pankowcrumbs

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Can I ask for Will x reader? It's their pre-wedding day. Will's anxiety is acting up, but she notices it just in late afternoon when they watch movie together and he suddenly starts to cry, he feels so unworthy of her, but she reassures him she never loved anyone this much, she soothes his anxieties. Pure fluff

I hope this is what you were after! 🩵

Anxiety

[pankowcrumbs]

Can I ask for Will Poulter x reader where it's her first time and she's shy and anxious about it (but willing to do it - she consent) and he's understanding and don't push on her allowing her to move and explore things on her own and explain things to her

I hope this is okay! 🩵

First time

[pankowcrumbs]

hii! Could i request a Will Poulter x famous!reader and maybe its an indepth telling of their wedding w the reception and everything ?? (Maybe even starting w a lowkey proposal) looove everything youve written for him so far!! 🩷

Thank you so much I hope you love it! 🩵

Love of a lifetime

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Anxiety X Will Poulter (Requested)

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

The kettle clicked off with a soft thunk, steam curling into the air as I poured hot water into two mugs. One with a swirl of honey and lemon mine. The other, plain English breakfast, just the way Will liked it. Strong. Steady. Reliable.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

It was the afternoon before our wedding, and the world felt like it was holding its breath. Everything had been taken care of. The venue was dressed, the flowers delivered. My dress hung from the wardrobe door in all its delicate, hand-stitched glory, and Will’s suit had been steamed and pressed and was waiting patiently at the cottage down the road where he and his best man were supposed to be staying the night.

Except he was here. Curled up on our old corduroy sofa in joggers and a hoodie, blanket tugged up to his chest, eyes flicking over the telly screen without really seeing anything.

I padded into the living room, placing his tea on the coffee table before tucking myself under the blanket beside him. He instinctively pulled me closer, arm wrapping around my shoulder, his lips brushing my hairline.

“You okay?” I asked softly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied, quick and automatic.

But he wasn’t.

Will was too still. The kind of still that came when he was holding too much inside. And I’d known him long enough to recognise the way his mind went quiet like that not calm, but stormy beneath the surface.

We watched the film in silence for a while, one of those classic romcoms we always fell back on when we couldn’t decide what to watch. I thought maybe it would help. Familiarity. Comfort.

But then, just after the scene where the lead proposed in the rain, I felt Will shift.

He turned his face away slightly, pulling the blanket higher. His breathing was uneven. Subtle… but not to me.

“Will?”

I leaned up and caught sight of his face and my chest clenched.

His eyes were red. Not from exhaustion, not from laughter from tears. One slipped down his cheek before he could stop it, and he scrubbed it away with the heel of his hand like it had betrayed him.

“Oh, babe…” I reached out and touched his face gently, turning it towards me. “Talk to me.”

He gave a small, helpless laugh and shook his head. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I should be… I don’t know, over the moon or something.”

“You’re allowed to feel things, Will. Especially today. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

His jaw tensed, and I watched the war behind his eyes spill over in the form of more tears. “I just” He swallowed hard. “What if I’m not good enough for you?”

The words came out in a rush, like he’d been holding them back for weeks.

“I mean look at you,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re… you’re everything. You light up every room you walk into. You make people laugh, you care, you see people. And me? I’m just some awkward bloke who fumbles through interviews and gets weird in crowds.”

I stared at him, stunned. Not by what he said but that he truly, honestly believed it.

“You think I don’t notice when people look at us?” he continued, quieter now. “Like they’re wondering what you’re doing with me. And I know people say not to care what others think, but it’s hard not to when I feel like… like I’m the one punching.”

My heart twisted. Not because he was wrong but because he was so far from right.

“Will.” I took his hand in both of mine, grounding him. “You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. You listen more than anyone I know. You’re patient, you’re honest, and you make me feel so bloody safe it’s ridiculous.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You’ve seen me at my worst, and you never flinched. You’ve held me through panic attacks, celebrated my wins louder than I did, and you always, always, remind me who I am when I forget.”

He stared at me, eyes glassy. “But”

“No. Let me finish.” I cupped his jaw, my thumb brushing the stubble there. “You say you’re awkward? Fine. Maybe you are sometimes. But you’re my awkward. And I love you for it.”

I leaned in, our foreheads touching.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Will Poulter. Not even close. And if anyone in this relationship is punching, it’s me.”

He let out a broken laugh, and I felt his shoulders shake as he finally gave in to the tears he’d been bottling up all day.

I just held him.

No rush. No pressure. Just arms wrapped around his trembling frame, letting him fall apart safely, the way he’d done for me so many times before.

Eventually, he shifted, his head resting in the crook of my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to ruin the day.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said. “You were just honest. And I’d rather have your honesty than any perfect façade.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then, “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“But I still want to marry you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

I smiled softly. “Good. Because I’ll be standing there tomorrow, in a ridiculous dress, grinning like an idiot, waiting to se you at the end of the aisle.”

He looked up at me then, really looked. “I love you.”

I kissed him. Slow. Tender. “I love you, too.”

Later that evening, I cooked nothing fancy, just pasta with too much garlic and warm bread from the bakery down the lane. We danced around the kitchen like idiots to 2000s pop hits, both barefoot, both laughing, tears long dried and forgotten. Will even sang into a wooden spoon at one point, doing a terrible falsetto that had me wheezing.

He was lighter now. Not completely okay because anxiety didn’t disappear like magic but held. Understood. Loved.

And when it came time for him to head back to the cottage with his best man (traditions, after all), we stood in the doorway for longer than necessary, arms wrapped around each other like the next few hours apart were some great trial.

“Sleep well,” I whispered against his chest.

“You too.”

“Don’t overthink.”

“I’ll try.”

“And remember,” I said, leaning back to meet his gaze, “you are so enough. For me. For this. For everything that’s coming.”

He kissed me one last time, soft and lingering. “I’ll see you at the end of the aisle.”

The next morning, when I stood before the mirror in my dress, veil clipped into place, I saw something in my reflection that surprised me calm.

I thought I’d be anxious, jittery. But I wasn’t.

Because I knew who was waiting for me.

The man who’d cried in my arms, thinking he wasn’t worthy.

The man who was worthy. Who always had been.

And when I stepped into the ceremony and saw Will at the other end, his eyes glassy, his smile trembling I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

Not perfect.

But right.

And that was all we needed.

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First time X Will Poulter (Requested)

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

18+

Plot: Your First time having Sex

I never expected the nerves to hit quite this hard.

We’d been together for months long enough for the butterflies to settle into something quieter, deeper. Still there, still fluttering on occasion, but steady. Loving Will was like wrapping myself in something warm and safe. He never rushed me, never asked for anything I wasn’t ready to give. And I loved that about him.

Which is probably why tonight felt so terrifying.

We were in his flat, a quiet Sunday evening where the world outside had softened into a blur of rain against windows and the low hum of music in the background. The lights were dim, a flicker of candlelight dancing off the walls, casting a golden glow that made everything feel softer.

Will was sitting on the sofa, one arm resting lazily along the back, his other hand cradling a mug of tea. He looked so unfairly good in his joggers and hoodie, his hair slightly messy, face bare. Just him. Real and lovely.

I was curled beside him, head on his shoulder, listening to the rain.

We’d kissed plenty of times. And we’d touched and explored a little. But I’d never gone further than that. Not with anyone. And while I knew, deep down, that I wanted to share that with him, there was still a soft, stubborn layer of anxiety clinging to me. What if I was awkward? What if I didn’t know what to do? What if it hurt?

He must’ve sensed the shift in me, the way I kept tracing invisible patterns on his arm, restless fingers betraying my nerves.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly, voice low and warm.

I looked up, eyes meeting his. “Just… thinking.”

“Yeah?” he said, placing his mug down and giving me his full attention. “About what?”

I hesitated, then tucked my knees up onto the sofa beside me, facing him. “About… us.”

His brows lifted slightly, gentle and patient. “Okay. That sounds like a big thought.”

“I just” I exhaled. “I think I’m ready. I mean… I want to. With you.”

The softness in his eyes didn’t shift, didn’t harden with expectation. He simply nodded, absorbing every word like they mattered because they did.

“But I’m scared,” I admitted quietly. “Not of you. Just… of doing something wrong. Or being bad at it. Or God, I don’t even know.”

“Hey,” he said gently, reaching for my hand. “Look at me.”

I did. His fingers wrapped around mine, grounding me.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said. “You’re not performing. This isn’t about being good or bad. It’s about being together. Just you and me.”

My throat tightened, emotion swelling in my chest.

He smiled softly. “And you’re allowed to feel nervous. Or unsure. Or change your mind. I’m not going anywhere.”

I moved closer instinctively, heart thudding as I pressed my lips to his. The kiss started sweet slow, careful but deepened as he cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. He tasted like tea and warmth and something entirely him.

I felt his hands skim my back, never grabbing, never pulling just there, reassuring and open. I breathed him in, letting myself be wrapped in the weight of his affection.

“Can I?” he murmured against my mouth, his fingertips ghosting over the hem of my shirt.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

We moved slowly, like time had bent just for us. My shirt lifted over my head and was carefully discarded. I felt the rush of cool air against my skin, the spike of self-consciousness that followed.

He saw it he always did.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, eyes locked on mine. “Every bit of you.”

He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder, then the curve of my neck, his hands gentle as they explored, never rushing, never demanding.

I let my fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring myself to the moment. His mouth moved lower, trailing reverent kisses, making me feel worshipped, not exposed.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah… I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to,” he said simply. “Just do what feels good. And tell me if something doesn’t.”

The way he said it so calm, so sure made something inside me settle. I let my hands move over him, trembling fingers exploring his chest, the slope of his back. I felt him exhale, like even my touch affected him.

He lay me down gently, his body hovering over mine but never pressing too hard. His lips found mine again, anchoring me, soothing me.

The rest blurred in warmth and sensation the way his hands mapped my skin, the way his voice murmured soft reassurances, guiding me, checking in.

When he finally asked, “Are you sure?” his voice thick, his body shaking with restraint I gave him the answer I’d known all along.

“Yes. I want this. With you.”

And with a reverence that made my chest ache, he kissed me like he’d been waiting forever.

We moved together completley in sync. Every breath, every moan, nothing laced in need but rather in appreciation and softness. he was gentle and took his time making sure to keep checking in on me with those beautiful eyes.

He moved his way down my body slowly and his lips attached to my nipples my right one then my left making sure to take his time on each one his hand on the other making sure neither was left out, he made me moan if this man could make me feel so good with just his mouth of my nipples I might not survive the rest.

He used his free hand to check if I was wet and god was I.

he looked up one last time and spoke so softly "Are you sure?"

I nodded

"I need you to tell me darling" "

"I'm ready" I made eye contact reassuring him I was

"tell me to stop at any point you are my priority" he said and god I was such a lucky woman to have a man so soft, gentle and caring.

I barely registered it he was so slow and watched me the whole time stopping anytime I showed any sign of discomfort but seconds later he started moving and it felt so good I forgot I was even nervous.

Later, wrapped in his sheets and the scent of rain lingering in the air, I lay curled against him, my body still humming. His hand was tracing light circles on my hip, slow and lazy.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Like…” I trailed off, smiling into his chest. “Like everything makes sense.”

He chuckled lightly, kissing the top of my head. “You were amazing.”

I laughed. “I literally had no idea what I was doing.”

“You were you. That’s all I needed.”

I looked up at him then, tracing the edge of his jaw with my finger. “Thank you. For being patient. For not making it weird.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, it’s not weird. It’s us.”

I snuggled closer, letting the quiet wrap around us again.

If this was what firsts could feel like with safety, love, and someone who truly saw me then I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not even for a less nervous version of myself.

Because it was real. And it was ours.

[pankowcrumbs]

Love of a lifetime X Will Poulter (Requested)

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

The day Will proposed started off like any other, which still baffles me.

We were in the Lake District, tucked away in a cosy cottage with ivy crawling up the stone walls and a view that looked like it had been painted. It was my birthday weekend at least, that’s what I thought it was. Just the two of us, a quiet escape from the chaos of London, and the kind of air that made you feel new.

Will had made me coffee that morning, the way I liked it milk in first, then coffee, one sugar, and a cheeky kiss pressed to my forehead as he handed me the mug. He seemed nervous, now that I think about it. His thumb kept tapping the ceramic like he was counting heartbeats.

“You alright?” I asked, nudging him with my socked foot as we curled up on the sofa.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling that soft, crooked smile of his. “Just... thinking.”

We went on a hike later that afternoon he led the way, hand warm in mine, up a winding trail towards a viewpoint I didn’t even realise existed. The climb was steep, and I joked that if this wasn’t for cake at the end, he’d be sleeping on the floor.

He laughed, but he didn’t joke back.

When we reached the top, the view stole my breath before he even had a chance to. Hills rolled into the horizon, kissed by sunlight, and a breeze fluttered my hair like it was part of some film scene.

I turned to make a snarky comment something about how it better be worth it and then I saw him.

Will, down on one knee.

A small, velvet box in his hand.

“I didn’t want to do this in front of a crowd,” he began, eyes glassy but steady, “because the only thing that matters right now is you. I’ve loved you every day I’ve known you, and I’ll love you for all the days I’ve got left. You make everything brighter, kinder… better.”

I don’t even remember saying yes. I think I tackled him. The ring was perfect, but his grin God, his grin was the real gem that day.

We set the wedding for late September early autumn, the perfect blend of warmth and golden leaves. We chose an old manor house in Oxfordshire, surrounded by fields, trees already tinged amber and rust. It was romantic and classic, with ivy trailing down the stone façade and a barn converted into a reception hall.

I didn’t want extravagance. I wanted us.

Getting ready that morning was a blur of hairspray, laughter, and my best friend sneaking me sips of champagne between makeup touch-ups. My dress hung like a cloud from the doorframe, ivory lace and silk that felt like it belonged in a fairytale. It wasn’t flashy. It was timeless. Just like him.

When the time came, and the string quartet began to play, my heart nearly left my chest. My dad squeezed my hand just before we started down the aisle.

“You alright, love?” he whispered.

I nodded, teary-eyed. “Yeah. I’m more than alright.”

And then I saw Will.

He was waiting at the end of the aisle in a dark green suit that brought out the flecks in his hazel eyes. His hair was brushed back neatly, but a few strands had fallen loose classic. He looked like home.

His jaw clenched the moment he saw me, like he was holding back tears. He mouthed, You’re beautiful, and I nearly broke down before I even reached him.

The ceremony was short, sweet, and completely us. We’d written our own vows. I remember his word for word.

“Before you, I didn’t know peace like this existed. You’re my calm. You’re my chaos. You’re the story I never want to stop reading.”

By the time I finished mine, Will was holding my hands so tightly, I swear he’d never let go again.

We kissed under an archway of eucalyptus and roses, the air filled with applause and the scent of autumn. When the registrar pronounced us husband and wife, Will pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “Now you’re stuck with me forever.”

“I was stuck the moment I met you,” I whispered back.

The reception kicked off just as the sun started to dip, casting everything in warm honey light. Our guests filed into the barn, where fairy lights strung across the ceiling sparkled like stars. Each table had a name based on a place we’d travelled together "Lake Windermere," "Barcelona Streets," "Iceland Glow." Ours was "The Viewpoint" a nod to where it all began.

Our first dance was to “Beyond” by Leon Bridges slow, soulful, and completely us. Will’s hands stayed at my waist as we swayed, foreheads pressed together.

“This feels unreal,” I murmured.

“I keep checking if I’m dreaming,” he said, and then kissed me, right there in front of everyone.

Dinner was a blur of laughter and clinking glasses. My cheeks ached from smiling, and every time I glanced at Will, he was already looking at me.

Speeches followed my dad made everyone cry with a tearful yet hilarious monologue about how he knew Will was the one when he saw how he looked at me. Will’s sister read a poem she’d written for us, and Will’s speech... Well, let’s just say I had to redo my mascara after.

“I didn’t think I’d find a love like this in my lifetime,” he said, looking directly at me. “But here she is beautiful, fierce, kind, and funny as hell. I can’t believe she’s mine.”

The night rolled on into dancing, photo booth antics, and chocolate cake smeared across Will’s nose after I “accidentally” shoved the first bite into his face.

And at some point, we snuck away.

Just the two of us, under the stars, a blanket wrapped around our shoulders, and a bottle of champagne we’d stolen from the bar.

“Married,” he said, beaming.

“Married,” I echoed, leaning my head against his shoulder.

He kissed the top of my head, then whispered, “Let’s never stop choosing each other.”

“Every day,” I promised. “Always.”

[pankowcrumbs]

i love your will fics!!!! they’re all so good <3

Thank you so much that means a lot to me! 🩵

[pankowcrumbs]

Overprotective X Lewis Hamilton (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lewis Hamilton x Reader: Reader is friends with the whole grid and during a party Lewis gets overprotective over the reader when a drunk guy approaches her.

The music pulsed through the walls, bass thrumming in my chest as I navigated the packed house. Someone had turned Max’s Monaco flat into a full-blown nightclub. Lights flashed in blues and reds, bodies swayed in time with the beat, and the smell of overpriced cologne and champagne floated through the air like smoke.

“Y/N!” Lando shouted, waving from across the room with a glass of something in hand. “Come here, you’ve got to hear this story George is telling it’s mental!”

I laughed, weaving through familiar faces Carlos laughing with Charles in the corner, Oscar and Pierre mid dance battle, Alex spinning Lily on the marble floor like they were in a rom-com. Everyone was here. The whole grid. My boys.

And somewhere among them, Lewis.

I spotted him leaning against the kitchen island, glass of wine in hand, talking with Seb, the two of them deep in conversation. He looked good too good, really. All dark curls and quiet confidence, dressed in black, that soft smile tugging at his lips. He hadn't noticed me yet.

Typical. The moment I needed him to, he didn’t. And the moments I wished he wouldn't, he saw right through me.

Not that anything was happening between us. I mean… not officially. We were close, sure. Close enough that he'd know when I was overwhelmed and find an excuse to pull me away. Close enough that I’d memorised the way he smiled when he was tipsy, or how he always touched the small of my back when he thought no one was looking.

But nothing had ever crossed the line. Yet.

“Y/N!” George’s voice snapped me back. “You’re missing it Lando’s trying to convince us that he once beat Max at chess.”

I laughed and let myself get pulled into the chaos, accepting the drink someone handed me. For a while, it was easy to lose myself in the noise and the laughter. These boys this mad, fast-paced, adrenaline-soaked family they always made me feel safe.

Until he showed up.

Not Lewis.

Him.

I didn’t know his name. He wasn’t one of the drivers. Maybe a friend of a friend. All I knew was that he’d been watching me from across the room for the last half hour.

And now, he was walking over.

He was tall, too tall, with a cocky smirk and a half-empty beer bottle. Already I could tell he’d had too much to drink. His steps were unsteady, and his eyes were unfocused, but that didn’t stop him from approaching.

“Hey,” he slurred, leaning far too close. “You’re the girl all the drivers are obsessed with, right?”

I stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he continued, gesturing vaguely around the room. “All of them, always talking about you. Figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about.”

I took a half-step back, heart rate rising. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”

“Oh, come on,” he grinned, inching closer. “Don’t be like that. I bet you like the attention. Bit of adrenaline from having all the boys wrapped around your little finger, yeah?”

“I said no.” My voice was firmer now, but he didn’t seem to care.

And then I felt it.

A hand on my waist.

But not his.

Lewis.

He stepped between us so smoothly it was like a scene from a film his body shielding mine, his eyes fixed coldly on the stranger.

“She said no,” Lewis said, voice low and steady. There was no anger in it just finality. Command.

The guy blinked, surprised. “Mate, I was just talking...”

“You were harassing her,” Lewis interrupted, tone sharp as steel. “And now you’re going to walk away.”

The guy looked around, probably realising for the first time that half the room had gone quiet. That several drivers George, Charles, even Max were watching closely, ready to step in.

Lewis didn’t move.

Eventually, the guy scoffed and held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Touchy bunch.”

He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Only when he was out of sight did Lewis exhale, his shoulders relaxing.

“You okay?” he asked, turning to face me fully, his eyes searching mine.

I nodded, though my hands were trembling slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I saw him watching you. Didn’t like it.”

“You always this protective?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

His jaw clenched slightly. “When it comes to you? Yeah.”

My breath caught.

We stood there for a moment, the world moving in a blur around us. For the first time that night, the music didn’t matter. The laughter, the noise, the lights it all faded.

Just me. Just him.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” I said quietly, staring at the hem of his shirt.

“You didn’t,” he replied, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I would’ve. If it meant getting him away from you.”

I swallowed hard. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand lingered near my face, and when I looked up, he was already looking at me like I was made of something rare. Fragile. Precious.

“Because I care about you, Y/N,” he said, finally. “Probably more than I should.”

I blinked. “Then why haven’t you...”

“Because it’s not just a crush,” he cut in, voice low. “It’s not just some fling for me. If I crossed that line… I wouldn’t be able to go back. I’d want everything.”

My heart pounded in my chest.

“And you deserve everything,” he added, softer now. “Not rushed. Not messy. Not something hidden in the corners of parties.”

I didn’t realise I was crying until he reached up and brushed my cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t need perfect,” I whispered. “I just need you.”

That broke him.

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Our lips met like we’d been holding back forever. It wasn’t hurried. It was slow and full of everything we hadn’t said months of tension and friendship and longing all poured into that one kiss.

When we finally pulled apart, I could hear the grin in his voice.

“Roscoe’s going to love you even more now.”

I laughed, still breathless. “He already thinks I’m his mum.”

Lewis chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist, keeping me close as we walked back through the party. No one said anything, but I caught the knowing glances Lando’s satisfied smirk, Charles giving a subtle thumbs up, George mouthing finally behind his glass.

But none of it mattered.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t just part of the chaos I was exactly where I was meant to be.

With him.

[pankowcrumbs]

shoelace-obsessed bulldog X Lewis Hamilton (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lewis Hamilton x Reader: Reader is Roscoes nanny and Lewis falls for her.

When I first met Roscoe, he tried to eat my shoelaces.

Not nibble. Not tug. He lunged at them like they’d personally offended him.

“Roscoe!” Lewis barked from across the sleek living room, jogging over. “Mate, she’s not even through the door yet.”

I laughed, bending down to rub behind Roscoe’s ears. “It’s alright. He’s got great taste in footwear.”

Lewis flashed me that smile I’d only ever seen on telly and Instagram. “He’s a menace in loafers. Consider yourself warned.”

And that was how it started. Not with engines revving or champagne showers. Just a shoelace-obsessed bulldog and a man in a hoodie who made my knees a bit weak.

I'd been hired through a luxury pet agency. “Discretion is key,” they told me. “Client confidentiality is a non-negotiable.” So when I saw Lewis Hamilton listed as my next dog-sitting client, I kept cool. I told no one, not even my sister, who'd once cried during one of his podium speeches.

The job was simple: look after Roscoe while Lewis travelled, trained, or occasionally just needed someone to keep him company on busy days. I fed him, walked him, brushed him, administered his supplements, and played fetch in the vast garden while pretending I wasn’t low-key starstruck.

At first, Lewis was hardly around. In and out. Brief hellos. Always polite, always soft-spoken. But then, after a few weeks, something shifted.

He started sticking around a bit longer before heading to meetings. Offering me a cup of tea. Sitting with me and Roscoe in the sun-drenched patio as we watched the dog chase butterflies.

“You’ve got a good energy,” he said one afternoon, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls. “Roscoe’s never this calm with strangers.”

I shrugged, flattered. “Dogs like me. They sense my deeply repressed chaos.”

He laughed. “I doubt there’s anything chaotic about you.”

He had no idea.

The more time we spent together, the more natural it felt. He started asking questions about my childhood, my family, the things I wanted in life. He told me about his parents, his travels, his love for music and fashion and meditation.

One evening, Roscoe had a tummy ache and wouldn’t stop whining. I stayed late, sitting on the kitchen floor beside him with my hand on his belly, whispering gentle things.

Lewis came downstairs in sweatpants and a hoodie, barefoot, and sat next to me without a word. For a while we both just watched Roscoe together.

Then he said softly, “You didn’t have to stay this long.”

“I know,” I said. “But I wanted to.”

He looked at me like he was trying to work out something quietly, then nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “He’s everything to me.”

“I can tell.”

Silence fell again, but not uncomfortably. The kind that felt like something was slowly, gently blooming between us.

It was after a trip that things changed for real.

He returned late at night, suitcase in one hand, sunglasses perched on his head even though the sun had long gone down. I was curled on the sofa, Roscoe snoring beside me. I jumped up when I heard the door.

“You’re back,” I said, a bit breathless.

He dropped his bag and smiled. “Miss me?”

The words hung in the air between us. I laughed nervously, but didn’t answer.

Lewis stepped closer, eyes fixed on mine. “I missed you,” he added quietly.

My stomach flipped. “You mean Roscoe.”

“I mean you.”

I think my heart actually stopped. Like a dramatic soap opera pause.

“I don’t want to make this weird,” he continued, “and if I’m misreading anything, just tell me. But… I like you. Not just because you’re good with him. Not just because you’re kind. But because when I’m around you, I feel calm. Like I can just be myself. And I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

I swallowed. My cheeks were hot. I glanced down at Roscoe, who was obliviously drooling onto a cushion.

“I like you too,” I said. “I thought maybe I was being ridiculous. You’re… well, you’re you.”

He smiled gently. “And you’re you. And I like that.”

That night, we didn’t kiss. We didn’t even hold hands. He just sat beside me on the sofa and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as Roscoe’s snores filled the room.

It was… perfect.

From then on, everything shifted but softly. No grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.

Just small things.

The way Lewis would wait until I arrived before heading out, even if it meant running late.

The way he started bringing back little things from his travels earrings he saw in Rome that he thought I’d like, a book from Tokyo with a note in the front: “Thought of you.”

The way he started texting me things like “Wish you were here” or “Just saw a golden retriever wearing sunglasses. Not as cute as Roscoe but close.”

And then one night, it just… happened.

I was leaving after a long day. Roscoe had curled up on his massive bed, full from dinner and clearly ready for his tenth nap.

Lewis walked me to the door like he always did. I turned to say goodbye and he kissed me.

Soft. Warm. Hesitant at first. Then certain.

When he pulled back, I was smiling so hard it almost hurt.

“About bloody time,” I whispered.

He laughed, pressing his forehead to mine. “Agreed.”

Dating Lewis was surreal in the way that felt both dreamlike and totally normal.

He still asked if I wanted tea every morning. Still let Roscoe up on the sofa even though we both knew he wasn’t supposed to. But now there were kisses in the kitchen. Whispered goodnights. Texts that made me blush and giggle into pillows.

We kept it private, mostly. For months, no one knew. We didn’t post. We didn’t say anything.

But people started to guess. I’d be spotted walking Roscoe in the paddock. My name would appear in the background of photos. And once, someone caught Lewis watching me with a look on his face like I hung the stars.

“Is it difficult?” I asked him one night, curled up in his lap.

“What?”

“Liking someone like me. Who isn’t in the spotlight. Who doesn’t wear diamonds to breakfast.”

He tucked a curl behind my ear. “You love my dog like he’s your own. You laugh at my worst jokes. And you make me feel grounded in a world where everything moves too fast.”

I blinked back tears.

“I don’t care if you wear diamonds or pyjamas. I care that it’s you.”

Eventually, we went public quietly.

A photo. Just us and Roscoe, sitting on a beach. No captions. No explanation.

The internet went mad, obviously.

But for every tabloid headline, there were ten fans saying things like “She looks at him like he’s home” or “Roscoe approved = we approve.”

We ignored the noise and kept building our life slowly, intentionally.

Holidays together. Sunday mornings with pancakes. Me brushing Roscoe while Lewis tried to sneak him extra food.

Then came my favourite day of all.

My birthday.

He told me to dress warm. That was all.

He drove us out to the countryside. Roscoe was in the back seat, snoozing. We pulled up to a cosy little cottage, fairy lights strung along the porch, the smell of cinnamon and pine in the air.

Inside: a fire, my favourite wine, and a cake shaped like Roscoe’s face.

I turned to him, laughing. “You absolute sap.”

He grinned. “Only for you.”

That night, as we lay in bed with Roscoe snoring at our feet, he took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

“You were the missing piece,” he said.

I looked at him, full of nothing but love.

“And you were hiding behind a bulldog the whole time.”

He laughed. “Best wingman I ever had.”

And I couldn’t help but agree.

Because somehow, in between shoelaces and Sunday walks, I’d found the kind of love people spend their whole lives chasing.

All thanks to a dog named Roscoe.

And the man who adored him.

[pankowcrumbs]

Good enough X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader: Teammates to Lovers, Lando is afraid, that he is not good enough.

The paddock smelled of oil and adrenaline.

Race day was always like this tight suits, tighter helmets, and even tighter expectations. I tugged at the neck of mine, trying to focus on my breathing as engineers buzzed around our cars. Cameras flashed. Fans chanted. And somewhere, buried beneath the chaos, my nerves festered.

Being the only woman in Formula 1 was a feat I wore like armour. It shimmered on the outside a sleek, headline-ready accomplishment but it pressed hard against my bones. Every move I made was magnified. Every mistake? A banner headline.

And to make things even more complicated?

Lando Norris.

He was my teammate. Fast, smart, and maddeningly charming. The sort of person who could make you laugh during strategy briefings and then steal pole position with a grin. We were equals on paper. In private, we were… something else.

I leaned on the barrier near my car, watching him talk to his race engineer. He caught me looking and winked.

"Nervous?" he mouthed.

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. Of course I was.

We'd been circling each other for months. Flirtations over lunch debriefs, touches that lingered just a second too long when squeezing past each other in the garage. Nothing overt. Nothing spoken. But it was there a crackling charge that hummed every time we were near.

And yet, Lando never acted on it.

Not properly.

Not until last night.

I still felt the echo of his fingers brushing mine as we walked back from dinner. The heat of his palm when he'd grabbed my wrist at the hotel doors, pulling me back from leaving. The look in his eyes.

"This isn't smart," he'd whispered, his voice low and rough. "You're brilliant. Too brilliant. I don't want to be the reason you lose focus."

"And if I lose focus on my own?" I'd asked.

He didn't answer. Just released my wrist and let the silence fall between us like a curtain.

This morning, it still hadn’t lifted.

I climbed into my car, the tight cradle of carbon fibre instantly familiar. My engineer spoke through the radio, calm and focused, but my mind drifted.

To Lando.

To the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.

The formation lap began.

We took our places on the grid him in P3, me right beside in P4. It was a good start. McLaren had been performing well this season. We were a strong team. A united front. But something about this tension between us made me feel like we were teetering on the edge of something we couldn’t name.

The lights went out.

I surged forward, the roar of the engine drowning every thought. My world narrowed to the track, the corners, the split-second decisions. I overtook one of the Ferraris by Lap 10. Lando was holding P2, fighting off Red Bull like a lion.

By Lap 25, we were running 2 and 3. Team radio crackled.

"Hold positions," came the instruction.

I knew what it meant. We were playing the strategy game. Tyres were degrading. No risks.

But I wanted to.

I wanted to see if I could pass him. Not to win. Not really.

Just to see if he’d let me.

He didn’t.

Every time I drew close, he defended smartly, aggressively. I caught glimpses of him, jaw set, eyes focused. I could feel the adrenaline pouring off him like heat.

After the race, we parked up P2 and P3. Podiums for both. Confetti rained. Champagne sprayed.

And still, all I could think about was the moment his hand brushed my waist on the steps.

Back in the hospitality suite, I cornered him.

"We need to talk."

He hesitated, scanning the room. Then nodded.

We found a quiet corridor behind the media tent. I leaned against the wall. He stood opposite, arms folded.

"Why won't you let this happen?" I asked.

He exhaled slowly. "Because it's not simple. We're teammates. If it goes wrong…"

"And if it goes right?" I challenged.

He looked at me then, properly. All the barriers dropped.

"I think about you constantly," he said. "Every race, every briefing, every bloody lunch. I look for you. I listen for your laugh. I wait for your texts. It's driving me mad. But I don’t want to be the guy who ruins this for you."

My chest tightened. "You're not. I know the risks. I’m not scared."

He stepped closer. "I am. I’m scared that if we cross that line and it doesn’t work, I’ll lose more than just a teammate."

We spent the rest of the night talking, leaning into one another, stealing quiet smiles like they were secrets only we understood. And while the world outside kept spinning, for once, we let ourselves stop pretending.

But even in that stillness, I could sense it. The hesitation in his eyes. The worry gnawing at the edges of every soft thing he gave me.

It came to a head a week later, in Monaco.

We were seated in the back of the McLaren hospitality unit after media day. Rain tapped against the windows. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. I had just finished laughing at something ridiculous he’d said, and when I reached for his hand across the small table, he pulled away slightly.

My chest tightened.

“Lando?” I asked gently.

He looked down, fingers rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck. “I keep thinking… why you’d choose this.”

I blinked. “This?”

He glanced up at me, that familiar vulnerability swimming in his ocean-blue eyes. “Me.”

My heart broke a little at the way he said it like he genuinely couldn’t see what I saw every single day.

“You’re Lando Norris,” I said with a soft smile. “Quickest hands on the grid, heart bigger than this whole bloody paddock, and the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could actually breathe out here.”

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not like you,” he said quietly. “You’re… fierce. Brilliant. Every camera turns when you walk in. You’ve changed the game, and you don’t even flinch when the world tries to tear you down.”

“And you think I don’t get scared?” I asked. “That I don’t second guess myself every time I climb in the car?”

“It’s different,” he muttered. “Everyone already believes in you.”

There was a silence then, heavy and aching.

He wasn’t saying this because he didn’t want me. He was saying it because he did and he was terrified it would all fall apart and I’d realise he wasn’t enough.

I stood and walked around the table, crouching beside him.

“Lando,” I said softly, “do you have any idea how many times I’ve looked at you and thought, ‘God, I wish I could be as effortless as him’? How often I’ve watched you charm an entire room or pull a miracle lap out of nowhere and thought, ‘That’s what greatness looks like’?”

He looked up, eyes glassy now.

“I didn’t fall for you because of a stat sheet or your driver rating,” I continued. “I fell for the way you always look back to see if I’m following. The way you defend me in interviews when I’m not there. The way you never underestimate me even when half the world still does.”

He exhaled shakily, hands reaching for mine this time. “I just… don’t want to hold you back.”

“You never have,” I said. “You push me forward. Every single day.”

His fingers tightened around mine.

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t need to.

That moment his head resting lightly against my shoulder, my fingers in his hair, his whispered “Okay… I’ll try” that was all we needed to break the last wall between us.

And from that day on, Lando tried.

He quieted the voice that told him he wasn’t enough. I helped when I could, reminding him, sometimes gently, sometimes firmly, that love wasn’t about perfection. It was about showing up. And he did. Always.

Even when the headlines caught wind of us two months later.

“F1’s Power Duo or a Disaster in Waiting?” “Is Romance Ruining McLaren’s Dynamic?” “Flirtation on the Grid Norris and Y/L/N Too Close for Comfort?”

We laughed. We rolled our eyes. We showed up anyway.

Side by side in the paddock. Fierce and unbothered. A team.

But sometimes, after a tough race or a brutal press day, I’d find him quiet staring out at the track like it was asking him questions he couldn’t answer.

And I’d just take his hand. Not to fix it. Just to remind him that he wasn’t in it alone.

Because if there was one thing stronger than the pressure or the scrutiny it was us.

Would you like me to continue with how they officially go public, or maybe something sweet like a holiday or time with friends to show how far they’ve come?

[pankowcrumbs]

Stylist X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader: Reader is the Stylist for the them and it is love at first sight.

There’s a kind of chaos that exists in the world of Formula 1 that most people never really see. The roaring engines, the flashing cameras, the pit lane buzz all of that’s just surface noise. The real frenzy happens backstage fittings, last-minute wardrobe emergencies, PR shoots that turn into full-blown campaigns overnight.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: me.

I’ve been working as a personal stylist for about four years now. When McLaren offered me the chance to style both of their drivers Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri I said yes before the email had even finished loading. I'd worked with athletes before, but this? This was something else. These two weren’t just racers they were brands. And I was about to dress them like they owned every room they walked into.

The first time I met Lando was in a hotel suite in Monaco, three days before the Grand Prix. I was sorting through suits, hanging a few casual pieces near the wardrobe when I heard the door open behind me.

I turned and there he was.

Messy curls, warm hazel eyes, tan skin that made my breath catch. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at me. Like he’d forgotten what he came in for.

"Hi," he said, blinking like he was pulling himself back to earth. "You're… not what I expected."

I raised a brow. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno some guy named Trevor with measuring tape around his neck, I guess.”

I laughed, shaking his hand. “Y/N. I’m here to make sure you don’t end up wearing shoes two sizes too big in front of a billion people.”

He grinned. “Then thank God for you.”

That was it the spark. Instant. Unmistakable. It danced in the air between us, subtle but alive.

Oscar arrived minutes later and, thankfully, didn't seem to notice the way I kept stealing glances at Lando while adjusting their jackets. Or how he kept glancing at me through the mirror while I worked.

“You have a favourite?” Lando asked later, as I fussed with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Driver or suit?”

He smirked. “Both.”

I hummed like I was thinking hard. “Oscar’s very cooperative. Doesn’t argue about colour theory. And this navy double-breasted on him? Magic.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Harsh.”

I tilted my head, pretending to assess him. “But you? You wear the hell out of anything I put you in. Even when you whinge about skinny trousers.”

He laughed, full and boyish. “Fair enough.”

We were flirting. Obviously. But nothing about it felt forced. It was… effortless. The kind of connection you don’t question because it just fits.

By the end of the weekend, I was gone for him.

And judging by the way he pulled me aside after the race, still flushed from adrenaline, I wasn’t alone.

“I know this is probably unprofessional,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’d regret it forever if I didn’t ask”

“Yes,” I cut in.

He blinked. “I haven’t even said what I was asking.”

“You were going to ask me out, right?”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “Yeah. I was.”

“Then yes.”

He looked stunned for half a second, then laughed again. “Okay, wow. Great. I didn’t expect this to work.”

I grinned. “Neither did Trevor.”

We kept things quiet at first. The paddock is a rumour mill, and the last thing I wanted was to look like I’d slept my way into the job. But behind closed doors, it was magic.

Lando was everything I didn’t expect. Thoughtful, self-aware, hilarious. He’d text me photos of ridiculous fashion items

“This bucket hat. Yes or hell no?”

I’d show up to fittings with inside jokes written on the garment tags just to make him laugh.

We stole moments after media days, during travel days, in hotel corridors when no one was looking. And each one made it harder not to fall completely.

Then came Silverstone.

It was a massive weekend. His home race. Pressure everywhere.

I was backstage helping Oscar with his last-minute tie adjustment when Lando appeared in the doorway, already dressed, looking far too good in a sharp charcoal suit I’d custom selected just for him.

“Y/N,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “Quick word?”

Oscar raised his brows but didn’t say anything.

Out in the hallway, Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low.

“Dangerous,” I teased.

He smirked, but the nerves were there. Real ones.

“I want to stop hiding it,” he said. “Us. I don’t want to act like you’re just my stylist anymore. You mean more than that.”

I swallowed hard. “Lando…”

“I know the timing’s crap and the world’s always watching, but I’m tired of pretending you’re not the first person I look for when I walk into a room.”

I blinked, heart thudding.

“I’m not asking you to post a picture or walk the grid holding my hand,” he added. “Just… let’s stop being afraid of it.”

I took a breath. The risk was real. The headlines would be brutal. But standing there, looking into those honest, earnest eyes I knew I couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” I whispered.

His smile could’ve powered the whole circuit.

We didn’t make a big announcement. Just started being a little more… obvious. Sitting closer during briefings. Sharing the odd touch. And yes, a few photos did slip through the cracks one of me laughing in the background while he beamed at me, one of us walking out of a restaurant late at night, hand in hand.

The media storm came fast, as expected.

“Lando Norris Dating McLaren Stylist?” “Love on the Grid: Fans Divided Over Norris’ Romance” “Should Teams Allow Relationships This Close to Home?”

We read them all, shared a bottle of wine, and decided to go on a proper date anyway.

Because for all the noise, the truth was this: we’d found something rare. And it was worth protecting, not hiding.

Eventually, the fuss died down. People got bored. And in its place came something warmer support, even. Fans commenting on how happy he looked. Journalists noting his improved focus. Some even calling me a “lucky charm.”

And maybe I was.

Because a year later, Lando stood at the Monaco GP in a tailored white linen shirt I’d helped pick out, sunglasses perched on his nose, and pulled me into a kiss in full view of half the paddock.

He smiled against my lips. “Still think Oscar’s your favourite?”

“Close second,” I teased, resting my forehead against his.

And just like that, the world faded again.

Because in a life full of chaos and engines and cameras, somehow I’d found peace in the one person who could never sit still.

Lando Norris.

Tailored perfectly to me.

[pankowcrumbs]

Dad's best friend X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Trigger warning: Dad's best friend trope - slightly inappropriate

I’d always known Pedro. He’d been friends with my parents since before I was born. The kind of familiar face who showed up at Christmases, barbecues, and birthdays, usually with a bottle of something fancy and a laugh that filled the room. For as long as I could remember, he’d been Pedro, just Pedro funny, charming, warm-hearted Pedro who used to ruffle my hair when I was little and call me chiquita.

But everything changed when I turned twenty-five.

It wasn’t like I woke up one morning and suddenly saw him differently. It was more like a slow unfurling. A glance held too long, a touch that lingered half a second more than it should have. He’d look at me like he was remembering something, and I’d look at him like I was hoping he’d forget how wrong it was.

I hadn’t seen him in a while. Work had kept us in different cities me on a new indie project in London, him flying between press tours and studio lots but when I walked into my parents’ summer garden party, there he was.

Leaning against the stone wall near the kitchen doors, sunglasses perched on his nose, glass of white wine in hand.

He hadn’t changed much. Still rugged in that careless, maddening way. Greying a little more at the temples, his beard trimmed short. He caught sight of me across the lawn and smiled like the sun had finally come out.

“Mira quien es,” ("Look who it is") he said, setting down his glass and opening his arms.

I went to him, trying to act normal, like my heart wasn’t thudding against my ribs. His arms wrapped around me, warm and strong, and I hated the way my body reacted to him the way my skin prickled with awareness, the way my fingers ached to stay curled into his shirt.

“You look good,” I said when we pulled apart. Too breathless. I tried to school my voice, but my cheeks were already warming.

“So do you,” he replied, looking at me a moment too long. “Too good.”

There it was again that unspoken thing between us, floating in the air like a match held too close to dry grass. I cleared my throat, took a step back. My parents were watching from across the garden. Smiling. Clueless.

“How long are you in town for?” I asked, grabbing a drink from the passing tray just for something to do.

“Week or so. Might stick around longer if I can.”

Dangerous words. But I nodded, forcing a smile.

Two days later, we were the last ones in the kitchen after a small dinner. The others had drifted off to bed or to the patio with coffee and desserts, but we stayed behind, finishing our wine and leaning against opposite counters like magnets forced apart.

“It’s been a while,” Pedro said quietly. “Since that night in L.A.”

I closed my eyes briefly. That night. A wrap party. Too much tequila. A moment on the balcony where the world had fallen silent. He’d leaned in, eyes searching mine, and I’d let him kiss me. Soft. Gentle. Terrified.

We never spoke of it after.

“I thought we agreed it was a mistake,” I murmured.

“Did we?” he asked. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

My stomach twisted. I set my glass down.

“Pedro…”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Y/N.”

“No. But you’re still you. You’re my parents’ friend.”

“And you’re the woman I can’t stop looking at like a bloody idiot every time we’re in the same room.”

Silence settled thick between us.

“I know it’s wrong,” he added, voice low. “But tell me you don’t feel it too.”

I hesitated. The truth tasted like guilt and longing. I hated how much I wanted him. How much I’d wanted him for months, maybe years. I hated that this thing between us would never be easy, never be understood.

But I couldn’t lie.

“I do,” I whispered. “I feel it too.”

He crossed the room slowly. Stopped just in front of me. One hand lifted, hovering near my cheek like he didn’t quite have permission.

“You scare me, mi cielo,”("My Darling") he admitted.

“You break my heart,” I replied.

And then he kissed me again.

We kept it quiet.

Which wasn’t hard, considering he wasn’t meant to be staying with us that week. A hotel nearby gave him privacy, and I found every excuse I could to “run errands” or “go for walks” or “help him with something” excuses no one questioned. They trusted him. Trusted me. God, the guilt gnawed at me constantly.

But so did the hunger.

There was nothing casual about what we were doing. Every touch felt stolen. Every kiss a risk. Every moment behind closed doors lit with something reckless and wild and desperate.

It was the best and worst thing I’d ever done.

“I hate lying to them,” I said one night, tangled in his arms on the bed of his hotel suite. Rain tapped softly on the windows. His thumb stroked a lazy circle on my hip.

“I know,” he murmured. “We’ll tell them. When it’s time.”

“When will that be?”

“When I figure out how not to lose them.”

He didn’t say you, and that hurt more than I wanted to admit.

Of course, secrets don’t stay buried forever.

It was my mum who saw us first. At a Sunday market, of all places. Pedro’s hand in mine, our heads tucked together, laughing over some stupid pun at the coffee stand. Her eyes locked with mine across the stalls, and I saw the exact second her face changed.

Shock. Confusion. Betrayal.

She didn’t say anything then. Just turned and walked away.

The fallout came later.

Shouting. Crying. The kind of disappointment that settles in your bones. My dad barely spoke to me for a week. They didn’t say Pedro’s name again. Not once.

He left two days later.

No goodbye.

No word.

Just gone.

It’s been a month.

I still check my phone too often. Still wake up half-reaching for him. Still dream of his voice calling me mi cielo like it meant something only we understood.

I thought maybe he’d call. That he’d fight for us.

But silence can be louder than any words.

Today, I’m back at the house, sorting through some things for my next trip. The doorbell rings and I hear familiar voices downstairs my mum, someone else. I don’t think anything of it until footsteps sound on the stairs and then...

“Y/N.”

I freeze.

Pedro.

He looks exhausted. Beautiful, but exhausted. His curls a little unkempt, his expression soft with something like sadness.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“They invited me.”

“What?”

“Your mum. Your dad. They… they miss me. They want to talk. About us.”

I stare at him, unsure if I’m breathing.

He steps closer.

“I never should’ve left like that,” he says. “I thought it was the right thing. I thought it would make it easier.”

“It didn’t.”

“I know.” He looks at me like he’s afraid I might vanish. “I love you, Y/N.”

The words hit like lightning. I want to throw my arms around him. I want to scream at him. I want to cry and laugh and kiss him until we forget everything but this.

But I just say, “It’s not going to be easy.”

“I don’t care.”

“There’ll be judgement. Whispers. They’ll always look at us like...”

“I don’t care.”

His hand reaches mine, tentative at first. When I don’t pull away, he holds it tighter.

“We’ve both spent our lives caring what everyone else thinks,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want to live for you now? For us?”

I do.

God, I do.

So I nod. Just once.

And for the first time in weeks, I smile.

Pedro’s hand tightened around mine as we stood at the top of the stairs. Below, I could hear my mum in the kitchen, the familiar clinking of cups, her voice low as she spoke to my dad. The smell of coffee drifted up, warm and grounding.

My stomach twisted.

“Are you sure?” I whispered, glancing up at Pedro.

He gave me a small smile nervous, but steady. “No,” he said truthfully. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

That was enough.

We descended the stairs together. I half-expected my mum to turn the moment she sensed us, arms crossed, mouth tight, her expression unreadable. Instead, she just looked up from the mugs she was placing on the counter, her gaze flicking to our intertwined hands. She didn’t say anything. Neither did my dad.

Pedro cleared his throat.

“Can we talk?” he asked gently.

They nodded. Wordless. Tense.

We sat in the lounge me and Pedro on the sofa, my parents across from us like we were about to give them bad news. Which, in a way, we were. Or… we had.

There was a long silence before Pedro spoke again.

“I want to start by saying I’m sorry,” he said, voice low but firm. “For how it happened. For not saying anything sooner. For leaving when I should’ve stayed and explained.”

My dad's jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt.

Pedro continued, “What’s been happening between us… it didn’t start when Y/N was young. I would never ever cross that line. Not then. Not even close.”

I nodded quickly, needing them to hear it from me too. “He’s telling the truth. Nothing ever happened before. You both know what he was to me growing up like an uncle, a friend of the family. I never looked at him like this until…”

“Until last year,” Pedro finished.

My mum’s brow furrowed. “Last year?”

Pedro met her gaze directly. “At a party in L.A. We ran into each other on the balcony. We’d both had a few drinks, but it wasn’t the alcohol, I swear. It felt...” He paused, looking at me. “it felt right.”

My dad let out a slow breath. “And that was… the first time?”

“Yes,” I said. “And we didn’t do anything more that night except kiss. We knew it wasn’t something we could just act on. We didn’t even speak about it again for months. We thought we were doing the right thing by ignoring it.”

“But we couldn’t keep lying to ourselves,” Pedro added.

Silence fell again.

My mum stood, walked slowly to the window, arms folded over herself like she was shielding something inside. “You have to understand how strange this is for us,” she said finally. “I’ve known you for nearly thirty years, Pedro. You’ve been in our lives since before Y/n was even born.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I stayed away. That’s why I didn’t fight when you were upset because I knew how it looked. I just didn’t know how to explain what it felt like.”

“And how does it feel?” my dad asked sharply, eyes narrowed.

Pedro looked at me again. And then he said, clearly, like it cost him nothing to admit it: “It feels like the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I know it’s not traditional. I know it’s not easy. But I love her.”

My breath hitched. Hearing it in front of them… it felt heavier somehow. Like he’d handed them both his heart and asked them not to drop it.

My dad turned his gaze to me. “And you?”

“I love him,” I said, voice steady despite the tears forming in my eyes. “I love him in a way I’ve never loved anyone. And it’s not some impulsive, silly thing. I know how it looks. I know people will judge. But I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

My mum turned from the window, her expression softening just slightly. “You’re twenty-five,” she said carefully. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. We just… we never imagined this for you. We always hoped you’d find someone closer in age. Someone you could grow with.”

“I am growing with him,” I replied. “He challenges me. He listens to me. He respects me. I’m not some starstruck girl chasing after a fantasy I’m a woman who’s spent months falling for a man who makes me feel like the best version of myself.”

Pedro’s hand squeezed mine again.

Mum looked at him. “And you? You’re fifty.”

He nodded. “I’ve thought about that every day since this began. I know what people will say. I know how much it asks of her. But it doesn’t change how I feel. And it doesn’t change the fact that I would never have acted on it if I didn’t believe it was real.”

My dad stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “This is going to take time,” he said finally. “It’s not what we wanted or expected for either of you. And, frankly, we’re not comfortable with it right now.”

Pedro nodded, accepting it with quiet grace.

“But…” Dad looked at me, then at Pedro. “We love you both. And if this is what makes you happy if this is real we won’t stand in your way.”

I let out a shaky breath, tears threatening to spill. My mum came forward, sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand.

“You know this is going to be hard, right?” she said gently. “The press. The fans. Even friends won’t always understand.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t care. Not if I have him.”

Mum gave a faint, bittersweet smile. “God help me, I never thought I’d say this, but… you two do make sense. In the weirdest, most unexpected way.”

Pedro gave her a sheepish grin. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

“Don’t push it, Pascal.”

That night, as Pedro and I lay in bed in his hotel room properly together now, without secrets I turned to face him, running my fingers through the light grey in his hair.

“Do you think they’ll come around fully?” I asked quietly.

He looked down at me with that soft, familiar warmth. “They already are. Slowly.”

“And the rest of the world?”

He shrugged, then smiled. “Let them talk. Let them guess. As long as you’re here I don’t care what they say.”

I rested my head on his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel wrong.

It just felt right.

It began with a photo.

We’d been careful impossibly so for the better part of a year. No hand-holding in public, no glances that lingered too long at industry events, no trace of affection on social media. We were like ghosts moving beside each other, tethered only behind closed doors.

Until Italy.

It was my birthday, and Pedro had whisked me away to a quiet village near Lake Como. It was off-season, calm, just the two of us. Or so we thought.

A single photograph. Taken from a distance grainy, zoomed in, barely lit but there we were: me, barefoot on a balcony, wrapped in one of his shirts, and Pedro behind me, arms around my waist, kissing my shoulder. Intimate. Inarguable.

The photo hit Twitter before we even had our morning coffee.

Pedro saw it first.

He held out his phone, eyes wide but calm. “It’s out.”

I stared at the image. My chest thudded.

“Do you want me to deny it?” he asked gently. “Say it’s doctored? That it’s not what it looks like?”

I shook my head.

“I’m tired of pretending.”

He smiled small, proud and leaned down to kiss me again. “Good.”

The headlines came thick and fast:

“Pedro Pascal, 50, Spotted Getting Cozy With his best friend's much younger daughter” “Age Gap Shocker: Inside Pedro and Y/N’s Secret Romance” “Is It Love or a Midlife Crisis?”

The internet, in typical fashion, exploded with takes.

Some fans were supportive. “She’s grown. Let her live!” or “They’re kind of adorable tbh.”

Others… not so much.

I stopped checking comments after day three. My publicist handled statements. Pedro gave a simple, beautiful interview where he said:

“She’s smart, strong, kind and I love her. That’s all there is to it.”

Still, the whispers didn’t go away. The jokes. The memes. The side-eyes from industry friends who didn’t know the full story. I felt like I was defending us on a loop to strangers, to journalists, even to myself on bad days.

But every time I spiralled, Pedro was there.

“You don’t need to explain us to anyone but ourselves,” he’d whisper, pulling me into bed, wrapping me up like the world couldn’t touch us there.

And it couldn’t. Not really.

Because somehow, through all the noise we were happy.

Christmas came quicker than expected.

My parents, who had kept a respectful distance since we’d come clean, sent an invitation mid-November:

We’re doing a quiet holiday in the Cotswolds. Just us, firewood, wine, and snow. You’re both welcome. Come if it feels right.

I showed the text to Pedro that night while he was brushing his teeth.

He paused, foamy toothbrush mid-air. “Do you want to?”

“I think I do.”

He turned, smiled at me through the mirror. “Then let’s make peace with the people who matter.”

It was awkward at first.

My dad greeted Pedro with a half-hug, still stiff but less guarded. Mum offered him a glass of wine and said, “You’ve got more grey in your beard since we last saw you,” which was her roundabout way of saying she missed him.

The cottage was stunning stone walls, timber beams, a fireplace that crackled all day, and windows that framed fields dusted in snow. There was a tree in the corner, half-decorated with mismatched baubles and biscuits I was fairly certain were from the early 2000s.

We brought fresh ones. Mum teared up when I hung a “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament from my birth year.

By Christmas Eve, the tension had cracked enough that we all sat around the fire with mulled wine, laughing about old holidays. Pedro told the story of the time I was seven and made him wear a tutu at my birthday party. My dad snorted. Mum showed him the photo album proof.

It felt… warm. Real. Like something healing beneath the surface.

Later that night, as I sat on the garden bench wrapped in a blanket, Pedro joined me, handing me a steaming mug of tea.

“I think they’re thawing,” I whispered.

“I think your mum offered me a second helping of trifle without twitching.”

I smiled, resting my head on his shoulder. “She likes you again.”

“She never hated me,” he said. “She was just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of how much I love you.”

I turned to face him. “That scares me sometimes too.”

He kissed my forehead. “Love’s meant to. That’s how you know it’s real.”

On Christmas morning, we opened presents around the fire. Pedro handed me a small, simple box. Inside was a silver locket old-fashioned, delicate with a tiny photograph of the two of us tucked inside. The picture from our first trip to New York, taken in a photobooth where he’d kissed my cheek and I’d accidentally knocked over the stool laughing.

Inside the lid, he’d engraved:

Everything else fades. You don’t.

I cried, obviously. And Mum passed me a tissue without comment.

When we left the cottage on Boxing Day, my dad walked us to the car.

“You know,” he said to Pedro, “I still don’t fully understand this. But I believe it’s real. And I believe you’d walk through fire to protect her.”

Pedro nodded, voice hoarse. “I would.”

“Then that’s enough for me.”

As we drove away, snow flurries catching in the trees, Pedro reached across the console and took my hand.

“You realise,” he said with a grin, “we’ve officially survived the hard part.”

I laughed. “Babe… we haven’t even told your sister yet.”

He winced. “Right. That’s next.”

“Good luck.”

He glanced at me. “No, no we. We’re in this together, remember?”

Always.

[pankowcrumbs]

Hey there, I love your work! Can I ask for Chris Evans x reader where they are both famous and in a secret relationship and they broke things off, before a red carpet thing? Maybe some others celebs would try to make them up?

Thank you so much for your time, keep doing great things ❤️❤️

I hope this is what you wanted! Thank you so so much! 🩵

Loving you in public

[pankowcrumbs]

Loving you in public X Chris Evans (Requested)

MasterList

Marvel MasterList

I adjusted the strap of my gown, trying to ignore the tightening in my chest. The hotel suite buzzed with activity stylists, makeup artists, and handlers scurried around, making final touches before we all headed to the premiere. And yet, all I could focus on was the silence.

His silence.

Chris and I had broken things off just five days ago.

It wasn’t explosive. No slamming doors or cruel words. It was the kind of quiet heartbreak that leaves you feeling hollow. We said we needed space, that the timing wasn’t right. I said I was tired of hiding, and he said he wasn’t ready for the whole world to know. We were two people who loved each other, trying not to ruin what was already cracking.

“Y/N?” Scarlett’s voice broke through my daze. She tilted her head, brows knit together as she stepped closer. “You alright?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just a bit nervous.”

It was a weak excuse one she saw right through.

She didn’t press, just nodded and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze before walking over to the mirror. I caught my reflection as I followed her movements. My eyes were lined in gold, lips painted a soft rose, and my dress shimmered like liquid midnight. I looked like the perfect Hollywood actress.

But inside, I felt like I was splintering.

The car ride to the red carpet was filled with chatter. Scarlett, Anthony, and Sebastian were cracking jokes, trying to keep the energy light, but I knew what they were doing.

They were trying to keep me from falling apart.

“You know,” Anthony said casually, “I heard Evans is arriving just before we do. Said something about avoiding the flashbulbs.”

I stiffened. Of course he was. He always hated the media chaos. But I knew better. He didn’t want to see me.

“He’s a bloody coward,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

Seb laughed into his drink, choking. “There she is.”

“What?” I asked.

“That’s the Y/N we’ve missed,” Scarlett said with a small grin. “The one who actually says what she’s thinking.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” I said, quieter this time. “And none of it’s been very fun.”

We pulled up to the venue, and I plastered on my press-ready smile. As the car door opened and the crowd screamed, I stepped out into a blinding wave of camera flashes.

The carpet was long, endless, suffocating.

Each interview felt rehearsed. Smile, laugh, talk about how excited you are for the film. Dodge the question about your love life. Rinse, repeat.

Then I saw him.

Chris stood a few feet away, looking annoyingly handsome in a perfectly tailored tux, that familiar beard trimmed just so. He was laughing at something Paul Rudd had said, but when his eyes caught mine, his smile faltered.

Only for a second. But it was enough.

He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

Good. I hadn’t either.

I moved away quickly, grabbing Scarlett’s hand like a lifeline. “Let’s find the others.”

“Sure,” she said gently, leading me toward a small group of castmates doing press together.

But it didn’t matter how far I moved. I could still feel his presence.

Later, we were ushered into the green room before the screening started. There was a soft buzz of conversation, laughter, the clinking of glasses. Brie passed me a flute of champagne and raised her eyebrows.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N, love,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

I looked around. He wasn’t in the room yet. But it was only a matter of time. “I just need some air.”

I pushed through the door and stepped into a quiet corridor, heels clicking softly on the marble floor. I leaned against the wall, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.

I should’ve been stronger. But the worst part was I still loved him. Every bloody piece of me did. And I hated myself for it.

“You’re doing that breathing thing again.”

I froze.

His voice.

I turned, and there he was. Chris. Standing only a few feet away, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His tie was slightly loosened, his eyes tired but soft.

“I didn’t know you were back here,” I said, arms folded.

“You always say that when you’re overwhelmed. The breathing trick. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You taught it to me, remember?”

Of course I remembered.

“Why are you here, Chris?”

“Same reason you are. Needed a break from the noise.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like everything’s fine. Like we’re just colleagues bumping into each other behind the scenes.”

He looked down, then back up. “I’m not pretending.”

I laughed bitterly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he said it softly, hesitantly. “I miss you.”

I looked away, blinking rapidly. “Don’t.”

“I do. Every second. I thought space would make things clearer, but all I see now is you. Everywhere.”

“You said you couldn’t handle the public knowing,” I whispered. “That it would ruin everything.”

“I was scared.”

I scoffed. “Of what? Loving someone out loud?”

“Of losing you because of the pressure,” he said. “Because I’ve messed things up before and I didn’t want to mess us up too.”

“Well, congratulations. You did anyway.”

He stepped forward, slow, cautious. “I never stopped loving you, Y/N. Not for a second.”

Tears threatened to spill, and I hated him for making me cry in a hallway in heels and diamonds.

“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” I said, my voice cracking.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he admitted. “You walked away so quietly.”

“Because I didn’t want to beg,” I said. “I didn’t want to be the only one trying.”

Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Sebastian poked his head in. “Hey, not to interrupt your dramatic hallway moment, but actually, no. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Brie just locked the green room door and said no one’s allowed out until you two sort this out.”

Chris and I turned in sync. “What?”

Seb held up a keycard with a smirk. “You’re both locked in this corridor until you figure your shit out. Orders from Scarlett, Mackie, and about five other people. You’re welcome.”

Then he closed the door.

Chris blinked. “Did they just parent-trap us?”

I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Looks like it.”

We stood there, facing each other in stunned silence.

Then, without warning, he stepped forward, cupped my cheek gently, and said, “I’m sorry. For all of it. For letting fear win. For not choosing you out loud.”

I closed my eyes, tears slipping down. “I never wanted to hide. Not us.”

“I know,” he whispered. “And I don’t want to hide anymore either.”

I opened my eyes, searching his face. “What changed?”

“You leaving,” he said simply. “That was my wake-up call. I realised losing you in private is far worse than loving you in public.”

My heart thudded painfully. “Do you mean that?”

“Every word.”

A beat passed, then another.

And finally, finally, I stepped into him. His arms wrapped around me like they were meant to, like they never should’ve let go. I buried my face in his shoulder and breathed him in familiar, warm, home.

“I missed you too,” I murmured.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “So… what do we do now?”

“We go out there,” I said, brushing a tear from my cheek, “and we give them a headline.”

His eyes lit up. “You serious?”

I nodded. “We’ve done everything else secretly. Let’s make this loud.”

A wide grin spread across his face one I hadn’t seen in weeks.

“You sure you want to be seen with me?”

I snorted. “Evans, please. You’re lucky I’m giving you a second chance.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, pulling me in for a quick, fierce kiss. “And I plan on earning it.”

When we finally walked back into the green room, hand in hand, the room fell quiet.

Then Scarlett clapped. “Well, it’s about bloody time.”

Brie grinned. “Told you it’d work.”

Mackie whooped. “Operation Get Those Idiots Back Together is officially a success!”

Chris leaned in and whispered, “You sure we’re not being too loud?”

I squeezed his hand. “Nope. This is exactly the kind of noise I want.”

And as we walked onto the red carpet his fingers laced tightly with mine, cameras flashing and fans screaming I realised something.

This wasn’t just our comeback.

It was our beginning.

[pankowcrumbs]

Hi love! I’m so glad someone is writing Will fics 🥹. Can I have one where they maybe have a meet cute and end up bonding over bad exes and he sets out to show her how she deserves to be treated 😍 thank u if you do xx

Awh i'm just glad people are loving them! I hope this is what you were after! 🩵

Coffee

[pankowcrumbs]

Coffee X Will Poulter (Requested)

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

There are moments in life when everything slows down when a chance meeting tilts the axis of your world. For me, it started with a spilt latte and a very British apology.

“Bloody hell, I am so sorry,” the tall man gasped, grabbing a handful of napkins from the café counter and frantically dabbing at my coat sleeve. I’d only just turned around from collecting my drink when he’d walked right into me.

“It’s alright,” I laughed, brushing damp spots from my sleeve. "Could have been worse.”

He chuckled, eyes squinting slightly in that way people do when they’re both apologising and trying to figure out if they recognise you. “Let me buy you another one?”

“That’s sweet of you,” I replied, catching his gaze properly now. My stomach did a bit of a backflip. He looked so familiar. “You’re… Will, right? Will Poulter?”

His eyes widened. “Caught. I was hoping the spillage would distract you.”

I laughed again, easing the tension. “No such luck. I’m Y/N.”

“I know,” he said, almost sheepishly. “Singer, right? That track you did with Sam Smith was massive.”

That surprised me. “You listen to my stuff?”

“Of course. ‘Too Late to Love Me’ saved me from texting my ex, like… more than once.”

I couldn’t help but grin at that. “High praise.”

We ended up sitting down together, lattes replaced, both a bit amused at how naturally the conversation flowed. What started as small talk morphed into something deeper discussions about dodgy relationships, weird fame moments, and the quiet loneliness that sometimes settled in between gigs or shoots.

“I dated a guy once,” I said, swirling my coffee. “He used to count how many compliments I gave him in a day. Said I wasn’t ‘expressive enough’.”

Will grimaced. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It was. What about you?”

He sighed. “There was a girl who used to keep a running list of all the ways I could ‘improve’. Said it was to help me grow.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in comfortable silence after that, sipping our coffees. Then he looked at me really looked and said, “You know, you don’t deserve that kind of treatment. Not even close.”

“Neither do you,” I replied quietly.

We exchanged numbers, and from that moment, he made it his mission to show me what kindness looked like.

It started small text messages in the morning just to say hi, or telling me I looked great even when I sent a sleepy selfie with bed hair and smudged mascara. He’d ask how my day was, really listen, remember details like the name of my stylist or the anxiety I had before big award shows.

When he sent flowers to my dressing room the night of a huge TV performance, with a note that simply read “Proud of you. Always.” I sat down on the sofa, stared at the petals, and knew I was in trouble.

We hadn’t kissed. Not yet. We’d hovered on the edge of something bigger, something fragile and real, and I didn’t want to ruin it by jumping in too fast. But one night, as I was leaving his flat after dinner, he walked me to the door, lingered, and said, “You know, I’ve never known someone like you.”

“Good or bad?” I teased, though my heart was pounding.

“Good,” he said firmly. “And I think I’m falling a bit.”

“Me too,” I whispered, leaning in.

The kiss wasn’t firework-bursting dramatic. It was soft. It was safe. It was warm in a way that made my fingertips tingle and my knees wobble.

He pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “Just say the word, and I’ll spend the rest of my time showing you how you deserve to be loved.”

I believed him.

A few weeks later, we went public not with a statement or a photoshoot, but with a walk in the park, hand in hand. Paparazzi caught the photos and they were everywhere the next day. I panicked a little, but Will just smiled at me across the breakfast table and said, “They’ll see it eventually, love. Why not see it now?”

I wrote a song about him soon after that. Not a sad ballad, or a heartbreak anthem. This one was different.

It was about a boy who held open doors, remembered how I liked my tea, kissed my forehead when I was anxious, and called me just to hear my voice.

When I played it for him just the acoustic version on my guitar in his living room he teared up a little.

“Is this…?”

“It’s for you,” I said, heart thudding.

He pulled me onto his lap and kissed me, whispering, “You’re my favourite song.”

That night, tangled up together under soft sheets, we weren’t two people broken by others anymore. We were whole, in the quiet safety of each other.

And for the first time in a long time, I knew what it meant to be loved right.

[pankowcrumbs]

Hey lovely, I adore your fics so much! Please could you do one with Will and reader. She is a singer & he plays the “love interest” in her music video. Whilst filming, he realises how much he likes her, she also likes him so she writes about it and then plays him one of her new songs she’s written and tells him it’s for him and they kiss 🥰

Thank you so much i'm glad you love them! I hope this is okay! 🩵

Music Video