smoke. Some mornings, he’d sit up and eat a few bites. I’d smile and think, he’s turning a corner. But by nightfall, he was burning again, shivering in soaked sheets, crying out for people long gone.

On the seventh night, I found him quiet. Not asleep, not quite awake. He looked at me through glassy eyes.

“Do you remember,” he murmured, “that poem you liked? The one you read at our wedding?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

So I did. I sat beside him and recited the words he loved, the ones about enduring love through time and death and distance. My voice cracked, but I made it to the end.

His breathing slowed. He reached for my hand.

“You’ll tell them… our baby… that I wanted them.”

“They’ll know,” I whispered. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He slipped into unconsciousness after that.

By morning, he was gone.

I sat on the floor beside the bed for hours, hands cradling the small curve of my belly, rocking gently and humming the lullaby I’d written for a child who would now never hear their father’s voice.

The funeral was quiet. Only his parents, my sister, and a few from the village came. Too many were sick themselves or too scared to attend.

I stood by his grave, numb, the sky a slate-grey stretch above. Autumn leaves scattered around like remnants of something that once was beautiful and now lay dying.

Days turned to weeks. The baby kicked. I tried to hold onto that. Proof that part of Joseph remained.

I found his letters from the front and read them aloud each evening, sitting in his chair by the fire. I imagined what he would’ve said if he were still beside me. I whispered my replies into the night.

And when the baby finally came a screaming little girl with her father’s eyes I named her Hope.

Because that’s what she was.

Joseph never saw her smile or feel her tiny hand curl around his finger. But she would know him. Through stories, through the music he loved, through the way I’d look at her when she reminded me of him.

Some days, I still reach across the bed for him out of habit. I still find his shirts tucked into corners of our drawers and hold them close.

But then Hope babbles or giggles or clutches my thumb with surprising strength, and I remember what Joseph said once, long ago:

“Love like ours doesn’t vanish. It just changes form.”

He was right.

He always was.

[pankowcrumbs]

Can I ask for Joseph Quinn x reader Historical AU where it's right after WWI and he came back home with half of his face covered in bandage which needed to be changed everyday which caused him pain. Y/N is patient with her husband and tries her best to ease his suffering. Big day comes when they took off his bandage and it turns out he's badly disfigured. First y/n reaction is flinch so Joseph wants to see himself in mirror but nurse and y/n disagreed. Days pass. Y/N notices he's very serious but thinks it's due trauma until one day he confesses he found small mirror and looked at himself when she left for medication for him. He can't stop crying and says he understand if she wants to leave due to his Frankenstein appearance. Y/N reassures him of her love and tells him his appearance doesn't matter and he's a hero for her. He doesn't believe her, he pushes her away and says even his friends tells him to leave y/n because she's still so pretty and she deserves better. Days pass. His birthday comes but no-one appears. Y/N gives him wrapped gift which is prosthesis of face. She says she doesn't care but it's for his comfort. She helps him to adjust it. He cries and asks her to forgive him his harsh treatment of her. She reassures him again of her love and promises him she'd stay with him no matter what and no matter how he'd look because what matters is often invisible.

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

The moment the train whistle echoed across the platform, I felt my breath catch.

Soldiers spilled out, uniforms creased and boots muddied by miles of unfamiliar soil. Some clutched letters, others limp canes. The crowd surged forward wives, mothers, children all desperately scanning faces, names on their lips like prayers.

I stood still. Frozen. Heart hammering.

And then I saw him.

Joseph.

My husband.

He stepped off the train slowly, as though the world weighed heavier now. His posture stiff, the left side of his face covered in thick white bandage that wrapped around his jaw, up over his cheek and brow, hiding half of what I knew so well.

But I didn’t move.

Not at first.

Not until his eyes found mine those dark, beautiful eyes unchanged despite everything. And suddenly I was running, skirts tangled around my legs, my chest tight with love and ache and something I didn’t dare name yet.

“Y/n,” he breathed as I reached him, his voice low and hoarse from smoke and pain and silence.

I threw my arms around him carefully mindful of his injuries. He didn’t hug me back right away. His arms hovered, unsure, as if he didn’t believe he had the right anymore.

“It’s me,” I whispered against his chest. “It’s still me. And you’re home.”

He nodded, once. But his eyes never truly met mine again.

The first week was the hardest.

His injury required daily dressing changes layers of clean gauze soaked in antiseptic, carefully unwrapped and replaced. The nurse showed me how to do it the first time, though I could tell she didn’t expect me to take over.

But I insisted.

He winced every time I peeled the bandage away. The skin beneath was raw, puckered and pink, scabbed over in places. I only caught glimpses never the full picture. He’d clench his jaw, eyes closed, refusing to look at me while I worked.

He never complained. Not about the pain, not once. But I could see it the way his fingers gripped the edge of the table, the way his breath caught in his throat.

“I can get the nurse,” I said gently once, as I dabbed the wound with saline.

“No,” he replied, curt. “You’re better. Just… be quick.”

I tried to be. I tried to speak softly, to distract him with quiet stories of home, of neighbours, of silly things I’d saved up to tell him. He nodded, sometimes. But mostly he stayed quiet.

He only flinched when my hand accidentally brushed his cheek when I forgot and treated him like the man I’d loved before he went away.

The day came.

The final unwrapping.

The nurse was there this time, along with me. The wound had healed as much as it would. The bandages were to come off for good. I held Joseph’s hand while she worked, unravelled the final layers, revealing what the war had taken.

His left cheek was deeply scarred tissue twisted and discoloured. His jawbone jutted slightly, the muscle around it sunken. Part of his ear was missing. His once-straight nose had caved slightly on one side, and a deep, harsh burn marked his brow.

I didn’t mean to flinch.

But I did.

Just a breath. A moment. A flicker of shock before I masked it. But it was enough.

He noticed.

“Can I have a mirror?” he asked immediately, his voice sharp.

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Not yet.”

The nurse echoed my sentiment, gently explaining he needed more time, more healing. That seeing it too soon might do more harm than good.

Joseph said nothing. His hand slipped from mine, and for the first time, I saw something far worse than any scar:

Shame.

He grew quieter after that. More distant.

I told myself it was the trauma the memories of gunfire and mud and smoke clinging to his skin. But the way he looked at me had changed. Or rather, the way he avoided looking at me at all.

Every day I sat with him, cooked his meals, offered him books and conversation and laughter.

He offered nothing back.

Until one day, as I returned from fetching his medication, I found him in the corner of the bedroom, facing the window, back rigid.

He didn’t turn when I entered. But his voice carried across the space like a wound.

“I found a mirror.”

I froze.

“I looked,” he continued. “When you were gone.”

I stepped closer, but he held up a hand.

“Don’t. Please.”

Silence.

And then his voice broke.

“I’m a monster, Y/n.”

My heart splintered.

He turned slowly, and the tears on his cheeks cut deeper than any scar. “You don’t have to pretend. I saw myself. I am… what they said. My friends they said I should let you go. That you’re still beautiful. That you deserve someone whole.”

I crossed the room in two steps and dropped to my knees before him.

“Don’t say that.”

His hands trembled. “You flinched. I saw you. And I get it. I do. I wouldn’t want to wake up to this either.”

I cupped his hands in mine, firm but gentle.

“I flinched because I hate what the war did to you. Not because of you.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way he turned his face slightly away.

“I married you, Joseph Quinn,” I whispered. “Not just your face. Not your jaw or your cheek or your smile though God, I loved all those things. I married the man who read poetry to me under the stars. The man who wrote to me from the trenches so I wouldn’t worry. The man who came back changed yes, but alive.”

He closed his eyes.

I rested my forehead against his knee. “You’re still him. You’ll always be him. Even if the world doesn’t see it, I do.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Not for a while. But something softened in him that night. Not much but enough.

The next few days were slow. Tentative. We began again, in small ways. A game of cards. A shared cup of tea. His head resting briefly against my shoulder as I read aloud.

But I still saw the sadness in him. The shame.

His birthday arrived quietly. No letters. No visitors. The lads he’d fought with were scattered now some too haunted to write, some dead.

I gave him his gift after dinner. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine.

He opened it slowly, fingers unsure.

Inside was a small, custom-crafted facial prosthesis something the nurse and I had commissioned weeks ago. It wouldn’t restore his old face, but it would offer comfort, confidence a way to go outside again without fear.

His hands shook as he lifted it.

“You said you didn’t care,” he whispered.

“I don’t,” I replied. “But I thought… maybe you might. For you. Not for me.”

He stared down at it.

“I thought you deserved to feel whole. Even if you already are, in my eyes.”

He said nothing.

So I stepped closer.

“May I?”

He nodded.

I helped him adjust the straps, my hands gentle, guiding. It wasn’t perfect but it softened the harsher lines, restored some symmetry.

When I was done, I met his eyes.

He was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “For pushing you away. For doubting you. For not being strong enough.”

“You are strong,” I said. “Stronger than anyone I know.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You have me anyway.”

He looked at me then really looked. And for the first time in weeks, I saw a flicker of the man I’d loved since I was nineteen.

“You stayed,” he whispered.

“Of course I did.”

“Even when I was cruel.”

“Because I knew you were hurting.”

He reached for me then, arms tentative, and I let him hold me. Let him cry. Let him say everything he’d buried deep beneath bandages and silence.

And when his tears finally stopped, I pulled back just enough to take his face in my hands.

“I will stay,” I said firmly. “No matter how you look. Because what matters most…” I pressed a hand to his chest. “…is here. And that has never changed.”

In the months that followed, we found our rhythm again. He wore the prosthesis when he wanted never because he felt he had to. I reminded him daily, in words and touch and time, that he was still loved. Still worthy. Still mine.

And he, in turn, began to believe it.

Bit by bit.

Scar by scar.

Together.